funky station

The evac shuttle arrives at Central Command, and you finally breathe a sigh of relief knowing you've managed to complete the Syndicate's assigned objectives and get away with it. You take a breather at the bar, maybe exchange some words with your supposed coworkers, before slipping away unnoticed.

You arrive at the meeting spot. Your contact is already there.

"Well?"

You give them the good news, whether that's handing over a stolen item or telling them the fate of your quarry. They give an approving nod.

"Excellent job, Agent. High Command will be pleased." A beat. They reach into their coat pocket and hand over a thick wad of cash. "A bonus, for now. Expect more once our client hears it for themselves."

Ordinarily, this is where you part ways. But your contact lingers, glancing around for a moment. "...Say. It's been a while since I've been in the field myself. Can't help but be curious... what kind of approach do you tend to go for? Stealth? Guns blazing?" A wry chuckle escapes them. "I know the lousy answer is that it depends on the task - which, fair enough - but in that case... what are your preferred tactics, Agent? Spare no details - especially if its... unorthodox."

They cross their arms, leaning on the wall with an expectant smirk, as if this were typical office chatter for them. What do you say?

Relilikav regards the contact carefully. It's clear that he doesn't quite trust the other- a smart move, when it comes to Syndicate business. He clicks his beak in irritation when they don't budge.

"Quiet," he answers, "Patient. Slow."

"I don't want them to know what's coming until it's far too late."

He ruffles his feathers about.

"A boring approach, perhaps, but an effective one."

A sly look glances across his features.

"When they give me the death order, however-" he titters mischieviously- "I think I'm overdue a little fun."

Timmy's eyes stare in the same stupid, blank stare as they always do. He picks his familiar x-mas crown out of his eyes and whips his nose with the back of his hand. His smile grows to fill an unreasonable proportion of his face. He speaks softly in a voice both nasally and squeaky.

"I unno, people kinda juth underethtimate me sometimeth."

He chuckles like a kid whose role model is a fictional character and mews like the chattiest and most vocal kitten in the shelter.

"You talk nithe to them and be honetht when you can and include them in your joketh, do thith with thec ethpethcially. Then they don't even look your directhion when thit goeth mithing."

He again chuckles like a man who thinks you can seriously make money gambling. He kicks at the ground with his feet and meows in tune with his foot hitting the ground.

"Altho helpth if they think you're an idiot." He meows again, turns abruptly and runs off like a child let out of class for recess.