"Mother fucker," she whispers, falls into step behind him without thinking, sticking right on his heels. Old habits die hard, and she's never tried to shake this one.

She searches his hands for signs of weaving or tremors, worried about the alcohol she caught a whiff of, and wonders if she should take point.

"Getting out or charging in?" she asks, bracing herself and loading up the bow. Nobody's noticed them yet, maybe she can take out a few before anyone realizes she's there.