NationStates Jolt Archive

((OOC: Warning: Profanity, sexual content, violence. Not that you care.))


Part One

They spoke over the whir of helicopter blades.

“I’m telling you, man, south Sofia’s where you gotta go. It’s fuckin’ crazy down there.”

“So, wait, wait, you’re tellin’ me that I can get a girl for six bucks?”

“Six fucking dollars, man. American.”

“Christ. How do these chicks make any money?”

“Well think about it man. She’s with each customer for like what? Five minutes at most? And then she’s workin’ all night, which has gotta be like at least eight hours, right? And then they work all day at some whorehouse. Just do the math.”

“Five minutes? Maybe you should get that checked out.”

“Hey, fuck you man. It’s an average.”

“Yeah, whatever. Tell me about the drugs.”

“Well, you know how up north they got all these licenses and regulations and shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Since they got all that red tape, the dealers gotta pay extra to keep the doors open, so the shit gets pretty expensive, but the beauty of Sofia is, they don’t got any of it, ‘cause it’s senate jurisdiction, and half of those guys are coke fiends.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Yeah, so down there the stuff’s cheap as hell, and since no one wants to deal with the regulations up north, they’re all heading south. It’s a buyer’s market, ‘stead of the seller’s market up north.”

“Amen.”

A pilot coked his head towards the back of the chopper.

“ETA five minutes!”

A man raised himself off of the floor. Captain Mikhail Greghenko was his name. He was in charge of this particular squad.

“Alright, you monkeys, listen up! You know the drill! It’s an in and out job. Hit the ground, move to the objective, and finish it! Simple stuff, gentlemen. I want us out of that place in ten minutes. We clear!?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.”

A cigar hung idly from the mouth of Sergeant Nicholas Krzyzstov. His fingers moved smoothly across the barrel of the XM8 that rested in his lap.

“Should be a cakewalk.”

There were three helicopters, Mi-24s cruising in through the night over the Azeri steppe, illuminated by the light of a full moon. The deserted area gave way to a minute spattering of lights. More and more of them appeared until it was clear that the chopper was cruising over a vast urban area: the great city of Baku. Majestic obelisks, relics of Alexei’s rule, rose into the air, illuminated by spotlights.

A young soldier leaned over, to gaze at the searchlights.

“Jesus! They’re gonna see us!”

“Relax. We want them to. As far as they know, we’re on their side. Choppers come in and out of here all the time.”

The young man leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled. Krzyzstov took another puff on the cigar, letting the smoke dissipate through the cabin. The pilot again called back to the soldiers.

“ETA: one minute!”

“Alright boys, saddle up! It’s gonna be a walk in the pa-“

The officer was cut off as a rocket slammed into the tail of the chopper. The man was thrown through the partially open door, plummeting into the streets below.

“What the fuck is going on!”

Anti-aircraft gunfire split the night, as yellow specks rocketed forward into the night to smack the metal with a loud clink.

Sergeant Krzyzstov hit the deck, flattening his body against the floor as bullets whizzed through the cabin of the wildly spinning helicopter. The young private who had worried about the searchlights caught a bullet in the throat as he hung on for dear life. The body slumped to the floor, and the blood pooled on the steel.

The chopper careened towards the houses below. With a crash, the flaming metal slammed into the wooden roof of a cheaply built house. The helicopter fell through, and lay mangled on the first floor of the home.

Ambushes in Bulgaria, interesting. *Awaits further news*

Ambushes in Bulgaria, interesting. *Awaits further news*

((OOC: Actually, it's Azerbaijan.))

Isn't Sofia Bulgaria?

Isn't Sofia Bulgaria?

((OOC: Yes.))

This is too cool. *TAG*

(Mind if I join, GE?)

I concur with RB, tag.

(OOC: I'd like to take part also)

I'd like to join too.

(OOC: Yeah, if it's okay, I'd like to take part... Not sure what my nation would do, but would that be alright?)

What the hell, I'll join in too.

Nicholas Krzyzstov crawled from the burning wreckage into the destroyed room. He pulled himself into a corner, and lifted up his pants leg, to reveal a long gash running from his knee to the middle of his leg.

“Shit.”

Nicholas reached for a knife that hung at his waist. He moved the blade to the leg of his pants, and cut it off. He proceeded to wrap the makeshift bandage tightly around the wound.

He moved his hand to his forehead. As he brought it down, he noticed blood on his fingers. Again he moved the knife, this time to his right sleeve. He worked a strip of the heavy cloth free, and tied it around his head.

He went over the rest of his body, searching for more injuries. He found none but a few minor cuts and bruises. Bracing himself against the wall, the man pushed himself to his feet, grimacing against the searing pain in his leg. He got to his feet, and tested his appendages.

He moved towards the flaming hulk that occupied what was once a decently furnished living room. As he drew near, he heard a loud moaning coming from the other side of the mangled door.

Nicholas put his hands on the crooked steel, and with what was left of his strength, worked it free. The man he had been conversing with, a certain Private Ivan Isadore, lay bleeding inside. Krzyzstov dragged the man out into the dark room. A broken lightbulb flickered overhead, showering sparks onto Nicholas’s back.

Krzyzstov propped Isadore against a wall, and went to work bandaging the man’s heavily lacerated arm. Isadore stumbled to coherence.

“Wha- Nick? What the hell? Holy shit! What happened to my fucking arm?!”

“Relax. You got some nasty cuts.”

“How? Where are we?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in Baku.”

“Oh Christ. I remember now. Who the fuck was shooting at us!?”

“No idea, but whoever it was will be here to bat cleanup pretty soon, so we gotta get gone.”

“Jesus. I’m all for it. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Krzyzstov helped Ivan to his feet, and began to walk towards the building’s back door, as the helicopter had blocked the front entrance.

“Shouldn’t we see if there’s anyone else in there?”

Ivan gestured towards the mangled wreck of the chopper.

“There isn’t.”

“Holy God.”

Ivan rushed to follow Krzyzstov out the door. They found themselves in a back alley. Sirens wailed in the distance.

----------

Before the nine years throughout which the Empire was consumed with civil war, the Imperial province of Azerbaijan was under the control of Governor Markus Graccho. When the Empire began to plunge into collapse, this man seized the opportunity, using his legions to carve a kingdom for himself out of Azerbaijan. While technically still under Imperial jurisdiction, Governor Graccho was hampered little by Emperor Tiberius, who was quite preoccupied with happenings in Mozambique.

As the war progressed, Governor Graccho stopped answering to the Empire all together. He proclaimed himself Lord of Azerbaijan, and used his Praetorians as a personal police force, to crush anyone who would pose a threat to his rule. Again, Tiberius, although now quite concerned with the situation, was ill equipped to deal with it. Years of warring with his brother Alexius had decimated his armies, leaving him with nothing to dispatch to the rogue province.

Four years later, as Antonius I, brother of the murdered Tiberius, came to power, Graccho of Azerbaijan was secure in his position as fierce warlord and vicious taskmaster over the Azeri people. However, Emperor Antonius was not going to allow this to continue.

The three helicopters that now lay burning in the streets of Baku had carried members of an elite division of Praetorians known as the Black guard. They had been sent to collect the head of Governor Markus Graccho.

((OOC: Everyone who asked is welcome to participate. Bear in mind however that no one would know about the helicopters yet.))

((OOC: Everyone who asked is welcome to participate. Bear in mind however that no one would know about the helicopters yet.))


OOC-Cool

[TAG]

OOC: Going to join this as soon as the ambush is revealed to the public.

*tag*

What, do we start a battle now?

bump

bump for later IC post

Krzyzstov and Ivan stalked through the darkened alleys, behind the dismal tenements of the Baku slums. The only audible sound was the muffled step of their leather boots, and the occasional squeal of a stray cat. In the distance sirens still droned, but by now the two men had adjusted to it, and disregarded the sound entirely.

The soldiers came upon an intersecting alley, and were able to catch sight of a broad avenue that ran adjacent to the tenement blocks. Carefully, Krzyzstov crept toward the street. He peered around the corner. The street was still.

Suddenly, a rumble met his ears. He whipped his head around, towards a far corner. A tracked armored personnel carrier accompanied by several ex-Imperial soldiers rounded the corner, and began moving down the street. He whipped himself back into the alley, and ran back towards Ivan. Ivan did not ask questions, but followed the sergeant back behind the tenement.

“There’s our welcoming committee.”

“Let’s not stick around for the welcome.”

The two moved on down the alley, making sure from then on to avoid the street.

OOC: Tag for something to read/shoot

The two moved on down the alley, making sure from then on to avoid the street.

Krzyzstov and Ivan halted behind a tenement building to rest, and lick their wounds. As Nicholas sank down against the wall, a burst of gunfire sounded in the street. A man rushed around the corner, and turned towards the two soldiers. He threw his hands up as Krzyzstov aimed his weapon. As his finger moved to squeeze the trigger, the stranger yelled.

“Relax, I’m on your side! Imperial Guard! Red-14!”

Krzyzstov moved his finger from the trigger. The man ripped a patch from his shredded clothes. It bore the mark of the Imperial Praetorians, and the Black Guard. Krzyzstov lowered his gun and stood up.

“What’s going on out there?”

“No time to explain. Follow me.”

The man took off away from where the firing had occurred. Ivan and Krzyzstov ran after him. He led the men across several narrow streets and down alleyways until they came upon the back of a small hotel.

“In here.”

The man ran up a back staircase. The three found themselves in a small corridor. The other guardsman led them into the lobby, a dark, dingy place with several burnt out lightbulbs and ragged furniture. It was empty.

The man led Ivan and Krzyzstov towards a stairwell. The door had been removed, and the stiars were rusty and old. The men climbed three flights, and stepped out into a hallway. The party entered a hotel room. There was yet another soldier lying on the floor inside.

“Here we are. At least we’re out in the open.”

“Who are you?”

“Augustus Mikhail Tayanovich. Pilot, Imperial naval aviation. I was flying one of those birds the bastards shot down. This is Major Georg Granzi. He took a bullet in the gut. I don’t know how long the poor guy’s gonna last.”

“Are there any more survivors?”

“I assume so, but who knows. There were three choppers full of guys, but they could all be shot or captured.”

“Then we’re on our own for now.”

He sighed.

“Fuck. What the hell happened up there?”

“Jesus, man. That was some fucked up shit.”

“Man, they came out of fucking nowhere.”

Tayanovich answered him.

“You know what I think? I think we were set up. How else were they supposed to know we were coming? Remember the briefing? They told us the bases were covered, man. There was no way they could have seen us coming.”

“Who knows, man. HQ makes mistakes.”

“No man, this wasn’t a fucking mistake. That was too fubar to be a mistake.”

“Mistakes are mistakes.”

“No, man. Then why’d they wait ‘til we were right over their fucking city? Thay could have just shot us down a mile outside, and not risked all the damage. I think they were trying to lure us in or something.”

“Shut up, man. No one was luring anyone.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, were set up.”

“Whatever happened, we still got a hell of a situation. Let’s stop fucking whining about it, and start dealing with it.”

“Then what do you say we do?”

“We gotta lay low for a bit. They’re all over the streets. Later tonight, when the heat’s off, we can go out and find out what the situation is. Then, we can work on getting ourselves some extraction.”

“Extraction? What the hell are you talking about? The guard doesn’t get any extraction! When we get fucked up, we’re fucking dead! Off the fucking records man!”

“Shut the fuck up, and listen to me! We’re going to get out of this shithole, somehow or other. I’m going to make sure of it.”

“Yeah, whatever man. You do that.”

“What I just tell you, private? Yeah, that’s right. Our major boy over there is gonna croak if he ain’t already, so I’m in charge, and you all better start acting like it. I say we’re gonna get through this shit, and that means we are. Clear?”

“Heh. Yes sir, Major asshole.”

“That’s better. Listen up. We got a few hours to wait. Stay here and clean up those wounds. Grab some sleep if you can. We got work to do later, and I can’t have you falling asleep or bleeding all over the place.”

Krzyzstov walked towards a worn chair in the corner of the darkened room, and sat down. He removed a cigar from an inner pocket, along with a small lighter. He sat there in the darkness, smoking and brooding on their situation while the others nursed their wounds.

bump to keep this barely alive