Merlin watched, sizing up Captain Upton, or JB, as he was better known. A formidable operator, the same age, and of US Special Forces calibre. That he already knew, he was a US Marine, MARSOC maybe, or something more niche. UGAs, or unnamed governmental agency, perhaps, he was shady, but known to Merlin, at least. The bearded Special Boat Service CWO itched his beard, listening to the rushing brief. Covert agency, check, dangerous and radically, well armed threat, check. This was at least different to bearded sheep-shagging fucks in Syria that were killed by a bearded....actually, that was the domain of the Welsh, Merlin just killed them! Or at least, he hoped one of his old squad mates hadn't kept something from him while on a recce op, he mentally hoped. Still, Valkyrie sounded fierce, and unrelenting. A covert and silent sword in the dark would keep them from expanding, and getting started on intel and information would keep them in check. It was a lot to know, and deniability wasn't a big deal to Merlin. He'd done a few of these already, and going out for glory wasn't the approach that best served Queen and Country, it was duty, and loyalty to your men that did the trick. If it meant black bars, so be it, and aftermaths could always be dealt with, some way, or another. The Captain was certain, confident, and knew what was going on with the game, and if time was of the essence, then they would get it done, one way or another. A baptism of fire. That, and the fact that like Erik, like Seb, Merlin too, was an alcoholic. But he enjoyed cider far too much to tell.
Standing up, Merlin looked up to JB, as the other recruits began to leave the briefing room. He stood from his chair, at his height, a distinct smirk on his face, as he approached the Captain.
"Captain. Chief Warrant Officer Merlin Bastion, at your disposal. I'm told I'm your 2IC. They call me Wizard. For the obvious reason." Merlin simply said to Captain Upton, or JB, a part of Merlin's mind wanting to already chuckle at what that meant. Jack Bauer? James Bond? Jason Bourne? Justin Bieber? If he was Canadian, the motherfucker, even if he was his Commanding Officer, was going to get the literal shit ripped from him by Merlin, he thought to himself, that was literally not going to fucking end, ever. But he wasn't, he calmly reminded his mind. He was an American. Still.....JB. Maybe not as bad as his name, perhaps. Though he did look a lot like that guy from the Bourne Identity...maybe his mind was playing tricks. Reputation, and the operation at hand first.
"I've heard about your work, no doubt you've heard of mine. We're both men of the sea. Both weathered." Merlin said, as the last man left the room, that being Cpl Edward Thatcher, the New Zealander following behind the last that headed swiftly out from the brief, to the armoury on the enormous ship. Looking back at JB, Merlin leaned against the steel bulkhead, adjusting his beanie, sighing. He'd seen enough bullshit in this briefing room. A girl who didn't look like she could cut it, another who was clearly only a little better, two Poles who were poles apart in his mind, and another American, an unknown, but someone who looked like they'd seen enough SOF work to know best. There was the Canadian Sergeant, who was another unknown, and the other Canadian, a CBRN specialist who even Merlin had heard of, "Blacktail" a distant memory from a tour in Afghanistan. Then there was the Norwegian, a fellow Kraken, someone again, from Afghan. And last, there was Edward. Jesus, he hoped that fucking lad understood the gravity of this. It felt like there was no room for error, and Merlin didn't hide that on his face, as he looked icily at JB, his face stern, his voice, if you had to really get imaginary about it, like the sound that you would expect a German Shepard to make, if it could speak Human. Almost growling, hard, cold, and loud, unrestrained when he knew it had to make some impact on the CO, even if it wasn't much at all.
"Some of those lads are fucking fresh meat though. With all due respect, I'd keep a fucking eye on them, and I think you already know who. Just as a word to the wise, JB." Merlin simply made the comment, as honest as he could be, no venom spared on his tongue, as he looked back at the operational map on the wall, and the insertion, the approaches, the compound.
"I'll be gearing up. We've got lots of approaches on this run, Captain, I can already see the jungle's ripe for us. If we want to capture one of these men, making sure they don't blow up is a start, so stealth can be considered. Or we go full fucking Tropic Thunder, I grab the Minimi and we hose down any fucker we encounter, and we don't stop till we find ourselves some intel on paper or on a hard disk, not in someone. After all, a Wizard can arrive in a puff of smoke and mirrors, or a fireball." Merlin smirked, knowing that perhaps he was unorthodox, but however JB rose to this, was going to be the mark of whoever he was going to be serving in this unit. He just hoped that he'd take it well, the bearded, beanie wearing CWO awaiting a response.
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Edward followed behind the group, and to his side, he saw the Norwegian on the team, Erik, he believed he was called, wanting to make an acquaintance on the team, as he spoke in his usual Kiwi accent.
"I heard you're the Viking? Crazy to think, we're in this team. And we should be allowed into our armoury about now, after I checked earlier on. I mean, last time I entered an armoury on a base, the quartermaster bollocked me...can you believe that? Told him I was new to the base, still wasn't happy. It's only the room with guns, anyway!" Edward chuckled, laughing, as they made their way inside, the quartermaster nodding them in, as Edward found his patch, ready to go with the kit he'd requested, and had a brief glance at a few hours earlier.
Wraith, or Ed, began gearing up, going through his equipment from the base to the top. AOR1, a digital camouflage in forested/tropical was the choice, a lovely pattern that went well, as he donned his BDU, the Plate Carrier, the boonie that covered his head, as well as facepaint. The Mk14 sat nicely, all it's usual attachments already mounted, sprayed in the usual pattern of choice that he preferred for it. He went through magazines, grenades, the secondary MP7A2 with this loadout, and his trusty P226. Sliding a clip in, before peeling it out, just for his mental sake, he smirked. He had more to go through, and more to still inspect over.
