NationStates Jolt Archive

((OOC: UPDATE: OOC Thread:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=9857988#post9857988

Please keep OOC comments here and post your interest before getting involved in the IC thread.

This idea and the following opener have been a joint collaboration between my colleague Freudotopia and myself over the past few weeks. We intend for this to be as open as is physically possible, so no matter your age, skills, experience, or talent, we want you to become involved more or less in whatever way strikes you. There are a few guidelines we will set down to maintain some order, but those will be covered in more depth in the OOC interest thread, soon to be created and a link added here. The intro is long, so be patient and read through it. It moves quickly and you will be entertained. It will be posted in five already written installments, after which I will open the OOC thread for discussion on involvement and ground rules. Without further ado, I give you Irreconcilable Differences, the latest installment in the Bornerifreudian saga.))

Ismerian Provincial Airport, Morgava, Ismeria

Ferdinando Maria del Salvador was sweating through his expensive linen suit, his palms moist on the handle of his briefcase. His long hair was slicked back, looking oily under the bright lights of the airport. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and although no one could see them, they darted everywhere, staring at faces, suitcases, soldiers, possible escape routes. Ferdinando was not a nervous man by nature, but he was in very difficult circumstances at the moment. He was about to board a plane bound for Freudotopia, and his briefcase was full of an unusual item.

Ferdinando was a smuggler, and he worked for the Cartel, the notorious Ismerian crime syndicate. His normal line of work entailed smuggling several kilos at a time of pure cocaine through the heavily secured airports of Ismeria and Freudotopia. Highly trained dogs were laughable, heavily armed soldiers a complete joke. There had been an arrangement with the Freudotopian crime families for years, and the drug trade had continued uninterrupted despite Emperor Saul Hudson’s efforts to root out corruption.

However, today was Fernando’s first day smuggling a new cargo: money. High-denomination Freudotopian bearer bonds, to be precise. He carried well over 50,000,000 Freuds in his briefcase, and he knew being caught with it would bring a punishment far worse than the slap on the wrist and night in jail cocaine smuggling would entail. The money was bound for the insurgents in the Generian province of Buchiana, a land rife with war, famine, and unrest for years since its occupation. The Cartel had arranged a few months ago to ship quality narcotics to the Buchianan freedom fighters in exchange for weapons. Ferdinando, as the most trusted smuggler the Cartel employed, had been hand-picked to deliver the down payment.

He joined the line for the nearest customs counter and waited, breathing as normally as he could, and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The counter rapidly approached, and he clutched the briefcase tighter. At last it was his turn, and he stepped forward.

“Name?”

“Eduardo Jesus Escobar.”

“Citizenship?”

“Freudotopian, province of Ismeria.”

“Length of stay in Freudotopia?”

“One day only.”

“Destination upon departure?”

“Generia.”

“May I see your passport, please?”

Ferdinando silently reached inside his coat and withdrew the proper forged documents. They had been made by a master, and would stand up to any amount of inspection. He thought.

The official took the proffered passport and scanned it with a handheld image-recognition device. The machine fed Ferdinando’s picture into the Freudotopian Imperial Intelligence Service’s criminal database, and matched it with a name. Within seconds, the words FERDINANDO MARIA DEL SALVADOR: KNOWN SMUGGLER. DETAIN AND INTERROGATE flashed across the computer screen. The official casually reached under his desk, depressed the silent alarm hidden there, and came up with a pen. He handed it to Ferdinando and slid a clipboard with several papers on it across the counter.

“Please fill out the necessary information for a short-term visa. Give me the papers when you are done. I will print out your temporary photo ID.”

Ferdinando stooped and began to write. He had barely filled in his fake name when a hand grasped his shoulder. Fernando didn’t know it, but FIIS agents had had him tagged from the moment he entered the airport, and had been waiting to make their move. He spun around instinctively, coming face to face with the most bland-looking face he had ever seen.

“Hey, Marco! I didn’t recognize you for a second! Remember me? Freddy, from the bagel conference?”

Ferdinando was nonplused. He had never seen this man before in his life, unless you counted every day. The guy looked like every other person in the world just a little, and the only reason he knew that this man was a stranger was that he had never attended any bagel conferences.

“Um, I’m very sorry, but I do not believe I know you. You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Eduardo.”

“No, I’m sure I know you. Don’t you remember those great times back in Durthmont at the Del Grande Hotel?”

The man held out his hand. Ferdinando hesitated, then decided to play along, if only to shut this clown up. He was drawing the attention of everyone in line, and attention was the last thing Ferdinando/Eduardo/Marco wanted.

“Oh, yes. Freddy. I remember –-”

He was cut off in midsentence as the other spun him around by his arm and forced him to the ground. As his faced was pressed into the tiles, he felt the cold steel of a pair of handcuffs tightening around his wrists. These undercover agents were getting smarter. This was the first time he had never seen them coming.



The hot light of the interrogation room was making Ferdinando sweat even more than he had been. A single overly bright lamp shone down from above; the only furniture in the room was the chair he was sitting on, a table, and a chair on the other side. Ferdinando sighed. Even with all the advances in law enforcement, every single interrogation room looked exactly the same. He was not unduly worried; he had been arrested several times in the past, and he had always gotten off lightly, his briefcase returned to him at a pre-arranged drop point by a corrupt airport worker. His bosses would be upset, to be sure, but he was sure he was in no danger. Then the door burst open and danger walked in with a scowl on his face.

Ferdinando gasped; this newcomer was in no way the balding, paunchy customs bureaucrat or poker-faced government agent in a cheap suit that he had been expecting. This man was six foot five, weighed in excess of two hundred and seventy-five pounds, and had the physique of a Michelangelo statue. In short, Fernando saw a mob goon big and strong enough to crush his head with one hand. Things were going downhill quickly.

The man picked up the chair and hurled it into the far wall. It crumpled like a tin can. Putting his huge face two centimeters from Ferdinando’s, he growled, “Tell me why you’re here before I lose patience and eat you.”

Ferdinando quailed. He had never been a brave man, and it had been a long time since he had been exposed to genuine peril. This was his territory. This was his job. How could this gorilla just stomp in here and ruin it all? In spite of how terrifying his situation was, Ferdinando still feared his bosses more than this man. He decided to reveal as much as possible while telling as little truth as he could.

“I—I am a smuggler. I am on my usual assignment.”

“Which is?”

“I am carrying a large amount of pure cocaine out of this airport. After a short layover in Freudotopia, I am to continue on to Buchiana, where I meet a representative from the BLA. I do not know where the drugs go from there, I swear it!”

“I believe you. The BLA is not known for its trusting nature. What do you think, my friend? I have enough information to put you in jail for a long while, but I know that you will probably be out or shot by the time you get to trial. So maybe I should just kill you right now. Yes, I think that would be best.”

The enormous man raised a ham-sized fist, and Ferdinando wet himself just as the door of the room opened silently. A dark man in a suit stepped in, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, carrying Ferdinando’s briefcase. He spoke in a soft voice which was nonetheless impossible to miss, and Ferdinando heard every word as clearly as if someone were talking in his ear. Although Ferdinando had no idea that he was looking at one of the top ten most deadly men in existence, he did realize that he was not to be trifled with. This was Boo Radley.

“That will do, Vladek.”

The huge man lowered his hand without the slightest hint of disappointment. The newcomer continued.

“I have been monitoring your interrogation. You will have to excuse my Generian friend. His methods are effective, but crude. His interrogation did, however, serve its purpose. You were lying. Or, at least, you were not telling the whole truth.”

Radley put the briefcase on the table and opened it. Inside it, he found several layers of cheap coffee in bags, which he brushed aside with his hands. Underneath was the snowy white of cocaine. This did not faze him in the slightest. He took a stiletto from inside his coat and slit one of the bags. Emptying the cocaine onto the table, he revealed a sheaf of bonds. He dropped them on the table too, removed his sunglasses, and looked straight into Ferdinando’s eyes.

“I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest with Vladek and me. Neither of us appreciates being lied too. Now explain this.”

“Well, I-you see, they didn’t tell me what was in the briefcase, I just thought it was coke like usual.”

“I don’t think so. I will warn you once more to tell me the truth.”

Ferdinando broke in, “No, no! I swear, I told you everything!”


“More lies. Do not interrupt me again, or I will make you regret it. Now, if you answer me truthfully, I can protect you from your bosses.”

“No, you cannot! They will find me! I cannot betray them!”

The man nodded. Vladek slapped Ferdinando with the back of his hand, knocking him out of his chair and onto the floor. Bending down, he grabbed him with one hand, raised him up, and crushed the air out of him with one blow. Then he set Ferdinando back on the chair and took a step back.

When Ferdinando had regained his breath, the quiet man continued. “You obviously have no idea who I am, which is good. Suffice to say that you will be under the personal protection of Emperor Saul Hudson himself. Now tell me what I want to know, and I will surround you with men even more capable than Vladek for as long as you wish.”

“No, no, not even your Emperor can protect me.”

“I assure you he can.”

Torn between the imminent threat of his masters and the much nearer and more visible threat of these two very serious men, Ferdinando could not reach a decision. Seeing the indecision in the prisoner’s eyes, Radley began to twirl his knife between his fingers. Ferdinando decided.

“I will tell you what I know.”

“Good. You will be protected, I promise you. The Cartel have no power where you’re going.”

“Alright. I was told about the bearer bonds. They are to be sent to the BLA, payment for the weapons they have been shipping to us aboard Buchianan ships.”

“What kinds of weapons?”

“Generian, Freudotopian. Quality stuff.”

“How much is the Cartel buying?”

“I don’t know—wait! I know that the Cartel has been receiving a few small shipments a week for a while. Like test merchandise. I was supposed to deliver the down payment on the first big shipments. I get the feeling that a lot of stuff was supposed to be delivered.”

“Good. Do you know where the arms are delivered?”

“No idea.” Radley could sense the truth of Ferdinando’s words.

“One final question: who is your immediate superior?”

“My boss? Hugo Vasquez, in Morgava.”

“Good. You have been very helpful, Ferdinando. Stand up.”

Ferdinando complied, and Vladek instantly knocked him unconscious with a chop to the neck. Radley stood impassively over the limp form of the smuggler. Replacing his sunglasses, he gave final instructions to Vladek.

“Finish him off and hide the body. You know the procedure. Take the evidence to the nearest FIIS field station. There is a man there by the name of Ivan Ivanovich. Give it all to him. It must be taken out of this country. Get a transcript from the monitoring computer, and take it back to your superiors. Affix the code Delta-33-Paradise-4 to it so they will know to report it to Kazatmiru himself. I must leave, and you will not hear from me unless I need you. I wish you luck and courage.”

“Same to you, Mr. Jones.”

Turning on his heel, Boo Radley left the interrogation room. He had several leads that needed investigating.

Emperor Kazatmiru sat back in the large leather armchair, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He got to his feet and stretched, exhausted. He took a quick look out the large glass window in the top office of the Imperial Senate Chamber in Sofia, serving as the temporary center of the Imperial government after the destruction suffered by Generia City following the siege by royalist forces. He had spent most of the day appropriating funds for the reconstruction project, and attending a meeting to discuss plans for the possible realization of his father’s dream to build a new capital city at Alexium. He walked slowly towards the office door, eager at the prospect of a warm bed and the company afforded by his lover, Natasha, but this anticipation vanished the moment he saw the knob turn and the door creak inward. He groaned to himself as the hollow cheeked face of a middle aged man appeared.

“Your grace, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I fear something urgent has just arrived from Emperor Hudson.”

Kazatmiru beckoned for the man to enter. He handed him a set of documents. Kazatmiru scanned them and grimaced.

“Buchianans,” he thought. Memories of his father’s war were still quite fresh in his mind. His brother Rurik had made the trip during the fighting as an overseer, and the reports he brought back had been quite shocking to Kazatmiru, at the time only thirteen years old. He was struck not so much by the brutality, as apparent as it was, but by the ardent determination of the Empire’s enemies, the BLA. He had no illusions now about free Buchiana, and recognized it as the hole that it was, a vacuum occupied by petty tyrants and crime lords. Now it seemed his own cancer was causing problems for his old friend and ally, ‘Uncle Saul.

“Does GIIS know about this?”

In the wake of the overthrow of the junta that had ruled Generia for eight months, Kazatmiru had been quick to recognize and isolate his enemies, and had put in motion his plans to eliminate internal threats as quickly as possible. However, in the meantime there were few he could trust, even among those who had aided him in his return to the throne. The Department of Military Intelligence and the Generian Imperial Civil Enforcement Agency had been near completely liquidated already by loyalist witch hunters, and so Kazatmiru had been left with a purely skeletal intelligence infrastructure.

The announcement of the recreation of the Generian Imperial Intelligence Service had been met with both pleasure and apprehension by those who were aware of the secret edict that put the Agency back into existence. GIIS had been largely responsible for the corruption scandals that had proved disastrous in both the first and second Buchianan wars, owing largely to its immense growth over the years. However, Kazatmiru was no fool, though at twenty-eight he was certainly young. He had populated the new foundation of the organization with close political, diplomatic, and military allies, the best and the brightest, and had no doubts that the new GIIS would serve well as his eyes and ears in the coming years.

“Yes, your grace. Dr. Andropov sent me directly. He received the files roughly ten minutes ago.”

Kazatmiru nodded.

“Thank you, Dmitri. I’ll take it from here. Go home to your wife.”

The Emperor’s personal aid bowed and disappeared, leaving Kazatmiru to consider the development. Things had been on the decline in Ismeria for years, but to all appearances, it seemed that Emperor Saul Hudson had the situation under control and Antonius had not bothered to consider the long occupied province as a problem or threat. The Buchianan war had changed that, as it had changed so much else. He walked dejectedly back to his desk and collapsed into the chair. He opened the laptop that sat on the desk and opened the secure line to the GIIS temporary headquarters building in Port Belgrade. His old friend and mentor, Dr. Isaac Andropov, newly appointed head of the GIIS, would be waiting for orders, and Kazatmiru would not disappoint him.

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

Slavodi Iljosovic adjusted himself uncomfortably in the narrow airplane seat. Flights to Ismeria were few and far between these days and none of them had first or business class arrangements, leaving him stuck in the seat right beside the roaring engine of the small plane, a government charter largely carrying officials, security personnel, and media correspondents.

He opened the secure email client and saw that there was a new message in the inbox. He opened it with curiosity and anticipation, hoping to finally learn what all of this was about. He had never been one for the cloak and dagger business.

Mr. Iljosovic,

Again, my apologies on the apparent secrecy with which we have been forced to handle your assignment up to this point, however as you certainly understand, with the nature of the current climate in Generia, there are self explanatory reasons to justify such precaution. As you have been informed, your selection for this assignment has been personally handled by the Emperor Kazatmiru himself. Your record of service as an attaché at the Generian consulate in Durthmont more than speaks for itself, and His Majesty feels that you will prove a loyal and effective asset in the coming assignment.

Last night I received a message from diplomatic officers of His Majesty Saul Hudson’s government citing certain developments in Ismeria that are, to say, somewhat troubling to our own assets and to his Majesty himself. According to the message, a smuggler working for the Ismerian Cartel, the crime syndicate in Ismeria responsible for nearly 100% of all racketeering and connection to nearly 60% of violent crimes in the province, revealed information regarding small test shipments of high tech weaponry of both Freudotopian and Generian origins from elements of the Buchianan Liberation Army to the Cartel in Ismeria.

This exchange of arms points to larger motives at work. The provincial officials also have a record for corruption, and it is doubtful that something as large as this would have gone unnoticed had there not been internal assets covering up for the Cartel and the BLA. Recognizing your experience with Freudotopian language and culture owing to your position as well as your personal acquaintance with Emperor Hudson, you are being dispatched to the Generian consulate in Morgava to look into the situation and root out possibly corrupt individuals while obtaining information regarding the Ismerian Cartel’s activities. Numerous officials of the Freudotopian government have been made aware of your assignment and will be on call to aid you should it be required. All information should be dispatched to me immediately.

Good luck and Godspeed,
Dr. Isaac Andropov

Iljosovic closed the message and deleted it, running a quick trace and tap check on the system before closing the laptop. In the past decade he had spent serving as an attaché in Freudotopia he had never been to Ismeria, but he had certainly heard the rumors. He hoped that one of the governments had had the foresight to prepare a bodyguard for him.

The plane touched down at Ismeria Provincial Airport in Morgava, a small airport boasting only two terminals. Iljosovic got off the plan and made the short walk to the front gate. A black sedan sat parked right outside the doors, exactly as planned, and Iljosovic walked over to the man leaning against the passenger side door. He extended his hand, but the man simply look at it, before gesturing to the door.

“Get in.”

Iljosovic, somewhat put off, did as he was told, and they set off for the consulate.

It was a small squat gray building on the edge of town surrounding by a twelve foot concrete wall. The car passed through the front gate, past the grim faced Praetorians with their GIR-47 heavy assault rifles, up to the front of the building where they came to a halt. Iljosovic stepped out and followed the man up to the front door, entering into a large, bright hallway. He was met there by another man, a short stout individual dressed in a sharp suit crafted by the finest Phantasmo tailor.

“Mr. Iljosovic, I presume?”

He extended a hand, and Iljosovic took it.

“You presume correctly.”

“I’m Consul Krekov. Welcome. I’m sure you have important business to get to, but first I’d like to introduce you to a man we’ve set aside as your bodyguard for the duration of your stay in Ismeria.”

The consul led him down the hall to a set of double doors. He paused before entering.

“A word of warning. This man isn’t exactly the conversational type. He used to work for the Department of Military Intelligence under General Ilsynij.

“What’s his name?”

“Tank McBrain. Formerly Lieutenant Tank McBrain. He was stripped of his rank for using excessive force after being expelled from DMI. A real brute if you ask me. Don’t rightly see why the good doctor keeps him around, but he should get the job done.”

The consul opened the doors and the two stepped into the room to be met by a tower of a man clad in a black suit that barely fit over his bulging muscular form. He stood at well over six feet and sported a full red beard. His eyes were a steel gray color, betraying Alberian heritage. He scowled as the two men entered.

“Mr. McBrain, your charge Mr. Iljosovic.”

The man grunted softly.

“You are to take good care of him.”

Iljosovic was still trying to comprehend the huge form when the consul turned to address him again.

“Now, that kind of gorilla should scare off any possible attackers. Like I said, I’m sure you have business to attend to. If you need anything, you know where to find me. Consider the consulate your own personal office for as long as you need. For the Emperor, anything is available.”

With that the consul turned and left the room, leaving Iljosovic alone in the presence of the great man ape who would serve as his bodyguard, assuming he didn’t get hungry and eat him first.

Before he could take time to comprehend the grim possibility any further, he felt a vibration against his breast and reached into his inner coat pocket to remove his cell phone. He put it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Iljosovic.”

“And who is this? I’m not sure I’m familiar with the number.”

“You wouldn’t be. It’s not a real phone number.”

Iljosovic was caught completely off guard.

“Who is this? Have we met?”

“I sincerely doubt it. But I also believe it might be beneficial to you if we did meet. The train station at Costa Del Fuego. Be there in two hours.”

“Wha-? Who are you?”

The line went dead before he could finish, and Iljosovic withdrew the cell phone from his ear and looked at it, perplexed. He looked up at the bodyguard, who had not moved or changed his expression since their first acquaintance.

“Can you get me to the train station at Costa Del Fuego in thirty minutes?”

The man thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded and grunted an affirmative answer. He took off with surprising speed for a man of his size, and Iljosovic scrambled after him, moving to the front of the building. The man stepped outside and walked over to a black sedan, the driver leaning against the driver side door, smoking. McBrain shoved him violently aside and got into the car. Iljosovic, afraid the man would drive off if he didn’t, jumped into the passenger seat and the car sped off.

They arrived at the train station five minutes later, Iljosovic pale as a ghost from a nerve-wracking scramble over the Morgava freeway. They left the car in front of the station and rushed inside to the ticket counter. Iljosovic did the talking, purchasing a pair of tickets on the afternoon express, the only magrail carrier in Ismeria. The two made the journey to the platform in the large, old station and boarded.

The train was off shortly thereafter, and the gray façade of the Ismerian capital melted into a landscape of coastal hills, a far cry from the dense cool jungles that made up the overwhelming majority of the Ismerian landscape. Iljosovic sat silently, somewhat uncomfortable with the big, silent man sitting across from him, his face set in stone. Seeking a break from the discomfort, Iljosovic excused himself to go to the bathroom, and came out a few moment later to find the man waiting outside. Whatever the case, his dedication to his charge did seem unshakeable.

They continued for about fifteen minutes, finally coming to a long tunnel. Iljosovic closed his eyes, thinking of getting some sleep for the first time in nearly 20 hours, but the sudden jerk of the train coupled with the screeching of breaks brought him to his senses. He looked around, perplexed, but he truly began to worry when for the first time, he saw the big man looking around apprehensively. He had a feeling something was wrong, and if it was enough to shake this impassive individual, it was bound to amount to something. The man got to his feet and reached into the overhead compartment, taking down a small duffel bag. As he sat down again, the lights went out.

Iljosovic felt the man’s huge hand pull him from his seat and thrust him to the floor, a knee pinning him face down. McBrain breathed heavily, and Iljosovic could feel his eyes darting back and forth in the pitch black, scanning for something. He felt cold sweat beading on the back of his neck and his heart began to sink. Then, as suddenly as they had gone out, the lights came on again. Iljosovic felt his senses coming back to him, and he moved to get up, only to feel the knee slam back into the small of his back, the bearded face directly beside his own, a gruff whisper in his ear.

“Stay down if you want to get off this train alive.”

The knee retracted and the man got to his feet, but Iljosovic remained on the floor between the seats, trying to control his panicked breathing. McBrain scanned the car. It was nearly empty, save for an old woman. He came up to his full extent and stepped out into the aisle, pulling from his coat a pair of GMP-1 machine pistols, the contents of the duffel bag. He walked quickly down the aisle, in the direction of the end of the train. Iljosovic heard the doors open and saw the shadow of the big man disappear, leaving him alone and afraid.

It was quiet, and the silence oppressed his eardrums, forcing his brain to consider what may be happening. He heard footsteps in the car on the opposite end of the door where McBrain had exited, slow, heavy footsteps. No voices. Suddenly he heard another sound, loud and clear, barely muffled by the doors: a single gunshot. It was followed by another and another, isolated taps, each one skipping a beat in Iljosovic’s heart. They stopped and the footsteps continued, getting closer and louder. He heard the first door open, then close, then the second door open. He heard them getting closer, perfectly clear. Heavy military boots. Gruff breathing, controlled. He tried not to breathe himself, and squeezed up close against the bottom of the seat. They drew up on the aisle directly beside him, then advanced until he could see the thick urban camouflage pattern on the leg of a man. The barrel of a GIR-47 carbine also crossed his sight. The figure paused then continued, the footsteps receding, and Iljosovic had to stifle a sigh of relief. Then, to his extreme horror, the steps paused, and then began to come back towards him. He closed his eyes and began to pray, opening them as the steps halted directly beside him. He looked up into a grim, scarred face, a steel patch over one eye and a tattoo under the other. The man grinned and Iljosovic could barely make out a mouthful of bright silver teeth. Iljosovic’s eyes widened. The figure raised the rifle slowly to his shoulder, and Iljosovic watched the barrel center on his forehead, the laser sight directly between his eyes. There was a loud crack, and Iljosovic winced, closing his eyes tight.

He opened his eyes cautiously, expecting to find himself dead, but instead saw the face of the man directly in front of him, the top of the skull blown off. He now heard a new set of footsteps, brisk ones, and looked up to see McBrain standing over the body, a GIR-47 in his hands. He looked at the man for a half second before turning his attention to Iljosovic. He reached down and grabbed him by the back of his coat, pulling him to his feet.

“Come with me.”

McBrain moved off towards the rear of the train, Iljosovic following, nervously looking behind him. They passed through another deserted passenger car before coming to a baggage car at the end of the train. McBrain thrust open a small storage compartment just barely man sized and gestured.

“Get in and don’t come out until I get back.”

Iljosovic felt McBrain forcing him inside, and turned indignantly to him.

“Wait! Where the Hell are you going?! You’re supposed to be here to protect me from, oh I don’t know, terrorists with automatic weapons!”

“They aren’t terrorists. They’re mercenaries. Probably here to kill you.”

McBrain forced the door to the compartment shut, sealing Iljosovic inside. He shouldered the GIR-47 and made his way back to the passenger compartments. He paused at the door of the compartment adjacent to the baggage car and listened. He heard faint voices and a few soft gushes of air. Silencers. These men were not as cavalier as their deceased compatriot. They probably didn’t know what Iljosovic looked like, so they were moving through the train killing everyone on board. Efficiency. McBrain almost admired it. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to kill each and every last one of them.

The red laser beams darted back and forth across the floor of the pitch black compartment, two of them. The door opened and he calmly stepped into the compartment, letting the two mercenaries glance casually up at him, probably mistaking him for one of their own, but they quickly realized otherwise and began to raise their weapons, only to be cut down by a burst from McBrain’s automatic, the heavy 7.8m bullets tearing through their clothes and sending blood and bone fragments everywhere, staining the seats and the floor.

McBrain continued forward just as the train began moving again. He crouched on the edges of the aisle, letting the shadow cover his massive form. He made his way into the next car to come upon a young businessman pleading for his life. Just as McBrain raised his gun, a mercenary pressed a pistol into the civilian’s forehead and pulled the trigger, spraying blood and brains across the floor. McBrain gritted his teeth and pulled hard on the trigger, feeling the horse-kick of the buttstock into his shoulder, yet maintaining deadly accuracy and precision. The head of the executioner exploded and the other two accomplices fell to the ground dead. The door opened and two more rushed into the car. McBrain let into them and they collapsed, dead.

He sprinted for the door of the compartment and dived through, rolling behind a pair of seats just as a hail of silent automatic fire erupted from the other side of the car. He peered from over the seats and let loose a burst of his own, dropping one of the men. He rolled into the aisle, fired, and rolled to the other side, killing another, counting two more. He reached into his coat and withdrew a hand grenade, the only one of its kind on his person. He pulled the pin and rolled it down the aisle. The thud of the explosion and the ensuing screams were satisfactory and he rushed down the aisle to the other end. The door was locked, the electronics fried from the other side. He looked down at the ground moving quickly underneath him, then up, and spotting a ladder began ascending to the roof. He crawled over the top of the fast moving car, bringing himself again to the edge, and preparing to drop down. He slung his gun over his shoulder and gripped the sides of the train with vicelike hands. Then he rappelled, swinging his feet out and then back to bring his body flying through the window. His enemies were caught completely off guard, and he fired a burst as he scrambled for cover.

He peered over the seat and tried to unload once more, but heard nothing but the deafening click. Out of ammo. He cast the gun aside and reached into his overcoat, pulling out the GMP-1s. He stood to his full height and spun around, letting loose on two mercenaries at one end, sending them back up against the wall before turning to dispatch the last one on the other end. He moved forward once again, towards the locomotive. He opened the door and stepped inside, putting a single round into the temple of a mercenary holding his own gun to the head of a frightened engineer. The engineer yelped as the mercenary’s blood spattered on his cheek and he shrunk away at the sight of yet another armed man.

“Stop the train.”

“I-I can’t!”

“What do you mean you can’t?! Stop the goddamn train!”

“I told you! I can’t! That man, he fucked with the electronics! I can’t brake and I can’t slow down! We’re going to derail!”

McBrain cursed to himself and took off back through the first car. He bypassed the door in the first car with the help a grenade taken from one of the dead mercenaries and sprinted off towards the baggage car. Iljosovic jumped as the door to his hiding place was wrenched open and was dragged out by his shirt collar by the huge Generian.

“What the Hell is going on?”

McBrain did not reply. Instead he raced towards the rear of the last car and fired a round into the electronics of the emergency door, causing it to crack open. McBrain forced it the rest of the way with his hands as Iljosovic watched apprehensively.

“Jump! Now!”

Iljosovic shrunk away from the door, but McBrain dashed back and grabbed him, slinging the man over his shoulder. He moved to the edge of the door and steadied himself, timing his jump to propel himself out over the tracks into a large patch of mud. He breathed deeply and jumped, leaping from the speeding train, Iljosovic with him. He landed hard in the mud, his strong bones bending but not breaking with the shock. Iljosovic was not so lucky. He felt his arm snap as he hit the ground and tried to cry out, but the wind was gone from his lungs. Both men stopped rolling and McBrain slowly got to his feet, going over to the form of Iljosovic. He rolled him over to find him clutching his arm, gasping for breath.

“My arm.”

“Broken. You’ll live.”

He got the man into a sitting position and pulled out his cell phone, intact even after the fall. He dialed a ten digit number.

Driving through the city of Costa del Fuego on his way to examine the safehouse that had been made ready for his use, Boo Radley felt his cell phone vibrate in his suit pocket. Only a handful of people knew his number. He looked down at the number on the screen. So McBrain was in the country, probably with the Generian diplomat in tow.

“Mcbrain?”

“We’re going to need transportation.”

“What happened?”

“We ran into a slight snag.”

“Understood. What is your position?”

“Near the overpass two miles north of Costa del Fuego.”

“I will arrange for a driver to meet you there immediately.”

“Why not come yourself?”

“Too risky at this point. I am not entirely sure that the operation is clean on my end, and you should certainly be watching your shadow very closely.”

“You can find a driver you can trust?”

“Affirmative.”

“Good. We’ll wait here for him.”

“Do so. I will prepare the safehouse for your arrival.”

Radley hung up and dialed another number, the number of one of his many contacts. The phone rang twice before the man picked up.

“This is Cesar. Who is this?”

“This is Montgomery Stanley. I need a favor.”

“Stanley! Been a while since I saw you last. What’s the job?”

“I have two friends of mine that need to be picked up. They had some vehicular trouble on I-250 and need a ride into Costa del Fuego. I have a rental house where I want you to drop them off. The address is 5440 17th Street, southwest.”

“Alright, that sounds easy enough. I’ll be on my way in a few. Should have them there in about an hour and a half, give or take.”

“Do try to be punctual, Cesar.”

“Will do, Stanley.”

Radley hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket. By now he was only a few minutes from his safehouse.

The apartment in question, number 310, was a four-room heap in the heart of Costa del Fuego. The paint was peeling back from the walls, the air conditioning was faulty, and it stank. None of this bothered Boo Radley, however. He had swept the place for bugs three times, each search turning up nothing. Satisfied, he stepped back outside to call McBrain.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Iljosovic leaned against a tree, his arm immobilized in a sling made from a corner of his shirt. It still throbbed, but the pain was not as severe as before. McBrain paced anxiously along the side of the road. Then in the distance he caught sight of the sun glinting on something metallic, a car hood. An old Generian made GMW AM73 four seater pulled up beside the pair. Iljosovic got to his feet and limped over. McBrain walked up to the window as the driver rolled it down.

“I heard you guys needed a lift. Get in.”

McBrain considered the man for a moment, then seemed to decide he was on the level. He opened the passenger side door and got in. Iljosovic climbed into the back seat. It was a thirty minute drive to Costa Del Fuego on a day without traffic. It took them roughly forty-five minutes before they pulled up in front of the dilapidated apartment building in the small, impoverished coastal town.

McBrain stepped out of the car and scanned the area. He opened the door and Iljosovic climbed out and looked at the building with distaste.

“Not the most reassuring meeting place.”

“You’ll be fine. This man is FIIS.”

McBrain walked around to the driver’s door and opened it.

“I need to borrow your car.”

The driver looked at him, confused.

“Get out.”

“No way, man.”

McBrain shrugged and dragged him out of the seat, climbing into his place. Iljosovic called out.

“Where are you going now?”

“I have an errand. I’ll be back by the time you finish.”

The car sped off and Iljosovic shrugged, turning and walking into the building. Apartment 310.

Radley turned at the knock at the door. He crossed the room and unbolted each of the three locks. He knew that they would never deter more than a casual thief. Certainly if professionals wanted to kill Iljosovic, they would prove to be nothing more than an annoyance. Radley held out his hand and introduced himself by his true name, something he had not done in months.

“Boo Radley. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Good day, Mr. Radley, I am Slavodi Iljosovic. I am – I mean I was a diplomatic attaché to the Generian Consulate in Durthmont. I’m not really sure what I’m doing in this country.”

“Quite understandable. Allow me to bring you up to speed. There is a clandestine trade in drugs here in Ismeria that has been thriving for years. Recently, however, I have learned that the Cartel, the foremost drug-smuggling outfit in Ismeria, has arranged to buy a large amount of weapons from the BLA. My current mission is to trace the chain of command as far as it will go, and eliminate the Cartel leadership responsible for the deal. If possible, I have been instructed to locate and destroy the arms shipments.”

“That seems like a lot of work for one man to do.”

“I manage.”

“Apparently. I still don’t really know what I’m supposed to do for you and Mr. McBrain.”

“With your diplomatic cover, you are the perfect man to examine all government agencies and consulate, both Freudotopian and Generian, for any wrongdoing. Also, you can investigate the actions of the Cartel from a non-law enforcement position. Having you here as an unknown and outside investigator will throw the Cartel off balance. Or at least that was the theory. McBrain told me about your little escapade on the train. For the Cartel to send mercenaries to eliminate you shows how much they know and how committed they are to removing you.”

“Yes, McBrain did mention something about the Cartel being unusually well-informed of our movements…”

“Hmmm…I deduce that there is a traitor in your consulate. No doubt McBrain has come to the same conclusion, and has gone there to do some investigating. I sincerely wish he had waited to consult with me before taking action on his own. It has become necessary to hide you in a long-term safe location. I would like his help transporting you. If you will excuse me, I will contact him and summon him back here.”

Iljosovic nodded and began to look around the apartment, noting with distaste every flaw. Radley walked to the window and dialed a number into his cell phone. McBrain picked up on the first ring.

“McBrain here.”

“This is Radley. I need you back here at the safehouse, wherever you are.”

“I’m on my way back from the consulate. Should be there in about ten minutes. Black GMW AM73.”

“Good. Iljosovic and I will await your arrival.”

Radley took a seat next to the window and looked up and down the street. He knew that if the Cartel wanted to eliminate Iljosovic, the ideal time would be when Iljosovic left the safehouse. If McBrain had been followed…

Iljosovic paced the room, reflecting on this strange, cold man and the situation he had gotten himself into. The shadows and dust of the room created a melancholy mood. The silence stretched on for minutes, as a small clock on the wall ticked away.

Finally, Radley got up and went to the closet. From inside he pulled a black metallic case, which he set on the table and opened. Inside was a matte-black GIR-47f complete with a laser sight, infrared and telescopic scope, and noise and flash suppressor. He took a 30-round magazine from the case and loaded the gun. Iljosovic stopped his pacing.

“Is it?”

“Yes. Get ready to go. McBrain is coming now.”

Radley went back to the window and slid it open just wide enough to get the barrel of his rifle through. As the black car pulled up on the other side of the street, he turned to Iljosovic.

“Down the stairs and across the street. Same car as you drove in to get here. Do not run. Do not even walk fast. Be as casual as possible. Get in the rear of the vehicle and crouch below the level of the seats. McBrain will protect you until I can arrange for another location.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Get moving.”

Iljosovic opened the door and looked down the hall. No bloodthirsty mercenaries. He walked at what he judged to be a brisk, but not rapid, pace. Down three flights of stairs to the entrance. No trouble still. He opened the front door slowly and stepped out into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.

Across the street he could see that car. He looked both ways and started to cross the street…

Up in apartment 310, Radley continued to look all around for any sign of the enemy. His orders had been to protect the asset using any and all means possible, and he intended to do so. He looked down and saw Iljosovic walk out of the door, look around, and step onto the street. Only a few cars idled at a nearby intersection. There appeared to be no danger. Radley nonetheless stayed on high alert.

The driver’s side front and rear windows of the car rolled down smoothly and silently, and Radley knew he had lost. He fired four rounds into the rear window, and saw a small gush of blood. Iljosovic paused in the middle of the street, confused. The assassins’ bullets struck him full on, and he was blasted off his feet onto the hot pavement. Blood poured from entry and exit wounds all over his torso.

Radley continued to fire, pumping rounds not into the windows now but the tires, trying to dismantle the car. He hit both driver’s side wheels and the car lurched to the side, but the driver still managed to accelerated around a corner. Radley wildly looked around for any more Cartel soldiers. There were none. The street was deserted, all civilians having ducked out of the way at the sound of gunfire.

Another black GMW AM73 pulled up, and screeched to a halt exactly where the identical car used by the killers had. Tank McBrain got out, looked at the body for several seconds, then looked up at the face of Boo Radley, visible in the window. He knew the same thought was running through both their heads.

Defeated

((OOC: That's it for the intro. OOC thread coming within the hour.))

((OOC:

http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=9857988#post9857988

The OOC thread link. Also added to the first post.))

Nightmare was sitting in his office. "My only haven in the nightmare of my own reality..." he mumbled as he kept spinning tops on his desk. He heard a knock at his door. "What is it that haunts me now?" he stuttered, relieved to only see an envelope slide under the desk. The stamp "New Assignment" brought a glimmer to his eye. He tore open the seal voraciously, and opened it.

Coded Message From Chancellor KS3:
A 'Cartel' has been buying high-quality weaponry, from the BLA. Eliminate any shipments you encounter, and take over the cartel by any means necessary. Then, collapse the cartel, and return home. Enclosed are all the things necessary.

Nightmare shouldered his Uzi and his katana, and wandered out of his office, towards the plane, catching the first plane to Freudotopia.

Corrigan Uberstockson was an interesting man. He'd written profiles for the governments and for governments around the world. Intelligence reports and profiles. Cryptology, code breaking, and information went to the highest bidder. He was using the most powerful computer in all of Camel Eaters. He could find everything and anything and everyone and anyone with it. He could commit security fraud and hide behind blankets and blankets of his own secutiry. So what dastardly deed was he using it for? Who was he stalking and stealing from? What nations was he hijacking so completely that they'd never be able to recover? What was he doing. Looking at porn to be honest.

Of course he still had thousands of programs monitoring the feeds of the more important nations in the world. He was truly getting jiggy with it. So while naked girls danced across his screen with several dozen men around them waiting for their turns. He had feeds checking everything out for him.

Twenty minutes later......

He was searching through the archives of the thousands of business transactions of the day. He took everything that was left over after all the bones had been picked clean by the massive companies all that was left rolled over into his accounts. Though each was a fraction of a US cent there will trillions every week and many more every year. He had enough to live. Something caught his eye though. Something he saw daily. A transaction from a secured account to another secured account. The serial number was newer though. Generian in origin assuredly. But all the accounts that were able to transfer this much had older numbers. Until now at least. He took a stroll through it.

He'd been looking at the same account for a couple of hours now. It'd started to get obsessive. Damned thing just screamed illegal. But he couldn't figure out what kind. It came with an attachment that had since been destroyed. A one time only sort of opening. He grinned then, managed to recover it though. A man's picture and name. Along with a car make and model. Ijlosovic........why was that familiar? He shook it off and then scanned some news feeds. It was pretty standard stuff. But he looked deeper. As his fictious hero once said. "Most governments leak more than a colander." Within seconds he was in and viewing the real news. Ijlosovic was dead. Then there was the email.........Corrigan smirked and prepared the IFL article.

They were the Uncredible Three. The worst agents in the history of IFL operations. God made them to make retards feel better. They also just got a mission. Sergei was sharpening his gun in his private room while Donut laughed at Barney on the TV. Thomas Jack Smith Jones Johnson II was trying to hang himself upside down from the ceiling to do some serious ab crunches as he would say. A breathless intern broke in and stared at them for a moment. "It's time." Was all he said.

They were being dropped toward the earth at in incredible rate. Half of the IFL hoped they would remember the three week course that they got on opening the parachute and the other half they forgot and died. God wasn't with that half today and they all landed safely within Ismerian borders. There are only orders were to stop the weapons shipments whatever means possible. The government didn't really care and just wanted to get them out of the way though.

"I need to go potty." Donut said dancing and holding his genitals.

"We're in a giant bathroom Donut. Use a tree." Sergei said kicking at a root.

"Don't go to far though. The wind shifts ill for us all this evening. BEWARETHENINJAS!" This last line has been attributed to Tom.

God help Freudotopia in the coming days.........

Dutch rocked slowly back and forth standing in the terminal floor, his tongue was poking out as if to suggest that he was high, in this case any assumption would be correct as he was completly off his face on drugs.

A man nudged the stoner smuggler as if to grab his attention, Dutch slowly span with a large smile on his face, "can you help I?" He said before realising his mistake and bursting into laughter, "Hey listen pal!" The man shouted out, "will you move up, you're holding up the queue!" Eric leaned out to get a veiw of the large line, "wow that's a lot of people. What're we going to see?" He asked expecting a serious answer, instead the man rather rudely inserted his fist into the Stoners face.

Eric eventually came to, he looked around attempting to get his bearings back, a large crowd had swamped the semi-concious Druggy and were all muttering about crime, drugs homelessness and other such politic related problems which could have lead to Eric lying on the floor just shy of the Generian Customs office, quickly Eric realised that he still had a "mission" to do, he got up and took his case over to the customs man, “Name?” the customs man rather blandly asked “ummmmm, I think i'll go for Eric Spootayo Mustafa Dutch.” rather bizarrely this was his real name “Citizenship?” again the bland man asked “the biggest city in Spooty.” this was Spootopolis the capitol of his home nation “Length of stay in Generia?” The voice was really starting to bore Eric who had the attention span of a flickering lightbulb “oh, urmm, three maybe six days, yeah let's go with six.” The punch must have killed the last of Dutch's brain cells “Destination upon departure?” “yeah that one.” Dutch smiled at the officer who gave him an evil looking stare, "wow it's true Generians really can't take a joke, ummm, I guess i'll go back to Spooty." whether or not this was true was still for Dutch to decide “May I see your passport, please?” Dutch fiddled around before supplying a bright Orange booklet, the passport was cleared and Dutch walked out, now to deliver the goods.

"Ye. I'll see what I can do. 'Night, Alechjo." Jozepho Jago clicked the mobile phone shut, and sat down on the bench. The cool Imerian winds ruffled through his blond hair. He adjusted his glasses, and dialled a number on his mobile. "Antono, I have a job for you. Alechjo wants that shipment. Find out where that shipment of weaponry was headed. Call me when you find it." There was a pause. "There is a crate lying in a dockyard a mile east of your location. It is painted orange with a blue diagonal stripe on the top. Your equipment is in there. You are authorised to use any means necessary. You have 72 hours. The Order is relying on you, Antono."

Eric pulled into the dirt track leading to a small shack, his scooter was pumping out the full 20mph, a mere hairdryer with wheels on it, he stopped the vechile but lack of experience forced him to topple off, after readjusting himself and grabbing the case he walked into the shack.

"Knock Knock!" He said camply through the door, there were two men each one standing to give the smuggler a sense of intimidation, Dutch walked over two the men, they took the case off him and placed it on the table behind, one of them opened the battered case and rumaged past the bras and knickers, he took a knife and snorted some of the pure cocaine, "it's the good stuff!" He muttered to the other man who looked once at the other man and then at the smuggler, "i'll level with you Mr?" He asked Eric who had become fascinated with the holes in corregated iron walls, "oh, Dutch, Eric Dutch, Smuggler and attourney at law." The man smiled at Eric who looked as stoned as he was, "Mr Dutch, we have a better task for you, an opening just came open on a mission to smuggle some very important cargo out of the country, this cargo is so important that many lifes have been lost trying to stop it's leaving this nation, you will find it in a breifcase just through that door." The man pointed to a gap in the corregated walls where someone had put a large sheet of plastic immitating a door, "you will be paid immensly for your troubles and of course we will have no need to keep you here if you turn the mission down." He smiled at his own inward joke, Dutch was not a stupid man, or at least he wasn't when sober, he looked at the "door" and then at the man, "alrighty doodle, i'll do it!"

"I see Twa Corbies ahead. THEYAREGOINGTOKILLUS!" Tom said rummaging through a rucksack for the last of their crackers. They'd mostly just wondered in the woods for the past few days and were low on food. They had loads of money though. Most of it was in Freudotopian. Some in Camel. The rest in toilet paper form.

"Twa Corbies? Comrade.......why is it that you see money up ahead?"

"Twa Corbies is a song and the money transaction stuff of Camel Heaters." Donut was quite impressed he remembered this.

"Comrade........it ez Camel Eaters. Kwit joself ba'ing so uppity Mossin' Hog theek."

"You said boobie!" Donut was trying to lick a snake that was nearby but Tom was keeping him from it.

"Donut......what did we say about saying that people saying things that those people didn't actually say but were thinking when you said them? OMGIT'SADRAGON!"

"It's not my fault I can ree' thoots of ez surruuunda company!" Donut was picking up Sergei's strange Cyrillic Gullah again. Sergei had been trying to think in straight English but it was so damned hard that he'd just think really quitely when around Donut.

"IT'SAGODDAMNFIRETRUCK! OHGODKITTENNO111!!!!11" Donut screamed this rather loudly picking up on Tom's most inner demons. Tom promptly kicked him hard.

"I was gonna say that you know. BOOBIES!" And so they struck out again looking for a town or something. Who really cares. They're not that important anyways. Hey look porn.

Bump.

The black AM73 screeched to a halt in front of the steps to the small, squat, neat looking structure that was the temporary headquarters of FIIS operations in Morgava. Tank McBrain threw open the door to the vehicle and sprinted up the steps to the front door of the building, bursting into the front hall. He continued his wild stampede down and threw a door on the right, bringing him into a large room packed full of computer equipment and busy individuals. From across the room he spotted Boo Radley, and began stomping towards him. The two had split off quickly after the assassination, making this their first meeting in the aftermath. Radley watched him with an aggravated expression, before addressing him.

“How the Hell did you let this happen?”

“ME! You were supposed to be protecting him! You had the gun!”

“You didn’t even consider the possibility that you were followed.”

“You told me the location was secure!”

“It was until you brought those Cartel monkeys down on it!”

Their bickering was abruptly cut off by a third voice.

“Gentlemen! Get a hold of yourselves! This is getting us nowhere. It doesn’t matter whose fault Iljosovic’s death was. The point is he’s dead. Now we have to deal with it.”

A tall, sixty-something man with white hair and wearing a pair of wire-framed glasses appeared between the two. Radley nodded, somewhat embarrassed at the unrestrained display of frustration.

“Dr. Andropov.”

Andropov returned the nod, and McBrain grunted a hello. Andropov stepped back to address the two side by side.

“This assassination points me to one conclusion that I’ve been driving at for awhile. The Cartel is larger and more organized than any of us could have suspected. They have to be to have foiled two of Bornerifreudia’s top agents. Still, we’re not a complete mess of bumbling fools just yet. We just received a tip from one of our inside men. Apparently one of the capos of the Cartel owns a villa in Costa Del Fuego. You should go have a chat with him. Should be a regular piece of cake for you two, and a chance to redeem yourselves.”

Radley and McBrain looked at each other, still a bit of contempt for the other on each of their faces.

“Well, get to it. And gentlemen, don’t fuck this one up.”

Andropov turned casually and walked off. McBrain grumbled a few obscenities before turning and walking off towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Radley called after him.

“You heard him, to Costa Del Fuego.”

“We’re taking my car.”


The black Freudian sports car flew around the curve of the coastal highway, narrowly avoiding careening over a high cliff onto the rocks and the clear blue water below. The sun was sinking over the distant Freudian coastline across the channel, and the water was turning a brilliant blood red while the first fingers of the new evening stretched out over the rest of the island. Ahead in the distance the villa loomed, tucked onto a small rocky peninsula on a cliff overlooking the western coastline.

“That where we’re going?” inquired McBrain.

“It is,” replied Radley.
They drew closer and turned off the coastal highway onto a long side road. Ahead a high wall rose up, a wrought iron gate blocking the path. Radley slowed the car and pulled off onto the edge of the road, behind a clump of trees.

“What are we stopping for? I thought we were going in.”

“They’re not going to let us waltz right through the gate, now are they?”

“Maybe not, but that shouldn’t stop us from waltzing through anyway.”

Radley sighed and shook his head, opening the door and getting out. McBrain shrugged and did likewise. Radley walked around to the trunk and popped it open. He removed a black stealth camouflage suit and began to put it on over his clothes. He handed a second to McBrain who eyed it with disdain before trying to squeeze his massive form into it. He succeeded in zipping it up and grabbed his weapon, a G-12 ‘Boomstick’ 10-gage automatic shotgun. Radley raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not honestly thinking about bringing that are you?”

McBrain grinned broadly and grunted before slinging it over his shoulder. He strapped a DAC- 91 sub machinegun across his chest and shoved a magazine into his heavy G-141 50 caliber pistol. Radley removed a silenced G-9 pistol and placed it in a holster on his chest before delicately picking up a GIR-47f.

OOC: Sweet post. Are you going to write the rest of the villa attack?

OOC: Sweet post. Are you going to write the rest of the villa attack?

((OOC: Assuming you don't want to.))

((OOC: Assuming you don't want to.))

Nah, you go ahead. I'm already starting the base assault.

Dutch sped along on his 20cc Moped, scenery passed by him as he rushed onto the Airport, he drifted off to sleep before swinging round to conciousness, this was doing no good for his Jet-Lag, he took a bite of his energy bar supposed to keep him awake, it had little effect and so he resorted to the speed capsules in his pocket, now this was an instant buzz which made him almost want to drive, soon the scenery turned into urban landscape as he pulled into the airport, well this was it, three countries in two days.

Dutch stood in front of the Customs man, he smiled as his passport was checked, "I hope there's nothing wrong officer" Fruedotopia was so much nicer looking than Generia or Spooty, if it wern't for his criminal convictions he would be tempted to live here, Eric was suddenly pulled out of his fantasy world when the Customs officer pulled the suitcase over for inspection, the forged bottom was an old trick but it looked like it was working, "Can I go now officer, I want to see this excellent scenery!" Eric had put on the most cheesiest tourist accent before leaving without another word.

Another day, another Moped, this one went a little faster but it was still dreadfully slow, the bike found it's way to the villa where he was supposed to make the drop, he got off and walked over to the intercom "Hello Pizza, no i'm shitting ya' i'm Eric from Spooty with the erm.... goods."

A dark man stepped out the front door of the villa, looked Eric Dutch up and down, and smiled.

"Ah, I see you have managed to arrive after all. Open the case."

The smuggler from Spooty set the briefcase on the ground and opened the lid. Then, looking around for any snooping passerby, he lifted out the false bottom and showed the man the contents of the case. He smiled again, and Dutch noticed that the man had a large number of gold teeth.

"Come inside, my friend, and we will discuss terms of your employment with us."

OOC: Just a question that will pertain to next post: what was in the case?

(OOC: Varibonds(sp?) them things that the first smuggler was shipping in)

Eric smiled weakly at the gangster, he was pretty sure that by the end of the night he was either going to get shot or have his eyes gouged out, slowly he walked inside casually looking around for anybody who might suddenly snap and blast him to ribbons.

(OOC: Varibonds(sp?) them things that the first smuggler was shipping in)

Eric smiled weakly at the gangster, he was pretty sure that by the end of the night he was either going to get shot or have his eyes gouged out, slowly he walked inside casually looking around for anybody who might suddenly snap and blast him to ribbons.

OOC: That would be bearer bonds. Alright, this has given me an idea. Here's your role now. You will be helping the Cartel to procure those bearer bonds, mainly from banks, a few armored cars, and overseas transportation (planes and ships) and delivering them to Cartel safehouses. After that, other people, mostly Cartel smugglers, will be taking them to Buchiana by way of Freudotopia.

When I get a chance, I'll have the Cartel give you an assignment along those lines. Until then, you can just sit tight in the safehouse.

See? This is exactly what I wanted. Imprecise and diverse story elements get refined, and every action has a part in the plot as a whole.

McBrain grinned broadly and grunted before slinging it over his shoulder. He strapped a DAC- 91 sub machinegun across his chest and shoved a magazine into his heavy G-141 50 caliber pistol. Radley removed a silenced G-9 pistol and placed it in a holster on his chest before delicately picking up a GIR-47f. Radley took another look at the villa, then let his eyes wander over to the edge of the cliff.

“According to the aerial photographs, there’s a pier down there over that cliff with a staircase that winds it way up the cliff, straight into the compound. I’ll rappel down to the water and you go around to the rear of the compound. There’s a back gate there that should be lightly guarded. Once inside we can proceed into the villa and locate our target.”

Radley began moving over to the edge of the cliff. He stopped suddenly and turned.

“And McBrain, please do try to exercise a bit of restraint. We’re here for information.”

The Generian did not seem to consider the request and walked off into the jungle. Radley shook his head and made his way to the cliff’s edge. He produced a retractable rappel line from his suit and secured the loose end to the rocks before moving over the edge and carefully beginning his descent. Sure enough, two hundred feet below him was a pier, a small motorboat parked beside. In the center small inlet a large yacht rested at anchor. A single sleepy guard sat in a chair on the pier, a GIR-47f resting in his lap. Radley recommenced his descent. Suddenly, his foot landed on a loose cluster of rocks, and they tumbled down to the pier below. The guard was startled and looked up, but could discern nothing in the velvety dark that had followed the quick sunset. Radley held his breath, and when the guard looked away, he continued down.

He set his feet down silently, and unhooked the rope. He drew a pistol from a holster on his vest, and crept over to the chair. With a single sharp blow to the back of the head, the guard tumbled unconscious out of his chair. Radley moved towards the long winding staircase that led up through the walls into the compound. He made painstaking progress, taking care to avoid making a sound. As he neared the top, though, a great roar reached his ears and the sky lit up with a red flash. He rushed the rest of the way to the top just as the sounds of heavy gunfire erupted on the other end of the compound.

He unslung his GIR-47f and crept forward, keeping to the shadows. Guards were rushing around frantically, pouring from the inside of the villa and moving to the sound of the gunfire. A huge looming figure suddenly appeared around a corner, leveled a weapon, and blew one guard several feet backward. Radley muttered something under his breath.

“McBrain.”

He moved quickly but quietly towards the near side of the house and the service entrance, slowly opening the door and scanning the dark room. He moved inside, satisfied there was no one there, but training his weapon on every possible ambush point. He saw a pair of frightened women move into the doorway ahead of him, and halted, not breathing, absolutely still. They began speaking in rapid Freudotopian to each other before breaking off and running down the way they had come. He moved towards the hall and followed them.

Ahead of him he heard another explosion and more gunfire erupted.

“Damnit McBrain…”

He stood to his full height and rushed towards the double doors at the end of the hall. He kicked them open and found himself in a dining room. A guard ahead of him began to turn but a bullet from Radley’s rifle put him down. Another man seated at the table stood, drawing a pistol and firing into the woodwork to Radley’s left. Radley fired again and dropped him, a bullet in the stomach. He turned and found himself looking straight into the mustachioed face of Luis Figo Escobar, the notorious Cartel Capo known for his love of cars, women, and torturing captured Freudian police officials. Just then, the door across from him opened and McBrain burst in, shotgun ready. Radley scowled at the Generian agent. They moved closer to the well dressed man, who showed little sign of fear or even surprise.

“Hello gentlemen. Welcome to my villa.”

McBrain thrust the shotgun into his face.

“Cut the crap.”

The man chuckled.

“Mr. McBrain. You’re every bit as ferocious as the rumors make you out to be. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

McBrain growled and put his finger on the trigger.

“Son of a bitch.”

Radley moved in and pushed the shotgun out of the face of the man. The scowl remained on his face, and there was no mistaking the menace in his eyes. For a man who did an excellent job of keeping things professional, Radley had an immense dislike for the man in front of him.

“This morning a Generian diplomatic attaché was assassinated in Costa Del Fuego. I know you had something to do with it. Now I want answers.”

Escobar grinned even more broadly.

“Mr. Radley. We meet at last. I’ve heard so much about you from my contacts at the FIS.”

Radley was unfazed.

“What contacts?”

Escobar chuckled. Radley had slung his GIR-47f across his chest and now quickly drew his pistol and leveled it at the man’s head.

“If they’ve been telling you the truth about me, then you know I won’t hesitate to kill you if you don’t prove useful.”

“Yes, I am more than aware of that. I know you’d like nothing better.”

The man sat back in his chair and yawned. Radley moved closer.

“I suppose you’re wondering about our information, what sources allow us such accuracy. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. It’s far too late for you to do anything now. It’s already begun, and your governments are still running around with your heads up their asses.”

“What has begun?”

“The movement.”

Radley took a step back and lowered his pistol to waist height, keeping it trained on his enemy’s head. Something stuck out in his mind, a word or two he had read in a report. Escobar saw Radley’s brow furrow and he chuckled again.

“Like I’ve said, Mr. Radley, it’s too late for you or that brute of an accomplice of yours to do anything about it. But I might as well give you some tidbit for your trouble.”

McBrain took a step forward at the insult and raised the shotgun again. Radley, sensing the anger, pushed the barrel aside once more, and was silent, allowing the criminal to go on. Escobar paused to raise a half empty glass of wine to his lips and drain the red liquid. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin and set it on the table.

“You should know by now that the Cartel is far larger and more organized than you ever could have suspected. The assassination of your attaché proved this more effectively than I could right now. What you don’t know is that now the Cartel is the least of your worries. A people cannot be held in bondage infinitely, Mr. Radley. There is always a point when the strain is too much and the chains break. Ismeria is a beast at the end of its rope, and when that rope snaps, you and your governments will be the first to feel the clench of its jaws. The people are organizing, preparing, and you can’t begin to comprehend the scale. It’s too late to stop us, to stop them. The Buchianan Arms and the Cartel are only the tip of the iceberg. A word of advice, get out now and spare your own lives.”

The words fell heavily in the quiet room. Suddenly footsteps erupted thunderously in the halls on either side of the dining room. Radley lunged at Escobar, and grabbed him to his feet, spinning him around and holding him up as a human shield, and in the same motion whirled to face the door, training his gun over the hostages right shoulder. McBrain leveled his shotgun as a half dozen men appeared in the door. He fired and blew three of them against the wall. The others threw up their hands and Radley gestured for McBrain to hold fire. Escobar addressed Radley, his eyes still fixed on his men in the doorway.


“If you don’t choose to heed my advice, as I suspect will most certainly be the case, than perhaps you would be interested in examining the Cartel facilities twenty miles northeast of here. I was unable to kill you here in my home. Perhaps my men there will have a better chance.”

The two agents and their hostage began to withdraw towards the opposite door, but one of the guards suddenly raised his rifle and took aim at Radley’s head. Escobar shouted for him to hold his fire, but the shot rang out and the capo’s head exploded in a cascade of skull fragments and thick crimson blood. Radley fired three shots in rapid succession, and the remaining three guards all dropped to the floor, bullets between their eyes.

He holstered the pistol and unslung the carbine, before he and McBrain broke out into the hall. Footsteps were everywhere, getting louder by the second. Down the hall a shaft of light appeared from a back door cracked open. They bolted for it, but from behindt hem gunfire erupted, and they dove for the floor. McBrain spun as he fell and fired a blast, taking out a guard. He squeezed again on the trigger but heard only the dry ‘click.’ Unfazed, he cast the shotgun aside and unslung the DAC-91 submachine gun as he got to his feet with Radley. In seconds they were out the door, gunfire exploding from every direction, bullets kicking up puffs of dust and dirt as they sprinted headlong for the front gate. McBrain turned and unloaded with a long burst at the roof of the villa. Five figures tumbled from their perches, landing with dull thuds on the hard ground below.

He turned again as Radley fired off a series of double taps at the men at the front gate. Suddenly the roar of an engine sounded and they turned to see a pickup truck coming full speed at them, several men firing from the bed. Both raised their guns and unloaded, destroying the windshield and the two men in the front cab. The truck swerved out of control and slammed into the wall, McBrain and Radley keeping up their fire. A bullet slammed into the gas tank and ricocheted around, igniting the gas fumes and detonating the truck in a brilliant orange and black fireball. Their empty magazines fell to the ground, and they simultaneously changed in new ones before breaking once again for the gate. Radley burst into the gatehouse and threw the switch which opened the wrought iron doors, before following McBrain out onto the path. He began to slow, but a call from the Generian agent spurred him on.

“Keep going!”

They kept up the sprint for the parked car. Suddenly, a roar like none they had ever heard before sounded behind them, and they were thrown forward off their feet. The massive shockwave carried with it bits of concrete, steel, and a huge cloud of dust. Radley and McBrain covered their heads as the storm blew over them, and as it passed, Radley slowly rolled over to look back at the scene. The villa was no more, save for a few ruined walls, and great flames licked at the foundation, gigantic plumes of black smoke rising from the ruins. He looked incredulously at McBrain who wore a broad grin.

“Semtex and natural gas heating don’t mix.”

Radley shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

“If you don’t choose to heed my advice, as I suspect will most certainly be the case, than perhaps you would be interested in examining the Cartel facilities twenty miles northeast of here. I was unable to kill you here in my home. Perhaps my men there will have a better chance.

OOC: Nice. I'll start the base attack as soon as I can.

The headlights of a black sedan cut through the foggy night as the vehicle sped along a dirt road south of Costa del Fuego. Inside the car, two men rode in silence. Samuel Radley drove, and Tank McBrain stared straight ahead, lost in thought. McBrain’s entire body was tense. He was looking forward to some action. The anticipation gnawed at him, and he tried to be patient. Radley, on the other hand, was completely relaxed. As usual, his face betrayed no emotion. McBrain watched the poker-faced assassin out of the corner of his eye. He still had no idea what made this man tick, what went on behind those cold, calculating grey eyes. Of course, he reminded himself, Radley probably knew little about him too.

The road wound for several miles, and then, without warning, Ridley pulled the car off the dirt trail, behind a clump of low bushes, and killed the engine. He glanced over and motioned for McBrain to get out. Both stepped out of the car and walked to the trunk. Ridley opened it, and then pressed a sequence of buttons on the remote key to open the hidden compartment under the false floor of the trunk.

A small door slid open and revealed a small arsenal. Guns, knives, explosives, body armor, electronic gadgets, and other equipment sat in the hidden container. Tank McBrain grinned, like a shark that’s spotted a victim. This, after all, was his business. “Lovely,” he said, “absolutely lovely.”

“Glad to know you’re enthusiastic about this, McBrain. Take your pick.”

The burly Generian reached into the trunk and pulled out a heavily modified GIR-47, outfitted with a laser targeting device, telescopic sight, extended magazine, with a body made out of lightweight polymers to minimize the weight of the huge gun.”

“A beauty, Ridley. I’ll bet it cost you something awful, though.”

“It did set me back quite a bit, now that you mention. But that’s neither here nor there. I thought this was supposed to be a covert operation. Not the sort of weapon one takes on such a mission, is it?”

“Covert operation, my ass. You can take that covert operation bullshit and cram it up your ass. I’m gonna do this like I always do. Here’s the plan: we sneak in together, then split up. You can be as subtle and quiet as you want to, but I’m heading straight for the barracks, or the living quarters, then the power systems, and I’ll blast everything to hell to get there. While all that’s going on, you’ll be able to get whatever information you need off their computers. Convenient, no?”

“Well, if you’re willing to soak up fire, who am I to refuse? Let’s get ready.”

The two men picked weapons and equipment out of the trunk, stacking it neatly by the side of the car. Ridley selected a GIR-47x, an advanced, highly adaptable version of the trusted Generian standard assault rifle. The size of a GIR-47f carbine, but a pound and a half lighter, the gun was slightly more powerful and reliable than the standard carbine, but very expensive. Ridley had fitted it with a scope, laser sight, and silencer. The gun was perfect for the mission: quiet, accurate, and light. Ridley also took a silenced G-9 pistol and several clips of ammunition for each gun. He passed over the explosives, but took a set of lock picks and night-vision goggles. Meanwhile, Tank McBrain grabbed as much weaponry as possible. Besides the insanely powerful GIR-47h, he had two F-19 .50 pistols, a GP-20 Machine pistol, and an FZ-8 submachine gun. He picked out enough ammunition to subdue a large riot, along with several frag grenades and limpet mines.

Now that each had a pile of weaponry ready for use, they reached into the back of the trunk for body armor. Ridley donned a black stealth suit with layers of kevlar sewn into the lining, and a mask to cover his head. When he was done changing, he went to the passenger door, leaned in, and got a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment. Twiddling a nob, he put them up to his eyes and looked at the twenty-foot tall fence surrounding a small parking lot and a single squat building.

When he turned back around, McBrain resembled not so much a man in armor, but a bear toting a huge amount of destructive power. The Generian had on a suit of SHARD (Segmented Human Adaptible-Role Defenses). The suit was made up of layers of heavy ceramic plates, interspersed with semi-fireproof nomex and kevlar layers, utility belts, ammo pouches, a tiny computer and advanced targeting systems in the helmet, and other accouterments. McBrain certainly had enough weapons and technology for what he had in mind.

“My God, McBrain, you look like an armed bear!”

“That’s the idea, Ridley. Scared men can’t shoot straight. And even if they could, it would take a twelve gauge round or more to get through this. It was a good day when Conglomo started producing this stuff.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re satisfied. Never found a use for the SHARD myself. Let’s move out.”

The two locked the car up and moved into the forest, taking a wide path around to the rear of the facility. They hiked through the woods, each forming a mental map of the area surrounding the base, in the unlikely event that they needed to make a hasty extraction. When they had completed their arc, they walked to the fence and McBrain produced a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters. With a few quick snips they pushed through the fence, slipped through, and bent back the section they cut so that it appeared to be undamaged to the casual observer. Once inside, they scanned the compound to find an easy way inside. Ridley nudged his partner and pointed to what looked like a large vent on the roof.

Sticking to the shadows, they crossed the dirt-covered space between the fence and the building as quickly as possible. They could see no sign of the enemy, but they remained cautious nonetheless. Nearing the edge of the building, which was only about thirty yards on each side, McBrain knelt, and Ridley climbed on his shoulders to reach the edge of the roof. He clambered up, then reached over to pull up McBrain, which was no small feat considered the man’s mass plus all the equipment he was carrying. The two kept low as they ran across the rooftop. Reaching the huge central vent, Ridley paused.

“This shaft is drawing huge amounts of air. This base is obviously more than three guards and a PC.”

“Doesn’t matter. Three or three hundred, I’ll take out every one of ‘em.”

“I wasn’t worried about your willingness or your ability to affect wholesale slaughter, McBrain. I was only reflecting that this network of insurgents is apparently larger, better equipped, and more organized than I had suspected. More than anyone in the FIIS or GIIS had suspected, in fact.”

“Well then, it’s all the more important to take this base out, and for you to get whatever intel you need.”

“Agreed. Let’s go.”

McBrain pulled out rappel gear, and took up position on the edge of the vent. Ridley picked the lock on the vent and swung it outward and upward. Grabbing one end of the rope attached to McBrain’s belt, climbed into the vent. McBrain started to lower him down, foot by foot. For fifty feet it descended into the darkness, and Ridley had to flick on his night vision. When his feet hit the bottom, he let go of the rope and gave it two sharp tugs, the sign to stand by. He looked around. There was a horizontal shaft large enough to crawl through to his left. Satisfied that they could both fit through it, he gave the rope three tugs. McBrain attached the rope to the edge of the vent and slid slowly downward. When he reached the bottom he saw that Ridley had already started crawling through the shaft. He reeled in the rope and followed suit.

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Piotr Skut had been a part of the insurgency for two years, and for almost that entire time he had been working at Facility 12-J, south of Costa del Fuego. The work was uneventful, but he was satisfied that he was serving his country. Every day he did what was required of him, whether it was patrolling the inside or the outside of the base, doing repair work, or monitoring the computer network. Along with thirty other young men like himself, Piotr kept the base running smoothly, eagerly anticipating the day when the call would come, and he and his brothers would take up arms against the Freudotopian aggressors. Like the rest of the base crew, he had never been to war. Only the head of the installation, a man they knew only as Colonel Barbana, had seen action, a decade before in the first Ismerian war. He chomped on cigars and threw out orders all day, but he did have an air of command about him. He was respected by his men for having served Ismeria bravely. Piotr couldn’t wait for the day that he could fight back against the Freudotopians. If he knew how soon that moment would come, and how utterly unprepared he was to meet it, he would have shat himself.

Piotr was patrolling the interior of the base today, and decided to take a short break for a piss. He strolled into the nearest bathroom, unaware of the eyes watching him from the shadows. After relieving himself and lighting a new cigarette, Piotr turned to leave. He had one hand on the door knob when two hands seized him from behind, pulling him backward. One of his arms was pulled behind his back, and he felt a knife being pressed against his throat. He reached for his pistol, but stopped when his assailant spoke in a whisper like steel on glass.

“Talk or die. You tell me what I want to know about this place and you take a nap in a stall. Refuse, and you die. Lie to me, and I cut off non-essential body parts until you tell me the truth. Understand?”

Piotr was petrified. He had no idea what to do in a situation like this, and tried to buy himself some thinking time by asking, “how the Hell did you get in here?”

The knife slashed upwards, nicking his chin and causing blood to flow. He barely stifled his cry of pain. The intruder spoke again.

“The air ducts. Now tell me what I want to know, or I cut a little deeper. I don’t have time for stupidity, so think fast. How many men are in this place?”

“Thirty-one.”

“You catch on quickly. Where’s the server room and what kind of security measures protect it?”

“It’s in the sub-basement. Take the central express elevator down. There’s always a guard on duty, and a thumbprint lock.”

“Who has access?”

“The base commander, Colonel Barbana. He’s the only one who can access the servers, too.”

“Where is his office?”

“Right down the hall, turn left at the junction.”

“Now, one final question. Is the barracks in here close to the boiler room?”

“Uhhh...yeah. Both on this floor, only a few doors apart.”

“Good. You get to live.”

Piotr exhaled, relieved. Then he fell to the floor with a new smile cut across his throat. Ridley dragged his body into a stall, then whistled softly. McBrain dropped from the ceiling.

“You heard what he said?”

“Word for word, Ridley. I’ll head for the barracks and the boiler room. I’ll tear this place apart in about twenty minutes, so be done with whatever you need to do by then.”

“Get moving, then. We’ll rendez-vous back here, and leave the way we came in.”

They walked into the hallway, McBrain turning left and Radley going right.

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McBrain stalked through the corridors, rifle at the ready. His general goal was to incapacitate any and all enemy guards, and destroy the facility with explosives. To achieve these objectives, he knew, would require quite a bit of bloodshed.

Senses alert, he turned a corner and heard approaching footsteps. Two guards were coming down the hallway, and although he was hidden in shadow, they would run straight into him if he let them. He decided not to; raising the rifle, he let loose a long burst at head height that decapitated both of them. Doors on either side of the hallway opened, and McBrain ducked back around the corner. Pistol fire ricocheted off the opposite wall. When the firing stopped, he whirled around the corner and fired wildly, hitting one guard in the chest and another in both legs. The two men dropped like a stone, and he hurried forward. He finished off the wounded man with a shot to the head, and dashed down the corridor. A formidable locked door stood ahead; leveling his gun, McBrain emptied his clip into the door frame. Once he had reloaded, he charged at the door at full speed, lowering an armored soldier. The door separated from the frame, and he charged straight forward into the next room. Gunfire exploded over his head as he rolled, and he tipped over a steel table to give himself some cover. Taking a quick glance around, he surmised that he must be in the security control center. Camera monitors and controls covered one wall. He saw a door open and a man rush out, only to be tripped from behind by a shadowy figure. McBrain’s thoughts were brought rapidly back to his position when a sustained burst of machine gun fire spattered against the table. One round penetrated the table and lodged in the armor protecting McBrain’s lower back. The burly Generian grunted with the pain of the impact, before tossing a frag grenade over his shoulder. The resulting explosion shook the teeth in his head, and the gunfire stopped. Looking over the table, he saw all five of the guards that had been shooting at him sprawled against the far wall, several missing limbs. Smirking, he kicked the ruined door out of his way, and proceeded into the next hallway.

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Radley crouched outside the office of Colonel Barbana, mentally calculating his next move. The hallway was almost totally dark, but the office was brightly lit, and Barbana was sitting at his desk facing the door. There was no way to sneak in. The door was locked, and could not be picked without alerting the Colonel. Realizing that he couldn’t do anything for the moment, he waited for his Generian compatriot to provide a distraction. He had barely paused for a minute when he heard the deep bark of a GIR-47, closely followed by the staccato blasts of pistols. McBrain was going to work earlier than he had expected. He heard the Colonel stand up and run to the security monitors. Peeking through the window of the office, Radley could see a live camera feed of a huge man in even huger armor blowing a door off its hinges. The colonel ran back to his desk, and a moment later his frantic voice blasted through the loudspeakers.

“All personnel, move to crisis positions! We have an intruder in the base! Prepare to enact protocol X on my order!”

The Colonel opened a cabinet and donned a bulletproof vest. He grabbed an outdated FA-22 shotgun and slammed the cabinet door shut. Radley put his back against the wall across from the door and waited. A second later the door flew open and the Colonel dashed out. With a swift trip, the man fell headlong, and Radley jumped at him. With one knee on the back of the man’s neck, he put the barrel of his pistol to the back of the Colonel’s head.

“Good evening, Colonel. I need to get to your servers.”