▲DELTA-GREEN▲: Lover On The Ice

by **Galdius** » Fri Oct 14, 2016 10:41 pm

The city of anwick during the devastating winter storm.

To: Eastern Shipping Company.
From: Derek Mills.
Subject: A Night At The Opera.
Date: 08/01/2017

Listen, I know that you guys are busy and all with these various orders, but I need these stuff shipped to me ASAP. Our opening night will be beginning soon and we need those props if we are going to actually manage to stage this thing. I’ve included a file of everything that we are shipping through you just in case you missed anything. Its encrypted, but you should know the necessary decryption key.
- Derek Mills
The Yellow King Playing company.

***********************************
AES-256 ENCRYPTION
This file is confidential and restricted. Do not attempt to access this document without proper authorization.

Enter decryption key: ***********
Authenticating……
**********************************

**********************************
ENCRYPTION DISABLED
****************************

PRIORITY MESSAGE: A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

Operation SUNFLOWER GARDEN.

OPERATIONAL INFORMATION: GREEN BOX 0312, hereafter designated SUNFLOWER GARDEN has been compromised. Located in Alnwick minnesota, the alarm system was tripped on january 04 at 1210 hours. Current status of the SUNFLOWER GARDEN is unknown. GARDENER has failed to report breach and has missed all communication windows with ALPHA SECTION.

NOTES: Time between the discovery of the alert have been delayed due to significant communications problems. As of now It has been four days since the breach. Probability of severe operational security breach and NORWEGIAN contamination is HIGH.

ALPHA SECTION has been unable to conduct aerial resonance due to adverse weather conditions in the region. Deployment of a ground team is necessary. Deployed unit is cleared HOT for 48 hours until area is secure, all OPSEC breaches and NORWEGIAN contamination is contained.

Alnwick is currently suffering from severe blizzard conditions have resulted in widespread communications, power and water outages. National guard and FEMA is being deployed into the area to deliver aid and supplies. The storm will aid in the natural containment of any information or NORWEGIAN contamination leaks. It is set to last for another 48 hours.

Operation status: CRITICAL

Mission parameters: Secure SUNFLOWER GARDEN and the SUNFLOWERS; Report status of the GARDENER; Investigate locally for signs of NORWEGIAN contamination and contain them with extreme prejudice; maintain operational security.

Operatives are expected to maintain six hour communication windows with ALPHA SECTION; if two or more communication windows are missed or after 48 hours signs of norwegian contamination are detected. JACKHAMMER protocol will be placed into effect on local area and potential targets, including JULIET SECTION and any related operatives. LAMPREY drones and X-RAY SECTION will be deployed to enforce JACKHAMMER Protocol.

Once all breaches are contained and all SUNFLOWERS are accounted for, unit are to contact APLHA section and give an after action report, then await further instructions and deployment of WITCH DOCTOR.

Units will convene with Case officer JACK at Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport to be briefed on the situation, ALPHA SECTION is currently working on a solution for the agents deployment into the contamination zone.

OPERATION SUNFLOWER GARDEN
Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport.
January 12; 1140 hours.

It had been several days since the record breaking storm had hit the most northern parts of Minnesota, taking the state and its residents seemingly by surprise overnight. A flash storm was what the blaring TVs tuned into varying news networks within the hallways had been calling it. All of a sudden the temperature dropped deep below zero, gale force cutting winds hammered everything, and the humidity reached 100%, creating the perfect scenario for a icy blizzard. It landed right on-top of the small city of Anwick, and hammered down relentlessly in comparison to the surrounding area, leaving the population of less than 100,000 without even the most basic necessities such as power or water. It was declared disaster zone by the state governor, with the Television constantly showing clips from his speech with various pictures of the storm, and that wasn't far from the truth. The layers upon layers of ice made it nearly nigh impossible to travel on the roads safely and had caused immense property damage throughout the city. Many people had been left homeless and stuck in the various places that had been set up for disaster relief, most of whom had been visiting the city to see friends or relatives during the holiday season. The government was doing everything they could to mitigate the damage with the deployment of FEMA and the national guard, but it was clear that the problem was set to last another forty eight hours according to the weather forecasts. That however, was the least of delta greens problems. In-fact, if anything, the intense blizzard was certainly going to work their advantage. As it was doing a very good job of blocking most people from leaving, and potentially entering. Nobody was driving out, and nobody was walking out on foot. That was for sure.

The only people actually making it inside in any steady numbers where FEMA and the national guard.

The airport was alive with activity despite the fact that the various services were slowly coming to a halt. The ice storm had slowly started to descend on the airport a mere few hours ago, dropping temperature to below zero with some particularly fearsome windchill, threatening to cut off all air travel. No planes were going out, and only a few planes with pilots risky enough where willing to land at this hour. The sound of the howling wind from outside was a mere whistle behind the thick glass and was eventually drowned out by the sounds of large numbers of people, TV sets set onto the various news networks and aid-workers as they prepared to move forth from airport which they had been using as a staging port. The halls were filled with to the brim with human life, almost over capacity one might say. Aid workers and national guard had convened in the main lobby and had turned it into a sort of staging post as they planned to use heavy trucks and specialised vehicles to head into the city, delivering food, water and medical care.

Various tourists and travellers remained stranded in the airport hallways and waiting areas. Most of whom had been only been visiting the state for the holiday season where now stuck waiting for planes back to wherever they came from, now in a much less festive mood and a more disappointed and angry one. Some people had taken in onto themselves to blame it on the staff, who tried to do the best to help them as the customers shouted obscenities and gave general abuse towards them as the reality of their collective situation sunk in. Whilst others simply attempted to find a place to stay for the night, but most would be doomed to stay within the airports waiting rooms as the hotels quickly filled up with people. It made navigating the hallways slightly difficult for the agents as they attempted to get to planed location.

It a small conference room reserved for business meetings, located on the first floor within the large sprawling airport. Agents trying to get to it would have to pass through the main lobby and two separate hallways, all of which where filled with activity. The door was fairly hidden away amongst the various people. With the only clear indication of its existence being a small sign which had marked the room clearly as a staff room. The door remained wide to the wall, giving a clear view into a room that was small in size, containing only a very long desk, several chairs and a rather large screen with a projector screwed into the roof pointing right at it. However, as the disaster struck, it had quickly became over-cluttered with various FEMA paperwork, drawing boards with various information scribbled on it and files pertaining to the current ongoing disaster in Anwick. The room was mainly empty of people, aside from Darcy. The thin framed round, eyed glasses wearing former old guard who was now acting as a case officer. He had been on station since the early morning attempting to find his agents a way inside to the contaminated area and took steps to ensure that everything went smoothly on arrival, even taking it a steps to ensure toe room wasn't bugged. He was paranoid like that.

He had sent every agent had received a coded message over seven hours ago informing them on where to go. It was a rather simple set up, an coded email, a text or phone call giving them a clear indication on what to do. It was often described as something else and was different for everything else. Dinner plans. Family meetups. Seminars. The chance of electronics being listened into was always a danger and it was always preferred to do it via the old school methods, but the severity of the currently developing situation merited it. It was a potential risk, but it needed to be done. The information included the location of the airport, the conference room and most importantly, a time, giving them a clear indication of where to go, but nothing else was included. They had no idea what the mission perimeters where, and what was even going on. The rest of what was included, was simply just fluff, typical normal things that would be included in a personal or business related email or text.

According to the time he had communicated with the agents, they should be arriving within any minute now. Late comers would make things potentially difficult, as the case officer had things arranged on a very tight schedule. They would be leaving in ten or so minutes, so he would have to keep the briefing short with the agents. Stood inside the end of the table, flicking through the various FEMA paper work as he awaited the arrival of his agents, dressed in an average winter get up. A warm but drab brown woollen sweater, thick black thermal pants and a pair of strong winter boots, along with his blue Parka jacket which was draped over the chair that rested at the end of the desk.

by **Anowa** » Fri Oct 14, 2016 11:27 pm

Gray, Lindsay Ulysses
Virologist, Former Occultist, DG Operative
The Opera ticket had arrived four days ago, that left a day to request stress leave, and another day left to stock up on ammo, find her unregistered -yet still fully legal under Ohio law- Para 14/45 she bought about three months back, drag out that one kevlar vest she bought almost three years ago at the behest of a CDC LEO, find her CCW license, buy a holster that actually fit the fucking monster of a gun in her waist band... And drive into a fucking blizzard.

Were it not for the fact that she'd have to eat her gun, she would've said fuck that. She had to dig out her chains for fuck sake. And they were buried in the ass end of a storage locker. But at least she wouldn't get shot by her current part time employers... Speaking of which she didn't actually know if she was getting paid, she'd have to ask when she'd.

"You have arrived at your destination."

Lindsay looked at her GPS, and wouldn't you know it she was at the airport. Apparently it was now either invisible or buried under sixty feet of snow. "Jesus Christ, Hundred Mile didn't even get this bad."

With that said, Lindsay found the arduous task of finding a parking spot. Seeing as it was likely cold enough outside that an Inuit would pucker up, Lindsay didn't find it hard to actually park nor enter the overcrowded airport. Now the search began for the operation's handler. Had she known what he looked like it would've been easy, but as it stood she'd likely have to search the back areas.

No one bothered her really, she knew she was legally allowed to be back here as both a federal employee and as a CDC researcher. That and the fact that she had a funky looking lanyard with a piece of plastic on the end made people think she belonged. The bulky jacket and pants helped hide the three magazines and the kevlar vest underneath as well as the dual stack 1911.

Nevertheless she ended up stumbling upon her handler under suspicion. She stared at the man for a moment, "Were you the one who called about a 'fungal outbreak'?" A shitty little intro, but it'd get the point across, if he was the handler he'd clue in, what with all the gardening terms in his letter. If not she'd flash her actual CDC ID if he asked, apologize and walk out.

by **Altito Asmoro** » Sat Oct 15, 2016 9:17 am

Hermann, Alicia
ICE agent/SRT officer

The Opera ticket she received was enough for a period where she requested a leave to take care of her relatives' daughter while her parents left for a joint operation with FEMA and National Guards as part of FBI rural area operation and VIP protection within Anwick. It was already a tough week for her, having returned from a raid to another immigrant base within the border of Mexico and USA. Some immigrants died from the shootout, but luckily the smuggles were arrested and so forth. She sighed it to herself when she returned to her apartment, packed up few clothes, alongside a FN Five-seven. She looked for it hard enough within the black market and it is also expensive. But for her, it's unregistered, and the chamber won't be able to be discovered, since no one knows of it. Considering the situation, there have been plenty of it anyway within the city.

Alongside a kevlar vest, her holster, and her radio as well as her license, she drove by to Anwick, after a short plane ride to the nearest city from Minneapolis that is not affected by the storm nor the blizzard. Long ride, flashed her license too. She found a good parking lot at the police station and as she made her way to the airport. There's an office there...or some sort of it. Alexandra was on the field as well, but currently in the hospital or wherever medical service placed at the city, protecting and helping.

Her ID as ICE and SRT made it very easy for her to entered the airport and into looking for the handler of the section. She didn't want to remember the reason why she was recruited, but if it is for the good, then she is in. And her skills too. She finally found her handler, or the handler of the entire section as far as she knows. "Sir," as she gave a quick salute, something she used to as a habit, "You're the handler? Well...uh, yes, I'm...here, so yeah."

It's an awkward conversation, and then she took herself to be on beside other person who seemingly on the same...section. "Hey, I'm Alicia," as she introduced herself to her. Small talk, all that.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Sat Oct 15, 2016 1:32 pm

Visconti Office
Coventry Tower, Hale Co.
New York City
New York

“Alright. I’ll be there shortly”

With a short beep, the phone went silent. It lingered near Nathan’s ear for a moment, before he slowly tucked it away in an inner pocket of his jacket. The soft cotton stroked his rough hands for a moment, a momentary realisation that the world indeed had not ended yet. He sighed, pushing the air out of his lungs as hard as he could. The respiration created a small patch of condensed moisture on the window, against which he was standing very close. Through it, he looked over the wintery landscape of New York. The roofs of the buildings were still covered in snow, and even on the streets below some mounts of white could still be seen. Children probably played in those mounts, but Nathan was too high up to see. To high up to see…

Nathan, when left alone with his thoughts, had a tendency to ponder. It was something he’d acquired over the years. In his brash youth, he would’ve sought anything to keep his mind off his own inner workings. Drink, games, girls… even a few drugs, once or twice. Since his grandfather had died, however, since John Visconti had passed on, Nathan really didn’t have anyone to really confide to but himself. A grim realisation, that had set in as soon as he’d gotten the news of his grandfather’s passing. That had been two years ago, and still, there was no-one to really talk to. Amanda, perhaps. But she had her own shit to deal with, and Nathan wasn’t about to burden her with his own problems too.

So deep in thought was he, that Nathan didn’t even notice his secretary Yalda coming in. Her tailored suit matched perfectly with her elegant way of walking, which was distinct from a model’s walk. Especially her gaze was unlike that of a model. Her eyes were full of calculation, filled with work and ambition. An intelligent streak could be seen shimmering beneath her eyes, always seeming to plan something. Yalda certainly had her streak of ambition, as she had proven all throughout her life. In assisting Nathan, she had always shown a zeal and a mind-set he could respect.

“Are you into Norwegian mythology, sir?” she asked, pulling down her boss back to earth. Nathan shifted his gaze from the window back into his office, turning his body slightly to allow his head to adjust. Yalda looked down at his desk, where a book on Norwegian mythological beasts had been opened. Underneath, unbeknownst to his secretary, lay a report from Minnesota, taken from a few barely frequented conspiracy websites. A few web addresses he would have to take down soon. Any reasonable boss would not have been pleased with their subordinates digging through their stuff, but Nathan actually admired it. It was the way he’d climbed up the social ladder, after all. How could he possibly have anything against that?

“You could say that…” he answered friendly, smiling slightly behind his lips. His eyes, however, did not smile along. He took a few steps, ending up beside Yalda at his desk. Together, they flipped through the pages of the book, watching various monsters and beasts displayed in most gruesome manners.

“Tell me, Yalda” he said, his voice suddenly grave and deep. It was like he was struggling to find the right words to ask. In his pocket, he fumbled with a small crucifix. A piece of his inheritance.

“You believe in God, don’t you?”

The question didn’t even seem to shock her. She just looked at him, as normally as ever, with her brown eyes shimmering in that ever-intelligent manner.

“Yeah, I do. Like yourself, I might add. In a way, at least”

This was why Nathan liked her so much. Beneath everything, beneath the tailored suit and the elegant walk, beneath the ambition and the labour, Yalda was an open mind. She thought in ways some people would never think of, and she didn’t think in the ways that she couldn’t prove to herself. She didn’t like to think in boxes, which made her such a valuable secretary. A valuable friend, too, in times of need.

“Like I do, indeed…” Nathan said, still weighing his words.

“See, there is something theologically simple about these pagan religions” he continued, walking over to his book cabinet. He let his fingers slide across the many titles he had gathered there. There were even more books still packed in boxes on the ground, those which had belonged to his grandfather. He hadn’t had the time to unpack those yet.

“When your gods aren’t almighty and omniscient, you can easily deal with bad circumstances. When you’re forced to make a hard choice, it’s somehow reassuring to know that the divine beings perhaps had no power over it. It leaves you within the reasonable sphere of the imaginable, if you get my line of reasoning” he said, taking a book on the Greek pantheon from his shelves.

Yalda’s eyes shot upward for a moment, her right hand stroking her chin. She was a devout believer, but wasn’t above a good theological argument. She wasn’t afraid to question her own presumptions, like mentioned before. She didn’t really believe in all those boxes. Before, they had pondered agnosticism together, and had come to the conclusion that no God should be against well-founded doubts.

“I’d like to turn the argument around, if I may” the secretary said, now too walking towards the bookcase. She too looked at the names on the covers, taking out a book on the Arab Spring revolts.

“If your gods aren’t omniscient and omnipotent, you could never know for certain if everything was going to be alright. Worse yet, the Norse believed in Ragnarok, if I remember correctly. We were promised paradise by our Lord, and through his divinity, we can be assured that all is for the greater good.”

Nathan pondered for a moment, flipping a few pages in his book.

“Even when you are forced to choose between faith and righteousness?” Nathan asked, looking his secretary in the eyes.

“Aren’t those the best tests, mister Visconti?” she rebutted. Nathan smiled, nodding as he did so.

“Alright, misses al-Hafiz. You convinced me. Tell mister Gerard that I’m off to Wisconsin to minimise our damages. And tell Ferdinand to get the plane ready.”

“Certainly, sir” Yalda said, turning around as she did so. In a moment, Nathan was alone again. He strolled back to the window, again looking out over that grand city of his. Only now, he didn’t sigh. He smiled. Relieved, he took out his phone again, dialling an all too familiar number.

“Hello, sweet. It’s me. Listen, I might not make it for dinner tonight…”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport
Minneapolis
Wisconsin

Dressed in heavy winter garb, with his long coat hanging tightly over his shoulders, Nathan made his way through the terminal. Due to him taking a private flight, he had less airport security to content with. There was still some, though, especially with all the national guard hanging about. The atmosphere of the terminal could only be called tense, and could only be underestimated. Angry travellers eyes him suspiciously, together with the columns of national guard marching through. Apparently, his rolling suitcase and fresh demeanour was enough to bring out the worst in people. He even saw a few unscrupulous types eyeing him from a distance. Nathan felt for the M1911 pistol tucked in a shoulder holster, which he luckily found to be still with him. The coming hours were going to be very difficult without it, he fathomed.

Trying to get up to the conference room, he still had to clear a checkpoint. A female guard, dressed in camouflage that made people only more visible in a snow storm, halted him at the start at the corridor. A few words of greeting were exchanged, before the guard asked for papers and identification. Nathan happily obliged.

“Reason of visit?” she asked shortly, comparing Nathan’s face to the picture on his passport.

“I’m a representative for an insurance company. A few of our clients are trapped in the storm, we need to get an assessment of the situation. Make sure no-one claims more than they’re due” Nathan said, creating a smug smile that even his mother would disapprove of. If he knew where she was, of course. The national guard gave him an angry look, but otherwise retained her professional posture. She handed him back his papers, before opening the door for him.

“Here you go, sir” she said sarcastically.

“Thank you” Nathan replied in a most courteous manner. A few moments later, Nathan arrived in the conference hall.

“Well, you got me running here from New York, I hope you had a good reason to do so” he said, faking a tone of irritability in his voice. In fact, he didn’t mind so much. A feeling he thought would not last long.

by **Anowa** » Sat Oct 15, 2016 3:40 pm

Gray, Lindsay Ulysses
Virologist, Former Occultist, DG Operative

Lindsay's eyes flicked between the two new-comers and the -now confirmed- handler. At least she knew she was in the right room. Although she assumed they'd been recruited in the same way, as in 'you fuck us over, and you get framed with a family murder-suicide' spiel. It was about that time that Lindsay started asking conspiracy theorists how to stay on the down low. Despite their questionable sanity, they knew a lot about avoiding the eyes of 'Big Brother'.

So why the two other operatives in the room completely forwent any form of covert introduction was beyond her. She refused to shake 'Alicia's' hand, both because doing so would leave trace amounts of DNA on each others hands, and that communicable diseases were a bigger threat in a crowded -yet cool- area like this, also with her ICE ID there was no doubt she'd met with some impoverished people. Suit wasn't much better, less than three seconds and already he was complaining.

Lindsay simply looked at the Handler with an eyebrow raised, as if to say 'Is this really the team?'

I write stuff · by **New Grestin** » Sat Oct 15, 2016 3:46 pm

ANWICK | MINNESOTA

There were certain perks to being a habitual liar.

Most notably, being able to bullshit your boss into thinking you were traipsing off to Minnesota because your great aunt Trudy had finally kicked the bucket. She had, though. That part was true. Pneumonia had finally claimed the old hag in a nursing home. His boss just didn't need to know it was a nursing home in Flagstaff. That was the best way to lie. Sprinkle little nuggets of truth along the way and hope the victim didn't notice the trail.

Erik wasn't a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but he also wasn't part of the gang of six foot musclebound beef-men that he worked with. He barely scraped five feet, and only just qualified for field work. To his coworkers, a lanky cubicle mouse with little else to do but hunt down lowlife weed pushers and the occasional coke-stained white collar. The reality, though, was stranger than most imagined. That strange reality now had him plowing his aging Infiniti through a nigh apocalyptic snowstorm to deal with what he could only assume was a similarly apocalyptic monster inside. His thin frame was bundled beneath a blue down jacket, accented with a fuzzy ushanka that covered his ears. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. A cigarette hung limply from his thin mouth. A bandage covered most of his nose; a present from a gangbanger in DC that didn't appreciate questioning.

In the back of his mind, he went over his equipment. In his holster, a matte black Glock. In the trunk, a hunting rifle. Next to it, a duffle bag filled with all the essentials. A locksmith's toolkit, a crowbar, two- no, four bottles of bourbon. Or was it three?

The clink of an empty bottle in the seat next to him answered the question.

His eyes focused back on the road ahead, just in time to spot the silhouette of the airport against the blanket of white. The storm was wreaking havoc across the state, and while FEMA was doing it's best to get it under control, Mother Nature had decided to keep freezing everyone out for a while. It could be worse, Erik mused. It could be Katrina.

He shuddered. That name brought chills every time he heard it. It wasn't just the news reports, watching a feeble old man pretend to be a cowboy while people starved and drowned. It was what didn't make it on to the news reports. The stories that always filtered back through the rest of the cells, back through a buddy of his in the ATF and straight into his nightmares. Sometimes, he really regretted staying friends with Randy, but having someone in the ATF that could make evidence "vanish" into his car trunk was always a plus.

Erik pulled the car up into a space, wedged between a bright yellow Hummer and an oversized truck. His coat-bulked form slid out and around to the trunk, disassembled loaded the rifle into his bag, and headed off for the terminal. Finding the conference room wasn't difficult; all he had to do was wait back and watch for other suspicious looking folks like himself. He sat on a bench in the terminal lobby, watching emergency workers and citizens scrambling back and forth. They weren't what interested him. Rather, he was more interested in the people that looked a little too calm. Too at home in their surroundings. Those were the ones that he knew to watch. Even if they weren't Green, they could always be Gray.

The most obvious one had been the twenty something in blue hair. She was obvious. Bulky jacket and a laniard. Pulling the classic trick of looking just official enough not to arouse suspicion. The only problem with a classic was that it only made you more glaring to those that knew the tricks of the trade. Erik only noticed the second by accident, having thought that one of the security officers was scoping him back. Just like the last, she disappeared into the conference room. The third came through, a businessman, and Erik finally rose from his post and made his way inside.

Just as he suspected, it was the meeting point. Even after all these years, he still had it.

The others had already begun to make acquiantances. Erik did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply set his bag down, pulled up a chair, and did what he always did.

He observed.

by **Transoxthraxia** » Sat Oct 15, 2016 10:53 pm

George Bush Center for Intelligence
Langley, Farfax County, Virginia
17:23
Farah Ghorbani, PAG Operative

Even when not in the field, the life of a PAG Operative was a busy one. Paperwork, field reports, support, consultation, and news skimming was all a part of her daily routine when not deployed on an operation in the field. When in the office, it was typically a nine to five job for Ghorbani, and Farah often took advantage of the fact to get home quickly to her kids and their nanny, Fareen. But tonight was slightly different. About an hour ago a thick, thirty page field report from a field operation in Israel was dropped on her desk, and upon her boss' insistence, she had to familiarize herself with the document for support and consultation the following day. She had spent the past fifty two minutes briefing herself and skimming through the document, taking breaks by refreshing both her work and her personal e-mail. Despite the fact that it was much past quitting time, Farah, along with many other operatives, had stayed behind to read the document; for most of the more dedicated operatives, quitting time meant eight or nine o'clock.

Soon after finishing the thirteenth page of the briefing that gave an overview and biography of two of the seven targets within the Jewish state, she took off her thin, round glasses, took a sip of the decaffeinated coffee on her desk, and surveyed her surroundings. Most people thought the CIA was so fancy, but in reality, even the well-funded PAG section of the building was fairly ordinary, if not modern, looking. Here, in her subsection, Farah worked on the fourth floor in what was known as "the pit", where she and her peers had their desks organized into groups of four or six. It was called the pit due to the fact that it was a rectangular area surrounded by an elevated trim where offices of non-field agents, administrators, and Farah's boss were, some two feet above Farah's desk. Her desk was personalized extensively, of course. Her government-issues desktop computer and its decade old monitor still ran Windows XP. The entire thing was black and looked as if it had come straight out of a 2006 Microsoft ad for their "new" product. She had a small photo of herself and her family next to her monitor, and her own mug that had half a dozen blue Bic brand pens and two or three usable pencils. Tacked on to the side of her desktop was a printout of John 8:23, "and you shall know the truth, the truth shall set you free". Underneath her desk lay her winter boots, winter coat, and small duffel bag that included her workout clothing.

Farah sighed, seeing most of her peers at their desks, and brought up her work e-mail again, habitually pressing F5 to refresh the page. Unsurprisingly, when the page loaded, there was nothing there. But, after a second, a new e-mail appeared, dated some seven hours ago and labelled "URGENT!" from one Jack Smith. The subject of the e-mail was simply "Minneapolis". Opening the e-mail, it seemed to contain a bunch of oddly general information about a "family reunion" in Minneapolish, but it took Farah only a few seconds to decode what the message really was. Delta Green. The young PAG Operative's heart raced with excitement as she read the rest of the e-mail; it proceeded to give more exact directions. Farah checked her expensive Swarovski watch, swore under her breath when she saw the time, and hurriedly opened a new tab to find last-minute flights to Minneapolis out of Dulles International. They were pricey, but there was one leaving at eight that would take just under three hours.

Crossing one leg over the other, she bought the expensive one-way ticket to Minnesota and hurriedly got it e-mailed to her personal account so that she could check in through her phone. She flipped closed the briefing on her desk, and then got all of her stuff together, exchanging her shiny black stilettos for her winter boots. Farah's mind raced as she tried to come up with an excuse to get out of work for an unclear amount of time. It took her only seconds to do so. She gathered up all her stuff, slung her duffel bag over her shoulder, and dropped by her boss' office. His door was ajar, but slightly closed. She folded her coat over her forearm and gently knocked on the door, entering as she did so.

Her boss looked up from his desk, his balding head and aquiline nose shining in the light from the lamp that he used in lieu of his office's actual lighting system. Farah spoke first, in a pleasant tone that she subtly laced with worry. "Hi, sir, um, I know that we need to know this Israel thing by tomorrow, and, well, my husband just texted me and our son is really sick. He wants to take him to the hospital, but he's barely two years old and I think my husband's overreacting, but I really think I need to go home and and I don't know if I'll be in tomorrow and-" Farah's excuse was cut off simply by her boss raising his hand. "Farah, family comes first. I remember when my kids were that age. Health scares happen, but if he's really sick you should take him to the hospital. I have other consults for tomorrow anyway, so I can schedule them instead of you. Just make sure to call in sick tomorrow so we can avoid all of that administrative stuff."

Farah nodded. "Of course sir." She sighed dramatically in relief, partially as a part of her act and partially because her ruse worked. "Jackson's always overreacting, but my poor boy's been sick for awhile. I'm sure it's nothing, but I will call you tomorrow if I can't come in." With that, Farah turned and briskly left the office, throwing her thick winter coat over her long-sleeved white blouse and black pencil skirt, checking her watch again as she left the building through its main doors.

Being the depth of winter, even the Northern parts of Virginia weren't immune to the inconveniences of snow, and as Farah burst through the main doors of her workplace she could feel the soft crunch of a thin layer of loose, wet snow under her boots. A light snow was falling in the sky, and with the sun already setting, Langley looked beautiful in the early evening light. Farah made her way to her car, a BMW sedan, bought for her by her husband who had assured her was a good car. While a good driver, she wasn't particularly interested in cars themselves. Sitting in the drivers seat, she deftly threw the keys into the ignition, starting the car and allowing the engine to run for some time as she looked at her husband's contact on her phone. Now for the easier lie. Farah thought to herself. She hated lying to Jackson, as it made her feel ridiculously guilty, especially after her experiences with Michael. After about fifteen seconds, she hit the call button on her aging Blackberry Smartphone.

The line rang twice before Jackson Belfort picked up. Farah's husband's voice, as usual, was calm and laid back, but had a sort of elderly confidence to it. "Why hello there, darling." Belfort spoke. "To what do I owe this great pleasure?" His elegance over the phone always amused the younger Farah. "Hm." she sighed, happily. "Where are you? What are you doing?" She asked her husband, to which he replied after a pause, "Driving my dear. Home, away from the school. I had to stay a tad late and assist a graduate student of mine with his thesis."

"Oh, would that be William again?" Farah asked. William was quite close with her husband, and the two were more friends than teacher and student. "Yes, it was." Jackson replied. "We got quite sidetracked talking about the China situation. Did you know his wife studies the Chinese economy? Fascinating." William was much older than most grad students, being nearly Farah's age after changing his educational path thrice after undergrad. He was married as well.

"If I didn't know any better, it would seem like the two of you are more interested in one another than either of your wives. We should have them over for dinner sometime soon." Farah responded, a quirky smile crawling through her lips. "Oh, come on, you know that's not true." Jackson laughed. "Seriously though, what's up? I love hearing your voice, but I don't love the possibility of getting a ticket for being on my phone in the car."

"Oh, right, of course. Baby, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but just an hour ago I was briefed on this, well... Work thing. You know what's happening in Minnesota?" She asked. "Yeah, kind of." Belfort responded. "Rough weather I heard, dangerous stuff in the Northern half of the state." Farah paused for just a second. "... Yeah. There. Listen, there's been, well, I'm not sure I'm exactly allowed to talk about it, especially not on the phone. but it's some work stuff, and I'm sorry to pull this on you now, but I have to go out there for a few days, boss' orders." Farah could hear her husband's smile turn into a dejected frown. "Ah, alright. I had a surprise for you when you came home, but never you mind that. I think it can wait a few days. You know, your three little Spartans are going to miss you."

"And the fourth, bigger Spartan will too." Farah said, smiling just a tad once more. "But unfortunately work's work. After this, I'll talk to my boss about getting some warning before this sort of thing, okay baby?" There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Alright," Jackson said in reply. "I love you."

"I love you too. Say good night to the kids for me, Jackson."

With a brief pause, she hung up the phone.

The drive to Dulles was, well, dull, and so was checking in. Mostly mundane procedures, but she did have to flash her badge when she tried to get her sidearm past security; her tired mind nearly landed her in jail overnight.

The flight was, for the most part, uneventful as well. Farah was lucky enough to have brought a book with her, The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence. Most people in the CIA wouldn't be caught dead reading the book, and Farah only did so far, far away from her job. It was mostly about the elitism and amorality used by the CIA in order to further America's interests. It wasn't wrong, by any means, but sometimes revealing the true form of the Wizard of Oz to be much smaller and uglier than initially presented isn't going to fly, especially not when the target is the Central Intelligence Agency. Upon approaching Minneapolis, the ride began to get shaky as the plane flew into the ice storms that were plaguing the area.

Upon landing, Farah once again donned her coat, her boots, and threw the rest of her belongings in her duffel bag. Wandering around the Arrivals section of St. Paul's International, the concept dawned on her that her current desk job outfit, her blouse and skirt, would not be the best clothes for field operations, and ducking into a bathroom, quickly changed in a stall into her workout clothes: A white tank top, bicycle shorts, a green George Mason University hoodie, and black Adidas track pants. It was a relatively odd get-up, but one decidedly more versatile and appropriate for field operations. Farah left the bathroom and continued to wander around the area, checking her watch every so often. She eventually found the conference room specified, and after a quick look over her shoulder, slid into the room labelled "Staff only".

The first character that she noticed was who she'd learn was Darcy, their handler. His thin glasses looked quite similar to hers, which she had taken off in favour of contacts during the flight. He seemed to be one single nervous wreck of a man, but in his line of work, Farah couldn't blame him. Entering the room with her service pistol riding uncomfortably on her hip between her track pants and her hoodie, she looked as the others that were there. The first to stand out was a tall, extraordinarily pale woman with bright blue hair and a tattoo going down her entire right arm. Farah frowned; highly unprofessional. The next was an even taller woman with blonde hair. A scowling man built like a businessman, and finally a much smaller, but relatively heavy-set man whose eyes were just slightly red-rimmed from alcohol abuse. I feel that. Farah thought as she looked around.

"I'm not in the wrong place, am I?" Farah asked, somewhat nervously.

by **Beiarusia** » Sun Oct 16, 2016 12:05 am

Vivian Townsend

She was running late. Or at least she assumed that she was late. After all, how could she not be, what with the storm and the distressingly short notice that had been sent her via email. It was a miracle that she had made it to the airport at all. A wasted effort most likely. Not so much a pleasant thought.

Vivian Townsend was, for lack of a better word, inexperienced and ill privileged, so when the call to meet in Minneapolis had come there had been no easy or affordable way for her to get to where she was needed. It was a day’s drive from where she lived in Washington (one that her clunker of a car would likely never make) and her original flight had been canceled due to the weather. Surprisingly she was given a refund but the ticket for the next flight to the next closest airport was substantially more expensive and there had been a physical pain in emptying her meager bank account for what essentially amounted to a one way journey. It would be instant ramen for the next month and a half when/if she made it home. At the very least her boss had believed her lie about needing to leave for a family emergency. Landing in some unknown place (Vivian actually didn’t know where she was flying to) it had been a matter of hitchhiking north, and given that most people were going south this took some time. Eventually she was picked up by some college kids in a jeep looking to brave the storm. A few not-so-subtle passes were made but Vivian paid them little mind and eventually the rowdy boys grew tired of wasting their breath on her.

“I’m so late,” Vivian muttered to herself as she made her way into the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport, shaking the snow from her dark hair and thick coat. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, something that complimented her green eyes rather well, giving the appearance of youthful beauty when there was most definitely none to be found (or if there was then Vivian had no interest in polishing the rock into a diamond). A few moments later and the girl was standing in the center of the lobby with only a backpack with some essential travel items and not much else. All around her staff was rushing about, stranded travelers were complaining, and national guardsmen were going about their business in containing the growing disaster. It was loud and just a little disorienting. “Conference room. That’s what the email said. No, I don’t know where it’s at. Why would they tell me? No, I can’t just ask them.” The one-person conversation ended as Vivian chose a direction and began walking.

It was another ten minutes before Vivian was on the right track, and another fifteen before she was through the security checkpoints. The female guard wasn’t too convinced by Vivian’s story of meeting her stranded mother but didn’t question it too much. It was another five minutes before she found what she assumed was the right room.

“I should knock,” she said to know one in particular. “Because that would be rude. What if this is the wrong room… What if this is the wrong room? I didn’t think of that.” Vivian stood for another long moment as if thinking heavily about her next course of action. Eventually she took a deep breath and entered the room.

To those already present Vivian must have looked like some lost traveler having taken a wrong turn. She wasn’t some soldier or specialist, she was practically a college girl (a dropout at that) and was no doubt the youngest person in the room. Her sunflower yellow coat and matching snowboots surely didn’t help the situation none. Her hair was loose, messy, and completely unprofessional and, as a whole, Vivian was likely the far opposite of whatever Delta Green was looking for. The others would have brought weapons and cool gear whereas Vivian had a change of underwear and her toothbrush. She didn’t belong but Delta Green had already made her theirs for better or for worse. Probably for worse.

Vivian looked at the few people already in the conference room, standing rather meekly in the doorway like a mouse having walked in on a group of feral cats. Eventually she gave a small wave, thinking this the best gesture for her to make, and asked, “I’m not late for the… opera, right?”

by **Cylarn** » Sun Oct 16, 2016 3:29 pm

Supervisory Border Patrol Agent Lou Geldenhuys
I-35, 20 minutes from Minneapolis

"Mamma, wat bedoel jy dat die hond nie sal luister na jou?" Lou asked, speaking into his cell phone as he continues down the interstate. "Dit is nie jou hond en dit kom net oor te kak in jou tuin. Bel die polisie of die stad en vertel dit aan iemand te stuur om af te haal die hond. Die bure sal die boodskap kry."

Lou had been on the road for the past two hours, driving from the Border Patrol office at Duluth. Delta-Green had a mission in Minnesota, and Lou surmised that it was pure luck that saved him from having to travel from San Diego to Minneapolis. The blizzard tearing apart Minnesota had forced state and local officials to request federal aid, and part of that aid came in the form of additional law enforcement resources. Agents from both BORTAC and BORSTAR - the two premier special operations units of the US Border Patrol - had been deployed the supplement state and local law enforcement. For Lou, the week he had spent in Duluth had been spent answering radio calls and rescuing stranded civilians. Out of the hundred or so calls he had responded to in Duluth, only eight of those required him to draw a weapon. Only one call, about a pack of stray dogs menacing a suburban neighborhood, required Lou to kill something. Not the greatest assignment for a BORTAC operator.

"Jy geëet middagete met Cassie? Sy is goed? Dis goed, ag geneem word dat ek met haar gepraat het, net voor jy bel om te kla oor die hond. Sy het gesê jy ons wou om kinders te hê, maar jy weet dat nie een van ons 'n baba kan hanteer op die oomblik. Ek weet nie eens hoe jy en Pa en ons almal daarin geslaag voordat ons geëmigreer. Ek sal haar nie vertel dat sy gaan oud word aangesê om kinders te hê nie, maar op die oomblik, ons albei voel nog jonk en ons wil hou voel jong."

Lou sighed, as he listened to his mother emphasize further the importance of having a family. At least the road is clear, for the most part.

"Piet het vyf kinders, ek kan daardie soort kak nie hanteer nie, Ma. Ja, ek oorleef Irak, maar die stryd teen terroriste is baie meer anders as die verhoging van kinders vir 18 jaar. En wat as my kinders by die huis bly nadat hulle gradueer hoërskool? Cassie en ek is lief vir die vryheid en buigsaamheid van ons huidige lewenstyl, en sit 'n kind op die top van dat, nie aan ons ander ellende noem dat- nee, ek het nie geld skuld aan ander nie! ons maak genoeg en spandeer genoeg om gemaklik te lewe. Kyk Mamma, ek moet gaan. Ons is vooruit stellasies. Wees lief vir jou. "

At the airport, Lou had no problem passing into the employee parking area. As his '15 Ford Explorer, decked out in a Border Patrol getup and lights, pulled up to the gate to the parking lot, the heavily-bundled airport cops immediately waved the vehicle through, not even taking the precaution of asking Lou what he was doing at the airport. Driving through, he gave a curt wave to the navy-blue ball that was the airport cop. Quickly finding an empty space near the front, he pulled into the space and put the SUV in Park. For a moment, Lou sat still, staring out the window out towards the main terminal. His eyes were tired, but his mind was wide awake. And it was pondering.

Lou pondered on the events that brought him to Minneapolis. He got the cryptic call to action while working a checkpoint in Duluth, and just like that, he was out on his first black op - or at least the first one on American soil. Lou breathed. If this is how I'm called out, then my life's going to fall apart eventually. Such is the way of government employment. Was Delta-Green even a federal organization? What was this "SUNFLOWER GARDEN," and why was it so important that a black op be launched? Whatever it was, Lou was ready.

The back of the Ford Explorer had an assortment of gear. In addition to his tac vest, road gear, first aid kit, and other gear necessary for a Border Patrol agent, Lou had taken the opportunity to grab some more firepower before he left Duluth. He packed a P30 on his duty belt, along with an LCP as a backup pistol. Up front with him, hooked into a locking rack, was a tricked-out M4, with a taclight and red dot and other pieces of equipment. In the back, he kept a "confiscated" AK-103, along with an 870, an M14, and an UMP. BORTAC agents had to qualify with all such weapons, save for the AK. Whatever it was that Delta-Green was sending him to subdue, he certainly had the firepower to do so.

He held his right hand slightly higher than the steering wheel. The black-gloved hand shook slightly at it stood suspended. Lou looked over to the terminal, at the throngs of soldiers and aid workers and cops walking in and out. He then looked at his glovebox. Grass. "Doc," as he often referred to Dr. Gokhale, instructed him to take some oil or smoke a prescribed joint when he started shaking, or if he woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream. He had a Zip-Loc evidence bag with 6 joints in it, along with a 10 mL vial of cannabis oil. Going into the airport high as a kite - as a federal agent - could turn into a massive scandal. He wondered whether or not the VA, the federal department that just happened to be overseeing the nascent, veteran-focused medical marijuana program, would support him if the DHS attempted to separate him on the grounds of his cannabis use.

However, his pride got the better of them. I am about to do something magnitudes more illegal than taking oil. I am about to operate with a team of other wetwork operators, and none of us will know each other. If I show up with the shakes... He resolved to reach into the glovebox and retrieve the vial, along with a 10 mL dropper. He drew out roughly 1 mL of oil; the stuff would knock him on his ass if he did more. It was made - ironically - from a strain of highly potent marijuana that originated in Afghanistan. One drop on his tongue, followed by two drops to his eyes with a saline solution, and he was set.

Lou shut the vehicle off and climbed out from his warm vehicle, his body almost immediately chilling despite the "waffle"-type thermal underwear he was wearing underneath his green RDU (Rough Duty Uniform). He locked up the vehicle, before he put on a heavy green coat, which was complete with his Border Patrol patches. He trudged through the ever-rising snow, putting on a green fleece cap as he longed for the warmer climate of San Diego. Doing "God-knows-how-illegal" activities on American soil was a luxury that paled in comparison - at least in Lou's eyes - to working through a normal work day, where he at least had a good idea of how things would play out. With wetwork assignments like this, Lou didn't know. He had worked wetwork assignments, like hunter-killer missions, before. However, post-Saddam Iraq and post-9/11 America are two different - but in some ways similar - environments to work in.

Among the National Guardsmen and FEMA workers and federal cops, Lou blended right in. Arrivals was still functional for incoming traffic, but Lou could see that many of the civilians were on edge, what with the heavy presence of armed men and women in the airport. He felt calm, at ease. He wasn't stoned, but the barrage of subconscious questions and pangs and the odd feeling of angst that he had been feeling since the moment he got the call to move out? All gone. He approached a security checkpoint in a hallway, that led to the cordoned atrium area containing the federal staging center. An MP, kitted out in ACUs plus a patrol cover and webbing, stood up from his metal folding chair that served as the primary barrier into the command center. Lou made eye contact with the man, as he reached into his back pocket and drew out his federal ID card. He gave a nod to the man.

"What's up, sir?" the MP, a Private First Class, asked as he took the ID card from Lou and examined it. "Gelden...how do you pronounce it?"

"Geldenhuys," Lou responded, his voice tempered by his Afrikaner dialect.

"Where are you from? You don't sound American. I mean, your ID looks like it checks out, but I don't think we're expecting Border Patrol here. They weren't requested in Minneapolis."

Well fuck you, Private First Class Dickhead. Lou took a step forward, now 2-feet from the MP, who measured in at 5'10. He wasn't a kid, but Lou looked old enough to be the MP's father. The switch flipped; the one that - from his time in the Army to his current service as a federal law enforcement officer - allowed him to go from 0 to 180 in the blink of an eye. His eyes stared straight, his face stayed blank, still for a moment. There was absolutely no reason for someone in his current status to talk with such disrespect. The soldier stood up straight, mirroring Lou's posture and mannerisms almost spot-on. He was betrayed by the faint appearance of sweat on his cheeks. Yeah, the heater was on, but it wasn't uncomfortably hot inside of the airport.

"I have no idea what you are trying to achieve here, Private," Lou said, his voice carrying an assertive coldness. "I've been out in Duluth freezing my ass off, pulling people out of vehicles on the Interstate, and shooting wild dogs. I have absolutely no time to deal with you, and I will yell for any nearby officer and find your CO and tell him that you are obstructing a federal agent from attending a mandatory briefing. I do not like pulling this whole spiel, Private. Get the fuck out of my way."

The private, keeping a disciplined, stone-faced expression, quietly stepped aside and handed over Lou's ID to him. Lou kept his eyes on the soldier as he pocketed the ID. He relaxed his posture, and smiled slightly.

"You're just guarding FEMA. No need to get edgy, Private," Lou concluded. "Have a good day."

With that, Lou continued past the checkpoint, removing his cover as he navigated his way through the airport. He'd been here before with Cassie, whose brother lived in Minneapolis. It was much more different, with the impromptu installation of a FEMA command center, complete with computers, crates, and lots of people running around in blue fatigues, ACUs, Multi-Cams, and a myriad of different law enforcement uniforms. Lots of government employees in civilian clothes, too. A few contractors decked out in expensive, "tactical" polos and cargo pants, appeared to be looking at a map of Northern Minnesota, arms crossed and eyes focused. The map had a weather overlay, with a large violent blur encompassing the region, and spreading. A dozen yellow marks represented different incidents, and Lou took a moment to check out the map before he left. Everyone is having to step out of their comfort zone and work to fight this thing. This is why I serve.

Beiarusia wrote:Vivian looked at the few people already in the conference room, standing rather meekly in the doorway like a mouse having walked in on a group of feral cats. Eventually she gave a small wave, thinking this the best gesture for her to make, and asked, “I’m not late for the… opera, right?”

He happened upon the young girl in the doorway, who stood meekly as she looked into the room and inquired with the signature phrase that all Delta-Green ops followed. He stood back about a meter and a half, before speaking.

"We're all here for the same thing, miss," he said.

She was young, younger than the Private. Pierced ears, unkempt hair, lack of neutral-colored clothing. She was clearly not a federal agent, not even an undercover one. There was something else at play, regarding her presence in Delta-Green. He had yet to find out what it was, but she would possibly be a liability in combat. She was too much of a civilian on first-glance. Maybe Lou was wrong, but he wasn't wrong often.

by **Imperial Idaho** » Sun Oct 16, 2016 7:38 pm

Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport, Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States of America

Frank had got the ticket to the opera just in time to schedule a flight from Anchorage to Sioux Falls, and hitched one of the few rides going to Minneapolis to get to the International Airport. Over his many years at the National Park service he earned some favors from higher up, and used a few to give himself the week off of work, and he drove his old pickup truck from Denali National Park to Anchorage. On the Flight over he contemplated what would happen, a monster blizzard was already dangerous enough, what would wait for him at the containment site? He hoped he could get weapons there, going on a last minute flight by yourself you can hardly bring a bottle of soda not to mention a rifle.

He said thanks to the driver as he got out of their car and walked towards what he could only think to be the airport. Hell I can hardly see my feet with this weather. Growing up in Alaska he had dealt with his fair share of blizzards and snow days, while he wasn't totally aware of his situation he wasn't incompetent either, and he shambled towards the building. Once inside he managed to avoid be questioned by the National Guard, as they were busy with tourists and such. Frank made his way past the crowd of people, both government workers and civilians, and did his best to not trip or bump into anybody. Where am I supposed to be. He found the conference room after a bit of searching and asked the agents standing inside. "Is this where i'm supposed to be?"

by **Reverend Norv** » Mon Oct 17, 2016 9:49 am

Maj. Jason Peretz
Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport.
12 January 2017
1140 hours

They called it the blank check.

It was a laminated identification badge. Two-sided. The front side read: United States Joint Special Operations Command. Additionally, it showed the JSOC insignia - a stylized spearhead. And there was a photograph of the bearer. No name, though. Obviously.

The front side of the badge also carried a straightforward message. "This card is registered to the bearer pictured above. The bearer has unique authority over all military personnel in theater. You are required to give the bearer absolute cooperation and any assistance required."

The back side of the card provided some modicum of explanation: "The bearer of this document is acting under direct orders from the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. Do not detain or question the bearer. The bearer is authorized to wear civilian clothing, carry personal weapons, transport and possess prohibited items including U.S. currency, access restricted areas, and requisition equipment of all kinds including weapons and vehicles. If the bearer is killed or injured, DO NOT REMOVE this document. Alert your commanding officer immediately." It was co-signed by the secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security.

So: the blank check. Give me your car. Why? Because the President of the United States says so.

Jason Peretz didn't like to use the blank check. For one thing, it didn't always work. Most soldiers, cops, and federal agents never came within a mile of JSOC, and they tended to question the document's authenticity. That could be bad, especially when Jason didn't have time to get Fort Bragg on the line and clear things up.

For another thing, the blank check was only dubiously legal. Sure, the president was both commander-in-chief of the armed forces and head of the executive branch, including all federal intelligence and law enforcement agencies. So a blank check from the president was universally binding on government personnel. But on the other hand, JSOC was an active-duty unit of the military, and so the Posse Comitatus Act forbade Jason from operating on American soil without special authorization.

Arguably, various bits of post-9/11 legislation gave the president the emergency powers to violate Posse Comitatus whenever it was necessary for national security - which would mean that the blank check still applied on US soil. But nobody really wanted to test that theory in court. So Jason tried not to use his get-out-of-jail-free card unless he had to.

As he parked his car in front of the Minneapolis airport, he quickly came to the realization that this was one of those times when he had to.

* * *

It had been a long drive from Fort Belvoir. Around the Beltway to the Washington National Pike, then up the Pike to I-70, and then a thousand miles on the interstate, from Baltimore to Pittsburgh to Columbus to Indianapolis, where Jason got a steak and five hours of sleep and three cups of mint tea with lots of sugar.

It hadn't been hard to leave the ISA headquarters. Jason was between missions. The Activity - meaning Frank Connelly - liked to give operatives a break after work in Syria. Raqqa could destroy anyone's nerves. The risk of being crucified if your cover was blown made ops in Tehran and Peshawar seem like a breeze by comparison. So after his return, Jason was supposed to kick up his heels, talk to his shrink, take it easy for a few months. Live the high life.

In other words, stay cooped up in a condo in Virginia with no work to do and nobody to talk to. No one - not Frank, not Doctor Sanders, nobody - really believed that Jason was going to be able to stomach that kind of inactivity.

So: a road trip. Anyone could have predicted that response. Get out of the house, do something, take your mind off things. Perfectly healthy. Perfectly plausible. Perfectly innocent.

The waitress in Indianapolis didn't seem to think so. She looked at Jason's face, chiseled and swarthy, and at his Afghan pakol hat, and at the utter stillness with which he drank his tea, and she shuddered.

Then it was back in the car, well before dawn, and off to the west on I-74 to Bloomington, Illinois, and then north into Wisconsin on I-39. By the time Jason merged onto I-90 en route to Minneapolis, the weather had turned bitter: frost creeping in from the corners of the windshield, rippling sheets of snow sweeping across the highway. The prairie was blanketed with new-fallen snowfall: thick, virginal, unmarked by human or animal tracks. It made Jason think of the Hindu Kush, of the places in the high mountains where nothing moved, where no voice had ever been heard and no cloud had ever hidden the unforgiving blue of the sky. Ancient and ephemeral and pure.

Jason liked driving. He had a good car, a Cadillac CTS with a twin-turbocharged six-cylinder engine and proper snow tires. He couldn't afford that on an Army major's salary, of course, but the blank check was more than an expression. The Activity was so secret that its agents were paid mostly through open-ended expense accounts, not formal checks. In practice, Jason made more than twice his nominal base pay. And so he had a good car, and he liked to drive, because driving let him free-associate: thinking without worrying about what he was thinking, letting his subconscious go to work on problems that he hadn't been able to solve through concentration alone.

Like the phone call. A message left on the answering machine at Jason's apartment, the voice distorted with masking software. "Hi, Jason! This is Darla Graham. Remember that lunch we'd planned for the twelfth? I'm going to have to take a raincheck. Bad weather here in the Twin Cities. I made it to the airport, but planes aren't really getting out, and I've got a big conference coming up, so...sorry. Take care."

Jason had been in the business long enough to decode that particular bit of doggerel in a heartbeat. Darla Graham - D/G - Delta Green. Lunch on the twelfth - a meet at midday on January twelfth. The mentions of the Twin Cities, the airport, and a conference gave Jason the location: a conference room at Minneapolis International. So far, so standard, from the perspective of a career special operator. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was what hadn't been said. There was no hint about the mission. No hint of what to expect, how to prepare, what supplies or gear to bring, what research to do. Jason didn't like that at all. Lack of preparation killed more reliably than any bullet. Every Activity officer knew that.

On the other hand.... Jason thought of that cave in Syria, the flint knife rising and falling, the thing moving in the shadows upon the wall. How did you prepare for something like that? What kind of equipment or research could possibly help?

Enough. Jason breathed out through his nose, low and slow, like he was about to make a long-distance shot, and he felt his training kick in and stabilize his heartbeat, and the sweat stopped prickling under his collar. For now, anyway.

* * *

The snow was thicker now, a blanket in the air, and traffic on the highway had slowed to a crawl as visibility dropped. But Jason could see the lights of the airport shining through the blizzard, and he managed to make the correct turn. The airport parking lot was mostly full already, packed with squad cars and National Guard humvees and unmarked black SUVs that might as well have had "DHS" stamped on their doors in neon letters. Men and women in federal raid jackets and police uniforms and ACUs, all bundled up against the cold, stood guard in droves around the airport's entrances.

Jason found an empty parking spot, killed his engine, and waited in the slowly cooling car. Watching. Considering.

He didn't like police anymore. Or soldiers, for that matter. Work in the Activity would do that to you. Jason had spent most of the last decade figuring out how to avoid the notice of men in uniform. Habits that formed when your life was on the line - those died very hard.

But as Jason noted the patrol routes of the guardsmen and the state cops and the local cops, as he observed the volume of traffic at each entrance to the airport, he came to an unavoidable conclusion: nobody, not even Jason Peretz, was getting inside that building without authorization.

So: out with the blank check. This was one of those times.

Jason clambered out of his car. He was wearing long underwear and khaki cargo pants and winter hunting boots and fleece-lined leather gloves. He had body armor - a lightweight Soldier Plate Carrier system - over a thick Aran sweater of undyed wool, with a Ka-Bar knife in a boot sheath and a simple garotte (made from piano wire and wooden handles) in a trouser pocket. Over all of that went an old-fashioned British duffel coat of thick, coarse, taupe-colored wool, voluminous enough to hide the body armor, and an Afghan pakol hat - a traditional cold-weather item that could double as a ski mask. Jason had learned in his career to stay away from fancy synthetic materials and expensive specialist parkas; if they broke, you couldn't repair them in the field, so it was better to stick to wool and leather. The only exception was his Oakley sunglasses - a good investment to avoid snow blindness.

Finally, there were the guns. Jason had an STI Tactical, a double-stack 1911 that retailed for two thousand dollars, in a thigh holster under his duffel coat. He had put something like ten thousand rounds through that pistol over the last five years, both at the range and in the field; he carried it with a weapon light under the barrel. Then there was a Ruger SP101, a compact .357 revolver in an ankle holster. And under the duffel coat, hidden from view and clipped to a three-point sling, was Jason's rifle: a M1A SOCOM 16 CQB. Essentially, it was a reimagined M14 with a sixteen-inch barrel, an adjustable stock, a pistol grip, and four Picatinny rails. Jason had outfitted his with an angled foregrip, a visible laser, an aftermarket flash suppressor, 25-round magazines, and a Leupold HAMR scope - which provided both magnification and a red-dot sight for close-range work.

The Activity was a wetwork outfit, operating illegally all over the world - so all of Jason's guns had been expunged from state and federal firearms records, rendered legally untraceable, so that the Iranians and the Pakistanis and the North Koreans wouldn't have any evidence that their sovereignty had been violated. They were as totally deniable as Jason was himself.

And so it was that a tall figure swathed in a bulky duffel coat walked across the snow-swept parking lot up to one of the service entrances to the airport. It was guarded by two National Guardsmen: a young private with a ghost of a mustache, and a woman somewhere in her forties with a captain's bars on her patrol cap. As Jason emerged from the billowing snow, the kid jumped and pulled his rifle's stock into his shoulder. The captain's eyes narrowed as she took in Jason's pakol, and she laid her own hand on her sidearm.

Jason raised and spread his hands, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "Take it easy, captain." The operative's voice was soft, firm, with the trace of a foreign accent: Arabic or Hebrew or both. "I'm going to show you my ID now."

The woman gave a terse nod. Jason reached into his coat pocket, and slowly lifted out his card. He handed the blank check to the Guard captain. She took it carefully, eyes never leaving Jason's other hand, and then stepped back and glanced down at the document.

For a long moment, she said nothing. But she inhaled sharply, and a little of the color drained out of her face.

Jason cocked his head, studying the woman's expression. "You've seen one of those before."

The captain nodded curtly. "Kandahar. Back in eleven." Her tone suggested that one encounter with JSOC had been enough to last her a lifetime.

Jason replied with a nod of his own. "Then you'll know to listen when I tell you this. You're going to let me through that door, and then forget you ever saw me. That's all I need from you today. Clear?"

The captain saluted, relief clear upon her face. "Sir." She stepped aside, and unlocked the service door. Jason retrieved his ID, and inclined his head to the captain, and slipped silently into the airport.

As the door swung shut behind him, Jason heard the private ask: "So who did that guy work for?"

The captain's chuckle was dark and mirthless. "The fucking president, Clark. Now, for God's sake, never talk about this again."

The rest of the conversation was cut off as the door closed. In the darkness of an unused service staircase, Jason smiled.

* * *

Jason stuck to the service corridors. Any airport - any big public facility, really - had two faces. There was the public face: terminals, gates, security checkpoints. And then there was the private face: the warren of unmarked service stairways and corridors, accessed by keycard-locked doors, that let authorized personnel move quickly and efficiently from one area to the next. At the moment, since the actual airport staff had mostly been replaced by out-of-towners who didn't know their way around, the service hallways of the Minneapolis airport were mostly deserted. Which Jason had expected, and which suited him just fine.

In Jason's experience, most airports - again, like most big public facilities - also had a particular area set aside for staff use. That was where the chapel was located, and the break rooms, and the employee lockers, and the conference rooms. So Jason wandered through the service corridors, glancing periodically out of narrow glass windows in access doors to see where in the airport he actually was, until he found himself in a hallway adjoining the main lobby. From there, he took a corridor leading away from the passenger terminal - and sure enough, he was soon looking out of an access-door window onto a busy hallway filled with police and Guard and FEMA personnel. And across the hallway from the service door behind which Jason lurked, there was another door, an open door, with a sign designating it as a conference room for staff use only.

Bingo.

Jason took a few steps back from the door, so that he wouldn't be seen staring through its window, and he watched, and waited.

The hallway was full of feds. There were a bunch of FEMA bureaucrats in suits or polos bustling around, tapping at laptops; nearby was a security checkpoint manned by another National Guard private, and a crowd of state police in lemon-squeezer hats. Except for the private, they didn't seem particularly worried about security; none looked up from their work when a short man in a down jacket, his nose bandaged, walked unobtrusively down the hallway and leaned against the wall opposite the conference room, very near Jason's service door. There the man stopped, his red-rimmed eyes moving over the airport hallway: watching, waiting.

Jason smiled.

The more obvious arrival was a tall woman with dyed-blue hair, who got through the checkpoint by flashing an obscure-looking ID on a lanyard. Was that CDC? She vanished into the conference room in short order. After her came a burly blonde woman in her thirties, wearing an Immigrations and Customs Enforcement raid jacket. Jason had assumed that she was just another of the airport security staff, but she cast a furtive glance around and then walked into the conference room as well. In the shadows of the service corridor, the operative raised his eyebrows.

Then there was a man in his thirties or forties, well-groomed, dressed in an expensive suit. He didn't have an official ID, but he talked his way past the security checkpoint without much trouble, and then strode on into the meeting room. His arrival seemed to be the signal for the man with the broken nose to end his stakeout: he picked up his bag, walked across the hallway, and moved into the conference room himself. Jason wandered briefly whether he should follow suit, and then decided to stay put for the time being. If scoping out the team is all the preparation I'm going to get, I may as well make the most of it.

The decision paid off. Jason saw a good-looking woman of about thirty flash her badge to the national guardsman, and hurry on into the conference room. Like Jason, she was swarthy, her ethnicity indeterminate and probably mixed - though something about the shape of her face seemed Persian to Jason's eyes. And her badge was familiar to anyone in JSOC: she was CIA. The Agency and the Activity were like brothers: they competed constantly, but in the end, they were the only people who understood each other.

Next, there was a small girl - a girl, not a woman; she couldn't be more than twenty - with long brown hair. She talked her way past the security checkpoint with a lot of gesticulation and histrionics, and then rushed into the conference room like a student who was late for class. After her came a big man, bigger than Jason, in the green uniform of the Border Patrol: he walked like he could handle himself, and when the national guardsman tried to obstruct him, the patrolman drew himself up to his full impressive height and gave the private a dressing-down that he could only have learned in the Army.

He looked familiar. Jason searched his memory, trying to think of where he had seen the fellow before, and drew a blank. It will come to me.

And, finally, there was a scrappy-looking man in flannel who looked like nothing so much as an elk hunter who had gotten lost and somehow wandered past security without having been noticed. After that fellow vanished into the conference room, there were no more new arrivals; the various bureaucrats and LEOs and guardsmen more or less gave a collective shrug, and returned to work.

Time to go.

Jason pushed the service door open. A few of the state cops looked up, surprised to see anyone emerging from behind a locked door, but they were too busy to pay much attention. Besides, they trusted the system: Jason was behind security, so he had to be okay. It was an instinctive kind of buck-passing that had saved the operative's life in restricted areas all over the world.

Still, it didn't do to linger. Jason crossed the hallway in five easy strides, and slipped into the conference room, and quietly closed the door behind him. He took off his sunglasses and his gloves and he undid the horn fasteners of his duffel coat, revealing his body armor and the rifle hanging from its sling under his arm. Partly, that was by way of introduction. Mostly, it was just because the coat was hot.

At the end of the conference-room table, Jason saw a man he didn't recognize: fifties or sixties, bald, short grey beard, dressed in a sweater and thermal pants. His face was all angles, fierce and raw-boned. He looked twitchy.

Great.

As Jason entered, the familiar-looking Border Patrol agent was looking at the college-age girl. "We're all here for the same thing, miss," he rumbled. There was worry in his eyes. Jason glanced around the room. There was worry in everyone's eyes.

Except the eyes of the older man. His eyes held barely controlled terror.

Jason breathed out through his nose, low and slow, and forced his heart rate down. And then he turned to the man whom he would come to know as Darcy Rawls, and said: "Let's hear it."

by **Forest State** » Mon Oct 17, 2016 1:27 pm

Haley Brzenczyszczykiewicz
East Berlin, Germany

Haley woke up and screamed, when she felt arms wrapped around her, holding her close to a warm body. It was instinctive, and she pushed the person away and rolled out of bed before looking to see who it was. Darren Otto. Her roommate, drug dealer, and the young man who was ambiguously her boyfriend. "You okay, Wick?" he muttered in German, scratching his head and trying to figure out what had made her scream.

"I don't like being held," she replied in English, regaining her normal composure and getting up. She went for a shower, and then came back to the bedroom and got dressed in a black pair of jeans and a matching sweatshirt that had a white Yankees logo on the front. Before stepping out of the bedroom, she turned to Darren and gave him a stern glare. "Don't do that again. It makes me think of some shit that happened on the job, years ago."

"Sorry... But to be fair to me, you never told me anything about your old job," Darren said, sitting up. "I kind of thought you just worked in an office for the government or something. Did you also get your scars from that job?"

Haley was growing more and more annoyed. She hated it when anyone asked about her scars, which crossed her back like stripes. "The way I got those scars is exactly the way you'd think I would get scars like that," she remarked ambiguously, and then she stepped out of the bedroom and into the main room of the apartment. She went to the main window, staring out into the cityscape. I want to live somewhere where I don't wake up every morning, look out the window, and remember how much I hate this place... And I'm only three hours and six minutes from home. Even less by train. Why did I even leave?

As she was contemplating this, a small puppy ran up to her and stared up at her, with black eyes that contrasted its white coat. "Where's Toni, Ghost?" she asked the dog, and it cocked its head to the side in curiosity. She knelt down and kissed it on the nose, not worrying about the germs. She probably spent enough time here to be immune to dog germs by now. She loved that puppy. It was the only one in this apartment who she knew was completely loyal to her. And it never asked about her past or tried to 'fix' her conditions. She wished her roommates could be more like Ghost. She stood, and went to look for Antonia, who was in the kitchen.

"G'Morning, Hal," she said without turning around from the countertop where she was preparing breakfast. "I heard you scream. What was that about?"

"You love to get straight to the hard questions, don't you?"

"And you love to deflect. What were you screaming about?"

Haley paused, causing Toni to turn around and look her in the eye. "Take a guess. I'm not giving you any ammo to psychoanalyze me with. You get three tries. Figure it out and you win a kiss."

Toni thought for a moment, and then came up with a suggestion that she sounded confident in. "You had a nightmare that you were in northern Pakistan again?" she asked.

"I did, but that's not the reason why I screamed," Haley said, shaking her head. "You have two tries left."

"You woke up and Darren was holding you," Toni said, and Haley was surprised that she figured it out so quickly. "I can see from your face that I'm right."

"How'd you know?"

"Because I know you have merinthophobia, and I know Darren hugs like a vice grip. You know, you're going to have to face your fears one of these days. You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Haley frowned. "Toni, you promised me that when I moved to Germany, you would be my roommate and my friend with benefits. Not my life coach or my psychiatrist. I'm not going to put myself through the stress of trying to cure a phobia that rarely even comes up."

"Rarely comes up?" asked Toni. "I can't even hug you tightly without you starting to panic. And you're never going to improve yourself if you deny any problems that you have."

"We can't all be like you, Antonia Franziska Dietrich," Haley stated, using her full name for emphasis. Her tone suggested that she was about to make a cutting remark, which Toni braced for. "I don't know if you know, but you're perfect. At everything. You were born here in Berlin, but in the good part of town. The expensive part. Your parents had tons of money, and they loved you. You graduated high school with top marks in every subject. You went to college, where you graduated top of your class. You never had to fight to make it at your job, because you were a natural at it. You set your own hours and never struggle for money, and you can visit your family and friends whenever you feel like it-"

"Where are you going with this?"

"I'm saying that we aren't all like you. Some of us have flaws," Haley continued. She put her hands on Toni's shoulders, and leaned towards her face. "I'm not perfect like you, Toni. I never have been and never will be. I'm okay with that. I really just want you to appreciate me, flaws and all, and stop trying to fix me. That includes bothering me because I have one uncommon phobia. You promised me that you wouldn't do this. I left home, my real home, to live with you because I thought you were done with that. What happened to that?"

There was an awkward silence as the two women stared at each other, and Toni sighed and let her expression change to one of surrender. "I just want you to feel better, Haley. I'm sorry for caring enough to try to actually help you."

"You're not helping. Try to see things from my point of view. I'm away from home... Whether you consider home to be the Bronx, or Pakistan, or Poznan. I wake up every day and I look outside, and then I realize again that Berlin is a hellhole that looks more like Pakistan everyday. And trust me, as someone who lived in both places. Treptow-Kopenick isn't awful, but I know the eastern part of the city is going to look like the west before long. My job is alright, but I have my old employers all over me because they think I'm giving away their secrets. The pay is shit, though, because I'm working off the books and they don't want to give me a big salary," Haley sighed. "You and Darren are the only people I truly know here, and I can't talk with my old friends anymore because of paranoia and I can't talk with my mom or sister because they hate me. And to top it off, the one I thought was my friend won't stop trying to fix a bunch of problems that I don't even have control over. You see why I'm annoyed?"

Toni muttered something under her breath in German that she assumed Haley couldn't understand, and Haley just threw her arms in the air in frustration. "Oh, fuck off," she said, turning and stepping out of the kitchen. "You knew what I thought about this place when you convinced me to move here. I... I need some space. I think I'll get breakfast from down the street."

"Hal, wait!" shouted Toni, but Haley was already storming of towards the front door. She pulled on her crimson BFC jacket and pulled the hood over her head, stepping out into the hallway. Toni was coming after her, but she slammed the door behind her and started down the hall. She hated losing her calm like this, but she was already feeling vulnerable and the last thing she needed was to fight with Toni. As she regained her calm, she went down six flights of stairs and stepped out of the building, sitting down on the front steps and taking her phone out. She checked her email for the first time that day.

That was when she saw the classified one. It looked like a work email from a shipping company, but there was a classified link. "Fuck," she muttered, as she tried to remember the passcode. After a few moments, she entered it and watched as the file loaded. The first line said that it was about a night at the opera. A Delta Green assignment. She needed to get to Minneapolis, which was over seven thousand kilometers away from Berlin. You've got to be shitting me. How am I supposed to get to Minneapolis in the middle of a snowstorm? And they never told me that I would be needed on such short notice.

As she pocketed her phone again, the door behind her swung open and Toni stepped out, sitting down next to her on the steps. "Hey. Haley. I really didn't mean to get you upset, and I'm... Sorry for bothering you this morning. I guess it's just hard to not psychoanalyze everyone I see when that's what I've done as a job since I graduated from college."

"How sorry are you, really? You're willing to talk shit about me because you thought I couldn't understand you," Haley said, folding her arms.

"I'm just defensive about my hometown, that's all. I know you have problems with it... But you're the same way when it comes to Poznan, and Poland-"

"You wanna know why I'm defensive about Poland? Because I've only lived there for less than six full months, but it's the only place that I've lived that doesn't remind me of something I'd like to forget. It doesn't remind me of my childhood. It doesn't remind me of my sister being better at everything. It doesn't fucking remind me of Pakistan," replied Haley. "I know I can only nominally call it my home. But it's more of a home than Berlin is. This place doesn't do anything to help my anxiety."

She looked up and saw someone getting into a familiar blue car that was parked across the street, and a look of surprise flashed across her face. She stood, running a hand over the thin of her back like she was checking for something, and then she looked to Toni. "I have to go... I actually need to fly out of town for work stuff," she said, giving a vague answer because she was focused more on the car than the conversation. "Tell Darren that I'm in the States again, if he asks."

"Work stuff? They didn't even call you into the office today. You're hiding something, Haley. Is this because you're mad at me?"

"No, it's... There's an emergency with the Americans and the BND wants me to head over to make sure it doesn't turn into a big deal that gets into the news," she said, telling a partial truth. "It just came up. I'll see you in a bit."

"Yeah... Right," said Toni, and she watched as Haley rushed off and kept her head down. She ducked into an alleyway, looking over her shoulder before lowering her head again like she was trying not to be seen. She wished the past would disappear, but that just wasn't going to happen, unfortunately.

The United States. Haley's actual home, where she had been born and raised before she started her career that sent her all over the globe. When she stepped off of that plane and into the airport in Minneapolis, she was back home in a way, even if this was her first time in Minnesota. Home wasn't as good as she remembered, mostly because she didn't have to worry about being tailed before she left. Now, she was cold reading everybody around her while she talked on the phone with her bosses from the BND, trying to figure out which person was the American spook. "Yeah... I'll give you more notice next time... I'm already in the States... All I know is that it's a NATO intelligence thing, and you need to complain to the CIA if you're mad that they left most of our guys out. I don't expect them to budge, they said that they only wanted me here because I'm American... I can't say the specifics. It's classified... Okay, I'll talk to you when I get back," Haley said, and then she hung up and let out a slow sigh. The voice on the other end of the line hadn't been happy.

She started walking through the crowd that was in the airport hallway, and she made a call to her old colleague Marc-Andre Kowalewski. "Hey, Marky. I need a favor. If anyone from the BND calls, tell them that there's a NATO assembly in Minneapolis," she muttered, keeping her voice as low as she could. "And tell them that they aren't invited. Say that I was brought in as an instructor or an adviser or something because I'm from the States."

"May I ask why you want me to lie to an allied nation?"

"Not right now. I'll explain everything later. Just... Just do it. Oh, and one more thing. If you're going to tail me around Berlin, tell your men to stop doing such a shitty job at blending in," she replied calmly. "I won't hesitate to hurt them if they touch me or my roommates, or my dog. Got it?"

"I'm not the one responsible for the agents tailing you, Haley."

"Then pass on the message to whoever is. I have to go. I'll talk to you when this is all over, Marky," Haley said, and then she hung up and pocketed her phone. She determined that her tail was the man standing around wearing a plain black baseball cap and a nondescript grey shirt. His outfit was simple on purpose, so she wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd easily. She made eye contact with him, nodded towards him, and then turned and started walking to the conference room. By the time that she was there, he was gone.

"Am I late? I kind of had to lose someone who was following me, but that's a long story," she announced to the others, looking over the other agents that were inside. "I hope this operation is important, I flew seven thousand kilometers to get here, and my roommates are going to be pissed that I left on short notice."

by **Galdius** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 12:56 pm

Darcy Rawls.
OPERATION SUNFLOWER GARDEN
Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport.
January 12; 1150 hours.

Right on time.

The various agents, specialists and civilians that had been placed into the newly formed Juliet section all seemingly arrived on time. One by one they all came through the door kiting various identification badges. clothing and equipment into the small conference room. It was quite a diverse team. hailing from differing backgrounds, quite a number of whom had no service within law enforcement and military units, and more than one where surprisingly bona-fide spies. During his service with the unit during its unofficial service, most of the agents had been Feds from the area that he had worked in, people that he'd grown to know well much to his regret. But the cowboy days where over, and an official government standing and "budget" would likely result in more exotic people being brought into the fold. whether or not they could be trusted was the real question on his mind. The battlefield and the players had changed, and now he was working with the very government that he had been fighting against and whom had personally tried to kill him on at-least one occasion. It was a hard pill to sallow, but after A section sold everyone down the river back when they decided that they should be brought back into the fold. It was ultimately difficult to say no when the men in suits came knocking at his door.

Darcy had got the call yesterday morning. He was given the information he needed through an encrypted email from A section. He got the first flight available and been on site cooped up in the airport since early in the morning yesterday arguing with various people on the radio, getting things ready and ultimately ensuring that the entrance for his unit went smoothly. black bags had started to form under his eyes and he glanced around the room with a very tired gaze when he didn't have his head down in the FEMA documents to look very official. He however, wasn't going to get any sort of rest anytime soon.

He took a glance at each person as they came to the door and waved them in once he spotted their faces, once he did, he pointed them towards an empty seat, making it a priority to look particularly busy as people wandered past in the hallways, still flicking through various reports on the weather and the situation in Anwick, taking in pieces of information as he did so. Keeping a solitary eye on the door to watch for anyone potentially paying a little more interest in the "FEMA" meeting than they should be. He didn't particularly care for the excuses they made to enter the room, some of them where good, others just walked into the room like they belonged. But some of them posed a serious risk to the security of the operation. Particularly BND adviser who had apparently picked up a tail, which could potentially expose everyone in the meeting, and a blond ICE agent by the name of Hermann who rather stupidly asked if Darcy was the handler for the operation whilst the door was wide to the wall for the world outside to see and hear. There had been more than one occasion in which he picked up on something big just from idle eavesdropping. So being careful was important. He simply gave them both a solid glare and signalled them towards the chair like everyone else, before going back to looking busy.

Once the room was filled with the full roster of agents, he planted the document down on the table and made his way over towards the open door, taking a short look outside before pulling it closed, locking it so that nobody could wander in mid meeting or just stop and take a glance to see who exactly was inside. "I've already cleared the room for bugs gentlemen." Darcy stated in a thickly voice as he hoped to lift any potential worries about being listened into. He made his way back down to the front of the room, making his slight limp apparent as he moved slightly slower than your average person. " And I've got a friendly posted outside to make sure that nobody starts eavesdropping through the door, we should be safe enough to talk here." he added, as much as electronics had advanced, a real analogue threat was still just as dangerous to the operation as the other. As paranoid as it potentially seemed, he liked having all of his bases covered.

"I trust all of you got here easily enough?" He asked semi rhetorically before moving his uncomfortable analytical stare onto Haley, gauging for a reaction. "Excluding you." he moved his slightly intimidating stare away as he removed his glasses, giving them a quick clean with a small soft piece of cloth. It was a sort of ritual of his, a method of containing stress. something that he picked up around ten years ago. "This tail you've got, you are absolutely sure that you gave him the slip, correct? If not this could potentially bite us all in the ass if he identifies more than just you at this meeting." Judging from her profile and her history of "mental illness." He figured that it would likely be the CIA or German BND. It was more of a threat to the operation if it was the former. They had more than one agent working for US intelligence agencies inside this very room and having them here in person with a "traitor" could result in them being seriously burned by their own commanders, which would royally fuck up their cover. "You need to Inform your team of the situation and make contingency plans to deal with it if it arises again, it's a serious threat to all of you." He was starting to sound paranoid, but he knew the dangers that going to the opera contained. He had experienced it all first hand before, both the physical aspects and the mental ones. He know how it destroyed people's careers and lives. So he was invested to ensure that it didn't happen so quickly. Especially with an operation in progress.

He glanced at his watch, quickly realising that they where running out of time. They had a very small window before they had to move out. "Alright gentlemen, we are short on time so I'm going to go through this quickly." He informed them, finally placing his glasses back onto his face. "Back in the day we used to do our work out in the cold, we had no assistance from the government and we even ended up taking them on a few times." He felt old talking like that, like some old agent telling another about the various things they had to do without, but this was going to lead onto how they fucked things up more than how they handled it well. "Regardless of that fact, we got reactivated after 9/11, and during the transition. Some very bad decisions were made." Darcy continued, feeling it to be necessary to shield himself from any potential doubt that might come his way. " Now, I wasn't involved in these decisions, and I don't know who was and I certainly don't know anymore than they've informed me. We are only here because our section happened to be on reserve duty."

Darcy stopped, taking a slight breather before continuing on. He knew he had a lot to cover with them and that some of it would be potentially hard to hear. "Back in 2005, a group was placed in charge with dealing with assets from the old program. a good chunk of equipment and anomalous artefacts were moved to more secure places. It was fairly cost intensive, so some of it was left in its original holding area and was given upgraded security." Darcy face scrunched up for a second with anger as he pushed his glasses upwards, more than unhappy about the news that he was having to divulge. "One of those places was in Anwick; and now we've got a serious OPSEC fuck up on our hands because one of our green boxes was breached four days ago. We've only just got the alert early yesterday morning."

He felt somewhat embarrassed to admit it despite it having almost nothing to do with him. But It didn't exactly set a good president to the people for whom this would be their first real operation. "The problem we have here is that this one in-particular was utilised for the storage of anomalous items. Things that could potentially pose a threat towards the people in the surrounding community. And with zero contact from the caretaker within the four-day time frame, we are assuming the worst." He was now about to go into the part that might be slightly difficult for the agents to swallow, he took a slight sigh and continued on, casting his eyes away from the group and towards the table, avoiding any potential sour looks.

"I don't know what was in that box, and we have very little Intel in regards to it ground-side. A section couldn't perform any extensive recon from the air with planes or satellite imaging due to as you can probably guess, fucking weather problems. So now we are going to be the first boots on the ground, and the clean up crew." It got better in typical delta green fashion, there was always another kicker involved. It was almost like A section liked fucking them over. " Good news is that the storm has the city pretty much on voluntary lock-down, a lot of people have been forced out of their homes due to serious damage, and anyone who still has one isn't leaving it for extended periods of time. Bad news is that we have forty-eight hours to wrap this up. If we fuck up and don't get it done in that time frame or suddenly stop communicating with A section. They are going to assume the worst and sending the cavalry and if that happens, we are all dead."

He wasn't sure how exactly they would take the news, but he hoped that it would be well, he didn't have the time to stop and gauge reactions, he had to now move onto the nitty-gritty. The actual details of the operation. "We have an official FEMA cover for this operation, ID and everything. But don't go abusing it. Its paper fuckin' thin and one phone call check with a description of what you look like will make the op' fall apart. So that means you've got to look like and sound like a bunch of bureaucrats, so no ICE windbreakers or no visible firearms. FEMA don't carry so if you can't conceal 'em, ditch it" He tilted over a small cardboard box that rested on the table, tipping out a whole stack of FEMA ID cards in laminate holders with FEMA lanyards over the table for the agents to look through. There was one for each of them, Darcy was already wearing his. Each contained a fake name, a picture, an ID number and other relevant information. It look official and was as real as a fake could get, whoever had made them had done a real professional job. "We'll be deploying in with the national guard disaster relief convoy that will be carrying supplies and more manpower to Anwick, I'll arranged for it this morning so the troops should give you any problems, it will be leaving in..." He stopped for a second, and glanced at his watch to confirm the time. "ten minutes."

He slipped his hand back down to his side, and continued on "They will drop us off at the cities utilities office in town, we've got some office space there and that's where our caretaker works, man by the name of Randal Mills. He was primarily in charge of the place, but according to radio communications he hasn't been to work in a day or so, left early looking not to well the last time he was there."

Darcy ruffled his hands around within his parka jacket, obviously looking for something important. "Once everything is squared away you will move in on Earls rent a space, which is on the outskirts of the city not far from the utilities office off the main highway. Our box is within storage container 071. Box 072 contains some equipment that might help with the operation, might be useful, but it hasn't been touched since the nineties so keep that in the back of your mind. " Darcy hand emerged from his inner coat pocket clutching a large folded piece of paper. He then slid it onto the table, it was a map of anwick, mostly up to date, being only a few months old. Points of interest had been clearly marked and named with a red pen. "That is a map with the locations marked, Now, once you have arrived on site you will split up into two teams. One group will inventory and begin moving materials back to the office for emergency storage, The other team will move in to identify what happened to Randall mills, he lives with his mother in a debilitated neighbourhood a few miles away from the city utilities office. But it'd be a good idea to investigate his office first when we arrive."

Darcy picked up his jacket, and promptly slid it on. He was about to make some last-minute additions to their transport, but for now they had to get moving. It was time to spring into action. "Now, we have to get moving. Any questions I'll answer on the way there. We only have around five minutes to get anything you need squared away. I suggest we meet back here in five minutes. A friendly will escort us to our transports." With that, Darcy made his way to the door, unlocked it, and promptly disappeared out into the hallway.

****

After five minutes or so, Darcy reappeared along side a rather short member of the national guard in a standard uniform, with rank patches indicating that he was a lieutenant. his face was concealed with a black balaclava which was covered by small, melting bits of frost. the only thing really visible was some very pale skin and a set of rather bluish eyes. "Alright, let's get moving folks." Darcy said, beckoning the various agents to follow him. "We've got a job to do so let's go do it." Once the group exited the room, they would be lead outside through the main lobby and into the freezing cold. The wind and heavy snow fall battering against them for the short time they stood outside before being lead and loaded into the back cabin of an MTVR truck.

Once inside, it would only take a few minutes for the truck to move out and start heading towards the town. The howling wind was audible outside and inside was less than comfortable. it was cold and cramped. With the agents being jammed in next to each other. But nobody else was inside. Only them and themselves. Giving them a good opportunity to get to know each other and potentially ask any questions that might pop into their heads regarding the operation. After-all, it was going to be quite a long drive.

by **Ubaria** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 4:35 pm

Raul Capello
Somewhere in Nebraska

"Barkeep"

A single stubby finger rapped on the weathered wooden bartop several times to catch the attention of the young and sightly barmaid at the other end of the room, dressed in all black skin tight leggings and a rather inadequately fitting low cropped top that left little to imagination, in all truths barely older than the drinking limit herself. Kelly, as she had become to be known as, strutted down the bar with a huff and a flick of her shoulder length brunette hair, eyeing down the sorry state of a man currently listing sideways on his barstool.

"Let me guess, another whiskey?"

The man let out a sly grin and nodded slowly, nudging the empty glass with the back of his hand. In one swift movement the girl, Kelly had swiftly poured another double measure of the brown liquor and had handed it back with a queer look of disdain pressed into her face.

"Tha...that's a nice pair you've got on lass..." The man drunkenly babbled through a mouthful of Jack, too busy with his eyes trying to peer through the thin black fabric he accidentally poured half the shot down his jacket and into his lap.

"Aww...fuck...let's...get ano...*hic*...another one eh?" The man waved the glass around in the air and skimmed it across the bartop, only for it to continue travelling off the side of the bar and straight down towards the tiled floor with a resounding smash, it attracted no attention from the other patrons except for a single man in the corner, trying to enjoy a glass of tequila, he peered over the top of his coffee tinted aviators towards the commotion.

"Listen, i think you've had enough buddy." Kelly knelt down to retrieve a brush only for the man to attempt to lean over the counter, an unwelcome hand attempted to grope her backside as she turned around to clean up the mess, she let out a frightened yelp and instinctive whipped around, clubbing the drunkard around the mouth with the hilt of the brush at quite a velocity, the blow made a harsh slapping noise and inflicted a small cut along the upper part of the jawline, several drops of blood rolled down his cheek.

"Ya fuckin bitch.." Too drunk to even put up a decent fight, instead he tried to lunge over the counter this time with a closed fist in some alcohol fueled retaliation, knocking over glasses and bottles in his thrashing, it was then to his surprise he found himself hurtling, back first onto the cold and hard ground, all wind and fight knocked clean from him when his bony body slapped the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"You've had enough, now get out" The Spanish accent carried and was clearly distinguishable against the native Nebraskan dialect, by now everybody in the bar had paused their individual conversations to peer into the action happening by the bar, a few murmurs here and there but otherwise the place was deathly quiet, aside from the radio playing. The man growled and spat out a mouthful of saliva and whiskey sideways, moving way to fast for his body to cope with in his current state of intoxication, he stumbled forwards as he tried to rise to his own two feet, still mumbling and grumbling.

"What...you say...yhoo fuckn...spic"

A swift knee drove itself deep into the mans ribcage with a satisfying crack, then before he could react he was hauled to his feet by the scruff of his jacket and towards the bar door still protesting with a string of racial and curse related words, it was hard to tell.

"Maybe i didn't make myself clear" The man was thrown down onto the concrete paving slabs outside shoulder first, coughing and dribbling all kinds of bodily fluids, the man could barely roll over to look his attacker in the face.

"Go, and don't even think about coming back" Standing feet apart, a single hand placed on his hip brushed back the brown coats tail to reveal a SiG P250 strapped into a thigh holster tied to his waist, the message couldn't get any clearer than that.

The drunkard was quick to scarper away, quick as he could anyhow after collecting himself off the pavement, the gentleman returned to the bar just as the barmaid had finished cleaning up the wake of destruction that had been left behind, she brushed back a lock of hair with a small smile creeping on her face.

"Thank you for dealing with him...uh...Mister...."

"Raul...it's no problem"

The moment was spoiled by a vibration from his pocket, several infact. Raul plunged his hand into his rear jean pocket and retrieved a battered Samsung Note 2 and swiped across to accept the incoming call from 'Unknown'.

"Hello....Yes that is correct....Oh.....Right now?.....Minessota?.....How long do i have?.....Christ.....Alright....."

Raul shook his head and replaced the phone from where it had appeared, from the other pocket he pulled a wad of 10 dollar bills and began to peel several off.

"Looks like that next Tequila will have to wait...how much do i owe?"

"Nothing, that's on the house"

"Nonsense, what's your name?"

"Kelly..."

Raul pulled several tens from the roll and handed them to Kelly, who tried to appear humble but eventually accepted the money, shoving it in her apron, though before she could even thank the man he had left through the swinging bar door.

Raul Capello
Operation: Sunflower Garden
Minneapolis, Minnesota

After several passes from the pilot, the Boeing 767 eventually made touchdown with the ice gripped tarmac and rolled to a steady taxi speed, making way for one of the main gates. The flight had been a steady and unremarkable one, very little people were aboard which wasn't surprising considering very few people actually wanted to fly into a snowstorm rather than away, evidence of the blizzard was immediately apparent from the small aircraft window which in all honesty was completely iced over, which in itself was a telltale sign, the sound of rain drifts hammering the metal fuselage of the plane and howling winds reinforced that fact. Raul hated the cold, even more so if he wasn't readily dressed for it, which he wasn't, he didn't have time to pack any spare clothing and had turned up wearing a brown bomber jacket, stone washed blue jeans and a pair of coffee tinted aviators, he looked hilariously out of place in the crows of the airport, full of people huddling together wearing arctic grade winter gear, not that anybody was singling him out.

The crowds were immense, people who couldn't get an outbound flight or a place to hunker down had made temporary accommodation in the halls and terminals of the building, several times Raul had taken a wrong turning or walked down a completely dead end, after half an hour of scouring the place he managed to catch a glimpse of several people entering a side door, a hunch said that it was the right place, indeed it was. Raul cautiously peered into the room beforehand, a few stern looks confirmed the notion and meekishly he was drawn further in, flashing his Army Identification Badge as he did so. Raul took a seat that was offered to him and waited until the room had filled with fresh and new faces, a lot of different backgrounds, several spook looking types as well as some green, civilian to be exact.

The man at the front, the head honcho one would have assumed due to his aged and cultivated demeanor wasted no time in explaining the situation and the mission profile, basically they were the schmucks wading out into the knee deep snow to hunt down this 'green box' and find out what in the fuck happened to its handlers, and if they didn't manage to locate it within a two day time period they were going to bring the hammer down and leave nothing to chance, not the most reassuring information to be ever grace his ears, but he had sure heard and seen worse. The icing on the cake was that their cover was about as credible as crayon scrawled on craft paper, any trained eye could drill right through that veil and then they were blown, anybody trained in what to look for would see right through them, Raul picked out his designated lanyard and scoffed at the terrible mugshot plastered on the front.

"Micheal Bale...budget didn't extent to more ethnically appropriate names huh?" Raul commented half sarcastically, twirling the lanyard over in his fingertips for a moment whilst listening further to what had to be said, they would be leaving in less than 10 minutes and Raul didn't even have time to grab a coffee.

by **Anowa** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 5:39 pm

Gray, Lindsay Ulysses
Virologist, Former Occultist, DG Operative

Basic deniable operation, get it done or die in the attempt. To be honest, the fact that there was very little forewarning of what might happen scared the shit out of her. There would be no backup, unless the systemic... bombing she assumed, of the site they were investigating was considered backup. And if that were the idea of backup, than the 9mm retirement plan wasn't looking too bad. Though at least the guy with the openly carried rifle had an air of 'Don't fuck with me' about him. Likely why he wasn't arrested when he walked in.

After the briefing finished, Lindsay fished the appropriate ID out of the pile of FEMA fakes. Stuffing her Psuedo-CDC ID into one of her pockets as she did so. She gave a chuckle as she read the name, 'Molly Smith'. That was about as white as a name as you could get. Regardless of any worries, Lindsay now had a job to do. And said job was one she was preparing for. Her days off included range time, and firearms research, for almost two weeks. And while she wasn't on a soldier level of weapons, she could still hit the target a majority of the time. She had to thank the few LEOs around the lab for the few pointers.

And as she departed she thought back to the 'Emergency bag' in the back of her truck. Gas mask, four filters, Class III kevlar, 45 ACP suppressor, brass catcher for said 45 ACP, a leather jacket, and a mag-lite. She also had the double stack 14/45 on her person in an appendix carry with three mags, so trouble would be hard to take her down if she were honest.

It cost a little over three week's pay, but it would likely save her life at one point. That being said, by the time she got back out to her truck it was snowing even harder. So finding her truck took a bit, and fishing out the duffel took a bit longer. She had barely walked back into the meeting room before Dracy walked back in and all but escorted everyone out. And now that they were sitting in the back of a truck, she couldn't help but have her eyes drawn to the youngest of their bunch, a girl who was younger than her. She seemed a bit out of place... But then again, Lindsay thought that she herself stood out as well, what with the lightning blue hair and all. Lindsay decided against asking the girl anything, since letting out info of themselves could prove disastrous should anyone get caught in the act. The fact that she was starting to sound like the conspiracy theorists she'd talked to online didn't comfort her at all.

by **Altito Asmoro** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 8:40 pm

Hermann, Alicia
ICE agent/SRT officer

Perhaps the glare was for hers too.

This is her first operation with an agency that is well beyond the normal bureaucracy, nor it is almost the same as the alien organizations like the ones in TV. For starter, there was the explanation that this agency, despite its working to investigate...the supernatural problems, they are the reserve duty. Not necessarily a bad thing, but it showcased just how small the section, or the agency is, or either the rest of the agency is too busy working...on the larger scale problems. Not a bad thing, but she guessed this is just more work for them. Deniable operation too, she assumed. Government won't sanction nor reveal their involvement with them if it's possible.

They will going in with FEMA cover, fake IDs and all. Covering up their weapons is a must, so she put it inside the "Emergency Bag" of hers. She didn't use kevlar for this one, but she put it inside the duffel bag as well, alongside the gun, two mags, flashlight, gas mask. All kinds of things needed. She walked outside with the bag on as she put it in the truck alongside the rest of the other bags.

She put herself inside the truck, alongside or as she waiting for the rest. The girl near her, who's she met the first, doesn't seems to be the nicest...

by **Beiarusia** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 9:14 pm

Vivian Townsend

Vivian looked rather blankly to the man that had entered behind her (Lou Geldenhuys) as he mentioned them all being there for the same thing. Another man that would be Darcy didn’t say a word to either of them and simply motioned for a seat to be taken. Vivian did as told and sat there opposite a woman with bright blue hair, backpack on the conference table and hands gripping the seat’s edge between her legs, green eyes looking around the room with a slight sense of curiosity. A few more men and women arrived soon thereafter and the meeting began.

Long story short, there was something being kept under lock and key in Anwick, and it was up to this motley crew to make sure that all was accounted for with failure (or poor time management) leading to a probably messy death. A few were likely taken aback by the severity of such a consequence, but Vivian was too spooked, having felt dead inside for so long that she was practically a husk, emotionally that was, so while she wouldn’t go out of her way to end up dead she wouldn’t be too upset if the worse came to happen. As it was things should be relatively easy snowstorm notwithstanding. Vivian was practically a divination rod for the odd and the unknown so finding a few missing items of questionable origin was, in theory, a done deal. Of course she was naive enough to think anything would be easy. This wasn’t just some scavenger hunt, and likely there was something very bad awaiting them all in the blizzard, but to Vivian that sobering fact never seemed to cross her mind.

Probably would regret that sooner rather than later.

Darcy had arranged for them to enter Anwick disguised as FEMA workers, having gone as far as having fake badges made for each of them. Vivian had questions, mostly of the useless variety, but merely nodded along as needed to the explanation thus far. Soon enough they were on the move.

Vivian reached into the box of fake ID’s, drawn to one in particular and plucking her own with little hassle. The little plastic rectangle was convincing, looking as real as the actual FEMA badge, or so Vivian assumed, and even had the picture from her driver’s license plastered on the front. How, well, she didn’t think to question the methods of Delta Green. All the necessary information was present including a fake name. Samantha Tallow. An easy enough name for the girl to remember. Slipping the lanyard around her neck Vivian simply waited until Darcy returned to lead them to the truck that would be taking them into town. It was a big military truck, green, and with enough room in the back for everyone to sit comfortably. Vivian sat somewhat near the middle on one side.

Most of the others had come prepared. Nothing carried out in the open, but it was a simple, enough assumption to assume that most everyone else was government in some form or capacity, whether it be military or civilian, and thus likely to be carrying an assortment of weapons or gear. Vivian, however, had only her bright yellow coat and a small backpack with essential items such as her toothbrush and a change of clothes. She did bring her IR camera, as well as her notepad and some sharpened pencils, but nothing that would be useful in a fight should one come up. Not that the girl was concerned with just how unprepared she was.

There was a feeling of being watched and, looking up, Vivian saw that the blue-haired woman was glancing over in her direction. She looked as if she was going to say something but remained quiet. Vivian had no such qualms. “I like your hair,” she said, voice lacking any force but friendly nonetheless. Vivian looked around the truck. “Is this normal? This is a little over my head” – she motioned over her head with a free hand – “so I don’t really know what to expect. I’m Viv… Samantha, by the way.”

by **Imperial Idaho** » Tue Oct 18, 2016 11:00 pm

Minneapolis, Minnesota, United States of America

During the five or so minutes Darcy was out of the room Frank largely just collected his thoughts, he grabbed his new FEMA card and started to memorize his new name and ID card. When the cavalry arrives... Better not mean dropping napalm on the entire county... I'd rather not find out first hand if that's right or not... When Darcy returned he has among the last to leave the room, letting the others go ahead of him.

As he walked outside he noticed how heavily clothed the other agents were. He was wearing a few layers though looked more appropriate for fall instead of winter, he was used to the cold though, it didn't bother him as much. Having no weapons to hide or gear to grab he headed straight to the MTVR truck, sitting at the end of a row of seats, he would rather be wedged between someone he didn't know and a cold metal plate than two strangers.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Wed Oct 19, 2016 7:13 am

A truck
Minneapolis, Minnesota

“Can mortal man be righteous before God?
Can a man be pure before his Maker?
Even in his servants he puts no trust,
and his angels he charges with error;
how much more those who dwell in houses of clay,
whose foundation is in the dust,
who are crushed before the moth.
Between morning and evening they are destroyed;
they perish for ever without any regarding it.
If their tent-cord is plucked up within them,
do they not die, and that without wisdom?”

With those words uttered, mumbled almost inaudibly between his lips, Nathan put away his small golden crucifix. It was a tiny item, not bigger than a few inches, laden with a few small gemstones and finely worked into shape. Well, it looked golden, and the coloured stones looked like gems. In reality, the crucifix was made from plastic, painted in such a way as to look like gold. The stones were simply coloured glass, but because of the size of the item, it all looked real. Real enough to have fooled Nathan himself; when he ran away from home, still back in his youth, he had taken his father’s cross with him. He’d hoped to get some good money out of selling it, but the first pawn shop he went to immediately told him the truth. With the lack of a better use, Nathan kept it as a personal item.

The small plastic cross could be perceived as an apt metaphor for his faith. Not that his religion was fake, or that his own belief was somehow less or in vain. No, Nathan believed that the way to the Lord was not paved with gold and riches. Living an upright life, following the rules. Kindness, those all were the staircases to heaven. And, even though Nathan knew he is day job was unsavoury, he still felt a certain divinity in what he did. Like Abraham, he had been tasked with sacrificing his own for the good of all, and Nathan would do as he was bidden to do. As long as he believed that with his whole heart, without reservation, it would come to fruition.

From a pocket in his long overcoat, Nathan took out his cellphone. It didn’t have many bars of connectivity, it seemed. A few more miles, and the blizzard would take all his reception away. Entirely away from all civilisation, from all outside reach. That was not his proverbial cup of tea. What could would he be in the situation if he didn’t have access to his resources? Wasn’t that why they needed the Hale Corporation in the first place? He hovered with his thumbs over the small keyboard of his phone. Would he do it? Would he risk it already? Well, there was no harm in safeguards, was there? With a few buttons pressed, Nathan began sending a text message.

‘Dear Yalda,
Getting into some hard negotiations. Need some leverage. If you do not hear from me in 45 hours, make our subsidiary in Minnesota block the banking traffic in the Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport. That should win them over. Try to scramble our trail.’

This was not irregular. At least, not for Nathan. Especially some tougher clients needed more persuasion. Sometimes, Nathan would show up to a building with a few vans, only to confiscate all water coolers and vending machines. It was amazing how fast companies paid their fair share if threatened by such minor inconveniences. However, this time, there was a whole different motive behind it all. If they wouldn’t be back in 48 hours, they’d need some extra time. And if a general panic in the airport was to achieve that end, then so be it. Nathan had seen the desperate state in which the tourists had been, and he imagined that, if they stayed another 48 hours, and couldn’t even pay to get a coffee, things would get pretty hot pretty fast. Perhaps even hot enough to allow them to escape. With a push of the sent button, the text was on its way to his office.

“Well, I don’t think anything these people do is regular…” Nathan said, just catching the last few words from Samantha. Nathan saw the plastic ID card around her neck, claiming her name was Samantha. By definition, that couldn’t be her real name, then. But if she introduced herself like that, best to keep in that sphere.

“I think it’s best to pretend like we’re all here to do our day jobs.” He said casually, but with a slightly grimmer tone backing it up.

“As for me. I’m here because a client didn’t pay his bills, and we’re going to liquidate some of their assets. I’ll just pretend we’re using overly fancy codenames for everything. I suggest you all do the same. You can all call me… John, by the way” he said, putting away his phone.

“I have a background in finance, and that’s all you need to know of me. When you suspect someone has seen through us, just give me a nod. My agency specialises in that kind of cases. Although, I must admit, this is my first time in a field expedition”

by **Cylarn** » Wed Oct 19, 2016 9:06 am

Box. Get the fucking box. Without your gear. Without the means to legally take a human life.

Lou was fine with the first part. A simple clean-up and containment of a collection of ominous artifacts, launched in a place in which physical evidence would be contained within the snow - and hopefully mixed in with all of the other refuse trapped under the vast white blanket. His concerns focused on the particular aspect of their entry. It was a restrictive mission, one that required a very paper-thin alibi and the absence of visible force. That was a problem. Lew trained for the overt, the kind of battle in which people knew which side he was on. His presence - and the patch on his arm - had played a pivotal role in how he conducted himself in a firefight. Border Patrol, Army - it was all the same, because the guys on the opposing side knew what to expect when facing an armed American agent, regardless of agency.

The Delta-Green handler had them going in as FEMA investigators, with nothing but a lanyard and five minutes to get prepped, before they shipped out with the Guard. That meant that they would be in close proximity with a bunch of people unaware of their true intentions. The privacy of his SUV would be unavailable, left to wait in the airport parking lot. He had five minutes to shed his Border Patrol gear, assume the guise of a FEMA white-collar stiff, hide whatever gear he could reasonably bring, and then load up with the others while protecting the existence of his weapons and true intention from the "Weekend Warriors." Lou wasted no time in getting up to retrieve his own lanyard. He stood up from his chair and walked over to the box. He took a few moments to find his lanyard, which contained a picture of his face followed up by a pseudonym.

Carroll Channing. Are you shitting me? "Randomly generated by a computer," my ass.

He stuck the lanyard in his pocket and turned out to leave the room. "Carroll Channing" made his way through the FEMA camp and out to his Explorer, moving as quickly - and as inconspicuous - as he could. He kept his head on a swivel, keeping an eye out for any prying eyes as he opened up the back door and leaned in partially as he flung off his jacket, duty belt, and blouse, and threw them onto the seat, clad now in his thick waffle-top and a t-shirt underneath that. He had other clothing, and - thanks to some ' 'dishonest appropriation' earlier in the week - he had just the jacket to go with his uniform. A navy-blue winter jacket, made of strong, rip-resistant material. On both arms was the DHS emblem, and on the back, in big bold white letters was "FEMA." Underneath the jacket was a black stab vest, a black clip-on retention holster, and a black turtleneck. Lou quickly donned those items and the lanyard, and then walked around to the back. The holster and his P30 were conveniently concealed beneath his closed jacket, as was the stab vest. In addition to the P30, he also took his ASP baton and his rail-compatible taclight, sticking them into his side cargo pockets.

He only had a few minutes to figure out what he was going to bring. He had a black duffel bag, a myriad of equipment, and a number of weapons. A black wool blanket served as a perfect concealing device for the partially-disassembled AK, the partially-disassembled UP, 3 banana magazines, and 3 stick magazines. The bundle fit perfectly in the duffel bag, which Lou then stuffed with a gas mask, ratchet set, 3 road flare sticks, a first aid kit, spotlight, three packs of d-cell batteries, a crowbar, and other equipment that would not arouse suspicion from the Guard.

"Carroll Channing" was set. After locking up his car, he slipped the bag over his shoulder and made his way back into the airport. He kept on with his quick stride, ignoring the troopers and the soldiers that passed by him as he made his way back through to the conference room. The Private had left his post, which allowed Lou to pass through unhindered, as he happened upon the procession of personnel heading out to the truck. He followed in behind them silently.

The MTVR brought back memories, memories of a hotter, shittier time inside a similar vehicle. His layers protected him from the intense cold, and the vehicle itself offered up some protection against the chilling winds. The wind was worse than anything, especially given that they'd be on the road for long hours. a few folks introduced themselves, breaking the silence that had overwhelmed the entire day. Lou sat the bag down at his feet, grabbing a seat near the entrance. His eyes glanced around at his fellow agents. Once everything went quiet, he spoke up.

"Carroll Channing," he said, his accent not covered. His eyes glanced around, scanning for any prying eyes or nearby soldiers. "I have additional equipment for us to utilize, namely a spare piece for someone who can handle it."

by **Anowa** » Wed Oct 19, 2016 7:28 pm

Gray, Lindsay Ulysses
Virologist, Former Occultist, DG Operative

Vivian, was the only name Lindsay could think of that started with Viv. Poor girl, she wasn't ready for this level of stress, Lindsay herself didn't think she was ready, and she worked with weaponized Marburg and Bunyavirus, it was one of the reasons she had 30 days a year of allocated stress leave. And that didn't include holidays, vacation, or any stats.

One Caroll Channing introduced himself soon after Viv... Samantha. Lindsay internally sighed, at least she caught on, despite the possible lateness of her catching herself. Though the man was interesting, his accent was distinctly Colonial, and it sure as fuck wasn't Canadian. And he didn't look Indian, so that narrowed it down to Oceania, or South Africa.

But the girl across from her, she likely wasn't armed, likely wasn't prepped for something like this. The only one's who looked ready were the Old Man -who had yet to introduce himself- and the big guy who walked in with a bloody rifle. And Lindsay suspected he was an honest to god spook. Regardless of her thoughts she replied to the college student, "Thank you, I guess I'm Molly Smith."

by **Forest State** » Thu Oct 20, 2016 8:26 am

Haley was all business once she stepped into the conference room, and she was perfectly calm as she was informed that being tailed could mess up the operation. "I'm sure that I lost him. I made eye contact and he knew that I knew he was following me, and he left. I gave a call to my CIA guy and told him to pass on a message to leave me alone," she said. "But in case the agent comes back, remember that he's a fair skinned man in his early thirties, with green eyes and brown hair that's slightly unkempt. Look for someone like him with nervous body language and a phone in his hands at all time. Tell me if you see him, and I'll make sure he runs into a setback."

She sat back and listened to the rest of the briefing, but her eyes were darting across the room as she cold read everyone else. The reason why she was so good at social engineering was because she was nearly hypersensitive to small details, which let her figure out the things she could use against others. Over the years, she'd learned that a good agent observed their allies as much as their enemies. Knowing the weaknesses of your own squad was essential to limiting mistakes in the field. They made this sound much more professional when they were recruiting me... I recognize one person as being a CIA agent, but there's a few here who look like they got pulled off the street.

She let out a small sigh, but also smiled slightly. For once, she was one of the most experienced agents in the room. But she couldn't do anything to shake the feeling of anxiety that came from working with a new group of agents who had less experience and were more error prone. As a former black ops operative, she decided that she would take the responsibility of training them properly on herself. If there was more notice for this, there would be time for me to at least train the younger agents so they don't get us killed. I have a terrible feeling about this, she thought, and then when the meeting finished, she looked at the FEMA ID that she'd been given. The name written on it was "Hannah Nowaka". She examined it but didn't put it on. First, she reached into her bag and pulled out a black jacket that she put on over her sweatshirt. Then, she let her hair down and went through it with a comb to make it less messy. She was trying to change her appearance enough to make herself harder to spot by someone trying to tail her. Finally, she tied her hair back in a ponytail and pulled her sweatshirt hood over it.

After everyone else started to leave, she threw her backpack around one shoulder and followed. The cold didn't bother her when she went out to the trucks and climbed inside. Being from New York City, she was used to cold. She found herself sitting next to the young girl who was easily the youngest one here. Vivian. She stared the girl down, examining her, and then decided to test how she would react to some slight pressure. "Hey, you. Aren't you a bit young to be working with us? You look like you're still in high school," Haley remarked, still staring her down intensely. "Do you even have any experience with working for a government agency? I signed up to work with professionals, not college students. You're the weak link in this group..."

Haley sighed, looking away and folding her arms. "Sorry, kiddo. That's harsh, I know. I just don't like seeing kids out here... I've seen too many young people, some of them barely older than you, die in Pakistan because of stupid mistakes," she added. "And I was younger than you when I went into intelligence, and at your age, I'd already killed someone. I guess I don't want to see someone else have to go through the same things at the same age that I did."

It felt strange, being the one who was giving new agents a speech like this. She frowned, realizing how hypocritical she was being, but she still wondered if Vivian was even agent material. She wondered if all of the civilian members of this group were agent material, really. Her anxiety wouldn't let her ignore it, as she feared that they would mess up the mission for everybody with amateur mistakes. She could only try to address it to get her mind off of it, even though there wasn't much she could do. She wasn't the one who had picked the agents, she would just have to work with them even though she had problems with their experience level.

by **Len Hyet** » Thu Oct 20, 2016 10:00 am

Patrick "Twitch" O'Connor
US Army Rangers, Ret.

Patrick woke up the same way he did most every morning, covered in a cold sweat and clutching frantically under his pillow for his gun, a Beretta M9 with the dubious distinction of having been the cause of three separate holes in the wall of Patrick's house over the handful of years he'd lived there. This morning at least, Patrick refrained from scaring the bejeesus out of his cat, a tom who he had in a rare fit of ironic humor named Lucy. Instead he did the next thing he did every morning that didn't start with a bang, Patrick did a check of the 'perimeter' as he called it.

The two windows in his bedroom that provided a nice natural light, and each had a small anti-personnel mine mounted just below the windowsill pointed up and outward slightly, so that the face of the mine looked almost directly at the ceiling. The frame of Patrick's doorway had been rigged to a pair of shaped charges designed to blow anything that came charging through right back out the way it came, while doing minimal damage to the interior of the room. A throw rug in the hallway covered a punji stake pit and was weighted to drop anything over fifty pounds, which Patrick stepped smartly around after noting that it was all still intact.

And so it went all the way around the house. Mines at most every window, demolition charges near load-bearing walls, Soviet-made OZM-72 mines in covered holes in the floor rigged to specific floorboards, all marked in a way that allowed Patrick to avoid stepping on them. The house was a paranoid man's security blanket. No man, or thing, could come through the door or walls, ceiling or windows, without eating either high explosive or steel rain. As soon as Patrick could figure out how, he'd begin mining the foundation of the house as well. If worst came to worst, there were things out there that Patrick knew he had no intention of being taken alive by, and had dead man's switches placed at tactically important locations around the house, just waiting to be connected to the demolition charges that would blow the entire house into pieces smaller than a walnut.

His morning security sweep done, Patrick made himself a cup of coffee, and put out breakfast for Lucy. He mentally tallied a list of things he needed to do today, which was fortunately short. Perimeter Check, done. Feed Lucy, done. Go food shopping, could be put off for another few days. He wracked his brain for a few more moments, shrugged, and was about to change to do a workout when the phone rang.

Patrick's house was fairly rural. He had one landline, no computer, no internet, a flip phone that didn't get service out here, in fact his only concession to "modern" life was a flat-screen TV with satellite cable. That was just to stave off boredom what with how little he liked leaving the perimeter.

So Patrick stared at the phone for a moment, ran through a list of booby traps, was fairly certain he hadn't tied anything to the phone, and picked up the receiver, but didn't say anything.

"Hi Patrick it's Sally, we're having a bit of trouble keeping the heat on up here at Grandma's house in Minneapolis, could you come give us a hand?" Asked a pre-recorded voice that Patrick was certain he had never heard before in his life.

"If you meet us at the airport conference room we'll pick you up and give you a ride to Grandma's. Oh and don't bring too many toys, I know you love surprising Dear old Grandma but I wouldn't want you getting caught up in airport security. See you soon!" Patrick hung up the phone, processed for a moment, sighed, and dumped the rest of Lucy's food into his bowl.

"Sorry buddy, gotta go." He said aloud, then blinked a bit, surprised by the scratchiness of his voice. The recorded message had been a code, a simple code but a good one for that. Only someone intimately familiar with Patrick's family would be able to figure out why it made no sense. Of Patrick's two Grandmothers, one had died before he was born, and the other had died while he was on deployment in Afghanistan, and left him the house he lived in now. "Dear old Grandma" was just a cover for the initials, "DG", Delta Green. The request not to bring too many toys was one that Patrick was going to abide by, just selectively. O'Connor hummed an old Springsteen song to himself as he grabbed a go-bag, occasionally breaking out into snatches of song.

This particular go-bag contained two changes of civilian clothes, a .45 and two boxes of ammo which Patrick pulled out and placed aside, and wrapped securely in five layers of plastic wrap a pound of the extremely pliable, odorless Semtex and two yards of detonating cord which Patrick also pulled aside, but for a different reason. Instead of putting them away as he would the gun and ammo, he stripped, put on a pair of plastic gloves, wrapped his forearms in plastic wrap, put on a second pair of gloves, and then began to secure the explosive to his body. It was split into three equal parts, which were each molded into nearly flat sheets, wrapped again in several layers of plastic wrap and secured to Patrick with duct tape. After the duct tape came another sealing layer of plastic wrap, rendering each piece of Semtex undetectable to a casual search.

Finally Patrick took out a bag of baby wipes, and wiped down the skin of his exposed arms, and the skin around the Semtex. Then he carefully took off the gloves and plastic wrap that had covered his hands and forearms, and wiped himself down yet again, before finally dressing in a pair of clean clothes. The detonating cord had been strung through a roll of honest fibrous rope, and would serve to get through scrutiny at the airport.

Patrick slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed his pickup's keys, disarmed a mine, opened and closed the door, and armed a different mine on the outside. Never could be too safe with explosives after all.

---

As his beat up old truck pulled into the Minneapolis−Saint Paul Airport parking lot, Patrick looked at the security measures that were at least in plain view, and smiled a bit. Nobody here expected a suicide bomber, which meant nobody was scanning for explosives. Oh they'd have that hand-swipe test designed to check for explosives but that was the whole point of the layers of gloves and plastic wrap he'd worn while handling the stuff. O'Connor turned off the car and picked his way through the drifts of snow to the entrance. At the entrance to the airport he was stopped by a National Guard trooper who looked about as excited to be outside freezing his balls off as could be expected. Thank god for the enlisted man Patrick thought to himself.

"What's your business?" The Corporal asked, with all the enthusiasm of a turd.

"Visiting family, Corporal." Patrick replied, raising a single eyebrow. Before he'd been discharged he had made his way to Sergeant, and staring down Corporals had been a part of his daily routine.

"Can you please show me your ID sir?"

O'Connor pulled his MilID out of his wallet, and handed it to the trooper, who handed it back with a nod to the retired Sergeant.

"Thank you sir. Open the bag please sir."

Patrick complied, and showed the Corporal his set of clothes. The Corporal poked around in the bag using one of those sticks designed to let security move around objects in a bag without actually sticking their hands into the bag itself.

"Rope?"

"Learned that rope was pretty damn useful in all sorts of situations when I was in the Kush." Patrick replied with a shrug.

"Fair. Alright, go ahead."

The former Ranger nodded his thanks, zipped up his bag and passed it around the metal detector, which he then stepped through, and made his way into the airport. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he found the conference room, and stepped inside for the briefing.

His FEMA card read "Alex Forsythe", which would take some getting used to. As the group made their way to the National Guard convoy, Patrick fidgeted around in his bag until the rope was at the top, just in case.

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Thu Oct 20, 2016 10:44 am

A truck
Minneapolis, Minnesota

Nathan tried to sit in peace, his head drawn into his shoulders, slowly sinking away in a dreamless, uneasy sleep. His coat formed a warm blanket surrounding him, and the heat it generated made him drowsy. The soft bouncing of the truck itself didn’t help either, rocking him back and forth into a very relaxed state of mind. This quiet comfort, in which he could’ve spent the entire trip, was suddenly and rudely interrupted by a woman sitting in front of him. As far as he knew, she hadn’t introduced herself yet, but he realised that could’ve been caused by his momentary slumber. Yet, in his frame of reference, it seemed that she was taking pot-shots at another girl without and apparent reason. The woman, quite young-looking herself, somehow found herself in the position to talk down to one of their companions. Samantha, as she had introduced herself.

Now, normally, Nathan would’ve let it slide. It was not his problem, after all. Samantha could probably take a verbal beating like the best of them, judging from her outward appearance. She just looked like the person who didn’t give two shits about what people thought of her. Nathan would’ve led it go, but he was already in a bad mood. And if there was something he despised, it was being kept awake from some much-needed shuteye. Especially in planes, which is why he only flew private if he had to. No stewardesses to keep you awake. This unnamed woman, or girl, as she might have been more aptly called, was the personification of the worst of stewardesses. Loud, arrogant… Really not the qualities you want someone to have when you want to go to sleep.

“Leave the kid” Nathan grumbled, looking in the general direction of the girl from under his thick woollen ushanka. He folded his arms over his chest, hugging the warmth into his body.

“Who do you think you are? How old are you yourself? 25? 26? 29, at most. To have killed at 21 gives no bragging right” Nathan said simply, before shutting his eyes again. He hoped he’d silenced the youngster with what he’d said. He had absolutely no mood for any sort of argument at that time. Well, if she somehow began an interesting discussion on subprime mortgage loans, he would be interested. Otherwise, it was all for nought.

Nathan thought about his father. He was about her age when he came back from Vietnam. A burned-down wreck, as his grandfather had told him. So sick of death, yet so addicted to administering it. A paradox of a person, with that inconsistency slowly tearing him up with booze and drugs. It was why Nathan didn’t drink alcohol. The scent reminded him too much of his own old man. God, how such an undeniably strong man could’ve been torn down by horrors. He opened his eyes again, looking at the girl. A soft sigh escaped under his breath, forming small clouds as the cold air froze the humidity. His look was apologetic, although not entirely towards the girl.

“I’m sorry, look… I’ve seen people her age do incredible things when they’re moved to. And I’ve seen people your age tear themselves up. No need to judge her based on that. I’m not judging you, after all” he said softly, before shutting his eyes once again. He wound his scarf a bit more tightly around his neck, again hugging the warmth of his coat to the inside of his body. The cold steel of the M1911 contrasted heavily with his own warm clothing, and Nathan tried to avoid feeling his weapon. The less he had to think about it, the more he could relax at that moment. Relaxation would not be his part for the coming hours, somehow he expected that.

by **Beiarusia** » Thu Oct 20, 2016 5:35 pm

Vivian Townsend

Vivian nodded as Molly Smith introduced herself. No doubt the alias given by the FEMA badge. The blue-haired woman seemed kind enough, or at the very least approachable – unlike the few gruff men who looked more at home in a warzone than snowy Minnesota – and though Vivian wasn’t looking to make any close friends it was helpful nonetheless to have someone whom she could speak with if need be. Unfortunately it would appear that Molly was just as informed as Vivian was on the matter of Delta Green and their way of operating. Not that it truly mattered. The peculiarities of the secretive organization would become apparent soon enough, that is if Vivian lived past today. Regardless the short notice was something that she could do without.

“So you’re new here too, right?” the girl assumed with a look that was difficult to read. Not quite expressionless but certainly there was little overt emotion. Bored maybe. A man spoke up with a name – Carroll Channing – and offered some of his equipment if so desired. Vivian already had some equipment with her (namely her camera) but addressed the man if only to be polite. “Hello.”

The truck shook somewhat as it hit a bump in the road.

There was the feeling of being watched and, casting a glance to her side, it was apparent that the normal-haired woman sitting in the seat next to Vivian was studying the her as if she were a bacterium caught underneath a microscope. The woman, who did not introduce herself, then proceeded to question Vivian’s age, asking if she was still in high school or if she’d ever worked with a government agency. No on both accounts was the simple answer. Before Vivian could give an actual reply the nameless woman declared her the weakest link of the group, a true enough statement if one were to get technical, but an assertion that left the girl momentarily stunned if only for the suddenness of the remark. Nameless then offered a weak apology before lecturing Vivian about how she, as the youngest in the group, was a liability and likely to die and how she, nameless woman, had already killed a man when not much older than Vivian was now. Vivian, for her part, watched the woman with a blank look that was only just tarnished with a hint of muted surprise, unsure on what to say and not quite certain on how she felt with being put on the spot to begin with. Another man, regal and businesslike, interrupted then, interjecting on Vivian’s behalf and silencing the nameless woman with a stern remark. Vivian simply allowed her gaze to fall to the floor of the truck.

Nameless was right in a way. These men and women were no doubt trained to kill a man in 27 different ways. But that didn’t matter. Vivian had her own skills and uses, and even if she was as dangerous as a wet kitten she was more than just a liability. Delta Green had chosen her for a reason, and failing them would mean failing herself. Too much had happened in her past to merely give in. She owed it to her sister, if for no one at all, to press onward until she had the answers she sought.

“I’m not useless,” the girl muttered after a long moment of being ignored. An inner truth that she so desperately needed to prove. One final look towards the nameless woman, blank but with a hard edge, before turning her gaze towards the man that had spoken on her behalf. A small nod in thanks was all that was said.

If only to be polite.

▲DELTA-GREEN▲: Lover On The Ice

▲DELTA-GREEN▲: Lover On The Ice

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