Saul releases a soft sigh of relief at the prospect of moving.  At least a little.  He pops open the heavy door of the armored SUV and slowly uses his hands to move his right leg out of the passenger compartment and to the ground.  Muscles cry in protest at the movement after their time in the vehicle.  His hip doesn't like being immobile for too long.  It doesn't really like moving for too long, either, which does can put the former Marine and Cop in quite a pickle.

Another few grunts and Saul leverages himself out of the seat and into the wet heat of Arkansas in the summer.  He's been walking streets meaner than this one for over 30 years, and they still haven't managed to build body armor that breathes.  Maybe that's the trade off you need to make sure you're still breathing, he muses.  A weathered hand rubs and even more weathered bald scalp, and Saul smiles widely, leans heavily on his walking stick and takes a few tentative steps to push blood back into the hip joint a bullet so helpfully rearranged for him a few years ago.

The smile isn't just for the people Saul knows are watching.  It's also because he genuinely happy that the world down here is still operating at level that approaches functional.  At least what passes for functional in 2030.

Instead of walking towards the law enforcement and the upcoming pow-wow between Guillory and Franks, Saul heads away from the vehicles, not far, just to the shade of a tree that's fronting the road.  The view isn't bad, if you like small towns, and the shade relieves some of the heat already building in his ceramic cocoon.  He wants a lay-of-the-land, to watch the people watching him and to gauge the mood of the community.  Another wide grin crosses his face as he leans against the tree.  Smiles tend to draw people, and people like to talk about themselves the most.  Saul is more than willing to listen.

Let's see what the day brings.

"Well, that's mighty kind of you Mr. Guillory, but I don't rightly know. We haven't been able to get out much at all these past few day, on account of the storm."

Captain Franks leads Guillory (and any other Sierras who'd care to join them) inside. The interior of the station is just as unassuming as the exterior, a paragon of homey functionality creeping slowly towards decrepitude. Franks pours himself a cup of chicory coffee, holds the pot up in a non-verbal reiteration of his earlier offer.

Franks takes a sip from his novelty mug- 'Grumpy Old Man', it reads. "It's pretty good," he reports enthusiastically. Maybe he owns stock. The neighborly captain waves Kabua towards a desk at the back of the room. "Just set it over there, son. Thanks. Here's Grady's little contribution," he says, handing the returning Kabua a small stack of letters rubber-banded together. Turning back to Guillory, he squints, trying to catch his earlier train of thought. "Oh, yes. Old Mrs. Elkins came by here a couple of mornings ago, pretty upset- have to be to go outside in that mess. Said her son didn't come home from work the night before. He's a guard down at the Varner Unit, 'bout 6 miles south o' here, just off the 65. I told her he probably just got held up by the weather. I mean, it was really comin' down, at that point. I drove her home, but I haven't had a chance to follow up on it. I'm sure he'll be back soon, now that the sun is shinin'- might be back already, for all I know."

The captain tops off his cup, sits on the edge of a desk, rubs the back of his neck.

"Other than that, I'm sure there're a few leaky roofs, busted windows, that sort of thing. I don't know if that's what you meant, but I'm going to make my afternoon rounds here shortly, so if y'all are going to stay in town for a bit, I can ask around. If you're not, though... well, we're pretty good at takin' care of ourselves around here."

Kabua returns from the station with the outgoing mail, Lt. Offut tagging along. The Lieutenant stops at Razorback. "This some kinda tank or something?" he asks no one in particular, indicating the J-LTV with a bug-eyed look.

From the shade of a tree just across the road from the station, Saul looks to his left (south). He observes man up on his roof, perhaps searching for the source of a leak. The man removes his hat, wipes his brow, notices that he's being watched. He gives Saul a curt wave, then gets back to the task at hand. Looking to his right, Saul sees a woman, a child on either side, holding her hands, walking east down Business 65. He doesn't remember passing them on the way into town.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 00:36, Sun 23 Dec 2018.

”You got it boss.” Mike Carswell acknowledged Scott Guillory with a brief nod of his head a thumbs up as he stepped out of the seat that he had occupied in the rear of Suburban. The team medic had spent most of the journey with his window rolled down, air con being a bitch on fuel consumption, a tanned arm holding the door rim as he’d watched the terrain outside alternate between fields and small towns. Once or twice he’d thought that some of the people in the fields had waved to the passing convoy. Maybe the workers had seen the JLTV, figured that it represented the protection of the State Government, maybe they didn’t know who they’d been waving to. Maybe they hadn’t even been waving at all, had just been trying to shade themselves from the hot southern Sun. Carswell had waved back anyway.

The medic took a slow circuit around the vehicle. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, his eyes hidden behind his Oakleys. He’d left his OD fatigue jacket was in the Suburban, the one with the MEMS patch on the shoulder that was the only thing that might have marked him out as a medic, was wearing a black tee shirt under his plate carrier vest.

His circuit complete, Mike took up a position leaning against the SUV’s hood, his stance intentionally casual, one booted foot resting on the rim of the tire, his nomex gloved hands slipping inside his vest, his eyes looking about, following Guillory and Cao as they disappeared into the police station with the Captain, what was his name, Frank, Franks?

Franks, that was it. There wasn’t anything about the dude that made Mike’s internal threat radar start buzzing but the paunch had caught his attention. It wasn’t like he was the only overweight dude in Arkansas but it was noteworthy enough to make Carswell wonder if the dude was using his position to skim from the locals. Or maybe the medic was just being cynical.  Shrugging inwardly, the medic leaned back against the SUV, felt the Sun on his face and bare arms as he watched Kabua and the other cop walk over to the JLTV.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:47, Tue 17 July 2018.

Still standing with her arms folded, Cao acknowledged Skillins' reply with a brief nod then turned her attention back to the parking lot, watching as Guillory walked forward and made his manners with the local cop. When Scott looked over in her direction and inclined his head in the direction of the police station the Air Force Captain nodded.

"Looks like we're having a pow wow." She remarked to Cole Anderson. "I'll go see what Captain Grady has to say for himself. You're in charge here, Sergeant Anderson. If you want to engage with the locals or make any trades go ahead, there's no need to check with me." It was stating the obvious. Anderson had the rank and the experience, including combat experience – in fact both him and Kabua probably had more combat experience than her, certainly against the Russians. Still, Allianza bullets were just as lethal as Russian ones.

That was then though, this is now. Their mission here isn’t to kill people, it was to help people. The dark haired officer made her way across the lot, felt the humidity hanging in the air, particularly unpleasant given that the interior of the JLTV had been pleasantly cool, their air con switched on to try and protect the vehicle’s working electronics.

Stepping into the office behind Scott, Lauren removed her sunglasses and clipped them to the front of her plate carrier vest before offering her hand to Franks. ”Good afternoon, Captain Franks. I’m Captain Lauren Cao, United States Air Force, presently attached to the Arkansas State Guard.” She smiled. ”And coffee would be great, thanks.”

When Franks handed the coffee to her Lauren smiled again, took the mug in her hands and then stepped to one side, glancing around the room for a moment before turning her attention to Franks, taking the odd sip of coffee as she listened to him describe some of the challenges that the town was facing. She'd wait for Guillroy to open things from their side rather than jump in though.

Tori made her mental notes about Offutt, then decided to engage him.

"Happy to give you a tour of our little convoy, one Lieutenant to another," Rios said with a smile as she approached him.  "I'm Victoria Rios, pleased to meet you Lieutenant Offutt... did I say that correctly?" Tori asked by way of introduction.

"As you can see, this little tank is the heart of our convoy.  We'll, it's not really a tank, more like an armored car.  I'm not sure the gun up there works anymore, but the armor will stop pistol rounds, so that's something.  These days, you take what you can get."  Special Agent Rios patted the side of Razorback as she went by.

"The cargo truck is the most impressive vehicle really," she said as she motioned to it.  "Let's take a walk and I'll show you the back of it." 

"So tell me Lieutenant, how long have you been with Grady PD?" Tori asked, making conversation on their way to the backside of the cargo vehicle.  Follow on questions included 'how do you like it,' and 'how many officers do you have on the force.'

"Alright, reach up and pull yourself up so you can see into the back of the trailer.  You will have to use both hands, but it's worth it.  Some clever bastard put a moonshine still back there and a hot water heater like you use for taking a shower," Tori said, channeling a bit of feigned excitement.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:14, Tue 17 July 2018.

Cole manned the turret and though of more subtle digs he might take at redneck that Captain Cao had left him with.  As the pondered sick burns based on cousin love, he watched the various members of the civil affairs mission go about their respective 'win friends and influence people' activities.  As Tori moved to corral the local that Cole had mentally labeled 'Coke Bottles', Anderson snorted, then leaned down.

"Hey, D-dot-Skill... Check out this guy.  Looks like he's never seen a military vehicle before," Cole said, leaning down and forward to speak directly to Duane.  Anderson's nick name for Duane was based on an old brand of RAM that Anderson used to build all his own PCs.  It was more of a complement than he'd naturally be inclined to give Skillins, but Cole was feeling generous.  Skillins was at least competent behind the wheel and under the hood.

https://www.gskill.com/en/
This message was last edited by the player at 00:01, Wed 18 July 2018.

Scott nods, pulls a notepad out of a cargo pocket, jots notes with a pencil stub as Franks talks.  Tries not to think about the amount of industry required to produce something as simple as a No.2 pencil.  "You got a first name and description for the Elkins kid?  We'll do a wellness check when we roll through there and call it in to you."

He takes a sip of the ersatz coffee and considers Franks' statement.  "Yeah, everyone's gotten pretty self-sufficient the last couple of years."  Or gotten dead, goes his internal subtext.  "What do you think?" he asks, turning to Cao.  "We're due for a lunch break anyway.  After that, if Captain Franks is on board, maybe have a couple of our people ride along with him on rounds while the rest of us do a storm damage assessment and top off the vehicles?"

Duane frowned at the nickname. He didn't get the reference, but the delivery didn't sound like it was intended to provoke, so he let it slide. Besides, Anderson's assessment of the dippy police lieutenant seemed to closely match his own. Might as well try and relate to his teammate.

"Yeah, I think he's a couple Bud Lights short of a six-pack."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 02:35, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Thank heavens we've got Five-O along to deal with these civilians.  Man, I'm not sure I could do it.  Hell, it was all I could do not to open up with the fifty and blow the shit out of Moscow as we drove through," Cole said with a hearty and sinister laugh.  "I mean, who names some bum fuck town in Arkansas, Moscow anyway?" Anderson asked.  "Only Russians, that's who," he added, in response to his own question.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 02:43, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Yes, ma'am." Offutt answers, blushing beet red.


"Ah. Looks kinda like a tank." the Lieutenant says a little defensively, perhaps trying to save face.


Offut follows her to the cargo truck, patting the J-LTV in the same spot as Rios as he passes by.


"Uh, 'bout two years, I think." Offut replies. "I like it a lot. I always wanted to be a policeman. I like helpin' people. It's just me an' Franks now. Ruiz and Jonesy were in the National Guard; they had to go off to some other country to fight the Russians or the Chi-nese or something.  Bremmer got sick and shot himself. He's dead."


Rios moves around behind Offutt as he hoists himself up. She's been surreptitiously studying him the entire time. Although Lieutenant Offutt is clearly some kind of simpleton, Rios' finely-tuned cop's gut detects nothing nefarious about him.

"Whoa! You folks have a lot of stuff in here." Offutt exclaims, genuinely impressed. He surveys the contents of the trailer carefully. After nearly a minute of silent perusal, he reveals the object of his search. "Y'all got any candy?"

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This message was last edited by the GM at 05:21, Wed 18 July 2018.

"Sure. Bob Elkins- Robert, actually, but he goes by Bob. He's around 35, I think. Little taller than you. Brown hair, bald on top, mustache. Nice guy, quiet. I can't imagine him workin' at a prison, but he's been there at least 10 years. Kept him outta the war!"

When Guillory expresses interest in a tour of the town, Franks welcomes the company.

"I'd be happy to take one or two o' you along on my afternoon rounds. It's kinda cramped in the back, though, so, if you'd rather, you can follow me in your vehicle. The rest of your people are welcome to stay here with Offutt."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:25, Thu 19 July 2018.

”Hold on a second, Captain.” Lauren said. ”The Varner Unit is a prison?” The look of surprise on her face was evident. When the local cop had first mentioned that the missing man was a guard the Air Force officer – and out of Stater - had presumed he was protecting some sort of local community asset. Like a farm or something.

”How many prisoners are down there? And how many Guards?” And why didn’t it occur to anyone up in Little Rock to mention it before we set out? ”How secure is it? You have any problems with them before?”

Tori smiled and relaxed a bit when Offutt asked about candy.  She hadn't seen any prison tattoos on his hands or neck when he hauled himself into the trailer.  And being a relatively new officer lined up with one of her two suspicions about the Grady Police Lieutenant... suspicions borne of knowing the strict vision acuity limits placed on pre-war Arkansas law enforcement officers.

"If we've got anything, our cook would know where it's kept.  He's the guy that took the mail in.  Let's go find him.  In the mean time, what you can tell me about the Supermax Prison down the road?  Is it still operating?" Tori asked, as she escorted Lt. Offutt back to find Kabua.

Franks returns Cao's look of surprise. "Yes, ma'am. There's actually two prisons- the Varner Unit and the Cummins Unit." He pauses a second to let that sink in. "I don't exactly know how many prisoners each one's holdin' these days, but I'd reckon it's around 250 between 'em, with about two-dozen or so full-time guards. A lot of the staff lives right outside the Cummins Unit- got their own little neighborhood just north of the prison."

The Captain finishes his cup of chicory coffee, sets the mug down with a satisfied sigh.

"Most of the non-violent offenders were released a while back, although I heard some of 'em stayed on to help run the place. What's left inside is the worst of the worst. We haven't really had any trouble with them here in Grady, though. We keep a lookout on top of one of the grain silos at the east end of town, just in case. Had to bring him down, though, on a account of the storm, but someone's back up there now."

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This message was last edited by the GM at 01:43, Thu 23 Aug 2018.

Offutt followed Rios like a duckling, walking right behind her instead of beside her. The Lieutenant was clearly relishing the attention, especially attention paid by an attractive woman. "The prison? Yeah. Gotta put the bad guys somewhere. Ya can't just kill 'em all, right?" He laughed awkwardly at his own little stab at humor.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 04:24, Thu 19 July 2018.

"Yes, Ma'am," Jackson replied to Rios' query. "We got some saltwater taffy." Noting Offutt's eager grin, the young Marshallese-American leans in close to Rios and whispers, "It's for the kids."

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This message was last edited by the player at 02:02, Thu 19 July 2018.

Carissa walks easily up behind her father, watching him watch the street.  Her foot falls are quiet, hands tucked into the top of her armored vest.  A blond pony-tail bounces out of the back of her black Armadillo Armor baseball hat.  She once punched a guy for suggesting that the rodeo armor hat must have been a gift from a boyfriend.  Like everyone else, she's left the longarm in the car.

"Hi girl," Saul says without turning around.  Carissa sighs inside.  Never could sneak up on the old man. "What do you see?"

At the question, Carissa takes a deep breath and lets it out slow between pursed lips.  Eyes hidden behind Oakley's sweep up and down the street.  "Civilization," she says after maybe ten seconds.  She's been answering the question, (the question, the one her sisters hated and Carissa secretly loved) since she was eight.

"Explain."  Saul still hasn't turned around.  Carissa moves up and stands next to the former Marine, tries to ignore the fact that he's rubbing his thigh more than usual.

"There's no trash, windows are intact, the streets are clean.  Home-skillet on the roof is fixing his problems, not just moving next door.  Mom and the two juniors are walking down the street without an armed escort.  Civilization," she pronounces.

Saul does turn at that, takes in his daughter, the Born to Ride patch on the front of her armor that probably refers to a Harley, but in her case refers to horses.  Just below the patch, her 6" folding Spider-Co is sitting snug in its holster.  "Good," he says, "any chance your remember seeing them on the way in?"  A tilt of the head indicates mom and the family.

Carissa's eyes scrunch up behind her frames.  "Nope," she admits, sounding a little guilty.  "What does it mean?"

"Probably nothing," Saul allows, "but maybe everything.  We're gonna stand here a minute and see."
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:02, Thu 19 July 2018.

Scott blinks, momentarily taken aback, and a look of chagrin flickers across his face.  "They didn't cover that in your briefing?"  He asks Cao.  He shakes his head and answers his own question.  "No, because they assumed everyone getting the briefing was prior cop or Arkansas Guard or at least used to read local news.  Shit.  I'm sorry, Captain."  His expression returns to its usual mild interest as he scribbles a note with the three chevrons in the margin that indicate action item, on fire.

"I'm familiar with the complex.  Put a bunch of guys in there in a past life," he drawls, deliberately loosening the reins on his accent and watching for Franks' reaction.  For Cao's benefit, he adds, "Varner has a supermax wing and the state's death row for men.  Cummins has a prison farm.  With the inmate population down to five hundred, the place is pretty much agriculturally self-sufficient these days."

There's a queasy feeling starting to build in the pit of his stomach that has nothing to do with lunch being late.

Xandra Murray stays in the truck's cab as long as she can, savoring the air conditioning, but when Chevelle heaves a long-suffering sigh and shuts down the engine to save fuel, she figures it's about to turn into a solar oven.  The two women swing their doors open simultaneously.  Xandra's hand flashes a challenge, which the younger woman accepts with a grin, then a groan as she loses the rock-paper-scissors throw.

Taking her cue from the members of the team who've already dismounted, Xandra leaves her rifle in the cab's rack and her helmet clipped to the oh-shit handle, but keeps her plate carrier on.  The weight is still unfamiliar but it's better-balanced than what used to be her usual business attire, so she eases down to the scorching asphalt with some semblance of grace and balance.  She leaves her door open to give Chevelle a bit of airflow through the cab and pads up behind the Nobles.  She's in Saul's peripheral vision, which means she's not really eavesdropping, so she stands there and takes in the oddity of a familial relationship that's not adversarial.

She turns in a slow circle, rolling her head from shoulder to shoulder and trying to see whatever it is Saul wants Carissa to notice.  She could ask but that seems like cheating.

”Not your fault Mr Guillory” Lauren replied with a tight smile. Had she known about it she would have been more wary as they rolled into the ville but they could park that one for now, take it offline to discuss later. Captain. Mister. This sort of work was new territory for Lauren. It would doubtless take time for her and Scott to get to know each other, get a feel for how the other rolled, push back the formality.

Still, that didn’t affect the news about the prison. The prison was the here and the now, today’s problem, not tomorrow's. And a dilemma of sorts for the dark haired Air Force officer. What did you do with violent offenders when society teetered on the brink? Execute them without due process? Where did that leave you in relation to them? Or let them live, perhaps drawing on a community’s resources, resources that might already be reduced to a bare minimum? As the saying went, that one was above Lauren’s pay grade. Thankfully. And at least this particular group seemed to be self sufficient.

”I think we should check and see if Mr Elkins has made it back and if not we should go take a look at the prison.” she said to Scott after a moment’s thought, her hands cradling the cooling mug. Her Air Force Academy ring was visible on the fourth finger of her right hand. ”Just to make sure that everything’s OK down there.” It was just a suggestion of course. This wasn’t a military matter. Yet. But if they were going she wanted to be on the road soon, make the most of the daylight.

As she spoke she tried to push thoughts of five hundred men, all of them violent offenders, breaking out of a prison out of her head.

Still leaning against the hood of the SUV, Mike watched the various comings and goings, his eyes hidden behind the polarized lenses of his Oakleys as the rest of the team dismounted, did their thing. Chances were Gabby was doing something similar right about now. The one positive thing about the hurricane from his point of view was that it had delayed both of their departures, giving them an extra couple of days together in Little Rock before they'd headed out in different directions.

The medic removed his ball cap, ran a gloved hand through dark hair before putting his cap back on, folding his arms again. It didn't look as though trouble was going to break out any time soon. And if it did the Air Force dude, Anderson, was on the Ma Deuce. But given how close they were to the Supermax Mike wasn't relaxing. Taking your eye off the ball could get you killed. So he continued to watch the people of Grady going about their business, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But then again, what was ordinary these days?

"Hey Kabua.. if you are done playing mailman, come relieve me.  I'm gonna go get a Raven, in case the Captain wants eyes in the sky when we push south," Anderson said from the gunner's station of Razorback.  Cole wasn't big on leaving the big gun unmanned, though he knew at some point, it would be impractical to keep someone on it at all times.  For right now however, it seemed prudent to have it ready.  Besides, it looked like it might provide the Islander an excuse to escape Candy-Creeper-Cop.  Taco-Five-O would have to arrange her own extract however.

Grady is so small that, if Captain Franks didn't stop to chat with some of the out-and-about locals, the cardinal-points-circuit of the town wouldn't have taken more than 15 minutes to complete. As it is, Frank's rounds last just over a half-an-hour. The small town grapevine kicks into motion. Word spreads quickly of STAR Sierra's arrival. Between the tour and the townsfolk who arrive at the station upon Frank's return, Sierra learns of the following needs:

• Mr. Prior has a bad tooth. It needs to be extracted.
  
• Lesley Markum cut her hand on some broken glass. She needs 5-10 stiches to close the otherwise clean wound.
  
• Little Devin Taylor has a pretty soupy cough. It sounds, to the untrained ear, like a pretty bad case of bronchitis.
  
• Two of the Davidson's horses have gone missing- both bolted from the barn during the storm. One- Lemondrop- has been recovered. The other, Junebug, is still missing.
  
• The storm knocked a mature oak down and into the Roarke's house, coming to rest in their front room. The hole in the roof caused by the collision resulted in some water damage as well. With a working chainsaw, removing the tree shouldn't take more than an hour. With proper tools and some lumber, repairs to the roof will probably take several more.

Individually, none of these project benefits a significant number of Grady citizens. Only those with health concerns have directly asked the STAR team for assistance.

During his rounds, Franks makes contact with the silo-top lookout, a citizen answering to the callsign Hawkeye, over the radio. Today, Hawkeye is a 50-something civilian named Leon, who's sitting in  a lawn chair, under a porch umbrella, .30-06 hunting rifle across his lap, behind a simple sandbagged revetment atop one of the grain silos on the east edge of town.  Hawkeye reports seeing nothing out of the ordinary since he climbed the silo at about 7am this morning.

When he's not conversing with Grady citizens, Franks describes the town's security situation. Franks is the only pre-war police officer remaining in the town. Offut is, technically speaking, mildly retarded. Franks explains that the young man works at the station only. His one job is to radio Franks if someone comes looking for him when he's out on his rounds. Offut's gun isn't loaded.

Franks counts on 10 trusty citizens to act as his deputies, in case of emergency. The only criteria to become a part-time deputy is to be sound of mind and body, own your own longarm, and agree to follow Franks' orders without question. If the Hawkeye lookout atop the grain silo notices strangers approaching the town from the SE, he radios it in over the police band, then fires two warning shots, one in the air, the other in the vicinity of the interlopers. A volunteer stationed at all times at the nearby Church of God then rings a bell until Franks and his ten "deputies" come a-runnin', Minuteman style. The town's other armed citizens bunker down in their homes. If it's a job that 11 well-armed men can't handle, Franks will attempt to muster more of the townsfolk. So far, the plan has worked flawlessly. The closest call the Grady militia has had was with a persistent band of bikers, but Gradyites prevailed without sustaining (or likely causing) any casualties.

As soon as Guillory and Noble Senior return from the tour, a two-vehicle recon team, led by Captain Cao, departs to scout the prison complex southeast of town. Not quite 2 miles outside of Grady, the convoy is approaching the Choctaw Farms administrative complex, the operational headquarters of what, before the war, was a fairly sizeable livestock operation. Rows of long animal pens can be seen a bit further on, on the opposite (south) side of the 65, nestled among groves of nut or fruit-bearing trees.

A man steps out of the dense vegetation that shadows the railroad tracks running parallel to the 65's eastbound lanes. He's clad in what, from a distance, appear to be civilian clothes, the kind not uncommonly seen in this part of the country. He walks towards the pavement, waving his hands above his head in an obvious attempt to signal the approaching vehicles. Rios, behind the wheel of the team's armored suburban, notices another man crouching in the bushes near the other. If the second man is hiding, he's not very good at it. More likely, he's reluctant to reveal himself.


Your Turn.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 00:51, Mon 23 July 2018.

Grady:

"Well, it's just tree surgery, not rocket surgery," Xandra tells Saul.  She pushes her sunglasses up on her head and squints at the oak - she's been told it's an oak, anyway, but fucked if she's an arborist - atop the Roarke place.  "As long as we don't get any wind, I can section it in about an hour.  I'll need a partner on the ground, all the climbing rope and rigging gear, the Husqvarna," she shoots him a glance to see if he's paying attention, "and a shot of tequila."

She takes a drag off her water bottle.  "Once that's done it's pretty much carpentry."  She checks her shoulder to make sure no locals are in earshot.  "I know we're out here being your tax dollars at work, but they have enough grown-ass rural adults here to be able to sort that for themselves.  They probably could handle the tree removal but I'll give 'em that 'cause they're still flapping and squawking over, 'holy balls, Martha, there's a sycamore on the couch!'"
This message was last edited by the player at 11:39, Sun 22 July 2018.

Choctaw Farms:

From the front seat of the Suburban, Scott keys up.  "Sexton checking Falcon.  We've got subjects times two on foot on the right side of the road.  Subject one, black male, gray t-shirt, jeans, no visible weapons.  Appears to be flagging us down.  Further."  He waits for Cao's acknowledgement, then continues.  "Subject two, white male, tan ball cap, blue t-shirt.  In the bushes by the rail line at our two o'clock.  Unless otherwise directed, I'll be out making contact with subject one."

He unlatches his carbine from the rack mounted between the front seats and switches on his portable radio.  He waffles over his helmet but decides to leave it in the vehicle despite the strongly-worded advisory Cao issued before setting out.  Even after a few years of high-intensity civil unrest that's occasionally crossed the line into low-intensity warfare, he feels like being fully SWATted up sets an overly-militaristic tone for contacting citizens, and in his observation, headgear has always been the most aggressive part of that uniform.  The long gun would have been the same, once, but these days, Arkansas may as well be the frontier again.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:41, Sun 22 July 2018.