Hector wasn't very excited about this mission. On the one hand, the name of Foxhound was legendary in the independent military world, even if these guys weren't the originals. He decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, though- one didn't call themselves "Foxhound" without the credentials to back it up. No, what concerned him was that he was walking blind onto a Chinook transport, same as three other helicopter-fuls of recruits, on his way to be dropped off in some kind of warzone, with little to no idea what they were meant to do there.

If there was one thing Hector prided himself on, it was his intelligence. And said intelligence was currently telling him some very bad news.

[i][color=crimson]Cannon fodder, is what we are. They're seeing just what we're capable of. See if we can get our feet under us. Most of us are probably gonna be dead by mission's end.[/color][/i] He shrugged internally, though he still wasn't pleased. It wasn't really his problem- he figured he was talented enough to do just fine, and get the hell out of Dodge if things went particularly pear-shaped. Still, it seemed rather cold of his new employers to throw them into the crucible like this.

Regardless, he kept his face carefully neutral as he boarded the Stealth-Chinook, alongside five other recruits. He spared them all a cursory glance before following one of the few instructions he'd been given before boarding, and went to find which crate had his name on it. His was the largest, obviously, and he grunted in approval. Clearly, they'd read up on his preference in armaments. He popped open the crate, brows knitting slightly. It was all serviceable enough, but he'd expected something more out of the famous Foxhound. 

He then remembered that most of them were likely going to die, and wrote that up to not wanting to lose too much materiel when the doomed ones bit it. It wasn't really that big of a deal, anyway- guns were guns, bullets were bullets, and he was very comfortable and proficient in the use of both.

First things first- get changed. He began pulling off his clothes, ignoring the other five members of the transport. One didn't keep shyness for long in his line of work. He cracked a smile as one of the other passengers cracked a joke. Nice. Hopefully he wouldn't die. He turned toward the Scotsman, still smiling his small smile.

[color=crimson]"Perhaps I'll still buy you a drink after all this, just for the courtesy,"[/color] he said, pulling on his pants. [color=crimson]"Hector Slade. Pleasure to meet you, Tavish MacIntyre.[/color]