NationStates Jolt Archive

One cannot imagine how fast things can turn for the worst. Nobody can quite understand how peace can so easily be shattered by violence. Stability is seemingly a thing of the past, in a world where nations rise and fall without incident. Hell is not an uncommon destination for today’s society and the devil is not so elusive.

That is why it was no surprise, at least to the world, when Brydog became a torrent of violence. Sure, perhaps the people, the liberal democratic peaceful people, of those African lands didn’t see it coming…but everyone else did. They lived in a perpetual bliss of ignorance and daydreams. They went on with their lives while people around them fell dead because of hatred and bigotry. When it came to their time they sat idly watching the news even while their neighbors were drug away screaming and begging. They were trapped in a nightmare they thought would end as all nightmares do, and so they sat and let it engulf them.

Ideas can change the world; it has been done before and will continue for so long as people believe in them enough to die. Let it be known that people, in general, are fools. Understanding this will better help you understand why ideas will always change the course of human history…because there will always be people, there will always be fools, and sometimes ideas and fools will find themselves regrettably intertwined. I never said ideas change the world for the better, although it is true that sometimes they do, there are, there have been ideas that bring about a terrible, a horrible change. Fools, fools and there dreams…

Corruption, greed, ignorance; what more must be said? It isn’t hard to believe the outcome of events when you place these three characteristics in the same country, people, even room. It takes only luck, chance, a random chance of luck to acquire all three prerequisites, yet that’s where your luck stops. Once the series of events that include these three things begin, there is no turning back…no stopping without the sacrifice of the righteous. There are only heroes because there are villains. Every action has a reaction. If you kill out of hate, hate will kill you.

Tag

Ring of Fire
Bamako, Mali
Sunday September 15th

Bleak, desolate, dreadfully hot; the only words that can describe that day. It might be cliché, sure, but it was to become known as bloody Sunday. Had you been there you would have known it was coming, hell the whole world should have. In actuality, nobody did, and that’s how it was supposed to go down. That’s where it all went downhill, where it all started.

The roads were dusty for the rain had held out to the peoples disdain. The sun drove its rays of heat down onto the town with little remorse. A forgiving breeze was lacking and the day quickly turned stale. Despite the heat the town was a flurry of activity. Months of campaigning had all led to this day, a new president had been elected and was taking office. It would be the third president in their history of the country since its separation from Senegal. Before that it was led by a dictatorship until over thrown in a coup to be replaced by the democratic system now presenting itself. Amadou TOURE was stepping down, allowing the new president Valère Edmond to take office. It was a tradition in the works for the young democracy. Edmond was to make his speech to the crowd which, in spite of the heat, was jovial. Like much of Africa, Mali was relatively rich in per capita and the city was quite modernized. A few skyscrapers dotted the landscape, but there was still much to be desired and dirt and sand covered much of the streets. The crowd gathered, chanting and oblivious to their surroundings. Edmond rose for his speech to much fanfare. A small conversation was held between the two presidents ending with smiles and hands extended. It was now Edmond’s turn to talk.

Two small thuds echoed over the crowd, Edmond was dead on the spot. A sniper had but two 50. Caliber bullets into his chest delivering his death with no pain at all. The crowd was instantly on the ground, screams dancing across the open square. The sniper turned his attention to the crowd and began a systematic extermination while they cowered. Slowly they began to move, darting between buildings and even into them. The counter-sniper teams began their tedious work and a small clandestine firefight began. The buildings surrounding the scare, packed with civilians, erupted into explosions. C4 had been placed on the bottom levels. Glass shot outwards sending horrific slivers through the air. Men emerged on trucks and foot wielding automatic rifles, swords, pistols, automatic weapons, every small arm imaginable. The power of such concentrated fire was remarkable. The ground shook as the casings hit the dusty and now blood-filled ground. The bodies lay strewn about, the square was in ruins, and the civil war had begun.

Didier Nkosana was French born African. Under the rule of the 4th Reich his family fled to Mali, the proverbial diamond in the rough. Mali, or rather Brydog, was a democratic safe haven, a liberal paradise. It was on par with such countries as Rome and the United States of Brink. The 4th Reich was viewed by his family as a tyrannical rule, oppressing the people, they were a cynical government. It was no place to raise a family. At the age of 14 he was strong but more importantly wise beyond his time. He moved when he was 10 and for four years he lived in relative security. His family was on the verge of prosperity, for Brydog was a very rich country compared to the world and it provided ample opportunities to succeed. However three days before his 15ht birthday his parents were killed by a gang trying to break into their house. Didier was also attacked and after killing one man and wounding two more he was beat near to death and left to rot. He was saved and brought to a hospital where instead of healing he grew cynical and angry. His family had risked their lives to bring him to a country of safety but in this so called ‘Paradise’ they were killed and robbed and left to decompose.

At the age of 19 he was healed and incredibly strong. Yet for all his strength he never ventured far from his studies that is until he moved back to France. He joined the army of the 4th Reich and for 21 years served. His outlook on life was bleak and he never forgave those who killed his family. Through the horrors of life on the frontlines of German army he never recovered mentally. When he left the army at 40 he was beyond help, a tormented soul with revenge engraved into his mind.

He returned to Mali to once again find its misplaced security false guarded. For 5 years he lived on a day to day basis falling into the black holes of society. Yet he plotted for his time, his time for revenge. Then it presented itself and he took it, and he was ready…but was the country, the world ready?

Present Day
Bamako, Mali


The attack on the inauguration ceremony was a complete and utter success. Nobody could grasp the level of ferocity and lethality exhibited by the terrorists. The execution was quick and appalling leaving hundreds dead and dying not to mention the government shaken and leaderless. It was the start to what would be the bloodiest civil war in African history. How many would have to die for an idea, or better yet, who would be willing to live for one?

The rebel group was known only as Akokonan, led by Didier Nkosana. As of yet their motives were unclear save the fact that they had issues with the government. It was still early yet and this wasn’t good for Mali. The goal of a terrorist organization is to instill fear into the people and make them question the power and security of their government. This had been the first attack and already the death toll was in the range of three hundred people. Everyone was certain that the attacks would continue and they were right. The next strike came two days later, three panzer-Faust 3’s had hit a train car killing all inside and derailing the train raising the death toll to 750. The very next day a stinger launched missile hit a Boeing 747 as it took off from the National Airport just outside the city. After three attacks, none of which had been credited to any terrorist organization, the death toll had climbed to above one thousand people.

People began taking to the streets demanding action, protests and public outcry grew at alarming rates. Poll showed a dramatic fall in support of the government which was still recovering. The only response was increased security and debates on the floor of the capital, it appalled the people. People became vigilant and despite the police’s best efforts, crime rose. A 4th attack, this time, sent everything crashing down.

Five men, dressed in all black fatigues, armed with G-36’s, took a small school in the outskirts of town hostage. It brought the entire country to a standstill; an entire country was on its knee’s. There motives were clear, their execution of the plan solid to the detail. It wasn’t about the kids, it was about the message. They let the entire country know who they were, what they were going to do. The only thing not mentioned was the name of the leader, the evil mastermind behind this. The last message was sent and the school went up in flames. The war was now on.

The only thing that could even being to give the terrorist away was their weapon of choice. The G-36 was a German made Heckler and Koch but that led many to believe something they didn’t. Control was tight in Germany…or rather all of Europe and for weapons to be sold on the black market, although not too farfetched, was still difficult by any means. This led many to believe that there was indeed connections to the fatherland and the evidence was pretty supportive based solely upon the weapon and what they would have to do to get a hold of something of that caliber. Most rebels or partisan group would use something Russian made like the common Ak-47 for example. It was cheap, easy to use, durable, and not lacking in abundance. To use something of such quality gave people that idea that this group could be well funded or worse yet have connections to the Fourth Reich in some way. Nothing could be identified on the bodies, for the moment at least…the lab would have to analyze anything found which would be very hard to do. The reason being that the type of explosive set off in the school was a high degree incendiary meaning all the bodies found were unidentifiable to the point that they didn’t even appear to be human. It would take weeks to sort everything out then another few weeks if not months to distinguish between the terrorists and the actual school children and teachers. To simply put it, it was a shithole.

The school incident was a single to a number of sleeper cells in Mali. For some it was the go signal while for others it was a timer that had just been set. With fear now in firm control of the country it was time to being breaking the government’s fragile hold on the country. Major cities would be systematically attacked in various degrees. In some the murder count would simply go up while in others armed and coordinated attacks would be launched while the majority of the cities simply showed rioters take to the streets usually with not a rebel in the lot. It was a plan that couldn’t be stopped; it was too far gone now to save the country no matter how much people denied that claim. They blinded themselves to the fact that nobody was doing anything to stop it and in fact they were actually adding to the chaos and destruction. Although a few elected officials were able to clearly see their fate the rest of the country was still and always would be blind to the fact and the terrorist’s plans were working beyond perfection. They were hardly doing a thing; the country itself was slowly imploding upon itself.

The best part however was lying idly to the South. Due to Brydog’s high level of liberalism any armed movement to save their allied nation came to great debate. Miles of red tape lay between saving their brethren and fighting themselves. Many feared that this disease would spread like wildfire into their country, a notion not farfetched in the least. Any movement, they feared, would increase the rapid spread and bring about the demise of their country. To add to the debate many simply feared invading a friendly nation much to Mali’s chagrin. In effect the country was dying of a theory much like the Confederate States of America in the American Civil War. A martial law was declared and marked the beginning of the end for poor Mali. It was forced to take action against its own citizens who were taught at birth, again because of the immense amount of liberal doctrine, to despise such a move by the central government. In an odd twist of fate the terrorist would soon come across to many as the good guy as the Mali defensive force began their war against terror in their own streets and towns. It was a horrific situation to say the least, a mini civil war to a certain degree.

Niamey, Niger-Tillaberi (TI) State, Hirgizstanian Province of Central North Africa

The NIA HQ in Niger was one of the biggest in the HPCNA (Hirgizstanian Province of Central North Africa) and just one of many skyscrapers in Niamey. It was a strange building, it looked completely black due to the tinted windows.

Abdul Suleimann sat on a leather chair in a huge outer office on the 15th floor, patienty watching the young secretary go about her work. His Brooks Brothers suit, bought while on holiday with his family in Layarteb City, was cleanly pressed and laundered. It felt comfortable and natural.

Abdul felt relaxed. He had spent a day in Southern Russia being debriefed before heading back to Benghazi to spend a few days R&R with his wife and four year old daughter. He had been on constant assignment with the RWB team, jumping from the Naval pull-out in the Pacific to Operation Desert Storm and then to Moscow. It had been more than a month on constant assignment. Three days with his family was a welcome respite.

But his restless nature ensured he wasn't around for long. His wife understood. He had taken a red-eye from Benghazi to Niamey that very morning, sleeping on the plane and catching a quick breakfast in a diner near the NIA HQ. He could still faintly taste the maple syrup and the smell of fresh pancakes was still faintly on his clothes.

The Secretary's phone rang and she picked up on the first ring, said 'yes' and nodded to Abdul. He got up, straightened his suit and walked through the two dark wooden doors into a spacious office, a stylish desk and computer sat straight ahead, in front of a huge window offering a great view of the city and the brilliant cobalt blue sky, subdued slightly grey with the tint of the windows.

Francois Galla, the Niamey Bureau Chief, stood in the right hand corner of the room, fiddling in a large grey filing cabinet. He said over his shoulder, "Abdul, come on in and take a seat. Coffee?" Abdul said no and sat down in a black leather armchair in front of the metal and glass desk.

Francois closed the filing cabinet and walked back over to the desk, two files in hand. He sat down behind the desk and put the files lightly onto the glass top. "So, how's the family?"
Abdul smiled, "They're fine, Alice starts Kindergarten next week. She's pretty excited."
Francois sighed, "I remember when my two boys started Kindergarten, seems like a lifetime ago. Anyway, how was Moscow?"

"Moscow...it was cold and unpleasant." Francois laughed, "Indeed, but it was a tough assigment, thats why you got it." Abdul nodded. "I got another one for you, Abdul. This one was tailor made for RWB assigned hot-shots like you." Both men smiled.

Abdul thought for a second, "Not the Gulf again, I was there a few weeks ago..."

Francois shook his head, "Nope, not the Gulf. This is out south-west...the Ivory Coast"

Abdul nodded, "I had a feeling it might be there. The trouble there sure seems to be getting worse. Whats our interest though?"

Francois smiled again, "Our interest is...geography. Look at a map of Africa, right smack in between our HPEA (Hirgizstanian Province of East Africa) and HPCNA is that liberal shithole Brydog. Not only that, but its the most unproductive and useless part of Africa right now. Naturally, this is the richest continent in the world, but it could be richer. Our interest is, like I said, geography. TATO, well us and the United States, and perhaps Hawdawg if they agree to join, wants to stop the bloodshed and bring the provinces under some control, taking them over fully in the end."[I]

Abdul nodded in agreement. [I]"So whats my job?" Francois expected the question, "Naturally you'll be briefed fully later today, but your basically going to be TATO's eyes and ears on the ground. We don't want to get involved in a civil war if we can avoid it, but we can't very well ignore what goes on out there, especially when our goals are to take the place over. We need to find a justification to do something...a humanitarian one hopefully, thats usually easier to put across to people. So we need you, with the RWB crew, on the ground to see whats going on."

Abdul nodded again, "Is my RWB crew here?" Francois shook his head, "They have one more day in Moscow, then they're coming out here. Today you've got a couple of briefings and you need to get some kit and transport ready. Your staging post will be Orodaro in Kenedougou State (Burkina Faso), once the RWB crew get here you can get out there and plan how and when you'll get into the Ivory Coast."

Abdul nodded again.

The Malian rebels had unleashed a fury unseen in recent years. Their attacks became more frequent and brutal with each passing day. Gao, Kidal, and Mopti had all been rocked by terrorist attacks on an almost biblical scale. These cities were a hot bed for discreet activities the likes of which ended in blood and nothing else. The northern area of Mali seemed to be the most concentrated sector for the attacks and was, without a doubt, the staging point for all terrorist activates. Within these cities rebels had been so brazen as to actually walk the streets with guns blazing as if stuck in some Wild West movie. Armories had been stormed, police overrun, and buildings razed without hesitation. It was nothing short of Armageddon within these walls.

The Mali defense force was quick to retaliate much to the surprise of the rebels. Federal troops had stormed the cities much as they would an enemy’s. Malian tanks rolled through the streets taking RPG fire and countering with their own cannons. Soldiers dashed about the streets unleashing bursts of automatic rifle far and peppering nearby buildings. Hand to hand combat ensued with soldiers using whatever they could; be it knives, bayonets, pistols, grenades, or even their helmets. It was an apocalyptic battle scene. Each side had their cause; each side had their justification regardless of how false it was. The cities slowly began to cease to exist, crumbling from within. Refugees poured from its dark corners and instantly became targets all their own. The streets literally and metaphorically speaking ran red with blood. The situation had spiraled out of control, just as planned.

The rest of the country wasn’t without their scares but so far it was small scale stuff such as IED’s or lone marksmen. It was enough, however, to keep everyone on edge and that’s all that was needed. The Malian army was stretched thin, slowly withering away in Mopti, Gao, and Kidal. National Guard and reservists were being called upon to plug the much needed gaps. Men and women began refusing to attend their units fearing fort themselves but more so for their families. Every city and every town was a potential target. Riots began as officials moved to forcibly take hold of these deserters. Scenes of abuse spread like wildfire and with the death and destruction taking place the military itself began to collapse. Soldiers began to disobey orders or worse yet desert all together. Had they been able to get the cooperation they needed as well as support from Cote, they would have most likely been able to secure their cities and begin a counter offensive, but for now they fought each other and killed each other. A civil war indeed.

OOC Notice: The following post contains depictions of a truly graphic nature. Please consider this before you read on.


IC:

Mopti, Mopti Province, Mali

The shooting had finally stopped as the sun went down. The odd shot still echoed off the chipped concrete buildings every now and then. But the hellstorm of battle between the soldiers and the rebels had died away as the light had.

The Army had no desire to be in the city in darkness. Most were from the north and had no idea of the layout, most were kids, no older than 16 or 17. The AK's would almost look comical in their hands if it wasn't so damm fucked up.

But it was fairly similar on the rebel side, if not moreso. Mopti was the big stronghold of the rebels, at least the Army saw it that way. It had seen some of the worst and most brutal violence of the past few days and weeks. The liberal democracy of Brydog had collapsed in spectacular fashion, with every ethnic, religous and geographical difference being fought over. The descent into chaos had been so rapid that some people were still coming to terms with it, still thinking they had a life and a job to go to, without realising their only responsibiolity now might be to stop their wife and kids getting raped or killed by the Army or the rebels.

Everyone despaired. Except "Commander" Ugo, a pig featured and rotund former freezer salesman from Mopti.

Jean-Pierre Ugo had been a fairly normal man, at least on the outside. To his friends he was just a strange guy who didn't do much apart from go to work and read. But Ugo, to himself, was something more. He resented the hand he had been dealt, but had been unable to do anything about it.

But then one day things simply fell apart. He no longer had a job, no prospects for life and the country he lived in seemed to be falling apart. Talking to his 'friends' one night on what would become of the country, one had referred to him as pathetic on some matter or another. Ugo excused himself and returned to his ranch house. He seethed with anger for a while, usually he did nothing when such a comment was passed. But now there was little, if any law. Ugo smiled to himself.

He removed a serrated edge machete from under his bed, and hacked his friends to pieces. The next day he grabbed his AK from the rack on the wall, threw on an old French black beret and began calling himself Commander. That was enough to convince a bunch of crazy delinquets and former prisoners of his leadership 'abilities'.

Ugo was now standing in a basement of the Mopti City Hall. Chained to the pipes running along the walls was a few ragged and dusty soldiers, including a couple of kids.

Ugo was tapping his machete at his side, almost drooling and with some sort of maniacal look in his eye. His 'aide', a skinny youth called Addy, stood beside him, trying to look bigger by throwing his chest out. It didn't work. One of the chained soldiers spat at him. Ugo simply pointed at the soldier, with the machete.

Addy kicked and punched the soldier and dragged him over to Ugo. The soldier, now handcuffed again on the ground, was flailing like a flipped turtle. Ugo stood over him and grabbed his left arm, put the machete blade against the flat piece of skin on the arm bend and proceeded to saw. The soldier flailed and screamed and gurgled and spat and then grunted and roared as Ugo cut through the artery and began to saw at the bone.

Arterial spray erupted from the arm, drenching Ugo's chest. His maniacal look only got worse, he licked the blood splatter off his lips with his tongue and laughed. Addy looked on in some kind of perverse awe.

Ugo kept sawing at the bone, it was crunching and catching in the groove as blood pumped from the artery, slower now. The soldier was still roaring his head off, probably bursting blood vessels in his eyes judging by the red color they were turning.

Then Ugo stopped, and dropped the machete at his side, grabbing the soldiers half-sawn off arm in both his hands. He smiled again and then twisted quickly. There was a huge crack and the soldier's torso kicked off the floor as he brought his legs up, a roar erupted from his throat and then subsided. Ugo had twisted the arm right around, snapping the bone completely but sealing the blood flow from the artery. Ugo repeated the brutality on the other arm. And then Addy strapped the blood soaked soldier back to the pipes. The others chained up shivered and cried. Ugo then spoke, a low voice, full of resentment and malevolence, "I will be back...for your legs...and for all of you...prepare for worse. I will turn some of you into mere pieces." He threw his head back and laughed, licking more blood off his lips and wiping the blood stained machete on his pants.

OOC Notice: The following post contains depictions of a truly graphic nature. Please consider this before you read on.

IC:

Mopti, Mopti Province, Mali

Ugo sat in a dark room on a middle floor of the city hall. The shutters were drawn and the room was pitch dark. But Ugo was in there, sitting on a chair breathing slowly. The only thing visible in the room was the white around his eyes when he opened them.

He was listening to the sounds of battle dying away as another day came to an end. This day had been productive for his rebels. Their old tanks had forced the Army to retreat once again. It would only be a few more days before they gave up and then they'd break out of Mopti and run them into the ground.

Suddenly Ugo jumped up and dashed toward the door, flung it open. Addy was sitting on the floor to the left, he was startled and got himself upright fast, looking scared, confused and flustered all at once. Ugo clicked his fingers at him and walked down the corridor toward the stairs, with Addy in tow.

The basement stank of sweat, piss, shit and blood. Addy covered his mouth with a bandana, Ugo sniffed in deeply through his nose, savouring it in his perverse manner. He had the blood encrusted machete out again and was tapping it on his khaki pants while looking at the prisoners chained up in the room.

Some were sleeping, others were whimpering, some were just trying to avoid catching Ugo's eye. But he picked out the soldier he'd been at the day before. He was still chained to the piped, his whole body covered in blood. Ugo burst over to him like a man possessed and grabbed his left leg that was lying outstretched on the floor. The prisoner woke up and saw Ugo, he screamed and roared and kicked and bucked. But Ugo was standing with his boot on the other man's leg as he picked up his left one. He deftly cut through the green khaki pants, exposing the knee.

He dropped the leg and raised the machete and it came swifitly down, biting into the prisoner's leg just above the knee. Ugo smiled as he began to saw, breathing heavier and heavier as the blood bubbled up from the wound with every movement of the big machete.

The soldier groaned and writhed but he was too weak to do much. Ugo dug the machete in and sawed and cleaved until the wound was a gash the width of a child's forearm. Blood came up out of the wound in big waves. Ugo bent down close to the knee and suddenly dug his head into the wound, biting and clamping his teeth. He bit the artery in two and lifted his head up, blood all over it, laughing. He spat out part of the artery. The prisoner had collapsed, his head lolled on his shoulder, his face draining of color.

Ugo licked the blood from his lips, Addy was looking on, half in horror and half in disgust. Ugo kept hacking and sawing at the wound, getting into the bone.

He eventually stopped and stood up, lifting the leg in both his hands and twisted it sharply once to no effect, and then twice. The second time the bone above the knee crumped and the whole leg turned, tendons and all. The prisoner jolted awake with an animalistic scream, his face painted with a look of abject terror and wrenching pain. Ugo smiled, his face covered in blood. He looked like some sort of devil in human form.

He then stepped close to the prisoner who was again twisting and turning, groaning and half screaming. Ugo leaned in close, sniffing the dried blood around the soldiers neck and then going in close, mouth open. He bit into the side of the prisoner's neck and chomped a few times. The prisoner screamed and then gurgled and then nothing came out of his open mouth except blood. Ugo stepped back up from the huge wound in the neck, with skin and part of the prisoner's artery in his mouth. He spat it out and picked up his machete.

Ugo turned to Addy, the maniacal look gone. "Is the cage ready yet?" Addy nodded, still looking on in abject terror at the lifeless body of the massacred prisoner.

Bump

It was no longer a war so much as it was a systematic genocide in which nobody was safe. Mali was a proverbial Armageddon, a hellhole in which blood oozed through the streets, the smell of human feces and urine hung heavy in the air, and empty screams of torture and sacrifice echoed throughout every corner. No longer did humans occupy these once thriving cities but rather monsters and ghosts of which fear no longer held value. Faceless men, as boys no longer existed in such a place, fought mindlessly against each other no longer for a cause but to simply survive only to kill again. The cities were alive with fire and decay, if cities are what you would still call them. The smog and clouds were so thick that sunlight was never strong enough to punch through but that did little to halt the march of death. Corpses, under the extreme heat bloated and exploded. The foul stench of decaying matter engulfed everyone; there was no way to protect yourself. It simply crept through you or into you…into every pore, taking away your breathe. Satan himself would stifle at both sound and sight, but then again Satan wouldn’t be the most evil figure there.

The rebels had no leader per se although a number of men did claim to have a worthy collection of followers. No longer was Akokonan the sole cell responsible for the utter devastation inflicted upon the country. True, they were still the most organized and professional of the rebels but now, as planned, cells that never before existed began to rise and claim their piece of hell. Didier Nkosana, the leader of Akokonan, was quietly working behind the scenes. Once the rebellion grew large enough to contest the nation’s power he disappeared before any could get the wiser. He kept his connections strong but his face no longer existed. He detached himself from everything he knew, from everything he had worked towards. Then why did he keep his ties so close? Then why did he continue to keep an eye on everything? He was taking a page from history’s play book, and there is no reason to doubt its success. He had been flawless in his execution thus far, what was there to stop him now?

Ten Miles North of Mopti, Mopti Province

The vultures had been feasting for the best part of the afternoon. Bloated, scorched and limbless, bloody corpses littered the flat and steep areas of hard packed sand. Vultures angrily fought with each other over eyeballs and fingers and other small body parts. During the night the various larger animals would come out, and in a few days only bones and the odd bit of decayed flesh would be left.

Ugo was watching nature's macabre display, the circle of life only with humans instead of just animals. Some of his own men lay with the dead, noticeable only because they wore jeans or bandana's or t-shirts instead of faded military khaki. The rout had been just as he expected. The army had tried once more to take the city, but had failed. They turned tail, expecting to be left alone to regroup, but Ugo had other plans. He led his men out of the city the night before, flanking around the small army group and taking up a position in their rear, before ambushing them at dawn, when the sun was in their faces. It had been nothing short of an orchestrated masacre.

Ugo was pleased with himself. Bravery or combat skill wasn't his thing, he was a coward deep down, but he'd never admit that. What he was good at was strategy and organization. But shouting and cursing loudly and firing wildly during a battle, while ensuring he wasn't in danger, had covered his cowardice fairly well.

What was to be done after this though? Mopti belonged to him, and the province probably aswell. But what after that? He had heard of stronger, better rebel groups in the south, in and near the capital, and of roving militia's and disbanded army units combing the north of the country. If he could organize in Mopti, the north would be his for the taking, and then maybe the south. Tombouctou (Tim-buck-two) was the nearest large city in the south. Yes, Tombouctou it would be, and then perhaps, who knows?

Ugo turned to Addy, who was surveying the scene of massacre. "We return to Mopti...for now. Are the cages ready?" Addy nodded.

Mopti

The basement of the city hall was rancid now, rats scurried to and fro in the dark, chewing at dead flesh. The soldier Ugo had tortured to death still lay where he died, looking even worse, his bloated corpse being a feast to rats and flies and maggots.

The other prisoners, still strapped to the pipes, had been sick repeadtedly at the sight. Two of Ugo's men eventually removed the body, being sick as they did so. The flies and rats eventually dissappeared, as is the way of insects and vermin.

Some more prisoners had been taken after the battle outside Mopti, including a Major, who had commanded the force. Ugo had been pleased with that.

The Major had been hand-cuffed to the pipes with the other prisoners. Ugo surveyed them in the glare of the strip light on the roof.

Addy arrived a few minutes later, behind two men carrying what appeared to be dome-shaped cages of chicken-wire, about the size of a man's torso, with an opening at the front.

Ugo nodded and the two men left the cages on the floor. He then took out his pistol, an old L Frame .45. He stepped close to the Major, bent down and smashed him across the side of the face with the pistol. The Major's head snapped around, and the other side of his head clanged off the pipes. He was out cold, still had a pulse though, as Ugo checked.

He stepped away and Addy moved in to un-cuff him, dragging him, with much effort, to the centre of the room. Ugo lifted one of the cages in his hands and stretched it open, lifting it over. Addy sat up the Major and Ugo manoeuvred the cage around his chest. Addy stepped away and Ugo took the slack, closing the cage at the front and fixing it tighter and tigher. His arms, shoulder and torso were inside the cage and the tighter it got the more the chicken wire bit into his skin, which bulged out hideously through the little circular gaps in the wire.

Ugo set the Major up against a pillar in the middle of the room and Addy grabbed a bucket of water, chucking it over him.

The Major came to, and groaned and tried to move. But the cage had his arms and torso pinned tight, he couldn't move. He shouted and roared and swore though.

Ugo laughed. The Major was panicking. Every time he moved the cage just dug tighter and tighter, rivulets of blood trickled down his arms from his shoulders as the wire bit into the skin.

Ugo smiled and took out a small folding knife, extending the blade. He stepped forward, a look of horror spreading on the Major's face. Ugo bent down to his arm and placed the knife above a bulge of skin, and cut down, taking off the little bubble of skin. Blood erupted from the little wound and the Major screamed. Ugo repeated it again and again on other buldges of skin.

Soon the Major's left arm was just a bloody mess, the skin was red with blood and the cage was biting deeper as he struggled. Ugo just cut more bits of skin away, smiling as he did so, laughing when the Major struggled.

Eventually he stopped and stood up, the knife and his hands covered in blood. Bits of skin and blood lay on the floor beside the groaning Major. Ugo kept the grin on his ugly face, "You will die by inches." He spat and left the room, Addy following, the Major screaming in pain.

One by one the cities fell, like dominos, like clockwork. The death became unbearable, the torture unimaginable and there was no end in sight. Bodies littered the ground like weeds, blood was more common then water, and the air was thick with the stench of vomit and decay. Women were lucky if rape came only once and if they were still alive afterwards. Children were no such thing as girls were routinely made women without consent and boys were either killed or made men without intentions. Fires burned day and night, one could scarcely take a step without tripping over agony. Death wasn’t done with this hellish land. Actually it was quite the contrary, it was only just beginning.

Nkosana stepped forward from behind the shadows into the daylight. His eyes were like fire, pure evil. The rebellion was massive but not invincible, especially by the person that knew it better then anyone. He now began his plan; it was kept hush to a certain degree. It was enough so that people knew he was behind it but not large enough to draw attention. He hired an outsider, a man thought to exist only in myth. He was supposed to be dead and yet he would appear from time to time and then vanish without a trace. To counter this wicked land’s demons they prayed for an angel…and got a killer angel.

Ethan Raven was an enigma, even a paradox within himself. Unknown to anyone he was a schizophrenic with two personalities. On one hand he was hero and a savior bond to all things good. He felt compassion and sadness. The other was nothing short of wickedness. He was a bloodthirsty killer that lacked any form of consciousness. The two had only one thing in common, they knew how to kill and they knew it well. Raven was responsible, although indirectly, for the deaths of tens of thousands of people in Grenada. He killed thousands in Lesotho creating the terrorist breeding ground it is today. Yet he led one of the most free and civil countries in the world into existence. He has saved either directly or not, thousands of lives. The story goes that he will forever roam the earth, dead or not, because neither God nor the Devil will want him.

The hunters were about to become the hunted in a deadly game of hide and seek. One of the most dangerous men in the world was now stalking death himself.

Mopti

Ugo surveyed a huge map of what was once Brydog. Coloured pins were dotted around cities and towns in the Mali area and he was looking intently at the north of the country, around Timbouctou. That was Touareg (Twa-reg) country. Usually they killed outsiders and rumour had it they were hunting down the rogue army units busy terrorizing people north of Mopti province. But Ugo was himself a Touareg. That gave him leverage, and so far his forces had made it unimpeded into the north, with Ugo's messages carried forth.

His plans were coming together. But right now he wanted to see how the Major was doing.

He took the lift down to the basement, Addy in tow as usual. The smell of the place hit them like a brick wall, Addy gagged, Ugo didn't.

The prisoners were groaning or snoring. The Major was still propped up where they left him, his torso and arms still wrapped in the hideous cage. His left arm was covered now in congealed and dirty scars, the wire cage was actually embedded into his skin in areas, and rats had taken the liberty of trying to eat his arm through the cage. But the little black vermin had run away when the lights came on.

The Major was still alive, but barely. He was weak and barely responded when Ugo slapped him about. That was no good, Ugo took out the small L-Frame revolver and blew the Major's head off. The rest of the prisoners woke up at the thunderous noise, their ears ringing, their eyes pleading for mercy, their mouths twisted in pain or horror.

Ugo looked around randomly. He pointed at one soldier, a weak youth with raspy breathing. He barely struggled as Addy dragged him back to the lift, with Ugo following, hand on the machete at his side.

They took the youth outside and dumped him in a dusty old Land Rover, and Ugo, Addy and a couple of rebel soldiers wearing sunglasses and bandana's drove outside the city, into the desert.

It was getting on toward the evening as the Land Rover pulled to a halt near a small watering hole, the noise scattering the animals that had been drinking there. Mali was a shit-hole now, with unimaginable things going on, but the animals and wildlife didn't care, so long as it didn't affect them.

Ugo grabbed the youth and pulled him out of the back of the van. His feet and arms were tied with old rope, soaked with water so it would tighten and bite into his skin. If left long enough the fluids caught in the extremities of the hands and feet would explode outward, destroying the hands and feet, but that wasn't Ugo's plan today.

Instead he dragged the youth toward a large tree, about twenty feet away from the reeds around the small watering hole. He stood him up and unsheathed the machete. He placed the machete at the side of the boys stomach and quickly slashed the blade across. The youth screamed and bent double, blood gushing from the wound across his stomach. Ugo sheathed the blood stained machete and with one hand pushed the boy upright, before seemingly punching him in the stomach, his fist burying itself into his insides. A few seconds later he pulled out some intestines and dropped them on the dusty ground. Ugo smiled at the youth, and simply returned to the Land Rover, where Addy and the soldiers were trying not to look or meet his eye.

Ugo watched now, the youth was stumbling about, his insides lying on the ground. He was being violently sick and stumbled to the ground. He was still alive, but losing blood and fluid like a fire hydrant. From the reeds a shape appeared, small and low and fast. It darted forward, a Jackal. It grabbed the ends of one of the intestines and tried to carry it away, struggling to get it into the reeds, as it was still attached to the youth. But the Jackal was stronger in its greed and it pulled the youth to the ground.

Ugo watched for an hour as Jackals and Vultures pecked away at the body, whether the youth was still alive or dead he didn't know, or care. The spectacle was macabre. Addy was sick more than once and the two soldiers simply couldn't watch, but Ugo did.

Fiend Incarnate

Gao, Mali
The sand wisped across the grassy beaches as a gentle African breeze began to kick up. The thick December sky filled with grayish clouds only to be replaced by a clear sky and a blazing sun in a matter of minutes. The water along the beach was crisp and blue. Little kids, despite the horrific war going on, played in the cool river. Families untouched by war watched cheerfully as they relaxed to escape the continuous reports on the radio and television. Local vendors walked back and forth along the river yelling out prices for fruit and other delicacies. It was just your average typical day. The war had not cast its ugly shadow since the first days of combat. A few scars littered the city. A few extra graves, the occasional bullet imprinted on a building, a charred skeleton of a once proud building. Yet the battle was over as quick as it had started and life continued on as if nothing had taken place. The rebels had secured the town and seemingly moved on. The Federals had been defeated and had not been back since, they had their hands full elsewhere. So life went on and people continued their ignorance.

It was about 1300 when the truck rolled along the dusty trial up to the river. It was a black beat up pickup truck right out of a Clancy novel. On the back was a mounted RPK and about four body guards. Another guard was driving, all of them armed with AK’s. In the passenger seat was Oluchi Chima. Chima was an ex Hirgizstan Colonel who moved to Mali after being decommissioned in Hirgizstan. He had served with honor in the Hirgizstan army and thrived in the Malian Armed Forces. Unfortunately, he had a falling out with the MAF. He often criticized his superiors for their lack of professionalism and courage. After years of fighting with his fellow officers he finally met the breaking point. During a routine exercise he stumbled upon a brigadier general raping a local woman. The blame, however, fell upon him and during a long court martial he killed the general and was sentenced to prison. Forever turned bitter, he was released when the rebels began to target the city. Once escaped he united the rebel factions and contacted Nkosana where he rose through the ranks of the newly constructed rebel forces. When the rebels had finally defeated the Federals he was in complete charge of the city and its forces. Now he found himself in charge of coordinating a number of rebel factions into their first coordinated assault on a Federal stronghold in Kidal.

For a second the beach stood still, everything became hushed as all eyes turned to the General. The RPK let loose a small rip into the air sending onlookers scurrying away. The truck stopped and the entourage exited. They proceeded to fan out with the four taking up a box formation around a small patch of beach. The locals realizing that they weren’t in danger began to return to their original places. The General just wanted some time along the river. The calm didn’t last long. 800 meters away an M82A1 barked once. In just little over a second a 50 caliber bullet entered the side of the driver’s head instantly sending fragments in every direction. The bullet then exited and entered Chima’s skull. Red mist and grey mattered plastered the inside of the truck. Pieces of head littered the immediate area. It happened within 2 seconds, before anyone could even blink. The guards could only turn their heads and gaze at the horrific destruction that just took place. Two locals threw off their robes revealing a pair of Colt 45’s and G36K and before the guards could even shoulder their weapons a few bursts sent them to the afterlife. Nibori, holstering his Colt’s, walked serenely over to the truck and dropped a single Thermite Grenade. Raven watched the event take place through his telescopic scope mounted on the Barrett. His eyes reflected the glow of red and yellow from the explosion.

Target One had been eliminated

Tingrela, Ivory Coast, 2 Miles from the Mali Border

Abdul slept deeply. He was used to the heat, and inside the light mozzie net he was safe from all the horrible things with wings that wanted to eat or suck on his face and body. The little room he slept in was quiet and dark. It was wood pannelled and seemed to creak as one if you walked about, and there were old faded carpets adorning the walls and floor, like something out of an Arabian Nights story.

The little 'Hotel' was run-down and probably hadn't had visitors for years, the old couple that owned it certainly were pleased to see guests and were never done enquiring about all the equipment the RWB team had with them, stowed in the two monstrous beige coloured SUV's.

The rest of the team slept in their own rooms, down the hall from Abdul, whose room was on the edge of the building, with a window overlooking nothing but desert as far as the eye could see, right up to and beyond the Mali border.

There was a knock at the door, loud and booming, the room creaked and Abdul woke with a snort and a cough. Before he'd had a chance to say anything the door flew open and some sort of apparition stood in the way, a body, male for sure, but transparent and engulfed in a light black haze. Whatever it was moved into the room, no...it glided into the room.

Abdul smelt something acrid and tasted something acidic and dusty in his mouth. He couldn't speak, although he wanted to shout or move or something. His gun was just beside him on the little table, but his body just wouldn't move, and he was fixated on this apparition that was staring at him with wild and strange eyes, white but veiled beneath the smoke-like haze that surrounded this thing.

Whatever it was, it didn't speak, didn't move, and didn't make any noise at all. Nothing stirred anywhere, there was silence, endless and numbing. Something stirred in Abdul's head...something he'd read about as a child in his classes at the Mosque...it couldn't be...they were just stories...told by the old men who prayed there...surely. But there was this thing, wreathed in what appeared to be smoke, that had glided into his room and had seemingly paralysed him to the bed. Was it really a...a...Jinn?

Before Abdul even had time to think further the thing spoke, its voice low and raspy but not evil, it betrayed a sense of knowledge and benevolence, of feeling and caring, but not human, not by a long shot. "Yes...you are right." Abdul was shocked, could it read his thoughts? Was it answering yes to him? It spoke again, "Yes I can, and I am." Abdul gulped, tried to speak or make some noise, but nothing came out.

The apparition still stood there, staring, silent, still wreathed in what looked like smoke. Abdul had heard and read about Jinn as a child, they were on the earth before men, supposedly, created by God before man. But they flew up to heaven and eavesdropped on the angels, and they lost favour with God, but he did not kill them. They simply continued to live, on another plain from man, able to see man but with man not able to see them. Then Muhammed preached to them, and many became Muslim, and some didn't. Those that were Muslim were largely said to be benevolent, helping in ways, but also causing great distress at times. While those who were not Muslim were seen as Demons. Both types of Jinn were said to have possessed people, and the odd report of this or sighting of a Jinn was always in the media every now and then...but right now Abdul was staring at one...for real...

It spoke again, "I know why you are here, there is much danger and suffering not far from here, and it will come to this place, and people will do awful things. You, yourself, are in grave danger, but your motives are good, you wish to stop this. I come to tell you that you will meet people on your journey, trust none of them, for they speak with two tongues. Trust in yourself and God, the most merciful."

Abdul's vision blurred and he felt himself fall, seemingly for a long time. Then he woke with a jolt and jumped up out of the bed, and getting tangled in the mozzie sheet, falling out of the bed and onto the wooden floorboads with an almighty thump, it was a miracle they didn't give way. The room around him was bright, light poured in through the thin curtains, the door was closed and everything where it should be. Had he dreamed the Jinn...or was it real? There was a knock on his door, one of the RWB people put his head in and laughed at Abul, wound up in his bedsheet and the Mozzie net. He said, "We move out in ten, hurry up."

Nkosana’s location was yet unknown and he enjoyed that fact. It was something he was born with, a special skill he possessed from birth it seemed. He could recall from his childhood, clear as an African summer day, the times he would sneak away from the house and travel along hidden dirt roads. The vastness of the land engulfed him and he embraced its gentle touch and its ambient glow. For days he would be lost within its clutches while troubling his parents all the while. Yet he lived for it, the thrill of survival and the harmony that nature provided. It got to the point where his parents no longer concerned themselves, not because of negligence, but rather because they knew he was fine, knew it was something he did and loved to do. He taught himself to disappear, to not exist. The world never existed to him. He could travel between dimensions, between reality and utopia. He could escape his fears and confront his pleasures at will. As he grew so to did his talent and so to did his willingness to separate from reality. He could easily remove himself from the world but that one day, that one day he would never get back, he could not remove his parents. Now as he hid they decayed into the earth from which he thrived. In death they had talked with him more then in life. He now had a reason to become nothing, but alas it would not let him forget. They had, in death, infiltrated his euphoria and compromised it.

He was hidden from the world the world he sought to destroy. He hid his plans from the world the world he sought to destroy. He hid his reasons from the world the world he sought to destroy. He hid his fears from the world the world he wished to destroy. He hid his regrets from the world the world he sough to destroy. But he would not hide…forever.

Kayes, Mali
The night was dark and cool. A breeze swept in from the east, flowing from the swift moving River Senegal. Clouds, grey and eerie, moved across the sky with all possible haste. A storm was coming and a large one at that. The barometer had dropped and a mist was in the air. The city was quiet expect for the occasional thunder off in the distance as the storm moved its way from the dreary Atlantic and over Senegal. Lamps swayed with a screechy yell as the breeze grew in its intensity. The city was still and peaceful. A man hurried along sidewalk clutching tight an overcoat he had on to shield him from the desert night. His face was covered by the thick shadow cast by a large hat he wore on his head. His black shoes clicked with each lonely step as he walked faster and faster as if someone was tailing him. He was sweating profusely and his eyes darted back and forth in his head. His breathing was getting heavy because of his alarming place. He rounded the next corner skimming the yellow brick buildings that lined the road. The buildings themselves differed in shape and size. Kayes was a developing city along the river. It contained a number of government buildings yet remained completely modernized. This gave the city, or at least this street, almost a Wild West tone.

A soft rain began to soften the ground beneath it. The thunder had become more intense giving warning of the storm that was en-route. Lightning dashed across the sky in the distance but was large enough to light the sky over Kayes. The sky was brilliantly lit, the lightning featuring all that nature could offer. Yet the effects of the storm were beginning to be felt by this quiet little city. Shutters began to beat ominously against their frame; wooden floorboards began to creek with a spine-chilling effect; and the lights began to flicker and sway with a sinister glow. The man quickened his pace. His right hand let go his grip on his jacket which he used to wipe the rain accumulating on his face. He brought his hand down and with a jerk revealed a watch. His eyes came to focus and he glared at the watch, the numbers glowing. He quickly returned to his normal routine but something startled him. In front of him was a man who, as far as he could tell, couldn’t have been more then 26. He wasn’t African but he spoke the language with perfection, “Excuse me sir, do you have a light?” He quickly looked him up and down and, with a little bit of hesitation, reached into his pocket and returned with a lighter. The man leaned in cigarette in mouth. He was there to meet him flicking the light on. The man nodded in appreciation and mumbled, “Blood will have blood.”

Confused by the term and frankly, quite scared, the man pulled back. He hadn’t thought much of it but he was stopped directly to the side of an alley…a dark alley. As he turned his head to look into the alley a hand emerged and wrapped around his mouth. His shock prevented any fight and the opposing hand of the attacker quickly found his radial vein with a hypodermic needle. His eyes widened as the cyanide traveled into his heart. Within seconds he fell limp in the attacker’s arms, drooling from his mouth.

*snips*

[ooc: umm, if I had realized that you wanted to kill something, I could have told you to jab the needle in the guy's neck... artery or vein, it'll kill him fast and it's easier to manage - just manage trying to grab the guy's arm and injecting it into the vein [which isn't an easy matter if you're struggling with a strong person...]. NOW, if your government was conducting the execution, arm would be okay...]

West of Tingrela, Ivory Coast

Abdul watched as the vultures picked at the remains of animals and humans, charred black by the fire. The vultures pecked at them, opening them up and tugging at pink and red bits of flesh, a heavy contrast with the charcoal and sand color that coated their bodies. The RWB team was nearby, filming in the ruins of the small village. Abdul had driven past it a few weeks ago, children had chased the car laughing and smiling, and chickens had flapped and protested as the SUV seemingly chased them down the rutted dusty track.

The team had heard about rebels raiding towns and villages on the Ivory Coast side of the Mali border, the rebels were now coming off with phrases like 'ethnic cleansing' and 'ethnic justice' in their sordid and creepy radio broadcasts. They drove trucks up and down the border all night, with some creepy guy reading out statements to the people in the Ivory Coast. Loads of people had already fled southward.

Abdul and the RWB team stayed. This was the third village they'd come across during the afternoon. It was the same as the rest, burnt to to the ground, all males dead, some females dead, some kids, and some animals here and there. Rumour had it the rebels were taking the women as slaves and drugging the kids with khat and forcing guns into their hands.

Abdul had been into Mali quite a few times. There were Ivory Coast Freedom Fighters there, carrying out sabotage against the rebels, Abdul was with them, training them when he could and helping when he could. The last time he'd been to Tingrela they had met him with a rebel prisoner, he only spoke of his commander, a guy called 'Ugo'. He laughed and spat and snarled at the Ivorians, but the laughter seemed to peter out when they cut his fingers off. He was a young guy, didn't know anything, so they hung him for 'war crimes', as the Freedom Fighters put it.

Abdul, and even the RWB people, were coming to the conclusion that some major shit was headed their way. The rebels had really consolidated in the north, and if they had people to spare to carry out border raids to carry off slaves and kids, it wouldn't be long before they crossed the border in force, and machete justice would follow.

Abdul knew the powers that be would be worried if Mali and the Ivory Coast exploded in war, that just wasn't good. TATO then couldn't ignore it.

Location Unknown
His chair gave in slightly as the weight of his body engulfed the leather exterior. He let the warm fabric embrace him, the chair leaning back as he shifted his weight. The leather made its share of noise as his clothes rustled against its black skin. His eyes were closed, his age finally catching up to him. It was about time though; he had escaped it for far too long. Nevertheless he heard a rustling that was not of his own creation. His eyes opened and saw a small aide at the door in front of him.

“Come in”

The aide was small yet tremendously built. Despite his obvious African heritage he spoke with a heavy German accent. Despite his age and size he was not at all nervous. In fact he was quite the contrary, he felt at ease in Nkosana’s presence. He was comforted by the man’s genius it seemed.

“What is it?”

“Sir, Baptise, Chima, Ghalil, Riverdale, and Olilumid are all dead.”

“Baptise? When?”

“Last night sir in Kayes.”

There was a brief pause, Nkosana was taking it all in. He looked at the aide who seemed to be preparing a statement. So he let the aide talk.

“Sir that leaves only three more targets.”

“Yes.”

“Well he is no doubt good…”

“And?”

Nkosana was becoming a little impatient but he could easily keep a cool head. He understood his temper was short and was able to control it.

“Well sir, it…he seems too good.”

“I’m not sure I follow. Care to explain?”

“This Ethan sir, something about him bugs me. What happens when he is done…killing that is? When he learns what you are going….are doing? With all due respect he could kill you, maybe not as easily as the other…certainly not as easy as the others, but sir he is good.”

Nkosana weighed his response. The boy did bring up a good point, actually a very good point. Though how could he kill him? He’d be able to smell or a trap miles away. A man in his position doesn’t survive by being naïve. He could hire somebody but nobody was good enough. And if Nkosana didn’t want to be on Raven’s hit list, if he wasn’t already, putting a price on his head would certainly give him reason to be.

“Your concern is comforting.”

That was all he needed to say. The aide took the hint and quickly vanished from the door he came. The question still stirred heavily on Nkosana’s mind though. What to do?

Kita, Mali
The roads were dusty and dry thanks to the lack of rain in recent days. The rolling hills were dotted with limited foliage and the sky was just as plain. The sun beat down with unusual fury taking with it whatever moisture was in the air. The jeep tumbled forward kicking up a cloud of red dirt and dust in its wake. The jeep was abnormally rugged and sturdy, the main reason it was still in service. It was a ‘Willys MB’ jeep, an American World War Two design. With it came two men both African and both wearing outdated military uniforms. The first was a simple driver, a man of low rank. Next to him, however, was the final leader of the rebellion that had claimed Mali, Imamu Yaw.

Yaw was a sturdy man with broad shoulders and even broader stomach. His hair was thinned despite his young age of 42. His eyes were set deep, cut into his forehead as if by force. His teeth were yellow and crooked, a ghastly sight to any onlooker. His smile was non-existent, scared away by his wicked features. He was arrogant and ignorant, a combination from which no good comes. He was an armchair general, a man whose bravado provided his only escape from his obvious cowardice. Yet he was no idiot, knew that his time was counting down. He had kept in contact with the others, the leaders of the failing rebellion. When they slowly stopped responding he knew his time was limited. Yet what could he do, what options did he have? His false confidence no longer comforted him; his sanctity had been lost long ago. So he ran, and so he did.

The jeep was tossing along, creating a mess of thick hot dust behind it. The driver sat straight, peered hard through the cloud of darkness that consumed the jeep. The driver wore goggles which provide only limited protection. The fine grains of sand finding their way into every and any opening available. The dust bit hard, stinging with every blast. It began to build along the windshield eliminating what little line of sight had been available. Nevertheless he leaned forward and sped along, hoping to leave the tail of dust behind them. Yaw sat back, his head covered in a thick mask, eyes protected by a pair of goggles. He cursed the ground under his breath, the desert wearing him down. He strained to see, looked further ahead, saw blessed relief. He motioned to the driver and they veered left towards a sat of hills covered in thick grass. The swirling hell around them ceased upon entering the grassy hills, small trees lining the road on each side adding shade as well. They continued at much the same pace, the driver slowing down and speeding up as he cleared his goggles of filth that seemed everywhere. Yaw did the same, removing his mask and wiping unsuccessfully at the sand he was caked in. He took a deep breathe of fresh air but instead he inhaled a large dose of sand hidden on his teeth. He coughed furiously, not so much annoyed as angered by the unforgiving land. The driver, now able to see clearly removed the windshield as it was covered in a thick layer of dust, obscuring his view. The driver steadied out and the air began to filter away anything left from the earlier part of the trip.

They drove along for another 20 minutes, Yaw all the while glancing to each side waiting for that imagined ambush. He had left without warning, without as much as a discreet indication. His band of rebels was left leaderless, unknowing. He was filled by fear, fueled by insanity. He was no good dead or alive in this state, it didn’t matter. Suddenly the driver let out a quick grunt and the car jerked uncontrollably. Yaw happened to be looking past the driver but saw, within the split second before it hit him, a mist of blood spray from the driver’s neck. The blood acted as a dust, coating the fine clear wire strung across the road at head level. Almost as suddenly the wire dug itself into the throat of Yaw, cutting his head nearly off as it had the driver. Yaw fell back allowing the wire to release its grip, blood spewing in every direction. The car jerked back and tumbled to its side where it slid along the grassy road a few feet. Yaw toppled about, blood leaking like a faucet from his neck. He began to gargle, blood rising up into his mouth, clogging his airways forcing him to drown in his own fluids. His legs twitched about, his nerves cut as if by scissors. His arms grasped the ground, clung to dots of red grass. His eyes moved nervously about unaware of his body’s pain, searching for his ender. Raven was quickly and silently overtop of him, showing no emotion, stoic by legend. Raven kneeled down and removed a knife from his pocket. Tears rolled down Yaw’s cheeks, his eyes moving back and forth trying to plead with his killer. The knife plunged slowly into Yaw’s heart, Raven’s eyes never removed from Yaw’s. Things fitfully went black.

OOC: I will get a post up soon, I have been busy with Secrets of the Jungle and a couple of days ago I got an RSI strain in my right arm, so its sore to type. I assume Ugo can now claim to be the true leader of Mali and the rebellion?

See offsite!

Bamako, [People's Republic of] Mali

Ugo had changed his title again, switched rank too. It was now General Ugo, Supreme Leader of the People's Republic of Mali. He wore a new uniform, as did his men. They were now proper soldiers in the recently formed People's Army of Mali (PAM).

http://www.voanews.com/english/images/The_Last_King_of_Scotland_Forest_Whitaker_210.jpg
General Ugo, Supreme Leader of the People's Republic of Mali

Bamako was, once again, the seat of power for the entire country. Ugo had moved in not a week ago after General Yaw, the former Supreme Rebel Leader, had been killed in an army ambush somewhere around Kita. Ugo was preparing to move against him anyway from Timbukto in the north. But his death had been very providential. Ugo had rolled down from the north in a snaking column of tanks and trucks and all manner of armored vehicles. Some of General Yaw's men decided to fight on the outskirts of the city, but they were no match for Ugo's men and most gave up when his tanks began appearing.

Now Ugo sat in the Presidential Palace, a city hall like building right in the centre of town with ornate balconies all around. Tanks and soldiers ringed the building, holding back thronging, chanting crowds, so happy to see a strong, decisive leader in power. At least thats what they believed Ugo to be. He had recruited many propagandists in the north and even the usually fiercely independent Touareg's seemed mollified, although Ugo being one of them certainly helped.

The people of Bamako were chanting for him, rythmically, deeply, over and over, despite the heat outside. It echoed through the halls of the Palace, still ramshackle and covered in discarded official papers and furniture in the process of being looted when Ugo had arrived.

The front balcony overlooked a square in the city in which was gathered hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, all turned out to see their new leader speak. The cheering and chanting reached a crescendo as he appeared on the balcony. He looked around, chin high in the air, chest out and eyes wandering among the people. The soldiers around the compound didn't move, but scanned the people for any sign of assassins or enemy soldiers.

Ugo didn't speak, he just held up a fist in a kind of salute. Then he pointed south, toward the Ivory Coast, and the crowd erupted in rapturous adulation and seething hatred for the enemy sitting behind their border in the south.

With my Face to the Enemy

He did not to do it for the money, he had plenty. The Grenada Incident had set him for life however morbid that sounds. It was something deeper inside that called him to do it, something he could never escape. It was the thrill. He was addicted to adrenaline, the smell, taste, and feel…all of it. His life revolved around it and nothing, nothing at all quenched his thirst more then pulling the trigger, ending an evil life, though many weren’t evil at all. A shadow he could never forget. It wasn’t him per say, it was his…other half, split personality. It was the one person he could never kill, could never evade. Though it gave him his greatest strength, it was by far his only weakness. The only way to keep it in check was to kill and kill more. If he didn’t it would take over, control him and he would be powerless, would not be able to tell the difference between good and evil because he would be evil. That is the difference between good and evil…knowing the difference. So he killed the bad to save the good, a simple plan…a very simple plan. But then there was no more challenge, evil had turned into the weak and cowardly. He had hunted some of the most evil men in Africa, had killed them without batting an eye…how pathetic! No challenge left, none at all…god damn useless! What good is looking into a dying man’s eyes without him glaring back into yours? Where have all the warriors gone? What else is there? Please god, I don’t want to kill any more innocent, no more children…no more women! No…no, ha! I killed god long ago.