circle7 | the infiltration operation

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the infiltration operation

The research outpost on one of Gladsheim's more distant moons was less a functioning facility than it was a glorified storage closet for all the projects the militaristic government abandoned in favor of stealing from other planets' research sectors. Now that they had acquired the Seventh, which meant that they were privy to a great deal of information from the Sixth, a large portion of Gladsheim's more legitimate research facilities had been shut down, according to what reconnaissance agents the Circle still had out on the field, many of its previous scientists placed under obligatory planetary residence as to avoid leaking anything.

But the research outpost on Gladsheim's distant moon contained one thing that was still highly relevant to modern day prosthetic sciences, even if the government itself didn't realize as much - a field of study regarding the signalling of brainwaves to operate machinery not only attached to the body, but perhaps even in an entirely separate form itself. If brought to fruition, it could limit the need for human casualties and greatly reduce the Circle's disadvantage of lesser numbers. It was something one of its previous researches had been looking into on the down-low.

Speaking of which.

"You're looking a little pale," Evan said, checking himself in the car's side mirror as he combed a hand through his newly dyed hair before donning a pair of red-rimmed, plastic-lens glasses. His eyes slid sideways in his reflection. "You remember where it is, doc?"

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Doctor? Not even close.

The fist glanced off his jaw, muffling out the grunt of pain that Evan made as he rolled to the side to avoid the kick. Just because he dodged the kick didn't mean he let go of Joel, however - he yanked the man off to the left with him, not about to let him squirm away just to retrieve his gun. Instead, he brought his knee up, trying to catch the soldier somewhere, but Commander Foster was clearly no novice at hand to hand combat.

Joel barely moved in time for the knee to brush off his side, yanking away from the man's grip. He immediately moved in for another attack, his fist balled and flying towards Evan's stomach. Like hell was he going to be bested by some punk who thought he could waltz in and take what he wanted.

The harder they struggled, the more it became apparent that Joel Foster was hardly going to allow himself to be bested. Though Evan had some substantial training under his belt, he wasn't, at his core, a soldier. His area of expertise wasn't fighting and it became increasingly obvious the longer they were locked in combat. Joel Foster moved too fast and with too much force, holding nothing back with an intensity fueled only by anger and whatever offense the 'scientist type' had committed in his eyes.

Evan stumbled back when a hit finally landed in a perfectly brutal position, rolling as far as he could away from the man and, subsequently, bringing him further away from the door. There were bruises on top of bruises where he had been pushed and punched, he was reasonably sure, and he could only hope that Bentley had at least had the good sense to find his research and high tail it out of there before higher security was alerted.

Bentley didn't have the good sense to high tail himself and his research out.

What he did have the sense for was rescuing his friend which, admittedly, might not have been in the best interests of the mission, but appealed to a humble man like him much more.

Joel was hardly winded by the scuffle, but he didn't escape without his own fair share of injuries. A couple bruises that would surely form later, and a cut across his arm where a sharp shelf corner got him. He noticed by now, though, that this was not a fight to bring him down - it was a fight to hold him off. His accomplice was probably on the run by now, and that made him none too happy.

"Well done," he said, with no air of actually complimenting the fallen man. "Buying time for 'Dr. Frasierre' to get away while you-"

Whack!

Joel was hit by something from behind - a large case - by none other than 'Dr. Frasierre'. The commander fell to the ground, his vision shaky and dark at the edges. He exercised some amazing will, though; he stood up quickly, his hands fumbling for a grip on the shelves, and it was then that Bentley realized who this man was.

And as Joel's gaze raised back up, eyes widening slowly, he did too.

With a terrible, angry yell, the commander lunged at him. Bentley stuck his arm out. Joel hit his palm with no modest amount of force, and immediately jolted back. Bentley stumbled backwards with the momentum of his brother's lunge and the electrical shock. Joel was on the floor, passed out.

Bentley hurried to his feet, rushing to Evan.

"We've gotta go, I alerted the driver," he breathlessly informed him. "A-are you all right?"

Evan nodded, pulling himself to his feet using the nearby shelves as support.

"I don't think your family wants you hanging out with me anymore," he supplied, wiping a thumb across his chin and mouth, where a few of Joel's well-placed knuckle sandwiches and shoves had broken the lip, scuffed the jaw. "Did you get the research?"

Bentley glanced at Joel, frowning. What had he been doing here, anyway..? What were the chances?

"I found some digital files," he said, supporting Evan on one side. "The arm itself would've been better, but it'll have to do."

"It'll have to do," said Evan, managing to stand on his own. Joel hadn't had time to mess him up that badly, though he did give Bentley a small smile before pushing away from his support.

He glanced quickly at the door before all but hopping over the fallen Commander to make a break for it. "C'mon. Is there a back door? They're going to be sending backup soon, if anyone's paying attention to the surveillance."

Bentley took a moment to follow behind, staring at his brother while he reached for something on the ground, before following behind Evan.

"There's an emergency window latch in room A, but it leads to a guarded fenced-in area."

"Can we scale it?" Evan asked, pulling them into the hall and looking around.

If he recalled correctly, the Gladsheim research facilities had identical floors with hallways that looped in a rectangle, both sides lined with either rooms or elevators. Also knowing Gladsheim, they wouldn't chance anything other than a pincer advance once they pinpointed he and Bentley's location, which means they had to keep on moving.

"If you like getting shocked to death," he said, hurrying to room A. "We might be able to blow a hole in it, though - the watch has an explosive charge, doesn't it? Also... um, here."

Once they were in, Bentley passed something to Evan - Joel's dropped gun.

"I can't use this."

Evan nodded, taking the gun without question. Bentley was fully capable of firing a gun, handy-dandy prosthetic or not, but Evan understood, nonetheless.

"They're going to block the normal exits, so it's our best shot," Evan said, following Bentley through the small emergency escape. He hauled himself through the opening with little difficulty and kicked the latch shut after them, even as the sound of footsteps hot on the chase echoed from the lower floors, meaning there was no time to waste. The path they made for the emergency platform was a direct beeline.

There was no time for hesitation - Evan keyed in the explosive command for his watch after slipping it off his wrist and threw it at the base of the electrical wire.

It was spectacular timing - the watch exploded right as it hit the fence, and just beyond it, their escort drove up.

And right behind them was the sound of the latch they just came out of opening.

"Bentley!" an angry voice yelled. Joel was climbing out of the latch, winded by the previous shock, but hellbent on catching them.

Bentley only glanced back for a second before making a mad dash for the gap in the fence.

This time, there wasn't any ploy or hesitation. Evan turned around and fired off a warning shot - painfully close to where Joel would have placed his foot next, had his reflexes been just a tiny bit slower and had he stopped just a millisecond later in his tracks.

It wasn't anywhere near enough to spook a Gladsheim soldier (if things capable of such existed), but it did give them the second or two delay they needed for both Evan and Bentley to make it over the fence. They lept clear off the edge of the platform and landed on the tarp covering the empty back pick-up compartment of the vehicle. It wasn't the kindest of landings, but the fact that they had made it into the car was really more than blessing enough.

"Hit it!" Evan shouted to the driver, still tangled in tarp, though by the way his center of mass lurched backwards, their accomplice hardly had any hesitations about leaving either.

Joel was left standing at the fence. A few guards rushed to him, opening fire on the fleeing vehicle. They were too far for any accurate shots, thankfully, though some came close. Bentley ducked down, covering his head.

The back window of the car rolled down, and the driver yelled back, "We'll be back to the ship in five minutes. Be ready for company just in case."

He tossed a couple spare guns to them. Bentley lifted his head, glancing down at them and back up. It didn't look like back-up was c-

Oh. A military truck was heading toward them.

Bentley picked up a gun.

"I... can at least try shooting tires," he said, despite his discomfort in holding the weapon. "This isn't a very known Gladsheim location, though, their vehicles aren't meant for combat."

They only had five minutes to lose that tail - not enough time to sit back and aim for tires. Evan shook his head, propping the end of one gun on the side of the cargo area they were being bumped around in, offering the only stabilization they had at their disposal.

"Aim for the driver," he said instead, because if they weren't combat vehicles, that meant the glass wasn't bullet-proofed.

Two people stuck their heads out of the car, guns aimed back at them. They started firing immediately. Most of the shots missed, but came uncomfortably close, bouncing off the metal of the car.

He considered the probability of them making their getaway successfully if one of them fired and one cowered in the corner, versus the two of them firing. It was obvious what he should do.

With no small amount of hesitation and dread, Bentley picked up a gun. He mirrored Evan on the other side of the cargo area, stabling the gun. The trigger felt heavy under his finger. He stared at their target - another living, breathing person like himself - and was about ready to throw the gun back down.

If it hadn't been for the bullet that came dangerously close to his shoulder, he would have. Bentley had been startled by it, and instead, pulled the trigger by accident. It didn't hit the driver, or the tires, but one of the men firing at them. Only in the arm, from what he could tell - all he could see from this far was the man dropping his gun and grabbing his arm, retracting back into the truck.

At least it was one less gun to worry about, even if he felt a little stunned at the moment.

"Good job," Evan called over the rumble of the engine and the crack of occasional gunfire. He didn't think much of it - if Bentley had come from an environment like Gladsheim, where even the employees at an insignificant, isolated storage facility were so antagonistic, surely he had to be used to a shot being fired or two, most often into a body of some sort.

Evan fired off almost an entire round before a bullet pierced through the windshield, and whether or not the shot hit the driver or just startled him enough to swerve the car clear off the road was difficult to say. Either way, the truck was off their trail and they were finally gaining distance, which was good, considering they hardly had time to spare. The back of the pick-up compartment had saved them from being riddled with holes (although it did suffer a great deal of denting), but it wouldn't have lasted much longer under a barrage of the Gladsheim variety.

The driver was out of the car and making for the ship faster than even Bentley or Evan could climb out of it, yelling, "Hurry up! Before they're on to us again!"

Evan didn't need to be told twice and, taking all the firearms with them (in case anything could be traced), he pulled Bentley with him onto the getaway ship. It was smaller than a normal vessel and the three of them filled it to near capacity, but it was also faster too, outfitted only with the basics for a simple get-in and get-out functionality. The ship was lifting off the ground before they managed to even buckle themselves in.

"Here," said Evan, holding a hand out to Bentley once the man was settled. He nodded to the gun still clasped loosely in the doctor's hand. "I'll take that."

Edited 2013-03-21 16:04 (UTC)

Even in the security of the ship, Bentley couldn't relax. He passed the gun to Evan shakily before strapping in, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. That was much more excitement than he bargained for.

The hatch closed and the cabin filled with airtight oxygen, ready to be space-bound. The engines were loud and roaring, and they were accelerating. Bentley was clutching the straps of his seat harness, trying to ground himself in some way, overwhelmed by it all.

And he felt sick.

He only let go to grab the bag from under his seat that was there for such a purpose.

Bentley's jerky, panicked motions didn't go unnoticed. It was just that Evan wasn't at the liberty to address them until they were well out of atmospheric range, their EM signature low and suppressed enough to ensure that the soldiers who had been on their tail wouldn't be able to find them once they were airborne.

A hand settled on Bentley's inner elbow very lightly. "Doc? Bentley."

Bentley was quiet, eyes still closed. The anti-anxiety medication he had been on was wearing off, and at the worst possible time, when the events began to settle in, hitting him like a sack of rocks.

"I'm sorry," he said with a soft laugh. "I'm truly pathetic."

Evan's brow raised as he withdrew. "Why would you say that?"

He shook his head, lowering his gaze to the plastic bag in his hands. "I can't handle any of this."

"We made it out, I wouldn't say you're not 'handling' it," Evan pointed out, leaning back into his chair. Bentley looked a bit like a wreck now, but he had shot off a gun, had helped formulate their escape plan, and had even come out here to enemy territory on his own in the first place. Evan would hardly call that, 'not handling.'

Bentley smiled wryly. Evan couldn't hear his pulse beating too fast, or feel the shake of his nerves; he supposed it'd be easy not to understand. He had been terrified.

"I didn't used to be like this," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

Edited 2013-03-21 20:00 (UTC)

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heh split lip

heheheheheh

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