<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e3/RoanQuinceCyber3.png)</div>Their crew began to swell in number, with most arriving a few minutes after Roan herself. Staggered. That worked for the Rocker, as it made it more likely that their meeting would remain a private affair. This was good: unwanted interruptions would not help to calm her growing restlessness, nor soothe her dour mood. She was often like this, when the matter of Blaker's murder, or those involved in it, was the focus of her evening - and there was little else occupying her thoughts these nights.<br/><br/>The demands of the dreadlocked, trench-coat wearing edgerunner, who had joined them soon after Sin, were met with stony silence from the others. Roan didn't answer him - at least not verbally - when he made his insinuations about her personal reliability on a gig; but when he set the contract down on the table top, she lifted both of her feet from the ground and placed them atop it. She reclined in her seat, making herself comfortable in her new position, all whilst making a silent statement about what she thought of the proposed contract.<br/><br/>Roan still didn't speak up even then; she didn't have to. Fireman gave the man a solid dressing down, and that was enough for the Rockerboy. Maybe now the dick-waving could end and they could talk shop. This, thankfully, occurred in the moments following the arrival of yet another edgerunner, one whom Roan considered only briefly before turning her attentions back to the bottle of bourbon sat besides her newly-elevated boots. She seized it, unsealed it, and drew back another big swig of the burning liquid.<br/><br/>The cold was becoming mildly more tolerable, allowing Roan to give proper focus to Fireman, who had begun speaking again. A snap of the Fixer's chrome fingertips preluded the activation and appearance of a holo-projector from the belly of the table top. All in the assembly were caught in its neon glow, casting their features into a stricter light. Roan paid the four of them no mind: she was staring at the display from behind her boots, marking the details just as dutifully as she did the words that Fireman spoke.<br/><br/><strong>"The target is a <em>cylon</em>,"</strong>he began,<strong>"and is enjoying a ... 'safe and restful festive period with his family.' Word is that the only family he has comes out of an air-hypo, braindance, or a bottle. You talk your way passed the guard, disable the security system, and then take our friend for a little walk."</strong><br/><br/>The images flashed and changed, cycling through a visual inventory until finally coming to rest upon a man's face. Roan stared at it; she memorised it. She drank deeply from her bottle before tossing its empty corpse aside. It smashed somewhere out-of-sight - she didn't bother to look where.<br/><br/><strong>"Questions?"</strong><br/><br/>Finally, Roan spoke, taking her feet down off of the table and planting them firmly back onto the stone underfoot.<strong>"Once we've got the <em>suit</em>, do you have a place ready we can take him?"</strong>The Rockerboy removed her arm from the backrest of her seat and leaned forwards, meeting the gaze of the Fireman with a steady, burning energy and confidence that carried easily.<strong>"And if shit should go sideways, can we make use of the same <em>squat</em>, or do we need to improvise?"</strong><br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Streetslang</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong><em>Cylon</em></strong>: Slang for corporate security officer.<br/><strong><em>Suit</em></strong>: Slang for a Corpo.<br/><strong><em>Squat</em></strong>: Slang for a shit-house, or somewhere run-down and derelict.<br/></div></div>