Futuristic Exorkismos: Apocryphal Light

[Arkangel]

Reserved for chapter index.

 

[Arkangel]

EXORKISMOS: Revelation I - “The Seventh Day”

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Melker Skarsgård

DECRA Special Division: Task Force - "Spectre"

02 : 35 : 45 … “Agent Holt is down. Confirmed KIA.”
“Continue with the operation.”

02: 42 : 02 … “Success rate low for Task Force 6. System is requesting that we abort this mission.”
“Request denied.”

02: 42 : 06 … “I have no authority over the system’s protocol. It’s pushing back against command directives.”
“This is Director Berezkina. Identification number SU9373028. These are direct orders from command to suspend automatic systems command until the conclusion of Operation Bedivere. Any consequences for this suspension will be held responsible by the holder of the identification number.”

02: 42 : 32 … “Systems suspended. Engaging in manual operations.”

02: 51 : 12 … “Agent Covron is offline. No on-sight confirmation. His pulse monitor has been deactivated and the task Force no longer has an active initiator. The same goes for the equipment specialist and both the combat medics.”
“Transfer duties to the next most compatible agent.”

02: 51 : 23 … "Negative on substitutes. The others fail to meet the required psychological parameters. Remaining operators are requesting backup. Should we send in the rescue team?"
“...”

02: 52 : 34 … “Director…?”
“It appears that this is futile. Terminate operation profile and enforce deletion level five. Begin Protocol VII for tomorrow. Enter the final phase of the current operation.”

The order to execute drastic measures was the cause for several hesitations from the command center. Some had turned their view to the director with uncertainty, while for some others, they simply continued their duties without question. Such was the common nature of the DECRA command room even before the revival of the agency. There were always a few who were irresolute. After all, no rational individual followed daring orders without some degree of consideration.

But at the end of the day, they did as they were told. They were just glad to not be on the field.

“... Understood, initiating the removal of operations data. Terminating comms with Task Force VII. In the case that the pulse monitor does not report red, manual deactivation will be prepared for the Director to approve.”

It was but a moment for them to reconsider their options. No soul was brave enough to question the directive. Although they would likely not be subjected to harsh punishments, the breach of contract from their application to join the force was usually enough. They needed the pay. Otherwise, most of their actions would have been for nothing. At least personally.

Melker, while he cared little about the remuneration, was similar. He positioned close to the Director, standing only a tile away from the command station where she stood, quietly observing the operation displayed on the screens before him. As according to the agreement, until the agency found a suitable task force, he was required to watch the test operations from the side, having no say in how it should all be run. Which opened up to several moments of intensity between himself and the Director.

There was no way anyone could be this pragmatic. She was a machine, programmed to cull the incompetent and find the absolute best.

“Those were good men. That team had the highest skill rating among the forces we’ve formed so far. We should have at least extracted Agent Covron and Holt. Their experiences on the field outranks my own.”

“We have more than enough agents who are able to contain demons of D-rank and lower with minimal effort. Such miniscule achievements mean nothing in face of this organization’s primary objectives.” the Director replied, her tone deadpan. A slight accent indicated that English was not her native language. But compared to most educated Soviet officers, her sound was unusual.

“Even the HCD struggles with anomalies above B-rank. You are expecting unrealistic results, paid for by the deaths of good men.”

The Director was quick to retort, "According to the regulations ratified by the United Nations board, we are obliged to recruit operatives through incentives rather than mandates. These agents have voluntarily accepted the terms presented, signing on to the task force of their own accord. Their responsibility was to deliver results. As they have done so, they will be compensated accordingly - no more, no less."

The legal technicality was nocuous. Melker had heard it before, repeated by figures of authority of many institutions. Not once was he able to apply the same logic to his actions. They were right, and that was it. He was never particularly disgruntled about their reasoning. He was impassive, as he understood that sacrifices were crucial to the ordeal. But he still felt genuine disappointment. While the objective of capturing the demon ‘Bedivere’ was the central purpose, these operations being used as mere test runs for the main task force of DECRA had Melker somewhat discontent.

“I trust that answer was sufficient. We will continue the exercise tomorrow as previously stated. You are no longer permitted for duties for today and thus dismissed. Do svidaniya. Expect bucatini pasta from the cafeteria tonight.”

Melker had more to say, but no words to help articulate his thoughts. Perhaps it was the way she ended her interaction with the mention of another subject. It was her formal, roundabout way of telling people to fuck off.

He was not looking forward to the meaningless deaths tomorrow had to offer. Should the Reaper have to drag more souls to the afterlife, he simply wished that their sacrifices had a deeper meaning.

EXORKISMOS: Revelation I - “The Seventh Day”

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Task Force 7: "Spectre"

Town Chelwater Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

Your presence was requested. Supplied with the necessary details about the operation, the lack of briefing and team exercise was highly unusual. Whether or not you were appointed to a specific task force mattered not. It was clear, from the beginning, that command wanted you to cooperate with strangers from the same agency without a proper meeting. You were specifically requested not to contact the others. The operation was to remain clandestine, and all parties were suspended from speaking, even during the gathering.

Those called for duty entered separate chambers within the DECRA headquarters, stationed within the hearts of New York City, where the Empire State Building could be viewed from the highest floor of the building. This was another unorthodox order. Instead of sharing the same equipment room, the command had explicitly divided the chambers for single use, barring communication between members. It was designed to arouse suspicion. But that might have been the point. Regardless, as mandated, all members were given time to consider their loadout, and when ready, were guided by an affiliated agent to the garage floor of HQ.

Within the instructions received, your loadout had to meet the following criteria: you were required to equip the only helmet that was in the arsenals, hanging within the black locker. It was a ballistic helmet with several odd pieces of equipment that made it stand out. But unlike most ballistic helmets, this one in particular covered your face, shielding you from having your identity known by third parties. The features of this helmet were the reason behind why you could not converse with others. Any attempt at speech, groans, or noise from the head was blocked from reaching the outside. However, the sound was not nullified. You could hear yourself and other noises. You just could not speak.

After the final member of the squad walked into the garage, wearing the same gear everyone else had the displeasure or pleasure of wearing, you and the others were directed to enter a bearcat from the back, and with no time to waste, the driver followed the destination route on their GPS, donned with the same black equipment. Approximately a minute after the vehicle exited the building, everyone within the vehicle would receive a message from command, alerted to them via the tablets installed above their bulletproof vests, expendable with a firm pull.

It had the following mission description.

“A demon of the A-rank variety has appeared within the exclusion zone of Town Chelwater in Stamford, NY. The investigations departments have confirmed that it has attached itself to one of the residential manors. The specific reason as to why it has decided to find comfort at an abandoned mansion from the 1960s is unknown. The DECRA command has formed this platoon based on the following details about the containment target:

• We have designated the title “Bedivere” for this demon.
• The target’s appearance is reported to share similarities with the fictional Wendigo. Requires further evaluation.

• It possesses the ability to reanimate the dead, among other abilities shared by demons ranked below A.

• Bedivere has several special abilities that have made preparations for this operation difficult.

• Any intruder into its domain will fall victim to Bedivere’s psychological manipulation. It knows where you are and can scan your memories, adapting its defenses accordingly. This ability appears to also affect animals and insects, such as rats and roaches.

• Bedivere can control the face and voice of anyone the subject knows. You are advised to never remove the specialized helmet made for this operation to decrease accidental sabotage of team members.

• Noise generated via the vocal cords can be used against those within its domain. This can lead to long-term psychosis.

The Tactical Operations Center (TOC) will maintain contact with individual operators and offer feedback and information live.

Containment is possible through the methods “General” and “Method B”.

Good luck.

Panther November Witch Haze- zara3447 Nifty celestialbody mindthekat Epik_Berm

 

[November Witch]

Dia Yakovlevna

Breacher / Agent "Sugarplum"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

Dia hadn’t been in Decra for long, but long enough to follow some odd operational procedures. Though this by far was the most tedious one she’d had to go through. Separate rooms for everyone, no communication or familiarization with members, very little information given… This demon probably had some sort of memetic manipulation. Perhaps it was a cognitohazard of some kind? Either way, she reluctantly donned the special helmet. Dia normally didn’t like wearing helmets, as it was a pain to get her hair situated after an operation. But she wasn’t paid to do her hair, she was paid to do her job. So she had reluctantly put it on in her room, and grabbed her other equipment. Notably an AA-12, and MP7 slung around her right shoulder with straps. Around her left shoulder was something akin to a metal gun case. But it was her Mk.3 BaDS. Ballistics and Deployable Shield system. It slowed her down significantly, but it let her move with the kind of freedom most couldn’t in a gunfight. To top it all off, she had a sidearm tucked into a holster on her left hip. This was the extent of her weaponry, but she carried a frag grenade, a flashbang, and enough C4 in her bag to breach a handful of locked or barricaded doors, if they came across any.

Being the first in the garage, Dia had the pleasure of scoping out those around her. Studying the loadouts they brought, their stature, build, height and apparent gender. All would be factors in deciding how they should approach whatever operation this would be as a group. For example, if she were to call someone to follow her into a room or down a hallway and she was using her shield, she wouldn’t want someone with a wide build at 6’2 behind her. The shield would do less to protect them compared to someone her stature or smaller. Or having someone with a sniper breach a room with her, as there were likely other weapons and candidates better suited for that. However, Dia didn’t even know if this would be set indoors or outdoors yet. As she sat within the van, running through scenarios and options in her mind, more information came through.

“About damn time…” She’d mumble to herself under the mask. The information provided was certainly helpful, but limited in scope. A scowl formed upon her face, but at least it was inside and not in the woods or some large open area. Those areas were certainly not suited for her. She was also relieved to get information upon its appearance. At least it wouldn’t be walking around mimicking humans. She hadn’t encountered one like that yet, but she’d heard about them. Reanimating the dead, however, could be a problem. Especially in a house that old. Reading more lines didn’t help, as she visibly shuddered seeing the line about psychological manipulation. But not at that. At the possibility of being swarmed by pests. If it could manipulate animals, surely it would use them to its advantage too, let alone humans.

Getting back to the important part, however, it could manipulate and control people. Specifically faces and voices. That explains the hidden faces among the group. But it also likely meant these were strangers. Being strangers meant no information on each other, their background, specialties, or how they would fight. Dia supposed it had to be done to combat this particular demon and its skills though. The part about noise being generated from their vocal chords also stuck her as vague. Did the noise have to leave their mouth? Or if they spoke within its domain, even with the mask on, would it be able to mimic them? The girl decided she didn’t want to find out, and would simply remain completely silent for the course of the mission…

However, perhaps there was a loophole. Did this mean whistling couldn’t be mimicked? If only she’d been told about this mission before. Perhaps they could have come up with at least a rudimentary communication system at that point. She shook her head. It seemed whether it be the military, the CIA, or DECRA, those in charge weren’t as smart as those they put on the field. A frustrated sigh left her lips, but it wasn’t the time to be frustrated. It was time to carry out this operation. She closed the tablet against her chest, and checked her weapons for the fourth time. She’d already done it twice in her equipment room and a third time in the garage. One could never be too cautious. Two drum magazines for her AA-12 plus the one onside it and a fourth of slug rounds. Three AP mags for her MP7, the one in it, and a fifth full of hollow point rounds. Finally four total magazines for her P46, all consisting of standard AP rounds.

She opened her tablet again after checking her equipment, re-reading what she had just seen and thinking about what lie ahead, her eyes tracing those words again and again...

End of Post

 

[Panther]

Raimondo Guerrieri

Squad Leader - Heavy Gunner / "Monsignor"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

'Rotated again. And this time it's about that demon that got rid of the previous recruit squad. Hm, I'm going to lead these people. Anyhow, thanks for the tip.'

That was the last "conversation" Raimondo would have with another person for the time being, and it had to be with one of DECRA's operational commanders - a certain guy that he has worked with in the past. Even if it were under the veil of anonymity, he could guess on good authority as to who left that message on his desk in his humble office at DECRA. Well, humble if it weren't for the fact that it also acted as his armory that contained all of his equipment, most of which he is bringing to this operation. While he would've wanted to get acquainted with this new squad under better circumstances, he can't exactly deal with the fact that DECRA cooks up other ideas from time to time. All he could do was show up armed and armored, put on a specialized helmet that didn't visually match his armor loadout, and use the tablet provided to him and the other strangers he will be working with.

Raimondo checks himself one more time before stepping out of the equipment room that DECRA provided him and following his guide. Coming to the garage at a close second, the rest of the team to come would be greeted with a 6'0" juggernaut coated in olive drab tactical plate armor from top to bottom consisting of Level IV plates with yellow reflective armbands, with the exception of the "standard issue" helmet. Slung on his back was an ammunition backpack with a belt of 7.62x51 NATO coming out of it that is loaded into an MG3 secured on the side of the backpack where his dominant hand will easily get it. For his front, an ARX-200 is slung over with a total of 7 magazines. 1 loaded with the rest kept away in pouches on the front of his plate carrier. His sidearm, the APX A1, is secured in a holster on his right side with 3 magazines, 1 loaded with the rest also kept away in the aforementioned pouches. The last piece of his loadout is a utility belt containing 2 fragmentation grenades and 2 incendiary grenades in secure pouches.

Upon looking at the others, Raimondo realized he might be the most decked out person in the squad. He has enough of an inkling to see that maybe he will be able to pair well with the ballistic shield his squadmate brought. But at the very least, the team has at minimum two assets to soak damage: himself and that ballistic shield. Unfortunately, none of them will be allowed to speak to each other, but they certainly are allowed to "speak" to each other through sign language, military and civilian, and most importantly - the tablets. Speaking of, he began typing a draft of his message to the squad through his tablet upon figuring out how to do so.

Once everyone was assembled, they were guided into their designated insertion vehicle and were briefed accordingly through the tablets. Raimondo perused the information given and the tip was indeed spot on. Thank the "anonymous tip" for that, he thought. As for his message earlier, everyone should've gotten it a little after they received their mission profile from DECRA. It goes:

'Good day, recruits. I will be your squad leader for this operation. I am the armored person with the MG3 and reflective armbands. I will make this as short and as simple as I can.'

'I am the kind of person that goes in first and out last. I am also a containment specialist, and I expect others of the same specialty to speak up so we can help other. I also expect that you all know sign language, military and civilian, enough to communicate exactly what you want to communicate with brevity.'

'We will breach the mansion together and clear it room by room from bottom to top assuming no serious disruptions from the target. We will not split up and are to remain close to each other at all times with the exception of the snipers who I assume will have already examined or are examining maps of the area and layouts of the target building to find their vantage points. Unless of course you choose to go inside with us.'

'My style is soaking damage and spitting out as much lead as possible so I would prefer to be at the front and will make sure to adjust to you all to the best of my ability.'

'Until we are onsite, we will communicate to each other through these tablets and peruse the information that will be provided. Once we are onsite, be as focused and as quiet as you can be with respect to the provided information on the target. No one is to take off their protective helmets under any circumstances per instructions. If you see the target, alert us immediately and be extremely wary of it. The Tactical Operations Center will be coordinating with us from time to time.'

From the message, it was somewhat clear that this was far from Raimondo's first rodeo. And one might be able to tell from the scanning gaze that the squad leader was giving them underneath his helmet, gauging their reactions mainly through body language before checking the tablet for any replies, comments, suggestions, or "violent" reactions.

End of Post

 

[Haze-]

Hong Dae-jin

Reconaissance - Sniper / Agent "Bosch"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

The air was going stale, stuffy, hard to pull even breaths in through the mask. He was already starting to feel a subtle sting in his lungs, a hitch at his throat. The bearcat’s wheels went round, and he didn’t know if they were still hugging the worn tarmac of NYC of if they were already off-road, closing in on the mansion. There wasn’t much going on through his head. He was in full autopilot, just trying to ignore the annoying silence that permeated in the back of their transport.

His fidgeting fingers jabbed and tapped at the chamber of his Barrett, cradled on his lap, over a leg that tried kicking a thoughtless rhythm, like a sleeping babe in its mother’s arms. Bored out of his mind, he put an eye up to the scope and followed the first thing that caught his glare. A stowaway ant hitchhiking a ride with them.

He pretended to pull the trigger, feigned the kick back from the shot, envisioned the ant disintegrated below him.

All with proper gun safety, of course.

The ride was getting unbearable. To someone as hyperactive as him, it was like waiting in an endless line for groceries. Being forced into silence didn’t help at all either. There was only so much a man could do to keep his mind busy before he ran out of options.

Dae-jin leaned back, crossed his arms, his shoulders rising and drooping as he let out a begrudging, silent sigh. He looked down at the screen on his chest, eyes absentmindedly trailing the flitting messages passing by. He stared at the screen, then back up at their squad-leader. Bulky, with reflective armbands. Just as described.

“That wasn’t short and simple— those were a whole lotsa words…” — Dae-jin chuckled, mainly to himself. They couldn’t hear him whatsoever. His style was soaking damage and spitting out lead? Was he trying to make it sound like he was describing his stats in an RPG?

The recruit brought the tablet to his hands, deciding it would, at the very least, be a good opportunity to distract himself. For a short while. His fingers raced through the screen; the message was typed out in a mere thirty seconds. He was either an i-pad kid or just had a really good WPM.

‘Hi. Call me whatever you’d like through texts for now, or finger-gun me if you want my attention on field. I’m your second marksman, the one with the 50. Cal between his legs.’

‘I specialize in the liquidation of high-priority, single targets. I put bullets in skulls. I was also instructed on how to neutralize these high-priority targets to prime them for capture. Should the squad leader advise it necessary, I will put the bullets below the waist-line instead.’

’I’ve pin-pointed at least one vantage point around the site, and while me and my back do so yearn the lonely trek up there, I believe it would only serve to further complicate the operation. Lack of communication between indoor and outdoor agents. No way for my scope to follow you through the blindspots. And a target that can alter our cognition at will. I fear I might end up riddling one of you full of holes by accident if you so much as act funny while you walk past a window.’

‘I’ll be coming with you instead and assist as best as I can from the rear guard. I have a good eye for things. I’ll signal if I notice anything unusual.’

‘That’s all. Don’t die out there.’

Dae-jin placed two fingers on the tablet, without looking. Tapped the screen four times, then sent.

'xoxo.’

Arkangel Panther November Witch Nifty celestialbody mindthekat zara3447 Epik_Berm

End of Post

 

[zara3447]

Alice Hanley-Roy

Equipment Specialist / Agent "Troya"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

This operation started out strange, and only got weirder.

Troya was no stranger to odd prep protocols or highly confidential assignments; high command liked its secret missions almost as much as it liked convenient opportunities to bring democracy to countries with oil. Still, it seemed a little excessive to throw a team into the field together comprised wholly of strangers, as all these efforts towards secrecy suggested.

Putting her loadout together was an old, familiar song and dance. The click of her toolbelt buckling around her waist. The weight of her SIG P30 settling into its hip holster. A kiss smacked onto the matte black finish of her Colt C8 before strapping it across her chest, for luck and good hunting. Unfortunately, it left her all too much excess brainpower to ruminate on these funny little inconsistencies in protocol.

Calloused fingertips absentmindedly rubbing the lipgloss stain off the barrel of the rifle, she studied the weird ballistic helmet dangling from its hook in her locker. The engineer in her itched to take it apart, break it into its composite pieces and figure out how they fit together, like with any shiny new toy. But right before a mission was hardly the time for her to be fucking around with undoubtedly expensive and crucial military equipment, so she shelved her thoughts and pulled the helmet on. It wasn't until a good few minutes later—sprawled out on the bearcat bench with black-helmed agents on either side of her, scanning the long-withheld mission details scrolling across her tablet—that she realized why exactly it had been required.

Her immediate reaction, of course, was to draw a deep breath and belt out the chorus of Toxic at the top of her lungs. It was her responsibility, after all, to ensure the equipment was in working order. Three bars later, and a glance around determined that not a single person in the truck had reacted, not even the agents sitting directly next to her. Huh. Her compliments to R&D.

A new message popping up drew her attention back down to her tablet screen. The squad leader, it seemed, had seen fit to send just about an entire goddamn speech in. Short and simple, her shapely ass. It managed to vividly evoke, somehow, the sensation of standing at parade rest for hours, listening to a series of puffed-up generals with their chestfuls of medals droning on endlessly for the pleasure of hearing their own voice. Her back ached at the mere memory of it. There were certainly a few things she didn't miss about the military.

Skimming the rest of the message, she dropped the tablet to her lap in favor of examining its sender. Faceless, voiceless strangers they all might have been to each other, but body language could tell a lot about a person. Besides, Troya had always been more comfortable with the language of motion than the delicate social subtexts her sister navigated so well. The squad leader's head-to-toe plate armor was certainly an unusual choice, but she figured if he'd picked it, it was probably for good reason. It was difficult to make out a real build beneath the suit, so she made a mental game of counting up their visible weaponry instead, calculating equipment weights and loading and probable corresponding mass. Double the slender agent with the ballistic shield, maybe, the one meticulously re-checking their equipment. She wondered whether it was fueled by caution or nerves. Or boredom, maybe, like the twitchy person typing on their screen across from her, who could give Troya herself a run for her money on restless fidgeting.

Their text came through astoundingly quickly considering its length. Troya threw her head back in silent laughter after reading it, broad shoulders shaking with unapologetic mirth. 'xoxo? Real cute, skullpopper.'

Still grinning to herself, she settled down to tap out a proper intro of her own. Wouldn't do to start off her first day in the squad on the bossman's bad side, or leave too unprofessional a first impression. 'Hey darlings, your Equipment Specialist here, the one with the toolbelt. Anything go wrong with your shit onsite, I'm your gal. If you don't need me, I'll probably be shooting or punching something.'

'Close range combat is my preference, but I'll stick behind the breachers. If anything critical starts to break, fall back, and I'll see if I can patch it up. Equipment wise, to clarify, not injury wise. I'm only responsible for your gun's boo-boos. Patching up bodies is someone else's job.'

End of Post

 

[Epik_Berm]

Dowid Kühn

Communications | Rifleman, Agent "Woods"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

The earth rumbled, soil sprayed alongside the echoey ringing of spent casings and scrambled waves, all cohesion lost as the colors smeared into the far distance, a notion of falling prevailing to the sound of an echoey yell.
Kommandant! Kommandant! Komman-!

Woods' eyes blipped open as he lay on his cot in the bleak room he'd just arrived to last night, the worrying dreamworld hurriedly dissipating to back of his conscious as he scanned the room; the memories of the trip here flooding in as he recalled that he was currently breathing air from the land of the free.

The journey here had been harrowing, but the destination was not at all what he'd've expected. Arriving into the heartland of the United States; the enemy of the working people, almost felt like a deathwish with his origins behind the Iron Curtain; that fateful excursion stiill subtly on his mind. He wondered also how an agency he thought derived from Moscow had so easily been able to inject him into the nation, but such an accomplishment gave confidence to his sphere of the world's ability to get things done.

Still hiding under dull sheets, he thought about the exhilarating but alien experience that was seeing the city on the horizon: it's huge concrete and metal-beam skyscrapers towering into the clouds and the plethora of lights and sounds, vehicles and people from all places, being a far cry from the peaceful towns and natural landscapes awaiting him back home in Deutschland. He took in every ounce of it as they sped on to the headquarters, and sort of wished he could have had a polaroid to snapshot his first non-violent exposure to the Western world, but that was not what was important right now.

Woods found the resolve to begin his day early: making his bed, gently tending his old scars before strapping up to give a study not only his personal equipment, but what was assigned for him to utilize. He had read his briefing file down to the "T" over and over, making little notes of what he could until his mind fell asleep in order to prepare for this all-new endeavor the night prior. He was thrilled to see action again, but certainly nervous to be quite a way aways from home, his comrades, and the familiar, contemporary battlefield. He hadn't had enough time to read into everything that wasn't soiled in black ink, but knew what he had to in order to function, hoping to learn more from his anonymous teammates; which he certainly thought was also a strange arrangement.

Finding his way to the armory, Woods was again curious to the fact he hadn't run into anybody important yet; having eaten alone and, perhaps by help of the silent suits, been chauffeured to all the right rooms. He stared reluctantly at the designated helmet sitting before him, instinctively reaching up to rip off all the equipment he deemed unnecessary before gently picking it up to give it a deep analysis. He had packed his own helmet in his duffel and, wondered if he ought to leave that in his room; whether they'd be coming back or not. For now though, he would be a good soldier.

===

The ride through the backlands of the state of New York gave Woods the slightest comfort to remembering the home he left behind, with every bump and roll being nothing compared to rocking it out in an old East German Ural. He showed no signs of the apprehensiveness he felt deep within amongst a large group of masked soldiers, his unknown teammates about him. A tenacious grip gave his HK no room to bounce with the ride as he held it firmly to his concerningly-light vest; his strangely out-of-date strichtarn shirt and pant sleeves unfurled to his gloves and boots. His eyes had been on der Grobian that he assumed was the leader of the squad; the choice of equipment, he thought quite strange but, acceptable if needed for this task. An awkward amount of intrigue-fueled flipping of the vest-tablet open and closed revealed halfway through the journey that he was right, his eyes scanning the flow of texts that he had somehow missed; perhaps busy reading whatever other technical information had been stored on his device.

Not being a wizard himself, he struggled out a reply to his team, having to take his glove off to try and hold steady without smearing out incomprehensive slurry.
"Hello," he typed and sent accidentally, diligently writing a follow-up message to not leave them hanging,
"You all type well. Name is Woods: communications. I'm guy with the bum leg. Dont have me run."
Typing so slow, he continued after the flurry of responses:
"I know some sign , plus NATO and warsaw hand signaling thorough. Please to workwith you all."

"Pleasure," he plopped into the chat a few seconds after he had sent his second text, his eyes eyeing up his group behind dark-tinted ballistic glasses as he slowly closed his tablet shut with a plastic clack. His focus drew momentarily onto the stranger a seat right and across from him who had dismembered the tablet off of their chest and onto their lap. He simply sat silent but curious, idly hugging his rifle as he tapped over its grooving to pass the time, having settled next to the fidgety tablet-tapper to his right.

End of Post

 

[November Witch]

Dia Yakovlevna

Breacher / Agent "Sugarplum"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

After finishing her equipment check, Dia would finally notice the pings from her tablet. Opening them up, she’d find that communications were happening between her squadmates that way. Through a group chat sort of feature. Undocking the tablet, she’d read what the others were writing. So, there was overlap in some of their specialties. That was a good sign. If something were to happen to some of them, they would still have a good selection of skills remaining, thankfully. Her and the squad leader seemed to be equipped for sponging fire and spitting lead back. However, it seemed the two were better suited for different ranges. She eyes the hulking form, bulked even further by the sheer amount of armor on him. Dia herself had much less armor. Medium to light armor was her preference, letting her shield do most of the protecting. There seemed to be one teeny tiny problem though. But she would bring that up after she tread through all the messages.

The second message though, was something she was completely unfamiliar with. The art of sniping was something foreign to her for the most part. Unless it was with a 105mm or a 120mm cannon, sniping was something she’d never had any experience with. So, she would be glad to leave it up to this person. Though the end of the message made her chuckle a bit. Her shoulders rose and fell a handful of times with amusement. But it wasn’t as much as the one who threw their head back in what she could only assume was in response to this message. That, or this person was having a seizure. But Dia decided to believe it was the former option. Skullpopper was an interesting nickname though. She briefly wondered if this squad was gonna bestow callsigns to one another and completely forego the ones given to them by DECRA. Well, maybe if it was a long term squad, she could see it happening. But not as things stood.

However, she seemed to have some in common with this person. While Dia was more of a mechanical and engineering specialist when it came to vehicles, maintenance on them still included guns. Everything from the 155mm on the self propelled guns to the 20mm autocannons on IFVs to the 7.62 coaxial machine guns on the MBTs. A gun was a gun at the end of the day. As long as it wasn’t some overcomplicated, obscure, rare weapon, she could do some fixing of her own. Not only that, but close quarters was also Dia’s preferred fighting arrangement. She had a feeling herself and this person would get along well if they got out of this unscathed.

Then there was the final sender. It seemed they couldn’t type well, or English wasn’t their first language… Or perhaps both. Though this person didn’t give much to go off of. Just communications. Dia knew some herself. Knowing her tanks she served inside and out, she knew the equipment within them and how it worked. But for the most part, it was vehicle coms equipment she had experience with. Nothing bigger or fancier than that. It definitely felt nice to have someone to rely on who would be more knowledgeable and hopefully more reliable than herself. There was nothing worse than having no contact with command, after all.

Finally it was her turn. With fast fingers, she typed out a message of her own.

I’m the breacher and mechanical specialist. You can identify me by the folded ballistics shield and deployable cover I have with me. It seems I have some overlap with some gun knowledge and comms knowledge, but the latter is limited to vehicle systems. If you need someone to operate an MBT, fix an IFV, replace a 155mm on an SPG or show you where to set the charges to make a building collapse, I’m your girl.

She sent after reading it over for a moment. But she added more quickly as an idea came to her.

Other than that, just stay behind my shield. I’ll be relying on you all to watch my ass in firefights. Since we don't have callsigns for this mission, I suggest we use the phonetic alphabet for identification.

A few more seconds passed as she nervously read over her final message a few times, swallowing her pride.

I know tanking gestures for when our mics went out, but I don’t know any sign language. So, I take full responsibility if I fuck something up.

End of Post

 

[mindthekat]

Eva Zukovic

Initiatior, Communications Specialisr, "Lone Wolf"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

As mornings go, Eva Zukovic holds no love for them. A lie-in has become a ritual, a fleeting luxury snatched between missions, something she’s long since surrendered to. The sharp chime of her alarm pulls her from sleep, and without thought, muscle memory takes over. Three shots of espresso—strong enough to burn—followed by 40 grams of protein, then a cold shower to jolt her nerves. Her room is more depressing than most interrogation rooms she's graced and yet she hardly notices with how little time she spends in it.

This morning is no different. She flows through her routine on autopilot, moving with precision through the motions. Thirty minutes after pulling herself from bed, she’s out the door, her body groaning in protest from the stillness of sleep. She jogs to the armory, muscles protesting the disuse of the night, but the ache fades as the rhythm of her run heats her blood and loosens her limbs. In no time, she’s moving again, lithe and fluid as ever. Dressing in her agency-approved kit is second nature, the tightness of the new armor a minor nuisance in her well-oiled routine. Armor has become a second skin, though she’s never felt fully at home when decked out. She’s always thrived in the freedom of less.

Through the garage she strides, then into the van, expecting at least the hum of conversation. But silence settles around her, broken only by the soft taps of fingers on tablets. Their helmets cut off any sound from leaving, so she scans the body language of her team, trying to read what their eyes can’t tell her. Without faces to read, it’s harder to decipher the subtle tells—the twitch of a shoulder, a head thrown back in what could be frustration or elation.

Eva sighs into the quiet, her breath fogging up the inside of her mask. Boredom presses against her chest like a weight, each exhale a muffled puff that only returns to her own lungs. Her hair, rebellious and curling at the base of her neck, has long escaped the lazy bun she’d tossed it into earlier. Her fingers twitch against the tablet in her lap, eyes flicking over the flashing notifications, a pulse of anticipation that isn't quite nerves, but something like it.

She’s outfitted in more gear than she’s used to for recon—yet it’s still light in comparison to most of her team, the bulky squad leader included. Her kit is minimal, sleek, designed for speed rather than brute strength. She glances at the introductions flooding her tablet, feeling the weight of her inexperience in a combat team settle around her as she surveys her team. Military types. Combat experts. The van is full of weaponry she’s barely familiar with, and for a moment, her inadequacy is undeniable. But she’s not here to tank.

With practiced ease, she scrolls through the untouched messages, catching up swiftly. A roll of her eyes comes unbidden at the endless drone of specialties and loadouts, her helmet concealing the expression. She grimaces, savoring the fleeting rebellion against the monotony, and her lips curl slightly at the "darlings" from the Equipment Specialist. The tone stands out in the sea of technical jargon. One of the others, quick-fingered like her, catches her eye. There’s a shared restlessness in their movements, a kindred pulse beneath the surface that she tucks away for later.

Perhaps we may bond, after all.

She slides down a little in her seat, positioned in what can only be described as a man-spread with her knees wide. She holds her tablet now with one hand, using the other to type out a short response.

'Zdravo, I'm your bait and your translator. If I don't die, I'll teach you some signs. I'm the one who seems to be underdressed for the occasion.'

She puts the tablet back in her lap, her hands crossed over top to kill some of the fidgeting.

End of Post

 

[celestialbody]

Ileana Popescu

Combat Medic, Agent "Fantomă"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

Ileana woke an hour earlier than she needed to, her mind buzzing with anticipation. The mission had been shrouded in secrecy, and that uncertainty kept her restless through the night. She’d woken several times, unable to quiet her thoughts. Every time she closed her eyes, worst-case scenarios played out in her mind—every possible failure, every mistake. Usually, she could shut out distractions and get a full night’s sleep, but tonight, the unknowns refused to let her rest. Despite the importance of being well-rested for the mission, lying awake only made the nerves worse.

Rather than fight the sleeplessness, Ileana decided to make use of her early wakefulness. She wasn’t one to lie around idly when she could be productive. Quietly, she slid out of bed and moved to the center of the room. She began a series of controlled exercises—sit-ups, push-ups, stretches. Each movement was familiar and grounding. Her muscles burned, but with every repetition, her body coming to life the more she moved. The physical exertion helped clear her mind, focusing her attention on the rhythm of her movements. She could feel the anxious energy inside her begin to dissipate.

After a solid workout, she followed it up with a cold shower, the shock of the cold water surging through her system. It was exactly what she needed—the cold cut through the remaining fog in her mind, snapping her into full clarity. As the water cascaded over her skin, the last remnants of sleep slipped away, replaced by sharp focus. Stepping out of the shower, she quickly moved on to get ready, heading towards the equipment room. The process of suiting up was familiar—a comforting routine that allowed her mind to focus on something she knew. There was something stabilizing about the act of preparing for a mission, something she could control when everything else seemed uncertain.

It was almost meditative: the secure, stable feeling of putting suiting up. She didn’t feel quite whole until everything was in place: the bulletproof vest, the gauntlets, the combat boots. The helmet, a new addition, felt foreign, but she tightened the straps and adjusted it until it fit comfortably. Every piece of her gear was carefully checked, each strap pulled tight, each buckle secured. Her tools were always close at hand, and she wouldn’t be caught without them. Her eyes turned to the med kit, the key piece of equipment she always carried. It was essential for her job and the most important part of her loadout. She triple-checked its contents, ensuring every necessary item was in place. Bandages, vials, needles—everything had to be accounted for. The mission could go in a thousand different directions, and she couldn’t afford to be unprepared for whatever could come their way. Her role was too important to be caught off guard.

Once satisfied that everything was in order, she packed everything back into the med kit case and strapped it securely just above her waist, beneath the tablet installed on her bulletproof vest. Once that was done she had everything in place, and she was ready to head out. The familiar weight of the armor and equipment gave her a sense of confidence. She was prepared for whatever might come, even if she didn’t know exactly what that would be.

Ileana made her way toward the garage, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the hallway. The Bearcat sat waiting for her in the garage. Climbing inside with swift precision, she was quick to sit in place, her posture straight and at attention as she settled. The vehicle hummed to life, and soon they were on their way. As the Bearcat rumbled toward their destination, Ileana glanced down at the tablet attached to her chest. The device blinked to life with their mission, then a stream of incoming messages from her new teammates. The news that the helmets made it so they wouldn't be able to communicate, while she understood was necessary, irked the side of her that knew it would make her job harder. A big part of being a medic was being able to go back and forth with someone to pinpoint what was happening and determine what to do, but now all she'd have to go off of was hand signals and gestures. Sighing heavily she turned her attention to the brief messages everyone was sending, giving her a snapshot of the team’s makeup—a sniper, a breacher, an equipment specialist, the list went on. The diversity of skills in the team was immediately apparent. It looked like they had a solid group. That was good. A well-rounded team meant they’d be able to handle whatever came their way.

When the messages slowed, Ileana took the opportunity to introduce herself. Her fingers moved quickly across the screen, typing with practiced precision.

"Combat medic here. You’ll spot me easily—I’ll be the one with the big med kit strapped to my waist. I’ll be keeping a close eye on all of you, but if something happens and you need me, don’t hesitate to get my attention. I’ll be there."

Sending the message off without a second thought she resumed sitting up straight, the same sense of focus settling over her like a second skin. She kept it brief and to the point, just as she always did. She knew her role, and she excelled at it. Keeping people alive when things went wrong was her specialty, and she was determined to do just that.

End of Post

 

[Nifty]

Jacinthe Devereux-Hart

Sniper / "Chouette"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

A seed of mistrust has surfaced due to the isolation she was thrust into. She would’ve preferred a formal introduction to help build some semblance of trust. However, like a good soldier, she keeps her doubts locked away in a box buried deep in her mind. After a contemplative sigh, she reminds herself that nothing will feel too difficult when rough thoughts can easily be soothed by the promise of rest.

Hop in, take the shot, then head out and get some sleep.

Violet eyes scan the weather report on her phone one last time before she dons the required helmet for the mission. She has no qualms about the protective headgear. It’s reassuring that it covers almost every crevice of her face, obstructing anyone from getting a good look at her facial scars. She was going to wear a balaclava anyway, so switching from one mask to another poses no issues for the woman. As her hands busy themselves with completing her light camo attire, she felt a steel texture brush past her fingertips above her bulletproof vest. With today’s weather accounted for, Jacinthe must account for vantage points, escape routes, and a proper objective. No doubt the gadget will provide. Though, the sniper would’ve preferred early access to the mission’s site layout so that she could study and produce efficient results.

Given her limited information, she decided to bring her L115A3 bolt-action rifle and a set of .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges that fitted snugly into the small crevices of her pockets. She strapped her tactical holster onto her right hip and equipped herself with a SIG Sauer P226. For added protection, she secured her belt with a sheath, where her combat knife remained.

After completing her final firearm maintenance and checks, she snugly tucked the disassembled weapon, along with a high-magnification scope, bipod, and suppressor on the side, into the straps of her rifle bag. Zipping the bag closed, she turned it to access its pockets easily and stuffed her Kestrel weather meter, binoculars, rangefinder, and extra ammunition into them. With the final pocket zipped up, she made solid eye contact with a funny-looking owl patch that she had stitched onto the bag for aesthetic purposes.

Swinging her large rifle bag over her shoulders, she exited her room to be met by a guide who assisted her to the designated meeting place. She was not the first or last one to arrive, much to her relief.

Once the party was ushered into the vehicle, she switched on the tablet and quickly acclimatised to its settings and the information it held, specifically regarding the manor’s architecture. Are the windows tempered? Her fingers fiddled just above the pocket where she stashed one of her bullets, already finding her doubts ease at the mere contact. Of course, it will; it can break through armoured glass, silly.

She continued to peruse the mission’s objective until an epiphany dawned on the woman. Oh! That’s why they kept them all in separate rooms. It’s only fair for the organisation to take precautions when it involves a demon with such ability and prowess; it successfully reduced her earlier suspicions into mere specks.

Her gaze drifted to the sender of the first message, a man with a monstrously large build, ideally suited for his role as the vanguard’s shield. She gave him a genteel nod to acknowledge his presence before looking back down at the tablet, waiting for the subsequent messages to come through. The second man to introduce himself was another sniper. He raised significant points that she had been considering; their limited communication was already a massive disadvantage. At that moment, she contemplated joining the group; however, after a few minutes of pondering, she decided against it. She had poured an excessive amount of time into memorising the manor’s external factors to avoid it completely. With that in mind, she drafted her message.

While she typed with careful precision, a new message popped up. The equipment specialist’s words were amusing enough to elicit a huff of giggling from the markswoman. Jacinthe treats her gear like her dearest pet, so she’s quite doubtful they would fail her in an important mission like this, but the specialist's reassurance was much appreciated anyway. As she finished her draft, a barrage of messages quickly filled the chatroom. Communications, huh? That’s interesting. Jacinthe lifted her head from the tablet and gave Woods another gentle nod, acknowledging his message.

Once satisfied and a final tap of her screen, her introduction was sent.

‘Good day, everyone. I’m your other sniper, Chouette—the woman with the giant rifle bag with an owl patch in front of her. I reckon I’ll set up at the vantage point that ‘50. Cal bloke’ is likely eyeing up.’

‘I’ll monitor the situation from a distance and offer as much support as possible. Since our forms of communication are a bit limited, I’ll try to keep my messages brief and relay only the essentials.’

‘Good luck, and may god be with us all.’

End of Post

 

[Arkangel]

EXORKISMOS: Revelation I - “The Seventh Day”

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Melker Skarsgård

DECRA Special Division: Task Force - "Spectre"

01 : 45 : 04 … “Commencing system operations for Protocol VII, enabling automatic preparations. Mission data has been sent to the involved operators. Traffic to the area of operations is clear. Task Force 7 is scheduled to arrive at the destination ETA in 20 minutes.”
“Notify the mayor and confirm evac of the local police. We will not be held responsible for non-operative related casualties.”

01 : 45 : 23 … “Orders received. Contacting town hall for confirmation.”

01 : 47 : 13 … The Mayor has confirmed that he has ordered full evacuation of law enforcement from the area. No registered residents have been active within the Exclusion Zone since March of last year. All lights are green.”
“Excellent. Do thank the mayor for his cooperation. I will be looking forward to his inauguration into the senate in the near future.”

Elenova Berezkina, a soviet officer with ties to the US government. A high-profile individual who became an ally of the US ever since her introduction to the UN several years prior. And the supposed distant great-granddaughter of Joseph Stalin, according to rumors. But most importantly, she held connections that others would find ridiculous considering her nationality. A soviet officer with an immense network of politicians from both the USSR and the USA, only made possible with her involvement in DECRA and perhaps her marriage to another high-ranking CIA officer, Michael Kolte. It was unknown whether or not their marriage was entirely political or genuine. It wasn’t any of Melker’s business to know.

Nepotism was the way of the world. A corrupted system that destroys all meritocratic values, but no matter the government, nepotism is the one element that can never truly be cleansed. Even during an operation of his magnitude, elite figures like Director Berezkina always found a way to build connections among the powerful. She was the type of person Melker hated. Even if her actions were a direct result of orders from the USSR command, her lack of respect for the operatives on board had him annoyed. Perhaps she was too used to her position and could no longer find it in her to care. Even so, to think that someone could care so little about the lives of their squad… was enough for Melker to resent her in silence.

He stood in the same tile as before, several meters away from the podium where the director was positioned, his eyes wandering between the director and the multi-framed screen before them. For reasons unknown to him, he was not requested to be present in the command room for today’s operations. Perhaps it had something to do with the…

“2.7% chance of success.”

“Indeed.”

Melker checked the operations document again, and found the value presented to be ridiculous.

“May I ask the reason for this specific formation? I believe the mission objective was the containment of Bedivere, not to feed it human meat once a day. The previous squads had a significantly higher success chance compared to this.”

The director remained silent, her answer undetermined for a short period. She merely stared at the screen and observed the GPS tracker move across the digital map.

“... Did someone from this squad piss you off?”

“No. I have no reasons to hold any vendetta against any of the current DECRA agents.”

It was utterly unreasonable to even ask, but given the unconventional nature of this squad and its slim chance of success, Melker now had even more reason to be displeased with the situation than before, particularly since one of the squad members was someone he knew personally. He could only hope that they would survive. He had reasons to believe that they would, but there was still doubt. Especially considering the absolute fact that no matter how competent the operator, if the team cannot hold its weight, the demon will always win.

Melker could only respond with a disgruntled sigh, as he crumbled the document within his palms.

EXORKISMOS: Revelation I - “The Seventh Day”

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Task Force 7: "Spectre"

Town Chelwater Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

The drive took approximately 34 minutes, landing the operators half a mile away from the operations zone. From the distance, the manor could be vaguely seen, through the dead trees erected across the field, indicating that the place was abandoned and left to deteriorate for some time. The vehicle was parked just outside the red markings on the ground, before the sign that simply said “Welcome!”. A brief examination of the wooden sign would reveal that it was made and installed in 1926.

Given the atmosphere and the crisp air surrounding the operatives, it was evident that the area was immersed in nature, with the humidity being the most noticeable shift in the environment upon quick observation. The murky clouds overhead suggested that rain would soon become an impediment. The trees made no noise, other than the subtle sound of branches breaking once in a while from the soft winds. But the most disturbing was the lack of ambiance. There were no sounds of insects or animals nearby. Other than the wind, it was pure, absolute silence.

The entire area was a dead forest, with some man-made structures infrequently built around the zone, mostly surrounding the manor where the demon had supposedly taken residence. The only things that separated the manor and the team were the rusted fences and the several pounds of chain that kept the gates together. Going through such a gate would mean that the squad would have to either enter through one of the already broken lines of fences or by cutting the chains. Whichever route they took, the manor had several points of entrance, most notably from the right, where the fences were noticeably weaker and heavily destroyed.

Other than the vandalized garden house west of the manor and the barnyard to the east completely devoid of life, the area was mostly empty of structures. The many footsteps in the dirt indicated that this place had visitors both long ago in the past and just recently. However, traces of battle would not be visible until the team ventured deeper into the manor, where shells of ammunition and hints of broken equipment would be visible all over the floor, much before they would even step foot into the manor, where the demon was present.

It was just a matter of time.

Once everyone had disembarked from the vehicle, the driver, wearing the same gear, revealed himself to the squad. He then activated the tablet mounted on his chest, displaying a message that included a brief greeting along with basic information about the weather. It was likely that he was not permitted to speak further about the operation besides current elements. He was quick to leave, ending the message with the much overused “Good Luck” and the place of extraction upon mission completion, before excusing himself from the team. The extraction point was of course, back where everyone was currently standing.

Suddenly, a message from HQ was sent through the tablet.

“Operatives are not permitted to take more than 3 doses of ATDS-7 during the mission. Use it wisely. Further use of the suppressants must be requested via the tablet.”

Once the message had been sent and read, the mechanical dispenser on each operative's left arm unlocked with a distinct and familiar sound, indicating that they now had access to the necessary suppressants that were required for containment. With the exception of the initiators, who had five doses active, the rest were forbidden from injecting more than three doses into their bloodstream. This was the usual amount for an operation of this caliber. Any more and it was psychologically fatal, from developing chronic schizophrenia to many of the dissociative disorders currently recorded by the medical sectors.

Panther November Witch Haze- zara3447 Nifty celestialbody mindthekat Epik_Berm

 

[Epik_Berm]

Dowid Kühn

Communications | Rifleman, Agent "Woods"

Town Chelwater, Level 3 Exclusion Zone, Stamford, NY

Woods had rested his eyes as the journey continued, ending quicker than he expected as he kept track of the travel time. Confirming the van had stopped with a glance around, he thought it worrisome that their operation was taking place only about 30 minutes from one of the largest cities in the United States... right? His watch seemed to say so, his attention drawn to the doors as the squad likely poured out. His slower stature likely held up a better portion of the group as he leaned forward on his HK to get up, the seating having uncomfortably rubbed against the bad part of his leg.

Hopping down onto the soil below, his eyes were immediately drawn upward at the grim environment around them, the interesting scene of derelict foliage somehow taking his mind to the region of Schwarzwald; the Black Forest, near the border, where he liked to vacation whenever he had the chance. The lack of sounds wasn't immediately peculiar, but it boded unwell to him the seriousness of the situation. Experimentally walking about, he curiously noted the red line with intrigue, finding it almost child-like that some strange perimeter had been setup to, perhaps warn outsiders of the dangers of passing it, or, jokingly dictating to the forces within how far it's allowed to exercise itself.

Woods let himself free after the heart-felt briefing finally clued him in on some things, giving the driver a salute before wandering a bit away from the group to familiarize himself with the AO. It was while he was inspecting the old rusty fence and gorgeous estate behind it that Woods nearly jumped the gun as his wrist popped, the notification on his tablet giving him a vague understanding of what the strange substance and device was. Had that just been mentioned in the briefing? He wasn't expecting to be under the influence while operating, and was quickly looking it over to make sure he wouldn't accidentally hit any buttons he didn't want to in the middle of dealing with the devil.

Huddling back, Woods turned his gaze to that of his squad leader, looking over the rest of the anonymous team only identifiable by their very bodies and equipment; an unsteady sigh escaping his lips as he hoisted up his rifle into a comfortable position, ready to breach the perimeter wherever the lead decided was good.

His eyes continuously scanned the perimeter until this happened.

End of Post