[h2]KAITIAKI[/h2]
In the auburn setting sun the elegant scot running round the small island like an ant. His helicopter was fast approaching the quaint landing pad. He put his monocular away with a snap as the blades began to slow down. He snatched up his sleek leather duffel up as he leaned out wishing his pilot, Romeo, a farewell. 

He stepped out, his figure of bravado framed well by the fast setting sun over the Tasman sea. His tailoured suit had not faired well from the long travel he had endured to show up. But oh well, with any luck he would be showered and refreshed for tonight's brief. At least that's why he presumed they'd been rallied at this humble little HQ.

He let himself in, finding his own lavish quarters. He considered finding his stash and settling down in his office for a read. However more pressingly, he desperately wanted a shower. After redressing himself in his night clothes. (A set of striped pajamas, red silk bathrobe, and slippers. Of course.) He snatched up a small teak box and wandered on up to the rec room.

He was somewhat caught off guard by it's sole resident as he wandered in, eyes cast downwards to the ivory pipe propped between himself. He let out a frustrated grunt as yet another match smouldered against whatever flowery scented substance he had loaded in the pipe. He glanced upward briefly in search of the drinks cabinet and was rewarded with an eyeful of his old oppo. 

Skye Lyons. An apt name for the fearsome woman. He sleepily found himself beside the woman, flashing her one of his infamous smiles. Somewhere in-between a wry knowing grin, and a slightly presumptuous smirk. It was the marmite of facial expressions. It relaxed some and merely angered others. He was curious to rediscover how the fine woman reacted to it. [color=gold]"Hmm, fancy seeing you here."[/color] He gave her a sly wink as he reached for a tumbler and poured himself an ample glass of the rich golden amber nectar. Sipping on it slightly with a contented look at he settled into one of the lavish armchairs around the room. Finally he finished off his settling in with, his voice slightly more noticeably northern than normal, a single straight to the point question: [color=gold]"So, who's fucked us off now, love?"[/color]
[hr]
[h2]PARTYCRASHER[/h2]
Stafford had scored himself shotgun in the primary DPV. Standing with his head above the windshield, he peered out across the desert through his monocle. As the early morning sun crested the wave of sand that stretched out in front of them. The DPV's radio blared out under his racing heart. It had been more than two decades, and it would be at least another two decades before that rush died down before an op. He sat back down into the passenger seat, unclamping the lower half of his face mask.

The mask's mandibles split open to reveal the clipped beard of it's occupant. It brought to mind images of a horrific metallic bug consuming a man. Those images were soon scratched to the dust below their tires as he brought out an unusually [i]pungent[/i] 'cigar'. Flowery, dry, and earthy scents could be detected on traces of wind as the DPV sped out from under the wind around them. Iller brought his hand up to a match he had carefully lit, protecting it from the wind as he lit the skunky, piney blunt.

The DPV's slammed into it's resting place, Stafford jumping out as the rest of the squad disembarked. He flicked away the roach and closed his mask. The last peek that could be garnered of his face was a slight scowl as the scarab's mandibles engulfed his face. He drew his hood up over it as he gazed over to the ridge in mention. It was about two miles to travel, by his reckoning. Probably about 50 meters high. He nodded to Queen and gave her a short [color=fff200]'roger'[/color] before beginning his journey.

For the sake of his legs he started off jogging, then slowly eased up the power of his exo-skeleton to help carry him the rest of the distance. He'd made it up in about two minutes, and while the rest of the squad were busying themselves, he set himself up.

First he appraised his surroundings, it was a desolate scene. A few shrubs, a singles small twisted tree about 10 feet away. Mostly just sand, and a few rocks. He drew the rifle from his back, holding it with both hands as he lay himself on the sand, resting the barrel in-between two seemingly dead shrub that had grown right next to each other, he positioned the monstrous towards the rusted out hulk. Checking the safety catch instinctually as he brought he did his finally preparations. He drew his left Token and set it in the sand under his cloak, by his left arm. Finally he brought his armoured cheek up to the bespoke cheek guard. His face welded perfectly to the stock as his good eye stared into the inky blackness of the unpowered digitised scope. He flicked it on and a blue flash filled his vision.

His first thoughts as he began surveying were that, as the sun had just barely risen, the sand on his stomach was cold. Even through his light armour it was noticeable. He squirmed as his focus turned to the skeletal remains of what was once a ship. He stared through, accounting anything noticeable. After that he switched the scope to thermal mode to account for any heat signatures hidden by the oxidising superstructure. Vehicles, people, gear, anything about. Once he had finished the survey he thumbed the wireless radio transceiver built just above the mag release switch and passed on his survey.
[right][@FourtyTwo][/right]