The drop team was skittish.
It was a passing observation, barely even registering, but it was important information. Skittish meant they might overreact, prematurely switch plans, abandon their post or their duty entirely. Skittish meant erroneous. Skittish was a dangerous variable. Their inherent threat was etched in the creases of worry on their faces, in the tension that held their weapons ready, in the quick glances they tried to be sneaky about when they measured up the asset. Fox would have frowned- they had never assigned it a drop team with so little experience that they were liable to shoot it before the mission even began- but it was not to question decisions. It kept quite and still, telegraphing it's intent when it needed to do anything, even just shift to maintain bloodflow and keep ready for any possible situation. In return, the skittish drop team didn't put a bullet in it.
"Approaching the landing zone. Prepare to disembark." The speakers were unsettlingly low quality- it seemed they had pulled together this team and all it's supplies from whatever they could find. The situation must be worse than was implied during it's prep and briefing. More information that needed to be filed away and factored in.
The plane began it's descent, bumping and bouncing along the way in minor turbulence that made the drop team jolt and jittery, and Fox was more careful about shifting. It's left leg was starting to tingle, but a half-numb leg was better than a bleeding wound. The underlings in the drop team passed jokes back and forth for a bit, and it seemed for a moment or two that they calmed some, before their leader barked at them to keep their focus on the mission and they went silent, the skittish etchings fading back into play. Fox did frown now- they needed focus, but they needed to not panic in the middle of a basic extraction, too. It shouldn't have been so difficult for them to make a balance of focus and calm. It had certainly never had trouble of it's own.
The plane bumped the ground and the back hatch light flashed to life, bathing them all in red light. The leader of the drop team- it's temporary handler for the first Seventy-two hours until the first checkpoint- waved his hand about in unacceptably sloppy signals, but the others picked up on it easily enough, and Fox moved to the back hatch, aware of but not acknowledging the barrels of guns aimed at it's back. The locks holding the hatch in place creaked and groaned as they were pried out of place, then the hatch was slowly opening, revealing the ground still moving along beneath them at approximately twenty miles an hour(slightly more than twenty-two, to be precise, but it was close enough that the drop team wouldn't know the difference.) Fox was very sensitive to the twitchings of the team behind it, but it waited at the edge of the hatch until the old speakers burst out "tuck and roll team" and then it lurched foreward into the air between the tiny plane and the grassy land below.
Something twitched in the depths of it's brain- there was something about this feeling, the freefall before it landed, that felt strange. Not familiar, or even vaguely like a memory, but there was something about the sensation. It couldn't even recall a word for the feeling. Perhaps there wasn't one. It lasted a full second before it filed the thought away as a result of the chemicals and hormones in it's body causing paranoia and arced carefully as it neared the ground, turning into a carefully perfect roll, then skidding over the grass on it's knees for a few feet until the momentum was gone. The drop team landed in a sloppy line with Fox at the point, and it frowned again. Very sloppy. Perhaps they were testing it's response to variables in familiar situations. It made more sense than the possibility that Hydra was truely in shambles enough that this was all they could spare for the mission.
It waited silently for the drop team to reassemble, grumbling and wincing and a couple huffing and puffing, waited without moving while it's handler gave the underlings specific jobs for their stint of the mission, arms waving and spit flying and eyes bright and violent, walked unflinchingly towards the precise coordinates they had for the target's last known position, then finally- finally, finally- turned the reins over to it and let it do what it had been created to do.
Sharp eyes scanned the scenery, taking in all the details of what had been happening there over the past week, grinding down the newer additions and pacing around the space and clarifying the image in it's mind until it was down to the bare bones of the situation that had led to the program going rogue. There was a cacophony of footprints from several dozen different shoes and people, and fading marks where something heavy had been dragged from the water and onto the banks. It analyzed this area more closely, because if the rogue program had left any signs of it's direction it would be here, and by some very small chance there was a faint series of boot prints in the mud and dirt, almost trampled into nonexistence by the other prints and marks and the wear of nature but familiar enough because it was the standard issue tread for assets- a somewhat larger version of the boots Fox wore, and with as little hesitation as possible it followed the scuffs and imprints and trampled plantlife along the bank of the water for a ways. The drop team followed behind it as quickly as they could, louder than any team it had dealt with before and almost distracting.
A full mile along, the trail twisted and for a few minutes, Fox lost the lead, and stood silent and still, analyzing the area for another clue to continue the trek. When, after a thorough search, nothing was pointing them onward, it edged closer to the early-morning streets, scanning the buildings from cover. It was a small conglomeration of shops, mostly. The most prominent was a small sells-all store, and after a long glare, it's handler gave the go-ahead to move closer and investigate.
It pulled a coat close over the sheaths and pockets of weapons in it's armor before emerging from the brush and moving down the street. There weren't many people out, only a scattering over the streets in either direction, and therefore very little to base interactions on; Fox determined the best method would be to avoid direct interaction and adjust as necessary. No one looked at it twice as it slunk into the store, head down and face away from any potential cameras, and no one tried to stop it from walking tightly through the aisles. From the front of the store back, it passed a small cluster of clothes racks, followed by five and a half aisles of necessities that one may need for cooking, or cleaning, or maintaining a car, or going out into the woods, then by three and a half aisles of canned and boxed foods, with a refrigerated section that covered the entire back wall. A store, smaller than a supermarket, that sold things made to last and protect.
It wasn't until it passed a section of boxes that claimed to hold all the necessities for a stint in the wilds(excluding food, defined the fine print) that it was sure the rogue program had been there. Only one box was missing from the neat line-up, on the end, where it would be least noticeable. After a moment of analyzing it and mentally cataloging all the supplies it had been given, the asset grabbed a box for itself, hunting through the aisles for a hiking backpack, then doubling back to the food aisles for a cache of non-military-issue MREs, gliding through the checkout without flinching.
"There's a table near the doors, if you'd like to pack everything in the backpack instead of carrying it all home first," the cashier informed it. Fox watched him cautiously for a moment, and when he showed no signs of hostility or anything more than mild interest, it nodded, touching it's chin to sign 'thank you' silently. It wasn't authorized to speak with anyone outside of the drop team and it's superiors. The cashier smiled, showing off many white teeth. "It's no problem, m'am."
Fox moved to the table mentioned, internally criticizing him. It was not a 'm'am.' Everything was swiftly packed away in the backpack, which was them slung over the coat. The packaging from the supplies was buried quietly beneath a pile of other trash from people who had bought things and used the table to pack it away before Fox had come, ensuring that there was minimal proof of it's existence, then it left, returning to the drop team. One of them supplied a map, and with only two minutes spent pouring over it, Fox marked off the places most likely to appeal to the rogue program. It had purchased survival gear, things for hiking and surviving in potentially forested area, meaning it was planning to go off grid, most likely to avoid detection by satellites or cameras.
"God damn," the Lead Handler grumbled. "He's had enough time to get to any of these!"
Fox internally disapproved. This drop team was very, very skittish.