NationStates Jolt Archive

((OOC: Thing about this is i'm not really sure where it's going, or what's going on right now really. You're welcome to help me figure it out if you're interested. I suggest the roleplaying of foreign intelligence assets, or journalists attempting to discover the extent of the human rights crisis in the Generian province of Alberia.))

The Generian International Free Press

Alberian Church to be Absorbed into Generian Orthodox Church

Following nearly a month of negotiations between ecclesiastical leaders of the Generian Orthodox and the Alberian Orthodox churches, Nikolai I, Holy Emperor of Generia and High Patriarch of Generian Orthodoxy has announced that the two churches will be officially merged, ending a nearly two-hundred year old schism. The Emperor’s declaration, made from ULE city due to the pan-Gothic conference taking place in Automagfreek, has produced mixed reactions from the Imperial citizenry, both ethnic Generians and Alberians alike.

The separation of the two Churches, largely the result of clerical disagreement and church politics, has long compounded historical animosity between ethnic Generians and Alberians. Officially a core province of Generia, Alberia has seen nearly a half century of conflict as the result of continuous secessionist movements inspired by both clerical and political leaders. The agreement apparently reached by Alberian and Generian Orthodox clergy is likely a new effort to ease tensions following the most recent conflict in the province; one which served as a catalyst for the Crisis that plunged the Empire into economic collapse and political disarray.

Emperor Nikolai, widely credited for the resurrection of the Imperial political system, the Generian Orthodox Church, and the Generian economy has long expressed his desire to end the official military occupation of the Alberian province, and in a second short statement given just before the Gothic Conference resumed, he stated that healing the division between the two “brother Churches” was the first logical step.

In Sofia, the capital and heart of the Generic Empire, the streets in the various “Alberian quarters” were quiet. Many of the inhabitants of these traditionally low income districts fled their native province to seek refuge from either conflict or invasive police presence. Typical Generian citizens have also been unsure of what to think after the half lifetime of antagonism between ethnic Alberians and Generians proper. For both groups, the announcement has been reason neither to celebrate nor despair and it seems only time will tell how smoothly Alberian integration into the Empire’s official Church proceeds.

-Mikhail Lukovic

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

Headlights stretched out a few hundred meters, illuminating the narrow road that had turned to mud with the mid-spring thaw. The roar of diesel engines was audible for a mile in every direction, cutting through the midnight quiet. In the backs of the trucks, bleary eyed Generian Regulars sat huddled against the constant cold, smoking or swigging from flasks.

The convoy slowed and came to a halt as a large gate loomed up out of the darkness. A pair of sentries approached the first truck, and gave a cursory glance to the driver’s credentials. As the gate slid open, men crowded the fences, their forms silhouettes against the floodlight pouring from the courtyard towers.

This was a prison camp; the largest one in Alberia. Gathered here were all of the high profile rebel leaders captured during the vast counter-insurgency effort of the past five years, in preparation for their deportation to various Imperial supermax political prisons or work camps across the far corners of the Empire.

The trucks pulled into the central courtyard, and the Regulars dismounted. Prison guards walked along the fences on all sides of the yard, swinging liberally with their truncheons and rifle butts, sending the Alberians scattering back to their barracks.

A man stepped out into the cold from the large concrete structure in the middle of the central courtyard. The Imperial flag overhead, illuminated by floodlights, was beginning to twist and turn as the wind picked up. The man was a Generian officer, a Colonel placed in charge of the camp, though all indication of his rank was concealed by a large green coat. He was met by a second man, one of those who had just arrived in the trucks.

“Who are you here for?” demanded the Colonel in a gruff north Generian accent.

“Here’s the list. A few separatist grunts and this guy. Ivan Alijev.”

The officer pointed to a name on the list, marked with a star. The colonel nodded, furrowing his brow.

“I remember him. One of the big fish. Pulled him in six months ago, after the war ended. He was hiding in Port Likiev.”

“He’s charged with that train bombing last fall. Is he dangerous?”

“Yes.”

A siren sounded, calling for the prisoners to be locked down under guard in the various barracks buildings throughout the vast camp which was still too small to accommodate the current number of prisoners. Outside, the wind had reached gale force, heralding a full fledged storm making its way across the rural plains of southeastern Alberia. The Imperial regulars scrambled back to their trucks, seeking shelter.

In the central building, a man was being brought into a small whitewashed room, with no windows and a concrete floor. He was hooded and fully shackled, escorted by two large Generian soldiers on either side of him. They threw him into the room, and pulled off his hood, revealing a head of red hair and a full beard. He was small in stature; skinny. He lay where they had thrown him and didn’t get up.

The door closed behind him, and though his eyes were useless in the blinding white light, he heard the footsteps approaching behind him. A prison doctor. Checkup before transfer.

He was up in a flash, his shackles around the man’s throat. He was still blind, but he got his back against the wall. He was choking the man with all of his might, felt him struggling under his arms like a fish. They were on him now, prying him loose. He felt the man go limp, and let go as the soldiers slammed him onto the concrete. He was still blind as they administered a syringe full of sedative, and the whiteout changed to a blackout.

“Is that him?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, standing behind a two way mirror, watching the scene. The limp form of the doctor was being carried out of the room.

“Jesus Christ,” said the other man.

“Where’s he going?” inquired the Colonel.

“The colonies. A work camp. The government doesn’t want to try these guys officially; not with the Emperor’s new truth and reconciliation game. No, they’re going to bury them where nobody can see.”

The Colonel reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and placed one between his lips.

“People like this don’t let themselves be buried. Why do you think we’ve been fighting this war for two decades? The Alberians, they don’t go quietly. Not the government, not the Church can make them do anything.”

Outside, the trucks were being loaded. A converted APC was the last to be brought up, receiving its sedated cargo without fuss. The engines roared. As the storm came to its climax, the convoy rolled out of the camp, into the night.

The press in Generia wasn’t exactly free, nor was it entirely state controlled. Reporters not employed by the government media existed in a sort of perpetual gray area. The rules governing what they published and how they did it were various and confusing. While it was technically legal to criticize the Imperial Government, it was illegal to advocate political change or critique the person of the Emperor himself in any way shape or form. Hence the job of a freelance journalist of any nationality was difficult in the Empire, but for a Generian, the work was also dangerous.

Kuzma Levrentic was both a freelance journalist and a native Alberian, which made his life unpleasant. Despite this, he believed in what he did and he did it well.

At the moment, he was riding in the back of a Generian-built Kata 4x4 probably dating from somewhere in the middle nineteen-sixties. The road into Port Likiev, capital of the Alberian region, had been dangerous even before the wars. The narrow “highway” wound its way through the blizzard beset passes in the Alberian Range before coming out along the frostbitten cliffs of the northern coast, beneath a foot or two of snow most of the year. Spring made the road passable, providing that one could get through the dozens of roadblocks and checkpoints before reaching Port.

Levrentic was familiar with the road, and northern Alberia. He’d been born outside of Port Likiev, and his family had fled just before the outbreak of the second Alberian War in 1980.

“Just like coming home, eh?” said his driver in Alberian, turning around in his seat with a massive grin and prying his eyes from the road.

Levrentic nodded uneasily as the car careened towards the edge of the cliff they were skirting. A convoy of Generian army trucks cruised by on the opposite side, doing sixty. The journalist reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placing the last between his lips. At that moment, however, the car made a sharp right turn, prompting a yelp and the cigarette falling to the floor, under the seat. Levrentic cursed loudly in Generian.

“Sorry,” the driver called back.

The journalist leaned forward, next to the driver, hoping to make himself heard over the roar of the diesel engine.

“What’s the capital like these days?”

The driver laughed.

“Shithole, same as always. More cops and soldiers these days. Plus those creepy intelligence sorts. Other than that, nothing’s changed. Look and see for yourself.”

As the car rounded another corner along the edge of the cliff, the skyline came into view over the plains. They drew closer and the journalist saw that in fact a lot had changed since his last visit. The city resembled a burn victim, collapsed and scarred. Smoking ruins lay along the outskirts, no one having bothered to rebuild anything after the end of the last war and the bombardment. Ghost-eyed children scrambled amid the rubble, playing hide and seek or looking for dead relatives.

“Jesus Christ.”

“See? Shithole.”

The car skidded to a halt before a Generian roadblock. An Imperial soldier walked up to the window, and tapped on the glass.

“He’s a journalist,” said the driver before the soldier could speak. “Let us through. He’s got papers and everything.”

“You shut up” replied the soldier. Leaning in, he looked into the back seat. He gestured for Levrentic to get out, and the man complied. The soldier stood for a few minutes looking over the journalist’s credentials.

“You can go,” he said at last. He looked towards the driver, who was sitting obviously impatient. “We need to take your driver in though.”

“What?” said Levrentic, surprised.

“We need to ask him some questions.”

The soldier gestured to a few others who appeared at the door to the car, and pried the man, cursing, out. The driver looked to Levrentic, unsure of what to do. Levrentic shrugged. This was the way it always was. People got unlucky. A checkpoint guard mistook you for someone he saw on the wanted posters, or in the newspaper, or a guy who’d scuffed his sneakers once and you went away. The driver got unlucky. Levrentic began to walk away, quickly, before the guard changed his mind and thought he was somebody too. He shrugged again, to himself. He hadn’t much liked the driver anyway, and he could walk the half mile to his rendezvous.

"What?!" Tanya Kazimirez exclaimed, shooting up from her chair. It caused a scene but she didn't care, she never cared, "Did you talk directly to him?...Yeah-but that's not the-...What the Hell am I supposed to do?...Okay...Okay...Alright, here's the problem-go fuck yourself!" she slammed the cellphone on the table and grunted in frustration.

"Good news I suppose?" Andel Rowecki, her cameraman asked, leaning up against the bar.

"Yeah, our dickless leader wouldn't talk to their Warden at the prison camp in Generia" Tanya fumed, running a hand through her medium black hair and taking a deep breath.

She'd been in this God forsaken country for a week and has made no headway whatsoever on her story. It crossed her mind that certain executives at KNN might have sent her on this assignment to bog her down in failure and redtape. Their ingenious plan was working perfectly. Their most volatile journalist was stuck at a hotel in Sofia with no consistent story glued together. They charged her with traveling to Generia and exposing human rights violations being committed by the Generian Imperial Government against the people of Alberia and to speak with rebel leaders and activists. So far, everyone was tight lipped and non-agreeable. Cold shoulders, stoic expressions, and mummed lips met her at every corner. Getting a press pass nearly took an act of the General Assembly to get approved too.

"So, what do we do now?" Andel inquired, wishing he hadn't said anything at all.

"I don't know" Defeatism rang in her voice, "Suppose I'll try some more of my contacts"

OOC: I'll join this but I'm trying to think of how.

((OOC: Ursava, basically anything you want to do will fly since I have no idea where i'm going with this. Just make it interesting and you're golden.))

The Pride of Sofia hotel was certainly nothing to be proud of. Perhaps at one time it had been worthy of the name, but at the moment it was sandwiched between a pair of larger, flashier establishments in the run down east river district of the capital. The dome of the White Citadel, the Imperial residence was barely visible over the low rooftops of budget shops and low income apartments that lined the street. A wrought iron gate, equipped with cameras and a rent-a-cop seemed to be the most expensive portion of the building’s façade. The Imperial press liaison, in reality a puppet of the pervasive internal security department, GISS, had for years used this particular establishment as a place to stick foreign reporters who couldn’t afford the bribes needed to get better accommodations and dog and pony show press conferences. In the hotel bar, however and though she didn’t know it, Tanya Kazimirez was about to encounter a stroke of luck.

A particular agent of the GISS turned his nose up at the sign outside the hotel, and crushed his cigarette under the heel of a pair of Italian loafers. He strolled through the front gate, pushing the security man aside, and flashing a badge in afterthought when that gentleman began reaching for his pistol. Kristijan Stevanic was tall, bearded, handsome, and he slept with a gun under his pillow for fear more of his friends than his enemies. He had too many of each, and as of right now he would have traded them all for some cold cash. He was broke, but he had a tip that there were people in the country who would pay him for things he knew. Dogs with bones.

“Where is she?” he demanded at the desk of the meager looking concierge.

“Who?”

“The fucking reporter,” he spat, using the Generian expletive so foul that the loose translation of ‘fuck’ stands as very, very poor. The concierge blushed, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Which one?” he asked again, meekly.

Stevanic waved his hand and walked towards the bar. He’d caught sight of a flustered looking woman who matched the security description, and was making a beeline for her.

“You speak Generian?” he demanded of her brusquely, at the same time waving over the bartender intending to order a road bottle of Generian Black Death vodka.

They were stalemated at the Pride of Sofia and being dead-ended by the authorities and cut adrift by the KNN. All the years of blood, sweat, tears, and hard work dedicating herself to the unrelenting pursuit of the truth had garnished her the Distinguished Citizen Award given to her by the Vice President at the Presidential Dinner five years ago. As well as numerous other awards for investigative journalism. She was even caught in a mortar attack covering the American occupation of Iraq. Luckily, an old overturned refrigerator protected her from shrapnel.

"Well, I'm going to go back and get some sleep. No sense in sticking around here" Andel sighed, surveying the old drapes, misused chairs, and overall deterioration of the whole interior of the hotel bar.

"I'm going to stick around here, dunno why" Tanya listlessly replied, "I'm not even thirsty"

As Andel heaved his body out of the bar, past several mean muggers, another man darted into the bar. He carried a commanding presence with him. She cocked her head in his direction as he barked in that damn language.

"No hablo Espanol, amigo" Tany mocked

“You’re funny,” said the Generian, throwing back a glass of the Generian standard before turning towards her. “You’re a reporter, yeah? I hear you’ve been digging around, trying to dig up shit on Alberia.”

He refilled the glass.

“No luck, I bet. Generians are bloodthirsty fuckers when it comes to reporters. You’re lucky, though. You’ve just met me.”

---------


Ivan Alijev was coming out of his drug induced coma. The nightmarish scenes that had ravaged his mind for the past two days were fading, being gradually replaced by an uncontrollable sense of motion and incessant whirring. He opened his eyes and tried to bring his hands up to touch his face, but realized he was restrained. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, and called for water. A face appeared over him, grinning a patchwork, yellow grin. He held out a canteen, and tipped it slowly over. A few drops of water splashed the Alberian prisoner’s face. With feverish madness, he shook his head, worked his tongue trying to reach the droplets caught in his beard. Laughter.

“Look at the little shit. You’re thirsty you little shit?”

Ivan Alijev bared his teeth, and threw his body against the restraints. The man stepped back, still grinning. He was losing interest, however, and the motion of the aircraft was making it difficult to stand so he returned to his seat.

“You shouldn’t mess with him like that,” said another man, the Private Dmitri Kemeshev. “I hear he’s crazy.”

“That skinny fuck? I’m twice his size. Plus he’s tied up.”

The soldier placed a cigarette between his lips. He looked over at Alijev, who was eyeing him as he lit the cigarette. Breaking into a grin once more he stood up and walked over.

“You want this?” he said, holding the cigarette over the prisoner’s face, letting some of the ash fall off into his eyes.

“Here. Come on,” he said, hovering the filter over Alijev’s mouth, just out of reach. At that moment, the plane pulled up sharply, and the soldier lost his balance. Without missing a beat, the Alberian sank his teeth into the man’s index finger, now in range, and bit down clean through the bone. The soldier screamed and backed away holding his bloody, disfigured hand. With the other he went for his pistol, and aimed at Alijev. Before the other man could restrain him, he fired, but the shot went wide, punching a small hole in the fuselage.

“You shit!” yelled the soldier, taking aim once more.

“Alyosha, what the fuck are you doing!” shouted the other man, tackling him to the ground. Alijev spit the finger out, allowing it to land right beside the maimed soldier’s head.

A few moments later the plane landed, and Alijev was wheeled out on his gurney, into the bright sun. The first thing he noticed was the heat, unbearable for any Generian, and especially for one who had lived his whole life within the arctic circle. This was New Borneria, ‘the colonies.’ Lew Nys’ky airport.

As his eyes adjusted to the sun, Alijev turned his head as far as he could, straining to see anything, but there was nothing.

“That him?” came a voice in accented southern Generian.

“Yeah. He bit off poor Alyosha’s finger over there.”

Alijev permitted himself a smile at this. He could still taste the blood in his mouth, drying on his lips.

“Jesus Christ. He’s worse than I heard.”

“Fucking psycho. Alberian cocksucking psycho.”

“Damn right. Take him away.”

The gurney began to move, and in a moment, he was wheeled up a ramp, into the back of an armored van. The sunlight was gone, but the heat remained. He could see several soldiers, sweat soaked sitting around him, looking not with malice as the first had, but with simple curiosity. In fact, few of them had ever seen an Alberian. Some of them were colonials, and the rest southerners who found the red hair and odd features of the northern ethnicity bizarre.

It was a short drive through the jungle, past several checkpoints into the heart of the Empire’s largest colonial prison camp. It was a new establishment, built to accommodate the overflow of political prisoners and other deportees from Generia proper. It was large, stretching along the coastal cliffs and surrounded by kilometers of forbidding jungle.

The door opened, and the sun once more soaked him down as he was wheeled out. The gurney was turned up, and his restraints undone, but not before he was properly shackled, muzzled, and given a few blows for good measure. He was prodded towards a high concrete wall, with a small steel door cut into it. It opened smoothly, and he was shoved into a dark room, facing a trio of Imperial officers.

“Ivan Alijev?” one demanded.

“It’s him,” came the voice of another soldier, not expecting the Alberian to respond.

The officer continued to himself as he read the file.

“Convicted of a train bombing, several counts of sedition, a dozen counts murder…”

“Fucking animal.”

“He’ll fit right in.”

The officer looked up.

“Alright. Book him.”

He was prodded, and left the room behind.

"Lucky, eh?" Tanya questioned. The past few days wouldn't exactly qualify as lucky in any sense. In fact, the luckiest thing to happen was managing to get out of Generian customs in tact and not violated by those pricks. The foreign passport is a magnet for these kind of inconveniences and hassles. Not to mention the fact that the Worker's State of Kulikovia has been putting pressure on The Generic Empire to cease their humanitarian violations and allow Red Cross teams in to the Prison Colonies. Naturally, the Generians are less than accomedating.

"What can you do for me?" the reporter leaned in and ask. Her eyes sweeped around the bar to see if anyone was keying in on their conversation. At times, she felt like a spy. Meeting contacts in dark parking garages, using informants, doing favors and such.

----------

Kulikovian News Network (KNN)

"Good Evening, I'm Sasha Brokev and this is the people's news tonight on KNN. The ongoing humanitarian crisis in Alberia, a sessecionist province of Generia is continuing to be strangled by the increased military and police crack-down. Nikolai I, Holy Emperor of Generia in a move to ease ethnic tensions, unified the Generian Orthodox and Alberian Orthodox Churches. This move, seen by many critics is a paper attempt to unify a divided people. They also go on to say that despite this, the systematic imprisonment of political opponents and continuous human rights violations. President Nevsky is planning a trip to Alberia at the end of the month to meet with Alberian leaders during this continuing conflict".

"KNN's own Tanya Kazimirez is in the capital of Sofia, Generia and will air part one of her series, God's Division-airing this Friday"

“I can do a lot for you,” replied Stevanic, placing a cigarette between his lips.

“Depends on what you’re after. And what you’re paying.”

He replaced the cigarette case in his coat, and discreetly withdrew his GISS badge.

“See, I’ve got the golden ticket, sweetheart,” he said with a grin.

Tanya eyed the GISS badge with great care and a renewed hope envigorated her whole psyche. This individual did indeed have alot to bring to the table. This was the break she was looking for.

"I want into Alberia and meet with the main secessionist leaders" Tanya read off what she was after, "And if there's anyway whatsoever-a prison colony"

He was indeed carrying a golden ticket. An insider in their Intelligence Service. This was better than any of the other contacts on her list. Most of the other ones were just other reporters who were stonewalled just like her, or low level government employees and cops. None of them offered the range of access like this man.

"What are you looking for?" Tanya finally asked. No one does something like this without wanting something in return, "Why are you doing this?"

Another interesting question. She doubted that his moral compass pointed true North or anything. Money perhaps? That's always the big one. Asylum too, that's another one that contacts want. Or, maybe there's something else...

OOC: I'm wondering, what would be a good way to get in this?

((OOC: Getting settled in a new apartment, so please bear with my delaying. Ursava, maybe detail your extensive intelligence presence within Generian borders, RP a reporter like Kulikovia, a military contractor in alberia, or something like that. Those are just a couple suggestions.))

The Generian carefully replaced the badge inside his coat pocket, and leaned in.

“I can get you into Alberia, alright. Probably the only one who can these days. Security’s tighter than a-”

He checked himself, sparing her a metaphor. “It’s pretty fucking tight,” he continued. “I can also get you into one of the camps. A sit down with the rebels is gonna be harder to arrange. They’re all paranoid terrorist fucks, but I think I can work something out. Some of the big shots are already in jail anyway, so we can kill two birds with one stone provided the army hasn’t shipped them out already.”

He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray.

“What do I want in return? Arranging all this is gonna cost me a pretty penny, plus I’ll need something to make it worth my while. State security doesn’t exactly offer the best retirement packages, and I’m not sure how much longer this gig is gonna last anyway. It’s been awhile since the last purge, and you don’t exactly make friends doing what I do. I need enough for a plane ticket, plus the new credentials. Passports, visas. They impounded my old ones.”

He looked her in the eye.

“Twelve thousand. Dollars. That’ll get you what you want and get me started out of this shithole.”

A knot developed somewhere in her throat. This was her golden ticket, but it came at a demanding price. Of course, this was a given, nothing is cheap these days, especially connections like this. It came at no suprise that he'd want out, who wouldn't in this shit hole? She still had a few contacts that could get the passport and visas. A plane ticket? No problem. Twelve thousand dollars? That was a bit over what she could manage.

She had to think of something, after a moment of silence, "Great, that's all I'm looking for tied in a neat little box" she brushed a rouge strand of hair back behind her ear, "The money-I can get but will take time. Everything else, no problem"

The Generian threw back the remaining contents of the glass and stood up.

“Good. I’ve got to make some calls. Meet me at the train station in one hour.”

He stepped out of the bar, and into the hotel lobby, and walked right into a large red-haired man. He felt a pair of massive hands grab him around the shoulders and push him back, into a crowd of tourists.

“You should watch where you’re walking, Kristijan Stevanic,” sneered the large man. “You’ve stepped on enough toes already.”

Shit, thought Stevanic. Antonin Fedorovic was one of the last people he wanted to see right now, or ever for that matter. The giant was GISS as well, and every inch of his massive frame was as corrupt and unethical as Stevanic.

The smaller Generian readjusted himself and shot a glare at the group of tourists he had been thrown into.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What am I doing here? I should ask you the same question,” said the red haired man.

“I’m doing my job,” replied Stevanic.

Fedorovic chuckled. “Your job? Since when does your job involve talking to the foreign press?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stevanic demanded, shifting nervously on his feet.

“Is that how you’re going to play it, Stevanic? Play stupid? I hear they’re thinking of letting you go. It might be time to start playing smart.”

“Fuck you,” he spat, and pushed past the large man, only to feel the same powerful hand grab him by the shoulder and halt him in his tracks.

“Stay awhile. I came here looking for you. To talk.”

“We’re done talking. I’ve got places to be.”

The giant’s expression changed, something dark overcoming the gleam in his eyes. He leaned in towards Stevanic’s face.

“You’re done talking. I’m not,” he said, spittle flying from his lips and into his counterpart’s face. “You’re no fool, Stevanic. Otherwise you’d be dead by now. Now’s not the time to be playing games with me. With this agency. We’re watching you, closely. Very closely.”

He backed off a bit. Stevanic glared.

“I’m trying to help you, here. Leave that reporter alone. There’s talk that her government is taking special interest in certain internal Imperial matters. Things they should keep their nose out of. People could get hurt, acting that way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” replied Stevanic, lowering his head and making for the door.

“Listen,” continued Fedorovic. “Go back to headquarters. They’re asking for you. They have a special job. A chance to make up for past errors. There’s money in it for you, too.”

Stevanic kept walking.

Fool, muttered Fedorovic. We’ll all be better off when they purge him.

Outside, Stevanic lit a cigarette, shaking his head. He glanced back at the hotel. For an instant he considered doing like Fedorovic had said: forgetting the reporter, the job, the money, and simply going back to headquarters. He knew he couldn’t do it, though. They’d marked him already. That’s what the conversation with Fedorovic had meant. They were going to let him go. Give him a couple more assignments, and then discreetly finish him off. He was a dead man walking. He had a chance to get out, though, and there was no going back.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

Across the city, in the heart of the Alberian slums, a man answered.

“Yeah?” he said in Generian, with a heavy Alberian accent.

“Josif, it’s Kristijan.”

“Jesus Christ,” said the other man, lowering his voice. ”What the hell are you doing calling this number? Don’t you know they’re tapping it?”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need a favor.”

“A favor? What the hell kind of favor?”

“Meet me at Saint Milun Station in an hour.”

“Saint Milun? What? Why?”

“Because you owe me.”

The line clicked dead.

The Alberian cursed quietly in his native language. He got up, and pulled a shirt on. He opened the drawer and pulled out a revolver, stuffed it into his pocket, and stepped out.

OOC: One more OOC statement before I make an IC post. What all is going in. I have an idea but I need to know if there's any possible multi-national threats, criminals, skilled hit-men, or what-have-you. Also, what all has happened in your incredibly long posts. lol.

ooc: seems like a nice way to segue into a serious rp...

ic:

"Interesting..." one of two men sitting at the back of the bar said as the reporter's and agent's conversation had ended.

"Yes, very," the other replied. "I suppose we should contact headquarters."

"Eh, I'd wait," said the other, "These Generians might plug these two before anything happens."

The two men were both agents of the Commonwealth SVR. The first to speak, who had suggested waiting to contact HQ, was Agent Andelko Chernenko. A senior agent, he'd been stationed in Alberia for years. His companion was a junior agent, Yves Moussard, who had entered the country shortly after the Imperial decree. The Commonwealth secretly sympathized with the Alberians, who saw their struggle similar to that of their own struggle before the November Revolution.

"Let's sit on the reporter," Chernenko said, "I think they're more interested in their own guy instead..."

Ivan Alijev woke to the sounds of screaming in the cell next to him. A thin ray of sunlight was streaming in from the reinforced glass window high above him. It provided the slightest bit of illumination, enough to see that the cell was small, and empty. He pushed himself to his feet, grunting against the insufferable aching of his muscles. The concrete floor was cold, and parts of it were covered in a slime of some sort, probably of human origins.

The drugs he had been given were wearing off, and he could feel his stomach stirring. He stumbled over to the hole in the far corner, and, leaning against the wall, he threw up his life.

He stumbled back, wiping his mouth on his naked arm. The door behind him was tall, made of metal. There was no way to see through it, into the corridor outside, but he could hear muffled footsteps and some low talking, mingling with the screams next door.

Fuck. It was all he could think to say to himself.

He collapsed into a sitting position as the locks on the door clanged open. The light was blinding, and he covered his eyes.

“Get up,” someone bellowed. He got to his feet. He felt the restraints being slapped on him. For a minute, he considered fighting them, but he knew it would be useless, and the entertainment value didn’t outweigh the effects of the sedatives they were sure to give him.

He was led outside, onto a catwalk overlooking an open area. There were rows of steel doors lining each wall. He passed by them, noticing the silence within. He was led outside, and the heat hit him like a blow to the face. He began to perspire immediately.

“Hot, eh? Not used to this climate, are you,” said one of the soldiers clutching his arm, dragging him along. His tone was friendly. Ivan wasn’t sure what to make of it. “I know the feeling. I’m from up north, back in Generia. You get used to it though.”

“Shut up, will you?” said the other guard.

He was escorted into a pen, surrounded on all sides by a high wall. A few others sat against the walls, not looking at him. The restraints came off, and he was left alone.

One of the others looked up, studied him, and went back to fiddling in the dirt. He was a stout man, red-haired. Obviously Alberian. Most of his body was covered in tattooes. He looked a little familiar. Alijev slid down the wall across from him and looked at the dirt.

“Hey, you,” said a voice a few minutes later. Ivan looked up. It was the tattooed Alberian, now standing a few feet away from him. “You’re Ivan Alijev.”

“Yeah,” he replied, looking down again.

“I know you. From Port Likiev. You were with the movement. They said you were good.”

“I don’t remember.”

The man smirked.

“Sure you don’t. It’s ok. I’m not with them,” he said, gesturing to the guards patrolling up above.

“I didn’t think you were,” said Ivan.

“Well, that should’ve been the first thing you thought. They play tricks with you. Mind games. You can’t trust anyone.”

“Then quit talking to me.”

“You can trust me. I’m not just anyone. They know it, you know it.”

Ivan took another look at the tattoos covering his chest. He could read them like a book; a signature in symbols. He was a captain, tied to the Sofia mob. He’d fought with the United Alberian Freedom Movement, the UAFM, in Port Likiev. His medals were all there, inked right into his flesh. Ivan remembered him. He’d met him only once, but he remembered him. The man had been torturing a GISS agent, right before the war ended. He’d been enjoying it.

-+-+-+-

Look at him squirm like that, said Boris Levko, sticking another knife into the man’s belly. He writhed, sputtering words and phrases in Generian; with difficulty due to the loss of half his tongue.

Outside, the guns were thundering. The navy was shelling Port Likiev again. Ivan was smoking a cigarette. He walked over and extinguished it in the Generian’s eye. He had learned to make them scream. He could conduct a symphony with a knife, if he wanted. This other man wasn’t as talented. He was tone deaf.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered another man, standing in the corner. He looked queasy. Ivan glanced over at him. He’d forgotten what it was about these things that made men ill.

“Fuck. He’s dying,” growled Boris. He slapped the man’s face with the flat of his blade. He didn’t offer a satisfying response, slumping over in the chair, choking, and then being still. Boris cursed, irritated, under his breath.

The door swung open, suddenly, and a man ran in, wearing the stolen uniform of an Imperial soldier.

“They’re in the city, the fucking rats. Loads of them. They’ve got tanks.”

“We should move,” said Ivan.

Boris was still staring at the dead GISS man. Ivan walked up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on. Irinei will want us to get out of here.

“Fuck Irinei,” spat Boris. “Fascist cocksucker.”

He turned and walked towards the door, and the staircase beyond. A shell exploded overhead, shaking the concrete roof. Ivan grabbed his pistol from the table, and followed him.

Outside, everything was burning. They were firebombing the south quarter, and it was following the wind east. A car was parked haphazardly outside the tenement, in the basement of which they had been sheltering.

The four of them climbed in, and took off, dodging shells and the occasional spurt of gunfire, making for the edge of the city.

They passed civilians, running terrified away from the flames. Like rats. Bodies were piling up in the gutters. Jets screamed overhead. Everyone knew it was the end.

They screeched to a stop in front of a concrete barrier, and sprinted past it, past the lines of Alberian militia, armed to the teeth with stolen weapons. A tall man in a grey coat was giving orders. A group of Generian prisoners were lined up against the wall, blindfolded.

Ivan approached him.

“Irinei,” he said. The man turned.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be covering the south!”

“With what?” demanded Ivan. “Everyone else is dead. They were closing on our position.

Irinei spat a stream of tobacco juice.

“I should kill you. You’re lucky I like you.”

He turned towards the line of Generian prisoners, and shot one of them. The body slumped against the wall.

“Fucking fascists are going to take this city,” he muttered. “Get out while you can.”

“Sir?” inquired Ivan, disbelieving.

“You heard me, you deaf fuck!”

Ivan shrugged, and walked back towards the car.

“He says we should go.”

A shell suddenly exploded overhead, throwing shrapnel down over the area. The car was riddled. Boris slumped over, bleeding. Ivan dragged him out of the car, towards a low building nearby. Out of the smoke, figures were emerging. Generian Imperial Praetorians. Shock troopers.

-+-+-

They caught me a few minutes after you left, said the tattooed man. “Irinei was dead.”

“He was lucky,” said Ivan.

He had sweat through his prison uniform shirt, and he pulled it off now, revealing his own tattoos.

“What did you do after Likiev?” asked the man.

“I got out. Went south, into Generia. I blew up a train full of civilians.”

“Sounds fun. They caught you then?”

“No. After. I killed a cop in Sofia. They dragged me back to the camps in Alberia, and then sent me here.”

Boris nodded silently.

“There are a few of us here. Not many. It’s mostly crooks and mobsters from Likiev. People from after the war. Not patriots like us. We’re here though. We got organized. We fight the guards.”

“I bit one of their ears off on the way over.”

“They’ll drug you for that,” laughed the other man. Ivan nodded.

A klaxon sounded and the gate opened. A squad of Imperial troopers swarmed in. Restraints were applied.

“Hey, Ivan,” called the other man as he was being led out. “I’ll be in touch.”

((OOC: Anyone still out there?))

Kuntz blinked twice, slowly at first, but more rapidly as he moved on. The room came together, the light subsiding as the memories from the night before came flooding back to him. He rolled over to find the whore still sleeping there, her arms long since withdrawn from Kuntz's body. Grabbing her ass with one hand he pulled her closer as he roughly kissed her on the cheek.
"Wake up whore, time to hit the streets again."
"Mhmm..." she stirred in bed, slightly pulling away from Kuntz as she stretched her arms backwards.
Kuntz rolled over and swept her up in his arms as he made his way towards the door. She weakly beat her fists on his chest, exclaiming "I wanna stay! I wanna stay!" as he made his way down the stairs. Arriving at the front door he dropped her to her feet, locked lips with her, and told her to come back tonight. Then, Kuntz ripped open the door, letting the dull sunlight of Port Likiev spill in, bright by comparison to the pitch black insides. With one hand he pushed her outwards, probably dooming her to what may be waiting several feet from the door, and with the other he closed the door behind her, sliding the scores of locks into place. Running a hand through his mangled hair he retreated back towards the stairs, following a route burned into his memory.
"I need a shower..."
--------
Kuntz walked down the sidewalk like he owned it. A 6'4" blond hair, blue eyed native Borman he cut an imposing figure, he alone could probably ensure ownership of said sidewalk. But alone he was not. Flanking either side of him were too more Borman natives. His right hand man, Konrad, sported the same blond hair and blue eyes but only rose to 6'1"; on his left was Sergei, reaching 5'11" with a shaggy head of brown hair and hazel eyes that turned green when he cried - which he only did for joy.

Before they could start talking a small gentleman, clutching a breakfast sandwich to himself, tried to sucrry past, coattails flapping in the gust of wind. In one smooth motion Kuntz jerked the sandwich out of his hands and thrust his other hand into the breast pocket of the man's coat. He withdrew a handful of dollars before kicking the man in the ass, sending him stumbling to his face as he rolled away from them.
"This looks good. But anyway, where're we at?"
"HQ is set up and secure, we believe we have a way into Alberia - I worked with one of the Praetorian guards in a special forces mission, he'll let us in. Once inside, we have no confirmed jobs on the inside. Generians don't need help killing, that much we know. But in the current situation they may just want to relax with a cigarette and let someone else do the dirty work for a while - unlikely, but a possibility. We may find a battalion or prison camp which is undermanned and could hire ourselves out to boost their numbers, or we could just go vigilante and round up Alberians, turnign them over to the camps; the decision is basically in the air until we're inside."
Sergei chimed in, trying to force his way next to the two gentleman who, despite only several inches, always seemed to tower over him. "Apparently there's a number of reporters, journalists, assholes, and general jerks trying to plant some genocide or human right issues on Generia. I'm sure they would pay handsomely for some of thier equipment or even for some of these reporters."
"Hmm, that definitely is a good idea. Alright, let's leave today. We'll take Horst with us as well."
"Sweet."

As was customary for men in his profession, Tom Smith skirted the metal detectors and other forms of security for international flights into Generia. When his movements, and those of the six men behind him, drew attention he’d pause only briefly to reach into the pockets of his crisp black suit and withdraw a thin wallet, glistening badge inside.

Making their way through the airport, drawing odd looks here and there, the team proceeded to baggage claim. Strolling into the office of baggage control he stepped to the front of the line and once more withdrew his wallet, ignoring the chorus of complaints from those he had cut. The attractive woman behind the desk nodded once before disappearing into a back room and reemerging several minutes later. She nodded once more and Tom spun around, motioning for his men to also enter the small room. The angry travelers quieted down, now shocked and confused by the spectacle as the troupe of men entered the door which the woman had just come from. Silently they withdrew all protest and watched until the door closed behind the last man. They were held in a daze until the calls from the woman behind the desk, acting as if nothing unusual had occurred, urged one of them to step forward and be taken care of.

A large, cold, steel box sat alone in the center of the far wall. A digital keypad resided alone on top of the box. Tom Smith punched several numbers in before an almost imperceptible grating ushered forth and the lid of the box popped upwards slightly. Smith easily pulled the large top back and then unhooked and lowered the front of the box. The black felt shelves inside housed numbers of black duffel bags, locked steel briefcases, small rolling suitcases, hard plastic boxes, manila envelopes, and a removed compartment with a number of small key rings. In a method of practiced precision the team quickly unloaded the contents of the box, duffel bags slung over shoulders and held in hands, telescoping handles on suitcases accepting straps and handles of plastic containers – men pulling the entire contraptions along, briefcases in hands, envelopes stashed away, and keys in pockets. In an orderly fashion they proceeded to the dark doorway hidden in a back corner of the room, making their way inside and down the winding staircases.

Emerging in a dimly lit parking garage they strode past rows of cars, flashy sports cars, rugged SUVs, windowless “molester vans,” and the like, making their way to a group of three black non-descript sedans parked alone. Diving into smaller groups, Tom Smith leading the one with three men, they unloaded into their cars and took off, heading for the exit of the garage. As the lead car rolled to a stop at the beginning of the ominous exit defenses, as they can only be so aptly named, Tom Smith rolled down his window and greeted the bleary-eyed Generian staffing the booth with a smile. Once more withdrawing his wallet he handed the badge over to the man, accompanying it with a few words.

“Borman Intelligence Agency, Agent Smith. Here on official business.”

These two sentences alone prompted the immediate rising of customary reinforced stopping arms. The attendant, straightening his posture and donning a smile handed back the badge.

“Good day and good luck sir!”

“You too.”

And with that the small fleet of cars pulled out of the parking garage, speeding away towards Alberia.

The sun rose over the crisp blue waters of the South Generian Sea, spreading its rays out over the desolate, rocky coasts of eastern New Borneria. On the cliffside, high above the waters, stern faced men with automatic weapons watched the impressive scene through razor wire fences and bleary eyes, waiting to be relieved. The klaxon was sounding inside the whitewashed prison buildings, and incarcerated men were stirring.

Ivan Alijev didn’t move, even when the guards began their walk down the long row of cells, beating the bars with truncheons and hurling obscenities at the animals closed within. He stared at the ceiling, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He didn’t pay attention when the guards banged on his cell door, or when the doors were opened, and they poured inside to beat him, and drag him to his feat.

He didn’t pay attention when he was thrust into line for the showers, or to the blazing heat when he and the other prisoners were marched to their morning meal. His mental vacation only ended when he sat down at the table beside Boris, the old Alberian revolutionary.

“Morning,” said the large redhaired man. Ivan nodded. There were a few others there too. He shook their hands.

“We’ve been talking about our mutual problem,” Boris continued. Ivan laughed.

“Incarceration?”

Boris smiled. “Yes.”

“You’re trying to fix that problem?”

Boris kept smiling, and gestured to one of the cameras across the room. It was pointing directly at them, conspicuously.

“Yes. And they know about it. Doesn’t matter, though.”

He took a bite of the strange looking cut of meat on his plate and continued.

“Noon today, I think,” he said.

Just then, the klaxon sounded again, and a phalanx of guards poured into the room.

“Looks like your breakfast is being cut short,” Boris said. Ivan turned around as footsteps came up behind him. A pair of soldiers took his arms and stood him to his feet.

“Fucking jackboots,” muttered one of the men at the table, before receiving a swift bludgeon from the baton.

Ivan allowed himself to be led out of the room, turning back briefly to see Boris standing.

“Don’t worry!” he called. “We’ll come get you.”

Ivan was dragged through a series of corridors, into a whitewashed cell, where he was restrained in a chair. The needle entered his veins and he was out again.

He came to without any sense of how much time had passed. At first, he mistook the thunder outside for something in his head, but a bang at the door and a rush of hot air cleared his senses. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew there were people in the room. They were talking quickly, in a dialect he didn’t recognize. The restraints slipped away, and he slumped to the floor, in a puddle of his own drool.

“Get up, you bastard.” It sounded like it was being shouted in his ears. He was dragged to his feet. He was blind, lost in a thick white fog.

“He’s blind, idiot. They must have given him a nasty cocktail.”

“Fuck. Can you see me, stupid?”

He felt a slap on his face. Still white.

“Guess not. We’ll carry him. Come on.”

He was hoisted up, felt himself being inverted and moving. The air was choking. Not hot, but thick with chemical smell. He heard something muffled that sounded a bit like gunfire.

“What’s going on?” he said, his mouth full of cotton.

“Wait, he’s trying to say something, I think.”

“Who cares. Just keep moving!”

They rounded a corner, and Ivan suddenly felt a gust of humid air. It was definitely gunfire. There was an explosion nearby.

“Fuck, they won’t be able to hold for long like this.” The voice switched back to the unintelligible dialect. It sounded southern. Maybe Buchianan, or some obscure street talk from Generia City.

They picked up speed, and finally halted, lowering Ivan to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, and the whiteness became a little less white.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The voice was familiar.

“Bad effect from one of the drugs.”

“Shit. Ivan, what’s wrong with you?”

It was Boris.

“Can’t see.”

“Shit, he can’t talk either?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Fuck. Hey, Ivan. We’re going, ok? I told you we’d come get you.”

“What’s going on?” Ivan said, trying as hard as he could to make the words clear.

“We’re fixing our mutual problem. Come on. The blindness will wear off in a few minutes. I’ve had the same thing before.”

Ivan was grabbed around the arms and led quickly. He was pushed into the back of what he imagined was a large truck, and heard the doors slam. The engine rumbled, and he was moving again.

“Did we really make it out of there?”

The voice drifted back, muffled.

“We’re not out yet,” came Boris’ voice from a spot beside Ivan. The blind man tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, but a strong hand pushed him back down.

“Stay down, and don’t move too much.”

Ivan’s vision continued to clear. He could see blurry images on his periphery, on the edge of a shrinking, milk white disk. Boris was sitting beside him, dressed in what appeared to be the green fatigues of the Imperial Army. They were in the back of a five-ton army truck. Boris shot a hazy smile at Ivan. A moment later, the breaks squealed and the truck came to a halt. There were more voices outside, speaking Generian.

“What’s going on down there? We heard explosions.”

“Prison riot,” came the muffled voice of who Ivan assumed was the driver. His Generian was unaccented, probably his mother tongue.

“Fuck, then shouldn’t you be heading back there?”

“It’s under control. We’re transporting some wounded.”

There was an uneasy silence.

“We gotta take a look.”

Ivan turned his head to look out the open rear of the vehicle, but Boris quickly pushed his face back into the floorboards.

“Is that a prisoner?”

“Yeah, high value. We’re moving him to the hospital. The compound’s hell back there. Not safe.”

The soldier climbed into the truck and walked over to where Ivan lay. He could see the dust on the man’s boots.

“Looks terrible. What the hell are you doing to them back there?”

“You don’t even wanna know,” replied Boris.

“Alright, I gotta check this.”

The soldier climbed back down, and Ivan shot a glance at Boris. He looked nervous.

“Radio’s out lieutenant!” called one of the soldier. Just then a second explosion shook the ground.

“Shit!”

There was panic in the air.

“You all get moving. We gotta get down there!”

The truck engine started again, and they were moving down a narrow dirt road, away from the checkpoint. Boris was breathing heavily.

“Close.”

They continued for a few minutes before coming to a halt. Ivan’s sight had cleared near completely by now, and he sat up.

“Come on. Move fast.”

He climbed out of the back of the truck. They were in a clearing, beside the sea and surrounded on all sides by the thick jungle. There was a barge laid up beside the shore, and a few men were milling around. Ivan and Boris approached them.

“You made it. Was worried,” said one of the men, a small, thin, tan individual with the nose and eyes of a jackal.

Boris walked up and shook his hand.

“Worried you wouldn’t get paid?”

The other man grinned. Boris gestured towards the truck.

“We got what you wanted. Nikolai will take it where you want to go.”

“Just bring it up on the barge,” said the man, looking around. “And be fast.”

The diesel engine roared, and the vehicle pulled up onto the ship’s loading ramp as Boris and Ivan followed.

“Where are we going?” asked Ivan as the vessel began to slowly pull away from the shoreline.

“They’ve got a ship anchored a little ways from here. We’re going there. And then we’re going home.”

Boris was looking out over the open ocean. The sun was beginning to get hot, and the water was dazzling to Ivan’s newly recovered eyes. Home was a long way from here. It had been a very long time.