[Shrike Abyssal] Zanzibar Run

"Good. That's very good."

A hiss and the angular pieces about his collar and mandibles extended, folding out section by section, sealing themselves together. A sharp edged jawguard jointed together with a blank, faceless visor. Samitael rolled his shoulders, feeling the embedded tethers to the twisting and twining apparatus that sprouted from his back. Flex the mechanical sinews. Click the metal pincers. One final check of the simple, lightweight carbine in his arms.

In another life, on other worlds he had been a simple mercenary. Selling his skills, taking out the trash; doing those dirty, dirty jobs that everyone, everywhere needed doing now and again. Cleaner. Enforcer. Bodyguard. Assassin.

Here?

Here he was just another soldier. In service to just another cause. Did he miss his old jobs, his old haunts? Oh yes, without a trace of doubt. But, then again, back then it wasn't often that he was tasked with something that truly questioned his skills. That he was forced to stand against something better, something challenging. And if there was one thing he loved, had always loved,

It was a challenge.

"Be ready."

And with that last, parting word he stepped out of the shadows of the alley and into the breathlessly hot light of the dusty, sunbaked street. The lead vehicles motorcade a scant hundred meters away. The brakes of the first APC squealed as the driver saw the lone man standing in the middle of the road; the entire convoy grinding to a halt. He couldn't hear them, sadly so, but he could guess. Right now there would be confusion, panic, a reversion to basic tra-

"CLEAR THE ROAD. YOU ARE OBSTRUCTING OFFICIAL ZANZIBAR MILITARY BUSINESS. YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS TO COMPLY."

There we go. Ah, that scowl beneath that helmet. That squared off jaw. Those gloved hands resting on the anti-infantry gun's controls. The very model of a proper operator. No seriously, they could have slapped his silhouette on a post with the word "Enlist" below and it would have sold itself. Unfortunately for his ego however, Samitael wasn't particularly inclined to pay him much heed. Manipulators waving slowly as if caught in a breeze. Gun casually dangling in his grasp. An impulse, a silent order, and they slid forth from their metal sheathes. Rising from dark, technologic waters, their hilts joined with the terminus of the tendrils. Five blades, long, curved, all keening edges and faintly audible hums, the hint of crimson lighting dancing within their blood red surface. The Shade took a step, totally. Wholly. At ease. Not a single care in the Spirits damned world.

The gunner shifted. His grip tightened.

"I SAID CLEAR THE ROAD WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE FO-"

And then the turian was a blur of motion. Pavement cracking and splintering under his talons, the street a smear of color, the road ahead torn and chewed as a stream of fire spat forth from the turret; the fraction of a second delay between action and reaction. Enough for Samitael to close half the distance. Enough for the turian to acquire momentum; heedless of the gunfire pitting and shattering the world around him in dozens of fist sized detonations.

Gloved hands jerked on the turret and the ground before him disintegrated into a storm of stone shards. Another impulse, motor mnemonics, and flames gathered beneath his boots. He bounded, launching himself skyward, the augmentic armor and he in a high, arcing jump. The operator wrenched the gun upwards, a hail of bullets cleaving through the air.

Too slow.

Too slow by half.

Samitael slammed onto the nose of the APC with enough force to buckle metal and ablative plate, the cannon already coming apart at the joints; sheared livid, bleeding white hot metal.

The meaty chunks of the operator himself landed in the empty street.

A whistle, a pair of grenades down a hatch and the Shade hopped off, letting himself fall to the ground. Idly flicking the ruby wet from the blades, their entire surfaces humming almost eagerly at their keyed frequencies. A roiling column of smoke and flame behind. APC's and IFV's bracketing the road in a makeshift bulwark, disgorging their armed cargo into the road; national soldiers and mercenaries alike dressing their ranks behind cover.

He had played his part now. The rest lay with the others.

A platoon's worth of firepower clacked and ratcheted to life. He just looked

and grinned.

"FIRE."


Meanwhile, the limo carrying the source of all this fuss was busily careening away from the ambush; flanked by a rather reduced guard. The atmosphere within was, understandably, somewhat dire.

"Who was that?"

"Full conversion?"

"We need to parse through the biometrics from the helmet-cams before we can be sur-"

"I don't want to die. I-"

"One of your competitors I presume Mr. Okazaki?" Malokotela's voice cut through the steadily rising surge of voices. The information officer, the guards, his own Vice-Minister. Silenced reigned in the limousine, the thrum of the engine a low, frantic heartbeat. The driver adjusted the rearview screen, the intersection was awash in fire and fury. Scarlet blades dipping and weaving, slashing through flesh and armor alike as their wielder easily, almost contemptuously dropped combatants with razor round and esoteric alike. His own reinforcements were still arriving, riflemen in windows, synthetic forms atop rooftops, their bodies beautiful works of a violent art. Gleaming as they fell to crater the street.

A fresh cloud of debris bloomed, obscuring the view. The bodyguard himself grimaced, an odd, almost stilted expression. Like someone who half remembers how and has had to practice to make up.

"Probably. Likely we're looking at another coup- shit."

There were men on the rooftops, light armor. Fatigues. Vests. Shrouded and swathed, irregulars. They wore gasmasks; they wore visors broken by oscillating, twisting designs. Alike in their distinction. But they were not without uniformity, you see each and every one was well positioned; held the advantage of the high ground.

And in each and every hand was either the ugly, plain forms of the Nidhoggr or the titanic, jagged Grendel rifles.

Missiles and rocket propelled grenades screamed through the air. One of their escorts was simply...hurled by the force of the impacts. Rocked by shockwaves, it's armor blackened and pitted. Flipping end over end before coming to rest in a hastily abandoned storefront. It's brothers gutted. Hobbled. Crippled. Lamed. Their lives given to shield their principle. Their crews spilling out, cut down, given to buy time.

Another pouring on of speed, another twist of the wheel and the car sped back towards the Estate. No, more armored forms dropping; more stone slabs pulverized underfoot. Okazaki was getting out of the car, his own men following; leaving the Prime Minister and his subordinate alone withe the information manager, a guard, and the driver himself.

All to buy time. All to buy time.

The lonely vehicle, tires shrieking on stone, pressed on. Towards the sea road. Towards the plaza by the water where, even now, a certain truck was pulling into position. It's hatches folding open.

"I do believe that's showtime, girls." Kate practically booted the back door of the APC open, snatching up her faithful Hornet as she went. Out into the fresh air, her armour's tendrils flicking and snipping as she warmed them up for the main event. Sparing a glance at the waterfront where the Crusader was lying in wait beneath the frankly stupidly beautiful looking cerulean water. Trying to think of at least one excuse to call it in and see it in action.

"Bah. I'll think of something." Kate turned away from the water's edge, flexing the tendrils. They were a lot like her biotics, in a way. Flex a new set of muscles, move without actually moving. The tendrils each flung out a smooth black disc, letting them skip across the street before settling and burrowing beneath the surface. Four mines, ready to release their deadly pulse and completely kill the incoming car's internals. Maybe it'd spin out, maybe it'd just lock up. She was hoping for it to flip out like crazy.

"Guess that's my cue, huh. C'mon, then, up and at 'em." He tapped out another pattern, and the drone in his lap awoke in response. A slight whirring and a flicker of red light as the eye extended, and then it was hovering opposite its smaller counterpart over his shoulder. It might have been symbolic had the drone not been the size of a small dog.

Lanning walked to the door of the APC, the (frankly silly) armored coat that came with the uniform flapping slightly in the coastal breeze. Don't panic. You aren't even here to fight. You'll be fine, just...don't panic.

Now, the briefing said the access point was...there. His HUD highlighted the terminal a bright yellow. "Hey, you two. I'm going to try and hack into the city-wide net, but I need to be over by that thing" a jab in the direction of the terminal "to try and access it. I'm going to need some covering fire while I work on it, if you don't mind."

The krogan followed Kate out the bay doors, taking in the savanna paradise of the lands of Zanzibar. To him, it was off. The tuchankan landscape bore similarities in climate, but where his homeworld was barren, violently flattened wasteland, Zanzibar was a planet in full bloom of life. Plants and wildlife thrived on it's surface. Trees blanketed huge swathes of the region, bearing fruits of all kinds. Even the water seemed to mock him. A body of appealing turquoise, undisturbed by harsh winds and pollution. He was sure you could drink right out of it.

His train of thought was broken by Lanning's voice. The hexagonal pieces of his helmet lens shifted back into place, vacuum sealing the suit of armor. "Sure. I'll give you a piggyback ride if it'll make you feel better." An electronic filter was added to his voice, due to the helmet. The odd, protruding shape on his left gauntlet unfurled into a small buckler. He brought his Holda to aim, testing it. The shield would cover a good portion of his vitals while firing. An addition to his kit that would only seem to exacerbate the feeling of invulnerability he received in combat.

The final piece was one he held with pride. A sheath and handle slung over his back. Gokanong placed the shotgun in his buckler hand and withdrew a machete from the sheath. It was segmented, lines of green contrasting the onyx black of the metal; a combination of colors not dissimilar to his armor. The blade audibly hummed as withdrawing it automatically engaged the oscillating mechanics of the vibro-blade. Feeling satisfied with his final gear check, he turned back to Lanning, sheathing the machete. "Ready when you are."

"...Right then." (So happy to know you'll be giving me covering fire with a machete. It's really fucking lovely to know that.) He shook his head a little to clear his thoughts, and ran for the terminal, drones bobbing along behind him.

The terminal had armor covering its internals, enough to keep random passersby from taking a poke around in them. Evidently, however, the designers hadn't accounted for armed mercenaries when considering the durability of the plating. A measured use of his omnitool's incinerate function, and Lanning had a way in. Rather than jacking in immediately, however, he set his omnitool to scan for nearby terminals that had been left running by their panicked owners. A few seconds later (Who still used "Pyjack" as their password? Honestly, some people couldn't be assed to put effort into protecting their belongings) and he had a nice collection of avenues with which to attack the city net, and a nice group of patsies in case something went terribly wrong. (Not that it'd be my fault. Those two are going to shoot the wrong thing and then we'll all be fucked, I'd bet my life on it.)

(Wait, I already am. How depressing.)

Shooing the thoughts away, he jacked his 'tool into the terminal. Inducing a deadlock in the more surface level security programs was fairly simple, and gave him more leeway for the actual work. Even with more than one platform, it was going to take a while to crack the admin password. Dictionary attacks only made things so much simpler with so many languages to choose from, and the brute force method wasn't going to go any faster. A spider might work, but that would take a little bit more time to set up...best to set one up in tandem, just in case.

(Gods, fuck the omnigel patch.)

A brief intermission if you will:

A pulse of iridescent blue blossomed from the point of impact, tongues of dark fire spilling out and over. Kinetic force, inexorable, irresistible, scattering Umbra like leaves before a hurricane, shattering glass panes and ripping up the roof plating in the wake of it's passage. Silence breathed, a quick, furtive gasp, a respite from the cacophony of noise that enveloped the district.

"Unnnggh."

Okazaki pulled the blade free from the Mubarizun's half bisected chest, severing even more servos and artificial muscle strands on the way out. The Titan cyborg crumpled to the rooftop, gun sheared in half, useless in his hands. His opaque visor cracked. Electronic eyes frantically rolling back and forth searching, seeking, for a way out. A flick of the wrist from his free hand and a trio of dark orbs went bouncing and rolling across the ruined surface. Umbra dived for cover. Dragging their fellows, falling atop them to shelter the wounded with their own barriers.

The specialist didn't even glance over as he readied the blade for the killing blow. Defend his principle. Remove the greatest threat. These people had come here, they had come here with violence and fury and fire; justice would see them cut down. Justice would see them removed. He was merely justice's instrument, it's sword, it's-

blue eyes widened

-the second Mubarizun didn't so much tank the grenade as swat it out of the air to detonate harmlessly above the street. He was already past the kill radius for the other two by the time Okazaki heard his footsteps. A twist. A slash. Faster than any human could move.

But the Ghost was faster. Sliding underneath the deadly, silvery blue shimmer, taking the errant bodyguard in the knees. Driving them both into thin air. Earth and sky reversing, the street waiting below. Rising. Rushing up. Gravity. Inexorable, irresistible.

The world crunched.

The element of surprise had been expended. All 'round the district government forces, state sponsored mercenaries, were rallying. Marshaled by the specialist and his men. Shots traded. Blows exchanged. Explosives. Tech. Biotics. Bloodied men and women fighting on savagely, efficiently, brutally, desperately. And all the while the flames rose higher.

We now return you to your regular programming:

The limousine was rated to withstand gunfire, demolitions, and outside sabotage. And, rest assured, the occupants were completely and totally safe as chains of electromagnetic energy chewed through the engine block. And the navigation suite. And the HUD. It hit the curb doing better than eighty.

Rising. Soaring. Flipping. Crashing back to earth in a shriek of treated metals, windows splintering and cracking from the sheer force.

Pause.

And then the guards shot out the windows themselves, kicking, crawling, pulling themselves free of the wreck; taking shelter behind it's bulk. Within, hunkered down beneath the seats, crouched next to a bleeding Malokotela and a trembling Alokbah, the lovely Ms. Visolisa (remember her? The information manager?)raised her omnitool to her mouth and placed a call.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Lanning was buying the team time oh yes, the benefit of having several dozen compromised terminals (what with their owners too busy taking shelter to really notice) to route the commands through was that the brute force option wasn't so painfully, tediously, slow. No admin password, not yet. Partials. Datafragments. Pings against a digital grid. But nothing concrete.

The spider had more luck as hastily slapped together as they were. Slipping through low level barriers, burrowing further and further into the local internet, emerging now and again to spit out it's juicy morsels onto Lanning's display. Technical registries. Maps of utility lines. Locations of the storm locks and levees. A public security drone here. Snippets of local intel exchange.

Tasty, twitching, dismembered pieces of information arranged neatly before him.

Kate stood back and appreciated her handiwork for a moment. Watching the car flip the fuck out, spinning like a top, crumpling like a tin toy. She approached, walking right up to the edge of the upturned car, and grabbed it. The tendrils in her armour aided her, looping around the metal or simply grabbing hold with powerful pincers. She tensed, augmented musculature and hardsuit working in tandem to give her the inhuman strength she needed. Flip went the car, the grind and shriek of metal.

Things were rather flipped, if you'll pardon the pun. Malokotela, Alokbah and Ms. Visolisa were violently shaken in the wreckage like poor, abused beans in a can. Kate unhurriedly retrieved her Hornet from the mag-strip on her thigh and cradled it loosely in her hands.

"Gok. The guards." The tendril tips unfolded. Leaf-shaped blades of red-hot ceramic slid from within, flash-forged in the blink of an eye. They lashed out like bullwhips, gouging at the twisted metal wreckage. The brittle blades snapped off from their housing with each strike, of course, but left molten gashes wherever they passed. And wherever one was lost, another was soon forged by the VI in her armour. Kate stood their quite calmly as she or her armour (the distinction was a little blurry) set to work carving the wreckage up like a turkey.