Utterly Mad

With the impressions the other UN Peacekeepers were giving their Militia cooperatives, the next one that entered probably dashed their hopes even more than the others. This one, however, didn't come from the safehouse itself, but from the street adjacent to it.

A tall, lithe man, of about thirty years of age despite his silver hair, came strolling on out from the sidewalk with a strutting, self-assured gait. To any civilian or operative who wasn't familiar with neo-Victorian battle-fashion, he appeared to be wearing a luxurious wool coat with a short cloak, for some odd reason, and he didn't appear to be wielding any weapons, at least not any large ones like the others.

And he greeted his comrades not with a salute, but with double finger guns, a large grin plastered on his face.

"Right then, gents! This is the, uh...safehouse, right? Big, scary, secret place? Lotta good the cover's doing it, I mean, come on, an abandoned warehouse? Big, beefy-looking guys with swords and shotguns milling about outside with genetically altered African soldiers? Whatever floats your boat, I guess." His voice had a strange, vaguely European accent to it, probably not even real.

"Eh, anyways. Remington Loach. Special operative. Asked onto the operation to represent some...special interests."