[color=lightgreen][center][h3][i][b]Day 2: 18:32:04
[s]Stolen Apartment[/s]
Novi Grad,
Novy Jork,
Capital Province,
Republic of Polavia
[/b][/i][/h3][/center][/color]

As the deadline nears, Upswing is busy slipping into a pair of gray slacks, a white button-down, and a navy-blue tie.  Business casual, as it were.  His pistol is on his back, concealed as he slips on his suit jacket.  His knife is hidden surprisingly well in the sole of his right loafer.  He looks somewhat ill-fitting in the suit; it’s like putting a bonnet on a gorilla.  Nevertheless, with a sigh, he finds a seat and plops down into it once he’s all gussied up.  

“Don’ believe I properly introduced meself,” says Upswing, “M’name’s Callum McCarthy, or Cal,” he nods to Felix, “Fer those who don’ know me; my buds and my not-so-buddy buds call me Upswing.  Funny story; I’ll tell ‘ye when a’m drunk enough.  Served six years DSR Army, four of ‘em SOCOM, bloody borin’ affair, in all honesty.  After tha’, did some funny work, technically can’ talk about it.  Reactor paid better, anyway.  A’m here fer her.”

He nods to Rowan.  “Well, more accurate-like, makin’ sure tha’ goofy gas ‘ye’re connected to stays well an’ happily in the heads of the people who made it.  An’ as long as tha’s ‘ye folks’ goal too, I thin’ we’ve a good [i]arrangement[/i] on our han’s.”

He looks around and slaps his knees as he stands.  “And as fer the civvie charade...”

Something shifts in his look as his posture straightens and his body almost seems to fill in the suit.  Where he was once languid, he now stands with pomp and professionalism.  A face that once exuded cynicism and sardonics now seems jovial, lighthearted, almost servile, its half-sneer now a seemingly-genuine smile.  If one didn’t know who he had just been, they would be forgiven for thinking this new man a twin brother or other close relative.  Even having seen it, it’s hard not to wonder...

He reaches for his coat pocket and retrieves a pair of black-rimmed metal glasses, putting them on to complete the look.  When he speaks again, all traces of his heavy accent are gone; in its place is the smooth, posh tones of a highborn Briton as he extends a hand to shake.  “My name is Victor James Pettigrew; I’m your friendly advisor at Bank of the DSR, Novy Jork.  Pleasure to make your acquaintance.  May I interest you in any of our investment plans, or would you like to play it safer and entrust your money to our hedge fund?”

When the joke goes over in silence, Upswing laughs, high, genuine, probably.  “Relax, darlings; I’m only enjoying myself.  Felix, you poor, ironically-named sot, I am [i]at your beck and call.[/i]”