I just pulled off a post where Dan offed Fitzsimmons and then stepped back to clear the lanes of fire and covered everyone else who was finishing the job.
Up to you what happens with Stone.
Up to you what happens with Stone.
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Homicide, not Murder
"What the fuck did you just say?" was Dan's signal; he had a smooth draw, weaver-stance and blasted out into Fitzsimmons' center mass. He splattered blood and flesh out the back; 9mm, 147gr hollowpoints. Huge mess exiting. Illegal in wartime, but so was being out of uniform and fighting, and the KGB wasn't exactly strong on distinctions anyway. So they used the most brutal methods in defense of their own country and maybe someday a court would sort it out depending on who won.
The man was crumpling already and he was searching for the next target, with a snarl on his face. The place already smelled like blood and cordite and his shot grouping was probably tight enough that the investigator, if they knew what they were looking at, might well comment on it. But you were in the fight and you didn't worry about making it look deliberately sloppy, or the CIA could send some hitters that could engineer it. They were guerrillas and this was the dirty stuff.
At least he knew he didn't have to off Joe, it was an immense relief; later on, he would try to forget about it.
He was already shuffling his step aside and moving with his pistol in place, looking to line up Stone. The man had to drop the bag and draw the gun and he was already at a huge disadvantage. But Dan was checking his angles, making sure he didn't have Gigger and Joe in the line of fire. So he decided to cover a different angle, keeping a watch on the entrances, keeping it very cool with one of the first essential rules of using a weapon -- make sure of your target. He didn't feel he had a clear shot and wanted to clear it so that Joe or Gigger did get that shot. Three on one was dangerous in that regard, and Danny was able to get out of the way easiest, and take the man down if he decided to do a runner, though it would be Preston that did that guy if he got loose from the warehouse.
Either way, job was getting done and Joe definitely was a Green Mountain Boy now.
In
Welcome to the Rice Fields Motherfucker- An Ambitious Vietnam War RP
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Post up for the old guy.
In
Welcome to the Rice Fields Motherfucker- An Ambitious Vietnam War RP
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
"There's a path up," the old fighter agreed. His face was seamed and weathered with the experience of life, but he was eager for the fight like the younger men, even if he knew what the fighting would be like, "It's camouflaged."
It was old guerrilla skills to stake out the hunting ground, and he knew the hills in this area pretty well. He'd never be a map reader, but he was a guide with intimate local knowledge. He hunted water buffalo, boar and goat in these hills, emerald green and pinkish-tan, rustling with a bit of wind that barely relieved the heat. The Central Highlands were at the tail end of the rainy season, which made it easier for these young patriots to infiltrate in over the border. There was an old network of guides from the French colonial dayes and they knew the routes and the game. Some of them were working with the young men of the area to provide training and get them ready for the war of national liberation against the colonialists, but others, like him, were assisting the People's Army with setting up the necessary security to move men and equipment through Laos into Kontum province. By night, there was digging and tunnels, set up to provide a secure and hidden place for the soldiers to sleep by day, and a place to cache the weapons.
He slithered through the greenery patiently, deliberate about where he placed his feet. There was still moisture left over from the day's rain that'd soaked them, but it muffled the crackles and masked the sounds of movement -- water drops coming down tended to make a degree of disturbance in the greenery, as did the wind that cooled them. The trail he found was an overgrown one, so he had to move carefully, but he managed to sidle his way into position on the younger man's orders, with his Mosin, an old warhorse with an iron cap on the buttstock, which was a replacement lovingly made from local wood when the old one cracked from local moisture, in hand. He'd checked the barrel carefully, intimiate with the weapon's workings. It was important machinery, a valuable resource that was cared for lovingly. The old canvas sling was long gone, but the metal parts were oiled properly and kept very clean. The ammo too, was wrapped away in a rubberized pouch, kept very dry and away from mud. It wasn't a fancy weapon; it was designed in a far off land for peasant soldiers, and it filled the same function here. The younger men had the newer weapons and the enemy had a scoped rifle...but the man was the one who pulled the trigger, and if that man wasn't good quality, it didn't matter.
The arthritis created a dull, persistent pain in his shoulders and one of his ankles, a result of the weather shifting a bit, but he pushed that all down. Later, he'd rub down with hot towels and try to treat as best he could, but for now, he could fight. And with the worn-smooth wood of his rifle against his cheek as his eyes automatically adjusted to the primitive sights of his rifle, he was as ready as he'd ever be.
He didn't bother to think much of the Japanese or the French that came before, and when this man in his sights was dead, he wouldn't think much of him either. He was fighting for his home; he'd been forced to work on plantations and give up his village's wealth to corrupt Saigon-appointed mandarins. These incompetents came and beat one of his sons, in fact. He had a score to settle, and these traitors were just another enemy in the way of his nation's peace and prosperity...
It was old guerrilla skills to stake out the hunting ground, and he knew the hills in this area pretty well. He'd never be a map reader, but he was a guide with intimate local knowledge. He hunted water buffalo, boar and goat in these hills, emerald green and pinkish-tan, rustling with a bit of wind that barely relieved the heat. The Central Highlands were at the tail end of the rainy season, which made it easier for these young patriots to infiltrate in over the border. There was an old network of guides from the French colonial dayes and they knew the routes and the game. Some of them were working with the young men of the area to provide training and get them ready for the war of national liberation against the colonialists, but others, like him, were assisting the People's Army with setting up the necessary security to move men and equipment through Laos into Kontum province. By night, there was digging and tunnels, set up to provide a secure and hidden place for the soldiers to sleep by day, and a place to cache the weapons.
He slithered through the greenery patiently, deliberate about where he placed his feet. There was still moisture left over from the day's rain that'd soaked them, but it muffled the crackles and masked the sounds of movement -- water drops coming down tended to make a degree of disturbance in the greenery, as did the wind that cooled them. The trail he found was an overgrown one, so he had to move carefully, but he managed to sidle his way into position on the younger man's orders, with his Mosin, an old warhorse with an iron cap on the buttstock, which was a replacement lovingly made from local wood when the old one cracked from local moisture, in hand. He'd checked the barrel carefully, intimiate with the weapon's workings. It was important machinery, a valuable resource that was cared for lovingly. The old canvas sling was long gone, but the metal parts were oiled properly and kept very clean. The ammo too, was wrapped away in a rubberized pouch, kept very dry and away from mud. It wasn't a fancy weapon; it was designed in a far off land for peasant soldiers, and it filled the same function here. The younger men had the newer weapons and the enemy had a scoped rifle...but the man was the one who pulled the trigger, and if that man wasn't good quality, it didn't matter.
The arthritis created a dull, persistent pain in his shoulders and one of his ankles, a result of the weather shifting a bit, but he pushed that all down. Later, he'd rub down with hot towels and try to treat as best he could, but for now, he could fight. And with the worn-smooth wood of his rifle against his cheek as his eyes automatically adjusted to the primitive sights of his rifle, he was as ready as he'd ever be.
He didn't bother to think much of the Japanese or the French that came before, and when this man in his sights was dead, he wouldn't think much of him either. He was fighting for his home; he'd been forced to work on plantations and give up his village's wealth to corrupt Saigon-appointed mandarins. These incompetents came and beat one of his sons, in fact. He had a score to settle, and these traitors were just another enemy in the way of his nation's peace and prosperity...
I am Groot. (Welcome to the Guild!)
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Welcome to the Rice Fields Motherfucker- An Ambitious Vietnam War RP
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@Lady Selune So when are we going to get a start? I have a mental health day and want to make the best of it on my other RP's, and would love to get a bunch of writing done for this as well. Is there any way I can help with the intro? :D
I want this so bad it's painful. i will drop my resume(character sheet) in your PM for approval, look forward to working with you.
Sounds good, we like enthusiasm.
I took a mental health day for tomorrow. I'll be around to work on collabs, if anyone wants.
There, tension added. Turns out others in the cell are tasked to off Joe if he can't off his buddy Mike.
l'armée des ombres redux
Dan had tension in his shoulders, but he walked only a little and didn't want to distract a trio of career criminals who knew that handoffs were the most dangerous part of the job. It was true that they were doing a handoff, and didn't care about the money. It was bait. They'd decided against packing some C-4 into the bag and throwing the switch once these guys were away. They figured to keep it looking covert, like a deal gone bad rather than a sign of legitimate guerrilla activity. Handguns here to reinforce that. They had M-4's and M-16's from national guard and police supplies, cached away for the Day, with a capital D, when they'd start the real running war, but for now they were on handguns.
That made it all more complicated; the explosives would have alerted the KGB for certain that there was activity. They wanted to draw out some investigators to find out which agency, potentially, was interested in LeBeau. So here they were, offing this criminal the hard way, because someone wanted to gather intelligence on the response.
Make hay while the sun shines, he supposed, as he paced through the dusty warehouse. He was wearing a fleece lined flannel vest and a hooded sweatshirt, the better to keep identifiable tattoos covered up nicely. They were reminders of a very different sort of life, more straightforward. He also was wearing a Bruins cap because it concealed him well enough for surveillance cameras. He didn't even want to contemplate what the Russkis would do to the NHL. No one in New England did.
Fitzsimmons was his. He got a good look at the bloodshot blue eyes, the pug nose and dirty-blonde hair kept short. He had a cigarette in hand and was wearing jeans and a leather coat, but he looked rough, like a legbreaker and a thug, not really a guy that was used to using a gun, though he was certainly carrying one. That made a huge difference. Dan didn't gawk at the guy, but he was planning to kill him fast, two to the center mass and then, well, he'd see.
He didn't necessarily like the idea of killing Eamon Fitzsimmons like this, but it was a moot point -- they had orders, distasteful but necessary. But a couple years ago, if people said that it'd be like this, killing people you were doing business with, betraying people on a suspicion for flag and country, he probably wouldn't have believed it and didn't want to necessarily contemplate it now. But here they were, playing the maquisard and doing the ugly stuff. He could feel the sweat gathering in spots, even in a bit of chill in Vermont.
Worse still were the other orders. The ones that said to keep an eye on Joe and decide if he was loyal. They wanted proof, that's why Joe was the triggerman, and he knew that his end of the business was to pop that guy if he failed. Joe wasn't as dumb as the CIA assholes that dreamed this up imagined, he probably knew what was going on here.
Get it or not, he just hoped the guy pulled the trigger.
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