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DS YW177- Shadow in the Snow

He waited for an hour, his hooded ear against the dusty wood. Around him, the abandoned Soviet library lay, filled with fragile bookshelves and still stacks of frozen paper, a solid block of concrete abandoned with many others in the middle of Siberia, an uncharted remnant of a dark era. The cold air sent shivers through his bones, shaking some of the frost off of his hair and teenage scruff. He held his trusted 9mm handgun tightly in his hand, a long silencer attached to the barrel. The bulletproof vest under the three layers of Alpine clothing wasn’t exactly comfy, and his patience was running out.

Suddenly, the heavy steel doors were thrown open, the loud metallic clang followed by heavy Russian voices. He grabbed his radio. “Delta here. The rat is in the den. Eagle clear to take-off,” he whispered. Deep breath. He checked his watch. Five minutes ‘till Eagle gets here.

A few seconds later, the metallic click of a briefcase hitting the ground resonated through the library. That’s the signal he was waiting for. Several months of investigation, all for that sound. He shut his eyes tightly, grabbed the detonator on the ground besides him, and squeezed the trigger…

… Thus detonating the intricate network of flash bangs laid throughout the library for maximum effect. Straight after the initial flash, he ran out of his cover, gun in hand, quickly spotting the eight people in the room, and sprinting towards the man with the briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, while placing two precise shots in the skulls of the men carrying the assault rifles. His close combat reflexes basically took over for the next seconds.

He threw a kick into the briefcase carrier’s bodyguard while reaching for the knife strapped to the back of his belt, tipping the still dazzled man onto the hard floor. He promptly thrust the cold steel into his primary target’s throat, and fired a bullet at the small chain to free the briefcase from the man’s arm. As soon as he held the precious cargo, he sprinted towards the heavy door. Two of the men had recovered from the flash bang, and had already taken aim at the dark figure scurrying through the bookshelves. The muzzle flashes illuminated flying sheets of paper, thrown into the air by the bullets flying past his chest. Too close for comfort.

He continued his sprint through the heavy doors, the floor alive with sparks from bullet impacts. The chase continued through the obscure, concrete halls of the Soviet complex. Having not prepared to be ambushed, the men hadn’t anticipated to give chase, and quickly found themselves isolated in the dark.

He knew this, and hid behind a corner, quietly catching his breath, waiting for the predator to become the prey, drawing the dagger once again form his belt. As soon as the first man appeared, he stabbed the blade into his temple, leaving the weapon in the falling corpse. Without waiting for his accomplice to recover from the unexpected attack, he ran towards the nearest window, and broke through the already fractured glass, falling into the crunchy snow bellow.

Quickly rising up from his fall, he ran out towards the edge of the abandoned town, putting the library’s entrance to his back. Hearing the door open, he stopped and turned around, hoping the dark would conceal his silhouette, only to find a well-aimed bullet grazing his right shoulder.

“Hands in the air!” One of the four men yelled at him in Russian. He complied, checking the time on his watch in doing so. It had been exactly 5min. He smiled inwardly. The man had started to ask who he was working for, but was interrupted mid-sentence by a blinding light from above, quickly followed by the chopping sound of rotors, which had until now been overpowered by the whistling wind.

As he resumed his escape, disappearing into the night, he heard the radio on his chest burst to life. “Eagle has landed. Over!” Despite himself, a smug grin appeared on his face. Even if he would get no credit in the official report, even if his jobs required him to take lives, satisfaction resonated throughout his being.

Now all that was left was a trek through the windy Siberian tundra to get to his extraction point…

………………………OPERATION//HAILstorm//…………………………………//GRIMREAPERintheSNOW//…………

Had to stay up very late at night to complete this one… Anyway, another spy story for this week. Hope you enjoyed. Comments appreciated!

 
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Posted by on 2 September 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy

 

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New Life

Everything hurt. All the muscles in my body, my eyes, my head, my bones and something different, that was hurting too. My head was ringing and the light was too bright and the absence of noise too loud. I coughed as a tube was removed from my throat and out of my mouth and then I was breathing on my own. It was rebirth. Except that I didn’t remember the first one, or anything after it. There was an emptiness in my head, a big gaping hole where I felt there should be something, anything. 

I was lying on a table, that’s the first thing I noticed (after the light and the silence). It felt like tables shouldn’t be meant for lying on. But I wasn’t sure… I waited for something to happen. Nothing happened. So I got up. That’s when I noticed some of me looked a certain way and the rest looked different. Some of me was pale, pink and soft, some of that had hair, my head, my arm… the rest of me was different. My right arm was almost all silver, it started on my shoulder a bit then took up most of the space from my shoulder to my elbow, all of the space from my elbow to my wrist and the back of my hand and fingers (no doubt including partly inside my hand too). On my right leg it started on the knee and covered all the way down my leg including my foot; my left leg was entirely robotic and this went up my side and stretched halfway across my skinny, flat chest. I felt like I was burning. I didn’t know my body. I didn’t know who I was. I still don’t know who I was. 

Some panels swivelled out of the way to reveal a flat screen in the wall.
“HELLO ADAM” said the green writing.
Suddenly I remembered speech.
“Who are you?” I asked, not angrily but curiously.
“I AM DAWN” answered the wall.
“Who am I?”
The line flashed a while before writing “YOU ARE ADAM”
I never got more than that. Ever.
“Where am I?” Deciding that if I couldn’t know who I was I might as well know where, if I could get a good answer.
“YOU ARE SAFE”
Decidedly not I guessed (a good answer I mean, I didn’t doubt my safety much). Although I later learned that the place was in fact called SAFE, I don’t know if these are initials or just got caught up in the caps-lock that rules letters around there but I don’t much care for it. 

A rectangle of panels to my left danced away as a drawer slid out and DAWN (I’m not entirely sure if these are initials either, for all I know Adam might be ADAM and be initials too) explained:
“THESE ARE CLOTHES… YOU MUST WEAR THEM”
There was white underwear (labeled “male” inside), baggy white cotton trousers (also labeled “male”) and a thin white t-shirt with long sleeves (“male”) which said ADAM neatly in red on the left. On the side of the drawer was a white watch with a black screen looking like a miniature DAWN and labeled ADAM on the bracelet. For the moment it only showed the time but something told me that wasn’t the only thing it did.

Once I had dressed the wall lit up again saying “THIS IS YOUR ROOM. COME BACK” and with that a door revealed itself behind more scurrying panels. Perplexed by that last message I momentarily forgot my pain and tried to walk, crashing into floor. The table beside me started sinking through the it and beneath me a bed came up. White, like everything.
“YOU ARE UNSTABLE” specified the informative wall, a little too late. 

• • •

My name is Adam, I am the perfect man, I can do jobs no-one else can, I now work for the American secret services and defence; not the CIA – the other one, the one people either cannot name or have been sworn to secrecy about, I work with my teammate Eve who, unlike me, remembers her past and will do anything to avenge the deaths she has seen. Together, we’re an ugly sight. But we’re the best you’ll ever find (if you do find us). We live SAFE. No-one could even get close to finding us in that maze of moving panels. And so, we’re pretty much invincible. Pretty damn proud of it too!…

* * *

Far off in the distance just outside the picture a woman cries out in the ruins of her city, looking for her son. His body was never found. 

………………………………………..tataratataterrificreturnofthecreaturewhohibernatesinsummerandjustdestroyedthemoodsheputyouin………………………… :/

I’m back! Yay! I have finally returned from the faraway places I went (which weren’t really that far by the way) to this thing of yeahwrite and caught up on a lot of stuff!
Ok so I had something I wanted to try this week. But that was before I saw the prompts. Absolutely not compatible with my idea! So I might try next week. In the meantime though I wrote this! I kind of ran out of time so instead of a proper story you can have a cyborg, I hope that works too. Shame on me for being late 😦

I’m glad to be back though and I’m looking forward to reading your amazing work 😀

 
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Posted by on 27 August 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy

 

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YeahWrite Summer 2014- Crack in the window

The green bar completes its journey across the monitor. The screen illuminates the room, the only other source of light being the thin rays that filter through the paper blinds. Outside, the sun is setting. Despite the relatively cool air, I am sweating. The air is tense. My muscles ache from exhaustion. I control my breathing to be as quiet as possible, knowing it is useless. Security will be here soon. The comforting pressure of a 9mm gun on my left rib helps me to keep a cool head. A strange thought pierces the surface of my mental stream: How many 16 year olds have infiltrated tight security compounds over the course of espionage’s relatively short history?

Hurried steps echo in the corridor. A short moment of silence is interrupted by the mechanical click of a loaded firearm. A nervous voice is muffled by the wooden door, the crack of a radio following the stereotypical “Over!” A message of completion appears on the screen before me. The data transfer is over

.
Just in time…

I snatch the USB key from the computer and stuff it in the inner pocket of my suit. The door explodes behind me as I burst into a sprint. The blast of a shotgun erupts from behind. I hear the burning metal pellets whistle by my skull as they crash into the window before me, cracking it. My job thus made easier by my pursuers, I dive elbow first into the glass obstacle, and fall through it. The still, artificially fresh air of the office gives way to the dry summer wind. Thirty floors of empty air separate my falling body from the hot pavement.

After a few seconds, I pull the strap hidden under my suit, releasing a parachute camouflaged within. My velocity is reduced abruptly. Overhead, voices shout in anger. I hear the explosions of a familiar shotgun crack through the evening sky. A quick glimpse downwards allows me to estimate to about 15 seconds the remainder of my fall. I take my small gun from its holster and quickly shift my weight forwards, making the parachute dip back. My line of sight now clear, I aim the deadly tool up towards my assailants, and pull the trigger. The recoil of the gun doesn’t help my muscular exhaustion in any way. One of the men’s silhouette tumbles back into the office, a scream of pain accompanying his fall. Once the distance between my feet and the pavement is reduced to about 6 feet, I cut the strings of my parachute and let myself fall to the ground.

A Porsche 911GT3 pulls up, the new girl, Sam, at the wheel. “Where on earth did you find THAT!?” I ask, a little startled by the beautiful German supercar. “Does it really matter? Get in here now!” She replies, her voice barely understandable because of the engine’s steady purr and her heavy Russian accent. I collapse onto the passenger seat, exhausted, and let the muffled roar of the engine drift me away from reality, and into sleep, as Sam’s expert driving gets us far away from any possibility of pursuit.

Man, who knew being a spy was so tiring? They forgot to mention that in James Bond…

…………………………………….ISPY//w//..MYLITTLEEYES……………………………………………………

Stereotypical spy story for this week, also the sequel to this post. I decided to write in present tense this week, as a sort of experiment. And sorry for letting my petrol-head ways show in this post, but if you’re going to escape, might as well do it in style right? Consider yourself lucky. I could have talked about the 3.7L, 475 break horse power V6 in AGONIZING detail for anyone who’s not into that stuff… But I held it all in. That’s dedication right there!

 
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Posted by on 28 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy

 

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Lost Either Way

I’ve been pulled into many situations against my will these past two years. I seem to have a knack for getting into trouble and then getting back out again but, standing with my hands flat on the table, partly hunched over it I know there’s no getting out of this one.

“I can’t.”

But that’s not enough, he needs an explanation. So he looks on trying to spook my thoughts out and onto the table. Or at least that’s what he looks like, I doubt he was really trying to do anything like that.

“This is suicide, there’s no way I’m getting out of this.”

“There are many ways you could get out”

“Then send someone else!”

“I can’t because no-one has your skill”

“Tryst could easily do it and get out”

“No she’s good at lying, we want you to tell the truth the way you know to and besides he already knows Tryst”

I mumble “she could do it”

“Would you really take that chance?”

He knows I would never put Angel in such danger myself even if he has done it countless times. And had he not known my fidgeting and hand wringing would’ve given it away. I’m a rather bad lier and I suppose that’s just as well because I hate to lie.

I let the table support me so that he won’t see me tremble; he can already see my indecision, he doesn’t need to see my weakness.

“I am not like you or your soldiers or spies or whatever you want to call them, I can’t get through this stuff easily, I can’t kill and it’s bad enough having to stun people with a gun they think will kill them-”

“Oh I’m sorry did you want a nice colourful one with a sign that says ‘don’t worry I can’t kill you anyway’?!”

“No.”

“Then get ready for your mission. You can assemble a team to go with you if you want.”

“But if I fail they die too. So actually you’re just allowing me a team because you know I won’t take one with me.”

“I thought you knew better; even if they don’t go in with you you can have a team that follows you with comms and a tracker who could look up anything you need to know and tell you where to go. You could also have an extraction team in case you can’t get out.”

“That place is a fortress that’s why you didn’t want a big team to storm in in the first place! The extraction team wouldn’t get past the front door.”

“Then don’t have one.”

“I can’t do it”

“You have to.”

He left the room before I could answer. Angel would’ve given her life without hesitation, she would’ve followed her orders and she would’ve gotten out all alone with no team at all yet here I am trembling despite leaning on the table, tears slowly smashing against the glass surface. Knowing that I alone could do this. I’m not a soldier, even less a spy, I’m a coward. It’s kept me alive so far. Sure I’ve been through a lot but I’m still terrified of dying and afraid of being hurt, it’s human nature and unlike most people here I can’t suppress it. And when I’m that scared I can’t move which hardly makes for a difficult target. My skills (though not that developed) lie in hiding, waiting and persuasion. Angel taught me a little self defence too though I’m still useless against the people here (except for a few scientist that never go in the field but that doesn’t count).

The table is useless against my trembling now and I hate seeing the tears fall almost like rain splashing over my hands so I put my back against the wall and slide down it until I take up very little space and I cry silently but breath a little heavily.

I’m not a hero, I’m not strong, I’m not brave; I’m weak and cowardly, maybe my only redeeming quality is that I’m smart, and even then that’s not much compared to some people. I can’t face this. I can’t face this alone and yet anyone who comes with me dies and I can’t let that happen either. I’m a bad excuse for “the only one who can save us now” whoever said that was highly over exaggerating. Either that or the world was doomed from the start. I’m the flaw here. If anyone here had half what I had they’d put it to a better use when I would just cower in a corner wishing it all to be over but no, it’s people with strength and courage and a license to kill (that part I don’t envy) who could get in but not do what needs to be done and then there’s me, who could perhaps manage to make it work but I’d have practically no way in and definitely no way out. I have to sacrifice myself for the good of all and no matter how I see it or try to think of it I can’t bring myself to face it. These past two years I’ve been avoiding the truth but it’s hard to do that when it’s staring you in the face and this is one of the hardest of truths and I just can’t deal with it.

Will the world die? Or will I be able to sacrifice everything I have and then even my life, to make it go on a while longer? I wish I were a proud martyr. But I’m not.
I’m lost either way.

 

…..••••••……..•••••…….••••••……seasofemotionwashingoveryou…..••••••••……..••••••…….

This kind of maybe follows another post (can you guess which one?)
Ok, being optimistic (hoping people actually read this that is) I’m guessing you either haven’t been here before or you forgot everything you read here already (which I don’t blame you for) so here it is: Pick A Side
Anyways I’m always glad to to get feedback, good or bad 😉

For those of you who did remember it (or who just read it) I know I said I wouldn’t be writing any more of this… I lied… I meant it at the time but now I’m not so sure… you may or may not see something related to the adventures of mysterious Tiger again, I don’t know, I guess we’ll all find out!

 
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Posted by on 16 July 2014 in Banzaï

 

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Speakeasy 168 – Complications

“When did you know you were lost?” he asked, concerned.
“When no-one came back for me.”

“I was ten, I didn’t know any better, I ran away and tried to live how I could, I didn’t know there were people who could help me.”
The boy was panicking he had just been caught stealing, he was thirteen years old and had been living on the streets for three years. As his lawyer the man had to understand why he did everything that he did, to make sure there were no lies and to inform the boy of the other possibilities so that he would know that people could help him.
Steveson now knew everything he need to know, Josh was a victim of his own ignorance, he did what he thought he needed to do to survive, he had no idea that what he had stolen contained state and even country secrets heavily guarded by the CIA. So well hidden that the boy had no idea what he was doing, he thought he just taking something he could exchange for food. The guarding must’ve had a flaw for such a child to get ahold o something so precious but luckily he didn’t get far.
Of course he didn’t know that Josh was actually called Andreï and that he was an elite agent of a very special division of the Russian special forces, or that the boy had been sent to infiltrate North Korea as Jihye Kim, or that he had been caught there and had then been sent along with supervision to America (Pueblo, Colorado to be more exact) to get this information. Steveson didn’t know that Andreï/Jihye/Josh got caught on purpose to make sure North Korea did not get what they wanted. The man had no idea that the boy in front of him was in grave danger. He didn’t know that this boy was planning on leaving a message to someone to get help but didn’t know if it would work. When Josh was put in an orphanage he stole some paper and an envelope and he found a pen lying carelessly around. He also had to find stamps. Enough to get his letter to France. And he started writing in a careful hand (he was still a little unused to writing in this alphabet but it was one people would more easily recognise and be less wary of so it was better than Russian. People would more likely post it if they found it and his shadows didn’t know that he spoke and wrote French. He hoped it would work):

Cher Martin
Ça fait longtemps, jai beaucoup de choses à te dire. J’aimerais d’abord savoir si tu avais bésoin….. daide…… lés… Coréns…….. Mont……..

The mistakes were the key, the message was this: “j’ai besoin d’aide les Coréens m’ont”
“I need help the Koreans have me”
He signed the letter by the name he had used when he met these contacts. He also added hints as to where he was but his superiors in Russia had put a tracker in him. All they needed was to activate it and they could find their agent. He could only hope he was worth an extraction. If the letter ever got to France in the first place.
The day after writing the letter Andreï had a trip to the beach. He had hidden the closed and stamped letter in his shirt and he managed to slip it into the sand without anyone noticing. All he had to do now was let luck an fate run their course. He planned to write letters every week but I can only see people’s past so I can only tell you what has already happened.
I hope that his plan will work and he gets an extraction. Time will tell.

……………………………………………………………………

In the nick of time! Looks like DragonSpark didn’t make it this week…

 
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Posted by on 2 July 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy

 

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DragonSpark Speakeasy 167 – Russian Snowflake

Samantha’s childhood had been a rough one. She grew up in the violent, desolated suburbs of an ex-soviet city. In her mother’s rare moments of consciousness, she told her of the American man who had made her pregnant, many years ago, a naïve and beatific smile on her face. “Stop being so blind!” Sam would yell, tears blurring her vision. “He fucked you and left your sorry arse to freeze in this god-forsaken dump!” Sam’s mom would then stare blankly, a half emptied bottle of vodka in her hand, as her daughter stormed out of the small one room apartment, in order to put food on the table.

Sam was smart. She was 13 and had never been to school but she knew how to read and write Russian and even spoke some English. She had taught herself the language as well as the basics of mathematics with books she stole from the library. This was also her trade. To put food on the table she picked pockets, stole, mugged, and, when she had to, killed. She had already taken three lives. The first belonged to a man that had attempted to abuse her. The cops found his body five days later, his privates chopped off and his throat sliced. The second and third belonged to tourists who had chased her after she grabbed a wallet form one of them. They were now food for the sewer’s cat-sized rats. She had, sadly, become proficient at wielding knives as weapons. This was her routine, her life. However it all fell apart when she killed a man she shouldn’t have.

The man in question was a tall, rather large fellow. Sam had spotted the enormous diamond ring on his index. What happened next was a blur in her mind: Her hand grabs at the ring. The man turns around and grabs her wrist with one hand, her hair with another. Pain. Sam spots the holstered gun in the man’s jacket. Panic. Her free hand frees her Kukri knife from its holster. The man’s throat explodes into a bloody mess. Sam grabs the ring and runs. Relief. Later that day, she spots a TV in a restaurant playing a news report. Panic.

By nightfall, she was at the docks. The local thugs gave her 1.500$ for the ring. She knew she was getting ripped off but she was in no position to negotiate, not with half the nation’s corrupt police looking for her. She bought herself a passage on a cargo ship setting sail for New York.

However, once there, she continued to lead the only life she knew, unaware that the NYPD was multiple times more efficient at tracking down criminals then her entire nation’s ever was. She was arrested on counts of theft and murder only two months after arriving. She was thrown into prison.

“And she’s been here since then” the CIA agent besides me said, finishing his summary of Sam’s life. I nodded, my eyes still locked on the teenage girl across the two way mirror. She wore the typical bright orange convict uniform, the sleeves rolled up to her forearms. Her short, boyish blond hair, cold blue eyes and pale skin betrayed her origins. She seemed restless, shifting on the steel chair of the interrogation room. “So you really are going to bring her in?” the man continued, “She is a criminal.” “By necessity, not by will” I replied, “Besides, she did us a favour by killing one of the most corrupt, most powerful Russian arms dealer since the collapse of the Soviet bloc”

I entered the room, briefcase in hand. The look of surprises on Sam’s face was understandable. The last thing she expected was to see a teenage boy dressed in an Italian suit to come through that door. I extended my right arm towards her. After a moment, she shook my hand dubiously. I sat across from her and cleared my throat. “Do you know what day it is?” Silence at the end of the table. “Today is your 16th birthday” I followed, “You and I are exactly the same age.” Curiosity and distrust were both present on the girl’s face. Time to strike. “What if I told you I could get you out of here?” “I’d say you’d throw me in another place like this.” the girl replied with her heavy Russian accent, “My life wouldn’t change. I’d stay the same.” But Sam was never the same again.

……………………………ALPHA/Century//Snowflake//SNOWDEN……………………………………HTTP//FLY……

Hello again Speakeasy. This is my first espionage/coming of age story. Hope you like it. The idea comes from an awesome book series called CHERUB, written by Robert Muchamore, which portrays the life and adventures of the agents of a secret branch of MI6, all of which are under 18. Being a fan of James Bond (and despite being too old for the books) I really enjoyed that series. For the Americans among you (and whoever else, really), how would you react if the next Snowden reveals the existence of such a branch in America? Do the ends justify the means?
Comment and feedback on the piece are greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time and see you later.
P.S.: How and where do the editors find these media prompts??

 
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Posted by on 25 June 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy

 

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Flawed logic

Infiltrating
Worming secrets out
Finding out things best left unsaid
Faking your own death to go deeper undercover to destroy foul organisations
And then posting it on an online blog…
Well done Sherlock…

Read the rest of this entry »

 
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Posted by on 5 March 2014 in Banzaï, Trifecta

 

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