In front of Thea, voices — mid-argument — pour out of the parking garage's entrance; each word resonates in an odd harmony of anger and hollowness. She wrings a sweat-slicked palm around the handle of her cane. Not even five-thirty and the sun is already slipping below the horizon, casting the streets in a haze of oranges. Damp hair clings to Thea's neck. She runs a finger between her skin and the collar of her cassock, desperate for relief from the heat of the heavy fabric. "Don't be nervous. No, no need to be nervous at all."

A cloud passes in front of the sun and the warm tones surrounding her flicker. She forces a foot forward, then another. One after one tempered by hesitation, like she's bit down on a fishing hook and is trying to escape.

But she can't. She's helpless. Past the threshold, the arguing voices envelope her, echoing off concrete surroundings and hitting her from every angle. Her self-directed pep talk shrinks to a whisper. "You're going to be fine; it'll be over before you know it."

Then there they are. Three men float a short distance away from a white box truck: a top heavy, pompadour-having man fixing to hurl a sack of something; a red-burred, smile-beaming man soon to be on the receiving end, his back toward Thea; and that guy from the park with his long, black hair nestled in a high bun — what was his name? Did he even tell her?

Bun guy jabs an angry finger in Red-burr's direction and — thanks to Thea's steady, yet glacial approach — his words turn intelligible mid-sentence. "— going to compare him to me? His motivations aren't even on the same plane of existence as mine."

Anxiety tingles down Thea's spine, down to her fingers and down to her toes. She stalls, her already slow walk peters out into a hesitant stance. Unsure if she should keep walking or run the other way. Pompadour whips the burlap sack with a grunt, but Red-burr is distracted: absorbed in Bun-man's yelling.

Words of warning lump in Thea's throat. It's odd. Almost like watching a play: the sack hurtles through the air in slow motion, twirling with grace and deadly potential; an argument perfectly set to distract; and now, a silent, helpless audience.

At the last possible second, in one, smooth motion, Red-burr steps back and shoots out an arm. The bag collides in a meaty thump and Red-burr spins on his heel from the inertia. All the way back to face Bun-man like the catch never happened. He flops the sack onto a shoulder. "Oh, of course. Of course! No harm meant, lad. Sorry for bringing that up." He toss a thumb behind himself. "By the way, our last teammate is here if you lot didn't see."

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Did he really just catch that?

Bun-man massages his left temple for a moment. His anger breaks and he drudges off toward the box truck. "About time. Let's get this over with."

Red-burr shakes his head. "Without introductions? No matter, I'll handle it!" He whips around to face Thea. "Hello, it's wonderful to meet you Thea! I'm Ronan, the lad with the death glare and pompadour is Ivan, and our brave leader trudging away there is Waylon. He's nicer than he seems, I just messed up. Made him a bit mad with a comment I should have kept quiet."

Ronan's tone sends Thea's expectations tumbling, screeching down a corridor of twists and turns. Sweat clings to her neck, her heart drums in her chest. Her whole body teeters on the precipice of fight or flight. Still, she steels herself and resumes her glacial pace toward the box truck. "H-hi, nice to meet you too."

Ivan — the pompadour-having man — calls out in a thick, New Boston accent. "Already tapping out, asshole? Come on, throw —" The moment his eyes falls past Ronan's shoulder and over Thea's cassock, his entire demeanor changes. He shifts his gaze. "Oh shit. I mean — god. Shit. Sorry sister, please forgive my rudeness." He punctuates the sentence by flitting a hand from his head, to his chest, and to either shoulder: the sign of the cross.

"Oh no, no. Y-you don't need to apologize."

"Of course, sister. Sorry, sister." He says.

Ronan tips his head toward Waylon, over there hovering near the box truck. "Well, shall we convene around? He wanted to give us a briefing of some sort before we went on our way. Still plenty of time in the night though, so I'm not sure what all he's got for us."

Ivan and Ronan both start that way and Thea follows after. On every other step in the fresh silence, her cane's rubber foot sends a muted thud echoing around the garage. Am I making too much noise?

Waiting for the other three, Waylon lets his body lean forward, then fall back against the side of the box truck. Repeatedly. Each impact warps the metal siding and makes a sound like a kid flopping a laminated menu between their hands.

As the three finish their jaunt, an impromptu circle starts to form. Thea plants herself right next to Ronan. He shoots her a smile, clasps his hands behind himself, and turns his attention back to Waylon. Her stomach clenches; she shuffles a bit away from him. Give him more space. Oh no, does it look like I'm uncomfortable? Get his attention and smile back, maybe? Am I breathing too hard?

Her heart thunders, stress tears her mind in twenty different directions. Get it under control, Thea. Breathe.

Before she can, Waylon speaks up and holds a tired, dark-circled stare with each of them in turn. "You all have the gist of the plan, but I'm going to run through it now that we're all together. Then we're going to go over it again. And again, and again. Not a single slip up, not a single moment of confusion. We're going to pound procedure and contingencies into our memory until— well, we're just going to do it. Got it?"