HermannRipley: forum

Oh hey white supremacists crush... White supremacists posing as... White supremacists.

I don't think you'd pass much with the bonus anyway.

Charlie had already gotten to work, and was jamming out to whatever as she swept up. When she passed by the scene at the door, she scooped up the Kalashnikov and hit it with a quick field strip- a removal of the dust cover, the bolt, and the recoil spring, before laying it on the counter and resuming her relaxed sweeping, humming whatever Funk song was in her ear at the time. She did not care much about the other guns all over the place, just doing her job-ish.

I F*CKING LOVE LEARNING AND GROWING

Says the F*CKING NAZI

Yes

New year, new f**kin uh...

Weird graphs really bring people together

Please Squid we are not a garbage can Squid

I wish I wasn't rude to them

The Tourist notices the little red thing and begins cackling in the back seat, shaking her head as it drops into the back of the driver's seat. She covers her neck with her right arm, and despite being in this tense scenario, is still laughing. "Holy f**k this shit is excellent, I live for this!"

Meanwhile, in one of the private sector vehicles- a black SUV with subtle branding- were a few men in plates and polos. Upon seeing the scooter get a good bit too close to the govsec car, everyone who wasn't the driver goes into a sort of alert state, ready to draw guns, slam him, whatever. Everyone is relieved when that grows unnecessary. One of the men in the back slaps his knee and looks over his corporate compatriots.


Name: Harry Brakov


Codename: Charlie Hotel - 6


Age: 27


Gender: Male


Occupation: Constellis Holdings Contractor


Sierra / Recruitment Rank: S7 Operative


Gear: A bag of M&Ms, steel canteen, a cheeky whiskey flask, NVG (Phosphorus), portable trauma kit


Weapons: Desert Eagle (.44 Magnum)/Glock 21, SIG MCX "Black Mamba"


Description: A brown haired man at 6' 11". He has decently masculine looking face. He has 2 gunshot scars in the abdomen, and another scar that tears across his shoulder. He has a musculature that would indicate good PT scores.


Character backstory: A Yugoslav-American man who is quite distant from the old country. In an attempt to deepens this divide, he joined the Army, and managed himself into the Green Berets. There, he would mostly be working on COIN ops in the middle easy. After his contract was up- an 8 year contract- he opted to go private sector, under Constellis' Triple Canopy. After a brief stint in Kuwait, his team, and thusly him, were place with the S-7 team.

Why the f**k even would you do that?

"No, not a clothes store. I don't need Kors or Gucci, not even Old Navy. Right now, I want thrift, and I want milsurp. They get you more places than new clothes, more often than not."
She says, scoffing, looking out of the window. She sees a few things- buildings, snow, cars. Almost like home, but colder and with Cyrillic characters.
"So we got a 4-star hotel in Russia? And that's a flex? Fah. You know, I never liked nice hotels. You go to a 2-star and they don't expect a f**kin thing out of you. And why are we going so high profile? I thought this was some super-spy shit."
She seems to be a very harsh critic of all the bravado. She imagines these are all tax dollars, too.

Name: Bael Behrhauen
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Job: Pianist, Freelance Hitman
Personality: He creates a veneer of cold charisma, but despite all the mannerisms and calculation, he is always a short list of inconveniences away from an outburst, and has been removed from venues before.
Ethnicity: Central European Caucasian


Description: (how your character looks)


Outfit(s):
>Performance: Off-white French Dress shirt w/ ruff sleeves, Black cravat, Black waistcoat w/ silver paisley and buttons+crimson lining, black tailcoat w/ red satin lapel, red lining. Black trousers, black booth w/ red spats, White gloves.
>Town: White French collar+Cuff shirt w/silver and ruby cufflinks, red puff tie, charcoal waistcoat with silver lining, charcoal trousers, parade boots. Black leather gloves.
>Il Fantasma: Red French Dress shirt w/ ruff sleeves, silver cravat, black waistcoat with crimson paisley+crimson lining, Black greatcoat w/ red lining+black shoulder covers, Black trousers, black over-knee jackboots, silver buttons. Black over-coat gloves. Red 2-hole balaclava, silver Fantasma mask, silver monocle. Musketeer cap w/ red feather

Memorandum: Requests stylized variants of mission specific clothing.


Affiliation;: Freelance


Weapons:
>Suppressed Walther PPK
>Cane Sword,
>Piano Wire.


Backstory: Bael was born fortunate. His family was wealthy. He was well fed. Neglected, but well fed, well housed, well entertained, and we'll trained- he'd been signed for piano lessons since he was a boy.

But the flame cares not for your origin. All it does is consume. It consumed his parents, though he hardly knew them- more importantly, it consumed his home, and consumed his instructor.

But this is not to say he was left with nothing. The bank account was full as ever. But being a young man with access to what looked like wealth, he would dry his fortune in a matter of years. So he did what he had spent his life learning to do. But there are many pianists and a diminishing demand for them.

But murder was in high demand and low supply. A high pay task if one's to undergo it. And if you're good enough, you can make enough to scrub yourself clean of the sin. So he started working, and hasn't stopped yet. Now he lives lavishly, anywhere, perhaps everywhere, once more.

She gets herself into one of the cars- assumedly the one she had been told to get into, if the operation is that organized. She looks around the interior, before buckling herself in and laying back. The modern seating was significantly more comfortable than the aircraft from about 50 years ago, so she wasn't complaining. But she was cold.
"When do we go to the costume room? I need to get some good clothes on. Something better for the climate. And the environment."
She puts out, before observing the faces she's been out with.

"No, I didn't bring anything but clothes and hygiene shit. Cleanliness is godliness or whatever. Nah, I'm gonna see if I can get my magic bag in later- they didn't give us enough heads up for me to check it out."

She then gets herself into the back of a separate car. The choice of AC-130 still seemed like a... Unique, choice. She still couldn't get over that, tired as she was. A decent C-130 was basically free, and way easier to convert into a thing like that. She still has no idea why they chose the close air support version instead.

She had not read the man who was, in fact, Face, as The Face. Not until a man up and said it. When it came to note, she stated at him for a moment, and in that moment she made a sort of whisper-yelled laugh- falsely hushed. But apparently this would not be the end of the hilarity.

She boarded the converted AC-130- The one she would certainly be making at least a small fuss about- it's not like we don't have modern C-130s for this purpose- but for now, before the higher ups of the operation, all she could do was laugh to herself.

Until, of course, the words 'bring this plane down by any means' escaped Seven's mouth. That warranted a cackle. And a cackle it got.

"Holy sheeYIT!" she exclaims, slapping the wall of the aircraft in hilarity.

"There have been less precautions for infilltrating North Korea! I mean come on! These are terrorists. No smarter than our least educated bumpkin. What's all the hoobob for?"

Must be a British thing, maybe Russian, she figures. She could never imagine an American inventing a plan like that. No less- what if the order misfires? What if the poor bastard has a stroke? What didn't they tell them this plane was a ticking time bomb? And other questions that weren't particularly asked. She figures her assertion that this was stupid would her enough justifications and lawyering.

Almost all hallow's eve, TRP

You fools- women simply aren't. They're made up. The government created women to spy on you.

She complies and gets on the transport, which transports her to the plane, as is asked if her. She had a bit more character than Face, at least- in this instance, a normal old rubber bracelet in some tropical pattern. She would have work something when more colorful if it wasn't her first week in this work environment. She didn't really notice she was even sharing a transport with Face. Just the nature of his game, one must suppose.

Noting they were being brought to an AC-130, she snickers a little bit. One wonders what they would repurpose a transport repurposed for close air support to be a transport against. She imagines it would have probably been easier to nab a normal C-130 with the A. Not her business though.

She found the op a little comical. Quelling terrorists. She thought that was more of a SOCOM thing. Or maybe it wasn't. Usually, any tax dollar spent on her was spent getting something from... a government. She figures, though, this will be a quick, easy bonus.

When someone needs their clothes cleaned, they get a cleaner. When someone needs their house fumigated, they call an exterminator. When someone needs their shit fixed, they get a tailor. But information is a funny business. Sometimes you need a diplomat. Sometimes you plant an officer. Sometimes all one needs is to get in a room and ask the right people. With or without teeth.

Where does this leave the humble tourist? They get everywhere, like roaches, into places they need not be. And anybody can be a tourist. But nobody knows that a tourist can be anybody. And Lucy has been a few people already.

But those others aren't the topic at hand. Lucy herself is on file, tucked between her other names, stuffed in the middle of a cabinet, next to another dossier with her grandfather's name, but not his face. A similar face. But so far removed from the man who had his prime in the 70s. Lucas Jr, here, was a fabrication.

Name: Lucille Ferriday


Codename: Tourist


Age: 27


Gender: Female


Occupation: CIA Senior Field Officer (just an agent)


Sierra / Recruitment Rank: S7 op


Gear: Usually keeps water and a protein bar on her person as well.


Weapons: Depends on the operation. If she's doing a normal old op, she'll pick up a pistol locally. If the mission is more raw stealth than social, she'll pack an M45A1, with a silencer, and an AR-15 lower. She has a variety of uppers she keeps in a duffle bag, and might be changed around depending on the mission at hand- from a normal 5.56, to the stealthy .300, from light and fast .45, to hot and heavy .50 BMG. If there's a job, she has a way to make that lower a tool for it..


Physical Description: 5' 9", 149 lbs.. Military standard training regimen. Blonde hair, kept at the bottom of the neck. Style varies on "character". Gunshot wound in upper abdomen. Slash scars on arms- externally inflicted. Pale blue eyes.


Character backstory: Born in Daytona, Florida, relatively close to the speedway. She wouldn't stay there though. Just as the tracks demand rapid travel, so did her life. She would travel the country with her family. She would travel the world with her family. She had no idea why. Until grandpa spoke.

Now, grandpa has always been the family piece of shit. When he told his granddaughter her parents were spies, it was very easy to overlook. But the girl was nosy, and figured it out.

Now, she wasn't really thrust into the world of intelligence. But it was an avenue. The family business, just about. And Lucille certainly walked it. When she turned 18, she graduated, and headed off for college for some menial degree. An associates in criminal law, or some shit- Couldn't tell you- before heading off to sign herself up as a Central Intelligence Agency clandestine intelligence operative. And she did damn good. Stealth. Social and otherwise.

Now, that's not to say she didn't ever get caught. And that's not to say her catchers got a chance to report what was going on.

The glories of a foreign pistol in a foreign land is that they expect it to be there. So are it's bullets. Even in security guards.

But now it's time to see how one deals with terrorists. Chaotic elements without discipline. Without rules. Without pattern.

Time to function for Sierra Seven.

Centaur Red Mage.

[Thread Closed]