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In the Reception, some first aid is applied to a appreciative civilian. We're probably the closest thing she has to a doctor within four hundred forest-and-mountain-clad-miles. The old receptionist finds her bearings with shaking hands and wide, sea-dark eyes. Treats Aught to a smile, instantly taking a liking to the affable young agent.
--
Holiday flips the night-light on his smg up a notch and brings the stable point of its barrel in line with the five old hunters working around the muddy van. A tense moment as two of them raise rifles but the foremost man, slightly greyer than the others, barks a snapped command and they keep them pointed lower. Not overly hostile just at the moment. Simply wary. Semi automatic hunting rifles against Holidays reflexes with an automatic. Close call. They know. Or maybe its Agent Etch's imposing presence and vague sense of menacing distant authority. You don't get a lot of suit and tie clad people with badges in this part of the world and when you do they're usually uniformly bad news.
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TS Liren: Okay, easy, agents. Despite what you might think we are not actually allowed to open fire on unidentified civilians in almost any jurisdiction. But they don't know that, and I think we have them at an advantage.
Play it cool, build some rapport, and maybe find out what these people want and what's got them all spooked.
--
Agent Fiasco hears the distant leaves rustle.
>Go agents, go!
