If Joan knew what Slav memes were, maybe she'd catch anything else but the pervasive sense of weirdness. Something is uncanny, something is off. Joan leans forward, using her polearm like it's a walking stick to squint at the bulky blackness that is this dog-... person? Creature?

She knows well enough not to ask.

"I don't really think walking in with me is gonna solve your PR crisis," she drawls. "I guess it beats the fuck out of your other options."

Which is to say, no one. It's just them. It's not like the City Watch is worth shit (in Joan's personal opinion).