The Days After (Game Topic)

Hunter: He puts his flask of water away and checks outside, then flips his radio to an open channel and spoke into it. "This is leftenant Simon Riley, NET Special Forces, on a mission deep into UGW territory. If any NET unit can piggyback me near the Enclave i would appreciate it. My location is, uh, 3 clicks from Contested Territory, a bombed out shack just off the main road.Over.". He sat back down and looked at his dog tags. He pulled them off and stowed them in his vest.

He pulled out a packet of the same explosives he used on the tanks, except this was high explosives. He quickly ran over to Blackwell's Corpse and pulled his tags and knapsack off, then stuffed the C4 under his body and ran back to the shack, holding the detonator. Hopefully the NET would take the bait.

Wright starts to walk down the hall keeping mind of the guards on the catwalk, as he nears the cell 627 he puts one hand in his pocket and as he passed it he flew his hand out throwing the crumpled note inside the cell, as his hand returns to his head to go into a leisurly walking stance. wait 2 days to get the heat off and take a shift guarding the armory.

Clark: *Brush off my shirt, then address Evan* "Calm down Ricky. If you're going to point fingers, aim for Darius." *Turn to Darius* "He's the one that gave me four idiots with rifles to defend an airfield against NI4." *Lean against the cell wall* "They hijacked the transport trucks, assaulted the field, loaded the 130s up with some crates, then took off. The scrubs are dead, I was thrown out of a moving plane, and you two are out a few truckloads of small arms. Does that 'splain' enough for you?"

Evan:"well actually yes it does, thank you for asking". I turned to Darius."so brother, what made you think it was a good idea to leave the fate of a 1/5 of the UGW's arms to four smucks and one old able bodied person?"

Westhybrid

And now they were at the lowest tier in Western society. Prisoners.... Darius slammed his hands on the iron bars and sat there for what seemed forever, venting his anger hopefully into the iron bars and through the ground, but it wasn't working...it wasn't fast enough. Inside though, he knew the score, and it made him more afraid than everything. In the West, government was infinitely powerful and everything was influenced by it. It didn't necessarily run everything, but government could destroy you in a day, everything you ever tried to build. Darius saw that today.

He jumped to Clark and pinned him against the wall, "You are going to tell me what the hell just happened, and you're going to do it real clearly. Hear?"

Clark wasn't intimidated, he'd just survived an assault by eight commandos, "How about you let go of me before I kick your crippled ass from here to Boise. How 'bout it?"

"And you," he let go of Clark and turned to Garrett, "When we get out of here, and we will, get the homeland on the phone. I don't care who just did this, Sovereign, UGW, NET, but they just made the biggest mistakes of their lives."

"Uh huh..." said Clark under his breath. Clark didn't understand why Darius thought so highly of himself. He was the CEO of a company, big deal, he inherited it. That may have meant something in Mexico, but in UGW territory that meant nothing. You still answered to the government. The government was above everything. Society first. Service first. Team first. The individual was second. It was inborn to anyone in the West, they learned it in grade school.

"Don't worry brother, we'll fuck whoever fucked us," Garrett turned to Clark and did the same spiel, holding collar against the wall, "You've got some explaining to do,"

"I just directly threatened your two-bit boss without hesitation. What do you think I'll do to you?"

"I'll take you old man, I've got forty years on you!"

"And I've got sixty years knowledge on you, you little lap dog of a partner. Sit down!"

Garrett backed off and Darius approached, "What happened?"

"You overlooked such a major security problem, it's no wonder whoever wanted to get at the West targeted you. You sent about ten idiots with rifles to guard an airfield which transported a good amount of supplies. This squad roles in and runs the entire place over!" Clark paused for a moment, "I don't know who they are, but they knew Sambo. Most likely NET, maybe even NI4 if they're this far in. They hijacked the 5 tons, assaulted the field-which they blew through with no problem-loaded the C130s with some crates and took off. Your security is dead, I got thrown out the back of a plane, and you two idiots are out a few truckloads of arms shipments. Does that explain enough for you?"

Darius and Garrett took a moment to process all of that in,

"Assholes," said Clark, sitting down in the corner and going to sleep,

Darius didn't even know what to think of it all. He never thought the NET would take him on directly, but maybe it was because these were different times. Total war was in effect, nothing was safe now. If he got back into this business, he'd have to be more serious. He wouldn't make money in the long run at all if he assigned kids with guns to guard important shipments or if he skimped on their equipment.

"Well, that clears a lot," said Garrett, "Darius, what made you think you could leave 1/5 of UGW arms protected by 'ten idiots with rifles' and this guy over here?"

"It's not a warehouse, it's an airfield I use occasionally, but it's expensive to run and maintain. 1/5 of arms don't pass through there, that's not how supply works. You should know that."

********

Mboddz

George requested permission to land at Minot airfield. The ride home had been bumpy, but it had been successful. They'd dropped their ordinance and it'd detonated. As they left they would see the occasional explosion in the enclave hopefully destroying Western troops and morale. Descateaux awaited them on the tarmac waiting to debrief them and the teams anticipated his gratitude. He was a hard man to please, but he had to be pleased with this.

Boddz opened up the ramp as the plane landed. George taxied the aircraft to the parking area between some Phantom fighters and the team disembarked. Descateaux awaited them, but he didn't look happy.

"Sir?" said Boddz, saluting,

"What the hell is your problem? Do you even know how to run a black op?!" Descateaux was infuriated, nostrils flared, eyes focused, a stare that could break most men in only a few seconds.

"I d-d-d-d-don't-I don't-I don't understand!"

"You killed EVERYONE at that airfield! Officially the story is that Ico's airfield was raided by tribals and that they destroyed the aircraft and supplies. Ico is getting off clean! Why did you kill everyone?!"

"I couldn't help it! We were compromised!"

"How?"

"The security team's leader had seen the convoy before I actually took it. He radioed to the gate guard to investigate it," Boddz defended himself, "If I had complied, he would've found out anyway I wasn't legit and the operation would've been a complete wash."

"How did he recognize you?" asked Descateaux,

"The driver..." Boddz continued, "...the driver was white,"

"Oh, come on...you're a professional!"

"I can't see into the past, Colonel, how was I supposed to defend against a variable that for one,I didn't even see and a guy who saw the convoy an hour before I did. I couldn't have known!"

"Well then, explain this!" Descateaux gave Boddz the manila folder he had in his hand. Boddz opened and saw a picture of his team and Stewart's firing at security. It was the ultimate slap in the face on a covert operation being photographed in the middle of it. It sent the message 'We're one step ahead of you, we know what you're doing next, we own you.'

"Oh God..."

"By my count, that's you, George and Reznor all photographed perfectly in an operation!"

"Oh God..."

"You know what this means don't you?" interrogated Descateaux,

"Scrap El Dorado,"

"You're damn straight we're scrapping it, there's a mole in our network. This section can't do anything high profile until OFSA is-out-of-our-business!"

There was a bad side to being part of the elite. The bad side was that, on this scale, your enemies were also elite. They knew the score and they played the game as well. They had the same abilities you had and enough resourcefulness they could beat you at the game if you got ahead of yourself.

********
KGBoom

It'd been an hour, and Hunter kept repeating the cry for help. What kept him going was the thought that someone may come into range, someone may hear the cry, but time was running out. It'd been three hours since he'd been hit. He had to start moving, in fact, that may have been a better idea given the circumstances a while ago.

Hunter pushed the door open and it fell off its hinges. He looked out the right, then the left and pulled himself out of the doorway. He crawled as fast as he could with a bad arm, leg, and back, which wasn't fast and tried to get across the road. He managed to get across ten minutes later.

Left arm first, right leg second, pull. The same pattern repeated for as long as it needed to...

********

Clark: *While settling on the cot, check to see if the guards confiscated the gimlet knife in my boot heel. Roll over to the brothers* "Look, just relax. They'll probably just let us stew in here for a while then come to either interrogate us or take us behind the jail and shoot us. For now, just chill." *Roll back over and try to get some shuteye*

Darius: Darius laughed bitterly at Clark's response. "Comforting." Darius remarked. He sat there for a minute, then spoke up again. "Clark, you going to tell the MP's that it was the NI4?" Darius asked.

Clark: "They were organized and using Sambo. Either they were NI4, or some asshole reformed the Spetnaz." *sit up in the cot* "And they were good. I tangled with one that was at least Kandidat. Beside, would it really matter if I told them? In their eyes, we're already guilty."

Spoiler:

Jagdgeschwader wrote:

. ADestroyer360 wrote:Clark: "They were organized and using Sambo. Either they were NI4 or Spetnaz." *sit up in the cot* "And they were good. I tangled with one that was at least Kandidat."

Spoiler:

Spoiler:

Revised.

DJDimitri

Durov tried to get around that obstacle presented to him. Renner was completely stonewalling him, and he didn't know what was going to help his case, but he needed to think of something.

"The problem is that you need to find this guy out right? I can help."

"How so?" asked Renner, "How would you help?"

"If I purchase her, you'll find what guard is after her because he'll make a move or come after her. I have my own guard, they'll take care of him if I need them to."

"Your guard is NET soldiers, who I doubt will fire on a fellow NET soldier. Not only that Mr. Durov, but you'd be next on my list for killing NET soldiers and you can join your workers here."

"What can I do then?" asked Durov,

"Dimitri, for God's sakes give it up, you're not getting this girl yet," said Luna painfully,

"You can take your sister's advice and take 'no' for an answer, that's a start. The prisoner isn't going anywhere, OK? I have no idea why you want this particular prisoner so bad but she's reserved for you when the investigation is done. Until then, do not ask for her, you'll be denied."

Durov took the hint. He was not going to get her as soon as he wanted but it's something he would just have to deal with. The pair went back to the vehicle and traveled back to the oil fields. The trip had at the least been informative, if you could say that.

********

Apocalypse, Jagdgeschwader

Ugly surprises were a fact of life in the enclave. After so long in the middle of enemy territory with little help, soldiers stuck in the middle learned to expect the unexpected, but this was so unexpected that nobody saw it coming. Horrible accident? Or vengeful purpose? Supply crates normally filled with food, ammunition, and new weapons killed thirty-five troopers. It was a Trojan horse, bombed by C330s that always helped them or at least tried to help them.

"I still can't believe that," said Corsican, sitting next to Desmond in a window with a machine gun.

"What? Exploding supply drops or Rovanel?" replied Desmond,

"Both. I don't think anyone saw the crate thing, but Rovanel? Poor bastard never stood a chance."

"Man..." sighed Desmond,

"Something on your mind?" asked Corsican,

"I just...I knew that guy for two years," explained Desmond, "I used to," Desmond coughed, "I used to cover for him when Grant would be looking for blood, I'd always come up with some dumbass excuse,"

"Against Grant?"

"Yeah, bad idea, I know."

"Why would you do that?" inquired Corsican,

"I don't know," said Desmond, "He reminded me of my little brother when I was a kid. He was always getting in trouble,"

"Rich?"

"No...Donavan," replied Desmond, "He's not around anymore,"

"What happened?" asked Corsican. Somehow it had just happened, but Corsican finally got Desmond to talk about his past. Ever since he had met him a year ago, he was just this 'hard ass Staff Sergeant with a bad attitude'. Everyone always called him an orphan, but that was it, they knew nothing more. Finally things were coming out.

"We lived in Reno back in the 90s, back then it was...well it was still a desert city. In Reno there was a lot of shady business to say the least; it's really not a safe city. Anyway," Desmond adjusted himself on the M2 machine gun, "My parents would take us to the stores to get food for the home, there were seven of us, I was the second child. One day, my mother and father left with my older brother Mitchell, my younger sisters Kelly and Jennifer, and Donavan,"

"And...?" Corsican tried to keep the ball rolling with Desmond who just stopped.

"They never came back," Desmond turned his head to Corsican, "They were just gone one day. It was just me, my younger sister Allison and Rich."

"Was your family low class?"

"No," answered Desmond, "Mother was a soldier in her early years, but was honorably discharged when she was injured and she took care of the family. Father also was a soldier but left when he finished his four years. War was a way of life in our family...anyways when he was done with that he was a factory worker at the Ico chapter there and manufactured weapons. Wasn't the same guy it is now though, his father ran the corporation back then. We were..."

"Go on,"

"Happy...with our lives. I used to ride horses around town, my favorite one, Ambrose, was an American Quarter Horse about six years old and I tell you what," Desmond started to laugh at the memories, but his grin turned into a frown again, "You know what...it's stupid now. It's stupid memories of a foolish time,"

"Foolish time?" Corsican was shocked, "What?"

"It wasn't honorable, and it's not worth mentioning."

"Why isn't it worth mentioning?"

Desmond stared at Corsican with chagrin, "It's just not, OK? Enough small talk, nothing gets past us," said Desmond referring to the watch they were on.

Tyson thought about it. He thought about Desmond as a person for once, and for once he actually thought they had one thing in common. Life as an indentured servant wasn't very rewarding. He wasn't expected much of, but his parents never had time for him, they put every bit of spare time into The Road. In his respect, he just liked to sit in his room and read books when he could. Low class life in the Sovereign wasn't the worst, but it was far from the best. When he lost his parents, the government just put him into their work, doing what they needed, and his first work was soldiering.

Both of them had lost their childhoods and were forced to grow up before they should've. Neither of them deserved it, but rarely did anyone get what they deserved. Desmond was respectable as a fighter, but if it wasn't for this war, the man was a boogeyman that nobody would bother spending their time with. Desmond was 27, and he signed up to be a soldier when he was Corsican's age. 11 years of near constant conflict and service had emotionally destroyed him and while he was a fantastic soldier, he was regrettably a horrible person. There was nothing to live for, for him. It's why he didn't mind serving in frontline combat for so long, it's why he didn't care what people thought of him, it's why he didn't care how he looked and it's why he didn't care what happened to those against him. When Tyson or anyone else here shot a man, it was intense. You were taking someone's life from them, it was a strange feeling, but with Desmond, that feeling was gone a long time ago. In a sense, he was a husk of his former self. War destroyed everyone eventually, and every day spent here was another day closer to becoming him. What Silva had told him earlier scared him. He'd have to retire some day from being a soldier, but if it came too late and he turned into him? He didn't know if it'd be worth it.

Still, if you had been told, you wouldn't have believed it, but Desmond opened up today to him. He didn't think it was possible, but he did it, just a little. As much of him that was destroyed, there was still something left. Tyson would try to bring it back though. Everyone deserved happiness, if only just a little.

********

Snowwolf

What was important in this situation was that he didn't lose perspective of how this needed to happen. Impatience was a surefire way to get himself found out, so it was all about timing. Naomi's cell was on the first row out of the main chamber, down on the opposite end of the building. In count, five guards patrolled the eight halls of cells. Another five walked the catwalks above. It wasn't hard to make a move without anyone seeing, there were clear holes in the watch.

Naomi's cell was easy to find, she was the one crying lowly in the back. Every extra minute spent here angered Wright to no end. Occasionally, guards took turns raping the female prisoners in their cells, and she was no exception to the rule. One of the men in his group had took advantage of her last night and she'd been awake crying since. His message wasn't much, but it was a chance of hope. When he passed, he dropped it in the cell, undetected by guards. Neither of them said anything, but Naomi read it and immediately ripped it up as instructed.

The next goal was to somehow gain access to the armory, another part of his plan, and also find a way to release multiple cell blocks at the same time. 200 prisoners being released at once was a force to be reckoned with, but when a breakout happened, the protocol was shoot to kill, all bets were off. If they were to gain access to the armory, they could fight a bit more efficiently, but in all honesty it would've probably been drained by any extra guards taking the remaining L1A1s.

Giving prisoners guns would be a slight advantage only as well. Prisoners stood no chance against the military guards. It would only go to further enhance the confusion.

********

Wright clenches his fist as he sees Naomi with tears running down her freckeled cheeks from her purplish eyes. he keeps ridiculing himself in his head as to how he was too late, but somehow comes to the conclusion that he couldn't have done anything.

as he keeps walking he tries to locate a switch or panel that operates the cells if not it was going to be a hell of a time trying to let the prisoners out. after his shift ends he leaves to his bunk(night time right?) and attempts to go to sleep. the next day as he walks to his next guard position he takes the scenic route passing by the armory and the wardens office trying to look for a key holder by both.(and what is the date of the current time please?)

Dimitri: He sat with papers in front of him. He had gone through the documents and found what was so desired from this girl. Her eyes. She was a pure blood from the tribes that were eradicated to expand NET borders. There was little record about where they were from, how long they had been there, or where they came from. The records documented that pure members did in fact have purple eyes. The hair color was light brown or in some cases red. Other features came from where the exact tribe was located but it was a rare find.
Luna walked into his study. Sweetly she spoke "Dimitri I have brought us something to eat."
Dimitri looked at her. "I found out what was so special about her."
Luna sighed "Let it go, they aren't gonna give her up."
Dimitri sighed as well. " I know, but her genes are so.... different that she is so rare. I need her."
Luna responded "Oh yea? How you going to do that big man? Can't take on two soldiers with a pistol and surprise but you're going to take a slave is that it? "

Dimitri rubbed his chin in thought. "No... but I can have others do it for me."
Luna "Who?!"
Dimitri "Mercs."

Meatshield, Kiwi

Seven miles above the earth's surface, a flight of Phantoms flew, led by Major Morrison and Captain John. In the past year, they had led the 389th in kills with 24 kills to both their names. Not every day brought victory, but every day they flew against the West was a chance to bring down another plane, and another chance at victory.

Today's sortie was standard CAP. Fly into enemy airspace, find enemy aircraft and destroy as many as possible. The majority of their sorties were CAP, or combat air patrol, being a fighter squadron, although occasionally they were assigned ground attack sorties or fighter escort, usually in support of ground forces. John, being the radar intercept officer, noted something on the radar, long distance.

"We've got bogeys on the radar...sixty-seven miles out...heading 0-7-4"

"What are their angels?" asked Morrison,

"...High, Angels 9" John needed time to deduce all these answers.

"Keep an eye on them," Morrison talked to the flight, "Flight tighten formation, heading 2-6-1"

"Bogeys are now sixty-two miles...still heading 0-7-4,"

Normal activity around the southern area was usually pretty empty. If you were to head to central, or where Bakken and heaviest fighting was, the radar went nuts. You couldn't tell who was who and pretty often things came very close. Here in the south, it was different. Flights were normally very high in the air and dogfights came to firing missiles at one another.

"Now fifty-four miles...speed is about Mach."

"About four minutes to engagement, prep missiles, master arm on," broadcasted Morrison,

"Master on," said Wing 1,

"Master on," said Wing 2,

"Master arm on," said Wing 3

Phantoms had received various upgrades since the war began. In the beginning, Phantoms could contend UGW AV8 Shrikes and that was about it. They were easy pickings when it came to fighting F15s which outclassed the Phantom in every single way possible, but upgrades along with pilot skill gave them a bit more chance. A recent addition to the NET Air Force was F14 Tomcats, which were being developed as carrier fighters in the event that the NET managed to get an aircraft carrier working. In the past twenty years, the NET was investing in constructing a Navy. Progress was slow though, and only two battleships and two destroyers had been built. The next goal was to make another destroyer followed by an aircraft carrier. The F14 Tomcat (Every NET aircraft used its old world namesake, seeing no reason to change it) was picked as a suitable aircraft for that project, but wartime had forced its introduction to combat the UGW F15 Eagle, (Which the UGW called the 'Linebacker'. The UGW used to use old world namesake, but changed them to not conflict with the NET)

"Bogeys now forty-two miles,"

"Sundown tower, this is Red flight, are there any other flights in the area we should be aware of?" asked Morrison,

Sundown tower didn't respond initially, as usual, "Negative Red flight you should be the only ones in that area,"

"Roger, did you get that cowboy?"

"Target is thirty-eight miles now, we're still on course to each other. Wings, do you see the flight on the radar?"

"Affirmative, contacts as per your vector," said Wing one,

"Cowboy, do you confirm the earlier statement?" repeated Morrison,

"Loud and clear, should be suspicious, targets are now thirty-four miles,"

There was a good chance that this flight would be hostile, noting their direction and that no other friendly flights were supposed to be in the area. Another two minutes of constant updates brought them closer and closer until eventually they got to around sixteen miles.

"About fifteen miles now, I've got a lock," said John, firing his missile, "Fox one! Fox one!"

The radar guided sparrow missile flew off the wing. Traveling around Mach, the missile flew off into the distance but nothing exploded. Semi-active radar guided missiles tended to be unreliable at times, so they closed the range to use more reliable IR missiles.

"Missile skosh, switching to IR," announced John,

"Wait for a lock," said Morrison

"I've got it," replied John, "Fox two! Fox two!"

The sidewinder missile flew off into the distance and this time around, a blip on the radar disappeared. The missile had gotten the kill, and they were now five time aces.

"YEAH!" said both of them, that was the twenty fifth insignia on the nose they got to paint now. Twenty five kills made them the second highest scoring aces in the NET, only behind a pilot stationed at Stanley in the north, who had twenty eight kills. They were still nowhere close to Satan's Chariot, who had scored over ninety eight kills in his F15, the latest reports said. There had been times where they had gotten into gun range with him and just ran the other direction. It happened more often that you would think. When a pilot saw his painted red nose, and his tail with ninety eight little red outlined gold stars, (NET insignias) most pilots rather turn and ran than try to engage.

Gun range approached because missiles were fired that were just countered. John switched to the 20mm Vulcan cannon, it was time to show off their skills again. The two flights approached each other rapidly with the hostile airplanes coming in from above. AV8B Shrikes were identified as the targets, three of them coming at speed.

"Alright now, moment of truth, don't get hit on the initial shot!" warned John, it was daredevil stuff when two planes flew straight at each other because it meant that the two were going to fire at each other immediately. Well enough, John opened fire and 20mm cannon fire flew by them as well, making shrikes and wizzes that were deafening. One Shrike hit one of the Phantoms in the engine, which forced the Phantom out of the fight.

"Stroker, that looks bad, you need to get back!" said Morrison, his third wingman's second engine was spitting black smoke, having taken a cannon round in the intake.

"I'm pulling off guys, sorry!" said the Phantom pilot. Airplanes were fragile if hit in just the right spots, but a cannon round never felt good either.

Morrison and his wingman flew left, while the other lone Phantom flew right to counter the third man in the Shrike flight. Pulling a hard six G turn, the two pilots breathed strategically to prevent from blacking out and looked for the enemy aircraft. They completed the turn and looked for hostiles, but they didn't see they were actually coming straight on.

"Shit, shit! Straight on!" said John, Morrison reacted to it and banked left avoiding possible enemy fire. The enemy turned into them and now they were in a vertical rolling scissors, constantly flying into one another's sights just to fly out in a fraction of second. The maneuver looked like a double helix shape, constantly twisting to engage each other. After about fifteen seconds of that, Morrison pulled out of it and leveled off with the Shrike following soon after. Morrison hoped to get at least a little bit of time before the enemy pilot noticed, but he noticed immediately.

"Kieran, I need help with this guy, he's on my six!" said Morrison, trying to get help with the hostile AV8 now focused on him.

"I've got my own problems Major, we've got ourselves a furball here, I'll help as soon as I can!" All of them had one plane to engage. Effectively, each pilot was alone in this situation.

Morrison pulled the stick into him, forcing the plane to pull up, but the AV8 was on his tail and wouldn't let go. A few stray shots were fired, one hit the wing, but that damaged was negligible. The next objective was to be as maneuverable as possible to not allow the enemy time to line up a shot. With these guns, you sacrificed quantity for quality. A 20mm Vulcan cannon could put out an amazing volume of firepower, but ammunition was very limited, ranging anywhere from 300 to 500 rounds in the plane which was expended very quickly. If you were maneuverable enough, nobody was going to risk their rounds on a guess, so pilots fired only in small bursts, quite literally tapping the trigger.

"I've got my eye on him, he's going to launch a missile," said John, turning as far back as his equipment would allow him to. Preemptively, John launched flare after flare after flare to keep the jet from gaining tone.

"I'll try and shake him,"

"I can't do this all day!" John threw more flares to keep the tone off, tantamount to suppressing fire almost.

Morrison engaged the after burner and got the Phantom up to mach. Most single engine jets topped out at Mach or close to it, so speed was one thing they had on their side.

********

Mboddz

OFSA is either deceiving us, or they have a mole in the system.
We'll find it out eventually, right now, all high priority operations are out.
Until then though, we still need you out there.
Take on the tasks of a Hunter.
Go into the city, bring down as many hostiles as possible from the darkest corner.
Be feared, make the prey cower and fear for their lives.
May God have mercy on their souls, for you will not.

The NET had a name for their snipers, they were called 'Hunters of Men' or more simply 'Hunters'. It wasn't a specific group, because any man partaking in these activities were called hunters. With the NI4 shut out covertly, the operatives need to be used. Lieutenant Boddz was assigned as a Hunter. A lone sniper deployed to hostile territory to cause as much trouble and chaos as possible armed with an R700 chambered in .338 Winchester Magnum.

Boddz moved rubble out of the way and barely scraped by collapsed concrete in an alley, ducking his head. As he approached the road, he looked for places to set himself up. This was a situation where the NI4 shined.

Lone wolf.

********

After moving up the road for a few additional minutes, Boddz silently crept up to the east edge of a four way intersection. A small UGW patrol casually rounded the corner of the north end, forcing him to swiftly duck behind a pile of rubble again. The handful of UGW troopers eventually pressed southward, giving the NI4 agent a much needed window to find a position.

Boddz briefly scanned the panorama before settling his eyes on a abandoned four story housing block.

"Still structurally sound...but chipped enough to be overlooked. I'll take it." Boddz thought to himself as he skulked around the back of the building, looking for a service entrance of some kind.

Mike's search was quickly ended as he stumbled upon the back door to the complex's laundry room. It was hanging on one hinge along, but still movable with out too much noise. After some careful manuevering, Boddz slipped through the doorway, before dragging one of the rusted washing machines in front of the door (as quietly as possible).

"Wont stop someone from bursting through this door if they want to; but it will make a hell of a commotion." The Hunter thought.

After creeping up two flights of stairs to the thrid floor, Boddz found a torn up room with a broken out window. The room itself overlooked the entire intersection, and gave a perfect firing lange for the west street leading up to it.
He swiftly took a small nightstand and carried it out into the hall behind the room to set up his rifle on. Mike had no intention of letting some fresh faced UGW trooper spot his muzzle flash.

Suddenly another patrol began to emerge into view on the west street. From what he could see there was about four or five of them so far. Before lining up his sights, Boddz quickly turned around and planted one of his claymores at the top of the stairs. He also ran in to the room behind him to ensure the fire escape was functional. After being satisfied that his secondary way out was sound, the NI4 operative scuffled back up to his rifle and took in a deep breath before raising the scope back up to his eye.

Mboddz

This area of Bakken was a no man's land, bordering the enclave and the buffer zone the NET kept. Occasionally fighters of both sides entered it. Sometimes they fought in it, and it was a good area to enforce that buffer. The Lieutenant would settle for somewhere around here, an optimum place to find targets, he silently moved quickly down the road east when a patrol of soldiers came out of a building just to the north on an intersection. He couldn't tell at first who they were, but then deduced they were Western, evident by their language and accent rather than their mix matched armor and equipment which by now was a variety of NET and UGW equipment. The NET was a French speaking country and their accents were so different than each other, you could tell who was who in seconds if someone was talking.

Boddz ducked into rubble quickly and played dead, they were coming this way. The occasional dead body in the streets was fairly common around here and with their large coats they may not necessarily be bloody. It took a few minutes, but the patrol eventually passed him, at one point coming only a few feet from where he was. Once he was certain they were gone, he picked it up again. An apartment complex caught his eye, there were a lot of them in the city, they made excellent perches. He crossed the intersection and went down to the building going through the alleyway behind it. He opened the back door hanging by one hinge with Hi-Power pistol drawn and checked the room, a laundry room with a few machines and an iron board in it.

Boddz attempted to move a washing machine in front of the door, but it was far too heavy to be moved, let alone quietly. He gave up that endeavor and moved up two flights of stairs, pistol forward. On the third floor, he looked through rooms for a good vantage point. The first one he came to was good tactically, but when he turned to the couch he found a half decomposed skeleton with a gun in its hand. The ghoulish view made him reconsider his position and he moved over to the next room, which was just as well. It didn't seem so at times, but Bakken was a graveyard. A graveyard for 25,000 people, military and civilian.

The next room over was, again, just as well to be used. He sat as far back as he could from the window and pulled a stool from across the room to lay his rifle down. Optimally, this was the best situation, but that also didn't happen often in a warzone and it also wasn't how you identified the pros from the rest. Being able to improvise on the spot was where you shined.

Ultimately, the stool wasn't high enough to where he could shoot at anything down on the street. The only thing he'd shoot would be the church steeple a mile away. He instead leaned against the wall, ever vigilant of those on the ground. The key to being a sniper was patience. When he fired, he would move, without question with the sole exception of it being too dangerous to move at all. Although in that situation, he was probably dead anyway.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the same patrol moving further up the street with their back to him, column formation. Boddz put the scope to his eye, the chevron in the sight lined up onto the trooper's back, and he put his finger on the trigger. This would have to be a kill, he was moving after this shot.

The shot rang out, echoing across many blocks. A man dropped, and the team scrambled. Boddz was headed now to the second floor where he'd take another shot when the time presented itself. He'd then egress out.

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