NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Continued from URP board posts. If you want to repost anything of yours, go ahead.

IC:
"Sir! Sir! They've intercepted some of our transfer!" Minister of Commerce Xaher screeched down the hallway, her heels almost bringing up sparks as she pelted after the Imperator. Dashing around a corner, she nearly ran into the Imperator, who had turned at her calls. Standing and brushing herself off, she continued, "Your lordship, the Proto-Laurasians have tracked some of our money. Some of the transfer to Kostovsky. They know its Faxanavian!" The Imperator nodded, face placid. "Right," he said. "I want you to wire 500,000 dollars to them. Then make a press release saying that we had planned to transfer money to them annonymously, as a welcome gift to our region. However, because they discovered our first intended transfer, we decided to go public. Got that?" The minister of Commerce nodded, and dashed away.

Kostovsky set his Kalashnikov to full-auto and entered the office. Looking around, he noticed a small, leather suitcase. There was a slight mark in the upper corner, small S. This was the case. With eager greed, he inched towards the case, almost afraid to open it. When, slowly, he removed the lid, he was filled with the power he knew would soon fill him. 20 million dollars, the first installment. 20 million dollars, the 20 million bullets. and below the money were 8 Micro-Uzis for his personal defense team. The revolution had begun.

"Political power fires from the barrel of a gun"- Mao Tse-Tung

The sun looked down upon the quiet city of Jahnen-Dzokon, Proto-Laurasia. This early in the morning, the people had yet to rise, and the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily business had yet to commence. It seemed an ideal place. Yet, all places are ideal when we cannot see behind their closed doors.

The dappled light of the sun did not make it through the five-inch thick, specially bulletproofed Kevlar blinds that adorned this particular shop front's windows. It was here that three men convened- Kostovsky, and two as of yet unnamed men. It was these men that were now drawing Kostovsky's attention. Both were dressed in long, black coats. The taller of the two was speaking to the other one angrily in Tasaj-Lebra, the Faxanavian language. "X caran te, ee natz visan te. Det la te?" The other man shook his head, worriedly. Finally, the taller turned back to Kostovsky. "I'm sorry for the wait, sir. It seems my colleague has misplaced the item." However, the shorter of the two men was now bringing in a large, rectangular crate. Excitedly, Kostovsky pulled the top off. He smiled gleefully as he removed the contents- half a ton of C-4 explosive. The smaller man said, "The others are at the warehouse as you ordered." Kostovsky smiled. This would be good.

The first strike was completely unexpected. Two unassuming men, dressed in business suits entered the administration building in Jahnen-Dzokon. Each man carried a suitcase. Each suitcase was left inside of the building, generally by a large column or support device. This strange event happened several times throughout the day. The unassuming briefcase's were left well hidden. It was not until late that afternoon, as the building was at its busiest, that 8 cases filled with C-4 explosive detonated in a blast of light, sound, and pain.

Sergei Tokarev was different. Born in the early days of Noctiana, just 14 years ago, his passion for socialism was unmatched. And so was his hatred for Stalinism. He had fired his first round at the tender age of five, was a prize-winning marksman at just 10, and now, he was prepared to take up a new a position. He would kill.

Tokarev felt the bolt on his PP-93 spring back as his rounds pierced and knocked down the enemy. He pulled out his CALP-M1, a compact automatic shotgun recently put into production by Proto-Laurasia. He worked alone, killing not silently but brutally, with the determination of an eagle. Comrade Sergei Tokarev, Senior Military Commissar.

Today, Tokarevhad been threatened. He has seen the explosion. He had not seen the killers, but he knew their fate. He knew it all too well. They would be crushed under the glorious leadership of Comrade Grand Commissar Kostovsky. The infamous Kastovsky.

Sergei Tokarev was different. Born in the early days of Noctiana, just 14 years ago, his passion for socialism was unmatched. And so was his hatred for Stalinism. He had fired his first round at the tender age of five, was a prize-winning marksman at just 10, and now, he was prepared to take up a new a position. He would kill.

Tokarev felt the bolt on his PP-93 spring back as his rounds pierced and knocked down the enemy. He pulled out his CALP-M1, a compact automatic shotgun recently put into production by Proto-Laurasia. He worked alone, killing not silently but brutally, with the determination of an eagle. Comrade Sergei Tokarev, Senior Military Commissar.

Today, Tokarevhad been threatened. He has seen the explosion. He had not seen the killers, but he knew their fate. He knew it all too well. They would be crushed under the glorious leadership of Comrade Grand Commissar Kostovsky. The infamous Kastovsky.

The windows of the bar were fogged with the warmth of the night. Inside, lights glowed, and men sang and talked. The beer ran, and the men drank it profusely. Seated at the end of the bar was Kostovsky and another man, shorter then he, and dressed in a long black coat. He was speaking quietly to Kostovsky in Pangean "The bombings were a success. However, we must proceed with all caution. What is our next move." Kostovsky smiled. "Do not worry, my friend. It is already in place..."

There were not that many streets that led into and out of the city. But, what few that were were always jam-packed with drivers going to and from the nearer cities of Dasvaga and West Walrus. It was near these outbound streets that Duncanius Hunter lay in wait. Duncanius was dressed in a pure black, and blended almost perfectly into the background. His shirt was black. His pants were black. His night vision goggles were black. In fact, the only thing about him that wasn't black was the Dragunov sniper rifle across his back. Now, he unslung this, rotated it, and aimed down at the massed cars below. With a silenced bang, he opened fire, just like 14 others covering all major highways out of the city.

In the the dark of the night which engulfed Jahnen-Dzokon, four trucks pulled into the city square. Tomorrow, people would be gathering here to go about their daily bussiness. At noon, just as the streets were crowded and the most people were out, they would detonate. Detonate with close to three tons of C-4 a piece.

Kostovsky, returning from the bar that night to his little shopfront in Jahnen-Dzokon, was now speaking over the radio. In his thick, almost Russian accent, he was explaining, patiently, the plan. This plan would be relayed through team leaders to each of his men, arrayed all across the country. By tomorrow, they would be in Dasvaga. Kostovsky clicked open the channel one more time to them. "Prepare, boys. This is the big one." Turning away from this radio, he lifted the receiver on another one. Smiling, he radioed out. "Yes, this is Comrade Grand Commissar Kostovsky. Yes. I have reason to believe the terrorists responsible for the attack are located in the north and west. Yes. Yes, I know thats far away from Jahnen-Dzokon, but I trust my source. I want every available man and woman mobilized. Their forces could be huge. Yes. Yes. Yes, we leave tomorrow at dawn. No, I cannot be there. I shall oversee from here. Yes. Thank you, comrade."

Civilian Squadron 2119 Burst into the room, guns set on automatic and at the ready. The target burst for the door, Dragunov SVD in hand. With that move, the roar of Uzis tore up the building. And it was with that that one Ivan Doe, unidentified, dressed all in black, was dead.

Jacques du Horologe stood before the defense collective council, stacks of paper in hand. It was raining in the street below; each gray drop cast its own melancholy shadow on the silent and awestruck committee. With lethargic pain in his heart, the assistant struck on the radio. Remorsefully, du Horologe began his speech.

"My comrades- my brothers and sisters. Today, we embark on a great journey. Today, we embark on the great journey of freedom. Today, we will stand above the oppression, to secure the revolution in the hands of Socialism. Today, we will win.

"You have all heard of, you have seen, you may even have felt the atrocities that were committed just days ago. But now, it is time for you to take up arms. It is time for you to fight, it is time for us to fight. It is time, my comrades, for strength. But remember that strength breeds evil, and evil breeds strength. Let us not forget the true beauty of Socialism- Today, you have declared war. Today, you shall fight this war; our war- The glorious War of the Proletariat. Today, it has begun- but today, it has ended."

The applause was thunderous. And with the thunder of cheer came the thunder of guns. The war had begun.

Horologe was pulled aside by a proletariat informant. "Comrade! We have received word from Comrade Kostovsky! He informs us of a militant base in the northeast, near New Petrograd. Shall I inform the collective?"
"Immediately. They must deliberate today. Take no prisoners!"

Operational Expeditionary Corps 16 rode into the northeast countryside on the backs of the Black Eagle tanks, guns ready for a massive assault. They rode down fields and roads, preparing to destroy the enemy swiftly and end the war. They drove for days, past the tattered cornfields, past the mountains, past the flowing rivers, and not a bullet was fired. It was tranquil, yet the most chilling experience of their lives. In one week, OEC-16 returned to Dasvaga with not an empty magazine in hand.

Dark hail beat down on the rooftops of Dasvaga. It gave the city a quiet tone, one it had not seen for days since the war began. There was a certain safety in what couldn't be controlled, a certain peace in the raging storm. It was in that repose that Grand Commissar Boris Letlev entered the small café on Thompson Boulevard. The café was empty as he had expected; citizens did not dare show themselves in the open. He sat down at a modern-looking steel table towards the corner of the room and ordered a Chai. It was strong and searing; he believed real men only drank tea, as he put it, "black as the Kalashnikov, hot as Tsar Bomba." He slipped a small suitcase under the table, left a tip, and walked nonchalantly out of the restaurant.

Jeffrey Newman swung open the revolving door and sat down at a table. He threw his suitcase under the table, yawned widely, and walked up to the counter. Pastrami on Rye in hand, he returned to the table. He had rehearsed the scene hundreds of times in his head, but now, he was drawing a blank. Suddenly, he remembered his next move. Going up to the counter, he complained of the lack of pickles on the sandwich. Now was crucial.

The short, brunette waitress apologized, walked towards the kitchen, and put on two pickles under the third slice of pastrami, holding it in with a second toothpick. The plan was on. He grabbed one of the suitcases, left the other, and ran out of the restaurant.
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Ivan Ysktort, known Stalinist sympathizer and political lobbyist, entered the restaurant at precisely 4:00 PM, where he was scheduled to meet Commissar Letlev. He was not a member of the Stalinist party, but the Intelligence Collective Council was certain that he was connected in some way with the terrorist attacks. He was fuming, believing that the restaurant had stolen his had stolen his suitcase. Calmly, the waitress claimed she had seen it earlier that day, quickly procuring it from under a small table in the far end of the restaurant. He sat down at the table, and waited for the commissar to arrive. And then, his days were numbered.

Just that night, his body would be found with traces of C-4 on it, blasted to shreds in his flat downtown.

As OEC-16 rode north, the Stalinists went south. It was a ruse. The lot of it. Kostvsky considered the perfection of his plan as he relaxed on the large jet liner, screaming through the skies at speeds of 600 miles per hour. He was bound for Gourmondinia, on "official business". In fact, it was his safe haven. With the attention of the Defense council on OEC-16 and the potential Stalinists to the north, his plan would come into effect immediately. True, they had lost several snipers to civilian forces, and true, Ysktort had been a sad loss, but neither was worth too much, and neither had given up valuable information. And, the car bombs had gone off perfectly. Nine tons of C-4. He smiled at the deliciousness of it all.

The day was bright, and hot, and the sun shone over Dasvaga like the flaming eye of some primeval god. Hidden on a rooftop, young Ivan Porkouski perched quietly. He was awaiting the squawk from the tiny radio. He checked the iron sights one last time, looking out across the green of the lawn before him and at the large, stately building across the way. A governmental center. He smiled. He was like ten others, prepared for the simultaneous attack that was about to go off.

As Ivan perched upon his rooftop, Allen Garcion and Boris Talzin crept through the slime that was th Dasvagan sewage system. "This is disguisting." moaned Garcion. "Just a few more feet, Allen. Then we are there." consoled Boris. The two crept on, and soon had reached the massive tank- the water purifier. It was here that all of Dasvaga's drinking water was siphoned off into and recycled. They crept silently until they reached the correct tank. They both pulled from the packs on their backs large, round, plastic tubs. Careful not to touch it, they upended the white powder into the water. Garcion looked on with disguist as several liters of anthrax swirled away. The two emptied out their containers, tossed them into the water, and made their way out.

An inconspicuous purple van sat on a small, unnoticed side street some 50 meters from the central electrical generation plants for the city. It was here that Johan Alcrion sat, making the last minute adjustments to the large tubular object sitting in front of him. A wide cylinder about 5 feet long and 3 feet high, it was hooked up to a mass of electrical wiring. Making some last minute adjustments, he crawled out of the vans door and stood back several meters. He placed his finger on the red button, and awaited the go from his radio.

Simultaneously Ivan, Allen, Boris, and Johan heard the loud buzzing through their radios. This was it. The big one. The attacks were simultaneous. Allen and Boris had returned to run a second dumping run, and as the radio buzzed they upended another tub of anthrax into the water supply. Ivan smiled, lifted his sight to his eyes, and fired, just like 10 others arrayed at various important buildings. The rocket propelled grenade blasted from its holder, hurtling forward. Ivan loaded another one, and as he squeezed the trigger Johan hammered the red button. The solenoid of explosive within the truck blasted, and with it the explosively pressed flux compression generator detonated, generating a massive electromagnetic pulse across the city.

Kostovsky smiled again. He knew that this was just the beginning.

Alger Rosenberg had watched the whole ordeal from his apartment balcony, paralyzed in fear. The RPG-7 Grenade had lit his apartment on flames, and here he stood, Dragunov in hand, unflinching, his head a whirlwind of thought and terror. Now, in a sort of trance, he rose his gun and began to fire. He saw the three bodies fall, as the fourth man frantically tried to scramble away without getting shot. Now, he fainted.

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The city was desolate. Citizens ran through the street, screaming and shooting, and it was in that commotion that Rosenberg awoke. He had seen the attack on the water tank, and knew now that this was his turn to secure the glorious revolution. He picked up a hacksaw, his Kalashnikov, three grenades, and went to work. In just 15 minutes, Dasvaga had no water.

The police arrived near the scene of the explosion to find two dead bodies. The attack had been a surprise, but they were yet to see the biggest surprise. One man, despite the sheet of titanium in his face, was able to be identified. Boris Talzin member of the New Stalinist Party.

Alger Rosenberg had watched the whole ordeal from his apartment balcony, paralyzed in fear. The RPG-7 Grenade had lit his apartment on flames, and here he stood, Dragunov in hand, unflinching, his head a whirlwind of thought and terror. Now, in a sort of trance, he rose his gun and began to fire. He saw the three bodies fall, as the fourth man frantically tried to scramble away without getting shot. Now, he fainted.

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The city was desolate. Citizens ran through the street, screaming and shooting, and it was in that commotion that Rosenberg awoke. He had seen the attack on the water tank, and knew now that this was his turn to secure the glorious revolution. He picked up a hacksaw, his Kalashnikov, three grenades, and went to work. In just 15 minutes, Dasvaga had no water.

The police arrived near the scene of the explosion to find two dead bodies. The attack had been a surprise, but they were yet to see the biggest surprise. One man, despite the sheet of titanium in his face, was able to be identified. Boris Talzin member of the New Stalinist Party.

Boris gasped heavily. His heart pounded and his legs burned in pain. He sprinted, the sounds of Kalashnikovs firing into the air. He sprinted, leaping over two bodies in the streets. He knew not if they were stalinist or socialist, and not caring. He pelted onward, down twisting side streets. Suddenly, he hit an impenetrable barrier. A brick wall stood before him. He saw the men behind him, their Kalashnikovs raised. Pulling the cyanide pill from where it hung around his neck. He cried out to the men, "Kill me if you must, but I die today for the revolution!" He popped the pill, and sank to his knees. Then, all hell broke loose.

The way to this war was not fought in cavalry charges, nor in vast airstrikes. It was fought in fear. Now, the fear was taking over. More attacks were coming in. Dasvaga was without water. Now, the stalinists forces began to fire into the crowds which were massing in the panic. Sarin gas rose in blood red clouds, and the stalinist agents donned their gas masks. RPG's were fired into the crowd. Screams filled the night. Kostovsky laughed quietly to himself, watching the destruction reign on camera. His mobile phone rang- the cells all across Proto-Laurasia were now on the move. They were making their own attacks in all major cities. Governmental centers were bombed. water supplies were infected with anthrax. Fields were burned. EMP's detonated. Electrical lines were cut. Chaos reigned. Kostovsky, safe in Gourmondinia, laughed with joy at it all.

Two-hundred feet under Dasvaga, the Laurasian government was in full operation. They had a new operation, one that they knew would not fail.

"Hammer Down" was in full operation, as Cmrd. Cprl. David Izen fired his Thompson into the door of Mikhail Desdonekhev's house. Desdonekhev was leader of the Stalinist party, one of the most important figures in the war.

Izen called two men out of the APC and entered the house. One man searched the ground floor, as Izen and Sergei Tokarev took the top. Izen was directed not to kill Desdonekhev, only to take him in, disabled, for questioning.

When the two soldiers entered the floor, they were met immediately by fire from an Uzi. Tokarev dropped quickly and threw a flash bang into the room, and provided Izen with covering CALP fire. The flash bang discharged, and Izen quickly fired a Taser at the target. The man jerked uncontrollably for a moment, and slouched to the ground. Tokarev congratulated his comrade, and went to snap handcuffs on the man, as he removed his cyanide pill from his neck. Marveling at the small pill he remarked, "So this is the secret."

The man on the bottom floor placed an RDX charge on the main support of the building, and the they left the house into the APC. Sweet success.

All across the nation, thousands of similar raids were conducted. Full regiments were placed in every city, and U2 spyplanes roamed the countryside. But today's priority was Desdonekhev.

Two-hundred feet under Dasvaga, the Laurasian government was in full operation. They had a new operation, one that they knew would not fail.

"Hammer Down" was in full operation, as Cmrd. Cprl. David Izen fired his Thompson into the door of Mikhail Desdonekhev's house. Desdonekhev was leader of the Stalinist party, one of the most important figures in the war.

Izen called two men out of the APC and entered the house. One man searched the ground floor, as Izen and Sergei Tokarev took the top. Izen was directed not to kill Desdonekhev, only to take him in, disabled, for questioning.

When the two soldiers entered the floor, they were met immediately by fire from an Uzi. Tokarev dropped quickly and threw a flash bang into the room, and provided Izen with covering CALP fire. The flash bang discharged, and Izen quickly fired a Taser at the target. The man jerked uncontrollably for a moment, and slouched to the ground. Tokarev congratulated his comrade, and went to snap handcuffs on the man, as he removed his cyanide pill from his neck. Marveling at the small pill he remarked, "So this is the secret."

The man on the bottom floor placed an RDX charge on the main support of the building, and the they left the house into the APC. Sweet success.

All across the nation, thousands of similar raids were conducted. Full regiments were placed in every city, and U2 spyplanes roamed the countryside. But today's priority was Desdonekhev.

Kostovsky shook his head. Desdonekhev was a sad loss. He was loyal, if a bit stupid, and he believed in all of that stalinist crap. Still, he could deal without him. These raids were more of a worry...

The pounding of the ram slammed the door in, cracking the wood in two. Inside, the heavily armored Laurasian police officers discovered two dead bodies- a man and a wife. The two had popped their cyanide pills moments before. Across the country, the raids were taking their effects. close to 900 were already dead, and 500 more were in custody. Many stalinists had retreated to the safety of the secret splinter cell gathering centers. The next attack was being planned.

Desdonekhev awoke in a dark, dank cell. he looked around. A place like this must be in some god forsaken hell hole. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was still in Proto-Laurasia. Checking his surroundings, he realized he was shackled both to the chair he was sitting on and the wall behind him. A table, with another chair, sat in front of him. His heart began to beat faster as he realized what this was- an interrogation room. He also realized that someone during the trip had stolen all of him belongings, including, it seemed, his pants. He flushed with anger. These socialists were godless heathens. Still, he awaited the torture in store for him.

Ivan Berczinsky entered the cell, whip in hand and a pistol in the other. He crept up behind the inmate, unnoticed in the dark. Swiftly and painfully, he commenced the "conversation."

The burn of the whip reddened the back of his neck, and Desdonekhev jolted back in pain. He screamed as he felt the warmth of his blood trickle back as his interrogator appeared in front of him and punched him squarely on the chin.
"What are you doing here, you fool?" Berczinsky seemed furious. Desdonekhev breathed deeply, unable to speak. "You will speak! You will speak or be silenced forever."
"Death is a better fate than Socialism."
"This is what you want, is it not, you Stalinist fuck? Is this not what you fight for, every living hour? Well now it is your fate, like those you wished it on before you!"
"You... You... cannot stop... the revolution!"
"We can stop you, you bastard. Tell me your supplier. Immediately."
"I... will... not!"
"You will submit!" Berczinsky felt the sadistic adrenaline pump through him as he pistol-whipped him in the stomach and watched him cough up his blood. "Bleed! Bastard, you will bleed!" He caned him in the soles of his feet, and watched the welts raise again and again, the blood and the scars drowning out the pleasure of his screams.
"I may.." he breathed heavily. "...Bleed... but you cannot change me. The... power... will be mine!"
"You are powerless, you fool!" Berczinsky picked up a metal pipe and ruthlessly slammed it into his genitals.
Desdonekhev opened his mouth to scream, but could not. He fainted.

Berczinsky left to let him recuperate. He would go as long as he needed to.

A tap on Kostovsky's door made him look up in surprise. Curled up on his bed, laptop on and glowing, he had not expected visitors. Quickly donning a bathrobe, he stood. Sliding the kalashnikov out from its hiding place in behind the bed, Kostovsky looked around the room for a moment. He was, legally, here on business. The government back home had yet to put a price on his head- when they did, it would take him less then half an hour to put together everything needed to get asylum here in Gourmondinia. The neutral kingdom would keep him safe, and if Proto-Laurasia tried to take him by force, Gourmondinia's powerful ally, Faxanavia, would step in. Stepping closer to the door, gun raised, he called out, "Who is it?" "A benefactor, Mr. Kostovsky, who would like to discuss the state of affairs." Kostovsky slowly pulled the latch back, and a man in a long, black coat stepped in. His eyes were covered by dark sunglasses. A shock of white hair dominated his head, and he carried a briefcase. "Mr. Kostovsky, I am here on behalf of the persons who supplied you with the large monetary sum a while back." Kostovsky swung the door shut, keeping his gun trained on the man. However, the mysterious stranger merely seated himself in one of the two wicker chairs scattered about the room. "What do you want?" asked Kostovsky, nervously. The man merely smiled. "I want what you want. I want a little less power in Proto-Laurasia." the man set the case on the bed. "In this case are the details of a package we are about to deliver. It will be placed in the same location as the previous delivery. I would suggest you tell your men to pick it up. It may be of use." The man stood, and walked slowly to the door. "Good luck, Mr. Kostovsky. May the god of your choosing be with you." Kostovsky turned to pick up the briefcase. When he turned back, the man was gone. Carefully, he slid open the case. His eyes widened as he began to read the documents inside. He saw words. Words like "uranium" and "polonium" and "yield." He smiled. These were words he liked.

500 feet into the earth, Marie Jean-Kaczynski stood before the Defense Collective Council. She had received word from an unknown location, startling news. News that involved "Plutonium" "Centrifuge" and "Warhead." She gave news of "detonation" and "fusion." She gave news of "fallout" and "EMP." This was news Proto-Laurasia wanted to hear. This was news of war.

Ivan Berczinsky entered the cell, whip in hand and a pistol in the other. He crept up behind the inmate, unnoticed in the dark. Swiftly and painfully, he commenced the "conversation."

The burn of the whip reddened the back of his neck, and Desdonekhev jolted back in pain. He screamed as he felt the warmth of his blood trickle back as his interrogator appeared in front of him and punched him squarely on the chin.
"What are you doing here, you fool?" Berczinsky seemed furious. Desdonekhev breathed deeply, unable to speak. "You will speak! You will speak or be silenced forever."
"Death is a better fate than Socialism."
"This is what you want, is it not, you Stalinist fuck? Is this not what you fight for, every living hour? Well now it is your fate, like those you wished it on before you!"
"You... You... cannot stop... the revolution!"
"We can stop you, you bastard. Tell me your supplier. Immediately."
"I... will... not!"
"You will submit!" Berczinsky felt the sadistic adrenaline pump through him as he pistol-whipped him in the stomach and watched him cough up his blood. "Bleed! Bastard, you will bleed!" He caned him in the soles of his feet, and watched the welts raise again and again, the blood and the scars drowning out the pleasure of his screams.
"I may.." he breathed heavily. "...Bleed... but you cannot change me. The... power... will be mine!"
"You are powerless, you fool!" Berczinsky picked up a metal pipe and ruthlessly slammed it into his genitals.
Desdonekhev opened his mouth to scream, but could not. He fainted.

Berczinsky left to let him recuperate. He would go as long as he needed to.

The cell stank of blood and sweat. Desdonekhev awoke screaming, his limbs on fire. The pain still seared through him. But, he would go on. He would never give in. For the people, for the revolution, for mankind!

A tiny truck drive silently into the night. In the back, six large boxes sat. Each box was carrying a very special payload. A very special payload indeed.

The Proto-Laurasian Guard stood, Kalashnikov in hand, waiting to check cars through the checkpoint. The nation was at war, but as of yet no supplies had come into the area. It was dull and routine, he thought, checking proletariat vehicles one by one, searching for "foreign" packages. He yawned and fired a round into the ground. He had not pulled his trigger for days, and his war-lust was wearing thin.

The truck stopped at the checkpoint, noticing the tanks ahead. The soldier waltzed up to the driver and asked him to declare what was in his trunk.
"Are you sure you want to hear?"
"No more games." He spit out his gum. "What's in the back?"
"Potatoes."
"Cut the bullshit." He walked towards the back of the truck, gun trained on the driver. He returned nonchalantly, nodding his head. "You put potatoes in suitcases?"
The driver sighed. "It is laptops. 2009 prototypes, Apple Company in America. Delivery for Defense collective."
"Step out of the car."
"I think not." He pulled a Glock 17 and pumped two rounds into the soldier's stomach. The soldier discharged his Kalashnikov, taking out the front tires. Then, with the last of his strength, as the truck drove away, he dropped in his H6 Package. The time delay was set to 15 seconds. He died quickly; luckily, having never seen the hell to follow.

Berczinsky returned to the cell, Thompson in hand. He pulled back the bolt, clipped in a drum, and walked over to the inmate. Desdonekhev was in shock, unable to contemplate his fate. Berczinsky laughed. "Now have you lost? Is now the revolution over?"
Desdonekhev, seemingly having come to grips appeared calm. "No."
"Oh no?"
The shower of casings smashed off the floor, and the hellish blast of the gun shook the room as the stream of rubber bullets pounded, one by one, off his torso. Desdonekhev tried to scream, but the tumult of the blast drowned him out to mere cry. Berczinsky was still calm. "You have two minutes. You will tell me all you know."
"I will..."
"Speak!"
"...t...ell...you nothing!"
"Berczinsky swung forward, thrusting the side of his foot into the inmate's face repeatedly, without mercy or compunction.

Blood dropped down his face as he struggled to utter a word to the interrogator. He was not able to, coughing and gagging on his fate and future.
Berczinsky smiled and approached him with a wrench. He untied one of his hands, put a gun to his head, and using his free hand, began to use the wrench.

He pulled at his fingernails as the inmate screamed and fainted, again and again. It was painstaking, but fulfilling. He saw the deep red flesh exposed as the broken human in the chair wriggled aimlessly, overwhelmed by himself with a horrific sense of forced guilt. He was powerless.

Now, Berczinsky knew he was almost done. He spoke in almost a cordial tone, as he smiled. "It is so sorry. We would not want such a great citizen to die of infection." He dipped each finger, one by one, into a large bucket of alcohol, pure industrial 100%.

One more day was all he needed.

The stench was unbearable, the noise unending. The fear was unshakable, the pain unflinching. But the hate- the hate was stronger. Now was the time. Now was the fight. Now was the war. Now, now was the glorious revolution!

The Dasvaga Civilian corps charged, guns at the ready. The smoke grenades engulfed the city a cloud of white haze. The adrenaline was like water to their mouths, fighting onward and onward. Soldiers stamped on the faces of the dead Stalinists as they reloaded magazines, the roar of the people drowned out the guns. MP9 stood by Uzi. Kalashnikov stood by Thompson. Grenades fell out of the sky with the hail, bullets showered down from roofs with the rain.
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The Medical Collective Committee, deep into the earth, counted the dead bodies from the war. They did not distinguish between Stalinist and Socialist, they sought to save lives. But they could not. Bodies were packed in by the scores each day, and after two weeks, a mere fourteen days, 8,000 had died.

The Proto-Laurasian Guard stood, Kalashnikov in hand, waiting to check cars through the checkpoint. The nation was at war, but as of yet no supplies had come into the area. It was dull and routine, he thought, checking proletariat vehicles one by one, searching for "foreign" packages. He yawned and fired a round into the ground. He had not pulled his trigger for days, and his war-lust was wearing thin.

The truck stopped at the checkpoint, noticing the tanks ahead. The soldier waltzed up to the driver and asked him to declare what was in his trunk.
"Are you sure you want to hear?"
"No more games." He spit out his gum. "What's in the back?"
"Potatoes."
"Cut the bullshit." He walked towards the back of the truck, gun trained on the driver. He returned nonchalantly, nodding his head. "You put potatoes in suitcases?"
The driver sighed. "It is laptops. 2009 prototypes, Apple Company in America. Delivery for Defense collective."
"Step out of the car."
"I think not." He pulled a Glock 17 and pumped two rounds into the soldier's stomach. The soldier discharged his Kalashnikov, taking out the front tires. Then, with the last of his strength, as the truck drove away, he dropped in his H6 Package. The time delay was set to 15 seconds. He died quickly; luckily, having never seen the hell to follow.

Power is all relative. Power can be found in the heart of a sun, or in the smallest chemical interaction. Yet, some one of the most powerful sources of energy in the universe is not a sun, but an atom. The most microscopic of divisions yields massive energy, just like microscopic fusion. This is exactly what happened in the back of the truck as the H6 exploded. It was like slow motion. 7 W72 warheads detonated, fusing and igniting everything into nuclear glass. Each warhead, developed for the AGM-62 Walleye, delivered a 600 ton yield. Collectively, it was 4,200 tons, or 4.2 kilotons of yield. In other words, enough nuclear energy to wipe almost a 3 mile by 3 mile area, leaving an unending trail of decimation across the countryside.

The stench was unbearable, the noise unending. The fear was unshakable, the pain unflinching. But the hate- the hate was stronger. Now was the time. Now was the fight. Now was the war. Now, now was the glorious revolution!

The Dasvaga Civilian corps charged, guns at the ready. The smoke grenades engulfed the city a cloud of white haze. The adrenaline was like water to their mouths, fighting onward and onward. Soldiers stamped on the faces of the dead Stalinists as they reloaded magazines, the roar of the people drowned out the guns. MP9 stood by Uzi. Kalashnikov stood by Thompson. Grenades fell out of the sky with the hail, bullets showered down from roofs with the rain.
----------------
The Medical Collective Committee, deep into the earth, counted the dead bodies from the war. They did not distinguish between Stalinist and Socialist, they sought to save lives. But they could not. Bodies were packed in by the scores each day, and after two weeks, a mere fourteen days, 8,000 had died.

The few remaining stalinists in Dasvaga fled into the night, firing their remaining RPG's behind them. Guns screamed, and destruction reigned. Dasvaga was finished. The government had gone underground, and the city was without electricity.

Now, an open communication was sent by Faxanavia.

|Official Faxanavian Communique|

The Orwellian Meritocracy wishes to know why the government of Proto-Laurasia is slaughtering and torturing stalinists for what seems to be no apparent reason. We advise that you halt these actions, before we are forced to claim that this is a government backed destruction and step in.

Respectfully yours,
Hephaestus Blackforge
Imperator

Berczinsky returned to the cell, Thompson in hand. He pulled back the bolt, clipped in a drum, and walked over to the inmate. Desdonekhev was in shock, unable to contemplate his fate. Berczinsky laughed. "Now have you lost? Is now the revolution over?"
Desdonekhev, seemingly having come to grips appeared calm. "No."
"Oh no?"
The shower of casings smashed off the floor, and the hellish blast of the gun shook the room as the stream of rubber bullets pounded, one by one, off his torso. Desdonekhev tried to scream, but the tumult of the blast drowned him out to mere cry. Berczinsky was still calm. "You have two minutes. You will tell me all you know."
"I will..."
"Speak!"
"...t...ell...you nothing!"
"Berczinsky swung forward, thrusting the side of his foot into the inmate's face repeatedly, without mercy or compunction.

Blood dropped down his face as he struggled to utter a word to the interrogator. He was not able to, coughing and gagging on his fate and future.
Berczinsky smiled and approached him with a wrench. He untied one of his hands, put a gun to his head, and using his free hand, began to use the wrench.

He pulled at his fingernails as the inmate screamed and fainted, again and again. It was painstaking, but fulfilling. He saw the deep red flesh exposed as the broken human in the chair wriggled aimlessly, overwhelmed by himself with a horrific sense of forced guilt. He was powerless.

Now, Berczinsky knew he was almost done. He spoke in almost a cordial tone, as he smiled. "It is so sorry. We would not want such a great citizen to die of infection." He dipped each finger, one by one, into a large bucket of alcohol, pure industrial 100%.

One more day was all he needed.

The agony was unending, the pain like the burn of a million white hot suns. Desdonekhev would have screamed, but he had no voice left to scream with. Now, he croaked silently into the darkness. He was beaten, broken, and lost. Why go on? What was the point. He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I tell you what you want to know."

The agony was unending, the pain like the burn of a million white hot suns. Desdonekhev would have screamed, but he had no voice left to scream with. Now, he croaked silently into the darkness. He was beaten, broken, and lost. Why go on? What was the point. He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I tell you what you want to know."

Berczinsky now smiled as he pulled his whip from his side. "Oh will you?"
"You. You..."
"Speak now, or forever hold your peace." Berczinsky seemed calm, an almost chillingly ironic portrayal of his sadistic greed.
"Kostovsky. It is.... He... Gourmondinia..."
"What know you of Kostovsky?"
"He is supplying. He has paid... a sum... of 6 trillion dollars."
Berczinksy cracked his whip across Desdonekhev's face and bit the inside of his cheek. "Kostovsky is a loyal Socialist! What you speak is treason."

Desdonekhev's tone began to change. "Ha. I am already guilty of treason. He seeks only power; it is foolish to trust him. He has supplied the revolution with... nuclear devices. Kostovsky has been supplying the revolution for months, you are blind to not have seen it. He will never return from Gourmondinia, not by the Mother of Satan herself."

Berczinsky had cracked him, but he was not done yet. He reared back, spun around, and with a vicious, spiteful face glaring at the exhausted Desdonekhev, kicked the prisoner in the chest, knocking over his chair.

Berczinsky stood now over Desdonekhev. "You will now tell me the location of all the cells in the country."

And so he was told. And so did it come to pass, and so did Desdonekhev die, believing in his pathetic hope of victory.

|Official Faxanavian Communique|

The Orwellian Meritocracy wishes to know why the government of Proto-Laurasia is slaughtering and torturing stalinists for what seems to be no apparent reason. We advise that you halt these actions, before we are forced to claim that this is a government backed destruction and step in.

Respectfully yours,
Hephaestus Blackforge
Imperator

du Horologe sent the response later that day.

-Defense Collective Council-
-Dasvaga, Proto-Laurasia-

Proto-Laurasia has reluctantly conducted such behaviors due to the current, urgent state of civil war with Stalinist factions, and sees its conduct as a mere product of the pathetic brutality and horror that war drives men so far. Proto-Laurasia wishes peace with Faxanavia, and wishes to conduct a diplomatic conference on such Sovereign matters.

In Peace and in Strength,
The Proletariat of Proto-Laurasia

The final raids on Stalinist strongholds were conducted later that week. Desdonekhev had not lied. He had succumbed to his fear, and now it was his desperation that brought down his entire empire. The raids were thorough and swift, with the smell of burning Acetone filling the air of cities across the nation. The warrant on Kostovsky's head went out, and his legal ties with Proto-Laurasia were finally severed. The war was quieting, and now Proto-Laurasia was focusing not on war, but on rebuilding its government, rebuilding its cities, rebuilding its army.

The final count came in that Tuesday:
20,000 Dead Civilians
64,000 Injured
2 Cities without power over 1200 Hours
16.42 Square Kilometres of Nuclear Fallout

...1 Nation United.
The revolution, the true revolution, now was its finest hour.

Berczinsky now smiled as he pulled his whip from his side. "Oh will you?"
"You. You..."
"Speak now, or forever hold your peace." Berczinsky seemed calm, an almost chillingly ironic portrayal of his sadistic greed.
"Kostovsky. It is.... He... Gourmondinia..."
"What know you of Kostovsky?"
"He is supplying. He has paid... a sum... of 6 trillion dollars."
Berczinksy cracked his whip across Desdonekhev's face and bit the inside of his cheek. "Kostovsky is a loyal Socialist! What you speak is treason."

Desdonekhev's tone began to change. "Ha. I am already guilty of treason. He seeks only power; it is foolish to trust him. He has supplied the revolution with... nuclear devices. Kostovsky has been supplying the revolution for months, you are blind to not have seen it. He will never return from Gourmondinia, not by the Mother of Satan herself."

Berczinsky had cracked him, but he was not done yet. He reared back, spun around, and with a vicious, spiteful face glaring at the exhausted Desdonekhev, kicked the prisoner in the chest, knocking over his chair.

Berczinsky stood now over Desdonekhev. "You will now tell me the location of all the cells in the country."

And so he was told. And so did it come to pass, and so did Desdonekhev die, believing in his pathetic hope of victory.

His connections were gone. His passport null. Kostovsky looked about him nervously as he slid the papers across the counter to the man in the black suit. The counter was marble top, and it was here in the Gourmondinian central governmental building that he was to make his great escape. The man looked up, a slight look of suprise. "Kostovsky? The Kostovsky?" Kostovsky nodded urgently. "Yes, and get a move on." The man slid the papers into their folder. "Okay sir. You are now a refugee in the Constitutional Monarchy of Gourmondinia. Those socialist bastards won't be able to get you out of here with six tons of TNT." Kostovsky smiled. Free. Free at last.

The final raids on Stalinist strongholds were conducted later that week. Desdonekhev had not lied. He had succumbed to his fear, and now it was his desperation that brought down his entire empire. The raids were thorough and swift, with the smell of burning Acetone filling the air of cities across the nation. The warrant on Kostovsky's head went out, and his legal ties with Proto-Laurasia were finally severed. The war was quieting, and now Proto-Laurasia was focusing not on war, but on rebuilding its government, rebuilding its cities, rebuilding its army.

The final count came in that Tuesday:
20,000 Dead Civilians
64,000 Injured
2 Cities without power over 1200 Hours
16.42 Square Kilometres of Nuclear Fallout

...1 Nation United.
The revolution, the true revolution, now was its finest hour.

"Sir, they've done it. They've taken the bait." William White pounded into the Imperator's office, out of breath and clutching a print out. The terrorists were finished. Done. Maybe 500 had escaped, but the rest were dead, slaughtered by Proto-Laurasian soldiers. That god-forsaken hell hole had won. The Imperator grimaced. He had not wanted to do this, but he had no other choice. He turned to White. "William, I'm going to go send a telegram. I want you to go down to the tech lab, and tell the boys down there that I want them prepped on my command. Tell them that I want everything ready for "Operation: Steely Menace" to commence." White swallowed visibly, but did as he was told. As the Minister of Defense left his office, the Imperator returned to his seat and began to type.

http://img201.imageshack.us/img201/2260/sealyn1.gif

The Orwellian Meritocracy of Faxanavia condemns the abhorrent slaughter of these 50,000 men and women who only stood for their stalinist beliefs. If you do not cease and desist such persecution, we will be forced to take stricter measures. As such, a trade embargo has been established on your nation. Please reconsider your choices.

Respectfully yours,
Hephaestus Blackforge
Imperator

Wilhelm von Sturmdenker, Member, Foreign States Committee, polished his Dragunov as he spoke.

"This is foolish. Clearly, what they seek is war, and they are of the utmost sovereignty. We must bide time to mobilize and build immediately. Send a communique feigning peace and call for a conference of neutral ground, say Gourmondinia.

"We are in dire need of help. We need allies, and fast. This cannot go on; we must crush the oppressors!" He was screaming now. "Today, my comrades, is our victory!" He now had calmed himself and sighed. "Send the telegram."

The vote was unanimous, there was no other option.

----------------

-Foreign States Committee-
-Dasvaga, Proto-Laurasia-

Proto-Laurasia wishes a peaceful solution to said issue, and ergo wishes to discuss such matters on neutral ground as soon as both governments are willing.

In peace and in strength.
The Proletariat of Proto-Laurasia

Wilhelm von Sturmdenker, Member, Foreign States Committee, polished his Dragunov as he spoke.

"This is foolish. Clearly, what they seek is war, and they are of the utmost sovereignty. We must bide time to mobilize and build immediately. Send a communique feigning peace and call for a conference of neutral ground, say Gourmondinia.

"We are in dire need of help. We need allies, and fast. This cannot go on; we must crush the oppressors!" He was screaming now. "Today, my comrades, is our victory!" He now had calmed himself and sighed. "Send the telegram."

The vote was unanimous, there was no other option.

----------------

-Foreign States Committee-
-Dasvaga, Proto-Laurasia-

Proto-Laurasia wishes a peaceful solution to said issue, and ergo wishes to discuss such matters on neutral ground as soon as both governments are willing.

In peace and in strength.
The Proletariat of Proto-Laurasia

The response was swift and concise. The Imperator quickly typed it up almost immediately upon the receival of the Proto-Laurasian telegram.

http://img252.imageshack.us/img252/3702/sealrr6.gif

Unfortunately, you do not understand our statements. We do not seek conference. We do not seek your discussion. We do not seek too find a middle ground. This is an ultimatum. You will halt this senseless action now, or we will take military action. This is non-negotiable. Please, consider what you are doing before responding.

Respectfully yours,
Hephaestus Blackforge
Imperator