NationStates Jolt Archive

“HOLD IT TOGETHER LADS!” was the dire cry from sergeant major Churchill, the endless tide of civilians battered against the riot shields of the unique squad. The riot squad was struggling to hold its odd formation against the onslaught of savage dissenters, the men under Churchill’s command were in a bizarre but effective mix of the old Roman tortoise formation (http://www.lordbrunton.com/cameron/tortoise_front.jpg) and the phalanx (http://ccwf.cc.utexas.edu/~warfare/Lectures/Images/4.17/01_macedonian_phalanx.jpg) used by pikemen of old, the crackle of electricity leapt down the iron shafts of the shocklances until it was halted at the rubber handle that each man kept a firm hold of. Now and again, the men would stab with their spear-shafted lances and the traitorous Kriegos citizens would convulse and spasm, but when the shocklance was pulled free of the should-be-dead rioter, they simply kept on attacking the interlocking shields. Cracked skin, black and warped parted and crumpled like burnt paper to reveal pulsing muscles and arteries beneath. These things should be dead.

”What the fuck is goin’ on sah?!” screamed a panicked trooper as he thrust his shocklance into a dissenter that another squad member had just electrocuted to the point of his eyes turning to mush. Churchill simply gulped and didn’t say anything. What the fuck was going on!? The riot squad had been dispatched to the southern region as soon as word of unrest came from a small town. As he battled for his life, all the events that had led up to this point whizzed by in his head. It had all happened so fast, Churchill and his squad had arrived via armoured personnel carriers and it looked pretty textbook until…the Proletarian Guardsmen already present were entrenched in the town square, sandbags and all; they had a Vickers gun churning up the masses charging the Guardsmen defending this small town against its own populace. The bullets left the Vickers gun and they hit home but the targets didn’t go down, Churchill saw limbs being blown off and heads snapped back to reveal the veins protruding from the victims’ necks but they never admitted they were dead. Only seconds later, the Kriegos soldiers were overrun and the men and women the Guardsmen had once sworn to protect ripped apart the soldiers, biting, scratching, head butting and acting in a manner that would shame the most feral beasts.

He remember, just as he was about to order his men back into the APC, the driver stumbled out of the side hatch and groped for Churchill. He was put down by the squad fast. After that, it was only the discipline of Churchill’s squad that had managed to get them into formation in time before the bloodthirsty crowd had turned its predations towards the squad sent in to quell a “minor uprising.” Whatever was happening, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t like one of those old cheesy zombie flicks that a shot to the head took them down or even the ones where they ran, a modern invention, this was different. It was almost like the crazed men and women were but puppets to a greater force, it was as if no matter what damage was inflicted on them, they’d keep on moving and biting so long as the strings attached to them kept doing their work. Just as the battle seemed darkest, an eerily sweet voice echoed about the buildings illuminated by grey light from the sun barely piercing the thick veil of clouds overhead.

”Silly men of Fedor, why come? Why fight? Why not just run away and be safe, run away to your families and give up on the silly man’s horrid ideas?”

The most unnerving thing about the angelic voice wasn’t its freakishly naïve oratory or its lack of a source but rather its tone and pitch. This was no grizzled rebel or old, embittered man speaking. It was the voice of a little girl. The men broke at the influence of the unseen talk. It started at the rear, the hardcore squad began to flake and soon enough, the riot squad was in a full rout. They didn’t factor in though, before running, that laden down in their gear, they were no much for the rapid speed at which the marionettes moved on their invisible strings. Churchill simply slumped to his knees and let his shocklance and transparent shield with red star stamped on clatter to the tarmac as the tide of human flesh moved around him. Afflictions of all manners were visible on the creatures charging around Churchill to get to his comrades, completely ignoring the sergeant major on his knees, why, he couldn’t fathom. The crackle of shocklances and hurried shouts and pleas for aid gave way to screams as Churchill’s squad was torn to ribbons, protective plating torn off the men so the evil puppets could get to the carnivorous play thing known to most as the human body.

He just stared at the ground, blood and other fluids flowing freely on the tarmac when a clean white slipper crept into the sergeant major’s field of view. His eyes traced the leg, pale white leg until he came upon the hem of a pure, frilly white dress just below the knee, looking up, his eyes met a soft chin, a friendly mouth, well sculpted nose, brown locks of hair and a set of charming hazel eyes. He stared into the face of the mysterious sweet voice, he stared into the sweet visage of an angel of death. He stared into what had seen his squad so easily massacred. She just smiled at him and as he looked back into her eyes, he felt his soul drain dry as she looked into him…

The interior of the Soviet Bloc manufactured MV-87 Coba (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v63/Chlevenkov/MV-87CCobaII.png) VOTL craft was room enough for the Ordos Fedor (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v63/Chlevenkov/ARSBSOLDIERII.jpg) clad in their VEPR Next-Generation-Combat-System. They were the best of the best, only a thousand of these soldiers were in existence and the small number had connotations of quality the fanatical unit definitely deserved. While the Proletarian Guard was cannon fodder for foreign armies, the Ordos Fedor inverted the situation when they were on the field. Equipped with the bleeding edge of technology, Soviet Bloc and Kriegorgrad’s arms deal was very profitable for the elite unit of Kriegorgrad’s military. But even this squad of twenty-so demigods was not prepared for what they would meet on the ground…

“Brothers, we are here because our kin have failed. They have failed in the defence of our benevolent Comrade Leader’s territory and it is this failure that we shall supplant with victory and success. Blood for our soil.”

”Blood for Fedor!” was the synchronous response from the zealous squad as the MV-87 Coba’s engines screeched as they sucked in cold air, a befitting temperature for the chilly Southern regions of Kriegorgrad. A crackle came over the intercom and the pilot’s voice informed the men cocooned in the protective armour of the Coba that arrival was imminent. They got ready to rappel down from the brutal aircraft that had ferried them to this distant and far flung zone of the Collective Oligarchy. The arbiter of the squad, the source of the oratory, sucked in breath as the two doors either side of the craft opened with a hiss and the town below came into view. It was very much a small, inconsequential town, but, if Fedor wanted it retaken, it would be retaken if it meant that the Oligarchic standard would have to fly over the bodies of those who propped it up.

But, at the time being, violence seemed far off. Nothing was there. Nothing. The ruined defences of the Proletarian Guardsmen in the square were visible, as well as the blood that stained the sandbags they were slumped over. The massacred riot squad could be seen on the ground, limbs were strewn about like a pack of rude children weren’t in the mood to pack their toys away. The disturbing thing about the scene was the lack of action, everything was still and idle. No birds twittered and no people came rushing out to greet the saviours. Nothing.

The Coba descended cautiously, its engines still howling in the cold midday air, the chaincannon mounted on the forward belly of the MV-87 swivelled from side to side, the low whine of hydraulics reaching the suit-enhanced senses of the Ordos Fedor troopers without fail. Winter had set in and the swaying trees that dotted the town’s park were stripped bare of leaves and its bark a colour silver, the occasional gust of wind would send some long dead leaves rustling down a street but other than that nothing moved. A crackle over the intercom ordered the Ordos Fedor to get groundside and the green light supported the pilot’s wishes.

Wind buffeting arbiter Cherubis – such names were common among the Ordos Fedor, Latin style names preferred over the more normal English – as he held on tightly to the swinging synthetic rope before his feet hit the floor with an audible thud, a similar noise telling the arbiter that his comrade had just landed. In the space of a minute, all twenty Ordos Fedor troopers were on the ground and ready, hi-tech rifles held out in challenge to anything that dare challenge the instrument of Fedorenkov himself. A flurry of hand movements and the twenty-man squad broke down into four-man fire teams who broke off and began to sweep the small but eerily silent town…

Cherubis kept an eye on the windows…he swore that he felt eyes bore into the rear of his head when his back was turned, and on occasion he thought he saw a pale faced observer out of the corner of his eye, but whenever he turned to face the ghastly figure in the windows, he was greeted with nothing more than a frame and a pane of glass. The other three men in his fire team were similarly on edge, they didn’t say anything but Cherubis could tell from their auras, gone was the zealous confidence, replaced by fearful silence. The eyes were still staring from their unknown spots when suddenly the comm. channels burst into life, frenzied communication and screams erupted from the inbuilt headset and the chatter of gunfire could be heard over the shouts from fire team three, the crump of grenades could be heard, more gunshots, screams, bones cracking and then silence. Fire team three was, without a doubt, dead.

“Comrades, in Fedor’s name, status report.” barked Cherubis. A series of replies came back informing all was well, save for the feeling that they were being watched. Still, Cherubis was going to take no chances now.. “Pull back to the town square damnit!” Merely seconds later, the comm. systems burst into life yet again, this time fire team five uttered pleas for support at the town-square. Obviously, it didn’t pay to be the first to the objective. Running through the streets to the rally point as fast as their legs could carry them, Cherubis’s fire team arrived to see the men of Fedor be swarmed by ravenous…things. They were once human, that was obvious but humans couldn’t have their heads crushed to a pulp by strength-augmented hands and then keep fighting without a head, humans couldn’t have their vital organs ripped out and carry on living. Cherubis roared out in primal rage at his comrades being so unfairly slaughtered as his fire team dropped to their knees and shouldered their rifles. A synchronised burst of fire from the rifles of the four men tore of limbs and produced effects on the marionettes, the recoil kicking back and sending the weapons’ barrels skyward. They kept firing but it seemed no matter how much they shot, the foul creatures refused to die.

Things were going badly as fire team five was finished off, brought under by a sea of gaping, hungry mouths and evil probing fingers, however, events were not at their most dire yet. The situation went even further downhill as the ocean of flesh and teeth noticed the arbiter and his squad laying into them in a futile attempt to avenge the deaths of the horde’s previous victims, seconds merged into eternity as the shambling pack of puppets charged. All they could do is hold the line and pray that they were going to be given their share of Fedor’s luck…the screech of engines turned out to be their divine intervention, the MV-87 Coba hovered just over the four men, its chaincannon’s barrels beginning to turn in eager anticipation as the sea of demi-humans neared.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Giblets of flesh went flying everywhere, limbs exploded and organs slopped against the pavement as fluids sloshed out of open stomachs, monstrosities were torn in half by the chaincannon’s furious onslaught in a scene most macabre. The comm. channel crackled into life as fire team two and four met the fates of three and five just as the ropes were tossed from the MV-87 Coba, the only course of action became clear. Flight. Rapidly climbing up the ropes, Cherubis cast a look to the ground and his face paled as he saw limbs – hands mostly – begin to drag themselves towards the Ordos Fedor. Piling in, just as the craft dusted off, Cherbuis spied a feminine figure in a white dress, her visage was easily visible. A little girl in the middle of chaos. The screech of engines and the whine of turbofans, the remnants of Cherubis’s squad were flying away from the damned town and towards the capital of Fedorgrad…

Teresa smiled as she walked, the “sergeant major” had been very useful in telling her what she needed to know, it was a shame she had to drain him but he was too resilient. Sighing as she walked with her shambling army of puppets, each one was but a ragdoll to her, they didn’t need to be alive or functioning for them to fulfil their purpose, all that was needed was a medium for Teresa to use her telekinetic abilities and that medium was the horde that she manipulated with the intent to punish the evil men who had made her this hideous way. She didn’t really want to hurt the others but she had to, they were a threat to her agenda and a threat to her agenda couldn’t be tolerated. That, and a lifetime of being locked up in a cell and drugged up to her eyeballs does leave one a tad amoral.

So here she was, walking in a pure white dress leading a host of the dead to kill the men who turned an innocent child into a monster. She was going to go to a city and she was going to level it. She wasn’t going to stop until she found the rock that her creators were hiding under. Someone was going to pay.

*****

“DAMNIT! I told you we should’ve tracked her down no matter the cost! But you complained about the lack of resources! You fucked up Mustapha, and now she’s coming for us!” screamed Henry Foster, his usual cool composure completely absent and in its place, the demeanour of a raving, enraged lunatic.

“Henry, we couldn’t afford to track her down, we didn’t have the necessary resources-” replied Mustapha, the usually screeching man taking Henry’s standard place of the cool and collected one.

“Stop with the bullshit! You know we’re screwed if we don’t do something!”

”Well it’s too late now Henry, calm down…we’ll deal with this. Teresa isn’t unstoppable, she’s just…resourceful.”

Henry was about to protest but all that came out was a series of angered noises, he got up from his chair at the long black table and stormed out of the dark room, leaving the rest of the oligarchs to ponder the issue further.

”Well…any suggestions?”

Silence.

After what seemed an eternity in a vacuum, someone suggested a simple request for help from the outside world, with attached information regarding the Teresa project, although, told in a different way to mask the fact that it was the Collective Oligarchic government that had sanctioned her…construction in the first place. It was agreed on unanimously.


{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Military
To: Anyone willing to proffer assistance
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Anomalous Issues

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

”It has come to my attention that the southern regions of Kriegorgrad is being ravaged by a…an anomaly, we don’t really know what it is. It appears to be female and ‘she’ seems to wear a white dress, we believe she is referred to as Teresa. Teresa appears to be a young child no more than ten years old but don’t trust her appearance, she is a cold-hearted killer. She also seems to have highly potent…this may sound ridiculous but reports say…say she has powers arcane. They say she has psychic abilities…she even has a host of…what once were Kriegos citizens at her command, reports from men in the field claim she has ‘telekinetic’ powers that allow her to manipulate the surroundings and even the limbs of those that oppose her.

This message sounds amazingly ignorant but I must plead with you for help, your craft will not be shot down upon entry into Kriegos airspace as is per usual…just please-help-us!“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

“Get that fuckin’ Vickers gun in place you useless bastards!” The expletives constantly used by the grizzled sergeant told his squad not only his economic origins but his current mindset: a pissed off proletarian. The regiment had been called up from the North a city known as “Birmingpool”, the typically Kriegos name denoted a pretty generic way of life in the cities; crowded, stuffy and filthy. Cheap posters of Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov adorned cheap walls on mass produced concrete and brick, loudspeakers, afflicted with static, barked out its recorded propaganda and the Kriegos citizens hiding in their homes – be they squat, mass produced habs or the looming, dirty towers made of that cheap mix of gravel and concrete – wrapped in fearful anticipation. Streaks of black marred the towers’ and habs’ unclean sides told the viewer that the rows of factories in a different quarter of the city did have an effect on the environment, no matter how ugly it was in the first place.

“Patterson, get the bloody sandbags up!” The endless bombardment of insults and orders hadn’t ceased, and all about the city, troops ran to and fro in the dirtied metropolis, lugging crates of ammunition, sandbags and weapons. They were prepared to take any army on in the world save for the one dark host that marched on the less than glorious keep of Birmingpool. Tanks (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_tank) rumbled about in the streets and fists of eight or so Proletarian Guardsmen kept the peace and ensured no-one left their homes or dared ask why such oppressive martial law was in effect. The thick veil of grey cloud overhead seemed eager to spit rain and dampen the mood of the men scurrying about below. Then the thunder began, just as the pound of massed feet neared, men peered over sandbag emplacements on the outskirts of the overpopulated excuse for a city towards the horizon to see the silhouettes of marionettes, puppets pulled along by strings by a small girl playing as puppet master.

Morale was instantly shaken as soon as features became discernable, the outskirts became a mad blaze of activity, trucks laden with ammo retreating out of the combat zone while tanks crunched up road to get to the front while infantry shouldered rifles and prepared for the storm. Things weren’t boding well, even with anti-tank guns, Vickers and tanks backing up the agitated infantry. Fedor wasn’t smiling upon them: it started raining and the last shred of light was barred access to the earth by the looming sky. Silence reigned save for the pitter-patter of water slapping against tarmac and stamped metal helmet. The unnatural army arrayed against the men of Fedor stood ghostly still as an angelic figure surveyed the situation, borne aloft on a dark palanquin chair carved of bone and meat: a testament to the irony of the situation. A sweet child on transport of flesh, a sweet child to kill those who made her not so sweet.

Silence reigned then…BOOM.

A cannon blast interrupted the monotonous patter of rain and lit up the surrounding area, the tank’s barrel smoking after the fire from the propellant died down, uneasy moments passed as the HEAT 105mm shell travelled from the L7 rifled gun towards the menagerie of decaying flesh puppets. Body parts flew, giblets landed with a squelch, organs were sent splattering and bone formed razor sharp shrapnel. They simply stood there, a legion of the damned in servitude to their charming angel of a queen. Radio operators gave the go ahead and in poorly co-ordinated unison, the roar of tank guns filled the air as the Proletarian Guardsmen leaning into sodden sandbags looked on anxiously. More limbs and damned beasts were blown apart and then the uneasy silence set in once more. The little queen on her palanquin throne of bone didn’t seem at all concerned. Fear swept across the ranks of the Proletarian Guardsmen as those hit by the blasts slowly but surely began to stand up. The tension was unbearable as both sides stared at each other from across the field, on side’s vision glazed over by propaganda and the other’s simply guided by but one set of eyes.

The host started moving. Panic erupted immediately among the Proletarian Guardsmen ( http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/Kriegorgrad/krieggreen8ng.png ), a rout only halted by the swift authoritative barks from the officers among the numerous ranks of men propped up by lies sold to them from birth by a state that catered only for those at the top. The pounding of feet resumed and the snap and crack of Enfield rifles going off was drown out by the thunder of the sky and the guns, the endless torrent of bullets from the Vickers guns cut puppets in true but never put them down, lets moved on without torsos, not noticing the absence of their top half, advanced towards the platoons holding their ground against the unholy onslaught.

Things were beginning to look hopeless and retreat was becoming less and less of an alternative and more of a necessity due to the fact that no matter how much something was shot, it wouldn’t go down. The distant screech of turbojet engines heralded help but whether or not the help would arrive in time was yet to be decided as the damned souls marched forwards, limbs and organs blown asunder by high-calibre weapons fire…

*****

“I can’t believe this…they abandoned us. Everybody!” Screamed Henry, holding his head in his hands as the rest of the council remained silent on the issue of the Southern “Revolt”, the lack of quick-fire conversation informing the observer of the seriousness of the problem at hand. Gone was the heated banter and bickering, replaced with austere lack of motion and noise. It truly was a dead room, the room of discussion the oligarchs usually enjoyed to have a good bitch at one another in, fear and concern replacing boredom or merriment.

“I’m…I’m sure someone will come to our aid. They have to…” Replied Mustapha, realising how hollow his words sounded even to his own ears. The table remained downcast as silence smothered like an unwelcome blanket. They all knew that Henry was right for the time-being and only the more hopeful considered Mustapha’s half-hearted statement with any real sincerity or faith.

”Someone will have to come.”

A few hundred Kilometres south of Haven, before the call for help

The ship floated more or less peacefully in the sea, perhaps ten percent of it being above the surface, playing a little with its sensors while it engaged in perhaps two dozen different conversations, trying to pass the time. It didn't strictly have anything to do, and watching the chaotic Weyr in the east, or the ever-warlike Haven in the north was less-than-interesting. After a while, one simply got used to it. So it... Chatted.

<TEU Black Rain> Well, yes, TAR is full of dumbasses. Not sure why you tried this, Quietly Confident. I mean, reall- A second.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Yes, yes. I realise my error. Well, the team's recalled, we've had a lot of expenses - Nothing too bad, but still-
<TEU Black Rain> Shut up, I'm checking something. Spacedies...
<SEU Quietly Confident> Amphibious Earthdweller.
<TEU Black Rain> Yes, yes. Hrm. Could you check [Coordinates Attached] for me? Kriegorgrad.
<SEU Quietly Confident> If you ask nicely.
<TEU Black Rain> ...
<SEU Quietly Confident> Ok, ok. Hrm.
<TEU Black Rain> Seein' something?
<SEU Quietly Confident> Yes. And noticing other stuff. Hrm again. I'll bring the rest of the gang in on this, if you don't mind. And make the thing official.
<TEU Black Rain> I was right then, I guess?
<SEU Quietly Confident> Yes.

A while later

They didn't gather in reality, mostly because being hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from each other tended to make personal gaterings a rather difficult issue. Still, different means of communications were available, and so they met in what resembled an amphitheatre, except that it weren't humans sitting on the almost perversely decorated seats, but ships - Spacedy and wet, atmospheric craft were lacking in this particular group - floating over them, watching the information being presented in the centre of the half-circle they were occupying, the sky above them looking kind of like an ever-shifting version of a piece of Hundertwasser-art while the background was an ocean, the basic features of the northern Kriegorgrader coast visible in the distance.

<SEU Quietly Confident> So, people. Ladies, gentleman, genderless freaks running their ships from computronium cores rather than having an intercourse-capable avatar-
<TEU Precious Prejudice> Why, thank you.
<SEU Quietly Confident> -I guess you've all read through the available information?
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> Of course.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Good. Now, I've had a few exchanges with a number of authorities. They don't feel any love for a regime like that of Nikolai Fedorenkov in Kriegorgrad, of course - No different from ourselves, really - and wouldn't mind seeing it collapse. Still, according to the information we have, there's bits of large-scale field-equivalent technology involved. Both, soft- and hard versions. Needless to say, such capabilities showing up in Kriegorgrad is a source of considerable concern.
<TEU Black Rain> From what we've seen so far, its scale is exceeding the levels we're capable of pulling. They're possibly comparable to the abilities of sentient installations, though.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Indeed. As suc-
<OAC Armageddon Aborted> We know, we know. Could you quit the introduction and come to the things we don't know yet?
<SEU Quietly Confident> ... Yes. We want to know more about this, naturally. How this technology was developed and/ or acquired, as well as the exact extend of its present capabilities. We're in the process of extracting Katarina & co from TAR, so we should be able to do something with them. Problem is, Kriegorgrad is hard to enter. We could of course techwank them until we get in, but such a move would be noticed later on, and it'd be rather hurtful for our overall relations with the rest of the world. While we don't care much for Haven's opinions, disregarding a very few of its more rational residents, we do care for the rest of the planet.
<OAC Armageddon Aborted> So... We'll have to figure out how to get in.
<SEU Quietly Confident> That, and decide what exactly we're going to do after we got in.
<TEU Black Rain> Well... Lets start thinking about it, I'd say.

After the call for help

<TEU Precious Prejudice> Well, that was surprisingly easy...
<SEU Quietly Confident> I wouldn't bet on it, actually. Kriegorgrad should be well aware of our opinion with regards to them. It should be even more aware of our general interest in exactly this kind of matter. And I doubt they're hot on their eventual research results getting into the wrong hands.
<TEU Precious Prejudice> You doubt they'll let us in?
<TEU Black Rain> Exactly. Personally, if I were them, I'd rather tacnuke the source - The girl - rather than allowing us to get a hold of her.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Quite so. Of course, this tells us that they've invested a lot of resources into this project, whatever it might actually be. They don't want to lose their investment. A... private entrepeneur would probably be accepted.
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> Ehehe. Given our political and social strcuture, such a thing would be vaguely believable, indeed. We'd of course still have to calculate with a few extra risks due to mistrust, but it might work out.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Exactly. Problem is, I'm not sure Katarina & co are quite up to this. We might be able to send them as reinforcements, but they wont be available until in a few days' time, anyway.
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> Don't worry, I've a friend.
<SEU Quietly Confident> ... why am I worried. But we don't really have a choice, I guess. Has to be someone who is actually fucked in the head and has no connections with the administration, or they'll possibly figure it out, thanks to our 'inquisitive' media. Provably 'innocent' background is necessary, I guess.
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> Excellent.
<SEU Quietly Confident> ... Great. The media's already reacting. Not seriously, of course, but still. And Sarah might start and feel for the object - Girl - in question. ARGH.
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> You've stuff to do, then, i guess. Well, good luck. I'll certainly have it.

Io

Marius Urashima breathed slowly, the thin, more-or-less poisonous air of Io being a pleasure to his altered respiratory system, his chitinous face - A gift of his hosts, and a gift he was quite glad to have received - showing not a single emotion.

He looked at the altar on which the abomination whose ancestors had once been sentient - if furred - beings, and whose present incarnation was that of a giant, fanged creature, was bound, its fangs and teeth incapable of reaching him, whereas his mind had no issues reaching to it... Still, he didn't use it. It would have been boring and against the spirit of his hosts. Granted, he didn't exactly believe in the 'slightly' homicidal religion of the Burning Mountain folks, but he still honoured them.

The sacrifice was swift, if private, a wave of aggressions building up and pouring into reality, slashing the beast in a feast of rather messy results, and he wondered for a moment how his closest 'friends' here - Ex-Angstians who had long been assimilated into Burning Mountain proper - worked all of this out... they were busy with somewhat more massive ceremonies.

He felt the ground shaking. Another volcano was erupting, the tides of the moon, arguably the most dangerous place in the whole system, constantly heating it up, resulting in said eruptions. Or perhaps it was a nuclear detonation. It was what the violentaphile natives used for 'Terraforming'.

A message flashed into his consciousness, surprising him, breaking into the almost holy sanctuary of post-sacrificial silence. He didn't need to use a terminal, he was quite capable of receving it directly. The source was odd... DA proper. Not the kind of society that would want him back, yet alone asking him to come back.
Yet, they asked for it, information about the why and how was attached.

Looking through it, Marius grinned.

This could be fun.

Half an hour later, he was already off io and on his way, the craft he was using being unmanned, safe for him. He read through the message, again, then composed his own, quickly.

From: Marius Urashima, Private Entrepeneur
To: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Anomalous Issues

I've... heard... of your problems, and I'd be interested in hun- helping, if you decide that my services would be... Appropriate for the issue at hand. I know, my curriculum vitae is a little... odd, but I'm sure that you'll agree with me: It's ideal for this particular case.

I'm sure payment can be organised once I've arrived. It's a secondary issue, anyway.

~ Marius Urashima

The message sped from the craft to various drones in various Earth orbits, being bounced around for a while before eventually being relayed to its destination. The curriculum vitae that had been attached to it was in essence a history of violence... Or more specifically, the history of violence a particularly skilled - and insane - individual had managed to write. Still, it also showed that the individual in question had a sense for loyality. It was unlikely that he'd attack a loyal employer.

Earth

<SEU Quietly Confident> You're mad, PeiE. Just... Mad.
<TEU Poke 'em inna Eye!> Yes. So?

//OOC: I am a Future Tech Fantasy nation (although not too future and not excessively fantastic). Would it be possible to join in?

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

Adranor, Technocratic Republics, Sisgardia:

Head Academician Lúthanond walked down the large white marble podium. Low toned murmurs formed a continuous background sound in the otherwise silent chamber. The golden ones were clearly interested in the report issued by the Áthascarath, after receiving the distress call from Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov regarding the... girl.

Councilman Cárpathar raised his cane, a signal used in the Golden Council to ask permission to speak. A barely noticeable hand gesture from one of the triumviri granted such privilege "What we have just heard can be either interpreted as a most interesting eventuality, or as an abhorrent abomination. I would like to think of it as... both. Such amount of power is rare. Seeing it all confined within a single individual, a little child, is both amusing and puzzling" His eyes circled around the large amphitheatre. Hundreds of heads covered in golden helmets nodded in silence "It is within my interest, which I think represents the will of many among us, to send a probing mission to this troubled place, in order to lighten up our knowledge on the situation. There seems to be more to it than just a crazed entity with immense powers over life and death" He smiled "Of course, we will also be required to send support. Whatever this threat is, it would be unwise to let it go forth... uncontained. If our most revered Triumvirate agrees so, I will personally undertake the preparations, direction and effectuation of this assignment"

The three Triumviri rose solemnly "I, Triumvir Gésagar, agree" Said the first one of them "I, Triumvir Démenond, agree" Came the second one "I, Triumvir Ánatholn, agree" Followed the third one. Then they proceeded to sit again, as the more than three hundred members of the Golden Council began striking their canes against the polished marble in a gesture of approval.

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


From: Golden Counsellor Cárpathar of the Technocratic Republics of Sisgárdia.
To: Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov.
Subject: Anomalous Issues and Support Offering

It has fallen into our knowledge the most unwelcome situation you seem to be going through, esteemed Oligarch. And it is the desire of both the Triumviral House and the Golden Council to offer as much help as necessary to palliate the present problems. We will be sending an appropriate fighting force, rescue and emergency vehicles, emergency supplies, and medical and engineering personnel.
We require no repayment from your illustrated government. However, we would like to request, if within the boundaries of possibility, to be allowed to conduct research upon the troubled area, and permission to take into captivity a few subjects, in order to effectively carry out the investigations

-Opening Confidential Communiqué-

Recipient: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Sent From: The Kagan of the Armed Republic, Kagan Viktor R. Dokhturov
Subject: Military Assistance

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

Comrades in arms, we have heeded your call. In fact, the Armed Republic has immediately deployed an expeditionary fleet, the fourteenth, towards the Collective Oligarchy. And shortly after dispatching the fleet, I've deployed a seven-member team of OMONIA Black Berets to assess the situation, they will be heading towards the most recent site of conflict, Birmingpool, as I understand. They should be arriving shortly, they can pull back if required. With your approval, and upon the findings of the assessment team, we will actively assist you and your nation in ridding yourself of this scourge. If the need arises, we can devote more assets to the pacification of this situation, however, we will await the assessment and advisement from your own government and military.
We await your reply.

Regards,
Viktor R. Dokhturov
-Kagan of the Armed Republic of Soviet Bloc

/End Communique



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




With his head buried in his hands and his eyes scanning the grated floor below, Junior Sergeant Vladimr Gheverov contemplated his future, his life, everything. He didn't have much of anything else to do. He visited the mission chronograph via neural interface. Fourteen hours flight time. Fuck, he thought as he leaned his head back, changing the view from a metal floor to a metal ceiling. Not much of a difference, but a welcome sight to a man who'd been staring at the former for the better part of fourteen fucking hours. He let a heavy sigh escape his lips.

"Vlad!" The bark shattered Gheverov's mental ramblings, his head jerking up to find the source of the shout. He caught the glance of Captain Sergei Ramerov, his visor set removed and the calculating eyes scanning every position of the Junior Sergeants body, formulating what the soldier was up to. "Bored?"

Bobbing his head in affirmation, the junior sergeant replied, "Yeah... When the hell are we going to get told what the fuck we've been flying for fourteen hours for?" Gheverov growled subconsciously, still wondering how he ended up on this mission, or rather, excursion as he didn't know if there was even a mission in the first place.

"Due time sergeant, due time." Captain Ramerov's right hand lifted to the visor and pulled it down to meet his face. His index finger slipped down on the right side of his cranium and fastened the locking mechanisms. The formerly dead mechanical eyes brightened to an eery life as the head twisted to view the rest of the men aboard the aircraft, packed behind an M-07 fast attack vehicle. Ramerov marvelled at the impatience of Vladimr, the young soldier certainly had a need for action and still required some combat to force him to realize that this 'wasted' time en route to missions was a God-send. The five other soldiers occupying the aircraft certainly knew this. Each one was relaxed, absorbing this once-in-awhile chance for some true downtime. Fourteen hours of it. The Improved Next Generation Infantry Combat Systems provided a comfortable suit to herald the oncoming of sleep and relaxation.

Ramerov took a final glance at the crew before finally deciding to arouse them from their slumber and idleness. His hand manipulated the harness release mechanism as his legs and inertia propelled him upwards. Instinctively, his right hand reached for the stability bar above as he kept himself steady. The six other soldiers within the aircraft immediately rose to an attentive state. Lightly impressed at their instantaneous attention, Ramerov spoke via direct neural interface. "Alright, here's the deal. As you know, we lifted off from Thiriv Air Station on the outskirts of Rostov. What you don't know is that we're within a hundred miles of the Collective Oligarcy of Kriegorgrad." His instincts told him that everyone aboard effectively dropped their jaws, their lack of neural activity confirmed it. "Over the last few days, or weeks, the Ministry of Intelligence, and more specifically, OMON, have noticed a few peculiar things within the Collective Oligarchy. We've seen random 'occurances' of an increasinly bizarre nature. It all culminated in what happened within the last week. An apparant internal conflict with the opposing side as an inhuman, anomoly as the Kriegs themselves put it. A few days ago they issued a statement requesting assistance. The Armed Republic has answered the call, and for the moment, our assistance is limited. En route is an entire expeditionary fleet and we are their vanguard. Seven of us. We will determine who, or what, we are opposing, and hopefully capture a sample of some kind. I understand that there is some funky shit occuring down there, and you were all chosen for your previous duties. You've all seen some gruesome things, and have come out unscathed, I can guarantee, if reports are true, that you will have never seen anything like what you are about to see..." He let himself pause there, quickly asking if there were any questions. The squad was completely silent.

"We will be approaching a city named Birmingpool, an ugly city much like the rest of the nation. We haven't talked with any of their military leaders in the region, but we're hoping some sort of order gets down to their level not to fire on us. Hopefully they'll get us confused with their Ordos Fedor. Although these..." He padded his chest where a massive white and navy blue flag with the characteristic eagle upon its center was emblazoned. "Are to prevent that. Alright, back on subject. The opposing force, since we lack any better terminology for their opponent, is currently moving on the city and the Collective Oligarchy has deployed a massive contingent of Proletarian Guardsmen to defend the city. Satellite and aircraft overflight indicate that battle has begun in the region. This is where we'll land. Upon landing, Lieutenant Matlsev and three of you will take the FAV and proceed to a predetermined waypoint. From there you'll determine the best position to ambush an outlying unit of this opposing force. One thing though, you must avoid the center of the formation and a figure known as Teresa." An image flashed through the neural interfaces of the squad, displaying a composite image, provided by the Kriegs, of the apparant leader of the faction.

"What the hell, sir, its a fucking little girl."

"Sergeant, it is not a girl... It is a demonition of the most evil nature. That wretched whore can manipulate anything, including long-dead corpses to do her deeds. She's damn near omnipotent and I don't need some careless Black Beret to get himself killed because he underestimated his enemy... Got it?" The soldier in question nodded meekly. "Good... Now... Lieutenant Maltsev's men, you know who you are, you will be briefed on the ground by the lieutenant. Boris Vladivirovitch, you will remain here aboard the aircraft and assist in its security by manning the SDG. Vladimr, you will be with me, at my side at all times, and we will meet with whatever Proletarian leadership they have down here, if any. If we have to, we will render the assistance of our aircraft, however, in no way, can we let it get harmed, as it is our only life boat back to the expeditionary fleet. It'll be a cold day in hell if I'm ever marooned in this damn land." A chime within his neural interface led him to glance at the mission watch. "Shit, we've got ten minutes, get your gear ready. Vikhr, get the FAV ready for departure, we're gonna want to get off as quickly as possible. Gear up."

The Black Berets quickly sprung into action, their harness uniformly retracting into the hull as each rose, affixing necessary pieces of equipment to their infantry systems. Assault rifles were fastened to their chests for the time being as helmets were fitted and armor was prepared for combat. The taps of magazines against bulkheads informed their owners that they were loaded and ready. The clicks and metallic pangs of magazines being slid into the receivers of assault rifle echoed through the hull.




Up front within the gold-screened cockpit of the MV-87C Coba, Captain Ivan Lenen scanned the terrain below. Far ahead lay the ugly morass of cheaply constructed buildings known as Birmingpool. He smirked and glanced over to his copilot, "Looks like a lump of shit, doesn't it?" The copilot agreed, the two snapping in unison: "Make it a steaming pile of shit..." The two laughed at the connection between the dirty buildings and the smoke which rose from its suburbs. However, the two couldn't remain jovial for long, as the reality hit them that there were people down there dying... And some that just wouldn't die. The two had heard the reports, as had the navigator/engineer behind them. Both pilot and co-pilot surveyed the instruments before averting their attention straight to the canopy windshields.

The pilot sighed as he called to the rear compartment through the neural interface, "Five minutes til' target." He started pulling back on the collective and adjusting certain features of the aircraft's aerodynamics, allowing for a slowly decreasing velocity and altitude. They were approaching from the opposite side of the opposing force, and would hopefully be immune to retaliatory or defensive surface to air actions. The Coba shuddered as her powerplants were forced to inhale less fuel, the turbofan's whine decreasing in pitch as the blades slowed marginally. The canopy windscreen displayed an approach vector, chevrons marking points along the route which would guide them to a position safely behind the lines to offer protection but yet close enough to offer proximity to defenses. Lenen manipulated the joystick, making slight course corrections as he guided the aircraft to target. Descending. Descending past a thick patch of haze and smoke. Descending into the labryinth of streets and avenues.



Captain Ramerov's head slowly turned to face the front of the passenger compartment, taking in the faces of the five men behind him and the sixth in the FAV. His lips curled into an almost evil smile, his head swinging back to glance out the provided port-hole. His gut told him they were descending. His neural interface confirmed it. He moved his hand towards the ramp release toggle and depressed it, the electrical response activating hydrualic servos which released the ramp, its fluid drop revealing aspects of the Kriegos landscape, and the thick haze which now enshrouded it. The ramp lowered fully to a completely horizontal plane. A 12.7mm defensive chain gun lowered itself from its ceiling berth as Boris positioned himself behind its controls, peering into its liquid crystal target display. He tested the hydraulics and smoothly swung the weapon around.

"Boris, you ready?"

"Likely as I'll ever be..."

"Good..." He switched the channel to the pilots, "Alright, we're all ready back here, gate's open wide. Keep us out of trouble, will ya?"

The pilot chuckled, "We can only hope so, we'll do what we can. But first, we better get their attention..."

"Aye."

Captain Lenen slid his finger across his headset, adjusting the frequency of the receiving unit until he could hear radio chatter which fit the events unfolding below. He waited for a minute until an opening in the frenzied calls and shouts before addressing their commanding officer, or whoever was in command, with a generic landing response hailing. He made the call a few times to make sure he was heard, and then waited for a response as the matte black bird hovered in the distance...

[OoC: Hey, sorry, my computer died...your being FT-fantasy is fine with me Technocratic Republics. Also, I must apologise for this post, I was tired when writing it, so typos are expected to ambush you at every turn...]

{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Military
To: Marius Urashima, Private Entrepeneur
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Anomalous Issues

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

”Mr Urashima...I'm sure whatever funds you require can be provided, however, the most pressing matter at hand is the anomaly wreaking havoc in Southern Kriegorgrad! We need assistance brought as soon as possible, we're sure a nation as advanced as yourself can help bring an end to this problem...if not an end to Teresa. She still has her uses. What else there is to say, I believe there is none, if you'll pardon my brutal and brief communiqué, I have pressing matters to attend to.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

The Ministry of Love was ablaze with organised chaos, Ordos Fedor soldiers blurred about in the shadowy building with weapons and sandbags, glaring red eye glasses casting unholy shadows about their armoured visages while clerks struggled with stacks of paper, the ink symbols known as letters forming words that formed reports that form the entire abysmal situation that was Birmingpool. The crash of paper announced a pair of pen-pushers had collided and it all added to the feel of madness that seemed to afflict the Ministry. In the midst of this chaos, the oligarchs, the pillars of order and cogitation, were bickering and snapping like children, rallying behind conversational leaders before abandoning them for the next oration powered craze.

"You fool Mustapha! We should utilise our arsenal of tactical nuclear weapons - and turn Birmingpool into PLATEGLASS!" A large outcry erupted from the greedy oligarchs, reinforced by the tutting and disapproving shake of the head from Mustapha. He opened his dark red lips, revealing the small, shadowed maw and spoke his rather voice as if the heavens themselves would press ear to floor to listen.

"You think we should actually throw away Teresa? She is the pinnacle of Kriegos military design-"

"She's a DAEMON Mustapha!" The interruption cut through the banter like a needle through bare flesh. Only the clearing of Mustapha's throat challenged the uneasy silence that ensued.

"Henry, it is final. We have already told the Angstians we want Teresa. Alive. Now that is final, the oligarchy has decided on it." A raucous chorus of approving shouts came from the mouths of the oligarchs, their gullets opening and closing like chicks begging for food from their matriarchal guardian.

"Now, how shall we inform the Sisgárdians?"

{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Military
To: Golden Counsellor Cárpathar
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Anomalous Issues and Support Offering

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

”Your units are, of course, permitted access into the Collective Oligarchy, and you may take whatever subjects you please...but should you attempt to take Teresa herself, a state of war will exist between our two nations. I apologise for this extreme measure but Teresa is a fearful being that must be kept under control...we have refined our methods and we will be able to control her once we get possession of her. Anyway...we are past that rather undiplomatic necessity, we would be thrilled if you could get your men to Birmingpool as soon as possible...research is given the go ahead but, we must require of you that you respect Ordos Fedor jurisdiction.

Thank you.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}


*****

Madness. There was no other word to describe it, the occasional swoop of a spot light from the MV-87 Coba gunships overhead, insignia of the Ordos Fedor marring the black hull invisible against the furious glare of the stark blue tinged search lights. Of course, Teresa and her menagerie of puppets crafted from flesh and bone, they had no had no trouble navigating the shadowed, bombed out streets - the Proletarian Guard shelled the outlying zones after the aircraft delivered napalm strike had proved less than effective against the unnatural marionettes and the lines broke. It was night time now, and as mention, insanity reigned, Teresa had played with the propaganda spouting speaker towers. In place of good honest Fedor-approving messages of patriotism, it was a warped carnival tune polluting the soundwaves between sporadic gunfire and the boom of great guns. Apart from madness, fear was the alternative feeling present, Proletarian Guardsmen cowered behind walls of sandbag and corrugated iron. Trenches, the result of road being blasted apart by carefully placed explosives, were filled with Guardsmen, firepower and terror, meanwhile...

Teresa smiled at the Soviet MV-87 Coba overhead, its turbofan engines screeching at the audible backdrop of combat and the occasional launch of a flare, illuminating the gutted zones in its neutral blinding light. Seated upon her mobile throne of meat, Teresa gave the MV-87 an off ward gesture. In response to the delicate flick of her dainty wrist, a cluster of the puppets...melted together to form a horrific spear of bone, blood and muscle, seconds fled and then, with ungodly speed, the bizarre spear rocketed towards the Coba, which at the protest of the turbofans, expertly dodged the blow. Of course, they weren't ready for the spear to simply reform and with only about ten metres run up, achieve the same potent strike as before. It was a disturbing sight, cold metal rent apart by flesh, it must've been even more disturbing for the Republican soldiers trapped inside, with pulsating muscle and veins spilling blood while other organs splayed their own fluids about the insides of the Coba. What was even more disturbing than that was the fact that the shaft of bone had completely annihilated a turbofan in a fiery display of sinister power. The soldiers were in trouble.

At this, Teresa on her bizarre throne only giggled with angelic delight and clapped her hands in childish approval while shouting with glee one word with an odd pronunciation

"Carni-vahl!"

*****

{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Military
To: Kagan Viktor R. Dokhturov
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Military Assistance

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

”We are deeply proud to have a nation such as Soviet Bloc on our list of allies, such nations filled with good men are few and far between. The Armed Republic is approved for military access to the hot zone of Birmingpool, however, we advise much caution regarding Teresa herself, she is not only extremely powerful with her...abilities, but she is extraordinarily unpredictable. You have been warned.

If you send extended forces, it is recommended they link up with the Proletarian Guard units in the area...as for our advice: you just got it.“

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

*****

Flash...Flash...Flash...

The repeated plunge into darkness from stark spotlight wreaked havoc with the eyes of the Proletarian Guardsmen in the trench, the occasional sob and the odd bout of insane laughter echoed throughout the gash in the crossroads, sewage pouring into the area below the duckboards thanks to pipes that ended prematurely. The stench was unbearable and the collective madness threatened to render the Guardsmen incapacitated but nonetheless, those things were tolerable next to the prospect of being...out there. In the open, where the spot lights scanned most of the time and where you could hear the screams as the puppets found yet another nest of hiding civilians or the short lived snaps of gunfire that accompanied a squad of Guardsmen being found and finished off...

Arbiter Cherubis clenched his eyes shut and tried to forget the horrific incident at the town that he and most of his squad were slaughtered in, he tried to clear his mind of fear and doubt, just like he'd been taught but it was there, human instinct ultimately prevailed over indoctrination. Rappelling down the synthetic rope from the MV-87 with its screeching turbofans, he hit the tarmac ground hard, the square was partially shelled and only a trench filled with Guardsmen propped up by lies remained. Leaping into the trench as the turbofan craft left the area with the howl of a banshee, a searchlight came over the trench, throwing shadows over the faces of the washed out men. One thought and dire question ran through Cherubis's mind, so he decided to voice it.

"Who is in charge here?"

The gaunt faced troopers, some aged no older than sixteen and others in their forties, looked back at him with a confused expression, until one soldier ventured a guess.

"Aren't you?"

Things weren't going well.

oocness: Some assumptions made, re: Kriegorgrads' orbit-to-ground infrastructure and orbital assets, based on a Kriegorgrad space navy thread I've seen a while ago. Hope it isn't too incorrect.

From: Marius Urashima, Private Entrepeneur
To: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Anomalous Issues

Understood. Well, I'm on my way, and yes... Monetary compensation can be dealt with, later. As for what I expect... [Expected Financial Compensation Attached]. That'd be sufficient, I think.

Especially considering the fun that's to be had...

I should arrive within five hours, [Intended Approach Vectors Attached]. See you there.

~ Marius Urashima

Roughly seventy million kilometres off Earth

The small, well, shuttle - Nobody had been insane enough to provide him with an actual ship - slowed down, a variety of sensors watching the comparatively huge shape of the smallish Tactical Engagement Unit closing in.

Basic scans swept over the shuttle, soft fields penetrated the hull, computers, and Marius' mind. A fraction of a second later, it was over, the fields retracting again, as if scared by what they'd just touched.

<TEU Microcalypse> Shit. You're sick.
<Marius Urashima> Your point? Oh, and I thought reading minds without asking is impolite?
<TEU Microcalypse> Not in your case. Anyway, I've the cargo you've been promised. I suggest you take it before I think it over and blast you into atoms.
<Marius Urashima> Awww, are we scared? No matter. I'm coming over.

The TEU was what they always were: A smallish ellipsoid a little over a hundred metres in length, with an obscene amount of guns and engine put into it. Thirty-six thousand tons worth of low-scale death concentrated on some eighteen thousand cubicmetres of space.

Of this, only about threethousand and fivehundred cubicmetres were 'Utility Space', filled with minor manufacturingcapacities, tools, drones, weapon pods, a few nukes, the ships' internal core, the likes. The pilot himself didn't actually have a body, preferring to stay exclusively inside the Microcalypse's computronium, watching Marius through various slaved, non-sentient drones and a number of ship-internal sensors.

"Fucking narrow. You could start buidling ships that don't force you to be a small Maintenance drone to navigate the corridors."

"Deal with it. If you want, I can just dump the atmosphere so you can move more freely." It was one of the slaved drones talking, and Marius chuckled. Too scared to get into my mind, again, I see... "Oh, no problem. Lets see what we have here..."

"Too big for you. That's a standard assault rifle. It'd turn your organic body into- Actually, take it. I'm sure you'd love it."

"Yeah, right..." Marius looked through the various pieces of equipment, some of it obviously internal for the ship, mixed in with the stuff he was supposed to bring with him... For the 'Hunt'.

"Mhm... That's the new nuke 'nades, right? Increased yield?"

"Yes... And I strongly suggest that you stop playing with the pin, or I'll turn your mind into jelly."

"Yeah, right... Be careful, I might infect you."

For a moment, Marius thought he could feel the ship shuddering. He chuckled again. The Microcalypse was a rather amusing fellow. Not very hard, tho - He wondered how it'd actually become a warship.

In any case, the available 'tools' proved to be rather neat. A few extra hard- and soft field emitters, some nuke grenades, some neutron grenades, a nice - If underpowered, compared to the standard equipment of a DA infantry unit - rifle, a few other things...

"I quite like this blade, here... Hard-field enabled?"

"... You could care about the things that don't kill people, too. You're supposed to do more than just running amok."

"A thing I can't kill people with doesn't exist."

Silence. A group of smallish drones - Both, from Marius' shuttle and from the Microcalypse - started to carry the equipment from the TEU to the shuttle, moving weapons, microdust, nanodust, various computing devices, a number of tools, small sensors and the likes over. Marius could feel his brain tickling, again - The Microcalypse really didn't trust him.

Well, he'd be glad to get out of the ship. The small corridors, the low ceiling, tools and drones scattered everywhere - It wasn't a particularly interesting place. And nowhere near as spacious or active as Io...

After a while, the transfer had been completed. As the TEU eventually disengaged from the shuttle and made its way towards Mars, Marius wondered briefly why exactly they hadn't tooled him up at Jupiter - He suspected that Ivanova had simply refused to equip someone like him.

He chuckled again. Awww.

Earth

<TEU Black Rain> Mhm. Going by the message Marius received from Kriegorgrad, I suppose we were a little too careful, all things considered. Sounds like they would have let us in.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Indeed. Well, better safe than sorry, as they say. Of course, now we have to deal with PeiE's 'Friend'.
<TEU Precious Prejudice> We could still intercept him.
<SEU Quietly Confident> And alienate PeiE? Not a good idea, especially given the situation. We have to contain the risk, though.
<TEU Black Rain> We could make it an official support thingy. Full force.
<SDU Liberty Above All> Nope. Impossible to get the necessary support from the public. Yes, the military's nominally semi-independent, but you're still getting your funds from the private sector, remember?
<SEU Quietly Confident> Indeed. I guess we can use Katarina - Objectively, organic combatants are hardly as good as a professional force, but they might fit into the environment.
<TEU Black Rain> I see your point, yes. Well, whatever, we still need a while until Katarina & co are available - Getting nuked kind of ruins the hardware. Wonder how they survived, anyway.
<SEU Quietly Confident> With bruises...

DA Sisgardia

Sarah watched the screen with what amounted to severe boredom. Unsurprisingly - She wasn't even nine yet, and while she was a kind of pseudo-religious symbol, well, this didn't change the fact that she was still a child. And being 'Officially' included in the highest levels of DA's administrative shrubbery didn't mean that her mind was all that different from other children her age.

In other words, the news weren't particularly exciting to her.

That the news featured the present events in Kriegorgrad - As far as information was available, anyway. And this meant essentially the non-encoded transmissions from Kriegorgrad's higher administrative levels, its - Doubtlessly lying, but it was better than nothing - media, and orbital surveillance by civilian assets, which were considerable, but still limited - There was no need to get Kriegorgrads own assets in orbit all worked up.

Of course it was a little scary, but it wasn't something new to her - She'd witnessed the cataclysm, first hand, and she'd witnessed it in far greater detail than anyone - Or almost anyone - else.

If anything, she felt a little sad for the victims in Kriegorgrad. That was all.

For now.

Kriegorgrad

The shuttle descended, slowly, its EM drives providing barely sufficient thrust to prevent a tumbling, chaotic and eventually disastrous crash. Its surface heating, layers of molecules burning off, its rapid descent leaving the air behind it in chaos, it looked a little like a shooting star.

Marius hadn't really bothered to announce himself, aside from the message sent two hours earlier. He simple assumed that the local authorities had done the necessary steps to guarantee a safe and unbothered descent. If they hadn't, he'd presumably be shot down - But that was ok with him. He needed some thrill.

Eventually, he noticed what he supposed to be orbital control, or whatever it was that tended to organise Kriegorgrads' own orbit-to-ground traffic (Mostly supplies for its smallish space navy, he suspected from what little he knew about it), and, after waiting sufficiently long to give the impression of arrogance, he replied, announcing himself, his intentions - Well, the official ones, anyway - etc..

Can't wait for it...

The hunt was close.

Earth

<Poke 'em inna Eye!> Mhm. Well, yes, he is insane... But not a bad guy.
<SDU Liberty Above All> Yes, yes. Anyway, if I may direct some of your attention on another thing... [Attachment: FTR/ Kriegorgrad exchanges]
<SEU Quietly Confident> Hrm. Gotta love unencoded communications.
<SDU Liberty Above All> No different from the exchanges between Marius and Kriegorgrad... Frankly, I'm surprised the media hasn't catched on. Tightbeam, sure, but still.
<SEU Quietly Confident> Yes, yes. Anyway. IIRC the public's not too fond of our relationship with the FTR. So...
<TEU Black Rain> We're still rather closely allied, and have a rather neat history of cooperation. I'd say we should continue it, disagreements in the domestic sector aside.
<SEU Quietly Confident> With Marius?
<TEU Black Rain> Of course not, genius. But... general information exchange, and cooperation once Katarina & co are available.
<SEU Quietly Confident> I see your point. I wont ask just now, though. Lets see how this continues first. Heck, given FTR's methods as seen on Omeldor 1, I wouldn't be surprised if they managed to alienate Kriegorgrad - Not due the methods themselves, but due to them being used by foreigners, on Kriegorgrads' citizenry. It might be smart to be less-than-closely related.
<SDU Liberty Above All> Good point.

It was still night, and the chaos hadn't faded from the nights before, the distant cries of Proletarian Guardsmen and Kriegos citizens alike filled the cold night air, the occasional boom of a Centurion’s tank cannon resounded through the cheap, dirty towers and run down apartment blocks and their blood-smeared hallways. The death-toll was unimaginable for the Kriegos, under other circumstances, any other invading “army” would’ve been beaten back by the combined forces of the Proletarian Guard and the citizens of Birmingpool, but as has been made quite clear by the events of the last few days, the host attacking Birmingpool wasn’t “any other” army. However, the soldiers fought valiantly, despite the huge peak in mental disorders among the Guardsmen – it seemed anyone who went up against the ungodly little girl was smote down outright or plagued with illnesses of the mind.

The distant cry of klaxons, the ceaseless crack of rifles, the crump of machineguns and the resounding booms of tank cannons started to die out. This wasn’t good for Cherubis. Things were obviously boding badly for the Kriegos military. The screech of turbofans announced the unexpected presence of the MV87 Coba, the sleek craft threw up dust and fragments as it slowly descended, a rope was tossed out and it fell down into a wet puddle of water in the makeshift trench, a bark came over the commlink and he started to climb, casting a look back into the muddy trench as a spotlight swept over the crude defence, revealing not only the emaciated conscripts but the things just over fifty feet from the poor soldiers: a tide of angered bone and flesh. Cherubis turned up and hauled himself up with relative ease, the VEPR suit proffering a significant aptitude for the task. Moments later, he was in the passenger cabin of the high-speed aircraft, casting a look back over into the trench.

The searchlight simply exploded at the behest of some unknown force, and with that, screams erupted from the darkness as soldiers and algorithms of dead meat were momentarily illuminated by brief bursts of gunfire. And from the chaos a charming little giggle could be heard…

*****

Fear had overwhelmed the Oligarchs and the idea of keeping Teresa alive was thrown out the window, along with compassion for their fellow man. They wanted the little girl dead by any means necessary. Reports of casualties regarding Birmingpool hinted at a deathtoll of over 90%, both civilian and military: the time for compassion was past, the time for containment was now. The Oligarchic dictators met in the same dark room, vaguely lit from fluorescent lights hugging the carpet by the walls and one great light over the rectangular conference table. The scene was a parody of western business life, a board of directors meeting in their office in some obscure but dazzling skyscraper, of course, the building the oligarchs were in was a white pyramid, grey, under the gaze of a pale moon.

“[/i]She must die, it’s simple! We cannot afford such a liability within our own borders![/i]” Stated Mustapha, his intentions changed after the ghastly report of the events at the factory-city of Birmingpool.

”I can’t believe you didn’t take this course of action sooner Mustapha! I have already ordered some planes from the Proletarian Airforce prepped for action… Nuclear weapons have been armed.” Henry said, his face painted with obvious eagerness, the desperate look of a man who treasured his survival above all.

“Then, make it happen Henry… You have the backing of the Oligarchy.”


{::Establishing Uplink::}
{::Procuring Broadband Channel::}
{::Open Channel Procured::}

Type of Communiqué: Military
To: All involved
From: The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov
Subject: Pull Out

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

”It has been decided that Birmingpool is to be dealt with, and with appropriate force. This is the first and only warning: pull out of Birmingpool and the surrounding areas. And to those from Der Angst – your help is appreciated, but the problem has been resolved…”

Yours Sincerely,


The Oligarch of Kriegorgrad, Comrade Leader Nikolai Fedorenkov

{::Closing Uplink::}

No more conversation was needed. At around three o’clock in the morning, a bomber took off from an airstrip near Fedorgrad, escorted by two F67K ( http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v63/Chlevenkov/F-67KStrakhenSokolDva.png) fighters, within the hour, the trio of planes was within range and the F67’s peeled off the escort and returned home while the bomber continued on its course. A red sun was peaking over the horizon, giving only enough light to make the sky into a mix of red and blue. Silence was all that gave voice in the city below, there was no rifle fire, no screaming; just silence. The bomber, dubbed “Fedor’s Intent” opened its bomb bay, and out fell a freefall nuclear device. Its nose turned down and the air whistling as it cut through the sky into the city centre. The void of silence still reigned and:

Impact.

The vacuum of silence existed for seconds that stretched into an eternity, then, the timeless lack of sound was shattered as the wave of pressure smashed asunder buildings, windows were broken instantly while the cheap habitations were crushed like a boot coming down on a house of twigs. All of the architecture was swept along by the undeniable power of the blast. Anyone who survived the night of carnage was, without a doubt dead now. The radiation saw to that.

“Well gentlemen, it appears the situation has been resolved… Truly a testament to our leadership.”

The oligarchs cheered a false cheer in the conference room, the same room they’d been in for a disproportionately long time. They knew that they should’ve resolved the issue earlier, and they knew that they should’ve never dabbled in such practices in the first place. But then again, Kriegorgrad was a nation of war, and it was said that the flaws in Subject #14 could be controlled… The first thirteen subjects had been complete failures, but with Teresa they’d got so close… It would be a crime not to push the human genome, it would be a crime not only against science but against nature, for she intended that her children evolve… Subject #15 was being considered.

*****

Arbiter Cherubis had his helmet off, sweat coated his pale features as the MV87 Coba circled the gutted city, the mushroom cloud still hovering about in the sky, there was nothing left but death, at least that was all Cherubis could gather from his view point of the open sliding door. Cherubis asked one of the other Ordos Fedor troopers a question very pivotal to the soldier’s state of mind.

“Is she alive?”

The other trooper shook his head.

”No life-signs, Arbiter.”

Cherubis nodded and put his head against metal cabin wall, heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief. She was dead. A mighty weight was lifted from his shoulders and things seemed easier and simple.

Until a sweet chuckle echoed about the cabin, Cherubis’s eyes went to the other Ordos Fedor soldier, but he was holding the rim of the doorway, peering down into the ruined city. Cherubis shuddered.