Reconnaissance
This identity does not claim points.
Public gym. A long glass wall, and behind it a line of stuck-out backsides encased in tight spandex, tensing and shifting with exercise.
A man passing by walks into a door.
Our sports bags contain t-shirts and baggy sweatpants; there is not even a glimmer of a chance that we could fit in among Cato’s supermodel-like minions.
Mithra curses.
I look around. Smack-dab opposite the gym is a strategically positioned patisserie.
“Surveillance instead?” I suggest.
“Might as well,” she agrees.
We walk off for coffee and cake to lift our mood.
Behind us another man crashes into a rubbish bin.
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