Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

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Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Dungeon Master on Thu Aug 21, 2014 9:34 am

Description:
Spoiler:


The Yakuza Oyabun, his wife, his daughter, Jin, the head of security, and eight other bodyguards are all riding in First Class. Due to the pull the Yakuza Oyabun has with the airline, who they happen share in an illicit partnership, the bodyguards were allowed to bring with them a single TT pistol each, the lot all having one spare magazine, each holding eight rounds. Jin, on the other hand, forgoes the use of firearms, and thus was allowed to bring along his katana, which is hidden within a wooden sheath under the ruse of a walking stick.

The seating arrangement is as follows, using the picture above as reference; starting from the front-most row of seats, The Oyabun himself is seated in the center seat, his wife is to his left, his daughter to his right. Jin is seated in the center seat behind the Oyabun while the rest of the bodyguards fill the other seats to around and behind him. A few ordinary civilians are seated in the leftover seats behind them closest to the door behind them all, as they were not allowed to get close to the Oyabun

Yakuza Oyabun, Katsuro Jiro:


He's far too old to pose any physical threat, as he is far below even normal human abilities due to his aged body. He carries no weapons.

Yakuza Oyabun's Wife, Katsuro Kaede:


Martial Arts instructor to her daughter and unofficial bodyguard to her husband, she possesses a 6th degree black belt in Aikido, a 4th degree black belt in Judo, and a 2nd degree black belt in Karate. She has peak human abilities across the board. She carries no weapons.

Yakuza Oyabun's Daughter, Katsuro Michiko:


Despite her frail looks, she has been taught self-defense due to her being a high value target for rival syndicates. She has a 3rd degree black belt in Aikdo and is a brown belt in Judo, pushing her reflexes and agility to peak human levels. She carries no weapons.
 

Jin, the Head of Security:

Reflexes are on par with a cat C vampire, while Agility is on par with a Cat D vampire. All other stats are at peak human. Master of Kenjutsu to the highest degree, so much so that he's been nicknamed in the Japanese Underworld as "Hitokiri Jin", or "Manslayer Jin". He is also a third degree black belt in Taekwondo, making him adequate even without his sword.
sword:


The Eight Bodyguards:

All are ordinary humans in terms of stats. Only one out of the eight has peak human physical abilities.All of them are former members of the Japanese Self-Defense Force, making them competent in hand-to-hand combat with a variety of disarming techniques.

Handguns
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Last edited by Dungeon Master on Thu Aug 21, 2014 11:20 am; edited 1 time in total

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Dungeon Master on Thu Aug 21, 2014 11:17 am

It would be almost impossible to describe the feelings of uneasiness the passengers felt about the unruly looking men seated infront of them, their bulk taking up more than half of the entire first class section of seating arrangements. Everything about them practically screamed that they were not the kindest of people, ranging from their slacked posture to the horrid scars which marred their faces. Their brusque demeanor gave off a vibe of routine impertinence, their behavior, which was ripe with temerity, hinted at habitual violence, and the overall vibe of heinous tension which seemed to radiate from the group was enough to make the entire cabin remain utterly silent beneath the veil of tension which it gave birth to.

The feeling was only amplified by the larger man seated ahead of them, situated in the center of the entire row. It wasn't the same delinquent feeling that the others were saturated with, however, as it was far more refined. Unlike the other bodyguards, who were busy conversing with one another in the fog of cigarette smoke that had accumulated from their combined efforts and occasionally engaging in a bit of roughhousing, this man could easily be singled out as a far more fastidious. Seated calmly with his arms crossed, head down with his eyes closed, and what many could only assume to be a walking stick resting in the crook of his enclosed arms.

The only ones not affected by the uneasy atmosphere that the bodyguards had brought upon the cabin were those who had taken their place in the front row, ahead of the murderous individuals behind them. A man, well into his early sixties from the looks of it, had been seated in the center row, with a young woman to his right and an older woman to his left. The youngest, being roughly around her late teens in age, had fallen into a peaceful slumber against the elder man's shoulder, no doubt wishing to sleep through the entire flight.

Still, given the rowdiness of the eight men behind their seats and the fact that the majority of the passengers within their cabin had left to the bar, it gave the elder man and woman more than enough privacy to discuss the business they were on without fear of being overheard. Then again, they would have privacy regardless because not many people outside of the Yakuza present could speak or understand Japanese. The lot were on their way to visit an old family friend in Europe, who happened to belong to the Russian Mafia, to discuss a bit of business, the likes of which was connected to the several hundred pounds of drugs that had been stored within the very plane they were riding within's cargo hatch, and to celebrate the birthday of one of his daughters.

Jiro, having waved over one of the stewardesses in order to be brought a Mr. & Mrs. T Bloody Mary Mix, took the beverage and waved her away. Taking a sip, the Yakuza Oyabun gave a sidelong glance to his wife beside him. He had noticed the uneasy expression on her face ever since the plane had taken off from the airport, and despite her attempts to hide it by crossing her arms and closing her eyes in a mock attempt at sleep, it was blatantly obvious to the old man's experienced eyes. "I know that look. You're troubled about the trip, aren't you?"

Kaede responded by lightly biting her lower lip, her eyes finally opening to return to sidelong glance. "Of course I am, she responded in a harsh enough whisper, being careful to not wake her daughter who was resting. "We've had five assassination attempts in the past five weeks. Why you settled on taking a public airliner instead of one of our own private planes is beyond me, especially since our daughter is with us! Putting yourself in this kind of open situation is borderline suicidal. It's just not pragmatic!"

Jiro took another sip of his drink, taking a moment to process the situation. She had a point, but luckily he had already taken precautions against the very concerns she had raised. "That is exactly why I have taken care of everything. If anyone would try to make an attempt at my life in this environment, they would be dispatched immediately. You needn't worry, my dear. I have everything under control. Try to relax, will you?"

"Jirō-sama is correct." The gruff voice of the Jin, seated directly behind them, confirmed the Oyabun's claim with a solid ounce of pride in his voice to try and put Kaede's worries to ease, not breaking his posture of imitating sleep. "Everyone of us is armed and capable thanks to Jiro-sama pulling his strings with the airliner, so you should not worry. I will not allow any harm to befall any of you, I stake my pride on it."

"Idiot, this is exactly my point! If we had taken one our own planes, we wouldn't have to worry about any of this!" She replied, a sigh of annoyance escaping her lips in the process."Che... I don't like this at all..." If she were to be honest, the simple fact of taking a public airliner wasn't the only thing bothering her. It was the fact that they were on a public airliner that was packed full of several drugs that belonged to them. Granted, customs were already under their thumb due to payments they had made, but any outside influences could provide additional problems and unforeseeable circumstances. She didn't like that kind of chance even having the slightest possibility of happening.

"Haha, relax. Jin has never let us down before, nor have any of the others, and I doubt they're going to start doing so anytime soon." Jiro replied in an attempt to bring his wife a bit of comfort, which was only reinforced by Jin's comment to solidify the fact.

"I do not plan to, no."

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Americo on Fri Aug 22, 2014 2:18 pm

As he was a respectful member of the cosmopolitan community, Americo decided to don a disguise to which reflects a rich heritage and a respected historical people that have contributed much to scientific, mathematical, astronomical, philosophical and even weapon advances that no doubt the world love for their many achievements done so in the golden age of their days, spurred by a non-dogmatic creed and indubitably without any bias cast in their direction with such veneer of decadent and debauched hatred unreasonable. In this case, Americo had worn a fake beard, long, thick, enough to conceal his face as it was akin to that of a lumberjack's, and matched his hair colour, whilst also wearing a white turban, and a white robe with a normal pair of white jogging pants and a wifebeater underneath such robes and some strap on sandals. Most likely people would be comforted by such a scholarly presence as he has come to take the guise of a man of peace, in spite of his purpose being that of not so peaceful entry in the annals of history. Hehe, anal.

Seated next to a fat person named Bob, whom is an Air Marshal as he has already gotten that impression from staring at the uniform, and the fact that fat douchebag had a pistol holstered in full view of him, whilst that land whale took two seats, probably has his own zipcode, Americo decided he needed to help Americ-- HO HO, he almost thought of his name there, oh no no, it's not Americo, even though he DOES have a disappointment of a daughter who is probably FATTER than that man he sat next to, but he is talking about USA... actually, shouldn't he hate that country for helping them Jews hunt him down? Ah well, they all think he is probably dead anyways. So what Americo does after continually surveying for the merest distortion of mundane mediocrity, is wait till the lights go out, which is natural in airplanes, and for every dumbass to sleep. If they all slept that is, particularly Bob, and if not, as long as the passengers to his side at the same row were asleep which he made sure, and such conditions are fulfilled, a swift hammerfist-like blur spurred with his right hand as he didn't sit by the window but rather by the aisle and Bob should be by the window, would, with skull crushing force, with its velocity, be capable of turning Bob's face into a bloody bowl of gore and blood as his face should be destroyed.

Now he wondered, WHY did he sit all the way back at business class near the very end of the airplane at the very last seats that suspiciously an Air Marshal sat next to him? Was it because he was BLACK? Damn whores. They can suck on his flaccid African Django for all he cared, the same that plowed their moms and impaled her from ass to mou-- alright, right, Americo's medicine is beginning to wear off and he was starting to get homicidal. He is a man of peace, and this was not his way for he does not kill people for a living. That is a total and complete lie. He kills people and he feels guilt with the need to atone for every person he kills. That's also a lie, he sleeps like a baby despite having murdered hundreds personally.

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Dungeon Master on Sat Aug 30, 2014 11:37 am

It wasn't long before the lights in the cabin had been dimmed, allowing the passengers within to spend the majority of the trip asleep, sparing those who lacked the electronic items hours of sleepless boredom. A noticeable majority had done just that, though the remaining individuals who were still awaken, signaled by the shining lights produced from the screens of various accessories, such as laptops and ipads, resisted the allure of sleep in favor of mindless entertainment through popular media and social networking sites.

Bob would be among those who would succumb to sleep, though unlike the others, he would not be waking up from his. The sickening crack of bone, the impact of the back of his head slamming against his seat an the latter's clattering, and the spray of blood spraying out in all directions brought an end to his life, but it also awoke those who were seated infront of the two. One, a rather large, bulky man of African descent, somewhat annoyed that his attempt at sleep was interrupted, had turned to demand that whatever was happening stop so he may get some rest, as did the woman beside him, presumably his wife.

However, what followed was far from expected. The man's shock, which was obvious from the mouthed words of "what the fuck", which would have been audible if not for his wife's sudden shriek of terror and disgust upon her eyes meeting the now unrecognizable Air Marshal, who just happened to have a loving family that would never see him again. Reacting on instinct, as well as going off of the fear of typical stereotypes associated with the presumed assailants garb, the large black man, ironically named Tyrone, had suddenly made a lurching dive forward over the back of his chair in an attempt to retrieve the Air Marshal's sidearm.

The cry of terror from his wife, also ironically named Latonya, had also done another job of awakening a few of those sleeping, and gaining the attention of those still awake that did not have their hearing obscured by headphones and music of questionable quality, the likes of which probably sucked horribly due to modern music failing in ever aspect and falling horribly short of being classified as "good". Among the now alert and somewhat confused crowds were two stewardesses, who quickly came from the galley in an attempt to solve whatever might be the problem.

Latonya's followup shriek of, "Terrorist!", however, awoke a massive shitstorm that pulled the majority of those still dazed into the land of the fully alert and living. One of the stewardesses, almost turning pale at the mere mention of the word and the scene before her, had quickly spun on her heels and quickly tried to reach the elevator, or more specifically, the communications speaker situated directly next to it, so that she could warn the pilot and rest of the airline.

---First Class---

Everyone within the confines of first class, with exception of Kaede, the Oyabun's wife, Jin, the Head of Security, the other eight bodyguards, the likes of which were highly alert, two of which having decided to take a standing position on either side of the door that led into the first class cabin in resemblance to stereotypical guardsman, were asleep; these being the Oyabun himself, his daughter, and the very few civilians who were seated outside the perimeter of bodies that the Eight Bodyguards had made around the Oyabun; Kaede herself still awake in her seat next to them.




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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Americo on Mon Sep 01, 2014 4:05 am

So as far as Americo divulged, the airline was filled with racists, and racists are douchebags that deserve to die. It is by that logic he had set out forth with the ideal that they no longer deserved to live. Seriously, why would EVERYONE assume the first thing at the top of their heads, hostile intent just because he HAPPENED to wear a turban in an airline? Oh, what? Were ALL Germans Nazis? Such rac-- alright, maybe not. He happened to be German, and a former Nazi, but that's besides the point, well, aside from the fact he was part of a most raunchous affair called genocide, but again, BESIDES THE POINT, and even though malcontent politicals have piggybacked on a moral higher ground despite making ironic use of Nazi ideals of Lebensraum, he is STILL appalled that they don't even have the decency to just call it what it is and say it is apartheid. Well, anyways, asides from his fuming at governments, socio-political factors, and views that are his own and nobody else's, he has a job to do, and that's to... snake on a plane. Americo pulls his hand back, his knuckles imprinted with sheer red from the impact which left in its wake a pile of gore with blood flowing outwards like a waterfall from the caved in air marshal's face, good thing he wasn't wearing the seat belt.

Americo's eyesight registered the Tyrone man turning about as he had gravitated his gaze forward to see he had been spotted and later affixed itself whilst keeping notice of his surrounding in a quick span to defuse this situation and pickle he had come into, as the all too familiar expression of shock had settled unto the African... American? Well, he was an African, a chocolate man, and Americo knew all too well that despite different ethnicity in place, there are universal expressions all too recognizable as they contort into something less than favorable in disposition outwardly clearest in its shape. Still, the African was too slow to the draw, that rather than to subdue the assailant, sought to take the firearm which left his arms reaching out ever too forward as he lurched, a very vulnerable moment to which Americo paid in reparations in blood. Americo had aimed to slam his fist with the same skull crushing force as he bestowed unto Bob, now towards Tyrone's skull, with the other hand to his left also speeding simultaneously towards Tyrone's grubby hands trying to reach for the pistol, to parry both with bone shattering force as well with his palm opened up. With the right aisle actually none but the corridor past all those rows of seat at his behest, he would act.

If he had successfully managed to crush Tyrone's skull within the span of time as his arms were a blur of sudden titanic force beyond human norm spearing towards the African, he would, if the African male was dead, push his corpse aside, and reach for the pistol with his left hand to pull out and hold within his grasp as well as all the magazines on Bob's person to pocket before acting out further with new developments that will come to be as he was flexible enough to act out despite the fact there was a sudden alertness to his presence. Good, at least it means they'll blame it on radicals instead of assassins. They always do for some reason.

"OH SURE, when a guy in a turban murders someone, it's terrorism, but when a black guy does it, it's just homicide. FUCK YOU AND YOUR SOCIO-POLITICAL PHRASES, YOU YANKEE FUCKS. LEARN TO TOLERATE OTHER RACES." This coming out from a Nazi was truly an illuminating experience worth mention that perhaps the civilians within the plane would learn the true ideals of fraternity, behind the barrel of a gun pointed at their faces if Americo managed to unmake Tyrone.

Still, if he had managed to kill Tyrone, he'd point the pistol to the nearest window, and fire the bullet to the aisle adjacent to his own. The sudden loss of pressure oughta keep people seated and muffled up in oxygen masks at the very least, thinking that somehow it'd kill them. Morons. Air plane pressure wouldn't kill them if it suddenly depressurizes due to a hole, but due to the stupid idea that it does, as many as other airplane myths like how airplane crashes have a 100% fatality rate explains that in such regard this will cater to Americo's own psychological warfare on the panicking sheep.

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Dungeon Master on Sat Sep 06, 2014 7:42 pm

Tyrone was a large man, even by the standards set by his human kin which filled out the cabin of the plane they had all been using as transport, that height and size being one of a well-toned bodybuilder and well within the six foot range. It stood to reason that, in terms of taking an impact, he would fair far better than the tub of blob that used to be Bob, even for those using basic problem solving. Granted, Tyrone had not the level of reflexes that his assailant did, but the durability of his well-nourished bones should be able to-CRACK!

Welp, so much for that pride in his own body being tough enough to withstand a punch from what he thought to be a terrorist, but otherwise normal human. If he had known, it was likely established that his thoughts would be around something like "really sucks when the guy you're fighting has supernatural strength", if his brain even had time to process such a thing before the impact.

Tyrone's head, or what was left of the cracked cranium of hardened calcium, was violently thrown black in a violent display of fragment, brain matter, and blood, the large man's body coming to rest awkwardly against and over the seats that were now behind him, sprinkling those unfortunate enough to be seated there with all of the previously splattered elements. This was followed by a shriek from his wife, who quickly jumped to her feet and almost lunged toward Tyrone's mutilated form in a passionate display of concern and worry.

The following gunshot did it's job well enough, the window shattering and the sudden alert that played throughout the cabin, as well as the oxygen masks falling from the compartment above, all played to a perfect distraction in the cabin that Americo currently occupied. The shrieks and cries of those in panic by the act would be the only sound being produced from that part of the plane now, no longer filled with distance hums of rather shitty modern music and other media websites.

However, the stewardess who had ran towards the elevator had already been enclosed in the relative safety of it's metal doors, which carried her up to the floor above so as to give her quick access to the first class passengers and the pilots, to which she immediately bolted out of when the doors parted, her path a direct b-line towards the cockpit doors while saying in a tone that wasn't quite a yell nor a normal level of vocal volume, knowing too well that causing everyone to panic would only make the situation worse, the words of: "Everyone, we have a situation! Please stay calm and stay in your seats!"

The passengers hardly heard her over the sound of their own scramble to place the oxygen masks over their faces, oblivious to the fact that it would likely be pointless to do so given that the plane, likely by the captain's hands, had already began a slow descent to maximize oxygen intake by natural means of elevation, given the instruments within the cockpit showing a leak in pressure.

Oddly, the stewardess's arrival was first noticed by Jin, despite not being closest to the door, though his attuned senses allowed him to dance around such observations. However, due to the sound of the ringing gunshot, everyone within the Oyabun's entourage had already become fully aware of what had happened, at least going off of basic problem solving and common sense. In response, the each bodyguards had already withdrawn their firearms and took a position by the elevator, two of them pressing their bodies up against the wall beside the doors, the others taking mock cover behind the seats while their trained their aim on the door.

The only one to remain seated being Jin.

Following the assemblage of the eight, they began to converse amongst themselves in their native tongue of Japanese, excluding all of those within the cabin from the conversation.

The first to speak was the man named Arata, the apathetic and otherwise dull expression across his scarred features leaving little to the imagination, especially to those of his surrounding comrades who knew all too well the mans thought process. "I'mma' guess whoever tha' was is either packin' there own gun or took it from tha' air marshal. Either way, tha sound of it reminds me of a SIG Sauer P250."

"Yeh.." Daisuke responded, pulling the slide back on his Taurus in his preparing for the likely gunbattle that would soon occur. "Crap firepower though. S'long as tha' guy doesn't start shootin' 'oles through out tha' cabin, we should be fine."

"Should we sen' two guys in first, or just wait for him to come at us?" Waraji said, voicing his thoughts of affirmative action and the element of surprise being on their side. It was, after all. Not many people, terrorist or not, hijacked a plane before finding out a Yakuza boss and several lackies were riding first class, most of them lightly armed. It stood to reason that if any Al-Queda had tried to hijack this plane back in the day, those box cutters would've gotten the shit blown out of them by lead moving at lethal speeds.

"I dunno.. Tha' woman already used it ta' escape up here. Anyone goin' down'd likely get holes put in 'em tha' moment the doors open." Gouro replied, taking note of the obvious flaw in using the elevator now. It was the only way up to first class and the cockpit, so it wasn't pragmatic to place themselves in a fatal coffin. It was, however, pragmatic to put whatever dumbass trying to hijack the plane in one.

"Agreed," Arata confirmed, dismissing the two man assault squad as a viable option and thus ending all discussion for the most part amongst them before any of the others had a chance to chime in, to which they wouldn't have anyway, since the tactic was moronic, to which they all agreed. Their focus was strictly on the elevator the entire time they were conversing battle tactics, ready to fire on reflex should the doors open during the discussion.

Granted, they were wise enough to know to avoid firing any shots outside of the elevator, as any missed shots could potentially turn the cabin into Swiss cheese. If they had to, each shot would be well within the confines of the elevator doors and the flesh of anyone stupid enough to be riding it, using the metal of the transporting box to prevent any potential missed shots from damaging the hull of the plane.

The scene would have likely evoked even more panic in the surrounding first class passengers had it not been for the fact that the firearms were not pointed in their direction, and more so aimed at the potential threat that let off the first shot in the class behind and below them, though the nervousness was still present.

The Oyabun, now wide awake with his daughter, had also turned towards the elevator to observe the situation, though he didn't rise from his seat, and neither did his daughter or wife, the two of which were oddly calm due to having been placed in similar situations throughout their lifetime, primarily his daughter, who had learned to cope with such things.

The only thing he received from the latter, however, was an ungodly scowl that could only be summed up in the words "I told you so, dumbass". The response he gave of which was only a half-hearted shrug, seeing this as another tedious situation that would be resolved within due time.

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Americo on Mon Sep 08, 2014 6:17 pm

It was like a crescendo of music to him to listen to the wailing banshee's whistle as air decompresses. Whereas most others would be feeling the after effects of sudden coldness, Americo was made of sturdier stock to be able to resist the cold swathe of temperature leaking into the compartment, ignoring the fact most of the people were actually freaking out, but not ignoring their actions. Fighting in an airplane meant confined spaces, which is great for him, in theory, but nonetheless presented a hassle if things turned for the worse. He got that look in his eyes, one that was suddenly some sort of tick as he had seen the wife hug her husband or probably some harlot whore of modern days hug her dick daddy. Though not a religious man, in fact, Americo doesn't have much of a thing known as faith, not out of scientific baptism as much as sheer indifference, as he lives in on the moment, rather than to consider his place in the cosmos, he points the pistol towards the woman and murmured something under his breath simultaneously. It was almost too quick, a blur, pulling the trigger as he had pointed the firearm at her skull.

"Say hi to your scum son of a bitch husband for me on the way down to Hell, wereslut. Ta ta~" Americo grinned, as he made sure to keep his aim trained and consistent unto the African woman's skull, to splatter her brain viscera all over her husband in an ironic echo of their union, from death to life they remain united all the same.

Now if Americo was correct, as far as he recalled upon overseeing the schematics and the make of the airplane, since this was a unique contract in itself that required the target be killed in the most expedient manner possible, he had remembered the exact lay out of what he wanted to do. Destroying the airplane or blowing a huge chunk out of it would be extremely dumb, and it's actually pretty hard to take down an airplane unless he took direct control of it and crashed it unto the land, which would be also self-defeating as he would have completed the contract, but wouldn't be able to enjoy the spoils of his victory as a result, which left him to one option -- back. Well, not really one option, but he likes this one. He wants to maybe one day pilot an airplane and crash it into London or something, in its outskirts on some mansion for shits and giggles. He would've loved to see the faces of the rich old folks whom weren't expecting a direct collision of an airplane that hit them, especially if they are chocolate skinned blondes.

Heading in the direction to the back of the plane in a quick stride in a jogging pace, where the walling was, Americo knocked on it with his free hand's knuckle to gauge the thickness, then shrugged. Screw that, he can bend steel like a pretzel if he wanted to, so he merely slammed the sole of his feet on the wall, sending the wall to burst outward into the small gap that divided the fuel tanks from the airplane's business compartment. Unless he had incendiary rounds, fuel wouldn't explode by gunshot contrary to the myth of how firearms explode cars if bullets hit the gas tank. Aiming the weapon quickly in a blur at the firstmost fuel tank connected to the other fuel tanks by a pipe, downward mostly, he'd let loose a close spread amount of bullets to form a hole as they exited out and shot outwards into the bottom, past the aluminum that wasn't really at a ballistic resistant grade armoring to resist. It formed a hole, six shots all it took to make it the size of a woman's fist from two ends. One before the airplane's compartment that formed a gap between the airplane itself and the fuel tanks, and the other forming a hole within the tank itself to leak down into the ocean below. No doubt that'd really empty the fuel reserves. It'd drain out rather quickly too.

That being done, he still had seven rounds, including one in the chamber, Americo turned around. The entire time, keeping his eyes peeled in case some dumbass tried to play hero. Now the whole airplane is REALLY going to lose acceleration and will have to glide. If it goes to the ocean, all the better for him, if not, good thing he brought the book called 'Alfred's Cookbook', written by some German on airplane based combat, some WWII handsome kommando that has tons of experiences of crashing his Stuka airplane to hit a cargo plane, raid inside, kill a bunch of Brits and an HVT, and get out with no fucks given.

Now he made his way towards the front portion of business class, already with his large strides, a quarter way there, simultaneously snatching up a baby along the way as he yanked it out of its breathing mask, he held it by its collar of its one piece pajama as it dangled in Americo's grasp.

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Dungeon Master on Fri Sep 19, 2014 4:16 pm

The situation had turned rather ominous, even for the likes of the Yakuza maintaining their positions and line of sight on the only entrance to their section of the plane. It had gone silent, as any voices that may have reverberated through the air in the business class below had been muffed by the metal and space between them to the point of being unheard, but the several gunshots that torn through the silence gave rise to a few questions that all of them seemed to share amongst one another.

"What? Is this asshole, whatever it is, tryin' to kill every person on the plane?" Arata muttered in standard Japanese, more to himself than to the others as he contemplated what could possibly be occurring. He only had the logical grounds to guess that those shots, numerous as they had been, were used to put down several of the passengers in a wild display of violence.

"Tha' douchebag's on ah' killin' spree..." Daisuke chimed in, though again it was more an outspoken thought to himself than to anyone else, only coincidentally seeming as a response to what his partner had said. "Tha' bastard smuggled ah firearm on board and waited till we w'er airborne before poppin' off shots. Make's 'ense. Can' run away on ah plane..."

Gouro tilted his head slightly, momentarily taking his eyes off the open elevator as he went over the scenario. He didn't take the precious time to correct his obviously inept friend about the possibility of the shooter having two weapons, as the air marshal, as with all airliners, was armed. Hell, for all they knew the recent burst of gunshots could have been a shootout between that very air marshal and the assailant, though it was unlikely given how frantic the stewardess was. "I don' think anyone goes through tha' trouble to smuggle a gun on board - or to steal one from an air marshal, if tha's the case - jus' to mass murder everyone on board. Even psychopath's follow a certain criteria fer doin' wha' they do. T'is guy is obviously after tha boss..."

Before any further conversation could continue, a sudden quake shook through the body of the cabin, resembling great turbulence. If one were inside the cockpit, they would be bearing witness to confused and terrified pilots staring at fuel gauge that was rapidly dropping. This was confirmed by the voice over that soon became audible to the entire plane through the speaker system, stating that they were, in fact, losing fuel at a rapid rate through unknown means as, due to strong turbulence, they were having to rapidly drop in altitude. The only problem was, they were still over the ocean...

"Ah, fuck! Came the insync reply form just about everyone related to the Yakuza Oyabun, the unison expression of vulgarity being heard even above the numerous gasps and screams that came from the other passengers in first class; the only one remaining silent being Jin, the Oyabun himself, and his daughter. Despite the momentary realization of the the situation, those still aiming firearms at the elevator never let their eyes deviate from that target.

"Right," Arata finally said, glancing over his shoulder, so the fucker shot the fuel tanks... He's officially an asshole. Maybe we should just send Jin down stairs and have him kill this fucker?"

I cannot leave the masters side without his permission." Came Jin's curt response, not even bothering to glance back at the bodyguard who suggested it.

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Re: Atlantic Flight to Nowhere (Mission for Americo)

Post by Americo on Sun Sep 21, 2014 11:47 am