<div align="center"><strong>Semyon Prudius</strong></div><br/>Semyon had in the past used an M16 variant. It was an M4A1 carbine. Somehow, he was supposed to use that to provide automatic fire support to the other mercenaries he had been deployed with. Semyon had put the weapon down on a clean flat surface that someone had subsequently jostled, and the weapon had fallen into the mud. Some might think that the moral of that story was to never lose control of your weapon, but Semyon derived a different lesson entirely as he spent the rest of the mission using his sidearm because the operational parameters did not permit the lengthy cleaning period required to make the carbine combat ready and everyone else had been completely uncharitable about lending him something else to use. In the end Semyon came out of the mission with 34 kills, covered in blood, with a pair of dull knives (that were, due to some space age engineering derived from a piece of recovered Rift-tech) never lose their edge, and forced to sit by himself in the back of the technical that extracted them from the combat zone.<br/><br/>So Semyon chose a weapon he too was familiar with. It was a Pecheneg 3 - a new model that utilized engineering techniques and science derived from Rift-tech to improve upon the design of the light machine. A heavier barrel added four pounds to the weight of the weapon, which Semyon did not mind. Particularly since the heavier barrel allowed for improved fire rate without danger to the barrel, and a longer overall barrel life. Like the base weapon, the barrel was not designed to be removed in the field. The weapon was tweaked to suit Semyon's peculiarities and preferences: a shield that offered additional protection to the shooter from oncoming fire (fabricated from an alloy derived from Rift-tech that, while heavy, was thin enough while providing worthwhile protection that some might grant the utility of the protection versus adding more weight to a heavy weapon); a forward grip to improve shooter comfort when firing from the hip or shoulder; and a reinforced stock that made it an exemplary striking weapon in Semyon's hands. They worked for Semyon, and he had employed the weapon to grand effect in the past. He was strong enough that an otherwise back-breaking weapon was something he could carry with little difficulty. Semyon was adept at loading a new belt to the weapon and could do it quickly and accurately with his eyes closed. As a backup, Semyon carried as a SR-2MP submachine gun. A pair of combat knives followed, and in this respect the Russian was not terribly picky. He would go to the entrenching tool before the knives. The single non-Russian firearm that Semyon carried - which he admitted was 'trying too hard,' although he seemed more embarrassed that the weapon was of German manufacture - was a Janz-Präzisionstechnik GmbH JTL-E .500 S&W Magnum.<br/><br/>"Is good plan." Semyon said solemnly of Nichole's 'stick behind everyone else' strategy. He rested his bulk against one of the armoury shelves and looked around, checking who was present and find only the pair of them. "Truthfully, am worried too. Was hoping could call in drones." Having Ranger back up, maybe, if things went to shit was . . . better than nothing, but not as good as being able to call in drones to drop ordinance on entrenched or hardened positions. When Nichole explained that her choices were based upon surviving a crash, the left side of his mouth turned up in a genuine half-smile. He had no problems with the woman's driving ability and never complained. His upbringing left him sadly lacking in a pop culture lexicon that would let him bust out Dukes of Hazard jokes, but one had the sense that if he were not so bereft he would and would do so with a fondness that the hardass tactical operators operating tactically that worked for Black Hearts would not bring to bear.<br/><br/>"Maybe are being lucky and finding technical when in theater." He mused on the subject of transport. "Something up-armoured, with .50 cal in back. Will be living dream." The big man laughed a little. He could feel an agitation coming upon him. It was not fear, although Semyon was not lying when he said he worried - the four of them against a city-razing force in unfamiliar and unknown terrain did not inspire foolhardy bravado in the Russian. The edge of waiting was what he felt. Maybe something like what a race horse felt, penned up and with the gate against its breast. Semyon knew what was coming and wanted to run.<br/><br/>The man's eyes narrowed questioningly. "Why poor suspension?" The Russian was no stranger to poor suspension, but he was not one-tenth the wheelman that Nichole was. It was a question honestly asked. Semyon was too poor at deception to convincingly dissemble.