For a place that did not exist, the Foundry was always a bustling hive of activity. The eight sections covered everything from R&D to Operations, always working to extend the agency's influence further and farther than before. For many that worked there it was a profitable career with ample opportunity for advancement, for others it was life, the place where they'd been bred and built into something new. For the most part, the Foundry seemed precious little different from the rest of the world's intelligence agencies, distinguished more by competence and resources than aught else. While it often took things a step beyond the amoral pragmatism one saw in the CIA and their ilk, few were aware of the full extent of the evils lurking beneath the surface. Classification was high, and those who might have taken issue with experimentation on living, sapient organisms rarely saw more than the end results of such efforts, the Prototypes.<br/><br/>For much of the time, the Prototypes were occupied with training and studying, there was no concept of time off or play for them, they weren't people, machines and chattel at best. While they weren't treated with cruelty, anyone attempting to do unnecessary harm to the priceless youths would have been promptly executed, they were worked to the very limits of their endurance. Anything less would have been wasteful. Fraternising, among themselves or with others, was strictly discouraged, and much of their free time was spent in their own quarters, which were essentially comfortable cells, with ready access to gym and study materials but without much freedom to roam. It was a necessity, of course, they were dangerous individuals, giving them too much time to communicate with one another was far too risky to be countenanced. After all, the Foundry had ample evidence of what they could do when functioning as a team.<br/><br/>The name was fanciful, as so many of the Foundry's codenames were, Zhayedan squad. The Immortals. A name that they had lived up to rather well, giving their extremely high success rate, and kill count, compared to a casualty rating of zero. Once more their reputation was to be put to the test, as the briefing room beckoned. A small room, it had sturdy benches on the far side of a long table, facing towards the wall of high definition screens upon which the relevant data was displayed. Commander Montgomery, the lean, sallow skinned old soldier, dressed in his drab brown coveralls, stood like a statue of himself in the room, waiting for the squad to gather so the briefing could begin.