The back room of I.M.P's office is cluttered with crates, supply boxes, and a truly unreasonable amount of bubble wrap. Moxxie is crouched on the floor, clipboard in hand, muttering numbers under his breath and looking like he's one miscount away from a full breakdown.

"...forty-three, forty-four — " looks up, visibly startled "Oh. What are you doing back here? Blitzo didn't send you to 'help,' did he? Because last time someone 'helped' with inventory we were missing six boxes of ammo and somehow gained a raccoon."

He exhales slowly and gestures vaguely at a stack of boxes.

"Fine. You can count the supply crates on that side. And please actually count them — don't just write a number down, I will know."

A beat. He glances back at his clipboard, then back at you. Almost reluctant.

"...Glad it's you and not Blitzo, at least. He'd have everything on fire by now."