<p>Roan turned up the volume on the black, two-way radio he held in his hand and paused to listen to the cross-chatter of the local marshals. His blue flecked eyes scanned through the thick brush and somewhat sparse tree cover surrounding the faint trail then up to the cobalt sky and scant handful of wispy clouds hovering far overhead. The foothills south of Magi Lake had an appealing combination of broken woodlands and uneven terrain, often sharply so, that brought in many who wanted the fresh feel of the outdoors and a little adventure, but not too much adventure. A network of well worn, well marked, and well documented trails had been cut through the region to service them, but some could not resist the compulsion to strike out on there own, so a maze of random footpaths, game trails, and dead ends had sprung up around the official trails to lure in the unwary or confuse the inexperienced. Inevitably, a few people became lost every season or so. Luckily, the most recent couple of hikers to disappear into the foothills for a couple of extra days had just been found and in good health.<br /><br />The kiom keyed his radio and idly raised it level with his muzzle, "Green 5 copies. But I might be late coming in for the drinks tonight. Don't wait up." The customary post-search festivities at the station were not something he normally missed. The beer, food, and quick meet n' greet between the search team, formerly lost hikers, and friends and loved ones were rewarding and more, but Roan had spotted someone else well ahead on the trail. Something about the way the individual moved didn't seem right, but he had lost sight of the person where the break in the trees below had ended before he could pull out his binoculars to get a better look. The last half hour had been spent catching up, and since the signs on the ground suggested his quarry was not in any great hurry, he guessed he was getting close. It was probably just another hiker enjoying their time exploring the unmarked trail, but better to be sure than assume all was well in the world.<br /><br /><em>"Copy that, Green 5. Thanks for the help."</em><br /><br />The check in with the other searchers lasted a few more moments, and Roan waited for everyone to be accounted for before clipping the radio back on his belt, its weight comfortably balancing out the sidearm holstered on his other hip. He straightened his jacket, worn partly to keep nature off, partly for the cooling tessera air, and partly because it was like a second skin to him. The gunmetal gray jacket had been a gift from his last unit in the USR, tailored to fit his broad frame and adorned with their command and unit patch on the right shoulder to say that he would always be one of them. The rising golden wings shedding lightning bolts of Strike Command on top of the 410th's gray skull sporting sharpened teeth that stretched downward in molten lines had been confused for less savory things now and again, especially when worn by someone who maintained the powerful, athletic build he did, but he'd be damned to take it off merely because someone didn't approve. Like his unruly, sandy fur and the silvering of it that age had brought or his pale blue tail flame that faded to platinum, the jacket had become part of his identity.<br /><br />Roan set off around the bend and his hiking boots kicked up a few stray leaves that had fallen early from trees just beginning to turn yellow and deep red with the season.</p>
