Mission 003 Characters: Iron Fist, the Scarlet Witch, Hawkeye, Tiger's Beautiful Daughter, Phobos and the mysterious Decapitator. Setting: Northern Peru Content: Violence, possibly torture, swearing, blood, gore and despicable things. Summary:Mission 003 is turn-based once you reach the sight, and a little point-and-click until you get there. Basically, just leave a tip somewhere for the NPC to respond when you want to move along; an obvious clue in the narrative or an OOC note in the subject line works. For the encounter, and I'm assuming fight, if no discussion takes place and you leave it up to me I'm going to be rolling dice. This Bad Guy has really high agility, so unless you tag faster than me, he might steal your turn. Keep on your toes, heroes, and good luck.
Flying low over Peru as the quinjet approached landing, there were acres of geometrically divided farmland and huge swaths of overgrown and flourishing jungle, all lushly green at the tail end of the wet season and straining to spill over into the fleeting patches of inhabited towns and cities along the coastline. They swung out over the ocean, carving around Chiclayo where it loomed as what seemed like the last edge of humanity, alive and working and laughing and playing, all of that left behind as the quinjet flew back over land and headed east towards Sipán. Below, for miles, there was nothing. Even flying over the site and the legendary Huaca Rajada, they looked more like white scars gouged out of the green floor than temples of lost treasures and prayers.
They landed on an airstrip outside of a place called Pucala, where most of the archaeologists stayed when not exploring the dig sites. 'Airstrip' was almost generous; it was nothing more than that, if that. The land was all green around it, and the traffic that passed through it beat a path, not any concentrated effort. There was a fence, marking the boundaries of the property, that was uncrafted logs wrapped with barbed wire that had mostly sunk into the earth or had fallen over in disrepair. The grass, where it was not worn, was tall and shivered with the unseen life below it; there was no breeze.
At the end of the 'runway' there was a calculated gap in the fence giving access to a dusty road where a navy blue van sat, all of its doors open to let the air travel through in the heat, and its driver sitting with his legs splayed, eyes closed and his shirt stuck to his chest with sweat, cigarette burning down between his lips. This would be the 'bus' into Pucala, usually, or a guide to the surrounding sites and reserves.
When the quinjet landed, there was already another craft there waiting; a matte black helicopter, its blades long stopped and already starting to collect dust, and its passengers all disembarked. That must have been them, then, in the shade of the only standing structure on the property; a rapidly assembled lean-to with a roof of a strip of tin, glinting in the sunlight and hard to look at. They had a map spread out on a table that had vines wrapped up its legs and that looked ready to rot into the ground. In the distance, another van was kicking up a great cloud of dust as it bore down on them, the only thing that could be seen moving from there to the horizon. One of the people under the lean-to, a woman with her back to the landing quinjet, stood elegantly straight and unflinching even as the others slapped or shied away from buzzing insects, and only turned her head when the Avengers stepped out of their jet. Her glossy braid slipped over her back and the light slithered across the golden mask she wore. She only turned profile to them, then back to her assembly, who had grown quiet. Nothing was said, but one dutifully folded up their map and tucked it preciously into her bag, and collectively they gathered the equipment at their feet, including a large dufflebag that it took two of them to lift and haul towards the road.