goneawayworld | It's (Still) Honestly A Terrible Plan.

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It's (Still) Honestly A Terrible Plan.

Who: Saturday, Gambit, York, North, Shelly, Brainy
What: A daring infiltration of the executive deck
Where: Exec deck
When: Simultaneous with the riot
Warnings/Notes: None so far.

Saturday watches from the edges of the riot, making a great show of moving furniture and snatching bystanders away from the rolling ball of chaos, until South slips by and murmurs something in her ear.

Then she begins to move, touching a shoulder here, giving a significant look there. Time to go. One by one, everyone can slowly depart. Secrecy is essential; even Jorgmund can add up riot and murder and break-in and get “kill them before they kill you.”

They can all meet Saturday at the appointed place. It’s a less-used service entrance to the upper deck, which some may not have even known existed. She stands with her hands in her pockets, wound tight as a sprinter before the starting pistol.

“Okay,” she says quietly, once they’re all there. In an earpiece cobbled together by Alia, a New Hire now gone, she says, “Brainy, you ready? Good.” She looks at the others. “Right. So. You all know the plan, an’ the stakes. Go in, grab as much as you can, get out. No unnecessary risks, no heroics. Brainy’s our eye in the sky; once the door opens, we scatter. He’ll be the only one with the full picture.”

“We’ve got a private channel, but keep it quiet. No chatter. If you cut comms, it means you’re burned an’ the op is over. We will try to get you out. It might not be possible. If Jorg realizes what we did, we’re all fucked. If that’s too much heat, go back. I won’t judge anyone for it.”

And she means it, too. Risking their lives in battle is one thing; risking torture and god knows what else at the hands of an enemy like Jorgmund is quite another. They’ve all heard a variation on this speech from her before, of course, when she approached them with the final plan. But she seems to need to make sure she says it again, one last time.

“Okay. Right.” Saturday turns to the door. Her hands are too disciplined to shake as she draws out the keycard, but she can taste her heartbeat on the back of her tongue. It’s always like this before a run, or a fight, in the moment when the ground starts to shift and anything becomes possible - provided you don’t fall.

It makes her feel a little guilty, how much she loves it.

The alarm panel blinks a challenge, and South steps forward. Planker’s voice emerges from her mouth, speaking the code-phrase stolen from his mind by Stacia and Kerrigan. The lock processes, taking almost too long.

But the door opens, revealing a branching hallway lined with doors. Time for everyone to get into their groups, and set off…

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"You got de right tools, anyt'in' is accessible, mon ami." A half smile as Remy straightens, looking up at the ceiling. Just needed to find a vent opening and maybe get South to boost him up. Though he could probably manage that much on his own.

The ceilings are about ten feet high, unlike the cramped New Hire corridors. Ventilation grates sit in the industrial ceiling tile at regular intervals, hopefully indicating that the HVAC tunnels go straight through the larger room.

To reach the closest vent, he'll need to shimmy up a bouquet of aesthetically-exposed piping and reach about three, four feet out. The grate will need to be jimmied loose and he's definitely gonna have to jump to catch the edge and pull himself up into the tunnels. All without making a sound.

But hey, he's a master thief, right?

He is a master thief. And, most days, this wouldn't even normally be a problem. Might be a bit awkward, but South could probably have helped enough to keep it mostly quiet.

However, this place has gifted him with an even easier way to handle it.

Remy takes a moment to stow his boots, then reaching into his pocket to pull out a set of oddly textured gloves and socks. Giving South a thumbs up, he made his way to the wall, though it took an extra few moments because the socks...were sticking to the floor. And then the gloves and the socks were clinging to the wall as he made his way up the wall and across the ceiling. Though, perhaps, not in the most comfortable way as it was only his hands and toes. Still, the vent was just in the right place he could plant his feet properly against the wall to give himself a better foundation.

It also lets him position his body so that the vent cover will fall against his chest.

One glove has to come off, dropped onto his chest, so that he can pull out a screwdriver he appropriated some time before. While getting the screws off is a thing he can do with his powers, it could be finicky. Better to use the actual tool for the job. It's still slow going as he can only use one hand, but Remy doesn't hurry it. Hurrying would make unwanted noise. And if they wanted THAT, he'd have just exploded something to get people out of the way.

Eventually, though, the vent cover falls against his chest and Remy breathes a sigh of relief as he picks it up and holds it down to South. Just to be set aside until they're back out.

Well, that's certainly a way to do it.

South's not a patient person, whatsoever; she's not really built for this kind of delicate operation. Oh, she can do it, 'course. Hell, she ran stealth and recon ops a lot back in the Project—but it was pretty much all against her will, and she's still not pleased that her power is tailored to it. So she waits with barely restrained restlessness as he makes his way up the wall and gets the cover off.

It's a relief to get to do something, no matter how small, when he hands down the cover. She takes it and sets it aside, careful not to make any noise, then turns her eyes back to him.

Edited (wording to make it actually make sense) 2021-05-18 01:23 (UTC)

Getting it back ON is going to be another trip, but that's a bridge they can cross when they get to it. For the moment, Remy concentrates on getting into the vent, taking a quick look to be certain of where it goes.

As far ahead as he can see - about 20 of a hundred or so yards from them to their goal - it's straight, with occasional intersecting passages. Ducking down to look at the vent placement on the ceiling, it seems most likely that the HVAC is placed in a grid pattern across the ceiling. Assuming everything is in good order and properly maintained (it is Jorgmund), he should be able to follow whatever path South needs to take while keeping her within a ten foot radius.

Which is good, because here comes an employee, rubbing at tired eyes, heading for the coffee station right below him.

South doesn't say ah, shit out loud, but she thinks it really hard. Well, now or never.

There's nothing special she has to do to turn her power on, she just has to think about it. If Remy still has line of sight on her when it flips on, she's there one second, and then the next his eyes skip right over where he should know she was once standing.

It's a weird sensation, but it's only something you notice if you were already aware of where she was. To anyone who didn't, their eyes skim past without any indication that they've missed anything at all. South is, for all intents and purposes, invisible.

The staffer yawns, pours some coffee, adds creamer. Adds sugar. Adds more sugar. Two pumps vanilla syrup, one blueberry. Then he downs half of it in one go, smacking his lips in satisfaction, and heads back to his desk, unaware that anything is amiss.

He can't quite see where South is from where he is, but Remy can just see the staffer. And, more importantly, the abomination that he creates. "Dat jus' ain't right," he murmurs, just loud enough for South to hear. Given that the staffer didn't raise any alarms, it seems the plan is working just fine. "Looks clear from up here. Long as everyt'in' is workin' right, should be good to go."

Which almost definitely means that something will go wrong, but they'll play it by ear when they get there.

"He definitely didn't see me, so... let's move. Slow and steady and all that."

Which she hates, but there's no point in rushing this and getting caught out; if Remy's within range to activate it and he keeps pace with her, they don't have a time limit.

Not the easiest thing, when he can't see her, but... it's doable.

"Heading in now. Keep up."

And she moves to walk into the office, keeping her steps even and light, keeping her eye on her surroundings. Bumping into something would give the game away, after all.

"Bien sûr." And if she needs to know what that means, she can ask him later.

Being entirely certain of where she is at any moment is a bit difficult in the vents. Remy knows how fast he'd go if he were in South's boots, so he tries for that fast. Whenever he passes a vent, he takes a moment to look through. Not able to see a lot, and certainly not able to see her, but it also means being able to check that the staffers aren't being alerted.

Fuck, she misses armour and helmet radios. Sure, North would natter in her ear like a nagging grandma half the time, but at least it let you maintain a line of communication without you just speaking into the open air. Helmet output could be muted, the ear pieces don't have that luxury.

She keeps the same steady pace as she moves across the room, hoping Remy's keeping it with her, and stays focused on making it across to that enclosed office at the back without drawing attention. Hopefully the damn dogs either don't catch her scent or just don't fucking care.

Oh, but the dogs do care. Humans are friends! Human give scritches, and throw the ball, and play tug-of-war, and most importantly, humans give treats. One of the office dogs perks up as soon as South passes by, tongue lolling gleefully out of its mouth. It stands and stretches, yawning, then pads over to her and paws at her knee.

Give treat? Treat for good boy? Please?

So far, the office drones haven't noticed. South can see a treat jar, right at the desk next to the fellow who'd made the hideous coffee. Directly in his line of sight. Does she trust her new gifts, or take the risk of the dog raising a noisy fuss?

Oh, for fuck's—

Here's the thing: she hasn't trained with this power much, because if Jorg caught wind she had it, it became a lot less useful. She's got the basics down, but she's not really tested certain things—like if manipulating the environment right in front of someone's eyes can go ignored as easily as her mere presence.

But if the dog starts yapping... do dogs just yap at nothing? They do, right? She's never had a pet, but she's pretty sure dogs go crazy for no reason, sometimes.

But they don't paw at the literal invisible woman. Someone would probably notice that.

...goddammit. Alright, the lid's open, if she can get her hand in and hide the treat in her palm, then it should stay imperceptible with her until it's in the dog's damn mouth. In theory. Fuck.

She's slow and delicate about it—things South never usually is. Watching for signs the guy's noticing her at all times, she lowers her hand through the open top, pulls one of the loosest treats from the top into her palm, and withdraws her hand just as slowly.

The dog gets it if the coffee guy (what is it with her, stealth missions, and the risk of being busted by guys with fucking coffee?) doesn't fucking notice her.

The jar rattles a little as she withdraws her clenched fist. Coffee guy looks up -

And in the wrong direction. Seeing nothing, he goes back to his work. The dog accepts the treat with a happy slobber, and while it's occupied with that, South can get away.

She barely holds back an audible sigh of relief. Not risking wasting the window to get moving again, but careful as ever, she quickens her pace just slightly, not significantly, just enough to get space between her and the dog before slowing again.

She’ll have to figure out if other sensory input overrides the imperceptibility for everyone or just for goddamn dogs later. For now, she’s got to stay on task.

Remy had been preparing...something. He still isn't sure what he was going to do other than maybe find a way to distract people. He knew just the right amount of charge to make something sound like a book being dropped than an actual explosion, but it could cause more issues than it solved.

Luckily, he just caught the sight of the dog treat as the dog took it and lets out a sigh of relief. He murmurs a half-hearted prayer that he doesn't entirely believe in any more and makes his way forward to the office.

The office door is already slightly open; it won't be hard to nudge it a bit further and slip in without risking South's stealth field. Gambit follows easily, finding a vent he can drop out of slightly to the left of the desk.

The desktop computer is, sadly, locked and password protected. There's a variety of sticky notes scattered around, reminders and doodles and the like. One of them might have the password. There's also a more conventionally locked file cabinet, and the usual executive decor: floor-to-ceiling bookcase full of leatherbound books the inhabitant has never read or glanced at the titles of; a low leather couch with ottoman; a plastic-and-cloth ficus; and on the desk, a little novelty sippy bird nodding endlessly into a martini glass.

Well, South's no lockpick, and she's no hacker, but of the two, taking a look through the notes to see if Jorgmund's staff continue to be as comically incompetent as they usually are is something she can do.

She reflexively jerks her head from Remy to the filing cabinet, the universal silent gesture for 'get on that', before remembering he still can't actually see her do it. Right. Goddammit.

Whatever. She starts looking through the sticky notes; the physical influence on the environment will probably at least give Remy a heads up to where she is now.

He'd probably have rolled his eyes if he'd seen her jerk her head. As it is, he simply makes his way to the filing cabinet first, keeping low so as not to entice anybody to look their direction.

One of the first things he'd liberated from his trenchcoat during his first mission was his actual lockpick set. Makes life much easier when trying to break into things quickly.

As long as it's an absolutely normal lock, he should make short work of it, popping the drawer open as quietly as he can manage.

As luck would have it, it is a completely normal lock. Mundane, even; in less apocalyptic worlds, you can get these fifty bucks a pop at your local office supply store.

Inside, there's a wealth of files. Most of them don't look very interesting. But there is something in the back, there... unmarked, almost hidden behind everything else.

Should he pluck it out, he will find it's full of incredibly salacious pictures of, hoo, quite a few members of the secretarial staff, male and female. No one looks unhappy to be there; however, the notes attached to them and the elaborately scheduled little black book make it clear that none of them know about each other. Yes, indeedy, we have ourselves here a genuine office Casanova, and there's more than enough people featured here that if this information got out, it could prove very awkward and embarrassing for the executive in question.

Meanwhile, South is looking through the wealth of post-it notes. The executive - a woman, named Ashley - makes a lot of notes. Very few of them are pertinent. No wonder she keeps such an extensive little black book; absent-minded doesn't begin to describe it. One of the notes prominent on her monitor is a reminder of when her lunch break is, even.

None of them, however, have the password. More accurately, none of them have the correct password, and there's more passwords written down then South has chances to try a password before the system locks, possibly alerting someone. South can, of course, try anyway.

That's the wrong kind of comically incompetent to be useful. Fucking hell, how many times has this woman changed her password? How many times has she had to change her password because she forgot to get rid of old sticky notes and entered the wrong one too many times?

Maybe they should have tried Lonestar's human engineering idea. On this woman, specifically. Clearly no one would question her having to reset her password for the thousandth time.

If she was on her own, she'd try and brute force it, no question, but she's not, and unfortunately she's learned the value of teamwork again recently, so fuck. Grumbling, she finds a blank sticky note, scribbles 'too many passwords, think it's worth the risk to try a few?' and sticks said sticky note on the filing cabinet about level with Remy's face.

She's not talking aloud unless they have no other choice and he can't see her, creative methods it is.

Edited 2021-05-24 00:52 (UTC)

Files. Files. Boring files.

Remy still flips through them, just in case there's something of interest. But he mostly makes his way to the back, which is where anything of value or interest might be hidden. And hits the jackpot.

He flips through the pictures only enough to be certain that they're all different people before picking up the black book. Which is about the time that the post-it note appears in front of him. Luckily, he's been around enough people who could shock him in that way that he doesn't make a sound. Instead, he shifts and sticks his head up over the desk to get a look at the papers and...

"Mère de Dieu," he mutters very low under his breath, grabbing up a few to take a look at. Because it's probably worth trying one or two. Beyond that, the computer will probably lock up and that might not be a massive problem, but it could cause concern.

Then again, looking at the sheer numbers of passwords? Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it would just be every day when dealing with this woman. Depends on how they go about resetting passwords.

South screws up the first sticky note and stuffs it in her jumpsuit pocket, then writes another: 'if u get back in vents, i could try a bunch, risk only one of us, but the others'

She can get busted and talk her way out of real trouble—not that Remy knows that—but the others are assumedly still fuck knows how deep into their target area. In her experience, you get busted mid-infiltration, they're going to sweep the rest of the floor.

Remy in the vents would probably be fine, Jorg are stupid. But the others might not be.

He'd be sitting in the vents for a while, honestly. At least, if the passwords don't work. Which is why Remy shuffles through the notes in his hand before shaking his head with a shrug and taking one of the sticky notes. 'Want me to contact the others and let them know to be on guard?'

This might mean not getting to look in that utility closet. But Remy can probably get back here another day via the vents if he really wants to. The possible blackmail is more important to get out.

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