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The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Taurenor
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The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 2:39 am

NSI
The Native Story Index


Hey guys, Taurenor here. I am a friend of the player behind the nation of Jenrak, and have decided to step up to the plate of serving the members of the International Incidents community by sacrificing my time to create a new thread for Jenrak's old Native Story Index thread. As you may well have known, due to more important real life priorities Jen was not able to spend anymore time in NationStates - which is fully understandable as real life will always be a much higher priority than an internet simulation game - and thus, with the understanding that she herself will want someone to maintain her thread - as I was also an administrator of her storefront in the Global Economics & Trade forum - have I step up to take the lead, and continually update this thread on Jen's behalf.

I am a very active member of the roleplaying community, as has been proven for over two years now where I have logged into this account almost everyday - and thus would be perfectly able to continually update this thread. Now, let us go into the basic of what this thread is all about.

This here is the Native Story Index, which is a collection of short stories written in, about, around or focusing on the nations of those who are interested in writing short stories about their nations. Themes, scale, scope, narration, technique in addition to tech levels and technology are no worries, and I won't be scanning for quality. Therefore, it is your own responsibility and freedom to write a story as you want.

The main requirements to writing in this thread is simply that you keep each story that you write to one post, and the rule vice versa when posting. Keep posts limited to one story, so simply make a new one if you want to post a new story. If you are spamming stories quite frivolously, I will ask that you take a breather before posting up any more.

Length is not a problem, so whether you are a Victorian imagist or a Flash Fiction micro-writer, I won't argue against it, so no worries. You may write about anything, as long as it is about your NS nation, whether PT, PMT, MT or FT, so no worries about that. That said, I do ask that you have one of these handy tags at the beginning:

[ PT ] * [ MT ] * [ PMT ] * [ FT ]


To tell me which tech level it is as well as provide your readers as to some indication as to what tech level they're going to read about. The code is here:

Code: Select all
[align=right][size=150][b][[color=#BF0000] INSERT TECH LEVEL HERE [/color]][/b][/size][/align]


That said, if you're writing a mature story (carrying sex, strong or gratuitous violence, gore, or extremely questionable moral themes [abortion, rape, etc.]), please add a mature tag as well:

[ Mature ]

Code: Select all
[align=right][size=150][b][[color=#BF0000] Mature [/color]][/b][/size][/align]


Ultimately, what you write about is your own idea, but this is just to let RPers let their creative juices flow without having to work on a long RP project or have to find people to read their things. It also provides RPers with a good reference thread to get acclimated to another RPer's style of writing without having to fish through their posts, and can work as a reference for organisations and players alike.

Provided will be a Table of Contents, and as often as I can I will add stories as they appear in the thread.

Happy Writing.
Last edited by Taurenor on Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:03 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Taurenor
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List of Stories

Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 2:40 am

Table of Contents

0-9

A

B

C

D

E

F

G

H

I

J

K

L

M

N

O

P

Q

R

S

T

U

V

W

X

Y

Z
Last edited by Taurenor on Thu Nov 08, 2012 2:58 am, edited 44 times in total.
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 6:35 am

[This post is a placeholder for future expansion.]
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 6:35 am

[This post is a placeholder for future expansion. (last)]
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Ikruchystan
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Postby Ikruchystan » Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:26 am

[MT]
Crimes of the Heart


Glowing embers lie dwindling in the fireplace, heating a kettle of tea, but inadequately warming the small hut. An old man sits in a wicker rocking chair, staring at the dying red light of the fire. His hands are shaky and the cold air inside the hut makes him shiver. His shoulders and knees jerk erratically, but his expression remains unchanged; a long-suffering weariness. Deep lines on his face form jagged valleys, worn down by biological aeons of wind and dust and tears. The man sits, waiting for the whistle that will tell him that the tea is ready. There’s nothing for him to say, and even if there was, there’s no one around to listen to him.

Someone knocks at the door. Cold knuckles land three quick blows on the rotten timbers that form the door. The timbers strain against the ropes that hold them together, eventually settling down into quiet resignation as they run out of momentum and inertia takes hold. The man tears his eyes away from the fire and stands up slowly, rubbing his arthritic joints and shuffling slowly to the door. A young woman most likely in her twenties stands on the other side of the door clutching a tape recorder. She’s wearing a gray wool coat, a hat, and a scarf to fend off the elements. A silver pin on her coat’s collar identifies her as a junior official in the civil service, attached to the Ministry of Culture. The old man yanks the door open, and stares at her. An awkward silence floats between them, until the young official hesitantly asks, “Is this the residence of Joseph Thierry?”

“Yes,” is all Thierry has to say at first. “What do you want?” he asks abruptly, not intending to be discourteous. He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, and stares at his shoes, then looks up at the sky.

The official responds more brightly this time, buoyed by Thierry’s responses. “My name is Anna, and I’m here from the Ministry of Culture. I was wondering if you’d be willing to tell me about any experiences you’ve had in the past, particularly those that pertain to the Last War.” Thierry’s extended silence causes her to become uncomfortable, and she quickly adds “If it’s not too much to ask, of course.”

Thierry stares at his shoes for about a minute, then says “No, I suppose it’s not,” with an air of resignation. “Come on in,” he says, and walks back inside, just as he hears the kettle’s piercing whistle.

/+/


A boy covers his ears and shies away from the edge of the platform as the 5:15 troop train from the Wurtembich Front roars into the station. This time, there are no flags or flowers, no cheering crowds. Instead, refugee families huddle together and weary reservists stare emptily into space. The families all look the same: they speak in hushed voices and have dark circles under their eyes. When the children cry, they cry quietly and are quickly shushed by one of the parents, usually the mother. The soldiers are out of shape Class B and C reservists that only dimly remember their training. They cradle their rifles awkwardly, unsure whether of or not they are actually soldiers.

The train jerks to a halt, and the conductors run around opening the train’s doors. Medics are the first ones onto the platform, easily identified by the red crosses on their helmets and their red armbands. They help all manner of wounded troops off of the train. The number of ways a man can be wounded in combat is extraordinary. The shrapnel and gunshot victims limp along on crutches or lie on stretchers. Those who have suffered gas attacks have to be guided through the station, each blindly holding onto the belt of the man in front of him. Joseph shrinks away from the hideous burns on the skin of the men who had been gassed, repulsed by the wretched humans he witnesses before him. Joseph wonders how these…animals, are considered people. Human maybe, but surely these wretches were not people.

Thierry sits down in his wicker chair, and waits for Anna to enter. Once she is standing in his living room, he points at the worn chair in the corner and motions for her to sit. He offers to tell her an inane story, something harmless. His expression appears unchanged, but guilt tears away at him inside. His heart points an accusatory finger at itself, never to be satisfied with his explanations.
Ex Gladio Patria


In the dark recesses of the mind, a disease known as fear feasts upon the souls of those who can not overcome its power.

Factbook(WIP)
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 8:37 am

Thank you, Ikruchystan. Story added to list.
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Neo Prutenia
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Neo Prutenia » Wed Sep 05, 2012 1:12 pm

Rauch und Raum Stories
“You hear a lot of strange things as a bartender, and you hear a lot of strange things in the ‘Rauch und Raum’, so naturally, as a bartender in our city’s most famous Inn I hear quite a lot of strange things.”
[ MT ]


Der gebrochene Landser (The broken Squaddie)
Part One - The Ghost

So, here I’m sitting, tending bar, as always, in comes a rather unusual figure. Regular clientele mostly includes the local Zelischers who know about the inn and have a tradition and history of coming, and their guests, with the occasional foreigner who’s either streetsmart or on invitation here. This man looks as foreign as it gets; a sombre, weary appearance accentuated by his methodical, careful, and deliberate way of walking, punctuated by a lazy, yet contemplative scan of every table he passes while approaching the bar, further adding to his alien presence was the serious faux pas, serious for locals at least, of not wearing the latest street or urban fashion, in the Prut fashion capital no less, something every Prut, not just the local citizens, would take great pains to take into consideration when visiting the city proper, and yet his mannerism and obvious knowledge of local custom and behaviour pointed out, in an uncanny, strange way, that he was supposed to be one of us, and not a foreigner. Maybe that’s why he stands out to me so much. We do occasionally get a greyface, or someone broken entering the inn, although most of them would prefer the various bridges of the city, in which case they would become a problem for the local harbour personnel and policeforce. Those who do come here, do so to try and cheer up, meet someone, or just in general enjoy the ‘Rauch und Raum’ as a haven, a sanctuary to shield them from our vicious city. Not him.

His expression clearly showed that he was not here to partake in the jovial atmosphere, and he came alone, and no one was waiting for him, otherwise they would have greeted him. Such is custom. If pressed, I’d say he was looking for someone. He has that commanding presence about him, the one man used to being in charge always have or develop, but I didn’t know if he was Hansa, or Pruwam, maybe government… Maybe none of them. As he closes in, I can recognise more of his features. Simple black business attire, southern-type shoes, most likely of Hesperian make, no wristwatch, all of which fit him perfectly, again in the same uncanny way he fits here perfectly, but coming off plain wrong. He has some serious, deep scars on his face, but his neatly maintained and combed hair, of auburn colour, was not dyed. Living in Zelisch makes you develop a seventh sense for deceit, superficiality and recognising when something is fake. This means that he was still relatively young, albeit his bearing is mature. Or bitter. He pulls the barstool with his leg and sits on it, turning his body sideways, so that his right side is turned to me, while his left is looking towards the door. His back is opposite the eastern wall, where the toilets are, and up front he has a good viewpoint of the rest of the interior. Leaning on his right, he strokes his clean-shaven chin with his left hand and without looking at me, addresses me in a surprisingly pleasant, even charming voice:

“Bartender, could I get whisky? A black-label Marienburger, dry, would do.”

“Of course.”

Nice choice. Most customers go straight for the expensive stuff, like Wanderlieb, but he knows quality. His accent is weird though, I don’t recognise it at all. Perfect Low Prut, but unfamiliar pronunciation, however it’s definitely his first language. Foreigners and non-native speakers never get the precise tone, body language, and choice of words to pass as Prut. I pour him the drink.

“First time in Zelisch?”

“Third.”; He doesn’t touch the glass, but remains casual and nonchalant.

“Ah, but the first time in the ‘Rauch und Raum’.”

“Second.”

“Second? Impossible, I know all my customers and I never forget a face.”

“Do you, Andreas?”

“Ok, regulars know my name, but it isn’t exactly a secret. You just want to make me look unprofessional.”

“Do I? Fine. You were never able to make a good Conca Libre, so you deliberately removed that particular cocktail from the menu.”

First I’m stunned for a few seconds, then I raise my hands in resignation.

“It’s a rare cocktail, few people order it and the mix is difficult to pull off, especially if you haven’t worked in Gandesa or Tarragona. Besides, only veterans from the Hesperian war and the occasional elderly Hesperian order it. No offence, but you don’t strike me as either.”

“Sounds unprofessional to me. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret hidden. The Marienburger is on the house, right?”

“Well, you got me there. You’ll get a second on the house if you remind me of your first visit and accept my apology.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You could at least tell me where you’re from. I’ve been working here for several years, and I’ve lived my whole life in Zelisch, yet I’ve never heard your particular dialect.”

“I didn’t talk during my last visit. I was here with a friend, whose Conca Libre you managed to ruin. For starters, you’re supposed to put an orange slice there, not a lemon slice. Beginner’s mistake. He didn’t mind.”

He takes the glass and swallows the whole content in one go, puts it back on the counter and just shows me his raised index and middle finger. Takes me a moment to recognise he wants a second shot of whisky. I pour another one.

“Thank you, Andreas.”

“So, where’s your friend?”

“Dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… eh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok. I’ll take a third on the house to drink on his memory as an apology.”

“Yes, that’s… fine I guess.”

“Excellent. I should come to the ‘Rauch und Raum’ more often.”

“So you can bankrupt me and personally destroy my whisky supply at the same time.”

“And tease you. Don’t forget that part, I like that part.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, why ‘Rauch und Raum’ ?”

“The Name? It’s named after Raucher, our famous crusader. One of the first business ventures to open in Zelisch after Raucher’s crusade, although it wasn’t founded by the Herzog himself, but a relative. We still have an original portrait of the Herzog from that time period. Right there on the wall”

I point towards it. He takes his glass, looks at the picture, mumbles something to himself and again drinks it dry in one go after raising it in Raucher’s honour apparently. This is promptly followed by raising three fingers. I pour the third.

“That table over there. The empty one. Shouldn’t there be a group of people, four gentlemen and a lady, sitting there?”

“Yes, they are regulars. Blues. They come here because they think of Raucher as one of their own, and it’s one of the buildings from before the signing of the Accord and the Civil war. A lot of them prefer the inn because of that. They usually arrive 20h sharp and stay until midnight. I don’t know why they’re gone. Didn’t even call. You know them?”

“Just two of them. I was here because of them.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry you missed them. As mentioned, it’s highly unusual that they aren’t here tonight. You can leave a message for them if you like, I’ll deliver it.”

“Ah, no, I was here to make sure that they wouldn’t be here. Well, that the two I know wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I understand. Are they supposed to be somewhere else?”

“Yes.”

“I guess it would be wise not to inquire any further?”

“I guess you’re right about that.”

“I also guess someone is going to inquire if you were here?”

“Almost certainly.” He turns towards me, takes a deep breath, with that tired expression of his it almost looked as if he was going to fall asleep, and then he looked me directly into the eyes. “Andreas, I don’t have a watch on me, I’d appreciate it if you could tell me the time.”

A bit confused with his grave, thorough gaze, the banal question not matching his serious mien, I raise my arm, timid at first, and then awkwardly try to glance the numbers on it without breaking eye contact.

“21h08.”

“Over an hour overdue? Yes, I think we’re safe to assume everything went just as planned.”

“Them not coming?”

“Yes. Well, tomorrow is going to be fun.”

He took the glass, shifted it into his left and then he crossed himself properly with his right hand uttering a Pater Imon and finished it with ‘For my friend’. This time he drank it slowly, with more dignity, and even a hint of remorse or regret in his eyes.

“Good bye Andreas. It was nice chatting with you. Maybe I’ll visit ‘Rauch und Raum’ a third time then.”

“Good luck, Fremder.”
Factbook: The Prut Meritocracy | Prutopaedia (TG feedback appreciated) | National Policies | φ(._.) - Shoot me a TG if you want to RP with me

Always assume I'm the exact same tech level/reality as you are, with access to the exact same technology/abilities; I just happen to prefer very strict MT. IC name: Prut Meritocracy
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 3:05 pm

Thank you, Neo Prutenia. Story added to list.
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Felix Terra
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Founded: Jun 05, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Felix Terra » Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:03 pm

[MT]

FATAL ERROR: ATTEMPTED TO INSTALL MORE THAN 3GB OF MEMORY

Year: 1995
Vice-Chancellor Paul Eagleton sat in his desk. He had just been provided with a sleek, brand-new computer. Made by the Felixian company DigiTerra, it was one of the first true laptops, designed for ease of use and portability. It could run continuously, without charging, for fifteen days. Days. Obviously, it was ideal for a politician.

It was a slow day, so he was installing important documents. Each one install in second. After blowing through most of the documents, Paul decided to take a break and install a game.

He put the game in the disc drive. He waited one minute... two... three. Then a dialog box came on screen.

FATAL ERROR: ATTEMPTED TO INSTALL MORE THAN 3GB OF MEMORY


"What.. The..."

He tried to restart the computer, but it wouldn't respond. He called tech support. As it turned out, the laptop could not install more than three gigabytes at one time, and if the error came up, the computer would completely lock up and would have to be replaced.

He put down the phone, took the computer and chucked it in the disposal bin. He was going back to his reliable desktop.

END
why are you looking at a post from 2012 go home you're drunk

East Apikai is my main nation nowadays
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:17 pm

Thank you, Felix Terra. Story added to list.
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Radiatia
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Founded: Oct 25, 2011
Ex-Nation

The Man in the Desert

Postby Radiatia » Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:33 pm

[MT]


The Man in the Desert

Rural Detzertscha, Radiatian Federation
October 4th 1994

A house, isolated on the plains.

After days of driving, as desert sand turns to desert shrub and then finally to prairie and dry grass, the destination is finally reached. A farm house on the Radiatian Interstate 181, Northern Detzertscha near the state border with Xegfause.

A house so alone, so far from civilisation. A simple farm on the plains, surrounded by desert wherein a man lives alone, who sleeps during the day in the hot desert heat and rises at night as the hot desert air became more pleasant.

A man who lives with only his Yaks, his vegetables and his gun to keep him company.

An old man. A man who has seen sights, who who has done deeds, many times in his life.

At 85 years old, the man just wants to live out his days in peace. Faraway from the cities that he spent so much of his life clogged up in. Midgard. Exegrad. Xerconia. God knows where else - he'd been all over the world.

Here alone in his house on the desert plains, a windmill turns in the day and the snakes hiss in the night.

The nearest town half a day away, the nearest cities over two days. So few visit. So few know the place exists. Such a perfect place to live in peace, away from the world.

Oh sure there's power lines rolling through the desert plains. And there's TV here, the man even has internet.

And there's a hamlet about 40 minutes down the road, with a gas station, and about 100 people, all similar types who have chosen to escape society and live out here in the desert.

And the man has a helicopter. He may be in the desert and he may be old, but he's not stupid.

The man is a very shrewd, intelligent man.

And he knows that when someone in a black van has come to pay him a visit all the way out here, it isn't farmers who have come to share a beer, nor is it lost tourists coming to ask directions.

They had come for him personally.

Dust blew in the old man's face as he saw the tinted black van driving toward the ranch.

He stamped his foot as a snake came close to him, making the snake slither away in fear.

He sighed, wondering what they could possibly want from him. He just wanted to be left alone. He was far too old to be dealing with these people.

He looked up in the sky, praying silently that his god would grant him wisdom and strength.

The black van crumbled onto the dust and shingle driveway.

The old man instictively reached for his gun. Just in case.

He didn't want visitors, and he wasn't about to let black van types come unannounced.

The doors of the van opened. A man in suit stepped out, flanked by three soldiers.

One soldier had a distinctively high rank - there was something about him, about the decorations he wore, that showed him to be elite.

The other man, the man in the suit held out a badge.

R-SOD.

What a surprise...

"We need your help with an investigation, comrade."

Comrade. A hangover from the Radiatian People's Socialist Union. The old nation, the one the old man grew up in.

The one that was no more - but then again none of the places he loved had survived.

"What do you want?" Asked the old man.

"Information. Information that you and only you are able to provide."

The old man nodded... and cocked his gun.

"And what's in it for me?"

The agent looked him over and then turned to the high ranking soldier. It dawned on the old man that the other two men weren't soldiers - they were policemen. From the Detzertscha Rural Police Squad.

But that man... he was a solider. And he was a very elite one. In another time he may have qualified for the Special Liberation Army.

"What's in it for you? Well... protection."

The old man raised his gun, in his heart hoping that he wouldn't have to fire, praying to his god for the wisdom and courage not to have to fire.

"I don't need protection."

The agent smirked. "Really? Then why are you alone in the desert, waving a gun around? Hiding from something? Afraid of something?"

"Neither." Said the old man. "I just want to be left alone. I just want a quiet life."

"Then we promise you will have that once you help us."

The man lowered his gun. "What do you want?"

"We need you to come with us."

The two police man and the agent then got back in the van, leaving the old man and the soldier alone together.

The old man stood there, not really willing to come along. He looked to the soldier.

"Who are you? You're not like the others..."

The soldier nodded. "My name is Horoshi Vodotel. Former Presidential guard. Now a free agent... more or less. I am here for your protection. You deserve the best."

The old man nodded. "Very well. I will come with you."

Vodotel smiled and followed the old man.

"We appreciate your assistance.... Mr. Makht."
Last edited by Radiatia on Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Taurenor
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Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 7:48 pm

Thank you, Radiatia. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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The God-Realm
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 8759
Founded: Jul 05, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby The God-Realm » Wed Sep 05, 2012 8:01 pm

Hey, it's Wellboneland.

Delete mine please.
Add me on Steam: Hatekindler

Member of: IWW, EF!, La Raza, the KFA, and NSG Senate and Red Army
Esternial wrote:
The God-Realm wrote:No

people who qq over losing a gf over a small penis size are insecure and need to check themselves

Before they wreck themselves?

Or their ex' car.
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Taurenor
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Postby Taurenor » Wed Sep 05, 2012 8:23 pm

The God-Realm wrote:
Hey, it's Wellboneland.

Delete mine please.


Thank you for the notification, Wellboneland. Story removed from list.
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Layarteb
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Posts: 8416
Founded: Antiquity
Moralistic Democracy

Postby Layarteb » Fri Sep 07, 2012 10:17 am

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]
[ MATURE ]

Blade Runner Blues

They don't advertise for killers in the newspaper


¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤


A man walks down an alleyway, a deep scowl on his face, a cigarette in his mouth, hat hanging low, hiding his eyes, a long raincoat, shiny, black, leather shoes sparkling in the midst of the streetlights, glistening off of the black, scummy puddles all around him. He steps around them, ignores the masses of flesh and suffering poised here, there, everywhere it seems. His skin is rough, weathered, aged by the elements and Father Time bore a five o'clock shadow that was rough enough to grade cheese.

In this black and white world, he came to the end of the alleyway, took a deep drag of his cigarette, pulled the ashy body from his lips, and flicked a long stem of ash into the puddle below, narrowly missing the toe of his right shoe. He replaced the cigarette in his mouth and looked down at a vagrant cast yellow in the harsh light from above him. "Spare some change Mister?" The vagrant said, his right hand extended with a mangy, paper cup in his palm. The man looked down upon both the man and the cup and saw that he had forty-seven cents in change. Either it was a slow day or he was piss-poor at begging.

"No," the man answered with gruff and apathy. "I wouldn't give you pocket lint you mangy, disgraceful excuse for a human being." The apathy and the vehemence in his voice were easily recognizable. "Your shit is in my way," he said, turning his gaze to a red and black, rusting door not more than six inches from the beggar. Three trash bags full of junk blocked the door. "You can move it; or I can move it." He threatened, flicking the now spent cigarette into the alleyway to their left. The small, red glow of the cigarette tumbled through the air and then it was extinguished with a hiss as the butt landed in another puddle.

"S…So…So…Sorry Mister." The beggar said, stuttering, his voice just as shaky as his hand was. As fast as he could, a snail's pace, the beggar got to his feet to begin moving the trash bags out of the way. The man watched him with impatience, tapping his foot on the ground, giving off a piercing echo. When he finally had the door cleared, the man impatiently walked up to the door, dangled a keychain, and looked for the key.

With a sliding sound, the key entered the lock and then it stopped. The man took a deep breath and felt his body grow heavy and his legs begin to shake. They buckled seconds later and he fell to the ground, on his knees, and coughed a spat of blood, which wound up on the door, barely visible thanks to the red paint. As he leaned his head back to look up at the now firm and towering beggar, he saw the instrument of his death, a knife that dripped with his blood. He had a metallic taste in his mouth and suddenly, his eyes rolled in the back of his head as a deep spray of arterial blood drew a line across the door from his throat.

The beggar kicked him aside, wiped the knife off on his jacket, took his hat, dropped a layer of mangy clothes to reveal a tuxedo, walked up to the door, turned the key, put the knife away, and entered the room.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ||| ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤


The Layartebian Chronicles
Part IX
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Taurenor
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 394
Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Fri Sep 07, 2012 3:09 pm

Thank you, Layarteb. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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Vycan Consortium
Civil Servant
 
Posts: 6
Founded: May 24, 2012
Ex-Nation

Postby Vycan Consortium » Sun Sep 09, 2012 12:31 am

[ Mature ]
[ FT ]


Glit|ter
A Day in Ji'sæng City
"I Don't Need The City" by Neuroticfish


Ji'sæng City. Metrodecks B-9 through D-6. Central Sector 27-8C-I4. Avalla.

A tower to every impulse man can conceive and in tongue to describe – and can afford to credit in scrip. Sixty-seven tiers to vice; sixty-seven decks to sex; sixty-seven tiers to the most basic of primal desires that homine senses can bear to endure or seek to relish. Sixty-seven decks of transhomine-ragged rats scurrying about with softies falling out of their arms and wicked gooplexes jerking out of their brain stems; sixty-seven stacks of off-charged denizens making back-room deals in the last bit of barter they hold to make it below; sixty-seven pillars of the sotojiru peddling their softs and wares and kaleidoscopic updates in fractals of light-wire uploads and synplate implants. Sixty-seven labyrinths of glit and glitters.

Swinging tapestries of gold, orange, and green neon swing on skirting of polished silver metalloids and synthetic alloys manufactured for cheap and induced to shape. The gentle hum of subliminal orbital drives whirring over the deep-bass techno drone of haute couture dance clubs and all-night, all-day party houses. The skitter-scatter of plastic and poly-formed plates of bio-feedback ware upgrades crunching underfoot; the dizzying light of their almost bio-luminescent glow spinning and dazzling in the dark, gritty glow of upheld rafters and drooping conditioning tubes. Half-corroded enviro-forming ventilation shafts broken away for their copper, gold, and iridium slivers, worn like bracelets and anklets and circlets of ancient kings by glitters and their ilk; the faint pyrophoric glow of the coolant traces slowly sterilizing their bodies and obliterating even the solid-state memories they hold so dear wholly forgotten in a sham of brilliant visuals like back-lit hallucinations across the face of some distant, long-forgotten god.

The Inspector held a dull grimace beneath the fold-peaked crown of his cover; another glitter was dead. Just one amongst millions, perhaps even billions; one more poor soul lost to a bad “batch” of the glit. Poly-peptide amorphous hydro-silicon and carbon polymer chains acting like nitrate enzymes in a rush across ware maintenance tubes and direct-connect diagnostic pathways in a vaulted jump to the peak of artificial ecstasy. Veins contract, lungs explode, pupils force into contraction and silicon nano-rods pierce lenses, and in the best of cases, that rush of epenephrine from cyware emergency release compression tubules burst into a sea of rushing neurotransmitters across the fine mesh of neuro-synaptic trees that sprout across the hemispheres of a homine brain. One wrong chain, one mismanaged oxygen bond, one broken anion-cation ligament, and even that multi-million syntheart blows a gasket and that precious red that even the most advanced of the pluses needs fills the cavity between ribs and spine.

The whores use them. With their bubble-tops and latex skirts that make the imagination evaporate, they use them like salt to hide. One quick offer of a good time, and even a callous brush of the palm can make a man burst long before he's paid for the trip in scrip. Work is done, the spin is over, and back to the grind of Ji'sæng before the twenty-cycle rush is even half-decayed in those artificial capillaries.

The ply-paper tabloids said it was the Alliance; those thousands of united enterprises broiled in competitive collaboration, perpetually vying for their own voices to be heard within the Trade Syndicate. After all, what could they hope to lose were a few batches of glit to be tainted? What was a few million employees in the light of trillions of scrip in investment and ever-more in equity and insolvent holdings? No such luck. The Inspector had searched for cause there first; even in the lowliest of the United Enterprise Alliance, amongst those peddlers of novelty gynoids and rarefied cybernetic-ware up-link feedback adrenaline rushes, no potential profit was high enough to run the risk of loss of business and investment. In the Consortium, confidence was king; lose the confidence of all those hyper-consumers and no matter the drone and monotony of their “work-eat-fuck-work-eat-sleep-fuck-fuck-fuck” daily lives, no one would risk a fracturing of their cyware psyches for a fifteen minute trot across the surface of that dying star.

Glit was popular; even so, it was not that popular.

Six ribs fractured on the sixty-sixth deck of Ji'sæng. Irony. Six ribs fractured, a spinal column shattered, and a solid-state brain shot six centimeters into the cement base of a major support column for the sixty-sixth tier. METPRO had, for once, gotten the right idea; call in an investigator, inspector, even a “sumspector.” One wrong pulse along that column, and the whole area could be buried beneath a few hundred thousand metric tons of rubble and debris. Of course, that was the only cause for alarm.

Even as a part of the Metrpolitan Protection Service, the Inspector didn't much care for the nonchalant attitude to death and disease the field officers carried in the lower decks of the sprawling ecumenopolis of Avalla. Just another glitter; another carcass to add to the depolymerizing furnaces below. Another log to the fire to fuel a fuel no longer required spare on the most distant of spinning, unincorporated worlds. The silly-string spewing from the particular glitter's arm mattered very little to them; just another dead glitter. Another kid that couldn't cut it in the cut-throat corporate high-rises of the Consortium. Just another...

Investment lost. Adjust. Recompile. Recalibrate. Recalculate. Proof. Lower the bottom line; raise overhead. Adjust. Recompile. Recalculate. Proof. Investment adjusted, equity recompiled, liabilities re-calibrated, and profits awaiting proof.

Slowly-passing scrawl in Seonamese shown like starlight from above; stuttering digital read-outs of Oversight's calculations for the quarter's elevated cost quotas were being adjusted. Noble gases lit-up the words of the neo-nobility like the town criers of the ancient past; the parchment to the cathedral's door in an age without faith and a time without a church to hold the prayers of the many. Oversight was god, the Syndicate was the choir, and the congregation was happy across the syndicated systems. No need to speak-up, an investment was an investment, and while the droning grunts with plexi-glass eyes and long-form plastic helms may care little for the woes of those insolvent assets, the COG did care. The COG had to care. The Consortial Operations Grade was care, for the COG kept the machine turning, and without it, the clockwork mechanism of the false state would fall.

Radio-glow of a freshly-printed stamp was a glimmer of hope on that synth-flesh hand. A green eye with a red crescent in its pupil. It was indicative. Ji'sæng was the party-capital of the world-capital of the Consortium; a lead, for once, in a three-month dead drudge through the sewers of the Vycan jewel of the stars. A synthetic jewel of glass and crystal and steel and concrete, devoid of that effervescent blue glow it might once have held long before the fall of the federated state, but a jewel nonetheless.

The Inspector smiled.

The teeth-grinding grate of sub-orbital atmos-jets shook the ground in resonant vibration; dirt, grit, grime, and soot shook from the walls of Ji'sæng. Narrow-faced women with exposed thighs that jiggled with each step under translucent silicon fittings tumbled out of metal staircases leading-up; purse-cases shook under their bubble-top blouses with bosoms threatening to burst. Of course they skirted by the man in black with his brass-toned shield and blue, polarized lenses. Leave the Inspector be; he cares very little for the unlicensed trips and their sullied pins in the back-rooms and narrow alleys of below. Even the off-charged debtor with eyes aflame from narcoes, shimming in and out of doors for a fix was of little concern. He wasn't a glitter; even the cybio scanner brief pulse told of his little value. Not a single ware.

The Inspector had greater concerns...

Investment lost. Adjust. Recompile. Recalibrate. Recalculate. Glitter.
Last edited by Vycan Consortium on Sun Sep 09, 2012 12:54 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Taurenor
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 394
Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Tue Sep 11, 2012 2:10 am

Thank you, Vycan Consortium. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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Radictistan
Minister
 
Posts: 3065
Founded: Nov 21, 2008
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Radictistan » Thu Sep 13, 2012 10:08 am

[ MT]

The Bombing of Flight 241


The three-engined Yakovlev sitting on the tarmac by the general aviation terminal was the oldest aircraft in the corporate jet fleet of Radictistan Automotive Works. It was also one of the smallest, seating twelve passengers in little more comfort than a first class commercial cabin. Still, it was reliable and could land on short runways few other jets could handle. It was an asset to the company if an unglamorous one.

It was late morning. A small number of company executives were to fly to Barking in order to scout out a potential new supplier of transmission components for the company’s line of luxury vehicles. The CEO, Sir August Havenketter, was originally to have been among them but he had excused himself earlier that morning saying that his presence was not strictly required.

The company’s larger Yak-42 aircraft was having engine trouble so the decision was made to take the smaller and less comfortable Yak-40. The pilots were onboard the backup aircraft long before any of the passengers. They started the onboard APU and began running through the usual preflight checklist. There was substantial cloud cover beginning at eight hundred meters above ground level but the winds were fine and precipitation was considered unlikely. As far as weather was concerned it would be a routine flight.

Three porters arrived with the passengers’ luggage. The bags were carried up the rear airstair into the passenger cabin. The bags were deposited on the luggage racks in the rear of the short and tight cabin, behind the tan leather seats where the bigwigs would luxuriate during the flight. The passengers themselves arrived just a few minutes later. They included two Executive Vice Presidents, two Senior Vice Presidents, the Chief Engineering Officer Stefan Selonik, and a non-executive member of the board. The other three passengers were executive assistants.

When everyone was onboard the pilots started up the three rear-mounted turbofans. The lithe blonde flight attendant went through the perfunctory safety demonstration as the aircraft pulled backwards from the apron. After a few minutes it entered the queue for runway 10R/28L, one of the two 3,000 meter runways used for domestic flights. Norcust-Hartfer International Airport was one of the busiest in the country. Every major Radictistani airline was represented in the lineup. The corporate jet ended up between two Norcust Aviation planes.

Oskar Kurbeck, Executive Vice President for the Commercial Vehicles division, passed a small folder to the man sitting across the aisle. “These are the cost projections the Neulander people gave us.”

The other man glanced over the documents as the aircraft waited for a takeoff slot. “These seem almost too good to be true,” Mr. Selonik said.

“The question is whether they’re cutting corners in the manufacturing. A simple factory tour should tell us that, but if you want your own boys down there I’ve taken the liberty of reserving seats on the first train tomorrow.

The Chief Engineering Officer nodded to indicate his satisfaction. “I’m a gearbox man myself. It would be better to have a specialist on torque converters.”

The Yakovlev finally reached the head of the line. The captain requested and received takeoff clearance from the Tower control and taxied onto the runway. Within five minutes the front wheel no longer touched the ground. The rear wheels followed a moment later. The aircraft rose quickly into the grey sky. After another ten minutes the aircraft left the control zone of the Hartfer airport and was passed off to the Northwest Flight Information Region. The controllers at the area control center would provide air traffic control services for the flight until it neared Barking Municipal Airport. The aircraft began a climbing turn south toward the Redclay VOR, the first waypoint on the way to Barking.

Like any aircraft about to go up, the Yakovlev had been thoroughly checked out by a maintenance crew. With good people on that job, even an aging trijet posed little risk to those onboard no matter how heavily used.

The mechanic on the ground at Norcust-Hartfer were not good people. Several of them were members of one of the local cells of the Communist Party of Radictistan. Those who were not had been “removed” from the team and replaced by fellow operatives. The jet and those inside had been doomed from the moment they took off. An explosive device concealed behind a maintenance panel on the starboard side of the aircraft exploded before it finished the turn. It took only seconds for aerodynamic forces to rip that wing completely off its fastenings.

“Jesus! Mayday Mayday Mayday Auto 241 starboard explosion unknown cause-” The pilot had no chance to right the aircraft. It rolled at a sickening rate. The cockpit crew still had enough concentration left in them to notice that the number on the altitude indicator was declining rapidly. Both passed out almost immediately thereafter.

The skin peeled away from the right side of the aircraft. Three people were immediately sucked away by the decompression. The blonde flight attendant screamed as she was tossed away.
The aircraft disintegrated. No one could possibly survive.


The Northwest Area Control Center, located in an otherwise sleepy suburb of Hartfer, ran all positive control operations for aircraft flying under instrument flight rules to the north and west of Nuxenstat. Dozens of controllers monitored, and if necessary corrected, thousands of aircraft. Large LCD screens turned data from long-range primary and secondary surveillance radars into a coherent and explanatory traffic map of the sky.

Eric Hoffmann had nine years of experience working as an air traffic controlman for the National Air Transit Authority. In terms of routine mishaps he had seen almost anything. He had never seen this.

The radar return for Auto 241 was breaking up. It was a corporate flight coming out of Norcust-Hartfer which he had just read into the FIR. The pit of his stomach fell out. He hailed the aircraft on VHF.

“Auto 241, this is Ostfarm Control. How cop-“

“-ayday Mayday Mayday Auto 241 starboard explosion unknown cause-” The emergency transmission ended abruptly with the sound of a loud groan. The radar signal from the aircraft disappeared completely. Hoffmann activated the silent alarm at his workstation and brought up the plane’s last movements up on his display. His supervisor came running.

“Auto 241 from Norcust-Hartfer is gone from radar. Distress call said something about an explosion.”

“Position?”

Hoffmann rattled of the data provided by the last transmission of the Yakovlev’s transponder. A search-and-rescue party would be on the scene by helicopter within an hour and a half. There was no reason to be optimistic about finding survivors. Hoffman’s gut instinct said that a bomb had caused the crash. It was no secret that the Communist Party of Radictistan had a special grudge against Radictistan Automotive Works because of its strong connection to the government and to the Royal Family. The daring and intensity of their attacks was increasing; decapitating the company’s leadership by bombing a company aircraft was both in congruence with their goals and within their capabilities.

A team from the County of Norcustsur Police found the main part of the wreckage nine kilometers downwind from the transponder’s last reported position, near the village of Grundorf. A thin debris field stretched for several kilometers upwind. The left half of the fuselage was mangled and burned but in much better condition than the right which had been reduced to a large number of small pieces. The two pilots and four of the passengers were found still strapped to their seats. The flight data recorder and cockpit voice recorder were found intact. They were flown to Hartfer by helicopter for analysis.

An team of explosives analysts were flown in almost immediately after the initial investigative team. Their equipment detected traces of RDX and pentaerythritol tetranitrate on the skin of the fuselage top. This pointed to the use of Semtex in the bomb used to down the aircraft. There were hundreds of mines and construction sites in Radictistan from which that explosive could have been illicitly obtained in large quantities by Communist Party agents.

It would be another two days before all the bodies had been located and identified. The dismemberment of the aircraft fuselage by the bomb’s detonation was obviously to blame for the wide dispersal of corpses.


Later that day the airport management reported six of its employees absent without notice. The next day, the families of two other maintenance crewmen filed missing person reports. The Royal Security Police, which had assumed responsibility for the criminal investigation, zeroed in on these reports. Appropriate records were accessed and thirty-two hours after the crash, a raid was launched on a flophouse in a low-rent neighborhood of Hartfer where two of the errant employees were known to reside.

“One…two…go!” A battering ram knocked the entry door right off its hinges. Four Fast Response Team operators dashed inside, submachine guns brought up in a ready position. Others remained outside.

“Police! No one move!” A woman in the threadbare lobby screamed. One of the assault team operators swept the muzzle of his rifle in her direction for a moment, then continued forward.

“Clear, left.”

“Clear, right.”

With the lobby and initial section of the ground floor corridor secure, the team moved on, careful to keep any possible hiding places covered by lines of fire. They began searching the small, scarcely furnished rooms. An operator would kick down the door, quickly scan the interior for any occupants, and move on. Snipers on nearby rooftops monitored every possible egress point to ensure no one could escape using a door or window. It was a classic cordon-and-search operation.

It turned up almost nothing. None of the suspects were found anywhere on the premises. A few beakers and other small, cheap scientific apparatuses were found in a vacant room. A forensics team would be deployed quickly to secure those items and determine if they had been used in the production of explosives. The present occupants of the building were rounded up and interviewed concerning the whereabouts of the suspect airport workers. They reported that the two suspects had abruptly checked out three hours after the bombing. Neither their actions nor their words had revealed anything about their future plans. Of course the investigators had no way of confirming what the other lowlifes said. It was probable that some were Communist Party sympathizers. Maybe one or two were even members of the local active service unit and would report the questioning to their superiors. There was no ready way to know.

That night a private radio station in Hartfer aired the Communist Party’s declaration of responsibility. The station had received a tape from an unknown source the evening after the catastrophe. After some deliberation by the management and legal team it had been decided to play the tape on air. Neither the Royal Security Police nor any other government agency were informed of the tape’s existence before broadcast.
The recording consisted of a computer-synthesized voice. It began with the usual string of invectives aimed at the Radictistani government in general and the Royal Family in particular. It then claimed full responsibility for the aircraft bombing. “This operation represents a solid blow to the bourgeoisie tyranny which has kept the proletariat and working agrarians of Radictistan in their chains. The criminals responsible for this oppression have been justly punished.”

There was little the police could do from that point to find the perpetrators. The chemical equipment recovered from the flophouse proved to contain residues of PETN. Aside from proving that the terrorists had produced their own Semtex rather than stolen it, the find told the investigators nothing. The whole episode was another black eye on the face of the Radictistani security services.
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Taurenor
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 394
Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Thu Sep 13, 2012 2:03 pm

Thank you, Radictistan. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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New Freedomstan
Minister
 
Posts: 2822
Founded: Dec 19, 2009
Ex-Nation

Postby New Freedomstan » Fri Sep 14, 2012 2:46 am

The Sky Is Gone


The sky's gone. Just gone. So is everyone. Hans knew. He had stepped up there for a few minutes, hoping to find... something. But all was ash. Even the sky. The sky was ash, and he had went underground again.

Hans Halgrimsen had been 'lucky', he pondered as he poked the ashes with a long stick, trying to find some kind of food in the abandoned camp. He had been stalking a group of survivors for a while now, who kept on the move, and he followed behind, surviving on whatever waste they left behind. He was a shadow of his former self now, tall and lanky, with a gaunt and hollow face, his citizen's uniform in tatters. His blonde hair was dirty and scragged, and the beginnings of a beard was vagualy visible beneath the soot. When the bombs fell a year ago, something that seemed like an eternity now, he had been out in the underground suburbs of the Central People's Collective, the capital of the SWRNF, during urban warfare class. The entire world had shook when they fell, he remembered, but... they hadn't known why then. They were more of them then, about thirty, and the teacher, Commissar 834-583.

The Commissar had died a week afte... oh, a half-full can! Hans picked up the can of rationpaste, and ate the grey goo within with abandon. The starved youth considered the tasteless smudge a meal fit for a king at this point. He hadn't seen rationpaste in months! Wild thoughts of a survivor government that operated some ration factories crossed his head, but looking at the production date made his hopes fall again. Produced two years ago. Bloody hell.

The Commissar had died a week after the bombs fell. Radiation poisoning. Same happened with most of the others, but Hans had been lucky. He had just developed nasty headaches afterwards. Nothing deadly. A month after, and he and 387-375 and Johannes and Inga were the only ones left. Jon, Lise, 387-474, Malt, 297-472, Gerard, Ragnhill, 191-237 and Trine might still be alive, but he doubted it. They went to the surface shortly after the Commissar died. Hadn't heard from them since. Not that he had any idea how he'd hear from them. And now he was alone, stalking a group for sustenance.

A sound. What was it? It sounded like a gunshot! Hans threw himself to the floor, the dark floor. His eyes had long since adapted to the darkness after most of the lights went out. Some were still on, for some reason. Probably some of the generators were still online, churning out electricity long after the workers and engineers there had died. Hans shuddered, but still liked the light. Even if it was made by dead men. Another shot. He was certain know. He laid completely still, as three more shots followed, then utter silence. Footsteps! Steps! Closer!

About thirteen men and women, all commissars judging by their uniform, marched towards him. He stopped breathing, from fear of being seen. They had guns. None of them had the emblem of the Overseers, and Hans detected their uniforms. SSS. Shiiit.

"Jævla rebeller," Hans heard one of them say, a young man with a tired look to him "Åffer i hællvette angriperi?"
"Fucking rebels. Why the hell do they attack us?"

"Gærne, kamrat." another, a woman who carried the stripes of a sergeant responded sardonically
"Madmen, comrade."

Hans breathed out, slowly, then got up, raising his hands in the air, a token of surrender. The thirteen Commissars stopped, and looked at Hans, unholstering their pistols.

"Vent!" Hans said "Ække no rebell! Jælp mæ, kamrater! Væsjå!"
"Wait! I'm not a rebel! Help me, comrades! Please!"

The sergeant, a cold woman eying the famished youth, who looked at her with pleading eyes. The Commissars were haggard and all had a tired look to them, having managed to survive the last year on virtue of their arms and the inherent respect of their position, although the last had faded into nothing by now. The sergeant tipped her head, then asked.

"Gammal ærru?"
"How old are you?"

Hans looked at her confusedly, and blinked once. He tried to remember.

"Øhhh... Søtten, trur jæ..."
"Uhhh... Seventeen, I think..."

The sergeant sighed, and nodded to one of her comrades, a younger woman with a scarred face and square features, who walked up to Hans, and seemed to check him up.

"Likæru'n?" the sergeant asked, impatiently
"Do you like him?"

The commissar inspecting Hans eyed him, then began feeling his arms, chest, thighs... Hans was beginning to blush, not knowing what to do.

"Ja..." the woman inspecting Hans said slowly "Trur jæ tar'n." the young woman looked straight at Hans, then told him "Ru æ mi nå. Sjønnæ?"
"Yes. I think I'll take him. You are mine now. Understood?"

Hans looked confused and scared at the armed commissars, and at the woman who said he was hers now, then down at his own rumbling stomach, before finally muttering. "Ja..."

"Bra." the sergeant said "De æ den tredævte, kamrater! Kom ijenn, tebake te fabrikken."
Good! That's the thirtieth, comrades! Come on, let's get back to the factory.
Last edited by New Freedomstan on Sat Jun 15, 2013 9:52 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Taurenor
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 394
Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Fri Sep 14, 2012 4:22 am

Thank you, New Freedomstan. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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Amigard
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1496
Founded: Jun 14, 2010
Ex-Nation

Postby Amigard » Fri Sep 14, 2012 10:11 am

[ MT ]
[ Mature ]


The Predator



Detective Sharif Abujamal knelt down next to the body of the latest victim and, as he had done with every victim throughout his ten year career as a homicide detective, he made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer asking God to have mercy on the soul of the victim and grant him the insight and mental clarity he needed to solve the victims murder.

“Not sure how much good that’s going to do this one” Abujamal recognized the gruff voice of his partner, “another one of our registered sex offenders. He makes the third one this month.”

“Only God knows the state of a man’s soul when he dies Joseph” Sharif said without looking up.

“Yeah well, once a pervert, always a pervert I say” Joseph huffed. The Amigard government shared in this view for the most part; it was understood that there was no ‘cure’ for a sexual predator or a pedophile and in general the government’s response was to lock such creatures up and throw away the key. Many of Amigard’s sex offenders managed a life sentence as a result of their crime; those that had caused serious bodily injury to their victims often suffered the death penalty. A few, usually those convicted of crimes in which sexual contact had not actually occurred like enticement of a child or internet luring, served a few years in prison and were released on parole, forced to register as sex offenders, and closely monitored.

Sharif studied the body carefully. As with the previous two, this man had obviously been tortured before he was killed. Bruises and contusions covered the man’s body, the finger nails of his left hand had been ripped out, his eyes had been gouged out, his right hand had been cut off and his genitalia had been cut off and disposed of. Neither the man’s hand nor his genitalia had been found thus far and from what Sharif gathered from the scene it was apparent the man had been killed at another location and his body dumped on the front lawn of his home next to the sign posted that identified the man as a sex offender. The other two victims had shared striking similarities both in the manner in which they were tortured and killed and in the disposition of their bodies.

The house was a single story dwelling located in one of the lower class sections of the city and it looked the part. The roof was worn and sagged in some areas, the light blue paint was chipping off the vast majority of the house, and the yard was little more than a dirt lot enclosed by a chain link fence.

“What have you found out about the victim?” Sharif asked as he stood up and surveyed the scene.

Joseph produced his small note pad from his pants pocket and flipped through the pages “Grenville Sparks” he spouted off the information in an almost lackadaisical way, a result of years of the same routine over and over again “Age forty-three. Rap sheet says he was convicted of enticement of a child five years ago; spent the past four years in prison, and was released about a month ago currently on parole. He’s been working in a construction job that the Office of the Inquisition helped set up for him as part of his parole. Don’t know much about the specifics of his case yet though. Neighbors say he pretty much kept to himself, rarely left the house except to go to work.”

“Anyone see any vehicles in the area last night? Anything suspicious?”

“Nah, we got nothing so far. Officers are still collecting statements though so maybe something will come up.”

“Well whoever did it had to transport the body here somehow. He wasn’t killed here. I’ve checked the house there are no signs of a struggle, no blood, or any other indication that he was murdered in the house and then drug out here. I think someone stuffed him in the trunk of a car and dropped him off here.”

“Looks that way Cap” Joseph spit into a small foam cup that he carried with him everywhere, the inside of the cup was stained a sickly brown.

Sharif grimaced “I still don’t see how you can stand that crap.”

Joseph gave a crooked smile, made slightly deformed by the huge chunk of chewing tobacco he’d stuffed into his lower left lip which he’d been working on most of the day “It’s good for you cap, puts hair on your chest.”

Joseph was a brute of a man standing over six feet two inches tall and weighing slightly over three hundred pounds his broad scrunched up face and barreled chest gave him the look of a massive bulldog. Of course Sharif knew that, even though people were often initially put off a little by his size, Joseph was actually good natured and full of humor and the man had a way of putting others at ease despite their initial reaction to his physically intimidating appearance. He had been Sharif’s partner for four years now and the two had a working relationship that many in the Amigard City Police Department teased was similar to a married couple. Sharif disagreed; his relationship with Joseph was far less tense and generally more cordial than the one he currently had with his wife.

“Yeah whatever” Sharif shook his head and smiled “you’re hairy enough as it is Joe, people already think you got a sweater on under your shirt.”

Joseph’s smile broadened and he spit in the cup again “well those dessert nights can get awfully cold so…”

“Well let’s get forensics in here straight away and start digging into Mr. Spark’s background a little deeper. We need to see if there’s a connection between him and the other two victims outside of the fact that they were all registered sex offenders.”

“I got some guys working that right now. Also got someone contacting Mr. Spark’s parole officer to get his phone records, medical records, parole contact logs, and pretty much any other type of record we can find on him. Won’t need a court order since he was on parole.”

Sharif nodded. He was glad Joseph was on top of things. They had been working together so long that he rarely had to ask Joseph to do anything; he already knew what Sharif needed. “Good, looks like things are under control here then.”

“They did find a laptop computer hidden away in a secret compartment in the bedroom closet though”

This peaked Sharif’s interest. As a registered sex offender Mr. Sparks would have been forbidden access to the internet “Was it hooked up online?”

“Not sure yet but if I heard correctly it did have a wireless modem and he may have been able to pirate a signal from someone else in the area.”

“That would fit in with the others.”

Joseph nodded; the other two victims had been found to be in possession of computers that had access to the internet by pirating off of an unsecured network and a subsequent search of those computers had shown that they had been accessing various chatrooms and social networks shortly before they were killed. If Mr. Sparks was prowling through the chatrooms it was possible that the killer had turned the tables, preying on the predators.

Sharif looked at his watch, it was 2035 “Shit” he muttered.

“Late again?” Joseph smirked.

“Of course” Sharif sighed as he produced his cell phone and selected his wife from the list of contacts “Taniqua’s going to throw another fit I imagine.”

“It’s alright I got this cap. I’ll call you if we find anything important.”

+ + + + + +


The middle aged man, the predator, looked at her with a mix of pride and desire as she sat at the computer her fingers gliding across the keyboard with practiced ease. The glow of the screen illuminated her young face, the face of an angel cast in a radiant electronic glow. She could feel him staring at her and she turned her head ever so slightly giving him a mischievous smirk that sent his heart racing.

It was the devil at work in him though, and he quickly suppressed the intense urges that were threatening to take hold of him and simply smiled back and nodded his approval. It was difficult, she was so young and pure, her body only just beginning to bloom; in her youth she had only recently begun to discover the allure of her sensuality and the effect it could have on the weak of will.

He quickly discovered that this young angel that sat before him was a good student. That mischievous smirk was evidence of that. The man had watched as one of her prey had melted under the intensity of that look, and she had learned to utilize it as a tool to lure the prey in. It was an invitation, for she knew what darkness lies in his soul and in the souls of the men that she stalked. She could sense his desire for her, and that she was playing with fire, but it gave her a sense of power of authority and she seemed to revel in testing his resolve; to see if he would break.

But his resolve was absolute and he would not break. He was on a mission, a divine one at that, to be the sword of the Almighty; to strike down the wicked and bring redemption to the sinner. He saw this desire within him as a curse and a blessing. In a sense it made him into the very thing he despised, but that was what made him so adept at stalking his prey for he knew how they thought and how they felt. He used it against them and he was able to teach this young girl how to break them, and how to draw them in.

She would lure them in and he would purge their souls of this sickness that plagued them. By their suffering they would be purged. She was focused on the screen now, he could tell that she was reeling another one in the way she fluttered her eyes and glanced shyly at the webcam pretending to be embarrassed by the compliments that her prey was giving her. It was a magnificent sight really, how effortlessly she could entice them, and how she knew the subtle mannerisms that could drive men wild with desire. It was simple things like they way she would tuck the loose strands of her long jet black hair behind her ear and smile or the way she bit her lip while looking at them with those intense blue eyes.

The Predator had discovered this young prodigy more than a year ago. He’d stalked her like any common predator would do developing a relationship on social networks and in chat rooms over a course of about a month. He could sense she was a perfect target. The things she said and the apparent longing for approval marked her as vulnerable; something that he and others that shared his sickness could identify and exploit. Of course he had not used this ability to exploit her in the manner that the others would have done. No, he had never laid a hand on the young girl, but he had spent the greater part of the past year grooming her for this role that she now played.

She leaned back in her chair and stretched and again shot that mischievous look his way “I guess I should head home” she said but her eyes suggested to him that she didn’t really want to leave she was trying to play the game with him and he knew it. She had hinted before about staying the night with him, but he wouldn’t have it. It was all he could do to fight the demons inside him as it was and he was not going to break.

“Any luck tonight?” he said as he moved to peer at the computer screen over her shoulder.

“Of course” she said smiling “like fish in a barrel.”

“That’s my girl” he replied with a smile of his own and gently kissed the top of her head “I’m proud of you. Now let’s get you home.”

+ + + + + +


The basement of the man’s house was a dark and cold chamber; a single low wattage bulb provided the only light that cast elongated shadows on the walls. The walls were made of brick lined with sound reducing foam covered by wood paneling. The small window had been filled in and covered with the same foam to prevent the screams of the man’s victims from being heard by his neighbors.

The latest victim was a thin twenty something young man he sported a thin goatee and a tribal tattoo on his left arm. His body, covered in bruises, sagged and his head flopped forward as he hung by a pair of chains that had been drilled into the wall. The Predator towered over his victim looking down on him with disgust and loathing. The Predator had stalked this one for nearly a month after his apprentice had begun the process of luring him in. The Predator had learned a great deal about the young man: where he worked, his daily routine, where he lived. Finally the day had come for his little angel to draw him in and invite him to the house. She’d lured him to the bedroom where The Predator had been waiting.

The little angel sat on the bed inviting the young man in with every subtle move of her body and as the young man entered the Predator had come up behind him and knocked him out using a chloroform soaked rag. His angel had smiled, another job well done.

“Now, now Mr. Schiffer” the Predator said, a hint of chastisement in his tone, “we’ve only just begun. There’s a lot of sin we have to drive out of you before you’re sanctified and ready to meet God.”

The young man groaned and weakly tried to raise his head to look at the predator “Please…” he whispered “please…I was just going to tell her how dangerous it was. I…I…to tell her she was so young”

“Oh come now” The Predator shook his head “we both know that’s not why you are here; what you had come here to do. The first step is for you to truly understand this sickness that lies within you. You must accept it and have a true desire to free yourself from it and cleanse yourself. Only then can you truly be sanctified and purified.” The Predator slowly walked over to a small table positioned near the young man. The table was dominated by various instruments of torture; sharp metallic tools that the young man eyed with trepidation.

“Ok, ok, Ok, I admit it. I’m sick, I need help! Please!” The young man fought vainly against the restraints.

The Predator sighed and shook his head “This is not true repentance, not the perfect contrition I am seeking. What you are exhibiting is imperfect contrition brought on by fear. You must understand I am trying to help you. I seek only to assist you in your salvation.”

“You’re a fucking freak!” the young man screamed and yanked on the chains tears streaming down his face “what the fuck is wrong with you!”

Again the Predator sighed and shook his head as his hand hovered over the implements on the table “Ah young man I see we have a lot of work to do before you’re ready. Let’s get started shall we…are you familiar with the Holy Bible?” The young man glared at the predator but said nothing, “Now the works of the flesh are obvious: immorality, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, hatreds, rivalry, jealousy, outbursts of fury, acts of selfishness, dissensions, factions, occasions of envy, drinking bouts, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the Kingdom of God.” The Predator picked up a set of small pliers and paused briefly as he looked at the young man with concern “ Galatians chapter five verses nineteen through twenty one…I do this out of love you see. I want you to inherit the Kingdom of God.”

The young man squirmed as the predator approached. “There is another Bible verse that you should understand as we work together to save your soul” the predator again towered over the young man “Matthew chapter five verses twenty nine and thirty says: If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one of your members than to have your whole body thrown into Gehenna. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one of your members than to have your whole body go into Gehenna.”

The young man’s eyes widened briefly and then he broke down and began to sob suddenly and fully aware of the horrors he was about to endure.
"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil; may God rebuke him, we humbly pray; O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who prowl throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

Earth II Earth II Factbook
Amigard's Battle Prayer
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Taurenor
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 394
Founded: Jan 29, 2004
Ex-Nation

Postby Taurenor » Sat Sep 15, 2012 1:49 am

Thank you, Amigard. Story added to list.
Content prior to December 2012 was written while this account was given to Yohannes and is now Deprecated and not considered part of the subsequent continuity.
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Ikruchystan
Diplomat
 
Posts: 565
Founded: Feb 23, 2011
Ex-Nation

Postby Ikruchystan » Sat Sep 15, 2012 11:46 am

[MT]

The Price of Ascension

Upon hills named Suicide and Heartbreak and Killer
A broken mouth whispers
But for the Grace of God
I am still here
And there shall be victory under the sun.
Ex Gladio Patria


In the dark recesses of the mind, a disease known as fear feasts upon the souls of those who can not overcome its power.

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