The club had yet to open as Samuel leaned against the front wall beside the entry way leading outside, waiting for the head of security to greet him and show him around. Samuel hoped there wouldn’t be much talking, the only kind of human interaction he was good at, or even liked, involved fists. Or guns. Or explosives. With his back pressed against the wall, Sam stroked through his short brown hair with his left hand and twirled his black scally cap in his right, he began speculating on the past few months of his life.<br/><br/>He narrowly escaped death, imprisonment, a national conflict and civil war, and death again. Samuel had stowed away on a freighter air ship after all of the events had taken place in his home country; the deal that had gone south and his father’s execution were probably the worst of it. He was lucky to have gotten out with his life, but he did. He twirled his hat around a final time and caught it by the brim, placing it on his head meticulously, and pulled a card out of his vest. It was the card his contact had given him about the job. The meeting with the owner of the establishment had been fairly easy. Red, as she went by, seemed very impressed with his “resume” and got back in touch with him the next day. She informed him to show up and someone named Dumas would show him the ropes, as if he needed it. He had been in warzones, what was a club going to do to him?<br/><br/>Sam placed the card back into his vest’s pocket and adjusted it around his torso. He felt the hidden pocket that concealed his plasma edged, mono filament dagger, a gift from his brother, to make sure it was still there. As he finished fixing his clothing he saw an older gentleman walking toward him and he reached out his hand.<br/><br/>“Dumas Tweed. Head of Security and temporary tour guide. Welcome to wonderland.”<br/><br/>Samuel looked down at the man's hand awkwardly for a moment and then stiffly shook it.<br/><br/>Samuel McCarron.” He said with a thick accent. “The pleasure’s all mine.”