[ He nods in acknowledgment, letting Vasquez step around him into the bathroom.
Once the door shuts behind him, Faraday lets out a slow breath, grabbing up the coffee. He pauses as he's drinking it, eyeing the bottle of pills a little dubiously.
But after a second of shifting his weight from one leg to another, he grunts out an aggravated sound and frees a couple of pills, swallowing them dry before chasing them with the coffee.
He returns to the living room, picking up the pieces of his suit from the floor and, after fishing his glasses out of his breast pocket, tossing them over the arm of the couch to be dealt with later. He rummages through his bag for a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of sweats, pulling them on a little hastily before plopping down on the couch. He pulls on his glasses, tapping the arm until he finds their tracking program.
The tracking chip is still in the building, it seems, though the auction was surely last night. Faraday frowns a little, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He hopes that just means the buyer wanted to enjoy the rest of the party without having to worry about fucking around with a biochemical weapon, and plans on moving the nerve gas today – and not that they switched containers.
Or, worse – that Faraday tagged the totally wrong crate. ]
no subject
Once the door shuts behind him, Faraday lets out a slow breath, grabbing up the coffee. He pauses as he's drinking it, eyeing the bottle of pills a little dubiously.
But after a second of shifting his weight from one leg to another, he grunts out an aggravated sound and frees a couple of pills, swallowing them dry before chasing them with the coffee.
He returns to the living room, picking up the pieces of his suit from the floor and, after fishing his glasses out of his breast pocket, tossing them over the arm of the couch to be dealt with later. He rummages through his bag for a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of sweats, pulling them on a little hastily before plopping down on the couch. He pulls on his glasses, tapping the arm until he finds their tracking program.
The tracking chip is still in the building, it seems, though the auction was surely last night. Faraday frowns a little, sipping his coffee contemplatively. He hopes that just means the buyer wanted to enjoy the rest of the party without having to worry about fucking around with a biochemical weapon, and plans on moving the nerve gas today – and not that they switched containers.
Or, worse – that Faraday tagged the totally wrong crate. ]