NationStates Jolt Archive

HM Treasury
Kensington, Eurasia
2345 hours

The wind howled down the streets of Kensington, rain battering the marble structure of HM Treasury. The night was humid, permeating all of the northern island, and tendrils of mugginess wrapped themselves around Eurasians all across the city.

Alan Forbeson, Chancellor of the Exchequer, sat hunched over his computer screen, constantly looking over his shoulder.

"Computer, intiate electronic transfer sequence foxtrot, from HM Treasury to private account number 568215901," whispered Forbeson. "My private account. Authorisation: Forbeson Charlie-India-November."

Authorization confirmed, touted a digitized female voice. One point three billion eura transfer in progress.

"Excellent," chuckled the Chancellor. "Computer, erase record of the transfer. Authorisation Forbeson Charlie-India-November."

Access denied, replied the computer, its tone taking on an aspect of hostility. Your authorisation code has been invalidated.

"What the hell?" hissed Forbeson. "Computer, state the nature of the invalidation."

Authorization was revoked by order of Prime Minister Sir Phillip Sinclair and HM Government at 2347 hours.

"Shit," muttered Forbeson. "That idiot PM's on to me." He leaped out of his chair, and rushed to place his jacket around his shoulders. He heard the sound of footsteps outside his door.

The door flew out of its hinges, a leather boot taking its' place.

"Freeze! This is the Eurasian Security Service," shouted an ESS agent. "You're under arrest!"

"That's what you think, asshat," spat Alan, pulling a pen grenade out of his pocket, chucking it at the agent, promptly killing him and his small squad. He fled out the door as three armed women sprinted towards him.

"Freeze, damn it, freeze!" they cried, tackling the Chancellor, slapping handcuffs on his wrist. A shadowy figure emerged from the elevator, his face masked by wafts of smoke.

"I'm disappointed in you," sneered the figure. "You thought you could get away with it, eh? Well, you failed, as always, Alan. You failed just like you have for decades, old man. I've never trusted you; every time you've utilised your security code, it's been logged. For instance, on 2 November 2008, you utilised your code to alter a secretary's work schedule to make sleeping with her more condusive. And when she threatened to report you, you used your clearance to create a false criminal record and have her arrested."

"Who...who the fuck are you?" gasped Forbeson.

"You needn't worry," derided the figure. "Men, women, take him away."

Forbeson was too shocked to even shout in protest.

Secure Detention Centre
21 November 2009
1321 hours

Alan Forbeson laid on the cold, titanium floor of his cell. Emblazoned on the wall directly outside his cell were the words "Secure Detention Centre Sydney". This was the first clue he had as to where he was - he had been removed from the United Kingdom proper to the colonies.

"So you noticed," boomed a voice which resonated throughout the room. "Lucky us, poor you - no longer protected by so many laws that apply in Eurasia proper."

"Who the hell are you?" asked Alan angrily.

"Silence!" shouted the voice, as an electric current ran through the floor, forcing Alan to writhe in pain on the floor like a putrid worm. "I ask the questions, not you." Alan groaned in response.

"The ironic part is that you were so close to getting away with it," chuckled the voice. "So very close. Why, you had us fooled into believing foreign influence or espionage." The electric current pulsed again, the agony even more intense than before. "You see, Chancellor - or should I say ex-Chancellor? - I highly frown upon traitors. I love the United Kingdom, Mr Forbeson, and I intend to ensure its continued glory. You, it seems, wish to impede that goal in favour of your own greed. For that, you will suffer."

The floor then was entangled in a net of blue currents and electric arcs, shooting throughout Alan's body, frying his organs, tormenting him; the cell turned into a blur, into a swirl of colour, into blackness.

Secure Detention Centre
24 November 2009
1842 hours

Alan felt his eyes open, yet he could not see anything in the darkness. He blinked, hoping to receive a glimmer of information - but he would discover none. Alan searched his mind for any memories since his previous torture; however, it seems that he had been unconscious since then - as if Forbeson knew how long ago "then" was.

A glaring, ivory light abruptly shone into Alan's face; he tried to raise his hands to block the rays, only to find them handcuffed to the stool he was on.

He heard crisp, martial footsteps sound off the titanium floors, a sound that was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Good evening, Mr Forbeson," droned a British accent. "It's about time you joined us."

"Sinclair?" answered Alan, dazed.

"Yes," shot the voice. "I'm here to teach you a lesson, Mr Forbeson. See, I know all about you - things that you can't even imagine."

"Bah," Alan scoffed weakly.

"You don't believe me?" the voice said as the footsteps resumed, circling around Alan. "Well, your wife has cheated on you no less than nineteen times, and as I speak, she's seducing a Lieutenant Jessica Abo, Royal Navy, and preparing to have sex with her. She's constantly ridiculed the size of your...equipment, and refused to have sex with you on your wedding night until you threatened her with execution. At age nine, you had a small puppy named Buddy, but he died, causing you to spiral into depression, and you, trying to feel better, unburied the dog and copulated with it. The only good thing going for you anymore is the fact that you are a brilliant economist. Need I go on?"

Alan weakly shook his head, tears streaking down his face.

"Excellent," the voice responded smugly. "Now, this is most interesting - your account has been accessed three times in the week preceding your arrest - and the withdrawals were not made by you or your wife. Who accessed the account?"

"My daughter," said Alan. "My daughter."

"Really?" mused the voice. "Your daughter withdrew over nine billion euras? That's one fucking nice dress. Don't lie to me." A whip snapped through the air, striking Alan in the crotch. He whimpered in pain as the whip struck again and again.

"I said I know all about you, Mr Forbeson," the voice said as the whip continued to strike him in the groin. "During the Civil War, you supported that dog, Yañez, and that damned Social Republic as well. And, it's odd, because we started to track that money - surprise, surprise: the money went to weapons and military equipment." He kicked the stool down, knocking Alan to the floor. Sir Phillip then proceeded to punt Alan in the stomach, following that with stomping on his manhood, ripping it off with his foot.

Screams were all that followed.

Kensington Palace
26 November 2009
1230 hours

Sir Phillip sat at his desk, meditating. The white papers marshalled themselves into order, regiments of pens lined up along the edges, flanked by computer interfaces, covered by squadrons of data reports. Rotating in his chair, he looked from his office window unto Kensington Bay and the other side of the city. A timid chime rang from the door.

"Enter," commanded Sir Phillip. Elliot Crompton, Minister for Defence, walked in with a stack of papers.

"Sir, I have the reports you requested," stated Elliot weakly, placing them on the desk.

"Good," replied Sir Phillip curtly. He resumed gazing upon the bay.

"I've talked to Schwab," mentioned Elliot. "He's managed to track down two accounts and freeze them."

"Excellent," mused Sir Phillip. "I knew he would make a good Chancellor of the Exchequer. I assume the accounts belong to subversive SSL [Social Republic of Londin] supporters?"

"Correct," responded Elliot proudly. "Nine hundred thousand euras each."

"Not good enough," spat Sir Phillip. "If those damned renegades can penetrate my bloody Cabinet, then they obviously can penetrate most organisations in Eurasia, and embezzle even more money. We lost billions[/] of euras. One point eight million is a pittance."

Elliot looked down at the polished marble floor in shame, his reflection staring back coldly.

"I'm invoking the Official Secrets Act as of 1242 hours, 26 November 2009. Computer, note this in your logs," droned Sir Phillip. "Authorisation Sinclair Alpha-Delta-India."

[I]Authorisation confirmed. Invocation of the Official Secrets Act has been logged. Appropriate documents are being sealed; classification level of Most Secret.

"Now, I want all individuals in any position of power who might even show some sympathy to the SSL placed under surveillance - Parliament approved that measure this morning. The last thing I want is somebody actually succeeding in remaking the Social Republic," ordered Sir Phillip.

"Yes, sir," replied Elliot. "By the way, what happened to Chancellor Forbeson?"

"Do you really want to know? He was tortured - his manhood ripped off, his skin peeled, his organs removed one by one, ending with his heart. 'Tis the price he pays for being a traitor. And we gleaned every ounce of information we needed," Sir Phillip replied sadistically, an odd glint in his eye. "You're dismissed."