Edolia
02-01-2005, 02:11
<<OOC: Although the RP is open, I'd prefer that you ask me first (via AIM or telegram) if you can participate. Often people will make assumptions that are quite reasonable, but also wrong when they get involved in an RP, so I'd just like to avoid that. This is the introduction, and more international things are going to happen later. I hope that people wont be turned off by the length.>>
A small ray of moonlight crept across a cell, making its way along an old dusty carpet that obviously hadn’t been clean for some time. The small room, some two by two meters in dimension, was completely bare but for a small toilet off to one side, and a wooden cot in the opposite corner. Next to the bed was a small table, upon which was located a stack of books. If one were to read through the titles of these books, the reader might be surprised to find, not the pornography magazines and violent cheap paperbacks that are normally found in maximum security prisons all around the world, but some of mankind’s most celebrated classics, written in a variety of languages, such as The Prince, by Machiavelli The Art of War by Sun Zi, The Origins of Good and Evil by Nietzsche and a host of other books widely read throughout the ages. If one were to get over the natural desire to browse through these classics, the observer would notice that the cell was devoid of any sort of life. The only sign of recent activity in the room was a small pile of five or six dead rats off to the side, their bellies neatly sliced open and their rotting entrails formed into a series of geometric shapes. The designs had been a primary amusement of the occupant of the cell who had finished his reading some days before. It was right after finishing the entrail design that, only that evening, he had been rushed from his cell to the First Edolian Prison’s hospital wing after collapsing in his cell.
Aplören Qian lay quite still in his bed, listening to the beeping sound of his bedside life monitor and thinking about how comfortable he was. He peered around and smiled slightly. It had been all too easy. Of course, he thought, his smile lessening slightly, the inconvenience of not having eaten for five days was making his life somewhat less enjoyable, and the fall that he had suffered after forcing himself to faint in his cell had caused a rather large bump on his head, which was throbbing painfully. His next thought was that the medics who were undoubtedly watching his life signs would have noticed that he had returned to consciousness. Sighing sadly and regretting having to leave the soft pillows of his hospital bed behind, Qian tore the tubes from his body and sat up in bed. He flexed his muscles and stood up, assessing his strength. Again, he smiled to himself, although this time, the smile held a hint –more than a hint- of predatory glee. He walked slowly towards the door of the medical unit. He had spent some time observing the patterns in the hospital, and knew that there were not likely to be more than two medics observing the patients at any given time. Qian stretched his stiff muscles. He felt something snap in his back. That felt better. He went over the plan in his head quickly and wondered where the medics were. Calmly, he strode in the direction of the door, and smiled as he saw the handle begin to turn. Quickly and without making a sound, he covered the distance to the door of the medical room in three bounds.
Ventö von Grösburnit sighed. It was always something with the stupid patients. The medic stood up in his chair and stretched his arms out wide, yawning. “I’ll go check and see what’s up, Gerd,” he said to the other medic sitting next to him.
“Alright Venny,” the second man said. The man called Venny by his friends pulled out his card-key and moved towards the door. Inserting it into the slot, he unlocked the barrier that separated him with a number of rather sick felons. Like he did almost every night, he opened the door, but this time, he found himself facing, not men moaning for medical care, but rather one man, dressed in a hospital gown. The medic only had enough time to see that the other man was olive-skinned, with short, straight black hair almond shaped eyes that suggested some sort of Asiatic heritage before the patient effortlessly lifted him off his feet and threw him into the air. Ventö, a moment before colliding with the other medic, reflected briefly on the absurdity of the situation. Medical Officer Gerd, who had just looked up, barely had enough time to let out of a cry of surprise before the flying body of his partner struck him in the chest, knocking the air out of him. Looking up, Ventö found himself looking back into the face of the inmate who had thrown him.
Qian chuckled to himself. “Thanks for the care, doc,” he said heartily, has he reached down. With one hand, he took hold of one medic’s head and with a flick of the wrist, snapped his neck. The other hand formed itself into a fist, which crushed the second nurse’s windpipe. He glanced quickly over at the computers. No, it didn’t seem that anything had been noticed. He spared a moment to congratulate himself on his work before slipping off his patient’s gown and undressing one of the medics, quickly pulling on the white uniform. Generally, all the guards in the prison knew each other, but it would be better to be dressed like this than running around half naked. Qian also pocketed the two men’s ID and key cards. Rising quickly, he moved towards the back door and slid a card into the key-spot. The door clicked open and Qian glanced carefully up and down the hallway. It was clear. Qian quickly composed himself before stepping into the hall, walking with a rapid but purposed gait so as to make sure that anyone who glanced at him casually would see only a medic going about his business.
Qian crept across the courtyard. Nothing between me and freedom, he thought to himself, [I]nothing but razor wire, machine gun nests and a very secure gatehouse.[I] He smiled to himself ironically. Qian squished himself up against a wall as a searchlight passed by. Watching it move towards another part of the open space, Qian sighed, relieved.
Randell von Grüs was making his nightly patrol. He yawned, and, tucking his rifle under his arm, rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to warm them up in the cold autumn air. As he resumed walking, Randell heard the snap of a twig behind him. He froze and listened. There was silence. He looked behind him and saw nothing.
Aplören Qian was crouched down in the shadow of the high wall as he watched the guard pass by. He chuckled to himself silently. The idiot had been looking directly at him, but hadn’t stared carefully enough into the shadows to catch the hiding Qian. The former Special Forces agent slowly and silently stepped out of the shadows and once again began to follow the night guard. He was ten, nine, eight, seven meters behind the man. Six, five, four, three… Qian could smell the coffee that the guard had just finished drinking. Qian was standing right behind him when Randell von Grüs turned around. The escaping convict took a certain delight in seeing the look of bewildered surprise on the guard’s face, before he took hold of the other man’s mouth with one hand and held his gun with the other. It was a brief struggle, and although Randell had the advantage in height and weight, Qian’s years in one of the most elite Red Gerbil divisions in the Scarlet Empire made the fight far less than fair. Randell von Grüs was dead with a crushed windpipe in a matter of five seconds and Aplören Qian was the proud owner of his very own standard-issue G-16/G assault rifle. Qian continued along the wall for some one hundred meters before things began to fall apart. He was nearly at the gatehouse when he was spotted. Qian swore colorfully as a guard reached for his rifle and ran out into the middle of the field, yelling into his radio and sweeping his flashlight around. Qian sighed softly as he raised his own gun to his shoulder. It looked like this would have to be done the difficult way. He pulled the trigger and the guard silently toppled, a neat hole between his eyes. Although the guard’s death was silent, the shot was not, and Qian could palpably feel the collective attention of the prison turn to him and realized that after the gunshot, there was no point in trying to remain undetected. He charged the gatehouse, a beam of light falling directly on to him. Holding his gun in front of his face to keep off the glare, he dived off to the side, avoiding a stream of machine gun fire and momentarily losing the beam in the shadows. He landed on his knees, his gun’s sight raised to his face and pointed at the guard tower three hundred meters in front of him. Peering through the scope, he fired off a short burst of fire, not seeing whether he hit anyone or not. In front of him, two guards burst out of the gatehouse. A short kick from one of them knocked the rifle from Qian’s hands, while a punch from the other nearly collided with Qian’s face. It would have if Qian hadn’t dodged at the last minute, his head moving to the left, and his right arm catching the guard’s and pulling it towards him. Off-balance, the other man toppled to the ground. With a quick motion, Qian had crushed his face and had the guard’s rifle turned around and pointed at the second guard, who looked stunned, his own rifle still pointing away from Qian. “Give me your weapon and a keycard that will open up the door.” Qian commanded.
“Yes sir.” The other man said, and complied.
“Thanks,” Qian smiled predatorily. “The safety was on this one and I didn’t have the time to flick it off. Realization flashed on the man’s face before a bullet connected with his chest, sending him flying. Qian took a moment to turn the other safety to automatic and entered the gatehouse. He heard the tower’s machine gun begin to chatter again just as he opened the door and dived through. As he rolled along the carpeted floor, he found himself facing three more guards, each with pistols pointing directly at his head. Not even Qian, the most decorated young Rabid Gerbil operative in the history of the Scarlet Empire had any chance in such conditions, and he knew it. He dropped his guns. “I surrender,” he said quietly. The three guards relaxed. Qian knew that soon the room would be filled with armed men and regardless of the circumstances, he couldn’t fight off a dozen guards with guns in such a cramped space.
“Good fucking Lord,” he said. “Qian’s trying to escape.” Aplören Qian knew that he had made himself an object of interest during his two-year stay at the prison and it was only natural that he would have gotten something of a reputation among the guards. The captain put his pistol back in its holster and picked up a radio. “We’ve got him,” he said. “It’s number twenty-five thirteen.” He paused. “Yes sir. I’ll make sure to bring him back alive.” He put down the radio and stared down at Qian. “You son of a bitch,” he said softly. He looked at the other guards. “This bastard killed five men.” Qian began to cough.
“What is wrong with him?” asked another guard.
“He was in the hospital wing when he escaped,” replied the captain. Qian’s coughing grew increasingly violent as he forced the last contents of his stomach out towards his throat and mouth. There wasn’t much… mostly yellow bile.
“I think he’s really sick… It must be the exertion,” another guard looked worried.
“Fuck him,” the captain said coldly. Qian doubled over and began to vomit over the floor.
“Oh shit…” The guards put their pistols on their desks and bent down to help Qian. In a single, fluid movement, Qian lifted his arms off the floor and with two short jabs, gouged out the men’s eyes. The captain, surprise and outrage over his face, reached for his pistol, but Qian was too fast for him. With a single running step to give him the momentum, he was in the air, his knees connecting with the captain’s chest, forcing the man back against his desk. Qian found himself straddling the larger man’s chest.
“Sorry, captain,” he whispered into the man’s ear. “You almost caught me.” He reached down and took hold of the two sides of his opponent’s head. The captain closed his eyes as his neck was snapped. The other two guards, blind and screaming in pain felt about for their pistols. Qian reached them first and pointed the guns at their heads. Preparing to pull the triggers, he thought better of it and smiled to himself. He stood up straight and tucked the pistols into his pants. He addressed the two guards in a clear, magnanimous voice. “You should know that you are being kept alive due to the great mercy of the Lord Aplören Qian. I expect that you shall inform the people of Edölia of my great martial feats tonight.” He bowed to the blind men, unnecessarily and walked over to the coat-and-boot rack near the gatehouse exit. Qian looked up at the clock near the wall. He had only about a minute before the room would be filled with soldiers. Quickly removing the wallets from the men’s coats, he slipped on a pair of boots and a warm parka and opened the gatehouse door. With just quick look back, he stepped out into the cold.
A small ray of moonlight crept across a cell, making its way along an old dusty carpet that obviously hadn’t been clean for some time. The small room, some two by two meters in dimension, was completely bare but for a small toilet off to one side, and a wooden cot in the opposite corner. Next to the bed was a small table, upon which was located a stack of books. If one were to read through the titles of these books, the reader might be surprised to find, not the pornography magazines and violent cheap paperbacks that are normally found in maximum security prisons all around the world, but some of mankind’s most celebrated classics, written in a variety of languages, such as The Prince, by Machiavelli The Art of War by Sun Zi, The Origins of Good and Evil by Nietzsche and a host of other books widely read throughout the ages. If one were to get over the natural desire to browse through these classics, the observer would notice that the cell was devoid of any sort of life. The only sign of recent activity in the room was a small pile of five or six dead rats off to the side, their bellies neatly sliced open and their rotting entrails formed into a series of geometric shapes. The designs had been a primary amusement of the occupant of the cell who had finished his reading some days before. It was right after finishing the entrail design that, only that evening, he had been rushed from his cell to the First Edolian Prison’s hospital wing after collapsing in his cell.
Aplören Qian lay quite still in his bed, listening to the beeping sound of his bedside life monitor and thinking about how comfortable he was. He peered around and smiled slightly. It had been all too easy. Of course, he thought, his smile lessening slightly, the inconvenience of not having eaten for five days was making his life somewhat less enjoyable, and the fall that he had suffered after forcing himself to faint in his cell had caused a rather large bump on his head, which was throbbing painfully. His next thought was that the medics who were undoubtedly watching his life signs would have noticed that he had returned to consciousness. Sighing sadly and regretting having to leave the soft pillows of his hospital bed behind, Qian tore the tubes from his body and sat up in bed. He flexed his muscles and stood up, assessing his strength. Again, he smiled to himself, although this time, the smile held a hint –more than a hint- of predatory glee. He walked slowly towards the door of the medical unit. He had spent some time observing the patterns in the hospital, and knew that there were not likely to be more than two medics observing the patients at any given time. Qian stretched his stiff muscles. He felt something snap in his back. That felt better. He went over the plan in his head quickly and wondered where the medics were. Calmly, he strode in the direction of the door, and smiled as he saw the handle begin to turn. Quickly and without making a sound, he covered the distance to the door of the medical room in three bounds.
Ventö von Grösburnit sighed. It was always something with the stupid patients. The medic stood up in his chair and stretched his arms out wide, yawning. “I’ll go check and see what’s up, Gerd,” he said to the other medic sitting next to him.
“Alright Venny,” the second man said. The man called Venny by his friends pulled out his card-key and moved towards the door. Inserting it into the slot, he unlocked the barrier that separated him with a number of rather sick felons. Like he did almost every night, he opened the door, but this time, he found himself facing, not men moaning for medical care, but rather one man, dressed in a hospital gown. The medic only had enough time to see that the other man was olive-skinned, with short, straight black hair almond shaped eyes that suggested some sort of Asiatic heritage before the patient effortlessly lifted him off his feet and threw him into the air. Ventö, a moment before colliding with the other medic, reflected briefly on the absurdity of the situation. Medical Officer Gerd, who had just looked up, barely had enough time to let out of a cry of surprise before the flying body of his partner struck him in the chest, knocking the air out of him. Looking up, Ventö found himself looking back into the face of the inmate who had thrown him.
Qian chuckled to himself. “Thanks for the care, doc,” he said heartily, has he reached down. With one hand, he took hold of one medic’s head and with a flick of the wrist, snapped his neck. The other hand formed itself into a fist, which crushed the second nurse’s windpipe. He glanced quickly over at the computers. No, it didn’t seem that anything had been noticed. He spared a moment to congratulate himself on his work before slipping off his patient’s gown and undressing one of the medics, quickly pulling on the white uniform. Generally, all the guards in the prison knew each other, but it would be better to be dressed like this than running around half naked. Qian also pocketed the two men’s ID and key cards. Rising quickly, he moved towards the back door and slid a card into the key-spot. The door clicked open and Qian glanced carefully up and down the hallway. It was clear. Qian quickly composed himself before stepping into the hall, walking with a rapid but purposed gait so as to make sure that anyone who glanced at him casually would see only a medic going about his business.
Qian crept across the courtyard. Nothing between me and freedom, he thought to himself, [I]nothing but razor wire, machine gun nests and a very secure gatehouse.[I] He smiled to himself ironically. Qian squished himself up against a wall as a searchlight passed by. Watching it move towards another part of the open space, Qian sighed, relieved.
Randell von Grüs was making his nightly patrol. He yawned, and, tucking his rifle under his arm, rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to warm them up in the cold autumn air. As he resumed walking, Randell heard the snap of a twig behind him. He froze and listened. There was silence. He looked behind him and saw nothing.
Aplören Qian was crouched down in the shadow of the high wall as he watched the guard pass by. He chuckled to himself silently. The idiot had been looking directly at him, but hadn’t stared carefully enough into the shadows to catch the hiding Qian. The former Special Forces agent slowly and silently stepped out of the shadows and once again began to follow the night guard. He was ten, nine, eight, seven meters behind the man. Six, five, four, three… Qian could smell the coffee that the guard had just finished drinking. Qian was standing right behind him when Randell von Grüs turned around. The escaping convict took a certain delight in seeing the look of bewildered surprise on the guard’s face, before he took hold of the other man’s mouth with one hand and held his gun with the other. It was a brief struggle, and although Randell had the advantage in height and weight, Qian’s years in one of the most elite Red Gerbil divisions in the Scarlet Empire made the fight far less than fair. Randell von Grüs was dead with a crushed windpipe in a matter of five seconds and Aplören Qian was the proud owner of his very own standard-issue G-16/G assault rifle. Qian continued along the wall for some one hundred meters before things began to fall apart. He was nearly at the gatehouse when he was spotted. Qian swore colorfully as a guard reached for his rifle and ran out into the middle of the field, yelling into his radio and sweeping his flashlight around. Qian sighed softly as he raised his own gun to his shoulder. It looked like this would have to be done the difficult way. He pulled the trigger and the guard silently toppled, a neat hole between his eyes. Although the guard’s death was silent, the shot was not, and Qian could palpably feel the collective attention of the prison turn to him and realized that after the gunshot, there was no point in trying to remain undetected. He charged the gatehouse, a beam of light falling directly on to him. Holding his gun in front of his face to keep off the glare, he dived off to the side, avoiding a stream of machine gun fire and momentarily losing the beam in the shadows. He landed on his knees, his gun’s sight raised to his face and pointed at the guard tower three hundred meters in front of him. Peering through the scope, he fired off a short burst of fire, not seeing whether he hit anyone or not. In front of him, two guards burst out of the gatehouse. A short kick from one of them knocked the rifle from Qian’s hands, while a punch from the other nearly collided with Qian’s face. It would have if Qian hadn’t dodged at the last minute, his head moving to the left, and his right arm catching the guard’s and pulling it towards him. Off-balance, the other man toppled to the ground. With a quick motion, Qian had crushed his face and had the guard’s rifle turned around and pointed at the second guard, who looked stunned, his own rifle still pointing away from Qian. “Give me your weapon and a keycard that will open up the door.” Qian commanded.
“Yes sir.” The other man said, and complied.
“Thanks,” Qian smiled predatorily. “The safety was on this one and I didn’t have the time to flick it off. Realization flashed on the man’s face before a bullet connected with his chest, sending him flying. Qian took a moment to turn the other safety to automatic and entered the gatehouse. He heard the tower’s machine gun begin to chatter again just as he opened the door and dived through. As he rolled along the carpeted floor, he found himself facing three more guards, each with pistols pointing directly at his head. Not even Qian, the most decorated young Rabid Gerbil operative in the history of the Scarlet Empire had any chance in such conditions, and he knew it. He dropped his guns. “I surrender,” he said quietly. The three guards relaxed. Qian knew that soon the room would be filled with armed men and regardless of the circumstances, he couldn’t fight off a dozen guards with guns in such a cramped space.
“Good fucking Lord,” he said. “Qian’s trying to escape.” Aplören Qian knew that he had made himself an object of interest during his two-year stay at the prison and it was only natural that he would have gotten something of a reputation among the guards. The captain put his pistol back in its holster and picked up a radio. “We’ve got him,” he said. “It’s number twenty-five thirteen.” He paused. “Yes sir. I’ll make sure to bring him back alive.” He put down the radio and stared down at Qian. “You son of a bitch,” he said softly. He looked at the other guards. “This bastard killed five men.” Qian began to cough.
“What is wrong with him?” asked another guard.
“He was in the hospital wing when he escaped,” replied the captain. Qian’s coughing grew increasingly violent as he forced the last contents of his stomach out towards his throat and mouth. There wasn’t much… mostly yellow bile.
“I think he’s really sick… It must be the exertion,” another guard looked worried.
“Fuck him,” the captain said coldly. Qian doubled over and began to vomit over the floor.
“Oh shit…” The guards put their pistols on their desks and bent down to help Qian. In a single, fluid movement, Qian lifted his arms off the floor and with two short jabs, gouged out the men’s eyes. The captain, surprise and outrage over his face, reached for his pistol, but Qian was too fast for him. With a single running step to give him the momentum, he was in the air, his knees connecting with the captain’s chest, forcing the man back against his desk. Qian found himself straddling the larger man’s chest.
“Sorry, captain,” he whispered into the man’s ear. “You almost caught me.” He reached down and took hold of the two sides of his opponent’s head. The captain closed his eyes as his neck was snapped. The other two guards, blind and screaming in pain felt about for their pistols. Qian reached them first and pointed the guns at their heads. Preparing to pull the triggers, he thought better of it and smiled to himself. He stood up straight and tucked the pistols into his pants. He addressed the two guards in a clear, magnanimous voice. “You should know that you are being kept alive due to the great mercy of the Lord Aplören Qian. I expect that you shall inform the people of Edölia of my great martial feats tonight.” He bowed to the blind men, unnecessarily and walked over to the coat-and-boot rack near the gatehouse exit. Qian looked up at the clock near the wall. He had only about a minute before the room would be filled with soldiers. Quickly removing the wallets from the men’s coats, he slipped on a pair of boots and a warm parka and opened the gatehouse door. With just quick look back, he stepped out into the cold.