[center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjk2LjAwMDAwMC5TbVYwSUZOMWJHeHBkbUZ1LjA/schkorycza.regular.png[/img][/center][hr]	Jet turns away from the group while Auron preaches on the weight of the kids' decisions to become Hunters. The lecture had him feeling somewhat guilty for offering such a blasé response. The fact that it wasn’t true was of little comfort when he recalls how equally uninspiring and thoughtless the actual reason was. He briefly wonders if Caramelle feels the same, but the blunt assuredness of her answer didn’t suggest as much.
	[i][color=slategray]And people reckon I’m cocky.[/color][/i]

	He reaches down to pick up a handful of coarse, desert sand while Auron continues by reminding the quartet of how Shade Hunters are generally received around these parts. He let’s the sand sift through his fingers, watching the streams in quiet contemplation. His old mentor Diesel was once a Shade hunter and he had often heard as much in one of his caregiver’s ramblings. Honestly he’d usually chalk it up to the old geezer just enjoying a good whine about almost anything.

	[i][color=silver]Bleedin’ Vacuans got no respect for us Hunters![/color][/i] Jet holds back a snicker, mimicking Diesel’s voice in his head. He claps his hands free of any remaining dust and dirt, turning back to see the group's attention had shifted to something about tinted windows?
	Crap, he really ought to be paying more attention.

	Jet’s teammates were convinced that Auron’s test had not truly ended. Go figures. He could tell gramps was the type of sly bastard to pull a stunt like that. The stragglers in the junkyard caught his eye, shifting around the trash as if they were looking for something a little too specific to be found in a pile of crap. He slides his visor back over his eyes, scoping in to get a clearer view of them. 

	Closer inspection revealed that they weren’t in fact searching for something, but rather unearthing a peculiar structure embedded into the ground itself. It was white and jutted from the earth like some sort of rod.
	“[color=slategray]Awfully clean hands for junkers.[/color]” He muses aloud, reminiscing on the many evenings spent scrubbing dirt and grime from his hands after a long day in the junkyard. He scans the remainder of the gathering, keeping an eye out for any other details of note. A few of them have flecks of what he thinks to be dried blood scattered about their garbs.

	The same uneasiness and suspicion that gripped Veloce and Turq now churns within Jet’s own gut. He rises to his feet, slinging Obsidian End back into his grip. An accusing glare meets Auron’s eye.
	“[color=slategray]What game are you playin’ at Gramps?[/color]” He said, keeping his rifle at the ready. A younger, more naïve Jet would have hoped this to be some sort of misunderstanding.
	But this was Vacuo; where hopes come to die.