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Candy      To the inimitable Dame Commander Lilian Isabelle Rook, Unseen Order of the Scarlet Cross,

You are hereby invited to a meeting of Mexico's foremost thinkers, to be held at the personal estate of Don Abel Benitez Figueroa, to address a number of ills troubling our fair country, and to offer your expertise on a highly promising magical matter. Enclosed, you will find one first-class ticket to the Eladio Express in Mexico City, which will cover travel by train to the city of Toluca, after which a carriage shall await you for transport to Don Benitez's estate.

     The invitation itself seems real enough. The gentle eggshell color of the paper, the wax seal pressed with what must be Don Benitez's signet. The letterhead names him as 'Director of the Committee for Resolution of the Native Problem,' and lists, mainly for bragging rights, some of the company she'll be keeping.

     Among them is Don César Diaz Echevarria, whose title is listed as 'President, Banco Nacional de Ciudad de Mexico.' In other words, the president of the bank Candy mentioned knocking over. Don Diaz will apparently be among a few guests joining her on the train ride and subsequent carriage trip.

     What makes the whole thing suspicious is the inclusion, in that letter, of a drawing, on a separate piece of paper. It's a cutely crude drawing of Candy, winking, with a little heart drawn beside him. "Hola, Limey! XOXO" Given that Candy is involved, she may safely assume things won't go according to plan. Or at the very least, not the plan outlined in that invitation.
Candy PT. 1: 3:10 To NOWHERE

    You'll need to board in Mexico City, first class or otherwise. Candy, who is not present and will be 'boarding' later, has provided coach tickets that pass the rail agents' muster. There are posters all over town with faces and bounties. Candy's is one of them, and among the highest payouts you'll see. 'Wanted for violations of the ceasefire between the Nation of Mexico and the Free Morelos Territories.'

    Mexico City is a gilded nightmare. The streets are clean, but they are also packed with soldiers in beige uniforms, carrying rifles and early automatics. Armored cars with gun emplacements are as common among the early-21st-century transportation as automobiles and trolleys. Buildings bear fresh paint and some are even trimmed with gold leaf, but the walls of some bear straight, even lines of bullet holes from firing squads. A statue of the lich and president-for-life Baltasar Ibanez looms over the buildings, visible from every part of the elevated city, his arms extended wide in a gesture of openness--but his eyes look down his decaying nose at the city. The only people who can walk these streets in comfort are those who support or otherwise benefit from his rule.

"Here's the plan,' reads a missive from Candy given to the Watchmen. "Sit tight 'til we get to the waystation. Get a read on everybody, find out if we got any 'heroes' riding with us, and turn on the charm so they don't fuck it up. Train's got a scheduled stop to take on water at a waystation five miles out from Toluca. When I give the signal, get everybody safe, get out, then sweep the station for assholes. Limey might be in first. Try not to piss her off, no matter how much you might wanna. If she blows your cover, just bail, and we meet up at the way station, no matter what."

     A contingency in the form of a playing card was given to every Watchman, held with paperclips to the missive Candy sent. In a pinch, it can teleport them from the train to the waystation--though if everyone does that, there'll be a harder time corralling the bystanders. Your tickets cover 2nd class and coach. The rearmost car is for oversized luggage and animals. Where will you sit?
Rita Ma      Rita runs her fingers along a line of bullet-holes as she walks past a building. They're reminiscent of automatic harpoon-gun fire, dense titanium spikes embedded in iron hull. But the spacing's too regular; the line too horizontal. What would make something like this?

     Oh.

     She pulls her hand away and wipes it on her skirt, as if to cleanse her fingertips of some contagion. Her marveling expression is wiped away in a moment, replaced with a quiet grimace.

     Limey... that's Ms. Rook, isn't it? And she's going to be helping us, I guess, even if she doesn't know it yet. I'd love to finally get to meet her.

     While standing in line, she sneaks a peek at another passenger's first-class ticket, then fabricates one of her own from a mimic-tentacle. It looks like paper, feels like paper- only, if they cut it, it might bleed.

     She's swiftly ushered into first-class when she hands it over, and awkwardly looks around for a place to sit. Her cute, traditional clothes aren't outside the pale for a moderately upper-class girl in this time period, but her uncertainty is palpable.

     What does Ms. Rook look like? I've only heard her voice. She'd stand out somehow, wouldn't she? Or maybe not.

     ... And there are those pangs again. Like there's a deep, freezing hole in my gut, aching for warm bodies to fill it. I really should've eaten more before coming here. I hope there's not too much spilled blood...
Redshift Operators "Never liked stealth-ops."
"I personally find them quite a charming effort. There's so much preparation."
"Feel a bit naked without my helmet."
"Same. Most of the heavy equipment is stashed in the rear car. I guess, be ready to run for it."
"Don't like carrying *just a pistol*. And barely any grenades..."
"They're on the lookout for violence. You will survive, for now. You've no binding curse demanding attachment to your firearms, and you may yet acquire what you seek from our foes."

    Blending in is tough for men and women of a nuclear operations squad, adjusted as they are to usually wearing heavy armored hardsuits and other similar equipment. But even still, there's a few ways one can work here. Sure, maybe the stiffly-moving astronaut can't exactly keep his softsuit, but their low-hanging hat's wide brim keeps their face obscured in shadow for the most part, hidden above the simple laborer slacks and band-collared shirts. The gruff gunman in a low-cost suit and his outrageous mess of jet-black hair is almost entirely obfuscated by what might be... sunglasses? It's the early 1920s though, so his lenses are period appropriate; he looks like he's dealing with a case of syphilis. The cyborg ninja has gotten a single-use Discount Dan's(tm) SynthSkin Arm De-Chomer and her face is nearly hidden by garden hat, and is wearing a more north-of-the-border urban dress. As for the giant of the crew? Well, at seven feet it's hard to not look like a laborer. He keeps hunched in his heavy coveralls and his flat cap isn't what keeps his face out of sight. His face is out of sight because it's *perpetually above the camera shot*.

    They spread out. A giant and a small, quiet fellow around coach, the hidden cyborg and the grumpy gunslinger nearer second-class, pretending to be a just-slightly-foreign couple.

    The gruff fellow who wishes he had a bigger gun seeks out those who look to have military training, trying to get some small talk going about firearms and appear trustworthy enough to organize a bavarian fire drill and get the bystanders where they need to go. The giant further back in coach keeps roaming up and down the aisle, and his smaller friend with the shadowed face tends to follow him, eyes on who reacts, who twitches, who looks nervous, courageous, or otherwise expectant of an attack, who might need personal attention from the giant.
Qulan Kahkol 'Second class or coach?' Qulan thinks, looking at the missive.  'Please, I didn't earn my wealth only to sit with those who haven't.'

Qulan, on the other hand, has instead purchased a first-class ticket on her own dime, and instead slipped the extra money to some beggar as she walked to the train station.  Some random person was to have a very good day.  

Qulan does not indulge in local customs, because those were /boring/ to her.  Instead, she sits in first-class in more high-class Ishgardian garb.  She is sans hat, so her face is visible to all.  Her skin is pale, and her horns and scales are dark blues.  Her eyes are a shade of blue, but a glowing red liminal ring.

Her hair is a tone of blue with white highlights.  It's done into a very professional bun, with some strands on either side of her face hanging down.  Her clothing is a top of maroon, with white frills on the bottom and a chest cloth with similar frills.  Her pants are black but have similar frills of white across the waist.  She has a pair of boots, adorning her feet while she waits for the train to go.  

She's already committed the missive to memory and hidden the teleport object just in case.  Right now she appears to be reading a book she picked up locally.  It's about local legends, usually, the kind treasure hunters might pick up before they go missing.
Lilian Rook     MUCH EARLIER:
    Lilian drops the unfolded letter on top of a table older than its writer is, stretching back and sighing half-heartedly. "Well, I suppose that's the sense of style they have in that time and place. It probably passes for class." she reassures herself, unamused. "It's not precisely as if you ever hear much about Mexico." Her lip twitches into the ghost of a sneer, re-reading the letterhead. "Though, that's largely why. 'The Native Problem'. Honestly. This is why your whole continent ate shit you know."

    Touching the tiny smart device on its mount, she takes a quick picture scan of both pages, transcribes a memo, and is then already committing names and positions to memory, thinking of whom to greet and what to say as easily as breathing, engraved into her since eight years old as it is. "I still can't help but get a bit of a tin pot feeling from it though. Nouveau riche." She glances again to the 'extra' page. "Hopefully still better than the obstinately poor." As much as she'd like to make an excuse, Candy had already told her that he plans to cause trouble. "Eighth code." she groans to herself, slowly rubbing her face. "I'll have to tell Tamamo that I've shuffled my schedule again."

    NOW:
    At the very least, first class makes the trip tolerable. Lilian would, of course, be frankly insulted if she were given any other ticket, but she's never actually been on a train before, so there's a certain air of frivolous novelty to it.

    She's dressed in such a manner as to not, for once, 'still stand out too much', because this isn't an era where streetwear is ugly jeans and t-shirts. She has to dig around for some more old-fashioned clothes, but finally has an opportunity to use that deep red dress with the white ruffles and fancy sash. Even a hat and bow, though she refuses to remove the lily clip no matter what, nor the oddly glossy black 'iron' pendant. The lack of a matching purse is notable for a young lady of high class (though in this era she'd be on the dot of marriageable age, she realizes), replaced instead with something like a messenger bag, so she can carry a slim stack of books, the interior of which are completely fucking indecipherable, and apparent the moment she sits down and opens one up, being written in a functionally dead language and littered with excessively arcane diagrams.

    She doesn't appear to be on the lookout for Candy's nonsense as she should be. Visible suspicion is unbecoming. Besides, he seemed to be of the baffling opinion that she wouldn't be opposed to his wild ride of mystery bullshit on this occasion, and she's not exactly feeling threatened by the Watch right now. The look of her is someone trying to use the lengthy trip as efficiently as possible with some other matter, only occasionally bothering to look out the window; if she can find a bar somewhere, she'll bring herself back a bottle.

    The look of her is also distinctly not Mexican, nor North American, and it's even somewhat hard to pin her as British, though it's an obvious close approximation. Skin a little too fair, hair much too hard, lacking some of that characteristic chin and nose emphasis. Even without 'glowing' in a vague, subconscious way. It's not enough to scream 'Multiversal' but it is enough to cast into doubt 'a rich Brit lady visiting the colonies'.
Rita Ma      It wouldn't be terribly hard for Rita to 'keep an eye on' Lilian without being noticed: it's a full car, she doesn't stand out terribly much, and the Paladin's guard is down. Unfortunately, she's too much of a good girl to think that way.

     A perfectly ordinary blonde girl approaches Lilian and smiles a warm, headpattable, sincere smile. Her voice is recognizable from the radio. "Hi! Is it okay if I sit next to you, miss?"
Candy FIRST CLASS: Rita, Qulan, Lilian

    Two Watchmen and a Paladin share a princely cabin with a scant few individuals. The floor is a newly-cleaned red carpet, the seats plush and comfortable enough to neutralize a good chunk of shock from the train's continued operation. There's just the initial lurch, which may as well be a gentle shove.

     Don Diaz is a gregarious, portly man who seems to have a thin sheen of sweat no matter how he pats his face with his embroidered kerchief. He shows interest in Qulan, in that kind of condescending way that rich people who imagine themselves progressive do, but her attire, slightly outmoded though it might be, manages to pass her as 'old money,' wherever she might have hailed from. Accordingly, she's given silent leave from him to read her book, until she decides she'd like to socialize.

     Padre Marco Luis Morales is an elderly man with a slightly smug smile, dressed in Lilian's absolute favorite thing: the vestments of a Catholic Archbishop. The padre introduces himself as Archbishop of Mexico City--which means that he's probably on Ibanez' council of ghouls. He's scanning as capable of magic and well-practiced. The padre is in the middle of a debate with a woman clearly of German descent, the both of them speaking some kind of Latin with actually new words mixed in. Colonel Dagmar Althaus wears the uniform of an officer in the Mexican Federal Army. She smells... off, to Rita. Like food that's gone bad, hidden with a flowery fragrance.

     "Now, now," says the padre. "A violent approach will simply give us another revolution. No, we must humanize the peasants. Remind them of Christ's love, and let divine providence dispose us of rash individuals like that Estevez boy."

     "There is no humanizing beasts of burden," says Althaus coldly. "They stare civilization in the face and deny it. If they would act like animals, then we should set them to the yoke and give them what they so clearly want."

    Don Diaz chuckles. His Latin is less practiced, but functional. "My dear Colonel, if they wanted to work hard, then they would have what they really wanted--prosperity. To call them animals insults the dignity of God's creatures."

     Speaking of God's creatures, Qulan's reading uncovers some interesting local mythology. The ahuizotl, or 'water dog,' is a creature first discovered by the Aztecs. It lies in wait near water, where it lures victims to their deaths. It is said to use its ape-like hands, including one on its tail, to assist in this, and in eating the eyes, fingernails and teeth of its victims.
Candy 2ND and COACH: Operators

     The GUNSLINGER and HIS ECCENTRIC LADY FRIEND find what they are looking for, if perhaps not in the wrapper they expect. A woman in deerskins, who speaks English, with an American accent no less. Her red hair is tied back to keep it from her face, and her hands look like they long for the comforting weight of a rifle. White Dwarf will spot the concealed, hard shape of a bowie knife. "How do? They call me Mrs. Robinson north of the border, but Jane's fine too." She's got all the telltale signs--even though she's dressed like a hunter and that's probably what she prefers, her eyes betray a familiarity with a more dangerous kind of game, in a less natural kind of wilderness.

     Meanwhile, the GIANT and his SMALLER FRIEND do find someone in coach who doesn't so much look nervous as 'politely suspicious.' A man likely from around here stops them on their second pass. "If you're looking for a seat, this one's open," he says, gesturing to the seat across from him. The man has a kind of roguish charm, and his medicine bag seems heavier than it ought to be when he lifts it to make room for them. It's a subtle way of telling them that he is, or believes he is, 'onto' them. He might think they're casing it to rob, actually. He doffs the brim of his straw hat at them. "Call me Lefty."
Qulan Kahkol Qulan actually does hide her face in the book for a moment.  Not that she wasn't interested in it, but some...things happened.  She hides her emotions with a very stone-cold face, trying to find a good way to express them.  Finally, she sighs, and after reading about the water dog she closes the book.

Mostly because she sees a sweating portly man who seems interested in her.  Probably because he wants to see her in some sort of zoo, or some sort of harem.  She resolves that if that is the case he'll break every bone in his leg.  Including a few, he probably didn't know he had.  However, her cold face stares at the group as the conversation happens.  

She raises an eyebrow at this conversation but speaks firmly and evenly.  Even as one of her hands grips the other...the one that holds her weapon. "If they are not working to your satisfaction, then instead of blaming them, you should instead lookup.  You have failed them as leaders, and instead should consider the approach that Ishgard takes."

"While the highborn and lowborn are different, each cast has their role to play in the war against dragons.  Those who have merit rise to the top, and those who do not fall to the bottom.  Instead, you hate 'the poors' because they are poor, and ignore potential assets.  More than that, you also ignore the weakness in your own ranks."

"Consider, should you, that maybe they are unhappy while their needs are unmet, and you look down on them while your cup overfills.  You are just giving those who fight against you what you want."
Lilian Rook     Normally, people don't Just Approach Lilian. It is a shock that, instead of running away, you're approaching me?-- No actually it's just a little surprising to see an adorable good girl showing up and smiling at her while she's busy reading inscrutable tomes on a train. At first, she thinks this is absolutely adorable, and glances up (with weirdly intensely green eyes) with the beginnings of a smile forming, and then recognizes the voice a partial second later; thus the smile is immediately controlled and minimized with expertise usually reserved for hiding displeasure in polite company.

    "Well aren't you cute~" she answers, fully aware her own voice will probably be recognized straight away. Marking her page, she folds up her book, and sets it off to the side for a moment. It doesn't have a title on the cover. "I'm a little surprised. But you really do look like a good girl in the end. Certainly, if you don't mind me being a little preoccupied." She gestures to the opposite side of the booth though, across the little first class train car table. She's not an idiot.

    "So, let's be honest here. What has that buffoon set you up to?" Lilian asks. Despite the PG-angry language, she sounds more curious and preemptively exasperated than upset. "He was *especially* unhelpful about what any of this is meant to be about. I don't suppose he informed his friends of anything?" She has no idea if Rita knows or cares about opsec concerns, but there's a good chance that Candy was up front about the whole deal to everyone but her and it isn't all that sensitive. "Whatever it is, I'd advise that you probably stay out of it. It's certain to be something asinine."

    She glances sideways at the three now having a discussion about peasants. Her eyes narrow unhappy at the vestments again. 'At least he's not protestant', she thinks to herself. The look itself is unsubtle, meant to draw Rita's attention. "And I'm quite certain it has to do with that one. The fatty, if you'll pardon my French. The other two are more threatening, but he's the one associated with the bank Candelario appears to be obsessed with. It'll be some ridiculous caper with people in the crossfire, I'm sure. Something political, or monetary. Robbing, kidnapping, ransom, extortion; who knows with that type."

    Still, nothing about her exactly radiates sympathy for Don Diaz. Certainly less immense antipathy than the usual Watch persuasion, but clearly some kind of mild to moderate contempt, politely veiled only for the social mores involved. Of course she knows Latin, because that's what a quarter of all western mystic texts are written in, but her ability to speak it is somewhat out of date and out of practice.

    But Qulan makes a scene first. Lilian sighs, in an 'I know where this is going' kind of way, gently standing up. "Wonderful speech. What a novel and not at all tired perspective. Are you done? Because intruding on the conversations of strangers and making an ass of yourself typically isn't the reason people take trains. It's to get from here to there in a relaxed setting. So, politely stop causing trouble, or I'll have you sent to the back."

    Despite the frankly expert level of cutting disdain in her tone, Lilian's face mostly just reads detached, autopiloting boredom at having to deal with this. Her expression says that she can't really bring herself to get genuinely upset about it, but it also screams that hoooooly fuck is she already preemptively tired of hearing this and these. It's like skipping a long and annoying disclaimer she's already heard. She really just wants to get to the end of the line in goddamn peace.

    She spares a look and a few words for the trio, in slightly outdated Latin. "Animals or not, violence breeding revolution is a fundamental fact. When they fear the future more than they fear the probability of their deaths, they'll act however they please." She glances back at Qulan. "Though, I'd suggest that we can't leave God to do all the work."
Qulan Kahkol "I was invited into being social by the nice gentleman infront of me," Qulan says, motioning towards the Don, "Who was waiting patiently for me to finish my book. I provided a opinion based on my view of the things, and by lense of the multiverse." She says icly towards Lilian. "The only one causing a scene is you, so if you could kindly sit down before I have one of the attendants come escort you back to your seat for interrupting my conversation," Qulan says, staring right at Lilian.

"If these fine people can not handle a view different then theirs, then I doubt they'd have their spot on this train." she says after a bit more, "So in small words dear...you're making a scene, sit down with your friend over there."
Rita Ma      Rita's expression only gets sunnier when Lilian invites her to sit together. If she notices the sudden swerve into recognition and more restrained positivity, it doesn't show: she's still beaming as she slips into the opposite side of the booth, glancing out the window briefly before making eye contact with Lilian again.

     She's completely human, isn't she? I smell blood and metal and weird things on her, but it's still human all the way through. So why do her eyes make me feel like that?

     In a hushed tone that won't carry beyond their booth: "Oh, um... I don't know much, but Mr. Candy thinks the bank is holding something really dangerous. They're taking it to be seen by the president's scientists. I don't know why, but he thought it'd be bad enough that you'd want to destroy it too once you saw it."

     Rita's own displeasure with the trio's conversation is mostly evident only by her hands balling up in her lap, little white-knuckled fists of impotent rage. She opts not to speak up at all, though her gaze lingers especially on the Colonel.

     Her face turns away from the passenger trio when Qulan starts speaking, though she can't hide her grimace from Lilian even with a hand covering her mouth.

     An invisible tentacle winds its way from Rita across the train aisle and jabs into Qulan's leg. It's not enough to cause harm, but sufficient to inflict a jolt of pain. The message couldn't be more clear.
Candy FIRST CLASS - Rita, Lilian, Qulan

     'Overfull' is about right. The padre and Don Diaz are both stuffing their faces at the moment, with food evidently prepared from a kitchen in the cabin ahead of this one. Althaus is eating, too--a raw steak. Though her movements are polite and prim, there is a hunger in her eyes that only Rita could understand. "I don't hate them, personally," says the woman who just called them animals. "It's no trouble, madam," says the colonel to Lilian. "Polite discourse is the foundation of englightened society."

     It's hard to tell how exactly she feels about what's said until she makes a counter-argument to Qulan. "I find them disorderly. Ungrateful. Unclean," she says, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth with a dainty dab of napkin. "Wasteful, also." Her tone is clinical and dispassionate. "They grow what food they need, on our land, take shelter from the weather, on our land, are given every opportunity to become something better--and spit in our faces when we ask for them to give back. But I do not hate them. To hate them would compromise my ability to protect them. Mexico is lucky, to have remained clear of the Great War for so long." Like a cold parent, "Yet even if I shed my blood turning back a tide of my former countrymen for the peasants' sake, I doubt their braying would cease. That is what animals do, madam. They bray."

     "Still," says Don Diaz, "While I appreciate the Roman need for discipline, I believe the lady there is correct." 'The Lady,' in this case, being Lilian. "It was, after all, the rod which split our country in three. Which gave rise to that ass, Mendoza. I still cannot believe she wanted to give the government, and our land, to idiots like the ones in Morelos and Zacatecas."

     "Ah, ah, ah," says the padre. "You mean 'the Free Morelos Territories and Ybarra." The old man stifles a burp. "Pardon. A bit of mustard, Don Diaz?" Don Diaz passes him the mustard. "Thank you. We mustn't get the names of their little pet projects wrong. After all, they won a revolution." says the priest condescendingly with a smug smile.

     "The passing fancy of the idle and the dull," dryly says Althaus.

     Don Diaz chuckles, "Ever direct, dear colonel. Revolution or no, however, I think they will learn their..." A grin towards Qulan. "Proper role, if you will, very soon."
Redshift Operators     "Jane Robinson, the name practically overflows with a traveller's spirit." Rambles the cyborg, stretching her arm just-slightly-stiffly. "Florence White, lovely to meet you. And this lovely molehill of sourness is--"

    "George. George Melendez." Answers the gruff man for himself. "I'm not sour. Just not a fan of trains. Too many windows, and doors in opposites." He sighs, leaning further back in the seat, grumbling. "Old habits. How's game down here? Hope *you've* had a chance to relax. Things are a lil' heated." He adjusts his sunglasses, as if finding the light in the windows distasteful.

    His lady friend plays along, seeming to contradict him. "You worry too much. You see the metaphorical barrel for fish and fear the current tensions, and yet, it is not as though this is not sturdy. I'm sure motion of crowds and such would be quite coherent, under these conditions." She subtly invites Jane to contribute her wisdom, and to subconsciously cue up a plan to help direct a clearing of the train. The precognitive swordswoman even spends some time in her mental prediction-space. If bullets started flying now, and the Operators started clearing the bystanders, what would Jane Robinson do? Would she help? Would the effort be opposed by anyone else? Precognition helps rather a lot with that.

    The massive giant rumbles a chest full of gravel to make an affirming, "Mmmh." What a nice new friend! He has to let his much smaller friend through first, because he, himself, is too large to take the seat entirely. One might feel the entire train car lean, very slightly, when some 550 pounds or so of human muscle clumsily presses his ass onto the side of one of the seats. "Been looking for a lot of things. When there's... *concerns*, a walk helps. It settles the mind about *dangers* when they can see how things are going." The massive amount of menace he drips from his gravel-voice is enough to fill a mind's eye with blood and death. But he's just talking about how mentally healthy walks are!

    The smaller fellow takes in the man. One can almost see him summoning up dialogue options and trying to map the shortest and most effective route through this conversation. They're silent for about fifteen seconds, just long enough for Lefty to possibly start responding, when they start, essentially, mashing through the dialogue tree. "Hi. My friend is gonna help with something on the train soon. He's large, so it would be a good idea to keep the aisles clear. But we need to get something from the luggage compartment. Do you have anything you want, while we're there? If you help my friend through the aisles, we'll help you get anything of yours from there."

    The translation for this, of course, is an absolutely massive volume of implicit hint-hint insinuations that the Redshifts plan for something, somewhere, to clear the train of bystanders, and that Lefty, who appears to be an out-and-out potential thief (who believes they're the same) should totally help them do so because it would be way easier to access the luggage area for anything interesting, which *they* also wanna do, but won't interfere, and instead will help -- maybe, possibly, in some deniable and disavowable way. And it's all just rammed through with almost no moment of pause for Lefty to respond.
Lilian Rook     Lilian poorly disguises a laugh as a polite little cough on purpose. "I don't think that'll be happening." She replies first, before wearing an incredibly faux smile. "Apologies, I'd assumed you were a lizard, not a parrot. It's sometimes difficult to tell with your kind. I'll gracefully assume you picked up that asinine line somewhere else." It sounds like a vaguely nasty depart, but the look in her eyes is not of someone done with this. Not by far. The Stacy talked back to the Heather. It's only a matter of time.

    She opens her bag again. "Ah, speaking of invitations, this time of the actually real kind . . ." She produces the letter, though it's been re-sealed since there's no point flapping the text around. "I'd like to ask, if it isn't too early, what your opinion might be on the matter to be discussed." That is, she's not directly asking 'what is this probably secret thing?', but immediately insinuating herself into the group with a gentle plying for their attitudes, in a very appealing, gossipy way.

    Mainly, she doesn't need to ask. Just prompting them on the matter will tell her all she needs to know. All she has to do is tune into that unreal extra sense and all of their secrets, their vices, their dark thoughts, their fears and pleasures, will come flooding in.

    And so do Rita's.

    Lilian glances back towards the girl, because she can't help it now, and her subtly wide-eyed look is filled with barely suppressed revulsion bordering on feeling physically ill. She looks like she'd just tried a new food item and discovered it has an utterly revolting texture, but can't just spit it out in polite company. "Ah, one moment, if you'd be so patient." she says, a short ways into the conversation, doing an admirable job of covering up sounding motion sick. She re-approaches Rita. She gets uncomfortably close. Leans over. Puts both hands on the table. Stares down and lowers her voice.

    And then uses some very old Gaelic instead, her received pronunciation disappearing entirely in place of something smokey and vaguely raw. It evokes an alarming kind of briefly bared sincerity.

    "I get it. I really do, Rita. It's not just them, is it? It's your heart that wants it, and your guts that let you know can't give it. But more than either of those, you have to keep your head on, because once you start making exceptions and excuses, even if they're good ones, it'll only get worse. The more you feed it, the bigger it'll grow. There have to be lines to pen it in. I don't know where yours are, or if you know how to draw them yet, but I know where mine are, and we're still short of them. I won't tell anyone if I don't have to. I feel like I should do that much. But don't make me."

    Back to the table. "Apologies, it must have been the bump." There wasn't one, but who remembers every lurch on a train? She taps the counter and gestures to the Colonel's plate. "One blue and one medium rare, if you would." She motions Rita over to have the 'blue', which it turns out is rich people speak for basically raw. Ideally it should make Rita's thoughts less intolerably gross, so she can get back to spying on the thoughts of the big three.
Candy 2ND and COACH: Operators

     "Aw, thanks! That's mighty sweet of you, Florence, and good to meetcha, George." Mrs. Robinson beams brightly at the two of them. Her accent--sounds like... southeastern U.S.? Appalachian. "Depends on where you're at, really. All the mining those guys're doing, over Baja way, it's scaring away some of the more interesting stuff. Mosta the magical critters with sense steer clear of Mexico--on account of Ibanez'll have 'em under a microscope. Me, I'm riding the line to Jalisco. Hear there's a jimador got himself a skinwalker problem. But you..." She grins coyly.

     "You two are after diff'rent game, huh? Something a little more, uh... y'know." She rubs her thumb, index and middle fingers together. It's not the first time she's held up a train. "What you're looking for, I think you'd find it north-a-ways. 'Course, you'd wanna take it nice and slow, soon as when you get there. Birds," she says, her eyes flicking to the other passengers, "They can give you away. I'd say your best bet's to move in once they done their migration." A slight nod backwards. Trains /do/ have two doors. As it turns out, Mrs. Robinson isn't just a hunter, or a veteran of the revolution--she's some sort of magic user from a tradition called the Waldensians. She will help, because she believes with all her heart that a humble life is best--and that those who live well at the expense of others should be humbled, by force if necessary. She will help by radiating Calm that makes panicking or attacking tangibly more difficult.

     THE GIANT and HIS MUCH SMALLER FRIEND find polite company in Lefty, who seems very amused by the way the cabin lurches at THE GIANT's seating. "They grow 'em big where you're from, don't they?" He was just gonna make small talk, try to charm the both of them into helping -him,- when the Mashing begins. "I-- you-- what-- ...huh." He grins, stroking his stubble-specked chin. "Well... when you put it that way, I guess I'd be stupid not to help," he says. "There's a couple of things I left back there, sure. Damned rail agents made me put it there, but it's, y'know... sentimental value, and all." That's two for two. And not a moment too soon.
Qulan Kahkol The slap to the back of her leg wouldn't hurt her unless Rita was aiming to slice it off.  Though it would get her attention.  She does not immediately move at all, instead of picking up a glass of water that was at her table and taking a drink.  "It's ok, you should see a doctor though if your eyes are unable to figure out the difference," She says, with a patient smile.  She's willing to get down and dirty with a Heather.  

"Hmm...perhaps weird, I would imagine that you'd have known more.  Oh well," She says, trying to desperately not push the piss off button...she WAS asked not to push the enrage button.  

Qulan motions towards the Colonel, as if she basically answered her questions.  Though what she says causes her desire to start tossing people off the train to raise.  The next two are not as bad as the first...something in her raises the hairs on her neck.  There is something wrong with this woman.  

However, standing up she speaks, "Excuse me, I need a moment to freshen up," She says and walks towards the little lizard's room.
Candy PART 2: The SIGNAL

    "I find it elegant in its simplicity," says Colonel Althaus. "With one stroke, eliminating the unrest, making an example of slothful ingrates, and providing for ourselves a much more efficient, compliant workforce. A much more /quiet/ workforce. /If/ it is geniune."

     "It's genuine," muses the padre over a sip of wine. "Genuine heathen witchery."

     With the smug eagerness of the ghoul who came up with the idea, Don Diaz dabs his neck and grins. "My dear padre, even the tools of the wicked may be put to noble use. Besides, the giants who once bequeathed it--"

     The unmistakable squeal of train brakes. Sparks, rising up past the windows. A waiter, doing his best to hide a scowl, exits the kitchen only for the lurch of the sudden stop to cause him to trip. What Lilian ordered flies through the air. The composed colonel finds time to grab the waiter by the scruff of the neck, at first seemingly to keep him from hitting the ground. Instead, she rises as the train comes to a halt, and backhands him hard enough to draw blood. "Go get another," she says. "And ask the conductor why we've--"

     Tiny little Candies appear before Rita, Qulan, and each of the Operators, dancing on the backs of seats, giving thumbs up, tapping index fingers to wrists. After THE SIGNAL is given, each one disappears like someone's reflection in a lake, disturbed by ripples in the water.

     The train is stopped several yards from the waystation. It is stopped because there is a massive steam-powered stompy-thing fallen face first onto the tracks.

     In FIRST CLASS, the conductor apologizes, and explains that the waystation's 'drawer' is facedown on the tracks. Water cannot safely be drawn until it is removed and repaired. In SECOND CLASS, Mrs. Robinson stands up. Despite the fact that she has no gun, and isn't even wielding her knife, she radiates a passive aura of 'be cool, everything will be alright,' walking up and down the cabin to reassure everyone ahead of her two strange friends.

     Meanwhile, Lefty takes the approach more expected of a holdup artist. "Hey, everybody! How's it going?"

     "Holy shit, is that Lefty de Luna?"

     "It sure is, ma'am. And these are my friends, Stretch and Shorty."

     "Wow," says a young boy, "We're being held up by famous people!"

     "You're being -escorted- by famous people," corrects Lefty.
Rita Ma      The perfectly normal girl's eyes widen when Lilian bends down to talk. She's visibly bracing to be scolded, to be rejected, to hear what the fuck is wrong with you?

     I don't know how Ms. Rook knows, but she does. It's in her eyes. Is it the way I was looking at them? Did I show my teeth and not realize it? Sloppy, awful. I can't even pretend to be human anymore.

     When Lilian's words actually start to register with her, though, she just nods along in a vaguely shellshocked fashion. Her gaze to the floor. Awful tension is replaced with a disbelieving, almost teary relief; even if what Lilian has to say is stern and vaguely threatening, it's so much better than what she was prepared to hear.

     "There's something wrong with me, Ms. Rook," she says. It's hard to tell with her voice so quiet, but there might be a slight hoarse edge to it. "But I'm trying my best to be good. I've got my lines drawn already. And... I won't make you regret it."

     The blue steak helps a lot with quieting down those ravenous thoughts to a more manageable level. Rita manages to restrain herself to perfectly decent table manners, although even the bone and gristle vanishes at some point when nobody's looking.

     She doesn't make eye contact with Qulan as the knight leaves. At this point, Rita's best chance is just staying quiet and not doing anything to associate herself with her.

     She does take the chance to do one thing, though, just to confirm her suspicions. An invisible tentacle unwinds from around her leg again. When the Colonel brings her fork up to her lips, a tiny nudge bumps the utensil up a fraction of a degree so it'll scrape or gouge her lip. Easily mistaken for an ordinary bump in the tracks, and yet...

     It just might draw blood, or whatever the undead have that passes for blood. And if it does, that delicate tendril will be there to steal just one drop of it for Rita's purposes.
Lilian Rook     "There's always something wrong with us." Lilian replies to Rita before returning. "Sometimes everyone thinks it's normal, sometimes everyone hates it, sometimes it's genuinely just very, very bad. And in the last case, we have to try the hardest. And people who just 'feel good' won't understand."

    Back at the table. "Heathen? I suppose that's true, but I seldom hear that word." Lilian says, with vague, conversational nothing tones. It's true, but largely because few people are dumb enough to use it where she comes from. "I suppose that's why good Figueroa is so eager to have it assessed. Mind, I wouldn't be completely shocked if it turned out to be genuine article. There are all sorts of things to find, unpleasant and variably useful, on that frontier. But I would be quite surprised, considering what was meant to have become of it. You don't suppose they had the sorcery for another one, do you?"

    §Cauldron? There's no way. Absolutely no way. This world got all the way to nearly creating America. There's not a chance it's so far off the rails that Efnysien didn't-- That motherfucker Candelario. This isn't some kind of set-aside-our-differences moral agreement at all. He has to think it's real, otherwise he wouldn't want *me* specifically.§

    The train screeching to a halt is honestly a good excuse at this point. Lilian also stands, now that her food is ruined, there's commotion afoot, and something to gawk at. "What do you *mean* face down on the tracks? How could they possibly be that inept? Let me see." Lilian demands of the conductor. However, what she's currently trying to do is to focus on the narrow scatter of potentials that result from her path; thankfully extremely narrowed by the train. The thing she Wants, and the thing in the Way.
Redshift Operators     "Escorted." Says the rumbling voice of gravel. Every step rattles the entire traincar -- and now that it's motionless, the rumbling is no longer disguised. A man who weighs a quarter of a ton without his armor regards the young boy. He leans down and holds out his arm. "*You're* being held up." He says, and lifts the boy as if he were paper. He looks excited about this! And young boys enjoy clambering around and riding on large, strong people, the large man knows that well. Still, his voice sounds unspeakably menacing. Every inch and every pound of this man (there are many) screams that, at any moment, he could tear a hole in one of the train-car walls. "You all should leave."

    The smaller fellow works on getting people out by matching luggage with people, and insisting to them in simple, persistent terms, "Move. Hey. Move." The de-suited astronaut hopes not to stay that way for long, as they try to clear coach out -- through physical carrying or through persisting organization -- enough to get access to the rear luggage compartment, where each of them have stowed their combat gear.

    Further up in second class, the gruff man adjusts his sunglasses and grits his teeth. His cyborg companion grips his arm briefly. "I can see where this goes." She says. "It will turn out okay, but the bystanders must be led away." She sticks her entire head out the window, holding her hat onto her head... When she pulls back in, she speaks to the bytstanders. "They seem to have not told the whole story. The drawer is not simply disabled, it seems damaged." She speaks much more audibly to all those present, as if simply one of the many passengers here, though her declarations come with some posing and dramatic delivery. "No doubt rests in my mind or in my predictions of the future, that the ideal path forward is beyond this train itself, on the chance that what happened to the drawer may happen to the train car. Everyone should leave."

    "You all heard the lady. Let's clear and get some distance. Dunno who's got what going on, but head-down is the way to get through it." Ah yes, the man in the cheap suit is simply one of them. If things have gone well back in coach, it'll only be a minute or two more before a giant comes by with his guns, his grenades, and his armor. Best that he get the people moving quick.
Qulan Kahkol Qulan's hand snaps up to grab the train.  She's incredibly strong and strong enough that if it is metal she grabbed like that, it's bending, or if it's wood she's impaled her fingers into it to steady herself.  She moves forward the moment the lurching is over, starting to move towards people to go forward.  "A train stopping like this...seems like it's bandits or something to me," She comments to herself.  

"Come on, let's get out of danger and figure out where to ride this out.  Don't worry about me.." she says, with a flash of light the dark armor appears on her body, followed by a large weapon on her back.  "I'll protect you from whatever is about to happen.  Come on, there you go..." She says, trying to direct traffic past the first-class car.  

"Sigh...I was rather enjoying first-class," She comments, "I wonder if I can get that ticket refunded.." she muses.  It's easier to play clueless about what's going on for now, while directing traffic for the civilians. so nobody gets hurt or caught up in this mess.  

She leaves first-class to Rita, who seems to have a handle on things...of course, and she guesses Lilian, who is apparently central to Candy's plan.  She can't imagine why, but that is probably bias on Qulan's part, who is doing whatever she can to get into a high school rivalry slash crush with her.  

Who can say!

She does step to the side so Lilian can pass her.  "Then I'll get people off, while you do that," She says, but narrows her eyes a moment.  Not in a 'I hate you get fucked', something's been broken to her that's put her in a defensive mindset.  
Rita Ma      When the train comes to a halt, Rita's form shimmers slightly in a way that's unlikely to be caught by any but those looking directly at it. Her true body, cloaked with perfect active camouflage, steps out of the hollow wrappings that constitute her human disguise.

     "Please don't move."

     In one instant "Rita" is sitting down. In the next instant, an invisible tendril touches Colonel Althaus's chest, the contact point flashing an icy blue and radiating condensing vapor. It attempts to instantaneously freeze her body solid in a "human popsicle", "can-only-move-the-eyes" kind of way.

     Simultaneously, another invisible tentacle- this one as thick as Rita's leg, and just as solid- coils around the Archbishop's neck, exerting a gentle pressure that hints it could inflict enough to torque his head clean off if he tries to speak. It's like having a boa constrictor draped around one's shoulders.

     The finishing touch: the old, fake "Rita" disappears, and in the same eyeblink, a new Rita reappears standing in the aisle. She's holding a (fake) handgun with both hands, her expression a little trembly but resolved; her position is specifically chosen so she can keep an eye on all three first-class passengers at once (minus Lilian.) She gestures 'down' with the gun, as if to say "stay seated, or else".

     But of course, that still isn't the real Rita. The real Rita is clinging to the ceiling by her feet and fingertips just out of sight, waiting to see if anybody makes the dumb move and rushes for her decoy holding the gun.
Candy      "Certainly, ma'am. Right this way." Lilian is led to a clever little false panel that allows the first class passengers, through use of a sort of sideways periscope, to view what's ahead of the train. A golem, round, heavy, and loaded down with barrels and impellers, lies face down on the tracks. Something stirs in the water. "Even if the backup comes this way, that one's loaded. They're... they're probably calling a crew here from Mexico City, it shouldn't be long..." Of course, she's looking far more forward than that.

     Rita seizes the advantage. The Colonel is unable to move, save her eyes, which convey the first emotion she has the whole trip--hateful, reproachful.

     Candy just can't resist the chance to dab on some uniforms. "Ho ho! They are calling Jack and Shit, with no wires," says that rash individual, Estevez, from beneath the cabin.

     The colonel's eyes are afraid.

     The priest begins. The windows glare, as does the periscope where Lilian stands. Sunlight begins to filter in. Then it doesn't. The Archbishop makes a sound like a toad unable to croak, his adam's apple bobbing uselessly.

     Don Diaz is cowering with his hands over his head, curled up as if trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

     Meanwhile, the Operators are probably having a good time. People seem to like the charming, offbeat energy their ensemble of 'famous thief, large lad, and some cool hillbilly' enough to put up with being ushered by 'Shorty.' The smaller fellow has no trouble getting them off the train. Nor, for that matter, do the other two have any trouble leading theirs. The drawer, indeed, was the work of Candy, however.

     Three of them come walking over in a 'just checking it out' kind of way--but when they see Lefty, chit-chatting with the crowd and Mrs. Robinson, they all draw pistols with square grips, resembling the beginning of modern handgun design. They bullrush the cabin and demand surrender of her and her gruff companion. Candy immediately escalates it when a playing card in the back sends one of the agents keeling over, clawing at his chest and coughing up water. It is what amounts to 'two sec dickheads'--but that asshole Lefty is trying to schmooze on Mrs. Robinson -right- in front of the door to coach. Luckily, Candy is... what?

     A chorus of footsteps back and forth. One prolonged dragging noise. The guards are frozen. Candy's hands--one on his shoulder, one on hers. "Hey, spacefolks.~ Take a second to pick your favorites. Sorry about drawing the shitheads in the first place." When they're ready, time resumes.
Redshift Operators     The gruff man with the suppressed, subsonic pistol is already drawing the minute he sees the guards. The time freezing is new, though. He holds, focusing his attention. The woman with the cyborg arm glances to one side. In frozen time, a fellow in an out-of-place astronaut helmet is tossing her katana to her. She reaches over, and geeeently pulls the blade free of its hard-light projector-sheath.

"Left."
"Right."

    "Quite a trick, you are doing. <Interesting>. One day we will discover how it interacts with my own temporal maneuvers. For now..." She presses her goggles to her eyes, and restores her respirator, then tosses her garden hat to one side, letting her ponytail flow free. She braces one foot on one of the nearby seats, getting herself nearly horizontal for an abrupt kick-off.

"I shall exceed the speed of your bullet."
"Like hell. That's fake as shit."
"I'm going to do it."
"Not a chance."
"Twenty thalars, I can."
"Fuck off, you're on."
"Don't get shot."
"You're the one bringing a *sword* to a *shoot-out*."
"Candy, would you call it for us?"

    Candy loves to do that thing, where suddenly everything he did during stopped time takes effect all at once. Well, here's his chance to do that in a team, as the gunman and the swordswoman act in perfect tandem, both launching into action, one with a sword and the other with rapid shots, to try to take out both guards and then rush into the next chamber as soon as the giant gets through to toss the hardsuit module at the gunman.
Candy      As for Don Diaz--he sings like a canary. Why wouldn't he? A seasoned soldier and a powerful mage just got clowned within moments of one another. That just leaves the waystation. It's well staffed, being only a few miles from the capital. But there are only so many agents among the staff--and Candy cut the telephone lines. Somehow... that box of tools and insulated gloves lying near the entrance, probably.

     She sees them, before they see her. The last two agents, complaining about how long the other three are taking--a card game is being held up. The hallway is otherwise quiet.

     'It,' Don Diaz explains, is being kept in the bank. Three keys are needed. He offers his up the moment that it's asked for. To Lilian, in fact, who looked to this knowledge, whatever else she saw through that periscope. She isn't the only one who looked somewhere other than where she was, however.

     A vision, through the Echo, shows Qulan the cabin in the moments she herself was purchasing her ticket. A conversation between the padre, the colonel, and Don Diaz. The entire reason for the debate earlier. Rightfully so, considering they way they spoke of the peasants, but people of their level of means and influence--those who Baltasar Ibanez means when he alludes to his 'scientists' in his speeches--do not feel safe leaving Mexico City. It's a fair bet to assume there's a correlation between that, and the alarming abundance of soldiers in Mexico City.

     "Sorry, grumpy, but my money's on the kooky lady. She says all of that shit... some of it's gotta be right!"

     The third guard feebly raises his pistol. Candy's shotgun drops it. A guard falls. Another. He turns around. "FUCK! I missed it! ...kooky lady, if you can do, I dunno, a do-over?" He puffs out his lower lip and ponders with his index finger tapping his chin, then dismisses the thought. "Ah, fuck it, let's see what the damage is, grab everybody and get the fuck out of here, ah?" He hangs in the doorway--"Beers later? Bring the whole spaceship?"

     FIRST CLASS:

     "So what's the damage, ah?"
Lilian Rook     A fatass golem, importantly, loaded with massive barrels filled with water, is probably more than Lilian can deal with by hand unless she wants to cut it up and transport it by pieces. Which is tempting, admittedly, but she's not in that much of a rush to get to Mexico City just yet. Still, her sharp eyes catch don't fail to catch that movement. In a moment, though.

    Placing unusual trust in a Watchman, Lilian exchanges a brief communique with Rita over the radio to be sure of what she's doing. She herself had already conveniently vacated the area before Rita made her move, so she can't be implicated in anything that goes down here and lose her seat at Figueroa's table. Originally, she'd intended to interrogate Don about it, but circumstances have aligned better. She can get what she needs from this without tipping her hand. Easily. Just like when she used to shoplift and steal from classmates when she was twelve. Lilian, in a fake huff, excuses herself from the front, and exits through the operator room. Ostensibly 'off the train'.

                -----[stop]-----
    Lilian walks right back inside. Past the periscope, past the windows, down the empty aisles of empty benches, to where Don Diaz is cowering in terror and the other two have been caught with their pants down. An unsympathetic smirk crosses her lips, as she kneels down to Don's level. "Not bad, Rita." Her pinched fingertips carefully hover around Don's pockets, and then dip right into where she knows that key to be, turning her fingers partially intangible to slip right through and lift it out just by her nails, without stuffing her whole hand in there like someone might notice.

    Pocketing it on the spot (well, bagging it), she barely spares a second look. "This is the first time I've seen that part of the Thirteenth come up. 'Thou shalt never heed the words of that which abides not adversity nor attainment.' Well, in the first place, an item like that certainly can't be left in the hands of Extras." She returns to the tracks.

                -----[start]-----

    "Oh, don't worry about that anymore." she radios Rita. "I have what I need." She sounds so ho-hum about it as she marches down the rails, not having to travel very far to examine the loader. She wants to see what's up with that water tank.
Qulan Kahkol Qulan makes a face, there should be more people here.  She realizes that there isn't anyone.  It's odd...very odd.  She's very suss of this fact, and when she turns back. Towards the front a vision hits her.  Her hand goes to her forehead for a moment, rubbing out something.  For anyone outside it is a minor motion with her hand that lasts a few seconds.  

She moves towards the other three again, her blade is drawn and whisps of darkness seem to start flowing off of her armor and weapon.  She closes the distance, but...well, Rita beats her to the punch.  Rita was very clear about the priest, but the weapon points at him.  

"You know, I heard the first part of your debate a second ago.  How much do you really know about Mexico City, padre?  You know, about the increase in soldiers.  How much are you complacent with it...do be truthful," She says, the Echo (hopefully) will show her if he is a monster as well.
Rita Ma      Rita's decoy-body first focuses on the Colonel, aiming the illusory handgun at her for a few tense seconds to see if she'll be able to break out of the ice.

     Only when the ghoul proves to have been neutralized does her decoy-body turn its attention to the priest, staring him down in turn to make sure he can't finish his prayer. The tentacle relaxes just enough to not actually black him out, but with the promise of re-tightening if he tries that again. She'd say something threatening, but she's no ventriloquist, and a decoy made of mimic tentacles can hardly speak.

     That could have been a lot worse. The bank man seems normal, but he's a lot bigger than me; he might try something dumb anyway. Better not drop the illusion.

     Giving Don Diaz a menacing glance in passing, her decoy-body walks over to the frozen Colonel and aims her fake gun at the helpless ghoul. For just a moment, Rita's expression tenses with uncertainty- then her eyes go empty-glassy, and the tension leaves. In time with the illusory trigger-pull, an invisible tentacle stabs through Colonel Althaus's frozen body with a noise close to a gunshot, leaving a "bullet-hole" clean through her heart.

     Monsters that hurt people need to be killed. You've eaten people too, haven't you? But there's even less 'human' in you than me. I'm not done with you yet.

     Another invisible tentacle wraps itself around the Archbishop's head and between his teeth, shapeshifts into the appearance of an iron chain, and then detaches itself from Rita, calcifying into an improvised and inorganic-looking gag. Similar tentacles do the same to bind his wrists together with fake, but still sturdy, manacles, seeming to fade into existence from nowhere. Only then does she release her hold on his neck.

     With a wave of her gun, she escorts Don Diaz (once he's done coughing up the key) and the helpless Archbishop out of the train, along with the server and the conductor if they're still there. The "peasants" can decide what to do with the former upper crust. That's not her concern anymore.

     ... And now that the first-class train car is fully emptied, Rita's true body finally drops down from the ceiling, walking over to Colonel Althaus. Maybe the ghoul's dying; maybe her physiology lets her hang on despite the wound. It's about to not matter. Two thick, spiral-grooved translucent tentacles shimmer into visibility, arching from Rita's back and angling towards Althaus like serpents getting ready to strike.

     "Your turn."

     Crunch.

     Glk, glk.
Redshift Operators     The swordswoman pulls her blade free of the chest of one of the guards, flicking it clean of blood before returning to the sheath and retaking it. The gunman puts his pistol away, snatching the giant's gift from mid-air and armoring up.

"I got mine first."
"Total nonsense. Beers later."

    All four Redshift Operators get into First Class. All's settled here, though, and the swordswoman makes that clear by sheathing her sword, though she leaves a hand on it. Rita and Qulan had this... "under control" in a way. The gruff man shrugs his gun off his shoulder hardpoint and keeps it at the ready, but most of what he's doing looks to be priming various incendiary grenades around first class. He likes making sure places like this burn up, the captured folks are another matter entirely. He leaves one in the spot where the colonel's stains lay, if any, or their mouth, if their body remains after Rita's work, though, notably, they didn't arrive in time to see Rita herself. Ideally, around the time the Watch walks away, first class will go up in a space-napalm-infused bonfire.