In the wind

The reports were incontrovertible.

They were scattered across her makeshift desk at a pub outside the city and the pieces were falling into place.  She was dressed in her smoke-colored leathers, and the place was quiet.  Her COMM sat on a corner of the table, silent.  She eyed it for a moment, but didn’t pick it up.

No.  Not yet.

In the center of it all was a note from Shadowpaw.

Ghost –

Bran’s headed for Silverpine and the Glades.  Might need to shadow him.  Thinks he has a bead on DelUrlar.

Scarlets afoot.  Be bloody careful.  Check in if you can.

- Shadowgrace.

Lyyn stared at the note for another moment.  The reports of crisped undead and strange lights fit.  It all fit.

It made her sick to her stomach.

There was work to do here.  There was work to do there.

It was as it always was.

The Servitors.  SI:7.  The Retribution.  The Alliance, everyone else, all of it.

Goddess, is this why Jude is so grumpy all the bloody time?

She scrubbed a hand over her face.  Her cup of coffee was almost empty.

I should go.  I should see what I can find out.  If they’re right, this could be trouble.

Trouble was her stock in trade, though usually trying to prevent it from getting out of hand was harder than causing it in the first place.  This would be about containment.

That was something she’d been doing a lot lately, she realized with a sigh.

She leaned forward, eyes skipping over the reports again.  What choice was there?

A chair creaked near the fireplace and she looked up.  Other trouble.

“Coffee?” she asked, her tone dry.

Just keep all the balls in the air, Lyyn.  You can do that.  Always have.  Always will.