McLeod03
10-03-2009, 21:01
<Menton Reservist Base, McLeod03>
Two non-descript vans pulled up to the entrance of the reservist armoury and training camp. With the country at peace for as long as it had been, the reserves were only here one week in four, leaving only a handful of guards to oversee the base for the rest of the time. Cold hard rain pounded down outside, discouraging those who remained from venturing outside for fear of catching hypothermia. Plus, who would try and steal anything from here? Everything was locked away securely, and the cameras covered any access points people would try to use.
What that led to was all twelve guards on the base being clustered around the television in the guard hut next to the main gate as the vans came to a halt by the gates. A horn tooted, and one of the guards stood up and walked to the window. “Hey man, what you after?” he asked the driver of the front van.
The man stared back at him blankly before answering. “We’re here to pick up some equipment. Orders of MAFCC.”
“We haven’t been told of any collections. You got some paperwork?” the guard asked, suspicions creeping into his voice.
The driver looked down towards the passenger seat, before he turned back with a silenced pistol in his hand, and shot the guard in the forehead. Seconds later he threw two tear gas grenades into the guard hut, and gunned down the remaining guards as they staggered around blind. Sticking a shaped charge on the window of the hut, he blew it in, and clambered through the hole it left. A quick search and he popped the gate open, and then waved the vans through once another man had taken his place in the driver’s seat.
Ahead of them lay four warehouses full of reservist vehicles, and a bunker that housed enough weaponry to equip a thousand men. The vans screeched to a halt outside the first warehouse, and men dressed in black poured out of them, rushing to cut open doors with portable gas-axes. One man stood off to one side as the killer of the gate guards walked over. He stood proudly as the men rushed around to his orders. As the killer arrived he saluted him. “Nice shooting Johnson, now get moving, we’ve got about half an hour before they discover no-one answering the radio. Get those new trucks loaded up, and let’s get out of here.
Johnson snapped off a salute and ran towards the bunker, where another charge made quick work of the lock, and five minutes work with a gas-axe let the men inside. Hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, crate after crate of small-arms, grenades, even a few Tyr combat systems and the accompanying body-armour. Men swarmed over the load, filling the large transport trucks, which left the base immediately once full.
It took just twenty minutes to shift as much as the trucks could carry, and the last truck paused momentarily to pick up the man stood overseeing the raid. He hopped aboard before turning back as the first demolition charge exploded, gutting the warehouse it was in. Another, then another went off, slowly obliterating any evidence of what had just happened. His name was James McLeod. He was, in the eyes of his mother and his men, the rightful ruler of McLeod03.
<Two days later, across the country>
It was half through the six o’clock news broadcast when the transmission cut out. What had been a story about event’s in Defese had been replaced by a picture of a man sat facing the screen. He was young, in his mid twenties, and looked suspiciously familiar. He was dressed in what appeared to by Royal army fatigues with no name markings, and had a gun holstered under his shoulder. When he spoke, he spoke with a distinguished accent, and confidence way beyond his years.
“People of the McLeodian Empire. Many of you will not recognise me, but my name is James McLeod. I am the grandson of James XII, who as you well remember, died of a long and painful illness. Since his first born child died at a young age, and his only survivor was my mother, Katherine, the throne was passed to my grandfather’s nephew Daniel. Since his line took the throne, this country has been plunged into dark times of fear and oppression.
I have found evidence that in fact the long illness that killed my uncle and my grandfather was actually not of natural cause. He was poisoned. Poisoned by Daniel, and his cronies. As such, I declare that Michael is no longer the rightful ruler of this great nation. The line should pass to me and my lineage. Join me, people of McLeod03, and together, we will lead this nation back to glory.”
The screen flickered and cut to a transmission error pre-recorded video. But word was on the streets now, and gossip spread the news like wildfire.
<An hour later>
Once again the television transmission across the country was interrupted, this time for a broadcast from the Royal Palace. The King sat in his throne, a stern look on his face.
“Loyal subjects. You will have heard by now of this imposter who lays claim to my throne. He has slandered the good name of my father, and tries to challenge my rule to the throne. We believe that this James and his group of criminals was responsible for the murder of twelve soldiers and the destruction of Menton Reservist Base two days ago in order to steal weapons for their gang.
I have ordered the immediate recall of all forces to the country, and I am bringing MAFCC up to full readiness in order to hunt down and execute this bandit. I ask for any of you with evidence to pass it on to your local police headquarters. Solidarity and strength.”
Two non-descript vans pulled up to the entrance of the reservist armoury and training camp. With the country at peace for as long as it had been, the reserves were only here one week in four, leaving only a handful of guards to oversee the base for the rest of the time. Cold hard rain pounded down outside, discouraging those who remained from venturing outside for fear of catching hypothermia. Plus, who would try and steal anything from here? Everything was locked away securely, and the cameras covered any access points people would try to use.
What that led to was all twelve guards on the base being clustered around the television in the guard hut next to the main gate as the vans came to a halt by the gates. A horn tooted, and one of the guards stood up and walked to the window. “Hey man, what you after?” he asked the driver of the front van.
The man stared back at him blankly before answering. “We’re here to pick up some equipment. Orders of MAFCC.”
“We haven’t been told of any collections. You got some paperwork?” the guard asked, suspicions creeping into his voice.
The driver looked down towards the passenger seat, before he turned back with a silenced pistol in his hand, and shot the guard in the forehead. Seconds later he threw two tear gas grenades into the guard hut, and gunned down the remaining guards as they staggered around blind. Sticking a shaped charge on the window of the hut, he blew it in, and clambered through the hole it left. A quick search and he popped the gate open, and then waved the vans through once another man had taken his place in the driver’s seat.
Ahead of them lay four warehouses full of reservist vehicles, and a bunker that housed enough weaponry to equip a thousand men. The vans screeched to a halt outside the first warehouse, and men dressed in black poured out of them, rushing to cut open doors with portable gas-axes. One man stood off to one side as the killer of the gate guards walked over. He stood proudly as the men rushed around to his orders. As the killer arrived he saluted him. “Nice shooting Johnson, now get moving, we’ve got about half an hour before they discover no-one answering the radio. Get those new trucks loaded up, and let’s get out of here.
Johnson snapped off a salute and ran towards the bunker, where another charge made quick work of the lock, and five minutes work with a gas-axe let the men inside. Hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition, crate after crate of small-arms, grenades, even a few Tyr combat systems and the accompanying body-armour. Men swarmed over the load, filling the large transport trucks, which left the base immediately once full.
It took just twenty minutes to shift as much as the trucks could carry, and the last truck paused momentarily to pick up the man stood overseeing the raid. He hopped aboard before turning back as the first demolition charge exploded, gutting the warehouse it was in. Another, then another went off, slowly obliterating any evidence of what had just happened. His name was James McLeod. He was, in the eyes of his mother and his men, the rightful ruler of McLeod03.
<Two days later, across the country>
It was half through the six o’clock news broadcast when the transmission cut out. What had been a story about event’s in Defese had been replaced by a picture of a man sat facing the screen. He was young, in his mid twenties, and looked suspiciously familiar. He was dressed in what appeared to by Royal army fatigues with no name markings, and had a gun holstered under his shoulder. When he spoke, he spoke with a distinguished accent, and confidence way beyond his years.
“People of the McLeodian Empire. Many of you will not recognise me, but my name is James McLeod. I am the grandson of James XII, who as you well remember, died of a long and painful illness. Since his first born child died at a young age, and his only survivor was my mother, Katherine, the throne was passed to my grandfather’s nephew Daniel. Since his line took the throne, this country has been plunged into dark times of fear and oppression.
I have found evidence that in fact the long illness that killed my uncle and my grandfather was actually not of natural cause. He was poisoned. Poisoned by Daniel, and his cronies. As such, I declare that Michael is no longer the rightful ruler of this great nation. The line should pass to me and my lineage. Join me, people of McLeod03, and together, we will lead this nation back to glory.”
The screen flickered and cut to a transmission error pre-recorded video. But word was on the streets now, and gossip spread the news like wildfire.
<An hour later>
Once again the television transmission across the country was interrupted, this time for a broadcast from the Royal Palace. The King sat in his throne, a stern look on his face.
“Loyal subjects. You will have heard by now of this imposter who lays claim to my throne. He has slandered the good name of my father, and tries to challenge my rule to the throne. We believe that this James and his group of criminals was responsible for the murder of twelve soldiers and the destruction of Menton Reservist Base two days ago in order to steal weapons for their gang.
I have ordered the immediate recall of all forces to the country, and I am bringing MAFCC up to full readiness in order to hunt down and execute this bandit. I ask for any of you with evidence to pass it on to your local police headquarters. Solidarity and strength.”