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April 27th 2025
Rebel Hideout

Vaquero didn't have all that much weight north of the border either and Arsala was damn sure that Clint Eastwood had nothing to do with it one way or the other, but what the hell. Far be it from her to keep nitpicking. She was more interested in the details of the mission than she was in linguistic niggles for the moment.

"Understood." She said to Jamison, motioning for Zaland to come towards her. "We'll see how it goes."

Khattak wasn't an idiot. She understood the reality of the operation and that there was little room for conduct reviews, but she didn't have to like it. She would do what needed to be done as quickly and cleanly as possible before washing her hands of the whole ordeal, like she had tried to do twenty years ago.

In the meantime she had to kit up. Her P90 was freed from the pile of Pelican cases and made ready, fifty rounds of armor-piercing 5.7 locked home. Spare ammo, grenades, chemlights, all the various bits and pieces she needed were packed into pouches or thrown into a bag as required. Last came the badge, the silver star dulled and scratched from years of wear. It had been stupid bringing it, a moment of weakness resulting in a desperate attempt to clutch onto a good luck charm. She should have left it at home on the nightstand, where her family could find it if she didn't come back.

But it was with her now.

-------------------------
April 27th 2025
Order Compound

If Zaland was bothered by the bumps in the road, he gave no sign of it. The dog was in work mode, scrunched under Arsala's chair with his head between her boots. He was ready for whatever came, his body thrumming with energy. Arsala was much more cool about the situation, sitting motionless until Christopher coasted to a stop.

Showtime.

She flicked her weapon from safe to full-auto and turned on her night vision, the world suddenly lit up in a hideous green. She gave a thumbs-up to their driver as she and her partner piled out, Zaland taking up position alongside her as she crouched next to the others.

"All building entrances we know of are covered by cameras, right?" She whispered to Sohee. "There's one on the side gate, then one on the front door and garage internally. Seems like they'll either see us coming or we'll already be shooting once we make it to the security room. That said, me and Zaland will follow you. Better no one wanders off alone."


















March 13th, 2014
Over Lampedusa, the Mediterranean


Was the enemy ingenious, or was Cobalt just not worth what Malta had paid them? Fuka couldn't say; this was only her first operation after all. That said, she wasn't overly thrilled with how her new career was shaping up. There was no quality control for mercenaries, no Better Business Bureau reports detailing their rankings. You had to judge them based on reputation and price, find the midpoint between quality and affordability. Hopefully these early issues were flukes and not signs that Shattered leaned too close to the latter.

"Good copy, adjusting angle."

The Black Bunny nosed up, rising steadily as Linosa began to shrink against the sea. Lampedusa was little more than a hop away, not even 30 nautical miles judging by how rapidly it grew in her field of view. Fuka leveled out and switched back to the targeting pod, scanning for threats on the ground.

And there were plenty of those.

"Woah, it's busy down there. I'm picking up active radar sweeps, looks like they've got SAMs scattered around. Mark one Herc and two Curls stationary on the tarmac, there's activity in the harbor as well. A couple of ferries with all sorts of military shit, one proper warship and a bunch of little boats too."

She spoke as much for her own benefit as Chevy's, verbally marking off the targets as she captured them on video. The enemy had much more gear than she had expected, and she probably hadn't even seen all of it!

"Scanning again, be advised that there's a radar setup on the hill and a few stationary AAs, got two Fitters and two Mirages parked as well. I've got a clear line at the ro-ro in the harbor, gonna strangle their landing force in its crib."

She had been told not to go looking for trouble, but what was this if not a target of opportunity? That ferry was loaded down with vehicles, ammo, and who knew what else, and more importantly it was the only thing capable of carrying a sizable force. Without it OPFOR would have to rely on a few big, slow transport craft.

The Litening's laser brushed across Lampedusa's surface, stopping on the keel of the ferry. It was close range for a SLAM-ER, close enough that she couldn't miss. The ferry was blown up across her screen, dead center of the crosshairs and locked-on.

"Rifle out."

A tap of a button and the missile was away, a barely visible blur that ended in a gout of fire and smoke. She could almost hear the thud of the warhead, the echo of steel on steel that would go forgotten in the roar of sheer concussion. Waves of sound and pressure rippled across the surface, tearing apart metal and flesh with equal ease. Peacenik was only human; she couldn't process information fast enough to see the process. But she could picture it clear as day, picture it and be grateful that she wasn't on the receiving end.

"Target hit."

Peeling away Fuka could see her handiwork, a gaping hole torn across the stern just starting just above the waterline. It was taking on water fast, a problem compounded by whatever damage had been done to the internals. Fuka didn't allow herself the chance to gloat, already scanning the island for threats. The radar was still searching but had yet to lock, the Black Bunny's low cross-section and iron ball paint buying her time.

Not enough however, as there was finally activity on the ground.

"Bandits are taking off! Moving to engage, trying to catch 'em on the ascent."

@Kensai
March 13th, 2014
Over Linosa, the Mediterranean


The shout came in over the general comms, Fuka instinctively turning her head at the mention of bandits. But the fight was elsewhere, a different flight's problem for the time being. Her trip was still uneventful; unfortunately, there was nothing to do except continue towards the islands and hope that someone down there was dumb enough to tangle with her.

"Good luck everyone."

The well-wishes went unheard, Peacenik's mic not even turned on as she banked towards Linosa. The last thing the others needed was her jabbering in their ears while they were jumping into a dogfight, and it didn't matter if they could hear her anyway. Luck was a nonentity, an ephemeral force that could not be qualified nor counted upon. If it existed it did so impartially, not leaning one way or the other. Fuka's acknowledgment of the stuff was perfunctory, a mere hedging of bets on the off chance she was wrong.

She had her own job to focus on.

"This is Cobalt 8, I've lost al-"
"What the hell was-"
"-Engine is on fire, we're losing pressure!"


This time Fuka didn't bother looking. Indeed, had someone peered into the cockpit the only sign she had heard the distressed squawks was the way her fingers drummed against the console, tapping out a tuneless beat as she refactored the mission in her head. Her first flight with the new team had been plagued by mechanical defects, minor issues piling up until the operation's integrity threatened to crack under the weight. Now they were in too deep to pull away, committed to the charge even as proverbial horses were shot out from under them. Rook, blown to bits it sounded like, a fine mist drifting down onto the convoy below. He was gone too soon for Fuka to feel one way or the other about him. Heartbreak and Kat were alive for the moment but struggling, dead weight plummeting into the Atlantic. They were undoubtedly scrabbbling like rats on a sinking ship, desperately trying to recover before they smashed against the uncaring waves below. They were out of the fight for the moment which left...Valkyrie and Myk.

The mad bomber and the baby face versus an unknown number of enemies-alright. It wasn't Fuka's concern for the moment. She had her own mission to fulfill, and she was too far away to try and play hero anyway. Linosa was visible in the distance, growing larger and larger by the second. Peacenik stabbed at the Hornet's display with a single finger, activating the targeting pod's camera before flicking on her comms.

"Chevy, I'm scanning the ground and I see helicopters parked here and there, attack and transport. Stationary gun emplacements as well; don't see any radar but that doesn't mean it's not there."

The footage suggested a high level of sophistication, or at least higher than she had expected. Helicopters weren't cheap, vintage or otherwise. Having a couple squadrons on hand meant that this group had money, foreign suppliers, or both. And they were definitely professionals. Shattered Steel was supposedly a solid outfit; that's why Fuka had joined them. A group capable of downing one of them and crippling the other wasn't anything to scoff at.

Fuka felt a smile creep across her face, the thought of a fight intriguing her. If there was anyone below who felt the need to scramble up and show her a good time she'd welcome them with open arms.

"I've got this place videotaped for analysis later. Lampedusa is bigger. My guess is there's going to be more activity there."

@Kensai
April 27th 2025
Rebel Hideout

She had raided better-defended places in her police career, but not many. Ten guys with just small arms, fantastic-ten G3s or FALs all locked and loaded and ready to go, with a chance for an appearance by a technical. It was like being back in Afghanistan, doing the sort of stuff she had promised herself that she would never do again. SWAT raids got nasty but gangbangers and sicarios were typically more interested in getting out alive than fighting to the death. People fighting for a higher power or ideal were more motivated, more willing to go out shooting. Was anyone in the Order devoted enough to strap on a bomb vest and dead man's detonator? There was certainly a chance.

Improvising an exit strategy didn't suit Arsala much either. She didn't mind hoofing it (indeed, much of her work in the Recon team back home involved hiking across stretches of border country) but if they got there and found no vehicle ready and waiting to be commandeered, what then? They just hightailed it back to base with the VIP in tow, exchanging shots all the while with gunmen that could very well be giving chase? It sounded like a screw-up in the making, but it was likely the best option they had. If curfew was strict, which it almost undoubtedly was, a running engine would attract curious eyes and, with them, the enemy.

...it really was like being back in Afghanistan. Wandering around some rural backwood with a crew of farang in plate carriers and combat boots, hoping that the locals were more scared than they were willing to make a quick buck by calling in a tip. Hopefully, this operation went better than Enduring Freedom did.

BLUFOR was about what she expected: local yokels with a lot of heart and little training in a shack off the side road, good enough for skirmishing with the Order's fanatics but dead men walking the moment mercenaries or armored vehicles came into play. Arsala greeted them with a nod, resisting the urge to micromanage how they handled her packaged gear. It was too early to start barking commands, until Spearhead demonstrated its value she was nothing more than a guest to be watched suspiciously. So she just fell in line for dinner, Zaland circling her legs excitedly.

She had been taught not to treat her K9 as a pet, and she never did. Zaland wasn't a pet; he was her partner. He slept inside just like a human officer would, watched over the house when Arsala wasn't home, and ate at the same time and in the same place she did, whether at the dinner table or in the field. Arsala's filled bowl went ignored as she sorted out Zaland's meal, a bag of protein-dense feed produced and poured into a bowl for him alongside her belongings. Only once Zaland started scarfing his meal down did she begin to pick at her own, sitting cross-legged across from Megan.

"How're we handling surrenders?" she asked, adding to the barrage of questions. "Are we turning anyone who gives up over to the resistance, or are they being shipped Stateside?"

God she hoped it was the latter. Terrorists didn't always enjoy being the guests of Uncle Sam's penal system, and Arsala couldn't give less of a shit about their comfort, but there were limits. She was a cop after all, and a good one to boot. Turning over a suspect to be dealt with by vengeance-seeking insurgents without some sort of assurance violated her professional and personal code of ethics.

"Either way, it sounds like I'll be going inside instead of staring at you all through a scope a mile away. Better to have the extra hands on the interior, methinks."

The Chilean had a tendency to fill conversations, Arsala noted, watching him bounce from person to person with questions and comments. It was a stark contrast from her own tendencies; she didn't care much for small talk with strangers, but she wouldn't just ice him out.

"You'd be a huaso, no? I've only heard vaquero from Mexicans and Spaniards, didn't think it was used in South America."

She spotted his eyeing of Zaland, her partner in turn watching the Chileno curiously.

"Zaland. He's friendly, but I wouldn't touch him right after he ate. Give him a minute to digest."

With her own meal finished she had begun to make modifications, the Nighthawk holstered at her side pulled free and a strip of rawhide taken from her pocket. She wound the strip tight around the grip safety, permanently engaging it by way of a knot. She liked a high grip on her pistols, high enough that sometimes the safety wouldn't engage. It had happened to her a couple of times at the range, and she made damn sure it wouldn't happen in a firefight.

"I'm surprised to see someone from outside NATO and the major allies, admittedly. But I suppose it's not any stranger than hiring a cop."


March 13th, 2014
Luqa, Malta, the Mediterranean


Freyja was an odd choice for Shattered Steel, and almost certainly a bad seed. Fuka had reviewed Cobalt's personnel records on her way to join them in the Bahamas and while she hadn't had time to hear the scuttlebutt floating around, she wasn't surprised that people didn't like the killer-for-hire. An ex-Air Force jock from a now-particularly insane part of the world who cut her teeth taking jobs for the highest bidder and dropped bombs on people who almost certainly didn't deserve it. If you considered yourself a "moral" mercenary, Valkyrie was a shame to your profession and someone you'd be honor-bound to dislike.

Fuka was nowhere near sentimental enough to get worked up over her comrade's past. The big bad bomber bitch, bane of the N/UN supply train and killer of sailors-so what? You joined a PMC to get shot at by other PMCs, not to enjoy a long, happy life. It took a certain kind of jackass to get mad when a volunteer soldier died in combat. Everyone made choices in life, and sometimes those choices got you sent straight to the bottom of the ocean.

Really, the blame fell on whoever was running cover that day. They had failed to send Valk directly to hell where she probably belonged, the weight of the drowned crew was on their shoulders. It wasn't Fuka's problem. She only needed to know that Freyja was good enough to do her job.

That remained to be seen, but if nothing else she asked good questions. It was nice to know that they wouldn't have to worry about the ships going up in smoke at the first sign of damage.
------
March 13th, 2014
Over the Mediterranean


The Super Hornet buzzed along in formation, a black dot contrasted against the clear blue of the sky. The Black Bunny's paint job gave up visual stealth in exchange for style, a swap Fuka was perfectly willing to make. By the time someone was close enough to spot her, she would already have popped up on sensors and at that point, it would come down to skill, luck, and lock-on speed.

For now things were quiet, the ships chugging along far below. There wasn't anything for her to do except wait for targets to present themselves.

"Cobalt Five, buzzing in. Waiting for vector to target."
I'm game if this is still in the works!
April 25th, 2025
Hotel in Yaoundé, Cameroon

"Do you know when you'll be back?"

Mirwais posed the question genuinely, either forgetting or ignoring that he had asked her at least a dozen times over the past month. He was a smart boy, bright in the unsure way of a teen still figuring out his place in the world. In all likelihood he had known that she couldn't answer him before she had said so the first time, her vagueness on details making it clear that whatever she was doing was not just another trip to Austin. Still he asked, hoping that he'd be wrong and his mother could give him some soothing definite answer.

Arsala could do no such thing. She couldn't tell him where she was going, when she'd be back, if she would make it home in one piece or at all. The only thing she could do for poor Mirwais was smile, sink into her seat on the cheap bed the hotel had provided, and swallow her doubts.

"Soon, I hope. But I don't know. This case I'm working, I don't know all the details yet but it's complicated, complicated enough they're calling for help from all over. It might take a while, but I'll call as often as I can."

"Sounds good."

He was better at hiding his feelings nowadays, but there was no getting past Mom. It was the little things that gave Mirwais away. His inflection, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, hints of discontent that he wouldn't recognize until he himself had children. She could stomach the standard teenager fuck you, I won't do what you tell me! acting out, even if it made her grumble. This genuine loneliness he was giving off, the sense of abandonment that he couldn't hide?

That hurt.

"We'll do video call; that way I can make sure you've been practicing your signing!"

"Okay, if you want to."

Her smile wavered. After a couple of years humping around her homeland and then another two decades as a cop she was pretty good at keeping a game face. Car wrecks, shootings, burn victims, once she saw enough of them they all blurred together. Her only weak point was her children, and Mirwais blowing off the project they had been working on was enough to give her pause. Arsala considered her name prophetic, for what she was if not a lioness taking care of her cubs? But sometimes she had to step away from the pride, and they lacked the context to understand why.

"Well, I know you're supposed to go to Thomas's. I won't keep you. Make sure to call your dad if you need a ride home. Have fun!"

"I will, thanks Mom."

She wanted to keep him longer, tell him all the things she might not get to if the operation went badly. How proud of him she was, how grateful she was for him setting an example for his sister, that she saw him grow and change day by day and year by year into a fine young man. But he valued his space more than her sentimentality, the same way she had valued her own at his age. Arsala resigned herself to sending an email or something later, waving goodbye as she moved to switch off her laptop.

She waved, and instead of reciprocating Mirwais crossed her arms over his chest, holding them tightly just long enough for her to see before pointing at her.

This time her smile stayed strong.

"I love you too."
-----
April 27th 2025
Just inside the border of Taniland

She thought she had left long-haul flights in clapped-out cargo planes behind her when she got discharged but there she sat once more, surrounded by capital-o Operators and enough gear to fight a small proxy war. It was like being in G Squadron all over again, except this time she wasn't a young grunt with something to prove but an experienced officer, the oldest on the team if she wasn't mistaken. She also had more to lose these days and less experience working with people she wasn't familiar with. She knew more about the rest of Spearhead than she knew them personally, with the obvious exception of her partner.

Zaland sat between her knees, the dog panting contentedly as her fingers traced lazy circles between his ears. The other hand was busy with the booklet she had made for herself, combining the information Spearhead had provided on Taniland and pages of notes from her own research. She had started the flight with a nap, the brim of her hat tipped down to shield her eyes, but she could only sleep so much. With shuteye out of the question she felt it was prudent to review as much as she could before touch-down.

The rattle of chunking engines signaled a turbulent landing, Arsala taking hold of her rifle as Zaland made a plaintive whine for attention. The requisitioned MRAD was an exact copy of her own, a condition of her deployment. When asked what weapons she required, Arsala gave them the specs of her personal armory, her favored weapons that she wasn't willing to lug around the world to get banged to hell in a firefight. It was something like twenty-five thousand dollars worth of longarms when factoring in scopes and suppressors, before all the taxes and fees that came with getting licensed to own suppressors and full-auto submachine guns. It had been a ridiculous request, one designed to give her an excuse to turn the op down, but she had forgotten just how quickly the military could spend tax dollars.

She had her guns within days, and now it was time for her to hold up her end of the bargain.

The only weapons on Arsala that were hers to own were her knife and her pistol, custom-made keepsakes that couldn't simply be dragged out of an armory. As loathe as she was to put her own equipment in harm's way she wasn't about to leave those at home. The plane managed to skid to a halt without snapping its landing gear, Arsala standing and stretching as the door was thrown open. She put on her aviators before stepping out, trailed closely by Zaland.

The lady meeting them was a classic spook, an obvious foreigner in business casual attire hanging around the dusty ass-end of nowhere. Khattak had worked her kind before, and quite frankly she hadn't enjoyed the experience.

It was hard not to regret signing up for this thing. There was a reason she had left all that high-speed, low-drag shit behind her to book DUIs and DVs. Shootings happened, and for Arsala they happened more commonly these days, but she liked knowing that pulling the trigger was the last resort, the choice she made when all others were exhausted. Here she'd be expected to shoot in the back, to jump right into the highest level of the use of force continuum. She had signed up for another war.

It was natural for her to feel unsure, but the tension in her gut would either subside or be ignored once the doorkicking began. The Order were a special sort of scumbag, bad enough that they were a military threat and not a law enforcement one. Arsala could compartmentalize for as long as it took to handle it. In the meantime she just tipped her hat at Jamison and loaded her things onto the bus, picking a seat at random so Zaland could clamber into her lap.

The drive, like the flight, was less than comfortable. This part of the world wasn't famous for its infrastructure at the best of times and something told her that the current rulers weren't interested in paying for upkeep.

"What am I supposed to say, no? I'm already out here, might as well get to work."

Arsala snickered as she took her turn with the dossier, committing the details to memory. It was like Afghanistan all over again-the locals weren't going to be clamoring to help a group of heavily armed outsiders without a local headman there to provide bona fides. You needed someone with respect from the community, a warlord or a tribal leader or a politician, and you needed that someone to be willing to work with you.

Pulling Adebayo out of a fire would kickstart a working relationship.

"How many enemies are we expecting in the compound? How many in the village itself? If they've got this place locked down we can expect there to be militia crawling up our ass at the first sign of trouble."
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