He waited, patiently. Adrian Maskin was a busy man, but he wasn't Mitchell Hundred. He didn't run his entire life on a schedule, so he waited, occasionally checking his watch, occasionally tapping a foot in time with a beat nobody but he can hear. A side-effect of being a fucking import in hiding, but he was silent as the grave as he watched.

She didn't really look like she belonged out of a concert, if he were honest. The mask, the tattoos, everything about her looked like she could be a tattoo artist, or someone living some other sort of ostentatious, exotic lifestyle. He supposed children's book author would fit that? Kind of?

Or maybe changing mentalities were a part of it. People were more willing to accept the freaks and outcasts when they'd had imports to unite against.

It still made him sick to his stomach. It had taken that to unite people further than he'd ever been able to do. Regardless, he waited patiently, drinking in details, until she finally approached, and they shook hands.

"I thought the publisher would've filled you in. It's a pleasure to finally meet up with you. I'd say I'm a fan, but I'm afraid I don't have much experience with kids, or kids books. Feel free to back out anytime, by the way. I'm pretty sure this project may flop, since I'm terrible with kids."