From the rooftop, Cassie had a pretty good view of the school playing field. Some kind of football game, maybe a friendly between the school team so that moods weren't spoiled for the dance later - she'd seen the flyers around the school buildings, there wasn't a soul in Kilbride who didn't, whether they were driving, running, fleeing past - but maybe it was more important. Maybe the students were on the bleachers to cheer on their team, some for their boyfriends, some because they liked the game and the sun, some because they had nothing better to do. Cassie certainly had nothing better to do. Her burner phone - a cheap piece of shitty plastic that Locke replaced weekly, the model disappearing from wherever she'd left it before going comatose and a new one appearing on her kitchen counter, fully charged, and screen lit up with a single message. Always the same. '[b]Your sister loves you very much.[/b]' Roman Locke was a bastard. Cassie spat, and stood up. The game was winding down anyway.

Her wrist tweaked as she pushed herself up, fingers gripping the corner of the brick edging around the building's outline. She absentmindedly tapped it, and then held two fingers over it, a habit she'd picked up and continued unconciously since the day she got the tattoo that rested there. An imperialist eagle design, overlaid with a simple graphic of a Trojan helmet, bold and blunt in black and gray ink. Locke had sent one of his strongmen with her - a convincing actor - posing as her...father? 'Legal guardian' came to mind, but it had been father. She never thought of her parents anymore. She only thought of Jo, and whatever name popped up on the screen of the burner phone. 
It wasn't difficult getting down from the building, although it had gotten dark since she'd pulled the access door open and kicked the breezeblock she'd used to prop it open aside, making her way down the stairs through the guts of the office block. Most of the building was empty, ceiling fans whirling down and a few lights clicking on on some floors where motion-sensors had been installed. Cassie flurried past them all, moving blindingly fast. It wasn't that she didn't like buildings - it was just that since Locke 'hired' her, she came to trust them less and less. To say nothing of their inhabitants.

The tattoo was the real wake-up call. She's heard of Locke before her encounter, of course she had, fucking everyone had, you didn't live in Kilbride and not know about Roman Locke, and Damian Locke, and the secret empire only talked about in hushed whispers and the rustling of loose notes exchanging palms. Money for information? Money so you wouldn't be killed for talking about it. But even if you didn't know about the syndicate, even if you didn't suspect the pigs had their trotters knee-deep in their own bacon fat, even if you didn't see every building as a looming grave, waiting ever so eagerly to carve your name onto its headstone - even if you didn't, you knew about Locke's casinos. Because someone you knew, and everyone you didn't, would have lost their money there. And then they'd have a story about how tightly Kilbride held on to your money.

Cassie exited the building, an automated rotating door spinning up as she approached. She felt like it was an apt representation of her life the past few months. Things just...letting her through. And if they didn't the first time, amber eyes looking up at them with a raw ferocity from behind shock-white hair, then they did when she pulled her sleeve back and almost thrust her wrist at their face. The naive might thing she just fancied herself charmed at the slots, Locke Casino logo on her wrist. But the clued-in would know it was her all-access pass. The clued-in would knew who she worked for. The clued-in would know not to ask what it was she [i]did[/i] for the man.

As if on cue. Her thoughts and ruminations were interrupted by a rumbling from her pocket, and as she fished the burner from her shorts, she shivered as the cool evening air hit her. She bore a long, thick scarf, and her jacket was decievingly warm - but her leggings were torn up, and rather than pants, she'd chosen shorts for the aesthetic. Like what she looked like was even close to her top priority. She didn't need to stick out, not in this town. She was plenty safe. Sort of.

'[b]Marco X. Del Fierro peddler. Dock Warehouse 12-A, 00:34. Gasoline tank through skylight.[/b]'

And that was it. Cassie's evening decided. Like she had other plans, anyone to make other plans with. Other than Jo, but even Jo was distant these days. It was Cassie's own fault, deliberately holding back, keeping secrets, doing anything not to let Jo know about the arrangements they had fallen into. All Jo knew was they were in the care of a wealthy benefactor who worked in meta-human research, putting together an initial theorem that wold propel him to the top of the scientific world almost instantaneously. Cassie hadn't meant to layer on all the detail - even the stupid fucking fake name, 'Dr. Sorquez', married, no children, wife equally brilliant. It had just tumbled out in an attempt to convince her little sister, something in her mind telling her that over-lying was always more successful that under-lying. Whether that something was right or wrong, it had worked. Or Jo had cottoned on and knew not to press for the truth for fear of what it was. Jo always had been clever.

I guess that's that then. Time to head home and gear up. She looked at her watch. Thirteen minutes past Three in the afternoon. She had plenty of time.