<div align="center"><strong>Out of Nowhere, is fucking Semyon 'Semi' Prudius!</strong></div><br/>Semyon pressed his finger to the reader, and tapped a passcode into the pad, reading it from a slip of paper. He did not have a car to park (Semyon had ridden the bus and walked a block or so), but getting into headquarters was a long string of tedious bits of security protocols. The Russian tried to joke with the guards behind the bullet-'proof' window, but did not get any of them to even crack a grin. It was typical, but then, Semyon reasoned that the guards were no doubt busy contemplating that while there were materials advertised as bullet-'proof' - even though they were not truly impervious to bullets - there was nothing known to humankind that was Russian-proof. It must be terrible knowledge to bear when one is not Russian. Sometimes it was terrible knowledge even to one who was Russian. He carried on past the receptionist's desk and its blaring radio into WAR Room I (much superior to its sequel: WAR Room II).<br/><br/>Within, Semyon took a seat. It was private sector comfortable. The expense of the chair was palpable, from the pleather covering over lush, plush cushioning to the way it creaked in protest at Semyon's mass. This pleased Semyon inwardly, and not for the first time he daydreamed a little about stealing the chair he found himself in for his own personal use in his domicile. In his mind a bold and daring plan of attack went off without a hitch, a one-man action film with a supporting cast of ever greater explosions that dream-Semyon walked away from without looking at. It was a pleasant way to occupy his mind until the meeting proper started. He was so engrossed in this fantasy that he did not begin to contemplate the job that he was awaiting a briefing for. The mission in his mind was no doubt so much better. And in his mind there were no rules of engagement, restrictions on use of force, or prohibition on foraging - i.e. looting. In his mind, no one could tell him he could not set things on fire. Not that he did in the waking world, of course. And there was ample evidence to prove it. Ample, documented evidence.<br/><br/>The large man was dressed in semi-formal attire, well-within the dress code and without personal embellishment. He was clean-shaven and recently showered - his hair still had the sheen of moisture to it. Semyon sat with his hands folded together in his lap, leaning slightly back. The others would find him like that, when they entered, and with a small grin on his face. Nothing weird, or anything. Just a pleasant, affable grin.