It took a while for the sun to finally set and bathe Mischel in darkness, but the Free Bird Mercenaries–the ones not imprisoned–were used to waiting. Their patience on the brink of a mission like this was unmatched. They went through their own preparatory rituals.
Hugo caressed his bow and whispered soothing words. Mole sharpened his daggers. Lily relaxed against a nearby tree with her eyes closed and hands clasped over her stomach like a dead man.
Squawks flipped a coin or rolled a die repeatedly, depending on the day and mood. Dima looked at his reflection in one of his blades, using them like mirrors.
Odd to others. Perfectly understandable to each other. It was what worked for them, what kept them in top form, and what increased their odds of getting out of Mischel alive.
Eventually, it was time.
