Avatar of Bazmund
  • Last Seen: 8 mos ago
  • Joined: 7 yrs ago
  • Posts: 505 (0.20 / day)
  • VMs: 0
  • Username history
    1. Bazmund 7 yrs ago

Status

Recent Statuses

6 yrs ago
Current Back at the guild after a long absence. Much changed since I was gone?
2 likes

Bio

Medical student living in Scotland, a lover of beer and steak mostly - but also writing, and politics. Because why not make myself even more divisive.

Most Recent Posts

Archie's eyes narrowed at the fourth candidate, and his failure to comply. No matter. He would be taken care of by other agents of the Employer. Archie had other business to attend to.

"Good morning," He began politely, maintaining the plastic smile, "My name is Archibald Mercer. You may call me Mr. Mercer, or sir. My companions, whom you shall meet presently, are Dowle Fenn, and María Buscadora del Sueño. As I'm sure is evident, none of these names can be linked to our own origins, for security's sake." He took another sip of coffee and beckoned his partners over.

"Well, looks like we're on, sweetheart." Dowle grinned wolfishly at María, as he got up to go and greet their new, unwilling team mates. "How's the form, folks? I'll bet the Brit took the liberty of introducing us for us, in true form." He held out his hand to shake, as María crept up more slowly, more anxiously.

"Hi." She nodded curtly.

"Yes, well I'm sure you can tell who is who." Archie mused briefly, before turning back to the recruits - specifically, to Laneya. "Please. Don't worry about that. There will be no such conflicts. Now, if you don't mind, follow me. We have a train to catch. I shall explain everything on board."

The walk to the platform was short, and the train was already there - as usual, everything was timed perfectly. None of the willingly Employed made any more communication until they were all sat down in the 1st Class carriage of a pristine Virgin train, bound for Cambridge via Whittlesford Parkway. The air was cool, but only pleasantly so, and the food being served - complementary to 1st class - was of unusually high quality for any sort of travel food.

"I do hope you didn't eat before you got here. The Virgin breakfasts are especially good when they're hot - thank Queen and Country for Richard Branson." Archie gave the crew a thin grin as he tucked a serviette into his collar, and dug into what appeared to all the senses to be a miniature full English breakfast.

"Queen and Country indeed." Dowle finally returned Archie's scowl at the mention of the Queen.

"I'm sorry. These two are always fighting like this. You must have many questions."

"Mm, yes. I imagine - so let me start with the basics. Each of you was, one way or another, forced into performance in this scheme against your will. This holds the potential for great rewards, should you fulfill your role well, as well as grave consequences should you try to abandon the mission - as the fourth conscript, Vincent Carini, has by now likely discovered. Let me reassure you, however, that you shall come to no harm as long as you take this seriously, do as you are told, and don't piss off the Employer." Archie explained briefly, whilst cutting a piece of sausage, dipping it in brown sauce, and eating it.

There was then an uncomfortable silence as the train pulled away from the station.

"I... suppose you must have questions?" María asked hesitantly.

_______________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________________________________________


The breeze was cool and the air clean on the balcony of the penthouse apartment you had been taken to. It was refreshing, there was no doubt about that, but no matter how calm the city was around you, and no matter how at peace the rest of Cambridge seemed, the world remained a prison to you. You now knew your first task, and you knew the face of the target - Johannes Markand, a young looking, moderately handsome, well bearded, vaguely Scandinavian immigrant working for LS3 Security, in particular on their special protections projects. It was a lucrative business - one that you were going to play a big part in robbing him of.

But you had no choice in that regard, and you knew it - whether the idea of crime had ever appealed to you anyway.

All that mattered now was formulating a plan with your unwilling co-conspirators, a task that you'd been mostly left alone to complete too, with only the rough knowledge of the capabilities of your three superiors, and what roles they could play - Archibald, the Officer and Soldier, Dowle, the Chemist and Terrorist, and María, the psychoanalyst and beauty queen. Sure enough, the first two were more than capable of violence if it was required, but that presented other problems too - ideally, the data could be obtained without tipping anyone off that it had ever been taken, so that LS3 couldn't try to adapt their plan in response. María was good for reading people, monitoring the situation and such, but she was just about well enough known that one of you had practically recognised her from the get go, and that's a risk that possibly isn't worth it. Then there's the data storage itself - intentionally bulky, not very portable, and hard to access, it's also airgapped from the internet physically, making remote hacking entirely unfeasible for the simple lack of a connection - and what physical connections there are on the data crate itself are unique to Lockheart branded hardware, so simply plugging a flash drive in was mostly out of the question, unless a new one that fits the slots could be created. Could you do that? Could one of your new unwilling team mates? You didn't know, because you barely knew each other.

And then, finally, the ultimate variable - the Employer.

No word had yet reached you on the fate of the fourth employee, who had failed to obey the text messages back in Liverpool St. Station, but it was unlikely to have been pleasant, or quick - if it had been yet at all. The Employer was unpredictable, and also the single most critical factor in influencing your lifespan from that moment forwards. Even doing your job perfectly didn't guarantee survival, much less the 'rewards' that had been promised. People lie, and there was no reason to suppose that the Employer was any different - certainly, it would be safer for the Employer to just kill you at the end of it all.

So many uncertainties, so much to go wrong.

Mr. Markand plans to host a party, as it has been mentioned that he likes to do, in just a week. That is likely to be your best window of opportunity to seize the data needed by your Employer.

The rest of the heist plan, though, is entirely up to you.

Good luck.

@CollectorOfMyst Ah, I see. Thanks for the info man. I'll write up the next IC when I get home then.
@TheMusketman You all good, amigo?


@TheMusketMan I don't know how much longer we can wait for you, dude.
@TheMusketman You all good, amigo?
@BingTheWing You absolutely may. And yeah Hackney is totally fucked, and that's as polite as it gets. I'm not a London native either, but my friend Wesley is - and actually, he's from Hackney. Stabbings all around, that place is.

EDIT: Also, I'm not pissed, or really criticising you or anything. I can only imagine how it must be for any Americans here, let alone simply a non-Londoner.
@BingTheWing I gotta say, friendo, Islington is a much nicer place than Richard seems to think it is. I mean, it's by no means upper class or anything, but it's generally regarded as pretty safe as far as I know.
@Innis O. Sorry, amiga.
Archie Mercer narrowed his eyes as the first of his Employer's picks wandered into the station, sipping gingerly at a hazelnut latté from the Costa Coffee tucked away in the corner of the main floor, near the ATM block. He narrowed his eyes further as the second one entered - and more so with the third and fourth. He was, of course, looking at them through the reflection of the glass panel on one of the coffee shop's windows, just like he'd been taught. He couldn't let himself be known overtly until the last minute, as per the instructions of his Employer.

Casually, he glanced over his shoulder at the Irishman, grinning over his own coffee - flat white, just as boring as the man's politics - and the knockout beauty sitting next to him, putting up a good show of falsified comfort as the gaelic psychopath squeezed her gently. Of course they were the couple. Sometimes, Archie wondered if the employer was messing with him too.

It would hardly be out of character - although Archie usually got a turn playing lover with María before the operation had ended. His favourite part of the job, usually.

He sipped again at the coffee, turning to face the criminally conscripted properly, and striding towards them, smiling a politician's lying smile at them as he approached, his black peacoat just faintly wet with the remainder of this morning's rain, from his own trek to the station to arrive at 5:00AM, long before the Employees did.

Finally, he reached a point roughly in the centre of where the four young adults had naturally moved to about the station hall, and turned to look pointedly at each of them in turn. The Employer's next automated text would come through in a matter of seconds, as always it did, and they would be prompted to direct their attention to him - a very pleasing sort of coordination and timing that Archibald had grown to appreciate on the part of his Employer, even if it were symptomatic of yet another serious psychological condition.

Ding, each of their phones went off, or buzzed silently, in almost perfect unison.

"Direct your attention to the center of the station hall. The man you see there, dressed primarily in black and holding coffee, is now your chiefest authority. Approach him, taking note of the three others who do. Give this man your name, your age, and your choice of degree at university. Once your identification is complete, he will present you with further instruction. Under no circumstances is he to be disobeyed."

There it was. Archibald already knew what they looked like, and had been briefed thoroughly on their observed personality traits, career goals, core motivations - and most importantly, the means by which they were originally coerced into the employ of the Employer - but it was nice to hear their phones go off, and know he'd been given good information as usual.

He refreshed his smile, having let it slide from his lips partially as their phones rang, and waited.

Patiently.

As usual.

________ ________ ________ ________


"There he goes. Off again. Meeting people and doin' things." Dowle grinned at Archie as he moved out to the middle of the station. "Wish I got to be the front man just for once. I can be charming when I want to be."

Knowing this was most certainly not true, María kept to herself, maybe shrugging a little.

"Ah, what? Not a pretty enough face, you think?"

Again. Kept to herself. Laughed a little, to make it seem to any third party like he'd just told her a joke. To make it all seem normal - which it wasn't, couldn't be, and never would be. She missed Spain, she missed the sun. Fuck this country, and its fucking rain.

"Don't worry your little head, pet. I know why I ain't fronting for us well enough." Dowle smiled softly at her. It almost looked genuine - maybe it was, she couldn't be sure with him. Sometimes, he talked too much. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes, he would talk both sides of a conversation with himself - a conversation with himself. Not another personality, not another fragment of self, but actively holding a conversation with an entity he recognised to be himself.

"What do you think of them?" She asked quietly, never once breaking her smile as he tightened his grip on her, hugging her just slightly closer. It wasn't so bad. He wasn't so bad. She just didn't like this kind of thing in public, and it was cold.

"Well... they'd've never made it far back with my old boys in the Republic, that's for sure. But I s'pose we don't really need 'em to be all that tough, so they look alright to me. What about you?"

This was one thing she actually did like about the Irishman. He was unpredictable, dangerous, and frightening at times, but always asked for her opinion. Not everyone did, and it seemed like a redeeming quality of Dowle's that he cared.

"The men don't like being told what to do. They either think of themselves as powerful, or are so fixated on becoming powerful that this kind of thing is getting under their skin already. They're not scared, they're angry - although men sometimes show fear as anger, so I guess I don't know for sure. The women... one is scared out of her skin, the other is a depressive I think. The scared one is a musician, and takes very good care of her hands - possibly obsessive compulsively. The other seems dead inside. I can't read her like this from afar. They all seem a bit fucked up to me."

Dowle narrowed his eyes at her.

"I thought you'd not read their files?"

"I did not."

Dowle frowned for a moment, then nodded appreciatively.

"I think you're right, love. Mostly, at least. People ain't really my strength, after all."

Will have the next story post up tonight. Worry not, compañeros.
@Innis@TheMusketMan@BingTheWing@Kiddo

IC is up. Get started, amigos - the Employer would be disappointed if you were late, but he would be equally excited to find new and interesting ways to take that disappointment out on your characters.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet