[I]Jungle...why did it have to be jungle?[/i] thought Alastair to himself from his seat in the 'Eagle', his eyes having not even blinked for at least five minutes as he let his mind run over the information that Baskerville - an old buddy from the SAS, and a damn good pilot to boot - was feeding them all. He would have been fine in sleet, rain, gales and fog, in mountains or urban environments, even in arctic conditions, but he hated jungles with all his Scottish heart! They were humid, buzzing with insects, and in spite of being involved in numerous jungle conflicts, he had never gotten used to them.

All around him were seated his comrades-in-arms, the Devils as they called themselves, five of the finest professional killers and mercenaries available this side of the [i]Angel Protocols[/i]. He was the oldest of them, as if he needed further reminding by his own subconscious, but showed no outside signs of stopping any time soon - although inside his own mind, at least, it was a different story; one could only see so much war, death and ruin without it having some form of hold on you. It was thoughts such as these that he kept buried deep, deep, [b]deep[/b] down inside, thoughts that might one day surface and send him into a spiral of self-destruction.

Without thinking he gave his load-out another perfunctory glance over, making sure each weapon was loaded and his knife was within easy reach. It was also at this point, dressed as he was in only jungle-pattern fatigues, a bush-hat, and without any armour whatsoever covering his body, that he was alerted once more to the fact that he was one of only two members of the Devils who forwent the use of any cybernetics or exo-suits to help in their duties of dealing death to their foes; the other member of the team in a similar boat was the not unattractive [i]Magpie[/i], their resident South African sharpshooter, although she seemed to do abhor cybernetics for differing reasons than he did.

Let's be honest, he knew he was a relic of bygone era, of a time when warfare was conducted without the need for such enhancements. Like the musket or the cavalryman, he was from a time when ones skill came from determined training, girt, and and endurance of the mind over the limitations of the body. His gear only helped with this image - his VIRTUS armour, for example, having been a new prototype over a decade before this current mission, now already taken out of service and replaced with better and more advanced forms of body armour.

[I]Pffft,[/i] he grunted inside [i]sod the lot of them.[/i]

[B]”...hit em hard. Hit em quick. The earlier you get out, the less we have to worry about Mr Cortez and his tendencies."[/b]

Claymore raised his carbine to his shoulder, taking a knee in the soft earth of the jungle, as soon as they disembarked from the slowly shrinking transport. He focused down the optics and allowed himself time to become better acquainted with the surroundings, opening his ears and his nostrils more than his eyes, scanning every treeline and possible observation spot around them.

Not long after allowing himself to relax to a point of flexible alertness, his earpiece crackled and the voice of the seasoned Brazilian known as [i]Cheetah[/i] filled the silence of the jungle.

”Hey Claymore." He said in a low tone. "How you wanna run this?"

"Don't be loud, that's all I'm gonna say. I don't know about you, but I wanna enjoy this payday on mother earth, not up there with the angels and the Big Guy."

The Scotsman gave another small sigh, only having so much patience for the loud-mouthed Italian and his quips, something he believed must be some form of nervous defense mechanism when it came to the young Devil.

"First we need to get a lock on that tracker," grunted the stoic soldier into the mic of his headset, "I'll leave that to one of your servo-heads and your fancy suits." He took a deep breath and pondered a moment longer, "Specter and Jackal, you're our forward scouts on this one, spread out, keep your eyes and ears open and your movements quiet. Me and Cheetah will bring up the centre, with the good Doctor at our side, and Magpie will act as rearguard and supporting fire."

It was a common enough 'play', one they had practiced and used before, and at least for the moment it did not hurt to do the familiar.

"Doctor," he directed at the Russian cyber genius, "if you feel like having one of your toy robots give us a birds-eye view, then please do by all means. Just make sure to keep it low and out of sight of potential threats. I'll leave the choice up to you, just don't get us all killed."

Falling back into silence, he waited for everyone to acknowledge that they had understood, and for [i]someone[/i] to get to grips with the location of that tracking device and the apparent location of their quarry.