Aftermath

[Squad]

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Willie found some space between one of the hangar bay doors and a pair of cargo containers to light up a cigarette without disturbing the big-wigs walking through from their ships. Pulling his left arm out from the shadow of a catwalk ladder, he covered the end of a plasma lighter to protect it from a non-existent wind. He was a righty, but smokes were always a one-off Bunn reminded him of daily in the scrap fields.

As he inhaled and let the plasma flame disburse before kicking the cover on top, he pulled a data pad out of his coat pocket and took a hard look at the image on the screen. Watching the backs of the crowd gathering in front of him, he didn't see anything advertising itself as a match for the folks he was looking for. From a distance, he could see the subtle revealing gestures to briefly-flashed sidearms. He chuckled a little to himself as he exhaled through clinched teeth.

You gon' look again, som'a dem trick-ass marks gonna be pullin' out measurin' tapes n'callin' demselves "tripod."

He crossed his feet and leaned against the wall to his left. With folded arms, he reached out and pulled the cigarette from his lips before letting the smoke drift from his mouth.

Don' make Mixtape wait all night, son.

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