User:RelentlessRecusant/Crackdown

CRACKDOWN: BLACK ACE

Introduction
Welcome to Pacific City, the city of the future, epitome of the advanced technology of 2030. Yet, for all its sophistication, Pacific City has lapsed into a state of morbid entropy. Three vastly powerful paramilitary gangs, the Hispanic Los Muertos, the European Volk, and the Asian Shai-Gen, have metastasized throughout Pacific City, draining the vitality of its citizens and crumpling its economy. The streets sound with automatic weapons fire as gangsters and mercenaries lay siege to the turf of enemy gangs. Only one redoubt remains in Pacific City: the Agency Tower, the final line of defense against the tenacity of the three gangs. Law enforcement agents once enforced the peace, but no more. The peacekeeping organization of Pacific City, colloquially known as “The Agency”, has been reduced to a frail shadow of its former strength. Its officers lay dead across Pacific City, and its garrison are besieged by the three gangs at the foot of the Agency Tower, valiantly defending this pillar of metal, once the titan of Pacific City...but to what cause? The civilian population is being massacred in the crossfire between the warring gangs, and the gangs are running rampant as they bash the general population into submission and “recruit” from them, swelling their ranks.

Yet, an emphermal hope gleams over the Agency Tower as the last Peacekeepers spar with the clutches of the gangs at the very walls of the behemoth...PROJECT: Black Ace. While dozens of Peacekeepers are being overpowered by hundreds of assailing gangsters, the staff at the core of the Agency Tower have engineered a last Peacekeeper from the dark, fateful shadows of bioengineering. From the wretches of enzymes and transducers come a last figure, the Black Ace, the one to trump the gangs, to peel back the shadow that has enveloped Pacific City, to restore Justice’s mantle over Pacific City.

Welcome to Sergeant Paul Clark, the Black Ace.

Weaponry
Colby Master - Pistol, Peacekeepers Kokov Dikat - Pistol, Los Muertos Ingalls X80 - Submachine Gun, Los Muertos Harman MP-50 - Submachine Gun, Shai-Gen Colby EAR50 - Assault Rifle, Peacekeepers Ingalls MG-60 - Assault Rifle, Los Muertos & Volk Harlington HMG-90 - Machine Gun, Los Muertos Dempsey SO-6 Stub - Shotgun, Los Muertos Dempsey 190 Equalizer - Shotgun, Shai-Gen Bastion SX900 Longshot - Sniper Rifle, Peacekeepers Bastion S600 Long Eye - Sniper Rifle, Los Muertos Watson HE79 Grenadier - Grenade Launcher, Volk Watson HE99-X Firefly - Rocket Launcher, Shai-Gen Watson HE99 Hothead - Rocket Launcher, Volk

Prologue: Hope & Faith
The crumpled carcass of an Agency SUV lays, wreathed in flames at the mouth of the tunnel, amidst the line of barricades and the prone, broken bodies of Agency Peacekeepers intermingled with those of the last insurgent torrent of gangsters. Silence reigns supreme as none of the defending host even move to retrieve the bodies of their comrades. The forms of .50-caliber machine guns are bolted onto barricade walls as several Peacekeepers enamored in heavy tactical vests vigilantly gaze through diopter targeting sights, the fenestrated barrels of their machine guns blankly staring down the expanse of the arching underwater tunnel before them...down a field of bodies, blood, discarded shells, from where another company of paramilitary hostiles would emerge to challenge the defiant Peacekeepers, to challenge the machine gun line. It is the last line, a frail one as well. Four gunners with machine-guns can not withhold the zephyr of a hundred zealots armed with submachine guns and assault rifles, can not withhold the forces that are storming the last bastion of justice, that of the Agency Tower.

See the body that is lifeless, barren, resting upon the lead-impregnated sandbags, the beige barrier. His name was Officer Mackenzie, member of the Division of Alcohol and Narcotics before the gangsters attacked. He was an intelligence analyst, having received only rudimentary weapons training. His inequities were paid by his blood, the several-inch hole residing squarely in his collarbone and transecting through his heart. A large-caliber sniper rifle round with a titanium core ricocheted off the tunnel’s walls, planted itself firmly there, splattering the blood over solemnly closed eyes, letting his body sag against the bloodied asphalt and the sandbags that did nothing to hinder the anti-tank sniper rifle’s munition.

See the body that is lifeless, barren, resting upon the carbon-scored asphalt, the black road that lead him to hell. His name was Corporal Ashanti, member of the Special Response Team, urban combat point-man of Assault Team Six. He was the most trusted soldier of Team Six until a SO-6 Stub shotgun recently gored into the left side of his neck, completely obliterating it and carving a wide-bore hole in that side of his vulnerable throat, letting his head awkwardly hang on his left shoulder, and allowing the contents of his neck, spinal cord, cartilaginous throat, and blood to be expelled onto the pavement.

See the body that is lifeless, barren, hanging against the exoskeleton of an Agency patrol car. His name was Officer Kalian, member of the Second Precinct patrol force. He was a neophyte, a newcomer to the gang war game. In the pressing turmoil of the combat, he chivalrously took his patrol car away from the Agency ranks, inserted himself in the company of the gangsters, running dozens over underneath his tires before the shaped-explosive projectile of a Watson HE99 Hothead warhead plowed into the fore of his vehicle, cleanly intercepting his mad rampage.

That is the price of war. A war against crime.



Yonder, beyond the thin line of gunners that is the barrier between the submerged tunnel and the Agency Island, juts the triple-pronged pillar of ascending metal and lights that is the Agency Tower, a breathtaking epitome of technology and dedication. Its surface is of mirror sheen, impregnated with interlacing diodes that flicker incandescence into the light of the day. At various points along its running side, there are articulation points, and as the body of the Agency Tower thins as it crests to its apex, it terminates in three uneven prongs, each projecting various communications antennae. The molten globe of the Sun itself bathes the Agency Tower in its fiery light, yet, for all its coruscations, the Agency Tower is merely a façade, a false harbinger of hope before the gangster hordes. There is no retreat, not physical nor psychological. While the gangs muster their swelling ranks to stamp out the recusants that hold out against their powers, the last Peacekeeper squads are reinforcing the crenellations of the Agency Tower for the last attack - while SUVs are mounted with machine-guns to barricade the underground tunnels, office desks are upturned inside the corridors of the Agency Tower itself, anti-personnel mines are strewn between coffee machines and PCs, and Peacekeepers clad in antiquated military greens bury themselves in the tight corridors, with dozens of clips of EAR50 assault rifle ammunition manufactured over five decades ago at their disposal.

While the Defense Coordinator herds the last Peacekeepers into the redoubt of the Agency Tower, cements their solidarity with words over the loudspeaker, ones that ring with fatalistic commands, of joyless words proclaiming freedom, ones ensuring that the Agency has been a bastion of democracy, one that would arise from its ashes after the next battle to lance the paramilitary gangs for once and for all, that would eventually proclaim joy across Pacific City...there is not even any bothering with the pretense of a victory for the Agency. There is only the cold womb to death to enter and be resurrected in.



While the sun yawns high in the toxic-laced sky, the frail cover of clouds abandoning before its incinerating rays, in an isolated niche dug into the metallic side of the Agency Tower resides a pair of Peacekeepers exempt from the words of Colonel Burton that are resonating over the brassy loudspeakers: Corporal Tama and Officer Almay, both of Division of Hostage Negotiation. They are clad in aging Agency heavy body armor, shipped in from the Department of Defense nineteen years ago when there were the riots down in the Corridor, and resurrected nineteen years later when there were the battles down at the foot of the Agency Tower. The paint is frayed, and the feeble, graying light blue paint barely conceals the ill-fitting polymer body armor plates that angularly armor the pair of hostage negotiation officers.

Both are prone against the floor, and nutrient bar wrappers and high-energy sports drink bottles are littered around them. Tama is stiffly viewing the edge of the Volk Island through the 6x/12x optical scope of his Bastion SX900 Longshot sniper rifle, sweeping his reticule across a nondescript mass of blurred buildings and lights. Almay, coughs, and rises, raising the monocular military binocular lenses to his eye - the two are a sniper-spotter team, one of the last ones that the Agency still retains. The wideband civilian radio unit besides them crackles, and from the static emerges a gruff, taut voice. “Shift to Recon. Anything on your scopes?”

Almay slaps the side of his light helmet, clearing his mind, and then lifts the radio’s receiver to his mouthpiece. “That’s a negative, sir. Our German friends seem to be content on their side of the...”

However, Tama’s eyebrows furrow as crackles of light burn into an interval of existence over the main Volk island. Crackles of light...In the corporal’s mind, sniping dictums drum into action. Subconsciously, his left hand strays from the side of his matte black SX900 Longshot, and grasp the oil-soaked rag that lays beside him as his right hand still stiffly clutches the two-set trigger mechanism of his sniper rifle. He raises his elbows momentarily, depositing the rag beneath them as he once again resumes his hold on his sniper rifle. Even the mere running of blood through his capillaries could throw off his aim...therefore, the rag was required for accurate sniping.

Officer Almay notices his partner’s movements, and tersely radios Sergeant Shift, “Standby, sir...we have incoming contacts. We’ll keep you apprised, sir.”

With that, he lowers the civilian wideband radio, lifts his military binoculars...and movement quickly darts with a furious vitality at the far end of the lenses...Almay swiftly scrolls the magnification power controls on the right side of the monoculars as the lenses work, focusing on the movement, amplifying it for his eyes...and the scene over Volk Island unfurls before his retina. A billow of fire hangs over a sector of Volk Island, from underneath emerge three black-shaded vaguely bullet-like objects.

Almay’s eyes quickly dart to those of Tama, and the thought that hangs in their mind is: missiles? Both return to their green-phased lenses...Tama maneuvers his reticule over the scene, the crosshairs of death...and fixes the three oblong shapes in the center of his scope. As they emerge from the curtain of fire burning behind them, there is a blur of color from the dullness of the ground...Tama’s gnarled hands grope further on the monoculars...Ground fire.

Tama, meanwhile, is about to conclude from the electronic rangefinder built into the sniper rifle that the oblong objects are not missiles, for they are far too slow, and there is a lack of an exhaust trail behind them. Yet, even as he begins to try to make out their allegiance as they steadily progress forward towards the Agency Tower...the Volk are firing on them...allies? Even as he acknowledges that the Agency has no more air assets, and his mind queries the information before him to find a solution, the radio murmurs...voices whispering...Almay drops his binoculars to tune in...and then...

“Yee ha!”

Fire blossoms with no restrain below the three dark objects, the engorged bullets that are traveling towards the Agency Tower. A distinctly non¬-radio noise makes its way over across the ears of the two sniper-spotter officers, and they raise their goggled eyes to the sun, exalting its brilliance...to find the metallic crackle heralding...the sleek, distinctly predatorial polygonic form of fighter jets. F-22 Raptor stealth air superiority attack craft, United States Air Force.

Their slender forms arc with devastating speed over Volk Island, and lance across the waters to cap the pennants of the Agency Towers...leaving behind them the rising columns of smoky fire of AIM-9 heatseeking missiles ravaging the Volk buildings and their paramilitary forces. The brilliance of the detonations are terribly burnt into Corporal Tama’s eyes even as his heart huskily accelerates, enthralled with the coruscations, and an electrical surge bathes his heart and mind as he is infused with hope...United States Air Force? Then, he realizes the approaching dark oblong craft: UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters of the United States Army.

“Victor Squadron to Alpha and Beta Groups. Enemy ground defenses neutralized. You’re all clear for the LZ.” “Alpha Three to Victor Lead, we copy, man. Bringin’ in the groundpounders now.”

Communications chatter scrolls across the radio as the diamond formation of F-22 Raptors blaze their contrails across the sky, etching their presences in the sky, a tablet that is shown to all the Los Muertos, Volk, Shai-Gen, and the Peacekeepers. Yes, it is a sign of the powers, a sign in the sky for this unbelieving generation, one of hope, a faith that the Agency will one day prevail. However, there is only one immediate consequence of their presence: the Agency is receiving external reinforcements.

As the F-22 Raptors progress into an exploding of avionics above Agency Island, their metallic airframes catching the sunlight, and the three UH-60 Black Hawks beckon close to Agency Island, shouts arise...feeble cheers...youthful hopes are strengthened, solidified as the three black-drab Black Hawks deploy insectine fast-ropes, and soldiers clad in Army greens and bearing the United States flag on their left shoulder gracefully rappel off of the helicopters, the crowd of Peacekeepers, mangled, wounded, mindless, are drawn to the dozens of new soldiers in their midst. Peacekeepers raise haggard salutes as the Army troopers brazenly advance, firmly grasping hands, making their presence known, conferring words with the last commanding officers of the Agency as the sun rises high over the aggregated force. Above the inferno that has burnt through the core of Volk Island, dozens of further Black Hawks and Apache helicopters drift in internecine clouds, and they arrive, cargo bays swollen, over Agency Island, before exploding into clouds of rappelling men.

As the powerful elixir of this rejuvenating faith, one that whispers to both Corporal Tama and Officer Almay that death is not at their doorstep, that the beguiled Agency will be strengthened by the United States military, that all is not for waste, but for a war on crime, a Crackdown on crime...those without faith would have faith, those without hope would have hope, those in distress would be on the offensive, and those that were powerful would be made low, those haughty would be made humble.

First Encounter
The waters that span the expanse between the Agency Island and the districts of Los Muertos, the Volk, and the Shai-Gen are not exactly what Green Thumb looks for. Phosphorescing agents and organophosphate partial derivatives have been scattered into the waters by the heavy-duty anti-corrosion industrial pipelines that link industrial factories to the lakes. Fish do not inhabit the waters...rather...eutrophic algae, fungi, and bacteria do - a losing proposition to clean water and the aesthetics of the lakes.

However, it was still an acceptable way to mask the advancing forms of five RXL-2 “Leviathan” submersibles - the 2030-era U.S. Navy SEAL insertion craft of choice, and on loan to the Agency. The RXL-2 craft is sleek, aquadynamic. It’s the size of a paired whitewater rapids raft, but has a titanium/molybdenum light hull (capable of withstanding brief amounts of machine-gun fire) of bluish, grayish, and black hues to gently meld into an waters, a pair of independently-powered propulsion motors (to ensure that if one failed, each craft would still move), and a pair of slim .50-caliber machine-guns located in recessed forward ports for point defense. The Joint Chief of Staff’s doctrine for the RXL-2 submersible was simple. The RXL-2 could be launched off of a destroyer or even a modified patrol boat off a hostile coast, and could silently weave its way to the coast line, its electronic countermeasures able to foil mine sensors and coast radars. Then, it would dredge its way onto shore, where it would deposit a tactical team of four U.S. Navy SEALs, and then would slink back into the recessing waters. However, in this case, the SEALs were substituted for by the Agency SWAT commandoes - Special Weapons and Tactics soldiers.

The U.S. military had deployed several companies of U.S. Army troopers to reinforce Agency Island, with a compliment of Humvees and 155mm portable howitzer field artillery units. Their objective was to fortify the crenellations of the Agency Island...which they amply did, impregnating