<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/0/0f/Benedictcasual.jpg/400px-Benedictcasual.jpg)</div><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td><strong>Character name:</strong></td><td>Eric Cavendish</td></tr><tr><td><strong>Location:</strong> </td><td>In the Shack. Also, Everywhere.</td></tr><tr><td><strong>With:</strong> </td><td> The rest of the team</td></tr><tr><td><strong>Doing:</strong> </td><td> Running Interference</td></tr></tbody></table><br/><hr/>Eric quietly and competently went about the business of aiding and abetting another murder.<br/><br/>Blocking the incoming rider's communications was trivial.<em>We're sorry. All circuits are busy. Please try your emergency beacon at another time. Your business is important to us.</em>From the outside looking in there was nothing amiss at all. He plotted a trajectory for the motorcycle, a leisurely drive through the countryside toward the nearest town. The cybernetic simulacrum proceeded on its merry way, sans driver, giving out regular status reports to anyone back at the base who might be bored enough to want to track the newcomer's uneventful progress. At one point his phantom rider pulled the motorcycle to the side of the road, perhaps to admire the local wildlife, perhaps to consume a sensory tab to enhance the experience of the wind in her hair. Who could know these things? But after only a few minutes she had returned to her vehicle, the engine roaring to life, and was then driving down the road even faster than before. Sensory tab, Eric concluded. One had to be careful with such things, as they had been known to dull reflexes if overused.<br/><br/>He was engrossed enough in his fantasy road trip that it took him an extra few seconds to acknowledge the removal from the local grid of both Eve and Tank's beacons. A retroactive perusal of the relevant data streams revealed the ugly truth. Both had been killed. Had his graft been active he would have been saddened at the news. Currently it was only two more pieces of data to be integrated into the whole. The mission success profile dropped precipitously, of course, and the probability of a scrub order rose in proportion. The analysis profile of the now captured guard was refactored as well. Whoever she was, she was an extraordinarily competent marksman. That skill was unlikely to avail her any further, though. The guard --<em>Jodie Tough</em>, he read as he began interrogating her cranial implant, tearing through the layers of security -- had an extremely low probability of survival at this juncture.<br/><br/>"Comm secure, Major," he signaled to his commanding officer. "I detect no signs that this incident has been noticed. I cannot, however, account for purely physical detection. Recommend that the vehicle be secured out of sight. Datastream on your captive, Jodie Tough, follows..." He began piping the relevant bits of information about Ms. Tough's personal profile through to the local network, listing strengths and weaknesses that seemed to have bearing on the current situation.<br/><br/>"If you do kill her, please attempt to preserve the implant. I have not yet finished scraping it for data."<br/>