The Major (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
liebe_krieg) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2011-09-18 11:23 am
liebe_krieg) wrote in capeandcowllogs2011-09-18 11:23 am
Entry tags:
Staring at the loss, looking for the cause
WHO: Those involved in the attack on the Wilshire Chemical Plant
WHERE: Outside Newark, New Jersey
WHEN: Late at night on the 18th
WARNINGS: Violence, language
SUMMARY: The Major's convoluted plan to discredit Boyd Langton reaches fruition
FORMAT: Whatever the players want
The Wilshire Chemical Plant was a human-manufactured labyrinth of pipes and beams and tanks, lit by belching flames from smokestacks as much as by electronic light. The smell of chemicals and exhaust hung over it like a haze. It was an industrial powerhouse, a place where chemistry, science, and an enormous array of toxic things with long names were mixed together to produce the plastics and polymers used in everyday items throughout the world. It was the sort of place that could blow up real good with enough explosives in enough places, preferably starting with the Control Building.
At the center of this steel thicket was the Control Building, a glass-and-concrete block jutting up above the surrounding tubes and cylinders. Its sharp corners and hard angles contrasted with the round curves that characterized the Plant's many storage tanks and round pipes. The Control Building housed the valves and monitors that kept Wilshire a productive facility as opposed to a fireball.
A facility of Wilshire's size and importance never really slept, and even this late at night it was still inhabited by people working to make sure the right containers remained at the right pressure for the right time. Throughout the plant, engineers and technicians and security guards carried on their late-night drudgery. They were unaware that they were about to have visitors. For that matter, the visitors were unaware that certain phone calls were about to be placed at nearby police stations and FBI offices, calls that would result in a great many people with helicopters and automatic weapons converging on Wilshire soon.
WHERE: Outside Newark, New Jersey
WHEN: Late at night on the 18th
WARNINGS: Violence, language
SUMMARY: The Major's convoluted plan to discredit Boyd Langton reaches fruition
FORMAT: Whatever the players want
The Wilshire Chemical Plant was a human-manufactured labyrinth of pipes and beams and tanks, lit by belching flames from smokestacks as much as by electronic light. The smell of chemicals and exhaust hung over it like a haze. It was an industrial powerhouse, a place where chemistry, science, and an enormous array of toxic things with long names were mixed together to produce the plastics and polymers used in everyday items throughout the world. It was the sort of place that could blow up real good with enough explosives in enough places, preferably starting with the Control Building.
At the center of this steel thicket was the Control Building, a glass-and-concrete block jutting up above the surrounding tubes and cylinders. Its sharp corners and hard angles contrasted with the round curves that characterized the Plant's many storage tanks and round pipes. The Control Building housed the valves and monitors that kept Wilshire a productive facility as opposed to a fireball.
A facility of Wilshire's size and importance never really slept, and even this late at night it was still inhabited by people working to make sure the right containers remained at the right pressure for the right time. Throughout the plant, engineers and technicians and security guards carried on their late-night drudgery. They were unaware that they were about to have visitors. For that matter, the visitors were unaware that certain phone calls were about to be placed at nearby police stations and FBI offices, calls that would result in a great many people with helicopters and automatic weapons converging on Wilshire soon.
Nefarious doings!
Having consulted with his nerd pal the Ghost about how to properly wipe out a chemical plant without turning New Jersey into any more of a toxic hellhole than it already is, Deadshot's following that plan to a T.
As he finishes adjusting the settings on his fifth bomb of the evening, he heads to the corner of a window to look out at the control room. Whispering into his comm as he checks for any heightened alert from the security teams.
"What's your 20?" he asks of his partner, the inimitable Catman.
no subject
If there's anything to note from him, it's that he's off his usual game; his reflexes still a bit stunted from the months of sheer inactivity, as far as he can tell. As his elbow slams into the third security guy's face who managed to notice him as far, he's realizing how behind he really is. And as he drags such security guy's unconscious body in the tiny space between two massive steel canisters full of god-knows-what, he's realizing that, Christ, he could use more than a bit of extra practice.
"Right outside of the northwest lab," he calls in to Deadshot, warily peering around from the shadows of the containers. "Just planted the one in there. You?"
no subject
He flips channels, then speaks in a harsh whisper. "Listen, assholes. If any one of you says another thing on this line besides 'done' and 'out,' you won't live to regret it."
"Fuck you, imPort. We know our jobs."
"If you did, you'd understand radio silence on a fucking stealth mission, shitbag. Shut it."
A beat, to make sure they go about shutting it, then a flip back to Blake's line.
"Got one more left. Any sign of being spotted? I'm lookin' at the central guard towers and they look like they're still snoozin'."
no subject
“Guards in the outer perimeter seem as unalert as ever.” A pause. “I'm actually pretty sure they’re playing board games up there.”
Putting the radio by his side for a moment, he tentatively looks both ways from the spot before sprinting and leaping to the next shady intersection of machinery. Yet again, the radio is picked back up.
“I’m done here, so I’ll be heading all the way around back to your side. You good, as of now?”
no subject
"You sound short of breath. Don't tell me you're still sweatin' the drugs out."
no subject
Out of sight from the perimeter towers, he immediately begins moving quicker, more assertively across the facility.
"Seriously, I can't believe he thought he needed that extra private military team for something like this. It's not like there's going to be a firefight with those guys on watch."
no subject
Wire here. Wire there. Signal started. Sticky here.
"If they do fuck up, I'll enjoy shooting them in the mouth."
no subject
Climb up the insidious industrial catwalk over a pit of god-knows-what chemical substance, sneak across, climb back down. Cakewalk.
"But, whatever." He flattens himself against a wall, looks. Continues. "We're nearly done."
no subject
Still, being called 'imPort' could signify a problem.
To the window, scoping it all out again. Timing this for the shift change. Chumps in the control tower should even live through this. Ghost's plan is good. Assuming all the geometry's right, and he's nerd enough that there's no reason it wouldn't be.
"Cush gig, man. Might as well even get benefits."
whoops how did that icon get there...
"I think I've been expecting the worst possible things to happen, since I was ported in. I can count the number of actual good things that have occurred to me on, say. One hand."
From the appearance of the employee building, it's clear to him that he's almost there. The sooner this is done, the better.
"Can't help but be more than a little pessimistic over things like these. Never ends up well."
no subject
"You didn't have me watching your back before. It's well established that you suck on your own."
He leans against a doorway, opening it a crack, keeping it still until this meandering guard finishes passing. It'll take forever, dammit...
no subject
The sight of one of those rent-a-guard taking his damn time on his patrol right infront of his intended destination leaves Thomas skittering to the side of the building in question. Waiting.
"You see him?" he whispers, hand tight on the radio.
no subject
A sharp pause.
"Hold on."
He flips to the merc chatter channel. Notices some flashing lights.
"Shit. The cops are here. They've got that asshole Fletcher and his unit somehow. We gotta bail."
no subject
Looking up into the cool night sky to see a goddamn barrage of FBI helicopters swarming over the facility isn't exactly the most pleasant sight in the world, and seeing the guard veer wildly off his patrol route isn't half as encouraging as it would have been.
Thomas is, at a blink, already sprinting up to the door and flinging the doors open, lifting his hands up and spreading his hands out wide in a "hey, please resist shooting me" gesture toward Lawton.
"Okay, we." Stop. Breathe. "We obviously can't go out the main entrances. They must be watching the fence. Where are we headed?"
no subject
"I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin'." Frantically running over the place's layout. Running to the window and looking back towards the control tower in the center of the complex. And the giant floodlights on either side of it.
Jamming his hand through the glass, he quickly strafes both floodlights to knock them out, then places perfect shots through the windows of the tower to shatter their monitor screens.
The sudden darkness is almost chilling.
"Back to the central courtyard and out the back way. Let's book it."
With that, he hurls himself through the window, rolls to his feet and starts to run. No doubt Blake will pass him quickly, with the being super-athletic and not ever smoking.