Meeting the Knight

[G. Graves]

The voice had come more than unexpectedly. Losing interest in the bartender, who by now had scurried to clean up the mess, Graves hopped off the chair and left a ten thousand credit chip on the counter, which was the only sort of currency he currently had with him. Who needed bank transfers anyways? It wasn't like that would be his money either, technically.

There was a certain laxness about Graves that had earned him many a condescending look from his fellow Hackers back in the day. Which was a month ago or so, he couldn't really tell. While most of them contented themselves with simply being aloof about anything and anyone, Graves found this sort of attitude simply, well, boring. There was a difference between sociopathy and apathy, and Graves honestly preferred the former over the latter, simply because it allowed for more mischief, ergo for more fun. Mostly to the disadvantage or other people, but that's where sociopathy really really helped, he felt. Taking a look at his expensive watch, he deduced that the batteries were empty and that the indicators hadn't moved an inch for about three weeks now. Glorious. "Miss Whitaker?" Graves intoned once he had left the canteen. How much had she seen? Bloody hell, it wasn't his fault that the dude was such a punching bag. Spotting her outside of the canteen, which was rather easy given her attire that reminded him of the Navy, he made strides towards her. Whitaker could see a relatively tall man with immaculate hair and trenchcoat that made him look like he was straight out of one of those strange Bretonian adaptations of modern day Libertonian murder mysteries.