Avatar of Starlance

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

”Where are you going, Filhota?” The middle-aged woman with prematurely-graying hair asked, looking up from the day’s issue of New York Ghost.
”To a job interview.” Her daughter replied as an enchanted hair brush finished brushing her hair.
”What kind of job?” Maria continued, the Ghost and its daily drivel forgotten.
”Stable and paying?” Alícia replied in jest.
”Yes, but what kind?” The elder Correia pressed on.
”Don’t know, I think it said something about a pole and stilettos, I wasn’t really paying attention.” The younger one shrugged.
”Alícia!” The older woman exclaimed as if scolding her daughter for avoiding her question, not quite managing to hide the eyeroll and smile.
”It’s an entry-level job at a family venture. They mostly deal in hospitality.” The young woman lied, telling herself she wasn’t lying to her mother. Technically she wasn’t, as if that made it any better.
”Hospitality? Like a hotel?” Three things were certain in life: Death, taxes and the persistence of a bored person’s questioning.
”Not quite. I have to go, I’ll get some Pastel on the way back. Até mais!” She tried to end the conversation on a savory note before transforming into a crow and flying out of an open window.

When Alícia received the instructions about where she was supposed to meet Robert Zucco, her first thought was “Must be one hell of a silencing charm on that place if it’s next to Hell’s Kitchen.” Unfortunately, it turned out to refer to a part of New York, not the famous No-Maj - or Muggle, geographically speaking - chef’s restaurant. What a shame, go her hopes up for a good lunch. The crow circled the nearby blocks a few times before diving into an out of sight alleyway. A crow went in the top, a woman came out the side. Before long the sound of cuban heels against the floor heralded Alícia’s arrival to the speakeasy, still with a bit of time to spare by her count. Tall for her nation’s average, clad in a Slytherin green shirt and black jeans, what the No-Majs would call ‘business casual’, and carrying herself as if she naturally belonged there, and technically she did - she had been instructed to be there after all.

She grabbed the drinks menu and turned around to lean against the bar, ostensibly browsing the drinks selection while surveying the patrons. It took her about a minute to see him: Back of the room, tall and generally matching the description. She set down the menu and headed out, eyes fixed on an empty table a few rows beyond Bobby the entire time before making an abrupt stop by his booth. ”Mr. Zucco?” Alícia asked with a polite smile.

Checking in, char in the works.

Edited to fit the mold.
Outflaw
Fireteam Viking
Solveig Theta Mine, Tasiusaq, southern Greenland
0600 Local Time

She managed to keep her composure initially, but boarding the hovercraft was the straw that broke the hacker’s back. Her breathing grew rapid and strained. Her stomach was desperately crying to get rid of the army eggs and bacon she ate last, but her brain overrode it as her throat didn’t have the bandwidth for that and the amount of air she needed just to stay conscious. The suggestion - Or was it an order? She couldn’t tell. - barely registered before her brain threw it in the bin. ”I can’t. Someone else take it.” She whispered barely loud enough to be heard over the engine’s roar.

She instead reached for the magic laptop. She thought she’d call it ‘Rosetta Stone’ because it allowed her to talk to pretty much any device in range. Connecting it to the hovercraft’s transmitter, which in turn connected to the datalink between the fighters, helicopters and even the supporting ships they launched from, giving her a big brother-esque view of the battlefield. Just like the high rise raid, except with better information. Oh, and the world at stake. Enri took a few seconds to get situated on the map while also taking quick mental notes on how the ships’ and fighters’ systems worked. Because one never knows when that might be useful in the future.

Linking with one of the Lightning IIs equipped with an EW pod - an attachment in the centermount granting the already formidable plane limited offensive EW capability, nicknamed ‘Growler Can’ by pilots and ground crews alike and going for 750 000 USD on the black market - she promptly ignored the fact the pilot was likely swearing up a storm that someone was touching his plane and sunk into the stream of radio communications it was detecting. Sending a request through the datalink to leave several marked AA emplacements alone for a few minutes and setting three separate AIs loose on it, within 30 seconds Enri had the communication protocols figured out and asked the pilot to heat up the jammers.

Within ten seconds, six autonomous AA guns had a small heart attack from the sheer amount of gibberish they began receiving, assumed something had gone wrong with their control center and automatically reset. Because ‘Turn it off and back on again’ worked, even for cutting-edge military gear. And it would’ve worked this time too, had Enri not been ready to send false data with the fighter’s EW pod electronically masquerading as the guns’ control center. As soon as they rebooted, they loaded the altered targeting parameters and all six guns turned around and opened up on any and all units tagged with an Artemis IFF. The men in the control truck likely would’ve easily fixed that issue had they not been one of the first things shredded to ribbons by one of the rogue guns

”Won’t last forever, but the South side has a hole in the defenses.” She noted to Javier, ”Giving it five minutes before they figure out how to shut them down and switch to manual. I’ll see if I can do something sneaky to their comms without physical access.” And with that she zoned out again as she and and her three noncorporeal helpers set their sights on figuring out a way to listen in on Artemis comms. Maybe sneak in some conflicting orders if they could get away with it, depending on where lady luck would be standing.
Boraro
Fireteam Poseidon
10 Nautical Miles west of La Palma, Canary Islands, Spain
0700 Local Time

He was still reading the SDV manual when Vincent called out to him. ”I prefer Europe over Africa. Must be the running water and indoor flushing toilets.” He grinned back at the madman at the stick, poking a bit of fun yet at the same time being completely serious. He understood patriotism, but Africa has been nothing but trouble for his family and could therefore go fuck itself and the horse, donkey or whatever other animal it rode in on as far as he was concerned. Just not in this way.

Whoever does this for a hobby must be fucking mad. That was the thought on Ebrima’s mind as he plunged into the water, cold and dark in the early morning hours. He tried to turn face down and spread his arms and legs as if skydiving to slow his descent, but the personal flotation device stubbornly insisted on keeping him in the upright position, making him sink like a brick. Whoever thought to put handholds on the outside of the SDV was a fucking legend. ”I think the cooler’s leaking, boss, there’s water everywhere.” Ebrima replied to Adam’s ‘VolksWagen Polo’ comment as he worked his way into the driver’s… captain’s seat? Pilot’s seat? What the fuck was he even?

At least being underwater meant the waves weren’t an issue. Two dozen meters below sea level, the water was calm, though the headlights were more wishful thinking than an actual asset. The SDV lurched back and forward for a few seconds - almost like an actual car if someone had trouble launching and kept stalling it - while Ebrima figured out the controls, the submersible struggling with the depth changes a little. ”Someone packed too much luggage. Alright, I think I’ve got it. Everyone holding on?” He waited for everyone to sound off before easing the throttle forward, making an abrupt stop after a minute to figure out the braking distance. Not impressive. Awful, actually, like stepping on a baking sheet. Unaware of the platform’s defenses and sensors, he left the sonar off and drove- sailed- piloted, whatever, by the lights and inertial navigation system.

Pretty much just the INS until one of the platform’s legs appeared out of the inky blackness in the floodlights’ cone some 20 meters ahead. ”We’re coming up on the platform, North-East leg I think.” He said as he stopped the SDV after around fifteen minutes of monotony, the stationary submersible sinking a few meters until it reached equilibrium. ”Dismount here?”
A: "Man, I'm so excited to see the best safe cracker on the East Coast at work."
B: "Right? I can't wait to see what advanced charms he's going to use."
C: "Bombarda Maxima!"
A: "..."
B: "..."
C: "What? Safe's cracked, isn't it?"
I was gonna go with a crow if that works.
I like the idea of starting small and growing.

As for character, I'm toying with the idea of an illegal Animagus just getting into crime to support their family.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet