Eight-Stone squeezed his massive bulk out of the autocab, then reached in to grab his ominious black duffel bag, bulging with barely-contained weaponry. He paused to fiddle with his messy black hair and stunted, granite-gray horns in the reflection of the autocab's windshield. Satisfied, he crossed the parking lot, opened the up the door, and stepped into Denim.
Stepping inside, Eight-Stone quickly scanned the crowd. His sheer size attracted some looks and double-takes. Some eyes lingered on his duffel bag, others on his armor jacket, almost bursting to contain his barrel-chest and the grenades pinned carefully underneath the flame-retardant exterior jacket. Most eventually returned their attention to their drinks, however.
Seeing a group gathered in the smoky back room, Eight-Stone figured that must be the Johnson Mr. Twist had told him about. He stepped into the back room, mumbling a faint "sorry I'm late" as he caught the tail end of Mr. Johnson's instructions. As the group discussed their plans, Eight-Stone nodded in agreement with those who favored going together. "I, uh, can use all the help getting through the border that I can get. I've been told that I stand out in a crowd, so to speak." He moved with the others toward the waiting van. "Name's Eight-Stone, by the way."