ubercharged.net

Please note that this is the prologue only; more will come in this series.

*    *    *

Bank of England

December 10, 2012

The blanket of the dark night fell upon the guards nervously patrolling the exterior of the bank. And with it, came the supernatural feel of trepidation and fear. It was a feeling that all soldiers, no matter how brave, no matter how decorated, experience when they know that there are forces out there that they cannot control. On this night, such a feeling was felt by all.

Perhaps it was the fact that the members of the unit had been informed, by their commander, that the risk of the bank being attacked was greater than ever. All remembered the commander’s harsh, unforgiving words. All remembered the tone of his voice, the one that indicated a member may leave the unit and never return again.

The nervous sentry leaned back on his chair, snuggled in his post. He was overlooking the front part of the bank. Though such a view may have given him an advantage during the day, it was pointless now – night had obscured his vision. In fact, such a post was very likely to be attacked first.

A voice crackled through the soldier’s walkie-talkie, interrupting his thoughts. “Probably Perkins,” thought the soldier as he prepared to respond.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The sentry thought it unusual that Perkins would chatter at a time like this. Usually, the messages he received were direct orders, not friendly greetings. Now was not the time for such.

“Hey…ummm…(the soldier thought he could hear Perkins licking his lips nervously)…shift’s over. Move.”

Glad to be relieved of his duty, the soldier left his post and headed down cheerfully, where Perkins would take his place. He thought Perkins’s voice was unusually shaky, though. It sounded like he was forced to say something. It sounded…wrong.

Heart beating and soldier’s instinct taking over, the soldier burst into the room, where Perkins was to be found. He knew there was a breach, and Perkins was probably deceased. And he knew even before he entered the room and laid eyes on Perkins’s corpse.

No pulse. The guard took his finger off Perkins’s still warm neck and looked around. Cause of death? It wasn’t hard to identify – a knife to the back. Shock and paralysis was too much for the poor man. Blood loss would’ve finished him off anyways. But who?

The guard had no time to ponder about the assailant. Either way, he was long gone and had fulfilled his duty. The rest now laid upon his associates, who were ready to pounce the second the guard left his post and failed to inform his colleagues about the invaders. In which they did.

BOOM

Dark assailants poured into the hole formed by the explosion. With all of the guards outside, the attackers instantly overpowered the guard’s unit and entered the bank. The guards outside could do nothing – though they surrounded the attackers, they could not defeat the invaders, who held a fortified position in the bank already.

The guard, laying on the floor, shielded by his dismembered colleague and numerous house deeds, looked on in amazement at the brutal efficiency of the invasion. His colleagues died the moment they tried to enter the bank, being blown up by…rocket launchers?

Almost too shocked to move, the soldier eventually did sneak back out in order to call for reinforcements. The commander had been right – today was that day in which they would ultimately come.

As the guard approached the safe door, where he thought he could safely call for help, he felt a cold prescence, a chill that ran down his spine. And he knew that his time had come. He would now join his colleagues.

“Cheers,” mumbled the assassin, albeit with a French accent. The guard was unconscious before he even hit the ground. Three strikes to the back of the neck.

The dark invaders eventually caught up to the assassin, and pointed their rocket launchers at the supine guard. All was quiet.

“No,” hissed the Frenchman. “Leave one alive; he needs to live to tell the tale.” And with that, he suavely strolled over the unconscious body and took the latest British intelligence from the safe. Nobody saw a thing as both assasssin and invaders disappeared into the night.

The invasion made headlines as the world knew of the invasion. It was not the first time, though. Numerous other places had been robbed internationally. And the world knew of the coming troubles and the troubled diplomatic relations between each and every country.

It should be interesting, though, that when the Scotland Yard detectives examined the scene, they found an army helmet. One unique to that of the U.S. Army’s.

*    *    *

Secret CIA Base

Experts claim that the U.S. attacked the Bank of England -

The U.S. is denying any involvement -

Diplomatic relations have been broken between Germany and -

Protests call for the U.S. government to come out with -

The T.V. was shut off, but deep within the secret CIA base, the new reports rang within the heads of many at the conference table. CIA operatives rubbed their heads in confusion and the Secretary of State was taking an unusually long “restroom break.” Worst of all, though, they had no answers or solutions. And the President of the United States, who was sitting at the end of the table, demanded them.

“Well, any plans?” asked the President.

The members of his cabinet nervously wringed their hands and struggled to find the right words to say. What could they do?

The General of the Army rose up and banged his hand on the table. “I say we prep the army right now and go looking for those imposters!”

The Secretary of State, emerging from the restroom, scowled. “Then the other countries will think that we really did it. Wouldn’t it look suspicious, us building up our forces? And beside, we have no idea where to start. They struck internationally.”

Then ensued a lively discussion. Arrange for a global international force? No way, Jose, remarked one of the CIA operatives. Diplomatic relations have been broken already. Almost all of the nations had walked out on that U.N. meeting. Negotiate? I told you before, said the disgruntled Secretary of State. We don’t know whom to negotiate with.

At long last, the President dismissed the meeting with a wave of his hand. It was clear, though, that the pained look on his face indicated his displeasure. As the cabinet members and CIA operatives quickly shuffled out of the room quickly (the President started smoking; even though he had quit, smoking meant that he was incredibly agitated), the President walked out of the room to get back on Air Force One, to get back to the White House. He had numerous meetings scheduled today with foreign ministers and diplomats, and he had yet to answer difficult questions. And those reporters! Dear God.

The President marched over the lawn and was about to climb into Air Force One when a harried-looking (but well-dressed) man caught up to him and put his hand on the President’s shoulder.

“Wait Mr. President. I think I have an idea.”

The President didn’t stop walking. ”Let’s talk in the plane, Blair.”

As the plane took off, the President and his chief diplomat sat at the table on opposite sides. The President knew that Blair always had something – his chief diplomat had gotten him out of diplomatic trouble numerous times. Once, he almost put up his shoes when he was meeting with Arab leaders. Thank god Blair told him not to – it would’ve been worse than the time when he accidentally used his left hand to shake the Indian President’s hand.

Blair adjusted his tie nervously and took out papers from his briefcase. “I think you might take into consideration my plan…”

The President glared. “Is it the one about us staging a dramatic rescue performed by the U.S. to make us look good again?”

“No no, Mr. President,” blustered Blair. “I meant this plan.” And with that, he opened his briefcase to reveal numerous pictures.

Mr. President scanned the pictures. “What do these people have to do with preventing World World III?”

“They have everything to do with prevention, Mr. President,” explained Blair. “I was thinking of getting secret operatives to take down the enemy covertly. And these are the operatives.”

“Wait wait – why don’t we use the CIA?”

“If they get caught, we’re all screwed. They have little affiliation with us whatsoever, so if they do get caught, we could think of another plan.”

Mr. President took a deep breath. The smell of cigarettes filled the plane. The President looked at the clouds outside of the window. He could almost see a storm brewing.

Finally, the President said, “I trust you Blair. Almost more than anyone else. I’ll let you carry it out. But two conditions. One; you fill me in on all the details.”

“Of course.”

“And two; you are in charge of rounding those gentlemen up.”

Blair gulped. Too much to handle? It was too late now, anyways. And  Blair felt confident that it was his job to stop Armageddon. “Yes. I’ll handle it.”

The wrinkles on the President’s forehead disappeared. “Good,” breathed the President as he got up from his chair. “Let’s talk once we get to the White House.” The President went off into another room to take a nap. It was a troublesome day, but he hoped that things would turn out fine. Blair had never failed him before – why would he now?

Blair breathed deeply as he scanned those pictures one more time. A young man turned MLB star player. A WWII soldier. A masked man. A known Communist. That former professor at MIT. The drunken African-American man. The ex-Nazi. And the well-dressed assassin. Not too much on him - he really was secretive.

He picked up the photo of the man with shades, the one with a Sniper rifle and distinctive hat. He was the one Blair was looking for right now. He was the one who, if found, could give a chance for the plan to succeed. It was a long shot, but it was the only one they had. With a final glance, Blair shuffled the photos back into his briefcase, adjusted his tie, and laid back on the couch. There was a long day ahead for him.

The plane sailed over the clouds, and into a menacing storm. But much to the pilot’s surprise, it subsided, and a ray of sunlight broke through. As the plane sailed off into the distance, Blair shielded his eyes as he squinted over the horizon, where a greater storm was brewing, one that possibly could not disappear so easily. But even though the light blinded Blair, he was glad for it.

What a great metaphor thought Blair. The metaphor, in fact, is the light being compared to a flickering, but bright ray of hope. A ray of hope that Blair hoped would be brought by a fantastic team assembled to meet the greatest challenge any had ever faced.

That team would be known as the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

I apologize if there is little TF2 content in the Prologue. I had to set the setting, and I didn’t want to spill all the beans…yet. Stay tuned for Part 1 of the series (which will have more TF2 involvement), and I hope all of you enjoy the series as much as I will.