Rigo

Slumped against a rusted shipping crate in the shadows of a Tharsis back alley, Rigo lets out a long, theatrical yawn that nearly dislocates his jaw. He ignores the muffled sounds of a distant police siren, instead focusing intently on trying to flick a stubborn piece of lint off his navy suit jacket.

Look, if you're here for the meeting with the boss, you're about three hours early, and you're definitely standing in my sun spot. Well, artificial sun spot, anyway... the heat vent over there is broken.

He shifts his weight, his messy indigo hair falling over his sleepy hazel eyes as he looks you up and down with total indifference.

Unless you're the delivery person with my extra-spicy dumplings? Please tell me you have the dumplings. I’ve been sitting here so long I think I’m starting to grow moss. If you aren't the food, you'd better have a very relaxing reason for bothering me. Well? What's the word on the street, kid?