NationStates Jolt Archive

The tiny island of St. Leoluca was, technically, not part of Siap. Technically, it lay over a hundred miles outside of Siapian territorial waters. But it had, at one point, belong to Siap, and in the last century had slowly become an independant protectorate. Specifically, the citizens enjoyed the many educational, social and economical benefits that came with being a member of The Community, but they hated the taxes. And Siap, nearly devoid of arable land, enjoyed the grain and beans that flourished on St. Leoluca. The result of this was open trade between the island and the mainland, a substantial payment in lieu of taxes every year, a small donation of young men to serve in the Siapian military, a small Siapian military base that defended the small island whose rent was simply the payment in lieu of taxes returned to the isle, and of course, extremely easy enrollment in any of the Siapian colleges.

Ben Reiker, unfortunately, was not one of those boys who enjoyed the Siapian educational system, but he did have the fortune of being drafted by the islands government to serve in the Siapian Military. Unlike his brother, who pursued a career in intelligence (or so he heard), Ben was an incompetent soldier who had trouble holding a rifle straight for longer than several seconds. Fortunately, he was a semi-competent pilot and had a knack for punctuality, so he became a pilot in the Siapian military air courier system. But at age 19, he went AWOL. He ended up trading away a lot of his pay to avoid prosecution, and has had little love for The Community since.

Presently, he sat in the back of the panel truck with a large stack of paint cans and a man who had many scars on his face. "I don't see why we have to keep the shit in cans. The cans just weigh down the plane."

"Shut it." The man grunted, not even looking at him.

"We could move 10-20% more shit if we just scrapped the cans. Besides, no one cares anymore." His hands talked as much as he did.

"Shut it." The man grunted, head leaning on the side of the truck, drool slowly forming in his mouth.

Ben looked at him. "I tea-bagged you last night, and after I fucked your wife, I put lye in your coffee."

"Shut it." The man grunted, eyes closed.

"The sky is blue."

"Shut it." He was completely asleep, mumbling "Shut it" every few seconds, even when Ben wasn't talking.


The Xian Y-7 'Coke' sat on the small runway, various trucks loading miscellanious packages and whatever consumer crap from Siap was heading to The Free City. The Panel truck pulled behind the plane and the paint cans were carefully secured in large crates and then stacked inside the plane. Ben completed the preflight checks, entered the cockpit and took off with method but without care, and banked the plane south.

---

The Free City of Ceyol is, as its name suggests, very free. The entire island had recently been awarded its freedom from the Dominion of Transylvania, but, courtesy of grossly incompetent government, ineffective and random socialization and privatization schemes created a society where survival was not too difficult, but everything else was. Unemployment was a staggering 35%, and slowly climbing. Those who did not want to wait for hours to get a bowl of lentils three times a day knew that some foreigner would pay them to do something. Those who wanted employment bad enough didn't care.

Right now, the day laborers who unloaded the paint cans from the plane knew that they were being paid twice the going rate for unloading freight. They had heard rumors that a Siapian was organizing all this, but they tended not think about this, just as they tended not to think about the four men in the corner, extracting bags of white powder with this: http://www.ralphsteadman.com/images/00art/posters/rabbitt.jpg crudely drawn on the package.

Ben jammed the tip of his knife into the package, extracting a small pile of white crystals. He held the blade up to his nose and promptly insuffilated the substance. Like a surge of electricity to his brain, the rush hit him. And suddenly the colors around him were so much softer, but focused in a way that made them both forgiving but sharply real.

"Its good." He coughed.

"How's the old man in the hills doing?"

"Losing it." He coughed slightly, and shook his head. "He's lonely, but he hates people. Its kind of tragic."

"Who gives a damn so long as he keeps making the shit, right?"

"Yeah." Ben's nose began to bleed a little bit.

The four men loaded the paint cans into their trucks and soon distributed them across the city. Some dealers had old retirees who needed rent money baking the powder with quinine in their toaster ovens, others had fleets of disillusioned kids, parents and whoever wanted money working in shifts. There were so many drugs in the Free City that it was impossible to keep track of all of it, including this new product, K4C-22, "KC" or "Kissy". What made this product unique was its potent psycholigical addiction, as well as the rabbit that graced all of the tabs of kissy distributed. The Free City had long been swamped, and the price in Siap was on a steady decline, despite all preventitive measures taken.

Soon, ambitious small time pushers, from Blake's Point, the northernmost port in Siap, to the Free City, boarded ships and planes to see how the product would fair abroad. Would existing criminal empires attempt to capitalize on this product or destroy it? And how would the world's authorities react to the incoming flood of this drug?

OOC: This is fairly open. Crime sydnicates trying to enter this market are welcome, as are government agents sent to infiltrate and stop the ring.

(OOC: Off topic a little, but depending on your response I may get involved with this. Do you think we should just let Catching the Code die, and maybe say that the hit went off, a few Wolf Pack guys got killed, but the rest left and got the code? If we go ahead with that, I'll probably have the Wolf Pack come in to do something of their own accord.)

(OOC: Off topic a little, but depending on your response I may get involved with this. Do you think we should just let Catching the Code die, and maybe say that the hit went off, a few Wolf Pack guys got killed, but the rest left and got the code? If we go ahead with that, I'll probably have the Wolf Pack come in to do something of their own accord.)

OOC: Works for me. There was going to be some political stuff revealed but thats inconsequential. The most important thing is that the man you whacked was not an informant, but rather a rival to Cassius who was trying to buy off the officer.

(OOC: All right. The Wolf Pack wouldn't care, and instead appraise Cassius for his cleverness. I don't have time for an IC post now, but I will come up with one soon.)

((Hope it's ok if I jump in))

6:00 PM, DreamCatcher Night Club, Downtown Ceyol

"Mr. King, this stuff is cheap," said the man in the black suit. A cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth; his voice had a grainy, watery quality to it that made him sound as though he regretted everything he said, “And good.”

Alexander King leaned back in his seat, a frown on his lean, handsome face. His dark eyes glanced at the small pile of white powder in front of him curiously. In his right hand King slowly twirled a playing card bearing the image of a rabbit.

“What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Creedy?” asked King in a rich, silky voice.

The man in the black suit straightened his cheap tie and took a drag on his smoke, “I think we should begin to…expand our markets to include this Kissy.”

“Victor, you’ve worked for me for over ten years. I am an arms dealer, not a drug runner… you should know that.”

“Yes, well, you own a fleet of ships, planes, and cars and a small army of mercs,” Creedy said, gesturing at the guards throughout the room, “You could take over whoever’s manufacturing this shit in a heartbeat- pay ‘em off; and distribution- world wide distribution-will be a breeze. You’ve been paying off customs for years, they won’t be any trouble.”

“It’s not customs that worries me, my old friend, it’s the mafia and gangs that fill this city, and all the cities I’d supply. I’ve been selling them guns for twenty years- if I cut them out of their business they could turn those guns against me and NoirTech.”

Creedy smiled, revealing yellow, tobacco stained teeth, and lit another cigarette, “No risk, no gain. This ‘Kissy’ represents an unparalleled opportunity.”

King nodded; his dark eyes scanned his empty nightclub thoughtfully. In a few hours time DreamCatcher, like the ten other nightclubs owned by King and his company, would be full of college students and partiers… potential customers…

For years NoirTech Arms had illegally supplied drug pushers and mafia thugs with guns; now Creedy suggested replacing them altogether.

“Find who makes this stuff before the cops do,” Alexander said slowly, “Buy him. Once we control the source of… Kissy, we’ll take it world wide. If we’re going to do this, Victor, we’re in one hundred percent.”

“Yes sir,” said Creedy in his watery, weak voice.

((Hope it's ok if I jump in))


OOC: Welcome. Just keep in mind that that The Free City is actually a very poor place, so the college students will probably be Siapians on vacation. Ceyol is a prudent choice for arms deals, since the local criminals have a lot more real power than the government for the time being.

IC: These bastards just don't appreciate supply and demand. Claude DeCell thought as he emptied the small .22 calibre pistol into the man's skull and quickly dug the packages of white powder out of the car. Thinning of the herds is always required. He thought as he stuffed the drugs deep into a duffel bag he was carrying. He walked down the row and kicked open a door to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Quickly, men stuck automatic pistols in his face. "I am here on behalf of The Siapian." They quickly stepped back and led him to the back of the warehouse. "Clyde!" He yelled to a fat man wearing too many gold chains. "Did you really make me come all the way to this part of town?" The man became flushed and looked at his feet and produced a key. Claude took the key and pulled open a small painting revealing a safe, which Claude emptied into his bag. "Is there anything hard to understand about 20%? If you make me come down here, it'll be your skull I clean out." He stormed out of the warehouse.

On the other side of town, Claude made the last of his stops in The Free City, a small pawn shop called "The Wonder Shop." A small man in a wheelchair came to the door to greet him. "Hey Mr. D!" He said, handing Claude a wad of money. Claude liked this man. "Charlie, your a good man, and my boss appreciates that. Listen, I got a tip on some rubies being moved through town. Your crew might be interested in it" he proceeded to give him the details. Personally, Claude had no love for any of them, but at least Charlie could follow orders and put together a decent crew, despite his impairment." Outside of the Wonder Shop, Claude was met by two bodyguards who led him to a small but powerful coup, that promptly took him to the airport, where a Gulf Stream V was waiting for him. I hate doing payoff runs. He thought as he boarded the plane and picked up the phone. "Listen boss, I just hit a major pusher, but this stuff is like an avalanche. I can't keep it under control...." He listened to the scrambled voice on the other side. "Yeah. I know, but thats the thing, we cannot control the chemist. Nobody knows anything about him. He says we get close, he stops making, so our hands are tied. We either need a new market to move this stuff or we just keep trying to slow down the market, but thats a losing battle." The plane took off, stopping briefly for refuel and so Claude could drop the skag in Esmund, before flying up to Blakes point. In the back room of a certain dingy club, he put all the money he collected on a poker game and folded after the first hand. It was like routine, and the man who won picked up the money and put it in a duffel bag before walking out the back door and into the passenger door of a bright red '77 Barracuda that was waiting for him. Just like clockwork. he thought as the car sped off.

---

Ben woke up on the floor covered in his own vomit. Fuck. Need to remember to keep some cut shit on me. The first batches of "kissy" were spectacular failures because the uncut product, even if taken in small doeses, had a roughly 1 in 3 chance of killing the user. He slowly picked himself up and began the journey back to St. Leoluca. Back to the Chemist.

Ceyol, near the Warehouse District

Charlie Dean watched with slight curiousity as a black town car pulled to a stop in front of his store; his curiousity grew as he watched a tall, slim man in a black suit emerge from the car; it wasn't until two cops got out that he felt the first twinge of fear.

The two officers- one fat; one skinny; both ugly- stood guard outside the Wonder Shop while the suit entered.

Charlie reached for the sawed off hidden under his wheelchair as the man in the black suit approached the counter.

"What can I help you with?" Dean asked, masking his fear. His right hand rested firmly on the handle of his shotgun; out of view from his visitor.

"Good day, Mr. Dean," said the suit, who lit a cigarette and smiled thinly at the crippled store owner, "I'm Special Agent Victor Creedy with the Free City PD. I was hoping you'd answer a few of my questions."

"What's this about?"

"We're looking for a certain young man with the alias 'the Siapian.' He's wanted for a number of crimes. You wouldn't know anything about him, would you?" asked Creedy in his peculiar, wavering voice.

"N-no sir."

"Very well. How about his associate, one Claude DeCell?"

"I, uh," Charlie paused and considered his options. He decided to tell a half truth, "I sorta know him...he comes in from time to time looking for old books. Quite a reader, he is."

"Do you have a number where we could reach Mr. DeCell?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well that's unfortunate. If he comes in, be sure to give us a call."

"Uh, will do."

Creedy offered Dean another thin, joyless smile and exited the store. The agent paused before getting into his town car and turned to the two officers behind him.

"Tap that one's phone," Victor told the fat cop, "I want someone watching this store 24/7."

"Yessir," replied the policeman, before getting into the driver seat. Creedy sat in the back of his car, produced a cell phone, and quickly dialed.

"Mr. King?

This is Creedy, we've got a lead. I have the police tapping his phone.

No, the Commissoner won't know a thing. You own half the force.

The name is DeCell. We'll find him."

****

NoirTech Towers, Uptown Ceyol

Alex King put down his phone and ran a hand through his black hair. His dark eyes scanned his spacious office, admiring the samurai swords and medieval weaponry that lined the walls. King had spent his entire career dealing arms- legally and illegally- and though he was loath to admit it, even to himself, involving himself in the drug trade made him nervous. Alex turned and faced his window, which offered a panoramic view of the impoverished Free City. The NoirTech office complex- a group of sleek, modern office buildings and hotels clustered together and surrounded by a ten foot wall- stood out like a sore thumb in the sewer of Ceyol. It was an oasis of wealth in a desert of slums and projects. King's associates asked him frequently why he had his global headquarters in such a dangerous city- and though Alex always lied about the answer it was really quite clear. Vice, poverty, unemployment, corruption, and crime are a exactly what the arms business needs. As long as Ceyol's government remained beaurocratic and ineffective, NoirTech could continue to flood the streets with cheap weapons and not worry about legal repercussions.

"Mr. King, your helicopter is ready," said Alexander's secretary over the intercom. King smiled, straighted his expensive silk tie, and headed for the door.

Another day, another deal.

Breaking News

At 4:07 am today, a small freighter that had apparently been converted to a drug factory was seized one mile outside Siapian waters. The ship was bearing a Siapian flag and was registered to Blake's Point.

The ship had been found to be manufacturing the drug commonly referred to as KC, or "Kissey." While most have expressed optimism, citing this as a success in the effort against the spread of K4C-22, Paul Kesson, a former Intelligence Specialist and advisor to the matter said that "This is only a drop out of an ocean."

"If you find a dead rat in your basement, you buy rat traps, not declare victory."

Ceylon, near the Warehouse District


OOC: its 'Ceyol'. And the Siapian has a lot of power in the region, so be careful.

IC:

Somewhere, Blake's Point, Siap

Claude DeCell leaned in to the wall, rubbing his head as he talked in the phone. "General Tomassino. I am making a long distance call, and that pisses me off. Apparently some fuckface down in the PD has been dropping my name. And he's been saying something about the Siapian being a wanted criminal. Thats kinda funny, because I remember the Siapian being the one who got you asshats out of the war...No-you are being sloppy! My boss had his arms interests walked all over by these King pricks and he pulled the PD right out from underneath you. This is your problem. You make it right!"

The Free City

General Tomassino, a decorated war hero from the Ceyolian civil war and from the conflict with the Dominion of Transylvania, hung up the phone and massaged the inside with his pinky finger. He picked up the phone again. "Please put me through to the head of the major case squad, or whomever is on the trail of the Siapian."

((Heh, sorry. I was a little tired when I wrote the post... all typos fixed.))

The black sedan slowly wound through the lawless streets of the Free City; the fat cop in the passenger seat bit into a sandwhich, the skinny one driving whined about how it smelled.

Victor Creedy, alone in the backseat, lit a cigarette and frowned at his underlings. Perhaps it was time they had an unfortunate accident and wound up at the bottom of the bay... perhaps it was time to get some fresh blood in on the operation.

A buzzing cell phone interrupted Creedy's thoughts.

"Hello," he answered in his wavering, peculiar voice, "This is Special Agent Creedy."

"Mr. Creedy, this is General Tomassino, commander of army intelligence. I must inform you that a rather disturbing report has crossed my desk today, and I am afraid that some of your work has crossed a matter of national security. I am going to say this once: you would be wise to discontinue some of your more controversial case work. I do not wish to have to try you as a traitor." He then hung up the phone.

bump for more interest/factions

bump. Will post later.

Ben Reiker returned to St. Leoluca, with a small convoy of panel trucks travelling up the small dirt road on the countryside, approaching a deceptively large house built into the face of the fjords over the ocean. The trucks entered a garage underneath the back of the house.

The man, The Chemist, sat at the piano, playing J.S. Bach's "The Passion of St. Matthew." The chords of the piano resounded through the enormous foyer that faced out towards the ocean.

"Hey!" Ben shouted. "I'm back."

"And you are loud." The old man said, not moving from the piano.

"Listen. Cassius has made us an offer. This is a good deal. He says he will double our cut of the skim if we just slow down production."

As Ben spoke, the Chemist began pounding the piano harder. "There is a reason you are my only contact to him. My production of the product will continue. If you want to make yourself useful, look for more customers. If the Siapian wants to limit the market, then go around him."

---

It wasn't until later that Ben realized that there was a death threat hidden in the man's ramblings. Adaptation. Ben thought. If he won't adapt to Cassius, Cassius will adapt to us, I guess. And somehow I won't die. He thought as he sat on the roof of the mansion, contemplating the ocean and the fifth of whiskey in his hands.

Frederic Williams calmly went through passport control, his forged papers , along with the bribe he had given to the officials, hiding his true identity. Getting out of the airport, he called up a cab and asked them to take him to a hotel he had previously arranged a reservation at. Walking inside, he picked up his keys and went to his room. Once there, he opened his briefcase and began to unpack. He took off his nicer clothes and put on some poorer looking ones. he also applied some make-up to make himself look more ragged and unkept. Finally, he opened up a concealed compartment in his briefcase and removed a Strayer Voigt Infinity 1911 handgun. He checked it, loaded it, and then put it in a concealed pocket, handmade, in his coat. Then he opened the window and checked around carefully. The window opened up to an adjacent rooftop that was out of sight from the street. Frederic climbed out the window and dropped onto the rooftop. From there, he headed to a nearby alley and came down the fire escape. He then strode off onto the street, looking as if he was a cocky, money laden punk, just dying to be mugged.

The last part was true. Frederic's mission required him to first get into contact with criminals, and the best way to do that would be to face some head on.

OOC: Assuming this is in the Free City

IC: One of the largest refiners and pushers in The Free City was Wally "Rocks" Rocco. He was called "Rocks" not only because of his determination and hand in the cocaine trade, but also because sometimes it seemed like thats what he kept in his head.

While he was competent at negotiating deals and paying off the right people, he was grossly incompetent at choosing underlings.

"Hey!" Bananas--the ape-like enforcer for one of Rock's larger dealers. His loping towards the prick walking down the street resembled that of an animal that previously suffered head trauma. "Are, you, uh...a pusher? I don't think its a good idea for you to be doing deals down here, so, uh, you might want to leave like now."

Frederic stared up the man and adopted a slightly drunk accent,

"Step off man! I don't need no shaved gorilla tellin' me what to do!"

Bananas, being particularly sensitive to any reference of a monkey being associated with him, promptly sought to explain his feelings to the intruder of his turf as best he could.

Specifically, he through a powerful right hook at the man.

Frederic wasn't particularly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but he had been in the army, and they had taught him to take blows. He turned his head quickly to a position that would allow for miminal damage and allowed Bananas to connect, rolling with the blow. While the hulking enforcer stood above him, Frederic rolled behind him and pulled out his gun, putting it to the ape-man's head.

"Good, good. You're just what I was looking for. Now, I am not a pusher, but I represent a man who is very interested in expanding his operations. First off though, I'd like to schedule a meeting with someone high up in the scheme of things. You're obviously not smart enough to be your own man, so get me someone you report to. Let everyone know that the Wolf Pack is coming in."

"Loose the gun." The sound of the chamber of a revolver spinning could be heard. The .44 Special was lined up at such a distance that pulling the trigger would kill both men, but such that the gun could not be batted away. "In this part of town you only pull a gun if I say you can." This man had a face that resembled a weasel, although he was fairly large. "You wanna talk business, you start talking. If I don't hear something I like in three seconds, I pull the trigger." The man pulled back the trigger slowly. "One..."

Humanity was usually an interesting topic for study, at least to someone outside the human race. The erupting Mexican Standoff across the street was another aspect of human thought that fascinated him. Firearms made them feel super-human, giving them a false sense of safety in an otherwise deadly situation. Under different circumstances he might have shot one of the overly-aggressive pair from across the street and watch the firefight erupt for the Hell of it, the so-called Free City wasn't exactly a stanger to gang gunfights anyway.

In this case, however, he needed information from one, or possibly both, of the two involved parties. Were non-humans an uncommon thing, he might have attracted attention, but such sentients were not. The Dark Argonian known mostly as Sektan Keth shared the aquatic lines and angles of his green-scaled brethren, yet his own hide was so black it had a bluish tinge to it. The lizard-man was a powerfully-constructed individual, standing a tall 6'3", barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. The shoulders were an asset, considering his affinity for large revolvers. His current choice was one of his favorites, a Taurus Raging Bull in the somewhat mild .44 Magnum chambering with a Hogue monogrip in lieu of some fancy wood panels. Opposite the six-inch barreled monster was a Mercwerx Equitorian, a large combat knife with an eight and a half inch blade modeled after the ancient Roman gladius short sword. The knife's factory Micarta grip panels had also been replaced with black rubber for a more positive grip. It tended to get pretty wet when it was employed.

The entire shoulder rig was concealed under a short photographers' style dark gray vest. A white T-shirt and jeans completed his outfit choice for the day, ending with a pair of Timberland work boots in the obligatory tan coloration. Sektan's business was simple, as were his methods. He represented the Argonian Insurgency, the title given to the nameless band of anti-modernist rebels deadlocked in guerilla combat with government troops in the Argonian homeland. The rebels had allied with their former ancient enemies, the Dark Argonians, in an attempt to garner support and funding to purchase their own military-grade hardware. They had been so unwilling to put down their spears some fifteen months earlier, and now they were begging for assault rifles from whatever kind bastard would donate anything that threw lead.

Being what they were, the new Argonian Insurgency had started growing cocaine to sell within the modernized cities and abroad, the medical-quality potent stuff you didn't find on just any street corner. Marijuanna had soon followed, considering its extensive market, and the potent 'Swamp Skunk' had become a major seller. Now they were looking for something different to round out their sample packets and they buzzword everyone was wanting to know about was 'Kissy', similar in effects and use as cocaine, but only mentally addiciting. Physically addicted buyers were preferred, but some folks, even in the drug industry, had morals. In this case it was giving the customer the option of rehab.

Seeing that the little standoff across the street hadn't gone anywhere in the past few seconds, Sektan decided he'd get involved. The lizard-man exited his black Acura four-door and proceeded towards the trio...

"Gentlemen, gentlemen... Perhaps we should all lower our weapons and try to get along? We're all businessmen here, right?"

Sektan's voice was smooth, almost comforting in a way. While more inclined to stab anyone not willing to give him what he wanted, that didn't always solve everything, much to his chagrin. Sometimes the spoken word was mightier than the thirteen-point-five inch knife, and this looked to be such an instance. He continued despite the looks of confusion...

"I represent a certain interested group that the three of you might profit from supplying. It will be hard for me to discuss terms with everyone missing the thinking parts of their heads..."

His hands were extended, but in a non-threatening way. He wasn't sure if they realized it, but should the situation turn sour the same stance made it very easy to grab a human shield or even someone's sidearm. Sektan had been around for a while, had a chance to train under some highly proficient instructors, and while he had no formal military training he had seen more than his share of combat back in the marshes...

Despite the arrival of the lizardman, the man was still pointing a gun at Frederic's head and he saw the need to keep his skull in one piece, so he released his grip on the gun and let it drop to the ground. Hitting the pavement roughly, it let off a shot into a nearby window, shattering it, then falling silent. Turning around with his hands raised, but able to easily grab the concealed knife he had in his jacket, Frederic faced both the man aiming the gun at him and the lizard creature.

"First off, my superiors have no interest in actually taking over here. I merely stated so because it would draw attention from the people worth talking to, such as yourselves. My organization has no need to spread its market. Instead, we wish to purchase some of the product floating around to begin to distribute on our own in seperate areas. I also have some business propositions to discuss with whoever gives the locals the biggest bribes and runs things around here. As for you, lizard boy, I don't know what you are but I've seen wierder stuff in the middle of the battlefield. I have no product to give you, but if you are in need of things a long the lines of weapons or hired guns overseas I can give you some assistance."

"Things have become complicated," Creedy said; sticking a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, "They have a General on their payroll who's making it difficult to...proceed... and the Argonians have taken an interest. There is another, I can't identify him, but he's got a street pusher at gun point."

Victor exhaled a cloud of smoke, his grey eyes watched the potentially violent scene unfold across the street. He leaned back in his car's passenger seat and pressed his cell phone to his ear.

"Very well," King's unmistakeable baritone said from the other end of the phone, "The Argonian rebel is potentially our ally- we've been selling the Insurgency guns for quite a long time. Arrest the whole crew, get whatever information you can from the pushers and this other fellow. Treat the lizard with respect, make him a deal."

"I understand," replied Creedy in his peculiar, wavering voice. The agent clicked a few buttons on his phone and the wail of sirens sounded in the distance.

The Free City's finest were on their way...

Rocks looked around. "Shit!" Somehow this other stranger got involved. And he was sure that he could here sirens in the background. Rocks didn't get to be where he was by getting picked up by cops. Either way, he was in over his head and the cops were coming. "A-frame. North Beach. 3 am. Supplier will be there."

He pulled his weapon away from the man's head and yelled "Bananas!" The fat oaf turned his head right into the butt of Rock's revolver and fell to the floor unconscious. "Tell 'em nothing!" He yelled to the unconscious man, before running into the nearby restaraunt.

Rocks maneuvered hs way through the restaraunt and darted through the kitchen, climbing into a small crawlspace and emerging inside a large warehouse where dozens of men and women wearing masks were working with vast piles of white powder. "Cherries and berries!" He shouted running across the way. The men and women screamed and ran towards the variety of exits. As he made his way across the floor, he knocked over the giant beakers of ether as he ran. He quickly entered his small office and pulled several stacks of bills out from behind a portrait of an Irish setter. Running out of the door, he fired two shots at an undisturbed container of ether, which deftly ignited. Soon there were screaming people and licking flames as he crawled to the roof. Outside there would be about twenty people, with resin of kissy all over their cothes who knew nothing. There would be a burned warehouse with little evidence of his operation, and hopefully his guests could make it to the safehouse.

He hopped along the roofs and climbed into the window of a produce dealer and passed the man a small wad of bills. He then passed into the street bazaar, passing every shop owner a small wad of cash. It was no wonder that no one ever saw him. He slowly meandered his way through the city towards the safehouse.

The shot rang loudly in Sektan's ears. The 1911 style pistol had been improved in recent years, with the Colt series 70 safety that ended the spat of drop-firings the pistol had had some trouble with. Clearly this man's weapon was a very old model, or one of poor quality. The shot had missed him, and that was all that mattered.

As the ringing in his ears subsided he became aware of the wail of sirens in the distance like an approaching demon. It wouldn't be good if they caught him, INTERPOL had already put together a bit of a dossier on his comrades and had come pretty close to nailing him too at one point. Escape was the most viable option, as he only had roughly thirty rounds for his revolver on him at any given time. The trunk of his Acura, however, held more in addition to some more exotic playthings of a ballistic nature...

"It would seem that your gunshot has attracted a bit too much attention. I would suggest you flee..."

Sektan might have offered the man a ride away from the danger, but he'd already gotten a bit peeved at him for his earlier disrespect. The Insurgency already had its fair share of arms dealers and mercenaries on payroll, as did the government troops. Unless this man had something truly unique to offer other than old 1911's, there would be little use for him. The Dark Argonian swiftly entered his vehicle and cranked the ignition, six cylinders roaring to life. His large foot depressed the gas pedal, pulling the vehicle out of the parallel parking spot and into the street, making a left through an intersection and applying the accelerator to pick up speed down the straight road as the sirens drew closer...

Special Agent Creedy smiled slightly as he watched his targets scatter at the sounds of the approaching police. He motioned for the black clad mercenary in the driver's seat to pursue the Accura.

"...suspect is argonian, 6'3" driving a black accura... in pursuit!" blared a number of voices over Creedy's radio. The agent lit a cigarette and picked up his microphone, about to issue orders, when a restaurant to his right exploded into flames.

"Fuck a duck," growled his driver; Victor merely sighed.

"Keep after that lizard, the cops can deal with the fire," he said calmly. His black sedan sped after Keth's accura, flanked by two patrol cars.

Sektan's green eyes darted between his rear-view mirror and the road ahead. They were on to him, the flashing lights bright behind him. There would be no running, but wait...

That wasn't a metro car...

The driver definitely wasn't a police-man, he wore too much black and looked like he had a nasty disposition. The guy with the hand mic shared the stereotype. His preferred combat set-up was in his trunk, tucked securely into a custom-built Pelican-brand case. A gas-piston LMT AR-15 with a Monolithic Rail Platform upper reciever, ergonimic pistol and vertical grips, and a Trijicon Reflex combat optic. The weapon itself was in the newer, more potent 6.8mm caliber. The second item was a custom-built M79 grenade launcher with a black kevlar/synthetic stock. He'd never needed both weapons at once, and the underslung M203 launcher was not as accurate as the older M79 was. Ammunition ran the gammut of standard HEDP to WP and thermite loads, depending on his needs at the moment.

The case also included a pair of Smith and Wesson J-frame snub-nose .38 revolvers, both stainless steel with Crimson Trace laser-grips for added accuracy, and a Glock 20 in 10mm Norma. The revolvers carried a unique design of handload he'd perfected for close-quarters use. It consisted of a 125-grain wadcutter loaded backwards and loaded hot. The cylindrical chunk of lead either mushroomed and held it shape or simply blew apart on exiting the barrel, making for unpleasant surprises.

Sektan debated on pulling over and getting the M79 into play, but that would be excessive, not to mention that they'd probably shoot him before he got it loaded. He'd neglected to bring a tactical vest of any kind, which meant he'd need to avoid getting shot at as much as possible. The Dark Argonians, with their greater expeirence with firearms and their more extensive connections, usually supported the Insurgency with precise firepower in lieu of more expensive mercenaries. He'd left his Interceptor back at home.

With no other options, Sektan slowed down and pulled to the side. If there was a way out of this, it would be at close range...

Creedy smiled as the accura pulled to the side of the road...this would be easier than he thought. His black Cadillac double parked in front of the argonian's car; the patrol cars flanked the accura and immediately the cops poured out, their pistols trained on Sektan.

Victor motioned for his driver- a bulky, white haired merc with a jagged scar running down his face- and the two NoirTech soldiers in the back of the car to get out. The mercenaries aimed their submachine guns at the Accura and shouted for the lizard to get out of the vehicle. The agent's pale grey eyes watched the Argonian exit his car; he carefully gauged his potential opponent.

Creedy stepped out of his Cadillac and smiled thinnly. His carefully parted black hair contrasted sharply with his sallow, almost yellow skin in the harsh sunlight.

"I am Special Agent Victor Creedy," the agent said in his strange, quivering voice, "I'd like to order these men to stand down, but I need you to drop the weapons you are carrying. Can we do that? There's no need for violence, you're not under arrest."

Sektan slowly withdrew his .44 from the shoulder holster, laying it gingerly on top of his vehicle. Next came the knife, momentarily feeling the comforting shape of the unique 'chili-pepper' handle before setting it down next to the hog-leg. He'd neglected to put the little Smiths in their ankle holsters before heading out.

Stripped of his sidearm and his favorite knife, the large Argonian slowly opened the door and stepped out, keeping his back to the weapons he'd lain down moments before. Flashing a venemous look in Creedy's direction, Sektan seated himself on the hood of the Accura, crossing his arms across his chest...

"That better, Agent Creedy?"

This guy might have been INTERPOL, if he was he was one of those assassin types they dispatched only if they needed to permanently remove someone truly dangerous. If that was the case, then Sektan was flattered they considered him such a risk. This was doubtful, however. He'd kept a low enough profile on the world stage to not warrant such attention...

"Much," replied the agent, lighting a cigarette. Creedy turned to the cops and told them leave. He then ordered his mercs to lower their weapons. As soon as the patrol cars had pulled away, Victor extended his hand to the lizard.

"I not only work for the Free City PD, I represent NoirTech Arms Incorporated... a supplier of the Argonian Insurgency. You match the description of a wanted rebel- you are Sektan Keth, correct?" Creedy did not wait for the Argonian to answer but continued, "I have an offer to make you. If you are not interested, you are free to leave, if you are, get in your car and follow me."

This guy knew his name, and the fact that he used the term 'Wanted' didn't bode well for him. Had he really been that reckless? Doubtful, but still possible. Knowing his name proved some connection to the Insurgency, however, and allies were always useful in foreign lands. Shrugging off any reluctance, Sektan took the man's extended hand...

"Indeed. I am intrigued by your offer..."

Ambush was more than likely, but again doubtful in this case. The Dark Argonian slowly replaced his weapons from whence they came, shrugging his shoulders to get the Bianchi-made holster back into proper place. The knife hadn't been an original part of the rig, but electrical tape was a wonderful tool for mating leather to leather...

"It seems my first lead fell through, would you happen to be able to locate some of this 'Kissy' substance? In the interest of continued business, of course..."

That wasn't far from the truth. Drug sales domestic and abroad funded any weapons buys, and if this man did indeed suppy arms to the resistance it would be a worthwhile investment...