The sun offers her tidings—radiant in her visage upon the bastion city's eternal grounds. With nothing but idle muses to guide me, I wander through the tangle of districts, relishing the return of normalcy in the wake of the shapes that flew above.

Craftsmen and merchants haggled endlessly within the markets, speaking fervently of wares and trades. Their patrons—soldiers and citizens alike fell to their hymns, parting towards their stalls with the promise of coin and trinkets—already forsaking the strange incident that once stilled their thoughts.

"Fresh from the heartlands," a women cries with renewed vigor, clad in a simple green dress—merchant's crest pinned on her bosom, "Honeyed and prepared. Two dimes for a sack, ten for a bag."

Apples, grapes and more sat on braided baskets, arranged for the eye's delight. Their scent wafts out from her aisle, filling the streets and air with sweetness. With each breath, they leave a fresh and tangible taste—as though plucked only moments ago.

She was helped by three men, perhaps a husband and two sons. They were a family, upholding a livelihood even with the threat of an impending siege.

Though I could spare a few coins to sate my palette, it is not fruits I wanted. The many stalls offered plenty but salted meat, the few that did were expensive. Twenty dimes or more for just a single serving—unreasonable even in times of war.

I move along the packed aisles, wading through more tides of people as the chime of coins fell. In its absence, rose a natural silence as the streets parted. There were no soldiers, only the common folk—including children.

Domed houses beset the snaking path ahead on both sides, their roofs equal in colour and height, barely rising to challenge the skies at a meagre six paces. At its end sat a junction that led to yet more houses. I have no business being here.

Perhaps threading alone was a mistake. Had Sephra been with me, she would at least insist on ointments and herbs. Anything to uphold her sworn oaths she would likely profess, as is her claim time and time again.

With my wanderlust snuffed, I stroll along the beaten path back to the garrison—coins unspent, and thoughts mellowed. The chime of wares returns, but it quickly falls as I enter the outskirts where the bastion city's grand battlements can be seen towering like chiseled teeth upon the horizon.

Several knights from the Aegis cohorts stood on guard beneath a lone tower, swords planted and hands resting upon pommel. A knight turns to me, offering his regards with a raised hand.

"Herald be praised," the Knight greets, voice firm and bold as his stature.

"Herald be praised," I softly echo, offering the esteemed warrior a passing wave as the garrison's domes come into view from behind him.

The bold stonework offers shade and certainty, calling for my return to its holdings. In the days since—far from the lands of my birth, I have come to call this place home. As did many others.

Familiar faces lingered ahead, immersed in a tent's welcoming shade. They spoke in hushed tones around a brewing cauldron, offering a wave as I neared to join their musings beneath the drape.

"Inora," came an expectant voice, "how goes your endeavors." The Highlander gestures to an empty spot beside him.

I raise the coin bag, offering a weak tone, "None of the butchers were willing barter. A fresh serving now costs over twenty dimes. It was only fifteen two days ago."

I plop down with a sigh. A hand offers comfort on my shoulders as I stare at the boiling cauldron. Fires lapped at its iron belly, preserving the brew's inviting scent.

"With so many legions, demand has certainly outpaced supply," he reasons, "but it matters not. The garrison pantry still has some dried meat in reserve, enough to last us all another ten days should they not spoil."

I nod, facing the unmasked truth with dignity and a tint of humor. "Better than having only fruits and grains to live by."

"The store-masters expect the first supplies to arrive in half a fortnight. By wingdrake if memory serves right," another Highlander chimes, gathering the plates by a bench. "It's ready, here."

I take mine—as did the rest of her cadre and we all indulge in the warm stew, eager to sate our hunger. The meat is tender, easily parting with each chew—delectable even with age. Simple as it was, the solace of a warm meal is one I always treasured with all my heart. It may be my last.

The Highlanders bantered and joked with one another, the five warrior gathering reminding me so much of my own. I stay silent as their words drifted upon topics far and wide. They soon leave after a call from their Captain, drifting away with only parting words to herald their departure. I never knew their names—only their faces.

The innocent fire flickers under my gaze as I thought about my cadre, or what remains it. They are the exceptions. We were once five—now three—with two lost to this world. Nothing could bring them back. I have only regret and shame to offer in their memory. Bathed in guilt, tears brimmed beneath my lids—threatening to surface should I continue through this muse.

A spray of light glimmers from the pantry tent's flaps as two soldiers move in. The sun hides their faces from view yet did little for their armor and standards, they are fellow Highlanders of the same Cohort.

"There you are." The two scouts slithered to rest beside me, and already their presence fills me with comfort. It is not enough to stop me from mourning our fallen, but they helped just by being here.

I grip the sides of my empty plate, casting a pensive look ahead. So much of my grief is still left unsaid, trapped behind hesitant lips.

Skirting closer to rest a hand on my arm, Sephra holds the silence briefly. "Are you... well?" she says after a moment, unblemished concern framing her features.

I gently brush her fingers away. "Just simple musings," I say as Oswin stands up a frown.

He places a hand beneath his armoured chin, looking upon the red embers that now lined the fire's edges. A sigh sharply escapes his lips and he turns to face me, undaunted in his expression.

"Fate has surely taken an interest upon this bastion, if not us," Oswin scowls through the helmet. "Have you heard it, the strange... echoing sounds. Every soldier within these walls is bound to know of it."

I nod lightly, thinking back to my forays into the markets. The distant sputtering in the skies garnered more than just fear as the citizens gazed up, trancing upon nothing but clouds and the sun at first. Then they appeared, flying over me—three fast, dark shapes that seemed to elude turmoil. The sounds came before it, and lingered just as long.

"I have," I frown, "they seem more like constructs than mounts. Two of them left for the east."

"Only one remains in the city. And rumour speaks that it has sought refuge within the palace gardens. It carried... them—those insolent vandals." he sneers, nursing a faded scare on his nose—a coarse reminder.

"I wish we could see it," Sephra offers with a glazed expression. "It would be a sight for memory if the descriptions hold depth. A mount with blades in place of wings, and carapace shaped like that of an insect. It sounds like the labour of a deranged war artisan."

Her words incite a small laugh from me as I stand up, stacking my plate with the others on the bench. After placing my helm back on, I turn around with furrowed brows—watching the two as a question forms.

"Not hungry?" I ask with a light tilt.

Oswin strides past me. "We both ate in your absence, worry not," he affirms with a glance back, batting the flaps aside.

I look to Sephra, meeting her solemn eyes. "The horn may sound at any moment," she reasons.

We step back into the light, joining the dissonance of troops among the sheltered grounds. Silverwing riders prowl above in lazy arcs, their cries all but distant tweets as they circled the eastern walls. Oswin shepherds us to the Cohort's aerial grounds, a meek place that rested at the far north.

The steady clank of weapons and footsteps echoes faithfully as warriors from all shores of life weave beneath the thread of duty. Most are fellow Highlanders, but present in the midst are a few war officers from the Aegis and Blackhand cohorts—liaisons for endeavors needing a joint venture.

Hope is fleeting after so many losses, but we must sail on regardless of strife. The palace stands proudly behind a distant hill, its famous spires reaching for the sky—an even blue, cloudless expanse. It was distant, but its grandeur and ancient history still radiates undaunted. That is our cause. A reason worthy to fight and die for.

I trace my scepter with a heavy heart, caressing the familiar bumps. "Have we been given word on the... replacements?" I inquire.

"No," Oswin turns around with a sharp tone. "Our numbers are thin, and conscripts to fill our ranks are still in training across the Kingdom. It will take time for the novices to master their affinity for sorcery, as we all know."

"Two seasons long at least," Sephra softly echoes, eyes glazed in distant memory, "perhaps as long as three... if they are to be trained as Highlanders."

A yearning pang envelops me and I stop to rest my back on a wall, regarding her words and the bustling scene ahead with sigh. Beyond the scope of duty, I am merely a newcomer—threading beneath a wave of foreign customs and cultures. We share the same allegiance, but rarely more.

Many would-be sorcerers are drafted from the heart of Euralia's main territories, but few—if any could speak of hailing from beyond the western hinterlands. The name of Navir would mean little here, but to me it meant home.

Just as the muse takes root, a horn sounds. A cacophony of shrieks follows. Familiar shapes descend upon the plaza—a note worthy gathering of seven dragons. The wait is here, and with it came our task, perhaps sentence.

"Only three," I scowl, "hardly a challenge should we be discovered."

"We journey with what we have, not what we desire," Sephra echoes the mantra, already trudging towards the idle dragons.

I follow her lead, powerless against this unmasked truth. We were to sow chaos behind enemy lines in any way we saw fit, the choices restrained only by our imaginations—a mere silver lining to such a difficult endeavor.

Memories of home then came in brief flashes. Fields of wheat—like an endless sea of gold. Dark clouds reigning upon a vibrant trading town, droplets pattering against windows I could barely reach. Many more came and went, each a clear echo of longing.

"Come," Oswin tugs me forward—firm but understanding. "Before the rest think us unwilling."

"Of course," I nod, bringing myself into the fray—the furthest of my people. The numbered few to bear the Herald's affinity. A burden given only at birth.

====Jerome's POV===

For years I held onto the belief that everything could be rationally explained with logic. That nothing could break through that iron curtain. Everything happened for a reason and thus, can be explained as the work of physics or its associated branches, that should have been the way things were.

Only it was not the case, not for several days now. This whole alternate reality thing feels like a badly contrived setting from some dumbass who thought it was a good idea to mess around with the narrative. Surprises were plentiful—each day there was something new for me to mull over, whether in the retrospective hours after dark or on long patrols throughout the vale.

All of them put together however, could barely compare to this.

"Thirty minutes since they've got us fenced in. I'm starting to think these guys have nothing better to do. There anything you can do to change it? Like talk to their In-command, or whatever."

I sigh. There goes the silence, even after telling James to uphold it. "No way I'm doing that. Got visual on a few different soldier types, but that could mean anything. It's a hard guess picking out which one's an officer—assuming they even have something like that."

"No use talking about it if we do nothing," Robert intervenes, "Just wait for Gab' and his team, it sounds like the liaison team's making progress. They're fine at the moment, somewhere inside that castle. Fred says its bigger than it looks on the inside."

"Glad they're enjoying the trip," I pause, glancing at the castle—then back at the surrounding troops. "Just wish they'd hurry up. Still plenty of ways this could go south."

"If it really comes down to that, we've got bullets," Robert comments, downplaying the present dangers. "We'd pop right through whatever they're wearing, no question about that."

I think back to the moment of my team's first contact, reliving the initial shock of that unprovoked assault. The memories play out clearly, like it happened only hours ago. Those intense minutes under fire—literally in that case, is impossible to forget, and reminded me again why we all are collectively on edge.

It was not just the armor we had to contend with, we all knew that was a likely possibility. Even if the topic never rose to the surface, it was collectively seated in our thoughts—ever present reminders.

"Don't forget about their barriers, or whatever it was we faced. We have to assume every soldier is capable of that," I say.

Douglas groans over comms, his annoyance flaring. "Don't remind me that we're screwed," he muses, leaning forward and planting an elbow on a knee. His eyes fall to the ground, polarized visor angled away from me.

A few more remarks follow before the conversation dies out with a final crack. Aside from the occasional pings from Chevron indicating their status, the channel was silent. Somewhere down the line, the tension mellows out.

Troops are eventually withdrawn over the span of several minutes, forming gaps in the perimeter. Dark figures still loomed above, protectively circling our airspace—domesticated banshees, I noted.

Their shrieks occasionally pierce the heavens, making them more than just possible threats. As time passed, they became a newfound source of annoyance. There is just something about their tone that just grated on my nerves.

'If I have to listen to them for the entire day, there's going to be hell to pay...'

I push out a sigh, letting my eyes wander aimlessly. Aside from a general sense of unease, there is also boredom, and annoyance in the mix. Not a combination I expected to tackle, and the day is just beginning.

A snap of movement catches my attention and I turn to face it. Douglas follows similarly, registering the advancing individual with a careful eye. The unidentified man boasts an impressive flair, polished armour enveloping his figure from head to toe. He was no ordinary grunt, and he carried himself accordingly.

I adopt a frown, getting back up. "I'll see what he wants."

"Careful of that stick," Douglas whispers through comms.

I acknowledge the heads up and push forward to intercept the approaching figure. Icy trepidation fills each step as the distance between us rapidly diminishes. I silently rehearse the procedure as indicated in the briefing, abruptly stopping to consider the fact I now found their language intelligible.

If the damn pendant still works, this will be easier than relying on gestures alone. "Stop, this is close enough. Do not proceed any further," I declare in a firm tone, holding out an open palm.

The man remains silent, but complies with the request. He stares back with a sharp edge, complemented by a slight frown. He was definitely not here to be amused.

Seeing no further progress I move on to the next prompt. "Turn around, and return back to your... line."

He stares over my shoulder, a persistent interest clinging to his gaze. The soldier's approach is stalled for the moment, but it was obvious he would not just leave. I drop the open palm gesture, left hand returning to support the rifle handguard.

Without much conscious thought, I mentally run through the weight in my hands, reacquainting myself with the weapon's compact form. I was prepared to escalate the tension as required to maintain a secure berth for the Valor.

One way or the other, something eventually has to budge.

The unknown man continues to leverage that glare, going as far as to openly run his gaze over the rotor wing, brows furrowed beneath his helmet—an ornate, but still practical design. It held a vague resemblance to what mankind would have used in the past, particularly with the cheek and nose guards. Aside from those traits, its appearance was practically a novelty.

Just as the urge to repeat myself gains traction, the man takes a final tentative step forward, crossing in to arm's length. I push down the words upon seeing him raise a hand out, mirroring my earlier gesture.

"Be at ease, I come not seeking conflict, only to hold vigil," he sheathes his weapon, a short scepter of some kind, "Though curiosity is not beneath me."

I heave a sigh of relief, loosening my stance. "We're here in peace. At the very least I can tell you that," I say, caught in the strange immersive feel of the conversation.

He nods, glancing back at his men. "I will keep guard regardless of your honeyed words. But I trust that your allegiance is at least, free of Yhunian corruption."

At the strange word, I return a confused look. "Yhunian, who or what is that?"

I look down at the pendant, still seeing that dim glow. 'It works, so what is with that lapse?'

"The... invaders. The vile lot we are currently warring against," the soldier returns, perplexed. "Surely you know of this, or do the rumours hold depth. You belong to lands yet known?"

"I—well," I pause, noting the footsteps on my left. Douglas occupies the empty space, having evidently stood up a while ago.

I lean in to offer a sharp whisper. "We're not cut out for this crap."

"Why, what's he saying?" Douglas answers, passing a quick look ahead.

"Poetic nonsense, I think," I reply. "Having a hard time chewing through those bits."

He leans away, patting me on the shoulder. "Just wing it, can't see how that would go south. Unless... you really need me to take over," he says, finger pointing at the pendent—its eerie glow pulsating.

A brash cough breaks up our muffled conversation, returning our attention to the armoured figure in front of us. "If you are truly unaware, Yhunia lies to our east. You may address me as Vanar, esteemed Vice Warden of this palace," he introduces himself as such, snapping to attention with a hand briefly over his chest.

"There are some who swore that your kin were present at an earlier time. On one of our forward encampments, the one that housed our Lord General.

"I know this to be likely true. Perhaps you can shed some light on these tidings, are they true?"

I quickly dismiss the request, mainly to acknowledge whatever crap that was but also to by myself some time to formulate a response. I'm not even sure where to start.

After a tense moment of introspection, I decide to follow my companion's advice. Aside from playing the neutral game, normal procedure dictates that any information I say should not reference anything related to any mission—past or present. That was a given, even if it seems redundant against these guys.

"I can't give any comment on that. It's likely you're mistaken."

The self-proclaimed Vice Warden shifts his gaze away from the Valor, raising his skepticism, "Is that so."

After a moment, the sharp tone falls off. "Your timing is unfortunate. Our enemies are poised to assault us soon. As I speak, the Bastion's eastern provinces are already besieged."

I nod, already seeing distinct parallels with a few observations made by Intelligence. The full picture of the war between these two nations is still a work in progress, but had the potential to be greatly expedited if we could confirm their theories.

A part of me understood their desperation. But even then, there is still some resentment over their eagerness to send others into the firing line. Ultimately it would be me—along with the others taking the risk, not them.

I file away the muse, turning back to the Warden with what I hope is a neutral tone. "We are somewhat aware of your war with them, but we won't leave without our guys inside that castle," I say, leveraging a finger at the aforementioned building.

"Palace," he abruptly corrects. "An ancient one in fact."

I return an odd look, hidden behind a polarized visor, "Right... whatever you say."

The Warden tours his gaze, tongue emitting a short click. "As long as you do no harm to our citizens, I see no reason to evict you against your will. Thread carefully and with esteemed reverence... do not misplace my trust," he lightly threatens.

"We're here for that, nothing more. You can drop that defense... Sir," I reply, finger twitching at the trigger guard.

"Very well," he catches onto the act and responds accordingly.

"You hold little regard for idle talk," he muses with a light smile, "But I hope at least, you shall grace us with understanding."

"I did not approach you for the simple courtesy of a greeting," the Warden says, loosing the smile. "If you are to be fully immersed, there needs to be a palace retainer to offer you and your kin service and companionship."

He turns around, issuing a sharp quip between the line of sentries. They slowly part in a wave of silver and gilded red, their shuffles heavy with the clank of steel. Behind those soldiers was a noticeable bob of hair, white like the others. Speculations run wild but I clamp down on them as a small figure reveals herself.

Hesitant footsteps brought the girl forward as she bows her head low, actively keeping her gaze concealed. I did not like where this was going. Whatever the Warden's plan was, it has something to do with the young women.

Douglas interrupts the observation, "Anything... I should know?"

The ivory skinned women looks up, sneaking a subtle peek that is anything but. She switches between the two of us before lowering her eyes back down. Her hands clamp together, knuckles tensing against soft skin. Clearly she was unnerved. The reasons for that I can only speculate at the moment.

"We've got some company," I say with an uneasy feel in my gut. The women admittedly, is quite the looker. Hopefully this is not what it seems. "Not sure for what though."

Her meek stature was complemented by a dress not too dissimilar from the others. The flowing silks traveled across her frame, unsurprisingly leaving a tasteful amount of skin showing at her shoulders. It was beautifully tailored, and certainly deserves praises. But it also riled suspicion.

The Warden then issues a second prompt. "Back to your assigned posts. This affair is concluded. There is no need for further vigil," he hollers, prompting the remaining soldiers to disperse from the alcove.

They stream out through the stairs and walkways. A few hesitate, but still complied. There is still the issue of the Banshees above, but this is a significant improvement to being completely surrounded.

"Welcome to the bastion city of Drossal," The woman stops in front, "M—may I kindly ask what name do you go by?"

I answer truthfully. "Jerome."

She presses on, gaze still lowered, "Jerome, you and your kin shall be under our care. Please shed any disdain and caution you may harbour, for it is not needed here."

"That's uh—" I pause, "great to know." With their insistence in speaking like poets, it is hard to get their words right the first time.

The women looks up, eyes displaying a vibrant purple. The colour shines through the thin veil as she continues, "My name is Anja, please understand that I am only doing what is required of me. The others shall arrive, if need be."

"There's more on the way?"

She nods, veil violently thrashing against the downwash. "By the decree of the Palace Regent, her esteemed Majesty Princess Luculia. But only when they are needed. For now I shall suffice."

Her gaze extends to the Valor as she hovers around its side, ignoring the two pilots gawking through the cockpit. "Though it depends on your intentions, I believe your stay will be brief yes? Your emissary spoke well of his intentions."

I follow her train of thought, confirming her suspicions. "Most likely, I hope."

With introductions out of the way, I move on to the question in the backburner. "Would you mind telling me what do you intend to accomplish by being with us. What's your role exactly?" I ask.

"Simple," Anja quickly states, facing me directly. She lifts the veil with a hand, pulling the offending fabric over her head. It really did resemble the ones worn in weddings—just like the one Catherine had.

"First and foremost, as palace retainers it is our sworn oath to ensure all guests of prestige are treated and served with honour. We are their servants, caretakers, and companions. Though a war looms beyond our walls, it is not reason enough to cast aside our kindness. It is tradition, therefore a law. Death follows to those who refuse to abide by it."

"Sounds a little extreme..." I retort. She briefly looks away, deciding against a reply.

Douglas emits a sigh, nudging me from his right. "Not to interrupt, but we shouldn't be interacting with the locals. Established regulations, you know. And we can't have you chasing skirt now of all places," he remarks, half serious.

I mentally wince at the accusation, responding with a groan. "I know, just being nice. It's gonna take more than a skirt to pull me over."

The woman taps me on the arm, looking visibly confused, "Umm—a skirt to pull you? I don't understand."

"Oh just ignore that," I quickly profess, shooting a weak glare at my companion for the sudden mess." You don't need to know. It's ju—"

In the midst of my attempt to salvage the misunderstanding, the team's intercom interjects with a sharp crackle.

"Desert, Chevron team actual. Are you receiving?"

I hold a hand up to stop further queries from the reserved women. "Give me a moment."

I move to acknowledge the call, setting a finger on the knob. "Simmons here, your signal's good. Send it."

"Cooper's got us a new position for the Valor. It's inside the palace, probably a hundred or so meters from the garden where you're at. Bailey's on station to guide the pilots through descent, look for the large open courtyard slightly to the west," Gabriel answers.

"Hang on," James interrupts, "you sure we can trust them? I know you guys aren't a stickler for rules, but this crosses the line."

"Just haul ass and get over here, not in the mood for this..."

I step up, pulling everyone back on track. "Understood, we'll meet you at the new LZ. Just to be sure, are we cleared to take off—there's still a few banshees circling up top."

"Nothing I can do about them, but the locals are aware and should be expecting movement. Just take it slow and steady."

"Will do, Simmons out," I conclude with a sharp huff. Having already received the memo, James and Robert hurry back from their position, trotting towards the Valor's interior.

'Brass definitely owes every single one of us a drink,' I muse with a mild frown. It's the least they could do for hauling our asses here.

I file the suggestion for a later time, risking a hand on the young retainer's shoulder, "We're... moving everyone to the inside of your palace. Including that," I point in the Valor's direction, giving her the hint.

"You've got two ways to go there. By foot, or by air," I explain, watching the gears in her head turn behind attentive eyes.

Douglas observes the interaction, keeping a close eye on the palace retainer. "Is that even allowed?"

I shrug. "Probably not, but it's not like brass is gonna stop us. We also can't just turn the girl away, I'm not going to paint us in a bad light."

"I will go by your airship," the retainer interrupts, sparing an apologetic glance at Douglas.

"As long as she keeps her hands to herself," he muses, "whatever... let's just go."

"If anything goes wrong, I'll take the flak," I retort with frown, guiding the two ahead. The pilots begin preparations, indicating their progress through the shared intercom.

Douglas steps up first, turning around to offer a hand. I take it and bring myself up, using the operative as leverage.

"W—wait maybe," a voice behind stammers.

I turn around, noting a lack of progress from our newest companion. The retainer stood a fair distance away, actively avoiding the rotors with a frightful look.

"We're not going to wait on you," I call her out, entertaining the prospect of leaving her behind.

With a hand extended in her direction, the idea quickly gains momentum. If this is how it will be with her, cutting her loose now is the best course of action. "Last chance," I frown, tactile gloves on the verge of closing up.

Her hands slowly unfurl, reaching out for my own. A hint of dread remains plastered on her expression, though it barely registered as I pull her onto the cabin.

"That's five," Robert reports over comms, "Good to go."

"Take that one right there," I point at an empty seat on her left. She shuffles over, dress complicating matters with a few straps tugging against a few sharp outlines—courtesy of the cabin's utilitarian layout.

I definitely regret extending the offer. After ensuring her dress is freed of any obstacles, I sit her down and make sure the woman understood explicitly that she is not to stand up, touch anything, or make any sudden movements.

"I—I heed you," she weakly complies after the protracted lecture.

"Good," I take a spot directly opposite of her, intending to ensure her continued compliance. "It won't take long. Just sit tight."

======

"Touchdown. You guys are cleared," the pilot announces over intercom. A soft thud follows, signaling the landing's conclusion.

Stamping to his feet, Douglas moves ahead to the door. With a firm tug, the side doors slide open to reveal an expanse of stone walls and marble arches. Several operatives stood on the sidelines, monitoring the progress while a few servants milled about behind.

I stand up, pacing a few steps ahead. "Noticed you were deep in thought, something you mind sharing?"

The retainer dismisses the query as I get to work on unbuckling the straps, "Nothing worthy of your attention, fret not."

"Well if you insist," I remark, ensuring nothing else is obstructing the retainer's movement. Retracting both hands from her figure, I head out the Valor. The ground eagerly accepts the newfound weight, protesting with only a dull thump.

I turn around. "James, help her get off. I'll check in with Gabriel and Cooper, see what else they've got for us."

"Gotcha," James answers, coaxing the women off her seat. Snapping back, he shoots back with an inquiry. "What's her name anyways?"

"It's... Anja, I think," I supply, observing the retainer. She returns an expectant look, head offering a slight tilt at the unexpected mention of her name.

"Thanks," he returns to his task, pulling the women's attention away from me.

"Jerome," Robert enters the peripheral, "Gabriel's got a few words to share. Sound's like it's important."

"Got it," I reply, spotting the aforementioned operative beneath an arch. Whatever the news is, it did not sound good.

"Gabriel," I call out, already anticipating a significant change in the mission. "Heard you got something for us."

"Yeah, straight from Cooper himself," he supplies with a weighted voice.

Douglas spares me a dark look, as if to convey his sharp disapproval. A sigh escapes his lips, the rush of air audible through his helmet. "Just give it to us, don't mince the words."

"We'll be staying the night. No way around this," Gabriel adds.

"Kind of expected that," I sigh, jutting a thumb behind. "in that case, we'll need to schedule who's on watch tonight."

"We've got fourteen guys if we include the pilots," Douglas highlights. "That should be enough for a single rotation assuming we stick to three per shift. Hell, we could even add Cooper's team on this. It's their idea anyway."

"Yeah I don't think so. I don't trust any of them with a gun," I smirk at the suggestion, thinking of the risks such a proposal would offer. "For now we stick with fourteen, at least our pilots have the basics."

'This is our tempo now for the foreseeable future,' I muse as the conversation carries on to other relevant topics.

===end===

Special thanks to thejid ^.^