Operative Report: South American Ruin Ops

Operative Report: South American Ruin Ops

Fan fiction by Robotic Dinosaur

 
Safety in numbers, they say. Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I’ve also watched the Nature Channel. Safety in numbers. Tell that to the one zebra who always gets taken down because he’s too busy chasing the ass of the one in front of him to notice the lion on his flank. That’s not how I’m going out.
 
As soon as the Shop’s checks started bouncing, I was on my way to sunny South America. Where exactly isn’t important. It’s a big jungle, but depending on who’s looking for me, it might not be big enough, right? I got back in touch with some of my University connections, and got myself a spot on a cultural outreach program. As usual, a couple of our boys were in there too, using the University resources to infiltrate various local drug cartel and paramilitary groups. Standard infra-structural maintenance procedures, keeping the thugs and aspiring dictators in their proper places.
 
To be honest, none of that ever interested me much. My involvement with these backwoods ops always tended toward the more esoteric. When the village shaman came to me, of course, my curiosity was immediately piqued. He was an ayahuascero - a visionary. One of his revelations had taken a nasty turn, and he turned immediately to the Great White Father to find out where the bad juju was coming from.
 
That night, we set out by boat to see where things had gone wrong. Now, some of you may say that it’s in bad taste to set out into dense, remote jungle territory at night in a rickety canoe, accompanied by a man who was probably compromised by the enemy. Especially when said man is definitely under the influence of psychotropic drugs, and you’re trespassing on the de facto territory of any number of bloodthirsty nationalist militias and/or international drug cartels. But nights like those remind me why I signed up with this outfit in the first place.
 
It was the classic set-up for a real bloodbath. The forest was… deserted. The big, ballsy gators that snap up the occasional fisherman were gone. So were the ocelots, the howler monkeys, even the wild pigs. Peccaries are the most bloodthirsty damn things out there, if you don’t count the Castro poseurs, and when they start casting absentee ballots, you know something’s up. It was at this point that my guide told me we had to turn back - or rather, the Feathered Serpent did, through him. I applied the usual interpersonal skills, and had him wait for me by the riverside.
 
The operations site was crawling with sentries. This wasn’t a coke-baron operation, or the site of the newest Burger Lord franchises - this was professional. For the moment, I had the element of surprise on my side, but I knew that wouldn’t last for long. I could make out the general shape of the ziggurat-temple they were blockading; by all the gods I know it shouldn’t have been there. Neither should’ve the charged particles my Geiger counter was picking up, but all the same, there they were.
 
I made a quick circle of the perimeter, trying to get some useful data on this thing, when they spotted me. Needless to say, if I had still been there when the actual bullets started flying, I wouldn’t be around to spread the good news to you guys. My mystic friend wasn’t quite so lucky - unless, of course, he was one of them.
 
You see what happens when you spend the majority of your productive adult life working for a global conspiracy?
 
So, the moral of our story: I checked our satellite data on the site when I was finally back in a secure location. Nothing. As far as surveillance can tell, there isn’t anything out there. Never has been. But now I’m having recurring nightmares about wild pigs eating my family. Sometimes, I hate this job.