Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Jul 26, 2009 19:41:37 GMT -5
Note: General story contains murder, language, blood, gore, and other such content. In terms of film, would be rated as R.
In the near future...
Project Tundra:
Initial Student Count: 60
Initial Groups: 10
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J
-Acquisition
Group C - Coyote (Sacramento)
1. Alex
2. Boris
3. Curt
4. Daniel
5. Gleb
6. Troy
-----------
When the door bell rang, it took Alex (1C Age 15) several seconds to actually respond. He remained sitting on his bed, book on his lap, and cocked his head to the side. It was not a response of laziness, but a wakeful and alert one. Nonetheless, he didn't get up for quite a while, even when the bell rang again. Almost half a minute later, he placed his book to the side (not bothering to keep his place in it) and lithely slid off the bed, just as the rather patient bell was rung a third time. He did not peek out the window blinds, but stepped over to his desk and picked up a sheathed knife.
He made his way downstairs with the sheath held in both hands, thumbs running along it in a nervous, contemplating fashion, as if he were an addict about to go into withdrawal. He stopped on the bottom step, the front door just around the left corner. His stayed there for several more seconds, his grip tightening on the knife, until the bell was rung a fourth time. His breathing deepened, and he calmly drew the knife with his left hand and held it down by his thigh in a loose grip. Left hand, because the door swung in on the left. He dropped the sheath on the stairs without looking at it, and stepped down and around the corner. He opened the door only a quarter-way, keeping half his body concealed behind it and looking out the crack. His knife arm was hidden behind the door as well, still down by his thigh.
Outside his door were two young men. Alex's eyes took the only important details. Both were dressed in a way that would have been considered odd amongst the general populace. They wore long jet-black overcoats that reached down to their ankles. The overcoats were unfastened, and whatever they wore underneath was difficult to distinguish due to it being an equal shade of black. Shirts, pants, shoes, every article about them was solid black, and very clean. Their hair was cut very short, too short to grab a hold of, and both stood several feet away from his door.
One of them was holding up an open wallet, showing the laminated card inside. Alex couldn't read it from this distance, but he didn't have to; it was already obvious what it was. The other man had pulled his arms out of the overcoat sleeves, and both were concealed beneath the fabric of the coat. Alex had no doubt about what the man was holding on to. The man had naturally noticed that Alex had glanced him over. He knew what Alex was thinking of, and the slightest of smiles twitched at the mans lips; a dangerous smile. The man holding the wallet said,
"Please step outside and turn around, hands kept away from your sides."
Alex later wouldn't remember what the man's voice sounded like. They hadn't needed to ask his name. He didn't hesitate in doing what he did, because to hesitate would show that he considering other action, and such consideration would instantly earn a dose of heavy-duty pain. His own voice, he remembered, was very calm, unlike what he felt.
His head nodded politely, his voice the full manner of cooperation, "Of course, Sir."
And he slammed the door shut. He was smart enough to know not to try and lock the door. It was completely pointless. Instead, he instantly leaped away from the door, dropping the absolutely useless knife as he did so, and turned to run.
------
A few minutes earlier, Semyon and Vadim had parked the government car down on the corner of the street, where it wouldn't be seen from the window of the house they were going to. Targets often looked out their windows before answering, and if they saw a government car parked on their curb it wasn't so uncommon for them to try and flee the house without even bothering to answer. Vadim cut the ignition and looked over to Semyon. The two were brothers by blood, but in terms of a relationship, they behaved like best of friends; no mention or memory of family was ever made. "We're here, load up."
Leaving Semyon to it, Vadim stepped out of the car and walked around the front of the hood.
Between Semyon's legs, muzzle pointed at the ceiling, was a Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, modeled with a fixed stock. The shotguns magazine was already loaded, but he'd been riding with the chamber empty; the ultimate safety device. He now stepped out of the car to give him some room, and flicked on the safety, allowing him to slide the forend back and chamber the first round. Turning the shotgun upside down, he loaded another shell into the magazine, topping off with a total of nine rounds. Leaving the shotgun in pump-action, he flicked the safety off and placed it under his left arm beneath the overcoat. The buttstock was pressed up against his armpit, the muzzle pointed down by his foot. In this position, the muzzle reached down to about mid-shin, and he held it with his upper arm and by the forend with his left hand, all concealed by the overcoat. Without a word to each other, the two set off down the street, completely ignoring the fact that it was 40 Celsius outside and they were wearing black coats and body armor. On the way, Semyon pulled two small bundles of white wax from his pocket and, with his right hand only, stuffed them into his ears.
-
Semyon was taking in details of how this would go before they even rang the bell. The door to the house swung in to the left, therefore he stood to Vadim's left, right foot slightly back, left foot forward. Vadim on the other hand, stood with his feet even at shoulder-width.
It took two minutes of ringing before the kid answered. Vadim would walk forward, ring the bell, and then walk back, keeping at least a meter and a half away from the door at all times, and just a step farther back than Semyon. The timing wasn't bad either. Only four rings meant that the kid knew who was calling, but he wasn't completely frozen up and drooling. Either that or he'd been in the shower. While Vadim might have taken in the kids face and appearance, Semyon didn't even bother looking at him. Instead, he was instantly on guard when the kid opened the door so carefully, over half his body was concealed. Not uncommon, but Semyon didn't take it for granted. Anything from a blade to a rifle could be held in the kids left hand, although the latter was so improbable it may as well have been impossible. His grip was tight on the forend of the shotgun, absolutely ready to bring it up. Semyon wasn't just being prepared for the possibility of the kid making a break for it, but was literally expecting it to happen. It was a very Soviet-style mindset. In his head, he'd practically convinced himself that it was going to happen any second now. This was the method that allowed them to operate with such speed and efficiency, it was impossible to take them by surprise, and Semyon absolutely hated it. Their job would be much, much easier if they didn't have to pander around asking them to come calmly. Semyon would have preferred to never even give them a chance to run. They should just break down the door, toss in flash-bangs and CS, and then walk in. As it was, they were stuck doing things the hard way, as demonstrated when the kid blatantly (and rudely) shut the door in their face.
Semyon was already raising the shotgun before the door had even fully closed. The SPAS was up and pressed against his shoulder in a third of a second. He took three short steps forward, the overcoat falling away and to the ground. Vadim was calmly speaking into his radio as Semyon brought the muzzle just a few centimeters away from the lock and turned his face away. He waited exactly one second before firing, to give the kid time to lock the door if he'd gone for it. When people tried to bolt their door, Semyon was literally faster as blowing the lock out than they were at locking it, the result being their hands were still touching it when it shattered, further resulting in broken bones and lost fingers; which was exactly what they did not want at the moment. The shotgun was not loaded with solid slugs or shot. The first round was a breaching round, a load of steel powder held together with wax. When the powdered slug hit a lock, it would completely rip it apart and then disintegrate into harmless dust.
Two seconds after the door shut, Semyon fired. He took the recoil straight-back, tiny splinters bouncing off his cheek, and instantly stepped to the side and behind the wall of the house. He did not spin around and press his back to it, but simply strafed over, racking back the forend of the shotgun as he did so. The next round in the magazine was a less-lethal beanbag, designed solely for taking people down without killing them.
The door had been blown open from the force of impact, and not even a half second after firing, Vadim tossed the flash-bang in. He saw the kid turning the corner as he did so, and then lost sight of it as he stepped to the opposite side of Semyon. A moment later there was an absolutely deafening, ringing explosion of sound that hurt Semyon's ears even through the hearing-protection. He paid it no mind and stepped sideways and into the house, shotgun back up at his shoulder. His brain registered every important detail before his eyes fully pictured it. There was a hunting knife on the floor by the door; whether the kid had dropped it willingly or not was unknown. There was no blood, so he hadn't wounded him. There were no fingers, so that was good. There was no body on the ground, so that was bad. There were two ways to go, up the stairs on the right or down the hall. The hall meant turning left on the far end, or right on the near end. Vadim was behind him shouting, "He went down and to the right, down and right!"
Five steps forward and Semyon stepped around the corner and into the living room. Sofas, TV, large-glass door to backyard, target. The kid was halfway through the sliding-glass door, barely opened far enough to accommodate him. The walls had shielded him from the full effects of the flashbang, but there was no way to get out of this.
Semyon aimed and fired just as the kid got through the door. The bean-bag struck the bare side of the door and the glass completely shattered, pouring down to the ground in a wave even as Semyon chambered the next round, walked forward, and aimed at the kids lower back. He took his time, a second, maybe two, before firing. He wanted to hit the kid as far away from the spine as he could. He couldn't aim up near the ribs, and the legs were no guarantee, aiming to the right might mean damaging the liver, so he went for the lower left and fired.
The kid had managed to get halfway across his backyard when he was struck in the back with a force akin to that of a sledge-hammer. He didn't shout at first, but simply flew off his feet and faceplanted in the grass, rolling over as his hands involuntarily scrabbled at his back. Then came the screaming, now that his jaw was unclenched enough to actually cry out. The white bean-bag had bounced off his back and landed next to him, its golden tail-ribbon glinting in the noon sun. The shouts of pain had no effect in Semyon, who was far more preoccupied with whether or not he'd damaged the kidney. Hopefully it had remained functionally intact, but the kid was going to be pissing blood for a week either way.
Even though the kid wasn't going anywhere, Semyon chambered the next round and briskly walked forward, still aiming the shotgun. He stepped through the broken glass-door and strafed sideways, covering the kid as Vadim stepped over to secure him. He lifted the muzzle away from the target as Vadim stepped over, aiming straight at the sky instead. Vadim was talking over the radio the entire time and pulling out plastic zip-lock cuffs from under his coat.
The run had taken a little over ten seconds. The kid hadn't had anywhere to go anyway. Even if he'd managed to get over his fence, he'd have ended up in an alley-way that had over ten people waiting for him, all armed with less-lethals. It never made sense to Semyon why the hell they tried to run. See the bruise? Seen the bloody coughing up from the lungs? Seen the jerking bodies? Then why the hell did you try and run kid? You could have been taken in without any pain, saved us the time and effort, saved me a six dollars worth of baton rounds, but no. Now you've gained absolutely nothing but the worst bruise you'll ever have in your life and a very nicely colored urine.
After Vadim got the zip-cuffs on (the kid was in no state to resist) he pulled a pre-measured syringe of Sodium Pentothal from his pocket, already fitted with a sterile hypodermic needle. The drug was injected by IV, so an auto-injector couldn't be used. It would have been simpler, stab him in the buttock and have done. AS it was, Vadim pulled the plastic safety cap off and spent several seconds finding a good vein in the kids forearm. When he got the needle in, he injected the entire syringe. Then he stood up and stepped away, not even bothering to bandage the puncture or put some cotton on it. While the kid still groaned in pain on the ground, Vadim set about removing the needle from the syringe and capping both in a plastic disposal tube. Semyon was picking up the bean-bag from the ground along with the white shot-shells he'd fired.
The kid was completely unconscious in less than 60 seconds. Vadim picked him up in a fireman's carry and the two walked back through the house and down the street, Semyon picking up the spent flashbang and black shell from the breaching round as he did so. They'd get him on some longer lasting anesthetic in the car, drop him off at transport, and move on to the next target, whichever one was nearest.
In the near future...
Project Tundra:
Initial Student Count: 60
Initial Groups: 10
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J
-Acquisition
Group C - Coyote (Sacramento)
1. Alex
2. Boris
3. Curt
4. Daniel
5. Gleb
6. Troy
-----------
When the door bell rang, it took Alex (1C Age 15) several seconds to actually respond. He remained sitting on his bed, book on his lap, and cocked his head to the side. It was not a response of laziness, but a wakeful and alert one. Nonetheless, he didn't get up for quite a while, even when the bell rang again. Almost half a minute later, he placed his book to the side (not bothering to keep his place in it) and lithely slid off the bed, just as the rather patient bell was rung a third time. He did not peek out the window blinds, but stepped over to his desk and picked up a sheathed knife.
He made his way downstairs with the sheath held in both hands, thumbs running along it in a nervous, contemplating fashion, as if he were an addict about to go into withdrawal. He stopped on the bottom step, the front door just around the left corner. His stayed there for several more seconds, his grip tightening on the knife, until the bell was rung a fourth time. His breathing deepened, and he calmly drew the knife with his left hand and held it down by his thigh in a loose grip. Left hand, because the door swung in on the left. He dropped the sheath on the stairs without looking at it, and stepped down and around the corner. He opened the door only a quarter-way, keeping half his body concealed behind it and looking out the crack. His knife arm was hidden behind the door as well, still down by his thigh.
Outside his door were two young men. Alex's eyes took the only important details. Both were dressed in a way that would have been considered odd amongst the general populace. They wore long jet-black overcoats that reached down to their ankles. The overcoats were unfastened, and whatever they wore underneath was difficult to distinguish due to it being an equal shade of black. Shirts, pants, shoes, every article about them was solid black, and very clean. Their hair was cut very short, too short to grab a hold of, and both stood several feet away from his door.
One of them was holding up an open wallet, showing the laminated card inside. Alex couldn't read it from this distance, but he didn't have to; it was already obvious what it was. The other man had pulled his arms out of the overcoat sleeves, and both were concealed beneath the fabric of the coat. Alex had no doubt about what the man was holding on to. The man had naturally noticed that Alex had glanced him over. He knew what Alex was thinking of, and the slightest of smiles twitched at the mans lips; a dangerous smile. The man holding the wallet said,
"Please step outside and turn around, hands kept away from your sides."
Alex later wouldn't remember what the man's voice sounded like. They hadn't needed to ask his name. He didn't hesitate in doing what he did, because to hesitate would show that he considering other action, and such consideration would instantly earn a dose of heavy-duty pain. His own voice, he remembered, was very calm, unlike what he felt.
His head nodded politely, his voice the full manner of cooperation, "Of course, Sir."
And he slammed the door shut. He was smart enough to know not to try and lock the door. It was completely pointless. Instead, he instantly leaped away from the door, dropping the absolutely useless knife as he did so, and turned to run.
------
A few minutes earlier, Semyon and Vadim had parked the government car down on the corner of the street, where it wouldn't be seen from the window of the house they were going to. Targets often looked out their windows before answering, and if they saw a government car parked on their curb it wasn't so uncommon for them to try and flee the house without even bothering to answer. Vadim cut the ignition and looked over to Semyon. The two were brothers by blood, but in terms of a relationship, they behaved like best of friends; no mention or memory of family was ever made. "We're here, load up."
Leaving Semyon to it, Vadim stepped out of the car and walked around the front of the hood.
Between Semyon's legs, muzzle pointed at the ceiling, was a Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun, modeled with a fixed stock. The shotguns magazine was already loaded, but he'd been riding with the chamber empty; the ultimate safety device. He now stepped out of the car to give him some room, and flicked on the safety, allowing him to slide the forend back and chamber the first round. Turning the shotgun upside down, he loaded another shell into the magazine, topping off with a total of nine rounds. Leaving the shotgun in pump-action, he flicked the safety off and placed it under his left arm beneath the overcoat. The buttstock was pressed up against his armpit, the muzzle pointed down by his foot. In this position, the muzzle reached down to about mid-shin, and he held it with his upper arm and by the forend with his left hand, all concealed by the overcoat. Without a word to each other, the two set off down the street, completely ignoring the fact that it was 40 Celsius outside and they were wearing black coats and body armor. On the way, Semyon pulled two small bundles of white wax from his pocket and, with his right hand only, stuffed them into his ears.
-
Semyon was taking in details of how this would go before they even rang the bell. The door to the house swung in to the left, therefore he stood to Vadim's left, right foot slightly back, left foot forward. Vadim on the other hand, stood with his feet even at shoulder-width.
It took two minutes of ringing before the kid answered. Vadim would walk forward, ring the bell, and then walk back, keeping at least a meter and a half away from the door at all times, and just a step farther back than Semyon. The timing wasn't bad either. Only four rings meant that the kid knew who was calling, but he wasn't completely frozen up and drooling. Either that or he'd been in the shower. While Vadim might have taken in the kids face and appearance, Semyon didn't even bother looking at him. Instead, he was instantly on guard when the kid opened the door so carefully, over half his body was concealed. Not uncommon, but Semyon didn't take it for granted. Anything from a blade to a rifle could be held in the kids left hand, although the latter was so improbable it may as well have been impossible. His grip was tight on the forend of the shotgun, absolutely ready to bring it up. Semyon wasn't just being prepared for the possibility of the kid making a break for it, but was literally expecting it to happen. It was a very Soviet-style mindset. In his head, he'd practically convinced himself that it was going to happen any second now. This was the method that allowed them to operate with such speed and efficiency, it was impossible to take them by surprise, and Semyon absolutely hated it. Their job would be much, much easier if they didn't have to pander around asking them to come calmly. Semyon would have preferred to never even give them a chance to run. They should just break down the door, toss in flash-bangs and CS, and then walk in. As it was, they were stuck doing things the hard way, as demonstrated when the kid blatantly (and rudely) shut the door in their face.
Semyon was already raising the shotgun before the door had even fully closed. The SPAS was up and pressed against his shoulder in a third of a second. He took three short steps forward, the overcoat falling away and to the ground. Vadim was calmly speaking into his radio as Semyon brought the muzzle just a few centimeters away from the lock and turned his face away. He waited exactly one second before firing, to give the kid time to lock the door if he'd gone for it. When people tried to bolt their door, Semyon was literally faster as blowing the lock out than they were at locking it, the result being their hands were still touching it when it shattered, further resulting in broken bones and lost fingers; which was exactly what they did not want at the moment. The shotgun was not loaded with solid slugs or shot. The first round was a breaching round, a load of steel powder held together with wax. When the powdered slug hit a lock, it would completely rip it apart and then disintegrate into harmless dust.
Two seconds after the door shut, Semyon fired. He took the recoil straight-back, tiny splinters bouncing off his cheek, and instantly stepped to the side and behind the wall of the house. He did not spin around and press his back to it, but simply strafed over, racking back the forend of the shotgun as he did so. The next round in the magazine was a less-lethal beanbag, designed solely for taking people down without killing them.
The door had been blown open from the force of impact, and not even a half second after firing, Vadim tossed the flash-bang in. He saw the kid turning the corner as he did so, and then lost sight of it as he stepped to the opposite side of Semyon. A moment later there was an absolutely deafening, ringing explosion of sound that hurt Semyon's ears even through the hearing-protection. He paid it no mind and stepped sideways and into the house, shotgun back up at his shoulder. His brain registered every important detail before his eyes fully pictured it. There was a hunting knife on the floor by the door; whether the kid had dropped it willingly or not was unknown. There was no blood, so he hadn't wounded him. There were no fingers, so that was good. There was no body on the ground, so that was bad. There were two ways to go, up the stairs on the right or down the hall. The hall meant turning left on the far end, or right on the near end. Vadim was behind him shouting, "He went down and to the right, down and right!"
Five steps forward and Semyon stepped around the corner and into the living room. Sofas, TV, large-glass door to backyard, target. The kid was halfway through the sliding-glass door, barely opened far enough to accommodate him. The walls had shielded him from the full effects of the flashbang, but there was no way to get out of this.
Semyon aimed and fired just as the kid got through the door. The bean-bag struck the bare side of the door and the glass completely shattered, pouring down to the ground in a wave even as Semyon chambered the next round, walked forward, and aimed at the kids lower back. He took his time, a second, maybe two, before firing. He wanted to hit the kid as far away from the spine as he could. He couldn't aim up near the ribs, and the legs were no guarantee, aiming to the right might mean damaging the liver, so he went for the lower left and fired.
The kid had managed to get halfway across his backyard when he was struck in the back with a force akin to that of a sledge-hammer. He didn't shout at first, but simply flew off his feet and faceplanted in the grass, rolling over as his hands involuntarily scrabbled at his back. Then came the screaming, now that his jaw was unclenched enough to actually cry out. The white bean-bag had bounced off his back and landed next to him, its golden tail-ribbon glinting in the noon sun. The shouts of pain had no effect in Semyon, who was far more preoccupied with whether or not he'd damaged the kidney. Hopefully it had remained functionally intact, but the kid was going to be pissing blood for a week either way.
Even though the kid wasn't going anywhere, Semyon chambered the next round and briskly walked forward, still aiming the shotgun. He stepped through the broken glass-door and strafed sideways, covering the kid as Vadim stepped over to secure him. He lifted the muzzle away from the target as Vadim stepped over, aiming straight at the sky instead. Vadim was talking over the radio the entire time and pulling out plastic zip-lock cuffs from under his coat.
The run had taken a little over ten seconds. The kid hadn't had anywhere to go anyway. Even if he'd managed to get over his fence, he'd have ended up in an alley-way that had over ten people waiting for him, all armed with less-lethals. It never made sense to Semyon why the hell they tried to run. See the bruise? Seen the bloody coughing up from the lungs? Seen the jerking bodies? Then why the hell did you try and run kid? You could have been taken in without any pain, saved us the time and effort, saved me a six dollars worth of baton rounds, but no. Now you've gained absolutely nothing but the worst bruise you'll ever have in your life and a very nicely colored urine.
After Vadim got the zip-cuffs on (the kid was in no state to resist) he pulled a pre-measured syringe of Sodium Pentothal from his pocket, already fitted with a sterile hypodermic needle. The drug was injected by IV, so an auto-injector couldn't be used. It would have been simpler, stab him in the buttock and have done. AS it was, Vadim pulled the plastic safety cap off and spent several seconds finding a good vein in the kids forearm. When he got the needle in, he injected the entire syringe. Then he stood up and stepped away, not even bothering to bandage the puncture or put some cotton on it. While the kid still groaned in pain on the ground, Vadim set about removing the needle from the syringe and capping both in a plastic disposal tube. Semyon was picking up the bean-bag from the ground along with the white shot-shells he'd fired.
The kid was completely unconscious in less than 60 seconds. Vadim picked him up in a fireman's carry and the two walked back through the house and down the street, Semyon picking up the spent flashbang and black shell from the breaching round as he did so. They'd get him on some longer lasting anesthetic in the car, drop him off at transport, and move on to the next target, whichever one was nearest.