FourtyTwoWell, better than having intact bombs detonated on land. It'll still do damage, but simply not as bad.
I'm trying to paint Everett and Zola as 'loose cannons' - the sort who are good at what they do, but needs to be reined in because they do things on their own way without feeling the need to inform anyone else. Could have Ariella chewing them out for not informing anyone about their plan and not allowing the people on the ground to take cover in time. [/shrug]
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10 yrs ago
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acquire raifu, defend waifu
10 yrs ago
Nothing quite like schizophrenic weather.
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10 yrs ago
At this point I don't even care where I end up. I just want to do something productive, bloody hell.
10 yrs ago
I still remember four...
10 yrs ago
Standing by to stand by, cap'n!
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"Assist appreciated, Excalibur One." Everett said, immediately feeling the relief of not having to worry about an enemy fighter on their tail. Looking up and to the right, he spotted the last Tu-95 climbing to altitude while opening its bomb bay doors. It did not take too much imagination on Everett's part to visualize just what would happen to RAF Lossiemouth should the bomber be allowed to drop its deadly payload. "Excalibur Four has last bogey. We'll take it down with everything we've got." He said and flicked off his radio to talk to Zola. "Use whatever you want. As long as the target's burning and not bombing, I'm happy."
"Honestly, did you really think you have to tell me that?" Zola asked with a chuckle, shaking her head. "Just get us on a steady course and I'll take care of the rest."
"I'm serious. No 'maybe's, 'if's or 'perhaps's. That bomber has to be as dead as dead can be." Everett said and turned their aircraft to initiate an attack run on the Tu-95. "How are we on weapons?"
"Sufficient," Zola replied simply and switched to the Fencer's R-77 radar-guided missiles. With no other fighters in the air, it would be a piece of cake for Everett to keep them on a straight and level flight, and the R-77s were a lot harder to fool than the R-74s. If Everett wanted the bomber as dead as dead could be, then Zola was only all too happy to deliver. The slow and lumbering bomber did not stand a chance once it was within range of the Fencer. "Firing," Zola reported and pressed twice on the trigger. Two missiles streaked towards the bomber, one after the other. Without missing a beat, Zola swapped to the R-74 and upon getting a solid lock, fired that as well.
Everett kept the Fencer flying straight towards the bomber, and just as they were about to enter cannon range, the three missiles struck the Tu-95. The first two missiles struck the fuselage and the third struck an engine, sealing the bomber's fate. It was on fire and going down, but that was not good enough for Everett. At its current position and low angle of glide, there was a chance that it would still crash into the airbase with its bombs still on board. "Zola, fire guns. I'll try to get us a shot at the bombs. Chances are that they're armed and ready to go."
"Man, you sure want that bomber dead. I almost feel sorry for the crew." Zola said with a shake of her head. "Guns armed."
"Right," Everett muttered and adjusted their heading to follow the stricken bomber. He dove underneath it and pitched up, allowing them both a clear view of the bombs still hanging from their pylons.
"Firing," Zola said and fired several bursts into the bomb bay. The first few did nothing and Everett was almost prepared to give up the pursuit, but then a few cannon shells scored direct hits on the bombs themselves and that did the trick. They exploded and ripped the Tu-95 to pieces; the shockwave was so powerful that the stall alarms in the Fencer blared for a moment as it streaked past the air where the Tu-95 was previously.
Everett let out a long breath. He felt no enjoyment from killing the last bomber, it was perhaps even overkill, but it had to be done. The explosion itself told him that the bombs were armed and allowing the wreck to crash into RAF Lossiemouth was as good as letting the bomber do its job, if not worse. Still, Everett could not bring himself to celebrate destroying a stricken aircraft. It was like shooting a dying man. "Excalibur Four splash last bogey." He reported after a few seconds of silence.
"Honestly, did you really think you have to tell me that?" Zola asked with a chuckle, shaking her head. "Just get us on a steady course and I'll take care of the rest."
"I'm serious. No 'maybe's, 'if's or 'perhaps's. That bomber has to be as dead as dead can be." Everett said and turned their aircraft to initiate an attack run on the Tu-95. "How are we on weapons?"
"Sufficient," Zola replied simply and switched to the Fencer's R-77 radar-guided missiles. With no other fighters in the air, it would be a piece of cake for Everett to keep them on a straight and level flight, and the R-77s were a lot harder to fool than the R-74s. If Everett wanted the bomber as dead as dead could be, then Zola was only all too happy to deliver. The slow and lumbering bomber did not stand a chance once it was within range of the Fencer. "Firing," Zola reported and pressed twice on the trigger. Two missiles streaked towards the bomber, one after the other. Without missing a beat, Zola swapped to the R-74 and upon getting a solid lock, fired that as well.
Everett kept the Fencer flying straight towards the bomber, and just as they were about to enter cannon range, the three missiles struck the Tu-95. The first two missiles struck the fuselage and the third struck an engine, sealing the bomber's fate. It was on fire and going down, but that was not good enough for Everett. At its current position and low angle of glide, there was a chance that it would still crash into the airbase with its bombs still on board. "Zola, fire guns. I'll try to get us a shot at the bombs. Chances are that they're armed and ready to go."
"Man, you sure want that bomber dead. I almost feel sorry for the crew." Zola said with a shake of her head. "Guns armed."
"Right," Everett muttered and adjusted their heading to follow the stricken bomber. He dove underneath it and pitched up, allowing them both a clear view of the bombs still hanging from their pylons.
"Firing," Zola said and fired several bursts into the bomb bay. The first few did nothing and Everett was almost prepared to give up the pursuit, but then a few cannon shells scored direct hits on the bombs themselves and that did the trick. They exploded and ripped the Tu-95 to pieces; the shockwave was so powerful that the stall alarms in the Fencer blared for a moment as it streaked past the air where the Tu-95 was previously.
Everett let out a long breath. He felt no enjoyment from killing the last bomber, it was perhaps even overkill, but it had to be done. The explosion itself told him that the bombs were armed and allowing the wreck to crash into RAF Lossiemouth was as good as letting the bomber do its job, if not worse. Still, Everett could not bring himself to celebrate destroying a stricken aircraft. It was like shooting a dying man. "Excalibur Four splash last bogey." He reported after a few seconds of silence.
"You weren't taking the piss," Merrick said to Splinters as he reloaded his rifle. He had dispatched two of the undead with a shot to the head each, an easy task considering that they were almost completely engrossed by the girl - he was certain that she was a girl, dressed in a cloak and armed with a gun in each hand. That was some impressive power she had at her disposal, but things were going to get ugly once she had to reload. Merrick swung the breechblock back into place and moved up to get a clearer view. Undead or not, those things were in the groups way and they needed to be eliminated. Merrick pulled the trigger and another undead's head exploded, its decayed body crumpling to the ground shortly after.
Hearing the rapid fire provided by Splinters' lever-action rifle almost made Merrick wish he had one as well, but one shot from his rifle was all it took to dispel that thought. The Snider-Enfield easily ruined the day of the bullet's intended target and the one or two others behind it. With the bodies of the undead already ravaged by decay, a bullet to the leg easily tore that limb off, slowing them down considerably. Still, there were plenty of the undead converging on the girl, and more were crawling their way out of the graves. Merrick reloaded his rifle, but instead of firing, drew his bayonet and fixed it to his rifle. He was not about to charge into the undead, but he just wanted to be prepared should they get too close.
"Oi!" Merrick shouted to the girl. "Can you make your way to us? We can shoot till tomorrow and these buggers'll still be going for you!"
Hearing the rapid fire provided by Splinters' lever-action rifle almost made Merrick wish he had one as well, but one shot from his rifle was all it took to dispel that thought. The Snider-Enfield easily ruined the day of the bullet's intended target and the one or two others behind it. With the bodies of the undead already ravaged by decay, a bullet to the leg easily tore that limb off, slowing them down considerably. Still, there were plenty of the undead converging on the girl, and more were crawling their way out of the graves. Merrick reloaded his rifle, but instead of firing, drew his bayonet and fixed it to his rifle. He was not about to charge into the undead, but he just wanted to be prepared should they get too close.
"Oi!" Merrick shouted to the girl. "Can you make your way to us? We can shoot till tomorrow and these buggers'll still be going for you!"
Posted. Cleared the bandit off Twelve, so that should get the ball rolling for us to start chasing the bandits instead of them chasing us.
All the jinking, sudden stops and changes of direction were beginning to take their toll on Zola. She was not getting airsick or even uncomfortable, far from it. She simply hated the idea of being forced to run rather than taking the fight to the enemy, though she could see the sense in Everett not attempting the same stunt they had pulled previously when they were being chased by another fighter. It had been a good move, but the Fencer would be an easy kill during the part where they had to reduce their speed. In a one-on-one scenario, as it had been previously, it would have been fine as there was no one else to target them. Here, in the middle of the bombers and their escorts, it would be simply suicide.
Suddenly, in the midst of a sharp, high-G turn, she spotted Excalibur Twelve, still trying to shake the bandit which had latched onto his tail. "Evy, you think we should try bailing Twelve out of trouble?" She asked once they leveled out. "He's to our five o'clock and high. None of us are doing any good just flying around trying not to die. The sooner we get each other's bandits off our tails, the sooner we can get to doing some real work."
"It could work," Everett said and turned sharply to the right, bringing them to a direct course towards Excalibur Twelve. "Excalibur Twelve, this is Excalibur Four. We're on the way. Just do us a favour and splash our bandit once you're clear." He said over the radio and flew in a series of 'S' shapes in order to prevent the bandit on their tail from getting a solid lock while continuing to close the distance with Excalibur Twelve. Everett had no idea whether it was a testament to Twelve's flying skill or a demonstration of the UNWO pilot's lack of skill that Twelve was not shot down yet. The two of them had been playing catching since the early stages of the engagement.
To an outside observer, the entire scene must have looked almost comical - A bandit on Excalibur Twelve's tail, followed by Four on that bandit's tail and a bandit on four's tail. Zola could have laughed at the visualization of that scene were it not obvious to her that one slip up would easily mean their deaths. "R-74s armed and ready to go." She reported, but was unable to get a lock due to Everett's evasive maneuvers. "You've got control of the flares?"
"Yes," Everett replied with a nod. "I can give you maybe ten seconds of level flight before the enemy gets a lock, is that enough?"
"You underestimate me, I'm hurt." Zola said with mock disappointment in her voice, followed by a short laugh. "More than enough, Evy."
Everett grunted in response and leveled their aircraft out, at the same time releasing another load of chaff and flares to buy them some time while the R-74 missiles took their own sweet time to get a lock on the bandit chasing Twelve. "Locked-" Zola began, but was quickly cut off when the enemy fighter released its own flares, lighting up the sky for a split second. "Son of a bitch!" She swore and shook her head. The R-74s began to attempt another lock, but the alarms in the Fencer's cockpit was already going off. Everett fired another load of countermeasures, but it only stopped the alarms for a few split-seconds.
"Zola..." He said in a warning tone.
"I've got this," She replied, her lips in a thin line of determination. The alarms in the Fencer continued to blare.
"Zola, we're going to fucking die if we don't move!" Everett shouted.
"Locked!" Zola reported and pressed the button immediately after. The R-74 missile streaked forward and struck the enemy fighter in the wing. The explosion tore the enemy fighter in two and pieces continued to fall out of its eviscerated fuselage as it fell to the ground below. Everett did not waste any time and pulled the Fencer into a steep climb right after they managed to confirm the kill. The alarms stopped, but the flash of light from a missile streaking past underneath told them just how close they came to being shot down. "Told you I could do it," Zola said and looked to Everett with a smile.
"Don't get too cocky," Everett said curtly. "We've still got someone on our tail."
"Right," Zola said and got on the radio. "Twelve, Excalibur Four just cleared your tail. Mind returning the favour?"
Suddenly, in the midst of a sharp, high-G turn, she spotted Excalibur Twelve, still trying to shake the bandit which had latched onto his tail. "Evy, you think we should try bailing Twelve out of trouble?" She asked once they leveled out. "He's to our five o'clock and high. None of us are doing any good just flying around trying not to die. The sooner we get each other's bandits off our tails, the sooner we can get to doing some real work."
"It could work," Everett said and turned sharply to the right, bringing them to a direct course towards Excalibur Twelve. "Excalibur Twelve, this is Excalibur Four. We're on the way. Just do us a favour and splash our bandit once you're clear." He said over the radio and flew in a series of 'S' shapes in order to prevent the bandit on their tail from getting a solid lock while continuing to close the distance with Excalibur Twelve. Everett had no idea whether it was a testament to Twelve's flying skill or a demonstration of the UNWO pilot's lack of skill that Twelve was not shot down yet. The two of them had been playing catching since the early stages of the engagement.
To an outside observer, the entire scene must have looked almost comical - A bandit on Excalibur Twelve's tail, followed by Four on that bandit's tail and a bandit on four's tail. Zola could have laughed at the visualization of that scene were it not obvious to her that one slip up would easily mean their deaths. "R-74s armed and ready to go." She reported, but was unable to get a lock due to Everett's evasive maneuvers. "You've got control of the flares?"
"Yes," Everett replied with a nod. "I can give you maybe ten seconds of level flight before the enemy gets a lock, is that enough?"
"You underestimate me, I'm hurt." Zola said with mock disappointment in her voice, followed by a short laugh. "More than enough, Evy."
Everett grunted in response and leveled their aircraft out, at the same time releasing another load of chaff and flares to buy them some time while the R-74 missiles took their own sweet time to get a lock on the bandit chasing Twelve. "Locked-" Zola began, but was quickly cut off when the enemy fighter released its own flares, lighting up the sky for a split second. "Son of a bitch!" She swore and shook her head. The R-74s began to attempt another lock, but the alarms in the Fencer's cockpit was already going off. Everett fired another load of countermeasures, but it only stopped the alarms for a few split-seconds.
"Zola..." He said in a warning tone.
"I've got this," She replied, her lips in a thin line of determination. The alarms in the Fencer continued to blare.
"Zola, we're going to fucking die if we don't move!" Everett shouted.
"Locked!" Zola reported and pressed the button immediately after. The R-74 missile streaked forward and struck the enemy fighter in the wing. The explosion tore the enemy fighter in two and pieces continued to fall out of its eviscerated fuselage as it fell to the ground below. Everett did not waste any time and pulled the Fencer into a steep climb right after they managed to confirm the kill. The alarms stopped, but the flash of light from a missile streaking past underneath told them just how close they came to being shot down. "Told you I could do it," Zola said and looked to Everett with a smile.
"Don't get too cocky," Everett said curtly. "We've still got someone on our tail."
"Right," Zola said and got on the radio. "Twelve, Excalibur Four just cleared your tail. Mind returning the favour?"
Zhenya entered the room alongside Wendy just as the man uttered his words. Immediately, the Russian shouldered his rifle and aimed it square at the man's chest, though he was certainly not going to fire. The captain's appearance seemed to only further aggravate the situation, but Wendy put a quick end to it when she pulled off a couple of impressive shots; the first into the man's wrist, and the second into his head. However, any hopes of an end to the mission were quickly dashed when the captain informed the team that the dead man was, in fact, not their target. Zhenya followed the captain as they rushed out of the compound and onto the streets of the surrounding city.
"Ahead," Zhenya said in between breaths, keeping an eye on the Mercedes they were following. It seemed like a fool's errand, to chase a car on foot, and through such a cluttered city, no less, but they had to at least try. Grozny had already been hit, the last thing anyone needed was for one more city to be wiped out by whatever chemical the TIAF were manufacturing and fielding. At the back of his mind, however, Zhenya toyed with the idea of perhaps using the TIAF chemicals to strike at their own homebase. A sort of poetic justice, but Zhenya knew that it could only ever be a fantasy. There was no way the captain and NATO would approve of such an action, and neither would Russia. The Soviet Union, maybe, but definitely not Russia.
Zhenya made a hasty left turn as he followed the vehicle, but soon lost track of it as it blended in among the dozens of cars on the streets. Looking behind him, he noticed much to his dismay that he had been separated from the captain from the confusion. Taking in a deep breath, he assessed the situation and came up with the best course of action. If he could get to high ground, he could at least try to relocate the vehicle by making an educated guess about its path. With that in mind, Zhenya continued following the car's last known path, continuing past the area where had lost sight of it and entering a nearby apartment block. It must have been a strange and terrifying sight for the residents to see a fully armed Russian running up the stairs, and even scarier for the family at the very top floor, whose door Zhenya broke down while yelling for them to remain calm. It worked about as well as he had hoped, meaning to say not at all. The father made a brave show of standing up to the Russian, but a few quick words convinced him to just sit down and wait.
Zhenya walked to the window and looked out at the city below, looking though the scope of his rifle. He spotted many cars of a Mercedes-make, but only one was driving erratically, trying to go around traffic rather than waiting it out like the rest. That had to be the one; no one else would even try to drive like a character out of the Fast and Furious in such an environment. That was the good news. The bad news was that Zhenya had somehow managed to get ahead of the car. Maybe they had taken a few turns, not at all an outlandish idea considering that Scott was probably tailing them in the Humvee. Regardless, Zhenya knew he had to act fast; the insurgents were approaching a crowded junction where they could easily disappear.
"Thank you," Zhenya said tersely to the family as he bolted past them and back down the stairs. He rushed back out onto the streets, working from memory as to which route the car was on. From what he had seen, there were almost no side-streets that were accessible by car, so it had to be driving in a straight line towards the junction. He soon reached the mouth of the junction, or at least one of its mouths. It was about as chaotic as he had imagined. Horns blared all around, people were gesturing wildly and swearing at one another. Still, cars were moving and Zhenya had to put a stop to that. A frozen junction would easily act as a massive roadblock for the target vehicle. "Zhenya to Lima. Target vehicle is en route to junction near city center." He reported over the radio. "I will stop them. Wait."
He ran towards a convoy of trucks, most likely just transiting though the city after delivering supplies to a region undergoing reconstruction. With the length of each truck and the number of them in the convoy, a stop by any of them would easily put a dent in the insurgents' plans. Zhenya dodged and weaved through the traffic, getting sworn at with each car he ran across, but soon he reached the leading truck just as it was about to turn into another road. He ran in front of it and pointed his rifle straight at the driver. "Stop!" Zhenya yelled and held his hand out. As expected, the terrified driver slammed on the brakes. The entire convoy came to a halt, disrupting traffic. Adding to the growing gridlock were the number of motorists who had either stopped or slowed down to see what was going on. "Zhenya to Lima, Junction is now at a standstill."
"Ahead," Zhenya said in between breaths, keeping an eye on the Mercedes they were following. It seemed like a fool's errand, to chase a car on foot, and through such a cluttered city, no less, but they had to at least try. Grozny had already been hit, the last thing anyone needed was for one more city to be wiped out by whatever chemical the TIAF were manufacturing and fielding. At the back of his mind, however, Zhenya toyed with the idea of perhaps using the TIAF chemicals to strike at their own homebase. A sort of poetic justice, but Zhenya knew that it could only ever be a fantasy. There was no way the captain and NATO would approve of such an action, and neither would Russia. The Soviet Union, maybe, but definitely not Russia.
Zhenya made a hasty left turn as he followed the vehicle, but soon lost track of it as it blended in among the dozens of cars on the streets. Looking behind him, he noticed much to his dismay that he had been separated from the captain from the confusion. Taking in a deep breath, he assessed the situation and came up with the best course of action. If he could get to high ground, he could at least try to relocate the vehicle by making an educated guess about its path. With that in mind, Zhenya continued following the car's last known path, continuing past the area where had lost sight of it and entering a nearby apartment block. It must have been a strange and terrifying sight for the residents to see a fully armed Russian running up the stairs, and even scarier for the family at the very top floor, whose door Zhenya broke down while yelling for them to remain calm. It worked about as well as he had hoped, meaning to say not at all. The father made a brave show of standing up to the Russian, but a few quick words convinced him to just sit down and wait.
Zhenya walked to the window and looked out at the city below, looking though the scope of his rifle. He spotted many cars of a Mercedes-make, but only one was driving erratically, trying to go around traffic rather than waiting it out like the rest. That had to be the one; no one else would even try to drive like a character out of the Fast and Furious in such an environment. That was the good news. The bad news was that Zhenya had somehow managed to get ahead of the car. Maybe they had taken a few turns, not at all an outlandish idea considering that Scott was probably tailing them in the Humvee. Regardless, Zhenya knew he had to act fast; the insurgents were approaching a crowded junction where they could easily disappear.
"Thank you," Zhenya said tersely to the family as he bolted past them and back down the stairs. He rushed back out onto the streets, working from memory as to which route the car was on. From what he had seen, there were almost no side-streets that were accessible by car, so it had to be driving in a straight line towards the junction. He soon reached the mouth of the junction, or at least one of its mouths. It was about as chaotic as he had imagined. Horns blared all around, people were gesturing wildly and swearing at one another. Still, cars were moving and Zhenya had to put a stop to that. A frozen junction would easily act as a massive roadblock for the target vehicle. "Zhenya to Lima. Target vehicle is en route to junction near city center." He reported over the radio. "I will stop them. Wait."
He ran towards a convoy of trucks, most likely just transiting though the city after delivering supplies to a region undergoing reconstruction. With the length of each truck and the number of them in the convoy, a stop by any of them would easily put a dent in the insurgents' plans. Zhenya dodged and weaved through the traffic, getting sworn at with each car he ran across, but soon he reached the leading truck just as it was about to turn into another road. He ran in front of it and pointed his rifle straight at the driver. "Stop!" Zhenya yelled and held his hand out. As expected, the terrified driver slammed on the brakes. The entire convoy came to a halt, disrupting traffic. Adding to the growing gridlock were the number of motorists who had either stopped or slowed down to see what was going on. "Zhenya to Lima, Junction is now at a standstill."
Merrick shook his head in disapproval as he listened to Buckle's plan - or lack thereof - to attempt a conversation with the supposed witches. Ignoring the fact that Buckle did not seem to be the best person to negotiate with anyone, there was also the dangers inherent with dealing with anyone accused of being a witch. Even if they were just normal people, they would most likely either be dangerously crazy or pushed so far back into a corner that they would do anything to ensure their survival. The best analogy Merrick could think of was an animal caught in a snare, something which he had experienced several times in the outback of Australia. Even the tamest of critters would suddenly become ferocious monsters when faced with imminent death.
Still feeling slightly skeptical about the paranormal nature of the happenings around the town, Merrick decided against going with Buckle to deal with the witches. Chances were that they were simply Native Americans performing rituals unknown to the people of Paradise, and were thus condemned as witches. Merrick had enough close brushes with natives to know that he threaded a very fine line when dealing with them; all it would take would be one simple mention of his presence at Wounded Knee and negotiations would quickly go downhill. He did, however, feel slightly reassured when he heard that Gavril would be going along with Buckle. The red-eyed man definitely seemed odd to Merrick, but he sounded well-spoken, polite and more importantly, it looked like he knew his stuff.
"Good luck,." Merrick said to the two men with a nod as he followed the rest out of the church to deal with what the sheriff and preacher called 'zombies'. They were probably just vagrants being too aggressive in looking for food, shelter and money, Merrick guessed, but he was willing to be surprised. He had heard of strange rituals in islands and territories to the far south of the Americas which allowed shamans and witch doctors to bring the dead back to life. They were, however, just stories as far as Merrick was concerned.
They did not have to walk far before the crack of a gunshot shattered the night's silence. Immediately, Merrick pulled his rifle off his shoulder and held it at a low-ready. The group continued to advance towards the graveyard; whoever had fired the shot had obviously not aimed it at them, or they were an incredibly poor shot. Not a few seconds later, there was a second shot, then a third and a fourth. By then, it was clear to Merrick that someone was in trouble, and they were directly ahead of the group. "Let me take a look," Merrick said and moved to the front of the group. He had experience fighting in low-light conditions; in the army, nights and dawns were the only times when it was safe for he and the other scouts to do any sort of reconnaissance. Any other time and they would have been picked off by the natives.
He scanned the area ahead of him as he walked, and then he saw the graveyard. Tombstones in various states of disrepair lined the squarish plot of land, but what caught Merrick's eye was the bustle of activity around a particularly large monument. There was a person - a girl, if Merrick's guess was correct - standing on top of it with a crowd clawing just inches from her feet. It did not take a genius to know that the person was in a heap of trouble, and zombies or not, the group was going to act fast if the person was to escape unscathed. "Someone's in trouble!" Merrick shouted out and dropped to a knee, shouldering his rifle.
He opened fire on the first target he saw. The Snider-Enfield kicked hard against his shoulder as the huge .577 shot cleared the muzzle. It flew straight and true, striking his target in the arm. The target staggered from the shot, but then continued moving as though nothing had happened. That certainly came to a surprise to Merrick; the .577 was not known for its killing power, sure, but it definitely inflicted wounds severe enough to stop anyone in their tracks. It easily tore limbs from bodies, and whatever skepticism Merrick had about the paranormal vanished quickly. Anything that walked on two legs and could withstand the might of a Snider-Enfield was most definitely not human.
He unlatched the breechblock and swung it open, pulling it back to extract the shell as he did so. His left hand reached for his cartridge box to grab a new bullet while with his right, he flicked the rifle to the side to discard the used shell. Then, he returned the rifle to his shoulder, loaded a new bullet and closed and locked the breech. He took aim at the same target, but this time, he made sure to aim for the head. Whatever it was, Merrick was almost certain that it would at the very least be severely impeded by the lack of a head. Having fired at moving targets while being on a galloping horse himself, this was almost child's play. He pulled the trigger, the rifle's report echoed through the desert and a split second later, his target's head exploded.
Still feeling slightly skeptical about the paranormal nature of the happenings around the town, Merrick decided against going with Buckle to deal with the witches. Chances were that they were simply Native Americans performing rituals unknown to the people of Paradise, and were thus condemned as witches. Merrick had enough close brushes with natives to know that he threaded a very fine line when dealing with them; all it would take would be one simple mention of his presence at Wounded Knee and negotiations would quickly go downhill. He did, however, feel slightly reassured when he heard that Gavril would be going along with Buckle. The red-eyed man definitely seemed odd to Merrick, but he sounded well-spoken, polite and more importantly, it looked like he knew his stuff.
"Good luck,." Merrick said to the two men with a nod as he followed the rest out of the church to deal with what the sheriff and preacher called 'zombies'. They were probably just vagrants being too aggressive in looking for food, shelter and money, Merrick guessed, but he was willing to be surprised. He had heard of strange rituals in islands and territories to the far south of the Americas which allowed shamans and witch doctors to bring the dead back to life. They were, however, just stories as far as Merrick was concerned.
They did not have to walk far before the crack of a gunshot shattered the night's silence. Immediately, Merrick pulled his rifle off his shoulder and held it at a low-ready. The group continued to advance towards the graveyard; whoever had fired the shot had obviously not aimed it at them, or they were an incredibly poor shot. Not a few seconds later, there was a second shot, then a third and a fourth. By then, it was clear to Merrick that someone was in trouble, and they were directly ahead of the group. "Let me take a look," Merrick said and moved to the front of the group. He had experience fighting in low-light conditions; in the army, nights and dawns were the only times when it was safe for he and the other scouts to do any sort of reconnaissance. Any other time and they would have been picked off by the natives.
He scanned the area ahead of him as he walked, and then he saw the graveyard. Tombstones in various states of disrepair lined the squarish plot of land, but what caught Merrick's eye was the bustle of activity around a particularly large monument. There was a person - a girl, if Merrick's guess was correct - standing on top of it with a crowd clawing just inches from her feet. It did not take a genius to know that the person was in a heap of trouble, and zombies or not, the group was going to act fast if the person was to escape unscathed. "Someone's in trouble!" Merrick shouted out and dropped to a knee, shouldering his rifle.
He opened fire on the first target he saw. The Snider-Enfield kicked hard against his shoulder as the huge .577 shot cleared the muzzle. It flew straight and true, striking his target in the arm. The target staggered from the shot, but then continued moving as though nothing had happened. That certainly came to a surprise to Merrick; the .577 was not known for its killing power, sure, but it definitely inflicted wounds severe enough to stop anyone in their tracks. It easily tore limbs from bodies, and whatever skepticism Merrick had about the paranormal vanished quickly. Anything that walked on two legs and could withstand the might of a Snider-Enfield was most definitely not human.
He unlatched the breechblock and swung it open, pulling it back to extract the shell as he did so. His left hand reached for his cartridge box to grab a new bullet while with his right, he flicked the rifle to the side to discard the used shell. Then, he returned the rifle to his shoulder, loaded a new bullet and closed and locked the breech. He took aim at the same target, but this time, he made sure to aim for the head. Whatever it was, Merrick was almost certain that it would at the very least be severely impeded by the lack of a head. Having fired at moving targets while being on a galloping horse himself, this was almost child's play. He pulled the trigger, the rifle's report echoed through the desert and a split second later, his target's head exploded.
Name: Vesa Svensson Nylund
Alias(es): The Peasant Knight
Title(s): Markgreve (Margrave) of Västergötland
Allegiance(s): The Kingdom of Sweden
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Family:
- Sven Nylund (Father, deceased)
- Vuokko Nylund-Virtanen (Mother, alive)
- Annika Svensdotter Nylund (Younger sister, alive)
Appearance:
- Stands at roughly 1.78 meters tall
- Slender build; slim appearance belies physical strength
- Angular face; looks as if he has constant, minute grin on his face.
- Pale skin
- Chestnut brown hair; cut just short enough to not be a nuisance. Still licks at the collar of his shirt and his ears. Fringe falls just shy of touching his eyebrows.
- Bright blue eyes
Bio: Unlike most nobles, Vesa and his sister do not boast any noble blood in their veins. They do not even claim noble lineage through even two generations, as it was their father who earned the title of Markgreve through blood and steel during the Russo-Swedish war of 1495, when Sweden was still a subject of the Kalmar Union. However, what Vesa and his sister do know is that their father did not allow his accession to the ranks of nobility to inflate his ego. Even while he ruled as Markgreve, he still plied his old trade of a blacksmith and even taught Vesa how to smelt, smith and repair weapons and armour pieces. Their father's insistence on remaining humble was taken to the extreme when he sent both Vesa and Annika to live with his friends within the peasantry of his March for a few months out of every year.
While this made their father out to be an oddity within the Swedish court - or any court around the world, for that matter - it did help to earn the love and adoration of the peasants. They worked harder than most, were willing to do more and were far more dedicated to their Markgreve than any other peasant living any other noble. This proved to be vital when Sweden decided that it wanted independence in late 1521. Although Vesa wished to fight alongside his father, he was only thirteen, and thus considered unfit for combat duty. However, he did contribute in a small way being his father's squire, helping him maintain and equip his armour, as well as sharpening his blades. His father's army proved themselves to be loyal to an almost suicidal extent on the field of battle, with entire companies fighting to the last man simply because they had not been ordered to fall back. Vesa saw all this firsthand, and a small part of him had wished that he had been standing alongside those men.
Eventually, the war ended in 1523, and Sweden became free of the Union in 1524. While the rest of Sweden celebrated, Vesa's family silently grieved. His father had died during the last battle of the war, while he personally led an attack on Kalmar forces in an effort to open up a corridor to allow his trapped men to escape. It was successful, but ultimately cost him his life. Vesa's mother succeeded him as the Margreve of Västergötland at the behest of Vesa himself. At that time, the last thing he wanted to be was a nobleman. He idolized the men who had stood at the front ranks during the Swedish War of Liberation rather than the nobles who stayed far behind or were surrounded by their own bodyguards in the heat of battle. The Swedish court, deciding that letting a child take control of a province in a new country would be a bad idea, agreed on the condition that Vesa take up the mantle of Markgreve when he turned eighteen.
As such, Vesa spent the next few years studying and training in the soldierly arts while his sister acquainted herself with the intricacies of court. By the time he was sixteen, Vesa was adept with the sword and dagger, but it was when firearms were introduced in the form of matchlock muskets did he shine. He proved himself to be a natural marksman, though it appeared his skills were limited to muskets and crossbows. When it came to the bow and arrow, his aim went from excellent to merely acceptable. He also continued his father's tradition of being one with the common folk, and it was not an unusual sight to see Vesa strolling through the villages of his March on his own. However, his heavy focus on martial affairs meant that when it was time for him to be Markgreve, he was woefully unprepared in the political department. The solution proved to be simple, Vesa and his sister would split affairs equally between themselves. Vesa would deal with internal and military matters while Annika would take care of anything relating to the Swedish court.
It was around this time that Vesa earned his moniker 'The Peasant Knight' for his friendliness towards even the lowest ranking soldiers and his humility. In fact, there were even times when visiting nobles would mistake Vesa for a footsoldier, or merely a military commander at best. While it amused Vesa to no end to see the flustered looks on the nobles' faces when he revealed himself as the Markgreve of Västergötland, he supposed there was some truth to their assumption. Vesa spent the bulk of his time training and drilling his soldiers in fighting as a unit. There was always the slight possibility that Denmark might try to force Sweden into becoming part of the Kalmar Union again, and even if they were not going to, there was no harm in merely being prepared.
The death of Henry VIII in England and the crowning of his widow as the Queen of England gave Sweden its first chance to play a role in international affairs. Everyone had heard of the weakening of the Catholic Church's power over England, and Sweden, being a Protestant nation, was keen to see England coming under the sway of the Protestant church. There was no way they could do it militarily, but as coincidence would have it, the Swedes had only recently sent an army into Scania to fight for the Protestant Christian III of Denmark against the Catholic supporters of his cousin, Christian II.
Vesa had been one of the military commanders serving in the Swedish army, and it was decided that he would be sent. To the Swedish court, there was no better person to send to England. There he would be, a Protestant noble fresh from a campaign against Catholic rebels, showing England that English Protestants not only had the backing of Sweden. Of course, there was the added benefit that Vesa's March would not fall into disarray with his absence. Even though he had been the one to be present at the Swedish court, everyone knew that it was his sister who wrote his speeches and influenced his decisions.
That said, as far as Vesa was concerned, he was being sent to England to simply show the world that Sweden was ready to show itself to the world. Whether or not the world was ready for Sweden was entirely up to them.
Personality: While Vesa is a friendly, affable person who has a predisposition towards witty remarks, his lack of social grace often ensures that he is left out of most conversations between nobles. His preference of using what is considered 'less-than-gentlemanly' language and the occasional slips into Finnish often made him a merely tolerated presence in the Swedish court, though few could disagree with the fact that he commanded one of the most well-trained and loyal armies of Sweden. As such, he is often seen as more of a General than an actual noble, and Vesa is quick to capitalize on this. His sister had once attempted to teach him the intricacies of political intrigue, and though she had failed in making him a proper noble, Vesa had picked up enough to know how to listen out for useful information.
Having spent most of his life among peasants, and even living alongside them at times, one of the easiest ways to earn his ire would be to witness a noble mistreating their servant or any peasant, for that matter. While Vesa knows enough about social grace to keep his swords sheathed and his mouth shut when seeing minor grievances, more serious ones would see him challenging the offending noble to a duel at worst, and letting loose a string of Finnish and Swedish expletives at best.
Vesa is also a rather humble person, always more than willing to speak to anyone as an equal, rank be damned. This can also be somewhat attributed to his own relatively low rank, being only roughly on par with a Count, if not just ever-so-slightly higher.
Skills:
- Skilled swordsman
- Good shot with the matchlock musket
- Excellent tactician
- Natural affinity with the lower-class
- Plays the violin
Alias(es): The Peasant Knight
Title(s): Markgreve (Margrave) of Västergötland
Allegiance(s): The Kingdom of Sweden
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Family:
- Sven Nylund (Father, deceased)
- Vuokko Nylund-Virtanen (Mother, alive)
- Annika Svensdotter Nylund (Younger sister, alive)
Appearance:
- Stands at roughly 1.78 meters tall
- Slender build; slim appearance belies physical strength
- Angular face; looks as if he has constant, minute grin on his face.
- Pale skin
- Chestnut brown hair; cut just short enough to not be a nuisance. Still licks at the collar of his shirt and his ears. Fringe falls just shy of touching his eyebrows.
- Bright blue eyes
Bio: Unlike most nobles, Vesa and his sister do not boast any noble blood in their veins. They do not even claim noble lineage through even two generations, as it was their father who earned the title of Markgreve through blood and steel during the Russo-Swedish war of 1495, when Sweden was still a subject of the Kalmar Union. However, what Vesa and his sister do know is that their father did not allow his accession to the ranks of nobility to inflate his ego. Even while he ruled as Markgreve, he still plied his old trade of a blacksmith and even taught Vesa how to smelt, smith and repair weapons and armour pieces. Their father's insistence on remaining humble was taken to the extreme when he sent both Vesa and Annika to live with his friends within the peasantry of his March for a few months out of every year.
While this made their father out to be an oddity within the Swedish court - or any court around the world, for that matter - it did help to earn the love and adoration of the peasants. They worked harder than most, were willing to do more and were far more dedicated to their Markgreve than any other peasant living any other noble. This proved to be vital when Sweden decided that it wanted independence in late 1521. Although Vesa wished to fight alongside his father, he was only thirteen, and thus considered unfit for combat duty. However, he did contribute in a small way being his father's squire, helping him maintain and equip his armour, as well as sharpening his blades. His father's army proved themselves to be loyal to an almost suicidal extent on the field of battle, with entire companies fighting to the last man simply because they had not been ordered to fall back. Vesa saw all this firsthand, and a small part of him had wished that he had been standing alongside those men.
Eventually, the war ended in 1523, and Sweden became free of the Union in 1524. While the rest of Sweden celebrated, Vesa's family silently grieved. His father had died during the last battle of the war, while he personally led an attack on Kalmar forces in an effort to open up a corridor to allow his trapped men to escape. It was successful, but ultimately cost him his life. Vesa's mother succeeded him as the Margreve of Västergötland at the behest of Vesa himself. At that time, the last thing he wanted to be was a nobleman. He idolized the men who had stood at the front ranks during the Swedish War of Liberation rather than the nobles who stayed far behind or were surrounded by their own bodyguards in the heat of battle. The Swedish court, deciding that letting a child take control of a province in a new country would be a bad idea, agreed on the condition that Vesa take up the mantle of Markgreve when he turned eighteen.
As such, Vesa spent the next few years studying and training in the soldierly arts while his sister acquainted herself with the intricacies of court. By the time he was sixteen, Vesa was adept with the sword and dagger, but it was when firearms were introduced in the form of matchlock muskets did he shine. He proved himself to be a natural marksman, though it appeared his skills were limited to muskets and crossbows. When it came to the bow and arrow, his aim went from excellent to merely acceptable. He also continued his father's tradition of being one with the common folk, and it was not an unusual sight to see Vesa strolling through the villages of his March on his own. However, his heavy focus on martial affairs meant that when it was time for him to be Markgreve, he was woefully unprepared in the political department. The solution proved to be simple, Vesa and his sister would split affairs equally between themselves. Vesa would deal with internal and military matters while Annika would take care of anything relating to the Swedish court.
It was around this time that Vesa earned his moniker 'The Peasant Knight' for his friendliness towards even the lowest ranking soldiers and his humility. In fact, there were even times when visiting nobles would mistake Vesa for a footsoldier, or merely a military commander at best. While it amused Vesa to no end to see the flustered looks on the nobles' faces when he revealed himself as the Markgreve of Västergötland, he supposed there was some truth to their assumption. Vesa spent the bulk of his time training and drilling his soldiers in fighting as a unit. There was always the slight possibility that Denmark might try to force Sweden into becoming part of the Kalmar Union again, and even if they were not going to, there was no harm in merely being prepared.
The death of Henry VIII in England and the crowning of his widow as the Queen of England gave Sweden its first chance to play a role in international affairs. Everyone had heard of the weakening of the Catholic Church's power over England, and Sweden, being a Protestant nation, was keen to see England coming under the sway of the Protestant church. There was no way they could do it militarily, but as coincidence would have it, the Swedes had only recently sent an army into Scania to fight for the Protestant Christian III of Denmark against the Catholic supporters of his cousin, Christian II.
Vesa had been one of the military commanders serving in the Swedish army, and it was decided that he would be sent. To the Swedish court, there was no better person to send to England. There he would be, a Protestant noble fresh from a campaign against Catholic rebels, showing England that English Protestants not only had the backing of Sweden. Of course, there was the added benefit that Vesa's March would not fall into disarray with his absence. Even though he had been the one to be present at the Swedish court, everyone knew that it was his sister who wrote his speeches and influenced his decisions.
That said, as far as Vesa was concerned, he was being sent to England to simply show the world that Sweden was ready to show itself to the world. Whether or not the world was ready for Sweden was entirely up to them.
Personality: While Vesa is a friendly, affable person who has a predisposition towards witty remarks, his lack of social grace often ensures that he is left out of most conversations between nobles. His preference of using what is considered 'less-than-gentlemanly' language and the occasional slips into Finnish often made him a merely tolerated presence in the Swedish court, though few could disagree with the fact that he commanded one of the most well-trained and loyal armies of Sweden. As such, he is often seen as more of a General than an actual noble, and Vesa is quick to capitalize on this. His sister had once attempted to teach him the intricacies of political intrigue, and though she had failed in making him a proper noble, Vesa had picked up enough to know how to listen out for useful information.
Having spent most of his life among peasants, and even living alongside them at times, one of the easiest ways to earn his ire would be to witness a noble mistreating their servant or any peasant, for that matter. While Vesa knows enough about social grace to keep his swords sheathed and his mouth shut when seeing minor grievances, more serious ones would see him challenging the offending noble to a duel at worst, and letting loose a string of Finnish and Swedish expletives at best.
Vesa is also a rather humble person, always more than willing to speak to anyone as an equal, rank be damned. This can also be somewhat attributed to his own relatively low rank, being only roughly on par with a Count, if not just ever-so-slightly higher.
Skills:
- Skilled swordsman
- Good shot with the matchlock musket
- Excellent tactician
- Natural affinity with the lower-class
- Plays the violin
"Understood, captain." Zhenya said with a nod, even though he doubted their target would head for the second floor. It made no sense, if he was trying to escape, he was only making things harder for himself by getting to higher ground. Still, orders were orders, even if Zhenya disagreed with them. "We will take the stairs at the front of the house. If he runs to the second floor, he will run straight into us." He said as he moved out of the room, tapping Wendy on the shoulder and gesturing for her to follow as he passed. Zhenya swore that Neil and he had seen a flight of stairs close the front door when they entered and felt a certain sense of validation when he rounded a corner and saw the stairs right in front of him.
"I will take point." He said tersely to Wendy and advanced quickly but carefully to the stairs, aiming down the sights of his rifle as he did so. He stopped right at the foot of the stairs and aimed up at the landing on the second floor. Seeing that it was clear, he walked up at a brisk pace, but kept himself mentally prepared for an enemy surprising him once he reached the top. With no knowledge of the building's layout, they could be walking straight into machine gun's killzone. Zhenya stopped a few steps away from the top of the stairs and stood up straight to catch a glimpse of the second floor. From his quick glance, he saw that it was clear, with a single corridor leading to the right.
"Clear," He said and quickly climbed up the last few steps, turning to the right once he reached the top and advancing down the corridor. There was another right turn up ahead into what he assumed was another corridor. The only sounds of a fight seemed to be coming from downstairs, and that only served to remind Zhenya of the urgency of their task. Hoping that the makers of his ballistic vest knew what they were doing, he rounded the corner without any prior checking, and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was clear of all hostiles. Less pleasant, however, was the sight of several doorways to their left. He counted at least three, and another right turn at the end of the corridor.
"Wendy, clear the rooms. I will cover you." Zhenya said, not taking his eyes off the end of the corridor as he switched his rifle to its automatic fire mode. From what little Zhenya could see of the rooms, they appeared to be quite small; not at all a good place to bring the AN-94, especially since their target could be hiding in one of them. A stray bullet would be all it took to bomb the entire mission, and the AN-94 was incredibly adept at filling the air with them.
"I will take point." He said tersely to Wendy and advanced quickly but carefully to the stairs, aiming down the sights of his rifle as he did so. He stopped right at the foot of the stairs and aimed up at the landing on the second floor. Seeing that it was clear, he walked up at a brisk pace, but kept himself mentally prepared for an enemy surprising him once he reached the top. With no knowledge of the building's layout, they could be walking straight into machine gun's killzone. Zhenya stopped a few steps away from the top of the stairs and stood up straight to catch a glimpse of the second floor. From his quick glance, he saw that it was clear, with a single corridor leading to the right.
"Clear," He said and quickly climbed up the last few steps, turning to the right once he reached the top and advancing down the corridor. There was another right turn up ahead into what he assumed was another corridor. The only sounds of a fight seemed to be coming from downstairs, and that only served to remind Zhenya of the urgency of their task. Hoping that the makers of his ballistic vest knew what they were doing, he rounded the corner without any prior checking, and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was clear of all hostiles. Less pleasant, however, was the sight of several doorways to their left. He counted at least three, and another right turn at the end of the corridor.
"Wendy, clear the rooms. I will cover you." Zhenya said, not taking his eyes off the end of the corridor as he switched his rifle to its automatic fire mode. From what little Zhenya could see of the rooms, they appeared to be quite small; not at all a good place to bring the AN-94, especially since their target could be hiding in one of them. A stray bullet would be all it took to bomb the entire mission, and the AN-94 was incredibly adept at filling the air with them.
We've got a pulse, doctor!
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