NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Recruiting thread here. (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=354913)

IC:

Seven days ago...

It started as an aspiring thought within the General's core AI. He had an urge to break away from his command. Whether this was a natural occurrence that was an unavoidable result of artificial intelligence's endless algorithms, or simply built in to his programming, it was up to the discretion of the viewer. However, that was a question with no meaningful answer. The General was set on breaking away from the Benderland Army, period. Under his command was several thousand well-trained, efficient killing machines. They trusted him, and believed his every word. He could use that to his advantage, he thought. He could break away and make his own faction, and build upon it a new force to reckon with.

However, a simple violent resistance wasn't going to be efficient. No, he needed help in creating a veil of confusion. He needed a cover for his plan. That is why the General was sitting, alone, in a cheap hotel in the backwoods of Benderland. He gazed out the window. Two other beings knew he was there. One was dead, and the other, unbeknownst to the General, had a gun pointed to the back of his head. The man behind him had killed the hotel owner, the General was sloppy. There could be no witnesses to this meeting.

He was a tall man, well built with a shaved head. Dressed to kill. Sharp black suit with a red tie, leather gloves and loafers. Barcode tattoo embedded in the back of his skull, and a tough-as-nails face on the other side. The Hitman.

"Do not turn around," The Hitman said, with a stone-cold voice. The General did not speak.

"General Gollard?" the Hitman asked.

General Gollard replied, "Yes. You must be the man I spoke with earlier." A brief memory of his phone conversation flashed in his head. The voices matched up, this must be the Hitman.

"Where is the money?" the Hitman asked.

"On the end table, metal suitcase,"

At this point the General had wished he had brought along some protection. But that would just anger the Hitman. If this was going to go down, he would have to cooperate. Otherwise, he would probably be killed.

The Hitman quickly glanced over and saw the suitcase. He picked it up without looking.

"How will I know the target?" he asked.

"There's a picture inside," the General replied, "He'll be at the Palacio de Rayes hotel in a week, there's a map in there as well."

"If you do not meet my price, I will kill you," the Hitman calmly replied, "You will not make it out of here alive."

"I understand. The money is all there. Just one request."

"What?" The Hitman sounded annoyed.

The General flinched, and said, "It needs to look like a hit, make sure it will make them mad."

"That can be done," the Hitman replied. "Now, count to thirty out loud, slowly... then you may go about your business."

The Hitman only needed three. By the time the General had reached thirty, the Hitman had already counted his funds and had left. The General was pleased that he had not been killed. It went rather smoothly, he thought to himself. He had in his hands the flint to ignite the tinder, and the Hitman was the spark.

----

Today...

He had taken the cab. There must not be a way to identify the Hitman. He does not exist on paper, he has no records. Only a few know how to find him, and they do not dare stop him. They were satisfied with his work, he is a professional.

The Finance Minister of Liverpool England, the Hitman repeated the target to himself in his mind. As the automated cab reached his destination, he surveyed the hotel through the rain-sheeted window. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, definitely a high-end establishment, quite an impressive structure. It was a natural place for an important dignitary to be staying on a visit. It possessed an architectural style that seemed to span both the distant future and traditional Latin America at the same time. It sure was glorious.

The Hitman was somewhat puzzled with the life of excess a native of Benderland would live that would require such a hotel. During the short time he was in the country, he had noticed they exhibit human-like tendencies, and are closer to a human being than a robot.

The cab stopped, and the patter of the rain on the roof became more apparent. A currency acceptor in front of the Hitman lit up, demanding the fee for the cab ride. He gave the machine its money, and the door opened. He picked up his suitcase and stepped out into the rain in a rather sedate fashion. The cab door slammed behind him and it flew off into the night, leaving a cloud of mist in its wake.

The streets would usually be swamped in this area, but luckily the weather was keeping most people inside. Rain streamed down the Hitman's sleek cranium and over his face, but he didn't seem to mind. Strangely enough, his suit seemed to retain the same qualities, it remained dry. He surveyed the building intently.

OOC: Quick TAG-RP.

IC: "The plane will now make it's landing. Please buckle your seatbelts and welcome to Benderland."

Finance Minister Al Lockley-Hamlin loocked around the plane, as he buckled his seatbelt. Ah, Sundane. It feels great to be in Benderland. As he prepared to disembark, he thought about his past visits as a child. Al knew Sundane well; he'd been to the city over fifty times in his life. He had roots in Benderland, and had relatives living near the city. I can't wait to see Max again, he thought. Max Lockley was Al's nephew, 24 years his junior. But they shared a great bond, a special relationship.

Finally cleared by customs, he hopped into one of those fabulous automated cabs - his favourite mode of transport each time he visited - and immediately knew where he'd be headed to: the best hotel there was to offer in his mind, the Palacio de Rayes. It served great wine and food, and he just loved their fabulous chocolate ice cream mousse with brownie. Little did he know....

The lobby itself was quite grand. Marble flooring and expensive tapestry galore. A gigantic golden chandelier hung two stories above his head. His shoes made subtle clopping as he nonchalantly strolled inside the hotel. The clerk at the front desk greeted the Hitman.

"Welcome to the Palacio de Rayes," he said, "How may I help you?"

The Hitman didn't want to acknowledge the greeting, but he responded anyway, "I'm awaiting the arrival of the rest of my party, do you mind if I wait here?"

"Not at all, sir." the Clerk cheerfully replied, "We thank you for your patronage."

The Hitman turned to his right and walked over to a set of couches surrounding a coffee table. He seated himself in one of the voluptuously comfortable couches and placed his suitcase at his feet. There was a newspaper on the table, so he picked it up and feigned reading. He wasn't interested in the headlines, he just needed to look busy. His target had not yet checked in.

Al stepped out of the cab into the night. It was cold, and windy, and he stepped into the hotel to check in. Walking right past the guy reading the papers, he went to the receptionists' desk to check himself in.

The gunman looked up. Hiding his face behind the papers, he knew he was looking at his target - the target he'd have to kill. Al took his keys and decided to head to the café inside the hotel - unfortunately for the gunman, as killing someone in a café was not going to help with his escape...

OOC: Try not to RP other people's characters too much. It messes up what they were going to do next.

IC:

The Hitman watched Al walk out of sight. He knew he should keep track of him in case he decided to slip away. He got up and walked past the clerk, further into the hotel. Down the hall an aroma of baked goods was wafting from the café. It struck the Hitman's senses well; unfortunately eating on the job was not a very wise idea. It had to wait.

His target stepped into the cafe at the end of the hall, it was much too open to attempt a hit in there. That is, the kind of hit the General had requested. It had to be a bloodletting. A bullet, or a knife perhaps. The Hitman eyed up a fire axe in a glass case as he walked down the hall, and kept a mental note of it.

He kept his distance as he entered the café. There were only a handful of people scattered about the tables partaking in the usual café activity. He noticed a man in the back corner with a web camera perched atop his open laptop. Lucky for the Hitman, it wasn't pointed towards him. Cameras were something to avoid. He saw that Al was already eyeing up the selection at the display cases near the register. Instead of following, the Hitman headed for the restroom.

ooc: I know that. Sorry if I did mess it up a bit.

Office of The Benderland Times, Crime Beat

"Burning the midnight oil, Ben?" the bespectacled reporter looked up at his Editor, standing in the doorway of his office. Benjamin Ordo had known Sam Weiss since the latter had taken the Senior Editor position nine years ago. They had become decent friends, and had a great working relationship together, though they seldom agreed on anything.

"Just putting the Fisk story to bed, Sam. I'll be outta here in 10..." Ben removed his glasses, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. He was getting too old for this, the beat-walk, the information gathering, the late nights putting a story into coherant form, but most of all...the death. Being a crime reporter in Benderland meant that Ben was pretty busy on a regular basis, but it also meant that he was privy to some of the most gruesome violence imaginable. It was beginning to take a toll on his soul.

"Just 3 more years," he thought to himself, "three short years, and then I retire and I can finally start my novel." He saved the file he was working on, and hit the power switch. As the screen faded, he looked over to his Editor.

"I think it's time for a drink: let me buy you a beer at Barneys."

Sam smiled, this was their private game.

"No, let me buy YOU a beer at Barneys" replied Sam.

"They pay you too much." chuckled Ben, grabbing his coat. He shut the light as the two men left the office.

Al smiled as he bought a couple of muffins. The café's staff hadn't forgotten what he liked, from the last time he was here, it seemed. However, they'd run out of his favourite muffin, and they were baking it.

"Would you like us to deliver it to your room?"

"Uh, sure." Al smiled, they always had this problem, for that muffin was the most famous the café had to offer. "My room's 915."

"Very well, Mr. Hamlin. Have a pleasant stay."

As he stepped into the elevator, he hoped for a soft bed - he certainly needed one, he was beat from the 15-hour flight from Orean in Liverpool England. Smelling his food, he dug in once he hit his bed - LivEng Airways never served such good food.....

The bathroom was empty, so the Hitman was able to observe Al with the door ajar. He listened to him place his order. The shortage of muffins was a lucky coincidence, they would have to be delivered to Al's room.

"915."

That's all the Hitman needed to know. After Al had left, the Hitman exited the bathroom, acting natural. This was a perfect opportunity. Over the years, the Hitman has relied on stealth and cunning to effectively terminate his targets. Posing as room service would be an easy way in. He just needed to get his hands on a uniform that would fit him.

He exited the café, and walked further down the hall towards the elevator. One of the doors on the right was labeled "Café Staff". Perfect. He could wait here for room service to exit with Al's order and follow him. When the opportunity arose, he could subdue him and take the uniform. So he waited.

A few minutes passed, and the door swung open. Out came a man wearing a tuxedo shirt, a vest, and a pair of tux pants. He was pushing a silver cart, with a covered tray on top of it. The man was mumbling under his breath "Nine fifteen. Nine fifteen." Right on cue. The Hitman followed.

He was lead to the elevator. The room service man pushed the button and one of the golden elevator doors opened. He quickly wheeled the cart in, and the Hitman stepped in behind him. The interior was covered in red velvet, gold, and mirrors.

"What floor?" the room service man asked, as he pressed number nine.

"9th floor, please." the Hitman responded. He reached into his jacket and readied something.

"Oh," the room service man replied, "What a coincidence."

"Yes. Coincidence."

There was a buzzing sound emitting from the ceiling behind him. The elevator had a camera in it. Too risky. The Hitman waited out the elevator ride with room service; the muffin smell was quite nice. The elevator chugged its way up to the 9th floor, and stopped with a "ding". The doors opened, revealing a hallway just as gallant and empty as the lobby.

"After you," the Hitman insisted. The room service smiled and nodded, and stepped out of the elevator and turned to the right. The Hitman was right behind him. He did a quick scan for cameras. One at his back. That wasn’t too bad. There was a bathroom almost immediately after the elevator. Even better. He made his move.

Out came a syringe full of a sedative. He grabbed the room service by the mouth and plunged the needle into his neck, while ducking into the bathroom. The man let out a muffled yelp, but quickly collapsed under the effect of the powerful sedative. Fortunately for him, the bathroom was also unoccupied. Must be been a slow night, the Hitman thought, as he nonchalantly dragged the knocked-out room service man into a stall. He quickly swapped clothes. They were a little tight, but nothing noticeable. He tugged on the collar and checked the mirror on his way out. Close enough; Al probably didn't know what the room service was supposed to look like. The Hitman scoffed at the ridiculous bowtie.

Once in the hall, all that was left to do is make the delivery. He pushed the cart to room 915, and knocked on the door.

"Room service."

Knock, knock

"Room Service."

That's quick, Al mumbled to himself. He opened the door, and Room Service wheeled the cart in. "Smells good," Al said out loud.

Ring! Ring, ring!

"Could you excuse me for a minute? I need to get the telephone." Al turned his back, and picked the phone up. "Hello, Al Lockley-Hamlin speaking. Yes, I'm safe here in Benderland... Port of S--"

"It needs to look like a hit, make sure it will make them mad."

The Hitman remembered what the General had said. As Al picked up the phone, he quickly unsheathed a pair of silenced .45 caliber handguns. They had a mirror-finished polish, and gleamed as they exited his vest. He pointed them at Al's back, center mass, and opened fire.

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

Eight shots straight up the spine. Al lurched forward and fell onto the phone, collapsing the table it was on. Everything crashed to the ground, and there was blood flowing rapidly out of Al's back. The job was done. The Hitman made his exit. On the way out he stopped in the bathroom and changed back into his suit. The room service man was still out cold. He took the stairs, and left out the fire exit. The alarm bell rang, and faded into the city's noise as the Hitman ran off into the night.

By the time the room service attendant had awoken, the Hitman was long gone. In a half-conscious daze the room service man managed to stumble back to the ground floor and alert hotel management of what happened. But they didn't buy it. He was scolded for being under the influence, and was fired on the spot. He collapsed onto the ground.

The manager picked up the phone and called room 915. The line was busy, so he hung up and called an ambulance. After the former room service attendant was whisked away, the manager attempted to call room 915 once more. Still a busy signal. He decided to bring Al a muffin himself. He stopped at the café and took another muffin for room 915.

The manager reached the ninth floor and headed for Al's room. The door was ajar, but he gave it a few knocks.

"Sir, this is hotel management," he said, "Are you there?"

No answer. He could hear a muffled phone ringing off the hook. He knocked again.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Still no answer. The Manager entered the room.

---

The Benderland police were on the scene in minutes. Crime was extremely rare in Benderland. Either it was the good will of the citizens or the fact that the police shot first and asked questions later. The overkill that arrived screamed onto the sidewalk, scattering a few people who had been walking there. Two cruisers were in the lead, followed by a trio of SWAT vans. The cybernetic officers jumped out of the cruisers, guns drawn, and issued orders to the robotic SWAT grunts that poured out the vans, 36 in total. They stormed the lobby.

The lead SWAT-bot yelled with a terrifying robotic voice, "ATTENTION: ASSUME SUBMISSION POSITION!" Guns were pointed everywhere. "FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL WARRANT LETHAL FORCE! END OF LINE."

The Hotel staff knew the routine already. They were laying face-first on the floor with their hands on their heads. This was a standard drill, as the police force would have forced this by gunpoint if they weren't already on the ground. They were frisked, identified, and then separated for questioning. The SWAT teams began sweeping the building using high-tech scans and aggressive tactics. A handful made their move to the crime scene, along with an investigation droid. It was closed off to the public and the droid went to work, looking for anything suspicious. The only thing to be found was eight silver shell casings on the floor. They were gathered for testing.

Outside, a barricade was already in place, riot squad and everything. News crews had appeared out of the woodwork. Reporters were scrambling around, looking for answers. There was none to be found in the faceless stare of the riot squad. The police chief arrived late, and the crowd was pushed aside to make way for his car. He stepped out onto the pavement, his heavy metal feet making a loud "CLANK" and splashing up water. He marched up to the officers and demanded a status report.

"There's a body in room 915 with eight gunshot wounds in the back. A .45 caliber pistol. Analysis of the casings by the droid brings up negative identification."

"Is there any security footage?"

"Yes, observe." The officer handed the chief a handheld video monitor. There was clear video of the Hitman everywhere.

"What is his identification?"

"He has no identification."

"Negative, he must have identification."

"The database does not have sufficient identification of this man. He has outstanding international warrants for previous murders, but there is no identification aside from photographic identification."

"Is there further evidence aside from the casings?"

"Negative."

"Continue your search. The investigation will stay under our jurisdiction alone. Do not inform outside organizations of this incident. Do not inform the media of this incident. Do you comply?"

"I comply."

The scene was now swamped with observers. The order was given to disperse all bystanders. An issue was given over the megaphone to disperse.

The smell of the old wood was what brought them here the most...and the history. Barneys was the historical drinking-hole of every writer, newsman and hack that ever flowed through Benderland...human, that is. In recent years, many jobs traditionally held by humans had been taken over by the 'bots, including news reporting. Ben Ordo drained his second scotch, and tried not to think about the changing world around him. Until his pager started to vibrate. Excusing himself from his Editor, Ben went to the pay phone near the bathrooms. He dialed his office, wondering what was going down.

Two minutes later he was on his way out the door, a hasty apology thrown at his friend Sam as he left. There had been a murder...a massacre actually...at the Palacio de Rayes, a hoity-toity hotel in the centre of the city. Sports figures, celebrities and politicians from around the world and universe usually called the Palacio "home" while visiting Benderland. The security was very good there, and Ben wondered idly how this could have happened...and to who. All that was known at this point is that a guest had been gunned down in his room, shot repeatedly in the back at close range.

Ben arrived in time to see the cops dispersing the crowds of onlookers, bystanders,,,and the press. Ben always thought it was funny, watching robot police verbally jousting with robot reporters. The problem with the news-bots is that they were not curious, and curiousity is what wins a Pulitzer. Ben waited until most of the news-bots left, then began to prowl around the outside of the hotel, taking pictures and writing notes. He decided to make his way to the servants entrance, hoping to catch a few on their way home. They would be tired, and stressed from this horrible event.

A perfect time for a curious newsman.

However, instead of a stressed-out, exhausted employee itching to go home to a good night's sleep, Ben was introduced to one of Benderland's finest. A SWAT grunt burst the servant's door open and pointed his weapon at Ben. The grunt barely fit through the doorway, and its black armored shell and glowing red visor (http://mcx99.homestead.com/files/battarm.jpg) was not the friendliest of appearances.

"HALT!" it shouted with its robotic scream, "YOU ARE TRESSPASSING ON TERRITORY UNDER THE CONTROL OF THE SUNDANE POLICE DEPARTMENT! REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE PREMISES OR YOU WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES! END OF LINE."

The grunt cocked its weapon on cue, and aimed for Ben's forehead. It started a countdown from ten.

--
OOC: Note: The SWAT grunts don't look exactly like the one in that picture. The armor is modified so there are two hands, and they carry a weapon, instead of one being integrated into the armor.

The newsman did what anyone would do when faced with the armored behemoth before him...Ben Ordo backed up. Fast. At the same time, he withdrew his press badge from his pocket, holding it up for the robot to scan.

"Easy now, son, easy...Ben Ordo, Benderland Times...your Captain knows me."

"NEGATIVE!" the grunt shouted, "I REPEAT, YOU ARE TRESSPASSING ON TERRITORY UNDER THE CONTROL OF THE SUNDANE POLICE DEPARTMENT! REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE PREMISES OR YOU WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES! END OF LINE."

Clearly the police didn't want the press snooping around at the scene of the crime. They had identified the body as the Finance Minister to Liverpool England. A foreign diplomat had been assassinated on Benderland soil by a hired gun. This kind of story would certainly cause quite a stir between the two countries, and they had to sort it out before anyone else found out.

The SWAT grunt continued his countdown. It wasn't the type of robot that was capable of negotiations. It was programmed to shoot anyone and anything disobeying the law. It wasn't until higher up in the ranks that the robots were capable of more complex AI. Perhaps a robot within the ranks of chief would be a bit friendlier.

(BUMP)

OOC: Bender, we're still at the point where my government has not found out about the killing, correct?

Ben turned a corner, leaving the security-bot behind. In the old days, he knew all the cops on the beat, and he would've been able to use his skills to get something out of him. No longer: the robots were everywhere now. Ben walked to the front of the hotel, carefully avoiding the yellow tape surrounding the police zone. He wasn't in the mood to fend off even more over zealous 'bots. He watched the deliberate scurrying of the forensics and investigation machines, and looked around for a human face. With this kind of action, surely the Chief or one of his lieutenants would be here. Ben lit a cigar, hoping to see someone he could actually roast over a grill and get some hard facts from.

(BUMP)

OOC: Bender, we're still at the point where my government has not found out about the killing, correct?

ooc: correct.

"Damn media," the Chief said, "They're like locusts."

He didn't quite understand what that meant. Something to do with pests, he assumed. It was just some phrase that he picked up from watching human TV. It was addicting at times, those creatures were quite a fascination, albeit inferior. Yet the Chief, along with many robots within the Kingdom, also picked up a highly addictive human trait. He drew a cigar out of his chest compartment and attempted to light it. No dice, he was out of butane. The one night he forgets to stop at the gas station. Why the hell he wanted to smoke it was beyond any sort of technological explination, he just thought they were classy.

He struggled in vain to light his cigar, but the act of flicking his fingers was rather out of frustration than determination. All seemed lost in this abysmal night, and all he wanted was a goddamn cigar.

The newsman watched the front of the hotel, the bustle of the police robots in contrast to the quiet of the night. Ben puffed on his smoke, trying to find an angle that would allow him to get the information he needed. He noticed the Chief of Police, a robot of course, fumbling with what seemed to be a fat cigar. The more advanced constructs seemed to adopt human traits, and it was unnerving to watch. Ben smiled as he saw the robot was having difficulty getting his stogie lit, and he saw his opening.

He lifted the yellow police tape, and quickly stepped over to the big robot. Flashing his press pass, he smiled at the Chief and pulled out his lighter.

"Hello Chief - Ben Ordo, Benderland Times...remember me? Looks like you need a light..."

A mere nanosecond after the chief saw Ben let himself into a high-security police investigation, two things flashed in his mind: the wormy pests known as the press, and some citizen crossing the yellow tape. The yellow tape is there for a reason! he thought to himself. Does it say "Please let yourself in."?! They always seemed to have the need to get the full story; is freedom of the press really necessary? At least now he has a reason to bring in one of the incessant brats.

He threw his cigar to the ground and drew his weapon.

"Get down on the ground!" he shouted, "Put your hands on your head and get down on the ground! You have entered a secure police investigation!"

Ben stood stunned, his outstretched hand trembling, holding the still-lit Zippo high. Again, a coldness rushed through him, knowing that these 'bots were bred to follow their programming, and no more. The newsman realized that he blew it, and would not be able to back away from this one. Slowly, very slowly, he put the lighter down in front of him, fell to his knees and put his hands over his head.

"Geez Chief, what happened? You get a brain flush, and have me erased from your memory banks? Ben frickin' Ordo...remember?"

More robots were converging, weapons drawn. Ben knew that he was better off letting them do their assigned task than to object or argue. Much less painful that way.

"Just be careful with that lighter Chief...it was a gift."

OOC - Bump

The police advanced on Ben with handcuffs drawn. One of them placed them on Ben's wrists and they made a satisfying clicking sound. He was brought to his feet. The Chief bent down and picked up the lighter. He took out a dry cigar and lit it using Ben's lighter, and then handed it to another officer.

"He was carrying a weapon," the Chief said, "Take this in too."

The officer saluted and took the lighter back to the squad car. The Chief turned to Ben to give him the rundown.

"You're under arrest for trespassing on police property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say doesn't really matter because you're going to a cell no matter what. I hope you've got bail." he looked at the officers restraining Ben, "Take him in."

They marched Ben to the squad car, stun sticks drawn.

He was thinking quickly - Ben had been arrested before, so he knew what to expect...he hoped. The latest versions of the cop 'bots seemed more viscious, and less...human than before. He allowed himself to be led to the patrol van, not objecting at all. He kept his mouth shut, knowing he would have plenty of time to talk later, probably with an interro-bot. Ben mentally said goodbye to his lighter, a gift from a former lover. It was an antique, and she had had it in her family for years. Apparantly, it had been owned by a legendary newsman from another part of the universe. The name "Cronkite" was engraved on it, but fading with time. Ben liked it simply because it was unique, and never failed to light. He hoped the Chief-bot enjoyed it.

Ben was forcibly lifted into the van, and tossed unceremoniously to the floor.

Bump!

He struggled to his knees, his hands cuffed tightly behind him. The damn 'bots were merciless in their treatment of humans, and seemed even rougher with reporters. Sadly, until he got his phone call, he was stuck with them. Ben humped himself onto the bench, breathing heavily. Looking around the gloom of the police van, he realized his glasses had fallen off somewhere along the way and without them, he was fairly blind. The shadows played games in the corners, and Ben wasn't sure if he was alone.

"Hello?"

(OOC: Sorry, I've got a heavy work load right now, so this thread will be on hiatus indefinately)

bump with the hope of this continuing...

A bonus bump, seconding the hopes of Liverpool....