Chapter I - The Rescue Party (Noir Voyage IC)

[Cylarn]

N O I RV O Y A G E
The Heart of Darkness
Credit for the base idea goes to Reverend Norv. Thank you greatly for the assistance.
The OP for this RP is: Cylarn. My selected Co-OPs are: Rudaslavia.




Chapter I - The Rescue Party

“Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun...In the tropics one must before everything keep calm...”

---

1000
Bangoka International Airport
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016


In recent months, Bangoka had become a ghostly apparition of a once-busy airport. Few people dared to land there unless their business required it, and thus the runaway and the terminals were almost devoid of life, save for the few employees who had not fled Kisangani for the relative safety of the western half of the country. Five craters - the remnants of rebel mortars - were torn into the asphalt runway and the hangars, leaving only a single stretch of asphalt to be viable for any aircraft to land or take off. A smattering of aircraft, mostly the white MONUSCO behemoths called "C-130s," one or two Fokker 50s that belonged to CAA, and a small collection of private turboprop aircraft, sat dormant on the asphalt. Airport workers, the few brave souls that kept Bangoka active, carried out their daily duties under the stillness of the morning.

Bangoka wasn't always so dead. In better days, it played host to hundreds of travelers each day, be they naive Westerners or native Congolese. The terminal was often bustling with travelers to the area, mostly Western aid workers from a variety of groups. Christian missionaries, Doctors Without Borders, Red Cross; a plethora of different groups, all looking to provide the Third World with aid that they so desperately needed. In a way, it was not much different than the 19th Century missionaries who would come to the region for the purpose of converting the "heathens and savages" to Christianity. The Westerners who came to Kisangani were mostly young Christians from the West, who had never left the safety of their birthplace until some church leader invoked a call to help the downtrodden. Thus, they flocked to one of the missions in the area, bringing with them their naive notions and their expensive clothes and their expensive phones, taking in the alien environment around them.

The small group of travelers that were walking through the quiet terminal were anything but missionaries. A collection of men and women, some with premature aging brought upon themselves by stress. A number of them wore civilian clothes, but anyone with enough experience in war could tell that these particular individuals were warfighters. In particular was a man, tan of skin with short black hair and a black beard. He was built, the short sleeves of the drab olive green Hawaiian shirt that he was wearing revealing his large arms, toned and muscular from much usage. He looked serious, scary even with the pair of Aviators that covered his brown eyes. In addition to the button-up shirt, he wore a pair of tan cargo pants that draped over a pair of clearly-worn desert combat boots. A multi-cam backpack was strapped to his body, his arms between both loops, while his left hand carried a black duffel bag embossed with the big white word "POLICE," along with the emblem of the Chapel Hill Police Department. He strode confidently at the head of the group.

Roy Barker was one of several mercenaries hired by Dr. Daniel Bedford, a man of medicine - and more importantly, at least in his own eyes - a man of God. His son and daughter-in-law, Tyler and Fatima, were the poster-children of the Christian Medical Expedition. Tyler, a veteran of the 19th Special Forces Group and linguist; Fatima, a Western-educated doctor who had survived the terror of Ba'athist Iraq. The couple were inseparable even outside of the public eye, as they often found themselves advocating for the CME on popular news shows and other mediums of the media. They had gone missing, and Dr. Bedford was determined to get them back. So, he hired a team of reporters, mercenaries, and others to travel down the Lomami River, to the suspected crash site that bore the last-known location of Tyler and Fatima. They weren't the only ones missing, but as determined by the benefactor funding the operation, they were certainly the most important.

Before long, the Western members of the team found themselves aboard a dinky old minivan, and traveling through the streets of Kisangani en route to their vessel.

---

1020
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016


The venerable riverboat sat idle, floating and bobbing in the waters of the Congo. A small collection of four men - the Captain and his crew - were working aboard the boat, preparing for the long journey. The weapons and equipment belonging to the mercenaries - the things that they could not bring with them through air travel - had been preemptively transported aboard hours before their plan touched down at Bangoka. A crate of assorted weapons - modern FN assault rifles and sniper rifles, American-made shotguns, Italian pistols, Russian-made rocket launchers, and others - were packed aboard, as was the assault webbing and the plate carriers and such. Food, medicine, and the like were also secured aboard the vessel. The Congo war treacherous, with or without the warzone.

A white minivan, its body darkened by thick mud, rumbled up to the dock where the boat was secured. It made a pitiful shrieking and knocking sound, indicating that the engine had not received a proper tune-up in many months. The small plume of white smoke did much to indicate this as well. The sliding door opened, and out climbed the majority of the rescue party. Roy was happy to have left the vehicle, and although he had taken passage in riskier vehicles than the van, he did not enjoy the ride. He turned his head and examined his surroundings. The fisherman and the longshoremen, as well as the other locals present at the river harbor, stopped to take notice of the Westerners. They wore masks of suspicion, especially as they looked at the women. Roy recognized the looks, as it wasn't too long ago that nervous Afghan civilians gave him similar looks as he wandered through their villages, searching for an enemy that did well at blending into the civilian population. Nevertheless, Rob approached the boat, his eyes focused upon the crew. This was the boat, and he - like his colleagues - knew it. Without a word, he walked up the gangplank and onto the vessel, just waiting for the Captain of the vessel to approach and initiate the introductions.

Up some distance from the boat, a black Toyota Tacoma was parked by the side of the road. Four unscrupulous men, clad in dirty clothing, kept their eyes on the vehicle. They had the air of danger about them; their gazes were opportunistic, almost predatory, as they watched the Westerners.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

10:00
Bangoka International Airport
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

As Yiara stepped onto the ground, she took a moment to stretch out. It had been a long flight, after all. She looked around the immediate vicinity as the group began to walk, noticing the various craters dotting the landscape. It was obvious that conflict was here, that was, after all, her entire reason for even being in this forsaken city. Yiara was a contracted mercenary, and her job was to play a part in a small team to rescue captured foreigners. Rebels in this province, so she'd heard, were dangerous and everywhere. Despite this, the town seemed to be very unassuming. The architecture reminded her of her native Brazil in many ways. The rudimentary shacks set up all around the place reminded her of those she'd become so familiar with as a drug runner. It was sad, really, that her home village had better construction than this town. Plenty of older buildings dotted the landscape as well, which served to remind of the larger cities of Brazil and, specifically, the Victorian facades that can be seen to this day.

Despite having a few nice buildings and plenty of shacks, the city seemed lifeless. It was strange, although she assumed that the rebels had simply driven many people away. It was around this time that Yiara noticed the locals, what few were left, were staring at the group. Staring at her. It was discomforting for certain. The girl wore a crop top in the fashion of a tank top, which in reality resembled a sports bra more than it did a proper shirt, and she paired it with a leather skirt cut just a bit above the knee. An amateur psychologist would have a whole slew of things to pick from her past to answer why she might dress this way, but the simple and explainable matter was that she did not really care what the Congolese natives thought of her attire, however unnerving their gaze might be. She paired this simple outfit with a raincoat and a matching pair of fitted rubber boots, suitable for wetland access. Her briefing had told her she'd be on a boat for much of the trip, and in the Congolese jungle nonetheless, and so it only seemed fitting. Over her shoulder was slung a green backpack carrying various changes of clothes, including ones much more suited for military endeavors such as full shirts, rough jeans, and combat boots.

She did not wear sunglasses. Her eyes were more than used to the bright sun, her skin accustomed to the heat, and her eyes familiar with the jungle. In a way, she almost felt at home here, all the way down to being completely unable to trust any federal authority in the area. One thing she was not used to were the glares the mercenaries got from the natives, although her sun-accustomed eyes were able to glare right back at them with a harsh, almost threatening gaze. She did not have any real weapons on her at the moment, as getting those through security would be a mess and most likely highly illegal, however she did sneak a shiv through customs and thus, should any of the villagers even think to attack, she could carve them up.

As Yiara was led to an old riverboat, she realized just how little she really knew about the operation. There was a set objective, certainly, but her employer was a man shrouded in mystery to the young woman. She knew just a few details, notably what he looked like, what his name was, and that he was a religious Christian man, which was something she did not have much approval for. Yiara was an Animist, albeit loosely, raised on traditional beliefs rather than the Catholicism that thrived throughout Brazil's cities. She had no problem with Christians, although she found that the ones who described themselves as "Religious", "Devout", or "Pious" usually shoved it in her face. She could only hope, then, that it was restricted to Brazilian Catholics and not whatever strange-denomination-that-slightly-differs-from-all-the-others he followed.

10:20
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

The minivan came to a stop, and light was reintroduced to Yiara for the first time in what felt like eternity as she stepped out. She looked around to get a general feel of the place. As the group encountered their rusty riverboat, Yiara felt like she wanted to sigh in relief, however the boat itself seemed a mess from the outside. She was, however, relieved to see that the crew was loading the group's weapons, not-so-secretly hidden in various bags and boxes. There was a nerve building in the girl, this she could not deny. It was always there, a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach that begged her to just run from it all and take up a quiet life in the city. It was only at this point, as the group began to move forward again, that she noticed the fishermen all starting at the group as well. The prying eyes, it seemed, could not be avoided. Part of Yiara wanted to shank one of these men, just to get them to look away, just to get them to leave, but her moral sense, what was left of it, told her it was not the proper course of action.

As the group approached the boat, a car was parked to the side. A Toyota as black as its inhabitants with filthy men lying inside was sitting suspiciously in place. Yiara suspected that it was a rebel scout, as it stood out greatly from the others. While everyone had been staring down the mercenaries with a hint of curiosity and a hint of suspicion, a mutual distrust in Yiara's eyes, the car seemed to be filled with malice. While the villagers looked at them as if they were a curious example of rare foreigners who, in times past, had hurt the community, the men in the car stared at the group as if they were hated enemies. It made Yiara even more uncomfortable than she already was and, unlike the gaze of the villagers, it was not something she could block out. Her walking speed began to pick up, and she felt as if she was being hunted. Not since she had come face-to-face with a jaguar did she feel so endangered. Not even when she sat before the police of Amazonas province in a dimly lit room, hands securely bound, did she feel so threatened. Not even when she told said police all they wanted to know about the cartels in exchange for a free pass out of Brazil did she feel such immense dread.

With suspicion and dread clouding her mind, Yiara stepped onto the riverboat and, in an arguably impressive feat, had no issues with balance, despite the rocking and swaying of the boat on the river and despite the heels of her boots. She walked a bit onto the boat, and from that point on her mission was set. There was not backing out now, and there would be no chances later. She leaned against the railing and awaited further orders.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

10:20
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

After spending only twenty minutes in the DRC, John was already getting sick and tired of the place. It really hadn’t taken him long to get a gauge on the place and his companions, and he hated the thought of having to spend any length of time with these people in that most god-forsaken corner of the globe. His irritations had started upon his arrival in Bangoka, when the warm, humid air of the tropics had come to greet him readily. It had struck him like a sledgehammer, leaving him sweating profusely from every orifice imaginable. When he got on the plane, in Cape Town, it had been winter. Cold winds swept through the streets of the old colonial capital, making sure most people sought the comfort of their homes above the freezing temperatures of the outside. John had traded these cold winds for the humid battering ram of the Congo, and he already cursed himself for having made that choice.

Upon arriving at the harbour, his feeling of dread and discomfort were not healing in the slightest. The stench of the city had mixed with an onslaught of mosquitoes, bearing down on him like Junckers dive bombers on Polish entrenched positions. The water seemed to attract the insects, although his bloody veins seemed to interest them even more. Every four seconds or so, another buzzing member of the insecta family found its way to his arms, poking him as frequently as possible. No matter how much anti-mosquito cream he smeared on his skin, he never seemed to get rid of the constant buzzing mass around his face. One moment, when one of the animals was hovering right in front of his face, John had almost gripped the Chinese-made pistol in his holster. He know he wouldn’t hit the thing, but getting a few rounds off would at least calm his senses a bit.

He resisted the urge, however, and walked along towards the boat. He was dressed like a weird combination of a colonial overlord and a golf player, wearing his trousers by suspenders over his shoulders, under which he wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to their absolute maximum. Even then, it was clear that his sweating glands did not appreciate the overtime they had to go through, leaving him permanently reddened and soaked. This was increasingly obvious as his red skin contrasted with the white shirt, making his skin easily visible for miles around. The heavy, black adidas sporting bag which he carried around his shoulder wasn’t making it any easier, too. He had quite some clothing with him, as well as some clothing articles for his fiancé. He couldn’t fathom the state she would be in if they ever found her.

His fiancé… All the way to Kisangani, he had thought of nothing else. Was she still alive? Was she still to be found? Had the rebels taken her hostage? Even when reading his mission briefing, in which the name of his wife was only mentioned twice, he thought about her. The primary objective of his mission, of course, was Koobus Breytenbach, a semi-colleague of his he had met on several occasions. Whether or not he found him was really not a concern at all for John. Even before getting the mission details, John had begun to focus his efforts on locating Angela. Koobus was obviously second place. Sure, finding him would be a bonus, and he would put some effort into that. But when presented the choice between getting his fiancé a luxurious cabin and finding Breytenbach, John’s mind would be set on the former. Besides, that Swaffield fellow would probably do his best to find that man already, and having two different people on the same case wasn’t going to help them.

Having arrived on the boat, John kept a close look at his personal belongings. His right hand rested permanently near the grip of his pistol, having seen the ethnic background of the crew that was to service the vessel. He did not trust them for two seconds, that much was certain. He knew, or he thought he knew, their kind. They would slit their throats half-way through the journey and sell their weapons to the rebels, that was certainly a possibility. He looked around the downtrodden boat, which looked like a relic of a bygone era. The era of steam ships and ever-changing borders. John put down his black bag, placing one leg within the shoulder strap to make theft as difficult as possible. Then, he leaned back against the side of the boat, feeling the metal railing warmly pressed against his skin. God, he hated this place. He couldn’t wait to get back to South Africa. He couldn’t wait to go back to Scotland, and the trip hadn’t even begun.

[Walabam]

1000 hours
Bangoka International Airport
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016


Ethan took a deep breath, sniffing into his nose the stale air of his surroundings. "Ah, the smell of malaria and impending deaths," whispered Ethan to himself. Donning a pair of Ray-Ban aviators, he analyzed the locals; however disheveled they may be, the people he would be working with in the next few days; however cool they may look, the buildings; however ruined and empty they were. Ethan slung his backpack towards the front, unzipping it, before pulling out clear plastic bag with what appeared to be a small bottle of 'Chivas Regal 12', bought from the duty-free shop from where he had departed from. While he walked with the group, he teared open the sealed plastic bag, pulling out the bottle of whiskey and gulping its contents down in a jiffy. "Fuck, that's good," chuckled Ethan, throwing both the bottle and the bag onto the ground, not giving a single shit to the stares of the dismayed locals.

With Ethan were both a backpack and a duffel bag, which contained his ghillie suit, his Kevlar helmet, his TLBV, his Nikon D3300 camera, a tripod, and several GoPro cameras and accessories. Questions were raised at the departing airport about his luggage, but Ethan simply brushed off the questions by telling airport security that he was a nature photographer. Ethan had chosen not to let these equipment on the vessel, as he felt these were items that were closest to his heart, not wanting to take the risk of losing them.

Dr. Daniel Bedford, a doctor from the Christian Medical Expedition, or CME in short, had hired Ethan and his 'team' members for this mission, but the details given were very vague for Ethan. He didn't know what was happening, nor did he know what was going to happen. All he knew was him getting a reward of $20,000 after the job was completed. Call him materialistic, but Ethan was actually a compassionate person in the past. However, after experiencing the darkness of society, he decided it was time to stop being a good guy, and perhaps time to become an 'anti-hero'. He didn't care how the world judged him any more.

The group was greeted by the sight of an old minivan, which, in the eyes of the locals, probably didn't seem too old. "I'd wish for a Merc' sedan or limo to come fetch our asses, but I guess this'll suffice," uttered Ethan to the group. As his duffel bag was loaded onto the minivan, he sat on one of the fabric seats of the minivan, quietly watching each and every passenger inside the vehicle. "My name's Ethan, nice meeting y'all. Hope we'd get along fine." Somehow, Ethan felt it was necessary to introduce himself to the rest of the team, hoping they'd do the same. Besides, he found his female colleague 'pretty hot', and hoped to get her attention.

1020
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

The streets of Kisangani were unforgiving; the potholes and the random bumps. In addition to the discomfort was the shitty suspension system and the screechy noise coming from the engine of the van. Clearly, the locals didn't bother to maintain their vehicles. Either that or they didn't have the funds to do so. Nonetheless, the old minivan came to a halt, next to the dock where Ethan presumed the boat to be. The sliding door opened, introducing Ethan to a whole new surrounding, one that smelled like the carcasses of a thousand bodies, coupled with the scent of feces. Ethan thanked God that he was wearing gore-tex combat boots, upon visually inspecting his surroundings. He wasn't sure if some brown piles on the ground were mud or feces, but he assumed the worst. Insect repellent was hurriedly applied, given the fact that Ethan seemed to be a mosquito magnet, probably thanks to the alcohol he had drank earlier. Despite all the shit that had been going on, he followed the group towards the boat, his eyes focused on the locals, as were theirs on him. Both parties seemed to be suspicious of each other's motives.

The boat swayed lightly as the waves hit the hull. The plank leading to the boat, too, rocked back and forth. Although Ethan wasn't aqua-phobic, he was afraid that he would drop into the shit-infested river. He made sure he maintained his balance as he embarked onto the boat, however uncool he may have looked. "Greetings, Captain and crew of the boat. Nice meetin' y'all," exclaimed Ethan. Once again, Ethan was was trying to play the 'nice guy', for whatever reasons there may be. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling out a stick onto his lips and lighting it up, before offering them to the rest of the people on the boat.

"Cigarettes?"

While he waited for their rejection or acceptance, he couldn't help but notice a black Toyota, parked not far from the boat. The occupants had their eyes on the group, which seemed to be the norm for locals towards the Westerners. These men, however, seemed to come with malicious intent. Ethan decided that fear wasn't something he should be experiencing at that moment. He, therefore, turned himself around towards the direction of the car, cigarettes in hand, raising the pack up as if to offer the occupants of the Toyota some cigarettes - all these coupled with a smirk.

"Bring it on, fuckers."

[Reverend Norv]

1022
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

A man walked up the quay.

He was a big man. Some would call him a giant: he was four or five inches over six feet, with a chest like a barrel and limbs like tree trunks. He had to be two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. That the man was an African was beyond doubt: his skin was a dark, polished brown, and his short hair and beard were coal-black and wooly, turning grey at the temples. He wore a grey polo shirt, and khaki cargo pants splattered with mud, and jungle boots, and a knotted rope of scar tissue wound its way down one of his forearms. He had an old surplus ALICE pack slung over one shoulder.

The man carried a knife in a sheath on his belt, but he didn't wear a gun. He didn't seem to need it. He was the sort of man who looked like he could rip your head off with one dinner-plate-sized hand.

To a man like John Garland, this newcomer would just look like a big scary African. But to the Congolese who crowded the docks, he was more - complicated. His skin was dark brown in a part of Africa where coal-black was the norm. His nose was straight and narrow, like an Ethiopian's or a Somali's, not broad like the noses of the Bantu Congolese. His beard was in a Western style. Yet he seemed completely at home, walking unconcerned through the mud of the river bank with long, confident strides. He looked at home in Kisangani in a way that the westerners piling out of the minivan were not.

At the foot of the gangplank, the man stopped. His head turned slowly on its thick neck. His large dark eyes moved over the rusted flank of the riverboat, and the crates of guns, and Roy Barker's sunglasses, and Yiara Bocaiuva's bare legs, and Ethan's posturing, and John Garland's holster. His eyes rested for a moment on the black Tacoma with its occupants, and then roved over the riverbank and the clouds, measuring, assessing. The man's face was still, watchful, impossible to read. He nodded to Zaido Kyenge, and offered a greeting in Kikongo.

Then the man scrupulously scraped the mud from his boots on the side of the gangplank and strode quickly up onto the deck. Despite his great size, his footfalls were very quiet, almost silent. He reached the top of the gangplank, and paused.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman," the big man said. His voice was soft, deep, with a shockingly incongruous accent: his pronunciation was flawless, aristocratic Oxbridge. "I am Doctor Lucien Massemba. I will be accompanying you. If you have any preexisting medical conditions of which I should be aware, I trust that you shall notify me." Lucien dumped his pack under the riverboat's roof, where it was protected from any sudden burst of rain, and sat down with his back to the gunwhales and his elbows resting on his knees. An attentive observer might notice that it was a position from which the rest of the crew, and the black Tacoma, were clearly visible. The giant medic gave the Westerners a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "Welcome to the Congo."

[Icthyia]

1022
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

Zaido Kyenge, proud owner of the ship docked at Kisangani, an opulently wealthy device compared to the locals, was never enough to impress the Westerners. He had grown used to it, and cold to it. No matter how much money he got, no matter how much he cleaned it, the Congo would never let it be good enough. No Westerner that had any business on the river cared, really.

By now, two mercenaries and the doctor had arrived, as well as someone whose exact purpose was not described to Zaido, but he knew better than to ask too many questions. One of them, a woman, was scantily clad, but not in a way the Congolese did. While nudity and revealing clothing were common, they were almost universally the result of poverty. There is no reason to express great concern in concealing when there is nothing to gain. But this woman, that's wasn't how she dressed. She wore clothes just as expensive as normal ones, in a way that emphasized her feminine features. To the men on the boat, who could go months without a woman's touch, and whose usual sexual interactions were with prostitutes, her beautiful skin and well taken care of physique drew stark contrast with the native Congolese. She would draw much unwanted attention should they ever have to step ashore, and if she ever found herself alone or in a compromised state, Zaido couldn't guarantee her safety. Though he had no doubt she could fight, years on the river had shown him the best way to fight was not attract attention in the first place. Even the best fighter can't defeat five armed men.

Meanwhile, one of the non-military civilians also stood on the ship. Like most Westerners, he was disgusted with the ship and it's crew; who were largely unwashed, unshaven, and poorly dressed. Their natural suspicion of people in general, and in particular whites, can be mistaken as thieving glances by the privileged, although even that is usually not necessary to evoke hostility. Zaido could only hope he would sit down in the ship and shut up, rather than cause problems. This mission was giving him a lot of money...

The doctor was, strangely, black, though clearly not of the Congo. He was more brown than black, dressed nice, was obviously wealthy, and walked with an arrogant confidence many educated Congolese felt entitled to. He spoke clear English, when all Zaido could do was sputter out heavily accented English. No less valid, but was looked down upon by the educated and foreign. It was clear he had not spent his childhood and adolescence in the majority of the country, and though he was more attuned to it than most, Zaido and his people new they could only rely on themselves.

The other mercenary was the tolerable type, in that they were obnoxiously conversational and nice, but despite this, Zaido liked these types. Though ignorant and usually uncaring, some had learned to see Zaido as close to an equal. Time would tell, as he also seemed very self-centered and arrogant, as most foreigners were when first entering the Congo.

With this, Zaido turned to the mercenary, who as brandishing cigarettes.

"I never turn down Tobacco."

He grabbed a cigarette, and waited for the rest of his crew to respond.

Though Zaido couldn't speak English very clearly, he nevertheless had to introduce himself.

"Hello. My name, is Zaido. I, am captain of this ship. I own this ship. We follow only two rules. I obey the man who pays, and I control ship. I will try to keep you safe, but idiots die. The Congo is dangerous. I know it's dangers. I may be African, but I know the river."

Zaido looked at the civilian, who clearly did not believe much of what he said.

"My crew are loyal; they are good. We are not educated, but we have lived our lives on the river. Many whites who have doubted us have died, you do not want to be like them."

Zaido then glanced up and down at the tan mercenary.

"We will do job quick, then we get money."

Finishing up, Zaido noticed a white van in the distance. The rebels were obviously watching, and they didn't bother hiding, because there was no point. They controlled the jungle. This wasn't an attempt to learn what was happening. This was a threat. Normally they wouldn't other with Zaido, but so many whites attract attention, especially as armed as they are.

Zaido did not like that they had already begun the threats, it did not mean good things were to come don the river.It meant they knew they were coming, and wanted them to know hat to expect. He now knew they would need to be careful starting off, which might take longer than they want.

[Rudaslavia]

0830
Kindu Airport
Kindu, Maniema Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

The city of Kindu rested upon the cusp of the nation's conflict zone. It was, in essence, trapped by the Congo's unremitting plight of turmoil. To Julienne, however, the city was home. It was a poverty-stricken, blood-stained shithole...but it was where she felt comfortable. The dangers of the war-torn east were almost refreshing. This hazardous world, so different from the money-laden streets of Brussels, taught Julienne who she really was.

"Africa does not seek to kill you; she seeks to expose your reflection." That was Julienne's personal little proverb. She didn't want to risk sounding like a pseudo-intellectual, so she rarely shared it with others. But in Julienne's mind, Africa was a living being who acted as a counterweight to the dishonest nature of humanity. Africa did not act to expose one's reflection to others; she acted to expose one's reflection to oneself. That was what made the Congolese jungles so powerful. They could strip a man down to his naked core, showing him exactly who he was and what he was capable of. To some, it was a terrifying reality check. To others, it was a realization of their true potential.

To Julienne, it was both.

But the war was getting worse and inching closer to Kindu by the day. Soon, Julienne feared, the prospect of a lone white woman's survival in the city would be rendered unfeasible. She would flee westward she had to, but she hoped Kindu's circumstances wouldn't become so dire.

Eight years had passed since Julienne left Belgium for the Congo. Time flew by faster than she ever could have expected. She hadn't spoken to a single member of her family since she boarded that plane in Brussels. A small part of her wondered what they were up to -- what they were thinking, and whether or not they missed her. But...fuck it. They were just as capable of reaching out to her as she was of reaching out to them. Fuck the Bastognes, she thought. And fuck the Voclains too.

Still, memories of her family popped up in her mind every so often. She tried to block them out, but her efforts were unsuccessful. Indeed, such thoughts were spinning in her head on the morning of June 19, 2016. Some Bible-thumping wack job from the States had hired her on as the guide of his rescue mission. Being in a serious need of cash, Julienne accepted the contract without hesitation. Her gambling debts were building up, and she had to repay them as soon as humanly possible.

Her cab thundered through the outskirts of Kindu towards the airport. The driver, Rhys Tobo, was an old friend. The cab was little more than a 90's jalopy. But Tobo didn't care; in reality, the whole "taxi service" itself was but a cover-up for his gun running operation. Julienne had known Rhys Tobo since childhood. His family was of somewhat considerable means before the fall of the Mobutu regime (which didn't mean much, given the general standard of living in former Zaire). Both of his parents had worked on the Bastogne family's payroll; his father was a mining overseer, and his mother a household servant. Rhys was Congolese to the core. However, given his mother's profession, he was raised within the boundaries of a European household. He understood the culture and values of the West in a way that most central African natives could not.

Before the shit hit the fan in '96, Rhys's mother was smuggled to the safety of Kinshasa while his father stayed to assist in maintaining order throughout Kindu. The Tobos lacked the funds to send Rhys away with his mother, and thus he remained in Kindu as well. When the rebels took the city, he was conscripted as a child soldier and remained in the armed forces until the conclusion of the Second Congo War. He had endured a total of six years on the frontlines. The conflict had scarred his mind and body. No matter how many years passed, he would never fully recover.

"I assume you are excited to leave Kindu?" Rhys asked Julienne, glancing towards her in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. His past was gruesome, but his voice still maintained an almost childlike innocence. He was a good man at heart. His eyes, though, expressed his tremendous internal guilt. Within the blackness of his pupils, a battle of moral conscience had erupted...and it would surely last until the day he'd pass on.

Julienne, who was comfortably seated in the back, awoke from her state of nostalgic thought to face her friend. "No." she answered bluntly. Julienne was a very pretty woman, but her habits were physically destroying her. A close examination of her features would unveil a case of developing crow's feet, glassy eyes, laugh lines, and slight smoking stains on her teeth. Even the tips of her fingers were yellowing. On top of her excessive drinking and cigarette smoking, Julienne was known to use cocaine from time to time. Her body was becoming damaged. Her voice already bore a mild smoker's rasp, and she had a difficult time breathing (even when not engaging in strenuous activity). Did she care? No. Her body was hers to do with as she pleased.

"Well," Rhys chuckled. "Kindu is certainly excited to see you leave." He was subsequently met with Julienne's middle finger in the mirror's reflection.

When Julienne returned to Kindu in 2008, Rhys was amongst the few who embraced her presence. To most residents of Kindu, the name "Bastogne" represented evil and terror. Julienne was the daughter and only child of Prince Vincent de Bastogne, the notorious "Left-Handed Devil." To the local Congolese, he was looked upon as a black hole of oppression. Indeed, the late prince's cruel reputation partly enabled Julienne to thrive as an adult in Maniema. A certain mythology surrounded her. She was the spawn of what many locals believed was a demonic manifestation. Some feared the notion of causing her harm, as the devilish essence in her blood would surely curse them.

Rhys was not so blindly superstitious. He had known Julienne for many years, and he was glad to see his old playmate reappear in the DR Congo. After her arrival, he provided her with connections and protection. This allowed her to establish her own niche as a Western guide in Kindu, eventually becoming a somewhat respected member of the community. And for that, Julienne was eternally grateful.

The cab puttered onto the dirt runway of the airport. The facility was heavily damaged by recent armed conflicts in the area, and it was difficult for Rhys to maneuver around the rubble.

Oduard Dumar, a Congolese drug trafficker, had been hired by Julienne to fly her to Kisangani. Dumar smuggled narcotics between militant factions in Rwanda and the DR Congo. On occasion, he also sold his flying services to locals for some extra cash. His aircraft, a small crop-duster, was already prepared for flight at Julienne's arrival.

Rhys parked approximately ten yards from the plane. Julienne exited the vehicle first. Her body was dirtied by the harsh living conditions of the Congolese slums, and her unkempt hair had been tied into a matted ponytail. Her gray tank top was covered by a loosely-fitted beige shirt (which was buttoned almost to the collar). She wore a pair of black combat pants and matching Wellington boots to prevent trench foot. A small mosquito net was wrapped around her neck. In addition, Julienne wore a belt across her torso, upon which a machete was sheathed at her back. While not amongst the lightest of attires, it was effective in the thickness of the Congolese forests.

Julienne carried a mud-stained duffel bag of gear with her. Inside it was a small variety of essential survival gear, but with an added supply of weaponry. The bag contained a Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle, a Ruger No. 1 single-shot, and Ruger KP90 pistol. As she had been primarily been brought on Bedford's expedition as a guide, she brought along minimal ammunition for each weapon. After all, protection was the mercs' concern. But it wouldn't hurt to offer a little extra firepower in case of an emergency.

Several flasks of rum were also concealed in the bag. They were positioned just beside a small ration of cocaine. These were Julienne's primary drugs of choice.

Julienne hauled her bag out of the car, placing a cigarette between her lips as she slammed the door shut. She quickly lit the tobacco with a match (she had always fucking hated lighters). The heat was overwhelming. Julienne wiped the droplets of sweat from her forehead and lips before puffing a lungful of smoke into the air.

Dumar irritably approached the cab. "You were almost late!" he hissed with a deep and heavily-accented voice. Oduard Dumar was a strangely eccentric man. He wore a violet turban and black aviator sunglasses. His thick goatee was trimmed and braided into a long, snake-like style; it almost resembled the fashion of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh. Dumar didn't particularly like Julienne. From his perspective, she had two key shortcomings: she was white, and she was an independent woman. Both did not sit well with him. But she was paying him decent enough. And in the end, money was all he truly cared about.

"So I should count myself lucky?" Julienne grunted. She stuffed sixty Euros into Dumar's hand. "There's your payment."

Dumar nodded after carefully counting the bills. "Alright. Pack your shit. Let's go."

Julienne tossed her luggage into the aircraft as the pilot ignited its engine. Before climbing into the passenger seat, she took a several large gulps of rum from the flask at her belt.

"Julienne!" Rhys called from his cab over the buzzing of the propellers. "What if you are captured by the rebels?"

Julienne turned toward Rhys with a grin. "Then I will die!" she called back to him, tossing her cigarette to the ground. "Take care of yourself, Rhys!" And with that, she closed the door and prepared for the plane's takeoff.

---

The interior of the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula was dark, ominous, and filled to the brim with sentiments of mourning. Julienne's entire family was seated throughout the pews. They were each clad in black...weeping, lamenting, and praying. Julienne, too, was there. She sat before the little casket at the altar. She could see herself from a bizarre, distorted, and third-person point of view. She looked younger -- maybe even healthier. Her grandmother was beside her. Like the others in the pews, both wore the blackened garbs grief.

"It is unfair, Grandmamma." Julienne whispered through tears.

Her grandmother was not weeping, but staring blankly towards the alter as if she had long expected this occasion. "Be honest with yourself, Julienne," she quietly muttered towards her granddaughter. "You would have made a terrible mother."

A sobbing Julienne then fled. The heels of her stiletto shoes clicked against the church floors as she shoved the wooden doors open. The backdrop of the scene suddenly altered to that of a public restroom. Julienne was still dressed in her black funeral dress. She was bent over one of the sinks, preparing a line of cocaine with a small razor blade. Her tears overtook her ability to see. She sunk to the floor, her body curling into a fetal position as she cried, "Mon Adrien...mon Adrien...mon Adrien..."

---

1000
Bangoka International Airport
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

The turbulence of the aircraft's landing shocked Julienne awake. Her heart was nearly pounding through her ribs. She clutched her breast in pain. Leave me, Adrien, she thought to herself. Her nightmares seemed to worsen with excessive heat, and Dumar's crop-duster seemed hot enough to bake a loaf of bread.

"We have reached Kisangani." Oduard stated, unaware of his passenger's internal plight.

Julienne fanned herself with her hand in an attempt to distract herself from her nausea. She was slightly dehydrated, and eagerly awaited a drink of water when she could finally access her duffel bag in the rear of the plane. Dumar eventually docked the aircraft near the terminal. As it was but a crop-duster, it had to be stationed away from the commercial airliners so as not to take up needed space.

Dumar turned to Julienne, scowling behind the lenses of his glasses. "Now get out of my plane." he demanded.

The woman did so gladly. She opened the door and hopped out of her seat to the runway's asphalt surface. Dumar climbed to back to the airplane's storage area and tossed Julienne's bag to her. She caught it with both arms, and its sheer weight almost knocked the wind out of her lungs. Her heart rate was calming, but she still felt sick. She reached into her back for a bottle of water and consumed an entire 16 ounces in seconds. She took in a sigh of relief as several water droplets ran down her chin and neck from her lips.

Dumar removed his aviators so that Julienne could clearly see his eyes. "Vanish, woman." he grunted with a stern glare. "I hope you disappear forever." He slid the door shut with such great force that Julienne was surprised the window did not crack. She said not a single word back, but simply picked up her bag and lit another cigarette. She hardly talked to the rescue team upon meeting them, and she remained silent throughout the drive to the harbor.

1020
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016

By the time the group reached Kisangani Harbor, Julienne had fully recovered. Her nightmares always took something out of her. Every time she awoke from sleep, she felt as thought she'd been beaten to a pulp. Julienne believed it was Adrien's vengeful ghost...but it was more plausible that her spouts of illness could be attributed to her drug habits.

Regardless, she was happy to have finally reached the river. She didn't like being stuffed into a single van with so many people. Julienne exited the vehicle with her bag. She reeked of booze, cigarettes, and sweat, but it wasn't like the others were in any place to judge. She took notice of the Tacoma parked on the road near the banks of the water. It didn't take much common sense to realize that they meant trouble. Julienne gazed towards them in an assertive (yet unprovocative) manner before following the others onto the river boat.

Her companions seemed an odd bunch. Many of them were clearly outside their comfort zones -- very typical of Westerners. Julienne was much like them when she returned to the Congo all those years ago. She had to learn fast, else pay the gruesome consequences.

"My name is Julienne de Bastogne." she said to the others as they mingled on the deck. She set her bag down beside her and lit another cigarette with a match. "I will be your guide." Julienne turned to Yiara, whose particular attire demanded all sorts of negative attention. She let out a small chuckle, accompanied by a stream of smoke from her lips. "I would change that outfit, Miss."

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

1020
Kisangani Harbor
Kisangani, Orientale Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
June 19, 2016


Yiara had been mostly minding her own business. She had been introduced to a few people, seen the doctor come aboard, and most of all she'd been standing, rather leaning, alone with nothing but the calming sounds of the jungle to keep her entertained. It was, for the most part, something she enjoyed. The jungle reminded her of home, even if the African jungle had a very different feel than the South American one. In Africa, the jungle seemed to lose the vibrant shades and hues that it should have, feeling like a moisture trap more than a vibrant and diverse ecosystem. The occasional holler of primates lurking deep within, perhaps miles away, Despite being on the verge of potential death, dismemberment, and whatever strange tortures the Congolese rebels could possibly think up, she felt more at ease than she had moments prior. After all, there was a great deal to be comfortable about. The environment was nice and warm, the jungle was filled with enjoyable and soothing noises, the sky was clear, and the air was clean.

That was, until a few cigarettes were passed around. Of all the drugs Yiara had experimented with, and without regret, tobacco was one she always kept a good distance to. The crop was poisonous to everything it touched: soil was rendered unusable for years, rivers were polluted and depopulated, and people would breathe tar instead of air. It was, in her opinion, the most disgusting and despicable drug, for not only was it highly toxic to all it touched without giving much in return, but the people who made it and sold it were all cheats and liars, the same sort of people Yiara had seen her kin attack and raid. Suffice to say, she did not particularly appreciate these people dirtying up her fresh Congo air. There wasn't much she could do, and so she decided to stay quiet so long as none of them bothered her.

Then on came a few more people. A doctor and a strangely white woman claiming to be the group's guide. Yiara thought this rather confusing, and had expected a Congolese guide. The woman spoke with the weathered and broken voice of a smoker, even if mild. Yiara thought this to be an unfortunate development, but stuck to her principle of live and let live. That was until the irritating voice spoke directly to her, at which point she could no longer ignore. It criticized Yiara's choice of clothing, as if the Brazilian gave the slightest care towards that sentiment. She'd, of course, known what she was getting into, and needed no condescending attitudes about it. "Vai se fuder, Burra." stated the girl as she glanced over with a piercing gaze. Her hazel eyes, contrasted to the usual brown of the Amazonians, drew attention to her stare and made it all the more sharp. "I would drop the cigarette, Miss." she mocked. Her English was excellent, with most of her Brazilian accent disappeared into a general American one, having gained fluency in the language by learning from American civil workers and the mercenaries she worked with. After 3 years of constant exposure, the accent seems to have just seeped in.

[Cylarn]

Of course the eyes at the truck were focused on Yiara and Julienne, but more so Yiara. The collection of thugs - clad in an assortment of worn American basketball jersies, worn snapbacks, gold chains and expensive necklaces, and saggy jeans and shorts - chuckled and pointed and gawked at the Amazonian, whose nonchalant personality and provocative dress had piqued their curiosity. At least one of the men had a worn AK-47 slung behind his back, while the others had pistols tucked into their waistbands at the front for all to see. While many of the dockworkers had copped looks at the foreign women, none were as loud and boisterous and threatening as the men by the truck. As the peddlers and dockworkers and passers-by carried on with their business, they gave the men a wide berth and averted their gazes, not wishing for trouble.

After setting his bags down underneath the ship's shelter, Roy's eyes were focused on the hoods and their weapons, a tactic that had been instilled in him over the years. He watched their movements; they didn't seem too much like rebels, more along the lines of a gang. He had studied the rebels a bit, with whatever information he could access prior to departing New York. This FDLR contingent had two or three French-trained commanders who had earned their keep in the Rwandan Civil War as rank-and-file Captains; all three of them had been around Kigali during the beginning of the Genocide, and two of them had active warrants for war crimes and genocide. "General Toit Savoir" was rumored to have been a Rwandan gendarme, as well. Accounts from government forces and displaced civilians highlighted the appearance that the FDLR rebels around the Lomami had received training that was a cut above the expertise exhibited by "typical" rebels. Defined weapon organics, organized units utilizing tactical movements and observation during combat. More than once, superior army units had been routed by numerically-inferior and comparably poorly-equipped FDLR rebels. These guys, they weren't FDLR.

Whatever their level of training, they were still a threat. Roy didn't want a confrontation with them, but apparently, not everyone was not on the same page. The Hawaiian, Ethan he called himself, made a gesture with his pack of cigarettes towards the hoods. He even muttered that he was looking for a fight, judging by his words. Roy rolled his eyes from behind his sunglasses and snapped his head towards the man, the two dark lenses focusing on Ethan's eyes.

"How about you go pop below deck and prep a couple rifles?" he asked, his tone of voice carrying the impression that Roy was convinced that it was the best course of action for Ethan. His eyes also noticed the businessman and his disdainful looks towards his surrounding, how his hand rested close to his pistol. He had obviously not been outside of his air-conditioned office in a while.

"You too," he said, shooting his eyes at John.

The doctor and the guide and the captain made their introductions next. Doctor Massemba seemed rather trustworthy on first-glance; he was outwardly friendly and his vocabulary and speech marked him as being clearly Western-educated. Roy gave him a greeting nod, as he did when Zaido informed him that this would be a quick job with a quick payment. Their captain had a level head, from the looks of it, though that didn't mean that he wouldn't sell them out later on if it came down to it. Roy's eyes moved over to meet Zaido's. Roy spoke in French; although it was heavily accented, Zaido would at least understand the words.

"If you have a spare man, move him to assemble a rifle and load a magazine," Roy stated, before shooting a glance over towards the thugs and then back at Zaido. "Street rats all around, right?"

Julienne was next to go. She looked rough and smelled as such, but not exactly trailer park-rough. Roy watched her carefully; her and Kala were cut from the same cloth, in that they were not women who were discouraged by danger or adversity. If he were to pry, he'd probably find out that she had a rough childhood and a plethora of questionable reasons as to how and why she - a white woman - had ended up in the Congo as a guide. When it came to dangerous professions, the few women that eked out their existences in such fields had to work twice as hard to achieve any sense of equality with their male counterparts. Roy figured that she wasn't exactly an amateur.

Yiara, the woman in the skirt, was a looker but he didn't think much of her more than that. Showing off skin in a foreign country was a great way to get yourself watched. Roy's eyes went back over to the hoods. They were joined by a big, darker man clad in a Lakers jersey, number 13. He was about three-quarters the size of Lucien, but that was still pretty big. He had a scary-looking Malinois on a chain leash, the dog was snarling at the passers-by. The thing bored a variety of scars throughout its unnaturally muscular and almost hairless body, most notably bearing a lack of a left ear and the top half of its right ear barely attached by a thread of skin that had long-since stopped bleeding. The big man was motioned towards the boat by one of his lackies, and after some hardy laughter, the five men and their dog started to wander towards the boat.

Roy blinked, and turned towards the others.

"Five men, one dog," he said. "If you can't fight, or if you've got bare legs, find somewhere else to be."

---

On the mention of bare legs, he flashed a glance at Yiara. Following his short message, he walked over towards his duffel and knelt down in front of it. Without rushing himself too hard, he unzipped the bag and reached inside to unwrap an object that was wrapped in a white t-shirt. It was an M9 that he had picked up in Kinshasa along with two pre-loaded magazines, courtesy of some black market arms dealer that he had come across. A black weapon in medium condition, with Nigerian military markings. Without wasting any time, he inserted one magazine into the weapon, tucked the other into his right pocket, charged the pistol, and tucked it in his pants, at the small of his back.

By the time that Roy had gotten back to his feet, the five men were already at the boat. The fighting dog snarled lowly, its eyes watching the strange foreigners. The hoods wore masks of distrustful enthusiasm as they walked about, watching the foreigners. The big man looked at Zaido, the two men recognizing one another. Up close, one could see a nasty scar across his throat, along with a variety of other scars adorning his body. "Mont Roger:" the leader of the "Bad Heart Band." A mean son-of-a-bitch that everyone feared, even the cops that he paid off were terrified of him.

"Where's my money, son?" he called out in a curious mixture of French and Kikongo, his voice loud and deep. "Who are these merde d'oiseaux cucks you got? Bring me that brown one with the legs, too, and I won't put Charles on you."

The dog snarled loudly upon the mention of its name, and gave a menacing bark. His men chuckled on the mention of the "brown one," but one of men - a man clad in a dirt-stained, 90s-era Charlotte Hornets jersey - focused in on Barker.

"What you staring at, blanc?" the thug called out in the same language as his boss, making gratuitous use of hand gestures while he spoke. "I'll pop you in the chest and tear your ass up, so get your white ass back to America before I mess your life up, cuck!"

Rather than saying anything, Roy stood his ground, keeping his eyes on the thug. His hands remained by his side and his posture remained relaxed, but he was ready to draw out his M9 from behind his back and put that thug in the ground. However, they had to play it cool, at for a few more moments.

[Walabam]

Ethan smirked as the Captain, whom had introduced himself as 'Zaido', accepted his offer of cigarettes. He listened to every word the Captain had said, including his claims that 'many whites have died' for simply doubting them. Empty threats, it might've been, but as strangers, Ethan knew not to take the risk and piss off a local. "Of course we have a hundred and one percent trust in you, Zaido," reminded Ethan to ease the captain of his insecurities.

Ethan then turned towards a certain man, stature as huge as a boulder. As the man walked up the quay, Ethan marveled at how large a man could grow. The man didn't seem to carry a firearm, but he did, however, seem to carry a knife, judging from a sheath on the man's belt. Of course, without any doubt from Ethan, he presumed that the man's equipment was stored on the boat itself, and would later introduce himself as yet another mercenary colleague on board this mission.

Ethan was wrong.

The man introduced himself as Doctor Lucien Massemba. That's right, a Doctor. Ethan squinted his eyes and frowned in disbelief while trying to come to the fact that the man, as aggressive as he looked, was a Doctor. "Uh," questioned Ethan, "are you really a Doctor or are you just fuckin' with us?" Ethan took caution with his words, not wanting to offend the man, afraid of having his face smashed in like a serving of mashed potatoes. "Would you like some cigare..."

"My name is Julienne de Bastogne."

Ethan turned to look at the woman, wondering who the heck was so daring to actually cut what he was about to say. "Say, woman, or rather 'Julienne', who are you exactly?"

"I will be your guide," the woman continued.

"The fuck? A guide? A tour guide?" Ethan looked at the woman with much derision. "Good on you, woman. Just try not to get in our way, yes?" While Ethan respected both males and females equally, what he says at times would come off as 'pretty sexist', as his ex-girlfriend had notified him. He, however, wasn't really much of a think-before-you-speak person, which would explain why his words could, at times, be very hurtful. Ethan, upon noticing that the woman smoked, brought down his hand and offered the lady another cigarette; "here, take another, woman."

"I would change that outfit, Miss."

"No she doesn't," proclaimed Ethan, "she's fine like that." Ethan had been eyeing his skimpily dressed colleague for almost the whole duration. "Am I right, Miss..." Ethan questioned the woman with a wink accompanied with a smirk, waiting for the lady to reveal her name. "Jerk," had been the unofficial nickname for Ethan ever since his high school days. The reason was simple - he was, well, a jerk. His flirtatious nature had caused him to father a whole bunch of children, who Ethan did not take responsibility for. In fact, he was the most notorious 'serial killer' in school, thanks to the number of abortions his female companions had to go through. Still, all these did not seem to affect him by one bit. "I hope you're single because girl, if you ain't, I'm gonna be single for the rest of my life waiting for you," uttered Ethan the Jerk.

For some reason, Ethan felt empowered. His self-confidence boosted the moment he stepped upon the land of Congo. Perhaps it was his mindset that since Congo was deep in poverty, the hoodlums there wouldn't be as well-equipped as compared to the crew. Or, perhaps it was just his own inflated morale. Roy, obviously, wasn't pleased with what he was seeing from Ethan. Roy had suggested that Ethan go 'prep a couple rifles' below deck, with the same sentiments for the businessman. Ethan wasn't happy with the suggestion. He, a well-trained combatant, cooped below the deck with a businessman who probably hadn't inhaled fresh air not coming from an air-conditioner for years. Despite the unhappiness, however, Ethan acceded to Roy's request, not wanting a fight between the two.

Time passed as Ethan opened up the wooden boxes and prepared the rifles, loading rounds into the magazines and making sure the weapons were able to function properly. It was one of his greatest fears for his gun to malfunction in the middle of a gunfight. He didn't bother much about what was happening on the deck, but slowly started to take interest when a man started to ask; "where's my money, son?" Obviously, the man didn't come to chit-chat nor did he come to make friends. His voice was aggressive and loud, and Ethan knew there was trouble coming. Without delay, Ethan prepared his rifle, loading the magazine, ready for a firefight, while listening to the conversation further.

"Who are these merde d'oiseaux cucks you got? Bring me that brown one with the legs, too, and I won't put Charles on you."

Charles, the dog. They had a dog. Brown legs? Was it the one Ethan desired?

"What you staring at, blanc? I'll pop you in the chest and tear your ass up, so get your white ass back to America before I mess your life up, cuck!"

That's it.

"Clank," went the lighter that Ethan had used to light the cigarette between his lips. Rifle in hand, he slowly emerged from the bottom of the deck, looking closely at the hostile group. "Erhm," Ethan cleared his throat as he cocked his rifle," problem, gentlemen?"

[Rudaslavia]

Ethan personified the problem with Westerners; they came to Africa with egos the size of Mars, treating others like obstacles in their oblivious paths. There was a time when it angered Julienne, but that time had long passed. At some point, she realized there was no need for her to teach such people lessons in survival. They would either learn from their mistakes or die as a result of them. Africa was cruel that way. Only the fittest survived. The rest were left to rot in the jungles.

In truth, Julienne was more focused upon Yiara's quip. "I would drop the cigarette, Miss." Maybe that bitch was right, but showing skin in a place like Kisangani could kill quicker than any smoke-induced cancer. Still, the Brazilian was quick with her words, and Julienne had too little time to drum up a retort. She simply grinned with another puff of smoke, passively turning her gaze away from the woman in silence. Her advice to Yiara was not given with purely sarcastic intent. The pretty merc would last less than an hour in that outfit. Her clothing begged attention from both man and nature -- and almost any form of attention in the Congo meant death. If the mosquitos didn't inflict some gruesome disease upon her, the rebels most certainly would. But it was Yiara's right to dress however she wished. She had been warned. It was her problem now.

It was at this point that the small band of natives approached the boat. They were assertive and did not seem the bluffing type. In Kindu, Julienne could protect herself by pulling out the names of her connections. There, she knew several local drug peddlers, arms dealers, and military officials somewhat well. But here? She was just another strange white woman.

Despite his foreign status, Roy seemed capable of handling himself properly in a predicament such as this. He was playing it cool, perhaps suggesting that he had encountered a similar problem before. Ethan, on the other hand, was acting cockier than a rooster. If these local bastards were to start firing off rounds, they'd probably shoot him first. Shit, Julienne would have to resist joining them.

Juelienne, too, calmly knelt down towards her bag and dragged the zipper aside to access its contents. She removed her Ruger KP90 from the assortment of supplies. She had but three magazines, and thus had to ration every bullet. Julienne stood without any sudden movement. For her to openly flash the pistol in such a tense situation would be foolish. She made a such a mistake when she first returned to the Congo in '08. Luckily, Rhys Tobo was there to bail her ass out. It was a lesson Julienne was glad to have learned.

She leaned herself up against the wall of the boat. Her pistol was gripped firmly in her right hand, which was concealed from the thugs' line of sight behind her back. She had paid little mind to her cigarette since the troublemakers arrived, and it had almost burned to the butt. She tossed it to the floor, smearing it into extinguishment with her boot. With that, she turned back to the thugs and waited. She would let the men do the talking. And if shit went down, she would open fire.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

Yiara felt particularly pleased at having silenced her critic, who simply grinned and puffed a bit more. A kind gentleman, the same one who had asked her name previously, and who seemed somewhat fixated on her, had also tried to stand up for her. This was enjoyable, and he began to drop a pickup line as Yiara began to relax once more. However, before his line was even complete, a group of men began to act threatening around the boarding area. Yiara's careless attitude dropped like a brick, and she reached inside of her raincoat to rip tape off of her body. With a slight wince, she tore it off and produced the shiv she had so carefully attached to her side to sneak it through airport security. As the body scanners would highlight weapons in black, it was rather easy to tape it to her side and let it simply blend in with the black background, making it near invisible. It was an exploit she, and many others, knew about thanks to a group of scientists who proved that the tactic consistently worked.

She held the shiv closely at hand, looking behind Ethan at the men. The shiv was a small blade, no longer than an average knife, and was covered in splotches of rust. The edges were serrated to some degree, although that could've simply been the effect of wear and tear taking its toll on the poor, old knife. The tip was sharpened to a very fine point, perhaps the only piece of the blade that received regular maintenance. Yiara was too far away from anything to get a gun, but the shiv had not taken her down the wrong route before. With this in mind, she could easily beat any of the men in a knife fight, should they decide to play fair, as she was fairly skilled in the area. However, noting that they had guns and a dog, she tried to stay unnoticed.

The apparent leader of the group called her out, which was a bit embarrassing. It did not feel such because he called her out on her attire, but moreso because she'd just been told off about it, and the leader of her own current band of misfits had backhandedly done the same moments ago. She was determined not to look like a fool in front of the people she'd be spending so much more time with, and prepared to make a straight charge for the leader to plunge the shiv deep into his throat. She had to whisper to nobody but herself to remind herself that this would be a very bad idea, as they knew she was there, and they had guns. It would be more foolish to commit suicide by rebel than it would be to simply be called out on her attire. Even still, her face clearly showed that she was, indeed, quite upset.

She knew their type. These strange men. They were all talk and no game. She kept telling herself this, and that if she had a gun when they showed up, they'd all be dead by now. It was a comforting thought, thinking about driving them away, thinking about how terrified they probably were. They had just made demands and were now having a stare-down. That should be evidence enough, as they had not already carried out their threat. In Brazil, Yiara had known men much more terrifying than these. She had joined up and worked for such men, and she had escaped from such men many times. These Congolese bastards were fakers, trying to play the alpha without carrying through. If Roy had tried this in Brazil, he would be dead already, and his family would've been burned alive. It was cruel, but it was a simple truth of how those cartels operated, and it was the reason Yiara was so hesitant, and eventually so determined, to leave.

To be simple, Yiara could see through their apparent guise. These men were trying to play themselves up to be more than they actually were. While they were certainly a dangerous group of individuals, they seemed to be playing a part more than living it.