ARCHIVED: IC: Shores of Añola

The church bells rang, the shining bells swayed side-to-side at the pull of a rough, jarring rope. The city filled with the deafening clangs and chimes of the clapper hitting the silver, inches-thick bell-head that was engraved with a simple design that artistically displayed the founding of Old Añola, before the McMasterdonians established what was known today, on the outside, near the bottom. The bell didn't shine in the sun. Black, consuming clouds loomed over the city of Paubloro, the wretched, soul-sucking city that had no culture, no emotion and where the people never spoke, only stared with their dead, zombie-like eyes as they trudged off to whichever building they worked or lived. The palace itself was demolished over a decade ago and replaced with a replica that was made of steel and glass to match the towering skyscrapers that surrounded it. One could not even begin to fathom how bland the city was in their mind, it was endless waves of grey, white and black with little-to-no variation on any buildings besides the rare McGonnalds restaurant that was filled with vibrant, ecstatic colours that represented the traditional village-life of Añola. It was Carlos' attempt to seem modern, to impress the foreigns in order to keep them from Añola, he'd failed a long time ago.
 
As the other agents gazed up in dread, the lead agent noticed a glimmer of polished silver. It was another guard, clad in medieval armour and brandishing an enormous, bloodstained steel sword. The AFI agent raised his umbrella and squeezed the trigger once, two times, three times, into the chest of the guard. The bullets easily pierced the armour without being hindered, before going through the guard's chest. Each bullet spun and fragmented, shredding the guard's internal organs. The first pierced the intestines, pulverizing the membrane, causing the smell of half-digested food and faecal matter to spread throughout the room. The second minced the liver and stomach, and the third annihilated the heart and lungs.

The other agents glanced over as the guard collapsed onto the floor. The shooter calmly walked towards the guard's corpse and pressed the trigger once more, into the guard's skull. The body convulsed once more, and then was still.

"Looks like this guy killed the King." he noted, gesturing with his umbrella towards the bloodstained blade, which had clattered out of the guard's hand. "All right, you Syrixians go free your hostages or whatever, we'll hold off any guards that show up. If they see the King's body you can bet your asses that they won't stop to find evidence exonerating us, that's for sure."

First draft written by Xentherida, and revised by me with edits suggested by Cronaal and Syrixia.
 
The AFI agents were holding up the former King's guards. The CIT agents were now alone, below the palace in the dark catacombs of the dungeon. The room smelled thickly of blood and of dust. It was clear that wherever the hostages were, they were not in good shape. The agents rounded the corner to see just this; starved-looking people, who appeared to be quietly chanting laments. The agents weren't sure if it was because of physical agony or the woe they had been through, but it was probably both. One agent stepped up. "CIT, Most Serene Republic of Syrixia. We're gonna get you out of here."
 
While this was happening, the two Chinooks were settling down onto the cold, hard Añolan ground. As soon as it made touchdown, the twenty Section Alpha members jumped out and began to inspect the area around them for guards. Above them, hovering quietly, were half a dozen Apache AH1 attack choppers, there to keep an eye on any hostiles arriving by air.

When the area was deemed void of security guards, fourteen of the strike team members began to set themselves up for guard duty; lying on the hard earth, watching vigilantly for threats. The remaining six began their job; dropping down into the tunnel.

The pale moonlight was soon obscured by the darkness of the tunnel, though this was not a problem for their night-vision goggles. They slowly progressed; four facing forwards, the other two covering the rear, sneaking their way through the shaft. However, soon enough, they came across the dungeon, and the Syrixian hostages, along with the CIT agents. They revealed their knives, and turned on the red flashlights on their guns, bathing the room in a deep, crimson glow. "Alright. We'll help you remove their bindings and cover you as you evac. Get to the choppers, as fast as possible." One SA member quietly, almost silently, whispered to the CIT members.

(OOC: I made this under the presumption that its night-time (in which most raids happen) and that the hostages are bound, although not gagged (as shown by one chanting laments, in which Syrixia described.))
 
"Here comes another squad," an agent said conversationally, using a mirror to peek around the shattered doorway of the throne room.
"Defensive positions," said the lead agent calmly. The agents moved quickly to their spots, readying their weapons.
The first three guards appeared in the doorway, firing. Two shots from the umbrella and a razor card brought them down quickly, but another five appeared, briefly forcing the agents away from the doors before a grenade from the wheelchair blasted the guards to pieces.
"Activate the trap!" shouted the lead agent. Another explosion, this time outside the throne room, rocked the castle.
An agent peered cautiously out. "Nice job with the det cord, mate. Really not much left worth mentioning, just a load of the red stuff and another wrecked chandelier."
Another agent joined him. "Damn," he grumbled, "that was the last chandelier. I'll have to start laying it on the floor, and they'll notice the results of that a lot quicker. How many guards does this guy have, anyway?"
"At least ten squads on duty at any given time," a female agent piped up, "and the guard'll change soon."
The second agent groaned. "Go tell the Syrixians to hurry it up."
 
The CIT agents rushed to the choppers, instructing the Syrixian-Añolans to escape in Xentherida's chinooks. They radioed the AFI to get out of there before escaping into the skies above Paubloro, while the chinooks drove. Both choppers and chinooks headed towards the Paubloro airport. They had a contact there who would get them on the runway where the getaway plane was without being noticed.

(Short bcus I'm in school rn)
 
An agent peered through the window. "They're out!"
"All right," said the leader. "Let's disappear."

Five minutes later, a squad of guards ran down the hallway toward the throne room--- only to find that the rubble and wreckage from the doors, walls, and chandeliers had been piled in front of the entrance to the throne room, and for some reason, cords seemed to be lashing several larger objects together. The guards approached slowly. One touched the cords.
"Now," said the leader.
The det cord exploded, instantly killing most of the guards and wounding the rest badly. An agent walked over to the wounded guards, pressing poison darts into their arms. Each struggled feebly before relaxing slowly.
"Let's go," said the lead agent. All of the agents had gathered outside of the throne room, hiding in closets, alcoves, and doorways, and they now stepped out calmly. The lead agent gestured, and the AFI agents walked through the palace, going out the way they came in.
 
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