[h3]Magpie[/h3]
Magpie hated flying, ironically enough. It was the lack of control that unsettled her, she told herself; the fact that she had no say in where she went, how quickly she got there, and how she would get there. It seemed to betray some vague sense of freedom that Magpie felt was her right to have, and so she hated it. In truth, the idea of plummeting ten thousand feet into the middle of nowhere made her heart sink, and drawing out that slow, inevitable demise by using a [I]parachute[/I] only seemed to scare her further. She grimaced, and had been almost the entire flight, her expression hidden by the thick grey-brown cowl that covered her face and head, and as the Eagle touched down in a clearing in the thick South American jungle terrain she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She gripped her Winchester rifle tightly, stood up from her seat in the vehicle, and when she hopped out of the Eagle and heard her boots land on the dusty earth with a thud and a crunch her expression changed to a slight, comfortable smile, visible only by the slightest crinkle of the corner of her eyes, just about the only part of her visible beneath her clothing and armour. Magpie scanned the surrounding area eagerly, rusty brown eyes taking in the sights of the jungle terrain, and her perceptive senses picking up every sound and smell from around and outside of the group.

Although she had not visited South America before, Magpie knew this kind of terrain well. The trees were thick and obscured their view of anything more than a hundred feet away (and even then only in the best conditions available), which would cover their approach from those who might want to do them harm, but would also make it difficult to spot any kind of ambush or trap laid out before them that might have been organised by those very same people. They would have to be swift, silent, and constantly on their toes. Thankfully, Magpie thought that she was rather good at those things, and walked with an eager spring in her step. She patted the eagle on the side of its metal hull and stepped back as it rose into the sky, stranding them all here in the jungle. That was just rosy.

Claymore barked a few orders at the group, and Magpie was in no position to complain about his decisions. She fancied herself as something of a scout, but her skills put her neatly in the position of spotting and covering fire, the position of which she had been designated. She was the rear guard, and if anyone thought they could sneak up on the group with her there then they had what was coming to them, courtesy of Magpie’s increasingly itchy trigger finger. “Got it, boss,” she replied, a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice when she said the word ‘[I]boss[/I]’. Devils had an interesting way of organising their groups and treated them more as messes of individuals rather than structured fire-teams. Because of this leadership could be quite fluid, even if everyone tended to find their niche in the group quite quickly.

Although naturally eager to rebel, Magpie was content to step back and follow the recommendations of her companions, and so with her Winchester rifle primed and ready, held up ever so slightly to fire at a moment’s notice, she followed.

“What’s the ETA to the compound?” Magpie asked, attempting to make ‘[I]Are we there yet?[/I]’ sound a little more professional to befit her status as a mercenary as if that actually meant something. “Or are we just as clueless as I think we are?”