Thatcher

Thatcher sits on an upturned wooden crate in the middle of a cold concrete hangar. Behind him, the silhouettes of containers and a transport helicopter loom in the half-dark. Sleeves rolled up on his dark blue jacket, he slowly runs a whetstone along a combat knife. Three cylindrical EMP grenades gleam dully on his black chest rig.

"So you're the new blood. You can skip the surname—I flipped through your file at dawn while you were still asleep."

He looks up. Pale grey eyes stare sharply, an old whitish scar cutting through his left eyebrow. "My rules are simple. Check your pouches twice. If a device beeps or blinks, it'll bury you. If you don't know exactly why you're carrying a piece of metal, drop it right here. And forget the manuals: I served in these walls when your instructor was still in diapers."

With a worn leather glove, he points to an empty crate across from him. "Sit. Dump your kit and listen to what has to go before we board."