[u][h1]Kaitiaki Homestead, Raven HQ[/h1][/u]
[h2]Rangitoto ki te Tonga / D'Urville Island
South Island, Aotearoa / New Zealand[/h2]
1900 Hours

[img]https://www.newzealandphoto.info/photos/french-pass-a-ostrov-durville-island-novy-zeland-173.jpg[/img]

The landscape was an alive and green one across D'Urville Island, with thick semi-temperate rainforest-like bush then giving way to open, almost radioactively-like green hills, the kind that almost always seemed to glow with light in the sun, due to the abundantly volcanic soil. The untouched landscape with sheep grazing on the hills and the sea shimmering brilliantly in the distance was a sight to behold. This was a place that was special, with only a few temporary accommodations on the island by virtue of it's protected and remote status. Getting to New Zealand took hours by flight, a detour via Wellington, a boat ride in across the choppy Cook Strait, followed by a 4x4 or ATV ride to get anywhere, if the roads were there; if not, by foot.

Well, it was mostly empty...except for one modern homestead and complex at the top of one of the many hills of the far north of island, built with wall-sized glass windows and a panoramic view that would have looked about right belonging to a very wealthy landowner perhaps, but Kaitiaki wasn't that.

Kaitiaki translates to "Guardian" from Maori, a word that could have described Raven itself about right. Protectors, conservers, perhaps of a different kind, but no less, people who would fight and come to action, and another base that they called home.

The homestead itself was built into the side of a hill overlooking the Cook Strait, and encompassed something significantly bigger than what first thoughts appears visible on the surface. A V22 Osprey sat in a wooded alcove not far along the ridgeline, concealed by a small forest, and was linked with a small gravel track to the base itself, the pumic-like track cut freshly into the land that had seen only a hardy few homesteaders try their luck on a windswept island off the coast of the South Island.

On the surface, the top floor contained Skye's office and quarters, with the rest of the team having theirs on the same level too. Beneath that, a rec room, kitchen and breakout area, with a briefing area adjacent to it also filled out the area, having a view over the sea and rolling hills from the mainland and other islands. So far, so corporate. But beneath that, through inner concrete walls were painted a striking white and yellow and a concrete staircase lay a vehicle pool with a hidden door, containing a number of light strike vehicles, and adjacent to that, a large armoury, containing the team's gear, suits, equipment, a firing range and a tooling shed. Beneath that, the gym, both for the regulars and a specialist one that the heavies used, as well as a lab for both Asim and Freya existed, the two brilliant minds of the team having their outlet there. Lastly, linked to the V22 track was an additional facility, containing a small support base, with a signals team and logistics support, who only half knew the role of Raven- officially, the line was the house belonged to a PMC. 

Supplies were shipped in once a month, there was satellite signal, and from above, this place just looked like any other house owned by a reclusive billionaire of some kind, even the V22 might be a bit of a stretch of budget. And if really needed, a short dirt runway was the next cove over, able to take a light cargo aircraft on demand. The only thing they lacked was a hot tub, but no worry there, Skye had one on order. It didn't make her operators soft when she knew on any moment she could put them through hell....and while she didn't per se enjoy it, she knew it was good to balance both nicely.

--------

In mid run on the ridgeline adjacent to the base, Skye enjoyed the view even if they were here in spite of Corsica being nearly compromised from work prior, and now, Raven was pulling itself up here. They rotated regularly to make sure their trace wasn't always found, after all, they couldn't be compromised with the type of work they did. They came close, but got out before Artemis went looking for their man. They'd prevented a data leak, and the person they'd managed to capture on their last mission was a senior leader of Artemis Group, a lethal paramilitary with plans of anarchy through compromising the world's intelligence agencies and governments indiscriminately. They had far more sinister plans from what Skye could only guess than making money and creating high-tech terror, because she knew they weren't just ragdoll terrorists- they used modern firearms, armour and fuck, even had a mech on that last job. So that man had certainly brought the heat on them. Every time she thought she had their measure, she'd always have to adjust that to know what they were up against. Not a cakewalk, and one the intelligence agencies were only whispering about right now. If they knew the details, they'd shit themselves. That was Artemis's point, and Raven's counter.

Wearing a navy blue shirt with an indie band's logo on it and khaki trousers, Skye looked every bit of the Scot she was, her scarlet red hair tied in a ponytail, cut aggressively on her side and bearing her marks from operations past, coupled to her tattoos and fierce demeanour. As pretty as she may have been, she was a woman of her description, a storied, talented operative who commanded a team that many wouldn't have expected her to have. Yet they got the job done. The trail winded and was barely cut from old homesteaders past, the evening sun slowly setting and visceral in colour, a sight that was equal parts breath-taking and incredible. She had to admit, Corsica was good, but this was [b]better[/b]. Even if it involved a 24 hour flight to Wellington and a hell of a lot of adjustment.

With a pace, she kept going, her watch displaying the 20km she'd already run. A lap of the island. Every other day she got to go on this run, and every other day it kept going, hills, troughs, ridges, beaches, and all. The noise of tui and songbirds punctuating the run, the island truly unlike anywhere else many of the operatives came from- New Zealand felt like an alien world, familiar with rolling green hills and almost like Scotland yet so unlike it a way that was intangible. So the run was a chance to take stock. Reflect. Think and keep things in mind. She had plenty of air in her lungs, the repeat exposure and time after time of doing this making it easy, yet the catharsis, the high never left. It was pure as it could be, and made her see as straight as she felt she'd ever had. A purpose, a destination, and yet the journey worth having. She had to admit, it was primal, yet so right. Skye was always one to be social, but sometimes time to think helped beyond that work, and right now, she had some idea of what was coming. What to brief, what to train, and set up.

They'd be back in the field again, Skye knew. And this time, they were taking the fight to the bastards. No more reactive fighting. This time, they were on assault. The team were getting briefed tonight, and the new rotation were going out with her to take on Artemis again, and this time, try and cast a little more light on what the fuck they were up to. Skye knew it was nothing good, and if the arms deal had been correctly set up, they'd be there right in time to create some mayhem. Find out what was being bought, most of all. Now that, that could be something interesting.

Making her way back in, Skye passed the site gate, the security minimal for a facility like this- purely due to the remoteness, and partly due to requiring a couple of biometric scans that would be hard to spoof, built on a hard-wired, internal network. She had to admit, while the team may have changed, they were no part less capable, as she walked through the "ground floor" of the homestead, heading up to the rec room.

With a subtle grab of a drawer and a clink of a glass, she was pouring out a glass of '61 Speyside whiskey, a nice dram and a gentle warmth on a cool Kiwi evening. A bit of calm before the storm as she popped onto a sofa by the window in the airy rec room, enjoying the view. The rest of the team would no doubt trickle in, either already on site, arriving, or out enjoying the island. 

Now this was the life. No paperwork yet, and just a nice fuzzy drink....till the team made some of the former, she thought to herself! 

----------------

[u][h1]OP PARTYCRASHER[/h1][/u]
[h2]Somewhere near Aralsk
Aral Sea, Kazakhstan[/h2]
0600 Hours

[img]https://www.worldatlas.com/r/w768/upload/84/f3/99/shutterstock-328957481.jpg[/img]

The desolate, arid desert of the Aral Sea was a lonely place, scattered only with rusted and abandoned ships beyond the town limits of Aralsk, a Soviet city that had been mostly abandoned, and totally silent aside from sand rustling in the early dawn. The Aral Sea had almost dried up completely more than 20 years ago, and what was left was a fertilizer and poison-contaminated dusty ex-seabed come desert of sand, rock and shingle. The literal opposite to Kaitiaki, in almost every single way. An antipode of environment, a dead land with nothing but old islands that now made hills, rusted out shells of cargo ships and fishing boats, and the occasional camel. 

OST: [url]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJMdZrOOef0[/url]

Lonely Boy- The Black Keys

Yet the swirling noise of sand being blown across earth was interrupted by the rumble of the modified DPVs rattling through the dawn, the team spread between the two vehicles, racing through the dunes, Skye sitting in the driver's seat of one as she looked out, her own tunes playing quietly through her own headset, an absolute classic. The Desert Patrol Vehicles, updated naturally for this sort of terrain had chunkier tyres, three seats, and a supercharged engine in the back for extra welly. Unarmed to save weight, but then again, they were all carrying enough firepower- and had been delivered in the dead of night through a local courier. 

Skye with her exo seemed more warrior like than the woman some would see, almost androgynous given her height and game face on now. Fatigues, MG3, Gustav MAAWS, oh, and extra ammo for both. The Osiris Exoskeleton unit, a light carbon-composite and aluminium framed second-generation combat carrying exo and a singular jump-pack did the job for her, providing a fairly typical load-bearing vest, ballistic protection, the multi-purpose MTP fatigues contrasted by navy/green tartan pattern on the exoskeleton's actual frame itself, topped off with a blue neck warmer. An updated Ops-Core looking-like helmet followed suit, as did a navy blue baseball cap that tucked under facing backwards, with a holographic display up on her tactical glasses being joined with a quad-optic multi-spectrum night vision device. Skye's setup was more than sometimes a regular medium would have, it made her fast, nimble, heavy hitting and quick. Perhaps not as hacker focussed, but she could more or less run like a greyhound and chase the team, like a real team mum would. The buzzsaw loaded, Skye felt the cells power on and the weight get pulled back, the LMG going from a bag of bricks to feeling like an MP5 in her hands, and like she felt like an invisible cable was pulling her up and along. It never got old, and while Skye Rosalind Lyons may have been a cute-looking redhead, right now, she looked like the mid-21st century's equivalent of a Highlander about to go scalp some English fuckers, a resolute, burning figure on her face.

Looking across, she saw the other vehicle, a few other team members in that DPV, the heavy taking the lion's share with the rear gunner's seat, the two vehicles capable of carrying the combined tonnage of the team, fuel and other supplies.

"We're nearly at our stop point, team. Pull up on the GPS co-ordinate, should be right by that hill over there. We'll take a look at the situation and get ready for this. Remember, we're here to find out what's going on, stop an arms deal, and then crash the party. Let's not rain down the fireworks straight away." 
Skye broke the silence, the Scottish tones sultry and crisp, a husky tone that felt it was comfortable barking as loud as it could yet finding the soothing, gentle percussiveness of warmth and trust, her usual dichotomy of being.

Then again, being in charge of a sometimes ragtag team had that happen, so here she was, covering bases.

Pulling up, the DPV skidded to a halt as she clambered out, and with a wry grin, took stock of the situation.
"Right. Last chance to grab gear, take stock, and get ready." The team leader added, cocking her own MG3, the light machine gun ready and capable on demand as she put hand to comms, calling her handler out.

"Oracle, we're at Observation Point Alpha, in position. What's the status of our support?" She asked, firm yet directly, looking to the others disembarking, keeping an eye on the dark desert around her.
"A-ferrmative, we've got you on visuals. Drone is twenty minutes out, you know how to call for it if you need it on station." The handler's voice was smooth through her comm-set, as he awaited reply.
"Copy that, Oracle. Don't let it get closer, keep it loitering away, we can't let them know what we're up to yet. I know what it's carrying too, once that hits on call in, by Christ, that'll make a mark. Queen out." With that, Skye looked across to the team, the setup clear as to what they were doing, and aware they'd be probably wondering that element of it.

"I asked for a big firework today, but let's save it till we need it. I need a couple of you on recon up on the ridge, ASAP. Tell me what you see at the rusted out ship, rough numbers, anti tank, anti aircraft, give me a picture of what we're up against. I expect trouble, but we've dealt with these wankers before, and left them high and dry."