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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4043166" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Welcome to the Show: Conclusion</strong></p><p></p><p>They hobbled to the Academy’s central square. The missiles were concussive force, not fragmentation. The blades and spikes were blunt. The weights were made of Styrofoam. They were bruised, but they were alive. </p><p></p><p>To their immense surprise, every available active and retired op was assembled in portable grandstands. As they formed ranks around the Spire, General Steele stepped up to the podium and uttered the sweetest two words they ever heard. </p><p></p><p>“Congratulations, graduates.”</p><p></p><p>The audience applauded thunderously. </p><p></p><p>An afternoon of speeches and pomp followed, but mostly they stood through it in a happy daze. Finally, they were led one at a time to the podium for a small but formal individual ceremony and personal congratulations from General Steele. The General also took the time to pen a hand-written letter to each graduating black op, commenting on their performance throughout the training, commending them on their particular abilities and expressing his confidence in their ability to perform in the tough times ahead.</p><p></p><p>They received a final furlough to another unnamed tropical isle, this time for a month. It was the last time they strung thirty days of leave together.</p><p></p><p>When they came back, Drake was waiting for them. </p><p></p><p>“In my day, training used to be lethal,” muttered Drake. “But we had to lower our standards for creampuffs like you.” He sighed. “You idiots will never make it in the field.” He grabbed a glass of scotch that was never far from him and swilled it. </p><p></p><p>“All right, here’s how this works. There’s two offices: C office in Connecticut and N office in New York. I know, the boys in research are real creative. Ironshirt and Gupta you two are C-Team. Grange and Baxter, you two are N-team. There will be others added to the team to replace casualties,” he said the word so casually that nobody reacted, “but that’s how we’re grouping you for now.” He indicated Joe with a nod of his head. “Fontaine here is a freelancer. I wouldn’t even have let him join you on these missions, but he’s the only bloody one to make it through Satan’s Playroom so I guess that’s something.”</p><p></p><p>He pointed at a pile of leather jackets. “These are all Dragon Skin armor jackets. I recommend wearing them in between missions, because you never know when you might encounter something unexpected.”</p><p></p><p>Kurt lifted up a Velcro patch on the back of the jackets. It read: CIFA.</p><p></p><p>Drake nodded at Kurt as he handed out ID badges. “You are all now technically working for the Counter-Intelligence Field Activity. In other words, you work for the Department of Defense.”</p><p></p><p>“Never heard of it,” said Jim.</p><p></p><p>“You wouldn’t,” said Drake. “CIFA’s official mission is to develop and manage counterintelligence programs and functions that support the protection of the Department of Defense, including counterintelligence support to protect DoD personnel, resources, critical information, research and development programs, technology, critical infrastructure, economic security, and U.S. interests, against foreign influence and manipulation, as well as to detect and neutralize espionage against the DoD.”</p><p></p><p>“How big is it?” asked Kurt.</p><p></p><p>“That’s classified,” said Drake.</p><p></p><p>“And the budget?” asked Hank.</p><p></p><p>“That’s classified,” Drake said again.</p><p></p><p>“What about…” began Joe.</p><p></p><p>“Please ask me another stupid question, so I can shoot you in the head right now and be done with it.”</p><p></p><p>Joe shut his mouth. </p><p></p><p>“It’s classified, all right? The point is that CIFA is your gateway to legitimacy. When the s**t goes down, you use your CIFA badges. But not everyone responds well to government intervention. You need to keep your head down sometimes, so use your CIFA authority sparingly. It will help you deal with police and such, but it doesn’t mean you have carte blanche to go shooting up the place. Do you understand?”</p><p></p><p>They nodded.</p><p></p><p>“Good. You will be given a van that will carry your weapons and supplies. Local law enforcement does not look kindly on walking around with machineguns, so I recommend you be discrete, even with the van.” He nodded at Jake. “Ironshirt’s the best driver, so it’s your baby.”</p><p></p><p>Jake allowed himself a slight smile.</p><p></p><p>“Don’t get too happy about it, chief,” snarled Drake. “You’ll find driving a van full of ammunition isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”</p><p></p><p>Jake stopped smiling.</p><p></p><p>“Here’s the most important part of your equipment, the Cistron.” Drake pushed another button, and a pile of handheld computers slid out from a tray. They looked like a combination of an iPhone and a Palm Treo. A wireless headset accompanied each of them.</p><p></p><p>“These babies are cell phones, MP3 players, text messaging, Web access, email, Bluetooth connectivity, a global positioning system, and two-way video. It’s shock proof, waterproof, and EMP resistant. This is your access to Blacknet, our secure database, and how you will make your mission logs. It’s how you will keep in touch with each other and with me.”</p><p></p><p>“Does it play games?” asked Jim.</p><p></p><p>“Yes, wiseass, but it’s been disabled,” said Drake. “And before you ask, it also tells time via an atomic clock, so you better never be late.”</p><p></p><p>They picked up their Cistrons. </p><p></p><p>“And finally, I need your code names.”</p><p></p><p>Everyone looked at Drake in confusion.</p><p></p><p>“Code names? Jesus, what’s wrong with you people?” Drake patted his chest with his cane. “Here’s a hint. My real name isn’t Drake. In fact, this room is the last time we’re ever going to refer to you by your real names. It’s for your own protection. So let’s start with you, chief.” He poked Jake in the gut with his cane. “You’re Blade.”</p><p></p><p>“Yeah,” was all Jake said.</p><p></p><p>“And you?” Drake asked Joe. </p><p></p><p>“Archive,” he said immediately.</p><p></p><p>Drake arched an eyebrow. “I see you’ve thought about this.” He turned to Jim. “And you, wiseass?”</p><p></p><p>“Jim-Bean,” said Jim.</p><p></p><p>“That’s very creative. But since you’re such a screw up already, I suppose anyone killing you would be doing me a favor. Fine, Jim-Bean it is.” He looked at Kurt.</p><p></p><p>“Hammer,” he said after a long moment.</p><p></p><p>Drake rolled his eyes. He turned to Hank. “That leaves you, creampuff.” </p><p></p><p>“Guppy,” Hank squeaked.</p><p></p><p>Drake blinked. “What?”</p><p></p><p>“Guppy.”</p><p></p><p>Jim-Bean burst out laughing. “Oh my God…are you serious?”</p><p></p><p>“Yes! What?” Hank looked around. “You know, Hank Gupta? Gupta? Guppy!”</p><p></p><p>Drake slapped his forehead. “You idiots aren’t even going to survive your first mission.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4043166, member: 3285"] [b]Welcome to the Show: Conclusion[/b] They hobbled to the Academy’s central square. The missiles were concussive force, not fragmentation. The blades and spikes were blunt. The weights were made of Styrofoam. They were bruised, but they were alive. To their immense surprise, every available active and retired op was assembled in portable grandstands. As they formed ranks around the Spire, General Steele stepped up to the podium and uttered the sweetest two words they ever heard. “Congratulations, graduates.” The audience applauded thunderously. An afternoon of speeches and pomp followed, but mostly they stood through it in a happy daze. Finally, they were led one at a time to the podium for a small but formal individual ceremony and personal congratulations from General Steele. The General also took the time to pen a hand-written letter to each graduating black op, commenting on their performance throughout the training, commending them on their particular abilities and expressing his confidence in their ability to perform in the tough times ahead. They received a final furlough to another unnamed tropical isle, this time for a month. It was the last time they strung thirty days of leave together. When they came back, Drake was waiting for them. “In my day, training used to be lethal,” muttered Drake. “But we had to lower our standards for creampuffs like you.” He sighed. “You idiots will never make it in the field.” He grabbed a glass of scotch that was never far from him and swilled it. “All right, here’s how this works. There’s two offices: C office in Connecticut and N office in New York. I know, the boys in research are real creative. Ironshirt and Gupta you two are C-Team. Grange and Baxter, you two are N-team. There will be others added to the team to replace casualties,” he said the word so casually that nobody reacted, “but that’s how we’re grouping you for now.” He indicated Joe with a nod of his head. “Fontaine here is a freelancer. I wouldn’t even have let him join you on these missions, but he’s the only bloody one to make it through Satan’s Playroom so I guess that’s something.” He pointed at a pile of leather jackets. “These are all Dragon Skin armor jackets. I recommend wearing them in between missions, because you never know when you might encounter something unexpected.” Kurt lifted up a Velcro patch on the back of the jackets. It read: CIFA. Drake nodded at Kurt as he handed out ID badges. “You are all now technically working for the Counter-Intelligence Field Activity. In other words, you work for the Department of Defense.” “Never heard of it,” said Jim. “You wouldn’t,” said Drake. “CIFA’s official mission is to develop and manage counterintelligence programs and functions that support the protection of the Department of Defense, including counterintelligence support to protect DoD personnel, resources, critical information, research and development programs, technology, critical infrastructure, economic security, and U.S. interests, against foreign influence and manipulation, as well as to detect and neutralize espionage against the DoD.” “How big is it?” asked Kurt. “That’s classified,” said Drake. “And the budget?” asked Hank. “That’s classified,” Drake said again. “What about…” began Joe. “Please ask me another stupid question, so I can shoot you in the head right now and be done with it.” Joe shut his mouth. “It’s classified, all right? The point is that CIFA is your gateway to legitimacy. When the s**t goes down, you use your CIFA badges. But not everyone responds well to government intervention. You need to keep your head down sometimes, so use your CIFA authority sparingly. It will help you deal with police and such, but it doesn’t mean you have carte blanche to go shooting up the place. Do you understand?” They nodded. “Good. You will be given a van that will carry your weapons and supplies. Local law enforcement does not look kindly on walking around with machineguns, so I recommend you be discrete, even with the van.” He nodded at Jake. “Ironshirt’s the best driver, so it’s your baby.” Jake allowed himself a slight smile. “Don’t get too happy about it, chief,” snarled Drake. “You’ll find driving a van full of ammunition isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Jake stopped smiling. “Here’s the most important part of your equipment, the Cistron.” Drake pushed another button, and a pile of handheld computers slid out from a tray. They looked like a combination of an iPhone and a Palm Treo. A wireless headset accompanied each of them. “These babies are cell phones, MP3 players, text messaging, Web access, email, Bluetooth connectivity, a global positioning system, and two-way video. It’s shock proof, waterproof, and EMP resistant. This is your access to Blacknet, our secure database, and how you will make your mission logs. It’s how you will keep in touch with each other and with me.” “Does it play games?” asked Jim. “Yes, wiseass, but it’s been disabled,” said Drake. “And before you ask, it also tells time via an atomic clock, so you better never be late.” They picked up their Cistrons. “And finally, I need your code names.” Everyone looked at Drake in confusion. “Code names? Jesus, what’s wrong with you people?” Drake patted his chest with his cane. “Here’s a hint. My real name isn’t Drake. In fact, this room is the last time we’re ever going to refer to you by your real names. It’s for your own protection. So let’s start with you, chief.” He poked Jake in the gut with his cane. “You’re Blade.” “Yeah,” was all Jake said. “And you?” Drake asked Joe. “Archive,” he said immediately. Drake arched an eyebrow. “I see you’ve thought about this.” He turned to Jim. “And you, wiseass?” “Jim-Bean,” said Jim. “That’s very creative. But since you’re such a screw up already, I suppose anyone killing you would be doing me a favor. Fine, Jim-Bean it is.” He looked at Kurt. “Hammer,” he said after a long moment. Drake rolled his eyes. He turned to Hank. “That leaves you, creampuff.” “Guppy,” Hank squeaked. Drake blinked. “What?” “Guppy.” Jim-Bean burst out laughing. “Oh my God…are you serious?” “Yes! What?” Hank looked around. “You know, Hank Gupta? Gupta? Guppy!” Drake slapped his forehead. “You idiots aren’t even going to survive your first mission.” [/QUOTE]
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