The child was hurried off by his mother, who cast dark, suspicious looks back at the two figures lingering by the gate, and inwardly, the soldier was able to release a breath of relief.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Good.</span>He thought, watching them go.<span style="font-style: italic">Go somewhere safe.  Never again come near these streets at dusk.  </span><br/><br/>Returning his attention to his companion, Micah watched apprehensively as the girl began to much on a piece of meat, wondering if he should mention it.  He decided not to, if only for the sake of avoiding more pointless small talk, and focused on her question instead.  Dorian McIlvain, his handler, drilled him daily on every possible scenario he might encounter, every vile creature he might meet, every obscure maze through which words might lead him.  He tried to hear McIlvain's voice now, prompting him impatiently down a winding trail of conversation.<br/><br/>â€œI'm looking for work.â€  He recited dryly, trying to sound like it was something he cared at all about.  â€œBeen in-between jobs for a while now.â€<br/><br/>He paused a moment, racking his brain for one of Dorian's many recipes for encouraging conversation, and struck on one he thought likely to succeed.  â€œHave you... lived in Summerset long?  Perhaps you may have heard of an opening somewhere.â€<br/><br/>Inwardly, Micah winced at the forced timbre of his voice.  He knew he was doing a poor job of this, but Dorian insisted that most of the people he encountered would simply write his awkward attempts off to poor social skills (which, in fact, they were).  In either case, he knew he had to make a much better attempt at this interaction bit if he wanted to have anything to show for his efforts at the end of the week.