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cape_kore2013-04-16 07:41 pm
blackmagus) wrote in cape_kore2013-04-16 07:41 pm
001 ✳ day 61 ✳ video/action
[The War makes her pine for the old days, the days when she was traveling to other countries to silence other agents and take down troublesome politicians or assassins. It had been a lot simpler, back then; the world had been sane. She could take a breather, now and then, when her memories didn't completely overwhelm her. Now, of course, it's anything but sane. Warships choke the sky, genocide happens all too often, and the arms race is churning out technology from other worlds that she's certain were never meant for her world. She doesn't have a say in any of that.
Fortescue is just a cog in the war machine. But she's the cog that takes the pressure off of the mainframe and, occasionally, she's the self-repair and purge system. There's a reason no one knows who she is but the Important People: no one wants to think about what she does. And on nights when she can secure a bottle or two of wine and favorable company, she doesn't either.]
[Today is not one of those days. Today she has a mission, and that's all that she's allowed to think about. Get in, get the information, get out. Kill anyone who stops you. And considering that this information can potentially end a part of the war that, again, no one wants to think about, Fortescue drives everything from her mind that could be a distraction. This is one of the bases of the Inveterate Order, the elves who want to demote humans back to slave-and-food status. She uses her magic to infiltrate the building and then she shows no quarter. Not even with the humans there, who wear Inveterate uniforms. In her mind, they're already dead. Slaves, test subjects, food — that's all the Inveterate see in them.
Except this is a nest of dead information. Nothing's here. The tip was a — diversion, maybe. Or the information had been here, and now wasn't.
"Are you sure?" Darby, her handler, squeaks on the other side of her secure line.
"Yes. There's nothing here."
No matter the explanation, exhaustion colors her before she can get out, and she's forced to pick up grenades and guns from the fallen to fight her way out with. Jazz sneezes and coughs at her side, the too-sleek feline filled with nerves, as she makes her way out of the disguised bunker. She leaves no one alive to tell any stories of the occasion, though that in itself is a tip of who showed up. She runs until she's a fair distance from the smoking location and can recover her breath, but then things get — ]
[When she wakes up again (when had she fallen asleep?), it's dark instead of bright and her ears are ringing. Jazz is curled against her side, mewling in distress. She reaches to pet him, before, well, everything sinks in. This isn't Germania. There's rubble behind her, some sort of ruined building, and the climate is different. Not only that, but there's a communication device of some kind fixed to her arm and it's not a Celestial Interface. Frankly, she would have preferred whoever-it-is take her kidneys instead. She's going to get murdered for losing that thing. They hadn't exactly removed it well, either. The incisions are swollen; she can't turn her wrist without gritting her teeth in pain.
And then the tinny voice straight out of sci-fi cinema tells her to "enjoy her stay," and Fortescue's mood goes from vaguely panicky to murderous. What is this, some sort of game that the Inveterates are playing with people now? Well. They want to poke the tiger? They're going to have to deal with the tiger.]
Enjoy my stay. Right. That's cute, darling, but you're going to need to do better. The Gestapo already tried this on me, in a little camp in the mountains, and I burned that hellish place to the ground.
[Her accent, to anyone from Earth, sounds British, and she has a bloody scrape on her forehead that's starting to bleed again. Jazz makes another distressed mewl, curling as close to her as he can; he knows something's wrong.]
Is anyone else here, or am I just talking to myself? I can do that without this... pathetic little band.
Fortescue is just a cog in the war machine. But she's the cog that takes the pressure off of the mainframe and, occasionally, she's the self-repair and purge system. There's a reason no one knows who she is but the Important People: no one wants to think about what she does. And on nights when she can secure a bottle or two of wine and favorable company, she doesn't either.]
[Today is not one of those days. Today she has a mission, and that's all that she's allowed to think about. Get in, get the information, get out. Kill anyone who stops you. And considering that this information can potentially end a part of the war that, again, no one wants to think about, Fortescue drives everything from her mind that could be a distraction. This is one of the bases of the Inveterate Order, the elves who want to demote humans back to slave-and-food status. She uses her magic to infiltrate the building and then she shows no quarter. Not even with the humans there, who wear Inveterate uniforms. In her mind, they're already dead. Slaves, test subjects, food — that's all the Inveterate see in them.
Except this is a nest of dead information. Nothing's here. The tip was a — diversion, maybe. Or the information had been here, and now wasn't.
"Are you sure?" Darby, her handler, squeaks on the other side of her secure line.
"Yes. There's nothing here."
No matter the explanation, exhaustion colors her before she can get out, and she's forced to pick up grenades and guns from the fallen to fight her way out with. Jazz sneezes and coughs at her side, the too-sleek feline filled with nerves, as she makes her way out of the disguised bunker. She leaves no one alive to tell any stories of the occasion, though that in itself is a tip of who showed up. She runs until she's a fair distance from the smoking location and can recover her breath, but then things get — ]
[When she wakes up again (when had she fallen asleep?), it's dark instead of bright and her ears are ringing. Jazz is curled against her side, mewling in distress. She reaches to pet him, before, well, everything sinks in. This isn't Germania. There's rubble behind her, some sort of ruined building, and the climate is different. Not only that, but there's a communication device of some kind fixed to her arm and it's not a Celestial Interface. Frankly, she would have preferred whoever-it-is take her kidneys instead. She's going to get murdered for losing that thing. They hadn't exactly removed it well, either. The incisions are swollen; she can't turn her wrist without gritting her teeth in pain.
And then the tinny voice straight out of sci-fi cinema tells her to "enjoy her stay," and Fortescue's mood goes from vaguely panicky to murderous. What is this, some sort of game that the Inveterates are playing with people now? Well. They want to poke the tiger? They're going to have to deal with the tiger.]
Enjoy my stay. Right. That's cute, darling, but you're going to need to do better. The Gestapo already tried this on me, in a little camp in the mountains, and I burned that hellish place to the ground.
[Her accent, to anyone from Earth, sounds British, and she has a bloody scrape on her forehead that's starting to bleed again. Jazz makes another distressed mewl, curling as close to her as he can; he knows something's wrong.]
Is anyone else here, or am I just talking to myself? I can do that without this... pathetic little band.