"High noon" still has a resonating historical significance not lost on the people of New Amsterdam. Old cowboy movies, complete with John Wayne standing in a dusty, old street are imprinted upon people's memories, helping them recall a simpler past where grudges could be settled with guns. By 2511, these movies have been remade countless times over with different set pieces, but nostalgia continues to be an ever-present factor. It's not nostalgia that drives the UNA soldiers and Morningstar agents into position during this hour, but the time itself serves as a reminder. A call to a different time and a different past.
Outside, the sun burns bright, but people sleep soundly, shades drawn securely over their windows to create a false darkness. This is why the UNA strikes at noon: their targets will be vulnerable, comforted by the presence of daylight only a drawn shade away,
Across town, Morningstar's agents are preparing for their own strike. One of them makes a joke about the non hour. He's told to shut it. They have fifteen minutes. Is everyone ready? Their uniforms are black, tightly fitting. Each of them pulls their mask over their faces. Up ahead, there's a wall to scale.
Fifteen minutes and the plan goes into motion. Each agent knows the costs of this mission. Their last one ended up with numerous dead – lost – with no reward. UNA soldiers are far more threatening than the armed guards Morningstar faced on that day, but the reward is more sure. Worth the risk. They're secure in what they need to do.
Then it's time. Across the city, the UNA soldiers descend in perfect unison. Separate but thinking with one mind, one goal. Eliminate a festering problem, one that only stands to grow in a world haunted by chaos and trauma. It's their job to set things right. To restore order to a world that is currently without.
About forty five minutes in to the widespread assault, El sends out a message to everyone in the safehouse. This time, zeir communication is immediate, without the steady scrolling of text. Prepared in advance:
Hey, so. Emergency everyone. Come to the safehouse ASAP. Morningstar agents are in trouble, including a number who have helped you behind the scenes. Gaby will tell you more once you get there.
Once everyone shows up, crowded inside the part of the safehouse with the cots, Gaby gives everyone the rundown. The risk. The place where the rest of the agents are – this last bit of information being shared with an uneasy edge, arms crossed and body language giving off her discomfort. There are other people at risk, people who can't fight, who try to undermine the corporations with their regular lives, doing their best to keep the people they care about safe from their rebellious activity.
After she hands out the gear, she insists that it must be returned. But Gaby isn't stupid. Her desperation is inherent in her decisions, in the information that follows: exposing most of the inactive safehouses, giving away the addresses of the people likely in danger. Every Morningstar contact in New Amsterdam is likely at risk. So far, agents in other megacities aren't being targeted – yet. But this operation could be a model for future UNA efforts to eliminate the Morningstar threat.
The safehouses are spread across the city. Typically present in disheveled and forgotten pieces of real estate, there will be squatters and homeless alike taking up space as they move inside with the agents. This may prove a risk, and they may need to be bribed to go elsewhere, offered food and supplies. Other safehouses will be beneath bars, convenience stores, and through the storage room in less expensive apartment buildings – businesses and buildings owned by long-time Morningstar agents, kept ready in the case of an emergency like this one.
None of the safehouses will be prepared for living with the exception of cots and communal restrooms ready for use. This is a problem, but not a priority. She'll ask that everyone get out there and save the lives of the agents. Bring them and their families in safely – the rest can be figured out after that.
> RESTORING ORDER
Given the limitations over real estate and space even in a city as large as New Amsterdam, every citizen lives in an apartment building. The great majority of them were meant to be built quickly, similar layouts and designs behind them. A quick bit of research will get anyone the floor plans for these places – they're publicly available, ready for potential tenants. Most of these places are no dreamhouse, however: small and contained, they show the lifestyle of the typical Morningstar agent.
Any of the agents with a child – and there will only ever be one per agent, with the restrictions on childbirth – will have a roomier place, with better furnishing and more space for a child to run and grow up. These places will afford the family within better privacy, and many of them have drones and advanced robotics to help maintain the household, even caring for their child and keeping the door locked as the UNA soldiers move inside.
Where it's viable, the majority of UNA soldiers will move through the front door of these buildings. Never numbered over five, these soldiers will take the endless staircase up, erasing what little chances there are to run into anyone along the way. The knocks are just a cover to soothe the close-packed neighbors. Not all are fooled, and that's where the calls to the NAPD come in – though the UNA is prepared for this, too. Ready to assert their jurisdiction. Rather: their bosses are prepared. These soldiers have their orders and beyond that, only follow their orders with their formidable physicality and swift training.
But they are physically assertive: most of them are tall, seemingly without gender within thick black, metal armor. Despite their size and their robotic carapace, they are human underneath. Their extensive armor doesn't slow them down, instead seeming to propel them forward in a fight, letting them predict their enemies' moves as the mask they wear provides diagnostics and likely attacks on the fly. They carry extensive weapons and supplies, all to wear down any opponents. When they fight together, their actions are perfectly complementary.
They won't start a fight, but as soldiers, they are prepared. Though they enter through the front door, they intend to leave through a window, into a large flying vehicle outside, ready to hold the targets and bring them to a temporary dropsite. They don't expect any assailants, anyone to provide trouble – but they wouldn't be very well-trained, well designed if they couldn't expect or deal with the unexpected. They won't shoot unless someone forces the matter. Their training means their stature should be enough to put down most threats.
> A WELL-LAID TRAP
Confident and well-trained, the Morningstar agents have the plan ahead of them all mapped out. They know the shifts, the patrol patterns, especially at hours like this one. Fewer, right now, but they aren't nonexistent. Several strike teams spread out, ready to move to dismantle the UNA soldiers on site as needed. These are combat-trained agents, but five versus three UNA soldiers, or two, or even one still leads to odds where they don't win. Morningstar knows these soldiers intimately, has studied and discerned their few weaknesses. But these UNA soldiers are formidable opponents.
UNA Soldiers en route to Morningstar's goal will be handled with an eerie lack of follow-up. No reports of reinforcements incoming. The swift-moving Morningstar agents are too focused on their goal, which is close now, to worry about the implications. Besides, their information told them most agents would be away on training exercises. Reinforcements being delayed is no surprise.
Each agent has their own reason for being here, for believing that Morningstar needs to be more proactive, more forceful in fighting back. They aren't career soldiers, but people who thought that they could wield a gun and change a world that hides its problems under false promises and shimmering gloss. Many are impatient, frustrated: they were given a lead on weapons in June. They weren't mislead then, at least not intentionally, but what they got instead was a bus full of disoriented people. This cache is real, verified, and vulnerable, housed here temporarily before being moved for some unknown operation.
Once the Morningstar agents are all inside, the concealed UNA soldiers left at the base line up in formation. Perfectly tailored for the fight ahead, they move onto the site. Any agents on lookout duty will see the UNA moving in, ready to lay waste to anyone in there. This is a trap, they message frantically. The very real weapons inside are meant to mock with false hope.
The UNA aren't worried about Morningstar making off with their toys. After all, this is just as planned.
> INTERLUDE
Numerous officers pass by the holding cells in the NAPD's twelfth precinct, talking softly about what can they even do, muttering to themselves. Others pop a squat nearby and call it a well-earned day off. Let those soldiers take care of whatever mess they're cleaning up. That's not their job.
It's around this time that a third, unidentified group, takes advantage of the chaos. Well-dressed despite what is a late hours right now, they head into the precinct to take care of a dangling loose end. They show credentials that link them to New Beijing's governing body and personal security, they claim the men temporarily known as Tak and Alexei. As they're brought out of their cells, they're injected with the same compulsory drug as always, leaving them veritable walking zombies at first, leaving them unable to speak or act as they're given orders that tell them to do otherwise.
The records of these men will disappear with this action, the two of them swept away into the back of an expensive four-door sedan. The whole incident erased. Two somehow anonymous men didn't kill semi-innocent bystanders during the festival. As long as the records can be trusted, that was a fantasy. A whimsy.
Morningstar cameras will see this sedan stop near the current safehouse, near the typical entrance, and order Hei and Jake out. "Stay here. Sit down. Don't do or say anything until someone comes to retrieve you. It'll be a bit – they're tied up right now."
The man in the passenger seat in the front rolls down his window, leaning forward on his arm. His face is concealed, utilizing technology that's not the same but not dissimilar to what Morningstar has at their disposal. "Try not to do anything else too stupid, will you? The cops are gonna have a bug up their asses about you idiots."
And then the sedan rolls away, lifting up and passing through the city. Morningstar cameras will spot a specific – or perhaps the more apt word is "suspicious" – lack of license plate.
> MEDI-UNITS
Each of the safehouses were designed for the worst case scenario. There is a medi-unit in all of the safehouses, a large and complex machine that can heal most ills, but given the expensive nature of their design and the risk of using them, they're not used lightly.
The medi-units are reserved for the direst of needs. come into play. Dependent on a person's time of death to bring them back to the living, they need the exact time so that someone can clock it in and prepare the restoration process correctly. There are many risks in lacking that information – someone may come back damaged, unhealed, hurt in some way. They may not live for long. Assuming that a body is brought in with a time of death, they'll be directed to a safehouse with a free unit.
The person is kept in a medically induced coma while the machine repairs their body. What dreams someone experiences will be at the end point – which can be between 48 and 60 hours – as they slowly surface, starting to return to the world of the living. As they surface, their mind will be encumbered by images of bright blue lights glowing, swirling, communicating – but language seems thoroughly out of reach.
Once the medi-unit opens, the person inside will be thirsty. Desperate for water. But there will be no other signs of the wear and tear on their bodies.
> FINAL OOC NOTES
Please refer to the OOC EVENT POST for this event for all OOC info, including suggestions for directions on how to engage with the event and the questions thread for any questions regarding this event. The outcome for this event will depend upon character plans and actions developed in both this OOC post, and any additional plots brought to the moderators. Please feel free to submit any game-changing plans to us under the questions thread – but we will be reading all comments on the post!
The Operation will continue until September 11, IC time. An aftermath wrap up post will be made on January 26 which will detail the resolution and fallout of the event.
As a reminder, there is one power level up available for this event. This will be granted for a thread of at least 5 action/log comments containing your character utilizing their power in some way. They will need to reach the 5 comments required by FEBRUARY 23 to be eligible. Submission will be handled on the wrap up post.
Our Activity Check will be posted tomorrow, January 20, at 9 PM UTC. It will run for seven days and close on January 27. We will not post a warning list.
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meadowlarklogs2019-01-19 09:58 pm
no subject
It’s a magnificent show from an outsider’s point of view, the way Cain blasts through the pulpy flesh of an exposed soldier, the way Peggy darts towards the exit and disarms another in a stunningly quick exchange. Yet it’s harder to appreciate when standing in the midst of it all, where risk shines brighter than all the flash; the height of the enemy’s attention drawn to Cain, how close that bullet was to not having missed Peggy. Wondering how far they can push their luck before it runs paper thin and tears down the middle.
Wondering when they had stepped over that line, when stun became kill, knowing that it was always a potential reality, but reckless all the same.
His gut twists but the android pushes that back down. Adrenaline surges in a human body, making muscles feel tight and hair-trigger. Markus does not fight against the forward momentum it grants him, moving himself and his shield in tow with Patil, taking the path slowly being carved out for them. The faster they can situate towards the exit, the less time all of this has to unravel.
For all intents and purposes, he is a wall moves across the room, an impenetrable force backed by the efforts of his team. And yet he is far from the epitome of idle hands; the gash of red across Peggy’s leg acts as its own sort of alarm in his mind, a cry to action. And when he’s at the perfect angle near her and just enough to the side, his shielding is bum-rushed forward like a battering ram, colliding into the soldier she’s just incapacitated with their own weaponry. Like being hit with a steel wall, it sends them flying backwards and into another that had just switched over to heavier artillery, toppling them both to the ground.
Markus’ shield snaps back into place, like an object pulled by a strong magnet. It shines before him and Patil once more, as if it hadn’t moved at all.]
One dead, two on the ground, the time to move is now.
[Implant pinging updates, positions, constant data in the corner of his vision which he parses along with what’s obvious before them — an opportunity, but how it manifests is up to the rest of his team.]
no subject
Good, Cain! [ A little thrill rushes through him at the sight: That’s one successful kill, confirmed by the red pool quickly forming. ] Eyes up.
[ One soldier open-fires at Cain in retaliation, only to find it once more redirected above — but, oh, they’re learning. A tumble-dodge forward saves the enemy, still on Cain, and his companion snaps to attention, vision narrowed to Fitz. Silent communication leads them to divide, unsure which Morningstar agent is the source of the mysterious happenings. And Fitz lacks the time to do the math on his portals, focus too divided to calculate trajectory. A crash to the side (Peggy being clothes-lined) distracts him. Is this what you wanted, Fitz? Another sickening thud, Markus’ impressive work, but he doesn’t know that, staring down an oncoming threat. Two down, but not the two closest to the exit, engaged with the scouts-turned-instigators.
He opens the fridge door just in time to block a series of targeted shots, aimed for his vitals, bullets both embedding and glancing off the smooth surface. Saves him for the moment but removes his visuals on the soldier, the others, and the exit.
All too quickly, the soldier closes the gap between them, gun holstered so he can bodyslam the door shut, ] Shit. [ nearly crushing Fitz in the gap, saved only by his acute instincts prompting a jump back, portal opening beneath his own feet to escape, with the exit point near Markus and Peggy — not bloody fast enough. The soldier yanks Fitz upward by the arm and swings him into the cabinets, his bulletproof vest barely softening the blow of angular metal. Brutally efficient in his follow-up, the soldier’s free hand rises to grasp him securely, pulling him forward only to throttle him back again. His pained and then choked cry likely obscures the harsh crack of bone for anyone but his opponent. Winded, chest aching from the break, limbs scrambling for purchase. Fitz already knows then what the next move will be: Snap at the neck, no time to squeeze the life out of him. Can’t see the ground below the soldier’s feet for his little magic tricks. Pointless to generate an opening anywhere else. There’s nothing to move, nowhere to run —
The only way out is through.
Even from afar, the arterial spray proves striking. Horrible, warm red down his front, splattering his face, in his mouth, and smearing across the sleek silver of the kitchen. When the head rolls, sliced cleanly by the rift in space opened at its neck, the body left behind belatedly slackens, total collapse, and Fitz follows suit, an undignified (and slick) slide down metal cabinets. Although shaky hands attempt to grasp the counter, he ends up on the floor, catching his breath in raspy huffs. ]
no subject
He can't see Peggy through the chaos of the living room. He only becomes aware of Markus' tactic when the bowled-over soldier comes careening into the one with a gun pointed at his own chest, creating enough distraction to dart out of an unfavorably cornered position by the wall.
Close to Fitz, he sees all of it happen. Not close enough to lunge the distance and save him, horrified he's about to watch Fitz's neck snap -- then there's a spray of blood, splattering the floor and painting the fridge a deep color, almost black in the lack of light. Something thuds to the ground, followed by the buckle of the unattached body. Cain watches it all in split seconds of quick, thoughtless comprehension.
The two soldiers are beginning to stand. The final third has wheeled around. Closest, his bootheels skid through slippery blood to reach Fitz and haul him away where more shots explode across metal and plaster and concrete. No ordinary guns. They can't survive this onslaught. He drags him behind cover, gun in the opposite hand, wild eyes searching out Peggy and Markus. How close are they? Can they run through, or utilize the portals?]
need to get the FUCK out of here
no subject
Markus, keep going. Hallway.
Cain, Fitz: portal across as soon as you're clear.
Drawing fire.
[ Bloody hell, bloody hell. Not for long, just a few seconds at most to give Fitz enough time to see where they're going — a hop, skip, and a jump across the room, out the door, with her pulling out last. Not the original plan. But the only one they have. She scoops up her fallen gun and fires both on the trio of soldiers remaining. The bullets ping off their armour but she isn't shooting to kill or incapacitate, just to distract.
What happens next is too fast for her to anticipate or prepare for.
Peggy drops one soldier with either a real bullet or a stun shot, falling into the path of another who halts in his approach on the two men pinned down. The third makes a sharp about-face in her direction and rushes at her at lightning speed; a bullet cracks the visor of his mask in the heartbeat before they collide with brute force — a fist curls in the strap of her bulletproof vest and she's hoisted into the air and slammed into the coffee table, a sickening thud of bone on metal. The impact drives an involuntary cry from her lungs, pain in her head and across her side, but she pushes herself up on her elbows with her heart pounding in her throat, knowing she needs to get up. Needs to move. But the soldier stands over her, hefting a heavy, black rifle and she freezes, looks up at him, and — ]
run
[ — she's shot in the chest point-blank, at close range.
The armour-piercing round tears through the vest, her body jerks on the ground. And doesn't get back up. ]
no subject
A display he'll not forget.
Teeth grit hard, blood thrumming in his ears, he’s the closest to the exit and is the first to make it there with Patil at his side; but passing the threshold of the open doorway doesn’t feel like a success, not when in his periphery there’s more racket of gunfire, of splitting furniture, of Peggy who he’s lost line of sight with until he turns his body and readies his gun to peer back into the apartment through his barrier, watching a soldier put a bullet in her chest.
Her gear shredded by proximity, caliber size too big, the human body too frail, it would’ve gone through her body and embedded itself into the floor, could she have survived it?, low probability, can't calculate—]
Shit! [And for the first time since the start of this operation, Markus keeps Patil safe behind the curvature of the shield, tucked into the hall and beyond line of sight of the enemy, while the android steps out of cover and fires off shots into the apartment, shoulder pressed hard into the doorframe.
Automatic and quick-fire, two shots for the soldiers getting up, three cracking against the armor of the one looming over Peggy’s prone body, drawing attention to himself — knowing that he’s a dangerously tempting target, by way of being Patil’s protector.]
Peggy's down
I'm at the exit
[Plan's gone to hell and back; he's not supposed to the first out.]
need you all here on me
no subject
Fortunately, Cain’s message cuts through the haze (smells like iron, tastes like metal under his mask, feels wet wet wet down his front), and Fitz shifts into a wobbly crouch, still using his partner as an anchor — but it’s Peggy Carter who galvanises him, every nerve and synapse alight at her messages, electricity running rivulets down his spine. Reaction time’s still delayed, reboot in progress. No, no, no, no, no. They already took their shot with Cain’s drop from above. It won’t work twice, not with the soldiers’ hardware. They adapt too quickly, condensing half an hour of analysis or more on Agent Carter’s fighting style. And they already know how the two halves of this team react when their counterparts are threatened, ever keen to draw bullets like supermagnets. Time is fixed, he tells himself. Think your way out. Carter's invincible. That's basic quantum physics.
Unless time is nothing. The shot rings out, and Markus’ message prompts another wave of nausea.
Automatic response kicks back in, his brain cycling through scenarios in double-time. Fitz saves the timestamp in the corner of the interface, marking the minute that the bullet stopped her heart. With Markus pulling focus (an impressive display, given his intended purpose), he finally releases Cain and rises to visualise a path, not to the exit — but beneath her. Even the nearby soldier misses the opportunity to follow, expecting offensive action in accordance with the prior data. ]
Cain on Carter.
[ As in: Cain, pick up the limp body haphazardly crashing beside us (sorry, boss). Fitz’s turn to clap a hand on Cain's back, pushing him forward, so the both of them can hurl through another portal to Markus, barely catching their balance upon landing at the exit behind him, boots still blood-slick. Fitz braces an arm across his chest, stifling the hurt from his injury as he stumbles.
Lest they forget her, Patil makes a startled noise at the slasher side of the room’s sudden appearance beside her. ]
Stairwell. I’ll open a portal over the side, and we jump, or we’re fish in a barrel.
[ Providing he can see over the railing, he can transport them to the ground. ]
no subject
If he thinks too long, he'll buckle underneath the indecision. Instinctive action is a natural element. Through the next portal, and they're delivered to Markus and Patil at last.
The adrenaline is like a crystallized haze, now, as the soldiers are learning and getting better, faster, more difficult to avoid. In moments, any one of the rest of them will get struck down just like Peggy, and they won't have anyone to carry them out for revival. He knew it was a risk, yet...
Fitz's words blink across his vision, an urgent message flagged to the foreground. A sharp nod is all he gives. Carrying Peggy's additional weight, he heads directly for the stairwell, relying on Fitz to get them out. The presence of the UNA soldiers at his back is like a hot brand. It feels wrong to face away, to run, but they have no choice. With nothing but Markus' shields between them, he rests all of his trust now on his team members. His end of the feed is nothing but concentrated silence.]
no subject
Peggy’s limp body, carried by Cain, is a constant presence searing itself into his mind; it’s a bell pealing notes of wracked concern and pre-emptive guilt, but he knows now isn’t the time. Markus’ mind employs an android’s innate ability to focus on the prerogative, the priority of keeping his shield constant and unerring, to move, to run.
And he does. He brings up the rear, fleet-footed to add to the tempo of their fleeing gait. To the stairwell, not looking back, knowing those cracking noises shadowing them are nothing more than heavy artillery ricocheting against his shield at odd angles. The UNA soldiers already dogging at their heels.
His barrier is more than enough to keep them covered and then some. He tells himself that their pursuers won’t be getting past, at least not before they meet the stairwell first — which comes into view with a tight skid around a corner.]
no subject
But the soldier shoots Peggy point blank and the bullet blows open her vest, revealing a blue glow and ricochets, deflected by the second layer of organic armour more unstoppable than the first. The force of the bullet is like a freight train to the chest, knocks the air clean out of her, immobilises her in the precious next seconds that follow. Before the soldier realises she's still alive, Markus draws his focus and the floor bottoms out beneath her, she drops next to Cain, and she has no breath to groan as the landing jolts her aching bones.
It's all a blur after that but she knows they're running. Running, running, bullets pinging off Markus' shields as they make their escape, she's dizzy from the lack of air, and then there's the clear swooping sensation of falling again and she thinks, distantly, that she's passing out but — no, they're actually falling: through Fitz's portal, a yawning maw in the middle of the stairwell. And then they land, storeys below their pursuers, a whirlwind as they keep up the pace, another portal and another until —
They're clear.
They're clear and just as darkness encroaches on the edges of her awareness, her diaphragm finally releases and Peggy jolts back to life with a ragged, desperate gasp for air, groaning when it stretches her aching ribs with the effort. But she sucks in another hungry breath then coughs, blinking back the spots in her vision. ]
I'm all right, [ she wheezes against Cain's shoulder, grasping at it to get him to slow down and stop, already shifting to slide down off his back. She repeats herself, stronger and steadier even as she catches her breath: ] I'm all right. Put me down, I can — I can walk.
[ And her knees will buckle when she gets to her feet, but more out of shock that she can even manage to do so than grave bodily injury. Because there is none: she's fine. Her vest isn't but she is. Peggy pulls off her mask and looks down at herself, pressing a hand to her chest, then up at her boys — because this is a mission and they are her boys for the duration, running point or no — and repeats again, voice faint with confusion, pain, wonder, question: ]
I'm all right.
no subject
That's two for two on killing Directors of SHIELD, Agent Fitz. Is there nothing you won't do? ]
Jesus — [ already pivoting to follow her voice, nearly stumbling in haste to reach her where she's wobbled between him and Cain in their loose formation. Somehow, he catches her arm, balancing her and himself in turn (taction makes her real, vibrating with life). ] what the hell, [ his voice cracks. ] Carter.
[ The awe that seeps into his voice says you shouldn't be alright but, at the sharp look he gets for violating her order to be put down, he course-corrects. ]
You are. [ a tug forward, helping her along, because they may be under cover, but nowhere is safe enough to linger. ] Don't even care if you hit me again.
[ If not for the tremor there, it might be a joke (in reference to how she, too, slammed him against a wall; different venue, same intent). He ought to keep his distance from her, emotionally and physically, when she arrived a short two weeks ago and has yet to identify herself as an SSR operative. Only he can't muster any of his practised coldness with her now.
Please don't hit him again, he's awfully fragile. ]
no subject
And feels like he's seeing something personal, the three others on this team veritable strangers for the brief exchanges he's shared up to this point. Cain follows at a lagging pace as they head out of the tunnel passages.
Thrown into a chaotic mission, volunteering on an impulsive whim (why did he do that?), the next step is unclear.
He's no hero. But this war isn't over. Fallen to thin-lipped silence, every muscle remains wired with tension and aware of that fact. He keeps the gun pressed in close to his side as they move. His intent is to get to a safe point, then branch off... somewhere else, wherever his skills are needed.]