Wandering Argonians wrote:Danny Briggs had done this sort of thing for more than half of his life. Like the boss-man, he'd been the minion of a large and well-funded government organization, specializing in intelligence gathering and wet-work along with the standard 'deniable direct action' jobs that looked good on the nightly news, the sort where the unit wasn't specified and the enemy body-count was center-stage. The grating of engines was heard somewhere in the distance, carrying over the cold air.
That wasn't surprising, seeing as their opposite numbers would need to reach the meeting point some how. Not long after the sound of the engines died he spotted a small team moving their way through his tiny binoculars, what looked like seven irregulars and a disheveled-looking suit whom he judged to be Voke...
"Targets sighted, package in tow. Seven locals, all armed, moving on foot to our location."
Down below, Dekker grunted a reply and took a drag off a smoldering cigar stub he'd produced from a pocket, scenting the chilly air with warm and fragrant smoke. Briggs was keeping them updated on the movements of their 'guests', waving them on. Within half an hour, everyone was within the confines of the warehouse, a tense stand-off between four mercs and seven irregulars. Dekker began the introductions, trusting his two comrades in the room with him with his security as he attempted to ease tensions and get the meeting rolling...
"Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I'm Dekker, and I'll be escorting Mr. Voke out of here once this little bit of business concludes. As I can see he's in excellent health and more importantly, alive, we'll get you boys paid..."
Voke looked nervous, but that wasn't surprising. The locals seemed content to let him do the talking, and he made a point to keep his hands away from his slung rifle as he worked the keypad of the sat-phone with meaty fingers. The cigar remained clamped in his teeth throughout the process, wreathing his face in pale smoke. His people remained calmly alert, watching the locals for any signs of foul play. There weren't any, hands remained away from weapons or at least plainly visible. Briggs remained outside of the main room, keeping an eye on the approaches from the shadows just beyond the main doorway.
The silence was tense, the only sounds being the rasping breaths of a dozen pairs of lungs and the gentle clicking of the sat-phone buttons...
ARF Hostage Team, Abandoned Commune near Kalteburg, Arasland:
The ARF fighters were not comfortable with the situation they were in, the entire hostage situation being a completely foreign concept. Yet despite this it was clear that the ARF had sent real professionals, and the handoff went smoothly, if more than a little tense. Not once was a rifle reached for or a safety flipped as Voke was transferred to the military contractors, and within a reasonable time the transaction had been completed. The mercenaries left the building first as the ARF fighters waited, warily congratulating eachother on a job well done until the agreed-upon waiting time had expired. Then they slowly left, finally sighing with relief at the hope of being in the clear.
But their smiles melted faster than the snow in one of those warm countries when they saw their sniper coming up the street, looking like he had seen a ghost.
Horst Müller, ARF Hostage Team, Abandoned Commune near Kalteburg, Arasland, Some Time Earlier:
The job had been simple enough: get to a nearby building, watch over the commune, make a lot of noise to alert the team with if anything happened.
He'd found a building looking over the warehouse. He was in a third-story window, and he was watching the surrounding area with his FA-1929. It wasn't a particularly riveting job, but the rebel was okay with this. Being in a permanent settlement again, as opposed to the ever-moving ARF base camps, brought back an odd feeling of normalcy, even though Horst hadn't actually visited places like this very often before the war.
The room he was in, like every room in the commune, was arrayed in the normal fashion of the old Green Union. Wood panels covered barren, concrete walls, and there was enough plush furniture on the fuzzy carpet to make yourself feel warm even in the dead of winter. On the walls hung old pictures (even ones which couldn't have been taken more than a few months ago felt old now), and one in particular caught the man's attention.
The place would have been homely in the time before. But now it was hard to look past the destruction that the war had wrought. The window was shattered. The plush furniture was solid and cracking. A thick layer of white powder covered every surface, making the once warm and inviting trinkets bite back when touched. The man sighed, and returned to his job.
Horst had feared that the corporate troops would have another group concealed nearby, or possibly a rival sniper. There was nothing to be seen, however, but the swirling snow devils which danced around on the street below. All was quiet, and nothing moved that the old man's eyes didn't catch.
Or so he'd thought.
Suddenly there was a tap behind him, a faint footfall barely audible on the frost-covered tile. Horst stiffened, slowly moving his hand away from the rifle on the windowsill.
There was a woman leaning in the doorway, holding a revolver.
She was young, maybe in her early twenties, though it was hard to tell with so much heavy clothing. Only her face was uncovered as he watched, revealing the dark skin and eyes of an Aras native. She winced at the sudden rush of cold.
Her clothes themselves were of little note, and were in fact little different from the civilian gear Horst himself was wearing. The main difference was the symbol embroidered over her her left breast, right where a pretty flower might go in a more civilized country where such plants grew.
It was a bloodred star, darker and more menacing than the red of the ARF band which adorned Horst himself wore. Inset in the star were two symbols; the Double Diamonds of the Green Union were there, as was the shovel and pickaxe of the international LFN Communist revolutionary movement. The union of these two logos was not one many would be familiar with, but it was not hard to deduce what faction they represented.
There was an awkward silence as the two sized eachother up.
"Hi." the Kapijäger said warily. The language was German, the local Aras dialect.
Horst did not respond.
"Look, all I want is the Capitalist. Tell me where they are taking him, and we can go our separate ways."
The ARF fighter had to agree.
OOC: This took months to get to, and I'm sorry for that.
