Willink
18-10-2006, 00:42
"Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, gaunt soldier,
With weapons beyond any reach of my mind,
With weapons so deadly the world must grow older
And die in its tracks, if it does not turn kind?"
7 Days ago, Krosevelk, Balgrevonsk Province, Northeastern Willink.
District Politician Sergei Ramanov awoke from the sound of the irritating buzz of his small plastic alarm clock. While he did find it annoying, it did get the job done, waking Ramonov every day at 6:45 AM. He rolled off of his large 4-poster bed, the walls of the room painted a dark red, the fireplace sitting quietly in the corner. He walked down the old hallway stairs of the large manor house, and into his kitchen, and began to make coffee. From there on he got into his routine. He was a district Premier, little more than a fancy term for a leas ion to the regional government. His job was the same every day; go to work, read some papers, sign those papers, and even once and a while go somewhere. Many people would be delighted to make the kind of money Ramanov made. He, on the other hand, despised his job. He waited patiently every day, waiting for the chance to go home and indulge himself. His home was often the sight of parties (Often with more prostitutes than a brothel), card games, and coke binges.
On one such occasion, a visitor at his house was the Brigadier General of the local motorized rifle division, Antony Demidov, who himself was considered a radical. (It was ofter rumored his families wealth pushed him to the rank he was.) Demidov was an Orthodox Christian of Метохија ethnicity, who had dominated the southern tier of the province for nearly a century. Demidov had a radically new idea he wished to push toward Ramanov, who happened to have quite a bit of influence in the province, although he wished to deny it. Ramanov had other things to attend to at the moment, mainly women, but still, he found it polite to listen to Demidov for the time being. Demidov began to explain the recent surge in tensions between the fundamentalist European Muslims to the Northwest, and the traditionally mixed Catholics to the north, consisting of a blend of races and ethnicities who were for the most part conservative.
The more he explained about how the provincial capital could capitalize on the current situation, the more Ramanov began to detest Demidov's presence at his home. After telling him several times he was not interested in profiting off of the problems of other people, Demidov became hostile, resulting in a shouting match that could be heard from the street. Demidov stormed out and returned to his car, which took off down the small cramped street, the wheels took off, squealing over the damp pavement. Ramanov stood at his front door, leaning against the frame, wiping sweat from his forehead. He already knew he was in an unfavorable situation, and in the same sense, totally unaware of how this little event would become a much bigger problem.
4 Days Ago, City Center, Krosevelk.
Ramanov sat in his luxury Vistlian M32 Sedan, complete with tinted windows and a luxurious leather interior, one of the perks for his job field. As his driver Dimitri pulled around a bend in a crowded street,a city bus pulled out of nowhere, nearly swiping the car. Dimitri slammed on the breaks, and Ramanov's face was thrown into the headrest ahead of him, spilling his coffee on his lap. “Fuck” he said under his breath, as he tried to wipe off the burning liquid from his pants. He waited a moment before scolding Dimitri. “Dimitri, what the fuck was that ?” The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, a sign that he was in a sour mood.“Sir, a bus just pulled in front of us, what the hell am I supposed to do, hit it ?” Sergei struggled for a response. “J..just keep driving, I don't want to be late.” He bent over, and collected his papers from the ground. Thankfully they had not been effected by the spill. For the most part, he got along with Dimitri, although he certainly did not necessarily like his driving style. Often it was an accomplishment to make it to work without hitting something.
As they pulled into the elderly parking lot of Ramanov's office the rain began to fall. Rain at this time of the year was very common, although it was rarely very heavy. This instance was different, as a small river had been formed on the parking garages ramps, moving round and round from the open-top 4th story parking, before emptying into the smaller street parking lot alongside the districts office building. It was an old structure, built in the mid 1940's, but was still in a relatively good shape. As Dimitri dropped Romanov off on the 2nd floor of the parking garage, the crash of thunder clap boomed through the building, making Romanov's day all that much better. He had hated thunder, ever since he was a child.
He strolled into his office, ready (Although certainly not wanting) to work. His peers saw him as boorish, often insulting other politicians during regional board meetings. Today was one of the worse days, lots of paperwork, every politicians best friend and worst enemy. Several ranging topics had to be addressed; The approval of the construction of a new industrial site in the town of Parvozy, settling of a border dispute between the outlying towns of Kreviski and Gronz, and a 26 page document on the rebuilding of a waterline in the cities waterfront district, called Городводыпередний (Waterfront City, appropriately enough). These 3 assignments alone took him till noon to address and complete. Ramanov was a master of debate, often curbing his responses to fool both sides into thinking they got the better deal, and this is what made him so good at what he did. He cleaned up and reorganized his belongings on his desk before heading out to lunch with several associates. They piled into a luxury Sports Utility Vehicle before heading toward a ritzy upscale restaurant just a few blocks down the street. As they sat at their table enjoying the meal, the topic matter changed every few minutes or so. First starting with the women of the office, before ending nearly 30 minutes later as the food arrived, with a discussion of politics in the region. “How things can change so quickly.” Sergei thought to himself as he feasted on his shrimp, but he was little aware of how true this would be in his case in the next few hours.
After lunch, they returned to the SUV, and returned to work, were several more papers had piled up for Ramanov while he was on lunch break. He continued to do the same thing, read, make note of, and offer his final opinion into the submission, before placing it in the “Complete” section of his file cabinet, to be retrieved by the office secretary later and processed. He quickly glanced at the clock. 4 PM, he would be relived by another politician in fifteen minutes, and could return home. He returned to his office to collect his coat, hat, and briefcase.
Atop the old Krevmeaira hotel across the street, a man donning a black trench coat and a low baseball cap covering his face opened the rust-stained door to the rooftop carrying a huge metal case over his shoulder. He was one of the many private operatives of Demidov's security force, obvious from the small sewn-in patch on his jeans. He set the 50 pound case down on the rooftop, with a loud thud that spread a small wave of thin dust out around it. He clicked the locks on both sides, and gently opened it. Inside was a rather elderly Golden Throne DNR-13 Recoilless Rifle, an aged anti-tank weapon that could be operated by a single user. He propped the weapon up upon his shoulder, adjusted the hand grip, and set his sights on the district office building across the street. He adjusted the sights slightly, and pulled the trigger. A small plume of smoke shot out the rear of the weapon, and the warhead rifled out of the launcher flying directly across the street, leaving smoke trail. Less than a second later, the missile impacted on the 3rd floor. The explosion was not very large, but nevertheless, created a loud blast that broke windows nearby. A small ball of flames shot out and rolled up the side of the office toward the rooftop, while destroyed brick, metal, and office papers rained into the streets, causing onlookers to dive for cover. A large gray cloud of smoke rushed into the sky from the damaged wall, and dissipated far above as it was split by the misty rain. The wall was visibly damaged, and the collapsing metal supports and fallen brick made it look like a decrepit jail cell.
As Ramanov bent down to pick up his coat, a blast of air and heat made him loose his footing as he tripped over his chair. He windows smashed, and glass rained in his face mixed together with hot air and rain. He quickly sat up to see a chunk of his door frame missing, and drywall and brick laying on the floor and on his desk. He struggled out into the hallway to see a section of wall missing from the building. The small little office was engulfed in fire, and holes had been ripped in the thin walls by flying debris. Remains of everything were strewn. A desk was laying in the middle of the floor, an detached arm laying under it. What appeared to be the remains of a person was hanging out the window, and a thick smoky haze made it hard to see. He dove to the ground, and took a moment to look himself over. Something had became embedded in his leg, ripping the pant leg and leaving a bloody mess all over his sock and shoe. He had several lacerations and cuts, and a severe headache, but he was still alive. Just how long he would still be alive was a question he was unsure about. He dragged himself toward the stairs (His leg no longer working) to find the body of Timi Razkivork, the man that had brought them to lunch. His shirt was ripped and bloody, and several of his fingers appeared to be mashed or detached. He lay slumped over next to the emergency exit sign.
As he tried to pull himself down the stairs, he began to feel lightheaded and seemed to lose the ability to control his movements. His body seemed to roll down the stairwell on its own, until he came to rest near the second floor. He lay there, unable to move, and at that point he began to black out. Conversing within his head during his final moments, he blamed himself. “How could this happen, how could I let this happen ?” he thought to himself as his eyes slowly rolled into his head, and his spine slumped down against the concrete floor.
No one in the Province knew just how bad the future few days would be.
With weapons beyond any reach of my mind,
With weapons so deadly the world must grow older
And die in its tracks, if it does not turn kind?"
7 Days ago, Krosevelk, Balgrevonsk Province, Northeastern Willink.
District Politician Sergei Ramanov awoke from the sound of the irritating buzz of his small plastic alarm clock. While he did find it annoying, it did get the job done, waking Ramonov every day at 6:45 AM. He rolled off of his large 4-poster bed, the walls of the room painted a dark red, the fireplace sitting quietly in the corner. He walked down the old hallway stairs of the large manor house, and into his kitchen, and began to make coffee. From there on he got into his routine. He was a district Premier, little more than a fancy term for a leas ion to the regional government. His job was the same every day; go to work, read some papers, sign those papers, and even once and a while go somewhere. Many people would be delighted to make the kind of money Ramanov made. He, on the other hand, despised his job. He waited patiently every day, waiting for the chance to go home and indulge himself. His home was often the sight of parties (Often with more prostitutes than a brothel), card games, and coke binges.
On one such occasion, a visitor at his house was the Brigadier General of the local motorized rifle division, Antony Demidov, who himself was considered a radical. (It was ofter rumored his families wealth pushed him to the rank he was.) Demidov was an Orthodox Christian of Метохија ethnicity, who had dominated the southern tier of the province for nearly a century. Demidov had a radically new idea he wished to push toward Ramanov, who happened to have quite a bit of influence in the province, although he wished to deny it. Ramanov had other things to attend to at the moment, mainly women, but still, he found it polite to listen to Demidov for the time being. Demidov began to explain the recent surge in tensions between the fundamentalist European Muslims to the Northwest, and the traditionally mixed Catholics to the north, consisting of a blend of races and ethnicities who were for the most part conservative.
The more he explained about how the provincial capital could capitalize on the current situation, the more Ramanov began to detest Demidov's presence at his home. After telling him several times he was not interested in profiting off of the problems of other people, Demidov became hostile, resulting in a shouting match that could be heard from the street. Demidov stormed out and returned to his car, which took off down the small cramped street, the wheels took off, squealing over the damp pavement. Ramanov stood at his front door, leaning against the frame, wiping sweat from his forehead. He already knew he was in an unfavorable situation, and in the same sense, totally unaware of how this little event would become a much bigger problem.
4 Days Ago, City Center, Krosevelk.
Ramanov sat in his luxury Vistlian M32 Sedan, complete with tinted windows and a luxurious leather interior, one of the perks for his job field. As his driver Dimitri pulled around a bend in a crowded street,a city bus pulled out of nowhere, nearly swiping the car. Dimitri slammed on the breaks, and Ramanov's face was thrown into the headrest ahead of him, spilling his coffee on his lap. “Fuck” he said under his breath, as he tried to wipe off the burning liquid from his pants. He waited a moment before scolding Dimitri. “Dimitri, what the fuck was that ?” The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, a sign that he was in a sour mood.“Sir, a bus just pulled in front of us, what the hell am I supposed to do, hit it ?” Sergei struggled for a response. “J..just keep driving, I don't want to be late.” He bent over, and collected his papers from the ground. Thankfully they had not been effected by the spill. For the most part, he got along with Dimitri, although he certainly did not necessarily like his driving style. Often it was an accomplishment to make it to work without hitting something.
As they pulled into the elderly parking lot of Ramanov's office the rain began to fall. Rain at this time of the year was very common, although it was rarely very heavy. This instance was different, as a small river had been formed on the parking garages ramps, moving round and round from the open-top 4th story parking, before emptying into the smaller street parking lot alongside the districts office building. It was an old structure, built in the mid 1940's, but was still in a relatively good shape. As Dimitri dropped Romanov off on the 2nd floor of the parking garage, the crash of thunder clap boomed through the building, making Romanov's day all that much better. He had hated thunder, ever since he was a child.
He strolled into his office, ready (Although certainly not wanting) to work. His peers saw him as boorish, often insulting other politicians during regional board meetings. Today was one of the worse days, lots of paperwork, every politicians best friend and worst enemy. Several ranging topics had to be addressed; The approval of the construction of a new industrial site in the town of Parvozy, settling of a border dispute between the outlying towns of Kreviski and Gronz, and a 26 page document on the rebuilding of a waterline in the cities waterfront district, called Городводыпередний (Waterfront City, appropriately enough). These 3 assignments alone took him till noon to address and complete. Ramanov was a master of debate, often curbing his responses to fool both sides into thinking they got the better deal, and this is what made him so good at what he did. He cleaned up and reorganized his belongings on his desk before heading out to lunch with several associates. They piled into a luxury Sports Utility Vehicle before heading toward a ritzy upscale restaurant just a few blocks down the street. As they sat at their table enjoying the meal, the topic matter changed every few minutes or so. First starting with the women of the office, before ending nearly 30 minutes later as the food arrived, with a discussion of politics in the region. “How things can change so quickly.” Sergei thought to himself as he feasted on his shrimp, but he was little aware of how true this would be in his case in the next few hours.
After lunch, they returned to the SUV, and returned to work, were several more papers had piled up for Ramanov while he was on lunch break. He continued to do the same thing, read, make note of, and offer his final opinion into the submission, before placing it in the “Complete” section of his file cabinet, to be retrieved by the office secretary later and processed. He quickly glanced at the clock. 4 PM, he would be relived by another politician in fifteen minutes, and could return home. He returned to his office to collect his coat, hat, and briefcase.
Atop the old Krevmeaira hotel across the street, a man donning a black trench coat and a low baseball cap covering his face opened the rust-stained door to the rooftop carrying a huge metal case over his shoulder. He was one of the many private operatives of Demidov's security force, obvious from the small sewn-in patch on his jeans. He set the 50 pound case down on the rooftop, with a loud thud that spread a small wave of thin dust out around it. He clicked the locks on both sides, and gently opened it. Inside was a rather elderly Golden Throne DNR-13 Recoilless Rifle, an aged anti-tank weapon that could be operated by a single user. He propped the weapon up upon his shoulder, adjusted the hand grip, and set his sights on the district office building across the street. He adjusted the sights slightly, and pulled the trigger. A small plume of smoke shot out the rear of the weapon, and the warhead rifled out of the launcher flying directly across the street, leaving smoke trail. Less than a second later, the missile impacted on the 3rd floor. The explosion was not very large, but nevertheless, created a loud blast that broke windows nearby. A small ball of flames shot out and rolled up the side of the office toward the rooftop, while destroyed brick, metal, and office papers rained into the streets, causing onlookers to dive for cover. A large gray cloud of smoke rushed into the sky from the damaged wall, and dissipated far above as it was split by the misty rain. The wall was visibly damaged, and the collapsing metal supports and fallen brick made it look like a decrepit jail cell.
As Ramanov bent down to pick up his coat, a blast of air and heat made him loose his footing as he tripped over his chair. He windows smashed, and glass rained in his face mixed together with hot air and rain. He quickly sat up to see a chunk of his door frame missing, and drywall and brick laying on the floor and on his desk. He struggled out into the hallway to see a section of wall missing from the building. The small little office was engulfed in fire, and holes had been ripped in the thin walls by flying debris. Remains of everything were strewn. A desk was laying in the middle of the floor, an detached arm laying under it. What appeared to be the remains of a person was hanging out the window, and a thick smoky haze made it hard to see. He dove to the ground, and took a moment to look himself over. Something had became embedded in his leg, ripping the pant leg and leaving a bloody mess all over his sock and shoe. He had several lacerations and cuts, and a severe headache, but he was still alive. Just how long he would still be alive was a question he was unsure about. He dragged himself toward the stairs (His leg no longer working) to find the body of Timi Razkivork, the man that had brought them to lunch. His shirt was ripped and bloody, and several of his fingers appeared to be mashed or detached. He lay slumped over next to the emergency exit sign.
As he tried to pull himself down the stairs, he began to feel lightheaded and seemed to lose the ability to control his movements. His body seemed to roll down the stairwell on its own, until he came to rest near the second floor. He lay there, unable to move, and at that point he began to black out. Conversing within his head during his final moments, he blamed himself. “How could this happen, how could I let this happen ?” he thought to himself as his eyes slowly rolled into his head, and his spine slumped down against the concrete floor.
No one in the Province knew just how bad the future few days would be.