Acquisitions are usually a breeze. The clients usually aren't asking a whole lot -- sometimes expensive shit, but usually it's just information, and that's easily portable -- and for the most part, the places she needs to get into are a joke compared to what she used to do for Freelancer. Civilian security systems? They don't stand a chance against York, especially with Delta.
Getting in is always easy. It's the getting out that sometimes poses a problem.
This time, it's a museum. Nothing crazy, not a whole painting or anything, just a few historical artifacts in small padded crates that are easy to tuck away. No alarms tripped, no guards sighted, no one even knows she's there. But when she swings up into the vents that'll take her to her exit, she has to drop right back down with a pained hsis as a blast of steam powers right through it.
"The hell?" York mutters, rubbing her hand. Damn near burned it. "They're not supposed to be flushing the ducts out for another six hours."
I did advise against using the vents as an exit strategy, Delta notes.
"Yeah, I know," York mutters to herself, glancing around -- and then the pitter-patter of little footsteps in combat gear start to sound down the hall. Shit. And here she is, backed in a corner office on the tenth story with some stolen property and no other exit strategy. York looks over her shoulder through the floor-to-ceiling glass window.
"Hey, D? What are the odds I wouldn't break both my legs if I jumped out this window?"
A point-zero-zero-one percent chance.
"Cool, thanks." York looks down the hall, then back at the window. "What about my survival odds?"
Delta is silent for just a beat. York waves him off quickly. "Y'know what, never mind. I don't wanna know."
Natasha's spent months looking for James. She chases military chatter, news broadcasts, every whisper of a rogue soldier has her slipping in, usually days late, and trying to put together some of the pieces. Far as she can tell, the program that made them didn't go under completely and James seems to be trading time between trying to pull those pieces out of the shadows and picking up mercenary jobs that are so far under his skill range it sometimes makes her laugh.
Laughing is good, because it keeps her from thinking about what she's going to do if she finds him. If he doesn't remember. What she's going to do if he tries to put another bullet in her body.
She'd actually been casing the museum herself -- rumors and hints at connections she couldn't prove. So she'd been laying the groundwork to slip in and investigate herself. The fact that this is where her scanner programs pick up some security chatter? It's a streak of unexpected good fortune. It feels almost too lucky, but she can't help hoping anyway even as the practical side of her figures it's a trap. But, she's walked into traps before. And she's hunting a goddamn ghost and she knows it, so she chases every whisper.
The details are sparse, but it's enough to spark her attention, to get her moving, giving up all pretense of surveillance. Benefits of being a paranoid soldier turned weapon and spy is that she always has her gear with her. It's just a matter of getting in, hoping she's not too late. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, it's him.
She always likes rooftops. Easy landings, usually no guards, and that smooth drop of window panes down to the street below. In this case there were a few guards but they were quite unconscious by the time she picked up the floor number from the comm chatter, and likely to stay that way until this mess was over one way or the other.
10th floor. She doesn't have time to waste on the elevator, so she uses an explosive charge to knock in the door to the service stairs. Normally she'd be quiet, but she wants to draw attention. If it's James, she knows he can handle it, but it'll be easier for her to pick off security on her way toward him if it's not all at once. Not that she couldn't, but, not much reason to push her luck if she doesn't have to. And if it's not James, well. Call it her good deed for the night.
The sound of people in combat gear starts to get louder and a lot more chaotic.
Oh, shit. York jerks at the sound -- she knows an explosive when she hears one -- and stares up at the ceiling.
"D, what the hell?"
Alert. Secondary intruder entering from rooftop. Security is on its way.
"Secondary intruder? Who's the first intruder?"
That would be you, York.
"Oh, ha," York mutters, annoyed, and edges against the wall to lean into the hall. No one on this floor yet, but she can hear the little pitter-patter of combat boots thundering up stairs. "Alright, cool. Can't go through the vents or I'll sauna myself to death, can't go down or I'll get shot to death."
She glances out the window, then eyes the stairwell exit across the hall. Secondary intruder, right. "Guess I'll take whatever's behind door number three. D, how close are they? Do those stairs go straight to the roof?"
Affirmative. Security will reach the tenth floor in nine seconds.
"Oh, this just gets more and more fun." No time for hesitation now. York bolts across the hall to the stairwell exit and hooks around the railing to give herself a little momentum as she starts to run up the stairs. She has no idea what their exit strategy is going to be from the rooftop, but hey, maybe they can hijack this secondary intruder's getaway plan instead.
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sunchime2016-12-27 10:11 am
for natasha
Getting in is always easy. It's the getting out that sometimes poses a problem.
This time, it's a museum. Nothing crazy, not a whole painting or anything, just a few historical artifacts in small padded crates that are easy to tuck away. No alarms tripped, no guards sighted, no one even knows she's there. But when she swings up into the vents that'll take her to her exit, she has to drop right back down with a pained hsis as a blast of steam powers right through it.
"The hell?" York mutters, rubbing her hand. Damn near burned it. "They're not supposed to be flushing the ducts out for another six hours."
I did advise against using the vents as an exit strategy, Delta notes.
"Yeah, I know," York mutters to herself, glancing around -- and then the pitter-patter of little footsteps in combat gear start to sound down the hall. Shit. And here she is, backed in a corner office on the tenth story with some stolen property and no other exit strategy. York looks over her shoulder through the floor-to-ceiling glass window.
"Hey, D? What are the odds I wouldn't break both my legs if I jumped out this window?"
A point-zero-zero-one percent chance.
"Cool, thanks." York looks down the hall, then back at the window. "What about my survival odds?"
Delta is silent for just a beat. York waves him off quickly. "Y'know what, never mind. I don't wanna know."
s c r e a m s
Laughing is good, because it keeps her from thinking about what she's going to do if she finds him. If he doesn't remember. What she's going to do if he tries to put another bullet in her body.
She'd actually been casing the museum herself -- rumors and hints at connections she couldn't prove. So she'd been laying the groundwork to slip in and investigate herself. The fact that this is where her scanner programs pick up some security chatter? It's a streak of unexpected good fortune. It feels almost too lucky, but she can't help hoping anyway even as the practical side of her figures it's a trap. But, she's walked into traps before. And she's hunting a goddamn ghost and she knows it, so she chases every whisper.
The details are sparse, but it's enough to spark her attention, to get her moving, giving up all pretense of surveillance. Benefits of being a paranoid soldier turned weapon and spy is that she always has her gear with her. It's just a matter of getting in, hoping she's not too late. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, it's him.
She always likes rooftops. Easy landings, usually no guards, and that smooth drop of window panes down to the street below. In this case there were a few guards but they were quite unconscious by the time she picked up the floor number from the comm chatter, and likely to stay that way until this mess was over one way or the other.
10th floor. She doesn't have time to waste on the elevator, so she uses an explosive charge to knock in the door to the service stairs. Normally she'd be quiet, but she wants to draw attention. If it's James, she knows he can handle it, but it'll be easier for her to pick off security on her way toward him if it's not all at once. Not that she couldn't, but, not much reason to push her luck if she doesn't have to. And if it's not James, well. Call it her good deed for the night.
The sound of people in combat gear starts to get louder and a lot more chaotic.
:')
"D, what the hell?"
Alert. Secondary intruder entering from rooftop. Security is on its way.
"Secondary intruder? Who's the first intruder?"
That would be you, York.
"Oh, ha," York mutters, annoyed, and edges against the wall to lean into the hall. No one on this floor yet, but she can hear the little pitter-patter of combat boots thundering up stairs. "Alright, cool. Can't go through the vents or I'll sauna myself to death, can't go down or I'll get shot to death."
She glances out the window, then eyes the stairwell exit across the hall. Secondary intruder, right. "Guess I'll take whatever's behind door number three. D, how close are they? Do those stairs go straight to the roof?"
Affirmative. Security will reach the tenth floor in nine seconds.
"Oh, this just gets more and more fun." No time for hesitation now. York bolts across the hall to the stairwell exit and hooks around the railing to give herself a little momentum as she starts to run up the stairs. She has no idea what their exit strategy is going to be from the rooftop, but hey, maybe they can hijack this secondary intruder's getaway plan instead.