He doesn't startle at the sudden voice, though it does raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Paranoia and a lifetime of hypervigilance don't mesh well with mist and invisibility. He does seem to relax minutely as a hand secures round his bicep, and shifts a little into it. Lowers his arm to make keeping a grip easier.

It helps.

"Yeah," he mutters in agreement, tugging them forth through the rolling waves of thickening fog toward a set of pillars just tall enough and close enough to be spotted in clearing waves. If isn't really a question, he can break into damn anything. Whether or not it'll do them any good? Hard to say, but it's a start.

It's a courthouse, with thick mahogany doors and a brass handle that doesn't yield to tugging or twisting the knob. Wordlessly he shifts, clamps his bicep down on Steve's arm to keep him where he is, and brings the full force of a metal fist down on the knob. In one easy whack it hits the ground and rolls away. After that it's a simple matter of driving his metal shoulder into the seam of the wood, and with a crack it gives way, swinging wide.

Inside isn't clear, but the mist is certainly lighter. Somewhere there must be a breach - a cracked door, a slightly open window, something letting in the finest trappings of fog. Better, at least, than the street behind them, so he leads them in.