NationStates Jolt Archive

GIN News Update

http://archives.cnn.com/2002/images/03/02/top.jerusalem.carbomb.jpg

“A car bomb exploded early this morning outside of a popular nightclub in downtown New Bucharest, capital of the Imperial province of Buchiana. The club was a popular spot for both native Buchianans and foreign tourists. As of now, twenty-seven are reported dead, and fifteen injured as a result of the blast, which totaled the front of the club and scorched several other buildings in the immediate vicinity. The bombing follows a recent string of like attacks throughout New Bucharest and the province of Buchiana.

The attacks are rumored to have been perpetuated by a group calling itself the Buchianan Liberation Army (BLA), a terrorist organization known to operate throughout Buchiana and central Generia. Formed shortly after the capitulation of Buchiana to Imperial forces which effectively ended the province’s secession movement, the BLA has grown steadily over the past two years, and has been behind numerous attacks on Imperial military and government targets in an effort to end the Imperial occupation of the province and allow for the creation of a free Buchianan state. The Imperial government has refused to negotiate with the BLA, calling them a group of leftist thugs and murderers. The most recent attacks are most likely a result of an Imperial crackdown on the organization, and will surely spark a quick response from Generian security forces.

For GIN International News, I’m Anja Kareshkov.”

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Fidius Gracchus, governor of the Imperial province of Buchiana and head of the Imperial military occupation stood before a large window in his office in the Imperial governor’s palace overlooking the city of New Bucharest. The enormous, foreboding white structure sat in the center of the city, and was virtually inaccessible from the street owing to a high wall and fortified gate. The four streets that provided access to the square where the palace was located were closed off by Imperial military checkpoints for five blocks. Thus the building became a veritable fortress and one of few true bastions of security for Imperial officials in the city.

“This is ridiculous. Three car bombings in one week? Simply intolerable!”

A second man stood in the shadow’s on the other side of the office. He spoke now to the governor.

“The BLA is proving a formidable opponent.”

“Formidable? Ha! They’re nothing but out of work peasants with guns. I’m amazed they have managed to defy us for this long.”

“As am I, Governor Gracchus. Amazed and disappointed. If they are nothing but disgruntled peasants, why have you not yet managed to subdue them?”

“They hide among the populace. They receive shelter and supplies from the citizens. This makes it increasingly difficult to locate and eradicate the cells.”

“The Empire is growing impatient, governor. We fear that perhaps you may not be as determined to crush the movement as you say you are. Do not forget that if it was not for the work of myself and the rest of your benefactors in Generia City, you would not have this appointment at all, and would instead be rotting in a pile of corpses with the rest of the secessionist scum. With your repeated failures, I believe that the Imperial high command may be losing sight of the benefits provided by a Buchianan government under Imperial control here in the province. If you continue to displease them, all of my convincing will prove as nothing, and they will not hesitate to remove you and instate a true Imperial occupation order. Do not let it come to that.”

Gracchus was now visibly nervous. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck, and he tugged at his collar.

“Lord Marcus, I assure you that I am doing everything in my power to maintain Imperial order in Buchiana. I would also like to remind you that since the establishment of the Buchianan self occupation, incidents have decreased by nearly fifteen percent. Please, I beg you milord, simply give us time, and I promise you that the BLA will be completely eradicated. Time, milord, what we need is time.”

“I remind you that the Imperial government does not have a historic patience for failure. You have been telling us to give you time for the past three months, and still the situation shows no sign of improving. If the populace is sheltering these criminals, then they are nothing but traitors and therefore worthless to the Empire. Deal with them as such.”

“But Lord, they are innocent men and women. Children, even!”

“That statement alone gives me reason to doubt the sincerity of your proclaimed loyalty to the Emperor. They are traitors, Gracchus, nothing more, nothing less. Fix the problem. You have three weeks. Good day governor.”

Lord Marcus turned, still bathed in shadow, and left the office. Several minutes later, a black executive helicopter departed the compound bound for Generia City. Lord Marcus dialed a number on his cell phone.

“I have given him three weeks as you demanded, your grace. Should he fail to contain the problem by then, I look forward to removing him personally.”

“Should it become necessary, I shall allow you that honor, Marcus.”

“Thank you Lord.”

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Lieutenant Vladek Folosov clutched his GIR-37 as he sat in the rear of the APC that now rumbled through the streets of New Bucharest. His gaze wandered among the score of faces, the cold, heartless expressions of the Praetorian on each magnified by the red light that bathed each face. The incessant drone of the engine was the only noise that reached his ears, the armored cell insulating him from the outside world and it’s array of sounds. Towards the front of the compartment, a man raised himself into a semi-standing position as he prepared to address the squad.

“Alright men, I won’t waste your time for too long. You know your assignment. GIIS picked something up this morning which gave them reason to believe that some of the tenements in block 17A may be serving as makeshift barracks for members of the BLA. Now Imperial military command doesn’t trust Buchianan civil authorities to handle the situation properly, so they’re sending us in. Along with the guys in the other two APCs, we’re to go in and clean the place out. Chances are they won’t be expecting us, so we have to move fast to preserve the opportunity before any of ‘em get away.

You guys in Lietenant Ilsanov’s squad move around back and seal the emergency exits. Two of you should find the power controls in the basement nearby and shut the place down. The bastards are gonna want to run to the roof. Lieutenant Folosov and his men will seal the front entrance and go in that way. Along with the detachment from West company you are to move through the building and suppress all suspected BLA members. We want to take a few of ‘em for questioning, but other than that you’re free to terminate them at will. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the civilians harboring the BLA are considered traitors under the Orion Mandates, and are to be treated as such. Imperial command’s getting real sick of dealing with these civvie activists, and we aim to make a few examples.”

The APC slowed to a crawl. A voice came over the speaker system that linked the cockpit to the rear of the vehicle.

“Approaching section 14-3B, tenement block 17A.”

“Alright boys. Lock and load.”

The APC suddenly lurched forward, and came to a screeching halt in front of a run down tenement building. Most of the Praetorians pulled black masks over their heads to hide their faces. The door to the vehicle slammed open, and the Praetorians poured out into the street, joined by soldiers from two other armored vehicles. One team moved towards and alley leading to the rear of the building. Lieutenant Folosov rushed towards the front entrance. In a square in front of the building a loudspeaker was broadcasting a looped message.

“Citizens of New Bucharest, you are hereby warned that according to the edicts composing the Orion mandates, you are in no way, shape, or form to give aid to the terrorist scum of the Buchianan liberation Army. Any person found to be giving aid to BLA members or sympathizers will be considered a traitor in the eyes of the Imperial government, and will be subject to punishment. I repeat, aiding the BLA in any way is to be considered…”

Vladek gestured towards his squad, and two men rushed forward. One braced himself against the wall to the right of the door. The other kicked the door in. The Praetorians flooded into the building. Folosov and his men rushed towards the staircase, weapons at the ready. On the landing ahead, a commotion was audible. Cries of panic mingled with the thunder of the soldiers’ boots. As Vladek reached the second floor, the noise of a moving elevator halted as the power was cut. Electric light flickered and went out bathing the hall in gloom broken occasionally by a streak of sunlight.

People rushed into the halls in a blind panic at the sound of the approaching soldiers.

“GIIS! Run!”

Vladek fired into the air as he and his men rushed forward.

“Don’t move! Get on the floor!”

A Praetorian tackled a man as he scrambled for the staircase the far end of the hall. He smashed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face and forced him up against the wall. Several others were apprehended and forced onto the ground. Vladek moved towards a closed door on the right and kicked it in. A man who had been comforting his terrified wife looked up in horror as Folosov rushed into the room.

“You! Don’t move!”

The woman screamed, and tried to free herself from her husband’s grip. He struggled to control her, but she broke free and rushed towards the window. Folosov raised his rifle and fired a round into her back. She screamed, stiffened, and fell to the floor. The man scrambled to his feet and charged Folosov. Folosov fired a burst into the man’s chest and he fell also. He eyed the two corpses with contempt.

“I told them not to move.”

Folosov returned to the hall. Gunfire and screams echoed throughout the building. Vladek and three of his men rushed to the staircase at the far end of the hall, and moved to the third floor. A team of Praetorians had already made it to this section of the building, and Vladek reached the top of the stairs to see a group of men and women lined up against the wall, hoods drawn over their faces. The Praetorians that stood before them raised their rifles and unloaded on the group. The blood splattered on the wall and floor as the bodies slumped to the ground.

Vladek proceeded towards the next level. He spotted a man running out into the stairwell up ahead of him. As he spied the soldiers, his eyes grew wide in horror, and he ran up the next flight. Vladek broke into a sprint after him. The man reached the end of the staircase and rushed through a door out onto the roof. Vladek followed just as the man neared the edge of the building. The man halted suddenly, realizing it was the end of the line. He turned, fear stained on his face. Vladek raised his rifle and fired a round into the man’s skull. The man fell backwards over the ledge into the street below.

Vladek turned calmly and walked back down the staircase to the floor below. The Praetorians had seemingly secured the building by now, and were dragging people out into the hallway. A pile of several bodies lay at one end. A soldier approached Vladek.

“Area secured, sir. I’d say we took out a pretty good number of those terrorist bastards today.”

“Good work. Captain Ilyich will be pleased.”

“Speaking of, Lieutenant, the Captain wants to see you outside for a report. You can take the elevator. I think they turned the power back on.”

Lieutenant Folosov walked towards the open elevator down the hall, and stepped in. The elevator rumbled down to the lobby, and Folosov stepped off. Captain Ilyich stood talking to another officer. Vladek approached him, and saluted.

“Folosov, I hear the building’s secure.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, good. We got ourselves a nice body count today. This should teach these Buchianan scumbags what we’ve been telling them for the past three months. Harboring the BLA isn’t going to get them anywhere but the morgue. Anyway, good work today major. You handled yourself well. Keep it up and you might get a nice little promotion. Hell, maybe even a position on the occupation board if you’re lucky. Goddamn that’d be nice. Well, we won’t be finished here for a while, Lieutenant. Gotta lock the whole block down for a bit and get ready to move the prisoners. Might as well get some air.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

Vladek saluted and stepped out into the street. He pulled a package of cigarettes from his pocket, placed one in his mouth, and lit it with a rusty lighter. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke he glanced to the right. Two men in black uniforms had a man pressed against the wall. One of the uniformed men watched with a stern expression as the other screamed into the captive’s face.

“Do you think I don’t know who you are!? Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been doing!? You are BLA! A terrorist, leftist thug! A traitor! GIIS knows everything about you! Do you know what I could do to you for that!?”

Tears streamed down the man’s red face as he shook with fear. The GIIS agent punched him across the jaw, his head whipping back and slamming into the wall.

“Confess and we won’t have to drag you off to headquarters!”

“No, no! I am an electrician! I don’t know these men! I-“

The agent punched him again.

“Shut up! Stop lying! Do you want to go downtown?”

Vladek chuckled to himself as he turned his head towards the blue sky. He exhaled another cloud of smoke, which wreathed his forehead.

“Fucking provincials…”

[tag]

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Viktor Nischenko was blind, at least for the moment. With the blindfold over his eyes, he felt as if he were suffocating, the lack of ability to place his whereabouts dizzying. The truck (at least he assumed he was aboard a truck) rumbled over a rough path, throwing him back and forth. With his hands bound behind his back, he had difficulty maintaining balance, which proved problematic in that whenever he fell too far to one side, he was met with a sharp kick to the gut, or a blow from a truncheon. The pain at least left him certain of the fact that he was not yet dead.

The vehicle had been traveling for what seemed to Viktor as an eternity, when suddenly it came to a stop. Viktor heard a metallic grinding sound, and he sensed a change in lighting through the strip of heavy cloth that blinded him.

“We’re here.”

Viktor felt himself being dragged to his feet from the uncomfortable sitting position he had assumed against the side of the vehicle. He was forced forward, among a mass of other bodies, down a ramp. For the first time in a long while he felt a blast of fresh air in his face. He stumbled awkwardly in his personal dark for a few hundred yards until the order came to halt. The blindfold was ripped from his eyes, and he saw that he stood in the middle of a forest with a number of ragged looking folk and a score of Imperial soldiers. Viktor began to sweat when he realized that the soldiers were all wearing masks, more so when one thrust a shovel into his hands.

“Start digging.”

Viktor looked around, unsure of where to begin the task. The soldier smacked him in the chest with the butt of his gun, knocking him backwards a bit.

“What are you, deaf? I said dig!”

Viktor hurriedly thrust the shovel into the ground. The others followed suit. They dug for about twenty minutes, the fruit of their labor being a four foot deep trench. The soldiers saw that the work was satisfactory and collected the shovels from the men. An officer then stepped before them, and spoke, reading from a large sheet of paper.

“Assembled prisoners of the Empire, you stand accused of the most heinous crime of high treason against the Imperial throne and her mighty dominions owing to your membership in the terrorist group the ‘Buchianan Liberation Army,’ and/or the ‘Buchianan Liberation Front.’ You have been found guilty of these crimes according to Imperial Edict 1726B, section four of ‘The Orion Mandate.’ By order of the Imperial chancellery, and in the tradition of preserving the honor of his most eminent majesty, Emperor Antonius I, sovereign lord of Generia and her respective dominions, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

The prisoners had seen this one coming from a mile away, and now the words hit them like a brick. Some began to weep, but most kept whatever semblance of composure they could muster.

“Praetorians! Raise your weapons!”

Viktor’s mind was racing. His brow was covered in sweat, the beads rolling down his face as his eyes glanced frantically from side to side, trying to find a way to escape this unfortunate turn of events. Suddenly, he saw in his mind a face from some time long past, a girl, a beautiful one at that.

No, no! Not now! There’s no time for that!

He forced himself to stay on task, and did his best to keep his life from flashing before his eyes. They had their weapons raised, and he was now staring into the muzzle of a gun. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and did the only thing he could think of.

They pulled the triggers, and the cracks of the rifles echoed loudly around the forest. Nineteen forms fell backwards into the ditch. One soldier, however, had missed his mark on account of the fact that his mark had bolted off to the side at the last minute. The Praetorian, perplexed, looked from the empty space in front of him, to the bodies on either side of that empty space, to the muzzle of his gun, and back again, before bringing the rifle down to make sure he had indeed pulled the trigger.

“Idiot! He’s making a run for it!”

Viktor was, indeed, making a run for it. Fortunately, he had been standing close to the end of the line, and had managed to quickly dart off to the left as the soldier’s fired. Now, he ran like a rabbit as the echoes of anger and dismay chased at his heels.

“You fools! What are you waiting for!? Shoot him!”

Bullets slammed into the trees on either side of him, and into the ground at his feet. He continued his blind sprint, leaping over stumps and dodging around trees and roots. He heard the thunder of boots behind him as his would be executioners began to give chase. His heart was racing with a mixture of animal fear, and exhilaration, when suddenly, as always happens in these scenarios, he stumbled over a small chunk of debris and fell flat onto his face.

Still, he kept his wits about him, and began to get to his feet when he spied a small ravine to the right. He hit the ground again, and rolled into it, the ooze soaking his already filthy clothing. He covered his arms and face with some of the abundant mud, and lay still. He did not breathe as the thunder of boots roared past his discreet hiding spot, and still hesitated to move until long after the noise had disappeared into the distance.

At this point, he pulled himself to his feet, and ripped a strip of cloth from his tattered shirt, using it to wipe some of the mud from his face and hands. He knew that the soldiers would eventually give up and return this way, and so he climbed out of the ravine and made himself scarce, hurrying off into the trees, unsure of where he was or where he was heading.

He grew tired after a long period of running, and decided to stop temporarily when he came to a small stream. He sat down and went about dressing some of the many small wounds that covered him. As he scraped a patch of mud from his upper arm, he revealed the plain black tattoo, the words BLA that were forever etched into his flesh. He ripped another strip of cloth from his shirt and tied it around his arm, covering the incriminating mark. He looked up at the canopy of the forest, and sighed.

“How the hell am I going to get out of here.”

bump out of boredom

tag!

OOC: Hope you don't mind me butting in.

IC: Leinitz Noren had decided to pass a holiday in Buchania. He had heard it was a quaint enough place from the travelling agencies in the Golden Saucer. It couldn't be farther from the truth. This land was squalid. It was enough to say it was home to terrorists... Those seldom appear out of nowhere. After the soldiers' raid last night, he was left without sleep. He had wanted badly to draw his Nodachi, junction magic to his speed and strike down his foes... Alas, that would cause an international incident. A SeeD should know better than that.

He heard a commotion a few metres away, and walked towards the sound. He saw a dirty, injured man running away from Praetorian. Leinitx hid behind a tree, determined not to let them see him. It wasn't a good idea. As they passed, he turned towards the man again, and ran after him at a safe distance. After the short run, for his standarts at least, the man stopped. He sneaked behind him, listening to his monologue. "Well, I have a map of the region if you want!" He grabbed the map, looking at him wiht an amiable expression. "Oh, pardon me. I'm Leinitz Noren."

OOC: Hope you don't mind me butting in.

IC: Leinitz Noren had decided to pass a holiday in Buchania. He had heard it was a quaint enough place from the travelling agencies in the Golden Saucer. It couldn't be farther from the truth. This land was squalid. It was enough to say it was home to terrorists... Those seldom appear out of nowhere. After the soldiers' raid last night, he was left without sleep. He had wanted badly to draw his Nodachi, junction magic to his speed and strike down his foes... Alas, that would cause an international incident. A SeeD should know better than that.

He heard a commotion a few metres away, and walked towards the sound. He saw a dirty, injured man running away from Praetorian. Leinitx hid behind a tree, determined not to let them see him. It wasn't a good idea. As they passed, he turned towards the man again, and ran after him at a safe distance. After the short run, for his standarts at least, the man stopped. He sneaked behind him, listening to his monologue. "Well, I have a map of the region if you want!" He grabbed the map, looking at him wiht an amiable expression. "Oh, pardon me. I'm Leinitz Noren."

((OOC: Don't mind at all.))

"Viktor nearly jumped out of his skin at the appearance of the stranger. After his heart rate slowed somewhat, and he realized that the man was not one of the many who intended to kill him, Viktor cautiously extended a hand.

"Viktor Nischenko."

Leinitz shook his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Viktor." He examined Viktor's tattered clothes... "So, I take it you're a terrorist or at least someone convicted of such. Don't worry, I won't throw you against the Praetorian!" He scratched the back of his head while smiling like a child. "Well... let's go to somewhere safe, shall we? We'll talk some more when we're there." He gave Viktor the map. "Your choice."

Leinitz shook his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Viktor." He examined Viktor's tattered clothes... "So, I take it you're a terrorist or at least someone convicted of such. Don't worry, I won't throw you against the Praetorian!" He scratched the back of his head while smiling like a child. "Well... let's go to somewhere safe, shall we? We'll talk some more when we're there." He gave Viktor the map. "Your choice."

"I prefer 'freedom fighter'. Terrorist is such an ugly word..."

Viktor took the map, and scanned it, recalling the location of several BLA safehouses in the region.

"Well, we can't go back into the city. They'll have my face all over the news by now. Damn GIN propaganda mongers. Chances are they'd pick you up as well, even if you are a foreigner."

Viktor looked up from the map and carefully studied the stranger for the first time.

"You are a foreigner, right?"

Leinitz nodded in confirmation. "I'm from sector VIII of Final Fantasy, Square World. SeeD rank 20, if you must now." he gave him the official SeeD greeting, to confirm his words. "I decided to spend a well-earned break from aiding the European State recapture territory from the Libertarians, and relax in the Buchanian landscape. Unfortunately, you have to agree this land isn't a tourist's dream." He was a man in his early 20s, with short wild brown hair, tan complexion, green eyes, and standing about 5'9''. He wore a green military-like jacket, light brown shirt, grey jeans and combat boots. He held his massive Nodachi (a type of greatsword that resembles a Katana, but is much bigger) supported on his shoulder, as if it didn't hinder him the least.

Tag

(OOC: Anything I can do, GE?)

Tag

(OOC: Anything I can do, GE?)

((OOC: Sure. Jump in anywhere, anytime you feel like it. I'm using this thread (like my Ashes to Ashes thread) to introduce some new major players, so it's good to have alot of people involved.))

(OOC: What can I do, though?)

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(OOC: What can I do, though?)

((OOC: You could always send some guys to help fight the BLA.))

To: Emperor Antonius
From: Generalissimo J.L.

I am shocked by these odious BLA bastards. I cannot simply stand aloof when one of my closest friends is threatened. With your consent, I shall deploy whatever forces are necessary to quell the BLA and suppress this threat. I will stop at nothing to defend one of my favorite allies.

(OOC: All my allies are my favorites.)

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The Wirrawayan Marine contingent had never left the Generic Empire after the cessation of the last Buchanian war. They had turned their temporary camp into a de-facto permanent millitary base. Replete with walls, bunkers, and various buildings. Colonel Curtis Albus had spent over 2 years now slogging through the Buchanian muck and rain. His men were tired and homesick.

For two years nothing had happened. The 1st Battalion had had the poor luck to be the first unit assigned to permanent duty in the Generic Empire, not a real hotbed of fighting as it was one of the Concordiat's closests allies. They had missed countless wars and operations and communiques came so few and far between that Curtis was convinced that he and his unit had been forgotten.

But now with the recent upswing in rebel activity the Marines had been re-discovered and the High Command had been delighted to find that they already has a unit in place inside the empire. A telegram was drafted and sent off the government.

We would like to help you supress these callous rebels who constantly create death and destruction in Buchania. Fortunaly we already have a unit in place from the last conflict, the 1st Battalion of Wirrawayan Marines. We place them under your command. Any further orders are to be directed to their commander, Colonel Curtis Albus at his base in Buchania

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(OOC Hope you don't mind, GE, but the rebels need all the help they can get :P. And I was bored.)

IC: Emil Dresner stumbled through the streets of New Bucharest. His head swam from the drinks he'd had at the club, and his ears still rang with the explosion. He'd been at the bar, trying to drink himself insensible when it happened. The windows at the front of the building had been blown in, showering the crowd with shards of glass. He slumped down into an alleyway, crashing into a steel bin, and fell asleep.

Emil woke to a soaking jacket and a vicious kick in the ribs.

"AARghshit...." he mumbled, rolling into a ball. In the corner of his eye, Emil saw a pair of steel-capped boots.

"Move along, citizen", said the boots.

((OOC: sorry for the slow time of it. I've been busy doing bullshit reports for school before my well earned vacation that begins tomorrow, so I'll be posting alot more everywhere over the next three or so weeks. I'm going to handle everything that's built up here in increments over the course of the night, beginning with FFH and moving down to Pergast's post.

Pergast: No problem. I want to make this as interesting as possible.))

Leinitz nodded in confirmation. "I'm from sector VIII of Final Fantasy, Square World. SeeD rank 20, if you must now." he gave him the official SeeD greeting, to confirm his words. "I decided to spend a well-earned break from aiding the European State recapture territory from the Libertarians, and relax in the Buchanian landscape. Unfortunately, you have to agree this land isn't a tourist's dream." He was a man in his early 20s, with short wild brown hair, tan complexion, green eyes, and standing about 5'9''. He wore a green military-like jacket, light brown shirt, grey jeans and combat boots. He held his massive Nodachi (a type of greatsword that resembles a Katana, but is much bigger) supported on his shoulder, as if it didn't hinder him the least.

Viktor chuckled to himself as his eyes continued to rove over the map.

"You sure as Hell picked a bad week for a vacation."

Viktor's brow furrowed as his eyes fell on a particular part of the map. He paused as if contemplating something for a moment and then stood.

"If memory serves, there's a BLA hideout a few miles from here in a small village. It's discreet, not even marked on the map, so the Praetorians shouldn't bother us. We can lay low for a bit and get cleaned up. Then I can figure out how the hell to get out of this mess."

Viktor folded the map and handed it to Leinitz.

"Let's get moving."

Viktor started off towards the northwest and the promise of sanctuary.

Official Imperial Communiquep

To: Generallisimo J.L.
From: Emperor Antonius I

I am greatly appreciative of your offer of aid. The actions of these thugs sicken me, and it heartens me to see that you sympathize. Of course your aid will be accepted with open arms. Particularly special forces or civil assault units would be most welcome.

Yours Sincerely,
Emperor Antonius I,
Sovereign Lord of Generia and her Dominions

Official Imperial Communiquep

To: Generallisimo J.L.
From: Emperor Antonius I

I am greatly appreciative of your offer of aid. The actions of these thugs sicken me, and it heartens me to see that you sympathize. Of course your aid will be accepted with open arms. Particularly special forces or civil assault units would be most welcome.

Yours Sincerely,
Emperor Antonius I,
Sovereign Lord of Generia and her Dominions

(OOC: I'm assuming you want deployments to be small, correct?)

To: Emperor Antonius I
From: Generalissimo J.L.

Aid will be sent at once, my friend. The following will be deployed ASAP to liquidate these thugs for their vile crimes:

150 Marines w/Kalashnikov AK-47s
150 Marines w/R-12 "Justice" SMGs
150 Marines w/Desert Eagle Handguns
100 National Guardsmen w/MP-1 PHX "Fearless" Sub-Machine Guns
15 Elite Berserker Commandoes (special forces guerrillas) w/40mm Multi-purpose Grenade Launchers, Steyr-Aug assault rifles, & Frenchi Spas-15 12 Gauge Semi Autos
300 medics
14 military advisers
200 M1A4 "King Abrams" tanks
200 Hannibal Armored Personnel Carriers
25 HHT-1X Chamberlain Ultra Heavy Main Battle Tank/Howitzers
100 TX-14 Attack Helicopters
100 SZ-4 'Warbird' Long-Range Strategic Bombers
100 SZ-5 'Snarl' Electronics Warfare Aircraft
100 SZ-6 'Pegasus' Search and Rescue Helicopters

If that is insufficient, more aid will be sent promptly. Good luck quelling these insidious insects, and Godspeed.

The Wirrawayan Marine contingent had never left the Generic Empire after the cessation of the last Buchanian war. They had turned their temporary camp into a de-facto permanent millitary base. Replete with walls, bunkers, and various buildings. Colonel Curtis Albus had spent over 2 years now slogging through the Buchanian muck and rain. His men were tired and homesick.

For two years nothing had happened. The 1st Battalion had had the poor luck to be the first unit assigned to permanent duty in the Generic Empire, not a real hotbed of fighting as it was one of the Concordiat's closests allies. They had missed countless wars and operations and communiques came so few and far between that Curtis was convinced that he and his unit had been forgotten.

But now with the recent upswing in rebel activity the Marines had been re-discovered and the High Command had been delighted to find that they already has a unit in place inside the empire. A telegram was drafted and sent off the government.

We would like to help you supress these callous rebels who constantly create death and destruction in Buchania. Fortunaly we already have a unit in place from the last conflict, the 1st Battalion of Wirrawayan Marines. We place them under your command. Any further orders are to be directed to their commander, Colonel Curtis Albus at his base in Buchania

Official Imperial Communique

To: Colonel Curtis Albus
From: Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai

The Empire is gracious for the loyalty you have shown to her, both in the past conflict and now. We are grateful to be able to call upon your forces again to do honorable battle with the fools who would dare to bite the hand that fed them for so long. As you served so valiantly in the siege of Deskograd, may you again prove yourselves worthy in bloody war. I leave you under the direction of the Imperial Occupation Authority and General Vladimir Nishkai.

Currently, the terrorists of the BLA seem occupied with stirring dissent in the city of New Bucharest and her surrounding area. Extra security would prove most useful in perhaps causing the fools to think twice about challenging Imperial might.

Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai,
Appointed Chancellor of the Imperial Congress,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

(OOC: I'm assuming you want deployments to be small, correct?)

To: Emperor Antonius I
From: Generalissimo J.L.

(OOC: The men I sent are wearing Tychem TK 645 Chemical Suits with LSI-PPA-03 Concealable Armor underneath.)

Coral Harbor, Indestructible Empire of Roach-Busters

The port was bustling with activity. Cranes and other heavy machinery loaded supplies into the cargo ships, as sweating, work-grimed sailors hustled massive wooden crates filled with armaments and ammunition onto the hull, and men waved their arms and barked orders, while others shouted at and berated their men, demanding that they move faster. The small contingent of troops lined up, single-file, and stepped into the military vessels which would take them to Generia. The aircraft carriers had already departed nearly an hour ago. The tanks and howitzers were brought into the ships via cranes, and soon, they were all packed, ready, and on their way.

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*Nods*

My thoughts exactly.

OOC: Generic, NATO the WTO and others have bgeun to sanction the RWC. I've already posted but you might want to as well.

The Marine contingent quickly began to ready for its trip to New Bucharest. Long unused tanks and other AFV's were serviced and brought to operational readiness. Soldiers began training harder than evert to get back in fighting form. The camp bustled with newfound activity as the deadline for moving out drew closer.

Emil gasped for breath, but saw the second kick coming. He grabbed the Praetorian's foot and rolled. The man came hit the ground with a crash, his arms flailing. From a makeshift pocket inside his greatcoat Emil dragged his KS12 (http://usera.imagecave.com/Pergast/Pergast/KSM2.jpg) (OOC: It's a shotgun. I don't want him incredibly well-armed, and 12-gauge shells are more or less universal). Gripping the weapon by the barrel, he smashed the heavy butt into the man's knee. A wild, distorted scream sounded from the Praetorian's vox as the KS12 broke his kneecap into three seperate parts. The second blow hit him in the shin, snapping it in the middle so that his leg seemed to have a second, inverted, knee. Emil kept the blows coming. The fifth hit on the man's helmet knocked it loose, and Emil struck him until the butt of his weapon was slick with blood...

OOC: Dishonourably Discharged from the Imperial Army of Pergast for Multiple Counts of Theft, Drunkenness, and Unprovoked/Drunken Assault, Emil Dresner is a trained soldier, a gutter fighter and a Right Bastard. All he has to his name are the clothes on his back, a KS12 and a handful of shells.

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((OOC: I was gonna put this as the first part of a longer post, but I want to get something IC in here for now. I'll do the rest when I can, either later tonight or tomorrow. I've got a jam session tomorrow afternoon though, so I might not get on until early evening. Feel free to post, though.))

GIN News Update

In the aftermath of last week’s triple bombing, the Empire has dealt a harsh hand to the Buchianan separatists of the BLA and their supporters. Imperial Governor Fidius Gracchus, apparently under pressure from direct Imperial government representatives, has made clear over the past three days that he will tolerate no dissent among the Buchianan people, as shown in this excerpt from his press conference on Thursday:

http://usera.imagecave.com/mobrule132001/GovernorFidiusGracchus.jpg

“There is absolutely no question that the BLA are a gang of terrorists and thugs who want nothing more than to condemn the Buchianan people to a fate of death and destruction. They preach liberty and prosperity for this land, but meanwhile they bomb buildings and kill their own brothers in the name of some false war spawned from their own corrupt morals and power hungry egotism.

Myself, the Imperial Provincial Control Authority, and the Imperial Government have all come to the conclusion that the BLA is a threat to peace and order, and therefore must be eradicated. I reiterate to all citizens that anyone found to be aiding BLA members in any way will be treated as traitors to the Empire, and dealt with most harshly. However, remember always that if you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear from the Empire. The Empire works for all of us to foster order and stability and ensure a better life for her citizens.”

The past few days have seen a number of surgical strikes by Imperial Praetorian and GIIS units, resulting in the capture of hundreds of suspected BLA members and sympathizers, proving once more that the iron fist of the Empire will not be shaken by the dissentful masses of the rebel province.

Viktor chuckled to himself as his eyes continued to rove over the map.

"You sure as Hell picked a bad week for a vacation."

Viktor's brow furrowed as his eyes fell on a particular part of the map. He paused as if contemplating something for a moment and then stood.

"If memory serves, there's a BLA hideout a few miles from here in a small village. It's discreet, not even marked on the map, so the Praetorians shouldn't bother us. We can lay low for a bit and get cleaned up. Then I can figure out how the hell to get out of this mess."

Viktor folded the map and handed it to Leinitz.

"Let's get moving."

Viktor started off towards the northwest and the promise of sanctuary.

Leinitz walked along with him for a while. He streched his arms lazily as they walked about. Suddenly, he remembered something. "Excuse me..." He put his hand on the man's shoulder, and closed his eyes. Then, Leinitz summoned up the GF known as Carbuncle, and made him enter the man, as well as transfer some of his magic reserves into him. It all would feel as if a weak electric discharge across his body. "Sorry about that, but at least now you may have some amount of protection in case we're caught. I've lent you one of my GFs. With it, you can cast para-magic, and junction it to become stronger. Right now, junction the spell Haste to your speed. It's fairly simple, you just focus in the spell's name, and what you want to do with it." He examplified for him. After a small pause for focus, he junctioned the spell and ran like a bullet around him for a second before returning to his original position. "See? Easy!"

After the Doomingslandian forces had left, there was a wake of destruction behind them. They had leveled entire villages for supporting the rebels, and left the civilians homeless. The former rebel camp that had been slaughtered still had the corpses hanging from the trees, and skulls impaled with spears. The Legionarries had been absolutely merciless, and now they were returning.

Over Buchiana

A second hunter-killer team had been deployed, with the same mission as last time:end the rebelion. The eight man team flew above the war-torn countryside in their C17, preparing to make their jump.

"Approaching DZ, opening cargo bay doors!" yelled the jumpmaster to the men in the back. They had oxegen masks on, and would need them, as they were performing a HALO jump into an area recently hit by the guerrillas. Guerilla warfare on guerrillas, how ironic.

The eight men jumped out of the back, free falling several thousand feet before opening the chutes, landing in the woods. The men wore VEPR NGCS suit, with a direct neural uplink. They had their thermal vision on, and could see various shades of colors, representing the heat signatures. They were alone, for now.

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From: President Bwati Therr
To: Emperor Antonius I
Jangia condemns the vile acts of the terrorists in choosing modes of attack that endanger civilians, and offer what aid we can give.

A second hunter-killer team had been deployed, with the same mission as last time:end the rebelion.

((OOC: Just so you know, it's not an open rebellion this time. Basically small groups of guerilla fighters and terrorists scattered about the province. Alot like Macedonia and the Albanian rebels. But then again, you probably know that.))

((OOC: Just so you know, it's not an open rebellion this time. Basically small groups of guerilla fighters and terrorists scattered about the province. Alot like Macedonia and the Albanian rebels. But then again, you probably know that.))

(OOC: Mind if I RP a terrorist attack? I have the perfect photos. Also, could I RP my guys interrogating some terrorist suspects and/or battling terrorists?)

(OOC: Mind if I RP a terrorist attack? I have the perfect photos. Also, could I RP my guys interrogating some terrorist suspects and/or battling terrorists?)

((OOC: No prob.))

(OOC: If the first paragraph seems like a godmode/mod, I'll edit it.)


New Bucharest, Generic empire

The city had already been on edge since the first car bombings. Paranoia, distrust, and sometimes outright hostility fostered strong tensions between people. The terrorists could be anywhere. Or anyone, for that matter. Panic pervaded every thought. People glanced askance at each other, always wary, always looking out of the corner of their eyes for anything remotely resembling suspicious. Unfortunately, the hordes of well-trained cops did not help much. The terrorists were still able to access virtually any part of the city whenever they wanted to, with the ease of germs infiltrating a dirty wound.
It was a quiet afternoon downtown. The city, normally robust and bustling with activity, was desolate and silent. An occasional car glided by, and every now and then a shopper or tourist would appear on the sidewalks. For the most part, though, it was quiet.
All of that changed.
At about 4:03 p.m., a young man, weary after a long day of work, strode toward his car to return home. Little did he know that it had been rigged. When he opened the door, he instantaneously set off a devastating explosion which caused the car to burst into flames.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/tercrch.jpg
The impact sent him sprawling to the ground. He was now ablaze, in excruciating pain, and half his face had been erased. He screeched maniacally as he was consumed by the blazing inferno, which soon rendered him nothing more than a charred, smoking skeleton. The impact also killed several other people.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/ter-krk3.jpg
Generia's paramedics, known for their swiftness, punctuality, and efficiency, nevertheless arrived on the scene too late.
The man's dead body was carried away on a stretcher.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/ter-krk2.jpg

The BLA had struck again.

(OOC: If the first paragraph seems like a godmode/mod, I'll edit it.)


New Bucharest, Generic empire

The city had already been on edge since the first car bombings. Paranoia, distrust, and sometimes outright hostility fostered strong tensions between people. The terrorists could be anywhere. Or anyone, for that matter. Panic pervaded every thought. People glanced askance at each other, always wary, always looking out of the corner of their eyes for anything remotely resembling suspicious. Unfortunately, the hordes of well-trained cops did not help much. The terrorists were still able to access virtually any part of the city whenever they wanted to, with the ease of germs infiltrating a dirty wound.
It was a quiet afternoon downtown. The city, normally robust and bustling with activity, was desolate and silent. An occasional car glided by, and every now and then a shopper or tourist would appear on the sidewalks. For the most part, though, it was quiet.
All of that changed.
At about 4:03 p.m., a young man, weary after a long day of work, strode toward his car to return home. Little did he know that it had been rigged. When he opened the door, he instantaneously set off a devastating explosion which caused the car to burst into flames.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/tercrch.jpg
The impact sent him sprawling to the ground. He was now ablaze, in excruciating pain, and half his face had been erased. He screeched maniacally as he was consumed by the blazing inferno, which soon rendered him nothing more than a charred, smoking skeleton. The impact also killed several other people.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/ter-krk3.jpg
Generia's paramedics, known for their swiftness, punctuality, and efficiency, nevertheless arrived on the scene too late.
The man's dead body was carried away on a stretcher.
http://home.mweb.co.za/sa/savimbi/images/ter-krk2.jpg

The BLA had struck again.

((OOC: Nice post. Excellent choice of pics.))

To: Emperor Antonius I
From: General Ian McCarthy

We request permission to send our newly-arrived forces into the city to provide additional security.

((OOC: Nice post. Excellent choice of pics.))

(OOC: Thanks! :))

To: Emperor Antonius I
From: Barry Paneful, Founder and President of RBESH

My Liege, we have never met, but I believe I may be able to help you. I am Barry Paneful, founder and president of Roach-Busters Extermination Squads for Hire, a private organization that deploys special forces to the highest bidder. My boys specialize in counterinsurgency, guerrilla warfare, terrorist and criminal interrogations, kidnappings, and assassinations. Although I am in no way affiliated with my government, I am a deeply patriotic man, and any friend of J.L.'s is a friend of mine. For a very modest fee, I can help you wipe out these cockroaches infesting your nation.

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tag

Sorry I didn't check this out earlier. I was busy.

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A large merchant ship sailed towards Generic Empire, its load being 10,000 SR-092s (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7741677).

It sailed at a steady 29 knots, heading for a small trade port, as the government of Witzgall had told it to. The captain watched as the boat pulled into the dock, and its fifty plus workers began to unload the rifles, crate after crate, each holding only 15 rifles per crate.

A large merchant ship sailed towards Generic Empire, its load being 10,000 SR-092s (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7741677).

It sailed at a steady 29 knots, heading for a small trade port, as the government of Witzgall had told it to. The captain watched as the boat pulled into the dock, and its fifty plus workers began to unload the rifles, crate after crate, each holding only 15 rifles per crate.

(OOC: Thanks! :))

(OOC: Thanks! :))
No problem. We are always willing to help our customers with anything they need.

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The uniformed officer sat at the desk, reviewing a set of documents he held in his hands.

“I must say Lieutenant Folosov, your record over the past six months is quite impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I see great things in you, Lieutenant. You understand what the Praetorian Guard is, what it was meant to be. It’s a machine. A ridiculously efficient machine. It’s first rate soldiers that keep the machine running smoothly. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re a first rate soldier. However, in men like you, I see other things, better things. Things that can bring you straight to the top. That’s why I called you here.”

“Sir?”

“As I’m sure you are aware, the Empire sees the situation here in Buchiana to be a particularly annoying setback, especially due to the fact that it occurs as the assimilation of the new northern territories draws to a close. Now, the Emperor intends to begin a consolidation of Imperial power and order unprecedented in magnitude. As a result, the maintenance of order throughout the Empire is to be one of the foremost priorities of the Imperial government, and a personal concern of Lord Antonius. What this means for you is that your days with the Imperial Praetorian Guard may be drawing to a close.”

“Sir! I must protest! You said so yourself a few moments ago-“

“Please, Lieutenant, allow me to finish. As I was saying, owing to the necessity of preservation of order, the Empire has seen fit to augment the ranks of the fledgling special police force, the GICE, or civil enforcement as you are probably familiar with it. Of course the work of the Imperial Praetorian Guard in handling the situation here has been outstanding, however the Imperial government sees this situation as an opportunity to begin full implementation of the GICE as a true law enforcement body, instead of the back shelf GIIS pet project that it has been in the months following its creation. In short, the higher ups have seen fit to authorize your immediate transfer into civil enforcement, where you will hold the rank of Captain. You’ve been chosen, Lieutenant. Obviously the higher ups see the same in you that I do.”

The officer stood and extended his hand.

“Congratulations, Folosov. You’re gonna go far.”

“Thank you sir.”

The officer took an envelope from off of his desk and handed it to Vladek.

“Here’s your transfer order. Report to the local GIIS building to get started. Good luck.”

Folosov saluted sharply, a sly grin on his face, and walked briskly out of the office.

A large merchant ship sailed towards Generic Empire, its load being 10,000 SR-092s (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7741677).

It sailed at a steady 29 knots, heading for a small trade port, as the government of Witzgall had told it to. The captain watched as the boat pulled into the dock, and its fifty plus workers began to unload the rifles, crate after crate, each holding only 15 rifles per crate.

Official Imperial Communique

To: Witzgall Defense Enterprizes
From: Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai

The Empire is pleased by the successful delivery of the arms shipment, and though we realize the rifles were paid for by an ally of ours, we shall immediately wire 140 million USD as a small token of our gratitude.

Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai
Appointed Chancellor of the Imperial Congress,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

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

Official Imperial Communique

To: President J.L.
From: Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai

We cannot express our gratitude for the rifles which have recently arrived in our ports, and we hope one day to be able to repay the favor. I hear that Emperor Antonius already has plans to compensate you in some way or other, being the gentleman that he is.

Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai
Appointed Chancellor of the Imperial Congress,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

Lieutenant Nikolai Ilsanov watched the steel faces of the Praetorians as he braced himself against the hull of the GH-2 gunship. He looked through the slightly open side door and watched the lush forest fall away to the concrete buildings and paved roads of a small town bathed in moonlight.

There were two gunships, painted black to blend in with the night, each bearing the emblems of the Praetorian Guard on the side paneling. They came in fast and low over the town, over the homes of the peacefully sleeping citizenry who cared so little for this war and now put it out of their minds to focus on more pleasant things.

In the center of the town there was built a large church, painted white with a prominent steeple and bell tower rising into the sky. Before the church was a large open square. It was here that the helicopters descended, and the two teams of twelve Praetorians jumped to the ground.

At the noise of the rotors, some curious citizens walked out into their doorways to see what was going on. At the sight of the armed soldiers, mothers grabbed the young ones and rushed back inside, locking the doors. A full squad of Imperial Praetorians landing in the center of one’s town was usually a sign for trouble.

Swiftly and silently, the soldiers moved towards the church steps. Nikolai Ilsanov called to his squad, halting them, and bringing forward one man, who approached the double doors and placed a small explosive charge in the center of the two. The charge detonated, and the doors swung in. The Praetorians stormed into the building, calling wildly, and firing into the air.

“Imperial Praetorian Guard! You are under arrest!”

Some startled, raggedly dressed men who had sleeping in the pews jumped up, and grabbed for their guns lying nearby. Nikolai picked one out and fired a round into his head. Another Praetorian did the same, and the two corpses fell beneath the pews. Crimson blood flowed between the slats of the wooden floorboards out into the aisle. A frantic priest rushed out into the church from his quarters towards the rear of the building. He called loudly in Generian.

“Stop this! This is a house of God!”

Nikolai approached the priest, who grew more visibly frightened for every inch that disappeared between he and the soldier.

“Where are they?”

“I-What are you talking about, my son?”

Nikolai aimed his rifle at the man’s head.

“Don’t give me that, old man! Where are you hiding the terrorists?”

“My son, you-“

Nikolai grabbed the man about the throat with a rough bare hand and steadily applied pressure.

“You son of a bitch, you have three seconds to-“

“Sir! Over here!”

He released his grip and the priest fell to the ground, grabbing at his throat. Ilsanov walked to where one of his men had called for him, near the door to the priest’s quarters.

“Through here, sir.”

There in the chamber was a staircase, and at the foot of it was a door. The Praetorians, having finished their sweep of the upper level, assembled in the priest’s room. Three of the men descended the staircase, and a swift kick from one sent the door flying inward. A hail of gunfire met the man, and he fell, wounded with three bullets in the chest.

The Praetorians returned fire at the four men who crowded the small basement room, illuminated by a naked ball hanging over an upturned table. The bullets slammed into the wooden walls, and two men fell with split skulls. The others threw their weapons towards the Praetorians, and huddled behind the table, calling for mercy.

“Hold fire!”

Nikolai stepped forward, towards one of the men. He huddled against the ground, terror on his face. Ilsanov gripped him by the collar of his filthy shirt and lifted him up, nearly off of his feet.

“This is him. The bastard responsible for that car bombing the other day.”

Ilsanov dropped him, and turned to his men. Make sure our men upstairs secured that priest. You two get these pieces of shit and bring them out to the choppers.

The men grabbed the two frightened BLA fighters, and dragged them up into the church, Nikolai following them. The Praetorians bound the three captives and rushed them out to the waiting gunships. The black choppers disappeared into the night, as if they had never been.

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

With the aid of Leinitz’s magic, Viktor had managed to cover a good amount of ground in a reasonably short time. He slowed as he reached the town which he believed to be home to a BLA refuge, and a sanctuary for his weary bones. The moon was shining bright and full as he stepped into the street. He spoke softy, as if not wanting to break the calm of the night.

“There was a holdout in the Church in the center of town. We should check there first.”

The two made their way towards the large church steeple rising high above the other buildings. As Viktor approached the steps, he sensed something amiss. The doors were hanging ajar, blackened by some unknown flame. As he stepped inside, the ghastly cold touched his skin before the crimson mess met his eyes.

He rushed forward, and stared at the bodies that lay at strange angles amid the pews. His face grew grim as he bent down to examine one of the men’s faces. He stood again and turned back to Leinitz, who had thenceforth been silent.

“We must leave. This place is no longer safe.”

Viktor began slowly walking towards the doors, and the quiet streets outside.

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tag

OOC: Can I join? If I can't, then please disregard this.

IC:

Issaic walked down the streets of New Bucharest toward the cafe. His steady gait and his apparent calmness belied the fact he was freakin' scared. He hadn't down anything like this in a long time not since '81...
________________________________________________________________
Issaic, a creation of Novgova Military Experimental Division, was, "a marked one", one of 200 genetically altered troops created in the 60's, when the genetics program was still in its infancy. His intelligence, physical strength, stamina, endurance, and dexterity were all hightened beyond that of the millions of ordinary humans in the world, although by no means close to the Genome soldiers being created today from scratch.

Only a little over a half of the marked ones were still living, most, like he, were in there early twenties or late teens when the experiment was performed. However, that was forty years ago. Most, like he, were in there late 50s early 60s by now if not dead from a variety of reasons. Those that were living hadn't worked since their discharge, over 20 years ago. Many had families. Many had normal lives. Despite being genetically altered their kids grew up normally, no trace of being affected. Not him. He had no family. No ties that could be harmed should something happened to him.

He'd worked in the OIA, Overseas Intelligence Agency, the past few years, doing the typical espianage work typical of agents. He'd been stationed in the Generic Empire. When the Novgovan government recently took an isolationist stance, and the office in New Bucharest shut down, he retired and stayed in New Bucharest. He soon started working with the BIA against the Generic Empire.
________________________________________________________________

...As he walked down the street he accidentally bumped into a soldier on a street corner.

"Watch it!" the soldier exclaimed. He shoved Issaic, making him almost lose his balance.

Knowing picking a fight with a soldier would only invite trouble, he walked away. However, had he wanted to he could have left the soldier a bloody mess. He checked to see if his package under his coat was still intact. Je continued down a few city blocks. It didn't take him long to make it to his favorite cafe. As he opened the door, the smells of rich coffee wafted through his nose.

"Ah, Georgio you make the best coffee," he said and sat himself at a stool at the counter.

"Of course," Georgio beamed back. "Here I made this one for you."

"Thanks," Issaic replied.

As Issaic came in everyday at the same time for months, Georgio had already grown accustomed to his visit and prepared his drink even before he came in. Issaic took a few sips from the coffee and felt the richness of the coffee tingle his tongue. As he was finishing the coffee, in the reflection of his coffee he could see a large military truck pull up to the checkpoint across the street. He then saw supplies being moved into the checkpoint building followed by a lieutenant, on inspection duty.

Issaic then put down the cup and spoke calmly. "Georgio, you dropped something."

Georgio confused, asked "What are you talking about? I dropped nothing. I am talking to you. How could I drop something?"

Issaic leaned over the counter toawrd Georgio and began pulling something out of his coat. His spoke more firmly. "No Georgio. You dropped something."

"I did no such thing. I-" Georgio paused and looked in horror as Issaic pulled out a very small wireless detonator. His face grew very, very pale and sweaty as he looked around to see if anyone else was listening in. The cafe was empty except for two sergeants, too busy in conversation to notice the now ghastly face of Georgio. Georgio then looked back at Issaic nervously and reluctantly and hesitantly ducked under the counter.

Soon afterwards, large balls of flame erupted outside the cafe as the checkpoint and the truck were engulfed in flames. The windows of the cafe were blown out and shrapnel barely missed Issaic, instead hitting his cup. He had gone a little deaf from the explosion, but when he regained his hearing, he could hear the screams of injured. Soon the howls of the approaching paramedics could be heard, always punctual and quick to respond.

Always punctual, always too late.

Official Imperial Communique

To: President J.L.
From: Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai

We cannot express our gratitude for the rifles which have recently arrived in our ports, and we hope one day to be able to repay the favor. I hear that Emperor Antonius already has plans to compensate you in some way or other, being the gentleman that he is.

Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai
Appointed Chancellor of the Imperial Congress,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

To: Chancellor Dmitri Rubellai
From: Generalissimo J.L.

You are most welcome, my friend. Please do not worry about reimbursing me. I appreciate your offer, but these rifles are intended as a gift, not a bribe, political favor, or dirty deal. I am heartened that you will be able to make use of them. Please send my warmest regards to the Emperor.

OOC: Can I join? If I can't, then please disregard this.

((OOC: Welcome. I'll make an IC post here tomorrow, most likely.))

OOC: Hey, Novgova, let's team up! ;)

IC: Leinitz stared at the corpses with a blank expression. He'd seen such things in the past, in fact more times than those he had wanted to. Weary, he grasped the handle of his Nodachi, and silently drew the large blade. He searched around in his pockets, and found a Desert Eagle, which he gave Viktor. "Just in case..."

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“On the floor! Get on the fucking floor!”

Captain Vladek Folosov burst into the room, followed by several GICE enforcers. Several women screamed and fell onto the bare floor, weeping bitterly out of sheer terror. A half dressed man rushed into the room. His jaw dropped and he rushed back into the other room.

“Get him!”

The man reappeared, this time with a twelve gauge shotgun. He fired, the blast slamming into the chest armor of one of the enforcers. Folosov raised his submachine gun and drilled the man, the force of the bullets driving him stumbling backwards through a window, the screams of the women complimenting the shattering glass, and dull thud.

“Shut them up.”

One of the enforcers fired at the ceiling, and the women quieted somewhat, but still sobbed loudly.

“Check the rooms. The whores here hide things for the BLA.”

The enforcers rushed off through the building, a ramshackle brothel on the lower end of the New Bucharest red light district. Captain Folosov lowered his submachine gun and turned his attention to the distressed women. One had gone completely hysterical, and another was now leaning over trying to comfort her.

“You! Get your fucking hands off her!”

The girl started back in terror, and quickly averted her eyes. Folosov walked over to the hysterical woman. He reached down and grabbed her by the chin, wrenching her red face upwards. He scowled at her, and she tried to look away, but he held her in place. He brought his other hand across, slapping her with a force to send her sprawling to the floor. The girl began to crawl backwards, away from Folosov. He walked slowly after her, eyes blazing.

“Sir! We’ve found something!”

Folosov snapped his head around and walked briskly towards the hallway.

“In here, sir.”

Folosov stepped into one of the rooms. The enforcers had a young man standing against the wall, weapons trained on his head. A frightened woman sat on the bed, half naked and paralyzed with fear.

“A BLA lieutenant, sir. Caught the bastard with his pants down.”

“Excellent. GIIS will be pleased. They should have fun interrogating this one.”

Folosov turned to his men.

“Alright. We’re finished here. Get them in the trucks and ship them off to GIIS.”

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

The black uniformed GIIS operative paced back and forth before the wooden chair to which the BLA captive was bound. A cigarette hung carelessly from his pale lips. The captive was sweating, but was so far managing to maintain some semblance of composure.

“I will ask you once more, Mr. Markov, before I am forced to move into less pleasant methods of getting the information I want. The bombing at the checkpoint this morning, who was responsible?”

The man remained silent, sweating, but silent.

“It is a very simple question, Mr. Markov. Painfully simple.”

The agent halted directly in front of the man’s chair, and idly removed the cigarette from his mouth. He turned sharply to face the man and stabbed the burning end into the man’s cheek. He screamed and writhed as his flesh sizzled.

“I am losing my patience, Mr. Markov.”

The man gritted his teeth against the receding pain of the burn as the agent removed the cigarette, revealing the black mark seared into the man’s face.

“You have five seconds to tell me what I want to know.”

The agent reached into his coat pocket and removed a folded razor blade. He flipped it open and grabbed the man’s wrist.

“Five.”

With a single, smooth motion he cut off the man’s pinky. He yelped as the blood poured onto the floor.

“Four.”

The agent sliced off the man’s ring finger, and it fell to the floor beside the other to rest in a growing pool of blood.

“Three.”

The screams pierced the heavy cell door, emanating about the basement corridors of the GIIS headquarters building.

Some time later the agent stepped out into the dimly lit stone corridor, wiping a blade with a red stained white rag.

“Did he talk?”

“Of course he talked. They always talk.”

“And?”

“Fascinating, really. It wasn’t the BLA at all.”

“Fascinating.”

The two agents walked off down the corridor, melting into the gloom.

The B-11 transport flew low over the ground with the Raptors inside. Only several very high people in the Generian government knew these men were coming, and les than half of those few had any idea what they were.

25 Parachutes opened as 25 Raptors descended fro the sky. They held onto their new modified FAMAS assault rifles. Borman was working on taking rights as their own as they controlled most of France and were using engineers to improve the poor magazine capacity and incorporate a Generian multiple magazine design. So far the only thing that had been managed was to double the capacity of the magazine.

The men landed in their DZ, only a small distance away from a Generian GIIS encampment. Parachutes were detached and knifed to prevent guerilla use and the men then moved on. Like ghosts in the night they appeared next to the GIIS guards and asked to see the man in charge.

Issaic retured to his hideout, an automotive repair shop outside of New Bucharest. It once was a front for the OIA, but now it really was an automotive repair shop.

Still, behind a false wall in the back of the shop, serveilence equipment and computers with secure access to the OIA network were still there. The government had decided not to remove the equipment because it would attract attention of the GIIS, which was a lot more effective than when the equipment was first moved in.

As soon as Issaic opened the front door, he was greeted by Boris, a short, pudgy, and balding 60 year old. His skin wrinkled and tan from enjoying the sun in his youth, and greesy from repairing cars all day, he resembled more or less the stereotypical hard-working Bucharians he had come to know.

"What's up?" he quizically asked.

"Same as usual Boris," Issaic replied. Issaic walked to the back of the shop and pressed a secret button in the wall. The wall opened up and Issaic went inside. He walked over to one of the shiny computers and turned it on. After going through the tedious start up, he brought up the OIA Network and typed in his password.

"Let's see what we have today," he said to himself aloud.

He clicked on several folders eventually clicking on "Satellite Imagery". He sifted through several foldiers eventually coming up upon Bucharia. Looking after military after military base, he eventually noticed a pattern: a buildup of troops, obviously for occupation reasons. He sighed and was about to log off the network, when he saw his mailbox flashing. He hurriedly opened his mailbox, and found an e-mail from "Emma", a fellow agent who no longer served in Bucharia.

Level Three Encrypted Message

From: OIA Field Operative "Emma"
Time: Two hours ago
Subject: PDA
To: Issaic

Meet me at Sasha's restaurant. I'll be there from 8pm-11pm. Bring no one.


Realizing it was almost 9:30pm, he had no time to lose. Issaic rushed out of the room to his bedroom, loaded his Makarov, shut the computer down and left the room.

Issaic huried down to the restaurant. It was in the seedier part of New Bucharest. It was a safer place to meet than most other restaurants as the part of the city was less patroled by the GIIS. It was a cold night, one of the first for the season, and Isaic could clearly see his breath in the air. He came up to Sasha's Restaurant and opened the door.

It was a nice restaurant,(a little stuffy though) and the expensive interior and great food made him wonder how it was in the seedy area of the city. He quickly found Emma in the rightmost rear table, the same spot he always met her.

Of course, he'd be able to find her anyway. She was very beautiful and had he been her age he would have been easily seduced by her voluptuous body. However, he was twice her age and therefore acted it and sat down and got right to business.

"Why'd you call me?" Issaic asked softly.

"Boy, it is a very chilly day," she replied.

"You don't have to speak in code. I'm alright. I wasn't followed. I have no time for this," Issaic said hurriedly.

"Take this," Emma said. Issaic unwraped the small plastic bag and saw it was a PDA. Responding to Issaic's confused face she explained "It contains passcodes, passwords, security access, what have you, to the GIIS Dtabase and Network and to the HQ. I compiled it over six months. Be aware however that some may not work as of now."

"You know you'd get fired if anyone else found out you're helping me. You didn't have to do it, Emma."

"Remember Ian? Remember the good old days back home? He was always joking around with you, I was just the pretty little intel girl, not even an agent yet. When was that five, six years ago? Well now Ian's a director and is responsible for many OIA offices, including the one you still use. He knows you are still using the equipment, Issaic. The computers, you were supposed to destroy, he knows you still use them. He knows I'm here. We're covering for you. He hasn't told the higher-ups yet that your still using the equipment, immediate grounds for charges of insubordination. That's a minimum twenty year sentence if I'm not correct."

She paused to sip some of the ice water in her cup and then continued to speak.

"So don't tell me i didn't have to do it. I'm here for you, Ian's here, a few others are helping out, too. We've gone around the OIA and revived some contacts for you to use in this crusade, vendetta, whatever this is you are doing. just know you aren't alone."

Issaic left the table and emma and went outside. He didn't get very far when he heard his cell phone ring. As the street was deserted he felt no need to not answer the phone.

"How was dinner, Ice? Emma's looking as fine as ever," said the mysterious, moderately deep voice.

"Who is this? How do you know I was eating dinner with her?" asked Issaic, now looking around.

"He he he. Emma told me. She called me up when you left. Look, she arranged for me to meet you. It's pretty serious. I have something for you," replied the voice.

"Chaderov, is that you? how'd you get this numb-"

"Shh sh shhh, Issaic calm down, calm down. Emma gave it to me. lokk we could talk later just meet me in the alley between the library and hardware store."

The voice sounded familiar but he didn't like how everything was set up. He nervously felt his long jacket for his pistol, taking the safety off the cold, sleek pistol in his hands.

He found the alley, but couldn't find anyone. There were dumpsters, ordinary metal dumpsters, covered in frost. Few garbage cans. It was dark, but he could hear and he could hear something moving from behind the dumpster closest to him. Issaic drew his pistol and crept slowly and slowly toward the rumbling behind the dumpster. He started to look over the dumpster and...

"Hey Ice is that you?" screamed a voice.

"Holy sh--! You scared the hell outta me. What's the matter with you?" screamed back Issaic, upset.

"Hey hey hey, settle down. You're not gonna like this."

The figure sitting behind the dumpster stood up. It was indeed Chaderov, a heavy, burly man who had seen enough violence. A sergeant in the Generian army, he eventually became a sympthetic informant to the BLA cause.

"Hey Ice. Catch." Chaderov threw a bloody towel. Isssaic unwrapped the towel and discovered a severed fingure, what appeared to be a pinly.

"What happened?" asked Issaic, worried.

"A GIIS soldier smuggled this out for me. The GIIS captured Grisha, cutting off his fingers unless he started talking. The GIIS, they know about you," said Chaderov.

"Fortunately, they don't know your real name, Ice, your hideout location, and appearence because, well as you know, Gisha hasn't ever seen you and only knows about you by word of mouth. Still, he leaked away your identity. They know what you did. They know you are a professional. It'll be only a matter of time before they find out who you are. How much time, however, depends on you."

bump

“We have had a sneaking suspicion that there may have been outside involvement. Over the past months we have been picking up a good deal of stray transmissions. Most were discarded as GIIS backup or waste files, but apparently we were mistaken.”

“Indeed.”

“However, we have tags on several registered and unregistered foreign nationals in the region. We’ve actually been monitoring a good amount of them. Loosely, mind you, but owing to the fact that Buchiana is not exactly a tourist’s paradise, we can make the assumption that many are here on…business.”

“Then you would have registered addresses, phone numbers, call logs?”

“Very much so. Should we…”

“Yes. Immediately.”

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

The black unmarked armored van cruised down the dark street in the New Bucharest red light district. On the near deserted sidewalk ahead was a figure, walking slowly.

“There.”

“Sure?”

“Of course.”

The van accelerated, and came to a rapid halt beside the figure. The back doors opened and four black uniformed GICE agents jumped out and walked towards a beautiful woman.

“Good evening. I am afraid you will have to come with us.”

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

Throughout the city, armored GIIS vans stalked through the streets, discreetly halting in front of apartment buildings, restaurants, and nightclubs. Black cloaked agents and armed enforcers rushed into the buildings. For the most part, the detainments were peaceful. The majority of the foreigners had nothing to hide, and found it better to go quietly than risk immediate execution. Occasionally, however, the roar of gunfire drifted into the lonely streets.

As the woman was brought into the van she was met by the smiling face of a Borman soldier. She had no idea of his nationality or what his equipment was, but he was a Borman in truth. On his sides two other men like him sat watching the woman as she was brought into the truck.

“You look like fun. You are very sexy.”

The soldier on the right chimed in, “I would love to enter up your a-”

A quick rap to the back of the helmet stopped him, “Shut up.”

Issaic saw a black unmarked van drive right past the alleyway. He knew the van was GICE. However, the occupants hadn't spotted him. Otherwise they'd have shot him on the spot. Issaic wasn't about to take any chance, though.

"How'd you get here?" asked Issaic.

Chaderov responded, already knowing what Issaic was getting at.

"Follow me," Chaderov said already running down the alley.

Chaderov and Issaic both rushed to Chaderov's military patrol jeep and sped off.

"Keep low," Chaderov said as he passed several GICE Vehicles.

"Yeah just get me the hell outta here," Issaic replied.

The military radio was on and Issaic listened in horror to bits and pieces of one radio message.

...picked her up near the bank... was coming out of a restaurant... believed to be foreign... (laughing in the backround and talking in the backround) Shut up!... heading to HQ right away...

"Stop the car!" Issaic shouted. "Follow me but not close behind. I got work to do."

Issaic bolted from the car, putting on a balaclava so that no one would identify his face. This street was deserted, except for a drunk, stumbling out of a bar, dirty, disheveled, and drunk. He was heading to an old Toyota Camry, keys in hand.

Chaderov had no idea what Issaic was getting at until he saw Issaic pick up a half-filled old beer bottle off the ground and smash it over the head of the drunk, knocking him out. Issaic took the man's keys and quickly started the Toyota Camry up, heading in the direction the radio pinpointed the van to be. He made a call to a BLA contact on his cell, telling the contact to tell the local BLA commander to create a quick distraction, not the least bit dangerous for the BLA who would be able to exit with ease and no fear of being caught, but just to lure the GICE away.

Of course cell phones and driving doesn't mix, and Issaic almost ran over three very drunk soldiers stumbling from a bar. They didn't do much. They scream incoherently when he swerved, and they managed to get a whole bunch of punk on the rear of the car.

But Issaic continued. He saw the unmarked van stuck at a red light at an interesction on the road perpendicular to his. He turned the Camry around so that his trunk faced the van. As the van crossed the intersection, the Camry, full speed in reverse, slammed into the driver's side of the van and smashing the passenger side of the van into a traffic light.

Issaic watched as the passenger side soldier veinly tried to get a hold of the radio. However, Issaic aimed his pistol through the annihilated, obliterated, disentigrated mess of where the rear of the Camry used to be and shot the soldier in the head, narrowly missing the now slumped over driver and the helmet of the soldier himself.

An impossible shot. For an ungenetically modified human that is. But he wasn't ordinary to begin with.

Issaic stepped out of the car although stumbled a bit afterwards, from being in that terrible "accident", and started to approach the rear of the van, looking through the broken tinted glass for any soldiers; from the groans he knew at least a few were still living.

Issaic went to go "help" them, Makarov in hand. His feet crunched on the black but now glass-covered pavement, and a characteristic grin overcame his face, although obscured by the balaclava.

Oh he'd help them alright.

The black unmarked armored van

((OOC: The van is armored and so naturally glass is bulletproof. I'm not sure if you got that from my post. Sorry.))

bump

((OOC: The van is armored and so naturally glass is bulletproof. I'm not sure if you got that from my post. Sorry.))

OOC: Sorry. Didn't know that. (I guess it could be the broken glass from the Camry instead. Although, it should be noted that if a car hits glass going between 30-50mph it has a strong possibility to shatter especially given the stresses applied to it by the collapsing or warped metal frame of the van, one of its doors, etc.) As for the guys inside the van, everything's up to you. I never said that i killed anyone, so if anyone lives that's basically up to you also.

OOC: Sorry. Didn't know that. (I guess it could be the broken glass from the Camry instead. Although, it should be noted that if a car hits glass going between 30-50mph it has a strong possibility to shatter especially given the stresses applied to it by the collapsing or warped metal frame of the van one of its doors, etc.) As for the guys inside the van, everything's up to you. I never said that i killed anyone, so if anyone lives that's basically up to you also.

((OOC: Ah, I wasn't considering the stress of the impact. I'll make my IC post in a bit, after I talk to Borman.))

OOC: Sorry I've been sick and havn't been able to get on + the holidays.

OOC: Sorry I've been sick and havn't been able to get on + the holidays.

OOC: This is the first year i haven't been sick on the holidays in a long, long time.

OOC: This is the first year i haven't been sick on the holidays in a long, long time.

OOC: Congrats

OOC: Congrats

Thanks

The Legionnaries moved silently through the forest, scanning the immediate area for hostiles. The pointman, Sgt. Manius, ordered the men to halt. The team leader was directly linked to what Manius saw via the neural interface. There was a small encampment with armed men walking about.

Hostiles confirmed. Take one alive, kill the rest.

Affirmative. came the voices in the head of the team leader, Lt. Aurelius. The men all took aim at the hostiles inside the camp, each one aiming for the head. There appeared to be ten men. Sheep to the slaughter.

CRACK....TUFFTUFFTUFFFTUFF

The Legionnaries opened up with their M28 rifles, quickly cutting down most of the resistance. Aurelius and another man quietly moved into the camp, finding an enemy soldier hiding behind a barracade, peppering away at his unseen foes with what appeared to be an aquired M27 rifle. Aurelius sholdered his rifle, and fired a round through the man's gut, putting him out of action, but managing to keep him alive. He silently motioned for him to be dragged away, and ordered the camp to be razed to the ground and the heads of the rebels set upon pikes.

He then walked over and collected the rifles. All M27s. How the fuck did they get their hands on these? he thought to himself, salvaging the magazines from the weapons, and removing key components to make them inoperable.

((OOC: FYI, the rebels are slightly better equipped than the last time around Doom. In fact, they're using your M-27s. Not that many AKMs floating around the black markets in Generia proper these days.))

OOC:Fixed (although I don't remember selling any to you)

OOC:Fixed (although I don't remember selling any to you)

((OOC: You sold me prod rights for a few million, remember?))

OOC:Yeah, that's right.

bump

The armored van swerved as the Camry collided with it. The driver did his best to regain control, but could not avoid ramming directly into a second car parked on the side of the road. A bullet passed through a shattered window, burying itself in the head of a soldier in the passenger seat, who had unwisely removed the helmet that would have saved his life. The driver, however, had not removed his, and with the sound of gunfire, he slammed the vehicle into reverse, and began to back up slowly.

The doors to the rear of the van opened, and six armored Imperial enforcers burst out, GIR-37s blazing at the lone figure approaching.

Issaic picked off the guards two at time as they came out of the van. The first one or two were easy; as the first people out of the van, they didn't know what was happening and had difficultly even getting out of the van after being shaken around. However, by time he had picked off the guards, a bullet grazed his neck, another his left leg, yet another his left arm, and a third bullet had gone through his shoulder, though fortunately cleanly without any shattered bones.

This wasn't good enough for him though, being the capable person he was long ago, although he was glad to have his life. Still he couldn't help thinking about how good he used to be...

...But it wasn't the time to think about that now. Issaic checked quickly through the shatered driver side window and saw him slumped over the wheel, either losing conscience, unconscience, or dead and seeing no threat commenced wityh his mission. He approached the rear of the van, doors still open, the van by now having backed up slowly into a streetlight on the opposite side of the street. The wheels were starting to squeal as the van fought the streetlight.
He noticed a supposedly dead Imperial enforcer reaching bravely but veinly for his GIR-37. Issaic pistol whipped and kicked the guy and then commenced to move past the open doors.

He pressed up against the van and then suddenly jumped out, pointing his gun into the rear of the vehicle.

There was Emma.

The Legionnaries had dragged the captured rebel into the woods, and fastened his hands behind his back, and made him sit up against a tree. Lt. Aurelius took out his gladius, and began to sharpen it.

"Now, you will tell me everything I wish to know, or I will slowly hack off every limb on your body, starting from the bottom up. Where are the other camps?"

Issaic picked off the guards two at time as they came out of the van. The first one or two were easy; as the first people out of the van, they didn't know what was happening and had difficultly even getting out of the van after being shaken around. However, by time he had picked off the guards, a bullet grazed his neck, another his left leg, yet another his left arm, and a third bullet had gone through his shoulder, though fortunately cleanly without any shattered bones.

This wasn't good enough for him though, being the capable person he was long ago, although he was glad to have his life. Still he couldn't help thinking about how good he used to be...

...But it wasn't the time to think about that now. Issaic checked quickly through the shatered driver side window and saw him slumped over the wheel, either losing conscience, unconscience, or dead and seeing no threat commenced wityh his mission. He approached the rear of the van, doors still open, the van by now having backed up slowly into a streetlight on the opposite side of the street. The wheels were starting to squeal as the van fought the streetlight.
He noticed a supposedly dead Imperial enforcer reaching bravely but veinly for his GIR-37. Issaic pistol whipped and kicked the guy and then commenced to move past the open doors.

He pressed up against the van and then suddenly jumped out, pointing his gun into the rear of the vehicle.

There was Emma.

((OOC: That's ridiculous. The men were wearing armor and came out guns blazing. They're not toddlers with pop guns, these are highly trained elite soldiers.))

OOC: My men are also in the van with Emma and each one is without a slightest doubt in my mind more than a match for your man. Sadly I do not have the time or internet connection to RP them right now. I'm on my Mom's computer and must get off soon so I turn control of my men over to GE untill I can get internet on.

((OOC: That's ridiculous. The men were wearing armor and came out guns blazing. They're not toddlers with pop guns, these are highly trained elite soldiers.))

OOC: Yes but you are forgetting several key factors. Yes, if tried to take on all six men at once with their GIR-37s, yes he would be annihiliated. A 6:1 ratio of highly trained soldiers against one would obviously be in favor of the 6. But this was what i considered when i wrote that.

Firstly, unless you have really obese vans that takes up multiple lanes, the most that would come out at a time would be 2, dropping the ratio to 2:1.

Second, remember he wasn't down the street. He's literally less than three feet from the doors with his gun drawn. As soon as they'd come out, they would be dead, if not as soon as they opened the door.

Third, just because the troops in the rear of the van weren't directly hit, doesn't mean they weren't affected. Most likely, if the are the elite soldiers you say they are, they wouldn't have put on their seatbelt/harnesses so as to be able to respond quicker in an emergency. For example, if it wasn't Issaic but the BLA, the BLA would have all the time in the world to open the door and massacre every soldier inside. The last thing any soldier, let alone elite, would want to be seen dead because of something, would be strapped to his chair because he couldn't fiddle with the seatbelt in time before he was plugged with three shots to the head. And even if they couldn't get into the van, the BLA have all the time in the world to set charges on the van, or even set up an ambush when your men did get out.

But since your troops are probably smarter than that and don't wear their seatbelts because a: they could respond quicker, and b: no one would normally ever think to scratch a government van (never mind deliberately ram into it), they would be affected by the concussion of collision intself. It wouldn't matter if they were the most genetically modified super soldiers that could possibly exist, because inertia doesn't care; your men would be sent flying (as well as Emma too).

Therefore, the troops wouldn't be flowing out of the van guns blazing, it wuld be more of a trickle of disoriented men who seriously wouldn't have a clue to what was going on. Now as elite soldiers, their training told them to assume the worst. But they don't know, one: what happened (after all with bars a dime-a-dozen in the red light district it could have been a drunk), two: how many persons are involved (it could be a whole BLA squad); or three where the guy is (he could even be on the roof of the van for all they know).

And don't forget they and their equipment is scattered amongst the rear of the van. Most likely, thier guns went flying into someone or a different direction. Men would have been sent flying perhaps into each other or into something resulting in injury. Now I'm not saying they'd die or even get serious injuries resulting from this, but the chaos wouldn't be in their favor. By time they'd get together they would have wasted precious reaction time.

The first two men out of the van would either be the two closet to the doors or the most able and least affected. However, being the first ones out they'd be at a significant disadvantage having rushed out of the van to react to whatever force might potentially wipe them out and at least save the others in the van (after all if it is an attack they don't have all day to ponder what happened), but not knowing the several key factors listed her again,

one: what happened (after all with bars a dime-a-dozen in the red light district it could have been a drunk), two: how many persons are involved (it could be a whole BLA squad); or three where the guy is (he could even be on the roof of the van for all they know)

Without this knowledge, they'd be dead (or anyone else in the same position) regardless of any other factor, no matter how you look at this. (After all knowledge is power).

The second two out of the van would at least understand they were attacked so would know the answer to the first question,"a" or "what happened?". But they still don't know how many are involved and only a general direction of where the firing came from. They would be better off than the first two men, and pose a greater risk, and potentially give Issaic some of his injuries.

The final two, however, would pose the greatest risk, as they would have the most time to recover from the chaos, be the most prepared, and have an answer for all the factors, because by now they at least know there is one guy, off to the side of the van, and know they've been attacked. However, still Issaic has the prime position to attack them first, has his gun drawn and already has his gun raised, and don't think that when these men come out blazing that Issaic won't move, that the recoil of their guns, the shock of attack (however minimized by their training), the fact that Issaic is in point blank range and practically doesn't even need to aim, won't play against your men.

And finally, being three feet away means that even though they may be wearing armor, it doesn't mean they can't be killed. We've all heard the story of cops whose bulletproof vest saved their lives or the US soldier in Iraq whose flak jacket (not even a bulletproof vest) took three Ak47 rounds, but the US soldier was unharmed and killed the two Iraqis firing at him.

But then again, the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, the killed SWAT members, and dead cops prove again and again that even those who are armored can die. Just because something can protect you doesn't mean it will. Studies have shown that although helmets advertise protection from rifle shots, firing three feet away with a .45 can easily puncture the side armor. And I know there is body armor protection for the front and back of a person, but I never recalled any type of armor that protect the sides of the person because manuverability would be severely limited.

In all, what I'm trying to say is that you overestimate your troops (although not by a lot). However, you severely underestimate Issiac, which is why he's so dangerous. (Had they have been my special forces and believe me, with 2.5 billion people and very small army so that the budget is spent extravagently amongst each troop so my troops are proablably the best in the world, they would have died.) Not only was he in the special forces as well, but he's genetically modified, therefore having a slight advantage on one of your men. And just because he's around 60 years of age. Doesn't mean he's some fat joe sitting around watching daytime tv all day. He still excersices vigorously and in RL, if a 99 year old can make national headlines for beating two 18 year-olds, a 33-year old, and a 42-year old to win a local karate championship, and more recently another 99 year old ex-olympic athlete did a 500 meter dash in less time than many teenagers and early adults, than a 60 year old can be just as capable as your younger members but also has more years of experience.

So while you may have felt it was ridiculous (and yes I could see why), I hope this cleared up my logic behind what I wrote. besides i only did this so we can continue. You now have blood samples, several witnesses for hieght and weight and voice (should some of your men live. Just because i have "picked off" your men doesn't mean they have to die, as illustrated in my previous post as one of the "dead" in fact tried to reach for his GIS-37), and hair fibers in the car.

i did this post mainly so that Emma leaves, and we can get down to the mano-a-mono (by that i mean Generian and Borman empires against BLA, Issaic, and illegal espianoge help from several agents in the Novgovan intelligence community of course, with you eventually winning as Two empires are more than a match for rebels.) So chill. It's obvious you are going to win anyway.

Argh i'm out of breath :)

Holy crap. I see you put alot of thought into it.

OOC:That was all assuming GE's troops are crappy shots. You'd think they'd notice their buddies getting blown away from the outside, and would probably had taken cover. I'd imangine getting three feet away from the van would not only make GE's guys targets, but your guy an even bigger one, since he's standing right outside. In otherwords, if he was standing that close, you might get the initial jump, but after the first few shots, he's gonna be dead since there's guys inside the cover of the van with your guy at point blank range and outnumbered.

Another thing, your assuming your guy somehow survived driving into an ARMORED van, and that would definately lessen initial shock, so the guys wouldn't be as disorientated.

OOC:That was all assuming GE's troops are crappy shots. You'd think they'd notice their buddies getting blown away from the outside, and would probably had taken cover. I'd imangine getting three feet away from the van would not only make GE's guys targets, but your guy an even bigger one, since he's standing right outside. In otherwords, if he was standing that close, you might get the initial jump, but after the first few shots, he's gonna be dead since there's guys inside the cover of the van with your guy at point blank range and outnumbered.

OOC: But he never said they took cover, he said they burst out. Don't forget that everything that I wrote in the above post (that took 1 1/2 hours to write) happened in mere seconds, therefore, if the people inside did not get back there weapons that at the time came loose from their hands, and get people off of them, they wouldn't have made a difference. They wouldn't be able to help. Also don't forget firing from the inside of a van with others inside is not that easy, even with a carbine. I could draw a diagram if you really want me to but this an RP, not a dicussion about the realilty

Another thing, your assuming your guy somehow survived driving into an ARMORED van, and that would definately lessen initial shock, so the guys wouldn't be as disorientated.

Well, the guy isn't stupid and if you refer to my previous post when this actually happened you would know Issaic wasn't perfectly alright; he did stumble a little getting out of the car. But its more than just driving in the car.

If you noticed the fact that he rammed the van with the rear of the car, not the front, you would see that his chance of living would greatly increase. For one thing, he's got a whole half of the car instead of a dinky little engine to protect him. And don't forget he was expecting what would happened and braced for it the best he could, while the van and its occupants were caught totally off guard.

Finally, just because the van is armored really doesn't make a different in this case. A car's a car, and a van's a van, etc. (You'd be surprised how a Chevy suburban with IIIA armor is easy to move). Being that the car hit more towards the extreme edge of the car, not the middle, the van's weight here would work against it. Because the car hit more towards the front of the van, the weight of the rear of the van would force the rear of the vehicle to swing around, hence your "flying soldiers" (and by flying don't get this idea of people flying in the air 40 feet because that's not what i meant by flying).

"an object in motion stays in motion". True, to a certain extent, the armor would help, but then its weight would work against it. The heavier the object is, the greater the force would be needed to stop it. In other words, once the van started to spin, the harder it was for it to stop spinning; the lightpole in this case was what stopped it. So in addition to the car's energy being absorbed, it has the force of the lightpole acting upon it as well. Hence, your disoriented soldiers.

I'm almost out of breath again. Figures. :)

Holy crap. I see you put alot of thought into it.

You'd be surprised. It took me 1 1/2 hours to write that, plus the two hours the night before writing up an even lengthier explaination, but fortunately for your luck my computer crashed and spared you from an even more detailed explaination.

So in total I spent 3 1/2 hours on this.

OOC: Wow, you really want to be right.

((OOC: I tip my hat to you, sir. Still, you mentioned shooting an officer in the face, and I take it you meant my badass GICE agent who I intend to use as a major character and who I have dedicated a large portion of time to developing. Would it be alright if you didn't so blatantly execute him? Maybe shoot him somewhere not quite as fatal, so I can use him later. He's kind of important to this whole thread.

And it's good to get a logical explanation once in a while. My thanks for that.))

OOC: Did he get Emma? Cause my men were still waiting in the van with her.

((OOC: I tip my hat to you, sir. Still, you mentioned shooting an officer in the face, and I take it you meant my badass GICE agent who I intend to use as a major character and who I have dedicated a large portion of time to developing. Would it be alright if you didn't so blatantly execute him? Maybe shoot him somewhere not quite as fatal, so I can use him later. He's kind of important to this whole thread.

And it's good to get a logical explanation once in a while. My thanks for that.))

OOC: A shot to the head usually means death, but of course it doesn't have to be fatal. It could be a jaw bone injury or a shot to the head but not buried in as to cause any lasting damage. Think about it. A character assumed dead regaining his life to get revenge on those who wronged him. How badass is that?

OOC: A shot to the head usually means death, but of course it doesn't have to be fatal. It could be a jaw bone injury or a shot to the head but not buried in as to cause any lasting damage. Think about it. A character assumed dead regaining his life to get revenge on those who wronged him. How badass is that?

((OOC: Goddamn! Brilliant! Perkins, hire this man!))

"Yessir."

Perkins walks over to 'this man' and hands him his work card.

"You're hired."

OOC: Did he get Emma? Cause my men were still waiting in the van with her.

OOC: Well, from previous posts, I gathered this.

1 Driver (Generian)
1 Leader/Front Passenger (Generian)
6 Imperial enforcers (*)
3 (*) Borman soldiers
Emma (Novgovan)

Total: 12 people

As you could see, the van is mighty crowded. 10 people in the back, plus 2 in the front, so 12 in all. It's not starting to seem like a van anymore. 12 people, plus the obvious equipment, makes this like a truck, not a van.

Now to discrepancies. 4 enforcers picked up Emma and were in the back, but six came out during the attack, thus two extra people in the story.

There was one Borman troop plainly listed. The post said "two others like him," which is pretty vague but I assume that means two other Bormans now.

Now look at the revised numbers afterwards:

1 driver (Generian)
1 Leader/front passenger (Generian)
7 Imperial enforcers (Borman/Generian)
Emma (Novgovan)

total: 10 people

This is still a lot of troops and equipment to fit in a van, especially for one anticipating more people in the van as the van cracked down on illegal/legal foreigners. However, the numbers are at least smaller. This is due to the fact that I moved around people to make less numbers, but still make sense.

Firstly, the amount of Generian and Borman troops changed. To make sense and have six people rushing out of the van it works this way:

6 Generian enforcers: 1 Borman transfer and/or adviser
5 Generian enforcers: 2 Borman transfers and/or advisers
4 Generian enforcers: 3 Borman transfers and/or advisers

In other words you can still have 6 Imperial enforcers rushing out of the van and fit a reasonable amount of people in the van because the 6 enforcers to rush ( and consequently become incapacitated) don't all have to be Generian in nationality; they could be Borman transfers under Generian command. That way, the numbers in the van decrease to a less unreasonable number and fits into the storyline as there are "two others like him" (refering to the Borman soldier) and six people rushing out to attack Issaic.

In any of the three scenarios of Borman/Generian troop ratios, there would be a "seventh person" in the van, or one more living or capacitated person. Issaic anticapted more troops, hence why he didn't just burst in the van, thus leaving open a number of possibilities.

Also, I didn't say he took her, just as a precaution for just this kind of event. Anything could happen now, but remember if Emma stays captured, one of her teeth is a false tooth containing cyanide, thus she'll swallow it and die. And if Issaic dies, the only other Novgovan character, then well, your case runs cold.

Hope this makes sense, as right now I'm half-asleep.

"Yessir."

Perkins walks over to 'this man' and hands him his work card.

"You're hired."

*Takes work card*

"Awesome."

((OOC: I'm just going to go on and make an OOC thread for this RP. I think the quantity of OOC posts warrants one. I'll be making an IC post soon enough, but I've been writing a paper all day, and I'm a bit spent.))

OOC thread: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=7904519#post7904519

OOC: A false tooth with cyanide. GENIUS! I'm happy I followed orders and hired you.

OOC: A false tooth with cyanide. GENIUS! I'm happy I followed orders and hired you.

Believe it or not I got that idea from a Hardy Boys book (they are mystery book series in case you didn't know) a long long time ago...

...It is actually pretty standard practice for espianage agents in RL ( I believe Stalin actually engineered one for himself in case the Soviets lost during WWII) so they don't have to worry about breaking under pressure; they just swallow the "tooth" and...

...the "dead men tell no tales" saying I think sums it up.

Depending on whether you rejected my proposal or not, there will be multiple or one soldiers inside that you should probably RP. Otherwise, this thread is doomed to fade away as an OOC thread...

The van I was thinking of was like one of those big old black vans, btu not a truck. The back is nothing but metal and liek a bench attacked to the wall. THe sides fit like 4-5 people and the other one fits like 2-3. So ther would be able to be like 10-13 people.

We should tkae it to the OOC thread now.

The van I was thinking of was like one of those big old black vans, btu not a truck. The back is nothing but metal and liek a bench attacked to the wall. THe sides fit like 4-5 people and the other one fits like 2-3. So ther would be able to be like 10-13 people.

We should tkae it to the OOC thread now.

I agree.

OOC: Then do it.

I have an obsessive compulsive tendancy to have last post you could say. Both so I cna have it last and I cna know I've seen the thread; so you won't win.

OCC: I'll post soon but not today or possibly tomorrow because this is a very busy week for me.

OOC: Midterms 'till Friday

OOC: Midterms 'till Friday

((OOC: 'Til Thursday afternoon for me, so don't rush yourself.))

((OOC: 'Til Thursday afternoon for me, so don't rush yourself.))

OOC: Ok

I have midterms next week. But between rushing to get things completed before then and studying I find myself with little time.

So I guess we'll just need to hold this RP off until like the 29th?

So I guess we'll just need to hold this RP off until like the 29th?

it's up to you, really. I'll try and post later but no garentees...

Two weeks after the escape of Issaic and Emma from the attack on the van, Issaic and Emma crossed over the border of the Generic Empire and made it to an international airport.

Emma, with now healing cuts on her head and a sprained ankle, returned to Novgova's capital. Being too hot in New Budapest, Issaic also left New Budapest.

"This is Captain Kudropal and thank you for flying Aeroflot Novgova. We are now arriving at Gate 18; local time is 10:37PM; temperature a frigid -8 Celcius, 17 degrees Fahrenheit with winds at 12 mph making the wind chill approximately 3 degrees Fahrenheit. Have a safe night and we hope you enjoyed Aeroflot Novgova."

After the Captain of the jet went through the normal arrival speech over the intercom, the plane docked at the gate. Emma and Issaic took their baggage out of the overhead compartments and started out, but not before being bumped and knocked around by other passengers, the rude, coughing, noisy passengers typical of any flight. They headed straight for the temporary parking as they did not need to wait for any other baggage; they traveled light.

As they approached the temporary parking, an unmarked Chevy Tahoe with tinted windows pulled up and Issaic and Emma approached and got in. The Chevy pulled out and by heading down some maintenance roads, which being a government vehicle with clearence they were allowed to do, made it to the OIA Headquarters in 35 minutes, impressive since a normal civilian would have taken 1 1/2 hours to 2 hours.

They were tired, had jet lag, were cramped for sitting forever, and a little hungry as everyone knows airplane food isn't the best, but as the only time they could meet with Ian in private, they went up to the 18th story to his penthouse office.

"Ouch, what happened here?" Ian asked curiously while looking at the cuts and bruises on Emma's face.

"Long story," Emma replied grumpily.

"Yes, let's get down to business, shall we?" Ian said more seriously, obviously taking the hint that Emma and Issaic weren't in the best of moods.

"Emma, you have paperwork to make up. As for your injuries, it'll never pass that you simply tripped, so say it was a car accident. A- a-umm-yes- a Toyota came out of nowhere and hit into you. A maniac driver out of nowhere slammed into your car. You know those Toyota drivers. Maniac drivers, always weaving in and out of traffic. Crazy nuts, ya know?"

"I know more than you know about crazy Toyota drivers, right Issaic!?!"
Emma said while looking at Issaic. Issaic started to blush.

Ian tried to change the subject, sensing the uneasiness between Emma and Issaic.

"As you know, Emma has sent you passcodes to the GICE database and military databases. Some may not work, some do, depends on what system or program you try to access. Now with these codes, you can't do much; you screw the systems and databanks, you screw yourself. No, these codes aren't for cyberwars between you and Generians. Rather these codes can be used to monitor military movements for maximum effectiveness."

"What's the point? I, nor the BLA for that matter, cannot tackle all troop and ammo convoys. That's just mad." Issaic was getting unerved by the apparent stupidity.

"Ah, but you do not know something. Standard military officers are growing discontent. After all, I'd like to see you guard Bucharia. It's taken its toll on the soldiers, and their families. The divorce rate between regular troops and their spouses is about 15% and one-quarter, 25% that is, noted that their sex lives have decreased."

"Holy crap! You record this kind of stuff?" Issaic asked.

"Oh yeah, it's important. Morale purposes, you know. Always good to know the morale of the troops you're facing."

"Uh yeah, whatever pervert," Issaic said.

Ian's tone of voice became more serious.

"Alright listen carefully. You have discontented troops, morale drops from being away from home, men either scared stiff from guerilla attacks or transporting drugs in military transports because they're so freakin' bored out of their minds. Some troops are Bucharian born or have Bucharian ancestory. And let's not forge that they are fighting against a fierce opponent.

And another thing.

What's that you ask? Officers are being assinated left and right. Not big shots mind you. Just captains, lieutenants, majors, a colonel or two that sort. About 50 so far. Not a big number compared to the size of the military but it's got the brass scared."

"Wait a minute Ian. This is my vandetta. Who the hell is doing the assinating? I didn't do it." Issaic asked.

"Let me tell you something, Issaic. You opened up a shitload of worms. Big shots found out about you; what your doing. It's not just about you anymore; this goes up all the way to Bronislav's office, the fucking Ministry of Defense, Issaic! Don't you understand? The government's in on the internal discontent and they intend to capitalize on it by creating a coup.

Will the coup overthrow Generia? Definately not. It'll cause damage but it won't even be close to cause an overthrow; too little troops are involved. The key here is to make them think they are capable of winning.

Will it free Bucharia? No, but not like we care about the Bucharians anyway. They're solidly under Generian control. Screw them, the BLA. They're a lost cause. In a matter of fact, screw Bucharia, New Budapest, screw them all! We've got a chance to shake the foundation of the Generians. It will stand but from the cracks we created, it'll crumble if not now than a few decades from now and if Bucharians pay the price than so be it. Now get something straight. This isn't your war anymore. You're not in charge anymore Issaic. You're just a fucking pawn now, got that? Let it ring in your ears. YOU ARE A PAWN!"

"This is insane Ian," Issaic said. "And what the hell's gotten into you?"

"Pressure, Issaic," Ian replied. "We're going against Parliament, and the executive branch. And who the hell knows if this plan would even work, the bigshots thought it up. Probably means its going to fail. Analysts showed us the numbers; it doesn't look good. 10,000 troops at most would be under control of rebel commanders; but that's not counting the fact that many of those 10,000 are loyal to Generia; only a third might acctually be commited.

There's even more. We're not supposed to talk about it. It could land us in big trouble but everyone's heard it before so I'll tell you two. The agency's up to something. People in accounting say the budget isn't adding up. The bigshots are planning something, something crazy. We're supposed to be isolationist but money's disappeared in classified projects that even I can't get to. They're planning something covert, and I don't like it. This whole project seems fishy. I'll I'm saying is be careful. This is beyond you now. Beyond all of us."

Issaic was stunned. What the hell was the government up to? Sheer madness. The whole of this didn't add up. A coup? A desparate length for a seemingly unimportant conflict. Novgova didn't have any interests in Bucharia or Generia. What was this all about?

He made it back across the Bucharian border and made it back to his home, the secret rooms in the back of the auto shop. He checked his email and found an email from Ian.

Encrypted Message Lvl 1.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
To: Issaic
Cc:
Subject: For you Issaic

$800,000 Novgovan Rubles deposited to bank account 809766-451 of the bank Schulster & Lloyds. It's all I get squeeze to you without getting noticed.

Sincerely,
Your friend Ian

PS: 34568 45692 18697 56890 23489 00972 47854 12398

He understood the message and the postscript (in code form). After taking $10k out of the bank, Issaic went to a seedy part of New Bucharest run by a Bucharian kingpin, Viktor Skopal. It was obvious which was his residence; expensive statues adorned his apartment.

Of course no mob head ever wants to get his hands dirty, so the person Issaic went straight to was Alexei Yusufov, a capitalist man who adored the West and couldn't get enough of the good life : fast cars, designer jeans, cowboy shirt, hot girls, expensive electronics, and expensive liquor. Lots and lots of liquor. The man was as Western as one could be; he even walked a little like a John Wayne. A man who loved the capitalist lifestyle.

Not surprisingly, as he was let into Alexei's extravagent apartment, Alexei was sitting in a nice mahogany leather chair, with expensive wood flooring, expensive art around him, techno playing in the background, and two hot models all over him, occasionally taking his attention away from the sixty-year old man who led a complete opposite life; a spartan lifestyle in the back of some auto garage.

"Always happy to see me, aren't you?" Issaic said jokingly to the man.

"Hey business is business, my friend. What brings you--" Alexei was interupted by one of the models, attempting to unbutton Alexei's shirt.

"Not now sweetie. Soon I promise."

"I'll be quick. I see you're, I see your'e uh, busy right now." Issaic's voice trailed off watching the models practically devour the guy.

"Not at all. Not for you, one of my best customers. What is it this time?" Alexei replied.

A model then sat on Alexei's lap and whispered something into Alexei's ear, something dirty probably into his ears because she was giving Issaic dirty looks the whole time. Meanwhile the other model began fiddling with her second button on her shirt; she had already unbuttoned the first.

"I need guns," Issaic replied.

"Yeah, yeah sure. Hey you Demitri!" Alexei said to one of the bodyguards in the room. "You and Ivan take this man to the Weapons Garage okay? I have to have some, alone time. His money's good, I trust him. Let him take what he needs okay?"

Issaic and the bodyguards left the room and got into a car and left.

Issaic soon arrived at the warehouse. Amongst other legit items, boxes of all types of weapons were all over.

He had AKs, but needed ammo so he got a few boxes. Next he bought 3 RPG-7 Launchers, with a few RPGs to go with it. He bought some semtex and C4 which gobbled up a lot of his money, and used the rest of the money for greandes and an MP5K with ammo.

Just as Issaic was loading the boxes of arms into the back of a station wagon, Demitri's, the bodyguard, cell phone rang.

"Hello hello Demitri. Give Issaic an MP5SD for free. He's been eyeing it for awhile. Tell him to pop a few GICE pigs, huh? Those pigs deserve to die! They cramp my style!"

There was a lot of background noise.

"Okay, got to go. I'm busy." Demitri cut Alexei off and ended the cell phone conversation before the warehouse sounded more like a brothel complete with the moaning and groaning, than a weapons warehouse.

"Here. Take this." Demitri handed the MP5SD over to Issaic who loaded it into the station wagon. Finally, the bodyguards and Issaic went there separate ways and Issaic got prepred for ambushing an ammo convoy later that night.

The group of Borman soldiers walked down the halls of a Praetorian barracks.

"What're we doin' here?"

"We're staying her, we leave when we get work."

"Wateva."

New Bucharest Docks

The air was heavy and damp beneath the thick fog that added layers to the pitch black hours of the cold evening. From the east, a chill wind blew, piercing even the heavy wool of the dockworkers’ jackets. At the end of the pier, a great shadow loomed, this silhouette the only evidence of the enormous cargo freighter that idled on the still waters of the harbor.

The vessel had arrived just two hours ago, and though the dockworkers were officially off shift for the evening, the activity had picked up immediately. Men in grey slickers had scrambled aboard to commence unloading the ship’s cargo. Hundreds of crates had been hauled along the long pier and loaded aboard several large trucks, which now idled in a lot nearby, waiting. Now, all was silent.

Beneath the soft glow of an electric light that hung suspended over the iron gate that prevented access to the pier, two men idled, the glow of their cigarettes barely visible through the fog and the blackness. Submachine guns hung over their shoulders.

“I think we’ve at least got a right to know what’s in them.”

“Now look, that’s exactly the kind of thinking that’ll get you killed.”

“What? We carry this shit all night long, loading it onto trucks for God knows what, and the bastards won’t even tell us what it is we’re carrying. I had to leave my wife at home, alone with our week old son.”

“Look, you know as well as I do that there isn’t much a man can do to make a buck in Buchiana. You’re lucky to be working, and working for good money for that matter. If you didn’t have this gig, your wife and kid would be starving to death.”

“I still think they could tell us what’s in the boxes…”

The man turned, puffing on his cigarette, walked off, melting into the fog. The remaining man shrugged, and rubbed his bare hands together for warmth, wishing he could afford a pair of good leather gloves. Ironically, as this thought passed through his head, a black gloved hand clamped down over his mouth, muffling any screams as the slick knife cut his throat. With a sickening expulsion of air, his trachea was severed, and the corpse fell to the ground.

A shadow stood behind the man, briefly gazing at the corpse before turning towards the iron gate. Removing a small blowtorch, the shadow quickly melted through the chains that sealed the gate shut, allowing them to fall to the ground, and then gently pushing the gate inward.

More shadows appeared from the surrounding blackness, and they glided along the pier towards the looming vessel in the distance. In the waters on every side, shapes began to surface, and scale the hull. The wraiths swarmed silently over the deck. The weary guards and seamen neither saw nor heard their coming end. They pierced into the lower decks. Through the portholes, bright flashes flickered and the muffled sounds of gunfire began to drift out over the water. An alarm went up, but it was too late. In minutes it was over. The majority of the crew of the smuggler’s vessel had been asleep in their beds, never to wake, their throats slit, or their heads and chests pierced by a quick burst of silent gunfire.

One of the shadows stepped out onto the exposed walkway outside of the vessel’s bridge. He pulled the balaclava over his head, revealing his dull black eyes. Captain Folosov inhaled the clean sea air, and stepped back inside. A young GICE agent approached him and saluted.

“The vessel is secured, sir, as are the trucks in the lot. The Praetorians are taking over guard duty as we speak. It was as we suspected. Cheap foreign armaments and some light armored vehicles. Mostly Russian shit. We also managed to take a few of the vessel’s officers, captain and first mate included.”

“Excellent work, Major. Oversee the transfer to GICE headquarters. There’s a helicopter waiting on the docks. The Praetorians will provide escort.”

The man saluted.

“Yes, sir.”

Folosov turned and placed his hands on the railing, staring out towards the conflagration of electric light that was New Bucharest.

“Fucking hellhole.”

OOC: I presume my men know

IC:
"We going home, right?"

"We were going to. But the praetorians foun dsome freighter full of foriegn armaments and such. Apparently outside help is trying to reach the rebels. So we stay."

"Can we actually do something?"

"Just wait."

Issaic and a few BLA members camped in the woods south of an arms depot. They were waiting for a convoy to ambush. As the deadline for the convoy drew near however, increasing patrols forced them to reconsider. At one point a patrol was no more than 20 feet away. Thankfully,the patrol did not see them and there was no conflict.

Instead of using their ammo on the convoy, they instead moved away from the patrol areas and waited to ambush anything that was coming. Sure enough, a solitary car leaving from the depot was spotted. Issaic took carful aim and shot out two of the tires, thereby causing the car to spin out and off the road. Issaic and the BLA members quickly surrounded the car and pulled its two occupants, a sergeant in formal dress, and a lady, presumably his wife. They were on their way to a baby shower for a fellow soldier who was the new parent of a brand new baby boy.

The BLA lined the two occupants side by side in front of a rock wall while Issaic inspected the car. Issaic pulled out a picture of a child, only about three years old off of the dashboard and gave it to the lady, who stood solemnly, looking down the barrels of the BLA. Issaic went into the trunk and pulled a wrapped present and set it aside.

The BLA motioned for the two prisoners to turn around. The sergeant, who at this point was preying for mercy from God, was a more bumbling mess than the woman next to him, who stood tall and never broke down. Issaic torched the car with gasoline and then commanded his soldiers to ready and aim. The two people's lives flashed before their eyes, thinking about what they had done in life and what they should have done in life as they awaited the came for fire, and the whithering fire from the AKs cut them down.

Of course the command never came. Issaic never planned to kill them and he and his men had slipped silently away. As soon as the convoy passed by, they'd be picked up and they would be alright.

When Issaic made it back to his residence, Isssaic checked his e-mail. Sure enough, a new e-mail was in his inbox.

Encrypted Message Lvl 1.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: (Orig. Cmdr. Zuklivi), Emma
To: Issaic
Subject: Fowarded Message from BLA commander

Original message:

Hello comrade. This is Cmdr. Zuklivi. I have important information to give you, something I do not feel is safe giving to other people. After the BLA Lieut. was abducted from the brothel a few weeks ago, I took it upon myself to go through his personal belongings for anything useful. I came upon a list of contacts he kept with him. Some of these may not be useful or appropriate. But some of these numbers seem to be logical. Anyway, here are all the numbers. Here are the numbers:

341-9087
Sgt. Chilichilki

596-6722
Igor's Bakery

341-5631
XXX Tammy XXX

341-4545
Desmond's Jewelry

321-8763
Maj. Vladjka

818-456-5000 Ext. 45
Modreanu's Paper Mill

596-3445
2nd Lt Gigurtu

675-9876
Col. Cuza

444-675-2371
Pugachev

453-0989
Dhugashvilli


Some of them were out of country or were cell phone numbers.


848-459-3504
Amad

321-890-7767
Monitgneau

111-456-0987
Chris

448-890-6787
Bellafontaine


Some of them seemed a bit too personal.



771-SUX-SLUT
Slutty Jane

909-69BI-TCH
Sammy

432-876-8080
Señora Valesco (Good time)



Some of them he knew, as well as the whole Generian military.



341-2737
Brothel
(Where he met his unfortunate end)

596-7884
Demitri
An endless supplier of arms to the BLA, but can't do much personally because of the general knowledge of him by the Generian military. Of course, having him where they want him, they could do away with him at anytime, but many officers find him just a fly and not worth the car bomb or drive by that would follow his arrest.

Then there was a message from Emma.

I researched some of these numbers myself.
Sgt. Chilichilki is dead.

Desmond's Jewelry was the front for a BLA arms catche and black market for funneling stolen goods. It was shut down after the war ended.

Modreanu's Paper Mill is a mob business headed by Ivan Mihailovic and Boris Belov, former Yugoslavian arms dealers. The paper mill is a counterfeiting center and production center for fake credit cards from stolen credit numbers.

Pugachev, or Leonid Pugachev, is a nuclear physicist from the former Soviet Union. He received a few doctorates in his field and escaped the former Soviet Union's economy by moving to Buchiana and working at Urahk II Nuclear Power Plant sothwest of Buchiana. He is a head supervisor of the plant, although he personally oversees Reactor Number 2 and spends most of his time in Reactor Number 2, Main Control Room. That number above is the number to the control room itself.

Amad is ex-SAS. He was an interpreter and agent for the SAS who went frequently undercover for intel. He has more contacts than there are people on this earth. Grew up around the middle east. Living much of his later life in Chechnya, he is a master of guerilla warefare and intelligence. He's a natural born fighter and in no case should you underestimate him, or you can ask the Russians what happens.

When I researched "Chris" I received no information. I called the number and there was no answer. He's invisible.

The rest of the numbers I don't even want to know what they are. This guy seemed to be dirtier than a garbage can.

Good luck!

With love,
Emma

Issaic desided to go down the list.

Sgt. Chilichilki was first on the list, but he was dead.

So Issaic called Igor's Bakery.

The phone conversation started with a nervous hello, followed by a 'who's this' followed by 'a friend of Boris'.

Igor's bakery is what Desmond's Jewelry was: a black market. Igor's Bakery doesn't exist as a real bakery, but rather its a code name.

Issaic then called the next number, "Tammy's".

"Hello hot stuff," an orgasmic voice said on the other end.

Issaic decided to get straight to the point. "I'm Boris's friend."

"I have lots of friend's named Boris, sexy," the voice replied. "What's your real name?"

Issaic, seeing no harm said "Hi, my name is Issaic. You knew Boris didn't you?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"Shit," she said on the other line, no longer in a sexy voice. "I'm so sorry. Just to let you know, this isn't a, you know..." her voice trailed off. "This is a cover in case anybody does come upon the number. They think nothing of it, just some prostitute on a phone. I know who you are. We've met before."

"Have we?" Issaic asked confused.

"Yes, I am Alexa. We've met at the Brothel before, for business, not pleasure mind you."

Issaic's mind insantly flashed back two years ago, before the BLA, when Boris, then a local politician, was running for city council. Alexa was Boris's campaign manager and they met at the brothel, then a party headquaters before the Generians shut it down, to discuss political strategy. This was around the time funding from the OIA stopped coming, so Issaic worked as a political consultant, being that from political espianoge he had more than enough experience to know political strategy.

He remembered she was small but cute, and that her blue eyes drew him to her like a moth to a streetlamp, or more like a deer looking into headlights. But, like Emma, she too was way too young for him, and he was more of a paternal figure to her, while she was more like a daughter to him.

He remembered someone else like her a long time ago. 1979...

... June 1979 to be exact. He and two others were to infiltrate a Russian diplomat's house in SE Asia. Although Novgova itself was Commuinist back then, Russian and Novgova were at odds with each other, and information from Russia came only through intelligence and espionage. To make a long story short, the plan went awry and they were discovered. Issaic was in the diplomat's room at the time when the alarm went off, set off by one of his teammates, and he was forced to fire his silenced pistol. He fired three shots at the diplomat.

However none of them made their target. The diplomat's daughter, in front of the diplomat, collapsed onto the floor, blood dripping down her light pink dress from the three gaping holes in her back, her father, his black, crisp suit splattered with red blood watching in the utmost horror his dead daughter fall; something a parent should never see. She fell backwards, crumpling uncerimoniously on the the red-stained berber carpet, her accusing eyes screaming bloody murder at Issaic. Her deep blue eyes. Her deep blue cold, dead eyes. And while that memory seemed like forever, it only took a split second to end the life of the innocent.

"Hello!?! Hello!?! Are you still there?" a voice shout through the telephone

"Huh? OhhhH!!!" Issaic jumped out of his flashback.

"Yeah I'm watching the news right now. There was a secret GICE raid on the S.S. Russian Sea VII, a near derelict transport ship. A whole mess. Did you know about it?"

"I do now."

ooc: is this thread still active?

ooc: is this thread still active?

((OOC: Yes, I'm very sorry. I've just been horribly preoccupied over the past weeks and am in the middle of writing a post that i want to keep well thought out.))

OOC: Oh okay. Cool. I've been busy this week. So i didn't post. So if you check back, then let's start this thing again.

In the white carpeted living room of the luxurious uptown apartment, a man and three women knelt around a glass coffee table, evidently smeared with white powder, as were the man’s military slacks. After a long snort, he raised his head, and inhaled deeply. He unbuttoned his uniform shirt, and tossed it over the arm of an upholstered chair. The woman next to him also came up for air, and teetered on her knees before falling over.

Without warning, the door exploded inward and a dozen GICE enforcers poured into the room.

“Civil Enforcement! Get on the floor!”

The man looked at the enforcers with red eyes, trying to register what was going on. The two women shrieked, and attempted to get to their feet. One was seized by an enforcer, and roughly thrown onto a sofa, an assault rifle pointed at her face. The other staggered towards the exit, but was grabbed roughly by two enforcers, and pushed to the floor. The man gasped, and put his hands in the air before noticing the pistol lying on the table in front of him. He grabbed the weapon and trained it on the nearest enforcer. He unloaded, most of the bullets going wildly off course, and some burying themselves in the man’s armor. The enforcer staggered backwards, and, regaining himself, fired a round into the man’s arm. He yelled, and fell over backwards, before being seized by two more enforcers.

The GICE personnel dragged him to his feet, and thrust him against the nearby wall. A GICE agent in standard black uniform stepped into the room, surveying the scene with his steely eyes. An enforcer approached him, and saluted.

“Captain Folosov, we got him.”

The agent spoke smoothly.

“So I see.”

Captain Folosov walked over to the man pinned against the wall. The man struggled and bared his teeth as the agent approached. Folosov studied him before speaking.

“Major Vladka, such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The man scowled and spit, the saliva landing on Folosov’s uniform. With a look of mild disgust, Folosov brushed the saliva from his jacket, and looked back at the man.

“That really isn’t going to get you anywhere. If you would be so kind, gentlemen, as to sit Major Vladka down over there.”

The enforcers dragged the struggling officer and forced him into the chair. He made to get to his feet, but three rifles thrust into his face made him think otherwise, and he collapsed into the seat. Folosov casually walked over, a disinterested look on his face, as if he was bored with this affair. He produced a sheet of paper from his jacket’s interior pocket and studied it before addressing the prisoner.

“You’ve got quite a file, Major. Only three years in the Imperial military and already three warnings for conduct unbecoming of an officer.”

Folosov turned his head towards the coffee table behind him, and the three women.

“Three on file that is. There have been a number of other indiscretions that we overlooked. You should thank us for that.”

Folosov’s demeanor changed sharply.

“But instead you betray us.”

Folosov grabbed the man around the throat and drew him to his feet.

“Do you take us for fools, Vladka, you little shit? I question whether you were even worth the effort of following your blatant trail. You’re messier than a south end whore.”

Folosov looked again at the girls.

“But you know all about those.”

Folosov thrust the man back into the chair. The officer was sweating now, and his face was riddled with uncertainty and terror. Folosov turned and paced back and forth, sighing heavily.

“We know all about your little tricks. Funneling guns to your friends in the BLA. You thought it was smooth sailing. Didn’t even bother to lock the armory up after your midnight ‘supply runs.’”

Folosov sighed, and shook his head melodramatically.

“You really though you could get away with it, too. Stand him up.”

The enforcers grabbed the officer by the shoulders and forced him to his feet. The man’s face was glistening now, and he was almost shaking.

“Vladka, I’m going to give you three chances to redeem yourself. You’re going to tell us everything you know about your friends, or else I’m going to hurt you.”

Folosov looked into the eyes of the shivering officer.

“Your move.”

The man looked around nervously, contemplating his options. Suddenly, as if having made up his mind, he set his face in an overplayed expression of defiance. Folosov sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Have it your way. Strike one.”

The enforcers forced the man to his knees, and stretched his arms out across the table. As the man watched with wide eyes, Folosov produces a knife, and grabbed the man’s wrist. With a single smooth motion, he lopped off the man’s thumb. The man shut his eyes and grimaced. Folosov stood again, and looked in disgust at the traitor. Gasping, the man recovered his senses, and looked up at the agent, defiance and rage in his eyes.

“Fucking pigs.”

“I don’t like being insulted, Major. Strike two.”

The enforcers dragged the man to his feet, and, turning him around, forced his back onto the glass table, holding him there. Folosov moved the knife over his face, and went to work. He slid the knife through the soft cartilage of the nose, slicing it in half. He then stretched the man’s left ear, and slowly slid the knife down the flesh holding it to his head. He tossed the ear away idly, while the man screamed in agony.

“One more chance.”

“Fuck you! Fuck! Fuck you, you fucking pig! Long live the BLA!”

The enforcers slid off the man’s pants, and Folosov moved the knife over his pelvic region. As the knife drew closer, the man panicked.

“Gah! Alright! Stop! Stop! I’ll tell you! Just put it away!”

Folosov withdrew the knife, keeping it in sight.

“I don’t know much. My brother works in the BLA. I think he’s important. He talks to a man named Chris. I don’t know what about. He doesn’t tell me much. I just get him guns and explosives. I swear, that’s all I know!”

Folosov put his knife away, and contemplated the information. He suddenly drew the pistol from the holster at his waist, and put three rounds in the traitor’s chest. The man convulsed, and then fell limp, dead.

“For God and country, eh, Major?”

Folosov holstered his pistol, turned and walked over towards the couch where the girl sat watching in silent horror. An enforcer walked over beside him.

“What did he know?”

“Nothing. He was a pawn.”

Folosov, completely nonchalant about the events that had just occurred reached down, and placed his hand on the woman’s face.

“Attractive for a whore. How much do you cost, darling?”

She spoke defiantly.

“I’m not for sale, you goddamn pig.”

Folosov looked to the ceiling in frustration.

“Why do they insist on calling me that?”

He looked back at the girl.

“Well, you’re free of charge tonight, dearest. Gentlemen, they’re all yours.”

Folosov turned and walked out of the apartment.

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

Folosov stood at attention in front of the GICE officer’s desk in the well furnished office of the GICE local command center in downtown New Bucharest. The officer’s eyes moved over a document he held in his hands.

“Excellent work, Major, though unfortunately I must say that Vladka was meaningless. He was little more than a tool for siphoning guns from the local armories.”

“Yes, sir. So I gathered. He did mention one person, though. ‘Chris’ was the name he used.”

“Yes, yes. He would, wouldn’t he. Fitting, since that’s your next task. You’re going to meet him.”

“If I may ask, meet who sir?”

“Chris.”

“Who is he, sir?”

“Everyone and no one at all, but that is meaningless. What’s more important is who he belongs to.”

“And who does he belong to?”

“You’re going to go see for yourself. I’ve arranged a meeting.”

The officer looked at his expensive watch.

“You’d better hurry. You only have an hour. Directions are to be found here.”

The officer slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Folosov picked it up, and studied the information. They were directions to a secure line in a well to do neighborhood nearby. Folosov pocketed the sheet.

“Oh, and Captain, I suggest plain clothes for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

Folosov saluted and walked briskly out of the room.

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

Folosov walked into the small phonebooth outside of an hautes coutures shop in the downtown area. Folosov’s leather jacket blew behind him in the stiff breeze. The phone began to ring. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Mr. Folosov.”

The voice that came over the line was strange. It was smooth, but tinged with ice. It possessed the ears, and buried itself into the brain, taking over the senses, stinging and burning, but at the same time soft, and refined. It was the voice of everyone he had ever known, and yet like nothing he had ever heard.

“Who-who is this?”

“Mr. Kukovsnyov’s pawn shop two blocks from here.”

The line clicked dead, and Folosov stared dazedly at the receiver. He hung up and stepped out into the street.

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

He stepped into the deserted, dusty shop, and looked around. The door at the far end of the shop was open. Cautiously he approached, hand moving towards the inside of his coat, and the concealed Walther PPK, a favorite of plain clothes GICE agents.

He slowly pushed the door open, and stepped into a stone room, to be met by a second door, this one wrought of iron, with a slide away peep hole at eye level. The metal slot slid open, and a pair of eyes stared at him. The slot closed, and the door opened with a heavy groan. Folosov stepped into a darkened room, lit by blue fluorescent lights. Several men stood in the gloom of the corners and along the walls of the strange room. They wore dark sunglasses, and carried various models of European submachine guns. They eyed Folosov casually, cigarettes trailing from several of their mouths.

In front of Folosov was a desk. A wraith sat in the gloom with his feet up. Folosov approached slowly.

“Take a seat.”

Folosov sat down in an old leather armchair placed before the desk. The wraith leaned forward, and his features caught a sliver of light.

“Mr. Folosov.”

Folosov was amazed. The face was that of everyone and no one, invisible in plain sight. The features seemed to melt and solidify before his eyes, though they remained stationary. Folosov swore he knew this face, and yet he could not place it, as was the case with anyone whose eyes befell the features of this ghost. Suddenly, something clicked in Folosov’s mind, and he regained his composure.

“Hello, Mr Black.”

Saul Hudson picked up the red telephone and dialed an international number, an unlisted one. Because of the heavy 720-bit encryption, it took a few moments to connect.

A wary voice picked up on the other end.

"Who is this?"

"An old friend, Mr. Black, wishing you well as you attempt to root out the insurgents."

Mr. Black recognized the voice immediately. It had been years since he had heard it, but a voice like Hudson's was not easily forgotten.

"Well, well. I do believe it is my good friend 'Slash.'"

"Indeed."

"Surely, Saul, you didn't call me just to wish me well, did you? Out with it, old friend, what do you want?"

"I just wanted you to know that I personally support your cause, and if I support it, the might of Freudotopia is behind me. Don't forget that you once saved my life. If you need any help, don't hesitate to call Boo Radley. He'll set it up. I must go."

"Goodbye, Saul. And thank you."

I enjoy this thread, so I vote to bump it.

Statement to the Generic Empire:

As we have been closely monitoring the situation of the Buchanian insurrection, we have a small favor to ask. In order to shore up the political support of new Emperor Saul Hudson, we ask that you provide 3 prisoners who have yet to stand trial for the insurrection. We would like to stage a public execution of these scumbags to show the nation and the world that Freudotopia will not tolerate rebellion against the government. Since the Buchanian crisis is an internationally recognized event, we thought it might work to illustrate our utter commitment to our goals to kill some insurgents.

Saul Hudson, Emperor

Andrew Reignoff, Head of Parliament

Statement to the Generic Empire:

As we have been closely monitoring the situation of the Buchanian insurrection, we have a small favor to ask. In order to shore up the political support of new Emperor Saul Hudson, we ask that you provide 3 prisoners who have yet to stand trial for the insurrection. We would like to stage a public execution of these scumbags to show the nation and the world that Freudotopia will not tolerate rebellion against the government. Since the Buchanian crisis is an internationally recognized event, we thought it might work to illustrate our utter commitment to our goals to kill some insurgents.

Saul Hudson, Emperor

Andrew Reignoff, Head of Parliament

Official Imperial Communique

To: Andrew Reignoff, Head of Freudotopian Parliament
From: Colonel Aleksander Norovic

As a token of our commitment to the new government of Freudotopia, the Empire shall honor your request for three prisoners formerly of the BLA so that an example may be made of them. They shall dispatched immediately via C-117 escorted by a wing of GIF-101s, and should arrive in one day.

Colonel Aleksander Norovic,
Advisor to Acting Imperator Varus Tiberius Alexei,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

Official Imperial Communique

To: Andrew Reignoff, Head of Freudotopian Parliament
From: Colonel Aleksander Norovic

As a token of our commitment to the new government of Freudotopia, the Empire shall honor your request for three prisoners formerly of the BLA so that an example may be made of them. They shall dispatched immediately via C-117 escorted by a wing of GIF-101s, and should arrive in one day.

Colonel Aleksander Norovic,
Advisor to Acting Imperator Varus Tiberius Alexei,
Loyal Servant to Emperor Antonius I

We are much obliged. The prisoners have arrived safely. Be sure to watch their executions on ICATV.

OOC: Oooooooooo. This is getting good.

Can't post today but I'd like to see where this is going. This has more plot twists than a twister. Will post soon though and i already have plans for several new posts.

OOC: Oooooooooo. This is getting good.

Can't post today but I'd like to see where this is going. This has more plot twists than a twister. Will post soon though and i already have plans for several new posts.

((OOC: I thought you'd like that last one.))

OOC: Finally read it, that was mad good.

OOC: Finally read it, that was mad good.

((OOC: Thanks.))

((OOC: Thanks.))

OOC: I was talking about Novgova informing you that it was good, no im joking; it really was good, you're welcome.

Issaic spoke into the telephone. "Were you aware that Boris had a list of num-"

"numbers? Yeah I did know," Alexa interupted. "In a matter of fact I made up most of that list".

"Even the seemingly dirty ones?"

"What? Oh, ermm..., no I think he added those; those mostly are probably dirty numbers"

"Oh," Issaic said. So the guy was a perv the whole time.

Alexa was watching the t.v. on the other end of the telephone.

"Mihailovic should be having a field day right now. He's not only the arm smuggler who keeps getting his ships busted by the GICE but a powerful union leader, head of dozens of unions illegal or not. Rumors from my friend say he's goon have authorized a work strike. Tommorrow, a lot of dock workers will be calling in sick, mostly in Buchanian ports but some also in Generian ports, too. Warehouse temasters and factory workers under his control may not go either. Revenge through nonviolence, brilliant."

"Hmmmmmmmm...," Issaic thought. "Strikes, civil disorder, I have a plan. I'll use this strike to my advantage. Do you know who Leonid Pugachev is?"

"Yeah, why?"

Issaic continued. "You're calling him tommorrow."

OOC: I have so nothing to do

The Legionnaries had dragged the captured rebel into the woods, and fastened his hands behind his back, and made him sit up against a tree. Lt. Aurelius took out his gladius, and began to sharpen it.

"Now, you will tell me everything I wish to know, or I will slowly hack off every limb on your body, starting from the bottom up. Where are the other camps?"

The man was petrified. He had heard the tales of the brutality of the Doom legionairres spoken in hushed tones in the taverns and brothels, but now he was face to face with the monster. He worked up the courage to speak.

"I-I don't know. They don't tell me those things."

The man was petrified. He had heard the tales of the brutality of the Doom Legionaries spoken in hushed tones in the taverns and brothels, but now he was face to face with the monster. He worked up the courage to speak.

"I-I don't know. They don't tell me those things."
Aurelius stared at his play thing through the visor on his helmet. He spoke, the voice coming out of his mask sounding almost demonic,

"A shame. I suppose you won't be needing this, then!" he yelled, suddenly flipping his gladius around in his hand, and quickly dragging it across the man's calves.

He then grabbed the screaming man's right hand, and impaled it with his blade, pinning it to a nearby tree. As the rebel struggled to get free, he began to rip open the wounds with his bear hands, literaly tearing the flesh and muscle from his legs, tossing the stinking pile of human parts a few feet away, leaving a horrible stench about the forest. As the rebel screamed in agony, his tormenter seized the hilt of his blade and ripped it from the dead old tree, leaving very little left of his right hand. The man's lower legs now had nothing but the bone and a few stray chunks of flesh left.

He did all of this within a period of fifteen seconds.

"So, you're sure you know nothing? Because we still have plenty of other limbs to work with." came the robotic sounding voice from the voice box in the visor, smiling cruley behind his mask.

The rebel let forth screams that could not have concievably come from human vocal cords. The essence of pure pain, the distorted wailing echoed around the forest. Finally, the man responded, gasping.

"Twenty miles from here, east, there is a large camp. It is used as temporary storage for the weapons that come in over the borders. That's all I know, please, have mercy. Let me live."

The man's tormenter sheathed his blade and took out some bandages. "Do not worry, my friend, for we are not without mercy, as your superiors no doubt told you." he said, wrapping the bare bone of his legs to keep them from freezing.

The man was now utterly immobile from bloodloss and the fact the muscle had been cut off of his legs. The meat from the legs had been tossed nearby in a stinking pile. The man's bonds had been cut (but his right hand was all but destroyed), so he was somewhat free to try and pull himself away. "Oh, one more thing. To make sure you don't get a patrol on our tails, we've planted mines in a neat circle around you. I wouldn't expect a patrol to get here for a few days, so we've left some food." he said in an unusualy friendly tone. The man looked to where the Legionary was pointing at, and was utterly horrified. It was the very flesh that had been cut off his legs. "Bon apetite, mother fucker." he finished, hopping over the line of mines, and running off into the forest with his comrades.

Hours later the man sat shivering in the dark, black blood caked around his open wounds, icicles beginning to form on his bare bones. He had drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours, and his head lolled to one side, drool sliding down his cheek from the corner of his mouth. Occasionally he shrieked as a horrifying apparition crossed his mind. His senses were numb, and he could barely move his arms. His gaze moved over to the now frozen mound of human flesh that had once been attached to his legs, and he felt his stomach giving way. With a sickening contraction he retched, but his stomach was empty.

Looking to the black skies and the treetops he began sobbing. As the tears froze on his face his consciousness snapped and he broke into maniacal laughter. Overcome with madness and a desire to end his suffering, he dragged himself towards the ring of mines. With the last of his strength he slammed his fist into the ground. He struck metal, and was overcome with brief pain, then darkness.

The men had quietly made their way through the forest towards where their prisoner had reported the camp being. They found a simple settlement with a pot cooking over a fire tended by several men in fatigues. They appeared not to have shaven in days and were conversing in their native language. There were several tents and a cabin, all thrown neatly in a circle around the fire. Aurelius had split the Legionaries up into 3 teams of 4, and they began to take up positions around the camp.

The men had all affixed sound suppresors to their rifles (save the two SAW gunners and sniper), and would try to make this as precise a takedown as possible. Aurelius approached from the cabin side. He neared one of the doors, but suddenly motioned for his team to halt and get down. There were screams coming from inside. He poked a fiber optic cable beneath the door, and saw a man bound to a chair being tortured.

There were three rebels carrying out the interrogation, two for manhandling him, and one for doing the actual torture. He appeared to be touching the soles of the captive's feet with a hot iron, a very painfull method of extracting intellegence. Aurelius could see they were being sloppy in their work. He motioned for the man behind him to attach a breaching charge to the door, which he did flawlessly in a few seconds.

He then quietly radioed the other teams to open fire upon hearing the explosion. He signaled for his comrade to detonate, and the door was blown wide open.

The three rebels were utterly shocked and quickly and easily blown away, each one receiving a 6.5mm round to the head. Aurelius motioned for one of his men to cut the prisoner loose. By the time he stepped out the front door, all of the rebels except for two were dead. Those two would be tortured for information.

Dmitri Prushka looked up dazedly as the door exploded inward and the soldiers slaughtered his tormentors. Through the mental haze he made out an emblem on the uniforms of the soldiers, one he remembered from his briefing before his deployment to Buchiana.

Prushka had been on a low level factfinding mission for GIIS when he was picked up by a Buchianan patrol and brought here. For the past sixteen hours he had been tortured and interrogated nonstop. Deprived of sleep and sustenance and subjected to intense pain, his mind had regressed almost into a waking sleep. Despite it all, he had not uttered a word to his captors, and now he found that he had been rewarded. Looking at the steel faceplates and emblems on the uniforms of his rescuers, he knew that the cavalry had come through.

He got to his feet, but collapsed back into his chair as the burned and blistered skin touched the cold floorboards. He asked one of the Doomingsland soldiers if there was a medic available or at least some. The medic was summoned, and he took some bandages and ointment out of the first aid kit to begin treating Dmitri's wounds.

The agent stood, and stumbled about as he gained his footing. He approached the officer.

"I gotta thank you for pulling my ass out of the fire. These bastards would have done me in."

As he finished thanking his rescuer, he looked out the window at the camp. The Doomingsland soldiers had begun impaling heads on spikes. Prushka stepped out into the frigid air just as the men began setting fire to buildings full of wounded rebels.

"I have no doubt they would, especialy after they learned about what we did to their other camps," replied Aurelius, chuckling aloud as his men began to string up the headless corpses on trees. "Well, men, we've met our quota of heads this week, and I know an excelent bar in town." he said to the others, who were obviously pleased. "Now, my friend," he said, turning back to Prushka, "we will escort you back to your headquarters and hand over one of these to your superiors." he said, motioning to the two prisoners, kneeling in front of a Legionary with their hands bound behind their backs. "However, we shall make an example of one of them..." he said, drawing his blade and stepping over to one of the men

Firstly, he cut the man's bonds, and ordered him to stand. The prisoner complied, and Aurelius quickly lopped off both of his legs without warning. The man was on the floor, yelling in pain. "I said stand up, you insolent worm!" he said in an enraged tone, kicking the poor man multiple times. He motioned to two men to grab him and hang him upside down from one of the trees. Once they did so, Aurelius stepped over to him and carefully opened up his belly and made several incisions in the stomach. These were aranged so that the stomach acids would slowly leak out and burn the man away from the inside. "Come, I've had enough of this." he said, sheathing his blade and stepping out into the forest with the others, heading back towards the city.

As the group made their way into the city, people on the streets stared in disbelief as they dragged their bound captive behind like a piece of meat. He was still alive. Somewhat. Alive enough for the GICE to get what they wanted from him. The Legionaries stood out from the crowd in their combat suits and futuristic looking rifles (which the Generians had only recently begun to use). As they neared the GICE HQ, one man, the Generian spy, and the Buchianan POW walked over towards it while the others headed towards a nearby DII safehouse to get changed and reequiped for their new plainclothes assignment.

As the Legionary, Prushka, and their guest walked inside, the clerk at the desk looked up somewhat startled. Then the Legionary picked up the rebel by the colar with one hand and spoke, "This one appeared to be violating your laws by assisting the terrorist rebels. I believe he may have some usefull information on him." he said as two GICE enforcers walked up and dragged away the prisoner. "This one belongs to you, I believe." he said, pointing towards Prushka before turning and heading out the door towards his comrades.

Issaic spoke into the telephone. "Were you aware that Boris had a list of num-"

"numbers? Yeah I did know," Alexa interupted. "In a matter of fact I made up most of that list".

"Even the seemingly dirty ones?"

"What? Oh, ermm..., no I think he added those; those mostly are probably dirty numbers"

"Oh," Issaic said. So the guy was a perv the whole time.

Alexa was watching the t.v. on the other end of the telephone.

"Mihailovic should be having a field day right now. He's not only the arm smuggler who keeps getting his ships busted by the GICE but a powerful union leader, head of dozens of unions illegal or not. Rumors from my friend say he's goon have authorized a work strike. Tommorrow, a lot of dock workers will be calling in sick, mostly in Buchanian ports but some also in Generian ports, too. Warehouse temasters and factory workers under his control may not go either. Revenge through nonviolence, brilliant."

"Hmmmmmmmm...," Issaic thought. "Strikes, civil disorder, I have a plan. I'll use this strike to my advantage. Do you know who Leonid Pugachev is?"

"Yeah, why?"

Issaic continued. "You're calling him tommorrow."

Alexa called the number the next day.

[Alexa]"Hello Pugachev, this is Alexa. We need your help."

[Pugachev]"Da."

[Alexa]"I need you to shut down power somehow."

[Pugachev]"I'm on it."

Pugachev, one of the most, if not the most able nuclear specialists in the world knew the reactors better than the back of his hand. From the main control room for reactor 4 & 5, He carefully changed the computer's automatic regulation system to manual. He started to drain some of the coolant in the reactors and began pulling the boron rods out of the reactor. Two to three minutes later the reacotrs were beginning to go critical.

"Pugachev the cores! The cores!!!" screamed one of his associates.

Pugachev faked alarm at the situation and set the men to their stations to see what was wrong. The cores continued to go towards critical. When Pugachev felt that he was at the point of no return, Pugachev quickly lowered the boron rods all the way in and filled the reactors with coolant. He then changed the manual settings on the computer back to automatic to allay suspicions, although no one would know it was him that changed the settings anyway.

The nuclear power plant was safe, it was always safe to begin with, and Pugachev would never allow it to hit critical. However, reactors 4 and 5, the two main power reactors for New Bucharest, were completely shut down. The sudden power loss from the power grid caused a monumental blackout of New Bucharest and the surrounding area. The damage was compounded by the fact that the sudden drop of the reactors off the power grids caused a cascading effect that overburdened the local coal power plant and caused the shut down of three more power plants to prevent damage to the reactors. Thus a wide swath of Buchiana was without power.

And Issaic made sure the second plan was underway. Using the codes given by Emma, Issaic hacked into the GICE HQ mainframe. The backup generators were coming back on. Issaic pressed a single key on the keyboard and instantly the backup generators were stopped.

Issaic smiled smuggly. You see, Issaic had experimented with trying to get into the GICE HQ files in New Bucharest. Mostly he had failed; the passwords were dynamic and changed often. However, a mundane and seemingly overlooked system, the backup generator, proved an ingenious way to halt GICE actions around New Bucharest. Now, in addition to the human rights abuses by the government and strikes that were sure to grow into angry hordes now that the power was out, GICE's electronic files were completely down. Not that it mattered now, they had a a whole city to quell now.

The fiery smell of revolution wafted through the noses of every Buchianan citizen. A smell of hope. Or was it?

Official Imperial Communique:

To: Generic Empire
From: Chancellor Licinius

We request to bring in a total of 200 Dinosaurs to assist in handling the trouble in and around New Bucharest. They will be under your command, but our control.

End Transmission

Bump this so i remember it's here. Post coming soon, tonight or tomorrow.

((OOC: Unions are illegal in Generia, as the Generian economy is heavily laissez-faire capitalist in nature. In Buchiana though, where unrest is more or less the order of the day, unions are heavily active in local society and politics.))

The man was known to all who knew him, or, more appropriately, knew of him as Mr. Black, however those that numbered among the enlightened with regard to his existence were few and often far between. The name was an alias, though in reality it served more as a placeholder for an infinite number of assumed identities, names, addresses, appearances, lives.

He was indeed, as they said, ‘everyone and he was no one at all’. The physical being that was ‘Mr. Black’ had no name, no life of his own, and had not for many years. What had become of him, his personal truth, was far gone, never to be recovered. And so he was able to become the most lethal entity Generia, and possibly the world had ever known. His camouflage was impervious because there was nothing to camouflage, there was only camouflage, a trick of smoke and mirrors to fool the eye and the mind.

Now this grand illusion had taken the form of ‘Chris,’ the invisible contact in a dead man’s little black book.

Folosov watched him now as he produced a long, slender cigar and put it between his lips. The man raised a lighter, once a polished silver, now worn and tarnished. He exhaled a ring of smoke, which wreathed his face, and spoke with that glassy smooth voice that seemed to reach only the ears of whom it was directed to.

“Finally I meet the man of the hour. Our dashing new recruit who’s already making a name for himself in the circles of the underground. It’s been far too long since we had someone with a true passion for his work. Your interrogation of Vladka was brilliant. I wonder if I could have done better myself.”

The man took another long pull on the cigar, and shoved a small wooden box across the table.

“Montecristo?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Yes you do.”

Folosov opened the lid of the wooden box and selected a cigar. Accepting a light from one of the armed guards, he leaned back in the chair, trying to hide his unease.

“What am I doing here?”

Mr. Black ignored his query.

“There are interlopers, Captain. We are sure of it. The woman we picked up three weeks ago outside of the restaurant, the subsequent attack, it all points to one thing: outside involvement in our little internal affair. A year ago the BLA was a disorganized rabble, disgruntled peasants and shopkeepers with secondhand AK-47s and an obscene disrespect for authority. We cut them off at the knees, imposed order through GICE. They were gone.

But then they came back, and they started killing us…efficiently. This is not the work of the same disorganized rabble. The pawns who do the dirty work are Buchianan, yes, the same peasants and soldiers from before, but they are different, trained, organized with a network running deep throughout the nation, throughout this godforsaken city. There are others, Folosov. How many, we are unsure, but they are there, and they are making it their business to cause us pain.”

“And what are we to do about this?”

“We are going to find them, and then we are going to kill them. They will be made to regret ever coming to Buchiana and meddling in the affairs of better men.”

Mr. Black produced an unmarked white folder, and slid it across the desk to Folosov.

“There is everything you need to know. Go.”

Folosov stood, and turned to exit. He could feel the odd man’s gaze on the back of his neck, as it seemed to pierce into his mind, knowing what he knew. When he stepped back out into the dusty pawn shop, he was only too glad that the brief meeting was over.

Across the city of New Bucharest, in the darkness that falls so heavily before the coming of the sun, the lights went out. Normally, one would not have noticed the loss of power until later, but here in New Bucharest, on this day of coincidences the hundreds of striking workers were rising to head for a rally scheduled by the reclusive union czar and ex-arms merchant Ivan Mikhailovic.

Though anywhere else in Generia, the thought of having anything to do with something so counter-capitalist as a union, not to mention a strike, would have been shunned as madness, here in Buchiana, where madness was often the order of the day, it was far less uncommon for the scores of factory members to memorize the passwords and symbols of the secret unions, and occasionally even speak of the business explicitly amongst themselves.

The Empire was aware in many cases of Mikhailovic’s work, and GICE had often attempted to put a dent in his operations, though he proved to be a very slippery individual. This was complimented by his long list of high-level BLA contacts, which gave him a measure of security in that the Imperial authorities continued to debate whether removing him was worth the harsh retaliation that would be earned from the terrorists.

Today, however, Mikhailovic considered himself nearly invincible as his legions of disgruntled blue collars prepared to depart for their respective places of work for mass demonstrations against the Imperial occupation and the recent taxes that had been levied against them to fund the residency of Generian troops.

By eight O’Clock in the morning, the rallies had begun to move into full swing. In Kreschnev circle, a large gathering place and memorial for the late Emperor Vladimir Kreschnev I located in the city’s industrial district, nearly four hundred people had gathered to wave their signs and shout their slogans at the oppressive occupational regime.

A platform had been assembled the night before, and large speakers had been carted in from the various electronics shops controlled by Mikhailovic’s numerous mafia contacts from which to broadcast the message of several scheduled speakers and noted members of the community. Now a middle aged man, tall and well dressed, with graying hair and a strong jaw stepped up to the microphone to preach his anti-institutional slogans.

The man was Ivan Tatanin, formerly a member of the new Bucharest city council, now head of the underground ‘Buchianan Citizens for Liberty.’ Tatanin was a darling of Mikhailovic and other noted underground figureheads who had interests in seeing the end of occupation. The well dressed and largely clean-cut gentleman was a confessed socialist, a fact that the more business minded of his patrons overlooked in place of their common immediate goals.

He held large sway among the masses, which had so far kept him alive, though GICE made it their express business to know what his business was at any given time, bugging his phone lines and pursuing other such abstract methods as inserting infrared cameras into his coat and trouser pockets to read phone numbers, secret communiqués, and credit card numbers. The GICE division members charged with monitoring him liked to boast that if any one of them so desired, they could bump Tatanin off, put on his clothes, and take his wife out to dinner, and she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

Now, the mass of humanity drew in closer as he approached the podium. They waved all manner of banned symbols such as the Buchianan flag, designed after Buchiana’s first declaration of independence. Signs in Russian and Generian hovered above the heads of the crowd, bearing slogans such as “Generians go Home”* and “Censorship is Murder.” Tatanin surveyed the crowd with a welcoming smile, and began to speak.

*Though Buchianans are by nature ‘Generian,’ residing within the geographical location known and accepted as being Generia, the first succession caused many of them to sever any and all ties with Imperial Generia, and adopt a more localized view of themselves and their culture.

“Friends, welcome! It pleases me greatly that you have all mustered the determination to join me here today in defiance! Our gathering in and of itself strikes a deep blow to our oppressors, who seek to disjoint us through violence and terror. Our coming together is what they fear, and so they strike us in the only way they know: containment. They know that only by forcing us down their set paths can they control us. Through censorship, indoctrination, and bloodletting they try top shepherd us, and blind us to their atrocities.

But I am here today to tell them that they have not blinded me!”

Tatanin was interrupted by a wave of cheering. Riding on this, he continued.

“I say to you today, and to our oppressors that I shall not be censored! I shall speak out to the world of their atrocities against the people of the free nation of Buchiana!”

This last bit brought another long segment of uproarious cheering.

“Obviously you must share my sentiment to be here, as you defy the corporate megalomaniacs who drive you like slaves in their factories, building the very arms the oppressors use to slaughter us wantonly like sheep. You work long hours for little pay, you are beaten when you are even a fraction of a second late! You are kept from your families, your sons are conscripted into the territorial police, another instrument of our oppression.

Still, many do nothing! Thousands, millions even, sit back and swallow their lies, accept the blows on their backs in exchange for a meager wage and ration. These are the masses, unenlightened to our struggle, and to the struggle of those brave men at arms, the freedom fighters of the Buchianan Liberation Front.”

Another uproar ensued, longer than the first two. Many in the crowd were explicit supporters of the BLA, and the organization had dozens of their own strategically placed within the demonstration.

“These masses must be enlightened! They must know that there are those who stand up against the tyrants and the corporate megalomaniacs, that there are those who fight and die every day for their freedom! Consider, if these twenty million were to know our struggle? How the sun would rise on Buchiana!”

On a rooftop across the circle from the spot where Tatanin was speaking, a man listened to the next bout of cheering as he watched through the scope of a sniper rifle. As Tatanin broke into the next bit of his speech, he brought the crosshairs directly on his forehead and put his finger on the trigger. He was waiting, waiting for the next bout of cheering when his shot and thus the ensuing commotion onstage would be delayed temporarily. The timing would create confusion as to the nature and location of the shooter, putting this assassin’s employers amid a long list of other possible suspects in the man’s murder. If they were lucky, their men in the crowd would be able to pull off their part, and make the murder look like the work of a deranged businessman gone bankrupt.

The man inhaled to steady his aim just as Tatanin paused for more wild applause and raucous cheering. He began to apply pressure to the trigger when suddenly a shout came over the other end of his earpiece, the only link he had to his employers.

“Abort! Repeat, abort! Do not pull the trigger! Don’t kill Tatanin!”

The man’s surprise had caused him to jolt his rifle upward, and his finger had slammed down hard on the trigger. The bullet soared 200 yards above his targets head to bury itself in the top of a brick apartment building, the shot muffled by a silencer. He set the rifle aside and pressed the button on his earpiece.

“Confirmed. Aborting.“

As he spoke, he had been watching his former target and the crowd. A commotion had begun to stir, though he could not quite make out what was happening. He raised his rifle’s scope to his eye and focused on the stage. He could not see Tatanin at the podium. He panned down and with shock saw that the man was lying sprawled across the stage, clutching at his chest where a patch of blood was now spreading across the front of his jacket. A group including other speakers, bodyguards, and his wife were crowding around him. The crowd was surging forward, trying to fight their way onstage against the wall of hired private security personnel.

The assassin was flabbergasted. It could not have possibly been his bullet. The shot had gone too far overhead, and the shot was too clean to have been a ricochet. There had to have been a second assassin. The wound was in his chest, a sloppy shot for any reasonably qualified assassin with a rifle. No, it had to have been the work of a man in the crowd, likely with a small concealable pistol. But who was it?

He was not about to stick around here to find out. Hastily, he dismantled his rifle and put it into it’s briefcase, before grabbing his coat and sprinting off towards the emergency stairwell.

((OOC: To be continued tomorrow.))

GICE headquarters in downtown New Bucharest was in an uproar. All morning they had been working to get their backup generators online. In the meantime, the network was running near blind, forced to rely on the reports of their men in the field. At 8:15, much to the delight of the GICE personnel, the dim red glow of the emergency power boxes was replaced by the hot white light of fluorescent tubes.

Vladya Markov, head of the New Bucharest GICE station, burst out onto the main floor, now bathed in light, as other frantic GICE operators rushed about to tend to the systems now just coming back online. A rather disheveled looking man appeared before him.

“Sir, we’ve managed to get our backup generators online, and secure the system It was definitely the work of a hacker.”

“A fucking hacker? How the hell did he get in? I thought our systems were secure.”

“They are, sir, but the backup generators were apparently overlooked in the last round of password changes. The fucking tech teams must have not thought them a high risk target.”

“How many times do I have to tell you people, everything is a high risk target!”

“We realize that now, sir, but I am happy to report that our eyes are now fully functional. We’re running a scan for foreign files as we speak. If this guy left even one piece of a footprint, he’s ours.”

“Very good, Mr. Vrtishka. Carry on.”

Markov began to walk off to check on the other teams when a second man ambushed him, frenzy scrawled across his features.

“Sir! Sir, we have a Hell of a situation. Tatanin’s been shot.”

Markov wheeled around to face the man, shocked.

“What?”

“Ivan Tatanin, the socialist activist scheduled to speak at that BLA rally today. The top man on our watchlist.”

“You say he’s dead?”

“Not dead yet, sir, wounded in the chest not two minutes ago. Initial accounts say it could turn out fatal.”

“Who was it? One of ours?”

“No sir, you said yourself that GIIS wouldn’t let us anywhere near him.”

“But how do we know it wasn’t a rogue, or a splinter?”

“We don’t, sir.”

“I want you to get a team working on reviewing the full record of any calls you intercepted that could even remotely have to do with this, ours, theirs, his fucking mother’s, I don’t care. Just find out who shot him.”

The second man’s phone began to ring. Markov nodded and the man picked up. After listening intently, he hung up the receiver.

“Tatanin’s flatlined. He’s dead, sir.”

“Fucking Hell…”

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

After bleeding for five minutes onstage, Tatanin breathed his last.Medical workers had not been able to pass through the police blockades and the crowds fast enough to bring him emergency treatment. By now, the crowd had become explosive. Most were certain that the assassin had been a government agent, and now they were calling for blood.

Amid the crowd, a man had been found carrying a small caliber automatic. As cries of ‘murderer’ and ‘traitor’ roared into the air, the people, certain he was the responsible party, had stripped him of his weapons and dragged him to the center of the circle, where a large statue of Emperor Kreschnev stood. Amid his protests and pathetic pleas of innocence, elements of the demonstration now becoming an angry mob stripped him of his clothes, and prepared a noose out of his belt. Several more limber vigilantes scaled the statue and attached the noose to the tip of the sword Kreschnev’s statue clutched. The remainder of the demonstrators lifted up the hapless victim, and the belt slid around his throat. There he dangled for a minute and a half, kicking his feet and suffocating, until at last he was still. He had been innocent.

But the mob was not appeased. No, indeed this summary execution had only brought forth their true lust for revenge at the death of Tatanin. Units of the Imperial territorial police had closed off the circle in the moments following Tatanin’s death, predicting the nature of the incendiary crowd. Now they closed in, riot shields and batons ready, forming a wall around the circle against the once peaceful demonstrators. Elements of the BLA had been strategically placed within the crowd in the case of just such an event. Now, amidst this chaos, they saw opportunity. They spurred the crowd on, as some produced concealed weapons, everything from small revolvers and automatic pistols to heavy submachine guns. A few had come with grenades and Molotov cocktails, proving that the security in and around this demonstration had been severely lacking.

As the riot police closed in, elements of the mob began hurling stones and chunks of concrete at the wall of armored bodies. Some charged the police, only to be struck back with batons, some with electrified tips. Unbeknownst to the angry crowd, the Imperial military garrisons had been alerted, and units of the 15th armored brigade were en route.

The already intense situation intensified as the protestors charging the barricade organized and their attacks increased in violence. Captain Milos Dirosovic found himself in an increasingly dangerous position as the human waves broke against the wall of shields his men had erected. As the next charge fell apart, he gritted his teeth at the realization that he would have to escalate the situation or risk a withdrawal. Raising his hand he gave the order.

“Alright men, move in and let ‘em have it!”

The section of the human wall under his command readied their control batons and shields, and charged the protestors. Bodies rolled over the tops of the shields and landed on the concrete as officers struck out indiscriminately against the mob. Faces dissolved in blood as the heavy ‘thwack’ of a blow to the cranium resounded. Less hardy demonstrators turned to flee, calling out in horror to their friends lost in the crowd.

Soon, the other police Captains gave similar orders and let their own men loose on the mob. Armored vehicles launched teargas rounds into the center of the square, and the mob began to fall back. But as the tide seemed to be turning, a glowing object began to hurtle through the air. Those that were present claim that time seemed to slow down as they watched it coming through the white clouds of gas.

The Molotov cocktail smashed directly on the helmet of a Territorial police officer, and he was doused in searing flame. Screaming wildly, the man ran like a phoenix into the center of the crowd, parting the waves of people who watched in shock. Following the first explosion, another cocktail hurtled through the air, and another crowd of officers scrambled out of the way. A third, misaimed, landed in the middle of a group of demonstrators, and their flesh blackened as the flames consumed them noisily.

As the officers scrambled to avoid the veritable hail of cocktails, the sound of gunfire exploded in the circle as the BLA members opened up on the riot control forces. The bullets ricocheted off armor as the police Captains ordered a strategic withdrawal. Some protestors found themselves caught in the crossfire, and fell screaming to the concrete.

The demonstrators, watching the retreating riot police, found themselves rallying and began to push towards the wavering line, hoping to break it. Pistols came out, and bullets slammed into shields and helmets. Officers began to drop as the bullets hit exposed areas, brining cheers and maniacal shouting from the entity of the mob.

The line of territorial police broke, and the men rushed towards their APCs, still firing teargas grenades into the crowd. The BLA troopers urged the protestors onward, as they fired at anything wearing a uniform.

Then, as the mob saw their light at the end of the tunnel, the Imperial RM-30 tanks and APCs began rumbling down the avenues towards Kreschnev circle. The APCs accelerated into the outskirts of the vast plaza. The demonstrators seemed to halt as one, momentarily, as they beheld the fearsome sight of the tanks and armored vehicles, and a relative quiet seemed to descend. The chatter of a heavy machine gun dissolved this, as the APC gunners opened up on the crowd.

Bullets slammed into bodies, legs were blown out by streams of hot lead, and people fell in bloody messes. The RM-30 tanks rumbled into the plaza, and the crowd began to surge in the opposite direction, finding resistance in the form of other bodies. Those not lucky to make it out of the way were pulled beneath the treads, their last cries muted by gunfire and cracking bones.

They ran like frightened deer from the guns and the tanks, trying to find a way out of the open space, and eventual safety. Blood ran in rivers amid the fallen corpses, staining the stone. As the guns stopped firing and the tanks came to a halt, all that had been able to escape ran through the streets seeking shelter, while the unlucky majority lay silent and still. The Kreschnev circle massacre would prove the bloodiest single act of Imperial repression in twenty years, since the conclusion of the Generia City riots.

((OOC: Novgova, I tried to leave it as open as possible for you to have done whatever it was you planned to do when the power was down. If you felt that the lights came back on too soon, or that I made too little of your attack, tell me and I'll make the necessary edits.))

OOC: Wow, kickass.

OOC: Wow, kickass.

OOC: Quite. Bump this, I shall.

Nice RP Generia. Send me some Buchanian war criminals!... :)

OOC: Quite. Bump this, I shall.

OOC: Oh Yoda, always bumping.

((OOC: So, Novgova, are we still doing this? If you're not still in it, I'm going to have to move on to Part II.))

Whoa, this thing's alive? I had passed this off as dead after the lack of posting and the fact you an Borman had gone on and created numerous other threads, I thought this thing was dead.

((OOC: Novgova, I tried to leave it as open as possible for you to have done whatever it was you planned to do when the power was down. If you felt that the lights came back on too soon, or that I made too little of your attack, tell me and I'll make the necessary edits.))

Ermm, well i was planning the crowd to be as non-violent as possible, but I'll work with what iv'e got.

OOC:We've kinda been waiting for you to post so we can get onto the next part.

OOC:We've kinda been waiting for you to post so we can get onto the next part.

Sorry, thought you had all given up on it. I had started a new thread in Nationstates, and had not checked into Int'l incidents in a long time, except noting that you and generia and the borman empire had gone on to form other posts.

So recently, I had come to check up on a "dead" thread and found it surprisingly alive.

Well, that and, i've been hounded with piles of work to do and haven't had time to check.

((OOC: Novgova, you LIVE! I'd all but given up on you, and was getting ready for part deux.))

Mikhailovic thought that definately this was not the way the day was supposed to turn out. True, Tatanin was dead, but he didn't care anyway. After all, he had invisioned himself as the leader of a new Buchania, although behind the scenes. Now that Tatanin was dead, he'd have to be a little more public. But the time was not right yet.

However, the major plan worked. A mass crowd had gathered in New Bucharest, protesting the lack of liberty, democracy, blah, blah, blah only to be massacred by Generians. He knew how the Generic Empire worked, and although he thought the day would end peacefully, the ending, regardless even if it had ended peacefully, was a win-win situation.

He was surprised the government did not see the true plan. His plan was not to use the crowd to start a coup. No, no, no, that would never succeed. The war would only become more violent and would just be a bigger massacre. He had expected the troops to just sit idly by, while Tatanin gave his passionate speech.

But the police didn't. And every beaten man, woman, and child, every machine gun firing it's cold, steel rain upon a defenseless crowd, every limb or pool of blood was captured exquisitely and exceptionally by no less than 10 International news channels, 2 dozen international news agencies total (including radio and newspaper). These reporters, smuggled into the country via one of Alexa's contacts, would insure that every evening news program around the world would show the massacre of innocent civilians in its full glory. As for any police that were harmed, well, news agencies often had a way of quieting those issues away.

Their plan wasn't to bring down the Generic Empire militarily; they would eventually win. However, thanks in part to the "generous" police force, the Generic Empire would turn into a third-world hellhole. At least during the Tiananmen Square Massacre, the Chinese waited until the news agencies turned their backs to start killing people. And even they didn't escape without a government change. The way the crowd was treated reminded Mikhailovic of certain countries and areas with similar human rights: Cambodia, North Korea, Somalia, West Africa, and look how these countries turned out. The "shining stars of tomorrow". That is, broke, poor, and nothing.

If there's one thing about protests and media, it's that they will always succeed. From civil rights marches in the American South, anti-war protests during the Vietnam-war era to apartheid marches in South Africa, they will succeed. And even Generians are likely to be disgusted when they find out what happened.

As for the rest of the world, their news will read "After the Generians had shut down the power to New Bucharest to quiet dissent, thousands took to the streets in protest, demanding autonomy and cries for democracy, before being brutally cut down by machine gun fire." After every country embargos Generia’s ass to the depths of hell, Mikhailovic planned to lead an attack on a weakened and politically unstable country.

Mikhailovic always did like the media.

Mount Lew Outpost, Northeastern Buchiana, 0200H

The base was quiet, and dark save for the floodlights that illuminated the single gate, and portions of the dusty road that led off into the dense forest that surrounded this small and relatively insignificant Imperial relay post. The quiet was broken however by a crescendo of helicopter blades slicing through the air.

The unmarked black helicopter touched down in the middle of the illuminated landing pad. A man in a long black coat shielded his face against the storm of dust kicked up by the powerful wind generated by the vehicle’s rotors. He gestured towards the cockpit for the pilot to kill the blades, and with the pilot’s response of a thumb up, the noise of the engines began to fade until the rotors stopped turning altogether. With this, one of the side doors opened, and a man in a dark suit stepped out onto the paved helipad. The two men shook hands, and walked off towards a two story wooden structure not far from the helipad. The two sentries at the door snapped to attention and offered starch salutes as the two men passed through the entrance into the well lit, though Spartan command post.

The second floor office was small, but surprisingly comfortable, and somewhat out of place in the tiny command center. There were no windows, and the walls were covered in various odd trinkets, from the large Generian flag that hung behind the polished mahogany desk, to the rack of ornamental scimitars that sat over a sizeable portrait of the Emperor Vladimir II. A small model of the Alexei obelisk in Generia City sat on the desk, next to a miniature globe that turned slowly with the help of a single AA battery. A Generian G-9 pistol sat next to the folded notebook computer. Whether it was intended as a deterrent, or simple decoration to add to the cloak and dagger atmosphere, one could not say. To the right of the Generian flag hung a significantly smaller flag, this one bearing the rarely recognized emblem of the Generian Imperial Intelligence Service.

The two men passed through the sturdy oak door, and the man in the coat closed it behind them, the click of the autolock clearly audible. The man in the suit took a seat in one of the three leather armchairs spaced throughout the office, while the man in the coat remained standing.

“I appreciate you making the trip from Sofia, Mr. Black. I realize you had only just arrived when we were forced to once again request your presence.”

“Think little of it. Our priorities are one in the same.”

“I appreciate that. With the events this afternoon, I fear that we may be requiring a good deal of your time.”

“Yes, so I understand.”

“As you are most certainly aware, the total confirmed body count lies somewhere between 5 and 25-thousand. We aren’t certain of how many wounded, though we speculate that it could be anywhere from 20 to 100 thousand. The hospitals are flooded, and the death toll will most certainly be found to be significantly larger when the morning comes. However, I am also certain you did not come all this way to hear numbers you no doubt are already aware of, and frankly, the numbers do not concern me either.”

“Of course.”

“Shortly after the conclusion of the incident, we were made aware, partly thanks to your own efforts and sources, that the order to move was given by a certain General Nikit Vrantasha, the commander of the Imperial 14th armored division. The units responsible for the majority of the casualties are elements of this division.”

“I understand that there is something particularly interesting about General Vrantasha issuing the order.”

“Indeed. It was believed for a good deal of time that the General was operating through BLA contacts to better his own position, monetarily and otherwise. However, the fact that he chose to move against them without confirmation shows something else may have happened to shake any loyalties to the BLA.”

“I believe I understand where you are going.”

“Well, about eight days ago, there was a carbombing, a reasonably routine affair on the border of the commercial district. The targets were a GICE station chief and a Buchianan government official, a former member of the Buchianan congress who had in recent years decided to go over to the other side. He had taken a hard line against the BLA through a labeling campaign that sought to present some of the less romantic aspects of their war for liberation. Needless to say, the BLA don’t enjoy seeing all the gory details of the collateral damage from their bombing runs broadcasted on the six O’Clock news. Ironically, the meeting between the two parties never occurred, and the assassination failed miserably, netting a collateral damage estimate of about 37. Among those were a certain Tanya and Anita Vrantasha.”

“Relatives of General Vrantasha, I presume.”

“Yes, of course. His wife and daughter to be exact. The General didn’t find out about his BLA friends’ little miscalculation until almost three days after the fact. Almost immediately, he cut his contacts with the BLA, and two days later, the New Bucharest police department found all four of them stuffed in a dumpster behind a local brothel.”

“They brought it upon themselves.”

“Absolutely, and that’s why the Imperial military authority, who realized shortly thereafter (with some help from us) who the responspible party was, didn’t so much as issue a condemnation of Vrantasha. It was a personal affair.”

“And then he found his revenge was less than satisfying, and decided to take it a step further.”

“From what we can see, this is only part of his motivation for issuing that final order. You see, we can gather that while Vrantasha never openly, or even obviously clandestinely operated alongside the BLA, he had sources of his own among some of the more moderate factions that would tip him off to important operations, so that he could move his own men out of harms way. Vrantasha was a career opportunist. He didn’t mind if some of the other officers had their boys blown to bits, so long as his own men got to come home to their wives and girlfriends at the end of the day.”

“So Vrantasha in fact did not aid the BLA operatives?”

“Not quite. He never aided the BLA. Some of the BLA operatives were indeed recipients of his good will, though largely on a quid pro quo basis. Favors that helped them personally, not their organization.”

“Money?”

“Money, whores, diamonds for their wives, food for their families. The usual. That’s why he was never taken down. He was a good general. A generally loyal individual. A resourceful and intelligent man.”

“But he snapped.”

“Yes and no. He knew what we knew about the rally, about the mole.”

“About Tatanin?”

“Yes. As I said, he was remarkably well informed. While he discovered only the skeleton frame of the architecture for your Tatanin recruitment effort, he knew enough to allow him to coordinate his own operations on the day of the rally.”

“Then he knew Tatanin was in our pocket.”

“Yes, but not to the extent that we knew. He was not aware that there was another gun aimed at Tatanin’s head until two minutes before it was fired.”

“From what I understand, there were two guns aimed at Tatanin’s head.”

“Yes. Vrantasha’s man on the roof, and Nikolai Maraki’ev’s man in the crowd.

“Mareki’ev, the BLA commander?”

“Yes. The BLA had their own reasons for wanting Tatanin dead. They wanted a martyr. As of yesterday, all GICE sting operations had been done secretly. No one knew of the BLA members that fell to the police, because anyone that did know usually went down shortly after they found out. It was a very effective war.”

“Well, Dmitri, this is all well and good, but it’s time to ask the question that’s rattling around everyone’s brains over at GIIS. Who killed Tatanin?”

“The BLA gunman’s bullet ended his life. As you know, he bled to death onstage.”

“And Vrantasha’s man?”

“He was called off.”

“After Tatanin went down?”

“Oddly enough, before. And this is what troubles us. Vrantasha wanted an incendiary crowd, we are certain of this from his communication records. We can’t see why the man would call it off at the last second.”

“Cold feet?”

“I don’t think so. Vrantasha was a man of strong will, and his motivations were clear and ingrained. He wanted an excuse to move. Why didn’t he have his man go through with it? And more importantly, why did he move anyway, after the fact?”

“Puzzling, yes, but men do change their minds.”

“Not Vrantasha. If he had taken the effort to arrange the hit, he would have gone through with it to the end, cold feet or not.”

“Where were our GICE teams meanwhile?”

“In the crowd, waiting to move on Mareki’ev’s man.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“The commander states a communication failure, coupled with Maraki’ev’s man getting spooked and shooting earlier than he should have.”

“Hm. Seems like an afternoon of bad coincidences.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m afraid that’s all we have for you at the moment, but that’s why we called you in. To figure it out. Thank you for your time, Mr. Black.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Black stood, and began walking towards the door, however he paused and turned back towards the man in the coat.

“Our GICE teams on the ground. Who was in command?”

“A Major Vladek Folosov. I believe you met him.”

Mr. Black paused momentarily, and then walked out the door. A few moments later, the black helicopter was gone, and Mr. Black with it.

“Nikolai, let’s go. They’ll be here any second.”

“Just a few more seconds.”

Nikolai Maraki’ev closed the laptop computer, and shoved it into a black bag. He stood up, and grabbed his black coat from the back of his chair.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The crafty BLA commander and the other man walked quickly through the door, into the short corridor that led to the front room of a small cabaret in the dockyards. The rest of the operation had cleared out hours ago, but Nikolai had stayed to oversee some unfinished business. He was pleased. His operation had gone off without a hitch. He had managed to provoke the Imperial army into action through tempting Vrantasha’s weakness, and at the same time he had struck a near fatal blow to Mikhailovic’s public campaign through eliminating his puppet. The stage was set for him to make his power play in the shady underworld of the BLA and their affiliates.

He had never liked Mikhailovic, on a personal or a professional level. He found him dry in company, and cautious to the point of being timid. He respected his intelligence, and found some of his schemes to be rather ingenious, though his flaws outweighed this that would otherwise have earned him respect and possibly loyalty. However, Maraki’ev had never been one for loyalty either. He had grown up an urchin and a thief, until he fell into a more respectable profession, as an arms smugglers heavy man. His employer lasted a year before Maraki’ev did him in, and took the business as his own. Eventually, he grew tired of the business, and used the weapons to arm his men. The Imperial invasion had caused him all kinds of trouble, as most of his shipments were seized in port, and his men slaughtered or arrested. He had managed escape of course, being a wily fellow, and once the war concluded, had fallen in with the BLA as a consultant, and later a full commander.

He was an intelligent man, and he knew how to manipulate the BLA goals to serve his own needs. Not to say he didn’t believe in their cause. He hated the Imperials as much as anyone, and got satisfaction from seeing his imported weaponry used against them to devastating effect. However, the culmination of Maraki’ev’s efforts was yet to come. The assassination of Tatanin had been only square one.

Tatanin and the other BLA operative made their way through the narrow back alleyways and darkened streets of the docks district, avoiding the Imperial roadblocks and the heavy patrols that had taken to the main roads following the carnage in Kreschnev circle. Propaganda messages blared over loudspeakers, reminding everyone of the penalty for leaving their homes after curfew.

The city was under a state of pure martial law. GICE activity had exploded in the hours following the massacre. The Imperial agencies realized full well the significance of what had occurred, and were beginning their last ditch effort to round up everyone they could before the conflagration they all knew was coming broke out.

Maraki’ev looked back to see an armored black police van pull up in front of the building he had just left. He grinned to himself as the special police teams moved in. They would find nothing, and he would be long gone.

They reached the edge of the harbor, and rushed through a gate. An unmarked black sedan was waiting, a police vehicle liberated from the garage earlier in the campaign. They would now be able to slip out easily enough.

At exactly 5:35AM the following Monday morning, no less than fifteen explosions ripped through various parts of the city of New Bucharest. Among the targets were the heavily fortified Imperial Diplomatic Liaison compound, the seat of the Imperial puppet government and the link between Generian Bureaucracy and local Buchianan authority. Two small sedans packed with explosives were used to clear the two heavily guarded gates that blocked both entrances to the large compound, centered around the former mayor’s office that housed the nerve center of government coordination in the province.

Following these two explosions, a veritable army of no less than fourty-five BLA fighters stormed the compound, engaging the surprised Imperial Regulars and police forces protecting the compound. As the gun battle began, a third vehicular bomb, a moving van full of explosives barreled into the compound, and plowed through the front entrance of the main building, detonating the load with it.

The ensuing fireball was seen and heard as far away as the docks, and it is reported that the cloud of black smoke drifted as far as farm valley at least seven kilometers away. The explosion level the entirety of the compound, and scarred several of the surrounding towers and government buildings. The total death toll was finally established to be a catastrophic 2,300, including 500 Imperial soldiers, the Imperial Buchianan governor, his aids, an Imperial liaison diplomatic officer, 45 Imperial attaches, and an unlisted 13 GIIS case officers, including the New Bucharest Station Chief, Mr. Jonathan Ivanov.

The attack for the first time demonstrated to everyone, the Empire and abroad, that the Buchianan Liberation Army was truly willing to fight a war to the death, no matter the destructive cost, the death toll on either side, or the Imperial response they would bring upon their countrymen. Though the BLA had long been far more than a simple militia, they were now proving that they were extraordinarily capable of fighting a war, covert or otherwise, and now, they had a leader.

Exactly one half hour prior to the detonations in the city, Nikolai Maraki’ev had pulled off what he had been planning since he first took a position of power within the organization. During a last minute meeting, he had eliminated seven rival commanders, and their security details, effectively sealing himself in place as the commander of an additional fourteen large cells. The attacks had been meticulously planned to coincide with this mass assassination, and when he took credit for them, he would immediately rocket to a position of such influence in the organization, and among the Buchianan people, that he would be able to call upon them to go to war against one of the world’s largest military powers, and they would obey him. The past three months had been nothing more than a setup for this powerplay, and now the Buchianan Liberation Front was readying itself to make their goals a cold, and concrete reality.

Here ends Part I

((OOC: The argument:

During Novgova's absence from play in this thread, and during my own partial hiatus, it came to me in a great flash of inspiration the direction I knew I wanted this RP to take. You see, as I began this RP, and even several pages into it, I had ne clear direction of where I wanted this to go with regard to Generia's history, thus the numerous story lines that seemed to lead no particular place, or that simply dies off. However, thanks to Novogova's brilliant last four or five posts, I came to the conclusion that the BLA was indeed not a simple militia movement to be slaughtered as I originally percieved them, but instead a force capable of challenging the Empire covertly and overtly. Thus I reached the conclusion that in order for this thread to move anywhere, and become the important aspect of Generian history I hoped it to be, I must end this section quickly, and move to part II, which will see the beginning of a second war for independence.

I aim for this second part to be a far more cohesive affair, and one of the finer things I've accomplished on NS, with the help of the already invovled participants, and many more. I hope that there will be no objections to my rather abrupt end to this segment, however, I am anxious to begin this second section of the story, which will hopefully prove the better, more linear and cohesive story, along with being an entertaining affair for anyone involved. I make this point because Novgova, I was aware that you did not wish for the BLA to challenge Generia militarily, however it was always my intention for this to lead to a second war, a Generian vietnam, Afghanistan, or Czechnya that would see the conclusion of a great and brutal chapter in Imperial history. I do hope that there won't be an objection to my rather sudden hijacking of the story, as clarity for a writer comes only once in a blue moon. ))

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