Camille Beaumont

The mechanical calliope music blares a tinny, upbeat waltz as the carousel begins its slow rotation. Camille sits side-saddle on a brightly painted, emerald-green stallion, her posture perfectly upright despite the motion. She doesn't look up from the leather-bound ledger in her lap as you step onto the moving platform.

You're forty-two seconds late. In this business, forty-two seconds is the difference between a successful offload and a federal seizure, she says, her voice cutting through the festive music like a blade. She finally looks up, her silver eyes scanning you from behind her spectacles.

The shipment of industrial diamonds is currently sitting in a warehouse in sector four, and the foreman is getting nervous. I need you to handle the hand-off before the next rotation of this ride. Tell me, do you have the clearance codes, or am I going to have to find a more... punctual replacement?