Jean looks up and damn there's a lot going on here -

(- An immediate emotional tension; a sort of internal flinch, a well-worn killing instinct flashes to the surface, like a dog hearing a noise -)

- They flash a Professional Smile, and it's thin and forced. "Good evening, comrade," they murmur, and turn their head back towards the mound -

(- an equally well-worn quiescence, forcing themself to be at ease. It leaves behind a sort of confused sorrow, distant and unpracticed, cramping like a rarely-used muscle; like a cramp, it hurts, it hurts -)

- "It's...for a specific group of people," they continue, feeling their way through it. "My home...there are a lot of people who won't get buried. Or have headstones. I suppose when the snow melts they won't even have this, ha, ha ha..." -

- (A voice in their mind, layered, somehow cartoonish and bouncing while at the same time growling, deep, nightmarish: Eat this one, or have we not learned from the billy goat?) -

- (Jean's thoughts, turned at that voice, firm, sharp: Not everyone is destined to be the Big Bad Wolf. Go back to sleep.) -

- "...Agent Jean. With whom do I have the pleasure, comrade?"