Job 2 - Chapter 1: Just a few questions...

The door opened again, in walking a big Caucasian male, with a mean look, a face that looked like he'd seen better years, and muscle that could only be gained through years of heavy labor planetside.

He was remarkably unaltered. No trace of implants, or even medical shunts. Just a lot of scars and well healed fractures. The man looked like some kind of black ops, special forces type. Complete with the operator beard and posture.

He offered Eddie a nod, some familiarity there, as he strode in and strode into the room. His right hand was recently bandaged, bleeding, and looked like it had a hairline fracture from the black bruise extending up to his wrist. There was a scrap underneath his left eye, looked like it had been a near miss with something heavy. And in those green and gold eyes a wildness, space madness, or perhaps just someone who had seen something terrible and still hadn't come to terms with it. Those bright unblinking eyes took in the people in the room one at a time. Making eye contact, but looking almost through them. Until he came to see ChiHiRu. A spark of recognition, and a smirk, the microexpression was short lived as his face returned to its almost completely neutral empty look.

He looked back to Eddie. "Those dock rats?" Speaking though his deviated septum the man had a higher pitched sound than his size might suggest. Still a deep voice, but it didn't quite fit. He made his way to Eddie's kitchen, helped himself to a bottle of water and drank half the liter. Plain,
filtered by reverse osmosis, 99.99% pure. "Handled it, paid in full and they'll be back to work tomorrow. We'll except the clown. He's very dead." Another smirk, and a chortle. Not only did he all but admit to killing the guy, but he enjoyed it.

"You're busy, I'll come back when you have some work available. Unless, these are that job you mentioned earlier."

The modified mechanics overalls the man wore had the name "Slade" written on the name tag. But judging by the suspicious bloodstain that ran right under the man's carotid , they probably weren't his. It was obvious to see why he kept them though, the nomax and Kevlar weave held ceramic inserts inside it, they'd stop a bullet. Forest green, and covered in some brand new patches, some of which were gang affiliated, showed this guy was either psychotic, or highly skilled. Definitely Not-Slade crossed his arms and stood expectantly for an answer. His shirt emblazoned with the words "I am THAT guy" in bold white against flat black emphasized by his posture.