Abilities: Aquila is a shrewd, clever thief; a brilliant strategist who makes an effort to establish an intimate understanding with the situation, patient and thorough, but quick thinking and even quicker with his hands.
Possessing no powers strictly magical, he prefers to fight by hand and foot except when threatened by immediate lethal force. He has perfected the art of moving in total silence by his own right, shifting like shadows in the night.
He does however have a natural affinity for his eagle, and they work together as a pair in tight situations, and jokingly he often refers to the eagle as an angel sent down to help him. The extent to which this belief is genuine he neither confirms nor denies.
Over the years he's collected an amalgam of different martial styles including those used by the IDF and the US Armed Forces. Krav Maga, SEALS CQC, among others. There are things to be learned well from military advisers sent to the Middle East. They've been doing it for years. Such techniques rely on response time and critical targeting, and plenty of dirty fighting to get the job done. While his signature is finesse, there's no show to be made of it.
First Person:
[AUDIO]
[ Aquila's eyes drift once more to the antique piece in his sweatshirt, just visible through the vertical pocket, a glint of brass in the cold sunlight. It's strange. The watch-- well, everything around here is strange. The fact that this little slice of ice hell reminds him of London around this time of year, for those brief stints he'd spent there notwithstanding. There's not a car in sight. Cobblestone roads pave the streets with no carts to run on them. The town is like a living anachronism, yet abandoned to the elements. It's rather empty, except for the occasional shifts in the shadows, the kind he's used to. Most likely, it's people wandering, or scampering about. He sticks to the shadows for the most part, too. He doesn't blame them. It's unnatural, this feeling. But there's nothing to be done about it, as he opens the watch again. It's not a watch, but it would seem like something even more, with a screen and buttons at the side, like a goddamn smart phone. But there's no battery in sight, and no other visible power source. He presses and holds the first button again. It's not labeled. Even more like those goddamn smart phones, but even less user friendly. But there's nothing to be done but see what it does. Maybe it's a phone after all. ]
Ahem. Captain Aquila T. Kirk, USS Enterprise. Captain's Log.
[ The boyish grin on the man's face with his private reference for quite possibly no one to hear of the near universal American culture splits his face in half as he chuckles to himself. A red light seems to beep on the watch, possibly indicating a recording, which continues as he releases the button. ]
I've arrived in a strange new sector, on a previously unknown planet, presumably where white people once lived, but are now...extinct. By God, Spock, I think we've found the Garden of Eden.
[ The button is pressed again, and the little red light on the screen stops beeping. He waits a moment, before tapping the same button once more. Sure as he expects, his mock serious voice plays back in his accented English clear as day, and he raises an eyebrow. Things continue to grow stranger by the minute. Ill Eagle squawks from a nearby window ledge. The young man's brown eyes travel up to the bird's perch. He lets out a short snort of laughter, shoving the pocket watch back into his sweatshirt and whistling. The eagle flutters down to rest on his raised arm, cooing softly. He raises his hand to ruffle the feathers on Ill's head, and looks back out at the city, in all its cold and hard, red brick and cobblestone glory. ]
I don't think we're in Ramallah anymore, Ill.
Third Person:
He couldn't remember what happened. It blurred, somewhere around the moment he slipped through the warehouse doors. The ring of a nine-mill parabellum ricocheting off the steel door an inch from his ear had sent his senses off like a raid siren, and things were spinning. Slamming the lock shut, he ran, as he was wont to do, straight for the cage. Rough hands seized the cage, rousing the sleeping bird. Ill, roused from his comfortable sleep, squawked noisily, the poor f*cking soul. You get to skip all meals tomorrow for that, he nearly grumbled out loud, as the banging on the door rattled the makeshift bolt lock dangerously.
It was a night raid. They did this fairly regularly. They wouldn't find anything here. Except maybe him-- and momentarily, he considered it. Maybe this was where he'd go down, he thought, as he hurriedly pushed the wrought iron table against the door. It would hold them for a minute longer, probably. Anything could happen in a minute: a getaway, a shootout, a challenge on Iron Chef, a nuclear launch. His breath hung heavy as he dashed back and forth across the warehouse. Couldn't pick up much of the Hebrew, but the word Doorbuster was clear enough. He'd have to act fast, quick, burn the papers, set the red herring-- Squuuueeeaaak.
The man's foot lifted slowly off the errant noisemaker, and his teeth gritted harshly. Sh*t. He-- forgot. Fariha was her name, that little girl. I want the hippo, she said. I saw him on the Television. F*ck, he thought. "F*ck," he whispered as he bent down to pick the toy up. He was dirty now. He'd have to clean him up.
The door shuddered horribly.
The strike team placed the door charge, blew it to kingdom f*cking come, out into the warehouse pouring in with their rifles sweeping the corners and dark spots. Low light vision optics scanned back and forth, the illusion of stealth broken as their equipment jostled while they moved.
"There's nothing here," Elie murmured, as he crept forth from the rear sweep. "He's-- the back window is open."
Corporal Gutzmann flipped up his goggles with a fury unparalleled by any rage Elizer Schweikert had ever imagined. "...Are you f*cking me right now, Schweikert. Are you actually f*cking me. Are you actually shoving your piss stained sad excuse for a pencil dick up my goddamn ass. Are you telling me you didn't take your team around back to secure the rear. Do you know what kind of chickensh*t you're gonna land us in when we get back to the barracks? Huh? Might as well tear down your Hello Kitty My First pantyhose and present your pansy white virgin baby's ass soon as you walk in. Save you the f*ckin time." The reprimand was every bit as sharp as Elie had anticipated.
But Aquila didn't remember that. He was sure their imagination took them on a wild goddamn goose chase. But as his eyes opened to the feeling of a chill running over his entire body, the rumble of wheel on rail, the crack of dawn through the window leading out over endless white plains, it behooved him to wonder where his imagination took him. Nothing hurt more than usual-- and he wasn't bound and gagged, sitting rather freely there in a comfortable old fashioned train cabin, velvety seats with Ill on the opposite side in his cage, groggy, fast asleep. Something was off. And it felt like a dream. Some hallucination, not quite lucid enough. It all felt so very odd, but something about it was almost...comforting.
It was quiet. A pleasant quiet with ambient noise, the kind of quiet you could comfortably fall asleep in. And a little bulge in his pocket squeaked as he sat up, clearing his throat of phlegm, and he paused. Right. The hippo bath toy. Cheap little piece of garbage. Fariha. He should give that to her sometime.
Hours passed as he stared out the window. The white on the endless plain was snow, he decided, from the condensate crystalizing on the window, the freezing touch of the glass as he put his hand against it. What a dream was this, back in London, maybe. Did someone come get him? Maybe Omer from Portsmouth was gonna meet him at Heathrow. Flew him in low key. Things were fine. He'd wake up in the London safe house and he'd be back in business getting those One Direction CDs to the girls back in the Golan refugee camp. His eyes fell closed again.
The train stopped, and as if by command, his eyes opened, and he grabbed the cage and his backpack, rising and heading toward the exit-- though the delirium remained. He wondered if they drugged him-- put him on some sort of amnestics to cover the exfil operation. Better that he'd didn't know, probably. But really? That strong? It felt like he had to leave. And it was worrying to him. Too quiet, he decided. When the train stopped and the doors slid open, he expected the roar of Heathrow station.
He got pure, terrible silence, a cold and stale air of silence, the kind of silence where the sound of your breath kept you up at night because it was too loud. The sound of your thoughts seemed the only reasonably quiet sound. But thoughts alone were dangerous. Thoughts idle were dangerous.
It was then he noticed the unfamiliar weight in his sweatshirt pocket. A gloved hand rose to fondle a hard, rounded lump therein. A fingernail flicked against the object. Metal. Cocking his head as the doors shut behind him, not even having recalled exiting the train, he slid his hand into the sweatshirt pocket. As he drew the object from its comfortable little shelter, his tongue escaped his mouth and licked his lips, only to have the saliva freeze on his skin.
Re: REVISION REQUESTED
Possessing no powers strictly magical, he prefers to fight by hand and foot except when threatened by immediate lethal force. He has perfected the art of moving in total silence by his own right, shifting like shadows in the night.
He does however have a natural affinity for his eagle, and they work together as a pair in tight situations, and jokingly he often refers to the eagle as an angel sent down to help him. The extent to which this belief is genuine he neither confirms nor denies.
Over the years he's collected an amalgam of different martial styles including those used by the IDF and the US Armed Forces. Krav Maga, SEALS CQC, among others. There are things to be learned well from military advisers sent to the Middle East. They've been doing it for years. Such techniques rely on response time and critical targeting, and plenty of dirty fighting to get the job done. While his signature is finesse, there's no show to be made of it.
First Person:
[AUDIO]
[ Aquila's eyes drift once more to the antique piece in his sweatshirt, just visible through the vertical pocket, a glint of brass in the cold sunlight. It's strange. The watch-- well, everything around here is strange. The fact that this little slice of ice hell reminds him of London around this time of year, for those brief stints he'd spent there notwithstanding. There's not a car in sight. Cobblestone roads pave the streets with no carts to run on them. The town is like a living anachronism, yet abandoned to the elements. It's rather empty, except for the occasional shifts in the shadows, the kind he's used to. Most likely, it's people wandering, or scampering about. He sticks to the shadows for the most part, too. He doesn't blame them. It's unnatural, this feeling. But there's nothing to be done about it, as he opens the watch again. It's not a watch, but it would seem like something even more, with a screen and buttons at the side, like a goddamn smart phone. But there's no battery in sight, and no other visible power source. He presses and holds the first button again. It's not labeled. Even more like those goddamn smart phones, but even less user friendly. But there's nothing to be done but see what it does. Maybe it's a phone after all. ]
Ahem. Captain Aquila T. Kirk, USS Enterprise. Captain's Log.
[ The boyish grin on the man's face with his private reference for quite possibly no one to hear of the near universal American culture splits his face in half as he chuckles to himself. A red light seems to beep on the watch, possibly indicating a recording, which continues as he releases the button. ]
I've arrived in a strange new sector, on a previously unknown planet, presumably where white people once lived, but are now...extinct. By God, Spock, I think we've found the Garden of Eden.
[ The button is pressed again, and the little red light on the screen stops beeping. He waits a moment, before tapping the same button once more. Sure as he expects, his mock serious voice plays back in his accented English clear as day, and he raises an eyebrow. Things continue to grow stranger by the minute. Ill Eagle squawks from a nearby window ledge. The young man's brown eyes travel up to the bird's perch. He lets out a short snort of laughter, shoving the pocket watch back into his sweatshirt and whistling. The eagle flutters down to rest on his raised arm, cooing softly. He raises his hand to ruffle the feathers on Ill's head, and looks back out at the city, in all its cold and hard, red brick and cobblestone glory. ]
I don't think we're in Ramallah anymore, Ill.
Third Person:
He couldn't remember what happened. It blurred, somewhere around the moment he slipped through the warehouse doors. The ring of a nine-mill parabellum ricocheting off the steel door an inch from his ear had sent his senses off like a raid siren, and things were spinning. Slamming the lock shut, he ran, as he was wont to do, straight for the cage. Rough hands seized the cage, rousing the sleeping bird. Ill, roused from his comfortable sleep, squawked noisily, the poor f*cking soul. You get to skip all meals tomorrow for that, he nearly grumbled out loud, as the banging on the door rattled the makeshift bolt lock dangerously.
It was a night raid. They did this fairly regularly. They wouldn't find anything here. Except maybe him-- and momentarily, he considered it. Maybe this was where he'd go down, he thought, as he hurriedly pushed the wrought iron table against the door. It would hold them for a minute longer, probably. Anything could happen in a minute: a getaway, a shootout, a challenge on Iron Chef, a nuclear launch. His breath hung heavy as he dashed back and forth across the warehouse. Couldn't pick up much of the Hebrew, but the word Doorbuster was clear enough. He'd have to act fast, quick, burn the papers, set the red herring-- Squuuueeeaaak.
The man's foot lifted slowly off the errant noisemaker, and his teeth gritted harshly. Sh*t. He-- forgot. Fariha was her name, that little girl. I want the hippo, she said. I saw him on the Television. F*ck, he thought. "F*ck," he whispered as he bent down to pick the toy up. He was dirty now. He'd have to clean him up.
The door shuddered horribly.
The strike team placed the door charge, blew it to kingdom f*cking come, out into the warehouse pouring in with their rifles sweeping the corners and dark spots. Low light vision optics scanned back and forth, the illusion of stealth broken as their equipment jostled while they moved.
"There's nothing here," Elie murmured, as he crept forth from the rear sweep. "He's-- the back window is open."
Corporal Gutzmann flipped up his goggles with a fury unparalleled by any rage Elizer Schweikert had ever imagined. "...Are you f*cking me right now, Schweikert. Are you actually f*cking me. Are you actually shoving your piss stained sad excuse for a pencil dick up my goddamn ass. Are you telling me you didn't take your team around back to secure the rear. Do you know what kind of chickensh*t you're gonna land us in when we get back to the barracks? Huh? Might as well tear down your Hello Kitty My First pantyhose and present your pansy white virgin baby's ass soon as you walk in. Save you the f*ckin time." The reprimand was every bit as sharp as Elie had anticipated.
But Aquila didn't remember that. He was sure their imagination took them on a wild goddamn goose chase. But as his eyes opened to the feeling of a chill running over his entire body, the rumble of wheel on rail, the crack of dawn through the window leading out over endless white plains, it behooved him to wonder where his imagination took him. Nothing hurt more than usual-- and he wasn't bound and gagged, sitting rather freely there in a comfortable old fashioned train cabin, velvety seats with Ill on the opposite side in his cage, groggy, fast asleep. Something was off. And it felt like a dream. Some hallucination, not quite lucid enough. It all felt so very odd, but something about it was almost...comforting.
It was quiet. A pleasant quiet with ambient noise, the kind of quiet you could comfortably fall asleep in. And a little bulge in his pocket squeaked as he sat up, clearing his throat of phlegm, and he paused. Right. The hippo bath toy. Cheap little piece of garbage. Fariha. He should give that to her sometime.
Hours passed as he stared out the window. The white on the endless plain was snow, he decided, from the condensate crystalizing on the window, the freezing touch of the glass as he put his hand against it. What a dream was this, back in London, maybe. Did someone come get him? Maybe Omer from Portsmouth was gonna meet him at Heathrow. Flew him in low key. Things were fine. He'd wake up in the London safe house and he'd be back in business getting those One Direction CDs to the girls back in the Golan refugee camp. His eyes fell closed again.
The train stopped, and as if by command, his eyes opened, and he grabbed the cage and his backpack, rising and heading toward the exit-- though the delirium remained. He wondered if they drugged him-- put him on some sort of amnestics to cover the exfil operation. Better that he'd didn't know, probably. But really? That strong? It felt like he had to leave. And it was worrying to him. Too quiet, he decided. When the train stopped and the doors slid open, he expected the roar of Heathrow station.
He got pure, terrible silence, a cold and stale air of silence, the kind of silence where the sound of your breath kept you up at night because it was too loud. The sound of your thoughts seemed the only reasonably quiet sound. But thoughts alone were dangerous. Thoughts idle were dangerous.
It was then he noticed the unfamiliar weight in his sweatshirt pocket. A gloved hand rose to fondle a hard, rounded lump therein. A fingernail flicked against the object. Metal. Cocking his head as the doors shut behind him, not even having recalled exiting the train, he slid his hand into the sweatshirt pocket. As he drew the object from its comfortable little shelter, his tongue escaped his mouth and licked his lips, only to have the saliva freeze on his skin.
"It's cold," he murmured quietly.