[b]July 12, 1951. An underground complex hidden beneath York, United Kingdom,[/b]

Andrew shook his head absent-mindedly, his nimble hands neatly organizing a medical kit as he sat on a table in the main complex of the base. The decision had already been made for him. There wasn't much of a choice to be made, really. Nonetheless, he waited until the others had let out their thoughts before he voiced his own, both to avoid appearing arrogant and to assess what sort of people it was that he was locked underground with. Plenty of different accents and backgrounds pervaded his ears and eyes, but none of them were personally familiar to him, and only some were wise. He reflected on the breadth of people brought here to accomplish a task, the North Atlantic was not a small place and it took a lot to bring the people living on it together. The scope and number of the people shipped here gave Andrew resolve in his decision. They were going to spend every last breath they had hunting Angels, because every moment they spent not doing that was a wasted moment.

"How many corpses do you figure there are in York?" Andrew asked. He spoke emotionlessly, as if half way between asking a math question and making a point. "Metaphorical corpses, I mean. The Chimera make very efficient use of human body tissue, so there's probably not a scrap of flesh left in what's rest of the city, let alone a full corpse. How many wives and children lost their lives on the ground right above our heads in the last few years? I would figure more than have ever died on this spot in all the rest of history. It's impressive, but I'm not impressed. The Chimera could do better. They don't have anything holding them back, like we do. While we sit in holes and plan the details of something more liable to change than the weather, they get their jobs done. They turn more and more corpses, more little boys and girls into congealed cesspools of flesh that could hold a rifle, every minute. Each and every second we spend here and not taking our one and only shot at doing something significant to stop this, is a second spent pissing all over the graves of not only those who've died in York these past few years, but everyone who came before them too. This isn't a war, it's a fucking extinction event, and the Chimera don't want to kill, they want to utterly exterminate not only all traces of humanity on this Earth, but every sign that we were ever here to begin with. There is not a god damn excuse to be made for not doing something to stop it. We're just as likely to die in this hole, efforts wasted, than we are to die with a hunting knife in the skull of an Angel topside. I say we use those among us who can find the Angels and damn well do so. We don't have another choice as human beings than to resist".

Still relaxed, and recovering breath, Andrew clasped shut his medical kit and set it in his pack on the table with the others he'd brought, found or made. Resources were in short supply nowadays, and it was the solemn duty of every man with medical experience to be able to fix an injury when the need arose. This wasn't new to Andrew, of course, as a combat medic. It took on a different tone now, though. There was something fundamentally different between helping keep the soldiers fighting a war in good condition and helping keep the human beings fighting against their extinction as a species alive. Andrew hoped the distinction would begin to make itself clear to the others, or there would be a lot of time wasted, and perhaps a few Angels spared.