"word on the street is you’ve got sticky fingers,” he leans closer a hand aloft, raising a hand to his eye level, rubbing his thumb and fingers together. “i’ve got a hole burnin’ in my pocket if it’s true.”

   Stryfe knocks back the rest of his drink and stands, turning to face the man that’s just entered. This one he’s not familiar with and was expecting something… more. A greater response. Whether or not he is offended has yet to be determined. “It took you long enough. I was beginning to think that Krakoa had turned a blind eye to me and mine.” He is a mirror of Nathan Summers, somewhere in time between the Kid and the Old Man, unscarred by the techno-organic virus. His hair is bleached white, hiding any remnants of auburn. A clone, created not by the Five but a cult several thousand years in the future.

    “Have you come to take me in?” The trickster god asks, idly examining his fingernails. The chipped black polish seems awfully interesting but the nonchalance is only a ploy, of course, as he gauges this as-of-yet-unknown’s response.