Alherien reached into one of the many pockets of her dark, chem-proofed cloak, withdrawing a small comm. She stared at it for a long moment, her expression unseen behind her gasmask. Her stomach quivered, whether from hunger, stress, or the overbearing sensation that she wasn't long for this world. She could never tell.<br/><br/>"Nightstorm, this is Lynx. No food. No supplies. Nothing. Scavengers have already left... no prints to follow. Experienced."<br/><br/>She waited for what felt like an eternity, settled into the predatory crouch that had become second nature to her. She could hold the position for hours, now. Finally, a small crackle followed by a buzz came from her comm. "Lynx? Lynx? Can you read us?"<br/><br/>She took a deep breath. "Yeah, I read you."<br/><br/>"Nightstorm has been compromised. All agents in the field have been told to report to the nearest Den. Something's going on, there's some new force in London, we can't--" the line went off into static, and Alherien's expression didn't change. All organizations were temporary these days. This had been the fourth she'd gotten into with her credentials as an ex-army ranger. She slowly lifted herself to her feet and picked the latch loose on her holster, fingering the trigger of her medium-sized revolver. Not much ammo left.<br/><br/>Nearest Den, then. There was always a chance that Nightstorm would survive whatever new catastrophe was taking place, and if anyone survived, chances were it would be her. She tucked the dead comm back into her coat and drew the gun, starting to move swiftly, quietly, through the litter-ridden streets. A dark shadow through apocalyptic London-town.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>