NationStates Jolt Archive

A touch of pelican white upon the clouds makes it taste like sugar. A single droplet of azure makes it as wet as water. The onions of the burgundy dirt are ripe, picked and sliced of the tips, boiled to submission. A tiny trickle of strawberry jam – crimson and silken red, an inferno blazing shade as it bubbled with freshness. The soup of war, waiting to be tasted by the sands, their mouths eager and hungry as the cooks perfect it still. So bitter, yet so sweet, the wondrous feeling. How delicious it is!

To taste it makes addiction of the most staunch of men. The meal is ready.

High up in the night skies of the city state of Arkura, the flickering of lights as they swayed caught the attention of a single man. Walking outside in the brisk air, feeling the cold rush of the ocean breeze touching his face, the howling of dogs, he looked up through his spectacles to see the lights move, the noise of rotors clattering and screaming as soldiers’ cries like ghosts wailed in the moonlit boulevard in the sky. The road led to the giant lights to the north, the tall palace, as the skyscrapers still lingered in pompous fashion, the suburban decay of the city slowly revealing themselves as the masks of economic ‘prosperity’ begat temporary lies. Here, amongst the growing gap of the increasing poor and the increasing rich, the middle class were becoming a dying breed, and here, in the city state of Arkura, where the flickering lights were caught in the fog of the ocean breeze, the rotors began to wail.

Like a vigilante of steel and metal and wires and ebony resolve, they flew through the midnight air, the moon far off dogging them with intent, a malicious deity in the sky that watched with excitement at the blackness that began to encroach upon the city. A blanket of uneasy rebellion, the homes with plotting minds, the people with trigger-happy fingers and their guns loaded with discontent barrels. Here, tonight in the city of Arkura, the skyscrapers would soon be under attack, and the sickles of the Tsellian church would slowly break away into nothingness. Here, in the Arkura, at the edge of the vast swath that was the Jenrakian Amalgamate, an empire of religious bureaucracy, the hammer fell down upon religion.

But for the sake of mankind, of course.

Even as the missiles flew into the windows, the disgruntled soldiers under the poor command of the city’s priest marched their way into the bottom rungs of the tower, their guns blasting violently at the innocent staff, their bombs lighting off at the bridges near the wide Sempta River, the logistics and escape fruitless for the administration. Even when the screams echoed like a city of ghosts, crying out in the midst of the growing war, they marched into the skyscrapers – these monolithically tall castles of the modern age’s kings and the homes of the future’s elites. Monarchy never died. Only changed names, and the free and beautiful city states were now crumbling into the decrepit cobweb of feudalist societies.

Here, the taxation was too high, unrepresented. Here, the locals were the majority, the ruling class, or they should have been. But foreigners from Haasdra, a city far away on the other side of the world, were the ones who made the orders, who gave the calls. It was necessary to kill these interlopers, as they were the ones who made efforts to harm their culture, to suppress their people, to take their women and their wealth. Their glorious, glorious wealth, and their beautiful, beautiful, women. Only claims to be made back on their part.

But for the sake of mankind, of course.

The first floor was beset with a smokescreen. A haze that trickled like a stinging blanket through the very cracks of the walls, through the electronics and through the elevators, the air filled with the disgusting and noxious gas, the civilians coughing up blood at the severity of the damage. The machines were shocked beyond belief, the rebel soldiers, clad in black and wearing gas masks, smashed them with delirious enjoyment with the butt of their rifles. Draped in a velvety robe, armour atop their bulky bodies, they rushed through the tunnels, wild abandonment as their blood stained hands touched the silky skins of the terrified women, grabbing them with lustful excitement, others looking on without care as to what they did. Faceless and driven, they were a single entity that spread discord and fear at those who were unfortunate enough to have worked there that day, the machetes on their waists dangling and smelling with the stench of blood.

One of them, a man with a sash-like yellow cloth wrapped around his uniform, grabbed one of his soldiers in the back of the head and pulled him back from the woman, his uniform un tied and his pants unzipped. “We’re not here for that, soldier.” He answered sternly, the barrel pointed at his soldier’s foot. “This has the potential to cost us this entire operation. Captain Szherman’s paratroopers are already on the roof, and Captain Gubara’s troops are sweeping the upper levels as we speak. Now, while those two are admirably coming that much closer to bringing the downfall of this corrupt government…” he raised his pistol, firing off a single magnum shot as the bullet smashed into the ceiling, the soldiers looking at him in respect and fear. “…let me ask you a question, soldiers.”

Hand grabbing the back still, he swung it towards the wall, fist smashing into his soldier’s helmet, breaking through as it connected with his nose, the cartilage tearing as the blood trickled down effortlessly. Teeth were dug deep into his gums, stabbing in his tongue and his eyes were torn from their sockets. The veins were still throbbing, the heartbeat of the man felt as the man with the sash-like yellow cloth withdrew his hand. “Why the fuck, are you men hanging around the first floor here for?! Keep your dick in check or I will cut them off and feed them to the dogs. I want every single available body to march up and sweep the levels as planned, now!” He yelled, firing off another shot as his soldiers hurried in fear.

The radio beeped. His fingers, still laced with the coppery taste of blood, slipped on the button before he opened the channel. “Warshz speaking.” He responded mechanically.

“Commander, there’s been a problem.” The soldier on the other end said, his voice shaking with nervous fear. “This is Captain Szherman, and we’ve just swept the top floor with Captain Gubara’s logistics support. There are things you should see here, sir. Oh, god.” The sound of wrenching and vomiting could be heard. “Fuck!”

Warshz quickly took the elevator to the top floor. The uneasy whirring, the blood stains, the corpses that laid dead at his feet on the elevator as the bullet holes were still hot – all of this made him disgusted, yet uneasy. The blood was still fresh, the trickling and the dripping that seemed like ordinary water was not so. Plip. Plip. Plip. Like the heartbeat of a dead man, his blood still echoing his pulses.

Plip. Plip. Plip. And then the elevator door stopped, opening. Down the long hallway, the soldiers stood, both paratroopers, both logistics. Some medics, some heavy fire and some covert soldiers. All of them former Jenrakians, all of them Arkuran soldiers who were disgusted by the Haasdra treatment. Ever since Haasdra sent the Priest Mnemorax to watch as the overseer, the city began to slowly crumble. Even it’s acceptance into the 96 provinces did not stem the tide of its decay, and the metropolis began to whittle down into a corporate wasteland. Mnemorax did nothing to help the people, and even as the soldiers worked for Mnemorax’s advisors and commanders, their pay was beginning to slowly slip away into the corrupted hands of the officials.

The Priest, the ruler of this city, was quickly out of the public eye. He never talked in person – always in cryptic voice-overs and emotionless machines.

Now, in the marching as the soldiers stayed guard, Warshz, a former Jenrakian captain himself in the service of the city of Sentiauhk, began to sweep into through the doors and down the painting lined hallways. The dirt of the boots of the soldiers who had swept here were visible amongst the pristine paintings, the light behind the mahogany door only thin and rectangular in shape. The creaking of the wood, the turning of the knob, the thudding as the heavy boots smashed down on the floor as his fingers were loosening on the trigger.

Gubara, clad in red, looked at Warshz through his mask as he saluted him respectively. “Commander.” He said, as Warshz saluted him back.

“Captain Gubara, where is Captain Szherman?” He asked. “He was the one who sent me the message, was he not?”

“He’s recovering in the medic tent in the hallway outside, sir.” Gubara elaborated.

“Why is that?”

“Mnemorax’s suicide was scarring for him, to say the least, sir.”

“Suicide?” Warshz rushed to the bedrooms of the chamber, Gubara following suit as he had his hand on the knob, Gubara’s cold fingers, chilly from the air conditioned sweat, pressed down on his palm.

“Sir, it is not an image that you may want to see.” Gubara warned him, but Warshz opened it nevertheless, and there, he had the instant regret.

There, on the bed, hanging by steel barbs dug deep into his skin, was Mnemorax. The young, straw haired man who initially came to this city, whom Warshz greeted personally with such vibrancy and enthusiasm, has grown old, and only in the span of a few years. But there was something disturbing, as his body was draped in a reddish wet blanket, his mouth wide open as his eyes were pure white. The simple blow of the door, the wind rushing in, all of it created a small gust as the blankets flew off, revealing his arms, as the heads of countless children, eyes and mouths sown shut, were sown onto his skin. Like leather masks, the faces of women were sown into his stomach, as fingers were sown onto his neck, his collarbone, his chest and legs, like some sort of grotesque millipede as the dangling of sinew still dripped with crusted blood. The bed sheets now were a dark brown, and the stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming. Gaping wide, the mouth revealed blood stained teeth as flesh was seen between the gums in the spaces.

Horrible instruments laid there, and even then, as the light bathed Mnemorax’s body from the doorway, the rest of the room was covered in darkness, and Warshz turned it on, only to reveal the bodies of women nailed to the walls as a child’s upper body was sown onto the lower body of a dog, his arms flailing wildly in pain, living and breathing and feeling, and most horrifically, the legs of his canine were responding to his fright as it kicked helplessly.

Warshz pointed his gun at the child, a single bullet through the head, bursting apart the flesh as the wiry muscles were strewn across the rugs, the mouth still gaping. Always gaping. Open and wide into the night.

Warshz felt sick. Nauseous, but nevertheless he had to accomplish a goal. “We’re going to get rid of everything here. The disfigurations, the cannibalism, everything. I would rather risk being called a murderer than have our former leader be seen as a cannibal. It would hurt the administration in the eyes of the public, so keep this a secret, understood?” Warshz told Gubara.

“Of course. So we continue, as planned?”

“As planned.” A message to the world was rung out with pride. Today, Arkura was independent, and in Haasdra, Queen Rashkta Nirandu prepared her army for the nephew she had just lost.

OOC: Please check here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=567184) first

Open Communique to the World

The ascertaining of independence is the utmost priority to the welfare of the people. Therein lies the first, the foremost, and the topical thesis of this declaration. I, on behalf of the words of the wondrous majority, the noble souls of the Nakros Arkura, claim henceforth that such a city be now be called a nation, and now the surrounding area under the claim of the former imperialists that were the Jenrakian crown be taken away.

Make no claim of misunderstanding, nor will we take none.

This is our home, our land, our people and our politics. Our freedoms and rights are hereby to us, and each and every man of his own whim, is equal in all rights and manners to express his will.

To contest is the way of the tyrant, to protest is the way of the ignorant. Here, at the opening of the gates of a single identity under a new banner, we present the city as a nation, and with the opening of the nation, there is the welcoming of others into our arms. For the liberal man and his ideals will forever ring true in a just nation, and the closed minded-man will forever ring his ideals true in the barbarous nation.

To freedom, equality, and liberty.
To the pursuit of wealth, health and happiness.

This, as the once colonial city of Arkura, under the false name of a ‘province’ in the false name of the ‘amalgamate’ that was a false nation such as Jenrak, will become henceforth be changed to the world, and from hereon, through the defence of our ideals, we, the nation of Arkura, are now gates owned by Arkurans, and none less in the world.

~General Warshz

A hundred miles away, in the city of Nakros Jimuun, the Repeater Barrels were beginning to roll out. The large steel doors, as the wheezing gas sifted out in droves, the ticking of the time as they watched the sunrise dance. The gleaming barrel shimmered, the platforms, like iron elephants, moved slowly along the flat airstrip-shaped grounds, men standing on its surface as their hands held onto the railings. Three came out; their cannons enormous, their engines roaring and screaming in pain, pushing forwards as trucks tied to long thick cables pulled them appropriately. Then four, then five. Six, seven, eight. Nine, ten. Ten Repeaters, 3 barrels per platform, for a total of thirty barrels. Thirty earth ripping barrels, with the artillery fire to pummel and level cities into nothing more than haunting plains, to incinerate and intoxicate, to drench the fields of war in nothing more than monotonous pain. Lifeless, emotionless.

Oh, the horrors of war they were. Here, in Nakros Jimuun, they came. Nobody knew who they were, actually, but of course, a city that only fielded a few hundred thousand compared to a vast empire such as the Jenrakian Amalgamate could only boast so much before the jackboots rolled in. The carriers at the dock of Sephraku, like floating metal islands, their jets lying dormant and peaceful, the rise of the sun spraying rising light upon their flawless metal surfaces. The tanks on Main Street, so often do they roll now that even they looked like cars, and even so, as they went into the massive amphibious transports, the noise of the bells almost deafening, it was nothing but second guess. Only a non-Jenrakian would be shocked at the sight.

In fact, it was beautiful. It was beautiful to see the shine of the Temsplace shields as they marched down to the docks, their javelins readied, their swords tied tightly to their backs as their rippling muscles only glistened with fleshy brilliance beneath their mountain-hard armour. It was beautiful to see the radiance of the giant Sand Claws – massive mobile factories that were tugged along upon the waters by ships, like gunless battleships as the doors were the docks would be were closed shut till their touched land; steel beehives, they were. It was beautiful to see the hornet-like formations of the choppers, their machine guns spinning in practice, the stealth soldiers in their glassy appearance stepping onto the metal steps as the clanging of their feet made a percussionists’ song.

But most importantly, it was beautiful to see the battleships, their long steel forms wading in the waters as the staff shouted loudly, fingers pointed and muscle bound from one end to the other.

A hundred miles away, in the nation of Arkura, the soldiers readied their rifles. The peoples, walking as they have all along, frittered their lives away in the caustic ticking of the time. The footsteps, the chattering, the lovers at the movies and the businessmen on the streets, walking along and talking and conveying their lives however they can. The world continued on, and even so, last night, the gripping terror that was the Mnemoraxian administration existed with maliciousness.

Here, in the confines of the ruined skyscrapers of the religious heads of the Tsellian priest, the soldiers prepared themselves in the ruins of majesty. The light danced through the training grounds, the main lobbies becoming barracks as choppers were still warm from last night’s infiltration. Bullets were carried in by truckloads, food and supplies prepared for months as they talked and trained, fought and laughed and altogether did what soldiers did – live what life remained.

Warshz, sitting on the highest intact floor had his hands cupped against his cheek, looking at the notebook as the ringing of the declaration ran through his mind. It was already noon, and hours had occurred too soon before somebody would reply. Anybody, and more than likely, the words of the Jenrakians on the mainland would answer. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be Rashkta herself, the Queen of Thorns as she sat upon her porcelain throne.

At noon, the message came.

Message to the Rebel Faction[s] of the City State of Arkura

How many more must be sacrificed before the bloodlust of some be drenched in the innocent blood of many? How many more must feel the pain of loss before the feeling of loss begins to grow so strong that it creeps upon those who feed it? What seeds must be sown before the reaping breeds harm to the reaper? And more importantly – what child, unready for the world, makes an attempt to break off from their parent?

A spiteful child. An endless bloodlust. An immeasurable loss. An unreaped seed. It is not the duty of the Amalgamate, as the parent of the infancy states to let them out into the pain-driven world so young, but rather to beckon them back into the safe fold.

Sometimes, the beckoning requires the truncheon, and the fold reeks of gunpowder. Sometimes the parent takes the job so seriously that discipline must be enacted for proper reason to prevail.

And to curse this parent who takes his or her job seriously, do we? No – we are only doing what is within our job, our love, our wish, to see the infant that is Arkura grow, but within our safe hands. Be a good child, like your brothers and sisters, Arkura. It is wisest and adult-like to adopt this decision, for if the subject becomes unsolvable, then parenthood leaves little choice.

And only beckoning can be done.

~General Edoqlius

Warshz smashed his fist upon the desk. It wasn’t her. Not Rashkta.

SIC TO: The City of Arkura

Latican Imperium

The Imperium has deemed your cause one that is accepted by the general populace, thus one that would bring a lasting order to the nation. With that in mind we also realize that such a rebellion against such a power is a difficult goal, but it is one that can be reached, and more rapidly with the help of a foreign power. The Imperium asks that you allow the 157. Latican Air-Ground Service Regiment, the 301. Latican Trooper Legion and the 818. [A] Latican Armored Company. These assets will be moved quickly to the city, and if it is necessary we are willing to send in over a hundred thousand M77 E1 assault rifles (M77 with increased capacity [35 rounds] and built-in Red-Dot system, with optional 4x Rifle Scope railing) and four hundred T-90 main battle tanks. The Imperium may also send in a training regiment to bring your troops up to a combat capability level not before seen in your history.

ORBAT

157. Latican Air-Ground Service Regiment (Ready for Deployment en Arkura)

6 Mil Mi-38 Medium Transport Helicopters
1,000 Infantry
14 Mil Mi-8 Transport Helicopter
14 80mm Mortars
43 SA-18
37 LX-1005 Refueling Vehicle
7 Ka-50 Attack Helicopter
10 Mil Mi-28 Anti-Tank Attack Helicopter
148 Engineers


301. Latican Trooper Legion (Ready for Deployment en Arkura)

6,000 Infantry
21 Super Cobra Attack Helicopters
14 Chinook Helicopters
272 LX-1012 Heavy Transport Vehicles
211 BMP-3 Carriers
20 Paladin Howitzer
25 MANPADS
150 80mm Mortars
70 SA-18


818. [A] Latican Armored Company (Ready for Deployment en Arkura)

14 Neo-Panzer II-5D
56 Neo-Panzer Crew
42 Repair Crew
180 Infantry
20 LX-1012 Heavy Transport Vehicle
31 LX-1005 Refueling Vehicle

SIC TO: The City of Arkura

Latican Imperium

The Imperium has deemed your cause one that is accepted by the general populace, thus one that would bring a lasting order to the nation. With that in mind we also realize that such a rebellion against such a power is a difficult goal, but it is one that can be reached, and more rapidly with the help of a foreign power. The Imperium asks that you allow the 157. Latican Air-Ground Service Regiment, the 301. Latican Trooper Legion and the 818. [A] Latican Armored Company. These assets will be moved quickly to the city, and if it is necessary we are willing to send in over a hundred thousand M77 E1 assault rifles (M77 with increased capacity [35 rounds] and built-in Red-Dot system, with optional 4x Rifle Scope railing) and four hundred T-90 main battle tanks. The Imperium may also send in a training regiment to bring your troops up to a combat capability level not before seen in your history.

Communique to the Latican Imperium
All and any assistance is appreciated in the defense of the nation of Arkura against the oncoming Amalgamate forces. Like our brother the Nakros Ithrimm, Arkura will most definitely succeed from Jenrakian clutches, and further our goal is becoming a respectable nation on the international scale. Therefore, any assistance provided is well received.

Civil unrest is still fairly high, and the fleeing loyalists will make traveling via commercial air routes and internationally protected sea routes difficult, as we are fairly preoccupied with their arrest. Therefore, I will appreciate it if you would follow the positional instructions I will detail here.

To the south of the city there will be three docks and one airstrip, all of them heavily defended against foreign attack. I would suggest these spots as the best spots to land, despite it being geographically fairly far from the city. An encampment outside the city would be best, as the presence of military forces will likely cause further civil unrest that has yet to be properly addressed due to the lack of resources. Loyalist forces have taken most of our economic hold within the city, and therefore the rebuilding of Arkura as a fully functional state will require some time, but I believe it will be possible within my lifetime.

I will tell my men to be wary upon your arrival, though I will not give the order to fire.

~General Warshz

In one empire, two conferences were being held. One on the farthest east of the Jenrakian frontiers, in the city of Nakros Nahm, whilst the other was held in the far west, in the city of Nakros Sentiauhk. One was the definite meeting to determine the downfall of Nakros Arkura. The other was a meeting to avert that decision. Defending it could only delay the inevitable, and only wasted money will accumulate.

In the city of Nakros Nahm, the heat was unbearable. The thick, polluted skies as the outskirts of the acid-drenched slums showed only the homeless peddling around, their fingers and arms red as their eyes are swollen. Their lips chapped in the heat and flies buzzing on their lashes, their long encrusted beards whitening as their brown teeth gave off a corpse-like stench. For these men could be considered dead, the walking zombie of the world of wealth they were. Sons, fathers, brothers and husbands – they were all subject in the growth of the city. As the world of Jenrakian economics dominated the Amalgamate’s fibre, the invisible hand crushing all who oppose it.

For the Jenrakians, they were polytheistic, and had many gods. Money was one of them, and at the heart of Nakros Nahm, amidst the massive skyscrapers and twisting highways, the unbearable heat as the underground subways roared like sleeping steel dragons, the cars pulled up, the planes landed carefully, and all the manner of representatives began to pour out respectively into the tallest building – the Namora. Here, at this tower-like structure, the representatives of multiple cities within the 95, and now 94 states, came together for the first time in over 5 years since the fall of Nakros Ithrimm. Since the Sons of Sagacity had wrung the city from the hands of the Jenrakians before, and in the process, ended the reign of the Annirak family, only Rashkta remained of the original royal family. Only Rashkta could take the throne after Authaulus relinquished power.

The fall of the Temsplace of the holiest kind, to make shackles of the silver moon.

Here, in the meeting, the council sat quietly as the deliberation of 85 cities watched each other, their fingers pressed against the oak desks as the pedestal begat to stairs that led to a large throne of porcelain. The shapes of skulls and fingers lined around its edges, the clay tongues writhing out like worms as the eyes were ruby shimmers within a ghost-like chair. Here, the white crown laid as the hallways twisted out like labyrinth tunnels in the tallest maze. Footsteps down the hall, without creaks. Temsplaces, guns readied, followed along as a single man marched down imperiously, his eyes straight to the goal, his hands in his pockets. The doors creaked, however, as they opened, and the light filtered our and bathed him in radiant light. His hair touched his lashes, his lips cut and burnt, his ears torn into shreds. Scars upon his neck were covered up by leather collars, the single jewel upon their black surface revealing a dog-like attitude.

He was, first and foremost, a dog. A dog of Rashkta and the Amalgamate, but just as Warshz was a dog of freedom; this man was to also be a dog of the market, of the empire. He was a dog of the government who wanted nothing more than to retire, but as the threats continued, he would continue to fight, and even though still young; the scars of the past began to accumulate. Clapping welcomed his appearance, his bodyguards with their swords drawn as they looked carefully at the audience.

For these men were Temsplace, the holy warriors who walked upon the dunes. Kings within their own rights, they commanded armies before their fall. Before the defeat of their king, Saerus Annirak and his kingdom, they were an autonomous military force that bowed down only to the religious crown within the eastern Jenrakian mainland. A military force that combined swordplay and modern military weaponry and heavy anti-armour capability, they were leaders. They were captains, officers and generals, who fought forwards and led entire armies into battle, and charging without fear of death was their job. Here, two of them, standing as mere bodyguards, marched with powerful impunity as their thick armour clashed loudly. Heavy and thickset, they were rippling in muscle as their javelins were tied to their backs.

The man in the middle, his crisp black suit shining, walked towards the pedestal as it brought him slowly to the stairs where he walked onto the throne. Here, he sat, his left hand revealing a single plain emerald, but etched into its core was the signature of his master – the Nirandu house. “Present, General Edoqlius, representative of the House of Nirandu, ruling house of Nakros Haasdra, ruling house of the Amalgamate.” He spoke in a deep voice, though still heavily ragged, as if his throat had been torn apart and sown back together, his very vocal cords flailing around in pain with every word. “The subject today is the application of the proposed operation on the recent rebellion of the city of Arkura.”

One of the city’s representatives stood up, a whispy old man, his fingers sweating as he carried a copy of what seemed to be a novel-sized report in his hands. He touched his wire frame glasses, his grandfatherly look as he plucked a small piece of clothing through his suit’s flaps. “General Edoqlius, General Maneun of the house of Sejim, ruling house of Nakros Hroba. I have reviewed paper you have proposed on Operation Arkurian Ghost but I believe that there should be a better way to undertake this endeavour. We need to ensure that people are still there so that we can continue the proper functioning of Nakros Arkura.”

A woman stood up, her short hair prickling the middle parts of her cheek, her violently red lipstick vibrant amongst her ghostly pale face. “General Sebilia of the house of Fakkrahand, ruling house of Nakros Deloria. General Edoqlius, I will agree with the issue at hand of not only the ethnic value of your decision, but also the reasoning economically behind this manoeuvre. It is simply a waste of resources and nothing is to be gained from this makes it difficult for Nakros Deloria to support.”

Another older man rose, clearing his throat loudly into his microphone before speaking. “General Heborah of the house of Heborah, ruling house of Nakros Rephalim.” He cleared his throat again. “Although the issues of morality and economic sense are certainly grave issues, General Edoqlius’ decision must have some sort of sense that we are currently unaware of addressing. Perhaps the General will be able to explain in further detail what these decisions and these reasons are?”

Edoqlius rose, amidst the 93 pair of eyes, all fixated as he stared at them with complacency. “General Edoqlius, house of Nirandu, ruling house of the Amalgamate.” He answered. “The application of Operation Arkurian Ghost is the ensure that the beachhead is secure and ready for attack. The logistics control within the surrounding city states will be vital to ensuring that a strong and proper attack formation is feasible, and the use of the lancers will require that all land mines, artillery fire and machine gun fire is kept to a minimum.”

“General Yienhaum, house of Sturukrua, ruling house of Nakros Jepethra. General Edoqlius, you cannot presume that they will be provided with a strong resistance to counter a sizable force, do you? All that is needed is enough to maintain a logistics line and it will be taken quite easily.”

“Tell, General Yienhaum, how did you come to be a general?”

“How? By experience, of course.” He noted proudly.

“Then you must have fought nothing but monkeys.” Edoqlius quoted, as Yienhaum frowned in distaste at his words. “The opponent the Amalgamate faces is none other than General Warshz, who was once instrumental in the Jagada invasion as a frontline Temsplace. Do not underestimate his wartime experience, as his battle against the Kriegsmarine told him with distinction on how a guerrilla army fights. What we are doing here is the exact same thing as what the Jenrakians under the Blood Patriarchs did when they invaded Jagada. It is history repeating itself, and I would rather not take the bloody, costly method that the Blood Patriarchs took to attaining control of the city.”

“But why, General Edoqlius, do you want to take the city of Nakros Arkura in the state it will be in if you use Operation Arkurian Ghost?”

General Edoqlius frowned. “I have experience fighting against General Warshz, and I know fully well how he will react to my attacks. He has not seen me attack before, but I have seen him, and this blind advantage gives me the one and only advantage I need to overwhelm him in this conflict. He will, without a doubt, be forced to try and keep the city to maintain guerrilla dominance.”

“Then elaborate to the Generals here what your brilliant plan is.”

“General Warshz’s main goal is to ensure that the city remains intact, and he plans to wear us to the level that we will concede defeat. That requires two things – the loss of our resources as being vastly disproportional to his loss of resources, and the motivations for the continuation of our fight against him being proportional to the motivation of his fight against us. In simpler terms, if we can maintain two things.” He pointed up two fingers. “To minimize soldier casualty on our side while maximizing soldier casualty on his, and minimizing war weariness while maximizing his. We will do this with Repeater artillery.”

“And how will that work?”

“Repeater Artillery will be able to hit the city at certain spots on the terrain. Of course, that will mean he will anticipate this, and border guards at those stations. Therefore, we need to force him into a corner that put his stationary troops in a trap. The details of Operation Arkurian Ghost is vital to the maintenance of our troops’ livelihood and morale. It is essential to maintaining the state’ credibility in the management of rebels and rebel factions.”

They sat silent, unable to reply. There wasn’t anything to reply to. Not when the truth was bare.

That day, the Amalgamate would begin. Edoqlius’ risky operation was put under way, and under the first instruction of Operation Arkurian Ghost, he enacted the readiness of all of the silos within firing range of Nakros Arkura. Deep within the coldness of the underground bases, the neutron bombs were being prepared to fire.

The City of Arkura

Commandant Rafael J. Leonardo looked over the deployment of the city. Most of his troops had been unloaded and where moving to the outskirts of the city, whilst the Air-Ground Service was making patrols using their attack helicopters. Artillery positions were set-up clearly, and MANPADS were positioned around the artillery and helicopter headquarters. Mines were many as AP mines were positioned around the infantry and AT mines positioned around the Mortars and AT positions. Only fourteen thousand M77 E1's accompanied the fleet as they came and those were already being distributed to the government of Arkura. Four T-90 tanks also had made the trip to the nation.

The total amount of supplies that was to be shipped to the nation was on its way with the second passing of the fleet, a time that would take over a week to completely go back to closest Latican colony, Ethiopia de Latica, en eastern Afrika. More MANPADS and other Anti-Air units were going to be brought with the next movement of ships, but as it was now the best units that they had were the Air-Ground Service, which had the ability to transport over two hundred troops at a time, and if necessary the Latican Troopers could be used as Air-Infantry and shoved on the ships.

Major Micheal I. Fernando, commander of 818. [A] Armored Company, positioned his fourteen tanks with the 301. Legion, putting his headquarters next to that of the 301. He sat in his tent, idly, smoking a Newport cigarette, years ago he had lost his sense of taste due to the malicious potency of the brand. He was an interesting man, he had fifty-three years of age on him, and despite his grayed top hair, his horrid breath and older fashion sense when seen out of uniform, he looked only around forty-two. He was the type of commander to lead from the front, and thats what he did in his own Neo-Panzer II-5D, the Marko/Polo, it was equipped with two SAM mounts on the top, each with a few Patriot missiles if they wanted to play a game with his own tank.

Colonel Lawrence P. Yawee, commander of 157. Air-Ground Service Regiment was prepping his men on the terrain of the area, thought to be flat, and the likely use of his troops as a flanking force, perhaps even used as light infantry if shit got white hot. Their new Mi-38 transports could move a large batch of troops in one swing, and the trusted Mi-8 was light enough to move quickly, along with the attached attack helicopters, one specialized for anti-tank warfare. He had also put his headquarters, albeit a fifth of a kilometer away from the actual helicopters, next to that of the 301., making a triangle of commanders encase a meeting ever needed to be made quickly.

Smog dotted the skylines, with the Imperial Spire - Necropolis's stark black structure rising towards the heavens - standing as a sharp dagger rising forth from the dark imperial capital of Amazonia. The hues of the sky gave in to a myriad of grey and black swirls, marred by the rough, jagged skyline of the towering city, the Dominion's tallest in terms of building heights. A synthetic range of mountains, devoted to encircling the towering pinnacle of the oligarchical rule of the Dominion, capped far underneath that tower by five men. But out far from the dark city that served as one half of the twin capitals of the corrupt country, the natural beauty of the tropical atmosphere shined.

"Hell yea brotha! Hahhah!"

A mechanical rumble shot through the pristine air of the rolling countryside as a Cougar APC jumped a grassy slope, propelled slightly too fast by a driver having slightly too much fun. His gunner sat side-by-side in the APC's fore, laughing alongside with the vehicle's captain as the armored dealer of war zipped along at speeds that far exceeded the twin Scorpion tanks following behind in the exercise. The local military bases had been conducting a joint operations training maneuver, but the crew of ATMG-538 were deciding to run things their way. Lighthearted was the way to go to keep things up and on the tap - this wasn't a war after all, and command wasn't exactly caring too much on the brilliance of the day, dozens of miles from the dark city that stood so prominently on the horizon.

The APC whipped around on four starboard wheels, the main cannon firing at a swath of grass like any other as the vehicle continued to stunt off. The tanks lacked the same luxury - the Scorpions lacked the speed or maneuverability of the Cougar to show off. But they were out here just for general practice, nothing special - no target, no imminent disaster, no countdown to a missile strike or meteor shower or whatever God could throw down from the heavens to lay a smackdown upon the ignorant heads of some dumb nation or three. Nope, purely a time to go amp skills while lightening the mood. The Cougar swerved, a rocket blasting from a port launcher as one of the Scorpions from behind launched a 130 mm shell into an actual target, spewing fire all over another rolling hill. It was good stuff all in all, the three crew members in the Cougar laughing as if they had drank far too much Bacardi before coming out to practice. A call came over the communication network, the captain calming himself momentarily to answer what was likely one of the other vehicles egging the APC on to a race, or something of the sort.

"It's Shlecher, what's up?"

"Cpt, get your team back to base. Orders are coming through and we have priority tasking taking hold."

Fuckstick, was the first thought to answer the captain's mind as he set the communicator down after an affirmation. Way to kill the goddamned day motherfucking command.

"Boys we gotta turn this bitch around," he said with a hiccup - maybe he was drunk, or at least tipsy, after all.

"Aw sheet cappin, 'least we be messin' lil' more aiite?" the driver replied as the gunner let off another shell from the main smoothbore cannon.

"Naw brutha we got one from the hi-life fuckers," the captain responded with another hiccup.

"Well sheeyut," the former sighed as the two MBTs behind turned around, headed back the two miles to the base facilities. "Kill tha lowdown!"

The APC rounded sharply on its starboard wheels, jumping another hill as it shot down after the tanks on the way to base. The giant tower stood like a finger towards God on the horizon, where the decisions were being made.


* * * * *


A Firehawk fighter formation shot past the Pinnacle tower, the older fighters leaving their snowy trail to highlight the night of the skyscraper - forget scraping the sky, it punctured it. The menacing finger of the dark city of the nation vibrantly quaked within its hewn hallways, the jagged Spire flowing with the energy of the thousands who crisscrossed its towering floors and deep basements. A certain urgency flowed through everything something big happened, and for a nation that was finally getting out from a change in leadership - replacing a dead legend with a new five-man council - it was time to shake things up. Helping suppressing rebellions was something that in the old regime had been done frequently, but the new one was stressing making #1 really #1 in the region, and it showed.

Deep in the lowest corridors and metallic catacombs of the underground basements - a labyrinth of technological centers, research sectors, command operations coordination rooms, and prototype storage units - the Imperial Council Chambers lay, a room completely enshrouded in metal so far underground and lit by bright overhead lights. Five men sat within its chambers...and upon a board with electronic lights and symbols sitting in the midpoint of their five chairs lit up with names, numbers...monitoring a situation that would require further attention. Readiness was deployed anyway - the guarenteed precursor to launch.

Nakros Jimuun was bustling with activity in their mobilisation. The Temsplace, already geared for the attack, are slowly climbing into the transports as the single Claw was being carried on a series of ships, connected together by tugboats as they began their preparation into open waters. The Jenrakian navy was a vast navy, with the purpose of annihilating beachheads and allowing a moderate air force to achieve supremacy. But here, in the conflict of Nakros Arkura, there were more things to be considered as the armies began to trickle into the transports and the choppers. As the Siren soldiers marched in unison, their guns tied tightly to their bodies, the ray of vermilion light danced upon the glassy surface of the ocean.

Here, in Nakros Jimuun, a single figure stood upon the deck of a massive battleship, the flagship Avarice as its flags billowed majestically in the growing winds. It was only a five hour trip, but these five hours would be the infinite prelude to the war, the crushing of the independence that the Arkurians rebels have fought so hard to achieve. This man, standing on the deck, only watched the waves as he flickered the dancing match in front of him, watching as it lit the cigarette, the wafting stench of spiced peaches filling his nostrils. “It’s so windy.” He murmured to himself, sighing in eventuality.

Upon his chest was a single insignia – the Jenrakian emblem of the 3 crescent moons, all connected at their bodies with a single emerald flower sprouting in the space they left behind – the symbol of the highest decoration in the rank of General. This man, no older than 16, watched as the waves still dance with the wind, whitecaps forming in the midst, the noise of footsteps approaching him before he turned around, looking to see a large figure clothed in azure armour, and appropriately, he nodded in deep respect. “Master Temsplace, an honour to see you.” The young man replied earnestly, before turning back to the ocean. “A nice day, isn’t it?”

“Without a doubt, General Nenron.” The Temsplace replied. “It’s a good day to sail today, and a good day to wage war.”

General Nenron. A boy of 16 who had grown in the far eastern plains of the Ascheran wastelands, the youngest of four sons in a local tribe, forced to die in the wilderness because of the burden he would be. But as the life was sucked out of him in the blazing day and the frigid nights, he was sustained by the delicious liquid of hatred, and when he returned to his encampment, then of his brother’s, he brought with him a small band of exiles and attained control through force. Here, he became tenacious and uncaring.

When Sanduras attacked, he was responsible for the defence of the Helikad Line, and while only 9, he maintained a strong enough offensive to have cost the lives of over 150,000 Jenrakians in a massacre of an attack, and nearly taking the lives of two Generals and then prince Saerus Annirak. At the age of eleven, he joined the ranks of the Rithman-naar and became known as the Prophet for his ability to accurately predict enemy movements. A follower of the Tsellian, he fought with the Christian Pseuronaders in the fight against Jenrak for the desire of meeting Jenrakian commanders. To see if they were worthy of his respect.

Here, Nenron fought against Edoqlius himself, and at the battle of Viraigius, only Edoqlius gained Nenron’s respect. A man crafted for war, still only a boy, his mind torn and weary from battle yet his heart and soul still craving for endless conflict. He enjoyed the carnage.

“There is the island of the Purukhaz between Nakros Jimuun and Nakros Arkura. It has no resources that a Claw may need, but it does have enough room for us to use it as a waypoint for the fleet as we try and build a coastal fortress to which we can attack Arkura.” The Temsplace suggested.

“Perhaps. That would a very good thing to do, and given the advantage we have in resources, the war of attrition would definitely suit us. But we are working on a single budget here, and the proposition of Operation Arkurian Ghost is still in General Edoqlius’ mind.”

“Then, what do you suggest?”

“I will do what Jenrakian Generals have always done. I will resort to the same weapons that made Jenrakians famous worldwide for. You should know, you’re a Temsplace.” Nenron smiled.

That night, five hours later, only the lights of the far off ships could be seen bobbing on the horizon, as the western beaches of the nation state of Arkura heard a small whirring noise in the air. High above the beaches, like a single ghost, lingering as a reaper danced within the moonlight boulevards, the explosion came almost immediately. Anti-missile weaponry could do little, as even as they fired at it, the same things always came down.

Like rain upon the western ends of the cities, body parts fell into the streets, blood simmering as the flames from the gunfire heating it up as crusted rivers amongst the sewers gave way to a crimson shine.

Nenron’s war had begun.

Warshz’s orders fell on deaf ears. “Contain the second quarter, damn it!” He yelled, the fire of the second volley pounding into the buildings but not the ears of his men. “Get all the civilians out of the second quarter, quarantine it and make sure that none of the things contain any sort of biological defect.” He ran his fingers along his forehead, the sweat pouring from his brows as he tapped his hand expectantly upon the paper, looking with disgust at the situation he was presented with. Almost eight neighbourhoods were hit with what could be seen as a maelstrom of body parts in varied stages of decomposition, many of them with metal braces and weights to smash through windows. The goal was attention, the side bonus was fear.

Both of them were being delivered as police calls were flooding in with utmost tenacity, people requesting that investigations be done to the perpetrating of these events. However, the bobbing figure over the horizon shimmered as the cannons of the shells burst in the air, spraying down a bevy of flesh and bones as massive tent-like umbrellas were put up to defend against the onslaught, steel plates creating above-ground tunnels that led to safer areas of the city.

Soldiers rushed to evacuate, assisting the police force as they went from spot to spot, trying to get everyone out of the second quarter as the beaches were already empty in people and stocked with landmines. But as the soldiers trickled together, trying to find a way to make sure that the city’s quarter was safe, the massive warships continued to appear, their bombardment becoming more lethal as the gas began to become toxic.

Fog began to slither down into the beaches, encroaching upon lifeless territory with malicious intent, ghostly fingers touching the sand as it soaked it in a sticky fluid, turning the golden beaches into a pale bone white as the strips of smoke grey fog began to paint the railings and stairs onto the roads with swan white stickiness. From the Avarice, Nenron sat with his eyes upon the screens, his left eye twitching, his gloves fingers pressing so hard that the nails were drawing blood as it trickled down his wrist. His nose was flaring wildly, foot tapping on the floor loudly with every clatter.

“He’s taken the bait. He’s taking it. Edoqlius is threatened by this man?” He asked, as the Temsplace behind him looked onwards. “Mharm, tell me. If you were in a situation where your opponent threw body parts at your city, what would you do?”

“Provoked or unprovoked?”

“That’s the first problem right there. Already with a declaration of war against the independent state and Warshz hasn’t gotten his mobilisation quick enough to evacuate enough citizens to no longer need to evacuate anymore. He’s taking too long.” Nenron elaborated. “But even so, it would have failed anyways because he can’t mobilise quick enough because the military system before wasn’t strong enough or stable enough to have stood against his measly rebellion. People weren’t politically involved enough to bother doing anything about it. Separate of the state from the individual was an idea that doesn’t work in the military nowadays, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you think that, General Nenron?” Mharm asked.

“Because, he can’t garner enough support for his cause. The people could care less on who changes hands at this level, as long as they’re not affected. Give them too much and they won’t bother working for anything else. They’re too complacent of a population to try this on, and Warshz doesn’t see that. He doesn’t look at this statistically.”

“How does this help your position? Why did you throw body parts, then?”

“Because I want to teach two lessons to the man and the people. First of all,” lines began to grow sick, as the people began to cough blood and become highly feverish, soldiers backing off as men and women yelled at them to move more quickly, “he’ll have to understand that people are disgusting. And second?”

From the north east, past the mountains a few battalions of battle tanks rushed with utmost speed, tearing through forest as Vizi turrets created a creeping barrage in visual cover as the tanks fired off shell after shell towards enemy defences, the lightly defended machine gun emplacements crushed as the sleeting of bullets filled the air. Temsplaces rode amongst long transports, connecting by chains as they slithered like snakes, a single massive Claw transport dragged by multiple trucks as its innards clanged. From its hearth, a tank rushed out with tenacity, flames spewing from its mouth.

Nenron raised his eyebrows. “I want him to understand that Mother Nature isn’t that great of an obstacle anymore.”

Meanwhile, Warshz watched his radar and his map. His fingers tapping the smooth geography, the lights of his soldiers flaring up as they reported hysteria and fear, fever and sickness amongst the civilians. “The priority is to get them to safety. We need to evacuate the civilians first, understand? Evacuate them.” He answered, turning to his comrades. “Let’s begin Operation Urban Deity.”