Pjotr strolled to the Command Center after McCleary had vented his colorful speech about the team's tardiness, rather unfazed, mostly because he had only got half of what had been addressed at him. What was a<strong>Hell'o'kitty</strong>, anyway? Probably some kind of odd weapon some crazy engineer had come up with lately. McCleary's family apparently held early education in proper weapon handling in the same high regards as his parents did. Pjotr's respect for the old roughneck grew even further.<br/><br/>He disposed of the cigarette with his left while hinting at a proper salute to Mayor Higgins as he stepped into the building. Pjotr situated himself left of the table in the briefing room. Eliza pressed a folder of mission notes into his hands.  He quickly skimmed through the pages, listening with half an ear to what McCleary said. Nothing really new, other than this time they'd actually try to enter the nest. Eliza's interjection made him look up and at her.<br/><br/><em>'The virus wasn't airborne, was it?'</em>, Pjotr thought as he tried to remember when he'd last checked the filters on his helmet. Just when he came to the conclusion that he'd probably be fine, a young man came into the room and was introduced as Chester Banning, who promptly began to enthusiastically speak of his creation, only to be interrupted by Mayor Higgins. Pjotr would have liked to hear more, but he'd probably have enough time to look at the weapon at the nest. Particularly, the CO2-canister's sounded like an awful lot of recoil, especially in tandem with the mass of a grappling hook; that might be an recipe for bruises, if mishandled. He looked at the other members of the team and dismissed the thought of indicating that to them, as they were probably experienced enough to operate improvised weapons with care. Following McCleary's dismissal, while walking to the exit, Pjotr overheard the words of the man he presumed to be an ex-soldier. He grunted in approval - If the mission was a success, he might even end up buying the first round.<br/><br/>As the motley squad headed out and approached the vehicles, McCleary barked a few last-second orders. "Listen up, people! Make sure all comms are channel-synced; Test one two, test one two, this is Ahab the Arab," he said into his own radio and nodded as the others did the same, the brief bursts of static confirming reliable communications. "There're some headsets on the Marauder to serve as auxillary units, if I'm not mistaken. If you're not familiar with the technology, talk to your driver; he should be rated to help you out. I'm gonna be in the containment truck with Banning; we're going to be right on your six until we reach the target zone. I want status reports at least every five miles, with constant contact if things start gettin' sticky. Am I clear?" His eyes were set on the driver.<br/><br/>"<em>Da</em>."<br/><br/>McCleary glanced skyward and expelled a breath between gritted teeth.<em>'Oh, yeah. This is gonna be fun on a bun,'</em>he thought with a roll of his eyes. He spat on the ground and shook his head. "I'm just gonna take that as a yes. It's gonna be rough ride, people. Make sure your junk is packed and stowed proper; I don't want anyone scrambling for their lucky charms in the middle of a bugfight. Although judging by that arrival, whatever hasn't come unstuck yet will probably survive whatever gets thrown at us. Mount up, people. Let's get this rolling buffet underway."<br/><br/>After everyone had found a seat on their respective vehicle, the convoy began its trip to bug infested grounds, driving away from the west-wandering sun, casting shadows ahead of the mechanical monsters as they rumbled toward the horizon.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>*SHRKT* "Befa<em>r</em>e, julies*KRK*'e<em>r</em>", the driver's voice blared out of the radio. Frowning, McCleary stared at the vehicle ahead as it wiggled lightly on its wheels.<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "Repeat, over."<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "I zad, befa<em>r</em>e,<em>r</em>uff g<em>roond</em>, over."<br/><br/>"What the hell is that mush-mouth talking about?" McCleary asked, growling to himself. "I think he..", began Chester, only to be interrupted by the truck jolting heavily, as the front-wheels dipped into a shallow gully. ".. said that there is a gully ahead." McCleary shot an armor-piercing glare at Banning. "...was", Chester meekly corrected. Still staring, the aged soldier spoke into the radio, his words dripping with sarcasm:<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "Thanks for the heads up. How about next time you just hang your ass out the window and fart the message back at us?" He threw the radio on the dashboard, deflating back into his seat. The ground was becoming increasingly uneven and the truck's suspension was adjusted a tad too hard for the heavy containers on its bed. As a result, the ride was just short of painful and every ground wave was acknowledged by a disconcerting crash. Banning addressed the issue. "We might need to slow down, boss. This truck isn't really suited for this kind of terrain." McCleary glanced at the young driver. "What're you talkin' about? This truck's rated as a Class II Transport, it's supposed to be perfect for these ground conditions?" "Well yeah, boss, usually. But I had to jack the suspension way past original specs in order to support the containment units, and the biggest bolts I could use to mount them were 3/4"ers. They'll hold any bugs we can jam in them, but too much external pressure will risk ripping them right off the truck." Nodding, McCleary reached for the radio.<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "McCleary here. We have a bit of a situation here. Decelerate, over." The Marauder showed no signs of slowing down.<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "I said decelerate. Acknowledge, Roadrage, over."<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "Corpy zat, over", came the answer of the Russian driver. His actions belied his answer, however - the Marauder sped up. McCleary grunted in disbelief. "I can't wait for Alzheimer's to rescue me from morons like this," he muttered as he gripped the radio in a white-knuckled fist.<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "I said DE!celerate, not AC!celerate! Aw, hell, that's it. Pull it over, Barishnikov; give one of the others the wheel. Over." McCleary almost yelled into the transceiver.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Pjotr braked, slowly, while glaring through the side mirror at the person in the passenger seat. Both vehicles came to a halt, being overtaken by the dust clouds they had whipped up in their wake. He looked at the woman beside him, carefully inspecting her face, as if to find any kind of malicious glee.<em>'Seems like you get your chance sooner than expected,'</em>he thought cooly. "Take ove<em>r</em>." He surrendered the hand-held radio to her and rose from his seat. Instead of just switching seats with her, Pjotr went to the back, looking at the floor, searching for the basket he had placed there. He found it wedged under one of the seats, probably flung in there by one of his less careful maneuvers. Kneeling, he extracted its contents and affixed them to his armor, while he addressed his teammates: "Change in plans." Last, he put on his helmet. It locked itself into the collar of his armor with a satisfying, clicking sound. The right side of the integrated heads-up display was filled with a rapidly scrolling table, indicating that the operating system was starting up. It vanished after a few seconds, replaced with the usual read-outs. Pjotr straightened up as far as was possible and opened the hatch in the roof. Standing on the footstep, he attached one of the magazines to the gun, chambering a round afterwards. Pjotr turned to face the truck behind them and raised a hand in both a salute and as a signal that he was set for a continuation of their trip with a miraculously procured cigarette in the corner of his mouth.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>*SHRKT* "Alright. Who's our next contestant? Over." His question was promptly answered. Easily understandable.<br/><br/>*SHRKT* "Well, at least you don't sound like you're trying to talk around a bag of otter testicles. Now, bring'er up to thirty, and remember to keep an eye on the skies. Over."