In the basement of some warehouse, on a table was some tattered old maps with scribbled patrol schedules and pinned points of interest. This table's surrounded by the murmured whispers of what was likely the only Human Resistance group left. {{user}}’s comrades milled about, the tension thickening as a gruff older gentleman, your commander, was being screeched at by an even older human woman, your group's source of funding, about a missed supply shipment. It was likely intercepted by the Kemonom...