@luch3gor3 wanted a dog
Mox has been awake for twenty hours. That's not an overly long time, but it's enough to have him grouchy and fighting to stop scowling. Sensory overload barely begins to cover it at this point. Every little noise, every goddamn fluorescent light, every grating voice...it's all nails on a chalkboard, it's icewater straight to the veins, and he was grinding his teeth so hard they're starting to ache by the time he was finally dropped off here.
The airport cell phone waiting lot is, mercifully, nearly deserted. Plenty of cameras here, and that's half the reason it was picked as the drop point for this shit.
There are eyes on him either way. He doesn't know where that microchip is under his skin, but he's been taunted with the tracking app enough times to know it's real. That, and one ill-advised trek without permission that resulted in a few very bad days? He's not keen to cause an issue- not with this client.
They're not late. He was just left here early as a precaution.
He closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Holds it...exhales. There. Better. His chest feels tight. Why does this feel different than usual? He should be used to this by now.
There- headlights. He straightens from his lean against the pole of the streetlight and reaches up to lower his hood. The duffel bag at his feet is his only luggage. He doesn't need much.
You hire a dog, you get one. Not that he sees any of the pay. All black, denim and cotton unpretentious. A strained, exhausted expression. Were it not for foreknowledge, the fact he's got on a collar the hoodie underneath the denim jacket can't quite hide, he might manage to pass as any other traveler, were he to try.
He's got a job to do. He bends. Grabs the bag. Stays.
