Minutiae
Smith stands beside the Audi as white flakes patter the hood of his black umbrella. Folding it back like a set of wings, he issues them their first command.
"Go."
He is satisfied to find they execute their duties in a timely manner. They grab the leather-clad woman before she can withdraw her empty pistols and drag her thrashing and writhing through the snow. She screams until they haul her into the side alley, where a brief flash on brownstone and the odor of smoke tells him their task is completed. The dense crush of steady footfalls return them to him.
"Is that the last of them?" He can't help but narrow his eyes as he asks this, distracted by the crimson flecks that spatter Brown's cheek.
Jones tilts his head an almost imperceptible degree. "He's never seen blood before."
Smith wrinkles his nose slightly. "He'd better get used to it."
Monitor programs, chase targets, break bones, file reports, spill blood: the life of an Agent is rather unremarkable when you get down to it.
Already the rebel's corpse is beginning to stink.
