Off The Books (Semi-Open, MT Mercenary RP)

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: This is intended to be directed towards members of NationStates Private Military Company Guild (NSPMCG), but due to the nature of the operation submissions are open to qualified independent applicants. For the sake of 'immersion' I'm going to run the OOC-ish thread like an open solicitation for independent contractors, which should be fun. This is gauging interest for a larger RP, or possibly a series of them depending on how well it goes and the interest it generates. Your character should be believable, not a copy-written individual (ex. characters from games, literature, movies, etc), and somewhat flawed. Standard RP Rules apply.

I'm terrible with inserting pictures into my posts, so I'm working this old-school 'Legend of Zork' style. If you're interested, post an in-character bio of your character and we'll go from there. I'd prefer entrants with a degree of writing ability, but you don't have to be professional-quality (I'm definitely not).

NationStates Private Military Company Guild Official Page:
viewtopic.php?f=6&t=244328&start=375

IC:

The email in your inbox is non-descript, the sender box simply displaying a generic corporate email address: recruiting@blackwoodcompany.com. Two attachments are listed at the bottom of the message, one labeled 'dossier.pdf', the other a simple logo of a large black tree against an off-silver background. The tree, while a featureless graphic, instills a sense of creeping dread in you as you stare at it...

Dear Applicant,

Congratulations on being the recipient of a contingent offer from Blackwood Company INC, an international leader in risk management and security services across the NationStates Multiverse. Attached is a heavily-redacted dossier detailing the contract for which you have been made a contingent offer to be part of. This offer in no way promises employment (contractual or otherwise) with Blackwood Company INC, nor is this information to be shared under penalty of harsh legal action per the non-disclosure agreement (NDA) signed as part of the application process. We thank you for your interest in Blackwood Company INC and hope to welcome you to the team.

Attached is an encrypted .pdf file, accessible with a fifteen-digit alpha-numeric password that mysteriously appears in a text message on your cell phone a moment after you open the file, sent from a five-digit automated number. The file opens, revealing an extensive dossier complete with what are clearly professionally-executed intelligence reports. The structure of the dossier suggests that either Blackwood has a national-government-level intelligence apparatus or that the company has friends in high places. Considering the ambiguous wording of the contingent offer, it's likely the latter option hits closer to the truth. The attachment begins with a review of the job posting itself...

Position Available: Independent Contractor

Compensation: Negotiable

Qualifications:
-Minimum six years special operations force (SOF) experience or service with a national intelligence agency in an operational capacity.
-Demonstrable familiarity with asymmetric warfare, counter-insurgency, and clandestine operations.
-Minimum one year of combat experience required.

Operation: Retrieval of specific object

Client: Classified

Operational Background:

A valuable object was removed forcibly from a classified facility deep in the Black Marsh, by what are believed to be members of a Marshlander separatist group augmented by private military forces from a Janissary Clan (See 'Opposing Forces' section) of unknown allegiance, resulting in the destruction of client property and the death of affiliated personnel.

Worked into the text are a series of photographs taken from a CCTV camera, showing roughly a dozen armed combatants. Four of the shooters are clearly outfitted in modern body armor and carrying short assault rifles with optics. Handguns are also in evidence, holstered at various locations according to operator preference. The four move in a coordinated fire-team, and fight with the bearing of professional soldiers despite one of them looking like the other eight attackers. The remaining eight are clearly Marshlander insurgents, clad in rough clothing and leather load-bearing equipment. Even through the grainy CCTV photos, some are clearly wearing feathers, and the distinctive silhouette of AK-pattern rifles are evident. There are eight total photos, showing the initial breach, the firefight with security personnel, and the group's exodus from the burning facility bearing a large, heavy-duty case between two of the four professionals. The tribals are clearly a screening force, rounding out numbers and dealing with facility security while the four-man extraction team completes their objective...

Based on evidence left at the facility in the wake of the attack, analysts have confirmed that the assault was a planned operation, with a defined objective and undertaken by a trained, professional force assisted by local insurgency troops. It is unclear who planned, funded, or benefited from the operation but the case that was stolen was fitted with an integrated GPS locator beacon that remained operational for four hours after it was stolen, presumably until the device was located and disabled. The case was stationary for an hour before the beacon was disabled, and this is presumed to be the location of the item. Due to the nature of the item and the client's desire to remain anonymous, an independent team has been assembled on behalf of the client with Blackwood Company INC acting as the facilitator.

The team will be inserted via local means and will move in a clandestine manner to the target location to recover the object. Again, due to the nature of the operation there will be no operational or tactical support for the team, nor will they be operating in a legally-sanctioned capacity and will be infiltrating deep into MIF (See Opposing Forces Section) territory. Contracted operators will be heavily vetted and lightly equipped in the interest of maintaining a low profile. An extraction team will be prepared and on stand-by to move in and secure the object once the independent team signals that the object is secure.

Mission Objectives:
-Locate Stolen Object
-Secure Stolen Object
-Return Stolen Object to Designated Extraction Zone

Opposing Forces: Ranked in Descending Order of Hostility

Above the informational blurb sits a low-quality photograph of a group of wild-looking Argonians, posing in front of a destroyed armored vehicle bearing the markings of the Argonian National Army. Exposed skin is heavily tattooed, and their homemade leather equipment vests are festooned with improvised ammunition pouches and salvaged grenades. Several wear a number of military rank and unit insignia, apparently in a show of the number of Modernist personnel they have personally killed. Weapons range from the ubiquitous AK-pattern rifle and RPG-7 launchers to spears and ornate swords. The mood is triumphant. None of the insurgents in the photograph can be older than twenty-five, evidenced by their youthful enthusiasm...

-Marshlander Insurgency Forces
Consisting of a countless number of individual tribes and operating under a dozen different group monikers, the MIF (as the groups are collectively known) oppose the incumbent Modernist Party government through guerrilla warfare, and have done so for the past twelve years. These operations are funded by an elaborate drug-production and distribution ring involving criminal groups both street-level and organized inside the modernist-controlled cities. The stated goal of the MIF is to return the marshlands to 'the old ways' before the rise of technological advancement and the globalization of the Argonian people. While lightly-equipped, MIF forces are very numerous, as marshland-dwelling tribals account for more than 85% of the Argonian population. A martial culture since before recorded history, marshland tribals train heavily in the use of knives from a young age as a form of ceremonial combat that has been adapted into a highly-effective fighting art. Additionally, due to the impoverished nature of marsh life hunting is an essential skill and MIF forces are known to be excellent marksmen, although their lack of formal military training severely diminishes their effectiveness as a fighting force against an organized, well-equipped force like the Argonian National Army.

The dossier breaks again with another photograph, showing a squad of grim-looking troops cradling a diverse array of weaponry. They pose in front of a mud-brick hut in what is clearly a desert climate. Humans and Argonians both are shown, clad in last-generation digital desert fatigues and wearing plate carriers conservatively accessorized with MOLLE ammunition, communication, and medical pouches. Despite wearing similar clothing there is no real uniformity among the nine in the photo, although you do note that all their rifles accept NATO STANAG 5.56mm magazines. You recognize rifles from SIG, several modified AR-15 variants, and an H&K M27 IAR, all featuring the trappings of modern combat in the form of optical sights, laser aiming devices, and powerful flashlights. Each man also carries a handgun, but it's difficult to determine the makes and models of each. They have the bearing of professional soldiers, but their demeanor is weary. Based on the quality of the photograph, you determine it came from an older-model camera, and can make out a World News Agency marking in the lower-right corner...

-Janissary Clans
While slavery is outlawed in the Argonian Republic, indentured servitude is a thriving niche business that is heavily regulated. With the drastic divide between the generally-wealthy city-dwelling population and the impoverished marshland tribes, it is generally difficult for a marshlander to migrate into the cities without incurring a substantial amount of debt. Indentured servitude permits them to work off an established amount of debt in return for guaranteed employment, housing, and health care. The so-called 'JC' (a slang term popular among military troops) are private security organizations run by groups of families or 'clans' that recruit, train, and deploy security forces consisting almost entirely of indentured personnel. JC troops come from all walks of life, but are generally either marshlander tribals (often ex-MIF) or impoverished former Argonian Armed Forces veterans. A smaller percentage are thrill-seekers, foreign nationals seeking citizenship sponsorship, or desperate city-dwellers. There are unconfirmed reports that some JC personnel are drawn from illegal indentured child-soldier training camps run by other private interests. All potential troops are put through a rigorous training program before they are cleared for duty. JC troops are generally seen as a lower-cost alternative to high-end security firms like Sanguine Solutions or Blackwood Company, however JC forces are generally better suited for open-combat roles as many of their personnel have previously served as armored personnel carrier drivers or as tank crewmen, giving them an armored force capacity that other high-end companies avoid to skate under the WA-enacted anti-mercenary laws.

JC troops staff contracts ranging from low-end corporate security protecting interests in the marshlands to rounding out hit-squads for criminal elements in the cities and fighting abroad for the highest bidder. Interestingly, JC troops are tattooed with a 'bond' stating that they can be returned for a reward if captured. In this way, the clans seek to protect their investment in each individual soldier and due to the often-compartmentalized nature of JC operations one might as well interrogate a piece of equipment. Expect JC troops to vary widely in skill level and experience, but be aware that they fight as an organized unit and are well equipped with modern gear and armaments. They are not generally hostile unless paid to be, however. The extent of JC involvement in this contract is unknown, and caution is to be advised.

Unlike the previous two photos, this one is clearly professionally shot for some sort of recruiting material. Two powerfully-built Argonians dressed in olive-drab flight suits and black plate carriers are assisting a rural fisherman with engine troubles. Their vessel is an early-model Boston Whaler, outfitted with a medium caliber machine-gun in the bow, manned by an identically-dressed Argonian. The words 'HERE FOR YOU' are boldly centered at the bottom of the photo...

-Marshland Security Service:
Maintaining order in the marshlands is a difficult task, and requires a specialized police force. The MSS is a paramilitary division of the Argonian National Police Force, and operates heavily in conjunction with Argonian National Military forces. While not to be considered a hostile force during the course of this operation, the MSS conducts a large number of counter-narcotics and counter-arms dealing operations along the numerous rivers that serve as the 'highways' of the marshlands in support of the greater national counter-insurgency and counter-terrorism mission. It is likely that any operations undertaken in the marshes will result in contact with MSS personnel. Typically a riverine-based force, MSS vessels are fast, well-armed, and carry four to six MSS officers on average. Equipped with belt-fed weaponry, assault rifles, and military-grade armor, most MSS officers are Argonian National Military veterans of one sort or another, and should be considered to be well-trained and dangerous if confronted. Additionally, as law-enforcement personnel they carry the full weight and authority of the Argonian government with them. Armed confrontation with MSS personnel is to be avoided at all costs, as Blackwood Company INC cannot provide legal protection from killing government law enforcement personnel.

In a similar nod to the previous photograph, another professional-quality photo shows a fireteam of Argonians in MultiCam Tropic combat uniforms and plate carriers in an action shot as they move towards a simulated objective through heavy jungle flora. The visible troops are armed with the SCAR-H assault rifle, outfitted with optics and laser-aiming devices, giving the impression of a sophisticated fighting force with more than enough surplus money to blow on fancy recruitment material. There is no text, aside from the sigil of the Argonian National Army in the bottom right corner...

-Argonian National Military
While the civil war is in a 'simmering' stage, ANM forces routinely make patrols out into the marshes and firefights with MIF dissidents are still extremely common. Any operation into the marshlands, especially into MIF-held territory, will likely involve encounters with ANM combat troops. Like the MSS, Blackwood Company INC cannot provide legal protection from charges resulting in gunfights with national military personnel. Highly-trained, well-armed, and supplied with armored vehicles and aerial support, conflict with ANM personnel should be avoided at all costs.

Further operational details, equipment, transportation, and lodging will be provided once applicants arrive on-site to begin the operation. No further details will be provided over unsecured communications channels.

Again, thank you for your interest in Blackwood Company INC.

-Recruiting

While a bit sparse on operational details, the dossier leaves you with the impression that this is an unsanctioned operation, but given your reputation within certain circles and Blackwood's reputation in general, you judge the risk to be worth a substantial amount of money. Given Blackwood's connections, it's a given they can afford more or less any price-tag for individual, qualified operators. Your decision made, you close the file and it automatically wipes itself from your laptop as you begin to pen your response...

[Neu Engollon]

THE MARSHTON (HOTEL & RESORT)
KENEGA CITY,
KENEGA

The man walked down the small path from his resort villa, through the reeds, which thinned to an equal degree that the sand dunes increased. He crested a rise and beheld the sight that he had viewed several times over the past week. A pristine beach, with creamy white sand that stretched off to the peripheral in either direction. In the foreground, beauties of all the human melanin spectrum, most wearing thin bikinis, romped about as they played a friendly game of volleyball.

Further down, a few scattered guests of the resort lazed in the sun, swam in the closer surf, or read the latest trashy novel in deck chairs, under umbrellas. The water was a crystal cerulean blue and extended to the horizon. One lonely clump of coal black boulders jutted from the sea offshore, covered in moss and currently home to one bored looking pelican. Foamy whitecaps flowed in at a steady, unhurried pace to break upon the divide between Neptune’s domain and that of Mother Gaia, or whatever one subscribed to.

The muscled, tattooed and scarred man was bare chested, wore raggedy cut off shorts adapted from an old pair of NEDM camo fatigue pants, and had on a pair of neoprene diving shoes. Not the cheap kind they sold in bulk stores nowadays, but the real deal with soles that could traverse razor sharp coral.
He was of average height, but not average wear for someone who had reached his age of late thirties. His unkempt sandy blonde hair blew from underneath a beat up scally cap as he sniffed at the sea air of tropical Kenega. He had fallen in love with the island nation during R and R from his unit of the USG Security Corporation, while serving during the Hutanjian War in the same titled neighboring archipelago some thousands of kilometers to the south of this tranquil rock.
Now, he booked holidays here in between work to try to regain his equilibrium.

Moment passed, he continued on down, making small craters in the vanilla grains.

“Hey, it’s Erik!”

“Erik, come play with us!”

“Not today, ladies.” He smiled at the group of young women at the net, responding to the name that he gave, but hadn’t been truly given to him.
He held up his compact Schwyz Logiztek tablet. “I have to reconnect to civilization for just a bit.”

“Awwww!”

He waved as they vocally expressed their disappointment. “Maybe later, ladies.”

Noel Heigen made his way off to a semi-shaded area where he grabbed a camp chair, brushing the sand off it and pulling it closer to the sun patch, so that his feet could still get toasty while the shade would allow him to avoid the glare on his screen. He dropped the cooler bag he’d slung over his opposite shoulder, full of Burgunden breus, to rest gently next to the left side of the chair. He then settled in, popping the top off one of the beers as the tablet was cradled on his knees.

He set to work with the encrypted tablet and proceeded to check various email accounts. The first was from his old battalion commander in the USG, heavily suggesting that he should come back to the fold. It had been a couple years since he’d taken leave from the USG, and he didn’t really have much wish to go back. Hutanjia had nearly broken him, as it had many of his comrades, as well as others who had served there, whether they be New Edomite, Falkasian, Cardwithian or Hutanjian. The mental toll had been far greater than the actual casualties zipped up into body bags. And that toll had been immense. It had been a turning point for the USG, who had broken their own rules in engaging in large scale combat actions, as opposed to the small unit actions they were geared towards. Still, to this day, USG platoons were committed to action in the low level conflict on Nesselberg Island, a lingering after effect of the War.
He sent back a brief reply, wishing the Colonel well and asking about family, but ignoring the beseeching tone. He had closed that chapter of his life.

Next, he browsed through some current job offers through various contacts. Low level security gigs that paid minimum and were just not a job he could stand doing at this point. He was not desperate enough to snag up a slot as a bodyguard for some vapid pop star when so much conflict still roiled the multiverse.

Just as he was about to shut down the tablet, he took an off chance on an old account that he had sifting through deeper undercurrents. He hadn’t checked it in a while and didn’t often get hits, but it didn’t hurt to check. That’s when he zeroed in on the mysterious email. He opened it and soon his cell was buzzing. He dug it out of his shorts and registered the pass code, logging it into his memory immediately. Blackwood.

Some of his pals over at the Guild admin must have sent along his name to Blackwood, was all he could think. He did have a reputation, and he’d built it up even more as he’d worked free lance jobs since separating from the USG two years previous. He had a solid history with 4 contracts before Hutanjia; Not to mention his 4 years in the NEDM-DGC before that, having been selected to attend the school after three years in the Alpen Regiments, where his military life had begun. The Neu Engollon Defense Militia’s Diplomatic Guard Corps was the most elite force of the Confederacy. They were tasked with rescuing Neu Engollian citizens from any danger anywhere across the globe, as well as protecting government and visiting foreign dignitaries, and also Neu Engollian property that was at risk from hostile action, including its numerous embassies and consulates.

He had waited a while for a good gig since his last contract, in no immediate concern of wiping out his savings, but idling as he weighed returning to the field. He made a quick decision after reading the briefing file and began to reply, not at all surprised that the original file disappeared from his inbox after he closed it.
They were surely aware of all his qualifications, having gotten in touch with him through this particular channel, but it wouldn’t hurt to include a run down of all his skill set and history, anyway.

Noel followed the outlined procedures and clicked the final buttons to send off the application. It was time for him to get back in the action. He sat back and sipped on the beer, while taking in the sights, both human and oceanic, knowing that he would likely not see them again for a while once he departed the Island.

He code locked the tablet and put it down. Maybe 'Erik' would be playing some volleyball after all. He smiled to himself. All good things had to end sometime. How did one know the difference between the good life and the mundane, if you didn't balance out the peaks and valleys, the work and play?

[Wandering Argonians]

If it was possible for his species to sweat, Teersan Chul would have drenched his expensive dress-shirt hours ago. As the vice-president of operations for Blackwood, Chul's duties were typically straightforward affairs despite most of the contracts he handled being of a clandestine (or often illegal) nature. His current pet project was nothing like his normal work. He needed to staff it as quickly as possible, and he'd been told to use as few Blackwood personnel as possible for plausible deniability purposes. The suits upstairs didn't want cries of preferential treatment from unhired contractors or unwanted attention from the overly-inquisitive media should the operation go south.

Chul had two BW operators on stand-by anyway, carefully selected from his rather extensive roster from two different Special Mission Teams (SMT), arguably the most 'elite' offerings Blackwood made to equally-special clients. Chul himself was a highly-qualified operator drawn from the Argonian Intelligence Service, but had found his orchestration skills to be more lucrative from his current employer. His operational background made vetting potential hires a breeze, his experience allowing him to shuffle staffing selections around for maximum effect based on operator expertise. In short, he was damn good at his job, but only as good as his potential hires in this case. Hamstrung by operational constraints, there wasn't much he could do but hope and wait.

Thankfully, he'd received a confirmation email from a Guild-affiliated independent named Noel Heigen, who fit the bill nicely with a nice mix of national military service in a hostage-rescue unit and extensive private sector work. Chul needed at least four operatives for this contract, and while he could make due with two BW hires he needed a few additional independents. His selections from his internal roster were Kaster Ven, a former JC soldier 'recruited' at a young age and extensively trained; and Ragnar Nielsen, a former Gungiri Vanguard operator from the 'Ulfhendjar' division, what Chul understood to be a clandestine operations unit. Nielsen had been tasked with the failed 'Golden Lion' operation, a Guild operation that had rapidly gone south. Both men were cool under pressure and understood their role in the organization. Both were rock-solid. Ven's resume was a laundry list of sketchy operations for both JC interests and for BW itself, trained by former BW operators in a marshland 'soldier factory'. Chul had initially decided against hiring Ven, but had made him an offer several years later after he'd proven himself. Now, he was a multi-specialty professional Chul was glad he had on standby in numerous situations.

He fired off emails to both of the individuals in question, as well as a flight itinerary for Heigen. Everything was handled, the tickets paid for and a ride from the terminal arranged once Heigen landed. True to form, he had a knock on his office door within a few minutes. Ven was overly punctual, which was somewhat irritating in that he habitually arrived fifteen minutes early for even the most benign of meetings. Chul was a control freak, overly fond of time-lines and plans, and hated when certain people arrived early for their classified briefings. It was a helpful trait in his profession, but a thorn in his side in most all other endeavors, this being one of them. He hid his irritation with practiced ease as Ven seated himself in front of Chul's teak-wood desk, the chair in question was an overstuffed leather model Ven found a bit ostentatious for his own tastes.

Kaster Ven was a good decade Chul's junior, well-built and mild-mannered. He'd decided on casual attire in stark contrast to the Ops VP's finely-tailored suit. Ven was a field operative, where he viewed Chul as little more than a desk-jockey who passed out his assignments and filed the direct-deposit forms for his paychecks. He knew about Chul's time as a spook, but wasn't overly impressed. Spies and criminals were the same thing in his eyes, but with criminals having a more honest motivation...

"What's the op?"

Straight to the point. The one aspect of Ven's personality Chul didn't find objectionable...

"I'm assuming your read the dossier, so you're aware I can't tell you much more. I made offers to yourself and Nielsen. It's a take-or-leave type of deal..."

Chul didn't look up from his desk, continuing to scribble on something inconsequential with an expensive Mont Blanc pen...

"I want more info. Something tells me that the 'item' in question was a quantity of sarin gas Blackwood 'acquired' from Wadiyajikistan five years ago. That'd be something worth keeping quiet..."

The scribbling stopped, and Chul put the pen down gently before slowly looking up from his desk...

"I'm not going to ask about how you know that, but suffice to say I'd be careful with that information. Breach of contract, subject to termination, yadda yadda yadda. Plus I'm sure certain elements would rather see you dead than face trial for war-crimes..."

Ven simply nodded, fully aware of the dangers associated with the information he'd acquired. Truth was the leader of that operation had come from the same juvenile training facility Kaster himself had sprung from, and there was solidarity among former child soldiers, especially those who survived (and thrived) long enough to join Blackwood's ranks...

"I'm aware. Trust me, I just wanted to know what I was dealing with. That's some nasty shit..."

The Ops VP nodded, remaining silent. This was a complex operation, and somehow it had already been compromised by one of their own. Chul was sure this was why he'd been instructed to keep their own people away from the operation, but he hadn't been left with many choices...

[Falkasia]

RED LIGHT DISTRICT,
DOWNTOWN EKATERINE, FALKASIA

“Here’s the problem…” Jan stated, a flurry of saliva shining in the thick, smoky air like diamonds as it rocketed forward. “I did nothin’ wrong… nothin’!”

The man behind the counter nodded absentmindedly, his efforts instead focused on polishing a few empty steins. Errantly, he glanced over his shoulder at the clock which hung squarely on the opposite wall. The archaic hands read 2AM; Closing Time.

“Ya see… ya see I was there. I was a Marine once, way back in the day…” Jan extended his arms wide as if to add emphasis to how long ago it was, knocking over a stack of napkins in the process. “And thens… thens I got discharged. Those bastards said I couldn’t serve anymore… and alls I had was some metal shit in my leg!”

He slammed his mostly-empty beer stein onto the bar top. The glass spider-webbed before shattering, leaving the leftover contents to seep out and pool on the sticky varnished wood surface.

A look of horror came over the former Marine’s face. “Ahhh…. Shit… sorry buv… so sorry. I just get carried ‘way sometimes. ‘splains why they kicked me out though… duddin’ ‘splain why the Mercs’ duddin’ want me ‘ther…”

In a well-practiced maneuver, the bartender used a dirty rag to soak up the liquid almost as quickly as it had happened, but the glass shards proved to be another matter entirely. They had already intermixed with a bit of blood drawn from the offender’s hand, so there was only so much a towel could do. In the dim light of the poorly lit pub, even the blood mixture looked like low-quality well whiskey.

“All right Jan…” the bartender began, crouching down to meet him at eye level. “I’ll let this one slide. Where are you staying tonight?”

“Probably down’ street at the alms house…” he mumbled crestfallen, still staring at the mess he had made.

The bartender stood back up nodding. “That sounds good Jan. Will you be ok to get there, or should I send Sven to help you?”

“I’ll be fine…” he said defeated. “I’ve made it this far… maybe it’d be better if I jus’ woun’ up in a ditch or guttah?”

The other man shook his head vigorously. “No. Never. You’ve made it this far Jan. Last thing I need is for my best patron to take the short route home. Who else would help me keep this place open?”

Jan looked up and cracked a smile.

“It’s time go. Here’s your coat.”

The former Marine Raider grabbed it from the bartender and struggled for a bit to pull it on. Fumbling around with one of the pockets, he withdrew a few paper bills at placed them in the bar.

“Thanks Jan. That should be more than enough. You…”

The door creaked and slammed before he could get another word in edge-wise. Jan was gone.

======

It was a typically rainy night in Falkasia. The old cobblestone streets of the downtown district were only out of place when they intersected with asphalt. The cracks between the stones collected the rainwater, and had turned much of the road into a stagnant river. Despite his inebriation, Jan attempted to keep to the sidewalks. Canvas shop overhangs would help to keep him dry, and with any luck, prevent him from catching a cold. Despite it being summer, the chill of the night air could be seen pressed against the glow of the electric street lamps. A thick mist hung low over the ground like the setting of a British horror novel.

Jan struggled to keep one foot in front of the other. He refused to acknowledge it, but his equilibrium was off.

“Damn bartender put somethin’ in mah’ drink…” he whispered to himself, opting not to accept the truth. “I’ma kill that bastard…”

The world was spinning. He was teetering. One step forward and his foot failed to find purchase, slipping on a slick, oversized cobblestone. Down he went face first, having no time to react as his head and upper torso slammed into the ground. He was unconscious as soon as he made contact with the ground.

======

*RING RING*

“Damn…” he moaned, rubbing his face.

How long had he been out? Surely someone had found him by now? He tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut through a mixture of blunt force and concussive trauma. His hands would have to tell the story.

*RING RING*

His jacket and clothes were soaking wet. His lower body was covered in old newspaper. No doubt he had tried to use it as a blanket to fight off his hangover.

*RING RING*

God damn that noise. What was it? He fumbled around, trying to force his bloody eyes open. There! His right hand felt a hard object… smoother and more pliable than a loose cobblestone.

*RING RING*

It vibrated in his hand. Why had someone left their phone here? It didn’t make sense… but a lot didn’t make sense anymore…”

*RING RING*

God the noise! Being hungover was one problem. Suffering from a heavy concussion was another. And yet here this blasted phone was splitting the very fibers of his brain with that god awful ringing.

*RING RING*

Fuck it all. Jan grasped the phone and brought it to his ear, using muscle memory to find the Answer button.

“Hello…” he answered, sounding more like a moan than a conversation starter.

“Jan Koski?” a monotone voice, almost metallic in nature, asked from the other side.

“Yeah?” he winced in pain, not expecting the voice to be so loud and harsh.

“We have a job for you…”

[Wandering Argonians]

The meeting with the Ops VP had gone much more smoothly than anticipated, despite Ven dropping the hint that he was well aware that Blackwood was mixed up in a number of things more nefarious than their frequent dealings in unsanctioned mercenary work and providing premium talent to customers in organized crime. Ven had learned about the shadowy security firm early in his life, when he'd been sold to a 'Ludus' training facility, where he'd begun his career as a soldier-of-fortune at the age of ten. Ludus facilities weren't common, in fact Kaster only knew of about five of them, mostly through working with their 'products' over the years.

Much like the ancient Roman facilities of the same name, Ludus training centers produced fighters, leading to their slang-name of 'soldier factories' among the more conventional security contractors. Kaster Ven (and most of Blackwood's Argonian employees) was an off-shoot breed culturally disdained for their ties to ancient death-cults that dated back to pre-history, and identifiable by having scale coloration closer to charcoal than the more common greens and browns of most of the species. They were outcasts, shunned from normal society. 'Dark-Breeds' typically lived in small communities out of necessity, and selling a child to a Ludus was a common means of making money. It wasn't frowned on, either. Most of his kind wound up in this business in one form or another, and a Ludus-trained family member held the sort of fan-fare that a child who'd volunteered for national military service might garner in other cultures. It hadn't been an easy childhood, but it had made him markedly better at his job. By the time Kaster was eighteen, he'd completed the equivalent of ten years of military service with special operations, owing most of that to former Blackwood employees the Ludus hired to teach their students. Kaster hadn't quite made the grade for a direct buy-out into Blackwood, but had instead had his servitude bond purchased by a Janissary Clan based in the southern marshes. He'd rounded out his extensive training with a seemingly-endless series of off-the-books operations, working as a high-end problem solver for an organized crime outfit in Grayrock, the capitol city of the Argonian Republic. Keeping a low profile was second-nature, and running coordinated hits on opposing criminal groups was child's play after his years at the Ludus. Blackwood had picked him up after his seventh year as a JC soldier, when his servitude bond was much cheaper to acquire and his resume was deeper. Kaster harbored no hard feelings for his current employer; business was business, and paying less for a more experienced operative made sense.

He'd reached the communal area of Blackwood's satellite facility at Grayrock International Airport an hour ago via a company vehicle, leaving the black sedan in the lot for another to use for the same purpose. The building was part dormitory, part operations center. Blackwood maintained it for its contribution to the 'Guild Tactical Reaction Force', or GTRF. A single Special Mission Team was on constant rotation, living in the GTRF compound and waiting for a go-order. Kaster's team was on rotation this month, but he'd been instructed to meet with his partner for this unsanctioned op in the same building. Walking through the thick glass doors, Kaster sighed inwardly at the post-modern theme. It was all off-white and glass panels, the sort of nonsense that had overtaken office spaces across the 'verse since the late 2000's.

Seated in the communal area was a thick-chested brute with equally-thick dreadlocks and an impressive beard, stoically staring at the large flat-screen a few feet away on the opposite wall. Ragnar Nielsen was former Ulfhendjar, as far as Kaster knew that translated to 'wolf warrior' in conventional language. Gungiri were from an Argonian vassal state in the far north, hardy Norse-descended humans fond of axes and large-caliber weapons. The bearded brute had a compact SCAR-H outfitted with a PDW-model stock leaning on a minimalist plate carrier at his feet. A short-hafted axe with a pronounced beard was also in evidence, a traditional weapon associated with his people. Ragnar's reputation was for few words, along with a well-hidden lust for battle.

Kaster seated himself a few seats over on the large sectional sofa that dominated the room. His own equipment was stashed upstairs in his assigned room, which he'd retrieve later. Ragnar acknowledged him with a subtle nod, before resuming his silent vigil over the television and what was apparently a cooking show...

[Terre des Gaules]

DOWNTOWN OF MAJOR CITY
SOME CAPITALIST OLIGARCHY

He peered over the edge of the roof to look down on his quarry, then he slipped back down smoothly. Sudden movement would trigger the guards’ peripheral vision and raise suspicion. The security had fanned out as soon as the revolving door began to spin, having funneled out from the side regular doors, usually reserved for the valets. They were on the lookout around the block, and even scoped out the rooftops, his level. They had a mental block over his particular roost though, and he knew that.

In their mind, this building he was in across the street had been vetted and the security in the lobby was firmly in their pocket. It was a common misconception to overlook the fact that the lobby and even service entrances weren’t the only access to a downtown building. He had scoped out several of the buildings across the street from the target, but none had floors under construction or big blocks of vacant offices. All had tighter security or bad angles, and only this one was the structure of which he was able to access the roof.

One was more vulnerable on a rooftop, but it did have its advantages if you had the right gear to make a quick break away. In his case, he had the gear, but would also go for the easiest route first. He knew that they didn’t bother to patrol the roof and also, he’d rigged the stair access door, removing the bolt, so that he wouldn’t be locked out, should someone actually come up on a whim and try to inadvertently close off that route of exfiltration by shutting the door.

He had been doing some last minute observing as he slowly took out the rifle, a cheaper knock off of a Barrett, from its plastic case and assembled it. Nothing was out of the ordinary from routine, so far. He’d cased out the building, a corporate headquarters, for days ahead of time. Doing his due diligence to mark the schedules of the staff, patrols, deliveries and catering activity. He wanted to see if there was anything his clients had missed, but they’d been pretty accurate in their assessments.

Assessments that had come with exhausting effort from them to get to the target before they’d finally given up and contracted out. They had tried poisoning, but were unable to get near catering. They’d even attempted to rig the elevators so that their quarry would drop to his death, or fall down an empty shaft, but the security was air tight. They had gotten maintenance on the issue fast, as soon as they figured out something was awry.

While slotting a bullet in his head seemed like the most obvious choice, the client, one of your typical eco-terrorist groups, didn’t have members that could do that kind of job. So they had found Amirault through typical channels. They were determined to bring down this CEO, and send a message to the SolStar Corporation about their mining, fracking and other disastrous practices on the environment in search of profit.

His preferred weapon was the NEG 1916 Geweil, but he didn’t bring that along on gigs where he would probably have to leave it behind, such as this one. The Neu Engollian made one hundred year old bolt action rifle was still one of the best, most prized tools in many snipers’ arsenals in the region of Teremara. It’s action was smooth, and it was rare that pieces had to be replaced on the rifle. Bolt housings, actions and very rarely barrels here and there, but it depended on use and care and the number of owners hands’ the rifle had gone through. Usually, they didn’t come up on the market unless the original owner was expired. They were that prized. NEDI (Neu Engollon Defense Industries) were still making them to this day, but they weren’t quite like the originals and they usually used more common wood for the stock that wore down and cracked easier.

Stephane Amirault had been a special operator in the Armed Forces of Gaul for half a decade, having made it through the tough selection from the regular infantry in order to serve his nation in the most elite forces they fielded. He had served during several troubles in the region as a peacekeeper and in counterinsurgency in some of the territories of Gaul. Later, he was selected to do black ops for the BGSE, the external security agency for Gaul, on some very secret missions.

Any hint that a former participant in those missions might have talked about it would bring about blacklisting, and they would be hunted down to whatever corner of the multiverse they’d ended up. The BGSE had several friends and long fingers. They needn’t worry about Amirault, but still they’d managed to find him and let him know they were watching him. He wondered how they might view his current contract. The SolStar CEO did have some Gaulic government ties.
He would worry about that later, but it was a non issue at this time. Now, it was time to collect his paycheck.

He checked his timepiece. He had about four more minutes before the CEO would be expected to be out in front of the lobby. As mentioned, the big suit’s security was good, so Stephane would have mere seconds before they bundled him into the vehicle and set off. Not that the CEO had such a set schedule from what he could tell. Certainly his security made sure that he varied it so that he never left the building at the same time on any given day. However, Amirault had lucked out and been able to overhear a staffer mention a big meeting that would certainly need the head honcho there, while he had strolled by in subtle disguise the other day.
If it was not true, then he simply would have to wait, or scrub the day and start fresh tomorrow, awaiting his target’s arrival. He had the patience.

He had several shots lined up, so that he didn’t keep popping his head up in the same spot every time, but this was his best vantage, and also the one with the most cover. A rooftop ventilation turbine would block view of him from most angles below. If he could get the shot from here, it afforded him the least chance of observation.

With one minute to go, he worked on his breathing as he brought the rifle up and rose up to a crouch at the same time. He lined the barrel up to the chalk mark he’d made on the concrete top of the parapet and continued to smoothly rise up as he swung the barrel down to the pavement below. The security was still there in their positions around the entranceway, making a tunnel to the curb. If they could’ve they’d be waving bright flags, too, he was sure. So much effort towards security by them blown in these two minutes.
There couldn’t be a more obvious signal that the Big Pig was heading out any moment. Even though there was some glances upwards, they hadn’t seemed to lock onto him yet. The roof turbine was doing its job of cover well.

He sighted in and at the bottom of his scope, he saw the limo roof slide into view as it pulled up and took position. This was it. Seconds counted. Milliseconds even. He felt the wind hitting his cheek and adjusted ever so slightly. No one standing next to him would be able to tell he’d moved at all.

A fine leather shoed foot, a well suited leg, waist, then torso, arms and head all materialized from the valet entrance. Stephane blew out air and tracked his quarry as the full form left the door frame. His finger caressed the trigger of the rifle without too much pressure. Several factors could go wrong once he pressed the trigger all the way back.

He’d had one day to zero and familiarize himself with the weapon in his hands now. It was not his NEG Geweil 16, it wasn’t even a true Barrett, his second choice, but it was suitable enough. One day would have to do because of his tight time table.

Then there was the windage. He was pretty certain he’d adjusted accordingly, and the scope, a high tech one, seemed to confirm that, but who really knew? What if the breeze shifted at this moment, sending his shot over and wide?

What if one of these corporate thugs wised up and flitted in between the CEO and the car, taking the slug? Could happen.

Could it? If? Maybe? Should it?
Amirault wasn’t that tied up by such doubt or fear of failure. A missed shot would probably blow his chance of getting this close again, but he would still get his man eventually. It would be a lot harder with security battened down and freaking out, but he’d had more difficult gigs.

Do it. Stroke of finger. Buck to the shoulder.
He lingered in vanity, wanting to see it hit, even though each moment now was a harrowing chance at discovery. It punched into the throat, down from the head where he’d meant to tag. So he’d over adjusted. No matter. It was a .50 BMG round. The man was nearly decapitated from the rocket that tore through him. Security sprang to try to save a man beyond saving. Some were already glancing up, while others fanned out, pistols drawn. Fast, but not fast enough.

Stephane was already sliding back and cradled the rifle to him. He placed it down next to the parapet wall and wiped where his bare right hand had touched it. He scooted back to be out of view from below and then crouch walked over towards the rooftop stairway door. It was still a crack open he could see. The rest of the exfiltration went smooth from there as he nonchalantly slipped out a back service entrance.

---

Later, Stephane sat in a coffee shop a couple miles away from the scene. An occasional patrol car still sped towards the incident, sirens blaring and lights flashing. He sipped at his drink as he looked at his encrypted tablet. He made a face then put the drink down. That was that. Maybe he’d get a bottled water to go.
First, the bank account. No money yet. That could be a problem, but they might be waiting to verify. If they stiffed him, he knew who his next targets would be. He would check again in a bit. Then emails. Perhaps an explanation would be there, or at least a kudos on a job well done.

His mindset wasn’t already on another job, but there it was in front of him. He’d never heard of these people and wasn’t sure how he’d ended up on their list. Blackwood? Perhaps some government’s sting op? He read out of interest anyway. The factions involved and lack of a secure getaway would have to mean they were paying an outrageous sum per head for this. He read on, spying a PMC Guild logo at one point that sparked a corner of his gray matter.

Ah, the Guild! He had a friend in the Guild, or rather Thomas in Axalon, which was a Guild member. This brief didn’t mention the Guild, and he wouldn’t have gotten an invite for an actual Guild op, anyway. The Guild didn’t accept small time free lancers as members. Last he'd heard, anyway. You had to go the full corporate route and be in one of the big baddies to be associated with the Guild. That didn’t appeal to him, but this side gig did. It wasn’t Guild sanctioned. He emailed his confirmation and watched his tablet be scrubbed clean of any evidence the invite had ever existed. He smiled. Had that not happened, he would be applying to the wrong people.

He needed to focus back on the task at hand and get out of this supposedly civilized nation that didn’t know the difference between coffee and mud. The window would close soon. His flight left in three hours. He had to be on it. He would check his account again from the airport. He packed up his stuff, sliding the tablet into it’s protective cover and leaving the cup of swill on the hi topped counter facing out the window. He could get a water on the way, he felt a strong burning need to leave here in his gut. As he hit the sidewalk, he breathed in a gust as if it was his first of the day. Now...What to do with all that money?

[Falkasia]

Undisclosed Location
Somewhere in Falkasia

“Good morning Mr. Koski,” a voice stated flatly as the sleeping man was drenched from above by a pail of cold water. “I hope you had a good night?”

The now very awake man slammed his knees against the metal table situated in front of him. A literal knee-jerk reaction.

The voice gave him no time to reply. “Glad to see all of you drinking hasn’t adversely impacted your reactions.”

Jan moaned. All he wanted was to be left alone to fight off the horrendous hangover he was suffering through. Even through his nearly sealed eyes, he could feel the heat from the enormous floodlight positioned over him.

“Believe me, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do…” a man mentioned, stepping out of the shadows. “But unfortunately the interests of your country do not operate on any of our schedules.”

Koski tried to open his eyes to get a glimpse of the mysterious man. Even the swelling from his fall, coupled with the stiffness he felt around his eye sockets from over-drinking, he could make out a faint image. The man was immaculately dressed, sharp as a tack in a slick black suit. His face was still obscured in shadows, or concealed underneath a mask. He stepped forward and circumvented the steel table, disappearing from view.

“I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’re here. So was I, until me and my partners reviewed your service jacket.”

A thick manila envelope was dropped onto the table from behind him. As it landed, several pictures spilled out from the crease and onto the floor.

“You know who this is?”

Even through his bruised eyelids, Jan could read his own name on the front cover. He nodded in the affirmative, although such a simple action was rewarded with a severe bout of nausea.

“Let me tell you a story Jan. A long time ago, there was a man from Ikovskaya who dreamed of leaving his small logging town and exploring the world. That’s exactly what he did, despite the misgivings of his family. He got up and left in the middle of the night without uttering a word, and by morning was on a bus heading for the Naval Academy in Volsk. He did well in his studies, and was accepted into the Marine Infantry Officer program.”

The man paused, reappearing into sight as he approached the metal table from the other side of the room. He withdrew a chair, concealed by the lip, and sat.

“Then he was deployed to the First Fleet. Instead of seeing the world, he spent his days as an Interdiction Agent rescuing fishing boats and protecting oil rigs. Hardly an environment conducive to living your dreams? Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jan shrugged and moaned, trying to protect his head and eyes from the piercing light.

“I think so too. So this young ambitious marine decided he wanted more adventure than he could ever get on some icebreaker. But then he did encounter action, but not how he thought. By a stroke of bad luck, an oil rig boiler exploded and nearly dismembered his leg. It wasn’t easy losing a surefire posting, so the man drifted around between odd jobs. He was a security contractor, a bodyguard, an exotic tour guide... But do you know what all of these names have in common? They describe a mercenary. And that’s exactly what this man became. A mercenary, in the employ of a certain Uli-Schwyz.

The man unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt and tie underneath. The brightness of the shirt hurt Jan’s eyes even worse, forcing him to seal them shut.

“And there he served from nearly five years as a member of Zeta Company. Until Hutanjia happened.” He paused. “You remember Hutanjia, don’t you Jan?”

“Yes…” he croaked softly, small flecks of dried blood joining the saliva that fell onto his lap.

“Yes… Hutanjia. What a shame really. Here’s where our hero fell onto hard times. Before, it mattered little where you hailed from. Then, after, suddenly to be a Falkasian on Panto Leto was to be an outlaw regardless of the reality. Five years our hero served with distinction… putting his life on the line for fortune and glory… only to be cast off like an errant thread of yarn. Hold on… what was it they said?”

A pair of hands emerged from the darkness and opened the folder. On top, placed perfectly square over the stack of papers, was a photocopy.

“They said, ‘security liability,’ ‘inability to trust,’ but here’s the kicker… ‘incompatible with the aims of our organization.’ Organization? Incompatible? Jan… what do you think this means?”

He gave no time for a response.

“It’s politics. It means that after the Falkasian Marine Raiders invaded the island, all Falkasians in the service of the group were no longer seen as friends. No matter how hard they worked or the distinctions they had earned, they were indistinguishable from the enemy. It didn’t matter that it was a Falkasian who negotiated the safe release of the families which the Cardwithian commandos had taken hostage. No, not at all. Instead, it just added fuel to the fire. And unfortunately, our hero was burned at the stake. In an ironic twist of fate, the very people who had saved him were the ones who signed his death warrant.”

The folder was shut violently, sending a flurry of papers flying across the room.

“So that brings us to the present Jan. Here you are, the unlikely hero of your own life… a shell of your former self wallowing in self-pity. Too embarrassed to return home seeking help, but too prideful to accept it when offered. It really is a shame… I’ve been at this long enough to know that men like you either end up in two places; dead in some gutter on the side of the road or locked up in a prison like an unwanted toy.”

Jan was once again blasted in the face with a spray of ice cold water, jolting him back to life.

“Thought we were losing you there Jan… seems you’re a lot closer than I thought to that end of that first road. Now… that brings me to why I am here. Do you know why Jan?”

He shook his head in the negative, hyperventilating as he attempted to calm his breathing after the shock.

“I’m here to offer you a third road. Not many people in your position are allowed onto this road… believe me, its heavily guarded and isn’t exactly flat… but the end is much better than your other two options. Want to know more? Just shake your head.”

Jan rolled his head up and down.

“Excellent. Now… down to business. It has been brought to my attention that a certain object, for which we will not name, has fallen into the hands of an Argonian Janissary Clan. Normally, our organization has no desire to interfere with the affairs of other nations except when beneficial to us. In this case especially, it is in our best interests to learn the contents of this object.”

The pair of hands reached out once more and reopened the file. This time, the front page was a dossier of Jan Koski’s life complete with a profile picture back from his Navy days.

“Why are you here? Well, you really only have your life decisions to blame. Your experience in the Navy ensures your loyalty. Your experience with the Mercenaries guarantees your skills. And your ability to survive on the streets of Ekaterine’s red light district for two years and not succumb to alcohol poisoning exemplifies your resilience. Rest assured, if you decide to work with us, we will outfit you with the absolute best gear available on the market… money is of no object when it comes to our mission. Trust me when I say this… money is the least of our worries… and it will soon be your’s as well.”

“And if I don’t?” The Falkasian croaked, trying to clear his parched throat in the process.

“Then we drop you in a hole somewhere… maybe Volsk, the Gulf, or perhaps somewhere in the Duhaba Sand Reserve? We will make you disappear and reappear, a vagrant in some far off nation who doesn’t speak the language. Really no different than your current life here… just a change of scenery? But let’s not talk about that yet… What do you say?”

In a change of decorum, the shadowy figure stopped talking.

Jan stared him down as best he could, despite his swollen eye sockets, the burning bright light overhead, and the sharp contrast of the shadows. By the position of his hands, he could read that his intentions were truthful and genuine.

“Ok,” he mumbled, swallowing hard.

The other man collected the file and stood up in the same motion, disappearing from sight. A second later, Jan felt a firm hand pat him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Smart decision. You help us and we help you.”

He paused briefly, just long enough to drive the point home.

“Welcome to the FSIS... Operator Koski.”

[Neu Engollon]

KENEGA CITY INTERNATIONAL
KENEGA

Heigen kept a small arsenal in a secure storage locker for just such situations. He spent enough time on the island that it was just easier than making the long trip home to get some of his specialized gear. Often, such organizations as Blackwood kept their own arsenals, but there were certain items he knew they might not carry, and he didn’t want substitutions.

The storage space was at a facility in Rowega, a suburb of Kenega City, a ways out from the bustle. He paid well above and beyond the rent in advance to the owner in order to not be hassled. He’d grabbed every tool, gadget and piece that he expected to need. He just hoped that Blackwood had a way to get it into Argonia once he was near arrival, otherwise he’d need to find a place to ditch it on his last connection. He had several legs and connections to make to get there, so he had time to make an alternate plan.

Noel rolled into the terminal with two moderately heavy bags. The cab driver refused to attempt to lift them out of the back. At the main doors, two gendarmes in their khaki uniforms stood guard with Wolf SM Stingers slung. Kenega didn’t maintain a regular army, but the large National Gendarme force did both law enforcement and defense duties, not to mention the base on the Western side of the island maintained by the Erlenic Commonwealth forces who provided the first barrier of defense. Enough happened in the southern reaches of the Wishton Sea that they needed to be on guard at all times. The Hutanjian War had threatened more than once to spill across the sea to this peaceful rock.

Noel didn’t even twitch. He was calm and casual as he rolled up towards preliminary security for check in. Kenegan Transport Authority agents stood by, manning 5 lines at the juncture leading from the check in desks to the terminal walkways. They were checking bags and passengers through in a fairly efficient manner.

Panic set in then as he scanned all their faces. Neither of his usual people that he paid off were here. He hadn’t thought to text ahead to make sure of their shifts. He had a flight to catch, but he wasn’t ready to abandon his gear so early on. He still had cards up his sleeve.

The saving grace, he hoped, was the fact that Kenegans were almost always willing to make some fast big bucks under the table. The island was pricey, as they had to import a lot, both luxuries and necessities, in order to maintain a standard of living. So, Kenega was notorious for nefarious dealings. Banks that hid accounts for clients. Blank Kenegan passports were sold to unsavory criminal and political elements. Laundering schemes. Black market dealings. It was all on the island, if you even had a notion to look for it.

He made a decision and chose a line. A woman, like the rest of the agents, with creamy cocoa skin of generations of intermixing between the Erlenic colonizers and the Polynesian natives who dominated all the coastal areas. Only a handful of villages in the interior could claim pure bred native hold outs. She wore the gray uniform of the KTA, and a name tag that said ‘Wexler’. Her naturally brunette hair was dyed a henna color and she was slightly on the heavyset side.
She waved on the passengers in front of Noel, then motioned him forward, while the rest of the line stayed back a few paces.
“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you enjoyed your stay on the island.” Perfect annunciation. Not a trace of the native patois.

He laid down his Neu Engollian passport under the name of 'Erik Latriveaux', and then regripped and scooted his two loaded bags forward.
“Oh, I did.”

“Excellent.” She glanced at his passport, then down at the bags. “I will need to peek into those.”

“Right. About that…” He put them down on the floor, instead of on the examining bench, to her instant frown.

“Sir…I'm going to need you to...”

“I have been reading this great paperback novel that I think you’d like...Ms. Wexler. It has action, romance, a unique story. It’s very well rewarding.”
He pulled it out of his cargo pocket and plunked it down. Several corners of high denomination ken bills peeked out from underneath the cover of the paperback.

Wexler’s eyes enlarged just a bit, then focused back on him, squinting slightly. She sighed, resigned that today would not be her day to be so vigilant or virtuous. The Neu Engollian was leaving with this stuff, not trying to bring something in. It would soon be some other nation’s problem.
“Yes. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. You’re free to go, sir.”
She scooted the book to a shelf where her personal things were, behind the X Ray scanner tunnel. She slid the passport back to him.

“That’s great, Ms. Wexler. I’m glad we share the same tastes. You have a good day now.”
Noel Heigen gave his classic playboy smile as he slid the passport back into his cargo pocket. Then he took up the straps of his bags and plowed on before she, or anyone, could change their minds.

He had his bags checked in with Air Kenega, with another bribe, knowing that they would normally go through another scan before being trucked across the tarmac. He ensured they would not. Finally, the flight was off and he was relaxing in First Class as the Wishton Sea whisked by far below. Another paperback, this one a non-fiction compiling historical stories of the Janissary Clans of Argonia, sat on one knee. A Burgunden Breu sat on the tray table, the effervescent bubbles working their way up to the foamy head. He was on the way to the first connection that would mean almost a day and a half’s worth of travel.

[Wandering Argonians]

After a lengthy criss-crossing patchwork of connecting flights you find yourself in a backwater airport for the final puddle-jump into the Argonian Republic, despite noting a dozen connecting flights that flew directly into Grayrock International, your stated final destination on every pre-paid ticket you've found waiting for you at each and every stop.

The airport itself is tiny by most standards, clearly a regional hub for aviation enthusiasts and the local law enforcement's aerial support assets, evidenced by a collection of small civilian aircraft lashed down nearby. Even this close to the swamps of the Republic, the air is thick and moist, almost suffocating in the sweltering heat. The single terminal is empty, and security seems to be an elderly man obviously napping near the entryway on a metal stool. Your bags aren't in the claim area (which is little more than a series of tables), but can be seen in the bed of a rusty pick-up truck with the word 'BAGGAGE' painted on the side in flaking white, trudging towards the lone runway. A single aircraft is parked there, a black new-model Gulfstream jet without a tail number, sitting like a silent predator among the lesser aircraft berthed nearby. You note the muted logo of a tree on the tail-fin, a hint to its origins and ownership. At the base of the ramp stands a tall Caucasian man in a faded red Hawaiian shirt, heavily muscled and extensively tattooed. Most of his face is hidden by a sweat-stained baseball cap, Oakley sunglasses, and a heavy beard but you can make out a nasty-looking scar running vertically over his left eye. The red Hawaiian hangs open, revealing a blank black t-shirt. He wears camouflage cut-off shorts in an AOR1 desert pattern, and the carbon-fiber of a replacement limb glints in the harsh sunlight, replacing his left leg from the knee down. It looks almost comically thin in comparison to the rest of his immense frame. His shoes are high-end civilian hiking models. In his hands he holds a large cardboard sign, scrawled with hand-written names in thick black Sharpie letters...

HEIGEN

AMIRAULT

KOSKI

There is no expression on the man's face, the graying reddish-brown beard hiding most his face twitching slightly in the weak breeze. The opaque lenses of the Oakleys don't give much away either, although as you approach him you can make out a series of faded letters written on the sides of the hat's brim, what look to be the man's blood type and lack of medical allergies. His bearing and nonchalant clothing choices suggest that his background is military, and that he hails from a specialized unit with an aquatic specialization. You get a sense of vague irritation about him, as if this is a duty he's been assigned out of prudence instead of something that normally falls in his job description. The rust-bucket tuck rolls to a stop near him with a squeal of abused brakes, idling roughly. The attendant within, an older man in stained blue coveralls, won't meet your gaze and fiddles with the bulky neon-colored ear protection muffs on his head absently as if making an attempt to not hear anything. The floral-shirted behemoth speaks as you approach, a low growl of a voice that carries an air of command with it, the bark of a senior non-commissioned officer...

"Grab your kit and get on the bird. You'll be briefed once we're in the air. We're skipping customs courtesy of 'Executive First-Class Service', so don't sweat any contraband you might have with you. Arms and equipment will be provided once we land in the event you didn't bring any..."

He gestures to the open ramp with a meaty paw...

"After you, ladies. Time is a factor..."

[Terre des Gaules]

Stephane disembarked from his plane, hoping that he would never have to see another one for quite a while. He internally winced. There was one last leg to go. He had tried to sleep as much as possible between the several connections to get to this godforsaken land. It was difficult, but he'd gotten enough to be satisfied. Who knew how much rest they would get in the next few days. In true military fashion, Amirault was used to storing up sleep like a camel before an intense mission.

The Gaul wore a white button down Oxford shirt with the first three buttons undone and comfortable dull olive slacks that glided over brown leather, lace up practical work shoes. He might be mistaken for a businessman in travel casual, if one weren't in tune to his observant casing of the airport and his lack of cell in hand to incessantly gab into.

He had a light canvas bag slung over one shoulder with some essentials inside. Unlike Heigen, he'd not taken the chance of trying to float contraband through multiple customs enforcement agencies. He assumed that gear would be provided by their new employers, but he had enough cash on hand to buy on the local market if necessary.

He locked onto the bearded greeter in the red Hawaiian shirt as he focused on the sign. If he had any disdain for the shabby appearance of their liaison, it wasn't apparent in his neutral expression. Koski. Heigen. The other names meant nothing to him. He did notice two others homing in on the Hawaiian shirted man, who might be his newest colleagues as they had the bearing of professionals. Glimpses anyway. One slacker could be tweedle dee to the sign carrying twiddle dumb here. Was this a contract or a cruise ship boarding?

The gruffness of the greeter was slightly jarring, but Stephane accepted it. So that's how it was going to be? So be it. That was the nature of the business. He followed the group out to the tarmac. At least the plane was of this century and in better shape than the truck.

[Neu Engollon]

Noel got off the plane in a bit of an off mood and groggy. He was earning at least two free trips to somewhere with all these frequent flyer points. Correction. 'Erik Latriveaux' was earning them. He had a momentary panic as he searched for the baggage claim, eventually spotting the rusty beater of a truck that bore his bags. He'd been in many backwater cropduster parks like this, so it wasn't all that strange to him.

He had on his favorite cut off camo shorts and a black, loose fitting bowling style shirt that bore the large logo of Diamond Star on the back. He had mirrored shades covering his green eyes. On his feet were blue, lightweight running shoes. He usually liked to wear flip flops or sandals during such long journeys for comfort, but not knowing if and when he might run into trouble heading into this contract, he'd rather not launch his foot wear if he had to run or lash out with a kick.

He took in the Poindexter in the white button down and khakis as he approached the group, then turned his attention to their liaison holding the sign. He cracked a smile.
"Awright mang! We're twins!" He stood next to the bearded, similarly attired man. If it weren't for the baseball cap and prosthetic leg, the statement was pretty close to true.

"Check it out!" He said to Amirault who only furrowed his brows in reply. It was like the Odd Couple, except with double the shabby bachelor parts to the one nerdy square.

"D'accord." Was all Stephane replied in a bored voice.

Noel stepped back again and took another read over the sign.

Amirault. That was obviously the French speaking professor here. Could be Gaul, Cassonian, or Quebecois, or a national of any dozens of Francophone nations across the Multiverse, for all he knew. Dude needed to lighten up.

Koski. Had to be the overly pale, Slavic looking guy loping towards them. Again, no way to tell the nationality. Likewise, how many hundreds of Slavic nations were spread all over the Multiverse? The name though, if not the face, triggered some recognition in the back of his mind. He couldn't peg down the warning flag, but it should come to him soon enough.

"Grab your kit and get on the bird. You'll be briefed once we're in the air. We're skipping customs courtesy of 'Executive First-Class Service', so don't sweat any contraband you might have with you. Arms and equipment will be provided once we land in the event you didn't bring any..."

"Sweet!"

The guide gestures to the open ramp with a meaty paw...
"After you, ladies. Time is a factor..."

"Moving, drill instructor!" Said Heigen in a lower, respectful voice than he would have shouted back during NEDM training, but still putting the appropriate urgent emphasis into it. He broke into a fast walk.

[Falkasia]

He had forgotten how much he hated flying. It wasn’t so much a matter of the confined spaces, or the impure oxygenation of the cabin, or even the fact he was trusting his life to a metal coffin 30,000 feet above the ground. No, it was the simple fact there was turbulence. The prospect of sudden and abrupt death meant nothing to him. Instead, the turbulence.

On the ocean where he had spent much of his time as a young adult, the sea had a predictability to it that could easily be gauged through weather reports. The rise and fall of cascading waves were oddly rhythmic he remembered, and even in the most violent of winter storms, the salty gray-white spray crashing across the decks held a sort of majesty. Air travel did not. It was up, down, and then off. No intrigue, no mystery… just the manifestation of industrial efficiency in passenger transportation.

The fact he was still fighting a horrific hangover didn’t help matters either. No sooner had he agreed to work for the illusive FSIS and signed the required paperwork, he has blindfolded and then deposited at Ekaterine International Airport with a one-way ticket to where ever the hell he was now. They had escorted him quickly through security and onto the plane, and many connections later, here he was. The tarmac radiated with an ambient heat, casting subtle mirages between service vehicles and deplaning aircraft.

He vaguely saw two other men, approaching parallel to him from other aircraft. His aviator sunglasses, provided to him courtesy of his new benefactors, were heavily tinted to protect his pale eyes from the harsh arid sun. As an added benefit, and one easily concealed by the dark lenses, was the integrated VICE feed mapped to his retinal print. Only he could activate it and all the power the computer system contained. The downside however was that it was a prototype, and as such lacked both the same processing strength and speed which characterized the hardwired VICE mainframes utilized in battlespace command centers. It was also heavily dependent on orbital satellites, which would be required to feed the system real-time data once activated.

Noting the other individuals, he activated the feedback center situated in the corner of his right lens. Flicking his eye up, a small drop-down box appeared. Selecting an option from the list, he turned to face the first man. A targeting reticle appeared, centering on the exposed part of his face.

“Access denied.” A monotone feminine voice whispered into his earpiece.

He shrugged it off, trying it again. The reticle appeared, followed by a loading bar. Upon reaching 97%, the system crashed.

“Rebooting…” the same voice announced.

“God damnit,” Jan cursed silently under his breath, recalling what his handler had mentioned.

======

“This is new technology Jan,” the dark man mentioned as he paced around the room. “The beauty of VICE is the ability for it to present information in a way that is dynamic and intuitive for the human mind. The ugliness is that power of this scale is next to impossible to miniaturize without losing fidelity.”

A hand rested on Jan’s shoulder. “Congratulations Operator. You get to be our guinea pig.”

======

For now, he would have to get to know his counterparts the old fashioned way.

”After you ladies. Time is a factor…” Jan heard the man mutter.

The comment only made him want to move even slower, but he picked up his pace so as to not piss of his new bosses. While still languorously slow, he made an effort to lengthen his strides. Being back on solid ground was pleasant enough, and he had no intentions of shortening his enjoyment of it.

[Wandering Argonians]

The minder ignored the chipper quips from the one his file identified as 'Heigen'. The other two remained silent, which he appreciated. Once everyone was aboard with their respective baggage and arranged in the exquisite leather chairs within the cabin, drinks were distributed by a well-proportioned blonde stewardess in tight-fitting throwback attire. Beverages distributed, the small jet received clearance to depart and did so with the subtle professionalism among truly exceptional pilots.

Once cruising altitude was reached, the minder unbuckles himself from the token restraints and removes his hat and sunglasses, tucking one inside the other and folding them into a smaller package. His face is weather-worn, indicative of extensive time in desert climates. The aforementioned scar over his left eye is heavily pronounced, a thick strip of waxy-looking tissue that extends into his upper lip and begins in his close-trimmed hairline. You note that his choice in haircuts is a high-and-tight so high and so tight that it treads into mohawk territory with few apologies. His eyes are cobalt-blue and carbide-hard, lacking emotion. A black leather day-planner appears, from which the brute withdraws three sheets of paper and passes them among the assembled contractors...

"Alright, gentlemen. What you've got there is yet another NDA (non-disclosure agreement), which I need you to sign, personally, in ink before I can give you the full run-down on why the f**k we've drug your collective asses across half the planet..."

The sentence ends with the offering of a chipped and abused Fisher Space Pen, the sort that writes underwater, in zero gravity, etc. Like the man handing it to you, it looks out of place in the posh surroundings of the corporate jet. With a few practiced scribbles, you make your mark on the document after a cursory scan. It describes fairly graphic legal ramifications for violating its terms, but what follows puts much of that into context. A small projector screen appears from a slot on the nearby bulkhead, near the boarding ramp. The giant has since produced a small laptop from the same day-planner and begins fiddling with it, pecking each key out with a beefy finger as the NDA's are passed back his way. After a split-second review, he stashes them in the day planner and returns his attention to the laptop. The bane of every foot soldier appears: Microsoft PowerPoint...

"You're all aware that you're being contracted to retrieve a certain high-value item from a vague location, as per the briefing packet we sent you. What I'm telling you now doesn't leave the jet: the item you're recovering is this..."

The screen displays a large Pelican-type case, the heavy-duty type used to contain valuable or fragile items of high value. Within are six metallic cylinders, gun-metal gray and nestled in custom-cut black cell-foam. The ominous letters 'VX' are printed on each, along with writing in a foreign language with letters you don't quite recognize...

"Blackwood recovered six vials of VX nerve agent as payment from a rogue faction they assisted in what the file calls a 'regime transition'. The contract was never completed, but payment was obtained and extracted. Reports later indicate the 'client' was KIA under strange circumstances, with time of death estimated a few hours before the in-country team extracted. The vials of VX were secured in a classified BW facility in the deeper part of the Black Marsh under heavy guard. Some assholes broke in, shot a bunch of our people, and took the nerve agent. Pretty by-the-book smash-and-grab. We don't have much intel at this time about who, or whom, stands to profit from this. My money is on the MIF gearing up for a series of terror attacks against the city-folk, but it could just as easily be some prick putting it up for sale..."

The screen changes again, a split-screen between some of the earlier closed-circuit footage and an Argonian National Army service dossier. The Argonian in the service photo wears a crimson beret, the identifying mark of a paratrooper...

"We were able to identify this idiot, Yannick Hanaas, formerly Corporal Hanaas of the ANA's 5th Airborne Division. Honorably discharged four years ago, with extensive time fighting the MIF. Decorations, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, he's listed as an indentured servant under the Krassick Janissary Clan employee roster. We're running down that JC lead as we speak, but keep your eyes out for JC troops. We're not sure if this was an off-the-books operation to get Hanaas the money to buy his freedom back or if Krassick's the one who ordered the hit..."

Again, the screen shifts. It's a topographical map showing the Grayrock river and its many tributaries, along with a red-lined route towards the last know location of the object...

"You'll be inserting by boat, travelling up the Grayrock river towards the northern marshes and making your way inland from there. You won't have to do much actual swamp-stomping, as the tributaries are fairly deep and you can access most of the country by shallow-draft vessel. Once we touch down we'll be passing out equipment and weapons, along with atropine, a GPS, and a transponder beacon for the team. Once the package is secure, pop the beacon and we'll have an extraction team there in about ten minutes. You'll be meeting the rest of your team once we land, two of Blackwood's finest. Once you're geared up, we're immediately shuttling the team down to the docks, where you'll embark on your little adventure..."

Another screen shift, this time to a simple black question mark on a blank white background...

"Questions? You'll each be paid two million standard. Yes, 'million' with an 'M', for this op, which is expected to last at most two days. One once you're underway, another once you're successfully handed the package off to the extraction team. This is retirement-level pay, my friends. You'll also remain in Blackwood's good graces for future ops, but that should go without saying..."

Even with the hefty payout, the operation seems shady, but then again it wouldn't pay well unless there were proportionally large risks. Charges as a war criminal, for one. Likely terrorism charges as well if caught with such a dangerous and illegal substance...

[Falkasia]

Jan shook his head profusely in the negative. No, there were no questions. And even if there were, he was sober enough to know that asking them might buy a one-way trip out the rear cabin hatch with no parachute. No, he was much more content enjoying the luxury of the aircraft. This was not an experience he had ever partaken in prior to his "reassignment."

Again. glancing around the plush cabin, he attempted to activate the VICE feed embedded within his sunglasses. With a simple flick of his eye, he initiated the boot sequence. Apparently only to him, a small flash of light nearly blinded him as the HUD overlay appeared over the red-tinted lenses. A small loading bar quickly filled, followed by the same monotone feminine voice he had grown so accustomed to.

"Boot successful." It announced, perhaps cheerily if an inanimate object could express emotions. "Welcome back Operator Koski. VICE is online."

Although it sounded as though the voice was being broadcast from all around him, he had to remind himself that only he knew it existed. The other members of his mish-mashed squad, alongside the rather angry looking man in front of him, were otherwise oblivious to its declarations. All for the better, at least for the time being. It'd give him a leg up in most situations, provided it worked as designed under the rigors of field operations.

He reached for the extended pen, making sure to keep his eyes on the man in front of him. As he signed the paper, VICE targeted his face and began to run facial recognition. Another bar appeared, emphasized by the rapidly moving reticle which jumped from facial feature to facial feature as it ran against a database.

"Match found." The voice replied, perhaps with a tone bordering on proud.

Jan's eyes darted over, settled on the "Display" option, and selected it.

At the same moment, VICE crashed. The HUD disappeared, and a strong sense of being out-of-place took hold over the Falkasian. Remember, only you know what just happened. No one else saw that, he reassured himself.

"Blackwood recovered six vials of VX nerve agent...", he heard the man say, instantly bringing him back to reality.

VX? Nerve Agent? The pictures proved what was in the case. The voice of his handler back in Falkasia suddenly infiltrated his mind like a subdued hypnotic suggestion.

"We want to know what's inside the case. Once you find out, your mission is complete."

So, technically, he could call for the Exfil Team as soon as he landed. He knew the contents. They were containers of VX. Wasn't that his mission? No. A voice inside his head, just as loud as that of his handler's, told him otherwise. He had to physically determine the contents of the case, with his own eyes, and in person. Not through a picture. Technicality was one thing, but the FSIS was also not an organization to try to play hotshot lawyer with. Chances are, they would find technicalities with him to warrant the swift removal of him from the face of the planet. Despite the circumstances of his life, he had a 5 million paycheck from the FSIS, and the potential for another 2 million from these guys.

The best course of action was to remain silent, and let the man and his squad members spill the beans before he had a chance to accidentally expose his true affiliations.

[Neu Engollon]

Seeing that his attempts at humor were running up against this brick wall of a crowd, Noel dropped into a more silent, but attentive posture. Perhaps he was just a little slap happy from jet lag. In any case, now that they were going into mission mode, his demeanor was converting over as it usually did to the professional reputation he was also known for. When the opportunity arose though, if there was a chance to still get a humorous barb or two in, he certainly wouldn't hold back.

It was still kind of funny to him how similarly he and their minder were dressed.

Heigen settled into his seat and continued to observe his mission companions and the host. When the buxom blonde attendant took his beverage order, it was for an iced tea. He was done with the beer, at least for a while. He smiled his playboy rakish grin at her, winking. It probably would've been smoother if he'd been ordering a scotch. Oh well.

He looked over at the Slavic guy. Koski. Or ‘Not the Professor’, as he was also labeling him in his mind. He was acting strangely, blinking a lot, fiddling with his shades and making some odd faces. Noel decided to put a pin in that for later. He already had a lot buzzing in the back of his mind about the name ‘Koski’.

Once cruising altitude was reached, the minder unbuckled himself from his seat and removed his hat and shades. When Noel spied the retentive chop, he made a conscious effort to not roll his eyes. One of those.
A black leather day-planner appeared, from which the brute withdrew three sheets of paper and passed them among the assembled contractors.
"Alright, gentlemen. What you've got there is yet another NDA (non-disclosure agreement), which I need you to sign, personally, in ink before I can give you the full run-down on why the fuck we've drug your collective asses across half the planet..."

He breezed through the document, pausing slightly at some of the language. Yeah, typical NDA. He'd seen them before. Blinky handed the pen over to Noel, who took it in hand. Fuck it. He chicken scratched it and handed the pen to Professor Frogger, passing the paper back to their host. The 'show' began.

Wet paper bag guy took in all the NDAs and started to set up a computer slide show on a screen that pulled down. He had their full attention.

"You're all aware that you're being contracted to retrieve a certain high-value item from a vague location, as per the briefing packet we sent you. What I'm telling you now doesn't leave the jet: the item you're recovering is this..."

When he saw the nerve gas case and vials depicted, a part of him felt like he should have seen this coming.
"Dammit." Was all he managed to say very softly. He looked over at the professor and the Slav to get a read on their reactions. The man he was pretty sure was a Gaul seemed to go pale and wide eyed. He was sort of a kid, really. He must be at least 10 years younger than Noel. The Slav was tougher to read. Par for the course, the host ignored their reactions to the lethal cargo.

"Blackwood recovered six vials of VX nerve agent as payment from a rogue faction they assisted in what the file calls a 'regime transition'. The contract was never completed, but payment was obtained and extracted. Reports later indicate the 'client' was KIA under strange circumstances, with time of death estimated a few hours before the in-country team extracted. The vials of VX were secured in a classified BW facility in the deeper part of the Black Marsh under heavy guard. Some assholes broke in, shot a bunch of our people, and took the nerve agent. Pretty by-the-book smash-and-grab. We don't have much intel at this time about who, or whom, stands to profit from this. My money's on the MIF gearing up for a series of terror attacks against the city-folk, but it could just as easily be some prick putting it up for sale..."

The screen changed again, a split-screen between some of the earlier closed-circuit footage and an Argonian National Army service dossier. The Argonian in the service photo wears a crimson beret, some sort of elite unit, for sure.

"We were able to identify this idiot, Yannick Hanaas, formerly Corporal Hanaas of the ANA's 5th Airborne Division. Honorably discharged four years ago, with extensive time fighting the MIF. Decorations, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, he's listed as an indentured servant under the Krassick Janissary Clan employee roster. We're running down that JC lead as we speak, but keep your eyes out for JC troops. We're not sure if this was an off-the-books operation to get Hanaas the money to buy his freedom back or if Krassick's the one who ordered the hit..."

Again, the screen shifted. A topographical map showed a river and its many tributaries, along with a red-lined route towards the last know location of the object...

"You'll be inserting by boat, travelling up the Grayrock river towards the northern marshes and making your way inland from there. You won't have to do much actual swamp-stomping, as the tributaries are fairly deep and you can access most of the country by shallow-draft vessel. Once we touch down we'll be passing out equipment and weapons, along with atropine, a GPS, and a transponder beacon for the team. Once the package is secure, pop the beacon and we'll have an extraction team there in about ten minutes. You'll be meeting the rest of your team once we land, two of Blackwood's finest. Once you're geared up, we're immediately shuttling the team down to the docks, where you'll embark on your little adventure..."

Another screen shift, this time to a simple black question mark on a blank white background…

Heigen resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the absurdity, or shout “The Riddler!”

"Questions? You'll each be paid two million standard. Yes, 'million' with an 'M', for this op, which is expected to last at most two days. One once you're underway, another once you're successfully handed the package off to the extraction team. This is retirement-level pay, my friends. You'll also remain in Blackwood's good graces for future ops, but that should go without saying..."

Noel raised an eyebrow slightly at the payout. It was a decent amount, and yes, possibly even a retirement fund, should he go that route. The pay was higher for the risk. One million NSD for each day worked.
Nerve gas, though? So much could go wrong. He assumed that the call for questions wasn’t rhetorical and was the first one to speak.
“Yeah, ok, so...nerve agents?” What he wanted to say was, ‘You guys leave this lying around in not so secure facilities to be raided?’, but what he really asked was:
“So...Are we going to get some kind of special PPE/MOPP gear to handle this stuff...or is it just a matter of ‘Don’t drop the case?’”

[Terre des Gaules]

Stephane momentarily smirked as the Neu Engollian was put in his place in the terminal. He was certain the man was Neu Engollian by his accent, not to mention the Germanic name. They were the eastern neighboring nation of Gaul, after all, on the same Mederano Peninsula. There was no mistaking the accent...or the arrogance. Neu Engollians were convinced that everything must follow their logic, and that everyone should believe as they did. It was always the annoying vibe he got from them.
He should be happy with familiarity of a fellow Teremaran, but he was more ruing the luck of having a Neu Engollian with him on this mission out of everyone out there in the multiverse. He just hoped the older man could fight.

He got on the plane with the rest of the contractors. He didn’t know what to make of the other one, not Heigen, who had come with them. Koski his name was. He seemed either anxious or disoriented. He got water from the flight attendant and settled in to wait.
He turned his attention to the host as they leveled out in the air and a screen was set up to show the briefing.

He took the pen from the jokester Neu Engollian and got ready to sign the NDA. He paused, thinking that he might like to know more about the mission, but knew it was a Catch 22. He had to sign that document first. He’d come this far, might as well keep it going. He signs his name with a flourish, finally handing back the pen and the NDA to their host, who tucks them away.

He watches the slides and listens as the contract is outlined. When the VX vials are shown, he freezes up. He feels the color drain from his face. So this is why the need for the NDA. He never liked to work with or around deadly bio or chemical agents, even when running black ops for the BGSE (Gaulic secret service). He had a feeling of regret, but quickly accepted his lot. The monetary compensation definitely made him feel better about the sense of being lured into a trap. He will play his part, get his coin, and get out.

“Yeah, ok, so...nerve agents? So...Are we going to get some kind of special PPE/MOPP gear to handle this stuff...or is it just a matter of ‘Don’t drop the case?’”

Despite his mild distaste for the man he assumes is Heigen, Amirault was slightly intrigued to hear the answer to the question.

[Wandering Argonians]

Casually, the minder takes a sip of the 16 year-old scotch the stewardess had brought him...

"No. With this being an off-the-books operation we can't give you much in the way of PPE for a gas attack. That's where the atropine comes in. The medic will cover it once we're on the ground, but it's simple to administer. You get one auto-injector each, sort of like an EPI-pen. Thankfully, the containers are precision-machined metallic housings, essentially one piece and air-tight when screwed together; only able to be opened by a specific and highly-proprietary spanner wrench. I'm told you can huck them at a concrete wall and they're rated for that sort of thing, even if the vial inside cracks. That said, they're not bullet-proof..."

Another pull of the scotch, some of which the mustache collects...

"I've dealt with this stuff in the 90's during a similar op. It's not as lethal in open spaces, and only really deadly in confined areas in small doses. You're authorized to 'lose' one in a water feature should one develop a slow leak, as that's the only prudent containment measure in a field setting..."

He downs the glass as the stewardess comes by to collect it...

"Descent's begun gentlemen. We'll be gearing up at the GTRF-affiliate compound at Grayrock International Airport, after which I'll drive the five of you down to your watercraft which has been staged down at a civilian pier on the Grayrock River..."

Without so much as a bump, the blacked-out Gulfstream lands and taxis directly to the aerial terminal associated with Blackwood's "Clubhouse", the staging area for their Guild contributions. Luggage is arranged at the bottom of the ramp in an orderly manner by the grounds crew, and the first thing you notice on exiting the aircraft is the sweltering heat and humidity. The chemical stink of hot tarmac stings your nostrils, and waves of mirage dance in the distance down the runway, a haze of distortion softening the hard edges of the public terminal at the other end of the massive aerial complex.

The "Clubhouse" is a modern-looking five-story structure, made mostly of bright steel and tinted glass in the modern style fashionable in areas where sun and heat are the norm. A helipad capable of accommodating a UH-60 sprawls nearby, adorned with a massive yellow 'H' on top of the Blackwood tree logo. A heavily-soundproofed shoothouse sits adjacent to another squat concrete structure, the compound itself surrounded by an artfully-disguised concrete security wall capable of stopping a rocket-propelled grenade. To the untrained eye, it simply looks like a secure private terminal.

Entering the main building, the chill of the A/C bites like Antarctic wind, your sweat turning ice-cold as you depart from the hot and sticky Argonian summer into more civilized surroundings. Most of the walls on the ground floor are transparent, allowing you to view the entire floor-plan without setting foot in the rooms themselves. Within what looks like a lounge area sit two individuals, next to short rifles and bare-bones plate carriers. One is clearly a human, with a heavy braided beard and tight dreadlocks tied behind his head. He's built like a truck, and scowls at a large flat-screen television on the opposite wall from a well-used leather couch. Something seems to be written across the bridge of his nose, running from cheekbone to cheekbone. The other is clearly an Argonian, but with charcoal-gray scales in lieu of the typical greens and browns you've come across on your journey to their homeland. He's also well-built, in an athletic sense. His exposed arms are tattooed with light-colored ink, but aren't the tribal patterns you saw on the baggage handlers on your way in. These are more modern-looking. The dark-scaled Argonian turns his head to acknowledge the group as you walk past with a slight nod...

"Those of you who brought your own toys, hang out in the day room for a bit. Those who didn't, follow me..."

The minder continues walking, his gait betraying a slight hitch from his lack of a natural left limb. The armory sits beneath the first floor, an echoing concrete and steel structure of pure functionality. It looks like every other armory you've seen; walls lined with long-arms and cases of ammunition, racks of hand-guns and sub-guns, and a few cases of grenades. It smells heavily of powder solvent and gun oil to the point that you can taste it, the scent clinging to the back of your throat. A bare steel table holds several weapons, all of which seem to be AR-15 variants with PDW-style collapsing stocks and short barrels, sporting red-dot optics and KeyMod accessory attachment systems. The weapons exude a sense of quality and malicious purpose, each assembled by hand by one of Blackwood's armament specialists. A box of assorted goodies sits among them, holding a selection of vertical grips, angled grips, hand-stops, laser aiming devices, and flash-lights. A similar milk-crate is brimming with polymer magazines, the nickel casings of high-quality hollow-point rounds glimmering in the harsh artificial overhead lights. Each short rifle is paired with a suppressor, each a short SureFire quick detach model. A few short-barrel AK-pattern weapons are also present, two in 7.62x39mm and two in the high-velocity 5.45x39mm. Each is topped with a small red-dot, and attended by seven magazines each.

A few sub-machineguns are arranged next to PDR's; a few MP5 variants with modern features, a pair of KRISS Vector models in 9x19mm, and a SIG MPX sits by itself. These too have a crate of pre-loaded magazines for each of them situated nearby. Each SMG already sports a small red-dot or reflex optic, and is paired with a suppressor.

Situated in a neat row sit six Glock 19 handguns, their slides blank and sterile aside from '9X19MM' etched in place of a manufacturer designation or marking. These too have been hand-tooled by Blackwood armorers, three outfitted for general use as sidearms and three more with protruding threaded barrels and suppressor-height sights for use as sentry removal tools. Three matte-black and obviously well-made 1911's follow, with blended magazine wells and extended controls. A box of Wilson Combat 1911 magazines and a number of Glock mags sit nearby in the already-established pattern. A few bare plate-carriers are stacked in a neat pile, next to a collection of HSGI TACO pouches for both rifles and sub-guns. Kydex holsters are in evidence, form-fitted to each pistol. A few medical kits are clearly visible by their red-on-white cross markings and protruding EMT shears, ready to be added to whatever configuration the user prefers...

"Kit up and meet me upstairs once you're done. You're free to take whatever, but remember this is a low-profile job and you're going to need to hide whatever you bring along."

With a swirl of Hawaiian fabric in still, chemically-scented air, the minder ascends the stairs and returns to the day-room, leaving those who required equipment to outfit themselves according to their own personal preferences...

[Neu Engollon]

IN THE AIR
OVER THE ARGONIAN REPUBLIC

As their host explains the lack of PPE gear due to their undercover nature, then basically outlines how atropine works, Heigen scowled. He would consider responding with something snappy about how he was already schooled on atropine in NEDM basic and probably dozens of times since, but holds his tongue. It wasn’t worth it to go round with Hawaiian shirted Thor. Besides, he glossed over that to explain the durability of the containers and handling. Noel let it go.

"I've dealt with this stuff in the 90's during a similar op. It's not as lethal in open spaces, and only really deadly in confined areas in small doses. You're authorized to 'lose' one in a water feature should one develop a slow leak, as that's the only prudent containment measure in a field setting..."

That made him perk up again. Noel kept listening to every detail. Ultimately, they were getting paid very well for this job. The premium amount one could expect, which was well above going rate, for contractors. The downside was there was a reason for the high salary. The risk was about as bad as it gets, especially if you lumped it into the same category as biological and nuclear, which most would.

Hearing of Grayrock, and that it was a GTRF staging area, he again focused in even more. He knew already that Blackwood was a major contributor to Guild operations from his days in the USG, but it was still of some interest to him to see the forward base of their Guild contribution units.
With no other questions and no other major complications to the mission other than the cargo itself and the factions vying for it, he remained quiet. He looked out as they flew, knowing that he had little time left to collect random thoughts and enjoy coolness and peace before being dropped into the ‘suck’. He gave his tea back to the attendant and settled in for landing.

---

GRAYROCK

When they touched down in a graceful landing that he was appreciative of, he filed out with the rest of the contractors and their host. They notice right away that all is not normal, when scales instead of flesh is apparent on many of the air field workers.

Such a strange land with even stranger inhabitants in comparison to where he came from. He’d once before seen Argonians, not the human variety, as some of Blackwood’s higher ups had made a visit to Panto Leto, the USG home island, on routine Guild business. That had been from a distance, as they hurried into the Trip C, CCC (Campobello Command Center), and it was easy to convince oneself that one hadn’t seen what one thought one saw. That’s what he and his comrades had done at the time. The sun had been playing tricks on them, they assured each other. None of them had served on a GTRF contract. Doubt was still there...and rumors.
Later, as more USG troopers served on GTRF missions, it became apparent that it wasn’t illusions and rumors. Argonians were reptilian, or most were, anyway. It made for much discussion, but guys that served on those GTRF missions came back with little to discuss. Simply, Argonians were good troop. A high compliment in USG parlance.

When they pass through the lounge area, he is intrigued further by the two rogues sitting there. He’s not sure whether the giant viking looking guy or the gray scaled lizard man is more startling. As they were told to pick up toys at the armory, he tags along.
He did bring several items, including a Talon II pistol, his NEK III combat knife and his old standard issue NEPS, or Peschal, the entrenching tool that had been issued to NEDM soldiers for over a hundred years. It was a great hand to hand combat weapon for those who knew how to use it well, and Noel could wield it like the fold out battle axe that it in fact was.
Also, most importantly, he had several tech goodies that were top of the line, some made by Schwyz Logiztek, the Neu Engollian company. What he didn’t have was a primary weapon or rifle, opting to not bring his NEG 26 along. Hence, he followed the others.

He took a whiff of the familiar smell of oiled weapons. Noel tried not to shove the others out of the way subconsciously to get to the good stuff first. He spied a AKS-74U, caressing it, but he didn’t pick it up right away, instead going for the Kriss Vector system as it entered his vision. He hefted it and worked the action, checking the grips, and sighting it at a shelving full of ordnance and ammo crates. It would do nicely, he decided.
Heigen was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t chambered to .45 ACP like he had seen some models, but still, he knew that he could do some close in damage with it. He snagged up the suppressor, mags, grips and other accessories for it. Next, he henpecked a few other items that might be of use, such as a plate carrier, med kit, grenades and pouches. He had brought a bit of his own stuff, but counted on being provided with these amenities by their new employer.

He was unfamiliar with this style of body armor, and made sure that he could put it on in a reasonable amount of time before exiting the armory. He was a little clumsy with it, but knew it would only take a couple more tries before he was slipping it on like a glove. He glanced out the corner of his eye and saw that he was being amusingly observed by the Slavic/Nordic guy. Koski. This guy had also made other unnecessary commentary as they were outfitting themselves, like a Dad in a car rattling off random words on signs to his bored kids. No one needed to know what bobbles he had in his bag. Between this dude and the young Gaul 'Professor', Heigen hoped to high hell that the other members of the team back in the lounge could offset the newbness and bring some balance out in the field.

The plate carrier would work. He wouldn't need to scout out other body armor alternatives. He kept it on, but unfastened.
He added all the new gear to his bags that he'd brought in the armory room with them, or slung them on to his body, as space dictated. He then made his way towards the stairs, as their minder has directed them to do. With one last look around with the wistful look of a kid leaving his favorite candy store, he headed up.

[Falkasia]

The main bulkhead of the aircraft opened abruptly, surprising the Falkasian with a bit of a jolt. Although he had seen combat numerous times, his lack of recent experience and looks cast by his future partners had led him to conclude they had cast him aside as a rookie. While he was new to the whole mercenary, golden gun type of gig, he was hardly green by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, he was just as experienced and arguably better equipped than those who flew with.

Grabbing his small carry-on, a simple messenger bag which contained a variety of snack foods for what he had presumed to be a long flight, he stood and carefully minced around the seating. Ducking out of the chilled cabin, he was instantly blasted by a mix of oven, sauna, and fermenting manure air. His pores were instantly confused, not sure whether to sweat profusely or seal up to keep out the humid acrid scent. Being a predominately Nordic people, Falkasians were not generally accustomed to the warmer climates. While adaptable, as Hutanjia had made apparent, most were too fair-skinned to handle environments either void of moisture or alternative overburdened with it.

VX, surprisingly, didn't bother him as much once he got over the initial shock. His handlers had anticipated something along those lines, and had laced several of his power bars with milder versions of a universal antidote. In the event the initial dose provided by his custodians proved ineffective or too limited, he could buy himself some time. They weren't tailored specifically to VX, but rather contained antidotes for a wide range of common biological agents. Not a permanent fix, but enough to offer an additional layer of safety. After all, his main mission was to get back in one piece to report on his findings. A dead body can only talk through a coroner.

Down the steps and at the base of the ramp, his bags were stacked in a well-practiced exhibition of professionalism. It was a simple duffel bag, containing only the few possessions he owned coupled with an assortment of the FSIS' latest and greatest gear. Despite it's size, the bag was fairly light. Stepping off the roll-away stairs and onto the tarmac, he grabbed it and hefted it over his shoulder and across his back. The sweat already clung squarely to the small of his back. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable mission.

There was no time to rest. On the other end of the same minute, the four of them were inside an overly large building. Covered in floor-to-ceiling glass and filled with oppressively cold A/C, it chilled the sweat-drenched Jan to the bone. It wasn't a feeling he was unfamiliar with, rather it was one he did not suspect after having been outside in the blazing heat. Even the short walk had exhausted him mentally, and it took a great amount of cajoling to remind him why he was here.

He was barely paying attention as one of the staff, a bearded man who screamed "don't fuck with me," separated them to the side. Unlike the Engollian, he had come prepared with a veritable pantheon of armaments and equipment provided by his shadowy benefactors. Surrounded on all sides by weaponry, Jan emptied the contents of his duffel bag onto a steel table with a metallic *cling.* The weapon, partially disassembled by easily identifiable, clattered to a standstill a few inches from the lip. The Universal Defense brand stamp, with its overstated "UD' emblem, stood in stark contrast to the blackened metal of the chamber and receiver.

Koski reached down, grabbing the pistol grip as he took inventory of what he had been supplied. The W-1 Sorority PDW was the pinnacle of Falkasian military design. Capable of quick, on-the-fly modifications, it was suitable for all close and medium range engagements.

"9mm" he mumbled, swinging the feather light platform around while staring down the ironsight, "just enough stopping power to drop an army of lizards in their tracks."

Satisfied, he placed the weapon back down. A pair of sights, one red dot and another with a 4x zoom, were scattered helter-skelter nearby. Either would work regardless of the range. What really interested him however was another gadget, something that seemed to be a giant plastic casing.

"Underwater Adaptation Kit," he read allowed, tracing the lettering with his thumb as he turned the object around with his hand. "That's kinda cool."

Apparently the W-1 could also shoot underwater. Time would tell whether this assertion would prove to be accurate or not.

In accompaniment were a handful of grenades. Nothing overly special about these guys. Traditional fragmentation and smoke charges. Guess there were some things on the battlefield that just couldn't be innovated or changed, no matter how much technology advanced. Behind him, he took notice as one of his teammates struggled to don a plate carrier. He was never one for body armor, preferring the light-footed approach he had learned and perfected in Hutanjia.

"Guess it's all here," he said aloud, ignoring anyone who might be around him. "Suit up and let's roll."

[Terre des Gaules]

Amirault moved with the group, but stayed silent. It all made sense to him about the chemical agent precautions, and he was gradually becoming more at ease with the idea of transporting a nerve agent, but he wasn't quite there yet. So many things could still go wrong.

That all went to the back corner of his mind immediately as he focused on his first reptilian man as they filed down the stairs. Argonian, rather. A ground crew man. Being in the industry and having heard rumors about Blackwood and even seen pictures which should have been proof, he was somewhat prepared, but...
Now, live in the...flesh? It had to be reality, but it was more surreal to him. No one would wear some kind of a costume like that in this heat. Some part of him always thought that the rumors were hype and pictures staged. Some sort of warrior bravado to intimidate potential foes. Apparently not. He really was on the farthest side of the world now.
And the heat! The heat was something to rival what he'd experienced in Insula Fera and Cote d'Cuivre. That moist, swampy humidity with the overhead roasting lamp of the sun. That still didn't really flush the lizard people from his mind. What fun they were going to have.

Moving in doors helped somewhat. As they went past the other operators in the lounge, he sized them up. Were they denizens of the base or part of the mission? From their kit bags and state of readiness, he would guess the latter.
Then they were ushered into the armory. He surveyed the contents. The table didn't hold anything approximating a sniper rifle. He settled rather rapidly on one of the AR-15 variants, grabbing the the accompanying grips, laser sights, and magazines, as well as the suppressor that came with it. Next he searched for the highest powered scope with filters he could find. He found one in one of the milk crates that was compatible and should work well. He had the intention to serve over watch duty, which he had done on several past contracts for various employers. There was always a time when such a team member was needed in that capacity.

When Koski began to chatter to no one in particular in the room, Stephane gave him worried glances. He noticed that Heigen was doing the same, and they exchanged a look. It was the closest they had connected so far, which wasn't saying much.
The look said, "This man has our back?"

Koski did pull out an impressive piece of primary weaponry that Stephane had never seen before. "9mm" Koski mumbled, swinging the feather light platform around while staring down the ironsight, "just enough stopping power to drop an army of lizards in their tracks."

Amirault nodded. It was an appropriate piece to bring along. It occurred to him, as he looked a little closer at the system, and at Heigen's selection, that he needed a little more battlefield compatibility with his new colleagues. He chose a side arm that would take the same rounds. He picked up one of the Glock 19s, feeling a different heft than he expected from this particular model. Checking the action, he snagged up some mags, and a suppressor for it as well. There. 9mm compatibility done. It was customized a bit, obviously, with the added weight. But that suited him just fine, as Blackwood seemed to be an impressive organization so far, matching up in reality to its reputation.

As he took a last few items to fill into a kit bag, including body armor, grenades and other assorted equipment, he felt pretty prepared for what was ahead of them. Now to meet the rest of the team.
Koski let loose one last cowboy cliché. Stephane kept the course, again choosing to stay silent rather than reply. Witty come backs seemed to be Heigen's job, anyway, if he was reading the situation right. Yet, Heigen had also become rather subdued since the plane ride to Grayrock. They started to head up the stairs.

[Wandering Argonians]

While he'd left the independents to their own devices, the minder had returned to the day-room and seated himself with the two other Blackwood operatives. He'd worked with the Gungiri before, Ragnar being a known quantity. Efficient, professional, and stoic to the point that it bordered on sociopathic, the bearded man was an inch or two shorter and not quite as broad but was still an immense individual by most human standards. His assigned callsign, 'Tyrfing', was apparently a reference to a mythic cursed sword that drew blood whenever drawn. The minder had found this an appropriate comparison.

The dark-scaled Argonian, however, was an unknown. While he'd worked with his sort before, he'd not conducted any operations with this particular individual. Kaster Ven had an interesting personnel file, one the minder had perused extensively. A former 'child soldier', JC indentured contractor, and current Blackwood operative, Ven's professional resume included operations both legal and otherwise. Protection operations for narcotics buys, gangland assassinations, professional muscle for territorial disputes, the list went on. The criminal element in Grayrock was a discerning lot, preferring to leverage military-grade solutions against less-organized and poorly-trained street-level hustlers. Ven's time with Blackwood had been riddled with black operations, many of which had been requested by the Argonian Intelligence Service.

While the minder frowned on such backgrounds (military-grade thugs were unfortunately far too common in this part of the world), he trusted the Blackwood recruiters enough in this sense. Both men were highly-qualified, extensively vetted, and extremely professional...

"Thoughts on the others?"

Ragnar's gruff rumble was reminiscent of distant thunder, a brief string of words shaped like a question. Gungiri weren't big talkers, he'd found. Even the poets of their society were short-spoken. The minder rotated his head towards the speaker, whose eyes remained fixed on the television with a permanent look of disinterest...

"Heigen's a smartass. Koski's hiding something. Jury's out on Amirault."

The Gungiri nodded, while Kaster fixed the minder with a curious gaze...

"I see hanging with the Northmen is rubbing off on you, Dekker. Seems like your vocabulary has become monosyllabic..."

The minder, hearing his name for the first time in a few days, chuckled softly. Humans weren't a huge minority in the Black Marsh, and tended to hail from the vassal-state of Gungir or be of Slavic descent. Expats like himself were exceedingly rare. As such, he spent most of his time with the stoic 'Northmen', as Ven had described them...

"You and Heigen will get along just fine, I'm sure."

Dekker was disinterested in trading barbs with the younger Argonian. Younger operatives tended to still be idealists, changing the world with every operation and getting paid well to do it. Dekker had spent time as a legitimate mercenary after his time with the SEALs, working Africa for a time before the rash of flashpoint conflicts of the 2000's had given rise to the 'security contractor' amidst stricter World Assembly regulations. His tenure as an independent gun-for-hire had tempered his idealism, and only added to his collection of shrapnel injuries and ex-wives. He'd run his own independent crew, which had included an Argonian member and a base in their homeland for a time, for nearly fifteen years until a series of unfortunate events and sideways operations had seen the tight-knit group dissolve. Dekker was pushing sixty, despite looking a bit younger thanks to a lifetime addiction to physical fitness. He'd lost a leg somewhere along the way, a fact he was still getting used to. The injury, combined with his advancing age, was seeing him assigned more and more often to support roles like this one: his job being to shuffle the operatives from A to B safely and keep them informed. A suppressed MK18 clone was propped muzzle-down next to the chair Dekker had seated himself in, along with a worn-out Eagle MARCIRAS armor vest in faded flat-dark earth coloration studded with magazine pouches and adored with a ragged-looking stars-and-stripes IR flag. He'd be kitting up for the transportation run down to the docks along with the operational crew.

Getting down to the docks was likely the most dangerous phase of the operation, aside from the raid on the storage facility itself. The still-simmering civil war in the marshes was fueled by the drug trade, which made its way into the cities via the dock district under heavy guard. JC troops were frequently employed for such roles, Kaster Ven himself having conducted such operations early in his career. Dekker's role as an operational manager had been assigned based on his extensive experience in such matters, and with the number of questions raised by the chemical agent heist he'd deemed the transportation phase the most crucial phase of the mission. Even if the assault team failed in their initial assault on the agent's location, Blackwood had a heavier-hitting team on standby, the same team tasked with extracting the VX once it was secure. The narrow streets of the docks district and the number of elevated positions made the numbers of likely ambush locations too numerous to count. There was the possibility of being mistaken for undercover National Police and being targeted by the narcotics transportation crews. In short, the hazards were many, potentially more so than the team might encounter en-route to their objective...

[Neu Engollon]

As they headed up the stairs to the lounge and briefing areas, Heigen brushed past Amirault to come even with Koski, despite the heavy load he was carrying. He needed to answer some burning questions as soon as possible.
Stephane looked annoyed as he was put momentarily off balance trying to avoid a collision with the pushy Neu Engollian, but he still kept quiet, as he had done for most of their time since the plane ride over, internalizing the slight instead.

“Koski, right?”

Koski slowed his pace and turned slightly. His neck twisted, likely with the sole intent of avoiding an accidental side glance at the firmware embedded into his otherwise non-descript aviator glasses.

“Yes.” He answered, albeit with a dismissive tone. “I am Koski.

With his left hand wrapped firmly around the receiver of his weapon, he extended his right hand for a handshake.

Noel pulled even with him to face Jan Koski. As the man had spoken aloud to himself during load out in the armory, several more cylinders clicked into place to unlock the mystery that was burning in the back of his mind. He was a Falkie! It was entirely possible that this guy’s name was familiar because of service in the ‘Hut’. He may have ended up on a ‘Hot sheet’ of known Falkasian special operators that made the rounds with USG hunter patrols.

Cardwithian defectors, usually enrolled in the Spider Scouts program, would pass along all they knew about their command and Falkie advisers to the Hutties, the HSA (Hutanjian Security Agency), who would then prepare the Hot Sheets for New Edomite Rover teams, Hutanjian Ranger squads and USG Jaeger (hunter) teams. That was a long time ago.
He didn’t feel like he held much animosity because of that, though. The war was long since over. For the most part. The Cards still supported insurgents against the Hutties, and New Edom and Falkasia still kept a presence in the islands. Another war was simmering below the surface there.

Noel looked down at the hand proffered by Koski, but didn’t bother to drop his bags in order to free up his own hand to return the gesture. He looked back up to lock eyes with Koski.
“Heigen. So...What’s yer deal, Koski? Why ya acting so squirrely?”

Amirault, bringing up the rear of the train up the stairs, slowed with the jam up ahead. He didn’t say a word, but he was rather curious to hear Koski’s response to Heigen. The instant tension between Koski, who was indeed acting squirrely if Stephane had an opinion on it, and Heigen, who was acting the typical Neu Engollian asshole, was palpable.

Jan shrugged, withdrawing his hand and instead replacing it with the frigid exterior rather stereotypical of most Falkasians.

“Squirrely?” He asked, quizzically. “I’m not sure what you mean? I’m here to accomplish a mission, and nothing more.”

He chose his words very carefully, something which came even as a surprise to him given the relative novelty of having a shadowy organization one step behind him. “Mission” was more neutral than “job,” and although he had a hunch neither man would read too much into it, apparently some behavior of his had already set off unneeded warning signals in his team. Although it was unlike the FSIS had decided to come out of the proverbial closet since his time in Hutanjia, it was better off to not even hint at his connection with them. By accent, this man Heigen was likely a Neu Engollian. Equally likely, he had also been part of the Uli-Schwyz. Equally, equally likely, both he and Heigen had served together at one time or another. Also equally, equally, equally likely, the former mercenary held a grudge against the Falkasians for their assault on Panto Leto.

Even more reason to stay cool and aloof. Don’t stir the pot if the soup ain’t sitting, he thought to himself.

Noel nodded.
“Right. A mission. Yer still acting weird, man.” He changed paths, deciding to probe further on his hunch about the man’s past.
“So...Yer name’s familiar. What’s yer previous experience?” Were ya in the Hut? - was the question Noel was on the edge of asking, but held up short.

Stephane got annoyed enough at being blocked from progressing up the stairs with his load of gear to finally speak.
“Heigen! Koski! Keep moving, s’il vous plait. They are waiting for us up there. Maybe you could walk and talk at the same time? D’accord? Or we can seet and chat and keetch (catch) up lay-ter, maybe? Once our host eez done briefing us, peut-être?”

Heigen glanced down past Koski to the Gaul.
“Pipe down, Perfessor! This is important. Adults are talkin’ up here.”

The Falkasian ignored Amirault like he might an inferior. It wasn’t that Jan felt superior to the other two men by any means, but instead the difference in motivations was enough to make him feel segregated. Despite such sentiments likely being purely self-created, he cast it off to the back of his mind.

“I spent some time in the Falkasian Navy, patrolling the Gulf for a bit. Got discharged because I fucked up my leg,” he reached down and slapped his thigh to emphasize the point. “Then I spent some time running the freelancer circuit…

He paused and scooted in front of the Neu Engollian, in what would probably amount to a vain attempt to allow the other operator to pass. It also allowed him time to think on how to answer the man’s unstated query.

“But to answer your real question, yes. I was with Uli-Schwyz for a time. I’d prefer not to discuss the matter, if it’s all the same to you. Just relax, please… we have each other’s back, and everything will go okay so we can go home as rich men.”

Noel blinked a couple times, nonplussed. It was not an answer he had expected at all. He assumed that the Falkie had been on the other side of the conflict, not fighting his own brethren. They had been on the same side? It flipped his view entirely.

It was, though, a distinct possibility. Before the Hutanjian War, a handful of Falkasians had been in the Uli-Schwyz. When the contract was signed, they were relegated to the home island, Panto Leto, instead of being sent to the Wishton Sea and possibly having the loyalty dilemma of having to fight their own countrymen, who were allies with the Cards. He had heard that two Falkasians had applied for waivers and been approved to actually go into combat against the UFF rebels, the Cardwithians and their foreign advisers, the Falkasian Secret Intelligence Service.
The final piece clicked into place for him. A few old buddies of his had talked about a Koski The Falkasian, who had been in their Company. Not a negative word had been said and they vouched for him being a straight up, strack trooper. He wasn’t aware if Koski was additionally one of the two waivers, but it would fit.

“That’s fine. Just getting my bearings. You can relax, too…” He focused on Koski even more intently, if possible. “Uli, eh? Same. I know about you. You were in 4th Platoon, Sigma Co in the Schwyz Reg. Sergeant Emilio Salcedo spoke pretty highly of you. So did a bunch of other guys. LePlante, Chung, Tegrano, Wesley…” He continued to talk as he returned to his march up the stairs,
“Tegrano had a real crazy tat on his left arm, what was it again?”
Noel was trying to amble up the stairs casually, but his shoulders were tense as he awaited the answer to his test question.

A knowing smile broke through Koski’s otherwise frigid exterior. Familiar names and old memories helped bring him back, if for a moment, to a time when his life held direction and purpose and was constructed of more solid materials than empty alcohol bottles and cardboard boxes.

“If you were in the Company like I was, you’d know full well he didn’t have a tattoo,” Jan retorted, assuming the question itself was a litmus test for his personal history. “Well...Unless you count the Sharpie masterpiece me and the bunkmates gave him on his 21st birthday. Stupid shit passed out drunk at 10 PM. The hookers left shortly thereafter, so we had to spend the rest of the time somehow…”

He paused, stepping out from his place sideways on the stairs and proceeding upwards with the flow of traffic.

“I just find it surprising anyone spoke highly of me… or really just of me, for that matter… what with the way upper command gave me the boot and took my pension when my friends from back home came knocking on Leto’s door step. But that’s a conversation for another time, after we’ve been shot to hell and back.”

Heigen also was back in motion and he said as he reached the top of the stairs,
“Ah, yeah, that...Well, as you know, there was suspected insider info that got out to the Falkie fleet, but...Anyway, yeah, you were still respected by those guys. I don’t think they believed that crap about you, or any of the Falkies...our Falkies...For that matter, they didn't label you as traitors, although a lot of guys in the Regiments did. It was a tough time there...”
Unbeknownst to Heigen or Koski, it had actually been a couple Strolingradi planted recruits who had given the FSIS, and hence, the Cardwithian/Falkasian raiding teams, their info on the defenses of the USG home island.

Noel let it go.
“I’m gonna…”
He didn’t finish his trailed off sentence, instead pointing over towards their destination where the rest of the team (The Argonians and Gungiri) were waiting, and then headed there.

Stephane Amirault sighed. He was glad to finally be moving at a normal pace again behind the other two. As they got to the top, he grunted as he got even with, then passed, Koski. Stephane then continued on towards the lounge. The three Astyrians all put their gear down as they arrived in the day room and looked to settling in for another brief. Heigen flopped into a nearby seat, becoming instantly casual with one leg draped over the arm.
Amirault dropped his bags where he stood, looking just a slight bit perturbed and uncomfortable, but his demeanor soon slipped back into neutral.

Heigen nodded to the other newer faces, but didn't bother to get up to shake hands.
"Noel Heigen." He uttered.
Then he looked at their minder who had been their host through the whole process so far, cloning him only in fashion, but not nearly in demeanor.
“So, um, wot's yer name?...Are ya goin’ to be the big cheese the whole way in?”

Co-RP credit to Falkasia and Terre Des Gaules

[Wandering Argonians]

Dekker turned to regard the Neu-Engollonian with narrowed eyes. It was barely the late afternoon and his various injuries had already begun to ache, he was frustratingly sober, and the children were needling him again. Once he dropped this lot off he'd be retiring to his company-owned penthouse for some much-deserved teenage scotch...

"No, Heigen. I'm being paid about as well as the rest of you to take you to your little boat so you can be on your merry way up the river to earn your paychecks..."

He simply ignored the other question, not seeing a reason why he needed to divulge his name to the younger man. Dekker had spent a very long time doing bad things for good money to worse people, for more or less anyone who's check would clear. There was no telling what sorts of kill-lists he'd wound up on, or who'd been made aware of who he was or what he'd done. Paranoia was a job-skill in this line of work, and old habits died hard. The other Blackwood employees picked up on Dekker's sudden burst of animosity, and looked in his direction, with the exception of Ragnar who simply maintained his vigil of the cooking show. Nothing was said, however. They'd both been around long enough that they knew not to rile the old man. Finally, the Gungiri tore himself away from the culinary programming and silently shrugged into his plate-carrier, clipping the axe into his belt and positioning the sling for his weapon in a place that worked for him. Kaster followed suit, the younger being taking a hint from the older human.

The bearded Gungiri motioned for the others to follow, leading them towards a blacked-out SUV. The vehicle was unlocked, allowing the five of them to pile in and get comfortable. Kaster wedged himself in the truck area, facing outward. Ragnar slid into the front passenger seat, sliding a pair of Oakleys over his impassive eyes and adjusting a dirty ballcap by threading his rope-like dreadlocks through the back. Once he'd completed the odd task, the sharp clack of a rifle action being worked snapped through the confined space, followed by a similar noise from the trunk as both Blackwood members loaded their weapons. A few moments later, Dekker himself entered the vehicle, propping the short-barreled carbine he'd had earlier on his remaining knee and cranking the engine. The faint, bluesy-tuned sounds of Clutch's "Guild of Mule Assassins" begins to drift from the speakers...

"We've got a bit of a drive to go, gentlemen...."

Directed to no-one in particular, the comment seemed more informative than anything...

[Terre des Gaules]

"No, Heigen. I'm being paid about as well as the rest of you to take you to your little boat so you can be on your merry way up the river to earn your paychecks..."

Noel looked hard at Dekker, but said nothing at first. Rather he let out a derisive puff of air, then stood back up to gather his gear again.
"I think the kids are saying 'Whatevs' these days. Let's rock then."

Amirault sighed. He hadn't even put all his bags down. He re-situated and headed out of the building to the vehicle.

"Wait up, Perfessur."

"My name is Stephane Amirault, Heigen."

"Wait up, Little Stevie."

The Falkasian remained silent. Not that there was much to say on the matter, but it seemed prudent enough to return to what was quickly becoming his hallmark state. Rather ironic, given the fact he had been rather mouthy back in his Navy and mercenary days.

But all the same, as they exited the building once again, the heat stifled any thoughts Koski may have had. The sun alone was enough to instantly bake his avalanche-white skin to a toasty shade of coconut, and the heat instantly sent a waterfall of beady sweat down the back of his shirt. He exhaled slowly, somewhat frustrated by his body’s inability to adjust to the weather.

Heigen stifled a laugh as he looked the Falkasian over.
"Koski, no one's going to notice you're from a northern climate. If you're in the truck or behind a wall that is." He had a suspicion now that Koski hadn't been to the Hut, which was a complete sauna, not as bad as Argonia, but pretty close.

Several steps later Koski had ducked inside the chassis of a non-descript SUV and back in the A/C. His body continued to amaze him, as now he was shivering profusely despite having just been irrigating the dry savanna soil single-handedly.

When the Teremarans got out to the truck, they followed suit as Van and Ragnar with putting on their body armor and strapping on and preparing their weapons for trouble. They loaded their bags with their remaining gear into the vehicle and climbed in.
Heigen put his own shades on, narrow dark lenses that were well UV protected.

"We've got a bit of a drive to go, gentlemen...." The large Norse barbarian looking man said.

Heigen smiled. "Well, then...What road song should we sing first...Or perhaps a good round of 'license plate bingo' is in order?"

"Mon dieu!" Amirault muttered as he strapped in and took a last look around the staging base, deliberately attempting to not look at his recently appointed colleagues. He might very well throat punch Heigen before this mission was through. It was more likely by the minute.

“This fucking sucks.” Koski mumbled to himself under his breath while pulling his thin Hawaiian button-down closer to his chest.

They waited expectantly for the SUV to start as they settled into their seats for the ride, but kept a vigilence, clued in by Van and Ragnar to the possible dangers that were in store.

Co-RP credits to Falkasia and Neu Engollon

[Wandering Argonians]

Without much further ceremony, the SUV grumbles to a start and rolls slowly towards the automated gate. Dekker flicks a half-hearted two-fingered wave at the gate guard, a slim-built Argonian in a loose over-shirt, and the vehicle groans out onto the street proper.

The ride is indeed long, fifteen minutes of which are spent navigating around the perimeter of the airport towards the primary access roads. The docks, situated as they are on the direct opposite side of the city from the airport, provide for a rather scenic viewing of the Argonian capitol city en route to the insertion point. Eventually, the vehicle reaches a major highway intersection and picks up speed towards the center of the city itself. From what little you saw of the marshlands during the flight in, Grayrock seems to be as modern as any other city you've been to in a first-world nation, despite most informational dossiers painting the marshes themselves as third-world at best. Skyscrapers tower around you as the vehicle moves closer and closer to the center of town, the residential and light commercial environs you've grown used to seeing en route from the airport giving way to heavy urbanization. Dekker flicks a turn signal and steers the armored behemoth towards an exit marked 'MAIN STREET', taking the SUV down a well-maintained ramp between two of the larger structures. Main Street is nothing spectacular; a wide boulevard flanked by towering constructs of glass and steel, sidewalks choked with pedestrian traffic and lined with stores ranging from specialty boutiques and Apple Stores to more common sights like Starbucks and McDonald's. The street itself is quite clean, decorated every few feet with a bit of greenery in the form of thick-trunked trees or broad-leafed ferns. Traffic is heavy, as is a police presence. You can pick them out of a crowd easily by their dark-colored uniforms and distinctive ball-caps.

Midway down Main Street Dekker steers through what looks like a protest in front of the main government complex; the area that houses the Congress, Senate, Supreme Court, and Presidential Residence. A knot of what appear to be students and intellectuals wave signs calling for an end to government brutality in the marshes as several Argonian National Police stand between them and the busy street. They're dressed in dark blue fatigues and wear visible body armor. A few carry shotguns in addition to their issued sidearms. Beyond the gates of the main governmental complex you catch glimpses of black-clad forms assuming similar positions in readiness. Civilians move through the protesting crowds with an air of annoyance, as if this is an everyday occurrence. The police have a similar air about them, shepherding the protesters away from the street in a bored manner.

Without comment, the vehicle rolls onward. Main Street runs the length of Grayrock, and as it moves away from the dead center of the capitol the skyscrapers once again recede into residential and retail areas reminiscent of middle-class suburbs. This goes on for another several miles, and drops off further as the docks district begins to near. Run-down stack-houses seem to be the norm for housing in this area, the nicest residences appearing to be low-rise apartment buildings made of dingy, soot-stained brick. Many of them sport broken windows, or croodedly-nailed boards. Twice, ANP cruisers speed past with their lights blazing and sirens wailing, zipping around the SUV with little interest. Traffic has thinned out considerably, both vehicular and pedestrian. You clock a few drug handoffs as you pass dilapidated street-corners, and notice a larger percentage of humans among the foot traffic. Gang colors become readily apparent, and it becomes clear why the police presence seems to be nearly double that of the more affluent districts. The SUV rolls past a mass search, where officers armed with rifles provide cover for their counter-parts as they search a number of gang-affiliated individuals both Argonian and human. Several are already in zip-cuffs.

The attitude of the police in this sense seems to be more of an occupying military force, a stark contrast to the bored shepherds some fifty miles rearward. They sport military-style plate carriers studded with ammunition pouches for rifles. You also note that none of them seem to have any sort of less-lethal options on their duty-belts, aside from the yellow-framed, toy-like TASERs worn in cross-draw holsters. A few even sport fixed-blade knives, although Kaster points out that they also have tribal-affiliated tattoos and tribals are legally permitted to retain their knives regardless of occupation. A soft bubbling noise issues from the trunk and the interior of the vehicle takes on the aroma of cinnamon and spice as the dark-scaled Argonian takes a drag from his ornate-looking vaporizer. He also points out a few undercover JC soldiers in among the gang-bangers, providing overwatch during what is likely a large-scale hand-off of product.

Stack-houses and low-rises recede into rows of long warehouses as the water grows nearer, most organized into blocks of six to ten and separated by tall partitions of chain-link topped with loops of razor-wire. Many are well-lit and patrolled heavily by what you assume are private security forces of some form or another. Others are dark and deserted, or at least appear to be. In a district with as much crime as this one, it is unlikely such prime storage space goes to waste for very long. The docks themselves are broken down in a similar manner, with a set number of actual berths divided by walls or chain-link depending on the owner. As the SUV rolls into one of the smaller areas, you very clearly recognize Blackwood-quality muscle manning the entry checkpoint, only attempting to not look like they're anything but stone-cold killers on guard duty. Once the SUV pulls through, they close the gate behind it and fade back into the shadows, one keying up a hand-mic to report the entry. Dekker steers the SUV around towards the berth at the back of the Blackwood-controlled area, gliding to a halt about seventy feet from a descending stair-case. Kaster lets himself out of the trunk with another cloud of scented smoke, Ragnar doing the same without the assistance of an annoying habit.

Dekker leans his head out of the driver's side window, still wearing his Oakley's despite the fading light of day...

"Don't die, gentlemen. I'll see you at the extraction zone..."

Without waiting for a response, he leans back in and rolls up the window, pulling off without another word. Ragnar motions for everyone to move towards the staircase as the SUV disappears into the bleakness of the docks district. Kaster exchanges a fist-bump with one of the patrolling Blackwood guards before descending. Below, gently bobbing on the river's current, sits a Marshland Security Service surplus Boston Whaler, painted a shade of matte black and purposefully distressed, festooned with foul-smelling fishing nets and faded orange safety buoys to give it the appearance of a fishing vessel. The heat of the day is fading, thankfully, but the river itself has a vaguely foul odor, the stink of a swamp. Algae has collected heavily around the supports of the dock, stinking green slime giving the water the appearance of old pea soup. As the team piles into the watercraft, you notice several other craft in the next set of berths to the right, what look like flat-bottom barges crewed by wild-looking Argonians in homespun clothes and leather armor, tossing bundles up to eager-looking gang members. Each bundle tossed up appears to be answered with another one thrown down, clearly some sort of one-for-one system as neither side seems to trust the other. The barge-crew are watched from above by gang members with light weapons, while they in turn are watched by what are clearly Marshland Insurgency fighters with AK-47's.

Once everyone scampers aboard, Ragnar takes the helm and Kaster handles the casting-off, deftly hopping aboard as the vessel clears the rotting wood of the dock, rapping twice on the hull. Hearing this, Ragnar guns the engine and steers out towards the slow-moving stream of lights in the distance, the second-largest highway in Argonia...