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Badger #1 rolls the car around, steady, as the others stow their rifles and prepare to operate an impromptu soup kitchen for waterfowl. Wooden spoons, ladles, canteens and hands - it all works to slosh the gloopy contents of Boris borsch everywhere.
The geese attack it with a gusto, and Badger #1 rolls forward, steady, steady-- the rain is picking up, the road inclines, and the mass of feathers and beaks is dense, the headlight of the car scattered by the midnight dark feathers of Baba Yaga's servants. But progress, like the sun rising, is steady. The hunters are a steel-souled lot, they know their bushcraft, and there! The headlights sweep past the hill, lighting up the love suite at number #13, grand and opulently perched with a magnificent view of the quiet resort below it.
And then the van thumbs, lifting, brief and slow, as it rolls over something on the road. Badger #1 looks out through the windshield with sudden horror. The night explodes into hissing frenzy and then a beak rams through the window of the car in a spray of glass.
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The impromptu comms-channel explodes in chatter, overwatch teams begging for permissions to fire, reports coming in, Nikolai working to shift the data but with the nodes under such strain, there's simply too much information to manage at once. The system starts fritzing out, under assault by data-entropy, probability dysfunction and the sheer malice of the cosmos.
--
>Signal Interference! Nikolai is trying to get it under control!
>Agents to act!
