Operation Waterlily (PMT/MT, Closed ATTN JSF)

[Itailian Maifias]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia

The sky boomed with thunder, the chests of the grey water soaked clouds surging as the skies cannons rang off warnings to the wordly inhabitants below that the warriors of the skies were ready to let loose their munitions on the world below. In the darkening horizion, Fort Augustus Caesar's large and ornate walls loomed in the distance from the dirt road that led to the Fort. The Joint Strike Force flag flew over the battlements as well as the Itailian flag, both flapping in the moderate winds that were beginning to pick up. A large creaking is heard and one can hear the playing of drums coming form inside the courtyard, a sad and desolate tune being played as the gates of the great fortress opened up, revealing a casket with the Strykla flag drapped over it with four casket bearers, all of them Strykla nationals except the man at the front left. The man stuck out among the rest of the procession, is age worn features were the most visible difference amongst the crowd of relatively young soldiers. The tan dress uniform of the Itailian Army was heavily decorated with ribbons and one purple medal had four pins on the cloth part of the medal while a large one with a blue and white cloth was around his neck. For the soldiers, he was their leader, friend and mentor. For an outsider, he was General John Lynch, former Commander in Chief of the Itailian Armed Forces, Commander of Joint Strike Force and a legend to the people of the Empire and the few close allies who still might recognize him. Inside the casket was former JSF-1 member and long time comrade, Jeff Shepard who was killed when he returned to his home and died in a SpecOps operation overseas. While he had not been on a JSF mission at the time, the Strykla government consented to letting the JSF burying him. The procession moved out of the large gates and onto the dirt road, down the long windy path headed for the graveyard two miles down the road.

Basically, just post your thoughts or reactions as we walk down the road

[Obamacain]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia

Dan Tomas kept his head low as he followed the procession. It had been a while since the Joint Strike Force had seen fighting and yet its members still found a way to bite the bullet. In Sheppard's case, the reaper came in the force of a train full of unexploded ordinances. An explosion of that magnitude would've killed the man immediately, Tomas could only hope. A quick death was much more preferable to a long extended death like that of Tim Rush.

Dan had only known Sheppard through their experiences in the Joint Strike Force and yet Dan still felt like he had lost a friend or family member. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had been charged with reassembling the Joint Strike Force for Operation Vampiric Rescue. Dan had to flip through endless papers of information on each of the scattered agents, and knew some of their darker secrets. In a way, this helped Dan connect with each of the agents.

Sheppard had been one of the more successful Joint Strike Force agents when it came to living a proper life back home. Sheppard had found his way back into the Styrklan military when Tomas had called him. Dan still remembered the first words he said to Sheppard, "Seems you are a wanted man Mr. Sheppard" . Additionally, Tomas remembered when Tim Rush had died and Sheppard had shown his compassion in saying some words of condolences to the dead comrade. Dan only wished he could've done the same.

But those times were gone, and now the Joint Strike Force was dying. The members seemed disassembled, with little cooperation amongst the group. Dan only wished that maybe there could be a rejuvenation of the group. Over the years, Dan had had his problems with the JSF and had been reluctant to join it. However, after he did so it turned out to be one of his most memorable things he had ever done and it helped him to cope with his problem. John Lynch had his own country's problems to deal with and it was quite clear just by appearance that the man had gone through quite an ordeal these last few years.

His problem. Ever since he had been young he had suffered spout of hallucinations flashing back to traumatic times in his life. At first they had been brief and innocent. However, in return for information on his fiancee, Dan underwent military testing that had increased the hallucinations. At first they had been crippling. Dan had to take ampakines in order to counter them. But they seemed to have died down over time, or at least when he was in the JSF or in the Obamacainese military. Unfortunately, over the last couple months Dan had begun to feel them coming up once more. He drew the conclusion that it was the fighting that had helped suppress them and that the longer he stayed away from violence, the worse his mental state was. This was a dangerous game to play and not a treatment any person would want. But Dan honestly wanted nothing more at this moment than to feel the thrill of a firefight once more.

And where was his gun? Dan had grown addicted to the feeling of his M9 against his hip, ever ready to destroy any obstacle that would come in his way by show of brute force. If there was every any better companion to man than a gun, it hasn't come about yet. And yet nothing comes with a greater liability than a gun at your side. Power gets much easier to your head and death comes much easier to your body.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The drums were getting on Dan's nerves. Their sound reminded him of gunshots, piercing through his and Kujata's hideout back when he was a kid. Nothing was a more sour memory than that in which his best friend, and only person he really felt like he could trust, bled to death in front of him. Dan clenched his fist but tried to keep a straight face. This wasn't his show, this was Sheppard's. This was Sheppard's last chance to have any impact on the world.

And worst of all, Dan couldn't stop thinking about how he could just as well be in that casket. It wasn't a myth that people wanted him dead, and Dan had truly shot off his share of bullets. By now he deserved death. Too often he had escaped from its grasp when it was right about to bring him away. Dan knew that if he kept fighting he would wind up in a casket just like Sheppard's walking down some lonely road, with the Joint Strike Force following behind - stoic, depressed, and crushed.

Nothing is a truer test of a group of individuals than the loss of one of their kind. They are given the choice. They can choose to have the death take its toll on them and break them apart to be scattered across the globe. Or they can decide that this is the time to unite and to once again promote their cause to the end of the world and to the end of time. What shall be the fate of the Joint Strike Force?

[Guruda]

Scott continued to slowly walk down the road of the funeral procession, staring up at the sky, hoping that the rain would hold off. He always loved the outdoors, and standing out in the rain, but during a funeral there was just no joy in it. Now was not the time. The weather sure did seem to match the mood of the event though. Looking around this unfamiliar country, Scott was very impressed with the surroundings. Fort Augustus was unlike anything he had ever seen in person, it was just one of those things he had only read about and seen on TV. He felt slightly out of place, as he was one of the newcomers to the JSF, and had never known Jeff Shepard. He wanted to make sure he took the event seriously and with a great amount of respect, regardless of the fact he has attending the funeral of a stranger. It was important that he treat it as it were a funeral of a friend. He was sure he would learn a lot about the fallen soldier today, at least from the other JSF guys afterwards if any felt like talking about it. All he knew was that at the end of the day, his respect and confidence in joining the JSF was only going to rise. For now he was just going to keep quiet, and stay out of the way.

Even though he didn't know Shepard, there was no reason to try and look sadened. The feeling was already there. Looking at General John Lynch carrying the casket towards its destination, he felt the painful memories of being in the same situation several years ago. Having to carry the casket of his best friend was one of the most difficult thing's he had done in his life. Pangs of guilt were beginning to come as often as the thunder from the clouds above, and Scott was looking for distractions. Looking as far off as he could see, the sun was barely visible from behind the clouds, and a tiny amount of light shone through in the distance. He smiled to himself slightly, always being an optimist, and knowing that no matter how dark things got, it would always end up okay.

[Marcheria]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia
Major Mikhial Sorokin walked the long road to the cemetery, remembering too many days like this back home. He looked up the path to the gates, they were so similar to those in Gorky. He remembered the end of the Revolution, General Marcus, Karansky, VanTassel... What was it Max said at Marcus' funeral...."Not gone, merely marching far away..." Jesus. His black and gold Marcherian uniform was slowly soaking in the pouring rain. The water drummed off his shako, adding a drumroll to the tap of the marching snare in the honor guard. He glanced sideways at the casket, the JSF flag draped over it. He hadn't even met the man lying in it, and yet he mourned the loss of another elite warrior as if it were one of his own. As they approached the gates, it was almost too much. The weight of too many funerals caused a single, solitary tear to run down Sorokin's cheek. It's all too much.

[Phonencia]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia

Lt. Matthew Bedke slowly trudged along with the funeral procession, following Sheppard's casket.
Bedke'd never gotten to know the guy too well, but from what he had learned of him during his past time in the JSF, Sheppard was a hell of a man who'd seen his share of combat.
Bedke was surprised by how truly saddened he felt as he slowly walked along with the rest of the procession, the rain leaving dark spots on his white dress uniform.
He wondered what Sheppard's last thoughts and words were, just before he'd died.
Bedke sighed almost silently,
none of his fellow agents had died since he'd joined the JSF, this was his first team mate to die.
Of course, Bedke's friends had died before, this wasn't anything new, but for some reason, Sheppard's death seemed to have take more of a toll on Bedke.
He wondered if Sheppard had any family out there, crying over his loss, maybe a brother, mother, or even a wife. He didn't know honestly and he felt bad about not getting to know the man better before his demise. But what aggravated him to no end, was that Sheppard hadn't died on mission with the JSF, with all of his friends. He'd died alone, in a horrible firey explosion.....just like John Mcgee.
Bedke's thoughts paused a moment,
this wasn't about McGee, it was about Sheppard. Besides, Bedke preferred not to think of McGee's death too much. His Psychologist recommended the two discuss Bedke's feelings on the matter but Matt refused to think of his old friend outside counseling, or when he visited the man's grave.
Coming back to the present, Bedke glanced over at the casket, the Stryklan Flag draped over it.
Honestly, the young man had always imagined HIM being the one in the casket. Probably because of something stupid he'd done. Bedke had also thought about how his teammates would feel if he had died. The hypothetical answer had always depressed him. Sheppard at least had a team of friends who loved and cared for him, who were greaving over his casket right now. Bedke was alone, his girlfriend had left him, his parents were gone and he didn't have any siblings. And on top of it all, the entire JSF Unit probably didn't give a damn about him, Sheppard and possibly Lynch might have, maybe Dan Thomas would've uttered a few words of sadness for his death, but that was about it.
Bedke tried not to think too much on the subject. Instead, he simply tried to count the raindrops that slowly slid down from the Stryklan Flag to the bottom of the casket, as if the flag itself were weeping for the loss of one of its soldiers.

[Itenica]

Taj Lysaght had never been an intentionally disrespectful man after he had finished his Navy training.

Yet, he couldn't help but feel . . . detached.

As he walked along down the road, he watched the casket carefully from beneath wrap-around shades that masked his green eyes from view. To be brutally honest, he didn't know who the man in the casket was; at least not personally. Of course he had been told about the man, that he was a former JSF operative, and that he had died in operations over-seas. That didn't mean he felt any less detached. That didn't mean he didn't respect the man, though. No. If anything he served more as a warning to the young former Itenican Navy sailor. He had his wife Tayla, and his daughter Summer who were both waiting at home back in Itenica for him. They were looking to him to put bread on their table every morning with his pay. Thinking about them Taj realized just how fragile his life was in his chosen line of work. He had taken plenty of lives in his time as a sniper and technical expert for the Itenican military. In fact, there were several drug cartels in southern Itenica who would have paid good money to have people like him killed. So it could have just as easily been Taj in a coffin, stripped off his opportunity to join the JSF, and being marched to his tribal burial grounds in Itenica. Yet it wasn't, Taj assured himself. He was still alive. It was this Sheppard fellow, God rest his soul, who was the one dead now, and in his stead followed the next generation.

The young men who would bear the weight of the world's burden. It was a task they had taken on to their shoulders long ago, of their own accord.

It was one that Taj knew he had the skills to handle.

He followed silently along in the procession, watching those around, and remaining silent with his hands at his sides.

[Novograd IV]

Back at the base, two bottles of Novan alcohol cracked open their lids against each other, opening. The low hiss of the opening threw the room into a temporary silence, broken only by the sound of rain rolling off the windows of the calmed room. Two Novans sat across a small table from each other, the wooden furniture between them cracked from the countless uses that a drunken Novan might have for it, repaired time and time again down a central line.#

"On Opah Valhalla, on Valkrast, eh?" A scarred face spoke as his eyes met with a man as much a hero as himself, the man across was leaving the force here with naught but an old and healed over arm wound, to be replaced by a downright terrifyingly scarred man

"hm" Laiho's reply came as he indulged himself, taking a long and hard drink from the bottle in front of him, he reached under his shirt for something, producing a necklace with a pentagram design, he laid it on the table. His actions were matched.

"Universal Basic will have to do, I never learned his native language; May peace find your enemies in Asgaard, Shepard"

"May peace find your enemies in Asgaard" The gesture was repeated. followed by both taking a large amount from their bottles. Collecting the symbols, they stood and left the room to find food, and more alcohol. The weather was a bad omen of times to come, enough to dampen what would be a celebration... That and their religion went against Novan celebrations, death was supposed to be a celebrated event, not a mourned one.

[Dimoniquid]

Dimoniquid, Special Operations and Intelligence Head Quarters.

James wasn't at the funeral. He was too busy. The war with Lewis with Harris had drawn up his resources - time, effort, and attention. He was drinking some Dimonicist vodka - not as strong as the Novan stuff, but stronger than the usual stuff. "Bloody hell." He said to himself, review some intelligence. It all seemed legitimate - although the compound in which they though Duncan was in wasn't. It seemed too obvious. "Either way." He said to himself again, and took another swig from the bottle. In true Dimonicist respect, he poured some out onto the ground. "Some for the fallen."

Five days earlier.

"Get up, kid, we're leaving!" He shouted, slinging his rifle and hauling the recruit to his feet. The gas mask was covering the recruits face, so he couldn't see the fear in the young'un's eyes. James pushed the recruit forward, and fired at the oncoming enemies. "First right, there's a ladder! Climb up it, quick!" He ordered, running out of ammunition for his SA-15U. He quickly switched to his sidearm - a Glock 21. He fired twice, landing straight in the face of an enemy, and began to climb.

He was soon on the top deck, running for the helicopter. Jumping was never his strong point, so he had to push off the ground as hard as he could. Landing head first onto the ramp, he had began to slip off, to be caught by the recruit. "We're even, sir." He called over, and the helicopter began to move off. That was one of his first operations as a luietenant-general - text book boarding, yet hard commanding a squad of recruits. Hopefully, his return to the JSF will make him the recuit.

[Vengeful Daylight]

"A Guilty Flame"

One two three four five six seven days.

Ward stretched out in his seat. The flight was long, and airplanes played games with his stomach. He grabbed off his cap and slid his skeletal fingers through his thinning white hair. His legs twitched in fading 'boondockers', his anxiety crawled up his spine, like a virus, infecting his bones. Twitching. Twitching. Twitching. He needed the torch in his hands, on his back, sagging on his shoulders. He desperately needed it. He hailed a stewardess, and whispered for a drink.

The small twin engine propeller airliner stuttered to a halt on a black tarmac in a foreign country. He itched wildly and paced back and forth in the aisle. He needed to get to his torch and meet up with his new unit. He thanked no one in particular that he had been a Policeman. Lightening and thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain... He despised it. He'd rather have a hot flame in his hands then a puddle of wet, but not wet water. He played with a silver lighter, flicked it on, flicked it off. He stared into the flame on the tarmac, he was consumed by it, until the sputter of the twin engines started up and shouted at Ward loudly. Click. The lighter closed and the flame died. Ward felt bad.

He thanked his ride and weaseled out of the backseat. Just up ahead of him was the funeral procession, it was a gloomy affair, and the weather did not help ease the mood. He retrieved his silver lighter and rolled a cigarette, admiring his handiwork before lighting it. Soon after, he killed the flame again, bringing on a twinge of guilt.

"Dreadful, isn't it?" He said.
"Dreadful!" Ward agreed.

He picked up the torch and gas tanks and heaved them onto his shoulders. A rush washed over his old body, the warmth of the sloshing gasoline and the comfortable feel of the torch's nozzle in his hands. He could help people now, clean them up and send them upstairs to the old man himself. He adjusted his steel helmet and pulled out an old piece of a long broken mirror, using it to inspect his faded uniform. Ward smiled and his wrinkles slowly marched across his face. Stashing the mirror-piece in his uniform pocket, he set out for the funeral procession, puffing on his nice, cool cigarette.

[New Zepuha]

Klaus sat silently as the 4x4 ambled up the dreary road towards the fortress. He was in shock to say the least at Shepards death, a grave thing indeed. For this he was required to mourn in silence by religous code until arriving at the burial point. His driver, eyes aimed coldly on the road kept silent as a few bumps rocked the suspension. The rain was an added bonus, a funereal all wet and so, it had been this way with the first Chancellor to be assainated. Klaus shivered at the thought of that cold winters day, it had rained for the first time in a Zepuhan winter in over forty-years. He made final check on his uniform to make sure things were in tip-top shape. He was wearing the traditional black dress, almost hanging over in medals lining his breast pocket and above. Golden braids looped his left shoulder, armpit and ran across the chest to the silver buttons, his saber tapped his boots with the drum of the rain. As the vehicle came to a less then graceful halt at the main gate, Klaus donned his gray fur mantle [Think a cape that straps over the shoulder], and his Adjutant in almost the same uniform stepped out with a wide umbrella.

Klaus nodded at his driver who was standing with him and made the sign of the Aquila, the gesture was returned. "Ave Imperator." the driver spoke grimly. Klaus returned his saying "Emperor be with you." and turned to walk on toward a man smokeing a cigarette.

[Strykla]

OOC: Darn you, Novo! I wanted to do the Norse thing first! $#@%!

The casket was carried on.
Captain Jackson Sheppard had been a fighter, to say the least. He had fought in several wars, fighting with gallantry in all of them, and also to be included in an international team of the finest handpicked warriors the planet had ever known. In his life, Sheppard had seen much death, and indeed came close enough to hear Odin himself speaking in the halls of Valhalla. Finally, Sheppard's time had come. Sadly, it was not charging into the face of overwhelming odds or some other honorable death, but an accident. To die a useless death, where simple ammunition explodes due to a misfire, and to not be able to die with honor, was the greatest misfortune a Stryklan could suffer. And yet, it happened. And would happen again. War was like that.
The single snare drum was beating a lonely march. A slow beat in match with the Stryklan funeral procession. Would Sheppard be alive, he probably would have been surprised at the people attending. Sheppard was a humble man at heart, and would never have expected people like General Lynch or Dan Tomas to attend. He may have preferred a simple cremation, as he was to have in a few minutes. Usually, special forces jobs were thankless, with few people knowing what happened at all.
The rain continued to drizzle. The gray skies, bleak, seemed to perfectly fit the day.
The oak casket was etched with the words:Out there, we've walked up quite friendly to Death; Sat down and eaten with Him, cool and bland; Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand; We've sniffed the green thick odor of His breath; Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe. He's spat at us with bullets and He's coughed shrapnel. We chorused when He sang aloft; We whistled while He shaved us with his scythe.
Oh, Death was never the enemy of ours! We laughed at Him, we leagued with Him, old chum; No soldier's paid to kick against His powers. We laughed, knowing that greater men would come; And greater wars; When each proud fighter brags; He wars on Death, for lives, not men, for flags.

[Neo ORB]

Cpl. Douglas Willams
Location: 'Neo ORB' Galise Provenice; "Outpost Mailes Galvan"
Nearest city: 34 miles
Mailes Galvan West Compound

The outpost was silent as a blissful wind blew over the low plains of the Galise, as far as the eye could see, it was a field of yellow and green around the compound as large wheat fields swayed lightly in the win making the landscape look like a sea then land, the three roads that passed near and too the base were practically non existent giving the base it's feeling of abandonment, but such a fact was far from the truth as the base's lingering sounds of men training and doing work howled through the wind, the Base was a nest of activity, however to the soldier there it was like a paid vacation as they watched there fellow squadmates play'd basketball on the base's court, or doing work in the sunlight.

but near the main building of the base on the far south side, a small green tent stood erected away from the building's giving a feeling of inferiority to the rest of the base, Inside the tent however a young man rested on a quick folding bed with his hands behind his head and a smoke in his mouth, his tank top was white with splotches of blood from fist fights the men usually had for fun to pass time, near his bed a small square coffee table stood with a radio and holster for cups on it, from the sound of the radio, the sounds that erupted from it sounded like a funeral or somekind.

As the man shifted he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked away the ash before smiling, this man was Douglas Williams, he stood at 5'10" was white and was once a very designated squad leader with a promising future, but mistake after mistake had went and destroyed his career, and what had placed him in this dead camp was the responsibility of his entire squads destruction at his hands in a mission, Douglas was not your average failed guilt ridden soldier however, he was waiting... waiting for his chance to shine once again, and make up for his past mistakes, as the sound of the radio was rained out by the sound of other soldiers coming towards the main building, Douglas scowled lightly waiting for the noise to fade, but it didn't instead a unknown man busted through the door of his tent with a heavy black trench coat on, as he took off his hat, his silver hair could be seen, and his white face was full of age and wrinkles but as he took and held out a brown envelope a small smile rose on his face.

"Corporal Douglas Williams I presume..." spoke the unknown man
Douglas got up quickly looking at the man with great suspicion in his eyes, but as he spoke his voice was almost like a child's consistency as he spoke in third person.
"Yes... what can Douglas... do for you?" asked Douglas as he looked at the man lightly smiling.

"What you can do for me son... nothing... what you can do for yourself however is a entirely different matter... inside the envelope is reassignment orders its your choice to take them... chances are you'll die before retirement age if you accept this." spoke the man, his face grim, but his eyes spoke to douglas like he should accept it this unknown proposal.

"Reassignment...orders...Douglas is getting reassigned?... where?" asked Douglas as he looked at the man, his face almost emotionless as he waited for the answer.

"A special unit... known as JSF... the same thing your currently listening to is there funeral for one of there members... if you accept this... you'll be back on active duty as a representative of Orb... what do you say?"

Douglas was silent for a long time as he took the envelope from the mans hands and quickly looked through it, that turned quickly however to a stare which lasted minutes before douglas spoke again.

"This new... chance... will Douglas still be... still be taking the suppression drugs?" asked douglas, a small glimmer was returning to his eyes as he waited, after a minute, the man breathed his answer and a small smile rose on Douglas's face as he grabbed a pen and quickly signed the papers handing them back to the man.

"Are you sure corporal... this is the last chance to say no... once i walk out... you'll be on the next plane out of Neo ORB after getting your enhancements at the 'Clinic', of course... there will be a small period to...which you can use to tidy up any unfinished duties you need too." spoke the man, but Douglas stayed silent, as the man sighed and left with a small smile, Douglas quickly rested on his bed and sighed before speaking to himself, his voice sounding normal for a moment before talking in third person again.

"So... the drugs will stop...and we're all going back on active duty... The Joint Strike Force... I wonder what its going to be like... do you think they will accept someone as broken as me... we'll... have to be careful its been a long time since... everyone's been awake...and since we've been on active duty, we will be okay right?"

"Douglas will be Okay... as long was we're all together... there's nothing that can stop us...and nothing that can hurt us either..."

As Douglas smiled lightly, his hand reached for the radio turning the sound up and listening to the sounds of the funeral... as he when to put the cigarette in his mouth, he noticed it had died and flicked the cigarette away before closing his eyes and letting his mind drift, but not before saying on last thing as it traveled on a light wind up into the sky.

"JSF huh... i wonder if i die...i'll get a funeral like that... lucky bastard... he or she must have been something, i wish i could have seen what they looked like if there being...sent off with such....honors..."

[Strykla]

OOC: ok im introducing kilgore now

IC: SSgt. Z.T. Kilgore walked through into the training simulator. On the wall there were racks of weapons. He chose an AS-45 shotgun, a Wasp Revolver, and his custom wrist-knife(think Predator). Walking through into the designated "Danger zone", indicating they were in a live-fire area.
The starting buzzer sounded. Kilgore brought his shotgun up, shot one of the door's hinges, pumped, then shot out the other one. He kicked the door down and charged through. There were a dozen realistic dummies inside, programmed with human-like reflexes and probable actions real people would take in accordance with Kilgore's own actions. They also had paintball guns.
Kilgore knocked one dummy over, stepping on its chest so it couldn't get up. He shot another dummy, blowing its arm off. Several other dummies went down before the eight shells in the shotgun's magazine ran out. Dropping it, he took out his revolver and shot another one, then killed the dummy that he was still stepping on. Walking through another open door, he was almost "killed" when a dummy was hiding next to the door. It hit him in the face. Kilgore reeled over, than ejected his wrist blade and plunged it into the dummy's chest. Ripping it out, he saw the last two dummies in the room. Kilgore rolled back into the other room, tossed a grenade back, and slammed the door shut. The explosion shredded the door, but Kilgore didn't get much more than a few splinters.
He walked out.

[Reformed Britannia]

O'Rourke felt somewhat out of place at the funeral of a Stryklan soldier. He hadn't known Sheppard all that well-and had only taken part in one JSF mission at all-but for the duration of Lost Bird, O'Rourke had a feeling that the man barely trusted him. It only took a minute or so of rifling through his background files after the mission to reveal the potential cause-Sheppard had been a veteran of the First Gibetan War. Whether or not he'd known that O'Rourke was also a veteran, it seemed to the Britannian that most Stryklan veterans seemed to harbour particular resentment towards ex-Britannian servicemen.

Still, that was no reason to stop himself from paying his respects. He came dressed in the uniform of his airborne regiment, which-like most other BEF regimental uniforms-was a splendid ceremonial piece made with scarlet red fabric and decked out in gold piping. His cufflinks had a brace of Gathustrian rubies embedded in them, while his rank insignia was displayed on the cuffs themselves. His officer's sword hung in a lacquered sheath at his side, which was delegated with elegant designs of gold leaf.

O'Rourke wasn't sure what to think of the JSF at present. Operation Lost Bird had been a disaster-instead of the speedy, efficient operation O'Rourke had been expecting, the teams had been waylaid from the very start. Add that on to the fact that a Cuban soldier by the name of Viktor had very nearly got the whole squad killed-an offence that had caused O'Rourke to, in a blind anger, draw his FN20R Service Pistol and seriously consider shooting the man in the head. O'Rourke could hold a grudge-and one of his buddies had been killed in the war with Western Cuba, which had left him with a bit of a chip on his shoulder. But it was that kind of thinking that got people killed, and so he'd tried to leave it behind him.

That same pistol was now holstered at his side. O'Rourke had killed people with it before, and was a rather proficient practitioner of the Keraliland drill. He could recall perfectly the first day he'd ever used it-on a Gibetan SS trooper back in the battle for Correllia. He'd come up behind the Gibetan, and had tried to shoot him with his FGR-but it was jammed. Just as the Gibetan heard the click and turned around to see what was happening, O'Rourke had dropped the rifle and was already reaching for his pistol. Even as the SS trooper shouldered his weapon for a burst, O'Rourke fired point-blank into his chest. The Gibetan had tumbled backwards as the .45 ACP round went between his ribs and bisected his spinal cord, and fell to the ground in a bloody sprawl. O'Rourke stared down the sights of his weapon at the tangled corpse, the heat of the recently-fired weapon's barrel enveloping his fingers, but he hadn't really noticed. It wasn't that he'd been shattered by the taking of another human life-it wasn't that he'd felt desensitized, either. It was the fact that, somewhere deep within him, some savage part of his being had actually enjoyed it.

He'd checked into the regimental psych ward a few days later for treatment, and had been dismissed thirty days later, just as the BEF engaged the Banjamo and Stryklan forces outside of the city. After those brutal battles, the war had been smooth sailing for the most part, and O'Rourke's 'problems' had remained beneath the surface.

And now, a couple of years afterwards, he was watching the funeral of a man that he probably fought against at one point. Sheppard had never been an enemy of O'Rourke's-but he did not let the irony of such a situation escape him.

[Western cuba]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia

Lopez arrived at JSF Headquarters, dressed up in his JSF military uniform. As his Western Cuban uniform was now of an extinct government. Removed from power, and disliked by much of the world. Especially the man he was standing next to. O'Rourke. A Britannian servicemen. Lopez was here to pay his respects to a fellow servicemen in the JSF. However though his mind was on another thing. Well several things.

He had recently heard of the disaster in Operation Lost Bird, and that his successor, a good friend of his by the name of Viktor who blew the mission by revealing there position to the enemy. Every second Lopez thought of O'Rourke. The man had a reason to hate him. For he was a Britannian and he a Cuban. He had fellow Britannian servicemen die in the Invasion of Western Cuba for an unknown cause. Then O'Rourke was almost nearly killed himself by Viktor, a Cuban.

Juan turned his attention to the casket and sighed, the JSF had lost a great comrade. He then bowed his head and in his head started to say a Cuban religious prayer.

[Esternial]

Fort Augustus Caesar
Joint Strike Force Headquarters
12.6 miles from Tarra, Itailia

Leon felt a chill go down his spine as the wind sang an eerie tune, nearly exhausting the fumes of his cigarette. As he looked towards the skies, he felt a drop of water fall onto his forehead and slowly crawl down to the tip of his nose before dropping on the ground below. It seemed like the sky above was weeping as well, weeping for the loss of a man Leon didn't even know. He was fairly new to the JSF, so he wasn't acquainted with the people that were part of this organisation, but he knew that the loss of a comrade always left deep wounds within the hearts of those he left behind, those that didn't pass away and outlived him. Death is a certainty, so nobody should fear it; this is what Leon knew too well. The only problem is that in the end, we all fear death. We fear the unknown that follows, whether it's the afterlife that is promised to us by religion or a pitch black void in which we are to spend the rest of our existence in.

Leon took another lungful of smoke and extinguished his cigarette, throwing it on the ground and placing his right foot on top of it. His gaze turned back to the casket in which Jeff Shepard lied, eternally sleeping. Opening his mouth only slightly, he whispered a few words that slowly rolled over his lips.
"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."

[Vengeful Daylight]

"A Funeral With Laughter"

He couldn't help but laugh at this funeral. He laughed, laughed, laughed, wheezed, coughed, laughed. Loudly and his accented voice spread far and wide.

His cigarette lay upwards, snagged between two of his fingers. It was the second time he'd been to a funeral, the first one didn't end well. Maybe that's the point of funerals? Not ending well.

"Bullshit." he said.
"Bullshit indeed!" Montrose added.
"Well, this ain't my dig, I ain't no fink." he said quietly.

Montrose pulled his arm up to his face while gravity's strong arm pushed against it.

The puff and blaze of the tobacco crackled and whisked around his face, lighting his features up like a candle. He left the cigarette in his mouth and fiddled with his torch.

He lit the ignite-switch, then turned it off. His eyes lit up, the smell of the gas was a fine perfume to his nostrils, and the slight blue coloring of the gas invaded his eyes and stole them away to a far off place.

[Itailian Maifias]

OOC: VD, that's ....creepy
IC:

2 days after the funeral

It was a gloomy day still, two days after Jeff Sheppard had been laid into the ground and the second JSF member was killed in the entire organizations history. The first one, James Bondera, was hard on Lynch. He had been close with Bondera and he blamed himself for not being there due to spreading himself to thin. THen there was the fucking government, here in the middle of a civil war and they were still playing games with Lynch, sending him to NIMC(Noravean Itailian Military Command) for two weeks and then back home for two weeks. If he had a good kid to replace him, I would retire this instant John thought as he looked out of the window in his office down onto the courtyard where several LY83's were being worked on. John turned on his heels to do a one eighty and headed back to his desk, somewhat barren when compared to previous times. He had one Browning Hi-Power on the corner of the desk and a large thick file with red tape barring the big black letters " CONFIDENTIAL". He picked up, flickered through a few pages one last time before grabbing the file and heading out of his office door and then out of the Command Center to a conference room that had turned into a briefing room. It was quite spacious, with one large oval oak table with around twenty or so chairs and then it had various monitors at the head of the room with a holographic projector. Setting up a few files on the monitors and loading a few to the projector, Lynch then turned and pressed the intercom system buttom " All JSF team members to Briefing Room 4 on the double"

[Obamacain]

Dan rubbed his forehead as he stood in the JSF's air force base next to the Luicinian Yalkov Troy Byovic. Troy and Dan had been sent to inspect the conditions of the helicopters inside the base. The helicopters hadn't been used in a while, and had at one point gone into a state of disrepair. After a series of repairs, they appeared to be able to handle combat very well once more. Dan had wondered why he and Troy had been sent to this task. Dan had never even seen this type of helicopter and Troy was a naval expert not an air force member. Regardless, he tried to do his job effectively mainly because the JSF had become shorthanded lately and everyone was required to do more than they would usually.

Code: Select all

"All JSF team members to Briefing Room 4 on the double"

"Son of a--" Dan started to murmur. He had just gotten over his funeral hangover. The previous day he could hardly walk around and part of the nausea had past over to this day. Dan Tomas was in no way ready for a combat situation once again. Instead of reporting to the Briefing Room, Dan decided to sit down for a couple minutes beforehand. Unfortunately, this only caused him to think of the recent events once more. Standing up slowly, Dan made sure his pistol was firmly fastened in his belt before he walked away from the air force base, heading to the Briefing Room.

"What do you think it is now?" asked Private Drew Garvey, an Obamacainese Joint Strike Force Base soldier. Dan was generally on good terms with most of the soldiers at the base, but was closest with those from Obamacain. They seemed to be pretty loyal to him, foolishly Dan thought.

"Some guy is in desperate need of a bullet. We have to deliver it. Same old thing," Dan said in an irritable tone, but deep down he felt a little of the old excitement of once again being on a mission with the Joint Strike Force.

Walking into the room, Dan nodded at General Lynch. He and Lynch hadn't talked much, despite Dan's position as one of the higher-ups of the JSF. This was partly due to the fact that Dan strongly distrusted anyone of authority, especially after his experiences with the deceased General Mao Marx.

[Itailian Maifias]

John nodded his head at Dan, slowly walking over to him " How are our choppers looking Tomas? Good enough handle some Novan craziness?"

[Western cuba]

Juan walked into the briefing room. The death of Sheppard. The second death of a member of the JSF seemed to disturb everyone else. However though it didn't bother him much. Yes Sheppard was a great comrade and friend. However though he had many great friends and comrades who died before him. He saw his good friend beat to death at boot camp at the age of 15 for not getting the right kind of coffee for the drill Sargent. He gave him Cappuccino instead of a Café au lait. After that Juan never took a sip of coffee ever again.

Juan walked over to the General. Stood still. Saluted him, and walked back and took a seat. He wasn't in the mood to talk.

[Obamacain]

John nodded his head at Dan, slowly walking over to him " How are our choppers looking Tomas? Good enough handle some Novan craziness?"

"Novan?" Tomas said in slight surprise. He had only been to the country once and remembered it for its cold environment and seemingly quiet oppression of its people. Of course the coldness had to do with being in Novo Altai, which apparently was one of the harshest areas in term of climate. Dan's familiarity with Obamacainese weather (which is generally tropical) had caused him some trouble in Altai.

"The helicopters look fine, I guess. They have been updated to fit Itailian standards regarding armament and targeting systems. Should be equipped enough to fight our regular type of enemies. Of course, we didn't run any climate control checks on the machines or the weapons on them," Dan said in an almost guilty tone.

Shifting in his seat, he remembered his first mission in the JSF. It had been a disaster with little information found and one of the agents captured. Ever since then, the missions had only gone downhill, prompting him to feel partly responsible.

He had, however, heard that they were bringing in a new crowd this time through and that the whole base was set to be redone. In fact the iconic JSF emblem was scheduled to be redone to better fit the time. Perhaps these changes could turn things around again. Noting Juan's entry into the room, Tomas nodded at him. Juan had been one of the more reluctant members to return to the force, and his replacement had made some quick mistakes back on the island.

[Itailian Maifias]

John was about to open his mouth to respond to Dan when he saw Juan give him a crisp salute, which he returned with his mouth half open and then turned back to Dan to finish the conversation. " Good, good. We'll be using a few of them for this mission, as well as our ever famous river patrol boats. Ah, I do remember that first mission in Lucinias. Nothing like the smell of RPG smoke at midnight am I right Dan?" John said, with a little humor in his voice, trying to cheer up the slightly morale lacking soldiers

[Western cuba]

Juan began to join the conversation. " I saw the choppers. It likes look the engineers did a hell of a job on them. Anyway where is the mission taking place, I plan to get this over with. Return with my son to Western Cuba. Reconstruction is about to begin in the country and I want to do the most I can do to fix the country. In a few months I heard there will be a national convention. The Cuban people will vote either for a democracy, or a monarchy. However though I have a mission for the JSF. I plan on succeeding in a mission before I leave. Whoever is the enemy in this operation will regret every messing with us. "

[Dimoniquid]

James was boxing. He wanted to be back in his younger days, where boxing was a form of cooling of arguments. Right now, popping a cap in someone's head was the only form of cooling off an argument. He slammed his foot into the punchbag, sending it flailing across the railing it was hung from. "Note to self - break it from it's chain." After the call had been made, he put his boots on, wrapped his shemagh around his head, and clipped his holster to his leg. He still had his Colt Anaconda in his possession, although he used it for ceremonial purposes. In his holster, he had Taurus Raging Bull, along with six spare rounds.

Travelling the halls, he landed at the briefing room. His personality was mixed for this day - right now, he wanted to used some unorthodox methods of interrogation on someone - although he wanted to be serious while it. After saluting at Lynch, and sat down.