Erubesco, The Citadel

Commander Botrelle nodded as Commander Green spoke. His requests were not unreasonable, and Red Queen was a strong priority, from her understanding. That being said, it was regrettable that he had managed his personnel so poorly that he would now be requesting transfers from other departments. Already, she was forming a mental list of those under her she would be placing under a transfer hold; unlike her peer, she knew the value of retaining reliable individuals.

Simon was near the top of her list. Kora, too- Though that was more to keep her friend away from a Commander who had historically tossed soldiers to their deaths without a second thought.

"I'm sure we can come to an arrangement regarding the dispersement of additional tasks when it comes time to address Red Queen," she replied, tapping away in her personal notes. People she could let go; tasks she was outright refusing to take on in her own department. "That being said, all departments tend to feel short-staffed in the heat of our own pursuits." She laughed lightly, turning to Lovette with a knowing smile- A shared understanding that all Commanders would be able to commiserate over. Or, perhaps, an assertion that there was one Commander here who was grounded, and one who liked to get ahead of his own importance. "I think these decisions would be best handled internally- The higher-ups will move anyone anywhere, and it's always better to have us 'boots on the ground,' so to speak, make decisions regarding personnel reassignment. As always, those wishing to transfer should seek permission from their direct supervisor."

She turned her attention to Kora, furrowing her brow in the same casual way that she might in response to, "Have you given up drinking, then?"

"Of course we're not hiring madmen, Norrevinter. It's a manner of speaking, and a bit overblown, if you ask me." Her narrowed gaze fell on one Alchemist Sairan, looking at something more in him than on him. If he attempted to speak in protest, he would find himself at a loss for words. More accurately, he would find himself at a loss for recurring laryngeal nerve function until her made eye contact with her and she was positive that she had been understood.

Later. I'm going to talk to you later.

Specter looked about at everyone present. The mutant had left and two more people had emerged from within the house, however, one of them was someone he had hoped to avoid, oh well, if these were the people to listen to his plea then he could not ask for more, not unless he wanted to sound suspicious. Still holding his hands up, he started speaking in a calm manner as to not to raise any tensions and kept his mind empty should anyone in the group try to peek into his mind, should they have a strong telepathic gift.

"Well... first, the warning." He said, slowly lowering one of his hands to pull out a few papers from one of his pockets. "As I'm sure you all know, both Erubesco and Liberty want you dead, each for their own reason. Well, now it seems that a slaver group wants you all dead or enslaved, your guess is as good as mine!"

And with that, Specter threw down on the ground several wanted posters of various members of the Wanderers and a large poster that simply specified the Wanderers themselves as targets and the reward these jobs entailed.

"Now, no single mercenaries would be dumb enough to attack you unless they asked for death, however, I was able to pick up word a few settlements back that a slaver group was gathering up it's men to hunt you down, boasting about how they would do what neither Erubesco or Liberty could." He paused for a few moments to let the information sink in to the people present. "Now, you are the few people I have ever sympathized with in the years I've spent in the Ash, so instead of hunting for you, or offering my skills to either of the factions, or the slavers, I wish to... well, make a contract with you people. Though of course that in and of itself would have to be discussed in detail later as to what I'll be doing specifically." He said, still holding his hands up and taking a deep breath before speaking once more.

"So... what do you say?" he asked and though his body betrayed no tension whatsoever, his mind was already thinking of deploying one of the flashbangs to allow him to escape if they did not accept his offer.

---

Aran saw everyone's reactions when he spoke about the fate of the test subjects he received and was not entirely surprised to see everyone's aversion to the results of his manner of testing. His lips formed into a sad smile, feigning the sadness over all the subjects that were the cause of his death and started speaking in a mournful tone.

"Commander Lovette, miss Norrevinter, you seem to think that I willingly wish the death of people, that I am just an executioner when I really am not, each death is a tragedy, even if it is an enemy prisoner, or one of our own serfs, it doesn't matter whose it is is, life is sacred and being the one to end one is horrifying." his expression briefly turned to one disgust before his speech continued. "However, it was not to be and I was forced to witness death after death, when I thought that last deaths I would have to witness were the ones of my family, howe..." as he spoke, Aran felt his words catch in his throat quite literally, and for a moment he panicked, placing a hand on his neck, that was before he saw commander Botrelle giving him a stern look.

Understanding what it meant, he raised his hands to signal that he had finished speaking before sitting back down on his seat with a sad smile still on his expression, awaiting for the discussion to finish and he would be able to discuss with a certain someone in person, though he imagined the discussion would not be a very good one for him.

Mina’s escape from the situation was less than reassuring. Drake found himself on his feet, hand reaching out halfway as if to stop her but evidently deciding not to, a silent protest left lingering on his tongue. Abandonment, and at a time when the boy needed answers most. Then again, the answer to his question was pretty clear after looking over Larke. And Spire was involved, so it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.
Larke had been tortured.

Speaking of pieces being put together, Mina was heading downstairs to ‘patch things up’ as she had said. Downstairs, to where Dawn had rushed to, where Montana was, but why? They were all down there, huddled around seemingly nothing. Why? Why weren't they up here, dealing with this? Avoiding it? He certainly planned on investigating soon, but not at the moment. He had more pressing matters.

What a mess this was, and Drake hardly felt prepared to handle any of it. Physically or emotionally.

"...Kid?"
A hoarse voice broke him away from his current train of thought.

It had caught his attention, distracting him from the downward spiral of new and terrible information, and the boy’s silver eyes trailed back to Larke in an instant. He gave a soft, sad smile, hints of nostalgia prickling the edges of his mouth. That nickname, that voice… The sound still comforted him to this day, forever engraved into his head during a memory of a morbid prison cell. ”Yeah, it’s me,” he breathed.

Though his smile soon turned to a somber frown as Larke’s brain rattled off an explanation. The boy sighed as he knelt back down next to Larke.

“You’re right. The ones who did this to you are extremely fucked up. Spire, especially. No one likes him, but he's someone's brother, so it's not like we can just-..." he trailed off, realizing this probably didn't help justify anything when Larke didn't personally know the situation. Drake sighed. "I’m sure it’s been pretty hard for anyone to stand up to someone like him, a complete psychopath. Or Montana, a trained mercenary for that matter... And I don't really get why those two thought any of this was okay in the first place. I guess I’m the only one with a death wish around here, because despite the risk, I’m still going to give them hell for what they did to you,” the boy finished, his voice hollow and empty.
Tired, even.

He unstrapped one of his leather gloves, pulling it off with the canines of his teeth before touching the back of his hand to Larke’s forehead. He took the glove out of his mouth with his other hand, mildly surprised. “Jesus, you’re burning up…” Drake noted, his voice laced with concern. At the very least, his hand would offer some relief as it soaked in a good amount of heat on contact.

”Believe me, if someone was in your head right now, you’d know it.”
He decided not to question the “ex” thing, but he certainly had caught it as it slipped out. It wasn’t something he cared to pry about - whatever happened between Mina and Larke, that was between them.

“Honestly, this whole thing’s been hard to swallow, Larke. I'm just trying to understand it all. I mean, what made you come to us wanting to hurt us? Hostile tendencies aren’t exactly a part of your resume...”

Ranch House
Montana lacked perhaps, the inherent rage for this unknown figure that his fellow held, rather, he could comfortably say that his interest had been piqued. The older male knelt, and collected the posters from the ground which they were cast upon. His fingers ran over the paper. New, it lacked the frayed quality of pre war paper, and the ink had yet to be bleached by the ashland sun, or shredded by the biting winds. Ink being the biggest indicator it was new, along with images generated by technology, rather than the skilled hand of an artists rendition.

Simply put, if they had been faked by this merc, it would require access to tech that was hard to come across in this region of the ash.

He drew one of his smaller blades from his shoulder holster, and used it to pin the documents to a nearby tree, so the Wanderers to inspect them at their leisure.

"I will hear him, Eld Fen." Montana strode over to Specter, hands folded behind his back, mirroring the peaceful stance the opposite merc had taken before relaying his warning. "Intelligence is often a commodity to be sold in our line of work. It is given for free with great care, and rarely without intent."

Even given the possibility that this mercenary was simply the softer hand of the slavery group sent to size them up, much could be learned from a conversation.

"We three will hold council here. I will sit with my back to our number, our guest will face them, with his back to the ash."

He motioned to the ground beneath them, and took a seat, his legs folded in front of him. He motioned for Specter to take his place in front of him.

"Nicodemus, if you could alert those available that we have a guest, one who brings information.

-------------

Makorai was not impressed by what he heard come from the Alchemists mouth. Truthfully, POW's being zapped in the head was an uncomfortable back thought that he'd likely try and drown with a nip of liquor, but it wasn't just the POW's, it was people like Caddie who ended up being covered in bandages because an experiment 'went wrong'. That was the kind of thing that sometimes kept him awake at night, trying to reconcile his beliefs with what he was defending. He told himself it was just a paycheck. That was mostly true.

'This took a sobering turn.' he thought, producing a clear plastic bottle, and taking a sizeable gulp. The burn brought with it the first bit of input from Makorai, in the form of a warning in a hushed tone.

"And how about we keep our hands off my favourite serf yeah?" His eyes didn't move from Aran's but he indicated over to Caddie with a brief nod.

He leaned away from the man, and turned himself back to the room. Bless Kora and her mouth.

"Well, the field team welcomes you Maddie, look forward to working with you and all that. Fun times, maybe the field team will go out and burn a village or two hm."

Probably not the most tactful joke to make.

Unlike what Eld might have expected, Specter did not flinch as the eldritch being made his threats, instead, he studied it's face for a few moments, or rather what had been it's face and waited for him to make his threats. He had lived for nearly forty years in the wastes and that alone would have been impressive enough, however, he had been a head-hunter for about half of his lifetime and he had seen and faced many things and while Eld's gift was a something he had not encountered in the past, he showed no fear towards it.

His brow furrowed at him asking what present he had and for whatever reason, that angered him quite a bit and for a moment it was visible on his expression before he calmed himself down. "Listen, I understand that you have to be careful with who you receive and all in case they're a spy, however, I have risked my ass coming to you hoping that nobody in this group would kill me, I am currently risking my livelihood by even offering you the info about them and I am risking my own life by basically offering my help for free!" he did not shout as he did not wish make himself seem like a threat, but his teeth were clenched as he spoke those words.

He planned to say a few more things, however, Montana had intervened between them, allowing Specter to calm himself for a moment. He glared at the eldritch being once more to both make sure that it did not have any funny ideas and to warn it if tried to do anything. Then, he placed his gun back in it's holster and his hunting knife back in it sheath and turned towards Montana and looked at him for a moment suspiciously before deciding that it would be best for him to sit down in front of him if he ever wanted to achieve his goal.

"Listen, I'm willing to offer answers to whatever questions you might you might have and I offer my services to your group, whether you want me to act as a scout, as a frontline fighter, sniper, whatever your heart desires." Specter sighed as stared at Montana, he did not expect him of all people to be as friendly with outsiders as he currently was. "If you're wondering why I'm doing this, it's just that I just happen to not like slavers and actually like you people enough to ignore a possible contract with them."

Then... he paused, he realized that Montana had to ask the questions first before he offered any answers, so he simply sighed and awaited for the questions to come and while he would answer them, he really hoped that there would be none about his past, it was not something he was eager to talk about.

It didn’t take long for Mina to descend to the basement, and it didn’t take long for Dawn to pick up on how quickly the Good Doctor’s relief twisted into surprise and a sort of roiling disgust. Dawn lowered her bundle of meager medical supplies beside Mina as she began her work, then stepped away to allow her better access to her patient. Even from where she stood, Dawn could easily see how bad just how bad the woman’s wounds had gotten in the absence of any proper medical care. The flesh was visibly diseased, angry red streaks stretching up along the skin and disappearing from sight.

The scent of it lodged itself within Dawn’s head.

“I’m not sure,” Dawn said. Her eyes darted towards the doorway, just in time to catch the flutter of Montana’s coat as he left the basement. “If there’s anything still in there, that is.” Upon Mina’s instruction, she gave a brief nod, turning on her heel and slipping off towards the stairs. “I’ll be as soon as I can,” she called over her shoulder.

Dawn found herself returning yet again to the ranch’s office, stepping carefully over a mess of papers that had been cast upon the floor in her hasty exit. Inside was a hat rack propped precariously against the doorframe- the finish had long since peeled away, the wood mottled and eaten at by whatever insects had called it home, but it was tall and sturdy and would likely support an IV bag without collapsing from its own weight. Her hand had just clasped about the splintered frame when she abruptly paused, shoulders slumping, eyes glazing as her mind went somewhere distance.

They had another guest.

It seemed as if Montana and Eld Fen had already gone to greet them- him- at this point, but the fact that they were receiving so many unexpected guests seemed worthy of sharing with the group at this point. Especially when the one currently speaking with their group had his mind closed off, thoughts kept hazy and left with the bare minimum of planning. Whoever this person was, he was either incredibly cautious, someone who had done his research on the Wanderers, or both.

We have company, Dawn announced. They’re outside. They don’t seem to planning against us for the time being, but make sure to be on your guard.

And, she mused, one of the guests just so happened to be right next to the well. With a slight grunt, Dawn hefted up the rack, carrying it out of the room and to the basement entrance before setting it carefully against it. With that done, she headed out, taking a detour to grab a bucket from one of the few closets around.

Upon stepping out, Dawn was met with the sight of their second guest, holding a visibly tense discussion with his greeters, and Toby and Rei watching their first from a distance. She eyed the man carefully, the mask that covered his face, then shifted to the various posters that now littered the aged peach tree in the ranch’s yard. Each bore the face of a different Wanderer, herself included. She immediately looked to Montana and Fen, brow raised, but didn’t ask any questions- only giving Montana an acknowledging nod and the others a quiet “good morning,” before eventually, somewhat reluctantly moving on. As much as Dawn wished to join the meeting, Mina was waiting for her. She would ask for details later.

Dawn watched the first guest just as warily as she approached the well, taking note of the crimson dripping from his hands and into the thirsty soil beneath. Just as before, she didn’t speak to the man, although her eyes never left him as she tied the bucket, lowered it down, and, with some effort, hoisted it back up again. It was only once the bucket was safely in her arms that Dawn looked away, making her way back to the ranch with a light tread.

Several more minutes had passed before Dawn eventually entered the basement again, pushing the door open with her shoulder. One hand carried the rack, and the other was supporting the bucket, keeping it tucked securely beneath her shoulder. “Here you are,” she murmured, She set both beside Mina, taking care not to let any more water slosh free from the bucket as she did so, then straightened.

”Do you, ah, need anything else?”

Keeping herself occupied seemed preferable than just sitting about, absently twiddling her thumbs while Mina tried to revive the prisoner.

Cyrus's Bus, Ashlands

Dog was a good dog, and she was teaching Jimmy how to be a good dog, too:

He could chew through tough meat, howl like a wolf, and even burry his own poo in the bushes, when he had to. When birds came by to try and steal their food, he barked at them. When squirrels came, he chased them all the way over to Dog's hiding spot. He liked being wild- doing what he wanted, and staying up late, and nobody making him brush his teeth.

Dog was teaching him a lot about being a good Dog.

But he was starting to understand, or at least as much as a four-year-old could understand, that he was not becoming a good boy. He was forgetting his numbers, his recitations, and sometimes, when he was laying down to bed, he could not remember what Mommy's voice sounded like.

Mommy.

Dog was not a bad dog, but she was not Mommy. She did not know any of the songs that Mommy sang at night, and when he fell down, Dog did not know how to kiss it better right. The food she brought was tough to bite, and the plants tasted funny: She did not boil them or grind them down with water to make into "Repas." They ate a lot of peanut butter, when they found it, but that was not Mommy-cooked food. That was "Elli is here with you while Mommy is busy please listen to him" food.

Jimmy held on to Dog, his little fists clutching her shirt while his face was leaned against her shoulder. The morning sun was just coming up, and he was tired- They had walked all night, for a long, long time, across a very far place. He had ridden on her back for a bit, but now, too sleepy to hold on, he clung to her side. She said they were meeting her brother, and as they approached a bus, he held onto the bleary-eyed hope that her dog-brother knew someone who could drive them home to Mommy and Elli.

But, as they came upon the door, he hid his face in Dog's hair.

Her "brother" did not seem nice.

In fact, something was quite wrong about him.

"Pssst, Doggie," Jimmy whispered, "Him's not a doggie."

It was with the sort of obedience that displayed itself in those freshly promoted that Madison returned to his seat, still quite visibly disturbed by what he had heard. Occasionally he would cast a careful glance at the Alchemist beside him, as if he half-expected the man to start bursting into laughter- or perhaps be caught sharpening a knife under the table.

While Lulu’s reassurances of an “ethics committee” and her easy, everything-is-handled smile did do some to soothe Madison’s nerves, whatever effect they might have had was quickly dashed as the Alchemist spoke yet again. Just as before, he showed no sign of his words being a joke- if anything, they only reinforced their truth, the man speaking of his experimentations as a tragedy that he was forced into against his will. Madison couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping a moment before he managed to snap it back into place, quickly raising his hand to garner the attention of the rest of the room.

“Pardon the interruption, Commanders,” Madison began, “but I’m inclined to agree that Alchemist, ah, Aran’s words shouldn’t go without comment.” He folded his hands upon the meeting desk, not meeting the man’s eyes. “If he is speaking the truth, then I highly doubt that what he is doing is...legal, by any means- let alone ethical.” He paused, swallowing. His mouth had gone dry. “I sincerely hope that the practices he mentioned aren’t by any means common within the Citadel, but, ah, regardless, I can’t imagine why nobody has said anything in regards to all this.”

His hands opened, splaying out in a silent, pleading sort of gesture. At the sound of his name from across the table, Madison turned, offering a somewhat weak smile in response. The comment was in poor taste, but at the moment, he was more focused on the man who had blatantly mentioned murdering serfs than a somewhat tactless joke.

Canvas would have gone almost as pale as his namesake when Heather seemed to make note of his disorderly entrance if he hadn't had the rosey glow of Erubescan wastefulness in his system.

"Did you know the Crown employs emotion manipulating Gifted whose entire jobs are to spike bits of feelings into liquors with so much alcohol content you can barely tell the difference? Terrible waste," said the field supervisor with only barely enough feigned indignation to keep the comment from sounding flippant.

Canvas gestured to the rows of bottles. "It goes without saying that you shouldn't get stupidly drunk during the mission, but you're going to look suspicious if you refuse every drink you're offered. Today you're all going to be testing your tolerance for the stuff. Pick one from the left, first. Have fun. It's easier than pretending to have fun. In twenty minutes, we'll run a drill and see how you do buzzed."

---



Toby followed Midas at a short distance, his weapon still drawn, but held low now. The sooner they got rid of this sicko the better, so he didn't want to draw the process along by keeping him hesitant and on guard.

"Dare I ask whose that is?" said Toby, nodding at the blood running into the dirt and trying to keep his lip from curling in disgust.

Toby's attention on Midas flickered a bit with the new arrival - the mercenary. The man seemed to keep his surface feelings in check, but, "He's sincere, far as I c--can tell," called Toby to Eld Fen and Montana, chiming in to assist from afar though his hands were full with their other visitor. He almost wished this Specter was pulling a trick. That would be less worrisome than his warning.

(reposting intro)

Montana said, and said nothing for a short while, opting to study the man in front of him instead. Observations often lead context to a situation, from the weathered look around the eyes of his opposite, he could tell that experience had not missed him during his time in the ash. There was reason to be dubious, but unless he had altered his memories, Dawn would have no trouble picking the dishonesty out of his brain. If his memories had indeed be altered, he could still, theoretically be turned against his handlers if coerced properly.

All was considered, but musings were only the context to the facts at hand. It was no secret that a powerful mentalist lead their ranks, and if this mercenary had information on slavers, he had certainly done his homework before approaching them.

There was also the fact that Toby, one who understood the power and structure of lies more than some of his fellows, had just vouched for Specter. Montana turned his head to the side slightly, and nodded his thanks in Toby's direction.

"The obvious is often the most important, as the nuance is often subject to change."

"The identity of this slaver, what ties to they hold, what are their contacts, manpower, and skilled forward operatives. I am also keen on understanding their armaments, tenacity, how quickly they are able to mobilize, their distance from our position, and, what gifts they have at their disposal. Our most recent encounter ended in an elite Erubesco field team being routed, prior to this was a successful retrieval op at a main Erubesco base. I will reject the notion that they are misguided and assume they have planned a decisive victory, as our potential collateral damage would outweigh profit."

Each word had been measured and enunciated.

"Temperament. For that dictates much about how one uses and plays their hand."

An altruistic mercenary was a rarity, but one who'd rather receive payment from a group who's beliefs aligned with their own was a mercenary who hadn't lost their humanity.

They were a small group. Balancing brutality and morality.

He'd be watching Specter very closely, to see where he fell on the spectrum.

Ranch House, Ashlands

Names and reasons and misplaced kindness came pouring from Drake's mouth, and Larke just stared. He did not have the energy to pull away from the coolness of the boy's hand, but it certainly crossed his mind.

This was a new tactic- And how was he supposed to know if someone was in his head? Or an illusion?

There was hope, and there were facts. Larke had never had a good gut instinct for people; he was too soft, and too willing to trust. It hadn't gotten him far, and now this... This trick was too much to swallow.

"I wish you were real, Kid," he said, his voice weak. "I really, really do. But it's not real. And I've got nothing to say that I haven't already-" He broke off, body shaking as he coughed again at the dryness in his throat.

Oren was dead- he had not seen or heard from her in over a week. They had stopped using her as an incentive, possibly because he had run out of useful things to offer them. Helena was likely suffering from her ailment. Nobody was coming to let them go anytime soon.

"Kill me if you're gonna kill me. But let Helena go home, if she's alive. "

---

"Easy," said Mina, working through a more difficult section to slice through. "I'm nearly done with the worst of it, now. Nobody else is gonna come at you as long as I'm down here, alright?" The diseased flesh was so damaged that it hardly bled where she sliced, instead weeping yellow or cloudy-clear fluid along the open edges. She dabbed at the open wounds with a bit of gauze, clearing away the ooze before continuing to chip away at the rot.

Most of the cutting was done by the time Dawn came in with her bucket and rack. "Thank you," she said, casting aside her gloves to rifle through her bag and pull out a flat plastic pack wrapped in sterile wrap. She ran over her hands with the light once more, opened the wrapping, and snapped a small bar of powder inside of it. She submerged it into the water Dawn had brought, the bag inflating from its nozzle first. The water turned bright blue, at first, and faded to clear after Mina withdrew it and sloshed the contents about. "If you've got somewhere to be, go," Mina said, her tone curt. She hung the bag from the rack, withdrew a pack of tubing and an IV needle, and began setting up the required treatment.

"Last needle, I promise," she told Oren as she pricked her veins one last time. A few more adjustments to the tube, and the sterilized saline began to drip into her veins. "That should bring you around in a bit. Don't fiddle with it." Mina taped the needle to her arm, sterilized her hands once more, and began placing gauze over the worst of the open wounds. Where there was enough skin to stitch, she stitched.

Spire, who missed the unusual introductions occurring in front of the ranch house by mere moments, guided Hel by the hand toward the kitchen. Not unexpectedly, the sight that greeted him there consisted of Soren, Clockwork, and Pierrot. The almost respectably tolerable pastry chef, the creepy but tolerable talking doll, and the pain in the ass - but not on Spire's shortlist by association to his family members - circus freak.

"Hang out here for a bit, all right, Hel?" said Spire simply, giving Soren a half nod of greeting but not bothering to ask (or indeed, even think to ask) if the man minded keeping an eye on Hel. Spire wasn't exactly one to feel guilty about taking advantage of someone's good-naturedness. And he had somewhere to be.

Detour from his mission completed, he hurried toward the basement.

As he trotted down the stairs, the wood complained under the brisk descent, but not half as much as Spire was going to complain if he got down there to find Oren with her neck snapped. Interrogation had never been all that satisfying. Torture was like trying to survive by licking the condensation off the outside of a jar of water. If Montana smashed open the metaphorical jar and drank it all without telling him, Spire was going to have words.

"Son of a bitch," groaned Spire with a mix of relief and mild confusion upon seeing no trace of Montana, but instead Dawn, along with Mina, who appeared to be doing a very thorough job of patching up the prisoner. That was new.

"What's this, doc? Making a clean slate for me? You shouldn't have," he said.

Stubborn as a mule. Larke seemed so convinced it wasn’t him, and it was disheartening to say the least.

“... Larke-”

The boy reeled back as his friend coughed, concern touching his eyes again. His hand dropped down, not bothering to return to Larke’s forehead but rather resting on his own knee instead.

“Come on. Use that brain of yours. You know I’m a member of the group you came after, it was only a matter of time before I found you up here. You’ve only seen, what, three? Four of us? You should know there are a lot more, possibly even some who aren’t really aware of what’s going on in here. Myself included, though I have a pretty good excuse for my absence.”

“Dawn’s the only mentalist here, and I’m pretty sure she’d sooner cut off her leg than force her way into your head. It’s not a pleasant experience for either side.”

Drake sighed wearily.

“No one’s killing anyone. And Hel’s perfectly fine,” his eyes flickered blue for a moment.
“She’s downstairs right now, in fact…” the boy’s voice trailed off, silver eyes moving toward the window sill of the attic when he realized someone had been watching. His gaze lingered on Rei for a moment. It was unsettling to say the least, that she seemingly knew about Larke being up here. That she could just watch this scene play out and do nothing.

/It’s possible she’s scared,/ he thought, a solid attempt to reconcile this.

Drake had to think there was a reason behind everyone’s avoidance of what was happening to Larke up here.

Plus, whenever Rei watched him in any regard he felt uncomfortable. Possibly the overhanging concern that she might be sizing him up as her next meal. It was almost impossible to not have that lingering in the back of his mind. But he tried to dismiss it.

He looked back to Larke. “If Hel goes back home, they’ll continue to experiment on her with their so called ‘treatments’, just as they were before. You only know what they tell you because to Erubesco, that’s all you need to know. But she wasn’t sick. She was part of something bigger, some sort of project of theirs. Think about it for a minute. Why else would they send people and resources after her, time and time again? If she’s just sick, as everyone is claiming, that’s even more resources used on ‘curing’ her in a lab, resources a big faction like Erubeso wouldn’t be willing to spare willy nilly on just one kid. When you boil everything down, it just doesn’t make any sense. They’d sooner let Hel die out here than waste more people and resources, unless that one kid was extremely important to a cause,” the boy explained, using logic to decipher the pieces of information he’d collected, “Plus, Hel is already looking a lot better since we took her in. And she’s absolutely terrified of the idea of going back. You saw what they did to me - they called that science. Imagine what their ‘treatment’ looks like.”

Riza looked to the row of bottles that the Field Supervisor had all set up. Riza knew that they must have been far from homogenous, since the Field Supervisor had ordered them to a bottle from the left first. Riza was not much a drinker, but he had could hold his own on that front well enough. As long as he didn't have to outdrink some Erubescian drunk he suspected he should be fine. Riza approached the drinks and took one off the table.

"Cheers," Riza said.

Then Riza, rising the drink to his mouth, took a gulp of it.

"No worries, my good man." He raised a hand to show Eld that he meant no hostility. "It's just that by helping you guys, I'm basically firing myself from this job, I don't think many people will hire me once they hear that I chose to join you people. I mean, I know I chose to do this, but it still irks me a bit, so I truly apologize if I have given offense." Though his voice was courteous, it still was a little cold, meaning he was still a bit annoyed.

Then, Specter his sights towards Montana. Now he was the one trying to read Montana, yet for the life of him, he could not tell anything about the man that he could not see. Instead, he took a sigh and removed the mask he wore and placed it on the ground between them. Though his face was quite worn from traveling in the wastes for long, appearance-wise, Specter looked quite average with brown eyes and short chestnut brown hair and not any features that made him stand out much except a scar that ran down the left side of his neck and continuing towards his shoulder.

"The group is called Bellataire INC, led by none other than Sweet Johnny Bellataire." he said, as if expecting Montana to know who this was supposed to be. "He is a disgraced Erubescian Lord and he still has plenty of contacts within Erubesco itself, business, finance and military, you name it." He spoke, furrowing his brows as he tried to remember the numbers. "I haven't been able to find an exact number, just an approximate, but I know he has an elite gifted fighting force a number of spec ops who are skilled both with their gifts and regular weapons, arms, slaves, artillery and..." he paused for a moment as he prepared himself to say it. "... a functioning missile silo."

Then, he stopped speaking. "Listen, I'd be glad to give any other info you'd wish to know, about Bellataire, me, or anything else you might wish to know, but..." And with that, he glanced suspiciously for a few moments. "... well, I need you to get the group out of here, they will be here in about an hour and while I'm sure you are strong, don't want you all to risk combat with them just yet!" he said, staring Montana right in the eyes, still trying to read the man, by the way he talked, by the way moved, anyway he could.

"You're serious?" Commander Botrelle asked, locking eyes with one Alchemist Sairan as others issued protest. "You're serious, Achemist?" He did not care that she had tried to conceal his statement prior, and now several field ops, as well as their visitor were waiting in outrage to see how things were handled under her lead.

Botrelle would handle them.

Her rouge lips turned down into a scowl, and she pushed back from the table to stand. "Who here knows about this?" she demanded, her shining red nails drumming against the table. She looked from Commander Green to Alchemist Johnson, over to Kora, and back to Sairan. He was standing in for one Commander Zaide, a department head who was nowhere to be seen this morning. "Has anyone heard of this from Zaide? Or anyone else, for that matter?" Perhaps Zaide was trying to shirk away from picking up Green's slack- but it did not matter. His employee had caused a stir, and it was a stir among people she had no intention of silencing.

She swallowed, and shot a shallow smile toward Green. "I'm afraid I'l have to ask you to conduct the remainder of this meeting, Commander. Pardon us." She smoothed her skirt down against her slender form and headed for the door with her things in hand, waving over one shoulder with a curt gesture. "Knights Norrevinter and D. Elcove, would you kindly escort Alchemist Sairan down the hall to my office? I wish to have a further discussion regarding his reports."

Liberty

When Heather stood and strode toward him, he felt his breath solidify in his throat, he nearly forgot what he was meant to portray and almost tightened his stance, the opposite of what she wanted. Instead, he allowed his body to relax, his hip stuck out at a jaunty angle, and his hand rested on the curve between his ribs and his hips.

She said he had done a good job.

It took every ounce of Liberty honed self control in his body to fight down the swelling of pride he felt to have a councilors approval.

Mayday turned from Heather, who's languid body was, in his opinion, a perfect cover for the ultra observant, to Canvas. He wasn't fond of Canvas, if anything, it was only a respect for Canvas's ability to emulate Erubesco with such finesse that staved off the contempt Mayday felt for the man's whimsical behaviour. Not that this was Canvas's fault, he was obviously a method agent of talent. Mayday just simply despised everything the rival faction stood for. So the hatred was instinctual for him, like breathing or sleeping.

"I'm glad you find it adequate Councilor." Canvas was treated to a stiff nod of response. Heather approving of his disguise was all the acknowledgment he needed.

Alcohol training. Mayday fixed his gaze on the liquor in front of him. "Disgusting. These people are emotional enough and they want even more."

Truthfully, the thought of emotion being mixed with an intoxicant was terrifying to Mayday. Minor emotions were an irritation. Major ones effected his performance.

He sat beside Beretta, positioning his body toward her as 'couples did'.

He poured himself a glass, unimpressed by the swirling colours in his glass.

He poured Beretta's too. As a date should. Not like a butler though, not so stiff. That's what Canvas has said.

Mayday lifted the glass to his lips, eyeing it with more trepidation than he had in a poison tolerance course he'd taken as a junior agent.

He brought the glass to his lips and swallowed the contents, draining the glass to the base.