[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Cricket[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Oasis: Resistance HQ, Streets, Rooftops[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Gerik, Oblivious Merchant[/center][/b]

The realization dawned on Cricket that the contingent of very mismatched professionals meant to leave immediately. As in, last person enters, everyone has briefing, they leave on mission. He glanced about at those assembled, silently counting. Unless the people present were very elite warriors, the few of them would not be attacking two dozen Moblins and a Lizalfos. 

He reasoned that this number of his Clansmen could pull it off, given cover of darkness or a well staged trap; probably something involving range or bombs, but there was only Sheikah (himself), moreover no darkness nor opportunity to stage a trap. If he was going, he had to go prepared for battle. In the open, obvious battle allied with persons he had never worked with previously and varying in combat experience.  

Cricket was going to need more knives. 

A sudden, urgent look crossed his face, reflecting his thoughts on the numbers at play. He raised his hand, pausing it in front of himself, and motioned again to the water clock on the wall. The unspeaking Sheikah raised three fingers, then brought his thumb and forefinger close together, the way someone might when describing something very small. Apparently, he didn't mean to be very long, whatever he planned on doing. 

Turning gracefully toward the door, he shed his long, brown coat, tossing it up into the air. The moment eyes began to follow the motion of the neutral garment, Cricket bolted for the exit. By the time it landed lightly on the back of the chair he intended to occupy, he was already out the door, running full tilt toward a destination unknown to all save himself. 

The sky was lit a myriad of colors; chiefly reds and soft purples in the steadily growing morning light, streaking out into the more common yellow and blue colors of the daytime. It was a truly lovely sight that Cricket ignored as he placed one foot in front of the other, quietly and swiftly covering more distance than one might assume a man of his slighter dimensions capable. The concept of breaking stride didn't seem to enter his thought process as he came upon a gaggle of stray Cuccos. He leapt bodily, kicking off of the wall nearby and landing softly behind them, nary a feather ruffled nor unplucked reinforcements summoned at the behest of their clucking brethren.

Quickly, he turned down the next alleyway, out of sight of the rising sun. A merchant was unloading a cart full of date bread into the back of his storefront, packaged neatly in large reed baskets. Cricket was able to time his uninterrupted passage between the cart and the baker while the bulbous man's back was turned, arms laden with sweet and heavy edibles.

The alley terminated with a dead end, rising one story. Cricket flung two kunai ahead of himself, both striking horizontally into the wallface and sinking deeply, approximately five and eight feet from the ground, respectively. The ring pommels quivered slightly from the sudden stop, but they remained otherwise stable in their purpose as an ersatz ladder, which the agile Sheikah hurled himself skyward upon. It was a short few steps before a determined leap took him across a narrow alley on the opposite side of the structure he'd just scaled, and a second leap, this one vertical, to grasp the bottom of a windowsill. 

Cricket's hands held solidly, lifting the slender young man's torso just enough to get one foot in the corner of the window. Peering inside for a moment confirmed his selection of buildings - this was indeed the warehouse upon which his residence was constructed.

Both feet firmly in the window, Cricket gave a Leap of Faith, kicking off hard and rotating halfway; just enough to catch the solid, square overhang of the roof while providing momentum sufficient to propel him from a hang below to a handstand above. He came to settle on the flat, mostly open roof, and took a single deep breath. He was home. 

The "home" was really more of a solid shack of wood and stone, built atop a large structure that saw little in the way of foot traffic. It was quiet and afforded him both privacy and an excellent view of Oasis, including lands around. The entire roof of the warehouse served as his yard and training area, dotted every now and again with potted plants of various applications and featuring a low, external hearth suitable for cooking or warmth at night. The interior, while not spartan, was rather basic. Mostly it was a place for storage and sleeping, but it had a few personal amenities established over the months Cricket had lived in it. Lived part-time, anyway. 

But he was not here for creature comforts. There was a slim, fitting backpack that he maintained from his days in the Kokiri Forest he meant to retrieve. It was always packed for a mission, be it long or short term. The pack held a deceptive amount of goods, was easy to access, and looked exactly like tree bark. Cricket liked it because it was balanced and didn't throw off his more delicate movement. Also, it was a memento of his home, back at the Outpost. He also grabbed a few more knives, a strong and flexible Deku Staff, and his Bomb Bag, then turned to leave. 

Getting back was much easier. A broad leap from the side of the building ended in a shoulder roll onto the next one. He segued his parkour-worthy descent into another controlled fall, back into the alley with the merchant, reclaiming his knives in the process. A silent sprint toward the cart bearing date-bread turned into a low slide underneath it; he rose on the other side two large loaves richer and one rupee poorer, the latter left in the basket from which he purloined the former. 

Cricket smiled broadly under his half mask. These were the moments that made life worthwhile. 

Seconds later, the doors to Resistance HQ pushed open. The campaign-ready Sheikah stepped through, leaning on his Kokiri weapon with two large loaves tucked under an arm. He tossed the sweet, dense bread onto the table and motioned for others to help themselves. With a hand free, finally, he thumbed down his mask and leaned his staff against his coat on the back of the chair he had claimed just prior to his dramatic egress. In the absence of formality, he cut a formidable chunk for himself and awaited both the words of the Resistance officer in charge of the operation, and the arrival of the rest of his contingent.