NationStates Jolt Archive

OoC: I know it's bad "netiquette" to start this thread considering I started an intro thread already. Browser issues prevent me from viewing the original thread or even posting its contents here (content filter - although what content it's filtering... I'm not so sure), so I request that anyone who wants to participate (I can just see you all eagerly lining up now) please read the other thread "Auranom in the News (Intro RP)" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=439243) first. Please do not respond to that thread.

IC:

Newspaper Excerpt:

Prayer services which began Friday morning lasted into the night and long past the midnight deadline which would mark the official seizure of St. John’s. Parishioners remained in their pews even as workers arrived to begin dismantling the cathedral, which has stood since the structure was finished in 1322 C.E. under the reign of King Norman II. As workers removed religious artwork and began to remove furniture, they had to pry away protestors. In Tera Kynes, Nawa, workers and police had to fight their way through a human wall barring the entrance to the Church of the Holy Redeemer.

Not all resistance was non-violent. In many places, workers were pelted with stones or garbage as they arrived at the seized sites and were continually frustrated by sabotage. In Strobel, Lebanon, a tense standoff occurred between police and a man armed with an assault rifle outside the Our Lady by the Sea cathedral, which lasted three hours. Police used bean-bags to incapacitate and arrest the man. No casualties resulted from the incident.

Chairperson McKincesh was pleased that things proceeded without more difficulty. “A little resistance was to be expected,” he said, “Even a lot of resistance was to be expected, I’m just happy that no one’s been hurt and that we’re ready to begin renovating the properties for the Federal Work Bureau.” He still urges the need for vigilance, “It’s not the time to relax our guard, the possibility of violence and terrorism remains a potential threat.” Security forces are particularly concerned about the Deputy Chairperson’s meeting with the Congress of Corporate Interests scheduled for Wednesday, and police, national guard, and counterterrorist specialists have been placed on heightened alert. Bishop Daley could not be reached for comment, but has issued a letter to the churches under his jurisdiction urging priests to condemn violence and promote passive resistance to unfair federal measures.

* * * * * * *

Karl Devon wasn’t sure what pissed him off more, being woken up at an ungodly three in the morning, or being woken up at an ungodly three in the morning by the cellular phone he had threatened to smash with a rock hundreds of times. He kicked out the sheets on his bed and threw himself to a position sitting upright. In the darkness of his bedroom, his sleep-blurred eyes could not make out gray from gray. His hand shot out toward the source of incessant ringing, flipped up the cover, pressed phone to ear.

“Good morning, Mr. Devon.” The voice was intentionally non-descript, with a croaking quality overlaid in whisper, “This is a wake up call. A vehicle will arrive in one hour. Be ready.” -Click!-

His heart skipped, sending an electric tingle up his spine that brought bile to the back of his tongue. He took long, slow breaths, futilely hoping to calm his fluttering heart. This! This was it! This was the Phone Call! No abstract predictions of the Futures-That-May-Be could match the excitement of the realized Now. He crept to the bureau and slowly drew out the drawers, throwing on a pair of slacks and a wrinkled collared shirt barely visible in the darkened bedroom. Devon looked at his sleeping wife. She did not know - she could not understand the depth of his conviction, the wrath that welled in him when he heard his fellows derided by all social and governmental authority. It would hurt her, he thought, to leave without farewell. But he did not have time for wakenings, for half-explanations to a groggy audience in the dark, so like a dream and soon forgotten.

In his living room, crouched over a coffee table and writing by the light of a lamp that they had never been able to sell at their biannual garage sale, he penned a note. He thought it terribly simple, and was embarrassed that it took so much mental effort to get the words, the ceaseless trains of running thought twisting his mind apart and together at the same time, onto the page in any form of coherence. He managed:

“I am leaving for I hope a short time. Can’t tell where. May return. May not. You will know what happens. Love you – Karl”

As he finished scrawling the note in his awkward, almost childish handwriting, he looked up to see a pair of headlights hovering in his driveway.

The figure in the driver's seat was an odd one, to be sure. From behind the headlights a lizard-like head could be seen, with a pair of ear-fins arching back behind his head an inch or so. Rayvik Telran was an Argonian, of the disillusioned type. Clad in a turtle neck sweater the color of gun metal and a pair of black cargo pants, he bore some resemblance to a Russian sailor. The Glock 34 under his left shoulder didn't help matters. He was built solidly, his ancestors must have been some hardy stock indeed. With the chest dimensions of a beer keg, it was likely the sweater was the only thing in his closest that fit without needing a trip to the tailor's...

The car was an old-style Mercedes, a big black monstrosity with chrome detailing and suicide doors. A powerful V8 engine purred beneath the hood, fine-tuned by Ray's, as he liked to be known, own clawed hands. Ray sat in the leather seat, patiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The driving gloves on his scaly hands spoke of a career as a wheelman, judging by their worn look. He didn't dare honk the horn, rather he simply blinked the lights a few times to try and get the guy's attention.

Ray had no idea who he was supposed to pick up, and other than the address, he didn't know any more about the man than someone from China, for example, would know, given the circumstances...

OOC: Hope I didn't impose on any storyline. If so, I can change it pretty easily.

OoC: I would expect someone more... "human" shall we say? But that's no problem.

Karl thought he heard a creak from upstairs, then silence. Cheryl must've rolled over in her sleep. He crammed the note into the refrigerator door, so that as soon as she opened it in the morning looking for breakfast, the short letter would flutter out and catch her eye. The headlights flashed once - twice - three times now. The springs squeaked as Cheryl woke from a dream, coughed half-asleep, and fell back into the misty netherworld. The hinges squeaked as Karl gently pressed the front door open and ventured into the air of a summer night, as thick with heat now as at noon.

The driver was idly tapping on the steering wheel as Karl pulled himself into the passenger seat - and froze. It took him only a second, but his brain spread that one second out into a period most people would call hours, to absorb the driver's appearance. The reptilian visage, casually attired and armed, struck a chord of primordial dread in Karl's guts. He recalled the rumors that Crusaders relied on foreign, imported zealots to fill in gaps in their manpower, but here was the reality. Always, the Reality! the Doing so much more real than any dreaming or anxiety. At once, his social graces returned to him, and he nodded offerring a grunt that might have sounded like "Hello," to some, or "Hunvgh" to most.

The following is a private briefing memo from Chairperson McKincesh to Vice Chair John P. Caroll.

From the Office of the Chairperson

John,

Can't stress this enough - this meeting makes or breaks the FWB.

Might have to make concessions to the MacMillan Interest, might have to relegalize private armaments, offer monopolies in defense contracts - financial support from them is absolutely vital and we can't count on them.

Ignore Clark and Kelly Interests, other agricultural firms are too small to assist much.

Shah Interest can take over consumer goods if they give support, finances, offer to comply with FWB. Maxwell and Stott Interests will be upset - obviously don't mention Shah monopoly offer to anyone but Shahs - during meetings pledge no increase in Federal control for as long as necessary to get their votes.

Pledge no increase in Fed control to all small Interests. Willing to lax restrictions on pharmaceuticals for Morris, Wilhelm, and Stroppe Interests. Remind all that the FWB is the only way to ensure they'll be repaid. Press hard John,

-Ian

OoC: The above is not public knowledge, is meant only to establish the gov'ts situation - that it will be begging the seminationalized corporate "Interests" to loan more money and lend support to the proposed Federal Work Bureau.

* * * * * * *

OoC: The following is a security briefing presented to the Chairperson, however, the information it reveals could also be collected by foreign intelligence services.

More Violence Expected
Delivered by Federal Intelligence Network

Several factors lead us to believe that despite current calm, violence is not merely likely but inevitably going to occur against the gov't within the next three weeks.

Continued economic recession in all sectors has led to disillusionment, gov't alienation, resentment. Forced purchase of churches from Christian (C)factions has further alienated that demographic. This may lead the C's to view gov't as oppressive enemy, an unhealthy attitude for us. If it has not done so already, resentment will soon explode into open hostility in the face of continued insults against C religion.

1995's firearms ban continues to haunt us. Weapons are purchased illegally from foreign sources and local manufacturers. MacMillan Interest may be selling arms to private citizens through secret channels (to be verified). Weapons in private ownership before the ban are not all accounted for. C's may possibly be armed with lethal force.

Illegal immigration is increasing. Crew from foreign merchant marine jump ship with unnerving frequency, and western border patrols are coming across more and more inbounds, which means an unknown number are getting through. We suspect a large number of people from all races, some non-human, are entering the nation, and the spike in illegal entries coincides with forced purchase.

Summary: C's are incensed and armed, and are being supplemented by foreign zealots.

Recommend: Immediate retaliatory or reconciliatory action. Take one extreme or the other, but middle ground will hurt more than help.

* * * * * * *

Ian McKincesh always felt nervous before a speech, and it showed. He hated to watch himself on tape, because for the first five minutes he would bob from side to side and stutter to no end. Then, as if he were slowly working the knots out of his guts with his fingers, he'd calm down and begin to get caught up in the speech and capture the energy of the room.

This is why he never said anything important in the first five minutes of a speech.

Excerpted from Wed. Aug 24 nighttime address to the nation:

"...I think what I have been trying to say up to this point is, I may have been too careless in my speech. The Bishop Ryan Daley has insisted that the Cathedrals stand not merely for Christianity, but for the history of Auranom itself. That history is something we cannot afford to lose! But I assure you I never intended that we lose it, merely that we not let the needs of the past supercede the needs of the present and future.

I stand by my decision: those properties will be developed for the good of Auranom, and the Federal Work Bureau will go forward. I am not taking a step back, but leading us forward! And in so doing, I shall not destroy the past, but preserve it as it deserves to be preserved, and so the great building that was once St. John's shall still stand, though it will be now the house of the will of the People rather than that of some god. Its artwork and stained glass windows, depicting the lives of the Saints and myths whose example we try to follow, shall be preserved in museums for public display, that we should not forget our past, but bring it with us into the future...

Bishop Daley's critique:

"Well certainly I am a bit offended by some of his comments, but I've come to expect that from him. That's who he is, it's what he believes, and it's how he lets us know. So a few underhanded shots at the faith aren't so bad from him. I'm glad he came to his senses somewhat and decided not to destroy all the priceless artifacts we couldn't bring with us to the new church, uh, it's a great piece of Auranish and Christian history, and it would be terrible to lose it. I think what he's doing, you know, it isn't great, but it's certainly better than the original game plan."

OoC: Open?

OoC: Open?

OoC: Yes. Very yes.

Northampton, Imitora

"So, what do you think?" the voice asked. It belonged to a Hispanic male, who looked in his late 50s. He also dressed in a way that many in Imitora new very well. The dress of a Jesuit priest. He was sitting in a rather large, overstuffed leather chair, sipping a glass of warm brandy, speaking with another similarly dressed priest.

Except he wasn't a priest. Bishop James O'Connor, SM simply sipped a glass of water. The Bishop of Imitora, and representative to the Vatican, was contimplating the situation. "Well, there is no proof that this would effect the Catholic Church's standing in Imitora in anyway. Hell, I really dont see how outside this," he paused to look at the sheet, "Auranom. Of course, something makes you think that it will. May I ask?"

"Well, how not. Other struggling nations would see this, and think the same thing. And the next thing we know, nations are kicking the Church out left and right. Might become a big thing."

"Thats a mighty large if. In fact, its beyond a big if, its a rather large improbability. But then again, that's never stopped you from suggesting this." The Bishop was refering to the priest's past suggestion to use force in backing of the Catholic church in other nations, only to end in disaster.

"Listen, I just have a feeling. More so than the Iansisle one. This one feels real."

The Bishop shrugged. "I can't ask the First Speaker to dedicate troops to this situation. It would be a rather large breach of conduct. Plus, I've been monitering the situation just as much as you have, and you know we can't regardless of cost, ask the Gladeius Dei to move in on behalf of the local Catholic diosocesse. And the Bishop in charge down there doesn't want violence to solve the situation. I know the Galdeius is a private organization, but its their own policy. They wont accept a charge on behalf of the Church without approval from the Church."

"What about the second option?"

"Domingo, you know the risks in that? If we were connected to any operation, we would be in serious trouble. We almost got nailed with the Green Flag operation, this could put us even closer."

"Not if I pick. I can get some operatives togther, get a cell in, and they can go to work. Get weapons in country, blow some shit up, make a point, then get out. Just like in the Green Flag operation, but not connected to the Gladeius."

The Bishop sighed. "FIne, get on it. But its your ass if the shit hits."

"Yessir," Domingo replied a smooth, single tone. "I'll be right on it." He stood, and left the office of the Bishop of Imitora, heading towards a car, and to a private office. From there, he would start contacting operatives and soldiers currently in the employ of the Gladieus Dei. Activating the Cestus option was one that took severe care.

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v209/Dionysus777/5Btag5D.jpg

The moon that cut the darkness of the night allowed the small team to avoid usage of the NVGs. The group was dressed as one would expect: cammo pants and black BDU shirts, assault vests, and rifles. The small portion of hte border that they had picked was deserted, and they moved silently into Auranom. They had been tasked with one mission. Their goal was to disrupt the government actions as much as possible.

The group leader, Josh Hanely, was the most expierienced of the outift, serving seven years in the Imitora Colonial Marine Corp before joining the mercenary unit known as the Gladieus Dei. He had been involved in operations in serverl nations, and his skill and leadership abilities put him top in line to command the Cestus Dei unit.

After an hours worth of sneaking through the undergrowth into Auranom, Hanley stood, and signaled his men to stop. He looked around, and nodded. "Alright, we're in. Just gotta find a way into the city, meet up with some of the opposition."

OoC: I would expect someone more... "human" shall we say? But that's no problem.

Karl thought he heard a creak from upstairs, then silence. Cheryl must've rolled over in her sleep. He crammed the note into the refrigerator door, so that as soon as she opened it in the morning looking for breakfast, the short letter would flutter out and catch her eye. The headlights flashed once - twice - three times now. The springs squeaked as Cheryl woke from a dream, coughed half-asleep, and fell back into the misty netherworld. The hinges squeaked as Karl gently pressed the front door open and ventured into the air of a summer night, as thick with heat now as at noon.

The driver was idly tapping on the steering wheel as Karl pulled himself into the passenger seat - and froze. It took him only a second, but his brain spread that one second out into a period most people would call hours, to absorb the driver's appearance. The reptilian visage, casually attired and armed, struck a chord of primordial dread in Karl's guts. He recalled the rumors that Crusaders relied on foreign, imported zealots to fill in gaps in their manpower, but here was the reality. Always, the Reality! the Doing so much more real than any dreaming or anxiety. At once, his social graces returned to him, and he nodded offerring a grunt that might have sounded like "Hello," to some, or "Hunvgh" to most.

The driver nodded, then turned to back out of the driveway. Once they'd gotten underway, he spoke...

"You're Karl, I take it..."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement...

The driver nodded, then turned to back out of the driveway. Once they'd gotten underway, he spoke...

"You're Karl, I take it..."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement...

The dumpy little man nodded nervously, and added, "Yes, Karl, yep." He wondered for the umptieth time what narcotics had been in his system the night he went to the church at one in the morning for a special "sermon and responsorial." Why had he joined in the pledging?

The Heathen shall have no power over me,
For he has forsaken the Most High,
And made himself as a god.
So let him be struck by the sword.
And if I am to strike, then from my hand shall come the strike,
'For He has given the sword to be polished
That it may be handled.
This sword is sharpened and it is polished
To be given into the hand of the slayer.'
Death and Hell have no power against me,
And I shall fear neither.
The Heathen shall be destroyed by the Cross-Signed,
And the Cruciata shall grant neither quarter nor mercy,
And the Cruciata shall receive neither quarter nor mercy,
But at the appointed time I shall accept death as the cup for my drinking,
And offer that cup for all to drink.
So then I side with God,
And with God shall I crush the Seditious Ruler,
And make again God the Lord of the Nation, who is alone Sovereign.
Amen.

The last of his youthful muscles had just submerged beneath his aging fat and flesh, and the first of his hairs were beginning to fall away from his salted scalp. He could see himself about to crest the hill into middle age and decline, and it was at this moment he thought to himself Why couldn't I just get a motorcycle?

OoC: I'll try to post more later or tomorrow about the other goings-on.

OoC: I am terribly sorry that I haven't been able to really respond recently. The joys of endless marching, marching, marching have kept me from the computer for the past week. I have a four-day break before I get to enjoy further marching, so I'll try to keep active while I can.


-----------------------------------------------

IC:

An Apartment Across from the Williams National Finance Center in Nazarene, Nawa ~~

Todd Kilmer had what could be called "Opening Night Jitters." Of course, the Opening Night was still four days off, but he could afford to be a little tense. The curtains would rise on this show but once, and his cast would have a single opportunity to dazzle the audience of the entire planet, and draw them to a standing ovation. He reviewed again the Cast List, as the cell organizers called it:

CAST --
Direction - Kilmer, Todd

Devon, Karl
Ersching, Walter
Morner, Salem
Zonszien, Wesley

Direction responsible for equipment and cast-call.

It had proven unnervingly simple to bring the appropriate equipment into the apartment: two AK-47s and a handful of nine and ten millimeter pistols with concealed holsters were brought in stowed amongst some rather hideous beachwear delivered to the room by an old friend visiting Todd (and Nazarene's modest shoreline). Stashed here, well within the police protection ring, the operatives could easily conduct their work without interruption, so long as they acted intelligently.

This, however, was not something that could be counted on. While the press tended to portray the Crusaders as a terrible army cloaked in shadow, willing to kill anything for their God, the truth was that many Cruciata were aging and stubborn, neither understanding the oaths they had made nor able to carry their share of the Crusade's burden. The underpaid police forces in Auranom were little threat compared to the inadequacy of the Crusaders themselves. It did not untangle his knotted stomach to know that his operatives had been selected by lottery from the entire pool of Crusade members, regardless of their previous service or ability.

Relax, he told himself, only worry about what you can do, not what they might do. It sounded to him like something Christ might have said. Stop worrying about that imaginary horror called The Future and just focus on living day by day. And now - the weapons safely concealed beneath a heap of soiled clothes, the reservations in hotels made round the city for the four operatives - there was nothing left to worry for. Opening Night was still four days away.

* * * * * * *

Auranish Border

It was luck, really. Dana Wyndham-Madison had just been trying to figure out for the nineteenth time in her head whether the promise of marginal overtime pay really justified accepting another eight hour patrol shift. She had meant to work out, on paper, how much pay she ought to receive, and from that number work out the pay she would probably actually receive. She had just reached for the map light in her border patrol car, just knocked the rear view mirror the right way to catch a line of shadows stalking behind the car.

Not right behind, of course, but further off. She watched the image in her mirror intently, wondering if she was really making out the human forms she saw or if that was just a trick of darkness and loneliness. Then the moonlight caught one, and he seemed to flare brightly for just a second. She could see the whole person revealed without doubt: camoflauge and black, body armor and assault rifles. That made her almost choke: a professional, foreign infiltration team, not the usual zealous yokels wandering across the border. She ducked beneath the window level of her car and pulled the radio mic to her mouth.

"Ed, Ed! You hear me Ed? I'm like nine feet from Post ten-nineteen, and I got a big problem. I got a nasty-lookin bunch of illegals coming in, not your usuals either. Looks like foreign mercs or spec ops, I'll try to watch but I can't get him."

Within an hour, the message had made its way through an elaborate bureaucracy, and a counterinfiltration unit was being prepped to investigate Border Post 1019, though perhaps it was already too late...

22nd Border Patrol Squadron Headquarters
0302 Hours

While most of the country slept peacefully, the 22nd Border Squad were doing their best to keep awake. Patrollers washed down caffeine pills with black coffee - a concoction they had labeled "Midnight Oil." It was as toxic a potion as any, but happily provided by the government because it was cheaper than hiring more border police. Drug-charged, the men and women of the 22nd tried to focus their minds upon the emergency briefing being given them.


Officer Wyndham-Madison reported sighting multiple illegals infiltrating at BP-1019 at 0211 Hours this morning. She reported them as being professional combatants, possibly foreign mercenaries or special operations units. We cannot be certain of their intent, but the possibility that they are hostile is considerable. We suspect they may be heading North-North-West, toward Zanadu, or possibly Seshar, with unknown purpose. We hope to intercept them before they can inflict any harm. Peaceable resolution is of course preferable, but be prepared for a hostile response

The SUVs in the garage roared to life, their caffeine-pumped occupants pressing shell after shell of twelve-gauge into their semi-automatic shotguns "just in case."

Twelve miles south, Dana Wyndham-Madison lay asleep behind the wheel of her SUV.

* * * * * * *

Fires and Tempers Rage in Mont Bleu
Auranom National Syndication

A man was arrested in the capital of Charlois today after he threw a molotov cocktail into the second story of the capitol building. The gasoline-filled bottle set fire to several offices and destroyed a number of census and taxation documents. The total damage incurred has yet to be assessed.

Police arrested a suspect later based on the descriptions of several eyewitnesses. Bob Skwarek, 41, was taken in on charges of arson and vandalism. Skwarek did not seem to regret the crime, saying "The time has come for the frauds in the capitol to be consumed in Holy Fire."

Skwarek's neighbor, Jeanne Wilder, mentioned that he had been acting erratically and somewhat agitated in the past weeks, but she hadn't suspected that he would do such a thing.

Mr. Skwarek is being held by the Mont Bleu Sheriff's dept. without bail. Most seem to agree that he will plead guilty to the charges against him when he is brought before a judge next week.

The officers of the 22nd Border Patrol Squadron weren't the only people awake at 3 a.m. that morning. In the White Office of the Federal Mansion, the marble room famous from so many behind-the-desk speeches, Ian McKincesh was curled against a wall in what was almost a fetal position, grasping his legs tightly to his chest and staring into the air. When he had come to office, he was the dynamic, level-headed leader the country wanted. Young. Smart. Witty. He had been all about cutting the crap and getting things done. He had been about live-and-let-live, down-to-Earth, human leadership. He had been about jokes and firm handshakes and a sincerity carefully crafted but naturally executed.

But that intimacy, so rare between politician and populace, had soured. The marriage of nation and state seemed headed toward a brutal divorce. His black hair that swept about his face had thinned and grayed, his eyes had sunken and grown red, his face hardened and cracked with wrinkles. The merciless recession crushed the industries and sank the economy and the country was going with them. It seemed he could do nothing to slow the relentless monster. It seemed to devour jobs and cash and the very will to continue, and all that he had managed in attempting to sate the beast was a quintupling of foreign debts and the complete alienation of a fifth of the population.

He sometimes felt pangs of compassion and sympathy for the Christians. Isolation and rejection and ridicule and oppression were the very things he suffered under as well. He could identify with that cross, even if he could not bring himself to place a God upon it. When he had been elected Chairperson, he had ridden a wave of backlash against Conservatism and The Old Auranom and promised that the New Freedom would bring a golden age of liberty from gods and goddesses, and in destroying the Heaven beyond the Earth, would make the real world a more heavenly place. Now that had become the stale status quo, and the pendulum of action was swinging back and threatening to destroy him, unless he could somehow arrest its motion.

And that brought him back to the crucial meeting. In a mere four - well, now three - days, the Deputy Chair would meet with the C.C.I. and secure support for his last-ditch make or break effort to save Auranom from total collapse. And if that failed.

If that failed.

Oh the terrors that that tiny Fifth would unleash if that should fail.

Morning broke near Border Post 1019, nearly blinding the exhausted 22nd Border Patrol Squadron. All night they had swerved their SUVs over a great line from the marker to Zanadu, hoping to stir up the illegals, and all it had earned them was a flat tire on Car Two. Through the spit and crackle of radio static came the blessed order to return from their fruitless endeavor, and let the 23rd take over in the search. True, the 23rd would probably be no more successful, and by now the illegals could be nearly anywhere in the countryside or cities, but that mattered little after a twenty-hour shift.

Well, at least to the 22nd it mattered little.

* * * * * * *

When Ian McKincesh first read the report that had snaked its way from the 22nd's Headquarters through the layers of bureaucrats separating police and the Federal Executives, he almost cried. He wavered for a moment, his eyes watery, unable to speak with a knot in his throat. Another thing! Another wrong thing! Another...

The Chair of Police looked at him, "Mister McKincesh, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine - it's been a lot lately, you know? This is just - this is just bad."

"We knew this was a possibility when we cut down border security."

"Don't give me an I-told-you-so. If we didn't cut the border, the whole country would have gone down a year ago. Besides, we didn't know this was a possibility. We figured there'd be more aliens, a little spike in migrant labor, might even help us - not foreign death squads."

The Chair of Police simply nodded. "Well, we know they probably aren't friendly, or else they might've tried a more front-door approach. Of course there's always the chance that this is a training exercise or that they're simply lost."

"Eh... not likely, I wouldn't put much stock in a spec ops unit that could get lost, and I think they'd let us know if they were going to be training near or within our border."

Hell, Ian, there's a good shot they aren't even there. The woman who phoned in the report had been working eighteen hours, was probably keeping herself going on caffeine alone. Maybe she was asleep for a moment and didn't realize it. After all, the 22nd didnt turn up any evidence after following her lead."

McKincesh seemed to relax a bit considering this option - a real possibility, and an easy problem that needed no solution. And yet he still trembled, for what if that first officer had been right? What if she saw the vanguard of a foreign invasion slinking across the border and he did nothing? Should his wishful thinking be responsible for the downfall of a nation? "You might be right about that, but we can't afford to be wrong. Look, I don't want to lose any more sleep than I do already, so let's try to resolve this quickly. Call the police in Zanadu and get some police choppers in the air to assist the 23rd, and send alerts to the police departments near that part of the border. I'll get Greg to alert the national guard divisions down there in case we need a larger response, but I think we'll be okay." I hope we'll be okay

OOC: Good stuff, it's very nice to read.

IC:
State Documentation and Archive Ministry ~ Hoogenbosch

Appalling and shocking, those are the words to describe these happenings. Sickening? No, that's too strong. Maybe... No. That's not right either. The government penpusher was busy as always writing and rectifying statements, speeches and other important documents before the President Christopher Watermont was going to read them on national television. The prime subject of this evening were most disturbing events in a nation Auranom, new but already classified as 'a potential threat' in a more recent speech. Normally Mr Watermont isn't very happy with adressing the nation with religious affairs, but this time the whole situation is having a strong political scent, so it's reasonably safe to tread on the thin ice of religion.

Hours later...

The president wasn't very happy with all of this, and it was easy to notice. But a few things were different... a lot more propaganda was in his speech, more patriotism than normal. What Watermont said doesn't even matter. He's not happy with all the things going on down there, he condemns it, and hopes for a peaceful solution. The standard politically correct reply from a dictator. Thankfully Guffingford's not going to do anything with the army - or getting involved diplomatically. Just the routine of a few lies on national television, propaganda and some fear to keep the masses down.

OOC: Good stuff, it's very nice to read.

OoC: Thanks

IC:

3 September, 2005 will always be remembered as the day when a nation awoke to find a strange document copied posted in thousands of public places – on street lamps and telephone poles, on supermarket doors. Carried out in strange secrecy by hundreds of individuals, it became known as…

The New Order Sermon

Since man and woman first tasted the flesh of the forbidden fruit, they have sought to make themselves as God. God has been kind to them, He has nurtured and sustained them, He has allowed them to grow greatly in number and conquer the Earth. In His Love, He even saved them by bearing all their cruelty, selfishness, and sin upon Himself and destroyed the power of those things by rising again from the grave. He bestows blessings upon the Righteous and the Wicked though neither are deserving of the least drop of His divine grace. Still, man wishes to be sole master of His domain, submitting to no authority but his own, and rebels against God.

Yet God in His mercy and loving-kindness does not strike man down, but exalts him! So that man should not destroy himself in his own wickedness, He grants to him some measure of grace. To some men, God gives charity, to others wisdom, to others hope, and to others the power to lead their fellow-men, and there are many gifts besides these. It is a great sorrow that men should use their powers for any pursuit other than God’s – but it is a great crime that they should use their powers against God.

And it is this that concerns us greatly, for some of these gifts are more dangerous when they are turned against the Lord. A charitable man with the wrong purpose may endanger no one, and a wise man who opposes the Lord God may ensnare a few, and a hopeful man who turns to pessimism may bring with him a few more, but only he who leads can turn against God and bring a nation with him! By his authority, he can damn not merely three or thirty, but thirty million! All authority is derived from God, but when the holder of authority turns against God and brings thirty million with him to oppose our Creator, shall we let him do so? No! A thousand times No!

It is clear by the actions of the federal authorities of Auranom that they wish to bring the nation and its thirty millions against God Himself, and that in wishing to do so have done so already. Auranom is therefore a province in rebellion against God’s Kingdom, and a state of civil war therefore exists between the Democratic Republic of Auranom and God Himself. We urge the rebellious elements of the Federal Government, including Chairperson McKincesh and the entire Federal Executive Board to surrender their authority immediately and peaceably.

If the rebels choose not to do so, then as loyalists of God’s Kingdom, we shall join with the forces of the Most High in subduing them. We are willing to submit to the horror of War if it may bring us closer to the Peace of God, and we will die nobly as soldiers for our King. The men who would make themselves as God shall be brought low and trampled beneath us, and a new order shall be lifted up, one guided by the Cross and the One True God which shall endure forever as a member of God’s Kingdom. If the rebels will not surrender, then not one shall be safe from his rightful sentence of death, and they shall be swept away in fire and blood.

Signed,
Ezekiel,
Grand Master of the Last Crusade
And Herald of the New Order

OOC: sorry I havent been around, busty with school and my new job, but I'm still here, lol.

IC:

The small team had managed to make it across the border effectively, however, by some random chance or action, someone had seen them. But, like the ghosts they were, they disapeared, quietly, and managed to stay out of the searchers' sight. They were sitting in a lying up position outside of a small border town as light crested the horrizon, and the sun broke the bonds of distance, slowly climbing up into the sky.

"Alright boyos," an Irish sounding voice said quietly, "we did it."

"Hardly," a gruffer, almost southern voice said. That voice belonged to the unit leader, Hanely. "I still think we shoulda popped that bitch in the jeep. Woulda made it a bit easier to break the border."

"Look at it this way," one of the other operatives said. "By not taking her out, we made it a touch easier. With her not dead, they have no real proof of our entrance."

"Yeah, still. I woulda rather left no bodies." Hanely sighed, as he checked his watch, and grabbed his rifle, a UMAC CAR-48, similar to an M4, but chambered in 6.7mm. "Alright, we need to find a ride. Get a bit up north, hook up with any rebels. Wanna break?"

"Yeah, I think it would be best," the Irish operative replied.

"Alright, then its done. As always, pleasure working with you boys, and I'll see ya back here in a month or so. Oh, and yeah. Good luck," Hanley finished. He grabbed his rifle, checked the straps on his assault vest, and nodded. He hated going out on the own, the get in, split it up and work on your own ops, but it really was the best way to work in a operation like this. He pulled himself up over the ditch they were in, and moved towards the highway slowly, watching for any look outs.

He really hoped this wouldn't end up like the last time they were ordered for a split op, with him being the only one coming out alive.

Rayvik leaned his large reptillian foot on the gas a bit more. They weren't going to be late, but he hated being on time. Early was always best. Early equaled return jobs & substantial bonuses. Late usually amounted to an early retirement of the fatal variety, since that first incident he'd worn the long-slide automatic under his shoulder everywhere he went. Chances not taken typically don't come around to bite you in the ass later.

It began to rain, little patters & splatters across the highly polished bulletproof windshield. Ray flipped the wiper lever with a flick of a scaly pinkie finger, a practiced motion so automatic he hardly knew he'd done it...

OOC: Where exactly is the destination for Mr. Karl?

OoC: He's supposed to be joining the cell in Nazarene, Nawa, across from the Williams National Financial Center.

OoC: He's supposed to be joining the cell in Nazarene, Nawa, across from the Williams National Financial Center.

Nazarene was twenty minutes away, and he still had to find the Financial Center that the drop-off point was across from. The man next to him struck him as the frustrated middle-aged buisnessman, eager to strike back at the world that had shut him up in a cubicle & chained him to a keyboard. Fidgety, jumpy, and generally not enjoyable to be around...

Nazarene, Nawa

Karl didn't like the feel of the seatbelt right against his neck, so he shifted it down to his shoulder.

It slid back.

He slid it by his shoulder again and leaned against it so it wouldn't move. Then he couldn't find a comfortable position for his head, so he tried to twist his neck backward.

The seatbelt slid back.

He finally decided to throw his arm over the seatbelt so it wouldn't bother him. Then he considered how unsafe this would be in a car accident and placed it against his neck again. He glanced at the clock. How much longer to the Williams Center? The site of every parked police car they passed nearly made him jump, and each pair of headlights that appeared in the rearview for a few blocks or crossed at intersections or turned on the main road from a sidestreet overwhelmed him with nausea. He could think only of being captured, questioned, and killed for treason. Treason, after all, was what he planned - sedition! He was going to overthrow the government, wasn't that the pledge? How much mercy would his captors show then?

In the night, everything seemed close and horrible, full of resentful spirit. Even the car and the driver seemed to dislike him, hissing in discontent. On the streets, strange folk walked about, posting strange notices on telephone poles and fences and walls with fretful motions.

Finally, the car turned at a deserted intersection into the great Church of Commerce - the Williams Financial District. Buildings were monolithic steel and glass mock-ups of gothic architechture - massive arcs over slender columns and rocketing spires praising a god called Money. Beautiful transparent bridges of metal and crystal connected building to building, but in the night, yellow streetlights made them seem somehow unfriendly.

Then, the greatest steeple of all: The Williams National Finance Center. Between the two Great Doors stood the famous "Money-Man" Statue, a likeness of the architect, G. K. Penny, made entirely of Auranish pennies and powerful adhesive. Across from the Center was an apartment complex built in the lavish new Eco-LifeStyle. The walls were of recycled aluminum, stylishly melded together so that if you were close enough, you could see they still read Coca-Cola Classic and Schwinn and all the little fragments of old bicycles and doorknobs and cans of tomato sauce and soup. The top of the building was crowned with a dome-shaped greenhouse, where a miniature rainforest was nurtured by constant sprays of water and chemical fertilizers from pipes arranged in the geodesic framework supporting the dome. In reality, the construction and maintenance of such facilities were probably more damaging to the environment than all the factories in Nawa, but the important thing was that they looked quite Eco-Friendly.

The car came to a gentle stop. Karl unbuckled himself and stepped out, then looked back into the driver's seat, wondering if he ought to shake the lizard-man's hand or something, but the lizard was gone. He was already walking to the Eco-LifeStyle apartment. Karl wondered if he were to join the Crusade as well. Or more likely, if he had yet to be paid for the job. He scurried across the street after the walking reptile.

Ten minutes later, they were upstairs, meeting the cast.

OoC:

Wandering Argonians, if in any way there's a problem with the post (and the liberties I took with your character) tell me and I'll change it.

And sorta for my own sanity, I just want to put things into a bit of a timeline, because the plotlines aren't all at the same place --

Early in the Week:
Auranom buys off the Churches,
Imitoran Gladieus Dei decide to intervene

Sept. 3
Cestus Dei crosses the border into Auranom
22nd Squad reacts to border alert
Chairman McKincesh stays up late
Rayvik takes Karl to Nazarene
22nd calls off the alert/Cestus Dei split up
Morning, Sept. 3 -
People wake up to find the New Order Sermon widely posted
Afternoon, Sept. 3 -
Man sets fire to capitol building

Just seemed like everything needed to be put together or else Karl was going to be on one long car ride.

Henly had spent the good portion of the day moving along a ditch that ran parrallel to the road he was following. He moved low, crouched below the edge, diving down whenever he heard cars comming. He was tired, but kept pushing on. His GPS system had broken durring the drop near the border, having fallen out of his pouch, and impacting the ground when the airborne operatives were still near a mile up. It hadn't survived the fall.

No, know, he was moving, trying to find a town that looked like the kind where any anti-government cell would be operating, and hopefully get some shut eye before doing what he did best: causing havoc. He heard the sound of tires rolling on pavement, and he dropped, again checking his rifle, waiting for an engagement.

OOC: Auanom, where should I head with Josh?

Rayvik left the car parked in front of the Financial Center, and headed for the little apartment his employers had rented for him. His paycheck would arrive via a courier, hopefully in the next few hours.

The rolling lock clicked into place as the Argonian wheelman rotated the lever, locking out the rest of the world. With company expected, it was time for a functions check. Rayvik dropped the magazine, and pulled the slide to the rear, catching the ejecting round as it flew. The slide slapped forwards as he released it, aligning the sights with a distant lamp and squeezed the trigger. The non-visible hammer clacked forward with a faint click, and Rayvik locked the slide to the rear, inserting the spare round in the chamber & letting the slide fly forward. The polymer magazine slid back into frame, and the model 34 went back in the holster.

His weapons check done, Ray flopped down on the sofa & clicked on the TV...

OoC: I apologize again for the leave of absence... school and band don't leave me alot of time for NS. I'll try to keep this moving along as often as I can though.

Imitora - Josh might head to one of the churches in Zanadu for sanctuary and hope to meet the rebellion there... he'd have to ditch the gun if he wanted to walk in broad daylight, obviously. TG me if you still need more specifics.

IC:

Todd watched with burning eyes as the car came to a stop in front of the Eco-LifeStyle Apartment and the two figures emerged from it - one skittish and fat, the other tall and collected. He knew, with a sense of fatal dread and not a little disgust that the skittish, fat thing was his man and the shade who struck him as being a decent trooper was a foreign merc who would leave as soon as he was paid. His eyes teared up again and itched unbearably: he had been awake thirty-six hours with his contact lenses in for all of them, but two drops of Visine washed the itch away.

The elevator slid smoothly down its chute, its machinery sighed and yawned at each passing floor. It opened on a lobby, empty save for one character, doubled over on a chair, practically glowing green at the gills. It was the fat, skittish man.

"Karl Devon?" asked Kilmer.

"Yes."

"Where's your driver?"

"I think he went upstairs."

"Come with me." The middle-aged fellow accompanied the younger revolutionary back to the elevator, looking ill, as if he were stepping off a dinghy that had been caught in a storm.

Apartment 7-G was tucked in the corner of a hallway, so out of the way that most residents still thought it was just a maintenance closet. It had been a long time deserted, until, of course, some higher ups in the Crusade had decided to rent it out as a temporary residence for the hired help.

"Stay here," Kilmer told Karl, indicating a loose chair in the hallway for the older man to sit on. As he walked toward the door, Karl caught sight of a nine-millimeter handgun tucked into Kilmer's waistband. Noting the older man's glance, Kilmer said, "Some mercs are a bit crazy. Can't be unprepared."

He rapped lightly at the door, which cracked open ever so slightly. Kilmer knew that behind it, the hire-on was probably standing with his gun drawn in case he didn't like the deal, and was prepared to shoot through the door to take out the employer. He started quickly, even while wrapping his right hand around the handle of his gun.

"I have the payment as promised for your transport services." He looked back at Karl, "But I would like to discuss extending your employment to include some combat..."

The door creaked, prompting Rayvik to pull his own nine-milimeter and aim it in the direction of the doorway. He could have sworn he'd locked the deadbolt, and at least put the safety chain in place. It didn't matter now...

"I prefer it when people actually knock instead of inviting themselves in..."

A shotgun would have been quite handy at this point, the distinctive clack of the pump-action being operated usually discouraged further entry. Rayvik's tone was that of annoyance laced with a bit of anger, more with himself for having left a more persuasive item in the trunk of his Mercedes.
His fin-ears pricked up slightly at the mention of combat...

"I'm done with the frontline bullshit. My job description was 'wheelman'. My nine-mil is for personal protection only..."

The Benelli Super M90 in the trunk was there for the same purpose, the Argonian reminded himself, wishing he'd brought the semi-automatic shotgun in from his vehicle...

"How much?"

Bars had always been his favorite places to hang out. The anonymity they provided was perfect for his line of work. Where there was conflict, he was there. Where there was violence, he'd typically sold the tools to both sides. He was an arms dealer, and member of a private military corporation of some repute. The name was Marcus Scotts, former US Army Ranger and currently serving with the RDPMC, and getting paid a whole helluva lot better than he had been.

The sweet toys were always a nice perk, too...

Scotts had been deployed to Auranom with his typical partner, Jackson Davis. Davis sat across from him, a look of nonchalance on his face. He was a former Eighteen-Bravo, a US Army Special Forces Weapons Specialist. The two had made fast friends working in the corporation, and such cohesion was an asset on field ops. Both preferred the 92FS Beretta, an old friend from their former occupations. Scotts wore his usual jeans & hunter-green T-shirt with Timberland boots. Davis was dressed similarly, but he sported an Army PT shirt with the letters 'ARMY' emblazoned across the front & wore his old combat boots instead of a civilian variant. The words 'SPECIAL' and 'FORCES' were tattooed across the backs of his forearms, leaving no doubt as to who he might be should someone be looking for himself or his partner.

The job was supposed to have been simple: They'd meet a contact from the local religious rebels and cut a deal on some particularly sweet hardware. The RDPMC had recently switched from the G36 to the more powerful Barrett M468LE. The result was that G36's where on sale, as was the 5.56x45mm NATO rounds they fired. The newer M468LE chambered a lethal 6.8mm SPC round. The catalog was immense, as far as firearms went. The resistance, or whatever they chose to call themselves, had definitely come to the right place...