March 10, 2014 20:35:00 GMT
Half a mile west and half a mile above Puerto Casado, Paraguay, South America

",He covers his hands with the lightning, and commands it to strike the mark. Its crashing tells about him; he is jealous with anger against iniquity,"

"You're repeating that Bible verse in your head again," Dweeb's voice crackled in his ear-piece, "aren't you, D?"

",His thunderings speak awesomely concerning Him; the cattle are told of His coming storm,"

"No," Preston grimaced within the confines of his helmet, "Yeah,"

"Didn't you tell me something, once, about turning things over to God instead of trying to figure them out for yourself," Dweeb's voice scratched through the perpetually underlying static.

Preston Smith's grimace wound itself into something of a smile at that; "I probably did. Have I ever told you, though, that I hate this helmet?" He didn't really hate the thing, of course. It was a rather clunky affair - it looked a bit like a heavy welders mask mashed together with bits and pieces that looked as if they could have come from one of those Stormtrooper helmets in Star Wars, or, maybe, a ‘72 Ford Maverick, - and it got a bit hot inside, especially, here, in South America but, he had to admit that the thing did manage to shield out enough of the electromagnetic disturbance that his body generated to keep the electronics within from frying out.

"Oh," Dweeb chuckled in reply as Preston reached the apex of his leap and started descending back toward the earth, "I'm sure you did. I probably wasn't listening, though. That helmet's the start of us figuring out the rest of it, Preston, my friend, just as much as that verse of yours,"

"Hubris, Dweeb?" Preston half-jokingly prodded as he plummeted earthward and started bracing himself for the impact.

"Nah, just science and engineering," the other man's voice crackled, "I'm all for God taking care of your little problem, D; just figured I'd try to help out while He was working on it." There was a low whistle over the earpiece, then; "I think you covered about four miles with that jump! Goooood hang time! You're gonna come in awful close to the town, though."

Preston's scowl returned as the ground rushed up to meet him. Dweeb was right; the small town of Puerto Casado was quickly filling his vision and the reek of the town's tannery was filtering in through his mask's breather. He thanked God that it was still the middle of the night, here, and, as such, most of the inhabitants would likely be asleep. At the same time, he offered up a little prayer asking that the small tremor to be caused by his landing wouldn't shake any of those people from their beds. "Yeah," he answered Dweeb, then, "a little close. Still in the wee hours, here, though, and I don't plan on sticking around long enough for the welcome wagon to show up,"

Despite those reassurances, however, Preston found himself tensing a bit more than he should have and gritting his teeth a bit in hopes that he might be able to somehow soften his landing and spare the locals any sort of disturbance caused by his passing,

Hubris, Preston? he chuckled inwardly as the lyrics from Street Fighting Man spun up in his mind, "Hey, said my name is called Disturbance! I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants,"
BOOOOM!!!
He hit the ground in a small field just north of Puerto Casado, winced a bit behind his helmet as he chased the tremor up to the edge of the small impact crater he'd created, and, as he gained the top, the muscles in his legs coiled and launched him skyward, again. He glanced back when he reached about 500 feet. There were a few lights flickering to life and, he thought, he saw a few people staggering sleepily out of their homes. No one looked up, though.

"Anything," Dweeb asked.

"Nothing major," Preston answered, "we're good.

Should hit the border in an hour or so."

"Affirmative. We'll have an extraction point for you at Bela Vista. How's the charge?"

"Building," Preston replied after considering the itchy-tingly-buzz that crawled just beneath the surface of his skin, "but still negligible. If I can hit Bela Vista in the next three hours and your guys can get me shielded, we shouldn't have to worry about pulsing the chopper out of the sky."

"Copy that. We'll be ready."

20:47:10 GMT - Somewhere above the State of Sao Paolo, Brazil
The past several hours had elapsed without Afton Pembroke having had to pay much attention to navigation, at all. D.A.D.D.E.'s recent telemetry and reaction control system upgrades had performed perfectly and, since he had deployed from his jet off the coast of Africa, steadily guided his flightpath to bring him in over South America on a vector from Fortaleza, south and east, toward Brasilia. Thus far, the flight had been effortless and, as such, had left him plenty of time to review the data that Project Prometheus had managed to compile on the subject he had been sent to retrieve; an A-3 dynamo that went by the moniker Disturbance.

To Pembroke's mind, the information was patchy, at best, and almost seemed to be an amalgamation of data on more than one person. The dossier named the man Preston Smith, but there were numerous other aliases associated, as well. Many of the files he accessed, too, had been heavily redacted in key areas, primarily by various government agencies, it seemed, but, in places, by other organizations outside of any known regime. All in all, it had been a bit of a jigsaw puzzle but, if all the fragmented pieces were truly applicable to the same man, this retrieval would certainly be an interesting one, particularly the bit about the uncontrolled electrical manipulation Smith was purported to be cursed with,

A bit of sypmatico and irony, that, Pembroke had thought wryly. It hadn't gone unnoticed that he and this Smith shared something of a similar affliction; he couldn't help but wonder if it hadn't cost the man what it had cost him... and, if a suit similar to D.A.D.D.E. might not provide Smith a solution as it had himself.

,Pembroke's leisurely musings over Smith and his "plight" were quickly relegated to the back of his mind when, D.A.D.D.E.'s HUD flickered and the suit's wide-range scanners picked up on an encrypted transmission.

",all for God taking care of your little problem, D; just figured I'd try to help out while He was working on it." Through the static that seemed to permeate the communique, a long low whistle was heard. Then; "I think you covered about four miles with that jump! Goooood hang time! You're gonna come in awful close to the town, though."

"Yeah," another voice responded through the electronic humming, "a little close. Still in the wee hours, here, though, and I don't plan on sticking around long enough for the welcome wagon to show up,"

"That's him," Afton said, "It has to be.
Isolate that transmission and get me a vector," he commanded the suit.

"Acknowledged," D.A.D.D.E. responded, "Triangulating."

"And do see if you can't tidy it up a bit," Pembroke requested, "That fuzz will wear a man's nerves quite thin after a time."

"Initiating audio enhancement algorithm's. Stand by."

"Anything," the first voice queried as D.A.D.D.E. began filtering out and/or compensating for any interference.

"Nothing major. We're good," returned the second voice, the static significantly reduced, now, "Should hit the border in an hour or so."

"That's the end I want the track on," Afton said, "Let's not worry about the other, as yet."

"Affirmative," D.A.D.D.E. answered, "Target acquired. Suggested intercept vector plotted."

"Affirmative. We'll have an extraction point for you at Bela Vista. How's the charge?"

"Building, but still negligible. If I can hit Bela Vista in the next three hours and your guys can get me shielded, we shouldn't have to worry about pulsing the chopper out of the sky."

"Copy that. We'll be ready."

"As will we," Overwatch muttered, scanning the telemetry data on the HUD and adjusting his course. He watched his target closely for a moment, and a number of calculations ran through his mind all at once. The neural interface with D.A.D.D.E. picked up on his thoughts and overlayed the computations.
"Open a channel to our local resources in Paraguay," he commanded, then, "Dispatch a unit to the coordinates specified."

The suit confirmed the order with little more than a beep, then, after a second; "Message relayed. Local assets deployed. ETA 17:53:06, local time."

21:58:06 GMT - Less than a kilometer south of the Paraguay-Brazil border
When he hit the ground this time, Preston didn't immediately leap skyward, once more. Instead, he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and remained there, crouched down in the tiny pockmark his landing had made, trying to contain the surge of electrical energy that arced maddeningly beneath and, now, visibly across the surface of his skin,

",ston?! You oka,? ,st you in a clo,rst or som,! Pres," Dweeb's transmission was squawky and garbled, of course, but he got the gist of it and hoped the helmet was shielding his own vox-mic enough to send something acceptable back.

"Roger," he responded through clenched teeth, "I'm still here, Dweeb. That thunderstorm packed a little more kick than I expected! Might have made a liar out of me in regards to what I said about my charge, earlier. I'm feeling kind of jazzed, right now. Think I'm gonna sit here and wait for it to disperse before I get any closer to your team."

"Preston? D.. ou copy?... ome i,"

Yeah, Preston grimaced, straining to stand against the upwelling electricity, I'm on my way, Just, gimme a, minute,

",and he does not restrain the lightnings when his voice is heard,"
"Well, come on, then," Preston pleaded, lifting his eyes, if not his body, skyward, "Let it loose! Or show me how to restrain it, or, NNNnnnngggg!!!"

The surge doubled him over and he felt as if he had to lift the welders mask visor of his helmet in order to breathe, "No more than you can bear," Preston growled, forcing himself upright, once more, "The Lord gives you no more than you can bear," He let his head fall back in order to look at the sky without the visor in the way. That intended path of sight, though, was diverted by the sight of the armed and armored troops who now ringed the edge of his tiny divot, their weapons train unerringly on him. One of those troops - or, perhaps, it was someone else that Preston couldn't see - shouted out a command in Spanish, He thought it was Spanish, Can't quite make it out over this buzzing.
"No habla," he couldn't help but lie, fighting the lightning and the urge to leap out of here all at once, "Lo siento, no habla, You all really should get away from here, Muy rapido!"

"Remain still, keep your hands where we can see them, Mr. Smith," a British-accented voice cautioned him, then, "and get to your knees. We're going to manage your electrical problem for you and, then, you're coming with us. Your compliance will make the entire process much simpler."
Even as the power surge began to send crackles of light through his vision, Preston squinted in the direction of the voice, seeking the source of these new commands. He tried in vain to shake those arcing motes away when his gaze settled on a sleek but imposing onyx figure hovering in the air above him.

Location: Unknown Holding Facility
Date: Unknown

Myriem Foster quietly made her way down the corridor, making sure she was not followed, while staying in the shadows beneath the poorly aimed cameras and their line of visual perception.

Gunny had done his job well, disabling and scrambling the video feeds, allowing the shapely 5'4" brunette to enter the quarantine room without any trace of her entrance.

Preston Smith was bound and sedated, but his powers were barely contained by the restraints.

Myriem cautiously approached the prisoner, searching for any signs of recognition in his eyes as she approached him with her casual sway, purring the 'Code Names' in an effort to get a response.

"Orator ... this is Scarlet ... Winston is standing by!"

No Response.

"Preacher ... this is Psalmist ... Deacon is standing by!"

No Response.

"Brawler ... this is Doll ... Irish is standing by!"

Still No Response.

"Flynn ... this is Olivia ... Red is standing by!"

No Response.

"Thespian ... this is Juliette ... Hamlet is standing by!"

Still No Response.

"Earp ... this is Annie ... Doc is standing by!"

There seemed to be a momentary flicker of recognition, but No Response.

"Rocker ... this is Groupie ... Roadie is standing by!"

"Groupie?"

"Yes Rocker!"

Myriem could hardly contain her excitement, but she was a professional.

"Groupie ... I Need You ... To Find Dweeb!"

"Roadie is working on that Rocker!"

"I Need Dweeb!"

Myriem reassured the immobilized Preston Smith that Gunny was searching for Dweeb, before pressing her former lover for answers as to who had triggered the bomb blast at the tent revival that had killed his wife and fractured his personae into the Code Names the Agency had assigned him years ago.

"Did you see who did this to you Rocker?"

"Yes Groupie! I Saw Her Standing There!"

"Who Rocker?"

Preston Smith drew in a deep breath in thoughtful remembrance, before answering:

link

[TIME JUMP]

Location: Present Day [21:58:06 GMT—Less than a kilometer south of the Paraguay-Brazil border]
Date: Tuesday, July 4, 2017

"Remain still, keep your hands where we can see them, Mr. Smith," a British-accented voice cautioned him, then, "and get to your knees. We're going to manage your electrical problem for you and, then, you're coming with us. Your compliance will make the entire process much simpler."
Even as the power surge began to send crackles of light through his vision, Preston squinted in the direction of the voice, seeking the source of these new commands. He tried in vain to shake those arcing motes away when his gaze settled on a sleek but imposing onyx figure hovering in the air above him.

"My Name Is Called Disturbance!"

Preston Smith surveyed the armed and armored Spanish troops who were arrayed in a ring around the edge of the tiny divot that he had made by his sudden landing mere moments ago.

Then his focus settled upon the imposing onyx figure that was hovering in the air above him.

Preston allowed the electrical charge to build within him, without offering as much resistance to its building power, as he ordinarily would do.

He needed to complete his rendezvous with Dweeb as soon as possible!

The words of a familiar song resonated inside his helmet that looked a bit like a heavy welder's mask.

link

Preston was overtaken by his Rocker personae, as the power surge within him continued to build, while he assessed the threat of the flying figure, as well as the Spanish troops arrayed against him.

Disturbance suddenly launched an offensive as he sang out the following:

link

As Preston, aka Rocker, unleashed his power against his assembled opponents; vowing within himself to not be taken prisoner again by the Agency against his will, he could be heard bellowing:

"My Name Is Called Disturbance!"


(OOC: Preston Smith is flashing back to when he was held against his will by the Agency, before being freed by the combined efforts of Myriem, Gunny and Dweeb. He is refusing to be taken against his will by any Agency ever again! It Is All Out War!)

March 10, 2014 20:47:10 GMT
Somewhere above the State of Sao Paolo, Brazil
The past several hours have elapsed without Afton Pembroke having to pay much attention to navigation at all. D.A.D.D.E.'s recent telemetry and reaction control system upgrades have performed perfectly and, since he has deployed from his jet off the coast of Africa, steadily guiding his flightpath to bring him in over South America on a vector from Fortaleza, south and east, toward Brasilia. Thus far, the flight has been effortless and, as such, has left him plenty of time to review the data that Project Prometheus has managed to compile on the subject he has been sent to retrieve; an A-3 dynamo that goes by the moniker, Disturbance.

To Pembroke's mind, the information is patchy, at best, and almost seems to be an amalgamation of data on more than one person. The dossier names the man Preston Smith, but there are numerous other aliases associated as well. Many of the files he accesses, too, have been heavily redacted in key areas, primarily by various government agencies, it seems, but in places, by other organizations outside of any known regime. All in all, it has been a bit of a jigsaw puzzle but, if all the fragmented pieces are truly applicable to the same man, this retrieval will certainly be an interesting one, particularly the bit about the uncontrolled electrical manipulation Smith is purported to be cursed with.

A bit of sympatico and irony, that, Pembroke thinks wryly. It hasn't gone unnoticed that he and this Smith share something of a similar affliction; he can't help but wonder if it hasn't cost the man what it has cost him... and, if a suit similar to D.A.D.D.E. might not provide Smith a solution as it has himself.

Pembroke's leisurely musings over Smith and his "plight" are quickly relegated to the back of his mind when, D.A.D.D.E.'s HUD flickers and the suit's wide-range scanners pick up on an encrypted transmission.

",all for God taking care of your little problem, D; just figured I'd try to help out while He was working on it." Through the static that seemed to permeate the communique, a long low whistle was heard. Then; "I think you covered about four miles with that jump! Goooood hang time! You're gonna come in awful close to the town, though."

"Yeah," another voice responds through the electronic humming, "a little close. Still in the wee hours, here, though, and I don't plan on sticking around long enough for the welcome wagon to show up,"
"That's him," Afton says, "It has to be.
"Isolate that transmission and get me a vector," he commands the suit.

"Acknowledged," D.A.D.D.E. responds in its dry British voice, "Triangulating."

"And do see if you can't tidy it up a bit," Pembroke requests just as dryly, "That fuzz will wear a man's nerves quite thin after a time."

"Initiating audio enhancement algorithm's. Stand by." D.A.D.D.E. replies.

"Anything," the first voice queries as D.A.D.D.E. begins filtering out and/or compensating for any interference.

"Nothing major. We're good," returns the second voice, the static significantly reduced, now, "Should hit the border in an hour or so."
"That's the end I want the track on," Afton explains, "Let's not worry about the other, as yet."

"Affirmative," D.A.D.D.E. answers politely, "Target acquired. Suggested intercept vector plotted."

"Affirmative. We'll have an extraction point for you at Bela Vista. How's the charge?"

"Building, but still negligible. If I can hit Bela Vista in the next three hours and your guys can get me shielded, we shouldn't have to worry about pulsing the chopper out of the sky."

"Copy that. We'll be ready."
"As will we," Overwatch mutters, scanning the telemetry data on the HUD and adjusting his course. He watches his target closely for a moment, and a number of calculations run through his mind all at once. The neural interface with D.A.D.D.E. picks up on his thoughts and overlays the computations.

"Open a channel to our local resources in Paraguay," he commands, "Dispatch a unit to the coordinates specified."

The suit confirms the order with little more than a beep, then after a second; "Message relayed. Local assets deployed. ETA 17:53:06, local time."

21:58:06 GMT - Less than a kilometer south of the Paraguay-Brazil border
When he hits the ground this time, Preston doesn't immediately leap skyward once more. Instead, he grits his teeth, clenches his fists, and remains there, crouched down in the tiny pockmark his landing has made while trying to contain the surge of electrical energy that arcs maddeningly beneath and now visibly across the surface of his skin.

",ston?! You oka,? ,st you in a clo,rst or som,! Pres," Dweeb's transmission is squawky and garbled, of course, but he gets the gist of it and hopes the helmet is shielding his own vox-mic enough to send something acceptable back.

"Roger," he responds through clenched teeth, "I'm still here, Dweeb. That thunderstorm packed a little more kick than I expected! Might have made a liar out of me in regards to what I said about my charge, earlier. I'm feeling kind of jazzed, right now. Think I'm gonna sit here and wait for it to disperse before I get any closer to your team."

"Preston? D.. ou copy?... ome i,"
Yeah, Preston grimaces, straining to stand against the upwelling electricity, I'm on my way, Just, gimme a, minute,

",and he does not restrain the lightnings when his voice is heard,"

"Well, come on, then," Preston pleads, lifting his eyes, if not his body, skyward, "Let it loose! Or show me how to restrain it, or, NNNnnnngggg!!!"
Overwatch drops down below the clouds. He positions his flight path to come in on the mark's six. Out of sight while he eavesdrops on the conversation.

The surge doubles Disturbance over and he feels as if he has to lift the welder's mask visor of his helmet in order to breathe, "No more than you can bear," Preston growls, forcing himself upright once more, "The Lord gives you no more than you can bear," He lets his head fall back in order to look at the sky without the visor in the way. That intended path of sight, though, is diverted by the sight of the armed and armored troops who now ring the edge of his tiny divot, their weapons train unerringly on him. One of those troops—or, perhaps, it is someone else that Preston can't see—shouts out a command in Spanish, He thinks it is Spanish, Can't quite make it out over this buzzing.

"No habla," Preston can't help but lie, fighting the lightning and the urge to leap out of here all at once, "Lo siento, no habla, You all really should get away from here, Muy rapido!"
"Hold your positions," Afton orders the local assets through D.A.D.D.E.'s direct link to their communications channel. "Prepare the containment pod and have it ready to move into position fast."

"Remain still and keep your hands where we can see them, Mr. Smith," Overwatch cautions the asset after switching to external audio with a thought, "and get to your knees. We're going to manage your electrical problem for you and then, you're coming with us. Your compliance will make the entire process much simpler."

Even as the power surge begins to send crackles of light through his vision, Preston squints in the direction of the voice, seeking the source of these new commands. He tries in vain to shake those arcing motes away when his gaze settles on a sleek but imposing onyx figure hovering in the air above him.

Preston Smith surveys the armed and armored Spanish troops who are arrayed in a ring around the edge of the tiny divot that he has made by his sudden landing mere moments ago. Then his focus settles upon the imposing onyx figure that is hovering in the air above him. Preston allows the electrical charge to build within him, without offering as much resistance to its building power, as he ordinarily would do. He needs to complete his rendezvous with Dweeb as soon as possible!

The words of a familiar song resonate inside his helmet that looks a bit like a heavy welder's mask. Preston is overtaken by his Rocker personae as the power surging within him continue to build—while he assessed the threat of the flying figure as well as the Spanish troops arrayed against him.

Disturbance suddenly launches an offensive as he sings Street Fighting Man by The Rolling Stones out!

Those words highlight the severe volatility of Preston Smith to Afton better than even the readings D.A.D.D.E. is spitting out. Another mental command returns the suit's communications back to the private channel.

"Prepararse," he warns the Project Team.

As Preston, aka Rocker, unleashes his power against his assembled opponents; vowing within himself to not be taken prisoner again by the Agency against his will, he bellows: "My name is Disturbance!"

Even before the last syllable of the asset's name is begun, Overwatch takes action. Electricity won't necessarily have an impact on D.A.D.D.E. due to the suit's insulated shielding, but those troops are certainly susceptible to a charged attack. The Project needs this asset in tact. He's powerful enough that properly leashed, he could do some good. Unleashed, he's nothing but a danger to humanity. Should he remain unleashed—or untreated, uncontained—he is nothing more than a threat to humanity.

Shoulder plating opens in a blink of an eye and mini-grenade launchers spit out two grenades right on top of Disturbance. The indicators in Afton's HUD display show one less sleep gas grenade and one less flash bang. The Brit is hoping that if the gas doesn't have an effect on Smith, the flash bang will be enough to disorient him so Overwatch can move in and wrap him up.