<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/5/51/Wicked.jpg/399px-Wicked.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Wicked (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=173794.msg8209926#msg8209926)<br/><strong>Occupation/Status:</strong>Zhayedan Squad/ Deathbeast<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Briefing Room<br/><strong>Action Summary:</strong>Thinking<br/><strong>Tagged Characters:</strong>May<br/><strong> Open to Others?:</strong>Anyone<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/>For Wicked it was all rather simple. There were logistics questions, of course, but the girls were asking about those, just as he knew they would. It was not that he was a thoughtless follower, it was simply that he preferred to keep his thoughts to himself unless he saw a reason to voice them. Pragmatism suited him well, and, though he was no fool, his intellect ran more towards the guile and cunning that made for an effective predator. He had been on many missions since he was old enough to go into the field, he even knew that it was entirely possible that he might die in the course of such a mission, though that didn't trouble him. He was a fatalist of sorts, though he didn't believe in things like God or destiny, he was an artificial creature, a made thing, he knew precisely where he had come from and what his purpose was. Such assurances allowed for a rather serene outlook, at least given as far as such a word could be applied to someone named Wicked.<br/><br/>He didn't feel threatened by the motion behind him, he trusted his sisters, after all, others who attempted to creep up on him were given a warning growl. The low, steady rumble of his purr was involuntary but not unwelcome, his eyes heavy lidded but still focused on the map, scanning slowly to commit the scene to memory. Forested terrain boded well for them, more cover, plenty of opportunities to make use of inhuman agility. Jumping out of a plane hardly troubled him, he'd survived two jumps without even the benefit of a parachute, once from a plane that was on fire and plunging towards the sea.<br/><br/>Turning his head just enough to peer back at May out the corner of one eye, he gave a slight shrug. "I don't mind the needles. At least they're quiet." As with most things, they'd made sure early on that he was a stoic. Cold, thirst, starvation, sleeplessness, they'd put him through plenty of torture as a child to make sure he would endure it as a soldier. He put up with the tests primarily because he was terrified of the notion of being found defective or obsolete. The girls had brains and gifts, he had little doubt, though he never voiced the suspicion, that the Foundry would put him down if he ceased to possess his physical advantage over others.