The Colonel’s call found Marit in the middle of several scrap piles, shifting uncomfortably every few seconds as a seam of her jacket kept finding some of the spots visited by the whip. Turning to follow the tracks a pair of small feet left in the mud that she’d been ignoring the past 30 seconds, she tapped on an old overturned oil drum with her knuckles. [color=76D0FF]”Found ya.”[/color] When the barrel remained silent, she rolled it with her foot, eliciting a surprised yelp followed by giggling from the inside.
[color=76D0FF]”Come out, the Colonel’s calling.”[/color] She knocked again, a curly-haired boy sticking his head out of the drum. [color=76D0FF]”You’re it, I have to go. Thierry and Gemma are somewhere near that old red crane over there, haven’t heard the others.”[/color]
The boy saluted, crawled out of the drum and ran off in the indicated direction.

Marit covered the distance between the far scrap piles and the briefing tent in an impressive amount of time, barging into the briefing tent like the No Leaf Clover making a combat drop. [color=76D0FF]”Already?“[/color] She asked with surprise and joy in her voice, bereft of any shadow of doubts. If the Colonel said they were ready, they were ready. [color=76D0FF]”Hello, Ingrid.“[/color] She said with a smile as if she’d only then noticed the Duchess standing in the door the whole time. [color=76D0FF]”That’s a lot earlier than I hoped.”[/color] Finally. With no hostages to be held over them and constant fear for their safety, they’d finally have free reign to act. And they’ll get the old Family Man back on top.

Marit hoped, for the Crimson Fists’ sake, that they were enjoying their lives. Because they were about to get short.