[IC]Damage Incorporated
Posted: Thu Mar 17, 2005 11:17 pm
The water lapped at the rocks gentlely, they could see several small fish and some crabs at the bottom of the rocky pool. There were hundreds of just these types of formations on the island. After the awakening much of the island had been reclaimed by nature as people left and didn’t return. The islands had always been a tourist attraction, drawing hundreds of thousands each year-but the awakening, the crash and the wars had changed that. Now people were too poor to take vacations. Too busy just trying to survive.
Ponta was the last remaining city on Ilha De Porto Santo. The Port of the Saints, once a gateway for the trading vessels that traversed these same waters from Africa to Portugal and back.-it was now a relatively uninhabited island. Ponta was the only real city on the island for centuries, and not much had changed in all that time. Only 8 miles long and 3 miles at it’s widest, life has barely changed in 500 years, since João Gonçalves Zarco and Tristão Vaz Teixiera, who discovered Madeira, landed on Porto Santo in 1418 when they took refuge from a storm.
The people still fished the waters for shell fish and fish, growing what little they could from the island that was dry and rocky, which was great when tourism had supplemented the islands economy. Now they grew what little they could: Melons, figs, tomatoes and barely enough grain to sell at local markets The Lime Kiln and the Water Bottling Plant had been destroyed, and long since reclaimed by nature. In ways this is what made the island the perfect place to start.
The people still walked the craggy paths that winded through the islands mountainous terrain. The roads had long since been reclaimed by Gaia and the local economy couldn’t support itself, let alone build new roads. Now few locals even owned motorized vehicles at all-a few dirt bikes that were a half dozen decades old, or more, a couple of ATV’s and a smattering of quad runners. Most people owned a small boat, a few even had engines.
For all intents and purposes Porto Santo was cut off from the rest of the world. Although technically still a provincial territory of Portugal, it had been a contested claim for the last 30 or so years. The Spanish hoping to reclaim the pristine beaches on the island for their own tourist industries have fought the claim in several European courts for the last few decades, but to no avail. The island remained a place unto itself, a land without time.
It was here that they had laid their humble roots, and therefore fitting that they return for this. There were fourteen of them, gathered around the edge of the shallow pool; watching the fish dart through the rocky bottom of the pool. They could see crabs crawling across the slick rocks, and across the pools bottom. A few even had managed to snag unsuspecting prey; ripping chunks of flesh from the dead fish slowly, consuming each bit as if they were savoring their last meal.
“Dutch” Schaeffer was a long way from his new home in the south of Spain, a long way from his wife, and his children. The call had come two days before, and had been simple enough. “We’re putting a team together. We want you in on this Dutch.” At first he’d been reluctant- this sort of life was hard on his family. Hard on his body- at thirty four he wasn’t a young man anymore, and war was always a young mans game.
His wife didn’t say word when he told her, just nodding, somehow she just understood what sort of man he was. She never complained about his prolonged absences, never questioned where the money that paid for their new luxury home, and the ranch in the south of Spain. She never once even asked him what he did. She simplely loved him unconditionally. He knew that she expected him to be there, to be at the tip of the spear with his current team. Just the thought of letting her down was enough to make Dutch puff his chest out a little more, and hold his head just that much higher.
Dutch eyes the rest of the team casually. They’d all worked together in some fashion or form. He knew everyone else on the team by name, or at least by reputation. He mentally began to review each of them silently in his mind.
Mark “Big Ivan” Kaminsky, the Ukrainian Troll heavy weapons specialist, and former tank platoon sergeant who’d spent ten years with Romping Stomping Red Ass Army-five years as Spetsnaz, another five as the platoon sergeant in the 45th Koshkin Brigade, five long hard years fighting in the Caucasus Mountains. Dutch knew it had been a brutal theater, and “Big Ivan” had cut his teeth the hard way, watching good men die and learning from that ultimate lesson. He also knew Ivan had six sons, two sets of triplets a year apart, just now hitting puberty. Ivan was here for the money, having long since resigned his Red Army Commission for something that actually put food on his families table.
Gregor “Ed Evil” Moussorsky, the all too lethal Romanian Ork who grew up in the ethnic cleansing wars of South Eastern Europe. He knew Gregor was the coldest, hardest man on this team. Gregor once cut three of his own fingers off for food. Silent as he was ugly Gregor was an expert in most small arms, hand to hand combat as well as having considerable expertise in explosive ordinances and booby traps.
Adam “Dark Angel” Gibson was the only one present who was wearing a suit. Impeccablely groomed, his tie folded into his jacket Adam stood rigidly like only the British could do. His expensive Italian leather shoes shined under the hot sun, shined to high buff polish. His hair was pulled back into a pony tail that was held with a platinum ring that ran down just past his shoulders. He wore a pair of mirror shades, his face expressionless.
If Dutch hadn’t seen Gibson in action it’d have been hard to believe the man was anything other than a snobbish stiff, but he’d seen Gibson gut men with his bare hands before. Where the rest of them worked for money, Gibson worked for the thrill.
Roman “Caesar” Pearce had been one of Spain’s finest- a SEAL. The Troll could swim like a fish and fight like a chipped piranha. His fiery red hair hung down around his eyes as he leaned forward on the massive rock outcropping staring down at the panorama playing out below him in the water. Caesar could do it all-jump, dive, fight and drink. Caesar also, like most of the men and women assembled here, loved gambling. He worked to keep living the lifestyle he liked. The Riviera wasn’t cheap.
Simon “Flak Jacket” Barton was dressed loudly- like always his shirt was the loudest, the cargo pockets on his shorts packed with drinks, a Jell-O shot in his hand despite the fact that it was just past ten in the morning. He claimed, and Dutch believed him, that he worked better drunk. A genius with military technology, and computers Flak did it all: weapons, armor, ammo tech, cyber technology, you name it. An Oxford drop out, Flak had enlisted to defer his student loans, but quickly found that he had considerable talent as an S3 officer, and technician. It hadn’t taken much to convince him to resign and seek out new horizons.
Mira Fuchrer was the least dressed of their team, her bikini barely covering any of her taught tanned body. If she cared, or was even self conscious about it, no one could have ever have known. Her long blond hair was pulled up today, accentuating her dark blue eyes and strong Germanic features. Lean, but pretty she could have been mistaken for a dancer or a piece of eye candy to the untrained eye. Dutch had never made that mistake, and neither did anyone else on this team. Dutch had once seen her smash a hole through a six inch steel armor plate on the side of an armored fighting vehicle. What made that all the more impressive is that she carried absolutely no cybernetic augmentation what so ever. The more Dutch knew about Magic, the more he was afraid.
Aeryn Sun the Ork Gypsy from Poland. She was a skilled healer, who had survived the ultimate horrors. Dutch only knew a part of what had happened to her, but it was enough to make his face burn red with rage. Aeryn however never seemed angry at anyone, always in control. Her skilled hands and knowledge of medicines had saved all of their lives once. Flak had said she was a shaman, but all Dutch really got was that she loved Unicorns. Really loved Unicorns.
If any one looked bored to be here it was Angela. Angela “Green Angry” Kostapas, an elf whose features were classical, framed by her dark hair she was considered gorgeous even if she was a complete and total bitch. If she hadn’t been a virtuoso with nearly security system ever made, and any knife she touched Dutch felt she’d have been given the boot a long time ago. She was also well connected, which meant she got them access to a lot of jobs they might not otherwise get.
Ettore “Big Bird” Moretti was the team’s rock. A devout Catholic, Big Bird was also a mage, or at least that’s what Flak said. All Dutch knew was that when Ettore prayed to god, miracles happened. Ettore had made fire and lightening shoot from his finger tips, he had made Dutch invisible once, a condition Dutch wasn’t all together sure he had the moral compass to do again. Ettore was the youngest son of a large respectable family in Italy, a former policeman he was forced to leave Italy when La Cosa Nostra had placed a price on his head.
Ponta was the last remaining city on Ilha De Porto Santo. The Port of the Saints, once a gateway for the trading vessels that traversed these same waters from Africa to Portugal and back.-it was now a relatively uninhabited island. Ponta was the only real city on the island for centuries, and not much had changed in all that time. Only 8 miles long and 3 miles at it’s widest, life has barely changed in 500 years, since João Gonçalves Zarco and Tristão Vaz Teixiera, who discovered Madeira, landed on Porto Santo in 1418 when they took refuge from a storm.
The people still fished the waters for shell fish and fish, growing what little they could from the island that was dry and rocky, which was great when tourism had supplemented the islands economy. Now they grew what little they could: Melons, figs, tomatoes and barely enough grain to sell at local markets The Lime Kiln and the Water Bottling Plant had been destroyed, and long since reclaimed by nature. In ways this is what made the island the perfect place to start.
The people still walked the craggy paths that winded through the islands mountainous terrain. The roads had long since been reclaimed by Gaia and the local economy couldn’t support itself, let alone build new roads. Now few locals even owned motorized vehicles at all-a few dirt bikes that were a half dozen decades old, or more, a couple of ATV’s and a smattering of quad runners. Most people owned a small boat, a few even had engines.
For all intents and purposes Porto Santo was cut off from the rest of the world. Although technically still a provincial territory of Portugal, it had been a contested claim for the last 30 or so years. The Spanish hoping to reclaim the pristine beaches on the island for their own tourist industries have fought the claim in several European courts for the last few decades, but to no avail. The island remained a place unto itself, a land without time.
It was here that they had laid their humble roots, and therefore fitting that they return for this. There were fourteen of them, gathered around the edge of the shallow pool; watching the fish dart through the rocky bottom of the pool. They could see crabs crawling across the slick rocks, and across the pools bottom. A few even had managed to snag unsuspecting prey; ripping chunks of flesh from the dead fish slowly, consuming each bit as if they were savoring their last meal.
“Dutch” Schaeffer was a long way from his new home in the south of Spain, a long way from his wife, and his children. The call had come two days before, and had been simple enough. “We’re putting a team together. We want you in on this Dutch.” At first he’d been reluctant- this sort of life was hard on his family. Hard on his body- at thirty four he wasn’t a young man anymore, and war was always a young mans game.
His wife didn’t say word when he told her, just nodding, somehow she just understood what sort of man he was. She never complained about his prolonged absences, never questioned where the money that paid for their new luxury home, and the ranch in the south of Spain. She never once even asked him what he did. She simplely loved him unconditionally. He knew that she expected him to be there, to be at the tip of the spear with his current team. Just the thought of letting her down was enough to make Dutch puff his chest out a little more, and hold his head just that much higher.
Dutch eyes the rest of the team casually. They’d all worked together in some fashion or form. He knew everyone else on the team by name, or at least by reputation. He mentally began to review each of them silently in his mind.
Mark “Big Ivan” Kaminsky, the Ukrainian Troll heavy weapons specialist, and former tank platoon sergeant who’d spent ten years with Romping Stomping Red Ass Army-five years as Spetsnaz, another five as the platoon sergeant in the 45th Koshkin Brigade, five long hard years fighting in the Caucasus Mountains. Dutch knew it had been a brutal theater, and “Big Ivan” had cut his teeth the hard way, watching good men die and learning from that ultimate lesson. He also knew Ivan had six sons, two sets of triplets a year apart, just now hitting puberty. Ivan was here for the money, having long since resigned his Red Army Commission for something that actually put food on his families table.
Gregor “Ed Evil” Moussorsky, the all too lethal Romanian Ork who grew up in the ethnic cleansing wars of South Eastern Europe. He knew Gregor was the coldest, hardest man on this team. Gregor once cut three of his own fingers off for food. Silent as he was ugly Gregor was an expert in most small arms, hand to hand combat as well as having considerable expertise in explosive ordinances and booby traps.
Adam “Dark Angel” Gibson was the only one present who was wearing a suit. Impeccablely groomed, his tie folded into his jacket Adam stood rigidly like only the British could do. His expensive Italian leather shoes shined under the hot sun, shined to high buff polish. His hair was pulled back into a pony tail that was held with a platinum ring that ran down just past his shoulders. He wore a pair of mirror shades, his face expressionless.
If Dutch hadn’t seen Gibson in action it’d have been hard to believe the man was anything other than a snobbish stiff, but he’d seen Gibson gut men with his bare hands before. Where the rest of them worked for money, Gibson worked for the thrill.
Roman “Caesar” Pearce had been one of Spain’s finest- a SEAL. The Troll could swim like a fish and fight like a chipped piranha. His fiery red hair hung down around his eyes as he leaned forward on the massive rock outcropping staring down at the panorama playing out below him in the water. Caesar could do it all-jump, dive, fight and drink. Caesar also, like most of the men and women assembled here, loved gambling. He worked to keep living the lifestyle he liked. The Riviera wasn’t cheap.
Simon “Flak Jacket” Barton was dressed loudly- like always his shirt was the loudest, the cargo pockets on his shorts packed with drinks, a Jell-O shot in his hand despite the fact that it was just past ten in the morning. He claimed, and Dutch believed him, that he worked better drunk. A genius with military technology, and computers Flak did it all: weapons, armor, ammo tech, cyber technology, you name it. An Oxford drop out, Flak had enlisted to defer his student loans, but quickly found that he had considerable talent as an S3 officer, and technician. It hadn’t taken much to convince him to resign and seek out new horizons.
Mira Fuchrer was the least dressed of their team, her bikini barely covering any of her taught tanned body. If she cared, or was even self conscious about it, no one could have ever have known. Her long blond hair was pulled up today, accentuating her dark blue eyes and strong Germanic features. Lean, but pretty she could have been mistaken for a dancer or a piece of eye candy to the untrained eye. Dutch had never made that mistake, and neither did anyone else on this team. Dutch had once seen her smash a hole through a six inch steel armor plate on the side of an armored fighting vehicle. What made that all the more impressive is that she carried absolutely no cybernetic augmentation what so ever. The more Dutch knew about Magic, the more he was afraid.
Aeryn Sun the Ork Gypsy from Poland. She was a skilled healer, who had survived the ultimate horrors. Dutch only knew a part of what had happened to her, but it was enough to make his face burn red with rage. Aeryn however never seemed angry at anyone, always in control. Her skilled hands and knowledge of medicines had saved all of their lives once. Flak had said she was a shaman, but all Dutch really got was that she loved Unicorns. Really loved Unicorns.
If any one looked bored to be here it was Angela. Angela “Green Angry” Kostapas, an elf whose features were classical, framed by her dark hair she was considered gorgeous even if she was a complete and total bitch. If she hadn’t been a virtuoso with nearly security system ever made, and any knife she touched Dutch felt she’d have been given the boot a long time ago. She was also well connected, which meant she got them access to a lot of jobs they might not otherwise get.
Ettore “Big Bird” Moretti was the team’s rock. A devout Catholic, Big Bird was also a mage, or at least that’s what Flak said. All Dutch knew was that when Ettore prayed to god, miracles happened. Ettore had made fire and lightening shoot from his finger tips, he had made Dutch invisible once, a condition Dutch wasn’t all together sure he had the moral compass to do again. Ettore was the youngest son of a large respectable family in Italy, a former policeman he was forced to leave Italy when La Cosa Nostra had placed a price on his head.