07-12-2003, 17:07
In this room, the only light that illuminated any inch of life was the dull glow emitting from the open window, the moon’s fading glow touching and weaving unto the blood-stained crimson of the Star of Rodinu, the national flag of a disturbed entity. In this room, whose decorated walls of tsarist aristocracy had faded and crumbled with the coming of the years, only one figure sat, hunched, eerily quiet at the wooden desk that dominated the office space. His frail hands trembled as his fingers gently slide through his graying hair, his wrinkled aspects denoting a sense of calm, of dignity and respectability. All around him, pictures of faces so familiar to him stared mockingly at him, family, cousins, friends, all peering silently, helplessly, at him from the dozens of them that littered the imposing walls, and the lone figure knew that all that had stood with him were now dead, that the faces now belonged to newly born ghosts. There deaths had come so swiftly, so violently, that everything the old man had known – his dreams, his ambitions, his love for the great land that he had served so long – had been smashed away in chaos, in anarchy that now spilled unto the streets. The Old Order, the Republic, was over, democracy would maybe never return to these shores where it had worked so well these past years. Institution after institution that had promoted the democratic Republic fell before the power of the mob, before the power of the “Socialist Forces” that had grabbed so ruthlessly for power that it had shocked the world. Government rule was no longer a reality. The masses had revolted so suddenly, had risen up to claim what was theirs, that everything now fell before the rising tide of communism. Police forces that had never resorted to violence against their own people and armed forces incapable of peace keeping soon turned to mutiny, to the promises of the New Party, those bastard communists…
One TV screen gently glowed from a distant corner, images of mass riots, of demonstrations and blood stained media cameras, of the chaos of a Government that could not bear to fight it’s own people…
With a click, the White Doors to the Office of the President of the Republic of Greater Rodinu swung open, the scurrying and commotion that filled the corridors outside bursting in full force. Armed soldiers, their uniforms immediately recognizable as the President’s Home Guard, his personal military escorts, swarmed into the room, moving to bring to bear, or show off the AK-47’s that hung from their arms. They stood to attention before the desk, and saluted as one. The old man looked up from briefly, a flash of anger crossing his face like annoyance that his thoughts were disturbed then anything, nodding, ease settling into him. The men before him were the most loyal of all his Special Forces of the Republic, obeying only his personal commands, none other. In the sudden chaos that had erupted after only a week, they had proven to be the only forces still serving the Republican Government.
They stood there, silent as the grave before their leader, their ears perked as eagerness for action fueled into their blood. The President, Servijo Brakker, stood limply, his solid gaze folding over his men. As his stare passed by each solider, each one met it evenly. Brakker shook his head slowly, his features clouded by fatigue more then anything, and addressed his troops.
“The enemy says that it represents the people of this Land, of this land that us, as Servants of the Republic, have served so long and faithfully. Under democratic rule, this nation has prospered, even flourished…every nation comes under trouble but, under pressure and internal dissent from time to time…but as a democracy, we can waver it out…My faith in Humanity is to strong to abandon democracy… “
A loud knock brought their attention spinning back to the present, as one the troopers turning. Gun nozzles suddenly found themselves ready to dispense thousands of tiny shiny bullets to who ever was knocking. Cautiously, a young soldier tip toed forward, and slightly unhinged the door handle. It swung open with a creak, gently whispers of smoke flowing like mist across the floor. The soldiers stared down, each one spotting the smoke before they could smell it. The young trooper that had opened the door looked down, then back up, only to find a newcomer. Before him, one tall, imposing shadow glared down at him, the newcomer’s face bringing a round of gasps from the assembled soldiers. The shadow looked round quietly, his stare drilling into their gaze as to represent a challenge. President Brakker snarled. He already knew that something truly evil had been near by, like some bad stench. He spat a welcome at the newcomer.
“Slavvik…so glad to see you. Hundreds are dying on the streets, the entire country is in disorder…and now you’re here. Surprise surprise.”
Vladimir Slavvik smirked at the hunched figure, and stride past the Presidential Guards without a glance straight towards his leader. He wore a graying old military officer’s uniform, badges pinned against his chest, not as much brazenly implying the wearer’s greatness, but his ambitions. Compared to the old man that stood weakly to meet him, Slavvik’s appearance was completely imposing. The Hammer and Sickle pin strapped to his the peak of his officer’s cap shinned the most, symbolizing the wearer’s loyalty to the forces of communism…Slavvik was leader of the Communist Party, of course. Chuckling under his breath, Slavvik took a seat. President Brakker stared at his guards, but none moved to help him or grab the Communist. Slavvik leaned over, took a cup of tea that sat steaming on the President’s desk, and took a gently sip. He looked up, and something, so quick an invisible as lightning flashed across his cold eyes. Brakker stepped back. Slavvik smirked again, and motioned at the nearest Guard.
“You…your gun. Get it.”
The soldier spun round, staring blankly at Slavvik, confusion marring his face. He turned to the President again, and hopelessness flooded his face. Trembling, the soldier took out his side pistol, and aimed at Brakker. The President froze, unbelief flooding his eyes, pain cutting deep into him. His face grimaced as if some huge mental blow had just been inflicted on his conscience and he sagged, almost doubling over. Not one guard dared moved to help him. Slavvik sat there, laughing softly at the frail President. Brakker shuddered again, and then straightened, and meet the soldier’s trembling gaze evenly – a man who knew his time had come. The President’s eyes gently drifted down, crossing each picture on his desk, his heart feeling so heavy all of a sudden as the pain hit him – this was the end, this was his failure.
“Communism…we only know fear of it. I hope to God that you return this land the graces that they all held under the Republic – of freedom, good will and fairness. As a Communist…I hold you to your word.”
Brakker and Slavvik meet, eye to eye. In one moment, tension slowly filled the room as the two men stared unnervingly at each other, eager to beat the other at blinking. It was a test of wills. Suddenly, Slavvik stood, his chair slamming over behind him, and he spun round to the soldier. His hand ripped the pistol from the soldier’s awed grip, and glared at the weapon. With a click, Slavvik gently tipped the nozzle on up, and brought it to aim on the soldier’s temple. And then he pulled the trigger.
They stood, all staring confused around them. Blood now sprawled across everything in the Office. Slavvik sneered, flicking off drops of blood of his collar, returning his gaze to his old foe. Once again, he cocked the weapon at another’s man head. Brakker never dropped his glaze from Slavvik. Once again, a scream of gunfire erupted from the room. Slavvik sighed, and turned to the astonished soldiers, nodding.
“Excellent work, comrades. It is thanks to you that the future of this nation will be protected and will one day prove to History that we, the workers and soldiers of the working class, are the People…”
Casually, Slavvik dropped the still smoking pistol unto the floor, it’s nuzzle banging loudly into a expanding red puddle. For one moment he was enticed, watching every curve and motion of the stream of blood creeping across the floor. And, as if rudely waking up from a daydream, he stormed out of the room without a word or a glance back. One by one, the Presidential Guards stared down at the corpse of the President of the Republic. Each face showed puzzlement, fear and anguish. As one, the troop rose in one last salute to their Leader, a man so humble that he had served his people faithfully for over 20 years of stable, peaceful rule. One by one, they crossed and walked out the room into the hallway, shaking their bowed heads. But as one, they stopped just outside the door to their further surprise. Slavvik stood down at the end, grinning so evilly up at them. Behind him, dark uniformed men stood as silently, their movements so slow they were the Communist Leader’s shadows. Mocking laughter drifted down the halls towards the confused Guards.
“Forgive me, comrades…we all have to make scarifies for History. Your about to become part of it.”
Gunfire spewed like hail from behind Slavvik, the walls suddenly bursting, ripping open as shot after shot pounded there way around the hall. One by one, Presidential Guard desperately fought back, ducking for shelter that evaporated under seconds of gun fire. Fifty seconds passed before the bursts of fire stopped. The screaming had stopped only seconds before that.
General Vladimir Slavvik, General-Secretary of the Communist Party of Rodinu, laughed, he could not stop. The men behind him gently stepped back, allowing their leader the room he obliviously needed, until one by one, the shadows slipped away to secure other parts of the Government Capital, until only one figure remained, alone in a room full of corpses. General Vladimir Slavvik laughed…
One TV screen gently glowed from a distant corner, images of mass riots, of demonstrations and blood stained media cameras, of the chaos of a Government that could not bear to fight it’s own people…
With a click, the White Doors to the Office of the President of the Republic of Greater Rodinu swung open, the scurrying and commotion that filled the corridors outside bursting in full force. Armed soldiers, their uniforms immediately recognizable as the President’s Home Guard, his personal military escorts, swarmed into the room, moving to bring to bear, or show off the AK-47’s that hung from their arms. They stood to attention before the desk, and saluted as one. The old man looked up from briefly, a flash of anger crossing his face like annoyance that his thoughts were disturbed then anything, nodding, ease settling into him. The men before him were the most loyal of all his Special Forces of the Republic, obeying only his personal commands, none other. In the sudden chaos that had erupted after only a week, they had proven to be the only forces still serving the Republican Government.
They stood there, silent as the grave before their leader, their ears perked as eagerness for action fueled into their blood. The President, Servijo Brakker, stood limply, his solid gaze folding over his men. As his stare passed by each solider, each one met it evenly. Brakker shook his head slowly, his features clouded by fatigue more then anything, and addressed his troops.
“The enemy says that it represents the people of this Land, of this land that us, as Servants of the Republic, have served so long and faithfully. Under democratic rule, this nation has prospered, even flourished…every nation comes under trouble but, under pressure and internal dissent from time to time…but as a democracy, we can waver it out…My faith in Humanity is to strong to abandon democracy… “
A loud knock brought their attention spinning back to the present, as one the troopers turning. Gun nozzles suddenly found themselves ready to dispense thousands of tiny shiny bullets to who ever was knocking. Cautiously, a young soldier tip toed forward, and slightly unhinged the door handle. It swung open with a creak, gently whispers of smoke flowing like mist across the floor. The soldiers stared down, each one spotting the smoke before they could smell it. The young trooper that had opened the door looked down, then back up, only to find a newcomer. Before him, one tall, imposing shadow glared down at him, the newcomer’s face bringing a round of gasps from the assembled soldiers. The shadow looked round quietly, his stare drilling into their gaze as to represent a challenge. President Brakker snarled. He already knew that something truly evil had been near by, like some bad stench. He spat a welcome at the newcomer.
“Slavvik…so glad to see you. Hundreds are dying on the streets, the entire country is in disorder…and now you’re here. Surprise surprise.”
Vladimir Slavvik smirked at the hunched figure, and stride past the Presidential Guards without a glance straight towards his leader. He wore a graying old military officer’s uniform, badges pinned against his chest, not as much brazenly implying the wearer’s greatness, but his ambitions. Compared to the old man that stood weakly to meet him, Slavvik’s appearance was completely imposing. The Hammer and Sickle pin strapped to his the peak of his officer’s cap shinned the most, symbolizing the wearer’s loyalty to the forces of communism…Slavvik was leader of the Communist Party, of course. Chuckling under his breath, Slavvik took a seat. President Brakker stared at his guards, but none moved to help him or grab the Communist. Slavvik leaned over, took a cup of tea that sat steaming on the President’s desk, and took a gently sip. He looked up, and something, so quick an invisible as lightning flashed across his cold eyes. Brakker stepped back. Slavvik smirked again, and motioned at the nearest Guard.
“You…your gun. Get it.”
The soldier spun round, staring blankly at Slavvik, confusion marring his face. He turned to the President again, and hopelessness flooded his face. Trembling, the soldier took out his side pistol, and aimed at Brakker. The President froze, unbelief flooding his eyes, pain cutting deep into him. His face grimaced as if some huge mental blow had just been inflicted on his conscience and he sagged, almost doubling over. Not one guard dared moved to help him. Slavvik sat there, laughing softly at the frail President. Brakker shuddered again, and then straightened, and meet the soldier’s trembling gaze evenly – a man who knew his time had come. The President’s eyes gently drifted down, crossing each picture on his desk, his heart feeling so heavy all of a sudden as the pain hit him – this was the end, this was his failure.
“Communism…we only know fear of it. I hope to God that you return this land the graces that they all held under the Republic – of freedom, good will and fairness. As a Communist…I hold you to your word.”
Brakker and Slavvik meet, eye to eye. In one moment, tension slowly filled the room as the two men stared unnervingly at each other, eager to beat the other at blinking. It was a test of wills. Suddenly, Slavvik stood, his chair slamming over behind him, and he spun round to the soldier. His hand ripped the pistol from the soldier’s awed grip, and glared at the weapon. With a click, Slavvik gently tipped the nozzle on up, and brought it to aim on the soldier’s temple. And then he pulled the trigger.
They stood, all staring confused around them. Blood now sprawled across everything in the Office. Slavvik sneered, flicking off drops of blood of his collar, returning his gaze to his old foe. Once again, he cocked the weapon at another’s man head. Brakker never dropped his glaze from Slavvik. Once again, a scream of gunfire erupted from the room. Slavvik sighed, and turned to the astonished soldiers, nodding.
“Excellent work, comrades. It is thanks to you that the future of this nation will be protected and will one day prove to History that we, the workers and soldiers of the working class, are the People…”
Casually, Slavvik dropped the still smoking pistol unto the floor, it’s nuzzle banging loudly into a expanding red puddle. For one moment he was enticed, watching every curve and motion of the stream of blood creeping across the floor. And, as if rudely waking up from a daydream, he stormed out of the room without a word or a glance back. One by one, the Presidential Guards stared down at the corpse of the President of the Republic. Each face showed puzzlement, fear and anguish. As one, the troop rose in one last salute to their Leader, a man so humble that he had served his people faithfully for over 20 years of stable, peaceful rule. One by one, they crossed and walked out the room into the hallway, shaking their bowed heads. But as one, they stopped just outside the door to their further surprise. Slavvik stood down at the end, grinning so evilly up at them. Behind him, dark uniformed men stood as silently, their movements so slow they were the Communist Leader’s shadows. Mocking laughter drifted down the halls towards the confused Guards.
“Forgive me, comrades…we all have to make scarifies for History. Your about to become part of it.”
Gunfire spewed like hail from behind Slavvik, the walls suddenly bursting, ripping open as shot after shot pounded there way around the hall. One by one, Presidential Guard desperately fought back, ducking for shelter that evaporated under seconds of gun fire. Fifty seconds passed before the bursts of fire stopped. The screaming had stopped only seconds before that.
General Vladimir Slavvik, General-Secretary of the Communist Party of Rodinu, laughed, he could not stop. The men behind him gently stepped back, allowing their leader the room he obliviously needed, until one by one, the shadows slipped away to secure other parts of the Government Capital, until only one figure remained, alone in a room full of corpses. General Vladimir Slavvik laughed…