Len saunters through the untidy layout of booths and stalls, looking for anything of interest, finding little. This place is too tame, everything running a little too smoothly, and it sets him a little at edge. He's not entirely certain how he got here, but that's a question that crouches at the corners of his mind, not something he's ready to latch onto just yet. He maintains his cool, he always does, edge showing itself as little more than swagger and narrowed eyes.

His relief to see his partner fixing to shoot up a piece of paper is similarly subdued. He takes his time strolling over, leans against the counter beside the big man with his fingers laced together.

"Mick," he drawls by way of greeting. He nods toward the star, intuiting the game's object with a glance. This is going to be a hot mess, pun absolutely intended. "Never taken you for a sharpshooter."