[It's not the duet. A shame. He would have welcomed something soothing.
Richie halts near the door for a moment, eyeballing the digs (he's still trying to quell his jumping pulse, frankly) and sizing up the new double of his good pal By. The people behind the desk aren't ones he recognizes from that passel of pods he'd seen (he could be wrong — the lot of them looked so alike that losing one iteration of that face hardly seemed impossible) but the man's resemblance makes it clear that he's from the same stock. Better off and higher up than the stiff-backed man in the seat in front.
Slowly, Richie moves forward. He moves to a better vantage point for the conversation. Eyes flicking between the speakers, then back to the real Byerly once a familiar name crops up.]
Richars again?
[His frown turns lopsided but he holds his tongue for the time being.
Impsec. Civilian versus a more traditional member, something about a council that needs no finger-snapping psychotics (what council does?). Worry about personal vendettas. Bare-chinned Byerly is close to sweating bullets, and his moustachioed self is close behind.
Richie folds his arms. Curious, but thinking. Cautious too, even if matters are getting a shade too obvious to not say anything. The steady way he held his gun and took immediate charge. His knack for prodding, his intellect, the prime position at the brothel. His emancipation from his home that turned to homelessness on the street. Wouldn't that be an easy recruit?
He gnaws the inside of his lip. Jesus.]
...Are these the ones that taught you how to shoot straight, then?
I JUST WANTED TO BE POLITE....
Richie halts near the door for a moment, eyeballing the digs (he's still trying to quell his jumping pulse, frankly) and sizing up the new double of his good pal By. The people behind the desk aren't ones he recognizes from that passel of pods he'd seen (he could be wrong — the lot of them looked so alike that losing one iteration of that face hardly seemed impossible) but the man's resemblance makes it clear that he's from the same stock. Better off and higher up than the stiff-backed man in the seat in front.
Slowly, Richie moves forward. He moves to a better vantage point for the conversation. Eyes flicking between the speakers, then back to the real Byerly once a familiar name crops up.]
Richars again?
[His frown turns lopsided but he holds his tongue for the time being.
Impsec. Civilian versus a more traditional member, something about a council that needs no finger-snapping psychotics (what council does?). Worry about personal vendettas. Bare-chinned Byerly is close to sweating bullets, and his moustachioed self is close behind.
Richie folds his arms. Curious, but thinking. Cautious too, even if matters are getting a shade too obvious to not say anything. The steady way he held his gun and took immediate charge. His knack for prodding, his intellect, the prime position at the brothel. His emancipation from his home that turned to homelessness on the street. Wouldn't that be an easy recruit?
He gnaws the inside of his lip. Jesus.]
...Are these the ones that taught you how to shoot straight, then?