NationStates Jolt Archive

He was securely strapped in, his ears had popped, and his head hurt like seven angry dwarves had, directly after having large anvils nailed to their feet, decided to preform an inpromptu rendition of Riverdance. Beyond these three facts he was not at all sure of anything.

Oh, and his name was Frederic Norrald the Third.

"You awake back there, Freddy boy?" Asked the man flying the plane Frederic now realized he was in. "Good. Hate for you to have been permanantly damaged. Would mess up the entire plan. Smile for the camera, Freddy boy."

A huge black man with dreadlocks and a video camera stepped in front of Frederic. "This is Piratical Air, broadcasting live," he announced, "In front of me is one Frederic Norrald the Third. Until a short time ago, he was partying on a private yacht. As of right now, he is a prisoner of Jack Bones, Last Kologkian Pirate Captain, and us, his crew. We are not terrorists, we are not fanatics. We're just people trying to earn a living. Our demands are simple. In exactly twelve hours, starting now, Frederic Norrald will disembark from this vessel. Unless one hundred thousand dollars have been deposited in bank account number Three Four Nine, Eight Eight Eight, we will not land before hand. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you, and good night."

He switched off the camera. "Everything according to schedule so far, Captain Jack," he announced to the pilot.

"Good. How's Mary?"

Frederic vaguely remembered the attack now. There had been a lot of shouting and smoke. One of his guards had been shot in the leg by a woman. The other had shot her in the arm before being felled by the huge man.

"The doc we took says she should be fine," replied the huge man. "You want me to take the helm for a while, Captain?"

"Yeah. That'd be great," replied Jack, standing up and turning around. Frederic could now see the tricornered hat on his head.

"Oh god," he moaned, "You're pirates."

Jack and the huge man started laughing. "Give the punk a prize," said Jack, producing a bottle of brandy from somewhere and pouring himself a glass. "Yes. We're pirates. Some of the last, from all I hear. Time's running out for us. Blank spaces on the map being filled in. No more 'here there be monsters'. What pirates there are left are little more than thugs on boats. No, we're a dying breed, us honorable pirates."

"That's why Billy here sent out that video before you woke up. The one offering our unique services as mercenaries to anyone who will give us amnesty and a letter of Marque. And that's why we need the funds your daddy will cough up to keep us from hurting you."

Frederic shrank back in his seat, horrified. Jack laughed again, this time bitterly. "It's all going to hell," he muttered. "Merchants run heavily armed. Sattelites can track you wherever you go. Those goddamned eyes in the sky. Well, they won't track us. This is a registered civilian plane flying a perfectly authorized flight path, as far as anyone is concerned." He stood up. "Still, come the day won't be any cracks left for folks like us to slip through. That's why you better pray that your daddy prays. We're all marked men on this ship. What's a count of murder, eh?"

OOC: Feel free to play as some counter-terrorist people trying to stop the pirates (somehow), someone taking them up on their offer, or anything else you like.

OOC: Does the footage give any hint as to their location?
IC:

Secret Intelligence Service Headquarters, 1928 hrs

M watched the footage, perplexed.

"Fucking pirates," she muttered to herself. To the assembled agents and personnel she said, "This is intolerable. We cannot have pirates roaming the seas."

The crowd nodded their heads in agreement.

"Now, I want analysts working on figuring out, through the videotape, to figure out where that ship is. 009, I want you to trace that bank account number. Get to work, people!"

OOC: Nope. Although, it does make it fairly clear that they're in a plane. The bank account is Swiss, or equivlant thereof, and, should you somehow manage to trace it anyways, registered to a Mister Jack Haarper, on whom no information can be found.

OOC: Ooh. Tricky.
IC:

SIS

"M, we've got no leads on the bank account, and the footage merely proves that they're on a plane."

"Hmm..." M picked up her phone and dialed the Ministry for Defence.

"Yes, I need the Minister...What do you mean, she's having sex with the President? Fine, whatever. Have her call me back when she's done."

"Hmm...send them the money. 009! You're being assigned a whole team. You need to observe who withdraws from the account. I'm sure the bank will cooperate; if they don't, threaten them."

OOC: Um... no, they wouldn't. They're a businses organization operating under the auspices of the Kologkian government, not likely to back down to a bunch of thugs.

OOC: I didn't say they actually would, that's just the opinions of M.
IC:

The SIS agents walked into the bank.

"We need to see whoever's in charge."

The receptionist laughed in their faces, while at the same time resting her finger on a panic button beneath the desk. "I'm sorry," she said, once her snickering had subsided, "But that's really not possible, unless you have an appointment. Mister Blofeld is booked solid for the next three weeks."

She smiled apologetically.

"Ma'am. This is a matter of international security. By order of the Britannic Commonwealth, you are directed to take me to the President of this fucking bank," said the SIS agents, readying themselves for action.