[Ced]

To find purity in a sea of sins.



- an apocalypse themed zombie role playing game -

Welcome to this piece of writing we call a roleplaying game. This is basically a story written by multiple authors, a story that lives and breathes and gets continued daily. This is a game without a goal, where the journey is the payoff. Mayn roleplaying games are held in forums, this is ours. Let go of the thought of World of Warcraft, let go of the idea of Diablo - this is a roleplaying game, where the role has the spotlight, not the equipment, where a defeat is a win for all players and where a missed shot can mean a better outcome. Sit back and relax, dive into this world, where all innocence seems lost - and yet, a glimpse of purity is out there, somewhere, waiting to be found. If you want to join the ranks, apply here - and go there, too, if you want to drop us a line. Please keep this thread clean of comments and suggestions, use the discussion thread for that.

Index

• 0. Introduction
  
• 1. Recruiting The War Dogs
  
• 2. A Brief Tale (continued) (Intermission: Signal Lost.) (continued)
  
• 3. The Wolves' Teeth (continued) (Intermission: Sharpening The Fangs.)
  
• 4. Anarchy Unfolds. (continued) (Intermission: Striking The Last Match) (continued)
  
• 5. The Howling (continued)

And now, without further ado...


0. Introduction



- One of those days. -

11-08-2016, 03:40am local time, somewhere in Kiev, Ukraine.

"Diego Squad Leader, repeat - Kamarov did what?!" Carlyle was furious. He broke the pen in his left hand and the knuckles of his right, holding the radio, were white. This was bad, really bad. "Sir, I repeat. Kamarov has given the keys to the little girl we found in the sewers so it would have something to play with. We can't find it. Kamarov and the night watch are dead. They have been eviscerated." - "Alright Mr. Parker, let me conclude. You lost the keys, the child and your guide. Are you completely useless?!" He didn't even wait for a reply. With a fit of rage he threw the handheld into the next corner, were it shattered a glass. His office looked like a mess, and he felt like he just got kicked in the stomach. Those keys ... if they would not get them back, all sort of shit could happen. Including his own untimely demise. Taking a large sip from his whisky glass, he picked up his cellphone. While the left index finger massages his temple, he dialed with the right. Waiting for signal to get patched through, he chose to ignore the sound of the radio in the back of his room. Parker and his bunch had lost their value for him and would be left to perish. He had to move on. He had to act. He had to save the world.

"Pris, patch me through, I need a new team. Yes, clean ones. Look for something patriotic and make sure they speak Russian or Ukranian. They can travel with light baggage, as long as they are here within 48 hours. We cover flight expenses. Offer them the same as Parker." There wasn't much need for explanations, Priscilla knew her job as he knew his. He could just hope that she would find a bunch of people more suited to the task. He would have to change the whole plan, and now a simple extraction became a search and rescue mission, with hundreds of uncertain details and obviously a fucked-up murderer out there. Oh well. That would be hard to sell, but mercenaries came for the money. If this would be a clean mission, he could ask the local authorities. But in this case ... certainly not. It had been hard enough to bribe the Ukranians to leave him and his following alone, to untap the phone wires, to get a secured line to the States and it was a major pain in the ass to keep everything totally hush-hush, as his superiors demanded absolute silence about the whole operation.

And now, one of his keyplayers went completely batshit insane and threw away the keys - and then, he got himself killed, out of all things possible. Carlyle emptied the Whiskey glass. He needed a cigarette. Stepping out of the room on the balcony, he lit his cancer stick and glanced over the city before him. Kiev lay in a deceiving slumber, pretended to be passed out, but he knew, in the dark alleys, there was life. This town had became a cesspool of all sorts of depravities, and since the mercenaries and soldiers of fortune had invaded the city, all its charme had been killed. Drugs, prostitution, and the dealing with those strange crystals had taken over and there was no more beauty left. He inhaled the smoke and kept it in his lungs for a while. When his cellphone beeped, he picked up. "You lost Parkers signal? What was his last message?" The day just became even shittier - and was just about four hours old.

Carlyle hated those days.


1. Recruiting The War Dogs



- Male, single, 34, looking for... -

12-08-2016, 08:40am local time, Kiev Airport, Ukraine.

His dossier had been fine. He knew his stuff and he had good recommendations from his earlier contractors. Noone seemed to care that he was dismissed in dishonor during the unrest in White Russia in 2011. There was no such things as a honorable mercenary - given the right amount of payment, he would fight for everyone, even Americans. It wasn't his forte, but then again, he wasn't choosy. All his life, he had only been trained to excell in combat situations - his social skills weren't developed beyond pack mentality. Albeit having good marks in school and being quite intelligent, Vassilij never aspired to be something in the civil sector. And now, he had a new contract - being part of a impromptu insertion team to search and rescue a missed person in hostile territory. He had done this quite often - both for Mother Russia and for contractors. Sometimes, rescue was actually kidnapping, but he wasn't paid for questions but results.

He was born on 23-12-1982, in Russia. His father being in the military, he followed those steps and became a Spetznasz pretty fast. He always looked out for his body, accepted orders and did the wet work for the Putin gouvernment. He wasn't surprised when Putin kept in charge after his legislativde period and he was confident that Russia would once again become the country it once was. When the Russians invaded Georgia, he was on point with his guys and they disabled the enemies options to strike back. He learnt how to dismantle and sabotage cruise missles and other explosives. Because Mother Russia had anti terrorist plans, he also learnt how to deal with nuclear warheads and disarm them. It was in 2011, when Russia brought White Russia back into it's cradle, that he got expelled from the military. It turned out that his superiors wife wasn't that positive about that one night when both him and her were really drunk. Accused of rape, he took the easy way out and excepted a trial for dishonorable behavior and was removed.

The honor of his superior left untarnished, he had to carry the burden. The verdict read "insubordination" and his father was out of his mind, how his son could bring so much shame on the family that had been fight for Russia since the first World War - with nowhere to go and no steady income, he took up jobs as a bouncer, and it evolved from there. Soon after, he was back on the battlefields. Fighting was his thing- And Mother Russia had him prepared for this more than enough. It was a bit strange that this contract explictly mentioned that the risk of death was quite apparent, but the pay was good. If he would finish this job, he could take a whole year of vacation ... "Privjet, Mr. Reznov. Welcome to Kiev." - "Privjet. I assume you are ... "Pris", da?" - "That is correct. If you would be so kind as to follow me? We have a lot left to prepare. Your luggage has been taken care of. How was your flight..?"

He never liked the smalltalk of professional western company representatives.

1. Recruiting The War Dogs (continued)



- Illegal aliens have always been a problem in the United States. Ask any Indian. -

11-08-2016, 09:40pm local time, somewhere in Kiev, Ukraine.

I was born on 03-15-1987, on a Navajo reservation in Arizona to a whore of a mother that was married to a drunk. This in and of itself was a miracle, as the only reason I was not aborted early on was because my mother could not afford it. On 06-07-2001, my father returns home late at night, drunk, as always. He proceeds to curse at my mother, telling her that she is worthless, and that I am not much better. He beats my mother. He beats me. Bruised and bloodied from my near nightly punishment, I pack my rucksack for the last time. Tonight I am running away for good. Once he blacked out from the alcohol, I slung his .22 over my shoulder, simply walked out the front door and began my trek across the plain. I am 14 years old. My situation is not unique on the reservation, in fact, it is all too common. Nobody works. Everyone is content to live off the reparation welfare that flows so freely from Washington. They take the free cash and spend it on hard liquor and drugs. I am considered an exemplary student to still be in school at an eighth grade level. This will not be the first time I have slept under the stars. Many times I have disappeared for days at a time, learning the survival skills that my ancestors lived by. Spending time out in the wilderness, alone, was the way I connected with my native heritage, as well as escape the torment of my mother’s husband. I refer to him as such because he is not my real father, and he has in no way earned my respect; he has only earned my contempt. It is a full moon, so I do not need my flashlight to light my way.

I ended up in foster care. I would have been sent back, except that there was no missing persons report and I swore to kill him if we ever crossed paths. Although I did not care much for school, my foster parents insisted that I at least graduate. They treated me much better than he did, so I reluctantly agreed. I spent my free time doing what I loved most: surviving out in the wilderness. Over time I learned to hunt various game, and would routinely spend a week or more in near complete solitude, with only my German Shepherd as company. Out of high school I had no future ambitions, and I would not be accepted to any college. I ended up field testing gear for sporting goods companies, and after five years of doing that, I quit and joined the army. It was 7-13-2014 - I had served four years in the army. I saw my fair share of combat, had a few nasty scrapes with the enemy, and was ready to get out and on with my life. Did I hate the army? No, I just did not feel that the army was the place for me. I was much more comfortable being an individual than part of a unit; spending a good amount of your life sleeping under the stars will do that to you. I was stationed at an American base in Ukraine when my four years were up, but instead of heading back to the States, I decided to stay here and start a new life for myself.

There was plenty of work for ex-military types like myself. For a time I worked for the Kiev police force helping to hunt down and eliminate the drug dealers and human traffickers that thrived on the poor, dwindling population. While the work was rewarding it did not have quite the appeal that I was looking for. There was something about being responsible to government officials that bothered me. I began to look for a new line of work. I had heard whispers of a mercenary operation somewhere in Kiev, but nobody talked about it openly and I never heard any specifics. Rumour had it that the pay was good - and when I finally established contact, rumours turned out to be true. After the contract was signed, I was given a destination.

“This looks like the place,” I muttered to myself as I approached the steel door to an unmarked building. It was as inconspicuous among the back alleys of Kiev as a lump of dirt is on an Arizona plain.

1. Recruiting The War Dogs (continued)



- From Eurasia to North America and back. -

11-08-2016, 11:30pm local time, somewhere in Kiev, Ukraine.

Growing on the streets of Romania hadn't been easy for Vlad Ilsev. Ever since his birth on 3/11/1990 life had been hard. His father had abandoned him and his mother when he was only 3. Getting into street gangs early at the age of 10, violence was an everday occurence. Although he . For the next 8 years he made money as a street thug in a gang, which involved protection money, robbing and dealing with both drugs and stolen electronics. He saved every penny he could for the next eight years - and grew fond of the computers and devices that went through his hands. Finally amassing the amount of money he deemed necessary, he left the country for the defunct remains of the United States of America.

While his money seemed like much it turned out to be not. Especially having to buy all the essentiall items. After settling into a little two bedroom house in Sacramento he did the next thing that matched his profile and was legal to rake in some money - he joined a PMC. It was here that he become best friends with anything categorized as "heavy". Becoming quite capable operating assault/defense weaponry and vehicles alike, Vlad continued to pursue his more subtle side. Having had an interest in computers since an early age, he soon learned as much as he could about hacking and electronical warfare. These skills must have been important to whoever was planning this operation - all that he knew was that it was highly classified and taking place in the Ukraine.

And now, he was sent with this woman and that Navajo to scout ahead for the main force to follow up.

This post has been edited by Ced: 20 August 2009 - 04:48 AM

[CRU_Paintball]

Here we go again! I thought to myself as I boarded the plane. I had told myself that last time would be just that, THE LAST TIME. There is something that keeps bringing me back to the same place in my life. Even though I may be in different places on the map, they were all really the same. Get in, get the job done, and get the hell out before anyone notices. It's not like we were blowing up the Taj Mahal, the places we went we so vile that even the rats didn't want to be there. If it wasn't for the abundance of rotting flesh, and no real threat to their survival, they probably would have left years ago. I work in the places of people's nightmares. Even if I could talk about where I've been and what I've done, the average person wouldn't be able to bear to hear it.

I was born 6-26-1983 in the good ole US of A, land of the free and home of the brave! Or at least that's what they used to say. Shortly after the victory in the "War on Terror" the country was decimated from attacks from multiple countries across the globe that were fed up with the USA's front of superiority.

I was born to a wonderful mother, and an alcoholic piece of shit father. I had the idea literally beat into me that anything that I would ever want in life would NEVER be given to me and I would have to scratch, claw, bite and dig my way to the top. If my father ever did anything good for me, it was to teach me that if I really wanted something bad enough, the only thing that would ever stop me would be me. My mother, she was a saint! She loved me unconditionally. No matter what I did or said, or what was said about me she always supported me. That is until the day of my 15th birthday.

It was a fairly uneventful day, mom and I went out to dinner. Dad was out drinking somewhere. When we pulled in the driveway we saw his truck. It looked like he had side-swiped a telephone pole on the way home. Mom had had it! She charged into the house before I could even get out of the car. When I got to the steps at the porch is when I heard the gun shots, 2 of them, and the dead silence. I peeked my head into the doorway to see my piece of shit, no good father standing over my mom as a pool of blood started collecting around her body. He looked up and smiled at me! HE SMILED!!! That's when I lost it! I rushed at him with all the strength I had and wrestled the pistol from his grip. Once I finally had the gun in my hands, he completely changed. He started apologizing and telling me he didn't mean it. It was too late for words. I stared at him with the type of look only someone with nothing else to lose could create. I opened the chamber of the revolver and unloaded the gun one bullet at a time and as each casing hit the ground I could feel my rage building to a crescendo. My father looked at me dumbfounded, he had no clue what was in store for him. A quick death was too good for this person who called himself a dad. By the time I was done swinging the pistol, I couldn't lift my arms and his face was unrecognizable. He had stopped breathing long before I had stopped beating him but that didn't stop me in any way. I picked up the phone and called 911.

I was sentenced to juvenile detention until I was 18. I served my time mostly peacefully, short of a couple fights that were unavoidable. Both were completely lopsided and I guess it left an impression in that place because no one tried anything else the whole time I was there, not even the guards.

When I turned 18 I was released as I was no longer property of the state since both of my parents were dead. I lived on the streets for a few months and in and out of shelters. One night sleeping underneath the awning of a building I heard a scuffle. I woke up to see a woman being attacked by 2 men, it looked like they were trying to rape her. I jumped up and attacked, knocking out the first one with my first swing. The second assailant was no match for me either, I quickly put him down. The woman thanked me and introduced herself as Andrea. I told her my name is Chance. She laughed and said, "By any chance are you looking for a job?"



That's how I got to where I am today. I started with the firm which will not be named, they taught me everything. From survival training, weapons training, hand to hand combat, surveillance, reconnaissance, and most importantly communications. I am fluent in English, Arabic, Russian, and Korean. Those were the languages deemed important for me to learn during my training.



I'm not sure what's going to happen when I land. All I know is I have a job to do, I do it and I get the hell out, no questions asked.

This post has been edited by CRU_Paintball: 24 July 2009 - 06:14 PM

[Brenden]

Nikolai


He Was born on 05-14-1990, in Russia. Nikolai loved his country and the first thing he done when he had come of age was join the Russian Military. He always followed the orders he was given to the very letter. To him it did not matter what the orders were as long is was for the good of his country. He was eager for war, eager to prove himself to his superiors.

In the invasion of Georgia, Nikolai found himself volunteering for dangerous assignments, one of these assignments cost him his place in the Russian army. Himself and about 3 other volunteers were to scout ahead to a enemy base to identify machine gun emplacements, fortified positions, ETC, long story short they were ambushed and Nikolai was the only one alive. Heavily wounded he was captured and interrogated, he wouldn't give them any information so he was taken as a pow and held in the base. 2 days later the Russian army captured the base and Nikolai was eager to get back into the fight. His commanding officer disagreed and he was sent to a hospital back in Russia.

Nikolai received award for what he did but was honorably discharged and could not return to the army. Feeling betrayed by his country he soon joined a group of PMCs since war was the only business he knew. The pay was good but the jobs he had received so far were pety. Now he was being sent to some city called Kiev in Ukraine for some man named Carlyle wanting some sort of search and rescue.

[PrometheanFlame]

Growing up in Afghanistan hadn't been easy for anyone. For Rashid Zemar, it had been war. Conceived after the Soviet Union put an end to its occupation attempt in 1989, he spent his first few years falling to sleep to the distant thunder of mortar fire and rockets as civil war raged in the aftermath. As he grew older, he would play amongst the rubble of broken homes; left alone with his mother while his father joined ranks with the Taliban. His country, already one of the poorest in the world before the war with Russia ever began, was pillaged and raped from within and without by politicians and warlords, and violence was common...death even moreso. After the attacks in America in 2001, war was once again upon Afghanistan. Soon after, his father was caught in the blast of an American bomb; he never even got to fire a single round at the infidel invaders. He survived long enough to be returned to his home where his body was laid upon the table, shattered and bleeding, and as his mother wailed in misery, his father drew the last of his strength to press his AK-47 into Rashid's hands, uttering his final words.

"This is your birthright, my son..."

It was Rashid's thirteenth birthday.


In the years that followed, Rashid joined with the Taliban, seeking revenge upon the invaders who had taken his father's life...but was time and again denied his opportunity to engage in direct combat with the Americans. Instead, the Taliban used him as a runner to deliver messages and packages. He always carried his father's rifle upon his back...the wood scorched and scarred by the night of its baptism...but never fired it at anything more hostile than a wild dog. Until, that is, the night he returned home to find his mother being raped to death by three of his fellow Taliban fighters. They were his elders...everything he'd ever been taught said that they were his superiors. That Allah himself watched over and blessed them. That an Afghan woman existed only to serve a man. But seeing here there upon the very table that his father had died on...her face beaten to the point that even he could barely recognize it, and her clothing strewn in tatters around the tiny room...

No more. On that night, the rifle of Rashid Zemar, the Righteous Lion, roared three times.

Leaning over his mother, he could see that she was already dead, but there was no time for a burial. There was barely time to set a proper fire before several people from his village came to investigate the shots, and certainly no time to cry. He escaped into the desert night, running until he collapsed...and when he awoke, it was with the barrel of an M4 carbine in his face. Expecting to be beaten, expecting to be executed, he was instead given food and shelter. The same soldiers that he had spent years thinking about killing were now the only ones protecting him from the zealous outrage of his own countrymen. A world gone mad soon found Rashid acting as a scout for American special forces, and while he obviously wasn't allowed to carry a gun, the sixteen year-old Afghan watched and learned. If war was his life, these were his school years.

The year is 2016...Rashid is 27 years old, and has spent the last seven years working for a PMC. He's traveled to hot spots all over the world and seen places that couldn't be more different than the sandy wastes of his youth, but today brings him to Kiev. He comes by bus...there's less security that way...more opportunity to suss out local dangers before you land in the middle of them. At this very moment, he carries no less than three high-power handguns on his person. Not exactly the kind of thing you could get away with on an airplane. Disembarking, he shoulders his rucksack, instinctively satisfied with the weight of it...no need to stop and pick through it to see if anyone's decided to try and take a souvenier. Not that it would really matter...he makes it a point not to carry anything that can't easily be replaced. The only real valuable in his possession is his father's assault rifle. It has been cleaned and modified, no longer blackened by the burns of the past...but unable to conceal the scars of its history. Scanning the crowd, he finds a sign with his name on it...and in his native language, at that. A nice touch. Sliding through the busy terminal, he makes his way to the driver...nodding and offering a short greeting in Russian before tossing his backpack into the seat ahead of him and following it in.

[{Pb}Atracin]

Born 02/17/1989 in Canada. That was so long ago. My earliest memory is spending time with a group of mercenaries. My family. My real family had been killed when I was young, and the mercs took me in as one of their own. We traveled all over the world, and I learned some basic language skills. Enough to get me by. English seems to be the most known language every where. I learned stealth, demolitions, sniper tactics, you name it, I probably learned it. I remember my first mission. I did it well, all by myself. Killed the poor fether. Clean kill. I was congratulated when I walked back to the merc camp. They gave me my nick name. "Maggs". Apparently I brought too many ammunition clips to kill the poor guy.

Fast forward a few years later, and I have lost contact with the rest of my merc family. In reality, I'm very sure they died in some past job. I just got back from my last job. I've been working for armies around the world. Special operations. I'm in my apartment, when someone knocks on my door. When I answered it, there was fether in a suit. He asked me if I wanted to take part in some mission. I'd be going in with others, and not only mercenaries I hear. Actual, trained soldiers. The money I would get after would be large. Very large. I couldn't refuse. The money would set me for quite some time. So I boarded the plane. Military issue cargo plane, used for transporting large amounts of troops or cargo. It's kinda big, since I'm the only one it. Save the pilots.

So this is it. My last mission. My gear, my weapons, and myself, in a large plane, going to some God forsaken place, that's apparently urgent enough to hire mercenaries. I leaned back against a bulk head, it would take hours for me to arrive at my destination. I drifted off to sleep....

This post has been edited by {Pb}Atracin: 27 July 2009 - 12:16 PM

[schulzy]

Serge Markov...
Born in Moscow Russia, September, 17, 1983. By his single mother, his father was killed by enemy forces before his birth, so he only knew about his personality through his mothers stories. His mother also kept telling him that he reminded her so much of his father. His brother, not his blood brother, but an adopdted child. Was 3 years older than Serge, and always treated Serge like dirt. One day, while his mother was gone out with her friends, Serge was badly beaten by his brither to the point he was knocked unconscious. When his mother got home, Serge was passed out on the floor, and his brother was gone. When Serge woke up in the hospital, all he could think about was killing his brother. One day in 2004, Serge finally got the chance to get back at his brother. And when his brother got kicked out of the pub for being abusive to the bartender, Serge pulled out his knife and put it into Dmitri's back. Serge carried his brother's lifeless body out the back door and dumped it in a dumpster. That was when Serge realized that he would never be the same.

So in 2007 joined the army in hopes to get all the skills he would need to track down people like his brother, and kill them. But things didn't work like that, he was stuck in the army until 2010. but it was in the year 2009 that earned his Military Medal. He was on a peace-keeping mission in South America, his squadron commander got sniped from a sniper in an abandoned church from down the road, with the whole squad in chaos, Serge crept through the stores and leaped through windows to get to that church. When he did, he pulled out a frag and tossed it in the window. When it went off, the snipers body fell out of the window, and hit Serge on the way down. Serge not only broke 3 bones in his neck, but he was said to be paralyzed for life. But miracles happen, and Serge began to walk 2 months after being released from the hospital. The Russian Army recieved a letter from him saying he wanted back in, but they refused to let him in, instead, they gave him this "Job" as a mercenary, and he was to be teamed up with more mercs from all over the globe.

Serge specialized in basically every type of combat known to man, but he was better at long range sniping and a master pistol weilder.. This is what made him the right Russian for the job.

Now he was on a plane to a town that basically nobody wants to go to, except for these mercs, and Serge. He hasn't gotten much info on the job, only that he was there to kill. And that's all he needed. A license to kill, it was in his blood.

His favorite gun was his side-arm, his was the TT33 Tokarev, or the Saga Shotgun, and his best pal in long range, a Dragonuv. He was hoping that the Mercs armory had a AK-47, if not, he would refuse to use any automatic rifle, it was the only one he was used to, and he didn't like the looks of a American M-16.

It was a Russian made pistol, and he used it more than his primary weapon on his missions. There was something about the feeling of the pistol that he liked. It could have been from the toy guns that he had at home, but he knew what the true reason was, double-wielding. It sounded childish at the time, but he realized, two guns are better than one. Especially when those two guns are made in his homeland. and when his reloading time was tremendously fast. He would honour Mother Russia on this mission, whether he live or die, he was in his home, the battlefield.

His only way of transportation to Kiev, was by a bus. He didn't want to startle airpost security when bringing two TT33's through on the plane. So he figured bus was the easiest way. Bus drivers aren't suspicious when you carry a duffle bag onto it. So he figured it'd be a walk in the park to bring his two guns with him. When he arrived at the destination, he was sent a message on his cell phone saying, "Go to the cab with your name on the window. It will take you to your further destination, no questions asked." He was good at following orders, after all, in Russia, if you didn't, you'd be shot...




Specialties:
-Serge was an expert Marksman. In his glory days, he was sent out on solo missions to take out highly ranked enemy soldiers.
-His greatest advantage over the enemy was his stealth. And brute size. He stood 6' 7 and 225 pounds of muscle. For a big man, he sure was quiet.
-He was fluent in many languages, his better ones were Japanese, French, German, and of course, Russian.

This post has been edited by schulzy: 31 July 2009 - 05:52 PM

[Sigma Sparda]

Edit - Since my actual birthdate was obscure 02/06/1991

Humming to himself as he read the details his means of transportation to meet his newest client, one Mr. Carlyle. At 25 years old, Belacov was far from new at this business. His only disappointment would be spending his birthday, Feburary 6th, on the job. Grinning as he thought to himself, nothing made one appreciate being alive more than killing though.


A former United States Citizen, Belanov as he was simply known, had spent most of his life abroad. Traveling with his wealthy parents throughout childhood had opened his eyes to the vast and often harsh ongoings in the world. Seeing so much despair, spanning from the poor of South America to the victimized people of the Sudan, a young man quickly hard to harden himself in order to even sleep at night. A lesson the proved itself useful when by a cruel twist of fate and a man grasping at straws, his parents had been killed on a warm Christmas Eve in Costa Rica. Picking the credit cards out of the wallet of his deceased father from a wallet that was splayed open to reveal his lack of hard cash, Belanov had, without care of concern, left their bodies behind and set about arming himself. Buying a rusted but working 1911 Colt .45 by pressing a Capital One card into the hand of a teenage boy, he had began to methodically stalk his parents' killer. Finding the jittery man in a run down bar in a shanty town, the act itself was a blurr. Had he really just walked in, emptied the magazine into the man, sat down, and then asked for a drink? He couldn't remember, but that was the story his Russian instructor had told him. By such a brazen act and fearless act, he had won his way into the heart of a shrewd and softspoken mercenary who was about to perform the hit himself. In a moment of fire, his new "family" was forged. But that had been nearly 7 years ago.

After being taught as much as possible, eager to learn all that he could, Belanov had began to profit from what had once been a matter of revenge. He had to admit, it felt good, if anything was felt at all. He was now fluent in most every major language between Japan and France, a skilled computer cracker, a true gunslinger with pistols, and a natural at stealth and close quarters fighting. His master had taught him well, and he hoped to continue his training once this mess was all over, but he was not looking forward to the cuts that would be inflicted upon him each time his progress was unsatisfactory.

Shaking his head to focus himself and clear the thought of just how close to the anniversay of that night it was, he made his way without luggage out of the airport. Leaving the buses behind and walking to the treeline that surrounded the airfield. Catching a glimpse of his ride and taking care to torch his directions with a Zippo, he swung onto a rather rough looking motorcycle.
Checking a small side pocket of the dufflebag strapped to the rear fender, he retrieved a photo of his parents. The last that was ever taken. Slipping it into the inside lip of his hat, with the photo facing his skull, he muttered an apology for what he would soon be getting into. Slipping pieces of the .45 that started it all from the soles of his shoes, he quickly snapped everything together. Quickly twirling it to test it's security and jamming it into the holster that had been attached to the gas tank of his chopper, he kicked the engine to life and headed for the highway. Better to not be late. First impressions were always so important.

This post has been edited by Sigma Sparda: 24 July 2009 - 08:54 PM

[-ORaNGe-]

Name: Galyn Hale
Place of Birth: Belfast, Ireland
Date of Birth: October, 09, 1971
Affiliations: Irish Republican Army
Positions held: IRA soldier/Medic, IRA Lieutenant
Religion: Catholic
Allegiance: Himself, Money, Ireland (In that order)
Weapons of choice: M16, Thompson SMG, Sawed off shotgun, Pipebombs/Grenades




Youth

Galyn Hale, born of a devote Catholic family, his father a Policeman and his mother ran a small shop in the local market. Galyn was a respectable lad with what may be described as a bit of a mean streak. When faced with bullies at the age of 9 Galyn struck the lad to the ground only to pin him down and bite the boy on the cheek, taking out a small peice of flesh and spat it in the boy's face. After this event it was known not to tussle or run a foul of this boy, though friendly and respectable he deviated from his father's example of justice and a fair hand much to his parent's dismay. Galyn came from a rather poor family, with 5 brothers and 3 sisters. In his teens he was known as a lady killer and had the attitude and swagger to boot and kept his same caution to the wind attitude. A few years later he would take on work as an ironworker where he met Isaac McLeod, a foreman and IRA soldier.

Allegiance/Actions



Galyn took on his role as an IRA runner with great zeal, and in one instance when questioned at a British road block he was beaten up by a British sergeant with last name Westbrook and two other soldiers. This would only fuel a fire of hatred in him which would come to an unfortunate end, Galyn travelled through numerous checkpoints after this and was always cordial. The IRA did not operate as an upfront and direct force, they rather used hit and run tactics and improvised explosives to strike at their targets. Ten months later Galyn would see the sergeant who ordered the beating in a small restaurant with his wife. The IRA will target British soldiers when the situation is ideal, when no witnesses are about and the advantage is held by the freedom fighters, either in numbers, element of surprise or knowledge of the area and methods of escape, but this instance was personal, Galyn was known to hold a grudge.

Galyn's next action would define the rest of his life to date, he dawned the signature IRA black mask and approached, the room cleared as they knew what may happen. Galyn shouted "Westbrook! sit the fuck down!", the sergeant did so, Galyn opened his coat to reveal a sawed off shotgun and pressed it behind Sgt. Westbrook's ear and pulled the trigger and walked away. It was no secret amongst the locals who had committed this murder but this was Belfast, Hale was proclaimed a hero in the fight against British rule, and also earned a reputation for being cold and calculating.

Once promoted to Lieutenant after this action Galyn became more and more involved in the organized crime used to fund the IRA in the purchase of arms, explosives, medical supplies and information. Galyn on occasion made trips to the United States to gather weapons and other supplies from Irish organized crime organizations which made "donations" to assist with the fight and would then smuggle them into the country, often bribing harbour masters and local authorities to look the other way. Hale made hundreds of thousands through arms sales, drug trafficking, murder and extortion. It became a joke amongst the IRA that they would be disappointed if the British were to leave or else they wouldn't have an excuse to make this kind of money. The IRA was a double edged sword to the people, they would support the families of those who had a family member serving, but those who refused to serve were subject to beatings, extortion, intimidation or possibly murder.

For the most part Hale helped those around him whether they be associates or strangers, he was generous, but his generocity was not to be taken as a weakness or even to be thought a friend, some say it was merely a front. Hale was a leader, he commanded numerous attacks against the British, conducting bomb attacks on British officials and officers, sniper attacks on British soliders at outposts and check points as well as occasional incursions into British held territory, setting pipe bombs which were remotely triggered into troop trucks or even latrines which he found rather amusing and referred to as "Blowin a shitter".



When the British withdrew their support from the Northern Irish police on August 1st, 2007 Hale's rouse of fighting for the freedom of Northern Ireland and it's people was now pulled. Hale no longer had a justifiable cover for his actions of drug distribution, arms sales and prostitution. He was now merely a common criminal, albeit a powerful one he was now looked down upon by the political wing of the IRA. The IRA appreciated the funds given them from his illegal activities in the past, but this was no longer to fight the British and their claim of legitimacy was only tarnished by the likes of Hale and other loyal IRA nationals.

Character

Galyn Hale though given his violence, criminal acts and allegiance to what was referred to as a terrorist organization is actually a rather kind fellow. He is fiercely loyal to those close to him and known for his sense of humour and happy demeanor, often times in totally inappropriate times. One situation which can be cited is when manning an IRA checkpoint on a local road a man came through and was stopped. At these checkpoints people would simply be asked "Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?", given the right response the person would be allowed to pass through, given the wrong answer a beating and robbery would most likely take place. This was always a very stressful event for people travelling through since they never knew who was asking the question. In this instance Hale asked the man, who obviously seemed shaken and answered "I'm a Jew", Hale then proceeded to ask him "Well, that's just fucking lovely, so are you a Catholic Jew or a Protestant Jew?", the man's eyes became the size of a dinner plate, Hale then just laughed, slapped him on the shoulder and stating "Haha, you're a clever fuck!, go on through".

Hale never seems to hesitate to take the lord's name in vain, though he may have come from a devote Catholic family he didn't seem to share their beliefs. Always claimed that everytime he survived a fight it was simply "The luck of the Irish!". Though he has a charming yet sometimes poorly timed sense of humour he is not to be taken lightly, behind every sly joke and wink lies a remorseless killer.

Languages

Hale is actually an accomplished linguist, not for any particular interest other than "Knowin when the fucks you're dealing with are trying to sell you horseshit and joke about it to your face". Hale is proficient in english, french, german, and russian, this has helped in his dealings of such valuable commodities as arms, cocaine, heroine and the purchase of prostitutes from the Russians, along with a few RPG's and assault rifles. He often joked "When will those fuckin rouskies have a slut n' guns deal?!".

Training

Hale will never claim to be a soldier, he is a freedom fighter, and looks down on soldiers, in his words "Soldiers are nothing but trained fuckin monkeys and assholes, except they don't ride bicycles and eat bananas. Instead these pricks occupy countries, kill innocents, bomb homes, hospitals and anything else in their way then claim they're doing the right thing! and for what? A fucking medal for killing some poor motherfuck defending his home? or 30,000 a year? I'm a fuckin freedom fighter, I kill soldiers."

Though Galyn Hale will never claim to be a soldier he certainly is an excellent fighter, given the nature of the conflict he and many other IRA operatives have become proficient in the tactics of urban and gorilla warfare. The use of ambush and hit and run tactics, boobie traps, communications, and many other aspects of war. Through his experience he has become a strong leader, brilliant tactician, a medic, and gained skills with explosives. He has a no bullshit attitude and will not hesitate to take a fight head on if he believes it can be won. Soldiers? mindless fucks in his opinion, kill the prick's commanding officer and they're lost fuckin children in the streets searching for their arse. Considering they can't find the fuckin thing it makes them easier targets for me and my boys who can operate independently or as a unit not a gaggle of brainless cock suckers who can only follow orders.

Present Day

Hale has left Ireland and now works the streets of New York city, taking contract work from the Irish crime elements, an unfortunate turn in his life. Hale once one of the top Lieutenants of the IRA was forced to kill petty thugs, on occasion traitors to the Irish mob or enemies and sometimes tweekers or low lives who owed them money. Hale throughout his career with the IRA pulled in millions but much of this went to the IRA, his men, their families and his own impulses. Hale now in his 40's and without a point to live, a lack of cash and demons of friends departed and his victims haunting him. Now the only thing driving him is not revenge, glory, love or comradery, only money. Hate the British? FUCK NO! How else would he have lived the high life as an IRA hero, and the IRA who turned their backs on him? He understands them, they don't need a killer and a criminal, they need someone who can give a good speech and jerk off the reporters, Galyn Hale can always make his own way. Hell, he'll never have to buy himself a drink again!

This post has been edited by -ORaNGe-: 26 July 2009 - 07:09 AM

[Ced]

2. A Brief Tale



- Listen up. We only say it once. -

12-08-2016, 10:00pm local time, somewhere in Kiev, Ukraine.

After every hired gun was picked up and gathered, they were led into the underground briefing room Carlyle and his team also used as OPS. Priscilla made sure everyone had a block of paper, a pen and a bottle of water, then she retreated. She had done her part, now the military advisors would be the ones running the game. One of them, under the name of "Brick", led this briefing. "Gentlemen, welcome to Kiev. I hope you did not plan on vacation, because you will be inserted in about five hours. Let's get this over quickly, so everyone can get a bit more sleep - the next days won't have much in store for you. Alright, a short explanation of the situation, for those not familiar with the polictical background."

Brick activated the projector, beaming a commonly known map of the country and it's neighbors against the surface of the wall behind him. "The Ukraine lost it's souvereignity in 2012, and was reestablished as a part of the Russian Protectorate. Every authority is control by Ivan, the military is considered loyal as can be - which is good for us, because they like the dollar. In 1986, the NPP Chernobyl blew up and was covered under tons of concrete - the whole incident killed thousands and the area is still highly radiated from that. Now, in 2006, there was an abnormal spike in seismographic and energetic measurings - the area aroudn the NPP became unstable." In the background, image of the events scrolled by. Civilian helpers which were burnt and scarred, hazmat suits, truck after truck of concrete, helicopters doing water drop flybys, and other pictures of the catastrophe.



"When this instability occured, scientists advanced and were lost - a seemingly unpredictable zone of anomalies, radiation pockets and physics defying transformations occured. We are still not in the clear what is going on, so just bear with me." With a smirk, he dropped in the next series of images. A flame spike, radiating green goo, electric discharges, atmospherical vortexes - things, that didn't make much sense to the rational eye. "What we have gathered so far, is, that these anomalies are both destructive and creative. They produce crystals and these crystals are obviously objects of interests for several private companies. We are not after these - but if you can pick them up, they might prove usefull." The man looked over his shoulder, and glanced over the stillshots of those so called anomalies. "These occurancies can prove to be deadly - regard them as natural traps. We will equip you with mundane detectors, which can warn you about nearby anomalies, though."



He turned his face again to the audience. "Now, here is the most important part: Silence and low-profile are paramount. We want no equipment left behind, no operative left behind, no traces left behind. You will get no uniform but an assortment of clothes. You will have no radio with long range capabilities. You will have a limited amount of time and limited supplies. If you need something you have not with you, you will need to improvise - and get it, in the zone. You will have no means of transportation, but the area to be covered is fairly condensed. All in all, the exclusion zone is no larger than 20 miles in diameter. You can walk those distances. The real problem is - we are not allowed to be here. We operate in a grayzone, and we can only hide because we pay for shut mouths."

The quite healthy eater sorted his short stubbly hair and flipped a page of his papers. "The Ivan doesn't want anyone inside the zone, as there are still research laboratories and other sensible objects in there, and furthermore, anyone inside the exclusion zone is considered to be cannon fodder. Your presence will be a direct violation of the laws of the Russian Protectorate and seeing it as you are in a military life-fire zone, there will most likely be no questions asked. Avoid contact with the military at all costs. If you cannot, be ready to bribe them - with as much as needed. In this case, being cheap means being dead, so do the right thing. Now, as for your mission..."



The projector showed new pictures - a young girl, dressed in rags and with dirt in her face looked at the camera, then the image was replaced with a strangely formed key. "... you need to retrieve her. She is in posession of two of those keys. These keys need to be acquired. The girl is not important as soon as you have the keys. Finding her may seem impossible, but keep in mind that both female and children are all but existent in this forsaken piece of earth. When you have the keys, you are required to immediately retreat to the extraction point. We will have the means ready to receive signal from there, but as I said, Ivan doesn't want us here or anybody in his zone - so you can only use it once." He flipped another page, nodded again and pushed a button on his remote, causing the projector to display yet another image. "You will receive two sets of maps, which are crucial to be destroyed should anyone not in the squad ever be about to come into their posession."


(Click to enlarge. Warning! 1,5MB Size, 56k beware!)

Said map material appeared and Brick took up two foiled maps, left his stand and gave one of them to Galyn Hale and the second one to Rashid Zemar. "You have to understand that the military exclusion zone is nomansland. THis is where Mad Max reigns, where bandits shoot each other and soldiers of fortune hunt for these crystals. There is no law but the law of sheer violence, money is less worth than a handful of bullets and information about stashes are handled as cheques. This is a primitive, dog-eat-dog area. We cannot interact or support you once you are inside. You will move in and be inserted in the south, here."He pointed at the shallow Valley just south of some railrod tracks. "Then, you will move north, and try to rendevouz with the team that went in before you and fucked it up - Diego Squad. Rendall Parker is the CO of said team, but we have lost his signal 42 hours ago. His last reports mentioned combat losses due to an unknown force, so be prepared for the worse. Any questions so far? Equipment will be covered later."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Now I need your replies - when everyone has posted his stuff, I will conclude this chapter. )

[schulzy]

"Mr. Brick, when you say unknown force, do you mean, aliens? If so, are aliens known to be killed by a bullet shot to the head? Because if they can, I'm all set."

Serge wanted to be the funny man of the group, but this was no time for jokes. By unknown force, Brick probably meant something big, and strong. He just had one question on his mind. What kind of guns can he use.

"Lets do this shit my fellows squad mates,, I'm ready for hell if that's what is hiding in the shadows of Chernobyl, only if I know you all got my ass when we move in."

This post has been edited by Ced: 26 July 2009 - 06:48 AM

[Brenden]

Nikolai looked at his things. He was too used to his employers supplying him with most of his gear. All he had brought with him was the clothes on his back and his survival knife. He prayed that either someone in the the team or his employers would be kind enough to supply him with a firearm of somekind.

He looked at Serge and smirked. Yeah pal I'll watch your back, seeing as how we can't leave anyone's dead body behind I don't want to carry yours.

[CRU_Paintball]

I looked around at this group of so called soldiers of fortune. Galyn, who certainly talks the talk, but looks like a (European)Football hooligan who's primary objective is to find the nearest bar. Serge is already shooting his mouth off like some Wild West cowboy. Generally, people who talk the loudest do it for a reason, because it's the only way to get noticed. Belanov hasn't said a word since he got here, which may not be a bad thing. But he looks like he can handle himself, I just need to make sure he's paying attention. If he's not, it could be my ass in the ringer. Nikolai, it seems, is most like myself so far. He's got his orders, give us our supplies and lets get this done. But first, a couple questions to get all of our bases covered.

"Brick, is there a reason you've gathered a group of supposed "Elite" soldiers and you only have 2 maps for the whole group? No offense but I don't feel too comfortable with someone else that I just met having a map that of an area that I'm unfamiliar with and I'm going to be going into very, very soon."

"I'm assuming this whole area evacuated during the melt down of Chrenobyl in '86, is that correct? Also, what can you tell us about the Yantar Research Facility and the Agropron Research site? What were they researching and what kind of supplies might we find there that may be useful in this mission? Do you know what the laboratory was used for previously? Do you know how long the tunnel to the Northeast is, and are there multiple exits from that tunnel is the shit hits the fan? Lastly, is the train depot still functional?"


I seriously doubted they would have any useful answers for most, if not all, of the questions I just asked. The suits were usually good at making something look easy and well planned out. If that were the case, the first team wouldn't need us to save them. Which brought more questions to mind. We wont be able to contact them once inside so I may as well ask the questions now.


"Who's running this operation anyway? Who is the CO of this team, and who is it that we report to? How long do we have to complete this mission? Does anyone here specialize in anything specific? If so, it would probably be a good idea to make it known now."

I don't know why but this just doesn't feel right. Vague information, and such short notice? Something is different about this job, very different. Magic crystals that people are coming here, and killing each other over? Why is this a designated "no man's land"? I can't put my finger on it yet but with a little bit of time I'll have it figured out.


I'd read about Chernobyl before. About the nuclear power plant melt down that made everyone literally leave everything they had and move away due to fear of radiation exposure. Could this have something to do with the "No man's land" statute?

This post has been edited by CRU_Paintball: 25 July 2009 - 11:26 PM

[-ORaNGe-]

"Yeah, I have a question, first off how much are we getting paid? So far I've heard about anamolies of physics, a strange force, a dead team, yeah I know you "lost contact" but let's not shit ourselves as to why. Along with the fact that if anyone even see's we've taken a shit or piss in this area that the Russians will likely beat our fuckin souls out of us before we're killed. All of this information and we don't even know how much we're going to get paid? To kill some riff raff motherfucker in the states I charged at least 5 grand and they supplied everything down to me fuckin boxers. Though I do appreciate getting a map, so yeah let's talk some numbers here, you other gentlemen in agreement?"

Now I know something be up here, going in somewhere where nobody but desperate fucks like me wants to go with dirt bag bandits, pissed off military men and some magical lucky charms growing from nothing? This had better be setting me for the rest'a me life or they can go fuck themselves.

"Oh and one last thing, I know you folks have dossiers on all of us, likely have a picture of me sitting me arse on the shitter so can we maybe find out who does what? I don't want to be asking Nikolai over here to run the radio when I'm getting shot at only to find out he only knows how to operate a fuckin paper clip. Incase anyone is wondering about me odds are I'll be the fucker blowing shit up, I can make a bomb from 2 toothpicks, a shot glass, some ketchup and a prayer to Jesus himself, that fuck MacGyver is actually based on me ya know. I've got some other skills so I'll share some more once I know what else everyone else can do."

"As for whose running the show I think that should be put up to who has the experience to do so, I've lead me boys into combat more times than I can count over a period of over 15 years. But heres the way I see it, if some fucker wants to take on all the headaches for the same pay as me all the more power to um! I'll just follow along and tell you fucks to be quiet and not get me popped."

"By the way, it's nice to meet the lotta ya, just don't get me arse shot up and we'll get along fine boys. If anyone wants some grenades I have a case, I never leave home without em! also Mr. Brick a catalog of all the ordinance available to us would be golden, it looks like Nikolai may have only brought himself a lunch and a change of shorts. I'm set for a good trip but not everyone will be, it's just I have a personal attachment to me gear."

This post has been edited by -ORaNGe-: 26 July 2009 - 03:31 AM

[CRU_Paintball]

I laughed to my self, at least the soccer hooligan has a sense of humor. Maybe this job won't be so bad after all.

"I agree! What are getting paid to be here? Also, I been the team leader on most of my missions as well, but I can follow if ordered to."

This post has been edited by CRU_Paintball: 26 July 2009 - 07:45 AM

[Brenden]

I wondered if they had any computer with Internet in this place. If they won't be able to supply me with a gun of some type I could get one from the local gun shop. It would also be nice to be able to retire after this job.

"Yeah it's bad enough you can't even get us a long distance radio but we don't even know what we are getting payed yet. Also Galyn if you don't mind I would one or two of those grenades you got."

[Sigma Sparda]

Slipping the pad of paper into his worn leather jacket after carefully collecting the highlights of the meeting and adding his personal interpretations of what was said, Belanov looked up and began twirling and twisting the pen he had been using. As he laid his palms flat on the table, the pen vanished and he began to speak.

"I have but one question. You speak of these glitches in nature. Have your men made any reports of this interfering with ballistics or explosives? As you said, there will be people looking for the crystals around these areas, and they WILL be armed. The last thing I want is to have to put a bullet in a body while navigating around the anomalies only to find it in my own, or have a incendiary explode on me and my group as soon as the pin is pulled. Other than that, I appreciate you bringing us on board for this most interesting endeavor. It is a pleasure to be working with such a diverse group."

Nodding in approval to the others, he slowly sank back into his seat, the pen reappearing as a blurr between his fingers.

[PrometheanFlame]

Rashid followed the briefing as best he could...his English was just fine, but when Brick started going on about anomalies and atmospheric vortexes, it was lost on the Afghan. Rashid doubted it was really that important anyway. This wouldn't be the first briefing where someone had made a big deal about some scientific jargon that ultimately proved far less important than the hail of bullets his team was storming into. He'd heard about Chernobyl before, however, and knew that the area surrounding it was a God-forsaken wasteland. When the image of the young girl appeared, Rashid payed special attention. How was it that they expected this young girl to survive in that place when a team of well-armed mercenaries had not? What secrets would the key she carried unlock?

As the briefing concluded, it was no surprise that the other men began clamoring for weapons. It was typical in such a situation. They had no idea what to expect, so they wanted to be prepared for anything...but guns and grenades wouldn't protect them from radiation. After North Korea's failed attempt to launch a nuclear missile at its neighbor to the south in 2012, Rashid and the PMC he was working with had been part of South Korea's retaliatory assault. He had fought in the rubble of Pyongyang, which lay in ruins after the missile a dying Kim John-il had tried to launch detonated only a couple hundred yards off of the ground. This scenario would not be so very different. The biggest difference was that they were trying to avoid military contact instead of eliminate it. That would probably not be too difficult, either...Rashid had a feeling that there was a great deal laying within the shadow of Chernobyl that Mother Russia did not want to see.

Studying the map he'd been handed, Rashid tried to make mental notes and memorize as much as possible...but all the while, he was haunted by the piercing gaze of that little girl. What part did she play in all of this? He hoped that he would live long enough not only to find out, but to tell about it, as well. He had no questions for this Brick character...something told him that he didn't know a whole Hell of a lot about what was going on, either. He was the middle man. Whoever was pulling the strings behind this operation was being careful to keep himself insulated from the team, which hinted at political motivations. The less Rashid knew about that, the better, because politics was a ball of yarn that never fully unraveled. He had his target...that was enough. He would find the girl and deliver the key. If he sensed treachery, he could always hide the key and renegotiate his fee.

"I will require MREs, water, and medicine for radiation sickness. That is all."

With that, Rashid rose from the table, folded the map, and tucked it into his jacket before leaving the room.

[schulzy]

"Awww I forgot that Chernobyl blew up and spread radiation across its surrounding land. If I had known this was where the job was, I would have brought my gas mask, and maybe my Hazmat suit. Although I'd probably skip on the suit....Mr. Brick, if you don't mind, could you tell me where the washroom is, I have to use it. "

All this time of this "team" brainstorming what they brought with them, Serge doesn't even know half of their names, or where they're from, what training they did, or what their strong points were. He wanted to say something about this matter, but he thought it'd be better for somebody else to bring this up.

This post has been edited by schulzy: 26 July 2009 - 02:59 PM

[Brenden]

I shook my head, really how in the hell do you forget about something like Chernobyl.

"Well on a differant note I'm Nikolai, I'm from Russia and served damn near half my life in the army before they abandoned me. Where are you guys from?"

This post has been edited by Brenden: 26 July 2009 - 03:46 PM

[CRU_Paintball]

"I'm from the states. I stated fighting when I was 15 and haven't stopped yet. I am fairly proficient in linguistics and am a sniper by trade. I have experience in espionage, covert operations, and demolition. I'm pretty well rounded and can handle any task I am given. Need something done and done right? I'm the guy to ask!"