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November 11, 2011 Erin White's Apartment One of the advantages of being able to jump from continent to continent was that if you wanted to go to your friend's birthday, you could just take advantage of the Armistice Day celebrations that gave most UN employees the day off and walk right over to Freedom City. So it was that when Erin White reached the age of nineteen, her high school friend and ally against the Terminus, Mark Lucas, just headed over to her place around ten AM eastern standard time, a big package under his arm fresh from a nice store in Switzerland. They'd all exchanged addresses before they'd moved out their various ways, so it was no trouble even for the usually scatter-brained Mark to find exactly where his old ally and Liberty League comrade was living these days, for all that he hadn't visited her there. He knocked firmly, whistling a jaunty tune.
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Trevor Hunter stood outside the towering Parisian office building looking upward with a faint frown. The reserved young man's face was too schooled to give away whether it was apprehension, frustration or general glum despondency tugging at the corners of his mouth, but at least to the young woman accompanying him, it was clear that he was not looking forward to visitation to come. Dressed immaculately in a deceptively simple but obviously well tailored suit, the dark haired engineer certainly blended in with the bustling stock brokers and deal makers hurrying in and out of the glass doors before them, chattering loudly away on cell phones in a dozen languages, primarily French, naturally. "So," he began, turning toward Erin with a fairly transparent stalling tactic.
