[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/WIzqjQn.png[/img]
[h2][color=#FFAB0E]Pluto[/color][/h2][/center]
[hr][center][h3]~3PM | OCEAN SPRINGS | MILO POINT[/h3][/center][hr]

Stepping into Mississippi felt like stepping into Hell.

The cool breeze coming in from the Gulf did little to hide the humidity, the uncomfortable warmth hanging in the air. He could not suppress the shiver that ran through him though in spite of the heat and his own eyebrow raising layers of clothing. Slowly he began to walk forward in order to keep his mind in the present, not lost in the past. Memories of yellow fever. Of the slaves. From what he knew of America it was appropriate in more ways than one that where he stood now should remind him of Saint-Domingue.

Hell on Earth.

Pluto tightened the blue scarf around his next and made his way towards the town proper, kicking the sand beneath him as he went, as if trying to physically force his thoughts away. It was much more important to think about the mission in front of him, or at least it should have been. A thought had been nagging at him ever since he had accepted this posting.

Was he truly needed here? If the others were all new recruits he could see the wisdom in it, but Nine? They had worked together many times, and he knew that either one of them would have been more than enough on their own to make sure a mission like this reached a successful conclusion. While he had not worked with Mateo nearly as much as some of the older Reapers he [i]did[/i] know that the young man’s magic lent itself much more to annihilation than investigation.

As did Nine’s. As did his own.

“[color=FFAB0E][i]Merde.[/i] Fuck.[/color]”

He swore under his breath as reached the edge of town, seemingly ignored in spite of his ridiculous appearance. Hopefully this mission wouldn’t conclude with any collateral damage, but as he went over the list of present reapers in his head that seemed increasingly likely. It was always hard to find the right balance between entering a fight with too much strength -causing unneeded damage- or too little- potentially allowing things to go horribly wrong- and Pluto usually preferred the former to the latter. An inclination that usually led to more paperwork than he cared to stomach, and more “performance reviews” than he cared to listen to.

Still…

Hopefully this wouldn’t turn into another Munich. It had been decades, and yet people were still slow to forget it. [i]City Under Siege[/i] had been airing the last time he stepped foot on Earth, and while the “Based on a true story” flick could not have possibly been farther from the mark with its conclusions, it was a constant reminder for the need for restraint. Though whether restraint was even possible during that situation was a debate that Pluto tried to avoid mulling over.

Trying yet again to keep his mind in the present time [i]and[/i] the present place, Pluto pulled his notebook out of the pockets of his trench coat and reviewed what they had been told about the current target. 

Dekotah. 

Mississippi. 

Milo Point. 

Walter Anderson Museum of Art.

So, fuck all.

Still, he’d worked with less. Hopefully he could let the newer members run the investigation and gain some more experience, but he would at least try to help how he could. The city was small enough that he shouldn’t need to ask for directions to this Museum, wherever it was, and the extra time spent walking there might actually allow him to get a grip on mind’s insistence on staying in the past. 

The sound of his wooden sandals hitting the sidewalk soon silently echoed down the street, ignored by the passerby’s as surely as the giant of a Frenchman garbed in his trench coat, tracksuit pants, wooden sandals, scarf, and rose-tinted Windsor glasses. With any luck, by the time the mission was over they won’t have cause to notice anything at all.

With any luck.