User:RelentlessRecusant/Ghost/Episode 0

NATO Air Force

 * Viktor One - UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter pilot and copilot

NATO Marine Corps

 * Captain Brandon Nelson (father of Ryan James Nelson)

Delta Assault Reconnaisance Troopers (DART)

 * Bravo Team
 * Major "Relentless" - Bravo One (Relentless), technologial specialist
 * Lieutenant "Imperator" - Bravo Two (Donut THX 1138), medical specialist
 * Lieutenant Ikinator - Bravo Three (Inkinator), demolitions and CQB specialist
 * Lieutenant "Pie" - Bravo Four (Thepie), sniper specialist

Special Paranormal Encounter Assault Reconnaisance (SPEAR)

 * Aleph Team

''Special Warfare Research Department

 * Colonel Esemono - Biochemical Technology Command (Esemono)

NATO Intelligence Agency

 * Commander "Black Mercy" - Director of the Pacific Area Counterterrorism Element (PACE) (Black Mercy)
 * Lieutenant George "G007" (Spartan-G007)
 * Lieutenant "G23" (Spartan G-23)

Episode 0 Exclusive Teaser
A matte-black SUV with the NATO crest affixed to its license plate strolled forward, negotiating the rain-slick and trash-strewn back roads of the Social Quarter of Pacific City. It delved through the gentle rains, the towering brick walls and windows that arose on either sides of the inconveniently narrow alley, the tin trash cans and spilled litter that barred easy negotiation of the alley. Everything regarding the SUV was black. A black armored shell encased it, glazed with bulletproof glaze against machine-gun fire. Plexiglas windows tinted darkly for nearly zero-percent optical transmission of the interior. Black tires, thickened to deter against popping of the tires and derailing of the SUV. The interior sang with black as well, almost Gothic. Dark leather. Recessed lights shaded darkly to prevent the one-way windows from being overwhelmed. Dark seats.

Check the license plate number. There’s nothing that even says GOVERNMENT on the placard. Just a simple QQ-718Q. If you cross-reference it into the NATO Public Information Network, you’ll find that such a vehicle doesn’t exist. Like a quantum paradox: there, but simultaneously, not there.

In the interior, Commander Ryan James Nelson Sr. was sandwiched in the central row of three dark leather seats. Sandwiched by four sides: two darkly-suited Intelligence Agency agents bearing handguns to either seat straddling his own. A third agent on the steering wheel, just before him. Directly to his back was the “spec” - the sole agent of the quartet that bore a heavy weapon: a .30-caliber machine gun. He was the only helmeted one, as well. The other three wore inconspicuous tuxedoes tightly cut to maximize movement in combat situations. Professional darkly-tinted eyeglasses. (Aren’t you sick of black and dark yet?) The spec had the same professional tuxedo, professional complexion, carried himself with professional air, but had a gray helmet with a prominent jaw plate. The visor was tinted cyan, and had microfibers of gallium arsenide semiconductor running on the face that the spec’s eyes were on: for projections onto the HUD. The spec’s helmet and machine-gun contrasted to his unarmored chest and legs, but nothing deterred from the graveness of the four Intelligence Agency agents.

Commander Nelson, to be truthful, was one of the shadier characters of the NATO armed forces. Although formally a senior-level administrator in the Intelligence Agency, he was also a senior administrator in the PHOENIX Joint Operations Counterterrorism Element, a highly-classified organization nestled in the interference zone of the van Hoff graph of the Intelligence Agency and Special Forces. Basically, Intelligence fed data regarding terrorist cells in either the United States or Canada to Special Forces, specifically the 5th Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, a Delta Reconnaissance branch that dogmatically didn’t exist. Except it did pragmatically. The 5th SFOD-D, after attaining the intelligence, would proceed to eliminate the terrorist cells with extraordinarily prejudice…methods so extreme that Special Forces even wanted to wash their hands clean from. Even further perplexingly, that was PHOENIX’s external goal. That’s right. The governmental bureaucrats that even knew of PHOENIX just saw it as a brute force counterterrorism element, condoned it, but demanded that no one knew of the theoretically not-existing 5th SFOD-D. However, PHOENIX was much more complicated. Its primary goal was assassination of prominent non-NATO figures. Oil cartel barons, foreign dignitaries, etc…Everything was shaded in differing shades of gray. Enshrouded in veils of secrecy so dark that a full Internal Affairs investigation would never unravel.

R.J. Nelson Jr. was just entering the Marine Corps, after completing preliminary training. His mind was full of glamour and valor: marching men in fine uniforms defending not only Canada, but also NATO. His father shook his head wearily as the apartment walls rimming the street grew progressively taller as the government SUV sped forth, like the walls of a canyon, stretching inexorably to the sky. R.J. Nelson Sr. knew with definitive clarity that his son would never know of his father’s work. The torture of the captives, the sodium pentothal, the ECG tortures. All to reveal the location of some important foreign individual. After the interrogations, R.J. would merely dispose of the corpse, relay the coordinates to the 5th SFOD-D for termination…Yet, he had determined that his time at PHOENIX would come to an end. He could bear it any further…his fine young son entering the Marines, the dress uniforms, swagger, glory…and his decrepit corruption. R.J. had assured himself. After this operation, his resignation would be at the local PHOENIX field office’s commander’s desk. He would not continue the charade, instead resume his normal post at Intelligence, the clean, bloodless RECONSAT work, none of the grueling screams as he extracted information from unyielding captives…

Nelson remembered the distinct words of the controller from his office in the PHOENIX field office in Pacific Central. Each field office not only had a superior administrator that ran the office’s day-to-day operations, but also…a “controller”, a particular field office’s liaison to the other field offices and also PHOENIX Command in Washington, D.C. The hallow words, the clearly synthesized voice that had been strained through an audio filter.

“Controller, here.” “Echo Three reporting. Confirming secure SATCOM transmission.”

A slight pause.

“Echo Three, you have a new assignment.”

R.J. was beset with pain. The assassination of the Saudi Arabian Public Health Minister, he’d set, would be the last operation.

“Yes sir. What about KEYHOLE?” “Your target has been revised. We’ve uncovered signs of…fault within The Bird.”

It went without saying that KEYHOLE, the Saudi Arabian minister, would be handled by another interrogator and that The Bird was PHOENIX. Corruption? It was R.J.’s path out of the blasted organization, and merely fueled his vindictiveness to escape from the trappings of interrogation, the inhumane pain he was compelled to inflict…for the sake of PHOENIX and NATO. There were other talented agents, even in Pacific Central, that could take his post.

“Yes sir.” “You’re to meet another PHOENIX agent. The coordinates are three-nine-five-one by oh-six-four-eight at 0935 hours. The agent will have information.” “Yes sir.” “Controller over and out.”

*  *   *

“Delta-One receiving, transmission secure.” “Excellent. Delta-One, what is your op status?” “I am holding at Waypoint Aqua.” “Good. This is your first objective. Listen closely. I will only tell you once.”

The figure suited in black body armor stood at rigid attention as the voice detailed the auspices of Delta-One’s first assignment. As the raspy voice ended, Delta-One felt a rill of saliva run down his throat, now suddenly parched.

“Will there be exfiltration?” “There will be no need. I have arranged it.”

*  *   *

The Mk. II Mod 0 M277 is the standard-issue grenade launcher for NATO troopers. It is too bulky to clip onto the M19 assault rifle, but its high-yield fragmentation grenades, fired in a direct trajectory by means of rocket propulsion, definitely makes up for its clumsiness to yield.

Delta-One examined the weapon of war that laid in his gauntlets, all chrome and finery meant for one purpose: death. He had been assured by his superior that there would be no need for exfiltration, but the wildly running exhilaration in his substrata assured him otherwise. However, he was Delta Recon. The Deltas always found solutions...Or make them, thought Delta-One as he looked over the M277 rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and then moved off.

*  *   *

The driver of the black SUV raised his fist, pumped it once: they’d arrived at the rendezvous.

R.J. Nelson Senior observed the stylish chronometer strapped to his right wrist with a flick of his eyes. “It’s only 0930. There’s no need to flaunt our presence here to the public by securing the perimeter. Stand by.”

The spec in the back seat nodded, and the three other agents slightly released their tense postures. Each checked the clip of his handgun with solemn autonomity, as if preparing for a funeral, and then looked up, their complexions all implacable.

R.J. twisted in the confines of his seat belts, checked the rain-slick cobalt concrete walls running to either side of the SUV, running towards the sky like the runners of a plant. Soft sodium lights drifted from windows. In his peripheral vision, R.J. saw the spec, expression stony. Attempting to bring even a mote of joyfulness into his displeased disposition for the change of plans regarding his retirement, he observed with a dogged smile the heavy .50-caliber machine gun the spec held in his hands.

“No gun’s too big for you?”

The spec didn’t even respond, gaunt face blankly staring forward like a mental retardate while his M3 machine gun rested in his hands. R.J. briefly thought something about agents and antisocial, and then saw the spec’s head outlined in a corona of fire. Most intriguing. An aura of warm yellows and red expanding forth from the cranium, but drawn such as if there was a central point of heat within the corona that was being obstructed by the spec’s gaunt head. Then it brutally rammed into R.J.’s mind: a rocket.

A moment later, he felt heat that rose exponentially in intensity, and a chorus of light nestled his bloodied body.

*  *   *

Mechanically, Delta-One reloaded the one-rocket Mk. II Mod 0 M277 RPG, slapping the next conical warhead into its girth. As he squinted at the flaming wreck of the Agency SUV beneath his rooftop perch, fires bursting forth from its twisted and exploded metal skeleton, the mesh of titanium and armor plating that had formerly given shape and vitality to the SUV destroyed, his HUD automatically projected statistics. First, a rotating wireframe of the SUV appeared. All crimsons: beyond the maximum tolerance threshold for Delta-One’s infrared lenses. Next, scrolling next unveiled itself just below the equator of his HUD. Most displeasing ones as well to Delta-One:

ESTIMATED PROBABILITY OF PERSONNEL ELIMINATION: 33.80%

Delta-One was trained never to feel even the slightest droplet of shock ease its away into his nerves, but this was alarming. An car adapted for civilian use withstood an M227’s explosive wrath? There was a two-thirds chance that the occupants had not been killed by a rocket-propelled grenade launcher? The threat statistic of the agents within and also of the Intelligence Agency as a whole increased by a healthy amount in Delta-One’s computer-arrayed mind as he sorted out threat assessments.

The eerie optics of his visor reflecting aurora-cyan light into his HUD, he raised the controller on his secure, encrypted transmissions frequency. “Delta-One here. Hostile vehicle has been fired upon, but two-thirds probability of survival of passengers.”

The controller bit off a brief profanity, and then chill beset Delta-One’s bones as his knees slightly bent, and his muscles went rigid as if in rigor mortis as he awaited the controller’s commands. “A second rocket would attract too much attention. Investigate the wreckage. There can be no survivors.”

Delta-One, a raven hawk perched on a rooftop and the rain softly thudding against his armor, each droplet bringing woe to his nauseous body for his lack of success with the first shot, nodded. “Delta-One moving in.”

“It will take some time for you to climb down and investigate. I can not guarantee wet feet. I’m setting up an exfiltration package.”

There was no need to say what task was left for Delta-One to complete as he stiffly set aside the grenade launcher and hefted his M3 .50-caliber machine gun, and began his descent down the stairs as civilians broke into a zealous, transmissible panic. Sirens blared in the distance, reciprocating their screams.

*  *   *

The Central Emergency Telephone Node for Pacific Central received over ten 9-1-1 emergency calls reporting a massive explosion in the Social Quarter of Pacific City. The automatic mechanical operators used voice recognition to faithfully record the words being spewed by the crazed callers, used voiceprint analysis to confirm that they were neither lying or high on drugs, and then sent this information to P.A.C.E., the Pacific Area Counterterrorism Element.

P.A.C.E. is the resident counterterrorism unit of Pacific City. While PHOENIX handles more of the dirtier ways to counteract terrorism, P.A.C.E. is responsible for general terror threats. However, it also handles hostage situations, larger shootouts, etc...things that the lightly-equipped Pacific Central Police (PCP) can not handle. It boasts fully-armored P.A.C.E. counterterrorism shock troopers that can deploy to any location in Pacific within five minutes by means of UH-60 Black Hawk military helicopters. Furthermore, it has a fleet of machine-gun Jeeps and Humvees, as well as direct communication lines to local NATO Central Command to call in Marine reinforcements and/or an air strike. P.A.C.E. is no light organization.

The C.E.T.N. passed a high-priority flagged message to P.C.P., which instead of dispatching officers through the automated router, relayed it to P.A.C.E., where it was received by Brigadier General Raul, Commander of P.A.C.E., who handed it off to one of the dispatch lieutenants. A moment later, counterterrorism Blue Squad lifted off from a Black Hawk on one of P.A.C.E. HQ’s myriad helipads, and it dipped, and then commenced its path to the Social Quarter.

*  *   *

As the last civilians, aroused from fitful sleep, streamed past him, regarding Delta-One as the war machine that he was, the Delta Recon soldier advanced steadfastly down the last flight of stairs, machine-gun in hand. He automatically lifted his right leg with the pulleys that were the sarcomeres of his muscles, slammed its brunt into the iron door before him. The door gave away, and as it banged from the kick, Delta-One saw that its rusted surface shimmered with light: the reflections of the SUV’s flames.

At last, Delta-One stepped upon the street, facing the SUV’s wreck. Nothing had changed during his descent down the stairs. Although its armor plating had been contorted from the force of the blast and all was alit with the same fiery halo, the interior was still relatively free of the fires. A most unusual situation, but not even an obstacle for Delta-One as he continued forward, undaunted.

*  *   *

The soft crinkle of flaring flesh, of alit metal against the asphalt, and the aroma of charred skin wafted into R.J.’s nose, from where it was transferred to the olfactory bulbs, olfactory nerves, and then thalamus of the interrogator.

Then, another sound pounded against the tympanic membranes of his ears. Someone. Approaching.

His eyes angled open as he returned to consciousness, and every muscle’s woes were compiled within his mind. Pain. Resounding pain, skewering its bloodied path into him, driving him with a continual rhythm of surges of agony, compelling him to move, yet dictating him simultaneously to rest and recover.

There would be no recovering for R.J. as he felt coarse gauntlets snaked towards him, twin serpents of black, and reach for him through the fires. For a moment, his battered brain, that hazy connection of now-mostly disjointed neurons, reeled. Fireproof arms? Who? A rescuer? That thought lit his brain, and lips drifted into a comforted, dreamy smile as he deviated again from the translucent barrier of consciousness.

*  *   *

Delta-One deposited the limp, bloodied body onto the asphalt before him. Directly before the pair was the flaming wreck of the SUV. By some odd play of chance, the four other agents had been killed. There would be no witnesses. By some odd idiosyncrasy, Delta-One checked his wrist chronometer. 0933 hours. P.A.C.E. would be arriving in under two minutes.

Without even a strain of remorse, Delta-One raised his head, eyed the body again, the scarlet patches of hemoglobin that streaked across the tattered, partially singed clothes, the frayed polyester fibers. However, training and torture had cemented him, made firm within his narrow mind the sole imperative of life: Obey the commands of your superior. No hesitation. Hundreds of times, he’d murdered before. Yes, each execution was riveted into his mind with clairvoyant clarity. The blood, enemy bullets, their marks were impressed upon his mind and flesh.

For a moment, Delta-One closed his eyes, relieving the harsh heat of the fire as a comforting, soothing song that swept away the brutality of the moment. Yet, within him, there was no relent, for his name was Relentless. Upon that thought, Delta-One lifted an armored boot, opened his eyes. In that moment, R.J. groaned, spewed some partially coagulated blood from his mouth, gnashed his broken teeth, turned, looked up at the figure hovering before him, the spiked jet-black combat boot.

And then, the boot rammed home into R.J.’s face.

Mission accomplished.

Act I - Directive
May 1, 1998

Act II - Insertion
June 23, 1998 Mexico

''The camera begins dark, but the sound is awash with the powerful downbeat thrumming of helicopter blades. Then, the light streams through - Black Hawk helicopter VICTOR ONE. Then, the scene swivels, revealing the Black Hawk in all its glory - the polished sheen of its glossy black surface, almost like the mane of a horse. Within the cargo bay on the corrugated metal floor is DART BRAVO TEAM. There is little talking. PIE, Bravo Four, is absently mindedly repeatedly chambering his elongated, bulky sniper rifle, occasionally taking a rag and some oil and cleansing the optical lenses. IKINATOR is fingering his assault rifle, which has a long metal, acuminous razor bayonet running along its bottom and extending beyond the stock. IMPERATOR is reviewing the mission files - intelligence, callsigns, frequencies, mission-specific alarm codes, insertion and extraction vectors, diagonal lines of fire, etc...RELENTLESS is mumbling to himself.'' ''RELENTLESS shakes for a moment, startled. His immersion in his concentration has been finished.'' IMPERATOR and IKINATOR look up from their tasks. IMPERATOR shifts uneasily. RELENTLESS looks approvingly at IMPERATOR. IKINATOR blushes. ''IMPERATOR grins, the smile not concealed by his undonned jet-black helmet. IKINATOR is hamrod-stiff, all his gear donned, even his helmet sealed. IMPERATOR notes his formality.'' IKINATOR turns, uncertain. ''RELENTLESS and IMPERATOR both stare blankly at PIE. IKINATOR rocks back, his ill and rigid demeanor changed. A slight smile's on his lips.'' ''There is silence as apprehension once again settles on BRAVO TEAM. RELENTLESS assesses his team. IMPERATOR is the medical specialist, and a good all-round cross-trained fighter. IKINATOR is the 'newbie' sent to take the place of Bravo Three, who had died on an op two weeks ago. In the simulators, he has shown his proficiency, but this is his first combat mission. His knowledge in explosives is also not extremely impressive, as he was forced to rapidly learn it to take Bravo Three's place. PIE is the resident sniper, and well-suited for tactical support as well as holding his own in the rare cases that he's charged from close range.'' RELENTLESS boldly slaps IKINATOR on the back, who is abruptly startled - a clear sign of his nervousness and lack of combat experience. PIE notices his faux pas. IKINATOR slightly grins.
 * PIE: "Sir?"
 * RELENTLESS, snappy: "What?"
 * PIE: "You okay, man?"
 * IMPERATOR: "Four, advise you leave the Major alone. He's just recalling the mission specifics. Hell, do you have the layout of the base and everything memorized?"
 * PIE: "Yessir. My apologies, Major."
 * RELENTLESS: "Accepted. Pilot, what's the time to touchdown?"
 * VICTOR ONE: "Just about ten minutes out, sir. I'll inform you when we're nearing SAM range."
 * IKINATOR: "Whoa...what the fuck? Surface-to-air missiles? They weren't mentioned in the..."
 * RELENTLESS, semijokingly: "Lieutenant, I understand this is your first day on Bravo Team. This is Rule Numbero Uno: Intelligence is always wrong. What ever they say, you assume the opposite and go into the fighting with that mind. Therefore, when Intel is wrong, you're prepared and not caught off your guard. Understand?"
 * IKINATOR: "Yes, sir."
 * IMPERATOR: "Hey, Four, you know what Principle Two is?"
 * IKINATOR: "Negative, sir."
 * IMPERATOR: "It's 'blow shit up.' Whenever you can blow up a tango instead of stabbing or shooting him, you explosively oxidate him."
 * IKINATOR: "Sir, with all due respect, I'm the demolitions spec. My duty is to-"
 * PIE: "Eat pie."
 * IKINATOR: "What?"
 * PIE: "To eat pie. Pie is of excessive goodness, therefore you shall eat pie and grow fat while us three blow shit up. Then, you can claim the credit."
 * IKINATOR: "Ah. Credit's good. Therefore, pie's good."
 * VICTOR ONE: "Bravo Team, ETA is three minutes. No fire-control radars. RECONSAT also says no air nor ground traffic from the base - Ramirez could not have escaped yet. You boys ready?"
 * RELENTLESS: "ARE YOU READY DELTAS?"
 * PIE: "Shit yeah!"
 * PIE: "That is, sir."

Act III - Point Man
''VICTOR ONE sharply banks towards the desert floor, the chapped dirt running swiftly beneath the Black Hawk as before BRAVO TEAM, a gigantic plateau seems to ascend from the ground. It is the home to the base of RAMIREZ, an infamous black market lynchpin that is responsible for about a third of the Mexican drug flow into the United States. The plateau, known by the locals as tabla sangrienta - bloodied table, appears to be a nondescript supply base - rows upon rows of multicolored cargo modules in an arrayed matrix around a small military complex. RECONSAT, however, identified the machine gun-mounted Jeeps and armed guards via infrared scanning. The informant that gave away the location of RAMIREZ is GEORGE, the Intelligence Agency plant that Intel was finally able to smuggle into tabla sangrienta. VICTOR ONE is to drop off BRAVO TEAM at the very edge of the plateau into a secluded sector of cargo modules, and pick of GEORGE. As the towering, jagged edge of the plateau rises and VICTOR ONE goes stealth protocols, cutting speed by eighty percent and gently ascending, hugging the side of the near-perpendicular edge of the pleateau precipitiously, IKINATOR whistles.'' ''There is no comment as VICTOR ONE drops its speed and aural profile of its rotary wings even further. It is a dark, mechanical beast encrouching on the very edge of the mesa. The Black Hawk rises, just enough for BRAVO TEAM to clear the lip of the rocks and safely make their way up onto the platform of rock. There is no sign of GEORGE. RELENTLESS curses.'' RELENTLESS fiddles with his COM pack, adjusting the frequency. ''There is nothing on the NATO Special Operations distress band, only hisses of static. RELENTLESS adds a line.'' A raspy voice, GEORGE, answers RELENTLESS as IMPERATOR and IKINATOR slow to combat-stealth velocity before him. RELENTLESS grins, gives the thumbs-up to IKINATOR. ''A figure clad in a jet-black flak jacket emerges from behind a cluster of towering modules - GEORGE. He has his hands up and an RCS-17 rifle at his feet. IMPERATOR and IKINATOR stiffen as he slowly advances, weaponless. IKINATOR, still rather inexperienced, is unsure whether to conduct a field strip-search to ensure GEORGE's identity. IMPERATOR boldly just proceeds with it. GEORGE understands. IMPERATOR pats him down, running through every pocket and feeling him for bombs or firearms. Then, he steps back.'' RELENTLESS curtly nods. GEORGE retrieves his rifle, but as he steps towards the hovering leviathan of VICTOR ONE, he pauses. Still, GEORGE stands there. GEORGE grimly smiles. ''The words 'chances of survival' also sound unheard. RELENTLESS fidgets. He does not want to endanger GEORGE's life, but the stakes are too high - the success of the assassination and BRAVO TEAM's lives.'' IKINATOR wantonly grins. PIE glares.
 * IKINATOR, hushed: "Dammit, imagine if we had to climb this thing."
 * RELENTLESS, whispering: "Shit. Bravos Two and Three, go forward to establish a close-to-home waypoint. Bravo Four, stay with me here."
 * RELENTLESS: "G007, this is Bravo One, NATO Special Operations. We are here to extract you, I repeat, we are here to exfiltrate you."
 * RELENTLESS: "Dammit...wait. Identification code is 'Rabbit Hole'. Bravo One to G007, do you copy?"
 * GEORGE: "G007 here. Yeah, thanks for gettin' me outta this shit hole, men. These guys are all fucked up. I'm at...nine 'o clock of one of you guys. You guys DARTs? Gonna blow the shit outta this place?"
 * RELENTLESS: "Hell yeah, G007. The Black Hawk's just behind us."
 * GEORGE: "As I noticed. I was able to neutralize the guard pair closest to this position, and have policed their weapons. You DARTs are probably looking at RCS-17s and assorted black-market handguns here. A few have vests, but the rest are unarmored. I was able to use my contact lenses's optical recorder and scan out a little map of the main complex and some of the cargo modules that you'll have to transverse to get there. Alright, I'm coming towards you. I'm in a dark combat vest."
 * RELENTLESS: "Copy that. Bravo Team, stand down. Friendly approaching at nine 'o clock position."
 * IMPERATOR: "10-4, sir. Hold the fire, Three."
 * IKINATOR, with forced easiness: "Yessir."
 * IMPERATOR: "He's clean, Bravo One."
 * RELENTLESS: "G007, we'll be executing a search-and-destroy for Ramirez. You'd best get on the Black Hawk and wait it out until we're done.''
 * RELENTLESS: "It's not going to be pretty, G007. Just go. A Delta team can handle everything that a druglord has."
 * GEORGE, haltingly: "I am an...Intelligence Agency field agent. I have reconnaisance and firearms cross-training. What if-"
 * RELENTLESS, a with a touch of irritation to proceed: "With all due respect, agent, one lightly armored field agent is not going to be extremely augumentative to a DART unit. Just get on the helicopter and calm down. All will be fine."
 * GEORGE: "You don't understand. I have an obligation."
 * RELENTLESS: "G007, how long have you been stationed to spy on Ramirez?"
 * GEORGE: "Seven months to develop my cover."
 * RELENTLESS: "You suffered seven months at the hands of one of the largest druglords of Mexico? Dammit, then why are you insisting to aid in a high-risk infiltration op? You had to have suffered through bloody hell! Why the fuck are you willing to get yourself killed?"
 * GEORGE: "They did...unspeakable things...I had to resist. To ensure my cover. They need to-"
 * IMPERATOR: "When we poison Ramirez, trust me, he'll suffer in agony for a fucking long time. You need to get your ass outta this place, man."
 * GEORGE: "Negative. Come on. My Intel packet doesn't have all the details I know about the compound. Just let me be an intel liason. I'll guide you through the place. Bravo One, you know that a live intelligence asset can greatly increase chances of success."
 * RELENTLESS: "Dammit. Fine. We have a full spare DART armor set in the Black Hawk. Are you familiarized with the armor?"
 * PIE: "I can help him out, sir."
 * IKINATOR: "Oh yeah? To feel him while you get his armor on?"