To Struggle in the Way of Allah (PMT/Invite Only; ATTN NFE)

by **Blakullar** » Thu Aug 14, 2014 12:37 pm

~ To Struggle in the Way of Allah ~

PROLOGUE
GATCHINA COMMAND CENTRE, THE MECHANOCRACY OF RUSSIA.
DATE: 14/08/2150 AD.

It was well into the night when a meeting of the Military Council, the Government body that addressed affairs relating to the Mecharussian Armed Forces, was called in the war room of the Gatchina Command Centre in Sunikagrad. Gathered around the holographic video feed floating above the circular table - the room's only light source, illuminating the area with a dull red haze - were the Supreme Commanders of the four branches of the Mecharussian Armed Forces.

There was Grand Marshal Gordon Kravchenko, supreme commander of the Red Army, a blond-haired man with chiselled facial features and lightly-glittering red optical prosthetics. On his left was Grand Marshal Arkhip Abdulov, supreme commander of the Aerofleet, a wizened, bald-headed man with a thin, silvery moustache that crossed his upper lip and dark jade optics. To his right was Grand Marshal Xenia Grigoryeva, supreme commander of the Airforce, an older, short-haired woman bearing a quad-optic prosthesis whose optics darted with the gaze of an eagle. Finally, on the opposite side, was General Nicanor Kolesnikov, supreme commander of the Cyberforce, a man of diminutive stature that betrayed little about his formidable intellect. Behind each were three staff officers from their respective branches, several of whom were taking notes as secretaries. All were wearing the standard military uniform for senior officers, black trench jackets with a gold trim.

Addressing the congregation of military officers was a statuesque woman, towering to a height of close to two metres. She bore raven-black hair, piercing blood-red cybernetic optics and a pallid, onyx-lipped beauty whose grace was dealt no favours by the stolid gaze of authority that burnished her countenance. She was dressed in lithe black and silver powered armour, the matt-black skull-shaped pommel of a sword arising from its scabbard hooked to the right side of her belt. Her most distinctive feature, however, was the crimson hood that draped her head and the cloak that flowed down her back and over both of her shoulders. General Elena Trotskaya, the commander of the Special Purpose Guard Brigade, the most powerful of the legendary Chthonian warriors, and the chief administrator of the Mecharussian intelligence services.

On her right stood her military second-in-command, Colonel Victor Golovkin, a man rumoured to have a much more personal relationship with Trotskaya than merely professional. Standing to two hundred and two centimetres, three taller than his commanding officer, his hair was arranged into a dark brown mullet, the hairline currently demarcated by the blue-tinted goggles that were atop his head. The perpetual hard-faced expression and assorted dents and scratches all around what pieces of power armour not hidden by a small grey shawl over his shoulder stayed faithful to his assertion that he was more of a soldier than a commander, this being the prime reason for his selection to lead the Spetsnaz' Alfa Group rather than one of its five battalions.

The stern faces of the military commanders were fused to the hologram, the dull racket of gunfire filling the room as the live feed from a camera-bot in the Middle East progressed. Bodies were piled into what appeared to be a marketplace by the hundred, riddled with barrages of snapping bullets tearing them to pieces. Abruptly, the feed paused at the click of a button on the remote control in Trotskaya's right hand.

"This incident in Qalat Dizah, Kurdistan is similar to the one that transpired not three days ago, in Hawijah," the General spoke in her crisp, assertive alto. "We have reason to believe that elements of al-Qaida have commenced some kind of ethnic cleansing campaign. And we have no reason to believe that this will be localised to just Kurdistan either..."

With a click of a button, the focus of the hologram was switched from the events of Qalat Dizah to a still image, a satellite view of the creation in the sand of what appeared to be a mass grave.

"This is, or rather was, Bandar-e-Ganaveh in southwestern Iran, where there is a high Shia population," the General continued. "Last Monday, there was an attack very similar in conduct to the one in Kurdistan here."

"Your point being...?" spoke out the figure opposite Trotskaya, slouching in a chair with a smouldering cigarette hanging from a port in the side of his silver gas mask. Grand Curator Prokhor Stahlrim, the Mechanocracy's head of government, dressed in a sumptuous-looking black overcoat with a scarlet trim and brown-leather jackboots posted on the table in a resting position. The hat he was wearing, the same colour as the coat, bore a silver hammer-and-sickle in a red, circular background, the emblem also featuring two white wings and tail-feathers.

"It illustrates a profound and possibly-dangerous increase in militancy within the Caliphate," Trotskaya answered. "The Committee of State Security suspects that they are preparing for war against us."

"Oh come now," Stahlrim scoffed. "Be realistic here. Do you honestly think that the Hajjis would be so stupid as to antagonise the most powerful nation on the planet? Zealous he may be, but the Caliph isn't retarded enough to actually try his luck with a superpower!"

"Nonetheless," Trotskaya contested, "I am inclined to believe that a more comprehensive study of militant activity within the Greater Islamic Caliphate is necessary. Until we can ascertain what their ultimate plans are and why it is only now that they are beginning this genocide campaign, we should prepare for the worst."

Stahlrim just shrugged, the lights of his eyes changing in shape to downward-facing crescents.
"I invite you to prove me wrong, but I still don't think you'll find anything more interesting there than some old imam having it off with either a ten-year old child, a goat, or both at the same time! And even if they do kick off, just send a couple of Chthonians over there to scare them!"

At once the door flew open, prompting the two soldiers standing guard to flinch and raise their guns to the intruder.
"General Trotskaya!" a concerned-sounding female junior officer barked as she caught her breath. "Sorry to bother you, Ma'am, but your presence is needed in the situation room! It's serious!"

"I figure this meeting's adjourned, then," Stahlrim promptly spoke up as Trotskaya hastily made her way out of the war room.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Sun Aug 24, 2014 10:51 pm

LIEUTENANT HANS DURER

WATERFRONT DISTRICT, ALGIERS, EUROPEAN FEDERATION

As more of the crimson substance dripped onto the floor, the half-naked figure strewn up on the wall tensed up, hatred fueling his intense resistance.
"I am nothing but a soldier of Allah!" He gritted through his broken teeth, spraying bloody spittle on the visor of his interrogator.
The interrogator merely sighed. Cutting the HUD off of his visor, he removed his helmet, revealing his gritty, chiseled features. With his well-toned jawline, blond hair, and deep, cerulean globes, Leftenant Hans Durer had the classic look of a soldier. With a temperament to match, it was no wonder why Durer was the favored field commander of Rhine Company; the last remnant of the Hell Brigade within the elite consolidated EFed Special Forces branch...the Enforcer Corps.
Whistling a casual tune as he produced a rag, Durer asked his captive another question as he wiped the blood from his visor.
"I'll give you one last chance to tell me where it is. The truck we believe is carrying a nuclear weapon. We know you're familiar with it. We know it left your shop. We know you rigged it to smash through the blockades. Tell me...and I'll personally promise you a fair trial for your many crimes against the Federation."
"I am nothing but..." The prisoner began, only to be cut off by Durer's fist slamming straight into his face once again, sending another tooth into the maroon pool at the captive's feet and shifting the already-broken nose another few degrees.
"Do you understand just what the fuck I'm asking of you!? Huh!?" Durer yelled, instantly fuming into a blind rage, contrasting with the cool he held mere seconds before. "No more games. If you don't tell me what I want to hear RIGHT NOW, you're losing an eyeball..."
As Durer threateningly flicked his combat knife at the prisoner, he stopped, hearing the comms ring from his dropped helmet.
"We're not done. If you know what's best for you, you'd better think long and hard about what you're going to tell me..." Durer said, flipping his helmet back on.

"Danube online." The sweet, soothing, French-accented command AI Danube chirped. "Requesting all Rhine units to confirm status. Inbound for new objective."
After various mutterings of confirmation from the other Rhine units, Durer replied with a blunt "Rhine One, standing by."
After Danube confirmed all units were accounted for, comms switched over to Rhine's commanding officer; Captain Morgan Dierker. Dierker was a hardened woman, veteran of the Second Russo-European war and one of the few survivors of Grosser Priel. It was because of her retreat into the wilderness after the battle that Rhine was alive today, and why the Russians were eventually forced to settle with the few far-off territories they received instead of the complete annexation of Central and Eastern Europe. She often jokingly referred to herself as the reason the citizens of Germany and Poland weren't speaking Russian at the present, and she held the acting rank of Colonel in the Enforcer Corps, giving her far greater authority than her rank would suggest. Basically, when she was at the helm, it was wise to listen.
"Leftenant Durer..." She said through her comms, her harsh, heavy German accent echoing with authority.
"Yes ma'am?"
"Stop playing with the mechanic and take your men to Plateau street. We found the truck. Everyone else? Stand by for new orders."
"Of course..." Durer said, his eyes flashing back to the beaten mechanic. His hand reached for his holstered Walther P77 10mm pistol.
"Martyr me..." The captive said, blood still dripping from his facial orifices as Durer took aim.
"Gladly. Durer stated plainly as he squeezed the trigger, snuffing the last bit of life from the rebellious mechanic.

Emerging from the supply closet where he held his interrogation, Durer reflected on his surroundings. Filth. The citizenry of Algeria was notably impoverished compared to, say, the British or the French or the Germans. Italy would have no need of the mechanic he just put down, as their automated, half-a-million Euro Ferrari hovercars serviced themselves. The denizens of Iberia would never turn to religion out of desperation, considering all the luxury at their disposal. Durer would never see himself deployed to Scandinavia, unless it were for a nice, long weekend of flirting with Swedish women.
"Sir!" A familiar voice yelled after Durer. He turned to see Braun, his platoon sergeant. Braun was a bit older than Durer, and he too was a veteran of the war, fighting alongside Dierker. They initially had trouble getting along, as Braun didn't trust "new blood" after what his unit went through fighting against the Mechanocracy, but soon he realized that Braun wasn't a glory seeker; he legitimately earned his place here. "House has been cleaned out."
"Excellent. What have we won?"
"About a hundred Qurans, already destined for the incinerator. Various old-world small arms, including some explosives..." Braun said, eyeing the other troops moving the crates. "We also found an old American tank of all things. It's armor's been stripped, likely tacked on to our elusive truck. No wonder the blockades haven't been working..."
"Anything else?" Durer asked, sensing that Braun had something else to hide.
"Well..." Braun began, motioning Durer forward. "This...I can't explain this..."

The pair moved to another backroom, where Corporal Aeshelman stood guard.
"Looking for the prize?" The trooper asked, motioning at the door with his FN FICS assault weapon. "Go right ahead, Leftenant. I'm afraid the thing'll come to life..."
Stepping out of the way, Braun opened the door, and Durer's mouth went agape.
"Is that...?"
"Yeah..." Braun said, poking at it's eagle-like helmet. "Power armor. Not an old American suit, no...that's modern, Imperial equipment. They sure as shit didn't find this at Keylah."
Braun studied the suit for a moment, staring right into the faint lemony eyes of the insect-like helmet.
"This is a Tigress model..." Braun said, rubbing at the hard, bulky exterior of the armor, knowing full well that this mere suit had the strength of ten men and could withstand anything short of a tank shell. "The Frenks keep this design under a strict lock and key. Their Vanguards even program their suits to self-destruct if the wearer's vitals go cold for the sole purpose of keeping it out of enemy hands. How in the bloody fuck hell did they get this?"
"I can't say..." Durer said, obviously intimidated at the armor's presence. First a nuke, now the latest in Imperial military technology? What other resources have the Islamists gotten their hands on?
Durer merely sighed. He shared everyone else's concern on the matter, but he had a mission to look at. "Kahler, take your men and guard this suit with your lives. It cannot fall back into their hands. The rest of you, on me. We found the truck. We're going to get it off the street. Double time it!"

by **Blakullar** » Mon Aug 25, 2014 12:04 pm

CORPORAL YEGOR BYKOV
SENTINEL BASE, GAZIANTEP OBLAST, THE MECHANOCRACY OF RUSSIA.

"...so there I was, minding my own business..." so started a deep, guttural voice.
"Bullshit," a younger male immediately interrupted him.

"I WAAAASS!!" the gruff man protested, before shouting off to somewhere in the distance. "Pops, back me up on this!"
A prompt 'don't drag ME into this!' from where he shouted towards produced a desperate look upon his face.

"Every time you say 'I was minding my own business', Ivor Ivorovich, it later emerges that you were responsible for whatever happens next, without fail!" the youth castigated him.
"But this time I was, for reals!" the gruff man asserted.

"For reals, you say..." the youth began again, speech drizzled with sardonic derision. "So you were 'minding your own business' ... then what?"
"Okay, promise you won't be mad at me if I say..."

"What did you do?"
"Promise!"

The youth then sprouted a smirk, having to suppress a laugh.

"What ... did ... you ... do?"
"Alright, so there I was, minding my own business, when this young organic girl comes up, real pretty-lookin'..."

The two bickering men were soldiers, more specifically Privates First Class Arkady Grishenko and Ivor Bulyagin, hunched over a table in conversation as they played a game of blackjack to pass the time. Grishenko, a narrow, youthful blond man with a perpetual friendly expression on his countenance, was a rifleman of Red Army squad Kopye Two, Third Brigade of the Dnepropetrovsk Regiment under General Anton Marilov. Bulyagin, an older, stockier man with a thick brown beard, dour expression and balding head, was the team's second grenadier. They were stationed with the rest of their regiment in occupied Mecharussian Turkey, positioned at Sentinel Base near to Gaziantep, right on the southern border with the Greater Islamic Caliphate.

As Bulyagin proceeded to demonstrate the rightness of a certain prior statement of Grishenko's, another soldier stared into the south with a pair of high-power binoculars. He was another younger man, older than Grishenko but not as grizzled as Bulyagin, possessing crew-cut brunette hair and deeply focused in expression. Corporal Yegor Bykov, Kopye Two's second-in-command under Sergeant Boris Gorshkov. All three soldiers were assigned to sentry duty at Sentinel Base, manning the guard post some three hundred metres away from the main fort, Bykov with his AV-38m assault rifle leaning beside him.

Ever since the shock raid on Urfa Armoury last month by troops of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, Sentinel Base had been on high alert, in full expectation of another assault by ISIS. The different squads of the battalion had been rotated several times per week to watch over the plains in the distance, and now it was Kopye Two's turn to keep watch. Bykov's gaze was focused upon something, several kilometres away.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Grishenko spoke out when Bulyagin had finished with his explanation. "Drunkenness is no excuse to grope somebody, no matter how good-looking they were or are! You were lucky to get off with a beating!"
"You know, that's a lousy way to-"

"Shush," Bykov interrupted Bulyagin's protestation against Grishenko's profound lack of sympathy for him. He was listening in for the narrow but distinct racket of an engine. What the Corporal had spotted in the distance was three approaching clouds of dust, at the head of them the faint outlines of three rickety-looking wagons.
What then invaded his ears was indeed not the growl of an internal combustion engine, but the distant, bellowing roar of a jet engine, prompting him to search the skies with his binoculars. Mecharussian fighter aircraft were not scheduled to undertake any exercises today; if they were, then Regimental Command would let Sentinel Base know, who would in turn inform the sentries. The aircraft that Bykov was looking for could have been a civilian one, passing overhead en route to, say, Baku.
That notion was promptly mooted by the sighting of its source. A pre-war Lockheed Martin F-80 Locust stealth fighter jet, exported to Iraq before the outbreak of Great World War Three as the 'Djinn'. The swept-wing multirole fighters now composed the bulk of the Caliphate's air forces. It was from this alone that Bykov determined that a large attack was about to take place.

His next order to Bulyagin and Grishenko was curt and frantic.
"MOVE!!!"

Within five seconds of the trio shifting themselves out of the guard post at high speed, they were thrown to the ground by the shockwave of an almighty explosion, a Hellfire-IV air-to-surface missile ejected by the attacking Djinn, which in the distance promptly banked hard to the left and prepared to come around for another pass.
Another explosion, this time preceded by the whistle of a mortar shell, struck the floor directly in front of them, briefly obstructing their escape.

"MUZZIES INCOMING!!!" Bulyagin bellowed at the top of his lungs to the shut gatehouse as more shells began to rain down all around them, one striking the hard ferrocrete wall of the fort before them. Within the base itself, the alarm could be heard at full blast, and a voice over the PA system:
"ATTENTION ALL SENTINEL BASE PERSONNEL, ATTEND DEFENSIVE POSITIONS IN PREPARATION FOR AN ATTACK! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! REPEAT, ATTEND DEFENSIVE POSITIONS IN PREPARATION FOR AN ATTACK!"

"GOD IS GREEEEAAAATT!!!!"

A bloodcurdling shriek in the Arabic tongue, a war-cry from their opponents behind them as they began to overrun what had been the sentry post prior to its demolition by the attacking strike fighter. They were much closer than Bykov had anticipated, so it was more than likely that this was planned well in advance.

"GET INTO COVER!!" the Corporal barked to Bulyagin and Grishenko, motioning to a rocky outcrop just large enough for three men to hide behind, just as large numbers of charging warriors came into view behind them.

On the walls of Sentinel Base, several gun turrets mounted in pronounced embrasures turned their GShGm heavy chainguns against the invaders, the air filled with a thunderous groundswell of 14.5-millimetre bullets imposing death upon any and every Islamist who poked their heads forth. Their current focus was upon the positions of Bykov, Bulyagin and Grishenko, both sides suppressing each other with machine guns and rifles, coming from both Islamist and Mecharussian soldier. Large numbers of the latter had taken up positions on the crenellations, including two Heavy Assault troopers bringing their own tremendous chainguns to bear.

"That Djinn is coming around for another pass!!" Grishenko bellowed. Sure enough, in the split second that Bykov had to peek over the rock and take a look, he saw the strike fighter in the great distance bearing down, readied for another attack run.

What he also saw was a thin blue laser light, its source Bykov realising was a sniper aiming to take out one of the chainguns. Raising his rifle and training it upon where he spotted the flash of a scope glint, he seized the brief lapse in gunfire eroding their precious rock as the initiative that it was, and fired. With a loud thud from his rifle, a 6.8-millimetre flechette was discharged, the disappearance of the scope glint suggesting that he had popped the round through the sight.

Before he could congratulate himself on his excellent shot, however, the focus of the Islamists returned to them and a bullet ricocheting off of the rock pushed Bykov's head down. As, however, he asked himself where that jet was, a tumultuous fourfold wracking noise burst from within Sentinel Base. Not the work of an explosion, but – as the sight of the Djinn spiralling to the ground as a fireball would suggest seven seconds later – the discharge of an anti-aircraft flak battery.

Realising that the core of their support was gone, the Islamists began to depart and flee, at least if the gradual subsidence of the gunfire was any measure to go by. Bykov could only breathe a sigh of relief as salvation arrived for he and his two squadmates, who were still huddled behind the large rock.

"Guess we got more than what we bargained for, right?!" Bulyagin asked with a measure of both glee and nervousness.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Thu Aug 28, 2014 12:00 am

Waterfront, Algiers, Algeria, European Federation

Lieutenant Hans Dürer

"Rhine Central, we are in pursuit. Target confirmed to be on Plateau Street...transitioning to Dijar Highway." Dürer reported through his commlink, hanging out the side door of the Eurocopter EC500, eyes firmly glued to the semi truck recklessly speeding down the empty streets. The sight of it awed Dürer. It was more of a main battle tank than it was a transport truck at that point. The mechanic certainly spared no expense in making sure it's journey was a success. The added fact that it was a last minute job complemented the dead man's professionalism. If intelligence was to be believed, the jihadists were to simply drive up to the capital and set it off. No trouble. It was only after the Algerian Police Department shut the city down that they needed to get creative. True, nothing seemed more creative than a semi covered in modern-grade tank armor and carrying a potentially unstable nuclear device.

Dierker called again. "Rhine One, step down and proceed to a safe area." Dürer's heart sank. "Captain, with all due respect, we-"
"Step. Down." She interrupted. "There's nothing we can do. Dijar Highway is the most secluded area between here and the gates to the Capital District. They are approximately seven miles away from those gates. Once they plow through that final roadblock...millions of lives will be lost and European control in the country will be at it's end. All we can do now is set it off here and hope for the best. Rhine One, get out of there. Sparrow, do your thing." As if triggered by Dierker's words, Dürer could spot two Eurofighters zoom by and pass over the semi. "Captain...you can't mean to..." Dürer would regret this, he knew, but it was his duty. "Captain Dierker, that is a negative. We will not step down." Silence.
"Lieutenant, are you mad? I would slap you with a court martial if you weren't my best man. Step down. Now!" Dierker demanded, breaking the moment.

Dürer remained defiant. "You tasked me with taking that bomb out of commission. No matter what. I intend to follow that order and save every life in this city. Destroying the truck and setting off the nuke here will spread radiation into the Mediterranean. That's a risk the Federation can't afford to take. You know it. Just let me do this."
For a moment, another bout of silence pervaded. Then, as if guided by an invisible hand, the Eurofighters pulled back seemed to float above the three Eurocopters that held Rhine One.
"You have five minutes to seize the truck, Rhine One. After that...the truck goes. You with it, if necessary. Good luck, Dürer."

Two Days Earlier

Mount Sinjar Area, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

As Agent Hadrian Kelly, relieved himself over a cliff edge, Agent Jon Rollins took a long drag off his cigarette, casually leaning on a rock. "You know, Kelly, I wouldn't do that out here." Hadrian looked back at the older agent. "What? Why? Do you expect me to piss myself?" Rollins shrugged as he exhaled another bout of smoke. "If there's one thing I've noticed in all my years of the field, bad things happen to people when nature calls on the battlefield. I've seen many a soldier get hit by a sniper because they sneaked off to shit. Hell, I worked with this Syrian national when I first started. Real pretty gal. We were waiting around for some bigshot Al-Qaeda mole when she had to go. Fucking Camel Spider got her right on the butt as soon as she dropped her pants and squatted. You never get to know someone when you try to suck poison out of their ass." Hadrian gave a confused frown. "Camel Spiders aren't poisonous."
Rollins chuckled. "Well, twenty four year-old Jon Rollins found that out later!"

Hadrian rolled his eyes. He finished up and shook it off. He turned back towards Rollins and zipped his pants up. "So when is this friend of yours coming?" Hadrian asked, retrieving his SVU from the rock he left it leaning against. Hadrian would have preferred using modern Frenkish equipment, but since the ancient Russian and American stuff was the norm here, they needed to adapt. Anything to prevent any advanced technologies from falling into Caliphate hands. "Azad? He'll show up whenever." Rollins took one last drag off of the cigarette, getting it down to it's filter. He flicked the butt off the cliff, sending it into the valley below. "For now, we just wait."

And wait they did. Nearly two hours passed since they were airdropped near Sinjar. Rollins went through three more cigarettes, while Hadrian toyed around with his old rifle. When the prospect of another piss started to look good to Hadrian, and Rollins flicked his zippo lighter open for another smoke, footsteps could be heard on the rocks above them. Hadrian raised his rifle, keeping his scope trained on the origin of the sound. Rollins flipped the Ak-103 around to his front, just in case. As both agents prepared for the worst, about half a dozen figures climbed into view on the ledges above them. A mix of men and women. Very hard looking. Most wore green berets blazoning the flag of the Kurdish Republic in the center. They wore old military uniforms with equipment bandoliers and vests. The camouflage pattern suggested they formerly belonged to the United States Marines or something similar. All had their faces covered. Some with sunglasses and balaclavas. Others with dark face paint. Some of the painting depicted crude white skulls. Their weaponry was varied. Many carried old Kalashnikovs. Others had ancient American M4s or M16s. Hadrian recognized these militants. The Peshmerga.

Rollins nodded at Hadrian and lowered his rifle. "Azad! Show yourself, pussy! Don't make me talk to your buttboys and fuckdolls!" After a moment, the silent Peshmerga warriors stood aside for their leader. This "Azad" fellow was very large. Hadrian put him at near seven feet and well over three hundred pounds. Most of that muscle. His face was painted as well. His painted skull, however, was somehow more menacing than the others. It was more detailed and the eyes seemed to be weeping blood. His weapon of choice was an advanced Mechanocratic machine gun. Too big for most men, but it fit his hands well.
In a show of almost unbelievable agility, Azad leaped from the tall ledge onto the one Hadrian and Rollins was on, rolling when he impacted. Unscathed, Azad approached Rollins with a straight face. For a minute, Hadrian thought that Azad was about to tear Rollins in half over his comment.

Instead, Azad embraced Rollins in a deep bear hug enough to crush most any man. "Jon Fucking Rollins!" Azad boomed. "Where have you been all these years, old friend?" Azad said as they let each other go. Rollins smiled and shrugged. "Government fuckups wouldn't let me come any sooner. Now that those Muslim bastards are hammering Turkey and Algeria, those pretentious Party fucks in New Rome are beggin' ol' Jon to go back to Iraq! What has it been, Azad? Four years?"
"Five," the Kurdish giant corrected. They both chuckled lightly until Rollins pointed at the machine gun on Azad's belt.
"New toy?"
"Bought and paid for by the Mechanocracy of Russia. The jihadists were nice enough to deliver it to me! The reds are losing quite a bit of advanced equipment to their attacks. It's a good thing when their gauss-laser-nano-thingamajigs end up in our hands, but I was lucky to just get this thing. The jihadists still hold better shit. That's increased about a hundred fold with things like these," Azad raised the machine gun. "...in their ranks. Your country needs to start sending better tools if they expect us to do anything about it."

Rollins sighed. "Been saying that for years, brother. Hell, look at this!" Rollins investigated his own rifle. "They won't even give us decent equipment! You can't beat a tank with a goddamn tree branch!" Rollins shook his head and smiled. "Whatever, man. One Peshmerga with a tree branch is worth ten jihadists with plasma rifles, right?"
Azad smiled at that. "True. But a Peshmerga with a plasma rifle?" He replied. "That's almost like cheating, I guess."

The two old friends laughed at each other's insight. Rollins then noticed Hadrian, whom he apparently forgot existed. "Hadrian, this is Captain Azad, Kurdistan's local badass. It's just Azad." The Kurdish warrior shrugged. "Who has time for surnames? I forgot mine long ago, funny enough."
"Azad, this is Agent Hadrian Kelly. The IIA's new asskicker and my new fuckbuddy." Hadrian rolled his eyes as Azad grabbed his hand. The man certainly had a grip. After they were done shaking hands, Rollins diverted his attention to the mountain range beyond.
"They've been slaughtering my people," Azad said, joining Rollins in his sightseeing. "They've always kept the food shipments from coming in, and they patrol the villages regularly, hanging any of our sympathizers they could find, but they never outright attack. You know how it is. They didn't want to deal with us when they had infighting to worry about." It was true. The Caliphate was barely a unified country. There were untold amounts of jihadist militias terrorizing the populace, but they were always fighting one another. Al-Qaeda and their Taliban goons hated the Islamic State. They both hated the Saudi Kingdom. The Kurdish, Yazidis and other formerly persecuted groups lived relatively peacefully, although uncomfortably, due to the vigilance of the Peshmerga and other anti-Islamist insurgencies. However, now...something was going down. Something big.

"We have reason to believe the same Taliban death squad that wiped out the innocents in Qalat Dizah will be stopping at the Yazidi encampments near the foot of Sinjar. No doubt with violent intentions. We've already evacuated most of the locals out of harms way in the caves with enough food and water to last them until the squad is dealt with. My other comrades are concealed along the mountain paths, reporting the squad's every move. They'll fall upon Sinjar by nightfall." Rollins strapped his rifle on and looked to Azad, the first time Hadrian noticed, with a serious frown. "Then I know where we're going. Get your warriors ready. Your people will have justice."

by **Blakullar** » Thu Aug 28, 2014 2:28 am

GENERAL ELENA TROTSKAYA
GATCHINA COMMAND CENTRE, TSENTRAL'NYY SUNIKAGRAD, THE MECHANOCRACY OF RUSSIA.

"So what was this serious matter that you wished to address me about, Captain?" Trotskaya enquired as she and the junior Cyberforce officer pored over a screen in the situation room.
"We're picking up a live feed from a spybot that we deployed to Algiers," the adjutant answered, typing on the computer's keyboard. "Listen in on this, see what you think, General..."

Leaning over the screen and listening in, Trotskaya caught wind of the ongoing conversation. Garbled on account of the weak signal, there was only a handful of words that came through, but what was spoken from the computer's stereo systems described Dijar Highway, a speeding truck, Eurofighters, and...

"A nuclear warhead?" Trotskaya asked, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Strategic scale?"
"That's what they're suggesting, Ma'am," the captain answered. "It could be a warhead stolen from Keylah after it got trashed. Or perhaps Urfa."

"Keep tabs upon the situation, Captain," the General promptly ordered, "and inform me of any new developments that arise. I shall take it upon myself to inform the Military Council of this threat."
"Yes, Ma'am!" the captain nodded and set off to undertake her latest orders.

"General!" another adjutant appeared, this time a male bearing an electronic tablet. "We've just received reports of an attack on Sentinel Base in Turkey!"
"An attack?" Trotskaya turned her head to him.
"Yes, Ma'am," he confirmed. "One strike fighter, three truckloads of footsoldiers. The Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant is already claiming responsibility for it. Orders, Ma'am?"

The General's left brow furrowed upward at once.
"Islamic State?"

"Yes, Ma'am," the officer spoke again. "The Caliphate's Amaq news agency has a full report on the attack."
"Show me this report of which you speak," Trotskaya bluntly commanded.

Over the next ten seconds, she would scan through the contents of the tablet handed to her. The soldiers beside her took a step back as they watched her expression slowly crease and eyes to flare up in an exhibition of mounting anger, even Golovkin jerking his head back as the darkness of the situation room seemed to expand around the glowing red supergiants that were Trotskaya's eyes, brimming with escalating fury.

"...as soon as I have informed the Council of what is going on in Algiers, get me a connection to my command vessel."
"Right away, Ma'am!" the adjutant very quickly responded to the General's order.

As Trotskaya made her way out of the room, black-armoured troops and Golovkin close by her side, a man and a woman watched her as she and her warriors marched past. The man was bald and stocky, with a small beard covering his chin and sideburns. The woman had brunette, bun-tied hair and glittering red optical augmentations upon her youthful countenance. The red band around the arm of the man, bearing a silver hexagon with four black stripes, enunciated his rank as a Sergeant; the woman's had eight stripes, stating that she was an Aerofleet captain.
"Looks like we're going to get called up back to the carrier, Cap..." the man gruffly announced.

"Don't be like that, Sergeant," the woman crisply responded. "Think about it: what's the worst that could happen?"
"We could end up catapulted into some alternate reality and you could end up possessed by an alien ghost," the sergeant responded.

The captain merely rolled her eyes and shook her head in derision.
"Something leads me to believe that probably won't happen, Sergeant."

by **New Frenco Empire** » Sat Aug 30, 2014 4:42 am

Dijar Highway, Algiers, Algeria, European Federation

Lieutenant Hans Dürer

The Eurofighter Maelstroms glided above the truck, ready to pounce. However, they had their orders. Dürer had five minutes. Now...how was he going to spend it?
He ordered the VTOL pilot to descend near the truck. They would simply have to jump on and move to disable from there. Five minutes, clean and easy. As the VTOL lowered, Dürer noticed some movement on the semi, out of the corner of his eye. A hatch leading to the top of the trailer from the inside opened up, allowing two armored men through. Their equipment was easily recognized. More Mechanocratic gear. Great.
They didn't wear the power armor with any sort of professionalism. Dürer could spot areas of skin where the jihadis didn't put it on right. One of them couldn't even fit the helmet. Still, even with it just thrown on, a fighter donning Mechanocratic armor was no pushover.

One of the VTOL's door gunners lowered the beam turret down from it's ceiling cradle, swiveling the base pad until the turret was aimed towards the truck. The gunner fired off a continuous red beam of energy towards the men on top, but missed, striking a plate of black armor instead. It seems a small trench-like fortification was built atop the trailer for just this situation. Clever bastards.
One of the jihadists ran to a tarp-covered "mound" near the front of the trailer. He quickly ripped the tarp off, revealing that it wasn't a mound of any sort up top. It was a crude turret. From Dürer's point of view, it looked to be nothing more than two M2HBs duck-taped together and slapped on a pivoting base.
The jihadist dodged another beam and slid behind the turret. He raised it towards the VTOL. Instead of falling back behind the door like everyone else, the door gunner attempted to squeeze off another laser.

As the beam shot out, a hail of fifty caliber bullets tore into the side of the VTOL and the gunner's body. A bit of his blood splashed onto Dürer's visor. He attempted to reach out and grab him, but another burst from the machine guns kept him in the safety of the doors while the gunner's corpse flopped out of the side of the VTOL, falling onto the cracked pavement below. Dürer cursed under his breath. He managed to reach over and pull the beam cannon towards him, narrowly avoiding another hail of .50s. One of the rounds struck the battery compartment, causing the acid to drip down the gun and the life-meter's light to flash. "Left gun's fried!" He yelled to the pilot. "Just like the guy that was on it..."
"Menels is dead? Shit." The pilot replied. "Lieutenant, time is running short and we've already lost a man. Whatever you're going to do, do it now!"
Dürer sighed and raised his FICS. "Bring us lower. Right next to that emplacement!"
"Bu-"
"That's an order!"

The pilot hesitantly complied, gently maneuvering the VTOL in Dürer's desired direction. "Grenades! As soon as you see it, blow that bastard straight to his god!" He barked to the Kommandos inside the VTOL. Everyone hesitantly complied, with the faint "click" of their rifles' firing modes being switched to fire the 20mm grenades.
The VTOL eventually glided downwards to it's intended height. It began to inch forward. "You are the best goddamn group of men and women I have ever had the privilege of commanding and serving with! We'll stop these lunatics or die trying!" Dürer could feel the rage brewing inside of him. He was leading a suicide mission that the entire country depended on. He didn't care, though. He embraced it. Just this once...he needed it.

"URRAHHH!!!!!!!" He yelled at the top of his lungs as the turret came into view, not ten feet away from him. His screaming was drowned out by the signature "BLOOMP" of the grenades being fired and the subsequent explosions.

BLOOMP! BLOOMP! BOOM! BLOOMP! BOOM! BOOM!

He fired his grenades wildly, most not striking their intended target and bursting mid-air well away from it. However, the force of eight Kommandos unloading their rifle grenades eventually took it's toll. By the time Dürer emptied his clip and calmed down, he noticed that the emplacement was torn off the hinges and awkwardly hanging off the side of the truck. The turret's gunner was nowhere to be found. Most likely blown off the truck. They did it. They had a window.
"Emplacement's gone! Bring us in closer! We'll hop on and finish it!"

But it wasn't that easy. It never was

"Could have sworn there was another guy..." One of the Kommandos wondered. "We must have got him in that barrage..." Replied another. Dürer was wondering that himself, but there was no need to worry. Besides...that little grenade bombardment...it was too crazy not to work, right?

The VTOL gently lowered itself and caught up with the speed of the semi. Dürer switched the magnets in his boots on so he would be sure to latch. He was the first one to jump on. He stumbled as his feet latched on to the black metal, but he quickly got his bearings and switched the magnets off. As another Kommando was about to leap, one of the ones leaning out of the VTOL yelled something that faintly resembled "look out!"

Dürer shifted his gaze to the right to see the missing second jihadist, RPG-7 in his hands.

Dürer yelled for the pilot to pull out, but it was too late. The rocket zoomed forwards and impacted right on the inside of the rotor. Dürer was blown backwards off the side of the truck. He could feel the shrapnel strike him at several points. Most of it was caught by the electro-reactive vest, but some of it pierced through and even impaled him. His combat visor went dark as he could feel blood drip down from his head onto his face.
Miraculously, just before he slammed against the road, he yelled the proper voice command for his magnetized gloves. He slapped against the trailer, latching on. His body flailed desperately until he managed to yell for his boots to activate and latch them on as well.
As he recollected himself, he spotted the VTOL out of the corner of his eye. It's left rotor was completely gone, replaced by a gout of fire and smoke. It was flying much higher, spinning wildly, attempting to maintain stability. Dürer's radio was badly damaged, so he could only catch bits and pieces.
"Rhi-...-osing...-own...-ace...-pact!"

Dürer watched as the EC500 crashed to the hard pavement and went up a fiery storm of shrapnel and smoke. With that went a good chunk of his platoon. Normally, his rage might have set in by now...but it was oddly peaceful. No violent thought thoughts or screaming. It was odd, but he didn't have time to wonder about it. He just sighed and continued climbing.
He climbed over the trailer and looked to the man who killed his men and almost did him in as well. He was laying sprawled across the back of the trailer, bloodied and dismembered. It was no wonder. He shot the rocket at near point-blank range. He sacrificed himself for whatever batshit crazy ideal he believed in. Dürer could only hope he didn't have to do the same.

Dürer gave a wave at the Maelstroms circling above. He then felt around for his rifle, but noticed the strap had snapped. Likely burned away in the explosion. He cursed and instead put his hand on his holstered P77. He vaulted over the emplacement area and onto the cab of the truck. After steadying himself, he inched over to the edge of the cab and looked down to the passenger side door. He carefully dropped onto the railing next to the door.
However, before he could pull his pistol out, the door forcefully opened, nearly knocking Dürer off the truck once more.

However, Dürer saw it coming. He kept his feet firmly planted on the railing and pushed back against the door. After forcing it shut again, he slammed his elbow into the tinted window, shattering it. Inside the truck, he spotted two men. The driver was covered by a hood, but the passenger was visible. A young Algerian with short black hair and a thin mustache dressed in business casual and a bulletproof vest. Dürer could only guess what his story was.
The younger, well-dressed jihadist reached inside the glove box of the truck and pulled out a Skorpion. Without aiming, he pointed the gun in Dürer's direction and began firing wildly, praying for a kill.
Dürer ducked under the window, narrowly missing the bullets as they whizzed over his head. He took a deep breath and put his hand towards the door handle. In the blink of an eye, he opened the door and dove inside the truck, right on the jihadist.

The jihadist was pushed to the middle, pushing right against the driver. It didn't seem to bother him, though, as he just kept his hands firmly on the wheel and his eyes on the road.
Dürer's opponent attempted to put the gun to his head, but Dürer gave him a struggle. He grabbed the other's gun hand with his own right hand and used his left to push against his free arm. After a moment of shoving and biting, Dürer eventually pushed the machine pistol's barrel right against the jihadist's chin. He quickly forced his trigger finger down, forcing the young jihidist to shoot himself right in the brain.
Dürer pushed the corpse out of the truck and closed the door. He unholstered his P77 and aimed it at the cloaked driver's head.

"Stop the truck! NOW!" Dürer yelled, pushing the pistol's barrel against the man's forehead. Without any sort of fight or protest, the truck slid to a complete halt. Dürer was surprised, but relieved.
"I suppose you think you've won, haven't you...?" The driver said in a quiet, raspy voice. Dürer remained silent, but kept the gun pointed at him. The driver's voice seemed to match him well. He was a small man covered in a huge roughspun cloak, covering everything save for a pair of little wrinkled hands.
"Your cause never wins." Dürer muttered.
"My cause won here." Replied the driver.
"What do you mean? I stopped your bomb. We're sitting well away from your target."

The driver cackled. "Is that what you think? Do you sincerely believe this truck is carrying a bomb? Do you think the Caliphate is that foolish?"
Dürer shrugged. "Honestly? Yes. Your little country is nothing more than a wasteland populated by superstitious lunatics who can't stop fighting one another long enough to threaten us. This was your lucky break but you failed."
The driver shook his head and removed his hood, showing his face. He was an elderly man, eighty at the most conservative estimate. His brown face was little more than a small pair of weathered eyes shadowed by wrinkles. "The Taliban...the Saudi Kingdom...Al-Qaeda...the Islamic State...they are not the Caliphate. They are merely followers of the true kingdom of Allah. To struggle in the way of Allah, they all do, but they don't represent us. No, they are merely soldiers following orders from people like I."
Dürer shoved the pistol farther into the side of his head. "I've heard all sorts of your kind say things. 'Allah this' and 'Allah that'. You're no different. You're just like the others. And like the other's I've met, you'll soon be dead. Just like them."

The old man gave another dry laugh. "I've been dead since I became God's soldier, boy. Your ignorance and threats do not phase nor scare me. Your heretical nations will soon find this out, but I'll be dead by the time that happens. I'll proceed to Jannah while the wrath of Allah burns away the stench of this ungodly world. Frenco...Russia...Europe. All of them."
Dürer grinned. "Is that it? More jihadist bullshit. I should have known you'd have nothing interesting to say..."
The old man smiled. "I do admit. My comrades are often zealous in their endeavors. However, there is evidence to back my relevance. The Caliphate is rising. Brothers in Islam are no longer taking up arms against each other. Instead, they are turning their guns towards the heretics and non-believers in unity. The New Prophet saw it in his vision. We are unity and there is nothing you can do to stop it."
Dürer tried to disregard his words, but he couldn't help but think on them. There had to be some truth in there. As of late, the Caliphate's factions weren't fighting one another. The genocides inside their territory resumed and their attacks against foreign nations drastically increased. Something was going on.

However, that didn't mean anything right now. "Whatever, old man. Your club might be getting a little more productive, but you still lost this day."
"Did I?"
"The truck has stopped, hasn't it?"
The old man frowned. "Have you not been listening to a word I've said? The Caliphate has unified. Speeding down the road with a bomb in a trailer is something a Muslim militia would do. It isn't something a proper Muslim empire does. We are no longer the former. Only the latter. This truck was merely a ruse."
Dürer struck the old man with the base of his pistol's grip. "Liar! It has to be here! Where else could it be?"
The old man recovered and rubbed some of the blood off of his bald head. He then began hysterically giggling.
"Right under your noses. Should be in place about now. Allah is great."

He produced a small remote from inside his cloak. Dürer put the gun back to his head. "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!" He yelled as he pulled the trigger.
The 10mm round went through the old man's head and sprayed his blood all over the window.
However, his thumb was quicker than Dürer's shooting.

The sounds of the bullet and the yelling were drowned out in the loudest explosion he had ever heard, following the brightest light that he had ever seen. Just as Dürer spotted the mushroom cloud over the horizon, all of the lights of the Algiers skyline went dark, drowning the city in the night sky and forcing Dürer in a queer darkness.

by **Blakullar** » Sat Aug 30, 2014 7:53 am

GENERAL ELENA TROTSKAYA
ABOARD THE MECHARUSSIAN SURFACE SHIP ZMEY, VELIKIY SUNIKAGRAD, THE MECHANOCRACY OF RUSSIA.

General Trotskaya was in the conference room of her command vessel, the Mecharussian Surface Ship Zmey, an ekranoplane based currently at Kronstadt District in Velikiy Sunikagrad. At present, she was speaking to a holographic figure in military fatigues; judging by his appearance, he must have been an Arab. A silvering brown beard covered his chin, a prominent crimson optical prosthetic was present in his right eye and a menacing, three-fingered power claw replaced his left hand.

"I want answers, Saqqaf!" she barked at the hologram before her in the Arabic tongue. "And I would very much like them now!"
"My most sincere apologies, General," Saqqaf responded in a grating Iraqi accent, "but the order to attack Sentinel Base was not mine! These commands came from the very top!"

"What do you mean, 'the very top'?" Trotskaya angrily demanded. "The Caliph?!"
"I'm afraid so, General," the Arab confirmed.

"Why is he interfering in your affairs?" the General seethed. "He has not been active for years. What is stirring him to act now?!"
"That is something I'm trying to work out myself," Saqqaf answered. "I'm aware of what went on in Algiers yesterday, and of the numerous attacks against the Shiites and the Kurds..."

"The question is for what purpose is he orchestrating these attacks?" Trotskaya queried. "What does he have to gain from antagonising both superpowers?"
"Like I said, I shall do my best to find out, but I can't guarantee straight answers!" the Arab grumbled in protest at Trotskaya's impatience. "I can only work so quickly!"

"For now," the General continued in a much calmer voice, "I want you only to obstruct the Caliph's interference where possible. As long as he continues, there remains the very real possibility that the Imperials may learn of our project..."

"How would they do that?"
"I expect that, following the nuclear bombing of Algiers, they shall call an imminent emergency meeting. Intelligence sources suggest that they will vote overwhelmingly for war, as will the People's Senate over here. If they are able to sink their claws into Syria, then they may discover the cores. If that happens, then our cover will be blown and it could start another world war."

"I see," Saqqaf mumbled. "So how do you want me to handle the removal of the package?"
"Let me worry about that," Trotskaya averred. "I shall see to the provision of the necessary alibi to get the package moved offworld. In the meantime, I will also see the commencement of the next phase of the project."

"You have a subject already?!" the visibly-dumbstruck Arab enquired.
"Not yet," answered the General. "If, however, this trip to Kurdistan proves fruitful, then expect results within the next few days..."

Ten minutes later, Trotskaya would make her way to the National People's Senate, having been summoned alongside Grand Marshal Gordon Kravchenko. At his side were two staff officers, and at hers Golovkin, all faces ever-stern as they emerged from the elevator to the entrance of the Convention Hall. After having their identities confirmed by the guards and waved through the doors, they were presented with a vast amphitheatre-like structure, surrounding the central podium where the present speaker would address the Senate, the Grand Curator presiding over the meeting in the same capacity as a parliamentary speaker. Overhead, the congregation was surrounded by a transparent spherical structure, held intact by a hexagonal lattice. The massive sphere was suspended some two kilometres off of the ground between the bifurcated Senate Tower, held in place by an array of durasteel beams and armoured to withstand aerial attack.

"Silence, everyone!" Grand Curator Stahlrim loudly addressed the congregation as they muttered amongst themselves. "We are here to discuss a solution to this predicament! Who here is actually afraid of these child-shaggers? I sure ain't!"

"Perhaps not those 'child-shaggers' themselves, as you fancy terming them," one senator angrily addressed the Curator, "but what about 'child-shaggers' with NUCLEAR WEAPONS and a penchant for USING said nuclear wea-"

"SILENCE!!!" Stahlrim suddenly exploded with no prior warning whatsoever. "What did I just say? WHAT DID I JUST FUCKING SAY?!!"
"Err..." the offending senator spoke out, confused. "My apologies, Grand Curator, bu-"

"BUT NOTHING!!!!" Stahlrim yelled at him, eyes flaming red with fury. "WE ARE GOING TO FIND A SOLUTION TO THE CALIPHATE PROBLEM!! OUR COUNTRY IS STRONG ENOUGH TO WITHSTAND WHATEVER THESE ANTS CAN THROW AT US!! AND THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT WE WILL DO!! NOW, WHAT I AM GOING TO DO IF YOU TRY MOUTHING OFF TO ME AGAIN AND CAUSING A TRANS-GALACTIC SHITSTORM IS BREAK YOUR LEG OFF INSIDE YOUR ASS!!! HAVE I MADE MY-FUCKING-SELF CLEAR?!!!"

"Yes." The reprimanded senator gave a weak whimper as he slinked back into his chair.

"Good, because I thought for a second there we had a problem," Stahlrim continued as though nothing had happened, optics returning to a cool mustard. "Now! In case you were all too busy shitting yourselves to notice, our guests have arrived for the information we need! General Trotskaya, will you do us the honour of starting off?"

"Yes, Grand Curator," she stood from her seat and proceeded to walk to the centre-stage, Stahlrim yielding his position for her. Everyone in the room focused their beady attentions onto her as she cleared her throat and began to talk.

"From the information that the military has acquired over the past few days, we know that the Greater Islamic Caliphate has begun a large-scale purge of undesirables, most notably Kurds, Shiites and Christians. Judging by the numerous attacks we have experienced in Turkey in the same time scale, we believe that the purge is a possible means to train their recruits, as well as skirmishes that we have gained knowledge of between Caliphate soldiers and Kurdish militiamen known as the Peshmerga. We also believe that the Caliphate is preparing for total war with the European Federation, the Mechanocracy and possibly even the United Dominion of Asian Peoples. The nuclear attack in Algiers has confirmed at least the former, though we have yet to confirm if they intend to undertake invasions of both the Federation and the Mechanocracy at the same time."

With Trotskaya commandeering the hologram projector and unveiling a map of the Greater Islamic Caliphate, the area demarcating the country began to turn an ominous blue as the colouration began to creep from the western side to the east.

"This raises the concern that both the Federation and their allies, the Frenkish Empire, will retaliate with a full invasion and occupation of the Caliphate, preceding an installation of a puppet government. We believe that, at this stage, this is the most likely scenario after the bombardment of Algiers. It has been deemed of critical importance that we prevent the Westerners and especially the Imperials from acquiring a third front against the Mechanocracy in the Middle East. In order to achieve this end, the Military Council believes that it would be prudent to launch our own offensive into Caliphate territory and create a buffer zone stretching into the Persian Gulf and the Arabian Sea."

"You're suggesting all-out war," one of the Defence Ministry secretaries stood up and addressed Trotskaya. "How can you be certain that this won't devolve into a messy affair, especially since we've fought Islamists before and lost horribly?"

"Firstly," the General addressed the incoming concern, "you are referring to a war that came to an end one hundred and sixty-one years ago. The doctrine of the Mecharussian Armed Forces is more than merely marginally different to that of the Soviet Armed Forces. On the same topic, there is the matter that the standard tactics and strategies utilised by the Caliphate have been largely unchanged since the twenty-first century, meaning that we know what we are fighting against. Unless you mean to tell me, secretary, that the Southern Defensive Command Bureau which you chair has not been paying attention for the past fifty-nine years...?"

The secretary slinked back into his chair, his concern having not only been allayed, but turned against him with all of the speechcraft from General Trotskaya of a well-trained political debater.

"Secondly," she continued, "I have already made mention to you of the threat posed by advancing Frenkish and European forces. If my agents within the Committee of State Security are to be believed, then the Imperial Council of Whips has already convened to address the issue. After the debacle in Algiers, they will vote overwhelmingly for war. There is no better time to act than now. And finally, there is also an ideological case for an invasion of the Caliphate..."

Oh boy, here we go...

So thought Kravchenko as he zoned out of Trotskaya's regurgitation of classic dogmatic quotations from the Manifesto of Mechanocracy. About 'emancipation' and all of the rest of what the old marshal had clandestinely forsaken as yet another example of the pointless mass murder that defined this wretched world. She would gleefully trot out such garbage for the cameras, having next to no regard for the lives that shed blood and tears so that she could speak so highly of that wretched Ideology...

Kravchenko would never forgive her for Grosser Priel. Out of mere conscience, he could not. Five thousand men were sent to take that infernal mountain fortress. Five hundred returned after its seizure. All because Trotskaya had had the notion to charge a whole armoured brigade with a sword. The marshal was the only military officer in the whole MAF who did anything but applaud the Red Tigress for her 'stunning' victory, conveniently forgetting about the four thousand five hundred men, women, boys and girls who never came home to watch those sycophantic stooges lick the blood off of her sabatons. All while he, in the secrecy of his Central Sunikagrad home, lit a candle in prayer for the wellbeing of the fallen. The only reason that he even continued as a military officer was so that, at least if another war broke out, he could grant those who served under him a war that perhaps would not be so hellish as loathed Trotskaya's horrific vision of it.

Even as the sea of hands arose from all around him, every foolish senator in this room giving their assent to yet another godforsaken quagmire to get stuck into, Kravchenko contemplated that awful vision while virtually stewing with simmering anger.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Wed Sep 03, 2014 12:05 am

Waterfront, Algiers, Algeria, European Federation

Lieutenant Hans Dürer

Dürer stepped out of the truck into the darkness that now surrounded him. The detonation knocked out all of Algiers' power and the only source of light around him was the flaming skyline in the distance. He could feel the ground shake and the buildings on the horizon continue to collapse. Only then did he grasp it. He failed. He swore to his troops and to his superiors that Algiers would suffer none this day. What happened? Why? How? The Caliphate was never a threat. This was the closest they would ever get, and even then, the bravery of the Kommandos would take that chance away. It always played out like that. Except now...

The glorious, massive Dijar Highway that connected the city was nothing more than a darkened country road now. Dürer couldn't see anything a meter ahead of him. He attempted to yell the command for night vision, but he had forgotten his tactical visor had busted during the struggle to board the truck. Cursing, he dug into his utility belt and pulled out the flashlight. He flicked it on and looked around. Nothing except pavement and busted lights. He sighed, turned the light off and dug out a glow stick. He cracked it in his hands, letting the heavy bright-blue florescence emit it's soft glow. He threw it at his feet and plopped down next to it.

Sitting on the ground, he looked up to the night sky. Surprisingly, the stars had shown themselves in response to the absence of the light pollution. He had never seen so many before. In the wake of this catastrophe, Dürer couldn't think of a single thing more beautiful. For the first time all day, Dürer smiled and gave a light laugh. If there was a God, his way of showing Dürer the natural beauties of this world were demented, yet fitting.

Dürer wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He felt for his holster until his fingers clasped around the grip of his P77. He pulled out the pistol and looked over it. The Walther P77 was a beautiful weapon. So sleek and modern. Dürer loved the sidearm as much as a man could love a gun. It seemed only fitting that this would be his fate. He cocked it back one last time.

...

Meanwhile, Platoon Sergeant Albert Braun struggled in aiding the EC500 pilot from her cockpit.
"Can't feel my damn leg...must be broken." She moaned as Braun attempted to pull her hand out.
"Shit... He muttered. "Our medic was killed in the crash. Our best bet would be to wait for morning."
"That's what I want to do, Sergeant. Wait in her until morning, potentially absorbing enough radiation to make my piss glow!"
Braun shrugged. "The blast was far enough away." He was surprised about that as anyone could have been. They were close enough to the truck. They should have been vaporized if the bomb really was there. Instead, Braun saw the mushroom cloud rising over the skyline in the distance.

Braun witnessed Dürer's EC500 get annihilated, but he remembered seeing him; the sole survivor of the boarding. He had to still be alive somewhere...

Braun reassured the pilot that everything would be alright. He walked towards the little makeshift camp formed next to the downed VTOL. The perimeter was kept lit by a mixture of flares and glow sticks, while a solitary flare sat in the middle of the "sitting area" that consisted of seats ripped from the VTOL. Braun's comrades sat around the flare, silently brooding. Two of their own were lost in the crash and were placed on the other side of the VTOL with a tarp covering their corpses. Braun sent out three men to find the crash site of Rhine 1-3 and another three to find Rhine 3, where last he heard, was stationed on a blockade near a side-road on the highway. Considering none of their electronics worked, forcing them to rely on flashlights, glow sticks and flares, it was sure to be a chore.

"Yohann! Diefenbaker! With me! I need to find something. The rest of you, stay here! Make sure the pilot doesn't nod off." Braun was worried she had suffered a concussion as well.
Braun and his men snapped the flashlights onto their FICS'. They moved their flares and glow sticks onto their grenade bandoliers. Those would prove much more useful at this point. They headed north, just as Braun remembered.

After what felt like hours of walking, the men proceeded silently to the area of Dijar they last saw the halted truck. Braun raised his hand and muttered a "Wait!" as he scanned the area. Just as his flashlight failed to pick up anything, a gunshot echoed in the distance. Braun and his companions immediately sprinted northwards, After a moment, the huge hulking beast that was the semi showed up in Braun's flashlight. "Scan the area!" He shouted. While Diefenbaker covered the rear, Yohann opened the back of the truck and climbed in. Braun peeked inside, revealing it was empty all along. Figures.

Braun himself noticed a faint blue glow on the other side of the truck. He signaled for Yohann to follow. As he crept to the corner of the truck and peered across the ledge, he lowered his gun and frowned. The blue light was that of a glow stick. Next to the glow stick laid his missing Lieutenant: pistol in hand, blood and brain matter scattered all over the pavement.
"Dürer..." He muttered as he crouched next to his body. After reflecting the years of following the man's orders, Braun reached down and yanked the dog tag from Dürer's neck. He pocketed the tag, sighed and turned back around. Yohann caught up with him. "Was that...the Lieutenant?" Braun nodded. "Yes, Corporal. He was a hero with too much of a burden to keep. Come. We should get back."

Three Hours Later

Imperial Tower, Hightower Plaza, New Rome, New Frenco Empire

Emperor Derrick Zane

Zane gently pressed the "stop" button on the remote control, pausing the footage that showcased Algiers' nuclear aftermath. He then slid the remote into one of his overcoat's pockets and turned to the gathered assembly, hands behind back, not showing a hint of emotion on his hard, chiseled features.
"And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I've called such an early council."
The Council of Whips didn't take their eyes off the footage for a second. Their attentiveness seemingly made them forget all else, leaving their cigarettes burn away in their ashtrays or letting their coffee to go cold. All except for Culture Whip Jane Smyth, who casually took drags off her cigarette and held onto the grin that never left her face.
"Quiet, are we?" She casually asked to the council in her exotic Australian accent.
Doctor Joshua Bennit, Education Whip, turned to Smyth. "Whip Smyth, did you not see th-...?"
"Indeed I did..." Smyth interrupted. "Thuggish brown people decked Algeria and everyone is shitting their trousers over it. I was simply imploring as to why no one speaks a word of it. Will a vow of silence throw the Caliphate out onto their arses?"
"I don't think you understand the severity of the situation..." Bennit said, frowning.
"More than you do, Josh!" Smyth laughed. "More than you ever will!"
She wasn't wrong. As the Whip of Culture, she saw things no other person could ever dream (or have nightmares) of gazing upon. Everyone understood that. Well...everyone except for one foolish man...

"Do you?" Arkady Simonova boomed in his thick Russian accent, chuckling that annoying laugh of his from his computer desk off to the side of the council chamber. "What exactly, have you, this nation's leader of Culture, seen, Whip Smyth? Theaters burned down? Actors overdosing on heroin? Music gro-"
"ARKADY!" Chancellor McKenzy Tandi barked from her standing position next to Zane.
"Y-yes miss-stress..." Arkady whimpered, lowering himself behind the monitor like a scolded dog. "S-sorry...mistress." Arkady muttered as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up went back to whatever he was working on. Everyone knew Network-Security Chief Simonova and Chancellor Tandi had some sort of relationship going. An outwardly abusive one where Tandi was the extreme dominant of the two. Some even suggested that Simonova might have been raped by Tandi for her pleasure whenever she wanted it. No one really cared, though. Arkady was a weak, pretentious dickhead. Tandi was doing everyone else a favor by keeping him in line.

Whip Smyth smiled at the shamed Russian programmer and turned towards Zane and Tandi. "Emperor, Madam Chancellor, I do apologize for any bit of drama I might have just caused. I'm sure Whip Bennit and Chief Simonova are equally as sorry."
Zane knew what was going on. The only time Smyth didn't sit back with a grin was whenever she had a plan. He nodded at her. She returned the nod and stepped out of her seat. She slowly made her way out of the council chambers without another word. The rest of the Whips and council members watched as she left and returned their gaze to the emperor, silent as ever. Most everyone (with the exception of perhaps Arkady) knew that her title as Culture Whip was just that. A title. What she did could have technically been called a cultural administration...although it usually didn't involve museums or festivals, like one would expect. Black boots, gun silencers and concentrated acid was what her work usually entailed.

"Now, that that's out of the way..." Tandi said. "We must respond to this. If our intelligence assets are to be believed, the Mechanocracy has already organized a senate session to decide on this issue. Chief Maximilian's sources claim that they inevitably will call for a full-scale intervention into the Caliphate in order to protect themselves from similar attacks. We must do the same."
Zane nodded. "The Chancellor is correct. As many of you may be aware, for the past five months or so, the Caliphate has seemingly organized itself. We've been gradually getting less and less reports of infighting. Instead, the Caliphate has begun a 'purge', so to speak. Both internally and externally. Chancellor?"
Tandi produced her own remote and hit the button, showing several hologram images on the giant screen behind them. "One of our drones picked this up on it's pass over Iraq. Here, we see the city of Qalat Dizah. A few weeks ago, the regular Taliban patrol stepped aside to allow the first of many 'death squads' to move in." She then approached the screen and pinched the hologram, zooming the overhead image in, giving a full view of the "execution square." Some of those present in the council chambers opened their eyes widely at the sight of the fifty caliber bullets mowing down old men and young children alike.
"As you can see here, Islamists are mercilessly executing Kurdish men and children." She swiped the screen sideways, moving the image to another part of the town. "Here, we see young women in chains being loaded onto an APC. Probably to be distributed amongst the unmarried jihadists for their pleasure."
Tandi hit her remote again, showing many smaller holo-images of what looked like different cities. "This isn't the only incident. It's happening all over. Yazidis are being mowed down near Sinjar, the independent cities of Saudi Arabia are being sacked, the city-state of Jerusalem reports that it has been forced to fight off more of these little jihads in the past two months than it has in the last decade...The reports go on and on. It isn't only in the Caliphate, either."

She pinched in to another image. "This one was taken by a satellite, so this is as far as we get, but this is in Mechanocratic Turkey. This is Forward Base Mayak, near Urfa, razed and abandoned. Caliphate fighters have been amassing near the border and launching sorties for the past three months or so. Urfa, Mardin, Antakya, Hakkari, Gaziantep...all have been victims. Another example, is, obviously, Algeria."
Emperor Zane stepped forward and took the reins from Tandi. "Three days ago, the Caliphate launched another attack in southeastern Algeria. Fort Keylah, a logistical base used primarily for storing mothballed tanks, fell to them. The Federation feared that the tanks there would fall into Caliphate hands. However, they did not acknowledge the existence of a live Atomic Bomb being stored in the caverns below for an unknown purpose. The Federation sent the army in later that day and the fort was retaken within the hour. Unfortunately...the bomb went missing. MI6 worked in-tandem with IIA to locate it, and it was believed that it was on a truck headed into Algiers. The truck was intercepted by European Special Forces, but it was apparently a diversion. Further investigations revealed that the Caliphate had worked on a sophisticated underground network for months, stretching from the caverns of Keylah all the way to Algiers. The bomb was moved and detonated underground, annihilating inner Algiers and causing several earthquakes in the region. We all have Chief Maximilian to thank for this information."

The shrewd Chief Coordinator of the IIA smiled and nodded. "We've been monitoring this for some time. No one could have expected the Caliphate to reach such a level. I've deployed agents all over the affected areas. Two of my best have been sent to aid the Peshmerga in Iraq, another three have been sent to analyze the Algerian tunnels, I have one in-"
"Fuck that sneaky pansy bullshit! This! Is! Sickening!" Boomed Grand Marshal Ulysses Turner, blunt and vulgar as ever, interrupting Maximilian. "Emperor, give me the order and I can have a field army in that sandy shithole next week and have Mecca burned to the ground by the end of the year! Every Allah-worshiping sand ape's head will be hanging by a rope and our boys and girls will be back in time for Consumerism Day."
Zane shook his head. "Marshal, pleased to see you're eager as ever, but total war is not the solution here. Maximilian would be correct in this matter. We must upscale our backdoor dealings with the various anti-Islamist groups. Wage a proxy war. We'll let the reds throw their ranks at the meat grinder. Marshal Turner, you'll get your war, but I want it strictly low-key. No more than several occupation regiments. Plenty of air projection, though. Marshal Lynx, can you do that?" Zane directed that towards the Joint Chiefs that surrounded Turner. The tall, red-headed woman donning the Air Force uniform in the group nodded. "I can get enough Goshawks in the Middle Eastern theater to negate the Caliphate's air superiority before the sun goes down."

Zane, for the first time in years it felt like, smiled and clapped his hands together. "Great. Looks like we have our plan. Smyth's doing her own thing, I trust the rest of you know what to do with your posts? Right. Dismissed." Zane then turned to his secretary. "Miss Hale, please prepare the media team. I have an empire to address."

by **Blakullar** » Wed Sep 03, 2014 3:29 am

AZAZ, SYRIA PROVINCE, THE GREATER ISLAMIC CALIPHATE.
APPROX. 11:29AM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

An IS commander is leading a group of jihadis on another raid into the Mechanocracy, to procure extra gear and eventually allow his army to finish off the assault at Gaziantep. Most of his troops are wearing cobbled metal armour, some wearing stolen MAF power armour, and armed with mainly Mechanocracy standard-issue AKMs. A few are carrying 1K19 laser rifles. They hop onto wagons of a similar design to those used in the first raid on Gaziantep, a couple of days back, and prepare to head out. The jihadis know that many of them won't come back, but Allah will reward those who fall for their gallantry in the face of the heretics.

A flight of four planes appear on the horizon, coming from the Mechanocracy border. Much faster, and larger, than Djinns. One soldier among the IS raiding party wonders if they are Caliphate planes - premature air raids on the Mechanocracy weren't uncommon - but answering his question is a sudden blast of light coming from the lead jet. The laser surges up the dirt road where another raid party is about to head off, purging the jihadis in hellfire. The first party scramble out of their own trucks just as a second laser explodes the vehicles and their ammunition. The fast approaching Su-55 fighter-bombers illuminate the fortified city in a deadly light show, destroying buildings, vehicles and enemy soldiers. The machines fly overhead at breakneck speed, swinging around to attack once again.

All of the defences are alert now, with jihadis manning the heavy machine guns posted on the walls in preparation for a major assault, but from where? Could the enemy come from the north, as expected? Could they have landed from the sea and are they advancing from the west? Could they be attacking from the east, in a pincer movement? Or the south, under similar circumstances?

Strangely, parts of the clouds begin to fall from the sky, as if they were raining bits of cloud. On closer inspection, one could see pieces of metal among the clouds - actually rocket smoke, from drop pods launched by Tu-245As orbiting at high altitude. The pods get closer, raining down into the town itself, far past the walls. Some even smash into the walls. The IS commander who had led his men back into the safety of the fortress beheld a pod thundering towards him.

The huge, pear-shaped object slams into the sand at his feet, knocking him to the floor, and a moment later a door crashes open. A Mechanocracy soldier, helmet bearing the badge of the Dnepropetrovsk regiment and wielding a Saiga-30 combat shotgun, steps out. He looks down at the commander, too stunned to move, raises his weapon and empties the contents of the gun's barrel into the jihadist's face, sending him back to his maker. Other soldiers step out, armed with AV-38m combat rifles, not even looking down at the dead soldier - or the purple splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone fragments which replaced his head - as they proceed into the town.

More pods fall into the village, some bearing soldiers, others BMD-A battle drones. The jihadists make a desperate last stand in the town centre as it becomes clear that the settlement is quickly being overrun. Some even charge the Mechanocracy troops wearing suicide vests, and take down a few with them, but far from enough to deter the assault. More jihadists fall, and very quickly only one remains - a young soldier, drafted by the local imam into combat. His balaklava hides the look of terror on his face as the MAF airborne forces secure the area. With no warning, a heavy metal boot steps onto the cobbled floor of the souk, causing the jihadist to look up. He is staring down a Corporal Yegor Bykov, whom he recognises from Gaziantep. Desperately he leaps up, brandishing a knife, and launches an assault on the soldier. Bykov easily subdues the jihadist, his augmentations giving him superior physical strength, and pins him to the floor with his knee. He draws his LP-84 Koush laser pistol:

"This one's for Urfa, bitch."

The laser burns through the jihadist's skull, killing him instantly. A lot cleaner than the shotgun that Sergeant Gorshkov used earlier to dispose of the dead man's commanding officer. Bykov radios the Sergeant, "The town centre's clear, sir." A voice in a thick Kazakh accent relays back. "Good work, Corporal. My men have secured the rest of the town and rounding up the civs." Resettlement, Bykov thought. Away from the warzone. Azaz was secured for the setting up of base camp, and the task force would head toward Aleppo tomorrow, with orders to seize the Mediterranean seaboard and push east.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Tue Sep 09, 2014 3:53 am

Mount Sinjar Area, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

As the others moved into position, Hadrian moved into a cozy little lookout in a rocky cliff overlooking the village. He set his SVU up on on a low-hanging rock flanked by two larger stones, giving him adequate cover should he be spotted. He leaned his sidearm, an FN P90, against the rock next to him, ready to grab should the enemy get too close. When he was fully situated, he found Rollins and Azad crouched behind a farmer's shack, constructed from corrugated sheet metal. This village was mostly full of similar shacks. He even spotted an ancient military Humvee converted to be someone's home. The conditions the Yazidis had to put up with was a tragedy. If the Empire pursued this any further, maybe that could change one day...

Rollins nodded and Hadrian returned the gesture as the familiar roar of the old M113 engine echoed in the mountains. They'd be here any minute now. The final Peshmerga fighters took their positions in the shacks and rocks surrounding them. As the first Taliban fighters emerged from the valley, Hadrian looked to the four "Yazidi" farmers standing in the center of the village, brandishing M16A4s. It was Azad's idea. When the death squad's recon reached the village, they quickly jumped the Humvee that was sent to scout, taking all of the Taliban alive. Now, those six scouts stood there, dressed in the clothing of the locals, rifles taped to their hands, legs tied and mouths stuck shut with nanoglue.

The M113s came to a halt as about a dozen Taliban fighters stepped out. They yelled at the armed "farmers" several times before approaching them. The farmers squirmed and squirmed, attempting to scream out at their comrades. Whether they tried to warn their friends about the ambush or they simply wanted help and begged them not to shoot they would never know. One of the farmers attempted to inch towards his friends. Instead, the fighter closest emptied his M16 into him and his friends, killing the six Taliban decoys.

As the death squad's attention was focused on them, the Peshmerga leaped into action.

Several warriors hopped out from behind rocks with RPG-7s, firing them off at the APCs. The explosions engulfed the fighters nearest them, while the survivors dove for cover. Hadrian nailed (what looked like, at least) the leader of the gang, splattering crimson all over a nearby wall. He picked off two more before they were all in cover, beyond his sniper's gaze. It mattered not, though. It was over in an instant. Gunfire echoed through the rows of shacks as the fleeing fighters ran right into Peshmerga ambush spots. It was perhaps the quickest skirmish Hadrian had ever been involved in. Within a minute, Azad was rounding up it's prisoners in the center of the village.

Hadrian joined Rollins the square, as Azad was barking at the Taliban.
"You! You! And...You! Get over here!" He yelled, pointing out three of the youngest-looking fighters.
He smiled as they got on their knees before him, Peshmerga gun barrels to their heads. "You boys seem awful young to be doing Allah's dirty work, yes? Allah forgives. I do not. However, I will have mercy as a token of gratitude for what I'm about to ask of you..." He waved forward three more of his warriors. They met up with the captured Taliban and handed them M249s and RPKs. They then forced them onto their feet and turned them back around, towards their comrades. They then stuck a pistol to each one of their hands as an insurance that they wouldn't turn those guns against them.
"Gun them down. Like you've been doing to all the innocent people these past few months."
The fighters hesitated.
"This is your last chance for survival. We can throw your lot back in there and bring out three more of your buddies. I'm sure they'd love to slaughter you like animals!"
The fighters raised their weapons and began aiming. The subdued Taliban crowd gave them wide-eyes. These men weren't afraid to die in normal circumstances, but dying like the so-called "heathens" they enjoyed putting down? A disgrace in the eyes of Allah, it must be. Hadrian could appreciate the poetic justice.

Azad shrugged them off and looked to the crowd. "Do I have any volountee-"
He was cut off by the machine gun fire.
Within ten seconds, the three young jihadists had mercilessly emptied the box magazines into their bound partners, killing them all and letting the red liquids bake in the sun. Azad smiled and patted each one on the shoulder. "Very good..." He muttered.
The Peshmerga took back the machine guns and turned them back towards Azad.
"I'm a man of my word. You will not die by our hand. You will be spared. How you will be is up to you. I think you gentlemen have learned a thing or two from this experience?"
The teenagers nodded hesitantly. Azad gave a wicked smile.
"Good. You're not ethnic Kurds, but we need all the men we can get. I give you this opportunity to joined the famed Peshmerga. As you can see by my two friends here, we get backing from the West. As far as we're concerned, the Caliphate will soon meet it's demise. If that doesn't suit your fancy, we'll give you a knife and a little bit of food and let you walk through the desert to rejoin the Taliban, though I doubt they'll be happy you didn't die in jihad with the others. What'll it be: Peshmerga or the cruel desert?"
The teenaged Islamists nervously stuttered. "P-peshm...erg-a..."
Azad nodded and clapped their shoulders again. "You boys will soon be fighting for the most elite force in the Middle East. Don't act so gloomy! You're all still green as summer grass, but training is manageable...if you don't have a problem with leaving innocent old men, women and children alone. You're still young so let's say...twenty years' service will give you amnesty for the crimes committed under the Taliban and the Islamic Caliphate, wouldn't you agree?"

The others started to nod, but one frowned.
"Ten." He muttered.
Azad frowned. "You think you can negotiate this, boy? I'm giving you the chance to evade the justice you rightfully deserve for your part in these massacres. If I hadn't been so pleased to see my friend Jon today, I wouldn't be in the mood for this. You'd be lying dead right there in the pile with all your friends, you little shit!"
Hadrian thought the boy was doomed until Azad boomed with laughter. "You have balls, kid! You might get far in our ranks! Alright, fifteen years. If the war is over by then and I haven't been killed, I'll let you all shoot me yourselves if you still think you'd have had a better time rolling with those Taliban lunatics!"
Hadrian could have swore he spotted a smile on the defiant one's face. However, that smile faded when Azad signaled for the three warriors to put black bags over their heads and strike them with the butt of their rifles.
"I thought you said you were sparing them..." Hadrian said.
"I am!" Azad laughed. "We have to be sure our future warriors can take a beating! These boys will do fine...maybe."
Jon grinned. "Going soft, Azad?"
The large Kurd shrugged. "Kids these days have nowhere to go. Sharia Law doesn't allow for very much fun and they're basically indoctrinated to do this very thing later in life. I blame their parents and government more than I would ever blame them. They just need rightful guidance."

The Peshmerga rallied around Azad and the IIA agents. Azad stood atop the captured Humvee. One of the warriors offered him a megaphone, but he denied it. His voice already boomed louder than any megaphone. "Kurds! Countrymen! Friends! We are victorious this day! We have fought, killed and bled for what is right! We've done it all for you, Khalil!" He pointed towards a warrior near the center. "These monsters slaughter your people like animals! The Yazidis are under our protection, brother! We've done it all for you, Muhammad!" He pointed towards another warrior near the back. "You think we don't know what you do with that young man you keep meeting back in Erbil? Allah be damned, Moe, we can hear what you do in your room! We do not judge or oppress you, though! They..." He pointed to the pile of corpses. "Do! It is your right to act on your Allah-given desires, Moe! We also did it for you, and you, and you, and you!" He pointed to all the female warriors he could see. "I don't think I have to explain why, ladies. We've done it for all of us! Kurds! We are all oppressed in one fashion or another. However, with victories like these, I dream we will no longer be the victim! THEY WILL BE THE VICTIM! We'll strangle their brutal seek in the crib! One day, brothers and sisters! One day!"

Hadrian grinned as the warriors began to cheer, waving their rifles into the air and occasionally squeezing off a bullet or two. With any hope, the Empire could help them achieve their noble goal. One day.

by **Blakullar** » Tue Sep 09, 2014 11:42 am

OUTSKIRTS OF ALEPPO, SYRIA, THE GREATER ISLAMIC CALIPHATE.
APPROX. 7:42PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

Two Mi-64 Shershen attack VTOLs surge through the sky above the fields surrounding the city in the distance. They are there to assist the airborne troops who had pushed into the area from the north. There is a fierce firefight in the fields as Caliphate warriors stage a tenacious resistance against the steady Mechanocracy offensive. The jihadis have set up three rows of trenches, tank traps and heavy weapons nests.

"Sokol, this is Kopye Two-One," comes the voice of Sergeant Gorshkov, calm as a cucumber, through the intercom. Gunshots can be heard during the transmission. "We're pinned by the house in grid sector zero-four-three-two-eight-niner. Three enemy MBTs and a whole bunch of baddies holed up to our south. Requesting immediate aerial assistance, over."

"Kopye Two-One, this is Sokol. We have the coordinates on our screen and are five klicks out. ETA: thirty seconds. Sit tight, over."

Sokol could see the targets in question. A trench, with a machine gun post, and three T-64B main battle tanks, standing guard over the road immediately ahead. Kopye Two - Gorshkov, Bykov and six others - were taking cover behind a short wall where a sandstone brick hovel and a wrecked BTR-29 Irtysh APC were to their immediate right.

"Sokol Two, arm 2B40 FPC and Kometa-3s against three armoured targets and one enemy fortification. Maintain cruise speed of 264 knots and altitude of one hundred metres. Danger close."

"Solid copy, Sokol Lead."

The Shershens enter attack position, screaming over the fallowed crop fields at breakneck speed. Sokol Lead could see his targets light up, and a beeping sound permeates the cockpit.

"Multiple targets acquired, aim cannon at fortification and missiles at enemy armour. Kopye Two, we're bringing in the shitstorm. Advise you keep your heads down, over. Initiating missile launch. Fox one, fox one."

Sokol Lead launches two of its Kometa-3 missiles, Sokol Two fires one. The three missiles surge towards the tanks in the distance, over the heads of Kopye Two. Three ear-shattering explosions rock the area, each missile penetrating the tanks' armour belt and detonating inside. The tanks metamorphose into blackened wrecks as the fuel ignites, then the ammunition, releasing another wave of thunder.

"Initiating cannon discharge. Guns, guns, guns."

A bright burst of energy fires from Sokol Lead's recoilless anti-tank gun, striking and exploding the bunker in a blast of blue plasma. With the main opponents suppressing the squad silenced forever, Kopye Two's machine gunner fires his PKPM, providing withering fire. Bykov arms an antimatter grenade and chucks it into the trench, the shrapnel delivered by the explosive killing the remaining jihadis.

"Move up!" comes the order from Gorshkov. Using the tank wrecks as cover in case anyone survived the grenade, the squad head forward as the two Shershens rush over at high speed before breaking off from their attack to hound another trench to death. Two T-100s and an OT-100 are coming up the roadway from the north. Gorshkov takes a small plasma charge, places it in the middle of some dragon's teeth blocking the road, and detonates it. The charge melts the concrete tank traps, allowing the T-100s to pass through. Ahead, a group of jihadis are hiding in the field in front of the trench. Bykov and the other soldiers fire into the field from the newly-occupied trench, but are forced to duck by the rattle of an M240 machine gun. Gorshkov sprints towards the squad and belly-flops into the trench, AV-38m in hand, narrowly avoiding being chopped to bits by gunfire. Upon landing on a corpse, he rolls to the side and sits up. The T-100s fire their GShGMs into the field where the jihadis shooting at Kopye Two are, and the sound of the machine gun stops abruptly. The squad must press forward to the next trench.

"Bykov, take a body as a meatshield and move the squad up! There's probably more of the twats hiding in the field or some IEDs, so be damn careful! I ain't going back for you if anyone dies!"

Gorshkov and Bykov pick up a dead jihadi each and climb out of the trench, raising the corpse in front of them as a shield. Two grenadiers get behind them, ready to shoot any enemy combatant that might be waiting in ambush. A hidden Claymore explodes in front of Bykov, knocking him and the grenadier behind him to the ground. The Kevlar-clad jihadi absorbs most of the shrapnel, the rest bouncing off of the power armour, and the pair get up and continue moving.

Damn organics! Bykov thinks, the body he is holding bleeding over his power armour. The rest of the squad is close behind Gorshkov, Bykov and the two grenadiers. Soon, they exit the field and arrive at another trench, already cleaned out by the tanks. Gorshkov and Bykov put the corpses down and take cover, the other soldiers following suit. This was a long battle, but now the first city buildings were in eyesight. Couldn't be long now before the Mechanocracy sweeps this hornets' nest.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Fri Sep 12, 2014 4:26 am

Tel Aviv, Palestine, The Greater Islamic Caliphate

Lance Corporal Radiana "Radio" Jackson

"Muhammad, you're hogging the pack! I haven't even got one yet!" Sixteen year-old Abdul Yahzar whined.
"I bought the damn things!" Muhammad growled.
"But it was my uncle who you bought them from. Does your uncle have black market connections? No? So share!" Abdul demanded. Muhammad frowned, but eventually gave in, giving the last five in the pack to his friend. Abdul smiled as he lit his match and inhaled on the cigarette. Though they were ancient and appropriately stale (although they couldn't read the English label of "PALL MALL-MENTHOL-100s" on the pack, the Pall Mall tobacco corporation had ceased to exist over fifty years earlier), the teenagers coughed after every drag, and they made their clothes smell, they were fixated on their taboo nature. The clerical police didn't touch the populace here as much as they had in other places. They didn't care if you drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes or watched bootleg pornography. They were always too busy watching for Zionists lurking the shadows. If you walked down the street with a marijuana joint or cigarette hanging out of your mouth, the worst they would do was tell you to put it out or, if the policeman was kind enough, tell you to take it somewhere secluded.

Abdul was considered the "in" kid at his school. His uncle was a dealer in the black market, meaning he always benefited. His household was filled with items from the "godless world". Mechanocratic alcohol, Frenkish "toys" and pornographic films, remote controlled hovercraft models from UDAP, even a half-disassembled Europeon sport roadcar (even if his uncle ever finished restoring it, which he had said nearly every day for the past ten years, the streets of Tel Aviv didn't support the GPS-guidance needed for the driving AI, so it would only be pretty to look at and nothing else regardless). His peers always approached him, asking for items the Caliphate didn't allow. He tried his best to accommodate, and in doing so, everyone wanted to either kiss him or be him.

Today, Abdul and his friends (wearing blue jeans and hoodies imported from the west) lit up on an old. litter-riddled beach behind a crumbling seaside restaurant, abandoned years and years ago. This particular beach was always closed due to supposed radioactivity. After all, Tel Aviv never fully recovered from 2077. To this day, it still resembled a ruin. However, nearly everyone dismissed the warnings. As long as they stayed out of the water, they would be fine. The real reason why the warnings were always up was the massive missile battery the local Hezbollah militants set up along the shoreline to deter airstrikes from Jerusalem.

As Abdul flicked aside his butt and worked to lighting another, the all-too-familiar screech of air raid alarms sounded throughout the city. The populace lived in constant fear of Israeli F-35s, so it wasn't too far-fetched to suggest they sounded at least once a week. The jets rarely ever struck, and when they did, it was never anything truly significant. A few people died here and there, yes, but anywhere else in the Caliphate, the government would most likely be responsible for their deaths. In Tel Aviv, it was at least comforting to know that a Zionist in a fighter jet was responsible and not your own oppressors.

Abdul could spot the SAMs moving about and tracking whatever was up there. Eventually, one of the launchers fired off a missile, filling the air with a loud, insufferable screech as it soared upwards faster than Abdul could blink. For a moment, he could drown the sirens out and submerge himself in silence. It was rather awkward, the dead of the launchers, just waiting. Did they get him?

As if Allah himself answered, all three SAM launchers exploded in a thick gout of flame and smoke. Abdul never saw what struck it, but as he waved the smoke away from his eyes, he could spot a pair of jets fly low in the corner of his eye, zooming just over their heads. The destruction seemed to prompt others, making the ground shake as Abdul could spot the smoke arising from other parts of the city. About a kilometer down the beach, he could spot the trails of extremely fast shells smack into the beachline. He had heard about the magnetic guns Frenco and Russia and Europe had used, but they were still science fiction to him. He produced a pair of his uncle's good binoculars and looked out onto the sea. They were good binoculars. Not as good as the modern ones Frenco or any other western country produced, but they had a range of several kilometers. Regardless, the ship hammering the nearby shore was only a dot.

He turned to the left to make out several small boats headed right towards the shore.

Abdul quickly motioned his friends inside the decrepit restaurant. He remembered it as a kid. It sold the best schwarma in town. Unfortunately, the Caliphate had shut it down years ago due to unfair business practices. Now, it just collected dust, rust and served as a hiding spot for Abdul while these invaders attacked the city. Who were they? He had heard the news of Russian offensives in Syria. Could they be down here as well?
"Abdul!" One of his friends, Omar, beckoned near the window on the opposite side. "One of them landed just outside!"
Abdul crept to the window. Omar was right. Not a hundred meters from where they were standing, one of the hovercrafts had landed and begun deploying it's cargo. Out of it rolled two tanks and about a dozen soldiers in tan uniforms. He spotted a few flags here and there. Frenco after all.

As the four were busy eyeing the invading Frenks in awe, they didn't notice the door to the establishment get kicked in. When they heard the slam, they all turned around and put their hands up, greeted by a Frenkish soldier and the barrel of a rifle. The friends yelped and stuck their hands in the air. After a moment of frightful awkwardness, the soldier began to laugh. It sounded like a woman, but how? She was so big and intimidating, dressed for war and holding a weapon as a proper soldier should. He had often heard the propaganda Hezbollah liked to spew: the roles were reversed in Frenco; the men were submissive and effeminate while women were dominate, masculine and cruel. Partner that with their godlessness and they were doomed to Allah's wrath.
Seeing this, maybe it wasn't a total lie.

The soldier lowered her rifle and removed her helmet. She wasn't ugly, but not particularly attractive either. Her head was shaved and her face was hard. Hell, she could probably take on any of the cleric cops in Tel Aviv and win. She then extended her hand towards Abdul. He didn't know what she wanted.
"Yes?" He asked.
The soldier sighed and shook her head. She then raised the device on her wrist to her mouth. She began speaking, what it sounded like to Abdul at least, pure gibberish. If these were Frenks, she was probably speaking English; something the Caliphate had forbidden for it's common population.
She then extended the device towards them and yelled a command. The small computer on her wrist then started to speak.
"A cigarette, kid. Can I bum one? I haven't had once since I left port in Sicily." It said in a monotone. He had forgotten he was had lit up another one in anticipation of the hovercraft. Translators? Abdul thought as he produced his pack from the pocket.
He fingered for one, but then decided to just hand her the remaining few left in the pack.
She smiled as she accepted them. She then spoke into the computer again and faced it back towards them.
"Pall Malls? I can appreciate a few antiques here and again. Better than nothing. Thank you."

She put one into her mouth and lit it with a zippo lighter. She grimaced at the stale taste, but eventually sighed in relief. She put her helmet back on, the visor flashing as she did; an indicator that the HUD had turned back on. As she turned to leave, she spared the teenagers one last look. She muttered once more into the small computer thing.
"Stay safe out there. If you ever need anything, ask for Corporal Jackson. My friends call me Radio."

With that, she was gone to rejoin the invading force.

by **Blakullar** » Fri Sep 12, 2014 12:56 pm

INDUSTRIAL ZONE, ALEPPO, THE GREATER ISLAMIC CALIPHATE.
APPROX. 7:48PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

Gunshots ring around the area as Kopye Two take cover behind a ruined wall section. Their enemies are all over the place, some shooting down at the squad from office block windows, others firing from the ground, posted behind cars, dumpsters and whatever else may protect them from the MAF soldiers and their advanced weaponry. The wall provides protection from most of the jihadis' gunfire, but a few shots penetrate weaker sections of the concrete over their heads. There must have been about twenty of them down the street, almost all of them focused on the eight-strong squad. A brief lapse in the shooting allows PFC Tolstoy, the squad's machine gunner, to poke his PKPM around the wall and fire back at the jihadis, spraying a car ahead with flechette darts. Gorshkov has to think quickly, otherwise the squad will get swarmed.

"Bykov, take Bulyagin and Petrenko into that building and hit those jihadis from behind!" he shouts amid the roar of the many guns trained on combatants in the field. PFC Bulyagin was a grenadier, PFC Petrenko was the squad's designated marksman. "The rest of you, provide suppressive fire on the militants on the street!" The other soldiers in the squad raise their own weapons and fire back at the jihadis. Bykov, Bulyagin and Petrenko get up, carrying their weapons, and run towards an office block doorway. Gorshkov and his fireteam stop firing when Bykov's is shielded from the gunfire, the IS machine guns continuing upon doing so. Bulyagin kicks the door in and the three proceed up a flight of stairs.

Upon opening a door, they discover a machine gun nest, with two jihadis using a tripod-mounted PKM to rain down fire on Gorshkov and his men. Bykov and Bulyagin pump a few flechette bolts into their backs, splattering blood over the sandbags protecting the jihadis. Yelling in Arabic can be heard from upstairs, and the three swing round to discover four AK-74-toting jihadis coming down a flight of stairs in the corridor. The Islamists are quickly gunned down. Rifle fire coming from the next building across the street prompts the three to take cover by the window. Petrenko uses the time taken for the jihadi to reload his FAL to cross him out with a bolt from his 1K19 laser rifle. The easily visible beam of light prompts a group of jihadis on the ground to turn their attention to the position of Bykov's fireteam. Perfect opportunity for Gorshkov's fireteam to mow them down.

"The buildings are clear, Sergeant," Bykov says on his radio, reloading his AV-38m. "Excellent," comes the reply. "My boys are moving up now. Push across the building and meet us at the other end of the street." As Gorshkov and his team start moving, the coarse rattle of heavy machine gun fire tearing through the street. It must have been a .50-cal, because one of Gorshkov's soldiers dropped dead shortly afterwards, a red splat covering the car behind him. Gorshkov and the three others in his team rush to cover, the Sergeant ducking behind a dumpster. "Fuck, that was my fireteam's only grenadier! Bulyagin, you're going to have to knock out that MG!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" comes the deep Muscovite accent from Bulyagin. He readies his rifle's underslung Osa RPG launcher and looses a round, using the laser pointer on the side of the rifle to guide it towards the KORD machine gun post on the roof of the building at the end of the street. The antimatter charge in the round explodes where the MG was, taking it out of action. Breaking the ensuing silence is more yelling from the building ahead, and more shooting. Said building was crawling with jihadis, forcing Bykov's fireteam and Gorshkov's fireteam to cover. The unexpected booming of a 40mm autocannon breaks the gunfire, small explosions peppering the IS strongpoint. A moment later, a BTR-29 Irtysh manifests from the right side of the T-junction, and stops in front of the building. A female voice comes onto Gorshkov and Bykov's radios: "Kopye Two, this is Barsuk Four. We've just cleared out the south side of the industrial zone. You didn't think you could hog all the fun, did you?" Fun, that's what she calls it, thought Bykov. Today was a tough day, and it was only going to get tougher... "Good to see you here, Barsuk," comes the reply from Gorshkov. "Alright lads," he says to the squad. "We're heading back to base camp outside the city. You all fought well today, and a vodka to our fallen comrade PFC Gerasimenko!"

BASE CAMP STRELA, ALEPPO OUTSKIRTS, THE GREATER ISLAMIC CALIPHATE.
APPROX. 8:56PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

The rumble of artillery in the distance dominates the darkening sky, the only lights over Aleppo now being the flashes of exploding shells and rockets. Gorshkov, Bykov and the squad take a much needed rest, their place on the front line being taken by newcomers from the Pavlovskii regiment. Bykov is looking into the darkness at the flashes while Gorshkov is with the rest of the squad. "A toast to Gerry, comrades! He might have died today, but he lives on as a hero of the Mechanocracy!" The clanging of vodka bottles can be heard in the background as the troops celebrate their victory over the Caliphate. There was still more though. The city itself had to be taken. The battalion commander, Colonel Degyartev, walks over to the squad, who are now standing to attention. "At ease, gentlemen. Gorshkov, Bykov, may I have a word with you both?" "Of course, sir," Gorshkov replies. Bykov follows suit, with the same reply.

Gorshkov, Bykov and the Colonel step into the command tent, where a holographic map of Syria is present. "I've spoken to the other squad leaders and the Platoon Commanders about this," begins Degyartev. "We've just received word from CentCom that the Frenks have landed in Palestine and are headed eastward, contrary to their expected plan to start in Algeria and work their way east from there. Thus, we've been ordered to step up the offensive. Once we capture Aleppo, our orders are to head southward to Homs instead of east to Raqqah. CentCom is sending an Aerofleet to Kurdistan under General Shuvalov, to accelerate the push to the sea. Upon seizure of Aleppo, the road to Homs is expected to be lightly fortified given that IS troops are likely to have been diverted to assist Hezbollah and al-Nusra in repelling the Frenks. Upon reaching Homs, the forces will dig in and await further orders while we reinforce the western border of our new territory. Are we clear on this, Sergeant?"

"Crystal, sir," replies Gorshkov. "Excuse my questioning, sir, but if intel was faulty on the Frenks heading from Algeria, what makes you think the road to Homs will be clear?"

"I never said the roads would be clear, Sergeant," Degyartev responds. "I said that the road would be lightly fortified. The tanks should take care of most of the resistance. Your job is to head into the villages and mop up. Understood, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

by **New Frenco Empire** » Thu Sep 18, 2014 11:33 pm

Tel Aviv, Palestine, The Greater Islamic Caliphate

Lance Corporal Radiana "Radio" Jackson

Napalm and gunpowder perfumed the air, mixing with the normal stench of Tel Aviv. Oddly enough, the scent had a certain sweetness to Radio. Like some old friend. As Radio appreciated the atmosphere, she struggled to keep up with the tank squad rolling down the street, soaking up the small arms fire and occasional RPG belonging to the Hamas militiamen that seemed to pop up behind every corner. They did little to slow the advance. At every turn, they were either forced to retreat, get shot, or be crushed under the treads.

Radio's squad was assigned to mop up whatever the tanks left behind. The work was irritating and dangerous. If they weren't lucky enough to turn into a street with enough rubble to provide them cover, they'd have to crowd behind the tanks. For an entire squad, it was neither safe nor efficient. One jihadi hiding on a rooftop and a well-placed RPG hit would have been all it took to wipe them all out. Luckily, the Kestrels were strafing over their advance, taking care of the heavy stuff and clearing snipers from the high buildings. The assault was definitely more coordinated and controlled than it seemed.

After Radio turned about six corners, failing to down a single insurgent before the tanks' coaxial or RWS guns did the deed, Sergeant Bloomfield, the squad commander, eventually called all of them over to the side of the road while the tanks continued on. Bloomfield was graying man in his early sixties. He'd been at the job for over forty years, seeing almost every notable conflict, from the Red Revolt to the Ten Years War. Any other man in his position would be a decorated officer by now, but Bloomfield always claimed he would never be for that life. He rejected every promotion past Sergeant, claiming his position would always be in the middle of the action, killing and bleeding right there beside his boys and girls. Now, HiCom was ordering that he step down and accept a new job in logistics or at a desk somewhere. He would be unwillingly made an officer and be given a pay raise he didn't care about. This would be his last campaign. He wasn't happy, but he supposed it would be for the best in his old age.

"Just got news from HiCom..." Bloomfield stated. "Hezbollah turned tail and ran back north as soon as they saw the ships comin' to shore. What we're moppin' up now is just the leftovers from Hamas."
"Guess that means our job just got a lot easier?" Radio asked.
"No. Not at all," Bloomfield sighed. "After we're done here, the Israelis will reclaim 'lost territory', as they say. For their assistance, HiCom agreed to keep some muscle here to deal with all the COIN bullshit. It was going to be us to just sit around and take potshots at jihadis in the dark, while that Vanguard Battalion that was airlifted into Gaza would advance into Lebanon. Now, since Hezbollah's big wigs are out of the country, they say we can't lose Israel if they decide to counterattack. As they said, 'if they catch the ships at harbor, we are D-O-N-E fucked.'"
"Yeah, as if a bunch of filthy sand apes have the tools to hurt our boats!" Corporal Tyson laughed.
"Yeah, well...HiCom seems to think they can. Long story short, they're keepin' the heavy hitters right here to protect our assets while us grunts are forced to do their jobs. Hope you enjoyed Tel Aviv, boys and girls. O-Eight-Hundred tomorrow, we're movin' to the next sandy shitpile. Now, the cap set up headquarters about three blocks from here in the lobby of the old Kirya Tower..."
"Let me get this straight..." Radio interrupted. "The Vanguards, which are supposed to be the badasses, are not expendable...but we are? Wouldn't it make more sense to send them north? What has HiCom been smoking."
Bloomfield sighed again. "They're not my orders, Radio. Definitely not. Now, peace. Let's just focus on gettin' to HQ and gettin' a little rest in before we have to do this all over again."

Near Erbil, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

The journey to Erbil took days, even with the salvaged Humvees. As soon as they left Sinjar, three of them broke down and refused to budge, forcing the Peshmerga to abandon them. Even with the APCs captured from the death squad, the Yazidi refugees that decided to join them couldn't all fit. Hence, the warriors were forced to walk to make room for them on the vehicles. They never went faster than the speed that the walkers went, making them little more than mobile sitting areas.

Hadrian didn't mind as much. They occasionally stopped at villages, where locals would give them fresh water and a hot meal, maybe someplace to sleep. It was at these villages, however, where the troubling news began to spill. Caliphate fighters bombed Algiers, possibly with a nuclear device. The Russians pushed out of Turkey and into Syria, pushing the entire region into chaos. As they got closer to the Kurdish capital, the news started to improve. The Frenkish navy launched an assault on Palestine and the Israelis managed to retake the entire country afterwards, pulling it out of Caliphate hands. The Naval Infantry was moving north to Lebanon, possibly halting Mechanocratic advances. Not all reports on the Frenkish end were positive, though. Unconfirmed reports state that the military force has taken in representatives from the Zealotry. Hadrian knew that the Zealotry types were just like the Caliphate with better equipment. The Zealots would probably do good against the Caliphate, but when the fighting was done, what then? They'd inevitably stick around and slaughter innocents under the guise of "heresy" or something. Religion was a curse on mankind, but there was a limit...

When they eventually marched into Erbil (or, rather, the ruins of Erbil. Even with rebuilding efforts, 2077 still left scars and Caliphate air raids simply reopened the wounds), the Peshmerga were greeted with a hero's welcome. The people cheered and threw confetti. The warriors lovingly reunited with their girlfriends and boyfriends, some embracing children as well. The warriors displayed the trophies they took from fallen insurgents, much to the satisfaction of the crowds.

Hadrian and Rollins simply stood off to the side with the refugees. Rollins lit another cigarette as Hadrian smiled at a little refugee girl who found herself standing next to the two operators.
"This is your new life, Kelly..." Rollins said, exhaling smoke. "We are revenants. We do bad things for good people and we get ignored. Best get used to it. I know I have."
Hadrian shrugged. "I don't mind all that much. My satisfaction is right here!" He chuckled, pointing towards the blushing little girl.
"I like 'em young too, but there's a goddamn limit, Kelly!" Rollins laughed, much to Hadrian's chagrin.
"I hope you can't understand him. He's an old coot..." Hadrian said to the shy girl. "Where are your parents?"
The girl simply stepped back and lowered her head.
"Don't be shy. I'm one of the good guys..."
She raised her head and frowned. "My Mama and Papa..." She began to tear up. "They went out to get food one day...last week. I haven't seen them since."
Hadrian frowned. He wanted to tell the girl it would all be okay. Her parents were still out there and Hadrian would find them. Given the situation? They were probably rotting in the desert, victims of Caliphate execution. "I'm sorry, dear. Don't worry. The brave men and women of the Peshmerga will protect you, and as long as I have a say in it, so will I."

She couldn't have been a day over ten. Her black hair was filthy and nothing more than rags covered her olive skin, but she looked healthy and attractive regardless.
"Are you hungry?" He asked, extending his hand. She hesitated, but eventually accepted it. He led her to a nearby restaurant.
"Don't have too much fun! Azad wants us to help with the perimeter tomorrow!" Rollins called, laughing.
"Stuff it!" Hadrian called, as he lost himself in the crowd.

The girl obviously was hungry, as she downed half a plate of kubbeh and drunk two glasses of black tea. Hadrian watched her with a fascination. He had heard about how children were raised outside the Empire. The ones who gave birth to them, the parents, usually looked after them until they reached adulthood. It was an odd practice to him. Did those people not know it was more efficient for a state monopoly on child-rearing? Looking at her, though...Hadrian started to feel something. Maybe (hypothetically, of course) having a young girl like this under his care wouldn't be that bad. Of course, he was Caucasian-Frenkish and she was a Yazidi refugee. Not a lot of common ground. Still, he could feel some kind of bond form between them the moment he laid his eyes on her. Maybe this is why everyone else still used the ancient "parenting" system...

Their meal was interrupted by frightened yells on the outside. The girl looked up from her food with wide eyes. Hadrian grabbed her shoulder.
"Stay here." He said, staring into her eyes. She eventually nodded and Hadrian returned the gesture before grabbing his rifle and running outside.

The crowds were running about wildly. The warriors attempted to restore order to no avail. At first, Hadrian didn't know what the commotion was about.

Then he looked upwards, to the source of the giant shadow overtaking the city.

by **Blakullar** » Fri Sep 19, 2014 1:46 am

ABOARD THE MSS ARCHANGELSK, ABOVE IRBIL, THE REPUBLIC OF KURDISTAN (UNRECOGNISED).
APPROX. 9:46AM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

"Initiate radar sweep of the city," came the voice of Captain Nikolayevich from the bridge. General Pyotr Shuvalov is in attendance, standing to the left of the command console. "Let's see what's on the ground before we put down." The radar comes online, and as the wave passes over the cityscape, the town is formed on the holographic map in the corner. Buildings, vehicles, and people all pop up. Were they Taliban, or those Peshmerga that Shuvalov had been hearing all about? "There doesn't appear to be any surface-based defences, sir," says Nikolayevich to Shuvalov. "We have also not detected any enemy aircraft in the immediate area. Can you recommend the next course of action, sir?"

Shuvalov knew about the tactics the Taliban used. They had a rather unpleasant habit of making themselves scarce when overwhelming numbers appeared, then attacking when their opponents were at their weakest. "We should get a couple of marine squads down there to scout out the city. We can lose them, we've got plenty more, and if enemies do rear their heads, we can smash them from the air. For now we should look toward using this city as a forward operations base. Once we put the platoons down, herd the locals aboard the ships for relocation. Assume any armed unit in the area is Taliban, unless they explicitly state otherwise."

"Of course, sir," replies Nikolayevich. "Marine Squads Molot-One and Two, prepare for disembarkation. Kolibri-Five and Fourteen, prepare for launch on flight deck. Orders will be relayed once airborne, over."

On the flight deck, two Ka-91 Gus gunships prepare for dust-off. Molot-One boards Kolibri-Five, Two boards Fourteen. Air crews transfer fuel to the thermal turbines and ammunition to the gunships' weapons. "Kolibri Five and Fourteen, you are cleared for launch." The two gunships fly out of the Archangelsk's hangar bay and prepare to land in the city...

MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE ALEPPO...

"Alright, ladies and gents!" Colonel Degyartev begins to speak up. A large gathering of soldiers, including Kopye-Two, are present. "We just received word that the boys from Pavlovsky have punched into the districts of Balleramoun, Ashrafiyye, Sheikh Maqsoud and New Seryan. They're close to the city centre where the majority of these jihadis, including the sonofabitch leading them, are holed up. Problem is, they've got some heavy shit down there, energy weapons included. That's why the armoury in Gaziantep sent us Tesla armour suits. They just arrived now, actually. I've distributed the suits so that each squad gets two. You all know your training in these things. They're big, and they eat laser and plasma bolts like no tomorrow, but you'll get chopped to bits if you wade in against an MG nest. You aren't wearing a HAT suit. Don't assume you are. Report to the gunship to get your suits, then report to the staging area. Dismissed."

With that, Kopye-Two walk over to a parked Tu-245a cargo jet, along with the other squads. They pull out a couple of crates, with Bykov and Bulyagin opening them. Inside were two pristine Tesla armour suits. They looked more like pre-war diving suits than anything else. But the Colonel was certainly right about them being able to soak up energy attacks.

"I've worn one of these before," said Gorshkov. He'd used it in the Japan war against the Frenkish Vanguards. There was something quite satisfying about watching a power-armoured baddie get frazzled by an ionic death ray that overcame Gorshkov's usual humble nature. "Bykov, I know you've used a Tesla suit before. In Chechnya, if you remember. Ha! Good times!" Bykov didn't say a word. He knew how bulky and uncomfortable these damn things were, and regularly got scratches and bruises from the Faraday suit when he didn't put it on properly. But nobody in the squad other than him and Gorshkov had used one before or even trained in one, so it would only be natural that he gets called up to don the blasted thing again. "I'll wear it, sir," he said finally. He opened the cockpit, put on the Faraday suit linked to the Tesla armour - scratching his buttock in the process, he could have sworn that this effing suit was badly designed - and climbed inside. It was just like driving a mech, just more painful. The interface for the machine came online through the viewport. Gorshkov, having done the same previously, stomped in front of him as if to say hello.

"You ready to head out, Bykov?" the Sergeant inquired. "Yes, sir. Let's go." With that, the pair lumber back to the staging area, the five others in their squad in tow.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Fri Sep 19, 2014 2:56 am

Erbil, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

"SHIT!" Rollins yelled, running through the crowd, rifle held in his off hand. "Reds in the fuckin' sky! Why the hell are they here?" Hadrian removed the electrobinoculars from his belt and put them up to his eyes.
"They've sent a whole carrier group, it looks like..." Hadrian muttered, scanning the ships floating above the city.

About that time, Azad showed up with a squad of warriors in tow. "Damn Ruskies! They've never bothered us before! Shit..." He looked around nervously. "I don't think they'll be amused when they find out you two are here. Honey! Come here!" A small woman who looked like a child next to the Kurdish giant. She was thin, dusky and middle-aged. Not beautiful, but Hadrian could have imagined a time when she could have been at least somewhat pretty.
"Agent Kelly, this is my wife, Nusa. Love of my life for twenty nine years." Azad said. He then turned to his wife. "Sweetie, take Jon and the other Frenk home. Hide them in the basement."
"Nusa...still lovely as ever..." Rollins smoothly stated, kissing the woman on the hand.
As Rollins talked with the wife, Hadrian approached Azad.
"What are you going to do with them? They're landing dropships!"
Azad shrugged. "They may be your enemy, Kelly, but they're no enemy of mine, so long as they kill my enemies. I'll reason with them. Now go!"

Before Hadrian followed Nusa, he ran back into the restaurant where the girl was waiting.
"By the Goddess, we don't have time for this!" Rollins shouted.
"Just wait!" Kelly demanded. Before his superior could protest anymore, he entered the building and found the girl nervously standing in a corner.
"Didn't think I'd leave you, did you?" Hadrian said, as he scooped the Yazidi girl in his arms.
He ran back outside, cradling the girl.
"Let's go!" Rollins boomed, as Nusa began prompting them forward.

After a few turns, the four eventually reached Azad's home. A crumbling, yet stable townhouse with a large Kurdish flag hanging off the side. Nusa ran to the side and unlocked the two large cellar doors. She opened them up and directed the agents inside. After the pair climbed down the stairs, she followed, closing the doors and locking them. She then proceeded to the center of the room, pulling a lightswitch and illuminating the interior. Azad had his basement set up as some kind of safehouse, with a Kurdish flag hanging over a dusty couch surrounded by weapons and medical supplies. An old computer and radio sat at the other side of the room.
"I'll tell Azad you're safe," Nusa muttered as she approached the staircase leading to the main part of the house. "Please don't let the Russians know you're here! We've worked hard for this home and I still have a son to look after!"
She climbed the stairs, locking the door behind her.

With that, they were alone.

Hadrian sat the girl down and crouched to see her, face to face. "Russians outside...not very nice to people like you and me. Me, a Frenkish organic. You, a religious refugee. I think it's best you hide with us for a while. I've never caught your name, sweetheart..."
The girl blushed. "N...Narin..." She muttered.
"Pretty name." Hadrian said as he patted her shoulder and stood up. He then walked over to the radio setup.
"What are you doing?" Rollins asked. "Don't tell me...I don't want those Ruskies breakin' down Nusa's door!"
"Tapping into the local channels. Nothing too fancy. This is an old radio. Too primitive for modern surveillance protections. The buzzing of a fly's wings. The reds shouldn't be able to track it back. Just gonna listen in..." Hadrian replied, as he tinkered with the receivers.
"And...there...we...GO!" Hadrian put on the headset, listening to the chatter of the outside Mechanocratic forces.

by **Blakullar** » Fri Sep 19, 2014 9:44 am

IRBIL, REPUBLIC OF KURDISTAN (UNRECOGNISED).
APPROX. 10:11AM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

The first Ka-91 gunship touches down in a now-empty street, the inhabitants hiding in their houses from the newly-arrived scout force. Molot-One - nine soldiers and a Heavy Assault Trooper - disembark from the aircraft and begin to walk into the city. The squad leader speaks into his microphone: "Archangelsk bridge, this is Molot-One-One. We've made landfall in the townscape and are preparing our sweep." Back aboard the Archangelsk, General Shuvalov replies. "Copy that, Molot-One. Remember this is a heavily-populated area, and your orders are simply to recon the area. If you come under heavy fire, disengage."

A local, what looked like a GShGM minigun slung over his back, walked around the corner. The cry of "Contact!" came almost instantly, the soldiers swinging around to confront the large man. Immediately after they trained their weapons on the local, he could be heard yelling. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I am a Kurd! I mean no harm to you!"

The squad begins to approach the man, weapons still trained on the Kurd. The squad leader mumbles inside his helmet, a beeping sound being heard afterwards. In a monotone voice comes: "Drop your weapon and place your hands where I can see them!" The local complies, carefully taking the GShGM off of his back and placing a grenade belt on the floor. With the squad leader still pointing his AV-38m at his head, another Mechanocratic soldier pats the oversized Kurd down to see if he's hiding any more weapons. It steadily became clear that this Kurd was no threat - if he was, he could quite easily kill the soldier searching him with his bare hands. But there was still one question bugging the squad leader.

"Where'd you get the gun? That is Mechanocracy Armed Forces standard issue." Upon closer inspection, the GShGM bore the serial code #051938 URFA ARMORY ISSUE. "Black market," was the answer from the Kurdish behemoth. "Multiple of these weapons have been missing since an assault on an MAF armoury a month ago. Who did your "black market" source this from?" the sergeant continued to inquire. "Look, I don't do background checks for these things. I bought the gun from the merchant. That's it. Now, why have you disturbed my town with your sky-cruisers?"

"Your town? You mean you lead this militia pocket?" The sergeant knew that this one Kurd couldn't possibly be the only one around here with a gun. "Yes. I lead a group of warriors known as the Peshmerga. Now, I'll ask again - why are you here?" The sergeant was mostly satisfied now, and pressed on with his mission. "We were sent to Kurdistan to subdue the Taliban. We're in this city to scout it out before we land. We would like to use your city as a forward base for operations in this region. Could you lead us to your residence?"

by **New Frenco Empire** » Sat Sep 20, 2014 6:33 am

Erbil, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

"My residence?" Azad asked. "Bah. My place is just a humble apartment in the outer city. You don't want to make a forward base out of that place. I'd recommend the old Council of Ministers building. We don't use that anymore..."
Even with his face concealed by the helmet, Azad could almost sense the eyebrow raising.
"Regardless..." The crude translation stated. "I'm sure you understand. This area is highly unstable. We can't take any chances. We won't dig around too much."
Azad scoffed. "You can set up camp here, but..."
"Regardless..." The marine repeated.

Azad frowned and cursed to himself. "Fine. No snooping around, though. I have a young child at home and I won't have him frightened."
He put his grenade belt back on and slung the machine gun behind his back. "I do hope you'll let me keep this. I've gotten quite attached to Big Nusa, here. A touch of modern equipment would do us good." He remarked. "Now come." He began leading the marines toward his house. However, as he began walking, he nodded towards one of his warriors, Agrin. She nodded back and ran through the crowds, shouting orders for them to clear the way. A simple ruse.
The marine noticed her running, but didn't pursue further when he thought she was just clearing the way.
"We have...heard of some of your exploits...what was your name?" The sergeant asked.
"Azad. Just Azad. They call me Captain."
"Well, Azad...I'm sure if command deems it worthy, we could set you up above the trash most of you are using..."

In Azad's Home...

"Not picking up much. I'm getting bits and pieces of some interesting chatter. The Mechanocracy is considering establishing a forward base right on top of us. In that case...we may have to camp out here for a while. Damn..." Hadrian said, taking off the headphones.
Rollins, however, seemed to take it lightly, laying on the couch with a cigarette in his mouth. "So? This kind of bullshit happens all the time. I remember I had to sleep behind a giant rock in the Mongolian desert during the Ten Years for a week straight. I'll take Azad's basement any day of the week."
Hadrian continued to listen in, as Rollins eventually nodded off, stating "You gotta get sleep when you can..." beforehand. Narin was also napping in a corner. It was almost peaceful for a few minutes.

At least...until a lone female Peshmerga warrior ran down the stairs towards the basement.
"Mister Rollins! Mister Rollins, wake up!" She yelled, shaking him.
"By the Goddess, breakfast time already?" He said, sleepily.
"They're coming! The Russians are coming!"
With that, Rollins jumped up, wide-eyed. He slung his rifle on and looked to Hadrian. "Cloaks. Now!" Rollins ran into a corner, hidden away by the cough. He whispered a soft command to his datapal and he instantly vanished, masked in the advanced adaptive field. Hadrian cursed and did the same, but not before scooping up a stirring Narin and making sure she was covered as well. The female warrior tried to make herself look natural by plopping down on the couch and taking apart her gun, making it look as though she were simply cleaning it if anyone were to intrude.
"Shhh..." He whispered to Narin. "Stay calm. As long as you aren't making a sound, they won't be able to find us." Hadrian hoped it was true. The most recent stealth chip model was the most advanced to date. A user's body heat was completely masked and the heartbeat had been suppressed to the point that it might as well belong to a rodent in a nearby wall when picked up by most sensors. Still, there was no telling what the Russians were capable of. He knew that if they suspected anything, it would only be a matter of time...

by **Blakullar** » Sat Sep 20, 2014 8:22 am

OUTSIDE AZAD'S RESIDENCE, IRBIL, REPUBLIC OF KURDISTAN (UNRECOGNISED).
APPROX. 10:38AM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

As the marine squad walk with Azad to his home, an apartment block as the Kurd had stated, the leader radioed the Archangelsk bridge. "Bridge, this is Molot-One. We've made contact with a local warlord who has permitted us to use his town as a forward ops base. Town appears to have no hostiles of note. We're outside of the warlord's residence now. You are cleared to land forces, over."

A moment passes, then the quiet roar of the engines powering the warships floating above begins to grow louder as the Baikonur-class landing ships, all carrying a platoon each - three of soldiers, one of tanks - descend to the ground to deliver their cargo. Azad looks at the war machines nervously, still wary of the Russians' motives. Trying to ignore the exponentially increasing noise level, Azad opens the door, and he gestures the soldiers inside. He can only hope that the Frenks in the basement have found a suitable hiding place. Four of the marines step inside the building, with the remaining six, the Heavy Assault included, standing guard outside.

The squad leader's radar system picks up four foreign figures: Azad, and presumably three members of his family. There are three other, smaller blips in the basement, though. Rats was the squad leader's first assumption, even though he had heard of Frenkish spies using sophisticated stealth tech - the Kurds couldn't possibly have anything of the sort, and even if they did, who - or what - would they hide? It was at this point that the squad leader remembered that the Frenks were quite friendly with the Kurds. Perhaps they'd sent advisers? There was one way to be sure. He turned to Azad: "Does your town have a rat infestation? There seem to be gnaw marks on some of the furniture."

Azad, head turned away from the marines, gritted his teeth. There couldn't possibly be any way out of this now. But he wasn't about to betray his friends. He steeled himself and turned to the marines. "I never noticed the marks on the furniture. I've not noticed any rats around here either. But then, it's not something you'd pay attention to around here. If there were rats 'round here, we'd probably stopped caring. Not everyone lives in the luxury you guys do, hah!" Azad attempted to sound genial, but hadn't realised that he'd paused for about two seconds. Enough time for the marine to wager that this Kurd had something to hide. "I guess not. Do you have a kettle? I'm dying for a tea," he replied, feigning satisfaction with Azad's answer.

"Of course," the Kurd replied. As Azad walked around the corner, leading the sergeant into the kitchen, the marine motioned two of his soldiers to head down into the basement to investigate the "rats", and then followed Azad...

NEAR ALEPPO CITADEL, SYRIA, THE GREATER ISLAMIC CALIPHATE.
APPROX. 4:22PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

Three OT-100 infantry tanks rumble around a broken street corner, buildings damaged by shellfire all around them. On top of the two rear tanks are the Tesla armour-clad Sergeant Gorshkov and Corporal Bykov, and the five other squaddies - Bulyagin, Petrenko, Tolstoy, Pichugin and Baklykov. The war machines roll to a halt, allowing Kopye-Two to disembark. "Right, lads!" said Gorshkov, his voice booming from the armour's built-in microphone. "We sweep this bastard place, and Aleppo falls! Let's move out!"

The squad moves forward, alongside the tanks, up the road leading to the fortress. Inside the gatehouse are several IS warriors, one equipped with a strange-looking object. The militant with the object stands up, revealing his position to the squad, and activates it. A bright burst of blue energy radiates from the object, passing over the attackers. The tanks stop dead, and all the soldiers - bar Bykov and Gorshkov - stop moving.

"Fuck! EMP!" The servo-loosening mechanisms on the power-armoured soldiers activate, and the five troops waddle to cover. The other militants hiding in the building reveal themselves and open fire. Many of the bullets bounce off the Tesla armour - being pre-war munitions, after all - but a few punch through the steel sheets, stopping short of several important systems aboard the armour. "Bykov, whack that EMP generator! I'll hit that sniper on the roof!" Gorshkov yells.

Bykov takes aim with his left Tesla cannon, and fires. The generator, although primitive, can weather a few volts of electricity. But not from this thing. A bright burst of lightning destroys the generator, taking it out of action and electrocuting its wielder. Gorshkov takes aim himself and throws a death bolt at the tower. It makes contact with an SVD-wielding jihadi, and the unsuspecting militant explodes from the voltage, scattering his innards across a wide area. The EMP disabled, the other soldiers reactivate their powered armour and fire back at the jihadis holed up in the tower. Gatling laser fire forces them into cover again. Bykov aims his other Tesla cannon in the general direction of the laserfire, and shoots toward the beams. The laser stops shooting, indicating that the jihadist manning the weapon died an equally messy death as his sniper counterpart. "Pavlovsky weren't bullshitting when they said these wanks had energy weapons!" he yells to Gorshkov.

The lead tank, also reactivated, finishes the job by firing its volatile plasma gun at the gatehouse. Exploding from the inside with a fireball of green energy, the gunfire from the tower stops. "Punch up, gents!" comes the command from Gorshkov, and the troops advance upon the now destroyed gatehouse...

by **Ardavia** » Sun Sep 21, 2014 3:37 am

Ardavia, Imperial Command Center
Four Hours After Detonation in Algiers

Command Room 26

The screen flashed white, and then the mushroom cloud rose.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we're here. Four hours earlier today, a tactical nuclear weapon was detonated in Algiers, suspected to be the work of Caliphate insurgency. We lost three of intelligence's field agents and one wetworks operator in the area, and Intelligence tells me that both the Frenkish and the Russians are likely to intervene. This means that the area is going to become a site of full-on war as both sides hunt down those responsible. That's not the problem, however. Our problem is that the terrorists are very likely to strike on everyone else next, and why that is a problem, well I don't need to say it, do I?

"As of this meeting's closure, Lockdown Protocols are going into effect. Spartans are deploying into the city to coordinate with Counter-Intelligence operatives in rooting out sleeper agents and other security threats right now, and we have two Infantry battalions reinforcing the Police Forces. Antarctica are entering lockdown as well, and we are fully prepared to weather the shitstorm this debacle will cause. Now, General Hardin, I believe you have something to say?"

The Imperator stepped back, taking her seat with a tired sigh. In her place, Harkin, General of the Armed Forces and officer of the Infantry Corps, stepped up, tapping something on his datapad as his report on the readiness of the Armed Forces appeared on the screen, detailing numbers and combat value as well as time required to mobilize.

...

Days later
Erbil, Unrecognized Republic of Kurdistan
Field Intelligence Branch Eight, Operative Lockpick

"FUCK!"

Lockpick swore, quickly dismantling the receiver and stowing the various parts into his pockets and backpack. Using Ardavian technology like Datapads on a mission like this was out of the question, but 6th Branch had come up with one heck of a receiver. Half a minute of dismantling, and you had what looked like a pre-War cellphone, a seemingly empty AK magazine, an extendable fishing rod and a few other inconspicuous items.

Lockpick wasn't sure how it worked at all, but a bit of work with it gave you a basic quantum entanglement communicator that was allegedly based on the same technology that kept the city floating.

Anyway, Lockpick was not happy with his new orders. Grabbing his positively ancient pistol off a table, he placed it in the old leather holster and looked over the room. Nothing to indicate his presence, and definitely nothing to incriminate him.

Good. Now, time to start operating, Lockpick thought, grumbling.

Observing Islamist and Kurdish resistance movement in the city wasn't a problem. Being ordered to do the same when Mechanocracy forces were moving to establish a whole fucking forward base in the city?

Fucking hell.

by **New Frenco Empire** » Mon Sep 22, 2014 10:58 pm

Erbil, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

Hadrian's heart skipped a beat as two figures in Mechanocratic power armor walked down the basement stairs, gauss rifles slung on their chests.
"Sarge is fucking paranoid. There's no Frenks down here! That big ape upstairs just doesn't know how to talk!" One of them complained.
Hadrian moved his hand to cover up Narin's mouth as he sweated in nervousness. The warrior downstairs attempted to look busy in tinkering with her rifle, eventually looking up at the soldiers.
"Isn't that the same militant who was with that freak upstairs when we landed?" One of the Russian soldiers asked his partner, presumably assuming the Kurd couldn't understand.
"Maybe, but you'd better forget about it. All these people look the same to me!"
The pair shared a laugh before they switched on their translators.
"What are you doing down here?" The soldier's translate software stated.
The warrior shrugged. "Watching the listening post, as the Captain says."
"Listening post...? Forget it. Is there a rat problem in this basement?"
The Kurd shrugged. "Not sure. We uncovered a spider nest in the wall last year, and a few cats sometimes get in. No telling what's in those walls."

One of the Russians shrugged. "Good enough for me. Let's get out of here. I could go for some tea myself."
As he turned to leave, his partner grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Sarge will have our balls if we don't bring him something. A Frenk in chains or a rat corpse. He can't bitch at us for trying!"
The other sighed. "Fine, but have fun getting in the camel spiders! I'll hang back here."
"For fuck's sake, Vlad, those things are harmless!"
"Bullshit."
"...Whatever, just...be ready..."

The two raised their guns at the corner Hadrian was situated in. They slowly approached. Hadrian's free hand floated over to his P90, while the warrior's eyes flashed with fear. Was this it?
It was then that Rollins whispered into his comms channel.
"I hope you appreciate this."

Rollins' Ak-103 fell to the floor, no longer covered by his cloak. He then materialized, hands in the air.
"I give up. You boys finally got me!"
One of the soldiers then approached Rollins and forced him to the ground, while the other pointed his weapon at the Kurd.
"Don't bring her into this! I was sent to collect intel on Azad!"
The other soldier hesitated, then lowered his gun. He walked back towards Rollins, patted him down, threw aside his knife and grenades and hoisted him to his feet.
"Sarge is going to shit..." One of them remarked.

Then they walked up the stairs, with a cuffed Rollins. With that, Hadrian could only hope for the best.

Outside Tyre, Lebanon, The Greater Islamic Caliphate

Lance Corporal Radiana "Radio" Jackson

"Dolphin 1, this is Dolphin 4-2 come in! Dolphin 1, we are facing heavy resistance...Dozer 3-2 is in flames...Dolphin 1..." Bloomfield yelled over his datapal as the bullets whizzed over their heads. The journey from Tel-Aviv to Tyre had been quick, quiet, and aside from a few pockets of resistance or the IED here and there, peaceful. Once they pushed into the ancient city, however...
"Dolphin 1!...FUCK!" Bloomfield lowered his wrist device in anger as he raised his M6 above the crude barricade and fired off a burst. The bodies continued to pile up in front of the barricades, but they just kept coming. The squad had already lost Chrysler and Denley was in his death throes, coughing up blood and begging for more water. The few opportunities Radio had to peek over the wall of sandbags and scrap metal and not get her head blown off, she counted several dozen Hezbollah militants advancing down the street, climbing on to the destroyed Greatsword and rooftops, screaming Arabic war cries including the dreaded "Allahu Akbar!" Any subsequent peeks just revealed they were multiplying by the minute. Bloomfield remained mostly calm, as a veteran of such conflicts is to be expected, but Radio couldn't help but think she would be dead soon.

"Command, where is our air support? We have a Caliphate strike fighter circling our ass and we aren't going to survive another strafing run!" Bloomfield stated to HQ, obviously done with trying to request aid from the nearby platoon.
"All the Goshawks that Overlord assigned us are currently on forward attack detail near Damascus, 4-2." Command responded.
"Lotta fuckin' good they're doin' us over there! Send over a Kestrel or something! We are not gonna to make it without reinforcement!"
"Negative. Caliphate air defense grid is still online. Dozer has yet to clear Anti-Air defenses."
"So I guess this is goodbye then, Captain? In that case, shove your fist up HiCom's ass and tell them they can't do shit with Sergeant Alvin Bloomfield anymore! Desk job my ass..." Bloomfield grumbled.
"Hold on, 4-2," Command interrupted. "Something came up. Give it about thirty seconds!"
Bloomfield sighed, but was relieved to actually get something. "Copy that, Command. I can only hope we have thirty seconds..."

It was the slowest thirty seconds Radio had ever witnessed. She periodically fired bursts from her M26 over the barricade and into the crowds. Occasionally, when she had a clear shot, she'd fire off her under-barreled M940 gauss launcher at whatever was unlucky enough to be on the other side of it. She tried to take out the obvious leader wielding the plasma rifle near the back (Dolphin 1's CO had used a Winchester X7. It's presence in Hezbollah hands revealed their fate), but she missed and figured she shouldn't try. After all, these insurgents were already riled up. What would a dead leader do?
By the time Phelps came forward with the news that Denley had finally kicked it, the buzzing of Stephens' Hale-3 had already rendered Radio partially deaf to the point where she couldn't hear it anymore. How long had it been? Fifteen seconds? Twenty? Maybe it already hit the thirty mark and whatever help that HQ was sending weren't going to show.

"F-80! GET DOWN!" Bloomfield yelled at the top of his lungs. Despite her hearing, Radio could at least take in that much. She looked up on the horizon to see the F-80 Djiin that had been harassing them ever since they took their position. She expected Denley to aim his SMAW-90 at it, but for that instant, she forgot he had taken a .50 caliber bullet to the aorta and was now rotting not five feet behind her. She cursed to herself once she remembered. As the Caliphate fighter moved in for the kill, time seemed to slow. Radio ran to Denley's corpse and took up the rocket launcher laying next to him. As the fighter began to speed forward, she took aim. In an instant, the fighter exploded and it's remains were in flames. It's flaming wreckage soared over their heads, eventually crashing well behind them. Radio couldn't help but give herself a pat on the back for it...well, at least until she remembered she never even fired the SMAW. In fact, she had totally forgotten about the bright, blue light that struck the fighter.

She dropped the launcher and looked back, spotting a shining figure wielding a Tesla MANPAD System. A Zealot. Almost as soon as he took down the fighter, he dropped the MANPAD and disappeared, vanishing into thin air. Radio diverted her gaze back onto the Caliphate fighters in front of her. As she continued her defense, the militants seemed to drop like flies. It wasn't from their fire, either. The insurgents on the rooftops were seemingly thrown off onto the street below, while those in cover just seemed to kneel over...with their heads missing or with a gaping hole in their neck. Closer inspection revealed that it was indeed the Zealot doing all of this, using his active camouflage to mask himself while he slaughtered the crowd from the inside out. Eventually, the insurgents wizened up, leaving only a token force to suppress Radio's squad while they turned around to investigate.
At that time, the Zealot uncloaked right behind the leader, grabbed him and jumped into the air, hovering in the air with a rocketpack. The insurgents didn't hesitate to turn their guns on their leader. They filled him full of holes as the Zealot drew his Justiciar PDW. While the fighters' own leader served as his shield, the Zealot fired down upon them, killing all of them before emptying his magazine. He dropped the bullet-riddled corpse and hovered down, right behind the token force.

In one swift motion, the Zealot either shot or cut down the four-or-so militants just as they discovered he was there. Within an instant, it seemed, it was over. Every last insurgent that was pouring on Radio's squad was dead. All because of this one man in shiny armor.
The Zealot nodded at them before jetting off over the rooftops, probably to join the fighting elsewhere.
Bloomfield couldn't help but to sigh in relief, only to scowl a second later.
"Zealots. I fucking hate Zealots."
"Really?" Radio asked. Her hearing was starting to recover, but her ears still rung. She would probably need a cybernetic before it was done. "Considering what just went down, I want to take every last one of them to bed."
"When you're around 'em as long as I've been, that sexual vigor will wear out real quick. You just don't know what they're capable of. Chrysler! Casualty report!...Chrysler?"
Radio sighed. "He's dead, sarge. Bled out just as the fighting started. So's Denley."
"Well fan-fucking-tastic. We're down an NCO and an AT. I hoped to the Goddess that I wouldn't have to bury any more of my men before my wings were clipped. Get their bodies wrapped up. I'll call CASEVAC. We'll drink a beer-wine for them tonight. For now...I'm just ready to get out of here."

by **Blakullar** » Fri Sep 26, 2014 9:58 am

AZAD'S RESIDENCE, IRBIL, REPUBLIC OF KURDISTAN (UNRECOGNISED).
APPROX. 5:59PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

"Sarge, you might wanna come see this!" comes the voice of one of the soldiers the Sergeant sent to investigate the basement. The Sergeant is carrying a flask of tea that Azad's wife had brewed. He'd have to drink it at Base Camp Aysberg. This was more pressing. He looks to Azad and says, "Wait here".

The Sergeant walks into the living room, where his soldiers parade their catch. One is grabbing a cuffed African American man by the scruff of the neck, the other is carrying some crude listening equipment. "He's a Frenk, sir. He says he was spying on Azad." The Sergeant's full-face durasteel helmet hid a grin of satisfaction and smugness from the Frenk. At that moment, Azad walks in. Upon noticing Rollins bound by the soldiers, his eyes turn to saucers. The Sergeant turns to him. He knows that the Frenk is working against the Mechanocracy - it's blatantly obvious - but decides to hide his knowledge of this. Even in power armour, he knows he would easily be ripped apart by the behemoth standing before him if he showed any real signs of opposition. "We found this man hiding in your basement. He claims to be gathering intelligence on the Kurdish Republic. We're taking him to Base Camp for interrogation."

What the Sergeant, and the two other Mechanocratic soldiers, fail to notice is Rollins' wink at Azad. That everything will be just fine type of wink. "Let my men handle the interrogation. Take this spy to the Council of Ministers." The Sergeant once again complies, knowing full well that he will merely be a subversive when the Mechanocracy takes full control. "As you wish." The soldiers lead the man outside, and the Sergeant radios his superiors. "Bridge, this is Molot One. We've discovered a Frenkish spy in the basement of the warlord's residence. The Kurds want to interrogate him, but I remain suspicious of their motives. I advise you initiate a full sweep of the town to purge any further spies these Kurds are hiding."

Moments later, two GAZ-2132 Balqash MRAVs, delivered from the landing site, arrive at the residence. The soldiers force Rollins into the back of the lead vehicle, into the hands of two other soldiers, and shut the door. "Take him to the council building, due north of here," the Sergeant says to the driver, who nods and drives off, the second Balqash close behind...

by **New Frenco Empire** » Sat Sep 27, 2014 3:34 am

Erbil, Iraq, Republic of Kurdistan (Unrecognized)

Agent Hadrian Kelly

With the Mechanocratic troops gone, all Hadrian could do was uncloak and curse.
"Why didn't you stop them!" He yelled at the warrior.
"It was his own doing!" She backed up, intimidated by his harsh tone.
"Azad will take care of him..." Nusa said, walking down the stairs and interrupting them. "He demanded that he be put in charge of the interrogation. Jon has done a lot for my family and country over the years. He won't let the Mechanocracy have him."
Hadrian sighed as he plopped down upon the couch, conceding but still disillusioned. She was right. This was all that could be done at the moment.
"Misses...Azad?" Hadrian asked.
"Nusa," she replied. "We can only afford to go by first names here."
"Right. Nusa...please, give Azad my regards. I cannot remain here with the Mechanocracy afoot. I can't do this to you or your family. I'll have to move into the wilderness."
"That's probably for the best..." She sadly responded. "But they'll be on the lookout. They've sent those small robots all through the city. You'll be discovered in a heartbeat...unless...Agrin! Help me with the couch!"

The two quickly pulled the couch away, revealing a small metal panel. Nusa removed the panel, revealing a hole, just big enough to climb in. "Tunnels," Nusa said. "We have them running all over the city. Ever since Taliban extended itself into our region, Erbil has had it's own network. We can fight like them if need be. Azad always wanted to get this widened to accommodate him, but he might be glad to know it was just small enough this one time."
Hadrian approached the wall, but shot one last look at Narin.
"Don't worry about the girl. She seems to mean something to you. I'll clean her up and give her some decent clothes. She can pose as my daughter until you find somewhere safe for her." Nusa assured him.
Hadrian nodded and looked back at Narin. "I'll be back. Don't you worry."
The warrior, Agrid, looked to Hadrian. "I'm one of Azad's best hunters. You don't know this area. If you want to avoid the Russians, you'll need me."
Hadrian nodded. "Alright, fine. Take me out of here. I need to contact my superiors about this..."

Meanwhile....

"I spy with my little eye...something yellow!" Rollins said for about the fourth time.
"Sand?" One of the soldiers replied once again, annoyed.
"Correct!" Rollins boomed.
The other soldier, the same NCO who was in the house, then jammed his elbow into his comrade. "I told you stop encouraging him."
"Y-yes sir, sorry sir..." He replied, shame in his tone.
Rollins grinned. "Every Ruskie I meet are either two sides of the same coin. Private Chernov here is the fun kind. You, Sergeant, are letting those cybernetics get to you. 'Master race' my ass!"
"Quiet!" The soldier commanded.

Rollins chuckled a little, but sat back and shook his head. Rollins was about to crack another comment and cause the NCO to cringe, but the vehicle came to a stop.
"Here already? Perfect! Let's get this over with! Rollins laughed as the doors opened.

by **Blakullar** » Sat Sep 27, 2014 5:27 am

OUTSIDE THE COUNCIL OF MINISTERS BUILDING, IRBIL, REPUBLIC OF KURDISTAN (UNRECOGNISED).
APPROX. 1:27PM MECHANOCRACY STANDARD TIME.

The Balqash MRAVs pull up outside of the building, stopping in the semi-circle that made up the drive. A party of Mechanocratic soldiers are already there, with two Kurds guarding the grand doorway. The rear doors to the lead vehicle open, and out step both the Sergeant and the PFC in the car, Rollins in hand. The driver of the vehicle behind steps out and opens the rear starboard door. First, a soldier armed with an SHM AVP gets out of the car, wearing the distinctive tri-optic helmet of the Spetsnaz Guard Brigade. Following him is General Shuvalov, dressed in unique combat gear. The driver and the operator slam their fists against their chests - the official salute of the Mechanocracy Armed Forces - a clanging noise being heard as their gauntlets strike their breastplates. Another operative and an officer wearing a jacket made from yao guai skin exit the vehicle, and Shuvalov walks to the lead vehicle, security detail in tow.

"You did good bringing this spy into custody," Shuvalov says to the Sergeant. "Captain Kaminsky and I will take it from here." The Sergeant and his private salute the General before handing Rollins to the Spetsnaz operator to Shuvalov's left. "This is going to be great fun," comes another smug remark from the prisoner. Shuvalov grabs Rollins by the throat, his upper-class augmentations being noticeably stronger than that of the private. He thought for a moment that the General's vice-like grip would crush his spinal cord. "Let's get some house rules down, negro. We know you're spying on us, and exactly what you were doing in this neck of the woods is what we are going to find out. If you genuinely want any chance of getting back to Frenk Land on your two fleshy legs instead of in a wheelchair, I'd suggest you cooperate. In this case, we'll say that 'cooperation' means no 'oh it'll be great fun' or any other snide remark you've got up there in that pile of pink mush. In fact, if I hear anything other than 'Yes, Sir' from your gutter until we get to our destination, I'm going to beat you shitless." The General loosens his grip a little, just enough so that Rollins could speak comprehensibly. "Do I make myself clear, negro?" Still confident in his plan, Rollins simply stated, "Yes sir." The General removed his clenched hand from Rollins' neck, Rollins using the very brief time between being choked by Shuvalov and being grabbed again by the Spetsnaz operator to inhale as much air as possible. He hated having to submit himself to this big monkey, but knew it had to be done if this was going to work.

"Excellent. SOME of the officers I'm forced to work with could use your attentiveness!" said Shuvalov, glancing over to Kaminsky. The General emits a hearty laugh, patting his captain on the back. Kaminsky just remained silent. Shuvalov, Kaminsky and the two Spetsnaz soldiers walk up to the doorway, with Rollins up front. "We're here on orders from your warlord to interrogate this individual," says the operator holding Rollins. The Kurds nod and open the door for the group to enter the building, and Rollins is taken down to the basement...

MEANWHILE, IN ALEPPO CITADEL...

"Those Ruskies will be down here any moment. Get your gun ready, Farooq!" Two IS jihadis, both armed with 1K19 laser rifles, are standing behind a couple of crates in a cellar. Behind them is a door to a vault. In front of them is a steel door with a small window. "If they get into the vault, by Allah, we're all screwed." The sound of guns being fired above can be heard faintly. With no warning, the sound stops, replaced by the growing sound of metal boots thundering down a flight of stairs. "Here they come!"

At its loudest, the sound stops. Someone is outside the door. Suddenly, the window smashes, and in flies a small tube making a beeping noise and flashing green lights. Before the jihadis can react, the plasma grenade explodes in a flurry of green energy, turning the Islamists into a burning green goo. A second later, the steel door comes crashing down, and Bykov, dressed in standard power armour having abandoned his Tesla armour (this being too large to fit inside the castle itself), enters the room, followed by the rest of the squad. "Here we are," says Gorshkov, about two places behind Bykov and also without his Tesla armour. "Whatever we're here for must be behind this." He walks over to the vault door. "Fuck, this thing is locked shut. There's no way we're crowbar-ing this open. Bulyagin, breach pad!"

Bulyagin, wearing Close Assault armour and carrying a trowel-like object, walks into the room. He sticks the breach pad to the door's lock, and types in a code. "Fire in the hole!" The soldiers run back behind some crates, the pad making a beeping noise not too dissimilar to the grenade that Bykov chucked into the room. The violent explosion that follows disintegrates the lock, allowing Gorshkov to pull the door open. Inside the vault is a rack for three large objects. Two of them are strange oblong things, glowing bright blue from within. The third is missing. "What the hell are these?" says Gorshkov.

Bykov walks to the object and studies them carefully. He recognises their structure - he worked for a nuclear power station before he joined the army. "Antimatter cores, Sarge. They've got Urfa registration codes on them. Must have been 'jacked in the raid." Gorshkov looks at them, eyes wide open. "Holy shit, there must be enough antimatter in these things to crack the Earth wide open. I'll radio command to get these things out of here, and tell the Colonel that the citadel has been secured."

But where was the other core...?

by **Blakullar** » Fri Oct 03, 2014 1:42 am

IN THE BASEMENT...

Rollins is taken down a corridor by Shuvalov and the Spetsnaz troops to a prison-like room. The trooper holding Rollins opens the door, and inside is a set of wooden tables. One is centrally located, with straps attached to it to restrain someone. Two others are located in the corners nearest the party, bedecked with tools of various shapes and sizes, ranging from steel nails and a claw hammer to a pre-war power drill, the BOSCH label on its side beginning to fade with age. To the average Joe, it looked more like a carpenter's workshop than a torture chamber. The Spetsnaz tie Rollins to the central table and exit the room to stand guard, closing the heavy metal door in the process and leaving Shuvalov and Rollins in the same room together.

"Before we go through with this," begins the General, "let's finish laying down those house rules I spoke of earlier. You will answer each question that I ask you, without hesitation. For every question you fail to answer, or answer correctly? Well, I think it's fairly obvious what the consequences of THAT will be." Hinting towards the toolbox, he walks over to the corner table to Rollins' left, perusing the many sharp metal objects placed upon it. He was just about to pick up a pair of pliers when there is a knock on the door, followed by an effeminate, but metallic, voice. "General Shuvalov, open the door."

The female voice on the other side of the door took Rollins by surprise for a moment. Was this Nusa, or another Kurd, in disguise, coming to rescue him? "For fuck's sake," begins the General's philippic. "I specifically asked for no distractions during the procedure! Pompous bastards can't even get that right!" Grumbling, he walks over to the door, and pulls it open to greet his visitor. "I understand you have a Frenkish spy in your possession," inquires the woman. "I've been sent from Gatchina to interrogate him. You've been summoned back to the Archangelsk."

"Ladies first," says Shuvalov, still annoyed at this interruption, allowing the woman to enter before exiting himself. Rollins immediately recognised the countenance that stood before him, his eyes wide in horror. The crimson-hooded figure was no Kurdish damsel who had arrived to save him from the Mechanocracy. This was General Elena Trotskaya. Rollins might have been happier to have known that a woman was here to torture him. Except he once knew fellow members of the IIA who Trotskaya had caught, sometimes personally. Very few ever returned to the NFE, and those who did were broken men and women. The door slams shut, for perhaps the final time.

"Shall we begin?" remarks the iron voice of his torturer, her eyes emanating a blood-red glint...

To Struggle in the Way of Allah (PMT/Invite Only; ATTN NFE)

To Struggle in the Way of Allah (PMT/Invite Only; ATTN NFE)

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