The Division: Dark Winter

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  1. Joint Task Force-New York Headquarters: Newark Liberty International Airport

    November 22, 2018: 0600

    It was a toasty twenty degrees outside, Michael thought as he ate breakfast in a food court near the gates. A layer of snow covered the ground and a brisk wind blew, blowing the American flag erected atop the control tower to and fro. He had just woken, and dressed in his gear, and followed the crowd and smell of food to the makeshift mess. He had gotten in last night, and learned that he was supposed to report to the JTF commander for a situation breifing. Other agents would be there, and they would be expected to work together. He had his standard issue equiptment and everything loaded out on his person. His Kriss lay against his chair in easy reach as he looked around the food court. The people awake were a mixed bag. The green camoflauge of the military and National Guard, various uniforms of police and fire, some civilians, a few other people who were probably Division agents. Agents were easier to spot, because of their unique equiptment.

    He remembered this airport well, having flown out of here on several occassions. Now it was the focal point of the effort to save New York. Generators "borrowed" (read stolen) from hardware stores around Newark powered the terminal's lights, cooking elements, and command and control. Unfortunately, no power to heat the place could be spared. The food courts remained food courts and gathering areas for the inhabitents. Gates and holding areas turned into living quarters. The few private rooms were command areas, where breifings could take place, and sensitive intelligence passed. The control tower was now a watchtower. The tarmac was full of civilian and military aircraft, fixed wing and rotary, it did not matter, it was full of activity. Helicopter blades kicked up small blizzards that dissappeared as the helicopter left. The dark skyline of New York could be seen in the distance, a few low clouds, and the dark plumes of smoke from isolated fires.

    Going to do something about that, he thought, moving his eyes back to the food court. His eyes mainly interrogated the other Division agents in the room. He wondered if they were going to be working together, and how they would do. He was comfortable working alone in the New York enviorment, but he would feel a little bit more secure working with backup, or at least other lone wolves in the area who could assist him.

    His eyes turned back to his bagel, the first to go before he started on a tray of eggs and bacon. As he ate, he listened to scuttlebutt from a table full of National Guard, presumably friends who had survived the events seperately but found themselves. From what he gathered, the Guard had been activated to do what the Guard does, help people. However, two days ago, when the power had gone out in Manhattan, they had lost control of the situation. They had been ordered not to fire upon those attacking them, and had lost more than a few good men. It made Michael wonder about what kind of ROE the Division was operating under, but he figured that would be a topic in the Agent Briefing.
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  2. There was something oddly amusing about the sight of a ravaged Starbucks. The vague sense of karmic satisfaction made Cross smile- a sardonic grin to be sure but a smile all the same. And there hadn't been too much to smile about lately so she'd take what she could get. In this case that turned out to be the pleasure of enjoying a small symbol of the destruction of corporate America as well as an overlooked granola bar hiding in the shattered glass that used to protect the overpriced hipster food on the counter. A gloved hand reached in to grab it and by the time she was walking past the overturned chairs, Cross was enjoying a mash of oatmeal, raisins and... was that macadamia nut? Fancy.

    The cold temperature didn't seem to bother the blonde despite her lack of sleeves. Maybe it was just a facade as the paleness of her skin contrasted with the dark markings of her eye-catching tribal tattoos, but either way she refrained from complaint or search of a heat source. Though she'd be lying if she said she hadn't considered starting a fire in the middle of the food court. That notion made her chuckle quietly to herself, which in turn earned the judgemental glance of a couple of wary police officers. Luckily for them she was still enjoying her granola bar- her mouth too full of oatmeal to bother with a nasty retort.

    That did remind her of something she'd meant to attend to for a while now though, so after stuffing the last quarter of her granola bar into her mouth, Cross strolled over to the brick divider separating a derelict pizza joint and the dining area. She clapped her gloved hands together to get the crumbs off and took a seat while pulling her backpack off in one fluid movement. A moment of begrudging rifling through the pockets yielded her blade sharpening kit (along with a reminder to organize her bag better at some point) and Cross drew the machete from its place on her back. Her look of disapproval was easily readable as she ran her thumb along the disappointingly dull edge. Time to fix that! Cue several minutes of slow, methodical passes of her machete over her double-sided diamond whetstone, first the course side and- once she was happier with the bevel angle- she flipped it over to the fine side.

    This was one of the few activities where Cross felt perfectly at ease zoning out, falling into the rhythm and allowing it to lull her into a practically meditative trance. She always saw it as a metaphor for the dedication and precision she'd put into honing her own body into a dangerous weapon, developed into a habit after so long. Cross felt perfectly content passing the time before the briefing with her whetstone and her machete.
    #2 Insomnant, Jul 9, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Jul 9, 2015
  3. Dust flying up everywhere... "Cover me, cover me. I got to get in there!" The crack of a gun. The thud of a body.

    Jerking her head up, Liz looked around wildly, her shoulder-length red hair looking slightly frazzled. She sighed and rolled her chair back up as she inspected her desk and the lab around her. She was lucky to get a little space of her own in exchange for having to treat the wounded.

    She walked over to the incubator, pulling on her lab coat and gloves as she went. After examining the new batch of cells for the newest iteration of regen serum, one that would hopefully isolate only the property of increased blood production. She sighed and turned away, another failure, the rate of regeneration was too high in some, non existant in others.

    Discarding the pitri dishes, she pulled off the gloves and rolled away. Keeping her lab coat on, she walked back to her quarters to change her clothes and grab some food. She sighed as she shivered. It was so cold outside. Hanging her coat up, she changed from her casual sweatshirt and track pants into her cargo top and pulled on her white overcoat.

    Heading over to the mess and grabbing a mug of dark coffee, she took a sip and grimaced. Too light. She walked over to the bog window and stared out into the swirling snow flakes. She looked over to the people around her. A group of National Guard soldiers she had treated when they came in the night before. She scanned the room and saw some that she had treated. An Army Lieutenant flexing his arms as he ate his cereal, not beliveing that his arm was there. She chuckled into her cup.

    He has been knocked out when he was given the serum, and when he woke up, started flaling his new arm all over the place. Of course anyone would freak out when they regrow a limb overnight.

    Finishing her cup, she put it on the window sill and pulled out a pack of smokes. Lighting one up, she picked her mug up and walked over to the very obvious division agent at his table alone.

    "A smoke, Mr. Foulke?" She said, extending the pack to him. "Come now, dont look so surprised. I pulled your files as soon as I joined Division. You should come visit me later for that liver." She smiled a dangerous smile.
  4. Michael looked up from his bagel at the woman who had approched him. He shook his head, "I don't smoke, and if I was really worried about my liver I would talk to my actual doctor about it," he replied. "Besides, I've got bigger things to worry about than that, and you do too, Doc." Continuing his breakfast, another operator sat with them. "Foulke," he replied coldly, not taking his hand. He was not the "Hi, I'm Michael and I like Pina Coladas and blowing stuff up in the rain," kind of person.

    He found the eggs a bit tougher than he anticipated, and his knife duller than it looked. Therefore, he set the airport knife aside and drew his Nightedge. Using the combat knife to eat breakfast. He wondered what his wife was doing, weather Fourth Echelon had called her up yet. She would let him know, but it would not stop him from worrying.

    The seconds ticked off as his knife and fork scraped against the plate, and he was more than content to let the silence reign. The others might not, but he was used to the quiet, of simply listening and watching. He learned more thst way, letting others reveal themselves as assets, liabilities, or threats before he made a move.
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  5. Matthew woke up early about 5:30, he felt the chill of the room on his face and knew it wasn't going to be the nice warm day he hoped for, but what could he expect. He reached for his clothes he lined up at the bottom and placed them on himself and dragged himself out of bed to avoid sleeping in. He grabbed his weapons, he placed his glock in his back pocket and placed his knife in his boot, after putting his coat and bag on he attached the gun to the side of the bag for accessibility. Matthew left the sleeping area he had and went out to the main camp and to the food court arriving about 6:00.

    Looking around he spotted multiple people in army uniforms, and a few civilians up early along with him. He went over to one of the food stalls and got breakfast that consisted of bread, cereal and bacon for protein (not other reason just protein...). Once Matthew had eaten he went to look for any of the other Division members around looking for special weapons about the place. He spotted one guy who seemed his age but a hell of a lot tougher than him and a girl who just walked up to him, they both had their own special weapons so he easily guessed they were division. Deciding agaisnt it he let the pair talk alone and he wandered off around the food court area.
  6. "Hah. Well said, Mr. Foulke. Very weeeellll~. If you ever need anything medically related, just let me know." She nodded and walked back to the airport window, content with her interactions for the day.

    She was not truly looking for friends, but part of her job was to ensure that the team remained mentally stable combatants, herself included. For that, she needed some form of interaction with them to guage their mental stability. Of course in this instance, it did not make one bit of difference if they were insane or not, just that they were not remorseful about the killing that the had done.

    She froze as another memory hit her. Blood on her hands, knife in a throat, bodies, bodies everywhere, oh my god what kind of monster did this. Looking around the camp, karambit in hand, she spotted the sniper who had killed Henry. Slipping up behind him she moved to slit his throat, knife against the jugular. She woke him up and asked him why. He said, "I was aiming for you." She reeled in shock, slicing the jugular open, killing him instantly.

    She shook off that memory and quickly retreated to her room. Pulling out her dmr and desert eagle, she also sheathed her karambit in anticipation of the upcoming deployment. She stowed her 12 syringes of R^3 (Rapid Regeneration Reagent v3) opposite her medkit, making sure to shock proof them.
  7. People. Aaron was never good with people. While there was something eerie about the significant lack of human populace in the city, there came with it an odd - and perhaps wrong - sense of relief. And the airport? He remembered it well. Vacations were luxuries he had few of, and when he'd taken a plane it was usually part of an effort to track down some psychopath who was crossing state lines in pursuit of fresh victims. Still, New York City was his home, and now it was a wasteland ravaged by open anarchy. He'd had trouble sleeping before, but now the insomnia kept him alert and kept him recalling the days before all this. He was only glad his few relations were estranged and that he'd been too busy to get married or have kids or any of those "normal" things people were expected to do. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he fit the common definition of "normal". But normal had gone to shit, like the rest of the city.

    Still, there was one thing he knew he could do, and that one thing was what had brought him into the Division in the first place. He donned his clothes in a bleary, sleep-deprived haze, barely stifling a yawn as he holstered his sidearm and sheathed his knife, grumbling incoherently under his breath as fingers teased loose strands of brown hair from his field of vision. His face felt incredibly frozen, and as he ran his tongue over dry lips he swore he could taste the metallic hint of blood. He ignored that, and instead focused on the wafting scent of food that seized him by the hungry stomach and led him onward towards the food court. He walked at a brisk, rhythmic pace, though his shoulders had adopted a fatigued slouch and he wore five o'clock stubble that looked more like ten.

    At least the food court had his lifeblood: black coffee. Black coffee, no milk, no sugar, and intensely bitter. Detective fuel back at the NYPD, and just how he liked it. And even though post-apocalyptic coffee wasn't exactly artisan, he made do with the watery quality. Taking a generous gulp of the piping hot liquid, he snagged himself a cheese sandwich - it was cold - and threw it onto a plate, accompanied by a heap of soggy bacon with no accompanying eggs. Tasty food you enjoyed was a luxury of the past, and he ate his breakfast like he would eat cardboard in spite of his hunger. At least he'd have something to tide him over for a while. And when you were that deprived of sustenance, anything would honestly do.

    Though he noted the rest of his colleagues milling around, eating and engaging in conversation, he'd picked the most secluded spot he could find, having never been comfortable sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with someone whose name he wasn't even bothered to know. At the precinct, he'd largely ignored the rumors regarding his dislike of friendly conversation, when it was really because he didn't quite know how to make small talk. Besides the obligatory "good morning" and other essential greetings, he wasn't going to bitch about how cold the weather was, or how much he disliked the food, or anything, really. Staring into the murky depths of his mug, he tried to mentally drown out the clamor and await further instructions, though inwardly he wondered if his solitary nature was going to keep making teamwork tricky.
  8. Foulke looked at his black Swiss watch, and saw it was just before the 0700 briefing. He pushed away from the table and grabbed his weapon, carrying it as he deposited his tray and headed off. He navigated through the airport to the location of the meet, an old TSA security office. Once inside the spare white room, he found a heavily marked paper map or Manhattan. Central Park was outlined in black with "Dark Zone" written inside it. Yankee Stadium lay inside another "Dark Zone," the two of which were the only such black markers. Hospitals and treatment centers were marked in black as well. Red markers showed sites of attacks that were known. There were many of these, with details in smaller Sharpie writing. More details were scribbled around the map, with blue markings identifying JTF holdouts. A blue star marked the airport, and a hand drawn blue boat lay in the harbor. The Statue of Liberty was also outlined in blue, apparantly a decontamination zone. Similar markings were at every bridge and subway crossing out of the city. He absorbed the entire picture, then sat in a cold, hard steel chair as a light blue clad Air Force general entered the room.

    Once all were sitting, the General began. "My name is Major General Ray Hammond, I'm your liason to the Joint Task Force. While you don't have to report to me, you don't have to tell me a damn thing. But it would make my job, and the job of the JTF a lot easier. Now for background:

    The outbreak began five days ago, during Black Friday. First guess was the flu, but it was something much worse. The JTF was activated on day three, two days ago. We went in to set up camps and treat the sick, but we were overwhelmed. We built a wall to contain the sick, the two Dark Zones you see on the map," he pointed. "Yankee Stadium and Central Park were our main isolation centers. On day four, power went out, and everything unraveled. Rioting began, we were overwhelmed. The JTF conducted a quick evacuation of its forces and the few uninfected we found. Most of our best gear was left behind in the Dark Zones, as well as our hopes for a cure. The Dark Zones is still highly contaminated, with the dead, dying, and God knows what else.

    We know a few heavily armed groups are running around New York: Some are just rioters and looters, taking advantage of the anarchy. Some are militias formed either before or after this began, nuts with their own agendas. Reports say inmates from Rikers Island are in the city. Most disturbing is a group called the Burners. They have been observed using fire-based weaponry and butchering civilians. Use caution. You are free to use your tactical judgement in any situation, but the lives of civilians, SHD, and JTF personell take precidence.

    Your first mission will be more of a get acclimated op," the General said, walking to the map. He put his finger to One World Trade, "this is your drop point, from there we would like you to patrol the area, see what you can see, and help any civilians you can.

    If you encounter civilians, use caution. Wear your rebreather, and use the laser thermometer to check to see if they are infected. You can't do much for the infected. Any uninfected are to be evacuated. The JTF has set up checkpoints on all areas coming out of New York," he tapped the bridges and subway tunnels. "Point them in these directions. If the situation is dire, we can evacuate them by helicopter."

    The General backed away from the map and looked at the team. "Because radios are unreliable, we have a flare system. Any flare means you need pickup. Blue means a cold LZ. Green means you have civilians with you. Red means the LZ is hot. Any questions?"
  9. With a final sound of blade sliding over the diamond and nickel surface of the sharpener, the machete came away and glinted in the light as Cross held it up for examination. She'd need to find a piece of paper to really make sure she'd done a good job but for now the blond agent was satisfied with the improvement. She returned the machete to its sheath behind her back and slung her backpack on once more, noting the time with a subtle purse of her lips. Time to get going, and there were others on the move too. She kept an eye on them as she went, not making it too obvious but observing body language, clothing, equipment and the like. Especially when it was confirmed that several of them were headed for the same room as her. Cross took a seat promptly and set her bag on the floor next to her, then looked around the room and a thought occurred to her. Before everyone was done entering she slipped over to a desk against the wall and yanked the tray out of an aging laser printer. When she returned to her seat, it was with several sheets of paper, and out came the machete again.

    To her credit, Cross listened to the briefing closely, but from the looks of it she didn't seem to be paying attention. Slicing strips of paper with her newly sharpened blade, the woman seemed disinterested- that is, up until the point that the pompous military man mentioned armed gangs operating in the city. At that point she perked up and a single slender eyebrow rose with obvious interest. She had imagined that looting would be pretty widespread, some rioting going on and the like... but thanks to her own individualistic, loner approach to life she hadn't realized that the potential opposition would be so organized. Thank goodness for the Level IV SAPI plates in her chest rig.

    Her expression swiftly changed from one of runaway imagination to a look of disdain when she heard that their first mission- if it could even be called that- was simply to look around and evacuate civilians. She couldn't keep the annoyance off her face and folded her arms over her chest, though she didn't say anything. They were supposed to be elite operatives here and looking around at the others in the group she was pretty sure they could take on some dangerous tasks with the sort of flexibility that set-in-their-ways military units wouldn't be able to manage. And yet here they were being given babysitting duty. Frustrating.

    When the General had finished his spiel and asked the team if they had any questions, Cross gave a single nod without unfolding her arms. "Ya- I got one. D'we have permission to neutralize the infected civilians or are we still doing the 'heroic good guys' thing and letting the poor dears sniffle and cough until they drop dead? And get everyone sick around them in the process..." Better to ask now and be told no than get punished for it later if no one believed her claims of self-defense against germ-based assaults.
  10. The sight of departing individuals and a quick glance at his own watch alerted Aaron to the time. He trailed - as far as humanly possible - from the rest headed in the same direction, as if feeling threatened by their mere presence. He wasn't, but large gatherings had the effect of pissing him off from time to time. Depositing his tray on the way out, he used the walking time to carefully commit as many people as he could to memory - particularly those who had...interesting...weapons. He had a good guess as to whom exactly he'd be working alongside, but he decided to wait till the briefing's conclusion before jumping to his own.

    The room was too bland for his liking, almost suffocating, but he wasn't here to offer improvements on interior decoration, and as such found a reasonably isolated seat on which to rest. He'd been in law enforcement for most of his life, and was used to having orders barked at him. Though, he surmised, he wasn't too acclimatized to the military way of doing things, either. Investigation was his forte, not busting through doors in full body armor and braving hails of withering enemy fire to rescue a bunch of hapless hostages. That was SWAT's job. Or, at least, that had been SWAT's job. Nonetheless, he had to thank his old man for having taught him to handle a rifle, though his pops had always been too into hunting for his own good.

    He found himself nodding vaguely at Hammond's explanation regarding mission parameters and details, though he found his spine stiffening when Rikers Island was mentioned. For all he knew, he'd been responsible for putting some of those men in there, and he wouldn't put it past them to want his head on a pike should the opportunity arise. Dealing with criminals were always tricky, particularly when you were working with psychopaths and sociopaths who saw completely no wrong in sadistically butchering a helpless human being. And then, someone - a woman's voice - asked about "neutralizing" infected civilians.

    He liked helping civilians. Sure, some of them were clumsy and occasionally downright uncooperative, but saving a life was saving a life and he wasn't here to do a half-assed job. And he'd been interacting with civilians for a long time. He did that so often during his tenure as a cop that he might as well have been working public relations for the NYPD. With the virus running loose, people were scared. They had to be, and fear caused the mind to sometimes veer towards the illogical. Handling people in the full throes of panic, like threatened animals, was one of the hardest things one could do. Shooting someone, he presumed, was a far easier task if "conscience" wasn't something you bothered too much about. Nevertheless, he was wondering the same thing - desperate infected civilians could very well attack if they felt things weren't going their way - and waited for Hammond's response to the inquiry. The innocent had to be protected, even if that came at a cost.
  11. Matthew was minding his own business and was looking around the food court to see what foods would be available later. Matthew wasn't paying much attention to the other division members so when they left he was confused as he didn't remember what was happening. He looked around the place before looking down at his watch seeing the time was 6:56, his eyes when wide as he remembered the meeting and he rushed towards the meeting room. He almost tripped along the way but made it with a minute to spare. Matthew was glad as it gave him a minute to take a few breaths to not look like he ran the entire way.

    Matthew walked into the room and spotted the four already inside, I thought there were 5 others, right? I guess I'm not the one who is late then, he spotted 2 before but the others he must have missed. Matthew took a seat and listened to the man, making sure he heard everything correctly, as he asked for questions, the girl who didn't exactly seem all to interested in the briefing. The question took him by surprise, as he thought they were there to keep people safe not kill them, but then again she did have a good point.
  12. After finishing her packing, making sure to carry enough ammo. Liz checked the time, and then hurried to the lab, quickly picking up 2 syringes, before heading to the meeting. She looked around at the team and quickly evaluated everyone. Everyone looked ready, and a few deflated when they heard that they were only going in to scout the place out.

    She saw the necesecity of it however. They had quite a few long rangers and it would be best to find them a nest to snipe from. Listening through the briefing, Liz nodded at the flare commands.

    After listening to Cross, Liz nodded and spoke up, "If we chose not to shoot them then we risk those that are not infected. I vote that we shoot them. I dont want to have to care for them. That's babysitting a package in a hot zone. No way! Im here to help people. How can I do that if Im dead or infected. They will attack us if we tell them that we are leaving without them.

    However I must make one request. 2 blood samples. Thats all. The best would be one before infection and one after, but two infected is also ok." Her point made, Liz leaned back.
  13. Ah, shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mike was late.

    It was as if though the United States was at war with itself. Michael was angered at this, the fact "National Guard" units were being used to contain a situation which clearly is supposed to be in CDC control. National Guard should be assisting maintaining an area, not doing all this vaccine-immunization bullshit. As he walked with the MultiCam uniform on, wearing the damn Parka mismatched all the colors inside the airport. The green and brown color mixture was certainly the worst in this environment, worse when they reached the city, it would look like a patch of grass in a sea of grey and black. The desert tan boots made a rubbery clit-clat as he walked with impatience to the Briefing Room, some National Guard members going "Sir/Morning, Lieutenant/Morning, Sir." And others simply ignoring him. Good, he wouldn't have time to say anything to either of them, as he somewhat strolled into the Briefing room, the standing guard looking at the Lieutenant, notifying him of his sand coloured beret being worn indoors, before he raised his hand and put it down. "Sorry i'm late Sir, bit of a stormy weather down by Central Park." He chuckled, standing at attention as he looked straight at the general. "2nd Lieutenant Scott, reporting as ordered." Mike spoke with a soldiers attention, loud, proud, and yet with respect as he waited for the generals response.
  14. Foulke looked around at the others, "need I remind you that the entire reason the Divison exists is to help civilians? They are the reason why we are here. We are to help all of them, infected and uninfected. There will be people who can fight it off, and its from them we can start curing this thing. Who wants to stand in front of a doctor and say 'I killed our best chance for the cure because I was scared of being infected'? Remember, you still have to sleep tonight." he concluded. It made him sick. They were there to help the civilians, and force should only be used if needed.

    He eyed the Army Officer when he entered, worried that he would stick out like a sore thumb in the urban enviorment. He would probably side with him, Code of Honor and all. The Doctor/whatevershewas was technically betraying the Hippocratic Oath if she stuck to her view. Other's experessions were not as readable.

    Hammond watched the argument with interest, looking up as a multicamed soldier entered the room. He nodded politely as the soldier introduced himself. "Ray Hammond, take a load off, we're pretty informal here," he told the soldier. Then he looked at the others. "Like I said, tactical judgement is in play. There are treatment centers outside the city, and you should point the infected there. We still have principles, and if we betray them, what are we?"
  15. Honestly, Aaron had expected - though not gladly - that they would be given the all-clear to neutralize troublesome infected, but one man in particular stood to speak, immediately diverting the former detective's attention from Hammond to this righteous newcomer who seemed adamant on assisting all civilians, virus-ravaged or not. Leaning forward in his seat, he let out a thoughtful hum, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild interest. In truth, there were a lot of factors in play here, but he knew enough to understand that there were times a swift decision had to be made. Vacillating between one choice or the other could potentially be fatal. He wasn't one to be a trigger-happy maniac, but he knew he wouldn't hesitate to put a round in an infected civilian if they became a threat. A lot of the murderers he'd tracked down had made use of this mindset, and chosen suicide by cop instead of a lifetime in prison. Did he regret pulling the trigger? Not one bit, as long as he was keeping others safe. Lady Justice would forgive him.

    "That makes sense," he finally spoke, albeit under his breath, taking a quick glance to catch the surrounding faces. "Good people deserve a chance." Good people, that was. He lapsed again into silence, trying to erase the memories of situations when he couldn't get to victims in time. When they'd bled out on the dirty floor of some psycho's basement. When he'd had to tell their families he'd been too late. That he'd hesitated. It wasn't a mistake he was going to make again, like it or not. That inner conflict was eating him alive, but he wasn't about to voice it. He'd deal with it when the time came. Right now, he could get with the plan. He wasn't the kind to start some debate before the first mission even launched proper.
  16. Liz sighed. "Look, I like civvies as much as the next guy, but escort missions are NOT our responsibility. Shooting infected is a nobrainer,but our job is not S&R. We shouldn't shoot random ass people, but we should assume that anyone who want to "join" us is infected. There is no other reason they are still in the city and want to be in the heart of it, where we would be. The only reason they would be is 'cuz the want to join get lifted out. And the spread is crazy. The initial 2 days make it look like they are okay, and only genetic testing can really detect this stuff. No way that these temperature sensors are really gonna do use any good except for that brief 24-36 hour period where they are transforming. Look, I'm not saying we gun down every civvie in the city, but we cant let any of them near us. They are a threat and a liability! That is my honest assessment. But hey, its your call commander." She finished in a cold, clear voice, the voice of a calculated threat assessment.

    She looked around the room, and made eye contact with each member of the team, holding the gaze for a good 10 seconds before moving on the next. She saw regret, sadness, loss, a bit of confusion, and, in some, anticipation and eagerness. She sat back down and pulled out her datapad, making some quick notes as the meeting went on.
  17. When Liz spoke up and treated the civilians as liabilities and just experiments, he walked forward next to the General. "Okay... Suppose this." He took out his Beretta, then pointed it at her. "You may be infected, you may not. I know you for a little over a day. You're a stranger." He places his finger on the trigger. "But I feel you're just now a controlled substance. You gotta be put down. But I don't know whether you really are or not. It's a judgement call." His finger slowly begins to squeeze the trigger. "But are orders are to kill all." He pulls the trigger and... Click. Mike turns the pistol over to its side, showing it on safety. "Yet my orders are to not shoot at all. But I have that urge to kill. It's what you're doing." He places the pistol away in its holster. "You're here to save, not to kill or treat them like pack animals." He sighed through the nose, staring hard at Liz. "Your orders are to get them to safety. No questions. If I see you try to kill one, then I will be sure to bring this to the Chain of Command. Understood?" Mike stands up, then crosses his arms as he stands behind the General. "Whenever General. We're always ready."
  18. Liz looked up at Mike and nodded, no trace of defiance in her eyes. She nodded in understanding and went back to taking her notes. She also stood up and saluted to the General. "Ready, sir," she said.
  19. Matthew had been sitting silently scanning over the room as they talked about whether we should kill civilians he was glad that it came as a no from various people in the group and at this point he was ready for his first mission. He like two other people before he stood to salute the General, "Ready when you are sir."
  20. He had predicted right, Michael saw. It was nice to know others shared his regard for human life. "I'm ready, sir," he told Hammond.

    "If that is all," the general said, "your helicopter leaves in a half hour, gate twenty. You know the mission, good luck," he nodded.

    With that, Foulke stood and stretched. As the others made their ways out, he followed them and made his way towards their gate. He compiled a mental checklist, the top of which being an equiptment check. Once at the gate, he sat down and methodically extracted and checked each piece of gear he would carry into back.
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