<hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 20pt;"><strong>Game Master</strong></span></span></div><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://prohairstylist.com.au/wp-content/gallery/american-crew-winners-face-off-2011/model-winner_hair-machine-carlo-ceravolo.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Mr. M<br/><strong>City | Date | Time:</strong>Boston, MA | August 14, 2017 | 8:45 AM<br/><strong>Tagging | Mentioning:</strong>Dalys Armstrong Jr.<br/><strong>Content:</strong><br/><hr/>The illusive Mr. M had purposely waited for one of Dalys' days off – there was no need to be an inconvenience to the mans daily life. He'd even waited for a reasonable hour to roll around, truth be told M had wanted to have this meeting over two hours prior but there was again no sense in disturbing the man while he was sleeping. Hopefully Dalys wasn't an early riser, otherwise M might have felt like a fool for waiting as long as he did.<br/><br/>For todays little adventure M had selected himself a fine blue suit (https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ-r6VtKAO0gvWtlUeVFWdUy3yl1xKguC6odvzCAKpZq8DMTr_Bkw) that really did well to bring out the dark of his eyes. Not that he was looking to impress anyone, but there was no sense doing business looking like a scrub. He brought up his wrist and peered down at the expensive looking watch hooked to his wrist and waited until it clicked over to eight forty-five on the dot; then he reached out with that hand and rapped a solid three times on the door.<br/><br/>In addition to his suit, fancy watch and shoes he had two other particularly distinguishing things about him. First the darks of his eyes couldn't be brought out well enough because they couldn't be seen; M wore a pair of thin framed extra dark sunglasses over his eyes, with lenses wide enough that they did well to obscure even the structure of his eyes – pulling him out of a mug book would have been extraordinarily difficult. It was the fine metal briefcase in his hand that made him seem like some sort of government agent – or maybe a very well dressed, his suit wasn't cheap, traveling salesmen. The case hung fairly loosely in his hand, draped in the cup of his fingers.<br/><br/>As soon as the door opened M spoke up, hardly allowing any time to take in the fact that he was there, “Mr. Armstrong,” M began, but then shook his head, “Can I call you Xavier, that is what you prefer right? Either way, you can call me M, and I have a mission that you are uniquely qualified to handle. Interested?”<br/><br/>M waited for a brief moment to let his sudden verbal prose set in, before sliding in the big trumping factor, “Marine, we've got a soldier that needs to be brought home.”<br/><br/><hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 20pt;"><strong>Game Master</strong></span></span></div><hr/>