Name: Jean Tremblay<br/>Location: 47 Denverton Lane<br/>Tagging: Open<br/><br/>This part of his job always frustrated Jean. Once he had a scent, he loved chasing down every crackpot idea and silly theory. But getting that first inkling of a story was hell on earth to Jean. The crackpots never offered hope. Only dead end after dead end. Jean sighed, a rush of pale smoke squeezing around the half-burned cigarette perpetually perched on his lower lip.<em>At least it isn't raining,</em>he mused, pulling his jacket tighter as he rounded the corner onto Denverton Lane.<br/><br/>47. The man had said 47. Said he'd be waiting inside. Said he'd keep his golden eyes and golden hand waiting for Jean. He'd said a lot of things. Jean didn't believe many of them. It wasn't in his nature to believe anything over the comm. In-person meetings were another matter. Sincerity is harder to fake when you have to maintain it over the course of an interview. Sanity as well. Jean's colleagues would have likely stared chasing leads by now, spurred on by a crank with a big claim. Not Jean. He didn't mind the spycraft, the clandestine meetings in shitty venues. They usually would let him smoke indoors with a minimum of fuss.<br/><br/>Jean strode into the entrance of the cybercafe like any poor slob and breathed in the scene, savoring the scent of cheap plastics, dingy fabrics, and ozone that seemed to pervade the room. A quick glance at the patrons revealed nothing golden. Not even polished, or gold-coated or tinted plastic. Sighing at his misfortune in being early, Jean paid for a terminal in the back, and made his way through the room, settling in next to a poor twitching bastard, more faulty machine than man, savoring the virtual world through a direct line in his skull. Jean sighed, perhaps with pity, perhaps with envy, as he settled in to await his contact...