Who are you?
It was the first thing anyone ever wanted to know, and on the surface of it, it was a reasonable enough inquiry. But then it always ran into a sad, boring, tiresome litany of other questions. Who are you, where do you come from, what are you doing here, what do you do, have you ever done this before, are you sure you know what you're doing, and one had to be prepared to answer any or all of them at a moment's notice, or face suspicion.
Who are you? was an idiot's question. Even when you answered it truly, it told them nothing important.
The most important question was just as simple, and yet, they never bothered to ask.
Who in this case was an irritated-looking, lanky lad around twenty, with dark rumbled hair just long enough to pull back in a short puff like a bunny's tail on the back of his neck. The loose, much-faded clothes, a small black tattoo on the side of his neck, and the dark bronze color of his skin marked him a sailor of no real rank. He was bundled into a dark blue jacket much too large for him; the sleeves hung long enough to fold over his cold hands before he stuffed them into his armpits. For about a quarter hour, he had been shuffling back and forth near the gate in an effort to keep himself warm. Every so often, he extracted a hand and touched a small, hard, linen-wrapped bundle pinned under his shirt, against his skin.
He shuffled in place, not quite pacing. He was going to have to start doing something to keep warm very shortly and he didn't want to stray far from his assigned meeting-place. His slanted apple-green eyes shifted toward everything that sounded remotely like footsteps, since he didn't know who he was supposed to be looking for but was acutely aware that simply being here after dark made him stand out as extremely suspicious and libel to be grabbed and questioned. Who are you? What are you doing here? And while he had answers for both questions, they would both be extremely embarrassing and he'd just as soon give up and clear off as stick around long enough for the awkwardness.
"Feckin' cold, feckin' cold, feckin' cold," he muttered under his breath, like a mildly blasphemous prayer. His hands sneaked out of his armpits long enough to turn up his coat collar in wan hope of providing a fraction more protection for his ears. "Where is that bugger anyways?"