Sign Up Peace Hangs Them [M:VSL]

[liamc2]

[center][IMG]http://syf.250free.com/2005/3R2.jpg[/IMG] [/center]

[FONT=Trebuchet MS][b][center]War makes thieves and peace hangs them. ~George Herbert[/center][/b]

[center][b][Source of the Force: The Humble Beginning][/b][/center]

War is a constant threat in the proverbial melting pot of the world?s cultures. The need for resources; the need for insults to be avenged; or the need for ?pre-emptive strikes? for the defence of liberty, all of these and more have resulted in conflict. Whether the war of words or to the extremity of shedding of blood, man has not been satisfied with the status quo. War has been a necessity for thousands of years, a tool in the hands of those in power. Armies have been massed and soldiers have been trained to do what they have to, in order to carry out their objectives.

In recent years, now that war is easily analysed, investigated and decried by the people, all out war has been all but banished in the first world. Instead, secret ?snatch and grab? missions are utilised to the same end. Specially trained squads in various sections of the military are created and used to ?resolve? situations out of the public eye. Rapid Response Recon units are situated all over the world, placed especially so they can be the first on scene. They have been sourced from all branches of the American Military for their superior skills and field experience.

Many members of 3R are battle-hardened veterans that are bred on their own love of country, with a side of love of money. However, there are a few members that have been accelerated straight from boot camp into the field for their promising aptitude for battle skills and weapon proficiency. They are a gamble on the government?s behalf, but nine times out of ten, they pay off. Those that do not are given the funeral they deserve, and are then never spoken of again.

Soldiers, once used to the art of combat in the field, are trained by their nation?s S.W.A.T. and N.S.A leaders to be the best of the best in the urban environment. A gruelling course is set up, taking the best of two years to complete. Their field experience is honed down to suit a claustrophobic environment and a political nightmare. Many are found wanting, and are simply shuffled across to their respective military special forces. The remainder are squeezed in the vice to a diamond-like quality and applied to the world.

[b][Present Day:][/b]

The success of these units is second to none. Their ability to assess any situation and apply the correct amount of force has caused many a crisis to be avoided. All has been done outside of the public eye. The military heads have decided to expand the jurisdiction of the 3R from a defensive role to a more?aggressive one. Units that have been trained to resolve kidnappings and terrorist acts on foreign soil are now being fine tuned and engineered to commit these crimes, all in the name of ?pre-emptive strikes.? Alarming new developments have caused these radical changes. Effectively, America is now waging a private and secret war with every country on Earth.

The units don?t care; it?s only a slight change of plan. Now they catch the bad guys before they commit the crimes, instead of cleaning up the mess they make. They have successfully eliminated a handful of terrorist sleeper cells and averted disaster. Working closely with the Central Intelligence Agency, they have kidnapped important faction leaders and delivered them to offshore interrogation facilities. Apart from occasional mishaps, the operations are seamless.

Each unit consists of five members, each a specialist in their field. One, the squad senior officer and operation master strategist. Two, the heavy weapons and demolitions officer. Three, the team sniper and communications officer. Four, the assassination and stealth expert. The fifth and final member of the squad is the medical officer. All members of the squads are briefed and debriefed on the nature of their mission by their senior officer, who has been in contact with their handler. At all times they are on call. While they are in an urban environment, untouched by war, they are on the same level of high alert suitable for a war situation.

They act like a sleeper cell, and as one they eliminate all possible threats for Uncle Sam. Industrial espionage, kidnapping, assassination and more, are their tools. Each squad acts independently of the other but, like in a wartime situation, they can call for reinforcements. That is their one advantage over their foe.

One squad in particular has far outshone the rest. They were recently sourced from a current war, taken from their position as a frontline Recon squad. Accolades of peers and officers have painted a powerful picture of their abilities, and their training officers have applauded their aptitude for an urban environment. They have bonded and become a close-knit group, with S.W.A.T. and military training now under their belts.

After several urban missions, the new ?pre-emptive attack? legislation has been approved, and their senior officer has briefed them one last time. The next day, he is gone. They have been informed by their handler that he has been transferred. Also, against the normal ?unofficial? procedure, they will not have any input on their new squad member, nor will their be able to recommend a new CO. In fact, their new senior officer isn?t whom they expected, or whom they wanted.

He is a civilian, and he is a thief.

He refers to himself simply as ?Larce,? and will tell them exactly what they will be doing, and why it will be completely black book.

[center]~~~~[/center]

[b]Name:[/b] ?Larce?
[b]Callsign:[/b] ?Larce? (Short and sweet please)
[b] Age:[/b] 25 (Remember, mid thirties at least. Larce?s age is supposed to be a major part of the rift between him and the team. Only Lady A has permission otherwise, for reasons which you shall see soon enough)
[b]Team Position:[/b] New squad leader
[b]Bio:[/b]

Larce was a young man that grew up with clever talents. He was born into a typical ?army? family and became a typical army brat. His father, an infantry sergeant, tried to discipline him like his other brothers by enrolling him in military school. Complaints arose from his teachers how things would mysteriously disappear, and reappear back in their original places after hours of fruitless searching. Though there was no actual evidence, all fingers were pointed at Larce and he was severely reprimanded before being suspended. Even after his departure, things continued to disappear and one instructor arrived to find his entire office stripped bare with nothing left but an itinerary receipt from eBay sticky taped to the blackboard.

Larce, with an alibi which conveniently him placed in another state, was let off the hook. From that point onwards he began to extend his ability to pilfer, revelling in the strengths and tales of the cat burglars of old. One in a million, he managed to avoid the seedy underside of robbery and violence and managed to maintain an almost genteel air with his burglaries. None saw him enter and none saw him leave with any items.

He constantly managed to maintain a cover with his family, his mother adoring him and his father and siblings actively engaged in war overseas. At his mother?s wish he ?decided to do something with his life? and enrolled in a Political Science degree, graduating with honours and giving him a lucrative internship in a law firm in the city. Now adequately placed to fully test his abilities, he began to grow and spread out his endeavours, making much on the side and gaining contacts left and right. His curious ability to simply make objects ?disappear? without the knowledge of their owners made him in high demand. Naivety led him to think nothing of it, and led him to be caught by the FBI during one of his last civilian big jobs.

[[b]Backstory[/b]] (Just a little something to show me you writing talent, and to show that your character is a fully functioning little individual. ^_^]

This was a huge deal. Larce had been researching it for months; floor plans and security had been the top of his list. There had never been a man on the inside, and he didn?t need one anyway. He made special care to be the only one that knew about his criminal exploits and undertakings, which caused him to be surprised all the more when he was caught.

The item he was searching for was a blessedly small collection of Shakespeare?s work. A rare selection of documents were on loan from the British Government, and Larce was quite happy to collect them for auction at a later date. Owing to the sensitive nature of the items he was planning to steal, he wouldn?t have a market of slightly legitimate buyers. Unfortunately this left him with shady collectors with odd habits that ended up haunting him home. (One purchaser of a fine Egyptian vase, skilfully taken from a Tutankhamun exhibit, continually contacted him for advice on which curtains would match it most appropriately.)

Larce drove these thoughts from his mind as he approached the centre. He had checked out the Kennedy Centre?s maps and layout online, and had committed them to memory. He knew there was to be a lecture on Shakespeare?s original documents, some controversial debate over whether or not Romeo and Juliet was actually written by two people instead of one. The lecturer had brought excerpts of the hardcopy original to further highlight his point that there were actually two distinct separate sets of handwriting on the Shakespeare?s notes.

Larce frowned again. He had to stop thinking of the mark. If he started counting the dollars while he was in the bank, the police would catch him red handed before he had the chance to admire the ink work on a hundred dollar bill. In and out, before the susurrus became a horde of people and security. It was a day job, so he had to be careful.

?Come on son?it?s a cake walk. Just like the war games trophy? He muttered to himself while stepping calmly into the foyer.

He had adopted a bookish outfit, trendy, but with the usual wear and tear of a low-income student. He held a notebook in one hand and his backpack strap with the other, shouldering the bag higher up his back. It was cold out, so he was rugged up nicely in easily excusable gloves and greatcoat, guaranteeing a lack of fingerprints or evidence on the scene. As he walked, he automatically attached himself to a group of, what appeared to be, literature students. They all flashed their tickets and he managed to glide through with them without being noticed.

Minutes later he was sitting comfortably in the large Eisenhower Theatre, now packed with intellectuals and knowledge hungry students. He resisted the urge to dry retch as the pungent aroma of what could only be created by a disciple of ?the great unwashed mass,? assaulted his nose. Coughing, eyes watering, he nodded politely as the rather aromatic student scurried past and sat next to him, clasping his copy of the complete work of Shakespeare to his chest.

Larce noted, with a thrill, that it seemed to be heavily annotated and book marked, complete with post-it notes sticking out of its pages like a rudimentary aura.

[I] ?Excellent.?[/I] He thought, smiling to himself.

With one careful remark, the gentleman next to him would seize the attention of everyone in the room with his vicious and pointless argument over some ridiculous detail that none without his intellect could find. Unwittingly, the eager student had become Larce?s faithful accomplice, making a perfect distraction.

Larce bid his time, carefully watching the documents in their plexiglass cases, sitting comfortably at the back of the stage near the curtain. As the lecturer made his point, an aide would carefully select one transparent container and place it gently underneath a digital overhead projector, all the while keeping his back to the pieces.

Half an hour later Larce left the building with two of the original pieces sitting comfortably in his bag. No one had noticed him swapping them, they were too busy wishing death on the know-it-all in the front row. The plan had worked without a hitch and now he strode comfortably to his car, and noticed something odd.

?I [I]knew[/I] I should have gone in the evening?? He muttered.

Two plainclothes policemen stood behind him, waving him forward to the one that was standing next to his vehicle, with his hands sitting casually in his pockets. Larce didn?t like the smile on his face, and had the sinking feeling that he certainly wouldn?t like what he was going to say to him.

?Afternoon sir, I believe Uncle Sam and Mr Shakespeare would love to know what?s in your bag right now.?

[I]Dammit.[/I]

[center]~~~~[/center]

Right. Now you know the drill. The role of team sniper and stealth expert [EDIT: Whoops!] has been already vouchsafed with me and are [b]not[/b] up for grabs, sorry. If you have any questions or otherwise, feel free to PM me. Try not to clog up the thread with any one liner questions. Also, in case you are wondering, if all the team positions are taken [and I haven't said otherwise] feel free to contest one of the non-vouchsafed places.

If you don't get in, don't worry. It's not end of the world, I may have use for you yet ^_~

Also, I don't approve of overly sexual or graphic scenes, so please think about it if you're going to use one, mmkay? The rating is there as a safety net, it's not an open invitation, lol. There will be violence, however, and adult themes. If I haven't said it already [or you haven't picked it up yet] there is a very high chance of this becoming political rather quickly. It doesn't have to, but it may later on. If you are offended by me ragging fictional [or are they?] American policies, please don't hurt yourself.

I would have used Australia, but this RPG is definitely on too large a military scale for us humble little battlers to even attempt, even in a fictional world.

There we go. Best of luck, and I hope you'll have fun with this ^_^

[/FONT]

[The Harlequin]

[font=gothic][color=darkslategray]You know, I'd originally planned an elaborate and etymologically opulent apology as to why I hadn't posted. I think the scare tactics hit too well.

[font=Trebuchet MS][b]Name:[/b] Orrin Fey (Orrin deriving from a root meaning Oak Valley, Fey deriving from a root meaning Raven)
[b]Callsign:[/b] Lynch
[b] Age:[/b]33
[b]Team Position:[/b] Stealth/assassination, and sometime team counsellor.
[b]Bio:[/b]

Irish born, Irish bred. Orrin was born into a quasi-typical Irish-Catholic family, with two older brothers, and a twin sister, in the [/font]South Armagh region.[font=Trebuchet MS] A slightly whimsical twist in fate had previously rendered his father Director Of Intelligence for the IRA a few years a previous, and it was this fact that shaped much of Orrin's early life. Most young boys normally had a toy gun or two to play with when they were five. Orrin trained with Kalishnikovs and Soviet[/font] made DShk machine guns[font=Trebuchet MS], though the heavier weapon, given it's normal anti-air applications, was markedly impractical for a boy his size. But, that's what he did. His oldest brother was already an active member of the IRA, and his next oldest brother was also in training. His sister, Orlaith, opted not to enter the family business, a decision that elevated her in the eyes of her family, rather than diminishing her. As well as their rather curious recreational habits, the Fey's were also another rarity for a family of that size (Orrin and Orlaith's parents went on to have two other children), a very much less than sedentary lot. Due to the dangers of staying in one place too long, Orrin's family moved around, though they returned to the South Armagh area at least once a year. Orrin's life during this time was fairly trying, to say the least. Trust is a commodity earned through time in areas like that, and the constant moves meant the children rarely had time to establish friends, relying on each other for companionship. Unable to talk about their home lives or weekend activities, they tended to avoid speaking much at all unless pressed. And in Orrin's case, "pressed" normally indicated taunts. Considering Orrin was well aware he could show up anytime he wanted with an automatic weapon and end things quite quickly he was, to put it mildly, a little irritated that other children treated him so harshly. So, inevitably, fists tended to answer words. Being one person faced against a group tends to not yield preferable results though, so Orrin suffered quite a few early beatings before finally learning to defend himself. At the age of nine, he started practicing martial arts. It was another year, however, before he managed to start giving as good as he got. There were a lot of black eyes in that period of time, and once a broken arm. These incidents were treated stoically by his family. After all, two and sometimes three members of the family wandered around at night risking being shot on a regular basis. During one long, harrowing year, where he lived in what passed for a small city, and there were enough other children to make things difficult, and no countryside to hide in on weekends, Orrin spent his hours outside school dodging packs, having to learn quickly how to hide and sneak around.

Orrin's mundane schooling continued as well. He was a bright, but not exceptional student in most areas. In his religion classes however, he excelled. While there were elements of indoctrination and memorisation, there were also wide ranging and in-depth discussion, ranging from ethics, to human nature, to philosophy. Orrin had seen human nature at its worst, and in the case of his sister, at its best. He understood how people thought on an instinctive level, it seemed. Instinctive wasn't the case, of course, but he pretended it was to everyone except Orlaith. In actual fact, everytime they moved to a new area, Orrin quickly located a practicing psychologist or counsellor, and booked sessions. As such, he had quite an understanding of professional analysis techniques and the like. Quite an odd mix, in total, learning how people work from inside their head, and learning how people work by riddling them with bullets or blowing them up, then being free to examine their insides if one so chooses.

That was pretty much life for Orrin until he turned fifteen. Moving back to their sometime home, he expected another difficult readjustment, even though some of the people in the area were starting to recognise them, for a brief period, then moving on. It wasn't, however, to be.

The year was 1987. His father, in the post of Director of Intelligence, had master-minded a raid involving two cells that went terribly wrong. The eight men were ambushed and killed by the SAS, and civilian injuries were sustained. The other sticking point was that the SAS fired first. Pre-meditation and foreknowledge were obvious. Unfortunately, that lead several factions to accuse Orrin's father of duplicity. Unbeknownst to those factions, the British had actually intercepted a phone call pertaining to the attack. The civil injuries raised as much outcry as the killing of the eight men did, and faced with bad publicity, the British also went looking for someone to blame. So they, too, fixated on Orrin's father. Faced with rather dire prospects should he remain in Ireland, the family emigrated to America. Of course, on arrival, more than the typical customs officers greeted them. A curious thing happened then though. The cold-eyed NSA men who picked them up talked for a long time with Orrin's father, then released them. Whatever deal was struck, they were apparently allowed to stay. The family ended up in New Orleans, blending in well in the multi-cultural city, with its already strong Irish-Catholic population.

If Orrin had throught Irish schools gave him a bad time, America was a nightmare. Being a short kid at the time, and, oddly, in a predominantly American school, he quickly earned the nickname "Leprauchaun", the usual feat of ingenuity typical of the unintelligent, insecure aggressive teenagers who think they have something to prove. Orrin went back to his psychology and martial arts, and whipped his tormentors into a blind rage, then left them prostrate until they stopped bothering him, but his exertions weren't finished. Having long hair, pale skin, and the bluest of eyes, Orlaith was becoming quite an attractive females. And didn't that just cause all sorts of problems...

Ruckus and rampage notwithstanding, the pair eventually graduated, which left Orrin at something of a loss. Unable to really work out what to do with his life, he entered university and studied psychology for a while, before finding that the aimlessness of university (not to mention the level of work ethic required), didn't suit him. After a year and a half of that, however, he was given new direction. New directions, really. His father was contacted by the American military. The British, in light of the ruling that they'd violated human rights by not conducting a thorough investigation into the killing of the eight IRA members that had precipitated the Fey's flight, were importuning America for extradition. The American military, however, sensed opportunity, and, pragmatic as ever, went for it. Given the family's rather myriad talents, they were willing to ignore the request, in return for the one of the Fey's lending their talents to the military. Not really much of a choice. Given that his two older brothers had already settled down, and one of them married, and Orrin didn't really have anything better to do, he volunteered.

Orrin's "training" was something of a farce. He could outshoot, outfight, and in many cases outlead the people trying to instruct him. Given his knowledge of the human mind, he had little trouble appealing to people in such a way that they gave him their all, and as such, he was generally placed as squad leader in group exercises. Rather than being ridiculed for his differences, here he was praised for them. And soldiers, as a rule, ask few questions when they know they aren't wanted. All this had a curious effect on Orrin. He found, much to his surprise, that the close camaradarie strained more than the thoughtless taunts and abuse did. He preferred solitude. Being able to look deeper than surface level emotions meant that in close company, he was inevitably reacting to what people really thought, which tended to cause a lot of strain. As such, he started bending his training towards more solitary pursuits. He didn't have the perfect accuracy at long range to become a sniper, and he still relished the thrill of hand to hand combat anyway. Eventually, when his abilities attracted even more notice, he was started on the RRR training program. Here, there were things to learn. His combat abilities needed very little refinement, but he learnt any number of other interesting things too. A myriad of ways to kill people when it wasn't polite to do so, infiltration techniques ranging from the ancient Nin-jitsu to penetrating bank vaults, and other such generally less than legal skills. His ability to determine how his targets would think and react gave him an enviable edge. Eventually, he was placed in the 3R unit he currently serves with. The rest, as they say, is history.

Orrin's call sign, "Lynch", pertains to David Lynch, the director. During a training exercise, a minor combat operation in which Orrin's squad of near recruits faced off against a squad of more experienced soldiers lead by his main instructor, Orrin was found to, apparently, be lying asleep, propped against a tree. The entire enemy squad surrounded him after careful surveillance, and the instructor, a Major by rank, promptly kicked him awake and demanded to know what kind of soldier he thought he was, to have apparently fallen asleep while scouting. Orrin simply smiled, and told the man that "The owls are not what they seem". Most of the squad just stared at him for that odd statement, the Major had the presence of mind to look up. The rest of Orrin's squad was sequestered in the tree, the nice, concealing cameoflage having up until now down a very nice job of hiding them. They were also, in an interesting turn of events, pointing their weapons at the Major and his men. When asked about the line he'd responded with, Orrin explained it was from a show called Twin Peaks, a rather odd piece of television created by David Lynch. The name stuck.

Not American by birth, and having seen enough of the world to have few ideals, Orrin is hardly a patriot. He is, however, completely commited to his family, particularly Orlaith. After all his training, Orrin could probably evade capture should be ever tire of military service. His family, however, would rapidly be sent back to Ireland. His father and brother would be arrested, and the rest of his family under threat from hardline IRA factions. As such, Orrin devotes himself to his work with little concern for personal safety.

[[b]Backstory] [/b]There was, as they say, something to be said for standing still. You could blend in with a crowd, slip from shadow to shadow, or under the cover of darkness, you could disable security cameras or rely false footage, you could disable security guards...Even if you were the size of a plane, you could paint yourself black, get yourself reshaped, and slip through radar. Being invisible was an art. And despite all that, it was amazing how little people noticed you if you just stood still.

At the moment, Orrin was standing very, very still. Admittedly, the room was dark, and he was in shadow, but given he was less than ten feet away from the other occupants in the room, any movement would presage discovery, and that, in short, would be painful.

There were four people in the room, three people who knew that meeting like this, with these people, in this place, could be a death sentence if the wrong people found out. Unfortunately for them, the wrong people have long ears, and sentence had already been passed, and now stood in the same room as them.

There was little the four men had in common, other than the kind of gleam in the eye that unerring marks the whacko on public transport that other commuters avoid. This gleam was a little more shiny though. The glacial scintillation that marked a true psychopath.

The men were, in fact, leaders of four para-military groups operating in some of the more volatile Southern states. On the surface, they lead normal lives in normal communities. They were archetypal weekend warriors though. Orrin knew them all well, both their public and private lives, though he'd never spoken to them, never even laid eyes on any of them before sidling out of the alcove that had sheltered him prior to their arrival. He'd studied every report on them, had copies of their diaries made, even read the comments teachers had made about them and references employers had provided them. They all had names, though Orrin refered to them in his own private way.

[i]Cower.[/i] The man was a consumate door mat, had been all his life. Abused as a child, pushed around, he fostered the kind of vicious discontent that leads to schoolyard massacres and domestic violence. Orrin knew that was a thin veneer over a morass of insecurity and fear. The right words, in the same drunken slur his father used when he beat him, would leave the man prostrate and whimpering like a child. Orrin sometimes enjoying doing that kind of thing to people. Unfortunately, that wouldn't be possible at the moment. Anyway, with his grandoise visions of revenge filling his head, the man wouldn't break as easily as he normally would. This was his chance to get back at the society that kicked him everytime he fell down. He'd still break though. They always do.

[i]Catamite.[/i] A true Bible Belt Christian. He believed everything he did, and more importantly, everything he planned to do, was God's will, and any who said otherwise were evidently sinners needing to be cleansed. Unable to be reasoned with, with sanctimonious self righteousness ringing in every drawled syllable, the man had started his career in a big white tent on the side of the road. Like most evangelists who decided the morally bereft needed cleansing though, the man had his secret vices. He'd twisted himself around almost enough to believe the children he used for release fitted into God's plan, but his secret shame could still unman him if applied correctly.

[i]Blood-lust[/i] If ever there was a model for the Medieval berserker, this man was it. The kind of man who bought a semi-automatic for hunting, just because he couldn't stand the thought of putting only only bullet in an animal. The kind of desire for pain that only came from a tortured past. An odd kind of Stockholm Syndrome, confronted with enough cruelty, a person eventually becomes what they hate most. Orrin was aware of the scars and pocked burn marks that graced the man's back. Although murderous, and, as Orrin knew, possessing a few bodies buried under his house, the vestiges of morality inside him, combined with a long standing fear of being caught, would leave him terrified if, say, a cop happened to pull him over for a breath test. A compulsive and exact obeyer of the law, except for the murders. Perhaps recompense, some sense of balance.

The last of them, [i]Starry-eyes[/i], was a slightly different case. Convinced by the inflammatory rhetoric he heard and spoke, he believed the government was corrupt, the corporations were corrupt, the environment was being sacraficed for money and power, and authority was ruthless and could not be trusted. He regretted what he was about to do, but considered it necessary. Unsure whether he would go down as a villian or martyr in the history books, he constantly agonised internally over the course they'd planned and the men he'd planned it with. Only his convictions drove him forward. Orrin pitied him, in a way. He knew firsthand that the man was right. The revolution, however, was not now. Maybe later.

Their plan was simple, and it hinged on one fact that a lot of people, particularly the CIA and their ilk, stepped carefully around admitting. If you have enough people willing to die, it's ridiculously easy to assassinate a president. You get enough people with guns and bombs and no fear for their own safety, and the target in a public place, and no security force on earth will be able to stop you. It only takes one lucky shot.

Unless, of course, some heartless, murderous government wraith sneaks in to your secret meeting and dispatches your leaders before any kind of agreement can be reached, at the same time the FBI pick up the rest of your more rabid members.

Orrin sympathised, he really did. But he had a job to do. And while he would have enjoyed verbally making these people squirm, that wasn't an option available to him. And since the alarm on his watch just vibrated ( wouldn't do to have it beep, would it?), he'd just been informed that the rest of the operation had been carried out. They'd wanted the main body of offenders picked up, on the very off chance that Orrin failed and the ringleaders had a chance to escape and warn their followers. Orrin took that precaution as offensive, but his opinion hadn't been asked, and he'd been smart enough not to give it.

It was, however, time to get to work, if he wanted to be cliché about it. And, peversely, he did. Moving slowly and soundlessly, he unsheathed his weapons of choice for these killings. A pair of short, blackened combat swords. Rather than the typical double bladed style, these were more similar to wakazashis, and expertly balanced, despite the fact that the hilt of each weapon was only marginally rounder than the blades, and no crosspiece was present. They were Orrin's personal weapons, made for quick, in close kills and easy concealment.

The men stood in a loose square, with Orrin's vantage point placing him about six feet back from the centre of one of the "walls" of the square. Not an ideal position, but it afforded him the chance to introduce a little flair. He dove forward into a quick roll, swords in hand. Coming to his feet, he stepped foward and lashed out with both blades, horizontal forehand strokes that opened twin lines across the throats of Catamite and Starry-eyed. Spinning 180 degrees, even as his swords continued through and up to cross into an x above him, Orrin continued his motion in the same direction, stepping backwards this time, with twin backhand stroke that left two more cut throats, and him standing with his blades by his sides, critically surveying the results of his work. The last seconds, as always, were revealing. If you really wanted to get to know someone, you either surrounded them with either death or sex. People at their most primal were people at their most revealed. Catamite looked like he wasn't sure whether to rail against God for betraying him, or thank the Devil for ending his predation. Cower looked almost resigned, like he'd expected this to happen. Blood-lust looked merely angry. Starry-eyed, even in the last moments of life, stared at him accusingly, like he was the conspiracy theorist's Black Ops murderer out to protect the nation and more importantly, those controlling it, at any cost. Which, unfortunately, he was.

Orrin shook his head and turned away, cleaning his blades and resheathing them with an ease that bespoke long practice. His part was over. After he'd been given sufficient time to disappear, others would come and remove Blood-lust's body, and any sign it was ever there. Afterwards, a search of his house would reveal the victims buried there, all tortured, and eventually killed with slashed throats, and a knife matching the weapon that killed these three men would also be discovered.

Nobody holds all their secrets through a death like that. Not the one doing the dying, nor the one who administered the fatal strike. Orrin's secrets might have only been revealed to himself through that passage, but revealed they were. Every time he did something like this, and every time he allowed himself to think about it, the more he realised he enjoyed his work. To somebody trained to understand motivation and the subconscious, that wasn't as disconcerting a notion as it should have been. He knew he wouldn't end up a psychopath killing for fun and profit. He might, however, end up an American patriot...And that notion really chilled his blood.

Shaking his head, Orrin left, issued a few quick reassurances to the soft enquiries directed to him by the rest of the team outside, and allowed them to lead him off into the night, following a pre-arranged withdrawl plan. He could have disappeared anywhere in this city, but he was expected back.

Orlaith floated back into mind. Orrin thought for a moment about the girl who'd refused to take up arms for country and family, and scolded him when he'd defended her honour at school. Reconciling her pacifict nature with the work he'd done tonight wasn't easy. But it was possible. And that was he dealt with these days. Not easy, just possible. There was a sense of proud competence in that, one he knew that the rest of the team, a group of people he knew as well as he knew his family, agreed.

It's good to be good.[/font][/color]
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[Lady Asphyxia]

[size=2][font=Arial]Oh my god, Harley, what happened to the idea of "Short and sweet"? Man, I want a shot of backstory, not twelve vodka bottles worth. [img]http://otakuboards.com/images/smilies/tongue.gif[/img]
This is going to be short, what with the going to Sydney tomorrow.

[b]Name:[/b] Madelyne
[b]Callsign:[/b] Bon Bon
[b]Age:[/b] 23
[b]Team Position:[/b] Sniper and communications officer.
[b]Bio:[/b]

Bon Bon is the youngest in the team -- by far --, and thus considered the 'baby' of the group. This is enhanced by her position as sniper -- while the others are inside in the thick of things, she is protected outside, safe and sound. Relatively speaking, of course.

The entire team is close -- very much so. None of them alienate themselves. They enjoy each other's company, and time and familiarity have created a bond between them. Maddie [or Madelyn, depending on which member of the team is speaking to her] is very much treated like a younger sibling, and she loves the comradery.
Her parents were members of the defence force and she was sent to a Military School at a young age. In that school, she showed an impressive aptitude and was accelerated into an ?Extension Program? ? thus the reason why she is involved in the RRR so young.


[b][Backstory][/b] [i](Just a little something to show me you writing talent, and to show that your character is a fully functioning little individual. ^_^]
[/i]
*has no time but points to SYF?*

I did actually have something planned for this section, but I?ll fill it in when I get back. Cheers. [/font]


[/size]

[JJ]

[Font=Arial][B]Name:[/B] Alexia

[B]Callsign:[/B] Boom

[B]Age:[/B] 33

[B]Team Position:[/B] Heavy Weapons/Demolitions

[B]Bio:[/B]

Alexia grew up in the big city. Chicago to be exact. Her family was big, considering the small suburban house they lived in. They were seven in total, two boys and three girls, with the parents included.

Alexia was the oldest and in that respect, the quietest. She never really connected with any of her siblings, because by the time Riley, the youngest, was born; Alexia was in her last year of high school.

Her sister, Beau, was the closest in age to her, but in same ways, the furthest away. She slept around, bragged about it and even went so far as to do it in public. The whole thing did not impress Alexia instead disgusted her. More than once, Alexia was forced to slap some sense into the girl.

It wasn?t until the year that Riley was born that things in Alexia?s house changed. Beau got pregnant with Alexia?s boyfriend?s baby. Alexia just quietly let the poor sap go and instead turned her anger onto her sister.

Her sister thought she was cool with the entire thing, but deep down, Alexia hated her sister. She hated her open legs, her open personality and most of all, she hated her for the support she received. Alexia?s parents cared for Beau?s every wish, made her life easy and just seemed to want to help Beau.

That for Alexia was the last straw, she decided to run away and join the military. This was at 18, dropping her promising career elsewhere in the world. The military quickly accepted her and she entered training.

Fueled by her anger and hatred, she quickly surpassed her entire class. Her specialty was of course in explosives and heavy weapons. The feel of controlling things made Alexia feel just that much better. She knew when to use what and what kind of damage it could do. Many people could never begin to imagine that feeling.

With this, Alexia continued to excel in the marines, impressing many a people along the way. This was how she received the nomination. Her superior approached one day with the question and Alexia immediately accepted. Why not? It was the chance of a lifetime.

Although, there was one thing Alexia wanted. Her family to believe her dead. Sit just so happened that on a routine mission, the bomb Alexia was setting went off immaturely, killing her. They did not find any remains.

Now Alexia sits in the group, comfortable with people who care about each other. Now if she could only get her first kill off her heart?


[B]Backstory[/B]

Alexia was sitting in her room, enjoying a book. It had been a long week of missions and Alexia was content with her book and a beer. Even though alcohol was not normally allowed in a soldier?s tent, Alexia ignored the rule and kept her beer hidden. She sighed and turned a page. She had not even been able to blow anything up.

It was all search and rescue, which got boring very quick. As it was, war was not looked well upon, but now with the feud over whatever, there was always that chance that Alexia would be able to blow something?s top off. That is what helped her carry on through the sludge known as search and rescue. Hope was all that anyone had when in a war zone.

Alexia would have never thought that Lt. Peterson would approach her tent that day, nor actually catch her with her beer. However, fate had other plans as he swooped in, causing Alexia to drop her book and spill her beer upon it.

?Whoever the hell that was is going to be blown to kingdom come.? Alexia raged.

?Hold your horses major.? Peterson said smiling, knowing well of Alexia?s little temper.

?Oh, sir. I?m sorry. I was so caught up in the book..? Alexia babbled.

?It?s alright major. I?m here to see you about something very important. Is the tent..? Peterson started.

?Clean as your whistle sir.? Alexia snickered.

?Right, you?ve been recruited into the Rapid Recon Response. They want you to start your training immediately. Do you accept?? He plainly stated.

Alexia?s face went blank as her thoughts raced. She would finally have the chance to serve her country and as an added bonus, in the most powerful group in the world. She could finally?well, that would come later. For now, she had but three words to say.

?I?d be honored.?

Peterson stood up and was about to leave when Alexia quickly exclaimed, ?I want to fake my death. My family doesn?t need to know what I?m going to do.?

Peterson nodded and said, ?It?s being taken care of as we speak. Your flight for training camp leaves in two hours. Pack up and leave your beer with me.?

Alexia nodded and smiled as she scrambled to pack. She was finally going make something of her life and her talents.[/font]

[Drix D'Zanth]

[IMG]http://img152.imageshack.us/img152/8139/alexander7gj.jpg[/IMG]
[b]Name[/b]: Alexander
[b]Callsign[/b]: Fleisch (pronounced fly-sh)
[b]Age[/b]: 42
[b]Position[/b]: Corps. Medic, ?healer?, ?mountain man with a secret love?

[b]Bio[/b]: There?s a difference between ?job? and ?calling?. People hate a job, they hate the work, even if they are resigned to it for the rest of their lives. A calling is something that comes once in a box of chocolates. A calling is that sort of job that you prefer to any other activity. The sort of thing that gets you up in the morning and only feel satisfied when you?re experiencing it.

Alex was a shoe-in for this sort of thing. His dad was one of those rich doctor types that lived in the country. The 30 minute drive was worth the ?fresh air?, he always negotiated. Alex didn?t see his father much, or his mother for that matter. She was always off on some sort of project to keep her otherwise banal life from collapsing in on itself. The sterile environment was no place for a kid to live in, so Alex discovered the great outdoors. His earlier years were discovering a passion for nature that few people shared. Despite his isolated house, he still attended school in enough of an urban area where the primary interests of his peer group was MTV and whatever sport they could fit on their square of tar they called a ?playground?.

Uncle Derk was a godsend. He took the boy out every fall for hunting season. He thought Alex how to shoot a gun, how to safely navigate the outdoors, how to survive. Uncle Derk served in the Vietnam War, and he took to the vacuum that Alex?s father left by working. In fact, he was the very man who pushed him into hunting, the Boy Scouts, and finally, the Military.

Alex decided to become one of the few, proud, Marines and head off to whatever shore the Gov?t wanted him. He quickly moved up the peacetime ranks by volunteering, but his combat inexperience prevented him from getting any sort of officer duty. Instead, he was reassigned to the Rangers. It was during this time he was sent on several missions. Despite the lack of training, he was always the first person to reach an injured teammate and his selflessness earned the renown of his platoon. On one occasion, Alexander managed to saved a Rangers life by literally ?plugging? a gaping whole in the soldier?s side, from a mortar round, with his hands. This feat, and his northern European features, earned him the nickname ?Fleisch?; or ?flesh? in German. Where lesser men would vomit at the sight of gore, Fleisch didn?t flinch.

His superiors sent him off for two years of intensive medic training. Thankfully he was in time for the next big engagement. He served in the Rangers during Desert Storm, usually painting the helpless Iraqi tanks with green lasers so the flyboys could wake and bake Sadaams poor SOB?s. The solid experience nearly earned him a desk job (a fact he wasn?t afraid to admit he dreaded), so he worked some strings to get assigned as corpsman to the U.S. Army Special Forces branch Delta Two. He was assigned to Bosnia-Herzegovina, Beirut, Iran, Pakistan, and a brief engagement in Libya; all right under the public?s radar. Admittedly, Alexander wasn?t used to ?sneakin? around?, but he recognized that sometimes fighting for the Nation?s security was a job left behind the scenes.

Unfortunately, the junta?s stopped, the revolutionaries set down their gun, and armed forces were more frequently being set aside in favor of UN intervention and International aid programs. Alex began a slow battle with Post Traumatic Stress syndrome. He couldn?t stand being away from his friends, rather, his [i]brothers[/i] that he fought beside over his 20+ year career. Out of all the things his therapist recommended for treatment, he found a few

It was somewhere around the new millennium when the U.S. Government began searching for a few highly specialized fighters that would be able to serve in 3R. Fleisch fit the bill perfectly. He was experienced, battle hardened, highly trained, and? perhaps most importantly? absolutely unattached to civilian life. He was an easy going, amiable soldier and a perfect foundation for a team such as this.

[b]Back story[/b]:
Coming soon, I need to study for Neurochemistry now..

[liamc2]

[FONT=Trebuchet MS][SIZE=1]Excellent, and that's that. Sign ups are officially closed, I shall work on the opening post for the thread directly. Mind you, my internet doesn't like connecting to the Otaku network for some reason so I may come across some problems.

>.>;;[/font][/size]

EDIT: It's [b][URL=http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?t=52188]up[/URL][/b]