Exigency: The Old Guard

"Indeed. I hope to hear from you soon." Graves-Burton remains seated, and glances past Darghibous. "I doubt we need to meet in person again. Not when we've reached an... understanding."

He thinks he's being subtle, and to some degree he is, but it's clear to Darghibous that Graves-Burton is making eye contact with someone in the crowd. An irony of telepathy is that even talented psi-practitioners find it easier to broadcast when they can physically see the recipient: the whole time, the Lord Councillor has had another bodyguard waiting in the throng. But Darghibous cannot spot who it is.

"Goodbye. And enjoy your journey."

Perhaps something about how Darghibous moves tips the unseen bodyguard off, or perhaps they had a change of heart spurred on by the presence of Darghibous' allies. No attack comes.

Darghibous isn't sure what to make of it, but he feels an itching at the back of his head as he moves further out of the courtyard...

Keep walking. Graves-Burton is certain you plan to ambush him. Prove him wrong. Make him squirm.

And whatever you do, do not trust him. Take it from me.

A little later...

The drive is uneventful. Insofar as any journey through a warzone with a captive in your trunk can be uneventful. Patrols are bypassed, wandering gangs are circumvented. Occasionally a cruiser flies overhead, forcing Pudge to hide the car in alleys or tunnels: there's no way of knowing who's up there. Might be a friend, might be someone seeking to drown the area in plasma ordnance.

The exact location of the Vault is in dispute, but Darghibous can make an educated guess: it's where the Mercenary League activity is at its highest. Great concentrations of troops and carriers and, most damningly, heavy-duty excavation machinery. Either Graves-Burton's allies are terrible at secrecy or they're making no effort to conceal their plans.

Halfway to the Vault, driving down a deserted bombed-out neighbourhood, Reave kicks her way out of the trunk. The car's lock was nothing special but Wilhelm's Plaztique™ cuffs are made of sterner stuff: they're still clamped over Reave's wrists when she bursts free and throws herself from the moving vehicle.

Pudge has been trying to keep a psionic tendril reached out toward Reave, in case she were to try to escape, attack, or contact someone.

Luckily for Reave, Wilhelm uses the flat of the blade to trip her rather than slicing through her leg. Reave falls forward, clumsily trying to cushion her fall with her shackled hands. It all happens in a heartbeat. Reave still has one leg in the trunk: she didn't even make it clear.

"I don't know what you're hoping to accomplish," Reave calls out, still prone in the dirt, "but without me to keep him in check, there's no telling what Graves-Burton will try next."