<strong>Name:</strong>Jean Tremblay<br/><strong>Location:</strong>47 Denverton Drive<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Ryan Talix, open<br/><br/>Jean sat idly in the back. He'd slipped on a pair of sunglasses - cheap ones, aviators of dubious quality and eve more dubious style - before he'd started tapping at the terminal in front of him, idly bouncing around a dating site. He didn't need the sunglasses; the feeble screen put out enough light to punch through the tint, but only barely. He only wore them so people wouldn't notice his active eyes alternating between taking in each newcomer to the cafe, none of which were his contact, and idly fluttering in that telltale motion of reading something in the retina. Jean hated a lot of things: Toyolet cars, his boss, non-smoking bars, those cyborg cats with altogether too many legs and the creepy blue eyes. But all of those hatreds paled in comparison to admitting his mods, even in a place like this. So he wore sunglasses.<br/><br/>He swore quietly in French as the cyborg next to him lurched, touching Jean's hand. Jean was about to tell the guy off, when he noticed the paper. Idly checking it at an arm's length, he had to drop his sunglasses to get a better look.<em>Cryptic,</em>he thought to himself, wondering what the advice could be, and he looked back at the cyborg who'd dropped it, an eyebrow cocked as if to say, "what is this?"<br/><br/>Jean had half a mind to reach into his pocket for his baton, just in case. But he didn't want to be seen as hostile right now. Not if this was his source.