Sleeper Cell

[CoffeeCake]

She waited silently, hidden in plain sight in a place not far beyond the train station. The equipment was currently in another location, safely tucked away.

She was half-disguised as well, what with the uniform, though her face remained uncovered. She had adjusted her body language for enhanced effect. Her gait, voice cadence, and choice of terminology when dealing with the checkpoints had been carefully selected as part of her character to gain access. Later, if she so chose, she would be able to stare those same guards in the eyes and have them swear she had been another person entirely.

A moment earlier she had watched the lines of soldiers, bereted and ponchoed, standing like animatronics all along the station.

Heads craned and eyes swept.

A sea of protestors shifted and swelled around them, but the crowd had kept its distance, apparently contenting itself with the idea that their cries and banners alone might achieve something.

Her estimate had been thirty thousand. Present, if not necessarily invested or protesting. She felt her own body going tense. Too many people. Warming. Active. Irate.

She could see the clinched fists, hear the rushing blood and quickened heartbeats around her, all even in ignorance of greater peril. Should she and her fellow BLOODHOUND fail, these people would lose far more than one landmark.

Her inner ear began vibrating-- CODEC.

Moving away from the window, she pretended to take a call on her issued cellphone.


This one was a frequency familiar only through her own preliminary briefing. This would be their first time speaking.

Eliah, she recalled.

“This is Wet Nurse,” she replied. Stressing the first syllable. Her accent was a not-quite-hidden Francophone with artifacts of RP instruction and the odd influence of American colleagues. Her tone was boldly familiar, as though she had known the group from another time. “You should have asked before you crossed the border. And so, Le Cassoulet wiil just have to do."

There was a smile in her voice.

“Also, I am certain you will be pleased to know I have not come empty-handed but bearing gifts—the kind that should make your burden a bit lighter. Meet me at the Kunstmuseum not far from here. I’ll explain more when you arrive. Get there safely. Wet Nurse out.”

 

[Killerclover]

Black Vulture, otherwise just known as Vulture rode upon the train silently. Next to what appeared to be some kind of soldier she barely knew about who went by Feist mainly, she wore a semi normal outfit from what most people would call it. Longsleeve grey shirt, thin black belt, somewhat loose black silkish pants and black tennis shoes. She looked..strange from alot of people. As she made her way off the train once it stopped her long raven hued hair flowed loosely to the left, her keen predator like eyes scanning the crowd of citizens and looking at the guards station at their posts. She'd have to make her way through yet another scanner.

She followed Feist closely, easily matching up to his hurried pace as her careful pace and keen eyes looked out for any trouble. She wished she could be afar, scanning the area with a sniper rifle but that wasn't the case at the moment. She needed to lay low with the rest of the team as much as possible, keep her partner safe as much as herself. She was behind her partner, by a few feet as per each person in the line. She waited until Feist made it through the let herself be scanned, once they found her to be clean she walked through after. After a few feet away from the scanner she sighed in slight annoyance, looking for any details of her objective.

 

[Asmodeus]

"Ich kann nicht meinen Arm höher heben," Feist murmured. A soldier was behind him, moving a detector wand along the contours of his body, shoving his right hand up whenever it tremored. Each push caused a tweak of pain. "Es wurde beschädigt. Sportverletzung." He closed his eyes as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

To one side of the checkpoint, another two soldiers were going through Feist's dirty brown coat, checking the flea-bitten pockets. A fourth soldier stood with a German Shepherd, which was sniffing the air as it watched Feist. It could smell the Carmotid 40 - the odd almond scent it left in his sweat - but it was not enough to make the dog take action.

Not that it needed to. The guards were suspicious enough. The one who wass patting him down moved to stand in front of him again, taking another look at his papers. "Suchen Sie nach Arbeit? In dieser Stadt?"

"Ja. Ich..." He closed his eyes again as his right arm trembled. The walk to the checkpoint had stimulated the adrenal gland. His body was starting to crave exertion. "Ich...muss gerade etwas finden."

The soldiers held him in their steely gazes, the German Shepherd making a slight groaning sound. "Warum schwitzen Sie?" asked the first guard.

Sweat dripped into Feist's eye. "Verzeihen Sie mir. Ich habe Platzangst. Ich hasse Untergrundbahn zu sein."

Another silence. The empty, ragged coat was dumped over his trembling arm. The soldier gave a twitch of a smile to Feist and handed back the papers. "Ich weiß, wie Sie sich fühlen."


* * * *


It was another five minutes before they were moving up the stairs towards street level. His partner, Vulture, fell in step beside him - a sniper's stillness beside his twitching. They were a mismatched couple, but in the heave and flow of the Stuttgart pedestrians they were as lost as any. As they came up onto Theodor-Heuss Street, the sun was already setting over the city skyline. The rumble and glare of traffic was a hellish inverse to the ghost-village of Kayersberg.

A world away. But pressed against the soul.

Feist glanced at Vulture. He had nothing to say to her. He scratched through his hair, fixed his coat collar and quickened his step again. The sniper may have been many shades of perfection, but when it came to walking, that was Feist's domain. He would keep a step ahead of her, so he wouldn't have to think about her.

So he wouldn't have to worry.

Passing office blocks and promenades of shops and restaurants, they came at last to the turning near the Bundesbank. Lights were coming on to fuel the neon night, and the beams of headlights grew stronger, sharper.

But through the glare they saw it: the glowing cube of the Kunstmuseum.

 

[unanun]

Eliah sighed, releasing his grip on his partner's waist. His cheesy attempt at spy-talk had failed, and now he simply felt stupid and unbriefed.

"Clearly, I'm not cut out for spy work." He shook his head, attempting to clear out the itchiness the implanted comm device was causing him. It was deep seated, as if an ant was walking along the jaw, right behind the ear. Whatever. He jumped off the top of the platform, hands in pockets, and landed in a small *poof* of displaced brake dust, striding confidently toward the checkpoint. Right before the line was, he stopped and turned around, smiling an automatic smile and waiting.

He squinted into the sky. Even at sunset, the dull fiery glare of the sun bore down upon him. Perhaps he should have worn sunglasses ...

 

[Killerclover]

Vulture began to notice the twitching of her partner, the way he always wanted to be a step ahead of her. She heard about the last part of the team that died off before and decide to let this man take the lead, he was more trained in up close combat then she was in the first place. Being in the back would allow her to target potential enemies faster then he could and warn him, her steady unwavering gaze would cast uncertainty in peoples eyes whenever they looked into hers. They eerie grey mixed with green hue of her iris and out siding, it was like she had litteral acid in her bloodstream. No that was just the nano optics flowing through her, making her into the killer she was today. She may have not had any real emotions but she knew her skills and training, enough to make sure to let the people on her team do their jobs, this man ahead of her was a soldier, she was the Sniper. The differences between them were obvious so she would make up for the lose of true partnership and go with the obvious, he would be the first to attack, she would take up the lead.

Soon enough they saw the glowing orb of Kunstmuseum. Such an strange sight to behold, instead of daydreaming like most would, if she did have the time she would have examined it for potential hiding places in case of discovering. She was always on alert, casting her eyes left and right but always keeping a single tracked path to her destination. After what seemed the longest of time they made it, stopping briefly she took only the briefest looks in a nearby market glass that served well as a mirror, looking behind them to spot for danger and other team members, once she found the area clear to her tastes she began walking again, following her team mate since he wished to go ahead.

 

[Sakura]

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[DASH=white]​

When Frostbite stopped abruptly, Lucky craned her neck to try and see what it was that she dropped. A slip of paper? Is she just pretending? There was something odd about the look on her partner's face, a kind of fear mixed with anger. But as soon as it was there, it was gone, leaving Lucky to wonder if she'd imagined it as a projection of her own confusion. They moved quickly through the crowds to the checkpoint and she took a deep breath. It would be the same as always, only this time Lucky considered the possibility of having to explain her symptoms to Frostbite. She didn't really like the idea of admitting her weakness so openly.

She tossed her backpack onto the scanner's belt and pulling her headphones out of her ears, she threw her music player into the little box that was held out to her. As her bag went through the scanner, Lucky took a deep breath and walked through the first walking scanner. It beeped and she twitched a little, though it could have been her surprise of hearing the noise. The security guard approached to scan her body. As the bar scanner went up her left arm, Lucky feigned a cough and straightened her arm. But her little feint didn't seem like it was going to work.

The man ran the scanner along the lining of her shirt, right along her left shoulder. A searing pain went through her arm and she clenched her fists, biting her lip. She wouldn't flinch. She'd stand still. It felt like her shoulder was being burned through. Tears pricked at her eyes. She held back the urge to scream. It was always a similar kind of pain, a burning, an unbelievable feeling of being unable to breathe. She stumbled away from the guard when he was done, picking up her backpack and slinging it over her other shoulder. She grabbed her music player and wiped her forehead against the back of her sleeve. She hadn't realized she was sweating. She hated checkpoints.

When they left the station, Lucky was glad to see the sunset. It was dramatically moving, perhaps because of her state of mind. She was pushing away the pain now. As they walked along the streets above the subway, she looked around curiously. There were people holding picket posters and protesting. She couldn't read the signs, but they seemed to have been there for quite a while now, crowding the subway entrance. It didn't look like a city where they accepted public protests, but she decided to keep the date and time in mind. It might come handy later. I wish I knew what they were protesting about, though. She'd ask the others. Maybe one of them understood.

The sight of the group though, remained in her mind. There were varied in ages, young people, and middle-aged. It must be something about the subways that affects... Lucky stopped for a second, slamming her fist into her hand. The subway conditions were horrible! That must be why they were protesting! Feeling quite impressed with her own conclusion, she looked back at the protesters and smiled, flashing them a thumbs up. She wished she could be there protesting along with them. To fight for something we believe in... Isn't that what everyone does in their own way?

The profound thought made her more aware of her surroundings. Were they almost at the museum, she wondered? It was supposed to look like some kind of glowing cube, a square-like structure with lighting that resembled a box. They passed a small asian restaurant and the familiar smell of Chinese cooking floated through the air. Lucky stopped walking again to stop and try to get a peek into the window of the store. She could see the chefs spinning their pans and cooking inside. It made her feel so very nostalgic. To find a place that felt like home so far away from home. She put her hand to her shoulder. It was only slightly tingling now.

This reminder will always be with me. Wherever I am. She turned to apologize to Frostbite for stopping again, but that's when she saw it. In their line of vision, the cubical structure that they'd been briefed about.

To Lucky, meeting BLOODHOUND, the mission briefing, everything before this was relatively interesting, but it never felt like anything had changed. But now, seeing the museum, a strange kind of excitement bubbled in her stomach. Her fingers itched to put something together, to blow something up. A grin tweaked the edge of her lips and she almost smiled. It's time. Got to show them what I'm made of.

[/DASH]​

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[Zen]

Perhaps the security guards were a bit dumb to notice the way Lucky was twitching during their inspection process. Frostbite could only look around like some lost tourist - She couldn't just stand there hoping the poor girl would pull through, it would give them away. When her turn came up, she took it like a good sport, taking out her ear bubs, stepping up when the guards asked her to, and praying that she wouldn't see another apparition in the process.

Through the checkpoint, Frostbite walked along with her partner, admiring the sights, sounds and people. Outwardly she was trying to enjoy herself, but inside she was trying to distract herself from their upcoming mission. So close they were to civilians it was hard to think of them risking their lives so soon... Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lucky throw two thumbs up at a group of protesters. This caused the blonde to raise an eyebrow up in question.

She must really be a child at heart, Frostbite thought flatly to herself.

Moving on she smelled food, Asian cooking from what her nose was picking up. Hmm, right up Lucky's alley. Frostbite herself was a big fan of Italian cuisine but growing up in America you tended to sample food from various cultures. Chinese cooking was one of her top favorites. Orange chicken from Panda Express. Not authentic, but it was the closest thing she could get.

Hands still in her pocket, Lucky had turned around suddenly, probably to say something. But it looked like the words were caught in her mouth because her eyes were fixed onto something else. The lights reflected off of the woman's brown eyes. Frowning, Frostbite turned around, eyebrows flying up.

"Oh there it is," she commented mildly. She too took in the large cube looking structure, almost blinded by the heavy lighting. Distantly she admired the limestone walls. "Well shall we go inside?"

 

[Asmodeus]

The museum was a glass cube enclosing a stone cube that contained one-fifth of the building's floor space. The far greater part of the 5,000 square meters, however, was located in two basements below Kleiner Schossplatz. It was home to over 15,000 artworks, from the Swabian Impressionist paintings to the concrete sculptures of the Teufel Foundation. Whereas the majority of the Kunstmuseum’s collection was stored in both basements, special exhibitions were predominantly shown in the glass cube on ground level.

Today it was Les mots et les choses, inspired by the philosopher Michel Foucault in his treatise on the juxtaposition of words and objects. As Feist and Vulture entered they were caught in a web of light-beams. Dozens of books, newspapers and journals - none less than 70 years old - were framed in glass cases and positioned strategically on the floors and walls. Each piece had been pierced by a bullet-hole, in conflicts ranging from the Great War to the Socialist Uprising to the Berlin Blockade. The holes in each piece were alligned with spotlights that shone through and caused continuous beams to strike each visitor.

It was stated, according to the pamphlet that Feist absently clutched, that the effect was to posit a question to each visitor. Is bloodshed the antithesis of language or only a substitute? Does the light that shines through broken words strike us with a sense of truth or a sense of emptiness?

Even reading the pamphlet made Feist angry. Perhaps, in that way, he had already answered the question.

But at least it reminded him of the stoic silence he had enforced on his partner. Glancing at Vulture as he paid for two admission tickets, his mouth twitched with a smile. "Try to look like you're interested."

In moments they were circling the exhibition, keeping to the outer atriums around the central stone cube. The light beams made an eerie terrain, as did the glass cases that hung on wires or protruded from walls. Ducking around a framed newspaper announcing the death of Hindenburg, Feist checked his watch. It was time for his call to Lark. Keying the codec frequency, he muttered as he walked, keeping his eyes locked on the museum pamphlet in his trembling hands.

"Lark, this is Mountain Feist," His voice wavered with the adrenaline. "Have you compiled the intel? Give me the background on the Hellraiser Brigade."

 

[Cosmic Orion]

A light started to flash in front of her eyes, signaling that one of the members of BLOODHOUND needed her. Part of her enjoyed the fact that everyone had gotten through the PMC checkpoint without much trouble. It meant that so far the newbies lived up to their reputations as professionals. Not pulling any crazy attention-grabbing shenanigans or blowing the cover of the entire unit. Upon seeing Fiest's codec frequency

"Lark, this is Mountain Feist," His voice wavered with the adrenaline. "Have you compiled the intel? Give me the background on the Hellraiser Brigade."

"Well you've got the frequency right this time. But the wrong person. Mockingbird was put in charge of the Hellraiser Brigade intel Feist. Sometimes I wonder if you really listen to the mission briefings. But I'll cut you a break just this once and tell you along with all the others a little story about King Amdusias."

For a moment she went silent while making a conference codec call to everyone in the unit. Now each of them would feel that familiar stimulation in the small bones of their ear. Lucky for them all they had to do was listen to Lark talk. Plus keep from having too emotional of a reaction to the intel they were about to recieve. All of them were killers in their own right. . . but not all of them had the emotion suppressing nanomachines that Black Vulture possessed.

"Listen up BLOODHOUND. It's story time about a musical madman named King Amdusias. After all it is his signal you'll be pinpointing soon. Which means you're bound to run into him during this mission. So you might as well know what makes him tick. Trust me, I know. So pay attention, I'm not a big fan of repeating myself."

A sigh found itself followed by a deep breath.

"First off, King Amdusias is not the guy's given name. His real name is Amadeus Presley. He used to work for the United States. A black ops intelligence gatherer, he was once known as the greatest computer hacker in the world. If it was digital, and he wanted it, he got it. Espionage of the digital realm was his speciality. A prodigy no less than a virtual mozart. The King. He was picked up by the government around the age of fifteen, but rather than throw him in prison they gave him a job and turned him loose on other countries. When he had to travel for his missions, he lived out a false identity as a prodigy composer. Wherever his missions went, the concert tours were held. Even his conductor's stick was special. He said it was carved from the horn of a unicorn. Some of you might have even bought the CDs recorded at his live performances. If you had a taste for classical music, that is. In a way he is the most publicly famous black ops operative in recent history. Aside from a few other famous notables. He even taught me most of what I know about computers. We used to work together back when I was more active in the field. . ."

Moments in silence went past as the woman steeled herself for what would come next. All the 'nice' things to say about her former partner were over with now. Only the bloodied memories that brought back memories filled with horrifying sounds remained. None of them pleasurable to recall. Each word that followed had a willful suppression of emotion imposed upon it. Yet strangest of all as the tale twisted on, some of the BLOODHOUND members might have sworn Mozart's Requiem played in the background at a hushed volume level.

". . .but he was not just a hacker. He also dabbled in black ops interrogation techniques. Specifically in frequency-based torture. He headed research in discovering the precise soundwave frequencies to cause various physical reactions in the human body. Some of his discoveries were even implemented in experimental high and low frequency weaponry used by the military for a short time. When fear and intimidation of the normal sort failed, they would call in the King. He said he despised the pain he caused even in guilty men with his special music. A few of the persons of interest I brought in were interrogated by him once. I could never decide if hearing the sounds they made or seeing the expressions on their faces was worse. But he always got results. Even if after the information was obtained some of them were driven to insanity later on as a result."

Now she prepared herself to finish the story.

"He passed his psychological evaluations everytime. But he must have been hiding the toll torturing those men had taken on him. Then one day, at one of his concerts it finally all came to a head. Most people would call it post traumatic stress disorder. He cracked. He lost it completely while conducting a song. Some say it was the song he performed that night, Dies Irae. He leaped down into the orchestra pit with the eyes of a devil, stabbing each musician through the heart or the head with his conductor's stick. Not once did the stick break. His strength from all witness accounts was inhuman, demonic. In the end only the audience escaped to tell the story. Now he has named himself King Amdusias, after the demon who is in charge of the cacophonous music played in hell and whose instruments are never seen. If you ask me. . . I think the ghosts of those he killed in the orchestra pit are playing for him, their spirits bound to him through that conductor's stick."

For just a few seconds she fell silent, before speaking again.

"And that's just one of the sickos part of the Hellraiser Brigade. Next time though, call up Mockingbird. His frequency is 149.07, got that? Make sure you all remember that. Lark out."

 

[Ampoule]

Lilith took Eliah’s tighter embrace on her in stride and leaned against him slightly, bringing her own face a little closer to his, or more importantly, bringing her mouth a bit closer to his ear.

“O .. oi! Whatcha doing?”

”Wanting to know if you have any…suggestions.”

Suggestions concerning Feist’s little ‘difficulties’, that is. Now that they were actually moving through the public, they didn’t have the leeway they did for any major errors. Not only would civilian lives be in danger but more than likely their escape would be impeded by the extra crush of panicking bodies as well.

“Clearly, I’m not cut out for spy work.”

Lilith straightened her body Eliah released his grip on her.

”I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself.” she remarked casually as she raised a single finger upward, past the lower half of her face to rest in the air between them at eye level before pushing it forward to rest against the tip of his nose for a moment before it fell back to her side. ”It isn’t so much spy work as it is nose work.” Her gaze turned back out toward the moving sea of people. ”I’m sure we wouldn’t have a hard time finding something.”

 

[unanun]

"..."

The best Eliah found he could do was allow a faint blush to spread across his ears. Most of what she said was over his head. Often he wondered whether people in .. the biz, so to speak, had taken a special night class where they distributed an ancient tome written by the KGB's best. Certainly, he never was taught on how to properly poison a camp's water supply, nor perform psychological warfare so they could not sleep at night, or about the fine art of bluffing and killing with the knife. Of those four things listed, he only managed to pick up two after much trial and error.

He passed through the detector without incident; the titanium super-alloys that made up his arm were non-magnetic and would not trip any sensors. They did blip minorly, detecting the faint signature given off by the imperfectly shielded, high power bundles of electrofiber that constituted his muscle, yet he simply pointed to his belt and smiled. The guards let him pass without incident, and he collected his bag on the other side.

While waiting for his partner to pass, he scratched the skin behind his ear as he felt the codec buzz to life. What he listened to for the next few minutes was somewhat disturbing. He could not exactly understand (this was becoming a trend, he noted with irritation), but Eliah recalled the times spent with the dentist, and with the audiologist who was supposed to make sure he still had his hearing after the concrete pillbox he was hiding in was glanced with a bunker-buster. The high tones hurt the most.

 

[Killerclover]

Vulture was almost blinded at the near extreme lightning of the museum interior, two pamphlet were purchased for herself and Feist, she didn't buy though but those words from that twitchy man rang in her ears still,

"Try to look like you're interested."

Really now? She had troubles with pretending something that wasn't necessary, but then after glancing around for a mere moment she found it was necessary then anything, nodding only slightly she made the pretending thing seem absolutely real. Looking at books, the pamphlet, anything. Until Feist asked for the run down on info, she was listening to the long speech with a litteral blank face, eyes glued to things that seemed likely for local tourists to be staring at. When it was over, the codec frequency was then stuck in her head, just in case she needed it in the future. For now, they needed to continue.

 

[Ampoule]

A gentle, understanding smile graced Lilith’s lips as she stepped up to the metal detector as the guards motioned her to step up. After hours of standing a thankless and boring vigil, a simple look of compassion was still enough to set them at a brief moment of ease, not to mention the look was coming from a beautiful woman.

As Lilith slipped through the WTMD the device strapped to her chest flickered to life, causing the life of the detector to flicker in conjunction ever so briefly, draining the internal battery enough that a delay would be inevitable later should the power inexplicably fail at some point. The most important part was that she proceeded through the checkpoint without incident, joining up behind Eliah shortly later.

The woman stood a short distance behind Eliah, her gaze focused on the protestors, squinting slightly at the words on their signs. She didn’t know the intimate details behind the movement but it was a convenient distraction and an excuse to stand away from him. The vague memory of the boy’s blush left a wriggling sense of disgust crawling up the woman’s spine and slithering over her skin. After she had passed through the metal detector and was out of sight of the guards, her lips had pressed into a thin, firm line.

Teasing such a boyish reaction out of Eliah so easily would probably have only encouraged someone else but it only reminded Lilith of exactly that, he was practically only a child. She shouldered forward, "Best get moving. We don't want to be late..."