Granzi
15-11-2005, 06:26
OOC: This is a Closed character RP explaining in part the reasons all communication with Granzi ceased between February 2005 and October 2005. This RP will deal with the series of events between the collapse of the Bolash government and the formation of the New Commonwealth. Please keep all comments to a minimum as I’ll let interested parties know later on when they can join in. For now, keep it to TAGs. Thanks.
Granzi City
The streets were slick with rainwater following a storm that had drenched the metropolitan area for days. Business went on as usual, flowing in and out of the towering gilt doors that marked the entrance to the Financial District. Next to the far corner of the enclosing wrought iron fence, in the shade of an old oak tree, a lone man stood.
He was clean-shaven, dressed in a dark navy jacket emblazed with the seal of the National Police. Fastened to his belt were several clips of ammunition and a holstered pistol. The man slivered in his heavy coat. Soon, he thought, and smiled. It was Saturday. For first time in many days the sidewalks were thronged with the masses of humanity, glad for a reprieve from the downpour. He slowly strolled under the massive overpass on which the trams brought holiday shoppers into the Old City.
He felt past the Kevlar vest he was wearing, to the wires strapped to his body underneath and shivered again. Soon. With the easy loping gait of a person familiar with his surroundings, he passed under the gates and walked down the broad avenue. On both sides loomed the buildings that housed the great financial institutions so vital to the Granzian economy. Further down was the Commonwealth Stock Exchange, a hulking marble and granite monolith around which gathered the early morning traders seeking entry. He strode toward it, past the Bank of Commerce. As he made his way through the groups of people, the opening bell rang out from the balcony above. In the rush of persons to enter, the man was pushed along with the crowd and into the cavernous entry hall.
About halfway down the tiled lobby, members of the National Police had cordoned off a section of the hall after the recent terror attacks. A series of conveyer belts and screeners had been set up, through which exchange employees were waved through. Off to one side, separated from those seeking entry by a simple chain partition stood an assembly of representatives, the word TREASURY stamped across the hat brims of a few. He made his way toward them.
In that moment, the double doors set in the wall opposite opened, and a dignified elderly official stepped through. Finance Minister Johannas Stuttgart looked up and smiled at those assembled before turning toward his waiting entourage. The man drew closer, began stepping faster… breaking into a sprint. He was starting to draw attention, this man armed with purpose, his chin locked resolutely in a grim expression.
“Hey you! Stop!” a policeman began.
He paid no attention to the flurry of shouts that had erupted behind him. With a crash he broke through the barrier and threw himself on the shocked minister.
Then everything went white.
----------
Operator: 911 operator, how may I help you?
[faint screaming]
Operator: Hello?
[incomprehensible sounds]
Caller: … we have people here… wounded.
Operator: Can you please speak up? There’s some static on the line.
Caller: … I said… people here are seriously… oh my god… dead everywhere.
Operator: And where are you ma’am?
Caller: Commonwealth… ock Exchange. A person broke… cordon, and threw… onto Minister… Stutt… art… There was a huge explos… please send… elp. [crying] … must be dead… please… please…
[line goes dead]
The wailing of sirens again filled the streets of Granzi City.
Granzi City
The streets were slick with rainwater following a storm that had drenched the metropolitan area for days. Business went on as usual, flowing in and out of the towering gilt doors that marked the entrance to the Financial District. Next to the far corner of the enclosing wrought iron fence, in the shade of an old oak tree, a lone man stood.
He was clean-shaven, dressed in a dark navy jacket emblazed with the seal of the National Police. Fastened to his belt were several clips of ammunition and a holstered pistol. The man slivered in his heavy coat. Soon, he thought, and smiled. It was Saturday. For first time in many days the sidewalks were thronged with the masses of humanity, glad for a reprieve from the downpour. He slowly strolled under the massive overpass on which the trams brought holiday shoppers into the Old City.
He felt past the Kevlar vest he was wearing, to the wires strapped to his body underneath and shivered again. Soon. With the easy loping gait of a person familiar with his surroundings, he passed under the gates and walked down the broad avenue. On both sides loomed the buildings that housed the great financial institutions so vital to the Granzian economy. Further down was the Commonwealth Stock Exchange, a hulking marble and granite monolith around which gathered the early morning traders seeking entry. He strode toward it, past the Bank of Commerce. As he made his way through the groups of people, the opening bell rang out from the balcony above. In the rush of persons to enter, the man was pushed along with the crowd and into the cavernous entry hall.
About halfway down the tiled lobby, members of the National Police had cordoned off a section of the hall after the recent terror attacks. A series of conveyer belts and screeners had been set up, through which exchange employees were waved through. Off to one side, separated from those seeking entry by a simple chain partition stood an assembly of representatives, the word TREASURY stamped across the hat brims of a few. He made his way toward them.
In that moment, the double doors set in the wall opposite opened, and a dignified elderly official stepped through. Finance Minister Johannas Stuttgart looked up and smiled at those assembled before turning toward his waiting entourage. The man drew closer, began stepping faster… breaking into a sprint. He was starting to draw attention, this man armed with purpose, his chin locked resolutely in a grim expression.
“Hey you! Stop!” a policeman began.
He paid no attention to the flurry of shouts that had erupted behind him. With a crash he broke through the barrier and threw himself on the shocked minister.
Then everything went white.
----------
Operator: 911 operator, how may I help you?
[faint screaming]
Operator: Hello?
[incomprehensible sounds]
Caller: … we have people here… wounded.
Operator: Can you please speak up? There’s some static on the line.
Caller: … I said… people here are seriously… oh my god… dead everywhere.
Operator: And where are you ma’am?
Caller: Commonwealth… ock Exchange. A person broke… cordon, and threw… onto Minister… Stutt… art… There was a huge explos… please send… elp. [crying] … must be dead… please… please…
[line goes dead]
The wailing of sirens again filled the streets of Granzi City.