<![CDATA[The First Age

<![CDATA[The First Age - Africa]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Mon, 25 May 2026 07:03:49 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[On The Move]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1643.html Thu, 12 Sep 2024 11:39:59 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1643.html "AHHHHHH"

Giovanni screamed in anger, swiping his desk clean in the process. A clay pot on his desk shattered on the floor. Things were not going as expected. No matter what, Al-Janyar wasn't making any headway. At the very least, they weren't giving any ground in the process. Giovanni paced the room, the weight of the Eye of Horus the only thing that kept him from lashing out further. It did something. Giovanni was sure of that. Still he couldn't figure out how to work it.

"My Lord?" Aaliayah's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"This is my birthright. All of this. It's all there. Why can't I take it!"

Aaliyah frowned. The passing of time had made her more wary of her leader. She had joined him because he had taken Ibrahim out of the picture. An alliance with the new Al-Janyar leader was more to raise her own station than anything else. Yet she wondered if this man was sane enough to actually move Al-Janyar forward. Still - Giovanni was powerful and betrayal wouldn't be met well. She would bide him time. So for now, she was the only one who saw him like this. In fact, she was the only one who knew he was calling the shots. To the rest of the world - the Al-Janyar leader was a phantom.

"This is your doing," he said, pointing a finger at her. His pacing intensified. "You're supposed to be my prophetess. Why isn't it working?"

"My Lord, the world is in chaos everywhere. Spreading your message alone is difficult. I need acolytes."

Giovanni growled. This would reveal his identity to more.

"My Lord?" Aaliyah asked again, wondering what she should do.

Giovanni's pacing stooped. "Chaos, huh." he said, a smirk hitting his face. "Perhaps if diplomacy is doing little, maybe we should try something else. It's time."]]> "AHHHHHH"

Giovanni screamed in anger, swiping his desk clean in the process. A clay pot on his desk shattered on the floor. Things were not going as expected. No matter what, Al-Janyar wasn't making any headway. At the very least, they weren't giving any ground in the process. Giovanni paced the room, the weight of the Eye of Horus the only thing that kept him from lashing out further. It did something. Giovanni was sure of that. Still he couldn't figure out how to work it.

"My Lord?" Aaliayah's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"This is my birthright. All of this. It's all there. Why can't I take it!"

Aaliyah frowned. The passing of time had made her more wary of her leader. She had joined him because he had taken Ibrahim out of the picture. An alliance with the new Al-Janyar leader was more to raise her own station than anything else. Yet she wondered if this man was sane enough to actually move Al-Janyar forward. Still - Giovanni was powerful and betrayal wouldn't be met well. She would bide him time. So for now, she was the only one who saw him like this. In fact, she was the only one who knew he was calling the shots. To the rest of the world - the Al-Janyar leader was a phantom.

"This is your doing," he said, pointing a finger at her. His pacing intensified. "You're supposed to be my prophetess. Why isn't it working?"

"My Lord, the world is in chaos everywhere. Spreading your message alone is difficult. I need acolytes."

Giovanni growled. This would reveal his identity to more.

"My Lord?" Aaliyah asked again, wondering what she should do.

Giovanni's pacing stooped. "Chaos, huh." he said, a smirk hitting his face. "Perhaps if diplomacy is doing little, maybe we should try something else. It's time."]]> <![CDATA[A Call]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1188.html Sun, 26 Jan 2020 23:32:46 +0000 Idris]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1188.html "We need to go or we'll miss the train." He returned to the living room of his small house, now crowded with bodies. It was the two of them, along with Ibrahim and Rohama. And one more, a girl of maybe 15, Maryam.

Maryam- his heart jumped whenever he heard his mother's name, seeing her sign her love for him every single night- had been in the war lord's camp, one of girls he'd held captive. Not for the usual reasons, though. No, she was also g'brim, used by him to control the others. The girl had fought as best she could but the beast had controlled her. Power is no match for cunning, blackmail, and mental abuse.

While Anbessa and Ibrahim had subdued his forces, Sessie had sent word to the local authorities. Another g'brim tried to engage him but had been inexperienced. The man likely thought this would be a simple fight against men weaker than him. Anbessa, though, had trained for this for 5 years with Ibrahim. He had fought men who channeled before. The man and those with him had been forced to flee.

It was Rohama that reached the girl, somehow getting through to her. He did not pry but he suspected that Rohama was speaking from experience. Not just her grandmother's, he guessed. Whatever the case, when local and state forces came to gather up the boys and those loyal to their now dead leader, Bessie and his companions had disappeared into the night. Her family was dead and she had been taken from a village far away. They had only meant to teach her enough to be safe and then help her get home.

Between Sessie and Rohama, that didn't happen. And little by little, she became part of their family.

Anbessa did his best to teach and provide while the women gave the real help- comfort and training, a listening ear and a motherly embrace.

In the meantime, the Legion had arrived at the orders of The Ascendancy. Eritrea was not part of the CCD. But the entire Horn of Africa was on fire- a humanitarian crisis, given the warlords and Al Janyar. He gave credit where credit was due. Between the locals and the Legion, eventually they were pushed back north. Eritrea and Djubouti were free for the first time in years.

And while their work continued now that the crisis had abated, their was a sense of relief in the air. Even a sense of peace. Sometimes people just needed a little help to see that they had strength. He knew this. Even before the Legion had appeared, their work as G'brim Qdus had inspired many to fight back.

They had settled down into something resembling normalcy when the call to Axum had come. He couldn't help the worry in his stomach. The Negus Mena's calls had always meant something would change. And he was happy at how things were right now. He wanted no more change.

Still, a call was a call. But Sessie would be with him. Whatever it was, she would be by his side.

@"Thalia"]]> "We need to go or we'll miss the train." He returned to the living room of his small house, now crowded with bodies. It was the two of them, along with Ibrahim and Rohama. And one more, a girl of maybe 15, Maryam.

Maryam- his heart jumped whenever he heard his mother's name, seeing her sign her love for him every single night- had been in the war lord's camp, one of girls he'd held captive. Not for the usual reasons, though. No, she was also g'brim, used by him to control the others. The girl had fought as best she could but the beast had controlled her. Power is no match for cunning, blackmail, and mental abuse.

While Anbessa and Ibrahim had subdued his forces, Sessie had sent word to the local authorities. Another g'brim tried to engage him but had been inexperienced. The man likely thought this would be a simple fight against men weaker than him. Anbessa, though, had trained for this for 5 years with Ibrahim. He had fought men who channeled before. The man and those with him had been forced to flee.

It was Rohama that reached the girl, somehow getting through to her. He did not pry but he suspected that Rohama was speaking from experience. Not just her grandmother's, he guessed. Whatever the case, when local and state forces came to gather up the boys and those loyal to their now dead leader, Bessie and his companions had disappeared into the night. Her family was dead and she had been taken from a village far away. They had only meant to teach her enough to be safe and then help her get home.

Between Sessie and Rohama, that didn't happen. And little by little, she became part of their family.

Anbessa did his best to teach and provide while the women gave the real help- comfort and training, a listening ear and a motherly embrace.

In the meantime, the Legion had arrived at the orders of The Ascendancy. Eritrea was not part of the CCD. But the entire Horn of Africa was on fire- a humanitarian crisis, given the warlords and Al Janyar. He gave credit where credit was due. Between the locals and the Legion, eventually they were pushed back north. Eritrea and Djubouti were free for the first time in years.

And while their work continued now that the crisis had abated, their was a sense of relief in the air. Even a sense of peace. Sometimes people just needed a little help to see that they had strength. He knew this. Even before the Legion had appeared, their work as G'brim Qdus had inspired many to fight back.

They had settled down into something resembling normalcy when the call to Axum had come. He couldn't help the worry in his stomach. The Negus Mena's calls had always meant something would change. And he was happy at how things were right now. He wanted no more change.

Still, a call was a call. But Sessie would be with him. Whatever it was, she would be by his side.

@"Thalia"]]> <![CDATA[New Allies In An Old War]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-964.html Thu, 09 Aug 2018 21:09:40 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-964.html Aaliyah Zevros

[Image: 8dbbed0b5e9747bcf445f7a20f7de317.jpg]

Aaliyah moved quickly to get things ready for her recruitment. News had reached her ears of some former shamans and other channelers that had reason to be disgruntled. It didn't take Aaliyah long to get ready. She was used to being on the move. The news came from Ethiopia, just south of Sudan. The goal was to get their and recruit some of these shamen. Giovanni was beginning to build his army.

Aaliyah had the captain assemble the troops they had. Some would be joining her. She wasn't aware if Giovanni himself was going to go. At this point he seemed intent on staying here, but he had a tendency to just sort of do things when he felt like it. The troops were assembled and Aaliyah addressed them.

"Our mission is taking us to Ethiopia. We have a few targets that we are going to rescue. Again, we are rescuing them, and they are not to be mistreated. Those holding them, or others attempting to take them are fair game for you. Do as you will with them, but get the targets out. This is the will of the Master. Do I make myself clear?"

The group spoke in the affirmative. They knew that this branch of Al Janyar was under new management. Truth be told, the group knew little of their leader, except that he spoke through Aaliyah. Most of them were happy that they had actually started doing something instead of lying around as they had under Ibrahim.

"Good, get prepared to leave. We head out at 10:00 hours."

The Captain dismissed the group and Aaliyah turned to check in with Giovanni. He would want to know that they were leaving soon.

She found him in the room he had claimed in his office, a scrap of paper was in his hand. It was the one he had seen before with the archaeologist. It was called the Eye of Horus, if she remembered correctly. Aaliyah waited until he acknowledged her before speaking.

"Things are getting moving. We'll be off in a couple of hours."

"Good, and good luck."

Aaliyah paused as she noticed Giovanni looking once more at the paper. "What is it?"

Giovanni put the paper down and brought a hand to his face in thought. "It's this symbol. It means something - more...I'm sure of it." He met her gaze. "Go. I may join you in a few days - keep that between us."

"As you command," she said turning to exit the room.

If she would have turned she would have noticed Giovanni once again staring at the Eye of Horus, stand and look out the window towards the archaeological dig site.

]]> Aaliyah Zevros

"Good, get prepared to leave. We head out at 10:00 hours."

The Captain dismissed the group and Aaliyah turned to check in with Giovanni. He would want to know that they were leaving soon.

"Things are getting moving. We'll be off in a couple of hours."

"Good, and good luck."

Aaliyah paused as she noticed Giovanni looking once more at the paper. "What is it?"

"As you command," she said turning to exit the room.

If she would have turned she would have noticed Giovanni once again staring at the Eye of Horus, stand and look out the window towards the archaeological dig site.

]]> <![CDATA[No Quarter, Out of Order.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-835.html Sun, 28 Jan 2018 22:15:00 +0000 Nika Raskov]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-835.html January 2, 2046. El Borj, Morocco.

She’d been flown in from Barcelona first via a sleek Gulfstream XLT8950 not at all out of place in the Catalan’s posh playboy airport and then deployed midair aboard a Personal Evasive Warfare Pod. Which was a less dignified means for travel.

The P.E.W.P. deployment device was developed by the Americans as a top secret infiltration method for their SEAL teams back in 2025. After only two years of service the method was scrapped, due largely to an unintended consequence involving the vibrations created from subsonic deployment upon the human excretory system. SEALs called it the poop device.

The castaways were then reported decommissioned and destroyed but the designs were snatched up by none other than Sir Elon Musk. A decade further of development, redesigns, design merges and testing by SpaceX saw the initially cumbersome pod evolve into what was essentially; a human glider. No one was really sure how that happened. It turned out to be mostly useless though as one British test pilot described operating the suit akin to, “trying to crab about on all fours atop a ball of ice in the middle of the ocean.” Still the name stuck, even if the project was scrapped and Musk gifted the surplus in utter secrecy to his friend, the Pope.

PEWP was then pushed about and shuffled around until finding a home aboard jump craft, for training, although the jumpmasters used it solely to threaten the unruly. Having never seen the system successfully tested, it devolved into a mostly harmless game to gauge machismo. The idea was to see if you could use the suit to land, without deploying your parachute. This was always a failure simply because of the change in aerodynamics from not wearing the parachute model the suit was designed with initially. No one had bothered to read the instructions though to change the fin configurations to match.

Nika was fifteen the first time she deployed in one, or rather, was thrown from a Lockheed Martin MC-230J by a cantankerous Irish jump instructor. Ground control, not having registered a chute deployment, were well into grilling the priest about the accident when the deceased showed back up on the tarmac. The teenager strolled past the group stating she’d missed the landing zone and wanted to try again. Nika later admitted to Father O’Roark that she’d hit the landing zone but her knees had been shaking so badly it had taken her twenty minutes to calm down behind the jump shed. Mainly because during their heated argument on the plane, Nika had forgotten to put her parachute back on.

O’Roark credits shock to consenting to her jumping again and the third time (depending on who was counting), he asked if she was mad. The girl grinned at that and responded pointedly, she was in fact utterly terrified before cannonballing off the rear ramp. Jump four was the closest she came to an untimely demise but by the fifth jump (a month later) she had an ace up her sleeve.

Since stability seemed to be the main obstacle in deployment, Nika had the idea to wear the protective base layer she used under her racing leathers. Safety systems for riders had evolved through the years from mere surface protection and padding to airbags and finally to something the media had immediately dubbed, ‘the stiffie suit,’ and later, ‘tumbleweed.’

Riders just called them jammies and started an unofficial, if fierce, contest to see whose prints were the most ridiculous and outlandish. Cartoon bunnies, red hearts and naked cherub aside, the technical composition became a baselayer of transgenic engineered spider silk reinforced with a carbon nanotube exoskeleton. It was thin, pliable and light enough to wear under racing leathers yet designed to become rigid in the event of a crash via a small electrical charge. The onesie was so nondescript in appearance that Nika stole her first from Ducati after swapping it with a thin wetsuit. They were prohibitively expensive and at 15, she was not yet a millionaire.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe it was the respect in O’Roark’s eyes but Nika never told the priest how she was able to control the flight system. She’d never heard of anyone else using it successfully, nor could she imagine briefing people with a straight face.

...the proper deployment of your PEWP… No.

Almost a decade had passed, a couple of hacked market upgrades and some open source coding later had the assassin happy with her PEWP suit.

Currently she had developed programs to stabilize the freefall enough to pick off ground threats with her rifle d'sniper or simply scout the terrain from above without having to deploy microdrones. Those little buggers were expensive!

Scouting the area via freefall, the FLIR filters of her Heads Up Display pinpointed the Atharim hunter team’s positions at her target landing zone as well as the ambient temperature, altitude, rate of fall, etc. She’d synced a throatmic into the neck of her jammies and microwired the connections after a mishap with bluetooth connectivity last year nearly got her killed. It was via the throatmic she issued commands to her computers' systems. Can’t have that go down again. There was a touch interface on her arm too but her hands were otherwise occupied. And sure, there were ways to beat thermal imaging and things that didn’t show up but a cycle through movement sensors left her reasonably satisfied nothing nasty was lurking. If it was? Well, Geronimo!

Edited by Nika Raskov, Jan 29 2018, 04:06 AM.]]> January 2, 2046. El Borj, Morocco.

She’d been flown in from Barcelona first via a sleek Gulfstream XLT8950 not at all out of place in the Catalan’s posh playboy airport and then deployed midair aboard a Personal Evasive Warfare Pod. Which was a less dignified means for travel.

The P.E.W.P. deployment device was developed by the Americans as a top secret infiltration method for their SEAL teams back in 2025. After only two years of service the method was scrapped, due largely to an unintended consequence involving the vibrations created from subsonic deployment upon the human excretory system. SEALs called it the poop device.

The castaways were then reported decommissioned and destroyed but the designs were snatched up by none other than Sir Elon Musk. A decade further of development, redesigns, design merges and testing by SpaceX saw the initially cumbersome pod evolve into what was essentially; a human glider. No one was really sure how that happened. It turned out to be mostly useless though as one British test pilot described operating the suit akin to, “trying to crab about on all fours atop a ball of ice in the middle of the ocean.” Still the name stuck, even if the project was scrapped and Musk gifted the surplus in utter secrecy to his friend, the Pope.

PEWP was then pushed about and shuffled around until finding a home aboard jump craft, for training, although the jumpmasters used it solely to threaten the unruly. Having never seen the system successfully tested, it devolved into a mostly harmless game to gauge machismo. The idea was to see if you could use the suit to land, without deploying your parachute. This was always a failure simply because of the change in aerodynamics from not wearing the parachute model the suit was designed with initially. No one had bothered to read the instructions though to change the fin configurations to match.

Nika was fifteen the first time she deployed in one, or rather, was thrown from a Lockheed Martin MC-230J by a cantankerous Irish jump instructor. Ground control, not having registered a chute deployment, were well into grilling the priest about the accident when the deceased showed back up on the tarmac. The teenager strolled past the group stating she’d missed the landing zone and wanted to try again. Nika later admitted to Father O’Roark that she’d hit the landing zone but her knees had been shaking so badly it had taken her twenty minutes to calm down behind the jump shed. Mainly because during their heated argument on the plane, Nika had forgotten to put her parachute back on.

O’Roark credits shock to consenting to her jumping again and the third time (depending on who was counting), he asked if she was mad. The girl grinned at that and responded pointedly, she was in fact utterly terrified before cannonballing off the rear ramp. Jump four was the closest she came to an untimely demise but by the fifth jump (a month later) she had an ace up her sleeve.

Since stability seemed to be the main obstacle in deployment, Nika had the idea to wear the protective base layer she used under her racing leathers. Safety systems for riders had evolved through the years from mere surface protection and padding to airbags and finally to something the media had immediately dubbed, ‘the stiffie suit,’ and later, ‘tumbleweed.’

Riders just called them jammies and started an unofficial, if fierce, contest to see whose prints were the most ridiculous and outlandish. Cartoon bunnies, red hearts and naked cherub aside, the technical composition became a baselayer of transgenic engineered spider silk reinforced with a carbon nanotube exoskeleton. It was thin, pliable and light enough to wear under racing leathers yet designed to become rigid in the event of a crash via a small electrical charge. The onesie was so nondescript in appearance that Nika stole her first from Ducati after swapping it with a thin wetsuit. They were prohibitively expensive and at 15, she was not yet a millionaire.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, or maybe it was the respect in O’Roark’s eyes but Nika never told the priest how she was able to control the flight system. She’d never heard of anyone else using it successfully, nor could she imagine briefing people with a straight face.

...the proper deployment of your PEWP… No.

Almost a decade had passed, a couple of hacked market upgrades and some open source coding later had the assassin happy with her PEWP suit.

Currently she had developed programs to stabilize the freefall enough to pick off ground threats with her rifle d'sniper or simply scout the terrain from above without having to deploy microdrones. Those little buggers were expensive!

Scouting the area via freefall, the FLIR filters of her Heads Up Display pinpointed the Atharim hunter team’s positions at her target landing zone as well as the ambient temperature, altitude, rate of fall, etc. She’d synced a throatmic into the neck of her jammies and microwired the connections after a mishap with bluetooth connectivity last year nearly got her killed. It was via the throatmic she issued commands to her computers' systems. Can’t have that go down again. There was a touch interface on her arm too but her hands were otherwise occupied. And sure, there were ways to beat thermal imaging and things that didn’t show up but a cycle through movement sensors left her reasonably satisfied nothing nasty was lurking. If it was? Well, Geronimo!

Edited by Nika Raskov, Jan 29 2018, 04:06 AM.]]> <![CDATA[The Evil Egyptian Overlord]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-834.html Fri, 12 Jan 2018 14:48:00 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-834.html
One exception was the man in the room with them. Giovanni didn't remember his name. All he really needed was the man's title anyone. He was a Captain that had served Ibrahim. He helped organize the troops for Al Janyar in Egypt. Now he was one of Giovanni's advisers.

"Overall, things are going well. There were a few dissenters. They have been appropriately dealt with."

Giovanni nodded. Aaliyah stood at his side as always. She was after all his voice. Most of the time he didn't speak to those who came to him. The Captain was an exception.

"Good,"
he said. "The troops will need to be prepared. They will go on a trip with my Priestess. We need to secure the other branches of Al Janyar."

The Captain looked perplexed. "I don't understand?"

Giovanni showed no emotion on his face. "For too long has this group not lived up to its potential. Fragmented leaders who have long feuded with each other. I will bring them together - and in that way, we will see our goal."

"We don't have enough - not enough to go abroad and protect our interests here."

Giovanni nodded. "Then we must find more - begin recruiting. Dismissed."

The man bowed his head and left.

"A scientist wanted to see you today - an archaeologist as a matter of fact."
Aaliyah said after he left.

Giovanni looked at her quizzically. "Why?"
Giovanni absentmindedly opened a book and began perusing it's pages.

"He worked for Ibrahim. Dr. Pierce is his name. Ibrahim was obsessed with finding rare items. For his prestige. He wanted to know if you wanted him to continue digging."

A picture caught Giovanni's eye. For reasons unknown, the image struck a chord within him. "What is this?"
Giovanni said, pointing at the picture.

"The Eye of Horus,"
she answered. "An ancient Egyptian symbol of protection, royal power, and good health, I believe."

Giovanni smiled. "Yes - tell your Dr. Pierce to keep working. And anything he finds with this symbol should be brought to me immediately."

Aaliyah bowed as she turned. "As you command."

Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jan 12 2018, 02:48 PM.]]>
One exception was the man in the room with them. Giovanni didn't remember his name. All he really needed was the man's title anyone. He was a Captain that had served Ibrahim. He helped organize the troops for Al Janyar in Egypt. Now he was one of Giovanni's advisers.

"Overall, things are going well. There were a few dissenters. They have been appropriately dealt with."

Giovanni nodded. Aaliyah stood at his side as always. She was after all his voice. Most of the time he didn't speak to those who came to him. The Captain was an exception.

"Good,"
he said. "The troops will need to be prepared. They will go on a trip with my Priestess. We need to secure the other branches of Al Janyar."

The Captain looked perplexed. "I don't understand?"

Giovanni showed no emotion on his face. "For too long has this group not lived up to its potential. Fragmented leaders who have long feuded with each other. I will bring them together - and in that way, we will see our goal."

"We don't have enough - not enough to go abroad and protect our interests here."

Giovanni nodded. "Then we must find more - begin recruiting. Dismissed."

The man bowed his head and left.

"A scientist wanted to see you today - an archaeologist as a matter of fact."
Aaliyah said after he left.

Giovanni looked at her quizzically. "Why?"
Giovanni absentmindedly opened a book and began perusing it's pages.

"He worked for Ibrahim. Dr. Pierce is his name. Ibrahim was obsessed with finding rare items. For his prestige. He wanted to know if you wanted him to continue digging."

A picture caught Giovanni's eye. For reasons unknown, the image struck a chord within him. "What is this?"
Giovanni said, pointing at the picture.

"The Eye of Horus,"
she answered. "An ancient Egyptian symbol of protection, royal power, and good health, I believe."

Giovanni smiled. "Yes - tell your Dr. Pierce to keep working. And anything he finds with this symbol should be brought to me immediately."

Aaliyah bowed as she turned. "As you command."

Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, Jan 12 2018, 02:48 PM.]]> <![CDATA[Coming Into Order]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-836.html Fri, 07 Apr 2017 08:54:00 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-836.html [Image: 8dbbed0b5e9747bcf445f7a20f7de317.jpg]

Aaliyah had spent a lot of time with Giovanni. Ibrahim had noticed this, and Ibrahim was a jealous man. Aaliyah found herself not caring. Giovanni had more to offer than Ibrahim ever did. However, she was surprised when Giovanni had asked her to appease him. At first she had felt abandoned by Giovanni, but then she realized what he meant - keep your relationship with Ibrahim.

So she did. As his mistress, she was still granted some semblance of power in Al Janyar. Her meetings with Giovanni continued however. The man was an enigma. He held great power, but seemed to be holding back. Aaliyah had seen it. She had heard of these gods - and apparently her new companion was one. Why didn't he rule somewhere?

Aaliyah sensed a patience in his eyes. Perhaps he waited. Perhaps he already had followers. She had no idea. He was still a private individual. But he had summoned her. Summoned. He had used the word. Aaliyah had found herself obeying without question. Giovanni had drawn her in. It was unusual for her. She usually searched for what these things did for her, but she didn't. Not this time.]]> <![CDATA[Moving Forward]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-837.html Fri, 11 Nov 2016 10:23:00 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-837.html
Aaliyah had been an orphan and clawed her way to wherever she got. She was ambitious and focused working only towards one goal - how she could gain and keep power. She often rode on the coattails of the powerful. It was perhaps the only thing he didn't like about her.

Aaliyah was brilliant, but she had potential for more. She didn't need to ride on anyone's coattails. She could keep and hold power on her own. Giovanni saw it and knew he could use this to his advantage. It would be a mutual partnership.

IN the time he had known her, Giovanni had pursued anymore than a teacher/student relationship. She was very attractive, but there relationship wouldn't ever be romantic. However, they were spending a lot of time together. Surely her current protector was getting jealous. Not that Giovanni cared.

Tonight they were outside the city looking for another mark. It was time to see what she could do.]]>
Aaliyah had been an orphan and clawed her way to wherever she got. She was ambitious and focused working only towards one goal - how she could gain and keep power. She often rode on the coattails of the powerful. It was perhaps the only thing he didn't like about her.

Aaliyah was brilliant, but she had potential for more. She didn't need to ride on anyone's coattails. She could keep and hold power on her own. Giovanni saw it and knew he could use this to his advantage. It would be a mutual partnership.

IN the time he had known her, Giovanni had pursued anymore than a teacher/student relationship. She was very attractive, but there relationship wouldn't ever be romantic. However, they were spending a lot of time together. Surely her current protector was getting jealous. Not that Giovanni cared.

Tonight they were outside the city looking for another mark. It was time to see what she could do.]]> <![CDATA[A Starting Path (Closed)]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-838.html Wed, 26 Oct 2016 09:25:00 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-838.html [Image: 8dbbed0b5e9747bcf445f7a20f7de317.jpg]

The open air market was something most people would expect in Cairo. Shops sold food and other wares in the street. Things had gone back to being relatively normal for the people here despite the conflicts with the Al Janyar group.

Effectively, Al Janyar ran Egypt as well as several other North Eastern African nations. The so called military was unable to keep the group in check. Ibrahim was in charge in Egypt, and as his consort, Aaliyah had a significant influence in the government.

Of course, most people had no idea who she was. She was more like the puppeteer. She pulled strings and things happened. Ibrahim had the final say, but Aaliyah still had his ear. Often, her whisperings became a realization even if it didn't always go her way.

Ibrahim wasn't an ideal situation. Truth be told, Aaliyah didn't like him much, but sharing a bed with him got her what she wanted, and for now that was fine. Who could say how long the Al Janyar would keep his position. It was a tense situation and very little was needed for someone to rise against him within their own organization. It wouldn't matter to her. Another man would rise, and she'd wrap him around her finger as well.

Aaliyah still hated the situation. It was difficult for her to rise in this society. She was a woman in a man's world after all, so she made do. She had so much more potential, however, and craved more.

Today Aaliyah had left Ibrahim's side to get some fresh air. Walking around the market was always somewhat enjoyable. Growing up as an orphan, she had always marveled at the amount of stuff that was in these markets. Of course, that stuff usually ended up in her pockets.

Aaliyah had no need to steal anything anymore. She always got what she wanted, but still she practiced her thievery skills. If she was smart enough to take away another's property and they were stupid enough to not notice, then she deserved it.

Aaliyah looked at an item. A crystalline statue of a scorpion. Aaliyah smiled at it's beauty and waited patiently before pocketing the statue and leaving the area through an alleyway. Another successful thievery.]]> <![CDATA[Full Circle]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-841.html Mon, 26 Sep 2016 11:43:00 +0000 Natalie Grey]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-841.html
The school was utterly empty, its walls pocked by machete marks and blood stains not yet scrubbed clean. Natalie's heart tightened in her chest, a small and constricted thing that refused to acknowledge the waves of emotion such a sight engendered. Her jaw remained tight, pale gaze cold to all that she saw. Azu's dreams eddied in dust.

Still, she walked those halls and absorbed it all, internalising each reaction and locking it away. The last time she had strolled this very path, she had been with Azu. Dawn spread gold fingers from the horizon then, shimmering the bloody sight that had confronted them round the next corner. The chipped mug still lay where she had abandoned it, half buried in sand. She toed it with her boot, recirculating the memories like she could encourage a new ending.

The children had been arriving in early drips and drabs when the soldiers stormed the school. While Natalie navigated the hospital in Freetown with two small boys, Azubuike had protected them and fled with the legionnaires. They were all gone now, all but Ayo and Ekene and any others who'd managed to seek safety with their families. That was the hardest reconciliation, how dozens of faces had been swept clean like a god grew bored with the game and simply cleared the pieces.

There had been a ceremony in the town's church, and a rallying from neighbouring villages and towns. She was not the only one seeking closure. For a while Natalie stood motionless, processing the loss and its magnitude. Two saved from so many. She lifted her melancholic gaze, and forced herself to focus on the positive.

Separated from their children, Ayo's parents ran south. Fortune had favoured a blessedly quick reunion with the daughter Jay had plucked from death's arms, but such joy was tempered by news that their son was gone. Natalie was not the one to deliver the news, a prickle of shame on her conscience considering she had been the last one to see the boy. But Laurene had shielded her from the duty.

Ekene's future hung in a more uncertain balance. His older brother had presumably perished in the failed coup, else he was laying low somewhere. Given the legion's presence in Masiaka during the initial fighting, the former was more likely. Ekene took the news with mixed emotions, drawing into himself and jabbing at his broken hand. Rosters marked his father as having been among those executed at the refinery. His mother and sister so far remained unaccounted for, but had perhaps fled north. For now he remained under the care of the Cross.

Azubuike's small cottage attached to the school building, and it was in this untouched sanctuary that Natalie eventually found herself. He'd lived sparsely and there was little that truly reflected the man in his decorations or possessions. A few well thumbed books piled on shelves, among them a small bible she had often seen on his person peeking from a jacket pocket. She pulled it onto the small kitchen table, and idled through its tissue thin pages. She wasn't religious, and there was little comfort to be found in its words, just the memory of the man who had carried it close.

"There you are."
Olabisi shoved a hip against the door and slipped through with two coffee mugs. Her dark eyes held a reproachful air, lips pursed to find Natalie here. Red lined her eyes, the whites swelled pink. Still, she smiled and placed the drinks down, joining Natalie at the table. She was older than Azubuike by some years and Natalie had never really known much but her name. She lived the next town over, but like many had made the journey to mourn those lost, and stayed to help family, friends and neighbours rebuild.

Natalie cradled the coffee in both palms, grateful. Though it ought to be her doing the consoling. Olabisi had lost her brother. "I remember taking the children to Tokeh once,"
she said to fill the silence. "The sand is so white there, and the ocean so incredibly blue. Most of them had never seen the sea, and the lesson disintegrated quickly. But I remember his face when he watched those kids squealing through the surf. He loved what he did, and he believed so passionately in this country. He wanted to show them something beautiful."

The pain tightened in her chest, but she eased the sharp grip away and placed it aside.

Olabisi smiled, a wistful and sad expression, but she seemed comforted by the offered memory. It was the purest way in which she would remember him; the benevolence with which he viewed the world, and she thought perhaps Olabisi understood the rare thing that had been lost. Natalie hid a grimace, pressing the coffee to her lips, trying not to dwell on the violent manner in which he had died. Passion fired the need for revenge, but there was no one to take it out on. "He was a good man, my brother. He lived and died for his convictions. No one can fault him for that."

"He was. Among the best I've ever known. But not everyone here loved him for his ideas."
It was how he'd come to work with the Red Cross, offering scholarships to girls still so often denied the opportunity of education in this part of the world. Their father had been a child-soldier the last time peace shattered in Sierra Leone, and the school had been his originally, but it was Azu that blossomed those humble beginnings to something worth fighting for. "They're rebuilding the town - will they rebuild the school?"

"So many lost children. Those wounds need to heal first. New ideas take fertile soil."

Natalie nodded. Swallowed back the bite of frustration. "He won't be forgotten, Olabisi, I promise you."

The older woman placed her hand over Natalie's, squeezed it lightly. "I know."
A moment of sad silence descended. Olabisi's eyes glassed and she blinked. "But it won't be done by lingering amongst ghosts. You must have family? Go home to them for a time, girl. It's important to look after the things that mean the most to us while we still have them."

They spoke a time longer, reminiscing, until shadows touched the windows and Natalie finally stood. Olabisi pressed the bible into her hands before she left.]]>
The school was utterly empty, its walls pocked by machete marks and blood stains not yet scrubbed clean. Natalie's heart tightened in her chest, a small and constricted thing that refused to acknowledge the waves of emotion such a sight engendered. Her jaw remained tight, pale gaze cold to all that she saw. Azu's dreams eddied in dust.

Still, she walked those halls and absorbed it all, internalising each reaction and locking it away. The last time she had strolled this very path, she had been with Azu. Dawn spread gold fingers from the horizon then, shimmering the bloody sight that had confronted them round the next corner. The chipped mug still lay where she had abandoned it, half buried in sand. She toed it with her boot, recirculating the memories like she could encourage a new ending.

The children had been arriving in early drips and drabs when the soldiers stormed the school. While Natalie navigated the hospital in Freetown with two small boys, Azubuike had protected them and fled with the legionnaires. They were all gone now, all but Ayo and Ekene and any others who'd managed to seek safety with their families. That was the hardest reconciliation, how dozens of faces had been swept clean like a god grew bored with the game and simply cleared the pieces.

There had been a ceremony in the town's church, and a rallying from neighbouring villages and towns. She was not the only one seeking closure. For a while Natalie stood motionless, processing the loss and its magnitude. Two saved from so many. She lifted her melancholic gaze, and forced herself to focus on the positive.

Separated from their children, Ayo's parents ran south. Fortune had favoured a blessedly quick reunion with the daughter Jay had plucked from death's arms, but such joy was tempered by news that their son was gone. Natalie was not the one to deliver the news, a prickle of shame on her conscience considering she had been the last one to see the boy. But Laurene had shielded her from the duty.

Ekene's future hung in a more uncertain balance. His older brother had presumably perished in the failed coup, else he was laying low somewhere. Given the legion's presence in Masiaka during the initial fighting, the former was more likely. Ekene took the news with mixed emotions, drawing into himself and jabbing at his broken hand. Rosters marked his father as having been among those executed at the refinery. His mother and sister so far remained unaccounted for, but had perhaps fled north. For now he remained under the care of the Cross.

Azubuike's small cottage attached to the school building, and it was in this untouched sanctuary that Natalie eventually found herself. He'd lived sparsely and there was little that truly reflected the man in his decorations or possessions. A few well thumbed books piled on shelves, among them a small bible she had often seen on his person peeking from a jacket pocket. She pulled it onto the small kitchen table, and idled through its tissue thin pages. She wasn't religious, and there was little comfort to be found in its words, just the memory of the man who had carried it close.

"There you are."
Olabisi shoved a hip against the door and slipped through with two coffee mugs. Her dark eyes held a reproachful air, lips pursed to find Natalie here. Red lined her eyes, the whites swelled pink. Still, she smiled and placed the drinks down, joining Natalie at the table. She was older than Azubuike by some years and Natalie had never really known much but her name. She lived the next town over, but like many had made the journey to mourn those lost, and stayed to help family, friends and neighbours rebuild.

Natalie cradled the coffee in both palms, grateful. Though it ought to be her doing the consoling. Olabisi had lost her brother. "I remember taking the children to Tokeh once,"
she said to fill the silence. "The sand is so white there, and the ocean so incredibly blue. Most of them had never seen the sea, and the lesson disintegrated quickly. But I remember his face when he watched those kids squealing through the surf. He loved what he did, and he believed so passionately in this country. He wanted to show them something beautiful."

The pain tightened in her chest, but she eased the sharp grip away and placed it aside.

Olabisi smiled, a wistful and sad expression, but she seemed comforted by the offered memory. It was the purest way in which she would remember him; the benevolence with which he viewed the world, and she thought perhaps Olabisi understood the rare thing that had been lost. Natalie hid a grimace, pressing the coffee to her lips, trying not to dwell on the violent manner in which he had died. Passion fired the need for revenge, but there was no one to take it out on. "He was a good man, my brother. He lived and died for his convictions. No one can fault him for that."

"He was. Among the best I've ever known. But not everyone here loved him for his ideas."
It was how he'd come to work with the Red Cross, offering scholarships to girls still so often denied the opportunity of education in this part of the world. Their father had been a child-soldier the last time peace shattered in Sierra Leone, and the school had been his originally, but it was Azu that blossomed those humble beginnings to something worth fighting for. "They're rebuilding the town - will they rebuild the school?"

"So many lost children. Those wounds need to heal first. New ideas take fertile soil."

Natalie nodded. Swallowed back the bite of frustration. "He won't be forgotten, Olabisi, I promise you."

The older woman placed her hand over Natalie's, squeezed it lightly. "I know."
A moment of sad silence descended. Olabisi's eyes glassed and she blinked. "But it won't be done by lingering amongst ghosts. You must have family? Go home to them for a time, girl. It's important to look after the things that mean the most to us while we still have them."

They spoke a time longer, reminiscing, until shadows touched the windows and Natalie finally stood. Olabisi pressed the bible into her hands before she left.]]> <![CDATA[In the sandbox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-839.html Mon, 19 Sep 2016 00:09:00 +0000 Toni Perez]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-839.html
They were in the sandbox, all right. Things never went the way you expected them to. When Toni’s squad had first disembarked from the C-130J and secured their equipment, they found their tents had no friggin’ cots. Not a good thing in the snake- and scorpion- infested Sahara. There was a scorpion called the friggin’ Deathstalker. Which sounded real kickass but she didn’t want to wake up to one. Apparently the equipment that was supposed to be delivered by the Nigerien military had been instead sold to the locals. The liaison officer, Maj. Abebi Aketola, apologetically explained that this was all too common an occurrence, but that the responsible parties would be severely punished. That was reassuring to Toni.

Major Atekola had plenty of helpful advice about Zinder -- pronounced Cinder -- the large city apparently built entirely out of clay and mud that sprawled out near the the airfield they were rapidly turning into a fortified encampment. “When you go into the city, stay in the market areas,” he said with a heavy accent. “You can go into the shops, but don’t into any of the houses and definitely stay out of the lower parts of the city. That’s how people disappear in Zinder.” Not that Toni had any interest in doing any of those things -- and her squad certainly wasn’t going to get any passes to go to any of those places. Zinder was creepy. There were far too few people for a city that size -- like three quarters of the city were just gone. All too skinny locals just watched you. The adults, anyway. The children played recklessly when they didn’t look emaciated. And the women, especially, seemed very nervous. It was all very unnerving.

She found out more about that soon enough. “Don’t forget that we are guests here, not occupiers,” said the new company protocol officer, 1st Lt. Donavan Marshall. The West Point grad was eager to get his first deployment out of the way, likely so he could get his second bar and a fresh new assignment. “We don’t enforce local laws. Stay in your lane. As a part of our guest status agreement we will help train and organize local law enforcement groups contracted by Shale Industries. But we do not get involved with local politics when it runs contrary to national law. We are here to maintain order and protect the work on the Transnigerian Aqueduct, the Shale Industries employees and contractors.”

Some of those women were undoubtedly slaves, then. The civil war of the 2020s and 2030s had wiped out nearly half the population before the military had restored order. Surviving families had turned to selling off their children, especially their daughters. Slavery was technically illegal, but in practice the law was still ignored. Many of these women themselves were complicit in it, having no other options. Faced with the choice between slavery or starvation, of course they chose to remain.

It made Toni want to vomit to think of someone beaten down so badly. She sighed. Orders were orders. Best she could do was help make sure this aqueduct got done. Access to water in the far reaches of the desert would get the mines operating again, which would restore prosperity to Niger and Chad -- and, of course, Nigeria, who was undoubtedly making money hand over fist in this deal through their water sales. And prosperity meant options besides starvation or slavery. They’d already tried the fighting thing out and it turned out they weren’t so good at it.

But all of those things were way above Toni’s pay grade to worry about. What was for her to worry about was making sure her squad was properly bedded down and ready to roll first thing in the morning. First thing was to dig out bunkers reinforced with sandbags so they could take cover if they got mortared. Flying shrapnel would rip right through those tents. That made for a good night’s sleep. Toni and Weber crashed in the one long tent reserved for females. The camp had room for 4,000 soldiers but was only about a quarter filled, and only a couple of the pilots and other non-ranger personnel were female. The morning would consist of baby-wipe baths -- water was too scarce to waste on showers -- and relieving oneself in the one-seater latrine before PT. Toni led her squad on a morning run in full battle rattle around the inside of the still-being-constructed dirt berm and barbed wire perimeter. She expected them to get acclimated Then came breakfast, which was prepackaged MREs and bottled water. Apparently the locals hired to run the DFAC had been fired for trying to use substandard food products. Awkward.

Toni finished up the last of her lemon poppyseed pound cake - delicious!
-- and put on her kevlar and body armor. Double-checked her M6 for cleanliness and operational failure due to the dust. She clicked on her Land Warriors and saw a message from the CO that the time of departure had moved up by five minutes.

“All right Weber, it’s time to roll,”
she said. Barbie doll looked like she was still recovering from the long flight and from sleeping on the tent floor. Well, she did have a woobie at least. “Today we’re heading to the Nigerian border to provide escort for a convoy of construction materials to Maradi. Then we’re picking up a Shale VIP who’s flying in to Maradi and taking him to one of the mining camps. Taking the ground vehicles since the wind's too bad for the helicopters so it'll be a long day. But you should get some stuff to write about.”
Pretty much everything was calm on the Nigerian side. The government seemed to really want to get this pipeline built and was taking security seriously. But things really started to break down on this side of the border. Along the way they’d have the opportunity to inspect the completed sections pipeline from the border to Maradi. “Be sure to give your boots a good shake before you put them on.”

Edited by Toni Perez, Sep 19 2016, 12:18 AM.]]>
They were in the sandbox, all right. Things never went the way you expected them to. When Toni’s squad had first disembarked from the C-130J and secured their equipment, they found their tents had no friggin’ cots. Not a good thing in the snake- and scorpion- infested Sahara. There was a scorpion called the friggin’ Deathstalker. Which sounded real kickass but she didn’t want to wake up to one. Apparently the equipment that was supposed to be delivered by the Nigerien military had been instead sold to the locals. The liaison officer, Maj. Abebi Aketola, apologetically explained that this was all too common an occurrence, but that the responsible parties would be severely punished. That was reassuring to Toni.

Major Atekola had plenty of helpful advice about Zinder -- pronounced Cinder -- the large city apparently built entirely out of clay and mud that sprawled out near the the airfield they were rapidly turning into a fortified encampment. “When you go into the city, stay in the market areas,” he said with a heavy accent. “You can go into the shops, but don’t into any of the houses and definitely stay out of the lower parts of the city. That’s how people disappear in Zinder.” Not that Toni had any interest in doing any of those things -- and her squad certainly wasn’t going to get any passes to go to any of those places. Zinder was creepy. There were far too few people for a city that size -- like three quarters of the city were just gone. All too skinny locals just watched you. The adults, anyway. The children played recklessly when they didn’t look emaciated. And the women, especially, seemed very nervous. It was all very unnerving.

She found out more about that soon enough. “Don’t forget that we are guests here, not occupiers,” said the new company protocol officer, 1st Lt. Donavan Marshall. The West Point grad was eager to get his first deployment out of the way, likely so he could get his second bar and a fresh new assignment. “We don’t enforce local laws. Stay in your lane. As a part of our guest status agreement we will help train and organize local law enforcement groups contracted by Shale Industries. But we do not get involved with local politics when it runs contrary to national law. We are here to maintain order and protect the work on the Transnigerian Aqueduct, the Shale Industries employees and contractors.”

Some of those women were undoubtedly slaves, then. The civil war of the 2020s and 2030s had wiped out nearly half the population before the military had restored order. Surviving families had turned to selling off their children, especially their daughters. Slavery was technically illegal, but in practice the law was still ignored. Many of these women themselves were complicit in it, having no other options. Faced with the choice between slavery or starvation, of course they chose to remain.

It made Toni want to vomit to think of someone beaten down so badly. She sighed. Orders were orders. Best she could do was help make sure this aqueduct got done. Access to water in the far reaches of the desert would get the mines operating again, which would restore prosperity to Niger and Chad -- and, of course, Nigeria, who was undoubtedly making money hand over fist in this deal through their water sales. And prosperity meant options besides starvation or slavery. They’d already tried the fighting thing out and it turned out they weren’t so good at it.

But all of those things were way above Toni’s pay grade to worry about. What was for her to worry about was making sure her squad was properly bedded down and ready to roll first thing in the morning. First thing was to dig out bunkers reinforced with sandbags so they could take cover if they got mortared. Flying shrapnel would rip right through those tents. That made for a good night’s sleep. Toni and Weber crashed in the one long tent reserved for females. The camp had room for 4,000 soldiers but was only about a quarter filled, and only a couple of the pilots and other non-ranger personnel were female. The morning would consist of baby-wipe baths -- water was too scarce to waste on showers -- and relieving oneself in the one-seater latrine before PT. Toni led her squad on a morning run in full battle rattle around the inside of the still-being-constructed dirt berm and barbed wire perimeter. She expected them to get acclimated Then came breakfast, which was prepackaged MREs and bottled water. Apparently the locals hired to run the DFAC had been fired for trying to use substandard food products. Awkward.

Toni finished up the last of her lemon poppyseed pound cake - delicious!
-- and put on her kevlar and body armor. Double-checked her M6 for cleanliness and operational failure due to the dust. She clicked on her Land Warriors and saw a message from the CO that the time of departure had moved up by five minutes.

“All right Weber, it’s time to roll,”
she said. Barbie doll looked like she was still recovering from the long flight and from sleeping on the tent floor. Well, she did have a woobie at least. “Today we’re heading to the Nigerian border to provide escort for a convoy of construction materials to Maradi. Then we’re picking up a Shale VIP who’s flying in to Maradi and taking him to one of the mining camps. Taking the ground vehicles since the wind's too bad for the helicopters so it'll be a long day. But you should get some stuff to write about.”
Pretty much everything was calm on the Nigerian side. The government seemed to really want to get this pipeline built and was taking security seriously. But things really started to break down on this side of the border. Along the way they’d have the opportunity to inspect the completed sections pipeline from the border to Maradi. “Be sure to give your boots a good shake before you put them on.”

Edited by Toni Perez, Sep 19 2016, 12:18 AM.]]> <![CDATA[Asymmetrical Warfare]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-843.html Sat, 10 Sep 2016 03:12:00 +0000 Andrew Koehler]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-843.html "Falcon 2-1, this is Foxtrot actual. Request ETA on the drop, over."
LT's voice crackled over the squad's comms. It was good to be back in American armor, using American weapons. The suits were lighter weight than what the Custody offered, but the maneuverability difference was night and day. Still, this operation was off the books. There were no identifying marks on the suits.

It was early morning in northern Liberia. The sun was still a couple hours' off cresting the horizon, but the birds were starting to sing. In a few hours, sentries would be swapping shifts across the nation. Miles overhead, an XMC-130's cargo bay was opening up. The response came through over the radio. "Foxtrot Actual, Falcon 2-1. Package is free, ETA one minute on your strobe, over."

The team waited, and watched. They'd dropped an IR strobe in a field a hundred yards from their position. The minute wasn't even up yet when the drop pods slammed into the ground, retro thrusters firing in a flash heartbeats before they hit. Even so, a couple of the stabilizer fins were knocked loose from the impact. Even the most highly trained soldiers needed a supply chain, and the drop pods left a small footprint.

LT stood up and waved the team forwards. "Appreciate the gifts, Falcon 2-1. Foxtrot actual out."
They had swarm drones buzzing the surrounding area, and the chances of someone sneaking up on them were low - but that didn't mean they were going to wait around. When Koehler reached the first pod and pulled the latch, he was greeted by fresh batteries for their suits, and a healthy amount of ammo - preloaded in M6 magazines.

Once the team's supplies were topped off, Koehler seized the power and destroyed the evidence. He was getting good at that. A few lashes of fire and some air to whip it all away, and it was like the pods had never even hit the ground. Granted, there wasn't much point in the effort; it wasn't like they could pick up every 6.8 mm casing that hit the ground. The Custody's ammunition was all caseless, the Chinese used mostly 7.62, and African forces were a strange hodgepodge of last-gen weapons from across the world. Any ballistics tech with half a brain would figure out who was icing the Liberian army.

Team Foxtrot was made up of eight SUBGRU SEALs, and two of them were psychokinetic. LT looked at Koehler. "Andrew, I'm sending a waypoint to your visor. I need you, Weber, Jonesey and Frank to take out that supply station."
A moment later, a white diamond popped up on Koehler's HUD, to the north. Most of the other helmets used a closed circuit video camera system - made things like flashbangs useless against them. Koehler had to make due with a polarized lens and a holographic display. Cameras didn't pick up the power.

"Got it, boss. Any civilians we need to worry about?"
It was good to be able to talk on mission again. Last time Koehler was out, they were pretending to be Custody troops - and there weren't any Bostonians in Taskforce Vega.

"Shouldn't be, no. You good to go?"
If there were, Koehler knew what he had to do. With the number of people deployed across the country, and the fact that the operations were still off the books, someone really high up the food chain wanted this kept quiet. Someone Koehler didn't feel like fucking with.

Koehler nodded. "I'll see you at the rendezvous, sir."
With that, his squad split off from the team. They set out at what would pass for a dead run without the suits. Modern batteries could maintain a fifteen mile per hour sprint for hours on end without powering down, and they had spares in their packs. Even if they didn't, one of the first spells they'd developed at Camp Hoover gave squad psychokinetics the ability to recharge batteries in a pinch.

It took an hour to reach the supply depot, and by the time they got there the first red hints of sunlight were starting to brush the sky. The squad took cover on a ridge overlooking the whole setup. Koehler switched on thermals. "Looks like thirty seven contacts,"
he said over their local comms. The depot wasn't heavily defended. It consisted of a motor pool, a warehouse, and a barracks building with chain link fences all around. Looked like they had a lot of expensive hardware parked there nonetheless. Koehler found himself wondering whose bright idea it was to sell Bradley IFV's and Humvees to the people they were going to have to blow up later.

Jake Weber chimed in next. "Thirty seven. Some of them are unarmed; may be noncombatants. How do we want to take this?"

"We'll take it as planned. I'll thin the herd."
Koehler reached deep, and grabbed hold of the power. There wasn't much of a battle anymore, even if he found it difficult to hold for long without getting tired. He had to remove himself from the world around him to get control - something hard to do when bullets were flying. "On my mark,"
he said. Lashes of fire danced out, before taking root in the motor pool's fuel reserves. Moments later, a fireball engulfed the collection of vehicles and sent shards of hot metal flying all around. "Mark."

Somewhere in another world, Koehler knew he could hear the sharp hiss of suppressed M6's firing off rounds into the Liberian soldiers who were still standing. While the squad did their job, Koehler sought out and cut the lines to the depot's radio tower. No way they were calling for backup. The soldiers' spines were already broken, and they didn't put up much of a fight. Most died with exit wounds in their chests. A few tried to take cover in the barracks, but a quick slice of air took the walls down on top of them.

Before long, the only life signs Koehler could see were holed up in a cage, away from the fire. A secondary explosion from one of the Humvees' gas tanks cooking off toppled what remained of the motor pool's overhang. A piece of shrapnel slamming into the tree next to him shook Koehler's grip of the power free.

"Cease fire,"
Koehler said, and all the shooting stopped. "I want to see what the fuck's up with that cage."
LT didn't say anything about prisoners. Koehler figured he might as well see what he could find out. Afterwards, well, he had a little trick he'd been working on. Might as well try it.

It took another half an hour for the fire in the motor pool to burn down to a safe level. When it did, Koehler and Weber picked their way down the ridge and into what remained. Jonesey and Frank stayed up on the ridge to watch for any new contacts. "Shit, man,"
Weber said when they reached the twisted remains of the fence. "Must be crazy being able to do all this with your head."

"Should ask your sister what I can do with the other one, Weber,"
Koehler said. "Well, you should've if I did trannies. Who knows, might make an exception for her since she's your sister and all. Coulda sworn I heard you say she was in country."
He laughed a short laugh, not quite ignoring the destruction around them.

"Fuck you, Andy."
That exchange was far from the worst. Didn't change the fact that any member of the team was ready to give his life for the others at a moment's notice. "What's the plan with this? If these two see us - "

"Don't worry about that, Weber."
Koehler cut Weber off. "I've got a trick I've been wanting to try out. That private back in Camp Hoover was doing it."
Mind control. Well, in a simple sense. If it worked the way Koehler thought it would, he could ask the two in that cage anything he wanted and they'd forget all about it.

"Ramirez, right? That dude was fuckin' creepy. Can't tell you how many times he 'borrowed' cash off me."
The flames were still crackling when they rounded the corner to come in view of the cage. One of the men inside was slumped over, a chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his neck. He must have bled out while the squad waited for the fires to die down.

The other man was in good enough condition and his face lit up when they came in view. "Americans!" He shouted. The accent was thick and judging by the clothes, he was local. He shook the cage's bars.

"Look,"
Koehler began. "You speak English?"

"English..." The man shook his head, looking confused. "No."

Koehler sighed, checking the satellite uplink. Less than a quarter of a megabyte per second. The voice translator wouldn't work, and the only one on the team who spoke the language was with LT. He grabbed hold of the power, a little more sluggishly than he would have if he hadn't just destroyed half the complex. "Well, that was useless."
He sent lashes of spirit drilling into the man's mind, coupled with fire and earth. The way Ramirez did it, it should... Crap.
The guy's eyes crossed, and he slumped over. A moment later he was seizing up on the ground.

"I don't remember doing that when Ramirez was fucking with me, Andy."
Koehler could imagine the horrified look on Weber's face. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

There was a dead Liberian soldier lying on the ground, and his weapon looked loaded. Koehler released the power, and picked the decades-old AK-47 up. Only way not to tie anything back to them. "I fucked up, that's what."
He pointed the AK at the man's head and pulled the trigger. "Don't tell LT about this, Weber."

Edited by Andrew Koehler, Sep 29 2016, 12:48 AM.]]> "Falcon 2-1, this is Foxtrot actual. Request ETA on the drop, over."
LT's voice crackled over the squad's comms. It was good to be back in American armor, using American weapons. The suits were lighter weight than what the Custody offered, but the maneuverability difference was night and day. Still, this operation was off the books. There were no identifying marks on the suits.

It was early morning in northern Liberia. The sun was still a couple hours' off cresting the horizon, but the birds were starting to sing. In a few hours, sentries would be swapping shifts across the nation. Miles overhead, an XMC-130's cargo bay was opening up. The response came through over the radio. "Foxtrot Actual, Falcon 2-1. Package is free, ETA one minute on your strobe, over."

The team waited, and watched. They'd dropped an IR strobe in a field a hundred yards from their position. The minute wasn't even up yet when the drop pods slammed into the ground, retro thrusters firing in a flash heartbeats before they hit. Even so, a couple of the stabilizer fins were knocked loose from the impact. Even the most highly trained soldiers needed a supply chain, and the drop pods left a small footprint.

LT stood up and waved the team forwards. "Appreciate the gifts, Falcon 2-1. Foxtrot actual out."
They had swarm drones buzzing the surrounding area, and the chances of someone sneaking up on them were low - but that didn't mean they were going to wait around. When Koehler reached the first pod and pulled the latch, he was greeted by fresh batteries for their suits, and a healthy amount of ammo - preloaded in M6 magazines.

Once the team's supplies were topped off, Koehler seized the power and destroyed the evidence. He was getting good at that. A few lashes of fire and some air to whip it all away, and it was like the pods had never even hit the ground. Granted, there wasn't much point in the effort; it wasn't like they could pick up every 6.8 mm casing that hit the ground. The Custody's ammunition was all caseless, the Chinese used mostly 7.62, and African forces were a strange hodgepodge of last-gen weapons from across the world. Any ballistics tech with half a brain would figure out who was icing the Liberian army.

Team Foxtrot was made up of eight SUBGRU SEALs, and two of them were psychokinetic. LT looked at Koehler. "Andrew, I'm sending a waypoint to your visor. I need you, Weber, Jonesey and Frank to take out that supply station."
A moment later, a white diamond popped up on Koehler's HUD, to the north. Most of the other helmets used a closed circuit video camera system - made things like flashbangs useless against them. Koehler had to make due with a polarized lens and a holographic display. Cameras didn't pick up the power.

"Got it, boss. Any civilians we need to worry about?"
It was good to be able to talk on mission again. Last time Koehler was out, they were pretending to be Custody troops - and there weren't any Bostonians in Taskforce Vega.

"Shouldn't be, no. You good to go?"
If there were, Koehler knew what he had to do. With the number of people deployed across the country, and the fact that the operations were still off the books, someone really high up the food chain wanted this kept quiet. Someone Koehler didn't feel like fucking with.

Koehler nodded. "I'll see you at the rendezvous, sir."
With that, his squad split off from the team. They set out at what would pass for a dead run without the suits. Modern batteries could maintain a fifteen mile per hour sprint for hours on end without powering down, and they had spares in their packs. Even if they didn't, one of the first spells they'd developed at Camp Hoover gave squad psychokinetics the ability to recharge batteries in a pinch.

It took an hour to reach the supply depot, and by the time they got there the first red hints of sunlight were starting to brush the sky. The squad took cover on a ridge overlooking the whole setup. Koehler switched on thermals. "Looks like thirty seven contacts,"
he said over their local comms. The depot wasn't heavily defended. It consisted of a motor pool, a warehouse, and a barracks building with chain link fences all around. Looked like they had a lot of expensive hardware parked there nonetheless. Koehler found himself wondering whose bright idea it was to sell Bradley IFV's and Humvees to the people they were going to have to blow up later.

Jake Weber chimed in next. "Thirty seven. Some of them are unarmed; may be noncombatants. How do we want to take this?"

"We'll take it as planned. I'll thin the herd."
Koehler reached deep, and grabbed hold of the power. There wasn't much of a battle anymore, even if he found it difficult to hold for long without getting tired. He had to remove himself from the world around him to get control - something hard to do when bullets were flying. "On my mark,"
he said. Lashes of fire danced out, before taking root in the motor pool's fuel reserves. Moments later, a fireball engulfed the collection of vehicles and sent shards of hot metal flying all around. "Mark."

Somewhere in another world, Koehler knew he could hear the sharp hiss of suppressed M6's firing off rounds into the Liberian soldiers who were still standing. While the squad did their job, Koehler sought out and cut the lines to the depot's radio tower. No way they were calling for backup. The soldiers' spines were already broken, and they didn't put up much of a fight. Most died with exit wounds in their chests. A few tried to take cover in the barracks, but a quick slice of air took the walls down on top of them.

Before long, the only life signs Koehler could see were holed up in a cage, away from the fire. A secondary explosion from one of the Humvees' gas tanks cooking off toppled what remained of the motor pool's overhang. A piece of shrapnel slamming into the tree next to him shook Koehler's grip of the power free.

"Cease fire,"
Koehler said, and all the shooting stopped. "I want to see what the fuck's up with that cage."
LT didn't say anything about prisoners. Koehler figured he might as well see what he could find out. Afterwards, well, he had a little trick he'd been working on. Might as well try it.

It took another half an hour for the fire in the motor pool to burn down to a safe level. When it did, Koehler and Weber picked their way down the ridge and into what remained. Jonesey and Frank stayed up on the ridge to watch for any new contacts. "Shit, man,"
Weber said when they reached the twisted remains of the fence. "Must be crazy being able to do all this with your head."

"Should ask your sister what I can do with the other one, Weber,"
Koehler said. "Well, you should've if I did trannies. Who knows, might make an exception for her since she's your sister and all. Coulda sworn I heard you say she was in country."
He laughed a short laugh, not quite ignoring the destruction around them.

"Fuck you, Andy."
That exchange was far from the worst. Didn't change the fact that any member of the team was ready to give his life for the others at a moment's notice. "What's the plan with this? If these two see us - "

"Don't worry about that, Weber."
Koehler cut Weber off. "I've got a trick I've been wanting to try out. That private back in Camp Hoover was doing it."
Mind control. Well, in a simple sense. If it worked the way Koehler thought it would, he could ask the two in that cage anything he wanted and they'd forget all about it.

"Ramirez, right? That dude was fuckin' creepy. Can't tell you how many times he 'borrowed' cash off me."
The flames were still crackling when they rounded the corner to come in view of the cage. One of the men inside was slumped over, a chunk of shrapnel sticking out of his neck. He must have bled out while the squad waited for the fires to die down.

The other man was in good enough condition and his face lit up when they came in view. "Americans!" He shouted. The accent was thick and judging by the clothes, he was local. He shook the cage's bars.

"Look,"
Koehler began. "You speak English?"

"English..." The man shook his head, looking confused. "No."

Koehler sighed, checking the satellite uplink. Less than a quarter of a megabyte per second. The voice translator wouldn't work, and the only one on the team who spoke the language was with LT. He grabbed hold of the power, a little more sluggishly than he would have if he hadn't just destroyed half the complex. "Well, that was useless."
He sent lashes of spirit drilling into the man's mind, coupled with fire and earth. The way Ramirez did it, it should... Crap.
The guy's eyes crossed, and he slumped over. A moment later he was seizing up on the ground.

"I don't remember doing that when Ramirez was fucking with me, Andy."
Koehler could imagine the horrified look on Weber's face. "What the fuck did you do to him?"

There was a dead Liberian soldier lying on the ground, and his weapon looked loaded. Koehler released the power, and picked the decades-old AK-47 up. Only way not to tie anything back to them. "I fucked up, that's what."
He pointed the AK at the man's head and pulled the trigger. "Don't tell LT about this, Weber."

Edited by Andrew Koehler, Sep 29 2016, 12:48 AM.]]> <![CDATA[The Long Road Forward]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-840.html Mon, 05 Sep 2016 21:34:00 +0000 Jacques]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-840.html
It only took a matter of days to take back the north-west from the Guinean warlords. After a week of drills, the Legion's newly acquired vehicles, delivered off the Baadi Qasriga along with dozens more F3LIN suits, had established an effective picket to the south-east, heading off any potential further advance by Liberian forces, while F3LIN suited infantry hit the Guinean forces to the north-west.

The Legion's four Type 99 MBTs, crewed by Legionnaire vehicle commanders and rush-trained Sierra Leonean troops, were intimidating enough to keep the Liberians in check. Especially as they seemed to have some sort of internal conflict to deal with. What reports that reached the Legion were sketchy, but seemed to indicate some sort of coordinated resistance in Liberian-held Sierra Leone. Supply convoys and isolated patrols had a tendency of turning up dead.

The four BMPT Terminators led the the assault to the north-east. Designed as a close support platform, the tracked vehicles had little trouble maneuvering through the densely packed Sierra Leonean towns and jungle, and were heavily armoured enough that little in Warlord Shakespear's arsenal could threaten them. Backed up by F3LIN equipped Legionnaires, they tore through the guerrillas with ease, liberating towns and even recovering much of the lost Legion supplies from the ambushed convoy.

Newly formed militia forces, led by elements of the Freetown police and Sierra Leonean military elements, patrolled the interior of the nation, delivering much needed supplies and bringing a sense of security and unity back to the nation, mounted in Patria AMVs flying the national colours. Many of the APCs had survived the civil war.

In only two weeks, the capital had returned to some semblance of normality. No more columns of smoke over the city's skyline. No more echoes of gunfire and turning of blind eyes to what Wallace-Johnson's forces had been doing to their own people.

There was only one thing though that was immediately holding Jacques attention. Of all the progress they had made thus far, in so short a time, there was only one thing that he regretted. Namely, how short on anesthetics they still were.

The loss of his hand had been accepted as best he could; certainly some amount of shock had deadened the pain, and true acceptance of the loss of a limb was a hard thing to establish, to come to grips with. His past two weeks had been awkward; an adjusting period, in which many times he sought to do things that had once been common-place, but suddenly nigh impossible with only one hand. It had, however, led to an air of deliberation in everything he did. The calculated pauses to assess and plot his next move.

How to open a door while carrying something? Sipping tea with his off hand was nigh impossible while he walked. Luckily, he had been training all his life to be ambidextrous with a pistol, but loading magazines, cocking the action, remedying stoppages, all became dreadfully awkward with one hand.

He was rambling, if that was what such thoughts could be called. Chasing headlong down the rabbit hole to try and distract himself from the work being conducted on the other side of a thin grey blanket that blocked his view from the stump of his right arm. He was strapped down, as surgeons worked on the stump. The cauterization had saved his life in the short term, but had led to all sorts of complications.

They had to cut away the burned and scarred flesh, to deal with the cracked and broken bones in the stump of his wrist. He had staved off infection by some small miracle, but what healing had been established had to be undone and set on the right course if he were to ever be fitted with a prosthetic.

And there wasn't enough anesthetic to do more then freeze his arm. Mostly. The surgical team at work beyond that sheet included three people, Americans, that had answered his call to the world. He hadn't expected a world renowned surgeon to have shown up on their doorstep, but the man had given up everything he had back home to go where he was needed. Years of working on the richest people in America had left the man empty inside. Three days in Freetown had seen a miraculous change.

Suddenly, everything that man did had meaning; no more was he wasted on trivial procedures paid for by the rich and powerful. He was saving lives again, testing his skills against his Death himself once more. The classic power-trip of a successful surgeon.

A nurse, also American, leaned around the sheet and looked at him. He met the older woman's gaze with a level stare, doing his best to hide the pain and discomfort of the procedure he could hear, and almost feel, but could not see. "Almost done, sir."

-----

Liberian politicians had released a public declaration of aggression against Sierra Leone. Dozens of Liberian soldiers had been found dead, in what they claimed was a 'humanitarian aid' mission in the south-east of Sierra Leone. They of course denied reports of seizures of industrial equipment, facilities, and depots in the region. Denied reports that they were funding South African mercenaries to destabilize the region.

Africa's north-east was being torn asunder. Al Janyar was spreading almost unchecked. Dozens of once-disparate extremist groups were flocking to their banner, sparking conflicts ever further west and south. Nations weakened by decades of economic and social strife were offering little by way of organized resistance, and where such resistance may have been found, it was bogged down trying to keep tens of thousands of refugees fed and organized.

The first class of Legion recruits to graduate training since the Battle of Jeddah and the civil war in Sierra Leone received their white Kepis and were immediately deployed to work with the Algerian military. Joint training had been agreed upon as one of the terms set by the country to allow the Legion to relocate onto their soil. The first woman to join the Legion was among their numbers, and a dozen more were in the classes behind her.

In Freetown, transport ships and planes arrived daily from around the world, bringing an influx of skilled volunteers and much needed resources. Schools were reopened, if only to serve as day-care centers so their parents could assist in the rebuilding of the city and some return to normalcy. Shops were reopened, refugees that had choked the city's streets were returning to their towns and villages, no longer worried of Guinean rebels or being caught up in the violence of the civil war.

There were desperate short-falls though. Vaccines, especially for Ebola, were in short supply. The government stockpiles hadn't been refreshed in fifteen years, and much of the supply held in the few remaining hospitals simply couldn't meet the demand. Shakespear's forces had purposefully contaminated water supplies, destroyed crops and cattle, and aggressively encouraged the spread of Ebola into Sierra Leone.

A lack of proper education and awareness had led many to believe that the vaccines they had received as children, during the height of the Ebola scare, would last for the rest of their lives. Perhaps even carry on to their children. Cases of Ebola, cholera, dysentery, and malaria to name a few, were beginning to grow in the north-west.

The list of challenges that faced him and his people was daunting. He simply didn't have access to the resources needed to combat it all alone. Support from Algeria had allowed the Legion to stock-pile the humanitarian aid supplies that had begun flooding into Sierra Leone when the fighting had stopped, but Algeria was, economically at least, in a worse situation then Sierra Leone. The Legion was that nation's last desperate effort to stabilizing the nation. And, albeit slowly, it seemed to be working.

What nations that may have given aid to Sierra Leone had been, momentarily at least, alienated by both the civil war and the Legion's seizure of the nation. The African Union existed, but counted barely two dozen nations in its membership, and Liberia was one of them. And of course, Al Janyar was drawing much of the AU's attention.

-----

Only a few hours after his most recent surgery, Jacques sat in his quarters. The Legion had been relocated again, forced to move from the old Moroccan embassy after the fire, and relocated into the government district and adjacent military barracks. Jacques room was, at one time, that of the President of Sierra Leone. Not the actual President's house, but an office and bedroom in the government district.

He sat at the desk, and a dozen holographic screens hung in the air in front of him. Status reports and live feeds from troops in the field, updates on various projects around the city and the country, email chains with foreign powers. Much of the logistics and politics was being handled by Commandant Tuff and the Legion command staff in Algeria, but Jacques made a point of being as up to date on it all as possible.

Most of those were ignored, however. Struggling to write with his left hand, he penned his signature to the next in a series of letters to family and loved ones of the fallen. Each letter, typed...something that grated him deeply, for the impersonal feel of it compared to a properly written letter, but made necessary for his poor penmanship with his left hand...was personalized. Individual accounts of the Legionnaire in question.

Some were to the families of the police officers and first-responders that had given their lives during the liberation of Freetown. And some were to the families of those killed at Masiaka. Those that had any living family left for whom such letters could be addressed.

He set the pen aside, flexing his left hand briefly before taking up a cup of tea and moving his attention to the most recently updated screen. Another report on Liberian troop losses in Sierra Leone. Another request by a foreign power for Jacques to formally acknowledge Liberia's hold on the resource-rich region of Sierra Leone, so the production of rhodium could continue once more. More formal declarations that Jacques and the Legion liquidate its assets to reimburse its former investors.

He sighed quietly and reached to rub his eyes, before remembering that he hadn't the free hand to do the task. His stump was lowered to the desk once more, tea cup set aside. Too much work to be done.]]>
It only took a matter of days to take back the north-west from the Guinean warlords. After a week of drills, the Legion's newly acquired vehicles, delivered off the Baadi Qasriga along with dozens more F3LIN suits, had established an effective picket to the south-east, heading off any potential further advance by Liberian forces, while F3LIN suited infantry hit the Guinean forces to the north-west.

The Legion's four Type 99 MBTs, crewed by Legionnaire vehicle commanders and rush-trained Sierra Leonean troops, were intimidating enough to keep the Liberians in check. Especially as they seemed to have some sort of internal conflict to deal with. What reports that reached the Legion were sketchy, but seemed to indicate some sort of coordinated resistance in Liberian-held Sierra Leone. Supply convoys and isolated patrols had a tendency of turning up dead.

The four BMPT Terminators led the the assault to the north-east. Designed as a close support platform, the tracked vehicles had little trouble maneuvering through the densely packed Sierra Leonean towns and jungle, and were heavily armoured enough that little in Warlord Shakespear's arsenal could threaten them. Backed up by F3LIN equipped Legionnaires, they tore through the guerrillas with ease, liberating towns and even recovering much of the lost Legion supplies from the ambushed convoy.

Newly formed militia forces, led by elements of the Freetown police and Sierra Leonean military elements, patrolled the interior of the nation, delivering much needed supplies and bringing a sense of security and unity back to the nation, mounted in Patria AMVs flying the national colours. Many of the APCs had survived the civil war.

In only two weeks, the capital had returned to some semblance of normality. No more columns of smoke over the city's skyline. No more echoes of gunfire and turning of blind eyes to what Wallace-Johnson's forces had been doing to their own people.

There was only one thing though that was immediately holding Jacques attention. Of all the progress they had made thus far, in so short a time, there was only one thing that he regretted. Namely, how short on anesthetics they still were.

The loss of his hand had been accepted as best he could; certainly some amount of shock had deadened the pain, and true acceptance of the loss of a limb was a hard thing to establish, to come to grips with. His past two weeks had been awkward; an adjusting period, in which many times he sought to do things that had once been common-place, but suddenly nigh impossible with only one hand. It had, however, led to an air of deliberation in everything he did. The calculated pauses to assess and plot his next move.

How to open a door while carrying something? Sipping tea with his off hand was nigh impossible while he walked. Luckily, he had been training all his life to be ambidextrous with a pistol, but loading magazines, cocking the action, remedying stoppages, all became dreadfully awkward with one hand.

He was rambling, if that was what such thoughts could be called. Chasing headlong down the rabbit hole to try and distract himself from the work being conducted on the other side of a thin grey blanket that blocked his view from the stump of his right arm. He was strapped down, as surgeons worked on the stump. The cauterization had saved his life in the short term, but had led to all sorts of complications.

They had to cut away the burned and scarred flesh, to deal with the cracked and broken bones in the stump of his wrist. He had staved off infection by some small miracle, but what healing had been established had to be undone and set on the right course if he were to ever be fitted with a prosthetic.

And there wasn't enough anesthetic to do more then freeze his arm. Mostly. The surgical team at work beyond that sheet included three people, Americans, that had answered his call to the world. He hadn't expected a world renowned surgeon to have shown up on their doorstep, but the man had given up everything he had back home to go where he was needed. Years of working on the richest people in America had left the man empty inside. Three days in Freetown had seen a miraculous change.

Suddenly, everything that man did had meaning; no more was he wasted on trivial procedures paid for by the rich and powerful. He was saving lives again, testing his skills against his Death himself once more. The classic power-trip of a successful surgeon.

A nurse, also American, leaned around the sheet and looked at him. He met the older woman's gaze with a level stare, doing his best to hide the pain and discomfort of the procedure he could hear, and almost feel, but could not see. "Almost done, sir."

-----

Liberian politicians had released a public declaration of aggression against Sierra Leone. Dozens of Liberian soldiers had been found dead, in what they claimed was a 'humanitarian aid' mission in the south-east of Sierra Leone. They of course denied reports of seizures of industrial equipment, facilities, and depots in the region. Denied reports that they were funding South African mercenaries to destabilize the region.

Africa's north-east was being torn asunder. Al Janyar was spreading almost unchecked. Dozens of once-disparate extremist groups were flocking to their banner, sparking conflicts ever further west and south. Nations weakened by decades of economic and social strife were offering little by way of organized resistance, and where such resistance may have been found, it was bogged down trying to keep tens of thousands of refugees fed and organized.

The first class of Legion recruits to graduate training since the Battle of Jeddah and the civil war in Sierra Leone received their white Kepis and were immediately deployed to work with the Algerian military. Joint training had been agreed upon as one of the terms set by the country to allow the Legion to relocate onto their soil. The first woman to join the Legion was among their numbers, and a dozen more were in the classes behind her.

In Freetown, transport ships and planes arrived daily from around the world, bringing an influx of skilled volunteers and much needed resources. Schools were reopened, if only to serve as day-care centers so their parents could assist in the rebuilding of the city and some return to normalcy. Shops were reopened, refugees that had choked the city's streets were returning to their towns and villages, no longer worried of Guinean rebels or being caught up in the violence of the civil war.

There were desperate short-falls though. Vaccines, especially for Ebola, were in short supply. The government stockpiles hadn't been refreshed in fifteen years, and much of the supply held in the few remaining hospitals simply couldn't meet the demand. Shakespear's forces had purposefully contaminated water supplies, destroyed crops and cattle, and aggressively encouraged the spread of Ebola into Sierra Leone.

A lack of proper education and awareness had led many to believe that the vaccines they had received as children, during the height of the Ebola scare, would last for the rest of their lives. Perhaps even carry on to their children. Cases of Ebola, cholera, dysentery, and malaria to name a few, were beginning to grow in the north-west.

The list of challenges that faced him and his people was daunting. He simply didn't have access to the resources needed to combat it all alone. Support from Algeria had allowed the Legion to stock-pile the humanitarian aid supplies that had begun flooding into Sierra Leone when the fighting had stopped, but Algeria was, economically at least, in a worse situation then Sierra Leone. The Legion was that nation's last desperate effort to stabilizing the nation. And, albeit slowly, it seemed to be working.

What nations that may have given aid to Sierra Leone had been, momentarily at least, alienated by both the civil war and the Legion's seizure of the nation. The African Union existed, but counted barely two dozen nations in its membership, and Liberia was one of them. And of course, Al Janyar was drawing much of the AU's attention.

-----

Only a few hours after his most recent surgery, Jacques sat in his quarters. The Legion had been relocated again, forced to move from the old Moroccan embassy after the fire, and relocated into the government district and adjacent military barracks. Jacques room was, at one time, that of the President of Sierra Leone. Not the actual President's house, but an office and bedroom in the government district.

He sat at the desk, and a dozen holographic screens hung in the air in front of him. Status reports and live feeds from troops in the field, updates on various projects around the city and the country, email chains with foreign powers. Much of the logistics and politics was being handled by Commandant Tuff and the Legion command staff in Algeria, but Jacques made a point of being as up to date on it all as possible.

Most of those were ignored, however. Struggling to write with his left hand, he penned his signature to the next in a series of letters to family and loved ones of the fallen. Each letter, typed...something that grated him deeply, for the impersonal feel of it compared to a properly written letter, but made necessary for his poor penmanship with his left hand...was personalized. Individual accounts of the Legionnaire in question.

Some were to the families of the police officers and first-responders that had given their lives during the liberation of Freetown. And some were to the families of those killed at Masiaka. Those that had any living family left for whom such letters could be addressed.

He set the pen aside, flexing his left hand briefly before taking up a cup of tea and moving his attention to the most recently updated screen. Another report on Liberian troop losses in Sierra Leone. Another request by a foreign power for Jacques to formally acknowledge Liberia's hold on the resource-rich region of Sierra Leone, so the production of rhodium could continue once more. More formal declarations that Jacques and the Legion liquidate its assets to reimburse its former investors.

He sighed quietly and reached to rub his eyes, before remembering that he hadn't the free hand to do the task. His stump was lowered to the desk once more, tea cup set aside. Too much work to be done.]]> <![CDATA[Operation Gauntlet]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-845.html Wed, 04 May 2016 21:59:00 +0000 Jacques]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-845.html
Jacques guards saw him dutifully to a cell. One shoved him in almost halfheartedly, then slammed the door of the interior-walled small office behind him. It was an awkward choice of cell, as the door didn't actually lock from the outside, and as amusing as the thought of locking it from his side was, Jacques opted against. Instead, he scanned the small office briefly before helping himself to the uncomfortable looking chair behind the tiny desk. It was made even more awkward to sit in for the heavy FELIN Mk2 kevlar armour he wore, and the chair creaked alarming beneath him as he settled into its wooden frame.

Without his Landwarriors and Wallet, he was entirely out of touch with the events in Freetown, but despite that he was oddly calm. Confident, even. He knew the competence of his men, and had no fear of Wallace-Johnson's chances of success with Operation Rien N'Empeche in full swing. Likely, with the aid of his Legionnaires, the police and their supporters had already taken much of the city back from the mad-man and his thugs.

And of course, Commandant Tuft would have already issued the orders for Operation Gauntlet. Captain Zhou Ah Sung's Baadi Qasriga was just outside of Sierra Leonean waters, and likely already navigating towards Freetown, the Captain's much preferred docking point considering the questionable legality of his cargo.

Major Curtis Freeman, commander of the skeleton garrison of the Lungi International Airport, former base of General Wallace-Johnson's troops before he had taken control of Freetown, would already have been forced to deploy troops to secure the coastguard vessels needed to transport his Legionaries to the Baadi Qasriga and back to mount the assault on the General's headquarters, and of course his own rescue.

And the relief convoy from Casablanca was barely an hour from the city, ready to assault Wallace-Johnson's perimeter forces, catching the last bodies of his loyal troops between his Legionnaires in the city and their convoy of armoured vehicles and mounted troops. Everything seemed to have been going to plan.

He was only seated a few minutes before the sound of movement outside the office door drew his attention. A moment of heated discussion in the hallway was followed by the flimsy presswood door of his 'jail cell' being barged open. Three men, one wearing the markings of a Lieutenant, barged into the office.

"Stand up!"
The two non-coms barged into the office past the officer, and all three's faces were screwed with rage. Jacques remained seated as they closed on him, and couldn't help but grin at their wasted display. He wasn't so easily intimidated, even as the officer pulled a machete from his belt, and his two men dragged Jacques to his feet, a task made comical for the fact that he simply stood before they could actually drag him up.

"And what, exactly, do you expect this to accomplish, Lieutenant?"
Jacques stood to his full height, which was actually somewhat dwarfed by one of the two non-coms holding his arms, but physical height paled compared to personality.

"Shut up!"
Already enraged by how arrogantly Jacques had barged into their headquarters, and how close he had come to being able to simply shoot the General in his own command center, the Lt lashed out with his machete, chopping at Jacques' kevlar shielded chest. The machete bit into the armoured plate, part of the blade leaving a cut along his chin and stopping shy of his neck.

Jacques staggered slightly from the blow, and the flanking non-coms jerked him straight, but after the initial shock of the blow he settled once more and tilted his head down to eye the machete, careful to keep his throat free of the blade. "Ah, well then. It shall be like that, shall it?"

He barely had time to notice the Lt's fist before it caught him in the jaw, tearing the machete free of his chest plate. The two non-coms began tearing at the straps and buckles of his FELIN Mk2 armour.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone, 1500hrs GMT

Barely half an hour after Jacques parted ways with Legionnaire Vanders, the first of the M777's 155mm high explosive shells crashed into Freetown. The seven howitzers were based 25km outside of the city, towards the edge of their effective range, and the crews manning them were not so well trained as to guarantee where those shells would land even if they had cared.

The Methodist Boys High School had been serving as a refugee center in the past few weeks of violence. Its doors had been closed due to lack of funding only a year previous, so the structure had been intact enough to serve; the water pipes and electricity still worked, and the classrooms and gymnasium had easily been converted to house the hundreds of refugees that had found shelter there.

The first shell to land on the city tore a hole in the old football field, a small miracle that saw no one killed. The field was empty, as refugees sought the perceived safety of the school's walls as city police, backed by Legionnaires, worked swiftly through the city to capture our oust the General's troops.

The second shell struck the gymnasium.

-----

Legion HQ, Outskirts of Casablanca, Morocco. 1440hrs GMT

Commandant Tuft stood in the rapidly collapsing Legion headquarters, overseeing the opening moves of Operation Rien N'Empeche when the first of some two dozen Contact Reports began flooding the comms lines. Legionnaires on the ground in Freetown were reporting the same thing across the city; some readily identified the source of the explosions, others sited possible IEDs. But, it was easy to identify in short order. The city was being shelled.

And the forces within were in no position to do anything about it. With General Wallace-Johnson's forces being over run across the city by the Legion, city police, and their associated allies, and the Legionnaires themselves embroiled in the task of retaking the city, there were no forces in place to sortie against the shelling, even if they knew where exactly it was coming from.

"Get Provost Boipelo on the horn. The convoy should be close enough to Freetown now that we should be able to triangulate the artillery's position. And get a link to Bombardier Iweala. Between the city and the convoy, we should be able to find these guns."
Commandant Tuft walked over to one of the few screens still mounted in the room; many had already been removed for shipping to the Legion's new facility in the ghost-city of Sidi Bel Abbès, Algeria.

Within moments of his order, the comm tech seated there had Bombardier Iweala and Bombardier Iweala were on two separate screens. The Provost was seated in the gunner's chair of one of the convoy Panhards, while the Bombardier was kneeling in the streets of Freetown with the sounds of artillery screaming over head.

"Alright Bombardier. What do you need to find these guns?"
The Commandant seemed unmoved by the imagery behind the Bombardier; a hotel half a block down was a quickly turning into a raging inferno, much of the buildings face already collapsed into the street. Smoke and dust obscured much of the image feeds background, but it was clear there were plenty of wounded in the street.

"Sir? I need a source outside the city, we're all too close to get a good picture."
The Bombardier was briefly accosted by one of his team mates, who after a few back-and-forth hand swatting started digging through Iweala's pouches for his bandages and first aid kit.

"Provost Boipello here. The convoy is an hour out, and we can hear the guns from here. That going to be enough?"
Boipello cracked the roof hatch on the Panhard and popped his head outside, and the image feed switched from the in-vehicle camera to his Landwarrior mounted camera, showing deserted, jungle-lined highway ahead of the armoured vehicle's weapon system.

"Three's better, but this'll do Sir. Synch the feeds to my glasses and I'll give you an estimate."
He dug out a map and compass next, kneeling in the rubble-strewn street and laying them both out on the ground before him, quickly orientating himself to the north.

The comms tech did as requested, and within moments the Bombardier was marking positions on his map and drawing lines off the compass. Aided by the programs and HUD of his Landwarriors, within a few moments he had an area singled out to the east of the city.

"Between 15 and 30 km east of Freetown, Sir. Maybe. That's the best I can do."
With the Commandant's permission, the Bombardier was dropped from the conversation, and the Commandant's attention shifted to Provost Boipello.

"You are passing Port Loko. Split the escort, send the trucks on to Lungi airport, take the escort to that area. Find those guns and take them. Understood, Provost?"

"Sir. We can be there in two hours."

-----

Wari, Sierra Leone. 1450hrs GMT

Wari, Sierra Leone

The village was abandoned before Warlord Shakespeare and his men arrived. They had taken the ford to the north that morning, and were making steady progress south into the unprotected in-lands of Sierra Leone. An occasional militia would try to resist them, but most were smart enough to scatter before the Guineans could arrive.

With no sport to be had, Shakespear pushed his men south; they would avoid the international airport, knowing there was a military garrison there. But the town of Port Loko would be easy pickings, surely.

Dozens of trucks armed with anti-tank recoilless rifles and .50 machineguns rolled south towards Porto Loko road and an unfortunate run-in with a very lightly guarded Legion supply convoy.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone. 1500hrs GMT

A platoon of Major Freeman's troops from Lungi airport, aboard three Sierra Leonean coast guard vessels, stormed the ferry crossing in northern Freetown. The fighting was brief and some of the most violent in the city to that point.

The troops guarding the ferry were taken offguard; they had assumed the approaching coast guard ships had reinforcements. By that point, it was known that there was an uprising in the city against the General, but particulars were still being figured out.

The troops holding the ferry crossing didn't realize what was going on until it was too late, but even then they refused to simply surrender. Not to 'traitors to the cause', at least. It was over in minutes, with dozens dead on both sides, but Major Freeman's men were succesful in the end, sending the last of the General's troops fleeing back into the city and leaving them to occupy the ferry crossing, awaiting the arrival of the Legionnaires that would be bound to the Baadi Qasriga and the weapons waiting aboard the transport.

Edited by Jacques, May 11 2016, 09:01 PM.]]>
Jacques guards saw him dutifully to a cell. One shoved him in almost halfheartedly, then slammed the door of the interior-walled small office behind him. It was an awkward choice of cell, as the door didn't actually lock from the outside, and as amusing as the thought of locking it from his side was, Jacques opted against. Instead, he scanned the small office briefly before helping himself to the uncomfortable looking chair behind the tiny desk. It was made even more awkward to sit in for the heavy FELIN Mk2 kevlar armour he wore, and the chair creaked alarming beneath him as he settled into its wooden frame.

Without his Landwarriors and Wallet, he was entirely out of touch with the events in Freetown, but despite that he was oddly calm. Confident, even. He knew the competence of his men, and had no fear of Wallace-Johnson's chances of success with Operation Rien N'Empeche in full swing. Likely, with the aid of his Legionnaires, the police and their supporters had already taken much of the city back from the mad-man and his thugs.

And of course, Commandant Tuft would have already issued the orders for Operation Gauntlet. Captain Zhou Ah Sung's Baadi Qasriga was just outside of Sierra Leonean waters, and likely already navigating towards Freetown, the Captain's much preferred docking point considering the questionable legality of his cargo.

Major Curtis Freeman, commander of the skeleton garrison of the Lungi International Airport, former base of General Wallace-Johnson's troops before he had taken control of Freetown, would already have been forced to deploy troops to secure the coastguard vessels needed to transport his Legionaries to the Baadi Qasriga and back to mount the assault on the General's headquarters, and of course his own rescue.

And the relief convoy from Casablanca was barely an hour from the city, ready to assault Wallace-Johnson's perimeter forces, catching the last bodies of his loyal troops between his Legionnaires in the city and their convoy of armoured vehicles and mounted troops. Everything seemed to have been going to plan.

He was only seated a few minutes before the sound of movement outside the office door drew his attention. A moment of heated discussion in the hallway was followed by the flimsy presswood door of his 'jail cell' being barged open. Three men, one wearing the markings of a Lieutenant, barged into the office.

"Stand up!"
The two non-coms barged into the office past the officer, and all three's faces were screwed with rage. Jacques remained seated as they closed on him, and couldn't help but grin at their wasted display. He wasn't so easily intimidated, even as the officer pulled a machete from his belt, and his two men dragged Jacques to his feet, a task made comical for the fact that he simply stood before they could actually drag him up.

"And what, exactly, do you expect this to accomplish, Lieutenant?"
Jacques stood to his full height, which was actually somewhat dwarfed by one of the two non-coms holding his arms, but physical height paled compared to personality.

"Shut up!"
Already enraged by how arrogantly Jacques had barged into their headquarters, and how close he had come to being able to simply shoot the General in his own command center, the Lt lashed out with his machete, chopping at Jacques' kevlar shielded chest. The machete bit into the armoured plate, part of the blade leaving a cut along his chin and stopping shy of his neck.

Jacques staggered slightly from the blow, and the flanking non-coms jerked him straight, but after the initial shock of the blow he settled once more and tilted his head down to eye the machete, careful to keep his throat free of the blade. "Ah, well then. It shall be like that, shall it?"

He barely had time to notice the Lt's fist before it caught him in the jaw, tearing the machete free of his chest plate. The two non-coms began tearing at the straps and buckles of his FELIN Mk2 armour.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone, 1500hrs GMT

Barely half an hour after Jacques parted ways with Legionnaire Vanders, the first of the M777's 155mm high explosive shells crashed into Freetown. The seven howitzers were based 25km outside of the city, towards the edge of their effective range, and the crews manning them were not so well trained as to guarantee where those shells would land even if they had cared.

The Methodist Boys High School had been serving as a refugee center in the past few weeks of violence. Its doors had been closed due to lack of funding only a year previous, so the structure had been intact enough to serve; the water pipes and electricity still worked, and the classrooms and gymnasium had easily been converted to house the hundreds of refugees that had found shelter there.

The first shell to land on the city tore a hole in the old football field, a small miracle that saw no one killed. The field was empty, as refugees sought the perceived safety of the school's walls as city police, backed by Legionnaires, worked swiftly through the city to capture our oust the General's troops.

The second shell struck the gymnasium.

-----

Legion HQ, Outskirts of Casablanca, Morocco. 1440hrs GMT

Commandant Tuft stood in the rapidly collapsing Legion headquarters, overseeing the opening moves of Operation Rien N'Empeche when the first of some two dozen Contact Reports began flooding the comms lines. Legionnaires on the ground in Freetown were reporting the same thing across the city; some readily identified the source of the explosions, others sited possible IEDs. But, it was easy to identify in short order. The city was being shelled.

And the forces within were in no position to do anything about it. With General Wallace-Johnson's forces being over run across the city by the Legion, city police, and their associated allies, and the Legionnaires themselves embroiled in the task of retaking the city, there were no forces in place to sortie against the shelling, even if they knew where exactly it was coming from.

"Get Provost Boipelo on the horn. The convoy should be close enough to Freetown now that we should be able to triangulate the artillery's position. And get a link to Bombardier Iweala. Between the city and the convoy, we should be able to find these guns."
Commandant Tuft walked over to one of the few screens still mounted in the room; many had already been removed for shipping to the Legion's new facility in the ghost-city of Sidi Bel Abbès, Algeria.

Within moments of his order, the comm tech seated there had Bombardier Iweala and Bombardier Iweala were on two separate screens. The Provost was seated in the gunner's chair of one of the convoy Panhards, while the Bombardier was kneeling in the streets of Freetown with the sounds of artillery screaming over head.

"Alright Bombardier. What do you need to find these guns?"
The Commandant seemed unmoved by the imagery behind the Bombardier; a hotel half a block down was a quickly turning into a raging inferno, much of the buildings face already collapsed into the street. Smoke and dust obscured much of the image feeds background, but it was clear there were plenty of wounded in the street.

"Sir? I need a source outside the city, we're all too close to get a good picture."
The Bombardier was briefly accosted by one of his team mates, who after a few back-and-forth hand swatting started digging through Iweala's pouches for his bandages and first aid kit.

"Provost Boipello here. The convoy is an hour out, and we can hear the guns from here. That going to be enough?"
Boipello cracked the roof hatch on the Panhard and popped his head outside, and the image feed switched from the in-vehicle camera to his Landwarrior mounted camera, showing deserted, jungle-lined highway ahead of the armoured vehicle's weapon system.

"Three's better, but this'll do Sir. Synch the feeds to my glasses and I'll give you an estimate."
He dug out a map and compass next, kneeling in the rubble-strewn street and laying them both out on the ground before him, quickly orientating himself to the north.

The comms tech did as requested, and within moments the Bombardier was marking positions on his map and drawing lines off the compass. Aided by the programs and HUD of his Landwarriors, within a few moments he had an area singled out to the east of the city.

"Between 15 and 30 km east of Freetown, Sir. Maybe. That's the best I can do."
With the Commandant's permission, the Bombardier was dropped from the conversation, and the Commandant's attention shifted to Provost Boipello.

"You are passing Port Loko. Split the escort, send the trucks on to Lungi airport, take the escort to that area. Find those guns and take them. Understood, Provost?"

"Sir. We can be there in two hours."

-----

Wari, Sierra Leone. 1450hrs GMT

Wari, Sierra Leone

The village was abandoned before Warlord Shakespeare and his men arrived. They had taken the ford to the north that morning, and were making steady progress south into the unprotected in-lands of Sierra Leone. An occasional militia would try to resist them, but most were smart enough to scatter before the Guineans could arrive.

With no sport to be had, Shakespear pushed his men south; they would avoid the international airport, knowing there was a military garrison there. But the town of Port Loko would be easy pickings, surely.

Dozens of trucks armed with anti-tank recoilless rifles and .50 machineguns rolled south towards Porto Loko road and an unfortunate run-in with a very lightly guarded Legion supply convoy.

-----

Freetown, Sierra Leone. 1500hrs GMT

A platoon of Major Freeman's troops from Lungi airport, aboard three Sierra Leonean coast guard vessels, stormed the ferry crossing in northern Freetown. The fighting was brief and some of the most violent in the city to that point.

The troops guarding the ferry were taken offguard; they had assumed the approaching coast guard ships had reinforcements. By that point, it was known that there was an uprising in the city against the General, but particulars were still being figured out.

The troops holding the ferry crossing didn't realize what was going on until it was too late, but even then they refused to simply surrender. Not to 'traitors to the cause', at least. It was over in minutes, with dozens dead on both sides, but Major Freeman's men were succesful in the end, sending the last of the General's troops fleeing back into the city and leaving them to occupy the ferry crossing, awaiting the arrival of the Legionnaires that would be bound to the Baadi Qasriga and the weapons waiting aboard the transport.

Edited by Jacques, May 11 2016, 09:01 PM.]]> <![CDATA[Plans and Enemies]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-846.html Sun, 01 Nov 2015 23:08:00 +0000 Jacques]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-846.html
The ride was quiet; Jacques' escort consisted of only three Legionnaires. Vanders of course, Lesław, and Bartoš. Lesław was Polish, albeit of rather slight build at first glance and with a list of driving qualifications the length of his somewhat gangly arms. Bartoš, Slovakian, sat shotgun to Lesław with a Benelli shotgun across his lap, the barrel pressed to the door at his side, ready to be lifted to the window, or brought to bear through the door once opened. One finger tapped against the trigger guard, while his other hand held a shell ready to be slipped into the breach once the first round was fired.

The two men in the front seats watched the road ahead intensely, with Lesław watching the traffic around them and Bartoš eyeing the crowds and rooftops as they drove towards the Parliamentary buildings that had been re-purposed into Interim President General Wallace-Johnson's command center.

Jacques' attention was split in a dozen directions, through the HUD of his Landwarrior glasses. Live updates of the movement of the various squads throughout Freetown, an update on the relief convoy's progress towards the city. Position of a Chinese merchant freighter that was scant kilometers off the country's territorial waters on it's way to Morocco. Legal demands by slighted former investors were brushed aside, as well as a 'formal request' for Jacques Danjou to present himself to Moroccan police headquarters in Casablanca in regards to suggestions of bribery,fraud, embezzlement, and a list of other white-collared crimes.

They passed through a series of checkpoints manned by Wallace-Johnson's troops and their 'militia.' The usual scum drawn to the opportunity for personal power and gain, for chances to exact revenge on those that they felt had wronged the in some way. Neighbor turned on neighbor, jilted lovers, jealous fools. The crimes committed under the 'leadership' of Wallace-Johnson were myriad and terrible, and would surely go unnoticed by the world at large. It was Africa, after all.

The final checkpoints around the Parliament included a pair of Rooikat Mk2 IFVs, lines of concertina wire dividing the new government's command center and the public at large.

The intel the Legion had gathered had indicated no more then a platoon-strength guard for the Parliament, but the vehicle-flanked final checkpoint was manned by twenty uniformed soldiers and another two dozen militia. There was limited resistance to the Legion vehicle getting through the checkpoint, but the guards were less then subtle in their comportment. They knew who Jacques was and that their General had summoned him.

The vehicle was waved to a stop in front of the Parliamentary building scant moments after the sharp bark of rifle fire. Two men in suits, some of the few remaining members of the elected parliament, waited to meet them. The two men were studiously ignoring a firing squad was busy loading the bodies of five men into the back of a waiting truck. The men were stripped to their underwear, but still wore undershirts identical to those worn as part of the Sierra Leonean military's uniforms.

The Legion SUV came to a stop, and Jacques stared silently out the bullet proof glass at the firing squad and the bodies they were loading into the truck. It took a moment before one of the bodies were carried to the truck and he could get a look at the dead man's face, and he nodded tiredly.

"Legionnaire Vanders. Lesław. Bartoš. Take the vehicle back to HQ. Commandant Tuff will have further orders. Prepare for follow-on tasks."
]]>
The ride was quiet; Jacques' escort consisted of only three Legionnaires. Vanders of course, Lesław, and Bartoš. Lesław was Polish, albeit of rather slight build at first glance and with a list of driving qualifications the length of his somewhat gangly arms. Bartoš, Slovakian, sat shotgun to Lesław with a Benelli shotgun across his lap, the barrel pressed to the door at his side, ready to be lifted to the window, or brought to bear through the door once opened. One finger tapped against the trigger guard, while his other hand held a shell ready to be slipped into the breach once the first round was fired.

The two men in the front seats watched the road ahead intensely, with Lesław watching the traffic around them and Bartoš eyeing the crowds and rooftops as they drove towards the Parliamentary buildings that had been re-purposed into Interim President General Wallace-Johnson's command center.

Jacques' attention was split in a dozen directions, through the HUD of his Landwarrior glasses. Live updates of the movement of the various squads throughout Freetown, an update on the relief convoy's progress towards the city. Position of a Chinese merchant freighter that was scant kilometers off the country's territorial waters on it's way to Morocco. Legal demands by slighted former investors were brushed aside, as well as a 'formal request' for Jacques Danjou to present himself to Moroccan police headquarters in Casablanca in regards to suggestions of bribery,fraud, embezzlement, and a list of other white-collared crimes.

They passed through a series of checkpoints manned by Wallace-Johnson's troops and their 'militia.' The usual scum drawn to the opportunity for personal power and gain, for chances to exact revenge on those that they felt had wronged the in some way. Neighbor turned on neighbor, jilted lovers, jealous fools. The crimes committed under the 'leadership' of Wallace-Johnson were myriad and terrible, and would surely go unnoticed by the world at large. It was Africa, after all.

The final checkpoints around the Parliament included a pair of Rooikat Mk2 IFVs, lines of concertina wire dividing the new government's command center and the public at large.

The intel the Legion had gathered had indicated no more then a platoon-strength guard for the Parliament, but the vehicle-flanked final checkpoint was manned by twenty uniformed soldiers and another two dozen militia. There was limited resistance to the Legion vehicle getting through the checkpoint, but the guards were less then subtle in their comportment. They knew who Jacques was and that their General had summoned him.

The vehicle was waved to a stop in front of the Parliamentary building scant moments after the sharp bark of rifle fire. Two men in suits, some of the few remaining members of the elected parliament, waited to meet them. The two men were studiously ignoring a firing squad was busy loading the bodies of five men into the back of a waiting truck. The men were stripped to their underwear, but still wore undershirts identical to those worn as part of the Sierra Leonean military's uniforms.

The Legion SUV came to a stop, and Jacques stared silently out the bullet proof glass at the firing squad and the bodies they were loading into the truck. It took a moment before one of the bodies were carried to the truck and he could get a look at the dead man's face, and he nodded tiredly.

"Legionnaire Vanders. Lesław. Bartoš. Take the vehicle back to HQ. Commandant Tuff will have further orders. Prepare for follow-on tasks."
]]> <![CDATA[The Search]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-842.html Sun, 01 Nov 2015 13:56:00 +0000 Natalie Grey]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-842.html
The state of the place made her skin itch; it was a dismal sanctuary, except that the solitude was precious for what she intended. Now alone, her eyes stung for a moment before she compartmentalised the feeling, smoothing the expression from her face. A deep breath of dank air, and she turned away from dwelling on the fresh bruises of the past. She could change none of it. But she could be better prepared.

She sat against the stone wall, placed the unlit candle on the floor in front of her, frowning at it. Alvis' old warnings circled like wary predators; the advice that had likely saved her life, but also trapped her now. She'd deliberated this before, but not since leaving England. The answer then had been simple.

If she'd had control, would things at the refinery have gone differently?

Silence permeated, but for the tumbling of the kitten in the shadows. The light in the back of her mind was dim, like a sheet of glass separated her from its warmth. It was joinless, unmarred, impenetrable as it had always been, yet she knew the door existed. And she just had to find it.
]]>
The state of the place made her skin itch; it was a dismal sanctuary, except that the solitude was precious for what she intended. Now alone, her eyes stung for a moment before she compartmentalised the feeling, smoothing the expression from her face. A deep breath of dank air, and she turned away from dwelling on the fresh bruises of the past. She could change none of it. But she could be better prepared.

She sat against the stone wall, placed the unlit candle on the floor in front of her, frowning at it. Alvis' old warnings circled like wary predators; the advice that had likely saved her life, but also trapped her now. She'd deliberated this before, but not since leaving England. The answer then had been simple.

If she'd had control, would things at the refinery have gone differently?

Silence permeated, but for the tumbling of the kitten in the shadows. The light in the back of her mind was dim, like a sheet of glass separated her from its warmth. It was joinless, unmarred, impenetrable as it had always been, yet she knew the door existed. And she just had to find it.
]]>