Stairway to Heaven [IC]

[Nekronia]

Seriously, I'm rather sure that they'd teach this shit in common cla-

-snipper rifle-...
With a sigh, Mason walked over to the boy, who was still sassing the dark-haired woman of about Mason's age; the sniper was vaguely surprised that she hadn't killed him yet. Or at least done whatever the equivalent of killing someone may be when the target is already dead. Without breaking stride, Mason slapped the boy - hard - upside the back of the head. The blow didn't have enough force to knock Jackie over or cause a concussion, but it would rattle his teeth, and hurt like hell for a moment or two.

"We are literally in Hell," Mason growled. "I'm kind of surprised that I need to remind either of you of that fact. We are about to trek an untold distance through Antarctic conditions, and we are going to have to fight our way through opposition severe enough that our sponsors are not worried about giving us whatever equipment we want to do it with." Mason's grey eyes moved from Claire to Jackie and back again. "None of us will survive this alone. We cannot afford freeloaders. We cannot afford anyone who doesn't get with the program. So get with the program. Gear up. Because if the alternative is letting myself get killed because of your negligence, I'll kill you myself." There was no anger - no emotion at all, in fact - in Mason's words. It was as if he was informing his companions of the consequences of touching a hot oven; the threat was just a statement of fact.

"That's all," Mason grunted. He shrugged his rifle into the crook of one arm, and walked over to the warehouse door to wait upon the others.

WAIT YOU DIDN'T LET ME FINISH MY THINKING SEGMENT.

What was I on...? Something about school. Dammit Häyhä.

The stubborn brat was relatively unphased by the painful blow to the back of his head, or rather he acted like it. Pain's just a distraction from getting stuff done, after all. Jackie dropped his confrontational staring at Claire and redirected at the one who was clearly some sort of elite sniper. The incessant dick then proceeded to sass the heavily-armed professional killer who just gave death threats with the same intensity as he did to the 'reporter', although this time it was shorter-lived due to the lack of Jackie-specific triggers. "Gee FUCKIN' willickers, I hadn't noticed. It's not like I've gone meta and deduced our genre or anything. Nope. Didn't even figure out entire courses of action in relation to it. Not at all. No big plans or grand strategies for our eternal fates or anything. Just winging the whole Divine Comedy. Thanks Mom, I'll be sure to get along with generic reporter girl number umpteen and be bestest friends five-ever." John rolled his eyes, then shuffled away from the other mentally-questionable killers to 'gear up'. Meanwhile, he ranted mentally since he didn't feel like arguing with the cold, serious guy. Jackie figured that he'd just get a grunt or a bullet or something in classic stoic style.

"God damn it, seriously. Spunky reporter chick who doesn't take shit from anyone. This is as cliché as can be. The turns should be a cakewalk at this rate. Ugh. I don't get paid enough for this. Well, I wouldn't be paid enough for this if I was actually getting paid at all. Although, wouldn't that technically still not being paid enough? ...Does Hell's economy even use currency? I just keep getting stabbed before seeing any coin. Fucking pricks and their bullshit nepotistic superpowers. How am I supposed to make an unliving with magic drugs if I just keep getting stabbed. Bullshit. All bullshit. There's gonna be a serious 'whoooo's lllaughing nnooowww' moment if I meet one of the muggin' fucks. Alright, let's see what we have here..."

John, who was clearly annoyed by the previous interactions with his peers, decided what to bring and how things should be used. First and foremost, there was a satchel. That was an obvious item to bring along. Who needs practicality when you have STYLE and quick-draw potential. Now for the other items. A cool-looking knife was also an obvious choice, and it had an odd feeling running through it. Probably that buff enchantment thing Virgil talked about. The next items were a bit more mundane. A small smoking pipe to go with his outfit, a thermos full of pure water, a couple MREs, an iPod (with the relevant charger and long-lasting batteries. Rock on!), an outdoor Zippo lighter, some insulated socks perfect for the hike, a pair of hiking boots (which were promptly ignored and disregard), a screwdriver, a yellow and green striped scarf, a diamond plate (don't worry, it's just a modern version of a whetstone), a magnifying glass, an insulated sleeping bag, a can of aerosol antiperspirant/deodorant (Mmm, minty!), a dynamo flashlight, and a little baggie filled with a lot of little metal pellets. THEEEN Jackie found the fun stuff: A blessed slingshot (so THAT'S what the pellets were for!), a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun (a classic for any dystopian wasteland wanderer), a pouch of shells for the shotgun (half of them rock salt shells, the other half bolo rounds), a thigh holster for the shotgun (for the left thigh and to prevent the user from properly kneeling, of course), a pair of sap gloves (visually indistinguishable from regular white gloves), and a couple of incendiary grenades. The loadout was completely ridiculous, gimmicky as hell, and of unknown practicality against superhuman beings that could potentially kill before a shot could be fired. Read: Just the way Jackie liked it.

The trickster began putting things on, strapping up, and storing the remainder of his sweet loot in his coat and satchel. Except for the hiking boots: Jackie has his favorite boots back AND HE AIN'T QUITTIN' THEM NOW (Also he wouldn't be able to tie the laces properly anyways, but it was mostly attachment to his tailored boots). He waited to load up his nonmagical shotgun until he was finished packing up, so he was still sitting around without a thorough defense against the increasingly armed people who had good chances of backstabbing. Especially considering the douchebag's latest douchebaggery. Too bad all of his weapons are only close-range, though. His only gun is a sawn-off shotgun, which as we all know-

I still find the display of sawdies in media amusing. In the past, the whole 'CUT IT DOWN AND IT HITS EVERYTHING IN THE ROOM BUT NOTHING BEYOND' thing would be true like maybe with the Zulu-fighter guy's cannon, but not in the modern day. Maybe not even with the Zulu-fighter guy, I dunno how far shit goes back. Modern gunpowder and shells don't really do that. I mean, it's less accurate at really far ranges that you wouldn't use a ghetto CQC cannon for anyways and not for hunting ducks, and the lack of leverage for a second hand's grip will leave you with less teeth if you're an idiot, but... yeah. CoD bullshitting everywhere. I could shoot anyone in the room with this thing and hit all the pellets in the chest without a doubt if I aimed particularly well. God damn that would be a painful amount of messages if this were Dwarf Fortress. THE SPINNING ROCK SALT PELLET STRIKES THE MORON IN THE CHEST. THE SPINNING ROCK SALT PELLET STRIKES THE MORON IN THE CHEST. THE SPINNING ROCK SALT PELLET STRIKES THE MORON IN THE CHEST. THE SPINNING ROCK SALT PELLET STRIKES THE MORON IN THE CHEST. x20. Man, I miss Dwarf Fortress. The worst part about Hell is that I'm stuck being Amish. Mick Dodge in the Hell Rainforest. A millenial Mennonite.

...Well then, Mr. Wiki sure cleared that up. He was still sitting around without a loaded gun in the presence of several armed mentally ill people, though, so his smarty star count wasn't going anywhere just yet.

[Olthar]

While wandering through the warehouse, Lexi rolled her eyes at the antics of the humans. They were always so ready to tear at each other. Even in the face of a common enemy, they were more likely to fight each other. Such a chaotic mess. Still, assuming they kept themselves alive long enough, they should serve to help her reach her goal. She could put up with them for a while. They might even prove to be entertaining.

In the meantime, Lexi needed to arm herself for the journey ahead. Naturally, the humans were all grabbing their cowardly human weapons, but at least this group would have one real fighter. Finding the rack intended for her, the succubus examined the gear she had been given. There was a suit of partial plate armor, heavy enough to offer decent protection while still light enough to grant nearly full agility. It was also specifically designed succubus armor, so many of the plates were made of a special, nearly transparent metal found only in the Second Ring. Always gotta look good. She quickly disrobed and donned the armor before putting her cold weather clothes back on over it.

Next, she began grabbing weapons: a longsword strapped to her left hip, a flanged mace on the right one, a dagger sheathed on the right thigh, a spiked whip hooked to the back of her belt, a claymore on her right shoulder, a giant axe on her left, and a glaive-guisarme in her hands. She looked herself over, made sure all the strsps were secured, then nodded in confirmation. She was ready to literally go through Hell, or at least she hoped so.

[Nature-Spirits]

They had arrived.

Annis was staring out the window of the train, expressionless as she watched the white expanses of the Ninth Circle whip by. But here, now, was the platform of which Judecca Terminal consisted. As Virgil spoke, she slowly turned away from the window and saw that she had been provided with winter gear. Odd choice, giving a yuki-onna such clothing, she thought, puzzled. In the background, she noticed that Virgil was pointing out a warehouse to them, where they would apparently find all of the equipment they would need. Slowly, she stood in compliance with his instructions, and as the doors and windows opened suddenly she paused to feel the cold air glide over her pearly-white skin.

After most of the other occupants had already begun the trek to the warehouse, Annis went to the door, giving Virgil a wink as she passed him. Stepping out into the frigid air, she walked -- calmly, and quite unhurriedly -- towards the warehouse. When she entered, she saw that some of the humans were engaging in conversation and that almost all of them had already fetched their equipment. The yuki-onna instantly identified the equipment she wanted, and walked over to a long table upon which lied a black leather briefcase and myriad other things. She focused her attention on the briefcase first, flicking open the clasps to raise the lid. It was empty, of course, but quite spacious -- perhaps even charmed so as to have slightly more room on the inside than the exterior would suggest. She glanced over at the rest of the items on the table, and placed in the briefcase a large number of dip pens, an inkwell sealed with a small cork, a small phial of water, a china set (consisting of a plate, a bowl, a teacup, a saucer, and a teapot, all in white with floral gold detailing), a set of silver cutlery (consisting of a fork, spoon, and knife), and a red rose. After shutting the briefcase, she thrust a long icicle through her belt on her right side, attached a pair of butterfly swords directly behind it, fastened a backsword to her left hip, and slid a kukri into her left sleeve (where it inexplicably remained, unable to be seen, even after she'd dropped her arm). Finally, on her back, she strapped a military fork. She then picked up her briefcase, turned back towards the door, and approached it, stopping just short.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Claire listened with only half an ear to the boy’s words, faintly amused at just how easy it had been to encourage his idea of her as some kind of ‘reporter’. The young ones always were a bit less experienced in separating bullshit from things that would be natural warning signs to anyone else.

In this case the boy’s inexperience was merely a bit of a halfway-cute half-annoying distraction. She certainly wouldn’t have gone with ‘reporter’ if she were the one to decide on a fake profession. Reporters were so boring and gutless. She might have gone with ‘cop’, just for the sake of the irony. It had always been fun before, and the young folks just loved that one. At least until they realized their mistake. Plus it would make sense. With how hypocritical the pigs were, it was only natural they’d end up in the same part of Hell as her!

The boy would have to realize his mistake soon, though. His reasoning was based around her clothing of all things, and Claire doubted there were a lot of reporters who knew how to handle a gun as well as she did. Maybe she’d just make it easy on him and admit who she was. Of course, then she just had so many great choices as an introduction. ‘Drug lord’ was good but not quite violent enough, ‘career criminal’ made her sound like a shit-stained CEO or something…She’d always been partial to ‘terrorist’, herself. The other crime was more of a hobby.

Claire was in the process of considering how to best phrase ‘fuck your AP English scores, kid, I kill people for fun’ for maximum effect when her playtime was quite rudely interrupted.

*snip for space*

“Jee-zus, who stuck the stick up his ass and twisted it around? Win a ‘get out of Hell free’ card and some people want to make it into work.” Claire said, smiling as she good-naturedly flipped the man off. The smile never reached her eyes, however. The man had threatened to kill her, and had sounded bored. Bored! What in the name of shit was wrong with you if you couldn’t even get excited about that? You were threatening to kill someone, have fun with it. Have fun with them. Smile at them, frown, cut a few of their fingers off with a five-and-a-half inch Makita circular saw and use them for shadow puppets, something. Killing was an art in itself, not just the means to an end, and certainly not some punch-clock occupation you should get bored with. Give it the proper degree of drama!

Claire ambled to the weapons, ready to be disappointed. Hell however, it seemed, was from her own school of arms storage, literally. Claire’s head tilted. Then it tilted some more. She reached one hand out, and ran one surprised finger down the stock of an H&K she hadn’t seen since her last day on Earth. The hair on the back of her neck standing on end, Claire glanced up at the receiver and tried to see if it was what she thought. A familiar scratch and a slight wear in the finish assured her it definitely was.

“Well, at least these supernatural shits have a sense of humor.” Claire muttered as she proceeded down the rack, examining each weapon that had been provided. There were a lot of them. Claire recognized each and every one. The PSL she’d used in the Montana ‘Freemen’ and carried all the way to Mexico when she was still a teenager, the Bulgarian AK that had been her first illegally obtained firearm, a trio of Norinco knockoffs she’d kept around during the later part of the Clinton years just for spite, even the SAW she had needed to move some serious mountains in order to get her hands on…Claire smiled at a Remington 870 for a moment, recalling just how little drywall slowed a one ounce slug and what it would do to a person on the other side.

Then there it was, exactly as she’d half-expected. Her pistol. Not the knockoff ‘B’ for ‘bitchified’ version she’d had to replace it with, but her original CZ-75. The one probably illegally imported into the country through the Iron Curtain, the one she’d been given for Christmas and gone shooting with her mother carrying, and the one that had been used as evidence against her at trial. Well holy shit. Really damn stupid of Angel-man to give her the gun she was going to kill him with. Seems even being a supposedly supernatural embodiment of God’s glory and whatnot didn’t give one any brains or power to predict the future. Which meant they weren’t no ‘Angels’ and God was a liar. She shouldn’t be surprised at the revelation any longer, but damned if it wasn’t still funny. Just as hypocritical as their ‘creations’ weren’t they? To Hell with them!

Claire winced at the thought. To nonexistence with them just didn’t have the same ring to it, though.

With the gentleness of a lover, Claire grabbed the pistol and ran a practiced hand up and down it. She smirked slightly at the shoulder holster beside it. Chalk another one up on the ‘Angel-man is a fucking retard’ pile. She’d used a shoulder holster on Earth a lot because it was more comfortable on long truck drives across the border than anything else. Since the current plan seemed to require walking out of Hell, she’d have appreciated a belt-holster. But no, apparently that was too much to expect from fucking ANGELS. They could flap around and spring you from hell, sing like nobody’s business, but a strap of leather to go around your waist? Way beyond them. Idiots. Nothing to be done about it, though. She damn sure wasn’t going to do something stupid like pray. At least the shoulder rig did make her breasts look fan-fucking-tastic, so there was that tiny positive. Hell, maybe that’s why they’d given it to her. Because the ‘angels’ were a bunch of repressed voyeuristic perverts like the pansies who believed in them. Either that or they’d gotten orders from on-high. It wouldn’t be the first time the Big Man had supposedly perved out on a human woman, would it?

Claire shrugged into the rig, filled the four spare magazines and slid them into the appropriate notches on the harness, then put her coat back on. She had to admit, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as some of the rigs she’d tried on before. With a final shake of her head at the heavenly incompetence, Claire snatched the AK she’d admired earlier as well as the haversack below it with ammo and a few other survival goods in it. Claire had worried—or perhaps hoped—for a moment there might be a first aid kit with some pain pills of some kind buried inside, but such was not the case.

Claire rocked a full magazine into the receiver, then threw the rifle behind her on its sling. The familiar, bottom-heavy weight that bounced against her lower back was a welcome feeling. It, combined with the weight of the pistol in the crook of her arm, told her she was ready to kill whatever needed killing. If they were being given guns it meant demons, and other supernatural critters, could be killed with them, right? It had to.

...
...Well then, Mr. Wiki sure cleared that up. He was still sitting around without a loaded gun in the presence of several armed mentally ill people, though, so his smarty star count wasn't going anywhere just yet.

Claire took a few steps towards the boy and gave his gear a brief once over. Shotgun was a good choice. She would've gone full-size instead of sawed-off, not like they had to worry about concealing their weapons, but that was the kid's choice. She wasn't gonna screw with it.

"You know 'bestest friend five-ever', have you ever heard the expression 'don't judge a book by its cover'? Because it applies to people too." Claire grinned sweetly, "I'm Claire, and I was never a reporter, I'm a terrorist who just happens to like nice clothing and, lucky for you, sarcastic pricks who I can jerk around." Claire winked at the boy, clicked her tongue, and made a finger pistol at him as she walked towards the door.

...
Next, she began grabbing weapons: a longsword strapped to her left hip, a flanged mace on the right one, a dagger sheathed on the right thigh, a spiked whip hooked to the back of her belt, a claymore on her right shoulder, a giant axe on her left, and a glaive-guisarme in her hands. She looked herself over, made sure all the strsps were secured, then nodded in confirmation. She was ready to literally go through Hell, or at least she hoped so.

...After shutting the briefcase, she thrust a long icicle through her belt on her right side, attached a pair of butterfly swords directly behind it, fastened a backsword to her left hip, and slid a kukri into her left sleeve (where it inexplicably remained, unable to be seen, even after she'd dropped her arm). Finally, on her back, she strapped a military fork. She then picked up her briefcase, turned back towards the door, and approached it, stopping just short.

"You two actually plan on using swords and shit?" Claire glanced between the yuki-onna and the succubus nearby and shrugged as she leaned against a wall with one shoulder, "have ya'all really been so outta the loop you don't know about firearms? Or is this just one of those demon-things where my puny mortal mind couldn't fathom your true power or something?" Claire's voice was half-mocking but also filled with a genuine curiosity.

If the demons were good at killing shit, even when armed with medieval garbage, she'd prefer to know.

[Malshan]

Lycaon awoke with a start, having been unceremoniously dumped into a snow drift by Virgil's train. Having slept through the trip, he was fit and ready to set off. Of course, it didn't help that he'd missed Virgil's speech about arming themselves. So, having no idea where the rest of the group had gone, Lycaon put his nose to work and began following the distinctive scent of tortured soul through the wasteland of the ninth circle. The hellhound shivered despite himself. Being so close to Lucifer was enough to give even him chills, even through the thick insulating layers of fur and scales covering his body.

Arriving at the warehouse, Lycaon shouldered the door open wide with a grunt of effort, allowing the elements to howl into the interior. No sense in warming up only to plunge back into the icy depths of the ninth circle. The hellhound padded into the building, stopping to shake off the coating of snow that had settled on his back and showering all of those around him with ice and meltwater. The scent of wet dog, universally despised, filled the air as Lycaon walked past the first few stations to arrive at his own.

Lycaon glanced over the wares stocked for his use, not noting anything of any particular use. Some traditional Arcadian weaponry, designed with humanoid use, would be useless to him. However, among the pile of useless bits and pieces was a gift of actual use; a form-fit suit of armor specifically designed by Hell's armourers for hellhounds. Made of Stygian iron, the armor was designed to protect the head, neck, chest, and back of the wearer. Not to mention to coat the tail of the occupant with plated metal. Lycaon grinned, baring his teeth in a bestial grimace.

The hellhound hopped up on the stand where the armour rested, standing in the outlined areas on the ground. The armour set lowered itself onto Lycaon's back, the straps appearing to move of their own accord as they secured the set to the hellhound's body.

Seconds later, Lycaon stepped down from the dais and shook himself out again, feeling the weight of the plating shift as the plates slid smoothly over each other. He tested his mobility, finding that the weight of the armour would limit his otherwise incredible speed, but would not prevent him from utilizing a full range of motion.

Lycaon ignored the rest of the equipment and turned to face a pillar of ice protruding from the ground near the wall of the warehouse. He bared his fangs and charged the pillar, turning at the last second and using his body as a battering ram, smashing the pillar into snow and sliding to a stop on the other side. No additional weaponry needed, it seemed.

[Nekronia]

-snippity doo dah, snippity day-
Claire took a few steps towards the boy and gave his gear a brief once over. Shotgun was a good choice. She would've gone full-size instead of sawed-off, not like they had to worry about concealing their weapons, but that was the kid's choice. She wasn't gonna screw with it.

"You know 'bestest friend five-ever', have you ever heard the expression 'don't judge a book by its cover'? Because it applies to people too." Claire grinned sweetly, "I'm Claire, and I was never a reporter, I'm a terrorist who just happens to like nice clothing and, lucky for you, sarcastic pricks who I can jerk around." Claire winked at the boy, clicked her tongue, and made a finger pistol at him as she walked towards the door.

Given Jackie's manchild behavior and the bad mood that's been rampaging for the past ten or so minutes, you can guess that he didn't take being proven wrong and called a prick very well. You would be wrong. In fact, he actually was rather chipper about the revelations and the whole situation regarding her.

Today's turning out to be a good day. Protag time? Check. Got sweet, gimmicky loot? Check. Stuck with some tabloid shitter? Uncheck. Badass chick seems like she's okay with me? Check, apparently. Yaaay.

Finishing his packing up and wrapping the pale yellow/green striped scarf around his neck, the kid put the cord of his sleeping bag around his shoulder to carry it or drop easily if attacked. He clacked a salt shell in one barrel of his gun and a bolo round in the other, and stuffed the sawn-off in its holster with a quiet statement of "Groovy" to the firearm. Everything was organized, the tom-foolery was prepared, and the adventure was ahead. John gave the spree killer a warm, genuine smile (a rather blatant contrast with his previous confrontation with her and the armed sniper), and trotted to the door to be ready. However, the arrival of Lycaon was not particularly welcome, as the smell of wet dog combined with a sudden gust of frozen wind provided a one-two punch of buzzkill. God damn it, who let the furry on our team? There's just going to be shit furzi ERP everywhere. God damn it this is the problem with gaming. If I wanted furry bullshit I'd go on halfchan or something, not try to relax with a game. Ugh.
Now ignoring the latest source of irritation, a few boring moments of idleness and waiting left the tangent-prone teen to reflect on Claire's words.

"I'm Claire, and I was never a reporter, I'm a terrorist who just happens to like nice clothing and, lucky for you, sarcastic pricks who I can jerk around."

I'm a terrorist who just happens to like nice clothing and, lucky for you, sarcastic pricks who I can jerk around.

I'm a terrorist who just happens to like ... pricks who I can jerk around.

After not many more iterations, the boy's face started to turn a bit red despite trying to keep a deadpan face. Without a word, the pervert speed-walked around the door and outside by himself to cool off and calm down. Jackie sat down in the snow of the far-below-freezing weather, and tried to get back on track or at least stall outside until the adventure started and there was walking to keep him off that topic. Then he was politely informed that his pants were just windproof, and that he was a male that should stop sitting on surfaces with extreme temperature. The series of awkwardness concluded with him scrambling to his feet and standing with his hands in his pockets, slightly outside of sight of the inside occupants. Fuckin' smooth. Gamestop-tier spaghetti. He was still feeling quite hot from his aerogel coat and the previous thoughts that can't be specified on a PG-13 forum. The perv sighed and watched the frozen breath partially slither out of his scarf, reflecting on his poor handling of the situation.

And this was why he didn't say anything to Claire directly after her statement. Jackie is NOT a ladykiller. Okay, well there were two times, but those were only literal!

[Videssos]

Daniel looked around in the warehouse. No liquor? Well, that was certainly disappointing. Or maybe not. Even if he was thirsty he still had to keep his head sharp. Still, he felt a bit frustrated. It was nearly a century since the last time he had a refreshing drink, and he wanted one now more than ever. But no. Not even a glass of Akvavit to be found.

Daniel turned his attention to the other national socialist in the room, Alexander von Schwarzthal, to get his mind of other things. Judging from his weapons and his clothes, he had been a high ranking SS officer in life. It made Daniel curious, so he walked up to him.

"Guten Tag, mein Freund", he said in perfect German, altough with a noticable Norwegian accent. "You may excuse me if I don't strictly stick to army protocol, but we're not in the army anymore so..." He shrugged, smiled, and offered the man in front of him a handshake.

"The name is Daniel Hansen, from Oslo. Former Obersturmführer. I fought in Finland and Russia during the war."

Alexander nodded in acknowledgement of Daniel, returning the handshake accordingly. "Likewise," his silver gaze flickered elsewhere, to the antics of the belligerent brat and those who interacted with him, culminating in his rapid exit from the discussion. The German smiled faintly as he refocused his attention once more. At least those lot wouldn't be boring. "I am Alexander von Schwarzthal, once SS-Brigadeführer, amongst other positions. As for where I fought... well, one could say that I ended up in a variety of different locales over those years," The ex-general paused, before adding, "I was also involved in other divisions of the SS, be they medical or scientific, as well as the Ahnenerbe. Many things can be done in a relatively short period of time, I suppose.

Even as he spoke, Alexander also kept his awareness on the various other participants of this "challenge" or whatever it really was. Certainly, there was a curious collection, and whilst some of them seemed to get on well, it was also clear that there were more divisive... elements amongst the group that had been assembled. Already fully equipped and prepared as necessary, he had finished his last arrangements earlier. Thus, there was little to do at this point, save planning, and adjusting the various assessments he possessed, in regards to the others. Though he idly wondered how effective communication would be, with ones like the hellhound, or the irritating fool of an individual who would probably cause trouble just for the sake of it. Alexander did admit he was amusing in some respects, though. Among others, the two humanoid demons were unknown factors, though so far, they didn't seem intent on making things difficult. Time would tell, of course, and there was doubtless plenty of that to go around. Whilst some of those assembled presumably mocked their outdated-seeming weaponry, Alexander himself already knew of the efficacy of enchanted, or supernaturally enhanced, weaponry. Thus, he was not prone to making false judgements about their capabilities, combined with their already present demonic abilities.

[Olthar]

For the past several thousand years, a soul had aimlessly wandered the Fifth Circle, a soul that was far older than most of the demons there. However, this did not bring her any fame or attention. In fact, she was generally overlooked and ignored by most anything. Sometimes a demon would come and harass her, but she would merely stand there, unphased, until the creature grew bored and left. It was an entirely uninteresting existence that seemed like it would continue on forever with no beginning and no end, a universal constant. However, an irregularly was introduced.

Maralah had been taking a short rest from her endless journey by standing motionless on a tree stump for roughly a decade when a demon approached. The woman did not even acknowledge its existence and simply waited for the attack, but it never came. Instead, she was spoken to.

"Looks like your time is up here. You've been Selected to go to Heaven," the demon declared, holding out a ticket.

Maralah blinked and then replayed the scene in her mind. Immediately, she noticed many things wrong that she couldn't comprehend, and she was left with an overwhelming feeling of something which left her remarkably uncomfortable. This wasn't how it was supposed to go; this wasn't what was supposed to happen.

After an entirely too long awkward silence, the demon slid the ticket into her cleavage and walked off, leaving her standing in shock for several more hours. Eventually, she finally grabbed the slip of paper and looked at it. She had long since forgotten how to read, but she still seemed to understand what it meant. For the first time in millennia, Maralah's face changed as she developed a very slight grin.

-----

The train ride was fascinating to Maralah as she saw so many new sights, things she could even imagine. Her world was expanding rapidly as new information poured in. Terrain, colors, people, demons, buildings. Things she had never seen before were now all around her, and she was ecstatic. She still didn't show it on her face, but inside she was virtually screaming with joy.

When the train stopped, and Virgil gave his speech, Maralah looked at the clothes beside her. She never wore clothes. Presumably she used to, but if she ever did, she couldn't remember it. She watched intently as the others donned their clothes, trying to figure out how they worked. Then, after a few failed attempts, she got her own stuff on. It was a weird sensation to have something against her skin like that, but it felt so familiar. She still couldn't remember anything, but there was something, like an itch she just couldn't scratch.

As the doors opened, Maralah felt the burst of cold, and her entire body shivered in ecstasy. The wintery chill was not only new, but it was powerful. She was fully encompassed by an extreme feeling, and it was overwhelming. She only managed to walk a few steps before she collapsed into the snow, her body convulsing in waves of pleasure. It was simply too much too quickly, and she passed out.

A few minutes later, she regained consciousness and continued on towards the warehouse, her body still warm and her cheeks flushed. Upon entering the building, she noticed that the others from the train had armed themselves, most with weapons she had never seen. She didn't even understand them. Of course, so many things were new to her on this day that she didn't pay much attention to any of it anymore.

Maralah quietly wandered the warehouse, gazing at all the many racks of stuff until she came upon one that made her stop. She was completely unfamiliar with everything on it, but something in the back of her mind said that wasn't true. Something about it was calling to her.

Approaching the rack, Maralah ran her hand along the shaft of a composite longbow, and a tingling feeling ran through her entire body. She began feeling nostalgic, but she didn't know why. There was something about this weapon that seemed right, seemed like it belonged to her. Grasping it in her hand, she pulled it off the wall and held it. A feeling of power coursed through her. Grabbing an arrow out of the quiver on the rack, she knocked it, pulled back, and released with a practiced skill. The arrow flew through the building, narrowly avoided several people, and accurately hit a small, discolored spot on the far wall, embedding itself several inches deep.

Looking at the weapon, Maralah was confused. She clearly knew how to use it even though she was certain she had never held it before. Regardless, she looked back at the rack and decided to take everything with her.

First, she removed her winter clothes and donned a deerskin tunic, putting the heavy furs back on afterwards. Then she slung the quiver across her shoulder. She also grabbed a pouch of arrowheads and tied it to her belt, in case she needed to make new arrows. Next, she grabbed a stone knife as well as a stone axe, attaching each to her left and right hip, respectively. Finally, she grabbed a second pouch, this one containing extra bowstrings, and tied it to her belt as well. She was ready to go, and approached the door.

[Barapam]

"Fascinating!" Daniel meant it. General von Schwarzthal had obviously served the Reich extremely well, and paid a high prize for it, just like Hansen himself. But now they both had their tickets to Paradise just as they deserved, weather it was the Christian Heaven or the pagan Valhall. If he had understood Hel correct, it might be both, or some sort of mix. If she hadn't been lying of course. She was a demon after all.

His thoughts and his eyes drifted. Just like Alexander, he examined the competition. Two youngsters, a man and a woman, both blatantly corrupted by Jewish influence. Daniel knew how his war had ended, and how Israel had came to be. He had been showed broadcasts from the surface of Earth as part of his torture.

Then there was the gentleman from the southern United States. He seemed charming, intelligent and politically aware. "Guess he kind of must be though, growing up with all freed slave monkeys over there", Daniel thought. Altough it was likely that the blacks were still not free during the American's lifetime. Somehow, this man had aquired some booze. Where? Daniel would have to check the shelves again.

Next, a modern warrior, born long after Daniel's own death. He seemed to be a tough and hard man, but the fact that he was a Yankee was a slight minus.

The demons. How he hated them. Although the women were beautiful, he had to admit that. Among them was a dog. Pathethic, but still a force to count with and watch out for.

Evetually he noticed a quiet and emotionally distant beautiful woman, dressed in fur and skins, armed with bow and arrows. There was something ancient and intriguing with her, something unique.

"What do you think of them all?" he asked Alexander, but he wasn't sure he heard.

[Reverend Norv]

Lawrence attempted conversation as he scanned the man's equipment with his eyes.

"That's a motley selection of firepower there, son," he commented in his smooth, Deep Southern aristocratic dialect, before holding out his right hand. "Colonel Lawrence Prideaux, at your service, sir."

"Son," Mason grunted back. A faint smile flickered over the sniper's face. Southerners and their false courtesies. There couldn't have been more than five years of difference between the ages of the two men; both had the hard, weathered look of wanderers who had spent long years exposed to the elements. And yet the man calls me "son."

Mason's gunmetal-grey eyes moved dispassionately over the stranger, taking the other man's measure. Well, I suppose that in some sense I am younger than him; I must have been born a century after this relic died. And he looks like he can handle himself, after his fashion. No sense in antagonizing him needlessly, at least not yet.

With sharp, efficient motions, Mason hauled off one of his heavy gloves and shook Prideaux's hand. The sniper's grip was hard, dry, almost bony; his hand felt like a single mass of callouses. The handshake seemed vaguely disingenuous, as if Mason was putting on an act in which even he didn't much believe. He did not smile.

"Kane," the sniper replied. "Mason Asim Kane." On instinct, the former CIA agent pronounced his middle name the Arabic way, beginning with the 'ayn letter that was almost impossible for most Westerners to pronounce properly. Mason's gaze lingered a moment on Prideaux's face, studying the other man's reaction. Upper-class southern accent. Gear and clothes from the late nineteenth century. The man was a Confederate. Worth knowing whether or not he's going to have a problem working with me based on my phenotype.

A corner of Mason's mouth flickered slightly. "At your service," he murmured, "son."

[Cylarn]

Lawrence cracked a grin at the man before him, catching both the man's true ethnicity as well as his demeanor. He put Mason's ethnicity somewhere between Anglo-Saxon and Middle Eastern, and while he had no trust for the shrewd Arabs, it was how Mason presented himself that convinced Lawrence to side with the fellow soul. He could tell that Mason was reading him as well, and he seemed to hide his emotions and demeanor well. He figured that Mason was a dangerous fellow, and as such, they'd both benefit from working together. He cracked a smile at the man.

"I take it that you existed much later than me," he said. "I knew of a few fellows from your time period. Tell me of your travels back in life."

[Rupudska]

"Now if you're all done with introductions," said Anna, now carrying an M16A2, an Uzi, and a backpack-sized first aid kit. (Along with this, she threw on an ALICE pack, a set of sap gloves, and a pair of bunny boots, as well as a holster for the Uzi.) "I believe there's something we should be doing right now." Besides inflating her boots, that is. Which is what she was doing as she finished her second statement.

"Like, I don't know, getting out of here before any forces show up to keep us in here? The less time I spend here in Hell, the better. For reasons that should be terrifyingly obvious."

[Occupied Deutschland]

"Now if you're all done with introductions," said Anna, now carrying an M16A2, an Uzi, and a backpack-sized first aid kit. (Along with this, she threw on an ALICE pack, a set of sap gloves, and a pair of bunny boots, as well as a holster for the Uzi.) "I believe there's something we should be doing right now." Besides inflating her boots, that is. Which is what she was doing as she finished her second statement.

"Like, I don't know, getting out of here before any forces show up to keep us in here? The less time I spend here in Hell, the better. For reasons that should be terrifyingly obvious."

“Aw shit, two minutes out there and my nipples are gonna be able to cut through this guy’s Kevlar, even with the coat.” Claire complained, pointing at the stick-up-the-ass prick who couldn’t even work up the emotion to threaten someone properly. Something was off about that man. He…concerned her.

Claire sighed dramatically and adjusted the sling of her rifle, casting a final doubtful glare at the demons armament and the hellhound itself. Her eyes quickly stabbed at the fur-clad woman as well, and Claire had to fight to keep herself from rolling them. Great, she was on a ‘team’ with a bunch of demons who apparently didn’t understand the advantages of gunpowder-fueled weaponry and an outright fucking savage who didn’t even understand the concept.

On the bright side, perhaps the savage could teach her how to properly scalp someone. They were supposed to be good at that kind of thing, right? Claire almost laughed out-loud at the thought, but managed to bite her tongue long enough for the urge to die out. It would take too long to explain the joke to everyone else. Either that or they’d question why she’d even want to know such a thing. Nobody had any respect for the fun parts of history!

“Guess we ain’t got a choice if we actually want to get out though.” Claire continued, rubbing her forehead for a moment. The criminal stepped away from her perch leaning against the warehouse wall and shouldered her way to the door. The woman smiled a fake smile, “Shall we be off, then?”

With that said, Claire exited the warehouse. She quickly realized she had been wrong, however. It wouldn’t take two minutes. Thirty seconds, max, and she could cut diamond with her nipples. Which was ridiculously stupid. Hell was supposed to be fire and brimstone and pitchforks. Not freezing-ass cold and snow and hiking. Damned Satan or Michael or God or whoever the heck had made it so this level of hell would…freeze…over.

Claire glared at the snow for a moment. So many damned expressions were far too literal, now. Even 'damned'!

[Barapam]

"Now if you're all done with introductions," said Anna, now carrying an M16A2, an Uzi, and a backpack-sized first aid kit. (Along with this, she threw on an ALICE pack, a set of sap gloves, and a pair of bunny boots, as well as a holster for the Uzi.) "I believe there's something we should be doing right now." Besides inflating her boots, that is. Which is what she was doing as she finished her second statement.

"Like, I don't know, getting out of here before any forces show up to keep us in here? The less time I spend here in Hell, the better. For reasons that should be terrifyingly obvious."

"And who made you the leader?" Daniel said, addressing Anna. A woman taking charge, even the thought of it struck him as absurd. "Why don't you stand aside, little girl, and let the men handle this?"

Claire's reaction was more suiting for a woman, even if she was extremely foul-mouthed. "No wonder she had end up in Hell."

The fact that his crimes objectively speaking were much worse didn't concern him at all.

[Rupudska]

"Now if you're all done with introductions," said Anna, now carrying an M16A2, an Uzi, and a backpack-sized first aid kit. (Along with this, she threw on an ALICE pack, a set of sap gloves, and a pair of bunny boots, as well as a holster for the Uzi.) "I believe there's something we should be doing right now." Besides inflating her boots, that is. Which is what she was doing as she finished her second statement.

"Like, I don't know, getting out of here before any forces show up to keep us in here? The less time I spend here in Hell, the better. For reasons that should be terrifyingly obvious."

"And who made you the leader?" Daniel said, addressing Anna. A woman taking charge, even the thought of it struck him as absurd. "Why don't you stand aside, little girl, and let the men handle this?"

Claire's reaction was more suiting for a woman, even if she was extremely foul-mouthed. "No wonder she had end up in Hell."

The fact that his crimes objectively speaking were much worse didn't concern him at all.

If Daniel thought he was being intimidating, he was mistaken.

"Listen here, you reindeer-fucking Norse Nazi, it doesn't take a genius to realize that the longer we stay here, the more likely it'll be that whatever forces we encounter will have time to set up checkpoints, patrols, anything to block our path. Considering what I saw on the way through the Seventh Circle I wouldn't be surprised if we had to deal with those monstrous cannons at some point. And if having some common sense makes me the leader, than so be it."

Of course she didn't really want to be the leader, but she wasn't going to say that to him.

[Barapam]

"And who made you the leader?" Daniel said, addressing Anna. A woman taking charge, even the thought of it struck him as absurd. "Why don't you stand aside, little girl, and let the men handle this?"

Claire's reaction was more suiting for a woman, even if she was extremely foul-mouthed. "No wonder she had end up in Hell."


The fact that his crimes objectively speaking were much worse didn't concern him at all.

If Daniel thought he was being intimidating, he was mistaken.

"Listen here, you reindeer-fucking Norse Nazi, it doesn't take a genius to realize that the longer we stay here, the more likely it'll be that whatever forces we encounter will have time to set up checkpoints, patrols, anything to block our path. Considering what I saw on the way through the Seventh Circle I wouldn't be surprised if we had to deal with those monstrous cannons at some point. And if having some common sense makes me the leader, than so be it."

Of course she didn't really want to be the leader, but she wasn't going to say that to him.

Was she on her period, or was she always this hysterical? Daniel hadn't try to intimidate her, and yet she seemed offended, throwing slurs at him. Women...

"Look, if you think you know the way, be my guest. Just don't be so bitchy about it."

[Reverend Norv]

"Shut up and walk," Mason growled dispassionately.

The sniper had left the warehouse at about the same time as Claire; he kept one eye on the woman at all times. Damned if I'm going to show her my back. Well, so to speak, anyway. Mason had felt Claire's own eyes on him ever since he had interrupted her confrontation with the teenager. She's dangerous, and she's watching me. That's not the kind of person you turn your back on.

Instead, Mason walked over to Jackie, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him out of the snow onto his feet. "Time to move," the sniper grunted. Then Mason turned to the rest of the group. "Girl's right," he announced, nodding at Anna. "Time's a-wasting." The former CIA man took a deep breath of freezing air; already he could feel the exposed skin on his face begin to stiffen.

Mason pointed at a distant line of mountains. "From what I know of the geography of this...place, that should be the edge of the circle. We get there, we move up. Demons will be trying to stop us. So we stay away from the railroad line, from roads, from any easy avenue of transportation. Cut across country. Make them react to us. Stay one step ahead." It was how Mason had escaped from the Hindu Kush a dozen times, slipping between Taliban search parties through the snowfields and glaciers.

Of course, Mason's luck had eventually run out. That didn't mean that he lacked confidence in his plan. But it did mean that he knew its risks.

"Four kilometers an hour," Mason spat. "I'll be counting. Fall behind, I'll leave you behind. No room for dead weight."

The sniper gave the load-lifters on his pack a final tug, centering the weight firmly over his hips. He gave Claire a last careful look; looks like I'll be showing her my back after all, if I'm the one who's blazing our little trail. It couldn't be helped, and Mason felt nothing more than a calm awareness of danger at that realization: no fear, no excitement, just simple recognition.

Without another word, Mason Kane turned his face to the mountains, and felt his boots sink deeper into the snow under the weight of his pack, and started to walk.

[Barapam]

Mason had some valid points. He seemed experienced enough to know what he was talking about. Maybe they should get moving. Daniel looked at the wilderness ahead of them. Not too different from the mountains in Norway. He saw how Kane began to walk.

"Nei, faen..."* Sinking through snow was not his favourite pastime. Daniel decided to cheat and went back into the warehouse. A few moments later he came out again, carrying a set of skis and poles. It had after all been part of his equipment in life, so it had still been lying on his shelf, marked "D. Hansen".

He put his skis on, and took the lead. Then he stopped, realizing he had no idea about where to go since he had never been outside the Ninth Circle before. He stopped and allowed the rest to catch up. They knew the direction, but he still just had to taunt them.

"I hope you are all enjoying your winter walk? Haha!"

---

*= "Fuck no..."

[Olthar]

Lexi had almost laughed. Of course the humans were bickering amongst themselves over who was in charge. They couldn't just submit to whoever had the most power. No, they had to keep resisting any and all authority. Logically, either Lexi or the yuki-onna should be the leader, but somehow, she doubted that they'd simply accept that.

Taking a deep breath, Lexi gripped her weapon tightly and walked out into the snow.

---

Maralah ignored all the discussion going on around her. It was unimportant, anyways. She simply waited for the others to start leaving and then followed them out. While her lips remained silent, her mind buzzed with questions. There was so much she needed to figure out. Still, she remained vigilantly observant of everything around her. To get distracted would be a foolish mistake.

[Nature-Spirits]

"You two actually plan on using swords and shit?" Annis knew that Claire had directed this at her and the succubus, but she ignored the question. But the human persisted: "Have ya'all really been so outta the loop you don't know about firearms? Or is this just one of those demon-things where my puny mortal mind couldn't fathom your true power or something?" One corner of the yuki-onna's lips twitched momentarily into a smile, but she remained silent. She found the humans' antics mildly irritating, and besides, they would discover the extent of her abilities soon enough.

Soon enough, a number of of them exited the warehouse; apparently they had decided to stop yammering and start their journey. A shadow of a smile flickered across her face again, and then she, too, stepped out into the cold, briefcase in hand. Her attention was brought to Mason when he lifted his hand to point at the mountains in the distance. "From what I know of the geography of this...place, that should be the edge of the circle," he said. "We get there, we move up. Demons will be trying to stop us. So we stay away from the railroad line, from roads, from any easy avenue of transportation. Cut across country. Make them react to us. Stay one step ahead." He's smart, Annis observed, as he continued, "Four kilometers an hour. I'll be counting. Fall behind, I'll leave you behind. No room for dead weight." And I like his way of thinking.

Like a pale ghost, she fell into step behind the others, moving silently over the snow, leaving not a single trace of her presence on the surface.

[Rupudska]

"Shut up and walk," Mason growled dispassionately.

The sniper had left the warehouse at about the same time as Claire; he kept one eye on the woman at all times. Damned if I'm going to show her my back. Well, so to speak, anyway. Mason had felt Claire's own eyes on him ever since he had interrupted her confrontation with the teenager. She's dangerous, and she's watching me. That's not the kind of person you turn your back on.

Instead, Mason walked over to Jackie, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him out of the snow onto his feet. "Time to move," the sniper grunted. Then Mason turned to the rest of the group. "Girl's right," he announced, nodding at Anna. "Time's a-wasting." The former CIA man took a deep breath of freezing air; already he could feel the exposed skin on his face begin to stiffen.

Mason pointed at a distant line of mountains. "From what I know of the geography of this...place, that should be the edge of the circle. We get there, we move up. Demons will be trying to stop us. So we stay away from the railroad line, from roads, from any easy avenue of transportation. Cut across country. Make them react to us. Stay one step ahead." It was how Mason had escaped from the Hindu Kush a dozen times, slipping between Taliban search parties through the snowfields and glaciers.

Of course, Mason's luck had eventually run out. That didn't mean that he lacked confidence in his plan. But it did mean that he knew its risks.

"Four kilometers an hour," Mason spat. "I'll be counting. Fall behind, I'll leave you behind. No room for dead weight."

The sniper gave the load-lifters on his pack a final tug, centering the weight firmly over his hips. He gave Claire a last careful look; looks like I'll be showing her my back after all, if I'm the one who's blazing our little trail. It couldn't be helped, and Mason felt nothing more than a calm awareness of danger at that realization: no fear, no excitement, just simple recognition.

Without another word, Mason Kane turned his face to the mountains, and felt his boots sink deeper into the snow under the weight of his pack, and started to walk.

"See?" Anna said, gesturing to Mason before trudging out to follow him. "He gets it."

Four kilometers per hour. That worked out to a little under 2.5 miles per hour. In most conditions, that'd be a slightly-faster-than-leisurely stroll, though in these conditions...

Well, it wasn't a big problem, bot nor was it no problem. Her clothes would keep her warm enough, and it was too cold and too windy for snow to be an issue. The surface of the ice was also slightly coarse, just enough for it to not be ridiculously slippery. However, Anna had a feeling that that was simply because they were at the warehouse, and out in the unused regions of the Ninth Circle, the ice would be smooth as glass.

And that would be a big problem.

[Malshan]

Lycaon extricated himself from the pile of rubble that was the icy pillar as the humans began bickering amongst themselves as to who the Alpha would be. Ordinarily, Lycaon would have leapt right into the fray, eager to lay claim to the title himself. Having been the Alpha hellhound for several thousand earth years, it was a position that he'd grown accustomed to and unwilling to give up easily.

However, the position appeared to hold little power at the moment and there was no reason to exert himself just to gain some dirty looks without a significant upsurge in the social structure of the group. Not that there appeared to actually BE any social structure. Lycaon sniffed in disdain for the humans; none of them appeared to grasp the idea behind teamwork.

Lycaon trudged out into the cold, driving snows of the Ninth Circle. His armor grew cold almost immediately, though he felt none of its chill. His thick fur and scales prevented all but the coldest temperatures from affecting him. Of course, the cold was a constant friend to him; it was the heat of hellfire that he despised so much. Cold was an ally that could be used, and use it he often did. Soulsicles were a nice treat after a long chase, after all.

Delighted to be back in the chilled air of the Ninth, Lycaon barely managed to restrain himself. So dense was the evil in the air that it made Lycaon want to prance through the snow and ice. As it was, he put a burst of speed on and leapt out in front of Mason, taking up a position in the front of the group. Where the Alpha SHOULD be, after all.

[Cylarn]

Before long, everyone began to argue with one another, just as Lawrence had predicted. They were all outliers in life, never having to answer to one another, but they were now thrown into a group with one another, and their salvation depended on their ability to work together. He listened as they argued, choosing not to throw his hat into the ring. Before long, Mason was off, with the others following in behind him. The Confederate pulled his scarf over his face, and placed his ushanka back on top of his head. The wind and snow were almost unbearable, even from beneath his clothing. He carried his rifle in one hand, taking large steps through the snow as he slipped in behind the two female demons, his eyes giving them a once over before turning back to his surroundings. No one knew what was in store for them, but it would not be too pleasant.

[Nekronia]

...
Instead, Mason walked over to Jackie, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him out of the snow onto his feet. "Time to move," the sniper grunted.
...

Again, the assassin was being aggressive with Jackie. Jackie was out before anyone else, and now HE was the one being told to move? Man, this sniper has just been Captain Obvious all day. No wonder he died. The insolent brat then proceeded to do what he does best: Be an annoying joker. "Look, if you're gonna keep being all touchy-feely with me, at least buy me dinner first. God damn. I've been waiting on all a' you out here, no need to drag me like I wasn't sitting around ahead waiting for everyone to get the lead out." A sigh later, he was strolling alongside the others in their march. As he walked along the group, he was rudely informed by his skin that it was freezing and that he should do something about it before it died. So, in order to shut his face up, he took off the scarf that was by his chin. John, in his all-knowing wisdom, briefly wondered whether or not he should cover his face as such would dehumanize him in the audience's perspective thereby creating sufficient detachment for him to be killed off freely in order to demonstrate the lethality of the quest. Despite wanting to be the protagonist (and logically needing the position in order to optimize the odds of whatever endeavors he takes), reality gave him a bitchslap when his face got a cold burst of wind and started slowing down his muscles. The teenager decided it would be best to cover up for the time being, so he wrapped the striped scarf around his head so that only his eyes were shown. ALLAHU AKBAR! Bang.

Unlike some members of his group, Jackie wasn't particularly concerned with the technology levels of his peers' equipment. He was told that anything that was too shitty would just get buffed up to modern levels with magic, so it was of little concern. In fact, he would probably PREFER some of those magic items to his mundane arsenal, if he actually had the skills to utilize them. As for his allies'... OPINIONS... he had bones to pick. Gee, the fuckin' roadblock to Ascension is a sexist. What a shocker. Ugh. Fuckin' Nazis ruining the rep of decent shit and turning it into god damn secular boogymen. Yeah, be a sexist. At least your kind ruined sexism and helped egalitarianism. Fucker can't even get a German accent right. If the teen could hear the recent thoughts of more of his peers, he certainly would have even more bones to pick, but for now, he had to content himself with the bitching he currently had on his list. Which he proceeded to do mentally, as Jackie didn't feel like starting several conversations with people he hadn't interacted with yet.

As for the more practical concerns of one of the many sociopaths of the group backstabbing, John wasn't TOO concerned this early-on as there wasn't too much reason to start shooting one's allies. Even if everyone here was a complete shithead, they weren't honorable and moral enough to start killing eachother. After all, they're all in Hell for not being honorable and moral enough. (Gasp, Jackie using real-world logic?!) Anyways, since Jackie's face was covered up and he's at risk for mook slaughter (Aaaand back to fiction logic), he decided to lurk closest to the person he liked best of the group so far: the mass-murdering, drug-running, everything-ruining crimelord Claire. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG

[Videssos]

Alexander was about to answer Daniel's inquiry when yet more conflict broke out, and smiled once more. It didn't surprise him in the least, though he refrained from interjecting when the verbal duelling resulted in a minor bout between Claire and Daniel. As they began to filter out, and march forth, through the wind and the snow, the German general did likewise, perhaps subconsciously maintaining a distance of what would generally be considered neither too close nor too far, being not at the front or the back. Despite his equipment, he seemed to move as though hardly encumbered, the snow and ice underfoot apparently unaffected by his boots. Of course, it was more due to certain passive enhancements he'd placed upon his clothing rather than any particular strength or competency with such an environment. Though for the latter, he had certainly had more than enough experience in winter terrain. Whilst some struggled or ploughed through like determined bulls on a sand dune, he had somewhat less difficulty, though clearly paling in comparison to the Yuki-onna in her natural environ.

Whilst maintaining an at the moment, silent vigil on the rest of the group, his silver gaze oddly intense, Alexander also kept a constant lookout for potential dangers elsewhere, the StG 44 loaded and ready in his gloved hands. Certainly, trouble was bound to make its presence known, as it had often done before, with a voracious appetite and a rapidity that all the preparation in the world could only hope to resist. Such was the way of things. It was undoubtedly more likely, too, the Nazi mused, with the ramshackle menagerie that his coterie consisted of. If it was necessary to the completion of the objective, the fruition of the goal, then Alexander saw little point in wasting time having an internal debate over the situation, other than in regards to how best utilise the various members of the group, and when they had become bereft of use, to discard them in the most effective manner possible. That was only reasonable, after all...