[center][b][u]PCMC Headquarters, North Arctic - Mess Hall[/u][/b][/center]

"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.

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[center][b][u]PCMC Headquarters, Northern Arctic - Containment Block D03[/u][/b][/center]

"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 [i]you[/i]" stressed Walker with a point. He'd stopped dancing know that it was time to do business.The stereo began blaring [i]Hells Bells[/i] 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.