NationStates Jolt Archive

London, England

It was another cloudy day in the city. It was foggy and there was a slight drizzle which tapped against the pavement and rooftops, it was a lazy day. The streets and roads were busy, horns blowing, people walking to and from work, wearing jackets and umbrellas in hand. Large TeleScreens dotted the buildings and window shops. The Lord Chancellor was making another announcement to Parliment on the subjucation of Northern Ireland which has been clamoring for independence. Such talk was not tolerated and action suffered far worse consequences. Lord Chancellor Tybalt was a man of iron will and a spirit just as cold. The Prime Ministry was dissolved over fifty years prior, ushering in a new era of government control. The House of Lords and The House of Commons were hardly democratic these days. The House of Commons was unoffically disolved ten years ago, now people simply refer to it as, Parliment. Civil liberties, privacy, the very things a nation like America cherished before the war, Britain did without. The rationale was: Individuals cannot hold a nation together, but the masses can. Sounds like a banner cry for democracy, no? Instead, individuality was scorned, numerous laws enacted to give more and more power to the executive, wars, disease, hunger, broken economies drove the people to accept a few changes here and there. But overtime those changes added up. A drastic change was the phasing out of writen documents, books, literature. These avenues of expression were paramount to a society and culture on the whole. Whoever controlled this, controlled the people, and the government controlled the books and the government controlled the people. Now, it was illegal to posess any writen documents, books, political philosophies, and everything in between. Literature fostered thought, thought fostered questions, questions fostered trouble for the government and Lord Chancellory. To combat those who would be individuals, The Ministry of Domestic Protection was founded. The core of its' employees were Firemen, teams sent out to dispose of caches of illegal and black listed items.

An older man sat in his reclining chair, it was old, his father bought it years ago for the family. Now, it belonged to him. A lamp next to his chair was lite, the rest of his flat was dark, curtains closed, door shut and bolted. A thumbed flipped over a page and started anew one. It was a copy of The Communist Manifesto. Such political readings were of higher threat, and were put in the Black Category of banned items. He was absorbed in every word written on those pages. He was halfway through and captured by it.

Meanwhile, Fire Station 15 was on full alert. A shadow for the Ministry of Domestic Protection locked on to a large cache of Black Category items, a cache which needed tending to as soon as possible. In the break room, several firemen sat around, joking, sipping coffee and watching a TeleScreen. The alarm went off, Oliver Harlan, a man in his early thirties and Fireman 2nd Class craned his head towards the alarm.
"Looks like we got a live one!" he shouted in joy, lifting himself from the chair. The men trained for such occasions time and time again. They also put the practice into good use multiple times. They put on their gear and leaped onto a fire truck, Chief Riley, a man in his mid forties gave them a quick brief and location of the cache. It was time to do their duty for Party and Country.

The fire truck screached down the road, sirens blarring and lights flashing. All traffic yielded to them. Oliver sat in the passenger seat, Fireman Jacob Lorry drove the truck, there were three other firemen on the truck.
"Harlan, this sounds like a big cache!" Lorry exclaimed as he made a right off the highway.
"It sure is one, Lorry" Oliver replied as he looked out the window, everything outside a blur.
"Are you alright?!" Lorry struggled over the sound of the siren.
"I'm fine, boy" Oliver retorted "You worry about yourself" and he sat back and went over the typical and routine procedures for a Black Alarm. They trained extensively on such alerts and responded to several in the past.

In the apartment, the older man who's name was Arthur thumbed to a fresh page, never before read by his eyes, what would be next? It was an exciting piece of literature. All of a sudden, the telephone resounded throughout the apartment, breaking his concentration. He looked up and heared it ring again. He reluctantly set the book down and got up towards the phone, picking it up.
"Hello?...what?!...okay, thanks" and he set it down. The voice on the other end warned him that the authorities were heading his way and thier arrival was iminent. He hurried to his bedroom where under the bed was stowed a bag with clothes, money, and other items already set aside incase something like this would happen. He scooped up the Manifesto while he put on a coat and opened the door, saying good bye to his home and to a destination unknown. As he winded down the staircase a man in a black trenchcoat emerged from a doorway, seizing his arm, like a vice. The manthrew him against the wall, the bag fell to the tile floor.
"Are you Arthur Welby?" the man demanded, his voice harsh and authorative.
"Y-Yes" Arthur grunted. All of a sudden the man grabbed him with both hands and hurled him down the stairs. Arthur tumbled down, his neck breaking against one of the stairs, his body finally hit the bottm landing, sprawling out on the floor. The man moved swiftly to Arthur's apartment, carefully opening it with a key it procurred from a contact. Inside he rummaged through several drawers, being careful not to disturb too much. Finally, he found what he sought, a leatherbound notebook, tied with red cloth. He stuffed it into his inside pocket and quickly left. He emerged outside just as the fire truck rounded the corner and stopped in front of the building. Oliver was the on-scene commander and highest ranking one there so he assumed control of the situation. The police were called as well as an ambulance. The man in the trenchcoat approached.
"Excuse me sir, but this area is quarantined, please leave" Oliver ordered. The stranger produced crendentials which stated that he was an investigator for the Ministry of Domestic Protection. They were the ones who sought out those who broke the laws set down by the code.
"I am Investigator Warwick, the violator is dead inside, I was persuing him when he tripped down the stairs" Warwick lied. He was athletic, in his late forties, with steel blue eyes and graying hair.
"My apologies sir, we'll alert medical teams. Until then, we have a job to do"
"Then do your job" Warwick snapped back. Oliver back away towards the truck and barked some orders and the firemen. They got out there equipment, the medical crew gathered up the body. The firemen went up to the flat and went about finding the Black Category material. They searched every concevieable place, opening doors, tearing up floor boards, and successfully finding the books. Political, philosophy, commentaries, biographies. All of them were gathered up and burned outside with a flamethrower. Oliver stood and watched the flames rose to the air, ashes dancing upwards. Lorry held a flamethrower which could be held with two hands, a canister infront of the trigger guard. Flames shout out and enveloped the books, scorching any remenence of the words lost forever. He stepped back from the heat, Lorry's lips curled but Oliver remained stoic.

Oliver stepped around the firetruck and let his head tilt back against the red metal. The heat used to not bother him but recently it felt like it went through his uniform, through his soul. The younger firemen were gathered around the inferno of lost books and scriptures, enjoying the scene as crowds of onlookers appeared outside the coron zone.
"Unit 2-Central" the com link crackled in his ear.
"Sen you traffic" he responded, gathering his senses.
"What's your status?"
"Scene contained, one fatality, MDP on scene as well as medical"
"10-4" and they cut out. Oliver sighed, it was going to be a long day.

Meanwhile, Warwick moved around the crime scene, examinbing his work. But he pretended to view it as if this was the first time he'd seen the body of one Arthur Welby.

(open? closed? National RP? Character RP?)

OOC: I'm just posting, it's open.

Arthur Blair was a simple man of thirty years. He'd lived before, back when there was was a parliament, back when the United Kingdom had been free. These were better times, he thought to himself, as he exited his home. A cool breeze crossed his face, and the sky appeared dark, right as it did before a rain.

"The sun never shines anymore," He noted with a sad sigh. Though this was a figurative saying of his, at times it evermore seemed to be coming true. For him the sun showed less and less these days. The Government which he so despised, which oppressed and silenced their speech, their beliefs, and so tried to destroy their minds, would never conquer him. In his attic, he had hidden away two objects which he valued more than anything. These were his Grandfather's old war rifle, and finally his copy of the Communist Manifesto. He'd never read it, but one day, after the revolution which he dreamed of each night had come, he would. He never thought aloud of this, it was too dangerous, but his mind always dreaming of it. One day it would come, and one day he'd fight against the Oppressors of his people.