Contract #6: For Whom The Bell Tolls: Part I

[John]

Max disappears and reemerges from the FRSR facility in his combat armor, battle spines glinting in the Juggernaut's floodlights. Marlowe Mk. II is slung over his shoulder, and a fresh cigarette burns in his lips. Funny how the rain almost never manages to extinguish a smoke-- like it somehow knows. Several grenades hang off of the elf's person, and the low-profile pack on his back contains the rest of his assorted goodies. Stepping back up to Clark, Max reports, "Ready to rock." The elf advantageously spotted and wiped the gun oil off his face.

[GM Nick]

Clark arches a brow at Max.

"I'd tell you that cigarettes will kill you, but it doesn't seem right after asking you to infiltrate a war zone."

[GM Nick]

In his dreams, Sinjin runs. He runs through battle-blemished urban landscapes, desert sands that stretch as far as the mind can imagine, and rotting deciduous forests that spare root and vine to snag him. The adept's feet pound the ground, propelling him forward with what seems like less efficiency each stride. Time expands to immeasurable lengths. He makes a conscious effort not to look behind him, should he actually identify the source of his flight. No, Sinjin keeps his head down. He runs.

[ UCAS Kerouac Apollo-class Submarine ]

Sinjin sits upright--an automatic, silent motion. He blinks slowly as his mind sheds the last vestiges of REM sleep. Although highly talented at transitioning from the confusion of slumber to a battle-ready state, he finds the surroundings challenge the distinction between fantasy and reality. The ceiling above his head is a mass of rivets, valves and chipped paint. He shrugs off a wave of claustrophobia and swings his feet off of the bunk. A number of UCAS naval officers exchange curious but not unfriendly glances with him.

His calves are taut, but then, they always are before a mission. He reaches up to the wall and removes a bandolier of throwing knives. All accounted for, they're slung over his shoulder. The muscular ork maneuvers his way through the narrow doorway and pads out into the hallway humming tunelessly. The metal grates are ice cold underfoot but it helps to counteract the pervasive mugginess that accompanies deep sea diving. He flattens his back against the corridor to allow a group of officers to pass, returning a nod that denotes an unspoken camaraderie between men who have fought, bled, and lost friends.

Sinjin's eyes roam over a series of hatches set on the end of horizontal cylinders. He suppresses a shudder, trying not to imagine the confined space, the agonizing moments of helplessness during depressurization, or the dark, bone-chilling sea-water. His hand rubs idly at the synthetic polymers covering the Phalanx battle-suit and wonders if they'll do anything to alleviate the temperature differential. The internal debate goes forever unfinished, for it's at that moment that he encounters Major Clark and the rest of his team engaged in the final stages of briefing.

[GM Nick]

Admiral Cortez--as introduced by Clark--is a grizzled veteran on the edge of sixty. Everything about him belies his years of servitude, from the ashy stubble that dominates his jagged jawline to his deep-set, piercing blue eyes. A black beret bearing the insignia of a skull crossed with twin anchors perches perilously at the forefront of his hairline. He extends a synthetic cyber-arm, shaking the hands of each member of Firestarter in turn.

"Holy Mary mother of drek, Clark. Where'd you find these boys? They look like they've butt-fragged the devil and gone back for seconds. If I wasn't sure that the bean counters back home were driving our deficit into the ground to cut their paychecks, I'd have you on court-martial for not conscripting them to my crew."

[Drew Buddy]

Adams gives a curt nod at the compliment, and looks toward the torpedo tubes.

"So now the fun begins. How exactly is this going to work?"

[Conway]

"Ever flushed a toilet?" grins Sinjin as he leans over the launch tube, giving it a meaty smack of the hand. His eyebrows twitch at Doc for a long second before the medic sighs impatiently.

"Clark, you mentioned some submersibles....will they be launched simultaneously, ship-side? Or is there a bit of a swim involved?"

Looking to his 'mates he continues, "This may be a good point to pick our partners. We'll need to buddy up before launch, and pair off into the strike teams that will take these vehicle assists closer to our unique objectives. Which means," he says, looking to each face around him, "that we need two pilots. Where does that leave us?"

[GM Nick]

"I know you're anxious to become a human torpedo, but Clark tells me you're one short of a squadron. I owe the Major here a favor for bailing out my ass in Stalingrad, so I hand-picked three of my best and brightest. You pick which one is the most valuable to your team and one of you will be their CO for the duration."

Cortez whistles sharply. "Atten-shun, seals."

Three individuals step forward simultaneously, swinging their legs down and folding their arms behind them in parade rest. Each seal is clad in the navy's elite battle-armor; the outfit vaguely resembles a wet-suit adorned with ballistic plates and corded arachno-fabrics. The shoulder-pads are svelte, designed to reduce resistance while swimming. A ribbed neck guard rises up to the bottom of each soldier's chin, where a series of flat, tiny wires interface with the inner ear.

The Admiral gestures to the trio behind him.

"This is Chief Petty Officer Pracha, codename Sidewinder. He is a proficient sniper and ballistics expert."

Pracha nods slightly, his eyes unwavering from the fixed stare in front of him. He's in his twenties, olive-skinned and his demeanor radiates discipline.

"Next up is Petty Officer 2nd Class Ryan, codename Horizon. There isn't a better infiltration, electronics and security guru east of the Utes."

The indicated soldier is Caucasian and the eldest of the three. The team can't help but notice a pair of combat machetes sheathed on each of his thighs.

Cortez stops at the third soldier and adopts a sour expression.

"This tall drink of smart ass is Petty Officer 1st class Powalski, codename Haywire. Though it pains me to say it, she's one of the best combat mages in the Navy."

"Permission to speak, sir," barks Powalski. She's petite for a soldier. A crop of blonde hair cups around one side of her head--the other side is shaved. A tattoo mosaic of Aztec faces adorn the length of her neck and disappear beneath the ribbed neck guard. A pair of glittering, mischievous eyes barely contain her mirth.

"Permission granted," grunts Cortez grudgingly.

"The best combat mage in the Navy. Sir."

Cortez scowls. "Thank you, Chief Petty Officer, for that gallant display of arrogance--which may likely be true."

[GM Nick]

Clark doesn't bother to hide the grin on his face. He shakes his head and turns to the team.

"Your decision will round out the team that only has two members, so make sure to choose according to role within that group."

To Sinjin,

"The submersibles will be in an unoccupied tube, you'll be able to collect them just outside the sub."

[Drew Buddy]

Adams nods appreciatively at the choice presented to the team. His eyes flit between Horizon and Haywire. Finally, he approaches the former.

"Ryan, can you give us a rundown on your skills? It would help to know if you can handle matrix security as well as physical."

[GM Nick]

Horizon nods at Doc.

"Sir, I am trained in physical infiltration, demolitions, security systems and advanced electronics. I don't have a neural interface."

[Drew Buddy]

Doc nods, "Thank you, Ryan."

He turns his attention to Haywire, and approaches her.

"And how about you? I imagine you have a nice list of magical firepower to throw around. What's your specialty? Any non-combat magic we could use?"

[GM Nick]

Haywire flashes Doc her pearly whites.

"If you don't need something electrocuted, knocked unconscious, set on fire, melted, or blasted with astral energy, I can also heal injuries, mask vehicle signatures, slow enemy reflexes, and..."

The last sentence reverberates inside Doc's mind, although Haywire's lips are constricted in a tight smirk.

...there's this little trick, too.

[John]

Max's unusually long silence is broken as he steps forward toward Haywire, giving her a keen look up and down a strictly-business fashion. The elf thumbs the bottle of bliss in his pocket, and asks without a question mark,

"Don't suppose you'd be able to assist in taking out tanks."

[Elliott]

Tyros scowls at the mage's ostentatious display and blatant brag.

Chuckling, "Does my being on this boat count as being in the Navy, because if so, you're at best number two now."

Turning towards his teammates, "Let's get this underway. If one of the teams wants to take the braggart, I'll obviously be on the other one."

[John]

Max smirks at Tyros, and says,

"I hope you see the irony of giving her drek about being a braggart in the same breath as you assert yourself to be more powerful than any magic-user in the entire UCAS Navy."

[GM Nick]

Clark turns to Max.

"So, as I understand it--alpha team will consist of yourself, Val and Tyros. Team bravo is Sinjin, Doc and Haywire."

[John]

Max looks at Haywire and Val, then at Doc, Sinjin, and Tyros. The elf pauses for a moment, then nods. "Sounds like that's about the size of it."

[GM Nick]

Cortez gives the seals a curt nod.

"Haywire, put your bathing suit on and get in a torpedo tube."

The combat mage salutes. "Hooyah, admiral."

"Well boys," Cortez says. "I'm not sure exactly what you'll encounter up there. Infrastructure should still be in place in most areas, but all bets are off if the fighting moves in past the outer sectors. Stay frosty and watch your six, these Legion fellas ain't no joke."

[Drew Buddy]

Adams starts tossing the gear into the torpedo tubes; sealed dry bags with the drones, his pack, and other gear, and just enough air in them to give them a neutral buoyancy underwater.

"Oh, we know all too well," he says to Cortez.

[John]

Max nods at Cortez and prepares himself for launch, checking that all his gear is present and accounted for. As the elf closes his pack, he looks his three cohorts from whom he'll be parting, and says, "See you guys on the other side." As the elf climbs into his submersible, he can't shake the unflappable feeling that he's seen one of them for the last time.

[GM Nick]

Tyros shakes his head in disgust and turns towards the torpedo bay. A talented mage doesn't flaunt his skill; he lets his actions speak for him. With no doubt that he and the plucky new--albeit temporary--addition to the team would be at constant odds, he says a silent prayer to the gods for their being on separate teams. The troll places a meaty paw on the circular valve at the front of the tube and swings the hatch open.

The inside is a polished, cylindrical coffin. Fortunately for Tyros, the Apollo-class submarines pack some serious munitions. Though the tube is by no means comfortable, he is able to lie down next to his claymore. Unsure what to do with his arms, Tyros crosses them over his chest. His gaze sweeps over the massive chest-guard of his Phalanx suit towards the air-tight seal that is all that separates him from the frigid waters of the Pacific. The smell in the tube is all metal and brine.

Tyros clears his throat, wriggles to get in a comfortable position and tries not to think about the fact that he's not a very good swimmer.

[GM Nick]

Haywire passes by just as Max is climbing into his torpedo tube. She pulls the mask of her respirator down and looks up at him.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that this is your first time?"

[John]

Max looks at the mage and nods with feigned embarrassment, adding,

"You'll be gentle, won't you?"

[GM Nick]

Haywire grins.

"There's nothing to it. The biggest mistake rookies make is trying to swim out. You want to keep your body straight, point your feet down and push off from the hatch. You'll glide right out."

[John]

Max looks doubtfully down at the submersible for a brief moment, smiles nervously, and says, "Thanks for the tip. Be careful out there. These Legion goons are tougher than your av-er-age bear." The elf immediately feels some embarrassment at his reference, certain that it must have made him look like a nervous rookie.

[GM Nick]

Sinjin lies calmly in the cold tube, listening to the intermittent sounds of the hull making minute expansions and contractions.

So this is what a bullet feel like.

The adept tightens the strap binding his pack to his bulky frame and places his hands on the bottom of the hatch, as instructed by Haywire. His breath is calm and measured, but the respirator pulled over his nose and mouth makes him sound like a sci-fi villain. Sinjin's eyes bore into the exterior seal, as if he could see through it to the dark, icy waters and swaying kelp forests.

Cortez's gravely voice alights the comms.

< Depressurizing now. Good hunting out there. >

Haywire, sounding completely collected, responds.

< Hooyah. >

The torpedo tube shudders gently, and the ork suddenly has the sensation of being a cork in a champagne bottle. He shakes his head to clear the effects. The feeling passes on its own as the seal pulls aside and a torrent of roiling, black-green seawater pours in. The amount of time it takes the tube to fill is practically non-existent. Sinjin wills his body to relax, ignoring the chilling effects of the briny embrace. Sound drops away, muffled by the viscous acoustics of the sea.

Sinjin flexes his muscular arms, doing a sort of reverse handstand vault. Just as Haywire said, the adept slips out of the tube and into the inky expanse of the Portland sound. He rotates with a few slow kicks and surveys the area.

The UCAS Kerouac lies behind him. It resembles a titanic gray lozenge. Just beyond is a bed of sickly kelp, rooted in a mass of gritty substrate. The scene is illuminated by the head-lamp on the Phalanx helmet which produces a hazy orange beam.

Haywire flits past, spinning and kicking like an otter. The ease with which she navigates the water strikes awe, even into Sinjin.

[Drew Buddy]

Adams kicks ahead in the blackness, trying to keep up with the lights ahead. The dry bags clipped to his suit make for slow and awkward going, but he presses ahead.

It'll be worth the trouble.

[GM Nick]

The team drifts forward through the murkiness, swatting away tendrils of seaweed in their search for the submersibles.

< Over here. >

Haywire flashes her headlamp to signal the others.

[Elliott]

Tyros is no great fan of swimming and he plows his massive form through the water with sheer power and no finesse. Swiveling his head constantly on the lookout for phantom sharks he makes his way over to Haywire and the submersibles, eager to get under powered way.

[GM Nick]

The submersible vehicles are little more than the front half of a jet-ski, flanked on either side of the controls by a pair of turbines. As soon as their hands are placed on the handlebars, the instrument panels illuminate a vivid indigo. After getting acquainted with handling the vehicles, a decisive nod from Haywire signals the beginning of the journey to the harbor.

[Drew Buddy]

Adams clips the dry bags to the submersible, feeling relief at being unburdened of so much mass.

< Okay, Haywire, show us where to go. >

[GM Nick]

The submersibles are powerful, and the sensation of being pulled along underwater by the arms at 30 knots is a bit disconcerting. Each member of the team in turn discovers how to roll their wrist to maneuver around the various debris and rock formations at the bottom of the channel. The short journey is all rather surreal and the mounting adrenaline, coupled with anxiety of not knowing exactly what will be awaiting them, makes for a tough go of it.

Gradually, man-made structures begin to materialize in the shifting gloom. Haywire stops her submersible near one such column.

< I'd like to go a bit further in, but we don't have much more oxygen. We ready to do this? >

[John]

Max treads water with his mouth below the surface and his nose above. For some reason the elf has always adopted this position whenever able. He remains quiet as he observes the shore to which they'll all inevitably head. Looking around the team, he sees Tyros's massive form, raises his mouth out of the water, and lightly jabs, <Hey-- I didn't think trolls could swim.> The jab is limp, and no response is expected. Max moves quickly on to the matter and hand. <I'm ready whenever you are, Haywire. What are our approach vectors? When do we split up?>

[Drew Buddy]

Adams remains underwater, the pale yellow lights of Portland turning a muddy brown through the filter of the trash strewn, oily waters of the harbor. He says a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of mercenaries that his suit is sealed against biological agents.

Squatters down near the shoreline have probably been using this as a toilet for years, he thinks.

The Tir are usually strict when it comes to the environment, but nobody can stop human nature.

< I'm ready. Let's get out of this cesspool. >

[GM Nick]

The Firestarter team surfaces and paddles quietly through the shifting, dark waves towards a narrow gap in the Tir's mighty outer wall. A voluminous bank of coastal fog has followed the team in, and clings to the top of the water. Though there isn't a vessel in sight, the deep saltwater and abundance of shadows falling across the harbor instill a sense of anxiety in all members of the team.

Haywire clings to a patch of battered concrete on the Tir side of the wall and scans the skies, her eyes unfocused.

< Strange. No magical security here. Must've been moved to the front lines... >

The mage turns to Max, only the reflection in her pupils visible beneath the hardened-plastic of the combat visor.

< SOP would be to move to a defensible landing. >