The sun beat down on his broad shoulders, causing unsightly perspiration clinging to Vanja's forehead which seemed constantly shrouded by his unnaturally long and unkempt mocha colored hair. His strides were long, his shoes scuffling carelessly against L.A's pavement. About him children played, couples and families passed him remaining blissfully unaware of what had summoned Vanja from his apartment which for a long time had conveniently doubled as his working studio. At first glance it was a simple note that had spurred the brunette into throwing on a pair of decently clean clothes and locking up his apartment before heading out. A note which read,<span style="font-style: italic">Be home by 2 p.m. I have made your favorite dish. Mom.</span>To outside eyes it would seem like an innocent note. However Vanja knew better, it was a work call. His first one to be exact; and the rangy looking psychic had no idea what exactly he was getting himself into. He knew it was with the police, and the man suppressed a shudder at this. A few years ago it would of been more likely the L.A.P.D would be hauling him in for very different reasons.<br/><br/>As he walked, lost in thought, eyes cast downward heading to the place that he'd been briefed to go; he couldn't help but wonder if this was the right choice. His mother hadn't wanted a thing to do with him when she learnt of his gift- yet this was the very reason these people had offered him a job. Sensations of feeling hesitant and overwhelmed bubbled within his chest; though doing his best to quell the pother within his head forced his thoughts to seek out some positives this job would bring, rather than focus on the unknown and potential negatives.<span style="font-style: italic">"I suppose I'd rather do this kind of work than try to find missing dogs and kids and predict people's love lives."</span>Even his mental voice was dry as a summer's breeze a smirk turned up on his thin lips as Vanja followed the directions that had been given to him. It was too treacherous of  walk; but on this day he may as well be trekking through hell.<span style="font-weight: bold">"Next time I take a taxi."</span>Grumbling to himself, voice thickly accented the Dane merely hoped that he wouldn't sweat out by the time he got there.<br/><br/>WIth the sun beating down on his thick hair, mentally cursing himself on forgetting some sort of hat, the quirky looking man silently prayed that he wouldn't get a heat headache. That was one thing he'd learned in coming over from his homeland, Summer's in LA were brutal. The droughts were always difficult for him to get through; especially living within Skidrow, and summer's you could fry an egg on a sidewalk. Vanja tended to think that crime must skyrocket during the summer months, short tempers, not enough water, and people being about an arms length away from each other at all times didn't make for nice living conditions. Keeping his thoughts busy with menial things to keep his mind from a state of consternation he took to  surveying the area around him. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't like the nice parts of LA he'd sometimes go to for other work he entertained. Glancing down at his watch, checking the time Vanja's nose wrinkled as he read<span style="font-style: italic">1:25</span>He'd was about five minutes away and wasn't sure whether he should wait, or go in. Fighting the urge to gnaw at his fingernails, a habit he'd been trying to break since he was just a boy the wavy haired immigrant decided it'd just be better to be early than late. Around him the scents of the city assaulted his nose, the scent of urine from the bums, the incessant noise of traffic, exotic foods and perfumes as swirled together to create an almost nauseating, repugnant adore.<span style="font-weight: bold">"Gotta love the city."</span><br/><br/>It was one of his many mannerisms, talking aloud to himself and getting a few dubious looks from a mother passing him by with her husband Vanja offered a small smile that would never reach his eyes. Soon, he was at the directed warehouse; and pausing giving himself time to steel his nerves Vanja decided to stroll in. Upon first pushing the heavy doors open he was met with a mild sort of gloom; though he doubted it was actually dark. His eyes were just used to the harsh rays that were in them. Once they adjusted, leaving Vanja blinking in a rather owl-like manner he slowly began to advance, following hallways where he could swear he heard voices coming from. Sure enough, after a bit of poking around the psychic found a space, complete with desks and looked somewhat like any old police station. To top it off a few other people were already there. A woman, and a man sat at desks looking completely at home. There was just something about them that screamed "Cop" to Vanja and he was sure this was the place.<span style="font-weight: bold">"Erm… Groundhog? Work?"</span>His voice, thickly accented which was made hoarse from thirst sounded somewhat broken, and clearing his throat tried again.<span style="font-weight: bold">"You work as Groundhog yes? This is Groundhog?"</span>If this wasn't the place they'd likely think him to be a mad raving loon. If this was the place there was a chance they'd think him to be a mad raving loon. His deep hazel depths, as ever shifting and changing as the ocean, were wide with anxiety that he'd gotten the wrong place, or this was some elaborate joke.