The Dreadnaughts
@Mr Allen J
Night skies over the ocean, an apprehensive sight with no sign of land over the horizon – and with a new moon, any sign of land would be hard to come by even if your ship was meters away from crashing into an island's reef. In the air, it is a different story. A quarter past the PNR, hovering at least five hundred feet over the dark watery surface; it puts your passengers in a position of vulnerability, and leaves them little choice but to put their faith into their instruments. A pilot seated in the cockpit of his helicopter, its blades chopping away at the wind, and his co-pilot seated next to him checking all of the dials and safety measures, came into view a flickering light in the distance. Like a firefly hovering in the air, and it is this light that acts as the copter's beacon towards a safe landing. The pilot grabbed his radio and pressed it next to his mouth.
“Pilot to passengers: coming into view of target destination. I repeat: we are coming into view of target destination. Estimated time of arrival is fifteen to twenty minutes. Caesar, prepare for landing procedure.”
The older co-pilot next to him nodded and answered, “roger that, Sea Hawk, preparing for procedure now.” He flicked a switch on the control panel and went back to monitoring their status and system integrity.
The passengers in the back numbered four, two of them fully dressed in combat gear, whereas the third was lightly geared and the fourth wasn't geared at all and was instead donning pressed formal attire in the form of black dress pants, a salmon oxford shirt, and a black vest layered over the top. A black tie was neatly tucked behind the vest. The man's natural black hair was combed over, and he was in the middle of buttoning in his cuffs.
The third one who was lightly geared was a young man, and had brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. His smile stretched from ear to ear and was shaking in his seat in anticipation, and he also couldn't stop grinning at the fourth man preening himself. He said aloud over the sound of the helicopter, “why ya acting so fussy Baron?”
The man in the dress clothes looked up at the younger man, and his face bore a sobering professionalism, and quickly made his move to correct him. “This is still a mission, Grit, stay focused.”
Grit widened his eyes and puckered his lips in being reminded of his mistake, and pulled back. “Aha, yeah, that's right. Sorry about that, 'Zombie'.”
Baron nodded and went back to buttoning his cuffs, hard enough to do in the darkness, and one of the two light-bulbs had burned out on the way here. He was seasoned enough, though, he could get through it by feel alone. “Because,” Baron started telling him him, “after we reach the Island of Providence and drop off our belongings, and get the helicopter resupplied, we have a yacht waiting to take us to Isabella Isle in Verthaven where we will be meeting an agent of NEST.”
“Right, the guys who hired us.” Grit answered.
“Yes,” Baron confirmed, “and to make a proper
professional impression, you must be presentable. Most people don't care to admit it, but they place as much value – if not more – into your appearance as they do your words.”
“Hrmm. Do you think I should'a--”
“No, no. You're fine as you are. In fact, it is best that you probably don't even say anything. Just stand there and look menacing.”
There was a moment of silence inbetween buttoning his cuffs, and what Baron was finished, he looked up to see Grit leaning forward with his arm on his knee, and his eyebrow raised with a devilish smirk. It was then that Baron remembered that, even for a sniper, asking Grit to be menacing was like asking the same of a puppy. It was fruitless.
“Just... don't say anything and wear a gun or two.”
“That's more like it.” Grit said, grinning again.
As time went on, the lights grew brighter and came ever closer. The outline of Verthaven's shores and its towering spires came into view, and at the far end of the coast, blurry lights spun slowly and methodically, tell tale signs of a ferris wheel, and of an amusement park in the city. Baron thought that coming in, you would think that this fabulous of a city what have a more rigid police department to maintain law and order. It isn't much of a vacationing spot if all of your tourists get robbed, drugged, or murdered here. And the number of gangs that they learned about in the report back at base? It was unreal how out of attunement the power structure was. The mayor might as well ordain upon the largest crime ring control of the city if he wasn't going to do anything about it.
How out of hand must it have gotten before that NEST had to get involved? That NEST couldn't handle it itself, and had to hire the Dreadnaughts? Baron was aware that his organization was a top of the line special ops and took jobs even from actual nations. They excelled at what they did and were confident in their skills. However, there was some sense of trepidation in him. NEST specialized in the capturing and termination of meta-humans and this was new territory to them. How bad must it be that they need assistance? On the kind of scale that a call to the Dreadnaughts would warrant? He wanted to know if he was sent on a suicide mission in over his head. The goal seemed simple: eliminate key targets and everything should take care of itself.
“Co-pilot to passengers, we are above the pad and are ready to begin landing.”
'It might be true for governments, businesses and armies, but it might not be so simple with gangs. Then again, if they're led by fear...'“Hey, hey! Come on, Zombie, didn't you hear Caesar?” Grit said. “We're here! Let's get ready! Sheesh, no wonder we call you zombie.”
“I heard...” Baron replied dryly, completely unimpressed with Grit's tone. Baron didn't have much to pack, and with his leg, he wouldn't have to be the one to carry his stuff if he had. Most of their supplies were already shipped here before their dispatch. He grabbed a vintage suitcase and wheeled luggage, and he was ready as easy as that.
The blades of the helicopter chopped the air, but the sound of the motors and the engine was beginning to roar a little quieter and the blades sounded to wane. The helicopter had suddenly come to an abrupt halt, the whole contraption jerking forward and the back of the skids slammed onto the pad, violently shaking the passengers in the back. Baron looked around, alarmed, but holding firmly onto a handle near the opening. Grit came much closer to falling out, but kept his balance and braced himself against the walls. Immediately following the rough landing, sounds of yelling erupted up front by the pilot seat. It was undoubtedly Caesar, their co-pilot. There's little that can pacify Isaiah Washe, their current squad leader. And with how loud he was, it wasn't hard to make out what he was saying.
“
God damn it! Never in all of my
fucking years have I seen such a
piss-poor,
sloppy-ass landing like that! Just what the
fuck was that supposed to be?
We're the fucking Dreadnaughts! We're
supposed to be the best and here's
your pansy ass trying to fucking
kill us with your landing before
we even have time to get
ourselves killed
out there, because of what would
probably be another one of your fuck ups! Get out of that pilot seat!”
All four passengers in the back, even the two escorts, just looked at each other with a look of both amusement and trouble. It didn't take long to wait for everyone to climb out and retrieve everything they need. There were already valets waiting for them outside to take their stuff to their rooms. Washe climbed out, still red in the face and steaming, grumbling to himself as he walked stepped beside Baron and Grit. “I can't believe it. Smooth flying the whole ride here, but no, he fucks up at the last possible--”
“Wow!” Grit interrupts. “Look at this place! This is incredible! This is some luxury resort stuff right here, alright.”
The resort was tall, at least fifty stories high, and bore large window panels that suggests one whole side of the room lends a gorgeous view. There wasn't much to tell from the outside, but the concrete it was built from was sculpted into the design of Roman architecture, and tall bushes and palm trees lined the property. Brick pathways led to every part of the resort.
“Why, I ought ta...” Washe grumbles as he glares at Grit who is none the wiser.
Baron just smiled. “All provided and paid for by HQ. You like that?”
“Let's check it out.” Grit proposed.
“No,” Baron answered, “not yet. We have the valets here to take our stuff to our room. Remember what I said earlier about how we must head straight to the NEST building. We must rendezvous on time.”
“Chop, chop!” Washe barked as he clapped his hands together, ushering the valets to get to work. With a wave of us hand, he beckoned the other two to follow as he made his way to the Providence docks where a small yacht was tied to port.
“That's not all.” He stated flatly. “Just remember that the organization itself hired us. The chairman, the board of directors – some of their agents might know that we're coming, but don't count on it. Honestly, it's a real fucking dick move on their part. Just don't be surprised if some bitch-ass grunt gets uppity and doesn't know who we are.”
Grit, falling behind just slightly to retrieve the rest of his gear, ran to catch back up with them. A massive revolver, a Magnum Research BFR, rested in a holster by his hip. On his back was the rifle that earned him his legacy! Sure, he probably didn't need it tonight. By he also had to show these NEST chumps what Danny Grit was all about. NEST might have a bunch of freaks in their ranks, but Danny Grit was all skill, baby! He doesn't need any supernatural powers to make him the best. It was destiny.
Climbing up the steps to step onto the boat, Washe turned around and faced the two. “Alright, first things first. Grit! We've got some rules we need to--”
“Yeah, let me guess, no talking? Zombie already said.”
Washe looked at Baron inquisitively, who simply nodded in response as he smacked the bottom of his cigarette pack. Washe rolled his eyes and shot them back at Grit. “Good, then don't make me reiterate. Try practicing on our way there.”
“Aw, but there are so many things to talk about! Like all of the city! Man, the things we could do when we're done!”
“GRIT!”“Okay, okay...”
Everyone climbed on board the yacht and got themselves situated. The ferryman untied the boat from the pier and soon they took off across the bay. They were still a fair distance away and it would take some time for them to reach NEST docks, but that still gave them some time to think about the mission they were assigned and strategist. Washe in particular was engrossed in what their steps would be in taking out their targets. The Fiends shed a bloodbath a little while ago. That is what the report said. So the Fiends were easily the most volatile of the gangs in Verthaven, which meant that if they were to maintain a predictable situation in the city, they had to dismantle that gang. Even if they weren't the most powerful, they were key for the Dreadnaughts keeping control of their own next move. There can't be any change of plans, lest they're constantly in flux and overwhelmed. He can receive further briefing from NEST later.
“Alright, let's get this fucking show underway. I'm tired of sitting on my ass all day.” Washe barked. He marched his way across deck and onto the NEST pier. Grit was still sitting at a table buckled over and feeling sea-sick. Baron was setting a calming hand on the young sniper's shoulder as he tried to get him moving. Washe took a deep breathe and set his hands at his hips, staring up and down at the NEST agents who stood posted at the pier. He had to give them one thing: they were at least taught how to keep a good posture. These guys were standing stiff and rigid, barely moving other than to turn their heads and look around. It was clear by the look on their faces that these two weren't expecting them to be here tonight. However, since they were given clearance, they assumed that the three strangers were VIPs and made sure to keep himself even more upright. Washe snorted. Despite their discipline, he still wasn't impressed. Not even the massive NEST building was as impressive as HQ back in Finland. Well, it was impressive in its own way. The layed it flat across the ground and made a sky-scraper in the middle. Washe had half a mind to finger the architect who designed this place and leave a new design of a sledgehammer on his face.
Baron went carefully down the steps and hobbled over beside Washe, with his leg brace clicking along the way. He breathed out one steady stream of smoke and extinguished his cigarette, rubbing out the ash, and held it in his fingers until he came across a trash can. Grit staggered off the yacht and struggled to recompose himself. He was just glad he was finally back on land.
“Ugh... I like big ships, you know? Doesn't have nearly as much sway and bounce. Have I ever told you about the time I was on the USS Nimitz?”
“Grit, we're practically outside their doors. Compose yourself.” Baron urged.
“You went on the Nimitz?” Asked one of the NEST guards, who was almost instantly snapped at by Washe.
“Don't you fucking encourage him! Mind your own business while you're at it!”
“Let's just go, Caesar.” Baron assuaged.
“Bah, fine. Keep it down, Grit!”
“Aye, aye...”
Washe led the squad up the stairs (much to Baron's chagrin, who got to the top last) and held the door open for Baron to proceed first. As much as he hated to admit it, Baron was better suited for this. His expertise with people dwarfed anyone that Washe had ever met, which made the psychologist the ideal agent for interacting with their contacts.
“What's the woman's name at the desk, sir?” Baron asked one of the guards.
The guard, apparently confused, just answered “Agent Lihua Vuhong.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Just as Baron stepped through the doors, he heard a peculiar sound. Like an alarm of some sort, but incredibly out of the ordinary. It was deep and resonant, filled with static. He looked over to see a scanner of some type. Was it his brace? His concealed firearms? No, no. Washe and Grit followed suit and did not trigger the same alarm he had. Did it... ah, did it have to do with his... quote, unquote, power? The specialist he visited told him he wasn't a true meta-human due to the composition of his energy. Did the scanner have a negative response?
Regardless, he approached the desk where a woman had seated herself. The name... ah, yes. Sure, he had only just asked someone, but it still makes the Dreadnaughts look better when people are put under the impression that Baron already knows their name.
“Hello, you are agent Vuhong, am I correct?” Baron greeted with a tranquil smile. “My colleagues and I are here on behalf of the Dreadnaughts, as requested by the head of your agency.”
"Hi ma'am! How're you doin' this fine evenin'?" Grit beamed with his grin stretching from ear to ear. Washe began to growl under his breathe and buried his face into his hand. His skin was already becoming flushed. Baron's face only yielded that uncomfortable "that wasn't supposed to happen" look, then flashing the agent a look of sympathy.
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