[X-COM] Five Rounds Rapid (Keith)

Cthulhu_Wakes

Cthulhu_Wakes

Black Sun in a White World
Helmand Province, Afghanistan


November 14, 2013, 23:11 Zulu


Chaucer's voice whispers in your ear. "SRR been shouting up a storm on com, so we're going in to have a looksee." Four hours out from Bastion, the Huskies left in a nala a few miles back. A storm reveals the mountains in flashes of white, only to fade away as if the dark erased the world. Your patrol is investigating reports of the possibility of a downed drone or chopper deep in the Helmand. The Air Traffic control boys countered that with a 'no chance in hell, lads.' No birds up at all today due to inclement weather coming in from the north. Overcast and stormy, not good drone weather.


Even the Yanks have denied having birds in the air, but that's always taken with a grain of salt.


Four men of 22 Regiment, Hereford men, tasked with what's tentatively search-and-destroy for a downed drone. Routine, but necessary. Chaucer, Clarke, and Robinson are fanned out abreast of you as you make like phantoms across cultivated fields rimmed with low stone walls older than the Bible.


A quiet hamlet lies to the west in the shadow of the unlit mountains. A causeway bisects the fields all the way toward the mountain gap.


Chaucer again, waving an all-clear: "Way they were gabbing, it was like the sky was falling."
 
"Soft bastards," Keith replies, with a smirk. "This is just like training, only the weather is nicer."


He keeps low, but trusts the rain to mask his presence well enough. The poor sods they're 'fighting' don't have two professional soldiers to rub together; they won't want to see anyone running about in this muck.


"Hang on," he says, stopped behind one of the walls and peering toward the village. "The fuck is the 'destroy' for? Who but our side can bloody well afford drones? Do we reckon the Reds or the Russkies got involved?"
 
The patrol crouches behind the wall. Sheep dot the pasture beyond, asleep and soggy. A good sign, though--this area isn't a mined area. Distant lanterns spill out from a local teahouse. Wander between the buildings, men going home.


Robinson says: "Don't forget the RQ-170 bullshit in Iran. Americans screwed the pooch, UAV goes down, tech goes to the highest bidders." His painted face scans the dark, gently-sloping land. "Okay, tighten up." He patches into the wider mil-net. "Hello, Clarkson; Hello, Clarkson."


The words come in a burst of static. "Hello, Stig; Hello, Stig." says your fellow recons, hidden somewhere up on the mountain. "Follow causeway and veer northeast one click beyond village. Zero movement beyond the sheepfuckers in the village. Tread softly, they may be quiet now, but they're armed. Lost the plot when the drone came down earlier."
 
"When you've got to choose between runnin' water and a knock-off AK," Keith mutters, and moves with the unit down the causeway. Well, the edges of the causeway. No sense in making yourself an easy target. If they were the average squaddies, they could just wander into town wearing in the colours - Afghanis have a certain respect for the British troops' habit of opening polite negotiations rather than fire.


Not so for us, he thinks, considering the insignia hidden inside his jacket. We're the fuckin' bogeymen.
 
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Boogeymen indeed. Pashtun herders in particular have a grave respect for you and yours. And while they use guns, this region still has a very, very large blade culture that well respects operatives who carry the blades that you do. Especially the Gurkhas stationed through the country.


"At least this won't be the same as Korea." Chaucer says, low and running along the causeway. A few grunts of agreement. He pauses amidst the cover of some low-stand scrub and a suffocating, bowed husk of a juniper. "Hold tight." The distant, lonely howl of wolves. "Right. Two foot-mobiles on the road. Herders. One's got an old bolt-action, other a lantern." He holds out a hand for you to wait. "Robinson?"


A voice from the other side of the causeway, nestled in your ear. "Slink-and-sneak, they don't need to know we're here. Go NVG."


Chaucer looks back, all shadow and whites of eyes. "You heard him." He'll pull down his goggle-rig, turning into something out of Gibson.
 
Keith tugs 'em down and tries to get a look at the locals. The better to slip by, using the wall, minding out for lightning giving him away. No chatter now, just in case - being good is no reason to get sloppy.


Does Clancy ever get this shit right? Keep seeing those ads for a something with a bloke wearing three lenses.
 
They're harmless enough, older men wandering the night. Voices on the wind. Chattering away in Pashto about something that only afflicts the elderly, most likely grandchildren, the nature of their coming harvests, etc. In the brilliant cat's eye green, they're strolling, the lantern like the sun when it whisks in your direction. The others are on the move, sure-footed and silent.


One of the old men is indeed carrying an ancient looking bolt-action, nearly as tall as he is. The other carries the lantern and a modern-looking umbrella. Rain you can't really see anymore is finally starting to come down harder, but the elders seem not to mind. A blinding flash of lighting seeps into your eyes, slowly revealing again the village, the wind-folded trees, the mountains dotting the east like an archipelago. Thunder rolls of the plain behind you.

Dexterity + Stealth, please. +2 for cover from the storm.
 
Like rain over the mountain, you pass by with nary a sound, not a glance from the shepherds. Thunder covers the sound of a single rock nudged out of the way. Chaucer keeps an eye on them until you're a quarter-click on and nearer the village. Soon, it too passes by, becoming nothing more than memory. Another kilometer of rain-wet grasses and bent trees. The impression of mountains as thunder rolls off a greenlit horizon.


Stig Patrol chimes in, "You're on the path. Just over the hill." They're right. Amidst the distant crawlers of lightning, you notice a dense column of smoke riding up to the sky. A few stars are beginning to poke through the cloud cover. You'll assemble on a hillock, slick ghosts in the night. Well...


Robinson sums it up nicely, "Fuck me swinging."


Whatever the hell it is, no damned way it's a drone. Bright as a damn star, the fire. The crash dug a trench in the countryside a few feet deep. Boulders overturned and what looks like leaning remains of a few shacks, half the fence of a paddock. It's as big as a C-130, smooth edges, flat lines. Glowing spall and crumpled metal as brilliant as beetle shell.


"And what?" Someone says. "This big fucking thing comes down and no one bats an eye? Uh, Stig...you sure we're alone out here? This...this ain't no small package."


They stare blankly. Chaucer removes his goggles, blinks away disbelief, drops of water.
 
"Has to be the Septics. Fuckin' bullshitting about with DARPA's latest thing." Keith says, sidling behind the nearest thing to cover, and hefts his L119A1 with the shortened barrel for close encounters. He scans the surrounding area, careful to keep the green-eye away from the fire.
 
"Still. Where's the recovery?" Chaucer edges up to the berm. "Where's the screaming, freaking out locals? Hell, that village should have seen it, right? Weird lookin' thin--"


The words squeeze gently into your ear, "Movement. Far right of craft." Clarke is chopping the air toward the right of the craft. All three of you turn as one to sight in on two shadows outlined before that strangely bright fire and wall of the craft, walking near the wreck, among cherry-red heated metal.


You can hear something like sobbing on the wind. Coming from, at least sounds like it is, the remnants of the shacks or behind the craft. Robinson turns toward you and Chaucer. "Whip round toward the village and see what's going on, we've got eyes-on here." He'll patch into the milnet, most likely asking for advisement from Bastion.


The lee side of the hill will keep you covered for a good portion of the way, but its a good thirty meters of open ground to get to the broken buildings and the crash-trench. The strangers on the ground haven't seen you, and you should have cover from the storm and way the fires can play with people's eyes and drown everything else in dark.

It's up to you how you'd like to get there, leg it or stealth. Either one will be Dexterity + Athletics + 2 or Dexterity + Stealth + 4. Stealth will take time and multiple rolls, athletics only the one.
 
Deciding on the quieter route, Keith creeps around south as ordered, keeping his eyes on the figures below. He uses the rise of earth and sparse bushes first, until it gives out and he's forced to rely on the darkness and angle.


[dice]1747[/dice]


[dice]1748[/dice]
 
Chaucer behind you, low-running across the open ground. The whole world seems to fade away save the occasional flash of revelation from the sky. The dull light of the fire blacks out everything along with the strange hard white glare coming from the corners of this strange craft. NVGs are useless. You'll both come into cover behind the leaning third of a shack surrounded by the battered and dead shapes of sheep. Piles of dirt and old brick. The beams of the shack poke out like broken bone. A person's hand sticks out from under the pile of rubble nearest you, resting atop the carcass of a sheep.


The craft is probably ten meters away, the nearest glowing corner perhaps fifteen meters. No doors or hatches that you can see.


Someone shouts, weeps somewhere in the dark nearest you. Chaucer grunts, "They'll draw whoever that is to us. I'll see if I can keep the peace." He fades in with the encompassing dark in a span of seconds and then you're alone among the dead.


Robinson's voice pipes in, static-scrubbed and hoarse. "One rounding the corner on your position, Bella-Bella." One of the footmobiles from earlier, or perhaps a new one, makes it round the ship. Stops, looks around. You don't notice the gleam or shape of a gun just yet. Save the eerie, pained wailing of whatever survivor from this village is crying, there's nothing but silence.
 
Keith keeps ready to fire, to cover Chaucer if the privy hits the windmill. No sign of a game doesn't mean no bloody gun. He tries to get a better look at the footmobile, considers continuing to circle south and west. Where are the fucking hatches? Blown out by the crash?
 
Lightning spikes the darkness, illuminates the figure. Something off about this gent. The crown of his head brushes the top of a bulbous protrusion halfway up the hull, meaning he's as tall as Shaq and oddly lithe, unless the shadows are playing with your eyes. Spindly. Peering into the dark, as if finally hearing the wailing survivors who suddenly hush up.


"I've got two wounded here." Chaucer hisses. "Man and woman. Man's holed and bleeding; woman's leg is crushed. Trying to calm her down. How about you, Bella?"
 
"Bollocks," Keith breathes. "Lanky bloke loitering by the hull. No sign of a weapon, but he doesn't look concerned."


He shifts his weight, peering, weapon at the ready.


"I think he's finally noticed the injured, though, so mind out. I'm going to get behind him, try and get an ID, and we'll see about taking him for questioning I suppose."


With that, Keith slinks off northeast, circling closer to Mr. Copilot, as he finds himself thinking of the man.
 
You'll vault over the remains of a hovel living room, dusty bottles and a broken chair lying in the open. Rain steadily drizzles down creating a snapping hiss in the air from the lingering fires. The stranger is slowly moving through the rubble, perhaps, in a daze from the impact or seeing the craft and destruction of the village. But his eyes are open and peering every which way as if suddenly blind. Looping around, you'll be nearer the hull of the craft, the colors changing on that strange looking metal like beetle carapace. Hard white light blazes from one end, but the light is clear, not opaque, almost clear enough to see inside.

Dexterity + Stealth, please. + 2 from the rain and plenty of rubble and wreckage to hide around.


[dice]1776[/dice]
 
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Keith trains his weapon on the stranger, and tries to get a good look.


[dice]1777[/dice]
 
The crackle of fire covers your movements, quiet and catlike already. He cocks his head to listen, slowly turns around to peer into the dark. A tall, lanky man dressed in local costume. Sunken cheeks, ragged beard. Thick wrists and a crooked right elbow. Wide, unblinking eyes.


He gulps, speaks in a raspy voice like sandpaper, "Hello?"
 
Not a fucking chance.


Keith keeps behind cover, such as there is, gun trained on the guy, and steps into sight.


"Stay very still. Do you speak English?"
 
Hands go wide, not quite up, but at least away from his waist. Unarmed. Firelight occasionally plays on his face, his dirty clothes.


Strange Pasthun or similar cadence tints his words, "Uh, uh...a...little? I understand."
 
"Good, alright. Are you hurt? You lived here?" Keith relaxes a bit, not quite holding the poor fucker at gunpoint anymore. Still, if he does try anything.
 
"I once." He shrugs, looks up at the hulking ship behind you. "What do?" He indicates it, calm, possibly in shock.
 
"Move a safe distance from the wreck and wait with us; someone should come to help. Doctors, translators." He says, clearly as he can. "Is there anyone else here?"
 
"The dead. And such, others. Maybe live...survive...I have words. Few." He spits, carefully moving aside, hands out still as if he doesn't know what to do with them.


"Who is he, Bella? Local? Taliban?" Robinson whispers in your ear. "Chaucer's trying to keep the situation calm on his end. I've phoned home and they're sending a few errand boys in 15."
 
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