Mark eyed L'monte' as he peeked and peered around with the nods. He hadn't expected to be partnered with such a [i]stylish[/i] agent. The locks, the nice clothes when they'd met for some pre-operation scouts; he'd picked himself up a nicer jacket over the internet and, for the first time in a long time, thought about how his outward image may be something worth curating in this line of work. 
	[i]Well, part of it.[/i]
	This? It was natural. [b]Wetwork.[/b] The very word brought saliva from the corners of his gullet into a wash over his tongue. His eyes fell down to the similarly stylish carbine slung at his partner's side, and he admired the dark metal and polymer finish. The way something should look that's meant to kill. Austere, spartan, minimalist. Marketing campaigns flashed through his head of the billboards he saw in JAG territory of the Sicario Bosses and their guns plated with precious metals. Bloody rings and chains, displays of grand wealth... He supposed that they worked hard for their money, and flaunting it was part of the appeal. [i]In the end, we're here to judge action, not character.[/i] His most recent mentor had hammered that lesson into his idealistic head, on and on about how important it was to keep that distinction in mind for the duration of his service at the OE. 

But at least they seemed to share taste in their own implements of warfare. He let his broken hand relax out of the tension he'd placed on it, and the pain medication sifted through his blood like sludge to stifle the flames of agony. His right hand instinctively ran across the front of his own AR-10, the cousin weapons both primed and ready to protect their wielders like spears of wrath.
	"No worse for wear, I bet. They build 'em different up here." he replied to his partner's question, pulling the cutters from their section on his pack and swinging them forward to begin snipping away at the fence.
	"We should be alright back here then, but keep me covered. I'd rather the shooting start after we're on the other side."
	Still, Mark couldn't help but look up in astounded indignance. [i]The absolute nerve of some people.[/i] Not even bothering with camera systems, yet you're gonna hold up in here knowing that you've been a [i]very[/i] bad boy? He couldn't stand people like that. The arrogant bastards. 

Mark's mind wandered as he mumbled to himself.
	"Fucking prick, son of a bitch-"
	He was a markedly vulgar man in the same way that a Syndicate soldier from a similar background would be. He didn't try to hide it, nor did he try to hide that he wasn't a very charming man. He was a brute, and one well suited for the line of work the two of them were here to carry out. It hit his brain again, stopping the endless chain of rambling thoughts with its weight.
	[i]Wetwork.[/i]
	Beneath the faceless visage of his balaclava, he smiled a toothy grin. He had to clench up on the bolt cutters every time he wanted to cut, trying to use everything but his broken hand to support the arms of the thing in order to put pressure down. After a minute or two, he gave up and started to use it, finding that the medicine was working its way in deeper and deeper. It was good to use these sorts of things sparingly, but a soldier that didn't feel pain was a soldier who was ready to go at any time. The drugs just made you stupid...
	But link by link, Mark chopped through the fence between them and the target until a square was wide enough that they could climb through one at a time. Orders dictated they probably weren't leaving through the back here, so a simple one way entrance would suffice he guessed.

Markus slipped the bolt cutters back onto his pack and pushed the fence open for L'Monte' to climb through.
	"Alright, age before beauty." he laughed, waving L'Monte' on before his hand moved up to position his rifle in the crook of his arm facing inside the complex. Covering someone else was always a great time.