<strong>Your characters name:</strong>Rhona Gale<br/><strong>Day of the week:</strong>May 21st, 2050<br/><strong>Current Location:</strong>Conference Room<br/><br/>Knit brows lifted in surprise, then straightened in skepticism. Her dark eyes darted in rapid succession past the man,  refocusing on the telling t-shirt logo, then to the tag that seemed unarguably the same hue as hers, then to the imposingly large outstretched hand, a life of manual labour written across the rough sun-darkened skin. Quick to tuck her confusion behind a welcoming, smiling facade, Rhona outstretched her comparatively minuscule hand in his, the soft, smooth digits telling the story of a life live altogether differently, turning pages and tapping keys.<br/><br/>As she stood to greet him the difference in their scale was made apparent, but if this intimidated her, one could not tell from her professional poise. Inwardly, her mind was reeling backward to a moment in time where, in a dark rural bungalow, her brother would immerse himself in century old films about an even older American West while she studied nightly. It was only in hearing his drawl that a decade of images of men in white hats against sprawling open skies came flooding back. For reasons unknown her smile suddenly felt more genuine.<br/><br/>"Yes, that would be me, Jim." She answered, resisting the impulse to address him as "Mr. McTigue". This was supposed to be causal Rhona, after all. Her accent was comparatively non-regional. Whatever inflection was imposed upon her by her origins had been educated out of her, replaced by the kind of clearly articulated speak one finds in lecture halls. "Please, call me Rhona." She added with one last firm shake before retrieving her hand.<br/><br/>"I assume you've signed your waver? Should you have any further questions, please don't hesitate to ask. Its seems like the others are still arriving. Have a seat, if you like." She offered, gesturing to an empty chair adjacent her own at the table.