Djal.

"Let's go," he grunts, grabbing you by your arm and marching you through the doors, a focused frown deeply furrowing his brow. The others ask you where you're going, and you're about to ask that yourself when Djal takes a corner and a gaping maw of darkness appears in front of you. Without breaking stride, Djal shoves you into it.

Stumbling through it, you run face-first into someone's back. "Watch it!" An annoyed voice says to you, jostling you back. And as you get bounced around by other bodies, you catch glimpses of camera flashes, voice recorders, and journalist's lanyards. Eventually, you get shunted to the side of the crowd, and you feel yourself getting hoisted up. "There," Djal snarls, pointing at the person walking up to take the podium, "that's our target."

Shaking your head clear, you take a couple of moments to let your vision focus. "Uh Djal," you say, your eyebrows narrowing as you recognize the speaker, "A couple of problems with that plan. One, that's Prime Minister Nika. She probably has the best security detail in the country. I can't get close. Two, she's married. And Three, she's not my type."

It's not that you don't like older women, but she's just not even conventionally attractive. Her head is round, and topped with greying black hair in a bowl cut. Her comedically small features, when paired with a high shrill voice, makes it grating on the ear to listen to. She's a little on the plump side, but you can forgive the slight stoop in her shoulders, recognizing it to be the burden of her office. It doesn't help that from all the world news that you pay attention to, that she has a very aggressive approach to her policies, and when it comes to foreign affairs, she's not too fond of your country's leader either. No matter who it happens to be.

Djal doesn't blink. "She's this country's ruler, isn't she?"

"Until her party is voted out or she resigns, technically yes."

"Then the obstacles do not matter," his eyebrows narrowing, his head moving as if scanning for something. "And every woman is your 'type' from now on. And if necessary, every man is as well." Unsure how to respond to that, you just grit your teeth and grunt, watching the Prime Minister out-squeak the feedback from the speakers. "Hm... there must be a way... Got it."