Perception was a powerful tool, perhaps one of the most powerful motivators when it came to human emotion or effort. Castor's conditions weren't the best, he didn't live in squalor but most would likely crinkle their nose at the idea of living in a basement beneath a club. Only the variety of cobwebs and storage crates to keep him company. Yet, there was a peace in the solitude of it all. There was a freedom in knowing that his fate was his own to determine. The first few days, hell week, was still very regimented. He naturally woke up at certain times, he immediately went into his general routine. Except that he had no change of clothes. So every morning he was quite literally walking around that basement usually in the nude or with a ratty-towel wrapped around his hips while he washed his clothes in deep basin-style sink. Through this, he remained largely positive. He'd managed to convince Loren that he needed a front on some of his pay so he could buy some different clothes. After a whole lot of grunt noises, the man agreed.<br/><br/>So Castor wasn't wearing the run-down clothing he'd<i>procured</i>from the shipping depot. He'd actually bought himself a nice pair of dark tan-colored overalls for work and a simple pair of denim pants and along with a multitude of plain white synthetic cotton shirts, they were the cheapest after all. There was no way to understate how proud he felt to work for himself and earn something. So while Loren had been visibly upset at the idea of providing him the advance it was worth it in the effort Castor put forth in the aftermath. Truthfully, he'd have likely worked hard either way. Yet the extra spirit in his bones made him not just do the work but walk around with a smirk of amusement at times. While others seemingly were irritated with Loren's non-stop pushing and prodding. Castor just finished a task and asked if there was elsewhere that needed to be helped.<br/><br/>-----------<br/><br/><i>The night Beretta arrived<br/>
</i><br/>Castor's chestnut hair was pushed back out of his face when the night began, yet, under the electrical panel of a D.J. booth with his head cocked at a funny angle. It made his hair spill forward onto his forehead and nearly into his vision. He huffed and brushed his brow with the back of a wrist to stop a droplet of sweat from rolling up his chin and potentially into his eyes. The music was still thrumming with a body vibrating bass. It was because the club had a back-up booth that wasn't nearly as sophisticated. So it was no surprise that Loren had practically barked like a dog issuing commands when the first booth went down. Every so often, in the dimly lit space people around him could see the arc-light spanner flare to life as it's electrical charge allowed him to sauter replacement components for the one's that'd burned out on the motherboard.<br/><br/>He was too far away to hear the Gray question Loren, and even if he had been close enough. The vision of her pale skin wouldn't have alerted him to much, after all; Castor had such a limited knowledge around her occupation that it didn't really occur to him that she'd be a threat, or someone seeking to capture him. Truth was the only identity of authority he recognized was usually badge wearing or uniformed officers as they closely resembled the guards that watched over the facility he'd lived in prior to his escape. Despite knowing he broke the rules, escaped, part of him found his own role in the grand scheme of significance at the work place to be slim at the facility. There were so many of them, surely they wouldn't miss him, right? He didn't understand the implications of a loose asset, a lost clone, or that .. he was a cloned human at all.<br/><br/>So when Loren pointed a crooked finger, plump like other parts of his body towards Castor. It was clear the man had basically decided that it was easier to sell Castor out, which he had no loyalty to. Then it was to cross a Gray with her hand laced firmly about the handle of her firearm. "New kid is over there. If he did something illegal that's on him, he's still on probation here." The man finished his words with an audible wheeze to follow. "But hey, let him fix my damn booth before you go doing something stupid. We can't run the club all night from one of those old pieces of junk." He gestured towards the D.J. booth that looked twenty-years past it's prime currently belting out music for the moderate-sized crowd gathered on the dance floor. A haze of neon and pastel, greens, blues, and pinks cast across the undulating bodies.<br/><br/>"Oof, I don't think I have all the parts to fix this.." He spoke out loud to himself, pushing away from the booth and rising to a seated position with his back slightly curved and pressed to the booths' outer wall. He looked up in time to see Loren's hand dropping from it's point in his direction and the woman poised in front of him. She carried an air of confidence that was unmistakable even at this distance and dimmer lighting. He didn't react at first, simply studying her. What she was wearing, her posture. The hue of her off-white skin beneath the array of vibrant colors from the club's lighting.<br/>