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The events of the Rage Virus ... how it functions, how it manages to survive, has been lost and fought over for a large majority of it's rather small existence. Though it is agreed, that the virus did manifest itself primarily in apes, causing extreme hysteria, and blind fits of anger. The disease itself had been kept primarily to chimpanzee's and the likes, in a research facility in Cambridge, England. Upon discovering this disease, numerous scientists were assembled to begin the true "unlocking" of this powerful new viral strain that had been found. An interception, and a deadly mistake, is what occurred though. Late one night, British animal rights activists break into the Cambridge Primate Research Facility to free chimpanzees being used for medical research. The local scientist warns the activists that the chimps are infected with something he only calls "Rage," but the activists disregard him and set one free. The freed chimpanzee suddenly attacks it's rescuers, brutally tearing one to shreds as it succumbs to the will of the virus and turns into the first human ever infected with true Rage. This is Day One, Exposure.

Quickly, the virus spread from Cambridge and out into the countryside. The virus itself was a powerhouse to say the least, infection occurred in twenty -- ten seconds flat, rapidly and effectively turning the host into an angered, rage fueled individual. They'd throw themselves off buildings, run themselves through windows, cut themselves to shreds just to get toward something the size of a cat. Just to wrench their bloody hands around it, and strangle it or cause pain in any form. Biting, scratching, kicking, choking, punching, gouging, slamming, the infected would become a brutal machine of pure murder over the course of several seconds. This was Day Three, Infection.

Soon it wasn't just the quaint English countryside any more. It was in Liverpool, Birmingham, and even in London. Police tried in vain to stop the wave of murders shifting through their offices. Trying to stop the bleeding as the individual beneath them yelled and screamed and bit at them, only to be wounded themselves and turn seconds later. Norwich was the first to completely fall beneath a real "wave" of those brutal monstrosities, the last radio communication made by British Army forces was nothing more than two full minutes of screaming, gargling, and sporadic gunfire until finally some doomed soul spoke his final words into the microphone. "God Help Us". This was Day Eight, Epidemic.

The British Military, under scrutinizing review by outside sources, primarily the US, attempted to organize "curfews" within both London and the surrounding suburbs. Using the night as a "work time" to systematically hunt down and kill the infected. When the occasional group of two or three, turned into the raging riot that was thirty or fifty, it was known to both the civilian and Military population of London that nothing could be done to stop the tide. As the Military upped it's ante, pumping hundreds of soldiers and loosing tens daily to these roving mobs of infected that trolled the streets daily, an entire governmental collapse was on the horizon. One day, everyone made a break for it. Grabbing anything they could from their homes as the Military made a final attempt at slaughtering every last remnant of the Rage Virus they could. Attempting to buy time for the fleeing civilian population as they fled to the coast. This was Day 15, Evacuation.

They failed, what few people the Military did indeed save, would die on the way towards the coastline cities. Vanishing into the ranks of the infected without so much as a good-bye. Thousands died overnight, rushing from their homes with baggage and children in hand only to be beaten down and ripped apart by the bloodied mobs that had perforated the Military defense around London. Buildings burnt and monuments fell as the entire British Army was decimated in one climactic battle for London. Soldiers, after hearing of the stunning defeat, would quickly break from their ranks. This wasn't always handled lightly though. All down the front there were stories of groups of soldiers slaughtering one another for their lack of patriotism toward the British Commonwealth, stories would filter through of terrible atrocities committed by not only the infected, but those who had been looked upon to protect the population from this most horrible of disease. This was Day 28, complete Devastation.

With nothing left to fuel the infected, they withered from the lack of "action". Once they had gobbled up the majority of the nations population, however, they began to die. Starve to death, succumb to exposure. What the virus did to them, what the virus allowed them to do, would inevitably be their downfall. The infected lacked the mental capacity to feed. Something all humans must do to survive. Something they couldn't achieve. Though the virus could fuel their hate filled lives, the power could only sustain itself for so long. All throughout England, the infected lay starving. Deprived of the energy that the virus had used to fuel the infection, Rage it self began to wither, Rage itself began to slowly, and painfully, die.

Six months had passed since the world had so much looked toward the English Islands. No communication had trickled from the islands for a rather long time. Assuming that the infection had indeed passed on, the United States organized a NATO task force to reclaim the islands, and restore power to the British people. The effort would end in vain.

The US lead NATO-Task Force entered Britain meeting no resistance at all, nothing met them but the cold, silent wind that had populated the Earth thousands of years before humanity had every set to take it's claim on the world. As the Task-Force formed a defensive perimeter around the Isle of Dogs, a "re-population" effort of sorts was enacted. Candidates from European nations, and the US itself, were transported to London and given tasks that would help begin the process of reclaiming the nation and it's land. Week 3 went rather well.

The virus ... it was capable of hiding somehow, a wolf in sheep's clothing. A carrier was discovered, the subject was indeed infected with the virus, but did not succumb to the symptoms of the disease. To this day, it is unknown how the virus leaped from the carrier to a host. All that was known is that when infection did occur, it occurred somewhere in the Isle of Dogs. Infection was quick, it is known that the infected person killed two US soldiers outright and immediately upon infection. It had begun. Week 15, total Annihilation.

The Task-Force handled the situation poorly, locking the civilians into "Safe-Boxes". Somehow, someway, the infection spread into those Safe-Boxes. Some were capable of escaping, but not many. Just like before, many would succumb easily to the ways of Rage. Infect, kill, murder, attack. Acting quickly, the commanding officer of the NATO Task-Force, General Stone, ordered a complete lock-down of the Isle of Dogs. The order would come too late. The small NATO Task-Force would soon find itself undermanned and overpowered by the unorthodox tactics of this viral-fueled combatant. It was then that General Stone ordered the complete destruction of the Isle of Dogs. Sacrificing what little human life remained on the island to wipe a large majority of the infected off the face of the Earth.

Europe would fall shortly after. Though the tunnel connection England to France was quickly sealed off, a large majority of the European Union had devoted it's resources to squishing the infection that emerged from the English channel. This allowed a sort of "void" to develop in Eastern Europe, something the Russian Federation would not agree to allow. As the last of the infected were mopped up in eastern France, a small infection emerged in Belarus, an ex-Soviet satellite nation. The Russian Federation had successfully locked it's borders months before, and by logic, the Rage had only one way to go. West.

Though the EU had gained valuable experience in fighting the infected, they would be unprepared for the stage that had been set to see combat against the infected. The plains and rivers of Eastern Europe weren't the most prime of places to fight a viral infection. Little could be done in terms of planning and tactics, and warfare was mainly executed by groups of soldiers taking on ever-growing numbers of infected in risky hit-and-run tactics. Often resulting in the loss of either entire squads, or entire platoons.

That's how Thatcher One was put on the scene. A Private Military Contractor team, the group of seven Merc's were brought into the European Theater from a staging base in the continental US. The leader of the team, Robert Archer, was a battle-hardened veteran. Seeing combat against the infected during the NATO-Campaign to reclaim Britain. He never cared much for the infected, just that they were deadly to the over all existence of humanity. Something many agreed with.

Upon Thatcher One's introduction into the European Theater, though, the campaign took a turn for the worse. After a massive loss at Warsaw, the EU had feed thousands of soldiers to the infected in a desperate defense of the city. As news of the defeat spread, Thatcher One was ordered into one final mission outside of the "Berlin Line" that had been established. Failing that mission, a simple convoy protection, would leave the morale of the group somewhat low as they returned to the Berlin Line. Only to be ordered to hastily retreat to the newly established "Paris Line" hundreds of miles away. As they watched the Berlin Line fall behind them, Thatcher One made quick haste into France, and then to Paris.

Reaching the Paris Line, Thatcher One would be given direct orders to protect the construction crews during their night hours as they prepared the Paris Line for the final attempt at fighting the infection. From the talks around the camp, it didn't seem like the EU-Command wanted to run away with it's tail between it's legs on this one. It was a bad time to grow a pair of balls, though. There was only an expected fighting force of three hundred thousand EU soldiers in the Paris Line. Against nearly six hundred and thirty eight million infected. Not very good odds.






The Paris Line
12:30 PM
Two Days before the fall of the Paris Line.

Archer truly hated dealing with the Europeans. Bursting his way into the French Command Center, somewhere south of the North Eastern Line, Archer swung the door open to Lieutenant Colonel Jacques D'Aubigne office. Seeing the Frenchmen speaking on the telephone, Archer bit his tongue. Keeping silent as he spoke, but sending him an angered glance, and pointing a finger at him as he squinted.
"Yes monsieur, we 'vill have 'ze tanks dug in by 'ze end of 'ze night sir." Jacques said, speaking to the officer on the other line. Looks like Jacques wasn't the be-all-end-all of the Paris Defense. The Frenchmen nodded at Archer's movements and looks, and waved for him to sit down, take a seat. Relax a bit. Archer complied slowly and aimlessly plopped his bum into a chair.

" ... Understood monsieur. Yes. Affirmative sir. Good-bye." He said, slowly taking the phone from his ears and sliding it onto the receiver. His eyes closed as he did so. Archer's curiosity was peaked by Jacques expression, but quickly beginning a dialogue, Archer made it known why he was here.
"Alright you European dicks. Why the fuck haven't me and my team been paid?" He gritted his teeth, softening his voice upon cursing and then regaining his anger as he flipped a finger toward Jacques and leaned forward. The French Lieutenant Colonel shook his head in disagreement and returned Archer's finger pointing as he interrupted, speaking in French to catch Archer's attention.

"No no no! You listen here Mercenary! You will get your money when 'ze mission is accomplished. Do you hear me?" He said, Archer furrowing his brow as he stood, Jacques meeting him as he too stood from his seat.
"Why the hell can't you shits just pay me?" He contested, slamming a hand onto the table as Jacques spat several words in French before attempting to shoo Archer's hand off of his desk.

"You Americans are always so violent! Why must you act this way among you employer!" Jacques said bitterly, folding his arms and sticking his nose into the air as Archer clenched his teeth in anger.
"Get 'zis American pig out of my sight! Send him to 'ze lines!" Jacques ordered as two guards moved to escort Archer from the office, and the premise. Though he was still under contract, and would remain so, Archer hadn't necessarily seen eye to eye with the Lieutenant Colonel. And it was that disconnect that often lead Archer to disobey Jacques, but this time, Jacques would have this win.

"I'm not -- I'm fucking Dutch you little shit! Fucking French pricks!" He yelled angrily, wrestling his arm from the grip of a guard and sending a kick into a trash can. Spattering it's contents along the floor as he shook his shoulders and walked out of the building and into the courtyard. He had caused quite a noise, and upon leaving, he would see a number of soldiers staring at him as the two guards following behind him. Turning toward the first group of soldiers, he identified them as being German soldiers. Smiling and sending them the finger, he quickly began his rant.

"And the fuck're you looking at Adolf?! Why the hell are two Krauts stuck in Paris? Shouldn't they be able to defend the fucking Fatherland like the good little SS? Man -- Fuck Germany!" He said bitterly, taking several steps before he saw a Polish flag draped across a small truck.
" ... Man fuck Poland also, why the fuck is Poland here?! Stupid useless shit!" Archer yelled bitterly. Seeing a British flag, Archer quickly picked up a bottle and hurled it toward his target.
"This is all Britain's fault! Sonuvabitch Britain!" He yelled angrily as the bottle smashed along the flag. Now halfway across the courtyard, Archer turned to look at the group of stunned soldiers among him. Breathing deeply from his rant, Archer calmly straightened out his jacket.

"Man -- Europe fucking sucks." He said spitefully, turning and walking away rather quickly as he returned to his car.
"I'm gonna' go get that fucking gold."

Hunter was sprawled out on a hilltop, lying there silently. His left eye was shut, his right focused on something far in the distance. He could see his boss' car returning, a slight grin crept across his lips. Scoping in farther, he noticed the boss looked pissed off.

With a sigh, Hunter went back to scanning the countryside. His job was to pick up early signs of the infected, before they were within a range of issue. His 15x magnifying scope worked well for this job, especially attatched to a .50 calibre weapon, like the one in his hands.

Hunter pulled out his cell and flipped it open, calling the boss. "Hey, Archer, sir. How'd it go?"

The young fiery-haired woman glanced up at the man seated not far from her, legs crossed, leaning back against a somewhat withered excuse for a tree as her teammate scanned the country for any signs of the infected freaks. Apparently Archer was on his way back now; that was good, maybe they'd finally be getting their pay. Somehow though, she couldn't help but doubt it. That would be just a bit too generous of these Europeans. It was times like this that she couldn't help but miss Canada. Hell, the pay there may have been sporatic, but at least you always got it.

Stormy blue eyes flickered back down to the shotgun resting across her legs, one small hand gripping it lightly from underneath; she wasn't really examining it. It was more something for her eyes to pay attention to while she let her mind drift. She hated just staring out at nothing like this. She'd tried it for maybe fifteen minutes, and had quickly gotten bored and sick of it and had tried to find other ways to occupy herself. That's why you're not a sniper. She thought silently to herself. You've got no patience.

Silently, she reached into her pant pocket and pulled out a half-squished package of cigarettes, unpleasantly empty with only three left inside, and pulled one out, holding it between her lips while she put the package away and began fishing around for her lighter. Although outwardly, she seemed more or less bored, in reality she was anxious beyond belief. She didn't have a lot of experience dealing with these things yet... and hearing about what they did to people, soldiers, trained soldiers with way more experience than her, made her a tad nervous. She finally found her lighter and flicked up a little flame, holding it against the tip of the dreaded cancer stick until it lit, then putting it away. A bad habit, she knew. She'd never smoked until she'd gotten involved with the military. She could just blame that. Oh well.. maybe Archer's got some good news for us. She allowed herself to think.

Alexander puffed on the Cigar he had between his fingers while waiting for Archer to get back. He walked over and started cleaning the MX8 that he treasured so dearly. He wasn't quite worried about anything but knew that the Paris line was unlikely to hold, he simply wondered what exactly he was going to do. As he continued to meticulously clean the weapon he couldn't help but wonder if he was going to get himself killed sometime in the near future for simply doing something careless.

He took another long draw on his cigar and proceeded to reassemble his gun. As he finished he began debating on whether he should attach the dot sight or the scope. Finally after playing a game of rock, paper, scissors against himself he decided on the dot sight. He slid the long range scope into his bag along with a myriad of other accessories for his favorite gun, along with enough ammo to kill a small army. He then began checking grenades and explosives. From what he remembered you could never be under prepared should you run up against the worlds favorite new enemy.

Chris started out of his short nap, blinking in the harsh sunlight. He had that dream again, the one where his teammates died. Or rather, turned. At which point he was forced to kill them or become one of them. In the dream, he had seen their sad faces, their eyes burning accusing holes in him as they blamed him for their demise. He pushed the vision aside and shook his head clear. There was no way he was going to let this rule his life.

"I'll get yer r'venge, just sit t'ght. T'won't be long now..." he whispered to himself.

His head was finally defogging, and he realized that he was hungry. He went back to the bunker and pillaged some random guy's locker of a C-Ration. It may taste like crap, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. It's not like anyone else eats the damn stuff anyways, so he could get away with this one. He quickly left the building and sat down under his favorite tree, wolfing down the ration as fast as possible.

Maxwell trudged up behind Kira, hefting his shotgun in one hand. He gazed quizzically at the figure of Archer heading towards them. He wondered how it had gone. Not well, he guessed. Archer looked as if he could strangle an army with his bare hands.

He glanced down at the woman, noticing the cigarette held between her lips. "You know, I could list a pretty large amount of reasons why smoking is not a good idea, but I doubt you'd even listen." He grinned at her, and he leaned against the tree, sighing.

Hunter looked up at Max and smiled. "Yeah...been telling her that shit since she got here, but...bitches don't like me anyways." He looked at his phone, seeing the text message from Seerha. "Damn. Cannes just fell..." He rolled over and leaned, adjusting his crosshairs so they were pointing directly south.

Surprised by already seeing a hit, he looked up at the others. "I got a loner, think I should take the shot?" He looked back down the sights, zeroing in on the thing's head. The shot would decimate this creature, ripping its head apart like a toy.

Chapter One; The Fall of the Paris Line, and the Claim to Fame

Archer; eyes slanted, fists balled, and shoulders up, strode past both Kira and Maxwell. Spending no much time as to whistle for them to follow as as rolled by them. Obviously steaming. Moving past them, he fetched a pair of sunglasses that had been hanging clipped onto the neck of his shirt. Dawning them, he turned an eye back to Max and Kira.
"Come on kiddies, we're gonna' go for a walk."

He smiled, a grin cracking across his face as he hatched his plan. As Archer had strode from the French Command, escorted by his fair share of guards, he had hatched his brilliant plan. Stopping only to share a quick smoke with a British soldier, Archer and the fine man had a discussion of something of large value.
"Yeh' -- You heard about that mate? Some Merc's left a shit load a' stuff in some convoy in Poland." The Brit offered, a chuckle escaping him at the suspected incompetency of some of the Mercenaries as he lit Archer's cigarette inches from his mouth.
"Really now ...?" Archer questioned, faking a look of intrigue as he leaned back and took a puff.
"Y'know, I hear they didn't know where the convoy was when they were defending it ... that's how it got lost." He asked, smiling and tilting his chin upwards as he tapped at a small chocolate bar hidden in the mans vest. Still, Archer failed to smudge that day from his mind, when they lost the convoy. Watching the infected converge on that thing like a beacon. The drivers didn't have a chance. He wasn't worried about the drivers though, all that damn gold.
"Nah nah nah mate, it's somewhere in Ukraine ... outsida' Odesa." Odesa, Archer quickly smashed the word into his mind. Odesa, Odesa, Odesa, Ukraine. Quickly turning, he plucked the chocolate bar from the Brit's vest and plucked the cigarette from his mouth. Flicking it sideways as he thanked the Brit, and told him to look for the infected.


Archer pulled open the door of the car, his phone ringing as he did so. Stopping, also waiting for Kira and Max to accompany him, he pulled his phone from his pocket. The soft vibration wiggling the chunk of plastic in his hand as he looked at the name on the screen. "Therman". Answering quickly, Archer spat before he pushed the phone to his ear.
"Hey, Hunter."
"Hey, Archer, sir. How'd it go?" Hunter questioned, a laugh rumbling from Archer's chest as he ducked his body into the small European sedan. He hated these stupid things. Had no breathing space at all.
"Well, Hunter, it went to literal shit. I couldn't get our cash because Jacques is being a little shit." He spat angrily, both Kira and Maxwell would easily be able to hear him, and he wanted them to hear it. Hell, he wanted everyone part of Thatcher One to know it. The French weren't paying them.
"Listen, Hunter. Go round up up Chris and the rest of the gang. Max and the new girl are gonna' help me alleviate something of the EU's hands." He smiled, clicking the phone off as he sent a look toward Kira and Max.
"Alight, guys. We're gonna' go get me my prescriptions ..." He smiled, winking at the duo. Max was a good selection for the job, not only due to the shotgun, but the guy was just a good guy to have around. Kira, the new girl, Canadian Military. Green as hell, Archer though. But sooner or later, she'd be faced to fight in the fight that Archer and the rest of Thatcher One had experienced.

Hunter nodded when he clicked the phone shut. A few minutes later, he saw Archer walk past, grabbing the two as he moved. He scoped in on that straggler of the infected and smiled. "Bye bye, bitch. Daddy's got an appointment."

Firing the shot off and connecting with the thing's head, he grinned. "That makes three thousand and one." He stood up and folded the bipod on his rifle, draping it over his shoulder and walking back towards the camp. He opened his cellphone and put it on the open channel that the mercenary team used. "Alright everyone, Archer said get your asses in gear. I want to see you at center camp in five minutes, or I am knocking heads baby, got it?"

AzricanRepublic wrote:...he turned an eye back to Max and Kira, "Come on kiddies, we're gonna' go for a walk."

Maxwell watched Archer warily as he stomped past, looking positively furious. He followed his leader silently, reflecting on past events.

AzricanRepublic wrote:Archer pulled open the door of the car, his phone ringing as he did so...
..."Well, Hunter, it went to literal shit. I couldn't get our cash because Jacques is being a little shit." He spat angrily.

Maxwell had been close enough to overhear, though that seemed to be Archer's plan, as he had made no attempt to lower his voice. What? His jaw clenched. So that was it. They weren't getting paid. His fist, already clenched around his shotgun, tightened.

AzricanRepublic wrote:"Alight, guys. We're gonna' go get me my prescriptions ..." He smiled, winking at the duo.

Maxwell allowed himself a smile. This was more like it. He nodded at Archer, "All right, Chief," he said, as he climbed into the vehicle.

Hunter grinned as he watched Seerha bark at an enemy soldier. "Hey Seerha, go easy on the fucker, he isn't used to dealing with a super-bitch." The sentence was obviously a joke, but nonetheless, he wanted it to land home. "Anyways, Archer is taking Max and Kira on a special mission, so I was supposed to get you guys together and wait for him to return."