**Author:** SLDH8MM3R --- ***The following log was uploaded to the EXODUS ARCHIVES on 31/10/43. Written by Diane Martha Kirkby and published by Tauno Jutt.*** Personal Note: Listeners, I know this is a shock to most and I wholeheartedly wish to apologise for pulling the wool over your eyes. We had to go underground to not draw the attention of a certain three-letter agency, as the Exodus has been redesignated an enemy of the United States. Foremost, I was wrong about *Silver Spear*, it is not the weapon of mass destruction I thought it was. I can’t give all the details but this is tied to much more than I thought. My release schedule may be sporadic since I’m relying on bouncing my signal to mask my current location. You’ve waited this long, so I don’t doubt you can wait a bit longer. Thank you, all of you. <br> ***Impávido. 30th October 2043.*** *Queen Anne’s Revenge, Royal Fortune, William Kidd’s Adventure Galley.* The greatest pirates are often accompanied by their legendary ships of which names usually most can’t recall. But if you’re a No-Pat Marauder, PMC cargo security, or Patriated within your nation’s navy, you would know that even a ship’s name alone can demand a presence that keeps the superstitious at port. None more so than the SPS Impávido. This illusive ship has a tragically triumphant tale that made the ship infamous to those who plunder the seven seas. Our story begins in 2037, as the Spanish government and the EU had crumbled to the ground, the SPS Impávido was attacked by pirates and the commanders were held for ransom. Operating as Commandante on the SPS Impávido was one Camila Blasco, *The* Camila Blasco who now commands the elusive Leviathan Division. Accounts and legend has it that once her commanding officers had begun to be executed; she rallied the remaining crew to break out of the brig and seize control of the ship. Some with their pistols and rifles whilst some claim that Blasco killed the pirates with nothing but a blade. Abandoned by their nation and grieving at the loss of trusted commanders and close friends, those remaining crew members made a pact to defect from the failed nation to pursue a new purpose of protecting vessels that couldn’t protect themselves. All those who had fought with her during the brig escape unanimously anointed Blasco as Captain of the SPS Impávido. As the Impávido began to aid hundreds of ships and became more renowned within the Non-patriated maritime community, many vessels rallied behind their cause until the Impávido became a colony of ships; in other words, a floating city. All those under her protection, from fishermen to soldiers, refer to Blasco as the Admiral as a sign of respect and acknowledgment of her decisive command and strong principle. Unfortunately, the Admiral’s strict ‘no press’ policy means I can’t get an interview out of the Captain, however a senior member of the Leviathan Division who had been side-by-side with Blasco during the attack from the brig has come forward to speak with me about the Admiral from a personal perspective. **\[AUDIO-TEXT TRANSCRIPT FROM IMPÁVIDO #1 INTERVIEW.]** KIRKBY: “I’m here with Naval Lieutenant (Teniente de Navío) Diego Bolea, Demolitions expert for the Leviathan Division. Lieutenant, amongst the ship you are considered a veteran of the Division considering you were in the room when it was formed. If you are able, take us back to the moment that Blasco became the Admiral.” BOLEA: “As far as I am concerned, Blasco has always been the Admiral but rank limited her to Comandante. The way she rallied us, hopeless and whilst making peace with deaths, to fight ahead with guns, knives, bludgeons, hell! We even used our bare fists! We knew even as the pirate’s captain choked on his own collapsed lungs that she would lead us out of whatever danger we encountered.” KIRKBY: “A truly inspiring and terrifying woman, her presence alone has me standing at parade whenever she comes to the Exodus chow hall to mingle with our crew.” BOLEA: “Everyone does, trust me, it’s a part of the legend. All those who join her see her as an absolute angel of vengeance, the Archangel Michael of the seas, but the closer you get then you’ll see that she deeply cares for the innocent and those who protect them. Partially why she took pity on the Exodus.” KIRKBY: “I’ve been told. She was able to help a few of my friends mourn over those we’ve lost. She… helped me to come to terms with my own.” BOLEA: “She knows deeply of loss herself, she knows how isolating it can be to some.” **\[END OF TRANSCRIPT]** The Impávido is more than just a vessel dispensing retribution on the seven seas, it has become a floating colony of ships sailing in unison and becoming entirely autonomous apart from replenishables such as bullets and oil. This floating city is home to many types of people and the delicacies that come with a multinational occupation, from classic fish and chips to vegetarian versions of renowned dishes. There are also nurseries and schools to educate the children, weapon stores to arm the Division guards and shocktroopers, and a mighty fine bar made from the remains of an old Turkish tour ship. Our next interview I’ll admit was not planned, since I left my recording mic on while getting some much needed r&r. Our subject is a peculiar bartender with tall tales and taller glasses, Sebastian Popov, who speaks about the traditions of the Impávido fleet. **\[AUDIO-TEXT TRANSCRIPT FROM IMPÁVIDO #2 INTERVIEW]** KIRKBY: \[sound of beer being poured into a glass] “You’re a fucking enigma to me, Seb!” SEB: “Таким же образом! (Likewise!) How can someone like you hold your beer? Maybe I recommend some water? It’s free!” KIRKBY: “L-let me get this straight, you’re ex-GRU but left Russia to become a tour boat captain. And to top it all off, your name is Sebastian?! You- You’re a riot!” SEB: “Малиновка (Robin), I am an international man of mystery! But because you’re so curious, I will tell you origin story. My name comes from crab from the Little Mermaid. My mother chose it because of my red complexion and big smiles. It made nice surprise for teacher and other classmates. As for my military days, I was stationed in Crimea ports during the war of 2020. I loved the sea and spent my off-days fishing with locals, at some parts of my deployment I was more fisher than soldier. Once my service was done, I took my money and bought a boat in Turkey to fish and ferry around big tourists; mainly Russian and Georgian to be truthful.” KIRKBY: “R-Right. Hey, how come this place is so barren? Thought the bar would be packed by now.” SEB: “It’s Sunday, they’re probably all by the memorial on the Impávido. Paying their respects to those who died, at sea or in a past life.” KIRKBY: “I saw it when I arrived, my commander Irish has been frequenting a lot. I think he’s trying to find some forgiveness for what Oz did to his friend.” SEB: “Everyone grieves, Малиновка (Robin). Some with vigils and promises, some-” **\[Sounds of a bottle on the counter, pouring.]** SEB: “-Drink it down, bury it under booze.” KIRKBY: “… It’s his birthday coming up, it would’ve been his sixty-third.” SEB: “Family?” KIRKBY: “Father. I’m not drinking to his memory, I’m drinking to forget what he was to me.” **\[END OF TRANSCRIPT]** As this update goes live, I should be moving inland to finally see where this ‘Nation of the Non-Patriated’ Will place its foundations. The truth is in our grasp. This is Diane Kirkby, stay tuned. <br> **Impávido Fleet. “Daddy’s girl.”** **George Bush Center of Intelligence Building, Langley. 30th October 2043.** The decaffeinated coffee in the Indiana University Hoosier mug had gone cold by the time Wolff had taken the first sip. The Exodus mess was a shit-show, a career-ending fumble for anyone less than Noah Wolff but he still had a Hail Mary that could still get him Oz’s head on a platter; which was the reporter with a dark past, Diane Kirkby. Her file had been sitting on his desk since Panama, the imprint of coffee stains circling the cover like it was analysing each grain of the tan folder as if it held deeper secrets. The overview of the file revealed a few unknown details of her pre-military life, Kirkby was a farm girl from Langdale with a family history in the special forces, a lineage of the finest men to serve the crown. Whether it was a passion or tradition, she spent her youth in the Royal Cadets learning leadership skills, fieldcraft, but most importantly of all; Marksmanship. Wolff pinned his glasses to the bridge of his nose as he scoured the list of marksmanship titles awarded to the young girl, beating other cadets within the detachment, in the region of Cumbria, and even saw nation-wide competitions before she finished high school. Yet unlike some cadets who went into the Army or Royal Marines, Kirkby curiously held back and instead took up a degree in Photography and published written work for a student-ran newsletter; the budding start of a career in journalism. As Wolff reached for a sip of coffee from his alma mater’s cup, his eyes crawled towards the service record, despite only four years official service, she was credited with the takedown of Non-patriated terrorist Gerald Sulit in the Philippines. What followed from the official records were intel reports from a mixture of recon and embedded agents within the group, though most never were given their accounts personally. Kirkby had been in the Black Flags militia during its formation before disappearing behind a code name: Kraken. Wolff began to lift the page containing photos extracted from the Perth base, a familiar crimson pool of blood betraying the contents of the image from merely looking at its fringe; however a knock at the door saved him from seeing the startling site. It was Director Renoit, a silver fox with a stern stare; whose skin was still sunburnt from his time in the Gobi desert as a field agent. ”Noah, you’re not in the middle of something, aren’t you?” Renoit chirped as he peeked his head around the blind-covered door, his grey moustache curling with his lips as he gave his subordinate a smile. Noah returned the smile, closing the folder and pinning its border with his mug. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and watched the clock above the door. It was twenty past nine in the evening and he was planning on burning the midnight oil, “Director, I hope you don’t mind me taking some extra overtime.” “I haven’t complained so far, why start now?” Renoit replied as his frame appeared from behind the door, well-built for a man in his 60s who hadn’t seen field work for twenty of them. He fiddled with the gold watch on his wrist as he limped towards the seat opposing Wolff. Noah sensed that this conversation wasn’t a personal catch-up between a mentor and his student, Renoit’s hands betraying his worry, something was bothering him. “Director, what did you need to speak about?” Noah leaned forwards in his chair, clasping his hand over his pale knuckle. Renoit adjusted his back into the black leather chair to push the crick in his muscles before speaking his peace. “Melony in archives said you were looking into Diane Kirkby, that reporter on the Exodus, since you’ve struck an alliance. That name intrigued me a bit, so I did my own digging. Turns out, she’s not the only Kirkby on file.” Renoit dropped a file on his desk on top of the prior file, replacing the uniformed portrait of Diane with the photo of another soldier. The man’s features bared a resemblance to Kirkby, however his hair was darker and squared away into a crew-cut and the inquisitive eyes of Diane were replaced with brown eyes that stared daggers into the soul of whoever gazed upon them; as if he knew your worst secret. Noah shuddered as Renoit spoke again. “Meet the father, Daniel Andrew Kirkby. SAS Captain that I had the opportunity to work with during our last skirmish with the Russians…” Noah opened the file once more, almost entire paragraphs redacted and edited to hide the extremes that the man had done for his country and the United States. Service record was similar to his daughter’s own, cadet prodigy and overachievers, yet he didn’t pursue higher education. Instead he went into service as a Royal Marine until providing himself enough to be selected for the SAS. Renoit then produced a picture from his wallet, a younger version of the director stood between two squads of Delta operators and an SAS squad; beside him was Daniel with a grin on his face and blood on his hands. Renoit pointed at the page with his index and peered at Noah as he spoke, a noticeable shake in his voice as he gave Noah his warning. “I believe the devil walked among us, and if he passed on anything of his own into your ‘pet project.’ Then I don’t want you to hesitate putting her in the ground.” Noah and Renoit shared a look for a moment, fear from one and horror in the other. Just what kind of creature is the Kirkby family? <br> **Impávido Memorial Wall, 30th October 2043.** Many had gathered from the symphony of ships to pay tribute to those lost in the proxy wars and senseless pirate raids, even those from before the current times. Fathers grieved wives and sons, children leaving handmade presents to deceased family members in hopes they’ll like it in the afterlife. Diane and Emma had their own grievances, both losing their parents to senseless tragedy, had taken the Admiral’s advice to finally make peace with it before they entered the eleventh hour of the war; there may not be another moment of rest. They shared a candle as they knelt together by the pillar of lost souls, Kirkby reaching into her pocket to pull out a polaroid of a younger girl and two parents, seemingly proud as the child held a trophy. Sundance looked over the photograph inquisitively as they finally put a face to the parents of their beloved partner, hesitating for a moment before they spoke, “You must be Mr and Mrs Kirkby…” Diane didn’t bother to introduce them, or scoff at the rhetorical question, or anything. Her body barely moved, just staring at the picture with a face that matched her stone-still movements. Sundance followed her gaze towards the man in the photo, dark brown hairs and eyes that tried their best to look proud but the expression looked strained on his cheeks. Even as Emma cradled her hand, it shook and rattled in their palm, unnaturally characteristic for the sniper. Diane was pulled from the trance by a squeeze of their fingers as if restarting a pulse, causing the journalist to exhale the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Without a prompt, she spoke to the spirit of her father; not for wisdom or guidance. “Fuck you… Fuck you for making me like this, like you. I can’t grieve mum, my old lives, what I’ve done to get here. I can’t find that peace I thought running from you could. You’ve worked your sick drills, lessons, parables into my heart, so much I could barely believe that I could love again.” Her voice strained as she emptied her hateful bile into the portrait of the man who made her everything she was. The shooting competitions, the faux fascination with her hobbies when they related to her steady aim and eye for detail, being groomed into the marksman she would become. He wasn’t a father, he was a commander. Emma would keep silent, some part of them envied Diane in how she knew her parents whilst all the mafioso had was scratchy memories, a picture from a memorial, and dreams of a life away from crime living in a family unit. As tears rolled down Diane’s cheeks, teeth gritting to keep composure, a rhythmic exhale, an exercise in control that she couldn’t bear. Emma placed their hand on Diane’s cheek and turned her to face them, what could they say? They never knew the complexities of that bloodline connection, it was capos and bosses only to be replaced with lieutenants and commanders. A pit in their stomach formed as Emma rested their head on Diane’s shoulder, the feeling of comfort almost alien to them both. Yet they held each other as they watched the wick dance a woeful dance. “You have us now… The No-Pats, the Exodus, Me.” Emma justified to Diane as they held on tight, reminding her of their allegiance to the people. It would’ve been enough if she hadn't already sold it all for her twenty pieces of silver, a chance to be remade. Some part of her wanted to call off the deal with Wolff, burn the burden of the past and live for the future. But something pulled her to commit a deeply selfish act, almost instinct. A Sheep running from it’s lambs to save itself from the foxes, it was what she was told to do by Daddy. She could curse him all she wanted. She was Daddy’s girl; cursed with his indifference. What sort of creature would do this to their own kin?