Snippet #2398114

Clarke sighed and lowered his arms, dropping them to his sides and signaled for his men to form up. Smoke was the first one to holster weapon, there had been no contact, but it'd been enough for the hot pickup from the space station to set them on edge. It was time for introductions, since the rest of the mercenaries didn't want to talk, he'd break in the rookie.

The marines would then drag Alex into a circle around the deck. The squad was only nine men, including their leader. Each had their own markings on their armor, some had straps of knotted hair tied to their knees. The gaggle of mercenaries grinned and nodded towards Alex, she'd met Smoke and the groups combat medic. The other three had removed their helmets, one had a thick shaved mohawk and the other two were twins, the latter of which looked like he'd taken a round of buckshot to the face.

Clarke pointed to the one with the mohawk. "Davis. Grenadier. He's the man you go to when you need something to violently discharged from the universe, also my right hand man." "Fuck your right hand, old man." Davis spat back, bearing his warpainted lips in a grimace.

"Charming, mate." One of the twins said, shaking his head. "That's Knives and Buckshot. Former Death Row inmates, now reeducated mercs'." Clarke pointed out, the twin with the buckshot face touched the knife on his shoulderplate and grinned. The squad seemed to be rather quaint, down to earth and nice for a bunch of trained killers. Not that they could speak for themselves, mind you.

"We're a CQC, that's close combat, squad. We begin training when we arrive wherever we need to go, I'll take you to the training room myself." Clarke added, smiling.