Mugged

[Ezekiel]

Imailovsky was an easy tout for tourists, and tourists were easy fodder. Though it was not why Ezekiel was here this day. He wandered with native ease, watching the crowds, hands slunk into his pockets. Dark clothing draped his shoulders, a marked contrast against golden skin. Setting up games like the one he planned for Cruz Vega took time and a vast network, but that business was dealt with for now (and perhaps accounted for the vague smirk sharpening his lips). He was here for information as mercurial as the changing weather. Rumour was always useful.

He paused to watch a girl purchasing a souvenir, but only because he discerned the mark she had made of herself in carelessness. Ezekiel observed the flashing eyes of opportunity without interfering. Hands grasped. She tumbled in the process, her bag lost in the mindless market sea.

The mugger was long gone, and Ezekiel was not inclined to the chase. He did offer a tattooed hand though, to help her to her feet. “That was unlucky,” he said. Or stupid, but people rarely took kindly to that kind of honesty.