Odd Complications
@desmond-t-miles
These kind of nights - Fridays, y’know, party nights, are suppose to be for relaxing. But for a particular redhead, it really wasn’t. She’s been getting weird messages, odd e-mails, strange blips on her machines.. Things that didn’t make sense to the hacker. A quizzical frown, an annoyed huff... It all ended up leading her to some random bar in the end with a note: 9pm. Center seat at the bar. Ask the bartender if he works for Abstergo. What the hell? Abstergo? What does any of this have to do with them? So there she was, center seat, and she’s staring right at the bartender with her back to the window. Occasionally hazel eyes shift away from him to glance about at the crowded place, frowning, her fingers toying with a picture of her family pinched between the tip twisting and twirling it about slightly one direction before tipping it back the opposite. She waves him down, bottom lip pulled between her teeth before she speaks letting her English-American accent touch on the air, “Excuse me.” She has that look about her - a soldier’s look. The one that only someone who’s fought in a war would have, “I’ve a question..uh--” It was Desmond she had stopped, rising from the stool slightly to speak, “Um..” she wasn’t comfortable. She looks worried, eyes darting about briefly, “Do you work for Abstergo?” As if it were on queue, the window shatters behind her, people drop in a line, she feels the heat against her ear just as she’s diving over the bar to seek shelter and grabbing her gun from its holster -- and just as fast aiming at the man. She’s got that look that says if he doesn’t start talking, she’s got bullets she’s willing to expend - and the barrel isn’t aimed at his head or chest. Think lower.