12727/Operation: Overkill

Operation: Overkill
Date of Scene:	09 September 2022
Location:	South Ossetia
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Melinda May, Leopold Fitz

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Melinda May has posed:
The briefing was fairly straightforward. A separatist group in South Ossetia has developed a unique sonic weapon, called Overkill. It uses subsonic and ultrasonic vibrations to set off other weapons from a great distance -- both conventional weapons and a few unconventional weapons, which the separatists technically don't control. Their enemies do. In essence, it's a giant 'universal remote' for the world's weapons stockpiles around the world.

No one needs that technology falling into the wrong hands. Several have argued it's *already* in the wrong hands, since Georgia isn't willing to recognize the sovereignty and autonomy of the Tskhinvali region and Russia, while perfectly willing to recognize the Republic of South Ossetia as an independent entity, is less than thrilled that someone other than the Kremlin might be able to set off their arsenal of nukes. Unsurprisingly, they're not the only country concerned about that.

And SHIELD? Well, god forbid that technology fall into *HYDRA's* hands.

Consequently, Melinda May and Leo Fitz have been charged with finding the weapon and disabling it within the next 24-hours -- *before* the separatists decide to ignite a fireworks display unlike anything the world has ever seen before.

Generally, May prefers being at the controls of the quinjet, not jumping out of the back of one with nothing to rely on but a wingsuit and some repulsor jets. She can't argue that flying like this is *fun*, but it's a lot more fun when it's not under the cover of darkness above mountain peaks in highly disputed, highly unfriendly territory. Somehow, the threat of capture and execution takes all the fun out it.

Nevertheless, she and Fitz have a job to do. And if she's somewhat discomfited by the fact that she could sense Hill holding something back as she briefed them, well... She just chalks it up to Hill being Hill and the unreliability of her own 'talents', lately.

Wind rushes by her face, flicking a single strand of hair that sticks out of the wingsuit hood she wears. Her goggles give her some idea of where they need to land. So, as the ground rushes up uncomfortably fast, she banks, redirecting her momentum to the narrow gully that creates a natural gap in the dark forest below.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
It's something that takes Dr Leopold Fitz out of the lab and into the *field*. While not necessarily the ideal partner in terms of 'agenting', he is the perfect choice for the work that lies ahead, when they find that bit of equipment. Not 'if'. There is no 'if'.

So, dressed in 'academic tweed' for the meeting with Hill, with his ID dangling from his belt, Fitz really doesn't look the part of 'agent ready to go into enemy territory', which may or may not add to May's discomfiture. He's attentive, however; he's easily wrapped his head around the concepts of what the weapon can do and its limitations, and he's fully on board, fully vested with the necessity of success. In fact, it does weigh a little heavy on the shoulders of the man.

The packing is done in Fitz' inimitable fashion; packing bits of tech in a suitcase only to take them out again and pack them into something smaller when a whisper is given in his ear. Packing light is not his strong suit. How does one properly prepare for a mission given such limited room?! Still, it's completed, and the scientist is dressed in something a little more becoming a field agent. He's in darker colors with a specially designed backpack slung over his shoulder. It's not light, but it's the best he can do, given the balance of want and need.

The trip in the Quin is filled with no little trepidation. Fitz sits and fiddles, then, giving both his hands and his mind something to do to fill in the stretches of silence. Soft murmurs as he talks to himself gently rise, the burr of the Scots all too plain. When the jump point is reached, and all is made ready, the already pale complexion goes just a touch whiter as the realization does hit him in the face. "What, we're not landing?"

Of course not. And he's been trained for jumping out of aeroplanes. He's done it several times, so why is this anything new? Wing suits and repulsors, and his goggles holding a small HUD that gives him immediate feedback. With the backpack slung up and across his back, he follows May out the back of the perfectly good aircraft and into the cold, black night.

Immediately the wind kicks into his face, pushing him back with the pressure, but soon enough it's accounted for, but nowhere near as gracefully as May. It's not only a technical thing, but an art. Eventually, there is a hint of relaxation as he gets the hang of it, just in time to catch sight of the separation in the trees. He follows May, not as well as he'd like, thanks to the given speed in which they're 'controlled' falling, but enough that he's not slamming either into the side of a mountain, a tree, or the ground.

Melinda May has posed:
Once on the ground, May sheds her wingsuit and repulsor pack, placing both inside a mission bag and slinging it across her back. She watches Fitz come in for his landing, giving a faint nod as the man actually manages to stay on his feet -- or at least regain them quickly enough there's no harm done. Coming from May, that's actually high praise.

Without the wingsuit, she looks more like a hiker -- dark jeans, sturdy boots, a warm jacket and gloves. She pulls a woolen scarf out of a pocket of her bag and wraps it around her face. It's still early enough in the season, this high up in the mountains, that the air is crisp and cold.

"Have you got a fix on our coordinates?" she asks Fitz now, looking around at their surroundings. The gully slopes down on one end. It's a good bet that's the direction they need to go, since civilization and, ultimately, the rebel base they're seeking, is in the lowlands. Or, at least, lower lands than here.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
At least he didn't scream as the ground closed in so close. Score one point for the young scientist. Fitz lands, rolls as he was taught, managing to cover himself with random ground coverings; grass and leaves in the hair, on his back, shoulders, arms, legs.. and when he rises, he's shifting his backpack with a shrugged, soft grunt of discomfort. 'Dusting' off the ground layer from arms, slapping at his legs with a flat hand, he's also looking around at their location, blue eyes fixing on May before he nods quickly with acknowledgement of the request.

The backpack is pulled off, the wingsuit stowed, he's wearing something that is related to May's own; dark and comfortable, though less.. combat oriented, more pockets. In the next moment, he's pulling out first his small system administrator, and then the oh so very familiar container with his drones. The DWARFs. The controller has gotten smaller in this iteration, as well as being a great deal more versatile. Jemma has her lab, and he's got a smaller and more powerful version of his former hand-held. The way he handles it, it's a bit of tech that he's proud of.

With a couple of quick clicks, he's careful when pulling out two of them, letting them alight from his fingers like a small hummingbird, gently and almost lovingly. Once his eyes in the sky are aloft, he's repacking and closing up his bag. Straightening up, and pulling his backpack back into place, he's turning in a slow, deliberate circle to take a scan of their area.

The drones hover silently, the gentle *whrrrr* of air missing on these two. "All y'have to do is to take control o'er that one," Fitz instructions. "I've got it so it'll recognize friendlies, an' offer a connect." He won't say //how// it recognizes them, but he's put a lot of thought into it, a lot of 'what ifs'. "He'll go where y'look, an' give you a quick multi spectrum view if you ask."

"Right," he begins, "just connect," the word is drawn out in that soft burr of his, "an'.." his hand rises to point to a direction, "...that way."

Melinda May has posed:
'Thataway' works. May's learned to trust the Scotsman over the years, even with his eccentricities. They've been through too much -- a lot of it deeply unpleasant, but that's when you learn a man's true mettle. Anyone who mistakes Leopold Fitz for a mouse doesn't really know the man.

She nods in response to his comment about the drone, a brow arching faintly. She's not quite certain how he intends her to 'take control' of the little thing. So, she raises her arm and activates a tiny holo display over the black band on her left wrist, using it to find the drone's frequency and interface with it. She lets out a soft noise of approval as the little thing's data readout appears on her display. Her lips twitch faintly, a satisfied pull at their corners, and she nods.

After that, however, she walks in silence, a solid presence beside him as they make their way down the still dark gully, towards what few signs of civilization exist in this craggy, rocky land. The only time she interrupts her silence is to point out the occasional pitfall in the dark -- a loose stream of scree or a drift of leaves that conceals a dip in the path. She's careful to keep her footsteps on solid rock, not risking the more treacherous, and noisier soft materials.

As they go, dawn approaches. Finally, she looks up at the silvery horizon. There's a trace of smoke above the trees, a gentle white curl against the dark of the sky, a faint whiff of burning wood on the breeze. "Should be our first stop," she tells him in the early morning gloaming. If she's right, and if they're really on course, it should be one of those 'last stop' gas stations and taverns that often dot remote places the world over. The only difference being the language and customs of the people running it -- in this case, South Ossetian, which means Russian language and a mix of Georgian and Russian cultures with a heavy dallop of local customs thrown in for good measure.

Should be fun... May *understands* Russian very well. She just has a lousy accent, and tends to disguise that fact by mixing it with her Chinese accent, much as it would be on the border between the two Eastern Superpowers. It's amazing what you can get away with when you play on stereotypes.

Leopold Fitz has posed:
Most people do forget that Dr Fitz is actually a trained agent. He just did things a little upside down first. His true training was in the sciences; SHIELD, after all, believes in supporting strengths and shoring up weaknesses. His weakness was shored up effectively enough so that he's not a total hindrance on away missions.

And he does try.

The mountains, the rocks and gullies are something he's very familiar with. Home was a great deal like this, with its Highlands and Lowlands. There's the spark of understanding in the elements around him, which translate to a tacit understanding of their place in it all. It doesn't mean he doesn't place a bad step. He tries, but doesn't always succeed.

The distance traveled does take some breath from him. Having to be careful, checking foot paths and placement puts a person on a slightly higher alert than just casually walking, or moving with intent. It's a sign of fatigue, then, when placement isn't the best consistently.

The sun continues to rise each day, and the first hint of it does have Fitz pausing. It's not often that he gets to see something like that 'out here', and he uses the moment to take a breath, hand moving to his side. "Oh, tha' is beautiful." The colors, the fall of the light upon the tops of the branches is a sight, and when even a scientist can appreciate the view? He looks to his companion, offers a quick smile, a shrug and he's ready to continue down, to the last whistlestop. "Hope they have a nice tea," is offered conversationally. "Anything to pull that bit of chill out." The DWARFs are packed, quickly, before entering.

Fitz understands enough as well that he can find his way through Russian. It's one of those 'necessary' languages that he not only speaks passingly well, but reads also. The polyglot would be Dr Frank's (of Linguistics) division, and he'd probably enjoy listening to the different cultures that have obviously mixed into this large and remote region, and then pick them apart piece by piece. They don't have the time, the luxury, or the scope to do that; May with her pidgeon Russian, playing up the Chinese angle, and his own bursts of short Russian help to hide purposes.

He knows the drill all too well; it's pretty standard really. Quick split up, eyes on, get drinks, then back. Any whispers can be heard through the tuning on their small earbuds. Anything important to them will happen in the first 30 seconds of walking through the door. That's their most unguarded time. Anything beyond? The wariness will creep in, and hesitations.