[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]https://media.giphy.com/media/wbomIbUs5Bc2I/giphy.gif[/img][hr][b] [color=orangered]Location:[/color][/b] Somewhere Above Central California [hr][hr][/center] 

	Caesar hadn't intended for the conversation to drift toward the legalities of carrying weapons in Mexico. All he wanted was an hour or two to get something resembling meaningful sleep before they landed in Monterrey. In the air, the possibility of an incident or attacker was minimal (as were their options were something to happen), so this was probably the safest that Caesar ad his guests were going to be for quite a while; the perfect time to catch up on his Zs. However, a brief overview of weapon policy did look like a valid topic before he nodded off. 

	It was early in the morning still, but that didn't stop Caesar from ambling over to the bar and pouring a tumbler of mescal. A tiny second of ...well, not happiness, by a long shot, but a split second when the world did not suck, was felt when he uncovered a cloach containing croissants and fruit. He picked up a buttery, flaky piece of french goodness, grabbed his drink, and turned to Natasha and Cecily. 

	[color=orangered]"They don't like knives, either. Northern Mexico is a little more relaxed, but the cops are the cops. Common practice is to shake down tourists with [i]fines[/i], then say that they can be paid immediately."[/color] Well, Caesar would know. His own history has him with a full career as a Federale, the good and the bad of it, retiring as a Commandant. [color=orangered]"Corruption is massive. A street level operator can make a good living like that."[/color] He tore off a piece of croissant with his teeth and washed it down with the clear, pungent booze. [color=orangered]"Unless it's a tool. Farming, fishing, whatever. Fully legal."[/color] 

	[color=orangered]"Military, Federales, and Private Security can carry whatever the hell they want to, short of military hardware. Active or retired. Everything needs a license."[/color] By this time, the elder Mexican had found his way back to his seat and reclined it. The mescal was safely holstered in a nearby cupholder and he clutched his croissant in one hand, settling back in his seat like he owned the place. 




[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=b8860b]J. Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]http://bodypower.loxblog.com/upload/b/bodypower/image/mariusz-pudzianowski.jpg[/img][hr][b][color=b8860b]Location:[/color][/b] Justice Airport [hr][hr][/center]

	Meanwhile, Keystone continued to slowly sip his insanely potent energy beverage and watch people move past him. Some were one-shot visitors into his field of vision, but a few made repeat appearances, like the lady getting her laps in, jogging around the terminal with wearing the same track suit that one might wear were they running a trail in the park or around the neighborhood. It was by the third time that Keystone noticed that the mild paranoia common to all security professionals making itself known, and he made mental note of the inappropriate jogger. Yeah, it was probably just nerves. But better safe than sorry. It would be potentially embarrassing for something unfortunate to happen while he was sporting MSS credentials. Though, as Keystone thought about it, that would really be more of a black eye to the TSA. 

	He also made note of the nearest points of egress, were he inclined to make a hasty exit. And hell, while he was at it, he scanned the room, attempting to pin down any other seemingly casual individuals that didn't quite look like they were waiting on a plane to arrive. The fact that Keystone was going to be at this exact place at this exact time, waiting on a plane to arrive was not exactly a matter of sworn secrecy. So, he made his little observations, sipped his beverage ([i]slowly[/i]), and continued his wait for a few key members of the Seattle Tech Crew to arrive.