Ellen Park, the Lone Wanderer

They reach the offices soon enough, clearing it silently, methodically. The stairs to the third floor are old and moldy, but they don't creak, and that's enough for Voodoo as they sweep their way up. There's a set of windows on the far side of the room, and Voodoo takes up position near the back of the room, peering through the scope into the gorge. It's deep, with a train track running straight into the middle and improvised catwalks (sheetmetal and tent poles) ringing the walls of the gorge.

"Ellen, we're set," he radios. "No hostile contact. Gorge looks clear."

(Even if it's not.)

"Watch yourself."