The blistering musk bubbled within the confined space Sgt. Curtis Hartley and six others currently inhabited. Designed to seemingly eradicate odder the Linx only mingled with the stench, only forming a contrast between every other breath that was both sickening and revolting in a single instance. The hiss persisted once more, emanating from a flailing hand and soon to be de-pressurised can of bliss. It then faded into obscurity, along with the smell as the product overpowered the sealed metal structure you found yourself in.
Every so often the van would tilt, only a little mind you as the suspension on it was soft, flexible yet persistent. You may as well had been on a bloody hovercraft at that point, gliding on a cushion of air. Tranquillity was salvation, the sound proofed, armoured structure encapsulated its own little Eden to probe and prod in peace. Yet the calm was short lived.
"God knows what the fackin Field agents are up to, not stewing in a boiling metal box I bet." Bellowed Curt spontaniously pulling at the collar of his attire. He had exchanged his containment specialist uniform for combat garments and body armour, which he wrestled with whilst spinning on his chair in mild panic. The air conditioning was shot and god forbid there be a window, a vent even, safety and the covert nature of the activities at hand forbid it, and evidently Curt took shit for it, being maintenance on the operation.
One of his computer monitors undulated has his head set wire pulled at its base, and his key board swiftly fell to the ground with a mild series of taps, turning the heads of everyone else within. From this, curt lent forward in his seat with his hands on either of his knees inhaling and exhaling frantically. He then turned his head towards the locked double doors towards the back of the van.
"Has anyone received word from, well, anyone yet?" he asked, followed by a gentle exhale turned sigh laced with evident frustration. "I don't feel comfortable in my own bloody skin, im either going to die of anticipation, or heatstroke!" He returned to his station on his 5 legged stead roller blading passed the others who were typing frantically. Social media sites, news stations, mobile phone networks galore were being monitored for any signs of digital "radio traffic". Buzzwords was the phrase of the day, hard wired into the system Curt knew that tracking and identifying a bogie was automatic, clean and efficient. Yet it never hurt to have manual element, a human element to oversee the operations.
Normally Curt loved these road trips to the middle of nowhere, they were one of his favourite semi-holidays to partake in as they took him to exotic new places and plucked him ever so delectably from the prying hands of the site director, and his pack of flying monkeys known as the heads of containment. Saying that though, exchanging the scorching blistering heat of the forge for the scorching blistering heat of an air tight greenhouse simulator wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. Hardly a second passed before another voice broke the equilibrium.
"This is Unit 2 commander, Units 1, 7, 5 and 18 are closing in on their targets and we are right on top of ours sir, requesting authorisation to deploy." Another second passed, we waited for a response. From this, the communications officer nodded his head, signalling the beginning of the operation.
No one spoke. The combatants loaded and readied their weapons, their armour. And the rest simply sat at their stations preparing the purge of internet traffic, and preparing their mental chess match between themselves and the inevitable encroaching media that would soon be upon them. Containment specialists prepared themselves mentally and physically along side the professional cleaners, the ex-crime scene investigators ready to reverse engineer and conceal the potential mess that was about to befall the area.
For about an hour, this quiet little London road, closed to the public was going to be cut off from the world. And the events that happened along with them. From here, we emerged from our vehicles, poured out onto the street and sized up who we would be working with.
(Okay, in short you can be whoever you like in this role play folks, an MTF operative, a security officer, a containment specialist, whoever you like. The premise is that the Foundation is attempting to isolate a group responsible for a memory leak in the Foundation's data base. They know too much. If your with the main group respond to the first thread, if you are elsewhere, hunting down someone on the run perhaps, begin a new thread, good luck)
Welcome, and goodbye…
