In the vertibird that approached Seattle from the general direction of Canada, the young, thin yet firmly built man who sat next to his now known comrades was Harrison Churchill, codenamed Winter. He wasn't appreciating the weather of their new mission's destination, since he'd lived his entire life in the cold Northern parts of the US, along with Southern Canada. Next to him was his team, a group of people chosen to be the best soldiers of the organization who he now worked for, the Enclave. He was more or less ambivalent about the organization itself, although its propoganda [i]had[/i] gotten to him, and he was now in support of their mission. 

They had questionable methods, but in such an age, no method was ethical and efficient at the same time. He had pondered over the ethicality of the entire situation more than once, and he'd always come to the same conclusion, no matter what thought train he followed along the way, so it was futile to go over it again. 

There was a mission to be completed, and it was Eagle Squad's first, so he had to have his head in the game. The carbon plating on his armor clinked into place automatically as he snapped the powerful straps together, and brought his chest armor together. He looked around, and took a final glance at his brothers (and sisters) in arms. He checked his mental notes that he had made on them, and felt comfortable enough about his team. Deathstroke the Leader, Golem the Giant Fuckin Brutalizer, Bear the Untrustworthy Fighter, Phoenix the Flamin Medic, Archangel the Damn Good Lookin Field Mechanic, Wraith the Cute Pilot and Ginger, the really good powersniper. And he couldn't forget Whisper, El Gas Masko Maniac, the only person whose capability he entirely doubted.

With his preliminary recheck complete, he was ready. He retrieved his carbine from the space below him, and reached for the cartridge. He pulled it out with ease, since it wasnt completely locked in, and he did a check on its bullets. Filled to the top with the 6.8x43 caliber that he adored so much. He clacked it into place inside the magazine well, and pulled the operating rod back, then let it smack right back, which produced a quiet [i]click[/i] of a bullet being fed into the chamber. The noise was enough to inform him of its condition, thanks to the amount of time he'd spent with this rifle. He took a quick look through the holographic scope, and was satisfied with its condition. This was all the prep he needed at this time, because he'd disassembled and reassembled the rifle before they left, just in case there was something wrong with it. There wasn't.

He reached into a front pocket on his chest, and pulled out a thin stick of white chocolate, something quite rare, and stuck it in his mouth like a cigarette. While munching on this final treat of his, the pilot spoke something. It went through his head momentarily, but he already knew what she was probably saying. Something about hells of hell. 

But when the vertibird approached its LZ, he took a look out. Far too many muties to count, really. There were probably around fifty or so down there, and that wasn't even including the nightkin! He chomped down on his little treat, and got up, with the entire weight of the carbine making the nylon webbed tactical sling press against the back of his neck. He grabbed hold of the handle at the roof of the vertibird, and grinned. This was going to be a long day of extermination for sure.

The cute pilot, Wraith, announced their imminent touchdown with gusto, and she bid them luck. With that, he waited for Deathstroke, Ginger, Archangel and Bear to jump out, before he let go of the handle and gripped his weapon, then ran forward out into the sunlight. His boots hit the gravel within a second, and he didn't pause to take a look. He ran towards the right, and clicked the comms. He said "Winter Is Coming" which was a well known code for him. It meant that he was on the prowl, and he himself felt that not only was it old, it was also the weakest mantra he'd ever heard of. 

He internally dropped the matter entirely, since this was definitely no time to be thinking of such things. He slid to a stop, blowing gravel away from him. He dropped to a crouch, and immediately aimed into the crowd of mutants before him. He didn't TRULY have to aim through the holographic sight to hit something, but it was best if he wanted to hit something [i]vital[/i]. The reticle clicked on, and immediately a red dot appeared, focusing on a yellow-ish super mutant in the crowd. They hadn't properly noticed him yet, but it was better that way. "Lets introduce ourselves, shall we?" he said to himself, making sure that the comms was off as he said it.

His finger slowly fell off the side, and came to rest on the trigger. He breathed in, and let the air out, making sure EVERYONE could hear him, just for the sake of it. He'd deny it was him if they said anything. As the last of the air left his lungs, and his entire body steadied, he squeezed the trigger, and immediately the semi-automatic rifle fired three rounds deep into the brain of the mutie he'd focused on. 

'6.8, baby' went his mind immediately, as the mutant fell to the ground after a second rapid burst. The noise of the cases falling was unintelligible in the noise. He then pushed himself to the left, more towards the shadow of the rock, allowing his assassin suit to hide him better, and causing EVEN more confusion amongst the mutant ranks, if that was even possible at the state of disarray in which they currently were. 

Next target was a greenish mutant, farther away from his original target, closer to where Ginger's x axis position was, but even further away on the y-scale. His eyes closed to slits, and focused on his target. Again, he squeezed the trigger like before, but again and again in quick succession, just to make sure he killed the mutant. Five squeezes, to be exact. 

However, the bullets never reached their originally intended target. They were accidentally intercepted by a poor nightkin's chest and jaw. The fifteen rounds tore through its body immediately stopped, and fell to the ground in a puddle of blood. Harrison's eyes opened up brightly, and he smiled at his fortune. A nightkin kill counted twice as good as a normal mutant, although not officially, due to their deviously hard-to-kill reputation amongst the troops in the Enclave.

He clicked the comms, and said with a monotone voice that [i]somehow[/i] managed to convey his exclamation, which was bursting through his barriers of dignity, "Two down, moving right-ways." But then he noticed the perfect oportunity to get close, and cause havoc. There were a couple of scattered buildings around, places where people must've lived a long while ago. "See ya'll, I'm taking the right sides. I'll draw them that way. Lets route these bastards like it was the Khans versus the NCR!", and with that, he jumped to his light feet, and made a run for it.