Chapter Text
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Call sign Blackjack, watched Bravo’s Helo swoop down as they neared their drop zone on the Northwest side of the island. Bravo is tasked in clearing out the maintenance and employee resident Bunkers. See if they can’t find any survivors who can explain why the big boss man went radio silent. Blackjack’s team, Alpha, will be landing on the Southeast side. Tasked in locating the head honcho himself along with his wife, daughter, and a few big names vacationing on the remote island.
What a fucking joke. Opening up his laptop, Blackjack quickly tapped through the briefing he’s already been drilled on twice a few hours ago. If it didn’t pay so well he would say let the rich fucks suffer the consequences of their actions and die. Coming out here for research and development of some stupid resort for more rich asshats. ‘Holosprings’. Although, online forums had wild conspiracy theories; the resort acting as a front for more sinister purposes. Blackjack didn’t care what it was, he’s on a need to know basis. What rich people do with their money isn’t any of his business.
Thirty-one weeks of failed contact. Not radio silence. Signals had come through but most of it was garbled static no one could decipher. Forces hadn’t been sent since CEO Puffton made it clear that under No Circumstances are unauthorized personnel to be on the island. That order only being overruled by distress signals, direct command, or failure to confirm bi-yearly supply restock. Here they are, nearly eight months after the first failed contact and Blackjack is expecting to find a lot of corpses or half feral scientists.
Closing the laptop, Blackjack spared a glance at his watch (o’triple-five-hundred) then to Fisheye and Kelvin. They only know each other by their call signs; Mr. Puffton wanting his company assault force to remain professional and distant with one another. Fisheye is a techy bastard with a Napoleon complex but he’ll cover your back while taking fire. Kelvin is… well agreeable. Keeps to himself mostly. Blackjack hasn’t been paired much with the guy so he doesn’t have an opinion on Kelvin yet.
Craning his neck, Blackjack looked outside the Helo again to see if Bravo made it to their drop off, only to be met with a bullet hole in the glass. The first one was a surprise, a jolt. The rest rocked the helicopter, sending it into a spiral as alarms blared. All three agents braced themselves as the pilot fought for control.
More glass breaking.
Kelvin being slung forward.
A sudden pitch to the side.
Blackjack’s stomach threatened to upheave as the world burred around him and then his body lurched to a halt. His midsection hurts and the operative hung limply for a moment as he collected himself from the near death experience. He’s caught on a cable dangling a few meters above the ground. Something creaks over him and Blackjack twists to see the Helo. The door opening and Alpha team’s pilot dazedly stepped out as if expecting ground only to have to cling to the door as gravity tries to claim a victim.
The pilot’s death grip on the doorframe does him no good as the metal bends under his weight. The other agent dropped. Hitting a branch on the way down and smacking the ground with a dull thud. Blackjack couldn’t tell if he was still alive. The Helo creaked ominously, looming overhead, whispering certain death if he didn’t get away from it.
Drawing his knife, Blackjack put it to the cable. Wanting to try his chances with the ground rather than being crushed under a ton of rubble. A few harsh hacks and the operative fell free, branches snapping against his back as he watched the distance between himself and the Helo grow. Hitting the ground knocked the air out of his lungs. His body arching as he hacked roughly. Vision growing spotty….
but he’s Alive.
Alright, off to a terrible start but he should be able to salvage some tech from the Helo and contact the mainland for backup. Squeezing his eyes shut Blackjack willed the pain to let up as he crawled away from the tree then moved to a sitting position. The agent’s plans were cut short as a silver blur came into his peripheral. Knocking his hand away and swinging the butt of a pistol down onto his head.
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Blackjack wakes with a start, inhaling sharply as the crackling of wood followed by the heavy crash of the helicopter collapsing to the ground. Thank fuck he wasn’t under that.
FUBAR Mission, if there’s crazy people in tinfoil jackets shooting Helos out of the sky and picking off survivors (and failing), there’s no damn way their targets are still alive.
Getting up, the agent saw the sun hadn’t moved. Checking his watch confirmed it, o’six-zero-three. Eight minutes after the crash. While the bump on his head hurt, silver jacket guy must have weak wrists. The spot wasn’t even bleeding. Looking around the crash zone Blackjack saw Fisheye and the pilot, both unmoving with bullet holes in their helmets. Swallowing roughly, the operative is glad he was just wearing the radio headset or else the guy might have taken the shot instead.
Taking in his surroundings, Blackjack quickly put together a mental task list. Salvage what he can from the crash sight, get to the nearest bunker, hail for backup, then hunker down until their arrival. From what he can tell, they didn’t crash terribly far from Bravo’s drop point. He can head up that way and see if their Helo made it out worse for wear.
A high pitched whine snapped him from his thoughts, danger sense kicking in and telling him to be on alert. Something thrashed in the grass some meters away and Blackjack’s hand went down to his gun holster, only to find it empty. Fucking 80’s discosuit! Must have stolen it, the prick. He lost his knife after the fall so he’ll have to approach the noise defenseless. Creeping over to the rustling grass the agent hoped it was a wounded animal caught up in the Helo crash, but the noises sounded too human.
Getting close enough he could differentiate the black specs uniform against the green. Holy shit someone is still alive. Jogging the rest of the way, Blackjack got a better look at his teammate and saw they’re curled up clutching their head, the whimpering growing more distressed. Kneeling down he helped them to their feet. It’s Kelvin but as soon as Blackjack let go of the other man, the brunet swayed, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Hey buddy you with me?” Blackjack snapped in front of the shorter man’s face and got no response. “God dammit.”
What’s he working with here? Concussion? Taking Kelvin’s head between his hands, the agent began inspecting for damage. Feeling a swollen, wet spot of matted hair towards the right side of his hairline and- “Jesus fuck.”
Blood rivers from both ears. Shit. They must have ruptured during the crash when Kelvin fell out of the Helo. He doesn’t have his helmet on right now so it’s possible the air pressure sucked it off and ruptured his eardrums. Kelvin’s head lulled limply as Blackjack turned it this way and that. The taller guy’s face scrunched in apprehension. Dude is out of it. Practically a vegetable on legs right now. Not only is Kelvin’s hearing gone, but there’s a concussion or brain damage on top of that.
Reaching into his vest, Blackjack pulled out a packet of smelling salts and uncapped the tip. Waving the vial under the brunet’s nose. Kelvin blinked and a full body shutter went through him head to toe. Capping the vial, the agent put it away then waved his pen in front of the shorter guy’s face until Kelvin’s eyes began to clear up and track it.
“There we go…” rummaging through another pocket, he pulled out a notepad, writing out a quick message of \\follow me\\ and holding it up to Kelvin’s face. The dazed guy stumbled back, arms limp at his sides before he leaned forward, squinting as he read the note. Standing back up straight, Kelvin stood still and stared at Blackjack for a long moment before giving a slow nod.
Great, good, he can work with this. Jogging over to the crash zone, Blackjack started clearing out every fallen crate he could. Easily finding the bright yellow emergency bags littered on the forest floor and grabbing all four of them. They all have the same shit but it never hurts to have backups. Hatchet, guidebook, lighter, and the GPS.
While his back was turned Kelvin had gathered up a lot of the scattered cases and stacked them into a wobbly pyramid. The other agent gave the pile a lopsided smile before wincing and clutching the right side of his head. Blackjack hurried over and took Kelvin’s head in hand again, tilting the shorter man’s face up to the light. Yep that’s what he was afraid of, Kelvin’s pupils are dilated. He’s seen the other symptoms: headache, confusion, delayed response, dazed… This has to be a grade three to four concussion with the symptoms of perforated eardrums and whiplash if Kelvin’s arm movements are any indicator.
Anymore blunt trauma and Kelvin would have been a flipping vegetable.
Keeping the walking pile of mush in his peripheral, Blackjack quickly unboxed each crate and loaded up what he could into packs and in their vests. He kept hold of the weapons, not trusting the brunet to not accidentally injure himself further. Stored away first aid kits, MREs, and glow sticks. Keycards for the mission were tucked into his vest. Tossing a pack at the other operative, Blackjack slung the other over his shoulders, doing a quick ‘follow me wave’ and tromping off Northwest. It didn’t take more than a handful of steps for him to realize Kelvin hadn’t moved.
Sighing through his nose, the larger man turned around to see his teammate hadn’t even put the backpack on, just holding it confusedly. Blackjack ran a hand through his raven hair and took the bag, threading Kelvin’s arms through the loops and buckling it in front. Fishing out his notebook, he flipped it open to the \\follow me\\ page, holding it up as he made the waving motion again. Deliberately and slowly so his teammate's eyes could keep up. Kelvin made no response that he understood but as Backjack stepped in the direction they needed to go, the shorter guy matched his move.
Progress.
The GPS showed his and Kelvin’s tracker on the map; Alpha pilot and Fisheye’s trackers were deactivated in his vest pocket. Bravos’ trackers blipped on the map. They’re on the right beach for drop but that doesn’t mean they didn’t have unexpected visitors. He kept an eye on the trackers for movement, every so often glancing behind himself at Kelvin. The poor guy is having trouble keeping up and is tripping over his own feet. Blackjack turns on his heel, going up to the shorter dude and grabbing his wrist. Pulling Kelvin behind him. His hand keeping the brunet steadier. He’ll let the concussed guy rest later, right now they need to get secure and establish radio contact.
One kilometer later and Bravos’ trackers remained still. Assuming KIA, Blackjack planned on salvaging Bravos’ Helo before heading to the Mess-hall bunker. Optimistically, there’s a working radio. If not then he’ll have to find a way to resurrect Fisheye so the geek can jerry rig them up a radio out of Helo parts. The joke didn’t make the agent feel any better. It just brought up the crushing reality they might be stuck until another team is sent out. Fuck this sucks.
At the treeline over the bay, Blackjack can already tell his previous assumption was correct. Motionless black shapes lay on the white sand; rectangular boxes strewn about and only scraps of a helicopter are left over. Checking the corpses verified the survivors were shot and killed.
This really fucking sucks.