NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Basically this is just an RP of a Confederate civilians life. Feel free to join up.

Massive skyscrapers rose up all around Grand Army Plaza. Most were owned entirely by the major companies within the Confederacy, Griffincrest Oil Inc., Angelbridge Cola, and Goldsword Automotives, to name a few. None of these buildings, however, would be the destination of a young man named Maximus Orangeblossom, or to his friends, just Max. Max was on his way to the Confederate war memorial on the far side of the plaza. The site was where the old Bluebreast Building once stood, before it was destroyed by a missile from the Black Reich. Now, in its place, stands an large green marble wall. On the wall was the names of every Confederate soldier killed in battle since the building went down in the Exponential Civil War. Griffincrest mercenaries would not be listed on this wall, however, as they are not soldiers of the government and most of their deaths are kept secret anyway.

Max was going up to the memorial to pay respects to his cousin, Octavius Orangeblossom. Octavius was a soldier of the Confederacy, and to Max, he was the best soldier ever to be seen in the Confederacy. Octavius was killed in the failed invasion of their home city by ThePeopleFreedom. A missile crashed right down upon his position, and his scattered remains were found all over the beach. Every year for the four years since that day, Max and his family had gone to the wall and left flowers beneath Octavius' name.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of other people swarmed around the Plaza, going about their day to day lives. Businessmen, beggars, soldiers, policemen, mourners, people from all walks of life roamed throughout the plaza. Coffee and hot dog vendors lined the outskirts of the plaza, and a little boy walked past Max with a little basket of dormice, an Exponential delicacy. Max smiled at the little boy, who continued on his way, and then walked up to the wall and gently touched the engraved name of his lost cousin. After a moment of silence, Max left a bouquet of flowers beneath the wall and lit a small candle that he bought as he crossed the plaza, then turned back and disappeared into the crowd.

Xerxes Silvertung snapped shut his briefcase containing the latest stock reports from Griffincrest Oil Co. He shrugged on his jacket and picked up his briefcase as he left his office, sprinting to the closing elevator door. "Thanks, Nero," he said to the person already inside who was holding the door for him. Nero shrugged. "No problem."

The elevatro stopped at the lobby, and the two men made their way outside. "See you later," Xerxes called, and pulled his keys out of his pocket as he made his way towards his small sports car parked outside. He put his briefcase on the seat next to him and drove off towards Fjordtown, a small, classy restaurant that specialized in Ezaltian cuisine.

Johnnie stood silently as he watched the man go by. His pockets were heavy with candles he purchased from a dollar store. He walked down the wall placing candles at certain places. He recited a name and an apology. Each one of those men he placed a candle for were soldiers, men he talked to, took out for drinks, those who died because his Mafia forces arrived too late.

He finished, and walked back to his car, an expensive import, a General Resources Imperium, the height of luxury. It drove off.

Max decided to take his usual shortcut home, which took him through the Paradise City Slums, arguably one of the worst pieces of urban trash on the planet. He had arrived just in time to see yet another Imperial Guard raid on the home of a suspected Muslim (http://www.dgs-online.nl/image.asp?id=27520). It really wasn't an uncommon sight anymore, as there were nearly two million Muslims in Paradise City alone before the purge, and since then the government has only found about a quarter of them. Max stopped and watched as the Guardsmen blew open the door to the first floor apartment and the men burst inside. Within minutes a Muslim man was dragged out and tossed into a waiting truck, his wife and four children soon followed.

The entire ordeal took all of five minutes. The Imperial Guard had it down to a science now. Once the truck had driven away, Max continued on his way, gently whistling a tune to himself."Just another day in Paradise" he thought to himself.

Max kept on walking on through the slums, passing by all sorts of sights that most people would never see in their lives. Beggars starving to death, wrapped up in cloaks rattling their cups at passers by, drug addicts going through withdrawal after not getting what they needed for an hour, criminals standing next to their wanted posters, gang fights, police beatings, all sorts of horrible things that had come to be commonplace to anyone walking through the slums. Max dropped a few credits into the cup of an old, rail thing beggar sitting on a mat outside of a crumbling tenament.

Max continued down along the old cobblestone walk before he finally got to the street he had to turn off. He walked up to the checkpoint and was searched and ID'd by the soldiers manning it, and than proceeded on his way out of the slums. Along the way home, he decided that he was hungry, and stopped in the nearest restaurant, a place named Fjordtown. He had never eaten there before, nor knew anything at all about Ezaltian cuisine, but figured he might as well give it a try.

Xerxes followed the waitress to the table, where his fiance Aelia waited for him. "Hello, honey," Xerxes smiled, sliding in the booth next to her.

"I ordered you a Aurora," she said, sipping from her glass of water.

Xerxes' mouth watered. An Aurora was an Ezaltian drink made from champagne, cosmopolitan mix, and a dash of orange liquer. It was one of his favorites. The waitress returned with their drinks, and took their orders to the kitchen. Xerxes had ordered a skirt steak with cognac sauce and potatoes au gratin, while Aelia went with the swordfish filet. The two sat and talked about their days while the chef prepared their food.

OOC: Ezaltian food is basically French food, but with infusions of Italian scattered here and there. Dammit, I just made myself hungry.

Rob woke with a start to the blaring klaxons of another police raid in the capital.

"Can't these damned Confederates give it a rest?" he muttered angrily. "This is ridiculous." He longed for the tranquility of Kensington - though it housed thirty-four million people, it certainly lacked all the police activity. He groggily trudged over to a desk, swiping a bottle of Eurasian vodka as he sat back in the plush mattress of his hotel room. Swigging it, Rob drank until he passed out on the bed.

Patrick had come to the Confederacy on holiday; his uncle had been a soldier of the Empire that had made a stand against Communism in the Confederacy and he wanted to visit the site of his uncles battle.

Patrick saw a completely different Paradise City to the photos that his uncle had shown him, however, in spite of this; he needed to find himself a foreign exchange desk. It was all good and well to carry five-hundred Gold Denarii worth of ten Gold Denarii notes, but what he needed desperately was Credits. Paradise City was much, much larger than St. Pius, the town on the west coast where he had grown up; it would be easy for him to get lost.

The difference from the slums to the rest of the city was like heaven and hell. Victory arches, statues, and fountains lined the streets, and people who looked like belonged in society were everywhere, a big turnaround from the people in the slums. Max walked under the gigantic Arch of Griffincrest, an archway which Claudius Griffincrest himself paid for after Griffincrest armies swept up some small oil rih country that never really stood a chance. Max was never really a fan of Griffincrest, nor was most of the people in the Confederacy, but they kept the oil prices cheaper than most of the rest of the world so you had to like them alittle.

Max walked into Fjordtown and asked for a booth.

Deep within the heart of the slums, a band of Muslim militia men had gathered in the decrepit house of one of their members. The men were dressed mostly in rags, many with bullet belts across their chests and AK-47's slung over thier backs. They had planned on not just taking out the rival Christian militia in the area, but also taking an entire piece of the slum for themselves. They would turn it into a fortress, for other Muslims to flock to. From there, they would make their stand in the name of Allah, and would show the Confederacy that they were equal, if not superior to the rest of the Confederates who were of true Exponential blood.

Just as the meeting was about to close, however, a black police van pulled up outside of the house. Somebody, most likely one of the Christian militiamen, had tipped off the police. The men quickly overturned a table and took up defensive positions while the women and children attempted to hurry out a rear fire escape.

The door was soon blown off of its hinges by the black clad Imperial Guardsmen. Thier inhuman, gasmask covered faces hid any emotion as they immediatly began firing and the Muslim men fired back. Women and children began screaming as they too were being slammed with bullets. For a moment, the Guardmen were forced back from the doorway, but this victory did not last long. More Guardsmen pulled up in another van to replace their fallen brothers, and in a few more minutes, it was over. The women and children were forced to kneel before their wounded husbands and fathers before they were executed. This would be the last thing the men would see, the end of their families and those they loved, for they too would soon be killed.

somebody else join this, c'mon.

OCC: I will, but, what do I do?

OOC: I've said this before, but you are undoubtedly the quickest replier on NS. You can do whatever you want as long as it is not military, You can be a TPF citizen, an observer, a Confederate, really whatever.

OOC: I've said this before, but you are undoubtedly the quickest replier on NS. You can do whatever you want as long as it is not military, You can be a TPF citizen, an observer, a Confederate, really whatever.

OCC: I'll take that as a compliment :) IC post coming soonish

OOC: Don't forget that the Confederacy is in war and under siege, take that into account! XD

Ben was walking along. He himself had a pistol hidden in his pocket. He was one of the few Muslims left alive in the city. He sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight. The slums, where he lived, was horrible. It stunk of drink, and crap, and death. He passed some homeless men who were busy doing some drugs, desperate to escape from this hell. Ben knocked on a door. He entered, two children where sitting, literally, in their own shit. He greeted Mudhum, the man he was suppose to meet. They went into the back 'room' where Ben grabbed his backpack. He needed to be careful to avoid the Imperial Guardsmen that looked for people like him. He went from alleyway to alleyway. Finally he emerged into the real Paradise City. His target. Fuck these people for killing hos brothers. Fuck them all. He would show them hell. He walked along the sidewalks, ever wary of guardsmen. He finally found his target, a plaza full of people. He could smell the Hot Dogs. He wondered if it was pork. He walked in the middle. He was stopped by a policemen. He wondered why. He was a Islamic convert. He was white, not arab like most. The policemen ordered for him to take his bag. Ben was not to his target yet. He pulled out his pistol. The policemen dove for his, Ben shot, killing him. Ben turned, shot another. Ben ran thirty feet. He looked for his backpack. Something hit him in his back. He collapsed. He was hit by a police bullet. He gasped. Everything was blurry. He put his hand on the string of his backpack. He yelled one last thing with all his strength.

" FUCK YOU, You Murderers!"
Everybody was trying to run away, there was a stampede.
" For... Allah." Ben pulled the string.
An Explosion ripped through the plaza.

OOC: Can we refrain from terrorist attacks for now. I'll let that go though. You were supposed to make a guy like I did and talk about his day, but I'll respond to that now.

IC:

The bomb had killed five people and left many more injured. The media told the public that an enemy shell had landed in the middle of Imperial Plaza, refusing to acknowledge the fact that a lowly Muslim was even capable of killing a pureblood.

Imperial Guard forces now went about with a vengeance. They were the few that knew it was a suicide attack. Over a hundred Guardsmen swept through a suburb outside of Paradise City. If there was anything in your house that could so much as even link you to a Muslim, you were brought into the camps. The ownership of a Koran, unless they owner had a document saying it was purely for display, was punishable by a stay in Vik, and many an innocent person would flal victim to that law. Several Muslims tried to resist the Guardsmen, only to be beaten to death by the butts of guns and the riot batons of the soldiers. The Confederacy was a bad place for these people.

OCC: Well I was trying to show a Muslim's point of view, you know? But okay.

Harris Henderson, a Brydog and a employee of Federal Standard Oil, one of Brydog's top oil companies was visiting the Confedation on vacation. He sat in his hotel room,and read the business section of a copy of The Liberal City Times, he got at the airport before heading here. He then decided to explore the city. He left and headed to a local restautant called Fjordtown.

Patrick was looking at a map of the city when all of the sudden, he heard a loud boom. He thought of all the tales that his uncle had told him about the loud mysterious explosions that had occurred in the Blackhelm Jungle and somehow got cast, if only for a moment, into the shoes of his uncle. Patrick was visibly nervous and his hand shook in his pocket, the Ten Gold Denarii bills that he was still stuck with shaking. He needed some Credits desperately, and perhaps, he would find a foreign exchange booth around the corner.

bump

Feel like bringing this back, anyone want in?

bump

bumpage

Just another day, eh? Kevin asked himself as he wondered around the plaza. Hey, didn't they have that Muslim terrorist attack last night or something? They didn't have those back in Kenavt. Oh well, it was war, with the Griffincrest dude cracking down on everyone. It would be nice if he could die. Sometime. Seriously, what had the Muslims done? Kevin continued to shuffle through the plaza. Maybe I could check out that one Ezatlian food joint or whatever. He walked all the way over there and sat down at a booth. The table next to him had some rich people. Kevin shook his head. The slums he had passed by.

OOC: My guy is a Catholic student who sympathizes with the Muslims. He's an immigrant from Kenavt.

The Slums were dark at night. What do the politicians care if someone gets mugged in the dark here? Not like they would matter. Only thugs and druggies and Muslims live here. Better they all die I suppose than spend a cent to power the lights. Hell, most of them the bulbs had already been stolen. I found my destination by sheer memory of how many steps it was to the address. I reached out through the darkness and tapped lightly on the door.

It cracked open, "Yess...?"

I whispered the password, "Where is paradise?"

I was ushered into the apartment and into a small room where a candle was lit. I opened my backpack and showed the food I had brought to the family of twenty. "Praise be to Allah" was whispered several times. I turned to the eldest man in the room, an ancient store of our belief's knowledge.

"Master," I whispered, "What wisdom of Allah will you grace us with tonight?"

OCC: My guy, Gerald lets call him, is the son of a mid-level bureaucrat who was converted to Islam.

Corporal Faustus Greyorb had just finished a patrol through the slums, and stopped to read the newest issue of the Daily Confederate. The attack last night was hidden away, saying that a pirate vessel had set out from Angel Bay, and attempted to shell Paradise City. Only one shot was fired, however, because brave Confederate sailors subdued the craft before any real damage could be done,

Faustus smiled, and took a drag on his cigarette. "We always win in the long run" he thought to himself, before hopping back into his humvee and heading back through the slums.

Patrick found the foreign exchange booth, and asked the attendant

"Could I exchange this for some credits please?"

OOC: I hope you still use the Credit, it has been well over a year since I last posted in this.

OOC: We do

"Sure, here you go sir" the clerk said, handing over several bills(coins?).

Meanwhile, Max entered into the restaurant, and ordered a drink.

The images across the screen were sheer chaos. Ethnic cleansing, religious war, terrorism, government propaganda. Cataclysm. Hatred. Omnicidal conflict. Absolute, unbridled chaos.

They say civilization is three meals away from destruction. Paradise City was the kind of place that proved otherwise: civilization is just an outward veneer; a superficial taming of humanity's shadowy id. The self-wrought suffering of the Confederates was a miserable drop in a miserable ocean.

In short, an entrepreneurial paradise. The kind of place some men prosper.

The man in the black suit, who only ever identified himself as Cid, clicked the aging television off. The TV, the mammoth desk on which it sat, and Cid's henchmen, were the only decorations of the dismal, flourescent lit concrete room (cellar? bunker somewhere?)
Cid, feet up on his desk puffed contemplatively on his cigar, filling the air above him with whispy whorls of smoke. A tall, slender man in a sports coat spoke about injustices, the destruction of his people at the hands of the Exponentials, their murderous wrath, and men being made to watch while their families were executed. Cid listened attentively, periodically puffing, saying nothing. When the man had finally finished, encouraged, in the silence, to silence, Cid leaned his head back and spoke.

"I'd say this is a genocide." He exhaled smoke, took his feet off the table, and leaned forward in the light, "They're trying to kill you. Not that you can expect much help from the international community. No, most of them will deny it's rely a genocide. Hell, 50 years from now, some jackass is going to claim it never happened at all. And the bitch of it is, some day, somewhere, the same damn thing is going to happen. Your only potential solace, Ahmed, is maybe next time you get to pull the trigger on their little spawn."

The tall, grim Muslim visibly flushed, "We would NEVER emulate those murderous animals!! We..."

"Cut the sanctimonious BS, Ahmed, you and I both know you didn't ask to see me to come and educate me about the moral superiority of Islam. Those AK's aren't doing it for you, are they? There's a reason why they're the chosen weapon of the 3rd world. You, my friend, might as well be bringing a cherry bomb to a fire-bombing. You're outclassed and you need better.", Cid's expression dripped faux concern. "So shall we to business?"

Ahmed gritted his teeth. He found this man from, where was it? Aesinor? He found him a loathsome human being. All the more so because more often than not he was right. He spoke with noticeable venom, "We are losing and are being exterminated. We need better weapons. And heavier. Grenades, explosives, anything you can provide." And then he said the magic words, "Cost is of no concern."

Cid grinned, "Well, my friend, you have come to the right individual. Come back and visit me when you have some cash on hand. I don't want your Confederate credits, either. Hard currency or proof of equivalent barter value. Then I'll take you to my 'catalogue.'"

"How much?", echoed Ahmed.

"I need 5 up front, equivalent Aesinorii trade script. That's just the deposit. Another 10 before shipment.", he quoted his prices in a businesslike, mechanical staccato.

Ahmed cocked an eyebrow, "Fifteen million ATS in hard currency? That will be difficult."

"Oh, it's cheap for what I'm giving you, I assure you. Besides, you've got plenty of stock in palladium, everyone knows that. Plus hefty share in oil, diamonds, uranium, etc. Even your little cut of the Blackhelm flesh trade is well documented. I make a point of researching my potential customers when I establish a business connection in a new market. You can do it."

Allah blast it, he was right. "Very well." agreed Ahmed. "Give me time. Fifteen million by next week. I expect shipment the following week."

"I'll see you next week," Cid spoke through a wide grin, and Ahmed believed him the devil.

Precisely seven days later, Ahmed, or Christopher as he was known among his business associates, returned home to his condominium after a day at work. It was difficult for him to always hide his Muslim identity, but he went through great lengths to insure no one knew. Clean shaven and lightly skinned, he certainly blended well. His carefully cultured flat, generic accent drew little attention, and nothing in his home or on his person identified him as anything in particular at all. Ahmed, Chris, was remarkable in his anonymity.

But today was different. Too many of his brothers have died. Too many women and children, HIS people, have been murdered by the Confederates. He was no hero or warrior; he left the fighting to the Jihadeen. And he wasn't even particularly well known among his Muslim comrades. But he was a man with great wealth, and connections of the sort useful to a guerilla movement.

But this new dealer, this Cid fellow, worried him. He was too brutal in his calculus to be a Blackhelm agent; too uncaring of the Confederate cause. Ahmed knew little of Cid’s homeland, if that was in fact where he was from, but he doubted any legitimate government would wish to associate with such a person. In the elevator up to his posh condo, Ahmed wondered vaguely if Cid might have some ulterior motive.

He entered his condo and locked the door, putting his briefcase down on his desk. He opened it to inspect its contents: rows and columns of the highest quality natural diamonds, individually packed in small plastic bags with a trade value in excess of 16 million Blackhelm credits. He sighed, closed the case and reset the combination.

He went to his refrigerator for his customary afternoon beer. It was against his religion, but he had cultivated a taste for it lest his refusal to partake of alcohol at a corporate function should arouse anyone's suspicion. He was shocked to find that, where once he had a case of high quality brew, a lone, dark brown beer bottle stood with a tag that said only "Drink Me". He took the bottle and twisted the cap off it. Gingerly, he drank the beer, nearly choking on a small plastic cylinder. He spat it out into his hand; the cylinder was of a thin plastic and had a seam at its midpoint, but didn't seem to unscrew. But as he struggled with it he found that it was slowly dissolving in the beer. Over the sink, he poured a bit more beer in his hand and watch the cylinder dissolve away. Inside was a rolled up piece of very thin, white plastic, on which was written:

Down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass, the men on the chessboard move to the 11th hour. - flip-

And when he flipped the plastic over, it read: EAT ME

He devoured the tiny note and swallowed it, rinsing it down with beer in hopes that it, too, will dissolve.

He sat in a comfortable chair in his living room, somewhat shaken that someone could enter his Condo with such apparent ease. He pondered the meaning of the note and found the literary allusion demeaning. But what could it mean? Ahmed knew it was a message from Cid. But down the rabbit hole? He thought for a minute, considering this riddle, and its presentation, and its literary roots. He thought for many long minutes…

There was a disco, popular among the upper-class youth called Wonderland. He had only been there as a younger man: a street dealer could make some good money there peddling ecstasy and cocaine to the children of Paradise City's wealth. It also kept the cops at bay. No one wanted the political embarrassment of their sweaty, flushed child being dragged out by the police, their pupils nearly eclipsing the whites of their terrified eyes. Besides, Paradise City's cops had way more fun killing and raping Muslims.

As he recalled, Wonderland had a massive, multi-level basement full of rooms where the spawn of the ultra-wealthy, politicians, and social climbers would engage in hours of cocaine fueled orgy. Only people who frequent the place (and dealers) ever find out about it: they call it the Rabbit Hole.

He looked himself over in the mirror. Wealth and narcissism have kept him looking much younger than he actually was. He could pass as one of the early 20-somethings that frequent the place; and he knew how to get in there as an entrepreneurial young dealer. The establishment would just think his suitcase full of illegal diamonds was full of eight-balls and tabs to keep the party rolling. They would have no problem with him insuring that their customers never came down and never left.

Ahmed made plans for a night out on the town.

OOC: Those were two awesome posts man! I can't wait to see what happens here.

"Sure, here you go sir" the clerk said, handing over several bills(coins?).

Patrick took the bills and coins, and thanked the foreign exchange lady. He was moderately happy; ever since the price of gold had gone through the roof, the Gold Denarius had surged in value; exporters had been hurting back home, however, interest rates had plunged (OOC: I know that goes against economic theory, but if you have a gold backed currency....)

Patrick made his way to one of the war memorials in Paradise City and sat down and thought. He always remembered how his uncle had come here years earlier to fight Communists in the Jungle (OOC: It was a roleplay from either '06 or '07), and was haunted by the names on the monument - young men like him. The situation had been slowly worsening as Muslims were increasingly becoming victims - what made him worried was that back home, Muslims were a marginalised group and treated extremely suspiciously; that would increase his risk of coming under attack.

OOC: Thanks! This next part moves kind of slow and will take a few posts to complete, but bear with me. I'm setting it all up for a reason.

IC: It was a chilly night. Steam rose from out of the sewers, lending an eerie feel to the whole experience. Ahmed had to concentrate to remember how to get to the club. The entrance to Wonderland was completely unmarked: a rusty steel door set in a windowless wall of brick down a little used alleyway. If not for the towering mound of flesh that was the doorman, and the lone light-bulb hanging above it, it would disappear into the tapestry of urban decay.

Ahmed approached the doorman with some trepidation. The Mound regarded him with beady eyes, overshadowed by the flesh of his bare forehead. When the Mound spoke, his voice was gravel in a baritone: "You a dealer, little man?" The Mound held out his hand in greeting.

Ahmed summoned his courage and his best poker face, "We all got to make a living, my brother, and everybody's got their vice." Ahmed slapped a tightly rolled plastic bag full of coke into the Mound's open palm. An understood rule: you always 'tipped' the doorman for the privilege of conducting business.

The Mound gave a deep base harrumph, "Too true, little man, too true." He opened the baggie, stuck in a finger, and rubbed a bit on his gums. "Ain't bad, little man. Glad to see you made it. Been dry as a bitch in here." The Mound opened the door for Ahmed and slapped him on the back, "Have good one, little man. Keep 'em happy for us."

Ahmed stepped into wide concrete corridor. The thrumming of the heavy techno music popular in this sort of establishment vibrated in his chest. By the end of the corridor, Ahmed opened a pair of double doors and was hit full force with the overwhelming sensory experience of Wonderland. He was looking out across a huge domed chamber, its expansive domed ceiling a pulsating visual cacophony of laser light, psychedelic animations, and brief, disjointed images of sexual eroticism. About 40 feet below him was the enormous dance floor, ringed with bars, and crowded with a sea of writhing bodies, heaving up and down to the rhythm. Smaller bars, tables, and lounge areas of plush couches were sprinkled all around the mezzanine on which he now stood that ringed the circumference of the dome above the dance floor. Linking the mezz to the floor below was a graceful, arced stairway of glass and steel. The music was heavy, the air was thick with smoke, artificial fog, and the smell of sweat. Every counter had a white dust on it and all the patrons seemed inebriated in some capacity. Many were topless and some were openly fucking on the couches of the mezzanine. To a man of Ahmed's deep faith and philosophical convictions, Wonderland was a monument to all the sins of humanity; though he had profited greatly from the denizens of this particular Sodom, and so found it difficult to pass too harsh a judgment.

Ahmed worked his way across around the mezzanine, trying to avoid those who asked too many questions about his 'wares' and deciding it best to avoid the confusion and almost certain LSD dosing of crossing the dance floor. He finally made his way to the VIP lounge at the far end of the dome, it's double-doors and gauzy curtains guarded by two doormen, though they, too, perceived him as a dealer and were happy to let him through.

He found himself in a mirrored foyer and pushed through another set of doors into a large, dimly lit lounge area. There were beds scattered everywhere, separated only by wispy black curtains suspended from the mirrored ceiling. Everywhere people were engaged in their orgies, dozens of them at a time, and the otherwise quiet, plain room was full of the sounds and smells of their fornications, while others simply lounged on the beds, basking in a combination of sexual afterglow and narcotic satisfaction. Ahmed had made it to the Rabbit Hole.

Ahmed stood for a moment, both overwhelmed by the scene of the place and completely uncertain of what to do next. He found his way here, now what? Just as he started to feel uncomfortable at the growing realization the he was virtually the only fully clothed individual in the room, a woman's voice came from behind him: "We've been waiting for you." she said. He spun to meet the voice and found that a veiled woman, perhaps in her mid twenties, with jet back hair and bright blue eyes, had spoken to him. Other than the veil, she wore loose, gauzy black trousers that hung so low on her hips as to be nearly pornographic, and her otherwise bare breasts were painted with a complex, multicolored abstraction. She spoke again from behind the veil, "Follow me, Ahmed, I'll take you where you need to go."

Ahmed followed her obediantly, entranced by her swaying hips, and overtly sexual mannerisms. They wound their way through the writhing bodies to a square of heavy curtains in one corner of the room. She pulled back on corner and signaled him to enter.

Ahmed stepped behind the opaque black curtain as the woman followed him. Cid stood there, alone, smoking another one of his cigars. He greeted Ahmed as he entered: "Ah, my friend, you've brought your first installment."

Ahmed became suddenly aware of the suitcase in his hand, "Er, yes, it's all there. Would you like to inspect it?"

Cid grinned, "Unnecessary, my brother. I'm perfectly aware of its contents and quality." This sent a chill down Ahmed's spine: those diamonds came from a private hoard only he knew about. Before he could raise the question, Cid allayed his fears, "But don't worry; my methods of intelligence gathering are far more...sophisticated than your Confederate enemies. I am the only man still alive in this country who knows your secrets." He ginned, "Now, if you'll accompany me."

"Will that be all, Cid?" The woman spoke, her voice was velvety and understated, Ahmed had to strain to hear her speaking over the loud climaxes of neighboring lovers.

Cid feigned "Oh, my apologies. Jasmine this is our newest customer, Ahmed. Ahmed, this is Jasmine, a long time associate of mine. She has certain qualifications I find useful in potentially hostile territories." The woman's iridescent blue eyes sparkled behind her veil. "Jasmine, will you accompany Ahmed and I to the private suite?" Jasmine bowed her head slightly. Cid turned to the wall behind him, took his cellular phone out of his breast pocket, and punched a few numbers into it. A slab of concrete gave way to reveal an elevator. All entered and within minutes the door opened into a vast private suite, somewhere near the top of the dome. A window overlooked the dance floor and he room was sparse, save for a bed, a couch, a desk, and what appeared to be a dummy composed of ballistic gelatin wearing a police-issue kevlar vest. The decor was spartan: all concrete and stainless steel, while the projected lights from the dance hall below danced over the window. Ahmed reckoned that he could see out, but no one below had any awareness of this room.

"Ahmed, will you please relinquish your suitcase to Jasmine?" Cid's tone lost its usual levity. He was suddenly very crisp and businesslike. Ahmed gave her the suitcase without question. Cid spoke to Jasmine in a language he was unfamiliar with, "Yasmina, patruta al-lukreyeh fii al-otto. Komunuta bin Isenoor, komisetien al-tranzak shukrii; al-othor y-kodo Mister White." Jasmine bowed her head slightly to this and departed with the suitcase into the elevator.

Cid walked over to the desk and pulled a large, unmarked plastic case from behind it. "Now, Mister Ahmed. To business." He snapped open the case and pulled out a small firearm with angular lines and peculiar geometries He slapped a clip into its magazine receiver, parallel to and over the barrel. "I prefer this weapon, personally. It's lightweight, much shorter than your AK-47's. And it's highly accurate." He spoke while he screwed a small flash suppressor and silencer on its short barrel. "It's completely non-magnetic. The barrel is a carbon-fiber reinforced ceramic polymer. Much of the rest of the weapon is of similar composite materials. Steel springs are replaced with non-magnetic titanium." He flicked off the safety, shouldering the weapon, and rotated a large, key-like switch on the side. "The barrel is a smooth-bore, single-shot or three-round burst only; no full auto. The weapon fires fin-stabilized flechettes with a muzzle velocity of 3500 fps and an effective range of some 400 yards. If you're looking for longer range, you have the option of loading active-propelled flachettes. They actually rocket down range, extending your realistic kill range to 3 miles." Cid sighted the target dummy and continued his dissertation. "The barrel and firing mechanism are stabilized in their own shock-absorbers, so there's less kick. The carbon-reinforced ceramic flachettes are designed to fracture and peel following initial impact. They will penetrate most protective armor...,"He squeezed off a shot.

CHUFF!

The dummy's chest exploded behind the kevlar vest. There was no exit wound, rather it seemed as if the flachette had fractured into eight separate, gnarled needles, all of which went tumbling into the dummy at different angles. Ballistic gelatin was spattered on the floor and bits of it hung grotesquely off the dummy. Ahmed was amazed and appalled that such a brutal weapon had been conceived.

"...and dump all of their kinetic energy directly into the target, unlike your Kalashnikovs, which will retain enough residual kinetic energy after over-penetration to kill the poor bastard standing behind the poor bastard you just killed. With the CR-117, if you can land a shot on a target, you can kill it and only it. Each clip holds 100 flachettes, I'll provide 5 clips per weapon. Like much of the weapon, they're entirely non-metallic. These ain't cheap, but I happen to have some that fell off the freighter, so to speak. Your first payment buys 10,000." He handed this weapon to Ahmed. "To whom would you like the first shipment?"

OOC: Aesinor where are you????

OOC:bump

Marcus sat in the corner of a small, smoky bar and sipped his beer. He was a man in his mid-forties, a lower class man who had clearly seen his fair share of fights in his day.

"The Allaneans think they are gunna march in here and change things...it just ain't gunna happen. They ain't changin' nothin'. That's why I got this, to make sure things stay the same" he said, waving a pearl handled switchbade back and forth.

"Who do they think they are anyway? Ya know, my brother said we licked 'em pretty good out there too, had to call for all sorts of back up...I say we do something about it" said Lucius, another man of the same caliber as the first.

Several beers later, and the men were all riled up. They soon made their way into the downtown area, sneaking around a checkpoint out of the slums, and waited for some poor Havenic looking bloke to come walking by. In the meantime, they waited in an alleyway and passed back and forth a flask of whiskey, keeping their buzz.

Finally, they saw their mark. A Prestonian, probably gay, had emerged from a taxi just a few feet away. What luck! The two stumbled out and appraoched the nervous man. "Hey Havenite! Fuck you!" Marcus yelled, before smashed the poor Prestonian. Lucius fired off a blow as well landing square on the man's chin. The beating was merciless. After several hours, the police finally stumbled upon the scene. Lucius and Marcus were long gone, and the Prestonian was near death, laying in a pool of blood, most of the bones in his face and ribs destroyed.

Unfortunately, events like this were becoming more and more common in Paradise City.

Ooc: Bump

Far above the violence in the streets stood the dimly lit break rooms of tall Vetalian office buildings, their opulent interiors filled with the thick clouds of cigarette smoke and lilting Russian that seemingly characterized Vetalian civilization. It was 23:30, the customary half-hour break for the swarms of night-shift expatriates that populated the district, and like any other night the entire district stood still as its population took advantage of a brief moment of rest. In another hour, the exchanges would open and chaos would reign, the trading floors drowned in the shouts and calls of untold numbers of brokers shifting fortunes around the globe.

The night shift was one of the most important for Vetalian expatriates in the Confederacy as it coincided with morning in Vetalia, with untold numbers of cubicle drones laboring to synchronize and coordinate their activities with their counterparts halfway across the world. Every day, trillions of rubles flowed back and forth to the VSCE and other exchanges, in most cases effortlessly dodging attempts to intercept them. War meant little to the thousands of banks and trading houses, many of whom simply saw the chaos as an opportunity to profit. Indeed, Vetalian assets were generally safe regardless of geopolitics...few countries would risk touching the property of Golden Vetalia, knowing full well that when roused there were few other countries capable of inflicting such devastating economic pain on its enemies. Vetalia was too rich to pillage.

It was from such an office that one Viktor Vladimirovich Lieberman, originally of Petrovsk in the Vetalian heartland, saw two Confederates beating some unfortunate man nearly to death. From the walled safety of the Vetalian enclave, or even compared to the rough reality of the Petrovsk docks it was a disgusting sight to the young man. Vetalia was a land where people followed the rules, and those that didn't made sure they never made it a public affair. It was also a land where crimes motivated by hatred were universally condemned by all walks of life. Indeed, there were plenty of examples of organized crime systematically exterminating racist and xenophobic troublemakers because it violated their conception of Vetalian honor and fair dealing towards all potential customers and nothing disgusted any upstanding Vetalian more than dishonorable dealings. Profits lost or profits stolen by hatred were an inconcievable sin for a nation obsessed with wealth.

He watched, silently, realizing full well that this was a land far removed from the things he held dear, and examining the tired faces of those around him was fully conscious that he was not the only one that felt so. The Vetalian enclave was a safe haven of sorts, shielding those it could from Confederate terror and hatred based upon the expectation that it would benefit the community in the end. Indeed, it had; many Muslims and Havenite expatriates had settled or fled there in recent months, boosting sales and driving up the cost of real estate while keeping violence safely away. Of course, many Vetalians also felt a moral obligation to do the right thing, prompting a degree of altruism uncommon among such a capitalist people.

However, it could not keep out the harsh reality of life beyond its borders, and it was that life that posed the ethical dilemma to so many Vetalians. Nonetheless, economic realities often forced them to work with the system rather than against it. It was that reality that forced Viktor to stub his cigarette, pour another cup of coffee, and file back to his cubicle at 23:59. It was difficult to imagine working while innocent men were beaten half to death fifteen floors below and one block away, but student loans did not pay themselves and the Bank of Vetalia did not spend money on slackers. Such was life.