March 3rd, 2034, the city of Houston, Texas, an independant nation after its withdraw from the United States, is a city of immense activity, no matter what would threaten to stall its progress. A heavy thunderstorm loomed above the city, threatening many with four, five days of continuous rain, thunder, and lightning all across the massive sprawl of a city. The highways were packed, bikers from gangs and otherwise zipping between the gridlocked sections at well over 120 MPH easy, while traffic crawled wherever it needed to go at points, at others, zipped along rather smoothly. Under the highways that towered over the regular streets, cars and bikes continued to move about on their everyday travels, armed convoys moving important Executives through slum areas as they picked out the next plot of land to buy, gang vehicles shooting each other up in running battles before the uncorrupt police or PMC groups caught up with them, peddlers hawked wares from food vans, and all this activity existed solely on the streets alone. Vendors worked from wagons all over, from the elf haven to the Orc Way, and literally hundreds of small business operations in between.
The corporate HQ's at the center provided a hivemind of power for the city, where the biggest, strongest, and wealthiest men in the city met, only challanged by the Yakuza in terms of power and influence. Government officials and big business worked hand in hand to make themselves richer and more powerful, and damn the consequences to the rest of the city's population. But in this day and age, people live and move on. The downtown flea market was a prime example of this, men and women who couldn't afford property sold their goods here, from legal crops from outside the city limits, to illegal cyberware and implant jobs done out of the backs of vans, to avoid the regulations and taxes that were put on such things. Other markets, such as goods of quality out of the Elven markets, weapons and arms out of Orc Way, and just about anything could be bought off the system, if you knew where to look. Houston of the year 2034 was a hive of activity, to the extent that it alone could have qualified as its own country, including the means to defend itself from armed attack.
Just next to the Corporate HQ sector, was a mansion of incredible size and prestige. Looking somewhat like the United States White House, this building was the home of Houston's Mayor. Standing three stories tall, white washed with weather proof paint, and covered with ornamentation and fancy decorations, the building was a symbol of wealth and power for the city Elite. Under the clean paint and priceless ornamentation, the building was a bunker. The walls were reinforced titanium, capable of withstanding anything Mother Nature, a mage, or most military forces could muster in firepower, the doors and windows could be sealed with blast resistant shutters, and more than a hundred armed guards, trained PMC's that were veterans of at least two wars, known or unknown, were on site at all times. It was as much a fortress as it was a home of one of the most influential men in the city, and it was under attack by a small army.
This small army was a paramilitary group, no one knew who it was, but there were a lot of guesses from the onlookers, who stood at a safe distance, behind cover, in fear of getting hit by stray fire. This army of men and women were wearing hockey masks, rags across their face, anything to obscure their appearance. Helmets and crude body armor were plentiful, and their weapons ranged from old six shooters to stolen PMC level machine guns and missile launchers. Over half a dozen technicals, armored trucks with machine gunners mounted in the bed, were spraying fire at the building, forcing the mercenary guards into cover, while suicide bombers charged, getting shot down, but not enough of them. The raging firefight in the front lawn of the mayorial manor ended as half a dozen suicide bombers detonated, blowing massive gaps in the first line of defense, forcing the shell shocked mercenaries to retreat into the building, having sustained losses and forcing a lockdown of the building, planning to wait out the paramilitaries until help could arrive. They wouldn't give them a chance.
The technicals kept firing, suppressing whole sections of the building while the mercenaries within returned fire, killing dozens of the paramilitary assault force. They could not, or did not, stop the demolition team moving up to the front door, nor could they stop the stolen APC, filled with the Paramilitary leader and a dozen of their best trained, equipped, and led men, from parking outside the door, waiting. Any time a missile launcher moved up to the window, a sniper nailed them, and soon they kept nailing others, forcing more men to hide within the building, a literal thunderstorm of gunfire and explosives raining against the building, straining its defenses to the extreme. The demo team at the main door placed a massive breaching charge on the door, one of a kind designed for this job, and a mage placed a barrier around the charge, to force every ounce of force into the door. The effort would kill the mage, but it would succeed, the door blown clean across the room, the APC literally wedging itself into the building and parking there, the turret firing all across the second level balcony as men poured out to try and stop the roaring tide of paramilitaries entering the building.
Only six of the twelve men in the APC got out before a missile found its mark, killing the rest, but the tide came on, forcing the mercenaries farther back into the mansion. It was like a miniature street fighting scenario, firefights breaking out from hallway to hallway, room to room, all led by their mysterious leader and his best six, who died one by one until only three of them remained. At this point, mercenary training and emergency plans kicked in, as help started arriving from the PMC Training Grounds and police precincts. The technicals were destroyed near instantly by drone and assault chopper attacks, and areas of the mansion that were taken by rebels were opened up, so the air support could nail the rebels without fear of hitting the mercenaries. The paramilitary force dropped rapidly now, lacking the means to actually take down these new reinforcements, but that wasn't the job, as the leader and his two surviving soldiers kicked in the door of the mayor's room itself, gunning down the guards and leveling their weapons at the mayor, the leader down to his pistol which was trained on the mayor as well.
It was silent in that room, despite the chaos without, and as a drone raised up to the window, weapons trained on the three paramilitary types, centered on their leader, the man smiled as his mask and hood fell away. The pistol fell to the ground next, and his two men followed suit. The mayor sighed a breath of relief, thinking he was safe after all, before the man grabbed his vest and pulled it open, detonating into a massive fireball. The blast took out the drone outside the window, blowing out a huge chunk of the building around where the mayor's room was, the titanium walls not meant to contain that much force, only preventing it from entering, and killed dozens of combatants close to the room, mercenary and paramilitary alike, the massive blast silencing, and ending, the assault that had started so few hours ago, raising many questions, far more than one would have been comfortable with answering at that moment.
The attack and following explosion created a nightmare situation in Houston's government. Men were woken up and dragged off to the council chambers to discuss emergency plans, police patrols already stepping up and PMC presence increasing naturally in response to this terror attack. Obviously, the mayor was written off as a loss, and the council took over as a governmental force in the interim, the dozen men and women talking and discussing what they should do, while the city watched and waited, while their lives moved around this massive event. Soon the city council made an announcement that received the blessings of the Texas Governor. The town was being put under martial law, the police and PMC's would now run the town, and had increased power to do far more than they ever had before. The corrupt cops would take full advantage of this, while the good cops tried to keep their corrupt brothers in line and protect people from criminal and terrorist predation.
The streets, once having a handful of PMC's and the occassional police officer, flooded further. PMC patrols roved almost every major street, and were dime a dozen in the richer sectors that could afford their protection. Armored jeeps and APC's also roved, ready to react to another attack in a heartbeat, while armed air escorts flew with the VIPs now instead of waiting for an attack and responding. They would make a fortune off this increased cost, but everyone who could afford it often paid up front for such services, for the sake of their own protection. The police and SWAT team were out in a display of force and protection, rolling around in their armored Vans, while police squad cars were always out, all the time, shifts literally meeting their reliefs at designated points to prevent the cars from not being out and available in a moments notice. The city was appearing to be locked down by such heavy mustering of military and police forces, and one would think this would prevent anyone from acting against anyone again. This was hardly the case, and a laughable idea for those who really knew better. The Houston Library had a band of federal agents, assigned personally by the governor, to reinforce the Libraries protection. Armed men in suits, a well trained sniper on the roof, communication and technology security experts, and armed goons all arrived with orders presented to the head Librarian, to reinforce and protect the vault and library itself, for the good of the Texan people.
The regular TV programs people were watching flickered into static, and faded away, and a well lit room, akin to an armory, really. Walls of armored vests, AK series rifles, rocket and missile launchers, armed men standing about preparing their weapons and arming themselves for the oncoming war. But the center of focus was on an older man, wearing a suit with a bullet proof vest resting over it, sitting at a desk, arms folded on top of it, looking at a map of the city, the mayor's home marked with a red flag, while many other, undiscernable targets, had green and yellow flags on them, and the man looked up, grey, well trimmed beard and swept back, cropped hair, smiled with a perfectly white set of teeth, calm green eyes almost drawing the viewer in with a warmth and sense of trust that most folks would consider sorcerous or at least technologically enhanced. He smiled for a moment longer, and began to speak, a soft southern accent increasing the impact of his soft, gentlemanly voice.
"Texans, denizens of this wonderful city, free people within the sound of my voice, hear me now. You are all no doubt aware of the regrettable resolution of grievances with the decadent mayor of this fine city of Houston, as armed men resisted the tide of change that we brought forward. Time and again we attempted to reason with this man, only to be threatened and cast away. But now we laid him low, like a scythe brings low the wheat of a harvest. And it is time to act again, my brothers and sisters of this free, noble people. Corruption and decadence has run rampant for too long in our government, sworn to represent us and what we desire, breaking their vows by coveting with corporations and criminals to gather more power, more wealth, scurrying about like rats in the depths of a wagon, poisoning the food and hearts of the good men relying on that cart to survive. Well, no more. We will bring the torch to these rats, who fear the light that will expose their crimes and their excess, we shall burn away all that is impure, and corrupt, and wrong with this fair city, for the good of all. For the sake, of Our Father's Fathers."
Another broadcast would soon come over the airwaves, planned for that day, and another well dressed, clean shaven, younger man sat at a desk, preceeded by a symbol of the Texan Republic, and nodded gravely at the camera, speaking in a broad accent, straight and to the point. "My fellow Texans, we are in grave times. Never since our separation from the States of America have we faced such open violence against our way of life. These terrorists, this new threat of 'Our Father's Fathers', threaten everything this nation stands for. I, for one, will not stand for it. Already, the good police and armed men in Houston have taken up arms, walking their streets to protect those poor citizens who will get caught in the crossfire and for them, I pray for their safety. But I will not be bullied, intimidated, or forced into acting in any way besides in the interest of my people! This is not a threat, it is not an Ultimatum, it is a promise to those that would bear arms against peaceful men and women. I will not abide terrorists in my nation, and any who dare try to practice their trade will be shot dead."
On the edge of the Yakuza territory, bordering the Orc-way, was a bar that was long considered a neutral meeting ground for people. It was a small, one floor place, about a dozen tables, one or two bartenders, and usually a few patrons at any one time. Before the lock down, a handful of Underhill Motorcycle Club members, a few halflings, were enjoying a few drinks in a normally safe place, as several of the Yakuza members came in. They were enforcers, meant to take care of problems the Yakuza had, and that organization had started seeing the Underhill Motorcycle Club as one of them. The halflings had no idea trouble was coming, as this was neutral ground, and ignored the three Asian types approaching their table. A baseball bat to the back of the head changed that, and before they could react the four Yakuza members had the halflings knocked down, beating the ever living hell out of them. They stepped back, drawing a couple handguns, and unloaded on the halflings before fleeing the bar. All of this happened as the lock down was being implemented, and word would quickly find its way back to Underhill territory, as both a warning and, possibly, a provocation.
Sloan would find herself on the receiving end of a ringing phone shortly after the broadcast by Our Father's Fathers. On the other end was a well to do, rich sounding individual claiming to represent an Algera Corporation. The individual wanted information on Our Father's Fathers, and offered a handsome amount of money, cash and upfront with the information, when the job was said and done. The individual gave no name, only a contact address and a wire address that had the first down payment for her work, a rather suitable amount for the kind of work one was asking of the information broker. They did not say why they wanted the information, what they wanted it for, and gave her little time to really asked questions, clearly used to people just shutting up and taking orders rather than bargaining and negotiating. However, nothing would stop the woman from ringing them back up and doing just that. But either way, she had been offered quite the job, and it was her call whether to take it or not
The corporate HQ's at the center provided a hivemind of power for the city, where the biggest, strongest, and wealthiest men in the city met, only challanged by the Yakuza in terms of power and influence. Government officials and big business worked hand in hand to make themselves richer and more powerful, and damn the consequences to the rest of the city's population. But in this day and age, people live and move on. The downtown flea market was a prime example of this, men and women who couldn't afford property sold their goods here, from legal crops from outside the city limits, to illegal cyberware and implant jobs done out of the backs of vans, to avoid the regulations and taxes that were put on such things. Other markets, such as goods of quality out of the Elven markets, weapons and arms out of Orc Way, and just about anything could be bought off the system, if you knew where to look. Houston of the year 2034 was a hive of activity, to the extent that it alone could have qualified as its own country, including the means to defend itself from armed attack.
Just next to the Corporate HQ sector, was a mansion of incredible size and prestige. Looking somewhat like the United States White House, this building was the home of Houston's Mayor. Standing three stories tall, white washed with weather proof paint, and covered with ornamentation and fancy decorations, the building was a symbol of wealth and power for the city Elite. Under the clean paint and priceless ornamentation, the building was a bunker. The walls were reinforced titanium, capable of withstanding anything Mother Nature, a mage, or most military forces could muster in firepower, the doors and windows could be sealed with blast resistant shutters, and more than a hundred armed guards, trained PMC's that were veterans of at least two wars, known or unknown, were on site at all times. It was as much a fortress as it was a home of one of the most influential men in the city, and it was under attack by a small army.
This small army was a paramilitary group, no one knew who it was, but there were a lot of guesses from the onlookers, who stood at a safe distance, behind cover, in fear of getting hit by stray fire. This army of men and women were wearing hockey masks, rags across their face, anything to obscure their appearance. Helmets and crude body armor were plentiful, and their weapons ranged from old six shooters to stolen PMC level machine guns and missile launchers. Over half a dozen technicals, armored trucks with machine gunners mounted in the bed, were spraying fire at the building, forcing the mercenary guards into cover, while suicide bombers charged, getting shot down, but not enough of them. The raging firefight in the front lawn of the mayorial manor ended as half a dozen suicide bombers detonated, blowing massive gaps in the first line of defense, forcing the shell shocked mercenaries to retreat into the building, having sustained losses and forcing a lockdown of the building, planning to wait out the paramilitaries until help could arrive. They wouldn't give them a chance.
The technicals kept firing, suppressing whole sections of the building while the mercenaries within returned fire, killing dozens of the paramilitary assault force. They could not, or did not, stop the demolition team moving up to the front door, nor could they stop the stolen APC, filled with the Paramilitary leader and a dozen of their best trained, equipped, and led men, from parking outside the door, waiting. Any time a missile launcher moved up to the window, a sniper nailed them, and soon they kept nailing others, forcing more men to hide within the building, a literal thunderstorm of gunfire and explosives raining against the building, straining its defenses to the extreme. The demo team at the main door placed a massive breaching charge on the door, one of a kind designed for this job, and a mage placed a barrier around the charge, to force every ounce of force into the door. The effort would kill the mage, but it would succeed, the door blown clean across the room, the APC literally wedging itself into the building and parking there, the turret firing all across the second level balcony as men poured out to try and stop the roaring tide of paramilitaries entering the building.
Only six of the twelve men in the APC got out before a missile found its mark, killing the rest, but the tide came on, forcing the mercenaries farther back into the mansion. It was like a miniature street fighting scenario, firefights breaking out from hallway to hallway, room to room, all led by their mysterious leader and his best six, who died one by one until only three of them remained. At this point, mercenary training and emergency plans kicked in, as help started arriving from the PMC Training Grounds and police precincts. The technicals were destroyed near instantly by drone and assault chopper attacks, and areas of the mansion that were taken by rebels were opened up, so the air support could nail the rebels without fear of hitting the mercenaries. The paramilitary force dropped rapidly now, lacking the means to actually take down these new reinforcements, but that wasn't the job, as the leader and his two surviving soldiers kicked in the door of the mayor's room itself, gunning down the guards and leveling their weapons at the mayor, the leader down to his pistol which was trained on the mayor as well.
It was silent in that room, despite the chaos without, and as a drone raised up to the window, weapons trained on the three paramilitary types, centered on their leader, the man smiled as his mask and hood fell away. The pistol fell to the ground next, and his two men followed suit. The mayor sighed a breath of relief, thinking he was safe after all, before the man grabbed his vest and pulled it open, detonating into a massive fireball. The blast took out the drone outside the window, blowing out a huge chunk of the building around where the mayor's room was, the titanium walls not meant to contain that much force, only preventing it from entering, and killed dozens of combatants close to the room, mercenary and paramilitary alike, the massive blast silencing, and ending, the assault that had started so few hours ago, raising many questions, far more than one would have been comfortable with answering at that moment.
The attack and following explosion created a nightmare situation in Houston's government. Men were woken up and dragged off to the council chambers to discuss emergency plans, police patrols already stepping up and PMC presence increasing naturally in response to this terror attack. Obviously, the mayor was written off as a loss, and the council took over as a governmental force in the interim, the dozen men and women talking and discussing what they should do, while the city watched and waited, while their lives moved around this massive event. Soon the city council made an announcement that received the blessings of the Texas Governor. The town was being put under martial law, the police and PMC's would now run the town, and had increased power to do far more than they ever had before. The corrupt cops would take full advantage of this, while the good cops tried to keep their corrupt brothers in line and protect people from criminal and terrorist predation.
The streets, once having a handful of PMC's and the occassional police officer, flooded further. PMC patrols roved almost every major street, and were dime a dozen in the richer sectors that could afford their protection. Armored jeeps and APC's also roved, ready to react to another attack in a heartbeat, while armed air escorts flew with the VIPs now instead of waiting for an attack and responding. They would make a fortune off this increased cost, but everyone who could afford it often paid up front for such services, for the sake of their own protection. The police and SWAT team were out in a display of force and protection, rolling around in their armored Vans, while police squad cars were always out, all the time, shifts literally meeting their reliefs at designated points to prevent the cars from not being out and available in a moments notice. The city was appearing to be locked down by such heavy mustering of military and police forces, and one would think this would prevent anyone from acting against anyone again. This was hardly the case, and a laughable idea for those who really knew better. The Houston Library had a band of federal agents, assigned personally by the governor, to reinforce the Libraries protection. Armed men in suits, a well trained sniper on the roof, communication and technology security experts, and armed goons all arrived with orders presented to the head Librarian, to reinforce and protect the vault and library itself, for the good of the Texan people.
The regular TV programs people were watching flickered into static, and faded away, and a well lit room, akin to an armory, really. Walls of armored vests, AK series rifles, rocket and missile launchers, armed men standing about preparing their weapons and arming themselves for the oncoming war. But the center of focus was on an older man, wearing a suit with a bullet proof vest resting over it, sitting at a desk, arms folded on top of it, looking at a map of the city, the mayor's home marked with a red flag, while many other, undiscernable targets, had green and yellow flags on them, and the man looked up, grey, well trimmed beard and swept back, cropped hair, smiled with a perfectly white set of teeth, calm green eyes almost drawing the viewer in with a warmth and sense of trust that most folks would consider sorcerous or at least technologically enhanced. He smiled for a moment longer, and began to speak, a soft southern accent increasing the impact of his soft, gentlemanly voice.
"Texans, denizens of this wonderful city, free people within the sound of my voice, hear me now. You are all no doubt aware of the regrettable resolution of grievances with the decadent mayor of this fine city of Houston, as armed men resisted the tide of change that we brought forward. Time and again we attempted to reason with this man, only to be threatened and cast away. But now we laid him low, like a scythe brings low the wheat of a harvest. And it is time to act again, my brothers and sisters of this free, noble people. Corruption and decadence has run rampant for too long in our government, sworn to represent us and what we desire, breaking their vows by coveting with corporations and criminals to gather more power, more wealth, scurrying about like rats in the depths of a wagon, poisoning the food and hearts of the good men relying on that cart to survive. Well, no more. We will bring the torch to these rats, who fear the light that will expose their crimes and their excess, we shall burn away all that is impure, and corrupt, and wrong with this fair city, for the good of all. For the sake, of Our Father's Fathers."
Another broadcast would soon come over the airwaves, planned for that day, and another well dressed, clean shaven, younger man sat at a desk, preceeded by a symbol of the Texan Republic, and nodded gravely at the camera, speaking in a broad accent, straight and to the point. "My fellow Texans, we are in grave times. Never since our separation from the States of America have we faced such open violence against our way of life. These terrorists, this new threat of 'Our Father's Fathers', threaten everything this nation stands for. I, for one, will not stand for it. Already, the good police and armed men in Houston have taken up arms, walking their streets to protect those poor citizens who will get caught in the crossfire and for them, I pray for their safety. But I will not be bullied, intimidated, or forced into acting in any way besides in the interest of my people! This is not a threat, it is not an Ultimatum, it is a promise to those that would bear arms against peaceful men and women. I will not abide terrorists in my nation, and any who dare try to practice their trade will be shot dead."
On the edge of the Yakuza territory, bordering the Orc-way, was a bar that was long considered a neutral meeting ground for people. It was a small, one floor place, about a dozen tables, one or two bartenders, and usually a few patrons at any one time. Before the lock down, a handful of Underhill Motorcycle Club members, a few halflings, were enjoying a few drinks in a normally safe place, as several of the Yakuza members came in. They were enforcers, meant to take care of problems the Yakuza had, and that organization had started seeing the Underhill Motorcycle Club as one of them. The halflings had no idea trouble was coming, as this was neutral ground, and ignored the three Asian types approaching their table. A baseball bat to the back of the head changed that, and before they could react the four Yakuza members had the halflings knocked down, beating the ever living hell out of them. They stepped back, drawing a couple handguns, and unloaded on the halflings before fleeing the bar. All of this happened as the lock down was being implemented, and word would quickly find its way back to Underhill territory, as both a warning and, possibly, a provocation.
Sloan would find herself on the receiving end of a ringing phone shortly after the broadcast by Our Father's Fathers. On the other end was a well to do, rich sounding individual claiming to represent an Algera Corporation. The individual wanted information on Our Father's Fathers, and offered a handsome amount of money, cash and upfront with the information, when the job was said and done. The individual gave no name, only a contact address and a wire address that had the first down payment for her work, a rather suitable amount for the kind of work one was asking of the information broker. They did not say why they wanted the information, what they wanted it for, and gave her little time to really asked questions, clearly used to people just shutting up and taking orders rather than bargaining and negotiating. However, nothing would stop the woman from ringing them back up and doing just that. But either way, she had been offered quite the job, and it was her call whether to take it or not
