NationStates Jolt Archive

Splitsbergen Islands,
2006 AD
14th February
19:01

The snow whipped around the iron spires of New Nadym, reaching high into the grey sky. The wind tore along the frozen streets, devoid of life. Nothing moved, save the occasional newspaper, torn along by the biting wind. The streets were utterly deserted, save for one person, pushing their way through the snow.

Boris Alexeii paused, and leant back against the brick wall of one of the low buildings, breathing heavily. It had been hard to get this far, but he would not give up. He had run all the way from Lower Retail with the warning. They were coming. The Victoria Division. He had to warn the others.

With that thought coursing bringing the terrible reality of the situation back into his mind, the heavy-set man heaved his form up, and continued down the frozen road. They must be warned, for they were in danger. Fatal danger.

***

20:48

Markus slapped the sheets of paper down onto the cold wood of the table with as much force as his tired muscles could manage. He stood back, breathing heavily, his face a contorted mask of pain. It was hard to ignore the limp he carried, or the dark red stain slowly spreading from his left knee. It had not been easy to get this information.

Vladislav Ivan sighed, and leant back in his plain chair. The last few days had not been easy on the aging revolutionist – the years were catching up on him, and he felt it as much as ever. He spoke, the sharp accent of the original inhabitants of the Splitsbergen Islands.

“What do they say?”

Markus hesitated, then spoke slowly.

“Boris Alexeii, Vlad Krigovonitz and Isabelle Steifelheim have been caught by the Victoria Division. I imagine about now their every trace is being destroyed. The law knows more of our plans than we could ever have known. We must accelerate our plans, or face destruction bare in the face.”

The was a momentary silence, broken only by the ticking of an aged grandfather clock, ticking away in the corner. It was almost as old as Vladislav. The old man sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with one wrinkled hand.

“What sort of time are we looking at?”

“To be realistic, sir... Less than two months before they find us.”

Another short silence. Then Vladislav spoke again, his voice full of barely concealed anger. Anger at the deaths of his friends, anger at the system, anger at the world.

“Very well. Telegram the others. Meeting, 6:00 tomorrow, Crescent Row. They know which number.”

Markus turned to leave.

“Oh, and Markus? Break out the weapons.”

ooc: righto, just to check - you can each RP one to three people - coming to the meeting. We'll decide what do to there. Basically, overthrow the evil oppressive government, live happily ever after, etc. Please, be sensible. Don't stroll about with weapons - this is a dictatorship government, y'know!

Gofsta lit his cigar with the air of a man with everything under control, although this couldn't be further from the truth. Bands of revolutionaries were wandering aimlessly, vaguely waving signs saying 'down with the oppressors'. The whole thing was a mess. What had started out as a glorious revolution to take the great land of Korsakia from the evil oppressors had turned into groups of spotty teenagers waving posters, with nothing too explicit on them for fear of being taken away by President Zarkof's minions. Crescent Row... no.13. The telegram had been unsigned, no form of identity. Just the words; Crescent Row, no.13, New Nadym. 6.00. Tuesday. Should he go?!! It might be a trap; the secret police had done this before. Nevertheless...

ooc: Rosie's having some trouble posting - so I'll post her bit up as well.
IC:
--Posted by UKS

Tamsin gazed out the open window. Snow was falling outside, and she was white with the cold, but she wanted to feel the same iciness on her skin as she did inside. More were gone. The government that she so hated and opposed had taken more of her friends and allies. She sighed and shut the window.

She continued staring blankly in front of her, she hardly knew where she was any more. But just then her fax machine went behind her, making her jump back to her senses. She rubbed her eyes, and wandered over to her desk. She read the telegram as it came through. She smiled grimly. Of course, she knew that there would be action. She read the telegram twice, just to be sure, then threw it on the fire. She watched it burn slowly. They had to be careful now. They were looking for them.

Splitsberg Islands
2006 AD
15th February
20:05

Vladislav let his eyes sweep across the room, feeling a familiar swell of pride within his breast. These faces that stared back at him – these men and women, were like him. They were angered at what the oppressors were doing it – and an end would come. The friction within and without the government had been almost tangible over the last few weeks – now with these deaths, he knew they had to act. Tonight their fates would be decided.

He looked around once more, at their strong faces, their firm-set expressions. Twenty-five men and women, ready to give anything for their country. But one was missing. He sighed, letting his breath whistle from his lips, as the others gazed at him expectantly, illuminated by the harsh light of the lamps, piercing the smoke-wreathed atmosphere.

Behind him, on a table, stood three rather simple boxes, fashioned out of dark wood. He knew what lay within them – the details of the three deceased, of their lives, their triumphs, and their ends. Soon they would be added to the archives of the dead. They would be the only signs that such people had ever existed. The man looked around the room once more, licking his dry lips, before starting.

“I wish we could have come together on more pleasant circumstances, comrades. But I would like to greet you anyway. Welcome, fellow comrades.” He paused for a second, icy blue eyes gazing at each face in turn with unnerving intensity, “We are here today to honour the passing away of three of our dearest friends – no doubt most of you have already heard.

Boris Alexeii, Vlad Krigovonitz and Isabelle Steifelheim were caught last night by the Victoria Division. We have reason to believe they are... dead.” He paused, letting the gasps die down, before raising out one hand, palm face downwards, “This is a sure sign as any! The government is losing their grip on society – why else would they bother to remove three weak revolutionaries?

They are struggling, my friends, but as dangerous as ever. And I have more to tell. They know of our plans, of the supremacy documents, and a lot more than I would have guessed. We must act fast, or face annihilation. And with fast, I mean we must overthrow the government within the next two months.”

There was a shocked silence. A man stood up abruptly, and spoke in a harsh, realistic manner. “Two months?! What can we hope to achieve in two months?! What are your plans, sir?”

“Why, my friend. They are not concrete. So far, I think we should aid yet another political rally – there is one on the 18th, three days for now. St. Snerkov's Square. A lot of students from outlying hamlets are demonstrating to be freed from their residential homes. I say we go there, and lend our support as much as we can.”

Gofsta ran through the snow, his breath crystalising before his eyes. Why had he left it until now? He skidded around a corner, and came face to face with a chunky police officer. Mumbling an apology, he ducked under the mans arm and ran on down Crescent Row. He came to a dingy door. The number 13 was barely visible under the muck. He burst through the door, almost flattening the lookout on his way in.
"Gofsta Biel, leader of the revolutionary forces in Korsakia, sorry I'm late" he gushed. The poor man was too shocked to answer, so he charged on and through the next door, where the sounds of heated debate came filtering through.
"I'm here!!"