Three Occult Mercenaries

BOTTOMLESS :

Leering lips. Shaggy hair. A pair of dark sunglasses, tight jeans, and a milsurp jacket. He stinks of liquor. With a dainty, two-finger grip he pulls a new bottle out of the well-stocked refrigerator buried in his bigger-on-the-inside duffel bag. There is an M1911 tucked in the small of his back. His right pant pocket holds a wadded up copy of an archaeological research paper on the Italic bacchanalia.  

The face. Oddly eloquent, even when inebriated (which he always is). Knows a touch of dipsomancy, but mostly relies on his pistol. Equipment—like Razorback's GPMG—gets stored in his magic duffel bag when the trio needs to operate covertly.   

RAZORBACK : 

Shaved head. Broken nose. Rolling shoulders and a glimpse of spreading, mechanorganic tubes beneath his white tanktop. He snorts like a bull and grips the barrel of his Rheinmetall MG 3, the ammunition belt shifting in his lap. The program which implanted the symbiote in his back was cancelled before they worked out the emotional regulation issues. Now, he and it coexist uneasily, dreaming each-other's dreams; a melange of mutual bloodlust. 

The heavy. He goes where the other two point and doesn't think very hard about it. The symbiote has given him boosted reflexes, strength, and inhuman regenerative abilities. He can tank anything short of an anti-material round, given enough time to knit his flesh back together. 

WORMBOY :

Gaunt features. Lank black hair. Drab clothing, perpetually mudstained. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. At his side, a messenger bag filled with skinny mason jars. They contain his brood; a dozen wet, wriggling larva. When released, they seek out the nearest living organism and attempt to wriggle down its throat. 

The brains. Doesn't talk much, but the other two do what he says. He always has the situation scouted out and assets per-suborned. Whatever his larva enter, he can puppet, though each new body adds to his disorientation.