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| - Mazzonnoz has his hand in his bulky pocket as he leaves the Decon Corridor, headed towards the shuttles. The other sleeve hangs limp. A slim, slick-haired Timonae is standing outside the shuttle exit, talking with a custom official. A large overcoat covers his entire frame, and coupled with the dark shades, he's the epitome of a thug. Mazzonnoz pushes his own shades higher up on his nose as he eyes his destination. The hand slips back into his pocket. The big Timonae near the shuttles - and the official he's talking with - attract Noz's attention, but his own glasses conceal his eyes. Mazzonnoz A wiry Timonae with a sly smirk and the usual dusky, olive complexion, Noz stands a little taller and walks a little more carefree than most humanoids. His violet eyes are hidden behind large aviator sunglasses; when revealed, they reflect their surroundings without differentiation between iris and pupil. He wears a new-looking, straight-backed black leather jacket over a kevlar vest. Under the kevlar, the collar of a red silk shirt juts out around his neck. The left arm of the jacket drapes limply down his side, devoid of an arm to fill it. Above his conspiratorial grin, his hair is drawn up in a haphazard arrangement of white spikes. Baggy black cargo pants are cinched with a leather belt; slightly oversized, the fabric hangs in such a way as to make it difficult to tell which pockets are full and which ones aren't. A little closer, and one can make out what is being said. "Seen him?" Even the Timonae's voice is oily, drawing a shake of his head from the official. "Shame. If you see him, well, see if you can stop him long enough for me to close him in." The official returns the smile, white teeth flashing in identical olive faces. Almost frighteningly similiar. Brothers maybe. "Lady's Smile." The man turns, walking away, heading Maz's way. The murmur of the crowd hides the whine of the pulse pistol charging in Noz's pocket. Humming quietly to himself, the Timonae slips sideways in the traffic and into a stream of folks headed for a knot of occupied parking spaces a little further east than the shuttles. Nice eyes, there, jack ass. Mr. Shades walks right past Mazzonoz, and if his sight failed him, his hearing did too. The humming of conversation and pulse pistols are similiar enough it seems. Mr. Official still hangs out by the shuttle station, hands clasped behind his back. The hunted Timonae spares himself a moment's grin as he dips into another pocket, looking from face to face for the scruffiest-looking Militia member he can find. Deft fingers count credits, and Noz works his way a little further into the crowd - and away from the hunter's gaze. One man in particular stands out in immediate inspection. A militia officer with a bed-raggled uniform, hanging out near the parking spot for docked ships. He's a mess, plain and simple, and one can almost see the half-empty bottle of booze in his hands already. Shades continues onwards, glancing around curiously. Mazzonnoz almost bares his teeth as his lips mouth the word, "Perfect." Palming the credits, Noz slips out of the crowd to approach the militiaman. "Excuse me, officer. I was wondering if you had a moment." He gestures with his hand, slipping his thumb to the side just enough to show a hint of the gray chip within, before allowing it to fall to his side. "Always 'ot timah fa a citizen." The officer mumbles, staring at the man, and the flashed credits, though a very long pause is made before the answer as his brain plays catch up. "What's the problem?" "Well, sir." Noz stops within handshake distance of the officer and speaks quietly, eyes wary behind his sunglasses. "That man over there by the shuttles, dressed as a customs official, I'm willing to bet you may have seen him before but don't know him." One eyebrow arches above his shades. "Am I right?" The militia officer looks over to the man, then back to Moz. "Well, look't there. I don't. He's one of those new guys, I bet." "I knew right away you were an observant man," Noz says, conspiratorially, "He /is/ new. So new, in fact, he doesn't even work for customs. He's a fake. His real job is as a bagman for an arms cartel." The Timonae takes another step closer to the officer. "In five minutes, a delivery of guns is going to arrive - big ones, assault-type. I'm only interested because I don't want that kind of firepower poisoning our streets." He offers his hand to the officer, credits peeking out. "I was hoping that a brave-looking, smart officer of the law like yourself could stop it before it happened, nab him and take the money. Without the guy to make the pick-up, the deliveries will stop." Mazzonnoz is offering 1500 credits. Ooh, money. His bitchin' girlfriend will finally shut up and he can buy some more fine Antimone spirits. "Ok. I'll show the limey bastard Maza's frown." Then he hikes up his pants, moving that way. Mazzonnoz smiles. "Finally, a conscientious member of the constabulary." Noz slips him the money and disappears back into the crowd, trailing the militiaman at enough of a distance so as not to be immediately associated with him. "Say, you there. Come aside and have a word with me." The 'official' snarls silently for a moment, eyes turned away, before offering a weary nod at the officer as they start walking away from the exit, clearing the way for Maz. Mazzonnoz slips into the shuttle station, slipping a hand into his pocket to power down his pulse pistol.
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