Humanity Never Learns: A Cyberpunk Character RP [IC/OPEN]

[Ghondra]

Humanity Never Learns
(OOC Thread)
(Theme Song)

"There must be some kind of way out of here, "
Said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
Business men – they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None will level on the line
Nobody of it is worth."

---

Luxembourg
European Federation

The assembled cast of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, 13 of them seated in circle was silent. In the middle of a large and darkly lit room, a Gothic fireplace being the only source of light in the room. They were all waiting for the man in the middle of the circle to begin speaking, A middle aged man who wore a partly-unbuttoned white shirt and a black jacket, with close-cropped light brown hair and steely blue eyes, a smirk on his face as he addressed his compatriots. He was handsome by almost any standard, with a magnetic aura around him, a charisma that knew no bounds. "My friends," he began, his voice a rich baritone with a light New England accent, "This week has seen some rather fortuitous events happening in our favor" A chorus of eyes echoed in the room.

"You call the disappearance of one of my research stations fortunate?" Asked one of the seated women, a blonde haired woman with a slim frame that fit into a white dress, a glass of champagne in her hand and a steely expression on her face, betraying no emotion except mild condescension. "The heiress speaks" Said the standing man, provoking light chuckling from some of the seated. "Have you not received the report Milady?"

"I have, and I wasn't pleased. 2 Billion Euros in assets lost, 800 of my best researchers dead or soon to be and a Nano-virus getting out, you would not fault me if I didn't see this as a fortuitous turn of events."

The man smiled, "But milady, you are not seeing the big picture! With this nano-virus we will begin the cleanse of this vile Earth, and bring about our plans for the Master Race"

The lady in white scowled, "Still on about that Master Race hogwash eh?" She quipped, provoking equal amounts of scowls and chuckles. "You'll see the justness of our cause soon enough Milady" The man asked, unflappable. "What are we to do about the nano-virus? Should we not inform the Chinese and the Russians? Or even the North Americans" Asked one of the seated men, a thin dark skinned man with an almost inhuman beauty to him. "They'll find out with or without us" answered the standing man. "Now I believe it is time for us to retire, ladies and gentlemen. I bid you a good night.

As the 13 men and women went out of the room to rest for the night the standing man pulled something from his pocket, a holo projector. Turning it on, it displayed some sort of organism, enlarged, even though in reality it was incomprehensibly tiny. He smiled, "The Sword of Damocles is upon us"

[Shadowwell]

Victor Armstrong
Armstrong investigations
New York City

I was sitting inside my office sweating bullets, the thing serving as my AC had started sparking again, before I smelled something similar to the time Father O'Roarke lit his toupee on fire. I rushed over to unplugged it and clipped a shelf, With one arm I caught the 25 year old scotch the other unplugged the unit. I sat the Scotch on battered crate serving as a coffee table. I had looked at my arms once more marveling at what that Company had done to me. That was one thing i missed besides the smoking receptionists, the automated cooling and heating systems. I was just sitting down on the equally battered vintage chair about to poor myself a glass of Scotch when there was a sudden knocking on my door. By the time i had reached it, whoever had done it was gone, I knew instantly it was one of theirs, a Ghost. the logo and name on the Package gave it away as well. I brought it inside and shut the door.

[Republic of the Cristo]

New Delhi, Muslim quarter, Righteous Revolution Radio

Why must we get cybernetic implants in order to get a decent job? Why is it that in order to have your family live a decent life, you must replace that which makes you human? What is wrong with the human body? The capitalists treat it like it is a machine for them to replace and use at their discretion. They treat it like a copy machine, instead of the image of God that it truly is.

There is nothing wrong with the human body. It was created in the image of God and thus it is beautiful! Don't let anyone ever tell you any different! You don't need an eye phone ( OOC: see what I did there? ) jammed inside of your head to stay connected; you don't need a USB port in your brain to share memories; you don't need cybernetic arms that operate like a Swiss army knife; You are not a machine, don't let the capitalists treat you like one! You are a human being, and thus you have a right not to be abused as we are now! We have a right... and obligation to tell them no! I will not become your tool, I am a human being and you will give me the respect I deserve as one!

That is all the time that we have for today, please check in again on Monday at 16:00 again for the next show. The PHR will be hosting the annual picnic at Dervish park on the 9th at 12:00, tickets will be sold there as well as online. I am Fa'ad Mobaruk, and this is Righteous Revolution Radio

Fa'ad clicked the red button on his soundboard, and the outro music played. He took off his earphones and breathed out. He was sitting inside of a sound room speaking into a microphone. He looked up at the glass window in front of him towards his assistant Faruk, he was also wearing earphones. He looked up at Fa'ad and gave a thumbs up, indicating that he was off air.

Fa'ad stood up and walked out of the sound both and into the next room. It was a somewhat dim room, with ancient looking couches being threwn against the walls next to numerous computers and sound equipment. On one such couch was a man wearing a white thobe and holding an ipad. He was middle aged, with a semi-long beard and a bald head. He was Fa'ad's greatest friend, Mahmoud. " We have 400 tickets already bought for the picnic, and we expect for there to be a lot more by the day of. "

Fa'ad nodded as he continued out of the room. Mahmoud jumped off of the couch and followed him, " The ,um, Iman Kassim wanted to know if you could mention on the show that the mosque is looking for extra volunteers for the kitchen. " The two men walked down a narrow hallway painted a dull yellow, and with pictures of smiling men on the walls. Fa'ad bit his lip in trying to remember something, " Kassim.... what uh, what mosque was he again?"

" The one on Mughal street."

" Ah, yes of course... Lots of mosques making requests these days, I forget sometimes. " the men exited into a indoor garage inside of the radio station. It was big enough to hold around 8 cars or so. One white truck was currently being unloaded inside of it. There were 5 men unloading it, all PHR members. They were unloading flyers for the picnic. " You know Fa'ad, with all the success we have been getting, we could probably open up another station. "

Fa'ad was not listening though, he was starring at the men carrying off the packets of flyers. He was remembering the desert, and the hot sun, the sheep bleating, and him sitting on the sun scorched rock, watching over them. His robes were itchy, but he always thought of them as comfortable. The sheep were all huddled together, as if though they were a single moving mass; it was hypnotizing.

* slap * Fa'ad's head was knocked forward and he snapped back to reality, " This is important Fa'ad, I can't have you dozing off like that again. " Fa'ad rubbed the back of his head, as a smile slowly grew on his face. Mahmoud managed to keep Fa'ad on track, even at the discretion of Fa'ad. He commanded the respect of many people in the Muslim quarter, being seen as a philanthropist and political activist, and was used to being respected. Occasionally, it felt good to be slapped upside the head by his old friend though.

" I know it is important. Yes Mahmoud, I will look into opening up another station. I think Mumbai would be a nice start. "

[Cackle]

London
European Federation

Axel Nygaard only truly liked two things: Himself, and money, in that order. But you don't always get what you want. That was why he had become a spy. Money was truly a dear thing to him, and he was not above betraying even his closest family to earn it. That was why he was here today.

The Sino-Russians were now paying him to kill some rabid warmonger in London, to keep him from spreading his beliefs. Assassination wasn't usually his job, but the party he was supposed to kill him at was rather high class. It wasn't likely that the Sino-Russians could get any other agents in. So they had "advised" him to kill this warmonger. Norman Candlewick or something like that. The fool had decided to host a party to talk about his views, presenting quite the opportunity. Unbeknownst to his handler, however, Axel didn't plan on killing him right away.

Walking up to Norman, Axel gave him a wide, but fake, smile. "It is good to see you, sir. I heard you would be speaking today?" Norman brightened when he heard this, and began going on about his views. Axel simply blocked him out, knowing that he would be overcome with boredom should he listen. "That's quite interesting, sir!" Axel said. Lowering his voice and watching for any passerby, he continued. "Just between you and me, however, have you heard anything about a project called the Grey Flood?" Norman looked confused, frustrating Axel. He should have known better than to hope for information from an idiotic, crude, and uncivilized person such as the one he was talking to. "Don't worry about it," He replied to Norman's questions, while silently pulling out a poison vial. Quickly dumping it into Norman's wine glass while he was distracted, he hurried away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hours later, Norman suddenly collapsed, struggling to breathe. As they panicked and attempted to get the dying man to the hospital, nobody noticed a disappointed Axel leaving the party. "I'll simply have to find another source of information." He muttered to himself.

[The Enclave Government]

London
Former United Kingdom, European Federation
14:00 BST.

---

Stepping off the X-130 military plane the bigwigs in Air Force wanted to cart him around the world in to show off their new toys and beg for more budget allocations, Ryan stepped into London with one mission - find out and potentially work with the European Federation on finding out what exactly the "grey flood" was.

With UNAS commitments dedicated to homeland defense and being as much of a pain in the Sino's ass as physically possible, Ryan had limited resources to do this. At his disposal was money, an office, and 4 soldiers drafted out of DEVGRU. Intelligence reports indicated that the "Grey Flood" was something related to cybernetics, though no information as to how. Being cybernetic himself, this became very much a personal project for Ryan.

And with that, he retired to his office in London Center to set up shop and call some folks who he believed may know more about the situation.

[Ghondra]

East End, London
European Federation
William Hamilton

Bill was just jet-lagged after the two hour supersonic trans-Atlantic flight he took from JFK to Heathrow, he was still dressed in his civvies, plus a rain coat he wore over them. But he had a job to do and he had to do it quick.

It was a typical rainy day in London, he remembered some of his visits to London, he scowled at the memory, a little boy of 7, his first time outside of the family estate in East Anglia, dressed in stifling suits that made him feel like a china doll to be admired by onlookers. The city hasn't changed much since his first and last visit there, following his father on a business trip, 'show you the ropes' he said. But there was something different, something in the air. A thick and hot atmosphere of discontent, rebellion was in the air. Bill was familiar with that atmosphere, during his time as a Mercenary he was on a mission to suppress Separatist rebels in the Nile Federation, and he could smell that same air right here, in the heart of Great Britain.

He took his mind off of his thoughts, and focused on his mission. His client was some rich dude from Upstate New York who worked for Xylon Pharmaceuticals, his Brother, who voluntarily chose to become a cyborg despite Genetic Enhancements had died while on a trip to London, right after he finished his work in one of Xylon's labs in the Arctic. It was a sudden death thing, he checked in into a hotel and died the next day, and 10 years of Merc work had given him enough experience and street smarts to figure out that no one just suddenly die.

He reached into his pocket to grab his Smartpaper, and began to read a list, a list of symptoms that the expired cadaver of his client's brother. The Cyborg body was grey, that was the weirdest one. Cyborg cadavers don't decompose, not naturally, that's why they're incinerated upon death, and the organic parts certainly don't turn grey. The second was almost weirder, the body did decompose, and rapidly. Turning into a thick grey colored substance within the first two days. It was a long list but those were the ones that was most apparent.

Bill was seeking out one of his contacts in London, who would know something about this. A certain Gideon Price, a UNAS expat living in the East End, the man was a bootlegger, trafficking cybernetic parts 'acquired' from a trader in the Sino-Russian Federation, and he would know something if Cyborgs were suddenly decomposing into grey goo.

He walked for a few more minutes before turning round a corner and entering a dinky pub, it was one of the few non-franchised pubs left in London, the ones that the locals go to, not tourists. He himself frequented the pub when he was contracted with the Euro Army to fight separatists holed up in the East End, he won the loyalty of the local people by fighting for them instead, it didn't hurt that the Euros decided to give him the money before the job was done. Idiots.

He entered the pub, welcomed by a cacophony of cheers, Bill grinned, "Never thought we'll see your sorry ass in these parts again Hamilton!" Shouted one of the pub patrons in almost indiscernible cockney, "Well its too bad that I've came here and have to see your ugly mug again Tim!" The pub laughed boisterously. Bill walked over to the Publician, still grinning, ordering a pint of bitter.

Bill leaned in when the Publician placed his drink on the bar. "Get Gideon, I need to talk to him" the Publician nodded, before going to the back of the Pub. Bill sat there drinking his pint when a black haired figure in street clothing sat next to him, with artificial eyes and a cybernetic hand. He grinned at Bill, shaking his hand, "Billy-boy! How you doing son?"
"I've been good Gideon, look I don't have time right now for small conversation"
"Alright then, what is it you want from Papa Gideon?"
"I'm looking for someone who might have information about this man"
Bill reached for his Smartpaper, handing it to Gideon, "He's a Cyborg, rich guy you know? Worked for Xylon Pharmaceuticals." As Gideon read the contents of the Smartpapers, Bill downed his pint of bitter, "Well I don't know anything about this Billy, but I can get you in touch with someone who might know something about this"

"He goes by Adam Rosenberg, but I'm pretty sure that's not his real name. You can usually find him in the Phoenix Club in Central London"
"What does he do?"
"He's an Information broker, I think he works with either Federal Intelligence or Sino Intelligence, either way he'll probably know a thing or two about what your looking for" Bill nodded, "Alright thanks for this Gideon, and by the way, I can get you in touch with an Arms trader, he's based out of Reykjavik but he can get you Energy weapons" Gideon grinned, "Well thanks man"

The two said their good byes and William hailed a cab to take him to Central London. To meet Adam Rosenberg, the Information Broker.

[Stadenwick]

Madrid
European Federation
Ludwig von Heidreich

"Ludwig", called a voice boomed from the darkness.

"Now finally come the time when you have to choose between your mind or your soul. Choose wisely", it continues from the dark. Suddenly a ray of light appeared from the end of the darkness, blinding everything that it reaches. Ludwig's body jerked, and his eyes quickly open up as he awaken. It was just a dream, and he was just sleeping in his car on his way back home.

Going home in his luxurious automated flying car is now one of the favorite times for Ludwig, especially from those tiring business meetings he had nowadays. He wasn't always this busy, but after he became number one in the cybernetic business it seems that everyone and their sons wants a piece of time with him. His involvement in politics also wasn't helping with his schedule at all. But well, He supposed that once he had complete his ambition he can start working on that robot double of him again, and mass produce it so that the original him can go spend the retirement back in Bahama or something exotic like that.

He sighed to himself, he still 26 and already think about retirement. Ludwig always thought that since he's still young that he was gonna be one of those full of spirit, young and hip CEO. Stress and constant activity do that you, he supposed. Guess that's why his bottom level employee always talk about quitting his company. Feeling even more uncomfortable imagining their life, he open the compartment storage and find his custom made wine storage. He pour one and drink it quickly, now that taste better in the mouth.

Suddenly, his smart watch vibrate, telling him someone just texted him a file, his corporate spy for Xylon to be exact. This must be pretty important. He quickly open the file and instantly the hologram screen containing the text appear in front of him.

Xylon is keep acting weirder. I just hacked their server and uncovered the disappearance of one of research stations. A research station that is filled with 800 researchers and worth at estimate 2 billion dollars. They just did, no explanation whatsoever. I'll fill you in when I can tell more of what's going on, just make sure your end of bargain of me disappear in the South East Asia federation with millions of dollar can be filled.

- A.

Ludwig winces at the message, that can't be good. He close the message and pour one glass of wine again for himself before returning it back to the compartment and start sleeping once more.

[Cackle]

European Federation
London
Axel Nygaard

Axel paced back and forth in his mansion, deep in thought. What to do, what to do. His best source of information was dead, thanks to him. Not a big loss, and he was rather tired of the man, but it was an annoyance that he would have to find a new, dependable source of information. But possibly the most annoying thing is that the fool knew nothing about the supposed Grey Flood that had so far proved so interesting to Axel. Suddenly, there was a knock on his door.

Annoyed yet more, Axel went to open it. It was probably just one of his servants, policemen from the investigation into Norman's death, or, worse, his handler. Axel hated his handler. The life of a spy might be cruel, but the man seemed to go out of his way to make life even harder for Axel. Axel had promised himself that if he ever found a way to free himself, he would first go and kill the brute. When Axel opened his door, however, he was surprised. A man he had never met before was here, and he didn't look like a policeman. "May I help you, mister...?" Axel asked. The man smiled. "William Hamilton. You have some information I need, Mister Rosenberg. Can I come in?" Axel frowned. The man might be useful, but it was risky. If the European Federation was on to him...

If the European Federation were on to him, he would already be in jail. The last time they suspected him, he only escaped by fleeing to London and changing his name. And that time he was luckg enough to be warned beforehand. He opened the door wider and let the man in. "Rather odd that you know my name when I never introduced myself to you. Do you already know?" William looked confused. "Know what?" So he didn't know Axel was a spy. Perfect. "Nothing, nothing. And you need information on...?" William handed him a Smartpaper, which Axel began skimming the contents of. Axel grinned. "I think we could help each other. Guy was a leading researcher in Xylon. Surprising, since he was a Cyber. Recently, however, he went missing, and that's been causing a bit of a stir. I, ah, acquired a few documents recently, talking about a top secret Xylon project called The Grey Flood. They contained little actual information on it, but from what I could gather, it's some sort of disease. Supposedly, this guy was involved in it. That's as much as I can tell you. But how about this: I give you the documents, you use it to find more information on the Grey Flood, and then bring it back to me. Do we have a deal?" William nodded, and Axel handed him the documents. "Take care of them. Those aren't replaceable." He said, as William walked away. Axel smirked. Now, not only did he not have to get his own hands dirty, he had his own scapegoat. Should things go poorly, the documents would be on William's person, not his own. Things were working out quite well, quite well indeed.

[Greater Istanistan]

Outer Paris bloomed before Sayyid Amman and unveiled its rotting heart. One could never quite get used to the massive sprawl that had grown up like a renegade fungal colony around the French capitol, but as time went on it was possible to at the very least get used to the smell. The years, reflected Sayyid, had not been kind to the place. Half-hearted, half-finished attempts at public housing stood like rotten teeth amidst the seething slums below, and from every direction rose columns of smoke and vapour issuing from tens of thousands of chimneys, firepits, and burning stacks of car tires. Occasional gunfire echoed through the air.

“Who do you think is shooting this time? The Islamists, the Socialists, the crooks, the dealers, the white nationalists, the poor, or the cops?”

Sayyid was broken from his moment of contemplation by the deceptively soft voice of his neighbor, friend, and occasional checkers partner. He turned away from the window and focussed on the face of the speaker. Mr. Nyobe was a nearly seven-foot, cyber-auged monster of a man who worked as an enforcer for the local gang and was known to casually tear arms off. His speech was, to some, disconcerting, but to Sayyid the incongruity was marvellous. It signalled a depth to the man which most would miss behind the brutally scarred face of the Ghanian mercenary.

“Does it matter, Mr. Nyobe? The end result is that they are all shooting pointlessly. If I am to shoot a man, it must be for morally just reasons. This is simple slaughter. It is inhumane.”

“Are you suggesting that my work is inhumane, Sayyid?”

“I think that your work is very inhumane, Mr. Nyobe. But I think that you do inhumane things for the most humane reasons. You have your own convictions and follow them strictly. I may not always like them, but then again I do not have a plasma launcher in my elbow. I defer to your judgement.”

Mr. Nyobe lowered a steel finger which was known to house a micro-rocket launcher and carefully pushed a piece forward.

“As we can tell from the game, Sayyid, that must be a wise choice. Your judgement seems suspect! King, please.”

Sighing amiably, Sayyid handed him one of his pieces back. Nyobe smiled, shark-like. His grin was short-lived, however, as his opponent grinned back at him, then moved an innocuous tile out. One jump. Two jumps. Three jumps.

“As we can tell from the game, Mr. Nyobe, even the wisest of men can learn from fools like me. King, please!”

Each man stared dead-faced at the other, before breaking into gales of laughter.

“If you were any other man, Sayyid”, stated Mr. Nyobe after their joint merriment had subsided a bit, “I would have probably torn your arms off by now and be well on my way to taking your head as well for such insolence.”

“If I were any other man”, Sayyid responded, “then I would not have half a tonne of explosives stored under my house rigged to blow if my heart stops!”

Mr. Nyobe chuckled again, then stood up and carefully pushed the table back.

“The match is yours. I am sorry to leave so early, but I suspect that the gunfire may be some inner city gangs thinking that stealing our wages, health, and freedom are not enough and that now they can take our turf as they like as well. Thank you for such a good time, Sayyid. I will be back tomorrow. The rich kids from the inner banlieues (neighborhoods) always carry excessively expensive gear. When I come, I will be sure to bring you some good liquor, and something my wife has cooked as well. Your company is always so good.”

“It is always my pleasure, Mr. Nyobe. Wish your daughters well for me, would you?”

They briefly embraced, before Nyobe ducked and forced his heavy frame through the door. He barely fit, and with each passing week the man continued to pile more and more augmentations onto his already bulky frame. There was apparently a Dushka somewhere in his leg assembly, although that could just as easily be a metaphor for something else entirely. No matter.

His cell phone pinged. Sayyid immediately checked it – a new message had arrived. 6:00 on the dot, just as the Sino-Russians had promised. If nothing else, they were punctual.

>>ATTN: ANNUAL SECRET MEETING OF EURO-AMERICAN CORPORATE EMISSARIES UNDERWAY IN PARIS AT “HOTEL INTERNATIONALE”, 122ND FLOOR – AGENDA BEING FORMATION OF CARTEL TO MONOPOLIZE NILE CONFEDERACY BUSINESS SCENE – PLEASE DISRUPT AS YOU SEE FIT – SECURITY LIKELY TO BE HEAVY, DGSE AND EUROPEAN COMMISSION LIKELY WATCHING AREA CLOSELY - WE WILL APPRECIATE YOUR JUDGEMENT ON HOW TO BEST DO THIS – INITIAL PAYMENT TRANSFERRED INTO JOINT ACCOUNT, EXPENSES WILL BE PAID UPON COMPLETION OF TASK<<

There was a second “ping”, this time a notification. It was almost unrighteous that Sayyid was getting used to seeing five digits on a regular basis, but his conscience was mostly satisfied with what he did with it. Sino-Russia was apparently quite generous as well.

Well.

This was an annual meeting, but the Sino-Russians knew that the agenda was different. They were probably lying about the agenda around the Nile Confederacy in order to make him feel more fired-up about the undertaking, but honestly he would have done it anyways. If the megacorporations were doing something, then it was no leap to call it ethically reprehensible, if only because of a very solid track record. Disrupting their conference could only be a good thing. Of course, given the Sino-Russian pattern of past behaviour this likely didn’t even have anything to do with the corporate meeting at all. They likely just wanted a distraction, so that they could do something else entirely. Move an agent into place, perhaps? It was possible that they were planning some other kind of covert operations within Europe. Or they could simply be hoping to create a big enough news blitz to cover up an embarrassment or unpopular action that their government was undertaking and distract the public. Maybe this was just a bored bureaucrat sending him on missions because he didn’t have anything better to do.

That was immaterial. Sayyid knew full well that anything furthering the collapse of the West and the liberation of his people from slavery and subjugation would be a step forward, even if someone else was riding off it.

Humming a ‘40s pop tune, Sayyid carefully rolled up his prayer rug to reveal a hatch. He hauled it open with all his strength, before descending down the stairs beneath into the absolute darkness below. His hands gripped the railings tightly – it would not do to fall here. He could take the whole block with him. Boom! No more checkers with Mr. Nyobe. Slowly and patiently, he crept to the bottom of the stairs, fumbled for the light-switch, and then decisively flicked it on. In the sudden dim yellowish glare, racks upon racks of rifles, rocket launchers, and ammo belts gleamed. Sayyid completely ignored them. Instead, he walked over to the work-bench in the corner, turned on the workbench’s smaller lamp, and sat down on a stool in front of it. He quickly browsed through the drawers, selecting pliers, wire, a timer, soldering guns, several plasma conduits, and a variety of nuts and bolts. Finally, he flicked his radio on just in time to catch the opening strains of a symphony – Mozart, late period perhaps? – and settled down to work.

He had a bomb to make.

[Gurori]

Tokyo
Republic of East Asia
Kaito Akiyama

Yet another session of pointless torture.

Kaito opened his eyes as he was reactivated following a major repair. He felt like a human who had just come out of general anaesthetic, Kaito was strapped onto a table that was being pushed through the hallways of the laboratory. Whatever horrible experiment lay ahead of him he didn't want to know. However, this time he was being taken to a new room, a room he had never seen before. In this room were many people, two of which approached the table.

"So we no longer need it for experiments?" A voice said, surprising the android. "Nope, we have enough data." Another voice said. "So what do we do with this thing?" The first man pointed at Kaito which intimidated the artificial human. "We show him off in Paris." Then, the table was wheeled outside and then onto a lorry, the two men hopped into a car and they headed towards the airport.

[Rygondria]

Dubai, The Lawless Zone

"Can you belive this city used to be the playground of the wealthy Rajan"? Abdul said as he light a cigar and looked at a picture of the city in its glory days. Rajan looked at him and said," One would forget with all the dead bodies and insurgents all over the place". Abdul sighed as he puffed his rather large cigar, he then said," My grandfather told me that the city was so wealthy that having cheetahs as pets was a status symbol, the police drove Ferrari's and the desert was turned green, but ever since oil failed the city war torn hell hole, luckily for me my family was spared economic ruin due to foresight but it could of been disastrous". Suddenly a chinese PMC walked in and said," Captain Rajan ! the insurgents have launched a attack on the left flank, we managed to fight them but we are suspecting another attack is imminent". Abdul took of his sunglasses and said," hmm, their getting feisty are they, They should give up now". Rajan laughed and said," perhaps they well when the see how violent operation Sinbad will be, unlike when those UN Fops tried to bring peace to the city we well have no mercy they either obey or die". Abdul nodded and said," I do hope there is little resistance to this, i really want this city to succeed but if i must crack a few eggs then i must. Rajan, i belive we are ready for operation Sinbad, do try to minimize your casualties, PMC's are not easy to replace". Rajan nodded as he shouted orders into a radio in Hindi

Later
Artillery bombarded various buildings as Black Talon troopers began storming the ruins of a rather large resort, this was to be the main stronghold for Operation Sinbad, as the squad leader commanded his unit to secure the lobby he was attacked by insurgents, in typical black talon fashion a orderly attack was followed through and the insurgents where driven deeper into the resort, with the lobby secured more forces where transferred into the resort to sweep it and secure for further use, after a two hour sweep of the resort it was declared clean and the Base Camp for operation Sinbad was established.

[Shark isle]

Private Plane heading towards France, Atlantic Ocean.
" What do you mean He went over the edge?" Jurgen Siegrist yelled into his cellphone as he rubbed his white,balding hair. The man over the phone said," I don't know what happened, Damien ignored all of our advice and went on a binge, it was even caught on camera." Jurgen sighed and said into the phone," I am afraid it is time to end Damian Smith's contract with Shooting Star Entertainment, permanently." Jurgen then hung up the phone and dialed an other number. A few moments later, Jurgen herd a grunt over the phone. Jurgen smiled and said over the phone," Mr. Smile, I need you to " Terminate" someone's contract. His name is Damian Smith, you know, the lead singer for the heavy metal band The Harvesters. He has violated our contract multiple times and He has refused to stop taking drugs. I want you to make sure He does not make the same mistake again !" Jurgen heard another grunt as if in agreement. Jurgen grinned and hung up as he smiled to himself and thought," If anyone can fix this mess, It's Mr. Smile."

Damian Smith's Apartment, Los Angles, California.

Damian moaned as He woke up as he got out of bed. He had spent all night partying and was extremely hungover. As he got out of bed, Damian suddenly heard a knock at his door. Thinking it was one of his band mates he walked up to the door and opened it. The next moment, he felt a syringe inject him on the neck. As he fell to the ground he saw a pale, balding man wearing a surgical mask walk in with a syringe and duffel bag and close the door behind him. The balding man than picked up Damian with exceptional strength. He then opened his duffel bag and started to place empty beer bottles and prescription drugs around his room. He then walked over to Damian and leaned over his bed. Damain, who vision was starting to blur, said to the man," Who are you?" The man removed his surgical mask and reveled, much to Damian's horror, a ghastly grin which revealed all of the man's teeth. After Damian died, the man took out a beer bottole and started to pour alcohol all over Damian's body. After the man was done, he put back on his mask, took the duffel bag, and left the apartment. A few moments later, Damian's girlfriend into the room and screamed . A few moments later, throughout social media this headline was seen, "Damian Smith Dead, Liver Failure Due To Overdose Suspected."
Paris, France
Jurgen was sitting on a bench outside the International Airport waiting for a car to take him to the Hotel Internationale. He was there for The Paris Business Summit and he wanted to make sure he left a good impression. Suddenly, he got two text messages, the first was from Mr. Smile. The text told him that the business with Damian Smith was over. Jurgen grinned as he read the text and responded with," Thanks for ending the contract, you get a raise." Jurgen then read the second text, which was from Richard Harrington, a PI whom he hired to track down a former mercenary named Ahava Haza bat-Aharon. As he read the information about Haza Jurgen started to grin thinking about the ways he could use this mercenary. Jurgen then called Richard and said to him," You know where she right, deliver the package". Richard nodded and went towards Haza's door carrying an envelope. When he reached the door, he placed the envelope on the foot of the door then knocked on it. Then before anyone could answer, Richard made a run for it.

[Republic of the Cristo]

Indian Ocean Union
New Delhi

Fa'ad picked up his shoes from off the ground. There were thousands of pairs there, as the mosques were always packed. Although the air was full of banter, Fa'ad didn't bother conversing with anyone, not today, he was much too tired for that. He simply smiled at those who smiled at him, and waved to the occasional fan who recognized him, and inevitably carried onto the busy street.

It was raining, but that did nothing to deter thousands of people from crowding from one end of the quarter to the other. All kinds of people could be seen from this grimy part of the city: machine men, gens, humans, hindus; but mostly humans and machine men. This being a rather religious neighborhood, there were an astonishing amount of baseline humans, but still a significant number of machine men. Sometimes a little glimmer of light in the eyes, or a little metal around the cranium, or sometimes they were hardly human at all, there was always a way for Fa'ad to tell who was whole, and who was not.

Fa'ad continued walking down the street, he yawned. He had spent all night working with Mahmoud to sort out the profits from the picnic - 800 people showed up. Quite a substantial amount. With the money they had gained from the event, Fa'ad was able to buy a vacated radio station in Mumbai. A nice place by it's records, got abandoned about 10 years back when the previous owners went out of business.

A strong and undoubtedly metal hand clasped around Fa'ad's shoulder, prompting him to turn around abruptly. He was shocked to see a timidly smiling, light skinned, and bearded man staring back at him. He seemed embarrassed. Fa'ad had been approached by machine men and gens before about his controversial view point, so he figured that this was another one of those attempts. " Mr. Mobaruk ? My name is Abdullah Jordan, I am a fan of your work! " Excuse me, Fa'ad thought to himself. " Excuse me? "

Abdullah blushed, " I mean, uh, I just wanted to let you know that your work and what you have done for the community has really... changed my life. So... thank you. " The two men stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the sea of bodies moving up and down the narrow streets of the quarter. Fa'ad sobered up now, " You will have to forgive me for my surprise. It's just that... most people such as yourself go about hating me instead of... thanking me. " Abdullah smiled at this and looked down at his feet. " Well, actually, at first I did. I would listen to your show and it would make me furious, the things you said about us - as you say - machine men. " A whimsical look came into Abdullah's eyes, as both men still were unaware of the sea of bodies moving around them. " But about a year or so ago, I found Allah again. Then I started listening to your show and I realized, you were right about... a lot of stuff. I made a lot of mistakes, and I plan on doing as much as I can to fix them. " He lifted up his right arm, which proved to be mechanical. he balled his fist, then opened it up again. It finally dawned on Fa'ad.

" You mean you are going to -"

" Get rid of it? Yes. "

It was in that moment that Fa'ad Mobaruk was once again a sheltered shepherd boy seeing the mechanical world for the first time. " But, there is nothing that could replace that arm, not unless you used genetic therapy. But I suspect that you will not do that either. So, you would handicap yourself to right your wrong? "

Abdullah smiled at Fa'ad's wonderment, " It was the prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, who said, " It is better to lose your hand, than it is to lose your soul. " It was then that Fa'ad the teacher, had become Fa'ad the student. He looked at Abdullah, then gave off a joyful laugh; he had made a difference, he had made an impact!

It was then that Fa'ad had a thought... a wonderful and fantastic thought. He would need a - several, doctors, and a building to work out of.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

Ahava Haza
Paris, France, European Federation

Ahava had woken in a penthouse suite in a luxurious hotel in Paris. The city smelled like piss, the people were not friendly, and it was incredibly expensive, but everyone had always said that everyone should go to Paris once. Well, this was her one trip. She'd seen the museums, the tower, and now she was simply to sit around, not knowing if there was anything particularly left to do. She sat up in bed and dropped off her nightgown, changing into more comfortable and casual attire that'd she'd be likely wearing for the rest of the day. This consisted of a black latex tank top that left the midriff exposed paired with a leather miniskirt, a simple matter of what she had lying around in easy reach. With this, she put on a pair of boots to match the skirt, having a small, but notable, heel. A leather choker would act as the only piece of jewelry, and to finish the look she adorned two long gloves matching her shirt in color and material.

Ahava walked over and flopped back down onto a nearby couch. She was tired, although not tired enough to just go back to sleep. Plus, that'd be a waste of a day. After a few minutes, she got up once again and grabbed her guitar, one of the instruments she'd been practicing over the past few years. The aspiring musician slipped a few rings on her begloved fingers, each with a metal extension acting almost like an artificial fingernail and, furthermore, like a guitar pick. She began strumming, at the same time bringing the guitar into tune. It'd been a while since she'd played, and so a little adjustment for the instrument was required. After re-tuning the instrument, she began to play a few short songs to refresh her memory of them and of playing the instrument at all. After this, she put it aside and grabbed a magazine. It was one she had brought with her from Israel, as she absolutely did not know enough French to properly read a whole magazine in it. She did exactly what one does with such things for a decent while, figuring that would be how she would spend her whole morning.

She wished she could say a lot of the things she read were surprising, but unfortunately her time reading had only made her question if the world was just boring lately. There were no stories of significance or anything interesting, leading her to ultimately switch to a brand not related to current news. She went through multiple issues rather quickly, skimming through a fashion magazine, going through a few dedicated to the environment, reading a few articles from one involved with celebrity news, and even taking a gander at one left in her hotel, entirely in French, with a maid on the cover. Curiosity killed the cat, so to speak, and she returned to the issue she'd found so boring.

There was something she had not noticed before. There was, on the cover, in bright lettering, a story about Dubai. Now, this was a city she'd never visited before, and indeed one she'd never thought particularly important. It was in the lawless zone, and not even under the control of a single leader. Various gangs and warlords ruled over the land, and so it seemed a hopeless endeavor. However, right before her eyes, she saw the issue's report on things yet to come, notably rumors of a unification soon. Were that to happen, it would be a huge game-changer in the Middle East for everybody. Business would change drastically, and a new political entity possibly representing the return of stability to the region would rise. It was, suffice to say, something of a shock. Despite being limited to rumors, it was something to keep an eye on, and to keep track of. Taking no delay, she took pictures of the numerous pages the article spanned, and sent said pictures to her father, knowing that should this unification come to fruition, he'd want to know before anyone else. All she got back were two words, "Thank you," before she was forced to continue with her day.

Would she even leave the room at this rate? She had her doubts. That was, until she heard a distinct knock at her door. The confused woman stood to answer it, walking over and opening the door, only to find a letter on her doorstep. She picked it up and reentered her room, reading through it. Suffice to say, it was something highly unexpected: an offer, of sorts, to start up working again. She'd had a past as a mercenary, typically working to bring down crime rings, but that was something she thought long in her past. Here it was, however, right on her doorstep. She paused to think it all over. The pay was very good, but this was a billionaire she was working with. Now, Miss Haza was hardly lacking funding. She had a good pool of money of her own, as well as her family funds, but a little extra could never hurt. She thought it through some more, and realized she could potentially establish some sort of business connection between her father and this man. A little favor to him, then, could be an excellent result.

She had made up her mind. The letter left instructions for meeting her client, and so she would follow them. She, firstly, got dressed a bit nicer. Always good to make a good first impression. She swapped her attire for a More elegant gown with leather handless gloves, giving herself more fashionable boots, and lastly bringing along a leather jacket to complete the look. She grabbed her tactical armor, a tight, non-restrictive suit with various protective plates glued to it, as well as a fancy mask equipped with a communicator, an air filter, and HUD-capable visual display, and tossed these two items into a backpack slung onto her back.

With this backpack, she was prepared to get into work at any time. Just a quick change was all that was necessary. With this, she left to go meet her client, face-to-face.

[Corvus Metallum]

The rain never seemed to stop. It had been a little over a year since she had last step foot in Europe, but she remembered that it always seemed to be raining no matter where she went outside of the Mediterranean’s reach. Perhaps it had been the time of the year she had visited last, or perhaps it was like that all year, but the Carribean woman didn’t seem to mind too much—after all, it had rained consecutively for a third of the year in her native Havana. The coat covering her clothes was modest and unassuming—black and made out of cheap faux-leather—but it did the job of keeping her dry. Under the hood, her hair was tied back in a sort of loose pony tail, with the bangs and some length on the side being allowed to fall free while the rest was restrained from doing so. Although her suppliers were often of the corporate class and demanded professionalism, it was very rare that the Cuban ever fully dressed herself for the occasion, and even then it was more likely to find her in her street clothes. She stood under the awning of a bus stop, cigarette in her mouth and phone in hand to check the time.

A bandage covered one eye as the mark of one her recent run ins with the police in Paris. It was no secret to any intelligence officer worth their salt that she was in town, but there were far bigger targets than a smuggler running medical equipment to embargoed nations and warzones and they knew it. The bandaged eye itself was undamaged—even though getting a replacement on the black market would have been a sinch—but the area around it was bruised or gashed, and had been for a week or so. It was a nusiance, but by no means entirely debilitating. As she put her phone in her coat pocket and let a huff of smoke out, she chuckled at the thought of what had happened to cause the injury: a pub brawl turned into a small-scale riot. Many had gotten away, but she and several others had been roughed up by the city police and jailed for the night and the next day. The bandage had been her own handy work since the police hadn’t bothered to provide any medical attention after they had broken the scene up, but that was business as usual.

Why was she in Paris? One might think that it was business, and it was in small part—she had a contact or two she needed to keep in touch with in the streets and in the higher ups of the city—but for the most part she was here to keep low and prepare for her next job. The last job she had run ended in total disaster—the UNAS had certainly stepped its game up—and she wanted to make sure her next one went without a hitch. She held the cigarette in her hand for a moment before tossing it into the miniature river that was flowing down the street and into the sewage drain, watching it fizzle out into a puff of smoke.

She looked up at the world of neon advertisements above her and snorted in contempt. It was a shame that in a world that seemed to be so rich and plentiful that so many died because of conflict or disease, and she knew it far more than any one of the suits she got her supplies from, far more than the priests and the bishops with their white clothes and their hats. What god would allow the world to be so corrupted and evil? It had never made any sense to her, even as a child on the streets of Havana. The answer was quite simple: either the religious leaders of the world were lying, or they were delusional; there was no god watching, and there certainly wouldn't be an invisible deity righting the wrongs of the world in secret.

With a sigh, she decided to take a look around at some of the signs. Her French was absoluely terrible; she could order a meal and ask for directions, but that was about it. Her occular implants, thankfully, took most of the work out of trying to read it, as they translated it to her native Spanish; it was extremely proper, and in some cases awkward to pick out, but it was better than being completely lost. One of the signs detailed a few specials a fast food joint was running, and another advertised deals on rooms at a hotel, but none of it was particularly interesting.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She reached for it, but paused. It was a disposable phone, and no one was supposed to have the number...no one she hadn't contacted with it already. Any time she entered a country, she destroyed the phone she had been using prior to make it difficult for law enforcement and suppliers alike to keep tabs on her whereabouts...and, thus far, she hadn't contacted anyone of note with it. She took it out of her pocket and noticed that it was a text message: "¿Donde estás?"

[Stadenwick]

Paris
European Federation
Ludwig von Heidreich

The flying car Ludwig rode slowly and gently descend from the sky of Paris down to it's street, but it's speed is sure as it heading toward the Hotel Internationale. There's annual secret meeting of cartel of Euro-American Corporation there. Ludwig can't believe he forget that when he still going home from Madrid, he was tired, of course, but he didn't expect himself to forget such event. He even made a notification beforehand several days ago that he personally will come to represent the Heidreich Industries, he loves that meeting. On that meeting various of delegates of European and American corporation will gather to that meeting, and since he's the C.E.O of Europe's largest cybernetic corporation, even his presence there demand power and respect from those old people. He could say the reason he always coming is pure business, but that would be lying, seeing old men and women calculating what he would say and playing around by veto-ing the meeting does entail personal fun.

We'll shortly be arriving at the lobby of Hotel Internationale, E.T.A 3 minutes. The security personnel consisted of several security robot and human bodyguard you asked before is now there ready for arrival as we speak. The building has also been searched from any hostile element and will be under heavy surveillance and security during meeting as the safety custom dictate. But for the safety precaution and your personal request this car would be on position to reach you and bring you out to safety fast. Good luck, Mr. von Heidreich , the car A.I announce to him. It's kind of neat, not friendly and ready for the market yet, but it's a huge leap to make auto-pilot a co-pilot. Maybe in the next two year or so, if nothing goes wrong, this feature will be fully developed and become a major hit in the market.

Then his car stopped, Ludwig had arrived in the hotel. The security he asked for, or by the size of it might as well be a small army greeted him and followed him in his back and side. The robot security take the air and protect from that area too. Did the computer thinks his precaution as the request for extensive safety and thus request security this huge? He have to look at the equation sometime soon. He walked to the elevator and the security split, some of them stay with Ludwig while the other use other means to get to 122nd floor. Whatever that is, there's no way that it's stairs. After some floor, his smart watch vibrate again as he received new text from his mole. He looked back to the security, which by the demand of courtesy, they start looking away from him. He open the text, read it for a while and decide to make this visit short, London awaits him, and so does this fella William Hamilton.

Alright boss, I get who you can talk to about this whole thing, with the disappearance and what not. I dig in the lab's personnel data and find a guy that might know something more than what the server showing. Goes by the name of William Hamilton, a detective of some-sort working for client whose his brother just turn AWOL after working for Xylon lab in the artic, of course with the other 799 researcher that goes missing. Last seen in London entering a dinky pub, but probably already gone by now. If you want information more than this, ask this guy, the computer won't give anything more. I'll help you find him in London using the public surveillance camera, once you're there.

- A

[United Human Planets]

Sonny Mizuno
Chicago

Sonny waltzed through the two double doors on the outside of the "teahouse," all a mess of patchwork jeans, and a t-shirt with Japanese characters for strength, protection and samurai sewn onto the sleeves. On his head, he wore an old, scruffy flat brim hat, which he had cocked to the right side, and from his back pocket hung a red handkerchief. In his hands, he carried a samurai sword, in a dark wooden sheath, covered in carvings of dragons. He rested it on his shoulder as he walked, and in his waistband was a pistol, which he hadn't even bothered to cover, simply tucking his shirt into his pants underneath it, to try and complete the crazy style which he liked to wear, and which had become so popular among those who affiliated with the Low Chicago Samurai. They ran the most Tea Houses in the city, and had a firm grip around the balls of the VR Chem industry in North America, and the hackers who the gang trained were supposed to be some of the best around, and Sonny ran it all. In short, he was a man of business, and not a man to be trifled with.

He was here, in the tea house, to collect a debt owed to him. While he couldn't handle every problem that came up in his thriving business of drugs, and corporate secrets, he liked to handle the ones in Chicago, where he made his base of operations. It made him feel more in control, and kept his presence in the businesses he and his Samurai "protected." Made it clear that he wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty.

Sonny sauntered through the halls with the swagger of a 1990s rap star, and was framed by to very large, and very burly men, each wearing shirts with Japanese characters sewn into them, and red handkerchiefs in their pockets, just like their boss. Eventually the trio came to a desk, near the middle of the Tea House, where a rat faced man with greasy black hair sat, reading an article off of the screen imbedded in his arm. Sonny walked up to the desk, and brought his sword down with a thwak onto the table, startling the man and making him jump at least two inches into the air.

"Sinan!" Said Sonny, in that sweet spot where ones voice was somewhere between a yell and an inside voice, "Youve been skippng out."

Sinan stared at Sonny in disbelief, as if he never expected to actually see some low level thug in his shop, let alone the crime boss in charge of one of the largest gangs in Chicago. He composed himself, and said very quickly, with a nervous stutter, "Oh, oh, u-u-um Mr M-Mizuno! I didnt expect to s-see you."

"Yeah, well, you see me. But, thats not the point Sinan. The point is you ow me some money."

Sinan balked, before saying "I wasnt aware that I owed you money, M-Mr Mizuno."

It was Sonnys turn to balk, and he stepped back slightly before leaning in, getting his nose an inch away from Sinan's. "What do you mean you 'didnt know?" Sonny said it almost in a whisper, angry, and seething with indgnation.

"I-I-Im sorry Mr Mizuno, b-but I thought you didnt need it till n-n-next we-"

Sonny erupted, getting right up in Sinans face, grabbing his caller to pull him in even closer, so that their two foreheads were touching as he yelled, "What the fuck do you mean, you thought it was next week! Its always been every two weeks you stupid fuck! You know as well as I that you were skipping out, you ass! And we all know what happens where you skip out! When you skip out, I disapear, and thugs come ad trash your shit! And you cant do anything about it! Now, If I dont have my money by this time two days from now, I will personally come back here, cut your head off with this sword, and then shit down your NECK!"

The two men stared at one another, Sinan looking afraid and timid, and Sonny with his mouth pinched up in frustration, his left eye twitching slightly. Without a word, he pushed Sinan back into his chair, and made his way back to the door, to where he car was waiting. On the way out, he made sure to bring his sword down onto a table as well, smashing a tea pot, and one of the VR head sets.

[Ghondra]

London, European Federation
William Hamilton

The Queen Catherine Memorial Hospital was in its busiest night in months, or so William discerned at the amount of people in the lobby, the ICU and the bed rooms. In the hallways people with broken bones, dislocated shoulders, flu and other 'minor' injuries and sickness sat, as their rooms were vacated to make way for the large numbers of patients with an unidentified disease. William was here to visit the first patient checked in with the same symptoms as the other patients. She was checked in four days ago, under the name of "Sofia Gabrielova" and by the looks of it she was a colleague of the Cyborg he was tasked with finding.

William sneaked in a couple of 20 euro notes to the nurse on station to let him have some alone time with the patient. He took a seat next to her and stared at her for what seemed to be the longest time. She was tall, Slavic with flowing dark hair, she was pale, her skin almost grey. By the looks of it she was a Genie, she had an almost unnatural beauty, like almost all of them, he grabbed the smartpaper that Rosenberg fellow gave him and searched for the name Sofia Gabrielova among the 80 or so dossiers of the Xylon Researchers. She was one of them.

William began sweating bullets, before he decided to wake her.

"Miss, wake up" He nudged her a few times before she woke up from her sickly slumber, she was weak, and grew paler and grayer every minute, Bill knew he didn't have a lot of time to question her. "Miss, are you Sofia Gabrielova?" She nodded, "You worked for Xylon Pharmaceuticals?" She paused, pondering as to whether or not she should answer that question, before nodding. "Then can you tell me about the Nanovirus you've been infected with"

She herself broke out in a cold sweat at the mention of "Nanovirus" but she did decide to answer him, the information didn't matter much to a dead person. "Its called the Grey Flood" Her voice was weak and hoarse, as if her throat had been wrapped in coals.

"Who made it?"

"The Sino-Russian Federation and the-" She coughed in spasms, at that moment the Nurse came in"
"Sir, I'm afraid you have to leave now"
"Who? Tell me Sofia, tell me?!" William shouted desperately as he was dragged outside the room by two orderlies who were visibly struggling.
"Sir please- Oh no she's flat lining!"

William was dragged outside the hospital by security, with barely anymore information than he had previously. He still had a lot of questions, and he added one more to that list. "Who's the other maker of the virus?" He said to himself as he grabbed his phone, calling Adam Rosenberg. "Rosenberg, its me Hamilton. We have to meet face to face."
"Same place you met me last time, Phoenix Club, 5 PM. Be on time"

[Lunas Legion]

Skies Over Germany
European Federation

The meeting had gone about as well as expected, in that exactly nothing productive had been accomplished. Nothing ever was, these days; they were more of a formality than anything else. But the meeting was over, and Erika was back on her plane, this time to inspect her remaining research stations.

The plane itself was a commercial airliner, meant to carry hundreds, but modified to serve as Erika's home away from home. It was opulent, gaudy, and had actually put a minor dent in her net worth such was it's cost. But she would only ever accept the best.

Erika, however, was content to simply sit in her favourite seat, a brown leather armchair, glass of champagne in hand, and stare out the window over the clouds in contemplation of how everything had suddenly gone from completely under her control to spiralling wildly off in all directions.

First, there was the 'Grey Flood'. She had been against it's development as soon as she learned of it; after all, it would kill her, and she couldn't have that. But development had taken place back when there was none of this 'occultery' at large, and the rest of the Conspiracy had forced it's development as a 'trump card', a last-ditch weapon if everything fell apart around them. It was ironic, then, that the weapon had caused everything to fall apart. Some of the Conspiracy got the idea that it was to 'purify' Earth, wipe the slate clean for their new 'master race' or 'gods', while some still believed in it's original purpose.

She was one of the latter. The Antarctic Station had been one of her more hidden stations; run by Xylon on behalf of the Sino-Russians who in turn were running it because a friend of a friend convinced them to allow her to pursue some black projects there. The assets there were disposable; she made sure never to have an asset that wasn't. 800 researchers and $2 billion could be replaced. That particular station was one of several she had redirected to researching a hard counter to the Grey Flood; in secret, of course. The rest of the Conspiracy had them as storage or production facilities for the Flood or research programs for other, more conventional weapons.

The program had only been in it's early stages; she thought she had time to develop a counter. But now it was out there, in the world. With a successful impromptu field test, no doubt the nutcases would want to release it in full soon. She did not know how close a counter was, but if she, or rather her researchers, could not develop a counter, then there was only one option left to her. If you cannot counter the weapon, you must make sure it is never fired. And there was only ever going to be one way to do that.

[Cackle]

European Federation
London
Axel Nygaard

Axel arrived at the club, annoyed at the loud music, but also concerned. He had thought William's investigation would take longer than this. Chances were, he hadn't been compromised, but the plan had gone wrong. But there was always the possibility that William was linked to him. As such, Axel had concealed one of his daggers in his sleeve, and brought poison. Should things go South, he would stab whoever had captured William, and run for the exit. It likely wouldn't succeed, but it was a better plan than nothing.

Luckily, it didn't come to that. Axel found William sitting alone at the bar counter. "I do apologize for being late, Mister Hamilton." Axel said, with false humility. He sat next to William. Then Axel frowned. "So what went wrong, William? Your investigation couldn't have ended this early." Axel whispered. William shook his head. "No, Adam. My best lead died. She was a surviving scientist from the infected scientists. I got some information out of her on the Grey Flood, but she died halfway through. I know now, though, that the Sino-Russians, among others are involved." Axel's eyes went wide at that.This investigation would now definitely prove of use to him. But if it led to William finding out about his occupation, things would go poorly for him. "Quite interesting..." Axel muttered.

He turned to William. "I have some new information, too. Every person infected at first was a Cyber. I brushed it off at first as a coincidence, but if the Sino-Russians are involved, this may be part of something bigger. This might not be an accidental leak, William." Axel thought for a moment. "While it is frustrating that our best lead died, we may have another. Have you ever heard of Ludwig von Heidreich?" William nodded, and Axel continued. "If anyone would have an interest in information that might hurt Xylon, it would be him. He would probably kill for the information you have, if he doesn't have it already. I think he would be more than willing to help us out. There's just a slight problem: I have no idea where he is. But if you could find him, it would benefit all involved."

Suddenly, the doors burst inward, and bullets began flying, with armed men pouring through the entrance. William grabbed Axel, and dragged him to the exit. Axel's heart pounded in his ears. He couldn't die yet. He was too good to die so soon. As soon as they got a safe distance away from the building, William let go of Axel, and Axel collapsed. He was visibly shaken. For all his riches, he had been so powerless to prevent that. "Forfanden," Axel said, unknowingly slipping back into Danish. "Somebody must have heard about our investigation. That was for too organized to be a simple criminal operation." He looked William directly in the eyes. "William, somebody really doesn't want us to know what we know. We need to find von Heidrich."

[Cybraxia]

XVII
Paris, France
European Federation

---

"So run this by me again? You're saying that all you have is a rumor?"

The voice on the other end of the line sighed. "Yes, there are rumors of a major attack going on-"

Kim Rowland cut off the voice. "Look, I'm not sure if you're aware or not, but there's always suspicion about attacks any time a meeting like this happens. You're wasting my time."

"We have more than just rumors, however. We have a possible ID on the suspect."

Kim blinked. "What."

"We do not have a name to go with the face, but by chance we managed to snag a photo of the man." An image of a Middle-Eastern man appeared in front of Kim. "For now, judging by appearance, it safe to assume that he was a former refugee, as such, we've nicknamed him simply as 'The Refugee'."

"Lovely," Kim snarked. "So, tell me how you managed to find this out when Interpol doesn't even have this information."

"I'm sorry Miss Rowland, but that isn't how this works. Prevent the attack, however... You'll get a VIP pass to our facility. For now, we'd like you to meet up with one of our agents. They might be a bit distracted for this, but they'll definitely be useful for helping you." A location was sent to her.

"So, any more cryptic information?" Kim asked.

"That's all for now, Miss Rowland. Good hunting. The line went dead. Lovely. Kim walked away from the window she was standing at. Who was that? Could they be trusted?

This is too good to be true, Kim mused, smirking. Perfect. She put on her jacket, and, insuring that all that she needed was with her, exited the hotel room.

---

Agent Eclipse-II
Tokyo, Japan
Republic of East Asia

---

"What should I be expecting?"

"Light guards, not much. It's not like it's a Black Site."

"SOP?" The woman asked.

"Non-fatal only, and try not to leave a trace, we want it to look like he broke out of his own accord. Secondary objective is to steal the relevant files on the entity. Remember that we have a limited window. Section 9 only agreed to this because we go back, but we don't want to overstay our welcome."

"Affirmative."

"Eclipse, you sure you can handle this? Something like this has never been done before."

"Relax, the fork in Paris only has to talk and show files for now. By the time that we need my full attention there, we'll be done here."

"You of all people know your limitations. Good luck, Eclipse." The tail end of the VTOL opened, and a robotic frame ran out, free-falling towards the facility below.

[Shark isle]

Ahava Haza
Paris, France, European Federation

Ahava had woken in a penthouse suite in a luxurious hotel in Paris. The city smelled like piss, the people were not friendly, and it was incredibly expensive, but everyone had always said that everyone should go to Paris once. Well, this was her one trip. She'd seen the museums, the tower, and now she was simply to sit around, not knowing if there was anything particularly left to do. She sat up in bed and dropped off her nightgown, changing into more comfortable and casual attire that'd she'd be likely wearing for the rest of the day. This consisted of a black latex tank top that left the midriff exposed paired with a leather miniskirt, a simple matter of what she had lying around in easy reach. With this, she put on a pair of boots to match the skirt, having a small, but notable, heel. A leather choker would act as the only piece of jewelry, and to finish the look she adorned two long gloves matching her shirt in color and material.

Ahava walked over and flopped back down onto a nearby couch. She was tired, although not tired enough to just go back to sleep. Plus, that'd be a waste of a day. After a few minutes, she got up once again and grabbed her guitar, one of the instruments she'd been practicing over the past few years. The aspiring musician slipped a few rings on her begloved fingers, each with a metal extension acting almost like an artificial fingernail and, furthermore, like a guitar pick. She began strumming, at the same time bringing the guitar into tune. It'd been a while since she'd played, and so a little adjustment for the instrument was required. After re-tuning the instrument, she began to play a few short songs to refresh her memory of them and of playing the instrument at all. After this, she put it aside and grabbed a magazine. It was one she had brought with her from Israel, as she absolutely did not know enough French to properly read a whole magazine in it. She did exactly what one does with such things for a decent while, figuring that would be how she would spend her whole morning.

She wished she could say a lot of the things she read were surprising, but unfortunately her time reading had only made her question if the world was just boring lately. There were no stories of significance or anything interesting, leading her to ultimately switch to a brand not related to current news. She went through multiple issues rather quickly, skimming through a fashion magazine, going through a few dedicated to the environment, reading a few articles from one involved with celebrity news, and even taking a gander at one left in her hotel, entirely in French, with a maid on the cover. Curiosity killed the cat, so to speak, and she returned to the issue she'd found so boring.

There was something she had not noticed before. There was, on the cover, in bright lettering, a story about Dubai. Now, this was a city she'd never visited before, and indeed one she'd never thought particularly important. It was in the lawless zone, and not even under the control of a single leader. Various gangs and warlords ruled over the land, and so it seemed a hopeless endeavor. However, right before her eyes, she saw the issue's report on things yet to come, notably rumors of a unification soon. Were that to happen, it would be a huge game-changer in the Middle East for everybody. Business would change drastically, and a new political entity possibly representing the return of stability to the region would rise. It was, suffice to say, something of a shock. Despite being limited to rumors, it was something to keep an eye on, and to keep track of. Taking no delay, she took pictures of the numerous pages the article spanned, and sent said pictures to her father, knowing that should this unification come to fruition, he'd want to know before anyone else. All she got back were two words, "Thank you," before she was forced to continue with her day.

Would she even leave the room at this rate? She had her doubts. That was, until she heard a distinct knock at her door. The confused woman stood to answer it, walking over and opening the door, only to find a letter on her doorstep. She picked it up and reentered her room, reading through it. Suffice to say, it was something highly unexpected: an offer, of sorts, to start up working again. She'd had a past as a mercenary, typically working to bring down crime rings, but that was something she thought long in her past. Here it was, however, right on her doorstep. She paused to think it all over. The pay was very good, but this was a billionaire she was working with. Now, Miss Haza was hardly lacking funding. She had a good pool of money of her own, as well as her family funds, but a little extra could never hurt. She thought it through some more, and realized she could potentially establish some sort of business connection between her father and this man. A little favor to him, then, could be an excellent result.

She had made up her mind. The letter left instructions for meeting her client, and so she would follow them. She, firstly, got dressed a bit nicer. Always good to make a good first impression. She swapped her attire for a More elegant gown with leather handless gloves, giving herself more fashionable boots, and lastly bringing along a leather jacket to complete the look. She grabbed her tactical armor, a tight, non-restrictive suit with various protective plates glued to it, as well as a fancy mask equipped with a communicator, an air filter, and HUD-capable visual display, and tossed these two items into a backpack slung onto her back.

With this backpack, she was prepared to get into work at any time. Just a quick change was all that was necessary. With this, she left to go meet her client, face-to-face.

Raven Claw Tavern, Paris France

Jurgen walked into the Raven Claw Tavern while holding on to a briefcase. He walked up to the host and said to him in french," Table for two please, I am expecting someone else," The host nodded and led Jurgen to a available table in the back of the restaurant. As Jurgen sat down he suddenly had a coughing fit, ever since he had gotten lung cancer these coughing fits became more common. He then brought out a photograph, on the photograph was a picture of Haza, the women he had to keep an eye on. He then started to sip a glass of water and kept an eye on the door for the mercenary.

[Greater Istanistan]

Outside the slums, it was sunny and the air remained clear. The Parisian government had paid through the nose for some kind of smog-repelling field, meaning that for the rich (and overwhelmingly white) population there the slums were no more than an occasional afterthought. While the shield kept the air out, the cordons of cops and armed guards would inevitably move to quietly shuffle the homeless, the poor, and the UN refugees back to their ghettoes. It wouldn’t do to have the unsightliness of Paris impinge upon the playground for the wealthy and the awed tourists who choked the streets.

Sayyid, sneering in the most banal fashion he could manage and wearing an exceptionally sharp suit, was walking five small dogs. He’d borrowed them all from his neighbors, and in the snootiest fashion he could manage he promenaded down the Champs D’Élysees while periodically turning up his nose at other people. He was wearing a man-purse – a rather bizarre affair for him when his normal outfit consisted of either a battered corduroy suit jacket which had seen its prime about thirty years ago coupled with browning khaki pants or traditional robes. Still, it served its purpose. The dogs, who had not been trained in the same manners as the canines of the rich, periodically squatted and released their bowels upon the storied sidewalks of France’s most famous street in front of the world’s greatest fashion houses and boutiques. Whenever this happened, Sayyid stopped the dogs, deliberately let them spread out to trip up and inconvenience passers-by, and picked up the poop in plastic bags. At periodically placed garbage bins, he then tossed the bags in. They always landed with a “clunk”, signifying a weight far greater than the defecations of a series of small dogs would indicate. Nobody else noticed.

Sayyid was suddenly brought to a halt by an immaculately-uniformed police officer, who stood before him pompously, blew his whistle twice, and knitted his brows disapprovingly.

“Monsieur”, he said, “It is illegal to walk so many dogs upon the Champs D’Élysees. You will have to come with me to the station so that I can give you a ticket for walking so many dogs and causing such a public disturbance. I fear that they are unsightly, and ruining the atmosphere. That is a crime here, monsieur, which you will have to answer for.”

It was time for a little fun. Sayyid’s usual enjoyment consisted of trading witticisms with Mr. Nyobe, discovering new literature in the back of an old used book shop, and playing along well to a favourite record, so shaking things up with some of his other talents was always fun. Everyone at the University of Tehran had once thought that the name of Sayyid Amman would be on every theatre poster the world over. Now it was on every crime alert instead. How things changed.

“I am deeply offended, policeman! Do you have any idea who you are talking to? Do you?”

Sayyid drew himself up until he met the policeman’s gaze head-on, before tilting his head back so he could still look down his nose at the man. His dark eyebrows trembled in faux indignation.

“The law does not care who you are, monsieur-“

“I am Eladdine bin Eladdine, the Sultan of Agrabah, and I will not put up with this! There is no law against walking my dogs along the streets, and the only one who creates a disturbance is you, sir! I am an eminently respectable citizen with a well-recognized legal team, and it would take only the smallest fraction of my vast fortune to so overwhelm the police here with lawsuits that the entire city would be bankrupted! How dare you treat me like you would a refugee, policeman!”

Immediately, the cop looked around, muttered his apologies, and beat a hasty retreat. Sayyid almost laughed at himself. His whole man-purse, after all, was full of home-made plasma grenades with remote detonators. When put in a garbage can, they would lay dormant until a signal was received, then blow. The can itself, as well as whatever was in it, would be blasted outwards and serve as a deadly hail of shrapnel. The can was itself a bomb. How ironic. Another dog lifted its tail and whined. Sighing, Sayyid ducked down and picked up the results, before continuing onwards. Another “clunk”. Sayonara, Dior.

About half an hour later, Sayyid found himself across a broad plaza from the glimmering facade of the “Hotel Internationale”, apparently the site of the annual Euro-American Economic Conference. Between him and the structure stood a massive number of gendarmes milling about, as well as reporters. A cleared pathway to the doors stood open directly in front of Sayyid, the entrance flanked by ten or twelve gun-toting soldiers. That was probably where the VIPs would walk past the hordes of rabid journalists to reach the building. It was covered from above by an elegant awning, and regularly flanked by more guards. There was no way to approach it easily from the sides, or target people below it by firing downwards from above. A subtle, but effective, defence. Unfortunately for them, the French security services had one problem. They’d left the path in too wide. Such would be their undoing.

Pulling out his cell phone – bought from a street vendor of smuggled goods with a stolen SIM card with cash – Sayyid tapped in a number he’d memorized that morning. After two rings, he began to speak.

“Yes hello, I’d like to speak to you about a delivery... Yes, it’s Mister Sandros from earlier calling! How were your son’s exams... Good, good... Anyways, I dropped a package off with you earlier. Could I have it delivered to 13 “Plaza Internationale”? That would be wonderful... Thank you! And good luck to your son as well.”

After less than a minute of conversation, Sayyid hung up, before pressing a button.

Five, four, three, two, one.

There was a muffled “whump” in the difference as the garbage-bin bombs went off, cutting into the massive throngs of bourgeois midday shoppers seeking to pick up the latest in decadent fashion. They spent more on a pair of shoes than most refugees could see in a year. The dozens – hopefully hundreds – of deaths that had just occurred were no weight on Sayyid’s conscience. The rich were all implicit in the mass repression of the poor. Even the clerks in the shops were all upper-middle class – there was no way such prestigious firms would, or even under the law could, hire refugees. The urban poor were scarcely more likely. His conscience was clean. As he watched, the police officers began to enter a state of panic, with dozens at a time peeling off and either piling into squad cars or simply bolting on foot towards the blast site, just as intended. He kept his phone out, but shifted it from his right hand to his left.

Less than five minutes later, a delivery lorry pulled up to Sayyid. The window rolled down, and a young man leaned out.

“You Mister Sandros?”, he asked, picking his acne-pocked nose with one hand while resting his other on the window.

Sayyid responded by pulling out his Mataber, pointing it at the young man, and shooting him. At the same time, he pressed the screen again, triggering a second barrage of blasts closer by. With any luck, he’d caught many of the responding police officers in them and could claim a higher kill-count. The explosions would also hopefully cover up the gunshot. The delivery-boy was blown backwards into the vehicle, brains splattering the dashboard. Quickly, Sayyid jumped up onto the vehicle’s runner, popped the door open, turned on the truck’s self-steering function, and programmed in a single minor step. He then delved into his man-purse one more time, pulled out a brick, and placed it on the gas pedal. The truck leapt forwards, course automatically adjusting, and Sayyid ditched the bag and began to run. The truck rapidly picked up speed, bolting across the short section of road and through the still-open path to the Hotel Internationale’s doors. The few soldiers left guarding it, already confused, attempted to fire into the tires of the truck. Before they could stop it, it was already upon them and they scattered before it. Random volleys of gunfire from the confused and demoralized gendarmes had little more effect. The truck careened through the plate-glass doors of the hotel and slammed into the elevator bank at the back of the lobby, catching flame.

For the last time, Sayyid pressed the button on his phone, then crushed it underfoot and ran for his life.

The “package”, being his full-scale plasma bomb, went off with a blinding flash of light. Sprinting, Sayyid did not look back. The police were now dealing with two crises at the same time, and if he ran he could make it back to the refugee camps where they would never find him.

Mission accomplished, he reflected as he ran, and not a single innocent lost.

[Republic of the Cristo]

Indian Ocean Union
New Delhi

Righteous Revolution Radio

Xylon Pharmaceuticals. A multinational , mutli-billion dollar, human augmentation company, which employs hundreds of thousands of men and women across the entire world. This company peddles a sinful product, and force their employees to accept augmentations in one form or another; and now, they have cut their wages.

The Rajiput factory just outside of Hazgurah burrow has cut the wages of 50% of their staff by as much as 24%. That's nearly 1,000 people! Why, you might ask, have they done this? Coincidentally, the local manager and the local shareholders have been given significant pay raises. There we have it... The business class has taken yet another chance at profiting off of the backs of those whom they already treat like slaves. Don't be shocked though, you shouldn't be shocked what so ever - they have been doing this for nearly 200 years now. We were seeing the signs of our " progress " destroying the world that God has given us over 100 years ago, but the capitalists didn't care, and kept right on destroying our land, and building shopping malls and plastic surgery clinics right over the destruction. Now look at India today, the forests are gone! Our once exotic and wonderful animals live only in captivity! The air is hardly ever clean! The only source of clean water we have now is from the Indian Ocean!

Who, who can we blame for these atrocities? Can we blame God for destroying our home? Can we blame the government? Can we blame the capitalists? No, we can blame ourselves. We let our hedonism deceive our minds and take us from God's path. No, it is not the capitalists fault for destroying our home - both physically and spiritually - but ourselves. Just because our land is scared though, does not mean we should simply lay down and surrender. The capitalists have destroyed our land, and now intend to make slaves of us. I know it may seem pointless to confront such a giant like Xylon pharmaceuticals, but you are not doing for yourself, your not doing it for India, your not even doing it for your children. You are standing up to the capitalists to let them know that you are not their slave; that you are free from their control, and submit to Allah alone! To let them know that you will never let their black and corrupting tentacles constrain and constrict that which is most important; our very being. You are doing it for yourself... and you are not doing it alone.

Do not accept this wage cut; workers at Rajiput, do not accept this people of Delhi. We take a stand here, we let them know that they can't treat us like this without serious repercussions. The PHR has already set up the stage for a strike outside of the Rajiput factory. I ask, everybody who has any respect for their fellow working man, for fair wages, and for himself to come out and support our brothers and sisters in need. Allah Akbar

In more Righteous Revolution Radio news, we have recently bought the rights to a new station in Mumbai, so we will be setting up there within the month as well. Tune in on the 13th got out next show. This has been your host, Fa'ad Mubarak. Good day.

Rajiput factory entrance

Rajiput factory is a massive facility laid out over about an acre of land. It is an industrial plant, focusing mainly on the production of processing chips for brain implant based cybernetics. It was a massive metal beast, sitting in the middle of a brown and dusty countryside, peppered with the occasional sheet metal home.

the natural beauty of India has been almost completely destroyed in nearly every corner of the sub continent, leaving only a brown and ugly carcass of it's former glory behind. Despite the gloom of the scene though, there were still a significant number of men and women crowded outside of the gates to enter into Rajiput. The crowd was dressed in an assortment of usual street clothing, thobes, chitas, and workers overalls. There were easily over 100 people ( mostly men ), and most were unusually dirty. About 10 or so of them were sitting directly in front of the factory gates, refusing to move despite the line of trucks facing them down in order to get in. They linked arms as they sat, staring on stoically as 4 police officers began to pull two men out of the line. To the astonishment of the police officers, as soon as they had lifted up two of the men, another two men broke off from the crowd and took up were the last two had been sitting. The two new men looked up at the police officers, almost asking what they would do about them. The trucks in the line honked their horns and the police sighed, with over 100 protesters present, they knew today was going to long.

" Make sure to catch their expressions as the police try and lift them up. " Mahamoud nudged a teenager with a very expensive camera on his shoulder. There were several camera men positioned in several locations. They were purposely being seen, so as to prompt the strikers to be a bit more... showy for the camera. Fa'ad had called for the strike only an hour and a half ago, and already they were receiving a growing number of people here. Mahamoud looked on at his handy work, knowing full well that this piece of propaganda would be most certainly coasted upon in the next local elections. He felt two hands grab his shoulders, accompanied by a laugh. He turned his head to see a gleeful Fa'ad. He was wearing tan dress pants, a rich brown leather belt, and a white button up shirt. His hair was slicked back, and his dark black beard was coming in quite nicely. That is what Mahamoud liked about Fa'ad, nothing was half way done or mellow about him, he always fully dedicated and exuberant about what he was involved in. " Look at it my friend. The faithful sticking to the man. "

Mahamoud cocked his eyebrow at Fa'ad, " I am pretty sure that a few hindus are among them. " Fa'ad took his hand's off Mahamoud's shoulder's and threw them up, " What ever, they are here because I called them here. Now, get the camera's ready, and about 40,000 rupees ready. " he then started walking up towards the line of protesters. Mahamoud called out to him, " What do you think you are doing? "

Fa'ad turned back around and smiled, " Are you kidding me? I have to be filmed with the police arresting me! Allah Akabar!"

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

Raven Claw Tavern, Paris France

Jurgen walked into the Raven Claw Tavern while holding on to a briefcase. He walked up to the host and said to him in french," Table for two please, I am expecting someone else," The host nodded and led Jurgen to a available table in the back of the restaurant. As Jurgen sat down he suddenly had a coughing fit, ever since he had gotten lung cancer these coughing fits became more common. He then brought out a photograph, on the photograph was a picture of Haza, the women he had to keep an eye on. He then started to sip a glass of water and kept an eye on the door for the mercenary.

Ahava Haza
Paris, France


Ahava was taking a gentle stroll down the street, taking her sweet time in doing so. It was, though, only a few minutes before she put on her tactical mask, specifically for the gas mask function. The streets of Paris smelled like urine and feces constantly, and the longer she stayed outside, staying out of the wealthy district in heading to a humble tavern, the more offensive the scent got. It did not take long to become overwhelming to the girl, who was much more used to the cleaner air of the Middle East. Good old Jerusalem had never had an issue with dirty air, as the city had gone clean long before that damage could be done. Furthermore, the people of the Middle East did not line their rivers and hills and streets with sewage. There was most certainly a disgusting aspect to the city of Paris, and thus it was a city she was glad that she would, hopefully, never be returning to.

As the girl walked the streets, she saw quite the humorous scene. A man with five dogs shouting at a policeman that he was the sultan of a land in a movie which, in Ahava's youth, was considered a cult classic. She can't say she sympathized with the policeman, especially given how funny the whole sight was. Ignoring the event, she continued walking. There were many shops around this area, many of which were small businesses owned by locals. Whereas in Ahava's youth, such things meant that there was typically a great deal of care and effort put into the wares, nowadays they were all grossly overpriced. Still, she couldn't help but notice that there was a storm on the horizon, covering the slums of the city. Seeing that Ahava was soon to be receiving a rather large pay anyways, she saw fit to stop by the shop and buy a grossly overpriced raincoat, which she stuffed into her purse. She continued walking.

Soon, the tavern came into view. She sighed in relief, noticing that it was still rather close to the shopping district and, therefore, not too far into the hearth of pungent and repulsive odor. She approached the tavern, and upon stepping inside, she removed her mask and enjoyed a clean breath of fresh air. Not that the air outside wasn't clean, as the smog was trapped behind a barrier and forced into the slums, for which Ahava felt a better solution for clean air was necessary, however no amount of shielding could prevent the smell of waste that covered the whole city and drifted through the river. Inside buildings, however, the smell was thankfully gone. She walked up to the man at the front and tried her best to explain her situation, that she was to meet a man here by the name of Jurgen. After a few minutes, she was guided to the back table with her client. Before any talks could start, however, something rather peculiar happened.

Boom. The bombs went off, sending shrapnel everywhere. Bloody and torn corpses filled the streets outside, and the restaurant's windows blasted inwards and slashed anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close. This was, certainly, not something she'd prepared for, and a "quick change" into her armor was out of the question, as she was fully in public and without the time she needed to actually carry that out. Not that Ahava was thinking too clearly, of course. Bombs are no joke, and they easily disorient everyone nearby, regardless of their explosive and shrapnel range. After a few moments of recuperation, Ahava came to her senses and flipped the table over, providing a makeshift blast shield. She ducked under it and, if her client had not the sense, reflex, or orientation to do so, she dragged him behind it too. Wordless, more accurately speechless, she sat in leftover shock as the second volley of bombs went off, slaughtering the police who had come to investigate. Poor Ahava dare not peek over the table for fear of what she might see, her ears ringing from the explosions.

She reapplied her mask, the only thing she could think to do, and realized that she had not brought any weapons with her.