Eurusea vessels off St Peter Island [continuation post-retcon [M]] [Archive]

Pantocratoria

05-09-2004, 19:52

The Imperial High Command's home was a seemingly never-ending underground maze of tunnels and offices buried deep underneath New Rome. There was no above ground entrance building, but there were various means of direct access for the thousands of workers via a secret subway system which made stops in the bowels of, amongst other places, the Imperial Parliament, the Headquarters of the Imperial Infantry Legion of New Rome, and even the Imperial Court of Christ Pantocrator itself. It was inside a top-level meeting room in the Imperial High Command complex that HIH the Imperial Chancellor now listened to briefings from the Imperial High Command, a council of twenty of the most senior and most well-bred officers of the Imperial Defence Forces. When a member of the Imperial High Command was deployed to the field, like First Admiral Lord Phocas was at present in the Excalbian Isles, his position was temporarily filled by a replacement. In the case of a hereditary seat on the Imperial High Command like Lord Phocas', Phocas' heir sat in his place.

"Your Imperial Highness, my Lords, Gentlemen," boomed the cold, vaguely female voice of the High Command's central computer system, MATER III. "The following communiqué is classified most secret."

The computer stopped for a moment as the access levels of the individuals assembled in the meeting room were confirmed.

"Field Marshal Andronicus Kantenozous, commanding Imperial forces assigned to the defence of the Syskeyian Republic, sends his complements and advises that the Syskeyians have sent a negotiator to meet with General Kyznetsov on-board the Alternate." Mater finished.

"Finally, some effort on the diplomatic front." snorted the Chancellor.

"This means nothing." said one of the faceless men who sat in the shadows of the large dark chamber. "The Euruseans will not negotiate."

"The Syskeyians will fall over themselves with indignation." added another.

"Neither side will agree on anything."

"The negotiator will be lucky to make it out with his life."

"They may yet surprise us!" protested Irene, the usually severe and oppressive Chancellor seeming upbeat by comparison with the Imperial High Command.

"How can one negotiate with rabid animals in any case?"

"Do you mean the Syskeyians or the Euruseans?"

"It makes no difference."

"It makes a lot of difference, one is our ally, and the other is not!"

"We will wait until after the negotiations are over to judge their success or failure!" asserts Irene over the faceless members of the High Command. "But for now, this changes nothing."

"Our troops should continue to St Peter Clavier Island. Mater! A resolution!"

"What is the resolution of the Imperial High Command?" asked the computer's voice.

"That Kantenozous is to continue with his present instructions."

"Are there any dissenters?" asked the computer.

"No." came the reply from everyone seated at the table.

"By resolution of the Imperial High Command, Field Marshal Kantenozous, A., is to continue with his present instructions." the computer confirmed.

Syskeyia

07-09-2004, 15:20

[Extremely rough image of a Floating Fortress from above here (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v453/GMCMA/Fortress-above-rough.jpg)]
OOC: Verrrrrrry interesting Photobucket account. Verrrrrrry interesting...

IC:

The chapel was...Strange. Positioned in the heart of the ship, the roof and walls were heavily reinforced with steel and concrete, the room barely decorated and empty except for an altar with a cross, a Bible and a copy of The Holy Communist Manifesto on it.

The Manifesto caught the Major's eye. As Syskeyia was an ally of Constantinopolis, Chouan was well aware of the fact that some Christians also considered themselves Marxists. But the "Holy" Manifesto? Equal in importantance to the Bible?

That, the major thought, is going a bit too far.

Kyznetsov stood and crossed herself as Choan entered, nodding, 'Ah, the representative from Syskeyia?' she paused, 'And not the General himself, I take it? What's your name?'

I am Major Paul Chouan of the Syskeyian Army. I am a member of General Divecha personal staff and was chosen by him to represent the Republic of Syskeyia in these talks.

Let us begin the negotiations, shall we, Comrade-General?"

Eurusea

11-09-2004, 11:32

Endless Crimes

11-09-2004, 17:37

What happened until now. Copy/ Paste from the Original thread

New Eden, Endless Crimes

"Bad timing. How many years until we finish rebuilding?" Metatron looked at Michael... The new Michael, after the old one, the honoured leader and hero of the Hogsweatian campaign had been killed by the nephilim.

"About ten years. Of course, with less extensive training..."

"We can't do that. The Cherubim must know how blood tastes! Otherwise they will never be able to face the horrors of the world... The plague of the nephilim."

Michael nodded. "I understand. And I agree. Nonetheless, We need to be careful."

"Yes." Metatron looked slightly annoyed, his forehead glowing a little brighter than normal. "Nonetheless, I want our men to be there. This request is not to be taken lightly."

"As you order." Michael bowed, obediently.

And the hidden machines, the true gods, moved, silently, soulless, the nightmare, created so long ago, continuing to work, recording.

A few days later

"HEIL!"

A million voices, of a million Cherubim, shouted as one, a thunderous cry of joy echoing back and forth through the streets, a song of excessive beauty to those who feared and obeyed god, a torture to those who didn't, to those who were punished, nailed to a thousand crosses alongside the streets, sighs of agony and pain escaping their mouths, their eyes flickering, the gift of life taken from them.

A million cherubim were ready to move, and they would move.

For it was time.

The first ships, a small contingent, yet, a first, and important, sign, left, heading towards the coordinates given to them, following the call to arms, the Cherubim high with joy and their lust for blood.

Saiana watched on board of the Lightbringer. She was one of the cursed ones, her pointy ears looking somewhat missplaced, considering her heavy, black boots, the equally black uniform and the riding crop on her side.

She smiled a little. Fascist Elves wasn't capable of assisting with its own fleet, but it was still capable of helping out with Inquisitors.

And yes, she liked her mission. She could hardly wait. Rat Worshippers. Heathens. Filth. They shall pay. A smile formed in her tender face, looking as innocent as a newborn...

She remembered the blood orgies in Hogsweat. With a bit of luck... And looking at the 50cm main artillery on the Lightbringer, she chuckled a little. Right, there was this other thing...

En Route (But still quite a bit away) to St. Peter Claver Island

The surface vessels, 112 of them, were quite a magnificiant view, even though Saiana was used to slightly more advanced technology than mere wet ships.

Yet, the sheer brutality of their design, their sheer size...

A short, soft moan escaped her mouth as she felt the warmth between her thighs, and she made sure than none of the Cherubim on the Lightbringer had heard her. She and her people were autonomous, nonetheless... It was best to be careful.

She smiled. And if it would happen, I could make sure the element would be burned.

She looked forward, a destroyer crossing her field of vision... Small, but nonetheless impressive, yet, she was barely aware of it, her thoughts in the future, considering various possibilities.

I wonder how they are, this 'Syskeyians'... I will have to test their tools, some time... She giggled, imagining the tests, her short, blonde hair withstanding the wind, her long, black leather coat waving in it, an impressive view, considering the 185cm tall woman covered by it.

Eventually, she perceived some more activity, heard some words, half a sentence from the Cherubim running around, preparing.

Apparently, the game had just begun.

Fun.

And now, for the next part.

"Of course. I know, you need your salvation, now, so close to the day that will elevate your name to the olymp of greatness..." Saiana smiled at the Cherubim in sitting in front of her, crossing her legs. Ought to wear that short skirt, some time... She giggled a little. This Cherubim... Of course, she knew the society they came from, and she knew it in all its implications... It was what made her job, no, her mission so amusing.

The Cherubim, Emael was his name, seemed to be nervous.

They always are, in the presence of... Us.

"And I have some very special ideas regarding your 'salvation'." She made sure the... Lascivious part of the words could be heard. Standing up, her black boots, her tight trousers radiating an atmosphere of strength, of might and absolute certainty, she came closer, she could see her victims wings jittering, a little. His mouth was... He was nervous, yes. Very nervous.

For a moment, she wondered how old he was. Oh, right. Twenty. Another smile as she sat down on his lap. Normally, a Cherubim would react by cutting the throat of the insane, sinful female doing something like that... But she was an inquisitor. He couldn't do it. Heck, he couldn't even understand, comprehend it.

"Let me teach you some things..." She kissed him, passionately, demanding, almost sucking his soul out of his strong, yet weak, body, knowing that the door was locked, anyway.

"I... What? This is..."

She giggled, softly, feeling him growing.

"Don't worry, I will teach you the prayers..."

Syskeyia

12-09-2004, 20:07

Alternate

Kyznetsov nods, 'Major...Well, I suppose that's only natural, really. I have come here to see that justice is done, Major Chouan. Not long ago, a group of Syskeyian terrorists on St. Dominic Island brutally murdered about a thousand citizens of Reich nations including Vegana, Iesus Christi, God's Own, Endless Crimes, North Star and, of course, my own countrymen from Eurusea. Along with them, several brave Iesus tank crews perished trying to end the slaughter which was only stopped eventually by the heroic intervention of the Iesus Christi Luftwaffe.'

'Luckily, Matthew Iesus stayed his hand in taking this as an act of war, assuming as we all did that the commander and his troops were rogues acting without orders from above; however, we have recently heard rumour that these murderous thugs are thought of as heroes in Syskeyia.'

'There are two matters; firstly the matter of ensuring this is untrue, and secondly the matter of reparations by your government to the families of the innocent victims of that day.'

The Major placed his hands in his lap, sighing. "Well, Comrade-General, I am unaware of any island called St. Dominic, unless perhaps you translate the names of certian Carribbean islands." Blast my lack of knowing geography, he thought. "I take it that you are referring to the riots that destroyed the Syskeyian embassy in St. Dominic (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=297983), am I correct? If that is so I fail to see why you referred to the Republic of St. Dominic as an island - a casual look at a map of the Reich (http://koti.mbnet.fi/molopae/map/Reichmap.jpg) clearly shows that said country lies on a continent bordered by many countries- obviously not an island.

"Now, as for these accusations of terrorism - the Syskeyian embassy was never used as a "springboard" for any sort of terrorism, whether for or against the Reich. Nor were kittens sacrificed, children poisoned, devils worshipped, or any of the ludicrous and preposterous lies I have heard the Reich claim happened there. As a Catholic nation, we condemn devil worship, oppression of the poor, prostitution, abuse of the working class, child molestation, adoration of lassiez-faire capitalism, murdering innocent felines, and the like. In fact, I must say that the Republic has earned quite a reputation for its fervent Christian faith.

"From our perspective, it appears that several thousand citizens stormed the embassy, accusing the staff there of all sorts of sins, blasphemies, crimes and whatnot. We tried to negotiate with the mob, but they rejected the chance of peace and had killed ten of our soldiers before we even opened non-lethal fire. True, a Iesus Christi armored brigade had arrived on the scene, but their vehicles may have been overwhelmed by the mob before they could act. Whether it was Iesus tankers or mobsters who fired those tanks' cannons, I cannot say.

"The camera footage from the embassy itself, before and during the crisis, is public knoweldge, you know. If you would like, I could get you some of that footage.

I hope this helps clarify our position. We have never supported nor will condone terrorism, and if you need it we will send you any evidence on this issue - we still have records from that embassy going back to before the Jasmine Fox administration.

As for reparations, again, I say, the mob had fired on us first, and even after killing ten of our men we did used non-lethal force. Only after the mob started to tear down the embassy gates did we shoot to kill. Therefore, we cannot be blamed for starting the incident. If anyone needs to give reparations to the families of the Euruseans killed that day, it should be Fr. John Luther and the others that brainwashed the mob into assaulting our embassy, an embassy in which, I repeat, nothing contrary to the law of God was done.

I take it that the your government would approve of such actions- after all, the Eurusean government would never approve of such actions, now would they?"

He looked the general straight in the eye, piercing the Comrade's gaze.

Eurusea

17-09-2004, 09:41

Alternate

Kyznetsov coughed irritably, 'Major, when you have been in command of a fleet for thirty-six hours without sleep your geography tends to slip a little. I don't particularly appreciate pedantry.'

'In any case, you are lying. Anyone who has seen a non-doctored version of the event in St. Dominic knows that the Syskeyians opened fire before taking a single casualty*. But leaving even that aside, were the building an embassy in the first place it would have lost that claim the instant troops within it fired without seeking help from local security forces, which most certainly did not happen. What happened that day was murder, plain and simple. I am quite familiar with the videotape, having seen it and other recordings many times during my recent briefings.'

'Clearly, if the Syskeyian government will not distance itself from illegal actions which lead to the deaths of thousands of foreign nationals we must conclude that Syskeyia is a terrorist state. If that is true, certain more regrettable actions will become necessary and unavoidable. Do you understand what I'm saying, Major?'

[*OOC: Yep, and you were quite insistent on that. See: http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=5663859&postcount=27 where your soldiers opened fire. No shots were fired prior to that and you noted no casualties]

Syskeyian Mars

18-09-2004, 13:59

"I understand your problem, and apologize for any sort of 'pedantry' I have caused," replied the major. "Thirty-six hours without sleep does cause problems. I suggest in future expeditions such as this you let you alternate (pardon the unintentional pun) with your first officer as to the command of the fleet until you reach your destination.

"But I digress. As to them embassy incident, I must say two things. First, you are correct in stating that the Syskeyian embassy staff should have alerted the local authorities and let them attempt to control the mob at first. On behalf of the Republic of Syskeyia, I repent of this error and request your apology.

While it is true that we most definitely should have alerted the St. Dominic and Iesus occupational authorities before firing on the mob, when the Syskeyian soldiers did fire on the mob, it was non-lethal fire: smoke grenades and the like. Stuff designed to disperse a crowd, nothing that could kill or even harm a man.

"Futhermore, while it is true that the Syskeyian soldiers fired the first shots, they were not the first to use any type of lethal force in the situation. A review of the footage shows that several molotov cocktails and gasoline bombs were thrown into the embassy compound even before the soldiers opened fire.

[OOC: I am and will be "adamant" about that. Check this (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=5662061&postcount=21) and this (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=5662102&postcount=22) out. Lethal stuff thrown into the embassy compound before I fired a shot.]

"So while our record in the situation was not spotless and clean, the fact is we neither initiated hostitlies or took the first hostile act. Again, it is not us who should give reparations to the Euruseans killed on that day, but the fanatics who wound the mob into a catastrophic frenzy that killed those thousands that day.

I assume, of course, that the Eurusean government was in no way responsible for the riots.

Am I correct?"

Eurusea

22-09-2004, 13:17

Alternate

Kyznetsov paused for a moment, looking to have thought to say something but thought better of it, then continued, 'Major, I don't like the implications of your suggestion. Are you saying you believe Eurusea was in some way responsible for the riots?'

'The facts of this case are clear; the crowd outside the embassy were killed illegally, an action known in the law of civilised nations as murder. By extension, their killers were murderers, and we would expect your state to condemn their actions rather than, as I have heard, regarding them as some kind of heroes. It seems fairly clear to me that you share the idea that there is some excuse for the deaths of thousands of innocents and wish to shift blame onto some mysterious 'agitators' who were conveniently killed during the action and therefore cannot speak out in their own defence.'

'The review of the surveillance footage indicates the Syskeyian criminals actively provoked the mob and opened fire long before they faced any serious threat to their safety; singed grass and tarmac and a damaged loudspeaker is no excuse to murder foreign nationals on their own soil. This was clearly a calculated mission of hatred to slaughter Reich citizens and then profess innocence by blaming those who no longer have a voice.'

She paused, 'It is my opinion that by its treatment of this incident Syskeyia has proven that it is at very least a state that does not care when rogue commanders choose to use foreign nationals as target practice and at worst a state that actively condones and supports such grotesque actions. You're dismissed, Major, your helicopter is waiting for you on the landing pad. I suggest you walk quickly.'

Floating Fortress Allegretto, steaming for St. Peter at full speed.

Belenov nodded as the radio op handed him a clipboard, 'From Alternate, comrade-General.'

He read through it quickly, shaking his head, 'Imperialist dogs...' he turned to the bridge crew, 'Today is a glorious day, comrades! Today we shall heroically free the people of St. Peter island from their evil occupation by the foul terrorist government of Syskeyia!' there was a brief chorus of 'God is great!' then silence again. 'Our heroic fleet is already in position to deliver the first blows against the tyrants and their wicked machinery of oppression, and we shall follow them! Already our brave taskforce is making ready to follow their lead. Surely their evilness will be no match for the justice we bring!'

Overlord Airship Iron Casket

Katya nodded as the Morse lamp on Alternate flashed, the whine of the capacitors building charge filling the air as she watched the thick red line creep up to the point marked 'charge' on the aiming monitor. As it did, she punched the internal communication line, 'This is main position to bridge, request permission to open fire on the Trinity, I say again, request firing permission.'

'Bridge gunnery station here, you are green to fire, I repeat, green to fire.'

Katya smiled, turning the key and flipping the cover off the fire control panel, waiting briefly before pressing the fire key. The incandescent beam scored a brilliant trail through the air, striking the Trinity's island and blooming into a giant ball of fire.

Behind the Overlord and silhouetted against the setting sun, the Floating Fortresses opened fire.

Gods Own

22-09-2004, 16:11

Mordred Class Dreadnought Wellington, on station with the Eurusea Fleet.

Flotte Captain Pieter Cronje sighed happily from his position on the anachronistic crow's nest, high above the hulking bulk of the Wellington.
He'd commanded this wonderful vessel since the Kriegsmarine had purchased it, and it's sisters, and now he got to use it in the service of his God and his country.
He spoke into the radio clipped to his collar.
"This is the Captain to all guns, fire at will." Pieter leaned back in his crow's nest and prepared for the treat he'd been promising himself as long as he'd commanded the Wellington.
Watching all twelve main guns fire simultaneously.
He blew out his breath to prevent the impending noise blowing his eardrums out, and then clung to his perch as God's own trumpet roared and his massive command bucked beneath him like an unbroken horse, the monster 21" armament of his vessel scorching out into the gathering darkness, each flaring like a sinner's soul descending to hell on their way to shatter the heathens.
The monstrous shells vomited out of the main guns, the flare of each producing a new sunset to match the natural one painting the fleets red and Pieter laughed and whooped with joy as the rest of the God's Own fleet joined in, the Wellington's sisters the Auckland and the Hamilton spitting light skyward, along with the smaller Bismarck class battleships, the awesome thunder of shells ripping skyward nearly defeaning the exultant Captain.
The awesome firepower of the G.O fleet was nothing however to the dread majesty of the monster Eurusea vessels, enormous vessels throwing the tonnage of his own vessel in explosives skyward in an orgy of firepower, noise and light.
Pieter, an almost orgasmic glow lighting his features, gave thanks to his Loving, Beautiful God that they were on the side of righteousness and justice, before sliding down the long ladder into the bridge of his ship.
There he looked exultantly at his smiling crew and spoke.
"Heil Freedom!"
"HEIL FREEDOM!"

Endless Crimes

23-09-2004, 11:39

A little bit to far away from St. Peter Claver to be there in time

"For you have sinned, you shall now be punished, burned at the stake, for the holy flame to consume your sinful flesh. His soul, poisoned by his flesh, shall be punished for all eternity, tortured in the realms that lie past our lives, paying for its weakness."

Saiana spoke the words without showing any kind of emotion. She watched Emael, somewhat curious. She wasn't sure how to interpret his struggling... Was it pain? Was it anger, hatred for her? Or fear, the wish to submit, to end it... Faster? She didn't know, and asking didn't make much sense, since Enael would have some troubles, replying, with his tongue lying in front of him, ripped from his body, waiting to be burned as well...

She smiled as she stood there, wearing her black uniform, waiting for the present Cherubim's prayers to end, for the moment she would light the fire. She recalled the 'interrogation', when she ripped Emael's tongue from him. "Filthy liar! Are you accusing an inquisitor of taking part in your orgies, in your sick, disgusting feasts of flesh, worshipping the devil?!"

She knew the words, having spoken them often. So often... It was sad, she had to admit that. Emael had been fairly well- equipped, and despite his inexperience... He had known how to use it. Alas, Cherubim tended to talk a little bit to much to risk keeping him alive.

She closed her eyes as the prayer ended, the wind carrying the words over the ocean... It was beautiful, and the fire she would light up, now... It would show them the way to glory, preaching, telling them of the future... When a thousand of this lights would illuminate the night of St. Peter Claver, when they would clean the island from sin.

A single movement, gracefully as she was, a step forward... Saiana opened her green eyes, looked directly into Emael's dark, brown eyes...

Beautiful...

Then, Emaels world vanished in a sea of flames, in an ocean of pain, and Saiana could see the last wish in his eyes.

Please forgive me.

She chuckled lightly. No matter how often I ruin them... Fearing eternity, they always beg for forgiveness...

Watching the fire, she could hear the Cherubim behind her, praying... In a few minutes, they would prepare, coming to aid their brothers in the battle that was to come...

There, she could hear them, the sirens, introducing a gospel of destruction... The pilots prepared, soon, they would start... The first wave, and there would be many to follow...

A wicked smile appeared in Saiana's face. I wonder how the Syskeyians are 'equipped'.

Abatoir

24-09-2004, 08:11

"We have a green-light from the Eurusean fleet. We are a go."

The sqaudrons broke from their holding pattern and turned back inland. The bombers' escorts kept their eyes open for any defence forces as the planes moved inland. They didn't have specific targets, per se. All they cared for were population centers. The FAE's would do the rest.

Syskeyian Mars

24-09-2004, 18:57

St. Peter Claver Joint Forces Base, St. Peter Claver Island
Kneeling in the base's chapel, General Isaiah Divecha finished his prayers got up from the pew, and left the chapel.

As he walked down the base's hallways, he adjusted his hair, combed in the Spartan fashion, placed his helmet on his head, and entered the base's command center.

There, Divecha saw the island's twenty-five Army division commanders, assembled and dressed in full battle gear, just as he had instructed. Taking a deep breath, he stood in front of them and began to speak.

"Gentlemen, I come before you as a man who is sure of his fate.

As you know, a massive fleet of Eurusean and Reich vessels lies off our waters. This fleet, loaded with weapons and filled with troops, is poised to strike our forces and take the island.

We are outnumbered and outgunned. This island is a lost cause.

But there is more here than just an island.

As you are well aware, gentlemen, there are 3 million civilians living on this island, and those three million I intend to protect, even at the cost of my own.

And that is what I also am asking of you.

Arrangements have been made to evacuate the civilians. First by air, then by sea if possible.”
He pointed to a map of the island. Several dots across the island were in orange, and several more, on the isle’s western coastline, were in red.

“These orange dots represent airfields; the red ones, seaborne evacuation points. From these points we hope to evacuate as many people as we can; it is these points that we must defend.

Even to our death.”

He took another deep breath. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.

This is not suicide; it is sacrifice. What we must do now is what we, as soldiers, were meant, were trained, were called to do: to defend to innocent and protect the neighbor, even if we die.

Remember, my brothers, Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

He looked into their eyes. The generals met his piercing gaze, seeing into a man that had looked into the face of death and said, fiat voluntus Tua.

The first explosions of the battle had begun. Divecha looked up and smiled.

“Let’s go.”

Eurusea

28-09-2004, 05:44

Waters off St. Peter Claver Island

Kyznetsov had said some time before that anyone trying to escape the Island would have to be a madman or a fool; it seemed there was no shortage of either, though. Even as the missiles rose into the sky trailing smoke and fire the first aircraft were heading down their runways, terrified refugees in their boats staring out past the stark forms of the Syskeyian ships to the monumental Floating Fortresses in the distance.

She sighed, watching the first volley descending and the first of her Fortress' mortar rounds hitting home. As she looked on, the mortar round connected with the deck, the Trinity heeling sickeningly as the shell drove through her upper deck like it was paper, aircraft sidling off into the inky water below. A fraction of a second later the shell exploded, lifting what was left of the ship's deck off right back to the burning mess that had been her island and splitting her hull in half, the two parts sinking quickly. Where minutes earlier a proud carrier had stood, nothing remained but a wide field of debris and a pitiful few who by some cruel miracle had survived flailing in the water. Theirs would likely be a slow, lingering death.

It was a terrifying sight, and it was repeated by dozens of other rounds hitting home, those that missed sending colossal plumes of water into the air. The battleships followed the lead of the Fortresses, the sea around the Syskeyian ships turning into a forest of white plumes mixed with billowing clouds of smoke.

Kyznetsov smiled gently, crossing herself and taking a dog-eared photograph of a young man and woman out of her pocket, turning it over to the 'To my dearest Nadia' written on the back. She sighed, whispering 'And now they'll see for themselves what you saw that day in St Dominic...' she put it back in her pocket as she watched the battle on the monitor, 'Rest in peace, my darling husband.'

She turned back to her crew, 'Tell Muska to charge her Infinity Cannon.'

Battlegroups of Floating Fortresses Allegretto, Fortissimo, Staccato, Vibrato and Obbrigato, heading for St Peter Claver Island

The second fleet sailed on, the priests leading one final prayer in the ships' chapels, 'May the Lord God, His Son Jesus Christ and Marx His Holy Prophet be with us in this great undertaking. May He grant us the strength to strike down the wicked and the deceived, to overthrow the vile who Satan has corrupted with riches and power, and to free the innocent from their chains. May He bless us, His Proletariat, as we execute His will with all our strength, and may our great and noble works serve as an example to those who would try to destroy the righteous in the name of evilness.'

'In the name of the Father, Son, and Comrade Marx, amen.'

Each soldier present crossed himself or herself, before rising and heading to their assigned transport, past walls plastered in propaganda posters. On the decks of most of the transport ships, a Commissar with a megaphone conducted what one might loosely call a briefing as every other man was handed an assault rifle. 'The man with the rifle shoots! When the man with the rifle is killed, the man without the rifle picks up the rifle and shoots! The man without the rifle follows the one who has the rifle!'

On Allegretto, Belenov nodded as the radio op glanced over, 'Let me guess, they've engaged?'

The radio op paused to scribble down some coordinates before nodding, 'Yes, Comrade-General. There's reports of some vessels and aircraft attempting to flee, Comrade-General Kyznetsov is treating those as lowest priority until the Syskeyian fleet and airforce is neutralised.'

Belenov nodded, 'Tell her to bump up the priority of destroying their staging areas, they're probably planning to use nuclear weapons once the island is evacuated of civilians.'

The radio man nodded, 'On it, Comrade-General.'

Endless Crimes

28-09-2004, 11:38

The Skies

Gloriel was one of those who had been choosen for the mission. And the veins in his forehead were swelling with pride, knowing about his god- given mission... He would fulfill it, his dream coming true...

Spreading gods glory...

The aether was filled with prayers, sung by them, as they came closer, a wave for brightness, a light, no, the light that would destroy the foolish darkness over St. Peter Clavers, a light that would shine forever and in all eternity.

They had started a while ago, and now, they were almost in range... Of course, it wasn't all impossible that they would encounter Syskeyian resistance, but that was a secondary issue, for they would overcome everything in their way, in order to fight the fools who were defying the word of god, thopse who were corrupting the holy bible.

They could not be allowed to survive.

And singing, praising their lord, promising him the blood of the heathens, they were almost there...

While way behind, the fleet was coming closer, protected, save, always searching for the enemy that was to come...

And soon, he would come. Or they would come for him. No matter how they would encounter him, they knew that they would see the blood flowing, honouring their lord.

Back at the Fleet

Saiana smiled as she touched the old, wooden apparatures, made of oak, the strongest they could find... Soon, she would taste the blood, the cries, the begging of the sinners, perishing on them.

Old, they were, apparatures, instruments to find out the truth. Hundreds of years, always being taken care of, for they were amongst the most holy things she knew. They knew.

She searched her memory, remembering the past... Hundreds of years ago, when she was young, when she was training for this... Her first case. She had been quite successful, hearing his screams, his begging, as he asked her to just kill him, that he couldn't bear it anymore... And she she promised him, that she kept him alive, chained, waiting for hours... And then, as she took the women he had touched, sinned with, and the demonic fruit of their relationship, five years old, this spawn of Satan, coming to destroy all they believed in...

As she saw his eyes, as she heard his cries when she begun working on them... The innocent eyes of the small, yet dangerous spawn of evil... Twisting with horror as they saw her, with the person who summoned him, his mother, as she begun her work...

Soon, very soon, it would be time, again.

Suddenly, she felt a pain in her finger, saw blood... She had cut its skin on a risty nail. For a moment, she just looked, watching the drops hitting the ground, before she begun licking it.

If someone else had been there, he would probably have seen a diabolic expression in her face as she sucked her own blood.

Gods Own

04-10-2004, 23:45

Deck of G.O.S Otago Highlanders

There are few environments in the world noiser than the flight deck of an aircraft carrier in action.
William Heinz was quite aware of this, making him deeply grateful for the earmuffs cushioning his hearing from the howling maelstrom of jet engines as he directed Locusts and Swallows skyward, ominous purple-ringed shapes hung under the Locusts' axe-like wings.
He guided the last flight skyward and stepped back to admire the light show.
The bombardment from the combined fleets capital ships had continued unabated, whether the ear-splitting tearing sound of the Floating Fortresses' weapons, the massive bellow of the Mordred's main guns, or the roar of the Bismarcks' weapons, the noise had an almost physical quality, and William retreated into the superstructure of the carrier's tower to cushion some of the noise.
The higher vantage allowed him to watch the God's Own strike aircraft assemble, nearly a thousand vicious looking fighterbombers wheeling overhead, squadrons peeling off to their assigned targets of the various defence points of the Syskeyians and any large group of people who didn't provide the correct IFF codes.
The ominous looking weapons William had noted were dispenser pods of what was officially known as "The Fire of God's Mercy". Outside of God's Own, the stuff was called thermate (TH3) and used in grenades.
However, within God's Own, the Fire was used as an airdroppable terror weapon, burning at 4,000 degrees Fahrenheit, melting metal, flesh and bone.
The planners in the CAG's had decided the sight of Syskeyian troops who continued blazing even totally submerged would be an effective morale breaker to their comrades, and with the massive numbers of Swallow escorts guarding the Locusts, it was almost certain the fire would be delivered.
And the rat-worshippers would burn.

Abatoir

05-10-2004, 08:43

Skies just outside of the island proper

The change in orders wasn't exactly unexpected. It wasn't welcome by any stretch of the imagination, but the pilots weren't surprized. Their orders were no longer to target civilian targets, but to aim for military ones. Aparently Command had been contacted and told of the change. It didn't much matter, really. A slight course correction and they were headed for the naval yards, still surprized at the lack of interest the Syskeyians were showing. There were plenty of ships in the area, but none had fired. No planes seemed to be scrambling.

The fighter pilots weren't complaining, of course, they just found it odd.

Syskeyia

05-10-2004, 14:37

The Abatoirians were wrong.

For the Syskeyians had begun to fight. To the north-west of the first Eurusean fleet, ten squadrons of B-52 shot off their enormous array of EMP missiles. Over nineteen hundred missiles blazed from the Stratofortresses as they fired their payload and then set of for the Syskeyian mainland.

The island bristled with activity as well. The anti-ship missile crews fired their weapons at the diabolical fascist/communist fleet, while the ADA crews unleashed hell on any enemy aircraft who dared approach the island.

Meanwhile, the fighters had been scrambled into action. F-16s and F-22s circled the island like vultures over their prey- but their prey lay outside the island.

On the ground, thousands of Syskeyians made their way toward the western side of the island, where the Syskeyian fleet had assumed a defensive position around all the sea-faring boats on the island. With God's hlep they would make it off the island...

Endless Crimes

07-10-2004, 12:01

The Skies

Gloriel let out a sight as he noticed the first Syskeyian mistake. Fighters don't wait, they attack, otherwise they become prey...

Well, it was to late, now, and with a Halleluja, celebrating the obvious fact that God had given the Syskeyians into their hands, he accelerated, feeling the hard touch of several gees on his body...

And then he pressed the button while he was among them, feeling his fighter reacting, moving, initialising countermeasures against Syskeyian missiles while his own were releaved, searching for their prey...

And with him, his comrades were doing the same.

Lets dance.

Meanwhile, the bombers had stayed behind, a little... But now, they were releasing their payload, missiles, heavy, crude ones, specialised to work in this special world... They were slow, very slow, yet, fast enough to speed up, heading for St. Peter Claver. Mirrored, featuring excessive yields, they came closer.

Meanwhile, the bombers, and the small fighter escort that had stayed with them, turned around, the Syskeyian fighters over St. Peter Claver being... Well, there, rather than where the bombers, their target were.

God is great.

Gloriel celebrated, his mind flooded with joy as he saw a Syskeyian fighter falling from the skies, his first prey... The first of many, or so he hoped.

Granted, things didn't work perfectly, one, two of his comrades bruning, exploding and crushing onto the soil of St. Peter Clavers... But that was a secondary issue, and even in their death they would take the daemons of Syskeyia with them.

Another cry of joy, another fireball in the skies... And then he could see them... The missiles coming closer... Targetting tactically important areas, that is, the Harbour, Airfields, Hospitals, larger Defense Positions, Schools, Crossroads, Train Stations, Power Plants... Though admittedly, their accuracy wasn't the best.

Halleluja.

And with a smile, Gloriel pressed another button, and another missile was released.

Eurusea

11-10-2004, 10:52

Combat Bridge, Floating Fortress Alternate

Kyznetsov smiled as the blips representing the Syskeyian cruise missiles appeared on the radar display, moving quickly toward their position, 'Fire off a pair of Defence Bombs at them. I'm going to check on the status of our Absolute Barrier. Comrade First Officer, you have the bridge.'

Eurusean Fleet

Two new suns briefly rose behind the Eurusean fleet as the Defence Bombs detonated, the scorching light quickly fading as huge domes of condensation enveloped the fireballs. The air in front of the fleet filled with bursting flak as the missiles from the shore approached, point defence guns and lasers on the Eurusean ships swatting at them as they got nearer. Still many hit, flames billowing from dozens of ships. Damage reports flooded in to the huge Floating Fortresses, the water around them filling with lifeboats, debris and struggling crewmen as ships exploded or sank.

Heart of the Fortress, Alternate

General Kyznetsov saluted smartly to the two guards, standing before the door and swiping her card through the reader, looking up and saying evenly 'General Nadia Kyznetsov.' There was a slight pause, and then the door, a cylindrical block of concrete, slowly rotated until a notch just big enough for a human was facing her. She stepped in, waiting for the cylinder to revolve and present her with the room beyond.

As always, it was cold and rather dark in the Heart, light picking out complex instruments grouped around the walls and in blocks in the room, a snake's nest of cables and pipes connecting to the iron throne in the centre of the room where the little girl called Alternate sat. She looked around seven; most of the cables and pipes connected to her back, so she looked almost normal, save that her eyes were all-white and obviously blind. Kyznetsov smiled, 'How are you today, Alternate?'

The girl smiled slightly, and whispered 'I'm well, mother.'

Chopinburg, 21 years earlier

Nastasha had always tended to run on ahead, Kyznetsov having to call her back all the time or chase after her, and today had been no exception. It was a beautifully sunny day for once, crowds filling the streets to enjoy themselves or just go about the drudgery of collecting ration allocations from the local shops. Nastasha smiled, 'Momma, when I grow up can I be like you?'

Kyznetsov smiled, 'You mean in the army?'

Nastasha giggled, 'No, tall, silly!' she ran off again, chasing a bird and laughing happily. Kyznetsov blinked as she saw a truck swerve to dodge a car, veering onto the pavement.

'Nastasha!' she cried, the little girl turning and looking up at the truck with wide eyes, before a bright flash filled the street. As Kyznetsov's vision returned, Nastasha was lying in front of the truck which had stopped dead in front of her, it's front caved in, a shimmering wall of something fading in the air in front of her. Nastasha blinked, looking terrified, 'Momma...? What happened?'

A Commissar came to his senses and drew his gun, 'Don't move!' he reached for his radio, 'Got a psychic here in sector 7, requesting pickup immediately. I said don't move!' Nastasha started to cry, a group of soldiers holding Kyznetsov and her husband back as Nastasha was pulled into a black truck that arrived soon afterward.

A man who had been watching tossed his cigarette aside, tapping Kyznetsov on her shoulder. She blinked and saluted hurriedly, 'Comrade-General Volkov! Please, you have to do something!'

He nodded, 'I'll see to it that something is done.' He smiled and clapped a hand on her shoulder, 'The army takes care of it's own.'

Megalith

The blades slowly started below the terrified Biopreparat scientist as the black-armoured Army Special Forces soldier held him over the edge of the inspection gantry, 'Think harder, you fucking dog! There has to be another way!'

He shook his head, tears running down the young man's cheeks, 'There's no way! I can't get her out now her name's on the file!'

Volkov, leaning casually on the rail nearby, shook his head, 'Then you're not much use to us, are you?' he ran his finger across his throat, and the soldier nodded and held the man further out.

'W-wait!'

Volkov grinned, 'Thought that would jog your memory. Well?'

The man spoke quickly, having to shout over the sound of the machine blades below, 'I can't get her out, but I can save her from the Fort! They need one like her to be the Heart of Alternate!'

Volkov scowled, 'Unacceptable! You know damn well what that would mean!'

'It's the only way!' he looked down at the spinning blades as the Leveller contacted the first building in its path, the concrete crumbling like wet cardboard, 'Please!'

Volkov sighed, nodding his head toward the gantry, the soldier hauling the man back over the rail and dropping him heavily, 'See that it's done, or by God you'll wish he'd dropped you.'

Navy Biopreparat Lab, Kosmar

Kyznetsov barely saw Nastasha while the scientists worked on her; the few times she was able to see her the girl was heavily sedated and woozy with painkillers, the dozens of plug sockets and connections slowly covering her back. She looked more scared than Kyznetsov had ever seen her, 'Momma...?' she whispered, 'What's going on?'

Kyznetsov touched her hand, 'You're a very special girl, Nastasha...' she sighed, 'Comrade-Premier Kurchatov has a very special job for you, someone only a few people can do...'

Nastasha had winced in pain, 'It hurts, momma.'

'I know. But not for much longer.'

That had been the last time her daughter had known her name was Nastasha Kyznetsov.

Heart of Alternate, now

Kyznetsov glanced around the room at the...Others. She'd never been told that Alternate would be the first ship with a gestalt Heart, and she wasn't sure what she'd have said if she had known. She didn't want to know what kind of horrible experiments had made it possible. There were four of them, almost slumped in chair-like things at the edge of the room, heads tilted back and arms hanging limply by their sides. Unlike Nastasha in the centre of the room with her white robe, they were naked, bodies covered in tubing and cables as well. They had no eyes, the sockets bored out to make room for the cables that snaked into the empty holes, and they didn't move at all, not even to breathe; she'd been told the Fortress took care of that. They didn't age; though twenty-one long years had passed a seven-year-old girl still sat in the iron throne in the centre of the room.

There was no real way to identify one from another except age, most being girls but one a young woman, apparently in her early twenties, and the numbers tattooed just below their collarbones, 01 to 04. Kyznetsov didn't know their real names and the gestalt had no memory of them, so they were just called by number.

But it did have some memories all the same; 03 had a little necklace the gestalt wanted to keep even thought it didn't remember why; inside was a picture of a family, presumably hers. That gave Kyznetsov some hope at least, that her girl was still in there somewhere, that she'd done the right thing.

She couldn't help but see Nastasha in it sometimes - maybe in a smile, an expression, a few words spoken like she would. She sighed, and as she had done so many times before, stepped up to the iron throne, kissed the little girl's forehead and whispered 'I'm so sorry...'

Floating Fortress Mezzoforte

Mezzoforte was obvious among the ten Floating Fortresses at the Island by the huge structure in the middle of her foredeck, a slope-sided armoured cocoon big enough to put a ship inside. From inside, the low whine had gradually built over time into a sound something like a giant helicopter rotor.

Inside the ship, the gun officer turned to General Nadezhda Berezovsky, 'Current barrel rotation speed would give a rate of fire of four hundred fifty rounds per minute from each gun, climbing...All systems normal and parts within acceptable tolerances, Comrade-General.'

Berezovsky nodded, sighing as another anti-ship missile exploded uselessly against the Fortress' superstructure, 'Drop the gun shield when you have six hundred on both guns and fire a single round from both cannons at...' she paused, looking across the Syskeyian fleet in front of her 'That one, the little AEGIS cruiser...' she licked her lips, 'Looks perfect.'

Flashes in the growing darkness traced the seam between the two halves of the cocoon as the explosive bolts detonated, the rams inside pushing the two hinged halves outwards, letting them swing down to the deck with an almighty crash. Inside lay a turret the size of a battleship in itself, two heavily braced sets of six sixteen-inch gun barrels spinning on their mounts, the noise of them now clearly audible from the Island.

'Six hundred, Comrade-General!'

Berezovsky nodded, 'Evacuate the Sickle turret and fire on my mark. If they cycle correctly, I want a full burst, sweep the whole fleet with it...' she grinned at the ships ahead of her on the monitor, 'Silly little things.'

Two rounds streaked from the turret, the muzzle and breech vent flares briefly lighting up the whole foredeck. The rounds tore into the hapless cruiser, one going right through the superstructure and splashing down in the sea beyond, the other penetrating and exploding, throwing most of the ship's superstructure into the sea. It drifted on, listing painfully and apparently lifeless.

The gun operator nodded, 'Both chambers cycled normally, Comrade-General.'

Berezovsky smiled euphorically, 'Wonderful! Watch the heat gauge and cut the feed when it hits the red line...Now, show them how Eurusea avenges her dead!'

The Sickle turned slowly as it fired, the ships it hit simply disintegrating under a weight of fire no designer would have foreseen in his darkest nightmares. The heavy composite casings crashed loudly against the Fortress' foredeck, some bouncing into the sea and kicking up palls of hot steam. The two cannons fired until they were wreathed in blue-grey smoke from burning lubricant and oil, abruptly ceasing to fire as the heat gauge touched the red line.

Berezovsky giggled softly at the devastation in front of her, her voice breathless as she spoke, 'Magnificent! I'll see the designers get the Order of Lenin for this.' She turned, 'Radio General Belenov and tell him his LZ is clear.'

Floating Fortress Allegretto, arriving West of St Peter Claver Island

Belenov sighed, ignoring the little civilian boats streaming past his fleet as he moved closer to the Island, 'Let the cowardly dogs run and whimper to their masters about what we did this glorious day!' he turned on the radio as the rounds from the Fortress' mortars climbed high into the night, aimed at the Island's runways, 'Begin landing operations at once.'

Eurusean landing craft, heading for the shore of St Peter Claver Island

The Commissar glanced over the soldiers in front of him in the Landing craft, almost all scared-looking young men in civilian clothes, a rifle to a pair, 'Glory to Eurusea! Comrades, it is your honour to be a part of this holy crusade against the deviant enemy! Do not fear, God will be with us and His shield will surely protect the righteous among you!' a shell exploded in the water nearby, making everyone in the transport duck, 'The devils will fall before you! Strike as the holy sword of justice and light, comrades! No bullet can penetrate the armour of your faith!'

There was an uncertain cheer among the men, and the Commissar nodded, 'God be with you!' he ducked down, closing the hatch behind him and sitting against the side of the cabin. He had faith, but most of it was in the heavy steel plate between him and the transport compartment.

Syskeyia

11-10-2004, 15:55

Skies near St. Peter Claver Island
Two F-14E and one F/A-18E squadrons flew toward the Iron Casket. One F-14 squadron flew alone, the other flew alongside the Super Hornet squadron.

All hunted the airship like children avenging their mother.

St. Peter Claver Island

The Syskeyian missile crews smiles as flames and explosions emerged from the Eurusean fleet. Despite the huge size of the Eurusean ships (a size which, the Syskeyians grinned to themselves, obviously must compensate for something), the Red ships were not immortal.

The missile crews readied themselves at their stations. prepared to deal out more death and destructions to the Euruseans.

Fortifications near the Eurusean landing sites
The Syskeyian soldiers smiled as they saw the landing craft apporach the beach- craft that were obviously suffering the bombardment from the island's 240mm artillery cannons.

Now was the moment- the moment that every soldier and civilian dreaded, feared, and yet prepared and waited for.

Invasion.

Abatoir

12-10-2004, 08:17

Coming in from the southeast

"Real Leader to Imaginary and Irrational Leaders, we have interceptors closing in. Prepare for combat."

"Imaginary Leader, roger."

"Irrational Leader, roger."

Real Leader spoke again, "Escort squads, break free and engage."

The Abatoirian forces were composed of three wings. Each wing had ten bombers and twenty fighter escorts. From each wing, ten fighters broke off to engage the Syskeyian forces. The fighters were roughly analogous to an F-16, armed specifically for air-to-air combat. The bombers were quite similar to B-1B bombers, loading with FAE munitions.

The fighters moving to engage betrayed their training. It was quite clear that they had spent thousands of hours drilling and practicing dog fighting tactics. It was as if they spent all their time training and drilling, which was exactly the case.

Eurusea

17-10-2004, 18:57

Eurusean fleet, North

With the Syskeyian fleet ahead in tatters the Eurusean fleet turned it's attention to the shore batteries, the remaining battleships hurling withering barrages at the shoreline and kicking up colossal plumes of dirt and debris. Between the fleet and the island the sky was lit by bursting flak, tracer fire and exploding missiles as Eurusean point defence fought with the Syskeyian missiles, the many damaged ships an indication that it wasn't a one-sided duel.

But the ten all but undamaged Floating Fortresses sailed grimly on past their comrades, cruise missiles from them streaking toward the island.

Mezzoforte

Sheela sighed as she checked the seals on her spacesuit, the young Cosmonaut one of the three assigned to Mezzoforte to examine the Sickle turret after firing. She flicked her intercom, 'What's the temperature inside the gun there?'

The gunnery officer down in the control room checked the readouts quickly, 'Got you two hundred degrees C ambient and four hundred fifty inside the breech inspection areas. Comrade-General Berezovsky wants the whole Sickle checked over to see it's in good order.'

The corridor filled with the sounds of machinery as the gun shield rose back up, closing over the steaming cannons that glowed faintly in the darkness. Ahead, the sealed airlock door that lead into the Sickle hissed open, the far door registering as abnormally hot on Sheela's thermal display as she and the other two Cosmonauts stepped inside. A wall of boiling air washed over them as the far door opened slowly and falteringly, the Kesselstani, Uriah, eventually shaking his head and forcing it.

Inside the turret the air was hazy, the paintwork running in the heat and the bulkheads warped from the violence of the cannons firing. Sheela clicked on her helmet light, glancing up at the ceiling, 'Got yer first report, bridge. Firin's killed all the light bulbs in here.'

In the combat bridge, Berezovsky sighed, looking bored. 'To be expected from such an impressive piece of equipment. The testbed had no internal lights. Continue, please.'

Sheela nodded, 'Ok, Uriah, you go down and check on the barbette, I'll take gun Able up to the chamber, Vanya, you take Baker.' The young Eurusean man nodded quickly as a faint thud sounded out, the gunshield locking back in place again.

It was a long trip up the stairway to the breech chamber, the items left behind in the turret gradually changing from singed to scorched to burned. Rubber seals had melted everywhere, pipes cracked open and dials missing their covers. Such cosmetic details were unsightly and in some cases even dangerous, but the Sickle had been made to withstand the regular damage it did to itself, the buckled bulkheads so far only in places that wouldn't endanger the weapon's operation. Sheela strained to open the locks on the breech hatch, faint trails of smoke coming from around the edges of it. She grunted, 'Air conditionin's down, Comrade-General...Nothin' s gettin' this fuckin' heat outta the turret...'

The door finally came open, one of its hinges cracking off as it turned, then the other, the heavy slab of metal crashing to the floor of the inspection room. Inside was like a furnace, the heat having stripped the walls clean of paint and posters to leave bare metal. Ahead, the giant cannon's breech lay open; glancing down Sheela could see the layered ceramic door that had closed off the belt from the searing heat the minute firing had stopped. She blinked as a piece of the cannon she leaned on came away in her hand, the metal brittle from abuse, and ran her finger down to the cracked coolant line, tracing where it had shattered. She sighed.

'Firin' Able is a negative, we have multiple severe component failures on the breech, over.'

Down below in the barbette, Uriah blinked. Hard to see the wood for the trees... He slowly panned his torch beam down a long, dark crack in the wall that stretched down, in some places with gaping wounds where fragments of metal had fallen away. His eyes were drawn to a car-sized fragment imbedded in the top of one on the magazines, 'Marx preserve us...' he muttered.

Berezovsky shook her head slowly as the reports came in, turning to the viewscreen and it's images of burning and sinking Syskeyian ships again, yawning and blinking a few times, 'Comrade First Officer, you have the bridge...I'll be in my quarters having a lie down.'

Iron Casket

The propellers droned on as the giant airship - Air Destroyer, to be more correct about it - turned high above the Eurusean fleet, the hum of the particle cannon abruptly ending as the beam tore through the night, one of the shore missile batteries erupting in flame. Katya sighed as she looked through the scope, at the crew scampering away from their burning charge, Almost makes you feels sorry for them...

Then the lights went out, replaced after a moment by the red emergency sirens. Katya blinked, quickly bringing the gunsight around to the Syskeyian planes heading for them, the 'Offset' indicator rapidly climbing to indicate the time for the particle cannon's barrel to match direction with her eyepiece. From this distance to the naked eye the incoming aircraft looked like tiny locusts, swarming from one of the bases that had runways intact.

She quickly shouldered her parachute, knowing that despite her size and formidable anti-aircraft batteries the giant airship was likely not long for this world. Air-to-air missiles streaked away from Iron Casket's flank as the 'degrees offset' meter slowly counted down to zero, Katya praying they'd keep coming in below the line of the dorsal flaks so she could at least get a shot off.

Eurusean Fleet, East

The long arcs of black rocket exhaust curved over to meet their targets, the mortar rounds sending huge fireballs rolling into the night sky as they hit home. Their targets were the airfields and a group of roads that would slow, to some extent, the movement of Syskeyian armour towards their beachhead. The terrifying sight of the Fortresses off the coast meant the civilian evacuations had all but stopped, only the brave or desperate taking the few remaining boats off the Island.

On Allegretto, Belenov watched the first wave of the landing forces heading for the beaches and nodded to his gunnery officer, 'Stand by for fire support calls.'

The beaches

Yana ducked behind the wrecked amphi-tank ahead of her as another burst of machine-gun fire tore up the sand around her, glancing around and wishing she had a rifle so she could at least fire back at the Syskeyian positions.

Pantocratoria

18-10-2004, 13:16

Field Marshal Andronicus Kantenozous held the secure line in his war room to his ear, listening to Mater's instructions. Finally, he put the phone back on the hook.

The Duc de Montmanuel stood impatiently across the table from the Field Marshal, waiting to hear the orders.

"The Imperial High Command has confirmed that St Peter Claver island is our target." the Field Marshal says. "Mater has informed me that the Euruseans are about to land. Our intelligence was out of date - the Imperial High Command is currently busy planning operations in the Excalbian Isles."

The other men in the room rolled their eyes and groaned in disgust.

"Here we are hours away from St Peter Claver island, and the Imperial High Command is too busy in Upper Virginia too bother with little things like telling us what the bloody hell is going on, marvellous." complained Montmanuel.

"In any case, we are 2 hours away from the theatre of operation. Gentlemen, return to your own headquarters, and see to the necessary preparations. I will advise our Syskeyian escort to be prepared to encounter Eurusean naval resistance." said the Field Marshal.

Eurusea

19-10-2004, 11:50

[OOC notes: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7280944#post7280944]

Pantocratoria

20-10-2004, 14:53

ooc: I would love to post this in the thread Syskeyia linked, but anyway... I prefer to be noticed. And yes, reading the springoff thread, you can see that my fleet is where it is. Some logical assumptions have been made.

ic:

The Sea

The ships moved through the rough sea, slowly.. Nothing seemed to stop them. News had just come in, about the successful first bombing of St. Peter Claver... Michael could rejoice, for a great victory was about to happen...

However, there was another thing he noticed.

"According to the latet info from the satellites..."

"Yes, yes, I see. We have contact with subs and/ or patrol flights?"

"Not yet, but I think this will change, soon.."

And it changed. Saiana, still standing on the deck of her ship, looked up as she noticed more activity... And it didn't take long to find out what this activity meant... A grin appeared in her face. Soon, very soon, she would see magnificient bloodshed.

Hrm... Perhaps I should get some gun to shoot possibly survivors in the water...

She could hardly wait.

Neither could the Cherubim, preparing for the battle. The deployments were known... And their firepower was excessively superior to that of their enemies. Soon... Very soon... Less then a hundred escorts, and a lot of transporters. Easy prey.

Yet, not all that easy, and Michael knew it. Fifty- six combat ships were at his disposal, the other fifty- six... Transporters, like with the approaching fleet. Yet, while being outnumbered, it was pretty clear that his carriers and battleships wielded some more firepower than what his enemy could do.

Pantocratoria's reinforcements had to fall, and Michael smiled as he thought about it.

Another problem were the returning planes from the bombardement of St. Peter Claver.. Waiting for them would give the Syskeyian/ Pantocratorian fleet a chance to either evade or to stage a pre emptive strike. Neither was appreciated.

On the other hand, attacking now would mean that a significant part of his planes could be lost during combat, by way of running out of fuel and sinking in the ocean.

The decision was simple enough, though.

"They are meant to die for their mission."

Of course, Michael had no doubt that the enemy knew about his presence. After all, satellite reconnaissance is not all that uncommon. Or radar, or reconnaissance flights.

And soon enough, confirmation came. A few fighters patrolling the area had contact, the first missiles were fired, fighter to fighter.

Down under the surface of the ocean, submarines of both fleets (The Syskeyian escorts close to their main fleet, EC's spread out in small groups, supposed to attack any hostile (and possibly neutral) shippings in the area made contact, too. Torpedoes, explosions. A death in the eternal night at the bottom of the ocean.

"Turn, go into surface to surface combat formation. Start whatever planes are still here! An hour of honour lies in front of us!"

All the Cherubim heard Michael's words, and they rejoiced, the word of god, eternal wisdom flooding their minds, and Saiana could appreciate their efficiency, their muscles, their sweat and their strength.

For Cleruel, it was the first major engagement. Soon he would taste the sound of firing guns, of bursting metal, the sound of screams, of blood dripping into the ocean... He could feel the anticipation as she tossed some important things around, adjusted others... He, like everyone on the Glorious Heaven was trained to be perfect... And cleaning up a few feathers falling from the wings of other Cherubim (They could, after all, endanger the mechanics, one wouldn't believe what a feather can do to a belt- feeded machine gun), he rejoiced with the others, thanking god for this glorious day.

A moment later, the missiles, reasonably sophisticated with mirrored surfaces and velocities exceeding Mach 3, were let loose. Sure, they didn't have the ability to hit St. Peter from here (Hence the Airstrike), but they could very much hit the other possible target... Even though they were certain that said target was already preparing to fight back...

But than, every Cherubim knew that whatever would survive the initialstrike was more than likely to be torn apart by their artillery.

Leaving only a few escorts against subs, aircraft and possibly light surface units behind with the transporters, continuing on their way to St.. Peter Claver, the main group, 48 vessels, prepared to hit their enemy... Soon...

And the blood of the Cherubim on each vessel was boiling with lust for blood.

OOC: this has been taken from the other thread and put here where I think it belongs, although I can't be sure, because frankly it is confusing the hell out of me having two IC threads.

IC:

Klaxons sounded and the war room on-board the IMS Impératrice Isabelle was bathed in a red light.

"What the bloody hell...." murmured Field Marshal Kantenouzous, as he rushed over to his phone line to the bridge.

"Bridge! What's going on?" he demanded.

"Syskeyian escort reports we are under attack. Multiple air and surface contacts. Probable underwater contacts. Another transport fleet, sir." replied the captain.

The sound of fighters and missiles roaring overhead could be heard. In the distance were several explosions.

"War room out." said the Field Marshal, slamming down the phone. He turned to his aide-de-camp. "I didn't join the Infantry Legions to die at sea!"

"No, sir."

"Signal the Syskeyian command. I need a full evaluation of the situation. I want his opinion of our chances. AND I WANT IT NOW!" the Field Marshal shouted. The ADC nodded and rushed to one of the phones set aside for intrafleet communication to ask the Syskeyians for a complete evaluation.

Kantenouzous walked around the planning tables in the war room, pushing his way through the aides and officers involved in the planning operations, until he reached a red phone line - the hotline to the Imperial High Command. He grabbed it and typed in his authorisation code for the day.

"Authorisation code accepted. Connecting to Mater..."

"This is Mater, Field Marshal." came the cold, feminine voice of the Imperial High Command's computer control system.

"Mater, we're under attack. I am waiting to be apprised of the situation by our escort. I request as a matter of the highest priority that I be informed immediately of all relevant intelligence obtained by the Imperial High Command."

"Your request has been granted, Field Marshal." replied Mater.

"You may start transmitting the intelligence, Mater."

"You already have all available data, Field Marshal." replied Mater. The Field Marshal's face curled in rage. He was operating totally in the dark, for no good reason. Either the High Command had intelligence it didn't want him to see, or the High Command had been utterly negligent in its committal of intelligence resources.

"Very well." he said curtly. "If the Syskeyian reply is not to my liking, I request permission to withdraw our transports with the objective of preserving as many lives as possible."

"Your request has been denied, Field Marshal." replied Mater in the same tone as she earlier used to grant the Field Marshal's request.

"I will rephrase. If I assess that the risks to the forces under my command are too great, I request permission to take whatever actions I deem necessary to preserve as much of that force as possible." said the Field Marshal.

"Stand by Field Marshal. Your request is currently under deliberation." Mater replied.

The sound of an afterburner firing overhead made the Field Marshal wince and try to cover his ears. It was hard enough to hear the soft voice of the computer over the shouting in the war room!

***

In the grey concrete surrounds of the Imperial High Command, New Rome, Mater relayed Kantenouzous' request to the assembled officers sitting around the shadowy round table which constituted the High Command.

"Two infantry legions and one armoured legion... not a price we'd usually be willing to accept, I know, but certainly worth the Syskeyian alliance, surely?" murmured one of the faceless officers.

"There may not be a Syskeyia before long." said another.

"Mater's estimates that in the worst possible scenario given the parameters we have agreed to, after 237 million Syskeyian civilian casualties, the armed forces of the principle protagonists will have mutually exhausted their ability to continue a large scale war. There will be a Syskeyia at the end of this conflict."

"And a Reich."

"Unfortunately."

"It is certainly in Pantocratoria's interests to honour the Syskeyian alliance. If we lose three legions at sea, we will have suffered more than our fair share of casualties, fulfilled all reasonable expectations of Pantocratorian assistance, and honoured that alliance. I suggest that our forces be denied permission to withdraw at their own discretion."

"Vote!" demanded Mater, calculating that Kantenouzous didn't have time to wait for lengthy deliberations. The various officers of the High Command keyed their vote into the keypads on the desk in front of them.

"The vote has been completed and passed with a six vote majority. Thankyou, sirs."

***

Kantenouzous nervously awaited replies from both Mater and from the Syskeyian escort. Mater's came first.

"Deliberations complete. Your request has been denied, Field Marshal." said Mater. The Field Marshal's heart sank. He could accept heavy casualties once the army landed, but at sea... But he had this orders.

"God save the Emperor." he murmured half-heartedly.

"God save the..." Mater started in reply, but Kantenouzous slammed the phone back onto the hook before she finished.

"WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS THE REPLY FROM OUR ESCORT?" he shouted across the room to his ADC, who was still requesting information on the intrafleet line.

OOC: Since the escort is Syskeyia's, I'd like to see what Syskeyia has to say!

Syskeyia

25-10-2004, 19:01

"WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS THE REPLY FROM OUR ESCORT?" he shouted across the room to his ADC, who was still requesting information on the intrafleet line.

"Right here," Admiral James Surkhang remarked from the Wasp-class assault ship R.S.S. Hildemarca, the ship's interior bathed in red.

An explosion was heard overhead. "We've been doing as good as we can, given the circumstances." Planes zooming in supersonic combat. "We've lost about ten ships - three cruisers, five destroyers and two frigates. Wasps still afloat, thank God. Our fighters seem to be handling the air threat fine. Subs doing well, too."

He heard more explosions over ahead. "Also, do you plan to get back on your transports?"

OOC: We're evacuating the island. Need all the ships we can get. :)

Endless Crimes

27-10-2004, 11:23

ooc: I'm assuming that the Syskeyian escords fire back, despite syskeyia not writing about it.

Sea

Michael looked amazed as the new data came in.

"They are... not withdrawing?"

"Apparently not." The Cherubim answering saluted, Michael could see the blood lust in his eyes.

"Interesting. Indeed, The LORD has blinded them, dulled their senses." Of course, it was exactly what he would have done in their situation, but then, in his case, it would be a questiomn of honour. In their case, it was insanity.

More missiles were fired while the fleet continued. A few dull sounds could be heard, depth charges.

"U 45 lost."

"They will be remembered in honour."

Air combat proved to be complex. Michael wasn't sure just how many fighters the enemy had up there, if they had managed to launch all of them... Sure, he was outnumbered, but only slightly.

"Have the carriers slow down. When can we land the planes returning from St. Peter?"

"In... A couple minutes. It is about time, I think a few wont make it."

"Those who wont make it attack the enemy planes with whatever they have left."

The order was released, transmitted... Two dozen fighters broke off from the returning clouds, heading towards the Syskeyian planes, with their last drops of fuel.

Of course, the first didn't make it, crashing into the sea, sinking... The pilot didn't even try to escape, and his comrades in the air just heard his triumphant yelling. "GOD IS GREAT!"

A few more missiles, another ship exploding...

Saiana enjoyed it, hearing it all. So far, the target was out of visible range, but she hoped that this would change soon...

Surprisingly enough, enemy fire was relatively weak, yet, still strong enough... The Heaven on Earth left the formation, fires ravaging it, screams of joy and pain echoing back and forth throgh its corridors, the feathers of the cherubim burning fairly quickly.

A few other vessels suffered a comparable fate, yet, Michael's ships were somewhat heavier armoured than the Syskeyian or Pantocratoria ships. Granted, they were also slower, but for now (And thanks to their opponents suicidental tactics), they were still getting closer.

Fire, death everywhere. A light frigate was sinking, slowly, chorals to their lord and master sung by the crew, embracing their fate.

And then, they came in range for the artillery.

Granted, Lightbringer, one of the four battleships, had lost one of its forward turrets to a Syskeyian missile that had managed to get through the reasonably excessive point defense, but that was a secondary problem, and Saiana did actually enjoy it... Licking her lips of the wounds of the bleeding Cherubim, hit by countless shells, her body feelign the rising heat... And it wasn't the heat of the burning fires.

And then she screaming with joy, rejoiced, her pointy ears aching as she heard the heavy artillery firing.

Two ton shells, accelerated to three times the speed of sound, heading towards the Syskeians escorts and, more importantly, towards the Pantocratorian transporters.

It was a pity they weren't yet seeing the targets, the fleet they attacked... it was beautiful, three shells hitting one of the smaller transporters, massive explosions, bright lights illuminating the sky, the transporter, or what was left of it, quite literally breaking apart...

It had begun.

Somewhat farther away

The transporters continued on their way, protected by the eight frigates and destroyers supposed to protect them as good as they could. Soon, they would reach St. Peter Clavers... A efw hours. A few more hours... Several of the Cherubim, dozens, hundreds cursed, listening to the sounds of battle coming from where the two fleets clashed, but they couldn't change it... st. peter Claver was their target, and for boarding attempts, the crews on the vast combatant vessels were supposed to be enough.

Yet, many of them wanted to fight, wanted to smell, to taste blood... To hear the screams of agony... Hopefully, they would hear them, soon.

Pantocratoria

27-10-2004, 15:47

OOC: Since I don't know the strength of the Syskeyian escort relative to your own forces, despite your assertions that the fight is insanely one sided, perhaps you and Syskeyia could both give a list of the naval assets involved here? I apologise if you've posted this elsewhere, I know Syskeyia has, but with all the threads this storyline has spawned, and all the venom spewed forth, I have certainly missed it.

Pantocratoria

27-10-2004, 15:59

"Right here," Admiral James Surkhang remarked from the Wasp-class assault ship R.S.S. Hildemarca, the ship's interior bathed in red.

An explosion was heard overhead. "We've been doing as good as we can, given the circumstances." Planes zooming in supersonic combat. "We've lost about ten ships - three cruisers, five destroyers and two frigates. Wasps still afloat, thank God. Our fighters seem to be handling the air threat fine. Subs doing well, too."

He heard more explosions over ahead. "Also, do you plan to get back on your transports?"

OOC: We're evacuating the island. Need all the ships we can get. :)

"Field Marshal," shouted one of the communications officers in the war room as he shoved his way through the bustle. "Admiral Surkhang reports the loss of three cruisers, five destroyers and two frigates. Air defences are holding steady. The Syskeyian submarines are also reported to be performing admirably."

"And what does he make of our chances?" demanded the Field Marshal.

"Erm... he didn't say, sir." said the officer.

"Did he say anything else?" Kantenouzous growled.

"Yes sir! The Admiral wanted to know if we planned to get back on board our transports, sir."

"What? WE HAVEN'T GOT OFF OUR BLOODY TRANSPORTS YET! Are our boys expected to swim to St Peter island?" Kantenouzous shouted at the hapless officer. "You get a hold of Admiral Surkhang, and ask him whether his escort can get us to the island in the light of this attack or not!"

The ship lurched violently, and papers and glasses slid off tables. The Field Marshal held himself up against the wall, before the ship levelled off again.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?" shouted the Field Marshal.

"Bridge reports that a submarine appears to have been destroyed almost directly underneath us, sir!" shouted back a junior officer with his ear pressed against a telephone receiver. "Unknown whether it is friendly or an enemy...."

"Either way that means the fighting is directly underneath us..." the Field Marshal murmured to himself. "...this is madness."

Syskeyia

27-10-2004, 19:21

[Well, I don't have time for an uber-RP post, but my admiral does say that he does not expect the Pantocratorians to swim to shore; what he meant was that once they are ashore, and the battle goes ill, if they intend to return to their ships; the island is being evacuated, and the Syskeyians need all the transports and such they can get, so...]

Pantocratoria

28-10-2004, 07:05

"...and that was the Admiral's message, Field Marshal." said the junior officer.

"Well at least he thinks we'll make it ashore. We're reliant on him to get us through the enemy blockade. Reply, send the Admiral my compliments, and tell him that I will not consider the outcome of the battle to come until we have landed, let alone what to do in certain scenarios. Reassure the Admiral that we have already planned for such contingencies... if he can get us to shore!" said the Field Marshal. "Now, go!"

The communications officer ran back to the appropriate table. Kantenouzous grabbed his aide-de-camp in the bustle.

"Bloody Syskeyians expect us to give them our transports to help them evacuate their civilians." the Field Marshal spat. "How exactly do they expect us to withdraw in the case things go wrong?"

"I don't know, Field Marshal." said the ADC. "I do know that the Duc de Montmanuel has commanded Transport Group Gamma, carrying the Imperial Equites Legion, to speed up and adjust their course in the direction of the landing area."

The Field Marshal was taken aback.

"What the bloody hell does he think he's doing, we have to stay with our escort, if he leaves formation his ships will be defenceless. He's spoiling for a fight, the damned fool, he doesn't realise that he won't get one at all if he leaves the fleet!" Kantenouzous murmured in worried tones. He rushed over to the intra-fleet communications table and grabbed a free phone, typing in the numbers to reach Montmanuel's command.

"Lieutenant!" Kantenouzous barked at the junior officer who answered. "You tell His Grace to return to the formation at once! This is Field Marshal Andronicus Kantenouzous! ... No I don't want to speak to the bloody fool, just tell him to get back in formation and stay with the fleet! If he continues on his present course, his whole transport group will soon be beyond the ability of our escort to protect it."

He slammed the phone down. Moments later the Field Marshal's ADC answered the hotline from the bridge, and then hung up again.

"Sir, bridge reports that Transport Group Gamma is returning to the formation, Sir!" he shouted over the noise.

"Good... let's hope that aristocratic moron doesn't get anymore bright ideas into his head. He should leave maneouvres at sea up to the admirals!"

Eurusea

28-10-2004, 10:20

[Um, Sysk? You haven't responded to the landing.]

Syskeyia

29-10-2004, 15:53

It had come.

The Eurusean troops had finally landed.

The fortifications had been holding, but began to show some signs of the battle. The Eurusean arms had been massive - 5000mm mortars, ludicrously large guns and the like- but the island's fortifications were well designed to withstand an invasion. But nobody- nobody had expected the kind of munitions the Euruseans had.

But still the fortifications held.

Just barely, but they held.

From the safety of his bunker, Lance-corporal David Anand smiled as he gunned down yet another Eurusean soldier with his assault rifle. The Eurusean infantry seemed worse than a joke- only half of them appeared to have rifles, and they didn't even wear uniforms.

But he knew others would come.

As did the island's military commander. General Divecha knew that Eurusea would bring in huge weapons of what size no Syskeyian would ever see. He placed his hope primarily in the Lord, but secondarily in the valor and quality of his troops, and thirdly in the vast defensive fortifications built all throughout and around the island.

He had ensured that tanks and APCs supported the troops as they defended the beachheads against the Eurusean menace. Yet he did not send all of them to the front lines, as he knew that reserves would be necessary.

And one thought went through all the Syskeyians' minds:

It's Embassy time.

Syskeyia

04-11-2004, 20:28

The Skies
Commander Elijah Sihounak, commander of the RSS Blessed Junipero Serra's F-14D squadron, gazed at a small speck in the distance as his Tomcat blazed aross the sky.

More, just a little more... he thought as he remained locked on to the Iron Casket. That's it, just little more... maximum range and...

"FIRE!"

Immediatley four Phoenix missiles shot out from under his Tomcat, followed not a moment therafter by the rest of the squadron's AIM-54s, streaking out towards the Trinity's murderer.

WIthout even pausing, Sihounak and the other pilots switched their fire controls from Phoenixes to AMRAAMs. The airship was said to have considerable AA capabilities, and at any rate, they needed to be prepared.

The Tomcat's spread their wings and continued toward their target, mindful of enemy fighters but chiefly focused on their prey.

Syskeyia

07-11-2004, 03:49

St. Peter Claver City

"Move it! Keep in line! Let's keep some order here!" shouted a policemen as he and his fellow officers tried to maintain a semblance of order amidst the crowd.

The civilian docks filled to the brim with civilians, would be refugees, hoping to flee the island and make it to safety. Throughout, police officers and MP soldiers kept the chaos orderly, forming lines, handing out supplies, and the like.

Every seagoing vessel near the island was commandeered for the evacuation: cargo ships and container ships were forced to abandon their cargo as engineers tried to make the best use of dropside, shower and toilet pallets, bulk carriers were forced to do the same, and private vessels (including luxury vessels) were forced to accomodate as many evacuees as they could handle.

Meanwhile, the cools South Pacific breeze refreshed the people, of only a little, as the government and the port authorities tried to get the people onto the ships. Mothers cried and sisters prayed, babies screamed and little children held on to their Gadget plushies. Fear and anxiety ran through the minds of all, but they would get off the island and to the safety of Guam...

...God willing.

Endless Crimes

09-11-2004, 15:22

The Sea

The battle continued, becoming more and more bloody. The targets were easy enough to identify: First the carriers, then the cruisers, then the rest, including Pantecratorian transports.

Heavy artillery, missiles, torpedoes, it was hell unleashed on the waves of the wide ocean.

Saiana ducked, as two more missiles flew by, one hitting the bridge... No serious damage, still, the Lightbringer's ability to fight was furtehr reduced.

Yet, a behemoth like her didn't exactly care about such things.

Nor did the others.

The only thing that counted was sinking the target. All targets.

Another boom, muzzle flashes exceeding over dozens of meters, superheavy artillery rounds travelling the distance to the Pantecratorian/ Syskeyian fleet, hitting, terrorising it.

Saiana chuckled, enjoying it. It didn't matter for her who was burning. Be it that frigate sinking in her vicinity, a few cherubim leaving it, their wings wide open, or a Syskeyian carrier, or a Pantecratorian transport... It was all the same to her.

She didn't even notice her right hand touching her crotch. She was rather aware of herself opening it, though.

Somewhat further away, the Carriers

The planes landed, one by one. Losses were rather heavy, yet, it worked out, sorta. Only few stayed in the air, attacking, defending... Fresh ones. But for now, the returning ones were all the captains cared about.

One by one... One exploded on the deck, it took several minutes to clean up, the pilot dead... Another hero falling to the treachery of the nephilim.

Soon, they would finish.

Soon, they would rearm.

Even further away, the Transporters

And they continued their travel... Slowly, nicely... Undisturbed. Much to the annoyance of the crews.

Eurusea

09-11-2004, 18:26

Iron Casket

Katya's seat near the centreline of the Overlord vibrated slightly as the missile batteries and flaks opened fire on the distant aircraft, diamonds forming around them in her gunsight as they closed. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, 'Stay low, you bastards...Give me one last shot...' the diamonds suddenly multiplied, the missile warning sounding.

Flares and chaff drifted from the underside of the Overlord like rain as the enormous airship kicked her rudders to one side and threw on full power, dozens of props droning far more loudly now. From her open machine-gun position outside, Lena watched the first group of missiles streak toward her, impacting all across the hull above her and showering the lower AA deck with flaming pieces of the upper catwalks and chunks of concrete. Iron Casket tilted to her port side under the weight of fire, the captain hastily correcting the monster's attitude as Lena caught her schoolfreind Raya by her hand and dragged her back on board. She grimaced, 'I always told you to fasten your damn safety harness!'

The particle cannon shot a glowing beam into the night as the airship righted, flames covering it's portside envelope. The blast caught one of the approaching aircraft head-on, vaporising it completely, and clipping several others. Katya slid out of her chair and checked her parachute again as the alarms sounded louder, a chain of explosions on the port side making her run to her evac point.

In the control room on the upper surface of the middle envelope, Captain Akimov sighed and swung his hand to the glass panel beside him to sound the alarm to abandon the airship. He smiled slightly, stepping back to the oak ship's wheel at the front of the small room with it's heavily reinforced roof, ignoring the buzzing missile warnings and the others running for the escape doors.

Katya pulled her chute just as she'd been trained to, glancing back up as the entire port envelope exploded, the huge concrete structure quickly wrenching off the Overlord under it's own weight. A few who hadn't made it to the evac points fast enough could be seen falling hundreds of feet into the murky water below.

Another volley hit the airship even as it tilted sickeningly and descended in a sharp dive, kicking up a huge plume of spray as it hit the water, the heavy armour dragging it under quickly. For a moment there was nothing but bubbles to mark where it was, then an immense column of water climbed into the night sky as something critical detonated, almost knocking Katya's parachute out of the sky. Many others weren't so lucky as her.

Allegretto

'Allegretto is a man-made nightmare.
And I cannot wake up.
None of us can.'
-General Vassili Belenov, Commander, Floating Fortress Allegretto

Belenov sat back as he watched the landings, the other ships in his fleet hurling fire inland at the Syskeyian emplacements. The second wave was preparing to land now, and it seemed everything was going according to plan.

Until the lights cut out and the alert sirens sounded, that was.

He turned quickly to one of the armaments stations, 'What the hell is going on, I never ordered a nuclear launch drill!'

'Rotation in breech of gun four, General! It's the nuclear round!'

'What the fuck?! Who authorised that?'

The man blinked and turned, 'The fire control says you did, comrade-General...'

Belenov scowled, Not again...I won't let you do this again... he turned quickly, 'Shutting down that breech rotation is top priority, get teams out and stop it any way you deem necessary, sever the mains to everything except the Heart if you have to, we'll clear up later. When that's done, fire up boilers thirteen to twenty-seven and pull that round out of the damn breech.'

The armaments officer shook his head as he turned to give the orders out to the relevant sections. There were always...Strange...Things going on aboard Allegretto, on all four in her class, in fact. You'd hear sounds down empty corridors, find systems changing themselves when you looked away...And then there were the horrible, horrible nightmares the crew complained about. For some reason, since he'd transferred from the battleship Stalin he hadn't managed to get a single peaceful night's sleep.

Below, Dalesz checked the circuit diagram again before smashing the lock off the junction box with the butt of his rifle, swinging the door open to be presented with a group of circuit breakers. 'Belenov said it was an emergency...' he walked back down to the rest of his team, 'So deal with it as such.'

Besko nodded, raising his RPG launcher to his shoulder as Ivonia placed a rocket in the end and slapped the back of his helmet twice, 'Go, comrade!'

As the rocket hit home all the lights on Allegretto flickered for a moment and died as the subsystems the other teams had destroyed failed to kick in. The huge ship sat motionless and silent for several minutes, before black smoke began to spread from its funnels, the coal-fired boilers providing some semblance of power for key systems.

Anyone remotely psychic in the general vicinity would have felt what happened immediately after the power went down, the monumental howl of hatred and frustration extending out from Allegretto, terrifying and utterly, utterly inhuman.

The beaches

Yana rubbed her eyes with her sleeve and looked back up at the machine-gun nest above her, her other hand tracing a familiar shape on the ground. She blinked, picking up the rifle and checking it over, thanking God for giving her a rifle with a scope. As the Syskeyian crew stopped to reload she leaned out, centring the sight over the one who had been firing, now nervously fingering his rosary as he waited for the other one to reload, relaxed as her father had taught her to as a child, and eased the trigger back.

She only paused for a fraction of a second to make sure he fell, then quickly flicked the bolt back and forward, aiming for the shocked loader and whispering a prayer herself.

The ground shook as another volley of shots from the battery somewhere beyond the beach impacted, throwing columns of dirt high into the air and making Yana duck back behind the tank trap again for a moment. Another soldier slid to a halt next to her, banging her shoulder on the tank trap and wincing, 'Comrade, have you seen a squad with a radio?'

Yana shook her head, leaning out again and firing, 'No, comrade! I didn't think any squads in the first wave had radios!' as she turned back she realised who she was talking to, 'My apologies, comrade-commissar, I didn't...'

The woman shook her head, 'To hell with that for now, we need to find a radio or we're all dead. You shoot pretty good, comrade, so you're coming with me.'

Yana blinked a few times, 'You don't have a weapon?'

The Commissar nodded briefly, 'Lost it getting out of my transport, haven't found another that works. Or the second wave, I think they missed this beach.'

A volley from the Eurusean fleet hit home, doing almost as much damage as the Syskeyian shelling on the beach while almost totally missing the Syskeyian positions, 'God damn it, what the fuck are they shooting at?'

Heading quickly past the burned-out amphi-tanks, shell craters and tank traps, Yana soon sighted another unit, covering the Commissar as she ran ahead. The unit leader, a poorly-shaven young man with a uniform that looked several sizes too big, saluted hurriedly, 'Commissar!'

'Commissar Gorkov, and stop fucking saluting. You're second wave, where's your radio?'

The man gestured to one of the other soldiers, 'Comrade Kharin has it!'

Gorkov made her way along the line, Yana following. Gorkov tapped the man with the radio, 'Are you TRYING to get us killed, comrade? Radio for a full barrage along the upper beach and more at hundred-yard intervals behind until they hit those damn arty positions!'

The soldier made the call quickly, Yana watching around the edge of the wrecked landing craft as the machine gun positions vanished in huge clouds of debris and fire. Gorkov grinned as the second barrage landed just behind the first, picking up a submachine gun from a fallen soldier and standing as she noticed another group of tanks crawling up onto the lower beach, 'We have them on the run, comrades! Don't give them time to recover! For mother Eurusea, and for God!'

Syskeyia

09-11-2004, 21:41

The landing beaches
"RETREAT! Retreat!" the cry came out from the Syskeyian lines, and indeed they retreated, as tanks, APCs, machine gunners and soldiers mad their way towards the second line of defense.

But Lieutenant Thomas Chaturvedi had other ideas.

His platoon spotted a Eurusean company heading their way. Wasting no time, the lieutenant ordered his three squads' B300 "rocketmen" to fire on the enemy.

They fired, and the Eurusean scattered and became even more confuesed when Syskeyian rifle grenades started being shot at them not a moment after the rocket launch.

Then Chatervedi gave the order.

"FIX BAYONETS!"

They soldiers did so- riflemen attached their spike bayonets below their rifle barrels, grenadiers to the side, and screaming, they charged. Their training had told them to prefer shooting, to seek the shot before the stab, and this they did, however, hand-to-hand fighting did occur. When it did, the Syskeyian were ready- any Eurusean who thought himself foolish enough to attack Chatervedi's platoon at close range would soon find his body punctured straight through with nine inches of cold Syskeyian steel.

When the engagement had ended, seven of the Syskeyians had died, and twelve were wounded.

The Eurusean company had been annihilated.

From the company radio, Chatervedi could hear his commnder screaming at him to retreat with the rest of the unit.

Captain's got a way with Latin expletives, the lieutenant smiled to himself.

Eurusea

14-11-2004, 15:37

Knowing the song I will sing
Till the darkness comes to sleep
Come to me, I will tell
'Bout the secret of the sun
It's in you, not in me
But it does not mean a thing to you...
~ 'Aura', .Hack//SIGN

West Beaches

Yana blinked in surprise as Commissar Gorkov grabbed her shoulder, the rest running ahead straight into the bayonets of a Syskeyian unit. Yana turned, 'Hey, what are you doing?'

Gorkov scowled, 'Saving your life? I need someone here with me.'

Yana blinked, 'But...What about being a hero for the motherland...?' she was cut off as Gorkov drew her hand back and slapped her across the face; as she looked back there were tears in the corners of the Commissar's eyes.

'There is nothing heroic about throwing your life away!' it was the first time Yana had seen a Commissar genuinely afraid, 'Listen to me, I have a dislocated shoulder,' she put on a pair of broken glasses, 'I can't see distances and these got broken the same time I lost my gun. If you go now you'll kill us both and leave my son and daughter without a mother...If you stay I can see you get promoted to a proper rifle division.' She took off her cap and smiled pathetically, 'Please?'

Yana blinked, before sitting back down next to Gorkov, 'You're not quite what I expected...' she glanced over at one of the other units, at their Commissar drawing his gun as a man tried to retreat.

'I can't do it, comrade-commissar, I can't...'

The man scowled, 'You don't know what you can do if you try! You're a coward!' he fired, and the man fell.

Gorkov nodded, 'I'm political officer for a little mining town...Never fired a shot, never had to. Everyone likes me back home.'

Yana checked her rifle over as she listened, 'So what got you here?'

Gorkov sighed, 'Seems my area controller doesn't like it when a married woman says no to him...Week after I got a letter saying I was being "put back on the duty roster." Stupid bastard might have at least looked and seen I was never on the roster to begin with...' she took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, 'Where's the Kraken?'

Yana blinked as she glanced back, 'It's not there.'

Gorkov nodded, 'Then we need another radio we can get to without moving back.' She pointed to the heavy water-jacketed machine guns set up at the bottom of the beach, three commissars with megaphones standing just behind them screaming 'NOT ONE STEP BACK!' at the top of their lungs. 'They won't care I'm a commissar too.' She paused, 'Ludmilla Gorkov, by the way.'

Yana smiled, 'Yana Vasiliev.'

Gorkov grinned, 'I'll see I remember that name when I write about the soldier I saw kill ten men with ten shots. You'll get a commendation for sure.' She inched toward the other side of the landing craft, 'Now...I hope you haven't forgotten how to shoot?'

Yana leaned out and took her first shot as Gorkov ran, the two making their way across to the nearest unit, Gorkov blinking as she saw the nearest man's uniform, '132nd Rifle Division is third wave, isn't it?'

The man nodded, 'Some bastard pushed my squad onto the wrong transport, comrade!' Yana jumped for the amphi-tank they were sheltering behind as a burst of machine-gun fire kicked up the ground around her.

Gorkov glanced along the squad, 'Why haven't you signalled the Kraken?'

The soldier shook his head, 'Don't have the fucking code for it, it was supposed to have surfaced by the time my unit came ashore, comrade-commissar!'

Gorkov nodded, 'I have the code, get your radio over here.' She took a soaked piece of paper out of her pocket, shaking it a couple of times.

Kraken artillery submarine Allegrissimo

The crew moved quickly to their stations as the alert sirens sounded, 'General quarters, general quarters! Port gun crews to your stations and prepare for fire support calls, all Port guns prepare for fire calls!' As the armoured shields on the bow and stern gun decks slowly retracted downwards section-by-section the gun crews pushed their howitzers forward to firing position with their barrels clear of the gunports, quickly lashing them to the floor and loading. They fired in ragged volleys as they were ready, the heavy shells raining down on the retreating Syskeyians as the Eurusean soldiers on the beach cheered.

North Beach

The Northern landing force had deployed from one of the Floating Fortresses a little earlier, a small force of engineers and infantry with a few tanks, and thus far had remained on the lower part of the beach. It was far from a blessing, as it had allowed the full might of the Eurusean fleet to be focused on the Syskeyian positions ahead of them, which were by now limited to a few shattered ruins. Those remaining in them were being treated to the sight of possibly the strangest warship they have ever seen.

At a glance it was a long slope-sided box with a flat front, easily as big as a carrier and bristling with CIWS and point defence. It was painted flat black with a red star on one side and a CCCP mark on the other, the only way to tell which end was which the slightly raised bridge structure at the stern. The thing turned slowly between the pair of Floating Fortresses it had been moving behind, waiting for the radio signal from the beach.

On the beach, a commissar looked across the blasted defences in front of him, nodding to his radio man, 'Signal the Sabre to come ashore.'

For a moment the Sabre stood still, then it began moving, slowly at first, then faster, and faster, the Eurusean troops on the beach scattering ahead of it as the enormous thing beached. Her props still drove her forward as she carved the sand ahead of her aside, flattening obstacles on the lower beach, steel tank traps folding like rubber. Anti-tank mines flashed uselessly under her, the ship stopping with her entire bow beached. She'd barely halted when her entire front end dropped down to the sand, her inside dark. There was a moment's pause, and then...

And then the whole beach lit up as four huge muzzle flashes extended from the open bow door, flattening the sand in a circle around the front of the Sabre. Those not killed as the central Syskeyian positions vanished watched as something crawled slowly out onto the beach, first a heavy tank-like unit with two double gun turrets mounted side-by-side, then a long, flat midsection, then, trailing, another section like the first but larger. The whole thing looked more like a battleship on tracks then a tank.

On board, Assault Commander Turtsev sighed, before managing a grin, 'Excellent, comrades! Now, let us push forward without delay! It is our sacred duty to liberate this city for God!'

[Notes: Kraken: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v453/GMCMA/Eurusea/Kraken.jpg
Sabre / Doramascher: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v453/GMCMA/Eurusea/Sabre-Dora.jpg
Extra concepts of Dora's tractors:
'A' / front tractor: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v453/GMCMA/Eurusea/Tractor-A.jpg
'B' / rear tractor: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v453/GMCMA/Eurusea/Tractor-B.jpg ]

Pantocratoria

02-12-2004, 12:52

"Field Marshal! The Imperial High Command!" shouted an ADC.

"At last!" murmurs Kantenozous, grabbing the hotline.

"Field Marshal, the Imperial High Command has determined that Syskeyia will certainly lose St Peter Clavier island. To attempt to reinforce defenders would result in approximately 99.93% casualties to forces under your command." Mater states in a cool, computerised voice. "You will therefore deploy in the Syskeyian mainland. The fleet is now receiving the course along which the least resistance shall be encountered to the Syskeyian mainland. Once it arrives, you are to disembark, and to proceed by land to contain the Veganan invasion of Benedictia. Are these orders understood?"

"Yes, Mater." replies Kantenozous with relief. "God Save the Emperor!"

The Field Marshal hangs up the phone.

"Signal our escort! We are changing course to Syskeyia itself to assist Syskeyian forces in containing the Veganan invasion. Request that they accompany us. We must withdraw from the present engagement at once!" the Field Marshal snapped.

Pantocratoria

06-12-2004, 16:59

The Pantocratorian transports and their Syskeyian escort started to come about, adjusting their course away from St Peter Clavier Island and towards the Syskeyian mainland at best possible speed.

Syskeyia

08-12-2004, 02:32

And so it happened.

The Army divisions on St. Peter Claver Island were top-notch, and trained to the utmost. They fought ferociously and gallantly, sacrificing their lives and causing ghastly causualties to the Eurusean troops.

But still they fell.

The fortifications of the island had held well, performing even better than the designers had expected, holding long after anyone could expect.

But still they crumbled.

The Navy, fielding one the largest formations in its history, fought fiercely against the superior forces and Eurusea and the Reich.

But still they sank.

The Eurusean forces marched onward, savaged but intact, racing though much bloodied toward St. Peter Claver City.

And so it was, after the annihilation of twenty-five Syskeyian army divisions, the destruction (either by Eurusean artillery or Syskeyian choice) of one of Syskeyia's most vast and extensive foritifcation systems, and the devestation of no small part of Syskeyia's air force and navy, that St. Peter Claver Island, the Republic's only maritime province, the Gothic Jewel of the Pacific and the historic staging ground of the Amerigan Slaver War, fell to the Euruseans.

As a gigantic flotilla of refugee ships made their way away from the island, a captian of one of those ships looked upon his burning isle and wept.

But as his tears reached his lips, he began to smile.

We'll come back, he thought. We will.

Endless Crimes

08-12-2004, 12:05

EC Fleet

They retreated, surprisingly quickly. Of course, this didn't stop Michael, for he let his ships fire on.

For every heathen sinking into the depth of the sea, THE LORD would reward him, for he was his hand, doing what was required to salvage earth from the hordes of darkness, from the Metahuman disease...

Saiana was a little bit disappointed. She knew that EC's ships wouldn't be fast enough to keep up, and besides, it would be risky to follow the retreating fleet.

Sure, a few survivors would be caught, for interrogation, for various other purposes... She could hardly wait.

Yet, it wasn't the feast of blood and destruction she had wanted.

And so, after a few hours of continually declining fire exchanges between the two opposing fleets, the 'battle' ended.

The damage Michael's fleet had to sustain was surprisingly massive, yet, still comparably minor, compared to what they had done to the enemy. And Michael rejoiced.

"THE LORD gave them into our hands. They had the chance to attack our Transporters, to destroy the righteous warriors of light we're bringing with us, yet, they didn't use the chance! They had the chance to attack and destroy our carriers, which were alone, weak, vulnerable, yet, they were blinded, fooled by the legions of heaven, falling for the simplest of diversions! They were given into our hands, and they fell as our swords of justice, of enlightment and beauty hit them, cut them apart! This, brothers, is truly the greatest of victories! We shall march on!"

And, with the fleet continuing, in formation, now, relatively save from their opponents’ submarines, if there were actually any left, they continued their march.

Yet, there was a slight disappointment in the whole affair, as St. Peter Claver had fallen.

The screams, the cries of the Cherubim, warriors of god, strong, mighty, white beautiful, white wings, suddenly sobbing as they heard it... It was truly painful, yes, even disastrous for them... Many a warrior committed suicide as they realised that their honour had been taken from them...

Yet, eventually, they did arrive. Carefully, of course, since Michael didn't exactly trust Eurusea's Floating Fortresses to, well... Survive the day.

Arriving, praying as they saw their destination, fallen, yes, but nonetheless... they would purify it, soon enough. For now, however, more basic things had to be organised, necessary repairs, a provisional base and the likes.

However, soon enough, the fun would begin. Saiana smiled, holding certain distinctly masculine- looking pieces of flesh in her hand. "Really, you should have asked for salvation..."

Soon, soon she would have a lot more work at her hands. She could hardly wait.

Eurusea

10-12-2004, 15:30

I am here alone again
In my sweet serenity
Hoping you will never find me in any place
I will call it solitude when all my songs fade in vain
Fly my voice, far away to eternity
'The World,' .Hack//SIGN

St Peter Claver Island, dawn

The sun rose lazily over the island, uncovering, piece by piece, the violence of the previous night. Gigantic palls of thick black smoke hung in the air over the shattered ruins of the Island's fortifications and the city itself. On the North shore, the waves lapped gently against the smoke-stained wreck of the Trinity, the two halves that had drifted aground during the night rising high above the other debris on the beach there. Other ships lay further out, some partly above the waves, others lying on the seabed below, a thin layer of leaking fuel oil leaving the sea above reflecting in all the colours of the rainbow, a perversely beautiful sight for the few able to appreciate it.

While on the beaches Eurusean soldiers danced on top of the remains of the coastal defences, in the streets of St Peter Claver City it was a different story. Eurusean engineers had already begun the long job of picking up the pieces, bulldozers and cranes hauling wrecked vehicles away as buildings that had been hit during the night occasionally shuddered and collapsed, sending huge clouds of masonry dust drifting through the streets. Along the middle of the city they began to bulldoze rubble into a makeshift 'wall' that divided the city roughly into North and South sides. The South would go to Endless Crimes...

Eurusean primary command post, St Peter Claver Cathedral

Patching up the holes in the cathedral's walls was a daunting task for anyone to take on, far more so for the few exhausted combat engineers that could be spared to do it. Most were content with tarps or corrugated iron sheeting driven into the ancient stonework with masonry nails; it was ugly beyond belief, but it did the job. The inside of the Cathedral had been cleared out to house a set of tables with maps and assignment lists pinned or in some cases nailed to them, and a large area was screened off for use as an infirmary, occasional moans of pain filtering over the divide.

Commissar Gorkov sighed as the little Syskeyian girl on her knee, Sarai she thought her name was, burst into tears again. She sat with one hand around the girl's waist to hold the blanket wrapped around her in place and the other holding a small ice pack over the girl's swelling eye. She looked to be about seven, and it was obvious from the way she cried every time a male soldier walked past what had happened to her.

Gorkov sighed, trying to comfort her with what little Syskeyian she actually knew, glancing up at Assault Commander Turtsev, 'Have they found the bastard who did this yet?'

Turtsev shook his head, 'Missing, like everything else...' he turned to a radio team, 'Can you radio Kyznetsov again and ask her where the hell my military police detachment is?'

Gorkov sighed as the girl looked up at her, sniffling, 'I want my momma...'

She hugged her as gently as she could, speaking in broken Syskeyian, 'I've sent some people out to look for your momma, they're doing their best. I'm sure she's ok.'

A Commissar ran in, saluting hurriedly, 'Comrade Assault Commander? They've found him.'

Turtsev nodded, 'Who's questioning him?'

'Commissars Drozdov and Karev.'

Turtsev scratched his chin, 'I know them. Family men, both with young daughters themselves...We'd better get there fast.'

Checkpoint Seventeen, Northeast St Peter Claver City

As Turtsev stepped into the hallway of the hotel next to the checkpoint he could already hear shouting from the dining room, along with the occasional sound of someone being hit hard and attendant moan of pain. As he got closer the words got clearer, Commissar Karev's deep voice filled with more anger than he'd ever have thought the man capable of.

'...Think that's a fucking excuse, that you were so fucking drunk you thought she was fifteen? As if getting drunk on looted drink and raping a fifteen year old is ok?' another blow and moan of pain, 'You piece of shit! Can't you even lie right?'

Turtsev pushed the door open to be confronted with the sight of a young man tied to a chair between the two Commissars, his face swollen and bloody, blood running from the corners of his mouth. Karev saluted with his left hand as he slipped the brass knuckles on his right back into his pocket, 'Comrade Assault Commander.'

Turtsev nodded, 'Is this him?'

Karev nodded, 'He's some fucking conscript from First Wave, name's Markov.'

Turtsev stared at the young man in front of him, 'Full name, rank and serial number.'

Markov spluttered painfully, more blood running from his mouth as he slurred 'What...number?'

Turtsev drew his pistol and smacked him across the face with the handle, 'When you speak to me you say 'Assault Commander.'' He spun on his heel, turning to Commissar Drozdov, 'It's vital to let the people of this Island know that we're not their enemy...' he paused, 'Get two girders, a wooden chair, a steel pole and seven feet of razor wire to the Forum, we'll deal with him there.'

Forum, St Peter Claver City, a few hours later

Markov's body hung lifelessly from the makeshift scaffold in front of the Ground Battleship now, streaks of still-wet blood running down his clothes where the razor wire noose had bitten into his neck. Turtsev idly pulled one of Doramascher's ladders back up behind him and stepped into the command and control centre.

A few of those inside looked up at him as he entered, before getting back to work on trying to coordinate the cleanup. A few of the crew were trying to get some sleep in hammocks strung across the far end of the room, without much success. Turtsev tapped one of the operators on the shoulder, 'What's our estimate on remaining civilians?'

'At least one-third of the Island's population, could be anything up to a half. There's a lot still in hiding.'

'There'll be a couple of bombers dropping propaganda leaflets this afternoon, then we lose the fleet for a week at very least.' Turtsev sighed, 'And probably much longer. Those scientists from the Biopreparat want to look over any survivors before then, some kind of test or other.'

East docks

In the light of day, the East docks bore the scars of the final volley of shells that had abruptly ended the evacuation, the ruined piers crumbling into the sea and the docks a mess of collapsed warehouses, shredded cargo containers and other debris. Huge craters rendered the whole area useless as a dock now, the few remaining ships all lifeless hulks grounded at their berths, cranes collapsed on top of several.

Along the dockside, the recovery crews set lines of dozens of bodybags as they found more of the civilians and military personnel who had died when Fortissimo had fired on them. Those working tried to ignore the bloodstains on the ground and up the walls of several buildings, a couple having already been excused because they couldn't handle it.

The area commander sighed, lighting his cigarette and clapping his hand over the propaganda filmmaker's camera lens, 'Don't film this.'

A soldier ran over, 'Comrade, what do you want us to do with these bodies? Throw them in the sea?'

He scowled, 'We're not goddamn barbarians. See to it they're identified if possible and given proper burials.'

[Used a Thai name for the girl, if that doesn't fit post in the OOC thread. Also, I have no idea if Syskeyia has psychics or not. Also, before you complain; the Eurusean fleet hit the east dock NOT the evacuation fleet. That got out fine as per agreed.]

Pantocratoria

15-12-2004, 08:32

OOC: I'm going to post casualties from the escape for my transports only. Any problems, please put them in the OOC thread and I'll address them.

Several of the transports didn't make it. They were too close to the enemy guns, too densely packed in with their escorts. They couldn't break free to safety, and couldn't weather the shells of their opponents.

In all, two companies of the Infantry Legion of the Exarchate of New Jerusalem, and another company of the Fourth Provincial Infantry Legion had their transports sunk from under them. In the rush to escape the Reich fleet, the other Pantocratorian ships only hung back long enough to rescue a few from the water. Most drowned, many floated in the water waiting for rescue or death. A whole ship of supplies, equipment, ammunition, and support vehicles was also lost, and the seat was thick with oil and floating crates and boxes.

But the rest of the fleet was well on its way to Syskeyia itself, where the remaining Pantocratorian troops might be able to make a difference.

Syskeyia

16-12-2004, 04:19

RSS Joanna von Sachshausen

From the shattered and battle-scarred bridge of his battleship, Captain Fidelis Tenzing peered out to look across the morning sea.

He leaned over the side, making sure not to cut his hands on the broken fiberglass.

Damn it's been a hell of a night, he thought as he surveyed his ship. Once the pride of the Syskeyian fleet, the R.S.S. Joanna von Sachshausen, first of her class, had been smashed and pounded by the forces of Eurusea and the fleets of the Reich. The two outer hulls of her trimaran stucture had been blasted apart, her guns smashed. The living quarters now at the bottom of the ocean, the surviving sailors vere forced to make do with what makeshift living arrangements existed in the hole-ridden ship. Nearly all the guns had been knocked out ,save for one Millenium gun and the turret of one of the 16-incher installations.

The ship had indeed seen better times.

Tenzing looked out at the refugee fleet before him. A rag tag menagerie of ocean-going vessels, from tiny personal yachts to passenger ships and freighters, the group of hundreds, if not thousands of ships and boats were carrying 1.5 million refugees towards the Western Asian island of Guam. The logisitics of the evacuation had, of neccesity, been done "on the quick," and already he had heard reports of shortages of nearly everything that could be thouhg of.

He looked up at the sky. The sun was shining, and the weather seemed favorable.

Well, at least something's gone right, he thought.

Eurusea

16-12-2004, 15:06

Ground Battleship Doramascher

Turtsev sat back up from the uncomfortable hammock, having not managed to get any sleep. He shook his head, pouring himself a coffee from the blackened service kettle with '017 Doramascher' printed in fading white on the side. It tasted terrible, thick with the taste of the old coffee-scale caked to the inside of it that nobody had ever bothered to clean out, but he wasn't really in the mood for complaining at the moment. 'What's the status on our supply convoy?'

A radio operator turned, yawning, his bloodshot eyes a sign of a lack of sleep as well, 'Should be here in a couple of hours, Comrade Assault Commander.'

Turtsev nodded, 'Good, you're relieved. Go and get some rest, there's a building with proper beds near here.' He turned to another member of his command crew, 'I want all the children we've found so far to be on those transports when they leave, take them back to the Motherland. It'll get worse here before it gets better, spare them that at least.'

Sky over St Peter

The Leviships had been beautiful once, long ago now. Each was an intricately carved core of Levistone, polished until it shimmered like a gemstone, slowly teased into wondrous swirls and coils that bound it to the rest of the ship. In their day, each ship had been a prized work of art kept by one single group of skilled artisans and slowly added to over time, so that no two were the same. Given the state of Beringholm's technology and their role as tradeships and craft of goodwill ambassadors, they had used complex arrays of sails strung out around their hulls to move, and had rightly been called the jewels of the sky.

But no more.

The craft that slowly moved into position over St Peter had long since been remodelled for 'efficiency' by Eurusean engineers, the complex rigging and sails torn off and replaced with oil-stained propellers, heavy cargo containers welded to their bellies with massive steel braces curling around the original hulls to hold them in place.

Each dropped lines in turn as it stopped over the North beach, slowly running crates and containers of supplies down to the ground, the waiting quartermasters ticking items off lists as they came in. One crate in particular caught their eye, one of the soldiers breaking the lid off with a crowbar to reveal several racks filled with irregularly shaped metallic objects. He blinked, 'Man-Hacks?'

The quartermaster nodded, 'For testing. Issue them to any teams clearing out houses of resistance, tell them they are not to use them in civilian occupied areas and to read the fucking service manual before using them, let's not have these little bastards kill any more of our people.'

A little further away, most of those scheduled for evacuation were standing quietly with a small group of badly injured soldiers and those who had been given permission to go back to the Motherland. Gorkov shivered; it wasn't natural for children their age to be so silent, the only sound the occasional sob as one started crying again. Sarai was quiet in her arms too. Gorkov shook her head, It's not right to put children through this...

The young rifleman who had saved her life, Yana, stood nearby, one eye bandaged where a piece of shrapnel had hit her; it'd be fine in a few days, the doctor had said, but it was enough for Gorkov's word to get her a ride home. One of the other Commissars, a press officer, was interviewing her enthusiastically, embellishing her account as he read it back to her, of the hero soldier who had saved a Commissar's life from the evil enemy. Yana looked a little puzzled by the whole thing.

It didn't take long for the Leviships to load up and turn around; as Gorkov looked down from one of the catwalks on her Leviship she witnessed the truly surreal sight of the gigantic Allegretto under tow, four dozen tugs hauling the enormous vessel slowly back to Eurusea, her battlegroup holding position around her.

Endless Crimes

18-12-2004, 23:58

ooc:I'm taking a couple liberties, but this is somewhat unavoidable, anyway. Scream in the ooc thread if something is terribly wrong.

ic:

"Who are you, my child?"
"Kanokwan."

Saiana smiled. She was pretty certain that she scared the girl... She was wearing black, naturally, her gloves hiding her small, elegant fingers, giving her an aura of authority and... Malevolence.

"Where are your parents, Kanokwan?"

"I..." Kanokwan hesitated, shaking her head. Saiana smiled some more, looking surprisingly honest. She liked children. They were the future.

"Don't you have parents, Kanokwan?" She stroked her hair, softly, still smiling. Kanokwan nodded.

"Then you are a good girl, Kanokwan. You aren't tainted... I'm sure god looks upon you, guides you... You will be happy."

Eventually, Saiana pulled Kanokwan off her lap, bringing her to a guard. "She's... Innocent."

The guard nodded, glancing at Kanokwan, who was looking at his magnificient white wings. "Are you an angel?"

"Yes." The cherubim didn't smile.

As for Saiana, she continued her work. Kanokwan was a exception, of course. Having lived in an orphanage for the past two years had saved her life. many, many others weren't as lucky.

Of course, Michael and the Inquisitors couldn't just pull off a complete cleansing with the Euruseans watching, and they weren't sure just what capacities the local civilians had, with regards to privately owned weapons and other such things.

However, the cherubim were already securing their part of the island.

Seizing the churches was the first thing they did, once military installations, power plants and the likes had been secured. What followed were sermons, held by Seraphim, standing high above the Syskeyian peasants who were forced to attent.

"God has punished you!" they shouted with their thunderous voices, and they continued.

"Syskeyia's sins have angered THE LORD and he gave you into our hands. Now, the cleansing begins. But fear not, for we shall separate the sinner from the innocent, the child of the devil from those conceived with honour, the thief from the honest!"

In the prisons, shooting could be heard. There was no point in keeping alive those who defied even those sinful and sick laws of Syskeyia. Guts and brains filled the cells, the survivors cleaning them, knowing that they were the next ones. Yet, agony...

"We shall clean St. Peter Claver, make it a better, saner, a god- fearing place, a place for great, for holy deeds!"

Finishing the sermon, or speech, under the oversized picture of Matthew Iesus smiling at the people in the church, the purge begun.

Of course, not the entire population. Certai families, people were searched, taken in. Priests. Teachers. Civil Servants. Their relatives. Etc. Etc.

Of course, they couldn't find everyone, and much data had been lost during the battle, other data had been purposefully destroyed... Nonetheless, it was enough.

And in the prisons, more shots were fired.

Sayam was once of those 'lucky' prisoners still living, in order to clean up, afterwards. He didn't raise his eyes as he walked past a nearby cherubim, watching the corpses... He heard the cherubim walking over a few of them, and came closer... He just saw the tiny arm, still holding a teddy bear with a big hole in its belly, where one of the bullets had gone through. The first time Sayam had seen this, he vomitted... But by now, he was kinda used to it. It was a matter of seconds to get a hold of the girl, pulling her towards the pit.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, Kanokwan was eating. To her, the cherubim were surprisingly nice (Insofar as they didn't shoot her). She had been told that she was blessed, just like the half- dozen children next to her, like her, they were all orphans. And despite being scared, despite having seen all this death and terror, there was a lot of whispering between them.

Do you think they mean it? That we're going to see the Garden Eden?

No, they are lying...

But they ARE angels!

They can't be...

Perhaps?

They murdered all this people! I haven't seen Ms. May in days!

But Ms. May did always beat me... perhaps they are really sent to help us?

A few cried, a few others managed it without cries. But the fear in their eyes didn't seem to go away.

Eurusea

26-12-2004, 09:55

Ground Battleship Doramascher

Turtsev smiled as he read the Christmas card his son had sent him, one of many that had arrived on the Leviships. He slipped it into his pocket again as he watched the Forum below; dozens of Syskeyian civilians with shovels were toiling to shovel dirt and broken glass into the front buckets of a group of backhoe excavators parked at irregular intervals. They'd had too many reports of people being injured on broken glass for him to ignore them anymore, and one backhoe was already all but full with it; mostly window glass, but highlighted by the rainbow-coloured remains of dozens of Christmas lights.

There were a few machine guns set up in case anyone felt like making trouble, not that they would be stupid enough to try anything in the shadow of the hulking Ground Battleship anyhow. A few Commissars below with assault rifles were keeping order as necessary, though they had explicit orders not to abuse the civilians unnecessarily.

Glancing out over the path of destroyed buildings Doramascher had left in her wake as she had moved across the city he could see one of the three giant Stalin Tanks in a park to the west of the city, the three thousand ton behemoth's crew probably enjoying a well-earned rest after the assault. He smiled, 'Things seem to be settling down, at last...Is the North harbour finished?'

The young technician sat next to him carefully balanced her cigarette on Doramascher's hull and pulled out her clipboard, checking down the line of entries, 'Um...Been finished since this morning, comrade Assault Commander, there's a group of ships docking later today with more supplies.'

Turtsev smiled, 'Then we won't be so reliant on Leviships anymore, that's good news at least.' He paused, thinking for a moment, 'See what you can do about increasing the food rationing to civilians, we can do without civilian unrest while we get a proper system of law enforcement in place again.'

With a shriek of jets a Leviathan slowly passed by overhead, her vast shadow creeping across the city as dozens of white parachutes dropped from her open bomb bays. Turtsev sighed, 'Guess that's the last shipment by air now, anyway. Get some troops out to make sure none of it's stolen.'

'On it, comrade.'

Ralkov town, outside Chopinburg, Eurusea

Commissar Gorkov smiled despite how tired she was feeling as she spotted her children waving, jumping down from the old horse-drawn cart and thanking the driver as they ran over and hugged her. Yana followed, looking a little bemused. Gorkov grinned, 'Look, the least I can do for you is offer you dinner and a place to stay...' she blinked a few times at the new posters up everywhere and the people cheering; the posters proclaiming Yana a hero to all the Eurusean people.

A young boy ran over, staring at Yana's rifle, 'Is that the rifle, comrade Vasiliev? The one you killed the Syskeyian General with?'

Yana paused for a moment, then nodded. Gorkov had already told her things had been a little, well, exaggerated by the Eurusean propaganda machine. The boy stared wide-eyed at her, 'Um, could I hold it?'

Yana smiled, unloading the rifle and handing it to him. He held it inexpertly, grinning broadly, 'Wow!'

The head of the town workers' council offered his hand to Yana, smiling, 'It's an honour to welcome you to our town, comrade. If there's anything you need, just let me know.'

Gorkov sighed as various others congratulated Yana, the sixteen-year-old looking just a little overwhelmed by it all. Eventually she got up, setting her son down and smiling at her husband, 'I'll be a moment, darling.' She walked briskly over to the crowd, raising her hands, 'Comrades, do not crowd comrade Vasiliev. She wishes only to be treated as one of us; remember that while she is exceptional, every worker is a true hero of Eurusea!' there was a cheer as Yana took back her rifle and slung it over her shoulder, Gorkov leading her over to a small cottage at the edge of the marketplace.

Yana had to duck a little to get through the low door, Gorkov smiling as she hung up her gun belt and placed her gun and ammunition in a tin on top of one cupboard. 'Have to be careful with small children around the house...' Sarai, who'd been holding Yana's hand, sniffled again, and Gorkov shook her head, 'Right, I can clear out room for a couple more beds somewhere, I'm sure...We'll have to talk to Borishko about getting those made.' She shifted a few chairs around and idly tossed a log into the wood-burning stove in one corner of the kitchen, in front of which were curled up a pair of black-and-white collies, both of them wagging their tails lazily. Her house was tiny but cosy, most of the furniture hand-made.

Eventually her husband re-appeared, a solid-looking middle-aged man, his clothes stained with oil and grease. She grinned and hugged him, 'Been fixing things again?'

He nodded, sounding somewhat exhausted, 'More problems with that winch down at the mine...Could you put in another request for a new one?'

She giggled, 'I've only just got home, Kostya, can't I have a moment's rest first?'

Eurusea

14-01-2005, 06:33

St Peter Claver Island

The cleanup had proceeded remarkably smoothly thus far, with only scatty resistance from easily-isolated groups. That should have given Turtsev heart since it seemed the Syskeyians had no fight left in them, but that wasn't the way he'd been trained to think. He couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere out there someone was in hiding, biding his time and marshalling his forces. Whether there was some greater plan at work or his invisible enemy just planned to go out in a blaze of suicidal glory, he couldn't be sure, but...

He watched as another patrol group set out to check for survivors huddled at the edge of the city; there were still frightened civilians in the ruins there, some half-starved and most in need of medical care. From the stories being passed back from the teams he had posted watching over the North-South divide, there was plenty for them to be frightened of.

This isn't like Kesselstan, Comrade. The world is watching this time. He understood Comrade-General Volkov's sentiments, though at the same time he resented being relegated to act as a policeman.

Still, with banners and flags everywhere proclaiming the glory of the revolution it was starting to feel just like home.

Work area #7, St Peter Claver City

The commissar turned back to the crowd, pointing to the body lying face-down on the ground, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the muzzle of his gun, 'Do NOT grieve for this man, comrades!' he stepped over, kicking the body flat onto its back and prising its fingers open, lifting up a handful of bloodstained cards.

'Fake ration cards, comrades! When a man uses one of these and is not reported by diligent and loyal citizens, he does not just steal from Eurusea! He does not just steal from St Peter! No, comrades, this man was stealing from the pocket, and the table of each and every one of you! This greedy bastard-' the commissar fired another round into the corpse, '-Would not care if every one of you starved, he only cared about filling his own belly! Ignore the lies you are told by counter-revolutionary fools! This is your enemy!'

Endless Crimes

19-01-2005, 15:28

St. Peter Claver, Southern Half

"Show me."

The Syskeyian woman nodded, slowly, and seemingly nervous. Which was understandable, since it wasn't exactly usual for a god- fearing person to see a creature two and a half dozen centimeters taller than oneself, with wings and bioluminiscent forehead walking through the door, claiming to be an angel supposed to scorch the earth in order to purify it.

Turning around, she let him in. She didn't have much of a choice, and Rubiel, one of the four cherubim tasked with this street, was more than satisfied with the obedience shown to his orders.

For a moment, he wondered if the woman had pwerhaps lost her husband, or her son during the battle, but in the end, he didn't care. She would soon follow them, anyway, to be purified by the light of wisdom, the flames of salvation. Of course, like all this poor, corrupted humans, she was unlikely to understand... As such, he couldn't tell her of the beauty she would soon face, the salvation that would save her from her misery and corruption, free her from her mortal, sinful body.

"Search." He bellowed, in latin, and they searched. Of course, all syskeyians had been required to hand over their guns (Compulsory gun ownership. Insanity!), and given that the penalty for not doing so was death, it was safe to assume that the vast majority of them had indeed been handed over.

Yet, one gun was one to much.

A quarter of an hour later, the four cherubim left the house, the woman walking between them, nervous, scared. Of course it was impossible to search all the buildings on St. Peter, and as such, they were dependent on help by the locals... The ones willing to cooperate, anyway.

And sometimes, it worked, as the thumping sounds of the hammers nailing the woman to her own door proved. She didn't scream, was merely crying, sobbing, in agony... Within the next fifteen minutes, she would die from her blood circuit violating against the unnatural position, her heart failing.

Rubiel was almost smiling, looking at a few neighbors observing the scene from their windows.

St. Peter Claver, Elsewhere

The placards were easily visible, written in latin, naturally. Informing about what was to come.

[i]SYSKEYIANS!

You have been abandoned by your people. You have been betrayed by those you believed in. You are lost, alone, forgotten. Syskeyia doesn't move to help you! Syskeyia is retreating, broken, siobbing and weak.

You have been corrupted by the impure believes of your former leaders. You have followed a path to darkness. You suffered a corruption of the mind.

But we're here to help you. Yes, to help you, to find salvation, to be purified. To become one with OUR LORD. To feel the church embracing you, again. For your souls, though corrupted, are not lost. They can be saved.

We will save them.

Our intervention has been triggered by the most benevolnet of intentions. We will free you, we will save you from the darkness that tried to lure you into the claws of Satan.

We will do so. St. Peter Claver will be purified. You will be purified. You shall enter a new stage of your existence, a stage of beauty and perfection. A stage where your souls will rejoice in the presence of god.

But we need to prepare for faith and purity to come back, to embrace you once again. The many who died, god bless their souls, shall be saved by your, as well as our, prayers. The hardships you had to endure were horrible.

Yet, we're as willing to change this as you are.

Register, for we need to know who you are, to help you, to feed you! You shall be given what is needed, you shall be helped, you shall be saved from darkness, from terror and despair.

Abandon your ways and join with us, to rebuild a new, a pure St. Peter Claver. Abandon your weapons, for their try to trick you into following darkness.

Those who don't abandon them are supporting the daemons of hell. Those who don't abandon them are preparing for the darkness to return.

Those who don't are threatening all those god- fearing people who do believe in a new age of purity, of beauty and perfection to come upon St. Peter Claver, embraced by the benevolence of The Reich!

Those who don't must be found, and they must be punished. They WILL be punished.

But for those of you who are god- fearing, for those of you who know the truth, who embrace it, who realise the perfection of our Führer, Matthew Iesus, and god's voice on earth, Metatron, we believe in you! We KNOW that you will not stand aside when daemons try to cast a darkness upon this island!

You will know the truth, and you will tell us about the threats lurking in the shadows of St. Peter Claver. Your reward shall be magnificient.

~ Michael

St. Peter Claver, Some other place

The Cherubim didn't say anything when he pressed the trigger, watching the blood spilling out of the back of the Syskeyian whom he had targetted. One comrade was dead, another injured, his wing broken. The resistance was dangerous, that much he knew. Yet, he and the two others were more than enough to deal with them.

"Finished."

They could look upon themselves with reasonable pride. Eight Syskeyians had attempted to get them. Yet, there was a little difference between civilians, as well armed as they were, and Cherubim, who trained during their entire lifetime, who had been created for the purpose of combat. A difference that was showing.

"Only half rations for this block, over the next week. they will learn to obey the law. The next time..."

Yes, the next time. Ec was far from unwilling to shell entire blocks with capital ship artillery, should resistance prevail. It was, in fact, quite a common practise, and the towering structures of Heavenly Delight and its 50cm main artillery, now the strongest ship EC had at St. Peter Claver, with major parts of the fleet returning home, preparing for yet another possible conflict, after having fought a heroic battle (Of course, battleships vs. Troop Transports and Light Escorts had been heroic, the warriors of god were, after all, supposed to defeat the nephilim and the poor humans they corrupted into their service).

Night was coming, the sunset looking kinda beautiful with the city few fires burning within.

The ships were moving, slowly, following the sun, going back, going home.

Saiana watched them, standing near the harbour. It was kind of romantic, especially with the orphans around her. Incidentally, she enjoyed the presence of children. It reassured her, knowing that her work, finding those who defied god, was not in vain. That there were those whom she could help.

Granted, it was a bit hypocritical for her to think this way, but then, nobody is perfect.

Even though she claimed to.

"Now, come with me. Auntie Saiana has work to do."

The children followed, obediently. They had no other place to go, and Saiana had, by now, succeeded to be viewed as 'trustworthy' by them. Even though Kanokwan did still seem to be a bit nervous.

Of course, visiting the departing fleet with the children had its reasons. Michael wanted it, he wated the syskeyians to see that they cared about the children. That they helped the orphans.

A few transporters arrived and Kanokwan looked at them, curiously.

"Wood."

"Wood?"

"Yes. We need to rebuild the city, remember? So much destruction... We need lots of wood to make this island a better place. To heal the wounds. To deny the daemons entry into this realm."

The children nodded in dishonest understanding, watching the planks being unloaded, ten, twenty... A hundred, a thousand... More, more.

"Do they come from EC?"

"Yes." Saiana smiled. "You will soon see how EC is like. It's a beautiful place, really. The Seraphim created a new Eden. You will love it."

She could actually see a smile on Kanokwans (And the other children) faces. She smiled back.

Later

Saiana muttered something about electricity still making trouble as the lights flickered in the room. She had given the children to a few workers, normal humans, who would care for them, train them, those few who had been born pure, without the sin of flesh triggering the arrival of a daemon.

"So?"

"We captured the archives. The one we know about, anyway."

"Aha. So we know about most of them."

"Yes, but not necessarily all."

Saiana's eyes narrowed. "This could be interesting..."

"We found a first... Delinquent."

Now, Saiana smiled.

"Perfect. I'm sure he has some things to talk about."

Luckily for the children, they couldn't hear the screams, nor could they see Saiana's other self.

Endless Crimes

03-02-2005, 14:19

Endless Crimes, Southwestern Plains

The Cherubim were kneeling, their eyes closed, their hands folded together, murmuring. Praying.

Metatron stood nearby, observing the scenery. How could this happen... This whole land, intoxicated, contaminated by the darkness. Daemons infecting our people, taking away their souls, condemning them to such insufferable pain.

He sighed, sadly, almost weeping. These were his people, the enlightened ones he was supposed to lead to perfection and purity, this nation, a hymn to THE LORD, a poem written in letters of perfect beauty.

Elsewhere, far out of sight of Metatron and the small group of Cherubim accompanying him, four Seraphim were kneeling, praying i the center of a village, their wings spread wide apart. behind them, sixteen Cherubim did the same, their wings smaller, but still impressive, feathers covering the place.

Behind them, the people of the village, as well as of several nearby villages, stood, carrying those who couldn't walk on their own. Many a young girl or boy stood there, dressed in their bes clothes for this extraordinary, this special event, when their caretakers, Cherubim and Seraphim would rescue them, looking at the 'angels', intrigued, shy, nervous, yet awed by what they saw, believing that soon they would be freed from the daemons threatening them.

And in the center of all this, the altar stood, made of black metal, a case waiting to be opened, to release its purifying light upon those who hoped.

Metatron closed his eyes, moments before the flash of light rising almost blinded him and the Cherubim, horrific, yet pleasent, brighter than a thousand suns, the warmth of THE LORD himself burning away the sin, the darkness that had infected the villages in this region. Crushing bones, melting skin, vaporising flesh.

Of course, Metatron would have preferred a different course of action, alas... The daemons summoned by the priests of the devil couldn't be trusted. Even Cherubim could fall to them, indeed, the entire land could fall to their grasp, become a plaything of theirs, if it wasn't for this last resort, the strongest weapon Metatron wielded, a weapon that wuld destroy all the darkness, replacing it with eternal light.

He thought about those brave Seraphim, and Cherubim who had been responsible for the ceremony, reassuring the villagers that they would be saved from the darkness that had taken so many of them, thrown them back, marked them with dark, black and red signs on their chests and arms and faces, their entire bodies, the white essence of in coming from them, trying to poison the world.

They had been consumed by the light, to guide those villagers to heaven, to fight off the last streams, the last, murderous cries of the daemons, of the devil himself.

Heroes. Metatron thought, before moving, turning around, the Cherubim following him, them being his only guard, as he couldn't afford moving with untold thousands when the darkness could see him.

Once returning to New Eden, he would have something else to care about. While the daemons were spreading at home, the light was spreading outside. St. Peter Claver's purification had to be furthered.

St. Peter Claver, The wall between the Eurusean and EC's sector

Huriel looked at the Eurusean on the opposide side of the wall, warily, carefully. For some reason, he didn't like him.

Oh, sure, he knew that he was an ally, but still... Half an hour ago, he begun finding this people to be odd. He wasn't sure what it was, but it... It was there. Something was wrong with this 'ally'. But what?

Huriel raised his rifle, carefully, as if searching for something... Looking if the rifle was still all right and ready to fire. Yet, he was playing around with firing it. Firing it at the Eurusean he thought to be a menace. A sin.

A sin. Yes, this was it. He is a sin. They are a sin. They must be... Purified. They must be... Purged!

He felt it, wanted it, knew it. Deep inside of him, he saw that he had been betrayed. That the Seraphim had been betrayed. Huriel realised that this was a daemon far worse than the daemons he had seen before. This was a daemon who managed to betray even the superior senses of the Seraphim, who betrayed, hid from Gods very messengers!

But he, HE had seen through the disguise! He, Huriel, would succeed and crush the nemesis of god. Now, now was the time!

Then, suddenly, he stopped, turning around as he felt his wing being tipped by... Someone else.

Raziel.

A moment later, Huriel was standing, his right arm raised, the HEIL VICTORY! coming from his lips, echoing back and forth between the wall and the houses.

Of course, he knew why Raziel was here. As such, it didn't take many words, instead, he just took the injection as he was supposed to. Only his duty had prevented him from taking the injection this morning, anyway.

Feeling the warm fluids entering his veines, rushing through his blood, encompassing his entire body, the wound small, closing quickly, he relaxed, sighed, for a moment, before nodding. All was good.

Huriel watched Raziel turning around, leaving for the headquarters. A few more seconds... And he watched the Eurusean, again.

What was I about to do? What was with... This man? It was strange, but Huriel didn't remember. All he saw was a trustworthy, a valuable ally, a man he could trust, a force to be reckoned with.

He sighed, and resumed his duty.

St. Peter Claver, Harbour

Saiana waved, her face covered by a broad smile, her hands washed, the remains of last nights unpleasantness gone from her, floating in the sewers to be consumed by rats.

Still, it was beautiful, seeing those few pure children leaving for Paradise, where a great, a beautiful future would wait for them, a destiny to be fulfilled.

Kanokwan watched as the Island shrinked in front of her eyes, slowly leaving St. Peter Claver. Her home. Well, perhaps EC really wasn't so bad. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would be happy, there.

Perhaps.

But then, the grim faces of the (Few) Cherubim on board didn't exactly suggest a paradise, despite the name they had given themselves...

She, and the other girls and boys in her group, would have to see.

At S. Peter Claver, Saiana turned around. This part of her work was done, and with her robes waving in the wind, she went to do the other part of her work.

Now that the pure had been saved from the darkness, the cleansing wouldn't take much longer. Soon enough, she would begin.

Eurusea

04-02-2005, 11:05

Ground Battleship Doramascher

Turtsev stood with MacCullin on the engine grille of the Ground Battleship, the man from Barensburg patiently explaining the game to him as he rolled a cigarette. Both had their jackets off in the sweltering heat, Turtsev also having his shirt off and tied around his waist.

MacCullin pointed, 'So, th' idea is t' hit the ball off the tee...' he pointed out across the forum to the dilapidated fountain, 'An' in this case, drop it in ter th' hole over dere.'

Turtsev smiled, 'I still don't see the game in it.'

'Ah, y' will, y'will...All in th' wrist, remember.'

Turtsev drew the golf club back, hitting the ball and watching it arc away and bounce off a wall, MacCullin grinning, 'You'll get th' hang of it, t'be sure.'

Turtsev blinked at a tap on his shoulder, turning to be presented with the odd sight of a young woman of about five-foot-two wearing the full dress uniform of a Commissar-Prefect, apparently not minding the heat. She was a little pale, short, dark grey hair framing her face, and looking up at him with red eyes. Looking her over, a difficult thing to resist doing given what a pretty thing she was, she seemed to be carrying no weapons other than a belt of daggers around her waist. She didn't seem that old, perhaps twenty or twenty-one.

She smiled, 'Assault Commander Turtsev?' she handed over a clipboard, 'Commissar-Prefect Kara Dimitriev, I'm here to inspect the status of the occupation force and report back.' She giggled, 'I won't note you were out of uniform.'

Small square in the Northern City

Kara had followed Turtsev through the secured areas, never once complaining of the heat despite the fact that her black uniform must have been boiling; even though she was wearing a rather form-fitting knee-length skirt rather than trousers, she had black tights on below. And she didn't even seem to be sweating.

She made another note on her clipboard, and smiled, 'Well, I'll skip issues of men not wearing their uniforms according to regulation given the extenuating circumstances involved. Other than that, excellent, I-' she suddenly took a step to one side, a bullet imbedding itself in the wall behind her where her head would have been. On the other side of the square, a man lowered his rifle in shock, then turned and ran.

Turtsev glanced over, watching as Kara reached to her belt, moving so fast her hand was a blur as she threw the knife, not pausing to ready herself first. It struck the running man square in the back, and he flopped to the ground dead.

Kara sighed, picking up her hat and dusting it off, 'Such aberrations are to be expected so early in an occupation, Comrade Turtsev, and we must expect them or be caught unawares by them. However, there is a far deeper problem highlighted here...'

Turtsev blinked, 'What would that be?'

She pointed across the square, 'There was a man who had all the time in the world to pick his target and take his shot, yes? And yet he fired at myself, a Commissar-Prefect, rather than you, this force's Assault Commander...He didn't know who you were.'

Turtsev rubbed his chin, 'In a military operation it doesn't make sense to distribute...'

Kara held out her hand, forefinger raised, 'Correct, it does not. However, this is not a military operation. Though I know you don't like this duty, you are currently this Island's governor and chief of police. People must look up to you and respect you, or your word carries no weight to them and you are far easier to demonise with propaganda.'

She glanced up at the speaker, proclaiming it's recording of a message praising Comrade Vasiliev for her heroism. 'Comrade Vasiliev is a hero to all of Eurusea, but you are their Assault Commander, Turtsev. I will note this in my report and at the next inspection we will question a group of civilians to ensure you have increased public awareness of yourself.'

She smiled brightly, 'Carry on.'

The same square, midnight

Since it was after the curfew the streets were deserted, so Turtsev had decided to satisfy his curiosity, MacCullin tagging along as he tended to. They'd left the few soldiers guarding the entrances to the square, and at present MacCullin was measuring the distance from where Turtsev thought he had been standing to the bloodstain where the man had fallen.

MacCullin sighed as Turtsev called over to him, 'How far is it?'

He turned to face him, 'Look, we're friends, Turtsev...So y' cn' tell meself.'

'Tell you what?'

MacCullin sighed, standing over the bloodstain where the man had fallen, 'Are y' drunk?'

'Of course I'm not fucking drunk, I was standing right here! How far?'

'Thirty-two yards. You'd have trouble hittin' th' bugger with a snapshot from a pistol, never mind a knife.' He walked back over, winding the tape measure back up, 'Sure it was there?'

'Sure as I'm standing here now.'

'Snap-shot on a movin' target at 32 yards with a knife? No human's capable a' that.'

Turtsev scratched his chin, 'Which would mean she's no human...In which case, best to forget we ever saw it?'

MacCullin grinned, 'Forgotten already, lad. Let's get us a drink.'

Syskeyia

09-02-2005, 17:45

SYSKEYIANS!

You have been abandoned by your people. You have been betrayed by those you believed in. You are lost, alone, forgotten. Syskeyia doesn't move to help you! Syskeyia is retreating, broken, siobbing and weak.

You have been corrupted by the impure believes of your former leaders. You have followed a path to darkness. You suffered a corruption of the mind.

But we're here to help you. Yes, to help you, to find salvation, to be purified. To become one with OUR LORD. To feel the church embracing you, again. For your souls, though corrupted, are not lost. They can be saved.

We will save them.

Our intervention has been triggered by the most benevolnet of intentions. We will free you, we will save you from the darkness that tried to lure you into the claws of Satan.

We will do so. St. Peter Claver will be purified. You will be purified. You shall enter a new stage of your existence, a stage of beauty and perfection. A stage where your souls will rejoice in the presence of god.

But we need to prepare for faith and purity to come back, to embrace you once again. The many who died, god bless their souls, shall be saved by your, as well as our, prayers. The hardships you had to endure were horrible.

Yet, we're as willing to change this as you are.

Register, for we need to know who you are, to help you, to feed you! You shall be given what is needed, you shall be helped, you shall be saved from darkness, from terror and despair.

Abandon your ways and join with us, to rebuild a new, a pure St. Peter Claver. Abandon your weapons, for their try to trick you into following darkness.

Those who don't abandon them are supporting the daemons of hell. Those who don't abandon them are preparing for the darkness to return.

Those who don't are threatening all those god- fearing people who do believe in a new age of purity, of beauty and perfection to come upon St. Peter Claver, embraced by the benevolence of The Reich!

Those who don't must be found, and they must be punished. They WILL be punished.

But for those of you who are god- fearing, for those of you who know the truth, who embrace it, who realise the perfection of our Führer, Matthew Iesus, and god's voice on earth, Metatron, we believe in you! We KNOW that you will not stand aside when daemons try to cast a darkness upon this island!

You will know the truth, and you will tell us about the threats lurking in the shadows of St. Peter Claver. Your reward shall be magnificient.

~ Michael

Over these placards unseen hands spraypainted these defiant words:

Qui natio ut Deum revetur “Infiniti Sceli” se vocet?

Metatron diabolus est.

OOC: Sorry if the Latin is a bit off. My expertise in the old Roman tongue is a bit rusty (I took my last Latin class about/over a year ago.) Well, if my Latin's off, their's isn't. :P Bascially, it says "What nation that worships God would call itself 'Endless Crimes'? Metatron is a devil" in good Latin. :)

Endless Crimes

12-02-2005, 22:53

It was mildly amusing, even for the (Usually) grim and determined Michael. The 'threat' of the Syskeyian resistance was most likely vastly... Less than what he had expected.

Not to mention that in this particular case, it was pretty much worthless, with the placards being supposed to spread out basic information as well... What with Gun Ownership being illegal?

Nonetheless... Placards were replaced, swiftly, efficiently.

Yet, this alone wasn't enough. And as such, it didn't take more than mere hours until each Placard was graced with two crosses, one to the left, one to the right, on each of them, a random Syskeyian Cherubim had found nearby was nailed, bleeding, in agony, yet, thankfulkly, dying quickly within the quarter of an hour, as unlike the romans, EC didn't use means to prevent circulatory collapse.

Still, their pleading, their begging for help... But two Cherubim 'guarding' the place, everywhere, were quite efficient in securing the areas.

The effect of threatening to shell parts of the city were resistance would occur.

Elsewhere

Michael had made sure that he, and only he would be heard. Most frequencies in the radioband were jammed, the few that were open were full of EC transmissions.

Nothing was supposed to get in or out of St. Peter Claver, at least of their half.

Yet, there was a faint message one could listen to. Weak, very 'narrow', so to speak, with lots of interferences, but still.

But Syskeyians who managed to hide the equipment necessary to listen would be able to hear the message. Syskeyians who wanted to know what happened back at home.

Syskeyians who wanted to cooperate, to coordinate with their homeland.

"Victory!" The message said.

"Victory! The Reich forces have been smashed, Vegana fled, its ships were sunk! Victory! The righteous justice of Syskeyia prevailed!

And now, we're ready to help you. We shall liberate you from the oppression of the Recih. Eurusea and Endless Crimes cannot stop us, and you shall be free again, when this incarnations of the devil fall.

But be careful, friends, citizens, soldiers. We need to prepare, and we need you to prepare as well.

To save as many as we can, we need you to be careful. To lull the enemy in, to give them a false sense of security, we need you to stay quiet, for now, until the day of liberation comes.

We know, it will be hard, watching the cruelty, the sin, the horror of your occupiers and what they do with your friends.

But the hour when we will drive them into the sea, when we take back what is ours, this hour will come!"

It was simple enough. And Michael showed a grim grin, listening to the message.

More would come... And he would prepare for the final purification.

Saiana

"Why?" Saiana was seemingly... Annoyed by her new assignment. "I enjoyed it here, and my work isn't done, yet."

"We will send someone else."

"Oh?" Saiana looked at the screen on which Gloiriel's face could be seen, beautiful, yet annoying. "So I'm... Expendable?"

"No, you aren't. This is why I need you here. And soon, in Knootoss."

"Eh?"

"Not here. When you're back."

"I see..."

"I'm expecting you here within a week. Have to stop now, Idril is wanting some attention."

Saiana sighed as the 'Conversation' ended. She hated the idea of leaving her work unfinished, but then... Well, she would see what exactly Gloriel had in mind. For now...

Another sigh, and she went, going to get a hold of her belongings and overall equipment. The rest of her work... Well... She just hoped her successor would be as skilled as she was.

At least I managed the children. I should probably visit them back at home...

ooc: I might note that while EC is very, errr... Latin, my Latin is based on old Asterix comics. So...

Syskeyia

01-03-2005, 02:00

Elsewhere

Michael had made sure that he, and only he would be heard. Most frequencies in the radioband were jammed, the few that were open were full of EC transmissions.

Nothing was supposed to get in or out of St. Peter Claver, at least of their half.

Yet, there was a faint message one could listen to. Weak, very 'narrow', so to speak, with lots of interferences, but still.

But Syskeyians who managed to hide the equipment necessary to listen would be able to hear the message. Syskeyians who wanted to know what happened back at home.

Syskeyians who wanted to cooperate, to coordinate with their homeland.

"Victory!" The message said.

"Victory! The Reich forces have been smashed, Vegana fled, its ships were sunk! Victory! The righteous justice of Syskeyia prevailed!

And now, we're ready to help you. We shall liberate you from the oppression of the Recih. Eurusea and Endless Crimes cannot stop us, and you shall be free again, when this incarnations of the devil fall.

But be careful, friends, citizens, soldiers. We need to prepare, and we need you to prepare as well.

To save as many as we can, we need you to be careful. To lull the enemy in, to give them a false sense of security, we need you to stay quiet, for now, until the day of liberation comes.

We know, it will be hard, watching the cruelty, the sin, the horror of your occupiers and what they do with your friends.

But the hour when we will drive them into the sea, when we take back what is ours, this hour will come!"

It was simple enough. And Michael showed a grim grin, listening to the message.

More would come... And he would prepare for the final purification.

Somewhere in the interior of St. Peter Claver Island
"What a load of Reich-spewing bullsh**," Colonel Peter Fanchui muttered to himself as he heard the "Syskeyian" broadcast.

A former Syskeyian police officer, brandishing his UMP45 and clad in makeshift tropical camouflage, ran up to the colonel and saluted him.

"Thanks for making it, Jim. Report."

The policeman elaborated the events, of what happened to the sniper who took the bare-miss shot.

"And the graffiti?"

"No positive effect, sir. They replaced the placards, and are now crucifying a Syskeyian next to every placard."

"Did you say crucifying?"

"Yes sir."

Damn fascists, the colonel thought in shock. Crucifixtion - after what Our Lord went through? Don't these so-called "angels" have any reverence for Him?

"Alright, make your way to the cells, according to the normal routine. Tell everyone we're going to intensify the campaign. We'll start a sniper campaign. Focus on Endless Crimes, try to take out the leaders. Seraphim are rare, so take out high-ranking Cherbim; but if one of the Seraphs shows up, don't waste the chance. Be discreet, use silencers when possible, and try to camp as near the bad guys as safely possible, so if the Endlessians fufill their threats they'll kill themselves."

"Yessir." The ex-policeman began to leave.

"Oh, and Jim-"

"Yes?"

"Tell them to keep away from Knife-Lady for the moment."

Endless Crimes

01-03-2005, 10:51

St. Peter Claver

Habour

Daniel watched the transports unloading their cargo. Ammunition, naturally. food, mainly for the occupation force. And wood. Masses of wood. For days, wood had come to St. Peter Claver. And it didn't look like it would stop.

Other means were used as well. Locals were forced into labour (Michael's original intention had been to offer them the choice between crucification and work, but a few of the Fallen present had managed to convince him of a less excessive choice. Now, it was the choice beteen labour or no more food rations for the entire family. Naturally, most chose the 'labour' option), their job being to cut down just about every available tree in the EC- held half of St. Peter Claver. What followed was, well, a carpenter's job.

Of course, the work was secured, with Cherubim everywhere. After all, michael wanted it to be done as quickly as possible.

Elsewhere, fortifications were created. Machine gun nests, light artillery, helicopter pads, all had to be there. For the Syskeyians watching (And semi- forcibly taking part in the construction), it was quite obvious that the occupation force prepared to face significant resistance. Apparently, but not necessarily, from the seaside.

Needless to say, the syskeyian workers participating were searched. Thoroughly searched. Sabotage of military installations was not something Michael intended to allow.

And this was exactly why Teriel was visiting one of the construction sides, guarded by about a dozen Cherubim, watching here and there, seemingly interested in the proceedings.

"Quite impressive. You're on schedule."

Michael nodded. "It's a choir to our Lord. He shall witness our work and our praise, our devotion to him. He shall bless us."

Tiriel, covered in his scarlet robes, a few centimeters taller than michae, his wings spread wide and majestic to behold, a figure of strength and wisdom, walked onwards, step by step, each of them being a blessing to the soon to be purified soil.

Unfortunately, security had slept a little, they were a little close to the parts of St. Peter effectively inhabited by Syskeyians...

Elsewhere

Another step was about to be reached. Of course, the Cherubim had always had the right to search anywhere, anytime. Of course, the Syskeyians had to be careful.

Now, it went a step further.

To guarantee the purity of the Syskeyian youth The new orders said, The children between the age of six and the age of fourteen have to be separated from their parents. Housing, education and food will be provided by the servants of Metatron.

The order was simple. And it was enforced. Again, the Fallen present on St. Peter had managed to convince Michael that taking all children, from birth on, would be more or less impossible. As such, this limited (And, for the slightly frustrated Cherubim, far to mild) order came into being.

And it was enforced.

Incidentally, it wasn't necessary to enforce it by way of searching every house. The rules were simple. By now, reasonably accurate demographics were available. The families with children were known.

Now, their food rations were cut down. Drastically. A family of two parents and three children of the ages in question would now only receive 40% of the food it had received beforehand. They were supposed to starve. And ith EC seizing the means for native food production, there was only one source remaining.

The goal was simple. The only way there was to keep the children alive was to hand them over. And visits were, of course, allowed. Every friday from ten to twelve.

And then there was the minor problem of death by crucification, should certain families refuse to comply...

ooc: So, yes. I've just given you the chance to kill a rather high- ranking Seraphim.

Syskeyia

04-03-2005, 21:42

Lance-corporal Josiah Chongdaxia wondered about the utility of his Barrett M98’s attached silencer as he surveyed the construction site through his sniper scope.

Seemingly indistinguishable from the landscape in the ghillie suit he picked up sometime in “The Night of Hell,” Josiah soon picket out his targets.

They were Seraphim. Two of them, taller than the Cherubs by roughly four inches and overseeing the construction of a blasphemous choir, their bioluminescent heads shone in the South Pacific sky.

He did not consider the style of the choir, which probably clashed with the Syskeyian Gothic so present on the island. Nor did he wonder why they were building a new church when there were several parishes on the island.

Instead, his mind was focused on the two Seraphim. One was taller and more luminous, but the other seemed...familiar. One of them might be Michael, the leader of EC forces on this island. But was he really Michael, or was the taller on of higher rank?

No time of quandaries, he thought. Gotta act now.

He fired two shots, one for each target.

Endless Crimes

23-03-2005, 14:16

Ummm.. The 'choir' part was somewhat... Well, not literal. He means the fortifications.

Harbour

Before, there had been nothing. Just the (forced) workers working, the Cherubim guarding, and the Seraphim inspecting.

But this changed, now.

Tiriel's chest seemed to open up as blood splattered out of it, tiny pieces of flesh ripped out of him. He looked up, in shock... Not actually fearing death, and not actually feeling the pain... But darkness covered his fading mind before he could spot the source, barely hearing the second shot...

Then he died.

Michael on ethe other hand, was lucky. Being the military man he was, he managed to cover himself far enough... Or so he thought. He was still watching Tiriel falling, his wings spread out, feathers slowly sinking to the ground, when he felt the pain in his left wing.

He didn't care, instead he screamed out orders, ordering the Cherubim to organise retribution.

It has its disadvantages to have a specific military caste. Corruption, an economy in the toilet due to the lack of available work, overcomplicated, neverchanging structures resulting in pettiness and ineffective command structures.

Yet, in this particular case, on the squad level, things worked more or less perfect.

Knowing where the shot came from was easy enough. Sure, the building wasn't clearly known, but the approximate direction was.

For EC's purposes, this was more than enough.

The squads moved while the area where the sniper had hit was now all but dead, quiet, the workers covering while the Cherubim fired. At nothing in particular, just into the general direction from which the shot had been fired.
Of course, it was unlikely that they would hit anything, but it made some nice noise and it would look intimidating, which was the point.

It wasn't too much of a distance, and while it would still have taken minutes, it wasn't too hard to act, either, seeing as Cherubim were, wlel, pretty much anywhere, thus allowing for at least some form of semi-effective blockade around the area in question... A rather large area, several blocks with possibly about a thousand or two thousand people in them.

Of course, quite a few of them had a chance to escape, until the necessary reinforcements arrived, but it didn't really threaten the final results. having the necessay information regarding the severs, the infrastructure and the likes, the blockade could then, eventually, be done efficiently enough to ensure success.

As he prepared the message, Michael didn't smile. He didn't laugh, nor did he enjoy it. It was his mission, what he was born for... But he had failed it when the Seraphim, when Teriel had been killed.

Now, he would take revenge.

The message, sent to those inside the area now blockaged by the Cherubim, was simple. 'Hand over the one who fired at us, and you shall be spared the pits of hell.'

They had one hour.

Everywere else

Slowly, the children came. One by one, sometimes mre, depending on the family. Of course, not everyone obeyed... But what choice did they have? The few whose children had been hidden would suffer shortage on food... It was questionable if those friends and neighbors who had to send their children in would offer them help, now that they had sacrificed so much.

Yet, it seemed to be honest. Indeed, food, shelter, clothes, everything was provided. Not the best, naturally. But it worked. They could live.

For how long, that was an entirely different question.

Syskeyia

10-04-2005, 01:09

St. Romanus Naval Base, New Nicaea

General Thomas Suprija's office was a mess, to understate things.
On the table, over a tactical map of St. Peter Claver Island detailing how the reconquest of the isle was to be done, lay a dozen or so satellite photographs, strewn about every which way. Stapled stacks of paper lay at the bottom of the desk, and scattered about lie books about amphibious landings undertaken in war. Normandy. Iwo Jima. Okinawa. Amerigo.
And the general himself lay back in his chair, half-awake, a pipe in his mouth and rosary in his hand.

Admiral Dominic Huynh walked into here. "Someone could just walk in here and find out a bunch of classified information, you know."

"Mwuh?" Suprija arose from his partial state of sleep.

"You called me over to discuss bombardment coordination."

"Oh, oh yeah." Thomas got up, stepped on some paper, moved back, picked up the paper, and placed it on the table. "You sure your ships can take the place of artillery?"

"From the size of the island, nothing's out of our range"

"You sure."

"Much as I can be. Besides, you've got them gun-mortars, right?"

"Yep." The general turned to look out the window.

Through the office window Suprija could see the RSS Ignatius Vonvachit, one of the few remaining Joanna von Sachshausen-class battleships in the Syskeyian fleet, being outfitted and maintained within the massive grey cavern known as a ship hangar.

"'Course, it's for nothing of the specops don't take down that big gun."

The admiral looked confused.

"Of the Euruseans, I mean.

"Oh, oh yeah. That gun. I got it."

"So, any specifics you'd like to talk about?"

The general and the admiral continued their conversation.

Endless Crimes

11-05-2005, 10:53

St. Peter Claver

"So much for this, the." Michael sighed, in frustration. He would have preferred a course of action more suited to express the glory of THE LORD, alas, this didn't seem to happen. It was sad, really, the Syskeyians showing just how deep they were into it all, obeying the filthy commands of satan, of the daemon in Vinyatirion, rather than offering themselves to him, to be cleansed, saved.

But he didn't have a choice.

"Fire." He said, having secured the area in sufficient ways.

And immediately, the twelve main guns on the remaining battleship, as well as the main guns of the two smaller cruisers that were with her, opened up, shelling the area Michael presumed the assassin, this daemon, this part of the devil's evil schemes to hide in.

The rounds came down, thundering, their impacts shaking the ground, their detonations deafening his and his fellow Cherubim's ears.

More came, their detonations short-lived flashes of light inside the smoke, inside the debris, the buildings falling apart, collapsing, all the windows having shattered with the first salvo.

Screams could be heard, men, women, but whoever tried to escape was shot, immediately, falling onto the ground, blood spilling fro the corpses.

Not all children had been taken in. Those younger than six were still with their families, their mothers, mothers now scared, trying to save them...

They failed. For the cherubim, there were no children. Only abominations, and the begging by those trying to escape the hell wasn't heard. Pleads for mercy were ignored. And in the end, the only thing left were the bleeding corpses of the mothers, with their children still held by the now cold, lifeless arms. Occasionally one would see some toy, or a piece of clothing, expressing the interests, the joy of those who had died...

But for those who killed, these individuals were nothing.

They didn't care when arms and legs were ripped from the body, when shrapnels cut through chests or buildings collapsed upon heads. When cellars were covered by the debris of collapsing victorian- or gothic style buildings, bits and bytes of them flying through the landscape, forcing the people who had thought to be save, there, to realise that all they could do was to wait and pray until they would suffocate.

All they were doing they were doing in the name of purity. They were saving those souls.

And at night, they would pray for those they had killed, hoping for them to be purified in the purgatory that awaited them.

Another prayer went to those who had been too close to the buildings, to those Cherubim who had been choosen to guard the lost souls of the Syskeyians on their way. It was all according to his great pla. They could sleep well. Everything was good and as it should be.

Elsewhere, a day later

... And for this reason, to secure the faith and the well-being of you, the inhabitants of St. Peter Claver, all mothers with children below the age of six are required to enter the facilities that have been prepared, in order to secure the proper development of those too young to choose for themselves.

The arrangements were the same they had been before, when they had taken the 'First Batch'. Again, food and death threats were the means with which they wanted to enforce their will. And while perfection was, of course, impossible... In the grand scheme, they would succeed.

By now, the amount of wood available on St. Peter Claver was... Sufficient. Now they could start with processing it.

Syskeyia

23-05-2005, 23:10

As he lay dismembere, bleeding and dying, thoughts of regret plagued Josiah's mind.

Oh Lord, what have I done, what have I done? The blast had virtually blinded him, but he knew what had happened. He could hear the wails of children, the screams of the young, the death throes of the elders. He could smell the burning buildings, the smoke of the blast, and the stench of corpses.

He hadn't expected it to turn out like this. He did what every Syskeyian sharpshooter and sniper was trained to do - take out the leaders, then make their way down. It made sense, in a normal war situation (if such a thing existed). Killing the leader would throw the enemy unit into chaos, allowing for the friendlies to deal with them all the more easily.

But now this...

Please forgive me, God, Josiah thought with his dying breath...

---

Elsewhere on the island, the bombardment had forced a changed of tactics.

Within the resistance cells, and between them via human courier, a decision was made. No more actively armed resistance. Weapons were to be carried, but were to be used only in self-defence, never for attack. Instead, a new mission was agreed upon:

Get as many children to the Eurusean side of the island as possible.

It was, by far, the lesser of two evils.

Eurusea

31-05-2005, 13:09

St Peter Island, near the wall

Commissar Bykanov scowled as the Resistance man stood in front of the group of dirty, frightened children who had followed him through the tunnel, holding up his hand to keep the searchlights off them. He sighed, trying to remember the proper Syskeyian he'd been taught. 'Put your damned gun down, man, you've come too far for them to die here' he hissed, 'We need to get them inside before you're spotted.'

The man looked confused as he was bundled into the nearest building, an old bookshop with the door kicked in. Bykanov drew his pistol, 'Don't try anything stupid, now...I want to help you.' He sighed, re-holstering his pistol, 'I don't agree with what they do on the other side of the wall, comrade...Many of the soldiers on our side do not. I will not lift a finger to help you against my own countrymen, but against them, we will help you.'

He sat down, fishing in his pockets for a cigarette, 'No weapons, no attacks, but we will help you get them across the wall and to safe homes. Uniforms, paperwork, those I can get you...But if I hear of them being used for any other purposes, you'll be up in front of a firing squad.' He ran his hand through his short, dark hair, 'Some will go to safe homes in Eurusea, but they will live.' He glanced at the frightened eyes of the children huddled against the far wall. 'On that matter I give you my word.'

Ralkov town, outside Chopinburg, Eurusea

It was midnight, and Yana stood in the doorway looking exhausted, having finally got little Sarai off to sleep. She was still having a lot of trouble sleeping, more so because the youngest of her new sisters who she shared the room with, Vikashenka, could barely understand the little Eurusean Sarai had managed to learn so far. Yana had taken to looking after her while Commissar Gorkov slept; she didn't seem to mind sleeping during the day particularly, especially since it meant she didn't have to deal with the hassle from people wanting photographs.

But there were some things that a Hero of the Eurusean People had to do, and the pile of letters on the kitchen table wouldn't get any smaller without her efforts.

Gorkov was sitting back in her chair reading through the latest set of letters, smiling and occasionally taking a drag of the cigarette in her hand, 'This one's from Vosgrad, the workers there want to name their mine after you, Yana. Oh, one here offering you an honorary scholarship at Kintyre Ladies' College, it's the best in Eurusea. You can probably thank the Commissariat for that.'

Yana blinked, 'What did you tell them?'

Gorkov grinned, 'Sent off a letter already declining on your behalf and saying Eurusean state colleges should not issue such offers to young women who can't read or write. It's probably part of that drive to show that even the lowliest worker can be admitted to our highest college, but it's not what's best for you.' She slid a pen across the table, 'I've sorted out the other replies for you with the typewriter, you just need to sign them. You remember what I showed you, right?'

Yana nodded, slowly and awkwardly signing out the lines as Gorkov had taught her to, passing the paper back, 'Is that ok?'

Gorkov smiled, 'You're getting much better...Just keep practising.'

Yana sighed, reaching over for Gorkov's cigarette and taking the drag from it herself, Gorkov blinking, 'I thought you didn't smoke...'

Yana smiled, 'I don't...It's just been a bit of a hard week.'

The local carpenter, a tall Kitsune man named Mitroshka Nishimura, nodded, putting down his toolbox as quietly as he could, 'Well, I think that's got the drain outside now, tell me if it starts leaking again.' He sighed, 'Damn shoddy plastic pipe, you should have them sort you out a metal one.'

Gorkov sighed and shook her head, 'There's another shortage of metal pipes, the Comrade Pitor Stalin gun plants have taken all the machine tools again. We'll have to make do...It would have to leak right over the door.' She sat back, 'Still, it's only rain.'

Gorkov's husband Kostya laid his pipe down, 'You know, she's been talking to Vikashenka...Just yesterday she told me Sarai said that her house used to have two television sets.'

Gorkov blinked, 'And what did you say?'

Kostya shrugged, 'I told her that nobody in the world has two television sets, but she must be kind to Sarai and not call her a liar. She's having trouble making any friends, too...She won't go outside on her own.'

Gorkov sighed, 'Poor little thing...She must be so confused. I got the report through on her family, at last...It looks like her parents are dead.'

Kostya paused, frowning, 'Are you going to tell her?'

'The hell I am...Not so soon after all this, maybe when she's a little older and had time to settle. I told her that her mother's somewhere where she's happy, and I think that's true. I've prayed for it to be true...I just can't see how someone who raised such a nice little girl could be so evil.'

Eurusea

16-08-2005, 00:30

Now there seems no reason why I should carry on
In this land that once was my land I can't find a home
It's lonely and it's quiet and the horse soldiers are coming
And I think it's time I strung my bow and ceased my senseless running
For soon I'll find the yellow moon along with my loved ones
Where the buffalos graze in clover fields without the sound of guns
And the red sun sinks at last into the hills of gold
And peace to this young warrior comes with a bullet hole

Destroyed Syskeyian battleship Liberty, off the coast of St Peter Claver Island

Clouds of sparks drifted slowly to the black water below from the rear superstructure of the Liberty. With reports of tapping from inside the hulk of the old Iowa class resting on the sandbank, even after all these days, Turtsev had ordered all her hatches removed. It was no easy task; massive fires had gutted her, resulting from everything forward of her first turret being obliterated by direct hit from the Floating Fortress Vivace. They'd found pieces of her scattered as far inland as the beach during the cleanup there.

The Eurusean crew onboard was largely heavily-built army engineers, clothing stained with leaking oil as they worked with acetylene torches and sledgehammers on the hatches; with unexploded ammunition left in the magazines and no idea of the ship's internal layout, explosives were out of the question. There was a small detail of soldiers sweltering in full body armour with them, clearing out each section methodically as the smoke-stained hatches were pried out of their mountings and upended into the sea. They'd worked one shift in the afternoon already and found nothing but empty rooms and the horribly burned corpses sealed in the line of bodybags on the edge of the deck by the second forward gun installation. Further out, a pair of recovery ships were busying themselves with the task of winching the remains of Iron Casket's particle cannon up from the seabed.

'Over here!' the foreman waved to Commissar Davidov as the hatch at the rear of the superstructure crashed down against the deck, the workers with prybars stepping aside out of the blinding light of the arc lamps around them. Davidov nodded, pulling down her thermal goggles and checking over her submachine gun, letting her fireteam's support gunner ready himself before she headed inside first. It was stuffy inside her heavy armour, but they couldn't be sure any remaining crewmen would see them as rescuers. She clicked on her radio, 'Status!'

The brief chorus kicked in, 'One ok!' 'Two ok!' 'Three ok!' and so on, for all ten members of her fireteam.

'Ok. Handsignals only as before, we don't know if our radios are secure. Be careful and don't just shoot anything that moves, Turtsev wants any survivors to be taken alive if possible.' Davidov had just come on shift, replacing Commissar Karev who'd been handling the clearing out all day and part of the night before.

It was slow and tedious work, checking every locker and behind every overturned table, and the way the ship had settled listing ten degrees to port didn't make things any easier. Forward of them and high above, birds settled on top of the shattered bridge, ruined by a shot from one of their destroyers. They worked their way down throw the crew quarters, occasionally having to call the engineers to break down one of the internal hatches. Collapsed passageways had rendered clearing out the forward sections difficult, but this far back the damage was far less severe.

Davidov found herself wondering what it must have been like for these poor people, trapped in a fight they had no hope of winning and standing to the last anyway. If nothing else, they'd certainly shown courage. Little things stared up at her as they worked through the ship; magazines scattered on the floor of the break room as the crew had rushed to battle stations, photographs of loved ones inside lockers, half-written letters home assuring orphans and widows that they'd be back soon. She pushed aside the feeling like she was stepping on these men's graves, that she shouldn't be there at all; for as long as they weren't sure nobody on board was still alive, this was their duty.

There was a dull thump a few decks below, Davidov raising her hand, then shaking her head, 'Could be a trap, carry on as before. We'll get there when we get there.'

It was over a half-hour later when they finally made their way to the same deck as the sounds, having passed by more empty rooms and radioed in for the work crews to retrieve bodies from a couple more passageways. Standing in front of the hatch near the kitchen, Davidov nodded, 'Well, they thought they'd be near here if they were alive...Couldn't make it all these days without food.' She paused, 'Ok, open it.'

Like the rest of the ship, it was pitch dark inside the mess hall, Davidov clicking on the light on her gun and pointing it inside. Mostly it was overturned tables and wreckage as before, but-

'H-hello?' the voice was soft; weak and frightened. Davidov raised her hand quickly, 'Hold fire.' She coughed, trying to remember her lessons in Syskeyian.

'Come out where we can see you and identify yourself. We will not hurt or harm you.'

There were a few sounds from behind the counter, a young woman in civilian clothes standing up, sniffling a little and raising her hands, 'Please, d-don't shoot...'

Davidov sighed, 'Room clear...Elentsky, stay outside, the rest of you secure this deck.' She swung her submachine gun up over her shoulder, 'Don't be afraid...We're here to help you. Who are you?'

The young woman leaned against the wall, wincing as she tried to put weight on her right leg, 'I-I'm a journalist...I was doing interviews for a documentary on this ship, and then...' she sobbed, 'It was horrible...'

Davidov nodded, 'What's your name?' she paused, 'And have you seen anyone else alive, or heard anyone?'

'C-Catherine Chomechai...I-I think there's a man from the gunnery station somewhere...' she screamed as a few shots followed by a burst of automatic gunfire echoed down the passageway outside, ducking to her knees and covering her ears. Davidov scowled, flicking her radio on, 'Status!'

The support gunner was the first to reply, 'Was a man hiding by the stairwell with a pistol...Ivashin's down, caught her in the arm. She'll be ok.'

Davidov sighed, 'And the crewman?'

'Dead, sir.'

Catherine shivered as Davidov stepped over to her, offering her black-gloved hand, the red star and 'CCCP' clearly marked on the back, 'It couldn't be helped...Come on, you need a doctor to look at that leg.'

Catherine looked up, into the glowing red eyes of Davidov's mask, and weakly raised a slender, pale arm, being pulled to her feet quickly and lifted up. Davidov nodded to Lavrushin at the door, 'Take over here, I'll take this one up to the deck.'

Eurusean Mainland

The vast majority of the Syskeyian children had been taken off the island in containers or empty fuel barrels to hide them from any searches that might be attempted; it was uncomfortable and upsetting, but given what the EC forces would have done to them, infinitely preferable. False papers weren't that difficult to obtain with the people Bykanov knew and the unpleasant secrets he knew; being owed favours had got him this far, and he had plenty of them to call in.

Mostly the evacuees were distributed to small villages in the country, to make it harder to find them if someone decided to. New homes, new families, new lives. If nothing else, Bykanov was a man of his word.

Endless Crimes

16-08-2005, 11:56

St. Peter Claver, EC controlled Sector

"For the LORD is great, and he will guide us. Help us. For we are his hands, doing as he commands. In his glory shall we march, in his name shall we cleanse the unbelievers and the nephilim, for even their accursed souls can be purified by the glorious fires that burn in our hearts."

One by one, they were taken. Not all at once, of course. But it was... Noticeable.

The first had been the teachers, the priests, the professors and bishops, the journalists and civil servants, back when the occupation had started.

Now, the bar was lowered, and the Cherubim started picking others, less important ones. Construction workers, secretaries, bus drivers, the likes. Some Syskeyians possibly suspected a great plan behind who was taken, when and where, however, this was not the case. The Cherubim came almost randomly, taking a family here, another there... The only rule was that they were preferably taking the younger ones, whereas those over fifty were usually safe.

"Stop!"

"Get her!"

Food rations were lowered again, too, the excuse being Syskeyian submarines cutting the supplies off. A lie, of course. Michael supposed that by now, malnutrition, even though it was hardly life-threatening (yet), had resulted in a significant reduction of the local population's ability to fight, to resist. With a lack of vitamines, minerals, proteins and trace elements, work was becoming harder. At the same time, apathy would rise, up to the point where nobody would give a damn if he or she lived or died.

Unfortunately, not just yet.

The girl ran, barely avoiding a dead end, trying to find a place to hide at. She was fifteen, not counted among the 'children', according to EC conventions.

And still they followed her through empty streets. There were certainly people left, here, but nobody would come to try and safe her. It would be their death sentence. Behind curtains and closed windows, old men and women were watching, their hands forming fists... But they had to hold out, they had to control their anger until the homeland would free them.

Surely the day would come.

And they turned away, knowing just how helpless they were, and trying to survive with rather less than 900 calories per day and person.

The girl, Lawan, turned again, hearing the Cherubim behind her. Here, somewhere nearby was the wall. A shot was fired, then a second one. Suddenly, she felt the pain in her shoulder, falling down.

She had to continue running, now. Her parents, if they were here... But they hadn't fought as much, had surrendered quickly. Lawan supposed that they would be dead soon.

There, the place from years past, when she had played here, with the others... She missed them, and for a moment she smiled, ignoring the blood flowing down her shoulder, the pain running through her nerves. She entered the tiny 'cavern', the old, empty basement of memory, realising that she was almost too tall to fit in (I'm not nine anymore... I should've thought about that...) as she finally felt the sharp pain in her shoulder, her malnutritioned body having problems with delivering the sheer notice of pain.

Too late to curse, she was already passing out. Besides, mom would have disapproved.

What followed was a sweet, starless night she choose to embrace.

Elsewhere

One would have thought that EC would do it secretly, rather than in public. However, secrecy (And thus, security) wasn't a particularly important issue for Michael. He wanted to set a signal, to show the darkness that the cleansing would continue as planned, to show the heretics that their time had come.

The crosses were everywhere. A simple shape, no ornaments whatsoever, as befitted their sacred purpose. Around them, wood, ready to burn, or, if the daemon had already been bound by the sacred shape, already burning.

By now, many died on them, not few, as during the beginning of the occupation.

A man and a woman were silent, barely feeling the cold iron as it was rammed through their tendons. They were naked, too, bones showing through macerated bodies and thin, almost paperlike skin, but they didn't care anymore.

In fact, they hardly even thought anymore, weakened as they were. Since maintenance of the water supply system had essentially stopped, diseases were spreading. Medical drugs had long been destroyed, as they were considered an instrument of Satan to trick the fates god had choosen for man, and so EC wasn't supplying any, either. And the two on the crosses were a victim to the spreading diseases, long having emptied themselves as they hung there, helpless.

Odd irony of fate: A cherubim guarding the two crosses didn't look much better himself. Cholera. He prayed, hoping to defeat the daemons that had infected his body, trying to steal his soul, but he could feel how his soul was losing the battle.

Usually, he would have said that his life was a low price to pay for discovering the rotten roots of the Syskeyian people, roots that were visible, now that they had removed the curtains behind which they hid this roots of darkness. Roots that were now consuming the Syskeyians. However, dying from a disease... Losing one's soul to the darkness... It was the worst thing that could happen to a Cherubim, to a choosen one.

Samuel died early, earlier than those two on the cross, eventually toppling to the ground, unconscious, after enduring a pain no less intense than what those on the cross had to endure. His last move was to cut his own belly, slowly, too slowly, his body already weakened beyond comprehension, to free his soul before it was consumed by the darkness, turned into a daemon, just like those he was fighting and purifying.

Their last thoughts centered around their daughter. Perhaps she was safe.

Perhaps she could survive this.

Harbour

The thousand-odd syskeyians were possibly unsure what to think, as they were rounded up, the vast belly of a supply ship opening up for them, at the same time promising a future away from this cursed island and a fate even more horrible than that those who stayed awaited.

It was unlikely that they were the last ones to be shipped away, and some possibly thought of fleeing while they were standing there, waiting, almost collapsing from tiredness, from weakness, most of their minds apathic.

Alas, with the Cherubim guarding them, forcing them into the ship, they hardly had a choice.

Near the Dividing Wall

Lawan turned around, opening her eyes. She thought she'd seen something... But then she immediately jerked in pain. Her shoulder.

Odd.

She looked at the bandages around it, the bleeding having stopped. Still, the floor around her was mostly red, and she felt weak.

So weak it took her several minutes until she started to wonder why the Cherubim hadn't found her. It wouldn't have been particularly hard.

Eurusea

23-08-2005, 15:22

Lewis Hotel, St Peter Island

The hotel, Catherine knew, was part of some foreign chain or other; being fairly solidly built, unlike the cheaper places, it had survived the passage of the Ground Battleship pretty much intact. Now it was not so much a prison as a place to put people to be safe before they were taken off the island; any Syskeyian troops who felt like surrendering, journalists, politicians, high-level white-collar managers - basically, people who might be shot by some impulsive soldier as bourgeois oppressors.

She carefully went through her bag that the Eurusean Commissar had been kind enough to retrieve for her; while none of it was much use anymore, it was comforting to have something familiar with her again. She smiled, running her hand over her film camera in its battered case, the one her editor kept telling her to get rid of. 'It's the twenty-first century,' he'd say, 'Why are you still hauling that antique around?'

There wasn't an answer, she was just fond of the effort of developing her own photographs in the darkroom she'd made in her spare bedroom at home. It felt dishonest to just put a flashcard into a computer and have it all there; like she'd cheated somehow.

She knew, though, that the photographs on it wouldn't be any fun to develop; all those men smiling and joking around as they posed were dead now: the captain who'd rather resented having her aboard in the first place, that young radio operator who'd clumsily tried to chat her up, the gunnery officer who was trying to transfer to being ship's chaplain...

She sunk her head into her hands and cried for the fifth time that evening, blinking as there was a knock at her door and wiping her eyes, 'W-who is it?'

'Commissar Asenka Davidov, may I come in?' Catherine recognised the voice; the woman who'd found her on the ship.

She sat up, hoping it didn't show that she'd been crying, 'Um, come in?'

Davidov was still wearing most of the black armoured suit she'd been in before; as she came in she propped her gun against the doorframe, tossing the magazine onto the chair by the door and yawning, 'I just came in to make sure everything was ok...'

Catherine blinked; the last thing she'd been expecting when she was sent here was, well, kindness... With that ominous black mask removed, Davidov was a surprisingly unthreatening figure; a tall, pale-skinned woman, her hair short and white, simply looking tired and a little concerned. She managed a smile, 'My...Ah...My leg still hurts a little...' she paused awkwardly, 'Thank you...For, um, rescuing me.'

Davidov pulled off one glove and rubbed her eyes, yawning again, 'Oh, don't thank me...Just try to rest, and don't leave here without telling someone.'

Catherine nodded.

Forum, St Peter Island, that evening

Turtsev watched with his arms crossed as the heavily-built engineer tinkered with the old projector, sighing, 'You know, if you can't make it work, then...'

He blinked as the man abruptly drew back his arm and hit the wrench he was holding against the side of the machine as hard as he could, the thing spluttering into life. The man's grin was emphasised by his thick moustache, 'Same as the milk wagon I drive back home, comrade!' he patted Turtsev on the shoulder, 'All yours.'

As the numbers at the start of the reel counted down on the white screen that had been set up on the other side of the Forum, Turtsev tapped the microphone for the Ground Battleship's external speakers, checking his script again. 'Citizens of Eurusea!' he began, not expecting the applause he'd get at home for that, 'Today is a great day for us all!'

The screen suddenly changed, images of Eurusean jets flying past the enormous form of Sekhmet hovering over Chopinburg, 'Today, Eurusea celebrates her greatest triumph, the recovery of her ultimate weapon!'

A little way away, Commissar-Prefect Kara Dimitriev sighed and turned away, glancing over as gunfire echoed down the deserted streets of what the Eurusean patrols had started calling the Empty City on the other side of the wall. She tapped the searchlight operator as she noticed a girl in her early teens running, 'What are they doing, comrade?'

The woman sighed, 'Best not to pay attention, that's what Commissar O'Leary told us.'

Kara watched as the Cherubim chasing the girl stopped, turning off a side-street far further up, 'Hold that thought...' she slipped the ladder hatch open, 'I'll be right back.'

The searchlight operator would swear Kara had simply jumped rather than using the ladder. She shook her head '"Best not to pay attention," he says...' she sighed, looking over at the old Ground Battleship in the square. As a young woman and one of the few conscripts left on the island, she was just too young to have seen the day, but she'd heard the stories.

That story of how, on the darkest day in living memory, a single Ground Battleship had faced down an entire army.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

'Why? Why do good, brave men lay down their lives for Eurusea's cause? You must look back into their history to see how they became this way, back to when Eurusea was a tiny, peaceful and friendly nation, barely the size of modern-day Chopinburg. The parts of history the resistance forgets; the annexation, slaughter, enslavement and genocide. Oh yes, you need only look into our real history and the crimes we wrought to see how that gentle nation could have come to hate us so.'
~Lady Maya.

Ground Battleship Scaramanga, Keto Pass, 18 years ago

General Yuritsin frowned and tapped the radio again, 'Hello? Hello, this is Scaramanga, we are at Keto Pass with nothing behind us, request update. Can anyone hear me?' he sighed, 'It's no use, this fucking ravine's killed our communications.'

The First Officer sighed, 'So what the hell do we do? Just sit here?'

Yuritsin nodded, 'Move around to block the pass and wait for the rest of the armour...Don't know what the hell's keeping the fuckers up, though...' he sighed, 'They would have to fuck this up now with three rebel field armies breathing down our necks, wouldn't they?'

Forest 2 miles West of Keto Pass

Sotnikov smiled broadly as the radio intercept was passed to him, flicking on his own radio, 'A general retreat has been ordered! This is it, all units head around the forest and take up position in the Keto Pass.' As they turned around the edge of the forest, Sotnikov knew something was wrong; there shouldn't have been two columns of black smoke staining the air over Keto pass; there'd been no fighting there yet. As his ICV passed the hedgerow and pulled into the road leading to the pass his jaw dropped. 'My God...'

The Ground Battleship was turned broadside-on to them, blocking off the entire entrance to the pass and towering over the surrounding fields, the trails in the sky coming from her two funnels. Three guns in each of the two angular turrets at either end of the enormous machine made identification easy; the Scaramanga, the newest model and the pride of the Eurusean land fleet.

Sotnikov grabbed the microphone, 'General Uvarov, be advised there is an enemy Ground Battleship blocking the Pass, please advise.'

On the Eurusean right flank, Uvarov blinked several times, 'It's only one, I trust it won't delay you overly.'

Sotnikov's brow furrowed, 'No, comrade-General.'

'Good. Then proceed as planned and take up position in the Keto pass once it's destroyed. We'll chase down those bastards before they can regroup and then drive the blade of revolution all the way to Chopinburg. By the end of the week you'll be a hero and we'll have stuck that bastard Vanya Kurchatov's head on the railing outside the Soviet!'

Sotnikov' head jerked up as he heard the dull thumps of Scaramanga's dual-purpose guns, the wails of descending shells drowning out the roar of his tanks' engines as the fields around him erupted in columns of fire and dirt, 'Damn it! Everyone, spread out! Get off the road! All tanks, return fire!'

Ground Battleship Scaramanga

Yuritsin scowled, 'Now of all times...Start shifting ammunition from the starboard magazines to port, looks like there's a lot of them out there. Sound battle stations and warm up the main guns. ECM and point defence stations be ready, you're going to be very busy from now on. Radio?'

The operator shook her head, 'Still nothing, comrade-General.'

'Keep trying!'

Fields West of the Scaramanga, engagement + 1 hour

Sotnikov ducked behind his wrecked ICV again, half his face covered in blood. The green fields had been ploughed up into a mess of wet mud and massive craters by the Ground Battleship's guns, while everything they'd done so far - artillery, tanks, missiles from helicopters and the few fighter jets they had - had barely scratched her in return. The air was thick with the smell of burning metal and smoke, the setting sun picking out the rest of the remaining tanks pulling back down the road.

Luckily, his ICV's radio still worked...While he had underestimated his opponent, he still had plenty of the Ninth People's Army left to deal with them.

Uvarov, however, wasn't happy.

'What's the delay? Damn it all, I'm sitting here with nothing ahead of me but open fields for miles and you're telling me your whole division was wiped out?'

'My apologies, sir...I will deal with it presently.'

'See that you do!'

Fields West of the Scaramanga, engagement + 4 hours

Sotnikov shivered as he watched another volley from the Scaramanga smash into the tank column moving to reinforce the wavering force of expat mercenaries they'd bought in from other countries; the men were brave and idealistic, but totally unprepared for the looming monster in the distance that hurled their tanks into the air like toys with each volley. The whole battlefield was lit up now by burning tank hulks and oil slicks from them.

'Now I know what hell must look like...' he murmured, crossing himself. He blinked as one of the mercenary units started to run , dropping their gear and falling over each other as the fields around them were torn up by the Ground Battleship's antiaircraft guns, the radio a mass of fearful cries for help.

'They're too powerful for us! We've been deserted by our God! Fly! Fly!'

He scowled, 'Stand your ground! It's just a fucking machine! You hit it enough and it'll stop working!'

The soldier next to him blinked, her young eyes betraying her fear, 'My God...Even you don't believe that anymore, do you?'

And Sotnikov found he couldn't answer her.

Eurusean right flank, engagement +7 hours

Uvarov paced over to the radio, fed up of waiting for Sotnikov's report, 'Sotnikov? Damn it, man, why haven't you reported in?'

On the other end, Sotnikov coughed painfully, 'D-didn't see the point, comrade...'

He'd never heard Sotnikov's voice like this, wavering, on the verge of simply breaking down in tears. 'What the hell is going on? Why haven't you broken through on the left flank?!'

Sotnikov choked back a tear, 'We were no match for them after all...'

Uvarov's eyes widened, the sheer shock of what was implied making him shout, 'You can't beat them even with an entire army?!' he started as, with a final burst of noise, the radio faded to static, 'Sotnikov? Damn it man, respond!'

Suddenly, the whole horizon lit up, a huge glowing ball of fire lifting into the sky trailing a column of dark smoke. Uvarov's orderly dropped the papers he was carrying, 'The Vermilion...' he whispered.

There was no point in running, they all knew that. The fireball itself would scour the ground down to bare rock far further than they could run. Uvarov fell to his kneels, sobbing, 'It didn't work...This isn't how it was supposed to be...'

And, as the Lucifer's round hit home, the sky lit up again, the searing fireball briefly illuminating the towns near the border as clear as day, casting a stark shadow from the Scaramanga on the left flank. As it faded, all that was left was the flicking light of the fires raging on the Ground Battleship's hull.

Wreathed in smoke and flame, she still fired occasional shells into the night from those guns that were still operable, her fire crews fighting a losing battle to keep the flames inside from spreading. On the bridge, Yuritsin smiled softly, taking his cap off and resting it on the radio set in front of him, 'Comrades of the Eurusean Federation...' He ignored the alarm that started, the heat sensors in the magazine indicating the fires had reached them, '...I regret nothing that has happened today.'

He placed the handset down, his hand reaching halfway to his officer's cap before the magazine exploded.

Keto Pass, the next morning

The sun rose over the Keto Pass as recovery crews finally made their way to the smoke-blackened hull of the Scaramanga. The scene that greeted them on the other side was straight out of a bad dream; fields ploughed up into a featureless desert of mud and twisted, unrecognisable metal, a nearly intact windmill lying on its side the only reminder that these had once been green fields and quiet farms. But where the grass remained further away, an even more horrible sight awaited.

For almost two miles West of the Ground Battleship's ruined hulk, the fields and streams were stained red with blood.

Syskeyia

30-08-2005, 21:26

Battleship RSS Fortitude (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v123/Syskeyia/jobboriginal_digital.gif), Gulf of Syskeyia

Admiral Thuynh leaned upon a railguard as he looked out from the helipad atop his flagship.

It was an amazing sight. Ships, ship, and more ships as far as the eye could see. Cruisers, destroyers, battleships, LSTs, and carriers, both the main kind and the amphibious assault ships that carried the men of the initial assault divisions filled the sea. Other, noncombat ships helped comprise the fleet as well. Supply ships, tankers, some hospital ships (casualty rates were expected to be especially high once they engaged the forces of EC) and, last but not least, the large roll-on/roll-off ships carrying five “reserve” divisions, tucked in (for the voyage) amongst the amphibious assault groups.

A menagerie of plans flew overhead as the ships lay in the water. Tomcats, Hornets, F-35s and helicopters zig-zagged across the sky, with a CL-130 seaplane or two soaring across the horizon just for good measure.

General Supija joined his fellow Syskeyian commander on the helipad. “Quite a fleet, isn’t it?”

The admiral “um-hm”ed in agreement.

“You know that once the soldiers hit the beach, I get command of all of these toys, right?”

Nuynh shifted his eyes toward the general. “We’ll see.”

Just then a young Syskeyian sailor ran up to the pad. “Admiral, sir, the fleet’s finally been assembled.”

Supija turned to his counterpart. “Ready to get this party started?”

“As read as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

Syskeyia

13-09-2005, 21:03

Mes Hall, Syskeyian assault ship RSS Virgin of the Lake, en route to St. Peter Claver Island
Pvt. Joseph Vahm and several of his squadmates surrounded the young rifleman's seat, for upon his plate lay something that seemed to boggle their minds: a dish resembling a three-sided taco shell, in which was ground meat, melted cheese, nacho chips, and assorted other types of food. “So what’s this thing named again?”

"It's called a 'naco,'" Joseph explained. "Chef's special today – he got it off the ‘net. It’s a combination of a ‘nacho’ and a ‘taco.’ Haven’t any of you guys ever heard of ‘Tex-Mex’?”

“A bit,” remarked Pvt. Samuel Kwan, one of the squad gathered around the naco, “but just how do you actually eat it?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Vahm replied, “but I still can’t crack it. An obvious choice would be to just dive in and chow down – “ he motioned his hands toward the naco’s bottom – “but then I’d spill half of it or so all across my uniform.”

“So, what’s the big deal?” asked Pvt. David Brak, the squad’s rocketman, “you’re wearing green and brown already.”

“And is it also bright yellow?” Joseph retorted, raising and eyebrow.

Brak sighed to himself. He’s got a point…

“Have you tried cutting it up?” asked Lance-corporal Dominic Sotpeak, the grenadier for Vahm’s fireteam, as he took up a knife and fork, motioning them above the food in question.

“I could do that,” said Vahm, “but I’d still end up with an enormous mess.”

“So it looks like we’re back to square one,” one of them said as they returned to contemplating the naco that lay before them.

A small time later, while the soldiers continued to wrap their heads around the problem, their sargeant came by. “This-“ the noncom said as be passed them, “is why I stick to the pizza.”

Endless Crimes

24-09-2005, 11:32

St. Peter Claver, the Wall

It was here.. Somewhere... I'm sure... Here... Lawan had always been a comparatively curious girl, going where she wasn't supposed to be, doing what she wasn't supposed to do. No place had been too odd. Sewers, roofs, abandoned Amerigan houses, empty factories...

Back in the day, it had actually resulted in plenty of problems, and her tendency to stay away long past sunset had probably resulted in a few more wrinkles on her parent's faces.

Right now however, her antics from years ago were saving her life, contrary to the claims of Mrs. Sullivan, her old teacher...

She almost laughed at the irony, but in the end, it were just tears.

"Ah, there!" She quickly shut her mouth, realising that she could be heard as she saw the entrance to the old sewer. Even back when she'd played hide and seek, here, it hadn't actually been used anymore. Old Amerigan infrastructure, long replaced with newer structures.

Still, not a pleasant sight, even though hers was a little skewed with memories from happier days.

She entered the tunnel... Sewer, slowly walking forward... If she was lucky, there wouldn't be a wall in her way.

Rats, dirt, smells that nearly made her throw up (Yet, she didn't have anything to throw up), and there was always the risk of traps, or mines... She wondered if the rats were waiting for her to collapse. A part of her wouldn't even mind. It was probably better than seeing the voluminous white wings of a cherub.

Which she was seeing, right now.

She stopped, looking across the corner, trying to be as quiet as possible, despite the pain in her stomach, her shoulder... 'Fortunately' she was already so weakened that she couldn't really feel the pain. Less fortunately, she was too weak to stay still, either.

She crumbled to the ground, audibly so.

So close... she thought as she watched the two Cherubim turning, seeing her.

St. Peter Claver, Southern Half

Diseases, hunger, thirst, purges and deportations. Certainly the occupying forces weren't unaffected by it, at least the diseases forced their toll upon them, weakened them.

And then there was the resistance... Weak, of course, malnourished as they all were, but still... The occasional survivor was smuggled through to the northern half, the occasional Cherubim killed by desperate fathers.

But all this nuisances couldn't hide the truth: The southern half of St. Peter Claver was dying, was already half dead.

It smelled of death, of diseases, of failing sewers, of rotting corpses.

Now, the last steps were done. The children and their mothers, so far sort-of-cared for, were told that they'd finally be freed, that the misery of this world would finally end.

Many realised what this words meant, but they didn't really care anymore. Already, the younger ones were dying, diseases and hunger forcing their toll upon them, much to the frustration of their guards, who actually wept, for such a death couldn't mean salvation. Every victim of disease and hunger was a soul lost.

Yet, they were the weak souls, those that even the salvation of holy fire couldn't save.

The others, however... A few mothers probably decided that this was too much to bear, and commited suicide, together with their children, children that nowadays looked more like skeletons. The rest waited, apathic.

Already the crosses were erected, the wood was prepared...

The first were bound.

Smoke was rising, poisoning the blue skies of St. Peter Claver.

Eurusea

13-05-2006, 13:17

St. Peter, the Wall

Kara had left her jacket and cap behind to crawl through the narrow tunnel under the wall; almost all the officers knew it was there, and people's habit of thinking of things they didn't want her to ask about had soon revealed it to her, too.

She couldn't say exactly why she felt she ought to keep it a secret rather than report it...She supposed it was the dreams, of fire, blood, smoke, a woman calling out her name...She shook her head. Now wasn't the time for that.

There was light up ahead, flickering from the fires on the other side of the wall. The eerie red glow visible over the wall at night had begun to fade in the last few days. There wasn't much left to burn.

This tunnel lead from street level on the Eurusean side down into one of the sewers on the EC side, past where the Eurusean Army Engineer Corps had collapsed the roads into them before constructing the wall. She stepped out into the sewer, the rats watching her apprehensively from the darkness as she stood still, listening. Sobs, running footsteps, the sound of someone falling and climbing to their feet; behind, heavier, more purposeful footfalls. Glancing around the corner, she waved the girl to come to her, wincing as she fell without seeing Kara.

There was a faint metallic sound as Kara drew two knives from her belt, reaching out into the darkness, past the girl's fear to...

She smiled softly, whispering, 'There you are...'

Ground Battleship Doramascher, Christmas Eve

Turtsev placed the handmade Christmas cards from his son and daughter on top of the activity monitor and sighed to himself, 'Thought I'd at least be home in time to give them their gifts...' he muttered. He flipped through the operational briefing file again; he'd covered it in copious notes since the operation started, imagining he'd soon have a replacement and they'd need his insights into the continued rebuilding efforts. Well, no such luck, clearly.

He came to the end, the single page with no notes, detailing the various scenarios for the continued occupation. His reinforcements had finally arrived now that they'd unearthed that Sekhmet thing back in Eurusea, four battleships sitting at anchor off the coast while the eight battlecarriers stood guard over the supply ships unloading; equipment, troops, food, water, and hundreds upon hundreds of tons of building materials.

With the Syskeyian claim to the island apparently abandoned, the powers-that-be had decided to proceed with rebuilding the island into a naval base; the politicians were still arguing about what to call the island, apparently not noticing that half of it was still in the hands of EC forces. He rubbed his temples, MacCullin sitting down opposite him with a mug of beer in one hand, smirking, 'Hey, lad, y'look troubled.'

Turtsev frowned, 'Still waiting for anybody's word on how to proceed with them on the other side of the wall...I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be shaking hands or shelling the bastards.'

MacCullin grinned, 'Ah, that.' He leaned forward, 'Me ma always told meself a lil' something about that.'

Turtsev smiled despite himself, 'Is there anything your ma didn't tell you something about?'

'Ain't found meself a thing yet. Anyway, right about now y'should talk t' the bastards. See if y'can't get 'em off this here island without blowin' any more shit up n' all.' He paused to empty the mug, placing it on the table, 'Ah, that's the stuff. Y' with me?'

Turtsev grinned, 'How is it you get smarter the more you drink?'

MacCullin laughed, 'It's just a gift a' mine, lad.'

PS-11-X-B Stalin Tank Fallen Angel, Trinity Park, St Peter Island

Brigadier Hidetsugu Fujimoto sighed softly as he sat down on the closed hatch, running his hands over his pockets for his cigarette case as he looked out over the park. The tanks in front of him - Abrams, he seemed to recall them being called - were arrayed in uneven lines, ten to a column, most significantly worse for wear. On a flatbed tank transporter on the far side were a pair that had encountered the Ground Battleship, or rather what was left of them; one was crushed right back to the driver's hatch, the other torn in half across the middle of its turret ring.

It was a graveyard of sorts for destroyed enemy armour while it was being cut up; the explosives carefully removed and disposed of, the bodies lined up on a grass verge while they were identified. Then they were hefted onto flatbeds and taken away to be buried in the makeshift cemetery at the far end of the park; one tank crew to a grave.

They'd been advised a few days early of a freak weather system that was likely to bring snow to the island for the first time since it had been settled, and now it was falling and even settling, blanketing the whole park in a layer of glimmering white drifts. The little lake just ahead of where his PS-11 had finally halted had frozen over, and as he watched, one of the local families carefully stepped out onto it with a pair of borrowed ice-skates each. Past them in a park a few miles away, he could make out one of the other PS-11s that had landed with his, the 11-C Evil Eye of Orms-By-Gore.

It was oddly reminiscent of home, actually. In the town, the propaganda speakers slowly intoned the same message they'd been repeating all day.

'Syskeyians! Your country has abandoned you...'

He'd personally found it rather surprising, though somewhat inevitable given the recent erratic behaviour of the old Syskeyian administration; a vote of no confidence had been passed in their government and the resultant rushed election had placed an isolationist party in power. After that, the recall of the Syskeyian fleet had been almost immediate, the new government apparently relinquishing all claims to this island.

As he lit his cigarette, the nearby propaganda speakers turned off for the night, leaving him alone in silence, seated on top of the dark, looming shape of his tank. He watched curiously as a little figure in a heavy overcoat approached slowly, climbing down onto the one-three connecting catwalk as the figure made its way down one of the trails between lines of ruined vehicles, almost tripping on a broken track in the middle of the path.

Hidetsugu hmphed softly, resting his hand on his gun. Never knew who might be an assassin, and the figure certainly didn't carry itself like a soldier, huddled against the cold and looking like it was having second thoughts about coming here at all. Eventually, the figure made it to the shadow of Fallen Angel, glancing up and calling out 'Excuse me, comrade? I was wondering if you knew where I could find...'

Hidetsugu had already dropped his cigarette in shock on hearing her voice, quickly sliding down the ladder and putting his arms around the small Neko woman, holding her tightly, 'Aika...What on earth are you doing here?'

The young woman shivered, 'It's Christmas Eve...I had to know you were ok and they said I could visit you because it was safe now...' she snuggled against his chest, 'It doesn't matter anymore, does it?'

The Kitsune man smiled and shook his head, 'It's always good to see you...Ty moya dochka.'

Aika smiled, purring warmly as the snow fell around them, whispering 'Wherever you are is home...'

At dusk when the darkness is near the curtain shall fall
The dance of the bloodthirsty dead...

Kashin Town, Eurusea / Kesselstan border, 18 years ago

Hidetsugu never knew exactly why he'd decided he should go for a walk around the remains of the town; it had been a rebel stronghold until earlier today, now just a burned-out ruin patrolled by Eurusean troops looking for survivors. Most of the rebels were dead already, leaving only civilians hiding in the ruins. He'd been given the duty of assisting in securing this town, though he knew full well it was far more to do with the state of Fallen Angel's running gear than any threat requiring a PS-11's presence, particularly his.

With every step he took came the crunch of broken glass under his boots, the tall grey Kitsune ignoring the sound along with the crackling of distant fires and the clinks of cooling masonry. As was his habit, he'd kept the PS-11's eyepiece on, the huge machine's sensors tracking slowly as he walked, seeing half the world through its eyes and half through his own.

He quickened his pace and tossed his cigarette aside as he heard a cry for help and some shouting, switching over to the tank's thermal sight and glancing across the town, a group of figures in an alley nearby catching his eye as he broke into a run.

He arrived to find five men from one of the patrols laughing as a sixth aimed a vicious kick at a small Neko girl who was lying on the ground sobbing. One of the men turned, grinning, 'Want us to save some for you, comrade?'

Hidetsugu growled, walking slowly to him, 'No...That's quite alright, actually.' The man turned, the last thing he ever heard the sharp crack of the young Brigadier's pistol.

Kashin Town, twelve minutes later

The little girl had passed out; now she lay unconscious in Hidetsugu's arms as he carried her back to the aid station. The soldiers gasped as they saw him, limping slightly with his uniform torn off one shoulder, one cheek matted with blood running from his empty eye socket, with more bloodstains around his mouth.

They'd already found the bodies in the alley; Hidetsugu knew damn well nothing would come of it, even when they realised he'd torn Glukhov's throat out with his teeth. All he really cared about was the little girl in his arms, the one who reminded him so very much of the precious little sister he hadn't been able to protect so many years before. His mother had often tried to tell him he shouldn't blame himself for her falling off the riverbank...

The girl mewled softly, sniffling painfully and coughing, 'D-daddy?' Her eyes were still blurry and it hurt to open them, and instead she simply put her arms around Hidetsugu's chest, 'Please, daddy, don't let them hurt me...'

Hidetsugu managed a smile despite his damaged jaw, murmuring 'Nobody's ever going to hurt you again.' He wrapped his coat around the little girl, and kept on walking.

NationStates Jolt Archive

Eurusea vessels off St Peter Island [continuation post-retcon [M]]