Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Headquarters North Arctic, Thompson, Canada - 1352 hours, February 7th, 2013

Far out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere it sat, the dilapidated warehouse. Far out in the Canadian boonies, A single snow-covered road paved the only path to reach it, a road seldom taken to anyone's knowledge. It was a large, grey, imposing group of buildings with a set of towers dwarfing the rest. The paint had been whitewashed away from cruel winter after cruel winter, except for the crude graffiti, and some of the windows had been long broken. Pallets of decaying steel sat around in heaps of the white stuff, red as a lobster with oxidation, and equipment lay helter-skelter around the snow drifts. Trash built up around the bases of the ruined chain-link fence, bent over like old men in certain places with chunks missing in others. It was easy to miss, hidden in the trees that overgrew it. A relic of time, forgotten and abandoned. A streaked, faded iron sign stood sentry outside of the broken, padlocked gate, like a tired soldier in need of a changing of the guard.

Thompson Steel and Aluminum Plant

CLOSED - Manitoba Regional Committee

CAUTION
WEAK STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
TRESPASSERS WILL BE FINED

The text, once red, was now a darker shade of white than the rest of the ancient warning. But in this lonely, snowy thicket, someone was watching. Big Brother was always watching. There were a host of sensors, security cameras, and snares in layered rings around the collapsing plant, hidden well from the naked eye. If anyone were to approach, they would be challenged by "park rangers" on their intentions, possibly detained for questioning. But they wouldn't have to go far. A ways back from the sign was a tree with a camera in its branches. Most trees had cameras in their branches around here, but this one was specifically designated to be watched for entrance. All it would take for someone to enter would be to find this camera, have the required ID card and RFID signature, and give a visible password in sign language chosen on a weekly basis for the platform to raise to the underground facility below.

Underneath the abandoned plant resided a sleeping giant, a honeycomb of manmade tunnels, office spaces, storage facilities, garages for vehicles of all kinds, research labs, power blocks, servers, living spaces, the whole nine yards. And it was home to a single organization who, much like the "park rangers", didn't actually exist. The Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate, Northern Arctic Branch . The PCMC. The underground lair spread for miles in every direction and almost a full mile down, interconnected by a magnetic rail system designed for quick travel using a system that wouldn't be invented for another two years and mastered and utilized for a decade after that. A full community dwell below the surface, completely independent and self-sustaining. Everything from advanced science laboratories to armories and personnel barracks were present, linked together with systems of tunnels that reached as far as the Hudson Bay. Experimental fusion generators were used for an endless and reliable supply of energy, providing artificial sunlight deep within the bowels of the Earth through intermittent false windows, necessarily breaking up the sterile white hallways and checkered tile floors. Cameras loomed at every turn, documenting every interaction and every living thing within the hive as individuals in lab coats, power suits, and combat fatigues scurried about like termites in a hill. A paranoid schizophrenic's dream if there ever was one. And it didn't stop there. Established in the 1950's, it was the PCMC's duty to the world at large to prevent the misunderstood, the foreign, and the dangerous from threatening the human race, and even the knowledge of such entities could cause irreparable harm and cause entire countries to collapse. A shadow organization, the PCMC was given authority above all of Earth's governments combined to enact and follow procedure to prevent the unthinkable from happening, using any and all means at their disposal.

---

A PCMC Headquarters existed in every region, with multiple in the hot zones. The one in question below Manitoba, just off site from Landing Lake, was the PCMC Northern Arctic Branch, the second in all of North America, the other lying in the desert sands of New Mexico. Landing Lake was a fit enough title. The still winter air filled itself with a subtle buzz as the trees around the lake swayed and protest of the sudden draft. Ripples formed on the pristine water below as the sky above distorted and warped in an outline akin to some sort of unidentified flying object. Out of the depths below rose a platform, and the false floor of that platform opened itself to reveal a marked landing pad. The hazy object touched down gently, and the both of them disappeared below the lake. Stillness once again returned to the Canadian wilderness, as if nothing ever happened. Because nothing did.
"Well that was a fun one," spoke the pilot in a slightly Scottish accent. The woman was clad in a full flight suit, albeit a futuristic one with a rounded helmet. The mystery aerial vehicle was a bit more visible with its mimetic camouflaged disengaged. It looked like the unholy union between an Osprey, a Dyson desk fan, and something from a 90's Saturday morning cartoon. The pilot put two fingers to the side of her throat, and her closed jaw could be seen moving. Although she never spoke a word, her voice could be heard within the Vulture.
"This is your pilot speaking, we have now arrived at Nowhere. The time of day is a feeble mental human construct used to grasp something it doesn't truly understand and the weather is a balmy who fucking cares? Please wait until we arrive at the designated gate to disembark and go see the gate to make sure you're not a fucking... vampire or some shit. Thank you for flying UFO Airlines and get your sorry arses outta my bird." She'd delivered her line like an airline stewardess, fake enthusiasm and all. The back of the stealth helicopter opened up and a threesome of agents began to pile out, only to be met by other agents in tactical gear with handheld scanning devices. The pilot removed her helmet to reveal a freckled, delicate face and sandy blonde hair done in a french braid. Upon closer inspection of her green eyes, ghostly reflections of nonexistent computer screens could be seen.
"I'm thinkin' steak wraps for lunch, if they let us leave the fucking hanger this time. Sound good to ya?" she inquired her copilot before tucking her helmet under her arm and standing. The smooth, reflective glass of the cockpit slid back nearly instantly, and she dangled her short legs over the side of the aircraft before dropping to the landing pad. Another tactical goon caught up with her as soon as her feet touched the metal platform.
"Name?" he asked as he began to run her up and down with the device in his hand.
"Agent Samantha Patterson," she sighed passive-aggressively, complying with his procedure.
"Cargo?"
"Five live ones, one cold, pilots included."
"Favorite food?"
"Your dad's pecker." The agent folded his scanning device and took a step back.
"Check's out. Welcome back, Diz."
"Shut the fuck up feed my bird, Myers," she snapped. The agent in tactical gear made a talking motion with his hand as he was walking away, breaking into a jog for the main platform when he was done mocking her. Returning agents all went through a similar test whenever they completed a mission, including scans for the RFID tag, body signature, brain waves, voice recognition, and a knowledge check based on random pre-selected security questions. Diz, otherwise known as Dizzy for her penchant for making the newer agents barf in the aerial vehicles, or Samantha Patterson to those that didn't know her, was a pilot for the PCMC, going on three years.
"And if I find anything in the seat again when I get back I'll gouge your fucking eyes out!" she called after the jogging agent angrily. Dizzy was well-known for being a bit of a foul mouthed bitch, but her piloting skills couldn't be questioned. Dizzy could land an F17 on a pickup truck in a sandstorm, and she tended not to respect anyone without similar levels of her skill in any equivalent fields. She was generally much nicer to other pilots that could prove themselves or people who were obviously smarter than she was, but outside of that everyone was on their own.
"You gonna sit in the co-pilot's seat all day or are you gonna get some damn lunch ya moron? Clock's tickin'," she spoke, knocking on the side of the Vulture with the helmet.

---

A haunting song wafted down the hallway, all the way to the man-trap door, loud enough to enter the cell of one Jack Romanov and his parasitic partner Rin. It was about fifty meters of stark white, concrete walls, with security cameras and doors at both ends. Although it was obvious which was the cell and which was the exit. Both doors were identical in nature, thick with rubber sealing around the frames, deadbolts that jammed nearly a foot into the resulting concrete, with biometric keypads. But one door had a designator on it, "Subject 14791", and a posted list of warnings beside the door. It said common sense things such as Attending personnel must be escorted by armed sentry and some less obvious things like Gasmasks are to be worn upon entrance. A quartet of agents stood in the hallway, decked out head to toe in tactical gear and holding combat shotguns, one on either side of one door and mirrored on the other.

"When in walked a man, with a gun in his hand, and he was lookin' for-a you know who."

One of the guards was singing along out of tune, tapping his boot on the tile next to his discarded helmet. The tall, blond bearded man bobbed his head to the music as he sang.

"Gimme three steps, give me three steps a-mister, give me three steps toward the door!"

The man not so much sung as howled in a natural, southern drawl. A battery operated CD stereo was sitting in the corner, a little now-ancient piece of technology that he had brought in to relieve the boredom. They'd been there for three hours already, and had another three to go before the shift change went underway. He continued to bob his head to the beat of the music, escalating from merely tapping his toe to sliding his feet back in forth in a shuffling dance. Another agent on the far side of the hallway just smiled and shook his head. The dancing man was Agent Eric Parker, or as most called him, Walker. Walker was a good ol' boy from Texas, politically correct and rough around the edges, but damn if he wasn't everyone's friend. People called him Walker because he was a former Army Ranger before being scouted by the PCMC. He'd been with the Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate for over a decade and hard to believe from his current foolish behavior, is the manager of Bravo Tactical Team, the most elite tactical team in PCMC North Arctic. Informally known as "Plan B", Walker's team was usually called in when one of the other tactical teams had been wiped out. His team holds a record for maintaining the longest retention ratio of agents, with the least injured or killed in action and has never been fully wiped out as long as Walker has been a member.
"You know the Director can see you if he wants, right?" came a deep, throaty call from across the hallway. Walker responded by singing into the stock of his shotgun like a microphone while shaking his legs in an impersonation of Elvis Presley. The other agent couldn't help but just chuckle and shake his head.
"You're crazy, man."
The other agent was Agent Anthony Stone, a dark-skinned man with a clean shaven face and a deep voice that would make Barry White seem a little less manly. Stone's been in for almost nine, working mainly as an intel analyst with his share of fieldwork. He came from the FBI after a coordination sting with the DEA went sour. Instead of cocaine, the found an organ processing lab. But the organs weren't human. Or the organ dealers. Stone's a generally amicable fellow, a little on the serious side, but pretty nice to everyone he meets. Stone let his laugh and his smile pass and spoke up.
"Alright, it's chow time. Who's going out and who's feeding the subject?"

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — "Subject 14791" Residential holding block D

Roman was lost in the boiling hot water and the relaxing pain it brought onto his stiff muscles as he got lost in the steam filled shower. Staring aimlessly at the ceramic tiles below him as he got lost in his thoughts once again. "Click...click....click." He said to himself remembering the taste of the blued gunbarrel in his mouth. Still stuck on his tongue as if he was chewing on a penny. "Three misfires.... would you call that fate?" He asked Rin. Knowing well that she didn't need to be within earshot to hear him. Rin brandishing another Female figure based off one of Romans magazines he so frequently read walked aimlessly around the rest of the room thanks to the extra freedom the steam gave her momentarily. "You know I don't believe in fate Rome." She scoffed as she made her way towards the coffee machine. Pushing a hand through it as if forgetting she couldn't touch it. "God dammit!" She moaned and Roman couldn't help but laugh. "Thought you didn't believe in god either." He said sarcastically as he turned off the shower.

The bathroom mirror was fogged up from the steam. Roman smiled as he took his finger and wrote "Redrum" on it knowing well that it was two sided. He didn't bother to cover up as he walked away either. These agents hounding his every move saw his russian ass for three years now. Betting they knew each cheek better than he did. "Were out of grinds anyway so don't bother over exerting yourself, our 'Owners' should be bringing food in soon anyway...." Rome trailed off as he walked clear across the finely furnished "cell" and grabbed a pair of Bdu pants and a gray tshirt from the nearby locker and put them on. "Besides, not like you can drink it." He said sarcastically. Rin floated back to Him and watched the nearby cameras follow her from one side of the room to the other. "I like to watch it pour... its fascinating." She moaned mimicing a moping child. Roman couldn't help but laugh. "Ha! A Smoke based lifeform who can pretty much make you her bitch... likes to watch coffee drip. Hope your recording this guys!" He yelled towards nobody in particular over his shoulder. Rin dissolved around him just as he finished putting his shirt on. Taking a long deep breath as he felt that euphoric sensation like taking a long drag from a cigarette right after a good night of wild sex. "Asshole" Rin echoed in his mind just before she fully dissolved. Roman couldn't help but put on a grin.

Roman walked over to the exit as he heard a familiar voice singing a god awful tune through the thick metal door. Giving the door three hard knocks with his fist he pressed the button on the nearby intercom. "Hey Yankee comrade! Mind singing something that's, you know.... GOOD? I've heard goats with better vocals." He antagonized walker in his butchered english due to his homeland tongue like he usually did. Its suprising walker hasn't blown his head off already. Roman was getting antsy sitting in the room. Its been weeks since his last job and He needed to get out soon. Pressing the button again hoping to get a reaction. "Hey when the food gets here, wanna come in and play some poker? You could sit back, relax... maybe even have a smoke. *low chuckle* sounds good da?"

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — "Subject 14791" Guarding hall

The Song echoed through the white painted room and if there wouldn´t have been the four guards the song would would echoed through the room several thousand times and well considering that it was a song of Lynyrd Skynyrd that would have been a worse torture than the howling of Walker. The Texan Ranger sure had an organ but with oldies as...well old as this one had to wonder about his taste sometimes.

Sadly one had to empathize with this boulder of a man and so even the most grumpiest among of all the guard down in the room to cell "Subject 14791" aka Jack Rome, was slowly tapping his feet.

It really was a weird bunch down there. Walker as the unserious Senior, then Anthony Stone as the serious, the sarcastic and jumpy Elli and last but not least him. Eddy~
Eddy the psychopath, Eddy the freak or Eddy danced with demons~ He sure built up a reputation down here and he often worked together with Walker also serving in the Plan B group in the one or other occasion. He was friendly and warm hearted but then again not too soft on the core~ Infact he was THE stereotype of Texan people one could imagine and well Eddy had to know! He is bloody English!

Either way throughout the years of cooperation he had found one thing which Walker liked most...and that was old fashioned Rock music, not the good one thou! The annoying one! May it be Elvis Presley, Lynyrd Skynyrd or simple Gun´s and Roses he listened to it all while Eddy here furthermore listened to Western and Folk. When he hears a western guitar and a smokey voice, god, he could nearly jizz his pants, give him Johnny Cash and you will really see an eargasm.

So it was natural for Eddy to laugh loudly as Walker tried his best Elvis impression he ever gave to his best.

"Alright~ Alright~ I get the food~ just promise me to NEVER abuse Elvis show moves one a Lynyrd Skynyrd song again! Unless you really want me to raise Elvis from his grave to kick your butt"
Eddy did some boxing moves before getting imaginary getting kicked in the balls and so falling on his knees and imitating Walker´s howls. Before the man could raise to an counter Eddy gave a wink and headed outside the thick rubber framed doors by laying his hand onto the biometric lock and also entering an 12 numbered security code.

It was now a long white hall way leading straight for many meters where other thick rubber framed doors would pop up on the left and right. Eddy made his way through he corridor until he suddenly stopped before one with a sign saying "kitchen". Eddy again layed his hands on it and now had to enter another 12 digit code, this here was even low security compared to other parts of the PCMC and well the ceels as well were very luxurious, one should see the gamma-thread cells....cyro-sleep enough said?
That aside the kitchen looked very plain, on a large table were many dishes with several numbers while in the back was a rather over weighted canteen women making the meals.

"Hey Sharon~" yelled Eddy and skimmed through the already finished meals and searched for the one with the sign "Subject 14791"
The canteen women made her way towards Eddy and pushed a tablet with a grilled steak and cooked vegetables into his hands. "Here for the ~special~ boy" She said returned to preparing further meals for the others inhabitants of other cells.
Well one couldn´t complain about bad food here could you? With the tablet in his hands Eddy returned to the other three guards.

"So who is taking his offer for Poker? Or do i need to rip him off again? I know~ i know~ i don´t play fair but you can accuse me of cheating, if you don´t have any proof how i do it" And saying that Eddy would place down the tablet with the food close to the door of "Subject 14791" before he then walks towards Elli is hands raised to the heights of his face before he slowly moves one behind her ear to then pull out a cigarette.

"I guess fate chooses you" He stated dry and put the cigarette into his mouth, not lighting it since that would be forbidden but out of sheer lack of smoking for nearly three hours. He felt the urge and so this was the most relief he could get. Furthermore a short kick of adrenalin by playing with fire or rather Elli would make things more easier to bear up with.

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — Forensics Labs

"Do you know what on-site Liberty means?" a man of relatively short height and graying hair spoke just as he entered the sealed off room, an attentive eye on the lone figure hunched over a table.

"It means I can eat my lunch while I work. I hope that's not an issue, Sam," Sybil Royce Ahlers, or rather Sean Adams to most, responded with his monotone, English inflection echoing through the ominously lit laboratory. This was exactly how he spent his free-time and, despite the various looks it garnered, he quite enjoyed the work he did; it was a childhood dream come true. It was a dream in the most fitting sense—fighting fantastical monsters and warding off demons had its downside, but if one looked at it from a different point of view, it was truly an extraordinary job. And a wonderful one, at that, even if 'free-time' was either misused to work more or wander frustrated and itching for something to do.

Finally standing to look the scientist, Sean set the petri-dish he'd been examining to the side and promptly grabbed the brown paper bag in front. Raising it, he made a small gesture toward Sam and gave him his best smile. The other man, someone who'd built their profession on various scientific studies—astrophysics, chemistry, engineering, all of it—could only be mildly amused at Sean's attempt to be cheeky. His voice was high pitched, peppered with a slight Irish accent and it fit his stocky build, bordering a built lithe form and averagely scrawny.

Samuel sighed, turning to grab a spare lab coat before giving Sean the most exasperated look he could manage. "What are you looking at?"

"It's demon blood; I'm just determining the type of creature so the higher-ups can label the threat level and determine a course of action."

"Any luck?"

"Not yet," Sean uttered with a slight upheaval in his tone to denote his frustrations.

"Have you tried throwing holy water on it?" Sam joked, pushing his tongue into his cheek to stop his smirk. The laugh gave it away.

Sean merely inhaled sharply and turned around to properly retrieve his food. "Make yourself useful and grab me some coffee," he said, throwing the Starbucks packet from his bag behind him. Samuel lunged forward to snatch it, avoiding the mishap it would have made were it to land in any of the chemicals.

"Excuse me?"

"If you're going to make jokes, you might as well do the same with your job."

"You're an ass, you know that?"

"Who likes his coffee with a lot of sugar and milk." Sean called out, while he neatly assorted his lunch. About the time he'd find something to eat or snack on until later, along with many others—he'd often make his own food in order to avoid mingling with others in the cafeteria. Seeing as it was his allotted free time, Sean could very well sit down wherever he pleased to munch on a wonderfully made sandwich and salad. Of course, he would find it best to also perform a task he'd been assigned to prior, which was relatively small in scope. He'd keenly lied to Sam prior; in fact, a mission was already being conducted after he'd sent in the test results earlier that morning. He was just biding his time now with menial work because he had nothing better to do, and primarily felt more at home within the confines of a dimly lit lab than anywhere else in the HQ. Though, when Sam returned moments later with his cup of coffee, Sean had already finished and cleaned up, finding nothing worth looking at that he didn't already know about. Bidding the man farewell, he retrieved the coffee and left him with a smile, prompting the most bewildered look from the Irish.

"No thank you? Okay. Whatever."

With nothing to waste away the time before PCMC decided to further brief him on something, Sean had absolutely no idea what to do past wander the halls. It always made him itch incredibly and the lack of something important to busy him, made Sean into one of the most unapproachable people in the underground lair. People made quite a show in avoiding him during his off-hours; if he didn't have a pen in hand and the usual blase look on his face, then it was best not to get within ten yards of the man. Which he preferred, to be brutally honest, though he didn't quite like not having anything to do.

So, making a beeline to the locker rooms near the gym, he threw on a fresh, but old t-shirt and a pair of pants before forcing himself to exercise the time away.

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — Onsite Gym
Hiding away in one of the offices tucked away at the base, Jamie was up to her favourite task- on site liberty. With all the danger the agents had to go through, and on a frequent basis, any spare time was much appreciated. A lazy cook, Jamie started at the meal in front of her, a heinous looking microwaveable "Roast chicken and mayo" roll. Jamie was a connoiseur of heat and eat food, as both her and her girlfriend were terrible in the kitchen. The paper bagged atrocity sitting in front of her was something she hadn't had the guts to try before, as mayonnaise was something she thought shouldn't be served warm, in her opinion. Still, it was the quickest thing she picked up at the gas station on the way in that morning, as she was running horrendously late. She had meant to pick up a frozen hot dog, probably equally as vile, but in her lack of coffee induced daze, she wasn't on the ball that time of morning.Taking the roll out of its packet, she wrinkled her nose. "Looks like it's just you and me".

Taking a bite, she cringed. The bread was horrendously dry and tough, a state that could only frozen bread heated in the microwave could be. The chicken tasted really bland, nothing like roast chicken at all. The texture was most unlike chicken at all. As she took every bite, weird juices oozed out. The "mayo" did nothing but provide a semi moist element to it, and it tasted quite strange when served piping hot. She was struggling to make a connection between the atrocity in her mouth, and roast chicken. Snapchatting a picture to her girlfriend, she captioned it "I'm gonna regret this later", and sent it, shaking her head. Finishing up, she discarded the wrapper, reminding herself not to ever eat that again. At least she had dinner that night to look forward to. It was funny thinking back, a year ago, that shy girl she met singing in the coffee shop was now her girlfriend, and they lived together. Jamie had always struggled to keep relationships, due to the secrecy of her job, but this one was different.. She didn't question the strange hours. She didn't question the last-minute call outs. In face, she barely asked any questions about Jamie's line of work. Not that she knew her real name was Jamie, either. She had become so used to going under her assigned name, it was now second nature to introduce herself as such. Sometimes, she contemplated telling Lily everything, but she knew it wasn't worth losing her job. While they'd been together exactly a year now, there was still a lot she kept hidden. In saying that, Lily was just as bad. Not revealing where she was from, Jamie knew almost nothing about her life before they met. All she did know, was that she was deathly afraid of water, and refused to go out in the rain. It was even at the point that Lily showered only after Jamie had left for work. Well, that's what Jamie assumed, she kept herself very well groomed, so shehad to shower sometime, right?

Already changed into her exercise gear before lunch, Jamie made her way to the staff gym. The gym was a blessing in disguise, and Jamie could think of nothing worse than the neighbourhood gym, full of sterioid chomping, selfie-taking meatheads. The idiots at the gym nearby her apartment did more time posing than actual working out, from what she'd seen in the very short time she'd been a member. Putting down her towel and water bottle, she waved in greeting to Sybil, or as the name he was assigned, Sean.
"How's it going?" she asked casually, before jumping on a treadmill, starting her warm up with a fast walk.

"You gonna sit in the co-pilot's seat all day or are you gonna get some damn lunch ya moron? Clock's tickin'," came Dizzy's voice from outside the vulture, along with the dull thud of a helmet on the aircraft. Henry reached back and unhooked himself from the onboard computers, the wire breaking free and whirring back inside the seat. Henry coughed slightly at the sudden disconnect from the machine. For some reason disconnecting from "the aether" caused him to lose his breath. Henry forced himself out of the seat and onto the ground, disconnecting his helmet and leaving it on the seat. As he exited the vulture, he let out a chuckle before saying with the thickest, fakest scottish accent he could muster, all through a smile,
"Which clock? Your biological one?" Henry chuckled at his own joke. Dropping the fake accent he said, "Yea, lunch sounds great. Although I'm thinking I'd like a buffallo chicken caesar wrap." His own accent seemed to be a mix of the western seaboard of the US, with a slightly stronger hint of a washington accent. The second his feet hit the ground he was bombarded with a series of scans and questions. Henry droned them off as he usually does, thinking mostly of his old 1970 Dodge Charger that he was fixing up in what little free time he had. His stomach growled, and his thoughts quickly changed back to that wrap. Henry was a few steps behind Dizzy, and took a quick glance at her ass before looking away and giving a sly wink at one of the deck crew. "Oh by the way, take a quick look at the aft starboard thruster, has a bit of a hickup, less efficient than the others. Probably just an exposed wire." Henry remarked before walking off towards the mess hall.

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters - Personnel Quarters, Dormitory #364.

The scent of lavender permeated every inch of the smog-like atmosphere that filled the small dorm. The room was scantly decorated, the lone source of light being a purple lava lamp resting atop an ornate antique oak vanity with a matching chair stood against the wall opposite the double bed carried atop a fairly barebones copper bedframe that looked like it had been pulled directly from the fifties, flanked on it's right side by a small non-descript white nightstand, it was just a cheap thing, pressed board with a white coating, it looked out of place against the obviously aged bedframe and the elder dresser just a few feet away from it set against the perpendicular wall. Another piece of oak it wasn't particularly ornate, though the craftsmanship was obviously top-notch. Across the room from it stood what appeared to be the sole entertainment amenity, a cheap looking computer desk which along with the speakers and monitor that rested atop it was littered with empty soda bottles and cans, fast food wrappers, an empty bag of potato chips, and a lacy black bra each strewn about with as little care as the last. Beneath it stood a custom computer case stripped of both of it's side panels, and emitting so much blue light from within it could nearly light the room itself.

In the center of all of this, or at least as near as one could be to the center with a human margin of error was Marissa, adorned in a shimmering teal leotard with black tights. Her head was buried toward her shins as she stood in a pike position, she maintained the pose for a solid five seconds before standing straight, she brought her right hand to her mouth as she stood, and the rolled cigarette paper and it's contents lit up a bright orange as it burned towards her finger, it was just a roach left, so she slowly inhaled until it began to sting the tips of her fingers. With that she strode to the computer desk and put the roach out on the pine wood. Subsequently she set it next to three others that were next to the base of the monitor, and finally exhaled. She struggled not to cough as she exhaled, what had started as showing off that she could smoke anything without coughing in front of her friends in high school had long since just become a matter of personal pride for her. As she regained her composure she walked to the vanity, and looked herself over in the mirror through the smoke filled atmosphere. Her roots were beginning to show, she tried to think of anyone that'd be willing to help her bleach her hair again, doing it solo was just not an easy task. Aside from that though she looked good, the little bit of eye shadow she had applied earlier and the pale red lipstick were doing their subtle job. She was good to go to the gym.

Marissa stopped just before the door of her quarters, she shook off the lavender scented incense and dipped it in the small waiting glass of water on her vanity and slipped on her shoes, a pair of Adidas four inch sneaker heels before slipping out the door as swiftly as she could in an attempt to let as little smoke escape as possible. She was quite the unusual sight as she walked through the labyrinth of hallways, her ghostly hair, the leotard, and the high heels. It all came together to form a definite spectacle. It all served a purpose though, even the heels, though she was used to wearing heels to the point she could break out in a full sprint in platforms they still served to get her ready for more challenging balancing feats that were to come once she reached her destination., plus it made her not seem so short compared to everyone else.

Eventually she arrived at the gym, there wasn't many people there, not that it mattered to her, though the ginger woman was there, though her name eluded her at the time, it started with a 'J' she was sure of that much. So was the freakishly handsome Redcoat, well, she had heard he was British at least, She had never actually communicated with him, and given her own social ineptitude, it was doubtful she ever would speak to him personally to confirm that. There were others there too, an older man with graying hairs who until then she had only seen in a suit, and numerous others she didn't know the names of. She didn't bother to concern herself with the others though, she was here for two reasons, to keep her teenage girl physique, and show any of the higher ups that might be watching that she didn't need any modifications, she knew how fond they were of upgrading agents who under-performed, but she had absolutely no intention of retiring as anything but a completely normal human. So twice a week she came to the gym, picked out something, and to put it simply, showed off that she was still able to keep up with the cyborgs.

Today she was going with a personal favorite of hers, the balance beam, she slipped off the heels and set them next to the base of the beam before walking away from it to get a run at the tramp. One deep breath later she was moving, she opened with a round off tuck back salto with a half twist. As she landed on the beam she faltered a bit taking a small step upon landing, but it was still something she would have been glad with at a competition. Now though she was faced with her biggest problem, she never thought ahead, ironic for a psychic to be sure, but still a problem, she had backflipped onto the beam without hesitation, or thinking of what she'd do once she was here.Oh well. It was all she could think before she randomly went with the first showy trick that came to mind and attempted an aerial cross-beam somersault.

PCMC Headquarters, North Arctic - Mess Hall

"Kiss my freckled ass, Colt. That joke stopped being funny as soon as it came out of your ugly face. Uurgh, I need a fuckin' drink," Dizzy growled in exasperation. She was still sore about the flight, among other things. It was supposed to be a simple pick-up, that was all. Just a simple pick up. Wasn't even supposed to be today. But nothing is ever simple when your job involves beings outside of this realm. They'd gone to somewhere in northern Washington State to retrieve a tactical team that had been stalking something in the wilderness for the past two days and two nights. Nothing overly strange, just some missing dogs and cats, a few moose were found. And then the people started disappearing. They were found, eventually, everyone missing and every animal that had disappeared turned up a few days afterwards in the woods somewhere. With flayed skin and signs of frostbite, often missing limbs. Of course, this was given a blanket job like always, blamed it on a serial killer. Some poor schmuck was going to end up on the wrong side of that, but rather one suffer than the many discover. Apparently, this thing had optical camouflage that was resistant to all types of detection save for echolocation, but by the time Kilo Team, or "Killer Kilo", had already had one agent vanish without so much as a trace. Separated from the group for just a moment to check something out on his own, stupid fuck. The body still hasn't been found yet. As it turned out, Kilo Team discovered it was a Wendigo they were looking for. Legend says that a Wendigo was a vengeful Native American spirit that hunted in the woods in the dead of winter for the likes of men. Legends would be wrong. Sure, it liked cold climates and kept to the wilds and trees, but it sure as hell wasn't a spirit.

Wendigo's happened to be an alien species, existing long before man and in few numbers. They mostly kept to themselves and humans rarely ever ran into them, but this one must have come too close to some settlements and saw people as a threat. Everyone that ended up missing had the same story: went out in the woods alone, never came back. They often used snares to chop off limbs and would eat whatever they caught, thus the field-dressed people. Big brutish motherfuckers, too. Once Kilo figured it out and was able to track the damn thing, they called for aerial support to help take it down. Ain't no Wendigo goin' down with anything less than an incendiary, which Killer Kilo lacked. So they prepped a Vulture to launch equipped with napalm dumb fire missiles, some Dragon's Breath, and some thermite and incendiary grenades and launchers in the back. Stupid ass Kilo had to get this thing's attention before fire support got there. Before Dizzy and Henry could show it had already ripped the head off of their team leader, Agent Wilkerson, and had given the rest a run for their money. It took less than five minutes to locate this abomination and put it to roast, but by that time it was way too late. Another agent by the name of Perry had a ruptured lung and it sure as Hell didn't look good. The rest were beaten and bruised to Hell and back. They torched what they could find, called in the cleaners and left for HQ. They were able to re-inflate Perry's lung with an emergency kit in the back, but he died of shock. Six went out, three came back. All preventable deaths caused by bad intel. Fucking pencil pushers.

The mess was half-empty, as always. Always was, even at night, but it was normally a little busier during the lunch rush. Not that anyone there liked to leave their labs for lunch anyway. Black metal tables with connected benches lined themselves up across the eatery, with some round tables and free-standing folding chairs available as well. The top of the room was circled with a purple neon strip to give the place some atmosphere, and it was slightly successful with its eggshell blue walls and fake-light windows. Open salad and sandwich bars took post upon the far walls, with desserts to tempt the weak and fountain drink dispensers offering everything from water to soda to energy drinks, sports drinks, and milk. The normally short line up to the ordering window, however, was long today, eliciting another growl from Dizzy.
"For the love of fuckin' Cthulu, can you believe this shit!?" she huffed, garnering some looks from other agents that quickly returned to patiently waiting in line as soon as they realized who it was and were no longer surprised. She turned to Henry to eat up the time in line.
"So I was thinkin' when shift is over, wanna go grab some liver poison over at the Seventh Circle? Not keepin' tabs or anything, but I think you owe me from last time." But the length of the line belied its speed, and soon they were at the front to order. Having her wrap of choice and a suitable energy drink, Dizzy went to sit down at one of the round tables before she stalled and placed a finger to her ear. The look on her face went from one of focus to one of shock, and finally one of anger.
"Son of a whore-fucking cunt-licking cock-eating bitch!" she nearly screamed, kicking the chair she was about to take and nearly slamming her helmet into the tile at her feet. Fuming, she turned to Henry and pointed an accusing glare and finger his way.
"You're piloting this one so I can eat my fucking wrap, got it? God have mercy if I don't get my fucking wrap!" With that, Dizzy turned her head back and slammed down her energy drink in one long, continuous swallow, thrust the empty cup onto the table, and went to jog back towards the hangers with her helmet under her arm.

---

PCMC Headquarters, Northern Arctic - Containment Block D03

"Don't mess with her, man. That's a damn good way to get a black eye," remarked Stone on Eddy's antics. Stone wasn't particularly used to the group, but he knew of Ellie well enough to know how she'd probably react. As an analyst, it was kind of his job to know things, and it was merely force of habit that had him learning about the other agents. It was always useful, too, for gossip and spotting odd behavior. Anthony Stone had a knack for pointing out when other agents were under stress and needed a vacation, much so that even the Director would take him seriously if he brought something up. Walker was a different story. Walker was a legend, everyone knew about Agent Parker's exploits throughout PCMC North Arctic. He was kind of the mascot, the face, if you will. Not that a shadow organization had a face, but if it did he would be it. Walker was just one of those people, knew everyone and had all the hookups from the cafeteria to the armory. Pretty easy guy to get along with. He knew a little bit about Eddy, too. Knew he had a history of suicidal tendencies from his medical record... at least what it looked like on the surface. With his affiliation and with their line of work it was probably some kind of satanic ritual or something gone wrong, maybe demonic possession of some kind. Eleanor was in a similar boat with the paranormal association, so he'd already gathered with her expertise, and he was well aware of her military background. But Walker... Walker was special in the fact that no one knew anything about his past before the PCMC other than what he's told others. For most people it was open source, but this man was a ghost in all intents and purposes. They knew he was an Army Ranger, knew any of the stories he'd tell, knew he had an ex-wife he hated to death, but that was about it. Nothing before his military career, not even stories. Didn't even know if he had a mom or dad.

"Stone's right. And you're wrong, peckerwood. Fate chooses you" stressed Walker with a point. He'd stopped dancing know that it was time to do business.The stereo began blaring Hells Bells as the Texan and the Brit both donned their gas masks, pulling the straps tight and checking for seal. Walker reached over to the intercom button and pressed it.
"I've got somethin' for you to smoke, ya commie bastard!" he joked back, his voice distorted through the filter of the mask. Walker liked the Russian. He had a sense of humor. Damn good in a fight too. But he was a sadistic, evil, twisted sunuvabitch and if Walker ever got the authorization he'd put two between his eyes and five in his heart for good measure. Maybe "like" wasn't so good a word. "Amused by" would probably fit a bit better. At least the guard shift wasn't boring when Jacko was involved.
"Ready up," he signaled Eddy, slinging his shotgun onto his back and picking up the lunch tray. Walker drew his pistol with his free hand and entered the mantrap room with Eddy in tow. After an intense half minute of vacuum suction to clear the space of possible smoke-borne demonic beings as was per procedure, the door to Jack Romanov's room opened, and after swiftly clearing both corners of the room next to the door in case the crazy-assed Spetsnaz reject tried to jump at them with a lamp like that one time, they waltzed inside.
"Well howdy there, Princess," the Texan remarked through his mask. "I tried to get you some turnips, but they were fresh out." Walker took a few powerful steps into the room and slid the plate onto a nightstand by the bed. "Good ol' fashioned 100% beef and potatoes, grown in the US of A! I'll be honest by sayin' that I think that the shit that came from the cow is a little too good for you, but apparently it ain't my place to say." Walker paused for a moment, his eyes never leaving the prisoner's frame as he silently received a transmission.
"Oh, too bad. No time for chow. Takin' you on a walk, boy. You know the drill, turn around and spread'em," he commanded with a spinning motion of his finger. Walker looked over to Eddy for a brief moment and motioned with his head to keep the weapon trained on the subject while he applied the restraints.

Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Headquarters — Onsite Gym

People knew who Sean Adams was.

Not because of his exceptional talents—PCMC agents were all technically on par with each other, with a few outstanding skills that landed them their favorable jobs—but because of his draconian sense of social ineptitude. In other words, he didn't like people and people didn't like him. Not to the extent where he was misanthropic, but more or less, standoffish in the way that he interacted with people. Sean in a good mood was silent and attentive; an irritable Sean was a maelstrom of dirty glares and huffs. Oddly enough, Sean had zero records of any serious misdemeanors and was among the many with cleaner slates, save the odd complaint. Being a total douchebag didn't warrant enough concern and he obviously didn't act beyond the rigid barriers he put up. But, you often made a name for yourself through enough missions and your general interactions with other coworkers. It all depended on one's personality and if you had a particular one, then you tended to stand out a lot more. Whether that was for notoriety or fame laid in the hands of how dependable you were on the field and whether you had a knack for getting all your coworkers killed or not.

People avoided Sean, but they knew how much of an asset he was. He was good at what he did, made a name for himself in his niche of investigative work, but then again everyone was good at what they did. It's how they landed a job as a PCMC agent.

However, and lucky for Jade, he was on the thin line between content and belligerent: right in the middle. Just there. So, when she asked how he was, he turned toward her after having finished stretching and simply nodded.

"Fine," he said and turned away.

Limber and ready, Sean bent toward the two dumbbells situated on the ground, propped his feet up on the stool he'd grabbed and lowered himself into his push-ups. He'd not gotten half-way down before his personal terminal sounded its double beeps incessantly from his pocket. What better time? Of course, he was obliged to acknowledge it immediately and simply stood with a half-hearted sigh. Upon finishing reading the necessary info, he returned the equipment back to its designated spots and marched into the locker room where he promptly changed into his PCMC issued fatigues and left.

---

Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Headquarters — Hallway: Intel Block G14

Tap. Tap. Tap

Boots clicking on the surface of checkered tile, eyes staring forward and features never wavered from a blank expression as they faced the ends of the labyrinthine corridors he found himself winding through. The tick of clockwork rolling through his mind, of thoughts, of ideas, of emotions he'd never be willing to give word or expression to came as fervently as they usually did. It never mattered what he thought a mission would entail until it became necessary; he'd find out regardless. However, to question the unknown, whether in curiosity or stupidity, was both the error in humans and the brilliance. Curiosity would always come naturally and without warning to those whose minds had a proclivity to wander, and until he found himself facing a gaping maw, the essence of the absence of everything, he'd always thought that questions, his own questions, for the wild and imaginary were always for naught. Just to please the whirling cogs in his mind before the stress of work and life became too daunting. It was a way to give tangible meaning to one's life beyond the measure of wealth or happiness. It was necessary to vacate from reality for a fleeting moment, to imagine the surreal, lest one succumb to the madness waiting to pulverize the infinitely burdened.

It soon became apparent that questioning what lay in the dark, or what sat dormant in the void between stars was that natural foresight that sentient beings had always possessed—a world beyond their own that worked in ways inconceivable. But, it was astonishing to find that wonder came at a cost and that evolution hadn't the slightest idea the meaning of nepotism. Humanity really was just a random occurrence, just waiting to become wiped out by an equally spontaneous event. Maybe Bertrand Russell was right: in the grand scheme of things we, as human beings, are only obliged to survive and are solely responsible for the gathering of each other to trudge to our inevitable doom, and in doing so make those seconds of life bearable and those seconds of death less frightening. Whether we further our legacy or become star dust in the milliseconds of life the universe generously granted us, has little significance in the grand scheme of things.

Sybil's brows furrowed, stopping directly in front of the section head office. The thoughts, as soon as flesh touched metal, vanished within an instant and Sean once again succumbed to the pull of reality.

And he stepped in.

And he sat down.

And he waited.

Henry scoffed at Dizzy's remark. He thought it was funny at least. He could understand her frustration though, Kilo had lost more than they should have. That being said, they all knew the risk, and he suspected that when it was his time to go not a lot of people would mourn him. Not that he was unfriendly with anyone, just that he wasn't particularly familiar with anyone but Dizzy. Henry went with her to the mess. In her usual fashion Dizzy asked if they wanted to go drinking. Henry already knew that Dizzy would go and get drunk regardless of whether or not he went with her. Henry shifted his jaw around before nodding yes to a drink. He didn't really want to go, however, he felt that she shouldn't go alone. Not that she couldn't handle herself but Henry would feel somewhat responsible if she tried to drive home while drunk. Often Henry would go with her, have a beer, break up whatever fight she might start, then drive her drunken ass home. He got his wrap, a small chocolate pudding and some milk before going to sit down at the table. Suddenly, but not surprisingly, Dizzy started spewing curses when Echo Niner got called back to the hangar for another mission. Dizzy continued flipping her shit in her usual fashion before telling Henry that he was to take the lead on this one. Dizzy had already begun moving towards the hangar when Henry said, "Good, you fly like an old lady drives anyways!" He said before taking a bite out of his wrap. She stomped her way back to the hangar, Henry a couple of steps behind, trying to fill his face with as much of the wrap as he could, dropping pieces of caesar salad and buffallo chicken on the floor behind him. He only managed to down half his wrap before making it to the hangar. He dropped the remainder of the wrap in the trash can at the entrance.

The hangar crew was hurriedly making preparations for launch. "Sitrep!" Henry demanded to the nearest crewman with a clipboard. Before he could answer Henry stopped a passing maintenance man and asked, "You get the hickup fixed?" The man nodded yes and continued his duties.

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — "Subject 14791" Residential holding block D

Roman Tapped his fingers on the nearby wall as the alarms rang throughout the cell block. The whole cell/apartment went from a pale white to a deep eerie blue as the feeding crew made their way in with gasmasks and shotguns. Rin couldn't help but give a light chuckle inside Romans head as she felt quite complimented. "Look Rome, they are playing our song." She joked. Roman on the other hand couldn't stand the sirens and quickly stuck a thumb in each ear to ease the pain. Once the motley crew came through the gateway Rin could instantly feel the familiar aura of Eddies presence in the small grouping of gasmasks. She couldn't help but get a little antsy at the thought of the powers that lay dormant in those already smoke filled lungs. It would make quite the comfortable temporary home if she ever got the chance. "Cool it Demon." Rome muttered feeling the stirring of the smoke held in his body. He didn't exactly know why she acted like so but it seemed to be only when there was other paranatural beings close by. He assumed it was one of the feeding crew. Most were hidden by masks but walker easily stuck out just by his walk and the strides he took almost in a cocky and narsassistic kind of way. It was quite amusing as the man referred to him as "princess".

"Princess? I feel like a fucking queen with all this healthy shit, I wouldn't mind some of that good ol' American Mcdonalds that I keep hearing about.... " He paused as stone put the shotgun to his back and watched carefully as Eddie placed the food down nearby. "Speaking of grade a choice cow, how come your mother doesn't visit anymore Chuck?" Rome took advantage of Walkers silence to spit out one last joke knowing well that walker wouldn't shut his mouth unless he had a little birdy chirping in his ear.

"Time to take a walk" Roman mimicked in the best texan accent he could muster. Roman hated the term and couldn't help but grimace at the thought of being an obedient dog of the PCMC. Never to let off his collar... only loosen the bands if he's good. It left a bad taste in his mouth. Defiantly he grabbed an apparently scolding hot potato and shoved it in his mouth before the bounded his arms for transfer to the medbay.

"You know... I can't help but think this is payback for that time with the lamp... that was six months ago, you need to forgive and forget comrade." He smirked as he walked the long maze of corridors towards the medical bay. "In my own defense I assumed it was Eddie coming through the door first... no offense Eddie." Lifting up a shackled hand in an unassuming gesture. 143 steps to the med bay, he counted every time. The familiar smell of bleach and dry blood filled his lungs as many a people frequented here, but for now he had it all to himself. Before he could even step through the door a nurse wearing a gas mask stuck a hypogun straight into his neck. It was always the same woman because everytime he collapsed onto the floor he would see a very nice glimpse of the perfect set of legs. Almost nicer than that loudmouthed red-head in the pilots uniform he's seen around the base before. After a bit of motion sickness all went black and off he was to a dreamless sleep.

Paranatural Conglomerate Countermeasures Headquarters — "Subject 14791" Armory 14 code Blue lockdown

Roman woke up with a massive headache and a horrible aftertaste of whatever chemical they pumped him with to knock him out so quickly. Rubbing the sore cheek he landed on he sat up off the rolling dolly and noticed the familiar Motley crew surrounding him in a much more relaxed fashion, yet still with shotguns at the ready just in case. "You know what? I take back what I said about the lamp, next time I'm using a chair." He joked. Whatever countermeasures they did to ensure his cooperation obviously created a less tense atmosphere for everyone. Getting up Roman walked around the armory looking through the glass lockers at the shiny weapons before he reached a dull old fashioned locker towards the end in which he took off whatever clothing he had on and started gearing up in BDU and kevlar like routine.

"Hey Comrade, did you manage to find that certain... item that I've been trying to get back? You guys kind of didn't give me a chance to pack my things in Siberia." Pulling the kevlar vest over his head he quickly did the metal buckles and leather laces looking similar to that of his old uniform when back in Spetsnaz, obviously going for what's comfortable and familiar to him instead of some new age biotech bullshit when good old fashioned kevlar worked just fine. Stuffing all his left over clothing in the locker he walked back towards the crew to see a small wooden box sitting across from Walker. "That what I think it is?" Roman asked. His mind flooding Rin with millions of memories of his past and just as many thoughts going through his head of if its actually it. Quickly picking up the wooden box, he lifted the lid to see inside atop the red felt lined box was an old Schofield Revolver chambered in .44 Russian. The blueing was worn out and the wooden handle had seen age along with a slight swelling from the cold damp environment but overall in good shape and certainly able to shoot. Romans eyes widened as he realized it was the very same gun... he held his composure as he gave a quick nod towards Walker. "Maybe I'll hold off on that chair for a bit." He joked, placing the Revolver in the pistol holster on his left hip. Not the best fit but doable, making a mental note to get a propper leather holster when he gets a chance. "Are you going to be okay with that around you?" Rin asked nervously as she recalled all the graphic memories they shared. Roman stayed quiet knowing all too well what the answer was...

Paranatural PCMC Headquarters, Northern Arctic - Containment Block D03

"Don't mess with her, man. That's a damn good way to get a black eye,"

It was Stone who answered on Eddy´s remark and with a dirty smile he took some steps away from the women. He turned around to Stone and gave him a wink.
Guard duty was hard, hard as in being boring like a Lynryd Skynyrd concert, ah heck even more boring! So it comes naturally that people mock each other in a friendly way to let the time run past more smoothly. Eddy and Walker would mostly do it in a more sadistic way but as far as it concerns Eddy he would play hard along the line, nearly passing it and that was exactly that what did now.

"You know i love getting burned when playing with fire" Eddy said to Stone before preparing himself to get a punch landed in his face from the lovely person named Ellie. Such a lovely cuddle butt she was. Either way Eddy rescued by Walker.

"Stone's right. And you're wrong, peckerwood. Fate chooses you"

That man knew when he had to speak and to handle everyone around him. Really the most famous thing about the North Arctic Headquarter was Walker, Eddy bet even in other tribes of the PCMC legends about Walker spread like a bush-fire. That guy~ One could build an altar for him.
Eddy shortly imagined one of the occults altars he has seen so often during his time in the PCMC only with a picture of Eddy in it´s middle....that would be...hilarious.
A short glimpse of amusement showed on Eddy´s face before he broke the cigarette in his hand into two and stuffed the two pieces in his pocket. God damn no-smoking rule during guard duty!

Eddy sighed and nodded~ "Let´s give our Princess of the Pea his meal" Walker took the plate of food while Eddy already put on his mask. He knew it wouldn´t help much if that "thing" really decided to get one of them but still, it could not hurt could it? Eddy sadly did not knew what this smoke "thing" inside Romanov was and that bugged him. It did not show extraterrestrial sign, meaning it wasn´t something "beyond" earth, it rather showed sign of parasitic symbiotic towards it´s host which would mostly lead towards the assumption that it would be a demon but hell it wasn´t!
Demons mostly tend to take over their hosts and changing them physically and mentally into an abdomination, yet this was missing in Roman´s case. It bugged Eddy~ it really did! Since he was known to be THE specialist in demonology and possession and Eddy gained experience even outside the PCMC.

He shook his head as he stepped into the vacuum-chamber and placed his hand onto his chest for a brief moment. It was to take care that a "certain" something was still in place. A simple enchanted amulet, it should grant protection of possession but in fact it was a bit more different. The amulet grants full consciousness while being possessed and well him being a mage, it would end nasty for the being which would then try to infiltrate his mind.
Easily he could turn his mind into an endless labyrinth of memories which are looping in each other and so creating an illusion for the possessor that he is in fact in charge. Eddy even tested this once, well tested isn´t the real word, he rather got surprised by a lesser demon who managed to break the mental wall he normally builds around his mind when handling with them, it was around seven years ago and well....in the end the demon was the one crying in a corner and begging for mercy as he spent two weeks trapped in his mind and facing thus the most terrible memories Eddy ever had to face....one of them was Justin Bieber concert....

The room towards Roman opened and Eddy aimed his shotgun to the right side of the door. He heard that Roman onced whacked Walker with a flash-light. Eddy was surprised that Roman was still alive after that but then even if Roman was once a Spetsnaz he could bet that Walker just shrugged it off like nothing. Hell he was a mountain of a man. Walker just shoved the plate on a small table as Eddy heard a clicking sound.
Quickly Eddy placed a finger into his ear as he kept his eyes on Roman and also his shotgun aimed at him.

"Agent Eddy Doe, report to Tactical for mission briefing ASAP. You will be assigned to Bravo Team, team leader Agent Eric Parker. Further instruction will be relayed on site and in transit. Time is of the essence. Code word: Bow Tie. Out."

Was the transmission which echoed through Eddy´s ear only being hear able to him.
"Ahh well~ maybe we stop at a McDrive for you" Eddy joked as Walker tied him up and the three left the cell towards the medical station. Both of them dropped Roman off there and Eddy continued his way towards the armory. It was standard procedure and Eddy already had his gear on since he had guard duty. He would just pack some extra ammunition for shotgun and his pistol before he would head to the tactical point where he would met with Romanov again.
Making his way through the white hallways Eddy arrived at the armory. And packed some extra and all the mission relevant stuff, he did not know what was going to happen but hell, he was prepared!

Eddy made his way to tactical and waited for the others of his team to be ready. As Roman then opened his small wooden chest he gave him a small wink and rose his voice.
"Remember the next time you would want to attack us with something because if you do we will stick that so far up your ass that your bullet can scratch your nostrils."
And as a sign of good will Eddy reached in his pocket and offered Roman a cigarette while he also places one in his mouth by giving the package a sudden shake.
Lighting his own while waiting he offers it to Roman afterwards~

PCMC HQ (northern arctic) - Lecture Hall 2

Deed reached the lecture hall incredibly late. He looked around at the spattered crowd comprised mostly of his underlings. He'd already briefed all these people. He decides he'll go through the motions anyway. He has a responsibility, and nothing but time.

"As most of you know, we're facing a brand new threat. Never before has an extraterrestrial microbe posed a real threat to us. Now one does. Redactia Euripidae, we're calling it. This bacteria causes flu-like symptoms, but it's lifecycle is far shorter than that of flu viruses, so onset is far more rapid. This may not sound dangerous, but the flu has killed billions throughout history, and as a silicon-based germ, we have no effective medicinal countermeasure. We barely understand how the thing works.

But, it's killed 107 so far and may kill millions more if we can't find a way to get out in front of it."

Deed squirted the excess from a long and menacing syringe before throwing open a curtain to reveal a wide-eyed, orange-jumpsuited man feverishly struggling against restraints. As the convict sees the doctor, he whimpers audibly. For a split-second recognition is visible across his countenance, until it just as quickly slips into a mask of pure despair.

Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Headquarters — Onsite Gym

Jamie had become used to Sean's stand-offish manner, some days she even got two words from him, though today was not one. Still, he'd never gone out of his way to be rude to her, she understood this was just the way he was, and it wasn't about to change. Soon, they were joined by another in the gym, Marissa. Dressed in her leotard and sneaker heels, she looked like something out of a Lady Gaga video. Still, Jamie had to give her credit. There was no way in hell she could move like that in heels, 4 inch heels were the peak of her limits, however that was for walking, not working out.
Jamie gave her a slight smile and wave, sending a quick "hey"'her way before returning to setting up her weights. Cranking her music on her iPhone, when she worked out she liked to put herself in "the zone" with no distractions but a pumping tune, and her repetitions counting in her head. Selecting Déjà Voodoo's Brown Sabbath album, she seated herself to be ready for her tricep pull downs. Dripping her hands on the padded bars, she pulled down, counting to herself as the music blared in her ears. "1.....2....Today tomorrow Timaru
That's where I left you
Washdyke Temuka Dunsandel Rolleston Templeton Hornby Rakaia
I've been thinking about leaving this town
Saying goodbye to Caroline Bay
Since you left me how can I be happy here....10...11...12..." Jamie continued in her head as she continued the repetitions. Thinking about the song playing, she began to wonder what Timaru was like. Years ago, she'd had a housemate from New Zealand, or a Kiwi as he referred to himself as. He'd been kind enough to introduce her to some decent Kiwi music, and for that she was thankful. She soon snapped out of her mini daydream, realising she had indeed lost count.
"Damn it!" She cursed aloud, shaking her head and starting again, this time being sure not to let herself become immersed in the music.
"1....2...3....."
She got this far before feeling the vibrations of her personal terminal indicating se had a new message. Her triceps would have to wait. Sighing, she silenced the music in her ears before logging on.
Reading the message, it was a quick one. She'd become used to not knowing what to expect when a new message arrived. Sometimes it could be a full mission brief, other times a notification to appear to meet, like this one. Figuring it was best not to keep anyone waiting, she began to pack up, deciding to leave her gym gear on until after. There would always be time to change later. Besides, she had only just begun her workout, she had barely any time to break a sweat, so she wouldn't be gracing everyone with her presence by smelling like sweat.
The sound of her sneakers squeak, squeak squeaked her way along the concrete floor as she made her way to Intel Block G14 for the mission brief, her gym towel slung over her shoulder and water bottle in hand, it wasn't too far from the gym to the Intel Block. Quietly letting herself in as not to interrupt anybody, she stood quietly in the room, ready for the briefing to begin.

PCMC HQ North Arctic - Intel Block G14

Large monitoring screens glared at the two from the stifling grey room, displaying slowly scrolling pictures of varied horror. A dilapidated mansion, lost in time and surrounded by the cold embrace of snow. The empty rooms within, forlorn and empty. Agents with scanning equipment, paired with a side screen of the results of such scans. The soft glow of the monitors offered the only light in the sterile room of metal chairs, filing cabinets, a single computer, and a wooden table. The table was strewn with documents and dossiers, all gibberish nonsense and technical jargon that only trained scientific professionals could make heads or tails of. There were none of the comforting false windows with artificial light in this room. Nothing but the warm glow of computer screens. The subtle beeping of a door code and card swipe announced the arrival of a third party, although the unhinging of the door was almost deafening to the dastardly silent room. In walked a man, at least that was what it appeared to be in the low lighting, but his features became subtly more apparent as he strode toward the edge of the table, wingtips clacking on the tiled floor. A vaguely Asian man of indiscernible age stood before them, a gangly man of above average height with hair shined with pomade and slicked back on his scalp. He was done up in a fine Italian suit, as grey as the room around him, just as his collared shirt beneath that was. Only two articles popped out from his dark motif: a blood red tie, and an identifying badge. It read "Chin, Ai Fang, Section Head, Intelligence Department."

"Good afternoon, agents," he greeted, resting both hands on the table. His tone was less friendly and more expectant. A tone of business. "Adams, it is nice to see you again," he addressed the MI6 prior alumni with a nod. Head Chin had had the pleasure of working with Agent Adams before on a few different occasions, one of which he had made a critical insight into the study of Purgatory and the laws that governed it. Since then he asked for his assistance whenever possible, but the man was such an asset that he could rarely be found for work with the Intel Department, especially his own. No doubt he would do good work.
"Bowen, it is... an interesting outfit you have chosen to wear here today," the Asian man stated, his voice raising an octave quizzically. He had only had Agent Bowen under his charge once before. A routine mission on tracking the positions of hidden spacecraft in northern Russia with the assistance of PCMC HQ East Europe. She had not stood out in anyway, but had still performed admirably in her duties. He caught himself ogling and cleared his throat to bring himself back to the task at hand.
"So, as you both are aware, we have had an incident in Husavik, Iceland," began Head Chin, pronouncing Husavik perfectly despite his own slight accent, "And I'm sure that is all the two of you know. If you would please take a glance at the documents before you as I speak." The suited man gestured to the table before himself, stood up off the table and began to pace about the room.
"An urban legend, one of the Doppleganger, stems from many sources, but remains the same in each. I am sure you know the legend, but I love the sound of my own voice and the telling of stories, so I will elaborate." Head Chin flashed them a tight smile before continuing to pace again. "A Doppleganger is a copy of a person, said to look just like them, act just like them. to be just like them. It is said that if a man were to see his Doppleganger, he would be marked for death the very next day. We have encountered many such kinds of doubles in our field, as you both are aware. Skinwalkers. Shapeshifters. Polymorphs. Devilish entities. We have found another truly worthy of the title, 'Doppleganger'." Head Chin halted his pacing to lean on the table once more.

"Murders are being committed across a small area of Iceland. Small to start with, we have only encountered two in this manner since this time last year. The peculiar notion of these murders is that the people murdered are discovered not to be dead. As you are both aware that is a nebulous concept in our field, and I shall explain." The Asian man turned to one of the monitors, producing a remote from his pocket. With a light press of his thumb, he flicked through a small album of photos showing a smiling man and his family.
"This man is Arnar Sigrioursson. As you can see, he is very healthy, happy, and fortunate to have a beautiful wife and happy baby girl." As Head Chin flipped through a handful of other, normal photos, another photo appeared to contrast. This one was one of Arnar lying in a pool of blood, throat slit, face and chest riddled with deep gashes.
"This is his body." With another changing of the slides came more normal family photos, with a non-disputably older child. Arnar appeared to be fine. "And these photos were taken after the discovery of his course. This is the same man in every way. The same blood type, fingerprints, even memories." More clicking led back to the original pictures up on the screen of the old mansion. Head Chin faced his audience with his hands clasped behind his back.
"The Dopplegangers are normal human beings in every way, identical to the real thing. They are physically parallel to normal humans and interviews show no psychopathic tendencies. However. We have discovered that these Dopplegangers have a subconscious desire and motivation to seek out the original who they are a copy of, violently murder them, and assume their lives as if they had lived them in their entirety, even gaining memories in which they could have never had of the original." Chin turned his back again to flick through more slides. "We have traced the appearance of the Dopplegangers to this house in Husavik, and to this-" one more picture appeared, "-mirror." Stark on the screen was a full length silver mirror, around seven feet tall. It was surrounded by an ornate wooden frame with a curved and curled design. Although perfect in every aspect, the reflection of the multiple angles the photos were taken as they appeared upon the screen were warped, as if the mirror were one of the carnival attractions. It held a sense of foreboding, even through its pictures.

"The Dopplegangers appear through this recently discovered mirror, stepping through unannounced. Since our investigative team has arrived, they have had three come through the other side. One is in custody. The other two were of our agents on site, and were shot as soon as their faces emerged." Head Chin let out a sigh through his nose and turned back to face the two. His face was grave.
"Your mission is not an easy one, agents. Although we have a team on-site to monitor this mirror twenty-five hours a day, eight days a week, we have no one available to perform... field work, with the mirror. You see, agents, the upon inspection, this portal works in two ways. One of our agents, Agent Lowell, made an attempt to step through the mirror upon discovery. We lost communications with him within half a minute. He is still somewhere inside the mirror." Head Chin licked his lips, his tell when he was uncomfortable. "And I ask you to succeed where Agent Lowell had failed. I will stress, agents, that this mission is entirely voluntary. If you refuse, we have other available agents, other available methods of testing. But I am asking you both because I am confident that you two will be able to survive, with a detailed report, and possibly with an explanation of Lowell's disappearance, if not the man himself. If you wish, you may walk out the door and pretend that I did not speak to you today. But I have faith that you will succeed, faith in your skills. Please, read over the dossiers once more and think of an answer." Head Chin turned to the monitors for one last time and switched them off. The room was bathed in darkness for a moment or two, but the sound of wingtips on tile were heard until the overhead lights beamed on, flooding the room in their harsh shining luminescence. Head Chin calmly walked to the end of the table where he had stood and pulled out a chair. He folded his hands over the wooden tabletop and hunched his shoulders as he stared past Sean and Jade.

PCMC North Arctic HQ - Armory/Tactical Briefing

The pair had dragged the subject to medical without incident, as expected. Romanov played nice when he went outside the wire. Hell, it was the most interesting thing he had to do, besides all the free movies they let him watch. Walker would probably assault some poor fucker with a chair too if he didn't have anything to do all day but read shitty magazines and jerk off all day. After the commie bastard was out, the doc handed both Eddy and Walker their "failsafes". The detonators for the thermite charge the placed in his chest every time. It was strict protocol to never tell Romanov about it, but it was a little extra insurance in the case of him going rogue. If an agent hit the detonator, he was dead. If all agents had been KIA, he was dead. If he escaped the mission area, he was dead. Simple concept, really. Play nice, follow the rules, and you get to live to see your shitty magazines again. Walker pocketed his detonator in his grenade pouch and headed out with Eddy.
"Y'know, much as I hate that Russian asshole, he's grown on me a bit. Man's got fire. Gotta respect that." Walker stated. As he reached the tactical area, another agent in full tactical gear much like the two of them stood with a P90 in one hand and a scanner in the other. Poor bastard. Scanning duty was always the worst. At least when you're in the holding blocks you could fuck around and had someone to talk to. Fucker was in so much gear you couldn't see an ounce of skin on him.
"Names?" he asked the two of them.
"Honey Badger Agent Eric Parker. Code word Radio Shack," Walker stated. Eddy gave his own statement and they waved them on through. The two of them marched up to issue and began collecting gear for the mission. Agent Richard Rodney was behind the bullet proof glass, like he always was. Rodney was a shorter New England guy, looked to be in his early thirties, buff as hell. Man looked like he hadn't missed chest and shoulders day in decades. Rodney was the Supply Chief for PCMC North Arctic, knew all the gear in and out. Could probably take apart all the different weapons in sequence blindfolded and put them back together starting over from the first one.
"How ya doin' Rowdy?" Walker greeted in his familiar Southern drawl. Called him 'Rowdy' from his Little Man Syndrome and the fact that he could probably bench two agents in full gear. Before the nanofiber muscles surgery. Now it was probably one of the Falcons.
"Doin' good, doin' good. Got some nice little gifts for ya." His accent spoke of Jersey, as did his slicked back raven black hair. Man more than likely had some Italian in him. He slide the standard gear issue through the slot for the men fresh off guard duty to pocket. Couple flashbangs, NVGs, TacComs (tactical computers, little cool wrist-mounted puppies. Survive a 9 mil round straight to the display and keep on truckin'), choke collars (a snap on collar meant to "disrupt a target's neuro-spinal response. Pretty much made an insta-paraplegic as long as they had the collar on), and other little goodies they'd need like flashlights and shells and pistol rounds.
"Hold on there, Hoss. I'mmonna stop you right there," Walker interrupted. He pulled out the non-essentials from his person and began setting them on the counter. Helmet, NVGs, shells, M1014 shotgun, and Glock 21 handgun (standard issue on both counts) all came back. Eddy was apparently content enough to keep his shotgun, and had been issued a little extra. Flechette and slugs came with his standard 12 buck, and a spellbook and ritual bag were supplied as well.
"Gimme the Ranger special," Walker stated. Agent Rodney, expecting as much, shrugged and went further back to retrieve his gear. Walker wouldn't go into a mission without personalizing his equipment. It was bad luck to change your socks before a baseball game, and it was twice as bad to change out a gun that works. Rodney returned with an armful of gear and began to pile it through the slot.

"One H&K IAR, 6.5 Grendel modified with all the bells and whistles, check." He fed it to the slot stock first, per the norm, with the bolt forward so the recipient could see for themselves there was no round in the chamber. Walker lifted it to the light, saw the light through the barrel, and sent the bolt home with a mighty clap of stainless steel on stainless steel. A beauty of a weapon, clad in all black finish with a longer barrel, reminiscent of a heavy-duty M4 without the front sight post. Outfitted with an Eotech holographic sight, a sloping foregrip, and a flashlight and laser sight on each side rail. 6.5mm Grendel gave it the kick of a 7.62 without the drop for the range, and the stock was perfectly fitted to Walker's shoulder. Roberta was crudely scratched into the rifle just above the magazine well.
"One M1911A1, SpecOps model." A black Colt .45 found its way to the other side of the glass, starkly plain compared to Walker's rifle, which he slid in his modifiable holster.
"One pig sticker." A standard issue K-BAR tactical knife came through the slot afterwards, to which Walker affixed to the bayonet tab on his compensator. Most people would claim that a bayonet was more to inspire confidence in a soldier than it was useful, but Walker had used his enough to tell those people where they could stick their opinions.
"One Comanche butter knife." In through the slot came a tactical hatchet with a Molle holster. Walker would have to take the time to affix it to his waist later, so he stuffed it into his mag dump pouch for the time being.
"Six pull tab mags, 25 rounds each for a total of 150 rounds of 6.5 Grendel." Walker scooped up the mags and quickly fit them all in his mag pouches, sliding the velcro top of the pouches behind the mags themselves. Much quicker to pull mags that way.
"Four pistol mags, 7 rounds each for a total of 28 rounds of .45 ACP." Walker also pocketed these in the smaller pouches on his right shoulder.
"Single pair of tactical Oakleys." Rodney slid a pair of combat-grade bulletproof shatterproof sunglasses Walker's way. They were infused with the same technology as the other agents tactical goggles, giving him IR, NVG, and a combat HUD akin to Warrior Net all in one badass package.
"Ball cap and a can of Grizzly." Last but not least, a simple black baseball cap that looked as if it had seen some wear and a tin of smokeless tobacco came through.
"You know what I like..." Walker commented, smiling at his can of dip. 'Bout time he caught some nicotine. "Much obliged to ya fine sir," he thanked, pulling his cap and shades onto his head. Motioning his head for Eddy, the two made it into the locker room to wait on the rest of the crew and for Walker to adjust his newly found gear.

It wasn't long before they were joined by a familiar Russian face, asking Walker a question. The gun. Yeah, he knew. It's significance wasn't lost on Walker, but he didn't know its history. All guns had a history, y'see, but this one was a mystery.
"Sure as shit, Princess. Wasn't easy, but it's yours," he commented, rolling his sleeves up to just before the elbow. Walker always went out into the field looking like a Ranger and always would if he'd have his say. Many of the "Plan B" Tactical Team were prior something or other, and they often took their own flair into the field, Walker being the only ranger among them. Most units would have unified weapons, but not Bravo Team. A hodgepodge of guns and uniforms. Squad worked better that way. Everyone knew who everyone was just by the way they looked and they weapon they carried. All in all, it was six of them including himself, the demonic subject, and the Englishman. No room for fuck ups. Walker began to attach the straps for his hatchet to his waist as more of his tactical team ran around trying to get dressed in a hurry.
"I ain't surprised too much. You commies tend to be old fashioned 'bout that kinda stuff. I kinda liked to upgrade, myself," Walker chatted with him casually, slapping his IAR twice to send home his point. Walker stood up, slinging the weapon around his shoulders and loosening the clip on his three-point so he could bring it to shoulder, and walked over to the trash can. Sure enough, he retrieved a Gatorade bottle from the trash and sat back down as Eddy joked his own threats. Agent Parker didn't seem to worried, wasn't the first time he was around the Ruski with a gun. What the hell was he gonna do? He was surrounded by agents armed to the teeth. The man was good, maybe as good as Walker himself, but he stood no chance of walking out of the locker room alive. He flicked his wrist repeatedly to condense his dip, the can snapping in his fingers before taking out a fat pinch.
"Brit's right, commie," he said with a point, "Don't be gettin' no funny ideas now, or I'll go elbow deep to get it back and put one in your skull."

PCMC North Arctic - Hanger 12

Dizzy was already halfway in the co-pilot's seat when a gloved hand grabbed her by what fabric there was to grab on her flight suit and yanked her down.
"Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there Dizzy Devil, mission brief," came an all-too-familiar-yet-unliked voice. Agent Myers stared her in the face, looking down to her shorter stature. She glared at him in challenge, helmet under one arm, lunch in the other.
"Get some time to stuff our faces on duty, eh?" he taunted. Myers and Dizzy never did have the best relationship, but to the benefit of everyone around them it was always funny to watch. Myers was one of the few ballsy enough to piss her off for fun.
"Fukyoumaars," came Dizzy's retort with her mouth full of wrap, sticking her mush-covered tongue out at him. Myers sauntered cockily over to Richards harassing another one of his maintenance crew with the fiery Scott in tow. The "pit crew" and pilots never saw eye to eye on a regular. Always thought they were big shots because they got to fly the birds. Without the pit crew, the flight team was grounded, and Myers let every hot shot and Blue Angel wannabe know every chance he got.
"We fixed your fuckin' problem, alright? Now chill the fuck out and listen," Myers commanded. Chew him out all he wants, Myers would just tell Mr. Red Baron to go shove it where the sun don't shine. But he'd be damned if a junior agent was going to boss around one of his crew.

"You're goin' to an oil rig, just off the Alaskan coastline. You're job is transport and fire support. 20mm cannons, 7.62 machine gun fire, and tactical drones. No explosives! This is comin' straight from top, and they're being removed from the Vulture anyway so you can't use'em. If you somehow do have an explosive on the bird, under no directive are you to fire that explosive. I don't care if you get an order from the Director, your dad, Jesus Christ himself, you do not. Fire. That explosive. Are we clear? You will be piloting Bravo Team. You will be assisted by Charlie Team and Eigo Team from PCMC East Asia Division. This is a clean up job, and you are to kill as many hostiles as you have bullets, understood? Your callsign is "Albatross 1", Charlie is "Albatross 2", and Eigo is "Albatross 3". If you suspect yourself to be impaired or hallucinating, you are to give control to your co-pilot, stand down from the mission, and record all your hallucinations in detail. If both of you are hallucinating, you are to contact Albatross 2 and 3, inform them of your status, and pull out of the mission. Albatross 2 and 3 will remain for transport. If you find yourself over Canadian shores and the hallucinations have not subsided, execute Order Sierra One. If all pilots find themselves hallucinating, contact HQ for request to execute Order Mike Gold. If the oil rig is structurally compromised to the point of implosion, contact HQ for request to execute Order Mike Gold. Coordinates are in your SatNav. Try not to get everyone killed, Ace."
With that, Agent Myers walked away to command the rest of his crew, still performing last-minute flight checks.

Order Sierra One wasn't good. It meant serious business. It meant suicide. Order Sierra One stated that a compromised agent still able to do so would kill themselves to avoid contamination of uncontaminated regions, civilians, or other agents. Order Mike Gold was shorthand for their satellite laser system, the Sub-Orbital Laser Array Relay, codename S.O.L.A.R. Shit was usually pretty deep when they brought S.O.L.A.R. out. Burnt everything on the ground below it, melts metal to goo, makes rucks runny, puts everything else to the 'extra crispy' setting. Dizzy looked over to Henry.
"Did you hear the way he talked to you? I think he found out you were retarded," she snarked, smiling a little to herself. "C'mon! Pre-flight checks, ya? Get checkin'!" Dizzy hustled off again around the other side of the Vulture to clamber into her seat, wrap in her mouth to free up a climbing hand. Sat down, buckled in, helmet half off, wrap still in her jaws, Dizzy began to go over the vehicle status indicators. Today wouldn't be the day to fuck things up.

PCMC North Arctic HQ - Tactical Briefing

After giving his troops time to situate themselves, gear up and get ready, Agent Parker spit into his bottle and stood up. His entire time in the locker room had been spent listening to the briefing agent through his cochlear radio, even while he was speaking to Eddy and the Russian.
"Alright you pussies, shut the fuck up!" he boomed in a completely different voice, drowning out the speaking below him. His entire countenance and demeanor changed in a snap, transitioning from good ol' boy from Texas into a mountain of a man, leader of men.
"We all good? We all green? Who is not?" Walker was met by silence.
"Then let's kick this shit. We're headed to an oil rig off the coast of Alaska, where we'll be joined by Chucklenuts Charlie and some slant-eyes from Eigo Team out in PCMC East Asia. But Plan B will be leadin' the charge, hooah?" at the sound of his term, the team let out various shouts of their own flavor. Couple 'oorahs', a 'hooyah', a 'damn straight!', but the spirit was the same.
"Discovered this morning at 0400 and 35 hours, the pipeline became breached by an unknown entity, and that unknown entity slaughtered the crew like a pig in a butcher shop. Discovered at 0500 and 22 hours, Tactical Team 'Renegade' Romeo was dispatched to find out details and neutralize the threat. Tactical Team Romeo is now KIA or MIA. We are now being sent to clean house." Walker received another round of cheers, but interrupted the team.
"Shut the fuck up and listen! Other than flashbangs, you have not been issued explosives. If you have explosives, turn them in to the armory right fuckin' now." Walker waited another moment for stragglers. None moved.

"This is because we cannot endanger the structural integrity of the pipeline. If that pipeline is ruptured, we will have trouble containing the threat. Your enemy is not human. Your enemy is described as 'flailing corpses with extra limbs and no faces'. If you see something not human, empty the magazine. If you see something less than human, other than our communist friend here, empty the magazine. Your mission is to escort Agent 'Evil Eye' Eddy Doe to the source of the breach where he can attempt containment witchcraft. Failing that, Plan B is to attempt to neutralize the threat. Failing that, Plan B is to retreat and initiate Order Mike Gold. Videos and pictures of the enemy will be shown during flight. You will enter by fast-rope, exit by bay door, and tactical orders will be discussed on touch down. Are we clear?" Walker received another round of cheers, but his face soured.
"Ah know Plan B's better than that weak ass bullshit! I said ARE WE CLEAR!!" The men shouted louder this time, echoing their battle cries throughout the locker room, armory, and even out to the hanger.
"That's what I'm fuckin' talkin' about! Now get your asses in the bird, we leave an hour ago!" Walker slapped each man on the shoulder as the rushed by, but caught Romanov by the back of the flak.
"Not you, Red. Gotta have a talk with you." Walker looked around to make sure everyone was gone, and confronted the Russian when he was sure of it.
"Now listen here, commie. They didn't want me to tell you this to keep up a 'blind', but I ain't havin' it. When you're out there, you might start freakin' out and shit might start fuckin' with your mind, but under no fuckin' circumstances are you to shoot my men, understood!? I don't care if you think one of them is eating your face, I don't care if I order you to kill the team, it's all in your fuckin' head, got it? If we get so much as one friendly fire incident out there and I have an inklin' that it's you, I'll send you straight to Hell myself, and I know you've seen what's there. And you ain't speak to nobody about this. Nobody.You get me, Comrade?" Walker was downright imposing at this point, face full of red, looking like he would kill Romanov any second if it weren't for some mysterious force keeping him from it.
"Now git yer ass in my bird! We're doin' God's work!" Walker took off with Romanov towards the Vulture and piled in after him.
"Bravo Team's green! Let's get our asses in the air!" he shouted to the maintenance crew as the bay doors closed behind him.

Rome reached his off hand out for the cigarette and stuck in between his lips unlit. He hated the things but it camoflauged the smoke coming off his skin. He could feel Rin getting anxious and quickly retreated back from Eddy with a solid thank you middle finger before heading back to his locker to load up the rest of his weapons. The entire Motley crew was here and ready now and like clockwork Walker stood up on a nearby bench and gave his bear-stanced rendition of a mission briefing. Walker started explaining the situation and Rome just listened towards the back of the crew while loading up his trusty old Ak-47. Not many bells and whistles like most of the others here. No red dots, no laser, scopes, auto-targeting flying watchamacallits just good ol' ironsights and about three pairs of taped together 30-round magazines full of 7.62×38 made of sturdy steel shoved into his flak vest, not this polymer based crap that they served dinner to him on. Worse case scenario he could jam a mag in a mans skull... then pull it back out and finish reloading it. Remember back in spetznaz they would often purposely fill the Kalashnikovs full of mud and sand and instruct trainees to "shake and fire" it would go boom every time. Why trade reliability for bells and whistles that can and will go wrong? Remembering the saying that his father once told him "These were built in the time that men were men and women were too!" The voice of his father echoed through his mind. Rin couldn't help but laugh at the motto. Slinging it over his shoulder he grabbed a small boot knife with a partial serrated edge on one side and slid it into one of his long calved boots. He was about to grab a small satchel full of M80 grenades but almost as if walker said it straight to him the demand for no explosives stopped him dead in his tracks. He had the balls to sneak one in just to be defiant but walking around on an oil rig didnt sit right with a live grenade in his back pocket so he let it go and grabbed a Spetsnaz standard issue survival shovel/axe.

Your enemy is not human. Your enemy is described as 'flailing corpses with extra limbs and no faces'. If you see something not human, empty the magazine.

"Fuck!" He accidently blurted. Of course he got the fucked up mutated things that are questioned to be dead or not. If its dead-reanimated flesh Rin may not be able to help here. Posessing one of these things to have on our side would prove to be very helpfull with Rin at the helm. Rome nixed the helmet and opted for a black Balaclava and IR and thermal vision goggles.... hopefully these things give off heat. Wrapping a throat communicaator collar around his neck before covering it with a Rustic red wool scarf for moderate protection from the elements. Nixing the stereotypes that all russians love the cold. Checking and triple checking the rest of his gear making he's got plenty of ammo and a couple speed loaders for his revolver handy half lost in thought when he heard Walker finish up the briefing with his usual hype-up. Roman just clapped entheusiastically when the others hooted and hollared as if saying "get the fuck on the plane already" obviously the only one who heard it was Rin whom rather enjoyed the speeches knowing well that humans willingly put themselves into suicidal missions for such illusions called "Glory" or "Honor" it was quite amusing...

"Not you, Red. Gotta have a talk with you."

"Red" stopped in his tracks and noticed the suspicious look on walkers face when he reached for his flak. The look of a Bear protecting her cubs.

"When you're out there, you might start freakin' out and shit might start fuckin' with your mind, but under no fuckin' circumstances are you to shoot my men, understood!? I don't care if you think one of them is eating your face, I don't care if I order you to kill the team, it's all in your fuckin' head, got it? If we get so much as one friendly fire incident out there and I have an inklin' that it's you, I'll send you straight to Hell myself, and I know you've seen what's there. And you ain't speak to nobody about this. You get me, Comrade?"

He knew Walker fairly well by now and knew for a fact that if his team was in trouble he'd rather give his left nut to keep his company safe. If it wasn't obvious before it was obvious now that he would never give the command to shoot his own team and Roman knew this well. He took in the other information about the hallucinations and made a mental note in the back of his head... next to Rin. Pulling up his Balaclava and shoving the now bent and unlit cigarette in his mouth with Walker inches from his face. "I wouldn't waste the bullet... comrade" Romans face emotionless and worthy to be cast in stone. "Just be sure that its not Red versus Blue in there and all will be hunky dory... dah?"

When Myers started mouthing off to Henry he just snorted. As soon as he began talking Henry subtly began shifting to the side, enough that Myers had to turn his head away to speak to Dizzy. As soon as he did, Henry started making sarcastic hand gestures. When Myers mentioned Order Sierra One he stopped for a moment. It was soon followed by the possibility of Order Mike Gold. Henry made his way over the Vulture and followed dizzy into the cockpit. As the canopy was closing he yelled to Myers, "Hey Myers! If I took a big ol shit in the back, who'd have to clean it up?" The canopy closed shut before he could respond, even if he would dignify it with a response. Henry chuckled, he liked Myers, he tended to like anyone who had the balls to give Dizzy even a portion of the shit she gives others, even if Myers didn't like him.
"Did you hear the way he talked to you? I think he found out you were retarded," Dizzy snarked.
Henry grinned his big toothy grin he usually does. Once again throwing on a thick fake accent, this time theatrically southern, "Well goooooollllyyyyy gee miss, guess that makes us a good team."
Henry and Dizzy quickly began their pre-flight checks, everything green across the board. He wasn't going to jack in until they got the squads into the ship, as jacking into the systems tended to give him a bit of a headache.
Henry's smile faded for a moment as the thought crossed his mind, I guess it's fitting that they chose albatross as our callsign, because we're going to need as much luck as we can get.

PCMC HQ North Arctic - Intel Block G14

Jamie nodded in salute to Head Chin, it had been quite some time since she had last seen him, the last time being the Russian spacecraft case. She chuckled slightly as he pointed out her choice of outfit. Perhaps she should have changed before meeting Sean and Head Chin at Intel Block 14. Noticing he was slightly ogling her, she chose to ignore it. There was nothing wrong with a bit of harmless looking, and Jamie's outward appearance didn't exactly scream 'raging dyke'.
As Head Chin mentioned the case documents, Jamie began to look over the file, while keeping a close ear on Head Chin's briefing. Iceland. Jamie didn't know a lot about Iceland, except for the fact that it was pretty friggin cold, the capital city is Reykjavik (The things that cluttered her head from pub trivia nights was rather random), and that Iceland was one of the first countries in the world to legalise same-sex marriage. Oh, the things that pro-equality pages on Facebook had taught her.
The Doppelganger case seemed interesting, giving Jamie an instant sense of deja vu, reminding her a lot of an episode of the X-Files where there were two agents that appeared to be Mulder and Scully, but in fact were doppelgangers. Not one to extensively research every episode of the X-Files she'd seen, that was the extent of her knowledge on doppelgangers. Still, she was eager to find out more.
Wincing a little at the image of the bloodied man, she indeed was surprised to see that same man, looking perfectly fine in a photo taken after the discovery of his body. It was remarkable.
Listening intently to the information about the mirror, Jamie looked at the mirror closely. Sure, it was beautiful, almost looking antique in a way, but it also looked sinister, giving Jamie chills up and down her spine. Though she couldn't put her finger on it, something was definitely amiss.
As Head Chin's spiel continued, it became apparent as to why the mirror seemed so sinister. It was the gateway to wherever the doppelgangers came from. At least they had one in custody, though the disappearance of an agent was never pleasant. Especially considering the odds were never in the agents' favour once in an area with no communication. So the case was voluntary. As were many other cases. But that's not why Jamie was there. She had a duty, and saw no point in being an agent if she were to refuse a case. She had a duty. She was as loyal as it came, and there was no way in hell she was going to let her down. She knew it could possibly spell the end of her, but that was willing to take. It was her job, and she would do it well, whether she lived to see the end of it or not.
The room went dark momentatily, with Jamie shielding her face with her forearm as the lights snapped off, her eyes not having enough time to adjust to the blinding light filling the room. Daring to let her eyes adjust, she was finally focused after a few minutes.
Looking directly at Head Chin, she nodded.
"I accept. We need to get Lowell back"

Paranatural Countermeasures Conglomerate Arctic Headquarters — Hallway: Intel Block G14

These meetings always varied; at PCMC, one must expect the unexpected, but never plan to improvise. Two cliches strung together, but it gets the point across very nicely.

Head Chin demanded attention, and Sean gave it to him wholeheartedly, though made no expression or features other than a blank stare and the occasional nod. Sean usually had no thoughts other than ones that directly related to the task at hand. He usually treated all of his assignments as they should be, not with any level elation to see the unknown or do no things, but rather just the necessity that each mission came with. The necessity to complete them in order to save human, the necessity to traverse the unknown and risk one's life, and the necessity to potentially sacrifice and innocent soul for the greater good, however reluctant he may be. That, and not the evidence or the dossiers or the information splayed out in front of him and being verbally tossed at him, sent chills down his spine; to sacrifice another human being to satiate the desires and whims of those malignant beings or those just designed for survival was a notion Sean was too familiar with. He made himself familiar with it and it chilled him to the core that he couldn't let it all go. One can steel themselves in the moment, but afterwards, they can either forget it ever happened or live with the guilt. Sean tried the former, but always fell into the guilt that stung and demanded attention.

Just like Chin demanded his.

Sean's eyes followed the man as he explained the situation, before his eyes fell to the papers to fully comprehend the mission. This wasn't new to him, traversing to other dimensions and his certain doom. He hadn't literally fell into a gaping maw of nether, but he'd stared into it, maybe a little too long because what he saw chilled him to the core. It's what people like him had to live with, and though it haunted him still, he was at least glad to know he was still alive and human. But, even a senior agent had to feel at least a tad bit anxious with these things. No one ever got over the anxiety that they'd never come back, they just learned not to show it and Sean was good at not showing a lot of things.

The darkness engulfed the three of them, the sound of wingtips and his breathing the only audible thing to Sean. And when the lights turned on and Chin awaited a reply, he simply looked up at Jade, who stood immediately.

"Saving Lowell isn't our priority," he muttered. His hands waved over the files in front of him, eyes scrutinizing the data on them before closing it and standing. He gave Chin a look and a nod before turning to Jade.

"If you trust me, I trust you," he said, holding out a hand for her to shake, "If you want to make it out alive, that's the only advice I can give you."

Sean turned back toward Chin, awaiting further directions, his hands interlocked behind him and a stern look on his face.