Drops of a Hellish Plague... [ Closed | ATTN Gholgoth ]

by **Milograd** » Thu Sep 15, 2011 8:39 pm

OoC: Like many of Milograd's news corporations, the Argyz Media Conglomerate is more or less a puppet of the Argyzian Authority; however this is not public knowledge of course.

The content of the ALC's reports are not mentioned in this article for that reason, however assuming that this information has spread farther outside of Milograd, it can be said that other nation's would have access to this content. In the reports it was claimed that the Milogradian government was behind the infamous genocide in Argatov, which ended in the loss of over 80,000 innocent lives. In addition to this, it was claimed that Dh'arco Jukill is mentally unstable and has attempted to commit suicide twice in the last six months. While it is a pretty well known rumor that this may just be the case, the reports included accounts and descriptions of these events from parties close to Jukill. However, the "big leaks" involve the Argatovian Genocide, supposed "government sponsored underground slaving rings", and the Police of Milograd kidnapping and murdering supposed "threats to the state" in mass. Milograd has denied that any of these claims are true; however it should be noted that ICly they all are.

Please note that the ALC are not an extremist-anarchist terrorist organization or anything of the sort and that they have only been labelled this by the Milogradian Government as to make them appeal poorly to the public. Ultimately the ALC is trying to end the current Milogradian regime of "tyranny" and such. Any further questions concerning this should be posted in the OoC thread. I apologize for the fact that this is a bit confusing: I plan to make a thread that will explain the entire plot of this in the near future.

OoC thread is here.

If you have any questions about Milograd whatsoever, feel free to check out my factbook ( linked in signature ).

Riots rock Milograd as the ALC releases more documents
^{by Teora Munta (@teoramunta)}
^{Sep. 15, 2011 || 11:04 PM MGT}

The southern side of Argyz.

Argyz, Milograd - In a day that has been most eventful for the Empire of Milograd, the capital city of Argyz's government district has been in a state of havoc for the last twenty four hours as protestors and rioters continue to force the Resource Initiative Police to work overtime. Smoke continues to float over the streets of Argyz and fires continue to bring hell to architecture and scenery in the area. These riots and protests have begun in light of the recent releases by the Alikarhian Liberation Coalition ( ALC ).

At 3:30pm on Tuesday afternoon, the Alikarhian Liberation Coalition released several documents that claimed to "shed light on the wrongdoings of the Dh'arco Rahavuhra's administration in cooperation with the Resource Initiative." The Alikarhian Liberation Coalition is a extremist anarchist organization founded in 2005 by the remaining members of the Tadami Clan ( with Commander Ahrao Tadami serving as an exception to this ); and in the last six years the ALC has been responsible for multiple terrorist attacks in the Milogradian territories of both Gholgoth and Varathron. The organization itself is currently lead by exiled former Dh'arco Rahavuhra Seiji Tadami, who's whereabouts within Milograd are unknown at this time ( if it is indeed true that he is still in Milograd ).

The documents spread across the internet at incredible speeds and became the buzz of social networking sites within mere hours after their release. Various movements were then established on large online communities such as talkhub, which have since been shut down by the Argyzian Authority on the grounds that said "pages" were advocating and encouraging Milogradian youth to participate in acts of terrorism. While the Argyzian Authority has done what they can to eliminate traces of the contents of the ALC's reports on the internet*, naturally such has proven to be quite a difficult endeavor. When asked why this content was being supressed, the Argyzian Authority claimed that said content had been removed in hopes of "eliminating the source of the fire before it can spread any further."

Riots and protesters began to assemble in some of Milograd's cities at approximately 4:00pm this afternoon, and it is believed that over 20,000 protesters are present in the streets of Argyz as of 10:00pm. It is also worth noting that hundreds of thousands of Milogradians have begun condemning the riots through the means that are available to them.

An estimated fifty six people have died in the riots at this time, with over one hundred people being injured.

More on this story will be included as it unfolds. Thank you for choosing Argyz Media; we suggest that you stay safe and remain indoors.

* Technically the content of these reports are being supressed within the Empire; and are available in any nation outside of Milograd.

• Seiji Tadami and Dh'arco Jukill: A History [ 4,451 ]
• Bephelgoria begins expansion in Varathron, Milograd responds [ 1,049 ]

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by **Black Century International** » Fri Sep 16, 2011 2:03 am

SITUATIONAL INTELLIGENCE REPORT

REPORT NAME: “Argyz Riots: An Issue of Milogradian Instability”
REPORT IDENTIFICATION: IR3040-0111309-0111609-07

REPORT SUBJECT(S): Milogradian Empire; Argyz riots; instability; economic failure; revolt; profit
REPORT CLASSIFICATION: AUGUSTUS

PRESENTING DEPARTMENT: “Milograd” Desk, Intelligence Analysis Division, Special Activities Department
RECIPIENT DEPARTMENT: Executive Operations Directing Commission

DATE OF AUTHORIZATION: 09.13.2011
DATE OF ISSUE: 09.16.2011

In regard to the ongoing acts of violent dissidence and revolt in the Empire of Milograd:

As of 1141^{(11:41 AM LTZ)}, September 13, 2011, communications intelligence personnel monitoring “Epimelios” focused query-crawlers (“web crawlers”) - directed primarily to passively gather domain traffic, operative signal inputs, and user prevalence - began to indicate an increase in stochastic communication (“chatter”) within the Gholgothic homeland of the Empire of Milograd on the Atraezan subcontinent. Initial reports indicate a thirty-seven percent (37%) average increase in the usage of the words and phrases: “violent,” “dissidence,” “political disobedience,” “direct action,” “Milogradian imperialism,” “Argatov,” “Argatovian Genocide,” “ALC,” and “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition.” At the time of initial indication, forms of social media and networking were present in the highest traffic percentage bracket; primarily, social media websites such as “TalkHub” and “FaceSpace” seem to be the primary focus for related traffic until 1400^{(2:00 PM)} later in the evening of September 13th.

At approximately 1400^{(2:00 PM)}, traffic on the social networking website “TalkHub” reached an above-average traffic increase apex of one hundred, seventy-six percent (176%), more than doubling its average traffic in a matter of less than three hours. “Epimelios” ping-queries indicate a significant utilization of the “TalkHub Web Messenger” feature. Demographic analysis indicates primary sources of related input originate from “TalkHub” user profiles predominantly associated with liberalism, civil disobedience, and political activism. Approximately seventeen percent (17%) of documented user profiles maintained a social link with a group identified as the “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition.”^{(See below.)} Of the queried user profiles, only three percent (3%) contained a social link or text pertaining to the “Argatov” region.

General chatter decreased at an average of twelve percent (12%) every quarter-hour until precisely 1503^{(3:03 PM)}.

After a net traffic percentile decrease of plus-minus forty-eight percent (±48%), at precisely 1503^{(3:03 PM)}, the social activist group identified as the “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition” (designated as a “terrorist and anarchist organization” by the Argyz Authority of the Milogradian Empire) released a series of documents to the Internet relating to the “Rahavuhra regime's” cooperation and collusion with the “Resource Initiative Police” to commit acts of genocide and state-sanctioned terrorism within the region of “Argratov.” Preliminary analysis indicates nearly four gigabytes of classified or sensitive documents have been leaked by the “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition” since. While primarily concerned with the prospect of an “Agratovian Genocide,” the documents (in the form of possible medical reports or internal memorandums) also detail the possibility of mental instability on the part of the current Milogradian head of state, Dh'arco Jukill.

Initial analysis indicates the possibility of current head of state Jukill attempting self-destructive and suicidal acts. Current intelligence is unable to confirm or dismiss these allegations. Furthermore, monitoring personnel are currently unable to verify the authenticity of the released documents, though preliminary review indicates a sixty-eight percent (68%) likelihood of the leaked documents being authentic and of a legitimate nature and context.

After 1528^{(3:28 PM)}, situational monitoring responsibility was transferred from the Gholgothic Regional Communications Analysis Department to the THEORIA-12 Signal Monitoring Station. At that time, communications related to the “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition's” document leak had increased by six hundred, nine percent (609%), with most communications originating from the social networking website “TalkHub.” This escalation continued until approximately 1900^{(7:00 PM)} when average traffic rates began to decrease due to a mass-migration of communicating users to other means of social communication.

This partial migration has been initially credited due to notification and conscious recognition by the online, image bulletin board forum “Four Chanz.” Of the initial “TalkHub” user profiles analyzed, twenty-eight percent (28%) had either social networking links relating to or had visited the “Four Chanz” image board within the previous forty-eight hour period. Due to this, primary traffic after 1900^{(7:00 PM)} shifted mostly to the popular Internet relay chat server “Gothnet.” THEORIA-12 continued to indicate a continual, average hourly traffic increase of two hundred, forty-six percent (246%) until one final message was transferred at 2156^{(9:56 PM)} on September 14th.^{(See attachment.)}

At approximately 2156^{(9:56 PM)} on September 14, 2001, it is believed that the Argyz Authority of the Milogradian Empire disabled, disconnected, or otherwise made unavailable a series of key and principal data routes (“Internet backbones”) leading into and from the greater territory of Milograd. This severance of the flow of information and disconnection of Internet service is believed to be an attempt to stifle growing dissent and quell the flow of Information in order to inhibit further organization by dissident forces; however, as later evident, such proved to have the opposite effect.

Beginning at approximately 1600^{(4:00 PM)} on September 15, 2011, citizens of the Milogradian Empire entered into acts of violent rioting and possible revolt. Though preliminary, third-party reports had indicated possible, low-intensity conflicts in particularly dense urban areas, the prospect of rioting had not yet manifested itself. Approximately two hours after the probable disconnection of the Milogradian Empire from the Gholgothic data and information routes, rioting, looting, and violent disobedience began to manifest in southern Argyz – capital of the Empire of Milograd.

As dissident disobedience continues to spread through Argyz, initial casualty reports indicate the loss of between thirty-five (35) and seventy-five (75) lives, with trustworthy sources indicating upwards of one hundred, ten (110) to two hundred (200) individuals becoming injured due to the violence.

It is the current, standing opinion of the “Milograd” Desk of the Intelligence Analysis Division that continued surveillance of signals and communications intelligence originating-from or relating-to the “Argatov Genocide,” the “Argyz riots,” and “Milogradian instability” is to be a priority. As the former, foundational state of Black Century International's predecessor, “Blue Heaven,” the Empire of Milograd continues to be a primary member of the “Centurion Sphere.” If the current escalation continues, contracted or executive interference with the current conflict erupting in Milograd may be necessary.

IR3040-0111309-0111609-07
©

INTERNET RELAY CHAT TRANSCRIPT
[ #FreeArgyz; Gothnet ]

            « 09:40:45 » @{CikCitizen} [ 198.16.233.1:MORAVICA ]: it's not like it's any better here.
            « 09:40:47 » +{Gasmask1919} [ 229.55.109.6:ABRUZI ]: LOL. CANNOT INTO NUCLEAR WASTELAND NAO, KARTASAUR?!
            « 09:40:48 » <PART> {Reichsland} has departed the channel.
            « 09:41:05 » {Kartasaur} [ 117.3.263.11:MILOGRAD ]: It's getting kinda bad here.
            « 09:41:06 » {Kartasaur}: HERPDERP.
            « 09:41:07 » {Kartasaur}: It's some guys flipping out, not fucking MAD.
            « 09:41:11 » @{CikCitizen}: what's it like, K?
            « 09:41:13 » {Kartasaur}: It's not that bad right now. I hear some yelling, but that's about it. My TalkHub is BLOWIN UP!
            « 09:41:15 » +{Gasmask1919}: Masky get no friend request?
            « 09:42:33 » {Kartasaur}: Lag.
            « 09:42:35 » {Kartasaur}: Also LOL@Gasmask1919
            « 09:42:57 » {Kartasaur}: Friend request sent.
            « 09:43:02 » <QUIT> {CikCitizen} has quit Gothnet. ( Reason: LAG – Timeout )
            « 09:43:07 » <JOIN> {CikCitizen} has joined the channel.
            « 09:45:17 » <QUIT> {CikCitizen} has quit Gothnet. ( Reason: LAG – Timeout )
            « 09:45:29 » +{Gasmask1919}: LOL@shitty internet
            « 09:45:31 » {Kartasaur}: His Net is worse than mine, and we're having a revolution! ROFLMAO
            « 09:50:16 » <JOIN> {CikCitizen} has joined the channel.
            « 09:50:18 » @{CikCitizen}: fucking hell
            « 09:50:19 » @{CikCitizen}: back
            « 09:50:21 » {Kartasaur}: Welcome back.
            « 09:50:24 » @{CikCitizen}: how's it goin over there, K?
            « 09:50:26 » {Kartasaur}: Same.
            « 09:50:28 » {Kartasaur}: I'am getting weird lag spikes, though.
            « 09:50:30 » +{Gasmask1919}: So is Cik. LOL.
            « 09:50:35 » @{CikCitizen}: :|
            « 09:50:36 » @{CikCitizen}: no shit. :|
            « 09:50:40 » @{CikCitizen}: it's probably because so many people are online right now.
            « 09:50:43 » {Kartasaur}: Probably.
            « 09:50:55 » {Kartasaur}: My Hub keeps beeping at me from messages I keep getting, if that's any indication.
            « 09:51:00 » @{CikCitizen}: mine too
            « 09:51:08 » @{CikCitizen}: though yours is probably worse
            « 09:51:24 » @{CikCitizen}: though net access is never great here.
            « 09:51:34 » @{CikCitizen}: LOL. If they ever found out I was hijacking their net, I'd be in a BIG OLD PILE OF SHIT!
            « 09:51:55 » +{Gasmask1919}: What do you mean?
            « 09:52:13 » @{CikCitizen}: BCI
            « 09:52:20 » @{CikCitizen}: they don't like when we steal their wireless
            « 09:52:26 » @{CikCitizen}: that's why I use a proxy to get here
            « 09:52:28 » +{Gasmask1919}: Inb4Cikisblackbagged
            « 09:52:30 » {TheNation} [ 406.71.124.6:TIURABO ]: CIK GON GET FUCKED IN THE ASS!!!!!!1111!1!!!+1
            « 09:52:30 » @{CikCitizen}: that should keep them away
            « 09:52:33 » @{CikCitizen}: :|
            « 09:52:44 » @{CikCitizen}: Naw. They wouldn't black bagg me. Theyd probably just shoot my ass. ROFL.
            « 09:52:45 » {Kartasaur}: Guys
            « 09:52:47 » +{Gasmask1919}: LOL. Probably.
            « 09:52:48 » <QUIT> {Kartasaur} has quit Gothnet. ( Reason: LAG – Timeout )
            « 09:52:49 » +{Gasmask1919}: O_O
            « 09:52:52 » @{CikCitizen}: O_O
            « 09:54:40 » <JOIN> {Kartasaur} has joined the channel.
            « 09:54:43 » @{CikCitizen}: WB
            « 09:54:45 » {Kartasaur}: Thanks.
            « 09:54:50 » {Kartasaur}: Sorry about that. My Net just cut out rather randomly. Couldn't get to Hub, Google, Four Chanz, or Ribbit.
            « 09:55:55 » @{CikCitizen}: people need to get off the fuckin net!
            « 09:56:00 » @{CikCitizen}: we have important shit going on. Like a fuckin' revolution in Milograd! Trolololol
            « 09:56:10 » {Kartasaur}: LOL. Yeah they do.
            « 09:56:13 » <QUIT> {Kartasaur} has quit Gothnet. ( Reason: NETSPLIT - Disconnected )

by **Abruzi** » Fri Sep 16, 2011 2:27 pm

A flimsy door was all that separated the mark from death, a flimsy door and the hallucinations of the hit man sent to take care of him. Pressed against the wall, this particular hit man looked the part with his weary facial expression and his weathered but still slick clothes; the Kalashnikov AKSU-74 carbine he held pressed tightly against his chest didn’t hurt either. Directly in front of the door was a young girl wearing a rather seductive outfit that seemed to be made up of several strands of fishing line and a few strategically located bits of cloth. She was no more than fifteen, young enough to be easily overpowered and vulnerable yet old enough to be womanly. Catching her eye, the hit man nodded and she timidly called out,

“Strip-o-gram!”

There was a moment’s pause before the latch to the door could be heard unlocking, the hit man used this time to mentally prepare himself and clear away the walking nightmares that alternated with colorful geometric designs spinning before his eyes. When the fragile door creaked open at last, the owner of the dirty apartment stood about a meter back and softly said,

“Now what the fuck is this; my birthday already?”

The hit man allowed himself to smile, a combination of the ironic situation and the massive rush of endorphins that was a product of the herb he had just finished smoking forcing it out. He allowed the man another half second of joy before rolling around the doorframe and ramming the squat barrel of his carbine into his chest. Shaking his head, the hit man said,

“Not today.”

He forced the mark back a step before slapping off the safety. With a grunt he kicked the man who fell backwards over a stack of books and pizza boxes. The apartment was small and filthy, grease covered every surface and the scent of smoke permeated everything. Five battered but still useable recliners sat in a rough circle around a scale that was even now weighing out a gram of some nameless narcotic. There was another thin and probably fragile door that led off to what he presumed was the bedroom, though there was no way to be sure as of yet. His quick observations however turned into slightly longer ones, the mark not moving only because of the barrel that was held in rock hard hands while the mind was miles away. The hit man was no stranger to drug trips, and as such shook his mind out of the pleasant landscape to which it had fled and returned to the matter at hand.

Staring down at the slightly obese target, the hit man muttered,

“Do Svidaniya!”

The Kalashnikov chattered and six bullets tore into the mark’s chest. The fat man tried to rise but managed only to force his upper body up in a hideously bloody mockery of a sit up. Taking pity, the hit man knelt down next to him, grabbed hold of his sausage like fingers and forced the barrel into the man’s mouth. Nodding he fired a second burst that destroyed the target’s head. A long high pitched scream echoed from the mystery doorway and in response the hit man kicked it open. Standing there was a partially clad woman who’s eyes were wide with terror. Taking no chances of a loose end, the hit man coldly fired three rounds that ended her before turning and exiting the apartment. Outside the young girl he had paid five greasy bank notes was still standing there, rooted to the spot in a mixture of terror and a massive adrenaline rush. Always one to be thorough the hit man fired a final five rounds that tore the girl’s chest cavity open.

Slinging his rifle inside of his jacket, the hit man calmly made his way out of the front door to the complex.

Another door, this one heavy and made of a combination of finely sanded walnut and metal loomed out of the darkness before the hit man. He was dressed in the same clothes, had the same gun, and wore the same expression; the drug trip also had not quite ended. A large and probably angry bouncer came out just as he made to knock on the club door, the man grimaced what the hit man assumed must be a smile and patted him down. The hit man relinquished his Kalash and switchblade, keep the tiny razor blade that was taped to the clear patch between his scrotum and anus. He was led by another bouncer through several rooms, all of which were dance floors. Rowdy and probably intoxicated youths writhed and twisted to a throbbing beat that was known in Abruzi as, Pound Music, because it almost literally pounded you down. The music surely didn’t help with the drug trip, neither did the strobe lights that came on just as they entered what he supposed would be the final room before the quieter VIP section.

Naked women twisted and moved to the music, flowing across the room and leaving nude afterimages burned into the hit man’s mind, so that he hardly noticed when the bouncer ushered him into the VIP section. It was much quieter here and there was a distinct lack of female gentiles which immediately silenced the roaring drug trip. Suddenly back in full possession of his body, the hit man regained full control of his mind just as he was being made to sit. The table was covered by a red satin cloth, dominated by fine china, and owned by a rather scary looking individual.

The man sitting already wore a gray suit that was the exact color of ash. His skin was the distinctive East Anthropini Pale and his eyes were ringed by the dark circles that were a product of a lifetime spent behind a face. He smiled as the hit man sat and quietly said,

"Ah, Bulat, mne bylo prosto interesno , kogda vy vozvrashchaetesʹ iz etogo porucheniya ... "
“Ah, Bulat, I was just wondering when you would return from that errand…”

Bulat the hit man smiled, fighting the hallucinations that returned and pulsed in time to the man’s mouth movements. He realized after a few moments that the statement was addressed to him and in response he hastily said,

" Da, da, ya vypolnyalsoglasovannye zadachi".
“Yes, yes, I performed the agreed upon task.”

The man at the table nodded and quietly said,

" Teperʹ u menya yestʹ drugaya rabota dlya vas. Vy znaete, iz teh besporyadkah na yuge ? Vy sobiraetesʹ v nih. "
“I now have another job for you. You know of those riots down south? You’re going into them.”

Shaking his head slowly Bulat replied,

" Zachem mne eto delatʹ?"
“Why would I do that?”

The man paused before slowly saying,

" Vy , chtoby vosstanovitʹ moyu dochʹ ".
“You are to recover my daughter.”

by **Milograd** » Mon Sep 19, 2011 6:53 pm

Argyz
Part One

Bunker "Sanctuary", Argyz
Milograd, Gholgoth
[ Sep. 15, 2011 ]

In the bowels of the Milogradian capital's underground sat a small bunker known as "Sanctuary". A small room with no windows and nothing but several radios, some playing cards, and a file cabinet. This was Sanctuary. The bunker was connected to an elaborate underground tunnel system that was managed exclusively by the Resource Initiative Urban Police Forces: only the Dh'arco Rahavuhra's closest advisors, himself, and the Resource Initiative's agents knew of this tunnel system. Resting approximately a mile below the surface of Argyz, the Sanctuary bunker was most likely the safest, quietist place in all of Argyz.

As the protesters on the surface encroached on the Milogradian leader's regular quarters, it was decided that it was within the best interests of both the country and the Rahavuhra himself if he were to be relocated to a bunker. The Resource Initiative had no time to move the Dh'arco out of Argyz, so they had moved him underground as quickly as they could.

It was simply unthinkable. Within under twenty four hours Milograd's twenty largest cities had been overrun with protesters and rioters, and chaos seemed to be spreading throughout the Empire at great speeds. The Empire's colonies had been put into an emergency state of martial law - as had the Milogradian homeland; yet unfortunately the lockdown had done little to nothing in helping the government re-establish control over the nation. The Resource Initiative Police had failed to maintain order in the nation's largest cities - and things were now out of hand. And to think that mere document releases could plunge a state as powerful as Milograd into a state of havoc?

A simple tap can easily collapse a broken table that struggles to stand.

"What is there to do?! I can't keep a straight face in front of the world world and deny what has been said in the reports! This is a fucking mess!" cried Jukill, his head pressed up against the surface of one of the bunker's small wooden tables.

A playful voice came from the corner of Sanctuary, "Don't be silly Kiko. This is easy-peesy lemon-fucking-squeezy! Don't forget who you're dealing with."

That voice was the voice of Ahrao Tadami, Commander of the Milogradian Ground Forces and sister of the exiled ( and former ) Dh'arco Rahavuhra Seiji Tadami. A slender yet short women, she had been the Dh'arco Rahavuhra's most trusted adviser for over a year; she had helped him fight through those dark times. She had also developed a certain...attraction to the Dh'arco, but she would rather keep information like that strictly to herself for a "tactical advantage". Her thoughts were hers only, and were not meant to be known by her peers. This was no exception.

"I ran out of Automagfreek crying with my pants around my fucking ankles Ahrao, I just can't do this anymore...I just can't keep up this charade anymore. I'm unfit for this job. In the face of danger I hide; and in the face of danger I hide in a bunker while my nation gets screwed over. I bring shame to Milograd and Gholgoth.

I have to end this - permanently."

"Please don't tell me that your seriously considering this again Kiko...for fucks sake you're dealing with my fucking brother here. Simply end these riots with a bang and order will be restored. Make an example to the nation! Show Milograd what happens when people attempt to challenge your rule! Never again will people dare question your rule after this!

And hey: when this is all done you can go after the people behind this mess and put an end to them. My foolish brother can be manipulated quiet easily...I'm sure that if we divert enough resources to it we can draw him out of hiding and get 'em."

Ahrao couldn't help but think that Jukill was incredibly unfit to be leader of Milograd at this point, but she wouldn't dare utter such words to the man's face.

Jukill turned his head towards the bunker's wall. "I don't want to deal with this anymore Ahrao...I just can't...please. Go find someone else more fit to handle whats happening on the ground.."

Ahrao sighed, and recognized the fact that there was no use in even trying anymore, "Would you like me to tell the Resource High Command that they can operate on their own as they wish."

"Yes...please do..."

Ahrao shrugged, "I'll get right on it then."

Ahrao's grand plan was working just as expected. Soon things would be as they were meant to be.

City Square, Argyz
Milograd, Gholgoth
[ Sep. 16, 2011 • 10:40 PM ]

As the City Square continued to fill up with enraged and perplexed citizens the police presence in the area was becoming ever more apparent. Unit after Unit of Resource Initiative Agents were being deployed directly outside of the area, but they were being instructed not to enter the "pits of death" as they had been dubbed - it was too dangerous to enter the heart of the crowd at the time. Nightfall was once again falling over Argyz, and as the Empire entered its second day of chaos it seemed as if there was no end in sight. The people of Milograd wanted answers; they marched and chanted on the streets of the Empire's finest city demanding that their trusted leader step forward to address their concerns; yet the Dh'arco Rahavuhra had yet to break his silence. It drove the rioters mad, and this only made them more enraged. The country was divided on the issue of the ALC's leaks, but in the end it was the angry children of the state who marched through the streets laying out demands; those who were content with the Jukill's work, as numerous as they were, remained indoors when their voices could make more of a difference than ever.

Several miles outside of the "hot zone" of the riots based out of Argyz's famous city square, the Resource Initiative's 43^rd Police Unit remained on standby. They had been instructed to launch "Calming Operations" in the city square upon the order of the High Command, however the High Command had not delivered any new commands to the Units on the ground in hours. Almost all of Milograd was silent that night, and all that could be heard were the sounds of cries, sirens, and chants.

Cries and cheers.

Suffering and uprising.

For Unit 43 the day had been painfully long and uneventful, and as the Unit patiently waited for orders from the High Command - several soldiers began raising questions about what was actually going on. One of the more popular rumors spreading throughout the Policing Units was that the High Command wanted to use nerve gas to end the riots; however no one really knew for sure whether or not this was the case.

"Thats all fine and good Sparks...but for fuck's sake what kind of 'civilian calming operation' involves VX Nerve Gas?" spat Private Ayia of U43 while he toyed with his M68A3 Assault Rifle. Ayia was a newbie to the Resource Initiative Police, and had originally applied to become a agent in the organization to honor the memory of his deceased sister, Beatrice, who had died in the Milogradian Flash Riots of 2008. In 2007, shortly after the Quiranian Invasion of Milograd, the population of Milograd had been sent into a state of shock and many "flash riots" cropped up in Milograd's major cities. One of the final Milogradian flash riots put Ayia's sister, Beatrice, into a coma, and she would eventually go on to pass away one week later.

Officer "Sparks" Rouba chuckled at what he assumed to be a joke from Ayia, "Fuck if I know bro."

"Seriously though what in hell is command expecting us to do in there dude...? Last I checked it wasn't our job to fucking murder Milogradian citizens."

Rouba sighed. "Who said anything about killing anyone?"

"I don't know about you Sparks, but when I see nerve gas canisters I generally assume that someone is gonna die."

Are you getting at something that I'm missing here? I'd rather not question the High Command. Speaking of which, the High Command needs to get off their fucking asses and tell us to do shit."

Ayia gulped before chocking under his breath, "...I'm not looking forward to our orders...High Command can take their time..."

Right as Ayia finished his sentence clapping gunshots sounded off in unison from what sounded as if it had originated from several blocks down from Unit 43, 44, and 45's "ground station". Officer Rouba instantly jumped out of his seat on the armored vehicle's bumper and reached for his radio. "Stargazer 10, did we just hear gunshots at Ground Station 43-45? Over."

A soul-chilling silence followed Rouba's call in; the rest of Unit 43 had quickly scrambled to Rouba's side, forming a semi-circle; all of the men stood by side, waiting to hear a response from Stargazer.

"Unit 43-45 this is Stargazer; High Command has ordered a full scale assault on the City Square. Silence protestors at all costs. Over."

The clapping gunshots had marked the massacre's first casualties...

• Dead: 7
• Wounded: 20

by **Black Century International** » Tue Sep 20, 2011 6:09 am

« CAESAR:Moravica »

[ MATURE ]

THEORIA-12 Signal Monitoring Station

”Spine”

( “Theoria” Centurion Metropolitan Center )
[ 1741/5:41 PM Local Time; September 16, 2011 ]

Bee-boo, boop. Bee-boo, boop. Bee-boo, boop. Bee-boo...

Johnathon Abrahms waved his hand incessantly in front of the thin, plasma-digital monitor of his terminal, fruitlessly hoping the exasperated motion would silence its call. Of course, he knew it wouldn't; it was merely an act of a man in desperation. A man with a fresh cup of coffee, spending yet another uneventful night in front of the dull, green glow of a signal-intelligence, reconnaissance port. This was the way it was on a Monday. Eyes burning from neon text, the gentle hum of cooling fans, and the damn-near-constant “bee-boo, boop” of the Epimelios software indicating a concise “hit.” More often than not, the entire escapade went ignored; Centurion Intelligence Personnel were, by far, the least-recognized and most under-valued service arm of Black Century International's perpetually expanding employee base. For thirty-three thousand Universal Standard Dollars a year, Abrahms did little more than play solitaire, surf TalkHub, and sleep.

Of course, official corporate policy involved a thorough investigation of every “bee-boop” that Epimelios decided was of any importance; with such phrases as “targeted direct action” and “beachhead operation” being some of the most prioritized searches within the software's databanks, more often than not, the “bee-boops” of possible intelligence importance were usually related to online roleplaying games or the latest release of “Call of Battle” being gossiped-over and discussed by pimple-faced gun-freaks of ages no-older than sixteen. It wasn't uncommon to have over three hundred “confirmed hits” in Abrahm's ten-hour shift; as such, he'd become quite accustomed to briefly scanning over the computer-generated reports, then dismissing and deleting them from record as “misunderstandings,” “software error,” or “unrelated syntax.”

Since the seemingly “international incident” of Milograd, however, Johnathan's routine of late-evening siestas had been broken. Riots and hushed murmurs of revolution were the rage at THEORIA-12. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since they had began; a day since the so-called “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition” had chosen to shatter the status quo. While the collapse and birth of states and nations, under normal circumstances, were of little concern to Black Century, Milograd – the homeland – was different. It had seen the worst of the Troubles and had survived; it had been the birthplace of Blue Heaven – the birth of the Black Century. Considering such, the acts of violent protestors and looters – as petulant and minute as they may be – was held under close scrutiny by Centurion Intelligence, as per Corporate Command and Control's highly-committal orders.

This temperament of pertinent urgency was, of course, heightened by the ongoing, inter-regional conflict that embroiled much of the southern Greater Gholgothic Ocean. The source of the strife – Varathron – had yielded only sparse speculative bias and rumor-filled intelligence. As under-cut and over-looked as the largely-bureaucratic vectors of Black Century International's intelligence divisions may be, the prospect of having little-to-no information regarding a conflict zone brought nothing more than pure, uncertain trepidation.

Johnathon Abrahms leaned back in his chair, his small world cut-off by particle-board and fabric walls; they might as well have been constructed of iron. Given the nature of much of the intelligence personnel, the concept of social interaction was sublimely alien. Even Johnathon didn't particularly feel the desire to talk to his fellow Centurion “soldiers.” After all, wasn't that the original purpose of leaving home for Anathema: freedom? Freedom from the moral norm, freedom from national obligation, from patriotism, home, and hearth? The pamphlets had boasted of the “luxurious and decadent night-life of Anathema and Nikopol”; upon arrival, however, one only then realized exactly what they had signed-up for. Sure, the “mercs” and field operatives got to stay-out late, snort cocaine and heroin, and fuck whatever Moravic kuja the local brothel-casino-bar-mercenary camp decided to offer-up on a scarlet platter, stuffed from blowhole to asshole with every drug imaginable – from Ecstasy to epinephrine.

Analysts were left back at corporate to drudge through paperwork, fill-out reports, and endlessly play with themselves.

Given such circumstances – both the conflict in Varathron and the growing “insurrection” in Milograd – it took Johnathon nearly ten minutes before he bothered to tap the flashing “OPEN (URGENT)” icon on his screen. For nearly seven hours, every report had been a false-positive or a blatant error. Probability was on his side. Of course, even if it wasn't, cooling his coffee was his primary objective for the time. By the time he had cooled his coffee, re-awakened himself, and bothered to return his attention to his screen, seventeen minutes had passed since the first “bee-boop” had sounded. As expected, the ability to drown-out such nonsensical noise was a prized quality amongst Centurion intelligence analysts.

With an apathetic sigh, Johnathon Abrahms brushed his hand across the small, spinning icon on his monitor, preparing to read what he assumed would be another monotonous, pointless report, detailing the electronic “sexcapades” of some would-be “World of Wowcraft” player...

INFORMATION PACKET INTERCEPTION REPORT
DATED: 09.16.2001:1741
Epimelios v.9.0

PACKET SOURCE: UNKNOWN
PACKET DESTINATION: 116.9.225.19:MILOGRAD

SERVICE PROVIDOR: Argyz Media Conglomerate
SERVICE PROVIDOR: Argyz Media Conglomerate

HARDLINE LOCATION: UNKNOWN
HARDLINE LOCATION: Suilen, Empire of Milograd; Sigma Sector, Gholgoth

PRELIMINARY IDENTIFICATION: JSZ115
PRELIMINARY IDENTIFICATION: Xiuhang, David

PRIORITY CLASSIFICATION: AUGUSTUS:Gholgoth

PRIORITY GRADE: [ URGENT ]

PACKET CONTENT: 7.3 kilobytes

PACKET TYPE: Electronic Mail

SENDER: UNKNOWN

RECIPIENT: yu7j90fta12@10minmail.gth

CONTENTS:

Dear Patriot,

Tonight is a certainty.

Begin final preparations. The contact is in place. Priority is placed on the package.

Remember your duty.

Remember your forefathers and the martyrs before you.

Remember your role in this, as they will remember you until eternity.

PRELIMINARY ANALYSIS REPORT:

· PACKET SOURCE/SENDER currently UNKNOWN; no current syntax model.
· Will begin UNKNOWN live syntax search.
· PACKET DESTINATION/RECIPIENT known as “Xiuhang, David”; D.O.B.: 05-19-1983
· PACKET DESTINATION/RECIPIENT identification percentage value confirmed at 87%.
· PACKET DESTINATION/RECIPIENT report updated. [ Please review. ]
· PACKET DESTINATION/RECIPIENT priority intelligence: maintains connection to “Alikarhian Liberation Coalition.”
· Threat to ( AUGUSTUS ) and ( TIBERIUS ) interest classes detected.
· Possible terrorist attack IMMINENT.
· Possible sensitive government document leak IMMINENT.
· Suggest IMMEDIATE EXECUTIVE ACTION – NERO class to maintain security of interests.
· Suggested operation parameters: INFILTRATION, ASSIMILATION, and EVASION. Tactical direct action.
· Success rate of suggested operation: 99.88888000%.

× × × END REPORT × × ×

Abrhams stared, slack-jaw, at the small, concise, and mechanical report that fluttered across his screen. He read it once, twice, at least fifteen times, his eyes constantly reverting to the phrase, “Suggest IMMEDIATE EXECUTIVE ACTION – NERO class.” “NERO,” according to technical nomenclature, was understood to mean “special circumstances”; according to popular Centurion vocabulary, however, it usually meant “probably immoral; definitely illegal.” It was merely a pleasant and acceptable placeholder for “assassination,” “murder,” “kidnapping,” or any various other unsavory activities that Black Century International not-so-secretly conducted. In Gholgoth, it had come to be expected and, more often than not, welcomed; Black Century's allegiance to the Gholgothic mentality had yet to come into question. “What is best for Gholgoth, is ultimately best for business,” was the general understanding held in Anathema. Outside of the inner sanctum of the region, however, it wasn't embraced so candidly.

After staring at the screen, perpetually mulling the report that he had luckily chosen to open only seventeen minutes – as opposed to hours – after it had been received. He quickly gave a hesitant, anxious glance to his left, his eyes befalling the small, flat, red phone that hung from the side of his cubical – his cell. The protocols were clear; he knew what he was contractually obligated to do. The decision to follow through, however, was a judicial and calculated choice. A quick call would likely end his troubles for the night; he may even be able to escape the monotony of his desk, if but to replace it with the tediousness of filing administrative reports. Not to call, however, was a grave risk; in what was commonly known as “Moravica,” Black Century was king, god, and emperor. To disobey was to forfeit house, home, and health.

Abrhams picked-up the phone.

“Yes,” he uttered, barely above a whisper, “Put me through to C³.”

« NERO:Milograd »
Daiton Apartment Complex, Floor Seven, Room 112 [ EN ROUTE ]
( Suilen, Empire of Milograd; Sigma Sector, Gholgoth )
[ 1926/7:26 PM Local Time; September 16, 2011 ]
»| INITIATE OPERATION: PSYCHOPOMP |«

'Chetverta...'

Radio silence had been maintained since crossing into Milogradian territorial airspace; such was the nature of the beast known as “I.A.E.” - “infiltration, assimilation, and evasion.” Colloquially, such operations where known as “infiltration, assassination, and evasion.” After all, everyone knew what so-called “I.A.E.” operations usually entailed. Within Anathema, the Centurion Metropolitan Centers, and the territory known as “Moravica” as a whole, the particular wet-works Black Century International sometimes engaged in was no great secret – at least unofficially. Officially, of course, Black Century was the “arm of the enterprising soldier,” a haven to killers without countries, a proverbial Mecca to men with mercenary souls.

In reality, it was something else. Black Century was an idea, a company, a nation, but, above all else, it was an organism in-and-of itself.

“Operation: PSYCHOPOMP” had officially begun when the activation order had been released. It was policy to declare operative status only to those partaking of the operation – excluding executives – until a time in which the given mission had been publicly acknowledge or otherwise discovered. Over half of Black Century's operations, par the course, had never even been publicly revealed. No discovery, no evidence; no evidence, no operation ever occurred. Much like others, “PSYCHOPOMP” would, to a great degree, likely never be acknowledged – possibly never discovered. From the service personnel aboard the BCV Hecate frigate, the initial staging area for the operation, to the pilots of the MH-60Z “Stealth Hawk” that now near-silently barreled into the Milogradian Empire. None would ever speak of it; to do so would be a violation of contractual obligations, grounds for immediate termination from the company as well as forfeiture of all profit and revenue incurred. It was death-by-debt.

As Friday leaned back into the black, mesh, cargo-netting of the “Stealth Hawk,” his thoughts floated. At first, all he could think of was the smell of black, polymer paint. It was overpowering – even inside of the MH-60Z. It had been retrofitted and painted in accordance with Milogradian military norm – even including an authentic tail identification serial. Of course, the particular serial was tied to a similar, Milogradian transport helicopter that, unfortunately, had taken a swift dive into the earth nearly a year before. A “rush job,” perhaps, but as the briefing had stated, the target was of a “time sensitive nature”; in short, he – the twenty-eight year-old “David Xiuhang” - may not even be in his shitty, four room apartment. What was originally an “I.A.E.” operation, may, in fact, end up merely as a “search and seizure” bungle.

Friday didn't particularly care. It was pay. It was a valid currency to trade in exchange for sex, drugs, and momentary peace. Momentary escape from the hallowed hauntings that wracked his mind; escape – evasion, in truth – from the memories of Davij, of the Reckoning, of Chetverta...

Along for the ride were five other Centurion operatives – two of which Friday held in personal confidence. Of course, each man – regardless of his relation to their executive commander – were outfitted much with the same gear: operative and refractory camouflage, KEVLAR armor where necessary, an internal filtration respirator complete with “Combat Integrated Optics”, and, of course, a nice helmet to match. Of the two to which Friday did hold in confidence, Higgs, lover of the CAR-15 he never left home without, and McNamara, who trusted his HK53 more than his own Mother, Friday was the most experienced – if only due to his operations for the Fortified State. Regardless of tenure, Friday trusted Higgs and McNamara; they were fellow Centurions. They had seen combat together; they were friends. More than that, in truth, they were brothers-in-arms.

As for the remaining six personnel, each armed with their own, shiny, urban-combat-oriented M68A3 carbine assault rifles, Friday knew little to nothing. Surprisingly, such was a common occurrence. Operative teams were organized according to individual skill and the needs of the operation – contractual or executive. If he were to believe his briefing, Friday knew two of the “fuckin' new guys” spoke fluent Milogradian – one even spoke a dialect of Milogradian-Khine, likely chosen due to the target's location within the heavily Khinen-populated south-eastern Milograd. Outside of their skills and an understanding of their utilitarian potential, Friday didn't need to know anything about the new Centurions. They knew what their contracts entailed; if they respected and desired the payout of the “almighty dollar,” they would fulfill their duties. They would be the best they had to be in order to get paid once they returned to “Moravica.”

This was the nature of th—

”This is Resource Initiative, Ninth District Air Command,” the radio squealed into the cabin of the “Stealth Hawk,” breaking radio silence after nearly an hour of flight. ”You have entered Ninth District territorial airspace, KH-9940A. Under obligation by the Resource Initiative, you are hereby ordered to authenticate; otherwise, you will be fired upon.”

The cabin was consumed by silence. No man – from Friday to McNamara to the rookies – spoke, only the featureless, polymer lenses, refracting the dull, orange glow of their night-vision optics, of each Centurion's helm served as a conveyance of their internal dread. To say men such as them did not feel dread or trepidation, Friday knew, would be a bold-faced lie. It was their ability to contain, not eradicate their fear that made them who they were; it was their ability to channel that terror into murderous efficiency that made their entire industry profitable.

”KH-9940A,” the radio squealed again, this time carrying a tone of anxiety from the anonymous, air-traffic observer on the other end of the frequency, ”You are ordered to authenticate. Respond or we will shoot your ass!”

The chief pilot – who's name Friday couldn't seem to remember, even after being told and chastised by Higgs for not remembering it – was busy even as the traffic observer shouted across the line. Yielding control to his co-pilot, he had dove head-long into a red, plastic folder that had apparently been placed under his console. The pilot quickly filtered through papers – likely reports and briefings – in the file, seemingly intent on locating some necessary tidbit he should have remembered; likely the authentication code for the Ninth District.

“We're bein' painted,” the co-pilot announced in a cold, monotonous voice, keeping his eyes focused on the numerous avionics that littered his console. Even so, the faint, Abruzin accent he desperately desired to hide peeked through.

Rather abruptly – seemingly as the moment the Abruzin co-pilot was truly becoming nervous – the pilot ripped a single parcel from the carmine file, a look of blatant astonishment visible beneath his aviator's lenses. With haste, he adjusted his microphone and finally began to respond: “Roger, Ninth Air Command, this is KH-9940A responding.”

Silence. Deafening silence. Agonizing silence...

”Roger, KH-9940A, please authenticate.”

The forgotten pilot turned his head toward his cooperative Centurion who, quickly, gave a nod in the affirmative – likely confirming that the “Stealth Hawk” was still being painted.

“Roger,” the pilot uttered into his microphone. “Authenticate: Alpha-Alpha-Tango-Zulu-Juliet. Authenticate: One-Nine-Nine-Five-Eight-Seven-One-Zero-One.”

Another seemingly eternal interlude passed as the radio remained silent, Friday spending what could be his final moments contemplating the effectiveness of the helicopter's “stealth technology” when it had been retrofitted to appear Milogradian and had been loaded to the rotors with external fuel pods.

”Authentication confirmed, KH-9940A,” the nameless traffic controller returned just as the “Stealth Hawk's” co-pilot gave an audible sigh of relief. ”What is your business in Suilen?”

“We're executing a 'search and seizure' warrant on a suspected terrorist,” the pilot returned, reassuming control over the rotatory craft. “What's the 'weather' like down there?”

A faint chuckle was heard before the observer began to speak again: ”Heh,” he languished, ”It's a fuckin' cluster. Damn kids think they're savin' the country burning up strip-malls and fuckin' megamarts.”

“Fucking Chinks,” the pilot released a bellowing laugh.

”Damn right!” the traffic controller issued in response, his voice too broken by a collection of distant laughs and chuckles. ”Please,” he pleaded, placing heavy emphasis on his initial wording, ”Please tell me you're issuing that warrant on one of those squinty-eyed bastards.”

“Ah,” the transport's pilot gave in a long, drawn-out denying statement, “Y'know I can't tell you that, brother.”

”Yea'yeah,” the controller seemed to confirm, ”'locked-up tight; treat'em right,' I get'ya. Well, be safe out there. Last thing we need is to hear of more of our brothers gettin' shot-down and killed by fuckin' yellows.”

“Ten-four there, brother,” the pilot mused, a visible smirk plastered across his self-righteous face as he gave a nod of camaraderie to his co-pilot.

”You are cleared to enter Suilen airspace, KH-9940A,” squealed the radio at last, ”Good luck!”

The “Stealth Hawk” gave a physical jerk as the pilot began to increase his speed, pushing the craft closer to Suilen – closer to the target. Friday released his thoughts, running his hand along the chin of his contained respirator, forcing a small, mechanical slide forward, positioning the slotted panels of the filtration system over his nose and mouth, officially sealing him within the inclosed atmosphere of the integrated combat system. Immediately, his field of vision was consumed in a dull, noise-filled, orange glow; thin, demarcated lines flashed across his eyes, loading an operative layout of the “Daiton Apartment Complex” into his optic computer. Such was the benefit of total privatization of war; all Friday hoped was that the intelligence was correct, that the technology Black Century prided itself on would function properly, and that he'd live long enough to enjoy his pay-day...

« NERO:Milograd »
Daiton Apartment Complex, Floor Seven, Room 112
( Suilen, Empire of Milograd; Sigma Sector, Gholgoth )
[ 2005/8:05 PM Local Time; September 16, 2011 ]
»| OPERATION: PSYCHOPOMP |«

Suilen was burning.

As the second largest city in the predominantly Khine-occupied south-eastern Milograd, Suilen housed over two million souls. On the evening of September 16th, from the private eye of the Centurion “Stealth Hawk,” it appeared as if every one of those separate souls were united in a simultaneous orgy and self-destructive implosion. Given its location – far from the Milogradian industrial and agricultural heartlands – Suilen was largely dominated by the international finance market; in the distance, the vibrant glow of neon lights, each indicating the names of financial institutions, banks, and various commercial entities barely penetrated the surrounding aurora of flame.

Much of the city's center was burning; major governmental offices, Resource Initiative Police stations,

and seemingly any icon of immediate authority had been attacked. Large plumes filled with burning asbestos, carbon fiber, and cement matrix drifted into the sky, illuminated by both the holocaust that licked at their roots and the pale, grim visage of the low-hanging full moon. In effect, the scene was near-apocalyptic. Even from the relative safety of the “Stealth Hawk's” cabin, the sound of sirens and small, neighborhood-explosions could be heard, bouncing endlessly off the metallic walls of the helicopter. All-in-all, the symphony of Milograd's growing demise sang lullabies to the dying day.

The small, overhead bulb in the cabin flash red three times, indicating the “Stealth Hawk's” entrance into the “Critical Zone” - the “CRITZEE” - an approximate, one kilometer radius around the target at the Daiton Apartment Complex. As if on cue, the six members of “Operation: PSYCHOPOMP's” initial objective began to prepare. The few souls that hadn't loaded their arms did so, others adjusted their optics, while Higgs, McNamara, and Friday seemed only to remain silent and still, each briefly having devoted a moment of their time to perform final safety checks on their repelling harnesses. It was a routine; a routine that the three “fuckin' new guys” seemed to be familiar with – a well-comforting thought to settle Friday's anxious mind.

'Contact. Target. Neutralize,' Friday mused to himself, 'Contact. Target. Neutralize. Contact. Target. Neutralize. Contact. Target...' It was a mantra; a mental chant to victory. He had always used it; even back during the days of Kyrusia, Chetverta, and the duplicitous operations between the former and his current employer.

The cabin suddenly became painted by the color of blood; the small bulb that hung above the six Centurion's flashed once before maintaining its carmine glow. It was the signal for the final approached; the pilot was preparing to position the craft over the roof of the Daiton Apartment Complex. Immediately, Friday stood, raising his hand to grip an overhead bar for support as the “Stealth Hawk” began to descend and slow its approach. He did not speak, he did not need to; the five Centurions that accompanied him were trained professionals. Many – if not all – were of a military background, what few that weren't were former law enforcement or counter-terrorism officials, both accustomed to nigh-operations and quick infiltration. They were use to it; they had to be.

Ten minutes.

Ten minutes was the amount of time allotted to accomplish their objectives: infiltrate the Daiton Apartment Complex, secure “Room 112” from external threat, acquire the target, obtain all evidence available, then evade.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes that would be forgotten amongst the endless records at Corporate Command and Control, likely never to be mentioned again outside of team reunions filled with nostalgic chatter over half-emptied ales. Such was the life of a Centurion. Such was Black Century International...

The “Stealth Hawk” slowly pulled to a hover over the Daiton Apartment Complex. The pilot gave the signal to open the port hatch – an act accomplished by Friday himself. With quick work, he unlatched the repelling equipment, allowing the rope to swiftly cascade to the cement and gravel roof of their target's unsuspecting home. Just as quickly, Friday latched his harness to the descending rope, gave a final, fateful tug, then, with a single utterance, began the operation: “Begin 'Operation: PSYCHOPOMP'.”

Friday pushed back from the helicopter, gravity quickly jerking him against the thick, nylon repelling cord as he gained speed, dropping nearly twelve meters in a second. With a tug on his harnesses' brace, he slowed his descend, dropping at a decelerating pace as the surface of the Daiton Apartment's roof rapidly began to approach from below. With a quick glance above, he saw as Higgs latched to the cord and began to descend, rapidly approaching Friday's own position just as the thick, rubber soles of his boots impacted the roof, filling his ears with the momentary cacophony of impact and the sound of rustling gravel.

What followed did not require orders; it was routine and fluid. Friday, the executive commander of the six-man I.A.E. Team jerked free from the repelling cord, spinning around, his compact, MP5 sub-machine gun drawn close to his shoulder, the optical computer of the weapon's sight feeding information directly to his integrated, optical mask. Quickly, he ascertained the area, only the faint smell of burning asphalt serving to break the utter stillness of the rooftop. Not a single individual was in sight; not a single tertiary target to neutralize.

As Higg's boots slammed against the cemented roof, Friday sprinted to the small, canted roof exit that jutted crudely from the center of the building. Shifting his weight reflexively, he dropped to one knee, pressing his spine – the weight of the protective vest hardly noted – against the plastered concrete. Almost instantly, Higgs was by him, shuffling with the door. As Friday waited, watching as the three, new Centurions descended, he listened as the door was tugged, pushed, and jerked before Higgs finally decided brute force wasn't the only option – as it almost never was. Preferably, such operations were conducted with priority not placed on superior firepower, but on the ability to come and go unseen.

The gentle “ruh-rurr” of an electric, hand-held drill filled Friday's ears. He didn't need to see Higgs to know what he was doing; though the first “tink” of a screw against concrete confirmed his suspicions. Higgs was working his way toward simply unscrewing the apparently locked handle of the roof's access door. It was a simple solution to a problem that needed to be solved quickly. Time was burning sitting on little more than a desolate, trash-littered rooftop with only the incessant sounds of a city in chaos and the gentle, nearly-silent rumble of the helicopter's engine for company. Of course, his fellow soldiers accompanied him, but during operations, Friday knew they might as well have been machines. Social niceties – social interaction, period – were a given negative to such things as infiltration, assimilation, and evasion. An often unspoken rule: 'Keep your fuckin' mouth shut.'

As McNamara's boots hit the deck, the clank of falling metal reverberated around the roof's access as the small, metallic handle fell to the cement. Without hesitation, Higgs jerked open the door, spinning behind the thick, sheet metal of the portal. In a single fluid motion, Friday pivoted around the passage, pushing into what appeared to be an angled, concrete staircase. A quick assessment of his surroundings confirmed “Floor Eleven” as the roof. He leaned across the steel railing, peering down into the multi-story chasm that it was, a darkened abyss illuminated only by the pulsating, phosphorescent glow of numerous, red “EXIT” signs. Within visual acuity, there appeared to be no tertiary targets or hostiles; further analysis forced Friday to take note of the small, rectangular green placards at the base of ever-other landing, each situated to the immediate left of a single door. Though small, the wire-mesh-filled, elongated glass panes that stood like glowing monoliths in each metallic facade would serve well enough as a means of visual confirmation.

Descending, Friday listened quietly to the subtle prattle of his comrade's footsteps. Every step he took, the following Centurions followed. By the time the ninth floor was reached, the faint “clang” of the closing, roof door resonated softly through the narrow, rectangular passage. He did not need to turn around to know the positions of his men: Rookie Number One, Rookie Number Two, McNamara, Rookie Number Three, and Higgs, each following their commander's fluid motions in seeming unison; clockwork pygmies running on angst, adrenaline, and determination.

When Friday pressed his back against the wall to the immediate right of the seventh floor entrance, giving three quick exhalations, the remaining Centurion's simply did not stop. Rookie Number One gave a quick, momentary nod, before pushing through the door and slipping through; once no contacts were made, the second rookie flooded through the door, followed by Friday, and the remaining operatives. They didn't stop. There was no point to rest until the mission was complete and all objectives met. Even as they began to scan the rooms ('Room 222, 221, 220,...') there was no pause or intermission of speed. A river of black and gray clad soldiers simply slid through the halls, only the faintest of noises reverberating as their shoes scraped against the thick, synthetic fibers of the carpeting beneath their feet.

'119, 118, 117...'

The first rookie suddenly jerked back, supplanting himself against the wall. With a jerk of his hand, Friday raised a clenched fist, dropping to a crouching position as he and his remaining contractors slide in line behind the leading operative, hugging the wall like ivy.

The heading soldier raised his hand, scissoring his right index and ring finger in the motion of a walking man, indicating a contact was around the corner. Friday gave a quick, reassuring raising of his hand, indicating to maintain still and silent. Even as each man followed through, they listened more closely than they watched their surroundings. Anxious to complete the task, though they didn't expect – nor particularly desire – other hostiles, they were authorized (as was any Centurion) to commit any act necessary in the fulfillment and successful completion of any given assignment. It was Black Century's policy to place as little restrictions on its operatives as possible during conflict; maintain integrity of the group, respect the psuedo-military corporate hierarchy, and maintain a high-level of success – whatever the costs. On more than one occasion, men had willingly sacrificed their international freedom to travel and to merely persist beyond the territory of Black Century's main asset in exchange for a fat pay-check and a grade increase.

The unmistakeable sound of a thin, particle-board door slamming echoed down the vacated halls of the seventh floor. Friday gave a quick spin of his hand before stepping away from the wall as the operatives before him slip back, permitting him room at the corner of the wall. He turned, craning his neck around the corner, spying “Room 116” across the two-meter carpeted floor. With another signal – crossed-fingers – Higgs abruptly broke from formation and sprinted around the corner, turning toward the descending numerical valued rooms, hugging the wall as he made his way down the increasingly darkened hallway.

'116, 115, 114...'

At the end of the hall, a single window gave view to the world beyond. Flashing lights of an alternating blue, green, and red flashed from some unseen source below the window's elevation. A persistent, orange-yellow aura filled the space surrounding the small, unframed portal, casting eerie, elongated shadows as the six operatives made their way to the end of the hall, mindful of the decreasing room numbers as they passed.

'Room 112.'

Room 112 was to the immediate right of the small, unframed window to the world. Across from it was Room 113, apparently occupied by a seventy-seven year-old, nearly-deaf Milogradian war veteran. ('How opportune.') Ignoring such, Higgs quickly knelt before the entrance to Black Century's target's room, reaching within the confines of his protective vest only to remove a small, metallic device that seemed to be a cross between a hypodermic needle and a nail gun. Friday slipped in behind him, with McNamara to his immediate right, persistently flanked by the three rookie operatives.

Making quick work, Higgs slid the small, bent, unpolished extension of the strange device into the keyhole of Room 112. An automatic lock-pick, he gave three hard, swift squeezes on the device's trigger before abruptly and forcefully jerking upward and twisting the machine in the appropriate direction, breaking the cylinder free from the lock, forcing the small pin to slide free and release the door from the confines of its trim. He then, without turning, stepped aside as Friday pressed forward, gripped the door's handled, and turned...

The apartment was cramped. No doubt, ten years ago it would have been prized space; now, however, it was little more than third rate real estate. Somehow, the original constructors of the complex had managed to combine a living room, a kitchen, and a longer-than-wide office into a single, seemingly continuous space, only a single door separating the main living space from the single bedroom – the resting place of one “David Xiuhang.” Physical constrictions aside, the apartment was spacious – if but only due to the lack of furniture. A single chair and a television supported only by a veneer and particle board table adorned the common living space; the kitchen cabinets lacked doors, leaving space to view the assortment of broken plates and glasses, with a small, dormitory-sized refrigerator and a propane-fueled stove slung across an empty sink to keep them company.

As Friday, McNamara, and Rookie Number Three – the only member of the operative team that could possible hope to communicate in Khinen to Mister Xiuhang – pressed deeper into the apartment, eyeing each corner, nook, and edifice for signs of attack or ambush, Higgs and the remaining two operatives began to make quick work of the target's few possessions. While attempting to remain as silent as possible, the rookies began overturning cushions, dismantling the television, riffling through cabinets and drawers, desperately searching for any fragment of intelligence to be obtained from such a disastrous rat-hole. Though both men placed several pieces of paper, assorted computer discs, and other odds and ends into their support backpacks, it was Higgs return from the office – laptop and power-cable in hand – that would likely serve as the primary source of information regarding the so-called “JSZ115” and his (or her) connection to Xiuhang and the Alikarhian Liberation Coalition.

After giving a quick “thumbs-up” to Higgs, Friday turned to his flanking contractors, nodding to each in a slow, concise, and determined manner, before indicating to the last remaining, uncleared room of the apartment: the bedroom. Each of them – McNamara, Friday, and the rookie – reached to the barrel of their arms, flipping a small switch on the rear of what appeared to be a form of flashlight, a small, metal screen covering their ends; though, upon activation, no light or sound was emitted.

They approached the door.

As commander, Friday took point, standing plainly before the final door. To his right, McNamara, a brutish man of an astonishing height; to his left, the rookie, strong and strong-willed, but obviously nervous about what was likely his first contact with a true hostile outside of training and possible, low-intensity conflicts experienced by whatever military formation or law enforcement agency he had once been employed by. Regardless, each man knew his place and accepted it without complaint or recourse. With a final nod, they prepared to make contact...

The door swung wide, slamming against the plain, white edifice of the bedroom wall before sheering clean from its hinges with an agonized “screech.” As the three filed into the room, the shouting began with Mister Xiuhang's exasperated, terrified wails, only to be accompanied by the rookie's own shouts in broken Khinenese. McNamara made three quick steps, however, and closed the distance between himself and the target, further soliciting wails and cries of fright and horror from the short, black-haired, non-descript man. In truth, David Xiuhang could have been anyone; he fit the bill of “average” perfectly. Thin, athletic, but not overly so; black or extremely dark, brown hair tussled and ragged, hanging over equally dull, brown eyes.

Anyone.

The shouting continued, even as McNamara reached for the target, only to have his grip evaded with a quick back-step and a shrieking wail. Friday, however, did not wait; with a moment's pause, he raised his sub-machine gun and, with an idle flick, activated the small, flashlight-like cylinder at the end of his weapon's barrel. Almost immediately, Xiuhang silence himself, his eyes growing wide, his face draining of its tan pallor, a pained, distressed grimace contorting across his features, only to be further skewed by the blunt stock of McNamara's HK53. A single jet of scarlet-tinged mucus spiraled from Xiuhang's nose, his body limp, collapsing half onto his bed, and partially onto the drab, brown carpet beneath it.

Not a word was uttered as the rookie slung the black-bag over the target's face and crown, McNamara as simply sliding the hypodermic syringe into Xiuhang's throat, a single plunge administering the chosen sedative. Friday, meanwhile, made haste clearing the bathroom; all it required was a single glance. The shower stall didn't even have a curtain rod, much less a curtain to hang from one. Even so, Friday lingered in the bedroom, watching as the rookie and his close confidant dragged the target's motionless carcass out into the common space, a quick order given with little more than a series of nods and gestures from McNamara to the rookies, ordering them to carry the compliant David Xiuhang back to the roof and to radio for the helicopter.

As he exited the bedroom, however, Friday's internal thoughts returned once more to the job at hand. Quickly, he motioned for McNamara and Higgs to depart, one weighted down by several pounds of notebooks and a laptop, the other only burdened by his own, brutish physique. It would be up to Friday to initiation the final objective of “evasion.”

Waiting for the sounds of his comrade's footsteps to fade, Friday reached to his lower back, slipping free a small, cylindrical canister from the holster of his belt: an incendiary grenade. In that moment, as his eyes scanned the red and orange warnings and instructions on the grenade, he contemplated ending it. “Voluntary termination,” as corporate executives had sometimes called it; others called it the result of “shell-shock.” Too many years spent dispensing everything from “justice” to “tyranny,” but always from the barrel of a gun. Unlike other, self-destructive prisoners of their guilt, Friday did not simply have the memories of battle-torn conflict zones or even massacred families to recall; he had Chetverta. He had the memories of Davij; of his ultimate demise to... the beasts that walked amongst men. Of the horrors of “Lucifer's Ladder” and the catacombs of shadows that dwelt beneath it.

He had death on his mind...

In a single, elegant gesture, Friday slid the pin free from the incendiary explosive's charge, released his grip on the firing mechanism, then rolled the cylinder into the kitchen – by far the most flammable room in the “four” room apartment. For a moment, he waited, but quickly chose the wiser choice and ran.

Fleeing Room 112, gun at his shoulder, eyes trained ahead, Friday ran full-tilt down the same corridors the operation's team had entered into. He knew the rough estimate of the amount of time before the explosive was to discharge, but that didn't matter. He didn't have time to be imprecise or inaccurate. Yet, even so, as he prepared to turn the final bend toward the roof-access stairwell, the loud, symphonic roar of detonated explosives filled his eardrums, sending shrill quakes along the entirety of the Daiton Apartment Complex.

Immediately, the smell of smoke and burning fuel that had been so apparent outside, now filled the entirety of the seventh floor. Smoke had already begun to billow out into the hallways, filling each corridor with a darkness that was only completed as the lights flickered once, twice, then finally faded in a dull, phosphorescent death, filling the seventh floor catacombs with a sea of smoldering night.

Rounding the last bend, Friday jerked to a halt. Though submerged in a perpetual sea of smoke and a blinding blackness, through the integrated optics of his mask, he could see a man before him. He was tall and dressed in nothing more than briefs, blindly searching for some escape from the encroaching scent of smoke and melting polymers, plastics, and incinerated veneer. It was then, however, as Friday began his approach, that the man turned, spying only the dull, orange glow of two spheres, seemingly hovering, nearly-motionless in the blackness of the Daiton Apartments' seventh floor.

He didn't have time to scream.

A single “suu-thuk” of Friday's weapon filled the final corridor of the seventh floor. In an instant, the upper, left quadrant of the unknown's man skull evaporated in a dark, carnelian mist, appearing as faint, orange-toned sparks through the optics of the operation's commander's lenses. The man, his history, past, family, and now future a mystery, collapsed onto himself, his face caving upon impact, already nearly vaporized from the impact of the MP5's 10mm Auto's cartridge. In the position of what should have been his crown, only extruded gray matter – once more, only a tinge of off-orange in a field of such – remained, drooping limply and permeating into the carpet where the deceased Milogradian lay.

Friday remained, looking down as he walked, surveying his cull. In all likelihood, the man had never meant him harm, but was only confused, scared even, due to the smoke, the darkness, and the overall circumstances that seemed to have consumed much of Suilen and the Empire itself. What great horror could he have imagined as the source of such menacing, glowing eyes? It didn't matter now; the nearly-naked, gunned-down civilian was nothing more than decaying organic matter. In the end, he likely would be written off as yet another casualty of the 2011 “Daiton Apartments Inferno.” Just another body amongst foundations...

Though Friday maintained his accelerated pace up the stairs, only the dull orange glow of his lenses to illuminate the stairwell, it seemed like an eternity. Toward the final flight, he wondered if he'd ever escape the hell of Suilen; if he'd ever make it to another pay-day. He contemplated, even more deeply, whether he wanted to. He had the chance of a lifetime; he could simply exit the building by another means. In a few minutes – even with the pressing of McNamara and Higgs – the pilot of the “Stealth Hawk” and, no doubt, the rookies would force a take-off, with or without their “dear” commander. He could escape; he would be free from Black Century International and the emotional, mental, and physical blackmail it used to maintain control over their “contractors.” He'd be free, at last, to live his life as he desired, to escape the world of men and their wars.

Free. Free at last...

The young commander pressed open the roof access door, stepping out onto the roof. Friday wasn't smiling; he hadn't smiled in quite some time. He could remember the last time he had, and the promise he had made to never do so again. Yet, even as he approached the helicopter, both Higgs and McNamara waving for him to hurry even as they tossed the target's limp, unconscious body into one of the suspended cargo nets, he had one final thought of freedom. One fleeting glimpse at liberation. One last chance...

...A chance he would only regret as the black, Milogradian imposter ascended to the heavens, his eyes transfixed not on his success, but on a burning Suilen.

Eight minutes.

Eight.

by **Milograd** » Tue Sep 20, 2011 11:17 pm

City Square, Argyz
Milograd, Gholgoth
[ Sep. 16, 2011 • 11:25 PM ]

Rouba paused for a moment and took a moment to stare at his feet. He didn't know of what horrors awaited him in City Square Argyz, but nevertheless he already had a bad feeling about his mission, and about the consequences of such as a whole. Unit 43 was in the center of the worst Milogradian crisis in years. The rioting and violence had continued to spread across Milograd, and was starting to get out of hand in southern Milograd as well, according to reports. Rouba thought to himself, regardless of how the conflict in the great Argyz area went, the City Square was the center of the turmoil; all that mattered in the end was his duty: neutralize the violent factors and secure the square. "Everyone get in the truck, we're rolling in now!"

Ayia hopped into the back of Unit 43's Resource Initiative's Urban Policing Vehicle (UPV) and double-checked to make sure that his M68A3's magazine was securely in the rifle's magwell. The Milogradian Urban Policing Vehicle was armed to the teeth with .50 caliber machine guns, and was plated with a composite armor designed for the Empire's main battle tank. As to accommodate potential prisoners, the UPV was also quite spacious internally; however it was obvious that on this night no prisoners would be taken. Ayia knew that the Resource Police were outnumbered in Argyz: and with the number of protesters in the capital he couldn't help but wonder how High Command even expected them to handle all of them. If only he had known at the time.

If only he had known - maybe things would have gone differently.

The City Square was massive; at almost one square mile it was the largest "urban park" within the Empire. As nightfall continued to hang over the chaotic metropolis - the Resource Units continued to move in on their objectives. All across the Empire of Milograd - military police units of the Resource Initiative were being rallied to put an end to the rioting and chaos. Argyz would be the first to be stabalized; "calming" operations would begin in the heart of Argyz.

Police Units that hadn’t already begun to do so began to encroach on the heart of the riots. The sounds of glass being smashed and chants of “liberty and justice” filled the Square. Unit 43, 44, and 45’s UPV’s had all been swarmed by protesters who intended to slow down and interfere with the Unit’s goals.

Ayia, who had been looking over the street map of Argyz turned to his officer as the banging on the UPV’s armor intensified, the noises from outside could be heard clearly from within the vehicle: "How the fuck do we get these guys off our case Sparks?”

"Go up and man the fifty cal: that ought to do the trick.”

"You want me to fire on civilians?!"Ayia loudly replied in disbelief, as to be heard over the roaring noises from outside the vehicle, "I’m not sure that I’m comfortable doing this Officer…"

"Just scare them up a bit; shake em up.”

Ayia popped his head and upper body up into the “gunner’s pit” of the UPV and took hold of the .50 caliber machine gun. Upon looking over the crowd Ayia was horrified to see that the mob below him was growing; he looked out over a sea of people. Angry people.

He still didn’t understand why anyone would buy into all of this ALC propaganda.

Upon rearing the turret to the eastern side of the square, Ayia took a deep breath and spoke under his breath, “May the lord forgive me for any accidents that may occur on this dreadful night…” His eyelids shut - and his body shook as bullets sprayed out into the crowd – the recoil and power of the machine gun were almost too much for him to handle. It shook him back and forth – back and forth. The crowd roared and screams and cries of man and woman alike could be heard from inside the pit. The machine gun unleashed hell on the mob pit below Unit 43’s UPV – an unexpected hell.

An unexpected plague.

He didn’t want to let go of the trigger; he would rather hold it tight forever and not have to open his eyes to the horror that he created. Unfortunately he had to do it anyway.

Blood: blood everywhere. As he scanned the crowds that he had fired upon he cringed at the sight of countless dead bodies lying on top of one another. He choked, “My god: fuck…”

This had been his doing. Ayia briefly glanced back at the UPV’s path, it had moved deeper into the heart of the mob. He had been instructed to merely scare the protesters; he hadn’t been told to slaughter them – certainly such was not his intention.

Ayia descended back into the UPV fully, a tear rolling down his face. The events that had just taken place in the gunner’s pit had left Ayia feeling alienated and out of place; he did not wish to harm anyone: hell, Ayia had joined the Resource Initiative to prevent innocent people from being harmed. And yet there he was on that cold night; sitting in an armored vehicle with blood all over his hands.

One of the rookies in the Unit whom was in charge of handling the team’s equipment looked over at Ayia as he wiped the “sweat” off of his face, he couldn’t help but wonder why Ayia was so distraught over this; after all - most men were taught to deal with the feelings that come with killing a man in the Police Academies of Milograd. In an effort to comfort his fellow private he asked,“You aite Ayia?”

Ayia placed his head against his knees and gazed at the floor of the UPV, “No, I’m really not…

I just killed innocent people dude.”“

On that note, it was almost obvious to everyone in the vehicle that Rouba was going to chime in, “Since when are violent protesters making demands of their government ‘innocent’?” Rouba coughed, “for god’s sake Private, they’ve sent this city to hell – you’ve done nothing that you should be ashamed of: you are serving your country. You are serving the Dh’arco Rahavuhra.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if the Dh’arco is someone worth serving, to be honest.”

Rouba sighed,“ How about we get back to paying attention to the fucking objectives; we can talk about our damn feelings later.

You will follow the orders of the High Command and you will not question them, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes…sir.”

Unit 43’s UPV continued to make its way through the crowd; Ayia’s firing had scared off most of the protesters who had swarmed the UPV. The thirty other armored units in the area did the same – they all continued to make their way towards the heart of the city, towards the heart of the mob.

Towards the heart of the country.

• Dead: 98
• Wounded: 114
( Argyz Totals )

City Square, Argyz
Milograd, Gholgoth
[ Sep. 17, 2011 • Midnight]

Officer Rouba briefly looked up at his team before glaring back down at his shoes, “Stargazer has confirmed that the Imperial Air Force plans to provide us assistance; at this time an estimated twenty thousand people are in the streets of this goddamn city.”

”What kind of ‘assistance’ could the Air Force possibly provide to us in a policing operation?” questioned Aldak Jaurya, who was already skeptical about the High Command’s plans to bring calm back to the city. He was one of the more quiet members of Unit 43, but nevertheless he would speak when he had a question. As a smart and athletically built member of the team, it was generally Aldak’s job to serve as Unit 43’s muscle, while at the same time working as “another brain” within the squad.

Robua shook his head, "Once again I have been left in the dark concerning the details of a Resource operation, Aldak, and for that I apologize. We know very little of what is happening at the moment within the High Command.

Hell...we don't even know what we're supposed to do once we reach the heart of this goddamn city square."

Outside of the City Square most of Argyz had been stabilized by lockdown procedures. Many of the Resource Initiative’s troops had been told that they were to be operating on the grounds of the City Square, arresting and detaining violent protesters while at the same time watching out for looters and criminals in general. However, the Resource High Command had apparently underestimated both the numbers and the fanaticism of the protesters: and thus many of the Resource Initiatives troops were trapped within their armored vehicles – Unit 43 was one of these cases.

On the other side of the city the Resource Initiative had made much more progress; several arrests had been made and crowds were beginning to disperse – however there was still much work to be done. The protester’s numbers were overwhelming for the Police to say the least.

Unit 43's UPV was almost half way into the heart of Argyz's City Square, and it began to seem as if the Unit might actually get a chance to exit the vehicle; however they knew that if they did leave the vehicle - they would most likely be in the most dangerous situation of their lives. They would be surrounded by thousands of infuriated hooligans - and would be armed with nothing but mere M68A3 Assault rifles and "hand cuffs". What in god's name was High Command expecting of them?

One of the squad's rookies was already ready to call it a night; he was obviously quite tired, "Yo Aldak do you have any-"

Before he could finish his sentence a deafening boom went off from the UPV's left side - and a great force sent the UPV flying onto its side...

• Dead: 141
• Wounded: 174
( Argyz Totals )

by **Milograd** » Tue Oct 04, 2011 10:42 pm

[…]

City Square, Argyz
Milograd, Gholgoth
[ Sep. 17, 2011 • 12:21am ]

Ayia had been unconscious for approximately ten minutes, and when he had finally returned to consciousness he was lost. It was all a blur; his senses were fogged. He was laying on his back upon the unusually warm, concrete ground of the City Square, and as he began to come back to his senses he could not help but wonder what had happened.

He squinted his eyes and saw a glaring light, it flickered over the blanket of darkness. Then his smell kicked back in. A distinct smell greeted him: the scent of burning flesh.

That light had been fire.

An aching pain shot down his spine; Ayia suddenly gasped. He squirmed on the ground, trying to get back on his feet, yet his muscles refused to do as he commanded. He felt helpless, and he then felt a wet sensation on his temple; he was gushing blood from his scalp.

He cried something but it was hardly comprehendible. The pain was unbearable, and it just kept getting worse with every minute.

What the hell had happened?

Using all the energy he could muster, Ayia willed himself to rise back onto his feet. It was then that he had noticed that he no longer had his rifle. He was alone in the heart of a storm. His hearing was still shot from the sound of the explosion, but Ayia was back on his feet. After rising to his feet he noticed Unit 43's UPV…or at least what was left of it. The vehicle had been ripped apart completely – Ayia was able to make out bloodied limbs from under the burning vehicle. It wreaked of flesh. He pinched his nostrils together as to save himself from the sickening scent, tried to organize his thoughts, and concluded that it was in his best interests to try and group up with another police team. He would have to be careful though; the crowd was only getting more riled up and he was injured.

He limped through the streets of Argyz with his rifle by his side, with blood rolling down his pale face, and with a tear trapped in his eyelid: he had likely just lost the team he had trained with for three years in the explosion and he was now alone.

But he had to keep walking.

It had occured to Ayia that the UPV explosion had scared off some of the larger crowds of protesters, and such was why he was capable of navigating by foot. He kept his eyes focused on the ground as to avoid accidently stepping on a small fire or on a bloodied, detached human part. As he continued to trek through the streets a voice yelled out to Ayia, "Drop your weapon and get own your knees or you will be shot."

"'What is the meaning of this?" Ayia shouted back, "I am a police officer!"

The man whom had called out Ayia approached him, his rifle trained on Ayia's torso. The man was broad, and appeared to be wearing some sort of body-armor, however Ayia was unable to make out a clear image of the man through the shadows.

"If you don't have identification I'm going to have to detain you sir; please provide identification and drop your weapon now."

Ayia steadily placed his weapon down onto the ground. "Private Ayia; Unit 43 of the Urban Police force. Our UPV was blasted by some sort of explosion, I don't know what happened."

"...We lost all contact with Unit 43 around twenty minutes ago. 'Glad to see you're alright. The assault plan on the city square has been changed. Pick up your rifle and follow me - and run quickly! We need to get to the fallback point before the strikes come in!"

Ayia did not question the man, but then again he had no choice but to follow him.

+++ 12:17am | September 17th, 2011 | Emergency Radio Broadcast Network

This is an emergency broadcast CODE PURPLE. This is not a drill.

Milograd is now on lockdown. Anyone whom is found outside without proper identification will be detained. Anyone whom defies the Urban police will be shot.

Stay indoors. Consume food and water sparingly. Do not go outside.

Be safe and stay loyal to the Empire!

-RESOURCE INITIATIVE URBAN POLICE FORCE

+++

Drops of a Hellish Plague... [ Closed | ATTN Gholgoth ]

Drops of a Hellish Plague... [ Closed | ATTN Gholgoth ]

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