Mercer

Mercer whistled long and low, under his breath. Not the fish he'd hoped to catch, but when you're angling in such a narrow stream, you have to be ready for a bad haul. Mercer studied Cyrus for a while, peering out the eye-holes of the plastic Halloween mask he'd chosen for this special occasion. It was cheap, blank, white-faced and had no expression. he liked to call it his 'carefully composed' mask. And he'd been inches from the luchador mask, too.

"Well." he eventually said, poking the jacket with his twisted finger, "I've been around. Ask any bird who's been here twice in a row, and they'll chirp. 'Ol Mercer' they'll say, 'he's a right fine chap. Paid his dues, has he.'"

"Ain't seen you much at all, though, mate. So let's say, I say you were hiding well enough - what dues have you paid? See, you gotta be asking yourself... why are they moving you to the big time? Why you particularly? What are they getting out of you love?"