“The fuck is that?” Rollins asks the second they roll up to the loading dock, gaping at the giant mesh of wire cradled lovingly under the Soldier’s arm.
“Don’t ask,” Brock mutters, though that’s a lost fucking cause. Rollins looks like a thug, but he’s one of the most seasoned operatives on their squad. He and Brock go back to initiation.
“Get your shit set up,” he barks at the Soldier. To Rollins, “I’ll explain on the way.”
The Soldier confirms in Russian and leaps into the back in a single, explosive motion. Harper and Mitchell nearly give themselves concussions trying to get the hell out of his way.
“Up against the crates,” Brock orders. The Soldier affirms by whirling his precious package into place. He begins to set it up immediately, a reverse blur of how he’d taken it down, as precise and efficient as you’d assemble a gun.
Brock hangs to the rear bumper, watching for activity, but there aren’t any eyes to worry about. The van is backed up all the way to the loading door and flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.
See this, this is why the bank mimes are so fucking offensive. They could have just rolled in and out. None of this Peewee ties and butler gloves shit.
“...is that seriously a cage?”
Brock snaps to the inside of the van. The whole back has been gutted to accommodate their gear, and now, the Soldier’s own personal freakshow. Mitchell is rucked up against the back of the driver’s side bucket seat, eyes as wide as saucers. “I said,” Brock growls. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Mitchell is the greenest of them, maybe twenty-seven. Thinks he’s hot shit cause he’s good at interception; not seasoned enough yet to realize he can’t hack the Asset. He’ smart enough to shut his pie-hole though. He knows he doesn’t fill the hole that Wilkins left, and he’s terrified of pissing Rollins off.
The Asset is already in his little cage, curled up in full gear like the world’s most murderous pound puppy. The front door is hanging open, rattling a little with the thrum of the engine. The other new-ish guy, Harper, is watching every twitch. He’s also young but he came over from STRIKE Two, more than six ops ago. He knows enough to leave well enough alone.
Brock slams the back doors shut on them, one wing at a time.
“Buckle up, bitches,” he tells the blackout windows. “STRIKE, moving out.”
He swings up to claim shotgun and gives the official order to roll out. He and Rollins are the most senior, so they’re taking first rotation up in the actual seats. He turns around to make sure everyone’s settled, though, because he’s not completely unsympathetic to the poor sobs riding bitch.
“You good back there?” he calls out. Two voices affirm, plus the Soldier’s confused Russian. The Soldier doesn’t always parse casual sentences.
“We got a long ride ahead of us,” Brock says. “Twenty four hours to San Antonio, standard four hour rotation. We’re driving straight through, so use the head if you need a pit stop.”
Mostly for the Soldier’s benefit. The Soldier also doesn’t always get the subtleties of civilized human behavior, like not pissing in the corner of the stakeout apartment you’re sharing with three other guys. He’ll bury his shit if it’s upwind, like a cat, but that’s about the best he can manage on his own.
“Mission briefing will come in at 19:00. We should be somewhere outside Knoxville.” Brock nods at the sat phone. “Until then, play with your phones, play with yourselves, whatever.”
“You going to explain the deal with Terminator?”
He should have figured Mitchell wouldn’t let it go. Impatient kid, face only a mother could love. Sort of weasley-pointy, with hair that always looks this side of wet. Didn’t help that he’s taken a Cocktail to the chest at some point, got a mess of scars that he hides with turtlenecks. Rollins calls him “Steve Jobs” when he’s being a prick.
“I was getting to that,” Brock snaps. “But basically? Don’t fuck with him.”
“You don’t want to stick your dick in that level crazy,” Rollins adds, because he’s always being a prick.
Fill: Pedigree (4/?)
“The fuck is that?” Rollins asks the second they roll up to the loading dock, gaping at the giant mesh of wire cradled lovingly under the Soldier’s arm.
“Don’t ask,” Brock mutters, though that’s a lost fucking cause. Rollins looks like a thug, but he’s one of the most seasoned operatives on their squad. He and Brock go back to initiation.
“Get your shit set up,” he barks at the Soldier. To Rollins, “I’ll explain on the way.”
The Soldier confirms in Russian and leaps into the back in a single, explosive motion. Harper and Mitchell nearly give themselves concussions trying to get the hell out of his way.
“Up against the crates,” Brock orders. The Soldier affirms by whirling his precious package into place. He begins to set it up immediately, a reverse blur of how he’d taken it down, as precise and efficient as you’d assemble a gun.
Brock hangs to the rear bumper, watching for activity, but there aren’t any eyes to worry about. The van is backed up all the way to the loading door and flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.
See this, this is why the bank mimes are so fucking offensive. They could have just rolled in and out. None of this Peewee ties and butler gloves shit.
“...is that seriously a cage?”
Brock snaps to the inside of the van. The whole back has been gutted to accommodate their gear, and now, the Soldier’s own personal freakshow. Mitchell is rucked up against the back of the driver’s side bucket seat, eyes as wide as saucers.
“I said,” Brock growls. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Mitchell is the greenest of them, maybe twenty-seven. Thinks he’s hot shit cause he’s good at interception; not seasoned enough yet to realize he can’t hack the Asset. He’ smart enough to shut his pie-hole though. He knows he doesn’t fill the hole that Wilkins left, and he’s terrified of pissing Rollins off.
The Asset is already in his little cage, curled up in full gear like the world’s most murderous pound puppy. The front door is hanging open, rattling a little with the thrum of the engine. The other new-ish guy, Harper, is watching every twitch. He’s also young but he came over from STRIKE Two, more than six ops ago. He knows enough to leave well enough alone.
Brock slams the back doors shut on them, one wing at a time.
“Buckle up, bitches,” he tells the blackout windows. “STRIKE, moving out.”
He swings up to claim shotgun and gives the official order to roll out. He and Rollins are the most senior, so they’re taking first rotation up in the actual seats. He turns around to make sure everyone’s settled, though, because he’s not completely unsympathetic to the poor sobs riding bitch.
“You good back there?” he calls out. Two voices affirm, plus the Soldier’s confused Russian. The Soldier doesn’t always parse casual sentences.
“We got a long ride ahead of us,” Brock says. “Twenty four hours to San Antonio, standard four hour rotation. We’re driving straight through, so use the head if you need a pit stop.”
Mostly for the Soldier’s benefit. The Soldier also doesn’t always get the subtleties of civilized human behavior, like not pissing in the corner of the stakeout apartment you’re sharing with three other guys. He’ll bury his shit if it’s upwind, like a cat, but that’s about the best he can manage on his own.
“Mission briefing will come in at 19:00. We should be somewhere outside Knoxville.” Brock nods at the sat phone. “Until then, play with your phones, play with yourselves, whatever.”
“You going to explain the deal with Terminator?”
He should have figured Mitchell wouldn’t let it go. Impatient kid, face only a mother could love. Sort of weasley-pointy, with hair that always looks this side of wet. Didn’t help that he’s taken a Cocktail to the chest at some point, got a mess of scars that he hides with turtlenecks. Rollins calls him “Steve Jobs” when he’s being a prick.
“I was getting to that,” Brock snaps. “But basically? Don’t fuck with him.”
“You don’t want to stick your dick in that level crazy,” Rollins adds, because he’s always being a prick.