Artyom stepped out of his building, allowing the automatically locking door of the apartment complex to slowly fall into place. For once, Sonya's bitching about the electricity bill paid off, because with this rush, he would have surely forgotten to grab a jacket before heading out into the cold winter air. His hands immediately burrowed into the pockets, staying balled up as he did so. Whatever was happening to him, he did not want to touch anything and end up drawing attention to himself by inadvertently destroying a pole that held the crosswalk button or trying to open the door of a cab and end up sitting down next to the strong winds that the vehicle should have been able to protect him from. He kept as cool as he could be, but he couldn't control how his body acted on instinct. He avoided contact with people as much as he could as he power walked down sidewalks and back alleys, trying to avoid the most people while spending the least amount of time moving towards the speak easy.<br/><br/>Thus, a thirty minute walk turned into an hour before Artyom finally arrived at the speakeasy. It gave him time to think and calm down for a moment, trying to think about how exactly everything had happened when the bottle disappeared, or the water evaporated - no, disappeared- from his skin after the shower. A theory had eventually formed, though even Artyom was one to admit that it sounded crazy, to say the least. So, when he spoke the phrase to enter, he was grateful for the fact that they opened the door for him. Destroying that would surely give him another organization that was pissed at him, this time one with less rules. He stepped into the establishment quietly. Though not jumpy, he was methodical as he went about maneuvering through the speak easy. He did not intentionally reach out to move someone or something out of his path, reacting passively to it as he moved about.<br/><br/>He scanned the room, the old habits beat into him back home coming in use on the 'other' side of the law it seems. He spotted those with guns, those too drunk for anyone's good, and a trio of women who stuck out in his mind. Without a word, Artyom changed his path and headed towards the booth, trusting himself not to destroy a chair as his hand wrapped around the back of it as he walked past. He was focusing on making sure he did not break the chair as he carried it over, setting it down at the edge of the table and sitting down, returning his hand to his jacket pocket. "Figured this is better than spreading out," Artyom says, leaning back in his chair and slouching a bit, though not letting down his guard.