I would just like to note down that this story was written for a community-competition, and during a very short time (4-5 days), so some parts might appear a bit rushed (albeit I daresay that it's not too noticeable). Also, despite the fact that this story is fully completed, I may come back for some grammar-checks in the near future.
That's it for author's notes, really: read and enjoy!
Prologue
New London, Western European Ward
23:14, 3rd of October, 2034.
Jackal
Soon after the natural darkness of the night descended upon the bustling city of New London, the newly introduced, temporary curfew came into effect: forcing every non-suspecting civilian to be voluntarily locked into their own homes.
Typically, these curfews lasted as long as it took for the authorities to rid the streets of the people they called 'terrorists'. In reality, however, they lasted as long as it required for all the incriminating evidence to be removed. Depending on the mood of the authorities, this could take any time between two hours to two days. And after that, life in the city-center would continue on as normal.
The events of tonight, however, haven't proceeded that far yet: this evening's firefight only broke out less than an hour ago, however, it wasn't expected to continue for much longer.
The agent codenamed 'Jackal' watched the events unfold on the streets of New London from the abandoned apartment he was currently holed up in: a studio with worn and badly damaged wallpapers, a home-repaired sofa, and an abandoned, dusty metal table. Not exactly a luxurious hotel room, but for him, it served its purpose well enough.
The gum in his mouth was already chewed to a rough, bitter tasting piece of rubber, but he didn't minded this too much: it still served its purpose as a stress relief . he was never a big fan of cigarettes anyway.
And as he stood here, chewing and calmly watching the clash on the streets, he couldn't help but wonder about how his contact could've fucked up such a basic assignment.
Because the man fighting for his life down there, stumbling from cover to cover, wasting his ammunition by pointlessly spraying bullets, was Jackal's Resistance-contact inside New London. The man who was supposed to meet him in this very room half-an-hour ago.
The man who was perhaps the last and only hope of humanity. And yet, Jackal wasn't planning on saving his life.
Despite the fact that Jackal himself was good - in fact, he was the best available for this mission - he was not invincible. If he was to go out there and fight an army, his death would've been certain - and there was no point in trading his life for a few minutes of vengeance.
If he died, everything would've been lost; but if he lived, this situation would've still retained its potential to be fixed.
And so, he waited, bitterly - waited for the inevitable death of his contact, who, by this time, ran out of ammunition, and was now making a run for it.
The man on the street dashed out of his cover, and sprinted across the town square, heading towards an abandoned car nearby. For a moment, Jackal honestly thought that his contact was going to make, but then, seemingly out of nowhere, a plasma beam penetrated his right kneecap.
A loud shriek escaped the man's mouth as he tripped and tumbled to the ground, his clothes now soaked in his own blood. With all the strength he had left in him, he attempted to crawl towards the car's inviting, cushioned seat, his movements becoming weaker and weaker with each passing second.
This continued for a few moments, until finally, another plasma beam's green tinge lighted up the night, ending the man's suffering as it came in contact with the back of his skull.
Curiously, Jackal slowly creeped closer to the window, and, turning his head right, took a look at the rooftop where the two fatal shots were fired from. However, as soon as he saw the yellow and orange tinted scales of the shooter, he immediately pulled back into the shadows, and reached into his pocket.
From there, he pulled out his SIG P320 pistol and a sat-phone with a scrambler attached. He made sure the weapon was chambered and ready to fire, then dialed a set of numbers, and hit the 'call' button.
After a few tense seconds of keeping a watchful eye on the door of the apartment, the person on the other side of the call finally picked up: – Jackal – the deep voice of a middle-aged man could be heard, the years of tactical and combat experience easily detectable from his measured tone – Status?
– He's dead – Jackal stated simply into the receiver.
– Ah, shit – the older man swore; his fingers scratching against his nape could be heard through the call – What are our options?
– There are a few ways to fix this mess... – but before he could continue, a set of shadows marched by in front of the apartment's door, painting dark, menacing shadows across the wooden floor.
Jackal raised his pistol with one hand, the sights steadily aimed at the centre-point of the door. For a few seconds, he waited for the door to be kicked in, and for the authorities to charge in with their weapons blazing.
In the best case scenario, he would've had time to score two headshots before being taken down by the magnetically-accelerated rounds. While bleeding on the floor, he may have had time for another one.
Going out with three kills - not the worst way to die while fighting. If it had to be today, he was ready.
Nonetheless, despite his expectations, nobody barged through the door with the urge to kill him: the shadows walked past, and continued their march down the corridor. Jackal let out a deep sigh of relief, lowered his pistol, and returned to the middle-aged man, who, for about the third time now, was continually asking if he was still there.
– I am. A few of them walked past the door, I was afraid that I may have been compromised – he explained – As I was saying... There are a few options that are still available for us.
– Like what? – the older man asked impatiently.
– It all depends on what they do with the body – Jackal listed – If they don't try any of their tricks this time, I could recover the package directly from his body in the morgue he might be taken to – he paused for a second – However, if they use him to frame a suspected Resistance-member, which is more likely...
– You would have no chance of recovering the package from an evidence storage – the man finished his sentence, then fell silent.
Jackal thought for a second himself, then inquired: – Do we have a mole inside the local civilian police who could provide assistance?
– No one in New London, or the nearby cities – the man answered bitterly – I'm afraid we may be on our own this time. In normal circumstances, I would just simply pull you out, but we both know that these are not normal circumstances. Everything depends on that package.
– I understand – Jackal rubbed his eyes with an open palm. He has worked three weeks on establishing contact and setting up a meeting with the man that now lay dead on the streets outside. He was beginning to grow tired of this single operation, but the potential outcome always kept him motivated to soldier on towards the mission's goal – What are my new orders?
The middle-aged man didn't respond straight away, which could've led anyone to believe that he was ready to scrap the entire operation - and that would've resulted in the eventual, but nevertheless permanent enslavement of humanity.
But Jackal knew him better than that: if there was anything the man on the other side of the receiver would never give up on, it was the chance to liberate Earth from those that conquered her so many years ago.
– How you proceed from this point on is entirely up to your discretion, but do follow standard protocols! – the man finally spoke.
Standard protocols, in this case, referred to two main rules: avoid contact unless it is absolutely necessary, and never shoot or kill any civilians, even if they alert the authorities to your presence. Jackal perfectly understood these operational conditions, and managed to keep to every single one of them so far.
– Other than that, you are granted full operational discretion. Good luck. Central out – the middle-aged man concluded the conversation, then ended the call.
– Understood – Jackal nodded, although only to himself.
Sighing, he broke the sat-phone in half, and hid it in the darkest corner of the apartment. After that, he put the P320 into the holster hidden under his coat, closed the curtains, quietly flipped the table in its, and put the beaten-up sofa in front of the door.
Then, he took out a compact, rolled up mat from his backpack, spread it out across the floor, and, behind the cover and concealment of the table, laid down on it in a position he found comfortable.
He was going to need all the minutes of rest he could possibly get: the next few days, without a doubt, will most likely be extremely difficult to live through.