NationStates Jolt Archive

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=432407&page=1&pp=15

President Hellerich looked over the crowds from his motorcade as the limousine prowled down Fortress Street, towards the Commons where the inauguration had always been held. The election had been brutally close. This story was the only thing taking precedence over the crackdowns on corporations, the faltering job market, and increasing crime. Somehow, he'd managed to shamble back from the grave, much to the surprise of many pundits.

A former Marine who'd served in the Second Markov War, he valued service, and the point was pressed again and again whenever someone brought up his Centrist Party's cuts to the military budget. Touting the idea that New Empire was no longer a nation that needed mass offensive capability, he'd begun to lose respect from the troops. But the fact was that there would have to be some changes this time around. New Empire had been slowly decaying as the rest of the world changed. The crowds and the glistening podium and decorations were blue, gray, and gold shimmering in the sun.

Stepping out of the limo, the marine honor guard saluted, and he returned it. Walking to the podium, he truly felt he could show that his campaign wasn't full of bollocks. He would deliver. He'd have to.

Two miles away, another soldier prepared for an even more nation-changing event. His uniform was that of an electrical service company, but the eyes and face betrayed a job of such mediocrity. A large case of tools sat with him as the service elevator creaked up to the top level of the office building, some healthcare group. In the distance he could see the Fortress commons, choked with people. Helicopters flew in circles, looking for those who would attempt to interrupt the ceremony. Riot police were farther out, holding back protestors.

He grinned as he crept under the tarp over the 'broken' antenna. His case of tools contained devices of a different nature. The spotting scope came out first, his brain working as he calculated the shot-though one worked out long before on different visits to the antenna array.

Hellerich stepped up the podium where the chief justice was waiting. The vow came off his tounge smoothly, he'd done it before and now was feeling as confident as ever. The nation looked upon this man in silence, waiting in anticipation for his speech. As the vow finished, President Hellerich, smiling, lowered his right hand, turned to the podium, and exploded.

--

The soldier had plenty of time to line up his shot, as the President stood stock still, firmly dedicating himself to the nation and its people. As he did, the entire world of this soldier focused itself upon him, the wind, and his trigger finger. Squeezing the trigger, the rifle bucked and a 15.5mm Draka round roared towards the chest of the President. He did not bask in the splendor of his shot, he merely worked the bolt and fired again.

--

The crowd went into shock as the remains of the President's upper torso ragdolled backwards. The Presidential Guard raced to bring the rest of the officials to cover, but it was no use at all. Soon the Vice President took a shot to the back. He was not dead, but would be in about a minute. The crowd was completely insane. People were scrambling to get out of the way when one of the Presidential advisors ceased to exist as a functioning human being.

--

"JESUS CHRIST, what is going on down there?"

Chief Warrant Officer 2 Raymond Felsinger looked from his gun turret's camera down at the chaos at the podium. Radio orders barked towards the pilot, and soon the TVL-88 swung around towards an office building. The intercom crackled.

"THE BASTARD'S OVER THERE. HE'S GOT AN ANTI-MATERIAL RIFLE, SAME CALIBER AS YOUR CHIN MOUNT. WATCH YOURSELF, THIS GUY GOT THREE PERFECT SHOTS OFF IN LESS THAN A MINUTE. NOW LET'S TAKE HIM OUT."

The gunner switched to thermal, looking for something in the building. He found movement, but the signature was faint, flickering in and out of visibility.

"FUCKER HAS THERMAT!"

The PG troops in the hold swore at this, and signaled to be taken to the ground.

"WE SET UP A PERIMETER. THERE'S NOBODY IN THAT BUILDING BUT HIM, SO IF YOU GET A BEAD, WE WASTE HIM."

The pilot and gunner nodded as they watched the PG troops move in. The helicopter hovered upwards, when suddenly the man appeared again.

"I SEE HIM!"

"DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME, SMOKE HIM!"

The three barreled 15.5mm cannon in the chin took less than a second to spin up, and a burst of the rounds smashed clear through the building, one of the ten not making it through entirely when it hit a support beam.

"SCREW THIS, I CAN'T TRACK HIM."

--

The soldier watched as the area immediately behind him vaporized from a burst of gatling gun fire. The elevator was just ahead. He'd pressed the button for it to go up on the floor above, so he would be safe for now. Taking a little sphere of C4, he mashed it against the doors and turned to the side, setting it off. The metal doors burst open, falling down the shaft. Locating a secure wire, he began rapelling down to the basement. From there, he located a service tunnel to one of the underground highways that traced through the cities. Grabbing a motorcycle placed inside earlier, he roared into the traffic, hoping to break the time it would take for the police to transfer forces and set up a new cordon. Gunning it, the vehicle sped away. They would find the melted remains of his rifle on the roof, the result of a thermite charge.

--

Two hours later he was tracing the route of a local river in the suburbs, when he came to a restaurant. A high-end sedan sat there, in a silver color. It was a popular model, plenty of people had them. Taking his Swiss knife he found another vehicle, fortunately with the plate of a different city-state. Switching the plates, he drove off.

The young man who emerged from the restaurant half an hour later found that his car was missing. Embarrassed, he called the police in front of his date as the police came to take him to the station. When he arrived he found that local police units had seen many similar vehicles, but none with his liscence plate. Nobody notice the motorcycle in the river, or the fact that one of the janitor's cars bore the missing identification.

[Old Fortress Commons - Berliston]

It was all over, had been for hours. But you could still smell it. Blood stained the ground, and the place stank of shit. The bodies, or what remained of them, had already been zipped up and rushed to the morgue. Ballistic analysis showed the bullets were close in grain size to DrakArms 15.5x120mm, which would explain why there were consistent kills made at nearly two miles. Whoever made the shots was a professional sniper, and had virtually disappeared: nobody had seen anything of him but his heat signature.

--

Jan Smit had a plain name by most people's standards. But as he stood in front of the cameras in a televised broadcast from the Old Fortress a day after the incident, he was the most powerful man in the nation. As the Speaker for the Senate, he was a member of one of the two groups that competed against Hellerich's Centrist Party, the National Alliance.

Straightening his tie, he looked into the camera and began to speak.

--

[Outside Point Dasch]

"Only a day later and they're still fucking protesting. It's been a week, you'd think they'd give it up."

The two Hyland-Nikolaas Industries mercs, or as they were legally termed 'security employees', stood at their post, watching the 40,000 or so protestors outside their compound. Police stood outside too, but they hadn't really done much against the mass.

The issue of corporate power had become so intense that even staunch Centrist Hellerich had been forced to bow to the complaints of the New Socialist Party. And despite the mass investigations and litigation, the protestors had been there for a week. The usual signs about mercenary atrocities in Blightland or MPHK or some other godforsaken hellhole were there, along with more drivel about economic equality.

The technological age had brought wonders for the conspiracy theorists. Someone had circulated stolen information from the investigative reports: The rounds that killed the president were exclusively marketed by the HNI subsidiary, DrakArms. And so now there were a few 'corporations killed the president' signs along with everything else. Of course, the NSP had reason to hate Hellerich too- all sorts of increases to Law Enforcement and 'privacy-violating' databases and systems had put them in fury for years.

In the background, some political commentators were discussing the ramifications of Smit becoming President.

"-Well, we've all seen the reports on how many jobs the Safe Market Act would cost the workforce, and the NA isn't going to tolerate anything like that. We're going to see a reversal in economic trends now that the Centrist Party's 20 years of success is over."

Viral information would work against the NSP however. An email message from an address known to be affiliated with a pro-NSP radical group called the Equality Front, great admirers of Rosseau and other less savory characters in UCSNE politics, had released not only calls for the 'general will to take power from the grasp of tyrants' and 'to keep struggling though one obstacle has been removed', but a photo from the scope of the rifle before it had been fired.

Released the next day, the nation had gone beserk. The Equality Front had a paramilitary arm, and whoever agnchng@equalityfront.org was, they were close to the assasin. The various law enforcement agencies and the government tried to quiet the people calling for retaliation, but an investigation was launched. The populace believed they knew who had killed the President, but they longed to know why.

[Sloane Residence, Halisfavon]

Robert Sloane was a head member of the NSP-Equality Front, which meant nothing good for him had come of the past day. He lay sleepless in his bedroom, lying on the floor with some pillows in the bed. His windows were shut, and cans of Red Bull lay by his bedside. An S12K shotgun was in his shoulder strap, a Glock chambered in .357 in a hip holster. And then the knock on his door. Two short raps.

A man in his late 30s, he looked much older at the time. He said nothing and checked his weapons. They knew he was in here. The warning. They said they had a warrant. And then the battering ram. At that moment he realized that he'd rigged the door when some angry college students tried to break in. Getting up, he shouted, but the words that came out of his mouth were drowned out by a claymore mine.

Someone yelled something out. And then the first cop appeared.

Except it wasn't a cop. It was a Murph*. In full M193 ORC armored battledress.

The power armored figure cocked its (his? hers? there was no way to tell.) M9 carbine and fired a ringfoil round into his chest. His wind knocked out, he collapsed to the floor, and the ORC ripped the gun off its strap, and took the pistol and kicked it away. Another ORC cuffed him, and from there he was dragged into an APC, towards some of the most infamous facilities in the nation.

[Outside Point Dasch]

And suddenly, the police moved in. Looking for the distinct red-gray markings of the EF members, tear gas was fired into the crowd as gas masked troopers fought their way through the crowd. Batons and LTL weapons made themselves present, and then the rocks started to fly. They were met with bursts of LTL weapons. Soon the entire area was cleared out, gas masked mercenaries and policemen rounding up the EF members.

[James Teller residence, Peringeln Range]

From his family estate in the mountains, James Teller watched in fear and concern. The TV showed hundreds of arrests, murders by vigilantes- anyone even associated with the EF was having it come down on them like a ton of bricks. And then he saw the cars. Well cleaned, black, snaking up the driveway.

He tried to straighten his appearence up as he walked out to meet them. The men who got out would have looked normal if it wasnt for the pistol holsters and DSA** jackets.

"Your ties to the Equality Front have forced us to arrest you, the primary donor to the EF organization. Our actions are legitimate under the National Emergency Act of 1996. You are entitled to-"

The chairman of the New Socialist Party listened somberly and was lead into the vehicle, and then to a DSA holding facility. The entire political party was coming apart at the seams.

--
*Murph- term for MIRF, or Mobilie Intervention and Reaction Force, a Special Forces/CT unit.

**DSA- Domestic Security Agency, UCSNE equivalent of FBI and DEA.

[Poseidon, Oceanic City-States]
Millions of tons of corporate and government investment floated here, giant artificial islands now light up in the night. This was a haven for the corporate and the right-wing, socialists despised the place, when they were built 10 years ago, over 100 died in a terrorist/riot incident over the legality of the operation.

And so, as the soldier's CVL-88, registered to Nightfall Systems, flew in, he felt a sense of relief. There would be little police pressence here, because there were virtually no left wingers (or poor or criminals for that matter, considering it was an artifical island, there were no space for slums and those who couldnt pay for room.) After the usual clearances, the aircraft, along with the other 11 passengers, set down at PIA, an added on module. From there, he caught a monorail to the primary section of Poseidon, and then, to the new headquarters of Nightfall Systems.

It was a big building, shining and glorious. He walked through the main hallway, the walls covered with photographs of the various products and employees. He looked around. They weren't there. Fuck it all, they put him on the grid for nothing. Unless...

He turned around and began walking out. Jogging his memory, he remembered the safe house. Not too far from here. He called a cab, and soon he was moving.

[Old Fortress]

Jan Smit was now the President of the UCSNE.

Shaking hands in the forearm grip common of soldiers, he listened to the wishes for good luck. He would need it. The nation needed it. He walked over the the podium (secure inside the Old Fortress, of course), and began to speak.

"People of the United City States, I would say I am proud to hold his honor if it was not for the unfortuante circumstances that have brought me here. The two men who perished to bring me here were great men, and I can only hope to serve the nation as well as they did.

"But we have a greater task at hand! Over a week ago, three people were slain. We have been acquiring evidence. And I will not lift the State of Emergency until these bastards have been brought in. I will search and investigate every group necessary until we have the assailant at hand. This crime will..."

[HNI headquarters , outside Point Dasch]

The elevator slowly came down to the parking garage, making a ding as the doors opened. Picking up his briefcase, the tired IT worker walked over to his car. A really nice 2020 Henzer Cougar, in a dark blue paintjob. Unlocking it, he got into the vehicle and turned on the radio, flipping past the news reports to classic rock. He swiped his parking pass through the gate, and soon he'd be home.

But the road wasn't quite clear. The riot police were struggling to keep the protestors out of the parking lot, and someone was running at his car with a crowbar from the side. Another came from the front, with a knife. They were high-schoolers, just punks pissed off with the usual shit.

A police officer mouthed 'go!' over the din, and so he gunned it. His eyes wide as plates, the kid jumped to the side but got clipped, sending him flying into a cop, the knife sinking into the riot trooper's thigh. The man and his car drove onward, he was out of the worst to come.

The cop reacted on instinct, putting the kid into a compliance hold and slamming him into the pavement. His nose started to ooze blood. The other protestors only saw a teenager being beat into the pavement, and an angry and frustrated protestor, the one who was bearing the crowbar, slammed it into the cop's helmet. Through the seething pain he yelled officer down, and then the shooting started.

Another riot trooper drew his Seburo J10, and fired. Two 10mm JHP rounds slammed into the back of the crowbar bearing man, dropping him in a messy affair. The crowd around him suddenly quieted. A girl looked frantically to the cop trying to come to his senses after the blow, then to the corpse and the expanding pool of blood under it and then to the riot cop holding the weapon.

"You... You killed him. BASTARD!"

The news spread like wildfire, and instead of fear, it was anger. The police switched back to non-lethal weapons, but then, several dozen protestors drew arms or molotov cocktails. Bullets began to fly as the two groups exchanged fire. In the end, when the crowds had dispersed, 45 were dead, 7 of them by collateral. The reporters caught it instantly.

Fifteen minutes later a Point Dasch police station was hit with a bomb. A propane tank wrapped with C4 was almost enough to collapse the building. Eighteen police officers were killed instantly, with many more in the hospital. Another two bombings occured at the homes of police chiefs, killing three in total.

[Point Dasch Police Station District 3]

"ALRIGHT! ORDERS JUST CAME IN!"

The men in the equipment room looked up at the officer standing in the door, waiting with anticipation.

"Martial law has been declared. We've got a unit of Murphs, and the Janissaries coming in too. I want everyone on patrol in full gear. This shit is gonna be real hot."

Every weapons locker was open as the troopers gathered their pick of armarment. Assault rifles, shotguns, SMGs, and plenty of body armor were flying off the racks as police prepared for what was sure to be a violent conflict.

Anyone carrying arms was to be given one warning, and then killed. And killing there was.

(OOC: Tag. Since I plan to play a peacekeeping role, I'll drop in after some other people do.)

A similar situation was plaguing the Empire of Emmitia. For four days, the Imperial Post Office in the city of Rostovka flew the flag of the Red Carnation, the symbol for democratic revolution in Emmitia. Though, the rebels were not democratic students or revolutionaries, they were soldiers. An army with nothing to do looks to politics, more often than not, and when they see things that they do not like, they tend to act on it.

And so, four days from November 2nd, 1209 KG, a group of one hundred and thirty soldiers under the command of Captain Tinauyon stormed the Imperial Post Office in the city, and fortified it. A second group took the TV station and began to broadcast messages of revolution. A failed attempt on the Regent, Minister Veresi's life instated Martial Law.

For nearly five years now, the Pirokajuon of Emmitia had been debilitated and sick in bed. He could barely speak and his faculties were wasting away. With the power solely in the hands of Minister Veresi, as regent, and likely as the next Pirokajuon, he used them to the greatest advantage. He was always a cunning, conniving man. While money did go to the military, inaction puzzled them. The Emmitian government, while giving ultimatums and warning other nations, never invaded, or brought their military to bare. And so, the army got increasingly discontented.

It was within two days that the TV station was retaken by an assault of Civil Protection forces, and State News was played once more. In the firefight that had ensued, a tower was destroyed which had killed one hundred and thirty seven people by collapsing a tenement block. For hours, the sharp, shrill cry of gunfire, dulled by distence, could be heard, though it grew more silent by the minute.

The loyalist Emmitian army was called up to Rostovka, and with them they brought artillery. They did not plan to take the rebels as nothing, but rather to blast them out. Small howitzers as they were, they could still pummel a building into dust. They were situated all around the post office. Some small buildings were even levelled to make room for them. For the rest of the two days, the shelling began.

All throughout the night, the sky was lit by the muzzle flashes of these small emplacements battering at the Post Office. It slowly began to crumble. First, the west wing collapsed under its own weight, leaving a large pile of rubble where some soldiers hid and fired at the artillery. Some emplacements were wiped out by the stream of gunfire, while others concentrated their fire on the "hill," which was eventually blown into oblivion.

All the while, the soldiers in the top floors put red carnations down the barrels of the guns and began to sing the patriotic anthem of Democratic Emmitia, while others draped the red and black flag of democracy down the window sills.

At the dawn of the fifth day, Emmitian loyalist troops charged over the two bridges that cut the post office off from the rest of Emmitia. Sitting ducks as they were, the garrison of the post office was already mostly wounded, though they continued to fire. Men without left arms, and mangled right ones manned machine guns as they tried to mow down the loyalist troops. The troops traded back and forth volleys of 20mm grenades flung back and forth between them.

An unlucky shot for the loyalists detonated with a high explosive charge at the legs of one of the bridges. Just as a squadron was attempting to cross it, and making good progress, the bridge collapsed into a ruin of stone and mortar.

Finally, the north bridge was taken, and loyalists poured into the post office. None were spared, even as they came out to surrender. Most were shot execution-style, straight in the head. Their bodies, still dripping with blood, were hung from either the windows of the post office, or the lamp posts down the main street of Rostovka, with wooden signs around their neck. These signs, scribbled with the dead man's own blood, were written: "SEANION!" Traitor.

The Civil Protection checkpoints all around the cities were given lists of thousands of names. Whenever a citizen would approach and show their papers, and their name happened to be on the list, they were brought back unceremoniously to an undisclosed room, and tortured or beaten to death. Others were driven off in expanded paddy-wagons to locations far outside the city and shot, piled in deep holes, covered in lyme and then covered back up with dirt.

A meeting with Veresi one day, amongst the board of his associates and advisors, recognized that while Civil Protection and the Militias were incredibly loyal to the State, it was the military that was the problem. The regular army posed more of a threat than the people of Emmitia. One of the more enterprising chairmen said: "Let's get rid of the military."

While Veresi knew that he could not disband the army, he knew that he could indulge their bloodlust: he could send them to war. Veresi ordered one of his assistants to find a nation that had just begun a collapse into civil war, a nation that he could say that Emmitia was "defending" without much risk to the country. One that he could sell to the people and inspire patriotism. This would be a beautiful plan.

[TAG]age for later [POST]age
:)

Post forthcoming. [tag]

New Dublin, The Skibereenian Capital City

New Dublin was host to as many sorts of people as a city could be, to as many sorts of people and places as a nation could be.

From the towering districts of the nations most wealthy, to the stinking slums of the dregs of society.
From shanty towns to buildings that touched the Sky, from brick and mortar to carbon fiber and the most modern plastics. Like all things Skibereenian her capital was a contradiction in terms.

Skibereen herself had a reputation as having some of the friendliest people in the world, and it was also a fact that one in five visitors were never seen again.

In one of the many neighborhoods comprised of working class Skibs, sat DWPub, DWPub was a large well built building with a history all its own going back over a hundred years.

The locals in the neighborhood were very proud to have it-though no one outside the neighborhood even remembered or cared that such a placed existed-save the daring tour guides for people stupid or insane enough to believe Skibereen could be an adventure.

With in the DWPub this mid-morning sat six men, six very important men.
Though if someone walked in from the street they appeared to be just six men, well dressed, and enjoying some pints over serious table talk.

Each man at the table did not give his real name, each instead was named for an Apostle.

Matthew, he was a Red Hand representative.

Peter, he represented the BlackEyes, and most would assume was there only to protect Matthew, the BalckEyes were Red Hand Loyalists.

Paul, he represented the Order of Saint Patrick, the second most Powerful faction in Skibereen at least they were believed to be, and they made war when ever possible against the Red Hand government..

Mark, was from the O'Murchadha Clan Faction and it was this faction that was and always had been a dark horse.

Luke, was from the Dana faction another Red Hand Loyalist.

John, he represented the Fenian Guard another dark horse faction but not with nearly the clout of the O'Murchadha.

The men sat at he table and talked civily, though Matthew never addressed Paul and Paul never Matthew.

The men had all been ordered here to this place for a 'sit down' by the respective shadow agencies of thier factions.

A 'sit down' had not been ordered in nearly thirty years. It was very surprising, and even more surprisng when the men discovered that it had been neither the Red Hand or the Order of Saint Patrick to make the request. Frankly no one elese really had the strength to gather these men--at least no one they believed they knew of.

Peter--"Well, at least I get a free drin or two, maybe a meal." he turned his head about to see for the Barkeeper--of course being a BlackEye he already knew where the man was and was simply using the statement for yet another reason to 'eye' the establishment.

Peter was the youngest with no gray hair at all upon his head. He unlike the rest of the men still wore a scarf around his neck--all of the men knew that this was for the superstitous mentallity of BlackEyes--they would do everything in their power to hide their faces before they killed someone.

As the men discussed the nature of the meeting, and the unknown host, aggitation seemed to rise as time dragged on with no answers or appearences from the one had called the meeting.

After about an hour of drinking and eating, and argueing. The doors opened and a man not nearly as well dressed as them entered the Pub.
He wore a hooded sweat shirt with the cowl pulled low over his face.

The men immediately looked to Peter--who shook his head and scrunched his shoulders in the universal sign of "I dont know"

He walked to the bar and spoke softly to the barkeeper, who then seemed to pale as he looked at the man's face under the hood.

He handed the man a dark draught.

The hooded man then walked over to the table and sat--in poor manners --at the head of the table.

"I am glad your respective leaders decided to send you all, a wise decision. Wise indeed." The man sat still and said nothing more but simply raised his glass and sipped.

"Wise indeed," Peter chimed in and raised his glass "It has been a pig's age since I got a free drink and meal, now speaking of pigs who might you be?"

The other men at he table groaned in disapproval. More bad manners, this would quickly degenerate into a fight.

The man leaned his back to expose part of his face only to Peter, who could see his mouth--there was grin, and ink--lots of tattoos, on his face.

Peter, smiled back but returned his attention to his glass. The men noted how easily the young man had just been cowed. They did not like that.

"UCSNE, the assassination--you have all heard?"

Round the tabel came 'yes' from each man.

"Good, that is why we are here."

The men exchanged looks of puzzlement.

"There are many reason but for now know that is why." The man removed his hood to expose a face covered in strange and exotic tattoos. He unzipped the hooded shirt and slid it off exposing bear chest, his entire torso was a pictograph.

"Pay attention, and get ready for a trip."

tag for future post

Deliberations Room -- Imperial Palace, Zachara, Kurono, United Empire of Colerica
Thursday, July 21st, 1:38 PM IST

Large sweeping windows poured light into the room, bathing the spacious quarters with a vibrant orange glow. Men and woman, military officials clad in their uniforms and others in expensive suits, were organized around a large central table. Behind the table, situated to the right corner of the room, a large door slid open with a mechanical hiss and through it walked a quartet of Imperial Royal Guards. Known more commonly as the Crimson Guard, IRG's were the elite of Colerican soldiers, hand-selected by the Emperor from the ranks of the top Keystone Bay Military Academy's graduates and dedicated to the task of protecting the Emperor and all high-level Imperial officials. The bayonets of their NE-19 rifles glistened in the sunlight that poured through the open windows. The four IRG's surrounded Lieutenant Emperor Pro Tempor, Kircer Danton, who had assumed the role following the disappearance of Emperor Thra. Kircer seemed to adjust quite comfortably to his new -- hopefully temporary -- position and he carried with him an aura of confidence and supremacy that glowed in the room as bright as the sun. Kircer was at home in his role as leader of the United Empire and justifiably so being the nephew of Emperor Thra. The Colerican Constitution dictated that the closest relative of the Emperor was to become the Lieutenant Emperor Pro Tempor and take over should anything happen to the reigning Emperor. The title of closest relative fell on Kressi Thra, Emperor Thra's younger sister and Magistrate of State. However, the Constitution also prohibited a woman to be crowned Emperor and thusly, Kircer, as the nephew of Maderic Thra, was the closest living relative. Kircer strode into the room with his four guards and took a seat at the head of the lengthy table. At his left sat his aunt, Kressi, and to his right sat Five-Star General Azben Koren, the Supreme Commander of the Colerican Military.*

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Respected officials and revered friends," Kircer began. "We have a plethora of issues to discuss."

"We're aware of that, Lieutenant Emperor," said Astaron Tyranus, a close, personal advisor of Emperor Thra and senior member in the Imperial Court.

"As such you should be, Mr. Tyranus," Kircer stated. "I'm going to keep this brief, as this is an extended meeting from earlier. Our first issue for deliberation is clearly our missing Emperor; my uncle."

"What are we to do about it? There's an entire company of Crimson Guardsmen held up in the palace," asked Ariss Mortuan, Magistrate of Finance.

"They are acting under orders of the Emperor, himself. There is nothing we can do about it. When Emperor Thra wishes to free himself from his throne room, he shall do so," Dev SigNar, Magistrate of Internal Affairs, said.

"Yes, but the CIIA has come out with Commander Dayrock's affiliation to the Sith. He could be holding Emperor Thra hostage," stated Magistrate of Security Sethra Aylain.

"He's not holding anyone hostage," said Xevven Jericho, Magistrate of War.

"How can you be sure?" asked Aylain.

"Because the Imperial Royal Guard are, as Magistrate SigNar pointed out, acting with orders from Emperor Thra. They're doing as he instructed them to. He'll leave his throne room when he chooses to and we will have no more discussion of it. Kircer Danton is our Lieutenant Emperor; we shall follow his lead until Emperor Thra re-emerges from his self-imposed exile."

"Moving along," Kressi Thra said, "we have two pressing international affairs to tend to at the moment. The war in Very Small Island is over and our operations there are wrapping up with the continued elimination of terrorist resistance fighters. General Koren and Adimiral McCallum have already elaborated our future plans for Very Small Island. The reconstruction is underway and will not be underminded."

"The other 'pressing' international issue, Ms. Thra?" asked Damon Greggors, Magistrate of Justice.

Kircer spoke first: "Most of you are aware of the assassination that took place in the United City States of New Empire no more than a week ago. President Hellerich along with others was shot and killed by an undentified assassin while finishing a speech. The killer had connections to a UCSNE domestic faction known as the Equality Front."

"Terrorists, Sir?" a uniformed major general, an associate and flunky of General Koren, asked.

"Not in that exact sense, it would appear. Regardless of what they call themselves, the end result is now political turmoil. Their government has stated martial law and now riots and fire fights plague the streets," Kressi explained on Kircer's behalf.

"What are you suggesting we do about it all?" asked Lyle Stevens, Magistrate of the Treasury.

"We have talked in closed doors about it," Koren said, indicating the co-shares of the military commanders that sat beside him, "and we have decided that we must act in the best interest of the United Empire."

"What in hell does New Empire have to offer the United Empire?" an underling official shouted from across the table.

"That will be decided after this is over," General Rax Hamle said, "and we have to believe that if a civil war of any kind breaks out in the UCSNE, it would be in our best interest to quell it."

"On a related note, there are many things that the New Empire offers us now. Our research indicates that they're a prominant tourist destination for Colericans, for example," said Ariss Mortuan.

"We're going to risk our boys and girls for a fucking tourist destination?" asked the aforementioned underling; a snide demi-magistrate in the Justice Magistery by the name of Doro Juun.

"They are also a large host to United Empire abroad businesses and a major hub for Niculescu Funds. Mikhai tells me that New Empire is host to what he calls, quote, a "cornerstone" of his banking empire," Ariss continued.

"So it's decided just like that? On the basis that Mikhai Niculescu has one of his multi-billion credit banks located there, we are to send forces to stop a conflict from erupting?" Juun asked, disgusted.

"Silence, Mr. Juun," Kircer said. "We're sending no forces. This is all on the discussion level right now. We are not comitting any soldiers to their strife as of this moment."

"You say that now," Juun said. "You're going to be sending over a force to crush this fight for the sake of money. You make me sick, Danton."

"Guards," Kircer said, waving his hand to signal his IRG's, "remove Mr. Juun from sight."

Silently, the Crimson Guardsmen obeyed, advancing to Juun with their rifles raised. Two of them grabbed hold of his arms and all four of them escorted him out of the room. The sound of a single gunshot soon rang out from the hallway outside the room.

"Well then. I declare this meeting to be adjourned," called Kressi Thra with a smirk as the various officials began to stand up.

OOC: * = Koren answers directly to the Emperor.

[Point Dasch City State]
[2200 Local]
[44th Janissary Division (Mechanized)]

"Shit man, you know the saying about firefighters? This has got to be the same for us, times a hundred."

The column of trucks and APCs rumbled forward down the highway, the imposing Lionhound II tank scaring off anyone who might try and take their lane. But the people on foot cared not. Seething masses had brought most people to a halt, most fleeing for their lives as the fighting intensified. The sound of gunfire could be heard here, and now both the supporters of capitalists and the socialist were illegaly duking it out on the street. And the rest of the population was now in exodus.

The screaming people all called out at the soldiers in the truck, hands grabbing on, begging for a ride back. Some anti-war protestor leapt in front, the rain beating down on his thin windbreaker as the truck screeched to a halt. The driver cursed, sticking his head out of the cab to yell and flip off the kid.

Soldier 1st Class Dale Edmund sat in the back, watching as someone tried to rip through the tarp that covered the bed and get inside the vehicle. Dirty hands beat and pounded, voices shouted over the steady beat of the rain. And then a tearing sound. Someone shoved a knife straight through a tarp, ripping it open in a noisy tear. Sitting closest to the back, Edmund drew his pistol, a standard military model, as the person climbed in. His eyes wide as plates as they saw the gun, Edmumd pistol-whipped the guy in the hand, splitting knuckles as he screamed. Poking his head outside the truck as the people continued to mob it, people froze as the dull-gray muzzle steadily swept the crowd, like a magician displaying his hat before a trick. An unamused look on his face, he kicked the man onto the pavement.

"Hey buddy, calm down!" It was the man's girlfriend (Wife? He didn't bother looking for a wedding ring). She was holding him along with another man as the injured fellow cursed and swore at the soldier, blood streaming down his hand.

"Calm down?"

Edmund grinned from ear to ear, pistol still in gloved hand.

"Yeah, theres no reason to be waving that thing around! Its a deadly-"

"And you dipshit civvies are carrying knives, mobbing our vehicle! Now you all listen up! Next idiot that tries to hitchike gets shot. I don't care who you are or what your problem is, but right now you selfish bastards are keeping us from saving the people stuck in there!" he thumbed defiantly towards the city center. "So for every minute you swarm us because you don't want to get wet, a few people over there die because someone threw their firebomb in the wrong window. Now get the fuck away from my truck!"

The engine revved as the trooper riding shotgun revived the old meaning of the word, displaying his M32 rifle and quickly dispersing the crowd. Catching up with the column, they moved ever steadily into the city.

[City Center]

And that was the easy part of Edmunds day.

"BEEEE-yoouuuuteeful downtown Point Dasch ladies and gents. For those of you livin' here on weekdays, welcome home. And for the rest of you boys and girls who come here to visit, well, your tourist trap is now a deathtrap. Enjoy your stay, and watch out for stray bullets!"

The corporal slapped the butt of his rifle as he finished his little speech, jogging across wet pavement with the tetrarchy as they moved towards a suspected EF holdout.

"Hey, Voorhies." the Decurion didn't look back as he walked, his weapon at his shoulder, "Keep your butt in line, and keep your voice down. Don't want to attract fire."

Grinning as he did his little-english-boy voice, he replied "Yes, mother!"

The Decurion didn't grace him with a reply, or didn't have time to. A burst of tracer fire raced across the intersection. Switching to a tactical-leapfrog, ducking and sprinting from cover to cover. The usually crowded downtown was now empty, the sounds of combat replacing that of nightlife. Chewing his caffiene gum more furiously, Edmund heard someone scream "HOSTILES LEFT!", and swung his rifle around. Peering down the sight of his rifle, he watched the man running, an EF armband noticeable on his jacket. One of their 'People's Militia' or some such bollocks. He didn't consider the thought as he fired a 2-round burst. A pair of 6.5 caseless rounds cracked into the man's chest, blended metal shredding his lower body. In shock, he started to yell something about their numbers. Amazingly clear headed, but it wouldn't help him. No runner would live. Standard tactics, right? Someone else finished the job, a round smacking him in the head. The body stilled. Another militiaman peeked his head around the corner, and was met with a burst of machinegun fire. Hitting him in the head and neck, it was an instant ragdoll. His body fell to the ground like a puppet deprived of strings.

The Decurion motioned them forward. Lifting themselves from the cold, damp roadway, they made their way towards the rest of the Tetrarchy. Avoiding the walls to spare themselves of ricocheting gunfire, the battle continued.

Somewhere in the distance, artillery rumbled.

Open Seas

The Freighter 'Swollen Belly' made full through fifteen foot waves.

The Swollen Belly was one of the Largest container vessels in the world, Skibereen had seized her and the rest of the Erinin Merchant fleet during Erinin's collapse, Erinin had of course seized the vessels fro the collapse of logistics giant FallCorp.

So it had all come out in the wash.

Skibereen now enjoyed the fruits of the ErininArms weapons trade and international use of their civilian Logistics services, some of the most refined and streamlined in the world. Skibereen had never truly moved in holstility in international manners so she was globally considered a non-threat as long as you werent within her borders.

The Swollen Belly's massive hull seemed to punish the sea itslef as itmoved its massive 1,059.61-ft bulk through the deep blue.

She could carry when fully laden 99,518 tons (219.3 million lb) of cargo, fuel and stores, giving a full load displacement of 133,843 tons (295 million lb).

Today she was fully laden and making her quaterly rotation, next stop The New Empire.

She would deliver Skibereenian Whiskey, luxury items like hand made laces, preprocessed gourmet food stuffs, and certain raw materials for UCSNE production.

She would also be delivering a few other things this trip.
The Swollen Belly had four other sister ships and in a week the next would be arriving with its rotation, and so and so fourth for the next month. This had been a regular occurence for some time now. It would not be thought out of the ordinary, and no one thought it strange when Skibereenian sailors or merchants neared hostile areas--their home port was a hostile area.

On board the Swollen Belly were fifteen men of the BlackEye faction, and they would be doing their work on the streets of the UCSNE, and they would have to survive for the next year of they wanted to be extracted quietly.

The men were well trained, or more precisely combat experienced.
The disticntion that must be made about BlackEyes is that all of these men are or were successful smugglers, not strong arm agents like the rest of the factions in Skibereen. Their community specialized quiet insertion and extraction, they did not engage force head on--rather they chose to avoid it and then harrass it. Each BlackEye was as well trained a sniper as any man in any military, that was how they operated for the Red Hand government-quietly gathering interlligence and striking at targets of opportunity.

These fifteen men were the best of the best, they knew when to shoot and when to run. They did not spook and they did not miss, they could be considered a foremost front runner of any 'wet works' team in the world.

Their mission was not yet completely clear to them.

(OOC: Much of this is reference to a war that occurred a long time ago. Siap backed the dictator in the Empire of Necoroth (Which has since ceased to exist). During this time, a mercenary group, the "Shadow Dogs" attacked Siap. This should provide context)


IC:
The sun set on the horizon over the arctic plane that constituted the northern region of Siap, bidding farewell to the balmy summer that reached record highes of -47°F. Barking cut across the horizon as two lines of Samoyeds towed a figure bundled in a thick parka. They aproached a small collection of buildings. The figure led the dogs inside of a kennel where they eagerly devoured the large slabs of caribou and fish placed in front of them. The figure walked into the building, a pub, abandoned, except for a bartender in the background, polishing glasses; his seeming lifelessness made him almost indistinguishable from the stack of bottles behind him. Another man sat at a booth. "Mike!" Michael Connor undid his scarf, removed his hood and took off his headband and took off his parka. "Jack. Whats up?"

"Got that surveilliance you wanted."

"Talk to me."

"Situations gone hot."

"Was I right, or was I right."

Jack took on a more concerned expression. "Are you sure this is what you're after? This is much more different than popping terrorists and blowing up bio labs."

"Jack. Do you remember who I am? I am Michael Connor. Former Commander of the Siapian Intelligence Network Operations Detatchment Epsilon (OOC: Epsilon is similar to America's Delta Force or Britain's SAS, but much more covert). The best of the best. I also served in the Necoroth wars. Most people who came back from there alive haven't been able to sleep since then."

"Mike. Your getting old. I wouldn't be suprised if you didn't age ten years in two minutes from all of this that you put yourself through."

"We're beyond age and life. This is for hope of a people. It disgusts me to see people as slaves to jobs they hate so they can fill their houses with stuff they don't need. They are being lied to, and I won't idly sit by."

Jack slid a folder across the table. "Everything you need. You know where to find your men?"

"We lived together, we died together. We are bound together by an inseperable force. Of course I know where they are."

"Another thing. Ever hear of the Shadow Dogs Mercs?"

"Yeah. They blew up an arms depot, a fuel dump, a SIN (Siapian Intelligence Network) safehouse and some other crap. Why?"

"Well, since you talked the Chancellor out of giving them the death sentence, they feel they owe you their lives."

"What lives? Aren't they still in the labor camps?"

"No. Most of them died, but about 500 escaped."

"Damn. Where are they?"

"The bastards ripped a freighter from Skyetech. My company."

"What was on it?"

"The new standard army rifle, frags, C4, Special Ops equipment. I officially registered the freighter as destroyed. I arranged for them to meet you here."

"All of them?"

"Nah. The rest are holed up in the Thunder Forest on the mainland. Right by your men."

"Shit. Now I've got, what, a thousand men! I could actually do this." He said, while downing a shot of vodka, like the many that had been almost magically appearing in front of him

***

The two men walked out onto the tundra and gradually towards onto the ice. Jack pulled out a flare and threw it onto the ice. Red smoke billowed up into the sky and a freighter that was sitting on the water came alive. It approached the ice slowly and eventually it halted and a dinghy came out to meet them. Several grisly looking men each sporting rings with a black dog insignia and tattoos of the like came onto the ice. Jack turned to Mike. "If you ever find yourself between a dog and a fire hydrant, give me a call." Mike grinned. "Seriously. I sold out my employees lives for this. I'm in it for the long run." Mike got aboard the dinghy.
***
The reunion with his men was somewhat warm. Everyone was willing to lse everything. They knew that they had no government, and no official support. Their guns and supplies would be stolen and they had no real home to run to. In their homeland they still hid, but they were united by their idealism and inability to return to the perils of a normal life.

When the men were on board the ship, they immediately distributed the weapons amongst themselves. They were still slightly short on weapons, and supplies would be hard to come by, and their clothes were tattered, and often times either hand sewn or old uniforms. "Men. This will be the largest operation we have taken on since Necoroth. I know that there are unfamiliar faces amongst us, but we are tied together. We all have no homes and nothing to lose. This is a nation about to become a corporate dollhouse. In Necoroth, we were merely pawns of a corrupt government. We weren't heroes and we fought for a corrupt and psychotic dictator. This time, we are performing our pennance. We wil save this nation from becoming a slave to the facist materialists who enslave their wills to turn them into perpetual servants of a disgusting self-perpetuating beast. Once a generation knows freedom from these evils, there will be no way to bring them back."

"Now, strategically, our support will be within the cities. We're going to organize into cells of five. Just like ech previous unit. Each of you is to be self directing and self-reliant. Our targets are military and police facilities. Civilian casualties must not happen. When we get near shore, we will set the ship to run aground and we'll infiltrate via dinghies. You are to become indistinguishable from the people we are helping. Remember the greatest hiding place is in plain sight. Never, ever, ever draw unnecesary attention to yourselves unnecesarily. We should arrive in several hours..."

[Halisfavon]
[560 miles south of point Dasch]

Point Dasch was one of the major shipping centers to the Southern Coast, but now the government was in a tight spot. The fighting had intensified, the docks ruined in anti-corporate riots. The only safe areas were the offshore artificial islands, their bridges attacked daily by leftists.

And with the support of the major trading corporations, the freighters were rerouted to Halisfavon. Facing nearly three times its normal input, the ports struggled to keep up. Security was facing similar issues. They couldn't afford to search every foreign freighter. The best they could use against every single freighter were utility helicopters with thermal cameras. But as they buzzed over, they wouldn't catch anything that was man portable. Only one in several freighters could be searched. The nation was more vulnerable than it had ever been. The multibillion dollar missile defense and ASW networks could not protect it from what was to come.

[HNI Airfield]
[West of Point Dasch]

"What the hell is that doing back here?"

The HNI-Roc Mk IV was a massive machine, a competitor to the liscence built SkyCat produced by Berliston Aerospace. As the cities became bigger, and moved out to sea, the need for such a vehicle had caused the amazingly large airship to become a common sight along the coast of New Empire. But what it was doing here was completely different.

The smaller device being loaded inside was also a unique piece of HNI manufacture, though much newer. Loaded in two parts, one was clearly a Nereus 8MW reactor housing, and the other was...? Nobody had seen anything like it. The crew accompanying it also seemed different. But the loadworkers didn't spend too much attention on that one device. There were even more strange pieces of equipment that needed to be loaded and mounted before the big blimp could lift off.

The men in the cargo container waited as they knew would soon be reaching there destination.
The interior of the "can" was of course drapped with a Thermat tarp--usually used to cover tanks, but whatever, improvise and adapt.

The men had considered what to bring, they were all BlackEyes and so, they had all brought rifles. Most importantly they had brought, money.
The backers of this little expedition had given them scads of UCSNE currency.


They were also well dressed, not too well dressed, but well dressed none the less.

Each man carried a pistol, and the best tourist papers that could be forged, but they were forgeries none the less and prolonged scrutiny would expose them.

They had opened orders an hour ago, and their mission simple, add tothe chaos--and at the right a signal would be provided to show them who to lean on.

Fifteen well trained combat experienced snipers, with rifles and more importantly ammunition were capable if circumstances permitted to create a great deal of havoc.

The men, were starting to feel odd about this entire deal, it felt very unSkib, and very much Erinin, as one man put it.