Snippet #2352729

ISI Command

A lieutenant seated at a center-right console sent up a yellow-flag to his Underchief 37 minutes after the game code had been leaked. It was marked “Possible security breach.” By 46 minutes post-leak three red-flag warnings had come from three different monitoring desks in the command center. The Digital Warfare division was put on high-alert and the pitter-patter of fingers rapidly pushing in keys began to fill the sub-room that housed the super-computers of ISI-DW.

The lieutenant who had first flagged the leak was called up to report to his Underchief, the report was concise and clear: “I tagged what looked like military code back-strung through a game-feed. It's not ours I can tell that for sure. It also isn't supposed to be public. I can't pin down what it is designed to do, it's encrypted beyond what my console can handle and I don't have access to the majority for it. Someone is doing a damn good job of keeping it out of our hands. I have a lead on some possibles that may be involved in the leak, but nothing concrete.” He was dismissed back to his computer while the Underchief began typing up an action-report for the Chief Warden. It advised immediate response.

ISI-DW Sub-room

Reginald Markham III was a spindly man, the kind who spent too much time in front of the computer and very little else. A classic hero in his own mind he wore his Digital Warfare uniform with the sort of bravado normally reserved for the men who had come out of the Academy toting a big gun, not a big brain. He was also one of the foremost geniuses that the ISI had managed to retain.

Reggie got endless shit from his coworkers, in a good-natured way for his pale skin, inability to hold his liquor and the fact that he couldn't help but remind them he had been on the Ardent development team at the age of 17. He spent a majority of his time pretending his code was compiling while he used his laptop to look up net content that he couldn't justify using company equipment for. MarkIII was a well known if relatively inactive member of the hacker community and, at the encouragement of the Chief Warden, maintained a carefully crafted relationship with non-ISI hackers for the purpose of information gathering. As far a the community at large knew, MarkIII was just an enthusiast who liked to frequent their chats, someone who always had a smart word but never took part.

When he was really working the alias Darkstar was the pseudonym he had adopted. Darkstars' reputation was concurrently opposite.

As soon as the Underchief's report came through it was Reggie that was put on the case of tracking down the parties involved. He estimated a delivery time of two hours, but he also wasn't expecting resistance.

Deus Ferrum Monastery, Roma

The sister walked into the inner garden quietly, escorted by a Templar clad in stark white poly-ceramic plated armor, carrying a ceremonial sword and functional sidearm. He stood by silently as she informed Brother Able that “She” had returned from her latest outing. The sister did not look happy to be delivering the news. He smiled and thanked her, then took a sip of his tea before standing slowly and walking out into the foyer that separated the garden from the rest of the monastery.

She was waiting for him, seated demurely at a small table in a comfortable armchair holding a small piece if shimmering data-slate. She was wearing loose white robes that hid her form, though the thing angular features of her face gave away the athletic body underneath. Brother Able took a moment to muse on the fact that such a dangerous creature appeared at the same time innocent, pure and beautiful. She stood and smiled widely, let out a quiet “Father!” and rushed to hug him tightly.

He laughed and coughed, “Ah my dear, how was you trip? Are you well?”

She nodded and handed him the small object in her hand that had been bought with blood. He took it and tucked it into his robes then nodded, kissing her forehead, “get some rest dear, your work is not yet done.”

She left with a wider smile than before, heading in the direction of the armory.

Much Lower in Swiss Airspace

The dropship plummeted towards the train station at a terrifying speed, fast enough to compress the air in beneath it, creating a heat front that made the bottom glow faintly. Had he been looking up at the moment it was descending almost directly above him, Deberov's target might have seen what looked like a large metal meteorite heading straight for him.

The reverse thrusters and turbofans went into maximum gear at 300 feet, rapidly slowing the descent of the Nighthawk until it was ten feet above the ground, spraying the area in dust and obscuring the hearing of everyone within 100 feet with the high-pictched whine of the fan blades chopping the air. The team bailed out the sides before the ship had fully stopped, descending 12 feet to the ground along thick synthetic ropes, their armor absorbing a majority of the shock. Once the team was clear of the bottom of the ship the pilot set it down and readied that back-ramp for their return. Two men from Deberov's team stood guard, weapons trained on anyone who came within 30 feet of the ramp.

A wave of his hand and they set off, weapons raised directly for Lan. If he had had the support of a Deus Ferrum response team, a military platoon or local SWAT he might've been able to get away. As things stood however, Lan didn't stand a chance.

Deberov's number one had him slammed down against the ground 32 seconds after landing. Lan hadn't even had a chance to run, as close as the Nighthawk had disembarked the team. He was cuffed and dragged bodily into he waiting transport, which screamed straight up into the sky and out of view of the natural eye. Deberov called in the arrest to Command, “Nightmare to Haven, package is secure, how copy?”

Bystanders would later describe the arrest “as if dark avenging angels had came from heaven,” “them fuckers nabbed him right out of the sky,” and “I think that's when this hell really started... that day.”