NationStates Jolt Archive

Secret IC:

In Bandar Abbas, what looked like a convention center appeared to rise out of the water next to the shore. With what looked like skybridges stretching out to the water, the glass and metal structure seemed like an airport by the coast, as opposed to the true nature of the building, that of a massive slave market, where humans were traded like a parody of a stock exchange. As a ship pulled into the harbor, one of the metal skybridges was already moving towards the vessel, and placing itself above the deck hold entrance, before crewmen on the boat secured a canvas tarp over the entrance to prevent enemies from spotting the cargo, over a thousand slaves in chains, coming out of the hull and into the skybridge, fresh from Shoobooshaaba, where they were recently harvested. When they had arrived inside, they were auctioned off to waiting people, only allied nations had been informed of this building's true purpose, and today, only a few people were bidding on the slaves.

ooc: Slaves huh? Hmm... put up a price listing.

OOC: I guarantee some nation is going to "spot them" and try to start a war. Just look at every other slavery thread.

But that won't be me. ;)

OOC: We won't be buying slaves - nope, that would be against UN rules, and as a longstanding and law abiding member of the UN, we simply could not do that. It would be illegal, immoral, and unethical. Yep, very unethical. Yep, very very unethical. Nevermind that transport we have moving towards your location or the stacks of gold bullion it carries, nope, won't be here, this won't be happening, won't have anything to do with the slave trade, nope, not us, not going to happen, wouldn't be prudent....





.... coincidentally, is anyone actually buying that line of hornswaggle?

Do you want me to reply to that IC or OOC ?

Do you want me to reply to that IC or OOC ?

OOC: Yes. :D

OOC: This is sort of a character RP, so if you want to have one of your corrupt buisnessmen attending, that would be great.

:mp5: :gundge: :sniper: :headbang: ill do all this to the slaves if i had the chance!OOC: Yes. :D

:mp5: :gundge: :sniper: :headbang: ill do all this to the slaves if i had the chance!

Beat yourself on the head while shooting one of your soldiers who's shooting at the slaves? ;)

Nervously, CEO of UR-Anium Mining Co. Phil Zimmermann backed a corporate supply ship out of the hangar situated deep in the 40 square kilometre crater in the middle of one of Tannenmille's finest jungles. "Set coordinates for the Parthian System," he said, a slight quiver in his voice. He knew full well that slavery was illegal in Tannenmille, but he was prepared to purchase a couple hundred anyway.

OOC: This is sort of a character RP, so if you want to have one of your corrupt buisnessmen attending, that would be great.

OOC: That would be about what's going on... actually, it does tie in with another thread, but worry not, am not here to disrupt the proceedings.

OOC:Vasti...not for one flameing minute!

IC:

"Why me?" Kaylinde frowned to herself as she made her way off of the passenger liners gangway and into Bandar Abbas. A hotel room waited her in one of the finest hotels in the city. Her Tarlachian passport in the name of Kay Balran raised no eyebrows and she was in her room in no time worth mentioning. As she changed into more comfortable clothes she wondered if there were any decent restraunts close by.

Three days ago:

"Mr. Natick," the Director said behind steepled fingers. "I understand you had some excitement on your last deployment."

Natick eyed the Director; the older man's eyes were hidden by silvered spectacles, and the beginning--or vestige--of a smile manifested on his face.
I swear he gets a kick out of this, Natick thought. He unfolded his arms, letting his black-gloved hands fall to his sides. "As always, you're a master of understatement, sir." Of a team of ten sent into that outpost in the sweltering southern jungles, only Natick had come back alive.

"You completed the mission, though," the Director commented. "You always do. So, in view of your consistently stellar performance--and your outstanding record of survival--we've decided to give you a break."

There's a catch, Natick thought. There's always a catch. Besides, he's enjoying this too much.

The Director continued. "You will travel to the Parthians--Bandar Abbas, specifically. There, you will negotiate with the local slave traders for the purchase of one hundred test subjects. The full briefing will be delivered to your quarters."

"Yes, sir."

"One further thing--do not allow anyone to know of our involvement in the matter. Do not disclose our identities even to the suppliers themselves. Above all, reveal nothing of our purposes for the test subjects. Even slave traders might find our operations somewhat distasteful."

Right now

Mr. Natick--Mr. Drake for now--waited on the bow of a small freighter chugging along off the coast of Bandar Abbas. The freighter was a model common in Ximea, and throughout the world, and its markings indicated that it originated from an obscure and relatively unknown island nation thousands of kilometers out to sea. The ship would arouse no suspicion at sea or in Ximean ports. In the distance, he could just make out a gleam of glass and metal...

Perigrine cornered the greasy suave concierge and after letting him sweat a little at the thought that so high paying a patron might have complaints, managed to find out the names of two four star restraunts with in reasonable distance of the hotel. A flagged down taxi brought her to the nearest just as the sun began it's long slide beneathe the western horizon.

"One, booth," She answered the hostess's question and was led to a booth well away from the front of the restraunt. Kay slid into the booth, making sure she could see the main entrance and the doors to the kitchen. She took the menu and opened it. Behind the large menu she took a second to open her handbag and slip her pistol into her lap. Just in case

Trucks rolled into garages while more freighters were pulling into the ports. More and more slaves were being unloaded. The main hall of the building was a madhouse, Parthian nobles and slavetraders were auctioning or bidding on one of many auctions, each showing a variety of slaves for sale. Hundreds of Hazara and Arabs were mixed in with Shoobans and other slaves standing in chains while some were bidded on and hauled away, splitting families as certain nobles sold them off piece by piece or bought them that way.

Drake removed his sunglasses and slipped them into a pocket of his overcoat as he stepped into the relative shade of the building. After a minute or so of scanning the area, he approached one of the larger auctions. Behind the chubby but animated auctioneer, hundreds of men, women, and children, wearing dirty gray linens, stood chained together in rigid but weary formation. They were of all of one race, apparently, albeit one Drake did not recognize. Many of the faces were proud; some were exhausted; some merely stared into open space.

Dozens of bidders clustered in front of the auctioneer, enthusuastically calling out bids or cheerily conversing. The atmosphere was almost similar to that of a horse race. Behind them, an attendant stood to one side with hands clasped behind his back. Drake's trained eyes noted the attendant's sidearm concealed by his uniform, though a casual glance would be inclined to miss it. Drake tried not to see the man as a threat, a target, but no matter how easy this mission seemed, he couldn't shake his old habits.

Drake approached the attendant. "'Scuse me," he said, slipping into a little dialect, "I've got some questions about the product. First of all, what race are they? Second, are they all healthy? Free of parasites, diseases, birth defects, all that?"

"Yes, those are all very good questions, one does not wish to buy faulty goods. I would also like to know what useful skills these slave have. There must be some with certain, skills." The man who just walked up is dressed in a slightly out of date suit, expensive looking but worn, as if he were a wealthy man fallen down on his luck. He has long black hair, tied back in a tidey ponytail that reaced to the midle of his sholderblades. He has an old scar extending the left side of his mouth in a perpetual, puckered smile, and a newer one where it looks as if the index finger and pinkie of his right hand have been sewn back on, poorly.
"Oh, I am sorry, I have forgotten to introduce myself, my name is s'elvar, I come from the Dictatorship of Metgyn" he murmurs as he extends his hand. It is just barely possible to see the jewled hilt of a small dagger extending beneith his cuff "I had hoped to purchase some slaves as a gift to my lord, as may be apparent I have recently fallen from favor. I hope to purchase my way back into his esteem" He gives a small smile and waits for an answer to his original question.

Flying under the colors of Greenmanbry insured few if any questions would be asked of the Charlotte-class Transport - the Satanistic government left little question as to what it would (just about anything) and would not (interference with the former) sanction.

The tall man stepping off the vessel, with his escort of six black-garbed men, two with medical kits and all armed, seemed entirely at ease in the strange locale. Money dripped off his countenance, even without the ruby rings and platinum embroidery on his black-and-red robes; a thinly disguised preference for fear and blood hid behind his sunshades and goatee.

"What a nice place. I think we shall have to engage the locals."

"That's a good question," Drake said, shaking the proferred hand. "Would have asked it myself, but I'm here for unskilled labor and breeding stock."

With a casual glance, Drake scrutinized the newcomer. S'elvar had apparently understated his troubles with his lord; the scars on his hand suggested an official punishment of some kind, the way disgraced samurai would have fingers amputated. On the other hand, he could have taken some heavy damage in a fight; the scar on his face didn't seem ritualistic.

He briefly caught a view of the dagger in S'elvar's sleeve. He couldn't get a good look at the workmanship without arousing suspicion, but the glint of gemstones told Drake all he needed to know; even if the dagger was functional, it was likely intended as a symbol of wealth and power--one of the few such symbols S'elvar had managed to retain. The man was not likely to be a threat.

Drake turned to the attendant, waiting to an answer to both his and S'elvar's questions.

He was most disinterested in most of the slaves - a few he pointed to, one or another of his men would make notes, or move to discuss medical conditions, or take a closer look at scars and pocks.

He did, however, have a certain something for females of every age... and quite a few of the men.

OOC: Wow, I'm surprised no one has posted something like "OMG im a righteous liberal nation and i declare war on j00 for slaveery!" So I'll be the first to deplore you.

IC: High Elder Ryan Wilson says, "Slavery is deplorable, et cettera, et cettera. Cease and decist or we'll write you a letter.

P.S. do you sell concubines?"

OOC: Wow, I'm surprised no one has posted something like "OMG im a righteous liberal nation and i declare war on j00 for slaveery!"

OOC: Well, since you asked...

IC:

I personally don't find the concept of slavery tasteful for a myriad of reasons. The most obvious reason is that people will actually work better if they get paid for something they produce. That being said, if people want to risk something buying slaves, I am most certainly not going to employ the military of P3X1299 to stop them. Also, I have noticed that people that are actually paid have other things on their mind as opposed to fomenting rebellions and stuff like that. Things like putting food on the table and such. Best of luck with the enslaved help though. I wouldn't recommend using slaves in P3X1299 because a free man is liable to challenge a slaveowner to a duel.

Sincerely,
CEO-Premier John Carter

The Parthian auctioneer smiled as he shook the hand of the two foreigners, "Good to see you, my name is Rostam and I work for the Tehrani Slavetraders Company. These slaves are all Shoobans, natives of the tribal land of Shoobooshaaba who a coalition of Parthia and allies conquered and enslaved. They aren't very intelligent, but they make good servants or field workers. These ones are actually fresh, we recently harvested them from Shoobooshaaba, which is kept in anarchy for these raids to take place. We have conubines of all sorts as well too, though those are sold in a private auction for higher bidders, if anyone is interested, I can arrange such a meeting.

Shoobooshaba... Drake was unfamiliar with the place. Well, as long as they were human. And healthy.
Drake smiled. "I won't be buying any concubines today, though it's good to know where I can come for them. Tell me, though--do you screen the slaves for diseases? Be a shame to buy a gross of them just to have them drop dead a few weeks later of a communicable infection. It'd be worse to spread some foreign disease throughout my country."
Before purchasing, Drake decided, he would have to call someone on the ship. His employers had thoughtfully installed a mainframe full of biological and ethnographic data, and it would be good to know if there were any prevalent genetic defects in Shoobans.

A man wearing silken garments decorated with pearls, diamonds,a and golden desgins steps forward and ask the Parthian,"Do you gave any normal human females to look at not these Shooban dogs?"

Kay finished a leisurely meal and paid the tab with a corporate platinum card. The door man hailed a taxi for her and soon she was at her ultimate desintation. A discrete display of her credentials insured that quickly she was wandering slowly through the various sales rooms, a flute of champagne in hand as she surveyed the merchandise.

Dark glasses hid her eyes, but the perfect bespoke tailoring of her suit and her elegant coiffure spoke of wealth as no amount of gems and jewelry could. Hidden behind the tinted glass, observant eyes made careful and thorough notice of the others peruseing the merchandise.

A man walked along. A strange man with music coming from him in copious.

"If you feel like a pimp ****** go on and brush your shoulders off. Lady's is pimps too go on and brush your shoulders off."

He called an auctioneer over and said quite sternly.

"I would like to see all young males. Between the ages of 3 and 8 I would prefer either those of Asian or Celtic stock if you have them." He nodded and produced some large amounts of money to show what he was up to and then nodded towards the slaves.

He placed his name on the document proferred: "Anatolle LeVey". And with a swish of pen and a mark of ink - and the movement of a brick of gold from a shoulderbag to a pair of greedy hands - a chain of fine women, some blonde, some brunette, some redheads, a few with hair of white, changed hands, their fate now entwined with the Tall Man.

For now.

"Take them to the ship and secure them."

His men sprung to do his bidding with the speed of those who have seen those who do not... disappear.

A man dressed in an expensive silk suit steps up to one of the auctioneers, The bulge of a large pistol obvious in a shoulder holster. "I am interested in 50 young pretty females, ages 16-27, Preferably asian or Caucasian, and 100 strong men for mining and field work, I am willing to almost any price if the goods are up to my satisfaction, how much would you estimate the cost to be?"

"A pity. Are you certain you have none? I will pay the price. Or is it just that you have not bothered to find out what skills they may have?" S'elvar looked amazed that there should be no skilled workers. "I would have thought that a country that sells slaves would have come across some artisans, fighters and skilled laourers among the people..." S'elvar sighs as he begins to walk away, "but if i cannot find what i need here then i shall have to look elsewhere" a sight pause, and then he starts to walk back, "Could you allow me to see and speak with some of the newer imports." The look on S'elvar's face turned the request into a demand, and it became possible to see a bit of the iron this man possesed.

A man walked along. A strange man with music coming from him in copious.

"If you feel like a pimp ****** go on and brush your shoulders off. Lady's is pimps too go on and brush your shoulders off."

He called an auctioneer over and said quite sternly.

"I would like to see all young males. Between the ages of 3 and 8 I would prefer either those of Asian or Celtic stock if you have them." He nodded and produced some large amounts of money to show what he was up to and then nodded towards the slaves.

"Hmm, I do have some Hazara for sale. Around the ages of 7-8 most of them were sold by their parents, would you like to see?"

A man dressed in an expensive silk suit steps up to one of the auctioneers, The bulge of a large pistol obvious in a shoulder holster. "I am interested in 50 young pretty females, ages 16-27, Preferably asian or Caucasian, and 100 strong men for mining and field work, I am willing to almost any price if the goods are up to my satisfaction, how much would you estimate the cost to be?"

"Yes, the males you request are for sale at a $1000 per head, though the females are behind this curtain, follow me please."

The auctioneer pointed towards a curtain nearby and walked inside.

The man pulled out a bag of fine cut diamonds and said," I am looking for 800 females’ Caucasian ages 4 to 9 years of age who are capable physically."

OOC What kind of slaves do you sell? Like what kind of training do they have and what skills do they possess? I would like a list of slave types if possible.

Drake noticed with more than a little distaste how many of the people around him seemed to be interested in children. He was somewhat glad that, while his employers had little respect for human life and little concern for suffering, they weren't sadistic and they weren't rapists.

"So, about their health..." he said, reminding the attendant that he was there.

Elsewhere

A young, stern-looking man in a sharp, expensive suit cut through the crowds like a barracuda. He scanned the room, searching for a familiar face--one he hadn't seen in person, but one whose image, seen on dozens of long-distance photographs, was burned in his memory.
"Hey, friend," said a short man in a slightly-less-expensive suit. He had greasy, black hair and a red, oily, pockmarked face. A thin, greasy, ratty black mustache completed the scuzball image. He smiled up at the barracuda. "You like girls?"
"I'm not in the market for girls today," the young man said absent-mindedly.
"Boys then?" the oily man pressed. "You want 'em, I got 'em."
The man in the sharp suit briefly considered killing him, but decided against it. "Actually, I'm looking for my partner," he said. "Name's Natick. Have you seen him around?"

Who need slaves when you have robots. They don't need food or air. They can work anywhere including space and they only cost a little more than the slaves do. You only have to tend to there mantaince and one well educated guy can do that. Also, it isn't illegal anywherelike slaves are!

The man pulled out a bag of fine cut diamonds and said," I am looking for 800 females’ Caucasian ages 4 to 9 years of age who are capable physically."

"Sold, I'll send the stock over so you can pick out some nice ones."

He tosses him the bag of fine cut diamonds and says," Good doing busimess with you."

Lord Xanatos lands on a landing pad in his Matte Black Black Vampire-class Fighter after his Executor-class Star Destroyer, Sepharoth, folded in the space above the planet. He walked into the complex and said to an attendant, "I wish to purchase 4000 of your most beautiful female slaves between the ages of 6 and 26 I am willing to pay a large sum for them or pay in ryll or glitterstim or even military technology and of course precious gems. Preferably 4000 all in equal numbers of 200 per age. I however wish to know what species you have available for purchase."

"Natick?" the man repeated. "Dunno. A lotta people don't give their names at a place like this."
"Fair enough." The man in the suit shrugged. Somehow, it seemed an intimidating gesture. Would he--would they--be using children? the man wondered. It wouldn't have surprised him.
The man slipped into a restroom, made sure it was empty. He stepped into a stall, closed the door, tapped a spot on his cheekbone, and whispered, "Status."
By tapping his cheek, he had activated a wireless microphone the size of a shirt button which he had hidden under the skin of his face. It detected vibrations in the skull and interpreted them as sound. This microphone was part of a covert communications system which also included a receiver the size of a grain of rice implanted inside his ear and a combination scrambler and signal booster, disguised as an expensive ballpoint pen.
After a few moments, someone responded through the receiver: "No sign of the target."
"Further intelligence?" he asked.
"We have a fragment of the briefing. He's to get a hundred adults, unspecified homogenous genotype. Nothing about his cover, transport, or method of payment."
"Alone?"
"Likely, but not certain. He--"
A third voice interrupted. "Target sighted. Auction 216. Shoobans."
"You know the procedure," the man said. "Get in place. Keep your distance. Remember, this is a man who does not let his guard down. Make no mistakes."

Elsewhere

"...tested before they leave port, and again when they get here," the attendant was saying.
"What about that one?" Drake--Natick--said, pointing to a man with slight lesions on one leg.
"Bruises," the attendant explained. "Sometimes one of them gets some rather foolish ideas, and we have to correct him. I assure you, our methods do not cause lasting damage--but we do make them think twice about disobedience."
Bullshit, Drake knew. One didn't work for his employers for as long as he had without some knowledge of exotic diseases, and that slave was definitely carrying one. A mild one, but it still showed that, whatever this attendant said, these slaves weren't screened for disease. He would have to go elsewhere.
As he turned, his eyes met those of a man in a sharp-looking business suit. The man broke eye contact almost immediately, but there was something about the look on his face...
Glancing casually around, Drake saw at least two more men in business suits--different styles, different colors, even different tailoring. But there was something about them. And the way they were moving through the crowd...
He realized he was about to be surrounded. His mind, his senses came to the crystal sharpness he always felt in combat. He slipped one hand into his overcoat, feeling the comforting, familiar shape of the handle of his Les Baer while he examined his options.

Xanatos (http://mikaboss.free.fr/Signatures/sephiroth.jpg) felt a movement through the Force something was about to go down. He made sure his lightsaber was in a quick to reach position and reassuringly felt his two high powered handguns in the holsters at his side. He thought to himself that he would have to watch these men near to him. He didnt dare extend his wings from inside his body however that just might freak people out. He also checked the rare Duratrinium katana at his side. He didn't use his forearm blades much these days because he enjoyed the other weapons at his disposal a little more. The only time he ever willingly chooses to use his forearm blades is against a very dangerous opponent.

The man prepared the sub machines guns hidden under his sleeves becuase his guts told something him was wrong."

OCC: Stop this selling of Slaves. Free those slaves and the Freedom Fighter will stop. This is abusing the human principle of human natural rights

OOC Except they arent all humans plus be quiet please ur MT you cant really fight FT so you will never eliminate slaving. I in fact have a crime organization that does do that and much worse.

OCC: Stop this selling of Slaves. Free those slaves and the Freedom Fighter will stop. This is abusing the human principle of human natural rights

OOC:
It's also fictional.

Remember folks, IC actions do not necessarily reflect OOC opinions.

OCC: If they are not human, Screw my last post. Just Continue

Natick knew he could not be the first person to shoot--just about everyone in the building was armed, and if he fired without an obvious cause, they would perforate him. He couldn't expect to lose them for very long, either--at least, not long enough to complete his mission.
He had to get them to shoot first.
"I'm going to look at some other auctions," Natick said brusquely. He walked away abruptly, his first few steps unusually quick.
"You won't find this kind of quality--" the attendant swore and slapped at the side of his neck as he felt a sharp prick.
Natick stopped, spared a glance backward.
"Bug bite," the attendant said, rubbing his neck. "Big sucker. Sometimes they come in on the...ships..." he began to explain...then he fell forward, no longer able to keep his balance.
One of the men in business suits was holding an expensive-looking black ballpoint pen. Natick moved faster now and changed direction, heading deeper through the crowds, watching his pursuers. The other two had pulled out pens as well.
Poison pens, he thought. Classy. He wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed. From experience, he knew that any pen-gun which could shoot silently, as this one had, would be powered by pneumatic pressure and would hold only a single shot. That meant that if he was lucky, he just had to get the other two to shoot--and miss.
If he was unlucky, they had a lot more pens where that came from.

Xanatos sensed this happening and moved with 'godlike' Jedi speed to intercept them from the man they were chasing. And begun to speak with them, "I wish to know your reason for killing that attendant and trying to kill that man. Be aware though I will strike you down should you try it again in my presence without good reason."

Kayelinde (http://www.atddm.com/kay.jpg) watched the play unfold and simply made sure she was out of the line of fire. One didn't interfere with others problems. And as long as she was not a target, what happed to the scum here was none of her concern. She had looked carefully but the information must have been incorrect. The subject she searched for was not here

"Now I just have to get out of here without getting in the way of a misaimed round, or mr.speedy with the glowing sword. I think he's one of those jeddy people Race has been nattering about." She muttered to herself as she moved along the periphery of the incident. Kaye wasn't too worried about most of the weaponry that the others carried, she was wearing her PALADIN armor and there was little that could affect it.

OOC: Physics 101 - for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. So if you fired that, you're now in orbit due to having your own rocket propulsion. Won't mind if I ignore it, will you?

IC:

Humans were purchased, some furries, some of questionable race and genotype. Sometimes the purchase reasons were obvious, sometimes not.

Always, the price was paid in gold and no questions.

OOC:I'll just mention that a nations age has nothing to do with the quality of their RPing. Or their knowledge of physics.

And a 13mm is not going to blow a hole in a warships hull..well unless they are wooden hulls, then maybe, but ya know aged oak is aweful strong...

and IIRC, warhammer 40K space marines use powered armor.

I've fired a 454 Casull, and I'm a weak little human woman - hurt like hell on the wrists, and it's a monster round indeed, but blowing holes through armor...only if the rounds had explosive tips...

OOC I said its a gun designed in an anime its a heavily modified 13mm Jackal and 454 Casull designed to be handled by the strongest vampire in existence. Well at least in that series. And Space Marines use heavy handguns like that. Just check out this thread http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=414450
Plus its FT and designed to contend with Power Armor this is a completely different gun like our antimatter guns. But these use sidium bullets which are equal to a depleted trilitium bullet which is pretty powerful. No normal human could use one of these guns.

OOC: "I'll take basic physics for 100, Bob?".

If your gun can "blow a hole in the side of a warship" and fires a projectile, the force out equals the force backwards. So you're firing a 13mm shell - a VERY HEAVY SHELL with the materials you're stating - with sufficient force to make a hole in the side of a spaceship. That means an equal amount of force is applied to your arms. I doubt strongly the amount of force necessary to rip both of your arms out of their sockets is anything near the force needed to hole a spaceship.

Space Marines use powered armor, which is (a) truly heavy and (b) adheres to the floor. Your arms are neither.

However, that said, I'm just going to ignore supergun for purposes of my play, and you're welcome to play with anyone who will play with you.

OOC: I know I shouldn't be talking (I've actually been around since '02 or so), but Dratheria just because you have 400+ post doesn't make you any less a n00b. Just accept they don't want you to play with your guns and move on. It sounds to me like you're almost trying to high-jack their thread. If you want to stay listen to what the nice people have to say and do it. Now please let's get back to the program, I was enjoying a nice read till the whole "I'm more powerful than you!" thing came up.

::creeps back into the shadows::

OOC The gun has the force of that kind of shell. Also Im talking about their guns not their armor. This gun can blow a 2 1/2 foot wide hole through 4 inches of Duratrinium which is our standard metal for the hulls on our ships the armor is a different matter. Our vessels use ablative armor and a denser version of Duratrinium. Alright its capable of putting a hole through power armor or the hull of our warships not the armor of our warships does that clear things up a bit. And Ive taken physics but in FT you can invent devices that can reduce kickback by as much as 60% which are in the guns as well sidium is a heavy bullet but can be easily moved by Dratherians. The gun I say again couldn't bve handled by normal humans Itd take a space marine to use one of these I mean these guns were designed to combat chaos and space marines. If you have anymore questions my MSN is apocalypse2000@hotmail.com.

OOC: I tried to be nice, look what it gets me... listen carefully. If your gun blows a "two and a half foot hole" through a substance I'll tacitly call twice the strength of ordinary steel - with a slug which is only 13mm diameter, weighing about an ounce - the force is sufficient to fire your arms into the upper atmosphere (KE=1/2 m * v^2) and beyond. Even with 60% of the kickback "removed" - which is impossible, by the way, as kickback cannot be "removed" only "redirected" - your arms are still sheared completely off and have landed on someone in Southeast Asia.

Remember, people "flying backwards" because they've been shot is a Hollywoodism, not reality. And you're not talking about simple penetration, you're talking about hitting with sufficient force to tear a hole, and a rather large one at that. Energy forwards equals energy backwards - this is why artillery barrels slide, to reduce the force of blowback - and your arms are off. Heck, you probably killed the next thirty people behind you due to impact force alone.

All this having been said - move on with it already. I shan't be playing with you and that supergun, but your free to do so with anyone else. My character simply exists in a "different plane of reality" then yours, and will not be affected by your actions.

OOC:
I'd just like to add that claiming your character is super strong is no defence; even if his arms weren't ripped off, he would have been sent flying, as a simple function of recoil energy and his mass.

fine Ill fix it Chronosia told me that was an alright specification Ill fix it thanks for the help so what would you say the size of hole should be 4 inches then. Lets just delete thes posts then and go back to the story.

LeVay continued his walk, enjoying the... views presented. At times, he would haggle for apparently no good reason save the haggling itself - twice he bought obviously inferior goods for more then they were worth, unless one was truly into aged females and crippled men.

Then again, he also bought a few of great intellect for a relative song, and completely swindled one seller out of not one but two chains of females in return for three rolls of a pair of dice - which LeVay won handilly.

"So sorry, perhaps next time, we shall use your dice instead?" He grinned maliciously at the man, tossing the rigged dice into the nearest gutter. "A bargain is a bargain, fool. And cheaters never prosper - particularly when they go against a representative of the Lord of Lies Himself!"

Quote:
A man dressed in an expensive silk suit steps up to one of the auctioneers, The bulge of a large pistol obvious in a shoulder holster. "I am interested in 50 young pretty females, ages 16-27, Preferably asian or Caucasian, and 100 strong men for mining and field work, I am willing to almost any price if the goods are up to my satisfaction, how much would you estimate the cost to be?"



"Yes, the males you request are for sale at a $1000 per head, though the females are behind this curtain, follow me please."

The auctioneer pointed towards a curtain nearby and walked inside.

"very nice, very nice. Now what will the cost be?" he says, as he opens his briefcase and sets it on a table.

OOC: No excessive future technology, I'm modern tech.

A man in a cheap beer company t-shirt, ripped jeans and a stupid looking baseball cap calmly walked into the slave market.

He quietly looked around and carefully inspected the stock, writing down notes on his palm pilot.

He carefully walked up to a representative and cleared this throat before speaking.

"I would like to purchase 100,000 slaves, all of free of disease and of good breeding stock. I would like to note that at least 1,000 of the aforementioned slaves must be of Caucasian descent."

OOC: Is it too late for me to join in?

Hmmmmm...the females seem to all be in excellent health, and all appear to be very attractive...shall we say, $5000 per head?

OOC: Is it too late for me to join in?

OOC: Cmon in, the waters... well, murky is a polite way to put it... :D

A Young man from Draka enter the slave market..his goal was to buy as many slaves for the Domination.. He went to the Slave sellmen and ask in English." Do have you any African, Asian, European, and anything else stock ..money is no limit for me,sir."

OOC: REVIVE! My apologies, I've been occupied for a few days. I will see this episode to its exciting conclusion.

IC: The man who had fired the pen dart began to pursue Natick, only realizing a few seconds later that Xanatos had been addressing him. How did he realize... the man wondered. His code name was Caspar.
Caspar activated his microphone implant and ordered the other two agents to continue the pursuit. He would have to deal with the interloper himself or risk civilian deaths--and an international incident. "I'm a Justice Agent," Caspar said quickly. "That man is a monster, involved in criminal medical experiments, possibly run by the government itself. If we can catch him, we can throw the whole thing wide open." He did not mention Ximea at all. He'd already said far more than he had intended, but everything about Natick sickened him. He'd shown remarkable restraint by firing his pen instead of his pistol. "The attendant is merely unconscious. He'll be fine in a few hours. I'd advise you to stay out of the way...for your own safety."

Natick heard someone threaten one of his pursuers; he didn't stick around to listen. He dodged through the crowds, seeking the thickest throngs of people. Whoever these men were, it was unlikely they would fire into a crowd. If they did, it would be an act of desperation, and likely to hit someone else.
Natick looked for the other two men; he could see one, behind and slightly to the right. The other had disappeared. A bad sign. He opened a cell phone, a clone bought far from Ximea, and dialed the ship. "Situation Yellow," he said, and snapped it shut. If he didn't call back in fifteen minutes, the ship would leave without him. But before doing so, they would trigger a failsafe by radio, releasing cyanide into his bloodstream from a capsule implanted in his bicep. They took no chances. He couldn't afford to take any either.

about 100 slaves. to work in our factories

about 6 women slaves

The proceedings were watched carefully, if discreetly. Purchases were made: LeVay insisted on "good bargains", and was often "awarded" chains of obviously unfit individuals - sick, maltreated, old, infirm - just so he would purchase a chain of "prime stock" at a discount.

Often, it did seem he was talked into some bitter bargains - but at the same time, he did walk away from each table with far more then he began.

Clever is sometimes in how you parlay it.

Xanatos smiled then laughed but as the two men accompaning him started their pursuit again he stopped. He looked coldly at the man in front of him and he quickly drew his katana sliced the sidearm from his side and cut it in two as it fell then put the point of his sword to the man's throat all this happening in but two seconds. He then said in a cold voice, "I care not of the problems nor the operations of your government your kind is not welcomed around here. Should you have been bounty hunters I would have left you to your business, however I really despise your kind. Now call your men off or I will drive this blade through your primitive throat. I know you need only one hand to activate that microphone implant. Do it slowly for I can assure you my species can move 4x faster than yours and I will strike you down should you try something. Also most of your most potent tranquilizers or poisons won't affect me so don't try your little pen trick." With that Xanatos began to smile and when the man saw his face he would know that he wanted to kill him but that he was giving him a chance to cower and hide for he enjoyed that more than killing people for when a person fears you it gives more pleasure than killing that person.

The man codenamed Caspar looked at his weapon lying in pieces on the ground. The pistol, a Glock 36, had a plastic frame, but he was still surprised that the katana could slice through it so easily. He began to raise his hand, slowly, toward his face. He stopped midway. "I'm afraid I don't see what problem you have with us."

Some distance away now, Natick had lost sight of Caspar. He could still see one agent, who, pen in hand, was still pursuing him from behind and to the right. The moment he had an opening, he would fire his dart. And where the hell is that third one?

The man codenamed Balthazar dogged his target through thick crowds of greasy junta generals, pasty businessmen, attendants, and chains of slaves, keeping his pen full of sedative at the ready. Natick was clever; he zigzagged through the thickest areas, changing direction frequently and never giving Balthazar a clear shot. He, too, had lost sight of the third member of the team, codenamed Melchior. He did not risk contacting him through the subcutaneous microphone; with Melchior's whereabouts unknown and Caspar busy with that strange swordsman, it was quite possible that Balthazar was the only one in visual contact with the target. He could not allow that contact to be compromised.
He realized that ,slowly, slowly, Natick was making his way toward the docking area. It was not so crowded there, and Balthazar could probably get an easy shot. On the other hand, he realized that, on the auction floor, the first person to fire a sidearm would probably be shot to death by trigger-happy bystanders. On the dock, that would not be a problem. Natick would be shooting to kill.

Natick flipped open his cell phone as he approached the massive loading doors leading to the dock. "Situation remains Yellow," he said. "Get a sniper on deck." He darted to the left and flattened himself against the outer wall as he reached open air, drawing his Les Baer .45. There were relatively few people out here: a few scattered buyers, some porters, and a few chains of slaves. The agent bolted through the doors, and Natick fired, clipping the man's left shoulder. The man sidestepped to avoid any further shots and fired his pen gun, hitting Natick in the ear.
Natick swore and ripped the dart out. It was a tiny, hollow sliver of surgical steel with stabilizing fins and a tiny plunger. He tossed it into the water. The poison, or tranquilizer, would not affect him too badly, hitting him where it did.
The agent drew another pen from his breast pocket as Natick fired again, this time missing.
Missing the agent, anyway. A few slave buyers had taken notice of the first gunshot; as they approached, Natick's second shot struck one of them in the chest. He dropped to the ground, gasping and coughing up blood--a lung shot. The others, thinking they were being attacked, drew their own weapons. A careless spray of bullets from an MP7 perforated the deck near Natick and the agent; three rounds struck the agent in the calf.

As the bullets hit his leg, Balthazar fell onto his knee. He fired his second pen, pegging Natick in the leg. He twisted toward the shooters as he tried to stand up. "Stop!" he shouted. "I'm a government agent. I need him alive." More people were approaching now--some curious, some lusting for blood. Balthazar's concern for the mission began to pale as he realized that the more irrational among them might just shoot him too...

The dart buried itself in Natick's thigh; he crouched against the wall as he tried to pry it out. The plunger just barely stuck out through the fabric of his pants, and it took him a few seconds to pluck it out with his fingertips. This time, much more of the chemical would have gotten into his bloodstream. He had to make it to the boat before he...passed...out...
Blotches of gray washed out his vision as he shuffled, then crawled, then dragged himself forward toward his freighter. If the dart had remained in his leg a second longer, he realized dimly, he would have been finished. The gangplank was only ten meters away...

Back on the auction floor, the last agent, Melchior, watched as Xanatos pressed his katana against Caspar's throat. Melchior suspected he was just out of Xanatos' peripheral vision. He aimed for the man's hand--the hand holding the katana--and squeezed the trigger...

Xanatos sensed through the Force and having given the man in front of him his last chance and to make it worse he betrayed his trust he quickly thrust his sword through the man's neck and twisted the blade severing his spine. Then he took the projectile to his hand without even trying to avoid it and only laughed as his hand quickly healed itself after stopping at the bone he laughed histerically. Then his sword bloody he charged at the man and swung with 'god-like' speed to decapitate him.

OOC: I'll give you the benefit of the doubt as far as Caspar is concerned, but next time, please ask before you kill any of my characters, especially if I give them names. You'll note I didn't post damage to your character.

IC:
Melchior half-leaped backwards as the sword approached his throat with lightning swiftness. I'm gonna need a bigger gun, he thought feverishly. He would also need to change the tactical situation, and quickly. That meant putting some distance between himself and the man with the sword, among other things. He fired two more shots at the man's head as he backed away as quickly as he could. He activated his microphone. "Man down," he said tersely. "Requesting heavy backup on the auction floor."

The three agents had arrived in Parthia on a nondescript boat, smaller and sleeker than Natick's, but similarly unidentifiable. Everything about their operation had been designed for subtlety, hence the pen guns and microphone implants. However, when Melchior requested backup, specifically heavy backup, the need for subtlety became a nonissue. Fifteen Ximean Special Forces troops stormed onto the dock, sweeping the area with surgical efficiency. Almost immediately, they saw Balthazar's situation. Their orders were to proceed to Melchior's position, so five operatives detached from the main body to assist Balthazar while the other ten entered the building itself.

As the five approached Balthazar, they saw a crowd of armed men surrounding him and Natick. Natick was unconscious about twenty meters further down the dock. The operative in charge commanded them to drop their weapons. His voice was slightly tinny through his helmet's speakers. No one complied. The agent made a sign with his left hand; acting on this signal, another operative threw a flashbang grenade and a smoke grenade into the crowd. By the time the smoke cleared and the last ear stopped ringing, the five operatives, Balthazar, and Natick were gone, and six people were on the floor, suffering from tazer paralysis.

Natick came to slowly; he was aware of being carried, but he could not see and he could not move. He had no sense of time, but he knew that it could not have been fifteen minutes since he had last checked in with his ship. He estimated he had about five minutes to resolve the situation before they released the cyanide into his bloodstream.

The other ten operatives slid through the throngs on the auction floor like a scalpel through fatty tissue. Many of the buyers and traders backed away instinctively from the intimidating black armor and the sleek, caseless assault carbines; the rest feared a raid on the facility. The operatives spotted Melchior and Xanatos from a hundred meters away. They wordlessly communicated their strategy to one another; hand signals and unending tactical training made it easy. Three snipers broke off from the main group, heading for positions roughly equidistant from their target. The other seven split into a V-formation thirty meters wide as they approached.

It hadn't been thirty seconds since Melchior's request for backup when he saw the operatives approaching; if he could hold out another ten, he figured, he might just survive this mess. He fired two more shots and continued to back away, always staying just barely out of the katana's reach.

Jennifer Ascot arrived from the helicopter, she strode confidently over to where the prisoners and guards were.

'release these people now' she said.

OOC Sorry my MSN is apocalypse2000@hotmail.com Ill be on towards 11 o'clock central time

IC
Xanatos deftly avoided the bullets using his Jedi reflexes and swung his sword over and over at the man. When he tired of this he resheathed his sword and from his forearms sprung three foot silver-colored blades that extended out past his fists. Having noticed the enemy SF team incoming, and the three men who appeared to be snipers branching off, quickly threw off his cloak to reveal a suit of black armor (http://www.kinderlines.nl/homepages/plaatjes/sephiroth.2.jpg) that was conforming yet extremely sturdy. He quickly drew his Harconan Magnum and 13mm Jackal, which were capable of blowing 4 inch holes in a 4 inch wall of Duratrinium, and began firing in a spread to anticipate any movement of this agents movements. Then quickly he activated the helmet to his armor and felt it move its plates over his head. He then faced the SF team waiting for them to do their worst.

Three soldiers were killed in the first salvo; two more were wounded. The injured retreated, leaving Melchior, two snipers, and three rifle troops. The rifle troops fired on Xanatos in three-round bursts, weaving left and right as they advanced to make themselves more difficult targets. The two snipers fired grappling hooks toward the ceiling and began climbing towards the rafters. The grappling-hook launchers, unfortunately, could not retract the grappler cable.

Melchior sprinted past the soldiers, grabbing a carbine from one of their slain comrades. After a moment's indecision, he took two grenades as well. He considered ordering a retreat--his original intention in requesting backup was to get out alive. But now three more men were dead and two were injured; they would take Xanatos if at all possible. He returned to the battle.

The soldiers had made the facility's clientele uneasy just by entering; when they started shooting, it moved many to panic. Some backed away, some fled outright, some drew their own weapons and approached the battle.

More awake now, Natick cautiously took stock of his captors. Ximean Special Forces; five of them. The agents' motive suddenly became clear: the Ximean Ministry of Justice had somehow learned of the Bio-Sciences Division's human experiments. If they took him alive, and if they could get him to testify, they could convict his superiors and at least a few hundred other people of crimes against humanity. He didn't know if the Ministry of Justice would order all their illegally-obtained data destroyed, but half a dozen major projects would never be finished--projects that could revolutionize cancer treatment, disease prevention, infantry warfare...
They came within sight of Natick's boat. As he had requested, there was a sniper on the deck. He fired a .50 caliber round into the head of one of the men carrying Natick.
With impressive speed for a drugged man, Natick pulled the pins from two grenades on the soldiers' belts, wriggled free from their grasp, and dropped off the dock into the water. He saw one man jump in after him; above, he heard the ear-cracking POP of grenades. The water muffled the sound, but it seemed that a soldier had managed to throw one of them clear.
That's why I pulled two, Natick thought. The last soldier, in the water about five meters away from him, had his rifle trained on Natick's head. Natick's Les Baer (http://www.lesbaer.com/images/con10.jpg) wouldn't work underwater, but his flechette pistol would, and it was in his hand before that soldier hit the water. Natick fired three shots in the space of a second. Each shot fired two dozen tiny tungsten-carbide darts from a cartridge that looked like a scaled-down shotgun shell. Only the propellant was designed to ignite even underwater.
The flechettes were tiny and dense, and they had an impressive muzzle velocity. They slid through the soldier's armor, which was designed to dissipate kinetic energy from much larger projectiles. Massive internal bleeding killed him in less than thirty seconds. A severed spinal cord prevented him from returning fire before that.
Natick climbed up a concrete support and flopped onto the dock. He coughed a few times and willed himself to his feet. Spotting the sniper, he approached a little woozily and shouted, "Situation...Green!" The sniper radioed it in. Natick did not know at the time that the mission supervisor on the boat would have released the cyanide in another thirty-four seconds. All Natick cared about then was getting some dry clothes. He plodded up the gangplank intending to do just that. Then he would finish this godforsaken mission.

Xanatos moved with amazing speed and jumped up and over the soldiers and agent with incredible speed and flew upside down in his flip and rained bullet upon bullet down at them. Then landing behind them he quickly dropped the magizines from his guns and put a new magazine in then began to fire at their backs.

Natick changed his clothes and switched out his Les Baer for a dry pistol. He selected a Five-seveN, a pistol designed to penetrate body armor. It looked as though he might need it. As an afterthought, he took a .357 Desert Eagle and a pair of incendiary grenades as well. He then headed to the infirmary--which, belonging to the Bio-Sciences Division, was much more sophisticated than the infirmaries on most ships. A blood test told the attending technicians what sedative the Ximean agent used, and they administered a counteragent and an adrenaline booster. In five minutes, the drug haze would be replaced by steel nerves and razor reflexes.
That taken care of, Natick attended again to the mission. It seemed most of the slaves in the facility were Shooban like the ones he had examined initially. He looked them up on a mainframe computer installed on the ship. It had no link to any external computer, and so could not be hacked or accessed from a remote terminal, but it contained massive amounts of biological and medical data. It told him what he needed to know: Shoobans were not known for any particular genetic abnormalities; they would make fine test subjects. Natick left his cabin and, ensuring that the dock was clear, he reentered the auction floor.

The chaos inside was spreading rapidly. A number of people, both merchants and buyers, were fleeing to their ships outside. More than a few slave traders released their captives rather than taking the slaves with them and slowing down their flight. Other people had taken up the fight themselves, some shooting at the Ximeans, some shooting at Xanatos, and a surprising number shooting at each other. Some of the freed slaves took up scattered weapons from the dead and attempted to flee to the docks, or to flee into the city. Melchior expected it would be moments before Parthian shocktroopers showed up to quell the disturbance. He fired again at Xanatos, who easily dodged his shots. A man in slick military dress, probably a general from some third-world country, aimed a revolver at him; Melchior put him down with a carbine burst to the skull. He wondered if the Parthians would discriminate, or whether they would simply gun down everyone on the scene.

Balthazar had been thrown into the water by the grenade blast; amazingly, he survived. Struggling against the pain of saltwater in his wounds, he climbed back onto the dock and surveyed the damage. He found the bodies of four agents, badly shredded and in some places charred. The fifth--and Natick--were missing. "Shit." He limped toward his boat for medical treatment, only vaguely aware of the surge of fleeing people.

The ongoing melee and general panic was perhaps LeVey's biggest break. He cut off several sellers and gave them offers - usually during a bout of nearby gunfire.

Fear and avarice weighed heavily against the sellers - and LeVey made off with far more worth then he spent.

Getting fearful people back to the boat proved easier then one would think - particularly as the handlers were well experienced in moving terrified individuals quickly.

Moving them in the direction of the running crowd helped immensely.


Back at the boat, LeVey relaxed over a cool drink of apple juice while his guards saw to his new prizes in the hold. The portmaster was in no mood to attempt to stop the Greenmanbrian vessel - particularly as so many others were following suit. They managed good speed, and with careful maneuvers, avoided anything more then an easily absorbed bump.

Xanatos moved even faster and began firing at the Agent emptying a 25 round clip in his direction. However he only took a few bullets to his chest he was protected by his armor. Then suddenly outside the complex three beings beamed down. There was a Harconan (http://air.niu.ne.jp/hameln/king_of_horned_demons.jpeg), a Female Warrior Angel (http://images.quizilla.com/K/Kajuza-Chan/1091714324_fknowledge.JPG), and a Female Fire Demon (http://www.gurpsmaster.de/pergatory.jpg). They started to walk to the complex. These were Xanatos's security team and each were carrying what appeared to be .65 caliber anti-tank rifles. They walked into the complex and stood back as their master did his work but armed their rifles and took aim just in case they were needed.

Jennifer ordered the sniper team to assemble at the top of buildings shooting the sellers, trying to avoid the slaves.

Meanwhile she was running through the crowds, picking off various ringleaders with her pistol, she was hot and sweating, the night was fiery and bloody.

Xanatos's Security Team aimed at the three snipers from Sparklemist and fired their .65 caliber incendiary shells at them. Then they turned their attention to the two snipers climbing the rafters and fired standard .65 caliber shells at any part of their bodies that could be targeted.

Jennifer heard the shooting and ordered them to take cover, she found a grenade from her bag, took the pin out and threw it up high into the security team camp, it exploded immediately, she then ran keeping low to the building they were shooting from and bolted the doors.

she knew they would probably escape somehow, but it would stall them for a while, she buzzed her counterpart Hugh who then ordered the team to evacuate still shooting as many people as they could. she could see some of her snipers had died, she had no time to grieve, she just carried on shooting, her googles getting clouded up and her hair was wet with sweat.

The security team saw the grenade incoming but did not flinch as Natalia the Flame Demon absorbed the heat and shrapnel from the weapon. After Shara the Warrior Angel took flight to only land mere seconds later in front of Jennifer with her sword point at Jennifer's throat.

From the rooftop Hugh could see the faceoff down below....he evacuated his team leaving Jennifer to her death.

she swallowed slowly, feeling the cold metal tingle her boiling hot skin. The seconds seem to pass so slow, she looked around, everything seemed to be in slow motion.

OOC: is there anything Jennifer can do to escape this? shes the countrys leader?!

OOC Sure I mean I had my leader die but hes comin back in an in motion RP.

IC
Shara stood there sword point to this woman's throat and slowly said in a beautiful voice, "Leave and never bother our organization again. Should you ever interfere after Ive let you live I will appear next to you and cut you down as I could have just now done. I give you your life only because my master is involved in a fight and has not given me an order to kill you so I made a choice for myself." With that Shara resheathed her sword and flew back to her teammates and watched their master fight weapons at the ready for when he sent out his telepathic call.

Jennifer quickly made her way out of the scuffle and collapsed out of the town, she laid there for it seemed an eternity.

One of the antitank shells hit one of the snipers; it tore him in half and continued on its way, hitting a structural support. The other two shells blew holes in the ceiling, bringing down massive chunks of debris on the panicking crowds. The other sniper reached the rafters and took aim at the Warrior Angel's head. He'd noticed that the Fire Demon seemed fairly resistant to bullets; he would have to think of a strategy and save her for last.

Natick entered onto a scene of total chaos. He moved past the fleeing crowds, looking for the source of the gunshots--and the panic. Well, I'll be damned... he thought--one of the pursuing agents was dead, and the agent he'd been unable to find was engaged in a rather intense firefight. There were more XSF soldiers here, and many dead. In addition, there were a few people who looked like demons. The Bio-Sciences Division had been looking for a way to obtain biological samples of magic-users, but now was definitely not the time--he estimated he would need a full strike force for something like that. Maybe some other day.
The time for stealth and subtlety was long-gone. He located a chain of slaves that had been abandoned; it looked like about a hundred Shoobans. Their chain was still bolted to the floor, and they could not flee. They would do.
He stepped in front of them and fired his Desert Eagle in the air. It made a much bigger boom than his Five-seveN would have. "You belong to me now!" he shouted. He took out his cell phone--a new one from the ship. "Get me some porters," he said. "I've got what I came for. And make sure they're armed."

Not far away, Melchior heard Natick's shout. He didn't recognize the voice, but he turned to look at the shouter, curious. He recognized the target. The rest of the battle suddenly became irrelevant. He touched his microphone. "All units disengage. I've located the target. Take him alive at all costs."

Balthazar lay in the infirmary, the his wounds stitched and bandaged and the bullets and shrapnel removed from his body. Aside from him, the only other people on the boat were two medical officers and a crew of four.
The two wounded XSF soldiers entered. Balthazar started to ask what had happened, but then he heard Melchior's transmission--and the distorted sounds of battle coming through as well. He tried to get up, but his leg was still weak. He sent his own transmission: "Melchior, report your status."
"This whole place is a war zone. Caspar's dead. Four soldiers remaining. Engaging target now."
"What the hell happened?" Balthazar asked.
"A foreign national tried to stop Caspar. I tried to disarm him. He killed Caspar and tried to kill me. I called for backup. The guy's practically unstoppable. I'd recommend air support if it weren't for all the civilians."
"Just get Natick."
"That's the plan."
One of the soldiers turned to him. He had the same microphone and receiver implants as the agents. He was stripped down, and laying in one of the beds; a 13mm bullet had nearly taken his arm off. One of the technicians administered an hemostatic colloidal protein gel to stop the bleeding prior to operation. "I saw that guy take ten bullets to the chest," the soldier said. He shrugged it off and laughed. I'd second that air strike." He winced, just slightly, as the technician immobilized his arm. "Hell, make it a nuclear strike."

Screams in Farsi echoed through the building, and soon, the Parthians, known as some of the most rediculously heavily armed civilians on earth began to show how they could defend themselves. Mico-Uzis and MP-5Ks were coming out from the overcoats while Parthians with tactical holsters began drawing Handguns of various sorts and firing at whatever wasn't Persian in the area. AH-6 little birds flew around outside while blackhawks began to unload squad after squad of regular military forces. Seeing non-Persian snipers on rooftops, the little birds fired off a load of 7.62 mm minigun shells while the troops on ground set themselves up on the ground floor exits, allowing Persians to pass while preparing to shoot up everyone else who wasnt a slave.

Shara saw the surviving sniper and took flight and at a supersonic speed cut the rafter he was on with her sword. Then Xanatos continued on his attack by holstering his guns and charged at the enemy with 3 foot forearm blades extended and jumped into the middle of the troopers and began swinging his blades at the enemy with god-like speed intending to kill the soldiers.

Kaylinde just shook her head as she wated the distant firefight from the window of her hotel room, then called her pilot to advise that she would be be there with in the hour.. It wasn't worth it to stay, as things had gotten far to out of hand. Shortly there after a cab arrived and took the Tanaaran agent to the airpot, afew minutes after that the private jet took off as per the filed flight plan and left Persian airspace..

***********************************************
OOC: You know dropping nukes on player nations who aren't involved in your little set too gets war thrown back in your face. I hope you yahoo's have the smack to soak it up.

That is refereing to Sparklemist, Dratheria, and Ximea who came in and turned the thread into a blood fest.

Natalia turned to see a large military force and quickly spoke to her master who was in a throng of soldiers, Master there is a large military prsence approaching what should we do sir? Xanatos quickly replied, Call down 10 squadrons of Bearcats to deal with their aerial combat and 3 Hercules-class Landing Ships fully loaded to deal with their ground forces. Natalia quickly sent the call and 50 Bearcat Heavy Fighters descended from the atmosphere and began to engage the enemy. As the landing ships touched ground 750 heavily armed Marines in full black battle armor carrying a combination of .50 Caliber Anti-tank Rifles and Bolters flooded the surrounding area and began moving into the complex to defend their master and as each enemy appeared they fired at them.

While all this happened Xanatos thought to himself I relish this combat.

OOC: Please edit that post for several Reasons.

A) This RP is modern tech

B) My cities have air defense systems capable of destroying enemy fighters.

C) No human can carry a fully automatic .50 caliber weapon as an assault rifle..

If there was one word to describe Thomas Mallet XVI, it would be "oily." The man dripped sarcasm, his demeanor insulting everyone he came into contact with, his arrogance almost overpowering. He had more money than God, as he liked to put it.

His black silk suit, black shoes, black sunglasses, and black hair would give the impression of a vampire if it were not for his very tan skin. He would be considered handsome if it weren't for his nauseating personality. As such, he had driven off more beautiful women than any Freudotopian in history.

Mallet was the CEO of OrbTech, the massive conglomerate that had its hands in everything from steel to weapons manufacturing. The company was not considered very ethical, even by Freudotopia's cynical standards. Mallet himself had been accused of having several of his competitors killed, then proceeded to buy their companies' stocks at rock-botton prices. He could buy anything, but he was never satisfied. Never.

That was why he was here. To buy a wife and a truckload of house slaves. He had been feeling emotion as of late, something he detested. So he had decided to put an end to it. When his personal informants told him of the secret slave market, he had jumped at the opportunity. Metaphorically.

He had been admitted to the docks at a glance. Every unscrupulous businessman had heard of Mallet, and his effective, if ruthless, business sense.

Now he strode to what he thought was the man in charge, hoping to get this business underway as soon as possible. Accompanied by his four bodyguards, he approached the balding overseer and stated, "I want a beautiful young woman and two dozen docile house workers. Now.”

OOC 1: Then Xanatos continued on his attack by holstering his guns and charged at the enemy with 3 foot forearm blades extended and jumped into the middle of the troopers and began swinging his blades at the enemy with god-like speed intending to kill the soldiers. My soldiers are pretty well spread out.

OOC 2: You know dropping nukes on player nations who aren't involved in your little set too gets war thrown back in your face. I hope you yahoo's have the smack to soak it up.

That is referring to Sparklemist, Dratheria, and Ximea who came in and turned the thread into a blood fest.
I wasn't going to drop nukes on people. My characters were idly discussing the hopelessness of fighting Xanatos with small arms and expressing their own personal desire to call in heavy weapons. I even had one of them mention that the presence of civilians precluded such action.

Besides, this thread died a couple of times, and it was always Dratheria and I who brought it back. As far as I knew, we were the only ones still interested.

OOC 3: Sorry for the mess, Parthians. Feel free to cause similar devastation on Ximean soil if you get the chance. ;)

IC: When the angel launched herself at the rafters with "supersonic speed," she created a sonic boom that was rather deafening in the enclosed space. She sliced the rafters in several places, but as they were attached to the ceiling along their whole length, the sniper did not fall from his perch. He decided against firing at her; with her speed and the long range, he was too likely to hit bystanders. Rather, he moved to a more secure section of the rafters and fired several shots at Xanatos, who was dashing back and forth and attacking the three XSF soldiers left on the ground.

Xanatos sliced one of the soldiers in half; as his intestines slid out of his body, he fired a long carbine burst into his killer's abdomen at contact range. That close, dodging was impossible. Then he expired.

The two remaining soldiers and Melchior put some crowd between them and Xanatos. Though many had fled, many more jaded and battle-hardened types remained behind to do business. The Ximeans reached Natick at the same time as the twenty-five porters he'd requested. They were armed with P90s and 9mm USPs, but wore no armor. The P90s would easily penetrate the Ximeans' armor.
Natick wasted no time. "Execute them."

OOC Sorry Parthians. But FYI my guys ain't human they're Dratherians each easily 4x as strong as a human because well just look at my factbook. And their Anti-tank rifles ain't fully automatic they're just like standard Boys Anti-tank rifles. But I deleted the thread to get rid of the FT vs MT problem I just didn't want my leader getting killed.

IC
Xanatos felt the bullets from the carbine rip through his flesh but it did not kill him as most of the bullets were deflected by his armor a few made their way into his stomach. He thought to himself this would not kill him but only take him a day to recover from if someone did not come after him now. Then his security team came to his side and they beamed up to their starship Sepharoth. As this happened Xanatos thought to himself, There wasn't anything good there anyhow. The only good thing about this trip was the fight. That was a good fight.

OOC: Sorry, but I have to drop out. I got in late anyway, so no harm done, eh?

OOC: No worries.

IC: A Little Bird passed overhead, strafing the group. Some of Natick's porters were killed. It gave Melchior an opportunity to fall back--he and his two remaining soldiers could not have survived that faceoff otherwise. "This place is too hairy," Melchior said through his transmitter. " Fall back to the boat. We'll have to try for an arrest at sea." Melchior and the two troops provided covering fire while the last sniper climbed down from his perch. Amid gunfire from the Parthian choppers, random "civilians," and Natick's forces, they retreated to the docks.

We'll have to destroy them at sea, Natick thought as the agent and the troops fled. About fifteen porters had survived the Little Bird's strafing run; Natick ordered them to bring the slaves to his ship's hold. It was relatively easy for sixteen men with guns to heard a hundred unarmed people in chains. The helicopter pilots did not harass Natick anymore; he assumed he looked like a buyer now that he was overseeing the transfer of a chain of slaves. They reached the dock and embarked without incident.

ooc: sorry its been a while, for some reason i could not log in. bye all.

ic:

S'elvar looked around at the chaos surrounding him, and simply let out a sigh "what a mess they have made here..." looking down at the slaves a look of pure disgust crossed his face, "usless" he turned and walked out leaving the market.

Now firmly in International Waters - and far from the site of the slave market - Anatolle LeVey traced the rim of his glass one more time before making his way to the bridge.

"Captain?"
"Sir?"
"How soon to rendezvous?"
"Approximately six hours, sir."
"Good. Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir."

The passage to the lower desks was ample and plush - easily passed by chains of slaves or a marching band for that matter. For Anatolle, it was merely a conveyance and nothing more.

~LeVey to crew. Please begin phase two of operations. That is all.~

He took his seat once again, poured himself a libation, and sat back to continue reading today's copy of the Vermillion Times.

Far below, teams of crew - two guards, one medic, one translator on each team - began to make their way among the many rooms, each holding a 'chain' of slaves, yet set with sufficient pillows for all to lie or sit or do as they would without much discomfort.

"Necessaries" were another matter, but one which could be attended without too much difficulty. In most cases, this had happened. In some, it had not.

The teams ignored these "minor affronts", instead setting about measuring health, hunger, thirst, discomfort. Many notes were made about languages, scars, wounds, conditions both physical and mental; the hopeless, the helpless, the hopeful, the half-witted and the broken were all seen to, one after another.

On the outside, Natick's ship was a common, old, slightly battered freighter. It would do poorly in a naval battle, especially with a hold full of slaves. However, it did have some tactical advantages.

Standing on the rear deck, Natick watched the approaching Ximean Ministry of Justice ship through a pair of digital binoculars. It was slightly faster, and possibly armed, but it, too, was in essence a hunk-of-junk freighter. He spoke into a radio: "Let's leave them a steaming turd."

It was a tactic Natick had used before. Over the course of several minutes, onboard smoke generators and floating canisters had produced a very wide, very thick smokescreen behind the ship. Several hundred small, floating thermite mines were dumped over the sides. They were much smaller than anything in use by the Ximean Navy, and were too small to be picked up by most mine sweeping equipment. Fortunately, they were too small to affect most warships--but they would perforate their pursuers' craft's hull.

The pursuers could not see Natick's ship, but their tailing sonar array told them the ship had not changed course. Then why the smokescreen, the captain wondered, unless... "Hard to port, engines full stop," he ordered--but it was too late. The ship plowed into the smokescreen and almost immediately, several mines burned gaping holes in the ship's hull. Since thermite burns even underwater, these holes extended well below the water line, and the ship took on water at a frightening rate.

"Lifeboats, now!" the captain shouted. His crew ran about to release the lifeboats, but Melchior, who had been on the bridge, raced belowdecks. He radioed Balthazar and the troops: "We've been hulled. Get the injured to the lifeboats!" When he reached the infirmary, the remaining troops were there, helping their comrades. Melchior helped Balthazar up, grabbed as many antibiotics and painkillers from the infirmary as he could carry, and raced back to the lifeboats. "Shit, food," he muttered as he reached them.
"We've got rations on the boats," the Captain said. "Radios and weather gear, too."

They detached two lifeboats and motored away from the ship and the smokescreen as quickly as they could. The ship detonated several more mines before it slipped beneath the waves. As they inventoried their supplies, the captain sent a satellite SOS which would only be detected by Ximean naval vessels. It would still be days, maybe weeks before anyone picked them up.

"Are they dead?" someone asked Natick. It was the sniper who had saved his life.
"Irrelevant," Natick said. "They're out of the equation. For now." Another near-disaster. Another successful mission. He grinned. "I love this job."