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Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Inquisitor Gaunt - 09-08-2010
The RNS Martyr hovered silently over her battle-group leader's wing; the hulk of the Obstinate class cruiser over-shadowed by the massive figure of the Battleship Beuvray, sitting not a kilometre away. Her Capitaine stood silently on the bridge, eyes locked on the almost hypnotic twirl of Planet Beaune below them. In the dead quiet of the empty CnC, it was easy to get lost- easy to fall into thoughts of the past'¦ thoughts of home. Dull clanks against the deckplates broke her concentration, and she shook her head clean before turning to face the arrivals; her tight ponytail of black hair almost unaffected by the inertia.
'Capitaine Lavelle'¦' came a voice, the figure masked, and armoured in a light ablative plating ' it hid her femininity quite well. Unfortunately the lack of vocoder did not. 'It is time.'
The subordinate gave a nod, falling into step with the anonymous figure, before proceeding down to the ship's hanger. Inside, there was but one fighter in sight, belonging to the masked avenger; instead, the cruiser's entire crew stood in parade formation, legs ajar and hands behind the back.
'Crew! Atteeen-SHUN!' cried the Martyr's XO, a Lieutenant by the name of Jacque de Somme.
The mass of men and women responded instantly, and fluidly; arms snapping to their sides, and feet clapping together with the seemingly lazy slide that only Navy and Marine personnel enjoyed ' a relic of old swaying decks in heaving Terran oceans where lifting a foot meant toppling over. The Capitaine pulled a meagre smile as she and the guest approached the make-shift podiums, all that was permitted on parade. The figure stepped up to the microphone first.
'Ladies et gentlemen'¦' she began, pausing for a moment ' seemingly for effect. 'While I am not at liberty to say who I am, I do have the ability to say why I am here. As you all know, we are about to go to war with the Sirian filth, and in doing so, have entered a new kind of warfare. While our enemies of old have had their combat style honed, identified, et countered, we face a new wave of tactics ' one which we require the knowledge to defeat'¦'
'Yet knowledge has always come so easily to our glorious armed forces; the Council, the Maquis, the Unione Corse ' all have been simple enough to catch, interrogate, et liquidate. But as we enter this new era of war, against an enemy that, while undeserving of our good will, is at least deserving of a little, and I mean little, respect. This is an enemy with a spark, no matter how dim, of intellect ' one which is to be extinguished as quickly as possible. This is where you all come in to play'¦'
The masked woman stepped aside, beckoning for Laurel to take the stand. The Capitaine gave her a dim nod, before taking her position and clearing her throat.
'Mes amis, my comrades, my brothers et sisters in arms ' the enemy that we now face brings more than simple new strategy to the table; while we still continue to dominate their fleets in size, they are much, much more well equipped than the simple foes we have faced before. Gallia is not a house of butchers, et soul-less bastards, we are all human, as much as the harder decisions of command state otherwise.'
'We kn- I know you all have brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, et children. I know that while you are willing to die for the King, you would prefer not to, if it can be avoided. I know you did not join our glorious fleet to throw your life away, but instead to serve'¦ and I will not let you be thrown into a meat grinder as pointless cannon fodder.'
She paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath before pressing onwards.
'As such, when the DOS gave the announcement that they were reforming, it piqued my interests. I have kept an ear to the ground, and an eye to the skies, waiting for an opportunity to use the Martyr to the fullest of her abilities ' et it has finally come to pass. As of now, et I mean right now, all crew et marines, enlisted or commissioned, are hereby transferred to the Direction d'Operations Speciales, under the authority of the newly commissioned Directeur, Paul Bordeaux.'
'As of now, in the first of many reforms to the bureau, the Royal Navy Ship Martyr is a mobile base of operations for our forces. Expect to see many new face-' she caught herself, tossing a glance to the woman beside her. 'Er- masks aboard, et treat them with respect. While we may have been the front line in the fight, these agents will be fighting in the enemy's absolute rear, quietly breaking them to pieces. '
'I, myself, know very little of what operations are to take place. All I do know is that while they may have their own light craft, we are their guns, their thrusters, et their armour. As of now, while your individual roles may not change, everything we will be doing as a whole is about to take a new turn. Ladies et gentlemen, welcome to the DOS. Dismissed.'
She pulled herself another tight smile, before stepping down from the podium, and nodding to the XO. As he marshalled them off the hanger's deck, the oddly young Capitaine returned to the bridge. It was going to be one hell of a highlight real at the end of all this, that was for sure.
<:: 2100 || 8th September 818 A.S. || Burgundy System || Open Space || RNS Martyr || Hanger Deck ::>
A trio of figures waited on the dark gray metal of the empty deck, sat down cross legged with a rifle across their laps. Beneath the outer-layer of their jet black Battle Dress Uniform, all features were left up to the imagination. The kit was comprehensive, that was for sure; their only hope was that they could ditch the bulky equipment sooner, rather than later.
The bottom most layer was obvious, a set of simple cotton underwear, issued to all GRN personnel as part of their uniform. Atop that there was a thin layer of neoprene, then latex sealing up to the neck. After that came their armour, ablative plates protecting both sides of any body part that wasn't jointed, and the top half of anything that was. Finally, a thick black greatcoat, and a hard sealed rebreather helmet, to give two hours of operating in the vacuum of space. Not one square centimetre had anything that tied them to their service; insignias let people prove existence ' in fact the only markings on them what-so-ever was a thin red stripe wrapped about one of the agent's left arms; the indication for a Special Agent as opposed to an Agent.
While the uniforms granted total anonymity, disguising everything right down to the gender, their equipment in addition to that gave a daunting feeling to the operatives. The rifle was the most obvious thing; a rail-gun based ballistics weapon, firing either hollow point or jacketed ammunition at ridiculous speeds, both in muzzle velocity and rate of fire. It had a seventy round magazine that was no heavier than the old assault rifle mags of Terra, due to its lack of case and propellant and a 2-4x digital scope, with Electromagnetic Field, heat and infra-read vision in addition to its basic magnification. What the operatives favoured most about the gun though, was its total lack of muzzle flash, and save for a meagre whine emitted from the power cell, complete silence.
The ammunition for the weapons was stowed in Kevlar webbing attached to a small day-pack. The webbing had pouches for more than just ammunition, though, with many other pockets containing maps, documents and other equipment, from simple binoculars and radios, to small EMP generators and specialized grenades.
To anyone else, they would've appeared to be elite troops, or perhaps mercenaries; thing was though, when the kiddy gloves came off and the agents got to work, the entire lot of their gear came off, too. The Special Agent racked back the bolt on their rifle, before pushing themselves to a stand, and beckoning for the other two to follow, as well. They shrugged, pulling themselves to a stand too, following their superior to the mouth of the hanger.
A civilian shuttle pulled into the open maw of the deck, engines spewing out the ever-loved fumes of the Gallic oil based power-plants, before dropping its landing gear and sitting down. The three proceeded towards the freighter, slipping into its isolated cabin.
The leader shut the door behind them, before tugging off her helmet, revealing a short crop of brown hair, hazel eyes, and a look that screamed 'not in the mood to be mucked with today.' Thanks to the thick soles of her boots, her height of five-foot-nine extended a good inch and a half over her normal stance. She appeared to be in her mid thirties, at most, with the etched lines of age beginning to set in, but more as crows feet, and worry lines than wrinkles.
She slammed a balled fist into the cabin's wall a few times, signalling the pilots. The shuttle responded quickly, lifting off and dipping forward, before plowing out of the hanger, towards the Dauphine jumpgate.
<div align="right]Credits to Spirit for the title
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - alphadog - 09-08-2010
Standing there, in his brand new prototype suit, in front of the entire crew of the Martyr, gave him mixed feelings. It made him think about his life, what he did to earn this great honor, to serve Gallia in a way like this.
He was caught by surprised when the capitaine asked him to his office, in the middle of the night. On his way to the office, he was almost scared. He had no idea what was going on, what he did, or what he had to do. After the Capitaine explained what his assignment was going to be, he was speechless. After 30 seconds of deadly silence, the only thing he could say was... b-b-bien sûr!
The days after, the doubt almost stroke him down. He was nervous. Why him, why this. He never excelled at anything. He started serving the Royal Navy 5 years ago, as a young and unknowing Aspirant. He didn't do anything heroic, anything special, just his job. Maybe that was what made him suitable for the job. He was just a normal man, doing his job. Didn't get much attention. The Capitaine saw his doubt and nervosity, so she prepared a peptalk. She was convinced he would be a valueable asset in the mission to come, she couldn't lose him because of some nervous breakdown.
That night, once again in the Capitaines office, a holoprojector was set up. She showed him pictures of his life, his career at the Navy. Hundreds of pictures of the past years. Pictures of every important battle, operation, and ceremony. He was never on the foreground, but when you took a closer look... He was always there. Laughing, crying, raging. He was in the background of every single picture the Capitaine showed him.
" You might not realize it, but you were there. You were always there to support the Royal Navy."
This gave him a motivation boost. September 8th was only 2 days away, 2 days he had a big smile on his face. This was it...
The days after, the doubt almost stroke him down. He was nervous. Why him, why this. He never excelled at anything. He started serving the Royal Navy 5 years ago, as a young and unknowing Aspirant. He didn't do anything heroic, anything special, just his job. Maybe that was what made him suitable for the job. He was just a normal man, doing his job. Didn't get much attention. The Capitaine saw his doubt and nervosity, so she prepared a peptalk. She was convinced he would be a valueable asset in the mission to come, she couldn't lose him because of some nervous breakdown.
That night, once again in the Capitaines office, a holoprojector was set up. She showed him pictures of his life, his career at the Navy. Hundreds of pictures of the past years. Pictures of every important battle, operation, and ceremony. He was never on the foreground, but when you took a closer look... He was always there. Laughing, crying, raging. He was in the background of every single picture the Capitaine showed him.
" You might not realize it, but you were there. You were always there to support the Royal Navy."
This gave him a motivation boost. September 8th was only 2 days away, 2 days he had a big smile on his face. This was it...
Those fresh memories put a smile on his face. Nobody was able to see it through the tinted helmet, but it was there. While entering the shuttle, he whispered to himself..."Here we go..."
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Ryummel - 09-09-2010
The door was opened, leading to a place which looked like an interrogation room -Very small, with a table in the middle and two chairs placed on opposite sides-. A man was sitting in one of them, remaining silent. The Capitaine sat in the chair that was free. She looked firmly at the man. The man looked back at her. His green eyes denoted coldness, which was accentuated by his facial features, making him look like on his middle 30's. The Capitaine smiled at him. "I guess you already know why you are here..." She said while taking a datapad which was showing all the personal information about the man. Then, she began to review all the information, in the middle of an uncomfortable silence. The man replied:
"Oui, I know why I'm here. You do need people capable of pulling the trigger without hesitation, people able to stay five -not one- steps ahead of the enemy, able to acomplish the mission above any circumstances, able to overcome personal feelings, able to win a war before it starts... People who have nothing -absolutely nothing- to lose when serving our Nation."
The Capitaine seemed impressed by those words. She stopped reading the datapad. "Convince me, do you really have something to lose?" The man smiled for first time. "I think that datapad has the answer." The Capitaine looked back at the datapad and tapped it. Then, she gave it to the man. The pad was showing a headline from a News report dated on 722 A.G.S (806 A.S.):
Bombing in Lyon capital city's outskirts kills 18 people.
The man kept a straight face. He returned the datapad to the Capitaine, who put it away. "This datapad can't speak, so answer my question: Do you really have something to lose?""Non."
"D'accord, that means we can count on you, non?" The man smiled and nodded. "Indeed."
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Inquisitor Gaunt - 09-13-2010
<:: 2315 || 8th September 818 A.S. || Languedoc || Quillan Docking Stack || Civilian Shuttle ::>
"Civilian shuttle, this is Quillan docking ring, what are your intentions?"
"Quillan ring, this is Civillian shuttle Blanc Deux-Quatre. We're bringing home a few retailers, heading for the eastern hemisphere once we enter atmospheric flight."
"Oui, confirmed Blanc Deux-Quatre, welcome home."
As the ship dropped in through the outer layers of the atmosphere, the team leader briefed the other agents. She pulled a cigarette from her webbing, pinching it unlit between her lips.
"The mission we've been given is rather simple... we're being dropped about forty kilometres from a small mine, in a tiny village-esque town. We'll keep low, wait for night fall, then kill three of them, so we can get these Council pig's style correct; no point being discovered for such a simple detail. From there, we'll make our way towards one of their smaller ports, and sign up for the Council's fleets; if successful, we'll non-chalantly take our fighters on a flight and be picked up. If not, well- we'll cross that bridge when we get there."
"Right, so...our covers for when we hit topside. From here out, I'm Jacquie Declair. Former ground based delivery driver, I got promoted and trained how to fly freighters, then transports. I'm with the Council because I want to see a stronger Gallic economy. No family, parents both deceased due to GRN action, father fighting for them, mother under suspect. What dossiers did you get?"
Jacquie threw a glance between them, questioningly.
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - alphadog - 09-13-2010
He was still in some sort of trance, unable to believe that it was really happening. The only thing that got his full attention, was that little screw near his foot. It had a weird shape, and didn't fit in properly. The urge to tighten it was high, but he didn't. He was completely isolated from his surrounding.... until one of the men in the black suit gave him a tap on the shoulder.
"Hey... HEY... Wake up buddy!... We need to know what your cover is"Still a little dizzy from his "trance", it took a while before he realized where he was, and what that man wanted.
"Cover? What Cover... OH!, my Cover!, yes, ofcourse." Finally woken up, he informed the others
"That almost sounded like you mean it" said one of the black suits quite surprised.
"Oh shut it, If I'm not convincing, I end up with a bullet between my eyes...
Anyway, where was I. Joining the council, yes. I've had enough of the Royalists taking everything for themselves, and not allowing a better economy in Gallia."
"So, what about you" He says while pointing at the last suit...
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Ryummel - 09-13-2010
The last agent sighed. "My cover will be... Charles de Gaulle." The other agents grimaced."Eh, eh... I just was joking." He took a deep breath.
"Zacharie Leroux, a man who realized about the importance of the acts over the words. A man who realized about the futility of the words in a war which is written with blood."
"That sounds convincing. Mind if you explain it a bit more?"
"There's not much to explain. These things usually come to my mind after reading philosophy. Believe me, it helps you to cleanse your mind, to think twice before taking a step. To be honest, I doubt half of the Royal Navy pilots have done this in combat. We trust in our firepower, but never in 'ourselves'..." He looked at the PDA attached to his left wrist. "Whatever, I guess we're about to arrive."
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Inquisitor Gaunt - 09-23-2010
<:: 0000 || 9th September 818 A.S. || Languedoc || Planet Qullan || Eastern Hemisphere || Civilian Shuttle ::>
Declair stood in the door, resealing her helmet and preparing to infiltrate. The shuttle slowly began to lose altitude, dropping into a narrow table-land a mere kilometre from the village. The other agents snapped back the charging handle on their rifles, before the door hissed open.
They fanned out, Pierre shifting left and Zacharie swinging right; Jacquie merely stepped out lazily, eyes watching the incline up to their position. As soon as they exited, the shuttle door closed behind them: They weren't getting home that way again, that was for sure. The Special Agent stole a glance at her subordinates, clenching her jaw for a moment, before snapping the tachyon transmitter from her webbing and tossing the hand-held device to Nord, and slipping her rifle off her back.
'Time to learn about the most annoying part of our job...' she began, raising the scope to her eye as she checked down hill. 'Bureaucracy. Send a report to the Directeur about where we're at. Give them a quick summary, it's a report after all, not a damn novel.'
With that, she snapped her rifle into her hands, and began down the slope.
'Wh-Where are you going, madame commandant!?' cried one of the agents, their muffled voice dictating only gender, not person.
'To do my job, monsieur Agent. I suggest you do the same.'
<:: 0015 || 9th September 818 A.S. || Languedoc || Planet Qullan || Eastern Hemisphere || Cassel || Famille de Maçon ::>
A young girl of nine came bounding down the hall-way, grinning from ear to ear. She banged loudly on her parent's door. Her mother awoke first, groggily plodding over to the entrance, before pulling it open. The older woman looked down at her child, giving her a smile of her own, before stooping down and embracing her in a hug.
'Happy birthday, Monica' she said, reaching behind the door-way before plucking out a soft package, wrapped in shimmering paper and a tight pink bow, before giving it to her daughter.
Monica hugged it closely to her body, giving a squee of excitement as her father rounded the corner, and gave her his best wishes, as well. The trio proceeded to their kitchen, yammering excitedly about the days plans, even if it had begun unreasonably early in the morning. Monica's parents took it dutifully to the chin, however, Mother cooking the girl's favourite breakfast, Father bringing in another present. Monica ripped open the paper on the smaller of her gifts, before unfurling a brand new pink, wool jacket, thick and warm. The girl leapt to her feet, giving another shrill shriek of joy, before dashing in and embracing her mother...then Father returned.
'Happy birthday, Monica' she said, reaching behind the door-way before plucking out a soft package, wrapped in shimmering paper and a tight pink bow, before giving it to her daughter.
Monica hugged it closely to her body, giving a squee of excitement as her father rounded the corner, and gave her his best wishes, as well. The trio proceeded to their kitchen, yammering excitedly about the days plans, even if it had begun unreasonably early in the morning. Monica's parents took it dutifully to the chin, however, Mother cooking the girl's favourite breakfast, Father bringing in another present. Monica ripped open the paper on the smaller of her gifts, before unfurling a brand new pink, wool jacket, thick and warm. The girl leapt to her feet, giving another shrill shriek of joy, before dashing in and embracing her mother...then Father returned.
Jacquie sat in the pitch darkness, just clear of their back door's lighting. The man had just brought a bicycle into the girl, and it was a pathetic one at that. The paint work on it was laughable, looking as if the buffoon of a man had simply spray painted it purple; for god's sake, the seat had marks from the job all over it. Regardless, it wouldn't matter soon.
'Papa- I- I- I don't know what to say! I love it! Thank you!' Monica cried, throwing her arms around Father. He chuckled, letting her down gently.
'It's quite alright, and I that's all we needed to hear, ma petite fleur.'
The family returned to the kitchen, sitting by the bench as Mother finished off the eggs she was making; over the sizzle of the frypan, they barely heard the shattering of their back door's glass. Father patted Monica on the back, before going to investigate, only a gentle mutter of 'damn the mines, throwing debris and-' coming from him as he plodded down the hallway. He opened the door, to be met with...
'It's quite alright, and I that's all we needed to hear, ma petite fleur.'
The family returned to the kitchen, sitting by the bench as Mother finished off the eggs she was making; over the sizzle of the frypan, they barely heard the shattering of their back door's glass. Father patted Monica on the back, before going to investigate, only a gentle mutter of 'damn the mines, throwing debris and-' coming from him as he plodded down the hallway. He opened the door, to be met with...
...The barrel of Jacquie's gun glinted gently under the fluorescent lights, the agent gently pressed a finger to her mask's 'lips', before gesturing for the fool to return inside. He complied, not daring to provoke the woman; not today, not here, there was no time for idiocy and bravado. Jacquie at least held a shred of respect for that brief moment of intellect. Monica saw her first, as they entered the kitchen, mouth going agape as she gazed upon the figure in black.
'Papi!' the girl's mother cried, unable to see the operative, but noticing Monica's reaction. 'I told you no more gif-'
The barrel was now pointing at her. She stuttered, raising her hands, before the man asked a faltering question, stuttering horrendously through fear.
'Wh- What do y-you want m-monsiuer!?'
The rifle gave a sudden whine as Declair squeezed the trigger back, and a gout of blood sprayed out both sides of the man's chest, the round passing straight through his heart and body. He collapsed on the spot, killed instantly; the girl went slack jawed and even more wide-eyed, completely silent. Her mother, however, did not.
'No! No! Please, no!' she begged, backing up into the corner of the kitchen; from the military appearance, she guessed where the agent had come from. 'W-We are not Council! Please! We're just civ-'
Again the gun gave a shrill whine, and a gray-red splatter sprayed across the stove's back-board; she fell with a good percentage of her head missing. Jacquie's gaze came to Monica, the girl shakily staring at her. She seemed traumatized, but unable to find an appropriate reaction to what had just occurred. Nothing in her short life had prepared her even remotely for what just occurred. Struggling, the young one finally managed to speak.
'D-Did you just s-send Mama et Papa t-to heaven?'
The figure nodded.
'A-Are you going to s-send me there, t-too?'
'Do you want me to?'
'N- No...'
'What do you think of the king?'
'I- I don't kn-know...'
'Can you keep quiet until I leave?'
This time it was Monica's turn to nod. The rifle's barrel lifted, its eye turning from the girl.
The agent paced forward briskly, snatching Monica's collar before beginning to explore the house with the girl in tow; time to get changed.
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - alphadog - 09-23-2010
![[Image: transmission1.jpg]](http://img153.imageshack.us/img153/6281/transmission1.jpg)
It is agent Zero-Two reporting, do we have a secure connection?
Yes Zero-Two, go ahead, what's your status
Well sir, everything is going according to plan. Planet Quillans docking control let us pass without any trouble. That was the tricky part. we landed on Quillan near the village just now. We are not detected, everything seems quiet. All three of us are ready and will proceed to our targets shortly. After we replaced our targets, we will proceed and enlist us for the council forces. As soon as we can access a ship, we're out of here and will be heading back to the Martyr.
Bon, good luck then, and I expect to hear from you again in 48 hours
Very well Directeur, zero-two out.
![[Image: transmission2.jpg]](http://img840.imageshack.us/img840/5447/transmission2.jpg)
The strange feeling he was having the past few days was gone the moment the connection was terminated. The fear and uncertainty had made place for absolute concentration and dedication. After a quick check of all his equipment, he headed for the village. After a short walk in the pitchblack night, the silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by a voice in his head.
"Nord, Leroux, come in. It is Declair""Nord here, I'm almost at the target's coordinates. ETA is 7 minutes"
"Leroux..... Leroux.....Leroux! Come in!....Fils de pute!... Okay, Nord, proceed as planned, we will worry about Leroux later. Lets hope he's alright"
The target's house was on the edge of the village, relatively remote from any other building. Perfect for a silent hit. There was one light in the entire house. According to the schematics, it was the bedroom. He proceeded to the front door. The lock wasn't really a challenge, and within notime, he was inside. Just to make sure, he did a quick sweep of the ground floor, but found nobody. He proceeded upstairs, quiet as a shadow. The door to the sleeping room was Ajar, and a small beam of light shed through. There was no sound coming from inside, so he opened the door very slowly. The room was empty. Slightly panicked, he did a quick but thorough check of the house. It was empty.
"Declair, this is Nord, come in.""Nord, what is it. We were supposed to maintain radio silence until the job was done."
"I know, but.... but my target. The house is empty, he's not here."
"Mais Non!...Well, don't ask me. Find him! NOW!"
"Yes ma'am, of course, sorry ma'am"
While walking around the house, he noticed that there was a car missing. You could clearly see that there was supposed to be one. He decided to wait for a while and took a position with view on the parking spot, and on the bedroom window. Maybe he was just late from work, the bar, something like that. After 10 minutes, he heard the sound of an old car closing in. The sound became louder and louder, and in the distance, you could see the headlights. The car parked right at the parking spot next to the house. The man in the car stepped out, and walked in a straight line towards the front door. Watching through the scope of his gun towards the window, he waited for a chance to take the shot. The target appeared in front of the window.... and without hesitation, Nord pulled the trigger. Perfect head shot.
While entering the house again to clean up, he contacted Declair again.
"Declair, this is Nord, come in"While entering the house again to clean up, he contacted Declair again.
"Yes Nord, now what. Don't tell me you screwed up"
"No ma'am, target eliminated. I'm cleaning up and getting ready for our next move. I'll await further instructions."
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Ryummel - 09-26-2010
Leroux stood firmly and silently in the top part of a rocky hill while scanning the villaje with his binoculars. He spotted the the main street of the village: Three trucks were running down the street. The agent moved down the hill in order to get a clearer sight of the main street. The truck convoy turned onto the first street on the right. The vehicles moved towards an esplanade and stopped next to the edge of the village. Leroux looked back at the main street, he noticed a couple entering a building, maybe a bar, maybe their house. After this, the street became ghostly. Then, he ran in direction of the trucks, through the rocky landscape.
“I’m being late at home again, bah, Nicole won’t let me sleep with her…” “You could ask the foreman, perhaps he could be switched to the morning shift… ” “Adrien, you’re very optimistic. Sadly, that idiot will force me to work until midnight everyday. This is not what I expected, working in a putrid mine…” The truck’s motor suddenly stopped, as well as the lights. Everything was dark. “This is the best thing that could happen now, give me the flashlight, I’m going to take a look to the fuses” The man got out of the truck, holding the flashlight and glancing around the place: They were a few kilometers away from the village, in the outskirts. The man moved around his truck, pointing with the flashlight at every inch of it, then he opened the truck’s hood, inspecting the fuses. “They’re burnt, for the love of… Adrien, can you see the toolkit? Right under my seat” They both were concentrated, Adrien was holding the flashlight while the other man was replacing the fuses. Everything was completely silent...
But their concentration was suddenly disrupted by a low metallic sound. The two miners were startled. “Did you hear that?” “Oui, I did, but don’t worry, maybe a rock could have fallen from the top of that cliff next to us, hitting the tipper, I want to finish this thing as soon as possible.”
Leroux crawled under the truck. He deactivated the EMP generator and hugged the fuel deposit strongly, which was located under the tipper. Few minutes later, the miners got into the truck and the engine was started. “Et voila!” He heard. The truck resumed his way back to home. One kilometer, two kilometers, three kilometers and… two hundrer meters. The truck stopped. “See you tomorrow Adrien, bonne nuit”. Leroux snapped off of the deposit and stayed crouched in the road when the truck left. Adrien began to walk towards his house.
![[Image: 119mjb4.jpg]](http://i53.tinypic.com/119mjb4.jpg)
“Typical hovel for a miner. The front door is illuminated by a rusty lamp, rusty door, rusty… Heh, everything’s rusty here.”
Adrien stepped into his house. After locking the door, he went straight to the kitchen. He washed his hands and took a food ration from the pantry. When he was about to take the first bite of his meal, the front door was knocked. He began to feel nervous. Adrien walked quickly towards the door, he unlocked it and opened it carefully. There was no ‘living being’ outside. “This is not funny!” He slammed the door, annoyed. Immediately, after entering the kitchen again, he felt something behind him. Before he could turn around, Leroux gripped his right arm around Adrien’s neck, asphyxiating him. Seconds later, he lost consciousness. "You forgot to lock the door, monsieur."
“Declair, Leroux here…” “Leroux? I’ve been trying to contact you, what happened?”
“Huh, messing up with the EMP generators, but I swear this won’t happen again. Anyways, I’m done with my target. I’ll be waiting for new instructions, Leroux out."
Blacker than the Ace of Spades - Inquisitor Gaunt - 10-23-2010
<:: 1204 || 15th September 818 A.S. || Languedoc || Planet Qullan || Eastern Hemisphere || Cassel || Famille de Maçon ::>
Jacquie sat in the living room of the house, taking an occasional drag from a cigarette. Things had gone well for the past week, each of the plants lying low in their respective covers. Monica had coped surprisingly well for someone her age, at least in Declair’s books. She hadn’t shed a single tear, oddly enough. The only signs she had exhibited of even noticing that anything had happened was total, utter silence.
Nuts to her. She was one of the Council’s whores-to-be anyway, the agent couldn’t be bothered spending a minute more contemplating the topic, especially now that-
**Knock, knock, knock.**
“Monica!” she called, lacking even the faintest hint of respect, “Go and answer the door! Be swift!”
The girl meandered up the hallway, silently contemplating revenge, before pulling open the portal. Two men stood in the doorway, dressed in- by god! They were Council!
“Please!” she cried, jaw slackening with relief “There is a woman here! She shot my parents, and is now posing as my mother! Call the p-“
A moment later she cut herself short, feeling a heavy, gloved hand come clapping down on her shoulder, squeezing just tight enough for a nail to pierce shallowly into the girl’s neckline. She grunted with pain, bending forwards.
“Madmoiselle Monica...these are my friends; they’re here to discuss some business with me, so perhaps it would be best if you went and played with toys, or cried and slit your wrists over those treacherous parents, or something. Oh, and try to tattle again, and I’ll cut you with more than my nail? Oui? Oui. Tres bien. Now get out of my sight.”
The youngling didn’t wait to test her, skittering off upstairs to her room, leaving the door open to try and catch a whisper of their conversation. Due to the rather fantastic acoustics of the house, she managed to overhear most of it.
“Okay. We’re on to our third phase, now. We’ll go up tomorrow as a group, friends who met at...where do these peasants meet? At um...the market. Oui, that will do. We go and volunteer our services as pilots, a few people who have wish to throw their meagre skills in combat into the ring. I figure at least if we lie low through-out the operation, we will not have our cover blown and we’ll garner more than just visual stealth. IFFs will be invaluable in staying alive, during a firefight. I’ll explain more about how we’ll use these once we’re safe and sound in the Martyr’s belly.”
“I’d like to work on getting a bomber, and both classes of fighters. They would be invaluable in all of our reverse engineering and future sabotage. Pierre, I want you in a Basilisk. Zacharie, you have a Gecko. I shall handle the Agma. Exfiltration will be simple; we will transfer approximately ten million credits to them, under the guise of a Unione Corse transaction, claiming we required these for the overboss’s latest task....”
“...As a result, we will be left with three Council ships, IFF’d to either them, or an allied party, freely capable of entering Council and Sirian space without fear of discovery or the bureaucratic administration cracking down on us like oh-so-many hammers. Any questions?”
The two lower ranked agents looked at each other, before Pierre gave a single nod.
“What do we do with the girl?”
“I’m so glad you asked, moniuer” Jacquie said, with a sly smile “She’s your daughter, so you may want to teach her to tail gun against those blasted pesky royals. Now, if there’s nothing else, pack your equipment and get ready to move. I want flight suits in the top of your suitcases in the hour.”
Again, the pair nodded, before scooting off to tend to their tasks.
<:: 1829 || 9th September 818 A.S. || Languedoc || Planet Qullan || Eastern Hemisphere || Cassel || Council Airstrip || Launch Pads ::>
Things had gone quite well so far, no questions nosed in from anyone, all the Council twits had been unarmed, and Monica had kept her fat yap shut. The three were at their individual fighters, inspecting them while dressed in their brand new Council flight suits issued to them by the quartermaster. “Go and test your birds”, he’d said, “Your first training is tomorrow, but if you know how to fly, we let new pilots test their steeds.” Oh. So. Perfectly.
Pierre hadn’t had to lay a hand on the girl yet, luckily. She’d been quiet enough to not warrant it, and had even played along for the three lovely little side-arm packing monstrosities that were her new masters. Then again, what would dobbing have done, to now? No-one had guns on them, or even a radio within decent reach.
That was, until the MP patrol rounded the corner, muttering and laughing to each other. Monica looked to Pierre, then the troopers, then back again. Something clicked, all that was left to decide was, what the hell was he going to do?