Metal, blistering hot from all the recent gunfire, was pressed to the back of D's skull. Dous was good, letting the man's own introspection and everyone else's conversations mask his aproach. "Your guns, remove them, without unhoalstering." A voice familiar to two, but strange and almost alien to the rest rasped out from behind the man, his tracker blearing like mad. The mark had shown himself. "Give them, to the girl." He instructed, voice a forced, rough calm, the wide brim of his fadora hat shading the rest of his mask covered head. His outfit was mostly of softer earth tone colors, for now at least. Dressed in a mantle or rags and scrap hides that hung down from his shoulders to varying lengths. Some to his elbows, others to belt and still more which actually passed his knees. The soft click of the rifle's hammer being set gave the first and last warning of D's fate if he didn't comply.<br/><br/>He had a plan, of sorts... And if he was going with them, or anyone at all, it would be on his own terms. he may have been shorter then the seasoned soldier, but guns tended to negate height, as well as muscle.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>