𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 Philippines, courtesy of H.U.N.K.’s network, allowed them to leave around 0000 HRS for their destination. A black ops mission to fill the ennui of his days, he can’t ask for much better — knowing there’s much to see in the presence of his most trusted operative. He’ll be able to witness how H.U.N.K. conducts himself during such missions, and he has a personal stake in this as well. The samples being trafficked are of the G-virus, and he thinks of his deceased, old friend, rolling over in the metaphorical grave. No matter, they’ll be eradicated, and William can be at peace. Or as much peace as hell offers.
While he silently contemplates on things, someone approaches from the cockpit to speak to H.U.N.K. While Wesker’s familiar with everyone in the USS intelligence wise, he hasn’t gotten to know any of them personally. When the man turns to address him, calling him ‘the big guy upstairs,’ his answering expression is unreadable, even if he is somewhat amused.
In any case, what another pretentious asswipe might consider disrespect hardly bothers Wesker. Having once been military himself, familiar with the jargon and various monikers one might receive, he knows that at the age this man is — grizzled and thoroughly experienced — propriety isn’t the priority so much as getting the job well done. And while he hasn’t met Bandit face to face prior, he keeps files on each and every member of his USS. Veteran or newcomer, none of them are entirely strangers to him. He inclines his head in a brief greeting, giving the man his attention. He’s no less deserving of recognition than H.U.N.K. — being one of Death’s men, and a trusted one, means he’s rightfully earned his place here.
❛ You have my permission to turn on the music, Bandit. However, I ask that you shut it off a half hour before landing. ❜ He doesn’t like any sort of distraction when he plans anything, even if it is music in the background, and it’s a half-decent compromise between H.U.N.K. and Bandit’s preferences. ❛ And you’re well aware of who I am. Address me as Dr. Wesker. ❜
He finds himself perfectly at ease in the cargo plane, and for once, he’s adopted tactical gear in lieu of his typical suit and turtleneck ensemble. It’s comfortable to adorn himself in gear again, almost like a second skin. Deciding to go out into the field himself was a decision he knows he won’t regret; it’ll bring him the thrill he craves, and he’s never seen H.U.N.K. do his work in person. Another highlight of his days, certainly, to watch the artistry of the fourth survivor’s skills.
Bandit’s visage, looser and more at ease than the stringent and serious look of his 7 other contemporaries, even unshaken in the cold amused tones of Albert Wesker. Not that he did not fear or respect the man for what he’d read and been told what he could do, just that he simply knew how to do his job, do it right, and do and say what those in the position of the Grim Reaper and Albert Wesker liked to hear. “Landing.” He repeats. A polite nod. “Half hour before landing. Alright, Dr. Wesker. I’ll oblige.” Having clearly been filled in of the plan a little better, he sure can’t help the smile and continued nodding as he breaks away from the pair. Using straps hanging from the walls and roof of the plane to carry himself back up towards the front of the plane.
Death lets out a suffering groan, audible from the microphone inside his gasmask used to project his voice from the muffling sound it usually would be. His suffering indignance is met by the sudden sound of guitar and piano, and a barely audible laugh from the plane’s pilot over the harsh sound of the thrumming jets. “You made a mistake.” He says, turning red lenses to glance at his commander, his voice dripping heavy with disappointment as Dolly Parton starts to blast in the atmosphere of the cargo plane.
“First off, never let anyone on ETA pick or play music. Second, we’re not landing, commander.” It was odd, how did he, as commander, address his direct superior? They’d not really held any sort of briefing about it.
Of course it probably also would have been beneficial to fill in Wesker of the full plan before they’d boarded. A briefing was done with ETA, and the USS operatives on board, hell even ZETA got briefing for their clean up procedures based off of the intel he’d been given. Of course, maybe losing that sort of forethought is his own way of being excited, as subdued as it is. HUNK performed a lot of background operations these days. The field, while still being played upon, grew further away the more control he had over his USS.
“The plane is going to sweep low less than a mile out from the infiltration zone. You and I are going to jump from the cargo door.” He motions to the general populous sharing space with them. Those who had not been assigned to one of the eight main teams, and remained under the strict command of Cujo. “They’ll be parachuting out to do further recon, meeting up with some of my old comrades in the area, to sweep any rats out of any other nests.”
And he settles back, an almost soothness coming over him at the thought of being in the battlefield once again, and bringing death to all who stood among him. “Looks like you and I are jumping to Dolly’s greatest hits, sir.” An odd bite of humor from the usual stoic nothingness that Death offered. But it was a special occasion, he supposed. He was merciful, ETA deserved an ounce of fun for all the good work they’d done.
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