2018.06.05 Second Most Dangerous Game
| The Second Most Dangerous Game | |
|---|---|
| The Technocratic Union dispatches Captain Killian to deal with some Very Bad Men | |
| IC Date | June 5, 2018 |
| IC Time | Afternoon |
| Players | Captain Killian, Linnete (ST) |
| Location | 238.19 kilometers north-northeast of Prospect, CA |
| Spheres | Mage |
| Theme Song | KMFDM, 'A Drug Against War' [1] |
Matching the right agents to the right tasking can be a hassle sometimes, especially when certain areas of investigation are held onto a bit more jealously regarding other conventions. But sometimes you get a puzzler and it's best to contract it out - within the Union still, of course - rather than letting reality go to heck just because it's hard to find the right talents and skills necessary among your own personnel.
As befits most requests from the NWO, this one arrives somewhat circuitously. It's rarely done to just leave a memo in the appropriate pigeonhole or send off an email. Instead, there's a routine range qualifier scheduled for Captain Killian, well before any such thing is actually due. And possibly not even done among the Border Corps who, as all NWO know, are too busy drinking torpedo fuel and trying to outdo each other with increasingly improbable tales of 'first contact.'
But regardless of the intra-convention difficulties, waiting at the range is Linnete, rather than any of the expected instructors or overseeing officials. Nothing makes for a quiete tete-a-tete better than a busy firing range with constant gunfire from other stalls. Without waiting for confirmation, she just slips on a pair of ear buds, steps into the stall next to the one assigned to Killian, and sets out her pistols on the bench in front of her.
And with just a little adjustment to her smartphone, there's even a crackle of her voice through whatever ear protection Killian chooses to go with. "So, I've heard you know how to get around in hostile environments."
Captain Killian didn't think anything of the range qualifier. That's just par for the course in the Corps. He could do them in his sleep (and may very well have done, once or twice.) He lumbers into the firing range, eye and ear protection already donned as he steps over to his cubicle. Setting the gun case in his hand down on the shelf and flipping it open, he takes out his preferred sidearm, the humble Beretta 9 millimeter semiautomatic. Slapping a clip into place, he cocks the slide with smooth, practiced precision. Linnete is given a curt nod of greeting as he brings his weapon up, focusing on the holographic targets at the end of the range.
But before he can fire, there's that voice in his ear. He blinks, lowering the gun. "Uh..." He looks up and around, looking for the source of that voice. Then, to his left, at Linnete. "Uh, yeah. I know a thing or two," he says. He looks back to the target and lifts his gun. POP POP POP. POP. POP. He squeezes off several rounds in quick succession, each one racking up kill shot after kill shot. "Why? Needin' someone to go over the Border?" He ejects the clip and slaps a fresh one into place. Ch-CHAK. POP POP POP. "I'm your guy for that. What's the situation?"
"Some investigations into one of the usual Horned Man cults turned up something different." The distaste is evident even when filtered through the slightly tinkered subvocalization equipment; Linnete needs a hand free at first to take out a small calendar book and then to reach over and leave it next to whatever Killian brought for reloading. "No occult influence that has been detected so far. Nothing tying in with any of the.. established, entropically-resonated cult activity. But still, not exactly friendly to our goals and aims here anyway." Then to keep up her cover - and why lie, also because she has a good time doing it - she takes aim with her pistols to go through a fairly regularly spaced course of fire.
Without missing a bit from the description of the work that needs to be done. "They've got their own little hunting preserve to the east, near the border of the state park. Location is a bit hit or miss. Five targets total; all problematic to arrest and prosecute through traditional law enforcement means." Which would cover what's in that little calendar book; five printouts of five different faces, as well as a very tightly folded map showing a broad section of state park bordering to privately own forest land, slightly diminished from lack of water and heat. "We're currently tracing their suppliers and expect to move in on them soon. But getting those five out of circulation? Much more important."
"They consider themselves hunters. And right now they're in downtime before they drag up the next round of 'prey' to take trophies from. Not sure what they do with the rest of the bodies, but if I had any Operatives I trusted to figure out which part of the tree is the top and which is the bottom, we'd take care of that too." Even through the crackle the thin humor there in the way Lin snickers is apparent, "But if you don't mind working dirtside, turning this game around on them is le mot juste, non?"
Killian listens intently, never wavering his steely gaze from his targets. He rattles off another series of shots, nodding almost imperceptibly to each point being made. "Horned Man, huh? Can't say as I'm familiar with 'em. They sound like a -dandy- bunch," he grunts. He ejects his spent clip and slaps a fresh one into place. "So... just run of the mill psychos? No deviance? Cake walk."
Up comes the Beretta. POP POP POP. "So we just goin' in for a simple sweep n' clear? Or do we wanna try gettin' some of these fuckers into Room 101?" he asks. Naturally, he assumes it's the latter. Otherwise why would the NWO be taking such an interest? "Nabbin' 'em alive and coherent makes it a little trickier. But only a little."
"Not my concern, agent. Technically none of this is our concern barring any evidence of deviant activity - within the definition of the Union. But, frankly, I think this kind of thing tends to lead to deviance anyway; think of it as preventative efforts." Snickering again, there's a smooth, quick reload while Linnete goes through a full set of clips in her target practice training. "I'd suggest, if it's practical, having something to question afterwards. You never know what's under the rock until it's kicked over, after all.. ..but it's nowhere near a priority."
There is a distinct speediness to the firing this time. She's going to need her hands again but still, it presents a better cover to at least wait until she has to reload again. When that time comes there's a brief rummage through a jacket pocket, and then a set of keys pushed over onto Killian's shelf for their firing stall. "Outside of my duty hours, you've got my operational support. That ought to at least be a fairly inconspicuous vehicle for the area." With a little clik-clak of clips sliding home, Lin speaks like she's showing one of her rare smiles - they just don't look right on her, especially not when firing two pistols at once and discussing a sweep-and-clear kind of operation. "Fair warning, I kind of just guessed at what works for the woods. There's some cash under the visor if you need any additional supplies."
Killian nods his head firmly. "Simple enough," he says. He finishes off his last round of shots, ejecting the spent clip. He notates down his results and logs them in the Corps reporting database. Another stellar performance--but again, par for the course. He takes a moment to pack up his gear, closing the lid on the case and flipping the fasteners closed with his thumbs. "It'd be helpful to have someone workin' overwatch for me. But if I gotta go in solo, I can set up a Correspondence drone. Wouldn't be the first time." He puts the shooting glasses up on his brow and lowers the ear protection around his neck. "There a timeframe on this? I can go get suited up n' be ready to roll in under five minutes."
"Last time I was in the woods it was a Wilderness Guide summer camp. Still, I can maintain a secure exfiltration point." Shrugging, once Linnete finishes she sets her pistols out and then opens up a small case next to them to start a rigorous and thorough cleaning. The score is hardly important anymore; there's a certain rock-ribbed certainty that unless her hands fell off she'd be able to pass. "Time frame is wide open. Just let me know when you're ready to leave and I'll be setting out shortly."
All nice and straightforward and appropriately covert. The only real difficulty is that, well, Lin takes a /long/ time to clean her guns.
It takes awhile to drive out to the target area - which features a long interstate drive and then a much longer if physically shorter highway trek. Off the interstate most of the area turns to rural farmland very quickly, edging right up to and then following alongside of the state park mentioned. There's smaller townships, villages, speckled in like a pinch of pepper across a bowl of salad, but most are inconsequential. Large enough to gas up, have lunch, etc, before moving in closer to the target area.
The van provided by Lin and by extension the NWO's unmarked motor pool is a very late model van in black that's faded and been scratched to more of a mottled grey; the engine runs smoothly and the tires seem to have been specifically weathered to avoid a brand-new look but provide full traction. And in the back.. well, 'guesswork' explains that motley collection. There's a tent, a sleeping bag, a box of MREs next to a package of ramen noodles, cans of bug spray, a set of binoculars, some sunscreen and a towel. Noteably absent is water, water purification, matches, pots and/or pans, etc.
But at least she left a couple hundred under the visor as promised.
Before even setting out, Killian had gone to fetch his battle dress. A perfectly ordinary Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform, over which he'll add a ballistic vest and Kevlar helmet once he's in the field. Of course, the helmet's got a few extra touches--notably cunning hypertech worked into the shell to provide integration with his tactical suite, as well as a subdermal holographic display that can project combat data directly onto his field of vision. Add to that the Beretta at his hip and a M16A4 rifle, with a good supply of ammo for each. Once his battle dress is squared away, he goes to check the equipment Linnete has provided. He takes a moment looking over the gear she'd packed in the back of the van. He can't help but chuckle as he lifts one of the packets of ramen. "Really?" he says, shaking his head with an amused grin. He notes down the shortages he needs to shore up, and saddles on up.
He waits to get out of Prospect before pulling into one of those smaller townships. One that just so happens to have an Army Surplus store. There, he stocks up on the necessities. A filter canteen, water purification tablets, weatherproof matches, an extra bottle of naptha for his Zippo, a mess kit. As well as a first aid kit, just in case. He packs it all into a dufflebag that he procures, tossing it into the back of the van with the rest of the goods. Then, he saddles up and continues his journey.
Hours later find the burly Marine rolling on down the highway, lazily pulling at one of his stout cigars while tapping his fingers on the wheel in time to the classic rock coming from the van's radio. That's when his phone's GPS chimes at him, instructing him to turn off the highway and onto the country road that will bring him to the target. He pulls off onto a rest stop he'd earmarked for the purpose. Remote, isolated. Just what he needs. He parks the van and steps out, chomping on the end of his cigar as he heads around to the back. Armor gets strapped on in a matter of seconds, then his field pack shrugged over his shoulder. Fastening the helmet's strap under his chin, he picks up his rifle and slings it. Slamming the van's doors shut, he turns and sets out to start hiking.
Strength of arms are always important but having basic woodscraft is even better for some things. There's some evidence of the 'hunting party' coming up a mile in already, with a bear trap that's been hidden under brush and leaves on what would be a direct path from the cabin to the roadside in that direction; additional traps in that nature seem to come up more regularly too in the periphery, whether standard spring-steel traps or something as simple as fishing line strung - recently, too, judging by the way it bites into bark to show fresh wood underneath - between branches with some dulled but noisy metal bells attached as well.
The traps aren't constant. Thickest and making a sort of barrier to an easy escape back to visibility and away from the hunting ground out towards the road. But further in there are signs of regular trailcraft as well, blazes marked and occasional strips of bright-orange cloth marking different pathways and directions. Not that it would've been a good idea to skip on a compass but it makes for a fairly easily navigated woods, reducing some of the difficulty of remaining inconspicuous on the approach.
Topographically, however, the cabin doesn't have a lot of easy overlooks. The best of a bad lot is a hill with a deadfall of old, toppled branches and dead trees that's escaped any of the seasonal blazes so far and has a dried, creaky and rotted look to it. But it provides a sort of screen to the small rise of the hill that offers a view towards the back of the cabin.
Which certainly seems inhabited. Three ATVs are parked in a sort-of corral at one side around a water pump, with the back of the cabin featuring a small screened-off porch with chairs. There's an antennae sticking up from the recently reshingled roof and a large outbuilding that has exhaust vents for a generator, providing as many modern comforts as possible as well as rustic isolation. There also happens to be a very large cage at the other side of the cabin, supported by reinforced poles with winches that can bring it up probably six, seven feet off the ground. Currently, it's unoccupied.
Killian shimmies up atop that hill, making use of his binoculars to get a good look-over of the place. He notes the position of those ATVs--those he'll have to deal with. The last thing he wants is his quarry getting away from him. The weather conditions are noted as well--he'll have to be careful where he tosses his cigar butts. Lowering the binoculars, he reaches over to his left wrist, tearing the velcro flap open on his wristband and tapping the sphere underneath. Bringing up his hologauntlet, he makes a couple quick flicks with his fingers. He starts running the numbers for Correspondence, looking to get a glimpse inside the cabin, so he can see exactly who--or what--it is that he's dealing with.
Inside of the cabin there is the psychokinetic resonance best associated with living minds, pinging as the steady release of alpha/beta waves continues rather than representing the aberrational blips associated with distance scanning. All told there are three, out of the five presumed targets, waiting inside of the cabin. Two are together and with the regular ebb-and-flow of some sort of discussion, one that isn't necessarily meaningful or emotional given their steady responses. Or maybe they're just complete psychopaths with no emotional register; it's hard to tell from the initial scans. The third is, at a guess, watching TV or otherwise occupied on their phone from the patterning that shows up under extended observation.
No sign of the other two so far however; and also uncertain whether or not they have their own ATVs or if a couple of the hunters don't mind having a pillion rider.
Killian nods his head. He lets the scan fade for now. Lifting his hologauntlet once again, he makes a new series of gestures, focusing his gaze upon the small readout that gets projected above his knuckles. Fingers curl, thumb tapping a couple fingertips as he cycles through menus, eventually settling on 'Sonic'. He begins making subtle adjustments, setting into place a procedure that will shunt sound vibrations from escaping his immediate vicinity. He may not be much of a ninja, but with the right Forces procedure, he sure as hell can sound like one. Which is to say, not at all. Once he's sure he has the procedure running, he rises from his prone position and begins making his way down the slope. Hunched over to keep his profile low, heading for those ATVs.
Navigating the deadfall is tricky; going around it is trickier with noticeably less tree cover around one side from the elevation of the hill on that facing. But with careful attention to the sound profile and dampening fields to affect that it is mostly do-able, aided by having some general understanding of the woods. Pity the poor urbanite trying to do the same kind of thing in wingtips and gabardine. But when making an advance towards the ATVs, it does seem that there's only supposed to be the three of them; all have space for at least one passenger on the wide, extended seats. But a glance at the tracks and at the different ruts worked into the ground does show that the ATVs are the only vehicles that've been up that close to the cabin.
It just requires a bit more care from this point however, as the ATV corral is within view of one of the side windows of the cabin. From outside it appears to be a bathroom that is currently unoccupied, but still significant since it looks directly out to the three vehicles and the rest of the minimal clearing on that side of the structure.
Killian tiptoes over to the ATVs, moving carefully and deliberately. His gaze flicks to that bathroom window as he leaves the cover of the woods, a dark scowl on his face. He'll have to move fast. Moving into a trot, he trusts into his procedure to muffle his footfalls as he beelines for the ATVs. Soon as he's at them, he goes prone, ducking down behind the vehicle. He belly-crawls forward, reaching down to pull his boot knife. With a soft grunt, he leans in to start looking under the chassis. Searching out the battery leads, he reaches in, gripping the cable and slicing them cleanly. He chances a glance at the bathroom window before he shuffles his way to the next ATV to repeat the process. And then again for the third.
While working through the ATVs, it's the kind of job that is much easier after the first. But even with care and consideration as well as the muffled sounds, there's enough activity around the ATVs to draw notice eventually. Possibly due to some of the sparking that comes with the battery tinkering, which adds a distinctly sharp, acrid scent to otherwise clear arboreal air - no one inside seems to be a smoker at least and the electronics are nowhere near as dense as urban cityscapes. Maybe just a flash of battle greens interrupting the expected sight of mud-splattered, leaf-bearing, but still primary-color blue (Or orange for the third one) ATV chassis.
Regardless, there's an outry from someone that passes by the bathroom to look outside. The one to spot Killian is middle-aged and dressed in camouflage; neat, pristine RealTree(tm), certainly the genuine article and as close as it gets to designer wear that's still practical enough for a woodland setting. Rather than making it a direct confrontation, they go back into the hallway of the cabin, where some thudding feet and shouting is already coming from.
Killian glances up as he hears the flurry of activity from inside. "Aw fuck," he snarls. He rolls up onto his knee, unslinging his rifle and chambering it. He lifts it to his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he makes ready for battle. His heart rate kicking up as adrenaline starts to surge. It's go time.
While Killian is working into some cover behind the disabled ATVs, the movement from inside the house has one of the hunters inside making it to the porch. He doesn't expose himself because, obviously, there's some yahoo with guns out there. That's a dangerous situation! "HEY! Whoever the fuck you think you are, you're on private property! Get rid of those guns and we won't open fire!" There's a slight pause, a slight rustle of leaves, a slight forboding sensation.
And a slight lie there since the other two that had been in the cabin apparently make good use of their own familiarity with the woods. Two of them come around the sides and take up position, one rushing into place with his shot coming off rushed - but the hunting calibre rifle still leaves a ragged gouge along the BDUs even though it's deflected by the armor that goes with it. A second resounding boom comes from just a little further ahead but still to the side, with a 'angry wasp swarm' sound of birdshot slapping and clattering across the ATVs and, thankfully, mostly ending up in stinging superficial wounds and scraping damage across the clothing.
Killian doesn't answer. He's busy trying to get a look at the man's face. Making sure of his target. He actually considers, for a moment, actually captiulating and rising from his cover. But the sound of gunfire puts an end to that notion. He snarls softly, pressing his back against the ATV as he glances around, looking for his assailants. A quick mental command and a drummed out pattern with his fingertips locks in a targeting vector, his personal HUD springing to life in his vision. With a growl, he swings himself over the cover, taking aim with the M16. He fires a quick, controlled burst, aiming for his assailant's forehead. And as he demonstrated some hours ago at the firing range, he's a damn good shot. A fact that is demonstrated as the rifleman's head bursts in a spray of red-gray mist, toppling him to the ground. Without skipping a beat, Killian swings the M16 to the man with the shotgun, ready to neutralize the next target.
With the rifleman down and very rapidly losing what's left of their blood from a shot that takes out significant amounts of bone and flesh, the remaining two at the cabin have to review their options. The one on the porch leans around, extending an arm with a very large hunting pistol - it's got a scope and everything - extended as he starts to take aim. Most of those ambitions are cut short, and brutally so, with the kind of wound that promises a very long recuperation time to recover from and high potential for cosmetic surgery. It's enough to leave him half-collapsed against the cabin, before smearing blood across the weather planks while stumbling towards the still-open front door.
The other one, however, keeps up a consistent rate of fire, racking and re-racking their shotgun slide desperately. The birdshot would be no one's first choice for a serious confrontation - for chasing down kidnapped 'prey,' it's sadistic and mean, but for someone that can fight back there's distinct disadvantages. At the last shell there's a bit higher aim to send more of those stinging, gnatlike - but still solid lead - pellets to a more vital target, before the adrenaline-panting hunter starts digging in their mud-splattered jeans pocket. And even at a distance, the natural warning color of red shows in the shells they're trying to jitteringly push into the loading chamber.
Killian ducks back down behind the ATV, gripping the stock of his M16. Unlike the hunters, he's as placid as a still lake. This is nothing new to him. During a lull in the fire, he sucks a deep breath and swings over the top of the ATV. Again, the M16 chatters in his grip, sending the man on the porch down in a hail of bullets. Without missing a beat, he turns to draw a bead on the shotgunner. That's when he catches a chestful of birdshot, sending him thunking back against the ATV. "GNNH!" His eyes flash, pupils contracting to steely pinpricks as he grits his teeth, bringing his rifle back up. His next shot goes a little wider than he'd intended. It's a solid hit, sending a splash of red misting in the air from the hunter, but it's not a kill shot. His mustache twists in an animal snarl as he re-draws his bead, fighting through the haze of pain to realign the cool green crosshairs hovering serenely in his vision.
The pistoleer with the headwound makes good their escape into the cabin. The lush, 'all the comforts of home' style to this particular retreat is working against them however. In the struggle to reach the bathroom and a first aid kit - for whatever it's worth - is interrupted steadily by a chair, a table, someone's TV dinner tray with a laptop on it. All sorts of things that really slow down a mostly-instinctual move towards stopping the regular waterfall of blood spilling out of their near-split skull.
And for the shotgunner there is a racing moment, with their breathing much more troubled when they have to do it around a shattered jaw, leaning against a tree more for moral support. It's not like being shot in the head affected his legs, but the shock of a hit like that to the face is something else. They're starting to raise their shotgun, racking in the much more heavy buckshot, but it's not in nearly enough time to follow through on sacrificing the ATVs.
And while the gunfire has been going on, the other two hunters haven't been idle. Their little foray further away from the cabin to a little 'dressing' workshop, with skinning rack and the appropriate tools, has been interrupted by the eruption of gunfire of various calibres. One of them is spotted even through the haze of pain - stripped to the waist with camo pants on, bloodied up to the elbows, and carrying a long, heavy machete in one hand as they creep through the brush, coming in from the side and taking careful, slow pains to make it a slow approach to either Killian, or to the cabin where their personal armaments are.
Killian's grip tightens around the stock of his M16. A deep breath, and... BU-DU-DU-DUT. A quick burst of fire puts an end to the shotgunner's hopes and dreams of sending him up in a ball of gasoline-fueled flame. Slowly, the burly Marine rises from his crouch, wincing and grunting as he rubs a hand over his throbbing torso. "Fuckin' -a-," he mutters. Just as he turns to approach the cabin, that's when he spots one of the other hunters approaching. Immediately, he brings his M16 up into firing position. "FREEZE!" he thunders at the top of his voice. Decked out as he is in full combat dress, he certainly cuts an imposing figure. He starts advancing on the machete-wielding hunter, eyes narrowed. "Drop the knife!" he snarls. "Get on your knees, hands behind your head! Do it now!"
While all is idyllic and peaceful for a moment, with the gunfire mostly settled and just the moans of the dead and dying - the rifleman, by now, has just about hit death rattles while the shotgunner is just staring blankly into the ground right in front of them. The guy inside the cabin shows the most activity at all though that's started to become less thumping and bumping around, more frustrated cursing while working with non-precut gauze bandages and trying to apply pressure to their non-dominant side of the head.
Yet before things can really be considered peaceful, there's the other two hunters. One of them is more obvious, and with a gun pointed their way when the best they have is a bloody machete, it's in their interests to comply. He starts to crouch down, keeping his hands - one still holding the machete - behind his head while finding some balance. Maybe it's a flick of their eyes towards their friend, or a mistimed crunch of leaves, or just a too-energetic heaving pant before they wind back and swing. But the last of the five to show up, just wearing neat, clean, spanking-new blue coveralls, swings a shining blade over towards Killian's face as they lunge out, ready to follow up on the attack before the reprisal hits.
With nothing else to lose though - they're holding the bloody knife rather than smoking gun, but it amounts to the same - the hunter that had been feigning surrender jumps up, making a charging tackle towards Killian; but their bare feet catch against blood-slicked grasses, sending them down to one knee again and aborting their charge before it can properly begin.
Killian approaches the machete-wielder with the same kind of wary caution one would show any wild animal. He holds the M16 in one hand while the other reaches down to tear open a velcro pocket in his ballistic vest. Fishing inside for a set of zip-ties. But that's when the hairs on the back of his neck go SPROING. He whirls around just as the other hunter leaps out at him. He doesn't think. He just reacts. He skips back a step, moving with surprising deftness for a man of his size and heft. The barrel of his M16 is mere inches from the hunter's torso when he squeezes the trigger, sending a chatter of bullets into the man's chest. Still moving, the burly Marine steps aside as the gun-shot hunter collapses before him, a disturbingly large pool of red starting to spread out from underneath him. But Killian doesn't bat an eyelash. With a swift motion, he has his rifle trained on Mr. Machete. "You fuckin' move," he snarls as he approaches warily once again. "You fuckin' breathe wrong... and I'ma ventilate your sorry ass." Again, he fishes for the zip-ties. "Kiss that fuckin' dirt, asshole. Arms out at your sides. Right fuckin' now!"
Arrest, disgrace, whatever else might be a consequence, kind of pales next to imminent execution. Without their balance and with a scrape on hand - inconsequential compared to the other indignities - the last of the brave hunters does drop the machete completely. And both hands start to come up before it's countermanded by other orders; early-thirties, crewcut, the guy stretching out on the ground has that skinny-fat look of excercise without the diet to match it as his arms are pushed out, "Alright, alright, don't shoot, alright? I'm not armed! Really!"
And for a wonder, he isn't; no backup pistols or anything like that. All told that leaves one still living - cursory examination of the cabin shows that pistol packing hunter mostly holding a bandage to their head with shock imminent. The logistics of hauling them through the woods and then driving them to medical attention is daunting, to say the least; extraordinary measures would be needed just to stabilize that kind of skull fracture and bleeding at this point.
Of the other three, they're conclusively dead by now. And with just the mild electostatic disturbances in the dimensional barrier that seems to correlate loosely and not exactly with these mostly mundane kind of shootings.
Killian drops a knee into the small of the hunter's back, leaning 300-plus pounds of All-American Marine into the man. Ratcheting his arms behind his back and zip-tying them together. Once that's done, he slings his rifle and hauls the man to his feet. "All right, buddy... now you're gonna show me your little playhouse." Turning, he shoves the man forward, keeping a hand clamped on his shoulder as he marches him back the way he came. Out to the skinning shack where the hunters partake of their particular diversion.
And Captain Killian has seen terrible things in his day. From the war-torn fields of Iraq and Kuwait to literal hellholes that beggar description, he's borne witness to the very worst that humanity has to offer itself. And that very worst is now on grotesque display. Still, his face is impassive as he takes in the grisly scene. The bloodied tables. The pieces of human corpses. The stink of decay. His face is impassive, but it's a mask to conceal the outrage and disgust roiling in his guts. He shoves the hunter away, making the man stumble. With the same motion, he draws his Beretta, thumbs the safety off, and lifts it. BOOM. The gunshot drops the man like a sack of potatoes. Stepping forward, Killian levels the pistol and fires three more shots. Two in the chest, and a third in the head.
He turns on his heel and stalks back to the house. Booting the door open with enough force to tear one of the hinges loose. His gaze blazing with fury as he finds the last of the hunters. Without a word, he levels his Beretta and finishes the job he started. BOOM BOOM BOOM. His shoulders heave as he sucks deep, calming breaths through his nose, finally clicking the safety back on his pistol and shoving it in its holster.
Turning on his heel, he goes to the shotgunner and rifleman. With a grunt, he grips them under their arms and drags them into the cabin. Taking a moment to divest them of their phones, packing up their laptops and tucking them into his field pack, he turns to head back outside. This time for the ATVs and their gas cans.
He douses the cabin with plenty of petrol, drizzling a trail outside. Slinging the empty can down to the ground, he digs into his pocket for a cigar. Tucking it in his mouth, he strikes a match off the stock of his rifle to light it. Puffing steadily as he turns to lumber away, tossing the match over his shoulder. He doesn't look back as he strides for the shack with the last gas can in tow. WHOOMF. Chomping on his stogie, the shack gets the same treatment as the cabin. Only once its gone up in a blaze of glory does he ascend back to the top of the ridge, turning back to observe his handiwork. Taking ahold of his cigar, he reaches up to key his tac-mic.
"Killian. Mission accomplished. I'm headin' home."
