The City of Jericho -> First Contact
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We are a mature, no wordcount original sci-fi RP set in the fictitious future city of Jericho.

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JERICHO
SUMMER, 309J
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11/9/14
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10/18/14
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10/8/14
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8/27/14
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 First Contact, +Oliver
Christopher Johnson
 Posted: Sep 15 2014, 07:39 PM
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Rebel Leader
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How many times had Milo told him he shouldn't wear the scarf? It made him too recognizable, the younger man insisted, too easy to identify. But Chris wasn't worried, he wanted the attention. If he could turn himself into a symbol, it would give him power over the citizens and their perceptions. He was okay with risking the target on his back if it ultimately furthered hi cause, and so he refused to take the thing off.

Besides, the scar would stick out more than the piece of cloth anyway.

The scarf in question was a signature, present in every sketch released to the public, colored a bright, bloody red that paid no mind to the dirt and sweat it was soaked in. In reality, it was closer to brown than the brilliant bloody hue it once had been. Much to the city's fury, they'd yet to get a good photo of him.. He had Lavinia to thank for that, she had mastered the art of finding and disabling security cameras manually from the control post they had established in the sewer beneath the street.

It was thanks to her that he was able to get to this corner undetected. It was one of the most closely guarded areas on Level F, a seemingly ordinary street that held a secret. A vulnerable place that the city chose to protect by hiding it. There were no extra guards in this area, no patrols, no fences, not even pressure pads or bioscanners. Laying just beneath the street, feeding a pillar that extended upwards to support the city above, was a cable twice as thick as Chris' left thigh. This was his target. That cable was one of the main arteries feeding power to Level E, one of seven. By eliminating it, he could plunge part of that level into darkness.

The best part was that it was almost too easy, the cameras were on a loop that would disguise his presence to all but the most vigilant person watching the monitors, and they had encountered no resistance so far, despite a scare earlier in the week when they feared their system had been counter-hacked and their plan had been revealed. Chris had been sure to bring along help because of that, but it didn't look as if it would be necessary.

It was almost too easy to walk up to the pillar and place a hand on it, gently, looking up towards its undiscernable peak. This thing brought life up to the Level above, in a way it was a bit like one of the city's arteries. And he was about to sever it, just as his mother had tried to do to him so many years ago...

His thoughts drifted for a moment, which was almost a fatal mistake. There was someone else here, someone who had managed to get past his team and sneak up on him. Someone who was about to make himself a very dangerous enemy...

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Oliver Reid
 Posted: Sep 16 2014, 07:30 AM
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These guys had been a bitch to hunt down. He was impressed.

Chris Johnson was, Oliver had to admit, pretty good at covering his tracks. His group of rebels, the handful of them, were much more skilled than he’d given them credit for at first. Johnson had managed to round up a group of F people with different areas of expertise into one cohesive, efficient unit. It was no small feat; given how resourceless these guys were, they somehow always found a way to turn the tables around and get the upper hand on the city which has it all. Truth be told, their plans had been thwarted more than a couple of times, but they always came back on their feet and somehow never got pinned down.

It’s what his dossier said, anyway. He also may or may not have remotely accessed their database, to gather some more intel, with one of Darius’ hacking microchips. It was a nifty thing to have, especially when it was one of a kind. Stealing information from a private server, without even physically reaching said server, had never been so easy.

The rebels were organized, more so than he’d anticipated. Oliver admired them. These were people who were fighting for what they believed in, after all, and there was no greater pride than that in his book. They fought against the oppressive elite, and he respected that. Their way of doing it was legit, too. As far as his researches went, they hadn’t caused any civilian casualties in their operations and had only killed militaries who had opposed them. It was fair game. It’s actually what had drawn him into looking for them—their latest coup at a water treatment plant had been a success and, moreover, all over the news. Apparently, they’d been stirring chaos for some time now. While Oliver hadn’t been assigned to officially track them down, he was sure the secret services would eventually send somebody to do it. They weren’t that big of a threat to Jericho, yet, but they could be if left unsupervised. Things like these could escalate, and he’d hate to see them eliminated.

There was no way they’d survive a clash with Jericho without some kind of help. Whenever Jericho would decide they didn’t want to put up with their vindictive terrorism anymore, they'd gather their best agents and would swiftly get rid of them. The rebels were good, but not that good, and Oliver was willing to lend a hand and step up their game if it meant messing a bit with Jericho. It was no fun if the cat ate the mouse too fast.

As he was peering into his binoculars, crouched up high from atop a building, a man with a red scarf walked from outside the shadows towards the pillar he’d been keeping an eye on for the past hour. That had to be Johnson; he always wore that scarf, according to the reports. As much as Oliver hated being a party-crasher, he had to step in, if only to get in contact. There was no telling when they’d strike again, and he hadn’t been able to find their HQ’s location. It was now or never.

He hurried down the ladders behind the building and used the alleys to get closer to Johnson, making sure to keep his steps as light as possible. Pacing nearer, he was melding perfectly into the darkness, clad in black covert ops attire. He was careful to glance around as often as possible, in case one of the rebels happened to be lurking nearby. They probably wouldn’t look kindly upon someone trying to sneak up on their boss.

As he crept up on Johnson, Oliver debated whether or not taking his gun out was preferable in this situation. Then again, he didn’t want to be shot on sight, so better safe than sorry.

“Hey there,” Oliver said quietly from behind the man, his pistol drawn and pointing at him, “Chris Johnson, right? I hear you're blowing up some stuff tonight.”

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Christopher Johnson
 Posted: Sep 19 2014, 04:56 PM
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Though Chris was startled by the voice suddenly coming from behind him, he didn't jump. Years in the wastes had taught him that sudden moves were dangerous, especially when confronted by an unknown enemy. Besides, he knew that at least one of his team members currently had eyes on him, which meant they likely had a line of sight on this guy. They would be alerting the rest of the team that very moment, and if he was alone, well he was horribly outnumbered.

Slowly, he turned around, smiling softly. "Ah, someone finally recognized me. I guess it was only a matter of time, with your news plastering my face everywhere. Still, you'd be amazed how many people look me right in the eye every day and have no idea who I am."

His voice was pleasant, conversational even, in spite of the gun leveled at him. "But this is hardly fair, you know my name and what I'm doing here, but I can't say the same about you. Enlighten me?"

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Oliver Reid
 Posted: Sep 20 2014, 06:21 PM
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Chris was completely collected. Oliver hadn’t expected him to panic, but he’d thought he’d get some kind of hostility, at least. Maybe an eyebrow twitch, a nervous smile. Chris, though, was as calm and serene as a goddamn Buddhist.

“Who I am is not important. There’s some people in Jericho who don’t appreciate the shit you’re up to,” he said with a frown, and boy was that an understatement. “They want your head on a silver platter. The hunt has been open for a while, now, as you know. There’s—“

Pain flared through his whole body as the bullet ripped into his skin of his leg. It wasn’t something you ever got used to, even if it was for the hundredth time. He swayed forward and hit the ground face first, the wound shooting warmth and tingling and pain through his veins in an uncoordinated amount of sensations. He made a move to clutch at it with his thigh, in an attempt to keep from bleeding out on the street. It was futile; he knew it would do no good, unless the wound got treated fast. It didn’t seem very likely at the moment.

Blood was coating his fingers, thick and sticky, and he cursed at himself. If he hadn’t underestimated them, they wouldn’t have gotten the jump on him. He’d made sure none of them were nearby, or at least not that close that he’d get shot down so fast, and here he was. A pathetic mess, on the cold ground, at the mercy of a terrorist group. Had he missed one of them?

The sound of footsteps came to his ears, their boots light on the concrete of the street. There were several of them. Six? Eight? He couldn’t concentrate enough to figure it out. His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to blur.

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Christopher Johnson
 Posted: Sep 28 2014, 03:22 PM
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The shot rang out and Chris immediately searched for the source. It came from his left, which meant it was probably Eva. He shouldn't be surprised, she was far too protective of him even in the best of times, that only ratcheted up into extremes when there was a gun pointed at him. He would really need to have a talk with her about patience.

The rest of the group swelled from the shadows, seemingly appearing from nowhere, firearms leveled at the man on the ground. Chris held a hand up to stop them shooting any more and took another step forward, frowning. The pool of blood was growing alarmingly fast, and he didn't want this man to die. Not yet. There was too much information potentially stored in his brain that Chris could find useful. Besides that, he wasn't a fan of violence when it could be helped. Perhaps if they could save this man, he would be of use to them.

"I disagree, I think who you are is very important, and something I intend to find out." He nodded to his men and three of them rushed forward. Two to take the gun and hold him down, the third to tie a tourniquet around the leg. It would stop the bleeding long enough to get him into the tunnels and away from the explosion. Interrogation would come later.

"Let's go," He said firmly. The men who were holding Oliver down quickly checked him for weapons and confiscated everything they found before binding his hands and feet. Then he was thrown over one man's shoulders in a fireman's carry, and the group began to move.

They didn't stick around for the explosion, though the rocking boom and vibrating ground beneath their feet was unmistakeable. Above them, they knew their task had been completed, and with minimal casualties. Only a few utility workers had been caught in the blast.

It took only minutes to get into the sewers, the rebels had perfected the art of disappearing with thousands of fox holes hidden throughout the slums. As long as they were on the ground floor, they could move as quickly and silently as cockroaches in the walls. The harder part was moving through the tunnels.

Luck seemed to favor them today, however, as they didn't run into any patrols on their way. Soon, they were in the base. After having their technical analyst scan Oliver for trackers or wires, he had the man tied securely to a chair, and a medic began cutting the fabric off his pants leg to see the wound and treat it.

Chris himself settled in comfortably into a chair, watching the medic work. The cave was safe, secure, and they could talk as long as Oliver stayed awake.

"Now why don't we try this again. Who are you?"

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Oliver Reid
 Posted: Oct 2 2014, 03:59 PM
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The trip through the tunnels was excruciating. The guy carrying Oliver like an undignified sack of potatoes had a hard, bony shoulder; it wasn’t exactly five-star hotel comfort. That, and he was pretty sure he was getting the guy’s torso all wet with blood. He couldn’t bring himself to be sorry for the guy’s ruined shirt, though. He was too busy cursing silently in his head about the gaping, painful wound in his leg. He felt it was legitimate, what with them having shot him in the leg with an over-sized caliber.

Thankfully, the small group arrived soon at what seemed to be an ops base of some sort. Craning his neck to look at the state of it as they made their way in, he was willing to bet this wasn’t their headquarters. The equipment, from guns to computers, seemed old and obsolete for the most part, and it didn’t look particularly organized. This was a temporary base, one that had barely any importance. It could be abandoned at a moment’s notice if need be, without making a dent in their overall effectiveness. It made sense, really. He’d be impressed, if his head wasn’t severely spinning from the increasing blood loss.

Still being lugged, they passed through several rooms and people, with whom his kidnappers exchanged quick greetings before continuing their way. They eventually made a swift turn and entered a room, which seemed to act as a medical bay of some sort. He was unceremoniously flung on a chair and strapped to it, a man busying himself at his feet to clean up the bullet hole with a (hopefully) clean cloth. He seemed to be the medic around these parts; nerdy glasses were perched at the tip of his nose, and he was adorning a white coat and latex gloves. He was throwing Oliver worried glances all the while—Oliver, as a response, only managed a light tug of his lips. He knew he probably didn’t seem very convincing, but what the hell.

If he was being honest, he was a little worried about letting somebody who was underqualified to patch him up. As good as the rebels group was, they most likely hadn’t gotten their hands on a certified specialist. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he had a choice in the matter.

He kept his head hung low, even as Chris spoke to him. He had a throbbing headache, and the restraints were tied way too tight around his wrists. He hadn’t thought it would come to this, really. Would they torture him? Would they beat the shit out of him, only to leave his dead carcass in a ditch in a few hours? Oliver knew he could keep silent if he wanted to, even through what they might have prepared for him. He didn’t think it would be profitable for either of them, though; after all, he was here to help them out. The thing was, he couldn’t for sure they wouldn’t kill him if he spilled the beans. Why would they trust a government spy? He couldn't take the risk of blowing his cover.

“Oliver Reid,” he said through gritted teeth. The medic had torn into his pants and was currently trying to get the bullet out with a pair of pliers. “This is not what it looks like. I’m—“

He cried out despite himself, his face scrunched up with pain, as the medic hit a nerve. He tried to keep a steady breathing, his forehead pearled with sweat. “I… have connections in Jericho. I can help you out.”

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Christopher Johnson
 Posted: Oct 10 2014, 01:39 PM
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"Well obviously," Chris said patiently when Oliver told him he had 'connections' with Jericho. "I can see plain as day that you're affiliated with them, and you're certainly not one of us." He wasn't too keen on the sounds of pain that Oliver was making, however, and when his breathing started to get haggard Chris stood.

Even if this man was dangerous, Chris didn't see the need to let him pass out from the pain. They had a limited supply of painkillers, which were only to be used in the most dire of emergencies. He knew that his team would be pissed if he used them on a Jerichan soldier, so instead he opened a small chest on the far side of the small stone room and withdrew a label-less bottle of clear liquid. It was a strong corn alcohol that the Fencers often used for medical purposes, or even for the old fashioned pleasure of getting drunk.

"Here," he said, uncorking the bottle and holding it to Oliver's lips gently, "This will help with the pain."

He assisted the man as best he could, then sat again, watching him with a critical eye. "How, exactly, can you help us?" he asked. The hard edge of his voice clearly conveyed his mistrust, as well as a warning that he would still kill Oliver if he thought him a threat.

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