> WHO ARE YOU?
NAME: Cassandra SandsmarkALIAS: Wonder Girl
AGE: 20's
GENDER: Female
HEIGHT: 5'3"
OCCUPATION: Hero
AFFILIATION: Teen Titans
BODY TYPE: Atheletic
SEXUALITY: Straight
MARITAL: Single
"We go on three. Remember, once they know we're here, it's gonna be very hard to get back out, so we better move like we're already leaving."
"Uh-huh. So move fast, shoot good, and be brief yet professional. The Riddler is such an artist with his words. If anyone trips, I'm not helping you up."
"Loud n' clear. Thank whatever God that's listening, that I brought something suitable for these corridors. You guys should try a shotgun sometime."
"Understood. You guys talk too much. Are you nervous or something?"
"Can we get this shit on th' move already? Y'all stopped me in th' middle of The Wire, and if I die here, I'm never gonna know how it ends."
"One... Two... Three--"
Double doors swing open, boots thudding across tiled floors. Five individuals composing this single squad, all dressed in black kit and sweeping through without issue or discourse. Through the halls, sending non-combative staff running in all directions that may lead to exits within the building. The first instance of hostile contact--a quick reaction team--is met with constrained enthusiasm, grinning faces behind blackened visors set into full-coverage helmets that fail to reveal detail even under exposure of visible muzzleflash.
Four men greet five, and the four are reduced to two almost immediately. Sparks from armour piercing ammunition cutting through plate carriers and hitting vulnerable flesh. The first was hit so suddenly and so quickly that his own forward momentum caused him to topple and hit the floor face-first, laying with his rifle pinned to the floor by his own dead weight and blood leaking from several holes in his side in these steady dribblings. God only knows how bad he was actually shot up. The second caught a round to the head before he could squeeze down on the trigger, and several more rounds tear through his abdomen as he went down, given the gradual leakage of blood through the balaclava.
They never stop moving, constant forward progression that's assisted by extensive, cooperative training sessions. Positions are dynamically changed to adapt to the conditions present; if one has to reload? They fall behind a couple steps and make themselves less of a target. If they need an angle? The formation adjusts accordingly to never present a weak side that can be capitalized on. The first to reach the corner is the one who leans and immediately opens fire, the two surviving responders forced to duck their heads down into their chosen cover and giving a bit of room for the rest to move in and occupy available space.
Never stopping, but never putting themselves in a bad spot, the first op-for to lift their head is smacked right in the goggles with a 5.56. If it wasn't for the helmet's presence, the back of the skull would've blown out entirely.
The last attempts to surrender, but he would've had a better time if he just turned his gun and killed himself. Raised hands cause him to lose all his fingers and a portion of the palm on his left hand, and being sent onto the floor with all sorts of yelling, clutching his injured hand to his chest? It's nothing to put two in him as they pass. Let him gurgle out a sigh of fading light.
It feels like Deja Vu, really, this whole thing. You haven't been to this place before, but the situation is intimately familiar. Intensifying resistance until you kill most of the existing defense. A slog of constant opposition that falls like dominos. One of you takes a hit to the chest plate, but it came from a pistol and thus manifested as an angry bruise post-operation.
Just like clockwork.
