NationStates Jolt Archive

<Richmond, 37 miles west of McLeod03/PFM border>

A lone speaker stood in the middle of the crowded town square, megaphone clamped firmly to his mouth, with a group of die-hard fanatics marching in front of him parading Peoples Front of McLeod03 banners. In front of him, thousands of people stood, whispering amongst each other and nodding in agreement as he spoke.

"Comrades, we shouldn't have to stand for this. One man rules over us, keeping our country in an vice-like chokehold. Did you vote him into power? Did I? NO. This King has no right to rule us. His grandfather mocked us when he granted the PFM lands in the east. We are packed into small amounts of territory, with few resources, and hardly any working infrastructure. Join us, and fight for both your freedom and the freedom of democracy."

With that, the easily influenced populace let out a cheer, and the crowd began to advance on the city hall, chanting and singing the praise of the left-wing PFM. Arrayed between them and the old hall building were some two hundred policemen, heavily outnumbered. The policemen locked shields and blockaded an entire road, completely halting the advance of the crowd.

"Brothers, see how the fascist oppressors mean to stop our worthy demonstration? Push forward now, push these fools aside" continued the loud-mouthed protestor. The crowd surged, and the police line broke as one man stumbled. As the police desperately attempted to hold the line, a few of the crowd broke through, and began to run towards the City Hall, snatching up bricks, and smashing shop windows as they ran. When two police attempted to detain one particularly violent woman, all hell broke loose. The mob surged again, and it didn't take long befor ethe police lost all semblance of control. When gunshots were heard, the police began employing somewhat heavy-handed tactics, using truncheons, tasers, and non-lethal rounds where necessary. But they were simply out numbered, and the mob broke through, charging down the gates of City Hall and smashing up the ornate gardens.

As they reached the front doors, the Hall security were quickly overwhelmed, and the rioters tore through into the building, tearing up offices and smashing windows as they went. Looking on, the protestor who had started it all watched as office workers were thrown out of windows, and flames began to lick at the sides of the building, rolling upwards and leaving a cloud of dirty smoke to form over the buildings arched roof. He smiled, before walking off down a side-street and into a parked car. He nodded at the driver, and the car pulled off. Pulling an encrypted cell phone from the glove-box, he dialled a number from memory, and spoke softly into the reciever.

"It's done"


<MBC News Broadcast>

"Major riots broke out across the eastern border today after a protest got out of hand in the usually peaceful town of Richmond. Scuffles started, and the police resorted to non-lethal methods to attempt to calm the situation. This in turn sparked off more riots in Hamport, Yarlsbridge, Darkstow, and Grantham. Reports are still coming in, but it seems that at the moment, almost two hundred people have been hospitalised, mostly caused by the burning down of the City Hall in Richmond itself. The Palace has yet to release a statement, but leaked sources indicate that PFM agents could be responsible for inciting the riots. No word has yet been recieved from the PFM Premier, Alexandra Trovin. More to come as soon as we find it out."


<Grantham, 75 miles north of Richmond>

The two trucks wound their way through the dark streets, headlights glimmering in the rain, and reflecting off the many puddles in the road. They drove straight past several dog-walkers and pedestrians, but no one noticed trucks these days. Even two green painted army 8-tonne trucks drew little attention. The anonymity offered by public indifference would work to the groups advantage. In the back of each truck sat twenty soldiers, carrying crude Ak-74 rifles slung across their chests. Urban camouflage uniforms and red painted berets gave them away as soldiers, and their equipment was not that of the Royal Army.

The trucks screeched to a halt outside the Grantham Police Headquarters & City Hall, startling nearby pedestrians. The startled sensation rapidly changed to outright fear as fourty heavily armed men leapt from the back of the trucks, and opened fire on the door guards, before bursting into the large marble fronted hall. Gunfire and screams could be heard from inside, followed by the occasional *crack* of grenades, and the smashing of glass.

Police cars screamed to a halt outside the hall, blocking off the trucks exits, and slowly, troopers emerged from their vehicles, submachine guns, shotguns, rifles, and pistols pointed at the doors. After a while, the gunfire inside died off, and the pounding of footsteps got louder. The first soldier to step through the door was riddled with bullets before he could react, and a furious gunfight broke out, demolishing what little was left of the front of the building as thousands of bullets slammed into the old oak doors, blowing splinters out of the wood. Another soldier fell, and then two police were killed as a well aimed RPG knocked out the patrol car they were hiding behind. Suddenly, the surviving soldiers came rushing through the doors as one, firing their rifles from the hip. It was a foolish venture, but two managed to reach the relative safety of their truck as the other fell around them, bullets shredding their unprotected bodies. The two attempted to force their way out in the truck, but all movement stopped as a fusilade of shotgun shells and 9-mm rounds absolutely gutted the cab of the truck.

As the gunsmoke cleared, the police officers advanced carefully, guns trained on the corpses littering the front steps. One particularly brave man advanced up to one of the soldiers, and turned the corpse over with his foot. The soldier's cold eyes stared miles into the sky, but that didn't shock the police officer. Neither did the bullet holes in the mans neck and chest. What did was the PFM badge on the mans collar. Foreign troops, in McLeod03, attacking McLeodian civilian targets? Surely that was an act of war?

Across the street, a man in a dark trench coat stepped from the shadows, a cigarette clamped between his lips. As he snapped open the lighter in his hand, the glare of flame illuminated a weathered face, and a scar covering one cheek. He paused to take a drag on the glowing cancer stick, before pulling a cell phone from one pocket, hitting a hot-key, and saying just two words into the mouth piece before he walked off into the night:

"It's done."

OOC: If I'm not supposed to post my bad.

IC: The Emperor drank his wine, and ate his perfectly prepared food. He watched the news as he always did, to keep himself updated on world events. Suddenly he switched channels by rolling over the clicker by accident, and seeing the news reports by McLeod. Apparently mass rioting had occurred, and several hundred deaths or injuries had occurred. Seems like a good time to make some friends, the Emperor thought.

He turned to his guards stationed at the entrance to the dining hall, "Fetch me a pen and paper I have a telegram to send to the McLeod Empire."
He wrote intensely for a half hour before creating the perfect telegram to express, sympathy, anger, and brother ship. He took the paper and handed it to a guard, "Send it at once."
***

Telegram to the Empire of Mcleod
We have felt the scars of what is stirring in your nation; we know the frustration you must feel. However, we must not express sympathy in a time of possible civil war, but instead a strong brother ship. We promise to hereby help eradicate any and all resistance within your Empire. When you feel we have completed the task we will leave. But a word of advice, do not let this go unpunished, it only leads to more discord
Emperor Kacin

OOC: *tag* very nice... though it does tempt me to go work on a new less-than-lethal Combination rifle/hand grenade

tag

-tag for IC later-

<Telegram>
To: Dracun Imperium
From: King James VII

Emperor Kacin,

I must thank you for your support in these dire times. Should your aid be required in dealing with the villains responsible, I will contact you immediately.

Do not fear, those responsible for these recent outbursts will be severely punished for their crimes. As I write to you, the Police and the RPU are conducting their investigations, and shall I say interviewing the survivor of the PFM soldiers that attacked our beloved country.

Thankyou, brother,

King James VII


<RPU Head Quarters, McLeodia>

The small room contained very little in terms of decoration. It's stone walls were cold and damp, the floor was made of little more than compressed dirt, and it was lit by only a single unshaded bulb, flickering gently. The room had just one occupant, the sole survivor of the raid on the Grantham City Hall. He was strapped to a wooden chair, his back arched painfully over a metal bar fitted between the arms. It was impossible for him to move, a combination of the drugs he had been pumped full of and the tight straps across his body and limbs.

The single door in the room burst open, and two RPU agents burst into the room, followed by a giant of a man, with huge fists and a mean glare to match. Behind him was another man. He was slightly built, with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. His uniform was instantly recognisable as a man of power, and of questionable kindness. He was a XV Corps member, one of the Army's finest interrogators. As the door slammed shut, the small man began his questions.

"Who sent you?" he asked, but recieved no answer. "I shall ask you again, who ordered you to carry out that attack?"

The man in the chair groaned, before looking up at the inquisitor and spitting on his boots.

"So that's how you want to play it is it?" asked the interrogator, softly. "Very well" he continued, turning to the tall man and the two RPU agents. "Gentlemen, I shall be gone for an hour. See if you can persuade our friend to talk" At that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him. As he walked down the corridor in the basement, he could hear the screams of pain, and watched with a smile on his face as the lights dimmed in the other cells and rooms around him.

To: King James VII, McLeod03
From: King Dayan I, Malkyer

King James,

As I am sure you are aware, McLeod 03 is an ally of ours through both the NWO and CFA. We have noted the unrest in your country, and offer any assistance you may require. Be it monetary, political, or military support, know that the Kingdom of Malkyer will honor all commitments to our allies. Let me know if I can be of service.

Best Regards,
Dayan Saarad


To: Emperor Kacin
From: King Dayan

Emperor Kacin,

I have noted your swift response to the troubles in the McLeodian nation, and applaud your resolve. I write to you to tell you that you will not enter any fight alone. Malkyer will stand with the Remnant, as friends and brothers.

Godspeed,
Dayan Saarad

<Telegram>
To: King Davar I, Malkyer
From: King James VII

I thank you for your support in this time of need. I'm afraid I have a show to catch at the theatre right about now, so we shall have to converse fully later.

Until then, thank you friend,

King James McLeod VII


<Prince Michael Theatre, McLeodia>

The stars shone overhead as flashbulbs lit up the celebrities making their way up the stone steps into the theatre building itself. Years ago, this very building had been the site of the tragic death of one of the Royal Family, Prince Michael, and his wife, both gunned down by PFM agents back before the organisation had becoe less militaristic, and far more politically minded. Tonight, another Royal was visiting. Queen Nicola and her entourage arrived in a black Royal Guard limousine. Her daughter, Princess Georgina, held her mothers hand as they waved and smiled for the press. The flashes of cameras dazzled the Queen as she advanced slowly towards the doors, still radiant despite being in her early fourties.

The King, meanwhile, was still heading towards the theatre, having been held up with briefings of the days riots. He stared out the darkened window as avenues and tree-lined boulevards flashed past his own limousine. The theatre was the perfect place to relax and let the troubles of his day fade away. He couldn't wait.

The explosion came without even the slightest hint of warning, just as the King's car turned the final corner, putting him in full view of the theatre steps. The last thing he saw before the fireball was his wife and daughter, turning rapidly towards a man in the crowd who was in the middle of an ever widening circle of panicking photographers. The fire swept skywards like a fiery phoenix, igniting the flags and banners on the front of the old building, and the shockwave pushed the King's limousine across the road into a parked van. King James VII passed out with shock and from the force of the collision.

<Theatre Row, McLeodia>

The flames licked higher still, lighting up the sky for miles around as the King stood, shoulders slumped, staring into the burning building where just minutes before his wife and daughter had been standing. They had been fortunate to a degree, in that the force of the explosion had blown the two of them off the steps and onto the pavement, saving them from the worst of the blast, which had pulverized two of the columns supporting the huge roof of the theatre building. Whether or not the charge hadn't gone off properly was not known, but it seemed that the Queen and the Princess at least had a chance, as their ambulance raced through the streets of McLeodia, heading for the Royal Hospital, and the waiting emergency team.

Several bodies that had been recovered lay under sheets on the roadside, namely those of some of the Queens advisors and bodyguards. A few photographers had been closer to the blast, and probably shielded the Royals from the worst of it. They hadn't been found yet, save a few scraps of clothing and camera parts.

The King dabbed a dirty handkerchief at a cut on his brow, and turned, walking slowly back to an armoured SUV waiting at the kerbside. Pausing before he got in, he looked back at the burning theatre, a gleam of madness in his eyes, flames dancing across his dark pupils, his teeth slightly bared and gritted together.


<RPU Head Quarters>

The Intelligence Corps officer burst in through the door again, exactly one hour after he had left. The surviving soldier was a sorry sight. Most of one eye was missing, as were many teeth. His hands were bunched up, held limply, betraying the broken bones in his fingers and wrists. Burn marks across his torso matched the shape of the two live wires running from a small power pack, and those of a red hot metal rod in the hands of one of the RPU agents.

The officer walked over to the soldier, and slapped him hard across the cheek, causing him to lean heavily to one side. The man was sobbing uncontrollably, a sure sign he had been broken. "I'll ask you again, punk. Who sent you?" asked the interrogator.

The soldier coughed violently, a gob of blood and saliva landing on the floor, before he struggled into a more upright position before her answered. "Tr....Trov.....Trovin. She ordered it herself" he gasped, the pain of his battered face making it difficult to talk.

"Trovin you say?" replied the interrogator, "I'm glad you saw sense and co-operated. If only you had said so earlier, you would have been spared all this pain. But now we can hardly let you go, it would be too dangerous. I promise you a quick death" With that, he drew his sidearm, cocked it, and lowered it to the mans forehead.

"Pl....please, don't. I beg you." stammered the soldier, obviously terrified. "I have a family, a yound wife and three children. Don't leave them without a money-earner. They'll never cope."

"Don't worry" said the Intelligence officer, whispering into the soldiers ear "They'll join you in hell soon enough".

The bullet enterred the mans skull just inside of his left eye, liquifying his brains before blasting into the floor behind, and imbedding itself in the dirt. The Intelligence officer holstered his smoking sidearm, and left, followed by the other men, as two cleaners came down to dispose of the PFM soldier. On their way out, one of the RPU agents slipped into a side office, and, pulling out a strangely familiar style of cell phone, said the well repeated words:

"It's done"

BUMP

BUMP again

Grrr.... one last BUMP

OOC: Mind if I support your government? Hate to see you turn into a red

OOC: If you wouldn't mind holding off for a little while with any physical support, and just provided political support for now. Still got one more IC post in the works before things get really interesting. I'm bored of being a slight-left wing peaceful goody-goody.

OR you can wait a while until the next 'phase', with the King's response to the attacks. Up to you.

OOC: I'll see what happens, but I will get involved.

Tag.

<King's Square, McLeodia>

The gathered crowd buzzed with intrepidation. Rumours about the explosion had been floating around, passed back and forth like chinese whispers. The situation wasn't helped by the utter lack of any official response. Journalists and onlookers alike fell silent as the King strode onto the raised dais along the side of the square nearest the Royal Palace. His usually pristine hair and dark suit were ruffled, and he had a line of stitches across his forehead.

He strode up to the central podium, and promptly threw the speech notes there onto the floor. His hands gripped the side of the podium, and he waited for the crowd to be silent once more.

"Fellow McLeodians" he began, his voice echoing off the buildings surrounding the square. "Yesterday, PFM activists incited your countrymen to revolt against my rule of this country. They lied, bribed, and intimidated people into showing them support, before beginning a violent assault on the Richmond City Hall. When loyalist police forces responded, they were set upon by PFM supporters amongst the crowd. This scene was repeated at more cities across the east. To top it all off, PFM soldiers then openly attacked civilian targets in Grantham, causing hundreds of deaths and injuries. One survivor of the hostile soldiers has been interrogated, and fingered those responsible for the orders he recieved. He later died of wounds sustained during the firefight in Grantham. As of yet, there has been no response from the treacherous communists across the border."

Normally a strong speaker, careful with his words, this time something else seemed to be knawing at him, pushing him onwards. "But that is not the worst of it. At six o'clock last night, as my beautiful wife and daughter were greeting citizens outside the Prince Michael Theatre, a man who identified himself as a PFM member set off a large explosive device right outside the building." he paused, his voice almost breaking as the words caught in his throat "Queen Nicola and the young Princess were rushed to hospital, but nothing could be done to save my wife. She succumbed to her injuries in the early hours of this morning. Princess Georgina, just seven years old, is now stable, and is to be moved to a more secure location as soon as possible."

King James VII waited for the news to sink in before he continued. Bunching one fist up tightly, he slammed it down onto the podium, making the stand shake, and the front row of the crowd jump suddenly. "My grandfather was kind enough, and generous enough, to allow these barbaric communist scum lands to call their own. Today they showed their true nature, a bunch of low-life woman-killing TERRORISTS. I WILL NOT stand for this any longer. The government of the rogue state has been sent a telegram with my demands. Should those directly responsible not be surrendered into my custody within twelve hours, McLeodian Armed Forces will interdict, and hunt down those responsible." He stopped again, letting the weight of the moment silence any questions, before staring straight into the lens of one video camera, his eyes burning with hatred. "Trovin. I know it was you. I'm coming for you, one way or the other. You're gonna burn in hell bitch"


<Freetown, PFM capital, that same time>

Natasha Dulstun, the PFM Interior Minister, and Trovin's right hand woman, was releasing the PFM response at the very same time. She wore a smart trouser suit, and uniformed guards stood around her, rifles at port arms, eyes scanning the crowds.

"People of the world, I can assure you that at this very time, we are carrying out our own investigation into the events of the past few days. We have no knowledge of who is responsible, other than to be able to honestly say that PFM assets are not to blame. We ask you to believe us, and help us carry out our investigation to bring those responsible to justice."

She sorted the papers in front of her, before opening her mouth to continue. As she did so, a flash of light in a distant window caught her eye. It was the last thing she ever saw. The twenty-five millimetre shell tore a hole through the papers in her hand before impacting on her sternum. Cracking the bone into thousands of pieces, it drove shards of bone into her heart and lungs before obliterating two vertebrae and slicing her spinal cord in two, then passing through her and into the concrete floor she was stood on. The crowd parted instantly, women and children screaming in terror as the Minister bled to death and her world darkened for the last time.

Almost a mile away, a man dressed in workers overalls left a typical office block with a toolbox in his hands. Jumping into a nearby Transit van, he picked a cell-phone of the passenger seat. Softly, he spoke into the mouthpiece "It's done", before pulling out into the flow of traffic, and losing himself in the morning rush hour.

Ok, so another BUMP might sneak in here and there.

OoC: Bad Mcleod! No turning red! Prepare the Grand Armada, we set sail for Mcleod!

<Border Post 14, McLeodian/PFM Territories border>

Two McLeodian soldiers patrolled the bridge crossing the dual-carraige way running between McLeod03 and the PFM zone. With rifles cradled at port arms, they paused and watched as a vehicle driving towards them suddenly sped up, and began driving straight towards the guard hut on the southern end of the flyover. The two immediately brought their rifles to bear as huge spotlights lit up the oncoming car. After two warnings over the loudspeakers, one rifleman raised his rifle and began to squeeze the trigger. A shot rang out, and the soldier fell, blood spurting from a hole in the side of his neck.

His partner, spotting soldiers on the PFM guardpost with rifles raised, opened fire without a second thought. His M-8M squad-automatic weapon spat 5.56-mm rounds at almost nine hundred rounds a minute, his bursts catching two PFM troops in the open, and nearly cutting them in half. The other PFM guards returned fire, but their shots went high and wide as they dove for cover. Seconds later, the car plowed into the south Guard hut, crushing two men still trying to get out the door and fire on the PFM soldiers. 9-mm rounds shattered the cars interior as survivors opened fire, shredding the car driver and his passenger.

The PFM guards had gotten them selves organised, and 7.62-mm bullets slammed through the thin walls of the bridge and guard house, catching another McLeodian soldier, throwing him up against the wall, his chest a mass of holes and blood. Some of the new rifle grenades, kept in the central guard tower, soared into the PFM positions, followed by 60-mm light anti-tank missiles, obliterating the flimsy structure in seconds. It was over in less than two minutes. As the smoke cleared, the loyalist troops crept towards the gate, covered by two machine guns, and discovered only dead or dying PFM Guardsmen. The first shots had been fired, and who could guess that this one incident would trigger the bloodiest war since the unification of the clans centuries before.

Half a mile away, hidden in a small copse, two men stole quickly back through the trees to a waiting Jeep. Ditching a bag in the boot, they pulled away slowly, so as not to alert any survivors. As the 4x4 hit a rutted section of track, the bag slipped open, revealing a 7.62-mm rifle, a box of ammunition, and a spotters scope. In the front, the passenger fished a mobile phone out of his pocket, and made a brief phonecall, before the vehicle was lost in the darkness.

Secret IC

"My Führer, something very unfortunate is happening in McLeod03 at the moment. Massive riots, strikes and rumble in the east of their nation."
"Are the reds taking over?"
"We have strong reasons to assume they are my Führer."
"No matter how I dislike this matter, we cannot allow them to fall in the grasp of dumbunism. Tell their monarch we support his current political agenda, and if things get ugly we might send in special forces to quell this socialist uprising."
"Jawohl mein Führer!"

Official secure communiqué to McLeod03 ruler
"It has come to our attention that you are in the middle of a crisis. According to our intelligence (correct me if I cannot know that at the moment) you have problems with certain elements in your society who find communism a better way of living. While we despise your nation as a whole, sometimes bitter enemies must join forces to overcome the evils of communism.

You hereby have our full political support for your actions against the rebels."

- Adolph Leighmar, Führer of the German Reich.

<Encrypted Transmission>
To: Adolph Leighmar
From: King James VII

Despite our differences in previous times, I thank you for your support. The evil scum that is the Communist scurge must be wiped from my country entirely. Fear not, the cleansing fires of hell await those who dare to attack my family and my country. As I write to you, reports are coming in of a skirmish at one of the border posts started by PFM soldiers. This act is the final straw, and will not go unpunished.

We would also like to offer McLeod03 our economic and political support in this matter, military help will be available should you require it.

We may not be on speaking terms, but we cannot let a country as large and as powerful as yours turn to the Red curse. Thus we are willing to put enemity aside and help you if you should require it.

For God and Saint Peter,

Criticus Zabic,
Foreign Affairs Advisor to the Emperor,