Mick shrugged and stalked off. Class was over-rated, and obviously a privilege of the obscenely wealthy. Mick got to a vehicle he'd been using for a few days. Borrowed it from a friend of a friend. He drove out to the reservoir where he had a supply drop hidden in an old, abandoned campground. He collected the munitions he needed and headed back over to where Allura lived. She seemed like the, never-home-before-dark type. Sure enough the place was empty, and Mick was able to force open a rear door with a bit of effort, but minimal noise. He posted up in a corner and waited. This had always been the part of the job that Mick was best at. You could teach people a lot of things. You could teach how to fight, how to shoot, how to count cards and identify the calibre from the shapes of bullet holes... but teaching a person patience was almost fucking impossible. What's more, it took a certain brashness and impulsivity to be a successful criminal, two attributes that rarely correlated with patience. Well, Mick had patience. He had patients like it it was nobody's business. Like he'd spent his entire childhood learning how to stand silent for hours on end until a bunch of adults screamed at him to go stand in front of the lights and cameras and dance for their pleasure. Like he'd known how to stare at the wall outside of an audition room at the age of 7, pretending to focus on nothing, but listening to every kid who did a reading before him. Listening to how they did it, the energy, the intonation, then counting out how long the discussions were after each wannabe star exited, before they brought the next one in. It was well after 10 and pitch dark when Allura came in through her front door. She closed it, locked it, turned and flipped a light switch, immediately illuminating Mick sitting in her living room. The file was sitting on her coffee table, open, spread out. He had a gun in hand and 15 pounds of C4 strapped to his chest. "Hey, red."
