"Oh, I assure you, it's all natural." Slipping past the Ork bouncer with catlike agility Abigail smiles wickedly at the security guard past the entrance. She'd taken a short detour to change, and gone was the dull wageslave appearance, and in its stead stood an Elf in a tightfitting matte black bodysuit, armaplast padding in selected places, kneelength combat boots (steelcapped of course), and a somewhat battered-looking UCAS armored combatjacket (Currently dialed to a dark green camo pattern). She still wore her hair the same, loose and jawlength, but it'd been ruffled by her bikeride from the meet, and now looked wild and free. Finally, Abigail had a Predator in a quickrelease rig under her left arm, and a tanto combat-blade under her right.
"I'm not messin', Chica, I need info on a dealer, celénit's name's Juno. Hangs at the Delirium. Hit me back when you got something." A message is blinkclicked and sent to one of Abigail's old goganger contacts, a serious adrenalinejunkie by the handle Vector. She'd rode with Abigail in the past.
Spotting Bo in the back, Abigail strides across the near-empty club and slides into the seat opposite him. She favours the asian man with a brief nod and a faint smile. "I apologise for the wait. Traffic's a killer." She orders three fingers of scotch from the AR menu, whilst fishing out the battered comlink the Johnson has given them. "I've already sent out a few feelers, and I assume you have as well, so I think we should look this thing over."
Celénit = Nonelf, insult.
