[IC] Star Heresy

[AmongHeroes]

chapter 1

---

^{[Ω] Planet: Luynus, Imperial Controlled Space
[Ω] Locality: Snoria City slums, the Snoria Bazaar
[Ω] Time: Early Evening}

The Snoria Bazaar bustled and undulated like a living, breathing beast. Hundreds of thousands milled through the mismatched aisles and shoddy shops of the largest open-air market outside of the Solar System. Ringed by the towering colony apartments that enveloped the bazaar like the walls of a valley, the binary stars that gave the planet Luynus its life were just now disappearing behind the horizon.

Everything was for sale here. From rare antiquities, smuggled cybernetics, and stolen military hardware, to the rampantly popular drug meeror, slaves, and holovids of the now dead Earth—nothing was out of the realm of possibility in the bazaar.

An orchestra of dialects could be heard rising up in the heat from the worn metal and evercrete, mixing into the putrid cloud of feral humanity that hung above the place like a miasma. The intricate intonations of Javi, the language of the nobility, could even be discerned amidst it all. The wares of the bazaar were too enticing even for the high born. Especially the meeror.

One thing the bazaar did lack was law enforcement. Or, at any rate, sanctioned law enforcement. Snorian and Imperial Police did not even venture within the confines of the bazaar, and no calls for service ever originated from within. Ever. The bazaar was a haven within the Empire; a place where the laws of the Emperor held no sway, and no bearing. The gangs ruled here, and crooked capitalism was their only commandment. Yet, the wolves of the 7-5 cared not at all for the will of organized crime. They had come to the bazaar to hunt their prey, and no false kings would stand in their way.

Leaning with his back against the side of a noodle stand, Captain Anson Hogh blew across the steaming paper bowl of synthetically spiced noodles he cupped lovingly in his hands. He appeared totally disinterested with the shuffling patrons that milled past him, and gave every indication that he cared nothing at all about anything, save for the cheap food beneath his nose.

The 7-5 team leader was dressed in a faded black, hooded half-robe, which was secured at his waste by a cheaply woven Snorian sash. His legs were covered with patched red denim, and his boots clasped to just below his knees. On his head he wore nothing but his naturally mussed hair, and the traditional crimson Omega tattoo on his forehead that was the hallmark of most male Snorian natives.

Beneath his disguise was hidden a full suit of skintight light body armor, an O-blade knife at the small of his back, and a compact submachine gun was tucked into the folds of his robe. Like most of the 7-5 today, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Flashing before his mind’s eye, Anson watched the birds-eye view of the bazaar provided from the Operational Support Satellite (OSS), that was flying in a geosynchronous orbit miles above the planet. Thanks to the internal processors of his implants, the satellite feed mixed seamlessly with the image provided by his own eyes, allowing Anson to monitor his surroundings, while still being aware of the OSS’s progress.

It was just shy of a month since Earthfall. The armed forces of the Empire were flung across the Orion Arm, even now battling for the total extermination of the Nym Republic. Vast space battles, containing thousands upon thousands of capital ships, YETI’s, and marines, were locked into pitched combat with the stakes of all of humanity resting in the balance. But here on Luynus, deep within Imperial space, that war was far away. A very different war was being waged her.

Intelligence had been gleaned by the OII (Office of Imperial Intelligence) that the counterfeit security chips used by Red Oath to gain access to Earth’s missile defense mainframe had come from within the Snoria Bazaar. It was as yet unknown how anyone in the bazaar had procured such high-security tech, or from where exactly in the vast marketplace Red Oath had purchased it. However, what was known, or was at least posited by the intel geeks at OII, was that such unique tech probably still remained somewhere for sale.

The security chips were inimitable; no other device in the galaxy used the same combination of software and hardware. This uniqueness made it infinitely hard to replicate—or so everyone in the Empire had thought—but it also provided the 7-5 with an opportunity. With the right program, the security chips could be pinged, just like almost every other device and implant in existence.

Once this wrinkle had been discovered, OII had provided the 7-5 with the algorithm to geolocate the security chips. It had taken the CAG unit only ten hours to become operational on Luynus, having caught their first break in the hunt for Red Oath. Anson and the rest of the 7-5 had come to the planet covertly, traveling under false names on various civilian transports. The tiny OSS satellite had come along with them as nothing more than a suitcase-sized stowaway on the side of one of these transports, and had immediately detached after passing through the Titan Gate. It was the OSS that was currently pinging for any remaining security chips with its powerful sensor package.

Anson was skeptical about the efficacy of the plan. If it was him who had sold the chips to Red Oath, there would be no trace of the incriminating devices—no matter what the possible profit. Humanity’s homeworld had been eradicated, and the lynchpin had been the access to the mainframe. It would take a fool of grand proportion to not recognize the danger continuing to possess such tech posed in the aftermath. It was the 7-5’s only possible break though, and it would have been equally foolish to not pursue it.

As the OSS continued to scan the bazaar, Anson decided to take stock once again of his team. Instantly accessing his communication system with the same brainpower required to blink, Anson sent a heavily encrypted thought message to the whole of the 7-5. To each of the recipients, they would “hear” Anson’s words as if he had spoken them directly into their ears.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

[icmasticc]

Planet Luynus - Snoria Bazaar - Early Evening

---

The Snoria City slums existed as a poignant reminder of a past that had created this exact moment and the Bazaar within was the catalyst that would spark reminiscence. This was well trodden gang land and it certainly lived up to its reputation as haven amidst the Empire--haven for criminality of course. All manner of shady individual strolled from shop to shop hoping to procure items they had no business trying to acquire or tech they barely knew the inner workings of. Even nobility could be found lurking amongst the common thug, spouting their highborn language and fishing for illicit wares in a sea of reprehensibility. The entire surrounding was one constant reminder of how far she came in the years since she left her home. Varrina Mercury, however, wanted no part of such memories.

The resident sniper of the 7-5 dressed in a fitting, solid black shirt under an equally dark hooded shawl. The top was neatly tucked into worn gray sweatpants which in turn hid inside knee-high boots. Long sleeves covered her arms up to just below her wrist and gloves made of a very thin material enveloped her hands. With her hood pulled up, Varrina almost sauntered down one of the more congested aisles clutching a strap slung over her shoulder with one hand and a pocket generously housing the other. A long, cylindrical case attached to the strap and matched the length of her back. She adjusted her hold as she slipped passed individuals she avoided eye contact with and tried not to cough while inhaling the dirty air. Even if this was a mission, it was a nightmare for the master sergeant, but she had been part of the unit long enough to understand duty before desire.

She stopped at a curious stand just as the owner turned his back to attend to another potential customer. This particular stand happened to be selling what looked to be parts of weapons that one could theoretically rig together to create something useful. They were laid out one next to the other with even spacing between each piece and a little plaque that denoted a price. Varrina raised an eyebrow at some of the pieces before turning and looking off into the distance. Her gaze shifted to and fro until she finally settled on one of the towering sentinels that raised well above the Bazaar. A small, darkened grin formed before her walking speed picked up. She had known exactly what she was going to do as soon as the mission was officially handed down. For the role she chose to play, it was always generally the same routine.

Once she emerged from the ocean of ill repute, Varrina began the ascension. She found a set of steps on the side of the building that zigzagged up to the roof--what looked to be some sort of old-fashioned fire escape maybe. It was better than trying to scale the walls at least. Her thoughts began to muddle again as she took long strides up the steps. Her mind flashed to the members of the team who were bound to be in the thick of it. She always figured the captain liked that sort of thing, but she never truly understood it. What was so desirable about weaving through the carnage of battle or even the calm of a silent infiltration? To be placed next to the danger you were meant to eliminate did not seem very efficient in the least. Maybe bragging rights played a part and of course there were those whose roles made them effective at eradicating things up close, but those kinds of tactics were too messy for Varrina. She much preferred the comfort of a good vantage point--much like the one she now found herself on top of.

Wasting no time, she took a knee and dropped the cylindrical case on the ground in front of her. Depressing a flush button, the case flayed open to reveal a rotating inner cylinder which held components that would combine to create Varrina's signature sniper rifle. She quickly removed each piece--a green square lit above each piece signalling a matching genetic profile released each one--and put them together as she grabbed them. This was a ceremony that had been performed a thousand times and, at this point, it had become slightly more than second nature. A mere minute and a half later, the long rifle rested on its own dual bi-pod setup and pointed its sleeping barrel and all-seeing scope through a large hole in the masonry of the roof and in the direction of the Bazaar below. Varrina put a greenish-blue eye to the optical sight and adjusted a few dials before slapping in a modified magazine that held her .50 caliber ammunition. She ended the ceremony by laying down on her stomach and pushing the butt of the weapon into her shoulder pocket. This was truly the most enjoyable, and efficient, manner of combat.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

The message came through loud and clear, though Varrina still hated the method in which it was delivered. Of course, she was not fully convinced of the plight of trans-humanism either. Taking a moment to summon her own brainpower, the sniper put her eye back to the scope and replied through the same secure channel. "Wraith, sitting on the southeastern apartment tower and monitoring the situation. Cyclops is ready to go, boo." Cyclops was the affectionate name she had given to her trusted sniper rifle due to the rather large optical sight that sometimes appeared to be a giant eye from afar.

[Astronaut Jones]

Snoria City Slums - Bazaar - Eastern District

It was hard to keep a clear head in these parts. The cultivated langue within the bazaar's melting pot teemed of bargain bandits and hagglers. Buyers attacked vendors in droves. They shouted, pointed, and negotiated in a whirlwind of dialects, but despite the language barrier, they all seemed to understand each other - or at the very least, follow an unwritten protocol that didn't escalate to violence. It was like a gathering of thirsty animals, pushing to get their taste of the watering hole by scoring the sweetest deals they could find. Fifteen minutes ago, Luke was people watching from a distance, criticizing the whole fiasco and the drama that came with each business transaction. That was until he saw a Holovid vendor carrying one of his favorite TV shows of all time; a complete remastered VR collection of The Adventures of Astronaut Jones. The mother of all pearls.

It was a popular show in the rim about an over-the-top Astronaut that had the demeanor of an early 20th Century Earth male. He drank pina colodas and knew Space Fu, but always seemed to slap one alien in every episode, very hard in the face.Jones was also an anthropomorphic frog. Life in the rim was hard for an orphan, and Luke was no exception, but Astronaut Jones was the one constant in his life that provided a temporary escape from it all. In Luke's eyes, that piece of nostalgia warranted purchase - at a reasonable price.

"You must not be from here!" The vendor shouted, waving the large hard drive containing all of Astronaut Jones' wild adventures at Luke's face. "I can only cut down to 120 cred. 120 cred only!"

"Bullshit. You sold half that for The Live Free Die Tomorrow or The Day After collection to that Javi jargon-er. That shit is worth double what you're trying to sell me." Luke's 6'4" muscular frame towered over the little Snorian fellow, but the vendor wasn't intimidated in the least.

"120!" The vendor folded his arms. Out of nowhere, a ragged looking man with beady sunglasses squirmed into view and raised his hand.

"I'll buy it for 120!" He said.

"Like hell you are!" Luke elbowed the man out of the way, almost knocking the sunglasses off of his face. "I'll raise the bid by 10."

The vendor looked at the man, who shrugged and casually walked away. "Sold." The vendor flashed a jagged smile. Luke swiped the hard drive from the man's hands and handed over the Snorian currency. As he left, he looked back and noticed that the sunglasses guy reappeared in front of the vendor, who was now giving him a cut of Luke's payment.

"Oh you've gotta be shitting me." Just as Luke was about to stomp back over, he received a thought message from Captain Anson.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

"Iceman, in the Bazaar. Eastern District. Ready to roll when you are, over." Luke gave one more look at the Holovid salesman. When they made eye contact, they both cracked a smile. "Touché, you rat bastard." Luke shook his head as he tucked the hard drive into the breast pocket of his blue leather jacket. It suddenly dawned on him that the copy he purchased could very well be a bootlegged version, or something else entirely. Should it come to that, then Luke Galbri will definitely repay the man a visit and slap the vendor as hard as Astronaut Jones would. He decided to stroll through the Eastern District's markets, listening in on the 7-5's dispatch while awaiting orders.

[Dondude]

On the opposite end of the noodle bar, well out of range of Anson but still in view, Bruce sat quietly in a rather depressing, shady little corner. He found himself people watching, not particularly focused on any one subject, absent-minded. Despite the setting sun, the streets grew brighter with neon signs, flashing trinkets up to auction for whoever was the loudest, and an endless sea of towering, colossal billboards that blocked the majority of the skyline.

This was a far cry from his little stretch of dirt back on his home planet. Life with his modest slice of desolation was much more quiet, much simpler. Stars seemed far more beautiful, more numerous and distant. The past few years of Bruce's life sucked all the sense of wonder and little optimism he once felt for the great expanse. It seemed no matter how far the 7-5's missions have brought them, whether traversing advanced colonies or bumfuck nowhere, there was no end to the amount of corruption and putrid bile that seeped through every community. It was immediately apparent to Bruce that a seedy city such as Snoria wasn't going to change his view any time soon.

A sudden small thud brought Bruce back to reality, as his bowl of ramen thumped against one of his metal arms.

"Four credits."

He peered down at his bowl, examining and prodding the lukewarm serving with mild disdain, and a few moments later returned his gaze to his server. He stood defiantly in front of Bruce, presumably waiting for his due. Bruce broke the awkward silence, speaking slowly, hoping the dull-eyed man would understand him fully with a second, more stern request:

"Or-gan-ic."

Maintaining his stare, he pushed the bowl in front of him contemptuously, spilling a bit of its contents on the server's apron. The server's scowl grew, but after a few moments he was the first to break contact. He snatched the bowl hastily and scooted off, leaving Bruce alone, just as he preferred it. A sharp yet familiar stinging sensation was forming in his head, along with the beginnings of a pounding, high-pitched chime, just as his thoughts began to drift to a violent nature. He began tapping the cybernetic modifier on the right side of his temple rapidly, and the ringing slowly lessened to its usual, low tempo hum.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

While normally discomforted by the sudden invasion of thought, Bruce welcomed the distraction. From across the stand, Anson and Bruce shared a brief moment of eye contact. There was a twinkle in Bruce's eye as he turned his attention back to the streets, maintaining a stoic expression as best he could. Two light, rhythmic taps to his modifier provided the necessary signal: 'Ready.'

[LotusWarrior]

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

Router looked down at his data pad, and in-putted a few lines of code while some of the responses came in. He executed the code and not far off a lightweight attack drone changed its course and merged into a column of slowly moving hover ships. On its new path it would circle the area, ready to be called down into the market and rain hell on any target assigned. But for now it was simply going to move with the flow of traffic and not be noticed by anyone. Just another drone in unregulated air.

Hunter-Killer-4e

Router put the pad away and looked across the Bazaar. It was the melding of so many different cultures and their technologies. He was impressed as to how mankind’s ingenuity flourished here. One such example was Holovids being mixed with sense-simulators to create real-ish experiences (probably pornography, but who was he to judge). But it was the vehicles that caught his eye. A mix of spy drones, sports hover-cars, war-androids, jet-bikes, ani-grav packs, All with exotic equipment and features. The list went on and on. In another time and situation he would spend days scouring this market for parts and frames in bliss

But this was neither the time nor situation. Earth was gone, his family killed in an unimaginable holocaust, and he was now geared and ready to kill all those responsible. Under his ambiguous robes was light tactical armour with some modifications. If he was to beat th0rn_r0se to any devices he was to secure and extradite any hardware for her to inspect later. There was also the matter of escape if things became to hot for the team. The HK4e would provide a decent amount of fire, but they required escape. His suite will be able to take control of any vehicle, hopefully one large and with decent armour. Concealed on his side was a AA-36 fully automatic/low recoil shotgun. Loaded and ready.

AA-36

He leaned over and tapped into Hoghs shoulder. "The HR is circling, all systems clear. Im right behind you."

[FantasyChic]

Snoria Bazaar - Warehouse

A few bleeps and blurbs rang out in the empty room. The darkness was only broken by bright blue hues and the occasional yellow stream shooting across it. After a few minutes of jingles, a horn sounded triumphantly.

"Yes, new high score!"

Trinity stood up and did a victory dance in place as she beat her high score on "Flash Forward", a new, addicting app on her phone. After she did her victory rounds she sat back down at the makeshift desk she set up that held her computer system.

Decked out in all pink, despite the wishes of her superior for blending in, Trinity definitely didn't fit in to normal crowds. Her hair was long and dyed, usually in pink colors, her outfit consisted of a pink camisole and black jacket, with a pink poodleskirt over black leggings and pink boots.

If they wanted her to conform and "be normal" for the mission, they got the wrong hacker on their team.

Surely her skills warranted her to be able to wear what she wanted. Her skills were unrivaled, at least in her mind. She leaned back in her chair and propped her pink boots on the desk while she sucked on a lollipop. She went back to how she joined the team. Did they find her or was it the other way around? Who's to say?

Either way, she was here now, on a mission. She was excited, being able to use her skills to help. She always was on the side of justice, she never used her hacking skills for evil (well...unless you count sending pics of her ex-boyfriend to a homosexual escort service to have him 'pimped out'. But the dick deserved it!).

She was about to hop back into her app when a familiar voice rang in her ear.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

She clicked her heels off and rolled back up to the desk, booted up her screens and typed herself online. She responded in turn.

"th0rn_r0se online and ready to rock!"

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Planet Luynus - Snoria Bazaar - Early Evening

The crowds were slightly thinner in the southern part of the Bazaar, where the rows of vendors became more narrow and the stalls more quaint. Still, the stream of potential buyers that flowed through the little alleys was enough to make many off-worlders feel swamped. The muggy air and mixture of various smells, both human and produced, made for an uncomfortable environment as sweaty bodies slid past each other in effort to get to their destination. The odd quick moving child signified a failed attempt at pick-pocketing and was amusing, if not worrying, to watch. Oliver Thane was actually the kind of person that liked this environment, and to a certain degree it reminded him of the markets back in New Shanghai - although they contained far less crime and were more legitimate. He dressed very casually for the mission, wearing old-school military boots with dark grey jeans (not tucked into the boots), a black zipped hoody and a knee-long overcoat. The hoody, which he wore with the hood up over his head, was more special than it appeared to the average eye; it was inlined with special fibres that caused optical aberration to average CCTV equipment and even low tier eye cybernetics. What this meant was that most surveillance looking at him with his hood up would see a blurry face. The hoody was not the only protection he had though, as he wore a holster concealed beneath his jacket where he kept a silenced pistol. Hardly the most effective set-up for a combat situation, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that anyway.

Strolling through the crowds with confidence and purpose, Thane kept his eye out for any suspicious activity. It was not hard for him to blend in with the crowds and pretend to be someone else - after all, that was how he lived his life. This act was a charade within a charade. "Here we are." Thane thought to himself as he came across a small coffee vendor nestled between an assortment of other food and drink vendors. The neon clad stall was named ‘The Emperor’s Cup’ and had a rather dirty feel to it. Six empty barstools lined the front of the grimy looking counter and it was clear that this place didn't get as much business as it could have. The sole worker, an old man with wrinkled olive skin and balding white hair, stood slumped lazily against the back wall of the small stall

"Medium honeybean please, with a pinch of nutmeg." The order was delivered clearly but quietly by Thane as he took a seat. The elderly vendor perked up in response and gave a quick look around.

"Do I know you from somewhere, your face seems familiar. Maybe from the Felguim district?" the elderly man's response was exactly what Thane expected, a security phrase that let him know that he was dealing with the right Nym agent. The little act continued as the vendor handed over a cup of coffee with a smile.

"Name's Trojan, I think that we may both know Helix." This of course was yet another coded phrase. It signified that Thane was a spy and that he wanted a message passed on, in this case being to 'Helix'. As Thane spoke he handed the vendor a small chip in exchange for the coffee, which to any onlookers would seem like a normal transaction.

"Ah of course! I'm supposed to be meeting her later, so I'll make sure to say 'hello' for you." The vendor of course wouldn't be meeting with Helix; he would be sending the heavily encoded chip through a series of channels right back into the heart of the Republic. But he wasn’t going to say that in public. In fact Thane guessed it could be weeks before his contact retrieved the chip, if at all. The chip could only be read by ‘Helix’, and anyone else that attempted to open or hack it would immediately cause the destruction of the data.

"I'd appreciate that. Have a nice day." Thane said with a genuine smile as he clambered off his seat and once more merged into the crowd, dodgy coffee in hand. He then continued to stroll through the bazaar, slowly but surely making his way towards the spot he knew that Anson and some of the others would be meeting. He was not too far out when he got the message.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

Thane wasn’t the most comfortable with the whole ‘thought message’ system, finding it somewhat unnatural, but he certainly appreciated the practicality of it. He would have appreciated the practicality of it more if he could make it work efficiently. As it was Thane needed use his mouth to utter his words silently, or else his messages sometimes became jumbled; understandable really, given how much thought and care he needed to put into every sentence.

<This is Thane. About a minute from your position, but keeping distance. Ready for orders. Out.>

[Garden Gnome]

Snoria City Slums - Bazaar
North Western District - Early Evening

The bazaar in the Snoria city slums was busy. Actually, 'busy' was a rather understatement to describe the crowd that had gathered here today. Perhaps it was not just today, but everyday. The scores of shops and stalls here sold a plethora of merchandise, ranging from mouth-watering local delicacies to menacing-looking weapons. Among the hustle and bustle of a crowded marketplace, the din of hundreds of people talking together rose into the air, a cacophony of dialects and languages. It seems like those who belonged to the status of nobility was not spared from the bazaar, the merchandise too interesting for them to ignore, despite being in a relatively dirty place like this when compared to the stark pristine homes they lived in.

The fact that bazzar lacked any form of law enforcement meant that it was a haven for the numerous gangs that fought for territory without fear of repercussion of the law. The 7-5 was present today, in the crowded throng of the bazaar for a follow-up mission of importance. The intel Emily had retrieved from her rather harrowing mission had been deemed essentially crucial, and the fact that she had made it back to friendly territory in one piece was highly impressive. It wasn't surprising that following that mission, she had been recommended to join the wolves of 7-5 as their reconnaissance specialist. The fact that the blonde was an exceptional marksman was simply a bonus.

She was dressed in a hooded long-sleeved obsidian-black shirt that fitted snugly around her curves. It was accompanied by a pair of equally black close-fitting pants, with a utility belt of a similar hue sitting on her waist. The outfit was completed with a pair of combat boots. Her honey-blonde locks were hidden by the hood which was raised fully above her head. The outfit came fitted with an active camouflage system that enabled her to blend in with the surroundings,and therefore avoid vision unless a high-level detection identification system was used. Slung on her back was a backpack that contained an semi-automatic rifle that could be fitted with the necessary attachments to form the role of a sniper rifle. Its versatility enabled the operator to use the weapon for a variety of functions, which was highly essential in a recon role, as it usually involved putting oneself in harm's way in a variety of ways. For now, she would be requiring the way of the sniper.

Crouching down, she quickly began assembling the required attachments onto her rifle, transforming it into a semi-automatic sniper rifle. Lying prone on the rough surface, she rested the bi-pod and aimed her rifle down into the bazaar through the holes formed by the interweaving roofs of the bazaar. While the vantage point she had chosen was a good one, she wasn't the team designated sniper, and therefore wouldn't stay in her position for long unless otherwise necessary. The buzz of of a message from team leader came soon enough through a thought message asking for a report on current location and status. Emily had never really got used to that method, it felt strange yet highly effective.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

Sending the reply back over the same secured and encrypted channel, Emily reported in.

<Nightmare reporting in. Sitting on the rooftops of the north-western side of the bazaar. I'm all set and good to go.>

[Rockette]

P ' S I Y A H

[α] Luynus — Snoria Bazaar — Early Evening

^{Initiating . . .}

Elegant intonations and intricately laced articulation surrendered from pale lips, every breath of annunciation carried fluently betwixt pearl flesh that easily conjoined over curious dialect and accentuated carefully into conversation. Poised phrases, inquires and rejoinders swiftly collaborating behind interchanges of haggling dialougue and manipulated tongue. This was an art of its' own, on a separate tier of interaction that was inclined with the feathering tints of nobility and refined gentry; a class of bustling creativity in the garnish of shadowy manipulation laden under obligated sincerity. Violence and disfavour here was carefully cloaked behind simpers of rabid endeavors, biting inclinations that translated to ascending prices and refusals of purchase in favour of the neighboring client. The bustling exchange lasted for barely a minute, sixty seconds of rapid firing intricacies and suddenly the heavy weight of a vintage military shell was being slapped into her arachnid gestures, fingers curling against near ancient metal salvaged from dead hands and hunks of worthless machinery.

"I need chips," a breathy sigh intoned, a pleasing dialect and accentuation of modified vocal cords that rang with the cadence of grace and dignity: the sole, regional language of Upper Nobility. "Not this.. thing." A scoff puttered from her pearl coloured mouth, tongue pressing against pallid bone in clicks of disapproval, and offended service as she literally dumped the shell back into wreathed hands interlaced with silvery threads and clusters of cybernetics. This was shoddy amplification that tampered the skin and wore the membrane to leathery, pocketed scars and disfigured complexion, the exhibit of black market results often left her lips in a curl. The proprietor let loose a tangent of dribble, dulled tones and intonations that beget to the local flavour, not Jovi articulation, but the slur of Ori that still made her cavities bleed.

"Then I'll give you these: ninety credits, all together." Two more shells, and bundles of fiber optic cables and ports assembled into a bundle of purchase; sales and deals fished out from random selection, she mused.

The translation, of course, was lost somewhere in the bedlam of timbre and tones, a slip of the verbal juncture, and hope waned through the successions of bartering before she left, sauntering further down the browse with emerald oculi reeling with the myriad of wares proffered openly by frenzied possessors. Sensory here was absolution, and the whorl of activity and bandits of illegal franchise literally spurned her amplifications into overdrive, violet pings and modulating frequencies pulsating to life in irregular blushes of colour in reaction to electric currents and impulses. P'siyah carefully concealed her sensory implants through the ebonette overcoat tied securely around her waist, knotted and laced together over the latex of her suit that suffocated her in the slick material. The concepts of covert operations were null on context to her appearance, the grace of hyper beauty from genetic purchase and years of constant splicing had simultaneously cursed her with the inability to properly blend into the mortal flaw of humanity. However, under the guise of a noble within a noble, she played into her role with finesse, for the extravagance was known among the bazaar. The slum market recognized the royal when they glanced upon one, and in the upper echelon of wares where prices were displayed into the reeling and befuddling expense, P'siyah ventured with the confidence of one befitting to their stature. The spools of her ebonette hair were wreathed high onto her crown, extensive tails spilling from the knotted tresses pinned into place through swift, spindly graces of her hands. Boots of common footwear found purchase easily on the bazaar asphalt reflecting both neon and smog in whorls of oil—slick water; left loose around her ankles and crisscrossed with curious silver buckles and obsidian heels.

She was dressed down into rudimentary cloth, courtesy of a curious bystander she had came across during the transit upon the civilian transport, exchanging wardrobes under the pretenses of befitting wear and the moniker of Priscilla, a epitaph given with a garnishing smirk by one of her more quip—riddled comrades. Priscilla was a noble woman, Lower Nobility of course, of certain wealth by the bequeath of some doting father who lauded himself on a throne of a benevolent nature to his beloved heirs. She was here by her lonesome, wary of the experience, but lolling into the atmosphere, complexity wreathed in simplicity; this was her only ability into surreptitious affairs. It played well into various results, especially the further P'siyah descended into the bazaar, sidelong glances peering through the thick fringe of her lashes, hands tucked away into the depress of pockets as she continued, at her leisure, a saunter worthy of a boulevard. Whilst her impression was best deemed careless and inexperienced, there was a confident sway into her swagger, one of pure intent and destination and every sweep of flickering green gleaned new sights, information, potential illustrated into the gathering of details and specs through this eternal bustle.

The wolfish fatale among the sheep, P'siyah swept through the flock until the resonating scuffle of her heel paused at the threshold of an absurdly embellished sign, decked out completely in harsh, hot pinks and illuminated within borders of cyan bulbs that pulsed in the endeavors to garner attention. It was lurid and vain, and utterly ridiculous, and exactly what she required. Located in the upper tiers of the Snoria slums where the colony apartment towers loomed, wreathing around the smaller, underground establishments banked between the compacted buildings with shoddy brick and dampened alloys. The labeling illuminated the stairwell that fell way into the gloom and P'siyah carefully shielded the emerald of her oculi to an aquamarine clipped with mossy undertones and piled her thick, tumbling hair into knots and swirls to decorate her appearance; these intricate and minuscule performances of sprucing activating the threading of sensory throughout her frame; webs shimmering to life—bearing hues of azure with violet discs humming in their luminescence. She carefully plucked her way through the door, hinges that should've squealed upon pressure instead yawned fluidly, betraying the aesthetic of the underground facility as curious, vibrating bass waves pitched, and coated her ears and nerves. Immediately the proprietor shimmered into view, heavy cybernetics seeded tight through the metallic shrug of his arms that wired up to broad, copper plates feathered in overdone trims of gold that faded into the black of shadows surrounding the both of them. Mechanical eyes honed in on her figure, immediately bypassing the barrier of cloth to recognize her own altered form; genetic and mechanic.

"What's a Noble want with the Nyte?" He slurred, heavily accented Ori pouring from his lips that almost made her expression cringe into disfavour.

"This is a meeror den... No?" P'siyah carefully supplied, mimicking his slur and slang to appear familiar with the locality.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He answered swiftly, immediately penning a rapid succession of modules she hadn't noticed at his temple, various components shimmering into hues of green that brightened to near, blinding neon. Her eyes narrowed, memorizing the particular motions and gesticulation until he nodded, confirming that their conversation was deemed secure, temporarily, by the broadcast of the channel he supplied through his own mental capacity. P'siyah shrugged her shoulders, smiling a trademark simper of dazzling glamour and canted her head to one side, manipulated refineries bleeding out onto her countenance as she applied the long term effects of her exceptional beauty to gain particular favour.

"Now.. I need one of your private rooms, furthest down as possible. No disturbances. A lady needs to get her fix."

Of course, he had no idea of what her real intentions were, or that using a meeror den as a base of operations, because it was a particular vantage point in relation to the geosynchronous orbit of the Operational Support Satellite, and with the colony apartments' own bustle of activity and electronics that would eclipse her own meddling. The fact she had been heavily anticipating to get her turn with the OSS was another matter all together, one she had gleaned over carefully when inquired by Anson to her... Intentions. Allow the other hackers to have their trinkets and games, the OSS was her gleaming gem to be sharpened and finalized into something of pure grandeur and polish. Pearl flesh tipped into a sensuous smile, pouring into a sigh as she knelt down onto the floor, ignoring the finer trimmings of the furnishing stained and the mixture of blacklight that gave further evidence to the real endeavors carried through out the den.

No matter, she thought, carefully unfastening the knot of her overcoat and slowly shedding the cloth to activate the latex sensory suit that brightened to life, illuminated with her own discs beneath the slick mesh and material. It was akin to a secondary skin, leaving none to the imagination as she also retrieved various tools from her previous cover. These were projection tools and rings of silver, six in total that she laid about her in a circle, as swift and careful flexes of muscles and fingers began penning the objects to life. Low hums resonated through out the room, blooming to online existence with an azure glow smothering the purple haze and swarming with various binaries and flickering numerals as each of the rings arose, expanding into the six—gated holographic sphere of The Seraphim. The process took less than a minute, the gargantuan projection responding immediately to every movement she executed as visual panels came forth, summoned by small pings with her various controls bridled beside each screen projecting her status. The complexity of the network shadowed various servers and farmed into its own private sector of information. It took another time frame of few, passing seconds to initiate The Seraphim's display and to locate the OSS through its' trajectory miles above the planet, but that distance hardly phased P'siyah as the matrix of her holosphere transmuted into coding and rapid—fire signals, immediately connecting to the satellite without hindrance through invisible links and fine threads of technology.

Immediate, swift flashes of her digits over her controls, almost too quick for the mortal eye; twisting over them with flicks of her wrists, keys blinking onto the projection and surrendering from view as she initiated the up—link and finalized the connection with a grin of completed finesse. The OSS controls were hers now, the entire system responding with quiet sounds of calibration and transferring its' all—seeing purpose onto her visual panels, various sectors of the bazaar immediately available to her personal threatre and interchanging to diverse details of the market as she twisted the controls. With fingers sunk deep into digital feed, it was almost artistic into every bend of her arachnid gestures just as a familiar voice splintered over her consciousness through mental feedback.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

"Sorry Anson..." She murmured, eyes aflame into pools of peridot as she acknowledged that her commanding officer was linked through his modified oculi to the satellite, but she could amplify and fortify its' range, thus able to broadcast the ocular feed into a broader scope. She had intentions to access luxury models located through the bazaar that would yield to her the exact specifications and details of the local revenue through every stall she could pinpoint with The Seraphim display and the OSS's geolocator, however she suspended these actions by swiping the panels and screens to the side, waiting for the final input of her commands. Her response was gradually delayed as she pried her fingers from the OSS controls and began to expand her connection range next, The Seraphim efficient and almost ruthless as she began accessing the ports of cameras located outside the den, panels coming to life so she could examine the limitations of the building. A small ping to her flank aroused her attention then, pink hues blinking to animation as another hacker activated her own terminal, making P'siyah acknowledge such by the noise, but did not garner any further reaction as she carefully responded to the direct missive of their residing leader with her own encryption in the swift, elegant tongue of Jovi.

^{>Seraphim and the OSS are connected. On stand by.}

[Noxious]

Pʟᴀɴᴇᴛ Lᴜʏɴᴜs, Sɴᴏʀɪᴀ Bᴀᴢᴀᴀʀ; Ƭαηк ѳя ẞαηк........................// Hᴇx Gᴀᴜʟɪs

The waning light was supplanted by glittering tech and obnoxious colors, each demanding recognition from a milling populus and gaining a few oblique glances from the oscillating argent and ebon of her perception. Windows to the soul were a mockery to creation and evolution, an exaltation of transhumanism, a reflective glimpse at tainted humanity endeavoring for greatness with redefining tech, all culminating in the bastard offspring of man and machine. She seemed comfortable with this status and at home amongst the stalls and siren lights. They were all thralls to progress, her only differentiating cue was the beneficial bankroll of the Empire that hid within circuitry and processors intercalated amongst the homegrown true-bio.

With her entire team scattered about the Bazaar like feasting moakroaches on a decaying fusion engine, her stroll had remained decidedly central, lingering with a brevity uncatchable by vendors as she purused for something specific, something convenient. Lucky for her the assaultive market was only a klick beneath dull boots when convenience came blaring out of the skyscape in the form of a dilapidated blinking arrow coaxing familiar fiends towards a dingy staircase. “Tank or Bank”- she knew the place, though not this exact one. They were a sort of ‘chain’ boasting at least a squared dozen locations along transporter routes and offering booze and gambling sans cock measuring. The beacon was greeted with an expansion of those charcoal lined orbs and an inner giddiness that alleviated the burden of her steps so that boot covered feet practically skipped through the door.

She took the synthetic cement stairs two by two, humming a Brax’vairn fête song in time with the dulcet jingling that emanated from her body with each footfall. Every bound took the torment tailor beyond the light and into the welcoming favor of tenebrosity; a charitable descent thats completion put her face to face with an iconic sentinel. The man appeared to be pure muscle and ‘netics, nothing high brow, but formidable enough to retain his employment. He favored a gesture over any vocalization, leaving his tone a mystery as a bruising hand motioned towards a placard that glowed at her right. Identification was not any concern here, quite the opposite, anonymity was thoroughly embraced by the proprietors of Tank or Bank. Instead the sign, and the warden, served a different purpose.

Neon lettering warned against the use of cyber, mech or tech advantageously while on the premise and provided a copious list that required a near illegible font to include the probable and ridiculous restrictions. Some inclusions, such as “ocular probability gauges” were so audacious she surmised they must be apocryphal fantasies. Regulation of tech and ‘netics were customary so her attention was only to the hilarity of mythical mods dreamed up by management. Some of her own modifications smoldered from the typeface, but this too was routine and she paid little mind. Rules were only rules if you get caught.

She nodded in concession to the restrictions as she unfurled the piceous silk niqab to reveal pale cheeks littered with freckles and full lips boasting a pleased grin. Arms wrapped in slate leather, distinctly not bovine, raised to her side to accommodate the coming weapons check. This was not her first rodeo and weapons checks were commonplace even amongst those that ingrained weapons within; something archaic that promoted the deceit of security. The apathetic muscle patted her down, possibly this man was a mute. In this lull of engagement she imagined his name was probably Francis in youth and as he reached the upper echelon of physical prowess he changed it to something ridiculous like Dozer or Beef, an insult his mother would not likely dismiss. Beef cake, satisfied that the minx in muted tones was no threat, waved her through the final door and into the main attraction.

As the door closed behind her the effect of the room was all consuming. Time itself dissipated into the realm of myth and rumor as any indicator of sun/starlight was suppressed by subterranean walls. Having just left the early evening of above she was temporarily shocked at the amount of clientele already collected around tables and the axial bar; but this was a much denser population than she was accustomed and likely concealed a continual stock of customers. Even with the considerable patronage the place plugged reminiscent feelings and familiarity that cajoled a rise of confidence. She allowed time and pretense to slip from her as she became one with the flurry of movement, booming laughter of drunks and mutt accents chattering away at varying decimals.

Eyes slid about the room with the pace of someone unburdened by decisiveness, movements mirroring this luxury of time. When the expanse of the room had been tread she settled on a Moxon™ table. Her languid form paused behind a vacant chair, taking in the game as they neared the end of a hand. “Mind if I join?” each syllable was coated in indication of origin, one habitually suppressed, but seemed quite fitting in a place like this. A husky fellow with the enticing smile of Dionysus raised an affable eyebrow in her direction while his large palm slapped the synthetic material of the seat next to himself.

“Desdric?” His own accent was similar, if not more refined, and as people often do when faced with a piece of home at such distance, she immediately took a liking to the man. Lips curled in a smile around words that suddenly favored a comradely tone.

“Brax’vairn actually, same sector.” She replaced his hand with her weight upon the seat and deposited a conservative amount of chips on the table before her.

“Brax huh? I didn’t think your kind left the home land.”

“Oh, we get out and about to acquire things from time to time.” Thick lashes provided a quick wink for the man as she added a sickly sweet tinge to ‘acquire’ that directed the mind towards something nefarious. "We can't always rely on abandoned ships to stumble into our atmosphere for parts." Her response compelled the rugged man to release an authentic laugh, one that rose from his large stomach and shook his cheeks. It was the kind of laugh that infected those present and Hex, lacking immunity, laughed along with him, though she wasn't quite sure what she'd said that he found so humorous. If he hailed from Desdric, it was probable the man facilitated the 'abandonment' of a few space vessels in his time and perhaps he found her stature lacking for the piracy sector.

The conversation continued along with the card game, bouncing about between topics of home, the up and coming mods and their current locale all beneath the two toned flicker of tech meant to detect any mod usage. She was at the same table with her new found companion, Trexel, when the familiar chirp sounded in her head and Anson’s message came through.

<Sᴛᴀᴛᴜs ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ. Aʟʟ ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs, ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴᴇss.>

Trexel continued their conversation, oblivious to the myriad of voices within her mind, calling out location and readiness. She didn't miss a beat as her own intonation chimed in.

<Cᴇɴᴛʀᴀʟ Sɴᴏʀɪᴀ; sᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ.>

[Lutalica]

---

^{◤ Planet: Luynus, Imperial Controlled Space
◤ Locality: Snoria City slums, the Snoria Bazaar
◤ Time: Early Evening}

Luynus fell away from one's feet when crossing into the bazaar, itself an embassy arrived at through fragile interlocking failures of imperial oversight and the unchecked ambition of local Snorians. A lawless market of the deepest, darkest black choked in illicit wares and overrun with warring gangs. That was the spiel at any rate, just something else they were trying to sell. Vulma wasn't buying. Of the 7-5 she may have been the only body in the whole devil's dozen to find things just a bit upscale for her tastes; even without Javi panging through the expected palter it reeked of nobility. It was practically a tourist trap. Que Sera, Sera; they weren't here to find out who's pocket it was filling.

As if on cue Anson's laid back yet authoritative tones coalesced within her mind by way of an encrypted channel.

<Status check. All operators, update location and readiness.>

Naturally what followed was a veritable roll call, it'd be an even bet their fearless leader was already piecing together a tactical overlay from each response. So far Wraith and Nightmare were concentrating overwatch from the north and south respectively, Router had his HR overhead and the locator was a go thanks to P'siyah and Rose. Luke, Bruce, Thane and herself were providing boots on the ground, with Hex holding in a central location. Dodging a blush of urchin boys Vhyrd followed suite, stitching together a reply in a voice that was pure, synthesized sex.

<Western Bazaar. Frosty.>

Truth be told nothing had really jumped out at her, a few identity swaps; some organ trade; and a surprising number of people looking to eat endangered animals--but nothing mission critical. Mostly she'd just traced a furtive patrol through the curtain of bodies that kept the tracts of peddlers from colliding. Fortunately she didn't really jump out either, even with a full prosthetic body she had a knack for becoming scenery in these places; just another ant in the column. Vulma achieved this through the complete antithesis of stealth, hidden by the urban ghille that was 'gang-chic' fashion. Letting a loud, loose sweatshirt slouch off her factory sleek contours, one sleeve absent arm in a style that was inexplicably vogue; 'Terra Lives' stickerbombed over the portion of plated midriff it left exposed. Men's track pants likewise rested asymmetrically over her form, rolled up to reveal an uneven offering of each ankle; an off-market hand carbine worn open carry along the waistband. To almost any observer she was just another casualty of the post-armistice, pre-glam xenopop scene.

Before cutting the communiqué an addendum razzed crossed the channel.

<I have ten credits saying half of us showed up in black hoods. Any takers?>

[AmongHeroes]

<Demon 1-3, be advised, we have active pings. Repeat, active pings detected in our action area.>

Keen, cold, and mechanically enhanced eyes narrowed; a predatory expression, as a lion might focus upon the first glimpse of prey. The woman who owned these eyes replied with her own thought-comm.

<Copy that, Demon 1-4. All operators prepare to move and engage. Maintain cover until targets are confirmed.>

Immediately following this order, a string of affirmations from all the soldiers of Demon team came across the thought-comm channel. A dozen in all.

The woman, known as Demon 1-3, ran her hand nonchalantly through her electric-green hair. It was cut in a long Mohawk that draped attractively between her shoulder blades. Her predatory eyes scanned across the press of humanity that made up the Snoria Bazaar. Listening to her team report in within the confines of her mind, she appeared nothing more than another of a thousand other beautiful distractions within the market.

She was dressed in a grey skin-tight plug suit that accentuated the natural allure of both her soft and hard lines. It was common enough attire for both men and women in the Orion Arm, as it allowed a simple means to interface with a wide array of machinery and tech. That this particular suit also allowed Demon 1-3 to remotely control her YETI was assuredly not as common.

As she wove her way through the shops and stands, she knew that a CAG unit was dangerously close. In fact, one of the infamous operators could be walking right beside her, and she probably wouldn’t know it until the lead started to fly. But, the same held true for the Imperial soldiers; they could have no inkling that they weren’t the only wolf pack in this den of sheep. A smile tickled at the corners of Demon 1-3’s rouged lips.

Due to the impossibly heavy encryption on the security chips, the Nym Republic had no hope of pinging the chips as the CAG unit was now doing. Locating the devices was nigh impossible even with the proper software codex, and utterly hopeless without it. Yet, the members of Demon team had a tool that gave them something just as valuable—a means to track and recognize the pings of the OSS as it searched the bazaar.

It was a method called Ghost Locating, and the special forces of the Nym Republic had become exceedingly skilled at employing it. Thus far, no Imperial force had managed to recognize the faint signature that parallaxes off the Ghosted ping. Demon 1-3 was an expert in the field, and she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that it would take a system-operator of unrivaled skill to detect the parallax. CAG units were good, but she doubted they could be that good.

<Demon 1-3, we have location signatures. It appears the OSS is narrowing its search vector.>

A slight tremor of surprise echoed down Demon 1-3’s spine. She had not expected for the Imperial OSS to find any return pings, much less so quickly. Her surprise quickly faded into adrenaline fueled excitement that was held far from manifesting itself upon her features. This mission would bear unexpected fruit after all.

<Very good, Demon 1-4.> She said over the thought-comm. <Stay frosty, team. It’s almost show time.>

[AmongHeroes]

Before Anson’s eyes, his elaborate HUD blossomed with life as each of the 7-5 operators reported in. Wherever he faced, if one of his team members was in his field of vision, their location was pinpointed by an orange triangle. He felt like a proud, protective mother wolf, keeping tabs on his den of deadly pups. It was a feature uploaded to his processing unit that had proved invaluable when operational. Knowledge was power, and Anson always wanted to have more information about the disposition of his team. It was a tool he knew many of them hated, or at least found annoying. But, he was also sure they understood its necessity on missions. Anson respected their privacy when not deployed, and he had never once used his “big brother” system outside of a mission. Besides, Anson knew that Rose and P’siyah could jam his tech if they wanted to.

Hell, all of them probably know how to jam it, Anson thought to himself. It was a notion that actually pleased him.

When the “roll call” had been completed, Anson hid a smirk at Vulma’s comment about the abundance of black hoodies with a slurp of noodles.

<We can’t all dress like gang-wenches,> He replied in jest. <Just fashionable thugs.>

Finishing his noodles, Anson threw away the cup, and stood from where he had been leaning. Plunging his hands into the folds of his short robe, he merged into the stream of humanity. Off of his right shoulder, he knew that Bruce would see the move and keep station with him—albeit covertly.

Anson had no particular destination as he began to meander through the bazaar. He could see that Rose was online, prepared to wield her formidable digital skills, and P’siyah was operating the OSS. Most likely from her Seraphim interface. He had the handful of operators on the ground, Router up in the sky, and the ladies-with-the-long-guns providing sniper overwatch. There was nothing much else to do except to keep vigilant, stay prepared, and let the OSS work its magic.

Casting a glance up towards the sky, crisscrossed with ships and hovercraft, Anson wondered if the OSS was even now scanning his area. It was a needle-in-haystack search—it was just that both the needle and the searcher were advanced tech, and the haystack happened to be a throng of gang-riddled slummers. Switching over to the feed of the OSS, he glanced at the search-coverage percentage that was displayed in the upper-right of the satellite’s “gaze.”

It currently read 17.8%. As he continued to watch the search progress, the display seemed to glitch ever so slightly.

The flutter prompted a frown from Anson, but he quickly forced any concern from his mind. The bazaar was a large place, filled with a lot of possible interference. He should expect such things. With a silent sigh, Anson minimized the OSS display.

Still walking at a leisurely pace amidst the shops, Anson’s gaze caught briefly on the figure of an attractive woman with bright green hair peering into a display of meeror pipes, regaled in a form-fitting plug suit. The woman stood at an angle to his right, and did not meet his eyes. For his part, Anson didn’t linger, and had moved onto scanning over the rest of the crowd in the span of a heartbeat.

A short bleep sounded without warning within his mind, transmitting across the whole 7-5 channel.

<<STATUS ALERT: GEOLOCATION PING CONFIRMED. GRID COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.>>

Holy shit, Anson thought. The damn satellite found a security chip!?

As promised, the OSS quickly spat out the grid coordinates of the ping location. It also marked the location with a digital flare that every member of the 7-5 would see.

Focusing his attention on the satellite data, Anson immediately recognized that the flare was moving.

<7-5, be advised the security chip is mobile; we have an actor in immediate play.>

Though excitement jolted through his bones like electricity, Anson willed his actions to remain calm and collected. Turning down an aisle that would take him in the direction of the marked location, he continued to speak to his team.

<I’m almost 200 meters off the target, and have no visual. Does anyone have eyes on?>

Sliding his way past the libidinous living mannequins of a brother tent, Anson cursed under his breath. He was well out of position to make an immediate play on the new target. His team would have to step up. Anson had not a shred of doubt that they would.

<P’siyah, Rose,> he called over the thought-comm to the two hackers. <I want digital eyes on this bastard now. All the information you can get.>

<Router, give me a sitrep from your vantage point, and get in a support position if you can.>

At that, Anson fell silent, and focused on making his way as quickly as possible towards the target. He didn’t need to add anything further, because he knew that the rest of the 7-5 would automatically jump into appropriate action.

The wolves had their first whiff of their quarry, and it was time for the fangs to show.

^{GM'S NOTE: Please feel free to take the opportunity here to add your own elements to the RP. I purposefully didn't describe what our target looks like--I want that to come from you all. Add your own wrinkle to this story, and I will make it work. Just keep in mind what I have worked to set up, and just don't derail that part of it. As always, if you have questions, don't hesitate to ask.}

[LotusWarrior]

<Router, give me a sitrep from your vantage point, and get in a support position if you can.>

HK4e was moved into an intercept route the moment the OSS coordinates where provided. HK moved delicately out of the traffic lane and prowled into the sky’s of the Bazaar. Cutting around sky traffic, sighs, and power/communication cables HK came into the wide walking area the target was supposed to be located.

Routers eyes displayed HKs HUD. A simple combination of maps, weapons systems information, fuel levels, and target information. Router spotted the three members now following the target. Three green circles indicated Anson, followed by a trailing Bruce, and lastly Router standing by a seethy Holovid stand.

"200 credits in total my man" said the dark skinned merchant with a thick Terren descended accent (Scottish maybe?). "50 for the 'Last of the Blue Aliens', 100 for 'Shipwrecked Beauty’s Only for You' and 25 each for two cheep compilation vids, very dirty stuff but good choice none the less. OH! and a free Holovid player, Just because I like you."

"Thank you sir, If Im back in town I will let you know how they are." Router replied handing over a credit stick that was then scanned, funds deposited, and replied by the merchandise being handed over in a nondescript bag. Tucking the bag into his robes he thought it perfect. Give in to a little vice (who where others really to judge), pick up a technology that could be modified for some interesting training/interrogation techniques, and give some time to lag behind his team. He turned and started to walk, ducking through he crowd and focusing his mind on the situation.

The green circle now followed the other two some space behind. The target become marked with a red square. HK's scanners focused in on the target, focused at a robed figure ducking through the crowed with no real haste. Bio, EMP, Infra-red, and gamma scanners passively recived radiation of various types emanating from the target. Router parced through the information quickly and effectively. Then transmitted the package to the team:

<Target Female, human. Average height and above average weight due to increased muscle and bone mass. Several bio implants detected as well as cyber augmentations. Purposes are unknown unless active scan initiated. Target wearing light armour and holstering a medium class weapon. Armour and weapon properties unknown until active scan initiated. I am following Bruce 25 yards, ready to engage when ready.>

Router brought his hand under his robes and took the safety off of his AA-36. HK then began tailing the subject while merging into a lane of slowly moving drone traffic.

[Dondude]

[DISREGARD POST]

[icmasticc]

Planet Luynus - Snoria Bazaar [Southeastern Apartment Building Rooftop] - Early Evening

---

Varrina's head throbbed at the sheer volume of mental communications pinging one after the other. This kind of situation was precisely the reason why she had never supported the admittedly secure line of communication when it was made mandatory to use among units. Words echoed against the intangible walls of her mind and the incessant pings seemed to last an eternity. Despite the annoyance, the most important message was transmitted loud and clear and the grid coordinates appeared within the scope atop Cyclops. This special optical sight contained a built-in network chip that allowed the rifle to send and receive limited forms of data. This mostly resulted in short messages and coordinates being relayed when necessary; Varrina quickly scanned over the coordinates and immediately pulled her focus over to the digital flare that marked the location. Instinct forced thoroughly trained hands to adjust multiple dials as the sniper prepared to survey the situation.

<Target Female, human. Average height and above average weight due to increased muscle and bone mass. Several bio implants detected as well as cyber augmentations. Purposes are unknown unless active scan initiated. Target wearing light armour and holstering a medium class weapon. Armour and weapon properties unknown until active scan initiated. I am following Bruce 25 yards, ready to engage when ready.>

"Well well," Varrina cooed to herself, an involuntary smirk forming. "A fellow cyberized female..." Bringing a flexible leg up towards her upper torso, she pulled her pants leg up and unholstered a modest .40 caliber handgun. The ebony weapon was full-size and simply designed, lacking both a safety and any technical modifications. It was a relic from the days of Earth when guns were simply loaded with ammunition and fired relying solely on the skill and accuracy of the user - definitely not a favorite of the 7-5 sniper, but it could still handle medium to close range situations like a champ. She laid the weapon next to the standing rifle without taking her greenish-blue eye away from the scope. This was a simple cautionary step now that action was being taken - she was not one for uninvited guests on her perch.

Cyclops followed the flare easy enough, but another problem soon arose. Taking a moment of concentration, Varrina sent out a message. <This is Wraith, I've got eyes on the target, but she just moved into a pretty heavily crowded area. She's a bit faster than I anticipated and also appears to be trained in at least basic sniper awareness and evasion. I have to admit, I'm tingling a bit.> She followed the unknown target in the scope hoping for even a tiny bit of open space. Throngs of hurried shoppers that once stood out on the ground level now appeared to be simple copies of one another all dressed in similarly disheveled clothing and scurrying around so much that it was simply impossible to land a clean shot - a clean shot being one that pierced the target without going through three other people first. Varrina cursed under breath, but continued to follow. Even if she could not land a solid shot, she could at least relay some pertinent information.

<She's blending in with the crowds, there's no way I'm getting a shot like this. It looks like she's headed towards a... A large building of some kind. Scratch that, she's about to pass by a large building. Maybe a warehouse? Cyclops is going to stay with the target, but someone else is going to need to follow up here.>

With a sigh, Varrina continued to follow the chip and its speedy owner. She welcomed the challenge of such a fast moving target, but the realization that she would not be the one to take her down was a disappointment what some would call the trigger happy sniper. She knew the rest of the team would have the situation under contol however, even if her baby would not get to feel a little heat on this one.

[FantasyChic]

Trinity's fingers flew across her keyboard as she tried to target. As the comms chattered in her ear, her screen was a flash if multi-colored lights as she whizzed through her programs.

"Eyes on the target coming. I got access from some local security cameras. Child's play. They really should get a better firewall."

She watched the female running through the crowds of the market district. She also saw members of her team as they did their respective duties. She let her programs continue, with one special program saved on reserve, when she heard Wraith come on.

<She's blending in with the crowds, there's no way I'm getting a shot like this. It looks like she's headed towards a... A large building of some kind. Scratch that, she's about to pass by a large building. Maybe a warehouse? Cyclops is going to stay with the target, but someone else is going to need to follow up here.>

Trinity went back to looking at the camera feed, sure enough she saw the woman run through and near the very warehouse she was in.

"So....funny thing about that. Turns out the target is passing by my location. I could improvise something here, or I could go guns blazing on her. I leave it up to you team. I am sure P'siyah could help me out here."

[Lutalica]

Vulma threaded through the tightly clustered masses towards the phosphene-flare their OSS provided, favoring instinct over the real-time routing of her optical feed. <So....funny thing about that. Turns out the target is passing by my location. I could improvise something here, or I could go guns blazing on her. I leave it up to you team. I am sure P'siyah could help me out here.> By the latter part of Rose's suggestion an ingrained comms suite was already panging out reply at the speed of thought.

<There are easier ways to opt into prosthetics.> the CSM sussed into the digital ether of their shared mind, her own high-gloss chassis still surging along an erratic intercept course. <Too many shooters, too little cover. Our target won't be the only one to think we're gunning for them.> A silence hitched itself to her last statement as Vulma vaulted the cloth cordon between two gambling dens and up a partially collapsed stairwell. <Not to mention you may as well be packing a starting pistol; wouldn't want our only lead getting trampled.> If there was an easy anwser she didn't have it; but between Anson and P'siyah their best bad idea was bound to work.

<I'm in parralel and matching target. Overwatch, do you see any detours? Sewage mains, dumping grounds--any place people are avoiding. Emperor knows what we'll be walking into if she gets where she's going.> Naturally no sooner had such a scenario been arrived at than the courier hung the sort of hard left it would look unnatural for Vulma to suddenly mirror. <If someone brought a rabbit now's the time to pull it out of the hat.>

[Garden Gnome]

A cluster of communications traffic came in as her fellow team mates began to check in. It was that much later that a short beep made itself known, alerting her and everyone else listening on the 7-5 channel. It was a status alert, informing everyone that the USS have managed to find what it was looking for. Team leader Anson spoke up soon enough informing them that the security chip was on the move. He then wanted to know if anyone had visual on the target. Emily had no eyes on the target for the target was out of her sector.

She needed to get a move on immediately to get a visual on their objective. Getting on her feet, she grabbed the rifle in her hands and began to move off, traversing the various rooftops of the bazaar, and she began to cross in the sector that their mobile target would most likely be approaching. The area was heavily crowded with people, but with a good vantage point and a keen eye for details, Emily could pick out the target without much difficulty having provided the description from Router much earlier on.

Finally, Emily caught up with the target, and managed a decent amount of distance on the plethora of roofs that formed the top layer of the bazaar marketplace. <Target has moved past the large warehouse, heading towards a side alley. She's stopped right in front of a manhole on the ground in the alley.> The cyberised woman then began to look left, look right, but there was nothing there for her to see. Satisfied, she began to lift up the manhole just slightly away, just enough for to climb in and down a ladder, before pulling the cover shut once more. <Target has entered the manhole, heading into the sewers. Setting up a digital flare of my current position now.> With the digital flare in place, her team mates who were tailing her on the ground would soon catch up, and be able to navigate themselves towards her current location where they could continue to pursue the target.

[Fat Boy Kyle]

<<STATUS ALERT: GEOLOCATION PING CONFIRMED. GRID COORDINATES TO FOLLOW.>>

<7-5, be advised the security chip is mobile; we have an actor in immediate play.>

Thane was as surprised and excited as Anson or any other team member when he heard that the OSS had actually found a lead. This surprise quickly turned to suspicion however, as he then began to consider a number of scenarios in which ‘their’ enemies could be leading them into some sort of trap. It could be that the chip’s owner was planning to try capture and possibly interrogate some high-security personnel. It could be that the chip was just bait or a plant to throw the unit of the scent off the real culprits. There were too many possibilities, and too few involved the 7-5 catching a lucky break.

Picking his speed up to a brisk powerwalk, Thane found himself unavoidably having to shove his way through some sections of the crowd as he tried to loop round and approach the coordinates from a different angle to his team. There was the odd bark or insult as disgruntled pedestrians were knocked aside by his shoulder, but fortunately none were so brazen or bothered to try pick a fight with him. Amidst the rush and the unbearable amounts of people Thane began to feel the heat build up beneath his clothing. The grooves of his shirt armpits began to cling, causing him to unzip his hoody and yank at his shirt for breeze. Tiny salty beads of sweat began to form along the border of his burnt sienna hair and his lightly tanned forehead. ‘Now this is really reminding me of New Shanghai’ he mused to himself.

<I’m almost 200 meters off the target, and have no visual. Does anyone have eyes on?>

<P’siyah, Rose, I want digital eyes on this bastard now. All the information you can get.>

<Router, give me a sitrep from your vantage point, and get in a support position if you can.>

The string of orders prompted him to whack out his phone and check how close he was to the coordinates. 50 meters off the target. He didn’t have any ocular implants nor was he wearing any special HUD equipment, so he needed to rely on the information from the OSS and his comrades. Which was why it was handy when Router chirped in.

<Target Female, human. Average height and above average weight due to increased muscle and bone mass. Several bio implants detected as well as cyber augmentations. Purposes are unknown unless active scan initiated. Target wearing light armour and holstering a medium class weapon. Armour and weapon properties unknown until active scan initiated. I am following Bruce 25 yards, ready to engage when ready.>

Upon hearing the description, Thane at least had a rough idea of who he was looking for. Ethnicity, age, hair, clothing colour, and other distinguishing features were still missing though, and given the amount of people Thane really hoped someone would pass on the additional intel.

<She's blending in with the crowds, there's no way I'm getting a shot like this. It looks like she's headed towards a... A large building of some kind. Scratch that, she's about to pass by a large building. Maybe a warehouse? Cyclops is going to stay with the target, but someone else is going to need to follow up here.>

Warmer. Thane glanced around and noticed the warehouse in question, but through the mass of bodies could not identify the target. Rather than running in blind after the target, Thane opted to continue trying to circle round in the hopes of cutting them off. Periodic checks of his phone allowed him to maintain his range on the target, even if he was separated by buildings or mobs. As the target passed Trinity's location, so did Thane, but he wondered whether she actually noticed; if she was relying too much on the camera feeds, it would be easy for her to miss him (especially with his distortion gear). He was about to respond to Trinity’s query when Vulma chirped in with her two cents.

<There are easier ways to opt into prosthetics. Too many shooters, too little cover. Our target won't be the only one to think we're gunning for them. Not to mention you may as well be packing a starting pistol; wouldn't want our only lead getting trampled.>

Thane couldn’t help but agree that any action at that particular time would be too risky, but he would have appreciated another gun close at hand. It also dawned on him that there could be others following the target, be it their security, other interested parties, or an enemy. It would be too hard to spot leads amongst the crowd unless they made a move; which was why he opposed them making the same mistake too early.

<I'm in parralel and matching target. Overwatch, do you see any detours? Sewage mains, dumping grounds--any place people are avoiding. Emperor knows what we'll be walking into if she gets where she's going. If someone brought a rabbit now's the time to pull it out of the hat.>

<Target has moved past the large warehouse, heading towards a side alley. She's stopped right in front of a manhole on the ground in the alley … Target has entered the manhole, heading into the sewers. Setting up a digital flare of my current position now.>

Thane continued to listen to the stream of information as he approached the site himself. He stopped short of the alley, close enough to have a visual on it, whilst he feigned interest in a random stall. <This is Thane. I’m beside the ally and ready to move on order. Trinity, have you got any feeds of the sewers? Anything we need to be aware of? He paused long enough to let the question sink in but not long enough to allow anyone a chance to cut in, <Before we proceed, could I get a more visual description? Also I recommend taking a moment to check for tails on ourselves or the target; I’d rather not be part of a deadly conga line.> He felt a little bit anxious about barking questions at the team, but it was his role in the team – he was there to retrieve and manage information. If he’d been with other intelligence teams he would have expected a 10 point description (Age, Sex, Colour, Build, Height, Complexion, Hair, Clothing, Items, and Distinguishing Features), running commentary on entry/exit routes, information on local chatter, and estimates on hostile equipment. But he was not in an intelligence squad, and he couldn’t expect his new team to spend all their time spewing up information – it just wouldn’t be practical.