[hr][hr][center][h1][i][b][color=steelblue]Ash Holloway[/color][/b][/i][/h1][img]
https://78.media.tumblr.com/85b1d99e40c547d7e771e7688130f28a/tumblr_ojog8uNf9k1qdhps7o2_r1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][center][color=steelblue][b]Location:[/b][/color] Arnco Mills Safehouse (E10)
[color=steelblue][b]Skills:[/b][/color] Leadership [/center][hr][hr]

	Ash was settling into something resembling restful slumber, trying hard to allow his body to relax and eyes to close. It seemed like an uphill battle, but biology had a way of making bringing things together for a man who had been put through a physical and psychological wringer. His concern for Thana and the others weighed heavily upon his mind, as did his responsibility to his people here around him. But his eyes did close after his turn at watch was over, and he did pass into a state of rest. 

	Oddly, in his state of rest, Ash was dressed like a 90's slacker, trapped inside of a large, permanent structure out in the desert somewhere. The interior or the structure itself was divided into living quarters and, curiously, miniature versions of differing ecosystems. He was being attended by a strange, possibly mentally deficient man who insisted upon being referred to as "The Weasel" despite everyone's best efforts to the contrary, and they were given the equally strange task of cultivating a crop called "Purple Sticky Punch". It seemed so distant to Ash, yet so oddly familiar. All of it. 

	Before he could make heads or tails of it, something from the waking world jolted him alert; a crashing sound that brought him to his feet. Bleary-eyed, if only for a half second, he thumbed off the safety of his weapon but kept it pointed down. [color=steelblue]"Riley, you got a visual?"[/color] he whispered. Hopefully it was just wind, an errant raccoon, or some other, mundane explanation. Leaving things to chance was not an option for him. Not a very good one. Ash walked quietly over to Jack's sleeping form and gave him a nudge. [color=steelblue]"We've got a noise. Could be nothing."[/color] he whispered. If it was really nothing, great. They could dip back to sleep. Otherwise, it was high time to assemble. 


[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=dc143c]Thalia Carmichael[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/grimm/images/1/1b/Trubel.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150329231443&path-prefix=es[/img][hr][b][color=crimson]Location:[/color][/b] Eden, Doors across from Fitness
[b][color=dc143c]Skills:[/color][/b] Survival, Pistol [hr][hr][/center]

	The sarcasm that marked her speech over the last few moments dropped away the moment that she figured out what Thana was doing. Having lived off of MRE's for a while now and being Lola's tankmate during that time, she had seen a few interesting things done with the reactive contents of one of those neutrally colored bags of semi-permanent nutritive field rations. The grim determination that filled her earlier returned, and Thalia pulled herself to one knee, taking almost a sprinter's stance. 

	The explosion took her completely by surprise. She had seen that trick used with old soda bottles to great effect in crowd controlling Zeds, but this? A metal canteen seemed to be significantly more effective than a former 2-liter of Dr. Pepper, enough so to allow for Alexander to get a good shot off, even with hands that looked like they were brought to us by Stouffer's. She brought her eyes up, focusing further down the hallway. She slipped her Glock back out of her holster, again joining the Beretta in front of her, and rose. The tear streaked ashen skull painted across her face seemed to take prominence over her features. Thalia appeared as a handmaiden of Dama Muerte. 

	While the young lady known to a few remaining living souls as Angel would have preferred to close the gap between her and her intended targets, relying upon her talents as a close combat girl, the ranged firearm approach was much more practical. She saw two of them at the end of the hallway with surprised, blinking faces, and aimed accordingly. One after the other, the guns in each of her hands barked repeatedly, flinging metal down the hall faster than human reaction could account for. The Beretta finally fell upon an empty chamber, prompting her to take a more side stance and concentrate on her MSS issue Glock. It finished the job quite effectively, and by the time she stopped firing, two lay in pools of liquid maroon. [color=crimson]"Naht done yet..."[/color] she spoke aloud, risking a quick glance behind her to make sure the others in her group were still standing. Bleeding but upright, she still had a job to finish.