NationStates Jolt Archive

The fiery branched tip of the funeral pyre rose into the night air, the flickering orange and red fingertips scratching the blackness, stretching for the stars, attempting to scald the full face of the bright moon hanging high overhead. The wooden tower creaked and crackled as the flames ate away at the wood, blackening the boards. The flames collapsed on themselves as they stretched around the edges of the bed placed carefully atop the scaffold, ringing the long, still figure that lay peacefully, arms folded, eyes closed beneath round silver ornaments. The fire reflected in the glittering sheen of the golden crown placed atop the figure’s head and on the silver staff and ornate saber that crossed the chest. As the black smoke drifted skyward, and caught the gusts leading south, the all consuming dazzle of fire leapt over the remaining boards. A single spark jumped from the wave of fire, and danced effortlessly through the warm late summer air to land gracefully on a corner of maroon cloth. The robe caught quickly, and the flame moved on, consuming the still figure, blackening his aged flesh, super heating and melting his gold and silver ornaments, singing and searing away his black and speckled grey beard.

So it was that the wise and noble Emperor Antonius the Magnificent, the great and majestic defender of Generia, the champion of both peace and war, the savior of the Alexian dynasty passed on to join his ancestors in the palm of the hand of the Almighty, leaving behind a world still reeling from the aftereffects of his death, an event some had believed would never come. His death had come two months prior to the funeral, and the announcement of the passing had come two weeks prior. The streets had been clogged for the entirety of those full two weeks with mourners seeking to pay their respects to a great man gone to the better life while mourning progressed in a more solemn fashion within the grounds of the White Citadel and the echoing halls of the Imperial Palace.

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

The council chamber was cold and quiet as the eldest son of the late Emperor, the 26 year old Aleksander, strode through the high double doors to face a line of faces dimmed in the shroud, only a few of which seemed familiar. He noticed the face of his cousin Varus, the trusted confidant of his father, on the far right of the far end of the long table that faced the door, his eyes not focusing on him but detached and roaming. He was not allowed long to orient himself with the dim setting before the man seated in the center of the table began to speak. Aleksander recognized him quickly as General Nys’ky, his late father’s chief military advisor.

“Aleksander, welcome. Forgive us for calling you here on such short notice. I am certain you understand the council’s haste in resolving the matters at hand. As you know, it was your father’s wish that he be given the opportunity to select his own heir, however his illness and death came at such a time as to prohibit him from fulfilling that wish. Therefore, as his grace, Lord Varus has directed this council has been established to decide an heir based on both legitimacy and merit. Now, as the eldest son of the late Emperor, it is natural that you would also be foremost in line for the throne, however as Varus has specified, the future of the Alexian line and the Empire itself should not rest on such a frivolous thing as the order of your birth.”

The last sentence hit Aleksander like a stone. Outrage filled his heart, but he did his best to keep calm. He spoke in what he hoped was an even tone.

“With all due respect General, it is tradition that the eldest son be selected the heir in any circumstance, and the fact that the Emperor did not specify should only be taken to mean that this tradition stands.”

The General shuffled through a set of documents.

“I understand your confusion at this matter, Aleksander, however, while you are correct in that it is a traditional matter to select the eldest son, as the late Emperor’s closest confidant, I think that the will of the Lord Varus should certainly be heeded as the wisest reflection of Antonius’s will.”

Aleksander’s frustration was building steadily now. He was beginning to see this as what it was, a betrayal. His cousin had stolen the throne out from under him. They had never gotten along particularly well and now Varus had done the unthinkable. This ‘council’ was a farce, a tool for Varus to usurp power through an heir of his own choosing. Aleksander cursed him silently as his eyes burned. Varus looked at him now, for the first time since he had entered the room.

“Cousin, I see your frustration and understand that you must feel cheated, however, you must consider what most benefits the Empire. Your father, my uncle had four sons, and of them the strongest must be chosen.”

The General spoke now.

“Varus is right. We cannot risk the fate of the Empire on a gamble. However, do not disturb yourself over these matters. The decision is not yet made. For now, you are dismissed and the council adjourned.”

Aleksander turned, silently seething, and walked out of the room. Varus watched after him, a sad expression on his face.

“Do not pity him, Varus. Your decision was the right one. The man is no king.”

“I realize this, but I worry what it may drive him to become.”

---------

Aleksander paced the floor of his chamber, his mind turning over and over in confusion and rage. What was happening? Even in his most fiendish nightmares had he imagined such a despicable turn of events. His legacy was being slaughtered, his father’s legacy raped, and the old compatriots of Antonius were letting it happen. It was a pogrom.
He let himself sink into a large leather armchair, feeling himself suffocated by the weight of events. He was running out of choices as he ran over things again and again in his mind. Every situation seemed to draw to the same conclusion. He would have to right this personally if it was going to be righted at all, and he knew where he had to begin. He had been betrayed, and for this the betrayer would have to pay dearly.

He stood up and walked over to a small table, on which sat a small, glinting revolver. He picked up the weapon and held it, feeling the weight and balance. He opened a drawer and placed the weapon inside, where it would sit until tomorrow morning. Then would come the time for righting wrongs. Tonight, however, was meant for sleep.

General Nikit Vrantasha stood on the upper observation deck of the mammoth G-1 snow crawler as it rumbled over the ice plains of the frozen Alberian steppe. Light falling snowflakes touched gently on his black uniform and melted. He watched solemnly as a pack of wolves chased a lone reindeer over the boundless white, the icy wind kicking up a whirling cloud of snow behind them as they went. In the distance he caught the glint of polished steel on the side of a white mound rising off the plain. With it came the promise of warm air and hot food, both rarities on the frozen steppe.

He found himself interrupted from his reflections as a second uniformed officer appeared beside him.

“Hell of a sight, isn’t it. Home.”

Nikit snorted.

“I don’t understand how you could ever call this shithole home. Nothing but cold and more of it.”

The other man laughed.

“We’ve certainly done our time here. But I suppose it won’t matter soon.”

Nikit’s eyes detached with a far off look taking over. A smile crossed his lips.

“You know what I’m most looking forward to?”

“No.”

“A villa on the seacoast. Kreschnev Isle.”

The other man laughed again. Nikit continued.

“Just sun and dope and beautiful women for the rest of my days. No more icy wastelands, no more cold, no more deployments, no more orders. I’ll be the one giving the orders. We all will be. Once the bastards in the Citadel are gone. Once the Praetorians return to their rightful place.”

The other man smiled.

“Indeed. The Praetorian Guard. It’s been a long time since we’ve had what we deserve.”

“But soon you will. Soon we will.”

“Soon, but not now. Now all we deserve is a bottle of vodka and a fire.”

The two turned and walked inside, off the observation deck of the mechanical beast as it pulled into the dock of the Alberian military base.

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

Praetorian Guard Housing and Training Facility, Alberia, 400 Miles North of Alber

General Vladimir Stryanovic drained the last of the cold black coffee and set the stainless steel mug down on the table in front of him. He drew his green leather trench coat closer around his shoulders and breathed heavily into his hands in an attempt to warm them. His chambers at times seemed as cold to him as the frozen air outside. The cold bothered him less than it used to, but he still hated it with a passion that had once been reserved strictly for his enemies on the battlefield. He scratched his thick white beard as he got to his feet, stretching arms and legs, all bulging with muscle despite the General’s apparent age. He picked up his saber that sat on the table in front of him and strapped it to his belt before proceeding out of the small room into the long shining corridor that led to the command room.

The command room was moderately sized, with most of the available space occupied by large monitors and communication apparatuses. The General walked briskly into the room, his heavy black boots clanking on the metal floor, and his coat trailing behind him. As he entered, the various others stood and saluted. All seemed as well muscled as he, and all bore the emblem of the Imperial Praetorian Guard on their gray uniforms. However, the General noted with some sadness that both of these things seemed to mean less and less as the days dragged on. The men in this room, all fine warriors, each deserved to bear the emblem on his uniform, and yet here they were, relegated to simple desk work, monitoring a long forgotten military base in a frozen wasteland. The Praetorian Guard was far from the order it had been two decades ago.

After General Nys’ky’s budget reforms that had placed far more emphasis on the Imperial Regular Army and the special units that went along with that organization, the Guard had slipped slowly into obscurity and decay. The complex breeding centers were being shut down one by one, and the training budgets for new warriors of the old, proud order were being reduced to scrapings. Their weapons were dated and it had been long since a Praetorian had seen the front lines of the battlefields they felt so at home upon. But the Praetorians that lived on, that had known the glory days and saw the decay now still could feel that battle fire locked away somewhere in their souls, and it kept them warm through their duties in the wasteland. They knew the shame and dishonor that came from their new positions, from being plucked from the front lines, and this served as tinder to fuel their want for war and the rebirth of the grand old days when a Praetorian standing on the lines of battle would strike fear enough as to break an enemy’s ranks before a single shot had been fired. Those were good days indeed, and every man among the order longed for them to return.

But Antonius was gone and with it many believed that the flame of the Praetorians had gone with him. The White Guard, the Emperor’s personal bodyguards, seemed the last remnants of the order, and they were unlikely to ever stride upon the field of manly conflict. The Black Guard was still alive and kicking was also an offshoot of the Praetorian order, but many Praetorians were reluctant to admit it, as the Black Guard’s duties in the realm of black operations were often considered barbaric and unmanly. They were a shunned organization among the ranks.

True Praetorians were now fewer in number than ever before, most occupying some outpost in the north or on the coast, away from conflict zones in and out of the realm of the Empire. It was this knowledge that drove General Stryanovic to do the thing he had never thought himself capable of: conspire against the Imperial government.

Following Antonius’s death, the General had been approached by an old compatriot, a man he had served with in the heyday of his service, when he fought on battlefields from Psov to the shores of his own homeland. They had drifted apart in years past, but the man still carried the respect and trust of an old friend and comrade. The man had spoken the things that had slowly been surfacing in Stryanovic’s mind. He spoke of the lost glory of the Praetorian order, and of the path the Empire was taking, bringing it ever further away from the tradition that had reigned at the height of Generian glory. Stryanovic had found himself agreeing, lost patriotic fervor awakened in his heart, and at the end of the night, he had decided to throw his lot in with this old soldier, against the forces that were bringing the Empire away from her nationalist soul.

Now, as he watched the blinking monitors and reflected on these things, the aging general began to feel his doubts bubbling to the surface. He bent his neck and rubbed his eyes, in the process seeming to feel his head clear somewhat.

The door opened behind him and two uniformed men walked in. Stryanovic looked up and immediately recognized one as the man who had convinced him to join the conspiracy against the Imperial government.

“General Nr’iev. General Vrantasha.”

N’riev grinned and approached Stryanovic. The two men shook hands. Vrantasha looked around the room, removing a black military cap and wringing it out. The snowflakes had melted inside, drenching his uniform. Vrantasha too shook Stryanovic’s hand, but remained expressionless. His silver Black Guard insignia flashed briefly as it caught the glow of a florescent light. He glanced around idly before he spoke.

“It looks like you’ve been busy Vladimir. A week ago this place was practically dead.”

“I owe it to my men. There’s no shortage of zeal among them.”

Vrantasha grunted approval.

“Then we’re still on schedule, Nikit?”

“Of course. Three days if all goes as we expect.”

“Fine. Then I will continue my duties and await your orders. I take it you and General Nr’iev intend to inspect the facility?”

“That was our intention, yes.”

“I’ll have Lieutenant Kirkov give you the tour.”

Stryanovic motioned for an officer standing at attention in the back of the room to come forward. He saluted and led the two generals out of the room. Stryanovic rubbed his eyes once more and turned back to the monitors.

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

The sun shone heavily on the crowds that waited in front of the old Imperial senate building in downtown Sofia. Military police lined the sidewalks and blocked entry to the grounds, protecting a podium structure that had been set up in front of the steps. Cameras rolled and flashed and journalists hastily scribbled notes before being ushered away by police. A roar went over the crowd as the building’s doors opened and a procession of Imperial White Guards exited, flanking a dignified figure who waved quickly at the assembled masses.

As the glare cleared, the man’s face was revealed as that of Lord Varus. He stepped up to the podium and opened his mouth to speak into the microphone, but before he could utter a single sound, a shot rang out and he slumped to the ground, a bullet in his heart.

----------

Aleksander watched the news report with wide eyes, replaying the footage of his cousin’s murder. His heart sank. Just as he had overcome his mad desire to fire a round into the man, another had given in and done it. Grief took hold, and he let his head slip into his hands, unsure of what to do.

OOC: This seems very familiar, even the names. I think I've read it before. Did you steal this?

Good job, its very nice.

OOC: This seems very familiar, even the names. I think I've read it before. Did you steal this?

Good job, its very nice.

((OOC: No, genius. You're the kleptomaniac here.))

Hah! So you're at it again! What direction is this going, if I might ask? Send me a telegram or IM me.

((OOC: No, genius. You're the kleptomaniac here.))
((OOC:lol Generic and Borman your both crazy somtimes. and i agrea with Generic on the fact of "kleptomaniac = Borman" lol j/k))

((OOC:lol Generic and Borman your both crazy somtimes. and i agrea with Generic on the fact of "kleptomaniac = Borman" lol j/k))

OOC: Haha, he doesnt know that I really am a...I mean...Im not.

OOC:GE, should I RP Maximus as being around the court? (well, then again, he most likely would be around since you said he was one of the pall bearers at Antonius' funeral)

OOC:GE, should I RP Maximus as being around the court? (well, then again, he most likely would be around since you said he was one of the pall bearers at Antonius' funeral)

((OOC: Sure thing. Maximus probably has alot to do with the events in question since Varus and he were reasonably close. That and Maximus does have a claim to the throne.))

OOC:Tagged from me, judging by the fact that we never quite got an RP going (after three months of planning a really good one, too)

OOC: Oh no! Two Doomingslands! What could be worse...I mean...better!?

It was a cold day in Generia City, the chill winds bringing early tidings of the icy winter that lurked around the corner. The streets were empty, but the tension hanging overhead was palpable. Imperial military police were on high alert following recent stirrings among various provincial nationalist groups, many dormant since the conclusion of the second Buchianan War. The city’s 3.8 million citizens had largely chosen to avoid the hassles promised by such a heightened alert status, and thus the city was left seeming dormant.

In the White Citadel just outside of town, an impatient Aleksander paced outside the doors to the old Imperial throne room where the remnants of the successionary council were in discussion regarding recent events. He breathed heavily and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. As his fingers folded around the paper, the doors opened and he was beckoned inside by a grim faced White Guardsman.

The room was silent and cold. The same long table stood in front of the Imperial throne, a row of faces watching the Generian prince’s slow and steady stride.

“Aleksander, we thank you again for coming on such short notice, as we feel that as you have recently become a major topic of discussion, your presence should be considered important.”

Aleksander scoffed silently. General Nys’ky’s convoluted politesse never ceased to both disgust and amuse him.

“I as well appreciate that you found the courtesy to permit me access to your discussions, particularly when, as you say, I have become a ‘topic of discussion.’”

“Yes, well, as you are more than aware, your cousin’s assassination caught us all very much by surprise, and while numerous fingers point to the involvement of nationalist parties left over from the Buchianan war, we find that this theory has it’s holes.”

“So you want to blame me.”

“Well, no. That is not our intention. We are simply saying that we can’t leave any possibilities unquestioned. Varus himself did note his unease at your reaction to the announcement of the council’s decision to consider others as possible choices for heir, and we feel it would be a dishonor to him if we did not pursue the notion.”

Aleksander chuckled coldly.

“Dishonor? What do you know of it. You plucked my birthright from me without giving honor much consideration. However, if you think I shot him, or had anything to do with the man who did, you can stop wasting your time. The man betrayed me, but he was still blood, and I, for one, do not betray my own blood.”

Nys’ky’s expression betrayed a degree of frustration, even contempt, and his eyes narrowed somewhat. He was silent as he glared at the man in front of him. The chamber was dead silent. The others, diplomatic and civilian councilors mostly, were following the lead of the military man.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off as a rumble sounded in the distance. Eyes turned to the long glass windows to stare out over the still city. The sky was clear, so the sound was not thunder. Another similar sound followed shortly, then another which seemed closer. Four more came in rapid succession, and then a visual cue appeared over the skyline: rising black smoke.

OOC: Nice! If I weren't facing Pantera in the war thread, I might get involved in this. Beautiful writing GE.

Alberian Mountain Range, 08:37 Hours Generian Standard Time

The long cannons of the G-20 Empire mobile howitzers bellowed as they spouted smoke and fire from their muzzles, sending ETMAS accelerated shells sailing into the atmosphere to come down over the once gleaming alabaster capital of Generia. Black uniformed Imperial soldiers stood about idly, smoking and passing the news as the weapons they tended did their jobs with brutal accuracy. On top of the summit of one of the low foothills, General Vrantasha watched a series of monitors set under a green tent, some displaying maps, some showing from various angles the scene in Generia City. He chewed on the end of an unlit cigarette, his eyes shaded by a pair of dark sunglasses.

Over the mountains, the gargantuan military transports were rumbling over the steppe, ferrying men and equipment from where they had been staged at the hundreds of bases dotting the arctic wasteland. These, however, would be composing a second wave, an occupation force if all went according to plan, as the first of General Vrantasha’s soldiers had already reached their destination.

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

Generia City, 08:37 Hours GST

Screams pierced the air as clouds of heavy grey dust strangled lungs and filled eyes. Confused police walked dazedly through the streets as muffled gunfire drifted from distant blocks.

The city slums on the northwest corner of the city were in chaos. ST-29 tanks and G-120 APCs rumbled through the streets as Praetorian soldiers marched forward, herding hordes of panicked citizens toward the city center. Isolated firefights broke out in back alleys as some local police units assaulted the superior force in their confusion, but these ended quickly as the organized and well trained Guard units overwhelmed their law enforcement counterparts. The slums were a haven for criminal elements as it was, and police presence there was token at best, leaving the path to the corporate district clear for the path of the coup.

--

The White Citadel, 09:25 GST


Aleksander looked with suppressed unease at the two large White Guardsmen standing on either side of him. He looked again at the locked door to the small room and then out through the thin window at the smoking city skyline outside. Outside the hall was quiet. They were no doubt evacuating the other by now. His brothers and sisters would all be getting on airplanes and helicopters bound for the Bormanian border, but here he was, a prisoner of the government he had been born a part of. He could see the White Guardsmen rushing about outside, taking positions against a threat he knew nothing of.

Suddenly he caught the glint of something metallic coming up over a low rise. The tube-like object continued to lengthen and then the body of a tank crested the ridge. The turret swiveled and the gun roared, and Aleksander was blown back against the far wall.

He came to in a room full of smoke and debris. He looked around to find no sight of the two guards, save for a twisted helmet lying at his right. He checked himself and, finding no visible wound, got to his feet. He staggered towards the window, but stepped back as a bullet whizzed through a gash in the wall. He turned, and to his immediate pleasure at the good fortune, noted that the door had been torn clean off it’s hinges.

He limped out into the hall. It was empty, but the muted sounds of battle seemed to be getting closer, somewhere downstairs. He made his way to the grand staircase, but hearing an explosion nearby, turned and retreated to a rear stairwell. He fought his way up the four flights to the roof as fast as he could, and cautiously approached the door. Opening it slowly, he stepped out into the sun to the sounds of gunfire all around him. He looked up and caught the edge of a helicopter rotor just as the engine began to scream. A White Guardsman approached him.

“Your grace, I’m afraid I can’t let you p-“

Aleksander gripped the man by the throat, catching him completely off guard and forced him to the edge of the roof. He struggled for a brief moment before Aleksander forced him over, letting him plummet head over heels to the ground. He looked at the chopper. Nys’ky was nowhere in sight. He had most likely fled with the rest of them. He climbed the stairs and shouted to the pilot to wait. He leapt into the rear compartment as the bird began to lift off, flying out over the green fields, away from the smoldering ruins. Aleksander looked back, his eyes grim and expressionless. The old ways had betrayed him. Perhaps the new way would seem more to his liking. He uttered something to himself, inaudible over the whir of the rotors.

“Someday…”

“Aim! Fire!”

The crack of the volley hung in the air for several seconds as the eight White Guardsmen dropped to the ground in front of the white wall of the Imperial Palace, their bodies riddled with bullets. A green clad Praetorian Colonel nodded to the firing squad, a line of a dozen of his soldiers, dusty and battle scarred from the two-hour firefight throughout the complex that was the Imperial White Citadel that had only just drawn to a close. As the men lowered their GIR-47 rifles, the officer glanced over at the eight fresh corpses lying on the grass. Those eight were the only prisoners the usurping forces had managed to take. The rest of the palace garrison, some 400 strong, had all met their ends in battle, fighting to the death like true soldiers.

The Praetorians of the White Guard were not like their darker uniformed cousins in the eyes of their brethren. They were respected by the Praetorian regulars as holding the highest honor, the only soldiers truly worthy of protecting the Emperor. There were fewer than 2,000 of them total, and even in defeat, they had lived up to their name this morning. The Colonel noted this as he glanced back at the piles and rows of bodies in the central courtyard, the majority of them soldiers of his own command killed by the ferocious defenders of the Citadel. As he admired the carnage and destruction that the pitched battle had brought about, he felt a great sense of pride and privilege knowing that he had been given the opportunity to test himself in such a way against truly worthy foes, as well as a sense of almost holy reverence for his dead foes, who would most certainly be entering heaven now.

It was a common belief among the hallowed ranks of the Praetorian Guard that the only true match for a Praetorian was another Praetorian. All other enemies were inferior, minor trophies to add to one’s resume. To find and defeat a foe of equal strength was considered the highest honor, and the Colonel was satisfied that he had attained such an honor.

While his soldiers carried on about their business, the Colonel walked casually over to a balcony railing, and gazed out over the expanse of green fields towards the spires of the Generian capital. The sky over the city had turned black with acrid smoke and soot from the fires raging in her slums. General Nr’iev’s regulars would have arrived by now to take over the situation after the initial Praetorian assault. The local garrison would be in tatters following the shock of the initial attack, and the Colonel had no doubt that some of the soldiers would simply have laid down their arms or come over to join Nr’iev’s forces.

He watched as a skyscraper vibrated following the impact of an artillery shell, a cloud of dust suspended around a gaping wound in the building’s side. He looked northward and could just make out the silhouettes of the Alberian foothills, occasional subtle flashes marking the position of General Vrantasha’s artillery. Then he turned his head south and saw nothing but the rise of the White Ridge, the long rock wall that effectively divided the nation in half, separating the colder north from the damp and mild southern expanses. Over there lay Sofia, the southern capital and his own former hometown. He wondered what the reactions would be like in the Sofian streets upon hearing the news. He wondered if there would be violence or looting, if there would be retaliation from loyalist forces, if the transition would not be as smooth as Vrantasha and the other former members of the Imperial Military Council had promised. He hoped it would not be so. The devastation in the capital was enough. There was no need for more, however worthy a war it was.

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

“General Vrantasha, sir. General Nr’iev’s units are reporting 12 districts secured, including the entirety of the downtown area and the government district. Isolated resistance continuing along the waterfront and some hit and run attacks have been reported in the southern slum. General Nr’iev has set up a command post in the Alexei Hotel. Admiral Karkevo is reporting a successful blockade of Port Belgrade and no sign of the northern fleets. Frequency jamming is believed to be contributing.”

“And the situation at the palace?”

“Colonel Bazhukov reports the area secured. All enemies are reported killed. No sign of General Nys’ky or the royal family. He believes that they managed to escape via helicopter or VTOL craft before we broke through. One chopper was destroyed a few miles southwest of the palace, but no bodies have been identified yet.”

“Damnit. They’ll be heading for the borders. Nothing we can do yet. We’ll have to concentrate on the matter at hand. Forget them for now. Tell the Colonel to begin securing a temporary command post there, but to be ready to have his men ready to move out if they’re needed in the city. Get a transport ready to take me in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vrantasha walked briskly out of the tent, taking a quick look at the horizon and the almost visible black smudge that marked the location of the capital.

OOC: Because of stuff, I shalt TaG.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit."

Maia Li blinked once at the video screen that was streaming in footage from Generic Empire through various media sources. An atheist, she was not a religious woman by any stretch of the imagination, but this was a situation that really, really, REALLY warranted some sort of appeal to any deity out there that was listening.

"Damnit, dad's been wanting to get closer to Generic Empire. It's probably gonna be impossible now, with this new military Junta in power."

The technician sitting at the screen turned his head back at the Intelligence Chief.
"Look ma'am, I'm not one of your advisors, I'm just a lowly wage slave working in data input."

"Oh, sorry about that, I didn't realize." said a slightly startled Maia. She needed to find one of her advisors, fast. It was 2:24 in the morning however. Maia herself was awakened, much to her chagrin, by the night shift supervisor calling her cellphone at around 2:00 a.m. She realized that she was still in a skimpy little teddy and a pair of jeans that had been hastily shoved on; barely decent. She also noticed that the data input technician was staring at the general area of her torso. Maia glanced around the room. They were around 1300m above ground in the bulding they were in, which meant that at 4m per floor, it was at least a 325 story drop down...

And Maia was quite miffed at being awakened at 2 a.m.

The data input technician sailed through the nearest window, along with hundreds of shards of glass. He and his final scream disappeared into the infinite nocturnal abyss of Daducheng.

"Now, where's the night shift supervisor?" asked Maia politely.

"I'm sorry about waking you up ma'am, but it was an emergency", said the night shift supervisor as he handed Maia a hefty file, filled with papers and holographic view chips.

"It's ok Chester, you did the right thing. Anyway... correct me if I'm wrong, but currently, there's a coup that's going on Generic Empire." Maia walked along with Chester the Night Shift Supervisor.

"Yes ma'am", nodded Chester, "we have reason to believe that a coup has indeed occured in Generic Empire."

Maia nodded. "Chester, any word on the status of Emperor Aleksander?"

Chester shook his head, "No ma'am, but we believe that he may have escaped from the Imperial Palace before the rebels entered."

"Alright then, I need to get my operations chief down here. Can I borrow your phone?"

"It's in my office."

"Well we're going there anyway."

(To Be Continued...)

OOC: Aleksander wasn't the emperor, he was a candidate to become it though.

IC response soon

The helicopter came to a noisy resting position on top of the thirty story building that was the Imperial Library at Generia City. General Vrantasha, flanked by four of his Black Guard soldiers stepped out of the chopper and onto the concrete. To his left and right skyscrapers blazed, adding to the acrid, choking flavor of the hot air. He walked towards the entrance to the stairwell, and was met by a Praetorian officer in full armor. He removed his helmet to reveal a soot-caked face and offered a weary salute.

“Sir, General Nr’iev is requesting your presence. I’ll take you there at once.”

Vrantasha followed the soldier down into the stairwell and out into a hall. They proceeded down to a wide set of elevator doors once used by the building’s staff. The doors opened and the six individuals stepped inside. A few minutes later they stepped out on the fifth floor, a large, open room occupied by large computer terminals that stored electronic records on nearly everything. Many of the terminals were currently being manually disconnected and hauled onto adjoining floors to make room for portable electronic command equipment.

Vrantasha spotted Nr’iev overseeing this activity and walked briskly over to him. He noticed a second officer nearby, one wearing a dark green uniform, a patch on his arm and helmet bearing the insignia of the Imperial Military Intelligence Corps. Nr’iev turned as Vrantasha came near.

“Nikit. Good to see you made it safely.”

“You requested my presence. What’s the situation in the city?”

“Stryanovic’s Praetorians have more or less crippled the local garrisons. A good deal of the defense force surrendered when they were caught off guard by their own men. They know better than to argue with Praetorians, and my guess is they were just as dissatisfied with the way General Nys’ky was doing things, cutting their pay and putting them on guard duty. Any who resisted are either dead or are being mopped up as we speak.”

The scream of a jet engine pierced the thick concrete walls.

“Those’ll be General Lobodin’s men. Hit the airbases to the south a few hours earlier. I think we killed one of the local colonels. Radio chatter’s been talking about it. Of course no one’s picking up the signals since we started scrambling their frequencies.”

“Good. They’ll be confused. Makes our job easier. I want you to send some of your men over to begin configuring the GINN studio for two broadcasts tonight, one national and one international. We’ll need to start restoring things quickly. I hear Sofia has already started to break down, which brings me to my next point. Colonel Chernitsky.”

The man in the dark green uniform and the IMIC patch turned his head.

“Your operatives here need to get down to Sofia as quickly as possible. We need you to contact our liaisons among the local garrison and law enforcement agencies and work to bring them into the fold. We need guarantees they won’t start shooting at us if we send troops to assist them in restoring order.”

The Colonel nodded and saluted.

“Immediately, sir.”

The man walked out of the room. General Vrantasha redirected his attention to General Nr’iev.

“You’ve done well today. We’re almost finished. Just a few more hours and we can take a breather.”

Nr’iev nodded and turned back to the monitors.

"Damnit Marcel... pick up the fucking phone!"

Maia had just dialed the Operations Chief's number 3 seconds ago. The phone was ringnng, but nobody was answering.

Maia cursed to herself silently once more and kept waiting for the answer.
Marcel's voicemail came up after about a minute or 2.

"Hey, this is Marcel. Right now, I'm probably having sex with a midget porn star and smoking a long, fat blunt, which is way more important than taking phone calls from my butch lesbian boss, my ex-wives' lawyers harassing me for more alimony, or my 18 kids, asking me why I'm never around. Please, have a fucked up day."

Maia wondered why she didn't hear the standard "beep" that accompanied every voice based message the world over. She looked over at her hand.

The cellphone had been crushed to a fine powder, and what was left of it was seeping through Maia's fingers.

Chester instinctively took a few steps back. Maia turned around, her eyes glowing red from anger, stress and fatigue.

"Find... Marcel..." Maia snarled through her gritted teeth.

Chester ran off as fast as his puny, donut fed human legs could carry him.

~*~*~
Marcel Han, rich, middle-aged playboy was asleep on a filthy matress. Empty bottles of vodka, remains of burnt out marijuana cigars, and syringes loaded with some VERY potent drug cocktails were scattered all around him, as were the passed out forms of several sufferers of what is medically known as Dwarfism. In the background, loud music was pulsing, because other people were still partying hard despite the fact that it was 3 a.m.

The Operations Chief was in a rented crackhouse in Colonia, MP Hong Kong. The place was paid for with embezzeled government funds that he worked 14 hours a day to backdoor out without anybody noticing, so Marcel felt that this vacation was well deserved.

Unfortunately, the MP Imperial Guard decided that his presence somewhere else was required just at that time. One of the walls exploded inwards, as gently as a wall could explode inwards. The midgets squealed and ran off like frightened rats. Marcel groggily awakened, pointing a .50 caliber handgun at the 2 huge and heavily armored Lizardmen that entered.

"Now you know that won't work Mr. Han", rumbled one of the Lizards.

"Damnit..." Marcel put his gun down.

"Wash and get dressed Mr. Han" commanded the other lizard.

"What could they possibly need me for?" asked Marcel.

"That I do not know. Now get dressed before we must use force to extract you from here."

Marcel groaned and pulled his clothes on. This had better be important...

(To be continued)

OOC: Aren't guys coming to the Borman border?

Generian Imperial International News Network – A broadcast from General Nikit Vrantasha

“Gentlemen and ladies of the International community, I am General Nikit Vrantasha of the Imperial Military Council and the Imperial Generian Black Guard. As you may have discovered, earlier this morning forces under my command and the command of my compatriots attacked and seized both Generia City and the Imperial Palace in the White Citadel, effectively removing the Alexian royal family from power. As of today, I and my compatriots, fellow commanders of the Imperial Armed Forces, are beginning a reconstruction of the Imperial government.

It is clear that the people of Generia have grown weary of the inaction and stale patriotism of the former government, and thus it is our duty as citizens and officers to take measures into our hands to ensure the survival and continuing strength of the Empire. Because it is our duty to take such action for the benefit of the Empire, I stress that the reign of the council soon to be established is an entirely legal affair, and request the cooperation of both allies and enemies of the old regime that we may strive for mutual benefit. The Empire requires a strong hand at the helm in these times, and what better a guiding arm is there than her own soldiers. We will also state that any found to be in overt opposition to this new regime, such to the point that Generia is threatened with malicious action, will be dealt with most swiftly and harshly by her armies.

As of now all communication and requests are to be wired to the offices of the new Imperial Military Governing Council, composed of the leaders of this coup. However, it has also come to my attention that numerous members of the old government have taken flight from Generia, abandoning their people in a cowardly fashion. I request that in the interest of future cooperation, no nation harbor these individuals, and if any are located, they be immediately apprehended and shipped back to the custody of the new regime, that proper trial may be given and justice administered. Good evening.”

The speech was succinct and ineloquent, but the point was made. Generia was under new management and anyone who had something to say about it could take it up with her armies. Vrantasha stepped away from the cameras and briskly strode out of the studio. The broadcast would be looped over the web for a few days, until the new junta got itself on its feet. For the moment, national issues were more important than the concerns of a few stuffy parliamentarians in some distant, nameless land.

...Encrypting...
...2VX Encryption...

Official Imperial Communique:

To: New Generian Government
From: Chancellor Licinus

We have reason to believe that the old members of the government have made their way to Praetonia.

End Transmission

A thin stream of light from an electric lamp came through the narrow slit window on the corner of the ceiling, illuminating a patch of wooden floorboards in the stuffy basement room. At an old wooden desk a silhouetted figure sat, his fingers working over a small metal object while the tip of a cigarette hanging from his lips glowed orange in the gloom. A man stood in front of the desk, his face and form obscured by the shadows. His invisible eyes roved over the man at the desk, waiting.

“So?”

The man at the desk glanced up and set the object down on a shaded corner of the desk before folding his hands in front of him. He was quiet as he studied the gloomy indent where the other man’s face should have been.

“You say it was a helicopter crash?”

The standing figure nodded. The sitting man seemed to consider the answer, chewing it over in his mind for several seconds.

“No bodies?”

“When our men got there they found nothing.”

The sitting man was quiet again, thinking.

“The area you’re talking about is out of my jurisdiction. My organization’s operations don’t extend past the Sofian city limits. The crash site’s almost 20 miles north of that.”

“You’re a junk dealer, Dmitri. A helicopter crash would have attracted your attention, especially a military helicopter crash. I’ll bet your people were over it and done within fifteen minutes of it going down.”

“Now, don’t throw that kind of accusation my way. I may be a crook, but I’m a businessman. I respect our agreements. I don’t step on anyone’s toes.”

“I apologize if I seem harsh, Dmitri, but times are urgent. Vrantasha needs those bodies and whatever else was in the chopper. Even if you didn’t have a personal role in stripping the helicopter, I need you to help me find who did. You are a man with answers. That’s why we keep you around here. Now, I need answers Dmitri.”

“Listen, I don’t step on anyone’s toes. Not when we have an agreement. I’ll tell you what I know, but I didn’t have anything to do with what happened. If you can use the information, good. If not, know that my hands are clean.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“Look, a few hours ago some guys, not my affiliates but with similar business, got seen driving a truck up into the woods around where you say the bird went down. Some locals saw it too, but they were scared to go check it out what with things being how they are up north. Now these guys were known around town as being bad guys, bad businessmen. One of them owns a pawn shop downtown. Real dirtbag. They don’t respect agreements like I do. So they see the thing crash and I guess they think it’s a military copter what with the events in the capital and such. They come back a half hour later but nobody asks any questions since people are scared and all. That’s what I know, and that’s probably the best you’re gonna get.”

The standing figure considered the information.

“You say they own a pawnshop?”

“Yeah, downtown. Just on the other side of the tracks. Near those shitty projects. My guys don’t usually go around there, but ask around and you can probably find it. But look, now you gotta tell me something. I don’t give a shit who’s in power, but what I gotta know is about our deal. These generals, they respect what we set up? They gonna stay out of my business so long as we keep outta their way?”

The silhouetted man was quiet for a few seconds.

“Of course. You haven’t used up your usefulness yet, Dmitri.”

The sitting man nodded.

“Then I won’t give him no trouble either.”

The standing figure nodded and quietly walked towards the door and out of the room. He climbed a rickety flight of steps and walked out into the cold night air. He removed a cellular phone from the pocket of his coat and dialed a number.

“Like you suspected. He’s bullshitting us like there’s no tomorrow. Probably thinks GIIS will protect him or that Colonel Chernitsky doesn’t have the balls to cut his off. His men stripped the chopper and he fed us some lie about a pawnshop downtown. Aleksander’s probably gagged in that basement I just walked out of.”

“How do you know he’s alive?”

“Dmitri’s no idiot. He knows a prize when he finds one. He wouldn’t risk carting the bodies off if someone important wasn’t still breathing.”

“Alright. I’ll get a team over there now. You get back to headquarters and get in touch with Chernitsky. Ask him what he wants us to do next.”

“Alright.”

The man closed the phone and replaced it in his pocket before walking off down the street.

"Marcel... tell me, where did you get your last drug shipment from?"

"Huh, what? I don't do--- Oh..." Marcel exhaled.

The Operations Chief hesitated to make eye contact with his very angry boss. He was in some deep, deep shit either way however. Better to tell the truth and get it over with right now.

"Port Belgrade, Generic Empire" he said quietly.

"You don't smell like Port Belgrade Black Tar. In fact, you smell just like Antonius, care to tell me why?"

"Well... well... my dealer said that he got his hands on some Mr. Brownstone and... and...oh shit, I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?"

"Yes you are Marcel, but we'll talk about your drug and midget habits later. Now, what exactly did your dealer say to you?"

"He told me that someone broke into the palace. He didn't mention anything else."

"Mmm hmm... Well, you were brought here, because there was a coup in Generic Empire, it turns out that the military broke into the palace and killed everyone in it. Your drug dealer probably got grade A Mr. Brownstone from a looter, or a soldier wanting a quick buck."

Marcel's eyes widened. "Whoa...." he said, "I've always suspected there was some sort of discontentment in the military, but I never figured it to be that bad."

Maia nodded. "Marcel, take a look at Antonius. Antonius was a man of the people, the quintessential Generian, an alcoholic and a drug addict that loved to party. No one would dare to rise up against him, because they loved him. But now that he's dead, they decided to take down his sober and fairly spineless heirs and replace them with a highly intoxicated military junta."

"Well, that's a fairly obvious progression. But, now, now WHO would overthrow the government."

"Marcel, that doesn't matter as much where the location of the current Emperor, Aleksander is. Can your dealer shine some light on this scenario."

"No problem." Marcel whipped out his cellphone. His dealer was on speed dial.

"Hey, Ivan here This better be important, it's 4 a.m."

"Ivan, my man... I've been wanting to ask you something."

"Marcel? Yea... sure, anything."

"Ok, let's start with Aleksander... I think you can tell me where he is."

(tbc)

“On the wall! Get on the goddamn fucking wall!”

Harsh Generian shouts shattered the 3AM calm as the door to Dmitri’s small pawn shop flew inward and a squad of black armored GICE military police burst in, training their GIR-47F carbines on the stunned personnel inside. One man made the foolish decision to reach into his coat for his weapon, a Doomingsland manufactured DAC-91K machine pistol, illegal for civilian purchase, but none the less common on the streets of crime infested Generian major cities. On cue, four bullets ripped through his clothes, piercing the light body armor underneath and opening four bleeding entry and exit wounds as the bullets slammed into the wooden wall on the other side of his body. The corpse fell to the ground and the pistol tumbled out of the man’s hand onto the floor below.

“Secure that private!”

One of the soldiers picked up the weapon and slid it discreetly into a hand fashioned concealed magazine pouch on the underside of his combat vest. The other six or so Mafiosi did as their captors commanded, lining up against the far wall to be searched and secured while a second team of GICE troopers made their way to the rear of the shop. The door to the rear stairwell was iron and secured with a heavy lock, however it was little match for a pair of blasting charges. With a loud clang the door fell inward, and slid down the worn staircase, taking with it an armed guard. The soldiers moved down into the basement. A pair of guards opened fire with DAC-91Ks, and one of the troopers went down, wounded in the abdomen. The men behind him opened up and laid waste to the two defenders while their boss, Dmitri Molotov IV, the biggest cocaine distributor in greater Sofia, cowered behind his desk.

The soldiers advanced and pulled the frightened, fat, bald man out into the open, searched him, and hauled him upstairs. With the rest of the pawn shop occupants, he was loaded onto an armored police truck, bound and gagged and headed for an interrogation cell in Generia City. Colonel Chernitsky, the head of Imperial military Intelligence, figured his men could break him in a half hour or less. For Aleksander’s sake, one would have hoped him to be wrong.

"Me? How could I tell you where Aleksander is? I'm just a lowly drug dealer?" Ivan had an extremely thick, slavic accent, which did much to compliment his extremely gravelly voice. But now it sounded odd, because he was on the defensive.

"Ivan... please, stop the bullshit. I know where you got the Mr. Brownstone from. Let's start with this question, who gave it to you?"

"My source gave it to me."

"Did your source tell you anything?"

"Umm... well... Not really?"

"Come on Ivan. Tell me what he said. I'm sure you asked, given the quality of the product you just sold."

"Ok, fine, fine, I asked where he got it and he said something about looters breaking into the palace or something like that. From what I can tell, it was probably a few Praetorians breaking into the Imperial vault. Please, I really don't know that much."

"Ok Ivan, I still have a few more questions."

"Ok then, but I don't think I can answer them."

"Tough, Ivan. You can start by answering this question. Who is your source?"

Marcel could almost feel the sweat dripping down Ivan's forehead on the other end of the line. He had already said too much when he told Marcel and where the Mr. Brownstone came from. Now, if he revealed the name of his source, he would probably be found floating face down in Hong Kong's harbor, an apparent suicide with no note.

"Sorry, I cannot tell you this."

Marcel sighed.

(Tbc)

"Hey, sorry man, it's professionalism. I can't reveal the name of my source, it's part of the trade." Although his tone of voice did not suggest it, Ivan was pleading with Marcel for reprieve. He could not reveal the name of his source on the pain of death.

"Ivan. I realize that as a professional, you cannot reveal the name of your source. But I am a professional as well. As a professional to a professional, I will say this: If you don't give up the name of your source, I will have you deported back to Generia for torture and execution."

"Heh, your threat is baseless." chuckled Ivan from the other end of the line, "the drug dealers have a compact with the government."

"Ivan, you do realize just how well I can forge evidence don't you? Now tell me before I hang up and call Generian law enforcement and tell them that you were involved in the murder of a few drug enforcement agents."

Marcel could feel Ivan's pulse quickening. "Now, I will give you 5 seconds to tell me the name of your source before I hang up and dial MP-LEA."

5... 4... 3.... 2.... "Alright, I'll tell, I'll tell. His name is Alexei Kerkev... Please... just don't send me back."

"I won't send you back, not now anyway. Good bye now Ivan."

"Wait! I need protect---"

Marcel closed the cellphone.

"That was some smooth talking there Marcel. Now I know why I haven't fired you yet. Anyway, I suppose you know what you need to do. I'll be back later."

Maia turned around and walked out of Chester's office, leaving Marcel alone to plot the next step.

OOC:Post coming today (hopefully...)

“Wake up.”

The Generian prince had been drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours. His eyes could just make out the silhouette of a blurry figure in front of him. He could hear a voice but could not make out the words since every syllable seemed to echo infinitely against his eardrums. He fought with all his might against the return of the blackness, which seemed to surge back with more force with the end of every battle. His head throbbed. He could feel no pain, yet somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it would come.

“Throw some water on him.”

His skin suddenly went cold, icy needles stabbing every nerve. His eyes shot open, the weight lifted as he cast off the chains of his unconsciousness. He gasped for air and looked around frantically. A harsh white light flipped on and he closed his eyes, wincing at the brightness.

“You! Turn that off!”

The light went out and Aleksander slowly opened his eyes again. He was just able to make out the features of the face in front of him. The man was tall, squatting in front of him, regarding him with what looked like a smile. Aleksander tried to bring his hands up to rub his eyes and for the first time realized that he was bound. The concrete floor was cold and damp beneath him and he shifted about, trying to free himself from his bonds until a sharp kick landed in his ribs.

“Don’t struggle. It will only hurt you more. Talk with me instead.”

Aleksander looked back at the face in front of him and tried to speak. His throat was dry and his voice was a gravelly croak.

“Who are you?”

The man’s grin widened.

“Ironic. That’s exactly what I want to ask you, but I suppose an introduction won’t do us any harm. I am Alexei Kerkev.”

The name seemed familiar, but Aleksander couldn’t place it.

“Now, tell me who you are.”

Suddenly it all made sense. Visions of the scene of the crashed chopper, masked, armed men in trucks came rushing back to him. He was a prisoner and the words of his captor had just confirmed something very reassuring. They didn’t know who he was, and until they did, they couldn’t turn him in. Right now he was just a nameless passenger on an Imperial military flight. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best position to be in, but it was far more desirable to the one he would be in if he was sold back to the men who had taken power in the capital. His eyes took on a look of cold detachment. The hours ahead would not be pleasant, but he would need to conserve his strength to discover a way out. The face was still watching him. At his silence the grin faded and the figure stood up.

“I asked you a question.”

Aleksander noticed several other silhouettes stalking around towards the rear of the room. One drew near and stood on his left side, his grim presence a threat. Aleksander remained silent. Suddenly a heavy blow fell on the side of Aleksander’s head and he toppled over, struggling to not lose consciousness again. The tall man turned his back and shouted something in an odd dialect at the man who had kicked the prisoner, apparently a reprimand, as the man backed off. The tall man turned and looked back at Aleksander who now struggled back into a sitting position. He could feel a warm patch on the side of his head where the blow had cut the skin.

“Patch him up. We’ll continue this soon.”

Marcel drummed his fingers upon Chester's desk, carefully plotting his next move. Ivan had given up the name of his source, Alexei Kerkev. A quick background check had revealed that he was a big name heroin dealer around the area of Port Belgrade, and that he had multiple distributors in MassPwnage, especially around the Hong Kong and Xiamen areas. The man was a loner who occasionally took a few whores. He generally slept either at his mansion or at his office, guarded by tons of henchmen. Subordinates were his Chief of Security, a big man known as Rurik, and his bookie Nikolai Vrniska.

Damn. That was a lot of information. Marcel pulled out another file, this one on Alexei's various homes, his movement patterns and all sorts of other strange facts, like how often the man clipped his nails. Damn. All this for one source who might not yield any information. Still, it was the only link he had. Oh well, time for a resource check. He picked up his cell phone and called Maia.

~*~*~
Maia herself was exhausted and ready to fall asleep at a moment's notice. But she just couldn't, not with an "expert" droning on and on about Generia, its history, culture, people, and sorts of other things that she could care less aobut. But sometimes, these experts provided valuable information, so she had to stay awake. To make matters worse, her reptilian biology made it so that caffeine would pass harmlessly unabsorbed through her bloodstream into her venom sacks. True, the venom sacks also helped to protect against toxins, environmental or otherwise, but at times Maia desperately wished for some poison, to help her stay awake, fall asleep, or for some artificial happiness, because incidences of real happiness in her life were few and far in between. Life sucked.

Maia's daydreams, and the Generian Affairs Specialist's voice were halted by Maia's cellphone ringing. It was Marcel. He had probably just thought up of a plan.

Alexei spoke in an even tone. From his demeanor one would have thought the news carried by the somewhat nervous man standing in front of him was nothing more concerning than a weather forecast.

“Ivan was a fool. I was counting the days until one of his fuck ups actually meant something. Luckily, we’re prepared if this little unfortunate event gets out of control. However, this may also be a blessing. Aleksander. The man wanted to know about Aleksander. There’s only one Aleksander I know of that would mean anything to a Mass Pwnage Intelligence Officer, and if I recall his proper title was ‘prince’.”

Alexei grinned sardonically, and then chuckled.

“Today is our lucky day. Well, now that we know who our guest is, we can get to business. Dmitri’s arrest was a setback, but fortunately the authorities were kind enough to forego subtlety. GICE knows we’ve been arming and that we won’t be pushed over as easily as Dmitri. They’ll think three times before moving on us now that we have such an important bargaining chip. Chernitsky can’t fight two wars.”

Alexei looked over to a man seated across the room on his right. The man wore a black and blue Port Belgrade Police uniform and sipped from a bottle of Black Death Vodka.

“Laszlo, tighten the security at police headquarters. Make sure no one comes or goes until I know about it.”

Alexei turned now to a colossus of a man standing silently on the right side of the desk. His grim, red bearded face showed no emotion and his dull grey eyes stared off into nothing.

“Rurik, you know what to do about Ivan. Have our men in MP Hong Kong make sure he doesn’t open his fat mouth again. And have them send that girl he was with over to Port Belgrade. She was a piece of ass. I could use a piece of ass like that.”

Rurik nodded and walked out of the office. Alexei turned now to the man still standing in front of his desk.

“If I suppose correctly, the MP intelligence offices will be very quick to act on the information our friend Ivan gave them, and they’ll be paying our Sofia offices a visit shortly. Make sure they have a nice welcome.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man walked quickly out of the office. Alexei readjusted himself in his chair and pulled a cigar from a box on the desk. A minor setback. Nothing more.

"What they want, Maia, is for us to try and grab Alexei for questioning. Alexei expects that the taskforce assigned to kidnapping and interrogating him will go for HIM, Maia."

"Now that's just stupid of him."

"I know that. That's why I'm thinking of kidnapping his head of security and his bookie at the same time. I'm betting both of them are pussies and would break fairly quickly under torture. Now the problem is that Alexei has a third major employee, someone that we don't know about. I think he's probably a bombmaker or someone that's in charge of security around his offices."

"Hmm... alright, good idea. Try to find out about this third guy while you're at it too. I'll give higher priority to his Chief of Security, seeing as how he's an important man to Alexei's operation. Now try to dig up some dirt on this guy, what his name?"

"Rurik. That's all we know of him. That and he's a very large man with red hair and grey eyes."

"Hmm... this is going to be difficult to pull off then, but Rurik is Alexei's right hand man, so he can reveal alot. What I can alot isn't much for now, maybe a spot detail, a hit squad, and a couple of transporters."

"I think I don't even need that. But alright, i'll take what you can give me, the more the merrier, right Maia?"

"Mmm hmm.... Alright, I have to get back to listening to this analyst right here. You know where to find what I just gave you."

Maia hung up.

Marcel made a few phone calls and emails, requesting at least 12 Generian speaking agents, to be inserted into and around Port Belgrade and Sofia. Their mission was to extract all possible information from Alexei Kerkev, his staff, and any other "cooperative" locals they could find.

(tbc)

As his blade grinded against the turning wheel of stone, Maximus reflected on why he was about to go on yet another quest of vengence. As far as he knew, his cousin Varus was now dead, slain by an assassin. He now had no friends in the Generian court. He was an outcast.

He was mainly thought to be an unwashed barbarian, albeit well mannered, due to his status as a warrior in the Doom Legion and as being only half-Generian. The courtiers and nobles saw what they percieved as too much of his father in him.

None of that really mattered to him. All that mattered was that his cousin had been murdered and the Imperial Government had been overthrown by men he saw as unworthy of ruling his motherland. And now the spirits of his ancestors cried out for blood, and he intended on delivering.

The blade he carried, Ironwind, had been presented to him by his father when he left home to train as a Legionary. With this weapon he had spilt much blood of men of many nationalities: Sarzonians, Sovietens, Palombians, and various other peoples he couldn't be bothered with learning the names of. They were all the same to him: infidels. The only thing they could be trusted to do was die.

It was an elegant weapon, a gladius with a 25" diamond edged blade sharpened by lasers, good for hacking through armor and flesh alike, extremely light but nearly impossible to break.

Ever since the coup, he'd been hiding out in the wilderness with five of his most trusted bodyguards. The men all sat camped around a fire within the forest, two of them hiding in concealed positions to warn of anything approaching them. Maximus' armor rested against a tree while he and two others sat on a felled log.

Maximus had decided he would depart his comrades tonight in search of the enemy. The others hadn't quite liked the idea of letting the man they were sworn to protect go off by himself, but they couldn't disobey him: he was, afterall, future Emperor of Doomingsland, and possibly that of Generia, as well.

He knew the later was unlikely, but there was always a chance.

Confident his blade was sharp enough to cleave a man's head off with relative ease, he took his foot off of the pedal and withdrew his blade, examining it for a few seconds. Looking at himself in the reflection of the black blade, he realised he hadn't shaved in nearly a week.

He chuckled at that notion. Unwashed barbarian. Yes. That described him well at the moment.

He would soon be claiming heads as trophies. He hadn't done that for nearly six months.

As he breathed, he realised how cold it was. He hated the cold, being a desert dweller. He stood from his resting place, sheathing his blade, and grabbed his black armored vest, glimmering amidst the fire light, and pulled it over his head, withdrawing his .425 magnum revolver to make sure it was loaded.

Finally, he picked up his black, crested helm, and slapped it on, mounting his horse and departing his friends without a word said. He best not waste his breath on such matters.

The Great Expanse, Edge of Estranged Mountains, Alberia

Praetorian General Sverik Iljevo clasped his thick hands behind his back. His crisp blue eyes stared out over the sea of treetops that covered the great majority of the southern Alberian region known as the Great Expanse. He stood on a wooden platform jutting out from the side of a rock wall that made up a small portion of the Estranged Mountain Range. Overhead the ice wind wailed, but the mountains kept him from bearing the brunt of its force, leaving only the falling cold to chill the edges of his nostrils. Unlike so many of his countrymen, Iljevo relished the cold. When he breathed the frozen dry air he felt as though he was drinking from the fountain of youth, tasting the blood of the almighty, the nectar of the deities. The air went down his throat like damp steel, clean and crisp, and the steam drifted in rolling clouds from the edges of his mouth, a constant mist hanging around his brown bearded chin.

The view and the cold air served him as a refreshing respite from the overwhelming strain of the matters going on inside the mountain fortress. It had been three days and already it seemed as if Vrantasha was wrapping his fingers securely around the throne like it was his prize, and the notion scorched Iljevo to the core. Vrantasha was a traitor, and one of the lowest caliber. He had used the ideals he had sworn to serve as an excuse to take power for himself. Of course he promised the other commanders a fair share in the new order, but Iljevo knew that things would not be so. They were soldiers, as he was, and it was their nature to serve, not to lead. Vrantasha had cast aside his life as a soldier in exchange for power, and with it he had lost all the virtues and honorable quality that went with the title. Now he was dirt, a usurper as the traitorous Alexei II had been to Antonius. It boiled his blood and scorched his soul.

But while Iljevo knew his duty as a soldier, and rarely pretended to be anything more, he was clever and was not seduced by the serpent tongue of the Black Guard commander. But he also knew the direction in which things were moving, and that there was not a single army that could stand against Vrantasha’s combined might, certainly not Iljevo’s own small Praetorian unit. It would be a suicidal move indeed to challenge the usurper openly, and so it was that the proud man led his men into hiding to lay plans for a more effective solution to the problem that had now reached crisis level. There were few that could aid him in the endeavor, and he knew it, but he also knew that the few that could were not difficult to reach. One was already inside the base to his rear, albeit unconscious and unlikely to fully recover before a few weeks time had passed.

Iljevo turned and with a bit of reluctance walked through one of the disguised entrances to the fortress. He was met by a young Praetorian officer who offered a starch salute.

“Sir, he’s awake.”

Iljevo’s expression brightened somewhat.

“This is good news. How is he?”

“A bit confused, but that’s to be expected. I left it to you to make the necessary introductions.”

“A wise maneuver, corporal. Take me to him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general followed the officer down the long steel corridor and came into a brightly lit and sterile room that served as a medbay. Sitting up in the bed closest to the door was Lord Varus Tiberius Alexei.

"Alright, I'm in. Damn, this is one swanky assed bookstore, organized too. Whoever runs this place must be really into it."

An MP agent, posing as a random Generian, glided into Nikolai Vrniska's bookstore, cool and calm. He was wearing a thick turtleneck sweater which concealed the throat microphone around his neck and a heavy trenchcoat, which concealed the L25 10mm Magnum pistol holstered in around his hip.

"How's business?" came the query from the other end of the throat mic.

"Booming. No way we can get away with no collateral damage", whispered the agent.

"Damn... Can you I.D the guards?"

"Yea", nodded the agent as he pretended to browse through the bargain bin, "2 suits standing besides the back room access, a uniformed security guard by the front door, the cashier's got a 10 gauge under the counter, and the customer service girl's packing a DoomCorp. .425 Automag. Fuck knows how many guys are upstairs."

"Jeez, security is a priority here, isn't it?"

"Yea, it is. I'm gonna go get a cup of coffee. Those Starbucks employees look freaky to me though."

"Can you tell what they have?"

The agent began walking slowly towards the Starbucks, occasionally peering at books that interested him.

"From here, I can see that the manager's packing a .425. He's also got a DAC-91 under the counter. The cashiers, all 3 of them, have DAC-91s near them."

"Damn, too much. Get out of the bookstore and await further orders."

"Copy."

(tbc)

Varus rubbed his head and blinked rapidly, blind in the bright fluorescent light. He ran his fingers over his chest and abdomen and then over his left arm. He noticed with a degree of panic a long tube protruding from a vein. He clutched the tube and ripped it free, and a stream of clear liquid spurted across the room. His head still aching, he squinted to make out his surroundings and then noticed a tall figure standing at the foot of his bed.

“Where am I?”

The figure walked over the side of the bed and took a seat in a small stainless steel chair.

“You are in the medical bay of the GB-114 military installation in the Estranged Mountains. Can you remember at all how you got here?”

Varus puzzled over the new information for a few seconds and then shook his head slowly.

“About a week ago there was an attempt made on your life. You were shot twice, once in the lower abdomen and once in the chest, and brought to a Sofia hospital emergency room. Shortly thereafter there was a coup d’Etat in Generia City led by General Nikit Vrantasha whom you may recall.”

Varus was shocked by the revelation. It took a few more seconds for him to recognize the military uniform the figure was wearing, and with it his brain made a connection. He scrambled to get out of the bed and to his feet, but collapsed as soon as he tried to put weight on them. General Iljevo got to his feet and tried to help the floundering diplomat back into his bed, but was met with resistance. Iljevo smirked, realizing Varus’s obvious conclusion.

“I suppose I should have explained earlier. The army is divided now between Vrantasha’s supporters and the supporters of the old regime. I’m with the latter.”

Varus looked the man over and decided tentatively that he was sincere, whereupon he allowed the man to help him back to a sitting position on the bed. He was silent for a few moments, thinking things over.

“I remember Vrantasha. He coordinated Black Guard Operations for Antonius. He was a good soldier, and had great respect for my uncle.”

“The man is an opportunist. Antonius’s regime offered a great deal of opportunity for his advancement. Upon the Emperor’s death it seemed that Vrantasha became worried about his prospects in a second regime. He and Antonius’s eldest son Aleksander never got on particularly well.”

Varus suddenly remembered something and became frantic.

“The royal family! Where are they? Are they alive, dead, caught?”

“Chesna, Zora, and Kasia fled with their brother Kazatmiru to Phantasmo, Freudotopia and the protection of Saul Hudson. Rurik went south to Doomingsland to join his sister Anja, wife of Helldawg, and Llaszlo accompanied his sisters Jana, Alexia, and Katarina over the Borman border.”

“And Aleksander?”

“No one is particularly sure of where he is. His helicopter was reportedly shot down forty minutes after takeoff somewhere north of Sofia. Loyalist informants in the area reported a convoy of trucks arriving a few minutes after the crash and carting off all manner of debris. Some reported seeing a man with a bag over his head in the rear of the vehicle, but we can’t confirm it.”

Varus grew somber.

“They’ll be safe for now. Vrantasha can’t touch them where they are. Aleksander I worry about.”

“Some sources inside military intelligence have reported a massive campaign to locate him. It’s at the top of Vrantasha’s priority list. There was no corpse at the scene which is promising to us.”

Varus continued to bear the grim expression.

“It’s not his death I worry about. That would have made things far easier. He’s a dangerous man, unpredictable.”

Iljevo nodded knowingly.

“But right now he’s also no friend of Vrantasha, and that makes him an asset.”

As his armored boots slowly touched the ground in front of him, twigs snapped beneath the feet of Maximus. He was approaching the end of the treeline and could see that he was coming to a cliff. He'd dismounted a mile back, knowing that a secret Generian weapons testing facility was in the area.

He also knew that this base was under the control of the usurpers. And it would be here he struck his first blow against the traitors.

His heavily muscled, scarred arms were bare in the cold, yet he didn't seem to notice, his armored vest having lost its glimmer within the forest. This was good, as it would make him harder to spot. His blade was slung over his back, his two revolvers on either hip.

He moved with an animal instinct towards the edge of the treeline, crouching where the cliff began. No more than three hundred meters ahead was the stronghold, surrounded by high concrete walls and gaurd towers, gaurding the entrance to a secret underground base.

Night was begining to fall and he would soon make his move.

Taking out a pair of binoculars, he scanned the area in front of him. The forest around the base had been leveled as to allow for easier sighting of anyone attempting to sneak inside. Gaurds with assault weapons patroled back and forth along the walls, making it difficult to scale undetected.

He decided that this challenge would be worthy of him.

For the next three hours, he lay there in the forest, monitoring the gaurds. Each gaurd checked in every twenty minutes or so, so he would have that much time to scale the wall, slay all men within a gaurd tower, and make his way to the entrance.

Once inside, he would kill everything in sight in order to make an example of them.

Smirking to himself, he began to make his way down the face of the cliff, using the rocks as footing. It only took him five minutes to reach the bottom, hitting the ground with a thud. Scanning his surroundings, he realised he was in luck. The whole way to the base was completlely overgrown with tall grass.

He slid through the tall grass, keeping low, yet moving quite swiftly.

OOC:Rest coming when I feel like typing more.

As he approached the base of the wall, Maximus prepared to scale it. Utilizing spiked hooks on the side of his gauntlets, he firmly slammed his hands in, holding him tight. Then, one at a time, he brought his arms forward, latching onto the concrete, slowly pulling himself up. He did this almost silently, failing to attract attention towards himself. Within two minutes he was at the top. He was just on time.

The gaurds in this particular section had just checked in, leaving Maximus a twenty minute window that he would use to dispatch the traitors and make his way towards the entrance.

The wall was about ten feet wide and he was only fifty feet from the nearest gaurd hut, mounted on the wall. He moved low and swiftly, his armor clanking softly with his movement. Three men occupied the concrete hut, one of them staring through an infrared scope, overlooking the field, the other two playing cards over a wooden crate, smoking cigarettes to keep warm amidst the cold of the Generian Steppe.

The door was wide open, allowing for Maximus to stride right in unopposed. It wasn't until the gaurds heard the sound of Ironwind leaving its sheath that the two men playing cards looked up in astonishment at a dark figure, clad head to toe in black armor, his face scarred and dirtied, staring back at them, grinning ear to ear as he swung his blade and happily seperated their heads from their necks in one swoop of his blade.

There was no sigh or groan; the men were slain swiftly and painlessly; the same could not be said of their comrade, who was just turning around to catch a glimpse of the bloodthirsty prince just as he plunged his blade through his gut, producing a satistfying sound of sharpened steel piercing soft flesh. The expression on the face of the gaurd was that of horror: this man, this demon, had appeared from nowhere, and without a sound had beheaded both of his comrades, and almost as quickly had impaled him through the gut.

Maximus' face conveyed no emotion this time; this man would be given an honorable death, face to face with his opponent. He, in a lightning fast motion, elbowed his victim with tremendous force, both shocking him and forcing him back far enough to dislodge the blade. As his foe stumbled back, both hands on his painfull wound, Maximus brought his blade high over his head and brought it straight down at an incredible speed, cleaving the man's skull in half.

As the corpse stumbled to the ground, blood soaked the cemenet ground as the gut wound spewed out torrents of red, his skull simply seperating in two as he hit the ground, the brain neatly chopped in half down the middle. This was truely one of the more distorted faces Maximus had scene.

Almost impressed with his prowess, Maximus promptly headed down a nearby set of stairs towards the entrace of the base. He had cleared the gaurd house in under five seconds.

Twenty minutes later, Maximus strode right out of the entrance just as the land around him was engulfed in flame, the fotress behind him errupting in a mighty plume of flame that reached to the heavens, massive chunks of steel and concrete being hurled high into the air. Maximus' face was completely calm, his stride proud. In his right hand he carried blood-soaked Ironwind, his left he reached into a pouch on his belt next to which the severed head of the base's commander had been attached, and produced a cigar. As ash and flame rained down from above, he extended the cigar out with his arm, promtply grabbing a light from one of the many falling embers. Placing the expensive cigar between his lips, he took a puff and grinned.

He walked out into the woods, wandering aimlessly for what seemed like hours. All around him seemed to fade, to blacken. He was absolutely exhausted. Yet he continued on, his muscles strained to their full capacity, moving relentlessly through the woods. Ahead of him he saw what he thought to be a mirrage: it was a concrete entrance of somesort, outside of which stood several gaurds. Rubbing his eyes, he saw that this halusination had not disappeared. Drunkenly, he clambered towards the mirrage...

Nikolai Vrniska’s Bookstore, Sofia, Generia

The large Generian watched discreetly from the corner of his eye as he sat at a small corner table pretending to sip a cup of coffee and leaf through a copy of the day’s news. A small microphone concealed in his thick beard transmitted his barely audible instructions to a dozen other similarly sized men stationed throughout the store.

“He’s wearing a wire. I can see the crease in the sweater neck. Look, you catch that? The coat just opened a crack. Holster. Packing something big. He’s going towards the counter. Move in.”

Almost immediately two men appeared beside the agent, hands in their coat pockets. The man at the table saw the agent’s eyes dart to either side. He was well aware of what was going on. His lips moved slightly, no doubt communicating the situation to his accomplices. As the agent’s arm began to move, the man at the table leapt to his feet and pulled his hand cannon, a .44 Magnum revolver. Simultaneously the two men flanking the agent moved in to grab him, but the foreigner spun low on his heel and put a fist into the sternum of one, wrenching the DAC-91 from his hand and opening fire on the second, sending him stumbling backwards into a nearby table, his chest a bloody mess and the top of his skull a gaping black crater.

Patrons screamed as gunfire erupted. The man at the table fired, his first shot going over the agent’s shoulder. The agent spun the second Generian guard to face the man at the table as he fired a second time, the bullet shattering the spine and passing through the stomach. The agent dropped the body and turned to sprint for the door, but by this time the man at the table had him firmly in his sights. He leveled his gun and pulled the trigger, sending a slug straight at the back of the agent’s head.

“Our guest has finally arrived it seems.”

General Iljevo managed a muted smile as he watched the hulking form of Maximus stumbling over the rocks towards him. He walked forward slowly until the beast of a man was only a foot from him. He looked into the prince’s dazed and exhausted eyes just as the balls rolled into the back of his head and the enormous body collapsed to the ground, unconscious. A pair of Praetorians walked over to the body of the half-Doomingslander half-Generian that they were bound by honor to protect, and hoisted him onto their shoulder, before slowly proceeding towards the well concealed concrete and steel entrance to the mountain facility.

An hour later Maximus found himself coming to, his head and eyes aching, and a shrill ring resounding against his eardrums. The fierce white glare nearly blinded him, and he was forced to squint to make out any kind of shape. As his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he looked down with a mixture of relief and confusion to see that he was lying in a small infirmary bed. Looking up, he saw that it was indeed a miniature hospital ward he now occupied, and noticing the IV in his arm, he grabbed hold of the cord and ripped it free.

“Yeah, I tried the same thing. They don’t like it when you do that. Makes a hell of a mess.”

Maximus was caught off guard by the voice which seemed oddly familiar, and turning his head he was shocked beyond words to see Varus lying in the next bed over.

Maximus was at a loss of what to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind almost casualy,

"Fancy seeing you here, Varus... wait, what th- You mean I just took bloody revenge on a thousand traitors for nothing! Bah!"

Maximus attempted to contain his joy and surprise with false anger, yet Varus could see right through him. Maximus sighed and chuckled to himself, muttering something in Latin as General Iljevo walked through the door...

“Good timing,” Maximus muttered.

Varus smirked and responded

“This guy’s got it down to an art.”

Iljevo stood surveying his two new charges as Maximus sat up and then slowly got to his feet. He managed a stiff salute before his legs gave out again and he was forced to fall back into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He noticed now, seemingly for the first time, his missing armor and weapons, and an expression that was a cross between rage and panic darkened his features. He spoke grimly, menacingly at the tall Generian officer.

“Where is it. My armor. Ironwind, my sword.”

Iljevo gestured solemnly with his hand towards a large table beside the bed where Maximus’s sword and armor rested. Maximus, slightly embarrassed, attempted to disguise it with a haughty and stern expression.

“You should not have removed them without my permission.”

Iljevo spoke now for the first time, sarcastically but his tone entirely serious.

“I apologize. I was afraid a full complement of battle armor and a scabbard would impede the efforts of our medical technicians.”

Maximus looked over at Varus who was doing what he could to contain a grin at the misdirected anger of his comrade and second cousin. Maximus set his jaw and ignored the mockery, assuming a more dignified and composed tone.

“IF I may be so bold as to speak frankly, where in fuck’s name am I, and who the fuck are you?”

Iljevo’s solemn expression was unchanging.

“Your grace, you are currently in the infirmary of the GB-114 military base in the Estranged Mountains in northwestern Generia. I am General Iljevo, and as circumstances would have it, I am the base commander and that of the 9th Imperial Praetorian Legion.”

Maximus digested the information.

“The name is familiar. The 9th legion saw some action on the ground in Inkana.”

“Indeed they did, though nothing worthy of their talents.”

Maximus nodded sagely.

“My grandfather never decided to take as active a role in that war as I would have pleased.”

Maximus checked himself before deviating further from the subject, and once again straightened up.

“How did I get here?”

“You were carried, your grace.”

Varus contained a chuckle, realizing that Iljevo was enjoying himself as much as he was. Maximus’s expression began to darken again.

“More specifically, you stumbled up to our doorstep after what seemed several hours in the frozen wilderness of the forests, severely dehydrated and suffering from mild frostbite on your right hand. Nothing serious, but had you not been fortunate enough to run into a group of our scouts, you may have been worse off. Not that your constitution could not have pulled you through alive, however I suspect you enjoy the use of your sword arm from the severed head hanging on your belt.”

Iljevo gestured to the trophy hanging from the belt draped over one of the chairs. Maximus smirked with pride, remembering the recent escapade, before bringing his attention back to Iljevo and Varus.

“I assume from your apparent hospitality that I am not being held against my will?”

Iljevo responded.

“You may leave freely at any time, though I think you would find that a bit counterproductive.”

Varus spoke up now.

“I’ll take over. You probably are feeling a bit in the dark. As you’re more than aware, and as I only just discovered three hours ago, my uncle’s government has been overthrown. The people that did it are out to destroy the Alexians and establish a permanent military government led by the Praetorians, and more specifically, General Vrantasha’s Black Guard. General Iljevo was a firm believer in the precedents established by Antonius, and at the time of the coup, he and his men went underground after a blocking action in one of the passes through the mountain that cut them down to nearly half size.”

Iljevo spoke with a small degree of pride.

“But we prevented four armies from reaching the capital and setting up their own blocking positions, giving the royal family time to escape.”

Varus nodded in his direction.

“Indeed. Following the attempt on my life, apparently it was Iljevo who took me in, fearing that someone would come to finish the job. He and one of his GIIS contacts managed to find out what was going on several hours before it happened, which saved the lives of thousands who would have been at the mercy of those four armies moving through the mountains. Your little escapade earlier brought you to the attention of Iljevo, along with a few of Vrantasha’s units in the area. Fortunately, we got to you first.”

Maximus scoffed.

“Vrantasha’s men are weak. I demonstrated that very effectively not four hours ago.”

“It was eight hours ago, and I’m afraid a strong sword arm can’t do much to keep a sniper round from splitting your skull.”

Maximus scowled.

“So what the Hell do you propose we do?”

Iljevo spoke again.

“That’s precisely what Varus and I have been discussing. Vrantasha is in too strong a position to challenge openly at the moment. Only a few armies are completely under his control however, he’s managed to make friends with promises of wealth and a return to prestige for the Praetorians. He’ll be making a lot more friends if we don’t act quickly.”

Varus chimed in.

“It’s my opinion that we need to undermine his political support base, especially among the southern armies where his control is far more limited. If we can raise enough support, we can march on Generia City, Sofia, and Port Belgrade and surgically remove the died in the wool usurpers and Vrantasha himself before he has time to react. It’s a big project, but now that we’ve got our third component, I think we can pull it off.”

Maximus considered this. His brow furrowed and his eyes seemed to turn inwards on themselves while the wheels of his mind turned. He looked up and into the eyes first of Varus, then of Iljevo. Satisfied, he spoke.

“Alright, so when does the killing start?”

Varus and Iljevo both grinned and glanced at each other. Varus responded slyly.

“Soon. Very soon.”

The running agent's head exploded in a shower of blood and tissue, but not before he fired over his shoulder at the bearded man, punching a bottle cap sized group of 4.8x33mm holes through his neck. Patrons began fleeing from the front door in droves.

"Shit..." muttered one of the 4 trenchcoated agents sitting across the street in a black BMW 760i. He radioed HQ; "WE GOT OUR INSIDE MAN DOWN! WE HAVE TO MAKE THE EXTRACTION!" The agent turned off the radio before recieving any sort of confirmation from HQ.

The 4 agents from the car leapt out of the car into the street, which was fast filling with hysterical people. They drew their weapons as they rushed in the bookstore, 2 of them were armed with New Empire made R32 carbines, the other 2 were armed with Pwnage made SMG-7 submachine guns. The cashier went down in about a half second, riddled with bullets, as did the customer service girl, who recieved the same fate as the dead MP agent.

The agents were however suppressed by DAC-91 fire coming in from the Starbucks counter. Bullets exploded everywhere, shredding apart books, tables and shelves. The agents began to fire in short bursts while dashing from shelf to shelf, trying to keep the Starbucks employees down under the counter, so that one of them could get close enough to throw a frag grenade over.

From upstairs, and from the back, more thugs began rushing in, some armed with DAC-91s and others armed with GIR-47 carbines. The excellent fire discipline of the MP agents kept the thugs running or ducking for cover. Unfortunately, there were just too many agents. In layman's terms, it was beginning to just get interesting....


~*~*~*

In the back:

A modified armored car pulled up behind the alley with a screech. It was painted in the colors of the Sofia PD SWAT team. From the back, 2 5 man SWAT elements rushed out. They moved towards the loading the area quickly, placing breaching charges on the doors and lining up to get ready.

The only difference between them and the Sofia PD was that they weren't Sofia PD, but MP agents. Their guns told the story. Instead of using the cheap, stamp made GIR-47 carbine, they wielded MP made BR-2 Carbines.

The breaching charges blew holes in the side and loading bay doors, the MP SWAT rushed in, throwing smoke and flashbang grenades and shooting living thing that came near, even unarmed employees.

Kazatmiru tossed restlessly on the spacious mattress in the guest room of the Phantasmo Imperial palace. He was embattled with the strange dreams of a mind and body racked with fever. Sweat soaked the silk sheets, and he grumbled unintelligibly in his unconscious state. A woman sat at the bedside, regarding with sympathy the tossing twenty seven year old prince. A Freudian doctor stood beside her, stroking his bearded chin in thought.

“You say he is prone to such illnesses?”

The woman replied.

“He was, but I haven’t seen him in such a condition since he was seventeen, and even then he nearly died.”

“It certainly set upon him suddenly.”

The woman looked up at the doctor, concern in her eyes.

“Will he be alright?”

“I assure you he is the best possible hands. Freudian doctors are among the best in the world. There’s no better place for him to be than this hospital. However, I suggest you get some rest yourself, my lady. I’ll send for you when he wakes.”

The woman nodded gently and put a hand on that of the unconscious man.

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

The wind whipped through the forest of pine, screaming shrilly like a steam whistle on an old locomotive. The crack of a rifle filled the auditory vacuum as the wind momentarily subsided, and a shell casing landed on the soft snow besides Varus’s boots. He lowered the rifle and looked out at the Generian grisly bear as it slumped to the ground in the distance.

“Bet you wish it was Vrantasha, eh cousin?”

Varus smirked as Maximus loaded his own rifle.

“Sooner or later I’ll have my chance.”

Maximus laughed, his deep cackle harsh in the bright cold air.

“I’d like to take a shot at him right now.”

As he finished the sentence a deafening roar sounded behind him amid the rush of cracking branches and shaking trunks. The two men wheeled around just in time to see the mate of the dead Generian grisly charging through the brush. It reared up on its hind legs and knocked the rifle from Maximus’s hands with a thick claw, sending him flying loike a rag doll with the other. Varus scrambled to reload his rifle, but Maximus was back on his feet before he could slip in a new cartridge. The son of Helldawg had his knife unsheathed and glinting in an instant, and the two animals regarded each other with fiery eyes. The bear lunged, but the prince was away and behind the beast before it was anywhere close.

He leapt onto the back of the bear and thrust an arm as thick as a tree tunk around the throat of the animal as it reared up onto it’s legs again, trying to buck the foe. The bear twisted and slammed its body into the ground, breaking the grip of its enemy, and then it was over the fallen prince. It let out a roar, but the tone changed to a wind as the Doomingslander sank his blade into the belly of the beast. The animal reared up one last time, wailing, the hilt of the long knife protruding, and then tumbled over onto its side, dead.

Maximus got to his feet and walked over to the corpse, and bending over, withdrew his knife. He wiped it on the fur of the bear and then knelt, crossing himself before sheathing his knife.

“The first worthy adversary I’ve found in a long time and he was not even human.”

Varus looked solemnly at the corpse.

“She. We should have remembered they always hunt in pairs.”

Maximus grunted and got to his feet.

“Let’s skin them. We’ll camp here and return tomorrow morning. Tonight we shall eat bear flesh and discuss our plans to save our Empire.”

"Where's Vriniska?" Through the smoke, blood and chaos in bookstore, the SWAT agents were searching through the labyrinth of the back rooms one by one, ventilating anyone inside that wasn't Vriniska. Some died fighting, others died pleading for their pathetic lives. But their collective blood ran togheter and mixed on the floor and walls, two inches deep in some places. They could still hear the agents out front battling it out with Vriniska's thugs. But still, no Vriniska, and the police were probably closing in. They had to find him, and fast.

The fake SWAT team moved into an employees only area, repeating their clear and shoot routine. Then, they broke into the last office at the end of the hallway.

Nikolai Vriniska was standing on a chair behind his desk, still trying to make his getaway via the ventilation system. A massive .500 Smith and Wesson revolver was clutched rather improperly in one of his puny hands. As the SWAT team burst in, he screamed and fired backwards wildly. He limpwristed the shot so completely that his weapon fell out of his hands and clattered onto the ground.

Unfortunately though, the round that he fired was high and to the right. He was aiming for the center mass of the first SWAT agent that entered the room, and since the round went high and to the right, the huge .500 round passed neatly through the agent's visor and into his head. There was another shower of blood and brain tissue. The rest of the agents rushed forth into the room and grabbed Vriniska, handcuffing his wrists shackling his feet and gagging his mouth with a dead hedgehog and some duct tape.

The SWAT team, carrying a struggling, wet-trousered Vriniska, ran back to their van as quickly as they could. The van's driver pulled up to the loading area, halting with a quick screech. The team threw Vriniska into the back and hopped in with him.... Monitoring police radio channels, they made their getaway, trying to avoid Generian as much as possible.

~*~*~

In the front, things were going quite well. More than 2 dozen thugs lay dead on the floor, pocked with various gunshot wounds. The agents were tired and running low on ammunition, but they weren't looking any worse for the wear.

"We got the confirm signal! Let's get the fuck out of here!" shouted an agent as pulled the trigger on his BR-1 twice, causing 2 huge bearded thugs to collapse in bloody heaps.

"Right!" screamed another agent as he leapt behind a bookshelf to avoid a torrent of ammunition from another thug toting a squad automatic weapon.

Hide the evidence... thought the same agent as he bit the pins off 3 black napalm grenades. No one can find out the entire truth of what happened here....

The napalm grenades flew over the bookshelf and landed right in the midst of the thugs before releasing their contents. Blue colored flames spilled out and began to devour the thugs, the floorboards, the bookshelves and the books themselves. The agents picked themselves up and began to run, putting as much ammo as they possibly could into the general area of the thugs. The firefighters would have one hell of a time with this blaze, black napalm's accelerant was made from White Phosphorus...

The agents broke into an ancient Ford Fiesta parked in the street. After about 5 seconds of tinkering with a screwdriver, they drove away, staying within the speed limit as not to gather attention.

The BMW they arrived in blew up, rupturing a gas line beneath the street. More hell for the firefighters.

((OOC: Finishing this business up quick-like so I can move onto a new, more manly RP. Doom and Mass Pwnage, you can fill in the ends to your own respective plotlines (Port Belgrade siege, Aleksander’s extradition to MP). I might fill in some other details later.))

The thick black clouds hung dismally over the smoldering ruins of the proud districts of Generia City, the once mighty capital of the Empire. Once more blood had run in her streets, the second time in eight months. Piles of concrete lay around half towers. Elsewhere the dull chatter of machine gun fire and the occasional thud of an artillery piece broke the gray silence. Dazed men and women, soldiers and civilians, wandered through the rubble, surveying the results of the days grim deeds.

Outside the hills were singed with fire and chunks of shrapnel decorated the craters. Every now and then a body lay still on one of the slopes or in a rocky valley. The river moved quietly by, a humble witness to the violent, repetitive nature of mankind. It wound its way over the countryside, south towards Sofia, a city standing still but proud like a widow at a funeral. However, over the old senate building a new standard flew beside the Generian flag, replacing the seal of Vrantasha’s Praetorians that had for months adorned the staff. The image of a wolf’s head over a pair of crossed sabers, an unfamiliar seal, one created to decorate the armor of a new Praetorian order, those that served a Prince returned to claim his throne, a new Imperator rising to the task set for him by his deceased father.

In the old chamber, the air was solemn, but there was no sadness here. Praetorians, sharply dressed officials, and Imperial Regular Infantry officers packed every square foot of the chamber, eyes trained on the form of a Generian Orthodox Bishop and a young man. The Bishop spoke softly and the man knelt before him, and from a pillow offered him by a wise old advisor, the Bishop removed the great crown of the Alexian royal family. He spoke the ancient words of a noble prayer and set the crown upon his head. The Bishop turned to the assembled and the man rose.

“Emperor Kazatmiru I, Emperor of Generia and her Dominions, Most Beloved by God!”

The young Emperor turned to the assembly and drew the ornate saber from the scabbard at his waist, raising it over his head. The crowd fell to their knees, averting their eyes in reverence. Kazatmiru turned to the advisor who had delivered the crown.

“Varus, you have my thanks.”

The man bowed at the waist.

“It was all my duty.”

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Ilenjeno, Buchiana

A cloud of choking grey dust hung heavy and low in the air, blotting out the afternoon sun. The city groaned quietly as cold winds drifted through the street, twisting and contorting the dust clouds. It was a dead place, Ilenjevo, shattered by the calamitous atrocity of the second Buchianan War. To this day the smoke had not cleared and fires raged in the sewer systems in parts of town. Gunpowder and decay were the city’s perfume, and concrete and smoke particles irritated unprotected lungs.

In a way, the city was the refrain of the Buchianan dirge, a free city but a lifeless one. The withdrawal of the Generian occupation forces to positions behind the 16th parallel that crossed the Lew Valley divided the region in half between free and occupied Buchiana. In the aftermath of the war’s sudden end, the southern, free Buchianans emerged from their fortifications to survey their new country, and where they expected rejoicing, their hearts grew solemn and heavy. Their land was a desolate one, isolated and broken from over six years of war. Their cities were crumbling and the bodies of their brothers, sons, and friends lay rotting in the streets. The war had claimed nearly 800,000 Buchianan lives, soldier and civilian. They had no government, no infrastructure, no economy.

There was a void begging to be filled, and the common men knew little about how to do it. But it was filled, filled by megalomaniacs and organized criminals, militia leaders, drug lords, and arms dealers. In less than a years time the province grew into a cesspool, a breeding ground for violence and a stopover for illegal trade.

However, their leaders wasted no time in the scramble for power, and a council was established by the leaders of the two principle military forces: the Buchianan Liberation Army, and the Buchianan National Army. The council came into its own as what it was always intended to be: an institutionalized oligarchy, its members beginning a campaign to suck the land’s remaining wealth and resources dry to fund their own military machinations and to fuel an insurgency in the north. While the bodies of those who had fought and died courageously for independence still lay uncovered, the new leadership planned for a new war.

Nikolai Bchia Andriev leaned up against a crumbling concrete wall in a narrow alley between two old, decrepit and long abandoned office buildings. He adjusted the white paper breathing mask and removed a handkerchief from his trenchcoat pocket to clean the filth from the lenses of his dark sunglasses. He wiped the face of the old wristwatch and checked the time.

“Late,” he thought. “Bad sign.”

He stepped out into the deserted street. The rare call of a seagull sounded in the distance. He began walking a few blocks to the left. A single car sat parked across the street ahead of him, the front bumper protruding from an alley. He wiped the dust with the handkerchief once more and crossed the street, making his way towards the car. He walked over to the driver side window and tried to see inside. He tapped it once and got no response. He opened the door to find the car empty, but a note taped to the rear view mirror. He climbed into the driver’s seat and tore it off, scanning it.

“Merry Xmas.”

He noticed the keys still in the ignition and pulled them out, getting out of the car and moving around to the trunk. He inserted them into the keyhole and turned the lock, popping the trunk. Lifting it, his eyes beheld six brand new GIR-47 assault rifles, a box of grenades, and a small plastic case. He popped the lid on the plastic case and found inside 20 kilos of plastic explosive. He nodded silently to himself and closed the trunk, walking back to the driver side door and getting in. He started the ignition and carefully drove out into the street. The cartel would most certainly be pleased to find the Buchianans willing to deal.

OOC: Doom..........what's your MSN again? And yar. For while manly this RP is not nearly as manly as what is coming soon.......MANLY I SAY! MANLY!!!!!!!!!