Another one, James thought to himself, somewhat bitterly. His mouth turned into a thin, hard line as he rolled his shoulders in an effort to cut some of the dry mountain wind. Planned obsolescence. It really will be our undoing. He glanced at the chest-high Climber robot beside him. It was made of metal, and it moved on treads. It carried most of their gear, and it was outfitted with grappling hooks and small personal heaters for the colder mountain nights. He glanced ahead of him, to one of the other mercenaries who'd taken on the assignment. They were outfitted similarly, with thick fur coats, heavy boots, and goggles with some of the oxy-scrubber masks that kept caustic ash from burning their lungs in danger zones. Each was outfitted with no less then one primary, and one secondary firearm, as well as the odd hooked multitool that served as both as melee weapon, and entry tool as needed. Each of the mercenaries were stern looking men, and lean though not with malnutrition. Mercenary work paid well, so long as you could stomach what you did. Static crackled briefly over the short range comms, and the voice of the newest recruit in James' squad piped up. "Remind me again why we're dragging ass all the way up the side of this mountain?" James rolled his eyes, shrugged deeper into his fur-lined hood, and kept trundling right on up the mountain towards the bunker. Another voice however keyed in on the channel to shush the newblood. It was hard to make out anything of the mercenaries beyond their loadout, so heavily bound were they against the elements of the mountain. They might have been anybody, were it not for the crimson standard flying on the pole standing from the back of the last man in line. It was red, with a white dove in mid-flight, the standard of the mercenary company that had been working the wasteland since people had first been ejected into the hostile world. As the small band approached the position of the bunker, James pulled his hood down. He had a mess of black hair that flickered and danced in the winds of the mountain, longer perhaps than was common in a military unit. He had a strong jaw with a clean shave, and calm, blue eyes. He stopped the Climber. The men all about him stopped as well, and followed suit to wait for the representative from the fallout shelter. The man in front called out firmly and clearly. "Crimson Dove unit Five-Three, reporting to Shelter Stonebrand for duty postings."