2013-01-25 San Marco Infiltration

Place: San Marco. Secretary of Defense's Mansion

Time: Really Late.

Weather: Warmer than New York.

"¿Estás seguro de que su amigo puede sacar esto adelante?"

A mustachioed man in grimy military fatigues sits at the wheel of a rusted-out old Jeep. The engine is idling, but due to its disrepair it makes plenty of noise to wake the dead. Parked about a hundred meters from a relatively highly-fortified mansion, the jeep has somehow managed to avoid attracting the attention of the persons inside the compound.

"Dude... no comprendo." Sitting in the passengers seat is a man who clearly wasn't born in South America. From the gleaming green spandexy tracksuit to the pale complexion and shock of white hair, he clearly doesn't belong. "Just chill out for a while, keep this thing parked, and try to not annoy me." Quicksilver quickly flips through a series of floorplans on his fancy-schmancy pad-type computer. "If everything's going according to plan, we should get the signal any minute now." He picks up a set of binoculars and begins looking at the compound, focusing his attention on the mansion.

"Usted es una persona extraña, y mal vestido."

"Yeah buddy, I know."

No one ever suspects the little guy. One of the soldiers within the compound steps forth with an urgent message that the Secretary is needed outside. Some rapid-fire Spanish is exchanged, then he's led out right through the front door with all of one armed infantryman to back him up. It's amazing what everyone else doesn't know when no one tells them anything.

Naturally, seeing one rusted Jeep out front with only two occupants raises a few suspicions. Just what's going on here, surely there must be an explanation!

The explanation comes in the form of a knowing grin an instant before the soldier standing beside him cracks him across the head with the stock of his battered rifle, sending the Secretary of Defense to his knees.

One high-ranking military personnel, made to order. The soldier slings his rifle and starts dragging the downed guy toward the Jeep. As far as signals go, it could probably use some work. The results are fairly definitive, however. Deceptions can only run for so long, especially when they're on a tight schedule.

"There we go." A flurry of motion ensues, and all of the doors to the jeep are quickly opened. The driver shouts something incomprehensible in Spanish, his diction muffled by his surprise. Another flurry, and Quicksilver is standing right next to the KO'd guy and leaning down to help drag his body.

"And here I thought I was going to have to storm the place and do a room-by-room search." He grins as his lent strength makes the body-dragging go much more quickly. "Might have been messier, but we would have been done hours ago..."

The driver gets out of the jeep, and begins uselessly pulling security with his archaic Colt 1911.

Your faith in my abilities is appreciated," the soldier sarcastically retorts while hauling the unconscious figure along. Guy's put on a few pounds in his years, as so many of the pencil-pushers seem to do. "Now still your tongue and get our travel companion ready for the trip."

Who's this nervous kid with the hundred year old pistol, anyway?

"You still know how to pick your pawns," he grunts while shouldering the Secretary onward. "Amazing he hasn't shot himself yet."

Everything's turning out alright so far, minus the part involving manual labor. He could have happily done without that part. Once their 'guest' is piled in and secured to the interior, the soldier jumps inside and tucks his rifle away within easy reach. What this job lacks in glamour it makes up for in necessity.

Besides, it's for a just cause.



After a longish ride, during which the Defense Secretary only has to be knocked out twice more, the jeep arrives at dilapidated old dock warehouse right next to the coast. The driver flashes his lights, and the gate is quickly opened. The jeep is driven around behind the building, where a large sliding door is opened. Once inside, a couple of grungy South American militia types congregate around the jeep.

"Hey, guys..." Quicksilver looks at the tablet computer in his hand, and quickly types in a few words. Out pop the Spanish translations, which he reads aloud. "Uh... Tome este chico a una celda. Y mantenerlo tranquilo." He points at the Secretary, and a couple of the militia types comply with his order to drag the guy off to a cell. More rapid typing occurs followed by more semi-mangled Spanish. "Asegúrese de que no hablo con él. Uh... Por favor."

He follows as the men carry the poor knocked-out guy to a room and zip tie his hands and feet to a chair. "Bueno. Muy bueno. Vete ahora." He lurks in the doorway as the other guys leave, looking over his shoulder to make sure they actually /leave/ and don't just skulk about in the hallway.

It's only after everyone else leaves that the mystery soldier changes, turning from a plain old military grunt to an exact duplicate of the white-haired mutant standing nearby. Even his posture is identical, like someone just copied and pasted another one of him into the world.

The grin that soon follows is the only way to tell the two apart. Yeah, Mystique can have a sense of humor when she wants to, as deranged as it might be. It's always good fun to harass people as themselves. "Not a bad start, though your Spanish is atrocious."

Still, if that's the worst of what she has to put up with? It'll be a pathetically easy operation.

The look on Quicksilver's face instantly shifts from 'bored' to 'turned on'. "Damn... did it get hot in here all of a sudden, or is it just us?" Quicksilver begins tugging at the collar of his speedsuit and fanning his face. "Forget about this mission, let's leave Tubby McMustache here in his soiled pants. We'll take off and find a country where it's legal for a very attractive man to marry himself." Apparently Mystique isn't the only one whose sense of humor is a bit on the deranged side. Then again, the creeper 'checking myself out' look on Quicksilver's face is pretty convincing, it might not be a joke after all...

Mystique feels compelled to strike a pose before shifting into one of her numerous female personas, complete with a rolling of her eyes. "I just cannot imagine how it is that you're still single. Fantasize about yourself all you wish on your own time, until then quit wasting mine."

Never to worry, if it's starting to feel a bit toasty she's always a good one to call forth an arctic chill.

"Unless you have further need of an expert, I have another faction to manipulate."

She enjoys her work. Really, she does. "I think I'll be able to get all we need out of him. And if ruining his face doesn't do it, I can get Our Mutual Friend to show him his worst nightmare for a few hours until he begs us to let him tell us all his secrets." Quicksilver zips across the room, and reappears with his hands on the Secretary's shoulders. He begins rubbing the guy's shoulders in an almost affectionate way, but with a look of pure malice on his face.

"In the meantime, I hear that San Marco has an opening for the Secretary of Defense. Think I might know somebody who fits the bill..." He gives Mystique a sinister smile. "Oh, and shut the door on your way out. Wouldn't want to wake up our grimy militia buddies. What with the screaming and all."

This time, the grin isn't copied so much as a mutually felt expression. With the current Secretary in the Brotherhood's care there's nothing in his little world that they won't be able to acquire. Who knows what else might turn up while Mystique is taking his place?

"I'd hate to keep my audience waiting any longer," she cooly replies with the wicked glint retained within her faux colored eyes. "You know how to reach me if I am needed." Though why bother with phones or communicators when you can simply run out and find her? The door closes on her way through, swiftly finding a vehicle of her own to commandeer for the return trip. Her new job starts now.