NationStates Jolt Archive

Dear Fellow leaders of Nations with few Scruples,

Yesterday I became aware of an administrative mishap that I wish to bring to your attention. For the past few months, my government has been constructing a large rehabilitation clinic for the use of our society’s misfits. This has been done in order to bring about the last phase of my master plan for the rehabilitation of criminals, prisoners of war, and those infected with venereal diseases. They were to be kept there until they are fit to return to society. 598,236 people were to have been moved to the clinic by cargo plane, deposited at the clinic, and left to the care of the center’s staff.

Unfortunately, an illiterate bureaucrat, whom I have summarily liquidated, made a mistake when filing the transportation order for these people. He somehow confused “National Rehabilitation Clinic, Hospital, and Prison Center” with “City of Durthmont, population 10 million.” You can imagine the consequences of such an error. To make matters simple for you, I shall state our position succinctly.

The city of Durthmont has been occupied by a large number of criminals, spies, traitors, former Starbucks employees, and those afflicted with STDs. I wish these men and women dealt with, but I wish it to be done without the overt action associated with calling in the national guard. Therefore I wish any interested nation who has never before engaged in hostile action against me to inform me of their willingness to cooperate in the removal of these people.

Here are my terms:

1. No nation shall send any more than twenty (20) soldiers.

2. Killing during regular business hours is strictly prohibited, unless in defense of an establishment under assault by the aforementioned targets.

3. Collateral damage is to be kept as low as humanly possible.

4. All collateral damage is to be reported directly to Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia, and NO ONE ELSE.

5. The payment of $10,000 USD. (9,993.50 Freudotopian Yodels) will be wired to the responsible nation for successful removal of a target.

6. Targets are NOT to be captured alive.

7. The Special Covert Action Team (SCAT) of Freudotopia will be simultaneously engaged in operations to liquidate targets.

8. Any interference with Freudotopian forces will not be tolerated. Violators will be executed.

9. Any interference with any other participating nation is likewise prohibited. Violators will be castrated.

10. Cooperation in the elimination of targets is allowed, and encouraged.

11. There will be no media coverage.

12. Foreign soldiers are not to carry any item that identifies their nation of origin.

13. For every rule that is violated by a nation, they will be fined $5,000 USD. Instances of collateral damage will be dealt with according to the wishes of Saul Hudson.

14. All intelligence gathered by the FIB regarding the whereabouts of targets will be immediately sent to all cooperating nations by secure computer file dump. A remote network will handle all intelligence data storage and retrieval. This can be reached by utilizing a simple numeral/alpha password that will be sent to the nation upon its declaration of cooperation.

These terms are non-negotiable, and violations of them will be dealt with immediately. Any interested nation may contact me if they are interested in aiding my forces.

– Saul Hudson the Illuminator, Emperor of Freudotopia.

OOC: Simple: RP playground for special forces/covert action teams. The whole premise of this thread is that the elimination of these louse-ridden miscreants must be handled according to these rules, and in a very good RP. This is for fun, no meaningful rewards or declarations of war are going down. But if you want to join a nice UP, work on your covert action skill set, and cooperate with similarly interested nations(which is strongly encouraged), come on in. Oh, and after about a dozen or so nations join, I’m going to close this to avoid total chaos. I’ll post some maps in a bit once I get a feel for how many nations are interested.

OOC:I'll join

The Faction of Christoniac will gladly send in 20 alpha legion troops to deal with the criminals and diseased of Durthmont they should be sarriving in the next 24 hours hours by parachute.

The nation of cracker-dom has agreed to help your wa and will send five (5) soldiers just to take out the ex-starbucks employees. Three (3) will be snipers, one (1) will be an advisor for rebuilding, and one (1) will be a worm. One (1) worm there shall be just to make the number of units in there balance out to a nice even number.

OOC: Count me in.

From: Caboose, Head general Flandrithropian Government, Current Ruler.

I'm dispatching my fifteen of my crack squadron units... If it so pleases you i'd like to buy a building in this town so as to serve as my other five men, which will be my personal reporters and medics, so that my troops will be guaranteed a safe haven... I'm keeping this message short so as that i can keep my other intrests in the foreground of my mind...

Oh by the way, i'm sorry for you troubles... These louse infested miscreants shall be dealt with shortly.

My troops will be wearing my colors, despite your advised rules, though they shall always be hidden during day operations... Night time is their speciality anyway....

Their weapons load out is normal combat rifle, SC-20 pistol, and other assorted small weapons including knives and throwable objects...

Thanks for your help, and i will forward any news of my other intrests to you immediatly...

Caboose.

THe nation of cracker-dom has agreed to help your wa and will send five (5) soldiers just to take out the ex-starbucks employees. Three (3) will be snipers, one (1) will be an advisor for rebuilding, and one (1) will be a worm. One (1) worm there shall be just to make the number of units in there balance out to a nice even number.

Excellent. We must stop the insidious spread of Starbucks, and everything they stand for. Yuppie pigdogs.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

encrypting...

transmitting...

Official Imperial Communique

To: Emperor Saul Hudson the Illuminator
From: General Vaclar Ilsynij

The Empire has heard you call, and in all of her wisdom decided to answer, not for your benefit mind you, but because we enjoy spilling blood. Lots and lots of blood.

We shall be dispatching a unit of the Imperial Black Guard, totalling a dozen men, along with three high level GIIS case operatives to deal with your rodent problem.

General Vaclar Ilsynij,
Department Head, Division 13, Imperial Black Operations

-Cut Transmission-

From: Caboose, Head general Flandrithropian Government, Current Ruler.

I'm dispatching my fifteen of my crack squadron units... If it so pleases you i'd like to buy a building in this town so as to serve as my other five men, which will be my personal reporters and medics, so that my troops will be guaranteed a safe haven... I'm keeping this message short so as that i can keep my other intrests in the foreground of my mind...

Oh by the way, i'm sorry for you troubles... These louse infested miscreants shall be dealt with shortly.

My troops will be wearing my colors, despite your advised rules, though they shall always be hidden during day operations... Night time is their speciality anyway....

Their weapons load out is normal combat rifle, SC-20 pistol, and other assorted small weapons including knives and throwable objects...

Thanks for your help, and i will forward any news of my other intrests to you immediatly...

Caboose.

Unfortunately, good sir, you have violated two of my rules. I said there were to be NO REPORTERS, and NO IDENTIFYING EQUIPMENT. I must regretfully disbar you from this conflict until you make the necessary remedies. As to your question about the purchase of real estate, you are free to do so, providing you take care not to reveal the true purchaser of the property.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

OOC:I'll join

The Faction of Christoniac will gladly send in 20 alpha legion troops to deal with the criminals and diseased of Durthmont they should be sarriving in the next 24 hours hours by parachute.

Most excellent. I have of course heard of the impeccable reputation of your Alpha Legions, and they are most welcome.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

Maximillian Siegrist and Riva Buehler-Ravea's most skilled hunters, trackers, and Assasians-shall join the fight. Although two fighters does not seem like much, We assure you that they are of the best quality and have had years of dangerous missions under their belts. This is our best team. They will not fail to destroy a single target.

The Ravean Hunters are most skilled at tracking and infiltrating spy networks, and shall concentrate on that task first and formost. The Hunters will be in Freudotopia within three hours.

Maximillian Siegrist and Riva Buehler-Ravea's most skilled hunters, trackers, and Assasians-shall join the fight. Although two fighters does not seem like much, We assure you that they are of the best quality and have had years of dangerous missions under their belts. This is our best team. They will not fail to destroy a single target.

The Ravean Hunters are most skilled at tracking and infiltrating spy networks, and shall concentrate on that task first and formost. The Hunters will be in Freudotopia within three hours.

I thank you for your assistance. The Hunters will be most appreciated.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

The nation of Cracker-Dom hopes that you put our one (1) worm in the highest security region, as he is our highest ranking official. And we gladly join the war because, in our country, they placed a starbucks across the street from a starbucks. And there is no cause for that.

The nation of Cracker-Dom hopes that you put our one (1) worm in the highest security region, as he is our highest ranking official. And we gladly join the war because, in our country, they placed a starbucks across the street from a starbucks. And there is no cause for that.

((OOC: Do I detect a Lewis Black fan?))

OOC: im in on this to

nebarri prime will send 20 NPNSS troops this is close to what they are trained for (removeing terrorists) and they do there jobs well

Off the Coast of Freudotopia, 24:17 Hours

The small merchant vessel steamed innocently over the dark calm of the cold northern seas, past the shadowy ridges that marked the gateway to that distant continental stronghold that was Freudotopia. The sky was brilliantly clear, and the memorizing supernatural glow of those northern lights, the Aurora Borealis, played across the star filled sky while the moonlight bathed the deck and the caps of drifting icebergs in a warm pale light.

The air was cold, but the sea breeze had fallen still, allowing a few sailors, warm beneath heavy whaler’s jackets to come out on deck for a smoke, a chat, and the occasional sip of fiery liquid from the trusty hip flask. Their low voices carried over the quiet air, out over the dark and silent sea that held so many untold tales, and secrets as unfathomable as her most cavernous depths.

On that not so distant shore, the lights of a city came into view as the vessel rounded a small peninsula. Derthmont, a sentinel port along the northern coast of the nation, and a hub of all manner of trade, activity, and pleasure, if one knew where to look.

It often is that the greatest calm comes before the squall, and tonight, this night of contradiction, would be no different, for in the bellows of this small and innocent vessel was hidden a dark secret of her own.

Twelve men, clad in black faces sharp, unmoving, carved by the dim red light into those of gargoyles, frightening beasts from the nightmare of the child first learning to dream and to feel horror at the sight of the ghastly shadows that play on the wall. Twelve men, warriors all at one point, now transcending laws of combat, becoming through selection a new breed, a new terror, one that is the essence of absolute war itself. Their breath is death, and their eyes are that immortal steel tip that is etched into the last vision of every soldier dying on the battlefield. They are the reapers of man, the silent, stalking, supernatural beings that watch humanity, and wait with inhuman patience to lash out and take life as swiftly as it is bestowed. They are Black Guard. Disembodied, disillusioned, disavowed.

They, unlike their more natural counterparts, the Imperial Praetorians, are a flexible breed, knowledgeable in all arts of war, covert and overt. Tonight, they would be operating from the shadows, and this was where they thrived.

Now these beings, born of nothing but smoke and mirrors, prepared. They strapped on the light body armor, vests, backplates, leg and arm protection. Thin layers of doctored metal to provide ease of mobility and protection from the calamity of war. Their black uniforms had no markings or insignia, leaving the only form of identification as a simple seven digit numeral tattooed below the back of each man’s neck.. Knives they all carried in holsters at the ankle and the waist, and GR-14aS Imperial special-forces assault rifles hung from three point harnesses across their chests. In addition, some were outfitted with GR-90 long range rifles. Even in an urban covert operation, one never knew when it would be necessary to really reach out and touch someone.

The red light began to blink steadily, and at this signal they pulled black balaclavas over their heads, and strapped their night vision goggled overtop their foreheads. The Black Guardsmen rose silently, and made their way to the deck of the tiny vessel.

The spy ship had made a point to cut a course very close to the shore, and as the vessel skirted the coast, nearing the coastal outskirts of Derthmont, the engines suddenly cut out, and the vessel slowed down, drifting slowly over the sea floor. All that could be heard were two faint splashes, and the vessel’s engines rumbled back to life, leaving behind a pair of nearly invisible silhouettes.

The inflatable rafts silently made the short trip to the beach. As they neared the shore, the figures jumped into the waist high surf, and carried their rafts in, whereupon they deflated them, and left the still rather bulky but significantly smaller folded rubber rafts hidden in the underbrush. Then, softly as they had arrived, the Imperial Black Guardsmen split into groups of three, and moved off into the velvet darkness, towards the city.

((OOC: Updated map of the Borneric Empire of Uberness, where Freudotopia, Generia, Borman, and other nations of note reside. Here you will find the location of Derthmont:

http://img91.echo.cx/my.php?image=bornericempireofubernessedit34.jpg ))

i will send a team of 10 missionarys to show the criminals the error of their ways i can give no military support for i have no military

((OOC: Do I detect a Lewis Black fan?))

ooc: yes. yes you do. very much so

Ahh, the reporter thing, Not necessarily a News reporter my friend, He's a reporter in the sens that he send me information... not the media..

As for my colors, I will have my men remove them if you so need it be that. Otherwise, my other standing shall not be wavered. It'd please my men to be able to know that i haven't put them on Combat Rediness for nothing.

Caboose.

i will send a team of 10 missionarys to show the criminals the error of their ways i can give no military support for i have no military

Dear Sir,
We don't want missionaries, we want MERCENARIES. If you don't have a military, remove your pansy-ass wimps from my territory before I am forced to behead them and use their necks as spitoons for chewing tobacco. Have a pleasant day.

--General A.P. Fuller, Commander of Task Force Undertaker

OOC: Seriously, don't waste my time with rehab ideas. I said I didn't want to rehab these punks, because what fun is that?

Ahh, the reporter thing, Not necessarily a News reporter my friend, He's a reporter in the sens that he send me information... not the media..

As for my colors, I will have my men remove them if you so need it be that. Otherwise, my other standing shall not be wavered. It'd please my men to be able to know that i haven't put them on Combat Rediness for nothing.

Caboose.

Of course your intelligence agents are welcome, provided that they know that we know everything that you know they know.

Good day.

--Archibald Smythe, Director of the FIB

OOC: I think it’s high time this got underway. Before this begins though, I need to give out a disclaimer: if I’m busy during the week with school, sports, or rockin’ like nobody’s business, take the time to compose a nice, long, AWESOME thread, instead of wasting my time and everyone else’s bitching about how I’m not posting. I’m a weekend warrior, so deal with it. Now that that’s out of the way, let me say that you are all free to make up something creative if I’m not around at the moment.(ex: bank robbery in broad daylight, pursuit of unknown subjects). This is called pursuing targets of opportunity. That being said, I’ll do my best to update targets frequently, so that even if I’m not available to RP myself, you can still have fun with this, because that was my goal. Without any further ado...

IC:

Gentlemen, because of the nature of the profile of our targets, the system of payment has changed. Instead of a fixed reward for each successful elimination, varying payments will be fixed ahead of time. The fine for violating any of my rules remains the same, unless I specifically inform you of any special circumstances.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

–Secure Transmission:
–Encryption Beta-6-A
–Data Converted
–Begin File Drop

Gentlemen:

Our first targets will be low in priority, to test both your skills and your resolve. We will gradually work behind the scenes to eliminate higher and higher profile targets in more difficult scenarios. Your first targets will be mainly Starbucks employees, but some have criminal records.

As you know, the insipid and morally deplorable corporation known as Starbucks has been slowly infiltrating nations around the world, spreading its evil influence to every town, borough, and city. This plague will be stopped now. We will eradicate this menace starting from the ground up.

Target 1
Name: Jeffrey Arthur Lyons
Known Aliases: None
Occupation: Plant supervisor, Starbucks of Durthmont.
Place of Residence: 124 Shadrack St. Apt #38B
Wanted for: Overt display of yuppieism, management of Starbucks manufacturing plant.
Reward: $5000 USD
Notes: Ugly, bitter guy with a serious inferiority complex and a massive case of adult acne. Shouldn’t be hard to spot in a crowd, but he cannot be eliminated at his workplace. The Emperor wishes him dealt with at his place of residence, or in transit from his home to the plant. Antisocial, so I wouldn’t worry about any possible accomplices. Simple and easy.

Target 2
Name: Isabella Romeo
Known Aliases: Lady Izzy
Occupation: Manager, Starbucks at 81st and E street.
Place of Residence: Unknown
Wanted for: Managing Starbucks restaurant, Solicitation for Prostitution.
Reward:$5000 USD
Notes: Dirty as they come. Isabella’s a textbook Durthmont hooker. No company besides Starbucks would even think of hiring this sorry piece of trash. She was born and raised in the city slums, so it’s likely she’ll know them better than any of your operatives. I would advise getting a job as a janitor at the restaurant, get to know her, and start shadowing her. If you could pose as an enraged client, and kill her in a mysterious shooting, that would be ideal, but the Emperor is open to any other discreet strategy.

Target 3
Name: Antawn Marcus Nelson
Known Aliases: None
Occupation: Janitor, Starbucks at 81st and F street.
Place of Residence: Unknown
Wanted for: Being in the employ of Starbucks, Possession of Narcotics with Intent to Distribute.
Reward:$5000 USD
Notes: This guy’s a little trickier than the other two. He’s a career criminal, and he has a nose for when he’s drawn heat, so don’t spook him. He does, however, know quite a bit about the local drug rings, and we want this intel in order to facilitate the tracking and elimination of later targets. If any criminals want to get involved in the rackets, we want to know about it. Therefore, we need someone to either gain his trust, weasel the info out of him, or ambush him and beat it out of him. Either way, he needs to end up dead when all is said and done. And don’t kill him in the restaurant.

Target 4
Tyrone Willis Nelson
Known Aliases: None
Occupation: Janitor, Starbucks at 81st and F street.
Place of Residence: Unknown
Wanted for: Being in the employ of Starbucks, Possession of Narcotics with Intent to Distribute, Armed Robbery, Grand Theft Auto, Eighteen counts of Public Drunkenness, and Aggravated Assault and Battery.
Reward:$7500 USD
Notes:
Just like his older brother Antawn, except bigger, meaner, and smarter. He too is involved with drugs, but he also runs a chop shop somewhere in the vicinity of his place of employment. Taking a job there was just stupid, as it gave us a reference point to track his movements, and we know he isn’t living with his brother, so he must have been living at or near a “secondary” place of employment, so we did some digging and found the chop shop. Simple: take him out, and make it look like he got whacked in some macho bullshit underground confrontation. You might even set him up in one, if you’re smart. The man will know if you’re too obvious, so do try and use some subtlety here.

Those are all the targets we are authorizing for elimination at this point. These missions don’t involve much fighting or covert operations for a reason: I wanted to give all of you a chance to get to know the city and how it works. Before I involve anyone in military-caliber assassinations or intelligence-gathering, I wanted to let you warm up with some undercover work first. You can still use some of your more familiar tactics to liquidate the targets. Get to work on these operations in your own time, plan your operations well, because the availability of your next assignments depends on your being able to execute a mission without a hitch. Don’t make a fool of yourself trying to take on a shoddy and poorly thought out mission before you’re ready. Use the intelligence we have provided, but don’t be afraid to generate your own strategies. This is just the first round, gentlemen, so view this as your warm-up. More challenging missions will follow.

–Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

*all target profiles compiled by Sergei Mikhael Ivanovich, FIB analyst.

–File drop complete
–Tap Search: running
–Line Clean
–Ending Transmission

OOC: No one nation is to eliminate more than one target per “round.” Make an OOC post when you’ve decided whom you want to pursue. First come, first served. If you claim a target and then fail to follow through or post unsatisfactorily, I’ll refuse to close the bounty. I won’t just offer up the target for anyone, but I will expect you to get your shit together and kick ass. Enjoy.

The Holy Empire of the Warmaster will dispatch 20 Imperial Immortals. We will gladly slaughter the infidels, especially diseased ones.

Official Imperial Communique:

To: The Sultan of Freudotopia
From: Chancellor Licinius

We shall send a 20 man team to taek out Jeffrey Arthur Lyons.

End Transmission

encrypting...

transmitting...

Official Imperial Communique

To: All parties involved in Durthmont Operations
From: Mr. Black

The Imperial government will have it known that subject 2, the so called "Lady Izzy" is as of this moment a tagged Imperial target, and is not to be touched by any organization other than the Imperial Black Guard. Violation of this order will result in the Black Guard's perturbation, and the consequent separation of the heads of your operatives from their respective bodies. Let's not have it come to that.

Good day.

-end transmission-

The Imperial Immortals have been assigned to target "Lady Izzy" and kill her with extreme prejudice... :sniper:

****BEGIN TRANSMISSION****

To my honored Ally, the Commander Julius of Domain Sadow,
I regret to inform you that you must call off the Imperial Death Mark against the Lady Izzy. Rest assured your appetite for destruction will be sated.

His August Highness,
Sacred Emperor Lucifer of Domain Halcyon

****END TRANSMISSION****

****BEGIN TRANSMISSION****

To my honored Ally, the Commander Julius of Domain Sadow,
I regret to inform you that you must call off the Imperial Death Mark against the Lady Izzy. Rest assured your appetite for destruction will be sated.

His August Highness,
Sacred Emperor Lucifer of Domain Halcyon

****END TRANSMISSION****

OOC: I rather enjoyed that Guns N Roses reference. Well done.

OOC: Yes...so did I. So did I.

Encrypted

From: Caboose

I regret to inform you that my units will not pursue any one person. They will be charged with annhilating any of the accused, be it day or night... of course when they are proven miscreants.

I expect no pay, this is merely for the pleasure of my men.

Caboose

Encrypted

From: Caboose

I regret to inform you that my units will not pursue any one person. They will be charged with annhilating any of the accused, be it day or night... of course when they are proven miscreants.

I expect no pay, this is merely for the pleasure of my men.

Caboose

Official Government Communication

Failure to follow the rules is absolutely non-negotiable, and is terms for the elimination of any of your personnel in Freudotopian territory. Do not forget that you are here as guests of the government, and his lordship, Emperor Saul Hudson the Magnificent. Should you attack a target already claimed, or one you have not yourself claimed, it shall be considered a direct action against this great benefactor and the nation of Freudotopia, and thus full retalliation against your nation and people will be necessary in the name of vengeance.

There are limits to our patience. Do not test them.

OOC: Seriously. Everyone play by the rules and only go after the target you've claimed if it is a listed target. Like I said, you can go after targets of opportunity, but do not assault claimed targets or listed targets that you have not claimed in an OOC or IC fashion. This is merely to prevent confusion and keep things in the spirit of this RP.

****BEGIN TRANSMISSION****

Friends,
We are in luck. You will target Tyrone Willis Nelson, unless his Majesty Saul Hudson says different. Stalk and identify all his connections, then terminate with extreme prejudice. Stupid Starbucks bastards.

Imperator Jakran of clan Vuell

****END TRANSMISSION****

The Ravean Hunters will target Antawn Marcus Nelson. Targeting and Tracking will begin immedietly. Expect his death to be quick and considerably painful.

Thank you again for employing the Hunters.

OOC: we will targert tyrone willis nelson

-trace sweep: initiated
-trace sweep: complete
-please enter preliminary access codes:
-4739104863189-010293854758785
-access codes confirmed
-sending request for file…
-transmitting file: Isabella Romeo
-status: 30%
-status: 67%
-status: complete

-Good evening Mr. Smith. Mr. Black sends his compliments.

The man sitting in front of his laptop looked no different from rest of the yuppie filth that populated the small corner “Starbucks,” that bazaar of disgusting faux culture and the physical representation of all the was corrupt and evil in this world. There was one thing about the man that differed, however. The cup of overpriced, over-named java that sat on the table a good foot from his computer was still full, and now cold. He had not touched the filth, and it had pained him even to purchase the disgusting brew of sin.

No, for the Generian Imperial Intelligence officer all that he needed was contained in a shiny metal flask secure in his jacket pocket. But for now he would have to wait to taste the fiery liquid. Business was first on the agenda.

He scanned the dossier carefully. Mr. Black had been kind enough to include a photograph. He allowed his eyes to scan the face of this new ‘assignment’. She was dirty, there was no doubt about it. Even the photograph seemed to scream “loose woman.” He was not sure if he would find pleasure in killing her. He never was. More often than not he would feel nothing. Nothing that is except for the keyboard keys beneath his fingertips as he accessed his soon to be fattened offshore account.

But once again, that pleasure was to be had later. Now, he had to look up and examine his target in person, for she had just exited from behind a door with the sign “employees only.”

The photograph had not even begun to represent the aura that emanated from her. It was such that he was surprised she had not yet fallen to her knees and begun performing fellatio on one of the male employees. However, he also knew that that situation was not at all uncommon.

GIIS had done their homework. They had managed to recruit one of the lower level employees, a rather disgruntled piece of real street trash who had grown tired of having to perform lip service to politesse as he ripped off the hundreds of scum ridden yuppies and long haired peacenik freaks that frequented the establishment on a daily basis. If it hadn’t been for that clause at the end of his prison release form stating that he needed a paying job by the end of the week, he would have simply gone back to earning his keep mugging foreign tourists. At least that robbery was overt. Here, even he felt his moral compass being strained.

The Agency had approached him claiming to be members of a Freudotopian government anti-organized crime task force. He had been all to eager to help upon hearing some of the more persuasive arguments, namely the large leather briefcase fat with American dollar bills. This was furthered by a personal desire for revenge against Ms. Romeo. It had not been a week since his employment at the vile establishment, when she had approached him. She had seen in him a potential opportunity, and had offered herself to him…for a price. He had accepted. After being in prison, he had learned that any woman was better than none. The next morning he had realized with horror that he had contracted a particularly nasty case of Gonorrhea.

From this story alone, GIIS had found a leg to stand on. They learned from their new informant that “Lady Izzy,” as she was referred to, often performed favors for customers after hours in an alley behind the Starbucks. There, they realized quickly, was her weakness.

The man was careful in his observation of her. He made sure that he stared at her just long enough to allow her eye to catch his, before quickly turning his head back to the laptop screen. As he looked away, he caught a slight, seductive smile crossing the woman’s lips. Perfect.

He quickly erased the transferred files, swept for tracers, and closed the laptop before standing and slowly walking out of the restaurant. As he left he made sure to give the woman one last brief look, making sure she noticed. It was growing nigh on five O’Clock, and soon darkness would cover the city, masking the activities of the miscreants that found refuge in night, and the activities of those who hunt them.

It was a few minutes after seven O’Clock when the man found himself retracing a familiar path from the subway station down 81st street, towards the illuminated Starbucks. The yuppies were no longer out in force, and there was noticeably less foot traffic going to and from the mal café. However, he could here the sounds and see the lights of the cabarets beginning to come on further down the street on this border between the middle class office slave holdout and the slums where the antitheses of the yuppies flourished.

Those were his people, just now waking to head for the red light districts and the bars, having lounged all day in idle bliss. They were the derelicts, the downtrodden masses who never seemed to give a fuck. They were the outcasts of society, and most importantly the bitter arch-enemies of the white collar.

He smiled as he considered these prime examples of negative culture, but soon replaced these musings as he neared the entrance to the alley off of 81st. He slowed his pace, and made sure no one watched as he slipped off into the shadows, out of the soft glow of the electric street lamp and the traffic light.

He had been careful in his timing, making sure to arrive at an hour that would demonstrate that he was in the know with regard to the target’s ‘extracurricular’ activities, but also not say that he was an overly desperate man who could not wait to put his hands on that filthy representative of the fairer sex.

He knew that his timing had been perfect when he found himself alone in the alley. He stopped and listened, and sure enough, he heard a faint groaning coming from a car parked on the opposite entrance to the alley, off of 82nd street. The sounds halted, and a man got out of the car, readjusting his tie and then proceeding to zip up his pants. Typical yuppie trash.

The woman stepped out of the car on the opposite side, just as the man caught site of the agent, hurried into the driver’s seat. The engine came to live, and the vehicle backed out into the street, and sped off. The woman began to walk seductively towards him, making a show of her hips and breasts. She stopped a few inches from his and put her hands on him.

“Hello, handsome. I saw you today in the shop. I hoped you’d be coming back to see me.”

He remained smooth in the face of her assault on his senses.

“I couldn’t resist.”

The woman laughed softly, and brought her mouth beside his ear.

“They never can.”

”We’ll soon remedy that,” he thought to himself.

“Well handsome, I don’t see your car.”

“I just took the subway from downtown.”

“Well then, where do you want to take me?”

Her hands were roaming now. He felt himself loathing the harpy. Perhaps he would find satisfaction through her in the near future, though not in the sense she expected.

“I’m staying in a hotel only a few blocks up.”

“Ooh, I thought you looked like a foreigner. Where do you come from?”

She put a near imperceptible emphasis on the word ‘come’.

“Sofia.”

“Generian? I’ve never had a Generian before. Why don’t you take me to your hotel room.”

She whispered the last bit directly into his ear.

“Alright.”

The two walked out onto the street. It was only a short trip to the hotel where Mr. Black had taken the liberty of registering the agent under a false name. He hadn’t skimped. It was one of the finest hotels in the city, and the most expensive. One where when the ‘do not disturb’ sign is on the door handle. they take care to make sure no one on the same floor is making noise.

He led the woman into the lobby, and discreetly walked towards the elevators. She was visibly impressed. She had been lucky enough to stumble upon a real goldmine, a rich client who wasn’t afraid to take her back to his fancier digs. The lobby was crowded with guests just coming out of the bar before they went out for dinner and a night on the town. They paid little heed to the man and his irreputable companion.

His room was on the fifteenth floor, and they stepped out of the elevator to find the hallway completely deserted. Perfect. Chances are there would be few people in their rooms at this early hour as well. He led the woman to the door of the largest suite on the floor, overlooking the thoroughfare in the front of the building. He slid the keycard into the locking mechanism, and the door slicked open.

He pushed inward, and the door opened to reveal a dark room. She stepped in front of him, and flipped on a light. It was a huge luxurious affair, chilled champagne sitting on a table next to an enormous king sized bed. A hot tub sat in the center of the large master bathroom, and thin curtains covered the glass door leading to a balcony. She felt that she had indeed hit oil with this catch, and promptly made her way to the bed. She wanted to reel him in as quickly as possible.

Unbeknownst to the girl, however, he had never seen this room before, and was just as unfamiliar with the hotel as she. He had not checked into the hotel, a proxy had done that for him on behalf of Mr. Black, claiming that the guest in question was a very important man and would be to check in when he arrived at the hotel, thus necessitating the need for it to be arranged beforehand by his staff. Not wanting to lose business, the manager had agreed to this with relish, and upon hearing the details of the man’s fabricated identity, that he worked for a very influential government sponsored corporation, he had taken every step to provide every imaginable luxury for the suite. The key had been delivered to the agent later that afternoon. Therefore, the hotel staff would have no way of putting a face or identity with the fake name next to the room number on the guest database.

He quietly closed the door behind him, and walked over to the side of the bed, where the woman had lain herself erotically before him, like a gift. He took off his tie, and sat down. The woman closed, and he took her momentarily in his arms before pushing her away again.

“Wait.”

He got up and walked over to the table. Beside the leg sat a black leather briefcase. When the proxy had registered his name, he had also delivered this piece of luggage to be delivered to the room before the guest’s arrival. There was a lock on the case to prevent any snooping. He picked up the briefcase and walked over to the bed, setting it down in front of the woman. He turned the dials, and the locks on the case sprung open. Gingerly, he lifted the lid, revealing a syringe, a set of needles, a small silver spoon, and a small plastic bag all nestled in black foam.

The woman looked at the contents of the case and her eyes lit up. The disgruntled employee had also informed GIIS that the target was a dope fiend, among other things. She sat up as he removed the spoon and the bag, pouring a small amount of the contents into it, and produced a lighter. He held the lighter beneath the spoon as the woman prepared the syringe, drawing the liquid in through the needle. The man took the needle as the woman took off his belt and wrapped it tightly around her arm. He pressed the tip of the needle softly against her flesh before forcing it into a bulging vein. He depressed the plunger, and the liquid flowed into her bloodstream.She gasped and smiled, looking at the man.

Suddenly her eyes bulged, and her mouth opened. She began to gasp, not in bliss this time, but in struggle, fighting for air. She clasped at her throat, then at her chest as she slowly turned a bluish color. The man smiled softly at her as she tried to call to him for help. He raised his finger to his lips.

“Shhh.”

He took the bag of powder and placed it in his pocket. From the rest of the paraphernalia, it would never be known that there was something else in the heroin that killed the woman, something dark and sinister that stopped her heart. It would look like anyone’s average overdose, nothing more, nothing less. The man folded and locked the briefcase and started towards the door. He stopped, remembering something. He turned back to the woman, now convulsing violently on the bed. He produced a small digital camera from his coat pocket and aimed the lens at the victim. She fell still as the telltale ‘click’ captured her image for eternity.

Producing a PDA and a cable, he set the camera on the table and connected it to the handheld computer. He then proceeded to upload the image of the dead woman to the higher authorities. Soon it would be in the hands of the Freudotopian government, and he would receive his wire transfer. Taking a last look at the woman, he pocketed his gear and picked up the briefcase. As he was walking through the door he realized something. He had enjoyed it.

encrypting…

transmitting…

Official Imperial Communique

To: Emperor Saul Hudson of Freudotopia
From: Mr. Black

Target: Isabella Romeo

Status: Terminated

-end transmission-

"Howdy folks." says the man in the cowboy hat "Dinamite Dave McGillicutty here, president of McGillistan.... the rootinest tootinest sixgun shootinest land north, east, south or west of the Pecos.

"Now I understand you got all kinds of varmints, scallywags, java slingers and dudes with tin horn soundin names runnin loose and I also hear you're payin cash money for some fellas to come and rid the place of said undesirables.

"Well in McGillistan, our motto is shoot first, shot second, shoot some more and if theres anything left, ask a few questions. We certainly don't intend to get shot for a lack of shootin back.

"So if you need some varmint plugged and you're willing to pay the freight, I'm yer man. They don't call me Dinamite fer nothin.

"You can expect a posse of my crack Rangers to arrive there forthwith. And I'll expect those greenbacks on my desk soon after :sniper:

"Howdy folks." says the man in the cowboy hat "Dinamite Dave McGillicutty here, president of McGillistan.... the rootinest tootinest sixgun shootinest land north, east, south or west of the Pecos.

"Now I understand you got all kinds of varmints, scallywags, java slingers and dudes with tin horn soundin names runnin loose and I also hear you're payin cash money for some fellas to come and rid the place of said undesirables.

"Well in McGillistan, our motto is shoot first, shot second, shoot some more and if theres anything left, ask a few questions. We certainly don't intend to get shot for a lack of shootin back.

"So if you need some varmint plugged and you're willing to pay the freight, I'm yer man. They don't call me Dinamite fer nothin.

"You can expect a posse of my crack Rangers to arrive there forthwith. And I'll expect those greenbacks on my desk soon after :sniper:

Dear Sir,
While your exuberance is admirable, you and your "posse" are not what we'd call covert operations material. You seem to have no capacity for subtlety whatsoever. Therefore, I must deny you entrance into my country. Do not test me on this point.
Respectfully,
Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

OOC: Translation: Go away, son. I don't need a newbie on his very first RP coming in here and mucking things up. I have no quarrel with you, but get lost. Find a thread more your speed.

OOC: we will targert tyrone willis nelson

OOC: Sorry dude, but The Warmaster beat you to it. You can get someone on the next list though. Stay cool.

Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to tell everyone that unless two people claim the same target at or near the same time, I'll just assume that you know who the rightful claimant is, just like Warmaster did when GE claimed his target earlier.

GODSPEED

OOC: Sorry this is so late, but the pure sexiness of GE's post knocked me unconscious for two days.

IC:
Congratulations, Gentlemen.
Your elimination of Isabella Romero went better than I could have hoped. Your creativeness and discretion are much appreciated. Your fee has been wired to offshore account 34980-994-114363-12a of the Freudotopian National Bank. You will wait 36 hours to withdraw or transfer it. Feel free to continue to operate in Durthmont in any capacity you believe will enhance your future ability to identify, track, and eliminate targets.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

OOC:
Okay fellas, it's very simple. Follow GE's example, write your own RP if you've chosen a target, and report on their death. You don't need any approval from me to take out your target, it's assumed you can begin whenever unless I tell you otherwise. Don't succumb to laziness, or this thread will be over before it even begins. Which would be unfortunate.

--Secure Transmission:
--Encryption Beta-6-A
--Data Converted
--Begin File Drop

TARGET PROFILE
Target 5
Contractor: Generic Empire
Reward: $10000 USD
Priority: Medium

Name: Evander Isenheim
Known Aliases: "Sour Kraut"
Occupation: Unemployed
Place of Residence: 244 Durthmont Quays
Wanted for: Smuggling, Racketeering, Conspiracy to Commit Murder, Income Tax Evasion
Notes:

Former boxer, decided to throw in the towel eight years ago and become a gun-runner. Since the escape, he's been very busy. He bought a large warehouse in the Quays and has been received several large shipments from the vessel Buffalo Sanity. We suspect these shipments are arms from the Ismerian Cartel, but have no proof as of yet. We do know that the registration of the ship has been mysteriously altered to conveniently omit the name of the owner. Durthmont is ostensibly the ship's home port, so we see no reason it should be making deliveries there. At this time, the warehouse is stocked with an estimated 5,000 firearms and one metric ton of ammunition. This is not a low-scale operation. Someone is arming a large group of people in Freudotopia, and we want to know who. Obviously Isenheim is just one link in the chain, and we need the name of the next link. The man has an uncanny ability to sense a rat, so an informer is out of the question. You won't be able to get close to him; don't even try. This mission will have to be carried out by your covert assault forces. Your first objectives are to infiltrate the ship during unloading of the next shipment (0300 hours tomorrow), ascertain the content of the shipment, and plant explosives throughout the vessel. Any collateral damage is acceptable, because most of the crew are escapees themselves. Your next objective is to enter the warehouse, find Isenheim, and neutralize his accomplices using any means you deem fit. Find who his boss is, and eliminate Isenheim. Verify his identity for our records, and set explosives in the warehouse.

You are NOT to trigger any of the explosives until all other objectives have been completed. Once you are clear of the area, you are authorized to destroy the warehouse and vessel simultaneously. All your objectives must be completed under cover of darkness. Your team is not to exceed ten men.

IF YOUR TEAM IS COMPROMISED, FREUDOTOPIA WILL DESTROY ALL INTELLIGENCE REGARDING OPERATION: UNDERTAKER.


--File Drop Complete
--Tap Search: Running
--Line Clean
--Ending Transmission

-trace sweep: initiated
-trace sweep: complete
-please enter preliminary access codes
-4758201278193-192837460294425
-access codes confirmed
-initiating decryption sequence…
-decryption sequence initiated
-acquiring cipher definition
-definition acquired: Beta-6-A
-applying pad
-process: 15%
-process: 35%
-process: 67%
-decryption complete
-uploading file: Evander Isenheim
-transfer complete
-/command: open direct channel
-opening direct channel

-Good evening, Major Kirkov. Mr. Black sends his compliments.
-Instructions?
-The usual, Major. Sneak, stalk, sap, silence.
-ROE?
-None. All targets are presumed hostile.
-Support?
-Two teams. We’ll be keeping an eye on you. Relay status after completion of objective 2, and we’ll send in the cavalry to take him down.
-Projected enemy force strength?
-Anywhere from 50-50,000, Major. Be on your toes. Better get going. We don’t have all night.
-Confirmed.
-We’ll be in touch.

-/command: terminate direct channel
-direct channel closed

---------

The night was completely black. Thick clouds obscured the moon and stars, leaving only the electric lanterns to spread their eerie yellow glow over the Durthmont dockyards. The black waters quietly lapped against the stone sides of the long pier, and a slight breeze blew westward from the cold expanses of frozen Alberia. Any good sailor could tell that there was a storm brewing, but tonight, squall or not, there was business to attend to.

Under cover of this gloomy calm, the shadowy figures went about their clandestine business under the looming presence of a massive vessel, a freighter extending several hundred yards down the length of the dock. The name on the stern of the vessel read Buffalo Sanity. Hushed voices drifted over the loading yard as the workers scurried about, scrambling up the loading ramps on foot or in forklifts, carrying large crates from the belly of the vessel into an enormous warehouse situated nearby. Two huge loading cranes towered beside the freighter, occasionally hoisting massive containers into the air and setting them down on the dock platform. There was an air of muffled urgency about this entire business, and there was a palpably unwholesome air sitting over it all. But these dockworkers were not the only ones moving about on this shadowy black evening.

The wraith slowly, silently climbed onto the pier, allowing the shadows to obscure his movement. He was invisible, clad all in black, his face covered save for his eyes, which peered through a pair of night vision goggles, observing the movement of the others, so like ants in their quiet urgency. He slinked towards a stack of metal containers, and pressed his back against them. He removed a small black PDA from his waist, the screen glowing bluish-green.

-I’m in.
-Confirmed, Major. Tactical teams are in place, and waiting for your call. Proceed to objective one.
-Affirmative.

The screen went black, and he reattached the device to his waist. He removed a compact, silent assault rifle from his back, and unfolded the stock, placing it firmly against his shoulder. He slowly peered around the corner of the boxes. There was a gangway about 100 yards away, but two men armed with AK-47s stood to either side of it. It was a no-go on that entry point.

He checked his second option, the massive loading crane

He moved towards the opposite side of the stack of containers. A few feet away a man stood leaning against the side of a forklift, an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. He had rolled his balaclava up over his mouth to allow him to place a cigarette between his lips. He raised a lighter and took a draw. A puff of smoke flowed over his lips, and drifted to encircle his head. A second forklift pulled up in front of the first, and the Wraith listened as the driver spoke.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing? Josef’ll have your ass if he catches you fucking around like that! Put that out and get your ass down to the pier. Go!”

The man scowled as the forklift drove off. Dropping his cigarette to the ground, and crushing it with his boot, he climbed into the front seat of the forklift, unaware of the wraith that had secured himself on the back of the vehicle. The man started the engine and drove off towards the gangplank, his passenger invisibly clinging to the back.

As the truck passed the base of a massive loading crane, the wraith jumped off the back, and moved into the shadow of the huge machine. He looked up to catch a lift disappearing into the distant cabin. He moved to the bottom of the elevator shaft, and located the call panel consisting of a single large red button. He pressed it, and he heard the gears begin to grind as the lift platform reappeared and slowly made its way to the bottom. Checking to see that no one was watching, the wraith boarded the lift and quickly sent it skyward.

As it approached the cabin, he drew a silenced pistol from a hip holster, and crouched low. The lift entered the brightly lit cabin, and the wraith saw a man standing at the control panels, his back turned.

The wraith replaced the gun, and drew a gleaming combat knife from an ankle sheath. The crane’s operator spoke, hearing the wraith’s footsteps, but not turning around to see his impending demise.

“S’alright buddy. You can get lost. My shift just started, so it’ll be another hour ‘fore you’re needed fro anything.”

The wraith continued towards his victim. The man turned, aggravated at the lack of response.

“I told yo-“

The wraith closed, forcing a black gloved hand over the wide eyed man’s mouth, and raising the knife before plunging it into his neck. Blood spurted from a severed jugular, and the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. The wraith let the man’s body slump onto the blood spattered metal floor.

He wiped his weapon on the dead operator’s clothes, and moved over to the operating panel. He maneuvered the crane slightly, adjusting it so that the cable dangled just over the deck directly behind the bridge, before moving towards the door that led to the catwalk surrounding the cabin. He moved carefully to the front exterior of the cabin, to where the arm of the crane protruded out over the hundred foot drop.

Unfazed, he put his foot on the first rail of the arm, and began walking towards the tip, many meters away. Reaching the end of the harrowing traverse, he crouched, and swung himself under the arm like an acrobat, grabbing hold of the thick black cable. The bristled exterior of his gloves allowed him to grasp the cable, and he moved slowly down towards the deck, masked as a black figure against a black sky.

He reached the hook at the end of the cable, and made the three foot leap to the deck. Again he drew his silent sidearm, and crept towards the metal exterior of the protrusion that housed the vessel’s bridge. He slid along the length of the wall, and peered around the corner. There was a door, unguarded, and slightly open.

The lighting was dim, but present, making careful movement as much a priority as ever. He moved down the steps into the hall, taking a detour into an empty side room, apparently a crewman’s bunk. He leaned against the wall, holstered his gun, and removed the PDA once again.

-/access: map: Deck 1

A map of the vessel flashed onto the screen. He sheathed the small computer, and drew his gun before moving back into the corridor. Ahead of him was another stairwell, one that would presumable take him all the way down to the storage areas. It was a back stairwell, and as the crew and dockworkers had large quantities of heavy cargo and bulky crates to unload, they would be primarily using the vessel’s cargo lifts, leaving stairs like these more or less ignored. He took a deep breath and proceeded down, into the dark depths of the ship.

He came out in a large area, obviously the main cargo hold. The gloom here was thick like velvet cloth, and the air was thick, though not humid. Enormous stacks of crates of all shapes and sized lined the walls and covered the metal floor, leaving only a few thoroughfares for crew movement. The vessel’s unloading personnel had not yet begun unloading this portion of the hold, and security here was limited to a few soldiers idling about, smoking and conversing with one another. The possibility of someone infiltrating this far into the ship was absurd with the level of security in the portion of the docks where the Buffalo Sanity lay in harbor.

There was a structure separating this portion of the forward cargo hold from the others that looked a bit like a smaller version of an aircraft control tower, sporting several miniature loading cranes sticking off the top, hanging out over the sea of containers. The Wraith navigated his way to the base of this structure, and up the wrought iron stairs towards the hatch leading into the enclosed ‘cabin’. The hatch was open, and he could here a few voices coming from the room inside. He listened.

“Goddamnit! What’s with this fucking heat? Doesn’t this thing have air-conditioning.”

“Grow some balls and quit whining about it. We’re only here for a few hours until they get the merchandise unloaded.”

“Yeah, but fuck knows how long that’s gonna take with these lazy assholes. Fuck, that’s it. I’m going up for some air.”

“Like Hell you are! If Josef says stay here and watch the shit, you’re gonna stay here and watch the shit.”

“Fuck Josef! Fucking loudmouth Generian’s never done any good for anybody. Fuck traitors! I don’t see why the boss trusts him in the first place.”

The wraith’s ears pricked at this last bit.

“Yeah, well I’d can that shit right now, cuz here he comes.”

Down below, three men entered this area of the hold. If one of them was indeed ‘Josef’, then whatever business was about to be transacted, Mr. Black would want details on.

The wraith swung himself over the rail, and leapt onto the top of a stack of crates hidden in shadow. One of the men, wearing a white hat and an anchor insignia of a merchant marine captain, led the other two towards the stack of crates upon which the wraith perched, catlike in the darkness. The largest of the men was clad in pristine green fatigues. He sported a thick red beard and a pair of dark sunglasses, despite the gloom. The wraith tried to get a look at the insignia on the arm of the man’s uniform. What he saw was shocking. The mark of a colonel in the Imperial Generian army.

The Captain addressed this military man.

“I can assure you that Mr. Isenheim will be very pleased, Colonel Karenin.

The captain called to the third man, another grunt packing an AK-47, who walked over and hefted a long thin metal box on top of an out of place wooden table. He placed his fingers on the latches, and flipped them up. He lifted the metal lid, revealing a brand new M-27 assault rifle.

“20,000 of these, as you ordered, colonel.”

The colonel’s eyes lit up. He moved towards the box with an almost animal lust in his eye, checking himself before reaching for the gun.

“May I?”

“Be my guest. A friend of Mr. Isenheim is a friend of mine.”

The colonel lifted the gun out of the box, and placed the stock against his shoulder, aiming it around the room. He gingerly placed it back into its foam casing, and turned to the Captain.

“Excellent. And everything else?”

“All here. 1,500 GIR-37s, 2,000 RPG-22s, 400 Stinger surface to air missile launchers, 6 ZSU anti-aircraft cannon, 2 GH-2 gunships in pieces, 4 ST-29 main battle tanks, and enough ammo to wage a four year war.”

“Excellent. Mr. Isenheim will be understandably pleased.”

“I am certain he will. Now, regarding payment?”

“A standard wire transfer has been arranged. Yuri!”

The Wraith was awestruck. These were not the AK-47s of yesteryear. The list he had just heard consisted of top of the line, first world military grade equipment. Front line weaponry capable of causing destruction on an epic scale.

The soldier removed a black case from where it hung on a strap over his shoulder, and set it on the table, removing and unfolding a laptop computer. The wraith, meanwhile, climbed down to the floor, and quietly moved around to the cover of a stack of boxes behind the table. He removed a small digital camera and trained it on the computer screen. He snapped a digital photograph as the officer finished typing in the account code. The officer finished the transfer and closed the laptop, allowing the soldier to fold it and place it back inside the black case. The captain and the Generian officer shook hands.

“Congratulations. You’re now a very rich man.”

“There’s still a good deal of time before they finish unloading. Perhaps you’d enjoy a drink?”

“I don’t see why not. My work here is done.”

“Excellent. I have an excellent scotch sitting unopened in my cabin.”


The wraith leaned back against the stack of crates, and removed his PDA as the three men departed.

-/command: establish direct channel
-direct channel established

-We’ve got problems. I’ve verified the shipment.
-What is it?
-Guns. Lots of them.
-Model?
-M-27s, GIR-37s, RPG-22s, Stingers, ZSUs, GH-2s, ST-29s
-Holy Mary on a bicycle!
-There’s more. I just watched a Generian officer accept the shipment on behalf of our friend “Sour Kraut”.
-Name?
-Colonel Josef Karenin.
-Alright, we just ran a search on him. You’ve got a new objective. You have to take him out. If you can, pump him for information first, but don’t let him leave that vessel. We also checked out the vessel’s last registered Captain. A certain George Folger. This guy’s official slate is clean, meaning they probably hacked the files, but from what we dug up, he’s got a record as long as my cock, and that’s long. Consider him a target of opportunity. If we’re lucky we can squeeze a bonus out of the Freudotopian government for his termination.
-And what do I get for our boy the Colonel?
-That one’s for crown and country.
-I was afraid of that.

-/command: terminate direct channel
-direct channel closed

((OOC: To be concluded.))

OOC: HOLY SHIT! That post just ruined everyone with an iron fist! No one can stand up to a post of that much manliness! ARGGGGGH!

Anyway, I hope this makes you lazy bastards get up off your hunkers and rock the shit out of this thread, as GE's currently doing. He's basically had sex with all of your girlfriends by virtue of his sheer awesomeness. I bow in deference to him.

WELL DONE, COMMODORE!

By the by, the thread's starting up in earnest, and the storyline is unfolding nicely, so get in now if you want to get in at all. New post from me coming soon, to reveal some more of the story.

Godspeed.

OCC: Wait till you see what I can whip up-That is, when I have the chance to whip it up. I'm extremely busy, but I'll be able to fit in the time tomarrow.

Huzzah!

Secret IC:

Would you allow me to send 20 SAVAK agents to take care of the criminals? I guarantee we will put a message across.

-Shah Khosru III

OCC: Wait till you see what I can whip up-That is, when I have the chance to whip it up. I'm extremely busy, but I'll be able to fit in the time tomarrow.

Huzzah!

OOC: AWESOME! Dude, I can't wait. Once we get people participating, this thread is gonna ROCK! Me and GE have been planning this shit out in RL, and this baby is gonna be a grade-A mindfuck.

Also, I'll start writing individual threads for the nations that have completed their first assignment, and another list of preliminary targets for those who missed out on the first four and still want to get in (Christoniac, Parthia, etc.) Once you post your first RP, I'll get started on a post for you. THAT GOES FOR EVERYBODY.

You, sir, are a genius.

Secret IC:

Would you allow me to send 20 SAVAK agents to take care of the criminals? I guarantee we will put a message across.

-Shah Khosru III

I would indeed, O Shah, for their strength is renowned and their secrecy legendary.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

OOC: I'll lay it out simple for ya.

1. Many criminals escaped.
2. You hunt them down and get paid.
3. Once you've wasted the first target, you can go after individual assignments that I'll write.
4. The criminals are suspected to be working together, and organized by a shadowy figure.
5. Freudotopia is looking for that shadowy figure, and all the individual assignments work to that end. (See the one I wrote for GE).
6. Freudotopia is actively engaged in this RP, not just a controller or spectator. (See my upcoming post).
7. Everything is to be done secretly, and nothing must ever be traced back to Freudotopia or participating nations.

Enjoy this to the utmost, Parth.

In a darkened conference room in downtown Durthmont, twenty covert assault troops gathered around a table in various stages of wakefulness, appearing on the surface to be normal people, although nothing could be further from the truth. Not a word passed their lips as they studied the open dossiers in front of them, sipping black coffee from steaming mugs. Each man in the room was a trained killer, but their talents far outshone those of any regimental soldier. Any one of them could hit a moving target from fifty yards with nearly any firearm, disarm a plastic explosive in two minutes flat, walk across a room of broken glass without making a sound, and kill a man twenty different ways with their bare hands. These men were the elite of the Freudotopian Special Services, the Epsilon Corps. For five years they had trained without respite, away from their families and friends. The result was a sophisticated, intelligent, well-oiled machine, capable of adapting to any task in the field, overcoming any obstacle, and achieving any objective with flawless teamwork.

The door opened without a sound, and the most powerful man in Freudtotopian Intelligence walked in, carrying a black briefcase. He took his seat at the head of the conference table, and placed the case in front of him. Opening it, he withdrew a CD and a laser pointer. The disc he inserted into the computer built into the table, and the screen flickered to life. In short order a projector lit up and began to flash images onto the far wall. Looking straight ahead, Archibald Smythe began to speak.

“Gentlemen, you have all read your files, and I have no doubt that you are well briefed on the unfolding situation in this city. The latest developments have been most intriguing, to say the least, and the Emperor has personally authorized a shadow operation in order to shed some light on these events. I shall endeavor to summarize the situation as completely as possible.

It has come to my attention that several operations have begun in the weeks since the breakout that bear the signs of well-prepared, pre-planned criminal enterprises. These are not operations that could be put together in a few short weeks, so I suspect some planning and coordination has taken place involving several different elements within the criminal stain. Firstly, there is a large gun-running outfit that has recently been shut down thanks to our good friends the Generians. Also, there has been a surprisingly low amount of petty street crime since the escape, which I believe is caused by a new, highly organized mob in the city, which has begun to intimidate ordinary street toughs, and begun to hire muscle to swell its own ranks. As yet we have no proof that the gun-running and the growing threat of the Ismerian Cartel in the city are conclusively linked, but I have my suspicions, which are usually correct. It must be discovered whether the guns that until recently were arriving in Durthmont by boat are being used by the Cartel, and if the weapons were sent by another branch of the syndicate.

The easiest way to gain this intelligence is to obtain it from the local head of the Cartel, Pablo Hernandez. However, he has amassed considerable support from other local gangs, and finding his whereabouts, let alone infiltrating his base of operations, will take some doing. The easiest way to lure Hernandez into the open is to eliminate his rivals, making him overconfident. Three crime bosses have openly opposed Hernandez, and he would very much appreciate their absence. He has hired a number of assassins, but the Capos are well protected, and several of these killers have already ended up in the city morgue. However, they don’t have your skills, or my cunning. Killing all three at once is the simplest way to achieve our aim, and the best way to get them together is to create the illusion that Hernandez is making a play for more power, motivating them to call a meeting. Knowing the men, it is unlikely that they will stay in one place, and I predict that they will conduct the meeting in a limousine, probably owned by the most powerful Capo, Donatello Fiorelli. Once all the Capos are in the vehicle, it becomes a simple matter of placing an explosive device under the vehicle for remote detonation. The car will undergo a thorough bomb check before it leaves the Fiorelli garage, and will be under heavy guard while the other Capos are being picked up. Therefore, we are left with one option: placing the explosive while the car is in transit.”

The tallest of the twenty soldiers, whose name patch read Sgt. Brand, raised a hand.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Sir, to place this device on the vehicle, we’d need to know its exact route.”

“Yes, Sergeant, we would. Fortunately, I already know the path the limo will take. If Fiorelli has one weakness, it’s predictability. He’s from the old school, and he likes to hold meetings in limos for two reasons: it’s harder to assassinate someone inside a moving vehicle, and he thinks that it makes it impossible to track any phone calls made during the meeting. What he doesn’t know is that we’ve been able to triangulate moving cell phone signatures for years, it just wasn’t made public. Because of this, we’ve been able to track several similar trips he’s taken over the past few months, and the route is always the same. He travels over one particularly useful stretch of Main Street that has a manhole directly in the middle of the center lane, ten feet away from the stoplight. I think from there it becomes child’s play. We simply track his car via spy satellite, and when he turns onto main street, take control of the city’s streetlight grid via computer. The police already have this capability, so that task is the simplest. We also prearrange for the chosen demolitions expert to be positioned directly under this manhole cover with some sort of limpet mine; I’ll leave the specifics to you. At the chosen moment, we turn on the red light so that Fiorelli’s is the first car in line, and the agent opens the cover, places the explosive, and arms the detonator. The light changes, and the car moves on. The next phase is the simplest. From Main Street, Fiorelli will go north on Blake Avenue until he reaches the edge of town and the service ramps onto Route 43. There is a series of dirt roads that wind through the woods on the north side of Durthmont. These roads eventually intersect with Vermosa Avenue, which passes through the docks. However, Fiorelli will not get to Vermosa Avenue. While he’s in transit through the woods, we will destroy the vehicle and its occupants. Is the strategy clear?”

A chorus of voices answered, “Yes, Sir!”

“Good. Then I’ll let your C.O. take over from here.”

Switching off the projector, which had been displaying the route Fiorelli’s limo would take, Smythe packed up his briefcase, stood, and with a brisk nod to the assembled soldiers, left the room.

Corporal Ulysses Ericsson, the team’s commanding officer, gave a slight cough and addressed his men.

“Alright, gentlemen, this mission is simple enough. Brand, you’ll be the demo man, and Ferguson flips the switch. Michaels, you’re controlling the lights. I’ll be on the scene with Ferguson and Michaels. We’ll be in a van parked on Main Street. You’ve got your assignments, so lets move with a purpose. We meet in the garage at 1330 hours. Bring all the gear you’ll need.”

With a murmur of approval, the men moved off. Sergeant Brand walked to the elevators, and after a short trip down, he emerged in to the well-lit hallway leading to the armory. As he picked out an explosive powerful enough to demolish an entire limousine and its occupants, he hummed the Third Movement of Beethoven’s Ninth. A demolitions expert for a clandestine fighting outfit didn’t often have time to pursue many other hobbies, but Brand was an intellectual who had studied Chemistry at the Halford Institute of Science. He selected a five kilogram case of RDX, an explosive ten times more powerful than nitroglycerin, pound for pound. Smiling grimly, he removed a mercury switch and low-frequency remote detonator from their cases, and sat down at the workbench to assemble his deadly package.

Sergeants Ferguson and Michaels walked to the computers room of the building, and quickly picked out a Freudosoft Redtooth-equipped laptop with wireless internet, the consummate hacker’s best friend. With a very powerful processor, the laptop was fast, compact, and well-suited for missions where portability was required. Since he had access to all the access codes of the Durthmont City Grid Center, the hack would be simple and fast. Satisfied with his choice, Michaels left, and Ferguson followed on his heels.

Corporal Ericsson took the elevator straight down to the parking garage, and, fishing a set of keys from the pocket of his military fatigues, he opened the driver’s door of an white van, equipped for surveillance, with tinted windows and an upgraded engine. The license plates were fake, and in fact had been specially designed to lead any onlookers on a wild goose chase that was theoretically infinite, making a trace of the registration impossible. Starting the engine, he cast an experienced eye over the dials. Satisfied that the van had a full tank of fuel, he settled into the seat to wait for his comrades. He did not wait long, and within twenty minutes he was joined by Brand, Michaels, and Ferguson. Gunning the engine, he sped off.

“This mission is not the best assignment that I’ve ever had, based on this plan,” remarked Brand, seated in the rear of the van. He had been poring over a map of the city’s sewers, and it was apparent that he would have to walk through five hundred yards of sewage before getting into position under the manhole.

“Not important, Brand. Do your job.”

“Of course, Fearless Leader.”

“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes, sir.”

The van turned up an alley and parked by the side of a condemned pool house. Brand jumped out of the rear door and produced a large wrench. As he set to work on removing the manhole cover, the van drove away, bound for Main Street.

On the main drag, Michaels got out to fill up the parking meter, and Ferguson prepared the bomb detonator and booted up the laptop.

Five minutes later, Michaels turned to Ericsson. “OK, Boss. We’ve got one black limousine turning on to Main Street; it’ll be at the stoplight in thirty seconds.”

“Alright, son, you’ve got the green light to force a red light.”

“Cute. OK, I’m in. Light is red...now.”

“Well done, Sergeant. That limo could not be in a better spot. Now all Brand has to do is pop the lid, place the bomb, and hightail it the hell out of there.” He spoke into the radio: “Alright, Brand, the target is sitting on your head. Give it the present and then leave this party.”

Directly underneath Fiorelli’s limousine, Brand pushed the manhole cover up and to the side, and reached the package of RDX up through the hole. Placing it between the exhaust pipe and the chassis, he armed it and disappeared down the hole like a rabbit with its tail on fire. Replacing the cover, he descended the ladder.

“Alright, boys, the package is onboard. Michaels, let those people get the light for once.”

“Righto, Fearless Leader.”

“Shut up.”

As the limo pulled away, Michaels, tapped into the satellite feed, watched as it headed north, directly on the predicted route. Ferguson looked on, and awaited the command from his leader.

“OK, Ferg, blow that sucker to hell as soon as Michaels gives you the nod.”

As Michaels watched the car turn onto the remote dirt roads, and gave Ferguson a curt nod. Ferguson activated the remote detonator, watched as the signal lights all checked out green, and pushed the red button. Melodramatic, but effective.

Stirring up a cloud of dust, and bouncing on the unpaved roads, the limousine was alone, with no other vehicles for miles, and surrounded by nothing but trees. As the detonation signal was sent, the small, almost innocent looking box sparked, and five kilograms of RDX were ignited. The resulting explosion blew a column of fire straight through the passenger compartment, instantly killing the occupants. The doors were blown out, and the engine block was turned to slag in a millisecond. The chassis was charred and twisted beyond recognition, and the car flipped onto its side, crumpled by the force of the blast. A split second later, the fuel tank was breached, and the secondary explosion of gasoline blew the car apart, scattering the wreckage in every direction. One hubcap, reduced to a ball of steel, slammed into an oak tree, smashing the trunk to splinters.

“Well, that was quite an explosion,” said Sergeant Michaels, back in the van.

“Ever the master of understatement, aren’t you?” retorted Ferguson.

“Well, when you can see an explosion level about twenty meters of oak forest in every direction from a satellite miles above the earth, I’d have to say I’m impressed. That’s my kind of destruction. Remind me to give Brand that box of cigars we took from that Bormanian terrorist.”

“Damn straight. The man knows his stuff.”

The van moved off to the old pool house to pick up Brand. An hour later, the four men pulled into the parking garage, Ericsson killed the engine, and all of them headed for the elevator and debriefing.

A message to Freudotopia...

Sel Herrmic, Dictator of CrossFire Land, would like to know if any of the criminals could be kept alive to be added to the CrossFire Land military? Crossfire Land would be able to use them for defending it's country. Though, if they resist to much, they would of course be killed. Its just a small request, as the people of Crossfire land should not deserve to be in the military, only those who don't deserve to live good lives. The reason is because of Herrmic's selections, the ones who will train the soldiers and watch over them are extremely harsh and its fate worse then death for the soldiers.

Colonel Josef Karenin threw his head back and drained the glass of scotch. He slammed the glass back down onto the table, and belched loudly.

“So how does it feel to be a rich man, Folger?”

“I could get used to it.”

The Colonel poured himself a new glass of scotch. He drained this one in similar fashion and let loose a hearty laugh.

“That’s the attitude. We could use more greedy sons of bitches like you. You know, the cartel’s always looking for new Captains to keep the shipments moving. The pay’s always good, and you can have carte blanche at half the whorehouses in thirty cities.”

“Only half?”

“The other half’s reserved for me.”

Outside the door, the armed peon from before slouched against the wall, fumbling with a rusty lighter. He struck it, but the spark exuded no flame.

“Son of a bitch.”

He reached into his pocket for a match, but in doing so, dropped the lighter onto the ground. As he bent over to pick it up, a handful of coins poured out of his pocket and rolled all over the metal floor.

“Fuck it all!”

He scrambled to pick up the change, cursing loudly all the while. His aggravated swearing masked the soft sound of a falling object behind him.

“Come on you little bastard. There! Gotcha!”

He stood and stared triumphantly at the change before placing it in his coat pocket. He removed another cigarette and placed it in his mouth, before digging around in his pocket for a match. He raised his foot and struck it against his shoe, but it wouldn’t light. He struck it again, to get the same result.

“Fuck!”

A voice came from behind him.

“Need a light?”

“Yeah sur-“

The man’s eyes widened, and he swallowed heavily as a large gloved hand pressed itself over his mouth. A second hand landed on the back of his head, and twisted abruptly to the side. The loud crack of the man’s snapping neck resounded around the short corridor.

The Wraith caught the limp body, and allowed it to quietly slump to the floor. As he did so, the change spilled out of the man’s pocket once again. The Wraith bent down and picked up a quarter as it rolled by his feet. He pocketed the change and walked towards the door of the Captain’s cabin, fingering the holster of his pistol.


The Colonel grabbed the bottle off the table and put it to his lips, taking a long draught. His demeanor changed suddenly, and a scowl set on his face.

“I’d take that over this fucking job any day of the week. Running errands for that fucker on the top floor. I’m a soldier, not a fucking messenger boy!”

He slammed the bottle onto the table.

“Someday that bastard’s going to get his,” he muttered under his breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a piss.”

Folger, the Captain of the vessel, leaned back in his chair, and drained his own glass. He allowed himself to smile genuinely for the first time all night as he contemplated how he would spend his newfound fortune. He poured himself another glass and raised it to his lips. The fiery liquor began to flow down his throat just as the door burst open. He was still half-grinning when the silent bullet buried itself between his eyes.

The Wraith trained his silenced pistol around the room, lowering it slightly before walking over to the slumped form of the Captain. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. He reached down, and lifted the head of the dead Folger off of the table.

Colonel Karenin buttoned his pants and walked over to the sink. As the tap ran, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, which hung at a crazy angle. He ran his fingers through his beard as he considered what he would look like after shaving it off.

“Hrumph!”

He grunted as he dismissed the though, and ran his hands quickly under the water. He turned off the tap, and walked towards the door, turning the handle. He leaned against the thin steel frame, and it fell forward, sending him stumbling. He stopped himself before falling flat, and placing his hand on his temple, he shook his head back and forth to get his bearings. The man looked up to find himself staring directly into the long barrel of a gun.

Alarmed, the Colonel went for his two trusty shootin’ irons that always hung at his waist. He was shocked to find nothing. The man with the gun held a brown leather belt up before Karenin’s eyes. Sitting in the brown holsters on either end of the belt were two pristine stainless steel revolvers. Karenin suddenly remembered and instantly regretted removing the holsters when he sat down.

His eyes roved from the barrel into the face of the man who had accosted him. Suffice to say there wasn’t much to look at, seeing as his head was covered in black cloth. A single green night vision lens stared straight at Karenin, and he averted his eyes, only to have them land on the slumped figure of the Captain. His head had been turned somewhat, so the bullet wound between his eyes was clearly visible. Karenin decided it was best to keep his eyes on the gun, and did so.

“Hello, Josef.”

“Wh-who the fuck are you?”

“I should be asking you that.”

Karenin arched his back, and stood to his full height in an attempt to intimidate this masked cavalier. However, his trembling hands undermined his efforts.

“I am Colonel Josef Karenin of the fifth Imperial Mobile Rifle Division, and unless you lower that gun, I will be forced to call upon the full might of the Generian government to destroy you, and everything you hold dear.”

The Wraith chuckled.

He has no fucking idea.

“Actualy, Colonel, that’s my line. Why don’t you come over here and have a seat.”

The Colonel tried to stand even taller, sucking in his stomach and throwing out his chest.

“I am warning you! In the name of Generia! Stand aside!”

The Wraith aimed the pistol over the Colonel’s shoulder and fired a shot right past his ear. The colonel jumped, and fell to his knees with his hands over his head.

“Get up.”

The Colonel touched the back of his head, making sure there were no entry wounds, before slowly getting to his feet. The Wraith, still training the gun, upset an overturned chair, and gestured for the Colonel to sit down. Karenin slinked over and took a seat, still watching the muzzle of the firearm. The Wraith remained standing.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, Colonel. What would make a good Generian soldier like yourself go over to a gang of thugs like these guys?”

The Wraith gestured at the dead Captain.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life, no, wait, I mean I was being held prisoner. Yes! I was captured, and they were holding me for information. Thank you for rescuing me!”

Karenin moved to get to his feet.

“Not so fast.”

The Wraith straightened the arm training the gun on the Colonel’s forehead. Karenin collapsed back into the chair.

“I guess we need to get a few things straight first. Rule number one: you tell me the truth, or I hurt you. Rule number two: truth, or I hurt you. Rule number three is the same as the first two. Comprende?”

“Yeah.”

“So back to question one. Why did you turn?”

Karenin hesitated a bit. He was visibly embarrassed.

“Money.”

The Wraith nodded knowingly.

“I would have guessed as much. Even the best officers are open to a little bribery, and you certainly weren’t the best officer. From what I see you bought your way into your rank.”

Karenin’s pride had just been cut into, and he straightened in his seat.

“Sir! You can stand there pointing that gun at me all you want, but when you start insul-!”

The Wraith pressed the muzzle directly onto Karenin’s forehead, and he closed his mouth.

“Forgot rule number four: unless I address you, you shut the fuck up or I’ll hurt you.”

The colonel swallowed loudly as the Wraith removed the gun.

“So you turned for money. How much?”

Karenin was a fast learner, and he answered this time with shame, but no hesitation.

“Seven-million dollars.”

“Seven-million? Karenin, I’m disappointed in you. That’s chump change. I suppose your pride comes cheap, though. But back to matters. What exactly did they have you doing, and by ‘they’ I mean Mr. Isenheim.”

“I was his administrative assistant more or less, except for a few instances when he had me run some larger operations in the field.”

“Such as?”

“Overseeing major arms deals mostly. Nothing ever terribly difficult. Bastard never trusted me, anyway…”

“Oh, but who would trust a two-faced cocksucker like you anyway?”

Karenin started at this insult, but controlled himself.

“Who was working with you back in the Empire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, surely you must have had accomplices in getting over the border. Your position gave you a lot of contacts, and knowing the company you kept, they wouldn’t be fast to desert their ‘friend’ when he had so recently come into such wealth.”

“There was no one. Isenheim’s people alone helped me to get out of the country. They took care of the paperwork.”

“Fascinating. How would they have known what documents they needed, and how to forge them?”

“Isenheim had a lot of friends. People who would know things like that.”

“So you’re saying there were other Generians, probably people you knew and worked with.”

Karenin suddenly realized he had made a dreadful mistake.

“No! I mean of course not. I was the only one.”

“I told you Karenin before we started this that you were going to follow the rules, or I was going to hurt you. You must have a very short memory.”

The Wraith leveled the pistol at the Colonel’s head. Karenin’s eyes widened, and he jumped out of his chair to his feet.

“No! I swear to God! I swear to Go-“

The Wraith pulled the trigger, and a few drops of blood spattered across his glove. Karenin toppled over to the floor, a bullet in his brain.

The Wraith holstered his pistol, and removed the digital camera. He snapped a photo of both Folger and Karenin, before taking a seat in a chair beside the one Karenin had been sitting in, and removing his PDA.

-uploading data…
-data transfer complete
-/command: open direct channel
-direct channel established

-I got him.
-So I see. You get anything out of him?
-He told me there were no other moles, but he was lying like nobody’s business.
-We figured as much. If this guy was important to Isenheim, there’ll be a file on him on Isenheim’s desktop. We’re going to need that file as the first step to finding out who this guy was working with. After you finish up on the Buffalo Sanity, get into the warehouse and find that computer. After you get his hardrive, contact us. If we begin the assault before you have the hardrive secured, chances are Isenheim will destroy it, so be quick about it.
-Confirmed. Any bonuses in this for me?
-Nope. Just for the love of the job.
-That’s usually how things go around here.
-You’re not off the vessel yet. Concentrate on that for now.
-I slapped semtex on some ammo crates in the hold, sabotaged the emergency turbines, and rigged the weak point in the hull aft of the vessel. When we blow her, she should sink like a stone, especially with all the gear she’s carrying.
-Good. Now get out of there, and move to your next objective. Careful, Kirkov. Don’t blow this now.
-/command: terminate direct channel
-direct channel terminated

The Wraith replaced the PDA, and walked out into the corridor. He grabbed the corpse of the guard, and dragged it into the room, before exiting again and closing the door. He then proceeded down the hall towards a stairwell. He carefully but quickly made his way down four flights to the deck level. A door with a bright red ‘Exit’ sign greeted him. He slowly turned the wheel and stepped out.

It had begun to rain steadily, and the sound of millions of drops of water hitting the metal deck masked his footsteps as he rushed towards the bow of the vessel. He placed his hands on the cold iron rail and looked over. It was quite a drop to the surface of the water. He checked his equipment to make sure everything was secured in place and properly covered, before climbing over the rail, and placing his feet on the narrow strip of deck, nothing between him and the 150 foot drop to the water’s surface. He removed his nightvision goggles and secured them in a sealed leather casing hanging from the belt at his waist. He did the same with his balaclava.

He allowed himself to fall forward, raindrops spattering his face as the cold wind rished past. His feet left the ledge, and he fell freely towards the dark surface of the water. He spun himself around in midair, so that his feet now aimed at the water seconds before they cut through the hard dark surface. He took a deep breath, and felt himself slam into the hard, cold sea.

((OOC: To be continued.))

A message to Freudotopia...

Sel Herrmic, Dictator of CrossFire Land, would like to know if any of the criminals could be kept alive to be added to the CrossFire Land military? Crossfire Land would be able to use them for defending it's country. Though, if they resist to much, they would of course be killed. Its just a small request, as the people of Crossfire land should not deserve to be in the military, only those who don't deserve to live good lives. The reason is because of Herrmic's selections, the ones who will train the soldiers and watch over them are extremely harsh and its fate worse then death for the soldiers.

No.

--Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

-trace sweep: initiated
-trace sweep: complete
-please enter preliminary access codes
-4758201278193-192837460294424
-access codes confirmed
-initiating decryption sequence…
-decryption sequence initiated
-acquiring cipher definition
-definition acquired: Beta-6-A
-applying pad
-process: 15%
-process: 35%
-process: 67%
-decryption complete
-uploading files: Ivan Shtashinsky, Hernan Rodriguez, Rev. Samuel F. Johnson
transfer complete
-uploading file: DEAT.exe
transfer complete
-/command: open direct channel
-opening direct channel

Gentlemen:

I have authorized the extermination of a new group of targets. You will find information concerning them below.

–Saul Hudson, Emperor of Freudotopia

TARGET PROFILE
Contractor: Open
Reward: $10000 USD
Priority: Low

Name: Ivan Shtashinsky
Known Aliases: “Angry Ivan”
Occupation: Manager, The Cliffs Casino and Hotel
Place of Residence: The Cliffs Casino and Hotel, Suite 2800
Wanted for: Money Laundering, Racketeering, Conspiracy to Commit Blackmail, Conspiracy to Defraud a Casino
Notes: Ex-Cartel boss. Smart guy, smart enough to trick and intimidate his way into becoming manager of The Cliffs. Not the most successful casino in the city, but still a valid money-maker. Of course there’s the usual suspicions of mob involvement, but nothing’s been proven...yet. We think it’s only a matter of time now. I have a theory as to how he may be best dealt with, but the final decision on manner of execution is yours. Obtain everything on all his personal computers. We know he has two in his hotel suite, and one in his office above the casino. They may contain the evidence needed to prove his mob connections, which the Durthmont Police Department definitely wants, and the evidence that he’s been skimming money off the top. Once you have this evidence, he’ll be clay in your hands. Arrange a meeting he can’t refuse, offer the incriminating evidence back for a hefty sum, and kill him. Whatever you extort from him is yours to keep, but don’t spend it in Freudotopia. Send us proof of his death, and the money will be wired immediately to your account.

TARGET PROFILE
Contractor: Open
Reward: $10000 USD
Priority: Low

Name: Hernan Rodriguez.
Known Aliases: None
Occupation: Regional Manager, Starbucks of Durthmont
Place of Residence: 1634 West H Street
Wanted for: Being in the Employ of Starbucks
Notes: Easy money. The man is a buffoon, but he knows how to make money. That said, we want his company to lose money. A lot of it. For this purpose, we have provided a strain of the computer virus DEAT.exe, designed to attack the Starbucks Accounting Division and remove money to an offshore Freudotopian account. To facilitate the installation of this virus, his secretary has recently been liquidated by members of the Epsilon Corps. Pose as an interested agent from a company that provides temp secretaries who are not above performing “favors” for a raise. Schedule a meeting with Mr. Rodriguez, kill him quietly, and install the virus on his office computer.

TARGET PROFILE
Contractor: Open
Reward: $15000 USD
Priority: Medium

Name: Rev. Samuel F. Johnson
Known Aliases: “Samson of Durthmont”
Occupation: Grand High Priest, Durthmont Church of the Holy Gathering
Place of Residence: Above location, 3220 Mendrala Drive
Wanted for: Possession of Narcotics with intent to distribute, Establishing a Religious Institution Under False Pretenses
Notes: Most of the law-abiding citizens of Durthmont know him as a kindly, quirky street preacher with ambitions of starting his own televangelist network. Not many know that he is very close to that goal, having got to that point through the sale of Heroin, PCP, Cocaine, and several other illicit substances. He intends to use his televangelist show as a way to market his drugs by using coded messages in his sermons. We have no intention of allowing this to happen. He established his phony church and made himself its only priest, giving himself a convenient avenue to more potential customers. He’s made quite a bit of money by himself in the drug business, and the Ismerian Cartel have been growing increasingly angry with him. If they knew what the FIB did, they’d try to kill him by any means possible, probably blowing up his church in the process. This animosity provides an interesting opportunity. Contact the Ismerian Cartel and offer to gather information on Johnson that they could use against him. Return to them after a few weeks with the news that he is planning on going national with his drug trade. Then just sit back and allow the extremely violent Cartel members to firebomb his church, and then call all the newspapers. Tell them that you are an informant for the Cartel, and say that he mob was getting irritated by Johnson’s actions and decided to retaliate. Conveniently leave out that he was planning to sell drugs on television, and the papers will go nuts. People love Johnson, so public sentiment will turn against the Cartel, allowing us to move more easily against them in the future.

*all target profiles compiled by Sergei Mikhael Ivanovich, FIB analyst.

-trace sweep: initiated
-trace sweep: complete
-terminating communication: done
-scrambling signal: done
-dropping line: done

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

OOC: This list is for the anybody that missed the first target list but still wants to be involved in this thread. Like before, you can eliminate the targets in any manner, but it cannot involve real covert strikes by your team. You may use them in an undercover role. Also, I’ve provided some suggestions on ways to surreptitiously kill these three, but you’re free to improvise, except for Samuel Johnson, as the method specified needs to be used for plot purposes. Go to it.

OOC:I got Rev.Samuel Johnson I'll write up asap

OOC:I got Rev.Samuel Johnson I'll write up asap

OOC: Nice, dude. I was hoping you'd be first to snag that. I look forward to your post, which I expect to be rather kick-ass.

OOC:

DAMN DAMN DAMN!

Once again, GE rules several individual shits before having sex with Lindsay Lohan--THRICE!

That post truly rocked. Some of yer best stuff yet, man, and that's saying something. On a related note, I hope to have completed my ridiculously awesome next post by tomorrow, but it kinda needs for your thread to be complete in some way shape or form. So when you're done with Lindsay, get to work on that next sweet post.

*an uber-stealth agent infiltrates this thread, and says in a menacing voice from directly behind you: "bump."*

MESSAGE INCOMING...
DECRYPTION COMPLETE
TRACEKILL INITIATED
SEARCHING...
LINE CLEAR

ENCRYPTION KEY: PGP-alpha-CHARIOT
FROM: CHARIOT High Command
TO: Subaltern Ityran of Domain Sadow
RE: Mission!

Dear Subaltern,

I have been instructed to inform you that a mission has been planned for you and your squad. You and your squad must all be at Imperial Intelligence HQ in Korronis within two days for your briefing. May the Sacred Emperor watch over you.

High Commander Krenn of clan It’chan

MESSAGE RECEIVED
TWO MINUTES TO AUTOMATIC DELETION


The room was the darkest Ityran had ever seen. Then again, knowing the Intelligence Division, the sheer cloak-and-blade of the briefing would probably drive him insane. The subaltern hated politics, and this whole mission, from what he’d heard, stank of the intendants.
“Damn bureaucrats,” he muttered to himself. Not a good idea in an Intelligence briefing room. The second he said it, the lights snapped on, dazzling him, and a man wearing the insignia of the Intelligence Division walked in. Of course, not one person in the room could have identified him; the high-ups in Intelligence treated secrecy like an eighth god. The man glanced at him expressionlessly as he took a seat, not showing him any emotion, but letting him know another outburst would not be tolerated.
“Gentlemen, I am a member of the Intelligence Division, as of course you have already noticed. I will be briefing you on your mission.
“Subaltern, you and your squad have been designated Team Alpha in the task we have designated OPERATION: CAPPUCINO. This operation is an assassination, so I hope all of you have kept up your training to some degree during your leave. The Freudotopian government has put bounties on the heads of certain employees of the Starbucks Corporation. Your target is named Tyrone Willis Nelson, living in Durthmont, and I have been provided with information on him. Corporal, if you would distribute the papers, please?” He indicated a stack of papers on the table before him and a short, stocky man stepped forward and silently gave them to the squad. Ityran read his slowly, going over every detail, all boredom gone.

Tyrone Willis Nelson
Known Aliases: None
Occupation: Janitor, Starbucks at 81st and F street.
Place of Residence: Unknown
Wanted for: Being in the employ of Starbucks, Possession of Narcotics with Intent to Distribute, Armed Robbery, Grand Theft Auto, Eighteen counts of Public Drunkenness, and Aggravated Assault and Battery.
Reward:$7500 USD
Notes:
Just like his older brother Antawn, except bigger, meaner, and smarter. He too is involved with drugs, but he also runs a chop shop somewhere in the vicinity of his place of employment. Taking a job there was just stupid, as it gave us a reference point to track his movements, and we know he isn’t living with his brother, so he must have been living at or near a “secondary” place of employment, so we did some digging and found the chop shop. Simple: take him out, and make it look like he got whacked in some macho bullshit underground confrontation. You might even set him up in one, if you’re smart. The man will know if you’re too obvious, so do try and use some subtlety here.

“As you can see, the Freudotopian government has asked that the hit be kept low-profile. He is obviously involved in the drug trade, and we have identified the ship that we believe he regularly receives his drug shipments from: the Botanist’s Folly. It ships exotic plants to Freudotopia for distribution, and it is perfectly feasible that Nelson has arranged for marijuana to be concealed among the myriad plants.
“Although killing him directly would be easier, it is not preferable; we would appreciate it if you defend Imperial reputations by following the government’s advice: set up a criminal conflict in which Nelson is killed. As it happens, the Ismerian Cartel has a presence there. Nelson and the Cartel have an uneasy truce, and it will not take much work to provoke the Ismerians into killing Nelson. I might add that we will probably get extra points with the Freudotopians, because this will force the police chief to start acting against the mob, weakening crime in Freudotopia.
“We have prepared a plan for the hit. Corporal, hand out the other sheet, please.”
The short man made his rounds of the table again, this time handing out a list of actions.

1. Team Alpha intercepts and sinks the Botanist’s Folly.
2. Nelson, interpreting this as a warning from the Cartel, beefs up his security and increases police bribes.
3. The Cartel, interpreting this as a threat of action, and angry at being blamed for bombing, does the same.
4. Negotiators for the two meet.
5. The Ismerian negotiator’s car is bombed by Team Alpha, killing him; Nelson is blamed.
6. Ismerians bomb the Starbucks where he works, but misses him; Team Alpha tips him off.
9. Police chief desperately raids the Cartel and imprisons Nelson and many Ismerians.
10. A member of Team Alpha disguised as a Cartel employee disguised as a guard shoots Nelson
11. Police crackdown on Cartel in Durthmont.
“We have studied both parties carefully, and we are certain that except in the case of an error on the part of Team Alpha, the plan will work perfectly. You have been well trained, and we are sure you will perform your task adroitly. Any questions? No? Dismissed.”
They got up and filed out of the room, barely containing their excitement. They would be the first Warmaster unit ever sent on an assassination outside the country. Ityran shook his head and glared at anybody whose gaze he could draw, trying to remind them that this, like all hits, would be more difficult than anything his squad had ever faced in training.


Two weeks later...

The foghorn blared through the mist as the massive cargo ship Botanist’s Folly cut through the icy seas, her bow dipping up and down as the waves tossed it playfully. Ityran, dressed in the engineer’s outfit, dragged the body of the man it belonged to into a janitor’s closet. “Sweet dreams,” he muttered, closing and locking the door. He strode down the hallways in the belly of the ship, heading toward the engine room. When he got there, he twisted the wheel and pushed the door open, staggered by the size of the ship’s massive engines, like a mountain of steel, surrounded by a forest of pipes, with coolant dripping from the seams. He closed the door behind him and hurried toward the door to the fuel access corridor. Large ships like this usually had corridors cut into their fuel tanks, so that the engineer and his assistants could check fuel levels, the fuel pressure, and other information.
Dropping the case he was carrying, glad to be rid of its weight, he pulled a bottle from his pocket, carefully unscrewing the top and pouring it slowly onto the deck, taking care not to spill any on himself. Although the acid couldn’t dissolve its special container, it melted the metal like lava on a glacier. Ityran shone a flashlight into the hole and saw the fuel swishing around. Smiling, he opened his case, revealing the plastic explosives. Plugging in a few wires and entering a code, he started the ten-minute timer.

10:00
9:59
9:58...

He closed it again, the watertight seal making sure no fuel would leak in and foul up the electronics. Dropping it into the fuel tank, he stood. It was done. And if all was going well (which it must be because there were no alarms going off), another member of his team was doing exactly the same thing at the stern tanks. Ityran hurried as fast as he could without appearing suspicious out of the tank area, jamming the wheels on the doors as he did so. Nobody would save this ship now.

7:56
7:55...

He took the stairs to the main deck, jogging to where the lifeboats hung. He jumped into the cabin of the winch that lowered the boats and, before anyone could stop him, lowered one of the boats down to water level. Jumping out of the cabin, he leaped onto the rope that connected the winch to the boat, and slid down a few feet before he stopped himself, with a jolt, and continued down again. He could hear shouting from up on the deck. Somebody was trying to get into the cabin to raise the boat. Desperately, Ityran simply loosened his grip.
Friction ripped savagely into his palms, blistering them in seconds and then tearing through them. Agony lanced through his hands, but after what seemed an eternity of pain, he slowed himself with his thighs, and landed painfully, but safely, on the boat’s bench. Knowing what would happen if he stayed standing, Ityran jumped down, sitting, and poured the last of his acid on the steel rope, cutting his lifeboat off from the Botanist’s Folly. Starting the tiny engine on his boat, he moved off into the distance, towards an uninhabited beach a few miles away. He shivered with the cold, and turned back to see the ship die.
0:05
0:04
0:03
0:02
0:01
0:00
The explosives blew with a boom that would have punched a hole in the hull if it hadn’t been contained by the dense fuel tank. But nothing is made to withstand tons of fuel exploding, and the tanks were no exception. A massive fireball erupted from the bow, rocking the ship and belching black smoke. Seconds later, an identical explosion ripped from the stern. As Ityran watched, the ship began to sink. Many crewmen made their way to the lifeboats and were saved. A good thing, because the Empire was paying for damages, and while the Botanist’s Folly’s loss had been agreed to by the Freudotopian Emperor, the death of many good sailors was not. It hardly mattered; the message had been sent, Ityran’s appetite for destruction had been sated, and hours later, as he reached the shore, he was picked up in a helicopter and flown back to their field base of operations, a comfortable hotel in Durthmont.

Shivos of clan Vasraad watched through his binoculars from a rooftop as one of Nelson’s idiot underlings walked into the Panera Bread Co. below him. The negotiator from the Ismerian Cartel was already there, and had been for a while. Stupid. When one was negotiating for peace, one did not make the other party wait for too long. Nelson had to know that he was a mere annoyance to the Cartel, which could crush him easily, especially after they’d hired all the new muscle, which was the reason they were even there. He suspected Nelson did know, but simply didn’t care.
The man sat down at the Cartel man’s table, probably not noticing the number of people surreptitiously watching the conversation. Cartel backup. They wanted to keep that negotiator. No doubt they would then just be even more angry when he blew up.
Because Shivos could see. He could see the “driver” for the Cartel negotiator leaning over. He couldn’t see the bomb being spliced into the wires, but that didn’t matter, because he knew it was there. Ityran, the driver, looked up and saw Shivos, giving him a quick all-clear signal before he stepped out of the car. Walking up to one of the Cartel thugs, he told him something, then walked down the street and into a McDonald’s. Meanwhile, the two negotiators were wrapping up. They stood up, shook hands, and while Nelson’s man sat back down, probably to eat, the Cartel man left, walked down the street to his car, and got in the back seat. Presumably noticing the lack of a driver, he got out immediately, puzzling the Cartel meatheads who had left with him. Yelling something at the same guy who had let Ityran go, then backhanding him hard, he gestured and the thug got into the car, waited for his boss to get in too, and turned the key.
It was a magnificent explosion.

Ityran hated this.
He hated politics, and hated the overt stealth of an assassination. As a child, he’d always liked fire; it was the bombs that he liked most, but now was the worst part.
Nelson was walking towards him, wearing an overcoat, a hat, and sunglasses, but Ityran knew who he was, all right. Ityran himself was in a similar disguise, in the shadows, and he was about to save his target’s life.
“You. You called me here. Whaddya want?” Nelson demanded.

“I’m a friend. And I just want to tell you in advance, this information is perfectly reliable, and it will cost you. Five grand,” Ityran replied.
“You’re joking. With times as it is? You’re wasting my time already, and I haven’t been here two minutes. Goodbye.”
“Okay,” Ityran called after him. “Going to scavenge come parts off that 1980 Cracker you’ve got? You know, its engine isn’t doing too well. As a matter of fact, I think you knew that already.” Nelson turned, an incredulous look on his face.
“What?! I didn’t tell anybody about its engine! Anybody!” Ityran smiled, despite the stupid secrecy of the conversation. He had him. “My sources are damn good, Nelson. I want my five grand.” Sighing, Nelson pulled a thick wad of hundred dollar bills from his coat pocket.
“This had better be good.”
“Oh, it is. As good as your life. You see, the Ismerian Cartel has had enough of you, and they will bomb your Starbucks in about...” Ityran checked his watch. “About seven minutes. Everyone on the premises will die. There’s just enough time left for you to add your body to the wreckage, if you think I’m bluffing.” Of course, Nelson had no way of knowing that the new, and rather sloppy, head of the Durthmont Cartel section, had missed completely the array of Inquisition-designed bugs that could never have been found by some crime cartel, even one with worldwide reach, without a host of equipment. As a result, Ityran knew exactly when the Cartel was to strike.
“Are you sure?” Nelson began to tremble as the implications of what being an enemy of the Cartel meant hit him. “Dead sure. Pardon the pun. If I were you, I would go to the police, which is probably the best place to hide, since this police department, I happen to know, is in your pocket. Run along.”
As Ityran watched Nelson scurry off, nervously glancing all around him, he felt a certain satisfaction. Because Nelson didn’t know that a man who the police chief thought was representing the Cartel had arrived at the station earlier that day with a hundred thousand laundered bills. The bribed chief would play his part, arrest Nelson who was no longer under his protection, and later be fingered by the Freudotopian Treasury for possession of laundered money. In fact, as Ityran found out when he arrived back at his hotel in twenty minutes, that was exactly how things had happened. Nelson was in jail, and that meant the chief was now under the control of the Cartel. But as soon as he was arrested for the money, he would finger the Ismerian Cartel just to bring some of them down with him, and the Freudotopians would be happy to have Durthmont freed of Cartel influence for the time being. Everything was working just fine.

Torin of Domain Valgoth strode down the hallways of the Durthmont Correctional Facility a week later, his hand on the butt of his pistol. Knowing that he would shortly be committing the first assassination outside Imperial soil, he felt a thrill of excitement. He was disguised as a Cartel hitman disguised as a guard, and he had allowed the cameras to catch a glimpse of him before the security wizard of Team Alpha, Shivos Vasraad, had shut them off; just enough for the guards who would later review the tapes to “identify” him as a Cartel employee. As he reached Nelson’s cell, he realized this was it.
“You! Get the hell up!” Torin yelled. Nelson stood up in his cell, and Torin had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen hugely as he pulled out his pistol. There was a moment where time seemed to freeze, and then Torin fired. Once. Twice. Enough times. More than enough times. Finally the gun clicked, and he unscrewed the silencer and holstered it. He hurried out of the penitentiary, knowing that he had little time before the guards noticed that Nelson was dead. But he encountered no resistance, and he thought to himself as he drove away from the prison and back to his hotel, Mission accomplished.

“I assume that the target has been liquidated?”
“Yes, Divine One. Nelson is dead, and the reward will arrive soon, knowing the Freudotopian respect for proper punctuality.”
“Indeed. You know, I actually have no problem with Starbucks. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Divine One. But if His Majesty does not object to the employer of the target, then why was the target assassinated?”
“I am aware that corporations in general serve their own ends. This is true even in our sacred empire. The Starbucks corporation has built one too many establishments in my cities, and I will teach them to have proper respect for their position in life.”
“Indeed, Divine One.”
“Stop being such a damn sycophant.”
“Yes, Divine One. At once.”

OOC: Freudotopia, when will next "tier" (?) of targets be released?? I want to write more awesome posts.

Welcome to Freudotopia News Media, your choice for the news you need.

Today in Durthmont, gang violence rages after the shooting death of Tyrone Willis Nelson, known drug dealer, in his jail cell in the Durthmont Police Headquarters earlier today. Some long-haired yuppies have even called for the Chief of Police to step down, although they were quickly rounded up by the Durthmont Riot Force.

In other news, Emperor Saul Hudson survived an assassination attempt today by a man identified as Mong Hublash, a disgruntled dock worker. While eating a Chong's Chinese Chicken this afternoon, the Emperor noticed a man approaching him with a rusty knife. Emperor Hudson then used a pair of wooden chopsticks and his military training to summarily disarm and abuse Mr. Hublash. The Imperial Guard then dispatched the would-be assassin. In a statement shortly after the event, the Emperor was quoted as saying, "that stupid sunnuvabitch got what was coming to him."

Im gonna have to drop out.

Im gonna have to drop out.

As the Christonian troop helicopter lifted away from the landing pad, Archibald Smythe whispered to his aide, "This timing is expedient. Events are playing right into our hands. Victory shall be ours. The loss of Christoniac is unfortunate, but it may become a boon if I can manipulate the current happenings in Durthmont to my satisfaction."

"Of course, sir. You are quite right, as usual."

The ten Alpha Hawk Ghost units sat bored to death in their hideout in the city.
"Sarge, have we gotten any updates on the new hit-list roster? It is piss boring here."
"Shut it up Xiao, you'll get to unload tha rifle of yours....Holy shit, the leader was almost assassinated today, fucking christ, we were gonna eat there too! We coulda been the heroes sarge!"
The sargeant walked over to the laptop and clicked on the bar, the report came up.
"Thats it, Unless a new batch of people come out, we are gonna have to go looking for ourselves."
"That wouldn't be a good idea, Corporal." A mysterious voice called out from a shadow in the large apartment. Xiao shouldered his rifle as Yuan, or Sarge as the troops called him, grabbed his side arm.
"Who the hell is that?" Yuan yelled, as if he would get an honest response.
"We are here to take your spots, your brute force is scolded on by Caboose, he asked to come here and end your miserable existance." Came another voice from the darkness. Just as this voice finished talking, two ceiling panels fell and two smoke grenades fell from the ceiling as 4 more operatives fell in, their black suits a blur to the troops. Xiao fired, but was quickly caught from behind and his throat slit. Yuan quickly ran into the bathroom and peered out of as he watched his men's bodies being drug out onto the living room floor. He saw Xiao's limp body and wondering eyes as he knew he wasn't quite dead, but in his final death throws he fired another shot that went wide and broke a vase.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Encrypting.
Encrypting..
Encrypted

Start data tracking

-Sir, the dirty dead has been done dirt cheap....
-Good, Mr. Blue welcomes you to your new task
-The package shall be delivered at midnight. What are my new orders?
-Stay there, keep track of the warants for new kills. All your kills shall be done in a neat fashion. No deaths on our side. You have a maximum of one lost agent. 100 % completion will only happen if you return with no damage to our forces our equipment, other than that of combat. Mr. Blue send his regards.

The operatives loaded the bodies into a truck, only after taking their clothes and finding the missing general. He was found, shaking, sweating, and obviously demented. The operatives took him to their commander and he personally ended his pitiful life. His intolerance toward completing and objective of possibly getting the host country on Flandrithropia's good side had failed. He was expendable to begin with. Him and his men shall have their names written as war criminals, and their families will be charged with a fee that will be insurmountable to pay for the damages their loved ones had caused in this country. The only people that know of the operatives are the head of state in the host country, and Caboose, Flandrithropias own leader.

He plunged into the water like a knife. With all of his strength he forced himself towards the surface. At last he felt his head once again breaking from the clutches of the water. He drank in the air as his black form bobbed on the black water, impossible to distinguish from the liquid that had engulfed him. He began to swim slowly towards the edge of the dock. He reached the sheer stone surface, and grabbed hold of an iron ladder, partially submerged by the high waters. He pulled himself up hand over hand until he could drag himself onto dry land. He looked around to make sure that no one had seen him. They had not. The noisy unloading process had masked the sound of the splash when he had hit the water, and the guards and dockworkers were now much to preoccupied to be staring out over the water.

He got to his feet, and noticed before him the rising form of the enormous warehouse where the arms were being stored.

“Jesus…”

The water ran off the slick surface of his suit, puddling at his feet, but leaving him largely dry. He removed the balaclava and the nightvision goggles, and covered his face once again, before slinking over to a stack of crates to take cover.

If anything, security had increased in the dockyard since he had entered the vessel. The soldiers were now truly overseeing the operation, shouting at the seamen and dockworkers to move faster, lest this rainstorm get worse.

The Wraith removed the digital camera from his belt, and put it to his eye, training it on the warehouse to search for an easy entry route. As the lens passed over a second floor window, he halted as something, or someone, caught his eye. A man passed in front of the window, waving his hands as he shouted at another person in the room, someone who could not be seen from the Wraith’s position. The frantic man matched the description and photograph of the target to the letter. That office was where Evander Isenheim’s computer would be found, and hopefully, Mr. Isenheim himself would not have gone far by the time the Wraith got there.

He dashed across a long patch of shadow standing between him and the safety of an alley of sorts that was created by the far right exterior wall of the large warehouse, and the wall of another smaller building, most likely a fuel or machine storage facility. He had noticed a long pole running from the ground to the roof of the warehouse around which several wires and cabled wound, connected to various antennae that stood on the roof, the only sign of modern technology in the rather dated facility other than the military equipment currently being unloaded from the Buffalo Sanity. The exterior of the building was brick and rough hewn, and coupled with the support from the sturdy grounding pole, the Wraith found it easy to mount and begin scaling the wall.

As he neared the row of second story windows, the pole began to come away from the wall, and the Wraith’s gloved hand fell away. He felt his heart stop temporarily as he grasped at the air. In a desperate attempt, he pushed his feet off of the wall, launching himself up a few inches to grab the stone windowsill. He placed his feet on a smaller ledge created by years of cold sea wind wearing away at the brick. He allowed himself a few seconds to recuperate after the harrowing experience before slowly continuing to shimmy along the wall towards the window he had seen Isenheim through.

He stopped as he neared the window, and slowly maneuvered to peer into the office. He caught sight of two armed men, and whipped his head back out of view. Isenheim had left the room, apparently leaving a few guards to protect his personal belongings. The Wraith looked down to notice that the makeshift catwalk he was standing on disappeared directly below the window, and was replaced by a horizontal drainage pipe that ran along the ledges outside of the second story windows to catch runoff.

Careful not to slip off the wet bricks, the Wraith crouched down and grabbed hold of this long tube, swinging himself around and under it, so that he could move hand over hand past the window without being seen. As he passed beneath the window, he halted. He heard voices drifting from inside. The two guards were conversing. Perhaps he could learn something useful from them.

“The Boss seems jumpy tonight.”

“Fuck, you’d be too if you had a ship full of illegal guns to unload, and only a few hours to do it. Not to mention the attempt on his life.”

“True. Seriously? Who did that little shit think he was fucking with?”

“It was amateur night.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t kill him on the spot.”

“Nah. The Boss wants to have some fun with the bastard first.”

“Heh. Amen to that.”

The Wraith saw the light on his PDA flashing. Hanging upside down from the drainage pipe with his legs, he removed the device.

-transmission received:

-We’ve got problems. The Freudotopian Government just contacted us. Apparently one of their agents was working deep cover and got a little too cocky. He took a shot at Isenheim, hit him in the arm, didn’t kill him. Isenheim’s holding him somewhere inside, pumping him for information I presume. Our contacts at the FIB say that he’s got some information that could be detrimental to their efforts if Isenheim and the Cartel get it. They say he’s strong, but knowing Isenheim, there’s a good chance he’ll break before the night is out. You’ve got to get to him first. Ideally, they want you to get him out alive, but if that’s an impossibility, then your primary objective is to make sure the information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Get him out or kill him, and terminate his interrogator.

The Wraith replaced the PDA, and continued to move along the drainage pipe. The pipe began to curve until it was on an angle perpendicular to the ground. The Wraith used this to aid him in reaching the roof of the warehouse. He swung himself up onto the roof, his foot nearly slipping off of the wet tin.

Carefully he moved towards an exposed ventilator. He had studied the ventilation system in the warehouse extensively beforehand. It was dated, and the ducts were large and easily navigable. He removed the iron grating, and lowered himself into the air shaft, switching on his nightvision goggles as he found himself safely inside.

In a sealed second floor room, the Freudotopian agent’s head slumped onto his chest, his whole body being kept in the chair only by the heavy rope that bound him.

“Damnit, he’s out again. Gustav, throw some water on this prick!”

A man tossed a bucket of salt water onto the man’s face, and he sprung back into consciousness. His shirt had been removed, and was covered in gashes, bruises, and burn marks. Parts of his hair had been singed away, and his face was nearly raw, and covered in bruises and welts.

“You bastard! Haven’t you had enough?!”

The man walked over to a table, picking up his new device of choice for tormenting the spy: a car battery with two long metal probes attached to the top. He set it down at the agent’s feet, and thrust the probes into a drenched gash on the man’s chest. Sparks flew as the man screamed, the smell of burning flesh filling the room. The two other men in the room laughed insanely at the sight.

“You want more?!”

He plunged the probes into another wound. The man writhed and screamed again, eventually passing out from the pain.

“Bastard…”

The man set the probes down and stood to get another bucket of water to throw on the man. As he walked towards the door, he heard a sound behind him, the sound of metal falling to the floor.

From inside the air duct, the Wraith fired three shots, one into the head of each of the agent’s tormenter’s. Blood stained the walls as the bodies fell to the floor. The Wraith holstered his pistol, and jumped to the ground. He walked over to the bound man, who’s head now lolled from side to side as he struggled to regain consciousness. He lifted his eyes to the face of his apparent rescuer, and spoke, his speech heavy and slurred.

“Who—wh—who are y-you?”

“I’m on your side.”

“You gonna le-lemme go?”

The Wraith looked around the room.

“Not yet. I’ve got something to take care of first. You sit tight for now. I’ll be back soon.”

He patted the prisoner on the back, before walking over to the wall, and climbing back into the exposed ventilator shaft.

----------

Evander Isenheim stormed into his office on the second floor of the warehouse. He shouted for the two guards to get out, and they did so quickly, to avoid his wrath. Cursing loudly he walked over to his desk and collapsed into the leather chair. The phone began to ring, and he picked up the receiver.

“Ya?”

“Hello Mr. Isenheim.”

Isenheim’s heart sank as he recognized the voice. The Ismerians would not be pleased to hear that the unloading was yet to finish.

“What do you want?”

“Why is the Buffalo Sanity still in port?”

“Well, um, things aren’t going as fast as we thought they would.”

In an attempt to justify himself he tacked this on: “There’s a lot to unload.”

“You told me it would take no longer than two hours. It’s been nearly four. Every minute you waste is one minute the authorities have to make a move on you and shut down the whole operation.”

“The unloading process is nearly finished. We’ll be done within the next half hour, I assure you,” he lied.

“I hope so, Isenheim. Don’t make yourself into a liability.”

Isenheim hung up, and sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes, and removed a cigarette from a small stainless steel box. He placed it in his lips and raised a lighter. He took a drag, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted up to the ceiling. He opened his eyes just in time to see a gloved hand closing down over his mouth.

Isenheim tried to struggle, but his attacker was too strong. He dragged him out of his chair, and threw him onto the ground, before pressing the barrel of a silenced pistol into his temple. He searched him, and removed a .50 caliber desert eagle from where Isenheim had thrust it between his belt and his waist.

“Get off me!”

“You’d better keep your voice down unless you want to end up like your guards.”

“Who are you!? How did you get in here!?”

The Wraith whispered harshly into the man’s ear.

“Are you deaf? I said keep it down!”

“I demand you release me!”

The Wraith flipped Isenheim over so that his face was towards the ceiling. He pressed his foot down on the man’s throat, slowly applying pressure until Isenheim’s eyes began to bug out of their sockets. He brought his face very close to that of his prisoner.

“I’m asking the questions and giving the orders here, but I’m going to humor you. Who am I? Right now, your number one worst enemy. How did I get in? Without too much difficulty, which speaks worlds about your security employment habits. Now, I’ve answered your questions, and you’ll do likewise for me. Or, as you can imagine, I’m going to hurt you. Badly. Clear?”

The man was beginning to turn blue, but he frantically nodded his head. The Wraith released some pressure on the man’s throat, and he gasped for air, sucking it in like a drunkard at his glass. The Wraith straightend without removing his foot from the man’s throat.

“We’ll start simple. Who was that on the phone.”

Isenheim’s mind raced. He did not trust this man to let him live if he told the truth, but he was also uncertain of how good this man was at seeing through lies. He decided to test his interrogator.

“One of my informants.”

“Yes? It didn’t sound that way. Why would an informant care if your operation was running on schedule?”

“He is monitoring police frequencies. He is easily spooked.”

The Wraith smiled as his prisoner fell into the trap. He pressed his foot down on the man’s throat again.

“You’re lying.”

Isenheim struggled as he tried to breathe, thrashing his arms and legs about wildly. The Wraith removed some of the pressure. Isenheim realized that he would have to find another way out of this one. Perhaps half-truths would be his key.

“Alright, alright. He is a controller. My controller.”

“Controller for what?”

“A crime syndicate.”

“Which one? There are many.”

“There is only one that matters, in Freudotopia at least. The Ismerian Cartel.”

“And you work for him.”

“Not him.”

“Then who do you work for?”

“I don’t know. They are careful with their information, and who they allow us to be in contact with. I don’t even know that man’s number. He calls me.”

“Ever heard of caller ID?”

“Very funny. Look, I don’t know much more than you no doubt have been informed of.”

“We’ll see about that. You’ve got some fancy hardware on that ship of yours. Why do you need military grade weapons.”

“I told you, they don’t tell me wh-“

The Wraith pressed his boot down sharply. The man screamed silently.

“You’re not a very fast learner, are you?”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Isenheim croaked.

“Part of it, yes. I want it all. Why the big guns, Evander?”

“I don’t know! Maybe to arm their soldiers or something. They don’t tell me! I swear! I’m just an importer!”

“Now, now, Isenheim. Don’t be so down on yourself. From what I hear, your job is very important.”

“Look, I just get the goods. Johann decides where they go.”

The Wraith’s ears perked. Isenheim cringed as he realized what he had just done.

“Now you’ve got me interested. Who is Johann?”

“Fuck him! He’s no one!”

The Wraith smashed the barrel of his gun across Isenheim’s face. Isenheim scowled as he rubbed the side of his head. He spit up at the Wraith, but the blob simply came back and landed in his eye.

“Fuck you!”

The Wraith began to press harder and twist his boot into the man’s throat. He stopped just before Isenheim would have passed out. He slapped his prisoner across the face. He brought his face inches from Isenheim, and hissed.

“Talk,” he hissed.

Isenheim grumbled and scowled, but decided that his life was worth a name.

“Johann is my contact. I do not know his surname. That is the truth.”

“Fine.”

The Wraith removed his boot from Isenheim’s throat, keeping his pistol trained on his enemy. Isenheim began to get up.

“Don’t move, or I spatter your brains all over the floor.”

Keeping his gun trained on Isenheim’s head, he moved over to the man’s desk, where a notebook computer sat open. Isenheim had neglected both to clear and close his inbox, and a message from a certain ‘Johann’ sat open on the desktop. The Wraith grinned.

“Excellent. This will do perfectly.”

He turned back to Isenheim.

“Alright, Mr. Isenheim. Thank you so much for your time. I’ve got everything I need.”

“So I can go?”

The Wraith chuckled.

“Only in spirit, Mr. Isenheim.”

Isenheim’s eyes widened, and then narrowed in rage.

“Bastard! You lying scum! Guards!”

He scrambled to get up.

“Guar-“

He was cut off by a single silent spit from the Wraith’s pistol, followed by another, and another, and another.”

The bullets ripped into his chest, abdomen, and neck, blowing him back onto the floor, and splattering his blood all over the floor and the wall behind him. The Wraith changed the magazine in his pistol, before removing the digital camera from his belt. He pointed it at Isenheim’s corpse, and snapped a picture. He walked over to Isenheim’s desk and taking a seat. He removed his PDA, and a small black cable. He attacked the cable to the rear of the notebook computer.

-/command: download files: all
-downloading: 16%
-downloading: 21%
-downloading: 32%
-downloading: 48%
-downloading: 53%
-downloading: 69%
-downloading: 84%
-downloading: complete
-/command: transfer files
-transferring…
-transfer complete
-/command: transfer photo
-transferring…
-transfer complete

------

The Freudotopian agent’s wrists were nearly raw, but he continued working them against the heavy rope. He felt the bond loosening, and then one of his hands slipped free, letting the rope fall loosely about his other wrist. He brought his arms back into their normal position, savoring the relief from the painful position, and letting the blood flow freely from his wrists. He reached down and easily untied the bonds around his legs and waist. He slowly stood up, trying to will the feeling back into his limbs. Suddenly, the room began to spin, and he lost his balance, toppling over with a loud thud.

The blackness cleared seconds later to reveal a pair of black boots.

“I told you to stay put. You could hurt yourself.”

The man looked up to see the agent who had partially rescued him.

“What took you so long?”

“Had to take care of business with our friend down the hall.”

“Isenheim?”

“Yeah.”

“You kill him?”

“Eventually.”

The agent allowed himself a smile.

“Bastard had it coming.”

“Yeah, but according to him, so did you. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be grinder meat by now. But you can thank me later. Right now, we’ve gotta get the hell out of here. You can walk?”

The agent very slowly got to his feet, using the chair for support. This time the room did not spin, and he paced a few times across the room to get his footing back.

“Alright, let’s go.”

The Wraith walked towards the ventilator shaft, and climbed in, helping the agent up after him. They moved down the shaft towards the vent that opened up onto the roof. The Wraith climbed out first. A hand appeared in front of the agent, and he aloowed himself to be helped out. A second pair of arms assisted in dragging the man up, and he found himself looking into the face of another special forces soldier. The Wraith and he conversed for a few seconds in a foreign tongue, and the Wraith handed him a small cylindrical object, before turning back to the agent.

“Alright, follow me.”

The three men proceeded towards the far end of the roof, where a long rope attached to a grappling hook sat coiled. The Wraith tied the rope around the waist of the injured agent, and motioned for him to climb over the edge of the roof. Covered by the sniper rifle of the second Generian, the agent was lowered to the ground. The Wraith followed, climbing quickly down the rope in a simian fashion. The sniper waved to the two, and disappeared, bounding off over the roof, towards that of an adjacent building, and finally another where he took up position. The sniper switched his radio on, and spoke softly as he watched the Wraith and the prisoner move towards the high link fence at the rear end of the compound. The two climbed over, and disappeared into another part of the docks, where they would be picked up and delivered to the proper location for debriefing.

“Package is secure. Explosives in place. Move on the big bang.”

The sniper removed the small remote detonator that the Wraith had handed to him. He flipped the plastic cap up, revealing the red button on the top.

“3…2…”

He pressed the button, and the sky went bright as day as two huge towers of flame and smoke rose into the sky. The vessel became a giant ball of fire as the charge ripped through the hull, setting off the ammo, and incinerating everyone inside. The force of the explosion was enough to even knock the enormous loading crane over, and it fell onto the roof of another smaller building, crashing through and crushing everyone inside.

The entire bottom of the ship was blown out, huge oxygen bubbles and muffled sounds escaping into the water. The sea poured in, flooding the vessel in a matter of moments. It sank like a stone, listing to one side until it finally stood upright. The bow wrenched with a great scream, the steel torn and weakened from the explosion, before tearing free, and slamming into the sediment bed below the black waves. The stern fell with a great splash, before spiraling to its own watery grave, slamming into the ruined hulk of the bow.

The roof of the warehouse was blown clean off, and the interior of the building was scorched and torn by the power of the enormous quantity of semtex and explosive ammunition. Shrapnel rained from the skies, and the people in the yard either stared in horror and awe, or ran for their lives towards the gates. Unfortunately for them, death waited there too.

Concealed Imperial Black Guardsmen opened up on the panicked masses as the snipers from the roof picked them off. When it was clear that everyone was dead, the sniper shouldered his rifle and vanished off of the roof. The rest of the Imperial special forces did likewise.

----------

encrypting…

transmitting…

Official Imperial Communique

To: Emperor Saul Hudson of Freudotopia
From: Mr. Black

Primary Objectives:

Target: Buffalo Sanity
Status: Destroyed

Target: 244 Durthmont Quays
Status: Destroyed

Target: Evander Isenheim
Status: Terminated

Objective: Obtain Information On Cartel Dealings from Isenheim
Status: Completed

Objective: Avoid Civilian Casualties, Allied Casualties, Premature Detection
Status: Completed

Secondary Objectives:

Target: (Captain) George Folger
Status: Terminated


Objective: Rescue Freudotopian Agent
Status: Completed

Additional Objectives From Imperial Government:

Target: Colonel Josef Karanin
Status: Terminated

Objective: Obtain Information on The Generian Link
Status: Completed

Attached files:

-photoproof: Karanin
-photoproof: Folger
-photoproof: Isenheim
-obtained data: All

-end transmission-

Gentlemen:

With the recent withdrawal of Christonian troops, the bounty for Reverend Samuel Johnson has been declared open to any takers. Several other bounties are available. Please select one and notify us.

Currently Closed Contracts:

Isabella Romero (terminated by Generic Empire)
Evander Isenheim (terminated by Generic Empire)
Tyrone Willis Nelson (terminated by The Warmaster)

All other contracts are fully open and available to be claimed at any time.

--Archibald Smythe, Director of FIB
--General A.P. Fuller, Military Liason for OPERATION: UNDERTAKER

OOC: On pages 1 and 4 are the two current bounty lists. They are all open. Get moving.

Fort Zanzibar, outside of Phantasmo, Freudotopia

As the military helicopter landed, Saul Hudson walked toward the craft, where his old friend, the man known only as Mr. Black, was waiting. The downdraft from the chopper whipped his black coat around him, and his long hair billowed out, making him look like some dark lion on the prowl. Mr. Black climbed out of the chopper met Emperor Hudson. At first they had to raise their voices over the din of the whirring blades, but as the rotors slowed to a stop, they could converse normally.

“Hello, Saul. It’s been quite some time since we spoke face to face.”

Mr. Black was one of the few men living who called Emperor Hudson by his first name.

“Time is fleeting, old friend. And today is not like the old days. One must always be careful not to be seen.”

“When one is talking with the head of a clandestine paramilitary organization, its existence denied by its government?”

“When one is talking with anybody.”

“Ever the philosopher. But you did not come here to speak of such trivial matters, and I have had a long journey from Generia. I hope that our business may be dealt with expeditiously.”

“As do I. Archibald Smythe, as you are aware, is incredibly astute, and he is not given to stating the obvious when he does not think it necessary. However, this morning he walked into my throne room and told me that I would be in need of your services, because the arms being supplied to various unlawful elements in my empire originated in Generia. Since I already knew about the events of three days ago, it seemed to me a rather obvious point that the Generian equivalent of our Epsilon Corps would have to be called upon to deal with this. But his obvious statement convinced me that I should speak to you personally, and voice my concerns.”

“Then voice them, for I was not aware that anything in your empire concerned you unduly.”

“Oh, nothing that I know about troubles me, but therein lies the problem. Before the escape of the prisoners in Durthmont, I was not aware of the underground arms trade between Generian criminals and the Ismerian Cartel, and I certainly was unaware that officers in the Generian military were aiding and abetting these malcontents. This is what troubles me. If this were a small-time business directed by a few foolish Cartel capos, I would not be concerned, and would delegate the authority to Smythe to exterminate such fools. The mere fact that neither Smythe nor my own sources were informed of these circumstances is troubling.”

“I must admit that I too was rather puzzled by recent events in Durthmont, and was likewise unaware of Generian involvement.”

“Yes, when someone as well-informed as you is unaware of such prolific happenings, I must be concerned. I believe that there is someone, a smart, capable, ruthless individual, is organizing these formerly disconnected groups, manipulating them while remaining hidden. I don’t know what this person’s motives are, but they cannot bode well for me or my country. I want to find him, and I want to talk to him in person, just as I talk to you now, before I kill him.”

“I see. Your theory is quite correct, I think. Moreover, it must be correct, because my organization has absolutely no evidence of this. And when my organization is so in the dark, dirty work is afoot.”

“Very true. I believe that the only way to seek out this mystery man is to dismantle his organization from the ground up, growing closer to him with every move, wasting no opportunity and yet refusing to overplay our hand. We must force his goals to be revealed, and unravel his every plot. To do this, I will need your complete confidence, and all the help of your subordinates.”

“Very well, Saul. I will help in any way I can. A threat to Freudotopia is a threat to the Generic Empire, after all. And I still haven’t forgotten how you saved my life in the jungles of Mozambic.”

“Thank you, old friend. The first thing I must ask you is to shed more light on the Generian contacts of our adversary. These gun-runners cannot have been alone. You must bring to light all the activities in Generia if we are to proceed. In this, you have free rein to act in any manner you see fit. You will be assisted by Freudotopian intelligence and troops whenever you need them.”

“I shall look into this matter immediately. All my discoveries will be communicated to you and to you alone. Goodbye, Saul. I hope that this turns out for the better.”

“Goodbye, my old and trusted friend. As always, your help is invaluable. I have no doubt that the Generian connection will be removed.”

Turning on his heel, Emperor Hudson strode towards his waiting military jeep, and Mr. Black walked onto the asphalt helipad, towards the black helicopter waiting to whisk him away.

As Sacred Emperor Lucifer read the report, a smile like that of a tiger who is standing over the body of his quarry spread across his face. Imperator Jakran Vuell knew the Divine One didn't smile much. It must be damn good news.

"Excellent news, Imperator."

"Indeed, my Lord?"

"Yes. Christoniac has withdrawn from the Durthmont hunt frenzy. Emperor Saul Hudson has declared his target, a Reverend Samuel Johnson, to be open to any takers. We will pick up where Christoniac left off."

"Yes, my Lord. What are your commands?"

"Well, the force we used to eliminate the Nelson infidel is unsuitable for this. No, I want a more specialized team. Send the first squad home, and get together ten Immortals, three War-Priests, an Inquisitor, and two Pariahs. That should be more than enough." He saw the inquisitive look on the Imperator's face and decided to address it. "The reason we are sending an Inquisitor is that this man, this Johnson, preaches heresy. His Church is accursed and full of abominations, and even though he only superficially worships his infidel god, the clergy thinks he fully gives himself to this deity, and so killing him will strike a psychological blow at the Church itself. I am sure the War-Priests and the Inquisitor will enjoy torturing him, if they can. But make sure the team knows that this is not fun and games."

"Yes, my Lord."

The Sacred Emperor turned back to gaze out over his capital city, holy Korronis, and Jakran knew he was dismissed. He genuflected and hurried out. War-Priests. The Divine One did not send War-Priests out for the hell of it. Something was going on in Durthmont that was more than a drug-dealing heretic. But it didn't matter. If Johnson knew anything about it, the Inquisitor would drag it out of him.

Bump for my own inscrutable purposes. I want to get this thread up and moving again. My new post is coming tomorrow. I promise. If I hear any of you sorry piles of weasel-droppings complain, I'll send my uber-secret assassins after you.

Name: Ivan Shtashinsky
Known Aliases: “Angry Ivan”
Occupation: Manager, The Cliffs Casino and Hotel
Place of Residence: The Cliffs Casino and Hotel, Suite 2800


Flandrithropia will gladly take him down with their agents

--Caboose, Head General

OOC: This is gonna take some time, work has been a biatch.

p.s. OOC: By the way, no comments on my fricken awesome post about killing my own men... well, my friends thought it was fricken awesome.. but whatever...

((OOC: Cool post Flandrithropia.



How was that?))

ooc: Gracias amigo. Kill Post coming soon... dumdedumdum

-trace sweep: initiated
-trace sweep: complete
-please enter preliminary access codes
-4758201278193-192837460294425
-access codes confirmed
-initiating decryption sequence…
-decryption sequence initiated
-acquiring cipher definition
-definition acquired: Beta-6-A
-applying pad
-process: 15%
-process: 35%
-process: 67%
-decryption complete
-uploading file: Pablo Hernandez
transfer complete
-/command: open direct channel
-opening direct channel

Gentlemen:

Well done. Your skillful execution of the three rival Capos, Fiorelli included, has goaded Pablo Hernandez into becoming more open in his movements. He has appeared in public twice this week, probably to show that no one can touch him. His one mistake was purchasing a Cadillac Escalade EXT from Vic’s Custom Autos. The car has been traced to Hernandez’s compound in the suburbs of Durthmont. The villa is heavily guarded, but an infiltration should be possible. We want the names of all Hernandez’s contacts. All personnel you will face in his mansion should be considered expendable; Hernandez is the primary objective. It is imperative that he be kept alive: he is our only link to whoever is organizing the Durthmont crime syndicates into one unit. If we lose their trail, we can give up hope of ever getting to the root of this problem. Once you have Pablo, interrogate him until he gives you the names of all his bosses. I refuse to believe that just one man is pulling Pablo’s strings. You will be inserted into the woods a mile away from Pablo’s villa. Once you’re inside the main gates, head straight for Pablo, extract him, interrogate him, and kill him. You have your orders. Godspeed.

–Archibald Smythe, Director of FIB

Team Manifest: Squad A
Ulysses Ericsson, Squad Leader
James Ryan
Boris Barbossa
Mark Johnson

Team Manifest: Squad B
Jackson Ruby: Squad Leader
Louis Fergusson
Matthew Abrams
Toru Tayashi

1. Abduct target from villa
2. Extract target
3. Obtain identity of contact
4. Liquidate target

Weapons: Suppressed GIR-37x (scaled-down version of Generic GIR-37 heavy assault rifle)
FP-77 Suppressed Pistol
Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife
A8 Tactical flash-bang
The GH-88 troop helicopter flew low over the trees, rustling branches as it passed above the forest surrounding the isolated home of Pablo Hernandez. The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, and all eight of the covert troops onboard perked up in their seats.

“OK, boys, we’re one minute to dirt. Prepare to debark.”

Corporal Ulysses Ericsson, the leader of the small force, motioned for the first trooper in line to stand and get ready to slide from the helicopter to the ground, thirty feet below. The first trooper secured the high-tension rope to its clip, and opened the side door of the chopper. As the wind rushed by the opening, he tossed the rope out, and promptly jumped out the portal himself. Precisely fifty-four seconds later, the eight members of Team Mongoose were assembled on the forest floor, getting their final briefing from Ericsson.

“Men, this mission is integral to our further efforts to locate and eradicate the underground movement that is organizing the various crime syndicates in Durthmont. The mission itself is simple: Team A goes after the target, Team B secures the extraction route and neutralizes any hostiles. Move out.”

As the eight shadows melted into the inky blackness of the woods, the helicopter disappeared over the horizon.

Team A made straight for the main gate of the villa. Walking in a diamond formation, with Ericsson on the point, the four men paused at the enormous wooden doors, and Ulysses motioned for Ryan to move ahead. The team had rehearsed the move countless times, and as Ryan moved to one side of the gate and stood ready with his hands cupped, Ericsson took a running start, jumped at Ryan, and vaulted over him. Rolling over the wall, he dropped noiselessly inside the grounds. Immediately, he fell to his knees and scanned the area, rifle at the ready. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he pressed his wrist radio once. On the other side, all of Squad A saw the green light on their wrists and proceeded to vault over the wall. Barbossa, second to last to go, scrambled on top of the wall and offered his hand to Ryan, who grasped it and crawled over as well. With all of his squad mates at the ready, Ericsson moved off in the direction of the service door. Halfway to the side entrance, Ericsson suddenly held up his clenched fist, and dropped prone. Training his rifle on the solitary figure approaching through the gloom, he stroked the trigger, and with cough, his gun spat three rounds, and the guard dropped like a stone, his head a mess of brains. Barbossa briefly left the formation to drag the corpse into a bush. He resumed his place just as the team reached the door.

Meanwhile, Squad B was gathered outside a smaller side gate, and Louis Fergusson was busy picking the lock. Standing close to the door, fingers working quickly and carefully, he soon had the gate open, and with a short wave, he beckoned his team forward. With less noise than a stalking panther, the entire team moved into the grounds, and fanned out. Each would eliminate any target he came into contact with in order to clear the exit route. Weapons held tightly in front of them, the four men moved off into the darkness.

Toru Tayashi, the hand-to-hand combat expert, approached the rear patio. As he contemplated whether to enter the house immediately or wait for a better opportunity, the door suddenly opened, and he dropped to one knee. Training his rifle on the man exiting the house, his finger tightened on the hair trigger. As the man walked to the edge of the patio and peered into the darkness, Tayashi refrained from firing, seeing a second guard step onto the porch. Lowering his weapon, he slunk forward until he was immediately below the patio, and could clearly hear the two men. Speaking with the heavy accent of Ismerian natives, they spoke.

“Got a light?”
“Always.”
“Then if you would be so kind?”
“Absolutely.”
“So, what’s with the extra security these past few days?”
“You’re not supposed to ask that, Bono. You know that Pablo likes to have his little secrets.”
“To hell with that imbecile! If he didn’t pay so well...”
“Yes, yes, working for him is not very...stimulating. But if we must talk, then I’ll answer your question. That oaf Pablo seems to have come to his senses. After those three bank jobs last month, everyone in Durthmont knows who he is, and that he’s controlling the mobs in this city. He’s finally decided that someone might come after him. I never would have been so obvious. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in ten years of working for the Cartel, it’s to always assume that the FIB knows who you are, where you are, and what you’re doing.”
“Bullshit. Nobody’s that good. Not even the FIB. You’re like an old housewife with your ghost stories. That’s what it is, too, a stupid ghost story. The FIB isn’t some all-knowing, all-seeing force. Pah! There might as well be an FIB agent under the fucking porch.”
“Don’t joke, my friend. You don’t know the FIB. Believe me, they could be anywhere, and you’d never know it. Come on, let’s go inside. This night is chilly and I think Michael will be playing cards with the others.”
“OK, I’ll come up as soon as I’m done patrolling around the house. What’s the code for the back kitchen door? I tried the usual one when I was over by the service entrance, but it didn’t work. I had to walk all the way around back here.”
“It’s been changed. Didn’t you hear Jakob say so? Now it’s 33021. Now get lost.”

Smiling to himself, Tayashi rose from his hiding place, and crouched so that he could just see over the porch edge, and trained his rifle at the two men. Confident in his speed, he whistled softly. Both guards turned immediately, reaching behind them for their rifles. Toru had to admit that they were well-trained, but still couldn’t hold a candle to his own marksmanship. Aiming his gun at the one called Bono, he squeezed the trigger, and the man’s head exploded from the impact. The second man, the one Toru thought was more professional, seemed unfazed by his friend’s gruesome death, and had his own rifle halfway up and tracking toward the spec-ops soldier when another three bullets brought him down as well.

As soon as he had dragged the bodies underneath the porch, Tayashi crouched there and withdrew his PDA from its pocket on his chest.

//Send Message:
Send To: Ericsson
Enter Message:
// The code for the security door past the service entrance is 33021.
//Encrypting Text
//Text Encrypted
//Message Sent

Replacing the PDA, Tayashi cautiously mounted the porch, and entered the house.

As Barbossa rejoined the group, Ericsson’s PDA vibrated. Removing it from its pouch, he gestured for his team to watch the door while he read the message. In a few seconds he signaled his team to continue. Ryan produced his set of lockpicks, and in less than a minute had opened the door. “Terrible security,” he muttered under his breath. Ericsson led the way through the outer door and down a dimly lit hallway. The next door was reinforced, and a small steel keypad was mounted on the wall next to it. Ericsson stepped forward to enter the code, and his team leveled their rifles at the door. As he punched in the digits, a faint click came from the door’s lock, and Ericsson reached for the handle. As he opened the door, his team swept through, eyes scanning the room beyond for any sign of movement. It was completely dark, but their night vision lenses allowed them to ascertain that they were in the pantry, and only one other door was present, leading to the kitchen. Now Ryan snaked a small, thin cable under the door, and attached its lead to his PDA’s input. Maneuvering the cable, he could see through the optic cable that one man was in the kitchen, standing over the oven. He replaced the cable and PDA, and held up one finger. Barbossa moved for the door, taking his combat knife from an ankle holster. Ryan opened the door, which squeaked only slightly, enough to make Ericsson and Johnson aim their rifles at the back of the cook’s head, but the hum of the kitchen appliances masked the sound, and the cook did not twitch. Barbossa slung his rifle over his shoulder, approaching the unarmed chef with his knife in front of him. Ryan moved to the side, holding his weapon steady to cover his squad mate. Barbossa reached the cook, and performed two movements at once: tightening his left arm around the chef’s neck, he pressed the knife against the jugular with his right hand, and whispered in the terrified cook’s ear.

“Make a sound and you die. Move!”

Dragging the cook backwards into the pantry, Barbossa kept the knife at his throat. Ryan followed, closing the door. Barbossa threw his captive to the ground, and Ericsson lowered his weapon, the barrel resting against the man’s temple. Johnson spoke:

“We are going to kill you. You can make it easy or hard by doing what we tell you.”
“Please, please, I don’t even work with Pablo! I’m just a chef!”

Johnson leaned down and smacked the chef with the back of his gloved hand, and forestalled the man’s cry of pain by gesturing at the gun held to the captive’s head.

“Did I tell you to speak? No. Answer my questions, and you get a bullet in the head, killing you instantly. You get a decent burial, unlike the other slime in this house, and your family is given a pension. Lie, and you get a bullet in the stomach, killing you slowly over the next half-hour. With duct tape over your mouth, no one will hear you scream. Your body is cast into the Durthmont shipyard, never to be seen again, and your family are dispossessed and deported. You have the chance to do something for your country, for once in your miserable life. Answer me: what will it be?”

The cook looked into the face of his interrogator, but all he could see was the black mask obscuring every feature of the soldier’s face but the glowing green eyes of night vision goggles. Swallowing hard, he whispered in answer.

“I will tell you the truth. I will not lie.”
“Good. Where is Pablo?”
“Probably sleeping. His bedroom is directly above the kitchen. He has a private staircase down here, coming out of the niche between the refrigerator and the kitchen door. The key is in my apron pocket.”
“I’ll get it. Ah, thank you. Does Pablo ever talk to you about his business?”
“No, but I do hear things from time to time.”
“Tell me.”
“They say that he’s planning something big, something in the next year. I don’t know much more than that.”
“Did they say whether this was Pablo’s idea?”
“No, they did not.”
“Interesting...does Pablo have a bodyguard in or near his room?”
“Yes. His name is Phillip, and he’s Ismerian to the core. I think he’s been with Pablo ever since Pablo was just a thug on the streets of Ismerus. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”
“I would. Now, is there anything else you should tell me?”
“I’m sorry, no. But how did you know I had a family?”
“We know everything. Thank you for cooperating. And don’t worry about your family.”
“Wait! Who are you?”
“A godsend.”

Straightening up, Johnson nodded curtly. Ericsson fired, and the cook slumped to the ground, dead. The team left the body in the blackness of the pantry, and all four moved into the kitchen, towards the secret staircase.

Louis Fergusson and Matthew Abrams stalked the lawn of the Hernandez mansion, prowling in the shadows. Their senses on full alert, they searched for any sign of guards or traps, ready to neutralize either to ensure the extraction of the Cartel kingpin. With their rifles held tightly in front of them, they swept the yard. Total professionalism was the order of the day, or night, for these men. Sneaking back to the rear gate, they could make out the figure of Jackson Ruby, who had returned from his patrol to guard the extraction point.

“Ruby, we’ve covered about a quarter of the grounds, and we’ve got no contacts. Where the hell are all the enforcers command assured us we’d find?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but you know how I feel about guessing. Keep looking. Either they’re all inside the house, or I’ll be extremely annoyed with the FIB on our return.”

“Me too. Come on, Fergusson.”

The silent pair moved off, continuing their patrol of the grounds. Going the opposite direction from which they had come, they perked up at a movement near a tree. Fergusson nodded to Abrams, and the latter began a wide circle around the tree, hoping to catch whatever was moving by surprise.

Meanwhile, Toru Tayashi had returned to the main gate. In a slightly puzzled but calm voice, he addressed his commander.

“Sir, I’ve been around the entire west side of the house. I made only three contacts. Two by a porch on the northwest side, and one patrolling the middle of the west lawn. I don’t like it, sir. There’s no one here. It’s as if they’re all inside...”

“...Or not here at all,” mused Ruby. “That would be extremely odd. There’s no reason for Pablo to send his security team away, not with all his activity lately. Anyway, I want you to secure the back door. When Corporal Ericsson and his team get Pablo, I want us out of hear like a bat out of hell.”

“Yessir.” Tayashi slunk back into the night.

As Abrams neared the tree, he could make out the shape of a man, who was apparently fumbling for a cheap cigarette. He had never understood why so many criminals smoked. It only made them slower when he was chasing them down. He had worked himself up from a poor beat cop into a first class marksman, and an expert in interrogation, especially in the field, and he gained promotion after promotion, rising to the upper ranks of the Freudotopian military. The Epsilon Corps had snatched him up thirty-six hours after receiving his data from the FSCF, the Freudotopian Special Combat Force.

He could walk as softly as an alley cat, and he slipped behind the tree as the guard finally got his smoke lit. In a soft voice, he heard his partner call out, “Got any more?” As the man peered across the lawn, trying to make out the source of the voice, Abrams whirled around the tree and grabbed the man by the neck. With his free hand, he removed the pistol from the guard’s holster, and tossed it to Fergusson, who removed the slide in one deft movement, and drew his own pistol. Aiming directly at the hapless guard’s forehead, he addressed him: “If you make one move, I’ll blow your brains all over the rather large man behind you, and he won’t even bat an eye.” The guard swallowed loudly. Abrams loosened his choke hold slightly.

“I want answers. When I don’t get them, you suffer. When you lie, you suffer. Understand?”
“Yes. I will talk.”
“Good. My first question: who are you?”
“My name is Jakob Loazin.”
“I said who are you?”
“I told you. I–argh!”
“No, I want to know what you do.”
“Okay, okay. I’m working for Pablo.”
“I don’t think so. One more lie and I harm you. Who do you work for?”
“I– I think his name is Lionel. I don’t know his first name. I swear it! I head someone address him over the phone. I work for him, but I’ve never met him. It’s the truth, I promise you!”
“Excellent. My next question: where are all the guards?”
“They–they went inside.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”

Even through his gloved hands, Abrams could feel the pulse of his captive accelerate. He was lying. Tightening his hold, he squeezed the jugular until stars popped in the man’s eyes. After almost half a minute, Abrams released him. Wheezing and gasping, the guard tried to compose himself.

“Al... alright. They aren’t here. My employer, Lionel, he summoned them away from Pablo. Pablo argued, said he needed their protection, but Lionel insisted. He left Pablo with only a skeleton crew.”
“Why did this ‘Lionel’ take all these people from Pablo?”
“I don’t know, but I got the feeling that they didn’t like each other very much. Whatever his reasons were, I don’ think Lionel was doing Pablo any favors.”
“What’s your part in all this?”
“Lionel hired me to keep an eye on Pablo, and to report anything suspicious.”
“And have you found anything suspicious?”
“No, nothing. If Lionel took the security guys because of something Pablo’s up to, I didn’t know about it. All I was told to do was to leave a package in the compartment under the main stairs. He didn’t say what the package was. I got the impression that Lionel wanted it kept safe just in case I had to get to something in it later.”
“A package? Under the stairs? That sounds like...SHIT!”

With a vehement curse, he snapped the guard’s neck. The crack echoed around the yard, but no one was there to hear it. Fergusson was surprised, to say the least.

“What was that last part? And why’d you do him in?”
“Because I think there’s a bomb in that villa. Call Ruby now!”

Tayashi was encircling the house for the second time when his PDA blinked. Pausing behind a rhododendron, he took it out and stared at the screen.

//Message from: Ruby//
//Urgent//
//Begin Message:
Get to main gate ASAP. Bomb in villa. Extraction upon retrieval of asset.
\\End Message\\

Without a word, Tayashi replaced the device and ran towards the rear gate.

At the top of the hidden stairwell, Ericsson stood over the dead body of Phillip, Pablo’s late bodyguard, and raised a clenched hand. A soft light streamed under the door ahead of him, and he could hear noises in the room beyond, and water running. The rest of his squad gathered round the door, and he held up one finger. His team understood, and took up positions on both sides of the door. Ericsson cracked the door an inch, and peered into the bedroom. The TV was on, projecting shimmering images on the far wall. A light was on in the bathroom, but other than that the place was dark. Eriscsson pealed back and closed the door. He spoke to his teammates: “Target is in the bathroom to the right of the door. He is alone. Follow standard capture proced-”
He looked down as his PDA blinked.

//Message from: Abrams
//Urgent//
//Begin Message:
Explosive planted under main stairs by opfor. Extract immediately.
\\End Message\\
Turning back to his team, he addressed them with the sense of urgency in his voice. “There’s a bomb under the stairs. We need to get Pablo out of here, now!”

Whirling, Ericsson smashed through the door, leveling his rifle. Barbossa followed, a smoke grenade in his hand. Tossing it into the bathroom, he dropped prone and used his laser sight to cut through the smoke. His three fellow soldiers followed suit. Ericsson yelled, “You’re surrounded! Drop your guns! Hit the floor NOW!”

Shocked by the sudden arrival of these strange men, Pablo tried to see through the smoke. His toothbrush dropped from his open mouth. He had yet to fully grasp the situation when Ericsson dived into the bathroom and smashed the butt of his rifle between the crime lord’s eyes. He hit the floor with a thud.

“Barbossa, get him. We’re out.”

Leading his team back down the spiral staircase, Ericsson spoke into his radio, his first direct, unshielded communication of the night.
“We’ve got Pablo. Clear the gate!”

As his team burst out of the service door and onto the east lawn, Ericsson spotted a trio of guards heading towards them. “Hostiles!” He yelled at his men. Forming a barrier around Barbossa and his burden, they fired short, deadly bursts at the oncoming men. The three had barely cleared their holsters when they were brought down. “Clear,” shouted Ericsson. “Let’s go!”

Ruby had opened the rear gate, and Tayashi, Abrams, and Fergusson were already outside. Squad A pounded up, and Ericsson nodded his head once. He waited for his whole force to make it outside the gate before following them.

Underneath the main stairs, a brown cardboard box emitted an ominous beeping noise. As the ticks sped up, the last guard in the entire mansion walked toward the small door.
“What the fuck?”
With that, the bomb blew, and the man was instantly incinerated. A wall of fire smashed through the stairs, engulfing the entrance hall in flames. The stairs and pillars collapsed, and the second story crumbled, falling to the ground. Debris shot from the side of the building, annihilating the porches, and shooting flaming wood plastic across the lawn. The grey cloud of stone dust hung in the air, giving the whole scene a sense of surreal haze, but did not mask the destruction the bomb had created. The villa was well and truly destroyed.

As they jogged through the woods toward the extraction site, the Epsilon Corps team heard the enormous boom of the explosion, like a hundred peals of thunder. Ericsson turned back, only for a second, and saw flames leaping from the collapsing building. He turned around and followed his team to the clearing.

Ten minutes later, aboard a Golden Eagle helicopter en route to Durthmont...

Pablo stared up at the three faces surrounding him. They were imposing, to say the least. He had never dealt with these kind of people before. Sure, the average cop he could handle, but these men? They were soldiers, that was much was obvious from their fatigues and heavy weaponry. The tallest man spoke in a low, menacing voice.

“My name is Abrams. You will call me sir, or I will hurl you bodily from this aircraft. You will answer my every question. If you do not, I will hurl you bodily from this aircraft. If you lie, I will hurl you bodily from this aircraft. Clear?”
“Crystal clear, sir.”
“Very good. You learn quicker than some of your men.”
“My men? What have you done to them?”

Reaching down, Abrams grabbed Pablo’s right hand. Both the prisoner’s hands were shackled to the bulkhead of the helicopter. Grabbing the thumb, Abrams wrenched it. Hard.

“Aaaaaaaaagh! My–my hand! You broke my fucking thumb!”

Abrams betrayed no emotion.

“Fuck you! Fuck you all, you crazy sons of bitches! You government slaves, I’ll kill all of you and dump your bodies in the Sea of Water!”

Contempteously, Abrams spat in the captive’s face. With a quick slap, he silenced the blubbering.

“Shut up! Did I tell you to talk? No. Now answer this: do you know a man named Lionel?”
“I answer nothing, you pig!”
Abrams’ face grew hard. “Do you really want to die, Pablo?” Producing his knife, he held it at Pablo’s throat. As the criminal’s breathing grew more frantic, he pressed the knife into the neck. I few drops of blood oozed down onto Pablo’s collar. The terrified man gasped, “No! No! Spare me! I swear I’ll tell you everything.”


“Alright, you have one last chance. I repeat: who is Lionel?”
“He’s my boss. He coordinates between me and the other Cartel branches. He’s very powerful. Lionel is just an alias, though. My people tell me his real name is Johann St. Germaine.”
“Good. You’re doing well. Now, your villa was leveled by a bomb planted there by one of your soldiers, a man named Jakob. Now, did you do anything that might make Lionel want to kill you?”
“No! Never! I may not have always agreed with him, but I followed my orders. He would have no reason to try to kill me. If he planted that bomb in my house, it wasn’t to punish me.”
“Meaning that he meant to catch us in the blast, and that he thinks you’re expendable.”

Pablo swallowed as this realization hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

“But...but that would mean that Lionel might try to kill me again!”
“Given that you’ve learned that he wants you dead, and survived his assassination attempt on both of us, the chance is quite high that he’ll have you dead within the month. The Cartel are notorious, I gather, for going to any lengths to dispose of those they think have betrayed them.”
“But I didn’t betray anyone!”
“You are the only person to survive the explosion. They will immediately suspect you. In fact, I would guess that the only reason Lionel transferred your security personnel is that he didn’t want to waste good men.”
“My God! I’m a dead man! You must help me!”
“My government has agreed to do just that. But first, one more question: do you know where the weapons that Evander Isenheim was importing came from originally?”
“Evander Isenheim? I have never heard of him. All my guns came from Lionel. Maybe this Evander Isenheim sold the guns to Lionel, and he passed them on to me.”

Abrams nodded to Ericsson and Ruby, who had been silent through the whole interrogation. They undid the manacles on Pablo’s arms and legs, and stood him upright. He could not support his weight, though, and sagged to the floor. Sighing, Ericsson scooped him up again, and he and Ruby frogmarched their prisoner to the rear of the chopper. Abrams followed, pausing to hit the rear hatch open switch. As the mechanical door opened, he remarked to the two soldiers,
“It would seem that the Generian connection is higher up in the Cartel infrastructure.”
Ruby turned and replied, “Meaning this one is useless.”

Hernandez paled. “Generian connection? Useless? What do you...”

With a heave, Ruby and Ericsson threw the screaming kingpin out of the helicopter. The drop was over two thousand feet to the flat farmlands below.

OOC: sorry this is short, i was pressed for time

War-Priest Khavar of the Order of Shavan stood, arms crossed, at the conference table. Unlike the others in the room, he preferred to stand. He believed that there was no need for physical comfort when dealing with matters of assassination, which was what this obviously was about. He’d heard the report on the assassination of Tyrone Willis Nelson, a criminal wanted by the Freudotopian government. Nobody had actually said anything about it, but two things were obvious: somebody was pulling the strings in the criminal world of Freudotopia, and the Sacred Emperor had decided the Empire would play its part in taking apart the infidels’ organization. Apparently a deal had been made with Freudotopia about this, because no foreign officials were making a fuss about the shooting of a prisoner at the Durthmont Correctional Facility, even one whose guilt was all but assured. One of the Immortals, a man named Ityran, had been in charge of that hit. Khavar had met Ityran and liked the man, as much as any War-Priest could like another.
He and his kind were the ultimate messengers of destruction. The four orders of the War-Priests were named after and trained in the disciplines of the four aspects of Ar-Pharazon the Destroyer god. The Shavani, the order to which he belonged, were assassins and poisoners, and there were none better than they at the arts of cloak-and-blade. All potential War-Priests were identified at age four and sent to one of the few top-secret training centers where their bodies were honed into well-tempered instruments of death, blades in the hand of the Sacred Emperor. Their devotion to him, to the gods, and to the Empire was absolute.
His daydreaming was interrupted by the lights dimming greatly. Khavar could barely see. He heard a door open and shut, and the lights were raised slightly, but they pointed only at the table in the center of the room. Khavar sat, waiting for the instructions he knew he would receive. After all, he was in one of the many briefing rooms in the CHARIOT High Command complex, which was full of officers of incredible rank, men from the Imperial Court, and agents of the Inquisition.
“Gentlemen, welcome,” said a harsh voice from the head of the table. Khavar strained, but still couldn’t see the man’s face. Giving up, he simply listened. “You have been summoned here, men of different disciplines, to be sent on a mission, similar to that which Subaltern Ityran concluded successfully several weeks ago. Your target is a man by the name of Samuel Johnson, an infidel preacher of the heathen Church, at least superficially. His actual trade is the distribution of narcotics, and he is apparently very successful at it. He is independent of the major syndicate in Freudotopia, the Ismerian Cartel, and that organization is displeased with his actions. With some manipulation, we can not only cause the death of Johnson, but destabilize the Cartel.
“The plan is simple. One of you will contact Johnson, pretending to be a potential customer for narcotics. You will buy them from him in great quantities, but not great enough that he will believe you are establishing a rival business. Impressed, he will confide more and more of his trade secrets to you. You will contact the Ismerian Cartel and reveal this information to them. Infuriated beyond placation, they will then have him liquidated, likely destroying his church as well. Finally, you will contact local media and tell them you are a Cartel informant, and say the Cartel was angered by Johnson’s actions and retaliated in kind, but do not reveal that he was planning to distribute drugs via a planned televangelist show. The papers will publish that, and the people will become much angrier at the Cartel than they normally would be, given his popularity with them.
“War-Priest Khavar of the Order of Shavan will command you on this mission. It is really quite simple, compared to the elaborate plan used against Tyrone Willis Nelson. You are dismissed. Helicopters outside will take you to Sacred Hierarchy Airfield outside Korronis, where you will board Flight 745 to Durthmont, Freudotopia.”

Next morning, Khavar awoke in the luxurious bed he had fallen asleep in early that morning after arriving at one of Durthmont’s most exclusive hotels. His squad was scattered around the building so as not to arouse suspicion, and were ready to go. They had not even needed to bypass Customs, as they had no weapons.
He dressed himself in a civilian outfit common on the streets of Durthmont, and was about to order a pot of coffee from room service when he heard a knock on his door. Khavar hurried there and opened it, and motioned the man inside, one of his squad. The man hurriedly whispered, “I’m going out to Johnson’s church now. I’ve got my disguise in the case”-he held up a briefcase-“and I’ve got all the money I’ll need.” Khavar nodded, opened the door again, and ushered him out. Now he could get that coffee and enjoy it, knowing the hit was going well.

Ivhar of clan Hul walked out of the alley he had changed clothes in, skillfully blending in with the pedestrians walking down the streets of Durthmont. He was now dressed as a rich young man, and given his uncanny skill at imitating the aura of a role, gave out a sense of being bored, and willing to try anything that amused him, even illegal drugs.
Turning a corner, he saw Johnson’s blasphemous church, the Durthmont Church of the Holy Gathering. Mentally saying a prayer to sanctify himself before entering that demons’ building, he opened its oak doors and stepped into a small but well-furnished church.
It was a Thursday and only an altar boy was visible, cleaning up the altar after a small service this morning. Ivhar had memorized the church’s schedule from a pamphlet he had printed out early this morning, knowing it might come in handy. Swaggering arrogantly up the aisle to the altar, he said imperiously, “Hey! You! Where can I find Reverend Johnson? Hurry, I don’t have all day.”
The boy, taken aback, asked haltingly, “But...but...who are you?”
“Blast it, boy, don’t you know urgency when you see it?! It doesn’t matter who I am, because I’ve got a donation the Reverend would love. Not even men of God can work for nothing, you know.”
The boy nodded and told him where Johnson’s office was. Refraining from thanking the boy, Ivhar strode off in the direction he had been told, knocking at the correct door. A voice came from within, “Enter, friend, if you are pure of heart.” Stifling a scowl at the man’s hypocrisy, Ivhar opened and walked in.
Johnson was sitting behind a desk, typing something on a PC. He looked up as Ivhar entered. “Please, friend, pull up a chair. What can I do for you?”
Ivhar lifted his briefcase onto the desk, opened it, and showed it to the priest. Twenty-dollar bills littered the inside, scattered around. “I understand you’re the man I should talk to around here about obtaining...special goods?”
Eyes alight with greed, Johnson tore his gaze off the money and looked at Ivhar searchingly. “And you’d like to get some?”
“That I would, indeed. There’s two thousand dollars in there. I want the equivalent of that in whatever you’ve got.”
The Reverend nodded, pulled a key from his pocket, and opened a hidden drawer in his desk, pulling out five bags of various substances. “All of it’s the best you’ll get anywhere. I have a deal with the suppliers. That’s about nineteen hundred, give or take.”
“Keep the change. I’ll be back tomorrow with the same amount.”

And so it went for fifteen days: Ivhar would show up with two grand, Johnson would give up whatever he asked, and Ivhar would take the drugs to the nearest scrap crushing facility, slip them in a derelict car, and nobody would ever find out. Ivhar became Johnson’s best customer, and thus was treated to many nuggets of information that would impress a normal customer...and that the Ismerian Cartel would love tp get their hands on. Ivhar dutifully reported all of them to Khavar until one day Khavar decided enough was enough. Ivhar didn’t come again, and that same day, while Johnson was cursing furiously in his office at Ivhar’s failure to arrive, Khavar dialed the number that his hacker had told him belonged to a man identified by Freudotopian Intelligence as a Cartel boss, and waited for him to pick up.

“Yeah? Who is it?”
“I’m a guy who in a couple of minutes could be your best friend. You and the whole Cartel.”
“What!”
“Oh. Sorry. Yes, I haven’t heard of the Cartel either. Certainly not in connection with you. And I have no idea that they want one Reverend Samuel Johnson dead.”
There was silence. Khavar pictured the man’s head spinning with both dreams of promotion and fear of discovery. “All right,” he said. “Tell me how you got this number. Then tell me what you know about Johnson’s job.”
Khavar chuckled, an icy sound he had perfected over the years. It sounded decidedly unsettling to the man on the other end. “I know people who have all the numbers, friend. Every last one.”
And then Khavar told him everything.
Sure enough, two days later, Khavar saw from his hotel window a modestly-sized explosion. The boom rattled his windows, and he knew instantly that Johnson was dead, killed by the Cartel, and he had taken his church and stores of drugs with him. Excellent. Khavar hated narcotics: they weakened the body. To a War-Priest, that was a cardinal sin.
Picking up the phone again, he dialed for outside the hotel, then called the hotline of the most reliable news source in town, the Durthmont Herald. As he expected, a person picked up, and he wasn’t directed to some recording machine. A good newspaper answers its hotlines personally.
“Hello?”
“This is the Herald, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am an informant for the Ismerian Cartel. I have information about the bombing of the Durthmont Church of the Holy Gathering.”
“Could you state your name, sir?”
“Do not take me for a fool. If you will not accept this information, I will try another paper. Goodbye.”
“Wait! Please hold, sir.”
The operator leaned back and typed a search into her computer. This caller had just passed the reliability test: he had refused to give his name. A hack would have given it and drawn out the conversation, but this guy apparently really was working for the Cartel. She entered a search for bombings over the past two days, and sure enough, the Durthmont Church of the Holy Gathering topped the list, just added to the database minutes ago. She took the man off hold and asked him for his information.
“This Johnson character was a very religious man, and preached his message zealously. The Cartel wishes me to inform you that this cuts into our profits here, and thus we sent him a message. He can now talk to God in person, and bypass prayer entirely. Thus he is happy, we are happy, and I am sure you will be happy, because no doubt you will gain great credibility for this. Good bye.”
Before the operator could ask him for more, the line went dead.

The next day, Khavar woke up to the sound of cheering in his room. The squad, ignoring all precautions, were all in his room for some reason. He yawned and walked into their room, already mostly awake. He modeled his sleep patterns on those of the Masai, the African tribe renowned for their ability to rise from sleep to total wakefulness. As soon as he walked into the main room of his suite, he was bombarded by shouts of “Success!” and “Victory!”
“What!” he yelled, cutting through the noise. A hush fell over the squad, remembering their discipline. Only the green members of the squad were here, only the ones not experienced enough to abandon reason to celebrate their first hit. “Shut up and show me what got you down here!” Khavar said.
A squad member named Jalos of Domain Kun-Dra stepped forward with a copy of the day’s paper. The headline: “CARTEL BOMBS CHURCH FOR CUTTING PROFITS: Man of God killed for evangelism”. Even though he was a hardened veteran, as Khavar read the story, he felt like grinning. When he finished, he turned to his squad and congratulated them.
“Good job, men. Tell the others they did well too. But remember not to pull this stunt again, and pack your things. We’re leaving.”

Freudotopian International News Netork: The Leader in Accurate, Professional Journalism

Tonight, a landmark moment as the head of the FIB, Archibald Smythe, was arrested in his home in Phantasmo. He was accused of conspiracy to commit rebellion, racketeering, smuggling, murder, collaboration with terrorist elements, and high treason. The Emperor released a short press brief stating that Mr. Smythe was the mastermind behind the escape of the prisoners in Durthmont, and the subsequent rash of violent crimes in that city. Inside sources tell FINN that the Ismerian Cartel was working with Mr. Smythe to destabilize the country, and intended to start a rebellion to coincide with the recent upheaval in Buchania. Peacekeeping forces have been dispatched to Ismeria, and systematic purges of various suspected criminal elements have begun.

In other news, a local student set the world record for fastest recitation of the Bible. In thirty-five minutes, he spoke every chapter and verse clearly and with no mistakes or mispronunciations. His parents say they are “so very proud” of Itzhak Smolensk, who is already enrolled in the Federal School of Technology, and wants to become an intelligence analyst when he graduates next year.

OOC: Sorry for the abrupt end, but this is taking too much effort to continue along with the other threads and RL stuff I’m doing at the moment. However, you can keep up with the unfolding plot in Generic Empire’s “A Crisis of Secession” thread. If you want to join, ask him. THIS THREAD IS NOW CLOSED.