Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

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Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:02

I finaly got off my arse, re-read, and editted my fic, and here it is: (part of it anyway, I tried posting the whole thing and the computer makes angry noises)
Rated M 15+ for strong violence and coarse language, view discretion is advised


Second Suns: Part One
Section 1.
Spoiler:


Wednesday 7th, August, 2009 –Social Welfare Agency Training Grounds – 0845 hours, Alpha time



The sun was hours away from its zenith, but the day was already hot. The leaves of the pine trees rustled lightly as a fresh breeze blew across the outdoor firing range. Three white silhouettes were set up at ranges of thirty, sixty and ninety metres, and sixty metres behind the last silhouette was a large dirt mound.

A sense of calm washed over the Second Generation cyborg, known as Victoria, as she levelled her Berretta M93 Raffica and lined the sights up with the closest target. She let her mind wander to when she first met her Handler. She had awoken in a in a plain room with a short woman sitting on the end of her bed, with dark red hair and a black suit, talking to a bald man with a funny moustache in a white lab coat. She was Victoria’s Handler, Andromeda Brandt, a forty six year old former 601st Special Forces Group operative, and the man was Dr. Bellissaro, one of the scientists at the Agency. They noticed she had awoken and introduced themselves, explaining her new situation.

Victoria had been converted into cyborg by an anti terrorist organisation, under the guise of the Social Welfare Agency, after some kind of traumatic physical injury. Her job was to protect her Handler, Andromeda, even if it involved sacrificing her own life. That last bit hadn’t been so much told to her as it was just known. All of these facts had been known to her before she had first awoken. However Victoria had no memory of her life prior to the Agency, just like, she leaned later, most of the other girls at the Agency.

Victoria concentrated back on her shooting, she may have been a better shot then most with a hand gun, machine pistol or no, but not when she didn’t concentrate. And practice makes perfect. Firing the last five rounds from her weapon at the furthest target, two of which went wide and the other three hit the non lethal zone; she ejected the spent magazine and loaded a fresh one, chambered a round, and went back to her shooting.

Today, as usual, Victoria wore blue denim Jeans and a red flannelette shirt over a white tank top. Unlike the other girls at the agency, Victoria didn’t like to wear skirts or dresses. Her plain brunette hair was cut sort, for practical reasons, another dissimilarity between her and the other cyborgs.

Victorias Handler, Andromeda, was wearing the same suit she had worn when they had first met, minus the jacket. Her blue eyes appeared fierce now due to the scar over her left eye. She had received that about eight months ago during a mission. Victoria still didn’t forgive herself for letting Andromeda get hurt.

“Alright, that should be enough for today” Andromeda said in flawless Italian, even though in reality she was from the Czech Republic. The sun was well past its peek. Victoria could see the beads of sweat on Andromeda’s fore head. “Let’s pack up quickly; I don’t want to be late for dinner again.”

Andromeda loaded the remaining ammunition into the van while Victoria picked up the spent shell casings. Andromeda’s twin brother Anthony, who works for Berretta, had taught her how to build her own ammunition. While time consuming, it did allow for ammunition better suited to her fighting style. Victoria had been experimenting with incendiary ammunition for her Fabrique National F2000 to no avail. Several rifles had been wrecked already, so now she was trying to make a better armour piercing round for her 93, all she needed was some depleted uranium and tungsten.

After a couple of minutes on the road Andromeda asked in a casual tone, “Do you know what your name means?”

“My name, ma’am?” Victoria replied, somewhat confused by the question.

“Yeah, your name. Victoria.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am.”

“It’s Latin for victory,” Andromeda answered in the matter-of-factly tone she assumed when giving a lecture, “you remember that, for people in our line of work, defeat is not an option. You do what is needed to complete the mission.”

“I will, ma’am,” Victoria replied confidently.

After about an hour they arrived back at the SWA compound, got cleaned up, and went to the cafeteria to eat and talk. After dinner, Victoria went back to the room she shared with Mercedes, a fellow Second Gen.

Mercedes sat on her bed with her laptop on her lap, watching one of the DVDs her handler Barry had brought over from England when he joined the SWA. Mercedes jet black hair was tied back into a ponytail to keep it off her face. Her olive skin made Victoria appear pale by comparison. If Victoria had to guess, she would say Mercedes was watching one of the Aliens films, judging from the horrible shrieking noise. That girl really liked Sci-Fi movies for some reason.

Victoria rolled her eyes and took a seat at the desk at the end of her bed. She reached under to get a bottle of red wine she had ‘borrowed’ from the kitchen, when there was a knock at the door. Victoria quickly withdrew her hand. Rico, one of the First Generation girls, pocked her head through the door. Victoria waved her in, and noted that she was carrying a small weapons case that looked large compared to the First Gen. A cyborgs body doesn’t age, so Victoria knew that even though Rico looked to be eleven, she was in fact at least fifteen, even if she didn’t act it sometimes.

“What can we do for you Rico?” Victoria asked, being polite to the senior cyborg. At times Victoria thought it strange that even though all of the First Gens were younger than the Second Gens, it was the Second Gens that were the junior operatives and the First Gens were the senior operatives.

“Jean said this was for you,” Rico said holding up the weapons case.

Victoria leaped from the chair and snatched the weapons case out of Rico’s hands. Victoria knew exactly what was in the case that she had been waiting several weeks for. Realising what she had just done, Victoria apologised to Rico for being so rude and asked if she would like to come in. Rico politely refused and said that Jean was waiting for her to return.

“What’s in the case?” Mercedes asked without look up from her laptop as Victoria sat down.

“The MAG-7 I asked Jean for,” came Victoria’s response in the form of an exited squeal.

“What the hell is a MAG-7?” Mercedes inquired, arching an eyebrow and finally looking up from her laptop.

“It’s a South African designed 12 gauge.”

“Box looks a bit small for a shotgun,” Mercedes commented dryly. She could be a bloody sceptic at times.

“It’s only a foot long, that’s why the case is so small.”

“I still don’t see why you’re so exited.”

“The humble 12 gauge is considered to be the best close quarters round in the world,” Victoria explained removing her new weapon from its case, “and even though it is pump action, I plan to find a way around that. It uses a five round box magazine loaded into the grip, making it easier to reload than other shotguns. It’s also easier to conceal than most other shotguns and my F20000. Altogether it makes me more effective at my job,” which was to protect Andromeda.

“Why’d you ask Jean for it?”

“Andromeda won’t get me any more weapons and I haven’t the foggiest idea why.”

“Perhaps because you ruined the last, what was it… eight assault rifles she got you?”

“Seven,” Victoria corrected, poking out her tongue.

Mercedes reached under her bed and produced a bottle of absinthe her handler had given her as an anniversary present for their first meeting, and offered some to Victoria.

“No thanks, I gotta get up early for CQC practice. And I realise you normally drink the heavy stuff, but that’s the heaviest stuff so if you’re hung over, I’m gonna slam the door behind me.”



* * *
Thursday 8th August 2009 – Social Welfare Agency compound – 0530 hours, Alpha time



When Victoria awoke, she marked off the previous day on the calendar hanging above her bed. She had now officially been a lethal killing machine for one year.

Victoria got out of bed and got dressed in her usual Jeans and flannelette shirt combination; she had always thought other clothes too revealing or impeded her movement somehow. When Victoria opened the curtains to let some of the morning light in, she noticed the lump on the bed across from her groaning about dying or something, then noticed the half empty bottle of absinthe on the ground next to the bed. Picking up the bottle and slamming it on the desk at the end of Mercedes’ bed, Victoria was rewarded with an angry groan and a few curses. Leaving, Victoria slammed the door to drive her point across that a hung over Mercedes would not be a happy Mercedes. The girl was not going to get any sympathy from Victoria, who had warned her about drinking to much the precious night.

Victoria didn’t worry about having a shower since she was going to get sweaty anyway. Instead she went to the cafeteria.

A handful of the other girls were also at the cafeteria, having gotten up early for CQC training. However most didn’t do any of the early classes and would still be asleep. Triela stood out most in the bunch, not because her hair was done up in two pony tails or her grey suit, but because she was the only First Gen. While not officially in charge, she was definitely the alpha cyborg no matter who else was in the room, and even if you didn’t like her, you still respected her.

Victoria picked up a tray, grabbed some toast, honey, and a glass of milk from the buffet and took a seat next to Triela who seemed engrossed in a book Claes, her roommate, had probably lent her. Victoria thought of Triela as a teacher and friend. A tall red head with tousled hair sat across form Victoria, another of her friends Petra. Her actual name was Pertrushka but everyone just called her Petra.

“Hey, Victoria,” Triela said, not looking up from her book, “they finally let me into the archives.” You would have thought she thought her tea was a little too sweet by her candid manner. Triela was the only cyborg, First and Second Gen, allowed to attend the staff meetings and do some of the minor paperwork, Triela claimed that last part kind of grated though. A person could almost be forgiven for thinking she was a part time employee rather than one of the cyborgs. Almost.

“What?!” Victoria asked incredulously.

“I have access to the archives,” the blonde replied casually, “and it turns out you used to be a sixth generation Australian before becoming an Italian citizen.”

Now it was Victoria’s turn to talk candidly, “I know that already, I even know the details of the accident I was in prior to becoming a cyborg. A car accident in fact, both my parents were killed, my mother on impact and my father on the way to the hospital, and I barely survived, everything from the chest down was crushed. I have no living relatives and had few friends at school, I was the perfect candidate for the cyborg program. Hell, Andromeda was very open about my past when I asked about it.”

Triela was looking up from her book now, “why didn’t you tell us?!”

“You didn’t ask.”

They continued to talk for fifteen or twenty minutes before the clock struck 0640 hours; Time for CQC class.



* * *
Victoria had gone straight to the showers after CQC class and was returning to her room when Andromeda quickly rounded a corner and approached her.

“I’ve been looking for you. Pack your things,” the red haired Handler ordered in an authoritative tone, “we’re going to Iraq to assist Foreign Legion forces. We’ll probably be there a couple of months. Meet us out front in twenty minutes. I’ll explain better on the road.” Her voice suddenly changed to what Victoria could only describe a merry, “and bring that red you… found.” And with that she left.

Victoria just stood there, eyes wide, mouth agape. How could Andromeda have possibly known about the wine? She quickly regained controlled of herself and continued to he room.

Back at her room, Victoria found Mercedes stuffing weapons into a duffle bag and assumed she had been given the same message by her own Handler. By the items that Mercedes was packing, a second Mk. 23, M200, a pair of Skorpions and no less then fifteen spare magazines for each weapon, she obviously remembered their last visit to the Middle East; it had been… exciting, to say the least.

Victoria produced her own duffle bag from under her bed – a very good storage space – and began packing her own gear. Since that last time they went to the Middle East they posed a mercenaries there would be no need to conceal their weapons; she simply laid everything in the duffle bag – A M92 and a suppressor for it – her 93 couldn’t be suppressed so it was necessary to take a handgun that could be as well – the MAG-7, her F2000 and twenty four bō shuriken, which was basically a six inch steel spike designed for throwing, and enough ammunition for a small war. On top of that, she wrapped the wine in a bundle of clothing to act as padding and added a couple of other essentials, high powered flash light, batteries of sizes AAA through to D, leather man, aviator sunglasses, and a pack of bandaids, it paid to be prepared.



* * *
Out front of the facility, Victoria and Mercedes found Triela waiting with her own duffle bag in hand, and walked over to her. Even though Triela appeared the junior of the trio, appearing only fourteen, she was in fact the senior, being actually nineteen years of age. Victoria herself was only seventeen, and Mercedes sixteen; each a year older than they appeared. I’ve known this sort of thing for a year and its still mind boggling Victoria thought.

The first topic of conversation was what they were going to do in Iraq. Triela said that the most that had been said at the meeting was about some kind of arms dealers and assisting French forces.

Triela was dressed in her usual grey suit, and Victoria suspected that even if the day was a ridiculous forty five degrees Celsius, she’d still be in that suit.

A short time latter, two minutes perhaps, a white van arrived, preceded by a white sedan. In the sedan’s driver seat sat Barry Dalyn, Mercedes handler, a short, dark skinned, bald headed Englishman who was either fooling around or complaining. Next to him resided Victor Hillshire, a tall, broad shouldered German with short black hair and all too often a look that brokered no nonsense. The pair was of interesting contrast. In the van’s driver seat sat Andromeda, her hair tied into a pony tail. By the rhythmic way her head bobbed, Victoria guessed her Handler was listening to music, probably The Beatles, the woman loved them. Andromeda saw the cyborgs and waved them over.

Victoria’s suspicions about the music choice were confirmed when the cyborgs climbed into the van, throwing their bags into the pile already in the back. Victoria had taken her rightful place in the passenger seat, having called shotgun, and Triela and Mercedes sat behind.

The four rode in silence aside form the Beatles for about five minutes before Andromeda spoke up, “there are some uniforms in the back for you to put on, they’re labelled so you don’t put on someone else’s. Sandro made ‘em, you’ll look older, ‘bout in your early to mid twenties. Triela, you can go first. Don’t worry, I won’t peak… much.” Victoria’s Handler had a warped sense of humour sometimes.

When Triela returned, Mercedes went and changed. Triela was now sporting what looked like an Italian uniform. “Ma’am?” Triela asked, Andromeda didn’t seem to notice, “Ma’am?” the blond asked again a bit louder this time.

“Yes Triela?”

“What are we going to be doing exactly?”

“I’ll explain when everyone’s changed.”

Mercedes returned after another moment and Victoria went to get changed. Climbing into the back from the front wasn’t as difficult as climbing from the back to the front; she wasn’t used to such heavy clothes.

“Now then, as to what we’re gonna be doing,” Andromeda began, “we’ll be assisting Foreign Legion SF to hunt down a notorious group of arms dealers who sell weapons indiscriminately to anyone with the money – right wing, left wing, religious, corporate – doesn’t matter. We know very little about them aside from that they’re stationed somewhere in Iraq. We’ll pose as soldiers from the 9th Parachute Assault Regiment. That what I was told anyway. Oh yeah, Hillshire’s in charge.” Andromeda didn’t sound happy about Hillshire being in charge. She had bee an NCO in the Czech army for most of her life and did not like being on the lower rungs of command, but Hillshire was the senior Handler.

Triela must have noticed Andromeda being a little angry, because she quickly apologised.

“It’s not your fault,” Andromeda assured her with a sigh. “I just been having a bad day is all. So, anyone read any good books lately?”



And please, be honest. I want to knoww if there are any areas that need improving.

Thankie :3

P.S. Regulr posters on this forum that read this should be able to tell where they have influenced me


Last edited by Destroyer of Worlds ;D on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:12; edited 2 times in total

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:03

Section 2.
Spoiler:

Friday 9th August 2009 – West Iraq, 40km south east of Mandali, on the Iran/Iraq border, Camp Deuf – 1100 hours, Charlie time



Camp Deuf was small only when compared to the American bases. Consisting mostly of tents and having and containing less than fifty soldiers, Victoria had suspected it to be a bit smaller. And what few buildings there were, were prefabs.

Upon exiting their Renault Sherpas, the soldiers form the ‘9th Parachute Assault Regiment’ were met by Adjudant Chef HirschSven, a short Norwegian with beady eyes, who took them to see the commanding officer; one Capitaine Dominika Zalko. She was a tall Russian woman who wasn’t so much beautiful as she was handsome.

Hillshire spoke first after a crisp salute, “Echo squad, 9th Parachute Assault Regiment reporting, Ma’am.”

“You can cut the bull shit Mr Hillshire, I know your not form the 9th Parachute Assault Regiment.” The CO’s voice was definitely commanding, due in part to her having not completely lost her Russian accent. “I know about the Agency and the Cyborgs, there is no need to keep up this façade here.”

“Nice of someone to tell us,” Barry muttered sarcastically under his breath, barely loud enough for Victoria’s cyborg ears to hear. He didn’t like being kept out of the loop. Andromeda just grimaced, and the cyborgs gave no reaction what so ever.

“What exactly have they been told?” Hillshire asked, referring to the troops under Capitaine Zalko’s command.

“That a black ops Italian Cybernetic program is going to help in our hunt for the arms dealers. And that some of them may be younger than they expect.”

“We’re gonna have to tell them a bit more if this is gonna work, Hillshire,” Barry said.

“That’s right, don’t s’pose you want to do it.” Hillshire replied

“I’ll do it if you don’t wanna.” Andromeda offered.

“That’d be great actually; I’ve got some stuff I gotta do,” Barry replied.

“No problem.”

“I’ll help,” the Capitaine said, “I should probably hear what you are going to tell my men first anyway. Besides, Omega will probably send you here for something anyway.”

“Who’s Omega?” Hillshire asked

“He’s in charge of Foucheur team. He’s in charge you.” Capitaine Zalko sat down behind her metal desk, “If you need anything, just ask Adjudant Sven, he’s the quartermaster. He’ll show you around the camp now, I have things to do.”

The Adjudant gestured towards the door, but before anyone could move the Capitaine spoke again in a tone that brokered no nonsense, “You are in my camp now, and I expect you to follow my rules just like everyone else. That will be all.”

Adjudant Sven led the Agency operatives to their accommodation. Their tent didn’t look any bigger than any of the other tents that housed Legionnaires; it appeared quite small in fact. Appearances were quite deceptive however, for it had quite a lot of space on the inside, even with six military cots and two desks.

“Just like a TARDIS,” Mercedes commented. Victoria mustn’t have been the only person to think it would have been smaller on the inside.

“An apt metaphor,” Barry said, putting his bag under the first cot on the right. Triela put her bag on the furthest cot on the left, Victoria across form her, Mercedes across form Barry. Andromeda took the middle cot on the right and Hillshire took the last available.

The Norwegian man then led them to the mess hall, or rather, the mess tent. Inside were eight tables with benches on either side occupying half the tent, on the other half was the kitchen area. It was empty aside from the two cooks who were preparing the midday meal.

Next was the firing range, which, much like the mess tent was unused at the time. Basically a large open area with silhouettes here and there and a waist high wall of sandbags to stand behind. A couple of metres behind the sandbag were a few tables for ammunition and the like.

Victoria heard a bullet whistle past her ear and instinctively raised her left arm to protect her eyes while the other drew her 93. The head of one of the silhouettes erupted into splinters. Each cyborg had grabbed their handlers and thrown them to the other side of the sandbag wall before jumping over themselves, and had drawn their own weapons. The handlers now had their own handguns drawn as soon as they recovered from being thrown. Victoria pocked the mirror she carried in her pocket over the wall to try and see where the shot had come from. All she could see was the Adjudant doubled over. Was he hit? No. He was laughing.

“Where’d that fuckingshot come from Victoria,” Andromeda demanded

“I dunno ma’am, I can’t… hold on, there’s a ghillie getting up, three hundred metres and closing.”

Sven pocked his head over the sandbags chuckling softly to himself, “calm down, it’s only Omega. His idea of a joke.”

“Sorry fer scarrin’ ya,” Omega said after he jogged up to them, only slightly muffled by his balaclava. He was a tall man the measured about six foot nine, Victoria herself only being five three

Omega pulled up his balaclava revealing his scarred face, it was anything but pretty. He looked about sixty, and looking almost evil with the scars on his cheeks to make it look like he’s always smiling.

“What’s Omega mean? Seems like a silly call sign to me.” Barry said just before Hillshire opened his mouth. For a former spy, his people skills sometimes left something to be desired. By the look on Mercedes face, she thought so to.

“’I’m Alpha an’ Omega, the beginnin’ an’ the end.’ An exsert from the bible.” Omega walked over to the closest table and removed the magazine from the Hecate. “I’d tell ya me real name, but alas, tis against ye old rules.”

Omega took off the ghillie suits hood, revealing light brown hair in the process of turning grey. He pointed at the three cyborgs, “you three girlies mus’ be the cyborgs I been told I’m workin’ with.” He pointed his thumb back toward the silhouette he shot, “pretty good shot at three hundred metres don’ ya reckon?”

Mercedes harrumphed loudly and crossed her arms over her chest, “I could make that shot in my sleep.” Sometimes the girl possessed the same people skills as her handler.

“Ya think ya can do better?”

“Hell yeah I could. Triple the distance and put on the back of a truck and I could still make that shot.” The olive skinned cyborg said arrogantly. She always got this way around men she thought were attractive, she had weird tastes to say the least.

“Another time perhaps,” Barry broke in. “why don’t we continue the tour, hmm?”

“Of course,” Adjudant Sven replied.

“Next time we’re in the officers club I’ll buy the first round, an’ you can buy the rest,” Omega called out after them, laughing to himself. “Oh yeah, you guy’s take the day off, the rest of my men are. Just await further instructions.” He was still laughing.

Next was the armoury, which was in a tent. Victoria thought it would have been in one of the prefabs. On one side were FAMAS assault rifles and a couple of FR F2s and Hecates. In the middle was a desk on which resided a pair of M240’s and M14 EBRs. Strange, Victoria didn’t think the French used weapons not designed by their own country. On the adjacent side of the tent were many, many ammo boxes.

The Infirmary was one of the few prefabs, next to which was the shower bloc, another oddity. Adjudant Sven explained that the doctors are normally kept busy when the Pit is opened, which was their next stop.

The Pit, as it turned out, was simply that, a foot deep circle, seven metres in diameter. It was used to keep up ‘morale’, as the Adjudant put it. Every two or three weeks the Capitaine would declare it open and men would fight in it. The fights were quite controlled and apparently it was a good way to settle disputes. There was a lot of gambling involved as well.

Their final destination was the officers club that omega had previously mentioned. Another prefab, it was the coolest place in the camp by Victoria reckoning, which explained why at least half the inhabitants of the camp reside here. Adjudant Sven said that even tough it was called the Officers club, everyone was allowed in, form Engagẻ Voluntaire to Général de Brigade. It must have been some kind of joke, but Victoria didn’t think it was that funny. A few Legionnaires played darts and a couple palyed pool, but most just sat with their drinks enjoying the music, which Victoria thought for sure was Credence Clearwater. She thought there would have been something French playing.

Upon arriving back at their tent, Adjudant Sven asked if there was anything they needed, and promptly left after they all shook their heads. Barry said he was going to the Officers Club to get to know the men he would be spending the next couple of months with and asked the others if they wanted to join him. Andromeda and Hillshire accepted his invitation but the Cyborgs declined. Barry seemed surprised that Mercedes didn’t accept the invitation, but didn’t comment.

“You two want a drink?” Victoria asked after the Handlers left.

“No thanks, got my own,” Mercedes replied removing a flask of whiskey concealed under her jacket.

“Of what?” Triela asked Victoria

“A red I… liberated… from the kitchen before we left,” Victoria stated

“‘Kay,” Triela said shrugging her shoulders and sitting on the end of her cot, “Might help to take the edge off the heat”

Victoria took a good look at her friends and realised that they were sweating quite profusely. She herself wasn’t sweating, not a drop. Perhaps she should teach them the technique for ignoring the heat? Nah.

“You alright?” Triela asked, “You look like your talking to yourself. I hope you’re not going crazy or anything.” Victoria didn’t realize she had said that out loud.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Victoria replied, then said to herself, “I hope I’m not going insane. Maybe I am, I’m still talking to myself after all.” Absently, she removed the bundle of clothes from her bag and removed the wine from that. “You got any cups Mercedes?”

“Yeah, here you go.” Mercedes threw two metal cups to Victoria; it wasn’t a very good throw.

“Thank you.” Pouring the wine Victoria stated, “You still need to work on your aim you know. You should let me teach you shuriken jutsu, that’ll help.”

“Ha, not on your life. That oriental stuff is gonna get you killed.”

“Your loss.” Victoria said handing a cup of wine to Triela.

Triela took a sip of the wine, “can I see the bottle?”

“Sure.”

Victoria threw the bottle to the blond who whistled loudly, then read the label aloud, “Chanti Classico 1997. I’ve tried to… procure this particular item on a number of occasions. How on earth did you pull it off?” Triela was very business like in her manner

“Why I used my feminine charm of course,” Victoria replied, trying to make her voice sound breathy, and failing miserably. She then attempted to walk to one of the stools, swaying her hips like she had seen sexy women do in the movies. The end result was Victoria falling on her arse. Triela, trying to be polite, hid her smile behind her hand but Mercedes just outright laughed with no care for Victoria’s feelings, and calling Victoria an idiot.

Victoria laughed too, saying, “No, I’m insane remember, not an idiot.”

“So Mercedes,” Triela said to Mercedes as Victoria finally took a seat, “what was all the big headedness about with Omega?”

“She’s taken a liking to him,” Victoria replied with a flick of her head.

“I don’t know what your talking about.” Mercedes said hastily, tuning to try and hide her red cheeks.

“I’m a little confused too,” Triela said.

“Well allow me to elaborate,” Victoria offered, crossing her legs, “Mercedes is a bit peculiar. Basically her ideal man is about ninety with a hundred thousand scars and Scottish. Since Irish is pretty close to Scottish, and he is aged and possesses a couple of scars, Mercedes has gone all giddy. Not much else to it.”

Mercedes shot Victoria an angry look.


* * *
Andromeda noted that there where less patrons in the Officers Club when the three Handlers arrived than there had been when the Adjudant was showing them around, only about fifteen of sixteen now. Barry went to a trio playing pool, while Hillshire went to went and joined a small group of men drinking and laughing. Andromeda however, knew that the best way to get information was to see the bartender. They always knew what was what and who was who around town.

“Ah, I had heard there would be some new faces around here,” the tall barkeep with a heavy South African accent said as Andromeda sat on the stool in front of him, he had the deliberate speech of someone who only recently learned to speak the language. His head was completely hairless and his hazel eyes looked kind, almost innocent; he probably hadn’t seen much combat. He extended his hand after stereotypically whipping down the bar with a rag and said, “Legionnaire 2e classe Saad Cronjae.”

Taking his hand and shaking Andromeda replied, “Andromeda Brandt.”

“So Miss Brandt, what’s your poison?” he didn’t seem at all suspicious about her not offering rank.

“Got any wine?”

“Ah, a wine drinker, sorry I have none of that. I have beer, whiskey and scotch.”

“Give us a scotch. And a little information, got any of that.”

“Information? About what?”

“Well everyone seems a bit on edge. Do us newcomers put everyone on edge or is there something else?” He slid a glass of scotch across the counter and Andromeda took a sip.

“To tell the truth, it’s the first time there have been any women in the camp besides Capitaine Zalko’s arrival. They are actually exited. As you might know, traditionally women are not allowed to join the Legion. Capitaine Zalko is one of very, very few exceptions; rumour says that she killed three grizzly bears with her bare hands in front of the Général de Brigade. I think this is just an exaggerated rumour though.”

Andromeda took another sip of her scotch, it was quite nice, “You guys weren’t told that there are three children with us and they’re cyborgs, were you? They were the ladies in their twenties you may have seen earlier, they’re actually quite friendly once you get to know them.”

Legionnaire 2e classe Cronjae’s eye’s widened and his jaw dropped, “Children?!” he sounded as he was being strangled.

“My own cyborg is seventeen actually, there’s not much difference in their ages really.” Andromeda finished her scotch. “What else haven’t you been told?”

Legionnaire 2e classe Cronjae shook his head, obviously shrugging Andromeda’s comments off as bad humour. “We were only told that a black ops Italian Cybernetic program is going to help in our hunt for the arms dealers. And that some may be younger than we expect.” It was exactly what their CO had said. “But children? This has got to be some kind of bad joke. You three must just be the senior cyborgs. And they are the new recruits right? They wanted some combat experience, right? You must have a bad sense of humour.” Legionnaire 2e classe Cronjae seemed like the kind of man who only needed someone to give their word and he would believe them.

“It’s not a joke,” Andromeda said seriously, “they are children. And they are the cyborgs. We three,” she waved her finger in a circle that included Barry, Hillshire and herself, “are only their Handlers. We are in charge of their wellbeing.”

“You are not joking are you.” He looked a bit scared; it probably had little to do with her Bond-villain like scar, though it probably didn’t help the situation. “That is just barbaric! You, you teach children to kill! How could you do such a thing? You are monsters!”

“Ha!” Andromeda banged her fist on the counter and forced a laugh, “You wanna see a real fucking monster. I have seen children used as human shields, taught to hate and kill for fun, bloody sex slaves, even fucking used instead of goddamned sandbags, fucking killed to put fucking bombs in them. For Christ sake the bloody Taliban aren’t gonna play nice and neither is anyone else. Think about it, man, you seem somewhat educated. Tell about a damn war where the winning side has played nice and not done a single bad thing.” Andromeda’s voice became quieter, if no less angry, “Those fucking cyborgs save more people than you’ll ever know.”

Andromeda reined in on her anger, since being dishonourably discharged from the 601st Special Forces Group seven years ago, she found she was amazingly short tempered at times; at least whenever she drank anything besides wine, no matter how little of it she consumed. Ordering the scotch was a bad idea.

When she had clamed down, Andromeda realised that everyone was staring at her silently. Hillshire walked up and put a hand on her shoulder and spoke firmly, “can I speak to you outside?”

Andromeda grudgingly agreed.

When she got outside, Andromeda looked at the hight of the sun and estimated that it’s about 1730 hours, night would fall soon.

Hillshire emerged and spoke up angrily, “would it kill you to be a little more diplomatic? I realise it isn’t your strong suit, but we’re going to be with these people for any number of months. And we’re going to need their cooperation. That means making friends, not getting angry at the local bartender.”

Andromeda didn’t want to talk about what just happened so she changed the subject, “What the hell are we doing here Hillshire? I realise that both the Italian and French governments want these gun runners put down, but why aren’t we operating like we normally would? Stalking suspects and being inconspicuous, not as part of a front lines commando team.”

Hillshire sighed and sounded resigned as he spoke, “Jean wants to see how the cyborgs handle in front lines combat situations and how they operate in a squad.”

That fucking bastard thinks he can interfere and meddle wherever and whenever he wants! “This just gets better and better.” Andromeda took a Cuban cigar out from under her jacket.

“I thought you quite?” Hillshire asked as she lit it with a match, they tasted better that way.

“Yeah, I did, but then some arsehole put me on a plane, I fucking hate flying. And they fucking shipped me to Iraq.”

Hillshire went back into the Officers Club and Andromeda decided to go for a walk to clear her head. After about five minutes, she found herself at the mess tent. Now’s a good a time as any to get a feed I guess.

Half the people inside were smoking, one using an old fashioned pipe, and Andromeda was relieved that she wouldn’t have to put out her cigar. There were only six people including the two cooks, one of the other four was Omega. The red haired woman picked up a tray and strolled over to the buffet where she found some rather unappetizing food. She scrutinised the food before selecting what could only be powdered mash, though it had the texture of porridge, and some kind of leathery stake from god knows what animal. The horrible thing was that these were the most appetising dishes available.

Omega saw Andromeda and waved her over to his table, he was sitting alone, and the only patron not smoking. Taking a seat across form him, she noticed he had the same appetising meal as her.

“You’d better eat up; this’s one o’ their better days.” Omega told her, referring to the cooks’ abilities.

“Fucking fantastic,” Andromeda replied dryly trying to cut into the meat, bending the knife. Swearing, Andromeda drew the combat knife Anthony had bought, a gift to cheer her up one day. With its laser cut edge, there was very little it couldn’t cut through. Unfortunately, that short list included the leathery steak. She looked to Omega for help; he was simply tearing at the meat with his hands and teeth. Tasting the mash, simply flour and water Andromeda suspected, she decided to tear at the steak with her teeth as well.

“I can see ya like the food.” Omega said after finishing his mouthful, “so what’re the cyborgs like? Nice people?”

“Surprisingly normal actually, given their circumstances.” It was much easier eating the steak with your hands.

“You lookin’ forward to meetin’ me team tommora? I know I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ to know the rest o’ yer mob.”

“I suppose that’s the ‘further instructions’ that you mentioned earlier?”

“I’d forgotten ‘bout that actually. Yeah, I suppose these are me further instructions. How’s 0700 for ya, reveille’s at 0600, an hour should give enough time to get all yer morning lady stuff an’ breakfast done, hey?”

“Don’t start with that sort of shit, I’m former special ops, grew up in a military family, and spent twenty one years in the service. I could be ready in fifteen minutes, bathed, breakfasted and armed. Dunno about the rest though, better give them an extra half hour on top the hour you gave ‘em already.”

“So ya do have a sense o’ humour, albeit a bit’ve a weird one. This might be fun after all. You’d probably get on well with Vulpes an’ Arronax.”

“Who?”

“Oh, that’s right, I’ve not introduced you yet, have I. Those nice men at the other table ruining their lungs like you,” He pointed at Andromeda’s cigar. “Vulpes’s the burned guy an’ Arronax’s the china man.”

“I’ve told you before I’m Chinese American you bloody potato muncher.” Arronax shouted, he sounded like he had recently been punched in the throat, though that could be due to the deep scar across his throat, from jugular to jugular. He was a short man, probably only five, five and a half foot, with a round face and a short black pony tail sticking out the back of his head.

“Settle down you twat, he’s just joking, you know his sense of humour’s absolutely shit. So if we don’t get any jobs next week, you wanna invite the newbies to a barbie? I’ll cook.” Vulpes was a frail looking man; he didn’t look like he could hold an assault rifle, let alone fire one without breaking an arm. His sleaves were rolled up revealing arms with burn scars that matched those on his face. His white buzz cut hair and equally white scruffy moustache made him look older than Andromeda suspected he was. He also had a stereotypical Crocodile Dundee Australian accent, likely he was faking it. And he was the one with the pipe.

“Yeah alright, why don’t you invite Scar Face over there now? The one boss man’s talking to.”

“Okay,” Vulpes turned around and unnecessarily shouted out, “Oi! Scar Face; wanna join us for a barbie? I can guarantee that the sausages will taste better then this shit.”

“You’ve seen what we have to work with back here; we should get Nobel Peace Prizes for what we do manage to churn out,” one of the cooks shouted form the kitchen part of the tent, waving a spatula.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it all before.” Vulpes shouted back, then to Andromeda, “so you in Scar Face?”

“Alright, Burney, I’ll be there, though it’s probably safest you don’t call me any names in front of my cyborg, or she’ll break your legs at the very least.” She turned back to Omega, “who’s the third guy?”

“That’s Big Bird. An’ his past ain’t none o’ yer business. But he’s a blood thirsty mother fucker, good at questionin’ people.” Omega was smiling like an idiot at that last remark.

Big bird was a tall man with a scar going down the left side of his face and running into his black pointed beard. His hair was quite curly and run down the back of his head like a mane. The only word Andromeda could use to describe him was dashing.

“They have a lot of scars,” Andromeda observed.

“I hand picked ‘em me self. They’ve all been in the shit, so I know they can handle themselves. Them scars are proof o’ that. I’d even trust me life, me wife’s life, an’ the life of me kids to any of ‘em.” Omega said proudly.

“You have a family?”

“No, but that’s not the point. They. Are. The. Best. I dare ya to find anyone better.”

“You’re looking at her Smiley McGee. I reckon the Cyborgs are probably better too.”

Omega picked up his fork and pointed at Andromeda, “I like you.”


* * *
Friday 9th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1800 hours, Charlie time



Andromeda made her way to CO’s office after her dinner with Omega. The desert was cold at night and several barrels with fires in them had been set up for the sentries patrolling the camp. A couple of the sentries were playing with the bayonets on their rifles, pretending to have a sword fight or something, Andromeda disapproved of their behaviour but said nothing, she wasn’t their superior, so it was none of her business.

Andromeda rapped on the door upon arriving at the CO’s office.

“Enter,” Capitaine Zalko crisply replied from the other side.

Andromeda found the Capitaine seated at her desk doing paperwork. Her half glasses complimented her handsome face, making her seem wise and learned. “Ah, Miss Brandt. Please take a seat,” she said after looking up from her paper work. Andromeda accepted the invitation from the Russian woman and took the seat across form her. “Now what can I do for you my Italian friend?”

“Omega gave me some reading suggestions, the files on his team to exact,” Andromeda replied.

“You sound like you have been talking to Omega alright. My guess would be that his two miscreants Vulpes and Arronax were also in attendance. I tell you, Big Bird is the only redeemable one of the lot, and only because he reminds me of a younger me, minus the ambition.” Capitaine Zalko walked over to a filing cabinet and quickly produced four files. “Here you go,” the Capitaine said sliding the files across her desk and taking a seat.

Opening the first file, Omega’s, the first thing Andromeda noticed was how much black ink there was. The only thing not black inked was his call sign and picture. It was the same as the others. “Well that was a short read,” Andromeda muttered throwing down the last file, Vulpes’.

“Funny, Omega said the same thing when he read you and your comrade’s files.”

A thought occurred to Andromeda, “have the others members of Omega’s team read our files?”

“No. why?”

Andromeda rested her elbow on the table and rested her face on the adjoining hand, sighing, “He must think I’m in charge. I’ll have to clear that up the next time I see him.” Andromeda sighed again, “I suppose we should sort out this thing with the uninformed troopers.”

“Your boss is against this by the way. I believe his exact words were ‘need to know basis only’.”

“Fuckinghell Jean,” Andromeda muttered under her breath, then said aloud, “He can shove his secrets up his arse. Your men need to bloody know to prevent any further incidents.”

“That’s an unprofessional opinion about your boss, but I do agree with you, I’d hate to have another incident with you yelling at my bartender.”

“You hear about that?”

“Every one has by now. Word travels fast here.”

“Well, let’s get started.”

When Andromeda and the Capitaine finally finished going through what they had decided to tell the troops, it was nearly midnight, and time for bed.


* * *
Friday 9th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1900 hours, Charlie time



The cyborgs had decided to go to the Mess Tent since they were hungry and they weren’t going to wait on the Handlers anymore, who were still at the Officers Club, the bunch of drunkards. There was no one in the Mess Tent save for the cooks, who were playing cards at one of the tables.

The three cyborgs walked over to the buffet, Triela taking the lead, and examined the ‘food’ laid out in front of them. Didn’t matter how unappetizing it looked, Victoria would try anything once, so she grabbed a little of everything. Triela decided on a steak and powdered mashed potatoes, and Mercedes grabbed a steak also, some kind of noodle stuff and some hard bread that more than likely had concrete in it.

The others had already began trying to cut through their steaks when Victoria sat down, and seeing her friends difficulty, Victoria thought her teeth would do a better job, which they did.

“You know Victoria, one day you’re going have tell us how you got Jean to buy you a shotgun,” Triela said, resuming the conversation they had not finished in their tent, “the only person I’ve known Jean to buy things for is Claes and occasionally Rico.”

“Sorry, Triela, but Imma take that secret to my grave, or at least till I’m very drunk to blurt it out,” which was true. It was true that Jean normally only bought things for Claes, only because she herself had no Handler, and Rico, because he was her Handler, but Andromeda had known Jean prior to joining with the Agency, saved his life even. That and the fact that he didn’t want anyone else to know that he was going out with Ferro. Andromeda and Victoria had walked in on them at a restaurant when celebrating Victoria’s birthday – that had been an interesting night – but the short story was that Jean owed them a couple of favours.

“Fine then,” Triela said, sounding slightly annoyed know, she had been trying to find out what Victoria had done to get Jean to buy her something for the past half hour. The blond was still trying to cut the steak with her knife; she didn’t like eating with her hands unless unavoidable, even though it was in this case. Mercedes however, was devouring her steak, that was the only word for it, like a ravenous animal.

Victoria preferred the steak, in a similar way to preferring a bullet wound to a machete wound, though she was wise enough not to comment while the cooks were present.

“So,” Mercedes interjected, “you guys wanna head to the Officers Club after dinner?”


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:05

Section 3.
Spoiler:


Saturday 10th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 0600 hours, Charlie time



All within the tent assigned to the SWA personnel awoke at the sound of reveille. Both Barry and Mercedes grumbled about it being too early – Victoria had never seen Mercedes up earlier than 7:30, and that had only happened twice. It only took a couple minutes for Andromeda and Victoria to get dressed and cleaned, Andromeda had military discipline which she had passed on to Victoria, kind of. Apparently Andromeda had made some sort of bet with Omega, which was the cause for her rush; Victoria simply didn’t want to waste any time. Breakfast seemed to consist of burnt toast, powdered egg, and whatever hadn’t been eaten the previous night.

At 0700 hours, the Fratelli met Foucheur team at the firing range.

“Welcome initiates,” Omega said grandly spreading his arms, the rest of his men sat on the sandbags behind him, a burnt man, a Chinese man, and a handsome man, “I’ll give ya all a chance to prove to me that yer fit fer me team. If ya happen to prove yerselves worthy, the rest of yer military career after time on my team’ll be a cake walk.” He waved his hand and pointed to the handsome man, “this’s Big Bird, a psychopath an’ me second in command, he give’s ya an order, ya follow it.” Omega pointed to the Chinese man, “this nice fella who got his throat slit, he’s Arronax, me medic, an’ a bit of a know-it-all. Ya don’t have to follow his orders.” Omega pointed to the final man, the burnt one, “and last but not least, Vulpes, me skinny, flame grilled demolitions man. Ya don’t have to pay any attention to him neither.” Omega put his hands behind his back making him somehow seem taller. “First thing’s first, start running laps around the camp, don’t stop till ya can’t run no more.” He waited for a moment as the SWA personnel looked at him in puzzlement, “Well? What’re ya waiting fer, run!”

All six started off at a brisk jog, until omega shouted after them two seconds later, “did I say jog, now fuckin’ run!” Mercedes, Triela and Victoria quickly overtook their Handlers; Omega did say to run after all. Victoria estimated the distance around the camp was about fifteen hundred metres. The Handlers had all pulled out after the first lap and a half. After fourth lap, Victoria noticed that Triela was begging to fall behind her and Mercedes, not because she was getting tired, far from it, Second Gens were simply faster was all. Being the polite person she was, Victoria slowed her pace to match Triela’s and Mercedes soon did the same. It was about that time that the cyborgs noticed a crowd gathering at the firing range.

“Hey Triela, what do suppose is going on?” Victoria pointing to the crowd of people they had just passed.

“Dunno. Let’s ask.” Triela took out a pad and pencil and began writing something down. “Have you got any of those throwing spikes on you?” It pained Victoria to no end that Triela referred to her shuriken as ‘throwing spikes’, but Victoria didn’t bother to correct her senior, it hadn’t done any good in the past.

“Of course, I never leave the Agency without them; I’ve worn at least four the whole time we’ve been here. Why?”

“I haven’t noticed any,” Mercedes said and immediately after, Triela said, “me neither.”

“That’s because you haven’t been paying enough attention.” Victoria flicked her wrist to produce a shuriken, and flipped it around in her hand, “what did you want it for?”

Triela handed Victoria the note she had scrawled, “I want to ask what’s going on, and Omega did say not to stop until we can’t run any more.”

“I see what you’re getting at.” Victoria took the note and tied it to the shuriken. On their next pass, Victoria steeled herself, Anthony, her Sensei in the art of shuriken jitsu, had always recommended trowing them from a stationary position if possible, but Victoria didn’t understand why, she’d thrown them while running plenty of times without a hitch. This time however was different, when she threw it, underarm and to the side, she stumbled and had to do a front flip to avoid breaking her neck or some other vital appendage, Victoria now understood Anthony’s warnings.

“Show off,” Triela accused.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Victoria said defensively, “It was that or break a limb or something else important.”

“Sorry but I agree with Triela on this one, Victoria,” Mercedes said, frowning.

“It does give me an idea though,” Triela mussed, “Omega said he wants to see what we’re made of, so why don’t we show him.”

“Good thinking Ninety Nine,” Mercedes said in a strange voice.

“What’s that mean?” Triela asked curiosly.

“It’s a reference to an old TV program called Get Smart; it’s about a spy and his sidekick. Her name was ninety nine, and she was basically the brains of pair, and he would say ‘Good thinking Ninety Nine’ whenever she had a good idea.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment then. You watch way too many movies by the way.”

“It’s part of my training, so take it up with Barry.”

When the trio approached the crowd, omega extended his hand and Triela snatched the note out of it. She read the note, and then chuckled a little.

“What’s so funny?” Mercedes asked.

“They’re putting bets on how long we can keep running. The longest is another three laps. I think we could go for another few laps. Victoria, how long do you think we can keep running?”

“Well, our average speed is about 40 kph, which translates to 11.11 m/s. The distance per lap is about 1500m, it’ll take 135.01 seconds, or 2.15 minutes a lap. That means we’re gonna have to run for another six and a half minutes. We should each put €200 into the pot because we could easily run for another twenty minutes, and thus, win a lot of money.”

“You are a show off; you know that,” Triela commented, “the betting thing is a good idea though.” Triela wrote another note and handed it to Victoria. This time, to avoid tripping over, Victoria did a flip and threw the shuriken mid air, no tripping over this time.

“You are showing off. Are you trying to impress someone or something?” Triela asked mischievously.

“You guys want a drink,” Mercedes interrupted, offering her whiskey flask to the other two cyborgs.

“No thanks. You know that’s just going to dehydrate you, right?” Triela said, Victoria simply shook her head; she didn’t really like whiskey anyway.

Mercedes took a quick swig and returned her bottle to its hiding place. “Your loss. Anyway, you guys wanna show our mettle next lap or are we gonna continue making fun of Victoria.”

“We’ll start small,” Triela suggested, it wasn’t really a suggestion, more just telling them what was going to happen, “and slowly build up from there. A front flip to begin with I think.”

On their next pass all three lined up, Triela taking the lead and Mercedes bringing up the rear. A simple front flip was all they did, nothing special, but as the day wore on, the tricks escalated. Eventually they were jumping on their hands, launching themselves into the air, and shooting the silhouettes behind the crowd. By midday, Omega had stepped in their path and told them to stop running, “If yer not tired yet, then ya won’t in be in any of our missions.” He began rifling through he pocket, “oh yeah, here’s yer winnin’s. Seven hundred each.” He handed them the money, “Oh, and Vulpes wanted me to extend ya an invite to the barbeque on Thursday; you in? He’s a pretty good cook.”

“Alright, we’re in,” Triela said speaking for all of them.

“Alrighty then, Big Bird.” Omega said to his NCO

The handsome man stood up and barked, “Form up!”

The Foucheur initiates lined up into to two rows of three, cyborgs up front, Handlers in the back, and the Legionnaires who had gathered to watch the running quickly dispersed as if scared of the man.

“Alright then,” Omega began, pacing back and forth in front of them, “Firstly, I’ve heard a little of Scar Face’s past, an’ that she was an NCO in whatever army she heralds from. I don’t really care which, but the point is she’s got experience, so she’s in charge o’ team two, which consists of her, Hillshire, and Barry. Grangratulations Scar Face – that’s ya call sign now by the way – yer me newest NCO. Secondly, Triela, that’s you isn’t it blondie,” Triela nodded when he pointed to her, “I noticed ya seemed to be in charge when ya was all runnin’ ‘round, with them others deferrin’ to ya in all that.” How could he possibly know that? Victoria wondered. “Ya will be me other new NCO, an’ in charge of team three, that consist of you an’ the other two cyber chicks. Ya code name shall be…” Omega rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Shortie, because you’re the shortest. I think that’s all. Big Bird?”

“Okay maggots,” Big Bird barked, “PT time! Two hundred fifty push ups to start with!”

* * *
Sunday 11th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 0600 hours, Charlie time



Reveille sounded. The Foucheur team initiates roused from their slumber, which had been especially deep due to the previous day’s physical training, even Andro…Scar Face took a little time getting up. Omega had ordered them to go to the firing range at the same time as yesterday, in full combat gear this time. Scar face didn’t use the standard issue SCAR-H like the other Handlers; she instead used a F2000 just like Victoria’s. Tri- Shortie had her bayonet tied behind her and a bandolier over her shoulder for her shotgun ammunition; somehow she still managed to get her SIG in its shoulder holster even with a Kevlar vest on. Mercedes had both her Skorpions in holsters on her hip, her Mk. 23 on a holster on her vest, and her M200 slung over her shoulder. Victoria however had a menagerie of weapons to put on, her MAG-7 strapped to her right thigh, F2000 hanging from a single connections sling on her vest, M93 in a holster on her left to be gripped by her right hand, the M92 right under that, but for the left hand, and no less than eighteen shuriken concealed under her garments, plus ammunition for all and a number of grenades.

When they arrived at the range, slightly later than the other day, Victoria noted the presence of a flatbed truck before Big Bird barked the order to form up. The initiates lined up just as they had the previous day.

“Mercedes,” Omega began grandly, he seemed to be pretty full of himself, “when we first met, ya told me ya could hit a target from nine hundred metres on the back of a truck. Imma take ya up on that. C’mon, on the truck.” Mercedes climbed on to the back of the truck, Omega climbed the back of the truck with Mercedes, “Arronax, ya drivin’.” Arronax climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine and Omega turned to Vulpes and Big Bird, who seemed to be weighing and measuring the initiates with their eyes, “you two’re in charge, put ‘em through their paces, tell me what they’re like when I get back.”

“Yessir,” the two said in unison.

“Alrighty then, Arronax, one click out.”

“Yessir,” the round faced man replied.

* * *
Mercedes was nervous, sure she talked big, but the truth was that she had never made a shot of further than six, maybe seven hundred metres. She could probably pull it off, but the ground ahead seemed very bumpy, the winds seemed favourable however, so it might work.

“Ya look a bit nervous,” Omega observed.

“Nah, I’m fine.” Mercedes lied confidently.

“Yer a terrible liar. Don’t worry, take yer time getting yer gun cleaned an’ the like. We’ll be stoppin’ in a minute anyway. When we get going again we’ll circle ‘round the range so the left side of the truck faces it.”

When the truck stopped, Omega climbed into the cabin and Mercedes got out her cleaning kit. She took apart her rifle and made sure every part was properly cleaned and lubricated, which took about twenty minutes. Mercedes reassembled her M200, laid out a mat to avoid getting dust on her rifle, and lay at a forty five degree angle to the rifle, feet dangling over the edge of the flatbed. “I’m ready sir,” She called out.

“Alrighty Arronax, ya heard the lady. Let’s get movin’.” Omega ordered, then to Mercedes, “ya target is the one with duct tape ‘round its head.”

“Yes sir.” Arronax responded and Mercedes just gave him a thumbs up.

The truck started up again. Mercedes checked the laser range finder on her rifle, 983m, and adjusted her telescopic sight accordingly. Elevation above target: 0m. Mercedes compensated by aiming slightly above the target. The path was not as bumpy as she had expected, so adjusting her aim was slightly easier. Mercedes checked over her calculations several more times taking long enough for the truck to circle around, then took a deep breath, squeezed the trigger…

* * *
After Arronax, Mercedes and Omega left, Big Bird and Vulpes had set the remaining initiates to target practice. They wanted to see how good a shot they were.

About ten minutes in, Vulpes came up to Victoria, “you ever used a SAW before?”

“What’s a SAW?”

“It stands for Squad Automatic Weapon.”

“I don’t believe I have, no.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said running off in the direction of the armoury. When he returned, he had one of the M240s she had seen before and a large ammo box. He handed the machine gun to Victoria.

“Alright,” he began, “this is the M240 Squad Automatic Weapon, it has a fire rate of 750 – 950 rounds a minute and uses a standard NATO 7.62 by 51mm round with a muzzle velocity of 853 m/s.” he pulled open the top and started to show Victoria how to load it, “it uses a two hundred round disintegrating M13 linked belt.” He handed the weapon to Victoria and kicked the ammo box, “there a four more belts in here. I assume you know how to use a reflex sight?” Victoria nodded, “Okay then, let’s begin. Fire it in burst of about four or five seconds.” Vulpes took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Victoria.

“What’s wrong with you, I’m only sixteen,” she responded incredulously, well I look sixteen at least, regularly anyway, I look about twenty three or four at the moment, I should probably try not to forget that. “I can’t smoke!”

“Alright, alright, just trying to be nice. Besides, you look about twenty odd. Get back to your shooting.” He barked the last part.

Victoria looked down, or rather through, the reflex sight, and was surprised to find it was a telescopic sight as well with a single red dot in the middle. She picked her target, and fired the first burst, and a second, and a third; it was nice not to have to reload after thirty rounds. Kind of exiting really, she enjoyed firing 7.62 rounds but rarely got the opportunity. When Victoria had finished off the second belt, there was a great gaping hole in her target. As Victoria was loading the third belt in to her M240 the torso of the silhouette with the tape around its head erupted into splinters. Victoria wasn’t the only one to see it; everyone else stopped what they were doing and looked at the truck as well.

* * *
Mercedes couldn’t believe it, she actually made the shot! Jesus Christ is on my side today! She sat up and laughed, it didn’t matter if she lost an arm, today would still be a great day. Hell yeah! I’m a fucking match for Rico. She started pumping her arms in excitement, not caring if anyone saw her. She was moving, the target was moving, the road was bumpy, winds five hundred kilometres per hour in the other direction, or a combination of the lot, didn’t matter, she could hit it. “I am-” Mercedes never finished that sentence because she fell off the back of the truck, rolled several times, and blacked out.

When she came to, Mercedes didn’t open her eyes immediately, she could feel something pressing on her chest and there was a funny taste in her mouth, but not blood, she wasn’t sure what it was. She opened he eyes and concluded that Omega was giving her CPR. The tall man hadn’t noticed her eyes were open and was about to blow breath into her mouth again. She pushed him away and violently wiped her mouth with her sleeve and spat a lot, “don’t you ever brush your teeth, man. Tastes like something died in your mouth!”

“Gimme a break ya ungrateful fuck.” Omega stood up and began wiping dust off his uniform, “I thought ya had bloody died. Ya didn’t have a pulse ya or anythin’ stupid bitch. For Christ sake, I probably just saved ya goddamned life.”

“Bull fucking shit,” Mercedes growled back, getting up and whipping the dust off herself, checking for injuries and wounds at the same time, “I’ve had far worse falls then that, at least three stories,” which was an exaggeration of coarse, “and that wasn’t even the first fucking time I’d fallen off a moving vehicle. And you wouldn’t feel my pulse anyway,” the bashed her fist on her chest, “Kevlar skin and carbon fibre bones, there is no way in hell you’re gonna feel my pulse unless you rip out my still beating artificial heart. Did you even bother to check to see if I was breathing you dick head?”

“Well… no, but generally if some one don’t have a pulse they’re not breathin’.” Omega walked over and ruffled her hair, “well ya did do pretty good aside form fallin’ off the damn truck. An’ I do like ya liberal attitude of speaking to a superior officer abbusively. Just fer ya colourful language, I’ll let ya pick ya own call sign.”

Mercedes stroked her chin as if she had a beard, “I guess I’ll pick…Starbuck, from Battlestar Galactica.”

“Good choice,” Arronax said. Mer- Starbuck hadn’t realised he was there.

“Good, ya me new sharpshooter. Now let’s get you to the infirmary, no arguments, ya probably got a concussion or somethin’,” Omega said, punching Starbuck in the arm, she punched him back. He rubbed his arm in pain and laughed, “I like this one!” he took on a more serious expression, “I think we’re gonna have to give ya a different weapon, ammo fer ya current one may be a little difficult to come by in a tight spot. Ya can have one of the M14s in the armoury, no one else uses ‘em.”

* * *
Victoria’s M240 had run out of ammo by the time Omega, Mercedes and Arronax returned. Big Bird barked the order to form up as Arronax helped Mercedes to the infirmary, though Victoria suspected that the fall must’ve looked worse then it actually was.

“How’d they do?” Omega asked crossing his hands behind his back.

“These maggots would be lucky if I let them lick my boots,” Big Bird responded harshly, “they’re pathetic, sir.”

“Well then,” Omega said grandly to the initiates, “Big Bird gives ya the okay. Vulpes, you’ll gimme a straight answer, what’re they’re skill sets?”

“Hmm?” Vulpes scratched his head thoughtfully, “the girl’s not a bad shot with a machine gun, the pom’s a mediocre shot, but claims to be pretty good when it comes to computers and shit, and the kraut, I dunno what he’s good for, but we need another medic with all these extra people, so I say just give him some medical supplies. sir.”

“Then it’s settled, ya no longer initiates. Ms machine gun lady or Victoria, ya know known as Sandman. Mr Kraut or Hillshire, ya know known as…Frost; ‘cause I’ve yet to see ya smile. An’ last but not least, the Pom or Barry-

Barry interrupted the team lead, “can I pick my own call sign?”

“Of course, I see no reason why not?”

“Megatron,” the bald Brit answered proudly.

“That sounds kinda familiar.”

“My favourite character from Transformers.”

“Ah yes, I always preferred Optimas meself, but everyone’s different.” Omega spread his arms theatrically, “welcome to Foucheur team.”

* * *
Saturday 10th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1730 hours, Charlie time



Aside from the barkeep, Legionnaire 2e classe Saad Cronjae, or just plain Saad as he preferred to be called, and Sandman and Shortie the Officers Club was empty. Everyone else was at a briefing in the mess tent being conducted by Scar Face about the cyborgs. The whereabouts of the other SWA personnel were unknown to Sandman, except for maybe Starbuck; she was probably getting to know her new rifle.

The day had been warmer than usual, and it was getting the better of everybody’s tempers.

“Doing paperwork back at the Agency was boring and all, but at least there was air conditioning. I hate this heat,” Shortie said, leaning her elbows on the bar.

“Complaining about it is just gonna make it worse,” Sandman responded, “Besides, I hear it’s only gonna get hotter.” Sandman threw her last dart and hit the bullseye, again. She retrieved her darts and finished off her fifth beer; that stuff was quite nice, almost as good as wine. She offered the darts to Shortie, “You want a game?”

“No thank you. I’m not drunk enough to play a game I know I’m going to lose.”

“You’re never gonna be drunk enough at your current rate, you’ve been nursing that beer for the last three quarters of an hour.”

The blond harrumphed, “and I intend to keep it that way.”

“I don’t understand your problem; I like it here.”

“You were from Australia. Australia is hot. Chances are that ignorance of the heat is just one of those mannerisms that carried over from your previous life when they converted you.”

“I’m not talking about the heat. I dunno, I just feel at ease here. Hey Saad, could you give me another,” Sandman shook her now empty bottle. Saad slid a bottle across the counter and Sandman caught it, “thanks my man.”

“It’s probably because Scar Face feels so at ease here. She was in the army for a long time as I recall, perhaps a base full of soldiers is where she feels most at ease.”

Sandman felt a bit angry at that comment, but didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the beer. Maybe this should be my last one, I don’t want to cause a scene.

A large bald man walked in and didn’t notice the cyborgs at first; he just sat on a stall and ordered a pint of whiskey, which Saad refused to give him saying, “even if I did sell whiskey in that size, I would not give you any because you are already drunk.” It was true; the man’s words were badly slurred.

“I don’t fucking care at the moment,” the man replied disrespectfully, “just give me some whiskey.”

“You want some help, Saad,” Shortie offered.

“Oh for fuck sake,” the bald man began, his face was all red, not drunk red, angry red, “you fuckingbitch, how dare you bloody talk about me that fucking way, like I’m some kinda nuisance. Before that bloody Foucheur team moved in, I was the shit, every body looked up to me. Now they’ve forgotten all about me, all because of you damnedcunts.” He suddenly laughed and nearly fell off his stool, “Scare Face isn’t a bad looker though, if she’s lucky, well… I might letter her fuck me, I might even…”

Under regular circumstances, Sandman probably would have ignored the drunkard, but, unlike her blond friend, Victoria was drunk as a skunk. The only thought running through her mind was, no one talks about Andromeda that way, this man must die! Sandman lurched forward and Shortie grabbed both her arms in a vice grip.

“C’mon then bitch, I could take you on easy. Right here, right now.” The drunkard boasted, bashing his fists against his chest.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH. I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU PEICEOFSHITMOTHERFUCKER!” sandman growled, the man had to die.

“Calm down Sandman,” Even though Shortie was a First Gen cyborg and considerably stronger, She still struggled to maintain her hold on Sandman, “this fool isn’t worth it.”

“FUCKING LET GO! I’M GONNA TEAR THIS SOULLESS BASTARD A NEW ARSE HOLE. I’M GONNA MAKE HIM BEG TO BE SENT TO THE BLOODY PITS OF HELL.”

It only took a brief lapse in concentration, a single moment, and Sandman was free of the First Gen. Sandman lunged at the drunkard, sending him crashing to the ground, and she heard and felt several bones break. She raised her fist to deliver another bone shattering blow, but something struck the back of her head and she blacked out.


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:07

Section 4.
Spoiler:


Unknown date – Camp Deuf infirmary – unknown time



When Sandman came to, the first thing she noticed was that she was in the infirmary, the second thing was that she was tied to the bed. As much as she struggled, she could not break free of the restraints. She would have muttered a curse but there was no moisture in her mouth.

The doctor came in and, noticing she was awake, grabbed a Styrofoam cup, filled it with water from the water cooler which seemed slightly out of place, and held the cup to her lips so she could take a drink.

“Thanks,” she muttered, a mutter was all she could manage, “could help me up please?”

“Sorry, Capitaine’s orders. ‘Till she’s sure you’re not going to try and kill another of her men, you’re stuck here.” He shined a light in her eyes and scribbled something down on the clipboard at the end of her bed. “That was a pretty impressive tackle though, lemme see if I can dig up Sergent Torp’s report. Be back in a sec.”

The infirmary was empty aside form Sandman and the doc, “If I nearly killed him, where is he?”

“Hold on a sec,” he lifted a file out of the filing cabinet and began reading it aloud, “no less than fifteen broken ribs, another three were cracked, dislocated left shoulder, fractured left collar bone, severe internal haemorrhaging, punctured lung, and a coma. He had to be sent back to France because we don’t have the facilities to house comatose patients. You must be pretty good at rugby. Anyway, I should go tell your friends you’re awake. Back in a sec.”

“Hold on doc, just before you leave, how long was I out?”

“‘Coarse, how could I bloody forget,” he slapped his forehead, “three days. Your blond haired friend, Shortie I think she’s called that, anyway, she must be pretty good at rugby too, knocked you out cold.” You would have thought the doc was saying the weather was pleasant. How could say that so casually! Jesus Christ, three bloody days!

Omega walked in and didn’t even notice that Sandman was awake and began talking to the doc, “hey there Doc, how’s she doin’”

“Ask her yourself,” the doc gestured to Sandman before departing. Omega saw her and looked very relieved, “Christ it’s good to see you awake.”

“Good to see you to sir. You wanna untie me please?” Sandman gestured at her restraints with her head.

“Well, the Capitaine did say not to untie ya till she says so, but me an’ her are the same rank, so doesn’t matter what she says to me.” Omega got down, and disappeared under the bed. A moment latter Sandman was free and Omega was crawling out form under the bed.

“Thanks, sir, it’s god to stretch the synthetic muscles.”

“You don’t have to call me sir when we’re off duty, like when ya’re in the hospital.”

“If you insist. By the way, I didn’t know you were a Capitaine.”

“There’s a funny story behind that actu-”

Omega didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence because Scar Face barged through the door. She looked and smelt like she hadn’t washed in a few days. As soon as the scar faced woman spotted Sandman, she sprinted to the cyborg and hugged as if she never wanted to let go, when Scar Face finally did let go she began babbling frantically. “Thank god you’re okay, I was worried sick,” Sandman was certain her Handler was drunk, she could smell the alcohol on her breath. According to Scar Face’s brother, she had only ever gotten drunk once and was very, very depressed at the time.

“I’m fine, just a little hungry. Besides, I’m sure Jean would have been able to get you a replacement if anything happened to me.” As soon as the words were out of Sandman’s mouth, she knew it was the wrong choice of words.

“NO! You’re not fucking expendable; any son of a bitch that says otherwise can go burn in hell! You’re like a goddamned sister to me.” Her grip tightened as the tears built up in her eyes.

Sandman was still a little puzzled by her Handlers behaviour; she thought depressed people were meant to be melancholy, not cry and shout.

Scar Face collapsed on the spot, still sobbing, clutching Sandman tightly. Her grip began to loosen, until she fell asleep.

Sandman just stood there in bewilderment, Scar Face’s sleeping form crouched on the floor in front of her. All she could think to do was carry her sleeping Handler to an unoccupied bed.

“How should I take that?” Sandman asked to no one in particular, placing her hands on top of her matted hair.

“As a compliment,” Omega answered, “that’s the simplest way to put it. Don’t look now, but ya friends are comin’”

The doc came in followed by the other members Foucheur team, even the senior members. All of them said how relieved they were that she was finally awake.

“Alright everyone, get out! She needs her rest.” Omega did his best to heard out the crowd.

“Actually sir, if it’s okay with the doc, I’d like to get back to work,” Sandman said.

“Doc, she okay to work?” Omega inquired

“Aside from a mild concussion, she’s in perfect health as far as I can tell. Just keep her on light duties.” The doc jested.

“‘Kay, ya can come along, Sandman.”

They decided to leave Scar Face in the infirmary, after all, according to Omega she hadn’t slept in the three days Sandman was out.

* * *
Tuesday 13th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1300 hours, Charlie time



The cyborgs were all at the firing range familiarizing themselves with their new weapons, well Starbuck was anyway. Shortie was teaching Sandman how to use a shotgun properly.

“I’m sorry about the other day, Sandman,” Shortie admitted

“No, no you did the right thing. I was the one that was out of line.” Sandman admitted in return

“Even so, I still feel guilty; I shouldn’t have hit you so hard.”

“Don’t, from what I hear you did the right thing. I nearly killed the guy just by tackling him; you didn’t know what else to do so you took a swing at me, I’d probably have done the same.”

“That’s not the point,” Shortie looked Sandman in the eyes and her voice became iron, “I’m the oldest of the cyborgs, have the most responsibility, and am looked up to by everyone, even the Second Gens. I can’t afford to make mistakes like that, and you can’t use the argument that I’m only human, because I’m not. I should be able to control myself better; I left one of my comrades incapacitated because of a moment’s hesitation. I am the one that has to be sorry, not you. You were drunk as a skunk, which I shouldn’t have let you get anyway; you’re hot headed when you’re drunk. Now let’s get back to your training.”

* * *
Hillshire, or Frost as he was to be known for the remainder of his time with the Legion, was going to ask Triela, or Shortie, something but decided he didn’t want to interrupt her and Sandman’s training, and had heard their entire conversation. Shortie sounded too much like she had when she had been defeated by Pinocchio. He would have to address this soon, but not now, better to let her cool off first. Maybe tomorrow.

* * *
Wednesday 14th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 0600 hours, Charlie time



Reveille sounded, the SWA personal got up, dressed, and proceeded to walk to the mess tent. Frost – it was still weird for Hillshire to think of himself that way – was beginning to get used to the camp’s food, but that didn’t mean he liked it, and he knew his charge didn’t either. He stopped Shortie – it was just as weird thinking of Triela as Shortie now as it was for himself as Frost – halfway to the mess tent by tapping her on the shoulder.

“Hmm, you need something?” the blond asked.

“We need to talk,” he said carefully, “I heard what you told Sandman yesterday.”

“What of it?” The girl sounded a little sulky.

“Are we going to have a repeat of the Pinocchio incident?”

“This is completely different from that. Then I was beaten by a regular man, this time I knocked out another cyborg for three day, three goddamn days! I should be better than tha-”

“This speech is along very similar lines to the one you gave after the first Pinocchio incident. Perhaps we need to go back to the Agency, I’m sure the others can handle the work here.”

“That would only make matters worse; I can’t go back until the job is done.”

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Certain.”

* * *
Wednesday 14th August 2009 – 40km east of Bagdad – 1130 hours, Charlie time



This was the new Foucheur team’s first mission, a simple raid true, but a mission none the less. Three Taliban were hiding out in a small hut in the middle of nowhere and allegedly had ties to the arms dealers Foucheur was hunting. Starbuck and Omega had been tasked with providing sniper support from the top of an unusually tall sand dune to the south, Big Bird, Arronax and Megatron sat on standby with a pair of Renault Sherpas, and the remainder made up the breach team. Scar Face, Vulpes and Frost were covering the east entrance ensuring no one escaped and Sandman and Shortie were breaching from the west. Sandman was on the left side of the wooden door with her MAG-7 and Shortie sat by the other side of the door with her own shotgun. Both shotguns were loaded with bean bag rounds instead of their usual 12 gauge buckshot.

The microphone in Shortie’s ear crackled, “Everybody in position?” Omega asked.

“Ready,” Scar Face responded

“Ten four,” Big Bird said

“Yessir,” Shortie replied.

“Alright, breach team, move in,” the team lead ordered

Shortie kicked in the door and took in everything in a single moment. Two Iraqis sat at computers of some sort while the third was gawking at the AS50 in his hands. The breach team would have to be careful of the computers, they may contain valuable information and the AS50 was also out of bounds, its serial number would have to be taken to be traced, everything else however could be destroyed at their leisure.

Shortie fired at the chest of the Closest Iraqi, one of the men on the computer, and instead of chambering another round in her shotgun, she moved out of the door way, allowing Sandman to engage the Iraqi on the other computer. A swift kick to the chest left the man with the .50 cal sniper gapping for air. Shortie looked over and the third man sprawled in the corner, unconscious after receiving a round to the head from Sandman.

“Clear,” Shortie called out over the radio, “Zero hostiles KIA.”

Omega responded immediately, “Scar Face, move ya team in and begin checkin’ the place over. Frost, check the Iraqi’s vitals. Support team, bring the jeeps in.”

“Grab those computes and the rifle,” Scar Face ordered when her team came in, then to the cyborgs, “Nice work, I reckon you guys did that in about five or six seconds, good time that.”

“Thank you, ma’am,”

“You don’t have to call me ma’am you know Shortie, we’re on equal footing while we work under Omega.”

“Their vitals are good,” Frost said, getting up from the last unconscious figure, “they’ll wake up in a couple of hours, except for that guy,” he pointed at the one Shortie had kicked, “I give him half an hour.”

“You’re either hitting too hard or not hard enough, ma’am,” Sandman teased.

“Very funny,” Shortie replied dryly.

A single shot was fired outside and everyone in the hut dropped to the floor and scrambled to the walls.

“What the fuck was that!?” Scar Face shouted into the radio.

She received laughter as a reply, “Tell Vulpes I got the meat fer his barbie tomorra. It’s camel by the way. Stupid bloody things.” Shortie was beginning to wonder whether or not Omega was a little insane.


Thursday 15th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1650 hours, Charlie time



With no missions today, Vulpes had set up his barbeque, which was not what Sandman had expected, though she didn’t know what she had expected. Vulpes’ barbeque was basically half an oil drum with a grill over the top and a bunch of coals in the bottom. The sausages currently cooking looked like they were burning, but that would just add to the flavour, or so Sandman thought.

Every one but Sandman and Vulpes was off doing something or rather, Sandman wasn’t really listening when they told her, she was learning how to cook on a barbeque. Much more important.

“You’ve got to remember to keep turning them so that not only do they cook on the inside, but they cook evenly on the outside as well,” Vulpes instructed.

“Got it.” Sandman relied absently, she was busy counting the seconds until the sausages have to be turned again.

“Once you’ve done this lot, I think I’ll let you do the next lot as well. However, try not to burn those ones; there are some weirdos that don’t like charcoal.”

“If you say so boss. Did you really spend all morning making sausages form the camel Omega shot the other day?”

“Of course, I’m insulted that you would ask such a thing.”

“You’re a shit liar, you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as I can shoot straight.” Vulpes pointed at one of the sausages on the end, “that one’s on fire.”

“Ohfuck!” Sandman grabbed the sausage with the tongs and threw it into the sand and stomped on it, “I’ll save that for the cooks, it should be on par with their usual gruel.”

“I think they’re done,” Vulpes commented.

Sandman grabbed a tray from under the barbie and started putting the sausages onto it.

“I’ll go get the rest,” Vulpes said as he went off the get the other sausages.

When he returned he had the second tray of sausages in one hand and a pair of beers in the other. “Here you go, snags and a beer.”

“Thanks, I needed a refreshment.”

Fifteen minutes later the rest of the gang returned, just in time for the second batch of sausages to be ready. For some reason only her, Vulpes and Omega seemed to like the burnt sausages, everyone else preferred the unburnt ones, strange people. It was nice not to eat something leathery or watery for dinner though.

By nightfall everyone but Omega, Vulpes and Sandman had left, there were still charcoaled sausages to eat after all; it would shame to waste them.

“Yer a very good cook ya know, maybe I should send ya to work in the mess tent. All of our meals could be of this calibre.” Omega complimented.

“Thank you, sir.”

“What’d I say about calling me ‘sir’ when we’re off duty.”

“Uh, sorry…Omega.”

“That’s better. I should go, Dominika’s gonna have me head if I don’t hand in the mission reports on time.”

“The Capitaine will have your head if she finds out your calling her by her first name again,” Vulpes warned.

“When ya right, ya right.”

Omega left and Vulpes began walking off into the desert. “Where are you going?” Sandman asked.

“Post mission procedure, you coming?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come along and find out.”

“Uh, yeah alright.”

Sandman run after him and matched his pace. Vulpes stopped when a sand dune hid them both from view of the camp and he lay down on the spot. “You see, after every mission I come out here, and fall asleep watching the stars and smoking my pipe.” He took out his old fashioned pipe, tapped it on his boot to knock to old ashes out, stuffed some tobacco in, and lit it. The first stars were just now appearing, “why don’t you come take a seat?”

Sandman lay down next to him, a good pace away for propriety’s sake, and took a final sip out of her beer, she had made it last.

“The desert is the best place to go star gazing,” Vulpes informed her, waving his pipe around, “you know that. There are very few clouds and very little light pollution.”

Sandman put her now empty beer bottle in the sand and put her hands behind her head.

“why do you smoke cigarettes and a pipe?” Sandman inquired, “Why not just one or the other?”

“Pipe tobacco can be difficult to come by out here, regular cigarettes aren’t.” Vulpes took his pipe out his mouth and pointed it at the sky, “You see that red star, that’s Mars,” he gestured in a different direction, “and that one there is Venus.”

“How can you tell the difference between the stars and the planet? I mean, I can understand how you can tell which is Mars, it’s red, bright one, easy to spot, but Venus looks like all the rest.”

“Well, you see, if you look at a star it twinkles, but if it doesn’t twinkle, it’s a planet.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“From what I hear, you’re a pretty smart cookie. If you ever get bored with anti terrorism, you should go into astronomy.”

“I prefer atomic physics personally.”

“Perhaps you could compromise and go into astrophysics.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway, I couldn’t quit if I wanted to. Besides I won’t live long enough to finish my doctorate.”

“What do you mean?”

“The average lifespan of a Second Gen cyborg is about seven years, and I’ve already been through one of them.”

“You mean they convert you to a cyborg, train you to kill, and then set you to doing that for the rest of your now shortened life?”

“Not quite, all of the girls that get converted had no living relatives and some kind of crippling or life threatening injury. And while it is true that we must do whatever we’re told because of the conditioning, but that just means that we die with a clean conscience, knowing that we had no control over our actions. Now I’m not one to believe in destiny and all that other shit, but this is my purpose in life. I was designed to be a killer, just like nature designed the lion to be a killer. So do not pity me or the others, and don’t say you don’t because I can see it in your eyes. I’m not certain about the other girls, but I know if I had not been converted, I would be dead. I was in a car accident you see, both my parents were killed in the crash and I was crushed from the chest down…”

“You mean you remember that!” the moustached man asked incredulously.

“No, none of the girls remember anything from their past. I was told by my Handler. Long story short I would be dead if not for the Agency, I owe them my life.”

The pair simply lay there for the rest of the night, in silence, staring up at the stars.

* * *
Friday 16th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1910 hours, Charlie time



Sandman and Vulpes sat at the bar nursing their beers. The burned man was holding an ice pack to his face; he had just lost a fight in the pit, and five euro.

“I didn’t think he had it in him,” Vulpes complained.

The fight had been most amusing to Sandman; Vulpes had challenged Saad, of all people. It wasn’t even something important, quite trivial in fact. Saad claimed that Vulpes owed him forty euro for a couple dozen of sausages, Vulpes claimed it was only thirty five and that what Saad suggested was outright extortion. The resulting fight, which under the Capitaine’s orders, was conducted in the pit, was short to say the least. Saad may not have looked it but he was a master of hand-to-hand combat, and a vicious right hook had ended the fight swiftly.

“Don’t be such a whiner,” Sandman did her best to cheer up Vulpes, “you didn’t know what his skills were; he was basically an unknown opponent.”

“You’re skills at cheering someone up suck. Hey, can you give me another beer, Saad?”

“Of coarse I can,” the barkeep replied cheerfully, sliding a bottle across the bar to the melancholy man.

“Just because you won doesn’t mean you have to rub it in.”

“I am not,” Saad replied simply, “you had me there for a while actually, your face really hurt my hand.” the barkeep’s smile split his face in two.

“Arsehole.”

“You shouldn’t give him such a hard time, Saad,” Sandman urged, “where did you learn to fight like that?”

Saad’s smile vanished, “My father, rest his pour soul, had insisted I take self defence classes when I was young. Being his only child and heir, he did not want anything to happen to me, and my country was such a dangerous place at the time.” Saad walked off and began serving another pair of Legionaries.

“Hey Sandman, yesterday after the barbie, you mentioned something about Second Gens, what exactly does that mean?” Vulpes still sounded down.

“It means Second Generation. You see, I’m part of the second generation of cyborgs to be converted, Starbuck is too. Shortie is part of the First Generation of cyborgs. The First Gens are stronger and more resilient, while the Second Gens are faster and more agile.”

“Oh…okay, if you say so,” he sounded kind of sceptical

“Why don’t we have a game of darts or pool, that should cheer you up, hey?”

“Nah,” if anything he looked worse than before.

“listen if it’s about the money, I’ll just give you the five you lost.”

“It’s not the money; it’s the principal of the thing. We had agreed on thirty five, not forty. Imagi-”

“Argh! There’s just no getting through to you is there, you men and your foolish bloody pride! You’re all fucking idiots!”

“What is her problem?” Saad asked Vulpes as Sandman stormed out, which only worsened her anger. On her way out she bumped into Starbuck.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” her olive skinned friend inquired.

“To kill something,” Sandman replied in an ominously quite voice.

* * *
Starbuck took a seat next to Vulpes who was holding an ice pack to his face, “What’s Sandman’s problem?”

“I dunno, she was muttering something about foolish men and our pride. Ask Saad if you want to know more, I wasn’t really paying attention.” Vulpes sounded upset about something.

“Yo, Saad, what’s Sandman’s beef?”

“I could only tell you what Vulpes told, she did not make much sense. Is she on her period or something?” Very occasionally Saad would say something he probably shouldn’t.

“Nah, she’s all electronics down there.” Starbuck held out her empty whiskey flask, “can get a refill?”

“Okay.” Saad took the flask and disappeared behind the counter.

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up wolf man,” Starbuck told Vulpes, “Saad can do it for you.” Vulpes didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. “Aww c’mon, if you can’t laugh at yourself there’s something wrong with you, man.”

“Just leave alone.”

“Sourpuss.”

Saad returned from behind the counter, “There you go. I assume you want it put on your tab?”

“Thanks, my man.” On that note, Starbuck left Vulpes to wallow in his sorrow; she was due for a chess game with the Capitaine after all. Chess was one of few things she really missed from the Agency; chess on Thursdays with Claes.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
avatar
Three Dog

Male

Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

Original Characters : Yes, and there are a lot (around 25-ish I think)

Comments : 42: Life is paradoxically coincidental to the ironical tyranny applicable to the unparalleled definition of the reverse entropy.

Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:08

Section 5.
Spoiler:


Friday 30th August 2009 – 13km south west of Al Kut – 1300 hours, Charlie time



The plan to ambush the arms dealer’s convoy was perfect, save one minor detail.

A pair of sniper teams was set up on either side of the shallow valley. The first consisted of Starbuck and Omega – he seemed to like being paired with her – and the second pair consisted of Vulpes and Megatron. Down in the valley, on either side of the road for two hundred metres, bouncing betty anti infantry mines were set to detonate at about tire hight. There was no cover in the valley, which was one of the beautiful parts of the plan, the remainder of Foucheur team lay buried under the sand with riot shields. The gist of the plan was that the mines would be detonated when the trucks were in between them, Shortie and Sandman would rush forward with their shotguns to incapacitate a few militants, while the four reaming operatives would provide cover fire. The sniper teams were there to take out anyone that broke off from the main pack or was immediate threat to the ground teams. The objective; to gain some leads on the arms dealers by taking prisoners. The one problem with the plan, the convoy was late it was meant to be here two hours ago.

“…I’m not sayin’ it’s a bad movie, just that it ain’t one of his best,” omega said in his defence, not bothering to look up from his Hecate.

“You are a deluded old man,” Starbuck accused, “for it’s time, Total Recall is one of Arnie’s better films.”

“I’ll have to disagree with ya on that point; his acting in that movie was shit.” Omega keyed his headset, “Look alive folks, convoy’s comin’. Four vehicles. Two tucks followed by an APC followed by another truck.”

Starbuck looked though her own sight and could only just make out the last truck in the dust cloud. The radio crackled and Vulpes’ voice came through Starbuck’s headset, “That’s a BMP unless I’m mistaken, boss.”

“Yeah, ‘tis. Be ready with the mines.”

“Yessir.”

“Ground team’s, you ready?” Omega asked.

“Affirmative,” that was that was Shortie.

Big Bird spoke up, “ten four, sir.”

“Remember not to kill ‘em all,” Omega reminded everyone, “Megatron wait two seconds after the BMP comes to a halt, then hit its cannon with the .50, we’ll see if we can take bend it before it can use it.”

“Roger.”

Starbuck kept her M14 trained on the first truck, and as soon as the rangefinder hit 600m the mines were detonated. Every vehicle skidded to a halt. At the same moment that militants began to exit the trucks – about twenty per vehicle – the ground team sprung up from the sand. These did not look like standard militants with Kalashnikovs, FALs and Uzis; they were instead armed with AUG A3s and P90s. Perhaps professional mercenaries?

Omega and Megatron fired at the BMP’s turret. It took four shots to render the gun inoperable. The hatches at the rear of the BMP opened and eight militants clad in black from head to toe and armed with XM8s exited the vehicle. One with a sword on his hip made a couple of signals with his hands. Two of the black clad militants run off in Vulpes and Megatron’s direction at inhuman speeds and another two run at Omega and Starbuck at the same speed. Omega only took a second to react, firing a 12.7mm round into the torso of the closest black clad man, who continued to run unfazed for a second after the round exited through his back, before stumbling and falling over after several more paces. Starbuck fired several rounds from her own weapon, but the remaining black clad man had seen what had become of his comrade and raised his arms. Starbuck’s 7.62mm rounds harmlessly impacted the man’s arms and weapon, wrecking it.

The moment of shock that washed over Omega and Starbuck was all the man needed to close the distance. He kicked Omega in the chest as he rose from the ground to meet his new opponent and Starbuck was sure she could hear his ribs breaking. The man then turned his attention to Starbuck, who was already standing and had never been very good at close quarters combat. He drew his trench knife form his boot and lunged at her. Even though Starbuck wasn’t good at close quarters combat, she was good at slight of hand – which was why no one ever wanted to play poker with her, not that she would cheat – so she ducked under him and took the Desert Eagle from his belt. Now she needed to create some distance to get out of range of his knife. As he recovered from his failed lunge, she leapt backwards, a good seven metres, landed hard on her back, and fired three rounds into his neck, accidentally hitting his right jugular vein, what a lucky shot! He did not die immediately, instead he ran at Starbuck again. How the fuck is he still moving?! She used her forearms to hold him at bay – he was almost as strong as she – while she fired the rest of the Eagle’s magazine into his face.

As Starbuck let the deceased black clad militant fall to the ground, she heard Omega’s laboured breaths and rushed to his aid.

“I’m fine, it’d take more’n a kick to take me out girly,” he said angrily as she helped him to his feet. It was sometimes difficult to tell when he was angry with that scar of his.

Starbuck first looked across to Megatron and Vulpes, who had finished off their black clad opponents about one hundred metres from them. She then looked to the ground team and saw that they had finished their job as well.

Omega keyed his headset, “Everyone okay?”

“Fine here,” Vulpes responded, “they’re some fast little shits.”

“Yeah, all fine on our end,” Shortie stated.

“Nothing serious,” Scar Face summarised, “Big Birds ego is the biggest casualty.”

“Nice gun,” Omega commented, pointing at the Desert eagle still in Starbucks hand, “why don’t you take his knife as well.”

“I’ve never been very good at close quarters combat, mediocre at best actually.”

“That there’s got like spiked knuckles as well as a knife, it’ll improve yer combat effectiveness.” Omega didn’t sound like he was making a joke

“Well, if you insist, Sir.”

* * *
Shortie and Sandman had been given a simple task, close the distance and incapacitate as many militants as possible. Only kill if necessary. Unfortunately only half the militants remained alive, and most of them probably wouldn’t make it; their flechettes had made short work of any body armour.

Shortie and Sandman had split and taken a side each. When Shortie reached the APC two militants dressed in black appeared from the back of the vehicle, one with a sword on his hip. The first man fired at her, his bullets harmlessly ricocheting off her riot shield, but the other man, the one with the sword, had closed the distance while Shortie was distracted and kicked her shield away. Shortie quickly ducked below the first mans field of fire to avoid another burst form his rifle, simultaneously she speared the sword man in the shoulder with her shotguns bayonet and used him as a human shield. Kicking him away she fired at the torso of the first man, he stepped back but seemed unfazed by the shot. She fired again, aiming for the head this time, and finally eliminated him. The man with the sword recovered from being thrown and levelled his rifle at Shortie’s head, unfortunately for him; he did not have enough distance to use the rifle effectively. Shortie thrust her weapons bayonet forward again, knocking the rifle out of his hands before he could fire it and delivered a bone shattering roundhouse kick to his head. Somehow the man was still breathing when he hit the ground, laboured breaths, but still breathing.

Realising there may be more of these super soldiers on the other side of the APC, Shortie rushed to the other side to assist Sandman. Sandman didn’t look like she required any hep though. One of her opponents lay on the ground, an unrecognisable red pulp where his face should be, and the other was being kicked around like a ball. Sandman herself was covered in blood so Shortie had to ask, “Are you hit?” after the fight was over.

“I don’t think so, hold on a sec,” she checked her self over, “fuck! Yeah I’m hit.” Sandman produced her leather man and began removing a bullet form her thigh, “that’s gonna sting the morning.”

Shortie looked around and saw there were no other militants left standing. Her headset crackle, it was Omega, “Everyone Okay?”

Vulpes was the first to respond, “Fine here, they’re fast little shits.”

“Yeah, all fine on our end,” Shortie told Omega.

“Nothing serious,” Scar Face responded, “Big Birds ego is the biggest casualty.”

A couple minutes later Omega was on the radio again, “form up at the front of the convoy.” When everyone was there, Omega began issuing orders, “Vulpes, police weapons. Starbuck, Shortie, search the trucks an’ the BMP. Frost, Big Bird, find the survivors, treat their wounds of necessary, an’ line up against the first truck. Everyone else is on lookout, but feel free to take a couple minutes to rummage through the corpses. C’mon, off ya go, ya wastin’ daylight.”

Starbuck was already searching the first truck by the time Shortie had turned around, so she moved on to the second truck. In the second truck, Shortie found one crate of VSS assault rifles and a crate of flame throwers. When she called it in, Omega sounded like a child on Christmas.

“Yer pullin’ me fuckin’ leg,” he said excitedly, “I been needin’ a VSS fer me collection fer years!”

“You don’t have to shout, sir. And what do you mean by collection?”

“I been a big fan of Russian weapons since I first fired a Kalashnikov. I got a big collection back at the camp; it’s mostly the more modern weapons I’m missin’ an’ some of the less used ones, like the LPO 50.”

I’ll probably regret this. “is that some kind of anti material rifle?”

“Nah, it’s a flame thrower. I’m hoppin’ its LPOs in that crate ya found.”

“Eight boxes of incendiary grenades and two crates of CZ 75s and another two of CZ 805s in the first truck,” Starbuck called out over the radio.

Shortie moved onto the APC and Starbuck to the final truck. Frost was dragging the man dressed in black with the sword that Shortie had knocked out and commented on how heavy he was.

“Would you like some help?” Shortie offered sarcastically.

“Since you mentioned it, I would actually like some help. Get over here and grab his shoulders.” Now she had done it, the conditioning prevented her from refusing or ignoring an order from any of the Handlers or other SWA personnel.

“You weren’t kidding, this guy is heavy,” the blond said as she grabbed the unconscious mans shoulders.

When she returned to the APC, Starbuck had finished searching the final truck. She claimed it contained a crate of MLG 140s and enough ammunition for every other weapon they had found to start a small war. The door to the APC was closed and locked; it seemed to need some kind of code to get in. “Hey Starbuck, could you help me pry the door open?” Shortie called out.

“Yes ma’am.”

The pair got a grip on the door as best they could and began trying to pull it open. After a moment, the locks gave way and both cyborgs fell backwards.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Starbuck commented.

“You’re younger than me,” Shortie pointed out.

“Then you’re most definitely too old for this shit.”

They searched inside but couldn’t find much besides an empty weapons rack and an encrypted GPS.

“Oi, Shortie,” it was Omega over the radio, “get over here, I got somethin’ fer ya.”

“Yessir.”

Omega was rummaging through the contents of the second truck when she found him. He didn’t bother to look at her, just held out the sword the man she had dragged over had been carrying, “here ya go.”

“What’s this?”

Omega stood up from what he was doing, stuffing loot into a sack from the looks of it. “It’s a sword, dumb arse.”

“I know that, but shouldn’t it be taken in as evidence or something?”

“I’m one of them people that believes rules are more like guidelines. The truth is, very little of this stuff around here is gonna be needed, so we take a little to supplement our low pay check. Starbuck got a new handgun and a knife, Sandman got…I’m not sure what she got, but she got something, an’ now yer getting’ a nice sword. After all, ya did take out the guy.”

“I doubt your pay check is that low, besides the guy is still alive.”

“An’ more likely than not he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison, so he won’t need it. It’s also an order by the way, in case ya decide to gimme any of that shite about stealin’ bein’ wrong.”

Shortie sighed, “If you insist, sir.”

“Good, now strap that to yer hip or back or wherever it’s gonna be more comfortable an’ go help Frost with the prisoners.”

“Yessir.”

When Shortie went to help Frost with the prisoners, he simply pointed to the previous owner of her new sword and told her to dress his wound, Frost seemed engrossed in removing flechettes from a man’s shoulder. She began by appraising his injuries, beside a concussion for the kick in the head he had received form her, the shoulder wound would be the worst injury, though there was surprisingly little blood. She removed his shirt and applied some battle field dressing, it would have to do for now, it was all she had. She thought she had better check his head injury as best she could so she took off his balaclava, and leapt backwards, drawing her pistol at the same time.

Those blue eyes, that blond hair, defined features. All of it was imbedded in her memory, the only person able to defeat her in single combat. Pinocchio. But how? How could he be here? Then it all clicked, their inhuman speed, remarkable strength, how they simply ignored their wounds. They were cyborgs! Illogical as that sounded, that was the only explanation that seemed to make any sense. But she had killed Pinocchio, it couldn’t be him. But it was. “It… it can’t be him, it just can’t, I fucking killed him. I fucking killed him!”

“What the hell are ya doin’?” omega demanded, taking his Stechkin out of its holster, “I don’t care what the fuck he mighta done, we need him alive.”

She just kept repeating herself; she didn’t know what else to do. “It can’t be him, I killed him. H-he’s dead…dead.”

Everyone had gathered around and raised their weapons as soon as Omega did. “Lower yer bloody weapon!” he shouted.

“It’s him Hillshire, it’s Pinocchio, he’s a cyborg,” Shortie explained. The other cyborgs understood what she meant immediately and trained their weapons on Pinocchio’s unconscious form instead of her.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Scar Face demanded of her own cyborg.

“Everything Shortie said make a whole lot of fucking sense. You didn’t see it, but they were almost as fucking fast and as fucking strong as me and Shortie. They, most defiantly, are fucking cyborgs! And this one is still alive!”

“She’s right,” Megatron said calmly, “the pair Vulpes and me killed were faster than anyone I’d ever seen besides the cyborgs. So unless they’re actually Terminators or something, we’ve got hostile cyborgs to deal with.” Megatron shifted his aim to Pinocchio as well. From there, everything deteriorated.

Vulpes shifted his aim to Megatron. Starbuck turned her weapon on Vulpes. Arronax aimed at Starbuck. Scar face switched to Arronax. Big Bird covered Arronax by aiming at Scar Face. Sandman didn’t shift her aim; she held her shotgun in one hand and drew her pistol with the other, aiming that at Big Bird.

From there the shouting match began. Every one demanding that everyone else put their weapon down.

* * *
Frost was the only person who still had any common sense, and the only person not aiming a weapon at anyone. He had to disarm this powder keg before everyone was killed. He stepped into as many lines of fire as he could, some how that managed to be most of them.

“Everyone! Just calm the fuck down!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, making himself heard above the others.

Shortie was the first to snap out of it. She lowered her SIG and stood up, and copying her Handler, stood in as many lines of fire as possible.

“You’re threatening their Handlers you idiots,” Frost shouted at Vulpes, Arronax and Big Bird, “they aren’t going to lower their weapons until you do!”

Omega lowered his handgun and the three Frost was shouting at followed suit, if reluctantly. Almost immediately, the cyborgs lowered their own weapons, as did their handlers, Scar Face lighting up a cigar immediately after.

Frost took a sigh of relief and collapsed on the spot, he wasn’t sure that was going to work, and was very glad it did.

“Big Bird, call the evac,” Omega ordered as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, “everyone else, back to what ya was doin’.”

* * *
Friday 30th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1730 hours Charlie, time



Since both Frost and Shortie kept referring to the captured cyborg as Pinocchio, the name kind of stuck. Scar Face didn’t understand why they had picked Pinocchio, and personally didn’t care; it wasn’t any of her business. She left the prefab prison/interrogation bloc after tying up Pinocchio, and lit up another Cuban, this was her fourth today, and her sixth carton since arriving in Iraq. I remember this job being less stressful when there weren’t so many people shooting at me. I’m certainly leaving here with lung cancer. She immediately scolded herself, fucking listen to yourself, you’re going soft. Life was a lot more dangerous in the 601st.

Scar Face was nearly done for the day, only one more thing on her to-do-list. Call Jean and tell him about the captured cyborg. But first she’d go check on everyone; today had been eventful after all and the non-comms should know how the troops are.

“Sup,” Scar Face said to Shortie who was waiting patiently outside the prefab to guard Pinocchio, her new sword brandishing her hip; it looked good on her. The blond claimed she was best suited to guard him, which made sense considering the close quarters and Shortie being an excellent CQC fighter. “How you holding up?”

“What do you mean?” the blond responded.

“Well, you seemed to have a little mental breakdown, just wondering if you’re okay now.”

“Oh, that. I’d prefer not to talk about it actually,” Shortie looked a bit uncomfortable.

“Yeah alright, I’m not gonna pry. It’s a bit cooler inside if you’d rather go in there.”

“Thanks,” Shortie replied, walking up the steps to the cooler interior of the prefab

Now to find the others.

As expected, Starbuck and Megatron were in the Officers Club, the pair of alcoholics that they were. Megatron was arguing with Arronax about something or rather and Starbuck was making friends with the latest rotation of legionaries by tricking them out of their money and buying them beers with it, a clever girl. Not wanting to get involved in Arronax and Megatron’s argument, Scar Face decided to talk to Starbuck first.

“How’s it going, you holding up okay?”

“You mean from the near shoot out today. Yeah, I’m alright, dunno about Frost though, I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve heard him swear, you should probably check up on him if anyone.” Starbuck slowed pushed the arm of the legionnaire across from her down with little effort. “If you’re biding your time till they stop arguing, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, they’ve been arguing all afternoon, ever since we got back in fact.”

Scar Face sighed, “Well I guess I’d better talk to those two idiots.”

As she walked up to the arguing pair, Scar Face tried to figure out what they were arguing about. At the moment it was Arronax’s turn to speak, Scar Face could tell this because Megatron had his beer to his mouth.

“…in hell is Solo better then Kirk.”

“Fuck off, Solo’s got a bloody wookie co-pilot and he owns his own ship.”

Now is as good a time as any I guess, Scar Face tried to interrupt but was cut off by Megatron.

“You’re with aren’t me you Scar Face? Solo kicks Kirk’s arse.”

“I don’t want to get involved in any of your arguments. I just came to see how you’re holding up after our little Mexican stand off. I don’t want to get involved in your little tiff.”

“You don’t need to get nasty, bitch. I’m fine, just got a scraped knee. Actually since you’re going to call Jean anyway, and he’s probably gonna come down, get him to bring my comics would you?”

“How much money you got?”

“Will a twenty cut it?”

“Twenty five.”

“That’d be right wouldn’t it.” Megatron took out his wallet and gave Scar Face the €25.

“Thank you,” Scar Face said as sweetly as she could just to piss him off, and succeeding.

“You’re a wanker, you realise that.”

Only two people left on her list; Frost and Sandman.

Scar Face found Frost coming out of the shower bloc with only a towel rapped around him.

“How’s it going, sexy,” she teased, giving his abbs an appraising look.

The poor man seemed to find the whole situation very uncomfortable. “What do you want?” he asked impatiently.

“There’s no need to be rude, I was just coming to see how you’re holding up after that little incident earlier today. That was the first time me or Starbuck have ever heard you swear, you must have been pretty stressed. You want a massage?”

“I’m fine,” he replied dryly, “And it’s not the first time I’ve sworn you tosser.”

“that doesn’t count, tosser isn’t really a swear.”

“I don’t have time for this crap,” he said leaving.

“Crap isn’t a swear word either,” she called out after him.

“That was unprofessional,” Capitaine Zalko said from behind Scar Face.

Scar Face jumped, when the hell did she show up. “When did you get there?” Scar Face asked aloud.

“I’ve been here for the whole thing. That was a cruel and unprofessional thing you did then. However it was kind of funny, any one that cannot smile at themselves should be made fun of. You should still apologize though.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, as for your other question, I am former KGB, there is very little I cannot do. Carry on.”

As the Capitaine left, Scar Face tapped her Cuban on her finger to knock the ash of the end. She had a very good idea where she could find Sandman. She’d be at the firing range with Vulpes; the pair got on very well.

As expected, Sandman and Vulpes were at the firing range, they seemed to be discussing something while practicing.

“Hey there Sandman, you got a minute?”

“Of course, I’m out of ammo in a sec anyway.”

The fratello walked off a ways form Vulpes.

“What’d you need?” Sandman asked her Handler.

“Two things. First off, are you okay after that whole everyone aiming at everyone else thing?”

“Um, yeah I guess I am.”

“Secondly, I’m calling Jean to tell him about the Cyborg we caught, so he might be joining us in combat. If that happens try not to get too carried away, alright. Most of your victims tend to be unrecognisable as a member of the human race, and it tends to reflect badly sometimes. ‘Kay?”

“Yes ma’am. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why not simply explain to him that that I’ve been trained as a shock trooper, after all, I do know that the Handlers are allowed to train their cyborgs however they wish.”

“Fuckin’ aye,” Scar Face agreed, “that’s a pretty good idea actually.” She ruffled Sandman’s hair, “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

“Shouldn’t you go call Jean?” Sandman asked dryly.

“Don’t be a smart arse, bitch.”

“Don’t be a bitch, smart arse.” As soon as she said that, Sandman bent over and vomited, it was one of the ‘safety features’ built into the Scend Gens for some reason, they vomited whenever they disobeyed their Handler or disrespected them. “It was worth it,” Sandman said whipping the vomit from her mouth, “totally worth it.”

“Dismissed,” Scar Face told her brunette charge and left for the comms tent.

The comms tent was an averaged sized tent but had very little space inside due to the mess of wires and equipment that the comm officer, one Sergent Chef Michele Le’Cue, claimed was ‘organized’.

“There’s a monitor set up for you over there,” he said pointing at a screen on the other side of the tent, “could you put that out please, it messes with my equipment.” He was talking about her cigar.

“You’re talking out your arse,” she told him, but she put her cigar out anyway. After attempting to find her way to the terminal, Scar Face just pushed a heap of stuff to the side, earning her a growl for the Sergent Chef. When she did finally get to the monitor, she turned it on to reveal the side of Priscilla’s head.

Scar Face pulled the headset on, and waited a moment for the wavy haired woman to notice, which she didn’t, so Scar Face yelled into it, “Oi Priscilla, wrong bloody monitor!”

The other woman jumped and nearly fell off her chair. When she recovered, Priscilla put on her own headset, “What the fuck do you want, Andromeda?”

“Sorry ‘bout that, I just needed to get your attention. I need you to get Jean, it’s important”

“You didn’t need to bloody shout. I’ll go get Jean.”

Priscilla took off her headset and walked off to get Jean. Seems I caught her at a bad time, Scar Face thought.

Priscilla didn’t appear back on the screen, instead Jean picked up the headset, “Priscilla told me this is important.”

“We’ve encountered hostile cyborgs, sir; they seemed to be working with militant forces. We’ve manage to capture one.”

Jean pursed his lips for a moment, “I see. I’ll be arriving tomorrow afternoon; you can give me a full debriefing then.”

“One more thing before you go sir, Barry asked me to ask you to get some comics from his desk for him. I’ll give you a ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Done.”

* * *
Friday 30th August 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1845 hours, Charlie time



Shortie sat on a camp chair, more of a stool actually, in front of the cell containing Pinocchio. She was examining the sword previously belonging to Pinocchio. Its scabbard had blue cloth rapped around it with golden thread, matching the hilt. At the bottom of the hilt were two black cords knotted at the ends. The hand guard, if it could be called that, was a single strip of what might have been steel or maybe just iron. The blade was sharp, very sharp, since it cut Shortie’s finger as soon as she touched it, but she couldn’t deduce what material it was made form, but it was heavy. All together it was an impressive weapon, seemingly designed to be used by someone strong, like a cyborg.

A scream came from one of the other cells, another of ‘Big Birds victims’ as Shortie saw it. The tall bearded man was ‘extracting information’ as he called it. Omega called it ‘interrogation’ and Capitaine Zalko called it ‘encouragement to share’. Shortie would have simply called it torture.

Pinocchio stirred and Shortie dropped the sword and picked up her shotgun aiming at the other cyborgs head through the bars, she wasn’t gonna take any chances.

He shook his head about and opened his eyes. “Aw fuck!” he half groaned, half shouted. “You’re the bitch that killed me.” He struggled with the bonds behind him, “But at least I wasn’t caught by the US; I’ve pissed off more than a few of those guys. You can sit back down, I’m not going anywhere.”

“No thanks, I’ll stand.” Shortie replied, glaring at the bound cyborg.

“Then could you aim that somewhere else please?” he sounded as if he were pleading.

Shortie was all to happy to oblige him; she shifted he aim to his groin.

“Uh…you know I quite liked it where it was before actually,” now he sounded desperate, and rightly so.

She turned her weapon back on his head, “Now where do we go from here?” she asked in a low growl.

“I suppose we should do the usual stuff.”

“Such as?” she asked dryly.

“Second Lieutenant Pinocchio, 07238, Army of the Second Sun Mercenaries, 2nd mechanised battalion. You know who I am, now what the fuck is the name of the bitch that killed me.”

“You can call me Shortie for now.” Shortie retorted sarcastically.

There was a short pause.

“You don’t have anything you want to ask me?” had she not known what he was, Shortie would have thought he was sincere.

“Not my job,” Shortie replied in a flat, emotionless voice similar to Beatrice’s.

“Can I speak to the guy in charge?”

“Not my decision,” Again, said in that flat emotionless voice.

“You really aren’t interested in having a chat are you?” Pinocchio said disappointedly.

“No.” Shortie answered, shaking her head and again imitating Beatrice’s voice

“Can I at least have a drink?” Pinocchio looked like the flat, emotionless voice was beginning to irritate him.

“No,” again in the deadpan.

“Can you untie me?” he seemed almost childlike now.

“No.”

“Wanna give me a job? My time with the Second Sun mercs is over now that I’ve been captured. C’mon, I’ll work for next to nothing.”

“Not my decision.”

“You don’t make many of the decisions, do you?”

Shortie stopped imitating Beatrice and said dryly, “Be grateful for it, if it were my choice you’d be dead by now.”

Pinocchio grinned ,“Don’t go being a hater because of our little tiff at Christiano’s. Or is it because I used to be a terrorist?” he seemed to be having fun now.

“You still are a terrorist,” again dryly

“No, I’m a mercenary,” you would have thought he was stating that water was wet or rocks were hard.

“Explain the difference,” Shortie asked dryly.

“Don’t give any of that shit. Hell, if you made a contract with me I’d work for you. A terrorist wouldn’t do that; they’d rave on about their political point of view for hours and blow you up if you disagree. I have little patience for terrorists.”

Big Bird came out of the cell where he was torturing one of the prisoners and didn’t seem at all disturbed by Shortie aiming a shotgun at Pinocchio’s head. “If you’re gonna kill him, kill him outside,” the handsome man said calmly as if nothing were out of the ordinary, “12 gauge makes a big mess.”

“I’m not going to kill him. Could you get Omega for me please?” Shorties asked Big Bird.

“Alright, be right back”

“Who do you work for?” Pinocchio asked after the tall bearded man left. “His uniform had French flags but yours have Italian. What exactly is going on?”

“None of your business,” Shortie stated assuming Beatrice’s deadpan voice again

“Can I at least song a merry tune?”

“No.”

Pinocchio began singing in a deep voice, “Nobody knows the troubles I’ve been through, nobody knows b-”

“I said no singing.”

“You said ‘no’ to a merry tune,” the male cyborg explained patiently. “This song is anything but merry.”

Shortie chambered a round into her shotgun. “That was your first and final warning. Don’t try and fuck with me”

“Bitch.”

“Arsehole.”

Omega walked in wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts despite the cold of the desert night, “Ya want somthin’, Shortie?”

She loosened her grip on her shotgun slightly; it was nice to have someone else in the prefab with her that wasn’t a psychopath like Big Bird. “I needed to tell you that Pinocchio was awake, sir.”

“Ya needed to drag me away from me drinkin’ fer that?” he did not look impressed.

“Well, he asked to see the boss. That’s you, sir.”

“An’ not Capitaine Zalko?”

“Last time I saw her she looked to be in a bit of a bad mood, sir,” Shortie said shrugging her shoulders.

“Oh, uh…yeah, that was me fault. I owe quite a large sum of money ya see. She must have gotten tired of waitin’.” Omega gestured at the male cyborg with a shotgun aimed at his head, “Did he say somethin’ ya don’t like or ya just feelin’ mean today.”

“I nearly died fighting him once, I’m not taking any bloody chances…sir,” shortie knew she sounded angry but couldn’t help it. No one believed that this was the Pinocchio form Christiano’s house.

“I still doubt he’s the same bloke.” Omega addressed Pinocchio, “so what’d ya wanna say ugly?”

“Wow, you guys are a friendly bunch aren’t you?” Pinocchio crossed his arms over his chest, his bonds had been snapped, strange that Shortie didn’t hear anything. Shortie fired a round at his head but he dodged under it – the bastard was fast – and chambered another round less than a second later ready to fire another shot though the bars into Pinocchio’s stomach to slow him down when he pushed his hands forward, frantically saying, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I was just seeing how you would react, you don’t need to kill me, not again anyway. I have to say I didn’t expect you to act like that.”

“Like I said earlier, ‘don’t fuck with me’.”

“Alright, alright, message received.”

“Good.” She looked at Pinocchio’s severed bonds and realised they hadn’t been snapped, they had been cut. “Drop the knife,” she ordered.

Pinocchio laughed, “You’re sharp, but you didn’t search me very well.” He reached behind himself and dropped the knife to the ground. He then reached over his shoulder with the other hand and dropped another knife. Then reached under the front of his shirt and dropped a third knife. This continued for the next few minutes until about eighteen or twenty knives lay about the floor. A couple didn’t actually lay; they were standing upright, blades imbedded into the ground because of the way they fell. Shortie assumed that a few of the knives were made out of the same material as the sword blade.

“Holy shit,” Omega muttered under his breath, then angrily out aloud to Big Bird, “Who the fuck searched him!”

“I did, sir,” Big Bird said, sounding somewhat insulted, “every thing but a cavity search, sir. Lord knows where he had hid most of those.”

“Oh, I have my places,” Pinocchio said proudly.

“Shut the fuck up and kick those knives over,” Shortie growled.

“Sir, we should kill him before he kills us,” Big Bird offered.

“No. We shouldn’t kill him before he kills us,” Pinocchio said desperately, “We should hire him instead.”

“What the fuck do you mean hire?!” Omega said angrily.

“Let me introduce myself. Second Lieutenant Pinocchio, 07238, Army of the Second Sun Mercenaries, 2nd mechanised battalion. Y-”

Omega cut him off, “Ya could’ve said so from the start ya idiot, yer lookin’ at the former Major Samuel Flannigan of the 1st airborne.”

“You’re that Major Samuel Flannigan?” Pinocchio said incredulously.

“Yup.” Omega addressed Shortie, “You can take the rest of the night off, I’ll relieve ya. Don’t fuckin’ argue, this guy knows I can take him. I am the only survivor of the great solanum virus outbreak of Chernobyl in 1986. I could probably give Capitaine Zalko a run fer her money in hand to hand combat or a gunfight. Now get some sleep, that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Shortie said grudgingly, lowering her shotgun, snapping to attention and giving omega a crisp salute.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:09

Section 6.
Spoiler:


Saturday 1st September 2009 – Motorcade en route to Camp Deuf – 1145 hours, Charlie time



The motorcade consisted of two jeeps, followed by a couple of trucks, with a third truck bringing up the rear. Jean and Dr Ziliani rode in the first jeep. Rico and Claes rode in second jeep, sporting their new Army uniforms designed by Sandro; Rico didn’t really look any older, but Claes thought she herself did.

“Just like the beach,” Rico exclaimed, pulling herself up to look out the window, but it’s a lot dryer and hot. I think I prefer the beach, but I suppose this place is okay too.”

Claes only half listened to her blond haired friend, the raven haired cyborg had recently started reading a survival guide, The Zombie Survival Guide in fact. In truth her mind was only partly concentrating on her book and Rico.

By her reckoning, Claes figured at least thirty five percent of cyborgs had been removed form Italy and sent to Iraq, which could only mean the situation has grown desperate, but what was the situation? That’s what Claes wanted to know.

Claes unbuckled her seat belt to pick up he MP5 case form the floor and the jeep hit an unusually large bump and Claes bounced up, hitting her head on the roof.

“How did I end up in this mess?” Claes asked no one in particular, quietly. This was the fifth time she’d hit her head today.

* * *
[Two weeks prior]
Tuesday 20th August – SWA compound – 0700 hours, Alpha time



Claes was on her way to the Cyborg dining room as she did every morning when she heard an unusual amount banging and yelling coming form the room Gattonero and Soni shared. Yelling and banging coming form their room was not a rare occurrence, the pair was always fighting about one thing or another, however it had never been this loud, it sounded like it was about to get violent. Claes decided that, to be on the safe side, she would go and Jean or someone to sort it out. Claes didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, but that might be unavoidable.

Petra’s head shot out the door followed by a hand as she grabbed Claes and pulled her into the room blabbering frantically, “You’ve got stop them, th-they’re gonna kill each other!”

“What are-,” Claes stopped as she looked around the room for the first time; it looked lie a disaster zone. Soni stood on one side of the room and Gattonero stood on the other. The two Second Gens seemed to be staring each other down, guns aimed at the others eyes.

“You need to stop them!” Petra pleaded.

Both Gattonero and Soni turned to Petra and shouted at the same time, “We told you to shut the fuck you stupid bitch.”

Claes saw their grips on their weapons tighten slightly and she didn’t even think, she just…reacted. She jumped in and grabbed the barrels of both their firearms, angling them away from each other and twisted the weapons out of their hands. The angry Second Gens didn’t seem like that very much and Soni actually growled. Gattonero lunged at Claes, who easily dodged around it and punched Gattonero in the ribs. Soni decided she would like to take Claes on as well. The Second Gen threw a roundhouse kick at Claes’ head, which Claes blocked with her left forearm and with her right arm delivered a bone crushing elbow to Soni’s groin, leaving the Second Gen writhing around on the floor in pain.

Jean suddenly barged into the room, followed by Lupa and Fio, Gattonero and Soni’s handlers. It would seem Petra had run for help, though how it got here so fast eluded Claes.

Claes spend the proceeding five hours explaining to thirty or forty different people what had occurred. The next day Jean handed her a MP5K and told her that her combat status had been reinstated.

* * *
[Present Day]
Saturday 1st September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1430 hours, Charlie time



The first thing Claes noted when she got out the jeep was a refreshing cool breeze; the second thing was that most of the camp was constructed out of tents. Jean, Dr Ziliani, Rico and Claes were greeted by Adjudant chef Hirsch Sven, who insisted on taking them to the commanding officer’s office before showing them to their quarters. Claes thought she heard him mutter something about there only being three or something. On their way to the CO’s office, Adjudant Chef Sven stopped a man and ordered him to put another cot in the new tent in a voice so low that Claes was only just able to hear.

The CO’s office was a small prefabricated building at the back of the camp, which Claes thought was odd, but also made sense in a way. Inside, the Capitaine a tall, grey haired woman wearing half glasses looked up from her paperwork and greeted the new arrivals, “Good afternoon.” The Capitaine got up and shook Jean’s then Dr Ziliani’s hands, “Mister Croce, Dr, Ziliani, I am Capitaine Dominika Zalko,” she leaned down so that she was eye level with Rico, took off the cyborg’s helmet, and ruffled her hair, “you must be Rico.”

“Yes Ma’am,” the short blond replied.

The Capitaine walked over and stood in front of Claes, her face expressionless, “You however, I do not know.”

“Claes,” the raven haired girl said offering her hand.

“Ah, so you are infamous Claes. I will have to try beating you at chess, I hear you are quite good-”

Jean coughed into his hand, “If you don’t mind Capitaine, we have important work to do.” Jean did not sound impressed.

“Mister Croce, please remind me who died and mad you King Dick. No one? That is what I thought. Around here, I am King Dick, what I say goes, and those Cyborg corpses are under Legion jurisdiction, not Italian…”

So that’s why we’re here, Claes thought, they can’t be any cyborgs belonging to the Agency or they would be under Agency jurisdiction. That must mean another cyborg capable player has entered the game.

“…You are consultants. Don’t look at me that way Mister Croce; I do what is in my organizations best interests just as you do.” CapitaineZalko sat back down, “You may leave now.”

Adjudant Chef Sven led the Section Two members to a small tent near the outskirts of the camp. “This is you new home,” he said, pointing with his hand. The tent looked small, a little top small. It was bigger on the inside though, which Claes was thankful for, the idea of sharing so little a space between four people was not appealing. There were four military cots and four stools for decoration, but aside form them, the tent was empty.

“Excuse me Adjudant Chef, but could you take me to where the cyborgs are being housed?” Dr Ziliani asked.

“Of course, don’t pay the Capitaine any mind, she is ex-KGB you see, and they are all nasty people through to the bone,” the Adjudant Chef told them before leading Dr. Ziliani to wherever the cyborgs were housed.

“Rico, you come with me,” Jean said after Dr Ziliani and Adjudant Chef Sven left, “Claes, see if you can find Hillshire or Omega.”

“It would be easier to find Omega if you told me what he looks like, Sir,” Claes pointed out.

“He has smile scars,” Jean told her as if that was all she needed to know.

“And what do smile scars look like, sir?”

“It’s where someone has cut through your cheeks so that you are always smiling.”

“Any other information?” Claes asked somewhat dryly, under normal circumstances she would not have been able to get away with talking to Jean like this, but the boor guy missed Ferro terribly, like the lovesick puppy he was; Claes had read enough novels to know one when she saw one.

“He’s very tall and Irish.”

“Thanks,” Claes said beginning to unpack her MP5.

“You won’t need that,” Jean told her.

“If you say so, sir.”

Claes set off to look for Hillshire or Omega, whichever she found first, she was confident she could find her own way around. When she came across a building with the words ‘Officers Club’ printed in big letters above the door, she thought that would be as good a place as any to look for an Irishman. Inside however, she did not find Omega or Hillshire, but Mercedes, who was playing pool.

Mercedes looked up from her game, “Claes!? What the fuck are you doing here?” the Second Gen exclaimed.

“I’m looking for Hillshire or Omega, are they around?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant what are you doing here,” Mercedes pointed at the ground with both hands, “outside the Agency?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, you wouldn’t have heard about my little fiasco,” Claes thought aloud.

“What fiasco?”

“Well, you know how Soni and Gattonero are always fighting…” Claes recited the tale of her defeating the two Second Gens, not embellishing the slightest, “…so then Jean gave me an MP5 and here I am.”

“Quite a story.”

“Indeed, but back to Hillshire and Omega?”

“Oh, they went out, got an SOS from some Americans. Me and Shortie weren’t alowed to come along because she’s a little unstable at the moment and I…well…let’s just I hospitalised a couple of guys for calling Megatron a, um…the N word and now I’m being punished; what a load of horse shit.”

“You’ve lost me. Who are Shortie and Megatron?”

“Oh, sorry. I got so used to calling people by their call signs I just do it automatically now.” Mercedes started counting people off on her fingers, “Megatron is Barry, Shortie is Triela, Sandman is Victoria, Scar Face is Andromeda, Frost is Hillshire, and I’m Starbuck.”

“Sounds unnecessarily complicated.”

“That’s just how Special Forces work. They do it in the SAS. They do it in the Delta Force. They do it in Foucheur team.”

“Reaper team? That’s a stupid name,” Claes told Mer- Starbuck. “Well, I had better go tell Jean that Omega and Hillshire aren’t here,” Claes sighed.

As if the universe had somehow intervened, Jean walked in the door trailed by Rico. “Claes,” he said in a firm voice, “Hillshire and Omega aren’t here. Until they comeback, why don’t you go keep Triela out of trouble. When Rico and I left, she looked ready to beat the Second Lieutenant to death.”

“I was about to tell you the same thing, Sir. At least about Hillshire and Omega, anyway. Where can I find Triela?”

“She’s in the cell bloc. Look for the prefab a couple hundred metres to the west.”

“Thank you, sir,” Claes told the blond haired man as she rushed out the door.

When Claes walked up the steps into the cell bloc, she heard a man singing…Sympathy for the Devil? It had to be, she knew those words well, she was a huge fan of the Stones herself, it was one of the few good things to come out of her combat status being reinstated, listening to Jen’s radio. Triela, or Shortie, looked like she was about to blow gasket, she was leaning against the wall in a backless camp chair, arms crossed over her chest, face twisted and twitching with rage. What has happened to my calm, easy going roommate? Claes wondered.

“Pinocchio,” Shortie said in a dangerously low voice, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I will shut you the fuck up.” Her roommate never swore, she must be troubled indeed. Claes might have to tread lightly here.

“You just need to ask nicely,” the voice in the cell replied, he didn’t seem the least bit worried by Shortie’s threat, “you don’t need to be a bitch about. Hey, why don’t we have a game of cards?”

“Shove it up your arse, Pinocchio,” Shortie said firmly.

Claes knocked on the wall, “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Claes?!” the blond exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

“You know I got the same response from Starbuck. It’s a long story that I don’t want to repeat too many times, so I’ll tell you when I tell everyone else, ‘kay?”

“Fair enough, just don’t go adding extra bits.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Care to introduce us,” the voice in the cell asked rudely, “you’re not being a very good host.”

Claes stepped forward so she could put a face to the voice, but she hadn’t expected him to be so young. His hair was the same shade of blond as Shortie’s and eye’s just as blue. Really, except for their skin colour, they could have been siblings. He bowed elaborately, “Second Lieutenant Pinocchio, mercenary for hire. Need anything done?”

“No thank you,” Claes said coldly. Her roommate was not a bad judge of character, so if she was on edge around this guy, then Claes thought she should to. “Wasn’t that Padania assassin you killed also called Pinocchio?” Claes asked Shortie.

“You’re talking to him, that’s the guy.”

“Impossible, you killed him. As in dead, deceased, destined never to walk this earth again; it cannot be him, simple as that.”

“He’s a cyborg, Claes.”

Now that explains it. So I was right, there is another faction with cyborgs, but whom? And why is he working as a mercenary? It seemed that every answer raised another two questions. “That explains a lot,” the raven haired First Gen said aloud, “How do you know it’s the Padania assassin though, you know, the one you stabbed in the neck?”

“He knows too much about the events that day at Christiano’s not to be. And his skill with a knife pretty much confirms it.”

“Even if he does know a lot about what happened that day, and he has great skill with a knife, and is a cyborg, you killed Padania Pinocchio. You can’t be made a cyborg after you die. Death is incurable.”

“But what if he didn’t actually die-”

Claes cut her friend off, “The amount of Agency personnel that were around, and the amount of blood loss, make that an impossibility.”

“Excuse me, guys,” Mercenary Pinocchio interrupted, “can you please not talk about me like I’m not here?”

The Agency cyborgs ignored him and Claes continued, “Perhaps we will find out more from Dr Ziliani’s autopsy, these cyborgs may even be constructed differently. Why are you looking at me that way? Oh, that’s right, you’re probably wondering how I know about what transpired at Christiano’s mansion? Nothing can stay hidden forever and Agency security isn’t all that great; let’s just leave it at that shall we.”

Mercenary Pinocchio interrupted again, “that handsome bloke that was in here talking to you before, Jean I think his name was, could you ask if he needs another worker, I’ll work cheap, honest?” he sounded like he desperately wanted to change the subject. “Or perhaps one of you wonderful ladies needs another helper, whatta you say?”

“Just ignore him,” Shortie told Claes, “whenever someone new comes along he keeps asking for a job or a contract or some other crap.”

“That is how mercenaries make their living,” Claes told her friend sarcastically.

“I don’t do it to every new person,” Mercenary Pinocchio said indignantly, “Only those connected to the Social Welfare Agency. I need a connection to the Agency or I’m a dead man.”

“Bullshit,” Shortie snapped.

“He’s telling the truth,” Claes told her friend, leaning down to look at Mercenary Pinocchio’s face more intently, “You can see it in his face. And before you ask how, micro expressions.”

Capitaine Zalko walked in and chambered a round into her Berretta like Giat before putting it back in its holster. “I’ll take it from here, you and your friend can go buy a drink,” she produced fifty euro form here pocket, “That’s an order.”

Shortie snatched the fifty out of the Capitaine’s hand and staked out.

When the pair arrived back at the officers club, they both took a seat at the end of the bar. Jean was talking to a couple of legionaries and Rico was being taught how to play pool by Starbuck. “Two beers,” Shortie told the barkeeper, waving the fifty.

“I don’t drink, remember?” Claes reminded the blond

“Trust me, you’ll like this stuff.”

“Who is your new friend,” the barkeeper asked.

“Sorry. Claes, Saad. Saad, Claes.”

“Nice to meet you,” the South African man said shaking Claes’ hand.

“Nice to meet you too,” she said in return.

“These first two are on the house,” he said as he put a pair of beers in front of the cyborgs. Claes looked at the mug septically for a second then took a sip. Shortie was right, this isn’t too bad.

“Hey Claes,” Shortie said after a moment of silence, “Do you know anything about Chernobyl in 1986 or a virus called Solanum?”

“Chernobyl is a city in the Ukraine and in 1986 there was a nuclear reactor melt down and now the place is fairly devoid of life, and the Solanum virus turns people into zombies, it’s from a fictional book I’m reading called ‘The Zombie Survival Guide’. Why do you ask?”

“Because it sounded like Omega was talking out his arse,” Shortie said angrily.

“Claes, Tri- um, Shortie,” Rico called out from the pool table, “wanna game of pool against me and Starbuck?”

“Yeah, why not,” Claes called back to Rico, then to Shortie, “C’mon grump arse.”

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – East Iran, 50km south east of Khorramābād – 1000 hours, Charlie time



Battle raged in the wreckage of the motorcade and Sandman, Scar Face and Vulpes had been separated form the rest of Foucheur. Twenty US vehicles en route to Arāk had been ambushed by the same forces Foucheur team had encountered the previous day, minus the cyborgs. The battle had been fairly pitched since the last of the American tanks had been destroyed and now what was left of the enemy’s tanks, three, were destroying what cover remained. To make matters worse, they were using some kind of signal jammer; the SOS was the last transmission the Americans had managed to get out.

Sandman rolled to avoid a rocket and pressed her back against the charred remains of one of the American tanks.

“We need to destroy those tanks,” Vulpes shouted.

“No shit,” Scar Face replied around her cigar, “But we don’t have any ordinance, we used our last rocket on the Hind. What the fuck do you propose we do?”

“Gimme enough cover fire and I reckon I can make it to the tank on the right, tear open the hatch, kill everyone inside and use that tank to destroy the others,” Victoria offered.

“No, we need to find that signal jammer and destroy it so that we can call in air support,” Scar Face told her subordinates.

Three figures armed with AUG A3s appeared and Sandman quickly gunned them down. She threw her M240 to the ground because she was now out of ammo and drew her M93.

“It’s gonna be where their troops are thickest. We need to get rid of the tanks before we’ll get anywhere near that jammer,” Vulpes said.

“We do have the ordinance,” Sandman told the arguing pair. How could she have not seen it before, the answer was right in front of them.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Scar Face demanded.

Sandman pointed to a flipped Humvee, “That’s got a Mk 19 on it. It’s rated to punch through the armour of IFVs and APCs so if we hit a tank enough with it, it’ll go down as well.”

“Christ fuck, that plans just as shit as your first one,” Scar Face told the cyborg, “but I guess we don’t really have any other choice, do we? Me and Vulpes will provide cover fire until you’ve got that thing back over here.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Sand man crouched low and waited for Scar Face’s signal, “three, two, one, MARK!” Sandman sprinted to the Humvee and ducked behind it before she got shot. She pulled the dead American out of the turret and began loosening the bolts with her leather man. When she did finally get it off, she understood why they were only ever used when mounted, even with her cybernetic strength; Sandman thought the thing was kind of heavy. She put it down and picked up one of the M4s lying on the ground, removed it’s range finder, picked the Mk 19 back up and sprinted back to scar Face and Vulpes.

Sand man threw the range finder to Vulpes, who stuck it on his FAMAS while Sandman dragged a corpse over to use in the absence of a tripod.

“Distance to first target…three hundred fifty metres,” Vulpes shouted.

Sandman lined up the Mk 19s sight accordingly. One four round burst; the tank was still moving. A second four round burst; the tank burst into flame. I must’ve hit a fuel tank, Sandman thought happily. She checked the drum, only seven rounds left.

“Distance to second target…eight hundred ten metres,” Vulpes informed Sandman.

She lined up the sights again. One four round burst; a complete miss. Sand man adjusted her aim. Suddenly an enemy Humvee sporting a minigun came out of nowhere; sandman was only just able to get clear of its fire, but thee Mk 19 was destroyed.

“So what know?” Vulpes asked.

“Plan B,” Scar Face replied simply.

“What’s plan B?” Vulpes sounded worried. Rightfully so, Sandman thought, she knew exactly what plan B was.

Scar Face’s smile was as evil as Sandman knew her own must be, “B-line it to the objective and kill every mother fucker unfortunate enough to get in our way.”

“Please say there is more to it than that,” Vulpes almost pleaded.

“Step one is to kill the arseholes in the Humvee that destroyed the Mk 19. Step two is to get in the Humvee.”

“Step three,” Sandman interrupted, “Kill every mother fucker that gets in our way.”

“This won’t end well,” Vulpes said to himself.

Sandman sprung from cover and grabbed the AUG A3 from one of the men she had recently killed. She looked through the ACOG sight and gunned down the gunner of the Humvee. The Humvee turned towards her, perfect. She ran at the Humvee at a dead run and jumped through the windshield and into the driver, killing him with the brute force of her attack. Before the passenger had time to react, Sandman ripped the Glock from the driver’s side and fired the entire magazine into the passengers face. Sandman crawled inside and hit the break; the Humvee only just came to a stop before colliding with the tank Vulpes and Scar Face were concealed behind.

“I’m driving,” Scar Face said when sandman got out of the Humvee and began removing glass for her face and hands, “Vulpes, you’re on the gun. Sandman, when we get near one of the tanks, you jump out and hijack one of ‘em, you know how to drive one right?”

“And where would I have picked that up exactly?” Sandman asked dryly.

“What about your plan to steel one earlier?” Scar Face asked incredulously.

“I was assuming you or Vulpes knew how to drive one.” Sandman replied just as incredulously.

“Doesn’t matter, just bloody kill every one inside,” Scar Face decided.

“Yes ma’am.”

As they made their way to the remaining two tanks, Sandman grabbed an AUG A3, which wasn’t too different form Angelica’s AUG A1, from the back of the Humvee and clipped it to her Kevlar vest. When they reached the first of the two tanks, Sandman jumped out the Humvee as Scar Face power slid past it. Sandman proceeded to rip open the hatch throw a pair of fragmentation grenades in and close the hatch.

Now for the second tank, this one would be a little more difficult for a couple of reasons. One, Sandman had to sprint over five hundred metres of exposed terrain. And two, that tank was surrounded by enemy infantry, who were already firing at her. It was no use firing back; she wouldn’t be able to hit them from her current distance anyway. Instead she dropped her assault rife, allowing it to hang from her vest, and pulled the bolt on the tanks .50 Calabar machine gun back, this’ll have the range. As 12.7mm rounds flowed from the muzzle of her new weapon, the hostile infantry around the final tank dropped like flies. Now that they had been dealt with, she could make her dash to the tank.

A sniper must have spotted her because she felt something hit her hard in the chest and she fell off the tank. When Sandman checked her chest for wounds, she knew that the AUG A3 had saved her life, even though the bullet had gone through her Kevlar and she was now bleeding, the AUG A3s stock had slowed the bullet enough not to cause any life threatening damage, but it still hurt like fuck. She struggled to get up, maybe the chest wound was worse then she thought. As she ran to the final tank, it turned it turret so that it was aiming at her and fired. She leapt to the left and only just managed to explosion. Only half fucking way, I’m slowing down! Not good.

She got up and ran the rest of the way as fast as she could, the tank firing another three shots at her before she was too close for it to fire. A man opened the hatch and levelled a P90 on her but he was too slow on the trigger and Sandman fired her M93 first.

Out the corner of her eye, Sandman saw a rocket streaking towards the sky from the motorcade, and with no air craft flying around, knew exactly what it was. And that she had to get out of there now!

Running as fast as she could, Sandman didn’t have to look back to know the javelin missile had hit the tank, the shrapnel flying past he head, the heat against her back, and the unmistakable sound were enough. Suddenly Sandman was thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion, or so she thought, until she saw the jagged piece of shrapnel about a metre and a half long and five centimetres tall perforating her left leg. For some reason she couldn’t feel it.

She remover several of her shuriken from their hiding places and placed them in her mouth; just because the shrapnel didn’t hurt going in, doesn’t mean it won’t hurt going out. Sandman grunted in pain as she removed the shrapnel from her leg, when it was done she spat the three shuriken out and noted the deep bite marks in them.

Now to find Scar Face and Vulpes, but that wasn’t going to happen. The sniper had Sandman in his sights again. The first round went through her lower torso; the second pierced her helmet and grazed her skull. She couldn’t see anymore, blood was in her eyes. The third bullet never arrived; a Humvee blocked the snipers shot.

Two soldiers exited the vehicle and dragged her in; she couldn’t see anything but she could hear.

“Christ fuck, she should be dead already,” one of the men said, his voice was deep and quick. He didn’t sound American

“I’m just glad we got here in time,” the second voice sounded more reserved. He didn’t sound American either

“Well she ain’t gonna last long; let’s take her to the fucking medic. Step on it Hawk.”

“You don’t need bloody tell me twice,” a third voice said, he sounded gruff.

Sandman seemed to black out after that.

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – 50km south east of Khorramābād – 1015 hours, Charlie time



As soon as Sandman exited the Humvee, Scar Face gunned it. She knew this task would be dangerous for Sandman, but that was just the way of war. As she drove closer to the enemy lines, Vulpes got the minigun spinning and started killing left right and centre. The jammer was in sight, on the back of another Humvee. This might be a little difficult.

An explosion erupted form the side of Humvee, flipping the vehicle and leaving a great big hole in the side. The Humvee rolled for several metres before coming to a stop on its side.

“Vulpes! You alive?” Scar Face asked.

“I don’t know how, but yeah, I’m alive.” He sounded a little out of breath.

“Alright, let’s get out.”

The pair climbed through the gapping hole in the side of the Humvee, which was the highest point on the vehicle now, and surveyed the area. There were no more hostiles around; they must have left after the Humvee got hit. There looked to be a sniper nest half a click to the south along the ridge, that would be the best place to start looking for some usable equipment.

Vulpes and Scar Face proceeded on foot, taking about ten minutes to reach it. The occupants had been simple to eliminate, a flash grenade followed by a couple of well place shots had solved that problem. Inside the nest was exactly what they needed to take out the jammer, a weapon whose very purpose was to destroy infrastructure and armoured targets, the Denel-Mecham NTW 20mm anti material rifle.

“I shotgun the cannon,” Scar face told Vulpes.

“Fine with me,” Vulpes said grabbing the spotters M14 with a century magazine.

Together they moved the anti material rifle so that it aimed in the same direction as the jammer. Scar Face lay down and shouldered the massive rifle and Vulpes lay down next to her.

“Range to target… six hundred metres…” Vulpes said. Scar Face looked through the sight and adjusted it for the distance. “…seven hundred metres…” Vulpes corrected after a moment. Scar Face aimed ahead of the jammer Humvee. “…eight hundred metres…” CRACK! The 20mm explosive round hit the back door on the passenger’s side door, not where Scar Face had aimed, she had aimed for the jammer on the back, but this shot was enough to kill the occupants of the vehicle, causing it to loose control and eventually come to a stop on it’s own since there was nothing to crash into. “Target stationary at nine hundred fifteen metres,” Vulpes informed Scar Face, who pulled the bolt back on the anti material rifle and chambered another round. CRACK! The second shot impacted the jammer, causing massive damage and disabling it. She immediately got on her radio and yelled into it. “Comms are back up, I repeat, comms are back up, someone call in fucking air support.

“You know Vulpes,” Scar Face said happily, “I don’t care what anyone says, I’m taking this thing home.” Then back into her radio, “Sandman, you okay?”

She waited a moment but there was no response.

“Sandman, are you there Sandman, come in.”

Again no response.

Scar Faces voice started to get panicky, “Sand man, come in, I repeat, come in.”

Still no response.

“Get up wolf boy,” Scar Face’s voice was steel now, “We’re gonna go find her.”

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – 50km south east of Khorramābād – unknown time



When Sandman came to, she still couldn’t see, not because there was still blood in her eyes, but because there was a bandage around her head. She could here voices though, the same men who had rescued her and one extra person.

“You need to tell me where you found her,” the new voice demanded, it sounded like an Englishman.

“No I don’t,” the deep voiced man said, “And you know that.”

Sandman removed the bandages form over her eyes; they weren’t going to help her with her injuries at all. Four men were standing together talking, three with Australian flags and one with English. Something else caught her eye, the insignia on their shoulders were unmistakable. These men were from the Special Air Services. They didn’t seem to notice her awakened state though.

“She doesn’t have a pulse but she’s still alive,” the Englishman said, “telling me where you found her could help to fix her up.”

Sandman looked around; they were still in the wrecked motorcade, but away from the fighting. She could here that somewhere behind her. When she looked up, the sand storm was still raging so she couldn’t tell the time of day, but it must have been near dusk since it was getting colder.

“She was near the tank when you fired the javelin, Fox,” the gruff sounding man said. I think he’s called Hawk?

“She’s awake,” the reserved man said, pointing at her, he looked like he needed a shave.

“Don’t take them off,” the Englishman said quickly.

“They won’t help with my injuries, but thanks for the help,” Sandman said, she offered her hand; “I’m Sandman.” These men saved her life; the least she could do was be polite.

“Fox,” the Englishman said accepting her hand.

“Hawk,” the gruff sounding man told her.

“Wombat,” the reserved man said.

“Aztec,” the deep voiced man informed her, “I’m in charge.”

“We had better get her out of here,” Fox told them, “If she’s well enough to talk we should be able to get her to a field hospital.”

“No,” Sandman told them, “I need to find the rest of my team, we were split up.” She stood up and went for the berretta at her hip only to find it wasn’t there, “Where are my guns?” she demanded.

“Listen bitch,” Aztec said firmly, “we dragged your arse out of the fire twenty minutes ago; we ain’t letting you get back in it.”

“You aren’t my boss,” she said just as firmly.

“What your squad’s designation?” Wombat asked.

Foucheur. Why?”

“Comms are back up, that’s why.” Wombat went to their Humvee and got on the radio, “This X-ray Nineteen One, we need to talk to Foucheur. Over.”

Foucheur here,” it was Omega’s voice, Sandman could here gunfire over the radio, “Whatta ya want Nineteen One?”

“You guy’s loose someone by the name of Sandman?”

“Yeah, she’s one of ours.”

“We’ll take her to you then.”

“Negative, Nineteen One, our position is bein’ overrun, do not proceed.”

“Negative, on you negative Foucheur, we will assist. What are your coordinates?”

“North end of the motorcade, near the crashed Blackhawk.”

“Roger that, Foucheur, be there in three minutes. Over and out.”

“Get in,” Aztec said to everyone, then to Sandman, “your guns are in the Humvee.”

Everyone got in the Humvee. Fox sat in the back with Sandman, Hawk drove, Aztec sat in the passenger seat and Wombat maned the .50 calibre.

“So you’re a cyborg then?” Fox asked Sandman quietly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sandman lied.

“A normal person would be dead after the injuries you sustained, and you hear rumours. They say there is an Italian organisation with cyborgs operating in the middle east, and with the Italian flags on your BDU, well…” the Englishman shrugged his shoulders.

Sandman sighed, they were SAS, they would know how to keep a secret, and they did save her life. “Yeah,” Sandman said just as quietly as Fox, “I am a cyborg.”

“Oi, Wombat,” Fox shouted at the gunner, “You owe me twenty quid.” Fox seemed very pleased with himself.

“Alright people,” Aztec said loudly, “ETA thirty seconds, game faces.”

As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, Sandman rolled out and took everything in in a second. The minigun on the Blackhawk was still operational and was being manned by Big Bird, Megatron and Frost were providing covering fire for Omega who was dragging away a wounded Vulpes, and Scar Face was covering their six with a M14 with a century magazine.

The first priority would be to secure the wounded, which meant get Vulpes in the Humvee. “Wombat!” Sandman yelled, “Provide covering fire for those two,” she pointed at Omega and Vulpes. He turned the Browning M2 about and fired while Sandman went over and relieved Omega of Vulpes’ custody. She dragged him back to the Humvee where Fox was waiting. As she turned around to go help with the rest, Aztec handed her a pair of smoke grenades.

“Throw these to give your guys some cover while they get to the Humvee,” he ordered.

“Yessir,” sandman said, wondering how they were going to fit everyone in. she pulled the pin and threw both grenades at the same time.

“Get your French arses over here,” Aztec called out when the smoke screen was established. While the other members were running to the Humvee, Scar Face stayed behind, Sandman ran to her.

“We have to go, ma’am,” she yelled at her Handler.

“You guy’s go, I’ll cover your six,” the red haired woman yelled back.

“Then I’m staying too.” Sandman began firing her M93 through the smoke, the chances of her hitting something were low, but that didn’t matter, she had to get her handler out of there and this was the only way she knew how short of knocking her out and dragging her back to the Humvee.

“Like hell! You get your arse back to the Humvee.”

“Negative ma’am, the protecting of you takes priority over your orders.”

“Fuck.” Scar Face grabbed Sandman by the arm and began running to the Humvee. Sandman stayed behind her Handler so that any incoming bullets would hit her instead, which a couple of shots did. When they did get there, it was a very tight fit.

“Hawk, get us the fuck outta here!” Aztec ordered.

“Yessir.”


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:11

Section 7.
Spoiler:


Saturday 1st September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1600 hours, Charlie time



Claes looked down the pool cue; she only needed to kiss the side of the three to sink it, then onto the eight ball. This game was practically in the bag. Even if Claes missed, Rico was on her team, and her accuracy with a rifle parallelled her accuracy with a pool cue. Claes hit the three a bit too hard and it bounced away from the hole. Saad’s turn, he was partnered with Shortie. He was quite adept at pool. He hit the ten, knocking it in front of the hole nearest the eight ball, a devious move. Rico’s turn. She lined up her shot and knocked the three into the hole by ricocheting it off two of the other sides. Next, the eight ball. This would be a trick shot, but Claes was certain Rico could win the game in the next move. She hit the white ball off the side, sending the eight ball in a perpendicular direction to the ten, and sinking it!

“Oh yeah!” Claes screamed giving Rico a high five, then she held up her empty mug, “Saad, I believe it’s time for another round.”

“Sorry, but think you my friend have enough to drink.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are drunk as a skunk.”

“I am not,” Claes said indignantly, and then fell over, “Don’t let that detract from what I just said.”

“He’s right Claes,” Shortie said, laughing, “You’re pissed as a fart. C’mon, I’ll take you back to my tent, Starbuck’ll take care of you, then I’d better go relive the Capitaine. If Pinocchio hasn’t talked her ear off by now I’ll eat my boots.”

“How do you know Starbuck’s at your tent?” Claes asked as Shortie draped Claes’ arm over her own should to carry her and Saad drew his pistol, a revolver from the looks of it.

“I cannot let you go the cell bloc, Capitaine’s orders. If you try after I warn you, I am to kneecap you.”

“Dammit,” Shortie said under her breath, then aloud, “she planned for us to go here in the first place, didn’t she?”

“Probably, she was KGB after all; best not to mess with them. Foreign Legion may be the most elite fighting force in the world; But KGB is the most manipulative force in the world, best to stay on her good side.”

“Good advice, I’ll go get something to eat when I drop Claes off then.”

“Don’t eat the powdered mash,” Saad said as her put his revolver back in its holster, “I think they are just getting plastic explosive and calling that mashed potato.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Claes said a little impatiently when they exited the Officers Club, her words slurring a little.

“I know that Starbuck is back at my tent because she told us while you were trying to convince Jean to let Rico have a beer,” the blond replied patiently. “Listen, don’t worry about getting so drunk, it happened to Sandman the first time she had a drink as well you know.”

“Who’s Sandman? Oh, right, Victoria! She’s the short haired one that hangs around with the one that doesn’t wear many cloths right. Aww, you know her name, it starts with a P.”

“I was going to take you to the mess tent first, but I think you’d better go straight to bed.”

“Percy? No, that’s not it… Peter? Not that ether… Petra! That’s her name, Petra! Her real name is Petrushka. But everybody calls her Petra because it’s shorter.”

“You sure are talkative when you’re drunk,” Shortie said dryly.

“She’s not that smart you know, but she makes up for it by being a nice person, just like you.”

Shortie raised an eyebrow

“I didn’t mean that you’re dumb, because you’re not, I meant that you’re a nice person. Petra’s Handler acts nice like her, but I don’t think he is. I think he’s a little creepy.”

“Jean was right there at the bar,” Shortie said to herself, “Why in god’s name did he let me by you a drink? Why in gods name did I think it was a good idea to by you a drink?”

“It’s because Jean misses Ferro and can’t concentrate properly.” Claes pressed her finger against her lips, “shhhh, don’t tell anyone, it’s supposed to be a secret. Henrietta told me so.”

“Wait, what.” Shortie sounded confused so Claes explained slowly.

“Henrietta saw Jean and Ferro together. I think that they’re going out, but don’t tell anyone. Hey, that Pinocchio guy’s kinda good looking, you should go out with him, you’d make a good couple.”

“I realise you’re drunk, but if you suggest that again, I’ll kill you.” Shortie didn’t sound like she was threatening Claes or anything, just stating a fact.

Claes stuck here tongue out, “Meanie.”

“That aside, we’d better hurry up,” the blond said pointedly.

“Why?”

“The sandstorm.”

“What sandstorm?”

“That one,” Shortie replied dryly, pointing at the wall of dust approaching the camp from the west… Or was it the east?

“Oh, that one.” Claes nodded to herself, “I think we can take it.”

“What!?” the other cyborg replied incredulously.

“Yeah, with my brain and your brawn, it wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“It’s a sandstorm. A huge gust of wind and a lot of dirt, I think we’d have some trouble.”

“Exactly! A sandstorm. There are two of us. One of us can be the distraction and the other can flank it.”

“I give up,” Shortie said as the pair entered the portal into the tent. “Hey there, Starbuck.”

Starbuck was sitting at one of the desks listening to music on her laptop. Claes didn’t think the Second Gen would have heard because the music seemed a bit loud, but she waved at them absently, mostly concentrating on whatever she was doing.

Claes realised she had been lain down in one of the cots. When did that happen?

“Starbuck,” Shortie said, trying to get the cyborgs attention, then again in a bark, “Starbuck!”

“Yeah?” She still didn’t look up from her work.

“I need you to look after Claes for a little while. And don’t give her any of your whiskey either; I know how generous you can…” Claes stopped paying attention; it wasn’t polite to listen in on other peoples conversations after all, and theirs sounded like it was going to get boring. Instead she listened to the music Starbuck was playing from her laptop. It was some kind of heavy metal at least that was what the song was about anyway. The singer was saying something like, ‘punk rock tried to kill the metal, but they failed as they were stricken to the ground’. Shortly after Shortie left, another song came on, one that was a bit more to Claes’ taste.

Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse
When you’re chewing on life’s gristle
Don’t grumble, give a whistle.
And this’ll help things turn out for the best and…
Always look on the bright side of life
Claes tapped her feet to the whistling.

Always look on the light side of life
If life seems jolly rotten, there’s something you’ve forgotten
And that’s laugh and smile and dance and sing
When you’re felling in the dumps, don’t be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle, that’s the thing.
Claes found herself whistling along with the song, and after not long, she fell asleep.

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1830 hours, Charlie time



Outside the cell bloc, the sandstorm raged, inside the interrogation room on the other hand, it was a powder keg waiting to go off. Pinocchio sat on one side of the table, hands behind his head, feet up on the table. He seemed very relaxed. Capitaine Zalko and Jean sat on the other side, no expression on their faces. And shortie stood by the door, flicking the safety of the Desert Eagle she had burrowed from Starbuck on and off, her face equally expressionless as Jean and the Capitaine’s.

Shortie would have preferred to have her shotgun, but in a small room like this, it would be no use with Pinocchio’s speed if he tried anything. The Desert Eagle on the other hand still had enough power to blow Pinocchio’s brains out while still being small enough to be practical in such close quarters.

The other members of Foucheur team were yet to return, but however worried the blond cyborg might be, she had to concentrate on the task at hand,

“So let’s see if I have this right,” Jean said, his face still expressionless, “you claim to be a deceased Padania assassin, who after his demise, was somehow brought to a secret facility where he was turned into a cyborg, and now he works as a mercenary for the same guys that brought him back to life. Now, can you see how I might have trouble believing you? Some might even say it sounds like a lie. I’m one of those people, so cut the bullshit.”

Pinocchio rolled his eyes, “On the night that Christiano’s mansion was attacked, a little blond cyborg shot the gate guard in the head. Then when I encounter the bitch by the door, it was in the living room. She fired several rounds before I managed to knock the shotgun out of her hands, at which point, I ran off. When I encountered her again, I had ambushed her from around a corner and knocked the gun out of her hand, we fought for a while longer in melee combat until I threw her out a second story window and shot her a couple of times.

“Thinking that she was dealt with, I ran to help Christiano, when she suddenly burst in through the window. We engaged in melee combat for a while after that. Near the end, she caught my knife and broke the blade off and stabbed me in the wrist with it. I drew a key form my pocket and punched her in the eye with it at the same time that she stabbed me in the neck with the broken knife blade. Next thing I know I wake up on an operating table. Was my recollection of the event accurate enough for you to believe me know?”

That was an almost perfect recollection of night’s events. There couldn’t possibly be any doubt left in Jean’s mind now.

“Let’s say all that is true,” Jean leaned back and put his own hands behind his head, “Why didn’t you run away and join back up with the FRF?”

“Do you know what they are really fighting for?” Pinocchio said angrily, putting his arms and feet down and leaning forward, “Money. Fucking money. I decided that if I was gonna die over money again, it’ll be my own money this time. I refuse to fight for the benefit of others if it will not benefit me, so I stuck with the Second Sun mercenary core.”

“Can I speak to you outside for a moment Capitaine?” Jean asked.

The got up and walked out the room, leaving Pinocchio and Sortie alone, in silence. It was some time until they returned.

“Alright Mister Pinocchio,” Jean said sitting down, “I’ll give you a job.”

“What?!” Shortie demanded, not caring that it wasn’t her place to question the man. How could he think of hiring an ex Padania assassin.

Jean made a cutting action with his hand to silence Shortie’s protests. “The Capitaine says she’s already drawn up a contract,” he pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket, “This one I believe.” He handed Pinocchio the paper and a pen. Pinocchio took the paper and signed. Jean shook his hand, “Welcome to Section Two.”

Shortie was beside herself, she couldn’t decide whether to be cry or kill everybody in the room. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t!

“Shortie,” Jean said crisply, “You’re in charge of Pinocchio.” And with that Jean and the Capitaine got up to leave.

Shortie grabbed Jean’s arm as he was leaving the room, “How do you know he’s going to honour the contract,” she demanded.

“Guy’s that break a contract give us honest mercenaries a bad name,” Pinocchio said heatedly, “I’d kill every one of ‘em myself if I could.”

Jean shrugged off Shortie’s hand and walked off.

“What’s the plan boss?” Pinocchio asked.

Shortie grabbed him by the ear, “you will show me and everyone else proper respect, got it? Now let’s get you fed and in bed, you’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1950 hours, Charlie time



Claes was unexpectedly roused from her sleep by Shortie, “C’mon we got work to do, sleepy.”

“I think I’m dying,” Claes grumbled groggily. Her head was pounding.

“Dying hurts less than a hangover,” a familiar voice said. Claes thought it must be a dream, because it sounded like Pinocchio. When she sat up, she realised it was Pinocchio.

“I must be dreaming,” said and went to lay back down

“You’re not,” Shortie informed Claes putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her upright, “get your stuff. Most of the alcohol should be out your system by now, that stuff goes straight through us.”

“What’s going on?” Claes asked, pulling her boots on.

“We’re gonna help the Americans rescue the guy’s that sent the SOS earlier today.”

Claes stood up and looked carefully at Pinocchio, “Why do you have a sword?”

“You can’t rum people through with a rifle now, can you?”

“Just ignore him,” Shortie advised, “I talks a lot of crap.”

Claes met Jean and Rico at the Firing Range. All of the targets had been removed. Claes concluded that it must be a makeshift helipad.

Everyone was making last minute checks to their gear when an Osprey landed on the range and lowered its ramp. “This is your captain speaking,” the pilot said when they had all boarded, “I’d like to thank you for choosing the US Air force for your flight into hell.” As the Osprey took off, Claes being close to the cockpit heard the radio crackle

“This is X-ray Nineteen One,” some one said over the radio, “We request a pick up. This is priority one, I repeat, priority one. We have wounded. Over.”

“This is Sierra Two Three. We read you loud and clear, Nineteen One,” the pilot responded, “Air support en route. Over.”

Claes checked all her gear again just to be sure, form the gunfire she heard over the radio, it sounded like they were going to be landing right where the action was.

* * *
Saturday 1st September 2009 – 50km south east of Khorramābād – 2000 hours, Charlie time



The sandstorm had relented, but the hostiles had not, and ammunition was running low. Sandman had commandeered one of the P90s that the hostiles used and, was beginning to run low on ammunition for that as well. Foucheur team and X-ray Nineteen One were holed up in a circle of wreckage with cover from every direction. A good hiding spot.

“This is X-ray Nineteen One,” Aztec shouted into the up ended Humvee’s radio, “We request a pick up. This is priority one, I repeat, priority one. We have wounded. Over.”

“This is Sierra Two Three. We read you loud and clear, Nineteen One. Air support en route. Over,” An American pilot responded.

A flare shot up from the distance, illuminating the whole motorcade. Gunfire reverberated off the wreckage in the distance.

Sandman was counted among those wounded, as was Vulpes, Megatron and Hawk. She was currently tallying her wounds. Glass to the face and hands, shot in the chest, head, leg and back, muscle torn apart by shrapnel in other leg and shrapnel in her left bicep; today was just not her day, she suspected the adrenaline was the only reason she was still standing, not even the tougher First Gens should be able to take this amount of punishment.

A rocket streaked over head.

Fox was doing what he could for the other three, but there was nothing he could do for Sandman. Even for the shrapnel, it was too deep.

Fifteen minutes later two A-10 Thunderbolts flew by and Aztec’s radio crackled, “This is Sierra Two Three, we need you’re location.”

“Sierra Two Three, this is X-ray Nineteen One, we are south of green smoke, I repeat, south of green smoke. Over.” Aztec tore a smoke grenade from his jacket and threw it to the north.

“I’ve got you on my scope. ETA…two minutes. Over.”

Just as the pilot had said, an Osprey flew in and landed to the south, Omega helped Vulpes, but the other wounded could run by themselves. “Double time,” Aztec shouted, “Go, go, go!”

As the lamp lowered the A-10s streaked over head again, firing missiles into the wreckage. Sandman was surprise by who she saw in the Osprey. Rico, Claes, Shortie, Starbuck and Pinocchio emerged to cover the wounded as they boarded the VTOL. “Get in,” one of the crewmen shouted when he saw Sandman hesitate, “there’s nothing else you can do down here, there’s only one more band of survivors and the jets are helping them at the moment.”

“Raise the ramp!” the crewman shouted, a corporal by the insignia on his arm.

The Osprey took off and flew to the second group, but was unable to land. It circled around for a while, until there was a clear space to land. When the Osprey landed, Sandman moved to the exit with the other cyborgs to cover the men coming in, she might be wounded but she could still shoot. The enemy was heavily concentrated here. As the Osprey was taking off a fragmentation grenade went off on the loading ramp, killing two of the men they had just rescued and the corporal. Aztec went to close the ramp, but there was a problem. “The ramp won’t close,” he shouted to the pilots.

“We’re still getting out of here,” the pilot responded, “Everyone, strap in.” Sandman took a seat closest the cockpit across from Claes so she could hear what was going on. Rico stayed at the other end of the aircraft near the open ramp, not once has she lowered her rifle since it opened.

“Hey Claes,” Sandman shouted to be heard over the engines, “What the fuck are you doing here anyway?”

The raven haired First Gen laughed, “It’s a long story. I’ll explain latter in front of everyone so I don’t have to repeat myself. What happened to you?”

“Another long story. The short version is that the shit hit the fan shortly before I did.”

“We got incoming,” the pilot said to the co-pilot, “launching counter measures.”

Sandman looked back and saw the bright flare being launched from the bottom of the aircraft and a single rocket chasing after them.

“We’ve got a bogy on our six,” the co-pilot said quickly.

“Yeah, I see ‘im, I see ‘im.” The pilot responded hurriedly. He then talked onto his headset, “Cat One, this is Sierra Two Three. We got a bogy on six. I can’t shake him.”

“I got your back Sierra Two Three,” Cat One responded.

Sandman saw an F-22 streak past the back of the Osprey followed by one of the A-10s. Sandman had always thought A-10s were better suited to ground engagements, but you had to make do with what you had. She could here the two A-10 pilots talking to each other; the fight didn’t sound like it was going well.

“There’s another fighter on our six!” the co-pilot yelled.

“Fuck!” the pilot said to himself, then he half turned his head and addressed the passengers, “Everyone buckle up, I don’t want anybody falling out.”

The Osprey suddenly dived and veered to the right. Sandman looked back and saw the second F-22 keeping pace with the Osprey.

“He’s got a missile lock,” the pilot shouted, “Firing countermeasures.”

Another salvo of flares launched form the bottom of the Osprey as it turned left and right, up and down, diverting the rocket. Then another, and another. They would run out soon. The F-22 fired its cannon, a quick burst. Must be out of missiles, Sandman thought to herself. The F-22 fired again, managing to hit the Osprey this time. Rico tore from her restraints and nearly fell out the Osprey from the force of the impact. Luckily she grabbed the side of the hatch and was dangling out by one hand; with the other hand she aimed her Draganov SVD, how she had managed to hold onto that, Sandman had no idea. She fired eight consecutive shots, somehow managing to hit the pilot of the F-22.

“The bogy’s breaking off,” the co-pilot said excitedly, “it’s going down!”

The pilots levelled the VTOL and Shortie went and helped Rico back into the aircraft.

“Hey, eagle eye,” Sandman heard Aztec say to Rico, “I owe you a beer.”

“What for?” Rico asked.

“You just saved all our goddamn lives, that’s what for!”

“Oh, that’s okay. I was just doing my job.”

“Fuckin’ oath,” one of the Americans form the second group said, “That is why you don’t fuck with the Legion.”

“Fuckin’ aye,” one of his comrades agreed.

“Good job Rico,” Jean said. Sandman suspected that was all the praise the man would give his cyborg for her incredible feat.

Sandman looked at Scar Face to see if she was alright; she was, kinda. She was busy vomiting. Air travel had never agreed with her.

“You okay?” Sandman asked Claes who was rubbing the back of her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just hit my head is all,” Claes replied, sounding a little agitated.

Sandman began to feel a little light headed, then her vision began to blur.

“Never mind me, what’s wrong with you?” Claes asked worriedly.

“I- I think I’m about to black out.” If it weren’t for the harness, Sandman would have fallen to the floor.

When Sandman awoke, everyone was being loaded off the Osprey and Shortie and Claes were carrying her between them, her feet dragging because she was a head taller than the other two.

“Good to see you awake,” Shortie commented.

“It wasn’t that good a sleep anyway,” Sandman informed the First Gens, “Put me down, I think I can walk by myself.”

“Look at your leg,” Claes said dryly, “You might be able to get away with hopping, but not walking.”

Sandman looked at her leg, if you could still call it that. “What the fuck happened?” Sandman demanded.

“Turbulence,” Claes replied simply.

Sandman shook he head, some turbulence.

The pair took Sandman to a helicopter; most likely bound for an airstrip, and from there, the SWA for repairs. As the pair lifted her onto the helicopter which already had a couple of the enemy cyborgs corpses and Dr. Ziliani aboard, Omega walked up to Sandman, his face grim.

“Vulpes is…ah, he… died on the flight,” the tall man said quietly, “he got hit when the jet fired at us.”

Sandman worked her mouth but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

Omega reached into his pocket and pulled out Vulpes’ pipe, “he said to give this to ya, somethin’ about a post mission procedure. I dunno what it means, but I guess ya do. If you’ll excuse me, there’s some stuff I gotta do.”

Sandman couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was about to burst into tears.

Scar Face boarded the helicopter, dried vomit sticking to her Kevlar, and sat beside Sandman, but didn’t say anything, for which Sandman was grateful for.

“Get off,” Sandman told her Handler.

“What?” the scared woman asked sounding half dazed.

“You can do more good here than you can back at the Agency waiting for me to get fixed up. Besides, I’ll be back in a day or two to pull your arse out of the fire.” Sandman smiled.

Scar Face touched her cheek affectionately before getting off the helicopter, “you don’t have to put on a brave face, it’s okay to cry.”

The helicopter took off and Sandman leaned out the door to look upon her comrades. Little did she know, it would be the last time for some of them.


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:15

Section 8.
Spoiler:


Sunday 2nd September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency – 0200 hours, Alpha time



Victoria awoke form the operation to find herself in one of the hospital beds, the curtains were drawn even though it was still dark outside, and Victoria could hear the pitter patter if rain outside. The lights were off but what little moon light shone through the window was ample to illuminate the room enough for her to see. She checked her new limbs, they seemed a little heavier than the last set, and her face, which felt a bit harder then before.

“Good to see you awake,” Dr. Bianchi said as he walked in, “How you feelling?”

“A bit heavier.” Victoria held up her arm, “This a new material?”

“Yeah, the others thought it would be easier to make you more bullet resistant then repair you all the time-”

Victoria cut him off, “When can I go back.”

“To Iraq?” Dr. Bianchi shook his head, “not for a while I’m afraid. We have to keep you here to run some tests on the new limbs. You’re the first cyborg to be fitted with the new model.”

“Does Sca- I mean, Andromeda know about this?”

“She was the one that requested it, said she didn’t want you to get hurt. Her exact words were, ‘give her armour rated for .50 calibre or I’ll cut your balls off and bloody feed them to you’.”

“That sounds like her.” Victoria conceded, laughing.

“Mind if I turn the light on?” Victoria shook her head and Dr. Bianchi flicked th switch, “I understand some stuff happened that might have left you a little shaken, do you want to talk about it?”

“If you mean one of my friends dying and the mission failing,” Victoria spat angrily, “Then yes. Some stuff did happen, and no, I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

“Okay then, but you know where to find if you ever do feel like talking.” Dr. Bianchi walked off, turning the lights out behind him.

Victoria couldn’t get back to sleep after that, she just lay there with her hands behind her head thinking.

* * *
Sunday 2nd September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 0800 hours, Charlie time



Claes stood at the firing range, practicing with her MP5. Everyone else was recovering form the battle, but Jean said that Claes needed to be a better shot, so here she was. Her MP5 ran dry and she dropped it and drew her VP, she had grown quite proficient with this tactic.

“That’s a good tactic so long as you have a backup weapon too,” Omega said as Claes’ VP ran out of ammo and she was reloading, “you have good form though.”

“I do have a backup though,” Claes told him patiently, like she was explaining that the sky was blue.

“Not a secondary,” he replied just as patiently, “a backup fer ya secondary, a third weapon. For example, I have me Stechkin,” he pulled his handgun out the holster on his hip. It had grooves all along the slide that looked like they had been carved by hand.

“What are those grooves?” Claes interrupted.

“There’s one fer every friend I’ve lost. Back to the lesson.” He didn’t sound like he wanted to talk about it. There were a lot of grooves, about twenty or so on each side Claes estimated. “I have me Stechkin, but I also have a Makarov.” He reached behind him and produced the small handgun. “Tell ya what, why don’t you have this one,” he tossed the Makarov to Claes.

“But isn’t this yours,” Claes protested, “don’t you need it?”

“Bah! I got a thousand of ‘em. More common than sand ‘ere.”

“Jean’s never said anything about using a backup weapon,” Claes commented to herself, not thinking Omega would hear. He did.

“What the fuck would a suit like him know? Has he been playin’ with real guns since his boyhood. Did he fight in seventeen different conflicts around the world and have a degree in bullshitery? No? Didn’t think so.”

“Then perhaps you should train me instead,” Claes joked.

Omega didn’t seem to take it as a joke though, “I don’t really know ya that well, but it sounds like a good idea. I mean, I do know that ya don’t have a Handler, an’ this’s me last tour before I retire. Perhaps I’ll apply to be your Handler.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Not at all, I’m dead serious. Teachin’s the only thing haven’t done in all me years. Enough lolligaggin, you got work to do.”

Claes tucked the Makarov behind her belt, loaded her VP, and finally her MP5.

“I’ll number the targets. When I call out a number, ya kill the target, no reloadin’, just switch weapon. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Claes said reluctantly.

When Omega returned from numbering the targets and immediately started calling out numbers and Claes fired almost as soon as he called them out. “Fifteen… eight… one… twelve… two…” Claes dropped her MP5 and drew her VP. “Four… Eighteen... nine… fourteen… three… sixteen…” Claes dropped her VP and drew the Makarov from behind her belt, “ten… seventeen… six… thirteen…” Claes tucked the empty Makarov back behind her belt, drew the combat knife from her boot and threw it at target thirteen. Three targets left. No ammo or knives. Time to improvise. Claes picked up a nearby rock and waited for Omega to call out the next target. He looked at the rock and seemed to understand what she was doing. He shrugged his shoulders and began calling out targets again, “Eleven… five… seven.”

Claes began reloading her weapons as soon as she threw the third rock through the head of the final target. Omega was looking at her funny so she asked, “What’s the problem?”

“Why’d ya decide to throw stones an’ the knife?”

“You did say not to reload, and I was out of ammo. I could have punched them if you would prefer that?”

“Not unless yer wearing a full suit of armour. Plywood may not shoot back but regular people would.”

“Can I just call you Ohm?” Claes asked cautiously, reloading her Makarov.

“Are ya in too much of a rush to say Omega?”

“Well in physics, the symbol for resistance is the Greek letter Omega, and the unit of measurement for resistance is an Ohm.”

“Sounds kinda cool. Alright from now on, ya can call me Ohm, but that’s only because ya gonna be me cyborg.” He smiled a toothy grin that looked kind of creepy with the scars on his cheeks

Claes and omega practiced for another couple of hours, talking of literature and other things, then Omega suddenly said, “I have to go.”

“What, how come!” Claes was beginning to enjoy herself.

“I tried to take a shite this mornin’ but couldn’t. I’m hopin’ I could squeeze one out this afternoon. Age has not been kind to me.”

Claes gagged, “Too much information.”

“Hey,” the tall man said indignantly, “the sort o’ things that ya take fer granted can be difficult when ya get to me age.”

“Stop speaking, just stop. Go take your bloody shit and stop talking about it.”

* * *
Sunday 2nd September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 1815 hours, Charlie time



Jean sat at a table by himself in the mess tent. There were plenty of others having their dinner, but Jean preferred to eat by himself at the moment. Omega came along with his tray of food and took a seat across from Jean.

“I’ve a request,” the scarred man said, violently sticking his knife into the steak.

“That’s nice,” Jean said spooning some kind of gunk into his mouth. He wasn’t in the best of moods today.

“Well, this’s me last tour ya see, an’ I was thinkin’, Claes don’t have a Handler right, an’ she an’ I seem to be getting’ on fine, so why don’t I become ‘er Handler. You’s do hire out to foreign guy’s right?”

“The jobs yours,” Jean just wanted to be alone and the quicker he could get rid of Omega the better.

“What’s got yer knickers in a twist?”

“None of your bloody business,” Jean growled.

Omega got up and sat with a rowdy bunch of Legionnaires, leaving Jean in peace. The thing that had Jeans knickers in a twist was the Capitaine, that bloody woman just would not leave him alone. And he missed Ferro; I wonder what she’s doing?

“Hey there, Jean,” Capitaine Zalko said taking as seat close to him, a little too close to him, “Relax I am here for business, not pleasure. I found out you used to be a captain like me, and I thought it would be rude not to ask your opinion on what to do with the prisoners. Any that have not talked by now won’t.”

“Kill ‘em all,” he replied seriously.

“Sounds like a good idea.”

Omega came bounding up to the table, “Whoa. Stalin, Mussolini, calm down. Why not give ‘em to the Americans. Don’t look at me that way, I’m a Capitaine too ya know.”

“Why?” Capitaine Zalko asked, “It would be easier to kill them.”

“Yeah but we could get on good terms with the Americans, ‘cause we might need to borrow some o’ their stuff later.”

“We are already on good terms because of us helping them yesterday.”

“Yeah but we could be on better terms, an’ I don’t think that they’ll let us take a couple of their UAV’s.”

I had enough bloody politics in Italy, I don’t need it here, Jean thought to himself as he got up.

“Where’r ya goin’,” Omega asked at the same time Capitaine Zalko asked, “Where are you off to?”

“I need a drink,” he growled.

At the Officers Club, Jean found Rico playing pool, she seemed to like that game a lot, and Starbuck playing against her, and not winning by the looks of things, Shortie sat in the back corner of the room reading the book Claes had brought along with a few empty bottles near her and her cheeks all rosy, and Pinocchio sat at the corner of the bar regaling young Legionaries with tales of his exploits. Jean took a seat at the bar, “What is your poison?” Saad asked.

“Battery Acid,” Jean joked dryly.

“I do not have any of that I am afraid, try the motor pool.”

“Beer then, a lot of it.”

Saad walked off and filled a mug, and asked, “What’s got you down?” as he placed the mug in front of the Italian man.

Jean just stared at him.

“Come on, I am a bartender. All bartenders a registered phycologists, so let me hear your woes and see if I cannot help.”

“Well, I guess there’s no harm telling you as long you can keep your mouth shut.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Well, I miss my girlfriend, and I was planning on preposing, but then work intervened and I ended up here.”

“You are going to need something stronger than beer for something like that my friend. Tell you what,” Saad leaned closer, “good food is a bit difficult to come by out here, but chocolate is the hardest. How about I share some of my stash with you, hmm? I will be back in a minute.” Saad walked off, leaving Jean alone.

Jean decided to listen to Pinocchio’s tales; the mercenary was definitely talking loud enough for it.

“…and then I shot him through the neck, so that the bullet would go through and kill the man behind him as well.”

All the young men around him ‘oo’ed and ‘ah’ed.

“I wasn’t always a robot man you know,” Pinocchio continued, “I was once a terrorist, I’m not proud of it, but I was. That was when I first encountered the blond in the corner,” he pointed at Shortie who was glaring at him over the book, “she had busted into my house, ready to kill me. Little did she know however, I was ready for the attack. She fired at me and I just flowed around the bullets, she’d go to punch me, I’d counter with a kick. The match wasn’t very even so I didn’t toy with her because I didn’t want to embarrass her. I knocked her unconscious with a single uppercut and took her gun, but I showed mercy and spared her life-”

“Up with this, I will not put!” Shortie said as she threw the book down – Claes wouldn’t like hearing about the treatment of that book – and stamped her foot, this confirmed Jeans theory that the blond was drunk, he would have to talk to Hillshire about this, “There were three terrorists and I had to save a hostage, a little girl if I remember correctly.” She was being just as loud as he had, “and you didn’t flow around my bullets, you were using your friend as a decoy.” She put her hands on her hips, “besides, if you’ll remember, it was me that killed you in the end.”

“Yeah bitch, you think you could do that again. You only won because of your cybernetic body, now that I also have one, you won’t have a chance.”

Shortie drew her SIG, “let’s find out.”

“STOP!” Saad shouted in a firm, authoritative voice that didn’t sound like it could belong to him, “If you intend to settle this, you shall settle it in the Camp Deuf way. To the pit!”

News of the ensuing fight had spread like wild fire, and in no short time, a crowd had gathered around the pit. The atmosphere was explosive. There were floodlights set up so that people could see the fight in the dark and even a desk with two commentators. Claes and Omega funnily enough.

“Welcome everyone,” Omega said grandly, “Welcome to the fight ya have all been waitin’ fer. Two cyborgs squarin’ it off in the Pit! Today’s challengers are from opposite sides of the coin.”

Claes picked up where Omega had left off, “Shortie is a cyborg everyone knows. She weighs…I’d better not tell you, she’s giving me a funny look. She is a master of close quarters combat. Her opponent, one Pinocchio, is a relative unknown.”

“That’s right, Claes. He joined our humble ranks only two days ago. He claims to be a dead Italian terrorist in fact, and is very good at hiding knives on his persons.”

“That’s right Ohm. My money’s on Shortie. Even if those claims that Pinocchio is the terrorist he killed are true, I’m sure she can beat him again.”

“I dunno, I like the new guy, he seems to have an air about ‘im that just screams ‘Danger’.”

“Do you want to make a bet?”

“Sure, how’s twenty?”

“Done.” The commentators shook hands.

Pinocchio stepped into the Pit from one side and received a round of cheers from the crowd on his side, probably people who had bet on him. Shortie stepped down from the other side and received her own round of cheers. Where Pinocchio encouraged the cheers, Shortie ignored them, she looked prepared to destroy every fibre of the other cyborg’s being.

Capitaine Zalko stepped into the hole in the ground and stood between the pair. “You know the rules. First person to leave the pit or is rendered unconscious is the victor. No decapitations, no fire arms, and no explosive or incendiary devices. You may begin whence I have left the pit.” The Capitaine took her time leaving the circle, but the second she was out the ring, the two were at it.

Shortie led with a roundhouse kick to the head, which Pinocchio blocked with his forearm and pushed forward for an uppercut to the chin. Shortie lowered her leg and jumped back to avoid the punch, countering it with a karate chop to his wrist that would have broken the wrist of a regular person. Pinocchio ignored the blow and continued his assault, forcing the girl back. Pinocchio made the mistake of a direct punch at Shortie’s head, which she ducked under and deliver a powerful elbow to his gut. Pinocchio ignored the elbow like he had the karate chop and delivered a punch to Shortie’s skull that should have shattered bone. Shortie ignored his punch and thrust forward, knocking him off his feat. She raised her foot to deliver a final blow to the man’s chest. Pinocchio quickly rolled out the way, then swept his leg across, knocking Shortie down. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it; Shortie spun on her back with the twist and was able to kick Pinocchio in the chest with both feet, sending him to the other side of the Pit. Shortie’s turn to make a mistake, she lurched forward to punch Pinocchio in the side while he was still recovering, but he had tricked her. He grabbed her forearm and threw her into the side of the Pit using her won momentum against her.

“Beer and nuts here!” Saad called, moving through the crowd with a tray of beer and peanuts as he had advertised. Jean looked at the crowd, if they had seats, they would be on the edge of them.

Jean looked back at the fight. Shortie seemed to be slowing, this wasn’t like her. Pinocchio grabbed her wrist and spun her around, getting her in a headlock. Shortie suddenly wriggled her wrist out of Pinocchio’s grip and flipped him over her head. That slow attack had just been a feint, clever girl. Pinocchio countered with his own feint when he lay on ground, pretending to be winded. Shortie fell into his trap, leaving her left side open for an attack, a mistake that Pinocchio took full advantage of; he spun around and roundhouse kicked her in the ribs, and when she tried to destroy his shin bone with her elbow, he caught her arm and flung her at the ground face first. Pinocchio allowed Shortie to get up, and as she did so, wipe the blood away from under her nose.

“Pinocchio draws first blood,” Claes announced.

“This sure is turnin’ into an interestin’ battle, ain’t it?” Omega asked his fellow commentator.

“Yes it is, Ohm. Both combatants are fast and strong. But Shortie appears to be the stronger of the pair while Pinocchio is quicker.”

“That’s right, Claes. Pinocchio’s tactics seem a bit reckless though. If Shortie manages to connect one of her blows when he goes in, this fight could be all over soon.”

Jean thought the commentary was a nice touch; perhaps he should suggest something like the Pit to Director Lorenzo. It would definitely help to have a bit of healthy competition between the girls, and it could work as training too.

Shortie aimed a right hook at Pinocchio’s throat that he only narrowly dodged. Shortie didn’t allow him time to recover; she spun about for a backhand punch to Pinocchio’s ribs that he blocked. But Shortie was not done, she withdrew her hand and used the momentum built up form spinning to fling her leg around and connect with the side of Pinocchio’s head, sending him recoiling back, face first into the dirt. He got up and wiped the blood from his split lip.

“Give ‘im what for!” Jean cried out despite himself, he just got caught up in the atmosphere. This was like a fight between Mike Tyson and the Rocky Balboa; no one had an idea who would win.

Shortie continued her barrage uppercutting Pinocchio in the groin, bringing her foot down on his skull and kicking him in the chest. There should be no way Pinocchio would recover from that, but somehow he did. Pinocchio grunted, but that was all the emotion he showed. He recovered quickly. Moving even faster than he had before, grabbed one of Shortie’s pony tails and brought her head down to meet a roundhouse kick that would have made Chuck Norris proud. Shortie recoiled, fell to the ground, pushed herself into the air with one hand and threw a fistful of dirt into Pinocchio’s face with the other. She landed on his shoulders, but he threw himself backwards, knocking Shortie’s head against the hardened side of the Pit. She didn’t let go however, instead she maintained her grip and began tightening her grip around his neck. Pinocchio wasn’t having any of it, he brought his legs over his head, kicking Shortie in the face with both feet, and pulled her off his head. Shortie got up almost immediately and bounded for the hoarsely breathin Pinocchio. He crossed his arms to block we punch, but was too slow. Shortie had her middle knuckle extended and hit Pinocchio in the eye, then pushed down his arm and delivered a jab to the throat. Pinocchio ducked under her next volley and swept his leg across to knock Shortie off her feet. He raised his leg and Shortie only just managed to roll out the way before he crushed her face. She then proceeded to stick her thumb behind his knee, bringing him down to her level, and brought her elbow down on his other knee like Thor’s hammer. She then leapt up and stepped on his neck, slowly crushing the life out of him, but he grabbed her leg, throwing her off balance, and twisted it to put her face down in the dirt and pushed her face into the sand.

This was beginning to get out of hand, the blows these two were delivering to one another were kill shots, you never aimed for the throat unless you intended to kill that person. And Jean knew how hard each of the cyborgs could hit, and Shortie was hitting as hard as she could. Jean had to step in, but if he did, there was every chance he would get killed. Those two were both drunk, and they weren’t just angry, they were enraged. They didn’t just want to kill their opponent, they wanted to destroy them.

Jean walked over to Capitaine Zalko. “You have to put a stop to this before someone dies,” he pleaded. This was a strong willed woman, being a Capitaine in the Foreign Legion was proof of that, and she wouldn’t react well to demands. Pleading on the other hand, that might work.

“Relax Mr. Croce. Let your hair down a little,” she told him, laughing.

The time for tact was over, “They are going to kill one another, and-”

“And what Mr. Croce? Any idiot can see the inhuman force going into those attacks. If I send my men in to stop the fight, they will be killed. And I would be breaking the rules myself if I ordered the fight put to a stop.”

Jean didn’t like, but the Russian woman was right. If anyone was sent in to stop the fight, they would be killed. Jean had an idea.

“What about tasers?”

The tall woman laughed, “Out here in the middle of nowhere? You are a funny man Mr. Croce, I like that.” She put her hands atop her head. “You are just going to have to wait until one of them dies or they both get tired.”

As much as Jean hated it, the Capitaine was right once again. Jean had no choice but to wait.

It took another five hours for the fight to near its end. A third of the audience had gone to bed and another third had fallen asleep where they stood. The combatant’s moves were very sluggish now.

Shortie moved out the way of a punch from Pinocchio and tried to counter with a punch to his exposed ribs, which he blocked with a raised leg which he than kicked Shortie in her exposed side with. Both recoiled backwards and drew themselves up for a final blow. They charged at each other, Shortie kicking Pinocchio in the side of the head, Pinocchio punching Shortie in the gut with enough force to knock her back. As he fell to the ground, unconscious, Shortie’s head hit the hardened side of the Pit and was herself knocked unconscious.

“I think it’s a draw,” Omega announced slowly.

“I think you’re right,” Claes said in agreement just as slowly.

* * *



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Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
avatar
Three Dog

Male

Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

Original Characters : Yes, and there are a lot (around 25-ish I think)

Comments : 42: Life is paradoxically coincidental to the ironical tyranny applicable to the unparalleled definition of the reverse entropy.

Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:16

Section 9.
Spoiler:


Monday 3rd September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency medical wing – 0400 hours, Alpha time



Victoria woke up at six instinctively, however it was six in Iraq, not Italy, her internal clock still hadn’t adjusted. She got out of bed and slipped on her some clothes, none of the ones Petra had brought her, Victoria wouldn’t have classified them as clothes because of how little they actually covered. She wasn’t allowed to leave the room except for tests, all her meals were brought to her, which was kind of nice, so she walked around it a couple of times to stretch her legs, then did some push ups and sit ups. It wasn’t necessary for the cyborgs to exercise since they were mostly synthetic, but it gave Victoria something to do.

Victoria heard footsteps outside before Petra stuck her head through the door. “I thought you would be awake,” the red head said.

“What are you doing up this early?” Victoria wondered aloud.

“I was on a night op so I was up most of the night. I actually only just got back. Oh, by the way a package came for you. May I come in?”

Victoria nodded and Petra entered the room, holding a small box.

“Who’s it from?” Victoria asked patiently.

“Some guy named Anthony, he a-” Victoria didn’t wait for her friend to finish; she scooped the package out of Petra’s hands and tore it open. Petra cleared her throat, “you know him?”

“Yup. He’s a friend of mine.” Victoria announced as she tore away the last of the packaging, revealing a packet of Arnott’s Tim Tams, a jar of Kraft Vegemite, a novel by Eric Nylund labelled Halo: Fall of Reach – something Andromeda’s brother had been trying to get her top read for a while – and a note which read:



Dear Vic

I heard you were in hospital. Give me a call on 08-3957-2816 when you get the chance.

Love Anthony XOXO



Petra snatched the note out of Victoria’s hands, read it and giggled, “Why Victoria, I didn’t think you were that kinda gal, he must be more than just a friend” she said mischievously.

Victoria snatched to note back, “It’s nothing like that you stupid bitch. Anthony is Andromeda’s twin brother. He thinks of me as a sister since me and Andromeda are called Fratello. Siblings.”

“Well no wonder he only thinks of you as a sister when you dress like that.” Petra took almost any excuse to bring up the way Victoria dressed.

“As opposed to being half dressed like you?” Victoria retorted.

“This is how girls my age dress these days.” Petra said matter-of-factly, “It helps me to blend in.”

“You look like a hooker,” Victoria pointed out blandly.

“You look like a lesbian,” Petra pointed out just as blandly.

“Perhaps that’s where I need to blend in,” Victoria joked. “Besides, I wouldn’t be able to conceal all my weapons if I dressed like you.”

“Like what?” Petra replied hotly.

Victoria began ticking items off on her fingers, “Berretta M92 with suppressor, Berretta M93, ammunition for both, several shuriken, MAG-7 with two spare mags for that, incendiary, smoke and flash grenades, combat knife-”

“I get your point,” Petra conceded tiredly, “you’re always ready for world war three.”

“No, just a skirmish with one of the world super powers like China or America.”

“What’s that black stuff?” Petra asked pointing to the jar of Vegemite.

“That is the second best thing thin since sliced bread. Basically it’s the left over stuff in the bottom of the vats after they make beer.” Petra looked a little green at hearing that. “The Tim Tams are the best thing since sliced bread though-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Petra said, rushing out the room. Victoria just laughed to herself.

Breakfast wouldn’t be ready for another hour and a half, so Victoria decided that one Tim Tam would stave of starvation for now, but she had to put them back in the box and put that under her bed to stop herself having another, they were just so delicious, but she wanted to make them last. Victoria then sat down and began reading the book Anthony had sent her, she would have rather called him, but he was likely asleep.

At seven on the dot, Dr. Bianchi came in to see if she was okay and asked if she would like to talk about anything, which she rudely refused. She knew it was his job, but she didn’t like his nosiness period. Dr. Bianchi left and returned with breakfast on a tray which consisted of a couple of pieces of toast and porridge; delicious. Victoria scoffed down the porridge first, then spread the Vegemite in the toast and downed the just as quickly.

The only tests today were in the morning, so Victoria’s afternoon would be free to finish the book Anthony had sent her, it was really good so far. Dr. Bianchi led Victoria outside, they wanted to see how far she could run with the new limbs before tiring, then they were going to make her lift some heavy stuff. When Victoria returned, she was pooped. These new limbs might be more bullet resistant, but she wasn’t used to their weight yet. Just as Victoria lay on her bed and opened her book, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Victoria said politely, and was surprised to see Angelica’s head pop through the door. Victoria hadn’t ever spent that much time with Angelica and so was one of the people she least expected to see.

Angelica walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers “Henrietta and I thought you might like these,” she put the flowers in the vase next to the phone on one of the bedside tables. Henrietta was another cyborg she had never spent much time with.

“So does anything else bring you to this part of the facility?” Victoria asked politely; politely yet strait to the point.

“I used to be in here a lot and I know how boring and lonely it can get. I thought you might like some company. I now that Andromeda isn’t here so she won’t be able to visit.”

“Thanks, you’re right, it does get lonely. I was afraid I might have to hire a prostitute for some company.” The joke seemed lost on Angelica.

“So what’s new in the world of Angelica?” Victoria had never been very social and more often than not would simply listen to a conversation rather than participate, but she knew that asking what was new was always a good place to start.

Angelica placed her finger on her chin and looked up thoughtfully, “Well, yesterday, Marco…” the pair spent a good hour and a half talking before Angelica had to leave. After she left Victoria wondered why she had never spent that much time with the girl, she was quite a nice person.

Victoria looked at the flowers for a moment, she wasn’t sure what kind they were – she had never known much about that sort of thing – but they looked and smelt nice, before picking up her book again. Then an idea struck her, Spartans in the book were already the fastest and strongest soldiers in the universe, nearly unstoppable, but then they got some badass armour and became unstoppable. What if the same were to happen with the cyborgs? But the scientists and other authority figures of the Section One and Two wouldn’t think it a necessary precaution, because it would prevent them being able to blend in. Victoria would just have to design it herself. Not now though, she didn’t have the equipment, she would ask Dr. Bianchi to bring her some stuff when he brings her dinner. For now she would continue reading, she would like to call Anthony but he would be at work.

Several hours later, there was a knock at the door and Dr. Bianchi came in holding a tray of food. “Hello Victoria,” he said placing the tray on her lap as she put the book down.

“Let me stop you there,” she interjected, raising her hand, “Before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk, but there is something else you can do for me.”

He raised his eyebrow, he didn’t seem happy with the way he was greeted, but that didn’t matter at the moment.

“Would you be able to get me a white board, drawing paper – preferably graphed –, white board markers, both scientific and graphics calculators, protractor, compass, led pencils, erasers, rulers and tape measures, preferably metric, and pencil sharpeners?”

“Only if you answer a few questions.”

“One.

“Five.”

“Two.

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Done.”

“Why did you jump into the front of a speeding jeep?”

“Because its windows were the weakest part of Humvee. And since they’re bullet proof, and there were no armour piercing weapons or ammunition available, I used myself. Simple as that.”

“I’ve noticed that a lot of your tactics have the potential to cause self harm.”

“You could just say I’m reckless, wouldn’t that be easier? But yes, I do have some less-than-safe tactics, but they get the job done. Hell, I probably saved a lot of lives by jumping into the windshield of a speeding car.”

“Possibly at the expense of your own,” Dr. Bianchi pointed out.

“No, not at the expense of my own. I know how much punishment my body can take, and I can tell you that that Humvee wouldn’t have hit me with enough force to kill me, besides, you can just replace my ruined parts if anything gets damaged.”

Dr, Bianchi may have looked serious before, but now he was deadly serious. “What I’m about to tell you stay’s in this room, got it. None of the other cyborgs and even some of the Handlers don’t know, and you won’t be the person to tell them.” Victoria nodded and the Doctor continued. “Replacing the damaged parts puts a lot of trauma on the brain. Do it too often and the brain can’t cope. It begins by simply being memory loss, eventually your brain just shuts down. We don’t know weather the conditioning attributes to this or not, but it doesn’t help matters. Your current attitude towards combat will lead to an early grave.”

“Even more reason for me to make a suit of armour,” Victoria told herself.

“What?” Dr. Bianchi sounded very confused.

“That’s what I want the stuff for. I’m going to design a suit of armour capable of taking a shit load of punishment but still allow the user to be swift on her feet. That’s all your questions doctor, time to go get my stuff.”

“You and I have to talk later,” he told her firmly as he left.

Victoria wasted no time, scoffing down her dinner, a simple meal of pasta and sauce, but wonderful none the less. She suspected she would never take well cooked food for granted again. For dessert she had another Tim Tam.

When Victoria put the box back under the bed Dr. Bianchi returned with all the stuff she had requested.

“You know, I hope you don’t expect the Agency to pay for your suit,” the Doctor said pointedly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll just delve into my account when it comes time to build the thing,” Victoria said assuredly

“Your account?”

“Andromeda gives me half her pay because she says I do half the work,” Victoria relied simply, placing everything about the room, making ti look more like a mad scientist’s room than a patient’s room, all she needed to complete the look were tesla coils.

Dr. Bianchi left and Victoria got to work measuring her dimensions, no easy task when you’re doing it yourself. By the time she was finished it was about 2045 hours, time to call Anthony. She put her equipment down and dialled his number.

“Dr. Brandt,” Anthony said when he finally answered the phone.

“Hi Anthony, it’s Victoria. You said to call.”

“Hey there Vic, how’s it hanging? I heard you were in hospital, nothing serious I hope.”

“Don’t call me Vic, that’s a guys name-”

“So?”

“I’m not a guy.”

“Meh, so what’re you in for?”

“I had some limbs that needed replacing after a little mishap.”

“Something big happen in Iraq?”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Victoria demanded.

“I know everything. And before you ask, yes I know that your phone is probably bugged. I’m using a burn phone anyway, and bouncing the signal off a couple hundred satellites, so calm down.”

Of course, Victoria thought to herself, the guy’s a paranoid conspiracy nut. He wouldn’t be that careless. “How much do you know, I don’t want to get in trouble for telling you something you don’t already know.”

Anthony assumed the same matter-of-factly tone his sister does when lecturing, “the SWA and Foreign Legion are working together to bring down a band of arms dealers notorious for selling to terrorist groups. Three Fratelli were dispatched to work with an elite commando team. On the last day of the month you engaged a convoy headed for… somewhere and captured one of the mercenaries associated with the arms dealers. The next day, you respond to an SOS from American forces who were being attacked by the same mercenary force you encountered the previous day. Ultimately, all but a few of the Americans were killed and the Legion lost one of their own. That’s all I know.”

“That man was my friend,” Sandman said quietly.

“I’m sorry.” Anthony sounded like he really was sorry for her loss, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Victoria said angrily, wiping a tear from her eye, “I don’t want to bloody talk. And if I do decide, to I’ll fucking ask myself.”

“’Kay then, but I’m here if you want to talk.”

“That mercenary company’s called the Army of the Second Sun Mercenaries, heard of ‘em?”

“You need to stop hunting them now, I don’t care what you have to do to put a stop to it, just fucking stop!” Anthony sounded panicky.

“Whoa, you lost me there, what are you raving on about.”

“The mercenary company and the arms dealers are one in the same. The Second Suns is the most powerful mercenary company in the world; they dabble in just about everything else as well. They have the power to over throw the US government of they wanted to. Was there anything in particular that you noticed when you fought them?”

“Well, we did fight a few cyborgs,” Victoria replied candidly.

“Then I was right. Listen very carefully; Cyborgs are not the extent of their best weapons. If a country has something it wants kept secret, they know. If a country has a top secret military or civilian project, they are already reproducing it. The fact that you fought against cyborgs is proof of that.”

“You need to help,” Victoria told him, it was not open to discussion.

“I need to change my identity is what I need to do.”

“Call Andromeda, my satellite phone is still in Iraq.”

“Fine, but if everyone involved gets killed, I blame you.”

“I can live with that.” Victoria hung up the phone and went back to work on her armour, she might need it sooner than she originally thought.



Last edited by Destroyer of Worlds ;D on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:19; edited 1 time in total

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Fri 11 May 2012 - 0:18

Section 10.
Spoiler:


Tuesday 4th September 2009 – Camp Deuf – 2115 hours, Charlie time



Scar Face had been roused from her sleep by the satellite phone in Sandman’s bag going off. It had been Anthony, her brother, and he had told her everything he knew about the Second Suns and then gave Scar Face a hard time for choosing such a pushy cyborg.

Foucheur team, Capitaine Zalko, the other SWA personnel and SAS man had assembled in the recently cleared out mess tent. Scar Face had explained exactly as Anthony had about the Second Suns and now everyone was busy glaring at Pinocchio.

“Why exactly didn’t you tell us this,” Capitaine Zalko asked in a dangerously low voice.

“Because I didn’t know. All I knew was the Army of the Second Suns was a fairly large mercenary company with cybernetic capabilities that dabbled in weapons dealing and trafficking.”

“He’s telling the truth again,” Claes said blandly, she was good at reading people, claimed she learned how from one of her books.

“Why didn’t you share any of this?” the Capitaine asked Omega, not quietly, but angrily.

“That’s a past I’m tryin’ to forget, an’ I’d done a bloody good job too till he, Omega pointed at Pinocchio, “came along.”

“So what’s the plan?” Frost asked, getting everybody back on track.

“I say we hunt them down to every last man,” Big Bird offered, and Scar Face grunted agreement.

“That will just get us all killed,” Aztec growled.

“What the fuck should we do then, hmm?” Omega said, “Run with our tails between our legs. The French Foreign Legion has only had one loss in the two hundred years it’s been around. We will not add a second.”

“And what happened to death before dishonour?” Claes said in defence of her ‘Handler’, “Are you just going to forget about that?”

“There is no dishonour in not running into battle to save the lives of your family.” Hawk, who was on a single crutch with bandages wrapped around his torso and a cast on his leg, retorted hotly.

“Fuck that,” Scar Face yelled, “I grew up in a military family, everyone of us is prepared to die if it means victory, and every member of the Legion is prepared to die for victory, can you say the same?”

Aztec removed his Glock 19 from its holster. “You be careful what you say to my men, ginger fuck!”

Scar Face removed her M93 from its holster, “You best be ready to use that, Arsehole!”

Frost stepped between the pair, “you two calm the fuck down before I put you down!”

Frost saying that shocked Scar Face enough for her to jump backwards. Both of the commandos put their side arms back in their respective holsters.

“Vulpes died fighting these men,” Capitaine Zalko said only just loud enough for everyone to hear, “and we will not let his death be in vain. We stay the course. Pinocchio do you know where you were created?”

“Umm, yeah. I’d need a map of southern Czechoslovakia to show you though.”

“Good, that will be our first target.”

“I’ll go get the map,” Arronax said before rushing off to do as he said.

“You can count us out,” Aztec said, “we stay as long as it takes for Hawk to be well enough to be transported, then we go.”

The SAS men stalked out and Arronax returned a short time later with a map of Czechoslovakia. Why he possessed a map of Czechoslovakia was beyond Scar Face. He laid it on the table and Pinocchio examined it.

“Here,” he said, pointing at a spot 25km west of Český Krumlov, “It’s a graphite mine, or looks to be anyway. It’s actually an underground bunker and R&D facility.”

“Sounds a bit clichéd,” Jean noted.

“I haven’t been there since I finished basic, so I don’t remember much.”

Jean patted the mercenary on the back, “that’s okay; if you can give us some names of people that do though, that would be better.”

“I can give a few names-”

Pinocchio was cut off by several explosions and gunfire. Every person in the tent drew their side arms, except for Starbuck; she drew both her Skorpions and threw one to Megatron. Scar Face was the first person out the tent and the first to see the camp in flames while the SAS men gunned down Legionaries left and right. They had been waiting for the people that had remained in the tent because Fox was aiming his L85A2 at the door way. Scar Face never got hit though, instead she was thrown to the ground by Arronax, who received the bullets in her place. Starbuck and Megatron were next out the exit, both of which fired on the Pom at the same time. Fox fell to the ground dramatically and was dead by the time everyone else was out the tent.

They split up into three groups. The cyborgs would go south where they could hear one of the VBCIs – an infantry fighting vehicle – firing its main gun, Omega, Big Bird and Capitaine Zalko would go north to the Infirmary with the wounded Arronax in tow, and Megatron, Jean, Frost and Scar Face would go west to the armoury.

On their way to the armoury, Megatron, Scar Face, Frost and Jean encountered Wombat with an M240 and were forced to take cover behind the bodies of some dead legionaries.

This was going to be tricky.

“Grenades?” Jean yelled. Everyone shook their head. “We’ll wait till he’s out of ammo then. Seventy seconds later – an eternity on the battle field – the SAS man’s M240 ran dry and all four Agency members got up from behind their cover and fired on the man, only to be foiled by him not being there. The gun had been laid on the ground and a string tied around the trigger and grip. They split into two groups, Jean and Frost, and Scar Face and Megatron, to cover more ground.

They fanned out and it was Megatron and Scar Face that encountered Wombat first he had his Austyer aimed in Jean and Frosts direction, expecting someone to approach from there. Scar Face lowered herself to one knee and fire three round into the man’s torso. The pair walked up to him, he was still gapping for air and struggling to get his Glock out of its holster. Scar Face showed the man no mercy; she brought her boot down on the traitor’s face with enough force to get her foot stuck in his skull afterwards, it was actually rather difficult to get her foot out.

Gunfire everywhere else had stopped except at the motor pool where cyborgs were dealing with the IFV.

“Frost, you go help the others with Arronax,” Jean ordered. “The rest of us’ll go help at the motor pool.”

Half way to the motor pool, the gunfire stopped. When Jean, Scar Face and Megatron arrived, Shortie was helping Pinocchio up and Claes was getting out the IFV covered with blood. Aside from Pinocchio, everyone was fine.

“Let’s regroup with the others at the infirmary,” Jean said when everyone was in earshot. At the Infirmary they found several wounded Legionaries, the Doc was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s the Doc?” Scar Face asked.

“Dead,” Omega replied simply as he removed a bullet from a man’s torso with a pair of pliers.

Scar Face knew exactly what that entailed. She immediately went to the closest wounded Legionnaire and began assessing his injuries. The other adults and Claes followed suit. Scar Face didn’t expect the other cyborgs to join because of their lack of medical training. Instead, they went looking for more wounded. When everyone had been accounted for, the total death toll was twenty two men, with four badly wounded and not likely to make it through the night. When Scar Face next saw Omega, he was carving a notch into the side of his pistol.

* * *
Thursday 6th September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency Medical Wing – 0030 hours, Alpha time



Victoria couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard she tried. Perhaps it’s because the curtains weren’t drawn, this was the thing different form last night after all, and she had slept like a baby last night. She could hear a helicopter landing. Strange, she didn’t think there were any operations tonight. What would she know? The higher ups wouldn’t tell her something like that.

Victoria got up and drew the curtains; on the roof of the building across form hers sat two men on their stomachs. One of the men fired hitting her in the shoulder as she dropped to the floor. They were using suppressed weapons with sub sonic rounds. Victoria knew this because she barely heard the shot and it hadn’t penetrated far into her shoulder. Victoria needed to raise the alarm, but she couldn’t get to the door without being spotted by the snipers. In the hallway, she heard suppressed weapons fire, then a man kicked the door and fired at Victoria with his suppressed P90. She barely reacted fast enough to bring her arms up to her face before kicking the mattress from the bed into him. She run around the bed, narrowly avoiding the snipers fire, and punched her assailant in the throat as hard as she could, collapsing his windpipe.

While he was on the ground struggling to try and breath, she took the P90 form him, unscrewed the suppressor and fired several rounds at the snipers, just enough for her to get out the room. Hopefully someone was calling security now as well.

At the end of the hallway, Victoria encountered another black clad man with a suppressed P90. The two levelled their weapons at each other simultaneously using their other arm to guard their eyes. This man was another of the Second Sun cyborgs, which meant the attackers were Second Sun mercenaries. His P90 clicked empty right before Victoria’s did. He drew his handgun, a suppressed SIG P210 while she charged at him, aiming for the throat might not work, so instead she aimed a kick at his groin, then brought his head down to meet her raised knee, followed by stomping on his windpipe as hard as she could once he was on the ground. Bastard wasn’t that tough, Victoria thought. She went and picked her P90 up and grabbed a couple of magazines from the dead, or at least dying, cyborg’s combat vest and reloaded her submachine gun and grabbed his headset.

“Arnold, come in,” the voice on the other end said, “Arnold, respond! Fuck we lost Arnold, they know were here. Go loud! Go loud!”

Victoria was closest to the analyst’s room – she didn’t know what it was actually called but that was where all the analysts hung out – so she headed there. Along the way she met two more black clad men, but neither were cyborgs, and hence, simple to dispatch. When Victoria arrived, Olga, Ferro, and Priscilla had stacked all the desks up in the door way as barricades and were holding out against four armed men. One of which had a SPAS 12 instead on a suppressed P90, that could prove problematic if Victoria got too close and was hit.

Victoria sprung from around the corner and fired at the men, killing all of them swiftly, then reloaded her P90. Last mag.

“Thanks for the help,” Olga said as she and Ferro began dismantling the barricade.

“Is anyone hurt?” Victoria asked.

“Priscilla’s unconscious,” Ferro said, “But aside from that we’re all fine.”

“Good,” Victoria grabbed a spare magazine for her P90 from each of the dead men as Olga snatched up the SPAS. “Stay away from the windows. They have snipers.”

“Where are you going?” Ferro asked as Victoria began to walk off.

“To the Handlers apartments, that’s where I figure the other girls ran to as soon as they heard gunfire so that they could protect their Handlers. After I regroup with them I intend to take back my home.”

“I’m coming with you,” Olga said, loading the final round into her newly acquired shotgun.

“I’ll stay here with Priscilla,” Ferro said picking up a P90 and checking its ammo.

“Yes ma’am.”

To get to the Handlers apartments, Victoria and Olga needed to get through a walkway exposed on both sides, not an easy task with the snipers afoot. Thankfully the railing was high enough for the pair to crawl through with out being spotted, or so they thought. A high calibre round tore through the wall and the floor in front of Victoria, she knew it was high calibre because it went straight through the brick, definitely not the sub sonic rounds used before. “No time to crawl!” Victoria yelled as she grabbed Olga’s arm and dragged her across the walkway faster than the Russian woman would have been able to run. “Two hostiles headed towards the Handlers digs,” Someone said over the radio, “One woman, one cyborg.” They nearly got shot a couple more times by the sniper, but finally they got to the Handlers apartments.

The scene unfolding before them could almost be called comical. Henrietta and Angelica were engaged in hand to hand combat with a group of eight men, and the two girls in their pink and fluffy pyjamas respectively were winning. Olga fired a single round from her SPAS taking out one of the man and Victoria fired several bursts from her P90 taking out another. The two First Gens had dispatched the rest.

“Henrietta, Angelica,” Olga called out, “are you okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” they replied in unison.

“Do you know where the others are?” Olga asked.

“They’re in Claes’ library.” Angelica replied simply as she and Henrietta picked up a P90 each, “we were cut off when we were all running there.”

It made sense, that room didn’t actually have anyone living in it so it had the most available room to manoeuvre if the enemy broke in.

“Let’s make our way there then,” Olga told them.

All three cyborgs responded with a, “Yes ma’am.”

“Charles, Charles! Where the fuck are you! God dammit, we lost another fucking team!” the mercenaries couldn’t have many men left.

When the quartet arrived at Claes’ library, no one was there. There were no signs of combat.

“They’re making a push for the courtyard!” the man who wanted to talk to Charles said, “If we lose the fucking courtyard we lose out Evac! Someone fucked up big with their intel!” he was not having a very good day by the sounds of things.

The courtyard wasn’t far away, and it took the four no short time to get there. They met up with José and Marco, which Henrietta and Angelica were pleased about, who explained the situation. As far as they could tell, there had been no casualties on the Agency side, but a lot on the invaders side.

“There aren’t many left,” Victoria informed them, “I’ve got one of their mics, they didn’t expect us to be able to organise a resistance and so didn’t bring much in the way of air support and things like that. They don’t have many men left either. From what I can tell, there are two sets of roof top snipers and three ground teams left, totalling about fourteen people.”

“Then that’s all of them in the court yard then.” Marco pointed out. He poked his stolen P90 over the cover and fired a few rounds, “I’m out!” Victoria tossed him one of the magazines she had and he muttered a thanks.

“Where are the rest of our people?” Olga asked.

“Petra and Soni are going around to climb onto the roofs and take out the snipers, then use the rifles to take out the men below. The rest of us are providing a distraction. Have you seen Pricilla or Ferro?”

“Yes, Ferro stayed back with Priscilla who was injured, nothing serious, just unconscious.”

“Air support’ll be here in five boys!” the man over the radio shouted.

“They’ve got air support inbound,” Victoria informed them, “Five minute.”

“What happened to ‘no air support’?” Marco asked sarcastically.

Victotia flipped him off, “I didn’t have that much fucking time to analyse the intel I was getting.”

“Well Petra and Soni better bloody hurry,” José said angrily.

There was gunfire in the distance, then again on the other side of the complex.

“Snipers are down,” Olga muttered.

Thirty seconds later, Soni appeared on one side of the roof top armed with a M107 and on the other side Petra armed with a VSS. The remaining attackers were eliminated swiftly.

“Soni!” Fio shouted at her cyborg, enemy air support inbound; keep your eyes peeled!”

“Yessir,” the cyborg shouted back.

“You do the same Petra,” Alessandro ordered his own cyborg, who gave the same response as Soni.

Three minutes later as everyone was moving and searching the bodies, Soni shouted out from the roof, “Helicopter spotted, looks like a Hind, no identifying marks… It’s opening fire!” Soni fired eight consecutive 12.7mm jacketed rounds at the helicopter and then jumped with joy, “I got ‘im!”

Four rockets streaked past hitting the roof tops and nocking both Soni and Petra into the court yard. Public Relations was going to have a blast explaining this one to the papers.

* * *
Friday 7th September 2009 – plane en route to graphite mine 25km west of Český Krumlov – 0300 hours



Victoria sat next to queasy Andromeda on the Osprey. The indoor lights hadn’t yet gone red, so they weren’t near the drop zone. Victoria looked at the other occupants of the aircraft, Pinocchio and Triela seemed to be getting on fairly well since their fight – Andromeda had told her about that little four hour tiff – and Hillshire didn’t seem happy about it for some reason, the rest of the Second gens and their Handlers were there as well, save for Mercedes, she was part of the ground team, moving in by way of armoured truck. What remained of Foucheur team was on the ground too.

Victoria checked over her F2000 for a final time, it was good to have it in hand again, along with her M93. That wasn’t all she had of course, she liked to keep her options open, along with the assault rifle and machine pistol she also had a MAG-7, combat knife just like Andromeda’s, incendiary, smoke, flash and fragmentation grenades, a suppressed M92, and twenty four shuriken.

The white lights went out and the read lights came on. “Drop in sixty seconds,” the pilot called out. Everyone made sure their parachutes and helmets were properly secured. The rear hatch opened. Everybody lined up. With an interval of fifteen seconds each, they jumped out. They landed about the entrance of the mine which the ground team had already secured; with no casualties.

“When we get inside, split into your teams,” Jean reminded everyone.

The entrance to the mine was a large tunnel that went for six hundred metres before coming to a stop at a freight elevator which led down five hundred metres to the first stop. That was Henrietta, José, Jean, and Rico off. Next stop was fifty metres below that; Beatrice, Bernardo, Gattonero and Lupa’s stop. Another fifty feat lower; Mercedes, Barry, Angelica and Marco got off. Only forty metres this time; Petra, Sandro, Fleccia and yarrow’s floor. Second to last flor was another sixty metres below where Big Bird, Hillshire, Soni and Fio left. The bottom level, a further hundred metres, was left to Andromeda, Victoria, Triela, Claes and Omega.

When they got off, the lights went out. “They know we’re here,” Omega said, “Put yer night vision goggles on an’ keep a lookout fer ambushes and booby traps.”

They quintet proceeded another forty metres before coming to a ‘T’ junction. According to Pinocchio’s contacts, one of these led to the research and conversion lab, the other two, no idea. “Claes an’ me’ll go left,” Omega stated, “Andromeda an’ Victoria’ll go right, an’ Pinocchio and Triela’ll run the gauntlet.”

Everyone nodded their approval.

The corridor assigned to Victoria and Andromeda was slightly smaller than the others, if only just, with pillars on either side every ten or so metres. It twisted and winded this way and that and eventually came to a dead end of smoking rubble.

“Looks like they blew it.” Andromeda keyed her helmet mic, “Omega, it’s Andromeda. We hit a dead end and are making our way back. Over.”

When Omega answered, Victoria could hear gunfire in the background, “Roger that Andromeda. Go though the central tunnel.”

“Yessir.”

On their way back the pair was attacked by seven men armed with P90’s and AUG A3’s. Victoria took cover behind a pillar on one side and Andromeda a pillar on the other.

“Where the fuck did they come from!” Andromeda demanded of no one in particular. Victoria took a mirror out her pocket and poked it around the edge. There were open vents on either side of the hall. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say, “They’re coming out of the walls.”

“I don’t give a fuck where they’re coming from, frag on three. One… two… three!” the fratello simultaneously threw their grenades around the corner and cleared a path.

“Hold on,” Victoria told her Handler as they went past the vents.

“What the fuck’re you doing?”

Victoria grabbed a pair of high explosive grenades from one of the corpses and tossed one up each vent, “Making sure that doesn’t happen again,” she replied simply.

Andromeda grinned, “That’s my girl; now let’s regroup with the others.”

When they got to the T junction again, keeping an eye on all the vents this time, they went down the central tunnel as Omega had said. It also happened to be the direction of the gunfire. The gunfire grew louder as they got further through the tunnel till they got to its source; A large room with ample cover on either side. Victoria immediately took cover behind a large concrete block near Pinocchio and Triela while Andromeda took cover behind a forklift adjacent Claes and Omega. On the other side of the room, judging from their exclusive use of the XM8, were Second Sun cyborgs. Every one was just firing blindly firing over their cover though, not wanting to poke their head out.

“Gimme cover fire!” Claes shouted as she threw a smoke grenade in front of herself. Victoria threw a pair of her own smoke grenades as well to provide cover and then fired wildly into the smoke to try and keep the hostile cyborgs suppressed. Claes had a cement bag sized bundle under her arms as she sprung from cover and run over to the other side of the room. In a matter of seconds she had returned with only a flesh wound.

“What was that?” Andromeda asked.

Omega held up a detonator and grinned, “Semtex. ‘Bout a shite load o’ it.” He hit the trigger and the other side of the room exploded. Everyone waited in silence for the dust and smoke to clear or settle. When it finally did, roughly five minutes later, Pinocchio fired a single shot form his rifle at the other side. No response, and after another minute, they all got out of cover and proceeded down the tunnel, which was lit, so they removed their night vision goggles.

There was no resistance until they reached another big room, this one set up like some kind of laboratory crossed with an operating room. The resistance was made up of aids wanting to be heroes and doctors who thought their life’s work was at risk. It was quickly dealt with. By the end only one scientist remained, a German man from the sounds of him.

“Pinocchio, I created you, brought you back from ze brink of death, und zis is how you repay me? By bring miscreants into my lab?”

Pinocchio walked up to the man sounding very, very angry, “you saved me did you? You’re lying to yourself if you believe that. The pain you caused me, it was unbearable. As much as I’d like to, I cannot inflict the same amount of pain upon you without since you would just die.” Pinocchio picked the German up by the throat and slammed him onto an operating table, “So I’ll settle for giving you back your sword instead…” Pinocchio drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it over the German.

“Don’t do this Pinocchio,” Omega said firmly, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“We all do what we have to do, you’re proof of that.” Pinocchio shook his head at Omega, “Of all people, I thought you would be the one to know how I feel.” He plunged the sword into the German’s stomach, pinning him to the operating table.

The German screamed in agony for a couple of minutes before he actually died.

“Let’s blow this place up now.” Pinocchio grunted

“Not yet,” Victoria said, snapping out of the trance like state that everyone had been in, moving over to the terminal lining the wall, “we need to take as much of their research as possible.”

“Not in our orders,” Omega said, “we clear the place an’ blow it to high hell when we leave, like sendin’ an ultimatum.”

“Who gives a shit about orders?” Victoria said angrily, not normally possible, but the conditioning wasn’t working as well since the new limbs were installed, it was nice to be able to swear at superiors. “While I was being used as the new lab rat I over heard Dr. Ziliani talking to Dr. Bergonzi that the Second Sun cyborgs were constructed completely different to us, me and Claes I mean, and that they don’t have problems with the conditioning or transplanting of limbs as far as they could tell. They have problems in other areas, but I think if we get our hands on the research done here we can increase our lifespan at least three fold.”

“Perhaps we should look for information about any other bases well,” Andromeda added.

“Fine,” Omega conceded, “We’ll take as much as we can. C’mon, get to work.”

Victoria rummaged through the files on the first terminal and copied them all to one of the spare sixteen gig USB’s laying about the place. She then moved onto the second terminal, which spoke to her!

“Take me with you,” an electronic voice said in German, “I don’t want to die here.”

“What the hell?” Victoria said to herself.

The voice answered, this time in Italian, “Please take me with you, I don’t want to die. I’ll tell all about thier other projects if you take me with you.”

“Where are you?” Victoria asked, wondering where this scientist could be hidden.

“I’m right in front of you,” the voice said as if explaining that the sky was blue.

“You lost me,” Victoria admitted.

“Who the fuck’re you talkin’ to?” Omega demanded.

“A scientist. I think he’s hiding somewhere and using a terminal to link with this one and talk to us.”

“No, I am in the terminal,” it explained patiently, “I am a replica of a third generation Japanese AI. You can call me Josip.” Then it added indignantly, “And I do not hide.” It would make sense that if anyone had AI it would be the Japanese.

“Fine, just pack the fucker onto a USB and let’s get out of here!” Omega ordered.

The AI, or rather Josip, laughed, “I will not fit on one of these USB’s. You will have to remove the hard drive from this computer.”

“And how the fuck do I do that?” Victoria asked impatiently.

“Remove the crews on the casing of this console and pull the plug out you imbecile.”

“Do you want to be left to die?”

“Do you want my help?”

“Arsehole.”

“Moron.”

Victoria pulled out her Leatherman and began unscrewing the front, then she pulled out a normal looking computer hard drive and pulled the Ethernet cable out the back. That was the only cable there.

“Since you found ‘im, you can carry ‘im,” Omega told Victoria, “Claes, you grab the USB’s.”

“Yessir,” they replied in unison.

“I’ve already set the explosives, so let’s go.”

They ran to the freight lift as fast as their slowest member, which surprisingly enough was Andromeda. As soon as everyone was aboard Claes hit the up button. They picked up the other Agents in the reverse order they were dropped off in.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Jean asked as the last group boarded the elevator.

“All except Big Bird,” Hillshire said, “He deserted. Climbed up the side of the elevator shaft saying there’s something he had to see to.” Impressive considering that the shaft didn’t have anything to grip while climbing it.

“That bastard,” Jean said under his breath. Out aloud he asked, “What’s Victoria got a computer for?”

“It’s not a computer, its Josip,” she explained.

“I’ll explain later,” Andromeda said patting the confused man on the shoulder.

Outside the mine an Osprey waited to pick them up. Once everybody was onboard and the aircraft off the ground Jean took a detonator out of his pocket and hit the trigger. Down below the earth shook and collapsed as the tunnels caved in on themselves.

* * *
Friday 7th September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency compound – 1930 hours, Alpha time



Omega, or Samuel Flannigan as he was actually called, had officially been discharged from the legion as of 1200 hours today, and also as of 1200 hours today he was Claes’ new handler. The new Fratello was celebrating with a few other people form the Agency while the others celebrated the fact that an opposing cyborg threat had been dealt with. Not Victoria though, she was on the roof of one of the building with one hand behind her head, the other holding an unlit pipe between her teeth, staring up at the cloudless night sky, remembering a dear friend.

She had once told him the killing was her purpose, but she was wrong, it wasn’t her purpose to kill, it was only a means. Her true purpose is to save lives; killing is just a way of doing that. Constructing a suit of armour for all the cyborgs was another. And ‘liberating’ that research data yet another.

Two people walked onto the roof. Victoria didn’t have to look to know that it was José and Henrietta out for a night of star gazing, Henrietta’s perfume was enough of a give away without the telescope having already been set up.

“Oh, sorry to disturb you,” José said apologetically, “we didn’t think anyone else was up here.”

“No, that’s okay,” Victoria said as she got up and slipped the pipe into her flannelette shirt, “I was just leaving anyway.” She began walking to the door, then stopped beside the First Gen, “I never did thank you for the flowers the other day, did I Henrietta. Well, thank you, they were very nice.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” the brunette said.

“If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” Victoria shouted over her shoulder as she left the roof.

* * *
Claes sat next to her new handler in the cafeteria drinking some tea she had made herself while he gorged on every meal available at the buffet. He was wearing his Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts again. Maybe they’re his only spare clothes?

“This is fuckin’ delicious,” Samuel said around a mouthful of pasta and lettuce, “yer’ve no idea how long it’s been since I had a decent fuckin’ meal.”

“Please swallow before you talk,” Claes reminded the Irishman for the umpteenth time, “And don’t swear in front o f the other cyborgs, their handlers probably won’t like that. I’ve already heard Marco and Hillshire calling you a bad influence.”

“They can shove it up their fuckin’ arses.” He still wasn’t swallowing before talking; he was actually shoving more in! “When ya get to me age, ya just don’t give a shite what other think of ya. Ya ever been fishin’?”

Claes was surprised by the sudden change of subject. “Um, no. At least I don’t think so.”

“Well ya look like a person that’ll enjoy fishin’. On me next day off, I’ll take ya down the coast an’ we’ll catch a big whatever it is ya catch in Italy. Jesus Christ this food is fuckin’ awesome!”

The new Fratello received glares from several cyborgs that didn’t like that kind of foul language and from the few Handlers that were with their charges. Claes tried as hard as she could to hide her face in her tea to avoid notice, time to change the subject.

“Last week, what possessed you to make up that thing about the Solanum virus and the Chernobyl disaster?”

“I didn’t bloody make that shite up,” the scared man said seriously, “I lost a lot of good friends that day.”

“Bull shite,” Claes said mimicking his accent as best she could. Perhaps the others were right; maybe he was a bad influence. “A book I just finished reading, a fictional book might I add, featured the Solanum virus-”

“Did the book have something to do with zombies?” Samuel asked dryly.

“Um, yeah. Have you read it?”

“Like I said, I didn’t make that shite up.” He reached in his shirt and removed his Stechkin. “Every mark on the left side and half the marks on the right are from that day.”

“You realise you aren’t allowed to have that in here?” Claes said using her now empty teacup to gesture at the gun.

“Ya realize that I don’t give a toss right?”

Claes got up and began to walk out when Samuel stopped her, “Where the fuck ya goin’?”

“To play the piano.”

“I’ll join ya, just lemme get me harmonica.” He sounded very exited, like a child on Christmas day.

* * *
Jean had managed to sneak Ferro away from her paper work and into the office he shared with José. There was no chance of his brother being there because his work ethic wasn’t all that great and he had promised to take Henrietta to the roof to look at the stars.

“Now what was this important thing you needed me for?” Ferro demanded angrily at seeing no papers on either desk. Unlike Jean’s brother, Ferro had very good work ethic.

“There was something I needed to ask you.” Jean got down on one knee and removed a blue velvet box from his jacket. He opened the box to reveal a modest diamond ring, “Ferro, will you marry me?”

She embraced him in a hug that he thought was as tight as she could manage. “Of coarse I would.”

“Ha-ha!” a voice said at the door of the office. When the newly engaged couple turned to see who it was, they were face to face with the entire Section Two support staff, even Director Lorenzo! Pricilla was the one who had spoken up, “I told you he was gonna do it, didn’t I! You can suck that Amadeo! Bloody love doctor my arse.”

“H-how long have you known?” Jean said in a strangled voice.

Dr. Bianchi started counting on his fingers, “It must have been three or four months now since I heard.”

“About that for me as well,” Olga admitted.

“A few weeks,” Giorgio said shrugging his shoulders.

“Since you got together,” Pricilla said, her smile splitting her face from ear to ear.

“A month,” the Director replied simply.

“Same as Lorenzo,” Amadeo said putting an arm around Priscilla’s shoulders before taking it off when she glared at him dangerously.

“W-who told you?” Jean was still in shock and Ferro was speechless.

“I heard it from Henrietta when I was giving her a check up,” Dr. Bianchi said, “she claimed it was José who told her.”

Everyone else said it was José who told them.

Jean hands clenched into tight fists, “I’m gonna kill the bastard,” he said through clenched teeth. Ferro didn’t say anything, but her look mimicked Jean’s.

* * *
Pinocchio and Triela lay on their bellies across form each other in the room with the piano that Claes so often frequented. The day the pair had had the several hour long fight, there had been no clear victor. That would change to day, and it would be settled by arm wrestling.

“Go,” Triela said.

She pushed as hard as she could. He pushed as hard as he could. And after ten or fifteen minutes neither arm had budged a millimetre.

“Just give up,” Pinocchio said through gritted teeth, “There’s no way you can win.”

“Ha!” Triela replied, her own gritted teeth, “I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want to hurt your feelings, I could win this any time I want.”

“Yeah, well so could I.”

After another five minutes, Samuel and Claes walked in. “Sorry didn’t think this room was occupied,” Claes apologised.

“Bah, it’s no problem,” Triela assured her roommate, “I’ll win this in a moment anyway.”

“Come in, do what you want,” Pinocchio told them.

The newest Fratello came in and sat at the piano. Claes began to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise before Samuel stopped her.

“That’s a pretty dull song. How ‘bout Piano Man?”

“Yeah, I know that one,” Claes replied beginning to play that instead while Samuel played the Harmonica.

They finished the song and played tier own rendition of Symphony for the Devil, and finished that as well.

“C’mon, you gotta need the bathroom soon,” Triela taunted.

“I’ll just go on the spot if I have to.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“You’re ugly!”

“You’re stupid!”

“You’re short!”

Triela looked over at Claes and Samuel who had stopped playing and wondered what they were up to. The next second, Claes came over and stood on Triela and Pinocchio’s clasped hands.

“Suck eggs boss man,” Claes said as she balanced on one leg atop the blond cyborg’s hands, “I told you they could hold me up.”

“You two remind me of a famous pair of blood enemies that become friends,” Claes commented.

“I think she just called us Romeo and Juliet,” Triela said to Pinocchio.

“We’ll finish this another time,’ he told her.

“Agreed.” As soon as they released their grip, Pinocchio and Triela went for their respective weapons of choice. A knife for Pinocchio and a P230 for Triela.

Claes raised her hands defensively, “Whoa, calm down. I didn’t mean Romeo and Juliet. They were lovers not friends. I was talking about Spartacus and Crixus.” The angry pair lowered their weapons but didn’t put them away. Samuel just sat on the piano bench playing his harmonica. “Spartacus was a Threasian and Crixus was a Gaul. Enemies by blood. Like a terrorist and a counter terrorist, and like you they united against common foe and became friends. You can put those away now.”

“Aw relax. I wouldn’t shoot you Claes,” Triela assured her shaken roommate, “Then I’d have no one left to gripe about things too.”

Pinocchio said nothing.

* * *
Unlike the others, Mercedes and Barry had gone out to a nice restaurant for dinner. The schnitzel was especially nice Mercedes thought, so was the salad; however after a month of army food she probably would have thought that anything would be nice. By Barry’s gleeful expression, Mercedes figured he also thought the food was nice.

“You felling alright?” Barry asked.

“Yeah fine. Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t said much is all, normally you’re more talkative.”

“Well, I was thinking, these mercenary dudes are meant to be all over the world, like a major world power, right? We just put a big sign on our arses saying ‘come get us’, when we blew up their facility.”

Barry put down his fork. “Don’t worry; I used to do this thing for a living you know, pissing off major organisations and the like. It’ll probably take a couple of days for them to figure out what happened and a couple of weeks after that to figure out who did it.”

“I’m still a bit worried.”

“Hey, do you wanna illegally download some movies, that normally cheers you up?”

“Nah, I’ve seen everything new.”

“How ‘bout I lend you some Tom Clancy books?”

“Isn’t he the guy who inspired the Hunt for Red October?”

“Wrote actually. It was a book first, the book’s much better than the movie though.”

“Yeah alright. How about sharing some of that satay chicken?”

“Piss off. You got your own food.”

Mercedes responded by pocking her tongue out at him.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Barry said finishing his chicken, “I got Black Books.”

“That show with Dylan Moran in the book store?”

“That’s right.”

Try as she might, Mercedes couldn’t hep but grin. The bald man always knew how to cheer her up.

For desert Mercedes had ordered delectable cheesecake just like her Handler, and delicious the cheesecake was. On the ride back to the Agency, in a Mercedes funnily enough – part of Barry’s terrible sense of humour – the black haired girl couldn’t help but worry despite what Barry had said. Had they just gotten themselves involved in something bigger then they could handle?



Thus ends Part one of Second Suns. With any luck I can post Part Two next weekend.

And for those wondering why I posted each secton like I did: spoiler tags mean less space is taken up, and it would be too big to post otherwise. Didn't know something could be too big to post, now I do.

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:00

Well, I'm not too sure if anyone is actually reading this. I hpe they are, but if not... meh . Here's the second part.




Second Suns: Part Two
Section 1.
Spoiler:


Monday 10th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency medical wing – 1900 hours, Alpha time





Victoria
still occupied one of the rooms in the medical wing, but it wasn’t so bad, she
got a lot of time to work on her body armour project which she had code named ‘Wolf’, in memory of a dear friend. The current design
could inconspicuously fit under her regular clothing with eases while still
offer maximum protection. The only vulnerabilities were at the joints, but that
was unavoidable. Now she needed someone to make it. Perhaps she could…


There was a knock as the door.


“Come in,” Victoria
said crisply. As she turned away from her sketches, she looked at a handsome –
no, dashing – man with black hair and beard. He wore a brown leather jacket and
a pair of denim jeans. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Victoria
demanded of the Foreign Legion deserter, Big Bird.


He pulled open his jacket
revealing a large wound, a large bleeding wound. “I didn’t know who else I
could trust…,” he said before collapsing on the floor. Victoria
dashed to the man’s side, uttering curses the whole time.


“Medic!” she shouted at the top
of her lungs, “I need some fucking help! A man’s bloody dying! Get off you’re
fucking arses and help!”


Dr. Bianchi
was the first to arrive followed by Amadeo. “Who the hell is this,” Amadeo
demanded furiously.


“Worry about that after you save
his fucking life!” Victoria screamed at the
man.


“Both of you calm down,” Dr. Bianchi
said patiently, “there’s a lot of blood but the wound doesn’t look that bad. It
should be okay to move him.” After another moment, “This guy’s heavy, wanna
give us a hand moving him to the infirmary, Victoria?”


Victoria
grabbed his legs while the two men grabbed a shoulder each. On their way to the
infirmary they ran across Triela who had just gotten an arm replaced after a
sparring match with Pinocchio. “Go get the other medical staff,” Dr. Bianchi
ordered.


Triela didn’t waste any time, she
took off down the hall and by the time Victoria,
Amadeo and Dr. Bianchi had arrived, all the other medical
staff were waiting.


“You two can go now,” Dr. Bianchi
said politely but firmly to Victoria
and Amadeo.


“So who the hell was that?”
Amadeo demanded once the door had closed behind the pair.


“Big Bird,” she told him sternly
and didn’t give him any time to comment, “he’s a legionnaire, actually an
ex-legionnaire now that I think about it. We met in Iraq
and then again on the Czechoslovakia
mission where he deserted.”


Amadeo gave himself a moment to
absorb the situation. “We had best go tell Jean
and the Director.”


“I’ll get Jean,
he’ll probably be in the Handler’s apartments,” Victoria
said briskly.


“I’ll call the director,” Amadeo
said just as briskly.


Victoria
swiftly made her way to the Handler’s apartments and rapped on Jean’s door. Then again. And again. The forth time
she yelled at him as well, “Wake the hell up this is bloody important!” Still
no answer. “Fucking wake-”


Jean
opened the door enough to stick his head trough, he smelled of wine. “What the
hell is it,” he demanded grumpily. He sounded as if he was still a little drunk


“Big Birds back,” was all she
needed to say to sober him up.


“I’ll be there in a sec,” he told
her before shutting the door. A moment later he came out pulling a shirt over
his head, “take me to him.”


“That’s not gonna happen, sir.”


“How come?”


“He was injured and taken
directly to the infirmary. I don’t think the doctors will let you in until
they’ve stabilised him.”


“Has the Director been informed?”


“Amadeo’s doing it now.”


Jean
took a moment to collect his thoughts. “You can go now.”


Victoria
shrugged and walked back to her room in the medical wing, and picked up some
cleaning supplies along the way. Might as
well get the blood out the carpet before I call Anthony
.


After the blood was cleaned up Victoria
checked her watch, nearly eleven o’clock. The cleaning had taken longer than
expected; Anthony should still be
awake though. She dialled his current number.


“Dr. Brandt,”
the man on the other end of the line answered.


“Hi, Anthony.
It’s Victoria.”


“Hey Vic,”
he replied excitedly, “Why are you up so late?”


“I could ask you the same. To the
point now, I’ve got some plans for a suit for armour. If I send them and some
money to you, could you build it?”


“So long as you don’t expect
Mjolnir armour or anything like that.”


“Nah. I was inspired by that
though.”


“You won’t be able to mail the
schematics; I don’t want anything traced back to me. Give it to Andromeda, she
knows the procedure. Oh, and guys who are also listening to this call-”


“There’s no one else here,” Victoria
pointed out.


“I’m talking to the people who
are listening through the bug, thinking that they might be able to catch me.
Yeah that’s right, Imma talkin’ to you guy’s.”


“They bug all the phone lines
idiot.”


“Yeah but they listen to all of
‘em and probably hope to catch and kill me.”


“I gotta go, you’re gonna get me
in trouble,” Victoria
said in a matter-of-factly voice before hanging up the phone.


“Bloody idiot,” she told herself
before making sure everything was away and going to sleep.




* * *


Monday 10th September 2009 – somewhere along the
Sicilian coast – 1730 hours, Alpha time





Claes sat huddled close to the
fire, it was ridiculously cold for this time of year, even throughout the day
because of the cloud cover, and she didn’t have any warm clothes. Samuel was busy cooking today’s catch, a pair of… how
did Samuel put it? ‘Not fuckin’ bad
sized trout’, yeah, that was it, and scratching the beard he was growing to
hide his scars.


It had been an interesting day to
say the least. Claes had nearly lost her glasses when they were hit by a big
wave, Samuel lost a shoe and now the
fish was burning. Claes carefully explained that if she had to eat burnt or
cold food again, she would put his remaining shoe where the sun didn’t shine.
Perhaps the other Handlers were right; perhaps he was a bad influence.


“Calm the fuck down. Are you
still cranky about not being able to find a spot to take a shite?” he asked,
sounding genuinely concerned. The bloody moron.


“No, I’d actually forgotten about
that,” she replied angrily.


“Ya know it could be worse,” he
said pointedly.


“How so?” again angrily.


“It could rain.” As if that were
a summons, the clouds above roared and it began to rain, heavily. The Fratello scrambled into the tent as fast
as they could.


“Ah, I missed doin’ this kinda
shite,” Samuel said happily, placing
his hands behind his head for a pillow.


How could anyone miss doing this? Claes wondered.


“Ya should try an’ get some
sleep, gotta get up early tommora to get in some fishin’.”


Claes tried to get to sleep, but
the tent was leaking and her feet were cold. She just lay there listening to
the rain, water dripping onto her forehead. Just as she was finally on the
brink of sleep, Samuel’s phone rang.


She got up and growled, “Aw you
bastard!”


“What, what, what?” Samuel demanded as he awoke, over pronouncing the H
on every word.


“Your damn phone,” Claes said
angrily, picking up the phone and checking who it was, “Jean
wants a chat.” She held up the phone so he could see.


Samuel
grabbed the phone, “what the bloody hell does he want, doesn’t he realize what
the fuckin’ time is?” Samuel put the
phone to his ear, “don’t you realize what the fuckin’ time is... I’ll be there
in five an’ a half hours.”


“What is it?” Claes asked, the
anger gone from her voice. Samuel looked
like he had been told his mother had just died or something.


“Pack only what you need, we’re
leaving now,” he said seriously.


“Yessir.”




* * *


Tuesday 11th September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency
compound – 2300 hours, Alpha time





Samuel’s
Austin Martin rolled smoothly into its assigned
car park and the Fratello was out the
car the moment the engine was off. From what Claes understood, Big Bird had
returned, somehow broken into the Agency and now lay unconscious in the
infirmary, which explained why they had seen Beatrice and Bernardo guarding the
gate, and Mercedes and Rico were probably posted on the roof tops. Triela,
Hillshire, Barry, Fio, Soni, Ferro and
Gattonero were likely patrolling the fences in plain clothes while Andromeda,
Amadeo, Olga and Giordio patrolled the
inside and Victoria,
Angelica, Marco, José and Henrietta stood on standby in case something happened
and the people outside needed help quick. That’s what Claes would do anyway.


Samuel
left all his stuff in the car and Claes followed suit. The pair rushed straight
to the medical wing. They weren’t allowed into the room with Big Bird but they
were allowed into the observation room with Director Lorenzo
and Jean. The Director ignored the new
arrivals but jean turned to Samuel and
spoke very plainly, “Your friend is dead.”


“What?!” Samuel
damended angrily, looking prepared to break someone in half.


“Calm down he’s just lost a lot
of blood but the doc’s say he’ll pull through,” the Director said without
looking at the Irishman, “we pulled his dentals. Turns out he’s ex-Europol. His
name’s Klaus
Makori. He and his family – wife
and two kids – were killed by a house fire a few years back. He was
investigating the local Mafia in Rome
when it happened. Everyone knew it was the Mafia that did it but there was no
evidence.”


“Yes, I know,” Samuel said flatly, “He’s been me best friend since
we joined the legion together several years back. Before that even.” Samuel was staring through the glass, not even
blinking, just staring at his unconscious friend. “I knew him before that, when
he was in Europol, tried to help his family get out an’ only just managed to
stop him getin’ himself killed. Looks like he ran off an’ done it anyway.”


Dr. Bianchi
walked in. “Ah, Samuel, good that
you’re here, you should probably hear this as well. In Klaus’ wound, I found
several metal fragments and a 5.7mm round. Now I’m no expert, but if this guy
was going after Mafia, they are damn well armed.”


“I want to know the moment he
wakes up,” Jean said before walking
out.


“Where are you going?” Director Lorenzo
asked without looking as Samuel went
to walk out also.


“You need every man you can get
at the moment. Klaus managed to break in undetected and he’s one of the loudest
guys I know.”


“A friend of yours is injured and
you’ve been driving all night, go get some rest.”


“Listen…” Samuel
protested.


“Get some sleep. That’s an
order.” The Director still didn’t look away from Klaus.


Samuel
walked off but Claes stayed behind, there were some things she wanted to ask
the Director.


“Is there something you need,
Claes?” he asked, not looking away from the glass still. How did he do that?


“Can you actually order him to go
to sleep like that, Director?” she asked inquisitively.


He turned to face Claes and his
grin split his face in two. “No. I can’t order him to bed, this isn’t the army.
And just call me Lorenzo; I can see you have other questions.”


“Okay Di…
Lorenzo. I realise it’s probably not my place, but what’s the plan for dealing
with the incursion?”


“Why, did you have an idea?” his
smile was only a slight curve of the lips now.


“Well…” Claes explained what she
had thought of earlier.


“When did you say you thought
this up?” Lorenzo sounded suspicious of something.


“About two seconds after Samuel told me what had happened,” she explained
carefully. It seemed like she might be treading on thin ice.


“Have you ever lost a game of
chess?”


He seemed to be going off on a
bit of a tangent but she did have to answer all of his questions truthfully.


“Um… no. Excuse me for being
rude, but what has this got to do with anything?”


“Oh, nothing. Come see me in my
office tomorrow. Doesn’t matter what time, I’ll be there all day, got a lotta
paper work.”


Claes went to walk out but
Lorenzo stopped her for a moment. “What you said earlier, that’s exactly what’s
been done for the meantime until some Section One staff get here. Then everyone
is on reserve.”




* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency Compound – 0010 hours, Alpha time





Mercedes sat on the roof next to
Rico, offering the blond a drink of whiskey from the flask she was never
without. Mercedes had expected Rico to refuse, but it was still polite to
offer. Mercedes didn’t care that she was in a skirt; she still sat on her arse
with her legs spread. The only reason they had been posted on the roof instead
of the ground was because no one could see them, so it didn’t matter if she
showed the world her panties, no one would see them. Unless they had night
vision and a 3z optical sight,


Rico was looking through the
sight of her rifle, scanning for anyone who didn’t look like they belonged
through her thermal sight. Mercedes was supposed to be doing the same, but she
wasn’t going to, for the same reason Barry
wasn’t taking his job on the street seriously. If someone wanted them dead they
would have broken in with Big Bird, or Klaus, or whatever the hell he was
called. All this triple security shit was unnecessary.


“You know, all this crap is
really unnecessary,” Mercedes told her short superior.


“So you’ve told me,” Rico said
impatiently, “but Jean said to do it
so it must be necessary.”


As much as Mercedes looked up to
Rico, she just thought the girl thought to highly of Jean.
No. it’s not fair to blame that on Rico. Blame it in the damn conditioning.
That amount of conditioning was ridiculous, a woman needed to be able to
question your Handler, bring your ideas and complaints to light. That’s what a
healthy relation ship was all about right?


Rico brought her finger up to her
mic, “Hillshire, Soni, there’s a suspicious man down the road from you to the
west.”


“Roger,” the two replied.


Mercedes brought her own rifle up
to check it out. The thermal sight didn’t allow for identification, but it
helped in the low light levels. She lowered her rifle and brought a monocular
out of the pocket on the inside of her jacket. Even in this darkness she could
see him clearly. He wore a plain shirt and a beanie over some long hair. He
leaned against a wall with his hands in his jean’s pockets. Hillshire and Soni
approached the man, hands near their concealed weapons. They talked for a
second then the man threw his arms in the air angrily. It looked like Hillshire
pulled out a badge then the man run off as fast as he could.


Hillshire looked to the roof and
brought his finger to his headphone, “Just a drug dealer.”


“Okay, sir,” Rico replied.


“You seen any good movies
lately?” Mercedes asked, trying to make conversation.


“I don’t watch movies,” Rico
replied flatly.


“Why don’t we start a movie night
then? I could set up my laptop and a projector in the cafeteria every Friday.
What do you say?” Mercedes asked encouragingly.


“I don’t think Jean will like it,” Rico said, sounding a little
disappointed.


“Why don’t we try and convince
him then?”


“I don’t think we can?”


“Don’t be such a pessimist! We’ll
get everyone else on board, then he’ll have to say yes because Henrietta will be disappointed, and she’ll talk to
José and Triela. José will talk to Jean
while Triela will talk to Hillshire who’ll also talk to Jean.
Undoubtedly Claes would have heard Henrietta
talking to Triela. Claes will talk to Samuel
who in turn will swear at Jean.
Knowing ‘Sandro, he’ll probably sick Petra
onto Jean while he goes after Ferro.
When Victoria
hears and tells Andromeda, the Czeck’ll team up with Pinocchio and either kick
him in the gut and verbally abuse him as well. Victoria
herself will probably call the mysterious Anthony
who’ll electronically hijack a UAV and send an AGM right into the Handlers
apartments while everyone but Jean is
away.”


Rico’s expression was one of
stark terror at all the horrible things that could befall her Handler if she went
along with this mad idea. Perhaps Mercedes had taken the joke too far?


“I was just kidding,” Mercedes
assured the blond, “But it would be nice to have a movie night though don’t you
think?”


“It would be nice,” Rico said,
relaxing a bit, “But it’ll never happen.”


“We’ll see,” Mercedes said
ominously.


“Perhaps we could go straight to
Ferro?” Rico said seriously. “That was the only descent part of the plan.”


Mercedes looked at her idol in
shock, then the blond turned to the olive skinned girl, smiling. Mercedes still
looked at the short but deadly blond in shock. Mercedes wasn’t aware Rico had a
sense of humour. The Greek girl started laughing.


“What’s so funny?” Rico asked
seriously, perhaps she didn’t have much of a sense of humour after all.


“Uh… nothing.”


Mercedes took her whiskey flask out and took a swig
again offering it to Rico who politely refused.


“’Ah… the birds are swaying, the
trees are singing’,” Mercedes quoted to herself.


“What was that?”


“It’s something Dylan Moran
says in one of his shows. It’s a little out of context here but basically means
that everything is alright, ‘cept that you’re still a little drunk.”


Rico didn’t seem to get the joke.
The blond looked back through her sight.


“There’s a second man down the
other end of the street,” Rico said into her mic, “Near Gattonero this time.”


“Got it, over watch,” the Second
Gen replied.


Mercedes brought up her
monocular. “He looks like a pimp,” she commented.


“What’s a pimp?” Rico asked.


“He’s the guy that… well, for
lack of a better word, owns the prostitutes. He basically makes sure the
clients pay, and beats them up if they don’t.”


“Oh.”


Gattonero walked up to the pimp
and began talking civilly to him judging from her stance. He seemed to look at
her as a perspective product, what a
sleaze
. He stroked her arm and she grabbed his hand affectionately, and
broke it. Even from this distance Mercedes could hear Gattonero yelling at the
man, the girl’s voice could carry. And she was using some curses that Samuel would find offensive.


“Where the hell did you learn all
that?” Mercedes inquired over the radio.


“I read a lot of books I probably
shouldn’t,” Gattonero replied mischievously, “Let’s leave it at that.”


“Cut the chatter,” Hillshire said
angrily over the radio.


“Don’t worry,” Rico said
assuredly to Mercedes, “I’ll talk to Ferro.”


“What?” Mercedes wondered aloud,
not quite comprehending what Rico had just said.


“I’ll talk to Ferro about the
movie night. I’d say I’m the best qualified for the job. I’m not very good at
lying so I’ll just tell the truth.”


“And what truth would that be?”


“It would help to keep morale up.
All the cyborgs would be exited about the night and would behave so that they
can go as well. I’m also the cyborg that’s closest to her. And she’s not such a
mean lady, just a little stressed with her work load. She actually does quite a
lot around here.”


“Really, like what?”


“She’s an analyst, head of the
team trying to catch, keeps everyone else on task, gives briefings, helps us
out in the field and keeps Jean in his
place.”


“What was that last bit?”
Mercedes asked incredulously.


“Ferro keeps Jean in check,” Rico replied simply.


“Was that a joke?”


“Yup. I’ve been practicing,” Rico
said proudly.


“On who?”


“Henrietta,
but mostly practical jokes.”


“That explains the ranting
yesterday.”


“I’m a little sad I had to stop
that joke though.”


“How come?”


“She started going to bed with
her P90, I was afraid she might shoot me.”


“I see.”




* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency Compound – 0900 hours, Alpha time





As requested, Claes made her way
to the Directors office, wondering what it could be about. When she got to the
door she rapped on it.


“Enter,” Lorenzo answered from
the other side.


Claes went in and saw the
Director hunched over his desk. “You wanted to see me, Sir?” Claes said calmly.


“Yes,” he got up and went to his
coffee machine, “Cuppa?”


Claes held up her thermos, “No
thanks, Director. I prefer tea.”


“Okay then, and I said to call me
Lorenzo.”


“Um, Yessir.”


“Come on, say it. Lo… ren… zo.
Not that difficult.”


“Um, okay… Lorenzo.”


“I bet you’re wondering why I
called you here?” he said as he sat down, gesturing at the seat in front of his
desk with his coffee.


Claes accepted the seat, “Yeah, I
am kind of.” Claes decided it would be safe to talk candidly since he was being
so informal.


He took a map out the drawer of
his desk and spread it across the top. It was a map of Rome. Lorenzo pointed to what must be a
hotel. “There’s a hostage situation in this hotel. It’s three stories tall with
an unknown number of Hostiles and at least twenty hostages. To make matters
worse there is the possibility of a bomb in the basement as well. The
terrorists threaten to execute the hostages if any one tries to enter the building.
At your disposal you have the Jean/Rico, Fio/Soni and the Hillshire/Triela Fratelli. You’re placed in charge. How
do you proceed?”


“Are the GIS at my disposal?”
Claes asked professionally.


“No, they’re occupied; you’ve
only got the local law enforcement and the three Fratelli.”


“Samuel
and I aren’t getting involved?”


“Are you?”


“Yes, we are, it’ll increase our
numbers. What group is it?”


“Islamic Rights Lobby.”


“Demands?”


“Sharia law be imposed in the
Colosseum district.”


“Impossible, they’re up to something
else. Blueprints on the hotel?”


Lorenzo opened the second draw
and pulled out the blueprints requested.


Claes examined the blueprints for
thirty seconds before revealing her plan. “Triela and Soni go up to the roof
from either side of the building with suppressed weapons and take out the
guards while Rico provides overwatch from this building across the street. Once
the guards have been taken out I figure we’ll have a ten minute time frame
before someone tries to check in with them over the radio. We’ll set up a
signal jammer so that they loose contact with everyone and have to split up. Jean, Fio, Samuel
and I will storm the front with automatic weapons. Then we and the roof top
team will go room to room and clear the place. Beatrice
and Bernardo will go into the basement to sniff out the bomb. I estimate the
whole situation will be resolved in seven minutes.”


Lorenzo laughed. “It took me two
hours to come up with that scenario. And you come up with a plan to stop it in
thirty seconds. On a related note, have you ever been beaten at chess?”


“You asked me that yesterday, And
no..”


“I see.” Lorenzo pursed his lips
thoughtfully, “How would you feel about working as a senior cyborg? Senior in
rank, not age. You will be a higher rank than the other cyborgs.”


“Why not Triela, everyone looks
up to her?” Claes inquired.


“Because she isn’t a strategist
like you. While true that she is definitely the alpha cyborg, she isn’t as
smart as you.”


“I see.” It was Claes’ turn to
purse her lips in thought. This must be a promotion. “I accept, Sir.”


“Lorenzo,” the Director
corrected.


“Would you say that I’m the
equivalent of a Captain of the cyborgs?” another plan was already hatching in
Claes’ head.


“Why do you ask?”


“I’m going to need someone to
relay my orders to the rest.”


“Like a Non Commissioned
Officer?”


“Yeah, pretty much, but two of
‘em.”


“Who were you thinking of?”


“Triela for the First Gens and
Mercedes for the Second Gens.”


Lorenzo leaned forward in his
chair, “Triela I can understand, but Mercedes?”


Claes leaned back and crossed her
legs and arms. “Gattonero and Soni are always fighting, Petra
is a bit of a ditz, Victoria would be a good
choice if she wasn’t so reckless, and Fleccia is not really a strategist.
However, Mercedes is has nearly beaten me at chess a couple of times. And she’s
patient – didn’t she once spend two days in a tree waiting for her target –
she’s better for the job than Triela in fact.”


“Done. I’ll have some badges made
up for you. So you want Captain on yours and Sergeant on the others?”


“Commander, it has a nicer ring
to it. Commander Claes.”


Lorenzo brought hiss coffee up to
his mouth to hide his smile. “I didn’t take you for a fickle person.”


“I think I’m going to surprise
you a lot, Sir.”


“Lorenzo,” he corrected before
dismissing Claes.




* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency compound – 0915 Hours, Alpha time





Samuel
had been at the firing range when he got the call that Big Bird, no, Klaus, was
awake. The Irishman didn’t bother to pack anything away; he just slipped his
weapons into their holsters and drove away. Now, just as he was on his way to
the medical wing, he encountered Claes with a smile that split her face in two.
Samuel knew it was exactly the same
face splitting smile he had on.


“Did ya hear he’s awake too?” Samuel asked excitedly.


“What? Who? Wait, is Klaus
awake?” Claes asked, sounding very confused.


“Yeah, I got the call five
minutes ago. Why’re ya so giddy.”


“I’m a Commander.” Somehow Claes’
smile got broader.


Samuel’s
turn to be confused. “What’re ya talkin’ about?”


“I got a promotion. Commander Claes. Has a
nice ring to it don’ you reckon?”


“Hey, tha’s me girl. Go order the
other cyborgs around fer me. I gotta go talk to Klaus.”


“Yessir,” Claes gave off a crisp
salute and ran off down the hall.


Samuel
proceeded to the medical wing, were he found the doctors trying to keep Klaus
in bed.


“Get the hell off me!” He yelled,
struggling to get out of the doctors hands, “you bloody mongrels!”


“Ya should listen to the Doc’s
advice, idiot,” Samuel said smiling like
an idiot as Dr. Bianchi
and Dr. Ziliani
held Klaus in place while Dr.
Bellisaro stuck a needle in his
arm.


“Just something to calm you
down,” Dr. Bianchi said to Klaus, then to Samuel, “you got fifteen before he falls asleep.”


“Got it Doc,” Samuel said as he sat on the end of Klaus’ bed.


Samuel
waited till the Docs had left till he began talking to his oldest living
friend, getting strait to the point. “Why did you come here,” Samuel asked seriously.


“I killed most the bastards who
killed my family,” Klaus said laying down, rubbing his arm. He was a wuss when
it came to needles.


“’Most’?” Samuel
raised an eyebrow.


“Gregor. He’s the one who did
this,” Klaus pointed to the bandages around his abdomen. “You gotta get me out of here. I’ve go the
medical help I needed and now I have to finish avenging my family.”


“No,” Samuel
said quietly


Klaus sat up quickly. “What?!”


“No.”


Klaus punched Samuel in the mouth hard enough to knock him off the
bed. “GOD DAMMIT! That’s my only fucking reason for living and you say fucking
no!”


Samuel
got up. “I’m not lettin’ ya go out like that. Ya ain’t fine. You’d die and
he’ll live.”


“Fuck!” Klaus said as he lay back
down. “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!”


“Clam down, you’ll be back on yer
feet in a day or two, then you can continue yer vendetta.”


“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Klaus
said bashing his fists against anything that wouldn’t break to badly, mostly
the sides of the bad.


Samuel
decided it would be best to change the subject. “How did you get in?”


Klaus immediately stopped hitting
things and swearing and instead laughed. “Security here is a fucking joke!”


“Elaborate,” Samuel said blandly.


“I was in Europol for several
years then I joined the Foreign Legion with my crazy arse mercenary friend. How
the hell did you think I managed to get into the Mafia HQ anyway? Not a
security force in the world that could keep me out. How I got to Victoria’s
room first, well actually… that was a coincidence.”


Sorry about the format this time, don't know why it happened.


Last edited by Destroyer of Worlds ;D on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:24; edited 2 times in total

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Three Dog

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Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:01

Section 2.
Spoiler:


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Igtoré Street,
southern Rome –
1300 hours, Alpha time





Victoria
sat across form Andromeda in the café; their target, one member of Five Republics
Faction and two members of the Islamic Rights Lobby. Their plan was to kill all
three and make it look like the FRF and the IRL had attacked each other,
sparking a conflict between the two terrorist groups. There would then be small
skirmishes on either side until they killed each other off. Probably not to
that extent but it would make the SWA’s job easier. The brilliant thing was
that the plan had been thought up by ‘Commander’ Claes.


Victoria
brought her coffee up and took a sip. She hated coffee, but it was part of the
job. Andromeda was pretending to read a magazine,
something she hated.


“Targets two and three moving
into the book store,” Claes said over the radio, “Andromeda, Victoria, move into the park. There won’t be any
witnesses there. Henrietta stay where
you are until you confirm target one is in the park and lead him to the ambush
point. We’ll take ‘em out there. Remember, use their weapons, not your own.”


There was no need for anyone
respond. They had been ordered not to. The route targets two and three were
going to take were predictable, the pair ran like clockwork. Their daily walk
always went through the park. And Target one apparently had a certain passion
for the violin.


Victoria
finished her coffee – disgusting stuff, how anyone could stand it was beyond
her – and walked to the other side of the street before proceeding to the park,
which was on the same side of the street as the café. Andromeda
stayed on the Café side of the street. They met up in the park and walked off
into the trees. The foliage was thick enough to conceal anything within a few
metres of the path, but was frequented by children so the bodies were sure to
be found. But there would be no witnesses because school was yet to be
dismissed


Victoria
helped Andromeda up a tree then climbed one herself.
The trees were quite tall at some parts but the branches were low enough to
hang upside down from and snap a man’s neck. How unfortunate we aren’t allowed to do that, Victoria
thought ruefully.


Victoria heard the sound of Mozart’s
40th being played on a violin and saw Henrietta walk underneath
them, followed closely by an average looking man that had been designated
target one. Not a second later the men designated targets two and three walked
up to him and began talking. How
interesting, they know each other
.


Claes whistled once, the signal
to attack.


Victoria
and Andromeda jumped down from their perches and landed right behind targets
one and three while Claes jumped target two. As planned, Victoria
reached into the jacket of target three and drew his pistol, while Andromeda
and Claes did the same. Victoria and
Claes both fired two shots into target one while Andromeda
unloaded three shots into targets two and three. It was all over and done with
in the space of eight seconds.


“Well done,” Claes said as they
wiped down the weapons and placed them into the hands of the dead terrorists.
She looked behind at Henrietta who was
putting her violin back in its case by a tree several metres from the
engagement area, “you did good too Henrietta.”


“You didn’t do to bad yourself,
Commander,” Andromeda said as a way of
congratulations for leading a successful operation. The red haired woman had
really taken to calling Claes Commander.


“Thanks. Let’s not dawdle. I
don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to.”


“Yes ma’am,” Andromeda responded
and giving a crisp salute.


Victoria
shrugged and did the same.


Five minutes later they were all
in Andromeda’s Volkswagen sedan, Claes occupying the front passenger seat. They
had parked in the park car park, which was surprisingly full for the time of
day considering it was during school hours.


“We got some time to kill,” Andromeda said as she turned on her six stacker full of
Beatles CD’s, “You guys wanna get a burger or something?”


“How about a gelato instead?”
Claes offered.


“Did you guy’s want gelatos?” Andromeda asked the girls in the back.


“Yes please,” Henrietta said in her quiet way.


“Hell yeah!” Victoria
shouted. She couldn’t remember the last
time she had had a good gelato.


“Looks like it’s been decided,”
Claes told the driver.


“As you say, Commander.” Andromeda saluted half-heartedly and pulled out of their
park and onto the road. The traffic wasn’t to bad, which is why after a couple
of seconds on the road Claes could grab the wheel turning the car into the next
lane just before the left side rear wheel exploded, flipping the car onto it’s
side.


“What the fuck was that!” Andromeda demanded. The red haired women unbuckled her seat
belt and fell onto Claes. “Sorry.”


“That’s alright,” Claes said as
she took off her own seat belt, after securing her glasses, and fell into the
shattered side window. Henrietta
unbuckled and fell onto the shattered back window and rubbed her injured
behind. Victoria
punctured the roof of the ruined sedan and used it as a hold so that she didn’t
fall when she unbuckled herself.


“Is everyone okay?” Andromeda asked as she kicked out the front window.


“Nothing serious,” Claes said
just before Victoria
said the same thing.


“Only a sore butt,” Henrietta told them.


The four women climbed out the
front of the car and examined the situation. There had been an explosion
further down the street. Fortunately there weren’t many casualties from the looks
of things. The building that had been targeted looked like it used to be a book
shop judging from the books strewn about the place. The problem was that the
Volkswagen was nowhere near the book shop. It was actually a couple hundred
metres away.


“How the hell did we get thrown
about?” Andromeda wondered aloud as she scratched
the back of her head. No one was paying any attention to the four people who
just crawled out of a wrecked car, not when there was an entire destroyed
building worth of people who might need rescuing.


“Newton’s third law,” Claes said.


“Can you please bloody elaborate?”
Andromeda demanded.


“Newton’s third law: every action has an equal
and opposite reaction. There was an explosion when I turned the car so the car
went airborne. We destroyed one of the Second Sun mercenary’s facilities so now
they’re trying to kill us. Simple as that.”


“Simple as fucking that,” Andromeda spread her arms in exasperation, “What the hell do
you mean ‘simple as that’?”


“What she means,” Victoria
interrupted patiently, interoperating Claes for her sometimes testy Handler,
“Is that the bomb in the bookstore was just a diversion, we were the real
targets.” Victoria
went around to look at the disintegrated tire, then looked at where the
explosion had occurred. “Where the explosion was there are only scorch marks.
However the entire wheel had been destroyed. It couldn’t have been an explosive
on the road. Too impractical, there’d be no way to know exactly which route we
would take. They would have to use some kind of explosive round instead. That’s
why Claes grabbed the wheel; she had spotted the sniper at the last second. If
I had to guess, I’d say they used a 20mm, that’d be best suited to take out
cyborgs, though I would have thought they’d use armour piercing over explosive
though.”


“Thank you, Victoria,”
Claes said professionally.


Andromeda
got out her mobile and rang Jean. “Jean, it’s Andromeda, we just
got ambushed… yeah alright… we’ll stay at my brother’s house.” She closed the
phone and then addressed the cyborgs, “There have been several Agency personnel
ambushed. We are going to stay at my brother’s place until the whole thing’s
resolved. I’ll explain more along the way, now follow me.”


Andromeda
led the way to Anthony’s house taking
as many back alleys and side streets as possible, explaining that Jean had ordered them not to return to the Agency,
instead to find some place to lay low while the situation gets resolved. When
asked how it would be resolved, Andromeda just
shrugged her shoulders.


Two hours later, they arrived at Anthony’s house. You couldn’t actually see the two
story house from the street because of the dense foliage in his front
yard. Victoria
suspected the lot must have cost a fortune because the front yard extended for
about fifty metres.


“C’mon,” Andromeda
said as she made her way through the scrub, gesturing for the others to follow,
“He won’t bite. I hope.” Victoria didn’t think
anyone was supposed to hear that last part. About ten metres in the plants hid
the road. About fifteen metres in, a flash grenade dropped from the canopy,
blinding all four of the operatives. When Victoria’s
sight returned she saw a tall man in a trench coat aiming a XM-26 at Claes’
face and a P90 at Henrietta’s, both of
whom were outside of melee distance. He had a knowing, freckled face, with
scruffy hair as red as his sister’s and eyes just as blue.


“Who the hell are these two?” he
demanded in a firm voice.


“Clam the fuck down, Bro!” Andromeda ordered her brother. “That’s Claes and the other’s
Henrietta.”


“Impossible, Claes always wears
her glasses and never leaves the Agency. And as for Henrietta,
I might be able to believe if her Handler was here.”


“José had to go to a conference,”
Henrietta told the man.


“And my glasses are safe in my
pocket,” Claes said patiently as she slowly reached into her pocket and put
them on her face even more slowly.


Anthony
took a moment to collect his thoughts before spinning his weapons around and
placing them under his vest, then bowed elaborately.


He offered his hands to both the
cyborgs he had aimed at, “Dr.
Anthony Brandt,
pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


“Um, nice to meet you too,” Claes
said as she accepted his hand. Henrietta
accepted his hand silently.


“C’mon, I’ll take you to my
place.”


* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Anthony’s house – 1600 hours, Alpha time





None of the windows in Anthony’s house were opened, all of the doors were
locked, and the outer wall was made out of the same crap as battleship hulls,
with a layer of brick over the top to make it look inconspicuous. To sum it all
up, the man was a paranoid conspiracy nut. Inside the house however, some rooms
were a mess and others were spotless. One of the spotless rooms was the dining
room, where everyone now resided.


“Screwed with the Army of the
Second Suns, eh?” Anthony said as he
poured some tea for everyone.


“There was nothing else for it,”
Claes said in defence, “they had already attacked us at the Agency, and so we
attacked them at their home.”


“You kicked the hornets nest is
what you did,” Anthony respond as he
placed the tea in front of everyone, then took his own seat. “At least before
you only had their cybernetics division after you. Now you’ve go the whole damn
company.” He began to count thing off on his fingers, “Cybernetics, Enhanced
Combat Infantry Devices, Advanced Weapons, Airborne, Assassins, etcetera.
You’ve unleashed every counties top secret project onto yourselves.”


Claes took a sip of her tea.
“Mmm, this is delicious.”


“Thank you, I cultivated it
myself.”


Victoria took a sip of the tea and was
only just able to stop herself from spitting it pack into the cup, it tasted
crap, but then again, Victoria had never
considered herself a tea drinker.


“Have you got any sugar?” Henrietta asked after her own taste of the tea.


“Yeah, I’ll just go get it.” Anthony left his seat and went into the kitchen.


“How the fuck do you know so much
about these pricks?” Andromeda yelled to her
brother.


“I know everything! Seriously
though, you guys are screwed. The Army of the Second Sun Mercenaries is a match
for the USMC and USAF, Spetsnaz and the entire Foreign Legion. They’re even a
bloody nuclear power!”


“Clam the fuck down!”


Anthony
returned with the sugar and a packet of Tim Tams. “Oh, by the way,” Anthony said as he offered a Tim Tam
to everyone, “I finished that armour you wanted, Victoria.
I used reinforced, non-reactive plating with Kevlar for the joints. Heavy as
hell, though, no way a regular person would be able to wear it. Good thing
you’re not normal, hey, Vic?” He
pointed into his lounge room. “Past the lounge and in the workshop on a
mannequin.”


“That was quick, I only sent the
plans this morning,” Victoria noted.


“I had the day off,” he said
shrugging.


“Thanks,” Victoria
said as she grabbed a Tim
Tam and run into Anthony’s workshop. Inside the workshop there were
several weapons lying around and a suit of armour on a mannequin. It took Victoria
no less than three minutes to strap on the armour and don her clothes again. It
was heavy, no doubt about that, and her movements were a bit sluggish, by
cyborgs standards, not regular human. She didn’t look like she had armour on
under clothes; it had been designed that way after all.


She came out and Andromeda
asked why she wasn’t wearing the armour. Victoria
responded by handing her Handler her M93 and telling her to aim for the chest.


“Okay,” Andromeda
said as she switched the Berretta to semi-auto, looked down the pistols sights
and fired four rounds. “Impressive.”


“You might stand a chance if I
could deck all the cyborgs out in armour like that,” Anthony
said over his tea while Victoria sat down. “But
first we need to deal with your little ambush situation. I could probably
hijack a drone and fire missiles down on them if you’d like.”


“Why the hell do you want to get
involved, you never bloody want to get involved,” Andromeda
inquired angrily.


“Because you’re my baby sis and I
got to look out for you.”


“You are older by two fucking
minutes, and we both know who would win in fight.”


“one on one, yes, but in a large
scale conflict, I’d thrash you.”


“Can we get back to the point?”
Claes asked impatiently.


“Of coarse,” Anthony said as if that had been what he was about to
do. “If you try to engage these guys in urban warfare like you are, you will
die, simple as that. You need to stay here while I forward information to the
French, Russian, Japanese, Chinese, German, American, and Italian governments.
Actually not the Italian, they’re bloody fascists.”


“Why are you leaking info to
them?” Andromeda sounded angry at not understanding
yet another situation.


“To put it in layman’s terms; the
Army of the Second Sun Mercenaries have pissed off all those countries and
more, but those particular countries the only ones who’ll have the balls to do
anything about it. Czechoslovakia
wasn’t their only hidden bunker you know.”


“I still don’t know why you’re
getting involved,” Andromeda admitted.


“They’ve a price on my head,” Anthony replied flatly, “If I don’t do something
soon, I’m gonna die.”


“What’s the bounty?” Claes asked
curiously.


“One hundred million American.”


“What the fuck did you do?!” Andromeda demanded bashing her fist on the table.


“I hacked into, copied and
deleted a whole heap of their research,” he replied with a boyish grin, “right
after you hit Czechoslovakia
in fact.”


“Andromeda
placed her head in her hands. “Jesus Christ, for a PhD you sure act fucking
stupid sometimes,” she growled half to herself.


“Well since you’ll be staying the
night, is there anything in particular you want for dinner?”


“What are the choices?” Claes
asked.


“Steak, fried chicken, risotto,
pizza, pasta, schnitzel, a variety of soups, ham, bacon, pork, stir fry,
meatloaf, pie, sausages, burgers, fried rice, satay chicken, roast duck,
venison, beef or pig, meatballs, turkey, beans, lobster, crabs, prawns, tacos,
burritos, curry, and haggis. To name a few.”


“I’ve never had lobster before,”
Claes mused.


“That sounds delicious!” Henrietta said excitedly.


“I’ll try anything once,” Victoria
commented.


“Then it’s decided,” Anthony said as he got up. “I’ll just pop over to the
market and pick up the ingredients. Make yourselves at home, feel free to eat
anything from the fridge, watch TV, whatever. Be back in thirty.” And with that
he left.


“Your brother is an interesting
man to say the least,” Claes said to Andromeda, refilling her cup.


“Interesting doesn’t begin to
describe him. Would you believe that he actually works for Berretta?”


“You mean the weapons
manufacturer?”


“Yup, dunno what he does exactly,
but he works for them. I gotta take a piss.”


Andromeda
went to the toilet and left the cyborgs at the table.


“So what’s your take on the
situation?” Victoria
asked Claes.


“I don’t have much information
besides what Dr. Brandt told us and what we found in the Czech Republic, so I
have to agree with him at the moment. I mean they do have Artificial
Inelegances to help coordinate their troop movements, cyborgs, international
connections; they have so many troops they’ve had to split them into
battalions. We know that Pinocchio was in the 2nd mechanised. That
means there’s at least another three Battalions out there because the guys that
ambushed the Americans in Iraq
were the 1st Infantry and most of them are still running around, and
we have yet to encounter the 1st Mechanised.”


“Imma gonna go to the firing
range, wanna join me?” Victoria said


“Anthony
has a firing range?” Henrietta asked,
surprised.


“Yeah, I’ve been here before when
I was learning shuriken jutsu. He’s a paranoid conspiracy nut, even has a
doomsday locker.”


“Doomsday locker?” Claes said
dryly, her opinion of ‘Dr.’ Brandt was not improving.


“Uh-huh, AK 103, P90 and a .357
revolver – Smith and Wesson I think – with about six magazines worth of
ammunition for each for when the nukes drop and he survives somehow. All
weapons that are easy to maintain, don’t jam easily, and ammunition is fairly
common. The armoury’s right next to the range and he don’t mind us using his
guns.”


“Nah, you go ahead though,” Claes
told the Second Gen.


“I’ll stay here,” Henrietta said after finishing off a Tim Tam,
she immediately grabbed another when she was done speaking though.


“You sure? There’s a couple of
20mm’s down there and some other high powered stuff. They’re a lot of fun to
shoot, I’m telling you, ain’t nothing like the kick of a twenty mil.”


“We’re sure.”


Victoria
shrugged, “Suit yourselves.”


* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Anthony’s house – 1900 hours, Alpha time





The basement was quite large for
the size of Anthony’s house and had
five lanes in its firing range along with two dummies for martial arts practice
and shuriken jutsu training.


Victoria
was beginning to get used to the reduced mobility of her armour. She had been
in Anthony’s basement at his firing
range for most of the night, practicing her draw and making sure her movements
were as fluid as before. She had fired a few rounds from Anthony’s
NTW before getting to pistol practice, that thing was certainly fun to shoot.


Anthony
came in with his Mauser and began firing in the lane
next to Victoria.
She thought it odd that he would use World War Two era bolt action rifle, but
didn’t comment.


“This used to belong to my
grandfather,” he said as he loaded another five rounds into the weapon, “I
practice with it everyday. I can hit a target from four hundred yards because
of that practice. Tell me, do you still practice as much?”


“Not any more,” Victoria
informed him, “I’ve been pretty lax this past month and a half. I should
probably train more with it though.” Victoria was referring the
M93 she was using.


“I could tweak it a bit for full
auto if you want?”


“Nah, I mostly use it on semi
anyway, I find it easier to hit the targets.”


“Fair enough.”


Victoria
liked Anthony; there was just
something about him that made her feel at ease. Probably because Andromeda
trusted him so much, she’d never say it, but Victoria
knew she loved him fiercely.


“So what’s your game?” she asked,
taking a more serious tone.


“My game?” he replied, feigning
innocence.


“Don’t play coy with me; you’re
the one who say’s to question everything. You can’t just be getting involved
now because there’s a price on your head, there’s always a bloody price on
you’re head.”


“Yeah, but that was from CIA and
KGB and all those other ‘intelligence’ agencies. None of those organisations have
the capabilities to catch me. They don’t actually know who I am, all they know
is that someone got into their computers and fooled around for a bit. These
mercenaries though, I set their research back fifteen years and I don’t know
how many billions of dollars. British billions with twelve zero’s, not American
with nine. I need them taken out as fast as possible because they’ll spare no
expense hunting me down.”


“It can’t be that bad if you’ve
survived this long,” Victoria told him
reassuringly.


“I deleted all that stuff four
days ago and they have already tracked me further than the CIA and KGB combined,
and they’ve been trying to find me for fifteen or twenty years now.”


“You’re a bit full of yourself,
you know that?”


“Yup, but that’s how I’ve managed
to survive. Being self confident and looking like you aren’t doing anything
wrong will get you anywhere.”


“What’re your other motives for
helping?”


He opened his mouth but Victoria
raised her hand to stop him. “No bullshit. Truth only.”


“That hurts you know. I don’t
lie, I merely distort the truth.”


“I don’t care; you are one of few
people I really trust, so I just want the plain and simple truth.” Victoria
wasn’t going to stop until she got what she wanted.


Anthony
sighed, “Berretta is doing cut backs and I’m on the chopping block. The way I
see it, I got another week working there at best. I was hoping to get into the
Agency’s good graces before asking for a job.”


“Wait a sec; you want a job
working for the ‘fascist’ government?” Anthony
normally took any opportunity to call the Italian government corrupt or fascist
or something along those lines. Him wanting to work for them would be like the
sky falling.


“Yeah. I know what you’re
thinking, ‘what would an anti establishment type like me want to work for the
government’. The answer to that is because a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta
do. I need a job somewhere after all. I could get a job as an analyst or help
with the cyborg design.”


“You won’t be doing that last
one.”


“Oh?”


“Yeah, we got Josip helping the
doctors decrypt the data taken form the Czech facility.”


“Who the hell is Josip?”


“Josip is the replica of a third
generation Japanese AI we stole. Unfortunately he’s got a little bit of a god
complex and is also an arsehole.”


“Then you two must get along
fine. Back to the AI though, you don’t even have the latest model. The latest I
think is fifth generation; however they still have the god complex from what
I’ve heard, just minus the arseholy bit.”


Anthony
put down his rifle. “Mind if I put some Beethoven
on?” he asked.


“Not at all,” Victoria
replied, “It’s your house after all, so do whatever the hell you want.”


He walked over and turned on the
stereo he had put near the armoury. “I always ask my gests first. I’ll be
damned if when I die people will know me as bad host!” He picked up the Luger lying next to the
stereo, another present from his late grandfather.


Claes walked in just as Beethoven’s ‘Romance of the Violin and Orchestra No.2’ began
playing.


“Mind if I join?” she asked.


“Knock yourself out, Commander” Anthony said gesturing at the range with the Luger.
Over dinner Henrietta had mentioned that
Claes had been promoted to Commander and now Anthony
had taken to calling her by title just as his sister had. Seemed like everyone
was getting a title except for Victoria.


“Thanks.” Claes stepped up to the
fourth lane and levelled her VP and began firing two rounds a second.


“I’m kinda surprised to see you
down here,” Victoria
told Claes.


Claes lowered her now empty VP
and drew her Makarov, firing at the same rate. “I promised Samuel I’d keep up with my training if I could, so
here I am.”


Victoria
reloaded her own handgun. “Fair enough.”


Anthony
stepped up with his now loaded luger and began firing at a rate of two rounds
every three seconds.


After about fifteen minutes of
listening to the report of their handguns with Beethoven
playing the background, Victoria stepped back from
the range. “Hey, Anthony,” she said,
“you got any F2000’s?”


“Perhaps, I lose track of most of
my rifles. All I know for sure is I got a few SIGs, H&Ks and Kalashnikovs”


“What have you got in the handgun
department?”


“Same as my rifles, ‘cept for the
Kalashnikovs. I know I’ve got a Five-seveN and just about every kind of
Berretta.”


“I might go get a Fifty Seven
then.”


* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Anthony’s House – 1915 hours, Alpha time





Henrietta
and Andromeda had waited for five minutes after Claes left before muting the TV
and whipping out the karaoke machine. They were never allowed to sing at the
Agency because apparently they didn’t have very good singing voices. Henrietta didn’t understand what they meant. Andromeda picked their first song, ‘I Was Made For Lovin’
You’, by Kiss.


Henrietta
started shaking her hips from side to side when the song started, and Andromeda did the same.


Tonight,
I wanna give it all to you


In
the darkness, there’s some much I wanna do


And
tonight, I wanna lay it at your feet


‘cause
girl I was made for you, and girl you were made for me


[Henrietta
started shaking her head about wildly and making a mess of her hair]



I
was made for lovin’ you baby, you was mad for lovin’ me


And
I can’t get enough of you baby, can you get enough of me


Tonight,
I wanna see it in your eyes


Fell
the magic, there’s something that drive me wild


And
tonight, we gonna make it all come true


‘cause
girl you were made for me, and girl I was made for you


I
was made for lovin’ you baby, you was mad for lovin’ me


And
I can’t get enough of you baby, can you get enough of me


I
was made for lovin’ you baby, you was mad for lovin’ me


Henrietta
had notice that Andromeda had stopped singing and un-muted
the TV.


“…has been closed off in a
fifteen block radius and cleared by the armed forces,” the reporter said, “and
a no fly zone has been declared for the area…”


Henrietta
read the title across the bottom, ‘Biological
threat at Welfare Agency
’.


Henrietta
didn’t hear any more because she was rushing into the basement right behind
Andromeda.


“Good to hear you two have
decided to stop putting pineapples up cats,” Anthony
said with a cheeky grin.


“There’s some sort of biological
weapon at the Agency,” Andromeda blurted out. There
was no need to say which agency.


“What?” Anthony
demanded.


“They’ve cleared the streets for
fifteen blocks around it and declared a no fly zone,” Henrietta
said in a rush.


“Not a biological threat,” Claes
told them.


“What the hell do you mean, ‘Not
a biological threat’?” Andromeda demanded.


“The area has been closed down by
the government to make it easier for the remaining SWA personnel to hunt down
the people trying to ambush us in the city,” Claes said patiently, “You
remember what Jean had told you, that our people are being ambushed.”


“What makes you think that?” Andromeda demanded in her lecturing tone, placing her fists
on her hips.


Claes lowered her handgun. “It’s
what I’d do,” she replied, shrugging.


“That’s what I’d do,” Andromeda said in a mocking mickery of Claes’ voice.


“Do be rude, sis,” Anthony told his twin, “The Commander’s making a lot
of sense.”


“You never bloody take my side,
bro,” Andromeda said with a sigh. “So what’s the
plan then, oh great Commander?”


“Call jean, and find out what’s
really going on,” Claes suggested.


“Don’t use that,” Anthony said as Andromeda
took her mobile out of her pocket, “use my phone instead. I get a new one every
few weeks and bounce the signal off of a few satellites. If the mercs are
tracing all inbound and outbound calls, they won’t find my house unless you
stay on the line for two hours. It’s up stairs in the master bedroom.”


Andromeda
hurried up the stairs and Henrietta
stayed behind.


“You want a gun?” Anthony asked her.


“No thank you,” Henrietta said politely.


Victoria
lowered her own handgun and walked to the armoury. Henrietta
took a seat by the door and waited patiently for Andromeda to return with news.
It’s okay, José is away at the conference,
Henrietta reassured herself, he’ll be fine.


“Holy Shit!” Victoria
yelled from the armoury, “Where the hell have you been hiding this?!” Victoria
came out sporting a SIG 550 with a century magazine in one hand and an RPG-7 in
the other. “I could bloody kiss you!”


“I’d prefer that you don’t,” he
replied.


Andromeda
returned a short time later. “You were right, Commander. It is a ploy to hunt
the mercs, Triela and Mercedes are leading a successful counter strike, or so Jean claims.”


“And our orders?” Claes asked.


“Stay put,” Andromeda replied
simply.


“What about the others?” Henrietta asked. Why
were Triela and Mercedes leading the counter attack and not the Handlers?



“Only the cyborgs have left the
compound, everyone else isn’t fast enough to get past the sniper teams.” The
scar faced woman looked at Victoria and shook her
head, “Why do you have those?”


“I got badass armour, why not
have badass guns to boot?” Victoria told her


“Don’t worry,” Anthony said, “I got plenty of guns, she’s welcome to
take those two.”



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
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Three Dog

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Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

Original Characters : Yes, and there are a lot (around 25-ish I think)

Comments : 42: Life is paradoxically coincidental to the ironical tyranny applicable to the unparalleled definition of the reverse entropy.

Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:10

Section 3.
Spoiler:


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Two blocks east
of Social Welfare Agency – 1930 hours, Alpha time





Mercedes waited on the roof of a
library for Triela’s signal. Rico sat next to her looking down on the
mercenaries about to charge across the street. According to Pinocchio and Josip
the men attacking were likely what remained of the 2nd Mechanised
that Pinocchio used to be a member of.


There was a crisp whistle. The
signal had been given.


Both girls leaned over the edge
and fired down on the unsuspecting men while Angelica and Soni fired from the
adjacent rooftop.


“Targets eliminated,” Mercedes
said into her mic.


“Thanks for the assist,” Triela
responded. “Rico, Mercedes, you two can go back to hunting the snipers now.”


“Got it.”


Mercedes heard Triela’s report to
Jean, “Another team has been
eliminated, a group of four.”


Mercedes sat back down and pulled
the now empty magazine out of her M200. Instead of regular armour piecing
rounds she was using Jacketed Hollow Points. Isn’t much in the way of body
armour that can stop one of those. Rico did the same with her Draganov.


“We’ll take the scenic route to
the north side and flush out the snipers there,” Mercedes informed Rico.


“Mm-Hmm,” Rico replied.


They both got up at the same time
and slung their rifles over their shoulders, Mercedes run at full speed and
leapt to the next building over, Rico followed suit. The Rico/Mercedes and
Angelica/Soni teams had been using this means of transport to navigate the city
while the Triela/Pinocchio and Beatrice/Petra teams stayed on the ground.


Twenty minutes later Mercedes and
Rico found themselves on a low rooftop surveying the SWA compound from the
north. And with any luck Angelica and Soni would be to the south as planned.


Mercedes got on her mic, “We need
to draw the sniper out somehow. Barry,
we need you to get to the east gate, we have a clear view of anywhere you could
be shot at from.”


“If I die I’m gonna kill you,” Barry replied.


Mercedes and Rico kept their eyes
peeled only looking at Barry
approaching the gate out of their peripherals. A shot was fired from the east. Barry sprinted to the cover of the closest building.


“Tell me you found him,” he
demanded over the radio, he sounded a bit out of breath.


“’Coarse, I know exactly where he
is. You were the person who taught me how to snipe snipers remember?”


“Alright, Imma go out there one
more time, you’d better bloody take him out.”


“Third floor of the Eight story
building twenty degrees to the east,” Mercedes told Rico, “Seventh window from
the right.”


Rico didn’t respond, she didn’t
need to.


Barry
burst form cover and his attacker broke the first rule of sniping from a
building, never poke any part of yourself or your weapon over the edge or out
the window. Mercedes fired a single shot at the man with the M107 while Rico
took out his spotter in the next window over. Rico and Mercedes quickly rolled
away from their position right before several 12.7mm rounds perforated the
concrete roof. Clever boys, Mercedes
thought as she ran to the back of the building and jumped over the edge with
Rico before the next volley arrived, But
not as clever as us
.


“I’m not dead so I’ll assume you
got him,” Barry said, he was really
out of breath now.


“Did you see where he was
Angelica?” Rico asked.


“Yep.” The light voiced girl
replied.


“Alright, we’ll draw him back
out.”


Rico and Mercedes scaled the wall
of the building and back up to the top. Rico was the first up. As she griped
the ledge a 12.7mm round hit the ledge only centimetres away from her hand.


“Is anyone hit?” Soni asked over
the radio while Mercedes got a better grip.


“Negative,” Mercedes told her as
she climbed onto the roof, “you cut it kinda close though.”


“Sorry ‘bout that.”


“Snipers eliminated, Sir,”
Mercedes reported.


Mercedes heard what must have
been rotor blades of some sort. But that
can’t be right; this is a no fly zone
. She looked up to where she thought
the noise was coming from and say the silhouette of an Osprey.


“Jean,
have we got any aircraft inbound?” Mercedes asked.


“Negative, there shouldn’t be
anyone up there,” He responded professionally.


“We have hostile aircraft inbound
then,” the Greek girls said over the radio, then to Rico, “Let’s make our way
to the sniper nest we took out. We can use their .50 to take out the Osprey.”


Rico nodded.


* * *


Triela was reloading her shotgun
while Pinocchio provided covering fire with an MP7. There were four men on the
other side of the street, one of which had an RPG-7. Luckily they were holed up
in a café so couldn’t fire it safely. Pinocchio and Triela were taking cover in
an antiques shop; what was left of an antiques shop actually.


Triela finished reloading her
shotgun and pocked it around the corner, providing cover for Pinocchio to
advance. He then fired allowing Triela to advance. The street wasn’t wide which
is why the pair was able to leap from cover and close the distance between them
and the mercs without injury. Once they were in melee range, the battle was
over. Triela shot a hole through the sap closest to her while Pinocchio threw
his empty submachinegun like a tomahawk. With no time to chamber the next
round, Triela run the third man through with her shotgun’s bayonet and
Pinocchio dispatched the final man with a throwing knife to the heart. They
made a good team, or so Triela thought.


Triela reported back to Jean about their latest encounter, “Another team
eliminated, sir. Four men again.”


Their mission was search and
destroy. This was the forth group taken out and according to Pinocchio there
shouldn’t be many more, maybe two or three. The 2nd mechanised
wasn’t very big. The major problem though was that there was still a four man
cyborg squad unaccounted for though, that troubled Triela. If they haven’t split up they’ll just use their superior numbers to
take us out one by one
. The SWA personnel were travelling around in teams
of two, a First and a Second Gen in each. Triela was leading the two ground
teams while Mercedes handled the rooftops.


“Get some grenades,” Triela told
Pinocchio, “they might come in handy later.” They would have certainly come in handy just now!


Pinocchio said nothing, just
picked up a few grenades from the man with an SMG protruding from his skull and
took the deceased’s P90 as well. Pinocchio seemed to prefer using SMG’s when he
had to use a gun.


“We’ll keep circling around until
we’re five blocks away, then we’ll circle back,” Triela stated.


“Yes, ma’am.”


Suddenly an aircraft flew over
head and Pinocchio tackled Triela to the ground as the street erupted into
fire. Triela looked up and saw Pinocchio had used one of the corpses as a
shield against the heat, the sod she had run through. The back of Triela’s head
hurt from the hard landing.


“God dammit,” Pinocchio swore as
he climbed off the other blond. “That’s the 3rd airborne; they’re
the only regiment that uses incendiary bombs.”


Triela could feel the blisters
under her clothes and knew that she was covered in second and third degree
burns just like Pinocchio.


“We need to get into the
buildings,” he told her.


“No arguments here.”


The café was under a three story
building which was convenient for the two cyborgs. They climbed to the top
floor and stayed to the centre of the building.


Triela got on the radio to Jean, “We just got hit by an incendiary bomb,” she
told him, keeping her voice level, “No casualties but Pinocchio says that now
we have to deal with the 3rd airborne as well”


“Copy that.” He replied just as
levelly, “Mercedes called in ten minutes ago talking about enemy aircraft, just
find shelter and stay put, Rico and Mercedes have been tasked with taking it
out. This is getting out of hand.” the last part was said under his breath and
Triela didn’t think it was for her ears.


“Yessir.”


Pinocchio kicked the wall,
denting it. “For fuck sake! ‘Stay put’ he bloody says, stay bloody put! Like
hell am I waiting here!”


“Clam down,” Triela told him;
still managing to keep her voice level even though she was as angry as him,
“You’re not using your damn head. They already hit this area, they aren’t gonna
hit it again.”


Pinocchio relented and collapsed
against the wall across from Triela. “This is horse shit,” he said under his
breath. He got a pack of cigarettes and lit one.


“In Czechoslovakia, when you killed
that German scientist, what was that all about?” Triela asked cautiously. Since
coming back from Iraq,
Pinocchio hadn’t really seemed to want to talk about his past.


“He was an arsehole,” Pinocchio
said, still a little angry and blowing smoke into the air. “You want a smoke?”
he offered the packet of cigarettes to Triela.


She gave him a stern look, “You
know damn well I don’t smoke.” She pushed the packet away. “There has to be
more to it than that. I know a couple of A-holes, but I’m not gonna kill ‘em
for it.”


He sighed, “There is more to it
than that, yes.”


Triela waited a moment for him to
say more. “If you don’t have anything better to do, why don’t you regale me
with a story about it?”


“Fine.” Pinocchio took a long
drag from his cigarette. “When I had first awoken, I was in great pain. Then I
saw his face smiling down on me. He told I was the greatest of his
achievements, and he would make me greater. I didn’t hate for the pain I was in
at the time, I knew it was necessary for my survival, I knew a great many
things, but not what happened next.


“You see the scientists there
picked their subjects for their previous life’s experience. That’s why I was
there, being a high profile assassin. However, we forget almost all our skills
though – not completely forgotten – just locked away in the subconscious. It’s
easier to train them when they have some experience, even if it is
subconsciously. The training though, ninety percent of the subjects are killed
just by that alone. After which he offers his opinion to the higher ups that I
should become an officer, which entailed more training. I was against it but I
didn’t get a say. Most people who do the officers training are killed as well.
After the training he gave me that sword himself, I hated him for the gruelling
torture, but I couldn’t get even with him since he was the one who brought me
back to life and he was my boss. Always there were too many people around for
me to kill him and get away with it.


“When I joined up with you guys
though, he was no longer my boss, and I would get some help killing the guards
so I could get to him.” Pinocchio took a final drag from his cigarette before
lighting another. “I was planning to leave you after that to tell the truth –
you were right not to trust me – but after that fight we had in Iraq,
I just can’t stop thinking about that fight. I will beat you one day, but I
have to stay around if I intend to do that.”


“So I’m the reason you’re
staying?” Triela asked with a raised eyebrow.


“It sounds all lovey dovey when
you say it like that, but yeah, basically.” He shifted slightly to a more
comfortable position. “You’re the reason I’m staying, Triela.”


“You realise your mic is on
right, Pinocchio?” Petra
asked over the radio with a gigle.


“They’d make a good couple
though,” Beatrice said in her monotone
voice, the radio didn’t change her voice one iota.


Even though no one was there
Triela felt her cheeks reddening. Pinocchio looked like he just got hit by a
truck. He brought his finger up to his headset and turned it off.


“You realise the hell you just
unleashed upon us right?” Triela asked angrily, she was no longer blushing with
embarrassment; her face was red with rage.


* * *


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Sniper nest west
of Social Welfare Agency – 2015 hours, Alpha time





Rico and Mercedes just looked at each
other, not believing their ears.


“I think Pinocchio just confessed
to Triela,” Rico said disbelievingly.


Mercedes checked how many rounds
were left in the Century magazine of the spotter’s M14 EBR, it was just about
full. “I… I’m not sure what to think.”


Rico picked up the M107 and
checked its magazine. As much as Mercedes would have liked to use the .50
calibre, Rico was stronger and a better shot, hence better suited for it.
Besides, this M14 was very similar to the one Mercedes had used in Iraq.


“Where’s the Osprey now?”
Mercedes asked through her mic.


“It’s on the south side of the
Agency,” Soni replied.


“Got that Rico?” Mercedes asked
as the blond levelled her new rifle at the stars.


Rico nodded.


Mercedes went to the other window
and aimed her rifle at the sky also. She spotted the Osprey first. Rico sighted
it half a second later.


“Target elevation…two hundred
metres,” Mercedes commented, “Target range… eight hundred metres. Aim for the
engines or the cockpit.”


Rico remained silent. Thirty
seconds later she emptied the ten round magazine in four seconds. Three rounds
impacted the right engine and six through the cockpit. One hit missed
compltely.


“You’re getting sloppy,” Mercedes
joked.


Rico didn’t take it as a joke
though. “I know, Jean will be upset,”
she said seriously.


“I was only joking,” Mercedes
said.


Rico turned to her spotter with
mischievous grin splitting her face, “So was I.”


Mercedes gave Rico a friendly
punch in the arm. “You’re getting better at this stuff.”


* * *


“Looks like it crashed near you
guys Petra,”
Mercedes said over the radio.


Beatrice
sniffed the air once. “She’s right,” the purple haired girl told Soni.


“Yeah, Bea
just confirmed it,” Petra
told Mercedes over the radio, “We’ll go find any survivors.”


Beatrice
took the nearly empty magazine out her Micro Uzi, loaded a fresh one and pulled
the bolt back. Beatrice couldn’t be
sure until she got closer, but she was certain there were some kind of incendiary
weapons on board.


“Let’s move,” Petra said.


They proceeded to the stairwell
and went down three flights of stairs before arriving at ground level.


“Which way Bea?” Petra
asked.


Beatrice
pointed down the street, “Three blocks east and one north.”


“Wow, I knew your sense of smell
was good, but not that good.”


This amused Beatrice,
but she needed to put a stop to it. “The smoke,” Beatrice
said pointing to the rising cloud of ash over the rooftops. She didn’t use
anymore words than necessary when on a mission.


“Oh, yeah, that,” Petra seemed a little
offended.


The pair made their way to the
crash sight, stooping when it was in sight of it. Aside form the cockpit which
was caved in, the rest of aircraft was in surprisingly good condition. The rear
hatch was open and there were several people sitting inside, one even crawling
out on his stomach, his legs broken.


Beatrice
let her Micro Uzi hang from its strap and drew her sidearm, a SIG P220. She
walked up to the man trying to crawl out of the aircraft. He finally noticed
and looked up at her while she examined the other men in the vehicle. Two were
already dead and another two were badly wounded. They weren’t going to make it
though the night. There didn’t seem to be any of the incendiary weapons
present. Beatrice looked down at the
man with the broken legs. He wasn’t handsome by any stretch of the word, but he
wasn’t exactly ugly either. His brown eyes matched his equally brown hair. Beatrice lowered her SIG till it was aimed at his
forehead.


“No!” he began, raising one of
his hands slowly, “Pl-”


BANG!


Beatrice
turned her attention to the other men, putting a round through the forehead of
both of them.


When she returned to Petra, the Second Gen
looked horrified, “Why the hell did you do that! They were wounded, no longer a
threat!”


“They are not a threat anymore,” Beatrice explained, “An enemy will always be a threat
until he is dead.”


Petra didn’t seem to know how to react to
that.


“Let’s go find the other
survivors.”


“Other survivors?”


Beatrice
put her sidearm away and lifted her Uzi, “the incendiary weapons are gone so
someone must have carried them off. We need to find them.”


“And how the hell are we going to
do that?”


Beatrice
sniffed the air, “Follow the blood, at least two of the survivors are injured.
Come on, we’re wasting time.”


Beatrice
headed off in the direction of the crash survivors and Petra was forced to follow.


“We have secured the crash site
and are perusing the survivors,” Beatrice
reported to Jean, “They have
incendiary weapons in their possession, two of them are wounded.”


“Good,” Jean
replied, “keep us posted.”


Beatrice
and Petra made
their way through the abandoned streets, gaining on the survivors with every
step. They found their targets in the middle of the street two blocks away.
Four men carrying a pallet covered with bombs. That must be the incendiary
weapons.


This time, when Beatrice raised her SMG, Petra didn’t hesitate. They fired on the four
men. The two in the back fell instantly but the two up front had time to
scramble to cover. Beatrice and Petra reloaded at the same
time and took positions to either side of the street. Beatrice
provided covering fire while Petra
used her superior agility to get around and eliminate the targets.


Beatrice
got up from behind her cover and inspected the pallet while Petra gave Jean
a status update. “The four survivors have been eliminated… yes; they were
carrying a pallet of bombs between them…”


“Napalm or Thermit,” Beatrice said as she sniffed the bombs, “maybe a bit
of both.”.


“It’s napalm and/or Thermit,
sir,” Petra
said to Jean.


* * *


“This is getting out of hand Jean,” Ferro said.


“I’ve already called in the army,”
Jean told his fiancé.


“That ain’t enough an’ ya know
it,” Samuel said angrily. He had been
trying to convince Jean to send some
more people out now that the snipers had been taken care of, but Jean wasn’t having any of it.


“You’re not going out there, it’s
too dangerous.”


“Fuck it,” Samuel
shouted as he stormed out of the command centre. I ain’t waiting for permission any more. His first stop was the
infirmary. When he got there Klaus was already on his feet.


“C’mon, we’re going out,” Samuel told his former subordinate.


Klaus didn’t argue, he just
pulled on his boots and followed Samuel.


Samuel
led Klaus to the armoury, where he picked out a Benelli M4.


“You not getting a gun?” Klaus
asked when Samuel didn’t pick up
anything.


“I’ll pick up a Kalashnikov from
me digs on the way out.”


After picking up a Kalashnikov –
the 103 model – they made their way to the exit, where Hillshire stood in their
way.


“Don’t try and stop us,” Samuel warned.


“I’m not,” the German told the
escaping pair, “I’m going with you, but first you need to get some body
armour.”


“He’s got a point,” Klaus said.


“We’ll get to that in a sec.” Samuel turned his attention to Hillshire, “first; why
the hell’re ya joining us for, ya never break the rules.”


“The hell if I’m gonna let Triela
fight out there all night; I’m going to help her if not bring her back.”


“Fine, ya can come.”


Five minutes later the three men
made their way out of the compound and into the streets. They didn’t turn on
the mics until they were at least two and a half blocks away.


“Pinocchio, Triela, this’s Samuel. Me, Hillshire an’ Klaus are in the field,
give us yer location an’ we’ll rendezvous with ya.”


“What the hell are you doing?!” Jean demanded over the radio.


“I didn’t join so I could let the
cyborgs do all the fighting. I was a member of the Provisional IRA in my youth,
then a merc, then private security, an’ finally I ran off to the Legion. I
ain’t never run from a fight an’ I sure as hell ain’t startin’ now. Triela,
Location!”


“Um,” Triela seemed to take a
moment to collect her thought and Jean
remained silent. Samuel suspected he
might be having a mental fit. “We are above the café on Crenate Parade.”


“We’re on our way, love birds.” Samuel couldn’t resist that last jab.


Hillshire gave him a funny look
and Samuel just shrugged his
shoulders.


The trio made their way to the
café on Crenate Parade, after Hillshire pointed out where it was. The trip was fairly
uneventful. When they got to the café, Klaus noted they had done a number on
the mercenaries. They proceeded up stairs.


“You took your time,” Pinocchio
said dryly, stubbing out his cigarette.


“I think you’ll lose your job
when Jean gets his hands on you,”
Triela said to them.


“Pfft, I ain’t never cared fer
the rules,” Samuel told the short
blond, “Gimme a sitrep.” He ignored their wounds, from what he knew of the
cyborgs, the burns were likely superficial.


“As far as I can tell most of the
guys from the 2nd mechanised have been eliminated,” Pinocchio said,
“But the 3rd Airborne is going to be a problem, there one of the
larger regiments. Luckily for us the no fly zone means they can’t get many
aircraft for support, so that’s a plus for us. Most of their tactics focus
around air support and they don’t have many urban fighters, so we shouldn’t
expect much difficult resistance. There may be a lot of resistance however as
they have a shit load of troops.”


Samuel
took a moment to ponder this, then issued his orders. “We’ll head back to the
Agency an’ wait fer the army to get here; I’ll tell the others to do the same.
They could’ve hit the Agency with the Osprey but didn’t, which means they won’t
hit it with anything else. Move out.”


“Jean,
gimme an ETA on the army!” Samuel demanded
into his mic as they made their way down the stairs, “An’ recall the cyborgs,
now!”


“ETA thirty minutes.”


“An’ the cyborgs?!”


“You don’t give the bloody orders
around here, I do!”


Samuel
bashed his rifle against the wall, puncturing it, “FUCK!” He then switched
radio channels so that he could talk to the cyborgs and not Jean. “Listen up, it’s Samuel,
me Klaus an’ Hillshire are in the field. We just got a sitrep from Pinocchio. I
don’t care what Jean says, fall back
to the Agency. It’s getting’ too hot out here.”


“This sort of thing is kinda why
we were made,” Mercedes said calmly. At least Samuel
thought it was Mercedes. From the little he had learned about the girls, he
knew that Mercedes was one of five girls with enough un-conditioned balls to be
capable of talking back to the staff, and it couldn’t be Petra because she was a little scarred of Samuel. The third was with him now – Triela – and the
other two were away – Victoria and
Claes.


“Yer made fer anti terror
activities,” Samuel corrected.


“They are terrorists,” she
replied patiently.


“No, they’re just doin’ their job,”
he pointed out, “They’re a mercenary company, remember. Leave the killin’ of
men followin’ orders to other men followin’ orders.”


“Yes sir.”


The trip back to the Agency was
as uneventful as the trip from. The arrival at the destination however was a
different matter.


Ferro stood in the doorway
tapping her foot impatiently, hands on her hips, and a glare that could bore
through stone. Everyone stood behind Samuel
when they greeted her.


“He’s pissed,” she said quietly
before leaving. Samuel checked his
watch; the army should be just arriving. Samuel
went to his apartment and returned his AK 103 to its rightful place, right
between the LPO-50 and the Saiga 12K hidden in his closet behind a fake back
which he had installed the day he arrived. He took his Stechkin out its holster
and put that on his desk, then sat down and poured himself a glass of taquila. Samuel guessed between five and ten minutes until Jean or the Director came in and did something
unpleasant. He took the PP-19 Bizon out of his top draw and began polishing it
to calm his nerves; it helped a little.


Jean
kicked in his door; the blond haired man’s face was contorted with rage. “What
the hell was that shit?!” he demanded at the top of his lungs.


Samuel
finished off his drink before answering Jean,
which only seemed to make him angrier. Samuel
kept his voice calm and level, “I was doin’ what experience tells me was the
best coarse of action.”


“The best course of action? The
best course of action?! I don’t care what you thought; I’m in charge, not you!
I said not to go out, and what did you fucking do? You bloody went out!”


“In me experience, people who
‘ave to tell others that theyre in charge, aren’t. Did ya even have a clear
view of the situation; did ya once ask fer a sitrep? Ya know, it annoys the
pisser outta me when people don’t respect experience,” Samuel
laughed, “this always happens to me ya know. Some young prick thinks that just
because he’s a higher rank than me, he thinks he knows better then me.”


“And what the hell makes you think
you have more experience than me?”


That was the same comment Samuel always got when he gave this speech it always
mad him mad.


“That just proves my fuckin’ point.”


“Do you-”


Samuel didn’t give Jean time to
finish his sentence, he jumped out of his chair and pressed Jean against the
wall with his fore arm against the Italian man’s throat, he knew exactly what
he was about to say.


“Yeah,” Samuel
said through gritted teeth, “I know what the fuck happened. Yer mother, father,
sister and fiancé were all killed by terrorists. Ya aren’t the only one with a
dead family, an’ at least ya still have ya brother. When I said I was in the
Provisional IRA, I wasn’t lying, I bloody joined them fer the same reasons yer
here now; revenge. I can tell ya it doesn’t end well, I was lucky to get away
with horrible scars on me face. Ya see that handgun on my desk? The grooves
carved in the side of it? There’s one for every friend I’ve ever lost. That’s
nearly fifty people, and it doesn’t include everyone from me family that’s
dead. So next time ya wanna gimme a story about how ya lost everything, don’t.
I’ve heard it enough bloody times an’ even fuckin’ lived through it!”


Samuel
released the man and sat back down, pouring himself another glass of tequila.


Jean
was rubbing his neck when he silently left.


Samuel
ran over the conversation in his head as he got back to polishing his SMG.


“That could’ve gone better,” He
told himself, “hope I at least get say bye to Claes before I go.”



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
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Three Dog

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Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

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Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:11

Section 4.
Spoiler:


Wednesday 12th September 2009 – Anthony’s house – 2200 hours, Alpha time





Claes had spent her time
monitoring the news and trying to figure out exactly what was happening back at
the Agency when she had finished her pistol practice. Anthony
had been kind enough to let her use one of his computers. Not the one up in his
room, where no one was allowed, even his sister, but a laptop set up in his
lounge room.


The others weren’t spending their
time nearly so productively. Henrietta and Andromeda were ‘putting up and
removing pinecones from cats’ was how Anthony put, Anthony himself was
‘borrowing’ a CIA satellite for Claes to see exactly what was happening over
the SWA and Victoria hadn’t left the basement since she found the RPG.
Thankfully Anthony had a whole bunch
of dud rounds for her to practice with.


Claes was currently going trough
all the internet channels frequented by otaku and other people with too much
time on their hands. Henrietta had
been surprised when she heard that Claes wanted to use the net to find out what
was going on, the most surprised however had been Victoria
and Andromeda. “Just because I read a lot of books and have never touched a
computer in my life I don’t know how to use the net?” Claes had told them. She
knew a lot about computers, she had learnt it all form Mercedes during their
chess games.


“Got a live feed set up for you,
Commander,” Anthony shouted from the
top of the stairs, “I’ll send it to your computer.”


“Thanks,” she shouted back.


Most of the stuff on the net was
utter crap, but some of it was useful. One bit was about some kind of
government conspiracy where they were turning children into robots and using
them to fight terrorists. The guy who had said this was being ridiculed. Claes
found that entertaining. So close to the truth yet so far.


“How long you gonna keep this
up?” Andromeda asked as she grabbed Claes’ shoulders
from behind and leaned over to look at the screen.


“Until I know what’s going on,”
Claes replied, yawning. She didn’t normally stay up this late.


“You want a cup of coffee or
something?”


“Nah thanks. I wouldn’t mind a
cup of tea though?”


“I’ll go get you one.”


“Hold on,” Claes said as Andromeda let go of her shoulders.


“Yeah?”


“When did you and Henrietta stop singing?”


“Christ, you must be really concentrating.
We stopped that about an hour ago.”


“Oh, Okay.” Claes turned back to
her work and brought up the live satellite feed. It had surprisingly good
resolution. Claes could see groups of soldiers searching through the streets. Seems that Jean,
or maybe Lorenzo, has called in the army. Things must have really gotten out of
control
. Claes minimized the feed for the time being and checked the news
sites. According to one reporter, the army had moved into the quarantine zone
with biohazard containment equipment. Another site said that a bomb had been
detonated and had a video of smoke billowing into the air. A third site was
focusing on an aircraft flying over even though it was a no fly zone, claiming
that this was actually some kind of military training exercise in urban
warfare. Every report was different but they all basically said the same thing;
‘we don’t know what’s actually going on but we will tell what we think might possibly be happening’.
Claes brought the live feed back up.


“Can I move this around?” Claes
shouted to Anthony.


“Yeah, just right click, click on
relocate, then click and drag to where you want to look,” he shouted back.


Claes followed Anthony’s instructions and found the aircraft crash
site which Claes also suspected was the ‘bomb’ mentioned on the news sites. She
moved the feed back to the Agency, there were four people entering the
compound. Claes zoomed in; they weren’t in hazmat suits or army uniforms. That
might be troublesome.


Andromeda
returned with a large mug in hand, “Here’s your tea.”


Claes took a sip then made a
funny face, it didn’t taste right.


“Sorry ‘bout the taste, I’ve
never been any bloody good at making tea, I just used a tea bag.”


Claes took another sip and raised
an eyebrow. “I can taste something else,” she said blandly.


“It’s Irish. Just a little Vodka
to help keep you awake. Don’t give me that look; you’re nearly asleep as it is.”


“What are you talking about?”
Claes asked indignantly.


“Bullshit!”


Claes sighed audibly, “Suppose I
am a little tired. But I don’t drink, sorry.”


“I’ll go get you another, without
the bloody vodka this time, hmm?”


“Before you go, where’s Henrietta gone?”


“She’s asleep in the guest room;
poor thing was knackered after all that singing and dancing. She can kill
terrorists all day long without breaking a sweat but give her a microphone and
a few metres of clear space and she’s tired after a couple hours; Amazing. You
can take the other bed in there when you turn in.”


“Are there only two beds?” Claes
asked tilting her head to the side in a similar manner to a confused animal.


Andromeda
nodded


“What about you and Victoria?”


“I’ll crash on the couch like I
used to and she’ll probably stay in the basement all night.” Andromeda
shook her head, “That girl likes guns a little too much.”


“I’d better go ask if she wants
the bed, I probably won’t end up using it anyway.”


“If you insist.”


Claes got up and made her way to
the basement. Oddly, Victoria wasn’t there, or
so it seemed.


As Claes was looking around, Victoria
burst from the armoury, the SIG 550 with it’s century magazine in her left hand
and a Glock 18 with a century magazine in her right. She fired on several
targets down the range, laughing like a maniac. Claes waited till she was done,
figuring it would be safer that way.


“Hey, Vict-”


“I think I might move in here,”
the brunette said excitedly, “Anthony’s
got every bloody magazine type available for every bloody gun he’s got. And
he’s got a shit load of guns! I mean think about it, who really needs a hundred
bullets in their handgun, that’s more like a submachinegun. What makes it
fucking better is that he’s got another shit load worth of rocket and grenade
launchers. I dunno how the hell he managed to get his hands on all this crap
but he is the greatest man on this earth!”


“Calm down,” Claes said
patiently, “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you have a gun fetish…” Victoria
looked at her indignantly.


“I’m kidding, I came to ask if
you wanted the other bed in the guest room.”


“Nah, Imma gonna stay down here for
the night. Anthony said I could take a
couple of guns home; I’m trying to figure out with ones. I am in favour of this
five fifty here.”


“Um, okay. I’ll leave you to it
then. Have fun.”


“Oh, I will.” Victoria
assured her with a mischievous grin.


Claes went back to her computer
where a fresh cup of tea – unspiked this time – sat steaming next to it. There
wasn’t anything new happening on the live feed so Claes went back to the
internet. After an hour’s searching, Claes didn’t find any additional information.
She stretched her fingers began searching again, but slowly drifted to sleep in
the chair.


* * *


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency Compound – 0001 hours, Alpha time





Samuel
knew he was sitting upright, yet for some reason his tequila wouldn’t go into
the cup, stupid tequila. Perhaps I’ll
just drink it from the bottle? Yeah, that’ll show it
. He grabbed the bottle
and drank a goodly amount without breathing. Now back ot firing practice.


Samuel
levelled his Stechkin on the dart board above his bed. BANG! Twenty points. BANG!
Another twenty points.


Samuel
knew that you weren’t allowed to discharge a weapon inside except at the firing
range, he simply didn’t care. He’d be fired sooner or later, so why follow the
rules. Coincidently that was also the reason he had finished a bottle and a
half of tequila.


“Time for another drink!” he
announced to himself, again attempting to pour it into the glass again.


He heard a ruckus outside his
room. Who the hell would be making so
much noise at this time in the night
? Samuel
put down his empty Stechkin and picked up the PP-19.


Samuel
stumbled to his door and pulled it open. “Who the fuck’s makin’ all the…” he
trailed off as he saw a small arse woman kick Klaus in the chest, flip one of
the Section One agents over her shoulder when her tried to stab her in the
back, and shoot the Section One guy in the chest with a CZ 97; the 1st
Infiltration Battalion was the only battalion he knew of that used that
particular sidearm.


Even pissed as a fart, Samuel knew what he had to do. He raised his
submachinegun and fired at her face. The 9x18mm Makarov rounds would have no
hope of getting a kill if she happened to be wearing body armour. The fact that
he had finished a bottle and a half of tequila didn’t help his aim, and he was
out of ammo by the time the woman went down, despite the fact that the SMG’s
helical magazine held 64 rounds.


“If we’re under attack I’d better
get somethin’ I won’t waste the ammo with,” Samuel
told the dead woman. He walked – stumbled actaully – back into his room and
grabbed his Saiga 12K and a spare magazine for the shotgun and stumbled back
into the hall. When he got back into the hall and nearly tripped over the dead
woman and noticed an unconscious man on the ground.


“Oh, shite!” he yelled as he
remembered Klaus. Samuel picked up his
friend and began carrying him to the clinic over his shoulder so that he could
still shoot with his other hand.


Once at the clinic, Samuel found Dr, Bianchi and showed Klaus to him.


“Ah, he’s unconscious. Nothing I
can do, just put him down till he wakes up,” the doc instructed.


Samuel
silently laid Klaus on the table and left him in the doc’s care. He suspected
that the doc may have been trying to tell him something but there was no time
for idle chit chat. Samuel encountered
another woman he didn’t recognise and raised his shotgun, about to shoot.


She raised her hands in front of
her and began shouting, “What the fuck are you doing, Samuel!”


“Who are you?!” he yelled back,
“Last chance!”


“It’s me, Ferro! Lower your
fucking weapon!”


She was right! She was Ferro! Samuel lowered his shotgun clumsily and rubbed the
back of his neck with his spare hand. “Uh, sorry ‘bout that. Thought ya yer
someone else.”


“Who the-” Ferro stopped
midsentence, leaned closer to the tall Irishman and sniffed. “You’ve been
fucking drinking, haven’t you?” she accused.


“No need to swear, just ‘cause I
mistook ya fer one o’ the mercs in the facility is no reason to get angry.”


“What the fuck are you talking
about?!”


The sounds of automatic gunfire
echoed down the hall and neither Ferro nor Samuel
hesitated in investigating, though Ferro seemed to walk a bit straighter than Samuel. How the
fuck is she doing that?



* * *


Triela had been on the second
floor with Pinocchio, both of whom were breaking in their new limbs in a little
hand to hand combat session, when they heard the submachinegun fire coming from
somewhere down stairs.


“What the hell?” Pinocchio asked
of no one in particular, just after which the door to the training room was
blown off its hinges and two men armed with CZ 97’s entered the room.


Neither Triela of Pinocchio
hesitated and dashing for the intruders weapons. Their reaction might even be
considered ‘text book’ since they moved as a single organism – most of their
spare time had been spent competing at one thing or another. Step One: turn the
weapon in the assailant’s hand up so it’s aiming at the roof. Step Two: twist
weapon out of assailant’s hand while using your own spare hand to break the
offending arm. Step Three: render unconscious with elbow. The two moved exactly
the same. Triela picked up the handguns and checked its ammo, only one round
missing; she looked over and saw Pinocchio doing the same.


There were gunshots outside.
Pinocchio rushed to the window and Triela promptly followed. A large man armed
with a Browning M2 – no, to be using a gun like that without a tri or bipod he
had be cyborg – had Marco pinned, and his cover wouldn’t resist the onslaught
of .50 calibre rounds for long. If Triela and Pinocchio didn’t intervene soon, Marco would die.


Pinocchio took several steps back
said, “No time to take the stairs,” and leapt through the window. Triela swore
under her breath before following suit, it was too far to make a descent shot
with a pistol. She landed hard on the shattered glass; one particularly sharp
shard stuck up through her bare foot, a worry for another time though. Raising
the CZ 97 in her bloody, glass embedded hands, she fired two rounds at the
machine gun wielding cyborg and darted to the side to avoid his return fire.
Pinocchio used his superior speed and agility to get around the hostile while
Triela distracted him. Pinocchio fired two rounds at the man and he turned
about to fire on him; Triela’s turn to advance. By the time Triela was close
enough to get a kill shot – she would take the shot since her marksmanship was
better than Pinocchio’s – she only had three rounds left. She dropped to one
knee and fired a single round to get his attention, waited till he turned
around, and fired the two remaining rounds at his head, the eyes specifically.
One round hit its target and the man fell backward.


Triela tossed down the spent CZ
97 and ran to Marco. “Are you okay,
sir,” she asked as she helped him up.


“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied
hoarsely. He didn’t sound fine. “Thanks for the help. Who was that guy?”


“Alexi Hanson,”
Pinocchio told the bespectacled man, “One of four, three, remaining cyborgs of
the 2nd mechanised. Not including me of course. A big fucking moron
who couldn’t shoot straight if he tried. By my count, only Josef Kjek, Elita Von Brooks and David Plunkett
remain.”


“We’ll worry about them latter,”
Triela told him, “First we need to get Marco
to the Infirmary.”


“No, I told you I’m fine,”
Angelica’s Handler said stubbornly. Could see no point arguing with him, not
that she could. “Go get those other mercenaries while I alert the others.”


“Sir, I’d be very surprised if
they weren’t alerted by now,” Triela pointed out.


“We’d better go to the dorm,”
Pinocchio pointed out, “We’ll be useless without our weapons, and it’s also
where we’ll find Josef and David.”


Triela just walked away from Marco, that man was insufferably stubborn some times.


“Why would Joseph
and David be at the dorm?” Triela
asked as the two blond cyborgs ran to the dorm.


“There’s a number of reasons.
Because they work well together, because if they hit the cyborgs while they’re
asleep, even if they only manage to take out a couple it’ll still put the odds
in their favour, and finally, because it’s far, far from Elita.”


“Why, she some kind of badass or
something?” Triela joked.


From the look Pinocchio gave her,
Triela knew that her joke was in fact the truth.


When Triela and Pinocchio arrived
at the dorm, they could hear gunfire at the other end. Thankfully their rooms
weren’t at that end of the dorm, their weapons within.


When Triela emerged from her own
room Pinocchio was impatiently waiting for her outside.


“What took you so long?” he
demanded.


“I had to find the rounds,” she
said defensively, “the rooms kinda messy. Claes usually keeps it tidy.”


“She’s been away for a day!”


“Let’s just let it go, alright?”


They moved toward the sound of
gunfire. When they arrived though, the fight was already over. Angelica and Beatrice were looking at either end of the corridor
for signs of trouble while Gattonero and Petra
helped up Soni and Mercedes searched the two dead men, cyborgs, for clues to
their identity.


“Don’t bother,” Pinocchio told
her as he slipped his knife back into its sheath up his sleave, “The sandy
haired guy’s Joseph and the other
guy’s David.”


“That’s not what I was doing,”
Mercedes told him dryly, “I need some ammo.” She held up the Desert Eagle from Iraq
and shook it.


“One left,” Triela said half to
herself.


“One what?” Beatrice
asked in her regular monotone without looking at Triela.


“Hostile cyborg,” Triela informed
her as Angelica fired down the hallway at a man armed with a CZ 97, missing
intentionally as a warning. Obviously she was unsure whether this man was an
enemy or just a Section One guy who had picked up the weapon in the absence of
his own.


“What the hell, Ange?” he
demanded angrily from behind his corner.


Mercedes loaded a magazine into
her Eagle and raised it in the space of a second while Triela aimed her shotgun
down the hall; everyone else continued what they were doing.


“Throw down your weapon!” Triela
ordered loudly.


“What the hell, Triela! It’s me,
Luigi! From the bloody GIS!” the man replied.


“Throw down your weapon; this is
your last warning!” Triela began approaching the corner slowly, it was about
fifteen metres away she estimated. She didn’t need to close the distance, but
it would be necessary to disarm him without killing him.


“God dammit! You threw me over
your head you stupid moron! Fine, have it your bloody way!” he threw the gun
around the corner and put both hands around the corner before his head to show
he wasn’t hiding anything.


Triela’s eyes widened as she saw
it was Luigi, and she lowered her shotgun.


“Yeah, that’s right, I was
telling the truth.” He sounded an awful lot like he was gloating.


“Let’s go,” Pinocchio said
impatiently.


“What’s his knickers in a twist?”
Luigi asked Triela.


“We need to find Elita before she
figures out her comrades are dead and does something drastic.”


“Who’s Elita?” Mercedes wondered
aloud.


“C’mon, Triela, we need to find
her now!” Pinocchio said, he seemed very desperate to find this woman.


Triela voiced her opinions and
Pinocchio blushed. “She and I used to… Um, be intimate.”


Triela giggled, as did Mercedes, Petra and Soni, but the
others didn’t understand what was so funny.


Luigi’s smile was mischievous, “the
kid wants to go save his woman, I’m not gonna stop you.”


“Enough talk, let’s go.”
Pinocchio grabbed Triela’s arm and dragged her away, only letting go when they
were out of the dorm.


“We’ll look for her at the CIC,”
Pinocchio told Triela when the dorm was well and truly behind them, “If we’re
lucky we can get there before she does.”


“You sound worried,” Triela
noted.


“I am, and you should be to.
She’s on par with you and I, so move your arse! If she decides to shoot first
and ask questions later, many people will die.”


It took three minutes to get to
the hallway connecting to the CIC. There was gunfire inside. Triela burst into
the room and came face to face with a twenty five year old version of herself.
Both blond haired, blue eyed, dark skinned figures blinked. The other woman
even used the same weapon as Triela! The only real difference besides their
ages was that the other woman wore her hair in a single ponytail at the back
while Triela had hers in two at the sides. Everyone in the CIC had stopped
shooting and just stared at the pair. Pinocchio came in, a knife in each hand.
He too, blinked.


“Elita, put the weapon down,”
Pinocchio growled in a low voice.


The look-a-like blinked and
turned to Pinocchio, and blinked again. “Pinocchio! What the hell are you doing
here?! I heard you died back in Iraq.
Are you here to help with the operation?”


“No, I work here,” he replied
blandly and then returned t a low growl, “Now drop the bloody shotgun!”


“No,” Elita said in a
matter-of-factly tone.


Triela regained her senses and
fired in-between Elita’s feet. “Drop it now; Last chance!”


Elita reluctantly dropped her Winchester and put her hands
behind her head.


* * *


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency compound – 0020 hours, Alpha time





Samuel
and Jean sat behind a large concrete
block, waiting for the GIS guys to go around and hit the bastards at the end of
the corridor from behind. Samuel was
far form sober and he knew it, but even if he couldn’t walk straight like
everyone else, he could at least shoot straight, relatively straight, kinda
straight, even when the targets were wobbly.


“Hey, Jean?”
Samuel said as he fumbled with
magazine on his shotgun.


“Yeah?” the handsome blond said. Samuel wasn’t afraid to admit it; Jean Croce
was a handsome devil.


“I’m sorry about what said
earlier, I shouldn’t’ve been so mean. I mean, ya was only doin’ yer job, an’ ya
probably did get sitreps. I’d not blame ya if ya fired me, I never been very
good at followin’ the chain of command. ‘Cept in the Legion”


“This isn’t the time for this,” Jean said, sticking his Berretta over the concrete
block and firing randomly.


“No, no, no, no, no, this is the
time. After all, we’re just waitin’ ‘ere right. An’ these are the last couples
o’ dudes. How do I know this, ya ask? Well, when I used to be a merc, the 1st
infiltration only ever sent a maximum of forty guys, dunno why, just what they
do.”


“And how you know there are at
least forty dead infiltrators?” Jean
said nonchalantly.


“I been listenin’ to the radio,”
the Irishman replied proudly. Jean
gave Samuel a funny look as he
reloaded his handgun. “What, just ‘cause I’m pissed, I can’t keep track of
shite?”


“Considering you can barely walk
in a straight line, logic would dictate you can’t do simple math either.”


“Fuck off, I’m Irish. Me
country’s run by a bunch of drunkards, an’ it seems be doin’ fine now, I
think.”


Samuel
suddenly noticed that he and Jean
weren’t being fired at. He popped his head over the concrete and saw the to GIS
guys waving him over. The bearded man got up and switched on the safety of his shotgun.
“I’m goin’ back to me room to drink some more until ya come for me,” he told Jean, “Tell the missus I said hi.”


“What makes you think you’re
being fired?” Jean asked as Samuel began walking – stumbling – to his room.


“All the shite I did this night,”
Samuel told him, without looking back.


“Just so you know, I don’t
control that kinda stuff. In the end the director gets the final say, not me.
However I will admit my opinion does bear some weight in his decisions.”


“So I’m not gonna lose me job?” Samuel had stopped now and was staring at Jean hopefully.


“You might yet, you did nearly
shoot my fiancé and several other staff members tonight, and you were drinking on the job.” Jean actually chuckled as he walked off to follow the
GIS guys.


So I might get to stay after all, huh? Maybe I should cut back on the
drinking and help the others with their futile search for people that aren’t
there…? Nah!



* * *


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency Compound – 0200 hours, Alpha time





Triela stood in the observation
room next to Hillshire, who was also staring at Elita, the Triela lookalike,
through the one way mirror. The search for more intruders in the Agency had
ended a half hour ago and Triela hadn’t helped in any of it, instead she had
been tasked to look after Elita, and Pinocchio, but he had disappeared as soon
as the order was given, so his loyalty to the contract he and Jean had signed
was know in question.


Elita had been searched
thoroughly before being put in the interrogation room but had been as good at
concealing things as Pinocchio, because she was now writing in her diary. Where
she could have hidden it and a pen was beyond Triela.


Jean
came in and shook his head. “Reanimated terrorists and cyborg armies, so why
not a clone?” he asked rhetorically. When he had received the call, he had been
very sceptical of the lookalike business. “Has she said anything?” he asked the
Fratello charged with observing her.


“Nothing,” Hillshire told him,
“just sat down in the corner and began writing.”


“A diary?”


“We think so.”


“Where’s Pinocchio?” This time Jean was addressing Triela.


“I don’t know, Sir,” Triela
informed him truthfully, “He ran off just after I was told to keep an eye on
him.”


“Am I to assume you went looking
for him?” Jean didn’t sound like he
was in a very good mood.


“I ordered her not to,” Hillshire
told the blond haired Croce brother, gesturing his
head at Elita, “I figured she was a bigger security risk than Pinocchio.”


Jean
thought about that for a second and left. A moment later he entered the
Interrogation room and Elita ignored him. Jean
sat down and smacked a file onto the desk, Elita didn’t move an inch.


“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” Jean asked dryly.


“No,” she told him without
looking up from her writing; she even sounded like Triela, “This is your work
place, not mine. Do what you want.”


“What I want is to know a little
more about you.”


“If you wanna go on a date you
only needed to ask, no need to have me strip searched and stuck in a room with
people watching me.” She finally looked up from her writing and closed the
small book. “Where did you want to take me?”


“You find this situation
amusing?”


“I do actually, the famous Jean Croce
interrogating me. From what I hear you normally let Rico handle the
interrogations. I was kinda looking forward to having a little scuffle with
her. On a more serious note through, how long do you intend to keep me here?”


Now it was Jean’s
turn to laugh, she gave him an accusing look, “It’s funny that you think you’re
gonna be let out. You have attacked a government institution; you are now
officially on Italy’s
wanted list.”


Elita crossed her arms over her
chest, being anything but amused, “I want a lawyer.”


“Sorry, but you forfeited your
rights when you shot at my fiancé.”


“And which of the lovely ladies
was that, the petit bitch with the red lipstick, the soviet hag, or perhaps the
wavy haired bimbo? Do tell.”


Jean
was clenching and unclenching his fists, the woman had gotten to him. Triela
looked to her handler, and by the look on his face, he knew it to. Hillshire
left the room without a word and appeared in the interrogation room about a
second later. He grabbed Jean’s arm,
“can I speak to you?”


Jean
grudgingly left with Hillshire and Jean
left the room and Elita opened her book and went back to her writing.


Triela heard someone enter the
room. “What did you say to him?” Triela asked.


“To whom do you think I have
spoken?” Pinocchio answered sarcastically.


Triela turned around and glared
at him, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward. “Where the hell have
you been?” she demanded as he stepped back.


He held up a plastic shopping
back, “I’ve been shopping. If we want her to talk, we’ll need to give her some
stuff.”


Triela gave him and inquisitive
look.


“She’s a fickle bitch sometimes,
that’s all I’m saying,” Pinocchio said as he shrugged his shoulders. “If you’ll
excuse me, I have to get the bitch to talk.” Pinocchio left and Triela stayed,
then the shouting outside began. Two minutes later Pinocchio entered the
interrogation room and Hillshire and Jean
joined Triela in the observation room. Jean
still didn’t seem happy.


“So,” Pinocchio said as he took a
seat in the chair adjacent the one way mirror, “you still taking notes on what
you encounter I see.” Pinocchio took a small chocolate cake out of the bag and
began munching on it slowly; he then took another one out and offered it to
Elita, “You want one?”


Form the look one her face, she
really, really wanted one. Triela figured
she wasn’t trying to hide her expression because Pinocchio’s back was to her.


“You sure? You used to love little
chocolate cakes when we were together.” By the way she was licking her lips and
staring at the cake, she wanted it more than anything else in the world.
However, her pride prevented her from accepting the delicious treat, poor thing.


Pinocchio licked the last crumbs
from his fingers. “Well, if you don’t want one, I’ll save it for later.” He put
it back in the bag. “Care to share why you’re here? I know that the higher ups
wouldn’t send in the 1st Infiltration and what remained of the 2nd
Mechanised simply to get revenge.”


“I won’t tell a traitor like you
anything,” she said quietly.


“You need a cause to be a
traitor-”


“We had a cause, dammit!” Elita spat
as she got up and bashed her fist on the table in front of Pinocchio, “You and
me; that was the fucking cause!”


Hillshire leaned toward Jean, “Looks like she still has feelings about him.”


“You want to bring that up now?”
Pinocchio didn’t sound surprised about it, “tough shit. You need to talk
otherwise they’re going to kill you.” Pinocchio kept his voice level, calm.


“Let them try,” she responded
harshly.


“I’ve got several more cakes if
you’d like them, and a couple of Offspring CD’s. I’m sure I could arrange for
them to leave a stereo in your cell.”


“Which CD’s?” the asked, curious
but still angry.


“Greatest Hits, Rise And Fall,
Rage And Grace, and Splinter.”


She seemed to think it over for a
second before snatching the bag off the table, fishing out one of the cakes,
and taking the seat across from Pinocchio, putting her legs on the table. “We
were sent here to kill the leadership and destroy the AI and research data from
the cyborg program.” She didn’t even wait till she had finished the first to
take out a second cake.


“Simple as that, eh?”


“Yup, you wanna find someplace to
fuck, now, just like the old times?”


Pinocchio didn’t seem at all
surprised by this comment. “You realise you probably won’t leave this room for
a while right?”


She nodded and said, “Here’s fine
if nowhere else is available.”


He sighed, “You’re damn
impossible. Besides, our little thing is over, it ended four months ago.”


She laughed, “It never bloody
ended, you remember that time in the garden shed in Austria?”


“Goodbye, Elita,” Pinocchio said,
smiling as he left and rejoined the onlookers in the observation room.


“Is that all we need to do to get
her to talk?” Hillshire asked wonderingly.


“Basically, yeah, it is as simple
as that. You might have to take a beer or two next time though. Like I told
Triela, Elita’s a fickle bitch.”


“And amorous,” Triela added with
a cheeky grin.


“Um, yeah, that to. Don’t mention
that to anyone. Ever.”


“Why don’t you head off to bed
now Triela,” Hillshire said sternly, “it’s pretty late.”


“You could have just said ‘we
would like to speak alone’,” Triela told her Handler as she left the room. What a subtle hint!


Triela made her way to her room,
and upon arrival, packed away her shotgun. None of the other cyborgs were awake
now, their Handlers had sent them to bed when the search had finished. “Some
days being the responsible cyborg kinda sucks,” Triela told herself as she
undressed for bed. After putting on her pyjamas though, she didn’t get into
bed, instead she made her way to the cafeteria, even at two in the morning
there would be leftovers in the buffet.


At the cafeteria Triela ran into
Pinocchio.


“What are you doing here?” she
asked him suspiciously.


“I don’t want to deal with the
other guys right now. They’re giving me shit about that thing after the incendiary
strike and what just happened with Elita.” He sounded a little depressed. And
he was fiddling with a packet of cigarettes.


“That’s not what I meant. Why
aren’t you with Jean and Hillshire?”


“Because I needed a cigarette.”


“You can’t smoke in here,” she
pointed out.


“You’re meant to be in bed.”


“Irrelevant, I need a feed, I
haven’t eaten yet.”


He pointed to the buffet with his
unopened cigarette packet, “Knock yourself out.”


Triela took a cold piece of beef
pie and a stale croissant, and sat across from Pinocchio. “Do you want to
talk?” she asked and he gave her a strange look. “Well I’m kinda like the big
sister around here and when the girls don’t feel comfortable talking to Dr. Bianchi,
they come to me.”


“Nah, I’ll just sit here and wallow
in my own sorrow.”


“If you want,” Triela told him as
she shrugged her shoulders and took a bite out of her stale croissant.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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Three Dog

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Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:16

Section 5.
Spoiler:


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Anthony’s House – 0600 hours, Alpha time





Claes felt someone pocking her in
the head, and she tried to shoo them away but they persisted. She raised her
head and saw Anthony holding a frying
pan.


“You hungry?” he asked.


Claes wiped the drawl form her
mouth with her sleeve and nodded, “Now that you mention it, I am a little
hungry. Is everyone else awake?”


“No, as far as I know, Vic’s in the basement, my sis’s on the couch, and Henrietta’s in the spare room. My sis’ll be up soon
and knowing Vic, she’ll be up soon
too. Henrietta on the other hand, I
have no idea.”


Claes got up slowly and stretched,
“Where’s the bathroom?”


“Down the hall, third door on the
left,” Anthony told her as he went
into the kitchen with the frying pan.


When Claes returned, she went
into the kitchen to see if Anthony
needed any help, he had hacked into a spy satellite for her after all, the
least she could do was help cook.


“Nah, that’s alright,” he said as
put a tray of bread into the oven, “You’re a guest in my house, no need for you
to do anything.”


“Are you sure?” she asked as he
stirred a pot.


“Yeah, I’m certain.” He began
laughing, “Why don’t you go take a shower, room across form the toilet fresh
towels are in the linen press, door next to the bathroom. Breakfast will be
ready in a half hour.”


“Uh, alright.”


Claes went to the linen press and
grabbed one of the many towels, and went into the bathroom. It was quite a nice,
and large. Not a single surface was unclean. She turned on the hot water and
undressed while she waited for the water to heat up. She placed her glasses
carefully next to the sink and turned the cold water on to make the water a
nicer temperature. As she washed her hair with some nice smelling foreign
shampoo, she thought over what she had read last night. A very large area had
been closed down, there was an unknown aircraft flying over even though it was
declared a no fly zone, followed by a large fiery explosion and a plume of
smoke, then the army had been sent in, in hazmat suits to comply with the bio
hazard thing.


Claes picked up the conditioner.


Add to those facts that Jean had told them to find a place to hide just after
they had been ambushed. He hadn’t called any earlier but Andromeda
had said that other Social Welfare Agency personnel had been attacked, which
would mean that all the attacks had been conducted almost simultaneously. That
would indicate that the attackers were a fairly organised bunch. Considering
where Andromeda, Claes, Henrietta, and
Victoria had been attacked, a book
shop, which wasn’t a political target and wouldn’t have gained any of the
factions throwing Italy
into turmoil right now any support. Whoever had attacked them would have to
have nothing to lose from causing more turmoil in Italy.


Claes finished washing off the
body wash, turned off the water and began towelling herself dry.


The only faction that Claes could
think of was the Second Suns. Especially considering Anthony’s
paranoia when he heard it was the Second Suns that they suspected it was that
had attacked them.


Claes dressed herself, grabbed
her glasses from the sink and had to dry them – perhaps not the best spot to have left them – and went out to the
kitchen, where Anthony was
surprisingly absent. Claes went to the pot Anthony
had been stirring and smelt the contents before looking inside; it contained a
delicious smelling porridge. Claes had never been a fan of porridge and had
often thought of it as gruel instead of porridge, but this one smelt and looked
really nice.


Claes left and went looking for Anthony. She didn’t have to look far, she found him
at the door to the basement, holding a – was that a flash grenade?


“What are you doing?” She asked
curiously.


“Shhhh, I’m playing a joke on Vic,” he said giggling to himself before he pulled
the pin and threw the grenade down the stairs. He ran like crazy while Claes
stood there, to bewildered tomove.


She heard the grenade go off
followed by several panicked shots from a pair of automatic weapons and then Victoria’s
angry voice, “What the fuck Anthony!
You think that was bloody funny?! Wait till I get my hands on you, arsehole!”
the angry brunette burst through the door and Claes couldn’t help but giggle a
little behind her hand.


Claes wasn’t laughing at what had
happened to Victoria so much as laughing at how she was dressed; Red bandana
around her head, camouflaged face paint, reflector aviators, a satchel of
Rocket Propelled Grenades on her back with the RPG-7, a bandolier of green
shotgun shells across her chest, Mac-10 in a holster on her right thigh, green
army singlet with matching cargo pants, a AA-12 in one hand and the SIG 550
with century magazine in the other, a belt with both century magazines for the assault
rifle and thirty two round drums for the shotgun.


“You think that was funny?” Victoria
demanded angrily.


“Not the event, the attire,”
Claes said as she continued to giggle behind her hand.


“Just tell me where the hell Anthony went.”


“He’s in the kitchen.”


“Excuse me,” Victoria
said as she left Claes standing in the hall. Suddenly Henrietta
emerged from up the stairs wielding her SIG P239.


“What’s going on?” she asked
Claes, “I heard gunshots.”


“Anthony
played a joke on Victoria,”
Claes explained, “Victoria’s ego is the only
casualty. Breakfast will be ready in five minutes by the way.”


“Oh, okay.” Henrietta
put her handgun back in its holster; her clothes looked slept in, just like
Claes’.


Claes led Henrietta
to the dinning room, sat down, and listened to Victoria
yelling at Anthony.


“What the fuck kinda joke was
that?” Victoria
demanded.


“The ol’ ‘flash grenade down the
stairs while the victim sleeps’ kinda joke,” Anthony
replied calmly.


“I ought to fucking kill you, you
bastard!”


“If you kill me, then you can’t
take those nice guns home can you?”


Claes saw Victoria
storm out the kitchen and Anthony came
out a second later with two bowls of porridge and a fresh loaf of bread. “Bon
appétit,” he told the pair at the table.


Claes took a spoon and dug into
her porridge, “Mmm, this’s really good!”


“You think so?” Anthony asked modestly.


Henrietta
nodded vigorously, giving her approval of the meal. And Claes shoved another
spoonful into her own mouth before tearing off a piece of still steaming fresh
bread and scoffing that down.


Andromeda
lumbered through the dining room and into the kitchen dressed only in a shirt
and undies, then lumbered back into the dining room with a bowl of porridge and
took a seat across from Henrietta. The
scar faced woman still looked half asleep. Victoria
came in not long after, minus the guns, ammo, sunnies and bandana, and got her
own bowl as well.


“So you decided what you’re going
take home?” Andromeda asked her cyborg.


This seemed to lift Victoria’s
spirits immediately, “The SIG 550, AA-12, Mac-10 and the RPG.”


“They sound expensive,” Andromeda noted.


“She can have ‘em,” Anthony told his twin as he sat at the head of the
table with his own bowl of porridge, “I’ll even throw in the Farg-12’s and the
C-mags.”


Andromeda’s phone rang in the
other room and she left to answer it.


“Reasons for your choices?” Anthony asked Victoria.


“Well,” Victoria began, “I chose
the Mac-10 because it has a high fire rate in a small package, The SIG because
ammo and parts will be relatively easy to find since we have a few of them at
the Agency, plus I’d be allowed to play with this one, the RPG-7 because I
think it’s pretty cool and ammo is easier to carry around than other rocket
launchers, and finally the AA-12 because it’s an automatic shotgun with eight
round magazines or thirty two round drums and it’ll fit into my F2000’s case
with a little tweaking. The modified guitar case not the regular weapons case.”
As soon as she finished speaking Victoria began spooning
food into her mouth again


They sat in silence for a time,
enjoying the food that much, before Andromeda
returned with an announcement. “Jean
said it’s safe to return to the Agency now and we gotta pick José up from the
airport. He lands in an hour, so hurry up and finish your breakfast while I put
some pants on. Anthony, I need to
borrow your car.”


“I’m coming with then,” Anthony told her.


“Not enough seats unless I leave
one of the girls behind, sorry, but you gotta stay.”


“Wrong on both accounts. I got a
seven seater, so Henrietta can sit in
the back and I’ll sit with Claes and Victoria
in the back.”


“Why do you want to come along?” Victoria
asked suspiciously.


“I want to tell Jean that I know where Giacomo Dante
is,” Anthony replied nonchalantly.


Every just stared at him in
shock. Giacomo
Dante was the man who had killed Jean’s mother, father, sister and fiancé. More then
anything else Jean wanted to avenge
the death of his family. Very few in the Agency were privy to that final piece
of information, Claes being the only person in the room who was one of those
few, and she only knew because she had been observing the way he acts.


“Well,” Andromeda
conceded, “I guess I’d better take you with me.”


* * *


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Social Welfare Agency
– 0900 hours, Alpha time





Triela was roused form her
slumber by a dark haired silhouette opening the curtains to allow the morning
light in.


“Claes?” Triela asked.


The figure leaned forward
revealing that it wasn’t Claes, but Mercedes. “‘Fraid not, just little ol’ me.
Hillshire sent me to get you up.”


Triela climbed out of bed slowly
and shook her head. “What time is it?” she asked as Mercedes turned around so
that Triela could dress her self.


“Nine,” Mercedes replied, “one
other thing, the woman that you captured, Elita, wanted to speak to you.”


“What?” Triela was a little
confused.


“Well, she told Jean a few things after he brought her some more
little cakes and then she spoke to Pinocchio, though I don’t think much
speaking happened during his visit, and now she wants to talk to you.”


“How do you know all this?”
Triela grumbled, pulling a grey jacket on.


“Barry
used to be in MI6, ain’t nothing that can stay hidden form him,” Mercedes said
proudly. Not an unusual reaction when a cyborg talks about their Handler. At
the very least, all the cyborgs admired and looked up to their Handlers.


Triela finished dressing herself
and turned to Mercedes, “Lead the way, Sergeant.”


In five minutes Triela found
herself sitting across from Elita in the interrogation room. Elita nibbling on
the little cakes and writing in her little book, and Triela with her arms
crossed over her chest.


“So what did you want?” Triela
asked politely.


“You fucking Pinocchio?” Elita
asked in return as if inquiring as to when dinner would be ready.


Triela kept calm and her voice
stayed polite and level, the woman across the table was just doing her job
after all, so wasn’t exactly a terrorist. “What do you mean?”


Elita looked at Triela in
bafflement, “You know, birds and the bees, that kinda shit. Coitus, intercourse,
sex …”


“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
nothing like that. We’re rivals, not lovers.”


“That’s how me and him started
out. Listen; if you do, be gentle, he’s a fragile boy. On to my other point
though, I want out, or at least somewhere larger than sixteen square metres to
walk in. think you can help?”


“Probably not, I’m just a cyborg,
I have very little leeway when it comes to the decision making. I have a
question for you, though.”


“Shoot.”


“What’s that little book?”


“This is my note book; I keep
notes on everything in here. On your clothes, speech patterns, weapons,
accommodation, security, etcetera. I also write little bits of trivia in here
as well; like that killer whales are actually dolphins.”


“I have another question.” Elita
gestured for Triela to proceed. “Why are you being so forthcoming? I find it
hard to believe it’s for those little cakes.”


Elita held out one of the cakes,
“You try one then tell me it isn’t worth it.”


Triela reluctantly accepted to
snack and took a bite. Christ, this is
bloody delicious!
“I see,” Triela told Elita before eating the rest of the
cake quickly.


“Seen any good movies lately?”
Elita asked.


This was surprising, the last
thing Triela expected was small talk, but she took it in her stride. “No, I
don’t watch many movies. What’s with the small talk?”


“I get bored in here,” Elita
replied defensively, “I haven’t got my CD player yet so I can’t listen to any
music, the good looking bloke, Jean, is only interested in what I know about
Second Suns operations and how much we know about your operations, though he is
easy to bait. I just have to make fun of his fiancé or his dead relatives and
he’s ready to hurt me, and not in the fun way. And bloody Big Nose…”


“Big Nose? Oh, Pinocchio.”


“Yeah, him, he isn’t interested
in small talk or sex, so he’s no good to me…”


Triela thought that Elita focused
on sex a little too much.


“… You on the other hand have at
least humoured me with a little conversation.”


There was a knock on the door
then Hillshire pocked his head through, “Triela, I need to speak to you.”


As Triela left, Elita yelled
after her, “Don’t forget about finding me a bigger room!”


“Your letting her get into your
head,” Hillshire told his cyborg when the door to the interrogation room had
closed, “Don’t spend too much time with her. From what Pinocchio has told me,
she’s a manipulator and a liar. Don’t trust her. Now come on, there’s a heap of
paperwork to do and you get to help me.”


“Why do I have to help?” Triela
demanded with her hands on her hips in imitation of Ferro whenever she wasn’t
happy with Jean.


“Because half the damage was
caused by you cyborgs, and if I can’t gat any of the others to do some paper
work I can at least get you to do your share of it.”


Triela uttered accurse under her
breath and followed her Handler to his office.


* * *


Mercedes had been tasked with
waking everyone who wasn’t already awake by Hillshire, but Barry had told her to have some fun with it. “Think
of it as a training exercise in guerrilla warfare,” he said, and her methods
were getting more and more creative as she went, this was a good training sesh.
Triela had just been her first victim, though now that Mercedes thought about
it, hadn’t really been victimised, she had too much respect for Triela to
victimise her.


Waking Petra and Soni had been fun though. While the
ranga was in a deep slumber, Mercedes snuck into the room with a low powered
taser. The window was already open, something Mercedes was grateful for.
Mercedes zapped Petra
with the taser then threw it at Soni before jumping out the window. The plan
had worked perfectly. When Petra
finally removed the blankets that she had thrown over her head in the spastic
fit caused by the device, saw Soni, awake and with a taser in her hands. The
shit had hit the fan then as Petra
lunged at Soni and Soni tried desperately to defend herself from the onslaught
of punches and slaps. Neither was very good at CQC, but Petra was the better of the two. By the time
they figured out what had happened, Mercedes was long gone. She knew there
would be hell to pay for her actions, but it was bloody worth it.


The only person remaining one the
hit list was Samuel. Mercedes rubbed
her hands together in anticipation as she made her way to her own room to get a
few things, and to the armoury.


Mercedes walked into his dark
room slowly, she knew he had been quite drunk the previous night and had not
fallen asleep till late, both would be advantageous. She began cutting lengths
of piano wire for the trip wires so that the flash, teargas and concussion
grenades went off once Mercedes was gone. Next came the low electrical current
through the door handle, for which Mercedes was most proud. Finally, she loaded
her Desert Eagle with blanks and escaped out the window as she had with Soni
and Petra.


Now that she was in position,
Mercedes put on her gas mask and earplugs, and stuck her handgun through the
window. She fired every round in the magazine, Samuel
woke up with a scream of agony, then the grenades went off, teargas billowed
out the window. Samuel was coughing
hoarsely when he found the door handle. After thirty seconds, Mercedes climbed
back into the room and put a gas mask over Samuels
face before dragging him out through the window.


Once Mercedes had dragged him far
enough away, she pulled off his gas mask then her own. “Perhaps I over did this
one,” she told herself.


Suddenly he sprang to life,
pushed her to the ground, and sprayed her in the face with pepper spray. It
burned like hell!


“Ya have to wake pretty damn
early to catch me out!” he yelled at her as she coughed and sputtered.


After about four or five minutes
of Samuel laughing, Mercedes had
recovered enough to speak. “How the hell did you figure it out?” she asked him.


He just tapped the side of his
nose, “When ya been shootin’ people as long as I ‘ave ya learn a few things.”


“Bloody arsehole,” she accused as
she began laughing. It server her right for being too over confident.


* * *


After picking up José from the
airport, Andromeda had driven straight to the Agency.
However, security had become a lot tighten in the – what was it, twenty hours?
– Since the whole bio hazard thing had started, and Victoria
could see that it was really making her Handler angry.


“Listen arsehole,” she was saying
to the guard at the third checkpoint, “the other two guys saw the cyborgs and
just let us through! Why the fuck are you holding us up!”


“Ma’am, please calm down. I just
need to know who the man in the back is.”


Anthony
motioned for Claes to wind down the window and then stuck his hand out the
window for the guard to shake, “Doctor Anthony Brandt.”


The guard drew his Berretta and
aimed at Anthony, “Get out the car,
now!”


“Whoa, calm down,” Anthony said cautiously, all the while reaching into
his pocket so that the guard couldn’t see he had a gun, “I need to speak the Jean Croce.”


“Get out of the car!” the guard
shouted again, “Final warning!”


“Fuck off,” Andromeda
told the guard, “He’s with me and José.”


“He’s on the top of the Agency’s
wanted list, ma’am” the guard told her firmly.


“‘Course I bloody know that, he’s
my damn brother, tell Jean that Anthony has information on Giacomo Dante!”


The guard kept his gun aimed at Anthony while he dialled his phone. He lowered the
gun and Anthony loosened the grip on
his Luger.


“Go on through, Ma’am,” the guard
told them reluctantly, he didn’t look happy. Victoria
suspected that he was in deep trouble.


Victoria
still didn’t understand why this Giacomo Dante
guy was so important right know. It was the Second Suns that were the issue,
not some freelance terrorist. Giacomo hadn’t infiltrated the Agency twice in
the past month; no one besides the Second Suns had done it even once.


Jean
met them in the car park, his expression blank. “Dr. Brandt,
I assume?”


“That is me, Mr Croce,”
Anthony answered, flicking the safety off
his Lugar while it remained in its holster cleverly concealed in his pocket.


“Follow me,” Jean instructed. Victoria
knew that he wasn’t addressing anyone but Anthony
and José, everyone else was to proceed as usual. Victoria
grabbed her suitcase containing the weapons and the new armour from Anthony out the back of the car and dragged it back
to her room where Mercedes was surprisingly absent. Victoria
unpacked the weapons and armour, and cleverly concealed them under her bed,
then went looking for her roommate.


Surprisingly, Victoria
found Mercedes at the clinic with Samuel,
and Dr. Bianchi talking angrily to them. “… Next
time you do this I’m not helping either of you.”


“It was a training exercise,”
Mercedes said defensively.


“Ya gotta admit doc,” Samuel said, “It’s a helluva start to the day.”


Victoria
knocked at the open door, “May I come in?”


“I see no reason why not,” Dr. Bianchi
said, “You might even be able to talk some sense into these two idiots.”


Victoria
walked in. “What did they do?”


“Mercedes has been playing pranks
on everyone who wasn’t up and Samuel
pepper sprayed her in the face,” Dr.
Bianchi said disapprovingly.


“A morning well spent if you ask
me,” Mercedes told Victoria.


“What exactly did you do?” Victoria
asked of her roommate, trying to be serious, but unable to suppress a smile.


“I started off by opening the
curtains in Triela’s room, letting in an uncomfortable quantity of light, I
proceeded to spray Beatrice with one of those spray bottles full of water, then
moved on to tazing Petra and framing Soni for it, and finally I set up an
elaborate network of tear gas, flash, and concussion grenades in Samuel’s room
and electrified his door handle.”


“An’ then I tricked her an’
pepper sprayed her,” Samuel added
happily.


“That does sound like a morning
well spent,” Victoria
said as a way of congratulation, “However, Mercedes, you may need to hide from
Soni and Petra
for a while.”


“Don’t encourage them,” Dr. Bianchi
told Victoria
unhappily.


“Yessir.”


Victoria
waited until Dr. Bianchi had left before telling Mercedes
her news, “Anthony’s here.”


Mercedes leapt from the table she
was seated on, “What do you mean?! Anthony,
actually physically here, in the flesh?”


“Yeah.”


“Does he know that he’s on our
most wanted list?”


“Yeah, but he thinks that we’ll
go easy on him because he has information on Giacomo Dante.
He even wants to try and get a job because he thinks that he’ll be fired from
Berretta soon.”


“Isn’t this Giacomo guy the fella
that killed the Croce family?” Samuel
asked.


“Correctomundo, though why it’s
such a big deal now…” Victoria shrugged her
shoulders. “I do know that there hasn’t been a crack in the case for several
years, but…” Victoria
shrugged her shoulders again. “Oh, and I gat some knew toys from Anthony’s place as well,” Victoria
added at the last minute.


“What sort of toys are we talking
about exactly?” Mercedes inquired.


“RPG-7, AA-12 and a couple of
other things.”


“When are you going to need
either of those?”


“I can use the AA-12 the next
time I’m in a hallway full of terrorists; I can get through with ease. The same
for the RPG now that I think about it.”


“Who exactly’s this Anthony fella?” Samuel
asked.


“He’s Andromeda’s twin brother,” Victoria told
him, “told you about the Second Suns in Iraq. I’m surprised that you don’t
remember.”


“I’m still a little drunk from
last night,” he informed her, “Turns two bottles o’ tequila lasts a long time.”


“Well, he’s the guy who got Andromeda a job here at the Agency in the first place. How?
I haven’t the foggiest idea. Anyway, he knows a lot about the Agency and Jean and the Chief know this and consider it a major
breach in security.”


“He’s on top of the shite list?”


“Yup.”


Samuel
scratched his beard thoughtfully, “I see.”


* * *


Thursday 13th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 0930 hours, Alpha time





Anthony
drummed his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. He had already explained to Jean, José and Director
Lorenzo why he wouldn’t tell them what he knew about
Giacomo Dante several times. One final time, just ask me one final time and I’ll shoot everybody I
see
.


“As soon as you confirm that I’ll
get the job, and that everybody knows I’m getting the job, and that you won’t
order me killed. Only once those conditions have been met will I tell you what
I know about Giacomo
Dante.”


Lorenzo took a deep breath to
suppress his anger, “I already told you, you have the job, and we won’t order
you killed.


“You haven’t told everybody yet,
though. Have you?”


“We don’t need to,” Jean said speaking impatiently this time, “Enough
people would have heard that you are here that we don’t need to inform people.”


“Oh?” Anthony
was a little surprised by this, though now that he thought about it, made
sense. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know.”


The three Italian men leaned
forward after Anthony did so himself.


“Now, this information has been
through a lot of sources, so I don’t know how reliable it is. For the past few
months, Giacomo has been travelling around Africa
looking for something. He never stays in the same place for more than a couple
of days. The last I heard he was in Kampala, Uganda, about a week ago, and he’s headed west
into Zaire.
I reckon that he’ll cross the border in the next couple of days.”


“What would he be doing in Uganda?”
Director Lorenzo wondered aloud, scratching his
chin and leaning back.


“How did come across this
information?” Jean asked Anthony.


“I’m very good at reading between
the lines, we’ll leave it at that.”


All three men left Anthony alone in the interrogation room. After about
ten minutes they returned, minus José. “I’ll show you where you’ll be working,”
Jean said.


“You could tell me what I’m going
to be doing first,” Anthony pointed
out.


“What happened to reading between
the lines?” Jean asked with a smile. Anthony figured that he must have caused Jean a lot of trouble some time in the past, probably
every time he sent a package to his sis or Vic,
or when he called them or they called him.


“Oh, I see. I’m gonna be an
analyst,” Anthon said smugly, “I look forward to working with Priscilla.”


Jean
exchanged a worried look with the Director before leading Anthony
away, leading him to his new office.


Jean
knocked at the door, “Priscilla,
you’ve got a new workmate.”


Priscilla
turned around in her chair and stared at Anthony.
“Who’s he?” she demanded.


Anthony
extended his hand, “Doctor Anthony
Brandt.”


“Wait, you’re Andromeda’s
brother?” she looked him up and down, “I expected you to be a bit taller.”


“I’ll leave you to sort out where
he’s working,” Jean told Priscilla before leaving so that she couldn’t argue.


The moment Anthony
heard Jean’s footsteps disappear down
the hall; he leapt under the table and received a kick to the ribs from Priscilla as she slid her chair back. “What the hell
are you doing down there?” she demanded as she pushed her skirt down between
her legs, Anthony hadn’t noticed her
wearing a skirt before.


Anthony
pressed his finger over his lips, the universal sign for shoosh, and continued
his search. After two minutes he got out from under the desk and began looking
on top of it. Priscilla seemed too
dumbfounded by this aberrant behaviour to say anything.


Once Anthony
had finished scouring the room he turned to Priscilla
and apologised. “I was looking for bugs,” he explained.


“Like insect bugs?” Priscilla sounded very confused.


“Listening device bugs.”


“Why would there be listening
devices in here?” Pricilla demanded. Anthony
noticed she did a lot of demanding.


“I trust Jean
as far as I can throw him, that’s why. And before you try and defend him
because he’s your boss or something like that, I know more about what happened
to Claes’ former Handler than you do. Trust me, the moment you trust Jean, you lose.”


“At the moment I trust Jean more than I do you. And what the hell do you
mean by what happened to Claes’ Handler? What do you know?”


“It’s best I don’t tell you. So where
do I work?” Anthony rubbed his hands
together in anticipation.


“Just pull chair up at a computer
and knock yourself out, dunno what you’re so exited about though, this’s a
pretty dull job.”


“Hey, I’m just happy to get a job;
Berretta was gonna fire me soon anyway.” Anthony
grabbed one of the spare chairs and pulled it to a computer that was already
on. “What’s the password?”


“v3Sp4,” Priscilla
told him as she got back to her own work.


“Nice password.”


The first thing Anthony did was hit up his usual sources to see if he
could find anything about the Second Suns, he’d check the Agency’s archives
anther time. After a couple hours of searching through military logs he
discovered an unusual amount of activity in Chechnya at the moment. Anthony
brought up a live satellite and UAV feed and battle field reports courtesy of
the poor Russian Army electronic and cyber security, and noted some men with
AUG A3’s fighting alongside the Chechens. From what records the Agency had on
the Second Suns, Anthony knew that the
AUG A3 was their primary assault rifle. Interestingly there was also a large
hulking suit with a big machine gun on one arm and a rocked pod on the other.
That was one of the enhanced combat infantry devices; there wasn’t anything
else it could be. Anthony updated the
Agency’s archives.


Anthony knew he was supposed to
sort through stuff that someone else had already found, but there was no time
for that, he needed to find the Second Suns before they did something drastic.


“Hey, Priscilla,
do we still have contact with Camp
Deuf?”


“Um, I think so. Why?”


“I need to speak to the Capitaine.”


Priscilla
pushed her chair to another of the computers and turned it on. After about
thirty seconds it was loaded up and Priscilla
was typing in commands. “Hello Michele,
it’s Pricilla from the Social Welfare Agency, got someone who wants to speak to
you guys.” Priscilla turned to Anthony, “All yours.”


“The line secure?” Anthony asked.


“Dr. Brandt,
you insult me.”


Anthony smiled and said,
“Thanks,” before sliding his own chair to the space Priscilla’s had just
occupied.


There was a skinny faced man on
the monitor. “Sergent
Chef
Michele Le’Cue,”
he said, “what do you need?”


“Agent Tony,”
Anthony replied, not exactly a lie.
After all, Tony was short for Anthony and he did work for an Agency. “I need to
speak to Capitaine Dominika Zalko.”


“She’ll be here in a sec.” Michele left and two minutes later a grey haired
woman was on the screen.


“What can I do for you Agent
Tony?” she asked. Anthony was only
just able to pick up her Russian accent.


“I need to talk to you about the
Second Suns. What have you found out on your end?”


“Well, as far as the arms trade
thing is concerned, they seem to be staying out of the region. We are finding
scattered pockets of mercenaries here and there but nothing large enough to
indicate a battalion in the country. We have discovered that they are working
for the Americans as much as they work for the Taliban; pretty clever on their
part.”


“Indeed, have you encountered any
advanced weapons or technology?”


“Negative, why do you ask, should
we be worried on my end?”


“Nah, I’ll send you what we’ve
got here for you to have a look at. Though I do believe the reason you aren’t
encountering many mercenaries is because they have moved to Chechnya, a lot mercs in Chechnya at the moment. Mostly
working against Russian forces, though from what you told me, I figure that
they’re probably playing both sides there as well.”


“I’ll get Sergent Chef Le’Cue
to send you what we have on the Second Suns in a moment. Drop in the next time
you are in the Middle East, Agent Tony.”


“I’ll keep that in mind. See you
later.” Dominika turned off her end and Anthony
began receiving the first of the data she was sending. He began typing commands
and sent her what the SWA had available. No
time to get authorisation
.


Twenty five minutes later, when
everything from the Legion was downloaded, Anthony
got to work sifting through it, there was a lot to get through, thankfully
Pricilla was helping. However, it would still take a number of days to get
through it all.


“You reckon they’ll let us borrow
Josip?” Anthony asked.


“Josip? Oh, the AI. I doubt it;
they have him working through the research data from Czechoslovakia.”


“Pity, it would’ve helped.”



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
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Three Dog

Male

Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

Original Characters : Yes, and there are a lot (around 25-ish I think)

Comments : 42: Life is paradoxically coincidental to the ironical tyranny applicable to the unparalleled definition of the reverse entropy.

Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:18

Section 6.
Spoiler:


Thursday 20th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 0610 hours, Alpha time





Life in the Agency had been
fairly normal over the past week; no break ins, no invasions, and no one being
sent to any foreign countries. Not from Section Two any way. From what Anthony told Victoria, she knew that some Section One
guys had been sent to Uganda
to hunt down Giacomo.


Victoria
was in the cafeteria eating a nice wholesome breakfast before CQC training. Petra sat across form her and Triela next to Petra.


“Why are you wearing your armour
in the Agency?” Petra asked Victoria
as if the very idea was ridiculous.


“So…” Victoria
hastily finished her mouthful of toast, before continuing “…that I can get used
to moving in it. My movements are rather sluggish with it on, so I’m gonna wear
it every waking hour, even during training.”


“I don’t see why you need armour
at all,” Triela told her, “The basic idea is not to get hit, and if you do the
doctors can replace your arms or whatever was damaged.”


“But that’s the thing, if I get
hit and have to stay on the battle field for an extended period of time, then I
get slow, and my allies suffer for it. In Iraq for instance, when I was
transported back to the Agency after collapsing of blood loss. Most of the
injuries I suffered could have been lessened if not prevented by a set of
armour like mine.”


“But like you said, it makes you
slow, hence is no good for the kind of fighting we do,” Triela pointed out
using her spoon to emphasise her point.


“You make a valid point, but what
happens when we encounter the mercs again. It’s been a week since their last
incursion and I’m expecting another any minute now.”


“You’re an idiot,” Petra said as she rolled
her eyes


* * *


After CQC, while Victoria
was working on her tungsten jacketed Depleted Uranium rounds for her M93 and
listening to Metallica, there was a reluctant knock at the door. Victoria got up to
see who it was and was surprised to see Petra
standing with a large box in her hands.


“Hi, you need something?” Victoria
asked politely.


Petra seemed reluctant to answer, “Well, I…
Uh… you’re good at building and fixing things right?”


“Depends what it is,” Victoria
informed the red head nonchalantly.


“I need to come in before I show
you.” Petra was
looking around nervously.


“Yeah, alright. Step into my
office.”


Petra
rushed past Victoria
but still looked around nervously.


Victoria gestured for Petra to take a seat on the bed before
sitting down herself. “Is something wrong?” Victoria
asked, “You look a bit nervous.”


“I-I was getting a present for
‘Sandro you see, an-and I found this really good stereo. It worked fine in the
store, but now it won’t work at all, and I didn’t get any warranty.” Petra’s head collapsed
into her hands, “You gotta fix it!”


“Relax, I’ll see what I can do,” Victoria
assured her.


Victoria
cleared her desk, opened the box and placed the stereo in front of her. The next
thing she did flick through the manual, asking Petra various if she did this or that.
Putting the manual down, Victoria concluded that it
wasn’t a user fault; hence something must be wrong with the product. Now she
looked over the stereo before opening the casing with her leather man.


“There’s yer problem,” Victoria
said after an hour in imitation of Jamie
form Mythbusters, “one of the cords had shaken loose, I’ll need some duct tape,
but it’ll be ass good as new.” Victoria got the tape out of the second drawer
on her desk and fixed the cord, then put the Stereo that was now spread over a
four square metre are back together.


“What are those extra bits?” Petra asked as Victoria put the present
back in its box.


“There’s always bits left over
when you take something apart and put it back together,” Victoria said
shrugging her shoulders, “Always.”


“But shouldn’t they go
somewhere?” Petra
protested.


“Listen, I’ll keep the pieces and
if the stereo doesn’t work I’ll take it apart and find out where they came
from, fix the problem, and give you a full refund.”


“You don’t need to be a smart
arse about it.”


“Hey, tell me how ’Sandro likes
it!” Victoria
called after Petra
as she went running down the hall to her own room to wrap the present.


“What is it ‘Sandro will like?”
Claes whispered right into Victoria’s ear causing her
to jump out of her skin.


“Christ’s
fuck! Where the hell did you come form?” Victoria
demanded as she got back up off the ground.


“Language,” Claes said
disapprovingly, like Triela, she didn’t like swearing.


“Sorry. ‘Bout Petra though, I was just helping to fix a
present for ‘Sandro.”


“Is Mercedes around?” Claes asked
gingerly.


“Mercedes? Nah, I dunno where she
is… Actually, she might be with Rico, the two of them had been getting on
awfully well lately. What’d you need, perhaps I can help.”


“I’d doubt you could help. Our
badges came in today you see and I wanted to present Triela and Mercedes theirs
in person.”


“What badges?”


Claes pulled two fabric badges
with the three chevrons of a sergeant on them, “I got my own put on my uniform
already. If you’ll excuse me I have to find my sergeants.”


“Aye, aye, commander,” Victoria
said, snapping to attention and giving a crisp salute as Claes moved on, shaking
her head.


Victoria
went back to her work wit the jacketed DU rounds and was disturbed by a knock
ten minutes later. She opened the door to find Rico standing there.


“What can I do for you?” Victoria
inquired politely.


“Is Mercedes there?” Rico asked
just as politely as Victoria had.


“Sorry, last I heard she was with
you. Maybe I can help, what’s up?”


“Oh, I just wanted to tell her
that Jean said yes to the movie night
on Saturdays.”


“How the, uh, heck did you get Jean to approve?” Victoria
was dumbfounded.


“I went to Ferro.” Rico said
simply.


“Of course,” Victoria
said rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “On the subject of Mercedes though, sorry I
can’t help.”


“That’s okay, bye.”


Once Rico was gone, Victoria
sat back down at her desk, turned up the Metallica, and finished the first
slug. Now to go test. As Victoria got up however,
the door opened and closed quickly, just lone enough for a flash grenade to be
thrown in. Victoria
dived for her MAG-7 under her bed – a lot of her personal weapons where under
there – shielding her eyes from the flash with her for arm. The grenade
detonated and Victoria rolled over one her back flicking the safety off her
shotgun and aiming it at the breach, where Beatrice and Soni stood, armed with
tasers, looking at Victoria in confusion. Well, Soni looked confused; Beatrice looked as detached fork the situation as
ever.


“Oh, um, sorry Victoria,”
Soni said, “we though Mercedes was in here.”


Beatrice
nodded her agreement.


“Perhaps you could look through
the bloody window next time, dipshits!” Victoria
yelled as she put her shotgun away and got up off the ground, “What if had
fucking fired?! You’re brains would have to be scraped off the bloody wall and
I would be in deep shit!”


“We’re really sorry,” Soni
pleaded while Beatrice said nothing.


“Just get the fuck out, and don’t
ask me where the hell Mercedes is because I don’t fucking know!”


Victoria
picked her M93 back up with the single jacketed DU round and headed for the
Handlers apartments. As much as Victoria would like to just
head down to the range, she needed Andromeda to sign off on the Kevlar vest
she’ll be shooting and to supervise her at the range, such are the rules of the
Agency.


When she got to her Handlers room,
Victoria
knew that Andromeda was in, because either she was
scratching her nails on a black board while jumping up and down on a dying cat
and trying to play the violin for the first time, or she was singing. Victoria
knocked once, then twice, then a third time, and a forth.


Victoria
opened the door and Andromeda ignored her,
completely engrossed in singing the Yellow Submarine. Victoria
walked over and turned off the music.


“Hey, what the hell?” Andromeda demanded.


“I need you to sign off on a
Kevlar vest supervise me at the range for a few minutes. I just finished my
first DU round and want to see if this one works before I make anymore.”


“What the hell’s a DU round?” Andromeda asked, irritated by not understanding what her
cyborg was on about.


Victoria
took a deep breath. “I am making some armour piercing rounds for my Berretta.
They consist of a Depleted Uranium, A.K.A. DU core with a tungsten jacket.
Traditionally, DU is used in 40mm and up, due to its high density making it
unsuitable for small arms due to slower velocities and higher recoil. However,
I hope that by using a more potent powder mix I will be able to maintain the
regular velocity of a 9mm round and my cybernetic strength should be able to
compensate for the higher recoil. In short, I hope to render enemy body armour
null and void.”


“Alright, let’s go see if you new
AP rounds work.”


“Round,” Victoria
corrected as she held up the single slug.


“Fine, whatever.”


The only occupants of the indoor
firing range were Claes and Anthony,
practicing with their handguns.


“What the hell are you doing in
here?” Andromeda asked her brother.


“Claes needed someone to
supervise and I needed to get some practice in today,” he explained holding up
his Luger.


Andromeda
nodded than went to one of the lanes and duct taped the Kevlar vest to the
clip. “What range do you want?” she asked Victoria,
who was quite capable of doing all this herself but decided it best to humour
her Handler.


“Ten metres.”


The vest moved to a distance of
ten metres.


“What are you doing?” Claes
asked, curiosity getting the better of her.


“Testing a Depleted Uranium round
I designed,” Victoria
answered as she loaded the round into a magazine and into her M93. “Did you
find Mercedes?”


“Yeah, she up in a tree with her
M200.”


“Alright.” Victoria
put on the earmuffs, aimed at the centre of the vest and flicked the safety of
her gun off.


BANG!


Victoria
didn’t expect the recoil to be quite so high, so her sot went slightly off
centre, impacting the shoulder where the armour is weakest instead of the
chest. The vest fell off the clip despite the amount of duct tape Andromeda had
used and a cloud of dust still hung in the air form where the 9mm round had
impacted the back of the range.


“Hold your fire!” Victoria
shouted as she put her gun on the table in front of her and leapt over it to
inspect the damage. She picked up the body armour and pocked her finger through
the hole, a nice clean penetration. Next she ran to the wall where the bullet
had impacted, it was a couple of inches deep. Victoria
got her Leatherman and dug the bullet out, it was in pretty bad condition.


“Work as expected?” Anthony asked when Victoria
returned.


“Recoil was a bit high,” Victoria
told him, “but I reckon if I reduce the DU by a half a gram I can fix that and
tweak the powder mix a little, I can solve that problem.”


“So you’re done here then?” Andromeda asked her cyborg.


“Yup.”


Back at her room, Victoria
placed the vest against the wall and got to work on another round. Half an hour
later, there was a knock at the door.


Dr. Bianchi
stood there. “What’d you need doc?”


“I was looking for Mercedes, is
she around?”


“She’s in a tree,” Victoria
said rudely before shutting the door swiftly. This was getting frustrating, why
the hell did everyone think she’d know where Mercedes was.


Victoria
set to work on a sign to stick to her door. It read:


‘The
next person to ask me where Mercedes is will get shot’


- Love,
Victoria


* * *


Thursday 20th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 1400 hours, Alpha time





Claes finished digging the hole
for her lemongrass and wiped the sweat off her brow. She looked forward to
making some more lemongrass tea; the last batch was particularly nice.


Claes heard Samuel
before she saw him; he had a very unique step. She turned around to see him in
his Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, practical for the warm weather, but not
for leaving the house.


“Whatcha doin’?” he asked
casually, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets.


“Planting lemongrass,” she told
him, pointing her trowel at the pots of lemon grass she was about to plant.


“What fer? There’s plenty of
grass around here,” he said, perplexed by the idea.


“Lemongrass can be used to make a
very nice tea, this regular grass all around us, cannot.”


“Makes sense. You free tis
evening?”


“Uh, I guess so. Why?” Claes was
beginning to get suspicious. Samuel had
only been Claes’ Handler for nearly a fortnight, but she instinctively new when
he was up to no good. He didn’t know this, however.


“No reason. On a completely
unrelated subject, wear something nice this evening. Make it equally suitable
for a jazz club or a karaoke bar.”


“What time?”


“Oh, let’s just say around six,
six thirty?”


“Alrighty,” Claes aid as she put
the lemongrass into the hole and Samuel
walked off without another word.


Later that day Claes was
rummaging through her clothes draw trying to find something suitable to wear.


“What are you doing?” Triela
asked from the bottom bunk where she was playing chess with Mercedes.


“‘What are you doing, Commander?’” Claes corrected. She didn’t
actually have that many clothes that choosing something should take too long. My high black collared sweater and denim
jeans perhaps?



Claes could feel Triela roll her
eyes as she said, “What are you doing, Commander?”


“That’s better. I have a date.”
Claes said as a joke, holding up the jeans and sweater to show Triela and
Mercedes what they would look like, “What do you think, appropriate for a jazz
club or karaoke bar?”


Mercedes stared wide eyed while
Triela leapt form the bed and waved her arms in exasperation. “What do you mean
you have a date?!” the blond demanded.


“Samuel’s
taking me out somewhere, last time I checked, when a guy takes a girl out,
that’s a date. Now does this look appropriate?”


“It does look nice,” Mercedes
said, apparently quick to accept the idea, “But let’s see what your other
options are before we decide.”


“I don’t know that much about
going out so you may have to ask someone else,” Triela said, “Perhaps we should
get you some professional help.”


“You’re right,” Mercedes said,
shaking her head as Claes pulled out a red skirt with black leggings and a
white button up shirt. “Petra?”


“I was only asking if it looked
nice,” Claes said firmly, “not that I wanted you to dress me.”


“Our opinion is that we need Petra’s help,” Triela told
her roommate and Mercedes nodded her agreement. “Maybe Henrietta
will lend you some perfume?”


“I don’t need any perfume,” Claes
said angrily, putting the skirt, leggings and shirt back and rummaging some
more.


Triela walked up to Claes and
sniffed her. “You smell like gun oil,” She said pointedly.


“That’s just my clothing,” Claes
told her indignantly.


“Alright, strip, throw your
clothes into the corner and stand on the other side of the room.” Triela put
her hands on her hips and waited for Claes to follow her orders while Mercedes
remained on the bed giggling.


Claes finally caved. “Fine, go
get your ‘professional’ help.”


“I’ll get Petra,” Mercedes said as she leapt from the
bed and to the door at the same time that Triela patted Claes on the back
saying, “I’ll go ask Henrietta about
the perfume.”


Claes sighed audibly; her joke
had most definitely backfired.


Triela and Mercedes returned at
the same time with Henrietta and Petra in tow.


Petra grabbed Claes and spun her around,
“Hmm, not much to work with here. Maybe if we fix the hair a little, curls? No.
we’ll sort that out latter, first, clothes. What have we got available?”


Henrietta
was rifling through Claes’ drawers, “There’s a couple of nice things.”


Petra left Claes and walked over to the pile
of ‘nice’ clothes Henrietta was
making. She picked up the jeans Claes had asked about and threw them at her,
then selected a purple blouse, claiming it ‘matched her eyes’.


This was getting too much for
Claes. “Alright, every get out,” She ordered stoping her foot and pointing at
the door, “That’s an order!”


They all left except for Triela
who said defiantly, “This is my room to you know, you can’t kick me out.”


Claes put on her best evil grin
and looked over the top of her glasses, “Can’t I?”


“No.”


“Alright, come over here with you
shotguns bayonet,” Claes said pleasantly, maintaining her evil grin.


Triela reluctantly grabbed her
bayonet and walked over to the table where Claes was standing.


Claes held out her hand, “Give me
the bayonet.”


Triela gave it to her.


“Now put you hand on the table
like this.” Claes put her right hand on the table, spreading her fingers as far
apart as possible. Triela did so and Claes put her hand on the blond’s to hold
it down. “Now this is a trick Samuel
taught me. I’m not to sure how well I’ll do with such a long blade since I’ve
only ever done it with a short bladed knife.”


“What are you ta…” the reality of
the situation hit Triela, “You’re bluffing.”


“Am I?”


“Yeah, you don’t have the guts.”


“I was hopping you would say
that,” Claes said as she started stabbing at the spaces between their fingers,
getting faster and faster. The trick was truly brilliant, and Claes was about
to demonstrate why.


Triela didn’t expect that the
next time Claes raised the bayonet; it would be to smack her in the jaw with
the pommel. Claes dropped the bayonet and smacked Triela in both ear with
clenched fists, discombobulating her, and then delivered a final uppercut to
the stomach to finish the act.


Claes carried the dazed Triela to
the door and threw her out the room onto Mercedes with a firm warning to the
others, “If any one comes in, I’ll show them the same trick I showed her,”
Claes pointed at Triela, “you may go now.”


When she closed the door, Claes
lay against it and laughed softly. No
doubt about it, Samuel is a bad
influence
. Claes decided on the spot that she would wear the jeans and
turtleneck she had originally tried. After putting them on she packed the rest
of her clothes back into her drawers and sniffed her sleeve. Perhaps I do need a little perfume, she
conceded, I do smell of gun oil.


Claes pocked her head out the
door. “Hey, Henrietta, would you mind
if I borrowed some perfume?” Claes asked nicely, ignoring Triela glaring and
poking out her tongue.


“Not at all, I’ll just go get
some.” And Henrietta ran off to her
room to fetch the perfume.


Claes turned to Triela, “Stop
acting like a child.”


Henrietta
returned with the perfume and Claes sprayed a little on her wrist and smelt it
before applying it properly.


Claes went back into the room and
slipped the Makarov Samuel had given her behind her belt in a custom made holster
and left her VP in its case hanging in the wardrobe. There wasn’t any where she
could conceal it anyway.


There was a knock at the door. “Hurry
the hell up!” Samuel shouted from the
other side.


Claes pulled on her shoes and
socks and ran out the door and straight into Samuel.


“Good to see that yer exited.
What’s with everyone waitin’ out here?”


“I’ll explain on the way.”


“Alright.” Samuel
checked his watch, “We’d better hurry, Klaus’ll be pissed if we’re late.”


The Fratello began walking to the car park.


“So what happened?” Samuel asked.


“A joke went terribly wrong,”
Claes said with a sigh, “Mercedes and Triela had asked me why I was asking if
my clothes looked appropriate for a jazz club or a karaoke bar, and I said
because I’m going on a date as a joke, and everything kind of spun out of
control from there. Mercedes and Triela went and got Petra and Henrietta
to help me dress for the ‘date’ and began talking to me like I was a child that
couldn’t dress myself. I kicked them all out, but Triela refused to go because
it was,” Claes tried to imitate Triela’s voice and didn’t do a very good job of
it “’her room to’, so sowed her the trick you taught me with the knife between
the fingers game.”


Samuel
hit Claes in the back with his palm, “That’s me girl.”


* * *


Thursday 20th September 2009 – Georgia’s
Jazz and Karaoke bar – 2000 hours, Alpha time


When Samuel
had said dress for a jazz club or karaoke bar, Claes hadn’t expected the two of
them combined. Klaus claims they have the best steaks in Italy here and that the owner used
to be a friend of his before the Mafia killed his family.


“We’ll just pop in and surprise
her,” he had said. It didn’t turn out to be a good idea though.


Georgia
was a lanky woman with black hair and green eyes in her mid forties, and she
was not pleased by Klaus just appearing out of the blue. She had dragged them
into the backroom and was furious.


“You were bloody alive all this
fucking time? You didn’t think, ‘Oh, maybe I could tell my friend who was
secretly in live with me that I’m not dead, I just faked it’. I mourned your
death for three and a half years before I got over you and now you fucking rock
up on my doorstep as if nothing fucking happened?”


“You were in love with me?” Klaus
seemed completely taken back.


Georgia
blushed, “Um… what I meant was, uh… you can’t just walk in here like nothing
happened!”


“If I told anyone that I was
still alive, how the hell would I avenge my family!” Klaus demanded. Claes
thought that sounded a bit clichéd but, it seemed to be what you did in Italy.
The Croce brothers were another example.


“You don’t trust me?! But you
fucking trust these strangers?”


“You remember Samuel.” Klaus pointed at Claes’ bearded Handler.


“I’ve never met him, remember,
you only ever talked about him. But who the hells the girl?”


Claes stepped forward offering
her hand, “Claes
Flannigan.”


Georgia
seemed taken aback, “Samuel has a
daughter?”


“Adopted,” Samuel
said. This was the cover story for all the Fratelli
that didn’t look alike, though in Claes and Samuel’s
case it was because of the immense age difference.


“Back to the point,” Georgia
said angrily, “I thought you had died and now you act like nothing had
happened.” There were tears in her eyes now and her voice had grown more
sombre, “I loved you.” She sighed, “Fine, you can stay, but you pay for your
meal. I’m not giving a meal to a dead man.”


“Did ya two want us to step
outside fer a moment?” Samuel asked;
referring to himself and Claes.


“No, we’re done here; I have
nothing more to say to him.”


Georgia
led the three to a table by the window, which Claes thought was awfully nice of
her considering she looked pretty angry with Klaus.


Claes picked up the menu and
asked what Klaus recommended since he had eaten here before. He suggested the
steak with a nice red. Claes had to remind him she was ‘fourteen’.


While they waited for their
meals, Claes tapped her fingers one the table in time with the band. According
to Klaus, karaoke started after nine.


The meals arrived, and they ate
and talked for a while. Claes wasn’t sure how they got on the subject, but
somehow Claes and Samuel had begun
arguing about the Samuel’s story about
fighting zombies and causing the Chernobyl
disaster.


“Zombies aren’t real,” Claes said
for the seventieth or eightieth time, “thus, you cannot have fought them. Even
if you did, and as you claim, and that you claim, and you caused the reactor
melt down, it would have made the problem worse since the zombies aren’t
affected by radiation and hence would have made the problem worse.”


“It did, and they was a bitch to
get rid of.” They had had this argument a number of times. “Why you continue t
doubt me word, I don’t know.” Samuel
shook his head.


“I doubt your word because it is
lies. I know all this rubbish about zombies because I read it in a fictional book called the ‘Zombie
Survival Guide’ by Max
Brooks.” Claes leaned back in her
chair and crossed her arms to emphasise her anger at him not relenting in his
lies.


“Why don’t you to go sing a song?”
Klaus suggested.


Claes checked her watch; nine
thirty PM. She looked up on the stage where the jazz band had been replaced by
a beer bellied man trying to sing rock you like a hurricane.


“You know I don’t sing,” Samuel said angrily to his friend, completely
forgetting about him and Claes’ argument. “An’ I don’t think Claes does either,
not very well anyway. At least I don’t think so?” he gave Claes a questioning
look.


Claes shrugged her shoulders.


“Then it’s settled, ya goin’ up
there.”


Claes made a choking noise for
dramatic effect. “The hell am I going up there! Not unless you’re gonna do it
right after me, and you have to sing barbie
girl.”


Claes had set her terms, she knew
there was no way Samuel would be
willing to go up there and sing that horrible, horrible song. Claes was
immediately proven wrong. “yeah, Alright. What song shall we sign ya up fer?”


Claes hung her head in her hands
in resignation. Why the heck did I say
that? I should have just said no, but I had to be a clever dick
. “What are
my choices?”


Klaus put a list in front of her.
Why would Klaus have a list of songs
ready?
“You two planned this, didn’t you.” Claes wasn’t asking, she was
stating.


“Yup,” Samuel
said, appearing very pleased with himself, “we thought ya needed to let yer
hair down a little, an’ what better way then karaoke? Now pick a bloody song.”


Claes went through the list and
decided on Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones.


Samuel
left to ask Georgia when he
and Claes could go on, and when hr returned he told Claes she was on next.


After the fat man finished, Claes
reluctantly walked onto the stage. The music began playing and she focused on a
spot on the back wall. She tapped her foot to the beet, brought the microphone
up to her mouth, and completely forgot about her stage fright.


I
see a red door and I want it painted black


No
colours any more I want them to turn black


I
see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes


I
have to-


Claes stopped mid sentence as she
saw a bright flash through the window and dropped to the ground drawing her
Makarov as the window shattered. Claes fired five shots at the passing car
before it drove away. However she had managed to catch it’s number plate.


There were people screaming
everywhere, people dead every where. Claes looked for Samuel.
And Klaus. They were both lying on the ground, bleeding. She ran over, putting
her Makarov in its holster.


Claes checked Samuels pulse, still alive but unconscious. She then
check Klaus’ pulse, dead.


Claes went back to her Handler
and looked at his wounds, glass from his wane glass stuck out his right bicep,
several bullet wounds in his chest and abdomen, and a possible concussion.


“I need some help over here!”
Claes shouted, “This man’s still alive!”


It was Georgia
who ran, limped, over to help; she had a tourniquet just above her left knee.
“I’ve already called the ambulance and the police,” she assured Claes, “Apply
pressure here,” she pointed at wounds in his chest and Claes put her hand
there. Georgia
ripped a length of fabric off the table, pulled the glass out Samuel’s shoulder, and wrapped it up to stop some of
the bleeding. Next she applied pressure his stomach wounds. They stayed like
this until the paramedics arrived to take him away.


A police officer guided Claes and
Georgia away to be interviewed. Claes
told him that she had been taken out for a treat by Samuel,
her adopted father, and Klaus, a friend. When she was up on stage she saw a
flash out the window an then the window shattered. She had dropped to the
ground as soon as it had happened and then got up and ran to Samuel and Klaus as soon as the car had left. Claes
didn’t include that part about her firing back, not only because it was Agency
policy to kill all witnesses – something she considered a little thuggish and
barbaric – but also she figured any one that saw her with and firing the gun
would have disregarded it as a stress and panic induced figment of their
imagination.


“You were a very brave little
girl,” he told her.


“Don’t patronise me,” she said
angrily, pulling her thermal blanket a bit tighter around her, “There are
others who need your help.”


“Will she be alright with you?”
the officer asked Georgia.


“Yeah, I’ll take care of her.”


“Was there anyone interesting at
you establishment tonight?” Claes asked after the officer had left her and Georgia
sitting on a brick wall out the front of the café next door with thermal
blankets wrapped around them.


“What do you mean?”


“Anyone of political importance,
and official, a judge, mob boss, suspected terrorist, something like that?”


“Um, not that I know of,” Georgia
replied slowly, trying to figure out why Claes was asking this sort of question,
she was still in shock and couldn’t think straight.


“Give me your phone; I need to
make a call.” Claes’ voice was devoid of any emotion, there was time to mourn
the dead and worry of the living later, right now, there was a job to do.


Georgia
shook her head, “I don’t have it on me.”


Claes shed her thermal blanket
and walked over to a corpse that no one was looking at and took the business
man’s mobile, an expensive looking Nokia.


“What are you doing?” the forty
year old asked incredulously.


Claes didn’t even look back at
her as she walked down the street, away from the scene. “You need to find a
place to hide or you’ll be killed. I recommend another country if possible.”
Claes left the scared and confused Georgia behind and
brought the phone up to her ear. “Jean,
it’s Claes. There’s been a drive by shooting at Georgia’s Jazz and Karaoke Bar on
Hurtti Parade. Klaus is dead and Samuel
is in critical condition and being taken to the nearest hospital. I managed to
get the plates of the attacker’s car and haven’t told the police. They are Roma
– six two niner – Oscar
Juliet.”


“I’ll send someone to pick you
up.”


“I’m at the corner of Hurtti
Parade and Belfert Street.”


Claes closed the phone and threw
it into a nearby bin.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
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Three Dog

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Registration date : 2012-03-27

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:19

Section 7.
Spoiler:


Thursday 20th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 2200 hours, Alpha time





Claes had been brought back to
the Agency by Olga, who had offered to
take her to see Samuel, but she
refused, saying that there was something else that needed to be taken care of.


When they got to the Agency,
Claes went straight to the analyst’s office to speak to Anthony.
He had helped her in the past and she suspected he would help her again.


“What do you need?” he asked
casually as he flipped through some reports.


“You heard about what happened?”


“Yes, it’s all over the news.”


“Have the plates been run yet?”
Claes knew it was a stupid question, but she needed to be a little subtle. Luckily,
Anthony seemed to catch on.


“The car was owned by one Marco Withef,
one of Gregor’s cronies. If you had suspicions that it was an attack on Klaus
by Gregor, you were correct.”


Claes put her hands behind her
back and began pacing the length of the room.


“If you intend to kill him,
you’ll need some help.”


“What,” Claes said as if the thought
had never crossed her mind.


“I can find out where he’s hidden
himself, but you’ll need some help to take him down.”


There was a knock at the door and
then Jean came in. “Claes, you need to
be debriefed, let’s go.” Jean didn’t
sound happy about having to search for Claes.


First Claes told Jean and Director Lorenzo what had happened, then she told Chief Draghi, Jean and Director Lorenzo, then Monica Maria-Petris, Chief
Draghi, Jean
and Director Lorenzo.


“I think I’ve told you enough
times now,” Claes told them impatiently as they went to call someone else, “I
have told you the same story three times, word for word. Can I please go now?”


Jean
thought for a moment, “Okay.”


Claes went back to analyst’s
office and knocked on the door.


“Come in,” Priscilla
called out.


Claes followed Pricilla’s
instructions.


“Oh, Claes,” Priscilla said as she jumped from her chair and held
Claes tight, “I’m so sorry about Samuel,
did you want me to take you to his hospital?”


Claes pushed her away. “No.
where’s Anthony?” Claes left all
emotion out of her voice just like Beatrice,
she wasn’t doing it on purpose, she didn’t know why it was happening.


“Do you want to talk about what
happened?”


“No, where’s Anthony?”


Priscilla
seemed taken back by Claes’ lack of emotion. “He, uh, went home.”


Claes left without a word, she
needed information, and there was only one other person she trusted and could
get the information she needed. She went back to her room.


As soon as she entered, Triela
got up from her bed and Claes held up her hand, the universal signal to stop.
“Save your words of pity or sympathy for someone who cares. I need you to get
into the archives and get me all the information you can on Gregor.”


“Claes, I don-”


“No time to argue, get the damn
information.”


Triela rolled her eyes and
sighed, “Does Gregor have a last name?”


“Not that I know of. He works for
the Mafia and one of his underlings is known as Marco Withef.”


“I can understand that you might
be a bit upset, but I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.” Triela
sounded a little angry.


“One; I’m not angry. Two; Gregor
needs be taken care of and we can’t do that unless we know what we’re up
against.”


“We?”


“I need people I can trust
working on this. By the time Jean gets
around to taking him out, he would have retreated underground and we’ll loose
him.”


“You sound like it’s personal.”


“Professional,” Claes corrected.


“Alright, I’ll help,” Triela said
reluctantly.


“I don’t remember asking. Hurry up;
I want Gregor eliminated by the weekend.”


Claes’ next stop was the room
Mercedes and Victoria shared. Claes
didn’t bother knocking; she knew that once the pair heard what was happening,
they’d help.


Both Second Gens were in their
beds when Claes turned the light on.


“Ah, what the fuck!” Victoria
demanded. Mercedes got up squinting, her face turning sympathetic when she was
Claes.


“Save it,” Victoria
told Mercedes as she opened her mouth, “Look at her face, she’s in no mood for
sympathies. I sure as hell wouldn’t be in her place.” Victoria
turned to Claes, “What do you need?”


“I need your help to kill Gregor-”


“Say no more,” Victoria said as
she got up, pulled on a shirt and a pair of pants, and got the F2000 out from
under her bed, “Just tell me who you need shot.”


Claes looked at Mercedes.


“Alright,” Mercedes said, “I ain’t
got nothing much going on this weekend any way. ‘Cept for the movie night but
someone else could probably run that.”


That gave Claes an idea. “When is
the movie night?”


“This Saturday, starts at six.
Why do you ask?”


“I’ll tell you when the rest of
the plan comes together. Victoria, get Andromeda on
board. Mercedes, leave Barry out of
this, I know he can probably be trusted, but the less people that know the
better.”


Claes left the two staring after
her and she went back to her own room. Gregor will die this Saturday; the movie
night would be the perfect cover.


When Claes got back to her room,
Triela was sitting on her bed with a heap of papers next to her.


“That was quick,” Claes said, genuinely
surprised.


“I can tell this is important, so
I tricked Priscilla into printing it.
Much easier than hunting for it myself.”


Another surprise. “Priscilla had it all ready?”


“No, Anthony
did. Apparently he had told her to give it to you but she forgot when you acted
so coldly towards her.”


“Give them here,” Claes said as
she picked up the stack of papers and sat at the table.


“You know I need sleep and you
probably do to,” Triela informed Claes, pointing at the light switch.


“I have forty three and a half
hours to find where the bastard is hiding, and come up with a plan of attack.”


“Fine, but don’t play any loud
music.” Triela pulled the blanket over her head and Claes began sifting trough
the pages of information.


* * *


Friday 21st September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 0730 hours, Alpha time





Claes awoke to someone pocking
her in the face. She lifted her head from the papers on the table in front of
her and saw Andromeda, and a thermos of what Claes suspected to be coffee.
Claes looked at her roommate’s bed, which was already made, and figured she had
gone to her classes or whatever she did on a Friday morning.


“Victoria
said you needed some help,” the short, red haired woman said.


“Yeah,” Claes was still a little
sleepy, “I want you to help me take out Gregor.”


“I figured as much, Anthony had told me about your little vendetta. Just
tell me what you need.”


“A lift.”


“To where?”


“An apartment building on Welch Avenue, I’ll
explain on the way.”


Claes redressed herself in
something more appropriate, her plain brown dress, loaded her VP, and left with
Andromeda to pick up Victoria.


“Why do we need Victoria?”
Andromeda wondered aloud.


“We’ll pretend that you’re taking
me to see Samuel. Since you’re a
Handler it wouldn’t make sense not to bring your cyborg along.”


Victoria
was working on her DU rounds when Claes and Andromeda came in.


“Grab your stuff, we’re helping
Claes,” Andromeda told her charge. Victoria
didn’t waste a second getting her gear ready.


Signing out had been easy. As
soon as Andromeda had said that she was taking Claes
to see Samuel, everyone ceased their protests.


Claes sat in the front passenger
seat of Andromeda’s new Volkswagen – which was startlingly similar to the last
one – and explained what she knew.


“There was very little about
Gregor himself. However, there was enough on Marco Withef,
the git who shot up the jazz/karaoke bar, to know that if we find him; he can
tell us where to find Gregor. Marco
lives on the forth floor of the Julio Pangolin apartments building on Welch Avenue, room sixty five B. Andromeda,
you wait in the car. I’ll go in by myself and Victoria
can wait on the stairwell in case I need backup, move in when I tell you that
it’s clear though, I’m not searching his place all by myself.” Claes neglected
to mention he was a drug addict however; as much as she trusted any of the
people helping her, they were still on a need to know basis.


Fifteen minutes later, Andromeda parked in the apartment parking lot. Claes
chambered a round in her VP and got out the car. As planned Victoria
waited at the stairwell while Claes knocked on the door.


She heard a dead bolt being
opened and then the door opened, but only a few inches due to a door chain.


“What the hell do you want?” a man
in his mid thirties asked rudely. He needed a shave and his pupils were dilated
despite the ample light in both his room and the hallway; he was high.


Claes summoned her most innocent
voice, “I was wondering if you might know a Mr Gregor, I
think he works for the Mafia, Sir?”


“Piss off, kid.”


“Please, sir, it’s really
important.”


He pulled out a Berretta M92 and
pointed it at Claes’ head, “I thought I told you to piss off. Now scram!”


Claes knew she wasn’t in danger.
The handguns slide was locked back; no bullets. She kicked the door off its
hinges and into Marco. She pulled out
her VP and scanned the room – a combination of a living room and a kitchen –
empty. She moved onto the living room and swiftly scanned the adjoining rooms –
two bedrooms and one bathroom – before shouting to Victoria, “Clear!” and
holstering her handgun. Claes then went and checked if Marco
was still alive, berating herself for not thinking of that earlier. Luckily he
was.


“You sure did a number on him,” Victoria
commented as she stepped over the door that rested atop Marco.


“He pointed a gun at me,” Claes
said in her defence.


“An unloaded gun,” Victoria
retorted as she picked the Berretta up by the bottom of the grip using her
thumb and forefinger, and placing it in an evidence bag.


“That’s not necessary,” Claes
told the Second Gen, “Our prints aren’t in the national database and this guy
is a known mobster.”


“If you say so, boss,” Victoria
said as she shrugged her shoulders and began rifling through the drawers under
the TV cabinet while Claes went to the first bedroom.


The place was a mess; the bed was
unmade, dirty clothes scattered across the floor, there were fuzzy handcuffs
and condom packets everywhere, and it smelt like seafood.


“You didn’t mention he was a
druggy,” Victoria
shouted from the living room.


“I didn’t deem it necessary,”
Claes shouted back.


Claes pulled open the closet and
saw a rubbishy concealed Uzi with several fifty round magazines, one of which
was empty.


“You got a mobile?” Claes asked Victoria
as she stepped out with the Uzi and ammo in hand, “I need to make a call.”


Victoria
shook her head and pointed at the unconscious Marco,
“Sorry, why don’t you use his phone?”


Claes nodded and went to the
kitchen bench, put down the SMG and ammo, and picked up the phone. “What’s Anthony’s number?”


“Zero eight, three nine five
seven, two eight one six.”


“Thank you.” Claes dialled the
number and Anthony picked up after
three rings.


“Dr. Brandt,”
he answered.


“It’s Claes; just pretend you’re
talking to Andromeda,” Claes replied hurriedly.


“Hey sis, what’s up?”


“The ballistics from the attack,
what kind of bullets were used?”


“Nine by nineteen Parabellum,
why?”


“I found an Uzi chambered for the
same calibre and one of the magazines is empty. I found it at Marco’s place, but I’ll need to find somewhere to ‘question’
him, I created quite the ruckus over here.”


“Alright, you can use my place.
Just don’t go into my room, but aside from that, use whatever you want.”


“Thanks.”


“Bye, sis.”


Claes hung up the phone. “Grab
him,” she told Victoria,
“we’re taking him to Anthony’s.”


* * *


“That wasn’t your sister was it,
was it?” Pricilla said disapprovingly to Anthony.


“‘Coarse it was.” He said
indignantly.


“It was Claes, wasn’t it?”


“Let’s just get back to work.”


Pricilla got out of her chair,
strolled casually over to Anthony, and
punched him in the face hard enough to break his nose and knock him out of his
chair. “Don’t treat me like a bloody idiot,” she said between gritted teeth, “I
know you’re helping Claes with her little escapade and it stops now.”


Anthony
held a handkerchief up to his nose to stop the blood getting all over the rest
of his face. That fucking hurt!
“You’ve got a good arm.”


“Don’t change the subject; you
need to stop helping her. She may think she isn’t doing this for revenge, just
something that has to be done, but she is looking for vengeance. And it will
only end in tragedy. You need to stop this now.”


“You think I don’t bloody know
that?” He growled back, “Of course that’s the bloody reason she’s doing this,
but it’s not the only one. She still needs to bloody do this.”


Priscilla
hunched over, picked up Anthony and
shook him, “What the hell are you talking about?!” she didn’t let go after her
question, she just held on to his collar.


“She needs to do this so that she
can prove to herself that she can
protect her Handler. She feels that she failed to do that on the night of the
attack, so she’s doing it now.”


“How the hell do you know this?”
Pricilla didn’t seem like she intended to let go any time soon.


“Because I’ve seen Bianchi’s
notes on her and I know about Roballo.”


Pricilla blinked. “What do you
know about Roballo?” she whispered slowly.


“Only that he was killed and it
almost destroyed Claes emotionally and mentally. She may not even be conscious
of the fact that he existed, but he is part of the reason she is doing it.”


Priscilla
let go of Anthony and he dropped to
the ground with a thud, then she went to leave.


“Where are you going know?” Anthony asked. If
she bloody goes to Jean…



“To Barry’s
room,” She replied through gritted teeth, keeping her back to him so he
couldn’t read her face, “I don’t care how against regulation it is, I know he
has booze and I need a fucking drink.”


* * *


Friday 21st September 2009 – Anthony’s House – 0915 hours, Alpha time





Claes had tied the still
unconscious Marco to a chair in Anthony’s basement. She had figured that was the
scariest looking place in the house.


“Could you get ma a pair of bolt
cutters please?” Claes asked Andromeda.


“You want to use bolt cutters?”


“From the state of this guys
room, I’d say he’s nymphomaniac, thus, I’ll threaten to remove his junk.”


Andromeda
chuckled, “I’ll get them for you.”


While Andromeda
was off getting the bolt cutters, Marco
awoke.


“Mornin’ sunshine,” Claes said
patronizingly, “Still high.”


“Wh-where am I? Who the fuck are
you?”


“I am the adopted daughter of one
of the people that nearly died in your little attack last night.” Claes put on
her most wolfish grin, it was always better to scar the torturee into
submission before cutting things off. “All I require of you is to tell me who
ordered the attack.”


He spat in her face, “You stupid
bitch, I ain’t telling you nothing!”


Claes looked at his eyes and saw
they were still dilated; she was certain that the whack in the face from her
kicking his door in would have sobered him up.


“If that’s the way you want to
play this game, then so be it. However, I can guarantee that this will hurt you
a lot more than it hurts me.”


Andromeda
returned proffering a large pair of bolt cutters, and gave them to Claes.


“Do you know where your brother
keeps his shuriken?” Claes asked Andromeda, making sure not to use names in
front of their guest.


“What the fucks a shuriken?” Marco demanded while Andromeda
raised an eyebrow.


“Throwing spikes?” Claes said,
offering another name that Andromeda might know them
by.


“I’ll get a few for you,” the red
haired woman replied warmly.


“Than you.”


“What the hell do you need them
for?” Marco sounded as if he was
beginning to get very worried. “Y-you gonna use me as target practice or
something?”


Claes maintained her evil grin,
“No, what I intend to do if you don’t talk is much worse. I’m going to use
these here bolt cutters,” Claes lifted the hand containing said item, “to
remove first your cock, then your ball sack. However, I don’t want you
squirming all over the place, so first I’ll pin you to the chair using these
metal spikes, just like when they nailed Christ to the cross, but messier.”


Andromeda
returned with a dozen or so shuriken, and a hammer. “Heard what you said,
thought you might need this,” she held up the hammer.


“Thanks for the offer, but I
think I’ll drive them in with my own two hands. It might take a bit longer, but
I don’t mind, got nothing else planned for today.”


Claes grabbed the Shuriken and
selected one that looked a bit sharper than the rest and placed it on Marco’s hand…


“Alright, alright, alright, I’ll
fucking talk! Just stop I’ll fucking talk!” Claes removed the shuriken point
from his hand. “I was hired by Gregor
Alfonti, he owns the Guys’N’Girls night club on Nucci street. He normally sits in the manager’s
office with several body guards. I don’t know anything else.”


Claes twirled the shuriken in her
hand and gave him an angry, disbelieving look.


“I don’t know anything else, it’s
the truth, I swear!”


Claes gestured for Andromeda to
follow her upstairs.


“He telling the truth?” Andromeda asked as she closed the door behind them, leaving Marco in the basement.


“You want to stick the shuriken
in him and then castrate him to make sure?”


“I see your point. Well, what
now?”


“Knock Marco
out, leave him in an alley with a bag of drugs in his hand, and call the
police. After that I would like to visit Samuel
in the hospital, it would be a bit suspicious if we didn’t go since that’s the
reason we signed out.”


“Did you want to bring him a
gift?”


“I don’t think they allow burnt
food or alcohol in the hospital.”


* * *


Friday 21st September 2009 – Guys’N’Girls
– 1300 hours, Alpha time





Even though the glass in his
office that allowed him to see everyone else in his club were really one way
mirrors, Gregor could still see his reflection clearly from the inside. I should probably talk to the cleaners about
that
.


He was not a handsome man by any
stretch of the word. His eyes had dark circles underneath from long nights
working and getting up early for shooting practice, his nose was large and
convex, and his mouth was slightly higher on one side than the other, though it
was covered by a moustache just like Tom Sellek.
Everyone else said he looked fine but he knew they were only being nice.


Gregor looked at the picture of
his wife and daughter. How I managed to
get such a beautiful, caring wife, I’ll never know.
His daughter was as
equally beautiful as her mother, and looked nothing like her father, which was
a good thing in his book considering his line of work. Both of them had long
golden, curly hair, and beautiful, large blue eyes. Whenever he was in a bad
mood, Gregor would simply look at the faces of his smiling wife and child, and
everything would seem okay. Perhaps I’ll
visit them in France
this weekend
. He kept them out of the country so that they couldn’t be hurt
because of what he did for a living, even without a father always being there,
Chloe would grow up with her aunties and uncles from her mother’s side of the
family, on their vineyard. It wasn’t like she didn’t see him, just not as much
as she would like, but it was safer that way.


Gregor’s line of thought was
interrupted by the phone on his desk ringing.


He let it ring five times before
answering. “Gregor
Alfonti, owner of Guys’N’Girls
on Nucci street.”


“Hey there honey, how are you?”
his wife, Louise, answered
enthusiastically. That was one of the things he loved most about her.


“Better now that I can hear your
voice, how have you been?”


“I can’t wait till you get over all
that lovey-dovey crap; we’ve been together for fifteen years after all. Anyway,
I was calling to tell you I booked a couple of tickets to Rome because Chloe wanted to see you.”


“I’m not so sure that’s such a
good-” Gregor began slowly before his wife cut him off.


“You always bloody say that, so
I’m just going to ignore you this time. Could you have Guido
pick us up from the airport at seven tonight.”


“‘Coarse I can, hon.”


“Thanks, love you, bye.”


“Love you too, bye.”


Gregor put the phone down and
looked at his tall, broad shouldered, right hand man and most trusted friend, Guido.


“You don’t look to happy about
them coming over, boss,” Guido
commented.


“No, it’s not that. I was
actually planning on visiting them this weekend but they beat me to it. What
I’m worried about is Marco, I haven’t
heard from him in a while.”


“I did warn you that you should
get someone else to do the job.” Guido
was the only man under Gregor’s command that could get away with talking to him
that way, and he only ever did it when no one else was around, with the exception
of Louise and Chloe.


“His father was one of them men
that prick Europol agent killed, what was I supposed to do? Doesn’t matter now,
you protect Louise and Chloe with your
life,” Gregor said firmly.


“Don’t I always?”


“I want you to increase security
here as well; I’ve noticed the Russians are moving in on our territory, I don’t
want anything happening while my family is here.”


“Understood, sir.”


* * *


Friday 21st September 2009 – Sir Paul’s
Hospital – 1330 hours, Alpha time





Andromeda and Victoria escorted Claes to the hospital but only went
as far as the waiting room; Claes had asked them to do this. She was surprised
however when the lady at admin, Karin,
said that Samuel already had a
visitor, this worried Claes.


“Do you want me to show you his
room?” Karin asked.


“No thank you, I’ll find my own
way.”


“Just follow the light green
line, he’s in room two oh three.”


Claes followed the directions and
found Samuel’s room in a matter of
minutes. When she opened the door, she saw the one person she had never
expected, Georgia. Claes glared at
her, looked at Samuel, who was asleep,
and looked back at Georgia.


“I thought I told you to flee,”
Claes said sternly.


“I can understand that you might
be a little worried and upset, even scared, but just because my club was shot
up is no reason to run.”


Claes sighed loudly; she was
going to have to explain the whole situation to the stubborn woman. Claes
closed the door and sat on the floor since there weren’t any more seats. “You
may not believe this, but that isn’t the reason that you need to run. I work
for the government, and the people I work under don’t like witnesses.” Claes
pulled out her handgun and showed it to Georgia,
then pointed it at her. “You need to run, leave the country and don’t look
back, it’s safer that way.”


Georgia
looked at Claes in horror, “Wh- What are-”


“Claes clicked off the safety one
her VP, “You have five seconds to leave.”


“Wh- I- uh-”


“Four seconds.”


“You…”


“Three.”


“I, um…”


“Two.”


Georgia
got up hastily, grabbed her bag and ran out the door. Claes quickly put her VP
away before someone came in to see if something had happened.


“What happened?” the orderly
asked.


“I don’t know, someone called her
and as soon as she hung up she ran out the room.”


The orderly nodded and began
checking on Samuel, then left. Claes
took up the now vacant seat.


Samuel
suddenly began laughing uncontrollably, “Fuckin’ hell, you’ve grown heartless
since I been away.”


“Why were you pretending to be
asleep?” Claes wondered aloud.


“It’s what I do when I’m in the
hospital, ain’t nothing much to do but scare the orderlies.”


Claes chuckled a little, “How
have you been feeling?”


“Aside from bein’ shot and
knocked out, just dandy. Yerself?”


“I’ve been going after the guy
who shot up the club; I’m going to kill him this Saturday.”


“What are you talking about?” Samuel then realised what Claes was talking about and
did not sound pleased, “Yer huntin’ Gregor, aren’t ya? I won’t ask any
questions, ‘cept why. Why’re ya doin’ this?”


“Because he has targeted members
of the Agency, hence needs to be eliminated, and don’t say anything about
letting Jean take care of it. By the
time he pulls his finger out, Gregor will have gotten wind of it and run off.”


“Well, aside from avenging Klaus
an’ huntin’ Mafia, how’ve ya been?”


“A little hungry, I don’t get
much time to eat between avoiding Jean,
talking to my fellow conspirators, and planning the demise of the Mafia to eat.
Never mind me, how long till you get out?”


Samuel
tried to sit up in his bed but Claes pushed him back down saying, “I may have a
limited medical knowledge, but even I know that you’re in no condition to sit
up.”


“Yer’ve gotten mean, ya know
that? Anyway, they say I can leave on Sunday. Do ya wanna see me stitches, it
looks like a skull and crossbones on my gut.”


“No thank you.”


Claes and Samuel
spent the next half hour talking about nothing in particular, just whatever
came to mind, and then Claes left, telling Samuel
not to sit up unless a doctor says he can, and asked to borrow Andromeda’s
mobile phone when she got to the waiting room.


“I see no reason why not.”


Claes dialled Anthony.


“Dr. Brandt,”
he said, as he always does when he answered the phone. One day Claes would have
to ask what field his PhD was in.


“It’s Claes, I need you to get
the blueprints for a club called Guys’N’Girls.”


“Sure thing, sis.” That told
Claes that Priscilla was there. “I’ll
have them, ready for you when you get back from the hospital.”


“Thanks, bye.”


“Love ya, bye.”


Claes gave Andromeda
back her phone and said, “Time to go back to the Agency.”



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sun 20 May 2012 - 7:21

Section 8.
Spoiler:


Friday 21st September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 1415 hours, Alpha time





Claes had gathered her fellow
conspirators at one of the indoor firing ranges. All the lanes had been
reserved with the excuse of running some drills, so the chances of them being
disturbed were nil.


Claes had told Triela and
Mercedes that they would be staying behind and Anthony had already said he
would be staying behind, so those three were firing a weapon from each hand to
make up for the other three people not firing weapons. As long as no one came
in, nothing would seem amiss.


Claes laid the blueprints for
Gregor’s club on one of the tables at the back of the room, along with two
pictures of Gregor, the only two known pictures of Gregor according to Anthony.


“We’ll go in through the front
door,” Claes told Andromeda and Victoria,
“it’ll be a Saturday night, so there will be plenty of people trying to get in,
so three girls will get in easily unless there’s a guy shortage. From there the
difficult part will be getting to Gregor. He spends all his time in the office,
here,” Claes pointed to it on the blueprint.


“A lot of corridors to get
through to get to that office,” Victoria commented.


“Yes, and several armed guards
ready to kill anyone they see go in,” Claes said, “I won’t lie, that is the
limit of the intel we have on this place. We’re going to have to improvise once
we get inside. Victoria,
I’m sure you can borrow a skirt form Petra,
though you’ll have to get your own shirt. Andromeda, I’m sure you have your own
dresses appropriate for the occasion. I’ll just modify a couple of my own
garments for the mission.”


“I don’t wear dresses,” Andromeda said at the same time as Victoria
said, “The hell am I wearing a skirt.”


“You don’t have a choice,” Claes
said firmly, “unless we look like clubbers, we aren’t going to get in.”


“But people wear pants too,” Victoria
protested.


“We are not people,” Claes told
her, “We are special forces. Only take in what weapons you can conceal easily.
I would recommend a knife, handgun and a two spare magazines, anything else
would create too much bulk. We’ll meet at the front desk a six oh one on the
dot, got it.”


“Yes, ma’am,” Andromeda and Victoria replied in unison.


“Alright then, let’s actually do
some drills, be a pity to waste the hour that we have this booked for.”


“Good idea,” Andromeda
said before turning to Victoria and saying, “Go
grab one of the Kalashnikovs, you haven’t practiced with one of them for a
while and I don’t want you getting sloppy.”


“Yes, ma’am,” Victoria
replied.


Claes walked over to the empty
lane next to Anthony and picked up her
VP-70.


“How’d you get the broken nose?”
Claes asked casually, referring to the bandage that Anthony
now sported across his nose.


“The short answer, I pissed off Priscilla,” he said sullenly as he reloaded his
Luger.


“Really?” Claes genuinely didn’t
believe him, Priscilla was such a nice
person.


“Yeah, I won’t go into detail
though. You reckon they’ll let me bring my Mauser
in?”


“What, to the range here?”


“Yeah, why not. I got a bit of
time to kill in my break, and I’m fairly proficient with the Luger, but I still
need practice with my rifle?”


“Because you don’t go out into
the field,” Claes said blandly, “You’re an analyst, not a field agent.”


“Doesn’t matter, I’m gonna try
anyway.”


“You know, I’ve been wondering,
what field is your PhD in?”


Anthony
just laughed and ruffled Claes’ hair, “If I have my way, no one besides my
sisters will ever find that out.”


* * *


Saturday 22nd 2009 – Social Welfare Agency – 1801
hours, Alpha time





The only word Claes could think
of to describe herself, Andromeda and Victoria was skanky. All had short skirts and tight shirts;
Victoria’s
was of the lowest cut though, probably a result of having to borrow clothes
from Petra. Andromeda had borrowed a dress from Ferro; how? Claes hadn’t
a clue, but didn’t really care.


Signing out had been as simple as
saying they were going on a mission; the guards knew better than to ask
questions about missions.


Twenty minutes later, they
arrived at the front of the club and after thirty minutes of waiting in line,
were confronted by a big, black suited bouncer.


“You’re not on the list,” he said
as he looked at the paper on his clip board.


Andromeda
leaned forward and whispered into his ear, the only reason Claes could hear it
was because of her cyberneticly enhanced hearing.


“How about you let my friends
through, and I’ll show you a good time in the alley, hmm, then I go through?”


The man walked off and returned
with someone else to take his post. “They can go in,” the big man told his
replacement, pointing at Claes and Victoria.


Victoria
followed Claes in and they went to the bar and ordered a couple of drinks while
they scouted out the place and awaited Andromeda’s return.


“I’m kinda surprised they let you
in,” Victoria
said, referring to Claes’ apparent age.


“I’m not, this is a probably a
drug den or an underground brothel. I figure they’ll let anyone they think they
can make a sale to in.


The drinks arrived – a couple of
light beers – and the two cyborgs turned around on their stools to look at the
security.


“Close your legs,” Claes told Victoria,
“Unless you want people t mistake you for one of the hookers.”


Victoria
hurriedly crossed her legs and blushed, “This is why I don’t bloody wear skirts
or dresses.”


“Just remember to try and act a
little ladylike. Three plain clothes guards by the door eight metres from the
DJ and two guards by the door to the bathrooms. One way mirrors in the office,
no way to confirm Gregor’s presence until we get up there…”


* * *


Andromeda
led the tall man into the alley next door. It was a disgusting, filthy, dark
place where on one would see them. Perfect for what Andromeda had planned.


“So what do you plan to do to
me?” he asked playfully.


“Turn around and I’ll show you,” Andromeda replied just as playfully.


“Alrighty,” he said as he turned
around.


Andromeda
removed her combat knife from its cleverly concealed hiding place and thrust it
into the man’s neck where the skull meets the spine. He died instantly. Andromeda removed the knife and wiped what little blood
there was on his jacket and put it back in its hiding spot.


When she got back to the front
the bouncer that had replaced the man Andromeda had just killed, he asked where
Mitchel was. Andromeda figured Mitchel was his predecessor
so she replied simply, “Oh, him. Poor bloke didn’t last thirty seconds with me,
must’ve been a while since he got some. He’s cleaning himself up.”


The new bouncer laughed and let Andromeda though, and she met up with Victoria
and Claes at the bar.


* * *


Gregor looked down on the dancing
crowd in his establishment, then across his desk at the fool who had tried to
sell drugs in his establishment.


“What made you think you could
sling that shit in my club?” he said angrily to the now sweating man who was
dry washing his hands nervously.


“I, Um…. I just…”


“Just what, thought you would
encroach on my territory?” Gregor removed the FN Five SeveN from his drawer and
shot the dealer in the knee, and he dropped to the ground, screaming in pain.
“You know, there is a reason I don’t sell drugs here, or anywhere else that I
control. It’s because unlike scum such as yourself; I have a set of morals.
True it is a loose set of morals, but a set of morals none the less.” Gregor
shot the dealer in the stomach and ordered the body removed from his office and
the rug replaced before his family gets here.


Gregor removed the Five SeveN’s
magazine, replace the two rounds he had fired, reloaded the handgun, and placed
it back in its drawer.


Five minutes later just as the
rug had been replaced, Louise and
Chloe arrived.


“Daddy!” Chloe exclaimed as she
ran into her father’s arms. He picked up his daughter and swung her around in
the air, and she giggled with delight. He kissed her on the cheek and put her
down.


“Aw, don’t stop daddy!” Chloe
said, stamping her foot.


“Sorry Chloe, but I think mummy’s
getting a little jealous.”


“Thant’s
right,” Louise said as she walked up
and kissed her husband.


“Did you have a good flight
over?” he asked.


“It wasn’t too bad, the movie
kinda sucked.” His wife sniffed the air, “you’ve been shooting in here again
haven’t you?” she said accusingly.


“Don’t worry hon; it was just a
low life dealer.”


“Good.” He wife hugged him
tightly.one of the reasons he didn’t deal in drugs was because his wife hated
drug dealers. It was drug dealers who had killed her uncle.


* * *


“What I miss?” Andromeda
asked as she took a seat in the unoccupied stool next to Claes.


“They dragged a man in several
minutes ago, I suspect he may have been a drug dealer,” Claes informed her,
“And Then a few minutes after that, a woman and a child were just escorted
through the door guarded by three men. We don’t know who they were but she said
hello to the guards so they must know her. If I had to hazard a guess, I would
say she was a lieutenant or something. As to what the child has to do with
anything, I dunno.”


“So what’s the plan, sir?” Andromeda asked.


“You and Victoria
distract the guards at door number two and I’ll slip in, then you takeout the
guards in the bathrooms and slip in yourselves. By then, I should have
eliminated most of the opposition.”


“Alright,” Andromeda
said.


Claes looked at Victoria who then said, “Got it.”


Andromeda
got up and told Victoria
to follow her lead and clutch onto her arm.


Victoria
did so and the pair walked up the guards at door number two and they began
seducing the guards. Claes had to admit that it worked, but there must have
been more dignified ways to do it. As Victoria
and Andromeda led the men to the bathrooms, Claes slipped through the door.


The unlit corridor looked like
something you would find in an industrial complex. There were exposed wires here
and there and the occasional toolbox. Claes knew she was in a restricted area,
thus the guards would give her one warning before firing, so she took the VP-70
– now equipped with a tactical light – out of her handbag, screwed a suppressor
– also from her handbag – onto her VP, and took out a small combat knife.
Unlike the guards, she wouldn’t give any warnings.


Claes crouched low and began her
advance. Form what she remembered this corridor led to a much longer corridor
which led to Gregor’s office. Not as direct a route as the door guarded by
three men, but easier. Claes encountered the first guard at the end of the
corridor. He had his back to her, so she crept up to him, jumped just high
enough to put her hand over his mouth to muffle any screams, pulled him down,
and stuck her knife up though his throat at a forty five degree angle. As she
lay him on the ground, another guard appeared, but due to the darkness, he
didn’t see Claes or his dead associate, but because of Claes’ enhanced
eyesight, she could see him quite clearly. She raised her pistol and fire two
rounds into his chest.


Claes continued to a connecting
corridor, where she found two more guards talking to each other. She could have
gone around, but Claes knew every potential threat needed to be taken care of.
Unlike the two she had just eliminated however, these two were armed with
Vector submachineguns. An interesting piece of equipment for the mob. However,
it still didn’t change the fact that they needed to be eliminated. Claes raised
her VP and fired four rounds, two per person. The first round went wide and
missed completely, the second round hit the guard on the right in the side of
the head and he collapsed. The other guard had half tuned to where Claes was
crouching when the third round went through his chest and the fourth into his
stomach. Unfortunately, he already had his finger on the trigger and fired six
rounds into the wall across from him before he fell to the ground and died.


Claes could here shouting from
the other corridors, a lot of shouting, a lot more shouting then five or six
men could muster, it sounded more like thirty. This could be troublesome.


* * *




Andromeda and Victoria led the unsuspecting men into the lady’s
room, where they were dispatched swiftly and silently, then concealed in a
cubicle with the ‘occupied’ sign up. They then slipped into the same door they
had drawn the guards away from.


The corridor was dark, and the
sound of gunfire was unmistakable. Without hesitation the Fratello drew their handguns and ran in the direction of the
gunfire.


Just before Victoria
rounded the corner into the adjoining corridor where the gunfire sounded
loudest, she dropped to one knee and fired two busts form her M-93, dispatching
the two armed guards who had rounded the corner at the other end of the
corridor.


Victoria saw Claes in the middle of the
corridor, slowly making her way to Victoria’s end and using a
corpse as a shield against the combined SMG fire from roughly ten men at the
other end of the corridor. Victoria called out to
Claes, telling her to keep her head down, then removed the incendiary grenade,
one of the two grenades – the other being a flash grenade – from her bag and
tossed it to where the ten armed men were standing. One of the men noticed the
grenade and picked it up to throw it back, but it detonated in his hand. As the
clould of white hot phosphorus consumed the men, they fell to the ground,
screaming and writhing in agony.


“Are you okay?” Victoria
asked after she had run and helped Claes up. Andromeda
was only just getting to the scene, and she was already out of breath.


“Yeah, I’m fine,” Claes said, “There
are at least twenty more men though.”


“I… thought… you said… only five…
or six guards?” Andromeda said between breaths.


“My intel was off, let’s just
leave it at that and deal with the guards.”


Claes reloaded her VP, switched
on the tactical light, and headed to the end of the corridor with the burnt
men. When she got to the end, she stuck her pistol behind her skirt and began
slitting the throats of the incapacitated men. Victoria
and Andromeda followed suit, putting them out of their misery. After several
more engagements and a total body count of forty one, they arrived at the
entrance to Gregor’s office.


* * *


Claes and Andromeda stood on one
side of the door, and Victoria the other. Claes
raised her Glock – borrowed from one of the guards – in one hand and with her
other she counted down on her fingers.


Three… Two… One.


Claes kicked the door off its
hinges and Victoria
tossed in the flash grenade. It detonated and the trio burst into the brightly
lit room. Claes’ eyes only took a fraction of a second to adjust. There were
seven people in the room; Gregor, the woman and child she had seen enter
earlier, and four armed men in black suits. Claes fired a round into the skull
of the man closest to her as Gregor got between the intruders and the woman and
child, he apparently had blocked his eyes when the flash grenade had detonated.
And he was abnormally fast. He fired a single round into Claes’ torso as she fired
two into his. Claes saw Victoria throw a shuriken
into the last man left standing. All hostiles eliminated.


Andromeda
walked over the woman and child and asked if they were okay. The woman
immediately got between the intruders and the child and kept shouting “Don’t
hurt Chloe, don’t hurt her, do whatever you want to me but for god’s sake don’t
hurt my daughter.”


Claes figured Chloe must be the
kid’s name, and the woman must be the mother, looks about the right age.


“We’re not going to hurt your daughter ma’am,”
Claes said reassuringly, “We’re here to help.”


As Claes took a step toward the
cowering pair, the little girl; sprang out from behind her mother and rushed to
Gregor’s side and began weeping and shaking him, saying, “Daddy, you have to
get up, Daddy!”


“We have to leave now,” Claes told
Andromeda and Victoria as what she had
done dawned on her. I just killed that
little girl’s father!



“Yes, ma’am.” They replied in
unison.


They took a back exit since there
would be no way they could go back out through the club with Claes’ wound. What have I done? Claes kept repeating
in her head as the trio made their way back to Andromeda’s car.


* * *


Saturday 22nd September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 2000 hours, Alpha time





Movie night was a hit, not only
had all the cyborgs not on a mission attended, most of their Handlers did as
well. Mercedes had decided to start them off on the classics, things that everybody
would enjoy.


Monty
Python’s Life of Brian had almost finished and she
was getting Monty
Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail
ready.


There had only been one problem
so far, and that was when some of the Handlers found out that The Life of Brian
featured a little nudity, in response Mercedes had posed this simple question:
“So you’ll let children go out and hunt and kill terrorists, but when it comes
to seeing a pair of boobies, that’s where you draw the line?” That had shut
them all up pretty good.


Jean’s
mobile rang.


“Oi, I said mobile phones off!”
Mercedes shouted at him.


Jean
ignored her, answered the phone, and left.


Mercedes shook her head and hit
play on The Holy Grail. Whatever the problem was, she wasn’t going to wait for
him to get back, he can just miss out.


* * *


Claes had been rushed to the
medical ward as soon as she had arrived so that she could be fixed, and Jean was yelling at Andromeda, demanding to know what
had happened. Victoria
had narrowly escaped Jean’s tirade by
slipping away before he arrived, and she was now en route to the analyst’s
office.


“Anthony…”
she said as she burst into the office, only to find he was absent. “Where the
hell is that bastard?” she growled angrily.


“He went to get something to
eat,” Priscilla said, Victoria
hadn’t noticed her there, “Perhaps I can help. Is it about Claes?”


“What do mean?”


“Don’t play coy with me,”
Pricilla growled, Victoria didn’t think she
had ever heard Priscilla growl before,
“I know what’s going. What happened?”


“Claes got hit,” Victoria
blurted out before she could stop herself, “and Jean
is more pissed than I’ve seen him in ages. When Jean
finds out what happened… we… we need to do something!”


Priscilla
didn’t say anything, just grabbed her handbag and ran. Victoria
followed her, and discovered she had been running to the adult’s cafeteria,
where Anthony was stuffing his face.


Priscilla
ran over the Anthony and kicked him,
“get off your arse, Claes is in trouble, I need to borrow your car.


Anthony
forgot about his meal, and leapt up with amazing speed, for a human anyway.
“What happened!” he demanded.


“Claes got hit, and Jean is pissed.”


Anthony
fished his keys out of his pocket and threw them to Priscilla,
“Don’t use all the fuel, I’ll take care of Jean
until you get back.”


“Thanks,” Priscilla
said before running off again, this time to the car park.


Victoria
looked up at Anthony, “You two act as
if you already have a plan.”


“We do,” he replied as he walked
off in search of Jean, Victoria in tow, “we figured something like
this would happen since the plan was so hastily thrown together and with very
little intel on the target-”


“How long has Priscilla known?” Victoria
asked meekly.


“Friday, when Claes called me
about the Uzi. Back to what I was saying, we figured something like this would
happen, so we planned ahead. There were several contingencies in place
depending on what happened, but since Claes came back injured, we move to plan
T. Priscilla goes and get’s Samuel out of the hospital so that he can talk to
Jean and I go and distract Jean before he gives Claes such a large dose of the
conditioning medication that she becomes a vegetable.”


Somehow, Anthony
knew exactly where to find Jean. He
was engaged in a screaming match with Andromeda. He simply walked up top the
blond Italian and subdued him with a sleeper hold. “That should take car of him
for a while. Now let’s get outta here before he wakes and the shit really hits
the fan.”


* * *


Samuel
didn’t know how Priscilla had managed
to get him out of the hospital, and didn’t car. As far as he was concerned,
Claes was in trouble, and that was the only thing to worry about now.


Before Priscilla’s
car had come to a complete stop, Samuel
was out of the car and running as fast as he could to the medical ward.


When he got there, he encountered
an angry Jean. “Care to explain what
happened?”


“Ya can’t get yer arse into gear
so Claes took matters into her own hands is what happened,” Samuel replied angrily.


Samuel
went to walk into the room where they were keeping the subdued Claes, but Jean barred his way, “And what the hell does that
mean?”


“It mean’s that yer a fuckin’
dickhead that wouldn’t be able to find his arse if it weren’t stuck to him. Now
get the fuck outta me way.”


“She confessed to everything you
know, and now we are going to recondition her. Basically what it means is that
she goes back to square one.” Jean
almost sounded smug.


Samuel
was only just able to refrain from smacking the blond bastard out. “What the
hell do you mean ‘square one’?” Samuel
demanded through clenched teeth.


“She loses all of her memories,
that’s what it means.”


Samuel
grabbed Jean by the shirt and lifted
him up against the wall so that they were eyelevel. “Now ya listen to me ya
sad, pathetic excuse fer a man, do ya remember when ya told me that every
Handler trains their cyborg differently? Well I trained mine to think fer
herself, an’ act independently of me. An’ if ya even consider changing’
anythin’ about her, I’ll break ya in two!”


“Put me down,” Jean said calmly.


“Or what, ya’ll call the guards,
fire me? Ya think I give a shite about that, hmm?”


“Something has to be done about
this whole incident.”


“Fuckin’ bill me,” Samuel let go of Jean
and he fell to the floor, “I’m gonna see me cyborg.”


Samuel
walked in and took a seat on the floor next to Claes’ bed; there weren’t any
chairs for him to sit on. Claes was connected to a variety of medical and
science machines that Samuel couldn’t
even begin to name, the only one he did recognise was the heart monitor.


“Thanks,” Claes said faintly from
behind her air mask.


“Hey, ya ain’t got no reason to
thank me,” he replied, “I’m the reason yer here like this.”


“No, you’re not. I am responsible
for my own actions; the only hand you played in this was being my Handler.”


They sat there in silence for ten
minutes before Claes spoke up again. “I killed her father,” she said.


“Who’s father?” Samuel tried as hard as he could to keep the pity out
of his voice, and only just succeeded.


“I don’t know her name, but
Gregor was her father, and I killed him in cold blood.” Tears were beginning to
build up in Claes’ eyes. “There was a woman with her too; I think she was her
mother. Gregor’s final act was to get between me and his family, and I killed
him in cold blood!” Claes was crying. “Why? Why did I do it?”


“It’s not yer fault,” Samuel said as he held her hand, “Ya were only doin’
what ya thought was right. It ain’t yer fault that he had a wife an’ child, an’
it’s not yer fault that they were there.”


“But it is my fault that I killed
him, right there in front of his family, too” she replied meekly, it seemed as
though some kind of sedative was beginning to kick in. Claes slowly drifted to
sleep and her crying faded.


Jean
was waiting for Samuel when he left.
“Are you sure you don’t want to recondition her?” Jean
no longer seemed angry, but sombre, “You’d be doing her a favour.”


“No, I wouldn’t. All humans have
regrets, an’ they all learn to live with ‘em.” Samuel
turned and looked Jean directly in the
eye, “the only difference between Claes an’ a regular child is her cybernetic
body, that’s all.”


Samuel
left for his room in the Handlers apartments. He needed get some things in
order.


* * *


Sunday 23rd September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 1200 hours, Alpha time





Elita sat in the corner of her
cell, tapping her foot to the beat of Pretty
Fly (For a White Guy)
by The
Offspring, and scrawling notes in her little book. Considering her reputation,
Elita thought that the security was a little lax, but that would just aid in
her escape. Poor Pinocchio probably thought that since she was being fed a
steady supply of those delicious cakes that she was subdued. How wrong he was.


Elita had never failed a job, and
didn’t intend to start now. She knew she would never work for the Second Suns
again, but that was a problem for another time. She had been hired to destroy
the captured AI and research data from the Czechoslovakia facility where she
had been raised.


Elita finished writing and went
back over her notes. Form what she was able to understand, the men who were
guarding her were from Section One, not Section Two, and both of them had
families. The research data and AI were in the R&D department, on the north
side of the facility. Unfortunately, that was close to the cyborg quarters, who
were the real threat. The closest armoury was on the east side of the facility,
some distance from the R&D section. As much as Elita would have liked to
get her shotgun back, that was too dangerous, the guards Berrettas would have
to suffice. Now was the time to escape.


One of the guards came in with a
trey of food for Elita’s lunch. It didn’t look particularly appetising, but
prison food never did.


Elita leapt from her seated
position and punched the man in the throat with her knuckles, paralysing his
vocal cords, she then brought the elbow of her other arm down on his head with
just enough force to knock the man unconscious. The other guard pocked his head
in to see what all the fuss was and Elita spear tackled him against the wall,
breaking several bones and knocking him unconscious as well. Contrary to
popular belief, Elita only killed when absolutely necessary. She grabbed both
men’s side arms and ran to R&D department. She estimated about two minutes
before the alarm was raised, then all hell would break loose.


There was very little opposition
on the way to the R&D department, only a single Section One agent who’ll
wake with a vicious headache.


Elita knew that there would be
several scientists in R&D, so with a pistol in each hand, she kicked in the
door, fired six rounds – one per kneecap – and rolled further into the room to
take out the rest of the scientists.


A siren sounded. The difficult
part had started.


With every scientist in the room
clutching at their knees, Elita started smashing every console she could find.
Just as she finished the first defensive personnel arrived at the room, a five
man team. With only eight rounds remaining, Elita kneecapped two of them, shot
another one in the both shoulders twice, making his arms useless to him, and
threw her handguns at the final two. She kicked the still conscious men
unconscious and checked their pulses; all still alive.


Elita’s next stop was Pinocchio’s
room. From what she understood, it was the first one on the right, if you
approach from the south. Pity she was approaching from the north, she would
have to get past every other cyborg still in or guarding their residence.


Elita ran to the cyborg quarters
and, wouldn’t you know it, her lookalike was the first person she encountered.
Obviously Pinocchio had been telling this girl that Elita was a bad woman,
because she didn’t even hesitate in firing two 12-guage shots at her head.
Elita ducked below the field of fire just in time to avoid the fatal shots and
then jumped back up immediately after they had passed. She jumped off of one
wall and ricocheted of the other, narrowly avoiding each of the short blond’s
shots, and was finally in melee distance.


The little blond thrust forward
with her bayonet but was too slow and easy to dodge. Elita grabbed the barrel
of the shotgun and brought her foot up for a knock out roundhouse kick. The
short blond caught the Elita’s leg and pulled it towards her to bring Elita
into arms reach; a deadly mistake. As she short blond brought her fist back,
Elita ducked under the shotgun and brought her other leg up to kick the side of
the short one’s head. The short girl had two choices: (I) she could let go of
the shotgun and block Elita’s kick, but leave her middle section vulnerable and
the shotgun in the hands of the enemy, or (II) she could keep her grip on the
shotgun and try to duck under the kick, which would only leave her vulnerable
for an assault from above. Either way, Elita wins. The short blond went to
block the kick. Elita let go of the shotgun and brought her clenched fist in to
wind the blond, making her stumble and fall. Elita brought her foot down on the
blonds face, neutralising the threat but allowing her to live.


Surprisingly, there wasn’t any
other opposition in the cyborgs quarters. When Elita got to Pinocchio’s room,
she looked around for something to write a note with. It was just like
Pinocchio not to have any pens around. Elita went next door and fetched a pen
from that room and quickly made her way back, not just because every second she
stayed here put her life in danger, but because the teddy bears in that room
were creepy. She quickly finished her note, jumped out the window, and sprinted
for the closest fence as fast as her legs could carry her. We will meet again my little doppelganger, and I shall wretch Pinocchio
from your cold, dead, hands!



* * *


Sunday 23rd September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 1600 hours, Alpha time





The general alert was over and
the hunt for the escaped Elita cancelled. Everyone was returning to whatever
they were doing before. When Triela had regained consciousness two hour after
the escape and her little scrap with escapee, she had found herself in the care
of Dr. Bianchi, who told her that as far as they
could tell, no one had been killed. He promptly discharged her and sent her
back to her room, she didn’t argue.


At the moment, Triela was
rehearsing lines from Saturday’s screening of Monty Python
flicks. She was getting quite proficient at reciting the ‘knights who say ni’
section, when Pinocchio burst into the room, looking like he had seen a ghost.


“You need to read this,” he said,
holding out a note.


Triela took the note and first
noted that the hand writing wasn’t familiar, then actually read it. It read:


Dear Pinocchio


Due to you
being an absolute prick I have decided to leave the compound in search of a new
career, probably a gun for hire. You won’t be seeing me for a while, but I will
return. When I return, I will kill the short little slut that looks like me and
claim you as my lover once again.


Elita


P.S. make sure the little whore
reads this and understands the danger she has put herself in by being your
booty call. Luv you.


“What the hell?” Triela said as
she shook her head, “I don’t recall you saying that she’s a crazy, stalker
lady.”


“That’s because I didn’t. We
broke up four and a half months ago and that was the end of it, for me anyway.”


“Why don’t you take a seat,”
Triela said, pointing at the vacant chair across from her.


“I cop enough shit from everyone
as it is, and after Jean finds out
about this letter, I’ll cop even more, I don’t think sitting and talking will
help any.”


“Probably not,” Triela conceded.


“Hi there, lover boy,” Claes said
as she came in and climbed onto her bunk, you here to ask my roommate on a date
or something?” this was the most Triela had heard Claes speak since retuning
from her off-the-record mission.


“That just reinforces my point,”
Pinocchio said a little too dramatically as he left, waving his arms in the
air.


Triela set back to work on her
ribbons, the next one was for Augustus. After a
moment she thought she heard someone quietly sobbing, Triela suddenly realised
that it was Claes.


Triela got up and put her arms up
on Claes’ bunk for her to put her chin on. “Are you okay, Claes?” Triela asked,
she had never seen Claes cry before, she was normally pretty cold, or so Triela
thought.


Claes wiped some tears away with
her sleeve, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got a little something in my eye is all.”


“I know something’s up Claes; you
can talk to me if you need someone to talk to.”


Claes sat up on her bed, legs
crossed, and took a deep breath. “You remember on Saturday, when I killed
Gregor?” every word sounded like it had been dragged out of her.


“I remember you going on the
mission, but I wasn’t there for the event.”


“Well, when we breached the room,
there was the usual contingent of loyal men around their boss, but there was
also a woman and her child. They turned out to be Gregor’s wife and daughter.
And I killed him, right in front of his family, in cold blood. I…” Claes wiped
her nose on her sleeve, “… I’m no better than the people we fight against! That
sort of crap is the shit that the Mafia does just for botching a drug deal or
being late on a payment! And I’m no better than them! Don’t you bloody see? I’m
fucking scum just like them! I’m-”


Triela stood on her toes, leaned
forward, and slapped Claes. “Calm down! You are nothing like them! You didn’t
kill his family, did you?” Triela kept her voice level now. “No, you just
killed him, and you didn’t do it in cold blood, you did it for the greater
good.”


Claes was rubbing her cheek. “But
don’t you see, I did do it in cold
blood. All that crap about the greater good, there is no greater good, only
slightly less chaos in a word of total anarchy! I killed him because he ordered
the man who shot at Samuel, there
isn’t any other reason!”


Triela slapped Claes other cheek
and grabbed her by the collar. “Now you listen to me, there are a lot of bad
people out there and a lot of slightly less bad people who are tasked with
eliminating them, we are the latter. Our job is to kill those sorts of people
whether they have families or not. I’m not saying to take killing someone
lightly, I’m just saying that every one is someone’s child, and we have no
control over that, all we can do is our job.” Triela released Claes and she
fell on her bunk and rested against the wall.


“Thank you,” Claes said as she
wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve she didn’t wipe her nose on,
“what made you think to slap me?” Claes was still sniffling, but she was
smiling a little, just a slight curving of the lips, but it was better than
nothing.


“I saw you do it once,” Triela
replied, shrugging her shoulders. It had been to Angelica when she was going
into hysterics and saying that they were all going to die. However, it didn’t end
so well then.


* * *


Sunday 23rd September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 2100 hours, Alpha time





Jean
was just finishing up on some paper work from today’s incident when the Lorenzo
came into his office and slid a file across his desk.


“What’s this?” Jean asked as he picked up the file.


The Director didn’t reply.


Jean
opened the file and began reading through it. It was a progress report on the
Section One team pursuing Giacomo
Dante through Zaire; they’d lost him.


Jean
bashed his fist against the table. “Fuck!”


“Do you want me to tell José, or
would you rather do it yourself?”


“I’ll tell him,” Jean said through clenched teeth.


José was taking a brake in the
staff cafeteria munching on a muffin, sipping on a black coffee, and reading
the paper when Jean found him, the
very picture of relaxation.


“What’s up?” José asked without
looking up from the paper.


“It’s about Giacomo.”


José put down the paper and
leaned forward in his seat, no longer looking the slightest bit relaxed. “What
happened?”


Jean
took the seat across from his brother. “He shook the men pursuing him in Zaire,
we’ve lost him.”


“Fuck!” José said under his
breath, “How?”


“Giacomo must have known they
were following them because he led them right into a trap. There were only four
survivors.”


“How many had been sent?”


“Twelve.”


José rested his head in his hand.
“What now?”


“I don’t know,” Jean said reluctantly.


Jean’s
work mobile beeped.


“What is it?” Jean said harshly, not even waiting to hear who it
was.


“Tony,
Sir,” the caller replied. If Jean
remembered correctly, Tony was in
charge of the Section One security force. “There’s a man at the front gate,
say’s he wants to speak to you, the Director and the Chief.”


“Who is he?” Jean growled, he wasn’t in any mood to deal with this
sort of shit.


“Calls himself Altheas Skelly,
Claims to be a representative for the Second Sun’s, sir.”


“Have you called the Director and
the Chief?”


“I was gonna as soon as I was
done with you, sir.”


“Good, where are you?”


“Still at the front gate, sir;
right at the driveway.”


“I’ll be there in five minutes.”


Jean
hung up and turned back to his brother. “I gotta go.”


“Yeah, fine.” José didn’t sound
all that happy for his brother to be leaving. He probably had more questions to
ask.


Jean
made his way to the front gate, where several armed guards stood around a black
Austin Martin. Jean
went to Tony, “How long till the Chief
and Director arrive?”


“Another couple of minutes, sir.”


“Ah, Mr
Croce!” the driver of the black Austin Martin
yelled in an upper class English accent, “Don’t suppose you’ll tell your chums
to let me out of my vehicle will you?”


“Does he have any weapons?” Jean asked Tony.


“Not that we can tell, sir.”


“Keep your men’s weapons on him,”
Jean told Tony
before replying to Altheas. “Fine, but if any of these men think you’re
reaching for a weapon, they’ll shoot.”


“I’m offended that you think I
would do such a thing, I don’t even carry a weapon,” he said indignantly as he
got out. He was a tall, skinny man with short white hair and a cleft chin. Jean could tell he would be fun to deal with. “But I
will say that it is nice to stretch my legs, I’ve been in that car for a great
number of hours without a pit stop. How long until Chief Draghi
and Director Lorenzo arrive?”


“Two minutes,” Jean replied flatly.


“Excellent, that will give us
time to get to know one another, I get the feeling that we will be working
together in the near future.”


“If you truly work for the Second
Suns like you claim, we most definitely won’t be working together.” Hurry up you two, this guy’s beginning to
get on my nerves
.


Au contraire my Italian friend, if anything it means that we will
work together. I’ll elaborate more when the Chief and Director get here.”


The Director and the Chief
arrived a minute latter within seconds of each other.


“A pleasure to make your
acquaintance,” Altheas said with a bow for the Chief and Director, “I am
Altheas Skelly, a representative for the Army of the Second Suns mercenary company,
may we go inside please, gentlemen?”


“Seconds Suns have attacked us twice
in the past month; you must be kidding yourself if you think you’re going any
further,” The Chief told him.


Altheas didn’t seem to like that.
“Very well then, if you want to be uncivil, that’s fine, but I will not lower
myself to your standards.” He tightened his tie. “I have been sent to you so
that you may remain in contact with the Army of the Second Suns. If you are
wondering why this my be, it is because the Army of the Second Suns is a
business, and the CEO has decided that it is no longer good for business not to
hire ourselves out to the governments of the various counties that may have a
grudge against us. It has also been decided that we will cut back on some of
our more… disreputable activities, such as the arms dealing that you and the
Foreign Legion tried to put a stop to. Furthermore, we will offer our services
to you, the people of the Social Welfare Agency, as compensation for the
trouble we may have cased. We consider it merely business and believe that
there should be no hard feelings; however we know that you may not think the
same way.”


Jean
was taken aback by this. Where the mercenaries that had been causing so much
grief just giving in? No, Altheas had said they were expanding their services
to all countries that may have grievances with them. Perhaps they might be able
to put their services to good use after all if was only business. Jean looked at the Chief and Director, and by the
looks on their faces, they were thinking the same thing.


It was the Director who spoke
first. “Will you be willing to share your other technology with us?”


“And which other technology might
that be, Director Lorenzo?”


“Just as an example, Enhanced
Combat Infantry Devices.”


Altheas laughed. “You can
purchase it, but not have it. We are trying to run a business after all.”


“I assume that you have sent
representatives to the Prime Minister,” Chief Draghi said.


“Yes, you’ll probably receive a
call from him in a few moments. Here’s my card,” Altheas took three business
cards out of his pocket and handed them to the SWA staff, “Call me if you need
anything else.”


* * *


Samuel
had just finished carving the notch for Klaus into his Stechkin when he heard a
knock at the door. He put the machine pistol down and opened it. Claes stood
there in her pyjamas, glasses off, her eyes teary, and sniffling.


“What’s wrong, Claes,” he said as
he crouched to get down to her level. She truly did look innocent like this.


She wiped her eyes with her
sleeve, “Can we talk inside please?”


“Of course,” he said and gestured
for her to sit on his bed.


He sat down in his chair and
asked her again, “What’s wrong?”


“I know that logically, I
shouldn’t feel sad,” a tear dripped out her right eye, “that I was only doing my
job, that there are probably a few fathers that I’ve killed, but I do feel
sad.”


“It’s because the child an’ wife
were both there,” he said calmly, “I done a number of thing’s in me day, so I know
what yer goin’ through.”


Claes wiped a tear away, “Y-you’ve
done it before?”


“Yeah, but I’m not proud of it, I
was just followin’ orders, but…” Samuel
couldn’t find the correct words to convey what he meant.


“Does it ever go away?” she
sobbed.


“No,” Samuel
said sadly, “no it doesn’t”


Claes began sobbing a little
more, “H-how long have you lived with it?”


“Forty years.”


“How can you live with it for
that long? I only did it yesterday and I’ve already thought about killing
myself several times.


“So did I when I did it. There
ain’t really anythin’ ya can do to get rid of that feelin’. When I did it, it
was in self-defence, but I still felt like scum. It’ll fade over time, but
never go away; ya just have to learn to live with it.”


“I’m not sure if I can.”


“Yer a lot stronger than I was
when I did it, ya’ll do fine,” Samuel
reached out and squeezed her hand, “Trust me.”


Her sobbing lessened a little.


Samuel
reached into his bottom drawer and produced a bottle of Irish whiskey and a
glass, then half filled the glass and offered it to Claes, “It’ll help ya
sleep.”


“Thank you,” she said quietly as
she accepted the glass. Her sobbing had stopped, but now she just stared
straight ahead. Not necessarily a good sign, but Samuel
wouldn’t bother talking to Dr.
Bianchi or anyone else, they
simply wouldn’t understand what Claes was going through the way that he did,
and would likely make matters worse.


* * *


Monday 24th September 2009 – Social Welfare
Agency – 0600 hours, Alpha time





Victoria
awoke early more out of habit than necessity. There weren’t any classes this
morning, but she always got up early, unless she had had a long night.


“For Christ
sake,” Mercedes grumbled from the other bed, “You don’t have any bloody classes
so go back to bed.”


“I got shit to do,” Victoria
said, before making her way to the cafeteria with her Leatherman and M92 loaded
with DU rounds.


Victoria
was the only person in the cafeteria at this time in the morning since there
weren’t any classes. No discipline,
she joked to herself, then grabbed a trey of food, not really caring what it
was, and sat at a table in the corner so that she could see anyone else coming
in. As she ate her food, she began carving the name Rhino Stopper into the side of her Berretta.


Victoria
heard someone else enter and looked up. It was Pinocchio.


“Morning, love bug,” she teased.


He sighed and grabbed some food,
then sat on the other side of the room.


“What, too good to sit next to me
or something?” Victoria
accused.


Pinocchio ignored her.


“Don’t be such a sour puss, I’m
only teasing.”


“Everybody’s bloody teasing,” he
growled.


“You know, for someone who’s
supposed to be a bad ass assassin, you’re a wuss.”


“What the hell’s that supposed to
mean!” he growled.


Victoria
shook her head and sighed for dramatic effect, “You kill people for a living,
get shot at, and whine like a bitch when you get bullied. Just build a bridge,
and get over it. Water off a duck’s back, you know. I copped a lot of shit for
not wanting to wear dresses or skirts, but I just ignored it, and I still get
called a lesbian by Petra
because of my choice of attire, but I just ignore them.”


“That’s quite philosophical,” he
said.


“You sound surprised?” Victoria
was not pleased.


“Well, you just seem more like a,
um… jarhead, or something, just not a philosopher.”


“I can surprise many, many
people. Bet you didn’t know that I could probably get a doctorate in atomic
physics.”


Pinocchio just shook his head in
disbelief. Why didn’t anyone believe that she could get a doctorate in atomic physics?
Maybe I should make a low yield nuclear
device and blow something up, that’d prove it?



“Hey there, lover boy,” Rico
greeted Pinocchio, “Hi Victoria.”


“How’s it going, Rico?” Victoria
asked. She and Rico had never been friends, so to speak, but they were civil
towards one another.


“Not too bad,” she said, getting
a trey of food and sat somewhere in the middle of the room.


“What are you doing up this
early?” Victoria
wondered aloud.


“I couldn’t sleep; I guess I’m
just used to getting up early.”


“Same here.”


“You aren’t allowed to have guns
in here,” the blond said, pointing to the berretta in front of Victoria
with her spoon while nibbling on a croissant.


“Yeah, but I figured that no one
else would be up, and it’s not even loaded. It’s actually part of the project
I’ve been working on for a while; I call it the Rhino Stopper.”


“That’s a stupid name,” Pinocchio
said blandly, “No way a nine millimetre will stop a rhino.”


“This one will,” Victoria
said in a matter-of-factly manner.


“How?” Rico asked.


“For the past few weeks, I’ve
been working on a low calibre, armour piercing round capable of putting down a
cyborg without shooting them in the eye. Basically, what I’ve done is make full
metal jacketed rounds, but with a depleted uranium core instead of lead, and
tungsten for the jacket. However, to achieve the same velocity of a regular
nine mil round, I need a more potent powder, which in turn increases the
already high recoil from the increased weight of the heavier round. I’ll remedy
this problem by putting a sixteen point three two eight gram bar weight under
the barrel and another two point one seven eight gram weight under that one,
bellow the muzzle, reducing the recoil to its regular force.”


“But wouldn’t that unbalance the
gun?” Rico said, “These new jacketed rounds must be fairly heavy, which would
mean your accuracy wouldn’t be quite as good as a regular jacketed round.”


“True, but I’m only ever going o
be using it in close quarters anyway, since I can be sure to hit the target and
since the rounds are difficult to produce.”


Rico seemed to ponder this for a
second, “I see, however, if you put a muzzle break on, you could reduce the
amount of weight required under the barrel, thus making it easier to aim, as
well as reducing the size of the muzzle flash.”


“Hmm, I hadn’t thought about
that, it’s actually a pretty good idea, thanks,” Victoria
said with a smile.


There was a load bang down the
hall that sounded like it came from the cyborg dorm.


Rico calmly put her food down,
concealed her trey behind the buffet, and then bolted for the window saying,
“If Henrietta asks, I was never here.”


“Wonder what that was about?”
Pinocchio said.


Thirty seconds later, Henrietta stormed into the room, covered in ash from
the shoulders up, her hair standing on end, and a furious look on her face.
“Where’s Rico,” she demanded.


“Dunno,” Victoria
said with a shrug.


Henrietta
looked at Pinocchio.


“Haven’t seen her,” he said.


“Dammit! Well, she has to return
to the room sometime,” Henrietta said
to herself before leaving.


Another thirty seconds passed and
Rico reappeared from the window she had escaped through. “Thanks guy’s, I owe
you.”


“What was all that about?” Victoria
asked.


Rico chuckled softly, “I put a
present addressed to Henrietta from
José on the table so that Henrietta
would see it when she wakes up, but it wasn’t from José, it’s actually form me.
I’d set a powder charge to go off when she went to open it.” Rico broke out in
laughter, “I’ll get into a heap of trouble for this, but I don’t care.” She
collapsed onto the floor, “It was so totally worth it.”


“What on earth made you think to
do that?”


Rico was struggling to pick
herself up off the ground because of how hard she was laughing. “I just thought
it would be funny!” Rico collapsed to the ground again.


“Wow, you have a real mean
streak,” Victoria
noted.


“I know, and guess who my next
target is!” Rico was beginning to get her laughter under control, “Mercedes.”


“I’m not too sure if she’ll fall
for a powder charge disguised as a present.”


“I don’t intend to do that,” Rico
finally lifted herself off the ground, “Don’t worry, as long as you’re up early
again tomorrow, you won’t be caught in my web.” Rico grinned cheekily, making Victoria
worry that she might in fact be caught in the web.


Victoria
finished her meal, and left with Rhino
Stopper
, to go wake Mercedes.


“This is your six thirty AM wake
up call,” Victoria
said as sweetly as she could, “wake the fuck up.”


Mercedes just pulled the blanket
back over her head.


Victoria
went to her desk, which looked more like a work bench now, and began designing
a muzzle break for Rhino Stopper. At
about noon, just after Mercedes got out of bed, the lazy shit, Victoria had
finalised the design for the muzzle break; it was an inch long, with the two
7/8th inch vents facing back at an angle of 42° and up at an angle
of 39° to the barrel. Now to recalculate the size of the weights required, that
would probably take the rest of the day.


Andromeda
entered the room, she didn’t knock very often. “Hope
you’re not just bloody wasting your time in here,” she said.


“‘Course I ain’t, I’m redesigning
the Rhino Stopper. You see, I was
originally just going to stick some weights on the bottom to compensate for the
increased recoil, but then Rico suggested that I put a muzzle break on to
reduce the weight. At the moment, I’m recalculating the size of the weights.”


“That’ll have to wait, Jean’s holding a meeting in ten minutes and wants
everybody in attendance.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Andromeda
led Victoria
to the briefing room where most everybody else was already waiting.


After a few minutes, Jean stepped up to the pedestal and cleared his throat.
“As you may or may not have heard, a representative from the Army of the Second
Suns mercenary company made contact with not only us, but with the Prime
Minister and various other governments. Later that evening, we received a
communiqué from the Prime Minister stating that the Army of the Second Suns
Mercenary Company are no longer our enemy, but an ally. I’ll be frank, I think
it’s a load of crap, but they claim that they are putting an end to their
illegal activities such as arms dealing and drug running, for which we were
hunting them in the first place. Henceforth, we are to cooperate with them as
they will be assisting us in eliminating both the Five Republics Faction and
the Islamic Rights Group.”


Everyone was staring at Jean in disbelief. Victoria
tried to make sense of what Jean had
just said. The Second Suns were no longer foe, but friend? That just seemed
illogical, especially for someone who had recently attacked the Agency and
caused them a lifetime’s worth of grief.


“What the hell kinda story is
that?” Dr. Bergonzi demanded, “Those bastards set our
research back fifteen years!” this was the first Victoria
was hearing about any research being destroyed, she would have to inquire about
that latter.


“I can understand your anger,” Jean replied calmly, “And I also agree with you, but
orders are orders.”


Out the corner of her eye, Victoria
could see Samuel shaking his head and
muttering, “Same shite, different day.”


Victoria
looked around the room, and she could tell that many people agreed with him.


“This doesn’t mean that you slack
off,” Jean said sternly, “they claim
to help, but, like you, I don’t exactly trust them. And if they do happen to be
helping, we don’t want them to show us up.”


“Damn right,” Olga murmured, barely loud enough for Victoria
to hear even with them being no less than a metre apart.


Jean
dismissed everybody, and promptly left.


Victoria
tried to follow Dr. Bergonzi through the crowd to ask him
about the lost data, but lost him. There was someone else she could ask though.
Victoria
made her way to the analyst’s room.


“What was Dr. Bergonzi
talking about when he said they cut us back fifteen years?” she asked Anthony.


However, it was Priscilla who answered, “When Elita escaped, she made
her way to the R&D department and smashed every console she could find. All
the data we stole from the Czechoslovakia
base was destroyed and so was the AI. Fortunately, what we had been able to
sift through had been backed up, the rest though, gone.”


Victoria
thought that over for a moment, then wordlessly left. There was nothing she
could do until she was given some orders, and the Rhino Stopper had to be finished in case there is another
incursion, like Jean had said: It’s a
load of crap.


After Victoria
had finished checking over her revised calculations for the sizes of the
weights, she checked the time: 2200 hours, bed time. Victoria
crawled into bed and slowly drifted to sleep, wondering what new surprise
tomorrow would bring. Probably first
fucking contact with a hostile alien force, knowing our luck
.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret
slander boldly, something always sticks
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Three Dog

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by MP5 on Sat 26 May 2012 - 23:02

I had a chance to read through all of this, and I've had enough time to form an opinion. It seems that you play fast and loose with canon (moreso than I), giving characters both original and canon new situations and junk to play with. I'm honestly not sure how to feel about Triela and Claes being made to work with the Foreign Legion in a situation that sounds like it was made by someone who's played the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series over a few times, not to mention that some of the things you mentioned are either inaccurate or downright contrived. In the case of the former, an M240 is not a SAW, but a GPMG. the M249 is a SAW, and is chambered for 5.56, in order to be easily carried by the squad gunner because it is lighter. What really kind of ground my gears was the idea of an F-22 Raptor not in U.S. hands chasing down an Osprey. The U.S. military would never allow their premier fighter to simply go into corporate hands, it's just far too risky. In addition, an F-22 moves far too fast to hang onto the tail of an Osprey for very long; logic dictates that even with its main cannon, it would have tore the Osprey to pieces from well beyond whatever range Rico could manage with her SVD. Had you used an aircraft of similar speed --an upgraded P-51 Mustang, Embraer EMB 314 Super Tucano, Pilatus PC-9, Beechcraft T-6 Texan, etc.-- that aerial chase would have been slightly more plausible/believable. From what I have read, it feels to me that the Social Welfare Agency is being taken away from its original purpose, which is to fight internal rather than external threats to the Italian government. Even though I wrote a chapter where a contingent of cyborgs is sent to perform a hostage rescue mission in the Philippines, the knowledge of what they really are is extremely limited outside certain circles, and the mission directly involved people of importance to the Italian government.

Another contrivance I take some issue with is Anthony. How exactly does he hide all that stuff in the middle of Rome without being pursued by the authorities? If you ever get a chance to look up gun laws in Italy, you will find that even as an employee of Beretta, he still runs afoul of the law based on the weapons he has and their specific military-only calibres alone.

I don't want you to take this review the wrong way, I really was engrossed in the story. At the same time, though, I cannot help but be reminded of an old Naruto AU story I wrote. It was kind of like yours in some ways--attempting to solve problems and adversities that were necessary to the plot and how they shaped characters, inadvertent creations of Deus Ex Machinas, and from a more objective point of view, really quite full of contrivances. Granted, some of those elements still linger in Tire Tracks and Spent Casings (like a handler with twin cyborgs who is also the head of her own Military Aviation PMC and another handler who was sent over from the CIA as a form of joint training/operating), but aware as I am of these, I try to keep the Deus Ex Machina moments to a minimum.

In closing, you have an engaging story that is a great time waster, but it may need some polishing at best, complete retooling at worst.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I aim to misbehave.



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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Sat 26 May 2012 - 23:25

I'll take note and do more research in the future to try and get rid of those contrivances, and maybe not use wiki as my only source. And you got me, I play a lot of CoD .

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slander boldly, something always sticks
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Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by Three Dog on Mon 28 May 2012 - 5:48

I've been thinking about what MP5 said, and I've been thinking about what I actually put into the story study . It's a load of shit, I'm scrapping it. I'll still leave what I've posted up in case someone is actually enjoying it (especially an un-registered user who can't even send me nasty E-mails) since it would give me the shits if I was reading a story and it was just 'not there' anymore.
Anyway, just completely disregard everything that happened in Second Suns. Don't worry, I'll write another and I'll do my best not to make it shit. And to stick to cannon as best as possible. And stop adding unrelated bits because I think they sound cool at the time. AND changing the character weapons every two pages. AND get rid of Anthony 'Deus Ex Machina' Brandt and add a regular guy. AND possibly ask someone who knows GsG to read it before I post. May take a while to arrive though, School work and an Strike Witches FanFic currently occupy my time like the Nazis occupied poland.

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Forum Posts : 1243

Location : The Evil Lair (South Australia)

Fan of : everyone but the man of many names: Jose/Guiseppe/Josef (And the comic space opera Scholck Mercenary)

Original Characters : Yes, and there are a lot (around 25-ish I think)

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Re: Destroyer of Worlds ;)'s FanFic(s)

Post by tremec6speed on Mon 17 Sep 2012 - 13:59

I will surely read your action packed story Mr. Antonic , just been incredibly busy. I have never fallen behind on everybody's tales as badly as I am now.... Will remedy that soon.
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