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Thread: [M] The Men in Black [IC]

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    Default [M] The Men in Black [IC]

    In the wee hours of the morning, a nondescript SUV pulled into the gravel parking lot of a campgrounds. A sign, lit by a flickering lamp that seemed on the verge of dying, helpfully reminded campers to secure all food items lest bears find them. The passenger side door opened, and the smoldering butt of a cigarette hit the ground. A nondescript boot came down on top of it, quashing out the embers as a very nondescript man got out.

    He seemed the perfect idea of mediocrity, until you got to his face. His lower jaw bulged out like a bulldog, belaying a mouthful of crooked and yellow fangs. His skin was sallow and pale, and seemed to be ready to peel off and leave a grinning skull underneath. His cheekbones were high and severe, contrasted by the small pinpricks of red pupils sunk into cavernous eye sockets, perpetual dark circles underneath. Smoke emanated from the monster’s mouth, acrid and foul.

    “Alright people, let’s get started,” Agent V-33, Callsign ‘Nosferatu’ snarled in a scuffed, decrepit voice, “Intel says there’s been signs of a rogue werewolf pack in the area killing or potentially turning unfortunate hikers. Song, I need you to find them. Sources say they’ve been hiding in the northern ridge, but you know werewolves, they don’t like to stay in one place for long. Greenhorn, help look for tracks. You might learn a thing or two. Death Dealer, you take point guard. I need your eyes and ears watching every shadow. Nothing so much as shits in a bush without you letting me or the team know. Sarathiel, you and me will take rear guard. We move out in 10 minutes.”
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    Carson stepped out of the van, holding his duffel bag and briefcase, "I'll be ready in 5."
    He looked around, then walked to a nearby picnic table, setting his duffel bag and briefcase on it.
    He unzipped the duffel bag, the first object produced being a small cardboard box, with "S10" written on it in black marker. Next, his belt. On the left side, a pouch for six pistol magazines, on the right both a hip and thigh holster. Carson opened the box, pulling out 7 magazines, putting six in pouches and setting the seventh aside. He closed the box and set it back in his bag, and pulling out a very similar box, this one with "S45" written on it. He pulled two mags from this box, slipping one in the thigh holster, setting the other aside.
    He picked up the belt, clipping it around his waist, also clipping the leg strap for the thigh holster. Then his favorite part.
    Carson grabbed the handle of the briefcase, sliding it in front of him, unlocking it, then opening it, a small smirk crossing his lips as his took a second to admire his Nightmares.
    He first pulled the 1911, pulling the slide back and locking it, picking up the .45 magazine he had set aside then slid it into the handle of the gun. He hit the slide lock, the slide snapping forward, chambering a round. He slid the 1911 into the thigh holster then moved on to the 220, which he did the same thing, except after loading he tested the red flashlight, then slid it into his hip holster.
    Carson closed the briefcase, then the duffel bag, turned toward the parking lot and sat down on the bench, "Ready."
    "There's a fundamental truth to our nature. Man must explore."

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    M-13 Song sighs, glancing down at her outfit - flannel shirt, black jeans, hiking boots, and her gear.

    I should have worn a track suit.

    "Sir," she says respectfully, stepping over to Nosferatu. "Did you want me to 'fur up' for this? When I'm... that way, I can't carry gear, I can't shoot a gun, I can't even talk unless I switch back. And I'm certainly much smaller than a wolf."

    She pauses, glancing back at Carson. "I also would like to avoid... confusion. I might not be recognized."

    It wasn't like she made a habit of running around inside the building in her fur self, just discreet trips outside.

    Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

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    Rodica got out of the vehicle. She checked all her gear before getting in but rechecked them just to be sure. She rather check more often than necessary than not enough and have any of it fail in combat, it was a matter of life and death. She would have liked to take a test shot with each gun but the noise might alert her prey and she preferred to sneak up on them.

    Since she was ordered to take point she ran ahead making sure to stay in earshot if she had to yell at them. She maintined that distance, when they moved forward she moved forward.

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    Ambrose's eyes cracked open to stare up at the ceiling of the dimly lit interior of the SUV.

    Huh. I must have fallen asleep.

    His head was tilted back and up, and at hearing his call name, he slowly leaned up off the plush seat, rubbing his temples with his fingertips, the blood pumping underneath; dull, agitated. He was warm from the drive, unsure of how long he had been out. Dark eyes flicked out the now open van door, all of his comrads already outside, wandering around, taking positions. He leaned up further, scooting out of the large backseat, pushing his dark overcoat out of the way, noting the lingering scent of cigarette as he climbed fully out of the vehicle. His body felt tired and heavy.

    Ambrose's head tilted slightly, his human eyes struggling to see within the darkness, but noted the flickering light and the sign beneath warning hikers of bears. A year ago, he would have scoffed at the notion, but now that he had been properly educated, some hungry bears were the least of the worries humans could face out in the bush. It didn't stop the hairs on the back of his neck from stiffening just from the notion of werewolves tearing into human flesh. He rubbed his neck, trying to make the uncomfortable feeling go away, as he stared upward toward the lamp. His skin continued to prickle slightly, the ever present fear of danger overriding all of his training.

    Realizing he had stepped over to the sign to examine it closer, but also to be in the comfort of the only light there, he glanced around to see if there were any trash cans where food might have actually been disposed of recently to warrant the signage. He eyed a discarded Subway wrapper on the ground - its signature green and yellow logo familiar, it looked new and like it hadn't been there very long. He ran his tongue over his lips, noting his throat still dry from the trip, his voice as gravely as the ground they all currently stood on, found himself asking aloud, "Human tracks... or werewolf?"
    Last edited by Kiki; 09-19-2022 at 06:41 PM.


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    Nosferatu thumbed the hilt of his longsword almost absentmindedly, working his finger into the slight groove that had been developing over the last 70 years.

    “Nope. Keep your wits and your thumbs about you, if you please.” Turning to Ambrose, he said “Either would be helpful, but werewolf tracks decidedly more so. They might be traveling as a pack of full wolves, so keep your eyes peeled for anything.” His reflective red eyes scanned the crowded treeline.

    “Death Dealer!” He called out, “Anything yet?”
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    Rodica was using all her senses except taste and touch to keep a lookout. "Everything I have sensed is your average forest-dwelling creature." She was currently looking at a pair of squirrels going to town on each other. It's been a while for her, a couple of decades at least. She didn't put her ear to the ground to listen because the last time she did a bug crawled up her ear and she was not having that repeated again.
    Last edited by KRCmdrSheppard; 09-30-2022 at 01:02 PM.

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    "Yessir!" Song replied, jerking upright. There had to be some way she could carry her gear when she was in her other form - she was a witch, after all.

    Walking briskly towards the edge of the lot, she glanced at the others, looking so sure, so confident. Most of them probably never saw a werewolf on a hunt. Most of them never went after the field mice, like a real wolf would.

    Song took a long, careful sniff of the air, trying to spot what creatures were out there right now and if there were any musky-sour scent of wolves....
    Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ 

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    Ambrose watched Death Dealer move up ahead silently, watching her form disappear past the edge of the light above him, into the wood. A side glance, his head not moving, he regarded Song and Nosferatu in their quick exchange, feeling a tug of disappointment - it was always something he had wanted to see - to watch Song transform, but orders were orders.

    Ambrose nodded sharply, only once, to Nosferatu's answer, as Song came to stand also at the light's edge, sniffing at the air. Knowing Nosferatu's piercing eyes peered at their backs, Ambrose took a hesitant step forward, dropping down to a knee, fingers out to the dirt, testing the quality of the soil, detecting how easy tracks might be found. His dark eyes scanned the earth, squinting into the dark. His human eyes useless past the bushes; it was too dark.

    Ambrose knew it would be easier to stumble upon a werewolf, rather than lure it to them. His voice loud enough for all of them to hear, "Of all the therianthropes out there, werewolves are the most dangerous to lure anywhere. Humans and wolves are both social creatures, so you can bet werewolves are as well; hurt or entrap one, and you’ll bring the entire pack down on your head." His fingers shifted the dirt around, no new tracks, the silt not warm at all.

    Above, no full moon. Ambrose looked up and out at Death Dealer struggling to see her standing watching ahead, before rising back up to both feet, looking over at Song, wiping a hand on his front. "What do you think? Any fun smells?" Ambrose's dark eyes then met the blood red ones of Nosferatu, doing his best not to wince under the probing stare of his boss. "No tracks directly here, sir." Ambrose's eyes slid over to Sarathiel on the bench, wary of the gun now residing on his hip, frowning. "No tracks, and I'm thinking we're going to have to go find them, not have them find us."


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