Treachery and Anarchy in the Confederacy (BC, Semi-Closed)

[New Greston]

3:42 PM, Four miles from Hopetown
Hopetown, Blackhelm Confederacy

There was a momentary flare and plumes of smoke that emitted from the cigarette of the blank, Confederate soldier. He, as well as the seven other various soldiers grouped with him, were not aware that they were in the midst of the last seconds of their lives. No good-byes would be made, they would get to hug their girlfriend, mother, or wife for the last time. They simply sat at their post, on the old, worn out, weed infested bridge, smoking, small talking, and simply staring vacantly at nothing.

"Well howdy boys, what you doing out here?"

At the moment, all eight Confederate soldiers spun their heads around to stare at the tall, imposing man at the head of the bridge. He wore ragged, brown gloves, the finger tips cut off, a dirty green scarfy was draped over his shoulders. He wore gray jeans and a gray military jacket, he almost looked like a homeless man, especially with the brown leather satchel that he wore. The smoking soldier just nodded his head and went back to taking a drag. The soldier to the left of him raised his voice, he was thickly accented, with a dialect that made him sound almost angry, or maybe it was because he was angry.

"Who that fuck are you?"

The man shrugged it off, "No one, mate. Other then the end."

At that point the smoking Confederate spoke up, "Now, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? The end? Are you some bloody cartoonist?"

They were cooling down in the middle of the wooded area on the APC in the center of the low bridge. Which put them at the will of the Wright Boys. While the Confederate outfit was busy speaking with the man they had never seen before, on either side of the bridge, there were four heavily armed soldiers. On the right side, they were coming towards the front of the APC and had a clear shot at six of the soldiers. On the left side, one man was hidden in the trees, the autumn leaves covering him, his three partners were scaling the bridge.

The Confederate soldier took a final drag from his cigarette, he took it from his mouth, looked at the orange stub contently, then flicked it from him. At that moment, the sharpshooter's bullet hit the stub and crashed into the chest of the Confederate. Blood spat out from the dieing boys mouth and, just as quickly, the rest of the Confederates were alerted. But not quick enough, the boys scaling the bridge began blind firing; bullets rang off the APC and cries of agony wailed as knee caps and shins were shot out of place and blood and bones were replaced by led.

The remaining six soldiers were given the choices of panic or fight, each choice ending in death. They were just as quickly chopped down, their guts spilling from the torn stomach and leaking to the ground.

"Nice work there, Coop, ripped those fuckers new assholes across their chests." The man who had distracted the soldiers who were subsequently slaughtered let his satchel drop to the ground. Replacing it in his grip was a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. The entire group, then, was on the bridge, slinging their weapons behind the backs and grabbing the four injured Confederate soldiers.

"No way, Os, if it wasn't for that 'brilliant' distraction, Coop wouldn't have been able to show up his new trigger." said the shortest and most stolky character in the group. He had a beaten, leather D'Orsay hat on and choppy, orange sideburns. He was Pippin Cantermon, the resident drunk of the group. He fit Grestonian stereotypes to a tee.

As Pippin spoke, the man everyone regarded as Coop or Coops, circled around the sniveling Confederate soldiers, laid down on the ground in front of him.

"Four prisoners. Four sniveling, kniving, cowardly prisoners," he kicked the nearest one who had had their kneecap shot out, "How's that kneecap? Now, you probably don't know me, so let me introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Cooper Wright, and these men here; they are the different deaths I can, and will, inflict. And I, I am Death himself. Need any more explaining?"

Cooper panned his hand out, as if a show girl, show casing a new product. He stopped so his hands framed the man that had distracted them. He opened his mouth, a giant smile spanning his face. He then closed it back up, not feeling it was time, just yet. Cooper was one of those violent Grestonians; there were the safistocated Grestonians, the drunkard Grestonians, and the violent Grestonians. Cooper was the latter, and a bit of the middle.

"This, my friends, is my Jewish friend. He is the one - the only - the famous, Osbert Anderson! Ever heard of him? No? That's fine, he's heard of you."

The Confederate soldiers looked up suprised, confused. Then Osbert walked foward.

"Yes I have, I've heard your money grubbing, oil baron, scum bags; slaves to that circle jerking, alzhiemers fuck, Griffencrest. Now that you know what I know about you, I think you should know about me. I, I, I am Osbert Anderson and," Os paused, looked to his right and whistled, a greasy haired Wright Boy threw him a wooden baseball bat, lined with dents and blood stains; at the top, there was a nearly rusty nail hammered threw it.

"And I kill my foes with Grandma Anderson here, among other things. Hey Thomas, tell them about that time in Westerfield!"

The guy spoke fast and uncomphrensively, extremely exited, "Yo, man it was awesome. Twenty Fasist motherfuckers, Westerfield, near midnight; Ossy here came up from behind and BOOM! Knocked the shit out his he.."

"Okay, Biangino, shut the fuck up. You see what I have to live with, Jesus Christ. Any who, lemme see your head, gotta bash it in. You know, it's my job."

Os walked up to the first prisoner, Cooper snatched his shoulder and threw him to his knees. Os placed the bat atop of his head. The nail pointed upwards, Os wanted to beat him to death, not stab him. He brought up the bat for the blow then slowly brought it back down, realigning his shot.

Percy Atilio and Tylor Urban were greedy buggers, addictive gamblers as well. They were passing marbles between each other, betting on how many smashes it would take to kill the man. Os raised the bat up, once again, to strike, lifting it up faster this time. Instead of coming straight down upon the skull he moved it to the left and bashed in the left side of his head. Mist of blood shot up and the man went to the ground, breathing heavily.

"Shit, I thought that would knock him out," commented the extra mean looking Wright Boy, standing behind the prisoners. He was Conrad Mercy, ironically named, for when it came to war, mercy was one concept he could not grasp. Conrad was known for his brutality; he had once killed an entire squadron of Solenians by putting hooks through their heals and dragging them through the city by his truck.

Cooper grabbed the downed Confederate by the throat and threw him to the bridge rail. Os, who was now over excited, started beating the man with the bat, hitting him in the ribs, stomach, gut, chest, and face. The man was being destroyed, he was spitting teeth and blood out; choking on some of it. With two black eyes, bruises across his body, and multiple broken ribs, the man refused to die.

"This motherfucker just won't die," Conrad said cracking up.

Thomas Biangino was spinning his finger around, "Switch the side or something, stab him. Stab him with the nail."

And Os did just that. He spinned the bat around and bashed the rusted nail into the center of his forehead. Blood rushed out of the gaping whole and the multiple other wholes Os started stabbing into him. Once confirmed dead, Cooper flipped him off the bridge.

"One down, three to go. Who's next, Coop?" Questioned Pippin.

"Oi, Percy, you had that good idea that other day, we stick a grenade or two to the guy?"

Nodding, "Oh yea! See if they can get past the mark without dieing. Let's try it."

Cooper pulled two grenades off him and put them in either of the soldiers pockets. Every Wright Boy had their guns trained on him except for Cooper, who hand his pointer finger around the pins, ready to pull them and push the guy.

"Os, count down."

"Yessir. Three.... two.... one.... pull!"

Cooper pulled the pins and threw them behind him. The soldier was sprinting down the road, approaching end zone. The soldiers waited with baited breath, staring at the man; twenty feet from the end the first grenade went off. And arm, half his face, and his body were spread across the place. The second grenade tore the rest of him to bits.

"WOOOOOOOOOO YEAH! Motherfucker, that shit is hot. What's next? Who the fuck are you?" Os started prodding the third victim.

"I am Marcus Marine, and a man ten times honourable than you." The soldier bravely said.

"Excuse me fuckwit?" Os was near enraged.

"You heard me, and I refuse to repeat myself. I hope you are all caught and hanged. Long live the Confederacy!"

At that, the nail sliced into the soldiers gut, the rust scraping the inside of guts. Osbert slowly dragged it around, carving chunks out of the soldier. The boy cried as his organs fell into his lap and hands.

"Look, now you ruined it Os," Conrad complained.

Osbert shrugged, "That fucker had it coming to him."

Conrad started shooting the moaning soldier whoses guts were rolling out to the floor. Laughing hysterical, he emptied his clip on the body, leaving nothing left to identify.

"Wait," the fourth, and final, prisoner raised his hands in a surrender move, "I have information! You guys want information? Right?"

"Information? Boy, kiddo you put me in a bad position," said Cooper, "you don't understand just how much I love watching Os kick the living shit out of your guys. What kind of information is it?"

"Well, I can give you the numbers, positions, and weaponry of the other Confederate units in Hopetown."

"Now you're talking, tell me where they are."

The soldier quickly confessed, pointing out the spots on Cooper's map. The Wright Boys watched keenly and intently. Once confessing it all and Cooper knew everything there was to know of the garrisons in Hopetown, the prisoner spoke up, timidly.

"You guys won't kill me now, will you?"

Cooper looked at Os and Os looked at Cooper. Os raised his eyebrow to question. "Nope, mate, I just don't think it's your day."

But the next day was. The people of Hopetown woke up to see a skinless, eyeless, and limbless body, hung by the feet, from the local market.
Caedmon Constantine
Domition Hamilcar

[Blackhelm Confederacy]

The rain was falling a bit, making the dense jungle an even more miserable place to be, especially for a man who was born and raised in the city. The city was Redemption, however, so it was not too different. Gaius Whiterobe flicked his cigarette down into the mud as he stepped from his truck, crushing it beneath his boot into the damp mud that passed for a road out here. Around him, over a dozen faceless men of the Confederate Imperial Guard hopped out of the back of the vehicle and walked ahead, to where a handful more of their number stood. Just ahead of them, on the ground, were the bodies of two dead Muslim men, still clutching their AK-47's even in death, and just a bit further on, a small group of the Islamist huddled, children crying and mothers desperately trying to hush them.

"Islamic scum, by the order of the Senate, enforcing the Sacrament Law, you are hereby sentenced to death for aversion of thelabor camp and refusal to wear the crescent. Halt all resistance immediately."

As he finished speaking, he approached a woman holding her small child and withdrew his side arm. Without speaking, he fired, blowing apart the little boy's skull and send ing peices of brain splattering over the rest of the group. "Dispose of this mess" he said turning back to the rest of the Imperial Guard. No sooner, the rest of the soldiers with him began to unload on the small crowd with their assault rifles as he calmly strolled away, leaving none of the poor lot alive.

Gaius entered his truck and drove back to his camp, where a letter was waiting for him. The nearby garrison at Hopetown had reported seven of their men killed at the local bridge, and an eighth man brutally tortured and hung from a tree. He died of his wounds soon after. "Fucking Commies" he mumbled aloud as he sat down and read the report over. The idea that a batch of Grestonians had infiltrated the country was the furthese thing from his mind at the moment, but regardless, he was determined to get to the bottom of the savage assault.

A message was issued to the two garrisons at Hopetown, informing them to trust no one, and begin interrogation of any and all prisoners who might have the slightest idea as to what jsut took place on that bridge. Unless the message was personally confirmed by Whiterobe himself, nothing in the area could be believed. The Commies were slippery folk out here, and he was not putting past them an espionage attempt.


Gaius Whiterobe

[New Greston]

5:26 PM, Seven miles from Hopetown
The Swamp, The Backlands

"They don't call it the Backlands for nothing," said Conrad suggestingly to Os who was picking muck off the nail of his bat and summarily complaining.

"Yea, shit," Os spit to his left while he threw muck over his shoulder, "what the hell would be out here, though, is what I'm asking. I mean, I know none of them Griffencrest fucks are wandering around in this swampy shit; so why are we coming out here?"

The nearest man took it as his turn to speak, right after he flicked a stub of a cigarette away, "The Backlands is home to more vicious groups of murderers, phsycopaths, and reject than us."

"Well, Cad," Caedmon Constantine being the one who had addressed Os, "what kind of poor sap gets rejected in a place as poor and shitty as Blackhelm?"

"The same that get rejected in Greston," piped Cooper who hadn't spoke a word the whole trip, rather navigating the rough map of the area, "the blacks, commies, and muslims." All five of them shared a laugh.

Caedmon Constantine and Domition Hamilcar were like brothers in many ways; from their height down to the way and the amount they talked they were near identical. With the added mercilessness and whim to mindlessly kill, they fit right in with the rest of the Wright Boys. Caedmon and Domition were the two boys that would dress in trench coats and shoot up a school, that being the only thing that separated them from everybody else.

There were a few more minutes of akward silence, the only noise being the five of them tredging through the mud, muck, and swamp. They passed multiple downed trees, something that look like it was straight out of Star Wars, and what Conrad was positive was once a '96 Ford. Finally, while passing a thicket of cat tails, Cooper stopped dead short and pointed at the map, "It says to come here."

The whole group stopped short and started moving their heads slowly around, looking at hollowed out trees, old infastructure, and the swamp. There was nothing there, no major landmarks, no roads, not even dirt ones, no one buildings, no trees large enough to hide a body. Just the five of them and a whole lot of cat tails. Plus the twenty gun weilding rebels that had surrounded them.

The oldest looking, gun weilding rebel spoke with a loud, bostrious voice, albeit a gruff one, "Cooper Wright?"

He couldn't get out a single word more as he was silenced by a single gun shot round. A plume of smoke rose from Osbert's barrel and the closest soldier to the rebel leader went, head over heals, back into the murky, swampy water he had come from.

"Woah! Nelly, you can't come up on me like that, I gosh darn neared shit myself," mocked Os with a grin. No one else was laughing. In fact, it was the exact opposite as Os had created a Mexican Standoff between the two groups. A standoff that the five, ruthless criminals would not survive if it came down to shooting. Cooper walked up, his hands in the air, as his gun had was warm and cozy between his back and the heavy backpack with his gear.

"Twat," he passed Os, slapping him upside the head, "I'm Cooper Wright, now who the hell, now, might you be?"

The man put his gun down, the rest of his group following in suit, "Marcello Falice, head of the underground communist party. This is Bertoldo Sibino," Marcello was using his gun as a pointing, forgetting to turn on safety, "the man your friend killed was Ciracio Isaia. He was one of our only Italian translators. If we run into any Italian speaking Confederate Officers now, I am putting the blame on you."

Cooper shrugged, "So you're our waiting party?"

"Yes," nodded Marcello grimly. The rest of his group behind him shuffled their feet or repositioned.

"Well then, can we get to some bloody dry ground? And I am sure you commies have deodorant hidden somewhere."

6:49 PM, Three miles from Hopetown
Rendevous Point, The Backlands

Explosives. Lots and lots of explosives.

The APC that the Wright Boys had ambushed stopped on a dime and was as steady as can be. But the engines howled like a half dead monkey getted penetrated. But that made no nevermind to Conrad Mercy, he loved riding up to the rendevous point in a stolen Confederate uniform at the wheel of the car. He had music blasting, one hand on the steering wheel, and a stupid look on his face; all that was missing was hydrolics.

All nine Wright Boys were there, accompanied by thirteen of the communists provided by Marcello. Most of the communists were dressed in regular attire, looking like mine workers digging all day. The younger members were pretending to be children of the older members, everyone in the group had a story. Two of the rebels, other than Marcello, weren't dressed like workers; rather, one was dressed like a business man and the other had the same Confederate uniform on as Conrad did.

The Wright Boys, excluding Cooper and Os, were dressed to fit right in the communists. Once they started merging with the train going crowd, the disguise would work out perfect. Cooper and Os had the most elaborate disguise, wearing business suits, they had brown leather breifcases filled with all of the essentials for a travelling salesman. Down to the business cards. Cooper was a major soda salesman, Os his assistant. They never went anywhere without each other and Marcello. Marcello was a paper salesman that they would coincidentally sit across from on the train and get to talking. Everything would go as planned. Eight of the Wright Boys and twelve of the commies would get to Redemption by train.

Conrad as his communist partner were taking a different approach.

"Better take good care of ol' Bettsy." Os presented his beaten baseball bat to Conrad as if some religious artifact, sacred and fragile. Conrad thrust it into the trunk of the APC with the rest of the weapons.

Marcello was fastening his tie, "Mercy, you are going to meet up with two black rebels in a truck, near the armoury, that I bribed. After the bombs are detonated they will speed off in the opposite direction. From there, you were dart out of the area, with our weapons and weapons, ammo, and stores you stole and meet up with us at a train station just outside of Redemption.':26 PM, Seven miles from Hopetown
The Swamp, The Backlands[/b]

"They don't call it the Backlands for nothing," said Conrad suggestingly to Os who was picking muck off the nail of his bat and summarily complaining.

"Yea, shit," Os spit to his left while he threw muck over his shoulder, "what the hell would be out here, though, is what I'm asking. I mean, I know none of them Griffencrest fucks are wandering around in this swampy shit; so why are we coming out here?"

The nearest man took it as his turn to speak, right after he flicked a stub of a cigarette away, "The Backlands is home to more vicious groups of murderers, phsycopaths, and reject than us."

"Well, Cad," Caedmon Constantine being the one who had addressed Os, "what kind of poor sap gets rejected in a place as poor and shitty as Blackhelm?"

"The same that get rejected in Greston," piped Cooper who hadn't spoke a word the whole trip, rather navigating the rough map of the area, "the blacks, commies, and muslims." All five of them shared a laugh.

Caedmon Constantine and Domition Hamilcar were like brothers in many ways; from their height down to the way and the amount they talked they were near identical. With the added mercilessness and whim to mindlessly kill, they fit right in with the rest of the Wright Boys. Caedmon and Domition were the two boys that would dress in trench coats and shoot up a school, that being the only thing that separated them from everybody else.

There were a few more minutes of akward silence, the only noise being the five of them tredging through the mud, muck, and swamp. They passed multiple downed trees, something that look like it was straight out of Star Wars, and what Conrad was positive was once a '96 Ford. Finally, while passing a thicket of cat tails, Cooper stopped dead short and pointed at the map, "It says to come here."

The whole group stopped short and started moving their heads slowly around, looking at hollowed out trees, old infastructure, and the swamp. There was nothing there, no major landmarks, no roads, not even dirt ones, no one buildings, no trees large enough to hide a body. Just the five of them and a whole lot of cat tails. Plus the twenty gun weilding rebels that had surrounded them.

The oldest looking, gun weilding rebel spoke with a loud, bostrious voice, albeit a gruff one, "Cooper Wright?"

He couldn't get out a single word more as he was silenced by a single gun shot round. A plume of smoke rose from Osbert's barrel and the closest soldier to the rebel leader went, head over heals, back into the murky, swampy water he had come from.

"Woah! Nelly, you can't come up on me like that, I gosh darn neared shit myself," mocked Os with a grin. No one else was laughing. In fact, it was the exact opposite as Os had created a Mexican Standoff between the two groups. A standoff that the five, ruthless criminals would not survive if it came down to shooting. Cooper walked up, his hands in the air, as his gun had was warm and cozy between his back and the heavy backpack with his gear.

"Twat," he passed Os, slapping him upside the head, "I'm Cooper Wright, now who the hell, now, might you be?"

The man put his gun down, the rest of his group following in suit, "Marcello Falice, head of the underground communist party. This is Bertoldo Sibino," Marcello was using his gun as a pointing, forgetting to turn on safety, "the man your friend killed was Ciracio Isaia. He was one of our only Italian translators. If we run into any Italian speaking Confederate Officers now, I am putting the blame on you."

Cooper shrugged, "So you're our waiting party?"

"Yes," nodded Marcello grimly. The rest of his group behind him shuffled their feet or repositioned.

"Well then, can we get to some bloody dry ground? And I am sure you commies have deodorant hidden somewhere."

6:49 PM, Three miles from Hopetown
Rendevous Point, The Backlands

Explosives. Lots and lots of explosives.

The APC that the Wright Boys had ambushed stopped on a dime and was as steady as can be. But the engines howled like a half dead monkey getted penetrated. But that made no nevermind to Conrad Mercy, he loved riding up to the rendevous point in a stolen Confederate uniform at the wheel of the car. He had music blasting, one hand on the steering wheel, and a stupid look on his face; all that was missing was hydrolics.

All nine Wright Boys were there, accompanied by thirteen of the communists provided by Marcello. Most of the communists were dressed in regular attire, looking like mine workers digging all day. The younger members were pretending to be children of the older members, everyone in the group had a story. Two of the rebels, other than Marcello, weren't dressed like workers; rather, one was dressed like a business man and the other had the same Confederate uniform on as Conrad did.

The Wright Boys, excluding Cooper and Os, were dressed to fit right in the communists. Once they started merging with the train going crowd, the disguise would work out perfect. Cooper and Os had the most elaborate disguise, wearing business suits, they had brown leather breifcases filled with all of the essentials for a travelling salesman. Down to the business cards. Cooper was a major soda salesman, Os his assistant. They never went anywhere without each other and Marcello. Marcello was a paper salesman that they would coincidentally sit across from on the train and get to talking. Everything would go as planned. Eight of the Wright Boys and twelve of the commies would get to Redemption by train.

Conrad and his communist partner would get there by more dangerous means.

"Take care of ol' Betsy," Os presented Conrad his battered, bloody baseball bat as if some religious artifact, sacred and fragile. Conrad thrust it into the trunk of the APC with the rest of the weapons.

Marcello fastened his tie, "You will meet up with two black rebels in a truck, out side of the armoury, that I bribed. After you detonate the bombs they were speed off in the opposite direction. No doubt, the dumbass mercs will follow in toe. From there, with our weapons and the weapons, ammo, and stores you stole from the armoury, you will meet up with us in a train station just outside of Redemption."

Conrad nodded and took a leap off the APC, "And who do I got coming along with me?"

"Dacre Tius, here, will go with you. While in the armoury, be positive to grab at least one SVD and a PSO-1 scope. Grab a couple machine guns and a shit ton of ammunition."

"You mean assault rifles, I'm not lugging something like a fucking M2 Browning because you don't know what a real fucking machine gun is."

Marcello waved his banter off, "Whatever, get lots of guns and lots of ammunition and survive the damn trip. And if you find one of those bags with like a hundred cigarettes, grab that too."

"Will do. Dacre, get in the fucking APC, we're off to the armoury."

Conrad hopped into the APC as Dacre climbed in on the other side. He quickly revved up the vehichle and with a big laugh that made Dacre and Marcello, alike, uncomfortable, drove off. Os, Cooper, and a few others came up to Marcello who seemed to have an infinite number of answers, they began to converse for the short amount of time they had to spare.

"You know, Coops, this is the first time in what, a year?, that I haven't had Betsy on my person. I feel empty, like nothing man."

"Well Os, I am sure you can kill a man with your bare hands and without Betsy," said Cooper with a grin and chuckle. He looked at Marcello reassuringly, who only rolled his eyes at him.

[Blackhelm Confederacy]

As the intruders into the backlands were making their way about the country, one of the Communists had come into the camp of Gaius Whiterobe. He was a very lucky man having not ben shot on sight, but he promised to make it worth the Confederacy's time if they let him life. As it turns out, the poor rebel that was shot back in the swamps was this boys father, and this boy had taken some bit of dislike to these foreigners looking to cause problems in the Confederacy. The boy told Gaius everything he had heard, starting with what he heard about the massacre on the bridge, right down to the time the train was supposed to pull up in Paradise City.

Gaius was not sure whether or not he could trust the Commie, but he knew if he did not that he would be in a ton of trouble with th higher ups. So he took the boy, and hopped a chopper ride to the capital. Once there, he quickly got together a group of men, and headed down to the train station. The kid would be responsible for pointing out who the intruders were, and the rest of the team would move in for the kill. The boy was now standing on the platform, waiting for that doomed train to pull in, and all around the station uniformed and undercover men, as well as Whiterobe in his full military attire loitered about, looking inconspicuous as they awaited their prey.

Meanwhile, the group making their way to attack the arsenal had been virtually left out of the equation. They had not mattered nearly as much to Gaius, who was far more concerned with protecting his capital than some backwater dump in the Backlands, and around the depot nothing was out of place. Guards, dopey as always sat around, smoking and talking amongst themselves. They were surprisingly relaxed for having a post out in the middle of hell, but with all that they had seen over the years, all of that hell had grown to become normal. Now nothing....well almost nothing, would phase them.