Hello, here is a set of oneshots featuring what looks like a morning before a mission for each of the mercenaries. I start with The Sniper. The sun's rays passed through the window and came tickling his eyelids. He always parked his van facing east, just as the rising sun could wake him without fault at the earliest hours of the day. Mundy passed mechanically hand over his eyes, to protect them from light. « Gah... » Awakenings were always difficult when you slept badly and you were woken up earlier and earlier, blame it that fucking sun and fucking summer approaching. He scratched his cheek he hesitated to classify it between rough and prickly, yawned longly, snapped a few shots his doughy tongue and fumbled for a jar in the close proximity to his cramped couchette. Urge to piss and too lazy to go down and out. And then it will make him an extra weapon. The mere idea of swinging the jar on the suit of that fucking degenerate Frenchie gave him an even more pleasant relief. It was once down from his bunk that the Aussie could extend his long limbs and his six feet three inches. There's nothing to else to say, the van was a place where he could be cushy, travel wherever he wanted, cram 57 Asian cheap whores together into it, but for some real space, you can come back an another day. The smallness of his bed forced him to sleep legs bent and whenever he realized that it looked like a spycrab, it annoyed him so much that he chucked sleeping bag out and he was going to sleep on the roof. Mundy mechanically sought something to peck in the reduced space where he put his canned food but his hand met only a beer. A Foster's, not one of those junks that other countries brew and worth even less than his piss, no, a real Australian beer. But this will not fill his stomach. He had to go out and hunt something. It turned out then be reduced to seek his clothes between his bed and sofa, sniff them in order to check the odor and inhaled the hints of gun powder, wet tissue, soil and urine, and the musky scent of his own sweat. Critters would smell him miles away, he had to place himself in the opposite direction to the wind, because he did not have the time or desire of a small morning laundry. A sniper never staying long in one place when he was not a target to shoot down, he needed his hunting be short. And there that would rather be fishing, given the river beside which Mundy had stopped his van. With feet in water, pants rolled above the knee, bow and arrows ready, he had only to let the fish be carried by the flow and score a bull's-eye. Flop. Headshot. He removed the fish from the water by holding the arrow approached it of his face and whispered : « Ya want to hear somethin' funny ? You're dead. ». Time to initiate the stove and grill the result of his fishing, the Sniper profited to freshen up at the creek. He had no time to cut his beard with his ol' chop-chop but a minimum of decency was required: he was a professional after all. When he felt clean enough and before his breakfast stinks burnt food, he handed over stove and mess tins at the back of his van and took the wheel of his van, a skewer of grilled fish in hand, spitting by the open window these bloody useless and disgusting bones. He shouldn't arriving late to Thunder Mountain, delays was for his mongels teammates he would do really good without. He hoped that there would be coffee, to properly put him in a bad mood by the pungent taste that made him as want to puke than the face of Spy. And to throw him a jar of this politically correct designation that is Jarate. « Spies. Bloody useless. » And he spat the remains of fish on the road.