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The swaying ramble of the twiners of a melody was quietly running amok within the confinement of a chamber. It was a Folía, Madness in translation. In its rhythm, his index finger glided around the air with the dignity expected from the better side of the imperative mood, while he was explaining a meticulously prepared plan. He was the conductor of the situation.

The high ceiling of the room was perfectly white, the same white that slid down the walls, indicating that the purpose of the room was purely utilitarian -- it was his office. There was a window on a wall, which let the light of the Cambridge Medium White gush in. The floor was covered with white tiles, on which was his wooden desk. It held nothing but the gramophone, a computer and a small, slim, gilded brace, that soared proudly to support three hanging, attentively maintained Courageous Action Medals.

Their owner was a Knight of the Bretonian Empire, the Admiral of the Third Cambridge Command Fleet and the Fourth Norfolk Defense Fleet. All the corresponding insignia glittered on his uniform. His surname was Hall, and he never imagined how easily everything but the last could unhook and fall down far beyond his reach, within a heartbeat. He didn't believe in karma.

He was sitting down at the desk, having risen his head to address the guest that was standing up, but it was Hall who was on the higher position here. His expression was distanced and exalted, as if he has always been what he is, and as if he would always remain.

"Please take it, Captain Dagon", he said as he gave her a very small, black device, that was designed for eavesdropping. "And adhere it to a hidden surface, but make sure you don't hide it from sound. You may tell the next one to come in now. Good luck", he nodded. Of course, he was only wishing her luck before sticking the device, but after the job is done, it was all the same for him.

The Folía was in a cadenza -- it was ending. But, the madness had just begun.

(01-23-2017, 12:52 AM)Titanium Wrote: [ -> ]She nodded, acquiescing to the order, of course. Her prosthetic eye glinted with a green hue with the light shifting. As she raised her head, her face was the cold steel that Hall was already used to, yet always causing a slight cold jolt through his spine. He could never decide if it was the natural noble air of command she issued or her colorful past history. With her good arm, she clutched softly the device and turned around to face the door. She was somewhat happy to finally be off her capital ship training and tactical overview of several operations, due to the attainment of the captain rank within the Bretonian Armed Forces. The past six months were if nothing, grueling, in her mind. Kaze Nelson Reidman Dagon was a woman of action, always in favor of being in person in the fighting and in the heath of the battle. Although while the capital training occurred, she managed to get her body back up to speed with her bionic attachments. She was at the top of her condition, and that condition was clearly shown in the confidence that she exhumed with every step. Mid step she stopped and turned to look the Admiral in the eye for a couple of seconds, before speaking. "I do hope this is for Bretonia, Sir Hall. Not for you." The implied threat was all she needed to voice, before resuming her walk to the office door. It was still a brand new world for her, the reality of Bretonia in these days. Yet, she was willing to step back into Hell again, for the Queen and for the People. With her bionic hand, she opened the door, with a stronger grip than needed, and walked out. She quickly glanced to the side to meet a face. She remembered it as Commander Seeley French, the right hand of Captain Paul McKinley, recently issued as Executive Officer to Hall. With a nod, she kept walking and already thinking on how to enter Planet Leeds.

A feeling somewhat compared to excitement ran through her head, before being shut down by the rationality of reality and training that already were hard-wired into her being.
.

Commander Seely French was breathing heavily. He was a rather wretched sight at the moment. His uniform was wrinkled and dirty, his hair looked like a sad, wet mop, and his face resembled that of a stoker. His gaze stuck onto Dagon's bionic eye for a second. He reached for the door knob as they went by each other, and turned after her. He took a good glance at her bottom before entering. The door made a metallic click as he closed it behind himself.

"You've lost her again, haven't you?", Hall uttered with disappointment immediately after taking a very short glance at French. It seemed that he sighed within. The commander took an audible breath.
"It wasn't me fault, Sire. The control board started spewing a hailstorm of sparks straight into me face right as I undoc", Hall interrupted him: "Because it wasn't repaired properly?"
"Yes... exactly", French happily shifted the blame onto the mechanics.
"After you got yourself shot down", Hall added coldly. French wanted to defend himself, but Hall interrupted him again: "You can't allow yourself to get incapacitated so often, Commander. Especially not in front of your men." Hall made a short pause. Being shot down wasn't the reason why he scolded French. He knew that he was close with McKinley, so he intentionally assigned him to less functional ships in order to justify a demotion -- which would reduce French's rights of access.
"You've come to request a new ship, I suppose?"
"Er, yes Sire", French answered with the feeling that he was standing on a teeter.
"One moment...", said Hall as he turned the screen on to type out the code.

The office suddenly darkened. Although it had its own lighting, it was mostly lit by the Cambridge Medium White, which has just been blocked by a Bowex convoy of Shires that had ungraciously parked itself into the perfect position to both jam the traffic for a while, and to block the sunlight. It was somewhat humiliating for Hall, but he couldn't do anything about it. Frowning, he typed in the code to access his computer.

As the office lighting automatically adjusted to the change, and as it was completely dark outside, the window on French's right provided a decent mirror. He managed to glimpse Hall's code. It was no other than "EarlGrey". He managed to hide the excitement.

"Go to the dock Gamma-33, Planet Cambridge. They should have an older model there, you can use it until your Challenger is repaired. And don't get this one shot down!"
"Aye, Sire", French felt relief.
"Dismissed", Hall waved his hand off at him and immediately focused at more important business. "Tell anyone outside that the reception time is over." The clock showed five minutes remaining. "There is no time left for their complex, unimportant problems."
French nodded as he left the office. Hall did intend to perform an inspection of his mechanics, but there was more relevant matter at hand. He poured the matter into a cup and took a sip of it.

(01-28-2017, 12:15 PM)Titanium Wrote: [ -> ]Several hours later, Captain Kaze Dagon was sitting in the living room of her modest apartment, reading an old leather bound book. The data-pad at her side came to life with a chain of messages. She picked the data-pad up and saw the video message. Rising from the couch, she kneeled at the side of the coffee table, where tactical equipment and weaponry were displayed. Catching a clean rag, her hands started to clean the small components. Preparation before the operation. One hour later, the black clad woman ran to one of the small privately owned bays in Credenhill, with a duffel bag on her shoulder. Effortlessly, she pushed one of the huge doors, and the lights turned on, detecting movement. An old, patched up Nyx stood in the middle of the bay. Several hull components as well armoured plates were not original. The titanium matte-like hue of them diffused the light. "Hello, old girl. Time to fly again." Kaze whispered, looking at the ship. She quickly climbed to the control station and started to power the auxiliary systems and to preform system checks.

Thirty minutes later, the Nyx engines were pushed to the limit and headed out to the docking ring in the atmosphere. Transmitting her fake paperwork, she exited Cambridge as Lyla Smith, former colonial engineer, now working for a robotic parts factory startup in the planet. She looked at the vastness of the void and breathed in.

Once again into the darkness.

.

The next day seemed as quiet and casual as the one before. Until a howl exploded amidst the whiteness of Hall's office. It turned red as the sirens kept roaring for help. The ship was in pain and its adrenaline started firing up. Something obviously went horribly wrong, and the first thing that crossed Hall's mind was if he would be blamed. He immediately left everything he was doing and rushed towards the bridge.

Crewmen and marines were slightly slower to react, most of them thinking that it was yet another drill in the same week. Nevertheless, everyone aboard was running somewhere. The ship came vibrantly alive, resembling a disturbed anthill. A column of marines dashed by Hall's office. French was behind them, running to the hangar.

In a hurry, Hall forgot to close the door completely. Intending to bypass the marines, French made a turn. The door made him trip and hurl himself onto the floor. When he picked himself up, he found Hall's office staring at him. While the corridor played a trough for the stream of sirens, the unguarded cavern of secrets was as inviting as the mermaid song. He looked around. No one was there any more.

The next moment French was sitting at Hall's desk. Hall's computer wasn't even locked, but French wouldn't enter the office if he didn't know the code.

Before him stood an open folder, which contained two files. The first was called "O'Brien's_Quarters" and it was in video format. What could the old admiral do in his boss's quarters and record it, French thought. Various thoughts occupied his mind. One of them was that he should be starting up his bomber right now, but he didn't like getting shot down again. Other thoughts, these much dirtier than what the most broken of control panels might spew at him, but in a more pleasant way, took over. He played the video.

He was disappointed to a yawn. Neither Hall nor O'Brien herself were recorded. It was only a few guards checking if the quarters were wired. One of them was carrying the camera.
After French closed the video, the file below caught his attention. It was called "Assassins_List". To him, it was very clear why the admiral would place a list of assassins after a detailed video of O'Brien's quarters. It wasn't very clear why Hall would pull such a move at the first place, but French considered it his duty to protect the Fleet Admiral. He opened the list.

It was empty. Hall must still be planning it. French decided to play the video again in case he had missed something. He noticed it right away -- he could see the cameraman's nose. As if the camera was an eye. Dagon had a bionic eye and he had seen her exit Hall's office. She must be involved, he thought. Searching through the database, French found that she was directed to Planet Leeds. Must be conspiring with the Gauls too, he thought.

Only now he noticed that the alarm had been deactivated for some time already. The admiral will surely be back soon. French rushed out, and back to his bunk. He knocked down Hall's medals while getting up.

It all went along as planned. Greed, as always, is a great motivator and facilitator of beneficial situations, if one knows how to wield it. And in a war torn planet like Leeds, the front line of the Gallic-Bretonian war, greed is desperate, greed is absolute. Be it by the ones wielding it or by the ones yearning. The local gaul garrisons were running low on supplies, and neutral suppliers, like Kishiro, found themselves a nice niche of the market. Kaze's assessment was spot on as to a Kusari keiretsu ship would have little to no difficulty landing and unleashing its payload of sales representatives, eager on taking charge of the many needs of a weary front-line garrison with difficulties in their supply lines. It didn't meant it was that easy however, since three security checks were in the way. But as always, greed is a great motivator. The forgery, Kusari made, was more than enough, as was the pay for it. Nodding to Ishimura as they took different turns in the busy streets, her departure was not noticed apart from him, and a very zealous gallic marine policing the small turns and hidden streets of the centennial city. One word of command, and the Kusari woman halted her path. "Identification, madame!" The man shouted, hand in his holster, carefully approaching her. With her hands raised, her voice wore a Kusarian accent. "Konnichiwa... May I retrieve it?" Her hands pointed to her back. With a nod of his head, and somewhat less prone to shoot, he continued his approach. And was blind to the fast movement that rendered him speechless.

Ten minutes later, a naked dead body of a headless man was found by passers-by in the same narrow street. And Kaze was already well on her way to the outskirts of Leeds, where a small hover was waiting for her.

Two hours later, black clad with a small tactical bag on her back, a woman crossed the small distance to the nearby wall and climbed it without effort. With a small one eyed visor, the sight was clear as day, even with the everlasting smog and haze that permeated Leeds. Thanks to that, she noticed not five, as the norm, but twelve different alarm sensors in her path. The gauls were already on edge, probably due to their current condition in Planet Leeds. Nimbly, but not without delay, she proceeded to re-route and disable every single one of them, cursing herself for not being fast enough. The more time wasted in defeating the veritable horde of securities, the chance of being caught increased exponentially. Not that it mattered. The mission took precedence.

And Bretonia was always on her mind.

The right engine was burning. The control board was ablaze. The Challenger was screaming in agony. Two cruiser missiles were tailing it like wolves a wounded animal. It was a question if it would explode on its own before it was hit. The ship's left engine broke off, shifting it out of balance and making it spiral down out of control. The missiles went past it. An escape pod ejected, and its parachute worked.

It fell down in the centre of a wide bomb crater. Its lid opened, and a slightly dazed man got out. It was Commander Seeley French, and he got shot down again. He was somewhere in the wastelands of Planet Leeds.

He was aware that he didn't have any evidence for a search warrant of Hall's computer, and he couldn't afford waiting for another opportunity to enter the office, this time with a flash memory. Reporting Hall would only give him a good reason to demote him, French thought. For the life of Fleet Admiral Michelle O'Brien and for the sake of Bretonia, he decided to inquire himself.

"Smugglers get past it daily me arse...", he mumbled while yanking a piece of his trousers that got stuck, and vented his stress by kicking the pod. Sighing and shaking his head, he turned around.

His gaze collided with the imposing glare of four rifles staring directly at him from the edge of the crater, each ready to erupt out pure cruelty.

Daniel Phillipe de Valons, born in New Paris, son of a tailor, was feeling bored. He looked up to the sky and all he saw was the distant flashes of explosions of the fighting far away. Stationed in Leeds for the past year, he could not wait for the rotation back home. "P**** de m****. I am tired of this." He muttered. The sound of footsteps, heavy combat boots by the sound of it, signaled the arrival of his relief. "Finally, Joseph. I thought I would have to get you. And hit you with a baguette." His relief, Joseph Marlin, born in Orleans, smirked sadly at the jest, and sighed. "You too? Oui.. We are tired of this gods forsaken place." Daniel stated. Joseph pulled a cigarrete out and Daniel quickly lit it up. "Merci... You know.." Joseph finally spoke. "I thought war was not pretty, even hellish.. But this?" He gestured with his hand. "This is worse. Guarding corridors and windows of an old asylum.. Our luck is really made of m****." A female voice whispered around them. "You have no idea." As they turned their heads, a blade sliced Joseph's throat with a cruel precision, and a silenced blaster shot penetrated Daniel's skull. Grey matter, half-liquefied, half burning splattered Joseph's face as he clutched his throat for dear life. Falling on his back, in anger he tried to grasp his weapon, a small automatic blaster, to shoot the assailant and take her with him to the afterlife. A black combat boot stepped on his hand, eliciting a small shout of pain that was more of a gurgle than a scream, and all he saw in the end was the muzzle of that silenced blaster. Kaze quickly dispatched both bodies into the small ventilation shaft from where she entered, not before grabbing both of their communicators and identification tags. With the jacket of one of them, she quickly wiped the floor and threw it to the ventilation shaft, closing the small grate. "Two down. And a filled asylum to go." She thought to herself, before moving on.

This was her game. The shadows. A wind caressing the walls and doors, unopposed and unstoppable. Whenever there was a security system ahead, Kaze quickly adapted. From diverting her route, posturing as a guard to the ultimate risk of killing, it was the game that she always knew how to play. The deaths in it were unbound and unchained of honor and guilt. They were soldiers, here to invade her home. To chain her people and make them kneel to an unknown and uncaring king. Thus, all bets were off, as her once leader said, before laying down whatever hell Silver could concoct in that sick mind of hers. And this game is what granted Kaze a color. The game of shadows and murder. Bloody murder, as the last one tried to scream, as her blade impaled him from the lower back, coming out of his chest, his eyes filled with horror and surprise at the sight of the bloody tip exiting his sternum. Her hand, covering his mouth and muffling his dying words, grabbing with such strength that his own jaw conceded to the superior force and shoved itself into his own head. One eye fell off his socket, and dangled in front of his face as his body fell to the floor, with its mind and strength gone, expired. Kaze rarely used this move for it was a ghastly way to die, but the position, the situation and her bionics told her it was the one to execute.

Footsteps were heard in the background. Was she detected? Did they found out any of the bodies? She was careful enough to the point of imitating them on the communicators. There was no time to hide her fresh kill. Her mind raced at the options and as all animals that are cornered, the real animals, there was only one way to go between a wall and incoming captors. So she ran, as fast as she could, to the entrance of this particular room, one of the security hubs of this section of the asylum. Two men entered, casually talking to each other, not minding their surroundings. "Callous." Kaze thought. But many of the guards in this garrison were like this. Tired of being stuck in a isolated building, away from the main cities, in a foreign occupied planet that did not wanted them there, and others, fresh from the core systems, that didn't had the experience to notice the minute details that make all the difference. Like the woman, above them, doing a very complicated gymnastic maneuver, pinning herself to the ceiling, with only one hand. Her biotic one. While the other trailed their heads with that silenced blaster of hers. Two shots, quick in sucession, and their life vaporized, as their brains melted and came out of their mouths, eyes and ears. One singular thump was heard. Not a second or a third. For she used the same timing of the bodies hitting the floor to land right in their middle. She flicked some small cement dust from her bionic hand and proceeded to drag them further into the room, relieving them from their identifications and finally taking the time to concentrate all the communication frequencies into her own comm-link. Reloading her blaster, she clicked the energy button, and that sound came onto its own. That humming that she knew very well, caressed her ears and comforted her, shoving aside the cold memories of Nevers. She was in a den of lions and jailers all over again.

But now, she was the hunter, and the executioner.

"Lift yer hands in the air, lad." The order, a lot more casual than any commanding officer's, came from the fifth man, and in a strong Leeds accent. He was of average height, but slightly heavier than that, and seemed to have been rather too lazy than to busy to shave since last week. Combined with his leisurely posture, his greasy beard gave the impression that it was scraping the skin between the breasts of a fat whore while French was falling down ablaze. His lack of uniform reinforced that impression. The man didn't carry a rifle either, but he did have a cigar. Looking at the sand that was blown off by the sickly breeze, with dead annoyance in his eyes, annoyance that had bored itself to death, he lighted it.

"If ye can call this f****** s***-gas an air", his voice continued casually, as course and greasy as his beard. Cursing the air for who knows what time appeared to have brought him pleasure, but not as much as the tobacco smoke.

French was confused. His uniform, although untidy, was very visible. He understood the man perfectly, as his aunt was from Leeds too, but he didn't understand why a Bretonian would command him to raise his hands. He didn't do it. Had Hall outgone him?
"Hey! I'm one of our men!"
All that did was make the greasy beard take the cigar out of his mouth and try to laugh. He was stopped by whatever Leeds and tobacco had lodged into his lungs. He spat some slime on the sand with pleasure.
"Ye know whose ye are, lad? Ye were yer precious Queenie's property. Now you are our property." He soaked a toke in. "Lift those hands where I can see them. Lads, cuff 'im, this one's a commander. He's worth at least two weeks' rations for all of us."
The greasy beard smiled sincerely as he looked at French. "And hopefully some f****** razors..."

Finally the objective was near. The garrison Commander's office, where once was the asylum's director office. Grand, with big windows, or so the blueprints indicated. Yet it was exceedingly well guarded, five guards, two by two at each side of the double doors and the last one right in front of them. Probably the highest ranking of the five. Never mind the cameras the already dotted the access corridors and that gave Kaze the view of the whole security schematic. Yet time was of the essence. It has already been seventeen minutes that she entered the asylum. The alarm could go off at any minute now, for six guards and officers already laid dead, hidden in the shadows, and waiting for someone to find them.. or go look for them. Her position was not the best, literally and metaphorically speaking. Hanging off, in a dark nook of the corridor ceiling, two guards already had passed by her and gave no notice of her existence. For the past two minutes she hoped that the guard detail in front of the only way into that office would go away by its own, but fate never ever really plays the song that we like to hear the most.

"Revisiting the classics, then." She whispered to herself. The classic tactical manoeuvrer was quite effective and she had used it once or twice in the past to remove obstacles of her path. It however, brought a dark memory back into her mind. The destruction of the Liberty Navy flagship, the Panzerfaust, Christopher Phelps own dreadnought. A lifetime ago, another life, another path. She sighed and closed her eyes as she clicked her wrist-pad to initiate the small program. Suddenly, two explosions occurred outside the north side of the asylum. Another one happened on the west side. One within as well. The building shook, alarms blared, red klaxons wailed and came to life. What was once a sleepy garrison of men and women, came to life as their collective behinds had caught fire. The leader of the group ordered two of them to stay guarding the door and started to run with the other two, shouting orders through his comm. "Much more manageable." This distraction had this benefit, but also placed a even shorter limit on her stay, and causing her to be a tad bit more ruthless and efficient. Those two men would die in the next minute, for there was no time left for mercy. Preparing herself, she gave a last once over all the cameras. Everyone was converging on the explosions locations, and no one around in the immediate area. Kaze breathed in, removed her silenced blaster and closed her eyes, picturing her aunt, the fires around Leeds and her men and women, fighting. Letting her bionic hand lose the strength that was keeping her suspended, her mind only had one thought, while planning bloody murder.

"For Bretonia."

The slam of the steel bars finally sealed his fate, French thought. His surname finally became meaningful, designating the ones writing what he thought were the last paragraphs of his fate. Or, rather erasing. But maybe that wasn't as bad as it seemed at first glance. To slip through the mighty besieging fleets of King Charles XI of Gallia, then to have his ship shot down from behind, to escape two cruiser missiles thanks to the very shooting down, fall on a random place on the vast surface of Planet Leeds and survive all that -- only to be caught by neither the resistance nor the invaders, but the collaborators, and be sold for simple food only to die a slow death in a POW camp due to the lack of the same -- that didn't seem as a particularly benevolent fate. Maybe it was good that it was about to end.

French wasn't very optimistic about it, but he tried to be. He tried to remember a prayer and looked up. The ceiling was very colourful. Apparently the prison was improvised from a former school. Being in school again didn't cheer him up.

He turned around. The cell, which once used to be a classroom, was filled with a motley group of people who seemed to be too occupied with their own miseries to throw him a glance. Most were sitting on chairs arranged against the walls, but those were too few, so some had to get accustomed to the floor. Having no other thing to do, French reconciled with his fate and found a spot to sit on at the centre, as there was already enough of depressed souls to fill the corners. This image made him assume that it will be no better after the classroom, only worse. That sounded very like life, and it actually made him a little relieved that his own might end soon.

But he had to ask himself what he was thinking before deciding to pull out the stunt. He must have been mad. But he was mad for Bretonia, and that was because he was madly in love with it. A death for love was one worth dying.

Less than an hour later of her final approach to the Commander's office, she was already suited like a Commandant of the Gallic Royal Navy, courtesy of the previous owner. Not snugly fit, but some needle work and now it could pass the inspection. The paperwork and credentials were created and quickly deployed through the commander's linked computer, and there she was, brimming with confidence at the entrance of the Planetary HQ. Walking through the front door, the best way in, and the most successful one, in a high security facility like this. Back in the asylum, they were still collecting all the pieces in the puzzle and their commander, running, from the HQ back to her charge as fast as she could. Another timed bomb, expected to discharge in the Commander's office in less than two minutes, would help to increase the disarray and confusion. The entrance guards ran her credentials that marked as a new arrival from the core systems, and quickly ushered her in, alongside some Kusarian diplomats.

"Commandant Michelle Langlais, pour me présenter au Général." Kaze said with a haughtiness, that most people pinned to the Gauls, and that the desk sergeant didn't even looked at, as used to it as he was. Another one from the core, fresh to the grinder. Delivering the paperwork back at her, he gave her an order to wait for an hour, or more, since the General was busy at the moment. She proceeded to look upset by the delay and walked over to the seats, to wait and dry. That idea passed by the sergeant head for a second, granting him a small smirk, but work kept pilling on in his hands. Not even three minutes later, Commandant Langlais's seat was empty, and Kaze was already inside the many corridors that filled the gallic Headquarters, thinking to herself, and pulling her wrist-pad to look at the blueprints.
"Now, another maze to travel in."

Her feet taking her once again, into another potential mess.

The night was the colour of graves. The air tasted like exhaustion. A sudden clank of steel bars had awaken him, along with the rest of the inmates. A soldier entered and switched the light on, which brought the classroom's brightly coloured walls to life. But it wasn't the life they used to live while that was still a classroom. It was more similar to a walking corpse.
"Allez! Vite, vite!", the soldier screamed through the shattered night.
The inmates exited between two columns of armed men. "Walking corpses, that's what we are!", despaired an old man. A soldier knocked him to the ground with a gunstock. After that, no one spoke anything.

The soldiers escorted the sorry crowd out of the building. One could hear a baby cry somewhere in the vicinity. The prisoners were escorted around the corner, where they were aligned against the wall, besides a tearful woman who was trying to calm down her child. She must have been caught on the street during the curfew. The soldiers then aligned themselves in front of the row of people and raised their rifles. A man, who seemed to be their commander, walked beside the prisoners and pointed towards two. They were French and another man in a BAF uniform. "You and you, come with them". Three soldiers cuffed and escorted French and the other pilot. The squad commander then started blindfolding the prisoners.

The baby's cry was still audible when French was already lead far from the place. He thought he heard the woman feverishly repeat the word "please". He was sure that he heard gunshots. Then he heard nothing.

"Don' worrie", a soldier spoke to him with a persistent French accent. "Zhere are mush worse sings where we are taking you", he smiled at him in the dark. No one spoke after that.

They were taking him to the spaceport, from where he would be shipped to the place where he could be properly interrogated.

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