My first time
The place was like a stereotypical secret agent novel front for criminal operations - a seemingly abandoned, labyrinth-like warehouse twenty odd miles away from the city, complete with booby traps, snipers, crates upon crates of weapons and armor, and state of the art surveillance not limited only to cameras and motion detectors - stray and die, that was what we were told upon entry. We either played nicely and followed the armed escort, or we'd spend our remaining living minutes as target practice for the snipers, if the astounding array of triggers, wires, pressure plates and other traps didn't get us first. It wasn't our task to wreak havoc, only to enter, hear them out, and report. And, in an ideal situation, survive.
It took me only this assignment, my first, to teach me never to consider anything a piece of cake - or assume anything will go according to premade plans - once you're behind enemy lines. Ideal solutions hardly ever pan out, as taskmasters often mistake walks in the park for strolls through mine fields, and this was definitely the latter. We were fully aware we might have been walking into a trap - two rookies with minimal training against only the hair raising terror of immobile potato sack dummies hardly stood a chance against an army of trigger-happy goons, and the fact that we were unarmed - more as a precaution to prevent us from shooting each other by mistake than a piece of genius strategic planning - hardly added to our intimidative factor. We hoped this would play to our advantage, but motivation has the tendency to sink low when you're told upon mission briefing that you are, by all means, replaceable. We went into the mission, both in belief that we would not leave the warehouse alive. Though trained and proficient in the art of unarmed melee, bare hands and a vicious snarl offered little protection against a pack of blood-lusting mercenaries. We were outnumbered, and at the time, we thought we were walking to our deaths, happily and wagging our tails like poodles following their owners into fire.
This was years before the shit with Valkyr hit the fan, back when New York was still - at least, compared to what it is now - tame and a reasonably safe place to live. At the time, our organization was working with the feds and some small factions to bring down a heavy arms smuggler called Arnold Winslow, who had recently gained possession of a shipment of drugs that was intended for an NY chaos overlord, Carlos Fuentes. This initiated a full-blown war between the two - a feud that threatened the positions of some government higher-ups with connections to Winslow. Though these connections were widely known, bringing them to public light was not desirable, and this was where we came in.
We were nothing but a ragtag band of small-time criminals with pitiful rap sheets consisting mostly of petty thefts - nothing major, definitely nothing of this scale, but we thought we were something else. A formidable group of nasties no one would boss around. Ha! The arrogance of youth. It didn't take much for the feds to pull us in - promises of cleared records were enough. The group was divided and used to infliltrate various factions of Winslow's dealings - he had a nice side business in manifacturing and distributing minor hallucinative drugs as well as several clinics in town specializing in remodeling plastic surgery. Infiltration wasn't difficult - we struck before surveillance was upped a notch. The difficult part was laying low and waiting for something to happen. That didn't take very long. After the initial blow-outs with ridiculous amounts of civilian casualties, Fuentes agreed on a meeting with a lackey, to discuss his terms. While this was obvious stalling and a waste of time, Winslow agreed, and we were put to use.
In hindsight, it's obvious why we were selected. Sanford, a tiny half of a man, was about as intimidating as a bag of carrots with his stutter and shaky hands, and my function was that of a distraction. Foolishly, they assumed the sight of a woman would send Fuentes reeling. He was unphased by my presence. In fact, he pointedly ignored me and focused on laying out his terms to Sanford. The shipment was to be compensated for with interest, something we had anticipated, and Winslow was to transfer possession of some of his strip clubs to Fuentes. Both reasonable demands, to which we believed Winslow would agree to. He was an idiot, but he knew Fuentes had connections in places he'd never gain access to. Connections that could guarantee an end to his business in New York. We thought this would turn out to be a walk in the park after all.
We were wrong.
Apparently, Winslow possessed no such virtue as patience, and towards the end of the negotiations, an alarm went off. Groups of Winslow's men were attacking the warehouse from all sides. I knew they didn't have correct data - their assumption of the amount of stationed men was far smaller than the actual count, and the raiding groups would be slaughtered. While this was of little concern to me, I suddenly found myself facing the barrel of a gun. I was guilty by association, and I was going to pay for it. Closing my eyes, I prepared for the bullet - the bullet that never came. Opening my eyes, I was met with the most unexpected of sights - Sanford had knocked Fuentes over and held him at gunpoint, his goons suddenly frozen in place in fear of losing their leader -- or, perhaps, gleefully waiting for the trigger to be pulled. I couldn't be sure. I didn't want to wait and find out.
It took a blink of an eye for my feet to carry me over to the window. The bullet intended for my back smashed the glass, sending shards flying into the brisk night air. I felt the scream before I heard it - a weird feeling of knowing when a friend dies. I turned my head in time to see Sanford collapse. It was the last thing I saw before the pain of a bullet entering my chest ripped apart my senses and I fell back, unconscious even before my back hit the concrete below.
The first time I died.
Character: Mona Sax
Fandom: Max Payne
Words: 1063
It took me only this assignment, my first, to teach me never to consider anything a piece of cake - or assume anything will go according to premade plans - once you're behind enemy lines. Ideal solutions hardly ever pan out, as taskmasters often mistake walks in the park for strolls through mine fields, and this was definitely the latter. We were fully aware we might have been walking into a trap - two rookies with minimal training against only the hair raising terror of immobile potato sack dummies hardly stood a chance against an army of trigger-happy goons, and the fact that we were unarmed - more as a precaution to prevent us from shooting each other by mistake than a piece of genius strategic planning - hardly added to our intimidative factor. We hoped this would play to our advantage, but motivation has the tendency to sink low when you're told upon mission briefing that you are, by all means, replaceable. We went into the mission, both in belief that we would not leave the warehouse alive. Though trained and proficient in the art of unarmed melee, bare hands and a vicious snarl offered little protection against a pack of blood-lusting mercenaries. We were outnumbered, and at the time, we thought we were walking to our deaths, happily and wagging our tails like poodles following their owners into fire.
This was years before the shit with Valkyr hit the fan, back when New York was still - at least, compared to what it is now - tame and a reasonably safe place to live. At the time, our organization was working with the feds and some small factions to bring down a heavy arms smuggler called Arnold Winslow, who had recently gained possession of a shipment of drugs that was intended for an NY chaos overlord, Carlos Fuentes. This initiated a full-blown war between the two - a feud that threatened the positions of some government higher-ups with connections to Winslow. Though these connections were widely known, bringing them to public light was not desirable, and this was where we came in.
We were nothing but a ragtag band of small-time criminals with pitiful rap sheets consisting mostly of petty thefts - nothing major, definitely nothing of this scale, but we thought we were something else. A formidable group of nasties no one would boss around. Ha! The arrogance of youth. It didn't take much for the feds to pull us in - promises of cleared records were enough. The group was divided and used to infliltrate various factions of Winslow's dealings - he had a nice side business in manifacturing and distributing minor hallucinative drugs as well as several clinics in town specializing in remodeling plastic surgery. Infiltration wasn't difficult - we struck before surveillance was upped a notch. The difficult part was laying low and waiting for something to happen. That didn't take very long. After the initial blow-outs with ridiculous amounts of civilian casualties, Fuentes agreed on a meeting with a lackey, to discuss his terms. While this was obvious stalling and a waste of time, Winslow agreed, and we were put to use.
In hindsight, it's obvious why we were selected. Sanford, a tiny half of a man, was about as intimidating as a bag of carrots with his stutter and shaky hands, and my function was that of a distraction. Foolishly, they assumed the sight of a woman would send Fuentes reeling. He was unphased by my presence. In fact, he pointedly ignored me and focused on laying out his terms to Sanford. The shipment was to be compensated for with interest, something we had anticipated, and Winslow was to transfer possession of some of his strip clubs to Fuentes. Both reasonable demands, to which we believed Winslow would agree to. He was an idiot, but he knew Fuentes had connections in places he'd never gain access to. Connections that could guarantee an end to his business in New York. We thought this would turn out to be a walk in the park after all.
We were wrong.
Apparently, Winslow possessed no such virtue as patience, and towards the end of the negotiations, an alarm went off. Groups of Winslow's men were attacking the warehouse from all sides. I knew they didn't have correct data - their assumption of the amount of stationed men was far smaller than the actual count, and the raiding groups would be slaughtered. While this was of little concern to me, I suddenly found myself facing the barrel of a gun. I was guilty by association, and I was going to pay for it. Closing my eyes, I prepared for the bullet - the bullet that never came. Opening my eyes, I was met with the most unexpected of sights - Sanford had knocked Fuentes over and held him at gunpoint, his goons suddenly frozen in place in fear of losing their leader -- or, perhaps, gleefully waiting for the trigger to be pulled. I couldn't be sure. I didn't want to wait and find out.
It took a blink of an eye for my feet to carry me over to the window. The bullet intended for my back smashed the glass, sending shards flying into the brisk night air. I felt the scream before I heard it - a weird feeling of knowing when a friend dies. I turned my head in time to see Sanford collapse. It was the last thing I saw before the pain of a bullet entering my chest ripped apart my senses and I fell back, unconscious even before my back hit the concrete below.
The first time I died.
Character: Mona Sax
Fandom: Max Payne
Words: 1063