Arr and Arr

The airplane waned on and towed from the distance to the ground, the tires rolled endlessly like a looping of an Ouroboros, as it hauled to a slow and a stop. It bore the special Typhon corporation insignia on the side of its tail, military style of course, a military grade airplane, and not a tourist airplane having landed just in one of Typhon's many private airports for their own usage and... discretion. Whatever happened many years ago hasn't exactly made governments lose their confidence in Typhon, on the contrary, despite having engineered their apparent enemy, their own monsters, Typhon appears as strong as ever with a private army all at their disposal.

HAH! This all reminds Dutch of a video game called Resident Evil, all of this shit is like Umbrella Corporation, with the whole UBCS and USS deal, except he feels more like the UBCS sort of chap whereas someone like Thaddeus, the man who is his CO, is the USS. This whole thing is top secret hush hush stuff exactly, and he even had to sign a contract about corporate information such as this is a complete secret. Thaddeus was supposed to be some big fat cat in the higher echelon, the latest strain in the super serum ingested, a very superior model to the older ones such as the kind Dutch is. A later generation and all that shit.

Whichever the case, the airplane landed and saw Dutch leave it, boarded a car just for him as he was newly transferred to PURGE after his performance over at Russia, taking down an outbreak of mutated Executioners with his fellow T2 soldiers and a shitload of T1 soldiers, it was a crappy fiasco going up against CREATURES specifically made for some organization that boasts the most superior variants of the serum, powerful super beings even better than the cheaper but less expendable T2 soldiers. Whichever the case, it was a success albeit at a high casualty, and lots of his compatriots had to be euthanized to prevent some infectious strand that incubated in those Executioners. The facility was reclaimed but at a cost. In other words, just another day in the company. GOD he loves this job.

It was a long walk in this God-forbidding corridor, having been taken here anonymously, gear and all that, Dutch took to it to checking his pistol whilst walking in his path, having been briefed on his way on PURGE and who his CO is, disembarking much earlier to walk his merry way the long winding corridor, feeling the urge to blow his brains out for the great euphoric feeling of pain to get him hyped up as his new drugs. This fucking power... regeneration, it denies him his bliss that is alcohol, even got rid of his addiction to painkillers. It was a Hell, and the one existent feeling he can feel most... inspired by is pain. It really makes him question himself, is he still human to have been made into this monstrosity? He certainly hopes he isn't, humans are weak by design and are monsters in themselves, and deserve to be killed. Innocence is just a word to describe those that have yet to commit their first sins. It is why he works for a corporation that makes toys out of someone's humanity, he agrees with how they toy with human lives and seek to usurp dominance. Perhaps the path to transcendence is inherently in their hands, and they have a good idea where this whole shit is going. Depositing himself into the room which was empty, but held the air about and the design to play the role of a Typhon base. It had all of the modus operandi made to actually go with Typhon's clean and "superior" air about.

He silently twiddled with his Auto Mag, and contemplated wasting some corporate bullet on his skull for the feeling of combat high, placing the end of his barrel underneath his chin. Fuck suicide, he is too good for that shit.

...'Foreman "Dutch" van de Bron. Speciality: Regeneration. Year of Birth: 1969. Worked for Typhon since: 2001. Year of joining P.U.R.G.E Cell: 2015.' Wisps of black smoke rise slowly from the end of a cigar. The Wolf chuckled quietly at the papers, before tossing them back aboard his desk, pushing his chair out from beneath him, and stubbing out the end of the finely-rolled Cuban in a nearby ashtray, home to many scorch marks and patches of ash, and butts of old cigars. Grasping his side-arm, holstering it, and slinging his Ithaca shotgun around one black fatigue-clad shoulder, Thaddeus van Wolfe turned on his heel and headed straight for the door to his office, exiting through it, leaving only a swinging door with 'Mr. van Wolfe' marked in faded grey paint upon frosted glass.

A hand ran through gelled-back blonde hair, before setting a black beret with a chromed Typhon insignia shield upon it, white light refracting off the age-old motto: "Viam Sternat Ad Cras." 'Pave the way to tomorrow'. Philosophical bullshit no-one working for this company believed in, and philosophical bullshit that no-one ever would. Briskly, his pace picked up, scientists, trenchcoat-garbed Executioners, and even militants sidled to the side, some regarding him with a look of feared respect, caution, and even shaky-handed gloved salutes. Thaddeus ignored them all regardless. He was on the warpath; that much was visible from the swollen blue irises, vivid as they were, and clenched fists shaking barely noticeably at his side. And for what reason?

He had a meeting, of course. Not with a superior; a subordinate. A new one, recently transferred to P.U.R.G.E., HIS cell, after some mishap over at Hydra in St. Petersburg. A place he'd been stationed at a few years back; cold as a witch's tit, and the people not much friendlier, but it was a place where hardassery and a rifle got you a surprising amount of places. The meeting room was on the other side of the base, a few minutes' walk from the airstrip. Thaddeus knew it well.

The further he got towards it, the more the numbers bustling down the corridor dwindled. A smirk hit his face, one of malicious revelation. This was where they shipped soldiers out, or sent people on special assignment. The airstrip sector. It made him feel higher, ascended; only people worth the money Typhon hired them for were ever found dwelling these corners. Or greenhorns who couldn't pay attention to the damn site map. A growl began to stem in the South African's throat.

He paused, unclipped the holster on his side-arm, wiped all semblance of a smile from his face, and headed in. He didn't even bother meeting the other man's gaze, or looking towards him, speaking automatically, robotically, South African accent hanging heavy on his tones. "You are Dutch." Statement, not a question. "The new member?" That was a question, but just as much rhetorical. "My name is Thaddeus van Wolfe. You would do well to salute your commanding officer when he enters the room."

A pause as he skirted around a table, placing his hands upon a chair tucked into it, but made no move to untucking the chair and seating himself yet. "The file says you are a regenerator, aye?" The soldier spoke flatly, with no emotion cracking through the facade and piercing his voice. He rose one hand to his head, and removed the beret, setting it down gently upon the conference table. A hand ran along his hair, blonde locks glistening in white light. "Show me." With that, the opposite hand flicked to the holster at his waist, a side-arm. Beretta 96. Chambered in .40 Smith and Wesson. Safety flicked off. Hammer eased back. Barrel aimed dead at the visible part of Dutch's upper thigh.

CRACK.

He felt his pistol's muzzle itch his chin so delightfully, his fingers ITCHED to pull to feel the sweet release of his gun blowing his brains out all over the roof, showering him in the blood of his own brain matter, only to regrow it back later. Funny thing that is, being endowed with such a great gift that empowers him with such great vitality despite his advancing age (to which he couldn't but help swear he feels younger ever since the painfully euphoric injection in his experience). But despite such distraction, such eagerness to pull the trigger, this Typhon facility had a presence that lingered about. Whether it was his constant combat readiness, or his paranoia, Dutch shot his eyes towards the source of entry to which he'd recognize from the dossier he has looked up when briefed.

van Wolfe.

Some hotshot from the Iraq war where sand gets everywhere, be it your shoes, your clothes, your gun, your ass, it makes no difference. There is just so much sand everywhere, it'd be just like Onga Bonga land save the fact there isn't any semblance of trees, flora or the like, and only fauna being the soldiers down there that wants to kill a person, just like Africa. He read about him extensively, to know your CO if he'd object over moral issues such as burning down an orphanage, or that one time where Dutch had to shoot his superior for objecting to his carnal wanting after a sweet savory visit to a village in Angola. Whichever the case, this man had none, except for the fact he was born in Onga Bonga land as a civilized white man. HAH! And people say that superiority is not in the genes but in the build, criticizing Dutch for having a Nazi father. Whichever the case, the racist gave a lazed gaze at the man entering the room with apparent apathy and observation, before going back to his own designs of brandishing his gun on himself.

"You are Dutch." That prompts his otherwise indifferent attention to the man he recognized as van Wolfe, "The new member?" He pulls the pistol's slide back, taking a quick gaze at the bullet for but a moment, letting it loose and back unto its proper default form, "My name is Thaddeus van Wolfe. You would do well to salute your commanding officer when he enters the room."

"Ja, ja, and ja commandant." He says with his heavy Dutch accent leaking out to the man whom would be his country's descendant in South Africa, nodding to the soldier whom would have a somewhat similar voice, pounding his chest with the gun hand, he saluted with the pistol at hand, before going back to twiddling with it with great morbid and intimate interests in this instrument of muerte as the Spanish would say it.

"The file says you are a regenerator, aye?" He raises an eyebrow at this prospect being told to him, suddenly he had his interests and attention as he leered at the man whom would be the South African whitey, "Show me."

Simultaneously as the S'African was pulling out his gun, Dutch tenders to the idea with sudden haste given how it was on his mind, plants the end of his pistol's barrel against his naval, and unloads the trigger as a mighty roar burst from the pistol, bursting out of his shoulder muscle cleanly as it sprouted with flesh as if it were a flower, a rush of great pleasure coarsed through Dutch as he murmured something in his native language that resembled the cawing of great blissful happiness, further enticed by the bullet being shot onto his knees to which reflexively his leg shot up and kicked a chair in front up as it burst into pieces.

"JA.... that's the good stuff baby." His eyes twitched several times, shaking his head back into attention of the fact he was shot by his superior, giving him a smile, the bullet ejected out of his leg, flattened like a sprout as it bounced promptly on the floor, as his naval ceased the opening, blood covered and all, was good as new with not even a scratch, "Oh ja..." He sighs, shaking himself again despite such hydroshocks that comes from bullets, "I hope you make it a policy of yours to shoot me every time you greet me, sir."

See, pain is Hell of a great way to get hotched up on bliss when alcohol and any other narcotics fail to do the job right. The biggest excuse is to go out into combat for such an instance. And this is... this is what he calls R&R, like a lotus eater of sorts.

The Dutchman unsheathed his own pistol in a split-second with reactions to rival Thaddeus' own. For a moment, warning bells rang... but then van de Bron aimed his own pistol towards himself, apparently eager to impress his superior. In an instant, Dutch's shot resounding just as Thaddeus' did, the man took both bullets into him. The one in the navel passed through with a spectacular blood splatter behind him, and the one in the leg ejected in a moment, pinging out like an empty clip in an M1 Garand of olde. Gunsmoke wisped up into the room from the Automag and Beretta respectively. The faint clatter of cartridge casings upon the floor before they finally fell still.

"JA.... that's the good stuff baby." Hm. So he was partnered with a masochist. Wasn't a first, for Thaddeus, and the P.U.R.G.E. cell leader doubted it'd be the last. He hesitated for a moment, not sure if to shoot the man again and see if he could recover from a shot through the eye - at this range, there was no room for extrapolation, and the feat would be easy enough - but for one, the room was bloody enough, and, for two, he didn't feel like executing another comrade just yet. "I hope you make it a policy of yours to shoot me every time you greet me, sir."

"By all means, piss me off enough and I'd be happy too, comrade," Thaddeus commented with a faint bitter hint in his tones, which were for the most part otherwise emotionless. He cocked his head, before scratching his neck and exhaling slowly. It would be simpler if they got this out of the way beforehand... the man was clearly from the Netherlands. "Your profile says you speak Dutch. And what of Afrikaans?" Mutual intelligibility of the two languages meant Dutch would be able to understand him if he spoke the language at all, but things would be far easier if he spoke Afrikaans also. It was a different dialect in actuality; one that had some discrepancies that could make things... complicated.

Regardless, Thaddeus patted at his stubble for a moment before raising the beret once more upon his head, tilting it so the silver skull in the Typhon emblem glimmered in the industrial white halogen-produced light. Still regarding the man with an air of caution, inferiority, and slight surveillance, it was easy enough to see that the jury was still out on how Thaddeus ACTUALLY felt about his new would-be companion; with a single complaint filed to Ares, the man would be cut from P.U.R.G.E. entirely and given a new department, but, for now, he appeared competent enough and useful, too, along with beyond willing - the high-caliber shot to his navel was more than testament to that. If anything, the man would function as a good bullet shield.

"I have been asked to take you to the range to evaluate your marksmanship," He switched back to English mechanically, accent still hanging heavy. "You can bring along a rifle if you would so like, otherwise there will definitely be some down there, soldier." A gentle smirk. Now was the time for namedropping. "Ares would like to know of the fate of the new member of P.U.R.G.E., and to see if he's made the right decision," The executive decision and recommendation hadn't been Thaddeus'; infact, he had minimal involvement, but everyone unanimously agreed Dutch was the best candidate to balance out Thaddeus' experience, ability, and power.

Whereas Dutch's regeneration was suited best towards defence scenarios, Thaddeus' power was typically applied in offensive manners. Of course, it was just as useful for deflecting bullets and surviving falls; having unbreakable bones was an excellent asset, to put it simply. His thanks to Typhon ultimately for the serum, and giving him the freedom to choose what to do with it... "We don't have all day, soldier. Hurry it up. P.U.R.G.E. doesn't wait for you, and neither will I." He stated with a matter-of-fact tone, despite the fact that he'd barely given the European ten seconds, running a hand along his crystallised, gelled head of blonde hair poking out from beneath the beret and mentally wiping away any furrows in his brow or curvatures in his lips.

It was pretty fast all of this, just as fulfilling with substance as the pain was, his very own narcotics, it was robbed from him, no withdrawal symptoms, no feelings of anguish or anxiety that comes from drugs, but merely the wanting for more. Regeneration was a gift unto itself to have given him the capacity to feel pain without much concerns for the consequences to be reaped. Funny thing was that he could recall having needles pricked into him at a point to take his DNA for some mysterious reasons, but whichever the case, it isn't like he'll see anymore regenerators like himself... but then the realization occurs regeneration was as the scientists would explain, a manifested accident born out of merely inputting some blah blah blah blah blah he couldn't listen, but he knows could be applicable in the future perhaps?


"By all means, piss me off enough and I'd be happy too, comrade," HAHAAHAHAHAHA! His superior is so stiff up the butt, this'll be so much fun tagging along with someone that actually considers their careers seriously, maybe see what rabbit hole he crawled out from. Keeping this line to himself on the occasion he requires to be shot aside from outside in the battlefield, which is to say doubly even greater, "Jou profiel sê jy Nederlands praat. En wat van Afrikaans?" Now as it goes, speaking Portuguese to a Spaniard is like a Spanish-person mashing on potato in his mouth while speaking Spanish, in the same instance did it feel like Afrikaans was a poor man's Dutch, but he understood it once he went over it with a momentary pause to consider what the heck the S'African muttered about. Using his great supreme intellect, Dutch went over the possible scenarios of what he said, fragmenting it, connecting it, and then fabricating it into a plausible sense.

"Yes commandant, but you may have to speak slowly for me to grasp your dialect." He states simply as it were in his native language, sheathing his weapon into the appropriate holster as he took a gander at the crimson red that stains his pants, and a momentary view of his reddened neck stained with his own blood. It felt like a gawking chasm in that scant moment to which he felt pain inflicted upon himself, but alas, such a pain was a wonderful feeling in the world worth experiencing a thousand times. But point of the matter was that Dutch and Afrikaans could be understood interchangeably albeit at a much slower pace than one another. Funny... having met a S'African in particular when he took a job in Mozambique at the South African border, joined Typhon from that, and then joined PURGE with a South African head in charge it, and an enlightened white man no less (Dutch is a racist).

"I have been asked to take you to the range to evaluate your marksmanship, you can bring along a rifle if you would so like, otherwise there will definitely be some down there, soldier. Ares would like to know of the fate of the new member of P.U.R.G.E., and to see if he's made the right decision." Oh right, PURGE had the direct handling from Ares, the men in PURGE are the best in Typhon's ranking and PMC's, funny really. Dutch didn't feel like the best, but the experience he had, years of training, killing all those turds in Onga Bonga land, that could probably count as experience, if someone would humanize their darker skinned ancestors into standing at an equal disposition of Dutch's very own. But alas, his only worthwhile counting of an experience are the dirty jobs Typhon sent him to do, as an expendable soldier, that he otherwise outlived his peers and what have you.

So getting off the counter, giving a nice view of the great abundance of blood and gory chunks of meat sprayed all over behind him, he reached out for the first gun he saw -- the FN SCAR on the place told to look at it for, a gun that was used in the Afghanistan War, pretty decent, had a large sound to it when it fired, and it is damn well customizable as a modular assault rifle. Lugging and towing the rifle into his grasp, holding it from the barrel, Dutch already went on and about to the doorway with minimal notice on his end, and BARELY 10 seconds has passed. Making his way from the corridor in a hurried stroll towards the range, as he received salutes from whomever he came across as he heard a murmur from the room he already is long leaving behind, "We don't have all day, soldier. Hurry it up. P.U.R.G.E. doesn't wait for you, and neither will I."

"Heheh, way ahead of you, commandant." He chuckled under his breath smugly, murmuring to himself. He knows this will be a long tiding indeed.

((Feel free to describe the firing range and skipping the walk there.))

"Ja commandant, maar je kan hebben om langzamer te spreken voor mij om uw dialect te begrijpen." Thaddeus nodded promptly, still no emotion on his face. That was mutual enough, at least; it would be a useful tactic for inter-team loyalties and commands and a bonding point if the Dutchman ever impressed him enough, but for now, that had yet to come. With his sidearm loyally at his waist and the last tendrils of gunsmoke fading from the clear air, just as artificial as everything else in this Typhon-manufactured facility, Thaddeus shrugged the Ithaca further up and didn't bother replying.

Before he even finished his sentence, Dutch had long-since made for his exit, chuckling as he left Thaddeus in his wake. "Heheh, way ahead of you, commandant." Independence, yet some semblance of disrespect; a double-edged sword. Though an attitude on his comrades and that feel of independence was necessary to an extent; silently, Thaddeus swept through the building, and before long, the pair drew up to the firing range, solemnly silent and well-kept, not a single cartridge casing on the floor, all the targets replaced with fresh dolls as of this morning.

The firing range was clean, having a clear air about it, though the stench of old sweat, faded tension, and cordite hung heavy in the air, one symptom that no amount of Dettol and cloth-wiping could remedy. You can try to hide a room of violence visually as best you can, but to a trained nose, the scent of battle, simulated or not, hangs upon the air heavily. Thaddeus smirked and set down his shotgun and beret upon the range, before finally unsheathing his pistol and setting it down also, choosing now to speak. "The FN SCAR," He scanned the golden-sheen battle rifle up and down. Belgian-issue, standard now in most modern militaries and PMCs, and the famed tool of a good bulk of Typhon's regular military forces. "Not a bad choice, soldier. Though if you're not using a STANAG magazine, with that rate of fire, what are you going to do when you run out of bullets and some pyrokinetic bastard's ready to burn that pretty blonde hair of yours off?" Of course, it wasn't of much consequence, even hypothetically; Dutch was masochistic and a regenerator, so fire was of little concern to him. The main issue was in the pride, and for Thaddeus, in reliability. It didn't matter if he could soak up weapons fire of any manner and deflect explosions so simply; when he used his regeneration as a fall-back and relied upon it, that was when it became the CO's concern.

South African accent still heavy, Thaddeus pulled up a seat to the firing range and ignored the bright orange ear defenders Typhon recommended and probably produced themselves. Alas, this was no challenge of analysis and proper weapon selection; it was a challenge of marksmanship. Trailing a calloused and scarred hand against that hardened, gelled-down and swept-back blonde hair of his, blue eyes vibrant amidst the clean and clinical white of the range, he gestured for Dutch to begin. "Official requirements state that to join the P.U.R.G.E. cell you must be able to pass Typhon basic training, marksmanship included," A wicked smile coiled upon his face, serpentine in nature.

"However," And here it was. "I lead P.U.R.G.E., and I decide whether or not, ultimately, you make the cut, even if you are a recommendation of the Lord of War himself," Picking up the Beretta 96, Thaddeus unloaded it and slid out the clip gently, turning it over and over in his hands with a sigh. He thumbed the bullet that had been automatically primed back into the top of the clip, but the one single .40 round he had fired into Dutch's leg was still, of course, missing. But he had positioned himself strategically enough near the ammunitions drawers, scrolling along until he found the one marked '.40 S&W', pulling it open, and sticking his hand in to scrape around. Eventually, of course, he happened upon a handful of loose rounds - improper procedure, but useful enough - and picked one of the simple brass-fashioned and copper-jacketed shells up, pressing it back into the clip and reloading the pistol, before finally flicking the safety back on. Protocol first. "And the unofficial marksman requirements I'm giving you are that every bullet of that clip must hit the target within a thirty second window." With a twenty-round clip, that gave him a second and a half to line up each shot. With a thirty-round clip, one second exactly. It was brutal enough, but Thaddeus wasn't exactly renowned for his mercy. "And if you do not fire with fluidity and precision befitting the mantle of a P.U.R.G.E. operative, you will not become a member of my cell,"

He set the pistol back down, stood to his feet, and interlocked his hands behind his back. "If that is clear, you may proceed," He spoke mechanically, in the way that only a general would. Ruthless on the battlefield with no regard for etiquette there, though a man of formality and protocol in the tactics tent and war room. Only amidst the gunsmoke and sand did the real animal dwelling within Thaddeus' skin become unleashed. He counted to five. "Begin."

The target range, not the sort of place Dutch cared to go to. It is devoid of any life to reap, which is fucking irritating as an asshole being poked by some African spikeweed or whatever it is they call one of those plants. The lacking substance of this place often is realized from the lack off fibers people add translated to that of actual people to shoot instead of these monotone dumbass dummies to blow apart with a gun, which really isn't inspiring given NOBODY stays put when they fire a gun, and all this does is just enhance accuracy on a barn in Dutch's enlightened opinions that spans many years of warfare in the backwater asshole of Onga Bonga land.

He checked his FN SCAR upon arrival, which sounds like a super villain gun, not the type of gun he used typically but it is state of the art, if anything, these modern guns lack the kick back an AK-47 offers, and are much easier to control as a result... just a bit too light, lacks the boobs or "oomph" to it that comes from a recoil. But bah, he gets his paychecks and gets to have his hands to fondle the latest technology around as a result of his otherwise newfound employers. Hooray for that. But then again, beats having to swat mosquitos everytime, take a shit in the jungle, piss, and even there are decent women about in Typhon Dutch had the chance to show his regenerative long lasting prowess to with his codpiece. Who knows? Maybe his kids will be regenerators like him, there are certainly cases of many chicks making sick leaves due to sudden pregnancies as a result of his otherwise loose ways.

Holding up his firearm, his metaphorical piece, the assault rifle, Dutch didn't spend time playing around with it like a greenhorn would, throttling about like a wild maniac, but rather points his weapon at the target, steadies his aim, and braces his finger for the trigger as he points it towards the dummies without Thaddeus's prompt YET. Thaddeus Thaddy Thad Fatty Thaddy or so he would be thinking of nicknames for his Afrikaans commander. Funny that. Now rookies tend to chance every shots and tend to shoot before they aim, which leaves the gun without any ammo to spend, and in turn gets the rookie killed by a primitive with an AK-47 where he will proceed to eat the rookie's eyes like jojobees. Those that didn't learn fast in the jungles of Africa were quickly filtered out, and those that knew how to time their shots, shut the fuck up and listen for the surrounding tended to prosper. That's how mercenaries are like, it's not a personal thing like a cause, but all for a paycheck.

He stepped inside into the firing block which gives him a clear line of sight, almost ready to spend his bullets on those dumbass dummies without a moment's hesitation and then probably go get some taste of liquor, the one thing he can't get drunk off of due to his new capacities as a super soldier from the Tier 2 operatives (not really THAT new, he had the serum inside him for 18 months now.) But yet he was stopped by a prompt from the Afrikaans blonde about his very own capacity, something about field expertise and being the best of the best of the best.

"The FN SCAR," His nostrils sniffed the air, filling his lungs in and out with the gunpowdery air as he steadies his aim, if he shot now, then what the fuck would the commandant have been saying by then? Hence his logic to wait and hear what it's all on about, "Not a bad choice, soldier. Though if you're not using a STANAG magazine, with that rate of fire, what are you going to do when you run out of bullets and some pyrokinetic bastard's ready to burn that pretty blonde hair of yours off?"

He pulled the trigger after putting the safety off, kept his weapon loosely aimed on the firing range as he set his sights on Thaddeus whom was behind him, till the weapon had a few clicks moaning that the gun was empty, and in that moment, he let one hand go of the under-barrel, producing his pistol from his holster in a split second and points at his target, before holstering it again, "That." He says, "Hold out firearms tend to surprise a stupid moderfooker that thinks he can get the drop on me because my gun is empty." His accent dripped so heavily of Dutch as he holsters his weapon. Setting the FN SCAR on the counter, he gestures for a man aside from him using the same weapon to pass the ammo, having his palms met with the weapon's magazine, giving an approving nod as he unloads the magazine to the ground, and quickly feeds the weapon fresh bullets.

His focus waned from Thaddeus and fixates on the target, finding the bullets having strayed from the mark and hit the floor, yep, and NOW he will demonstrate what the Hell happens if a person DOES keep his gaze on the damn target and keeps his aim steady and his vision on what he aims to hit as he listens further to what the Thaddy says.

"Official requirements state that to join the P.U.R.G.E. cell you must be able to pass Typhon basic training, marksmanship included, however, I lead P.U.R.G.E., and I decide whether or not, ultimately, you make the cut, even if you are a recommendation of the Lord of War himself, and the unofficial marksman requirements I'm giving you are that every bullet of that clip must hit the target within a thirty second window. And if you do not fire with fluidity and precision befitting the mantle of a P.U.R.G.E. operative, you will not become a member of my cell."

He smiles at these conditions, this wasn't that much a handicap, and thirty seconds is plenty of time to hit the target and register EVERY SINGLE shots. What a baby's trial, he can be wiping his ass and register those hits so long as he was aiming... but better hold that thought on track. Maybe later on he can actually do that, sounds like an idea worthy of registering down! He will stuff his face in later on to attempt that after taking in some laxatives STRONG enough to ease an elephant of constipation to try that out.

"If that is clear, you may proceed."

"Ja Commandant, crystal clear." He replies fluidly, as if this were but a daring challenge to his skills gathered and punched in throughout the years of his life as a soldier of fortune. Staring at the countdown as his vision went back to the firing range at the dummy that was meant for him.

"Begin."

Magic words that tingled his senses, his gun was steady, and the iron sights were dead set on the dummy's central body mass, the largest thing around. This was a decent range, albeit it's a smaller target from the distance that kept Dutch and his target apart, as he pulled the trigger, not unleashing the bullets but keeping them tamed, one two three yet stopping in that pattern and resuming again. Taking his time mowing down his targets as it is torn through like a hyena being raped by a lion's teeth, violated and destroyed. All this done till his gun was empty once more with them clicks, giving a satisfied gaze to see every single bullets of his have carved RIGHT into the dummy as he sets his weapon down on the counter that blocks his way to the firing range. He still had 10 seconds to spare too.

Letting his Auto Mag loose, he settles it again on the target, takes steady aims, and pulls the trigger again on the central body mass, controlling the gun, its semi-auto nature helped keep the shooting at his pace than an automatic mess like a heavy machine gun meant for suppressing fire. Unloading the magazine on that dummy with all having pinned down the inanimate object, not in good tastes really, he would've preferred something alive but whatever. Feeding his pistol with a fresh magazine from his vest, and sheathing the weapon afterwards as he turns around to face Thaddy. Having finished all in just about 2 seconds extra with both those weapons included. It was really about calmness than freaking out like a douche.

"It is done, Commandant." Which is all he has said, like a badass.

"Hold out firearms tend to surprise a stupid moderfooker that thinks he can get the drop on me because my gun is empty." Thaddeus nodded, regarding the gun slowly. Powerful piece of kit; long-barrelled and hefty, but from the way the man handled it, it appeared he was very much used to the weight. Someone who could hold a gun without looking awkward and uncomfortable was someone who knew what he was doing.

".44 AMP Automag, eh?" He whistled quietly, watching as Dutch put it away. "Hell of a gun. Hunt elephants with that thing," He murmured, before remembering his place and adjusting his posture and stature, interlocking hands behind his back and bowing his head, waiting for the junior officer to begin. And all-too-soon, he did.

Chug-chug-chug came the SCAR's rifle-fire. Echoing vividly about the room, a fresh stream of cartridge casings soon trickled down and landed upon the floor. In twenty seconds, the entire magazine had been exhausted; and Thaddeus wasn't impressed, but more... contented. He knew the trial was easy pickings - here, in a controlled environment, when it's not a flesh-and-blood human being on the other end, full magazine in twenty seconds? Piece of cake. Out in the field? No.

For the cherry on top, he set aside the rifle and with fluidity befitting even Thaddeus' mantle, unsheathed the .AMP firearm and exhausted a full clip before the thirty seconds were up. And every round had struck. Lodged within the dummy were twenty-eight bullets. Twenty of the rifle, and eight of the pistol. Unaware of his nickname now firmly embedded within the Dutchman's mind, Thaddeus turned back to him and nodded slowly enough. No smile, no pride. This man was adequate. Not outstanding; adequate. "It is done, Commandant."

"I have eyes of my own with which I can see, Dutchman," Thaddeus commented flatly, brushing over to Dutch's station, brass and copper of shell jackets crunching and bending out of shape underfoot as he continued his movement, the nodding becoming more vigorous. "Acceptable. The handgun fire was unnecessary," Thaddeus commented. "In my cell, you will follow my orders. Nothing less - and nothing extra such as your display with the sidearm. I want top-quality efficiency and nothing less. Is that clear?"

Resigning quickly to a table and two chairs further back from the range stations themselves, Thaddeus gestured for Dutch to leave the rifle behind, taking up his weaponry and setting them down too. As he'd asked, a pair of manilla dossiers, each thick with a mixture of ancient lab results, name sheets, and mainly Polaroid photographs. Taking one from the top, he flipped it open, and took a single Polaroid photograph from within, sliding the dossier over towards the brunette and flicking the photograph on top. It had caught a young boy of no older than his twenties in mid-motion, bearing sunglasses and a rather cocky expression. Blonde hair, though that wasn't ultimately entirely visible from the colour downfall of using the reliable Polaroids. "This is Otto Klein," Thaddeus tapped the boy's head.

"Designation Theta. He creates and manipulates kinetic barriers. The other Children are probably on their way to pick him up in Hamburg; but your aim is to get there first and subdue Klein and any Gaia patrols. This includes high-value targets Alpha, Psi, Phi, and Lambda, the only four confirmed members," He cleared his throat and grasped a separate dossier. "Check the main database for images of them; Alpha is top-priority, but none of them are to be terminated. The plane leaves from this airstrip at oh-four-hundred this morning." Thaddeus nodded. "Meanwhile, I'm flying to Auckland tonight to find Pi. Your assignment should be clear, soldier. I'll see you upon your return. Happy hunting,"

With that, he turned on his heel, grasped his equipment, smoothing his hair back and setting down the beret, before looking over his shoulder once more with a smile. "Oh, and, Dutchman," A smirk as he switched to Afrikaans. "Don't fail me." With that, Thaddeus van Wolfe vanished.