Atticus James sat in the bowels of one of the largest libraries in Sacramento. Surrounded by him was a pile of books and various open notebooks. Atticus held a cigarette in his left hand and a pen in his right as he reviewed the current book. He scrawls in messy forms of letters and charts and graphs. The notebook is a child's bedroom, mom couldn't find shit, but the kid knows exactly where everything is. Three paper coffee cups sit around him, all empty, but stained from use. He picked them out of the garbage on his way in, helps him to blend in. Just another schmo doing schmo stuff. The gangrel wears a simple gray tee shirt and his standard jeans.
The Gangrel continues his scouring until a look of elation crosses his face, he begins to write something, and then he quickly scribbles it out. "Garbage. Total Garbage," his tone is one of annoyance as he continues his reading. Atticus stops, places both hands on the table, takes a large deep breath and then exhales, and then back to work.
Blushed