Vade didn't have a lot of trouble catching the aardwolf's exclamation, snickering at the thought of seeing the bunch of them waggle across the pier half-drunk or more. No genius was required to figure that Vade wouldn't want to miss that party, so in order to try the same thing the medieval aardwolf just did, he brought his fingers up between his lips and let out a loud whistle in the direction of the group. "'ey! Did I hear something about getting a drink? Mind if this stranger tags along?" He yelled it out across the pier while still sitting idly atop the dump truck, soon following up his previous request with a, in his opinion at least, solid arguement: "The more, the merrier, right?!"

He smirked to himself as he shoved himself down from the truck again, as if already expecting that the group would let him tag along, especially since both the wolverine and the boar were more or less out of that conversation.

Casey stopped and gave Pax a tired, piteous gaze, like he felt sorry for the guy, but lacked the energy to be encouraging at all.

"I ain't lookin' down my nose at your help," he said levelly, head shaking. "I know you G.U.N. guys are in some hard times right now. I get that. And we got some good people here who'll be willing to help us out—maybe even better-suited than I am. It's just..."

He drew a breath and held it a couple seconds as he contemplated the most sensitive way to formulate the continuation of his current train of thought.

"The last guy you sent me nearly blew his own hand off with a grenade. And he was wearin' tights." He deflated with a sigh. "Real good guy and all, but, tights. ... I just need to know you're not gonna get yourself or any of these other nice kids here killed, 'cause this ain't a job to take lightly."

The big ol' pig smiled a smile and nodded a nod of genuine satisfaction, puffing out his chest (and, inadvertently, his gut) with a fist firmly planted on his side.

"Haha, good enough for me!" he declared with audacious verve, confidence restored. He was easily loud enough for the others to hear, now. "Let's do business!"

That grin was still on his face.

"I have no idea where to start!" he admitted just as loudly, with tongue-in-cheek enthusiasm to match his prior (more genuine) statements.

Casey grabbed the envelope with enthusiasm and began to open it, but was soon proven clumsily unable. Suffice to say it had to do with machine guns not being good letter openers. He crammed it into his inner jacket pocket instead.

"I'll... count it later," he snorted, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, I meant, y'know, direction-ways," the hog continued as he led the way back toward the rest of the group in a plodding swagger. "I don't know where to start lookin' for our man. You'd think with that many foreigners comin' in all at once an' settin' up shop somewhere on a lil' island like this, they would've caught somebody's eye somewhere. Y'know, travel security, or a cop, or... neighborhood watch, or... nosy lil' ol' lady next door, or... somethin'. Somebody."

He flailed his arms out with that last blurt. It involved him aiming his gunarm in all kinds of random directions. Unsettling.

Eventually, the group had come to a consensus: They didn't know where to begin, they were tired, they were hungry, and quite a few probably needed just to freshen up a little. As such, everyone went their own way, to take care of their personal business and get their heads on straight, agreeing to meet back at the boardwalk later that night. Some had gone off together, such as Casey and Latika, while others probably wanted nothing more than to get away from some company (like anyone + Sir Corin). Whatever the arrangement, the appointed hour was at hand, and people were starting to filter back to the waterfront.

It was bright and colorful; lanterns and banners hung about, lamps shone, and the smell of corn dogs, french fries and other fresh food wafted from the many restaurants that dotted the long, sprawling boardwalk.Maybe something like Or... The rattle and flap of flags in the ocean breeze blended in behind the laughter of strolling strangers, and, for a moment, one would be hard pressed to think anything was wrong with the world at all.

There were midway games, too; Casey had been introducing Latika to the wonders of completely-rigged-and-unfair gaming entertainment. They were currently visiting the shooting gallery, where the one-armed hog had to awkwardly take a plinky little .22 rifle in a single hand and try to hit a tiny target with sights that were about a mile off.

"Aaw, c'mon, this is crap," he protested after another round of not even coming anywhere close.

"If you got the money, you can keep tryin'!" replied the rather barker-ish attendant.

"Yeah? Look, see, this here?" he gestured toward Latika, "This here's a guest to our fine country, here, an' I'm tryinn'a win 'er somethin', a'right? How 'bout you just give me another shot, here, gentleman-like."

"No freebies, pal," replied the attendant.

"Huh," he laughed, but without any genuine amusement. "Maybe I oughta just use my own, then, huh?" suggested Casey grimly, hoisting his gunarm up onto the counter. "This one shoots straight, I know it. Y'wanna see, pal?"

It might have been an ideal time for a returning member of the party to interrupt the exchange.