<span class="bbc_u"><strong>Name:</strong></span>Jack Harth<br/><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Location:</strong></span>Cafe/In Route to MacEwan<br/><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Time:</strong></span>12:10 p.m.<br/><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Tagged:</strong></span>Narrator/Ellen<br/><br/>"Then compensate me for however much you feel it's worth to you." he was mildly annoyed by her insistence on paying him. To him, she was showing weakness by not taking advantage of his offer. But, his own twisted sense of morality kept him from taking advantage of her, precisely because of her perceived weakness.<br/><br/>He sniffed a bit as they traveled along; he could smell blood. Given the fights he's in, especially the less savory ones, he knows that coppery smell quite well. Fairly fresh, too. But then again, they were getting to be in the more shittier parts of the city, and he didn't think overly much about it, even if it made him pay more attention to their surroundings. The woman he's escorting might notice a certain subtle tensing of his body, if she's paying attention.<br/><br/>"Luck is something you make for yourself, Ellen. If you think you've got bad luck, find your own way to turn it into good." he was somewhat cold, with his tone of voice, but not overly hostile or the like.  He was testing her; like he does everyone. Would she see that his advice meant that she should better herself, to stop being weak? Or would she continue to cling onto it as some sort of excuse or justification?<br/><br/>His eyes, constantly wandering about and keeping an eye out for trouble, made note of some rather interesting graffiti on the walls of buildings; were gangs starting to get more esoteric with their insignia, or was this just the work of some Banksy like street artist? He wasn't sure.