Voices and coughs rang out through the thick white smoke filling the lower portion of Foundry's battlefield. The few RED team members making their way through were keeping weapons ready just in case something survived the blitz of...whatever the hell was used to make those bombs. Among rocks and obliterated sentry guns, a few BLUs had survived the onslaught, lying in pools of blistering flesh and burnt blood whilst crying for someone to just end it. They'd come back the next round, sure, but...Jesus. The leading RED Heavy paused for a moment upon sighting a Scout with most of his insides now outside but still conscious, just staring at the internal organs he held in his hands with a blank but burned face. He'd seen Pyro rush victims, he'd seen people survive full crockets to the front, he'd seen those with their bodies nearly shredded open by sentry gunfire, but never anything like this.

He held back vomit. "I...I do not like this..." he swallowed, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall as a Medic stood by him. "You...leave Heavy, Heavy does not want to go in there." The leading Demoman, kitted out in full bomb-disposal gear, paused to look back at the hulking Russian, before solemnly nodding.

"Alright." He gave a look to the Medic standing by him. "Make sure he doesn't throw up. He needs his energy. We'll...go on ahead." Giving yet another brief nod to them, he turned and gestured for the rest of the group to follow. He was pretty much the team leader, sure, and he did agree to use the new explosives that Face had been brewing, but Jesus Fucking Christ. Nobody had survived intact: The very air around them felt like it was burning away at what little exposed skin he had showing, and the smoke stung his eye. Frowning, he made another look around the area as he led the way into the completely empty enemy spawn area.

The usually clean concrete road was, by all accounts, fucked completely. Ash clung to the air, blood pooled around nearly incinerated corpses, and flesh had melted and stuck to whatever was nearest to it when the new pipes rolled in. Even the solid steel sentry gun had melted, along with the BLU Gunslinger Engineer's right hand and the Soldier using the teleporter had horrifically melded with it as a mutant creature that did nothing but screech in an ungodly manner.

One of the Scouts with the group looked down on one of the Soldiers with melted legs, desperately yet feebly reaching out as though the enemy would help. "This..." he said quietly, his eyes wide in unfiltered shock. "This is too much."

"Stop talking," the leading Demoman ordered. The Scout looked at the back of the group leader.

"I'm sorry, what?" His inner temperature began to rise as he registered that he was expected to not speak out about the horrors they'd brought upon the other team.

"The smoke's toxic," an Engineer said flatly, holding his toolbox on one shouler and tipping his stetson slightly to avoid looking at a Medic that had burned and sizzled until he popped all over a wall. "Y'all oughta keep your mouth shut if ya know what's good for ya." The Scout considered protesting, but realized that starting an argument wasn't going to be any help to them. There were about 6 of them, minus the Medic and Heavy that refused to enter, and...him. A silent vow was made by most of the men there to never speak with him again after this.

Finally, after what felt like a walk through hell itself, they reached the BLU spawn. The two resupply locker doors had sagged, melted, and then stuck back together again, converting them into useless pieces of metal. Getting them open would be no difference: Even though the ammunition hadn't completely exploded inside, the casings would no doubt have stuck together, rendering them all unusable. Nearby, another BLU teleporter had completely been converted into a puddle of liquid with a few barely recognizable pieces barely retaining shape in the metallic mass, and the Engineer that had been tending it must have been hit by one of the pipes directly: All that decorated the wall was a huge black stain, and in the center was the eerie silhouette of a man raising his arms in...what?

Terror? Pain? Acceptance?

None of the REDs wanted to think about it.

Suddenly, the Soldier and Scout caught movement in a pile of rubble near the spawn room door. The duo weren't stupid, Spies were capable of anything with their equipment, so both men took no chances by pointing their guns straight at his head. The man in question was in a sorry state: His suit, shirt, and flesh had become one with each other, all stuck together in an unrecognisable and undoubtedly excruciating mess of heat and fabric. His balaclava had burned away completely, incinerated and stuck to what little skin he had remaining. Both of his legs were burned to stumps. Slowly registering the guns being pointed in his face, the Spy looked right up at them. At one point, Soldier noted, he might have been rich: A pile of mush and ash sat beside him, the remains of a hat. However, this didn't faze the trooper nearly as much as it should have. He kept his gun barrel pointed squarely at the head of the Frenchman, not aiming away.

The Demoman, almost a de faux leader of the team, stepped forward and crouched in front of the BLU. He didn't even seem to register that the Demoman was there, until he uttered one word.

"Why...?"

"I'm so sorry," Demo sighed. "You're the enemy, it's how we operate." The Spy finally looked the explosives expert in the eye, and the Demo could almost feel the minutes of pain he must have endured.

"We were friendly..."

The Spy went limp finally, leaving Demo speechless. "Oh no."

Rounding the corner, the group realised just want they'd done as they looked into the spawn room. Through a smoldering hole in the metal door, they could see that in the middle of the room, a pipe must have gone off and instantly killed everyone present before they realized what was happening. All around the room, their so-called 'enemies' were in the positions they had been in when they'd been killed: In a corner, there were two burned men standing a few feet apart, shaking hands and offering out piles of mush similar to that which Soldier had seen outside. Their final moments had been spent trading hats with each other, an innocent task. Across the room, a Sniper and a Scout stood with their heads stuck together in a string of meaty gore connecting the fronts of their skulls. The Sniper's glasses had melted away, explaining the metallic puddle in front of his corpse, and the Scout's earpiece had simply slopped apart due to its plastic nature and melted onto his skin. Their connected hands were little more than a ball of sopping meat, and the barely visible expressions on their faces showed a final second of happiness and camaraderie before the blast killed them. And in the middle of the room, surrounded by a small crowd of charred bodies, there were a pair of spies, one stood smoking a non-existent cigarette and the other in a crab position.

Demo covered his mouth as he gasped in sheer, unbridled horror, recoiling from the door and sitting against a wall to allow the other men with him to react in their own ways to what they now realized.

They were friendlies. They wouldn't have attacked regardless of their duties.

And now they were all dead, taken from their one place of safety.

And all because of...him.

Demo growled, snatching up his grenade launcher and standing back up. The rest of the REDs looked at him as he stormed away through the smoke, prompting Engineer and Scout to follow as Demo dragged Heavy along too. Whatever he was doing was going to get ugly.

The RED base was silent, the only sound being the quiet beeping of computers and the wind blowing through the mountain facility. Around the point, there were the two corpses of BLU's less friendly combatants, one from RED who tried to defend himself and failed, and above them, the man who got the BLU that killed the RED that killed the BLU. Adorning his feet as he placed them on the railings were a pair of heavy red cowboy boots, covering the bottoms of a pair of khaki trousers with a pouched belt slung over its waist. He was covered by a black motorcycle jacket with red stripes on its sleeve, and a red polo shirt beneath that, and a brown slouch with a red band of crocodile teeth covering his head. He had the usual pair of sunglasses worn by Snipers, the same cheek and nose scar, the same hairstyle, same miserable gaze, but the only different thing was his growing of a slightly thicker stubble than most of his fellow Australian marksmen. He, along with everybody else, may have been a clone of an original Mercenary employed by Redmond or Blutarch Mann, but that didn't mean he wasn't allowed individuality. He sat on a normal wooden chair in his perch, leaning back against the wall with his legs crossed and resting on the railings. Sat just beside him was his beloved Sniper Rifle with a black robot head slung beneath it on a strap, an SMG, and a Bushwacka. And just for good measure, he'd taken the liberty of keeping a small, high-power revolver in a small holster against his hip.

SMGs weren't exactly what they used to be in terms of stopping power, so a backup was always useful.

As he idly gazed about the control point, arms hung lazily by his sides towards the floor, he reached up and scratched his stubble. "Haven't heard anything from the front for a while," he mused, checking his watch. "Battle started 10 minutes ago. What the hell are they doing over there?" His question was answered as a loud, familiar voice rang out through the control point cavern.

"FACE!" roared Demo as he stormed into the room from a lower entrance. The Sniper raised a hand from the upper perch, not moving from his seat.

"Yo," he called down. "Something wrong?"

"What the fuck are you thinking, asking me if there's something fucking wrong?! Those pipe bombs you made were fucking evil! They killed the entire enemy team in one go!"

"That was the point," Face whistled. "They're explosives. They're meant to blow up and kill shit. Thought you'd know that by now."

"They didn't just blow up: They burned! They burned the flesh from their bloody bones, leaving them to suffer and die slowly rather than quickly! You know that's not how we work!"

"Well, I personally consider this a field test for the explosives I've been making. Gets the job done, as far as I'm concerned. Also, why the fuck do you care? They're just BLUs, they'll come ba-"

"The explosion destroyed their RESPAWN device!" Demo practically screamed, filling the air with a deadly silence as the rest of the REDs gathered to watch the two figureheads of the team arguing. "You killed all of them! They are not coming back! You have just destroyed the very reason we stay here, at this facility, and defend it! And those men would have gone back to families, friends, wives, children, and you just ripped them away from it! You've gone over the fucking line, again! What the FUCK is wrong with you, you sick and twisted piece of shit?!" Face was now standing up on the balcony, looking down on the rest of the team. He raised his hands defensively.

"Jesus, calm the fuck down, I didn't know the bombs would do that. You should have tested them on the range before you agreed to use them in combat, and you didn't. And to be honest, what the hell is Builder's League United gonna care about losing some Mercs? We're all expendable, we're all replaceable, it doesn't matter if we live or die. All that matters to them is that they turn a profit or go down trying to break Reliable Excavation and Demolitions. Trust me; if they weren't gonna get replaced and their families compensated handsomely, then I would care. But I don't." Demo paused at this, and sighed, letting silence reign again as Face grabbed his gear, jumped to the nearby drainpipe, and slid down to the ground level so he could meet Demoman. Finally, the explosives expert sighed.

"Listen...OK. I'm sorry, I overreacted, you're right...just...right. Killing them permanently was probably not something you wanted, but I guess it gives us some breathing room for a while, at least. We won't be able to get down there and...properly bury the bodies, because of the smoke and heat. Just tell me what you used to make the bombs, and I...I can make it a bit more usable and practical." Face smiled slightly, before slinging his rifle strap over his shoulder and reaching into his pocket. By now, the other Mercenaries had begun to disperse, leaving Scout, Engineer, Demo, and Face to stand near the pit in the ground that held the control point.

The RED Sniper calmly pulled out a small piece of paper, and on it was listed a few words and notes, the very same notes used in designing those wretched bombs. He and Demo began to walk towards the room where the team members would usually go to modify existing equipment, craft weapons, hats, and other things, and where Demo (and apparently Face) would go to create explosives. "Alright, list what ingredients you used to prime it," Demo began.

"Right then," Face nodded, "For the primer, I used Mann Co. Corpse Grade Quicklime, which we both know is pretty reactive. That was hit by a strike from a rocket launcher's firing pin, and the fuel itself was something called 'White Phosphorous'..." The Scout's eyes went wide, and Engineer's mouth fell open as he raised his stetson. Silence reigned.

"White Phosphorous..." Demo murmured. "Can't say I know much about incendiary chemicals. Isn't phosphorous that stuff that can't be extinguished?"

"Hell if I know," Face shrugged. "It was labelled as volatile, so I figured it'd be useful." Scout couldn't believe his ears. He stood, clenching his fists and slowly approaching Face from behind. Engineer tried stopping him with a hand, only to be shoved away by the enraged Bostonian.

"White...fucking...PHOSPHOROUS?!" he practically yelled from right behind Demo and Face, causing them to turn and meet the gaze of the angry Scout. "YOU USED WHITE PHOSPHOROUS?!" Face rolled his eyes as Demo looked at him with a raised brow.

"Yes, I used White Phosphorous, how the hell was I supposed to know it could fuck shit up that much?" he groaned. "It said it was volatile, it was with the other ingredients on the shelf storing all the other bomb-making chemicals, so how was I mean to be able to realize that it would do that? Everything is stored in a glass jar in there, so it all bloody looks the same." Scout wasn't taking it.

"Men are dead forever because of you, they died painfully and their corpses unrecognisable and unable to be sent back to their families for burial, and this is your answer?!" he snapped, glaring the taller man straight in the eyes. There was a deathly silence through the whole facility as the rest of RED was able to hear exactly what was being said through the echoes around the cavernous facility. And none of them liked it, one bit.

"Yes, that is my answer," Face shot back, folding his arms and idly thumbing at the rifle sling over his right shoulder with his left thumb. "And what the hell do you know about chemicals? From all that I've seen of your actions and behaviour, all you do is kill people, laugh at them, then run off and use a bat to hit someone in the head. You treat this corporate war like a game, where you can try out new methods to kill people, then so can I. And it just so happens that my method was infinitely more deadly than yours. So if I were you, Bat Boy, I'd watch my mouth." Scout gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and counted briefly to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

The moment he hit three, he had been intending to be completely calm about it, and just walk away from the situation. However, his body had other plans that Face was fully ready for; Scout growled in anger at Face's awful reason, and lunged forward at him, aiming for the throat. As the hands neared him, Face side-stepped the lunge, grabbed Scout's wrists and span, dragging Scout along the ground in an arc, before promptly holding him over the seemingly bottomless chasm surrounding the control point. Demo and Engineer hardly had any time to react, but nothing they could do seemed like it would stop Face from letting go. Engineer had his Luger drawn immediately, and Demo had whipped out his Persian Persuader sword in an instant, both seemingly holding Face dead to rights. However, the Sniper was literally holding Scout dead to rights, so if Engineer were to shoot Face or if Demo were to kill him, he'd let go of Scout and send the Bostonian tumbling to his death. So in actuality, Face was holding the cards here.

The rest of RED immediately ran in across the room upon hearing the commotion, most of them with weapons, and Demo had to be quick to order them not to fire. Again, killing Face would drop Scout, and that was not something that Demo would like to see Scout go through. He'd respawn, sure, but the trauma would be just terrible if nobody could save him and he knew it. The cavern, in spite of it being already chillingly quiet, descended further into deafening silence.

"Face," Demo ordered, "Let him go." The Sniper smirked, glaring down at the Scout that was in his hand and hyperventilating.

"You sure that's the best choice of words?" he retorted. "I'm certain that's not something you want me to do."

"You know what I mean, Face," Demo snarled. "What the hell even prompted you to think this was an appropriate course of action?"

"You know me," Face said calmly, giving Scout a slight shake to keep him on his toes. "My job is to defend myself and kill those that try to stop me from doing the first part of my job. And I like my job."

"That isn't a valid excuse for teamkilling," Engineer piped up. "Y'all better put him back on solid ground right now."

"Not a chance," Face retorted. "He came at me, I have every intent to send him the other way. And besides: It's been too long since my last kill."

"You're insane."

"I'm experienced. You think being this accurate and combat-trained came cheap? Before I became a Mercenary, I had applied to join the British Army. Halfway through training, the Army budget was cut again and troops in training were told to leave. I was ordered to leave two days before I graduated into the forces. So you know what I did to the guy trying to get me out?" There was a pause. "I slammed his head against the table, smashed a plate, then slammed one of the porcelain shards into the back of his skull. Left him for someone else to find, and as I left the barracks, I was approached by a mysterious woman in purple."

"And we all know what that led to," Demo muttered. "But why would you even do this to Scout? He did nothing to you."

"He tried strangling me, and I think it's only right that I can defend myself. You wanna stop me, go right on ahead." Face narrowed his eyes at Demo.

"Take him from me."

"...and that is how I got fired." Face reclined in his train seat almost proudly as the group of other unemployed Mercenaries got fired. Another Sniper raised his hand. He was wearing a pink military beret, red scarf with pink stripes, and a pink skull-jaw bandana, not to mention the normal sunglasses of a Sniper.

"You're the White Phosphorous guy that was all over the MercNet?" he asked. Face nodded, seemingly with pride.

"Yup." He inspected his fingernails. "To be honest, I'm not sure why they all got pissy. They wanted explosives that would get rid of the BLUs attacking the Steel facility, and I made some that would permanently stop the BLUs from attacking the Steel facility. I did my job, and now I've been fired." The Engineer sat nearby, who had been idly strumming his guitar, whistled through his teeth.

"Well, respectfully, sir, y'all also killed three of your teammates, hid for seven hours straight, then left the facility without even mentioning to them that y'all'd been fired. Face spread his arms apart.

"They respawned!" he exclaimed. "All I was doing was defending myself."

"And for what reason did you need to defend yourself?" asked a Medic dressed as a Wehrmacht Officer. "Because you needed to defend yourself." There was a pause, the only sound through the empty cargo carriage being the train wheels going over the rails and the wind going past the open sides as everybody looked to Face with raised brows as he considered this revelation. "You're not very good at this 'teamwork' thing, are you?"

"No," Face murmured, still looking up in thought. "No, I'm really not." There were a few more seconds of silence from the Mercenaries, before the Engineer with them shifted on the crate he had been sitting on and adjusted his guitar.

"Well," he chuckled, "Doubtless t' say that we all got fired for a reason." Before he began strumming, he took another swig from the bottle of beer that was sat next to him. "Might as well make the best of it, fellas. Hell, some of us might find our next line of work tomorrow!" Not really wanting to start awkward conversations about their sudden unemployment again, the gathered Mercenaries laughed, and the stories aboard the empty cargo carriage continued again as the train made its way to New York City.

It wasn't until about eleven o' clock the next evening that the bell rang at the diner. Since it was only the 1950s, most diners were as you'd expect them to be: Metal trim around the room, neon signs, and booths with tables and red cushioned seats. The staff were working a night shift, so it didn't matter that Face had been their only customer for the past few hours, buying coffee as needed so he could continue putting rings around possible jobs in a directory. He barely raised an eye at the bell ringing to signal someone's entrance to the diner, however the waiter at the bar seemed to.

"Good evening, Mister," he greeted in a cheerful yet forced way. "Can I get ya anything?" The response was silence for a moment, followed by a rather smooth voice.

"No," replied the customer, "No, I'll be fine." The barman was taken aback.

"Ah, that's...fine, just lemme know if anything catches your eye."

"I'll keep that in mind." Footsteps followed the words over the tiled floor, ringing out considerably over the Tom Jones Memorial record playing from the jukebox. Finally, they stopped beside Face, but he didn't lift his head up.

The man near him did seem to want his attention, however, so the sudden sound of a cane tapping against the floor finally convinced Face to look up and see what the hell the guy wanted.

The first thing he noted was that his visitor did not look local. He was wearing a white coat with black trousers and shoes, buttoned shut with the top of a scarf peeking from the top, and a bowler hat placed over a mop of ginger hair. The man was smoking a cigar, but that didn't draw Face's attention from the fact that he was also wearing mascara. The fashionable man had his cane pressed against the floor with one hand, and he was using it to support himself as he looked Face over. There were a few moments where both parties looked each other over.

Face was already trying to figure out his intentions. 'There's no way in hell that this guy has headhunted me. Unemployed Mercenaries aren't announced in the news until three days after dismissal, and this is the first night. But what the hell is he wearing? Looks important. Maybe he pulled a few strings and checked the unemployment list before it went public. But why'd he come looking for me?'

Finally, the man cast a glance over to the plethora of weapons Face had near him. His Botkiller rifle was leaning against the chair, barrel up, both his SMG and Revolver were on the table, and his Kukri was quite visible on his back. The barman hadn't really spoken out about it, since Mercenaries had started becoming fairly common around New York. He looked Face in the eyes. "You're unemployed, right?" he asked in a monotone voice. Face stared back at him with a grimace, before nodding. "Fancy making a few extra Lie...bucks?"

"What's it to you?" Face asked flatly. The man smirked, pulling the cigar from his mouth and tapping it on the head of his cane to remove excess ash.

"Fortunately for you, my good man, it just so happens that my...associate is looking for hired guns. And you certainly look the type to be a hired gun."

"Fired gun." Face corrected. "Where the hell is this leading? I haven't heard of you before, how the hell do I know I can trust you?"

"Well then, I suppose it'd be polite for me to introduce myself." The man, without any indication that Face had let him do so, sat down opposite the Sniper and extended a gloved hand. "My name is Roman Torchwick. I pay two-hundred-and-fifty dollars per day, if I find your services to be up to standard. And you are a Mercenary. Hired gun. Just what I've been looking for." Face considered the offer. 'Better than nothing.'

"Alright, I'll play along," Face sighed. "What do I need to do?"

"Simple," Roman said calmly. "Judging by your equipment, I'd assume you were a hunter or assassin before you became a Mercenary. That means your job will entail remaining on a rooftop or aircraft to provide covering fire against anybody attacking my men." Face stroked his beard.

"Will you supply ammunition?" he asked.

"Certainly can; The boss seems to enjoy my hobby of collecting the stuff." Roman smirked. Face finally extended his hand over to Roman's, and firmly shook.

"Alright then, I'm aboard." He nodded. "My name's Face." Roman narrowed his eye that went unobscured by his brilliant orange fringe and smiled.

"Well, that certainly is good news," he said in a strangely calm way. "I think you'll fit into your job quite nicely, Face." Just then, he checked his watch. "Oh, and perfect timing, I was expecting this to be a lost cause and need to leave you alone, but it seems that you wanted a job more than I'd expected." Swiftly, Roman stood. "I hope you didn't have anything planned for tonight, because we're going to need to be leaving right away." Face blinked, considered for a moment, then slowly shrugged.

"Hell, at least there isn't a waiting period," he whistled, standing up and grabbing his equipment; As usual, he slung his rifle strap over his shoulder, slipped the revolver in its holster, and clipped his SMG to his belt, before stepping out of the small booth space and following after Roman. He gave a small wave to the barman and chef in the back, then disappeared out the door, leaving a booth with a single directory. The opened page had only one bounty notice half-circled, incomplete as Face was interrupted and not really paying attention to the name on the page.

'Dimensional Bounty Notice: R. Torchwick, thief and terrorist sympathizer. Dead or Alive. Reward: 1,000,000 Lien'

Face was quite surprised at how advanced this 'Torchwick' guy was. They'd gone to the top of an apartment building a few blocks down from the diner, and then before Face could even ask if Roman was gonna push him, the wind suddenly whipped up as a futuristic hover-jet flew up by the side of the building, side door open and revealing a group of men in white costumes and masks. While all this was impressive, Face thought as he stepped aboard (much to the distaste of the men already present), he was mostly wondering why many of these people were wearing strange animal ears and tails. Judging by the outfits and ongoing theme of white, he assumed that this was some kind of Mercenary outfit with a uniform code, so he definitely stood out with his black jacket with red trim, brown hat with a red tooth band, brown trousers, and brown cowboy boots with red leather. Also, he was still wearing sunglasses at 1:30AM, which earned some confusion and interest from the men around him.

As the jet took off and flew from New York, passing over the Statue of 'Murica that had been recently refurbished with more machine guns, Roman stood at the door to the cockpit of the jet and turned to the men gathered, all of whom were sitting down and mostly looking at Face, since he stuck out like a Huntsman arrow on a Heavy. "Well, good evening, gentlemen!" Roman said in a sarcastic tone. "I trust you've all gotten to know each other in the time I've been roaming that hellhole of a human city and gathering our brothers, because tonight is the night we strike back at the humans." The gathered men, save Face, cheered and pumped fists at the announcement, and much to Face's concern put on small metal masks that covered the top halves of their faces. They seemed to be based on monsters of some kind, and Roman's previous statement was making Face really rethink if it's a good business strategy to take employment from gingers in bowler hats.

Just then, the man next to Face slapped his knee, and then gestured to his mask. "Get your mask on, human," he snapped. Face raised a brow.

"What mask?" he asked, nonchalantly ignoring the glares from the men around the jet as it soared over open ocean at unfathomable speeds for the 1970s. "I can't wear something I haven't been given. Plus, as far as I can see, that'll obstruct my vision." Roman rolled his eyes.

"Alright ladies," he said in a mocking tone. "How about I introduce the newest member to our little club?" He slapped Face on the shoulder and shook him slightly, looking over the rest of the white-clad men. "This is Face. He's an ex-huntsman, and he'll be providing us support if anything is to happen." One of the masked men folded his arms and made a 'pfft' sound.

"You say that as though he ain't gonna turn us up at the last minute!" he said loudly, causing minor uproar. Roman quietened the men, and hooked his arm over Face's shoulder.

"Oh, I guarantee he won't be turning us up, right, Facey?" Roman's voice filled with venom as he glared daggers at the Sniper. Face sighed.

"Listen, I don't know what you think I am, do, or know, but to be honest I couldn't give a fuck about what you guys are doing. As long as it pays, I'll kill bastards all day long. I'm a Mercenary, a hired gun, if you will, I don't care for politics or...talking, so just tell me where to shoot and I'll kill it." The men went silent considering this.

"I'm still not so sure about hiring some thug to help the White Fang," another man noted. "This is a pretty high-profile raid, we don't need some inexperienced Beacon reject messin' this up."

"The hell's a Beacon?" Face asked calmly as Roman went back into the cockpit. "I was born in England and moved to America to keep my job at RED. Never went to 'Beacon'. Few years of dangerous game hunting on my belt, though. Literally." He gave the crocodile teeth on his hat a small tap. The men paused, and one of them chuckled, prompting the others to gradually join in as they leaned closer.

"You're an Earthborn?" he asked, grinning teeth visible beneath his mask. "Looks like you won't be lasting as long as we thought here on Remnant."

"Remnant?" Face asked, raising a brow.

"Vale, to be specific," a sudden, smooth female voice said. After one look at the door, all of the present 'White Fang' members stood up straight from their seats at attention. Face gave one look at the door and narrowed his eyes. Standing in the door to the cockpit, no doubt having been replaced by Roman, was a young woman with ash-grey hair that flowed over her left shoulder. She was wearing a maroon dress with yellow tribal-esque markings up and down the sleeves and body, and a pair of brown heels with a small anklet on her right leg. She had a sly facial configuration, however her eyes were an eerie gold colour. She unnerved Face quite a bit, but if he was being honest with himself, he actually found her quite attractive. She stood with her hand on her hip, looking everybody over, until her eyes fell onto Face, who was still sat down and grimacing slightly. After a moment of silently judging him and looking him over, she looked to the other men. "Take up arms and be ready to move." The rest of the White Fang members nodded, and moved away from their original positions, grabbing strange-looking rifles from a nearby rack, then standing at the door. Finally, Face stood up, holding his rifle over his shoulder. Just as he was about to move over to the others, he was stopped.

"Wait." The woman had given an order. He was probably going to have to listen to her, she sounded and looked important. Face turned to look at the woman. As he stood at about six foot one inches tall, he was only a slight taller than the woman in front of him. However, he was still looking down on her, which meant he could probably hold her at arms' length if he needed to. He stood there for a moment, and it seemed she hadn't finished assessing him as she looked him up and down. "Ex-Sniper." She said in a smooth way. "A hunter, as well. You look the type to know how to fight."

"Having survived in a Mann Co. Approved workplace, I need to know that." Face retorted. "And how did you know I'm an ex-Sniper and hunter?"

"I know some men better than they know themselves," she said calmly. "And I know that this is going to have been your first real fight for a while."

"2 days, approximately, and that was against my own team in self-defence."

"Hmm. Well, let's hope you know how to combat the enemy, too." Face unslung his rifle, and gestured to a small counter embedded in the right side. Cinder leaned in slightly to read its numbers.

"10,000 kills and counting. I might end up with a few more by the end of the night."

"We'll see." As the smaller woman turned to re-enter the cockpit, Face spoke up after he caught himself looking at her rear as she walked away in a rather sultry manner.

"I never caught your name, Miss...?"

She turned, and smiled in a way that instantly suggested to Face that this woman was going to cause him a problem at some point.

"Cinder Fall. A pleasure."