NationStates Jolt Archive

"Traitors," Shektar spat to the crowd, "do not live. They are not fit to continue to degrade our society with their existance. - And so, they must die. These... these traitors proclaimed democracy - democracy! - ought be implemented here in the Istima Dominion of Angagor."

The crowd, despite being small and compact (and surrounded by the Prime Guard, all of whom had drawn swords) snarled angrily - whether they are angry at the executions or angry at the traitors is open to interpretation at this point.

Shektar draws his sword with a violent clank, and marches to the first traitor. "You," he states softly, "have precisely thirteen seconds of existance remaining, from the moment of a single word from my lips. You lead; thus, you die first. Such is the risk of the leader - no?"

The man weakly attempts to spit on Shektar. "-," Shektar spoke softly, but completely unintelligably. The word slips away, vanishing like an eel from the grasp of all listeners but the one it is directed at.

The man writhed, agony twisting his features; silent yet still, the man contorts, twists, snapping his own bones with the violence of his reaction to the pain that spikes through his entire being.

Thirteen seconds pass; an eternity of agony for the traitor-

And then, almost silently, he shrieks, and... slumps, broken, battered, bleeding from dozens of ruptured arteries.

Shektar walked the line slowly, speaking the word to each and every one of the fifty; each time the word evades being heard, but has the exact same effect on the one the word is aimed at - a death of agony and humiliation.

As Shektar kills the last man with only his voice, the image dissolves, and the letters and words

A I B S
ANGAGORIAN INFORMATIONAL BROADCAST SERVICE
a subsidary of the Angagorian Ministry of General Security

spring to life, with the Angagorian flag in the background. A voice announces, "This has been a public service announcement by..."

~ Source: AIBS (Angagorian Informational Broadcast Service)

The scene was chaotic when security arrived, four of the people in the Extranational Signal Interpretation Office were slumped down on the floor, or sprawled across desks, their faces showed looks of pure horror, some sort of hideous surprise, as if something had reached out of their worst nightmares and decided to throttle them. One had broken his back across his chair, another had collapsed onto the floor and her skin had been broken in several places, by muscle convulsion of some sort, and bitten her tounge, leaking blood across the floor.

On a screen a message played, in an endless loop, from a nation called Angagor, showing dozens of people being killed in the same fasion. Below the screen was a notepad and paper, wonderfully low technology, with notes on lip read pronuciation. "This is far too weird," said the lead guard, "someone find out who deals with this sort of thing."