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“Shut up!” They shout in unison.
The pilot laughs, “Man you guys are funny! I could listen to this all day!”
“I couldn’t! Please tell me we’re landing soon!” Hansel asks.
“We are actually! If you look out you’ll be able to see the island!” The pilot answers.
“Really?” You get and head for the open door, you support yourself from falling by holding the handles at the top of the helicopter and stick your head out.
You see dark blue, swishing waters below, the sun shimmering and reflecting off the waters like something out of a painting and in the middle of this painting is a far off, mysterious island.
“We’ll be landing in another 40 minutes, after that you guys should have a drive that will take you where you need to go.” he states.
“You aren’t dropping us in the base itself?” you ask.
“No can do! Airspace up to the ports are fine but anything past that is a hot-zone! I ain’t getting shot down today, I’m just the transport guy!” he answers.
“Wait, doesn’t that mean our drive could get attacked on the way there?” Hansel asks.
“It shouldn’t be so chaotic there that you’ll get attacked right out the gate but hey, what the hell do I know? I ain’t fighting in this shit.” He answers.
“What a vote of confidence…” Hansel complains.
“...” You stare resolutely at the distant isle and ready yourself for the harshness to come.
In little under an hour, the helicopter delivers you to a militarized port at the edge of the island, the port itself is massive, with multiple warehouses and a maze of freight ships and containers. Before he departs the pilot is kind enough to point you in the direction you’re supposed to go.
A move you’re deeply grateful for as the port is totally absent save for your group, you’re all attacked by a sense of dread and fear as you wander the long and empty roads of the port for 30 or so minutes before you reach the entrance.
There you find a single humvee and a strange man leaning against it, from the distance you see he’s playing with something in his hand.
As you get closer, you see that thing he’s playing with is actually a massive jack knife, one he weaves and spins through his fingers with terrifying deftness. More astonishing still is that the knife in his hand isn’t even the most disturbing part about him.
He’s a tall man, almost monstrously, standing at 7ft tall. Dressed slovenly in forest camouflage fatigues, his broad muscular frame nearly bursting out of them, his dark red beret lies slightly crooked on his head, revealing a raven black buzzcut, on the right side of his face, one long, stitched up scar running from his mouth almost up to his ear, giving him a strange, asymmetrical smile.
He has a bored and distant look in eyes as you approach, once you get close enough, he leans off the humvee, sheathes his knife and approaches with a stride that can only be described as condescending.
