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Found an interesting mechanic in stealth

I was doing a SCRS stealth, but went on to murder everybody. The last two people I took out were the security at the security check point, but in doing so, one managed to pop off a few shots. After taking care of their radio, I still hadn't been compromised, so I decided to pick up an unsuppressed weapon. I got a CBR-C, and started shooting windows. After about 5ish shots, I was compromised, with the message "Nine city blocks heard the noise (player name) made!"
I'm guessing that there is a limit in how many unsuppressed shots can be made in every mission, alongside the mechanic of everybody hearing the gunshot on the mission. Since I was doing this on rookie also, I wonder if that amount will decrease as the difficulty increases, and if the same applies to explosives (like C4, grenades, and the demo charges used in the blacksite)
tl:dr gunshots, even if nobody is alive to hear them, cause the alarm to go off, and I am curious
edit: did the SCRS again, taking everybody out. I found that it took 11 shots from an unsuppressed weapon with every dead/unconscious to start the alarm on SCRS.
submitted by SeptuagenarianOnion to entrypoint

The Story of the Hunter

Sometimes my phone will ring. It's the hour, really, that determines what kind of call it will be. In the morning, it's people wanting money, in the afternoon, it's friends and family, and in the evening it's a mixture of the two. Sometimes work calls. It's hard to tell who it will be. Then there are times my phone will ring after the sun has set, after my family has eaten dinner, and the news programs have faded from the television screen. It's these calls that I answer from time to time, from numbers and area codes I don't recognize. These characters who I've never met, claiming to have answers to questions I've never asked. Sometimes I humor them, mostly I hang up. The correct ratio of bourbon to water often has an influence on the length of time I donate to the cause. Sometimes a certain degree of intoxication of one form or another is required to make sense of the words I hear. Stories that are unbelievable, improbable, or outright lies. Often the person on the other end of the line is more wasted than I am. Often. But not always.
There was a call one night, about 10:00pm. The wife and kids were visiting her parents, and I had the house to myself. For work, I told them. And that wasn't a lie. I had work to do, a column to write, and a book that was overdue. The advance had dried up and I was at a standstill. I wasn't sure whether to power through, or to scrap the entire project and start anew. I sat back in my chair and titled my head back, popping a pair of THC gummies into my mouth, washing them down with a long draught of bourbon. I'm not sure how long I stared at the computer screen before the phone rang. A number with an area code I didn't recognize was prominently displayed as it vibrated in my hand. I placed the phone onto the desktop and watched it vibrating along. I'm not sure why I snatched it up and pressed the answer button just before it rattled off onto the floor. I'm not sure why I did many things, but I did. Now here I am. And there he is. The man who was on the other end of the line. Telling what I thought at first were lies, but so tenaciously constructed that I played along. Interesting enough, I thought maybe listening to him would help me break through, find a way to end my book. Or maybe it was the weed and liquor. Either way, it doesn't matter now. What I'm telling you the majority won't believe, but it needs telling, and why he chose me to tell it was a fortunate mistake. Too late to turn back now.
"So let me get this straight.." I said after I set my empty beer down, our meeting having been set at a rural dive bar outside of Beaumont, Texas. "You expect me to believe that you're a monster hunter?"
"Sounds ridiculous when you put it that way. But yeah, close enough for now I guess." Nodded the man. I'm not sure how old he was. His face was weathered and tan, framed in a thick dark beard that was flecked with strands of gray, but his back was ramrod straight and the muscles of his upperbody were quite defined against the thin khaki fabric of his shirt. The dirty Mossy Oak camo ballcap he wore backwards was an extension of his scalp, I'm not sure he even removed it to shower. He looked like a strange cross of a stereotypical African big game hunter mashed up with some obscure military special forces operative. There were no defining marks. No tattoos to be seen, no emblems, even the clothing he wore seemed to have all of the tags ripped off. The only unique article was what appeared to be a huge, strange looking tooth or claw that hung from a leather strap around his neck. I couldn't tell which and chalked it up to being cliche.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I've been doing this thankless fucking job a long time and I'm getting tired of them looking for reasons to kill me to keep their secrets."
"Who, what secrets?"
"Who do you think?" He said in a deep voice as he shifted on his barstool to stare directly into my eyes.
"I don't know what to think."
"We can get into that later. This isn't the time and place."
"Ok, well, why did you call me of all people?"
"I've read some of your work from the front in Afghanistan and Iraq. It hit me hard, and you don't seem like the type that minds getting your hands dirty."
"Wait, what? Afghani-.. I've never been to Afghanistan. I'm not a combat journalist."
"You're not A. Gaines out of Houston, Texas?"
"I'm A. Gaines. Adam Gaines. The combat journalist is my brother, Albert Gaines. He's in London right now working for the BBC. He hasn't even been stateside in five years."
"Fuck."

It took some talking, cajoling, and towards the end almost begging after the misunderstanding. Like wrangling a bucket of pissed off snakes. Clayton, or Clay, as I came to find out his name was, is a man of decisive action. Deliberate in everything he does. Except double checking names, as it were. He rose to leave but after a peace offering of top shelf bourbon I persuaded him to stay and recount stories. The mid afternoon meeting flowed through until evening, then night, and finally until last call. I was drunk. Not sloppy drunk, though. I was in complete control of my faculties with only a mouth that dared to dream. Even in the face of the substantial bartab that threatened to bankrupt lesser men, Clay still looked like he could run a marathon. In the corner of that dimly lit bar shrouded in neon haze we laughed, we joked, we sobered, we cursed, and at length, we came to an agreement. I think.

It was a week before I saw Clay again. In our deliberation I had convinced him via a steady trickle of hard liquor bribes to allow me to document his claims. What the hell. I figured him to be full of shit, but at the very least I'd possibly have some inspiration for a novel come out of it. Even if half of what he said is true there will never be another story like it. The week passed quickly. I tended to my affairs, explained to the family I was on assignment, and convinced my editor to allow me to my own devices. Camera, recorder, clothes, camping gear I dredged up out of the garage that hadn't seen daylight in years. I waited at the prescribed time, giddy with anticipation of the adventure. I'd done some digging on the man himself, and came up with exactly nothing. No record of him anywhere, in any database I had access too both legal and illegal. Somewhere the old adage of not getting into a car with strangers was rattling around the caverns of my brain when a filthy dark green pickup truck with a US Fish and Wildlife Service decal on the side pulled up in front of my house. The brakes squeaked as it came to a stop and the engine clattered into an immobile state. The truck itself wasn't special. A thick steel bumper was on the front, wreathed in various light bars aimed wantonly, with a giant winch in the middle. A fuel tank and toolbox in the back, and another light bar on top. It was lifted with oversized mud tires, but was proportionately tasteful, not like some monster truck. It appeared to have seen some rough miles.

Clay opened the door and stepped out, looking almost exactly the same as he had the night at the bar. He slapped a hand on the hood and waved his other one. "Let's go. Roll out in five." I opened the back door of the cab and narrowly escaped an avalanche of camping gear and electronics, Clay stepped around the truck and began shoveling it all back in. "Let me clear you out a spot real quick. If you're not traveling light then triage whatever inessentials you have now. If it doesn't fit it doesn't go." Luckily I had packed sparingly. A duffel and a backpack of clothes found a nest in the seat while my travel bag would remain in my lap. I climbed in front, using the heels of my shoes to shove the random tools and other gear from the floorboard under the seat. Clay jumped in behind the wheel and turned the key, the big truck roaring back to life, and down the road we went. We drove in silence for awhile. I already knew where we were going. The Ouichita mountains. I'd spent time there in my youth, being from Little Rock originally. Clay said he'd just come off a long job in West Texas and was on his way to Florida when he was diverted. He was on payroll with the USFWS, officially, as a federal hunter.

Steering with his knee he started thumbing the screen of his phone with one hand and typing into a dash mounted GPS at the same time, cursing quietly under his breath as he swerved several times into oncoming traffic. I reached for the wheel once only to be slapped away. "I drive. You sit." Once satisfied, he eased back in his seat and glanced my way. A calloused finger came to rest on the radio dial and he flicked it on to provide a background soundtrack that consisted of some Jason Boland, Hayes Carll, and the same three Cross Canadian Ragweed songs on repeat.
"Tell me about yourself." I finally said. He shrugged, a bit more reserved than he had been at the bar where we'd met.
"Later."
We'd been driving for hours when the sound of the truck lurching to a stop at the State Forest entrance woke me up. I'd been instructed to wait while Clay opened the door and slithered from the seat. He disappeared into an office trailer and was gone for fifteen minutes or so. When he came back he hopped back in the truck and drug it into gear. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as we turned off the blacktop onto a park maintenance road. The smell of rainwater and pine was strong in the air as the breeze lapped at the trees.
"Where are we?"
"State ground. There was an attack here on a turkey hunter. That's why they called me out of Texas."
"You ever been here?"
"I've done some work in Miller county, this is my first time on this spread."
There was a slight drawl to his speech I hadn't really noticed before, Oklahoma maybe? "What happened in Miller county?"
"There was an incident with a skunk ape. It was getting a little too familiar with some of the new subdivisions. Hadn't hurt anyone but it was getting bold. The area has history so I was sent down preemptively." I was still skeptic, skunk ape? Really? "Played it off as an escaped Orang." He added, looking distant for a moment before continuing, while I pondered the possibility of an escaped orangutan in Arkansas. "Not the apes fault. People are moving in, real estate is booming. The wild places are getting smaller. Still, orders are orders. Someone has to do the job."
"What job, exactly?"
"I'm a cropping officer."
"I see. How many other cropping officers are there?"
"There are teams in other regions of the country, and a small handful of private contractors that are annoying. Canada and Mexico do their own thing. Regions here are Northwest, Southwest, Central, Eastern, and Southern. Everyone handles stuff their own way. I'm the only real cropper left, though. I handle most everything in the South. At least for now. I got some bad blood with some of the other teams so they've been trying to phase me out for awhile."
"So you work alone?"
"Yep."
We found a place to set up camp in a clearing deep off of the maintenance road and he shut the truck off. He yawned and without a word opened the truck door and slid out of the seat. Before closing the door he reached under the seat and produced a leather chest rig that cradled the largest revolver I'd ever seen. He slung it on and adjusted the buckles until it sat at a low angle on his left side for a right handed cross draw. I watched then as he began constructing what would be home for the duration of the assignment. A large wall tent, water jugs, cooler, and gear boxes all found their way to their designated places. He seemed as though he'd done this hundreds of times and if I attempted to help I'd just get in the way. Several motion activated cameras monitored the perimeter before it was all said and done. A metal case was produced from the beneath the backseat and he drew a large caliber double rifle, the wooden stock marred with scratches and crisscrossed with scars from years in the bush. It looked like something straight out of an African safari as he cracked it open and dropped two shells that looked like salt shakers into the breech then snapped it closed. I was soon to learn that the rifle was an extension of his body, like his ballcap, and if it wasn't in his hands, it was always within reach.
"Deer are bedded down." He said after a brief scan of the tree line through binoculars. "There's nothing here at the moment, so we can take it easy, at least until dark."
I didn't see any deer, but decided to take his word for it. He seemed to come more alive the deeper into the woods we got. Having a plethora of questions, I settled back into a folding chair as he ripped into a bag of homemade jerky.
"So, how did you get into this line of work?" I asked as I thumbed the button on my voice recorder to the on position.
"Well.." He said as he settled into another folding chair, producing a half empty bottle of bourbon seemingly from thin air and taking a swig to wash down the jerky. "It was an accident." I accepted the bottle he offered, took a pull, and handed it back as he spoke further. "I was dayworking on a ranch in Western Oklahoma some years back. Had some cattle come up dead. Filleted like fish, clean cuts. I knew it wasn't coyotes and wolves been gone in that country for years. This was before the Yellowstone project. Turns out it was a young Dogman killing them. Me and another cowhand managed to hem it up in a barn. Tried to lock it in to figure out what to do but it wasn't having any of that. Came busting through the wall, and got ahold of the other guy. I had a rifle with me and shot it a few times. Hurt it well enough that it took off. I loaded the other guy in the truck and went to take off too. Damn thing circled back as I was trying to leave. Attacked the truck. Tried coming through the windows at us. I got lucky, managed to catch it's leg under a tire and drove up over it. I parked right there on top of it, squalling and thrashing and everything. Crawled out through the back sliding window of the truck, leaned over the bed rail and just started putting the hate to it until my rifle was empty. Then I grabbed the shotgun out of the cab and kept blasting. It was probably dead for a good while before I actually stopped shooting. Didn't have much of a head left after that shotgun got done chewing on it. I left, drove to the boss's house where his wife called the sheriff and an ambulance. Neither one showed up." He paused then, looking away and taking another swig from the bottle, the hollow slosh of liquid against glass acutely audible.
"Tell you what did show up, though, was a couple of black SUVs. Gov'ment tags. The man I was with had bled out and died, and all they wanted to know was where it was. Come to find out the sheriff had called them. They came to clean up."
I looked at him, leaning forward. "Clean up?"
"Yeah. Debriefing is what they call it. Ranch boss wasn't there, so they threatened his wife to keep her quiet. Threatened me too." He looked at me, his eyes hard, his face cracking into a grin that was void of humor. "I'll never forget that little piss ant bastard that put a hand on me like he thought he was man enough to take me in. Broke his jaw and took his gun before the rest could draw down. I was likely gonna kill'em all until the C.O. got out of the backseat of the SUV." Clay shrugged then. "I'll be damned if he didn't offer me a job. I guess he saw something he liked. I was in a dark place in my life, didn't have much to live for. That's why I didn't care what happened. He probably picked up on that. They're slick that way. Anyways, I took him up on it. Got sent to a blacksite for some training and been doing this ever since. I grew up in the woods. Hunting, tracking, living the life. This shit comes natural to me. The rest of the teams hate me, say I'm volatile and my methods are outdated. I ain't got much use for them anyway. City folk mostly, that got their learning from PowerPoint slides and rely on their tech. They can't argue with my track record, though. I run circles around them soft sonsabitches in the field."
"What could possibly put you in a dark enough place to take a job doing this?"
Clay leveled his eyes at me and tilted his head a bit. "What else..? A woman, of course. A man will do stupid stuff when his hearts broke." He chuckled and took one last long pull from the bottle before capping it and dropping it beneath his chair and rising to his feet. "We got a couple hours yet before anything starts moving, I'm gonna catch a nap." He walked towards the tent, rifle in hand, and I clicked the recorder off.
The sun had plummeted from the sky as I'd sat in silence, just thinking. I still had my reservations about this whole venture, but if nothing else, Clay was convincing. I liked the man, I decided. Though perhaps a little backwoods, rough around the edges, and pretty much reminding me of an educated redneck he seemed honorable enough. I'd interviewed shady types before, and he had none of the typical mannerisms of that sort. When he came out of the tent at sundown he was dressed in a what looked like body armor on the top half. Forearm guards, hardknuckle gloves, flak vest with gear pockets and ammo bandolier, elbow pads, neck collar, and helmet with two different optics mounted. Thermal and nightvision, I'd find out later. The bottom he seemed to be wearing what looked like bicycle shorts and thin soled shoes with velcro straps. I nearly laughed at the sight, but stifled it as he looked my way.
"About time to go, put your hiking clothes on. No socks, no bugspray, no bright colors. There's an extra flak vest in the tent. Put it on. If you gotta piss, do it now. Once we get out there you can't talk, and have to follow me and do exactly what I instruct. No argument. This is the real deal now. I shouldn't even be taking you out there but I need you to see it all to believe it all. Understand?" His demeanor was like that of a drill instructor. Uncompromising. I felt a bit intimidated as he stared me down, and managed a nod.
I'm not sure how long we walked, but it wasn't a walk. It was a stalk. The night drug on and I stepped where he pointed, halted when he indicated, and kept low. My legs were aching to the point that the initial eerie feeling I felt was erased from my mind, giving way to physical pain. I hadn't noticed that the night birds had quit singing, that the insects had fallen silent, and that time had ceased to have meaning. It hearkened back to primordial times, a past era where time was meaningless. Where daylight meant safety and security, and the night was full of the unknown, the unseeable, the danger. Night was the time of the predator. I watched Clay through squinted eyes, only seeing his outline in the moonlight that wound through the pines. He undoubtedly was a predator. Each step he took was measured, the funny looking pants I'd laughed at earlier were soundless as he slipped through the undergrowth like an apparition. I stumbled in the dark, tripped over every manner of rock and stick I encountered, and attempted my best to keep up. I had my head down when I heard it. A deep, guttural growl that rumbled from the blackness. I immediately felt sick to my stomach, and my head instantly throbbed. I swayed on my feet and jumped as I felt a hand on my arm. It was Clay. He leaned close enough that I could feel his bourbon soaked breath on my face as he whispered so quietly I could barely hear him. "Sit down, don't move, no matter what." I could feel the underlying strength in his hand as he pushed me downward and I sank onto my ass in the damp pine needles. I could hear footsteps and the growling got closer. The speed with which they fell was inhuman. Clay had melted from my view, and my head was swimming. I was fighting the urge to vomit when I saw the figure burst into view. What I saw initially, I can't describe. I can only describe absolute primal terror I felt. I couldn't breath, couldn't move, couldn't react. I was paralyzed with a fear that reached back thousands of years, an ancestral fear that is bred into all of us as humans. My skin felt as though it was electrified and I could do nothing about it. The creature before me was the stuff of nightmares. Over eight feet tall, hair dark brown, the head of a wolf with glowing amber eyes and the physique of a bodybuilder. I was looking at what most people would call a werewolf, and I knew I was about to be killed. It turned towards me and I managed a feeble scream as it popped its glistening teeth.
I didn't hear the gunshot, only saw the column of fire belch from the treeline to my left. The hulking figure before me rocked and the entire forest shook from a deafening howl. I didn't see where the first bullet hit, but I watched as the second punched a fist sized hole in the lower middle chest of the creature. A metallic ping emanated from the dark as Clay cracked open the double rifle and ejected the spent shells. He came forward from the shadows, dunking two fresh rounds in before snapping the rifle closed and shouldering it. A third shot tore through the beasts shoulder as it dropped to all fours and charged him. The fourth shot took it's right hip but still it charged, though greatly slowed. I heard the thud of flesh on flesh as it and Clay connected. A new wave of terror surged through me as I knew he'd be killed, and I'd be next. I expected to hear a scream, the last death call of a man being ripped to shreds. Instead I heard a "God Damnit!" That sounded not terrified, not even angry. He sounded annoyed. I scooted backwards on my ass until I was propped against a tree, going nowhere, though my feet still involuntarily scrambled against the ground trying to push me backwards, my eyes locked on the battle illuminated by the light of the moon until I was blinded by the light of an explosion. I blinked rapidly, trying to regain my sight as I listened to the Dogman shrieking. As the beast had tackled him, Clay had dropped a flashbang grenade. As I regained my sight I saw Clay flowing like water in the pile of human and creature. I saw a huge knife in his hand, whipping up and down, back and forth whenever the beast reached for him. He was slicing at joints, cutting tendons, managing to stay out of the jaws until he was finally able to pull the giant revolver, and he pressed the muzzle to the neck of the monster, and in what seemed less than a second pumped five booming rounds into it. I could smell seared flesh, burned hair, and gunpowder. The Dogman fell in a twitching heap, still halfheartedly trying to reach for Clay who was by then on his feet and stepping backwards. He dropped the knife and shoved the pistol back in it's holster as he picked up the big double rifle and immediately dunked two more shells into it. Two more shots back to back found their way into the side of the creatures head, behind the ears at a downward angle which caused the bottom jaw to all but disintegrate. I had forgotten to breath this entire time and was in danger of passing out when I heard suddenly familiar ping of the rifle, and he ejected the spent cartridges. Two more found their way into the breech while smoke oozed from both barrels. He put the rifle over his shoulder, again like a big game hunter, and strode over towards me.
"First few shots took most of the fight out of him." He sat matter-of-factly. "You alright?" He asked, though it seemed more obligatory than sincere.
"I..what..what..the FUCK?!" I finally stammered.
"You're alright." He hauled me to my feet and dusted me off with a few swipes of the back of his hand. "Let's get you back to camp."
The walk back to camp was quick, and every sound in the forest caused a jolt of fear to shoot through me like lightning. I was hyperventilating, shaking, and finally vomited just as we stepped into the clearing. As I wretched I could hear Clay chuckling. "Just nerves. They growl on a frequency that messes with your brain when you're not used to it..let it fly, little buddy." Up until that moment I'd never considered committing homicide, but it crossed my mind then. I poured myself into my camp chair and greedily chugged the tin cup of bourbon Clay offered me. It burned against my raw throat, but I didn't care and slammed a second. Once my nerves began to settle I looked at Clay who had leaned his rifle against the bumper of the truck and was shedding his body armor.
"What the Hell happened? What was that?"
He shrugged out of his flak vest and dropped it to the ground with a sigh. "That was a Dogman. Rogue one. They usually keep to themselves and run in pairs or packs far enough off the radar you'll never even know they're there. My guess is he's a young male that tried to fight the alpha and lost, so they cast him out. The rogues are the dangerous ones. Snatch pets, attack people, kill livestock. Packs are highly territorial so the rogues have to live on the fringes. Unfortunately being on the fringes tends to put them close to humans. It doesn't happen often. Attacks are pretty rare. You're generally more likely to get attacked by a Squatch or a cat than a Dogman."
I stared at my cup, trying to gather my thoughts that were swirling in my head like a tornado.
"They're animals, Adam." Clay said as he rubbed the back of his neck, then pulled his pistol again, flipping open the cylinder to eject the spent shells. "Highly intelligent apex predators. Beautiful in their own way. Like a lion, or a grizzly bear. There are them that would see these animals turned into weapons, and there's more to that story. I'd rather see them left to do what they do. There's a balance out there. You don't see it now and I get that, but you will. I don't mind culling the rogues. Needs doing. But I don't wanna see them used as tools. It's people that are the real monsters here. Do you understand? I need you to understand so you can tell the story." Though in a fit of irony he said all of this as he pushed fresh rounds into the giant revolver, he had a look on his face as he spoke of someone that genuinely cared. I smirked as I looked at him, I was still trying to process not only what I had seen, but who exactly Clay was. I had just witnessed him fight a Dogman in hand to hand combat, only to have him essentially talk about how much he loves them like some back to the Earth wildlife monster philosopher? It was too much and I zoned out, still having pangs of involuntary shivers shooting through me. By the time I looked up again Clay had donned a small backpack with an axe tied to it and had his rifle on his shoulder again. He absently pitched a phone through the open window of the truck and drug a shovel from the back on his way by as he walked back the direction we'd come from.
"Where you going?" I called after him. He paused and turned slightly, casting me a look over his shoulder. "Gotta clean up. You rest easy. Think about what I said. Think about the story that needs to be told. We break camp after sun up. Still got that Florida call. That is, if you're still up for it."
I expected him to keep walking, to not wait for me to say anything. I didn't expect him to linger, waiting for my answer. And I didn't expect to give the answer I did. I wasn't in control when I said what I said. I didn't expect him to nod and grin before turning and fading into the black forest. There were alot of things I didn't understand, probably never will. I stood up on shaky legs, drained the remainder of my bourbon and dropped the cup onto the ground. I shuffled off towards the tent, to the cot that was designated as mine. I collapsed onto it and felt exhausted down into my bones. I closed my eyes and before being overtaken by a deep, dreamless, fitful sleep I reflected on what I'd said.

"Ready when you are."
submitted by WD_Stevenson to DrCreepensVault