kabul, Afghanistan
1:30 AM, August 14th, 2166
The safe house was very cramped as far as sleeping space went. The couch and bed had been claimed quickly, and everyone else just found a place on the floor. It was a quaint little piece of shit that sat square in the middle of the ghettos, something that no one would bat an eye at. "Safe" was a relative term in this city.
The man who chose the short straw took the first watch. He sat by the window, looking out into the night as shifty figures walked down the street. Being here made him nervous; perhaps because he knew first hand just how dangerous this city could be. The slightest bump made him jump and whip around, his gun ready in his hands.
His eyes scanned the dark room, over the sleeping forms of him comrades. Maybe it was just another crackhead trying to break in. He stood and slowly slunk towards the source of the sound. As his feet creaked on the old wood floor on his journey towards the back door, the sound of shattering glass caused him to startle. The man whipped around to see a brick land on the floor just behind him. It was followed by a well aimed gas canister.
In the split second that it took for the canister to hiss and release it's fumes, the occupants of the house were already awake and grabbing their weapons and masks. The relatively quiet scene exploded into gun fire and shouting. The men were up and barreling out of the house, guns blazing. They were surrounded, but their demolitions expert quickly blew a hole in their attackers' circle to make way for their escape vehicle.
"Get in the van!" A deep, Russian accented voice shouted over the chaos. The unit piled out of the house and into the old, beat up looking van parked outside. Someone jumped behind the wheel and put the pedal to floor. The surprisingly sturdy old Ford plowed through anyone who tried to get in their way. There was a flurry of arms and legs as the men quickly assembled their armor onto their bodies, most it second hand. This clearly wasn't the most glamorous operation.
The van tore down the streets, followed closely by a hovercraft. It was clear who had the upper hand here. The back doors of the van flew open, and a very large figure leaned out to unleash a hail of bullets onto the driver of the craft. As it fell back, another took it's place. The large man cursed and reloaded his weapon to shoot it down as well.
As he took aim, a gunman leaned out of the front passenger window and opened fire. The large, Russian man expected his armor to deflect the rounds, but they instead clenched onto the front of his chest plate. He paused to look down at them before it registered what they were, a second too late. The three devices clinging to him beeped loudly, then let out a strong, electromagnetic pulse. The man felt his legs give out, his feet going numb. He dropped from the back of the van like a sack of potatoes, crumpling onto the street.
The van screeched to a halt, and one of the side door flew open. "No! Keep going you idiots!" The Russian man shouted, "Go! Drive!"
The van hesitated before the tires screeched again as it tore off down the road. The hovercraft landed on the street, dispersing a crowd of bystanders who thought it would a good idea to rubberneck. The man could feel the nerves in his legs coming back to life, and stood to his feet, just a little shaky. He raised his gun and swiveled around as his was quickly surrounded by men in black armor.
"Alright, which one of you fuckers wants to go first?" He growled.
"Give it up, Belov. You know you won't get out of this one alive. Not without your unit." One of the armored men dared to take a step forward. The Russian turned, gun raised and ready to shoot him. His eyes glared evenly at the other man's visor. He took a quick glance around at the soldiers surrounding him. Honestly, English wasn't the language he expected to hear. Whoever this was, it wasn't the militia group that him and his unit were here to fight. These men had better gear, better transport, and better training than any desert hillbillies he'd ever seen. This was something different altogether.
He took a deep breath and let out a sigh. The Russian lowered his weapon before letting it drop at his feet.
"On your knees," The man who had first spoken said, motioning at the ground with his gun. The large man slowly lowered to his knees, raising his hands up to rest behind his head in a submissive pose.
"Who are you?" He asked gruffly, looking up at the man before him as cuffs were clamped onto his wrists.
"Don't worry, you'll find out soon enough."
Location unknown
6:24 AM, August 16th, 2166
"Sasha Belov. You're a hard man to get in touch with." A man dressed in a suit walked lightly into the room, holding a file folder in his hand. "Have your accommodations been enjoyable?"
Sasha looked up from the table he'd been staring at for the last hour. The chains around his wrists and ankles were a bit much, he thought. His face sported two black eyes and a busted lip, and probably more under the tacky orange jumpsuit he'd been given. "I've had worse," He grunted.
The suited man sat down in the chair across from him, setting the folder down on the table. "What is this?" Sasha asked, shifting in his chair in a vague attempt to get more comfortable. The table was too low for his knees, and was pressing down on his legs. His cold, steel blue eyes met the ones of the man in front of him evenly. "Who are you?"
Sasha figured he was in the States somewhere, but he couldn't figure out why. He hadn't been in the US in years, so they couldn't possibly want him for anything.
"You can just call me Steve. This, Mr. Belov, is a negotiation." He opened the folder to a front page that read Project: Revenant. Sasha glanced down at it, seemingly unimpressed.
"I prefer non-fiction."
"Cute." 'Steve' turned the page over, showing another page with text and a picture of a ship paper clipped to the top. "My boss's new pet project sent me and my men halfway across the world to a hellhole to drag you out, so you can either listen to our terms or go back into the nice cell you just came out of."
"And if I refuse? What are you going to do? Torture me? Kill me? I've heard it before, Mr. Steve."
Steve raised an eyebrow, meeting the Russian's cold and almost obnoxiously calm stare. He turned the file back around to face him, then flipped through a couple pages until stopping on one with a blurry picture of Sasha's face, captured from a distance. "You like stay under the radar, Sasha, but in this day and age, that's a very hard thing to do. Let's see what we have here...some medical records...Shipment numbers...a few false identities, and... what are all these trips to Nigeria, hm? What's that all about?"
Sasha slowly straightened up in his chair, a spark of anger in his eyes breaking the calm facade. Steve looked up at him with a knowing smirk.
"What do you want from me?" Sasha growled, his voice taking on an venomous tone.
"We want you on our side," Steve said. "Our plan is to gather a special task force of...undesirables. Criminals, thugs, killers, people of that persuasion. You and your teammates will work for us. You'll get paid for your efforts, and you won't be a pain in our ass anymore. It's a win-win."
"You want me to work with criminals?" Sasha leaned back in his chair, slowly regaining his cool.
"You know, your work, however well intended it may be, is illegal. You're just a guilty as everyone else on this ship, and I think you know that."
Sasha glanced down at the file, at the picture of the ship. "So I'll be in space? Inside a piece of shit tin can."
Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I know it's not your preferred scenery, but we can send you a View-Master if that would keep you happy."
Chronos Station
Current day
Sasha spent the trip out to the station in his cell, brooding over the choice he'd been forced to make. The only consolation was that he would be given enough for this nonsense to retire on. His eyes glanced from the book in his hands to the porthole his small space was provided with. The ship was pulling up to the station, and soon, he would be unloaded like cattle to meet his new unit. He highly doubted they would fill the boots of his old one.
As the ship docked, one of the guards opened his cell and tossed his duffle bag inside. "Get changed," He grunted. Sasha stood, still wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit. At least he would be more comfortable in his own clothes, rather than the ill fitted garment he had on. About fifteen minutes later, just as he was securing his wrist mount in place, the guards ushered him out of the cell and out into the loading bay. There was a group already gathering there. Sasha eyed the people around him for a moment before some guy began going over the same spiel he'd already heard about collecting a team of degenerates.
As the captain departed, taking the guards with him, Sasha was left in a bit of disbelief. Maybe they figured the ones that were stupid enough to run could be weeded out right here. Regardless, he was perfectly content with the Stryker guy's resolve to not socialize the group. The less he had to interact with these assholes, the better.
ThisIsFine
Omega Man
Emma
