Catilio
01-05-2008, 00:09
Even though the sun had risen over the horizon, scarce light could penetrate the dense upper layer of fog which hung lazily over the land. A white blanket, a gray haze, and bluish tint held itself perpetually in the sky, a harsh reminder to the reality of living in the Corporatist Conglomerated State of Catilio. During the morning the hanging fog was so thick that one could not see the end of their hands outstretched before them, nor could they bear witness to the awesome machinations of death and carnage being produced by the thousands in great manufactories throughout the land. These great monoliths of industry, with skyward lurching rusted metallic silver smoke stacks belched tons of poisonous gases from the dark catacombs of production beneath. Within were massive machines laboring endlessly to create more machines of war. Munitions to be fired, rifles to fire them, armoured cars, tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, fighter craft, strategic bombers, helicopters, everything needed to make war upon the land was produced in great surplus. Men who tended to the mechanical cybernetics which worked in the creation of these devices, scurried about the dimly lit catwalks, which clanked loudly as they stepped and echoed deeply into the cavernous reaches of the facilities. They were tired, oh so tired, but rest was not allowed until their overlords allowed it. They would continue to scurry from station to station, checking that each machine was in order, that each piece of equipment would not fail. If the machine failed then production would be slowed. Should production be slowed then less equipment would be produced. This would result in inefficiency. Efficiency is everything. Without efficiency the Corporate Armies could not scower the lands for the materials they needed to build more, they could not sell their products, they could not function. The Catilian society would collapse.
”And that,” Noted Manufactorum Manager 1st Class Gregory Beck, standing in his black suit with red tie and scarlet M patch upon his sleeve, “Would be bad for business.” He smirked lightly as he watched the cybernetics rapidly swivel to pick up parts, drop them onto great conveyor belts, lock in bolts, tighten screws, and prepare each creation for battle. His arms rested behind him and he turned from the floor. His office was the only well lit station in the facility, which glowed like a beacon from the heavens to those below, yet they dared not covet what lay within the golden sun which was his office quarters. To even stare in its direction for any extended period of time would result in accusations. They’d be noticed. The State Guards were everywhere. Cold, calculative, and precise. They felt no emotions, neither hate nor joy. They simply existed, hidden behind their armoured battle uniforms and black masks with those piercing red eyes, those eyes which made children unleash shrill shrieks and grown men soil themselves with fear of. They were born of professional mothers, women who were enslaved and forced to give birth constantly to these men. Their childhoods are spent warping their minds of personality, of fear, of all sense of right and wrong save the completion of whatever task they are assigned. They are the perfect soldiers of the Corporatist State. Beck’s manufactory had its own company of these State Guardsmen to ensure the complacency of its labour staff. They submitted to his will for the good of the State, else they were executed for the good of the State.
“So,” He spoke to the drawn eyed girl which lay limply on his leather couch, then paused to glance around his domain before returning his attentions to the girl. Pale green carpeting, black leather on his couch, silk sheets upon his bed and feathers within it, he lived a luxurious existence as did all Corporatist societal leaders, the factory managers, the Governors, and of course their leadership, the Board of Directors. The girl’s eyes stared endlessly into the carpet; no signs of life save the fact that she blinked and her chest rose and fell from breathing. He smiled at her, running a cool hand through his slicked back brown hair. He continued, “So how do you like the upper levels?” She did not acknowledge him. “I said, bitch, do you enjoy the Managerial Offices?” His voice grew harsh. A hastily gathered dress was thrown onto her, it was golden and shone brilliantly with the warm lights, however contrasted against her pale, drawn skin and tired eyes. She was very young, no older than in her middle to late teens, and would have been called beautiful had she had available to her the same comforts of the Capitalist Class. She still yet, did not respond. Gregory Beck, not used to this kind of recalcitrance, sighed.
“It is a shame too. You’d make a good -----. Sergeant?” He beckoned on a microphone attached to his suit’s collar. “Escort this filthy rabble to the incinerator.” He snickered at the girl, who cast her sad blue eyes at him. She spoke not, yet a tear streaked across her cheek. “I do hope you find yourself most comfortable below.” The Guardsman entered, crimson chevrons displaying his Sergeant’s ranking. He did not speak, but rigidly walked over to where the girl lay, and extended a black gauntleted hand to her scalp where his hands took hold of a large chunk of her faded blonde hair. She grimaced as he yanked her upwards and let out a small cry as he dragged her from the room. She kicked and tried in futility to fight against the Guardsman. In the end however, she submitted and was dragged away like all the others.
He had already forgotten of her existence and returned to his work desk. Requisition papers needed to be filled out to receive more materials for continued production. Some forms of nourishment was required to keep the workers alive and functioning thus a compromising amount of food and water was ordered as well, though costs were most certainly cut. Oil was needed for lubrication of the machines, as were spare machine parts for the various types of equipment they had. Working persistently was hard on the factories appliances, therefore repairs were a frequent necessity. He worked diligently on the various papers and once completed ordered a secretary to remove them. As she walked in he took note of her full chest, scarlet red skirt, and long slender legs. He smiled and she returned it. As she walked back to her desk outside his quarters, he made sure to make a….special meeting between them after the days work was done.
Chuckling, he said, “Ah, I love my job.”
Field Marshal Benjamin Norris was a stern man, he always had been. Ever since being appointed the Commander of the State Guard Corps however, he had grown ever more so. The State Guard had no emotions or sympathies, therefore associating himself with these types had a desensitizing effect upon the officers. Higher ranking officers of the Battalion level and higher, were all appointed by the Board of Directors based upon their achievements for the company. Typically speaking they volunteered for the job, requesting that they be allowed a Regiment for their command and should they be found worthy it was granted. They were sent to a War College where they were trained in the art of Modern Combat, commissioned as Lieutenants Colonel, and then were sent to a State Guards Fortress throughout the nation.
He had fought many wars, commanded many engagements and had been responsible for many slaughters in the name of the Catilio Corporation. Scars not only were etched into his flesh from the fires of war, but also into his soul. He frequently made joking statements that his soul had died long ago, that there was no longer one to be found. He knew, however, this to be true. He loved his job, and he existed solely for the day which Catilio would rise supreme above the land and contest all other nations which threatened it’s prosperity, or the prosperity of its Upper Classes. The lower rabble, were simply tools by which they would achieve distinction and glory. He would slaughter a million, nay a billion souls to achieve an objective, and sacrifice the same number of his own men to do so. War was in his blood, it was all he knew. He was a Master of Death.
But today this stern man stood beside a parade ground. The skies had darkened as the night drew ever nearer and flood lights which glowed ominously above the streets created illumination for what was to come. National leaders from across the globe had journeyed far and wide to bear witness to this parade which would show the Catilian Corporate Forces for what they were, a true force to be reckoned with. The Board of Directors, all thirteen of them, stood amongst the national crowd which was gathered in the VIP booth assembled apart from the common proles staggering about below them in the streets. They were eager to watch the parade themselves.
It was then that a rumbling was heard in the distance and the representatives of the numerous Governments brows furrowed. Curiously they watched on for several minutes. Some almost started to ask the question, “What is tha-“ and they would be interrupted by the sight. They would soon know. The great numbers of tanks, innumberable, vast legions of them lumbered four abreast on the roads. Their commanders sat outside the gun turrets, angling their bodies towards the Directors and saluted stiffly. Untold numbers of tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, tank destroyers, self-propelled artillery, Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS) vehicles, trucks towing artillery pieces, and all other machinations of the execution of war moved past. As the minutes ticked on, and the legions continued on their way, the State Guard Infantry followed suit. Marching with their frightening goose-step march, millions of armor clad, red eyed Guardsmen in square shaped battalions surged forward. In front was the Regimental leader, followed by his first battalion commander leading his unit, and followed suit by each Lieutenant Colonel leading his personal battalion. The Officers wearing their distinctive black overcoat and red epaulletes, upon which were the sewn on gold stars which identified rank, held their swords at half-chest with left hands, looked angularly at the Directors, and saluted with their right. They were a tide, an unbreakable, and terrifying tide.
And they were only the beginning. The world would soon burn beneath their iron treads.
”And that,” Noted Manufactorum Manager 1st Class Gregory Beck, standing in his black suit with red tie and scarlet M patch upon his sleeve, “Would be bad for business.” He smirked lightly as he watched the cybernetics rapidly swivel to pick up parts, drop them onto great conveyor belts, lock in bolts, tighten screws, and prepare each creation for battle. His arms rested behind him and he turned from the floor. His office was the only well lit station in the facility, which glowed like a beacon from the heavens to those below, yet they dared not covet what lay within the golden sun which was his office quarters. To even stare in its direction for any extended period of time would result in accusations. They’d be noticed. The State Guards were everywhere. Cold, calculative, and precise. They felt no emotions, neither hate nor joy. They simply existed, hidden behind their armoured battle uniforms and black masks with those piercing red eyes, those eyes which made children unleash shrill shrieks and grown men soil themselves with fear of. They were born of professional mothers, women who were enslaved and forced to give birth constantly to these men. Their childhoods are spent warping their minds of personality, of fear, of all sense of right and wrong save the completion of whatever task they are assigned. They are the perfect soldiers of the Corporatist State. Beck’s manufactory had its own company of these State Guardsmen to ensure the complacency of its labour staff. They submitted to his will for the good of the State, else they were executed for the good of the State.
“So,” He spoke to the drawn eyed girl which lay limply on his leather couch, then paused to glance around his domain before returning his attentions to the girl. Pale green carpeting, black leather on his couch, silk sheets upon his bed and feathers within it, he lived a luxurious existence as did all Corporatist societal leaders, the factory managers, the Governors, and of course their leadership, the Board of Directors. The girl’s eyes stared endlessly into the carpet; no signs of life save the fact that she blinked and her chest rose and fell from breathing. He smiled at her, running a cool hand through his slicked back brown hair. He continued, “So how do you like the upper levels?” She did not acknowledge him. “I said, bitch, do you enjoy the Managerial Offices?” His voice grew harsh. A hastily gathered dress was thrown onto her, it was golden and shone brilliantly with the warm lights, however contrasted against her pale, drawn skin and tired eyes. She was very young, no older than in her middle to late teens, and would have been called beautiful had she had available to her the same comforts of the Capitalist Class. She still yet, did not respond. Gregory Beck, not used to this kind of recalcitrance, sighed.
“It is a shame too. You’d make a good -----. Sergeant?” He beckoned on a microphone attached to his suit’s collar. “Escort this filthy rabble to the incinerator.” He snickered at the girl, who cast her sad blue eyes at him. She spoke not, yet a tear streaked across her cheek. “I do hope you find yourself most comfortable below.” The Guardsman entered, crimson chevrons displaying his Sergeant’s ranking. He did not speak, but rigidly walked over to where the girl lay, and extended a black gauntleted hand to her scalp where his hands took hold of a large chunk of her faded blonde hair. She grimaced as he yanked her upwards and let out a small cry as he dragged her from the room. She kicked and tried in futility to fight against the Guardsman. In the end however, she submitted and was dragged away like all the others.
He had already forgotten of her existence and returned to his work desk. Requisition papers needed to be filled out to receive more materials for continued production. Some forms of nourishment was required to keep the workers alive and functioning thus a compromising amount of food and water was ordered as well, though costs were most certainly cut. Oil was needed for lubrication of the machines, as were spare machine parts for the various types of equipment they had. Working persistently was hard on the factories appliances, therefore repairs were a frequent necessity. He worked diligently on the various papers and once completed ordered a secretary to remove them. As she walked in he took note of her full chest, scarlet red skirt, and long slender legs. He smiled and she returned it. As she walked back to her desk outside his quarters, he made sure to make a….special meeting between them after the days work was done.
Chuckling, he said, “Ah, I love my job.”
Field Marshal Benjamin Norris was a stern man, he always had been. Ever since being appointed the Commander of the State Guard Corps however, he had grown ever more so. The State Guard had no emotions or sympathies, therefore associating himself with these types had a desensitizing effect upon the officers. Higher ranking officers of the Battalion level and higher, were all appointed by the Board of Directors based upon their achievements for the company. Typically speaking they volunteered for the job, requesting that they be allowed a Regiment for their command and should they be found worthy it was granted. They were sent to a War College where they were trained in the art of Modern Combat, commissioned as Lieutenants Colonel, and then were sent to a State Guards Fortress throughout the nation.
He had fought many wars, commanded many engagements and had been responsible for many slaughters in the name of the Catilio Corporation. Scars not only were etched into his flesh from the fires of war, but also into his soul. He frequently made joking statements that his soul had died long ago, that there was no longer one to be found. He knew, however, this to be true. He loved his job, and he existed solely for the day which Catilio would rise supreme above the land and contest all other nations which threatened it’s prosperity, or the prosperity of its Upper Classes. The lower rabble, were simply tools by which they would achieve distinction and glory. He would slaughter a million, nay a billion souls to achieve an objective, and sacrifice the same number of his own men to do so. War was in his blood, it was all he knew. He was a Master of Death.
But today this stern man stood beside a parade ground. The skies had darkened as the night drew ever nearer and flood lights which glowed ominously above the streets created illumination for what was to come. National leaders from across the globe had journeyed far and wide to bear witness to this parade which would show the Catilian Corporate Forces for what they were, a true force to be reckoned with. The Board of Directors, all thirteen of them, stood amongst the national crowd which was gathered in the VIP booth assembled apart from the common proles staggering about below them in the streets. They were eager to watch the parade themselves.
It was then that a rumbling was heard in the distance and the representatives of the numerous Governments brows furrowed. Curiously they watched on for several minutes. Some almost started to ask the question, “What is tha-“ and they would be interrupted by the sight. They would soon know. The great numbers of tanks, innumberable, vast legions of them lumbered four abreast on the roads. Their commanders sat outside the gun turrets, angling their bodies towards the Directors and saluted stiffly. Untold numbers of tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, tank destroyers, self-propelled artillery, Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS) vehicles, trucks towing artillery pieces, and all other machinations of the execution of war moved past. As the minutes ticked on, and the legions continued on their way, the State Guard Infantry followed suit. Marching with their frightening goose-step march, millions of armor clad, red eyed Guardsmen in square shaped battalions surged forward. In front was the Regimental leader, followed by his first battalion commander leading his unit, and followed suit by each Lieutenant Colonel leading his personal battalion. The Officers wearing their distinctive black overcoat and red epaulletes, upon which were the sewn on gold stars which identified rank, held their swords at half-chest with left hands, looked angularly at the Directors, and saluted with their right. They were a tide, an unbreakable, and terrifying tide.
And they were only the beginning. The world would soon burn beneath their iron treads.