NationStates Jolt Archive

"What have you got for me today, Bob?" Ghast looked up from his holodisplay, the three-dimensional solitaire folding into the taskbar.

"Something from Sag." Wilcox shrugged, handing Chief Ghast the PDA. "Looks like they were running a sniper rifle for the Advanced Marksman Contest."

"Oh?" Ghast placed it down. "So, what's the problem?" He was already calling solitaire back up.

"It was too good."

Silence.

"Say that again, Analyst?" Ghast glanced back up.

"It was too good for the contest, sir." Wilcox motioned to the PDA. "It's all on there."

"Explain it too me."

"Uh, yes, sir." Wilcox folded his hands behind his back. "Sir, with the AM Contest, several companies were invited to produce a weapon for the Next Generation Army. Sag designed a weapon they called the Valkyr, and it's quite a doozy.

"It started with a ten by eighty-two millimeter heavy rifle cartridge, somewhere between AMR and Battle Rifle rounds, designed fletchette. The dart is made of a depleted uranium penetrator, a full on armor-piercing, fin stabilized, discarding-sabot projectile, capable of ablating the armor of an armored vehicle. The weapon fires on semi or fully automatic, feeding from a ten round box behind the stand mount."

"So, it's a hybrid?"

"More, sir. The actual rifle is a work of precision and art, with a harmonically isolated barrel and floating assembly, reciprocating outcarriage and full spectrum dampening... this weapon can place sub tenth Minute of Angle shots. Not only that, but it can maintain a target on fully automatic."

"Impossible. That size cartridge would blow skyhigh on a full auto setting."

"No, sir. Once you've set the weapon onto its rest, you activate the internal gyroscopes via thumb switch. The gyros run on minimal, reducing twitch and jerk-"

"Gyros? That would throw the round anywhere- harmonic dampening... of course."

"Exactly. The gyros reduce short, impulse movement, and only slow, deliberate, steady motion will move the rifle; excellent for drawing a bead on a target. Once the trigger is pulled, the gyros become fully active, locking the weapon into firing position. The rifle will not move while firing."

"That can't be practical in a target rich environment. How would you acquire a new target rapidly?"

"You would need to release and re-aim, or simply rake the slow movement over a zone. Not practical at all from a military standpoint, but excellent from a shooter's." Wilcox motioned. "I haven't even gotten to the best part. The optics on the gun are fully integrated and ranged. You point the weapon at the target, press the acquisition key, and the scope will adjust for windage, elevation, distance, and even dewpoint and barometric pressure. Lightning fast aquisition of the first target."

Ghast leaned back. "This is pointless to us. It would be slow, complex, expensive, delicate, heavy-"

"Thirty pounds, sir."

"No one could haul that around in a marksman role! This has to be the most pointless rifle for a military role I've ever seen! In fact, about the only role I could see this being used for is-"

And Ghast looked at Wilcox. The aide nodded. "The entire system breaks down into six parts that can fit into a briefcase. They can be assembled or disassembled on sight in under thirty seconds."

"It's an assassin's gun." Ghast tapped the PDA. "This is a lone gunman's dream... sneak in, set up, acquire an armored VIP, blow him and any nearby target of opportunity down, slink away. Don't tell me they're taking it to market."

"Sorry, sir. One Valkyr Rifle, stylized wooden furniture, engraved metal. Five boxes of ammunition, including dual-purpose explosive and a Parkins' Guided Fletchette. They even threw in a special briefcase to jam scanners at airports."

"Those arrogant bastards! They probably used our funding for this, too!" Ghast stood up. "What's the price? We need this back!"

"Sir, it'll be going on auction in Efrena in two weeks, starting price at one hundred thousand credits."

"I could buy a house for that!"

"Houses don't kill Heads of State, sir."

"God damn it, Wicox." He lit his cigar and took a drag. "Listen, we'll use this. The only people that are going to want this are shady operators. If they step out, we can see who it is, what their angle is, follow them. This could be the bust of a lifetime."

"But someone gets the gun?"

"Let 'em have it. If they shoot us with it, we'll know exactly who did it. Besides, I know Sag, this gun will not be mass producable. They'll get publicity, we'll get a dossier, and some low-life will get a nice trophy piece."

"Yes, sir."

OOC: This was just kind of an idea I had. If you're interested, send somebody to the auction. I really want to see some RP, not just "money wired". This could get good, with people shooting other people over this damn gun.

ooc: Very nice. Do you have a picture of such a weapon?

The Lord Commander tossed his morning briefing onto the table, poured himself another glass of orange juice, and resumed his assault on the plate of French toast and bacon that lay before him. For the most important head of state in Ximea, he was a man of relatively modest tastes--although he had his eccentricities, and the vast wealth of his position served merely to amplify them. One of these was his enthusiasm for weapons--any which showed superiority in one category or another. Several rooms in the Capitol Ziggurat were filled with knives, swords, guns, and other implements of combat.
An aide brought him a manilla envelope. "Thought you might like to see this, sir," he said sheepishly.
The Lord Commander washed down a bite of breakfast with a gulp of juice. "It couldn't wait?" he said.
"Deckard from the Foreign Press Office said you'd want to see this right away, sir."
With a shrug, the Lord Commander removed the envelope's contents. It was a notice of auction--a single item in a country with which he would, if pressed, have to confess unfamiliarity. But as he read the item's description, his jaw steadily descended. "Perry," he said to the aide, "this rifle is as good as mine."
Then he thought for a moment. It was his usual practice to go everywhere unescorted or minimally escorted. He usually wore a pair of pistols and a discreet layer of body armor (nearly unnoticeable under his black robes of state) and he was an accomplished gunfighter. This rifle, however...he surmised that it would attract a rather unsavoury group of bidders--the kind who might not take kindly to losing such an auction.
"Perry, I want you to arrange for a ten-man escort from Special Forces to accompany me. No idea who I might run into."

(OOC: Nice idea, and well RPed.)

tag
I want to know who ends up with that rifle.

OOC: Just so You know, 82mm is more like a mortar round than a rifle round, or did you mean 8point2? either way I will own that rifle.

The day before the auction, In the offices of anyone connected with said auction, envelopes appeared on desks overnight, as if by magic, or paid of cleaning crews. The Letter inside the envelopewas neatly typed and individually adressed. The bulk of the messages concerned the well being of various family members (of the people the letters were addressed to) and a small portion devoted to the hopeful outcome of the upcoming auction (The Representative of the Charon Corporation wins) The letters were all signed with a crosshairs.

Later that day, via various means of transportation arrived in the country of Kaukolastan a small group of businessmen who individually made their way to the nearest hotels to the site of tommorrows auction.

OOC to Agglomerate: The round is 10x82mm, meaning 10mm diameter of bullet, 82mm length, and I measure it by American standards (on the bullet, not the barrel).

You might want to edit your post a bit. I should tell you about my country. It's a very nice, sort of utopian place, with comfortable technology and control over nature. There is little illegal, and little that breaks the law. However, this "dream" is kept in place by a draconian force called the Internal Security Agency (ISA). They well and truly own the entire nation, think of them as a monastic order of the State. The people let the ISA shadow-puppet everything in return for the regulated lifestyle, and that agency stays mostly in the background. (Illusion is a wonderful thing.)

It's not the kind of country where people get "disappeared"... but it's the kind of country where, if you deserved it, you could just vanish.

If you want to target my people, you can, but you'll be getting the full degree of the ISA down your throat.


An Announcement for All Participants
Parties will be met in the the city of Efrena by an escort, they may stay a night or two and enjoy the city's culture, then they will be taken to a location on a to-be-announded Seabelt island, removed from civilization, but equipped with a comfortable lodging center.

On this island, the product will be unveiled and demonstrated.

Auction will begin on day three.

The staff from Sag and the Kaukolastani Government are off limits, and action taken against them will result in rescinding of auction.

No entourage of more than fifteen people.



I think that should cover it.

ooc: Very nice. Do you have a picture of such a weapon?
No, sorry. It's my own design, and I can't draw for crap.

Ximea, your reservations are received. Please meet our escort at Efrena International.

Schultarian Intelligence Directorate Headquarters - Special Projects (SID - 5): Schultaria Prime, Schultaria Prime

Relaxing in her starkly Spartan but comfortably furnished office, the often unsociable leader of the fifth SID division was genuinely glad to receive her small entourage of advisors and political minders. While her subordinates argued about finance allocations and laundering the agency's "human preservation" agreements with the Sacred Architects of Humanity, she felt well within her element. "Life has certainly been good to me," she hummed silently in her head, "how fortunate I am to be here."

It had been a series of pretty unlikely events which had drawn her to the depths of the Intelligence Agency's most secretive echelons. A self-professed introvert, Aethe Irigon had never been an impressive public speaker or sociable with the political elite; in any other administration in the world she would have shown promise for her talents but doomed to subordination for her demeanor. In the SID, she had nearly been consigned to such a fate from day one, until the Directorate stepped in. Noting her steadfast, and some would say ruthless, demeanor as a covert taskmaster, Central Director Schultz had pulled her from out of the faceless world of middle management into the seamy underbelly of the Schultarian intelligence machine. With her expertise and connections with the government the forty member division of SID-5 could now do the same tasks as agencies four thousand times their size.

Of course, this kind of efficiency came at a cost. In order to insure their success, reinvention became the official religion of the special projects squad. So, when it comes to equipment, the steadfast leader of the SID can demand nothing but the best. For the SID, the Valkyr class was a dream come true. However, in order to enjoy the benefit of the rifle, it had to be acquired first.

As the meeting drew to a close, Aethe pulled out her data pad and recorded a personal memo to be enacted by her division immediately.


Personal Memo: Irigon SID 5

National interests dictate the acquisition and return of weapon codenamed 'Kerpa'petcks' for use by Schultarian interests. Pursue all avenues, regardless of international legality, in producing said weapon for national defense. Multi-tier plan for acquisition of weapon must be proposed and produced for perusal within twelve hours. Pursue all safe and legal options prior to any covert action; cost is no object.

For the protection of the people's species, SID-5 must acquire said technology. The Sacred Architects would find this tool useful for project Starburst in the near future.

*TERMINATE MEMO*

OOC: Are you sending a request to join auction before you start getting sneaky-sneaky, or are you going to slip in? If the former, you are confirmed.

OOC: For any concerns to any participants, I'll lay down my guide rules as to how I'll participate in the RP. This is how my personnel would handle the remainder of the auction (in an ideal setting). Consider, for the time being, that I'll send three letters of formal intent (through the parties listed in item number 1; no more than 5 people each).

1. Acquire the weapon through legal auction (SID-5 agents posing as Designwerks, Islandian Schultarian [Private Corporate Contractors], or SKC [Military] Representatives)

2. Acquire the weapon through back dealing with another consumer (through the promise of either producing more units, reverse engineering the technology at no cost, etc.)

3. Acquire the weapon through covert monetary and property "incentives" to any pertinent officials (dependent on your national RP'ed customs; consider it dismissed if impossible)

4. Acquire the weapon through covert theft immediately before the primary auction (last ditch effort by SID-5; hopefully we don't reach this point as the weapon could prove useful in an upcoming RP)

The Office of the DCI, The Halberdgardian Central Intelligence Agency Compound, Somewhere in Halberdgardia, 2232 Zulu

The DCI was aghast at the latest intel the DDCI put in front of him.

"You've got to be shitting me, Hatcher."

"No, Director Whitling, I'm afraid this is the real deal."

The contents of the manila folder the DCI was looking at contained some sketchy, mostly unconfirmed, information on a deadly new innovative assassin's weapon: the "Valkyr" rifle. This was an assassin's weapon simply unmatched by any other weapon. And, even better, it was within reach. As a Kaukolastani design, given that Kaukolastan was the founder of the Directorate, and the fact that Halberdgardia was a Directorate member, they might have a slight advantage over the other nations that were undoubtedly scrambling for the Valkyr (OOC: whether or not this is actually the case, this is the viewpoint the DCI has).

"Get someone into that auction, Hatcher."

"Yes, sir."

Encrypted Transmission to Kaukolastan
To: The Kaukolastani Government
From: Dominic Hatcher, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, The Democratic Republic of Halberdgardia
Re: The "Valkyr" Rifle

The DCI has looked over some unconfirmed specs on your alleged "Valkyr" weapon, and sees many possible uses for it within for our premier intelligence agents. We are therefore dispatching one of our agents, Delta One, to your conference, under the guise of a representative from a weapons design firm from a foreign country. As a public procurement of this weapon would likely discredit our reputation in the international community, we hope that you understand the precautions behind this arrangement.

Respectfully,
Dominic Hatcher
Deputy Director of Central Intelligence
The Democratic Republic of Halberdgardia

End Encrypted Transmission

All right, Well, I see no harm in sending *Harmless* Letter, purely OOC I never intended to have to go through with the implied threat.
also, As far as I know, the american style and the non american style differ only in the units. I'm fairly certain that both refer to a weapons 'caliber' or round size by the rounds Diameter, not its length.

Following Schultarias lead, This is How I'll probably react in this RP:

Acquire the weapon Legitimately through a dummy corporation (The Charon group) (If the auctioneers yield the advantage to Charon, so much the better)

Acquire the weapon legitimately through a neutral buyer (A nation willing to give us the rifle in exchange for some kick back, possibly a terroristic action against an enemy)

Acquire the weapon in a covert action After it has been sold

Acquire the weapon through an Overt action after it has been transported or while in transit to where ever the buyer is taking it.

A midsized private jet landed at Efrena International Airport. Ten Ximean Special Forces operatives in full armor marched out onto the tarmac, followed by the Lord Commander himself.
"Sir, our limousines should be on the southeast end of the airport," one of the operatives said. His voice sounded canned through his helmet's vocoders.
"Let's try to find our escort first," the Lord Commander said. "I have a few questions for him before we settle in."

International Airspace: TSC (Trans Schultarian Airlines) Flight CH481

The flight to Kaukolastan was soon to meet its long and exhausting end, much to the breathless relief of the fifteen passengers who made the chartered Schultarian passenger SST their home during the ride. Although the "contractors" could and did have the capability of traveling anywhere in the world in much less time than the eleven hours spent sleeping in cramped seats at mach three, cost and visibility had been placed at a premium over comfort. The fifteen agents of SID-5 valued speed and authenticity as any good covert foreign agency, but to use the Komomerenketsan Orbital Plane would have proven to be a greater liability than could be afforded.

So, in sacrificing space and speed, they also kept less informed minds within the Schultarian intelligence community at bay. Though this division of the SID was responsible to the Central Directorate and them alone, it didn't mean they couldn't pursue their own missions. Instead of even asking for permission from the three Schultarian heads of state, the mission was officially off the books. Should the mission go completely south, they did not exist.

And no one would come to rescue them...

Putting on their wardrobes the fifteen split into three distinct groups, each with their own scripted agendas, character profiles, and even fixed budgets to lend greater credibility to their cause; should the Kaukolastani authorities care to perform background checks or case records on any of the passengers, they would find nothing out of the ordinary. Vonno Cotomai, the newest technical member of the SID fifth, had made sure all identification factors had been resolved well before the mission had been approved. Everything, down to parking tickets and University transcripts, had been carefully manipulated and molded to fit the needs of the mission; every agent knew their background, most better than their own family lives, and knew the danger of being caught as a member of the Schultarian government under false pretenses. Of course, this was far from their minds as the plane slipped into subsonic mode in preparation for landing.

"Kaukolastani control, Kaukolastani control, this is TSC chartered flight four eight one. Requesting flight instructions and landing information; we will await your response. Over."

"Ooo, shiny." An unusual choice of words for a SpecOps soldier.

"Don't tell me you want that monster...sir."

"No, I don't want it, Kai. I want news of this auction leaked. Leak it 'til people's ears will burst if they hear about it anymore. Then I want you to go and kill every Cyberutopian there. Nobody from our nation lays a single hand on that gun."

Fwip, click.

"Here's your gun, Kai, already cleaned and secured."

"The usual, sir?"

"The usual."

((And just out of curiousity, would I find it easiest to get into the nation with an advanced rifle the legal way, or the illegal way?))

The man walked swiftly down the narrow alley. Rain poured down in buckets, but it did not deter the ambitious person. He couldn't stop. Not now. The target would be arriving soon.

He stepped out of the alley, stomping through a large puddle. His long, dark trench coat kept the pervasive rain out. He moved more quickly. His expressionless face gave no sign of identity. He like it that way. Very soon now, he thought. He raised his arm and glanced at his watch. Very soon, now.

He stopped at the end of the street, and sat down on the water sodden bench. It over looked directly across the intersection, past the bustling mass of buisnessmen, and to the large, foreboding skyscraper. The target would be coming soon, although it wouldn't be much of a challenge. He needed the money. Well, no I don't, he thought to himself. Why did he do it? I love the chase, I love the challenge, I love the hunt. In this concrete and metallic jungle, I am the hunter. But it was all too easy. There was one, of course...

The wristwatch broke his thought. It was time. He began to scan the front of the building. Dour Misset. Too bad he decided to walk today. The hunter moved instinctively. He started the persuit. Stalking, he kept his eye on Dour Misset. Something was up. Dour always rode home. Not today. It won't matter anyways, he mused. But the hunter noticed something he did not see before. A paper. In Dour's hand. It doesn't matter though. The pursuit coninued until the hunter was 2 meters behind Dour. Right up here, the hunter confirmed to himself. It was the less noticable area, and Dour's folly. It was dark, and it was what the hunter had been used to all his years in the job. Dour periodically looked back, only to see a man of medium, yet chiseled build walking swiftly and precisely behind him.

Before Dour had a chance to think, or say anything, he felt a sharp blow and fell into unconciousness. He thought of his family. The hunter dragged the body into the nearby alley. The prey caught, and the hunter victorious, yet again. The hunter noticed the paper, still grasped by the target's corpse. He picked it up, damp from the rain. What he read spellbound him. An auction, for a...hmmm, he thought. Then something, like a brickwall, hit him. If I can get my hands on this, then I would be able to finally hunt...

He smiled, then tucked the slip of paper inside his coat, and headed home.

He would be making a trip, very soon.

In an appartment belonging to an Agglomerate agent, a small group of the Organizations paramilitarists were assembling their weapons, Often, bringing weapons into nations, espscially ones as secure as Kaukolastan,is much too troublesome and dangerous. Instead, Agglomerate strike teams were trained to make their own weapons, usually nine millimeter SMGs using only common work shop tools. the guns were not very accurate past the range of a few tens of meters, often suffered from small clip sizes and general lack of ammo. but they were cheap, reliable and had plenty of efficiency to spare for the types of missions they were normally employed for.

In a mroe respectable area of town the Charon business men and their legitimate pistol wielding bodyguards, ten men in all, were preparing for their appearence.
(I guess Kaukolastan has some sort of process where security profesionals can obtain permits to carry small weapons (maybe not even concealed) If not then the pistols in question wouldn't be that hard to smuggle in. Entierly plastic and composite build (no metal) and caseless ammunition (also no metal) as well as highly compact size and toy like appearence all contribute to sneaking them in. And incase it is legal with permit only to a certain round size or something, these pistols only fire 4.7 mm rounds.)

OOC to Agglomerate: Personal firearms are no problem. There would only be an issue if you start porting around long guns or explosives.

OOC to Cyberutopia: Getting into the country is no problem, just register it at entry and you could bring it in. The problem will be getting to the auction Island, which will be locked down.

IC:

~DECODING~

TO: Dominic Hatcher, DDCI
FROM: Friedrich Ghast, Section Chief, ISA
RE: Valkyr Weapons System

BODY: Deputy Director, if we could throw this Auction, we would. This is Sag’s project, through and through, and one rifle isn’t enough to qualify for enforcement of National Security regulations. We’ve retained full specifications on the weapons system, and we can make those available to you via Charter specifications; however, this weapon is one of a kind, and Sag has no plans to produce any more at this time.

If you wish to attain this weapon, you would have to attend the auction, as would any of our people. We will attempt to maintain security, but once on-location, we’re going hands-off. This will be an opportunity to gather information on the various dark operators, and it may get quite interesting. If you attend, consider it a MAXIMUM THREAT situation.

Sorry I couldn’t do more, but this one is hands-off for us.

Chief Ghast STOP

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"Kaukolastani control, Kaukolastani control, this is TSC chartered flight four eight one. Requesting flight instructions and landing information; we will await your response. Over."

Flight Controller Thomas Morris leaned against the holotank, drawing his designator light up and over, tapping on the pulsing green plane icon. “TSC Four-Eight-One, this is Efrena International Control Tower. We are transmitting a flight path to you now. Should you possess an automated flight system, open it to Channel Eighty-Six and let us fly you in. If you do not, elevate to Angels Two and lock maneuver onto approach. You have been given priority for landing approach for Runway Twelve.”

Morris drew a line in the air, and a thin blue trajectory appearing amid the spider-webs of inbound and outbound flights. He tapped another aircraft, and drew it out, watching the automated flight change course. “Decker?”

“Yes, Morris?” The Officer of the Watch asked from the elevated main projector, glancing down from the elevated images.

“Four-Eight-One is here and in-bound.” Morris stated. “You wanted to know.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, boss, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“The priority incomings. We’ve shut down Terminal Echo for these jokers, and I just had to put Two-One-Niner back on holding for the third time. Oh, and the Suits are all over the tarmac… what gives?”

“Dunno, some business conference. But, word’s come down from Malcolm, and the ISA’s got security under control, so we should just do our jobs.”

Morris glanced out the window, down to the hangar roof, where one of many ISA sniper teams was lying prone. “Yeah, they’ve got it secured, alright. I just don’t want to miss an autograph opportunity from some grand poobah of a random junket.”

From behind, there was a smooth, calm voice. “No autographs, Controller. Sorry.” Field Commander Torren stepped down from the balcony, pushing his black sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. Those “glasses” were full-spectrum tactical interfaces, with a laser-projected HUD and BattleNet interface, but to the outside world, they were merely a stylish touch to the black suit/white shirt combination of the Internal Security Agency. Torren touched his throat, a sure sign of activating an implanted subvocal communications device, and then he glanced back up to Morris. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morris, we won’t disrupt your day for long.” He smiled broadly.

“Thanks, sir.” Morris tapped his display. “I’ve got a review at two.”

“No problem, citizen. If you miss your review, the ISA will make it go through for you.” Torren touched his ear, and then nodded. “We’ll be wrapping up soon enough. Carry on.” The FC departed the room.

Morris turned back to Decker. “Well, at least they were nice about it. Didn’t even have to change my schedule.”

“Never do, Morris. That’s the beauty of it. You just help the ISA, and your life goes better. No interruption, no interference.”

“Don’t know why people even cause problems.”

“Here, here.”

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On the tarmac, Marketing Assistant Associate Vice President Michael Corvine stepped from the stretch limousine. There was no Sag logo on his person, simply his gray suit and tie, his multi-thousand dollar Navigator watch, and his ever present battery of personal electronic devices. He folded his satellite phone and slipped the slim case into his pocket, next to his Corporate Excelsior PDA, a fully integrated wireless portal to the Sag Network. Corvine tapped his thumb to the pad of the Excelsior.

Interfacing… Identity Confirmed

The screen lit up, and the junior executive quickly scanned the bio of his next party. Corvine was in charge of greeting every one of the parties for the Auction, introducing himself, and getting them in a limousine and out into the city. Several parties would meet here for the first time, and Corvine was fully prepared for any eventuality. I would have preferred to keep them apart, but this will prevent skullduggery in the hotels.

Corvine glanced back, to his pair of bodyguards, suited professionals, smiling and flanking the vehicle. Then the VP flicked his gaze over the sun-bleached rooftops, trying and failing to spot the dozens of ISA teams in position throughout the port. With a blink against the high and cool blue Artems sun, Corvine touched his chest, the weight of the form-fitting reactive armor pushing against his skin, hidden below the coat.

Planes were landing, or landed, and Corvine had to fix his sales smile on his face. The young Vice President was a skyrocketing up and comer at Sag, fast tracked by CEO Dreiss himself, and the reason was apparent. With that smile, Corvine could sell you a few suspension bridges, some dehydrated water, and your own soul, all in a matter of moments, and you’d thank him for it. Corvine was a smooth operator, aided by the fact that he was genuinely amiable and conversant, readily striking up conversations with even the most stoic opponents. With his devastating winking smile, Corvine had forged the Next Generation Army agreement between Sag and Armatech, long time rivals; with his wit and charm, he had pushed the AISAS concept onto the table, and with his courteous pose, he had moved Steinman’s Valkyr rifle from concept to working model.

This was his show, his play. This auction was his idea, a cynical “get the word out” campaign that was sure to end in violence. No concern. The weapon would be fought over, traded, maneuvered… and Sag’s reputation as a premier weapon’s industry would grow. It was Corvine’s job to make sure the fireworks stayed reasonable, controlled, and remote. He was the ringmaster, the Chief of Ceremonies for this dark comedy of firepower. The ISA would have been proud to have someone like Corvine, but he was too greedy for the state. He wanted to be the man who broke Sag into the world market. He wanted to prove, once again, why Dreiss had tapped him as “the pinnacle of what a junior executive should be”, and why he deserved the company chair.

So Corvine smiled his perfect smile: shining white teeth and glimmering blue eyes, below slicked brown hair. There were no pocks, no scars, no stubble on this man’s face, it was as perfect as plastic; but it was not plastic, for plastic was dead and lifeless, and Corvine was a pulsing beacon of jovial good nature. He greeted his clients with a buoyant enthusiasm most reserved for long unseen relatives.

His attitude seemed genuine, and it was. Corvine actually was this happy to meet his guests. This was part of his trick, this was how he did so well. He didn’t have to deceive anyone with false friendship, he simply loved his job.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Efrena, regional capital of the Province of Artems, Northeast Island of the Union of Kaukolastan. It’s a pleasant twenty-two degrees centigrade out here… for those of you who haven’t been to Efrena, it’s always a pleasant temperature in the summer, thanks to the ocean breeze and the underdocks. In fact, last week, we had to turn on the Air Conditioning for the first time in three years. Whew. It smelled like grinding gears for hours!” Corvine grinned again.

“In case you’re wondering, we will be departing tomorrow eve for the Auction, which will be held on a tropical Seabelt Island resort, far away from the prying eyes.” He winked conspiratorially. “Please, remember to wear your fake glasses with noses and black mustaches until then.”

There were chuckles, and Corvine held out a briefcase, flipping it open to reveal several sleek black Excelsior PDAs. “These will be yours for the duration of the stay. There are fully uplinked into the ‘net, and have special customer links to the Sag database for any information on what we do, or our designs.” There was a pause, and he raised his brows. “The Valkyr is not included.” He grinned again. “Now, this will recommend restaurants, sights to sea, where your lodgings will be. None of these can interface with each other, however, and are downwards accessible only, so no server-crawling, please.

“Oh, about lodgings and expenses! We’ve arranged separate for all of you, and all lodging and food costs are covered by Sag. I hope you like Roach Motels and Greasy Burgers.” He paused for a second, letting the sentence hang. “Just riffing you. Five star lodgings are provided, and any dining you wish will be covered. I recommend Jerome’s down on Wharf and Cutter; just drop my name and they’ll get you set up. I’m Michael Corvine, by the way.”

He held out his hand to greet each in turn. “Any questions, just ask. And… your rides are here.” Sets of limousines rolled up in sequence. “Again, welcome to Efrena!”

~DECODING~

TO: Dominic Hatcher, DDCI
FROM: Friedrich Ghast, Section Chief, ISA
RE: Valkyr Weapons System

BODY: Deputy Director, if we could throw this Auction, we would. This is Sag’s project, through and through, and one rifle isn’t enough to qualify for enforcement of National Security regulations. We’ve retained full specifications on the weapons system, and we can make those available to you via Charter specifications; however, this weapon is one of a kind, and Sag has no plans to produce any more at this time.

If you wish to attain this weapon, you would have to attend the auction, as would any of our people. We will attempt to maintain security, but once on-location, we’re going hands-off. This will be an opportunity to gather information on the various dark operators, and it may get quite interesting. If you attend, consider it a MAXIMUM THREAT situation.

Sorry I couldn’t do more, but this one is hands-off for us.

Chief Ghast STOP

Encrypted Transmission to ISA

To: Friedrich Ghast, Section Chief, ISA
From: Dominic Hatcher, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, The Democratic Republic of Halberdgardia
Re: The "Valkyr" Rifle

Understood, Chief. What kind of deal would you like to work out for those plans? We'd be willing to pay whatever Sag wants for them, and we can put our weapons manufacturers to work on it. Would you happen to have specs on that briefcase, too?

At any rate, we are still going to dispatch an agent to the conference. His Gulfstream is on the way in now. As for weapons, what are the rules? Would Delta One be allowed in with, say, an MP5? Or is this strictly small-caliber sidearms? He has with him on the plane a silenced MP5F, dual SIG-Sauer P229 pistols, and a .50AE Desert Eagle.

End Encrypted Transmission

OOC:

.:A description of Efrena:.
Efrena, Capital of the Provice of Artems, is located on the interior coast of the Northeast Island. The city was constructed when Artems was its own sovereign nation, and when the state folded into Kaukolastan in the late Medievil period, Efrena became the Capital of the nation-become-province. Efrena is center of culture and learning, home to the prestigious Artems University, a great center of learning centuries old, and boasts a Library second only to the Corsingard (Capital) Archive, dating back to the fifteenth century.

The city was originally constructed along the river Efren, as the great flow met the sea. As time passed, the city grew outward, with museums and universities and cathedrals rising along the flows. The city became known as a cultural center and intellectual hotspot, drawing in more thinkers and soon, innovators and inventors. The city grew out, sprawling around the bay and river, and when technology increased, began to span over the river, bridging the water flow with massive structures that housed hundreds of shops and homes.

In more modern times, this trend has continued, and Efrena now rests around and over the Bay. The city spans dozens of kilometers, stretching over the water. Most transit is done in the underdocks, with water craft moving nearly every inch of city. It is one of the only cities where Waterway traffic outpaces Highway. This system of canals, pipes, and open water is done classily and cleanly, with tide pumps and scrubbers keeping the flows crystalline at all times. The water of the underdocks is clean enough to drink, and feeds the city’s water supplies, as well as serving as transport and cooling.

The waters can be accessed easily, at any split in the road of plaza, as most simply cut away to reveal the liquid below, and fountains dot almost every corner. Buildings contain underdock access garages in their “basements”, and almost every guardrail holds over a watery drop. Water is everywhere in Efrena… it is Efrena.

The city is very stylish, in the classic Greco-Roman fashion. No building may grow beyond ten stories tall, and all structures most maintain a stone façade at minimum. Pillars, sculptures, and flowing masonry are the name of the game in this city. Graffiti is held as serious a crime as Grand Theft, and the city police are meticulously effective. This is an entire urban society that is designed to mimic a museum gala or high society ball, and the standards of language and dress are very formal. Any clothes less than casual-dress are viewed as rags, and suits/skirts are the name of the game.

For the “wild times” some desire, all that is needed is to head out one of the spindle arms stretching from the city into the open ocean. There, out to sea, connected by the spiderwebs of floating platforms, structure, and underwater bubbles, is the Silver City. The Silver City is a modern, planned city, stretching over and under the Bay, only two kilometers from Efrena Proper. The bubble domes and glimmering metal towers of Silver City beckon, and the waterplays and tunnel-racing mix with the arcades, arenas, and clubs, forming an ultramodern hub of debauchery, carefully maintained by a fleet of Automatons and SILVY, the City Core AI, constructed and maintained by the University. No one lives on Silver City, but many go there on the monorails, skimmers, or underwater tubes, and almost all return regularly. As in the rest of Efrena, however, high standards are kept, and SILVY is a strict “governess”. Violent or thieving criminals will not be allowed to return, and no outside products may come or go from the City.

All of Efrena is generally pleasant, moderated by the waters below and around the city. There is always a steady breeze, and rain is generally gentle.

Directly inland from Efrena Proper, there is the island of Artems, a land that rolls upwards gently, through green pastures and clumps of carefully preserved forests, a land of lakes and rivers… and modern commercial and technological centers. Like the rest of Kaukolastan, you can never be far from the bleeding edge of technology, but Artems hides it inside of false nature better than most.

Welcome to Efrena.

TO: Dominic Hatcher, DDCI
FROM: Friedrich Ghast, Section Chief, ISA
RE: Plans and Agent

BODY: Well, you'll have to ask Sag about that yourselves, but good luck on reverse-engineering the gun if you do get the rights. Ask the boys at Armatech, they've blowing their minds over some of these guns for decades. It isn't that Sag can't be duplicated, its that the costs of production are mind numbing. This is a company that makes its niche in Special Purposes and Custom Weapons alone, and maintains several dozen Master-rated Gunsmiths onhand at any time. The sheer combination of know-how and perfectionist drive makes them a hard act to follow, but I'd guess they'd probably want a value equal to one hundred of these rifles for the specs. We'll have to wait for the Auction to see the value, though. Blood sucking cretins, the lot of them, but they make damn fine weaponry.

As for you agent, he can bring whatever he wishes, so long as it cannot:

1.)Explode.
2.)Incinerate.
3.)Penetrate an LAV32

As such, the 9x19mm MP5 is fine, as are the Sig-Sauers. The .50AE, which I would hardly refer to as "small caliber" firearm, should also pass, for it's a sporting pistol, not a military weapon, and would not cause an uproar. STOP

OOC: Anyone participating can just assume to be landed at Efrena and talking to Corvine.

Tag

I absolutely must know who gets this rifle.

OOC: My agenda will be completely different - through judiscrous use of expendable agents and liberal application of gunfire, I hope to destroy said weapon. I hope that's alright with you.

IC:
=========
A small Dark Room...
=========
"I understand, Mr. Moulton, that you are currently under sentence of death, for 'mass murder'?"

No reply.

"Our organisation is prepared to offer you freedom if you are willing to assist us in a small acquisition..."

The man's face looked up slightly. "Who do you work for?"

"That is irrelevant. Do you wish to assist us in exchange for your freedom?"

"Okay."

"Very well. Your objective is a rifle currently on sale in Kaukolastan. You are to retrieve it for us. You will be provided with ten thousand dollars to recruit and equip men for the operation."

The figure left the room, leaving Moulton to ponder his decision.

The walls were thinner than any of them suspected, though, and Moulton could hear the man speaking about how the Charon Corporation would trounce the competition again.

=========

A few days later, a few figures with AR-15s showed up to the Auction.

Meanwhile, three other agents, each armed with a personal firearm, a single stick of dynamite, and a roll of duct tape also came along.

The Lord Commander found himself liking this Corvine fellow, with a few reservations. He was naturally suspicious of businessmen, especially those who served as interfaces between their companies and the public. Nevertheless, something seemed genuine about the man. The Lord Commander still felt he was hiding something, but probably nothing too dangerous.

He found himself thinking of the diversions this city could offer. He had read a little about it during the flight. He would probably start off at the Silver City. It sounded a little too...hip...for his tastes, but he figured it would be more tolerable to ride a jetski through the tunnels and underdocks of the Silver City than of Efrena proper.
After that, he decided he'd cruise around Efrena for a bit and admire the architecture. Or he could remain in the Silver City and get profoundly drunk. He wondered how the wine was here. He would have to find out firsthand.

As Corvine spoke, the Ximean Special Forces troops scanned the area, looking for local security. They didn't expect trouble this early, but it was their job to know where the guns and the gunmen were at all times. They found surprisingly few security personnel; only a smattering of snipers on the rooftops. They had expected--still expected--more. Nevertheless, they remained inscrutible, their faces hidden behind the nonreflective black visors of their tactical helmets.
Corporal Leon McCain had a bad feeling about the whole thing. It only grew worse as he listened to Corvine. There was something about the man...something dangerous. He knew something the guests didn't. And why, he wondered, was his company spending so much on the bidders? Five-star accommodations for everyone, free food...the asking price on that rifle was high, but not that high.
It stank.
When they got to their lodgings, McCain would warn his men to be ready for action. He would be much happier when the Lord Commander--and his team--were back on home soil, with the rifle or without it.

When Corvine had finished, the Lord Commander said, "Much obliged. But I had a few questions--first of all, how will you be handling security at the auction site?"

"Just sign here..."

Scribble scribble.

"...and here..."

Scribble scribble.

"...and here, and we're done."

Scribble scribble.

The average-looking Kai stood up, causing the steel chair to screech, and walked out in silence with his average-looking briefcase.

"Yeah, you're welcome. Jeez."

Such sterile surroundings made him jumpy. It was a reverse psychology thing. The less places for someone to ambush him from, the more he suspected an ambush. That's why he was always chosen to work the most crowded perches. At a fancy resort was a new sort of extermination for him, though.

As he walked, he pondered the sort of confidence a beautiful rifle could bring to a person. The XSR-100 rested, fully assembled and ready to spread its wings, within the briefcase. A gorgeous thing, it was built around a completely unique 2.5x90mm pulse fired needle round, and was outfitted with as many overly experimental things SpecOps R&D could fit onto the frame. A smoothbore barrel extended with hypersonic assistance rails, an energy recycling system that fed into the recoil dampners, the most goddamned complicated scope ever, and sound neutralization out the yin-yang. But never mind all that – oh, the things he could do with a work of art such as the Valkyr...but his goal was to eradicate those from his homeland who seeked to obtain this rifle. Oh, the hypocrisy, the bitter hypocrisy. The idea back home was that one could walk down the street with a chain gun without fear of retribution, so long as one knew that another could do the same, and use it on him if it were so required. He understood the idea behind the order to keep the Valkyr out of a Cyberutopian's hands – the reborn government was still gasping for its first breath. Nevertheless, the idea of restriction was still rotten in his mind.

He shook himself from such cumbersome thoughts, and plotted how he was going to gain access to the auction. He didn't necessarily have to get into the auction – he could kill all his fellow Cyberutopians before the auction began, but he knew there would be problems. He was known for being precise and pedestrian in his approach, perfectly by-the-book. He followed a very well written book, so he excelled in textbook approaches, but it would cost him tremendous amounts of time in his current environment. He would probably be able to take out one of his targets, and then the others would be on high alert. Some might run, but others would stay, and it'd make Kai's job infinitely harder. That was the other thing – he knew there wouldn't just be one Cyberutopian. He often learned more from what his commanding officer didn't tell him, and he wasn't told a lot. The way his CO talked, and the leaking procedure...there had to be more than one.

He stepped into a nearby restaurant in the hopes of finding something to eat, looked at the prices, nearly fell over, and stepped briskly out.

---

The wiry Nathan chortled a little as he saw some bufoon in a blue suit walk in, gasp, and promply spin on his heel. He looked back to his food. It was an expensive mismatch of something or another, but the important part was that it was expensive, and he wasn't paying for it. Instead of conning and frauding his way through foreign nations, like he usually did, he was coasting on the back of the grand corporation of Sag.

'What a wonderful corporation,' he thought, [i]'maybe I'll order some more to celebrate their greatness.'

Nathan suspected that most of those interested in the gun were still talking to that one guy with the great smile, but Nathan had snuck away as fast as possible and dashed into the most expensive restaurant he could find.

Nathan didn't care too much about the current specifications of the gun, as he intended to improve the gun to the best of his ability after he had won the auction. Who cared what the gun could do for them, when they should be caring about what they could do for the gun? It certainly would be a fun little project.

As another portion of exorbitantly expensive something-or-rather was placed before him, Nathan, conman, inventor, improver extreme – wanted for a little bit of something in a little bit of everywhere – mulled over which of his latest frauds would fund his part in this auction.

The Gulfstream carrying Mr. James Stanton, Vice President of Sales of International Strategic Arms, Inc., a.k.a. Delta One, began its approach to the airport.

"Kaukolastani Control, this is flight VHF-601, requesting permission to land. We have Mr. Stanton on board, and he is looking forward to attending the arms conference nearby. Over."

Meanwhile, Delta One sat in his seat, reassembling his just-cleaned, field-stripped weapons: his silenced MP5F, dual SIG-Sauer P229 pistols, and his .50AE Desert Eagle. The SIG-Sauers went into dual shoulder holsters concealed under his blazer, the .50AE into a pocket, and the MP5F in a sling that was specially fitted inside his trench coat. After all, Kaukolastan was something of a rainy country. Looking out the window, he saw overcast skies and pouring rain. He donned the trench coat, and prepared himself to kill.

And all for a goddamned rifle.

"You'll be reporting to Jett Friend on this one, your first order of business is to set up shop and display the appropriate signals so he can find you, you'll get further orders from Jett."

He had heard those words nearly a week before, then it had been of to Efrena, buying and leasing appartments and equipment, setting up the entire city to be Jett's personal playground if it was required, in a week he could do wonderful things to the local underground, vast sums of money transferred, not just for this job, but for future operations that might take place, and incase the contacts established here could provide useful information elsewhere. Jonathan Fetch was one of the elite, a set up man, dropped into a country as soon as an operation was confirmed with a liquid bank account and time to burn, he bought, rented, leased, borrowed and stole whatever the actual operatives would need, setting up contacts and safe houses. It was his first time working with Jett but his reputation had spread far, Jett was an artist, a man apart, focused on the mission and getting it doen, he appreciated good ground work and John was the best. They had worked well together, casing the city, the auction grounds, the company, the employees, Now it was the front man's turn, the guy in the limo surrounded by suits. looking over realtime sattelite coverage of himself from some annonymous government employee in some over rich nation. watching in four different spectrums as security agents followed his care with guns from concealed locations. the front man, Alex, wore a nice suit, much nicer than John or Jett who were sitting in grubby appartment buildings briefing insurgents and checking home made guns. Alex was the fourth leverl, the lowest man on the chain, chosen only because he looked good in a suit and behaved himself in public. billed as the representative of the Charon group, a commodities exchange company that featured a few high level clients in countries with an Agglomerate presence. It wasn't expected that he would walk away with the weapon, it would be nice, quik and tidy but with the number and size of bidders expected to show up, The Agglomerate didn't expect to compete, they didn't play to compete, just to win.

Corvine had declined to release the details of the auction's security, but assured the Lord Commander that Sag expected no contingencies, but was prepared to deal with any with minimal loss of life or property. The Lord Commander found that a somewhat dissatisfying answer, but he took it in stride. He had been a member of BioSWAT at one time, years before he ever held office, and he'd been in worse situations than this auction could possibly generate.

The limousines had carried him and his armed escort to their hotel rooms--rather extravagant but tasteful affairs. The Lord Commander had been mildly surprised to find that the Sag Corporation had even provided such rooms for all ten of his guards. He had expected to foot that bill himself.

After a shave and an ice-cold shower (to chase away the jet lag), the Lord Commander changed into his "casual" robes--simple enough to be comfortable, but still dignified and indicative of his position as the head of the Ximean state. Then there came a knock at the door. It was Corporal McCain. "A word in private, sir?" he asked.
"Actually, I was just about to head out and see the city," the Lord Commander said. "Why don't you join me."

"Beautiful place," the Lord Commander said as they walked along a canal. "Reminds me a little of Classical Xim, with the pillars and all. Nice weather, too."
"Sir, does anything about this auction strike you as odd?" McCain said.
"Hmm. There's a one-of-a-kind, perfect sniper rifle going up for auction with a starting price of a hundred grand. The auction was announced internationally. Every auctioneer and his guests are getting the five-star treatment, and free food to boot. And they keep saying the rifle can't be mass-produced. It does sound like a publicity stunt, now that you mention it."
"More than that, sir," McCain said. "There was something about that Corvine guy. He was hiding something."
"He was a suit, and he's probably in public relations or marketing or something," the Lord Commander said. "Of course he'd be hiding something. Other than that, he seemed alright to me."
"I'm just getting a bad vibe," McCain said. "Maybe it's nothing. But I want to keep at least two of my men close to you at all times, okay?"
"That's no fun," the Lord Commander said. "Tell you what: we'll compromise. I'm going to enjoy what this city has to offer tonight, alone, and the end of the universe couldn't stop me. But I'll play it safe once we reach the auction island."
Why can't he hide in an armored limo like a normal head of state? McCain wondered. "Yes, sir," he said.
"Excellent," the Lord Commander replied. "Now, let's go check out that Jerome's place. I'm starving."

*Bleep bleep*
"BH this is DS"
"Go ahead DS"
"The West Benarvian situation has err...continued to develop, so further to your original brief, please proceed with tango delta alpha, repeat tango delta alpha"

"Bravo echo?, DS?"

"Scrubbed, repeat, Scrubbed"

"Romeo DS"

"Oh BH...."

"Yes DS"

"Keep it quiet, there may be err.... other likeminded parties"

"Romeo DS"

The tall operative closed his commlink, he had much work to do, some fine tuning of weapons, a reorganisation of his strike team for the new criteria, and above all.....an auction to attend...

[out of character....may i join? :D ]

Bump :gundge:

"I'll be DAMNED!" Tetra was looking over the specs for the 'Valkyr' rifle. "The boys in Spec. Forces would KILL for this kind of a rifle! I'll attend that auction personally."

"Sir, should I ready the Chancellor's Blade?"

"Please. Send our best 4 Spec Ops soldiers as my guard."

"Understood sir."

TCP UMBRA: Coded Message To Kaukolastan from The Fallen Races
I, the Tetra-Assassin, am arriving in a Tyderian Shuttle known as the Chancellor's Blade. I am accompanied by 4 Special Forces from the TFR army. Although, I must know, how many blade edges to the credit here?
Message sent and TCP expired.

After a good meal and better wine, the Lord Commander sent Corporal McCain back to the hotel. The Lord Commander spent most of the rest of the evening taking a rented boat through the city's tunnels and canals, admiring the architecture, then the sunset, then the moonlight. At around three AM local time, he piloted the craft into the bowels of the Silver City, looking for a place he could buy a few bottles of wine to take home. Like most Ximeans, he was pretty fond of the stuff. The country even had a national holiday dedicated to wine.

He avoided the noisier spots--the clubs, the casinos, the venues of questionable reputation. Unfortunately, that seemed to be most of the Silver City. Finally, he found a quiet pocket, in the middle of which sat a small winery and outlet. Like everything else in the Silver City, the outlet was open all night.

The Lord Commander spent some time browsing among the bottles. He checked his PDA for information about good local wines; it was surprisingly brief on the subject. After a while, he brought two bottles to the counter: their most expensive port and a mid-priced merlot. But there was something missing.

"You got anything that goes well with pizza?"

OOC: Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I was on vacation. I'll be posting again in the morn.

BUMP :mp5:

((Sorry, there are simply too many people in this thread.))

OOC: Sorry, vacation threw me into a loop. Oh, and all are welcome. Feel free to meet the other people, talk shop... whatever. But remember, if a citizen is harmed, the ISA will get involved. I will make this next post in country, but after that, I'm launching the auction and starting bidding.

The sound of silver on china was a distinct tone, a very special ring that Corvine could here, clear as a ship's horn on the foggy seas. He could tell the percent of the material that was real, and how much was alloyed. The music of this tinkling opera bounced from the rafters of the steakhouse, floating up amid dozens of oh-so-important conversations. And Michael Corvine leaned back against the oak chair, dabbling his mouth with the cloth napkin, grinning like a schoolboy escaping from some dastardly prank. His eyes glinted in the twilight glow from the glass roof, and a single dimple pulled in on the left side of his face. He was an imp, oh so sated and mischevious. And Corvine threw back and laughed, holding his bright red tie to his white shirted chest; this was a friendly laugh, one that made his elders on the board smile at his youthful enthusiasm. But this was not the board, and the frat-boy face, loose hair, and twinkling smile only made his dour companion scowl.

Operations Commander Trask bit down roughly onto the tender steak, shredding into the juicy meat like it was some hardtack ration or ancient jerky. He ripped the meat from the fork, swallowing without barely chewing, his calloused, leathery face barely moving. The ISA Commander spoke quietly, in the back of his throat, a deep, rasping voice that slipped from between barely moving lips and a locked jaw. His voice carried to Corvine, but only to the businessman, yet was perfectly clear in the subdued, emotionless tones it took. "Young man, this is not some dorm room prank. This is life and death." Trask used short phrases, short words. It was simple, clear language, meant to be called over the din of battle, not the eloquence of this establishment.

"Commander, Commander... I have this under perfect control!" Corvine motioned smoothly as he spoke, patronizing and assuring the officer at the same time. He grinned again, tipping his fork into the light from above. "Don't worry about it!" He was a stereotyped surfing guru, instructing his journeymen in a haze filled shack, relaxed and ready.

"Saying things like that worries me."

"Come now, this is a simply auction."

"Bullshit." Trask dropped the word like a hand grenade.

"Commander, such language!"

"I know bullshit when I step in it. This reeks, Corvine. This many dangerous players, this many weapons- you're asking for a shootout."

"Doesn't matter, Commander!" Corvine was leaning forward now, conspiratorially. "No matter who gets the weapon, no matter who gets blasted, we win. You get your intelligence, and we get our reputation boosted... and we get paid. Let them cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war; there will be no consequences for us."

"Wait until the shit hits the fan, Slick." Trask speared another hunk of meat, thrusting it between his cracked lips.

Chewing.

A hard swallow.

Trask contrinued, "You think you're so hot to trot, the world is your personal ashcan. Once the body count rises, and you're watching it on your nice little viewer, and you see your friends stacked like so much cordwood..."

"Well, I just didn't put any friends on the Island." Corvine smiled again, a jackal's grin.

"You're a bastard, Corvine. You really are." Trask was not smiling in the least. "People like you get people killed."

"People like me bring home the cash cows, Commander."

Silence.

Corvine stood, dropping a kilocred onto the table, hundreds of credits in tip. "Now, you enjoy that steak, Commander Trask. It's on me."

"Where are you going in a hurry? Hell keeps a waiting list."

"I've got a flight to catch in the morning, to an Island."

And Trask froze, the steak not reaching his lips. Leather eyelids flicked, bushy brows rose in shock. "Maybe I was wrong. You've got a pair, going there for this."

"The ringmaster must attend his circus, my good man. I have to see it, feel it, hear it, control it every step of the way."

"Maybe you've got balls, maybe you've got no brains. You just wait until the ball drops. In the fire and the smoke and lead... you'll understand." Trask looked almost paternal for a moment, like he might have actually cared about this miscreant brat.

"I'll be fine." He patted the bulge under his suitcoat, the form of a Needler PDW.

"Buzzguns won't save you, kid. It's not the hardware, it's the software."

Corvine laughed, patting the old agent on the shoulder as he strutted away.

There was a voice from behind, rough and confident, but wise as well. "Once you fall apart, remember: the strong man falls too, he just gets back up. Get up, maggot."

But Corvine pushed open the double glass doors and stepped into his limosuine. He was far too busy to listen to some old fogey rant, no matter if it was his uncle.

OOC: Sad to see you go, Cyber. :(

OOC: Shit, Ximea, sorry! About that security: he would have referred you to the PDA, which has all the data.

Security will be provided by the ISA while in the nation, and they will interdict any violent actions or intrusions.

Once on the Island (a chartered jet will be used), security will be provided by Sag's Defense Contractors. These contractors are fully trained ex-military and police members, equipped with the very latest in Sag Combat Gear, including fully Reactive Armor, a limitted BattleNet System, and the Sag Commando, G2, Needler, and ACR.

Theft will not be tolerated, nor will any actions directed at auction personelle. The contractors will halt any threats among the attendees.

(It's basically a notice that "If we don't catch you, it's cool... so long as you don't harm our people or steal our money.")


This is the NSWiki link to all the Sag Weapons I've designed until now (not including Valkyr). Any of these are free reign to appear, besides the SLAW and Slade... unless you really piss off the Corporation.
http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/SAG_Weapons_Corporation:Catalog

((Goddamnit, just couldn't stay away. That post there brought me back, Kaukolstan. It's all your fault! :P))

Kai's thoughts were simple.

'I really, really wish I had a sensorplate right now.' His mind grumbled, referring to the does-everything-at-once-and-makes-you-a-sandwich faceplate most Cyberutopian SpecOps soldiers (and some bored civilians) used most often.

Instead, the soldier was regulated to the military-issue version of a Cyberutopian Device, which did a mind-boggling number of things, but was still far from preferrable. Kai sighed heavily for the umpteenth time and tried once more to get a strong enough signal out of the Device to tap into the Gravy Train.

The Gravy Train was soldier's slang that was scoffed at by officers and brass all around. They felt its degree of lameness was matched only by a 'your mom' joke. The soldiers, of course, thought it was far easier than saying Gravimetric Indentification Central Relay Center. Guns are popular in Cyberutopia, but guns are also closely watched. All guns owned by citizens are implanted with a chip – nicknamed gravy tags – that creates the tiniest of gravity dimples. Therefore, to find a Cyberutopian in another country, just find his gun.

This is what Kai was attempting, but the Gravy Train was housed a long ways away, and the militarized Device was designed for inter-battlefield uses by basic soldiers, not for connecting with databases thousands and thousands of miles off.

'I wonder if the management will realize I'm sending a tightbeam through a water pi–'

Ding! Success, and triumph flittered through Kai thrice over before he regained control. The icon of the main data crystal showed a new file had been added. The soldier opened it up as he stepped down from his impromptu ladder in the bathroom of his hotel room. He sat down on the lip of the bathtub, and began to pour over the small file.

The file gave him a beautifully rendered overview of the city ('Well, ok, this thing can do some cool stuff'), with three gently rippling dots placed within close proximity. Kai grinned a vicious smile, memorized the coordinates of each target, and snapped the Device off.

---

The self-proclaimed "Don" Benelli Markanoli chuckled to himself and gave a vicious smile – one very similar to a certain SpecOps soldier he would never meet – to his "boys." Said boys were composed of a cretin with the most unreliable shotgun in existence, and a midget with a hatchet. It was a very sharp hatchet, by the way.

The Don did not look like the average Cyberutopian by any stretch of the imagination – his family must have been the only Italian family in the entire Subdistrict – but he was one by birth and by law. He knew about the gravy tags, just like everyone else, but he kept their presence in the front of his mind, unlike everyone else. He was currently cradlling a (most defintely not Cyberutopian) derringer.

'I am such an awesome criminal.' The Don boasted to himself.

The Don was an awesome "criminal" indeed. Or at least, he would be, if "criminal" were defined as "guy who nobody cares about, who breaks rules that don't really exist in order to gain artificial self-esteem." The definition would then go into detail about how all self-esteem was artificial, before imploding upon itself and rendering the English language a smoking husk of its former self. Husks are useful for storing stuff in once they stop smoking, you know.

OOC: Good to have you back, Cyber! (Evil laughter ensues... something about "My Little Puppets")

I'm going to allow a little more time for movement in the thread, and probably move the flight along tomorrow. (After that, everyone will be on the Island.)

OOC: Shit, Ximea, sorry! About that security: he would have referred you to the PDA, which has all the data.
OOC: No worries. I'm going to be away for a while, so I can't participate unless this thread lasts another week and a half. All I ask is that no one kills my characters while I'm gone.

OOC: Sorry about the delay, but I was at a cabin in BFE, Michigan (Awesome time, too, btw!). Fortunately, Ximea's absence lined up frighteningly well with my own.

I will attempt to get back at it, but with school and marching season starting, combined with work, my presence will be erratic. Sorry, but I will try and keep this running!

K-stan the K-man