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[comm_npc]

Katya Tank is her real name. It just isn't the name her mother gave her. Nor is it the name the laws will pull up from the DNA scan on the fourth and fifth fingers she left on site at a job just a few months ago. She doesn't use that name any more, and doesn't associate it with herself

Comments

[dreamer_fray]

"Whoa!"

A small boy that had been sitting the shadows of a nearby dumpster jumps violently as she drops down nearby, scrambling to his feet in evident panic and peering at her through thick glasses. Tattered sneakers shift on the ground as if he'd prefer to be runnin' about now, thanks.

"Wh-where the rut'd you come from?"

[comm_npc]

Katya starts, fairly violently. Drawing to a halt quickly, she squeaks loudly in the shock of being surprised. There shoudln't be anyone there. Her visor's bust.

And of course she doesn't own it legally, so she can't exactly fish it out to check.

"Jesu!" She counters, instead of answering. "What the rut are you doing? Sitting here?"

[dreamer_fray]

"...Yeah," he replies, as though it should be obvious. "'Cause it's usual you don't get people droppin' on in."

He casts a vaguely suspicious look upwards.

"Y'make a habit o'that?"

[comm_npc]

Katya glances up over her shoudler at the roof above and behind. No one caught her leaving. No alarms yet. No reason to think she came from the museum. No reason to suspect her at all.

Not that this kid would know anything about a grab, of course.

"Not these rooftops 'special," she says. "I don't live 'round here."