Welcome to Gaia! ::

And there were 6 armed men in mk. VI powered armor on the roof just waiting for some crazy s**t to happen. Some guy leaping from ground to roof, a three story building, wasn't really something they were used to.

Each of them were completely identical in size, shape, and color with slate grey armor and reflective face masks. The only difference was variations in minor armor points, such as a red cross on one's shoulder, and their carried weapons.

As soon as the leaping zombie hit the ground and they had turned, they'd all slowly rotate around as a group; aligning line of sight to eliminate the possibility of friendly fire. That way if they unloaded into the guy they wouldn't hit someone else across the rooftop.

So while five of them were recalling what just happened ten seconds ago and trying to figure out if there was some kind of catapult involved the sixth managed to say something. Which one was talking was up to Moonblade to guess, since they were all looking at him and the voice was computerized and impersonal.

"Get out of here." The robotic voice managed pretty fair Gaian and made a good impression of an unfriendly tone. Because the various rifles weren't convincing enough.

Huh?

There was only one guy in charge here. The Sergeant was under orders to keep harassers and rioters from damaging Deity property. Now there was someone- who had jumped onto the roof- was making all kinds of offers that no one there could even comment on.

Naturally there was a pause. No one in armor moved in the haze of confusion.

Since Moonblade looked human, as far as that goes on Gaia, he wasn't obviously a zombie. Which meant he should have been running from the horde of undead or asking for protection etc etc. But instead he was offering property.

"What are you talking about?" Same mechanical voice as last time but with an obvious air of wtf-ism.

We. Run a city. Alliance.

A few things that were considerably out of pay-grade for the armored goons. Normally speaking with something that was alluding to some relationship to the living dead would give a regular human the disposition to want nothing to do with said zombie. Since zombies have a habit on feasting on the living, not to mention the whole 'human city sieged by brain-thirsting cult' ordeal still going on.

Hell, it might even make a normal human blast the zombie into meaty gibs so their brain would stay off the menu. Except orders were orders and they didn't include giving Moonblade a lead salad, even if he was trespassing.

They weren't paid for their opinions and connotations.

One of the grey statuettes lowered his weapon enough to free his right hand. He whirled his index finger in the air to trace a circle, twice. Another, across the building with a red cross on his shoulder, lowered his weapon and turned to face away from Moonblade completely.

Now Moonblade would get to wait on a rooftop at gunpoint. No one said anything further. Hopefully the boss had his cell phone on.

Atleast there were only four rifles pointing at him now.

After several minutes of staring each other and saying nothing...

The distant grind of shrouded turbines became local and eventually stopped suddenly. Before long a Charon transport appeared from nothing. Becoming diaphanous from thin air and suddenly real and solid.

With the hatch door drawn back the insides were completely revealed. Two men in expensive suits; the small pale one standing at the edge of the hatch with a mildly confused look on his face. The kind that went with the internal monologue of "Why isn't this guy on the ground and bleeding from numerous holes?"

The much larger man in a suit was sitting in the middle of the rowseating that went along the length of the craft's cabin. He looked bored more than anything else.

Everything in this position made it look like the suit was waiting for a good explanation before having the craft whisk him away and leave Moonblade to the rifle-wielding wolves.

The pale suit ducked his head back and faced toward the pilot, giving him a nod. Even though the transport was silent and barely moving, it was still hovering in place and rocking gently. And now at the nod of the suit it became steady and lowered to the roof; as if expecting someone to get on.

"We?"

He stepped away and clasped hands behind his back. Inside, along the length of the craft opposite the hatch, was fifteen identical, armless hotseats with safety harnesses raised towards the top of the craft above them. Each seat was much wider than necessary for an ordinary person.

Obviously it was a military craft to bring in handfuls of troops at a time. Towards the rear of the craft in the last seat was a large man smoking a cigarette in a black and green pinstripe suit,. The Deity emblem was tattooed under his right eye, above three triangular marks along his jawline. He seemed completely disinterested in the whole ordeal.

All aboard.