There were three Warran, he saw. And heard. He would have smelled them, too, but he couldn't, due to the gas mask that kept the scent he was wearing from knocking him out. Three dogs, probably German Shepard genes, he thought, shifting slightly on the branch he sat on. They're popular right now. Slowly, carefully, he reached into the pouch on his belt, extracting a series of tubes which he screwed together. One of the dogs shifted, tugging at its uniform, and he froze. It never looked in his direction, however, so he continued assembling his blowpipe. Retrieving a dart from his pouch, he inserted it into the pipe, taking careful aim. Pfft. One of the dogs crumpled, the other two looking around in alarm. They had their guns out now, for all the good it would do them. Pfft. A second dog dropped. Pfft. His way was clear. First things first, he thought, taking out his canteen and pouring the water over his head. It rippled down his shadowy-gray scales, washing off the scent of marigolds that had mixed with that from the flowers planted all around, keeping the dogs from smelling him. Stowing his canteen back in his belt, he wafted to the door, gliding on his wings.

Salvaging his darts, he took the dog's guns and stripped them, rendering them useless. He ripped off the restricting gas mask, allowing his senses to run free. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, flicking out a forked tongue. There were the three dogs, lying in the grass at his feet. There was a Treno, a bugboy, cleaning the floors. There was… a room filled with Dr. James Crick's scent, probably his office. Aha! Time to huff and puff and blow your house down, Jimmy-my-boy. He slid over to the open window were the scent was strongest, fitting a dart into the blowgun as he did so. Okay, let's see what we've got this time, he thought, pulling a tiny periscope from another pouch. He poked it over the sill, noticing a figure hunched over a desk, presumably Crick himself, and two cameras focused on the room. Not too bad, but there should be guards there. Again, he flicked out his tongue, smelling for the missing guards. That's great, just great, he thought, having smelled two Grendels waiting just outside the door. I thought the rhinos were marked for military use only! This had better be worth it. Pulling two tiny knives out of a bandolier of about twenty, he picked up the blowgun and took careful aim. Pfft. Launching himself through the window, he threw both knives and rolled under Crick's desk in a single fluid motion. Using the periscope, he made sure that both knives had hit their marks (which they had, slicing cleanly through both security cameras). Only then did he leave the safety of the desk and retrieve the dart from Crick's neck. Taking an adhesive bandage from another pocket, he placed it over the wound left by the dart, which, to the untrained eye, looked like a bee sting. He then walked over to the first of the cameras. He removed his knife, and surveyed the damage. Taking a small tube of glue out, he put the camera back together enough that a quick look would not show any damage. Giving the second camera the same treatment, he left through the window without a trace to show that he was ever there. Mithwer returned home.