She'd been tapping her finger against air particles, ticking off faces and numbers, when she was assaulted with an arm around the shoulders. With quaint expertise, she swiveled and slid out of his grasp like sand through the gullet of an hourglass. "Whoaaa there, lover boy," she remarked, smirking wryly (though she gave him a couple of curt pats on the wrist and then splaying out her fingers in a sort of nonchalant jiggle to indicate a lack of hard feelings). "No touchy Grandma Potts, a'ight? I hear it took years to get ahold of her--Abe'll kill ya, yeah?"
She chuckled to herself, without mirth. Her features retained dimples through each introduction and version of how much info the old man granted them--it was easy to tell her smile was increasingly strained. Ylaine always figured this job would be a bother, but that stupid bald brother of hers... "Ebenezer needs a favor," he says. "It'll be fun," he says. And apparently it was a huge job, but the coot didn't think it important enough to talk to her directly. Bull. Shit. She hissed her weariness through her teeth, shoulders sloping as she held the parcel with both hands again. "H'okay. In short, here's the deal. It's an escort mission, right? Here's the escortee." She lifted the object a tad, flashing a semi-sarcastic smile akin to that of a poster girl (poorly) advertising some weight loss drink. "Make sure nothing happens to her on the trip, yada yada, and we're golden."
She also flashed a thumbs up then for, perhaps, reassurance.
His kneecaps were itching, shivering. He was barely able to pay attention to the escort girl's synopsis--instead darting from head to head, name to name. Wolfgang, appropriately named, was their brutish muscle. Not quite to the point of being a bully, no; as a man who appreciated silence, Micah practically knew bullies by scent from sheer experience. Two appeared exceptionally professional, which was a quality he rather admired: Interpol and former FBI, Balthazar and Sallie (ah... the woman who scared him earlier). Surely they lacked the anxiety he held so dear to his heart. Then there was Sable--Mink?--who arrived with Balthazar, yet seemed so different. His nervous, inexperienced disposition, though significantly less socially stunted, was perhaps closest to his own. As such, Micah almost felt a sort of affinity with the boy. The last arrival was also similar in disposition to himself, though in an entirely different manner. Could it be that the man spoke even less than Micah himself did...? He had to admit he was impressed, and maybe afraid.
There were simply so many people, so many days looming over him, whispering and licking into his ear the knowledge that he wasn't escaping from this impending... job. And during this job, he might be stuck as a gofer. "M, Madame..." he finally managed to whimper to the kindly old woman. Micah hadn't the faintest how she would be able to lug this bag around on of her own accord--it was giving him trouble, clearly.