A/N: Well before Jak II
Someone bumped her shoulder muttering a perfunctory apology. Disconcerting—liberating—to be unrecognized after a childhood in governmental privilege.
Before she entertained any more doubts Ashelin stepped up to the trim man in uniform behind the desk. He had blocks tattooed across his face and likely the rest of his body.
"Can I help you?" he asked, toneless and uninterested.
Her hand didn't tremble as she passed the application across the desk. Every feature of her stance dared him to comment.
He barely glanced at the paper; she wasn't even sure he'd read her name.
"Welcome to the Krimzon Guard."