Renard was nothing short of confused when he awoke -he was very accustomed to never questioning the way the world was, be it on his fathers ranch or on a mission. Still, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell was actually going on when the shot he was given ended up waking him up in a glorified metal box. Though he had woken up in far stranger places during his time doing mercenary work, the diction used to describe the place put him on edge. 'Bulkheads', 'decks', and 'the head' were terms used on ships, not on land. The Frenchman felt queasy at just the thought that they were at sea -he and water had an on-off relationship at best. 

	The thoughts only ruminated more as he made his way to 'the head' and relieved himself of his lunch. He walked out feeling refreshed, just in time for the call to assembly. The bulking man squeezed himself into a chair and did what he did best -waited silently for orders. He was a bit dumbfounded when the order came: [b]"Hit the switch."[/b] Renard cocked an eyebrow, until he looked up to the ceiling and had to work very hard to keep his lunch from coming up a second time. 

	The inky blackness that stared back at Renard was pierced only by the single eye of purple, brown, and white that he would soon come to hate. As the briefing went on, Renard nodded along silently, trying not to think too hard about how the entire thing sounded like a load of horse shit. But hell, a contract's a contract, whether it comes from some vindictive human or a desperate alien, who was he to judge when it was a multi-million dollar contract? [i][color=4682B4]"To Sauna it is."[/color][/i] He thought to himself, rolling back his shoulders.

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	Renard had been patient up to the point when they were issued uniforms. [color=4682B4][i]"Pink? What the hell kind of mission are we on?"[/i][/color] Of course, Saina didn't disappoint: miserable, sweaty, and pink. Of course, that also described Renard fairly accurately at the time, as he itched with gusto at every inch of exposed skin.

	As much as he internally griped, Renard rather quickly accustomed himself to the harsh environment. After all, he'd done worse -at one point he took up 'work' in Detroit, so this jungle of a planet couldn't be that bad, could it?

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	When it came time to go to work in the jungle, Renard for the first time took notice of the soldiers with whom he worked. Obviously he understood the concept that they were all the best of the best, but it was only when they began moving through the jungle that he could comprehend just how lethal these men and women were. They moved through the jungle like it was nothing, looking more like vicious predators than humans.

	As massive as he was, Renard never was the gentle type -moving through the overgrowth he was very conscious of every broken branch and crunched leaf pile beneath his feet as he moved with his team. He held his Negev rather casually in his right hand, treating the weapon more like a sidearm than a 7.6 kilogram death dealer. 

	His head stayed pointed forwards as his eyes scanned a slow pattern across their path. Still, unused to this environment, Renard had a hard time telling one pink from the next, and saw very little of note. It was only when Danny gave the signal to freeze that Renard noticed anything. He took a knee, staying as low to the ground as his frame would allow as he raised his Negev in the direction of the targets. Taking in a deep breath, he silently moved the lever on the side of the grip from "S" to "R" then, after a moment of consideration, to "A". His fingers flexed around the grip of his weapon, as he waited patiently for the shitstorm to commence.