Of course Grif is minding his own business like a champ. That's about all he's good for – but it should come as no surprise to anyone that the sight of maroon armor catches his attention and he has to keep himself from skipping after it like a fat kid following an ice cream truck in the dead of summer.

( We know you, Grif. Oh, we so know you. You can't hide from your true feelings. )

Simmons, meanwhile, does have his stock-issue pistol tucked safely away in his armor, and won't be bringing it out anytime soon, either. ( Not that he feels there's any need at all to use it, since this is so very obviously not the zombie apocalypse. ) He's intent on searching around a little more for a clue as to who might have been brave ( and smart ) enough to set up something as elaborate as this when he hears that familiar voice.

And almost immediately turns on his heel to face the direction it had come from.

"I read it! I just didn't think much of it!"

… Pause.

"Where did you come from!?"