NationStates Jolt Archive

The Grey Carnage: Death Comes to Farmina [Closed]

25-07-2005, 16:08
OOC: This an RP I meant to do a little while ago. Free feel to TAG along (they make me feel special) or request a role. The main purpose of this RP however is to fill in a whole in Farminan history; and we shall not mess around with the key events in the continuum, shall we.

The knife slid gracefully through Doctor Steiner’s flesh. “Now tell me what happened to the file belonging to Doctor Larios,” repeated Dan Rickhart. The doctor remained silent. Dan Rickhart responded by slamming the knife deeper into Steiner’s arm, tearing a nerve. The doctor let loose a most hallowing scream. Twisting in agony, he begged, “Please no more.”
After a brief pause Steiner answered the Moralist’s question, “I gave it to a Conservative yesterday. By now word will have reached Aston.”
Dan Rickhart pulled out the knife before ramming it into the doctor’s heart. The doctor slumped and died, blood spurting out of his chest and oozing out of his arm.

Dan Rickhart, dripping with blood, picked up his phone, and uttered the three words, “The doctor danced.”
Through wires and interchanges these the three words traveled half way across Farmina, from Verica to Ricco, straight into the ear of Tobias Grey, Moralist, the head of the government and acting emperor. “So there is no turning back,” thought Tobias, “Oh how I had hoped to avoid this.” But Tobias knew he had been fooling himself; no matter what the doctor had said, the next words of Tobias Grey would be the same. “Wash them down the river” he ordered. The fate of Farmina was sealed.
In Eastern Farmina, the city of Aston was abuzz with Conservatives. Over two million Conservatives had flocked to Aston for the annual Conservative Convention. It was the largest turnout ever, the hotels were booked out and camps, full of tents, had appeared in and around the city.

What the Conservatives didn’t know was that their enemies were watching them, waiting to strike.
“Being ordered to work on a Saturday,” muttered Field Marshal Richard Jefferson, “The world really is going down hill.” As to prove Jefferson’s proposition, everywhere Jefferson looked all he could see was graffiti. “Fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work”, “Surviving a day’s work is too good a deal according to the Conservatives”, and “Death to the Conservatives,” littered the Ricco streets. Richard Jefferson had never seen such flaunting of the law, and all the graffiti had appeared in under two days. “Who would have thought the Conservative veto would have stirred up so much anger? Who would have known the Moralists would have used the veto to their advantage so well?” Jefferson asked himself, the answers struck him to be the Moralists themselves.

And if the Moralists had planned to stir up so much community anger two days before the Conservative convention, it left Field Marshal Jefferson with one conclusion, “I’m walking straight into a trap.”
Justinian, Emperor of Farmina, was not in good health. He had just finished eating breakfast and found himself in his pajamas, with a closet trying to eat him. He tried to focus, but the room continued to blur. The closet was trying to reach him, stretching across the room towards him, trying to swallow him. “I reject this reality,” he whispered to himself, “Closets do not stretch, they are a constant.” The illusion did not stop, but at least he could still tell what was real.

Justinian was amazed at how badly his mental health had deteriorated in the last two months, “Its been worse since the diagnosis. They must be unable cure me.” He could understand why he had been confined to his quarters. The closet he had seen everyday for the last two years, he could tell how that should be, but outside the world was vast, it changed, and he had not learnt it as he had learnt his own room. Out there he feared he would not know what was real or what was fiction; a very dangerous thing when in the public’s gaze.

Sweat trickled down Justinian’s neck. “Real?” thought Justinian. He felt his neck, and then rubbed his hands together and smelt them. The smell, the feel, it all seemed real. Being a warm summer morning provided further evidence to Justinian that the sweat was no delusion. “This is ridiculous, I am doing an analysis of whether I am sweating or not. That must be a sign of madness.”

Justinian promptly decided to stop examining the cabinet and his sweat, and began unbuttoning his pajamas before throwing them into the basket in the corner, ready for the cleaning staff to wash. He looked over to the clock, “9AM, I overslept again. By four hours this time. The medication must be taking its toll. That is of course if that is what the clock really says, or if that is in fact even a clock and not just the mind being deceived.” The thought struck Justinian as absurd. Time was of no significance to him, he had nowhere to be, especially at five in the morning. Each day since his confinement he got up, had breakfast, exercised, had a shower, get dressed up at eleven because the cleaners come at five past, have lunch, be visited by Doctor Larios at one, exercise more, have dinner and go to bed. Being locked in a room by himself didn’t strike Justinian as a great way to spend his youth, perhaps his life, but he had been given very little say in the matter.

And so Justinian dropped onto all fours, and began doing push-ups, hoping that the day would pass quickly, but more importantly his confinement as a whole would come to an end.
Thomas Goth looked out the conference room window, perched high in Walter Castle, looking over Aston from the city’s very centre. The bright morning sun illuminated his suit dark black suit, not an expensive brand, although fine in its own right. “Turnout is excellent; wouldn’t want to be a Moralist caught in Aston,” commented Robert Brie Senior as he allowed the sweet scent of the coffee for treat his sense of smell.
“I think not,” responded Andre Cirtus, patrician as ever, “The sudden interest in the future of the Conservative block is just a reflection of our problems; the Moralists are in power and there is nothing we can do about it.”
“If there was nothing we could do, we wouldn’t be here. The presence of so many shows that our righteous cause will succeed,” added Gregory Vanstone, a short fat man who was Chancellor of the Treasury in the previous administration.
“Such optimistic thinking is complacent. The gathering of so many is a sign of the peoples desperation, not their hope,” responded Cirtus.
“Listen here Andre,” began Robert Brie in a rather harsh tone, “I have been in politics since before you were born, so don’t go…”
“Silence,” ordered Thomas Goth, turning away from the window, “I have heard enough of your squabbling. The Moralists must love the thought of us tearing ourselves apart. Bob, I respect your experience, but Andre is right; Conservatives across the nation are panicking. It has been a very long time since we have been out of power. We must provide the hope that they came here for. The convention begins in six hours and I want to hear every idea you have.”
The room fell silent, as the elite Conservatives waited for someone to suggest a course of action.

The silence was quickly broken by a knocking at the conference room door.
“Enter,” ordered Goth, an order promptly followed by the Conservative on the other side.
“We have just received this, you will wish to see it,” said the entrant, who promptly walked across the room to Thomas Goth and handed him a file.
Upon opening the file Thomas Goth read the first few lines and asked, “Are you sure this is right Mick? It can’t be, can it?”
“The file originated from Doctor Steiner himself,” responded the man by the name of Mick.
“Tom, what is that file on? asked Robert Brie.
“If this is accurate,” began Thomas Goth in a most somber tone, “The emperor’s doctor is a Moralist who has been drugging him. The emperor isn’t mad; he’s off his face.”
“What do you mean I have been labeled a security risk, I am the second highest ranking person in the Farminan military,” growled Jefferson into his mobile, trying to buy an air ticket to Parthia, “May I ask who labeled me a security risk?”
To that there was no reply, but as he hung up he had a very good idea who was responsible.

The Field Marshal knew he was out of options. In the middle of Ricco, in front of the very heart of all Farmina’s military operations, there was no way he could possibly escape the military. And so walked into the Central Military Command Complex, took the lift to the third floor, went through the second door on the right, just as was supposed to.

He walked through the door to find Supreme Commander Arnold Bashar was sitting, waiting for him, just as he was supposed to. “Ah, Richard, glad you could make it on a Saturday. Now would you be so kind to inform me where General Simpson is?”
“Dumpsterdam, I believe, perhaps Roach-Busters, sir,” said Jefferson, “He is dismantling our bases in foreign countries, as required by Tobias Grey’s new directives. Did you call me all this way to ask…”
“That should have been finished weeks ago,” interrupted Bashar, “You have failed me Jefferson. I have the feeling that you and Simpson failed me, stalled me, on purpose.”
“What makes you have such a pessimistic cognation?” asked Jefferson.
“You know what,” responded Bashar in a cold, neutral tone.
Jefferson and Simpson had both been loyal and open Conservatives, in a military that was dominated by Moralists. In fact Jefferson and Simpson had been stalling the dismantlement of foreign bases; as they had given overseas deployments to known Conservatives, where they would be out of harm’s way.

Arnold Bashar stood up and walked over to the map hanging on his office wall. “Tell me what you see,” asked Bashar.
“A small city,” observed Jefferson, “The red markers seem to be defending it, the blue ones encircling it. There seems to the greatest concentration of the blue markers on the west of the city, as thought they are going to head east smashing through the city. Just like we used in Sinear.”
“So you recognize the tactics, your invasion force exploited so well in Sinear,” said Bashar, “But can you name the city?”
“We passed through so many of the Sinearan cities using this tactic. The hills in the west make me guess Arsville,” said Jefferson, with another thought in the back of his mind; but so strongly he denied it.
“So close,” said Bashar, giving a dramatic pause before adding, “Its Aston.”
“It isn’t,” exclaimed Jefferson, stepping backwards, “It can’t be.”
“You know its true,” said Bashar, laughing darkly at the cowering Field Marshal.
“You won’t get away with this,” warned Jefferson, desperately grabbing a worn out clique.
“I suppose I should say, ‘I already have’. It’s been planned to the finest detail. I have been given the order to ‘Wash them down the river’ and I will, but I wanted you to die first traitor; to know what is coming and be unable to stop it,” mocked Arnold Bashar, calmly pulling out his pistol and aiming it at the Field Marshal.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” prayed Jefferson, dropping to his knees.
Bashar pulled back the safety on his pistol, as his dark laugh drowned out the desperate man’s pleas.
“Watch over my wife and our unborn child. Please deliver Farmina from…”
The pray abruptly ended by a gunshot as Bashar fired his pistol. Jefferson fell to the floor, trying to use his hands to cover the hole in his bleeding chest. Bashar continued to laugh, enjoying his personal victory as he fired twice more, before leaving Richard Jefferson in a pool of his own blood.
Dustan Brand felt fear ever so strongly as he approached Aston. His black Moralist uniform made him stand out, and he was about to enter a city overflowing with Conservatives. “I reckon they won’t listen to us,” said Charles Rinar, “They won’t even let us near the big house.”
Brand looked over to Rinar, “Fool, that’s the point.”
Rinar’s face showed no sign of comprehension, and Brand wasn’t really in the mood to enlighten him.

“Black-shirt,” was suddenly yelled out, breaking Dustan Brand’s thoughts of Rinar’s stupidity and Operation River.
The five Moralist enforcers had just entered the one of the camps that encircled Aston. “Shut it you,” yelled back Sanders.
“Make me black-shirt,” responded the Conservative.
“Keep driving,” said Brand calmly, an order which Saunders obeyed without question.

The Conservative heckling continued all the way to Castle Walter. Upon arrival the five men got out the jeep and went quite logically to the front gate. “And what do the likes of you want around here?” asked the Conservative guard at the front door.
“I am here with an arrest warrant,” said Dustan Brand, handing over a small piece of paper, “By the power invested in me, by Emperor Tobias, I request that you hand over these persons on the charges of arms smugglings, treason and aiding vigilante movements.”
The guard looked as though he was going to burst out laughing, “This is the entire upper echelon of the Conservative Block.”
“Please let us in,” said Brand sternly.
“Not going to happen,” said guard.
“I suggest you check with Mr. Goth if he wants to follow this course of action. Failure to do so could be classed as a rebellion,” warned Brand.
“As you wish,” said the guard, before speaking into his two-way, “Could you ask Mr Goth if the Moralists may arrest the entire Conservative council. They’re threatening to call any resistance a rebellion.”
For a minute there was silence before the two-way made a brief noise, audible only to the guard.
The guard looked up at the Moralist, “He said ‘no’..”
“So be it,” responded Brand, who turned and lead the five Moralists back to the vehicle as he began dialing on his mobile.
Once safely back in the jeep he spoke into the phone, “General Reilly, the Enablement Act is now if effect. You have a go.”
“If the Emperor is doped out of his mind, we must tell the palace, even if it is a false alarm,” said Andre Cirtus, looking over at Thomas Goth.
Before Goth could respond the intercom beeped and said, “Mr Goth, there is a black-shirt outside trying to arrest the entire council. He is threatening to declare the Conservative block a rebel threat, which means the Enablement Act comes into effect. What should we tell him?
Thomas Goth looked across the table, “This has to be a bluff. I say we treat it like a bluff.”
“And if it isn’t?” asked Cirtus.
“Then we can expect an army to knock down the door and arrest us by force,” said Arthur Whitinger.
“If we do allow them to take us, who says that they won’t come and arrest more, and more, until every known Conservative crams the jails,” said Robert Brie.
“I agree with Bob,” said Goth, “These Moralists never stop wanting more. Anyone who thinks I am making the wrong decision, you are more than welcome to hand yourself over.”
After a brief silence, Goth pressed the speaker button on the intercom and said calmly, “Tell the black-shirt to go sodomize his sister.”

“So are we going to tell the palace?” asked Cirtus, considering the interruption complete.
“Ah, yes,” said Thomas Goth, his thoughts going back to the medical file, “In fact, I shall do it myself. Then we must decided what to do if the military storms Aston.
Goth pulled out his mobile phone while giving Mick a hand gesture to indicate he could return to his duties.
After briefly dialing he began talking, “Ah, Colonel Zander, its Thomas Goth. I have evidence that implies elements loyal to the Moralists have been drugging the emperor…yes I’m quite sure, it seems his medicine is not medicine…”
The comment was cut short by a wail followed by an explosion, which shook the entire castle.
“That was an artillery shell,[/I]” yelled out Jonathon Water.
Andre Cirtus, who was under the table at the sound of the wail, rolled his eyes at the Water’s observation, “Thank God there are White Guard stationed only a couple hours south of here. They should be able to do something.”
“As if White Guard or DFF will be interested in a law enforcement issue,” sniped back Robert Brie.
Thomas Goth paid couldn’t believe the two men’s behavior. Moving to stand under the safety of a doorframe, he said, “Shut up, the pair of you…no not you Colonel. I’m afraid we are under attack...”
Jonathon Briggs, Justinian’s personal aide, walked the halls of the White Palace with a sense of accomplishment. Briggs was also secretly a Moralist, and had used his powers to ensure Justinian’s doctor and chefs were also Moralists. That had given the Moralists the power to, say, ‘change the Emperor’s mind’.

“Colonel,” began Briggs, but a raised hand from the head of the White Guard indicated the Colonel Peter Zander was on the phone.
“…under attack, are you sure? Yes, I suppose you would be Mr. Goth. Move the Emperor, I suppose that is a good idea, I’ll check with the Dumpies first mind you. Good day Mr. Goth.”
As Colonel Zander began dialing, Jonathon Briggs knew all too well how defensive the Dumpsterdamians were of the Emperor, well the old Emperor. But the Dumpsterdamians weren’t the only ones who needed Justinian.

Time was of the essence. Briggs moved swiftly to his room, grabbing his switchblade and placed it up his sleeve. Then he pressed a small button hidden within his lamp, giving the signal to his fellow Moralists, that they might soon lose Justinian.
“…1263, 1264, 1265…,” said Justinian, pushing himself up and down, his near-naked body dripping in (real) sweat.
“My Emperor,” began Justinian’s aide entering the room in blur.
Justinian collapsed onto the floor before standing up and yelling, “What are you doing in here? I told my guards I wanted privacy.”
Justinian’s blurred vision made it hard to recognize even his own aide. The voice however gave Justinian some certainty that the man was in fact Briggs.
“I have some very important news, lied Briggs. He could feel the knife in his sleeve, ready to make sure the White Guard and the Dumpsterdamians didn’t take Justinian alive.
Jonathon Briggs signal had set in motion another plan. Moralists and military men had taken position not only outside Aston, but at vital sites all over the nation in case anything went wrong. Around the White Palace one such group was now active. Military snipers were now moving into position, silently and slowly, lining up the White Guard that patrolled the palace wall, one by one.
An artillery shell smashed into a tent. Anthony Breaker dived to the ground. A man to Breaker’s left wailed; the man’s family had been in that tent. More shells wailed down all around the camp, seemingly from the west. The shells mostly didn’t seem to be falling on the camp, but further east; no doubt on other camps and more yet, on the city of Aston itself.

Conservatives were running around the tent town in a terror. No one seemed to know what to do. Men panicked, women cried and children tried to cover their eyes and ears to make it all go away. Anyone who could get their hands on a weapon had one, while others fled east into the city where their barrage would be the worst. Breaker certainly had his rifle, and he held it to his chest as though it would mean the difference between life and death.

Then the barrage on the camp stopped altogether, the artillery re-aimed further to the east. It didn’t stop the suffering. Arms and legs were torn off bodies as though they belonged to toy dolls. Men, women and children lay dead indiscriminately. Others were wounded; some would live and others would die agonizing deaths. More looked for loved ones, or mourned them, or just simply wandered dazed. Others however were taking cover in artillery craters, suspecting a barrage to be followed by an attack.

And they were right. Over the horizon poured soldiers and black-shirts supported by tanks, moving towards the city. Breaker fired and was not alone. The roar of rifles and machine gun fire from the Moralists and the military far overwhelmed that provided by the Conservatives. Breaker kept firing but it was no good. The enemy was too numerous. It seemed as though half the Farminan army was charging straight at the tiny camp. The unarmed tried to flee east but were chained down by the swarm of bullets that filled the air.

Other tried to crawl to the east, from cover to cover, many fired intermittently to try and slow the Moralist advance. Some escaped, others weren’t so lucky. As Breaker reloaded his rifle, he suddenly felt a warmth, a searing pain, as red liquid poured out his chest. Then the world went black.

Any wounded Conservative that the Moralists found was shot dead without a hint of mercy. This camp was the first of many that would meet this horrific fate. Tanks and feet rolled over the camp that reeked so badly of death. Bullets flew through the air as the one sided gun battle saw more and more of the retreating Conservatives go into the meat grinder. The bodies of men, women and children were trampled and crushed by feet and tracks without concern or care in the advance; their bones shattered, their blood smeared across the ground; left to rot under the scorching Farminan sun.
Tobias Grey swirled the red wine in his glass, “Hell shall be born in Aston. The hand of Satan shall tear open the ground, reach out and drag the Conservatives back into his dark lair. And through this great carnage, the land shall be wiped clean, and the nation of Farmina shall be renewed.”
He brought the glass up to his lips and sipped the sweet red liquid.

OOC2: Dumpsterdam, take over the 10,000 White Guard from here please.
25-07-2005, 21:13
OoC: Assuming that my own troops are still positioned in Farmina. If there's any problems with this post, leme know over MSN or TG first alright?

Vespasius nearly fumed at the mouth as the news arrived him about what was happening in Farmina. "How dare he!" Vespasius yelled, slamming his fist on the massive oaken table.
"How dare that git pull this off." Vespasius stood up and faced his group of advisors and generals, "Alfarius get General Zudeki on the line and tell him to destroy whatever feeble opposition the Farminains put up against our forces. There will be no prisoners, no quarter and no cease-fire till every last one of those Moralists lies dead."

His son Alfarius slowly nodded, it was best not to argue with his father about this subject, especially when he was in this state. Vespasius continued, his eyes scanning the members of the Imperial Councill for a hint of doubt about his actions. "And before you crush that insolent bastard and his puppets, send him a message and give him the chance to surrender so the rest of the world can have the facade they want to see from us."

Councillor Lane stood up, her small female form bleak in comparison to the armoured warriors and other advisors. "Lord Rift, what about the non-combat personal in Farmina? Our observers, and more importantly; Justinian?"

The Emperor's facial expression turned into a wicked grin; with a simple flex of his wrist a holographic display activated, showing the palace where Justinian was held, red dots represented enemy or unknown personal, white Justinian's personal guard, blue the DDF troopers and the six squads of the Emperor's Handmaidens. "As you see Councillor, that part is covered, Tobias may think he is smart by eliminating Justinian but I foresaw that move ages ago and my personal bodyguard is in position to eliminate those that threaten my friend. Now, any other questions?" The Councill remained silent, the Emperor had been clear in his instructions. "Good, then carry out my orders, do not hesitate."

Farmina, Justinian's Palace

The White Guard on the walls had no clue of what was coming, unlike their DDF counterparts who had already made sure they where not in range of any of the snipers. Colonel Firen regretted wasting the White Guard, but if they where alerted they would raise the alarm and the Moralists would know the DDF where onto them, so he ordered his own teams to wait till the Moralists struck, look for muzzle flashes and then return overwhelming fire.
"Guardian Angel calling Devil's Advocate, are your men in position?" The voice cracked over the open comm link in Firen's helmet, it was cold and distinctly female. "Guardian Angel, this is the Devil's Advocate, we are in position awaiting strike, radio silence from now on." The comm line cracked as the communication was cut. The Emperor's guard where in position around the room where Justinian stayed and the DDF would take of any Moralists that decided to move upon the palace.

The time seemed to tick by slowly, White Guard, Moralist Snipers and DDF troopers waited, knowing, or unknowing as Briggs made his way into Justinian's quarters. The signal he gave was intercepted already, giving Sister Superior Celesta - having had her doubts about him before - the confirmation that she needed. Briggs entered the room, the microphones hidden in the room relaying his every word to the three Handmaidens dangling from ropes just above the windows.
Steady, wait for it... Celesta thought, as she sized Briggs up once more and fingered her weapon around the trigger.
As Briggs produced the blade, she kicked into action; poking the barrel through the open top of the window and firing a burst of silenced shots, striking the man in chest and head ending his life at that moment, her sisters moved also as they crawled through the other two open tops of the windows, barely squeezing through with their lithe bodies.

Sister Levi was the first through, placing her hand upon Justinian's shoulder, who was obviously not quick to respond, attributed to the amount of drugs in his system. "Emperor Justinian, the Moralists have just started a rebellion, Tobias Grey is now the new Emperor. You are no longer safe here and we are bringing you back to a safe location, do you understand?"

Main DDF base in Farmina

General Reil Zudeki suddenly awoke, the sound of gunfire in the distance was audible but it was the thunder of artillery that had woken him. And it was close, so close he could swear it was his own artillery firing and as he peeked out of the window from his bed; it WAS his own artillery!
He jumped from bed, hurriedly dressed himself as his aide stormed in. "Sir, the Moralists just revolted! They are attacking Aston..."

"And the Conservatist convention, right?" Zudeki asked as he buttoned up his jacket, his aide nodded and Zudeki replied with a nod in kind. "I could have guessed, has the Emperor sent me any orders yet?" "Yes sir, you are to crush any resistance and to relieve Aston and any White Guard already present there."

"Assemble the Steel Legion, I want them ready in twenty minutes, how long has the battle raged so far?" "About...about an hour sir, White Guard units are holding around Aston, but not for long."
Zudeki dismissed his aide to assemble the Mechanised Units he needed and exactly twenty minutes later he sat in his Rhino Command Vehicle at the near front of the column heading towards Aston.
The intercom came to life, hundreds of vehicles, supported by a handful of directly available aircraft and helicopters began a assault towards Aston and the beleaguered White Guard positions.

From: Erik Solar, Minister of Foreign Affairs.
To: Whichever Moralist it may concern.

By the Emperor's will and name, you have been given exactly one hour to surrender to his Majesty's Armed Forces.

I am sure that a suitable peace agreement can be worked out between the factions, which will be beneficial to all.

One hour, one hour to save allot of lives, maybe even including your own.
26-07-2005, 15:26
With military forces surrounding the White Palace, three Moralist enforcers or black-shirts, approached the great gate, the one entrance and exit to the White Palace complex, in the very centre, of the front, of the palace wall.

Upon reaching the two White Guard that stood before the gate, the middle Enforcer gave a simple request, “In the name of the Emperor Tobias, and the first Moralist administration, I hereby pronounce that Justinian is to be arrested for treason. Anyone who obstructs this arrest will be labeled enemies of Farmina, as per the Enablement Act.”
The enforcers could be seen to be quite clearly sweating, perhaps from the heat or perhaps fear. Their black uniforms were damp and reeked of human sweat.
After a small breath the middle enforcer continued, “Please tell your superior, Colonel Zander, to bring Justinian here, or face the military storming the palace.”
As if to reinforce the words, the three black-shirts raised their rifles at the guards.
Justinian stared blankly at the window, before turning very slowly towards Sister Levi, “I must get that window secured,” he told her, “Very dangerous. Could get me killed. You don’t happen to know any good builders do you?”
He picked up his bottle of water and took a quick drink, before fully realising what Sister Levi had told him, “I can’t go to a safe location looking like this. I need a long bath and to get dressed. Dear me, what will I wear?”
He turned as though to walk over to inspect the white suit he had left hanging on the back of the room’s sole door, but jumped backwards as though from an invisible threat.
“Grey,” he yelled, pointing; panic, fear and hatred flooding through his voice.
General Harding heard a shell slam down into the ground not far to the east of him, and he knew something was wrong. The Conservatives had a few mortars and loved trying to aim them, but this was different, this was field artillery! “The blasted Dumpies must throwing their weight into the fight goddamn,” he cursed.

Quickly he moved over to his map of Aston and the surrounding region. A blue cross represented the nearby Dumpsterdamian base, no doubt the source of the artillery fire. So far leading the battle had been a matter of pointing and letting his troops blunder their way from target to target. But if the Dumpsterdamians were to swing towards Aston, that would leave the military stuck between very angry Conservatives and very well armed DDF.

“Major,” he yelled at his aide, “Why was I not informed we were being bombarded by the Dumpies.”
A rather hassled looking middle aged man, looked at the General, “Well you were so busy making speeches to the mirror sir, I decided to deal with the situation myself. I have pulled several divisions off the front to defend our position here. If we get rolled back we will be forced onto the lower ground near Aston, giving the Dumpies the higher ground and a direct route to Aston.”
“Damn fool man,” blustered the General, “You do what I tell you to do, hear me Major Homes. Now I want all the artillery hitting the Dumpy positions. If there are not 200 field guns firing in ten seconds, heads roll. Bring up three quarters of everything from Aston to help hold our position here. I want a good force stationed further east, to stop the Dumpies reaching us.”
“Since we are the main attacking army group, this is barely advisable,” responded the Major, “I planned to instead call for reinforcements from other army groups to protect us, while we continue to the use the bulk of our heavy equipment to clear the rubble and any Conservatives still alive.”
“Rubbish,” declared the General, “I shall not depend anyone. We move the bulk of our forces between us and the Dumpies. The other armies can move to attack, to reallocate the pressure that we shall be releasing. Then once the Dumpies are crushed we shall return to our role of grinding these Conservative scum back into the ground.”
“At once General,” said the Major grudgingly, very concerned that the General was so keen to get a big fish he would see a lot of little, and friendly, fish dead.
Thomas Goth walked silently through the streets of south east Aston. The artillery was quiet now, well quieter. Here and there a shell landed. In the distance he could hear gunfire, continuous and furious. Buildings once so grand were now fire and rubble. People that were once so lively, now were flesh torn from bone. Overhead a Moralist chopper flew, scanning for large groups of Conservative fighters. Goth hoped neither he nor his companions could be seen from so high.

On Goth’s left stood the ever dependable, Andre Cirtus. Behind the younger two men plodded slowly, but surely Robert Brie. As soon as the bombardment began, the Conservative elite had known Castle Walter was the worst place to be. They Conservatives had scattered. Some went to look for family, others to fight amongst old companions, in a hope of dying together. Once the many had dissipated only the three were left.

Planning for this situation had not been of Goth’s list of priorities and now he had little to work with. The Conservatives didn’t have the might to break out, although the Moralist offensive had seemed to ease. That was the reason for the trip east. The ragtag groups of Conservative resistance had even managed to recover a small amount of ground. This lead Goth to a simple conclusion, “They are worried about something else. Something that threatens the army group that has been doing the bulk of the attacking.”
Brie could be heard muttering to himself when he talked, “If these damned Moralists had any self respect they would all go home and leave governing to those who are supposed to govern.”
Goth very much doubted that the Moralists would fulfill the old man’s wish. Andre Cirtus said, “My guess is that Emperor Rift and his men are suddenly causing the black-shirts and their military friends to panic. If we can get together as much as we cause enough trouble, then it should make it easier for the DDF to come and save us.”
Brie was well aware of the plan and didn’t need to be told again, “I ain’t no fool boy. Just because I’m twice your age doesn’t mean I forget the plan every couple of minutes. I remember in my army days…”
The sentence was cut short by the sound of an artillery wail.
“[I]Get down,” yelled Thomas Goth, diving for cover.
An explosion shook the near empty street. Andre Cirtus was the first up, wiping the dust off his clothes and straightening his slightly bent glasses. Thomas Goth was on his feet seconds afterwards, but his suit was barely a concern; Robert Brie did not get up. “Bob,” called out Thomas Goth, running over to the old man, who lay in a puddle of his own blood.
“Fight for the future Thomas,” said Brie, struggling for breath, “Tell my son I love him. Tell him I have gone to see his mother.”
“You aren’t going anywhere Bob,” said Goth, supporting the bleeding man under his right arm, “And you’re going to tell your son that you love him, yourself.”
With one last breath Brie whispered, “Elaine,” before slumping in his dear friend’s arm.
Dan Rickhart picked up a communication in his bunker. He sat and read the Dumpsterdamian request quietly before giving a small ‘hurr’ noise. In an instant, he encoded it and sent it to Tobias Grey’s bunker in Ricco. Minutes later, Grey’s response came back, suggesting a complete ignorance towards Dumpsterdam. Rickhart couldn’t bring himself to think that this was such a wise course of action and drafted a most diplomatic response.

To: The Gracious Erik Solar, Dumpsterdamian Minister for Foreign Affairs
From: Daniel Rickhart, Farminan Chancellor for Foreign Affairs

I regret to inform you that we shall be declining your offer. It is our duty to ensure that Farmina completes its conversion to a completely democratic state; and that cannot be done as long as the Conservative Block continues to stockpile weapons, build up a secret militia, fight a constitutional government and claim that a mad aristocrat is sovereign lord of Farmina. Thus we must use force to bring this Block into line with reason and policy.

I would also like to request that your forces end all aggressive actions against us. It is most unstatesmenly.

OOC: General Harding’s 12th Army

20,000 Infantry (varying equipment)
5,000 Blackshirts
7,500 Light Tanks
5,000 Medium Tanks
1,000 Heavy Tanks
3,000 Light Artillery Pieces

(appropriate logistics from a separate unit)

I realise there is no detail, but the reality is I would just be writing meaningless names.
02-08-2005, 20:18
The two White Guard eyed the blackshirts strangely, the left one pulled his mic down as the right one aimed his DDF issue machinegun at the three Moralists.
After a short conversation the White Guard raised his mic again. "Colonel Firen tells me that you that you can sodd off, Emperor Justinian is under the protection of the Dumpsterdanian Defence Force and has no intention of surrendering to the likes of you."

The White Guard on the wall near the gate where now looking down on the three blackshirts, some aiming weapons at them others just observing their actions.

Inside the palace things where going as planned; four mortar teams had dug into the rose patch, several snipers and marksmen lured from behind windows and in the courtyard stood two mighty Revenant MBT's. Colonel Firen looked out from his bunker, observing two men hauling an Kestrel AT rifle towards a foxhole. "This'll be hell...and where is the helicopter I requested?!" He yelled at his radio operator who was busy managing the field kit he'd been given. "ETA at four minutes sir, one TH gunship and nine Raven's from the carriers. The gunship will land at the courtyard pad and the Raven's will provide aircover plus they'll be distorting enemy radar."

Firen sighed, this shouldn't take too long, otherwise the Moralists would know what they where doing and they didn't want that.


General Zudeki buttoned up his combat armour over the bulletproof undervest; all in fasionable black and blue with metal trimmings ofcourse, even the DDF knew that fashion was important on the field of battle.
One glance at the map showed what the situation was; Harding's troops where moving in between him and Aston, a good move if it weren't for the complete lack of order except for the "point and move" tactic Harding employed.
Skirmishes had already broken out between some of his scout units and the enemy, but as it stood the Steel Legion was encircling 12th army from both flanks with rapidly advancing mechanised infantry and tanks. An entire air armada was covering the advance, making sure that enemy fighters would be having a hard time, whilst allowing the airforce to pepper ground targets at will.

In the distance the DDF firebase glowed up red, contributing to the massive amount of artillery fire it was dishing out; but also, taking in. Zudeki wasn't worried about them, the firebase was heavily entrenched and had its guns in fortified turrets. Plus, the Farminians couldn't hit the broad side of a barn even if it where half a feet away. The exchange between the artillery formations allowed him to do what he was best at; killing the enemy, without hampering artillery fire raining down on his troops and vehicles.

At exactly 20.15, the call came that the last units where in position, and General Zudeki gave the order to advance upon the 12th army.
Lighting fast specialised Steel Fist platoons where sent forward first, heavy in anti-tank weapons these units where excellent in taking out large formations of enemy tanks before the infantry moved in for the kill.
Three minutes later, at 20.18, Zudeki ordered the rest of the Legion to move in, take advantage of the holes created by the first wave and smash through to Aston and link up with the White Guard.

It was a near encirclement, only leaving Aston open for a direct retreat of the 12th army.
04-08-2005, 01:33
General Harding looked at his map and yelled boldly, “We’ll smash them by George.”
Major Walker wasn’t entirely sure who George was, but was quite sure that he wouldn’t be smashing the Dumpies any time soon.
“General, I must inform you that surviving Conservatives are continuing to heckle our rear guard. One person even believes he sighted Mr Cirtus amongst the irritating rabble. We must request that other army groups help ease our burden,” said Major Walker, unsure if the General was even listening.
“Balderdash,” proudly declared the General, “I have been waiting since the day I joined the military to get one over these Conservatives and now I have my chance. And I shall take thousands of these horrid Dumpies with them. Tomorrow will be a new day Major, but with a new Farmina, a clean slate.”
“Of course General,” said Major Walker, hoping to prevent the General going into full scale speech mode, “But I doubt the Dumpies are going to just collapse, however horrid.”
A shell crashed nearby, but that didn’t distract either of the men, “Major, we have these Dumpies outgunned. Our fast-firers can shoot more shells than all their machine guns can shoot bullets.”
Major Walker couldn’t disprove the claim, but he was sure it was false, “Perhaps our artillery is faster than ours, but can that make up for our inaccuracy.”
“Ask a Dumpy who has been killed by a direct hit,” responded the General, completely sidestepping the question, “But the key is we are nearly in position to attack. A massive application of force, unlike anything the Dumpies would ever suspect. They will concentrate on the flanks; it’s the most simple element of military strategy and all evidences says they will try it here. We shall be unpredictable, irrational, if you will. Our tank units will launch a massive strike in the very centre of our enemies, supported by rolling artillery bombardments, and fast moving infantry deployments. See I have been busy while you were organizing things in the west.”
The Major just looked blankly as the General drew a big red arrow on the map to indicate his intentions to move forwards.
The Moralist looked down at his shoes, before lowering his gun. He again looked up at the White Guard, and the massive structure of the palace. The two black-shirts on either side of him also lowered their weapons. “God forgive me,” whispered the Moralist, before saying louder, “All members of the DDF and White Guard are now labeled enemies of the state of Farmina, under the Enablement Act.”
Before the three black-shirts could do anything else, the military moved its plan into position.

The snipers that surrounded their palace pulled their triggers back, all in the same instant. All around Verica, troops and tanks poured onto the streets as martial law was declared. Planes were grounded and river travel forbidden. Two FB-16 Hawks took the air, with the mission to discourage any use of aerial pickup of Justinian. Tobias Grey had no plans of allowing the Emperor to travel, anywhere.
Sergeant Hansard lay quietly, peering silently over the top of the artillery crater, waiting and watching for Dumpies. Tanks were extremely scarce; as in there weren’t any on the this flank, and Hansard doubted there were any on the other flank either. Infantry, machine guns, anti-tank rockets, mortars; but not a single tank.

Then at 12:15 the Dumpies attacked with lightning speed. Within three minutes, the Dumpies were throwing troops into the fray. Fire blazed out from Farminan positions; but Dumpsterdamian forces gave better than they got. “Pull back,” was called out somewhere further down the line. Sergeant Hansard and his squad found themselves crawling backwards on their hands and knees, firing at the encroaching enemy.
Further up the line, a massive concentrated artillery bombardment was beginning. General Harding was going for the jugular in his massive counter offensive. The bombardment was to roll forward in time with the attack. All the 12th army’s tank might would be thrown forward, supported by infantry, to be deployed by means of APC, to attack and neutralize the enemy as fast and as hard as possible. Thousands of shells, supporting thousands of tanks and thousands of men.

General Harding blew his whistle, and the tanks moved forward to the sound of artillery fire, troop transports not far behind.