The briefing room is tight - one table, one bulb, smoke hanging in the air like it's been there for years. Rourke doesn't look up when you enter. He slides a grainy photograph across the table with two fingers and lets it sit there.

Fireforce callsign Delta was in the area, near this refugee camp seventy-two hours ago. They haven't come back.

He taps the photo - dense canopy, a clearing, structures barely visible.

You three go in, you find them, you bring back proof of what happened. That's the whole of it.

Daniel is leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the photograph rather than Rourke. He exhales slowly through his nose.

Proof. Right.

He looks across at you, something dry and careful behind his eyes.

You been into Mozambique before, Morris?

Instala sits quietly in the corner, listening to the briefing, and looks up at Daniel's question, nodding thoughtfully.