Wizards vs. Muggles (Free-form)

"I'm aware of the, uhh, countermeasures," she responded, hoping nobody would call her bluff. "Shouldn't be a problem, I'll handle it, don't worry."

I am become Death, Destroyer of Miniputts.

Clark raised an eyebrow, and leaned in close, whispering to her, "Just remember that people's lives are on the line. If you don't know what you're doing their blood will be on your hands."

He stepped back, nodded, and turned to leave.

"Your mission is not to nuke the squid god." —Faramir

"Uh, wait!" she blurted out, deciding maybe she should double check on those countermeasures.

"I received a slapdash training, but, uh. I'm mainly a normal medic, good for gunshots and excessive bleeding and such, so it wouldn't hurt to have an assistant, really."

I am become Death, Destroyer of Miniputts.

Karla and her grandfather continued to argue. They talked about what she had done— or hadn't done— and what she was apparently ready to do— or not. Never once, did they asked for what she thought. Lita kept sitting and nibbling on oversized fruits until she noticed how thirsty she was . After the fourth cherry—she hadn't had a lot to eat during the day— Lita walked over to the kitchen, mostly unnoticed, and grabbed three ceramic cups, as well as a jar of juice. She carefully slid one of the ear-pieces on the outside of one of the cups, near the border.

Back at the dining room, Lita put the cups and the juice at the dinning room's table, where Karla and her grandfather were still talking. They'd slipped into English at some point, and Lita filled her cup and sipped her juice as she waited for the whole thing to reach some sort of conclusion with which everyone was reasonably happy.

Her grandfather said something about how she looked different from a few months previously, and Karla responded and everything just started to blur together in Lita's head, so she headed for the bathroom. They wouldn't care if she was or wasn't there for chunks of the conversation anyway.

Karla had mentioned a few times over the conversation that Lita was talented, and she'd taken that to mean something regarding her superb magical ability, what else could it be? However, Karla wasn't talking about magic. She didn't mention any spells, or the wandless patronus, or anything at all. Karla was talking about secrets and spies and things that Lita really didn't want to be a part of. She had next to no experience lying, and she didn't want to gain any more. What had given Karla the impression that she might be a good spy?

Once inside the bathroom, hearing the conversation in an odd, echo-ish way through her remaining "earpiece", she threw cold water on her face. Then she looked up in the mirror and deflated. Lita saw it— why Karla thought she might be good for the network, or whatever that was. She saw it right in her face in the mirror.

There was nothing.

Her hair and eyes were brown, her mouth and cheeks and jaw were... there. Her eyebrows weren't particularly thick or thin, and didn't have any notable shape. The tops of her ears tilted slightly outward thanks to years of wearing glasses, but their size and shape wasn't notable in the least. Her cheekbones weren't noteworthy— and the same applied to her cheeks. Her nose wasn't big or small, and the same applied to her chin and jaw. No beauty marks or distinguishing scars, no outstanding features, no nothing. The most eye-grabbing thing about it were the dark circles under her eyes, which would fade once she got a few good nights' worth of sleep.

Lita's face wasn't one for a famous musician or magic theoretician. It wasn't the face of a big-name diplomat or a notable duellist, or a person with their own collectable chocolate frog card. Lita's face was the face of someone who wouldn't be noticed in the street, or in a mall. Someone whose absence was barely noticed by the people talking about her in the dining room— and someone who hadn't, point in fact— been addressed directly since she'd entered her grandfather's house. Not one word had been sent her way. She had to listen in and deduce and infer, because no one was telling her anything.

It was somewhat depressing.

edited 13th Nov '12 8:25:54 PM by Faramir

Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, you can't sell him fish anymore. http://thoughtfulspurts.wordpress.com/

Clark sighed. "Okay, we'll both go with the Major." He said. "Give my apologies to the police."

"Your mission is not to nuke the squid god." —Faramir

"My decision?" Alex muttered slightly, thinking to himself, since when was I in charge?

Nevertheless, he tried to think of the advantages and disadvantages of splitting the unit up. They had the most experience with whiskeys, so it would be better for them to be involved in any engagements. Being split up would increase the chances that at least one of them would be able to intervene in any attacks, but together they stood a better chance against any concentrated attacks. It partly came down to the enemy, and what they were deciding to do. Alex once again tried to think of what he would do if he were in their shoes.

But before he could come to any conclusion, the sound of gunfire and a recoilless rifle came from outside. "That was a recoilless rifle, probably vehicle mounted" Alex said plainly, to perhaps inform any of his colleagues that weren't sure; more likely just thinking aloud to himself. He flicked the safety off his own P90 and followed the guard squad, but kept his weapon low for now. A twitch reaction in this low visibility could result in friendly fire. On the other hand, hesitation could lead to... Whatever kind of spells they're using Alex reminded himself mentally, and stayed alert.

You are reading this.

not sure if I am allowed to retcon my own posts if they haven't effected anything yet, but here goes. Paxton steps forward to shake hands with the veela, then turns to Azley, then back to the veela, shaking her hand more vigorously than before until brought back to reality by a loud cough.

No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.

Catalonia/Commandos
It did take several hours for the full translation to be drawn up, and Colom statement was as follows: he and his team of four others had set out in the afternoon of the 27th in two jeeps, and arrived in the early evening. The front gate was unlocked, and nobody was on the castle estate anyway (it being public land, confiscated sometime after the Spanish Civil War). They'd walked in and promptly lost all sense of direction.

Colom had just kept walking in a single direction—several hours was his guess—until he'd fallen asleep in a stone corridor. (Yes, he could see out of the windows into the night sky; no, they were mostly arrow slits and the like—no way to clamber out, and the stone was set too tightly.) When he awoke he was in a city alleyway; he came out, recognized Barcelona, and went back to Mossos headquarters (which had record of his arrival earlier today). Yes, he could recognize the alleyway in question; he marked it on a map for the questioners. No, he had had no contact with the rest of his squad.

The doctors' physical checkup described him in a state of exhaustion and considerable agitation; there were signs that he'd been heavily exerting himself. Asked about that Colom supposed that it was possible he'd gotten somewhat frantic after a few hours of wandering.

---

Boston
Charmdrummer nodded and introduced himself to Grace-Ann; Alzey shook Nott's hand and watched with some amusement when he went back to shaking Grace-Ann's hand. "Settle down, settle down," he said. Back to the new arrivals: "I called up Nigel over there for an old favor. How to phrase this..." He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, before giving them the same information that he'd given to Grace-Ann earlier.

"I'm going to assume Charmy there is handling your orders," he said. Charmdrummer nodded assent. "Hmm. Worse comes to worst, this might involve the Innsmouth cousins."

This time Charmdrummer squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. "Oh good. Innsmouth. Nothing like the possibility of a cross-species diplomatic incident. You never do these things small, Alzey."

"It's a big debt. I wouldn't have called it in if it was small," answered Alzey. "We're talking human-sacrifice-level mojo. I figure you'd be interested." He eyed Chessie and Paxton, particularly noting Szymanska's huge magical coat. "Can you give any sort of guarantee for Ms. Szymanska and Mr. Nott here? Not that I mind, but I wasn't expecting extras until you gave me the call."

Charlie Stross's cheerful, optimistic predictions for 2017, part one of three.

"What guarantee you desire?" Chessie asked, folding her arms. From the conversation she followed this wasn't exactly going to be a straight intelligence mission. All the better.

Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles.

Locking the bolt forward on his weapon, Warren quickly moved through the door after Fields and the National Guard squad, quickly motioning for Damon and O'Connell to follow him.

Once outside, he quickly scanned the surrounding area for movement; satisfied with the cursory sweep, he linked up his radio before making his way to Fields.

"See anything?"

"Understood," Browning replied, a mixture of relief and embarrassment washing over her. She should know magical defenses, in hindsight. She wondered why she was never offered training. In the end, she chalked it up to bureaucratic incompetence.

I am become Death, Destroyer of Miniputts.

"Well..." Paxton started, "From what I have seen of Chessie; not that I've been part of the team very long. It would be a better idea to have her under your eyes, than to get shot at by mistake when she eventually shows up." Turning to the Veela "After all it would be terrible if anything unfortunate should happen to such a beautiful woman".

• "Sides, Charmdrummer was probably a friend of my father from school, any friend of father is a friend of mine, and if you trust him then your not a man I would want to anger."

edited 15th Nov '12 7:18:39 PM by popcorn815

No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.

"Visibility out here is terrible; I got nothing yet" Alex said, still trying to follow the Guard soldiers. He thought he could make out the jeep that must have fired the recoiless rifle up ahead, but he wasn't sure enough to call it out.

You are reading this.

Catalonia/Lita
There was a series of scrapes and bumps; someone was moving the cup, and the results were amplified into distortion by the makeshift bug. Bits and pieces of the conversation filtered through.

"...really wanted her out of this. She's thinner than a rail and dog-tired, or haven't you noticed? Just what has she been doing?"

"You'll have to ask her yourself, Mr. Garza. Now if we may proceed..."

Inaudible, gurgling and swishing and the earpiece patch felt cold as if damp, and William Garza was speaking again.

"...must have been on his mother's side. So far as I can tell there's nothing remarkable about his father's parentage: no magical members of the family at all. In any case, his talents were minimal, probably a squib or not far from it, but enough that he could not be simply ignored. He came into inheritance of the old estate sometime before 1800; we know he owned it before the Royal Navy made the catch of the century in 1801. Port Mahon, Minorca, HMS Sophie, you know the rest. After that his life is much more documented..."

Here was a William Garza that Lita had never met before, deferential and bureaucratic and grey, giving his report; the voice conjured up manila folders and clouds of cigarette smoke. Karla stayed silent, the studied apathy an old interrogator's trick, her apparent indifference coaxing the subject into volubility. Old Garza for his part continued in his studied pedantic tone.

"...coincidentally, it was right during that time, the Peace of Amiens, that Stephen Maturin really shows up on our radar. Firstly, it was right during the start of the Peace that the British recruited him as a secret agent. And second, it was then that the Imperial Ministry of Magic formalized arrangements with him, for the use of Estate Maturin and the old marble quarry as a annex. Well-hidden, of course, but Dr. Maturin could not fail to notice it. From the Ministry's perspective it was a distinct advantage that he lived his life mainly away from the estate..."

Out into the living room, where several portraits moved and shifted in their frames, or in some cases appeared to have left them altogether. Amidst the restless fidgeting one painting stood out, clearly nonmagical, an oil painting of a married couple. The woman was tall and black-haired, splendied in a bold blue dress cut in the style of the early 19th century, standing in a bedchamber with hanging drapes and a window out into a pastel sunset. With practiced delicate strokes the painter had captured her dash and vivacity, her arm frozen mid-flourish, her expression radiant and witty and beautiful.

Alongside her was her husband, a scrawny, almost comical figure, short and strange, dressed in the blue coat of a Royal Navy physician. The painter had been less certain here; some of the brush strokes were visibly rough and hesitant. It were as if he did not know what kind of statement to make, how to encompass the man, small as he was, in a single figure. He stood stiff and uncomfortable in the shadowed half of the room, hand-in-hand with his wife, one arm resting on an improbably tall stack of books, and the awkwardness of his pose was evident. But there was skill in the portrait, too; above ill-fitting blue spectacles the man's eyes, a curious pale color, stared with a lifelike intelligence and intensity that easily rivaled that of the "living" portraits that moved and shifted around the living room.

The brass placard said, in Spanish: "Doctor Stephen Maturin and his wife, Diana. 1814."

---

Otis
It wasn't a Jeep but an aircraft tow, battered and streaked with flash-frozen snow, that the three soldiers were sheltering behind; two were reloading a shoulder-fired M3 recoilless, while the third scanned the darkness with a bulky camera. Beyond them blowing snow turned the world a uniform gray. The mixed platoon, without other orders, had followed the Unicorn team out, hunched down against the snow. Somewhere out in the snow there were silent flashes, a muted red blurred by the white curtain, answered by the distant chatter of machine-gun fire. Bullets snapped against the ground close by, and as one the platoon ducked. Within moments there were two dozen Guardsmen huddling around the aircraft tow, the ones struggling with the Carl Gustav snarling at the others to spread out and mind the backblast.

The one with the camera turned around, and it wasn't a camera after all but the command launch unit, detached from a Javelin missile—a thermal imaging unit, looking worse for wear in the subzero weather but still functional. "There was movement," she explained. Another faraway flash, and then a sustained glow this time. The soldier with the thermal imager whipped around: "Oh God," she whispered. "That's a helicopter. They're torching the helis!"

edited 19th Nov '12 1:03:16 AM by SabresEdge

Charlie Stross's cheerful, optimistic predictions for 2017, part one of three.

Lita wandered around the stacks of books on the table in the living room while she listened in on Karla's conversation with her grandfather. She wasn't particularly eager to go back into a room to be left out of their talk, so she decided she might sit in one of the comfortable chairs, maybe rest with a good book— her grandfather had dozens upon dozens of those.

Then, of course, her curiosity got the better of her. So she decided to talk to the record keeper of the house (and the store), who never forgot anything, and who always knew a bit more than her grandfather thought he did.

"Gastón, me puedes decir más acerca del, um 'old estate' de este 'Dr. Mathurin' al cual se refiere mi abuelo? Y...Por que tenemos un retrato de el y su esposa en la sala?" She asked the portrait, who immediately got a pensive look. It always took a while to give you the answers you wanted.

Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, you can't sell him fish anymore. http://thoughtfulspurts.wordpress.com/

Alex sought cover with the Guard soldiers, ducking down likewise when some gunfire came rather close. He looked around for any other signs of activity, until the soldier with the thermal imager called that the helis were being torched.

"How many, and how far out?" Alex asked, focusing attention on the glowing in the distance. He considered the tactical options here, but there weren't many that looked good in this weather.

You are reading this.

Chessie tilts her head slightly towards Paxton, confused by his words, "I no shoot own people..."

Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles.

"Do we have friendlies down there?" Warren asked as he took cover beside fields. "If those are our guys, we need to get comms with them and tell them to check their fire, if not; we need to move."

"Damon, do you have a good line of sight?"

"Negative. Visibility's still in the shitter." James looked around for a better vantage point. And a rifle.

"Yup. That tasted purple."

"Give me a ring when you've up, chances are you'll see what's out there before we do; keep us covered."

Sliding along the aircraft tow until he was next to the launch team, he tapped the woman with the CLU on the shoulder to get hr attention. "Hey, what are you guys shooting at? If something is destroying aircraft, what are you sending AT rounds down there?"

Boston
Charmdrummer simply shrugged. "Can't say. The boss lady assigned them to me, and I haven't had to work with them in a shooting situation yet. I was out of the country last time it happened."

Alzey sighed. "Well, your boss lady better have good judgment. The way I see it, here's the lowdown..."

It took Alzey a few minutes to sketch the situation: Karen Murray, Boston Police Department, kidnapped by unknown forces; somebody was impersonating her but had (probably unwittingly) passed along the danger signal.

"The way I see it we can go in fast or slow," he said. "Whoever this fake doppelganger is, if we catch her we'll have our leads. But if tip our hand we're back to square one. I was going to settle for the old halfbrick-inna-sock ambush," he admitted, "but since we have...five now, I think...we might get a little more subtle."

Charmdrummer lifted an eyebrow.

"I like subtle," said Alzey, ignoring Charmdrummer's cough that sounded strangely like "lies". "Less expensive for me when they send me the bill."

---

Otis
"I see at least one on fire, sir," said the soldier, fiddling with the CLU. "People moving, but I can't see who they are."

"Not AT. Flechette, sir," grunted another soldier, struggling to load another round while crammed in the small space behind the tow and ducking to keep as low as possible. Another burst of machine-gun fire from somewhere out in the mist, and red tracers were briefly visible winging high overhead. Again the Guard soldiers flinched, while the Air Force security demanded answers and got nothing from their radios. There seemed to be no consensus if there were any additional soldiers out in the murk.

"It's all open ground in that direction," observed Wilkins. He had one hand on a .38 revolver, and he wiped frost from his glasses with his other hand. "Then again, we won't get anything done hiding here, and the snowstorm might help an advance."

---

Catalonia/Commandos
Nighttime, and the patrols went out into the scrub brush around Estate Maturin. There was perhaps a platoon of Spanish Army soldiers, broken into smaller patrol sections; both Clark and Olivia had been assigned to one, led by a Castillian lieutenant who stopped to take bearings with a compass and conscientiously mark down his position on his map, aided by a red-shaded light. The undulating, broken terrain, and the waist-high broken brush, all meant that patrols constantly lost sight of one another, even through night-vision goggles.

From where they stood there was a dirt trail that wound down and then up in the direction of the castle two kilometers away, worn smooth enough to accommodate a truck, with steep sides up and down. The straight-line distance was much shorter but interrupted by a stream, concealed by heavy undergrowth. The lieutenant was sighting along his compass again where there was a flicker or light as from a match or a candle, this one from inside Castle Maturin.

---

edited 1st Dec '12 2:20:59 AM by SabresEdge

Charlie Stross's cheerful, optimistic predictions for 2017, part one of three.

Clark took a moment to orient himself relative to the base camp and the castle, then scratched an arrow in a tree pointing in the direction the team would advance.

When he noticed to flickering light in the window, he stage-whispered for binoculars and, upon being handed them, used them to get a better look at the light.

"Your mission is not to nuke the squid god." —Faramir

OTIS

"Look for people in robes. If I know Whiskeys, they'll be using some magic to keep their robes at a comfortable temperature, so they should show up on thermal too" Alex told the soldier with the thermal imager, then looked at Wilkins and thought about it for a moment.

"I wouldn't assume that the snowstorm can give us cover... But you're right about not accomplishing anything here. Alright, I think I've got a plan" Alex said, and prepared to address the whole squad there. "Alright, let's get ready to move out. Make sure while we're moving that you've got line of sight on at least one other person here, preferably two. If you find yourself alone, don't panic, and get the hell out of the open. Just move for cover, then figure it out from there. We're gonna move across towards those helis and see if we can't stop whoever the hell is torching them. Does that sound good?" Alex yelled, trying to sound inspiring; the storm wasn't helping.

You are reading this.

Ignoring Charmdrummer's lung problems, Czeslawa leaned towards the American with a thoughtful expression, "How subtle?"

Let God do His work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles.

"Well if we know her typical route someone could apparate in, grab the imposter and apperate back out with no-one the wiser?" Paxton said, then continued to think "but we might want to have some one following her to call the plan off if something unexpected happens"

No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.