Cooper: We go together or we don't fuckin' go.
Megan: Every month, when the moon is full, they hunt as a team. Dedicated to the kill. During that time, at least fifteen people have vanished. Hikers mostly. In small groups or alone. They're caught out in the open, hunted down, torn apart and devoured. I've never witness the actual slaughter, but the next day, no bodies, no werewolves, just blood.
Cooper: You all right?
Sergeant Harry Wells: Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm peachy, mate.
Wells: If we do happen to make contact, I expect nothing less than gratuitous violence from the lot of ya. Because we're firing blanks doesn't mean we have to be thinking nice thoughts. So you remember, you keep the fire down, right, you get stuck in and you kick their fucking teeth out, or I guarantee you, Joe, they will be eating your bollocks for breakfast, sunshine.
Terry: Hard-boiled or fried, Sarge?
Wells: Scrambled.
Sergeant Harry Wells: Now listen up, I wanna make this quick, and to the point, 'cos just like you all I want to do is get home, jump into a warm bed with a nice hot woman and watch the footy.
Cooper: Go on then Bruce, what scares you?
Bruce: The self-destructive nature of the human condition.
Spoon: You're just taking the piss now.
Cooper: What about you, Spoon?
Spoon: Castration.
Cooper: There's no argument there. Joe?
Joe: Only one thing guaranteed to put the shits up me: a penalty shoot-out.
Cooper: Figures. Terry?
Terry: Watching a penalty shoot-out... with Joe.
Bruce: What about you, Coop?
Cooper: Spiders. And women. And... spider-women.
Ryan: They tore them to pieces in front of my eyes.
Sergeant Harry Wells: I am not breaking radio silence just cos' you lot got spooked by a dead flying fucking cow.
Cooper: Sweeping patrols between each of these bunkers - they'll have the whole sector wrapped tighter than an Eskimo's nad-sac.
Sergeant Wells: Natural causes, my arse.
Wells: Come on, sunshine, fucking shift it.
Terry: Dogs. More like pussies.
Megan: What happened?
Spoon: What happened? We were attacked by huge fuckin' howlin' things, that's what.
Bruce: Christ on a bike.
Sergeant Wells: You know the little things that make your skin crawl, and the hair stand up on the back of your neck?
Joe: You mean like Spoon?
Sergeant Harry Wells: Shiv the cunt.
Terry: Planning on scoring, Sarge?
Spoon: Yea, well mind you don't foul her in the penalty box.
Terry: Aww.
Wells: Alright, button it, Private Parts.
Cooper: I'm still not convinced these things didn't just escape from the local nut-house and forget to shave or trim their nails.
Sergeant Harry Wells: I just didn't make it out this time, that's all. When I signed my life away on that dotted line, I fucking meant it. I am a professional soldier.
