More modernacity

His window is rolled up despite the sensational weather. His cup-holder is nearly sparkling and the cappuccino it protects is wrapped in the crispest paper. His radio and its collection of knobs and buttons are in pristine condition, but appear a neglected portion of the front seat. The eyes in the mirror are focused and sharp. The only sounds are the thrumming of the motor and the crackling of the occasional check in over the walkie-talkie.

Despite the driver's immaculate workspace, he seems distant- on edge. His fingers drum on the steering wheel impatiently, and he glances around corners three or four times more than necessary before turning. When he is driving down a stretch of road for more than a few minutes, his brows come together and his lips form a pout, as though there is something that needs to be said and he doesn't know how to say it. The com sputters again, and he is late in replying.

Soon he will arrive at his destination. As his cruiser pulls into the desolate lot, he leans forward on the wheel and glances about, unsure of what to expect. The car slides to a halt and nothing appears.

A click and the door swings open. The driver is much taller when he exits the vehicle, his head easily reaching six feet in height. His skin is pale, his hair blonde and his eyes a light shade. It is bold of him to come to so dilapidated a place bearing the blue and black uniform of a city guard.

The officer's anxiety is hardly noticeable as he leaves the safety of his car and begins to explore the old scrap yard. He knows it is a terribly clichéd spot for the meeting, but it is also convenient. That truth is not enough to remove his hand from his hip, though. His palm hovers over his pistol, awaiting command. When the shadows deepen or a rat scampers past, the gun is all but unholstered by fingers that do not shake. It is curious how one can seem so collected and so scattered at the same time.

Suddenly, he stops. He is aware that another pair of footsteps has joined his. Possibilities, fears, assumptions present themselves in his mind, but in the end the entity chooses to make itself known before he can react:

"It's been a while, Sibrand."

She is behind him, but Sibrand neither turns nor replies. He stands quiet and waits for her to continue.

There is a smile in her voice as she slinks closer, "I was beginning to fear you'd abandoned me."

"I do not abandon those who do their jobs."

And now she appears before him, the brim of her hat hiding her eyes and not her grin. There is cunningness in the way she speaks, the way she smiles as though she knows something he doesn't. Where he is fair, she is tanned, and her hair is a healthier gold.

"So you have returned to me, which means one of two things," the thief says, "either you are planning a breach and want information regarding the latest hideout, or…" She pauses for a moment, "you've finally the means to make up that dinner you owe me."

        Sibrand's skin tingles and he feels uncomfortable, which is not the way he likes things. The officer crosses his arms and stares down at the petite pickpocket with what he hopes is intimidating distrust.

"Unfortunately, I do not have the pleasure of choosing either option. I was told you have news concerning the Assassins."

At mention of the nefarious gang her eyebrows rise beneath her hat. She answers and her tone implies that she is impressed, "Assassins, eh?"

"They've been particularly brash lately," Sibrand explains, "I assume you would have heard something by now."

The thief chuckles and the officer's flesh heats once more, "It's not a matter of what I hear, Sir Sibrand. It's a matter of whether or not I can remember it."

And now comes the moment he was dreading in the car. The contact has the information, but she will not share unless he allows himself to be swindled. Sibrand supposes the best way to deal with this problem would be to simply force her cooperation. After all, it was pitiful how small she was compared to him, and he was well within his rights to beat a straight answer or two from her. He could also take her into custody and threaten the names from her with large and frightening legal words.

But for some reason, neither of those ideas appeal to Sibrand as much as standing right here racing for a snappy comeback. Eventually, he realizes he does not have one.

Things end the way they always do. Sibrand sighs and pulls a fifty-dollar-bill from his wallet. His companion eyes it hungrily, but it is not hers until she recites every known member of the infamous Assassins and where their favored meeting spot of the week is located.
When Sibrand is satisfied, he releases his hold on the paper and watches as she snatches it with both hands. She quickly stuffs the bill into the right pocket of her worn jeans, but then she has the nerve to pout up at him as though expecting more.

"We are done here," He announces curtly, unable to stand his informant's childish manners, "Danke, Faustina."

"Will I see you next week?" She wonders before he can take his leave.

Sibrand considers. It's true he owes her a little something for her help previously, but he has turned the situation over in his mind many times. He cannot imagine how a high-ranking officer of the law and a beautiful stool pigeon could possibly maintain a relationship.
Would it not be so incredibly awkward or-

He called her beautiful in his head and she's still waiting for an answer.

"Perhaps." Sibrand responds in a rather indecisive way. Faustina is all smiles.