plot } the creatures descend.

[synergismus]

Who: Everyone!
What: Creatures descend!
Where: All across the city, although attacks will be most fervent at its heart.
When: Friday/Veerdi evening and into the week.
Notes: Slow and back-tagging is, as always, permitted. If you are confused, look at these two posts for more information.
Warnings: Violence, creepiness, swearing knowing these characters.

On Veerdi, the presence of the creatures reaches a fever pitch. Something has provoked them into launching an all-out assault, though it is one that begins slowly. The pipe-crawlers, generally harmless though they may be, are seen across homes in Baedal, sneaking up through the pipes and into bathtub drains or sinks. They come by the dozens, and their keening makes most homeowners nauseated--but it's their appearance that leads to a number of distressed Network calls.

This is just the distraction for the rest.

The call of the crawlers draws in the armored, sickly creatures with the tiny primates carried inside of it. They are inelegantly lumbering, but much faster than one might expect, and certainly hostile. They trudge across the city, barreling over anyone who gets in their path and leaving them half-crushed in the street. They're certainly unsettling in their obvious unhealthiness, and the disease-ridden animals they carry are downright vicious, especially once they escape (messily, bloodily) from their fleshy cage.

It's the birds that are the worst, though; the cleverest, and the cruelest.

These strange black birds are resistant to typical attacks and flying in large groups. They descend on pedestrians, picking at their eyes and faces, ready to rapidly tear flesh from bone until there's nothing left but skeletal remains. They fly out of range when they can, only to divebomb anyone who might think they've escaped.

Comments

[suninhades]

On horseback, Integra has taken to skirting the Brock Marsh district, occasionally darting in to kill something or another, sometimes directing fleeing civilians up towards Raven's Gate - no use trying to fight bridges over the river, now. At least the birds have decided she's too much of a hassle, between her sharp-shooting and the enchantment-stitched explosive flares she's carrying with her, though every so often she still sees one, or a pair, watching her from the eave of some building.

The rest of the plague isn't so easily deterred. More than once she passes a gang of monkeys, bodies soaked in blood and gore, still hopping and chewing in the fresh remains of a corpse. While perhaps disturbing, it seems hardly evil, but panicked, over-excited and out of control. Typical wild animals. One gets too close, hissing in an attempt to protect its territory - Integra's horse half-startles at first, but it becomes clear that it's only out of irritation, because it stomps on it in the next moment, crushing it to death instantly. The rest of the lot make an enormous torrent of noise, but clear off.

Up ahead, she sees the shifting, jagged-edges of the birds; true murders of crows, now, looming over buildings and homes. She sees smoke, too, and hears sirens of the Militia. Useless bastards. With determination, Integra kicks up her horse, and sets off into the heart of the district.

[tothelastbreath]

As she gets closer, she'll start seeing signs that something else has been here, something that definitely isn't human, but doesn't seem to fit any of the creatures terrorising the city. The path is marred by sparse pockets (there really is no better way to describe how restrained it looks, as though the perpetrator has at least tried to keep damage to a minimum) of gouged concrete, clusters of five parallel slashes that might've been caused by the claws of some huge animal. This only lasts for the next dozen feet or so before the slew of bodies begin, all furred, all bleeding from what looks to be similar claw marks, all either dead or too injured to cause anyone trouble, until the path is practically littered with primates. By now, it should be clear what those seemingly random gouges in the road were meant to be: warning shots. Whatever fought off the monkeys in this particular area has attempted, however briefly, to chase them off instead of outright killing them all.

Further along the way, a dead armadillo lies on the side of the road in halves, cleaved clean through its middle. The severed ends are still glowing faintly with fast-fading lines of pale green light, and should Integra reach them in time, with eyes sharp enough, she may be able to tell a cross had burned bright on bone and sinew not too long ago.

A figure dressed all in white stands right in the middle of a modest square up ahead, the furred hood of his cowl tugged low to hide the distinguishing colour of his hair. When he lifts his head to eye the swarming crows, light glances sharply off the silver masquerade mask obscuring the upper half of his face. It's an obvious effort at anonymity, one he doesn't seem to care about undermining as he strives to get the attention of an agitated crowd of civilians, trying to direct them inside a building he appears to have chosen for its relative lack of windows. You can tell he chose it by the way the front door's lock is slashed open, and how the marks match the strange, metallic-looking claw in place of his left hand.

"Everyone ― this way, please!" His tone is rough with urgency, British accent a lot more evident than usual, but there's no mistaking this voice for anyone but the not-quite young man Integra met a few days ago. "If you'd just get inside, I'll hold them off!"

[suninhades]

She almost senses the change in the air - the shift from chaotic damage to something more controlled and deliberate - before she sees the wreckage. It's a tangible thing, when one has been on enough battlefields. She isn't made less wary by it - in fact, it prompts her to draw her sword on approach, because calculated damage might just mean a much smarter foe. The sound of her horse's hooves on stone herald her arrival before the sight of her - black-clad on her equally black destrier, the dark color only broken by splashes of red on her tie and the Hellsing badge affixed to the shoulder of her coat. Her hair is pulled back, high, and flecks of blood and gore, fresh and dried alike, spatter her clothes, her mount, and perhaps most importantly, her blade.

Interesting.

Making a split decision, Integra calmly comes alongside Allen (giving him a wide berth, just in case), her weapon held at ease. "Mr. Walker," she calls out, "You seem to have misplaced your credentials in the fray." To the crowd, then: "Please, go inside, and board up the washroom, anything with pipes."

Sir Hellsing may strike an imposing figure, but she a familiar one - and she isn't masked. Her presence - and the slightly manipulative implication that Allen is a wayward Hellsing agent - gets the civilians moving notably more cooperatively, even though many of them are (understandably) still quite shell shocked and wary. Quieter now, so that no one else can overhear them, she looks to the younger man. "How many of those can you take?" No questioning his abilities, what they are or why. Business, immediately.

[tothelastbreath]

Funnily enough, Allen did misplace his credentials very permanently in a fray back home. The front of his cowl flutters open when he turns to her, revealing an outfit similar to what he was wearing when they first met, though this one is mottled quite liberally with blood. He has clearly been fighting all day, which doesn't explain the pristine state of his cowl ― yet another oddity adding to his peculiar appearance. Throw that elaborate mask into the mix, and he definitely doesn't look like the most trustworthy person around. The quick nod of acknowledgement he gives Integra serves both to keep up appearances, and also to thank her for her timely intervention, even if it is shadowed by a touch of wariness in his eyes as he considers her Hellsing badge.

...Well, at least she isn't from the Militia. Allen may still be feeling over-exposed and under-informed, but he has always been prone to throwing caution to the wind in favour of saving lives.

The mask slides off in the next heartbeat, marking a split decision of his own.

"As many as it takes," he murmurs back, with a rock-steady assurance that speaks not only of a good measure of confidence, but practically rings with the grim determination of someone used to being outnumbered in every fight and making it out alive, simply because there's never another choice. A glance at the building to be sure everyone else is either safely indoors or nearly there, then he's taking up a stance in front of Integra and her horse, almost like he's getting ready to cover her―

"If you'd kindly take cover, I'll make sure none of them get past me."

―strategic retreat, apparently. It's not a slight to her abilities; Allen's more than aware that he's dealing with a very capable woman. Capable but, to the best of his knowledge, a mortal one nonetheless. Back home, normal humans have little place on the battlefield unless it's a list of the dead. She's more than welcome to show him things are different here, though.

this is the last edit i swear even if i notice something else D<

[suninhades]

Integra has seen enough strange uniforms and cultural dress choices not to be too taken aback at the mask and cowl, though personally, she will never understand the inclination towards those particular heights of theatrics. (But then, she's always signed her name to the violent things she's done.) It's obvious to her - or to anyone with halfway functioning eyes, really - that Allen is very powerful, and either not human, or someone equipped very, very well. This makes him useful. If she had seen a demonstration of his power in a controlled environment she might take the time to inquire, but given their current circumstances, she is not inclined to be anything less than immediately calculating.

Perhaps that's why she doesn't waste any time telling him that his suggestion is not worth the dignity of a response, but instead merely implies it with her arch look and dry, deliberately patient tone. "I would not suggest taking your stand so close to the safehouse you've only just secured," she tells him, and then nods further up the street. "The next crossroads is more open, with less room for collateral damage. If you won't be too overwhelmed, I can go and lead other beasts away from their victims and to that point. The crows, at least, know my face by now. It will make a thorough distraction."

And indeed, up in those circling heights, something like human speech begins to solidify - harsh and accusing. An epithet, cawed with jagged edges from the unearthly crows that watch them. What they're crying, exactly, can't quite be made out through the torrent of wingbeats. Integra doesn't seem to notice.

It's all good bb, I tend to bungee-edit things too \o/

[tothelastbreath]

He happens to be all three: powerful for someone from his homeworld, not quite human anymore, and very well-equipped, especially mentally. This makes him a weapon. Better yet (although those who care for him are likely to disagree), he recognises this fact and has no problems applying himself as such. In a situation like this one, that does make him very useful. That is, when he isn't busy arguing with civilians to please just go and save themselves, which he very nearly does to Integra despite her badge, because really, he's not about to let anyone use themselves as bait.

"Sir," he begins, and it's just as well that the crows choose to cut him off with their cries at this very moment, saving them both from an unproductive debate. Gray eyes snap to the roiling sky, first wide and gauging, then narrowing in realisation. Allen can't make out what the creatures are saying either, but he knows what it means whenever any kind of build-up reaches a crescendo: they're quickly running out of time. That means they need a plan. Integra already has one, while Allen isn't even familiar with the lay of the land. All it takes is the thought of other victims to convince him, his acquiescence evident when all protest sags out of his shoulders, before they square with renewed determination.

"Alright." He can only trust that someone fit to escort a princess alone will be fine on her own, but it doesn't stop him from adding, "Please be careful. I'll be ready to cover you when you get back."

Casting the now secured doorway one last look, he turns towards the crossroads, and unless Integra has something to add, he'll be darting off to take up his position.


[[ooc: SEE WHAT I MEAN.]]

[suninhades]

This is a woman who cuts through vampire super soldiers like children's toys, and who can hold Paladin Anderson at bay. Mortal, yes, but far from normal; her monstrous, abomination of a subordinate is out there still, and he fears not for his fragile human master. If Allen decided to waste his own time to argue her presence, she would have merely left. This is far more efficient.

Besides, she's curious about him.

For a heartbeat, Integra lets him go ahead of her, before she urges her horse and barrels past him - the second her back is to the flock above their heads, the crows shriek and begin to descend. Integra gets to the intersection and turns hard, circling, her horse kicking up gravel and breathing hard, before it gallops at break-neck speed in the direction they came, crossing Allen, with the crows trailing her like some great nightmare-born comet's tail. (If he catches a glimpse at her face, her expression is peculiar - in that it doesn't look much different than normal. She's serious about this, yes, but she exhibits no fear, no adrenaline-panic, and there is no trace of any battle-scarred far-stares.)

Let's hope Allen has good aim.

[tothelastbreath]

Better than that ― he doesn't actually have to aim.

Integra may hear a startled, half-formed query when she charges past him, but by the time she reaches the intersection, Allen has caught on and is racing down the street to meet her halfway. At the summoning crook of one long talon, a translucent oval with a cross etched in its center flares into existence some distance behind her, burning with bright green light. While obviously some kind of shield, it quickly becomes clear that it's also offensive in nature ― too close to change course, the first wave of crows disintegrate upon contact to release a sudden shower of black pearls. Several long seconds go by, before it goes out with a final flare that destroys any crows left in its immediate vicinity, just as Allen catches Integra's eye as they pass each other again. Then he's gone, a streak of white hurtling to plant himself in the path of the frenzied birds. The next shield he summons appears right in the thickest of the swarm, creating another explosion that sends the remaining creatures reeling; but they're learning now, peeling off in groups so he can't get them all at once, and wheeling around to mob him from every angle while stragglers veer after Integra.

Fortunately, Allen's dealt with something similar back home, only created from the very matter of Darkness itself, twice as vicious, and armed with the deeply irritating ability to fire energy blasts. They'd barely been able to scratch him.

As soon as the first gang dives, others quickly following their lead, the mantle of his cowl comes suddenly and undeniably alive. There's just no way it could have been this long a mere moment ago, but the laws of physics don't seem to matter when Allen whips it around himself in defense, the simple motion hurling several crows into concrete and ripping more apart with far more force than any fabric should be able to muster. And he's not done yet. White ribbons extending from his right sleeve lash the air next, heading straight for the ones going after Integra. Some are practically spikes, hard enough to impale, others seem content with snatching the birds out of mid-air. He doesn't manage to get all of them, though; a dozen or so crows are still free and arrowing for Integra.

"Sir Hellsing!" Comes the sharp call of warning, marked this time by a notable difference in tone. It's a 'get ready to fight', not 'please run like hell'. Allen has his hands full anyway. His second round of attacks, while efficient, are very much physical, and the results are considerably less permanent. Many have already reformed, but that's all right. He's ready for them.

[suninhades]

Integra doesn't need to be told. At the far end of the street, she's already turned to hold her ground, and that dozen crows are met with one of her combustion flares - not nearly as all-consuming as Allen's attacks, and significantly less artful, but they're effective in their cobbled-together way. All but three are killed; two, half-burned and mutilated, fall to the ground, shrieking and twitching, while a third launches itself like a rocket at her. It's bisected with one quick arc of her sword, but Integra doesn't relax, waiting for it to reform -

- Which it does behind her offhand, beak and claws extended. Making an annoyed noise, Integra immediately, reflexively, reaches out and grabs the thing's head in her gloved hand, shoving it away from her body but not letting go. Its claws scrape at her arm, gouging through the thick fabric of her coat. The scream it makes sounds almost human, and it hisses something at her - but she's squeezing too hard for it to be intelligible. The bird thrashes and she ducks her head, but keeps a hold on it, brutal. The Hermetic seals she's scraped on the backs of her black gloves aren't the instant-kill ones that Alucard sports (her human hands wouldn't be able to take such a thing), but they're protective, and thus imbued with magic.

The struggle doesn't last long. Integra crushes the crow's skull, and after a brief death-spasm, it disintegrates, and leaves her holding only a smooth, round stone.

[ofminastirith.livejournal.com]

Boromir is very much in the heart of the Brock Marsh district, with lots of creature corpses left in his wake. Right now he's slashing and stomping on a pile of pipe-crawlers. It's a small enough group not to make him pass out from nausea, but big enough that he was able to put two and two together and realise they were the only living thing present making him very close to losing his last meal.

If anyone were close enough, they would hear him muttering, "My stewardship for a bucket of salt..."

There's a crash from behind, and he turns to see a stalker quickly charging towards him. He moves, ducks and slice. The creature is dead. And he lifts his sword to take care of the creatures waiting to burst out.

[suninhades]

That's not all that's heading Boromir's way - a woman on horseback with her sword drawn all but flies after the crawler, though she comes to an artful stop when she sees it's been taken care of. A quick glance and she's moving again, her horse circling about the warrior (helpfully trampling some crawlers in the process) before charging back the way she came, her horse at a full gallop. If he can hear all the way up the street, she's giving sharp-toned marching orders to civilians, shepherding them out of one ruined building and into a nearby one with better structure (and fewer windows).

Once she's satisfied that everyone is inside with no immediate threat ready to break down the door they're beginning to barricade from the inside, Integra swings back around once more, and speeds in Boromir's direction, ready to assist him in any monkey-slaughtering that still needs doing. Unless he's got that covered, in which case, perhaps she'll just say hello.

[ofminastirith.livejournal.com]

By this point, the monkeys are mostly taken care of -one or two have scattered, a few are still alive. That's mostly due to the state of the stalker: its already diseased intestines lie open, visibly hacked, and small monkey limbs can be seen in amongst it all.

The few that are still alive are scaling a nearby building, screaming at Boromir as they go. Well. He's not going up there after them. He takes this opportunity for a moment's respite and stands there, breathing and trying to clear the last sickly feeling in his stomach from the pipe-crawlers' infra-sound.

Ah, the horse and it's rider have returned. He turns to greet her, "Hail, and well met."

[suninhades]

Integra takes a moment to wipe her sword down against her coat (it's not as if there's any grass in the center of the city, and she's not about to hop down and dig about for a clean rag) as she observes him. She thought she might have been able to place his manner of dress as she zipped by the first time, but on closer inspection, it's plainly unfamiliar. But that isn't entirely surprising, in this place.

She nods, a silent echo of his greeting, and slides her blade back into its scabbard. "Are you well, soldier?" He looks like he's in one piece well enough, if a little green around the gills. She can't help but note that it's a bit of a faith-bolstering mini-apocalypse, this whole ordeal. It's nice running into so many strangers being helpful. She thought she already knew every useful person in Baedal, depressingly small as that number might be.

[ofminastirith.livejournal.com]

Boromir has barely had time to put his sword down during the whole ordeal, and keeps it unsheathed in case there's another onslaught (but then again, these things are tactically different when you're mounted as opposed to on foot). But he is more relaxed, and stands with his sword in both hands, the point directed towards the ground like so many statues are posed.

"As well as can be expected. Although if you know anywhere to get a drink of water, or bite of bread, then I would be glad. Normally I would keep my own supplies but the attacks caught me by surprise. And, to be frank, I didn't expect the city to be so open to assault."

Then, because he figures this is as good a time as any for introductions, "My name is Boromir, and I am a Captain of Gondor."

[suninhades]

The few straggling monkeys up on the rooftops are still hanging about, chattering indignantly in their direction - before she responds, Integra looks up and gives them a perturbed glance, and mentally takes stock of how much ammo she has left. Bloody obnoxious things. For now, she deigns them not worth it.

"Captain," she greets, and then takes advantage of the lull in activity to give her horse a bit of a break, and slides off. "Sir Integra Hellsing." It's a habit by now to leave off her formal titles, as hardly anyone (even Englishpeople! From Earth! Uneducated bastards..) recognizes her ranks. There's a brief, childish desire to rattle off all of them, lineage included, because how bloody grand would that be - but no, she doesn't do That Sort Of Thing. It's far too whimsical, for a knight.

She indicates over her shoulder, "I believe there's a tavern in shorter order that way. It'll be abandoned by now, but the way should be clear."

(If not, they're evidently quite capable of making it clear.)

[ofminastirith.livejournal.com]

Boromir actually does (vaguely) recognize the title, although it's not one that's been used in Gondor for a long time since only their ruling monarch can perform a knighthood. And what's more, he recognizes her surname.

"I've heard the name Hellsing spoken many times today." It's said in an approving tone, because while he knows that they've been fighting in areas of the city that are badly under attack, he's still not entirely sure what it is or who they are.

He gestures for her to lead, since she knows the way, briefly scanning around for any more threats (not you, monkeys, piss off already).

[suninhades]

Integra recognizes his tone and is glad for it; she's pleased her people are doing good work. A nod in thanks, and she begins walking, letting go of her horse's reins after the initial tug to get it to come alongside her. He's a good boy, he'll follow.

"My agents are selected for their expertise in combating unusual and dangerous threats," she tells him. "Our numbers are small, but we do what we can. As you noted, the city's own defenses are somewhat lacking."

Her tone is dry at that - Integra is not fond of the Militia. She seems like she might say something else, then, but she's interrupted by a particularly loud shriek from a still-looming monkey, who along with its companions, has begun to follow them, rooftop to rooftop. Utterly out of patience and not at all in the mood to have any tumbling monster-tanks slam into their destination thanks to these walking alarm systems, Integra pulls her side-arm out of her shoulder holster, takes aim, and fires three rounds in rapid succession, killing each one instantly. Next to her, her horse makes an anxious nose and tosses his head, and Integra pats his neck. Suck it up, warhorse.

LET ME KNOW IF THIS IS NOT OKAY D:<

[yourwonderings.livejournal.com]

When Jo was little, her father once gave her a bow and arrow set. She practiced religiously. Before she was ten, she knew how to hold a gun in her hand and how to deal with the recoil. It terrified her mother, much as she was inwardly proud, but it belonged in Jo's hand even then. Sam's given her a gun to take care of herself, but she doesn't want to waste ammo unless she absolutely has to, which is why she's also taken to a crossbow and anything else she can find in her war path.

She's near the Brock Marsh district, having left corpses in her wake. The screaming of civilians still rings loudly in her ears, and she ignores it in favor of keeping her aim true.

Currently, she's taking care of the crawler aiming at her from one direction, but she hasn't yet caught wind of one that's also charging at her from behind. Anyone in the vicinity who'd like to lend a hand is welcome to do so.

HDU THIS IS WONDERFUL COME HERE SO I CAN LOVE YOU D:<

[suninhades]

Within the din of chaos, it's difficult to make out the sound of hoofbeats - Integra's approach is thus somewhat cloaked. It serves her well; she flings her sword, catching the crawler that's trying to ambush Jo and knocking it off its course and onto its side, blade jammed into its soft middle. Before it can recover, horse and rider storm through, slicing between the toppled creature and the other woman. She leans over as she passes, grabbing the hilt of her sword and ripping it out.

Of course it's not the crawler that's the biggest problem, and even as it twitches on the street, trying to get up, the screaming pests it carries inside of it are beginning to press and tear and try to make their escape into the city. Integra yanks the shotgun off its attachment from the back of her saddle and takes aim, blowing away the first several to escape at close range. Her horse protests verbally and treads anxiously, but doesn't startle or dart.

/LATCHES ONTO YOUR LOVE

[yourwonderings.livejournal.com]

Jo's launched an arrow straight into the other crawler's chest, and she watches as it crumples to the ground, firing off another to be on the safe side. Soon enough, her attention is on Integra. She whirls around in place, and it doesn't take long for her to realize what's happened. She doesn't waste time with any further reaction, assessing what damage they've been left with, and once again charging forward near the other woman.

She sees the crawler twitch on the street, and flings another arrow its way before it can get back up again. Immediately afterward, she reaches for her own gun, taking aim as well. Jo blows away the rest that attempt an escape. She'll eventually run out of ammo, but she'll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

<333

[suninhades]

And so there they are, victorious, pile of dead monkeys between them. (Thrilling.) Integra, still on her horse, gives Jo an unreadable look; maybe searching, maybe appraising. She recognizes her at once, not from some other world, but by simple virtue of the fact that Dean attended her broadcast from the arrival room. While she doesn't use the cohort network overmuch in general, she makes a habit of taking the time to scan it periodically during times of crisis, in the interests of communication.

She scans for other signs or sounds of movement - irritable, singed and blood-covered, but still put together, Integra takes her cue from her horse and figures it's all clear in this moment. "What gauge does that take?" ... Someone else might have asked Jo if she was okay.

<333! :3

[yourwonderings.livejournal.com]

Jo gazes up at Integra, a steely sort of determination in her gaze that isn't aimed at Integra so much as the situation itself. She may not have had good timing, arriving right when she did, but like hell she'd have stayed at the Inn. A sitting duck instead of being in the fray along with everyone else? No thank you. "Anythin' will do with this beauty, it's old," she replies, not really missing a beat.

"Thanks for earlier," she says to Integra, wiping at the torn sleeve of her shirt. Ironically, the wound is from prior to arriving at Baedal. Other than that, she looks no worse for wear. Jo's eyes take in their surroundings, sharply, alert; deciding the coast is clear for now, she turns back to the other woman. "Name's Jo Harvelle."

[suninhades]

"Of course." Integra re-attaches her shotgun - she's got a little mini-arsenal, it looks like; between the way she's dressed and the sort of equipment she's got on her saddle, it's clear she does this sort of thing professionally, God help her. She swings down off her horse, neat.

"Sir Integra Hellsing." Through black leather and buckles, she pulls out a square-cut muslin bag, not much bigger than her hand, and hands it to Jo - twelve buckshot rounds, hand-packed by the look of it. "Shrapnel," she explains. "Won't do much on the birds besides scatter them for a bit, but it'll put everything else through a blender." Making shells out of shredded metal is without a doubt cruel and unusual, from a game hunting perspective, but when you're in a world where proper ammunition is difficult to come by and what you shoot absolutely positively needs to be dead yesterday, it's efficient. (Just perhaps not pretty.)

[yourwonderings.livejournal.com]

Jo might be envying that arsenal, if we're being honest here. Sonja, or she thinks that was her name, was pretty blunt about how difficult it was to get weapons or ammo around here, and that was confirmed to her a bit later. If she's surprised by the Sir, she doesn't show it. "Circumstances aside, nice to meet ya."

She takes a step back to give Integra more room to swing down off the horse, and she takes the buckshot rounds and nods intently. Cruel and unusual or not, it's what they have, and Jo will work with what she's got. "Got it," she says affirmatively, sliding the shotgun through her shoulder by its sling. "I already noticed much won't work on 'em, and it'll only piss 'em off instead. If I knew I'd be stepping into a Hitchcock film today, I would've brought a helluva lot more ammo with me."

Jo, it wouldn't have let you.

[suninhades]

"Likewise." Whether she means it being nice to meet her, or the notion of bringing more ammo - well, it could be either, or both. Integra makes a motion like she's reaching for something in her pocket, then decides against it. Ammunition isn't the only thing she's conserving, and she doubts a corner store is going to be open to sell her another pack of cigarettes at this present time.

"It's an unusual event," she admits. "We haven't been able to ascertain where they're coming from, just yet, though I suspect somewhere underground. Bloody mess."