NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: The idea is stolen from ICEL’s tour of Nenya.

George Walker Bush Military Facility, Daikatana, Allanea

Frederick Nebart yelled happily as he brought his Ann Coulter Mark III into a sharp dive, diving down on the targets, spread out unevenly over the Great Daikatana Desert.

“Yee-Haw!” – he screamed as three air-to-ground missiles detached from his craft and streamed out towards his designated targets. As he came in from his second dive, he noticed he hit each time. And again, the yell came – “Yee-Haw!”. And a few more missiles. Then, he jerked the AC-III into a dangerous roll – probably making his instructors on the ground flinch. And only then he turned to land:

“Annie-four-five-eight, coming in to land, over.”

‘Annie-four-five-eight, this is Delta-Eleven, you’re clear to land, over.”

The air around the large black fighter seemed to shift slightly from the heat of the obscenely oversized engines as it landed. After it slowed down, the canopy opened and Captain Frederick Nebart, AAF 654333, began to climb out of the craft.

He was surprised to see the Armada Commander himself approach him, carryig a large binder. Nebart sprung to attention, giving the Armada Commander a crisp salute.

“Relieved. Good day, Frederick. Nice flight.”

He blinked. Wasn’t the stantard procedure to frown on his “faulty safety techniques”? But then, the Armada Commander never did things the same his subordinates did. He was quoted as saying: “What’s the point of being an Armada Commander if you have to behave like a Private?”

Just as Nebart thought of that, the Armada Commander proceeded.

“Nebart, I have a mission for you. A diplomatic one.”

Nebart flinched. What now?

“The Department of Tourism has arranged a visit to Port-Allanea by several foreign dignitaries. You are to give them a tour of it – since the Department wants a military man to do it. They say it looks impressive.”

“Why me, Sir?”

“Because of the fact you stand out in our files as having a wide experience with foreign cultures before enlisting. Now get this binder and get your lazy ass over to Port-Allanea. Use the bird, it’s faster.”

“Yes, Sir!”
A day later, in the Port Allanea International Airport

Nebart paced back and forth for already half an hour. So where the hell where those foreigners?

Port Allanea

The plane bearing the rampant silver wolf of Vinya-angmar touched down slowly at first. It was black from nose to tail, and no light came from its interior, which had curtains drawn over every window, even those of the cockpit. Slowly the ramp of the private passenger jet descended, and from the darkened interior two hulking forms strode, in all concealing body armour. They carried massive and unpleasant looking assault rifles, festooned with sharp blades that looked very much like they were used often. Their all-encompassing helms covered their faces entirely, and only the pallid white skin of their hands showed through the black body armour and long black robes covered every other part of them, cracked and wrinkled, sunken, with white, bloodless veins lining their wrists.

The bodyguards looked around the landing strip as their master strode down the stairs. He was the mouth of Herumor, lord of Vinya-Angmar, and he too wore black robes, almost clerical in their design, and let little of him be show, barring his face, handsome and young, despite the deadness in his eyes. His black hair cascaded down his shoulders, and he headed off towards the nearest terminal building.

MagShips did not have apparent engines. They did not need to, not when their drives were essentially giant electromagnetic assemblies pushing against Terra's magnetic field. The sleek craft descended in near-freefall, slowing down only in the last few seconds of flight, to halt a scant two meters above the ground. Its gray hull shimmered softly, its underside slightly darkened from many years of service. The terminal was a few meters away.

"I hate airports," Ivan Lebedev muttered, getting up with the rest of the planetary shuttle's hundred odd passengers.

"It can't be that bad," a wizened old lady remarked from somewhere around his elbow. 'Could you help me get that green bag?"

"Oh, it's that bad," Ivan easily hefted the trunk out of the overhead bin and into the isle. "Especially if they got security."

"Don't worry. Diplomatic Service, right?" she asked, as the line of passengers slowly moved towards the exit.

"How'd you guess?"

"Cred scanners, the gray-haired lady tapped her round, owlish glasses.

"Right," Ivan chuckled,

"Please be advised that this shuttlecraft will enter cleansing mode in ten minutes. Weyrik Transtellar will not be held accountable for any personal injuries or losses incurred during that process. Thank you, and have a nice stay in Allanea," the cool, smooth, inhuman voice announced over the PA.

OOC: Any visitor to Allanea, unless there's reason to believe they don't need it, gets basic gun safety instructons. So I'll assume everybody knows the four rules. (http://www.a-human-right.com/RKBA/s_safetyrules.jpg)

IC: Nebart smiled at the Weyrian and the Vinyaangmari as they approached him.
"Welcome to Allanea, gentlemen!"

He approached the Voice of Herumor: "Good day, Sir. Nice rifles indeed. Mind if I take a look?"

He inspects one of the guards' rifles for about a second, then shrugs: "Rather good. Might want to have a better trigger sping installed. Anyhow, again, welcome."

He continues, as he leads his guests to a large hoverbus: "Follow me, gentlemen. This bus over there will take us to the city."

The engines howl as the craft rises from the airport and proceeds to Port-Allanea. From where they are - just above the Airport - the city is seen as an ocean of lights, first low on the ground for miles and miles of urban sprawl, then suddely towering into the sky with the enormous skyscrapers of the city center. In the sky, holo-projected commercials glimmer. Even from here it is obvious that the city is a virtual fantasy of lights, the very buildings of it seemiing alive with motion.

The Captain smiles as he outlines the skyline with a single motion of his hand: "This, gentlemen, is Port-Allanea. Population: One hundred fifty million, of whom one hundred million are spread out in what is termed "the mother of all urban sprawls. Age: As old as the nation itself. Founder: Alexander Kirillovich Kazansky, who, incidentally, also founded Allanea."

He smiles: "Is there anything you would like to ask about the city?"

Screaming down Highway 1 at speeds in excess of 200mph, Cassiel quickly wiped a few bugs from his helmet's visor. Although there was no speedlimit in Forodren Annon, or any of Bryn Shander's territory for that matter, Cassiel and his specially modified racing bike were going almost three times as fast as everyone else as they crossed the eight-lane Horano Bridge, the single crossing over the Horano Canal. In fifteen seconds, the mile wide span was behind him, and there were only ten more miles between him and the border.

Two-forty... Two-forty five... Two-fifty... As the young diplomat's speed increased, his distance from the border decreased. Two minutes past the bridge, and only two miles to go. Cassiel started putting pressure on the brakes. If he continued at this speed, he'd crash through the gates in less than thirty seconds.

Two hundred, One-eighty, one forty... The bike's tires began to squeal as the bike decelerated at an obviously unsafe rate. Fifteen, Ten, Five... Flipping up his visor, the young elf brought his bike to a stop as it skidded up to the border crossing. "What is the perpose of your visit to Allanea, Sir?", questioned a pudgy Allanean sitting in the gate booth. "I'll be attending a diplomatic tour in Port-Allanea.", replied the elf as he handed the Allanean his passport. After looking it over, the man handed it back. "Everything looks good, Mr. Xiloscient. Go ahead and continue on your way." Quickly stuffing the passport back into his jacket pocket, Cassiel managed a quick reply before replacing his visor and speeding off. "Thanks."


Again screaming down the highway, Cassiel pushed his bike to it's limits. Once it's hydrogen-electric engine could put out no more power to propell the bike faster, Cassiel flipped up a pair of switches and pressed a small red button. Faster and faster, the yellow bike shot past the other vehicles on the highway like Michael Johnson at the Special Olympics as a pair of blue flames shot from it's "tailpipes". Although the rocket engines didn't have much fuel, they did their job, and did it well. The bike was now little more than a yellow blur to the others on the highway, traveling at more than 400mph.

It didn't last long, however, the fuel running out after a minute. With the rockets sputtering out, Cassiel started to slowly decelerate. It didn't matter much though, he was nearly to Port-Allanea already. As it was, he could see the skyline through the envelope of smog surrounding the city. Soon enough, metro gridlock would envelop the freeway, and Cassiel would take to the surface streets, navigating to where he was supposed to meet up with the tour.


As expected, traffic got heavy, and Cassiel took the surface streets. Before long, he found the meeting point, aided by his bike's onboard computer. Parking his bike and activating a few glyphs of warding, he removed his helmet, his long black hair damp with sweat and caught in a slight breeze. The young elf hung his helmet from a handlebar and unstrapped a silver rapier with a plain, slightly basketed hilt from his back, slipping it into a frog on his belt and securing it with a few buckles. From there, he removed his rising jacket, stowing it in a hidden compartment on the bike, and replacing it with a deep black cloak.

Cassiel then scanned the crowd for people that looked like those he was supposed to meet.

The Clan Ys Gravship Pride of K'tal dropped smoothly down to the landing area, its sides emblazed with the flag of Sann and the open-hand of Ys. Within the blue metallic hull Heir Ys Annyr adjusted his robes, which hung open to reveal smooth fitting body armour containing numerous biological agents - both benign and malign.

Seated to his right was Specialist Sann Lee in the powered armour of the Officco Medicorum Specialists while to his left was the plainly dressed, yet also armoured, Ys J'kal, his cousin. While Lee seemed to be taking the descent in his stride J'kal was on the edge of his seat with excitement - the young Ys tribesman had never left the Sannae Plains before, and visiting a city of this size was more than a little daunting. Lee, on the other hand, was a highly decorated Specialist who had been adopted into the ruling society, as such his future was garanteed regardless of who won any elections.

Once the ship had touched down the Heir to Clan Ys rose smoothly to his feet, slid the door to one side and leapt down from the hovering vessel of the Nomadic Republic. He was quickly followed by his cousin and shortly after by Lee as they waited for the person, or people, they were looking for. It had been a long-shot from the start, but Lord Ys had decided that his son and heir should see more of the world, J'Kal had promptly volunteered and the Lady of Sann had asked the newly promoted Specialist-General to accompany them.

Annyr smiled as he gazed across the glowing city, doubtless it was far more interesting than the moving Tribes of Sann although it was beyond his comprehension why anyone would even consider staying in one place for so long - the Roving was in his blood, and few Sannae citizens could feel comfortable living in a single location for long. Those few were normally drafted into the diplomatic corps of the Nomadic Republic so that their difference could be put to the most use.

He took in a deep breath of the city air and almost choked from the pollution - it was not a great deal in the cleared area of the airport, but to someone who has grown up as a nomad, it was quite a shock. He blushed faintly as Lee reminded him of his Cleanse tablets. Annyr quickly swallowed a pair, and almost immediately smiled as he began to breathe easily once again.

[[OOC Note: if they get searched upon arrival they all carry a cerimonial knife (blade is about 8 inches long) but other than that they carry no conventional weapons]]

Port-Allanea, Heston-Square

The hoverbus’ engines howl as it descends in circle above the large square, seeming like an endless well, surrounded by enormous skyscrapers. In the middle of the square stand an enormous statue of a man waving a Kalashnikov assault rifle. The copper with which the statue is covered is well-polished and glimmers like gold in the light of the commercial signs of the city.

The Captain smiles. “Welcom to Port-Allanea, gentlemen. This is our first stop for today, the Charlton Heston monument. While, indeed, I agree with you that Heston was not the perfect freedom-fighter, we in Allanea cherish him more for what he did for the image of freedom than for his actual achievements or biography. The buildings you see around it are the headquarters of Allanea’s biggest business players – corporations such as Allanean Arms, Allanean Entertainment, and Allanean Pharmaceuticals. Allanean Entertainment’s office also houses a large casino and brothel – something which many of you will doubtlessly find attractive. Fret not – both are legal in Allanea. Allanean Entertainment provides excellent service in both departments – I have experienced it myself and can vouch for it. They guarantee privacy as well.

The square itself is of interest, as it was the place of many peaceful demonstrations during occupation that followed the One-Day.. oh, look.”

At that precise moment Cassius’ bike tore through the traffic and ground to a stop next to them. “Good day, Sir. I see you have decided to travel independently… anyway, welcome to Port-Allanea. “

Those who observe the crowd will note that the Allaneans are, at least, a strange people. People of the most bizarre “alternative” lifestiles are evidently common in Allanea, as goths, punks, and even people who look remotedly like hippies mix in the enormous crowds. Camouflage, Star Trek uniforms, and Gay Pride T-shirts are seen, while vehicles in traffice – from Bradley IFV’s to hovercars – bear bumper stickers like “I’m a furry”, “Scientology Now”, and “Ripley’s Dope – The Best Dope”. What is distrubing is that the groups guide does not even flinch at that.

What is even stranger is that nearly everybody in the crowd seems to be armed – many with blatantly excessive firepower. Highschoolers walk by with Teen Dream semi-automatics, corporate lawyers walk to work with twin MP-5SD’s, and sometimes, even a medium machinegun or two are carried by by the townsfolk. Suddenly, it seems that the Air Force officer leading the tour is the least armed Allanean in the city.


OOC: For the rest of the joiners, I’ll just assume your “arrival” took place earlier, and you were on the bus or something, or it will get weird. If you want to post arrival, go ahead, I’ll just assume it happened earlier IC.

The Mouth of Herumor smiled, looking around, “Yes. Many questions,” he said, looking at his armoured bodyguard, towering over even himself, and he was quite an impressive figure, of a long lost race of the west, taller and more formidable than normal men. His voice carried a strange authority, “Let us begin,” he said, and the bodyguards eased their cold steel weapons in their cold hands - anyone who touched them would feel chilled to the bone.

The Mouth inclined his head, “Tell me about Allanea. Tell me about its population, its expanse, its people, their customs and their ways, and…” he paused, “if you can… their hopes and their dreams.” There was something obsequious and contemptible about his manner, but also something enrapturing. He was like a preist, a preacher, of the highest order, mesmerising in his speech…

As Gerrard looked out of the dropship's porthole at the Defiance he wished he could have arrived on a diplomatic shuttle, but ever since his father's armies had started to root out the YRA they had gotten even more violent in their attacks and he had been forced to travel on a Navy cruiser with four Linebacker IIs as body guards.

Several moments later, on the surface.

As he stepped onto Alanean soil Linebacker 106 Master Sergeant Enrique Gomez felt excited. He had always wanted to visit this planet, he had not however wanted to visit “on the clock,” but perhaps his charge would allow his team some shore leave after he returned to his ship. He looked around at his team. Two of his team were men, Sergeants Hedricks and Johnson, One of his team was a woman, Sergeant First Class Rebecca Thompson was the team’s sniper and she was good at her job. On the range she did better even than the “Shadows.” As he looked over his team he noticed that they all looked tired, they did need a little R&R.

Gerrard looked around the military section of the airport he noticed a lieutenant holding a sign with the word “TERRANAH” written across it. He nudged Gomez’s shoulder and pointed out the officer. Gomez nodded and signaled to his team. The four armored soldiers moved into a box formation and started walking toward the man.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Harold Roberson was shocked to see four people fully clad in iridescent green battle armor, three of them carrying automatic weapons. He was about to draw his pistol when he noticed the shorter figure wearing the blue and gold robes of Terran royalty. So this was the “ambassador” he was waiting for. The four leviathans must be his bodyguards. He walked toward the man and extended his right hand. Instantly a pair of assault rifles were aimed at his chest. The man in robes said something to the guards and they lowered their weapons but their eyes were still focused on his hands. The man in robes stepped forward and held out his hand. As they shook he said, “I’m terribly sorry about the scare my guards must have given you. They are only doing their job. Now, is there a car somewhere?”

Several moments later, at the main terminal.

Gerrard stepped out of the car and noticed a man wearing an Air Force dress uniform with Captain’s bars on his shoulders. He walked to the man, extended his hand and introduced himself as “Gerrard Duran V, Heir to the throne of the Terran Dominion.”

(OOC) If you are going to do a weapons search the soldiers have 7.62mm automatic rifles with built in silencers and the sniper has a .50 caliber rifle and a 9mm pistol but are dangerous even without them (see encyclopedia thread, last page for details)

OOC: I don’t search people for weapons. Get over it.

IC::

”Allanea…” – muses the Captain - “Mainland Allanea is an expanse several thousand miles wide. That not counting overseas states and space colonies. It was founded, as you might have heard, by bands of refugees from foreign lands, ones that cared for freedom and wanted to keep it alive. That is the essence of Allanea, of it’s law and it’s unspoken politness: Let people be different.

In Allanea, we believe that all freedom, rights, and so forth, come from one right – the right to be left alone, no matter how weird you appear to others.”- he waves his hand to point the tourists at the strange crowds that flow by, where each of the foreigners probably sees some other detail he finds strange, disturbing, or even plain outrageous.

There are over three billion people in the United States. Humans, Valaquine, elves, Khristians, the odd ork, even. There is one caveat: An Allanean is one who respects freedom. Our rifles – surely you have noticed them – are the mark of that. Of every Allanean being a person who deserves to be free. As Oleg Volk, the author of our anthem, wrote:

He pauses, and then reads out, his voice clear. It seems that, in an appropriate coincidence, gunshots are heard from the indoor range that is part of the Allanean Arms, Inc. complex, serving a fitting accompanement to the lyrics:

Wake up in the morning, get showered and dressed
Before venturing out, some essentials I grab

A folding knife, a PDA, a pen, some chewing gum
My camera, a wallet, keys, and a holster with a gun.

Past the tourists, a thin boy of seventeen squeezes by, twin Teen Dream autopistols hanging under his arms in shoulder holsters. A Valaquine doctor walks by, carrying a BAR Monitor. It seems that the Captain’s voice blots out the noise of the city, as the tourists listen to the ancient words, words pre-dating Allanea itself.

You ask why bother with the gun, in our day and age
When hardly any dangers lurk and life is pretty safe?

This life is safe in part because we stand prepared to fight
And thugs, who wish to rape or rob, mind the heavy price

But let me grant that you are right, this land is not at war
We carry guns but don't expect to fight some hostile horde:

We'd carry still as badge of rank, of status as freemen
For being able to go armed sets us apart from slaves.

The officer pauses. “Carrying weapons is one tradition. Another is being respectful of others, no matter how strange they seem. As the quote goes: “When a neighbor moves in and decides to shag a Rottweiler on his house roof every full moon, this is not enough reason to mistreat him.” Besides that, and respect to the symbols of our freedom – our flag, our anthem, our Constitution and so forth – we have no common customs.

And as for dreams… the whole point of establishing the nation was that each could have his own, personal dream.[/I]

The emissary felt bile rise in his throat at the emphasis these people put on freedom. It was a disgusting and loathsome word. Free-dom it grated, the concept it represented abhorrent. The ability of the common man to be free from the rightful domination of his betters was – is – an abomination. Those with power should be allowed to wield it as their birthright. He had heard the word before of course, on the lips of rebel leaders, as he watched the life drained from their eyes, the blood on their twitching lips showing their belief in the contemptible concept.

But that was not why he was here, and the guards with him looked around with interest at the crowds. Both of them wanted to simply open fire on these deviants, but they would wait for the Mouth’s command before doing such a thing. His dominion over them was absolute. The leader smiled, “Space colonies, you say,” he whispered after a moment, trying to keep the disgust he held these people in from his voice, and succeeding, for the most part.

Then he turned his gaze on the others for a few moments, smiling grimly. Perhaps there would be some other benefits of this trip.

Walking over to meet up with the group, Cassius manages to arrive in time to hear the beginning of the anthem. As he hears the lyrics, and the subsequent speech, he can't help but roll his eyes.

"No offense to you or your nation, but that was the tackiest thing I have ever heard."

OOC: It wasn't an anthem. Just a random powem.

IC: The colonel shrugs: "Patriotism often sounds tacky. What matters is that the feelings and values behind it are genuine."

The Archduke of Caffeinneburg leaned out the window of his Newfangled Touring Auto-Mobile as it idled in the traffic near the hoverbus. "I do say! Is this a guided tour?" he shouted. "How splendid! And no matter what that young fellow says, I have to say that I greatly admire anyone who has the chutzpah to refer to chewing gum in their national anthem! How refreshing! That was a joke, get it? Because it's refreshing to the soul, much like certain flavors of chewing gum are refreshing to the mouth!"

The Archduke took off his extravagantly-plumed hat and carefully set it on the seat beside him. After whispering some instruction to his chauffeur, he leaned back out the window, looking up at the sky for a moment, then reached up and took hold of the car's roof. Several painful-looking contortions and one unexpectedly deft acrobatic move later, he was standing on the roof of his car. From there it was merely one small step and one giant leap to the hoverbus, where he quickly settled himself into the most comfortable-looking seat.

"So, what now? More sightseeing? More blank verse? Can we perhaps see some of the more charmingly quaint aspects of your city? I'm told you even have crime here, which sounds like it must be twelve kinds of exciting!"

Enrique knew he must look like he was worried. His mission of guarding the heir to the Terran throne had just gone from a cake-walk to a nightmare. first you had the giants in the black armor who looked like nothing would please them more than to shoot everybody in this square, then you add millions of people with guns crowded into this space... He hadn't heard a single word said by the man guiding the tour, he was too busy scanning the crowd for the slightest sign of movement toward his charge.

Gerrard, on the other hand, had heard every word said by Captain Nebart. These people were just like those Yendorian bastards who he had been fighting all of his adult life. They said they wanted "freedom," but they already had the freedom to live out their lives and all they were asked of in return was their devotion to the Emperor and a few years of military service. Was that too much to ask? These people, celebrated here and excecuted for treason on his planet, would never truly be allies of his, but that didn't mean they weren't still useful... Hiding his contempt, Gerrard smiled and kept walking. He heard the emissary from Vinya-angmar ask about space colonies. He heard something in his voice that drew his attention. Was it... hatred? He thought he might wind up liking these men in black after all.

OOC: :) Tag.

The Captain smiled. “Well, gentlemen, follow me.” – and he began walkig away from the hoverbus – “it’s only a few minutes.”

Indeed, just a few minutes later, walking between two of the enormous skyscrapers that enclosed Heston-Square, they saw it. Suddenly, it seemed like the enormou port-Allanea skyline had opened some hole and let them out – to the Jefferson Promenade – of the Port-Allanea harbour. The harbour, lighted only by the moon and the reflections of the city lights, was a huge, beautiful body of water. It seemed that the faraway silhoettes of the huge oil tankers somehow did not mar the beauty of the place, yet added to it. And far away, above the horizon, there hung what seemed to be an enormous gravship. Sometimes, when the light was right, the visitors could see two red crosses on it’s side.

The promenade itself was, it seemed, even more full of lights than the city centers. Restaurants, brothels, casinos and “coffeeshops” all called in visitors by gaudy lights, together with Internet café’s, taxi stations and boat rental agencies. The god of Trade has apparently sent his blessings to the place, and it answered him with the lights of life.

“Gentlemen, this is the Port-Allanea Harbour – deemed by some to be one of the most beautiful places in Allanea.” – said the Captain.

A view was met with a whistle of appreciation from Annyr, a gaping J'Kal and - most telling of all, a look of stunned amazement from Specialist Lee. When the Specialist spoke, his voice was fairly quiet - he sounded impressed despite his attempts to hide it.

"Some...? It is truely beautiful, Captain. Was it intentionally designed for beauty, or was it a fortunate accident?"

The heavily armoured Lee turned to the Captain, one eyebrow raised. The lights reflecting off his scarred face give him an almost ghoulish look, quite a contrast from the handsome young Annyr - and from the gaping J'Kal.

Cassius loked visibly sick. His elven blood granting him the vision to see far more than the others in the group. Even at the late hour, he could sill see smoke and steambeing pumped into the atmosphere by countless factories throughout the city. The city it's self was a plague to the enviroment.

"If this is one of the nation's most beautiful places, I fear to see what the rest of Allanea is llike."

As he pondered the destruction of the natural world that Allaneans seemed so eager to participate in, Cassius grew angry, his fists clenched, and his gold eyes showed a slight red glow that most would simply attribute to the lights reflecting off of them.

Lee turned to look at the elf, expression unreadable once again

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, long-lived one. Perhaps you should consider that, for a place within a Bound nation, this place is beautiful. I would agree with your poorly hidden attitude towards the pollutants save that we are guests here - and a certain level of respect is expected towards a host."

A fleeting smile.

"Besides, the Nomadic Republic has long since developed biological agents that can soak up pollutants like water in the desert."

He shrugs slightly and turns back to the view, the two younger Tribesmen discussing the sight quickly between themselves.

The Captain shrugged: “Natural? Partly. When Kazansky, founder of Allanea, stood upon this shore, it is said that he was as fascinated with it’s beauty as you are now, and so he has decided to found a city there, known as Port-Allanea. And over the years, the tradesmen, the architects, the people of Allanea have improved upon the original with their work. In Allanea, we don’t value natural beauty much. The true beauty – or at least that’s how most of us see it – is the beauty of the creation of the sapient mind. The statue. The building. The highway. The task of man – or any other sentient – is creation, the constant altering of the world around him. Without it, there is no point of even having a brain. Of course, that’s the opinion of most of us – you’d never get three billion Allaneans to agree on one thing.”

He smiled winningly.

"So, any other questions? Or is there anything in particular you'd like to see next? The National Museum? The Hall of Congress? Perhaps touring one of our famous weapon shops?"

Gerrard was taken aback at the sight. It was beautiful. The moon reflecting off the water reminded him of home. The sight was marred, however, by the smell of the smog with each breath.

"How about one of your weapons shops?" He said as soon as he heard the question. "I've heard they are some of the best in the universe."

Assyrn murmured softly

"I'd prefer the Museum or Congress, but then I personally do not really like firearms"

He shrugs slightly, a little apologetically but certainly not with embarassment - after all, to a Sannae Tribesman the use of firearms was essentially randomised surgery, something deeply offensive to a nation as wrapped up in medical science as the Nomadic Republic. However, the Tribe Ys was one of those who were less concerned with what firearms did - after all, they meant more business for hired Sannae medical teams.

"A weapons shop, then the two national buildings, perhaps?"

"I've seen enough."

Turning away from the group, Cassius returned to his bike and headed back to Forodren Annon.

The Captain shrugged as he led the tourists after him. ”There’s many shops like this in town, but this is my favourite. Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to the James Bates Book and Gun Emporium!

The shop was a veritable palace. Three levels in which book shelves and glass gun cases intermingled with coffee tables. The variety was astounding. Weapons from swords to the latest foreign plasma rifles (ordinary chemical arms were prevalent) books from Joel Rosenberg to Leo Tolstoy, weapon accessories, ammunition, slings, sights… In the back of the store was Frederick Bates himself.

As a figure, he was totally alien to the store. You would expect this type of man – a modern-age Giuseppe – in some rural gun shop at best. More likely is that you would expect him at a toy shop. A kind smile, a pair of glasses, and a white moustache – not your typical “gun enthusiast” by any means. Above the old man hang a sign saying: “25% discount on all works by William Shakespeare and John Browning!”. He smiled happily:

“Oh, it’s you again, Freddie! And you brought me tourists!” – the man hugged Nebart warmly and then spoke: “Good day, gentlemen. Welcome to Allanea. I am James Bates, owner of the Emporium, Literature Teacher and Gunsmith.”

The emissary of Herumor looked spectacularly unimpressed with the beauty of his environment. He had seen much in his years, and the life he had lead had erased what parts of his mind were once fair and good, and could appreciate the higher things in life. Now only base scheming and treachery remained. And of course, above all else, the deep fear of his Master’s wroth.

One of the bodyguards looked at the elf in the party, and it seemed to become a wild beast, a thing without higher virtues, unrestrained. Its grip closed about the handle of its gun, pallid flesh becoming even whiter as the will that animated it forced the last blood from its hands with the pressure. The Mouth turned to look at the creature.

“Halt, become not fey, harken to me and let thy rage at the elf subside, or be made to answer for it before the Master!” he hissed, in the strange tongue of Vinyaangmar as they made their way to the bookstore. “Excellent!” he said after the proprietor gave his introduction, “I see you sell energy weapons here,” he said, “they are of great interest to me. Perhaps you could explain their operating principles. I would even like to buy some,” he glanced at the colonel, “assuming my guide does not object.”

The guide shrugs: “Your nation is not at war with us… I don’t see why there would be a problem. Go ahead, burn your credit card out.”

The dealer smiles: “See, we in Allanea rarely use energy weapons. I don’t advise it myself… they are not quite as reliable as good old-fashioned steel and lead. However, if this floats your boat, here’s a neat tool.” He picks up what seems to be an assault rifle with an enormous barrel: “The AR-666 ( http://trooperpx.com/SSTgame/imgHollow/weap_tech_plasma.jpg) particle beam rifle. Feeds energy from a large battery which feeds like a normal rifle magazine. Fifty shots, range is basically line-of sight, enough energy in a shot to stop a grizzly bear, built in laser pointer, all the bells and whistles. Of course, it is expensive as hell, and electronic. It has EMP shielding, but I don’t trust it in the even of an EMP strike. My advice? Get a real gun. Like a FAL.”

The Mouth grimaced. “It is more for curiosity than use,” he said, quite truthfully, “I already possess more reliable weapons. It would come naturally to mind that what precisely lay under his almost clerical robes was quite unknown, without some detailed scanning.

The voice became deeper for a moment, throaty, harsh, “I do not carry any credit card you recognise?” he asked, holding up a small sized block of gold palm size perhaps, stamped with an almost elvish script, “will this do?” he asked, his voice becoming human once more.

OOC: Hope its not to late to join...

"Or an AK," a voice popped from the back of the group. David O'Graddy had been with the group since the start, he had just stayed a bit quiet, following along with intrest as the tour had progressed. The port had been beautiful, and David had felt rather at home in the main city, enodowed with the fact that he wasn't the only carrying in this land.

He moved forward in the group to look at the weapons casses. "Nice," he commented to no one in particular. He was wearing a suit, almost as if it were the official diplomatic uniform, but the outline of an over-the-shoulder holster was visable.

"Oh, surely," said James as he examined the gold fleetingly. Then he smiles as he hands the Mouth a box with his rifle in it. "Only rule is, don't load it until you get out of my shop. More a tradition than anything." He smiles winningly: "Do you want more ammo, magazines, accessories, anything like that? The few people who buy those things do suck up lots of aftermarket accessories and stuff... want any?"

“Certainly,” he said, “More ammunition and the accessories to go with it would be of great use to the collection,” he smiled a smile so pleasant it was almost foul, taking the box in his hand, fingers wrapping around its handle as he passed it to one of the towering guards.

"Here they are, " said the Giuseppe-like gun dealer as he piled slings, magazines, custom grips and sights of the Mouth's choosing onto the counter and accepted the payment. "I hope you enjoy them."

The Mouth smiled as he paid again, making sure to ask for the lowest specification – and thus easiest to reproduce – accessories for the weapon. “Excellent!” he said, “and now, I feel as if I have monopolised your time long enough!” he said “Would anyone else like to speak to the good proprietor?”

The two Sannae Tribesmen appeared to have vanished among the shelves - all Tribesmen for some reason appear to be fascinated by the writings of the Bound, as the Sannae term the non-nomadic - an expression normally said in pitying tones.

The Specialist-General meanwhile looks over the weapons with a practised eye, nodding as if impressed despite himself.

"You certainly have an impressive collection, Bates James."

A slight twist in his pronounciation of the owner's name. He gives the impression of attempting to be politely formal and respectful in his own manner, but stumbling with Bound customs.

He shrugs fatalistically and sighs as his two young charges - one Heir to one of the influential Tribes Major and the other a kinsman of said Heir - return carrying a small pile of books each.

Moments later the books are neatly piled on the counter and the Specialist had resigned himself to buying the books and obtaining compensation from the Lord Ys. A short glance at James Bates.

"These books please, and add your 'best' rifle, please."

He glanced back at the Heir Ys, who was watching him curiously.

"You are well aware of the state of our firearms, Annyr. I am merely browsing for the Lady of Sann"

He turned back to the shopkeeper

"Do you accept any currency, or do you prefer universal or Allanean? Alternatively, if you accept medical aid as currency, I'd be happy to fix and health issues you might have."

The last said with one raised eyebrow - one glance at the sigil emblazoned on the Specialist's armour, and that of his charges, would clearly show the fascination the Sannae had with medicine and biotechnology.

The Irishman from the group stepped forward, and pulled a pistol out from under his coat. It was an older Browing Hi Power 9mm. He placed it on the table. "Its my baby, but a wee bit old. I need something a bit newer, slightly harder hitting to. Also, do you have anythign bolt action in the area of .338? And, if not to much trouble," he paused as if thinking, "any Yeats?"

OOC: I’m into guns for four years. If someone ever gave me a penny each time I got asked “What’s the best gun?”, I’d PWN Bill Gates in the money department.

IC:James Bates smiled amiably again. “I will accept any currency – money, that is. Not medical services, no… but as far as money goes, I accept all kinds. As per your request… there’s no such thing as a best rifle. Not one that is best for everyone, at least. Tell me what your needs and tastes are, and I’ll find one that’s best for you. I have everything from .22 Rugers to 20mm anti-materials and back again. “Best” is a non-existant term.”

He then turns to the Irishman: “Nice choice. Here are my recommendations: A HK USP – or equivalent – in the venerable .45 caliber, or, even better, any of the modern 1911 clones. This seems to be one of those guns that never die. And as per your rifle, have you considered the Steyr Scout Tactical?”

[[I know, thus 'best' *Points out marks to top left and right of word* ;) ]]

"Currency will not a problem then."

Spoken with a faint smile, as he looks over the various weapons again before his gaze returns to James Bates.

"I apologise for any misunderstanding of the term...I left the sentence rather incomplete, and should have said the 'best in your opinion'."

He pauses for a moment, weighing up various desirous factors in his mind.

"Accuracy over long range is not a particularly important issue as any firearms would be used in relatively close-quarter fighting. Armour penetration is a must, as is a high rate of fire. I would also prefer that it is one that can easily be aquired in reasonable numbers, taking your reccomendation as a trial."

The bio-engineered Specialist stopped speaking, watching the proprieter carefully for a response.

OOC: Ah. :)

The shopkeeper shrugs. "Your best bet is either a variation of the famous military rifles - the XM-8, G-36, or similiar - rechambered in 6.5mm Grendel (http://www.65grendel.com/), or even, a choice that would be drastically simpler - a copy of the venerable AK-47 or one of-it's clones, with a folding stock. There's absolutely no simpler solution than that. Of course, the best solution is to go out and pick out the one that's right for you. Perhaps there are some other requirements?"

The Specialist smiles slightly.

"Something a bit more accurate than the '47, I think. I will try the G-36."

He consults a small data-sheet and works out the value of the books in Sannae Barr, then waits to find out the price of the rifle.

Meanwhile the two younger Ys Tribesmen are busy looking over the weapons in curiosity - projectile weapons are uncommon in the Nomadic Republic.

"An AAR-36K, then,' shrugs the modern-day Giuseppe, "Nothing like a close-quarter modificaiton of the G-36 reworked for use of the Grendel caliber," he hands the Sann a rifle, in a box like one he gave the Vinyaagmari, and then asked: "Anything else you would like? Your boys seem rather curious to me."

David looked around briefly, then returned. "I think I'd like to see one of those H&Ks, and I cant say I've ever seen a Steyr Scout. You happen to have any on hand?"

"Of course, Sir," replies the gun store owner, "here it is." (http://world.guns.ru/sniper/sn37-e.htm)

The Specialist nodded in thanks as James Bates handed over the box, and counted out a number of Barr equal to the value of the books and weapon plus accessories chosen by the two young Tribesmen.

"Boys are always curious...and their repsective fathers would have the Lady of Sann do unpleasant things, even to me, if I let them come home with firearms - we have a much more controlled attitude towards them."

He grins - just about the most expressive action he'd made so far.

"But then, we are a nation of medical nuts, and randomised surgery does not go down very well in the Nomadic Republic."

He turns a critical eye on the two Ys Tribesmen.

"Although they are not 'my boys', not even of the same Tribe in fact - I am adopted into the Sann Government, and they are of the Tribe Major Ys."

One heavy hand lands on the shoulder of the more restrained of the two boys.

"This young lad is the Heir to his clan, while the useless lad next to him..."

Said with a smile to take any sting out of his words

"...is his cousin by his father's third sister. I think."

He pauses for a minute

"Beg pardon, second sister. Which puts in some extremely strange position as far as inheritance goes"

He shrugs as if irritated by the complexity of Tribe internal politics.

Gerrard looked at Rebecca. The sniper was buzzing with excitement. "Oh, go on." He said to her.

Rebecca blushed slightly, though no one could see it through the full enclosure helmet. "What could you do in the way of custom rifles? I need a new one. I hate to give it up, but my current rifle can't penetrate some of the new armor systems that are becoming operational now. I need something with more power, but I'm reluctant to use energy wepons. I just don't trust them."

O'Graddy lifted the rifel, and racked the bolt hard, in a swift, smooth motion. He swung it fast, leveling it on a book, and letting his breath go. "Nah, bit to light, and I'm not a huge fan of the looks." He opened the bolt, and placed it back on the table. He looked around a few more seconds. "What about a .408 tactical? Any of those?"

The shopkeeper smiled: "I have one .408 Tactical here, it's slightly used, but in very good condition. Remember, most of those are custom-made by order, and you rarely see them in the shops, even in Allanea. You just lucked out."

He glanced at the sniper: "It would depend... Perhaps all you need to do is use depleted-uranium rifle rounds - or thix new-fangled 25mm sniper rifle. Would work, too."

OOC: 25mm rifles are real. XM-109, I think.

Rebecca looked at the rifle the gun smith had specified. It was a lot like the one she had already, but this one had a shorter barrel and the magazine sitting beside it looked wider, otherwise it was the same as the rifle in her case. "Is there a range in here where I could try it out?"

OOC: 25mm, thats almost as big as what they use in Appache helicopters.

The gunsmith smiles as he hands her the rifle (http://www.military.com/soldiertech/0%2C14632%2CSoldiertech_XM109%2C%2C00.html) and a slip of paper with an address to a nearby indoor range: "But of course there is a range. This is Allanea you're in, remember?"

She took the slip of paper and read it. She glanced at Gerrard who nodded. "If you need it I'll leave my AI processor core as collateral." She then flipped open a small hatch on the side of her helmet and removed a small white cube with the word "Celicius" written on the side she placed this on the counter, turned on her heel and walked out of the store and around the corner to the range.
***
thirty minutes later
***
As she walked back into the gun store Rebecca felt electrified. The rifle was the most powerful thing she had ever held. "I like it," She said to the shopkeeper, "I am going to need some ammo too." As she paid the shop keeper and re-incerted Celicius into his slot Gerrard walked up to the counter. "Now that we have that taken care of I need to place a rather large order of assault rifles, sub-machine guns, and shotguns. Could you help me out?"

OOC: When you mentioned the MX-109 yesterday I did a search and found that same site.

"Well, " smiles the old man, "I suppose Allanean Arms, Incorporated handles large orders on it's website. As you know, orderiing of arms through the Internet or mail is perfectly legal in Allanea. If it's just a small order, I can handle it myself."

OOC: Anybody wants to see anything other than a gun store? :)

[[OOC: Well, I did suggest going to the gun store, then moving onto the other places ;) ]]

The Captain smiled as he turned to leave: "Well, Mr. Bates, it seems the tourists have sated their gun-thirst. Is everybody ready for the National Museum?"

OOC: Yes.

The Museum was an impressive building, it’s glass and stone entrance making visitors seem like puny ants. As Nebart led them through the enormous gate, he already began speaking: “The Museum is one of the oldest government buildings in Allanea. Rebuit thrice, it is the symbol of my people’s passion for knowledge – and our deep attachment for history.”

He pokes at the first exhibit, an old, black-and-white picture. On it, a barren sea-shore is shown. “This, though you may find it hard to believe, is Port-Allanea, back when the first Allaneans came here. Allanea, as you might have heard, is a spinoff of various “free-state” experiments. Minerva. Sealand. The original FSP. The only difference is, this one worked.

He points to another picture, showing a large pile of paper – one that dwarves a large truck standing by: On December 15th, 20??, Allanea was founded. Founded by exiles from Russia, America, Canada, who tired of endless opression of the various Drug Wars, the ignominy of gun control acts, the hypocrisy of ‘anti-cult’ laws. And so, the first act of President Kazansky, the founder of Allanea, was to collect copies – one of each – of the various laws, orders, treaties, licences that represented the tyranny we were escaping. From the Kyoto Accords to the National Firearms Act, from gun licenses to court rulings, all was collected. And then, all was burned.

He smiles as he points to another picture, of a boy – or at least, one who looks like an 18-year old boy in oversized glasses – setting fire to the oversized pile of paper. ”This is Allanea’s President, setting fire to the pile.”