(( Explanation of Dover's absence.
WARNING: Mangling of UK slang. No, Dover's not turning into a cat. Nor a catboy, or some horrid fursona.
Fine. A catboy. ))
The walls of the Four Seasons room seemed to expand and contract over the dull wave of pain. Dover bit his lip, trying to bring the room into focus.
It should have been a simple op - blast the rent-a-cops, stab the execs and wanna-be execs in the face, steal their tech, then extract.
But noooo, the recon had to be fucking botched and the arsehole controller give them loads of bollocks - "security would be light". Yeah, good excuse for not giving them better weapons, the ones that fired something that would actually hurt a corp in a combat suit, like a bloody .50AE or .45 rifle, or Hell, even .38 would have done the Goddamn job. Hell, those damn laser rifles brought in from one of those extra-dimensional armies.
Not only did several junior executives escape and there'd be mass media hysteria over "Ghost Ops" or whatever they'd label them, then have a bunch of Corporate Council soldiers harass the Pentagon over the Ops, the fucking teleporter that they were supposed to steal instead had to get their arses out of the Arc, and while they were hopping into the teleporter (supposedly reverse-engineered, a better version of the one they had used before the incident), a sniper sheared through his fucking arm.
Obviously, not even 2142 tech stopped 2070 bullets.
The team got dumped all over Seattle, the destination on the other end, and now there were corps swarming all over Seattle looking for "suspicous soldiers."
By then, he'd had changed into the familiar scientist disguise and slipped off, attempting notto spray blood all over the place when clutching the damn arm.
The Star Sapphire wasn't up yet, so he justed wasted his cash from the other day's run on a damn room at the Four Seasons.
Waste of money... then again, he wasn't risking a stay at that Goddamn honey-comb motel, or coffins, whatever they called them, where one might wake up with a idiot in a trenchcoat jamming a Pred in your face and demanding your wallet.
Waste of .700NE ammo, not to mention waking up everyone and having a bunch of cops chase you.
The gauze was leaking again, and the field kit was about to run dry of gauze. The TransComm was fried, and he wasn't going to risk getting on Shadowland to call for Catfish or Kitten.
In the meantime, he had to get some sleep.
An hour later, and he was still wide awake.
He swore there was something in one of the teleport pods when the team was running, and it was probably a cat or some other Goddamn feline.
His legs and hands were aching like Hell, his teeth felt sharp, and his eyes were fucking itchy.
He tried to move his arms, only giving him stabbing pain.
There was a crack of thunder, then Seattle's clouds immediately started pounding the streets. The lights in the hotel went out, and the various yuppies in the other rooms started cursing in surprise..
Although his eyes were watering, itchy, and most likely bloodshot, the room still looked... lighted, yet dim.
The pain in his legs let up, and with a groan, he dragged himself to the bathroom. The lights gave another weak flicker.
Dover dragged himself to the sink, then grabbed it and raised himself up to the mirror.
His eyes were giving off some bizarre glow, and there were... whiskers on his lips. Dover never did well with natural facial hair - it usually made his face look like a hairy beast, curling in all directions, irritating his skin.
He attempted to turn on the water, then paused and looked at his hands.
What the fuck? They were horridly disfigured. Two were sticking together, and it was covered in some sort of weird fuzz. Black, odd spots covered parts of his palm, and it felt like there was something embedded in his fingers...
(( Update later. The sucking creativity void struck.
NOTE: Black Ops steals from other universes. "Incident" refers to "The Experiment", or "Why the SR world is fucked up beyond all repair and overrun with asses". ))
"Those that live by the sword get shot by those that don't."