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The next message from the CDA came just twenty minutes afterwards. “Alright, we have a helicopter on standby. Please come to the Second CDA Response and Refugee Centre.” Fair enough. With her rifle acquired and slug over her back and a pocket of RFID chips to allow those who were fighting beside her to get the full benefits of them, she sauntered through the streets of London with a collected calm. Open carrying like this was rarely seen- guns were still a somewhat taboo element of life, but she didn’t care. She was going to make bank right now.

The Second CDA Response and Refugee Centre was a busy busy place. Forklifts and trucks rumbled back and forth, marked with the CDA’s distinctive triangle signange. White and yellow was everywhere, shouts and commands mixed in with the noise of machinery. A squat helicopter sat on a cleared out space that, if one was generous, could be called a helipad, a woman with a clipboard and earpiece rapidly coming to the gate where Camille stood.

“FOR THE JOB?” She shouted over the roar of the facility.

“YUP,” came the response, equally as loud. The woman consulted her clipboard for a second, then swiped an ID card through a door and lead her through. From there they went to some sort of reception, where a few details were tapped into a computer and a plastic lanyard was handed over to her. 

“Wear that on your persons whenever you’re in this facility. If you don’t, security is going to have words with you. Wait here for more mercenaries, and you’ll get a briefing before you’re up in the air.” It seemed like she was the first one here. Poking around in her pocket she would get out a set of headphones and jam them into a MP3 player, scrolling through her playlists until she got to her favourite. Shuffle play on, and then it was go time.

[i]People everywhere/A sense of expectation hanging in the air/Giving out a spark/Across the room your eyes are glowing in the dark../[/i] How was every one of their songs an absolute banger?

[hr]

Those that had accepted the Pale Horse job got a much less friendly meeting. "PH meeting at {)(!"*DJ£$%." Came the message. Decryption software could handle it fairly fast- and anyone that had worked with PH before would know what they needed to do such a thing. The encrypted message would lead operatives to a ruined multi-story carpark, where a spray-painted white horse head was the only indication that they were, indeed, in the right place.