Jean smiled and shrugged a bit. "Secrets- that you're better off not knowing." And it was true. They'd come for information before it could be transferred into the wrong hands. She held original information- the only copies- in her coat pocket. "Trust me for your life. But if you're after a deathwish, you might want to ask a Mister Steele. I'm sure you've heard of him." Her smile became a bit more mischevious. "It's up to you." She moved her gun's aim over Iris's shoulder, so that, were she to fire, the bullet would not strike the woman. It was the slightest sign of peace.

"Maarken, dear, will you check her for weapons?" The dark haired man frowned and put his gun into its holster, holding up his hands and taking a tentative step towards Iris. Hopefully she would not retaliate. At least this way they could leave without thinking she'd shoot them in the backs. Couldn't have that. The blonde kept the gun trained on the woman, his aim immaculate.

The dark-haired man froze and put his hands up, smiling crookedly at her. "Hello, miss. Aren't you sneaky?" And then the blonde had his gun trained on the woman. "Drop it." He instructed her tightly. And then Jean was there, smiling as though there were no guns being pointed anywhere. "We've got what we need." Her voice would be familiar to any special agent. "All civilians are alive and well, cherie. Please put that away."

Another sunny day in Chicago- if one could call it sunny. It seemed that the clouds never left anymore. But at least it didn't feel like a constant evening. It didn't rain that day. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits. The usual patrol that had daunted people the first couple of weeks of its induction was just a normal part of everything. People walked the streets while the could. Curfew was at six, and they had so much to do!

The bank was crowded. Civilians stood in perfectly straight lines, humming in hushed voices as they waited for their turn. A large blonde man stood in the middle of the line, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a black leather jacket. But suddenly he was gone, no longer standing in front of the elderly woman. He stood in the middle of the room, and a loud bang resounded through the area. The bank had gained a new skylight. He held the pistol in his right hand rather nonchalantly. Two others stepped out of lines and into view. Both were armed.

"Everybody down!" Shouted the blonde man, and the people obeyed with screams. One of the two others moved to the doors, preventing escape or entrance. His hair was long and black, and he too wore dark sunglasses. His leather jacket was longer than the blonde's, more surreal. The third, a woman, leaped behind the banker's counter and pointed her pistol at one of the men that worked there. "The phone lines have been disconnected. Don't bother. Come with me." Her voice was heavy, and distincly French. The man nodded and stood, hands up.

The woman jerked him into a back room. "Unlock that." The door was heavy, and bolted. He obliged. She pushed him in and followed. The walls were lined with drawers. "I'm not after money." She informed him blankly, proceeding to pick the lock on one of the drawers. A shot was fired in the front room, and the man's eyes widened. "Relax, sir. It was just an officer." None of the men she worked with would shoot a civilian. "Gotcha." She opened the drawer and withdrew a manilla envelope. "Tell them it was Jean, will you?" She might have winked, but it was unclear through her dark shades.

Jean tucked the envelope into a pocket inside her long leather trenchcoat. She made a show of checking over her gun before turning her attention to the man. "Stay back here. I'm sure it'll be safer." And then she returned to the front lobby. The poor man slid down the wall, shaken. The scene was hectic. A dead man lay in the corner, a gun in his hand. The dark haired man was attempting to calm their hostages, and Chay was swearing about how daft people were those days. "Hush, boys. Let's get out of here."