The bolt snapped into position. Pjotr shook the weapon to verify it was affixed firmly to the pod. Nodding approvingly, he disposed of the depleted cancer stick, letting it draw a glowing arc in the air to its demise, subsequently diving into the crew compartment. It had room for eight passengers, though completely full, the experience was to be rather homely. Luckily, he was to be the driver. Pjotr took a look around, noting that no one had properly cleaned it since the last trip into bug infested country, as was indicated by the dried strands of intestinal bug juice and reddish brown stains on the flooring, remnants of a fluid usually expelled by mammals on severe injury. The smell wasn't exactly pleasant either. The faint odor of old sweat, hot grease, burnt gunpowder, dried blood and whatever had been half ingested by the bug merged together and created an olfactory potpurri as unique as it could possibly be. Probably a strike of good fortune that nobody of the last team had felt the need to add to it the contents of their digestive system.<br/><br/>He grabbed one of the magazines and rose through the hatch again. He attached the pouch to the machine gun and chambered a round, briefly making sure the gun was fully functional - a pointless exercise, really, since he had just made sure everything was working about twenty minutes ago. Still, Pjotr stuck to the principle of rather being save that had been drilled into his mind since he was young.<br/><br/>When this was done, too, he set another cigarette alight and spend his time with reiterating the mission details in his head. Eventually, the door of the armory opened and the first member of the newly assembled team exited. In the brief moment he could actually see him before he disappeared under the Marauder's high roof, Pjotr recognized him to be the man with the case. He thought he heard a certain even-pacedness in his steps. Sixty per minute, he guessed and upped his projections of the team's chance of survival. He wondered what exactly was in the case.<br/><br/>The next inbound was a lady in a trench coat. Pjotr saw the XCR assault rifle she wielded and felt compelled to nod. A good choice, if you know how to handle it. Like the first to arrive, she also disappeared behind the vehicles huge dimensions. His gaze fell on his watch. Not much time left. His gaze focused on the door again.<br/><br/>Suddenly, over the sounds of the engine, he could hear the passenger side door being opened. Hang on, no, the door on the driver's side. It took a moment for the conclusion to grab Pjotr's attention.<br/>Da net! She wouldn't.<br/>He ducked, already lightly annoyed at the thought of somebody else sitting at the wheel of<em>his</em>Marauder. Pjotr approached the driver's cabin. Sure enough, there she sat, running her fingers over the steering wheel. Pjotr addressed the woman on the driver's seat, his voice slightly elevated: "Vaat do you zink you are doing?! Zis is no toy."