NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: As some of you may know, the Choson People’s Republic of Dra-pol is a hyper-isolationist state, sometimes described (admittedly only by myself) as North Korea on PCP. As such it is not often that opportunity for RP or related development in Dra-pol is in evidence- it’s ruddy difficult for anyone else to get characters in and to keep them alive for more than a few sentences. (True enough one Quinntonian managed it, but he spent most of his time in a police cell, probably attempting to come up with original verbal retorts to having his genitals electrocuted again).

After many years of forced ruralisation the republic has allowed a few controlled cities to consolidate. DaKhiem, the revolutionary capital, remains closed to the outside, as do the military-industrial cities of Pyongyang and Kanggye.

Kosong, however, is different. Built even as the republic sinks back into massive recession and malnutrition returns to the countryside, Kosong is supposed to compete with the Quinntonian-occupied twin cities of Hamhung and Hungnam to the north. The port city is under construction, already inhabited and trading, and may even tolerate some controlled degree of capitalism to exist.

Essentially then, this thread is Kosong, the one part of Dra-pol open to the outside world. As such it is quite possible for other characters or nations to turn up here. Basically I want to keep developing Dra-pol’s changing character so everyone may see the republic, allowing others to step inside at any point, if they so wish.

If you want to throw a person, a company, a government, or whatever into the Kosong mix you are welcome to try. Questions too are certainly welcome. /OOC.

Comrade Seung Kim stepped out of the Kosong Park Collective tailor’s already wearing his first western suit. His was one of comrade Park’s first contracts since the textile expert had been directed to embark on this new course by which his talented means served Kim’s current needs.

It –the suit- was strange to Kim, so many layers and features. Most Drapoel hadn’t encountered pockets, let alone braces or a tie. This Drapoel had decided the above were all good things, and that probably they would serve him well in the new world.

Kim called out to a distant pedicab, which promptly began to jostle along towards his location. He was off to the big city to.. well in truth there was little prospect of fortune or social betterment, this was a fair society in which no one would hold him higher than the now arrived pedicab driver, for example. Small man to be a taxi driver mused Kim, regarding a little cyclist’s scrawny, hunched frame as he climbed aboard. Quietly Seung was a little disappointed that the driver didn’t spare him a second glance in spite of his new suit. Not a novelty in Kosong, he supposed.

The ride from the low-rise sill of the republic’s window on the world was pleasant enough. The road was at first still dirt, though well packed, and the persevering countryside scenery was only just permeated by the first signs of a communist’s path to the west.. even if Kim was travelling east. First the tailor’s, then a depot stocking accessories such as briefcases and other things not needed to work an iron press or till a rice paddy. A Banat spyshop Kim speculated, consciously avoiding a second glance over the journey’s least remarkable square wooden building.

Then things began to change. Kim would crane his neck from the side of the shaded pedicab to see the full extent of the waterfront high rises as the sea breeze caught his notice. Though he had grown up less than twenty miles from its shores this was perhaps only the second or third time Kim had been so close to the Sea of Japan.

Foreign aid, once piled higher than any adjacent buildings in the little western port of Haeju, had dried-up. Probably because the media-friendly explosions and exciting tracer-fire had stopped, too. Thought Kim as the pedicab drew-up to the immaculately kept pavement outside the Yong Company headquarters building. Strange then that so much was being built here while his friends from the old collective had died off one by one, fallen to malnutrition, disease, or execution thanks, so Kim supposed, to the lack of spending on their education. They didn’t know how to be good republicans and it cost them.

“Yonniseyo.” He said, delivering the generic none party-related pleasantry to the exhausted little driver, snapping briefly to attention as he did. Drapoel hadn’t made a habit of bowing since the revolutionary thirties when Sulo insisted that no man should become accustomed to bending lest another take advantage by failing to return his humility.

Seung Kim turned his gaze upwards on stepping away from the departing pedicab. Must remember to check progress of my application on that he thought of his yet unofficial last name. Good Dalanian name. Much better for business in open city. Much less readily associated with the bombing of Quinntonian Drapoel police stations in west Hamhung, too! Seung’s attention was by now elsewhere. The huge video screen above him covered five stories and beamed countless watts of wholesome and efficient collective agricultural graft out to sea. Sep District, Song Collective! Akiyoro and sister. Dead now.

Amongst the crowds one face, partly disguised by unruly hair and a pair of dark glasses, has less keen to attract attention than were the likes of comrade Seung Kim and presumably countless others.

He considered the tragic dilution of this bastion of strong socialism with some sadness and much irritation.

This once athletic and now increasingly bedraggled character balanced atop exceptionally thick-soled boots in a deliberate attempt to hide what was for a foreigner an unusually short frame.

The communist, old before his years, hoped to look bad enough to avoid drawing suspicion from who knows what western powers that may be present while looking western enough to remain outside any Banat prison cells. Maybe for long enough to make new contacts higher up, or failing that then at least long enough to get a ship out. Perhaps east, there are plenty of soft targets east, after all..

"You see!" Father exclaimed, gesturing dramatically with his right hand. "State media works fine!"

Well, it told him all he wanted to know, at least. More ruddy imperialism, and right on his own doorstep -he was in completely the wrong place!

Before long the formerly subtle movements of the stray Beth Gellen were replaced permanently. This would attract some attention, no doubt, but the grubby fellow more or less skipped down the road, twirling his trenchcoat about as he went, humming a Russian waltz, by Shostakovich, as he went.

On arriving at Kosong airport, Father gambled on making as much fuss as possible in order to get the attention of someone important. He'd need a high ranking officer, most likely, as he spoke precious little Drapoel. Far from hiding it, he now tried to make a point of his nationality, informing everyone he passed by that he'd, "Be seeing you!" and talking of nuclear and missile-defence programmes as he went. After all, they were essentially his doing, so far as the CPRD was concerned.

"My good man!" He called out to what looked to him a likely candidate for a Banat agent lingering outside an airport terminal. "I have to send a sensitive package to The People's Commonwealth!"

Then it was a hop (China), skip (India), and a jump (Andaman and Nicobar) before he made right for the dark continent.

Mayhem lifted spirits for the Salvador Slayer, there was no mistaking that.