NationStates Jolt Archive

Alana Mizahuri peered over the edge of the finely hewn coffin, into the wan face of People's Representative Migashi. It was odd that Migashi's face was so pale and gaunt, now that he was dead. The advanced embalming methods her people had developed generally took most of the displeasure out of viewing a prepared body. Her hand slipped on something wet, and her body jerked slightly as it recalibrated itself to the unexpected texture. She rapidly recomposed herself, brushing a strand of fine black hair out of her face, a porcelain statue of Asian perfection. Over four billion eyes were on her, and to slip would be a major PR faux pas. She gave herself a mental slap. What was she doing, being ambitious at a time like this? She was stooped over the final resting place of Duo Migashi, the man who had brought Cyberutopia into a final age, fought alongside his men in two wars and a bizzare demon attack, and rebuilt Sapporo from the ashes of nuclear attack. And now he was dead, far before his time should have come, at only 98. She moved on down the carefully hewn stone steps, before her tears marred the closest thing Cyberutopia had ever come to having a god.

Victor Akuiomotta was upset, very upset. At any other time, he would have been the target of debilitating suspicion. But now, he mixed in with the entire nation, which had become a tangible sea of depression and confusion. Victor was upset for an entirely different reason, however. The nanovirii his agent had worked into Migashi's immunity booster had befuddled the nanobots in the embalming fluid that held the body suspended in its pre-rigor mortis state, and now everything was going wrong. Once he had noticed the flaw, he began sweating profusely, and now some Committee Chair had found the damp spot where he had gripped the coffin in fear. No one dared stop the memorial, however suspicious the circumstances. Not even the hardiest Security Committee would attempt to control four billion people trapped in a morass of anger and speculation. Better to let them mourn.

A nation in mourning. What better time to take advantage of the power vacuum? Master Air General Tyai Kensan had gone crooked somewhere, but not even he knew exactly when. From his armored blimp above the sobbing crowd of millions, the shrew-like man stared down his hooked nose through the polarized, rivetted shut windows. While others drowned in the confusion of who would lead the pilotless nation, Tyai had locked his inexorable focus onto what he would do once he sat at the helm of the Sovereignty. The General could just barely pick out the green suit of an insignificant pawn named Victor. The fat little man was working for Tyai, whether he knew it or not – most certainly the former – through one of those oh-so-precious Committee members that seemed to wear a halo of purity. The General had an uncanny sense of telling whose halo was counterfeit. And he would make every tiny detail work in his favor, or face treason trying.

Treason. Treason. Treason. That's what he'd be tried on if they caught him, if they found the empty vial or the yellowed note tucked into his greasy pockets. The dirty rat of a man scampered down the dank alleyway on all fours, before curling up against a concrete slab. A slab?! did it know anything? Would it turn him in? That damned slab had better not try anything! The man in the green suit would take care of him, just like Green Suit had given him a whole bag of Chits to have fun with. Oh, wait. The slab was just part of a wall. He knew this wall, the wall had never told anyone any of his secrets, so it should be alright. He sure hoped the wall wasn't planning anything sneaky. Especially if the wall was planning to tell the White Van People about his fervorous talks he shared with the wall. He might just have to kill the wall with his fork if it tried anything like that. He sure would regret forking the wall, he considered it a stable confidant. Ratty, as he was known by his insurmountable Street Friends, slumped further into the wall, his exausting thought processes pushing him into fevered sleep. Ratty was insane, but he liked it.

((I want an RP that spans all levels. From the very personal to the animalistic world of politics. I have given portals into both levels. This RP will have somewhat of a structured storyline, though the ending is entirely open-ended. It's mostly up to everyone else who gets control of Cyberutopia, not myself alone. Also, the RP will start off faster if everyone – whether they're a forigener or a Cyberutopian native – begins in the nation itself. I will gladly provide any background detail you feel is required. If you've gotten this far through the post, good job!))

((Of course, I have no qualms about playing this out myself.))

Lesser Arbiter Jian Ushiromemazike, known better as "Ooshi," rubbed his eyes in an attempt to chase fatigue away. He had been staring at the holorecord of Migashi's autopsy for nine hours, that nagging suspicion growing into a fierce tug. Normally, a low class Arbiter such as himself wouldn't even be allowed in the same building as these files, but all of the other Arbiters and Committees were either mourning, or pretending to mourn while arranging resources for their mad dash for power. The Sovereignty was, at all other times, a perfect bastion of socialism and equality. There were few opportunities to let the competitive spirit rend the fabric of this finely crafted society, so once the beast was out of its cage, it was that much harder to rein in. The loss of a figurehead was always an inherently instable time for a nation. Cyberutopia's precariously perched system only magnified the effect.

Shaking himself out of his psychological ramblings, Jian set the holorecord back a couple of frames. There was a hairline trail of liquid streaming down the autopsy table from Migashi's ear. After zooming in, it was evident that the inner ear was leaking a mercury-like substance. Something liquid from the head? Something gray that was attached to the inner ear canal?

The Arbiter paused the holorecord and opened up a database on brain-dissolving agents. He might be onto something here.

A man of muscular build carefully worked his way through the crowd that had gathered to mourn the passing of their great leader. The man was around 6'1", with the chest & arm dimensions of a career military non-commissioned officer. His haircut was the typical 'High & Tight' style mandatory for those of the special operations profession, but his clothing was anything but militant. Loose-fitting jeans & a hooded sweatshirt of the same fit hid a customized shoulder rig holding a stainless-steel plated Government-Model AMT M1911A1 Hardballer on the left side, under which where two magazines. The right side held a series of forty-five caliber seven-round magazines, four in total. The waistband of his jeans held a six-inch Smith & Wesson Recon tactical folding knife with a squared-off tanto blade, the clip barely visible over top of his belt. The back pocket held a smaller folding knife, more of a utility item than a weapon. The clip for it was plainly visible, unlike the rest of his armaments.

The boots, if not his haircut & physique, betrayed his occupation. The well-worn leather on the USMC standard-issue combat boots where creased in several places, and showed evidence of countless polishings & rough wear. These where clearly the boots of a soldier & not some anarchist civilian with a fashion problem. Steel toes & an inner sheath for a handcuff key/lockpick rounded out a rather unique set of footwear.

He had no intended destination, other than getting away from the swirling mass of people stricken with grief. He hated the media as a whole, especially reporters, another factor of his rather hurried exodus. They always seemed to deem him an excellent 'regular-joe' to interview & ask his opinion, which was usually 'Fuck off.', followed by his large hand shoving the microphone in an uncomfortable direction for the reporter's shoulder. There'd been a few instances of dislocations, but that was the risk you took trying to interview the silent warrior who was known as Dekker Bray.

With some effort, he managed to get clear of the crowds in a back alley between two large government buildings...

Agility was the name of the game for Paul Marcos, an ex-NSA splinter cell operative who specialized in clandestine operations. Assassination was nothing new... He'd done it for years in the Middle East, Europe, and Asia for the unknown reasons his handlers in the NSA had told him where 'classified beyond his level of clearence'... He grinned slightly behind the Underarmor balaclava that covered most of his face at the memory. His latest mark had taken him to Neo-Earth, where he'd disposed of two dignitaries as they exited a resturant. Two shots. Two kills. Most of the entorage had been disposed of with a chain of car-bombs, while Marcos had picked both of his targets off in the confusion.

Now he was in Cyberutopia, clinging to the outside of an important government building... Deaths of important leaders made information theft a breeze. National holidays & skeleton crews of security personnel allowed him to take what he needed & escape without detection. Paul had been sent after some valuable footage, most of it concerning the death of the very man whose death had allowed him to make this infiltration so flawlessly. It wasn't Marcos' job to speculate, but he suspected that his employers where somehow involved. The assassination had gone off very well, it seemed. The cause of death seemed totally natural. Cyanide was easily traced. Bullets left holes. Arsenic & Acetic acid wheren't always instantly effective. The people who had planned this had done this sort of thing before...

Marcos reached the top of the building, slowly picking the lock off of the door for the access stairs. A modified M4A1 equipped with an integral silencer, advanced targeting optics, and a 6.8mm rechambered barrel was slung across his back, tightly held to his frame with a nylon strap. Paul's 'sneaking suit' was made from kevlar-lined Underarmor rounded out with soft-soled GSG-9 tactical boots. A Berretta 96FS in .40 caliber sat in a hip holster, surpessed & sporting Siloutte laser-grips. A Glock knife hung upside-down from his left shoulder, matching the thermal/light amp goggles that covered the remainder of his face.

Unslinging the modified carbine, the ex-spy carefully padded his way down the stairs into the main building...

A silent breath of wind passed across Dekker's shoulder blades, and the all too familar silver cloak rippled into the mercenary's peripheral vision.

The Agent spoke in tired tones unbefitting of his...questionable occupation. "You are Dek Bray. Come with me."

An armored arm stretched out from under the cloak, gesturing towards a gray van, a man in casual dress standing nearby with the rigid disposition of a soldier. The cobalt plating of a fold-up submachine gun gleamed dully in the twilight through the leather strap that held the weapon tight to the guard's leg.

The Agent stared impassively at Dekker, awaiting his consent. The mercenary didn't have any choice here – the Agents were either angry at him or desperate for help.

Dekker's piercing blue eyes glared daggers at the man...

"Dek-KER, pal. Dek's my kid's name... I ain't Jack either, nor do I know where that fucker Nine is hiding..."

The mercenary entered the van, speaking in a rather irritated tone as he did so. His brother had been on pretty good terms with Agent Nine before he'd dropped off the radar, but Nine was always being hunted, either for help or elimination. Dekker himself had led a small squad into enemy territory during the nation's civil war, taking out AA sites in a covert fashion...

"You gonna tell me what this is all about, or are we gonna go back to some dark-ass basement & 'talk' about what I supposedly know?"

It was at this point that Dekker reminded himself to bring a model 18 Glock the next time he visited a nation with secret police. It was hard to get out-gunned with the world's smallest SMG under your shoulder...

"I'm packing too, just for the record, so you can skip the strip-search..."

The Agent's pale face upturned into a smirk. "Don't talk to me, talk to him."

"Him" was a man in a green suit, who had let his guttony get the better of him. The condensed quarters of the van made beads of sweat stand out on his forehead, which he wiped often.

"I am Victor." The man said, turning a nervous smile to the Agent towering above him. "This is Six. The Agents have fallen on hard times, Mr. Bray, but the public needs to think they are still getting things done. Mr. Bray, you are a man of coin, yes? This is a rich nation, and few have qualms about rewarding efficency handsomely."

Victor took a long breath of air, and scratched at one of his chins, making the other two wiggle. "The People's Representative died early. Very early. 98 is infantile for the great leaders of this nation. Someone did it." He paused for several seconds. "And we'll give you 160 million Chits if you can bring us the scum. I believe that is a little under 80 million USD. The People need a scapegoat, Mr. Bray. You can find that scapegoat, or you can be that scapegoat. Six here will answer any questions you have. I believe he also has some suggestions as to where to start. The Agents still know Cyberutopia like the back of their hand. Now, I need some air."

---

As Marcos progressed down the labryinth of prefab cubicles, he could hear muted keytaps. Probably a late worker, who'd prefer not to get caught up with mourning. But then the keytaps grew in intensity, and cut out all together.

Dekker considered the offer... 80 million would complete that retirment fund he'd been working on, plus pay for Dek's college... If he could rat-hole enough of it to keep his ex-wife from finding out & laying claim to half of it...

'Prenumptual seems to be the magic word these days...'

He looked up at Agent Six...

"You married?"

No ring, no answer...

"Don't do it. Ever. No matter what..."

Realizing he was deviating from the topic, he shifted into a more amiable mode...

"So fat-ass wants me to either take the flak for some cowardly fuckers who iced your leader, or smoke them out & gun 'em down like the cock-suckin' rotten-crotch motherfuckers they are..."

Dekker's tone didn't leave much to the imagination of what his choice was, but he paused for dramatic effect anyway, something his brother did that annoyed the living shit out of him...

"I'll take option two. You got any leads or do I need to check the RDPMC's personnel roster for guys assigned to this area?"

Again, he paused, but this time it was to await a response from his supposed ally... He'd never trusted secret police of any sort readily, too much code-talk & under-the-table bullshit like the transaction he'd just accepted...

Paul Marcos stopped suddenly as the clicking of keystrokes reached his ears, then quickly but quietly flattened himself against the shadowy wall as they ceased entirely. With a twitch of his right index finger he activated the thermal vision system in his headset... One lone human, by the body shape it was most likely a male in excellent physical shape. Heightened stress levels where indicated by a brighter hue on his instraments than usual...

'Odd... Either his boss is halfway up his ass over some TPS report, or I'll need to find a quiet spot to stash a corpse...'

True to his training & nature, Marcos would kill only when directly spotted or when his mission dictated that there would be little consequence of using his fifth freedom. After all, dead men didn't regain conciousness & radio for their comrades to hunt down the unlucky bastard who shot them in the head.

In this case, his mission profile said no witnesses but didn't allow him to go totally weapons-free. He'd need to either slip past this guy or covertly render him senseless...

'Computer room... Files where supposed to be stored in computers... Fuck you, Murphy... If only raising your head wasn't just a figurative saying, I'd blow it clean-off... Nay-saying bastard...'

For a moment Marcos' mind pictured a man dressed in old-school WWII GI gear, making everything go wrong that possibly could, then dropping dead from a clean headshot. As clean as a small projectile shattering a skull could be, anyway...

((Just to make sure I defined it well enough, you do notice the incongruity, correct? Because that's going to develop, I assure you.))

"Yes, I do have leads." Six said stonily. "We don't for certain know how Migashi was killed, but we do know that it was a highly orchestrated event. He obviously wasn't shot, poisoned, drowned, strangled or beaten to death, because all of that would have shown up in the autopsy. All of the members of the high echelons of government are embalmed, utilizing nanotechnology to suspend the body in a predeath state. We've noticed the embalming technique hasn't worked, leaving Migashi...well...looking dead. You know, you've seen dead people. The only procurable method of stalling the embalming process in Cyberutopia is nanovirii. Nanovirii liquify various parts of the body, depending on the strain. The destabilization of any nanobots introduced after the nanovirus has killed its host is an unintentional side effect. There is no massive stockpile of nanovirii, but there is a small quantity in the possession of the Air Force R&D department. They've been fiddling with getting the nanovirii suspension to survive the impact velocity of a bomb drop. You might want to start there. I hope you have some form of electronics on you, as electronic communication is going to be used often if you're planning on taking this seriously. Whatever you have on you, I'll upload the R&D warehouse's address to you. Just one more thing before you go. I'm taking on a support role here, which I don't like. However, if I'm going to help you, I'll do the best I can. Any vehicle or weapon you need, I can have routed to you."

---

Jian looked around the spartan room, peering into the shadows, tinted an eerie blue from the holoscreen. A partially finished "Urgent Communiqué" remained open, floating a few inches above the standard-issue steel desk. He had heard a door open, from the stairwell. He was sure of it. Now someone was moving through the outer ring of government offices. His office was in the outer wing. Jian couldn't hear anything, but he could feel the intruder's presence, and it was not benign. Then again, perhaps he was simply being paranoid. With all that had transpired lately, it was to be expected. The Lesser Arbiter slowly began typing again.

"...reason to believe that nanovirii of the Lucadum strain was used in the assassination..."

Dekker produced a Palm Pilot from his belt, handing it to Agent Six...

"That's it. I don't carry a cell phone, they're too easy to trace & none of them have a ring setting anymore, so you'll have to email stuff to me via this thingie. As for weapons, I'll have to tell ya once I see what I'm up against. Right now, though, I'll need a camera of some sort, a freon can, & some binoculars. If your facility doesn't have a tour program, I'll have to scedule my own. Any intel on secuirty measures, guards, weaponry, that sorta thing, would also make my life a shitload easier..."

The mercenary wasn't too enthused about being on his own on this operation, but he didn't have much choice...

"Any back-up you could spare would be damned-well appreciated, too. I've got a forty-five, a knife, and about forty rounds of ammo..."

Marcos slowly slid along the wall, breathing lightly. Lowering the carbine as he neared the doorway, he made a quick peek inside... He was right, it was a guy, but he didn't look like a cubicle monkey...

'He can handle himself in a fight, that's for damned sure. Carries himself like a fighter, with the body to back it up...'

Paul deemed contact unwise at this stage, then executed a SWAT turn & bypassed the doorway without making a sound. Like a shadow, he was standing outside of a broom closet, waiting for the bastard to exit the room.

It was then he had an idea...

Marcos opened the broom-closet, then slid a wheeled mop-bucket noisily back in the direction he'd just passed, right in front of the computer-room door. He waited silently for a response, keeping his weapon aimed at the doorway...

(Pa-tum-tum-tum. Open, eh? Well. I never could pass by a challenge. Hrum-dee-dum)

He was a stereotypical Halfling Ascended: About six foot two with brown hair and silver eyes. Muscular physique, wearing loose black pants and boots with a tight black shirt over his torso and a black duster that dropped to mid-calf.

If he had been wearing a Warblade on his left hip, he'd have been a poster child. But he wasn't. Which should set off alert signals immediately through any "Revenian Experts" about. Revenians were -very- possessive of their weapons, -especially- their swords.

Not that there were likely to be very many "Revenian Experts" about.

Now for what you couldn't possibly know about him.

His name was John. John Mercer. He was a younger son of a cousin, so his chances of ever being necessary for politics were extremely slim. Which suited him just fine. Anyways, he'd joined the military.

Six months later, he'd been snatched up by the RASP Project. He was probably the best of the second generation Operators, which hadn't surprised him much. He had always been faster and quieter than his peers. His reflexes were incredible and his hand-eye coordination was dead-on. Further, he had superb 'situational awareness.'

Now, the question was 'why was he in Cyberutopia?' The answer was 'Why not?'

(Now back to the observations, because I forgot to finish the usuals)

John had a hard, handsome face marred by a knife scar on his left cheek. He wore his hair long, comparatively to must individuals in professions comparative to his on earth. Just below ear level.

Weapons-wise, he kept an APSP and accessories in a shoulder-holster on his left side. He had his dart shooter in his backpack, along with his 'working clothes.' Otherwise, he had a sliver pistol in his ankle holster.

His personal fighting knife, a fixed-blade single-edged knife with the serrations on the spine was sheathed on his right thigh, kept hidden by his duster. Not like he cared. Otherwise, he kept an Emerson CQC-7 in his boot in a 'sheath' designed to make use of the folder's 'wave' feature.

Revenians were superb knife-makers, but John had taken a liking to his little Emerson folder...

Anyways, he flicked some sort of insect off the rim of his mirrored shades and took a pull of his cigarette. Filthy habit, but cancer didn't bother Ascended the way it did humans...

Not like he needed the nicotine, but more like it was just something he did with his hands. Something to occupy the time...blehk. Minimum of another week before he could call for extraction...grumble...grumble...

(Knew I forgot something. That something being an explanation as to what I just rambled on about. Character's name is 'John Mercer.' He's RASP. That means 'Revenian Agent, Special Purpose.' Which means that he's a lot like Mercenary Soldier's Sam Fisher-Rip Off character. (No insult meant in that statement, just recognition.) Except Revenian style. Meaning that he is capable of 'forcing an entry,' as well as 'sneaking in.'

Weaponswise, he has an APSP. "All-Purpose Stealth Pistol." Variable Grav-driver capable of shooting a variety of loads. Standard rounds include hypervelocity armor piercing slugs and subsonic fast-acting tranquilizer darts.

Dart Shooters are like APSPs in that they're grav-drives. But they only shoot subsonic darts. Payload on those darts vary.

Sliver Pistols fire 'slivers' of metal-laced plastic at not-quite hypervelocity. High rate of fire in a very small package. Pretty much useless against any sort of 'hard' armor (i.e. ceramic inserts,) but chews through 'soft' armor (kevlar) rather nicely.

Knife was already described, but it is made out of 'Eldensteel,' which is a my wonky blue-tinted unobtanium metal, and has the 'wire-groove' for slice-wire. Slice-wire is wire with a monomolecular edge. One can see the connection.

John's folder is an Emerson CQC-7BW BTS. That means that it as a CQC-7B with the 'wave' opening feature, 'Black T' finish, and serrations.

As for what John is doing here...weeeyl, there are any number of options. I can think of a couple, but I'd prefer not to have to run my own plots...)

Six scribbled the address of the warehouse down in Dekker's Palm Pilot, uploaded a picture of the vials and the crate they should be stored in, and handed it back to him. He stooped at one of the armored panels of the van's interior, and pried it off after a moment of fiddling. There were a number of various emergency supplies in the secret compartment, including – lo and behold – a can of freon and two sets of binoculars. The Agent also pulled a slim, matte black camera out of a side pouch from under his cloak.

He handed the items to Dekker while talking. "That camera is your run-of-the-mill spy camera, with just about every random function an infiltrator could need. Plus it's bulletproof. As far as pre-insertion intel, you'll be up against plenty of shit. There's a garrison of men at the warehouse, and at least a third of them will be alert at any time. But they're just grunts, nothing to worry about. What you're going to be sweating over are the pressure-sensitive roof tiles and the thermal scanners and the biometric scanners and the good old fashioned masses of cameras. The roof tiles are alright to deal with if you're careful, the thermal scanners are easy enough to bypass with a 'cold suit' – think I've got one of those around – and I have already prepared a forged biotag to bypass the biometrics. It's really up to you not to fuck up. Now...backup...the only men I have available would be a hinderance. As Migashi's burial wraps up, I'll have more men free, so if you feel you need backup that badly, I can arrange a late insertion."

The Agent took a long breath of air and stared Dekker straight in the eye. "Those are Cyberutopian men and women guarding that warehouse, Mr. Bray. I have nothing against them, and neither should you. Refrain from using lethal force unless you are in serious danger."

---

Jian had just hit the 'Send' button when something clattered down the hallway and slammed into the doorway. As the mop-bucket ricochetted back out of sight behind the wall, the Lesser Arbiter rocketed to his feet, sending his chair skittering backwards against the plasteel wall. After a moment of fumbling, he'd withdrawn his personal sawn-off shotgun from the desk drawer, flipped the steel desk, and crouched behind it, the polished steel double barrels poking over the protective lip of the desk.

"Wh-who's out there?" He yelped.

A faceless SpecOps soldier running security duty for the burial ceremony carefully watched the Revenian wade through the crowds of mourners. Perched upon a balcony which had been commandeered, the soldier ran through a series of scanner checks from behind the impenetrable black faceplate. John stood out today, for few people wore dusters except for the poseur cyberpunks and forigeners. The soldier's cyberoptics turned up interesting results on both biometrics and gravimetric scans.

"Sir," the armored statue murmured into his throat mike, "I've got a xeno down on street level that's wearing more grav weapons than a Menelmacari on parade day. Recommend mantain visual contact."

The reply came swiftly. "Roger that, recommendation will be implemented."

A single SpecOps soldier, identical to the rest, was dispatched to tail the Revenian. His presence was biased towards intimidation rather than spying, however, and the soldier made no strict attempt to stay out of sight.

(I'll enter this with an intro using one of my fav RP characters)

Takeda Akinari stood near the doorway leading into the room of Alana Mizahuri, leaning back against the wall with is arms crossed before him. At the left of his hip was a short sword fashioned similar to the ancient swords used by his ancestors, and at the right side was a holstered pistol. Slung over his back was another sword, a longer one, also made similar to that of those used by his ancestors. Being a bodyguard, he was usually well armed, which had proved to be useful already.

Two days earlier, Takeda had already had to spring into action when a sniper working for an anonymous boss tried to take a shot on Alana. He had finished the sniper quickly enough, a few shots of his pistol saw to that, but the attack was certainly a wake up call. Since the attack, the tension in the air increased greatly around the Committee, and Takeda found himself on high alert more often than not.

He stared at the group of people within the room from under his hat, each person viewed with suspicion. Takeda was a tough man for his young age of twenty-five. Standing at 5'11 and weighing 180, he was very quick on his feet and packed a powerful punch. Being a good shot with his pistol, and skilled with his fists and swords, he was a good man trust a life with.

Takeda took a step out of the room when he heard a door slam. He glanced out a hall window to see a single man approaching the building. He was a tall man, with white skin and smoked glasses and wore a black business suit. Takeda stepped back into the room and approached Alana.

"Another visitor, white guy, about six foot with dirty blonde hair," he whispered to her quickly. "Sound familiar?"

((here's a pic I use for Takeda: Takeda (http://img204.exs.cx/img204/4442/samurai2cz.jpg)
Just in case I didn't make it clear enough, Takeda is the bodyguard of Alana Mizahuri...))

Dekker nodded in approval... After all, this was technically his vacation, and killing people on vacation was mixing buisness with pleasure, a big no-no in his line of work...

"You mind dropping me off at the plant? I think my bus pass expired an hour ago."

The mercenary shucked off the hooded sweatshirt, revealing a tight-fitting black Underarmor shirt that made him look bigger than he already was. The .45 & the knife where now plainly visible, not that he thought Six would care...

"You people might wake up with a few bruises & some head-aches, but nothing fatal..."

Dekker punctuated his statement with a crack of his knuckles, his impressive biceps flexing slightly with the simple motion. An ex-Navy SEAL, drawn from the US Marine Corps, he wasn't against a bit of sneak-and-peek, it saved on ammo, both his & the people he was sneaking around. It was a win-win deal for everybody...

OOC: Marcos has a similar occupation to Fisher, but the concept remains the same. He's more of an assassin than Fisher, his MO being diplomatic disruption & removal of troublemakers ranging from terrorist leaders to radical national dictators.

IC:

Marcos cursed inwardly... Definitely not a keyboard jockey... The click he heard was most likely a breach-loading shotgun preparing for action. Two shells. Close range. Headache...

'Better stay put & await a response other than a shotgun blast. If only I'd bought that gun-camera... Would've been fifty grand well spent in this case...'

Paul slid down the wall into a crouching position, keeping his carbine aimed at the doorway. Lethal force was not an option unless the bastard fired first, but at this range with a double-barrel, it would be hard to miss...

Later, after said spec ops agent begins trailing Mercer...

John whistled idly to himself as he wandered along through the crowd...it was an old trick. Set the beat, then follow it. Kept you calm, and kept you focused. He didn't turn around to attempt to stop his tail. That was unnecessary...

Crowds were like water, attempts to push through them created ripples. John didn't specialize in 'crowd work,' but he knew the basic theories...and the definition of 'basic' to an immortal was a bit different than the definition of 'basic' to most people.

The tail was hardly unexpected. In fact, he was rather dissapointed that it had taken this long. He'd left his sliver pistol live for just such a purpose....

The RevTek APSP was purpose built for the RASP project. It was -designed- for use in stealth operations. Each projectile contained a small power charge, there was no battery. In fact, the weapon was dead up until the moment the trigger was pulled. Purely mechanical methods closed the circuit between the small power charge and the rest of the pistol. The power charge expended itself entirely to power the gravdriver and fling the projectile out at the set speed. There was no 'brass' to clean up, because the entire 'cartridge' was fired at the target.

Thus gravimetric scanners wouldn't show jack unless the gun was actually fired.

Dart shooters possessed as close to nul-sig cells as was possible with current Revenian manufacturing technologies. Again the same 'interrupted circuit' was used. It was hard on the batteries and the internal circuitry, but the batteries were integral to each magazine. The power signature wasn't invisible...but it was on the same level as a digital watch battery. Maybe less.

John normally didn't carry a sliver pistol. The wicked little pistols were restricted items in Revenia, but John was RASP. Nothing was restricted to RASP. Anyways, the pistols were commonly carried as hold-out weapons by important individuals. 'Important' being defined by the Directorate.

They were one of very few Revenian weapons that didn't use an interrupted circuit. Others being MP service pistols, Civil Patrol stun-needlers, and civilian hunting weaponns.

Anyways, if he had to have carried one, John would normally have carried it unloaded. Revenian weapons that used 'batteries' were integral parts of the magazines. No connection, no grav sig. But...he wanted the gravitic signature.

He smiled and cut a seemingly random course for the smallish side-street he'd located previously...some sort of alley equivalent, one hoped. It was tradition, after all, to use an alley...

Of course, it wasn't the presence of the weak gravimetric readings that had piqued the SpecOps soldier, but rather the lack of stronger ones. Cyberutopian guns didn't have serial numbers. Rather, they had integral 'gravy tags' that carried a simple binary code within a gravity signal. Furthermore, this xeno's biometrics weren't logged in the Overmatrix, making him an assured foreigner. Now the xeno was weaving his way towards an alley.

The soldier clicked his mike. "Command, this is 1080Michael, operating as Tail04. The chink in the chain is entering an alley, recommend have at least one man cover the exit. We can force his hand here."

Two clicks were shot back, and another soldier peeled off from crowd watching to cover the exit of the alley, just out of sight behind the corner. Mike the soldier waited until the Revenian entered the alley before covering the entrance in a similar manner.

Not long after, Dekker found himself standing on the sidewalk outside of the target warehouse.

"...and don't forget, mercenary," Agent Six was saying from the driver's seat of a white sedan, "have fun with it."

The nearing end of dusk was splayed across the sky in the sun's bloody death throes. It wouldn't be long before total darkness, and Dekker's time to begin.

---

Jian's office was arranged to the west, and therefore the plasteel wall too the full brunt of the scarlet sunset, sending unrealistically stretched shadows to claw at the Arbiter's feet. Jian wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and regained his slippery grip on the shotgun's barrels.

"I know mop buckets don't just throw themselves around!" He practically screamed. "So get your ass outta here before I blow your sorry ass off!"

Jian had a moment of genius. He didn't have to take this guy on alone! There were soldiers coating the streets. It would take one call to have the entire building flooded with soldiers. Jian's hand drifted down to his pockets to search for his Device...god damnit! With growing apprehension, he peeked over the steel desk. Sure enough, the Device had been hurled into the hall in his panic. Owing further to his bad luck, the damned thing began to ring.

---

Alana pondered for a moment, not glancing up from the micellaneous papers before her. Then she thought harder.

"Hm...dark glasses, suit and tie look, strong build?" She asked cooly, watching her bodyguard nod. "It's either some bastard from another Committee, or a SpecOps liason. Either way, they're here to threaten me. Very well, let him in."

Alana briefly offered Takeda a smile. She owed the faithful bodyguard more than a few favors, and if anyone were going to stick by her side in the times to come, it'd be him.

John cursed mentally. His tail wasn't a complete idiot...he hadn't entered the alley. That meant that more or likely there was somebody waiting on the other side. Damn. Then again, this was why they paid him the big bucks.

John's right hand went into the pocket of his duster and came out wearing a strange looking gauntlet. He flexed his fingers a certain way and a flattened egg-shaped weight dropped into his waiting hand. His hand was alreading making an under-hand toss, and putting as much force into the throw as he could.

Remember, John was Halfling Ascended. From Northfell. Meaning that though he looked remotely human, he wasn't. His bones were denser than human bones and his muscles were considerably more efficient. Northfell had a gravity twice that of Earth's, John was operating (presumably) under half of the normal gravitic strain.

The weight soared upwards and at the designated point deployed a gripring. The ring hit the wall as far up as possible (to a limit of, say, a hundred meters.) The weight trailed behind it a strand of the super-strong boron monocrystal line used for all sorts of things by Revenians...and capable of supporting a considerable amount of weight.

Another movement of the fingers started the line retracting rather quietly. The tiny retrator couldn't hope to carry him upwards, and it wasn't designed to. It was meant to keep the line taught, nothing more. The actual upward propulsion was provided by the time-tested and effective hand-over-hand.

Which John Mercer did rather quickly, almost effortlessly hauling a body that was one half as light as it was normally upwards. It didn't get him out of the situation...but it should give him time to think. He could potentially stay perched where he was on that building until the wall of the building caved over or the gripring failed. It was anybodies guess which'd happen first...but more likely, John'd move on...

Mike the soldier remained posted at the entrance to the alley. His identically clad comrade remained at the exit. Mike glanced at the ice blue counter in the upper-right corner he had started when the xeno entered the alley. 00:22.

"0239John, what's your status?" He murmured into the throat mike.

"Nothing here, 1080. This guy can't turn invisible, can he?" The confused reply crackled into his ear's microreceiver.

1080Michael hadn't been accepted into SpecOps for being a blockhead, though. "I don't think so, but he can apparently go up. Turn your biometrics up about 100 meters."

"Ah...there he is. Recommend we hang here 'til the xeno moves into a more easily trackable position."

"It shall be implemented, 0239. I've got it covered here."

If the xeno had any hope of evading a SpecOps tail, he'd need to neutralize their advantage of biometrics. Unless he was a soul-sucking demon in disguse, Mercer would be hard-pressed to steal a biometric signature. He'd have to get very creative, very soon. SpecOps jocks didn't enjoy standing around.

Takeda nodded to Alana and stepped towards the door. He waited for a few moments before the man walked up a flight of stairs and approached down the hall. The man stopped before Takeda, who gave a quick glance to Alana before giving a nod to the man.

The man passed Takeda quickly and entered the room. Takeda walked over to Alana and stood to her side, a step in front. He rested his hand on the sword at his side while the other hung near his pistol.

Why she always let's them in I'll never understand...

Alana looked the man straight in the eye, waved him to a seat, and the dance of words began.

"So, which drone are you?" Alana was never one to start off kindly.

"3201Hiyo." The suited man replied coldly.

"Ooh," she cooed, "so you're a real SpecOps agent, not just some overpaid liason? Speaking of such, how are the Agents doing puppeteering you?"

"Fantastically." Suit shot back sarastically. "I know you've had enough visits from SpecOps to recite the selling points back to me verbatim, so why don't you save me some breath."

Alana was displeased already. "The SpecOps are not siding with anyone in the power struggle among Committees. They are purely enforcement, so don't bribe them. They will kick my ass, so I shouldn't join the Joint Committee of War, who we all know is going to go head to head with the Agents and SpecOps. "Recommend" – oh, you SpecOps fuckers love that word to death – that I don't do shit, and just sit around while I get fucked in the ass or otherwise assaulted by other Committees. Alright, I think I understand your case, now get out."

The SpecOps contact smiled thinly and stepped out per Alana's orders. Once the opasteel door had shut firmly behind him, the Committee Chairwoman sighed heavily as every muscle in her torso simultaneously relaxed and she slumped back into her chair.

"Takeda," she began wearily, "do you know how big this is really going to get?"

Takeda watched the man leave the room for a moment.

"... do you know how big this is really going to get?"

Takeda looked towards Alana. "A struggle between competing powers that has the potential to send the entire nation into the bottomless pits of a chaotic anarchy, while those who fight for a noble cause of unity struggle against those who compete for greed?" He grinned. "I don't think you'd let it get to far, Alana." A look of determination suddenly crossed over Takeda's face.

"Though, after that little visit of the Suit," he said, "I think we will have to step up our guard a little bit. There's bound to be something going down soon..."

"Yeah, far too soon for anyone's tastes. I have little power in this struggle though, I'm not going to be the one to stop it. There's just too many things to keep track of. There's the Coalition for Preservation, who are dead set on bring Aelosian forces in as peacekeepers. Unfortunately, we don't know what the Aelosians have been up to lately, or if there's a crazed dictator in charge who would like nothing more than an invitation to annex us. There's the Agents, who have exercised their power over SpecOps and become an ally of the Coalition. Thing is, once this is all over with, they'll have set themselves up to put an Agent in charge. That would not be healthy. And I'm sure you've heard about the Joint Committee of War. They're the most aggressive, set on taking power through force. Chances are they can get control over 40 to 50 percent of the military at a moment's notice through their recent campaign of propaganda and lies. The rest of the military would be split up between the differing Committees, and we'd all be systematically destroyed." Alana sighed heavily. "Unless, of course, the People complete a People's Vote by then, and power is restored to a newly elected People's Representative. But that is very difficult, which is why I am helping them."

"So we're met with quite a conundrum, nothing is going to turn out well for the People, and my Committee is trapped between all of it." She stared out of the plasteel wall, and quickly became puzzled. "What are...shit. Hypersonic shardcannons. Anti-structural weapons. And they're setting them up in our direction."

Takeda stared at the sight below on the street. Dammit, I expected something to happen soon, but not in minutes! He grabbed Alana's arm with one hand as he ripped his pistol from its holster with the other. He pushed Alana towards the door quickly, away from the window.

"We need to move, now, stay close to me!" Takeda said as they moved towards the door. "The committee can follow, but you are my priority, Alana Mizahuri."

He stepped through the doorway, holding his pistol before him. "Those guys wouldn't happen to be those SpecOps you mentioned earlier, would they?"

"No, they–"

A dozen shardcannons opened up, puncturing the plasteel wall like wet cardboard and turning the entire room behind the two into the mushy victim of thousands of metallic fragments.

"...are part of the 302nd, I think. Under Tyai's command, the Master Air General."

The cannons fired again from their perches more diffusely, coating various parts of the building in fragments. Some of the less concentrated fire pinged off of the plasteel walls, but a full burst blew a gaping wound in the corridor just beyond Alana and her bodyguard.

"There's no chance of fighting them, or hiding. We need to get to the Coalition compound. It's several blocks away." She offered, pointing towards the door to a nearby stairwell. "The walls of the stairwells are thick, meant to withstand bombs. We can get to ground level in relative safety."

"Then let's move!" Takeda put himself between the Alana and the direction the attack was coming from. Once in the stairwell, he took point to the ground level and stopped in front of the door leading to the outside. He kicked it open and stepped outside.

"Alright, fast as we can, Alana," he said. "You'll have to take point from here." An attacker rushed down the sidewalk, firing an SMG. Son of a bitch... Takeda fired two shots at the attacker, each hitting him in the chest.

"Shit, they came with more than just anti-structural weapons," he said as he dropped another attacker rounding the corner. "You keep moving, I can handle this." Another soldier came at them.

Takeda rushed towards him, his right hand resting on the sword at his hip. Just as he came within three feet of the soldier, he side stepped with experienced agility, while at the same time, ripping out his sword from its sheath, cutting up the front of the attacker. Takeda turned and quickly returned to Alana's side.

"Before more arrive, let's hurry."

((I wonder where everyone else went.))

Alana looked at the bloodied remnants of the soldier's torso for a moment before reaching into her sleeve for an eight-round holdout pistol. Clutching the pistol with one hand, she tore the golden sash from her waist and smashed it into the ground with her foot.

"I hope they will take a little longer to realize who I am if I'm not wearing that." She commented before starting down the street at a slow jog. "Well, come on, no time to lose."

(I dunno about anyone else, but I was locked myself in my bedroom (inside my house, which was locked...don't ask...effect,) turned off all the lights, closed all the drapes, drank only diet root beer and read sluggy freelance straight through from the beginning. Ritual. Worked perfectly.)

John smiled idly...and as they said, there was more than one way to lose a tail.

He idly flicked his fighting knife from its sheath and popped the slicewire free from the cavity in which it rested. He flicked the slicewire about, caught it on the hook at the proper point, twisted...pulled...then returned the spool to the cavity.

Smile.

ka-CLICK!

It was a simple enough matter to slice himself a hole in the wall and slide through it. Now, sure, he had ass-all idea where he was now...but it wasn't like HE CARED OR ANYTHING. So John smiled and did himself a little recon and discovered that he had cut into a passage that opened into a small closet that led into nowhere in particular...

which made it a perfect place to get changed. So the duster went bye-bye (well...it got atomized. Whatever.) His 'civvy clothes' went into his backpack, and he pulled on his shadowsilk sneaksuit. Armored Sneaksuit. Ceramics.

Now, Shadowsilk is some nifty stuff. It is secreted by Nightshade Devilmorphs, who, according to Dysaryn Stark, are the single nastiest monster in the galaxy. 'n Dysaryn Stark has -fought- most of the monsters in this galaxy...so it would be best to just take his word.

Anyways, it is completely proof against all sorts of fancy shmancy detection devices. In fact, the only way to see it is with the mark one eyeball. Damned nifty. So, after tying a bandana around his forehead and settling his harness, John was ready to go. Which he did. Right down that hallway that lead to nowhere in particular and out the nearest window.

Now, normally that would mean little more than a splat in the near future of one John Mercer, but John is RASP. He has the usual RASP gear. 'n that means...GLIDER PACK!

So off we go, a-ridin' thermals...ridin' thermals...(EEEEEERRRGGGGASAHAHSHSDA.) Anyways.

((So...you just cut through solid warsteel, filled a gaping hole in the electronic heirarchy, and are now swooping through a city with the presumption no one will notice. Alright, that's cool. I've got the severe home field advantage here, I know how everything in my nation works, and you don't. So if this isn't going to degenerate into a mushy pile of self-amusement, then I have to clip the wings of realism. It's an RP, after all.))

Thanks to John's shadowsilk and his ubAr-1337 RASP skills, the SpecOps soldiers were completely confounded, couldn't interrogate John to forward the storyline, and were called to combat the elements of the 302nd that had attacked Alana's Committee. So people started shooting each other, blood went everywhere, heads were blown off, ribcages dismantled, vertebrae used as bludgeons, and general carnage reigned. John was left to his own damn devices, and what the fuck is supposed to happen now?

(OOC, well, actually, I was expecting a random platoon of menelmacari infantry to wander over and somehow shoot John down with their plasma rifles. No. I'm kidding...that was a joke.

Erm...anyways, sluggy freelance does bad things to the brain...well, bad from most peoples perspectives...

Oh, as to cutting through this warsteel stuff, yeah. Slicewire=monomolecular. But. That is entirely irrelevant, and this just goes to show you why if you've got an intricate plot laid it, it helps to make sure the other guys knows his lines...ahh well. Damage control time.)

So, anyways, John was just about ready to jump out of a window when he realized that it was friggin' daytime. Ugh. Lesson one. Avoid drinking large quantities of grain alcohol while vacationing in foreign countries when one is a rather nifty secret agent-type.

So he hit the 'revert state' button on his handy-dandy plot-control remote...and suddenly appeared wearing his civilian gear, including the duster that had previously been atomized. Miraculous. (Yes. Yes it is...)

So he slapped his grapnel into place, rappelled rapidly down the building...and noted his position in relation to the alley. Perfect.

So, Michael would be doing his job as usual...when all of a sudden, a hand would come out of seemingly no-where and clamp down on his mouth and nose. Moments later, a knife would rest itself against Mike's carotid artery.

"Okay, Lucy. You've got some 'splainin' to do."

1080Michael was silent for a few moments while he keyed in a quick alert through his throat mike.

"Well..." he calmly replied, "what do you want to know? I'm no mindreader."

John smiled idly and tightened his grip ever so slightly...

"How's about we start with whether or not I kill you when your buddies show up, hmm?"

...see...there is an old saying in Revenia about the sons of House Mercer...

It went a little like this:

"Just because 'Mercer' sounds like 'Mercy,' doesn't mean you can expect any 'Mercy' form the Sons of Mercer."


Alternatively, that could be simplified to:

Don't screw with Revenian Black Ops agents. It wastes your time and annoys the Revenian.

1080's exasperated sigh emminated through the faceplate, losing some of its intended impact. "Now, what are you going to get out of killing me? It'll only delay you a couple more seconds, in which case both our bodies would be filled with lots of organ-rending devices. So, I assume you don't just drop in on SpecOps agents for kicks. What do you want?"

((I wonder where everyone else went.))

Alana looked at the bloodied remnants of the soldier's torso for a moment before reaching into her sleeve for an eight-round holdout pistol. Clutching the pistol with one hand, she tore the golden sash from her waist and smashed it into the ground with her foot.

"I hope they will take a little longer to realize who I am if I'm not wearing that." She commented before starting down the street at a slow jog. "Well, come on, no time to lose."

Takeda nodded and jogged beside Alana, his eyes scanning every direction for any sign of another attacker. They made it to the Coalition compound without further delay, however, and Takeda slowed before the building and took a quick breath, still holding his pistol at ready in case another soldier appeared.

"That was close," he said as he looked over his shoulder. He glanced at the door leading into the compound. "Shall we?"

"No point in hanging around out here." Alana stated before stepping through the opasteel doors. "I need to talk to Carilyn, now."

...a few minutes later...

"Takeda and I just got here from what used to be my Committee HQ." Alana told Carilyn Hy'seto – head of the Coalition – while gesturing upwards at her bodyguard. "The 302nd just turned the building to toothpicks – I suggest we set up some sort of defenses and get SpecOps over here pronto – I don't know how much time it'll be until the rest of the Joint Committee of War comes at us for real."

...another few minutes later...

Alana stood rigidly before Takeda. "Carilyn has appointed you head of defenses until SpecOps gets here – you have at least eight hours before they can fully mobilize. The Joint Committee of War won't be able to mobilize in that time, but they will be sending elements of the armed forces against us before SpecOps can get here. I know you can hold the fort, so don't prove me a liar. I've been here before; have any questions about the place?"

"Yeah, think these walls will hold if those boys with the shardcannons come back around?" He glanced at the pistol at his hip. "And I think I'll need a better gun..."

John smiled...

"Well, I suspect your buddies'll be here before you get the chance to answer...but...the question is awful easy. Why the tail? Why me? So I'm a foreigner? So what. Really, though...I'm not sure. Seemed like a good idea at the time I suppose...bah..."

He mumbled annoyedly and whistled a couple of entirely off-tune and seemingly random notes...they had their purpose, of course.

"Your friends are slow. I sure do hope they don't come in shooting...that'd really tick me off...I'm really just curious as to what the hells going on here, after all. National Leader gets murdered...seems like you need all the help you can get. Professional help. So, oh look, a Revenian. What are Revenians known for? Yeah. Unconventional Tactics. Seems kinda stupid to corner one in an alley..."

He shook his head absently...

"God, your people are SLOW!"

Dekker slipped into the warehouse silently, grabbing a few zip-ties from the foreman's desk...

The first guard he happened apon had his back to him, an easy takedown:
Dekker landed a forearm strike to the neck of his victim after wrapping an arm around his mouth, then followed with a pair of concussive palm-strikes to the back of the skull... Light ones, to avoid permanent nerve damage. As the man slumped forward, Dekker slipped one of the zip-ties around his hands, like handcuffs.

'Easier than a drunken Playmate on birth control...'

Like Six had said, he was having fun... He managed to sneak past a few others, but one caught him by surprise... Luckily, he was close enough for a headbutt, followed by a sharp knee to the groin & a forearm strike across the small of the back. Dekker was then able to slip behind him & lock in a rear naked choke, which he held until the unfortunate man went limp. Like the first, he cuffed him with a zip-tie. He was at his goal...

OOC: Cyber, what exactly am I looking for?

Marcos was getting ansy, the sudden ringing of some sort of communication device nearly caused an AD on his part...

'Dammit... Scared the shit outta me...'

Seeing that this was getting him nowhere, Paul threw himself into a diving roll that carried him across the doorway in the blink of an eye. He came up in a low crouch that transformed into a quiet run, up and out onto the building's roof. Like a shadow, he vanished into the night as he lept to another nearby building, then down a fire escape to where his Chevy Blazer was parked.

It wasn't his day. Somehow he'd stumbled into a showdown between a Cyberutopian spec-ops trooper & some arrogant bastard in the alley that his truck was parked in...

Mike attempted to speak the best he could while still ignoring the knife at the base of his jugular.

"Don't need your help, pal." His voice remained clipped and severe. "What makes you so special, thinking you can walk into a mourning nation looking like an action-flick reject and expect us to welcome you with open hearts and minds – especially when you've shown no extraordinary skill – as well as holding a member of the group you're supposedly trying to help. Why would we even care about you, except as a threat to national security? You're not the best there is, there are stupid people from every nation and every outfit, and you're obviously one of them. I've seen nothing 'unconventional' about your tactics aside from your unconventional stupidity. Lastly, my 'people' aren't slow. You're apparently also very bad at noticing red dots."

---

Dekker had indeed found the jackpot – a small wooden crate marked Cyberutopian AF Property, Serial No. 102359 mixed in with several similar looking crates. The crate had been opened recently, and the formerly tacked-on top was slightly ajar. When the mercenary peeked inside, he would find a series of two inch by two inch cells, each with a glistening metallic tube wedged inside. The tubes were bisected by a small glass insert, which showed the milky white nanovirii within. However, one of these cells was devoid of a cylinder, and the dust pattern confirmed it had been retrieved recently.

Six had also recommended that Dekker attempt to find any copies of the recent retrievals of munitions from the warehouse, to ensure that any missing nanovirii hadn't been used up in live-fire tests.

Unfortunately, heavy bootsteps began plodding down the corridor of steel frames and wooden crates towards Dekker's position. Only a human-sized box standing upright blocked the guard's line of sight.

---

Something scrambled across Jian's line of sight out the doorway, and then he suddenly felt the threat had dissipated. The Arbiter remained crouched there for several more seconds, and his Device continued to ring. Finally, imperceptably, he began to move fowards. When no lead sprung out of the darkness to strike him, he pounced upon the Device and answered the call.

"Hello?" He answered, struggling to keep the waver out of his voice. "Yes, I'll be home in time for dinner. Yes, I'm leaving right now. Yes, of course, yes, yes. Alright, bye."

Jian let the Device clatter to the floor and he let out a weary sigh. Wiping the sweat from his brow and uprighting his desk, he pondered if he should report the break in. No, the police and SpecOps had enough to deal with. What attention would one whiny break-in notice garner? He stowed his shotty and trudged home, still shaking from the adrenaline.

---

Alana gave Takeda a sardonic smile. "No, these walls are made of the same junk. You'll just have to organize the defenses so you can take them out before they wipe us out. I assume there's an open armory around here somewhere, but I'm no blueprint, sorry.

"I really don't like the idea of you being left without me at these kinda times, even within the Compound, Alana," said Takeda. "You sure we can trust this Carilyn? There is a strange, hidden web of betrayals in this struggle, for all we know he may be one of the spiders..."

Takeda stared around at the surrounding people of the Compound, still unsure, as he spoke.


((OOC: Heh, that was my sad attempt at a wise sounding metaphor ))

John smiled idly...

"Convenient, I suppose. Whatever."

Using the hand not holding his knife, he slipped a piece of cardstock from his pocket and stuffed it into Mike's hand, then withdrew his knife and kneed Mikey forwards, away from him.

"Haven't even tried yet. You decide to stop being stupid, my cell number's on that card. So's my name. John. John Mercer. Captain John Mercer. Doubt you've heard of me, but put frankly...you take things way too close to face value."

He -moved.-

Creepy as hell. Like magic. He was there, then he wasn't. As if he just -vanished.- Invisible to the eye, invisible to sensors...just...gone...

Alana blinked. "I trust her, though I understand your unease. I have known Carilyn for a long time, and she would not waver so far as to betray the Coalition. I don't think your unease springs from Carilyn as much as it is from the idea of you leaving me unattended. It is your duty, I know, and perhaps I would be foolish to deny your protection. I'll stay close by, Takeda."

"Oh no, oh no, he has magic. Look out." 1080 mumbled angrily. "Just go and get yourself killed already."

He glared – pointlessly – behind his faceplate at the emerging SpecOps soldiers and crushed John's card into the dirt. "Don't worry that moron, he's just a dumbass with some special tricks. Didn't even make me sweat with that knife-to-the-throat thing."

If John's goal was to thoroughly piss off the dominant military force in Cyberutopia, he had done a fantastic job.

Takeda nodded. Alright then, let's get to work...

He turned on his heel. He snapped his fingers, getting the attention of a few of the people in the halls.

"Alright, we need four people on the roof, preferrably snipers," he began. "Another four at the main doors, and two at each fire exit. The rest of you, find a good defensive position at a window, or be ready to reinforce the guys at the doors. You all decide who the ammo runners will be."

Now to get a bigger gun... He stopped and asked a man where the armory was, then headed down the hall the man pointed to. He stopped in front of a door and stepped into the room and stared at the gun racks.

His eyes stopped on an assault rifle equipped with a secondary shotgun. He grabbed the gun and slung it over his shoulder.

"Right, let's kick some ass Alana," he said said with a grin.

The milita troops conferred among themselves for a couple of minutes before rushing off to the nearest stockpile to get the weapons they would need and the corresponding ammo. Within fifteen minutes, the milita was completely prepared.

Alana rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and bent down to pick up an assault shotgun and a couple of grenades. She slung the shotty over her back, and swayed for a second as her slim frame calibrated to the new weight.

"Whatever you say, Takeda. Now...if memory serves me right, there are a number of automated gun emplacements placed on the roof and the fringes of the frontal courtyard. We'll probably need to unearth the controls and repair some of them. They're at least forty years old."

Some time later, quite some ways away, John had returned to his hotel room -- rented under the name of a Mr. Wilson Abernathy from Derallia...and stripped out of his clothing. First thing was first, and that was practicality.

So, having dressed in a t-shirt and blue jeans, he wandered over to the small desk at which he had set up his laptop. A few keystrokes...and...

"The hell is going on out here, Con?"

Mass transceivers were goddamn wonderful...

The flickery black figure on his computer screen spoke in the usual measured tones...

"Not sure, Seven-Thirteen. Not sure. 'n why the hell did you have to go active, anyways?"

John, Knight 713, shook his head annoyedly...

"Paniced, I suppose. Not sure why. Wasn't expecting a tail, spooked me. Things went all pear-shaped from there, my fault. Stupid. Shoulda walked away, shoulda just walked away..."

John sighed, the image on his screen nodded.

"Yes, you should have. I'm not sure we can salvage this op as stands. Admittedly, I'm not sure the op was possible in the first place."

John nodded, "Yeah. Abort or go hunting?"

The figure seemed to think for a few moments, "Nothing we can lose, at this point. Nothing we can gain, true...but, 's your call."

John nodded and cut the connection. There was no good answer to that dilemma, so he wasn't going to give an answer. At any rate...

He stood up and stretched, then collapsed onto the bed. Intruder Chameleon was nice, yeah...against most things. There were ways to defeat it...simple ways. 'n it was...difficult to operate. Regardless, it wasn't used much.

In fact, this had been the first time John had used the system outside of a controlled environment...'n it was not an experience he wanted to repeat. Ever.

He collapsed on his bed, slowing his breathing, forcing calm.

"What now, moron."

He shouldn't be here. He was a RASP Operator, keyword 'Operator.' He wasn't supposed to have to do his own goddamn ground-work...ergh.

All that training, all that mystical bullshit, all of it had the sole purpose of creating a living weapon that could strike anywhere, anytime. Get in, get out. Anything that happened along the way was irrelevant.

Nothing about friggin' relations. He wasn't James friggin' Bond.

It was at that point that he heard a knock on his door. He frowned and reached for his in-house weapon. FS-2 Flechette pistol. Worked. Weapon in hand, he headed for the door, hit the latch, stepped off to the side...and flicked it open.

The individual who stepped in was all too familiar. As were the blurring motions that left one John Mercer weaponless.

"Didn't your mother tell you not to point guns unless you were gonna use them?"

John blinked as that all-too familiar individual shut and locked the door.

"Wha? How?"

Jerrin Crane snorted, "Close your mouth, John. I was passing through, Cindy told me what happened...so I'm here."

Yeah. He was there, alright. Wearing a leather jacket and black shades, his long brown hair tied back in a pony-tail, blue jeans and tennis shoes...

Didn't look much like you'd expect Colonel Sir Jerrin Crane to look. But then, that was the idea...

"So, John. Since your obviously too young to be out on your own, we're going to try and salvage this one. Doesn't make since, but I don't care. If worst comes to worse, we leave. No big deal. Right now, you're taking a nap. You may think you feel good, but using IC means you're not. So go sleep."

When Jerrin Crane said sleep, you slept.

Michael stood. Even as everyone around him ran for cover. Though some would call it bravery, the truth was that he was dumbfounded. Back home power of anything near that resided in the rare LightningMechs. But he had little doubt the cannons these soldiers were using would dismantle the LightningMechs in an instant... or anything else from back home.

Not home No, that was right. Dancing Penguin wasn't Michael's home anymore. He could never go back. As the soldiers continued their barrage, he suddenly became aware of how much he stood out in his deep blue Mystic cloak with a long knife strapped to his upper left leg and a Desert Eagle holstered at either hip. Of course, he smiled to himself, those were neither his only weapons nor his most dangerous. Now that he had escaped the Lens, he could bring his Mystic abilities into play as well.

For now, however, he just stood back and watched. He hoped he could get some idea of what was going on without winding up with one of those cannons pointed at him.

Takeda gave a quick nod and thought a moment. "Alright," he said. "We'll start with the guns in the frontal courtyard, finish with the most dangerous spot first...." He began walking down the hall towards a pair of doors.

"How much do you know about these controls?" he asked as he walked. "I only know a little bit about systems that old, and any repairs I'd be able to make would be the basic rehooking of wires and the like..."

[
Dekker had indeed found the jackpot – a small wooden crate marked Cyberutopian AF Property, Serial No. 102359 mixed in with several similar looking crates. The crate had been opened recently, and the formerly tacked-on top was slightly ajar. When the mercenary peeked inside, he would find a series of two inch by two inch cells, each with a glistening metallic tube wedged inside. The tubes were bisected by a small glass insert, which showed the milky white nanovirii within. However, one of these cells was devoid of a cylinder, and the dust pattern confirmed it had been retrieved recently.

Six had also recommended that Dekker attempt to find any copies of the recent retrievals of munitions from the warehouse, to ensure that any missing nanovirii hadn't been used up in live-fire tests.

Unfortunately, heavy bootsteps began plodding down the corridor of steel frames and wooden crates towards Dekker's position. Only a human-sized box standing upright blocked the guard's line of sight.


Dekker crouched, then slowly peeked around the edge of the crate, opposite of the direction he guesstimated that the footsteps where coming...

'Dammit... Shoulda conked those other bastards instead of creepin' around 'em... Never fails that one of 'em will always walk up on ya when you're in the middle of somethin' important...'

The mercenary quietly got the palm pilot off of his belt, then toggled to the digital camera feature he'd had installed in place of an MP3 player, snapping quick pics of the weaponry crates, their labels, and the shipping manifests that where conveniently taped to the lids. As a final touch, he fished the empty cube out of the box with his folding Recon knife, carefully so as not to damage the thing or disrupt any fingerprints. The cube he tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, he'd left the damn hoodie in Six's van. The knife he kept out, unfolded & ready...

Dekker risked a second peek... The individual was much closer now, close enough for Dekker to get a good look at his face. He remained deathly still, his breath coming in shallow doses as he hoped for the man to simply change direction & allow him a clean get-away...

Paul Marcos lay silent beneath his SUV, brows furrowed behind his balaclava...

'Okay, okay... The fucker's gone, so you SOB's can go now, too...'

Despite the disappearance of the asshole-agent guy, Cyberutopian Special Operations where still in the alley. There was no way he could make a clean get-away dressed like he was unless he was safely behind the tinted windows of his vehicle...

Frustrated, he attempted to unsling the modified M4, but got the stock caught on the wheel axle. Internally swearing in around three different languages, he pulled the M96, holding it loosely to avoid activating the lasergrips he'd had put on the damn thing...

"So...It is time for affimative action, Isn't it?", were the words of the Berethauth (Maidens of Battle) Commander, staring with icy, yet fierce, eyes at the aelosian diplomat in the other side of the simple, and almost barren, office. The military officer was a woman, the first prerequisite to join the Berethauth, with an athlethic, yet slim, build, her silouette marked by her wraithbone set of armor in an exquisite, yet deadly looking, way. Her helmet, designed to look like a Banshee's face, was resting in the table, as a reminder of how dangerous and lethal the bearer of the wraithbone mask was.

"Looks like you are going to be needed for the first time. Big things are expected from you, as you are the Everqueen's Chosen", answered the political envoy, a blonde elf woman with a long and elaborated white and gold night dress, almost looking like a bride in her wedding's day. "Just let me clarify something. Cyberutopia, the country asking for help in these moments is one of the oldest allies of the Empire, and one which has the entire trust of our nobility. Their steadfast people must be helped and aided in the best ways we can. It looks like they will need affirmative action from us again, due to the turbulence created by many people that envy the bliss of the Cyberutopian people. The Everqueen decided to send you, due to the fact that you are her personal militia and that one of your founders, the Twilight General Elfira D'nan, was one of the commandos involved in the Cyberutopian conflict years ago. I hope you could act accord to your reputation, right?, the best of the best, Isn't it?", said the woman in a soft, carefully pronounced tone of voice.

"There is no other way, courtier. You were chosen for your kind and manipulative words, and we were chosen for our decisive actions. We won't make our best, we will make the best, because that's what we are. Tomorrow we will travel to Cyberutopia and fix whatever it needs to be fixed, and we will take care of the enemies of the Cyberutopian people, and we will help them, because that is our Lady´s will", was the answer of the military officer, spoken in short sentences and dry words.

"I'll arrange the details then, please send to my office the entire roster of the personnel participating in the operation. Your interstellar strip will be arranged by a cruiser of the navy going that way. You'll receive your briefing from the Cyberutopians as soon as you arrive to their territory. That's all Commander, I know you hate luck, so I won't wish you any", turning around, the political envoy left the room, without directing even a last glance to the other woman.

Two days later, the Mablumibel, Orbital Redeployment Gunned DropShip of the Aelosian Orbital Rapid Strike Force left the 4th landing bay of the Cruiser-Carrier Dagor Aglareb of the Fifth Wrath Fleet, heading for the Cyberutopian Air Space. Minutes later, the transport sent the logo of the aelosian Royal House as unique identification and landed in the landing pad available and marked by the ground authorities of Cyberutopia.

The huge, black vessel landed slowly, using an anti-gravitic device to stop the ship just before the hatch opened and a platform of red wraithbone, like a tongue coming out of the juggenaut's mouth, touched the ground. a moment later five figures came out of the transport, clad in the traditional full body wraithbone armor of the aelosian elven warriors, only their helmets removed to show the features of beautiful and enchanting women, yet with a note of fierce and powerful determination in their eyes. Different elven runes and blazons covered their breastplates, depicting both the ancestry, rank and deeds of each of their bearers.

Adopting a resting position, with their hands behind their backs, the five women expected the Cyberutopian welcome, glaring at their surroundings scouting the possibilities.

"Atragos RAKH!"

The guttural curse, not quite shouted but certainly not spoken at a normal tone of voice set John jolting awake...and thusly to slam his head into the edge of the end-table that hung over the arm of the couch he was sprawled upon...

'n yeah, that hurt like hell, even for somebody with a head as hard as John Mercer...

Jerrin didn't notice, he was -that- perturbed by external stimulus. Which was quite a feat, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe Jerrin was acting. You never knew with him...

John blinked, "What exactly warranted the Middle Ascended, Jerrin?"

Jerrin exhaled slowly, "Elves. No, not just elves. Those damn-arrogant Aelosians."

John groaned. That really did change everything...

Jerrin shook his head, "I don't need this. I really don't need this. Of all the targets of opportunity that could show up, it had to be -them.- Worse, as you know, we don't have weapons-free. As we all know, Aelosians have no concept of restraint, so, they can kill. We can't."

Well, that wasn't strictly true...but it was the guideline...

John didn't even try to speak, this was way out of his league...

Jerrin, on the other hand, had begun pacing...

"Obviously they're here because of the murder, and knowing that, these are some sort of stupid special forces types. Probably have powerswords, which doesn't bother us any...they could have sticks and still kill us just as dead...but armor means our pistols are useless unless we go lethal, and knives don't do too good for stun work...so if we want to intervene, we either use hand-to-hand, gas of some sort, or...?"

John instantly answered, "Tanglewire, net guns, mantraps, non-powered traps, or really heavy rocks."

Jerrin smiled wickedly and popped open his briefcase, examining contents...

Just because he wasn't on an op didn't mean he didn't carry his gear with him, y'know. Shade wouldn't have it any other way...

At some point Michael decided it was time to move. He wandered off down an ally and it was there he found in: a golden fabric of some kind. As he picked it up to inspect it, he heard someone shout. He looked up to see two soldiers approaching him, weapons drawn. Putting on his best innocent smile, Michael stood.

"Well what seems to be the trouble, officers?"