November eleventh, nineteen-eighteen: The day the world's innocence died. One-hundred and five years ago, mankind chose a different path and traded their morality away at wholesale prices. The corporatizing and legitimization of criminal enterprise gave way to a bustling capitalistic world that we observers would recognize only as a bizarre parody of our own. Governments operate at the whim of the Underworld, governors and senators openly side in internecine warfare on behalf of the true governing bodies of the world. The Grand Syndicates of the world sit perched upon towers built of greed and corpses and openly flaunt their wealth and power in their capitals for those privileged or deranged enough to see.
In the old days, ideals were something a person could strive for still; and in that last shred of innocent hope an organization was born that would be responsible for delicately policing the New World Order. Outer Element: A clandestine institution made up of members from all walks of life and all corners of the globe dedicated to one last shining ideal. In the name of "Fair Play", Outer Element's various branches handle conflict between the Grand Syndicates and their Franchises as a necessity to ensure that money continues to flow into all the right places.

This is the story of two agents in this Machiavellian world, and the lengths they must go through to defend the tenuous order of their day and age. Welcome to the Bloody Days.

Markus itched at the bridge of his nose, still feeling the sting of the cut from when that moron busted his nose open. He felt around on the broken knuckles beneath his glove, and after a moment of wincing in pain trying to find any hope that they weren't broken, he tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Why anyone would pick a fight with him in a convenience store of all places, he didn't know. Maybe it was the rushing around, or maybe the guy had some sort of chip on his shoulder, but the fifty dollar offer to cut him in line didn't parse out the way Markus had hoped. He had to throw some weight in there. They weren't allowed to flash badges so close to the target, but some phony credentials should've done just fine.
He wasn't sure why he expected anything else. Civvies this far north almost never had anything to lose, and they figured the same about anyone else around. Fair. It was a fair fight, and at this point in his life that mattered a lot more to Markus than the busted nose or broken knuckles. Whoever he was, the yokel was a bruiser for sure. It made him think about his time in the service and the strange things they'd do for entertainment. Not even the Pits or Fun Runs, just the dumb things like getting drunk and punching one another until you couldn't anymore. No bets, no cash, just pure boredom in a parking lot full of oil tankers. His mind wandered, imagining if they did that sort of stuff around here; just a bottle of shine and a dirt ground campsite with a stone ringed fire, sounded like the perfect environment for a punch up to him.


Markus wrapped the slightly broken hand up into his rifle's sling, cinching it tight and wincing again as he felt everything align in a way that he could at least get purchase on the foregrip. He preferred .308, and didn't want the unruly machine hopping too high up to the point where he lost his grip. Hot steam rose up from his mouthless balaclava covered face, the cold October morning air hovering just above freezing. He could feel his heart slowing back down as he adjusted to the pain, the warm blood circulating slower and slower until it stabilized, and he couldn't wait for the adrenaline of work to overpower what he was currently feeling.
He always wondered if he'd be able to change a magazine in situations like this, but once you were dodging bullets, it was secondary. The only trouble was the lull, but he hoped the half an oxy he slammed down his gullet a few minutes ago would be kicking in soon just to make it all a bit more bearable. Until then, it was constant awareness of discomfort. But he wasn't a loud bellyacher. In his world, you were a man if you sucked everything bothering you up into a little black hole.
"It's your devil to dance with!"
He could still hear his Father's voice in his head. Old fuck...


It was a short hike up into the woods of upstate New York, maybe twenty minutes from a rest stop on the side of Interstate 87, when the trees had finally given up the secret of lights and sound in the distance. The complex was, by the schematics they'd been given, a set of three tack-up warehouses surrounded by a triple high, barb wired fence. Looking up at it, he laughed at the audacity of keeping a fence so fucking tall. What was the point? The squirrels still got in, you'd deter a bear with the single height, and if it wasn't electrified, then the pair of baby bolt cutters strapped to his pack would make a short order door. Was it just to say he had a big fence?
"I don't get it..." Markus whispered, back pressed against a tree.
The humor in his voice was audible, even through the whisper.
"Its like a cock measuring contest with these clowns. Everyone's got a fucking thirty foot fence these days, like it helps."
His eyes continued to pass along the upper sections of the fencing for small black orbs; the security camera system that may or may not have had thermal capabilities. The briefing hadn't been a hundred percent clear, but nothing in the OE was crystal clear so that wasn't new. Besides, nobody was worse informed than the Landguard. They just had all the guns, so running into things blindly was easy. That was a big difference he'd had to get used to when he signed on for OE, as the usage of intel was generally almost non-existent. You showed up, you reacted, and if you were lucky you could bounce out at the end of the day.


"What do you think, partner? You seeing any cameras?" Markus asked, finally looking toward his new partner crouched behind a neighboring tree.
In the early dawn light, they were working on very limited vision as the trees blocked out the sunlight that slowly crept up the horizon. He hadn't thought to bring a helmet or any sort of assisted vision goggles, figuring the walk was going to take them long enough that the sun would be out. It was a bit embarrassing to be in such a state on the first job, but he figured he'd play it off as best he could.

Invigoration reverberated from the lips throughout his entire body as L’Monte’ Beauregard gazed down at his sleeping wife after the kiss. Bittersweet feelings enveloped his mind as he stroked ebon locks of her hair. His brow furrowed at the imagery of a multitude of memories infiltrated by the Grand Syndicates. While his heart grew cold, competing sadness burned like a warm hearth on the other side of the perspective. His wife’s deeply irritated perspective. She held no blame and couldn’t hold any of it. She’d signed up for a seemingly traditional kind of marriage. The kind of marriage where the guy works a bit, comes home, spends time with the kids and the dog before finally settling in with the wife. That she deserved it was a forgone conclusion. Unfortunately, it was also an ever elusive conclusion.

L’Monte’ stood from the bed, eyes locked on the contours of his wife. The thought of leaving her stoked hatred. The thought of the job Outer Element had given him bred the embers of that hatred into baby flames. The corner of his mouth curled into a malicious upturned hook. He hated to leave his wife, but L’Monte’ understood chance and opportunity. The job was an opportunity providing the chance to put the screws to another Grand Syndicate through a smaller Franchise. The unlucky goon targeted was simply a stepping stone. L’Monte’ inhaled and exhaled sharply. Then he left the bedroom.

Holding the banister in the crush of darkness, L’Monte’ tiptoed down the steps. An argument was not needed right now. The ending remained the same regardless. As did the argument. It would come back around like a carousel albeit much less endearing, bright, or happiness invoking. He found himself thanking the ether once more for the lack of offspring. Not that the ether had anything to do with that, of course. It just made the argument slightly less intense. The argument L’Monte’ couldn’t help but already anticipate. He willed his mind to back burner the upcoming spousal spat and focus. The stress that hadn’t bubbled to the surface yet was going to be preventatively taken care of very soon.



“What do you think, partner? You seeing any cameras?”

The question pierced L’Monte’s ears and yanked him back into reality. He sat squat against the trunk of a tree watching the smoke from his cigarette wriggle its way towards the atmosphere. He relived the pressure on his knees and calves by standing and dropped the butt of his cigarette into the shrubbery beneath his boots. Stamped it out for good measure. Swiped a gloved hand down his ebony attire from the top of his load-bearing vest to the bottom of the zipped jacket underneath it. He adjusted the beanie cap on his head some, content with allowing some of his locs to fall out of the back to the bottom of his neck. He scratched at the balaclava hugging his neck. Identification wasn’t normally a problem with these jobs. And L’Monte’ knew he was sick. He wanted them to see him coming. Wanted the targets to see his smiling face when he took them out. Preferably bare-handed. But this was an operation so a classic was necessary. He patted his M4 carbine hanging by its sling at his side. Couldn’t get more classic than 5.56 ammunition.

“Lemme take a gander,” L’Monte’ said to Markus.

He reached around and pulled one strap of his pack off his shoulder, swung the bag around to his front. He unzipped, reached inside, and pulled out a set of night vision oculars. The device had a single front visor only separated for each eye where the user peered in. L’Monte’ wasn’t big on gear. He understood the value, but there was a reason he’d opted not to join the military. He brought the oculars to his face and swept back and forth, the fence directly in front of him. He chuckled as he pulled away from his face and repacked the device. Swung his bag back to his rear and shouldered the loose strap once more.

“Not seein’ any. Seems like they relied on the location itself to maintain secrecy. Shrouded by woods and treetops and bland architecture. No one generally cares about some warehouses on a strip of empty land,” L’Monte’ said. He cracked his gloved knuckles and winced when he finally turned towards Markus.

“How bad does it hurt? And how does the other guy look?” He asked.

Mark eyed L'monte' as he peeked and peered around with the nods. He hadn't expected to be partnered with such a stylish agent. The locks, the nice clothes when they'd met for some pre-operation scouts; he'd picked himself up a nicer jacket over the internet and, for the first time in a long time, thought about how his outward image may be something worth curating in this line of work.
Well, part of it.
This? It was natural. Wetwork. The very word brought saliva from the corners of his gullet into a wash over his tongue. His eyes fell down to the similarly stylish carbine slung at his partner's side, and he admired the dark metal and polymer finish. The way something should look that's meant to kill. Austere, spartan, minimalist. Marketing campaigns flashed through his head of the billboards he saw in JAG territory of the Sicario Bosses and their guns plated with precious metals. Bloody rings and chains, displays of grand wealth... He supposed that they worked hard for their money, and flaunting it was part of the appeal. In the end, we're here to judge action, not character. His most recent mentor had hammered that lesson into his idealistic head, on and on about how important it was to keep that distinction in mind for the duration of his service at the OE.

But at least they seemed to share taste in their own implements of warfare. He let his broken hand relax out of the tension he'd placed on it, and the pain medication sifted through his blood like sludge to stifle the flames of agony. His right hand instinctively ran across the front of his own AR-10, the cousin weapons both primed and ready to protect their wielders like spears of wrath.
"No worse for wear, I bet. They build 'em different up here." he replied to his partner's question, pulling the cutters from their section on his pack and swinging them forward to begin snipping away at the fence.
"We should be alright back here then, but keep me covered. I'd rather the shooting start after we're on the other side."
Still, Mark couldn't help but look up in astounded indignance. The absolute nerve of some people. Not even bothering with camera systems, yet you're gonna hold up in here knowing that you've been a very bad boy? He couldn't stand people like that. The arrogant bastards.

Mark's mind wandered as he mumbled to himself.
"Fucking prick, son of a bitch-"
He was a markedly vulgar man in the same way that a Syndicate soldier from a similar background would be. He didn't try to hide it, nor did he try to hide that he wasn't a very charming man. He was a brute, and one well suited for the line of work the two of them were here to carry out. It hit his brain again, stopping the endless chain of rambling thoughts with its weight.
Wetwork.
Beneath the faceless visage of his balaclava, he smiled a toothy grin. He had to clench up on the bolt cutters every time he wanted to cut, trying to use everything but his broken hand to support the arms of the thing in order to put pressure down. After a minute or two, he gave up and started to use it, finding that the medicine was working its way in deeper and deeper. It was good to use these sorts of things sparingly, but a soldier that didn't feel pain was a soldier who was ready to go at any time. The drugs just made you stupid...
But link by link, Mark chopped through the fence between them and the target until a square was wide enough that they could climb through one at a time. Orders dictated they probably weren't leaving through the back here, so a simple one way entrance would suffice he guessed.

Markus slipped the bolt cutters back onto his pack and pushed the fence open for L'Monte' to climb through.
"Alright, age before beauty." he laughed, waving L'Monte' on before his hand moved up to position his rifle in the crook of his arm facing inside the complex. Covering someone else was always a great time.

”They build’em different up here.”

L’Monte chuckled, but his memories spooled up. He knew who’d said it. He could see her face clear as anything within his reminiscence. He kept the name captive, though. Kept it locked up in a deep, dark corner of his brain. Outer Element once again rose to the forefront of his mental sanctum. It was a lesson he understood well and had been made to understand well. It should have been the mission statement of the OE, L’Monte thought. That the recruits of Outer Element were built different was simultaneously a known and unknown fact. Known to those within the walls of the training facility, but unknown to even some of the Grand Syndicates. L’Monte had heard plenty of stories. That OE members were monsters or boogeyman or inhuman. None of it bothered him, but Markus’ statement brought to mind his past. His training. His dedication to becoming an Adjudicator. And as he sized up his new partner, he could understand the depth of his statement.

They certainly do build’em different up here.

“I got ya covered,” L’Monte replied as Markus pulled a pair of bolt cutters from his pack. He turned and dropped to a knee, raising his M4 at the same time, ensuring his cheek was pressed against the top edge of the buttstock he’d unfolded. L’Monte adjusted the ACOG scope on top for clarity and began a slow, controlled sweep from left to middle to right and then in reverse order. Never was a bad thing to be cautious. He thought more highly of his new partner for even pointing it out. Not that he’d had any bad thoughts about the guy. In fact, L’Monte had found himself impressed with Markus. The man had experience. Even if he held a rifle, even if he held his own in a fist fight, there was nothing like a partner with experience. Experience was the difference between life and death in L’Monte’s personal opinion.

After a few minutes, Markus had cut a nice sized door in the fence. He pushed open the fence for L’Monte to go through first. L’Monte outright laughed at Markus’ comment. A classic. Couldn’t beat a classic. As L’Monte dropped the aim of his rifle to the ground, he stepped carefully through the fence.

“More like beauty before age,” L’Monte retorted as he crept through. He said it with a sly grin he made sure Markus would see. He appreciated the man’s sense of humor. Another point in his favor. In all honesty, it was hard working with people. L’Monte had had his share of awful training partners in the past before he’d graduated to a fully field operative Adjudicator. Some lacked experience. Others were too stiff. Others still seemed like none of the training had taken. It was a breath of fresh air to be patterned with someone who had their head on straight and could laugh at the little things in life. Even amidst the situation they both found themselves in.

After they both stepped through and the fence was pushed closed, L’Monte turned to Markus. “You know what they say. It’s either patrols or cameras. Smart money does both and clearly we’re not dealing with smart money. I’ll take ten to two,” he said. He bent his knees, arched his back downwards, and raised his rifle once more. He ensured a tight hold in his shoulder pocket as he crept forward, controlled steps quietly crunching leaves and grass underfoot. His M4 was outfitted with a silencer which, unlike in the movies, wasn’t that much quieter, but it did stifle muzzle flash. With the dawn still waking up behind them, the duo had the cover of darkness to their advantage.

"I've got your back, Brother. Lead on."
It was good to have no Comms in his ear. No barking handler trying to feed in info from a logistics lieutenant in some office bunkers six miles away spewing crap about statistics and thermal imaging. Just the eyes and a calm, quiet demeanor. Professionals. Mark appreciated that kind of knowledge, only hoping they'd be able to sync up in a positive way once the bullets started flying. For now, it was playing the hunting game.
It was best to get as far into the muck as one could before things started going crazy. The element of surprise was the only thing a soldier could pray for on the field, getting the drop on whoever you could usually ended up being like shooting fish in a barrel. Once a flank could be established, a direction one could be sure was clear and unmolested by some hammering force providing reinforcement, you could essentially open up to whatever sort of tactic you wanted. Continue the clandestine assault was always most difficult, especially once communication between the targets started to get more spotty with each corpse. Check-ins become discoveries, and quickly the element of surprise is all but consumed in a swarm of angry morons.

As the duo hugged the edge of the building, the schematics they'd gone over became clearer from a ground perspective. The warehouses, hastily built hangar-like structures with single or double layer corrugated metal exteriors, formed something of an upside-down "U" shape in relation to the main gate of which both men had a fairly clear view. That front was guarded by a small row of men with guns, their equipment half bundled beneath jackets or sweaters to protect from the cold autumn morning. They blocked the space between an airlock of gates with a set of mechanical bollards between each of them to prevent frontal vehicular assault.
"What, do they think we're just gonna drive up and subpoena them? We're not fucking cops..." Mark gritted out from between his clenched jaw.
He raised the barrel of his rifle up instinctively, the integral suppressor capable of making things a hair quieter than its screw-on cousin. At least, it would if they shared a caliber... The two and a half times magnified sight lined up perfect into the back of a guard's neck, and he could see the man's breath rising up from behind the silhouette of his head in a vague pattern. He's humming, Mark thought.

But he dropped his stance as they reached the corner of the building. The flood lights from inside one of the open hangar doors filled the section of the courtyard with electric light that couldn't be avoided, and was probably the main reason they had so much shadow cover currently. It simply drew the eye, though things became a bit more complicated when half a dozen chatty voices started to echo out from just around the corner.
They sauntered out; clearly another group of toughs, and from their plodding path toward the front, it looked like there was a shift change coming in just a couple seconds. Mark automatically wondered if the whole facility was swapping hands. His watch said o'five-fifty.
"I think we've got a ten minute split, partner. Looks like shift change is six? You wanna get in there, or try to head for the long way around back and look for another possible entrance?"

Mark had only paused a moment before a grim expression crossed over his fully covered face.
"Or, you know... Ten ducks in a row." he said, throwing a hand gesture toward the gate guards and the slowly approaching relief crew. "Great way to get the party started."