FourtyTwo Member
STATUS: 10+ years of an RP idea, finally finished, on 10.10.2025. Goodnight Raven Squad, you were the best, wildest, most silly near future SOF RP that lived on the guild, and you got a worthy send off :) 9 mos ago
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10+ years of an RP idea, finally finished, on 10.10.2025. Goodnight Raven Squad, you were the best, wildest, most silly near future SOF RP that lived on the guild, and you got a worthy send off :)
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Bio
I've RP'd for the best part of over 15 years now here on the Guild, and particularly like military settings, both contemporary, past and near future. I have even dabbled in a little more experimental RPs, as well as created a plethora of 1x1s over my time in the guild. I like creating RPs with a distinct flavour- and often shift between narrative-led RPs to semi-randomised plots. I've been more a GM lately than a player, and don't really lean into fandom- instead, exploring my own universes lifting themes from other source material.
My main interests are military-themed, near-future RPs, with a focus on technology. But I'm beginning to push what that RP idea looks like- taking inspiration from lots of media and focussing on the fun, indulgent side of RP, whilst also exploring the lows and emotional side.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/190121-rav…
Raven Squad is a project over seven years in the making, and focusses on a class-based, eccentric yet half-grounded near future special forces team that acts as a response team where you can't send any special forces team in. It's incredibly dumb, incredibly loose, and yet, has delivered some of my favourite plot points in RPG. A brainless action flick a la John Wick and Kingsman meets a complex thriller with a fun left turn in it, Raven has been the culmination of over a decade of loving special forces RPG, gaming influences and other silliness in a package that has provided players with something quite different to a normal military themed RPG. While at an end, this is an RP that is a signature- it's silly as hell, takes itself barely seriously, and is what peak fun military RPG to me should be.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/192916-del…
Delta Hyper is a love letter to Wipeout, F1's Drive to Survive (Netflix) and contemporary Formula One, with influences from solarpunk, cyberpunk, transhumanism and other posthumanist concepts. An RP that follows pilots in their ups and downs, it's a story that hasn't got me playing an actual character, but framing the camera at each pilot (played by others), and presenting it as if it were a documentary. Lifting elements from TTRPG, this is a Racing RPG like no other and no parallel exists- using dice rolls and randomisation, with a stats-driven system to generate race results, rather than actually RPing the races, players experience the fast-paced, dynamic world of anti-gravity racing. This means that come Qualifying and Race, the results are genuinely a surprise to everyone- and based on decisions made through dilemmas and decisions made between races. Friendships, rivalry, the glamour and even a little political undertone play out in 2094, in a colourful, utopian future that focuses on the fight to take first place.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/196931-tac…
Then there's Tactical Breach Wizards: Fireteam Hex. First use of any set IP as a formal setting, this is an RP that offers a darker mirror to Raven Squad, focussing on the other side of the equation- unlikely heroes in an uncomfortable position. I don't normally do fantasy, but the world, the lore, the feeling of the characters and the ability to write a comedy just was too difficult to pass up. An RP that focuses on a group running away from a variety of threats as wanted mercenary wizards in the middle of a post-revolution, Eastern-Europe adjacent 1990s to present Polavia.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/197399-dis…
Lastly, Dispatch: Heroes of Claremont. This is another IP-adjacent world, albeit drawing on a different setting and a new cast of superheroes. As my "first" proper superhero RP, this combines workplace comedy, a Storyteller-lite system and a fun, diverse, and large cast together in a dynamic, diverse setting.
I'm pretty flexible and try and get back to people on ideas and responses, but sometimes, I may become very busy and it will take some time till I am un-busy. I aim to clear posts within a week!
My main interests are military-themed, near-future RPs, with a focus on technology. But I'm beginning to push what that RP idea looks like- taking inspiration from lots of media and focussing on the fun, indulgent side of RP, whilst also exploring the lows and emotional side.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/190121-rav…
Raven Squad is a project over seven years in the making, and focusses on a class-based, eccentric yet half-grounded near future special forces team that acts as a response team where you can't send any special forces team in. It's incredibly dumb, incredibly loose, and yet, has delivered some of my favourite plot points in RPG. A brainless action flick a la John Wick and Kingsman meets a complex thriller with a fun left turn in it, Raven has been the culmination of over a decade of loving special forces RPG, gaming influences and other silliness in a package that has provided players with something quite different to a normal military themed RPG. While at an end, this is an RP that is a signature- it's silly as hell, takes itself barely seriously, and is what peak fun military RPG to me should be.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/192916-del…
Delta Hyper is a love letter to Wipeout, F1's Drive to Survive (Netflix) and contemporary Formula One, with influences from solarpunk, cyberpunk, transhumanism and other posthumanist concepts. An RP that follows pilots in their ups and downs, it's a story that hasn't got me playing an actual character, but framing the camera at each pilot (played by others), and presenting it as if it were a documentary. Lifting elements from TTRPG, this is a Racing RPG like no other and no parallel exists- using dice rolls and randomisation, with a stats-driven system to generate race results, rather than actually RPing the races, players experience the fast-paced, dynamic world of anti-gravity racing. This means that come Qualifying and Race, the results are genuinely a surprise to everyone- and based on decisions made through dilemmas and decisions made between races. Friendships, rivalry, the glamour and even a little political undertone play out in 2094, in a colourful, utopian future that focuses on the fight to take first place.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/196931-tac…
Then there's Tactical Breach Wizards: Fireteam Hex. First use of any set IP as a formal setting, this is an RP that offers a darker mirror to Raven Squad, focussing on the other side of the equation- unlikely heroes in an uncomfortable position. I don't normally do fantasy, but the world, the lore, the feeling of the characters and the ability to write a comedy just was too difficult to pass up. An RP that focuses on a group running away from a variety of threats as wanted mercenary wizards in the middle of a post-revolution, Eastern-Europe adjacent 1990s to present Polavia.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/197399-dis…
Lastly, Dispatch: Heroes of Claremont. This is another IP-adjacent world, albeit drawing on a different setting and a new cast of superheroes. As my "first" proper superhero RP, this combines workplace comedy, a Storyteller-lite system and a fun, diverse, and large cast together in a dynamic, diverse setting.
I'm pretty flexible and try and get back to people on ideas and responses, but sometimes, I may become very busy and it will take some time till I am un-busy. I aim to clear posts within a week!
Most Recent Posts
Also, got an incredible idea for an intro post. It involves some Sigur Ros. It fits, trust me.
Done. I mean, I've done what I can on that one to fix it, edited parts of it out to make it more sensical (some bits were retarded, even with my shitty knowledge of the Vikings).
Halvar is essentially a typical Viking, but with a little more intellect. I wouldn't say he's material to become a King in his own right, but he could become a Lord, perhaps through methods that are a little underhand. He isn't just brutal, he has a very razor sharp approach to people.
Halvar is essentially a typical Viking, but with a little more intellect. I wouldn't say he's material to become a King in his own right, but he could become a Lord, perhaps through methods that are a little underhand. He isn't just brutal, he has a very razor sharp approach to people.
Basically, I had not much to go on I'm afraid- as aformentioned it was quite vague, I'm glad you picked these out, this will all be fixed.
Vague CS- this is not the final product. This might, or might not work- essentially, Halvar will be playing a role in consolidating perhaps a new age of Viking raids on Britain, starting with finishing up the job in Manx.
Name: Halvar Dyras Sigurdsson
(OOC: Could be known as "The Serpent" to the residents of Manx, for a particular act he might do.)
Age: 31
Appearance: Halvor looks very contrary to many Vikings of his era, perhaps being a little more eloquent than most, though of course, more rough than any Romano-British soldier could be found. He keeps a short head of blonde hair, shaved almost, being very contra to the usual look of many Vikings, with long flowing hair. This is a rather personal, and painful choice to make, being something that perhaps he prefers in maintenance. A pair of Nordic blue eyes, and a thick, yet somewhat well kept full beard reinforces the point- this is a Norseman, through and through. He stands at about 6"4, and whilst not being the largest of his compatriots, can wield a two-handed axe with fairly good ease, and a Crossbow with significant talent, as he is fairly stocky. In most meetings, be it trade or war, he can be seen wearing an almost full suit of chainmail, over which he wears a red and blue shirt tunic. While being very heavy, many Vikings such as Halvar are able to fight effectively with them on, and it goes up the whole length of the neck, with a Viking helmet (NO HORNS, GUESS FUCKING WHY?*) and fur overcoat joining them. A two-handed Norse Axe is his weapon of choice, with a iron blade that has seen many an opponent felled like a tree trunk. A shortsword and blue and red wooden iron-reinforced shield sit on a holster on his hip and back respectively, the two handed axe incompatible with the two due to their size. Otherwise, he can be seen wearing a blue-dyed woolen tunic when on ship
Culture: Norse
Religion: Norse Paganism
Backstory: Born in the southern realms of Norway, Halvar was brought up in the old ways, the Norse way. His father was a raider and from a young age, he often was taught how to fight, how to hunt and how to read runes, as well as how to help sail a Longboat- from working on the rigging to helmsman duties. He was fairly clever, and whilst not the strongest or the bravest of them all, he had a sharp mind, a mind that did not dreamed but realized. Blood wasn't a scary sight for him. He embraced it quickly, and at the age of 16, took part in his rite of passage, joining his father on an expedition to the western coast of Alba, to raid monasteries and the riches that the Celtic Monks had set up along the fragmented coast. Whilst Scotland was not the glory days of Northumbria, with the tales of gold and immense treasure of false Gods that had been taken, it was a way of subjegating and harassing the mostly disorganized locals, whom on Halvor's first trip, showed far more resistance. He lost his father on his first expedition, and the only thing that ever avenged his loss was perhaps seeing the raiding party's Jarl ordering the murder of the whole population of several Pict fishing villages, of which he took part in. Despite the loss, he returned home remorseless and willing to continue where his father had began him, hungry for the taste of more. He stayed at Orkneyjar, at the Viking garrison of Lerwick, learning of the Celtic cultures from the librarians, perhaps something different to what he had been usually entailed with as a fearless and brutal warrior, whilst trading and often becoming a raiding leader on the West Coast of Scotland. He picked up the language, of those who lived in Fortriu and Del Riata, the Celtic tongue being foreign yet somewhat maintained whenever he has had the opportunity to help trade- be it slaves or iron. While he despised the language, he valued it's importance in dealing with certain disputes. Further raiding parties on the Western coast of Scotland, particularly around Skye and Arran, followed, against Pictish tribes, with slaves taken and trade followed with other Viking civilizations, with Halvor's leadership bringing him about as a key individual to profit from this. He returned home at the age of 26, to find much of his homeland in turmoil. One particular chieftain, Harold I Fairhair, had begun a rallying call to bring the Norse kingdoms together. The bands of isolated Viking parties was in itself, threatened, and Halvar joined him, his own village itself already aligned to the unification of South-Western Norway's fledgling kingdoms.
Four years ago, at the Battle of Hafrsfjord in Eastern Norway, Halvar proved himself a worthwhile and loyal asset to the Norwegian king, who began to unite a fragmented Norse influence, in his home country and across the waves, on the British Isles. It was part of the reason that Halvor earned the title of Huscarl- a personal guard, and elevated in status as the King's personal guards, and more the point, a leader of a group of Norse foot-soldiers under his command. The King immediately sent him to the British Isles with around 100 men, to act as a raiding party. Succeed, and Halvar would obtain a Lordship for whatever he conquered on the Emerald Isles, his knee bent to the Norwegian Empire. Fail, and see Valhalla....it was a true way to deal with things. Halvar is based from Manx, to this end of conquering and capturing, swaying the local King, . To become a Jarl, now that was an aspiration for a lowly warrior, and it would be glorious. The north had been forboding, and few treasures and riches remained. But Cornovia and Gwynned were still available for the taking. And of course, convince the now Viking-ruled Kingdom of Manx to become a Norwegian asset, back to the homeland, as a part of an Empire. Swords were not the only way of achieving that, but in this period, Halvar is aware that any turmoil he brings will need to be followed through with lethal force.
*Find Rage Here.
Name: Halvar Dyras Sigurdsson
(OOC: Could be known as "The Serpent" to the residents of Manx, for a particular act he might do.)
Age: 31
Appearance: Halvor looks very contrary to many Vikings of his era, perhaps being a little more eloquent than most, though of course, more rough than any Romano-British soldier could be found. He keeps a short head of blonde hair, shaved almost, being very contra to the usual look of many Vikings, with long flowing hair. This is a rather personal, and painful choice to make, being something that perhaps he prefers in maintenance. A pair of Nordic blue eyes, and a thick, yet somewhat well kept full beard reinforces the point- this is a Norseman, through and through. He stands at about 6"4, and whilst not being the largest of his compatriots, can wield a two-handed axe with fairly good ease, and a Crossbow with significant talent, as he is fairly stocky. In most meetings, be it trade or war, he can be seen wearing an almost full suit of chainmail, over which he wears a red and blue shirt tunic. While being very heavy, many Vikings such as Halvar are able to fight effectively with them on, and it goes up the whole length of the neck, with a Viking helmet (NO HORNS, GUESS FUCKING WHY?*) and fur overcoat joining them. A two-handed Norse Axe is his weapon of choice, with a iron blade that has seen many an opponent felled like a tree trunk. A shortsword and blue and red wooden iron-reinforced shield sit on a holster on his hip and back respectively, the two handed axe incompatible with the two due to their size. Otherwise, he can be seen wearing a blue-dyed woolen tunic when on ship
Culture: Norse
Religion: Norse Paganism
Backstory: Born in the southern realms of Norway, Halvar was brought up in the old ways, the Norse way. His father was a raider and from a young age, he often was taught how to fight, how to hunt and how to read runes, as well as how to help sail a Longboat- from working on the rigging to helmsman duties. He was fairly clever, and whilst not the strongest or the bravest of them all, he had a sharp mind, a mind that did not dreamed but realized. Blood wasn't a scary sight for him. He embraced it quickly, and at the age of 16, took part in his rite of passage, joining his father on an expedition to the western coast of Alba, to raid monasteries and the riches that the Celtic Monks had set up along the fragmented coast. Whilst Scotland was not the glory days of Northumbria, with the tales of gold and immense treasure of false Gods that had been taken, it was a way of subjegating and harassing the mostly disorganized locals, whom on Halvor's first trip, showed far more resistance. He lost his father on his first expedition, and the only thing that ever avenged his loss was perhaps seeing the raiding party's Jarl ordering the murder of the whole population of several Pict fishing villages, of which he took part in. Despite the loss, he returned home remorseless and willing to continue where his father had began him, hungry for the taste of more. He stayed at Orkneyjar, at the Viking garrison of Lerwick, learning of the Celtic cultures from the librarians, perhaps something different to what he had been usually entailed with as a fearless and brutal warrior, whilst trading and often becoming a raiding leader on the West Coast of Scotland. He picked up the language, of those who lived in Fortriu and Del Riata, the Celtic tongue being foreign yet somewhat maintained whenever he has had the opportunity to help trade- be it slaves or iron. While he despised the language, he valued it's importance in dealing with certain disputes. Further raiding parties on the Western coast of Scotland, particularly around Skye and Arran, followed, against Pictish tribes, with slaves taken and trade followed with other Viking civilizations, with Halvor's leadership bringing him about as a key individual to profit from this. He returned home at the age of 26, to find much of his homeland in turmoil. One particular chieftain, Harold I Fairhair, had begun a rallying call to bring the Norse kingdoms together. The bands of isolated Viking parties was in itself, threatened, and Halvar joined him, his own village itself already aligned to the unification of South-Western Norway's fledgling kingdoms.
Four years ago, at the Battle of Hafrsfjord in Eastern Norway, Halvar proved himself a worthwhile and loyal asset to the Norwegian king, who began to unite a fragmented Norse influence, in his home country and across the waves, on the British Isles. It was part of the reason that Halvor earned the title of Huscarl- a personal guard, and elevated in status as the King's personal guards, and more the point, a leader of a group of Norse foot-soldiers under his command. The King immediately sent him to the British Isles with around 100 men, to act as a raiding party. Succeed, and Halvar would obtain a Lordship for whatever he conquered on the Emerald Isles, his knee bent to the Norwegian Empire. Fail, and see Valhalla....it was a true way to deal with things. Halvar is based from Manx, to this end of conquering and capturing, swaying the local King, . To become a Jarl, now that was an aspiration for a lowly warrior, and it would be glorious. The north had been forboding, and few treasures and riches remained. But Cornovia and Gwynned were still available for the taking. And of course, convince the now Viking-ruled Kingdom of Manx to become a Norwegian asset, back to the homeland, as a part of an Empire. Swords were not the only way of achieving that, but in this period, Halvar is aware that any turmoil he brings will need to be followed through with lethal force.
*Find Rage Here.
I'd love to be in for this. Save me a spot, as a Norse Huscarl.
Scott looked to her, looking around, just knowing she was blanking, lapsing out. It was a shock to the system. Something felt bad about this. Maybe the police had the place swept up. But they couldn't go to them. Not after this. It was something deep within his head. It would be needless. Too much questioning. He didn't want her to have blood on her hands, just protection. But even in this fragile state of mind, things became clearer. These people would hurt a lot of people to get to him. And while defeat was something that could be a nerve of thought, giving up and letting them have him, it wouldn't be right. There had to be a reason. Only then, would he figure out what he was going to be needed for. Perhaps they didn't expect this. The police had closed quickly, and while they had most of the area sealed, Scott could guess that getting out of there was the only choice they had. He knew she had to be scared, but he knew that perhaps, this nurse was his only hope.
"Alexis...I promise, whatever it is that is happening, it'll make sense in my head in time. They want me, not you...but they'll kill anyone to get to me. I need to know why, I don't know how I know this, it's just confusing." He just said, throwing the AK on the floor, and embracing her, hearing a distant siren.
"You said two more halls?"
Moving out into the carpark, running through the door, he looked around, aware that her Makarov was also down too. Perhaps they'd find fingerprints on it, Scott knew that wasn't the priority. This was bigger than police, and right now, he didn't want to go into a cell. He needed to get away from this place with her, somewhere quiet, think this through. Then act upon it and plan his next move. People wanted to kill him, and worse still, he had not a clue what the reason was. All he could say for sure was, that the Arabic, the nature that they came in, it flashed a memory. Bad ones. Almost blinding in his head, like it took some momentum away. But his mind continued to process, to make sure he could save himself and her in this moment.
"Which one's yours? I don't have a clue where we are....we should try and get away from here. I don't think we can go to the police on this one. It'll put you at risk, more than I already am. I'm sorry, Alexis. Shit...I don't know....I just can't let them take me, or it won't be good at all for anyone." He said, following her, scratching his head, Scott confused as he still stood in his patient's garnment, aware that it wasn't good for the cold but it would do for now.
"They can't hurt you if I can't help it...Alexis. Just trust me...I beg you, just let me get my senses back." He said, his words becoming easier to say as he began to at least think it through, looking to her as they were about to get into her car.
"You need to tell me what happened when I came into here."
"Alexis...I promise, whatever it is that is happening, it'll make sense in my head in time. They want me, not you...but they'll kill anyone to get to me. I need to know why, I don't know how I know this, it's just confusing." He just said, throwing the AK on the floor, and embracing her, hearing a distant siren.
"You said two more halls?"
Moving out into the carpark, running through the door, he looked around, aware that her Makarov was also down too. Perhaps they'd find fingerprints on it, Scott knew that wasn't the priority. This was bigger than police, and right now, he didn't want to go into a cell. He needed to get away from this place with her, somewhere quiet, think this through. Then act upon it and plan his next move. People wanted to kill him, and worse still, he had not a clue what the reason was. All he could say for sure was, that the Arabic, the nature that they came in, it flashed a memory. Bad ones. Almost blinding in his head, like it took some momentum away. But his mind continued to process, to make sure he could save himself and her in this moment.
"Which one's yours? I don't have a clue where we are....we should try and get away from here. I don't think we can go to the police on this one. It'll put you at risk, more than I already am. I'm sorry, Alexis. Shit...I don't know....I just can't let them take me, or it won't be good at all for anyone." He said, following her, scratching his head, Scott confused as he still stood in his patient's garnment, aware that it wasn't good for the cold but it would do for now.
"They can't hurt you if I can't help it...Alexis. Just trust me...I beg you, just let me get my senses back." He said, his words becoming easier to say as he began to at least think it through, looking to her as they were about to get into her car.
"You need to tell me what happened when I came into here."
Ah wicked- great to see you again, gonna work on a response :D
"I think so." He said simply, looking over, coughing a little as he headed over towards his car, mask in hand as he opened the SLS's passenger door.
"Just drive man, to you know where. We've got our ride out of here, best leave before Iranian choppers decide to do some crash investigation of their own." He said, smirking like a madman as he looked at the flaming P1, blown to bits, the helicopter crashed down below in a ravine of sorts. The road winded but was in an enclosed valley of sorts. Hard to follow, and a minor route, though it was still paved by concrete. They'd be extracting via a PMC helicopter that would come in.
Six Months Earlier
Somewhere in the Dried Aral Sea, Turkmenistan
The dried wreck of the Abrats, a large fishing frigate sat rotting, the whole structure looking like it had sat here for centuries, while in reality, the Aral Sea had only drained in the last forty years. The Soviets dammed the Amu and Syr Darya rivers that supplied this inland lake, and now, it was drying, rapidly. The former eighth largest sea in the world was a shadow of itself, and left behind a toxic wasteland of dust and contaminants of fertilizer within it, from the upriver cotton plantations. It rotted away, and former fisheries were hundreds of miles from the inland sea. Here, the Abrats was another victim. Inside it's hull, the interior was stripped however. An old Soviet-era lorry, with a large container on the back, sat opened up, with a particular two out here in the middle of nowhere, with a pair of exoskeletons propped up against a metal rack, both different in arnament and weaponry. Both were mean, fuelled by hydrogen cells, and were complexly built, their schematics unknown to the two pilots that sat inside the ship's rusted hull, alongside a simple tent and a small gas heater. This was temporary, a hider from UAVs, spy planes, anything that would even think. People knew of this wreck. But they never wondered what was inside that dark crack.
In this time of night, there was no doubt, that in these wastelands, Nadia Hamid and Ricardo Pereira were alone. Nadia was a fine looking Libyan woman, no matter what you took her for. A certain Arabic beauty, and one of Qaddafi's finest. She had the right tanned complexion, skill in the Libyan Special Forces, and a personal guard of Qaddafi. Who had then killed the man after he tried to flee to Polynesia, his double's death in Sirte something that she already knew of already. Nadia had done it from personal hatred, almost a decade of anger and torture. But not to turn to democracy. To do something more. Become not some whore to be lambasted by society. To become a warrior-woman. And to make money, one way or another. Her talents were recognized by The Group, known as the Wolf's Claw. She learned Monster, the large Chinese armored suit well. A DARPA-equivelent in China, now in her hands, and went by the name Phoenix. After Qaddafi, it would take that rising, the new world, that she'd be bringing a mailed fist into. And she shared that with her new partner, Ricardo. He was a new boyfriend, but really, in a way, her first. He was charming, and she didn't know men. But Ricardo Peirera was a technician, a former Engineer in the Brazilian Army, Amazonas Brigade. Not usual Wolf's Claw material. But a person who was utterly remorseless, who knew vague technicals and could be depended on as a source that didn't ask about country, but about how many were to be put to the weapon. He was actually shorter than Nadia, at 5"11, compared to her 6"5. And it was lusting over Nadia's curves and beauty, perhaps she didn't know that entirely, he was just wanting to really have fun with her for once. After all, he had gone through many sexual partners, and she had not, so he was in a great position to take advantage of this pearl of the Med. His suit was Russian-sourced, and the hydrogen cell was identical to the one that powered Monster. He knew it well, it's ins and outs. It was less heavily equipped, but no less scary. They both knew their job. Millions of dollars, for protection. No living witnesses remain, they do not exist as people. And that was why they were inside an abandoned fishing frigate, in the desolate waterless sea that was the Aral. They never let anybody outside of Wolf's Claw know of their existence. Mainly because they were all dead, and any attempt to find their bodies would uncover mutilated pieces of fingers and flesh. And getting paid millions for it was good. They accepted Wolf Claw's creed. A simple one. One that could be uttered in three lines. One that perhaps highlighted for the two, a new world, a world more than the current state. A total redrawing of the world's borders and shifts of power, to people who would create a world that would emerge from the thrones of war, shameless capital and bring the world together under a banner that would never broken. An organization that even the two had scratched the surface of. They knew of those simple creeds, which always reminded Nadia that there would be a world where she'd be top woman, and where Ricardo would know he would have his place too. Not like before.
She cuddled up, the tent being fairly warm, as she looked to him, both of them without any cover.
"Hmm....you know, if they pay us to fuck all day, then I think you're a lucky man, Ricardo." She said happily, her firm Libyan accent always getting Ricardo to pay attention, and pay it well.
"They need us places, you know. More than this. But we work in the shadows." He said, looking at his watch, as he grabbed a piece of paper at the end of his feet, quickly unraveling it to get his sandals out. He wore a pair of boxer shorts, while Nadia at least put some lingerie on, followed by a white shirt. It was cold in the desert's darkness. They stepped out the tent, as he looked outside, patting her suit as he turned her head to her.
"We could always just run, you know. Deactivate the trackers and go." He said jokingly, as Nadia shook her head, looking right into his eyes. She could be a mean bitch when she had to. Ricardo was truly cold-blooded, but Nadia could be colder, and far, far more effective at making her points.
"They also have recorders too, because they're fucking paranoid. Do I have to spell it out to you? And after that, what next? Walk into a village and say "Can I have some water, I've been fucking dying but I do have a half a ton piece of armored suit?" Yeah, of course." She said, as she then tsked, walking past it as she checked over the ammunition chain, loading the GAU-19 and playing about with the belt a little as she waited for a response.
"Okay, you got me there. I like my job, it's just...curiosity."
"Well, curiosity is fucking stupid, Ricardo. You learn that fast. I might let you do all the right things. But that doesn't mean I have lost my sense of self-preservation, enshallah." She said, walking up to him, as he turned. He had a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck, something that clearly looked very detailed and time-consuming to produce.
"Look, after this, please yourself. Run amok, make a fifedom where you are some noble warrior when this is over. Remember the creed we're involved in. I know you want that too. Together, with me. So let's just make our change in this world while we do." She said, smiling, as she looked out, at the stars and the moon in the distance, picking up some sand as she saw Ricardo sigh, looking over.
"It was only a suggestion, a sarcastic one. I'm sorry- you're right about it though. I like that sound. Better than anything." He said, grabbing a bottle of water from the catering area, swigging it down as he wiped his brow, the cold sweat that Nadia could induce scary. He was scary himself, and could really put a point across. But Nadia was good, tormenting in that sense. She had a point. Sometimes, he'd put across that he wore the trousers, and it was a funny relationship. Love-hate. It swung a lot.
"They'll be working on Brussels in a few months. Some actual giant, and as many civilians as we can. It's going to be big." He said, smiling, as he saw Nadia look over.
"You think?" She said, eyebrows raised, her tanned complexion taking this on far better than the pale Brazilian, whose body wasn't even adapted to his home's tropical climate.
"Oh yeah. It's only the start. I mean, I don't even know the rest, but that's the word. Preparations, all the effort to perhaps scrape the surface of the world at first. Then, in comes the shock. We defend our people and any affiliates at the moment. But after that...we're going to be standing at the heads of thousands. Millions even. The world will have trembled in the aftermath. We'll let them fight, I bet. But in the end, it'll all go to shit for this world right now, to lay the ashes for a new one. I tell you, Nadia, it's going to be beautiful. Fucking...walking out and killing those who believed in some god-like system that we brought ourselves to. Soon, this world will change. For the better." He said, smiling, as Nadia knocked him off his high horse, as she quickly picked up a phone, that vibrated.
"You willing to begin that process? Yours." She said, throwing it to him, as he shook his head, smiling as he picked up. It was an elaborately designed device, with a large casing, to prevent signal locking. From here, it'd be hard to do- if they even knew of this within a slither. Ricardo switched to his Russian, already listening in.
"Ares, we're initiating a safehouse relocation, pending now. You have fifteen minutes. Phoenix comes too. Abandon the place, in the way we told you to do."
"Understood." Ricardo said, disconnecting as he broke the phone, snapping it before breaking the exposed SIM, then looking over.
"Well, that's our stoppage. You know exactly where we're going. Kamchatka, north of Pavlopetrovosk. That base. They really have to cycle us through, they're paranoid enough...but with these things, I'm not surprised." He said, as Nadia nodded, grabbing a hold of Phoenix, her callsign when she was in the suit and in itself, the suit's name that she gave it. Opening the hatch, she knew she was adequately clothed- it was more than warm inside, and she'd have her clothing at the next safehouse. They were leaving quickly, and there was no time to waste. Ricardo got into his, the slightly smaller suit less mechanical, but no less effective. He had a larger visor, but perhaps not the full-on plating that Phoenix had, just the nanotech-enabled kevlar and ballistic inserts that were phenomenally effective at keeping even the biggest 12.7mm bullets. 20mm rounds had even not penetrated, and it had worked well for the Ares system. They both disconnected from the mounts the suits were placed in, and Phoenix already had this under control. She engaged the gas on the heater with the huge claw of the suit, ripping the whole thing open, as she smiled, then looking to Ares. He was already out, as she followed, the big mechanical footsteps that the suit made heavy, every movement as if it could crush a car in the 8"1 mechanized assault suit. Turning around, she raised the GAU-19, smirking inside as she looked to Ares through the thermal cameras. The rounds pinged off the far wall and created a huge boom, as the gas was sparked off and ignited, trapped and blowing out of the ship itself, almost engulfing the two mechanized suit operators, as it burned anything inside massively. Kerosene burned well, and it was sprinkled effectively to finish the job, totally incinerating everything and anything inside. For it wasn't just one small cooking stove. It was a lot more that had been kept with the lorry- and it itself burst into flames, intensifying the fire storm inside as it shredded the whole thing.
"Hmm...I bet nobody feels like we do." She said, smiling evilly, as she watched it burn, feeling like she was going to take a lot more to stop than anything humanity could deploy. She couldn't think that her life was going to end in this suit in some way, in the same way that the ball of fire had erupted inside.
"Night Work"
2300 Hours
Somwhere in Wakhan Province, Afghanistan
The noise of rotor blades thumped, as the helicopter flanked through the low valleys, the AH159 Wildcat a helicopter that could act as a worthy successor to the world's fastest helicopter. The Westland Lynx before it had set the record- and still held it, years on. This was a Royal Navy variant, painted a grey, tasked out to the British redeployment rapidly from the HMS Cardiff Bay in the Persian Gulf, packed up at Basra and sent to Fayzabad FARP. Now, it was a helicopter on station to bring the two man team, "Knight", to the fight. Things had gone south in a mountain valley, and a non-responding Navy SEAL team had become a problem. Carl and Ross were first responders, and aboard this flight, regarded as suicidal. The doors were open, the pilot probably as openly suicidal as he flew about 10m off the ground, following the deep contours of the river as the crew chief in the rear looked to the two Juggernauts. Ross had modified his NVG set, a quad-vision optic that sat within his visor, and that could be easily deactivated via a voice command- something the base's engineers had been proud of doing, and while the Crew Chief saw little, Ross saw it all in the green haze.
"You're fucking crazy. You might be armored, but there's a lot of fuckers who want your head." He said, holding on his MMG, a L37 Mounted Weapon, otherwise known as the FN MAG- a vehicular variant in this instance. No music played within the chopper, and there were no lights whatsoever, apart from the pilot's instruments. They were in the dark, and travelling fast.
Dropping into the lower valleys at this time of night was going to be insane, and despite the fact that the area around FOB Tempest, created within the cleared fort was mostly pacified, there were SF teams that were going off the grid. Some came back, others didn't. This was a job to deal with, and the crew chief couldn't understand why sending less men than the SF team would achieve anything.
"Not a problem. Just get us in, we'll call you when we've got a ping. Don't do anything stupid to pull us out. We're responsible for that end." Ross said, chuckling, looking to Carl, as he readied his own Mk48, putting the belt into the weapon as the helicopter began coming in on approach. The grey RN helicopter did an agressive stop, and almost shuddered onto the ground, as the crew chief gave the hand. Ross moved from his seat quickly out the door, aware that Carl would have probably gone easier, as they then lept out the last meter that the helicopter now barely held over, and onto the cold mountain grass. It wasn't snowy at this altitude, but it was chilly, to say the least. The Wildcat flew onwards, taking a different route out than it came in, safe from SAMs and AAA sites. Visor down, Ross looked over, nodding to Carl. The Juggernauts were back in town. And they had a bone to pick. Objective one. Find the Navy Seal team, callsign "Viking". Objective two. Clear the fuckers that they were meant to be clearing. It was working for someone else. It was suicidal. But they had an ace to play, and this was precisely it.
"Well, Carl. Looks like we're in the thick of it now." He said, chuckling as he raised his Mk48, a IR laser attached and an M145 optic on the Mk48, similar to the C79 optical sight, but for an LMG of sorts. Ross's black colored Juggernaut suit was as steadfast as always, and while it weighed like a bitch, it was worthwhile for the firepower. No secondary, to save some weight, and the regular ammunition holder for the Mk48, a compacted rucksack held the ammo supply that Ross had, while his Mk23 MOD 0 sat in a holster on his side, over the more potent Deagle. being something a little more tactile given the situation.
Moving away from the landing zone. the small landing among the cedars in the mountain valleys, the pair were moving with a pace, in the darkness, the clouds covering the sky and blanketing the area truly. A slight fog was at this altitude, and while not thick, it did make the whole area eerie, the forest that hung in the valley particularly affected.
"It's fucking good to be back to work. We're bound to make noise at some point, that's why I opted for no silencers. We'll rely on the fact that there's going to not be that many of them out at this time, and they'll be confused as hell by the fire." He said, aware that perhaps stealth wasn't really an option in suits like this- and that shock and awe from the sheer belief that a larger force was attacking would be what would perhaps give them time to find the SEAL team. Ross kept the LMG up, as he then saw flashlights ahead. Diving down onto the floor, he scarpered behind a fallen log, aware that these were just AQ, already raised as he thought what next. Ross and Carl had moved about 500m from the LZ, and the set of dummy landings from another empty Wildcat had done the job to give an illusion that they were inserting at multiple places at once.
"I got an idea. Let's not go full auto. I ping four men. Get your Browning." He said, pulling his own Mk23 out, a mag loaded.
"They'll hear the shots perhaps, but it's not as loud as rifle cartridges. If we move quick enough, then we warm it up and light em' up. The first village we think they're in could do with some of it's garrison weakened, too." He added, in his West Country accent, looking to Carl as he nodded.
"We might even have some fun with this as well..." He added, drawing his BK3 from his holster, holding the knife in his right and the pistol in his left, moving up as he knew that this was going to be good. If Carl knew exactly what Ross was doing, then he'd perhaps follow suit. Because this would be bloody.
The patrol moved quietly, sweeping rifles, but they didn't catch Ross in their torchlight. It was a heavy suit of armor, and it made a noise on gravel, but it wasn't distintive enough, and the men were cold and tired. Perhaps this was not what the Navy Seal would have chosen, a silent approach being far better. But one that would perhaps scare the people of the first village they were sweeping. Dragnet some of them out, think who would be so foolish to create noise, and that by bringing AKs up into the valley, the rescue force would have nowhere to go. Or if it was just a whisper in the wind, leave it at that. That there was a distant shot that they'd just have a look at, and then find this mess. It was something they'd then pay for, alongside this group. Ross knew to himself that he liked simple, yes. But getting sophisticated did worse things to your enemy, and that was when it all began.
The man at the rear heard a simple click, seeing a bloody hole in his friend's turban. A bullet wound...a shooter! It was from behind, and he yelled and turned, too late. Ross lunged forwards, moving like a sprinter the last 5m and the target, who tried to raise his AKM. The man was too slow, it wouldn't be something he could stop. Ross knew exactly how to go head on into someone, like a ram. And the knife slashed his throat well, as the others turned in the lack of time. The man was limp, and then dropped, as they had turned to see Ross dumping their colleague's body, pistol raised as they prepared to fire. The Juggernaut stood at his 6"7, and was imposing enough, his whole silluette behind their friend's body revealing the armor and bloody knife in his left hand, the Mk23 in his right. The men were yelling themselves in Arabic, and were milliseconds from firing. Not a problem. Carl already had this, and Ross knew that they had seen the Juggernauts go head on.
"Just drive man, to you know where. We've got our ride out of here, best leave before Iranian choppers decide to do some crash investigation of their own." He said, smirking like a madman as he looked at the flaming P1, blown to bits, the helicopter crashed down below in a ravine of sorts. The road winded but was in an enclosed valley of sorts. Hard to follow, and a minor route, though it was still paved by concrete. They'd be extracting via a PMC helicopter that would come in.
Six Months Earlier
Somewhere in the Dried Aral Sea, Turkmenistan
The dried wreck of the Abrats, a large fishing frigate sat rotting, the whole structure looking like it had sat here for centuries, while in reality, the Aral Sea had only drained in the last forty years. The Soviets dammed the Amu and Syr Darya rivers that supplied this inland lake, and now, it was drying, rapidly. The former eighth largest sea in the world was a shadow of itself, and left behind a toxic wasteland of dust and contaminants of fertilizer within it, from the upriver cotton plantations. It rotted away, and former fisheries were hundreds of miles from the inland sea. Here, the Abrats was another victim. Inside it's hull, the interior was stripped however. An old Soviet-era lorry, with a large container on the back, sat opened up, with a particular two out here in the middle of nowhere, with a pair of exoskeletons propped up against a metal rack, both different in arnament and weaponry. Both were mean, fuelled by hydrogen cells, and were complexly built, their schematics unknown to the two pilots that sat inside the ship's rusted hull, alongside a simple tent and a small gas heater. This was temporary, a hider from UAVs, spy planes, anything that would even think. People knew of this wreck. But they never wondered what was inside that dark crack.
In this time of night, there was no doubt, that in these wastelands, Nadia Hamid and Ricardo Pereira were alone. Nadia was a fine looking Libyan woman, no matter what you took her for. A certain Arabic beauty, and one of Qaddafi's finest. She had the right tanned complexion, skill in the Libyan Special Forces, and a personal guard of Qaddafi. Who had then killed the man after he tried to flee to Polynesia, his double's death in Sirte something that she already knew of already. Nadia had done it from personal hatred, almost a decade of anger and torture. But not to turn to democracy. To do something more. Become not some whore to be lambasted by society. To become a warrior-woman. And to make money, one way or another. Her talents were recognized by The Group, known as the Wolf's Claw. She learned Monster, the large Chinese armored suit well. A DARPA-equivelent in China, now in her hands, and went by the name Phoenix. After Qaddafi, it would take that rising, the new world, that she'd be bringing a mailed fist into. And she shared that with her new partner, Ricardo. He was a new boyfriend, but really, in a way, her first. He was charming, and she didn't know men. But Ricardo Peirera was a technician, a former Engineer in the Brazilian Army, Amazonas Brigade. Not usual Wolf's Claw material. But a person who was utterly remorseless, who knew vague technicals and could be depended on as a source that didn't ask about country, but about how many were to be put to the weapon. He was actually shorter than Nadia, at 5"11, compared to her 6"5. And it was lusting over Nadia's curves and beauty, perhaps she didn't know that entirely, he was just wanting to really have fun with her for once. After all, he had gone through many sexual partners, and she had not, so he was in a great position to take advantage of this pearl of the Med. His suit was Russian-sourced, and the hydrogen cell was identical to the one that powered Monster. He knew it well, it's ins and outs. It was less heavily equipped, but no less scary. They both knew their job. Millions of dollars, for protection. No living witnesses remain, they do not exist as people. And that was why they were inside an abandoned fishing frigate, in the desolate waterless sea that was the Aral. They never let anybody outside of Wolf's Claw know of their existence. Mainly because they were all dead, and any attempt to find their bodies would uncover mutilated pieces of fingers and flesh. And getting paid millions for it was good. They accepted Wolf Claw's creed. A simple one. One that could be uttered in three lines. One that perhaps highlighted for the two, a new world, a world more than the current state. A total redrawing of the world's borders and shifts of power, to people who would create a world that would emerge from the thrones of war, shameless capital and bring the world together under a banner that would never broken. An organization that even the two had scratched the surface of. They knew of those simple creeds, which always reminded Nadia that there would be a world where she'd be top woman, and where Ricardo would know he would have his place too. Not like before.
She cuddled up, the tent being fairly warm, as she looked to him, both of them without any cover.
"Hmm....you know, if they pay us to fuck all day, then I think you're a lucky man, Ricardo." She said happily, her firm Libyan accent always getting Ricardo to pay attention, and pay it well.
"They need us places, you know. More than this. But we work in the shadows." He said, looking at his watch, as he grabbed a piece of paper at the end of his feet, quickly unraveling it to get his sandals out. He wore a pair of boxer shorts, while Nadia at least put some lingerie on, followed by a white shirt. It was cold in the desert's darkness. They stepped out the tent, as he looked outside, patting her suit as he turned her head to her.
"We could always just run, you know. Deactivate the trackers and go." He said jokingly, as Nadia shook her head, looking right into his eyes. She could be a mean bitch when she had to. Ricardo was truly cold-blooded, but Nadia could be colder, and far, far more effective at making her points.
"They also have recorders too, because they're fucking paranoid. Do I have to spell it out to you? And after that, what next? Walk into a village and say "Can I have some water, I've been fucking dying but I do have a half a ton piece of armored suit?" Yeah, of course." She said, as she then tsked, walking past it as she checked over the ammunition chain, loading the GAU-19 and playing about with the belt a little as she waited for a response.
"Okay, you got me there. I like my job, it's just...curiosity."
"Well, curiosity is fucking stupid, Ricardo. You learn that fast. I might let you do all the right things. But that doesn't mean I have lost my sense of self-preservation, enshallah." She said, walking up to him, as he turned. He had a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck, something that clearly looked very detailed and time-consuming to produce.
"Look, after this, please yourself. Run amok, make a fifedom where you are some noble warrior when this is over. Remember the creed we're involved in. I know you want that too. Together, with me. So let's just make our change in this world while we do." She said, smiling, as she looked out, at the stars and the moon in the distance, picking up some sand as she saw Ricardo sigh, looking over.
"It was only a suggestion, a sarcastic one. I'm sorry- you're right about it though. I like that sound. Better than anything." He said, grabbing a bottle of water from the catering area, swigging it down as he wiped his brow, the cold sweat that Nadia could induce scary. He was scary himself, and could really put a point across. But Nadia was good, tormenting in that sense. She had a point. Sometimes, he'd put across that he wore the trousers, and it was a funny relationship. Love-hate. It swung a lot.
"They'll be working on Brussels in a few months. Some actual giant, and as many civilians as we can. It's going to be big." He said, smiling, as he saw Nadia look over.
"You think?" She said, eyebrows raised, her tanned complexion taking this on far better than the pale Brazilian, whose body wasn't even adapted to his home's tropical climate.
"Oh yeah. It's only the start. I mean, I don't even know the rest, but that's the word. Preparations, all the effort to perhaps scrape the surface of the world at first. Then, in comes the shock. We defend our people and any affiliates at the moment. But after that...we're going to be standing at the heads of thousands. Millions even. The world will have trembled in the aftermath. We'll let them fight, I bet. But in the end, it'll all go to shit for this world right now, to lay the ashes for a new one. I tell you, Nadia, it's going to be beautiful. Fucking...walking out and killing those who believed in some god-like system that we brought ourselves to. Soon, this world will change. For the better." He said, smiling, as Nadia knocked him off his high horse, as she quickly picked up a phone, that vibrated.
"You willing to begin that process? Yours." She said, throwing it to him, as he shook his head, smiling as he picked up. It was an elaborately designed device, with a large casing, to prevent signal locking. From here, it'd be hard to do- if they even knew of this within a slither. Ricardo switched to his Russian, already listening in.
"Ares, we're initiating a safehouse relocation, pending now. You have fifteen minutes. Phoenix comes too. Abandon the place, in the way we told you to do."
"Understood." Ricardo said, disconnecting as he broke the phone, snapping it before breaking the exposed SIM, then looking over.
"Well, that's our stoppage. You know exactly where we're going. Kamchatka, north of Pavlopetrovosk. That base. They really have to cycle us through, they're paranoid enough...but with these things, I'm not surprised." He said, as Nadia nodded, grabbing a hold of Phoenix, her callsign when she was in the suit and in itself, the suit's name that she gave it. Opening the hatch, she knew she was adequately clothed- it was more than warm inside, and she'd have her clothing at the next safehouse. They were leaving quickly, and there was no time to waste. Ricardo got into his, the slightly smaller suit less mechanical, but no less effective. He had a larger visor, but perhaps not the full-on plating that Phoenix had, just the nanotech-enabled kevlar and ballistic inserts that were phenomenally effective at keeping even the biggest 12.7mm bullets. 20mm rounds had even not penetrated, and it had worked well for the Ares system. They both disconnected from the mounts the suits were placed in, and Phoenix already had this under control. She engaged the gas on the heater with the huge claw of the suit, ripping the whole thing open, as she smiled, then looking to Ares. He was already out, as she followed, the big mechanical footsteps that the suit made heavy, every movement as if it could crush a car in the 8"1 mechanized assault suit. Turning around, she raised the GAU-19, smirking inside as she looked to Ares through the thermal cameras. The rounds pinged off the far wall and created a huge boom, as the gas was sparked off and ignited, trapped and blowing out of the ship itself, almost engulfing the two mechanized suit operators, as it burned anything inside massively. Kerosene burned well, and it was sprinkled effectively to finish the job, totally incinerating everything and anything inside. For it wasn't just one small cooking stove. It was a lot more that had been kept with the lorry- and it itself burst into flames, intensifying the fire storm inside as it shredded the whole thing.
"Hmm...I bet nobody feels like we do." She said, smiling evilly, as she watched it burn, feeling like she was going to take a lot more to stop than anything humanity could deploy. She couldn't think that her life was going to end in this suit in some way, in the same way that the ball of fire had erupted inside.
"Night Work"
2300 Hours
Somwhere in Wakhan Province, Afghanistan
The noise of rotor blades thumped, as the helicopter flanked through the low valleys, the AH159 Wildcat a helicopter that could act as a worthy successor to the world's fastest helicopter. The Westland Lynx before it had set the record- and still held it, years on. This was a Royal Navy variant, painted a grey, tasked out to the British redeployment rapidly from the HMS Cardiff Bay in the Persian Gulf, packed up at Basra and sent to Fayzabad FARP. Now, it was a helicopter on station to bring the two man team, "Knight", to the fight. Things had gone south in a mountain valley, and a non-responding Navy SEAL team had become a problem. Carl and Ross were first responders, and aboard this flight, regarded as suicidal. The doors were open, the pilot probably as openly suicidal as he flew about 10m off the ground, following the deep contours of the river as the crew chief in the rear looked to the two Juggernauts. Ross had modified his NVG set, a quad-vision optic that sat within his visor, and that could be easily deactivated via a voice command- something the base's engineers had been proud of doing, and while the Crew Chief saw little, Ross saw it all in the green haze.
"You're fucking crazy. You might be armored, but there's a lot of fuckers who want your head." He said, holding on his MMG, a L37 Mounted Weapon, otherwise known as the FN MAG- a vehicular variant in this instance. No music played within the chopper, and there were no lights whatsoever, apart from the pilot's instruments. They were in the dark, and travelling fast.
Dropping into the lower valleys at this time of night was going to be insane, and despite the fact that the area around FOB Tempest, created within the cleared fort was mostly pacified, there were SF teams that were going off the grid. Some came back, others didn't. This was a job to deal with, and the crew chief couldn't understand why sending less men than the SF team would achieve anything.
"Not a problem. Just get us in, we'll call you when we've got a ping. Don't do anything stupid to pull us out. We're responsible for that end." Ross said, chuckling, looking to Carl, as he readied his own Mk48, putting the belt into the weapon as the helicopter began coming in on approach. The grey RN helicopter did an agressive stop, and almost shuddered onto the ground, as the crew chief gave the hand. Ross moved from his seat quickly out the door, aware that Carl would have probably gone easier, as they then lept out the last meter that the helicopter now barely held over, and onto the cold mountain grass. It wasn't snowy at this altitude, but it was chilly, to say the least. The Wildcat flew onwards, taking a different route out than it came in, safe from SAMs and AAA sites. Visor down, Ross looked over, nodding to Carl. The Juggernauts were back in town. And they had a bone to pick. Objective one. Find the Navy Seal team, callsign "Viking". Objective two. Clear the fuckers that they were meant to be clearing. It was working for someone else. It was suicidal. But they had an ace to play, and this was precisely it.
"Well, Carl. Looks like we're in the thick of it now." He said, chuckling as he raised his Mk48, a IR laser attached and an M145 optic on the Mk48, similar to the C79 optical sight, but for an LMG of sorts. Ross's black colored Juggernaut suit was as steadfast as always, and while it weighed like a bitch, it was worthwhile for the firepower. No secondary, to save some weight, and the regular ammunition holder for the Mk48, a compacted rucksack held the ammo supply that Ross had, while his Mk23 MOD 0 sat in a holster on his side, over the more potent Deagle. being something a little more tactile given the situation.
Moving away from the landing zone. the small landing among the cedars in the mountain valleys, the pair were moving with a pace, in the darkness, the clouds covering the sky and blanketing the area truly. A slight fog was at this altitude, and while not thick, it did make the whole area eerie, the forest that hung in the valley particularly affected.
"It's fucking good to be back to work. We're bound to make noise at some point, that's why I opted for no silencers. We'll rely on the fact that there's going to not be that many of them out at this time, and they'll be confused as hell by the fire." He said, aware that perhaps stealth wasn't really an option in suits like this- and that shock and awe from the sheer belief that a larger force was attacking would be what would perhaps give them time to find the SEAL team. Ross kept the LMG up, as he then saw flashlights ahead. Diving down onto the floor, he scarpered behind a fallen log, aware that these were just AQ, already raised as he thought what next. Ross and Carl had moved about 500m from the LZ, and the set of dummy landings from another empty Wildcat had done the job to give an illusion that they were inserting at multiple places at once.
"I got an idea. Let's not go full auto. I ping four men. Get your Browning." He said, pulling his own Mk23 out, a mag loaded.
"They'll hear the shots perhaps, but it's not as loud as rifle cartridges. If we move quick enough, then we warm it up and light em' up. The first village we think they're in could do with some of it's garrison weakened, too." He added, in his West Country accent, looking to Carl as he nodded.
"We might even have some fun with this as well..." He added, drawing his BK3 from his holster, holding the knife in his right and the pistol in his left, moving up as he knew that this was going to be good. If Carl knew exactly what Ross was doing, then he'd perhaps follow suit. Because this would be bloody.
The patrol moved quietly, sweeping rifles, but they didn't catch Ross in their torchlight. It was a heavy suit of armor, and it made a noise on gravel, but it wasn't distintive enough, and the men were cold and tired. Perhaps this was not what the Navy Seal would have chosen, a silent approach being far better. But one that would perhaps scare the people of the first village they were sweeping. Dragnet some of them out, think who would be so foolish to create noise, and that by bringing AKs up into the valley, the rescue force would have nowhere to go. Or if it was just a whisper in the wind, leave it at that. That there was a distant shot that they'd just have a look at, and then find this mess. It was something they'd then pay for, alongside this group. Ross knew to himself that he liked simple, yes. But getting sophisticated did worse things to your enemy, and that was when it all began.
The man at the rear heard a simple click, seeing a bloody hole in his friend's turban. A bullet wound...a shooter! It was from behind, and he yelled and turned, too late. Ross lunged forwards, moving like a sprinter the last 5m and the target, who tried to raise his AKM. The man was too slow, it wouldn't be something he could stop. Ross knew exactly how to go head on into someone, like a ram. And the knife slashed his throat well, as the others turned in the lack of time. The man was limp, and then dropped, as they had turned to see Ross dumping their colleague's body, pistol raised as they prepared to fire. The Juggernaut stood at his 6"7, and was imposing enough, his whole silluette behind their friend's body revealing the armor and bloody knife in his left hand, the Mk23 in his right. The men were yelling themselves in Arabic, and were milliseconds from firing. Not a problem. Carl already had this, and Ross knew that they had seen the Juggernauts go head on.
The R8 roared, as the night trembled on. Turn 1, back again, a sweeping left, as the minutes passed. It was a couple of minutes later when it returned, the same corner, just a few minutes into the race. The gap stayed the same, carrying half a second on Muller wasn't too bad. The tyres held, and as far as he knew, he was keeping corners neat. Nothing too hard on the kerbs, that would damage the tyre. Nothing too hard in braking and steering, you didn't skid, you held the car as grippy and tight as it went, and it wouldn't ruin the tyres. Hard tyres were hard to heat, and keeping the heat was tricky, but Ryan could tell you that holding and keeping a grip was fine. He could be glacial, and just ease in. Taking the position was hard. But holding it, that was what he did.
Lap 20. The night settled in, the noise of roaring engines passing the start finish, as the gap widened. Lucas's voice could be heard, as Ryan settled through into the left turn that replaced Turn 2, rather than going to the blocked off infamous hairpin as used in the F1.
"Pits are in five laps, Lucas, tyres are getting slightly worn. Muller's pulled back into fifth, but he could leapfrog you. Regina can take the lead for a while- you'll need to pit in the next two laps, or your rubber will be shredded and you'll lose seconds mate. Keep it clean out there." He heard, as he felt the G-Force turn, the left hander back onto the open straight followed by the R8's roar simply undeniable. Focus, not enjoy. That was his regulatory movement at hand.
"Underdstood. Regina, you better keep this lead open. I'll blitz back up on fresh rubber. We got about fifty minutes left, but I can make serious gains in that short period so long as I hold it through to the end. Remember you're on the same strategy- you go in three laps after me, you conserve rubber far better than I do." He said, braking hard into the next chicane, passing through as he felt the rear slightly kick, then coming back in.
"Woah." He said to himself, accelerating back out, aware that this was the beginning of symptoms. This was going to be tricky, he thought to himself, as he carried on, headed down towards the complex of Turn 11.
Lap 20. The night settled in, the noise of roaring engines passing the start finish, as the gap widened. Lucas's voice could be heard, as Ryan settled through into the left turn that replaced Turn 2, rather than going to the blocked off infamous hairpin as used in the F1.
"Pits are in five laps, Lucas, tyres are getting slightly worn. Muller's pulled back into fifth, but he could leapfrog you. Regina can take the lead for a while- you'll need to pit in the next two laps, or your rubber will be shredded and you'll lose seconds mate. Keep it clean out there." He heard, as he felt the G-Force turn, the left hander back onto the open straight followed by the R8's roar simply undeniable. Focus, not enjoy. That was his regulatory movement at hand.
"Underdstood. Regina, you better keep this lead open. I'll blitz back up on fresh rubber. We got about fifty minutes left, but I can make serious gains in that short period so long as I hold it through to the end. Remember you're on the same strategy- you go in three laps after me, you conserve rubber far better than I do." He said, braking hard into the next chicane, passing through as he felt the rear slightly kick, then coming back in.
"Woah." He said to himself, accelerating back out, aware that this was the beginning of symptoms. This was going to be tricky, he thought to himself, as he carried on, headed down towards the complex of Turn 11.
"We were driving G-Wagens evasively, not fucking hypercars!" Markus yelled back, as the windy path span around the hilltop, the sight of a tunnel coming up perhaps cover, as Markus floored it, going into the fully covered tunnel as the helicopter flew over the obstruction, flying around as Markus kept foot to the floor. It was more a cave than a real tunnel route- it wasn't paved with concrete, rather, just a few lights in the roof, and the booming noise of the V8s screamed as they headed through. The route became rather more mountainous, but the tunnel was about a kilometer long, and gave them time to think.
"That helicopter is going to find the other exit...okay, I need to give you my AT4. Stop the car a moment." He said, slamming on the brakes, quickly moving to the side so Eric could brake, before opening the window, He tossed the tube to Eric, Markus's own helmet off, as he put the car back into first, the window shut.
"Stay about 200m back, out of sight. I'm going to lure the helicopter. I'll run like fuck and once they see it, they'll try and send in the men to hunt us down, if they aren't already. Have the AT4 prepped to shoot on my car, they'll search it and we can cut their numbers down, then perhaps deal with the helicopter with small arms. No way we'll get an easy shot on it, even when they're dropping people out. But perhaps we can hit it secondarily- the helicopter will stick close, he's got balls." He said quickly but concisely, flooring it as he approached the end, skidding to a stop outside the tunnel exit, overlooking a cliffline. Getting out, he ran back inside, the noise of the helicopter overhead as it flew over the cliffline audible and visible, as it picked up the car. He just hoped this ruse would work.
Markus was out of breath when he got back, panting hard as he put his visor back on, and looked over, getting into a service entrance that was lined with a small outcrop of concrete, as he knew he'd never make it to Eric's position.
"Wait till you see the bastards...it's really close." He said, looking out as the helicopter boomed, the noise of men being heard as they disembarked, making the small drop from the side of the helicopter. They moved in, flashlights on, and saw the car, moving slowly towards it as they opened up the door, yelling. Through the tint, they didn't see anyone inside the blue P1. The helicopter hovered close above the tunnel exit, a M240 set up in the side as they provided extra cover around the area.
"Now, Eric." He simply said, as he leaned back in, aware that this shot was going to be loud as hell when it hit.
"That helicopter is going to find the other exit...okay, I need to give you my AT4. Stop the car a moment." He said, slamming on the brakes, quickly moving to the side so Eric could brake, before opening the window, He tossed the tube to Eric, Markus's own helmet off, as he put the car back into first, the window shut.
"Stay about 200m back, out of sight. I'm going to lure the helicopter. I'll run like fuck and once they see it, they'll try and send in the men to hunt us down, if they aren't already. Have the AT4 prepped to shoot on my car, they'll search it and we can cut their numbers down, then perhaps deal with the helicopter with small arms. No way we'll get an easy shot on it, even when they're dropping people out. But perhaps we can hit it secondarily- the helicopter will stick close, he's got balls." He said quickly but concisely, flooring it as he approached the end, skidding to a stop outside the tunnel exit, overlooking a cliffline. Getting out, he ran back inside, the noise of the helicopter overhead as it flew over the cliffline audible and visible, as it picked up the car. He just hoped this ruse would work.
Markus was out of breath when he got back, panting hard as he put his visor back on, and looked over, getting into a service entrance that was lined with a small outcrop of concrete, as he knew he'd never make it to Eric's position.
"Wait till you see the bastards...it's really close." He said, looking out as the helicopter boomed, the noise of men being heard as they disembarked, making the small drop from the side of the helicopter. They moved in, flashlights on, and saw the car, moving slowly towards it as they opened up the door, yelling. Through the tint, they didn't see anyone inside the blue P1. The helicopter hovered close above the tunnel exit, a M240 set up in the side as they provided extra cover around the area.
"Now, Eric." He simply said, as he leaned back in, aware that this shot was going to be loud as hell when it hit.
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