NationStates Jolt Archive

((OOC Warning: contains language, violence, and other such adult content.))

In a small unnamed village in the heart of the Imperial northern dominions, a young man stepped out of his one story house into the cool morning air. A light snow had fallen overnight, dusting the grass and dirt roads with a soft white. He stretched and scratched his bare stomach as he scanned the street.

His eyes fell on a group of about a dozen, rather disheveled and dirty looking men gathered around a wooden pole in the center of town. Curious, the man approached the crowd, pushing his way through when he reached them. On the pole was secured a bright poster displaying a picture of an Imperial Praetorian carrying the Imperial flag over the side of a trench. The words ‘Enlist now!’ were displayed boldly beneath the poster. The man stepped back, away from the growing crowd, and noticed for the first time an armored truck parked in the street. A man garbed in the black uniform of the Imperial regular army sat at a table in front of the vehicle. Several other uniformed soldiers stood idly around, weapons slung over their shoulders, cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

The man walked over, and stood at the back of the short line that had begun to form in front of the makeshift recruitment office. When he reached the front of the line, the soldier looked up from the papers in front of him, and scanned the young man up and down.

“Name?”

The man eyes the soldier curiously. The man seemed not much older than he, yet bore a stiffness about him that most Imperial soldiers carried naturally after a year or two in the service.

“What’s this all about?”

“What’s it look like, kid? This here’s a bona-fide Imperial mobile recruitment office, here to sign you up to serve the Empire today.”

“Oh, I’m not cut out for that kind of shit.”

“Really?”

The soldier turned his head and shot a look to one of the idling soldiers. The other soldier acknowledged the first, and walked over to the table, taking up position beside the young man.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want to serve the Emperor in glorious battle? Afraid of a little blood?”

The man was somewhat alarmed, and stammered out a ‘no’.

“Then tell him your name and sign the fucking sheet.”

The man picked up the pen, not taking his eyes off of the threatening presence of the soldier, and scratched out his name. The man at the desk looked at the signature.

“Viktor, eh? Welcome to the army, Viktor.”

The second soldier now chuckled heartily, and, throwing a burly arm around the man’s shoulder, led him off towards a group of other new recruits.

“Good choice. You just signed on for the ride of your life, kid. This is the best career in the whole goddamn world. You’ll eat better and make more money than you could ever dream of in this shithole.”

The soldier stopped in front of a second table and picked up a small suitcase which he thrust in Viktor’s direction.

“Better get home and pack your stuff. We’re out of here in twenty.”

Viktor had of course heard the stories of the grizzled ex regulars in the taverns in his village. They spoke loudly of the noble deeds, beautiful women, and all the spoils of war. However, there were a few who spoke in far more hushed tones in the darker corners of the more sinister side of the army. They talked of the mangled corpses of their friends and brothers left rotting outside of New Kiev, on the Alexian Plains, on the Alberian Steppe, and in the streets and forests of Buchiana; proud men turned into cannon fodder. Few paid heed to the tales other than as a means of entertainment, as out here in the provinces that all seemed so far away.

Now for Viktor, however, it had suddenly become very real, and he would have to see for himself what was truth and what was lore. Either way, he thought, the pay would be good and it would be more exciting than anything that ever happened around here.

[OOC: Tag. Both to read about an IC enemy and to OOCly enjoy some flat-out amazing reading.

And now for my only conspiracy: Seeing how I can get GE to be inspired enough to start and finish a novel. :D]

[OOC: Tag. Both to read about an IC enemy and to OOCly enjoy some flat-out amazing reading.

And now for my only conspiracy: Seeing how I can get GE to be inspired enough to start and finish a novel. :D]

((OOC: Now I have expectations to live up to. Blast.))

Very good Story/RP, to bad I am a space nation

Tag

The truck rumbled over the mud track that had once been a dirt road. The frequent snow had all but ruined this elderly passage, but the treads of the vehicle that had replaced tires managed to grip the slippery muck and it sloshed forward over the winding passage, past the free and endless white plains. Viktor shivered in the open air of the flatbed in the rear of the vehicle, beside a dozen others. He stared at the ground, pulling a worn blanket around his shoulders in an effort to fight the bitter wind. No one spoke.

His thoughts began to drift back to memories of years long past. He saw the face of his father as he had been dragged into the house that fateful evening, blood and ice caking his face and tattered shirt. He had been out on the steppe, hunting wolves, when he had fallen into a hidden crevice and split his head on a boulder. He had been killed instantly. Viktor’s uncle had rescued the corpse and brought it home. Viktor could still feel the heat of the funeral pyre and hear the wailing of his mother and sisters.

He saw the face of his older brother, protruding from the snow, frozen solid. He too had been out on the steppe when cold death had come for him in the form of frostbite and hypothermia. Fever had just taken his youngest brother and sister at the time. There were no tears at these funerals. It was too common a sight to waste them on.

His mother had grown old and quiet from tragedy. She spent her days tending to his three surviving young sisters, and roasting the elk his uncles brought home. When he had told her of his enlistment, she had said nothing for a long time. She had stood and walked over to an old armoire, and removed the old blanket he wore now. She had given it to him, and said a brief prayer before returning to her work. As he left he had heard her weeping softly. He knew that was the last time he would see her, or anything else he had known. That part of his life was over now.

He looked up, and gazed out at the steppe. The grey exhaust from the leading trucks of the small convoy drifted over his head, and seeped into his lungs. He coughed hoarsely. After what seemed an eternity, the trucks slowed and halted beside a small wooden outpost. The doors to the cab of the vehicle he was a passenger in opened, and two soldiers stepped out. The driver and the other man walked into the small wooden structure. A uniformed soldier who sat at the rear of the open flatbed with the recruits stood and addressed them. He had the refined accent of one who hailed from Generia proper, radically different from the harsh dialects of the northerner.

“We’re picking up fuel and supplies. Stay here. Deserters will be shot.”

He jumped down, and followed the driver and the other man into the building. The men looked at each other, expressions of confusion and apprehension wrought on their features. Viktor sighed and leaned back against the sides of the truck. The man beside him pulled out a pack of hand rolled cigarettes, and placed one in his mouth. He struck a wooden match against his boot and lit it. He offered the pack to Viktor.

“Last one.”

Viktor took cigarette and accepted the man’s light. He inhlahed deeply, and let the smoke drift up into his nostrils, and through the corners of his mouth. Sinking back down, he scratched the back of his head, and gazed back down the long track they had followed. The driver reappeared, and the convoy started moving again.

Several miles down the road, the man who had offered him a cigarette began to appear restless. He looked constantly to either side and out the rear of the vehicle, stretching and craning his neck to see over the sides. Suddenly he stood, and vaulted over the side. The soldier in the back of the vehicle shouted, and raised his rifle. The convoy halted, and the doors flung open. Soldiers rushed frantically to the rear end of the convoy, gesturing and shouting harshly. The man was sprinting as fast as he could out over the steppe, slowly growing smaller. The soldier who had shouted took aim.

“He’s mine.”

Another soldier climbed up onto the flatbed and forced his rifle down.

“Not worth the bullet. He’ll be dead in an hour.”

The soldier lowered his gun, a look of mild disappointment on his face. He turned to the recruits, staring awestruck at the deserter.

“What are you looking at!? Sit down!”

The convoy started up again, and the remainder of the journey proved to be uneventful.

After several hours of travel, the landscape began to change. Hills and ridges sprung up over the barren wastes, and snow covered forests added a hint of life to the desolation. As the convoy crested a ridge, the men beheld a sight like nothing they had seen before. A great thunder rose up over the ridges and roared through the valleys, and the might of the whitecapped Generian Channel was upon them.

In the valley below lay an enormous fortress, encased by steel walls. There were three massive gates facing north, south, and west. Massive gun batteries turned seaward, defending the channel from interlopers who would defile her. Hundreds of miniature figures marched in formation across parade grounds within and outside of the walls.

The men of the northern dominions had at long last reached Fort Kreschnev, the sentinel on the sea.

From this peak, they stared awestruck out over the channel that separated the Empire from Inkana. Viktor stood, trying to get a better view, for, having dwelt upon the steppe for his entire life, he had never before seen the sea. The convoy continued along the track that led directly to the north gate. The road was joined up ahead by a rail track leading into a junction within the fortress. A massive armored locomotive crawled along as the convoy approached, and the recruits watched the beast again in awe. The soldiers protecting the convoy laughed as they watched this, comparing the recruits to squirrels or deer in the headlights.

The massive gate began to slide open, and the convoy entered the fortress, progressing down a paved main road to a miniature compound enclosed with an iron fence. The vehicles came to a final halt in front of a large warehouse-like stone building.

The soldier in the rear of Viktor’s vehicle stood. Grinning sardonically, he spoke.

“Welcome to Fort Kreschnev.”

The men were herded out of the trucks, and made to join the two lines of other recruits that had just arrived. Soldiers watched the recruits disdainfully. Most of the men stationed here were volunteers from Generia proper. As much of the Empire did, they thought of the northern dominions as filthy places full of unwashed barbarians, and they hated them for it. Unfortunately for them, their assignment now called for them to be in constant contact with these ‘barbarians’ what with the recent drive to enlist the northerners to account for losses sustained at the battle of the Alexian Plains. Lord Varus called for it, and so the Generian officers would train the barbarians into soldiers. However, they didn’t have to like it.

OOC: Wow. Just that. I mean, this is the sort of fiction writing-level I try to aim at, it really is great. Sarzonia is right, you should write a novel, your writing is really good

OOC: Wow. Just that. I mean, this is the sort of fiction writing-level I try to aim at, it really is great. Sarzonia is right, you should write a novel, your writing is really good

((OOC: Thank you. I'm quite flattered.))

(OOC: Not only are your threads always far better written and more entertaining than 99.99999999999999% of the novels out there, but they're even free to read! Doesn't get any better than this!)

OOC: Nice man, I hope he gets made into Preatorian, those guys are always so much fun. We have to get Zerbia back into II forums to have another great RP like the Buchaninan one.

Viktor followed his line of recruits through the entrance to the warehouse. Inside, the lines split off in different directions, towards various stations where groups of Imperial officers and military doctors were examining each man to ensure that he was indeed fit for service. Viktor reached the front of the line, and was made to remove his clothes to be subjected to thorough examination. One of the physicians stood and scribbled something onto the paper attached to the clipboard he held. He walked over to one of the officers and spoke quietly with him.

“Scars show he’s had smallpox, and I presume he also had a bout with the Alberian fever at a young age. If he survived that, his system should be tougher than most.”

The officer nodded, and gestured for Viktor to move along. He picked up his clothes and suitcase and followed the other recruits towards a desk with a seated officer. The man looked up at him.

“Name?”

“Viktor Asyakovic.”

The man scribbled his name down onto the sheet in front of him.

“Give me your bag.”

Viktor did as he was told. The man opened the bag and removed the sparse belongings Viktor had taken with him, a change of clothes, a few Generas, an old watch, and his prized possession, an ornamental curved knife that had belonged to his father. The man tossed the clothing aside, but picked up the watch and examined it. It was broken, and he cast it aside. His eyes fell on the knife, and his face instantly lit up. He unsheathed it and brought it close to his face, running his fingers over the blade and drawing his own blood. Jolting them away from the sharp edge, he grinned and replaced the weapon in its sheath. He shoved the weapon into his boot. Realizing that Viktor was still there, watching him, his face grew menacing.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Move along!”

Viktor’s blood boiled at the sight of the man so callously taking his most prized possession as if it were his birthright.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

The soldier stood and began to reach for a club hanging from his waist. Viktor lunged forward, knocking the desk out of the way, going for the man’s throat as if he were back at the local tavern in his hometown. Before he could do any damage, however, two soldiers appeared seemingly out of nowhere and grabbed him. They hurled him backwards, to the ground and drew clubs. The man who had taken his knife walked forward, and landed a kick into Viktor’s side. Growling like a wounded wolf at bay, Viktor tried to get to his feet, when an officer’s face appeared above him. Growling, he spoke.

“Don’t even think about it you barbarian bastard.”

The two soldiers dragged Viktor to his feet. He stared into the cold eyes of the officer with a fire of injustice in his own. He broke his gaze and moved on, looking back at the man who had stolen from him, who was now grinning sadistically, and stroking the knife. Viktor turned his head away, vowing that he would get his knife back.

The recruits made their way out of the warehouse, into an empty barracks building close by. They were made to put on their uniforms, and were herded outside. There, soldiers shouted at them to assemble into ranks, striking indiscriminately with clubs at those who were not quick enough. The sorry looking columns marched to another barracks, and the men were divided into units.

Viktor entered the drafty wooden structure that served as the barracks for the new recruits. Exhausted, he began moving towards one of the bunks, but was halted by a blow to the side by a soldier.

“Where the fuck are you going?! Get back in formation!”

Viktor realized that the rest of the men were still assembled in the center of the wide building. He moved back into position, and waited. A man in pressed grey uniform stepped in. His face was grizzled and scarred, yet he could not have been over thirty. His jaw was set in grim expression, and he stood looking at the motley assortment before him. He spoke, his voice booming, commanding immediate respect and sparking a tinge of apprehension.

“Welcome to hell you bastards. You’re hear because Lord Varus wants you hear. That does not mean that I want you hear. In truth, I’d rather my men were being sent up north to burn your villages and carry off your women like in the good old days instead of being sent up to bring you worthless pieces of shit down here, but Lord Varus wants to make you sons of whores into an army, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

The man began to pace between the ranks, looking each man up and down, and fixing their eyes in a stare. Most looked away. Viktor met his stare head on. A malicious smile crossed the officer’s face.

“You’re that fuck who attacked one of my men earlier.”

The officer grabbed the man around the collar and effortlessly threw him to the ground in a single motion.

He looked up to the others.

“You will understand that you are inferior! You will not challenge your betters. The men who scorn you are proper Generians. They are soldiers, volunteers who serve the Empire with pride. You are dogs! Northern scoundrels and the sons of prostitutes who would be better off serving our beds! It is better that you realize now that you will never, never be our equals.”

The officer turned and motioned for two nearby recruits to help Viktor to his feet. Viktor shook them off, and stood on his own, getting back into formation. The officer’s head snapped back, and he seemed to stare into the souls of each man gathered there.

“All the respect you will ever have will have to be earned.”

The officer moved towards the door, turning as he reached it.

“Take my advice and sleep. Your training begins at dawn.”

The man left, followed by the soldiers. The recruits broke ranks and moved to the bunks. Viktor collapsed into one of the beds. He moved his hand to his face, and brought it away, seeing the blood that flowed from a cut sustained as he had been hurled to the floor. He sighed, and closed his eyes. As quickly as he did so, darkness enveloped him, and sleep carried him off.

It was not for long that Viktor’s mind was allowed respite from the troubles of the world. His brief and dreamless rest was interrupted suddenly by a great ruckus as Imperial soldiers rushed into the barracks, shouting and throwing the recruits from their beds.

“Get up you lazy sons of whores! You can sleep when you’re dead!”

The men hastily threw on their uniforms, and assembled in front of their bunks. The officer from the previous evening entered, and they stood to attention. One individual was still half asleep however, and as the officer passed him, his head lolled to the side and his eyelids drooped. The officer whirled on the man, and, removing a riding crop from where it hung at his waist, he smacked the man across the face. The recruit screamed as blood flowed from the fresh wounds across his eyes and cheek.

The officer without flinching continued his walk down the rows of recruits. He made his way back to the door, and turned.

“Today is the first day of your life. In putting on that uniform, you have officially turned your back on everything in your past life. Now, your life begins anew, and like a child, so does your education. But unlike the educations you may or have experienced, either in the fields or in the classroom, your tutorials here you shall absorb with both your back and your brain. When one of your betters strikes you, he is educating you. When he forces you to scrub his own shit off of the walls of the latrine, he is educating you. When he takes from you, he is educating you. When he wounds you, he is educating you. If he kills you, you should have paid more attention to his teachings. Now, enough. Form two columns and move to the yard. Step!”

The men scrambled into line, and awkwardly marched out of the barracks into the pre-dawn darkness and chill air.

((OOC: Will finish this post tomorrow.))

((OOC: I'm going to have to put this story on hold for a bit seeing as I'm now getting into the new marking period at school, and will be swamped for at least the next month. I'll be working on posts for this when i can, but to anyone who's actually paying attention, don't expect anything new soon.))

And so their training began in earnest. The first week was always the hardest, or so it was said. For Viktor, they all seemed the same. Pain, exertion, exhaustion, and humiliation were law. The officer in the neat uniform with the scarred face had been right. They were nothing to the others, lower than mongrels, rats. That’s all they were to them. Rodents.

Some didn’t make it. Viktor could recall one particular day in the second week of training. Hand to hand combat was the exercise that day, a particularly brutal Generian martial art called Kri'ev, or “The Breaks”. It was intended to cause not only intense physical damage to the bones and internal organs, but also to stun the opponent with extreme pain. Thus training warriors in it was always risky business, but the drill instructors at Fort Kreschnev never seemed to shy away from such risks. After all, they weren’t the ones on the receiving end.

It had been snowing heavily all morning, and the sun had cleared up around noon. They had been drilling since 4AM, as always, and the morning had consisted largely of physical training, most notably a twenty-eight mile run in full gear. This had become more or less standard practice, though it still left its mark on the men. They had gone nearly straight into training without much of a break. Still, at Fort Kreschnev, you learned quickly how to hydrate and energize yourself enough to last for a long period of time when given a period of only a few minutes to do so. If you didn’t you were buzzard feed, be it at the hands of the environment, your own lungs, or the drill officers.

Now they had moved to the area just outside of the fortress where several large rings had been outlined in the dirt. Here, hand-to-hand combat was taught and practiced. Viktor had been standing along the edge of one of the rings, observing the impatient instructor who demonstrated a few of the moves on a compatriot. Finishing the instruction, he motioned for one of the Alberian recruits to come forward.

“Fight me.”

The man looked in surprise at the instructor, who repeated his order. The particular recruit he had chosen had been on to largely keep to himself over the past few weeks. He looked no more than 18, and like Viktor, had been pressed into service in a village not far from Viktor’s own. He was a butcher’s son, and had followed in his father’s shoes as a tradesman until he, like Viktor, had been plucked up by the army and sent here.

Now he stared dumbfounded at the officer, who grew increasingly more impatient at his lack of response.

“What’s the matter? You dumb, boy? Fight!”

The recruit did nothing, and the officer finally lost it. He let swing a heavy blow to the side of the man’s jaw, knocking him several feet back, off of his feet. He landed in the dirt, dazed, his face gushing blood.

“Serves you right, you dumb bastard.”

The officer turned back to the on looking crowd of recruits, and this time pointed directly at Viktor.

“You! Get in here and teach this little prick about following orders! Move! Or do I have to teach you too?!”

Viktor saluted without thinking and stepped into the wring. He approached the man as two soldiers hauled him to his feet, and shoved him towards Viktor. As he saw the man’s jaw slanted at an awkward angle, and the look of fear in his eyes, he began to have second thoughts. They were asking him to fight an injured man, a compatriot, almost a neighbor. The officer shouted at him once again, his words dull and meaningless. Suddenly, Viktor heard a distinct click as the officer cocked the hammer on his pistol. He felt the barrel on the back of his skull. The officer leaned in, and spoke directly into Viktor’s ear, his voice dripping menace.

“If you don’t fight this worthless dog, I’ll kill you, give him your rations, and then kill him too.”

Viktor swallowed heavily and took a fighting stance facing the injured recruit. The officer backed away, a gleeful snarl on his face.

“Fight!”

The recruit took a clumsy swing at Viktor. The blow was easily dodged. As the mans tumbled forward, Viktor lunged, grabbing the man and slamming his heavy fist into his opponent’s rib cage. He heard a crack as the man yelped and fell back, clutching his side. Viktor again hesitated. As the officer discharged the pistol into the air, he dismissed his second thoughts and concentrated only on the task at hand. He charged the staggering man, landing a blow on the opposite side of his jaw. Another crack as the jaw popped back into place and then took another crazed angle opposite to the first injury. The man clutched at his face as his eyes went wide. Viktor swung again, his fist slamming directly into the front of the man’s mouth. Viktor withdrew his hand in pain, and looked down to realize that several of the man’s lower teeth had dislodged and embedded themselves in his hand. He shook them free and they fell to the ground. His foe’s face was a bloody wreck now, and he fell to his knees, screaming for mercy from God and his attacker. Viktor approached, and stood over the man. He looked down at him in abject pity.

“Finish him! Put him out of his misery! He is weak! You are stronger! Kill him!”

Viktor gritted his teeth as he raised his foot to kick the man one last time, a blow that would end his life, hopefully with as little pain as possible. He tried to bring his leg forward to deliver the blow, but found he could not. He set his foot on the ground, and turned his back on the man. This was not honorable combat. This was murdering a wounded man in cold blood. As he began to walk towards the edge of the ring, a gunshot rang out. He turned to see his wounded foe slump to the ground, shot through the temple.

The drill officer lowered his smoking pistol and looked at Viktor.

“I thought you were strong, but I was incorrect. You are as weak as he was. You still cling to that terrible emotion known as ‘pity’. It is a disgusting thing. It drives great traits from mens’ hearts, and replaces them with hollow corruption. The man full of pity is as pitiful as the one he pities. You will learn to fight it, and if you live long enough, you will drive it away for good. But you must learn, and only through pain can you learn to fight pity. You will not eat tonight. Your ration will be divided up among these men, or at least those that survive the rest of your punishment.”

The drill officer turned to the others.

“All of you! Because this man is weak, and pities those below him, you will suffer with him, lest you too develop pity for his plight! Now we run! When we return at dusk, those of you that live will be rewarded, so you do not pity yourselves! Go! Last man back gets fed to the wolves!”