NationStates Jolt Archive

December 13, 2005

The black submarine slid through the dark waters that once were home to the island of Deazeman. After years of a so called 'cold war', the Imitoran leadership had had enough, and within 15 hours, the tiny nation that was more or less a thorn in the side of Imitorans was no more.

The submarine, a Virgina V class, had been hired out by a small, yet growing, Imitora ased research and development company. According to military reports, strange chemical readings had shown up in sweeps of where the nation once was located, and the company wanted a better outlook on what was going on, before WYC moved in, claimed the water as private property, and set up a reaserch facility. Rumor was that the former owner of WYC and now President Amanda Ormsby would allow WYC do it just to piss on the graves of the Deazemani.

The sub was moving at a conservative 15knots, at 75 feet, with periscope up. As the Captain, Ryan Forston, peered through the scope, a glint caught his eye. "Hello, what do we have here?" he muttered. "Dive officer, surface slowly, and prepare a rescue team, I think we have a survivor. Down periscope."

"Aye captain, three degrees up bubble, steady course, prepare to break," the dive officer stated, relaying the commands to the sub drivers. He, along with the captan, and five men from teh ICMC walked towards teh tower, where they would wait until ale to open the hatch, and get their first breath of fresh, unrecycled air in just under two months.

As they opened the hatch, they stod ack to let the excess water flush past them, and then climed the grated ladder to the open porton of the tower. From theere, the captain, equiped with a pair of binoculars, spoted the body. He direcetd teh sub in the proper direction, and descended to the hull, along with the Marines, to retrieve the body.

After a few moents of examination, the cops men anounced, regretfully, the man was dead, and had ben so for at least two months. He was suprised that the body had preserved this long, and hadn't floated out to sea. However, non of this was the captains concern, and the man was gien a smal military fneral, as he carried ICMC idetification, and placed in the freezer. The submarine went back to its data collection mission.

January 8 2007

In the small labratory, scientists went about their buisness as usuall. Howeer, today, as it had been for the past three months, buisness wasn't anything anyone would call usuall. Between the mixing of chemicals, as comon procuedure, and the dead body on the table, there was an aire of concern in the room.

The body had been preservd since its finding in the waters of Deazeman, two years ago, and tests had found that some sort of chemicalcompound in the water had managed to preserve the dead ody the two months before it had been found. Cause of death was heay blood loos and the falling of diostlyic pressure after recieving a shot to the jaw from a small calibre rifle.

The hold had been patched up, and, despite the fact the man was dead, several IV bags were pumpingi blood into his body. One of the scientists looked at his colleague, nodded, hit a 'record' button on a data cam, and took a syringe full of a gold colored liquid over to the man. He pushed the needle slowly into his arm, and pressed down on the plunger.

Within seconds, the liquid, using a chemical compund that would force the liquid through the arteries, viens, and cappalreies, to all the musscles, into the bones, lung tissues, and most importantly heart, moved through his body. The two scientists remained quiet.

Suddenly, the man's eyes shot open, and he all but jumped into a sitting position. He looked around quickly, then at the two scientists, and all ut shouted at them. "Where the hell am I?"

One of the scientists could hardly move, the other fainted. A man, wearing a suit, walked into the room, and looked at the now living body on the table. He chuckled slightly.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Back from the dead, and your firsts words are where the hell am I, and who the hell are you." The man was large, but not quiet ody builder proportions. His sit was elegant, most likely New Empirian or Agriegentonian, and it fit him well. "First, you are in the Umbrella Military Devision Research Center. I am Randy Dingman, director of Covert Operations, INSA. You were dead. Now your alive. Any other questions."

The man on the table pondered what Dingman had meant by the last statement. "I was dead?" he asked, confusedly.

"Yes. Think about it, what is your last known memory?"

"I was in Deazeman, and they had weapons pointed at me..." he trailed off. "But how?"

"I'll answer how later. Right now, the more important question, is why. If you'll follow me, I'll explain why you aren't still in line at the Pearly Gates." He didn't add "or roasting inthe eternal oven of hell." He opened the door, and motioned the man to follow him. "Right this way Sgt. Gibson. Or may I call you Hoot?"

Hoot listened in amazement to what the doctors said. Despite teh fact that he had been dead for over two years, the difficulty in reviving him was minimal. First, he was pumped full of blood. Following that, muscle enhancers were directly injected into his muscles to revert the minimal atrophy he had suffered, apperently there really was somethign in the water. After that, they had injected a chemical into his blood stream, right now known as Ice Pick which forced the heart to start pumping, and sent electrical impulses to his brain. He had been dead for two years, but revived as if he were simply in a coma.

"Why," he asked Dingman, walking through the Umbrella labratories.

"Well Hoot, to be cliche, your country needs you. Well, not as much your country, but the INSA..."

"Which is the country," Hoot finished. "I know the drill, my best freind before," he couldn't say 'I died'.

"Yes, I know. Anyways, the world has changed a bit my friend. No longer can we just use an ICIA Black Cell unit to make nations do what we want. And teh 1st SOU has reverted back to ICMC control. So now, all we have is diplomacy. We are trying to get back into the ANH, and we cant just point a few orbital weapons at Iansisle and say let us in. And we want a bigger presence in the region, but we can't just demand it."

He paused before continuing. "Now a days, everything is black mail and threats and extorsion. We need someone who is good at it. But, to get someone who is good at it doesn't matter unless we have the info. Therefore, we need someone who can go into an area, get what we need, and get out."

"So this is where I come in," Hoot said as tehy entered a locker room. A set of clothes was waiting for him.

As Hoot changed, Dingman continued. "Exactly. We need someone who is skilled in sneaking in, doing what he needs to do, and getting out without being seen. A ghost if you will." Hoot chuckled at the irony. He was, in more ways than one, a ghost. "One man in, you know, try not to kill if he can avoid it, etcetera. Based on your operation record, your the man for the job."

Hoot sighed. They brought him back from the dead so he can do what no one else had the skill to do. Why coulnd't they just train someone to do the job. As the exited the facility, a plain looking building in North Beach, he looked around. Ornage was still the same, at least.

"Your in luck, too," Dingman continued. "We already have a job for you."

Gimme an H
Gimme an O
Gimme an O
Gimme a T

Woo Hoo! ;)

OOC: Awesome sounding RP Immy, consider this a TAG, one little ? though, how do you explain the fact that the brain dies with un-repairable damage to it, when there isnt blood(more importantly the oxygen in the blood) constantly going to the brain? In reality, at BEST, Hoot would be a vegitable. But like I'm gonna ruin the RP with that...I'll keep an eye on it.

OOC: Dunno, and honestly dont care. Hoot is a mainstay in many of my RPs, and I aint gonna get rid of him yet.

IC:

Hoot looked at Dingman. “It must be my lucky day,” he muttered. They entered a black Lexus IS, and Dingman turned the car onto the street. Hoot just watched the world slide by. “So what am I doing?”

“Ever been to South East Asia?” Dingman asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

“No. But let me guess. I’m on my way now.”

“Yes you are. I’m taking you the INSA operations building. You’ll be moving out with the ICMC. We’re already getting reports from the ICIA on possible ops, and it…” Hoot cut him off.

“Woah, the ICIA and INSA are sharing info? Times have changed.”

“After the attacks, it was decided that not sharing info and keeping separate profiles was bad. However, we’ve kept a few in the dark. They have no idea about you, or this operation. They still think your dead. Anyways, the idea is that we send you in, we already hold Vietnam, to Cambodia.”

“I hear its beautiful this time of year.”

“Can’t tell ya. We’re gonna put you in soon, though. The Marines move in to Cambodia in March, gotta regroup after the Vietnam action. You’ll be acting as an advanced intell gathering and action operative. Maybe a few assassinations, but mostly getting troop strengths, movement plans, etc. Cover our asses and all.”

”Why not send me in now?”

“Well, first off, you’re not the man you used to be. Well, sorta. We’ve had Umbrella make a few modifications, so to say, to you. Nothing big, but stuff you might wanna get used to. Also, we want to see how able you are for this job. After all, if you can’t do the job we need you to do…”

“You send me back to the earth.”

“We found you in the ocean, and no. We just send you over to ICMC 1st SOU. This cost us to much to just kill ya again.”

“Makes sense.”

The black Lexus pulled into a garage, the drive wasn’t long as the INSA Operations Center was located in North Beach, disguised as part of Ft. Thompson Advanced Military Training Center. Troops in Imitoran and US style camouflage walked around the base, the style of the fatigues the only way to tell the difference between those in training with the covert 1st SOU and 33rd Special Operations Task Force, and those with the more overt 13th Air Cavalry and 22nd Special Infantry Unit.

It wasn’t long before Hoot was in a set of the dark green, brown, and black three color US style jungle fatigues, devoid of any identification. He followed the suit clad Dingman to a small hut like structure on the outer portions of the base. On either side of it was a long length of barbed wire fencing, and behind that a concrete wall. Automated turrets kept a watchful sensor scanning for targets, and black clad operatives patrolled the gates with the new M55s. This was the entrance to the INSA Operative Training Center.

As the entered the hut, three more black clad armed men stood at attention, and an attractive secretary nodded towards a full identification podium. Hoot and Dingman were submitted to a retinal, palm, and voice identification unit, and the allowed to pass through a large metal door.

After a brief walk through several corridors and a long descent on an elevator, Hoot and Dingman found themselves in a room similar to a doctor’s office. A man in a white lab coat, wearing INSA ID, entered the room. “Sgt. Gibson, Director Dingman, pleased to see you could make it.” The man was young, but not too young, and athletically built. If it weren’t for the brace on his leg, Hoot assumed he would have been an operative.

“Sergeant, my job is to tell you about what you can now do, and can’t do, and most likely can never do.” Hoot didn’t understand why the man still referred to him by rank, but ignored the fact. “First, let’s talk about what you can do. When you were revived, your main locomotive and physical, voluntary muscles received two injections. The first was to reverse the light atrophy. The second, however, was similar, but not quite like, a stimulant steroid. A chemical was injected that tightened, yet strengthened, the fibers of your muscles. It also held an enzyme that slows the production of lactic acids. In simple terms, you can run a bit faster, lift a bit more, and jump a bit farther than you used to, and do it longer. Now, I’m not talking six million dollar man like attributes, but it is better than what it used to be.”

Hoot, in a movie like fashion, looked at his bicep, and flexed. Hoot was not set up like a body builder, and was more athletic looking, toned, but not ripped. “I thought you would like that,” the doctor added. “Moving on. Another enzyme was injected with pre revival that reinforces your bone capacity. I’ll let you figure out what that means on your own. Now, let me ask you something.”

The doctor turned, and spoke. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Hoot responded. The man turned.

“That’s good. However, maybe you should know that I spoke quite quietly into this microphone. In your neck, just under your skin, is a small chip. This chip allows us to communicate with you, and you to communicate with us, without having to wear any bulk or large communication devices, accept the one installed on your vest, but we can cover that latter. Next, your corneas were flashed several times with a special light before you were revived. Meaning while you cant see in pitch black, your night vision has been bettered.”

“Now, on to what you cant do. You are still bound by the laws that everyone is. Your bones are stronger, but I wouldn’t recommend jumping off a building and expecting to stand up running. You can jump a little higher, but only by a foot or so. So don’t try to fly. And you can move a bit faster, but you can’t dodge bullets. Your not in the Matrix. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What that?” Hoot asked, standing up as the doctor started to walk out the door.

“You can’t see your family ever again. They think your dead. For your safety and the safety of the operatives working with you, it would be best if everyone still thought you were dead.”

Hoot just nodded.

“C’mon,” Dingman said. “I’ll show you the new tools of the trade.” He lead Hoot out of the room.