The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Vlack Sturm]

[ [MT] ]

[ Mature ]

Ansatz Panzerfaust -- Part 1

(Operation Armored Fist)

Sturmian-Tharsis Border

Our Anemonian built armored vehicles lined up in a phalanx of "steel beasts" and on top of each sat several of us soldiers. Grim determination in our eyes, preparing for crusade into the East. Teeth gritted in anticipation of our orders to advance; advance into the unknown. We hope that the Federation would be victorious instead of us being all killed for nothing. We continued to wait as the first strands of light appeared in the East, the rising Sun. Each of us put on our sun glasses as more of the blinding sun peaked over the horizon. Our weapons, our beasts, our very souls are ready for our war, our crusade into the East.

"Start engines!" Came the order for our carriers to begin their engine's rumblings, to the shake the ground beneath our mighty treads. The second and last order came. "Unit! Forwards!! And our vehicles lurched forward into the unknown; towards the Sun and unto a new dawn. A new dawn for the Federation. The tanks and other armored vehicles raced onto the plains of the Tharsite Commonwealth. We moved deep into their country like a dagger sinking into the flesh of an opponent. Our eyes fierce and with hardened gazes watched the cities, towns, and villages we past for enemy combatants.

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Ikruchystan and Vlack Sturm. Story added to list.

[Rich and Corporations]

[ Modern Technology ]

Any time, secret place

There was a national drill every two years or so. It varied as well. Some years it was a week-long exercise, with reservists being called up and helping with the efforts. Other exercises lasted only one hour. The point however wasn't to prepare for nuclear war. It was to prepare for the fact that it could come any time and at any form. Perhaps it was a cruel joke by Horzessur, but then again, there was point to it. Throughout the world, billions upon billions of people have been incinerated by a thousand suns, and great knowledge was yielded about the effects of nuclear war. Aid organizations were well experienced in handling survivors crawling forth from the rubble and modern doctrine understood the nuclear battlefield. There was even a television channel devoted to it, showing the aftermath of nuclear war and befuddled survivors looking at a press crew, just another crass attempt of reality TV.


Captain Demeter sighed. The task ahead of her was simple, banal, yet unsettling. She was to turn a key along with two others. A fourth was to simply to handle any disputes that would breakout over launch orders. She had read the orders, printed out via a secure teleprinter stating that all nuclear forces are to move to Condition Postum and to execute plan #0014975335705. There were millions upon millions of war plans, few of them actually included military targets. There wasn't sufficient resources to analyze and value counterforce targets for all nations. Countervalue however was much cheaper. Population density maps were available for free now, and a computer sorting algorithm could distribute nuclear warheads to every potential target, against any possible combination of nations, and for whatever degree of nuclear weapons to be held in reserve if the political leadership so wants. This was all to hedge against a surprise total annihilation attack, a disturbingly rational fear. Presumably in a likely war, targets would be assessed over time and several new target lists would be generated and distributed.

To her knowledge, few really knew this and this she was not sure on, the accuracy of a nuclear warhead was nonexistent, two MIRVs were assigned to any target meriting a 75% total destruction probability, and the release of so many nuclear bombs would saturate a fifty square kilometer area. Supposedly a rocket's reliability alone was 80%. The entire nuclear program was cheaply funded, but then again, would precision even matter? The turn-key requirement could theoretically be bypassed as well by someone who could run fast enough from station to station to turn the keys before the safety fuse melted.

The klaxons rang their distinctive tune. The submarine was at launch depth. She gave the final order, "Turn."

They all instantly turned their keys. There was an unusual sound though. Water flooding a tube. A missile was launched.

Silence. Everyone looked at each other stunned.

Then there was some shaking.

It was only a nuclear test. Sighs of relief.

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Rich and Corporations. Story added to list.

[Amerikians]

[ MT - Fantasy ]

[ Mature ]

Only In Italia do you find the Oldest still yet in death

Roma - Res Publica Italia
May 14th, 2003

Project Twilight, The United States Government's attempt to combat and understand the natural world around them that hid in the shadows, that tried hard to shape the fate of humanity to the whims of some sadistic monster living in a cave in Iraq; so old that that monster stilled remembered Lydia and Babylon and called the realm of the Medes.

The truly non-existent and yet existing branch of the Government; the omniscient force that dominated the lives of every single human being on Earth; whether they knew it or not. A combination of weaponry, technology, research and mysticism that lashed out into the dark against every manner of ancient beast that people said were legends and myths and yet were very real.

Here in Rome, where Republicanism was born, where Imperialism was born, slavery and cruelty mastered; the oldest of a certain detested species that yet still lived; dared to exist. They were old, and arguably; they built Rome; the splendor and grandeur of the courts of Caesar and Augustus, the strings pulled so taunt that all the world was dominated beneath the Imperium Romanum, and then followed Pax Romana. So old, the Julii, existing in the shadows they never saw light any more; animalistic beasts that hid in the shadows of ancient warrens, in buildings that didn't exist anymore.

Now, the Project hunted them, like the dogs they were. It used to be hard, silver swords and daggers; painful implements that ended up in many unwanted deaths and conversions to the dark side. Now it was easy, bullets of silver were primitive alternatives to the newest toys available both to the Project and the mainstream military.

Sunburst tracer rounds; liquefied UV light in essence; flashing on contact with oxygen that emitted an instantaneous burst of harsh white light and about point ten times the UV radiation of the sun's surface in an instant were the new weapon of choice. First 'tested' in the deserts of Iraq during Operation Desert Storm; they came in a manner of calibers across the board.

The current preferred being 5.56mm NATO rounds as the team of eight men descended into a realm of literal, not proverbial; darkness. The Earth around them rustled as though uneasy to their presence, the ancient Roman tunnels lined with marble were perfect beyond belief; as though the Empire that built them was still alive above their heads when it had been dead for more than a thousand years.

There was no light, and all seeing was done through night-vision equipment the agents brought with them; straight a head, corridors unending leading across Rome and beyond branched off from here; and yet like drawn to a fly and fruit they pressed on with a single minded determination to continue the Project's goal; absolute domination of the Earth by homo sapiens.

The tunnels gave way into amazing constructs that were clearly Roman, dominating columns jutted up from the floor and supported fashioned ceilings, great monuments to Jupiter and other such Roman deities stood in awe glittered in gold and bronze. Again it was though it were 117 AD again, and the Legions of Trajan were subduing the Persians.

Onward the eight men pressed without regard for the amazing trove of archaeological wonder they were surrounded by; in the marble stood completely carved manuscripts of ancient treaties and laws, ancient books as though they were printed yesterday sat on heavy stone shelves that lined the impossibly tall walls; and finally, there was speech.

"Traditores." It did not come from the eight men, but the thing that stood before them; it was a man, or seemed like a man rather, ancient and weathered beyond all possibly measure and yet they knew from long experience stronger, faster, more agile and smarter than all of them put together. He wore the robes of the Roman senators; and the rich purple sash of the Roman Emperors; he had dark brown hair and dead black eyes.

"No...Man." One of the eight responded as they in unison opened fire on the ancient Julii Elder; the man-thing darted to the side, faster than the rounds that came to claim his being; the bullets slamming into a great marble back-stone that bore a gartantuan seal of the clan's emblem, a stylized Roman coin with the images of Romulus, Remus and the wolf that suckled them; above which it had the great Latin characters for their name.

The Julii elder slid within their ranks, great claws slashing outward to find nothing, they were well trained for this instance, and had been here many times before though in different caves. Gunshots followed as they became embattled with the elder; his great dominating influence trying to infiltrate their minds.

"Could you just fucking die already like the rest of the goddamn Romans!?" The pseudo-question came along with a flash-bang grenade that did nothing but give them a reprieve as the elder was gone when they had recovered their sight.

Finally, it spoke; from beyond their lines of sight as they stood back to back in a circle; looking outward for their predator they wished to turn into prey.

"This is my city; My brother founded it after beating me to death over it; all the same I have defended it. I have made sure it has prospered; I have hand chosen its rulers from time immemorial; even now; in the era of so called presidents I choose the course of the city so named after me. I will offer you this once, men. Leave; and live. Or stay, and die." The voice of Remus was powerful and strong, overwhelming even as it echoed through the corridors and shook the fabric of reality; minds clouding only to be brought back seconds later.

"What's option C? Oh right, punch you in the fucking face!" A fist shot out from the circle and collided with what appeared to be thin air before something stumbled backwards, the ancient co-founder of Rome appearing seconds later. A salvo of rifle fire followed; multiple rounds striking the ancient Julii in the chest and across his body. The bursts of sunfire followed, the beautiful white light a welcome sight in the darkness, aside from the blinding sideeffect such things had when using night-vision.

It was hours, or days that they emerged from the ancient aquifer-temple-grave whatever it was that was beneath the modern Rome, in the ancient bones of the city; they stumbled tiredly and hurt; the battle was long and exhausting, and taxing as they always were. The natural world's advantages over man were many, but man usually won out in the end...

Viva La Roma.

[United World Order]

[ PMT ]

Resurgence of The Heart

An Old Flame of Evil

---

Berlina - Buisness Plaza - Day One of The Resurgence

The Buisness Plaza located within the realm that was the capitol, Berlina. The heart of the industry was centered in two places. Berlina and Sturmburg this was where the military machine that functioned like the nation's beating heart lied. In the sidewalks and streets of the Buisness Plaza which made for most of the cities skyline there was something dark. Something was wrong, a resurgence of something that was thought to have been slain years ago. Boots hit the ground as a lone man with a quite impressive stature wearing a brown coat and sporting a gasmask on his face as he stood infront a single building. The lone man looked at his clock as it bearly struck twelve in the afternoon he walked inside the building and within seconds an explosion erupted blasting the glass windows from the first floor entrance way and sending debris flying out into the street. The screams and shouting of men, women and children alike ended the momentary silence after the explosion. The periodic cracks of gunfire in the street was then overshadowing the screams and shouts. More men dressed the same uniform as the man that sacrificed himself had showed up armed with AK-74s and were spraying the street with lead and carnage.

Police sirens wailing in the distance caught the masked assailiants attention as they begun to reload dropping there near empty drum magazines and replacing them with fresh ones. The screech of the police cruisers and Capitol Police wearing bullet proof vests over there uniforms wielding there issued pistols and shotguns as they arrived on the scene. The assaliants without much hesitation unloaded on the Capitol Police with there automatic weapons as they sent most of the Police officers down into cover as others were either killed or mained by the gunfire. The officers who remained alive and the wounded that could still move retreated down the street as they heard additional gunfire which was the execution of there fellow immobile wounded officers as they screamed for mercy but was silenced by the barrel of a gun. The roar of a armoured vehicle and additional officers equiped in more soldier like gear and assault rifles were now arriving. The street had become a small piece of hell with bodies skrewend all over the area, civilian and police officer.

The roar of a surburban vehicle as it approached the engagement. It screeched to a halt as the sunroof opened and another similar masked assailiant revealed it'self with a AT4 Launcher on his shoulders as a rocket streaked and smoke trailed. The armoured vehicle on initial impact exploded killing the officers around it as several more assailants exited the vehicle to join the others as they advanced at there own pace. More engagements similar to the one displayed in the buisness plaza were occuring as Berlina went under martial law which it had not been under for three years. The Assailants had called themselves a name, a name that struck fear in every fascist in The United World Order and struck a nerve. "The Red Order"

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Amerikians and United World Order. Story added to list.

[Maltropia]

[ PT ]

The Uprising Begins

Discontent had been festering in the east for years. Sráid-bhó, a colony of the crown since its foundation in 1614, had rapidly grown to match Corcaigh Nua in power and splendour, but the Duke's demands for a degree of sovereignty reflecting this had gone ignored. He continued to serve the King loyally, of course, and would answer any summons issued, but the situation was steadily growing more tense.

In 1637, Duke Oliver Fitzpatrick submitted a request to King Toirdhelbhach, requesting the authority to extend his holding southwards. His request was denied, and the site he had chosen for his new frontier town was granted to a vassal of the king. Fitzpatrick protested, but the King responded that even Corcaigh Nua's territory wasn't being expanded, with colonies being granted charters up and down the coast. Complaints subsided for the next few years, but Fitzpatrick did his utmost to sway the lord of the new fief - "Caisleán an Dún" - in his favour.

On the third of February, 1642, Toirdhelbhach issued a proclamation declaring Corcaigh Nua to be "the heart and capital from which the Crown shall govern this blessed Maltropian realm". There was fierce protest from Sráid-bhó, as Fitzpatrick had wished for equal status between the two cities. The Duke sent an envoy to Corcaigh Nua, demanding that the proclamation be withdrawn and annulled, but Toirdhelbhach threatened to strip Fitzpatrick of his title and authority if such insubordination continued. Once again, the Duke stepped down his complaints, but everyone knew that the slightest incident would set him off again.

It was on the twelfth of March that the long-dreaded event happened. A vessel flying the King's flag docked in the harbour of Sráid-bhó, and a group of envoys disembarked, carrying pieces of wood, and nails. A small crowd assembled to watch this strange sight. Some of the officials looked around, obviously trying to decide on something, and then one of them, who held a wooden post, placed his burden, upright, in the centre of the docklands. The rest of the group attached their own wood and nailed them into the new construction. On it could be seen the words "Corcaigh Nua" and a rough estimate of the distance to that city. As the crowd realised what it was, they roared and charged at the envoys. Some of the officials drew their swords and attempted to fight, but two were seized almost immediately and the rest fled to their ship. Within an hour, a lynch mob had chased off or hanged many of the King's representatives in Sráid-bhó.

The commander of the town's Royalist garrison, when he heard of the rebellion, was enraged, and heard to shout, "If it's a slaughter they want, it's a slaughter they'll get!" He assembled his troops, and led four hundred men against the citadel, firing on any civilians who got in their way. As the Royalists approached the gates, they were met with sudden and vicious cannon fire from the walls. The troops were dismayed, and fell back from the gateway even as it opened for the Duke's horsemen to sally forth. Several dozen men were slain in the ensuing rout, and inexperienced cannoneers accidentally set buildings in the town alight. The King's forces withdrew as swiftly as possible, fleeing towards Cloghroe, while the Duke declared, "Let them return, if they dare! Their king will not come to such a majestic city as Sráid-bhó, the fairest city in all the lands! Let him moulder away on his throne; the east will be ruled by its own people."

The uprising had begun.

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Maltropia. Story added to list.

[Eeri]

[ MT ]

Life on the Farm I: A Stormy Night

Darla came to Eeri from her home in Ganosia to attend school for a semester and get a taste of another country. She ended up staying in Eeri, marrying a cute boy named Abram who also hailed from the rural parts of Ganosian Controlled South Eeri and the two just clicked. They came from different countries, had different upbringings but they just meshed together so well. Eventually the two were just inseparable that they married and decided to settle and farm the land together.

While from the more industrialized and urbanized South, Abram held to the creed of many North Eeri farmers, "care for your land with your own two hands." It was somewhat similar to the Amish Creed and based somewhat in Religion but probably not as pious. It meant not using much in the way of heavy machinery and caring for the soil by hand and horse. Abram raised to be a God fearing man instilled the same values in his family.

Darla while coming from a different set of circumstances started seeing eye-to-eye with Abram's way of doing it and just agreed to it. She couldn't complain and now she had four children now, three boys and one girl. Jacob the oldest boy of 12, Elisha 10, Jonas 8, and little Molly 6. They lived up in the North East portion of Eeri where it was more woodsy and foresty, bordering Ashley National Forest, and a bit cooler in temperature than the deeper south of Eeri where more farming took place in the country. But all places in Eeri were subjected to the same varying and rapidly changing weather patterns that produced some big thunderstorms and of course tornadoes, and tonight was going to be no exception.

As Darla began lighting lanterns to light up the house the rumbling of thunder filled the still night air. Her boys and girl were playing together in their bedroom her husband was out in the barn working. She could hear a storm was coming which could mean a tough night for them as they had to still get all their animals inside. The door to the house flung open as Abram came in with the wind blowing behind him. "Really brewing out there, babe. Think we best round up all the animals out there.

"Yeah you get the children and I'll get a weather report."

Darla turned on the radio while her husband went to grab their children.

"Hey boys, storm's comin in we gotta get the animals in."

"Yes pa." the boys and Molly included all ran for their raincoats and boots. "Wow I bet it's gonna pour somethin' fierce!" Elisha commented while getting set.

"Cattle still out in the pasture, Pa?" Jonas asked

"They are son, so you come with me and we'll get them in. Need all you boys to help me." Abram loaded up a rifle a few good gunshots into the air was a good way to get animals moving. "Button up good boys."

Darla finally found a station that wasn't all static. "The National Weather Service in Mabinogi has issued a Severe Thunderstorm warning for the following counties, Thompson, Pinewood. People in these areas should prepare for damaging winds, large hail and deadly lighting, A Tornado Watch is also in effect for these counties." Darla looked up as the thunder grew more and more ominous and loud.

"Momma!" Molly ran in "I need my laces tied."

"Oh come here." Darla helped Molly tie up her boot laces and button up her coat. "We gotta get all the animals in the barn babe, gonna be a big one tonight."

"Is we gonna have a tornado?"

"Hope not. But we gotta get all the animals." Thunder crashed loudly as rain and hail started to pound outside. The family ran out into the frighting storm to get all their animals into their corrals and pens. "Boys go with your father, Molly you stay with me honey!" When these storms rolled in the family had to band together to protect their property and livelihood. The boys with their father went out to the pasture where the cattle was going crazy they had to fire shots into the air to get them in line. The sheep for Darla and Molly were just as tough as they had to get from the pens into the barn. Once the animals were inside Darla made the call they never liked to hear. "Everyone into the root cellar now!" No warnings had gone out but better safe than sorry in this case. The boys scrambled out and down into the cellar while Abram struggled to shut tight the barn doors and get into the cellar himself. Darla was last to come down but someone was missing. "Where's Molly?"

"Thought she was with you, mama?" Caleb said

"She must be outside still." Darla went back up into the icy mix. The winds were very strong and what wasn't tied up was being blown around. Even the family's porch screen door flew off. Darla on a hunch ran inside the house and saw Molly curled up crying. "Come on baby let's go." She scooped Molly up and ran down to the root cellar with her. The family waited the storm out through the night until morning broke. The sight above ground was okay, it wasn't what you wanted to see after a storm, damage, broken windows, blown off roof shingles. Their house and barn withstood it though but the real question remained what about their crops.

"I'll check the animals." Darla said. "Molly stay with me now."

"Yessum."

The animals were fine, shaken and startled but otherwise okay. But Abram didn't have great news to give. "It's a loss. Aint nothin left. No time to re-plant, I knew I planted too late in the season. If I had done it just a bit earlier they would have been hardier and able to stand a storm."

"Well it's the way it has to be sometimes. Important thing is we're all safe. House need some fixin' but nothing we can't handle. We can sell off the livestock and make our ends that way. We'll do fine, you'll see."

"Always the bright side of things."

"Well I know when we had crop failure on my farm in Ganosia, our neighbors all pitched in and helped us out. Maybe ours will do the same. Our town, church, everyone."

"Well worth a try i reckon.'"

"it is babe, well I suppose we'll load up the wagon and head for supplies in town to get started on repairing the house."

[New Freedomstan]

Operation CulDis

One month after nuclear annihalation of New Freedomstan

The streets of the massive People's Collective #2 in Region #20 was barren, abandoned, ever since the curfew. #20, as an endemic economically depressed, sparsely populated area not too involved in the devastating civil war, had been spared from much of the nuclear ragnarok that had purged the southerners. The dozen or so men and women standing by one of the monolithic Apartment Complexes all wore the uniform characteristic of the desolate Region. Long, dark, tenchcoats covered their huddled bodies with the aid of boots, gloves, pants and gasmasks, leaving not even an inch of skin open to the ravages of the hostile environment. Their otherwise dark and foreboding uniforms carried the emblem of the State Security Section, but also had a rather new mark for their recently established sub-section... Special Services.

#20 had been destroyed once before, so this wasn't a new experience to the older generation, as the Glorious Revolution three decades prior had all but destroyed the region through weapons nuclear, biological, chemical and paranormal. Now, it had happened again, but this time it had engulfed the enitire fatherland. The dozen or so men and women were not silent, were not melancholic about their task, instead spending the time cracking poor jokes and generally participating in the gallows humour so characteristic of the people in this hell.

The Overseer had been going through the apartment complex' inhabitants, going through the Administrative Section's statistics on age, sex, breeding method, relative productivity, mental disorders, physical disorders, revolutionary vigor and so on and so forth in order to determine what were to be done with them. Operation CulDis would commence in half an hour, but they weren't in any particular hurry. The 'unnecessary personel' weren't going anywhere, the curfew imposed expressively forbidding anyone from leaving their apartments until the crisis was over. Violators of the curfew were, naturally, shot on sight by the Special Services of the State Security Section who were intent on Keeping the Peace at all costs.

"So, how many is it here, Comrade-Overseer?" Commissar 483-437 asked, his voice taking on the odd metallic tone so commonly heard due to the masks, as they stood and waited outside. The recent 'de-bourgisation' measure had outlawed the usage of 'bourgeois names', something that earlier had been a voluntary gesture of Devotion to the Revolution, was now mandated.

"We are to process one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four individuals in this complex are no longer required for the survival of socialism," Commissar-Overseer 281-384 replied, his voice sounding like he was droning off what the weather would be like tomorrow. Ashen and dark. As all days. "As per the decree of the Party of the People."

"You don't need to come with that shit," 483-437 answered, although there wasn't any outright defiance in his voice "Bloody retires, idiots and sicklings have to be done away with, sure, sure. But this ain't nothing to do with socialism. We ain't stupid, Comrade-Overseer,"

"Oh, isn't it, moron?" Overseer 281-384 replied, although a slight change in his voice towards the more informally insulting, rather than the 'official' voice he tended to use when speaking with civilians or when stressed "What do you think happen now that the bloody softlanders can't send us food any more? When the soft bastards are all dead?"

"We gotta survive on our own food?" 483-437 said, and shrugged "Seems pretty obvious, Overseer-Shits-For-Brains."

"You got any idea of how much food we make?" Overseer 281-384 replied, his voice taking on the tone of someone explaining things to a child "Enough for perhaps a million people. Turns out, cancerbrain, that living in a bloody deadzone ain't too good a place to make food."

281-384 shrugged, as he stood by the entrance to the Apartment Complex, and continued: "Yeah, yeah yeah. Still ain't got shit to do with Socialism, Oh-High-And-Mighty Overseer."

"Oh, fucking quit the whining you whining gits!" Commissar 289-485 muttered to her superior officer, as she stood at attention by the door "Does it matter? You're acting like a bunch of tribals."

"Oh, shut up." Overseer 281-384 replied politely "I'm the bloody Overseer. It's my job to teach you retards what socialism is and isn't. And Socialism is whatever the Party says Socialism is. Now get a move on, Operation CulDis have begun!"

The squad of SS overseer marched into the entrance of the monolithic Apartment Complex, suddenly in military precision and discipline as the break was over. The receptionist, wearing an identical uniform if not for the lacking of the State Security Section emblem, saluted as they entered. He had been alerted, and handed over a small electronical device. It'd unlock any door. Other squads were marching in through the other entrances simultaneously, and the door were looked by the receptionist. Overseer 281-384's squad were to take out the people in floor 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10. The bottomside, the underground, part of the apartment complexes were to be processed by squads entering through the bottomside entrance.

It was, metaphorically speaking, a clean process. The civilians were fast asleep as the Commissars quietly went from room to room, taking out rooms in teams of three for optimal efficiency, processing those who had to be dealt with for the survival of Socialism in this small part of the Fatherland. Operation CulDis, Operation Cull and Dispose, was being carried out across the Collective simultaneously by the Special Services sub-section.

Overseer 281-384, flanked by the Commissars 289-485 and 483-437, entered yet another room. They were in floor seven now, and had lost count of how many individuals they had processed, the rooms beginning to get into a blur for 483-437, a series of meaningless numbers being processed on the order of the Party, in its infallible wisdom. This apartment, identical to the ninetynine other apartments on this floor, and the hundred apartments the twelve Commissars had already processed, was not a surprise either. No interior decoration beyond the factory standard, excepting the permitted four pictures of the inhabitants in the allocated wall-space behind the television apparatus, along with an image of the Glorious Martyr Fathers of the Fatherland, Comrade #1 and Colonel-General Isaksen, may their names never be lost to History. All luxurious electrical appliances was turned off, of course, as power for luxuries was turned off after 23:00 in the apartments. Only the light durr fo the ventilation system told of any electricity even existing. The only other decoration were a New Freedomstani and a Region #20 flag, as per regulations of the same size and bread, located on each side of the mini-apartment social room, where six chairs and one table stood. All per regulation.

Five individuals in this apartment were to be processed for the greater good. Overseer 281-384, still flanked, marched into the sleeping room, where six people were fast asleep, still wearing their uniforms as this particular apartment was considered a minor radiation risk (the background radiation potentially leading to more than average long-term malayses). 281-384 sighed as he saw the numbers didn't add up, but shrugged as he knew they did not have time to clear up this.

"All six are to be processed," Overseer 281-384 whispered, although there was no requirement as the food in this complex had already been laid with sleeping drugs that could take out a wastebeast "Two each. Get to it."

Using rifles would make too much noise, of course, not to mention the unacceptable cost in terms of munitions dealing with the excess population with firearms would have been. Neither were the apartment complexes really designed with this eventuality in mind, despite it having been suggested by certain hardliners when the complexes were built to be able to gas the inhabitants. This was considered a frivolity as the uniforms of #20ites would necessiate a clean-up operation anyway, not to mention some balking from bleeding heart liberals about planning for such an eventuality. 281-384 had not bothered to holster his knife, slick with blood already, as he slit the throat of first a woman, she looked like she was in her teens when he tore off her mask and slit her throat, holding her mouth to prevent her from screaming. She kicked and struggled, of course, but 281-384 was no weakling. As he felt her life ebb away in his hands, he gently laid her down and continued to the next, a man in his thirties perhaps who did not struggle or resist, even giving a quick salute to the Overseer as 281-384 tore off his mask. 281-384 still held his mouth as he bled out, of course. Can't be too careful.

As he finished, he saw that 289-485 and 483-437 were still working on their second processees each, and waiting patiently for them to finish. They finished their work with a seventy year old man and a fifty year old woman respectively, their daggers slick with blood. Their black uniforms had also taken a slightly crimson shade, although the make of their uniforms prevented this from being too obvious. The Overseer nodded, then said as he had done dozens of times before that evening: "Good. Next room."

They walked out of the room, and continued to the next room in the long processing progress. The bodies would be sent later to the Rationpaste Factory, in order for the excess population to do one last good for the Survival of Socialism.

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Eeri and New Freedomstan. Stories have been added to list.

[East Klent]

[ MT ]

The Millennium Project

Chapter Three

"New Millennium, Same Game..."

Williamsburg, D.K.
Eastern Intelligence Agency Headquarters
December 25, 1999

Agent Gram Conner walked down a carpeted hallway. On one side were wall-sized windows, showing the snow flurry that was covering city. On the other was a light grey wall that was lined with the names of the fallen men and women who gave their lives for the Klentian Republic, or the Federal Republic of Klent, as the Cubans had named it.

Conner was searching for a certain name, and once he found it, he paused.

Sergeant Nicholas Conner, Marines

"Victoriam, Libertas, Fortitúdo," Conner whispered the Marine motto as he remembered his fallen brother.

During the final days of the War of Western Cuban Occupation, Conner's unit was ambushed and massacred, with him being the only survivor. He managed to wander to the makeshift field hospital within the Executive House and took up a guard position.

Meanwhile, his older brother was leading the last reconnaissance mission when his unit suffered the same fate as Conner's, only this time, there were no survivors. The bodies were found by a patrol and taken to the hospital. When the transports arrived and the bodies taken in, Conner instantly knew that Nicholas was dead. The loss intensified his hatred of the Cubans and cemented his patriotism.

Soon after the Articles of Occupation were signed by President McCurter and Congress, Conner was recruited into the Eastern Intelligence Agency's Secret Service branch, whose main prerogative was to keep tabs on the nations involved in the War so as to prepare for another, if needed.

What was proposed by the Millennium Project was to send in agents to specifically sabotage any government that threatened the national security of Klent, even if it meant doing so to the Cuban government. The man behind the idea was freshman Congressman Jacob Estevez. He was a Unionist, the same party as President Williams, and thus also had a vendetta against the Cubans.

The higher-ups of the intelligence community rejected Estevez's plan, at first. Then a group of elite troops attacked the capitol of Klent's hidden colony; they were apprehended soon after they breached, but nonetheless the fact that they just waltzed passed almost all of the security measures that were in place was highly embarrassing, igniting support for the Project.

The various agency executives were still deliberating on how set the Project in motion, hence they kept it secret from field agents, that is, until Conner decided to peruse the Director's desk.

"Reminiscing?" Conner whizzed around to find President McCurter staring back at him.

Shocked by the sudden appearance, Conner stuttered, "Sir... Sir, what are you doing here?"

"Gram, I've told you not to call me Sir; our meeting a little over five years ago put an end to all formalities," McCurter told him with a kind smile, "As to answer your question, I'm here because of you and your curiosity."

"Millennium?" Conner already knew the answer.

"Yep, and we're meeting the Director in his office for your briefing," McCurter informed Conner.

Conner was elated, "I'm being assigned?"

"Let's go to the meeting, and you'll find out," the President started walking down the hall, followed by his entourage of Presidential Guard agents, and Conner soon after.

***

Conner sat at the conference table within the Director's office, along with President McCurter, Samson, the Director, and Congressman Estevez, who was hurriedly sorting various files that he had brought with him. Estevez's lollygagging annoyed the President, who then coughed to get his attention, "I believe it's time to start the briefing."

A nervous smile on Estevez's face showed that he knew he was being a problem, "Yes, Sir; Agent Conner, since you are aware of the Millennium and what it entails, and that you are the only agent who is aware of its existence, it's been decided that you will be the 'prototype' so to speak," Estevez began as he handed Conner the case file.

Conner thumbed through it, "Stoniaso, Chezlovolvia, Grays Harbor, Luxiai, etcetera... Western Cuba," he read off the list of nations that would be covered by the Project.

"Yes, well, we can't always be sure they have our best interests at heart, now can we?" Estevez explained.

"I agree, but we can't just go in guns blazing," McCurter cut in.

"From what I can tell, we don't; we sneak in and set the seeds of destruction from within," Conner countered.

"Agent Conner's correct, Sir, the strategy is to have them crumble from the inside out, and have the operative or operatives dissapear without a trace," Estevez continued to explain.

"You mean disappear or die, right?" Samson rejected the whole idea, "I hate the Cubans as much as the next guy, but if any one of our agents were caught, they'd be executed on sight," he protested, "Besides, some don't even care if we're free or not and some even seem to want to let us go, so why betray them when things could go either way?"

"Because things could go either way," the Director spoke for the first time, "Mister President, I'm willing to go ahead with this if you are," he declared.

The President took a moment to decide, "Alright," he nodded.

Samson let out a sigh of frustration that seemingly went without notice.

"Agent Conner, the first part of your mission is to go Manevrro, the Stoniasoan seat of power, and spy on the leaders, getting information on their military, that of their Chezlovolvian occupiers and to find any and all links to Western Cuba, and report back to one of us," Congressman Estevez laid out the plan for Conner, "Then, depending on the intel, make your way to Western Cuba, get info, give it to us, and then attempt to sabotage all vessels bound for Klent, loosening their stranglehold and making way for rebellion."

Conner raised his right brow, "This is a lot, even for the most experienced field agent, will I have assistance?"

"We've established assets that you can contact if the situation arises," Samson reluctantly let on.

Conner just had one last question, "When?"

"You take off at o-nine-hundred tomorrow," answered the Director.

"Well then, I better get some rest," Conner stood and went to the door before turning, "Merry Christmas, gentlemen."

"I'm Jewish," Samson smirked.

"Happy Hannakah, in that case," Conner shot back as he exited the office, closing the door behind him.

Samson turned to Estevez, who was stowing his papers in his briefcase, "How come you didn't mention Stevens?"

"It's not relevant," the Congressman mumbled in annoyance.

"You mean to say that the fact that we already have an operative in Cuba isn't relevant?" Samson's anger was noticeable by his tone.

"Gentlemen, Gram is going on this mission and that has been declared final and as such, what happens happens, I'm sure President McCurter agrees," the Director motioned for the President to respond.

While he knew Samson's points were valid, he also knew that Millennium would ensure the security of the land he was charged with, "Gram's a good man and a good soldier, he'll know what to do in any scenario, and with that, I bid you gentlemen ado," the President rose, as did the others out of formality and respect.

After McCurter left Samson yet again faced Congressman Estevez, "You better hope this thing doesn't backfire," he growled.

A smug grin formed on Estevez's face, "Don't worry, old man, everything'll be fine," and he left as well.

As Samson looked on, he contained his outrage, Famous last words, from a politician even, he thought.

End Chapter Three

[Taurenor]

Thank you, East Klent. Story has been added to list.

[New Freedomstan]

[ Mixed Tech ]

6th of June, 2039

The Collective Survives

The old tram moved in fits and starts across the weathered grey streets of People's Collective #5, as Comrade-Citizen 374-348 231-894 waited for his stop. He was on his way to Rationpaste Factory #2 to toil alongside his eighty-two shift-comrades to produce vital food for the People and the Revolution. 374 was young, twenty-one years of age and had been born four years after the War ended with the annihalation of the Fatherland. He had never been beyond the Walls of the Collective, the last city of its kind. It survived, and with it, Nefreedian Socialism survived. He knew this, as he coughed a bit. He might have gotten another case of cancer. He'd have to go to the medical workers soon enough, and get fixed up. Nefreedian Society had survived within the glorious Collective. The Collective Survives.

374 was an obvious child of the post-war era, having been born with three fingers on the left hand, six on the right, one eye, and a shrunken jaw. His skin had a tendency to develop cancer, even more than normal, but he did not mind. There were people who were worse off, and NefSoc cared for him. No-one minded, as they were all the same. All wore the same grey uniform, all spoke the same language, all thought the same thoughts, all strived for the same goal. They were One. The tram continued its slow stride towards the industrial district. He had resented being sent to the factory at first, having just barely failed the entry exams for advanced education, but now he knew it was all for the good of the Collective. The Collective Survives.

A little girl entered the tram and sat next to 374. It was odd to see children alone, especially on the way to the industrial district. She'd probably volunteered, 374 thought. Young comrades did have the opportunity to volunteer for work for the Collective. The tram wasn't quite full, which was usual. The Collective was underpopulated compared to its size. Despite not having been hit by nukes directly, the fallout had still killed of a large amount of the population when 374 was just a child. He remembered how the sky was hidden, and the Long Night. The Collective had just recently started resettling the surface of the Collective, as it was now not lethal to live there. Gasmask rations had also plummeted, despite that being on the surface did lead to problems in the long-term. But the factories on the surface was essential, and 374 was glad to do his bit for Socialism. The Collective Survives.

The tram stopped once more, and 374 headed out slowly. His kneecap wasn't quite right leading to walking rapidly being a quite painful experience. He stumbled out and saw 291 and 845, two of his shiftcomrades, also leave the tram. He hadn't seen them. 845 was a beauty by any standard, young like 374 but without any noticable genetic defects, fair skin and short black hair. If romantic relationships were permitted, 374 would be all over her. Well, he was, as they did have sex quite often, but any indication of relations were banned by the Collective. Holding anyone over the People were Individualist Decadence. The Collective Survives.

291 was an older man, in his forties, having grown during the hell of the War, he was also without much in the way of genetic defects, although bald due to his cell-treatment. His Uniform was a bit loose, as he had lost weight, a surprising thing as everyone in the Collective were already thin, the rations and mandatory exercises fostering a healthy population. Healthy, if not for the cancer and other sicknesses that is. The trio were all friendly comrades, of course, the Party making sure that proper comradely relations were held in all workplaces, apartment complexes and party cells. Troublemakers, anti-social elements, dissidents and criminals were all dealt with appropriately. The Collective Survives.

They trod along the road to Rationpaste Factory #2, chatting as they did so. It was a clear day, patches of blue sky and sunlight eyed down from the ashen clouds down upon them.

"Åppsynskamrat 289 sa at de ska bli stormær snart," 845 said as they walked, 845 and 291 thankfully slowing their pace so 374 could keep up without wincing in pain "Toppsie fabrikkane blir stengt i tre daar."
"Comrade-Overseer 289 said there'll be storms soon. The topside factories will be closed for three days."

"Sjitt," 291 said, his face going pale "Tre daar mista? Jæ trengær de rasjonane!"
"Shit. Three days lost? I need those rations!"

"Tarremero, kamrat." 374 replied "Går på luksusrasjonane, ikke mat å vann."
"Relax, comrade. It affects the luxury rations, not food and water."

"Jæ trengæri!" 291 said "Jæ har barn å..."
"I need them! I have children to..."

291 stopped suddenly as he realized what he had just said, as did 374 and 845 shocked, and looked at their comrade as he rapidly became even paler, all blood having escaped his wrinkled face. Any children were to be handed over to the Information and Education Section for rearing. Private child-rearing was forbidden with the strictest of punishments.

"Jæ menæ... jæ..." 291 stammered, panicking "Jæ å 282 vi... vi fikk... hu æ bare ei lita tulle... vi kanke... vi bor ihop å... Væsjå kamratær! Væsja! Ikke sino!"
"I mean... I... 282 and I we... we got... she's just a little baby... we can't... we live together and... Please comrades! Please! Don't inform on me!"

"Seff ska vikke sino, kamrat." 374 lied with a serious demeanour "Hemliheten din æ trygg."
"Of course we will not say anything, comrade. Your secret is safe."

"Ja," 845 said "Taremero, kamrat."
"Yes. Relax, comrade."

"Takk..." 291 said, relieved and grateful at this great show of comradely fraternity from his shiftcomrades "Jæ... jæ skakke glemme detta. Takk kamratær."
"Thanks... I... I won't forget this. Thanks comrades."

As they proceeded to the factory, one glance at each other was all 374 needed to know that 845 thought the same as him. After the shift-start excersise routine, they went to the foreman, who contacted the SSS. At the end of the shift, two State Security Sectional Commissars dragged 291 out of the factory, never to be seen again. 374 looked after his former comrade, feeling nothing.

The Collective Survives.

[Taurenor]

Thank you, New Freedomstan. Story has been added to list.

[Insel des Mondes]

Santa Marina

[ MT]

Marina al Yasu was a very religious young child. She loved God more than anything in her little world. She lived in an orphanage that was very dark and cold, but she found great joy through praising her Lord. In the revolution of 1856, when she was 8 years old, Gordon Estes, the wildly unpopular dictator, was hiding in her village. Only a handful of villagers knew where Estes was. The rebel militia, however, figured out that he was there, and decided that the only way to kill him was to burn down the entire village. They crept to the village in the middle of the night on January 23, 1856 (Gregorian time) and set fire to the village gates. The smell of smoke woke the village up. Everyone was running out of their houses, trying to get to safety. The orphanage overseers, fearing for their own lives, ran out of their house beside the orphanage, leaving the children to fend for themselves. Most of the children made it out unscathed. Marina, however, lived on the top floor, and by the time she made it down the stairs, the bottom floors were a blazing inferno. She decided to run through the burning door, and was badly burnt. She ran through to the town center, where she collapsed on the ground. As fire grew closer to her, she began to pray out loud. She closed her eyes, and the fire came around her like a scorching embrace. Up from the fire flew a dove. It rose higher and higher, into the smoky sky, then disappeared. For her faith, she was made a saint. She is now the patron saint of Insel des Mondes, and the dove (vedo in des Mondian) is our national animal.

Her prayer went like this:
"I can see you, oh Lord, in all your glory.
I am coming home to my Father soon.
My heart sings your praise forever.

Father, if I had to die,
I am glad it is for the sake of the Motherland.
I am glad to die for others' freedom.
I am glad to come home to you.
Amen."

Many des Mondian Orthodox Christians say this prayer every night.[/spoiler]

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Insel des Mondes. Story has been added to list.

[Stedicules]

do i (cont)inue?

/| pt /|

This secret I hold is too heavy for me

Please end this suffering, please let me be

I stand upon the branches of a great oak tree

I’m ready to leave this suffering and

Looking upon the king of kings-- I am,

U-N-D-O-N-E

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Stedicules. Story has been added to list.

[Castille de Italia]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Memoirs of Sara's Plains

In the Second Castillian Revoultion, Marxist forces held a strategic military camp in the Sara's Plains region. Trench warfare had been prevelant there for several years, and almost one million men lost their lives. But on May 1st, 1903, the 1st Infantry Regiment of the Castillian Federal Army, known as the "Pikeheads", led a daring charge on twenty-seven trenches. This is the true accounts of Major Lawrence Parker and the Pikeheads.

May 1st, 1903

It was a rainy, brutal day in the trenches, and most of the men had gotten used to the sounds of the gunfire and bombs. I longed to be back at home with Valerie, and see my son, George, whom I have yet to meet. Valerie described him as a born genius, with him already reading at age two. Orders had come down from the High Command, and we were to retreat. I had sat in the same trench, digging in the dirt, sleeping in the cold mud, and soaked wet every day, risking my life poking my head out for clean air, just to be told to go home.

I have fought in the Army for seven years, and I wasn't about to lose my country to a bunch of Commies. I told my men that we weren't leaving, and I sent word to the adjacent trenches to hold position. My men attached their bayonets, and readied their weapons and gear. I had just defied the High Command and assembled a slaughter of almost seven-hundred men, which is surely punishable by death. I waited for mortar crews to get ready an I gave the order. My men scrambled out of their trenches, most just to be mowed down by machine gun fire.

We finally got to the first three trenches in front of us, which was every man for himself. I saw one of my men's intestines be ripped out of his body by a bayonet, only to find it next in my shoulder. I quickly grabbed my sidearm and fired it in his chest. He screamed in agony, and fell on top of the man he had just killed. I gripped my shoulder, and followed one of my squads through the trench. More of the Pikeheads had moved on, taking the next seven. I soon found myself being bombed by airships, which fell out of the sky as my men shot at them. I guess that the High Command had found out about my charge, for Castillian calvary leaped across the eleventh trench we had raided, the one I was currently in. About eight hours later, we had reached the camp, which was deserted.

Major Lawrence Parker was later promoted to Colonel, and attained command of the 1st Regiment. They later won many battles against the Marxist's, until they formally surrendered in 1911 at Annapolis, and Charles Thompson, the instigator of the revolution, was hanged on the Courthouse steps. Parker returned home to Valerie and George, and went one to found ImperiNext, one of the largest banking institutions in the Empire. Parker died in 1978 of natural causes, but his legacy lives on.

[Castille de Italia]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Descent Into Darkenss, Part I

In the Summerset Isle Province, near the Capitol Province of Castille de Italia, coal mining operations can be found in almost every county. Towns are only established where large mines are, aside from Nellis, the capitol of the province. Mining almost two miles underneath the surface is very dangerous, and done so at the miner's risk. In July 1999, an explosion rocked the Neilson North In-Ground Mine. Twenty-eight miners were trapped for seven weeks, living on the flesh of their dead. This is their story...

July 2nd, 2012

It was just another day at work, as the miners left the bunkhouses in Neilson and made the short walk over to the foreman's office. They clocked in, and waited near the large elevator at the entrance of the mine, for it was a long walk downwards to the near end of the mine, where they were working. After the last miner clocked in and strapped into his gear, the forty-nine miners assembled onto the elevator, and they made their descent into darkness. Each of them knew that they could die at any time, and worked very cautiously, especially how deep they were mining. They made their way off the elevator, and went off to their shifts. About two hours later, a explosives crew was sent down because some miners had run into a patch of unknown rock, which couldn't be broken by pickaxe or drill. The crew set up the explosives, and due to budget cuts, they had to use older equipment. The miners cleared the area, and the crew detonated the explosives. It cleared away the rock, and the miners resumed their work. Not even a half a minute into their work, the ceiling above them started to collapse, and rocks started to fall everywhere. People panicked, and made a dash for the elevator, which plummeted to the bottom of the mineshaft, and killed the couple of miners onboard. Others turned minecarts over and hid in them, and others made a dash for the concrete shop on the current mining level. After what seemed like an hour, the rock stopped falling, and the only exit was blocked. In the Foreman's office, a red light and a buzzer went off, signaling that a tripwire went off, and there had been a cave-in. The foreman quickly checked the mine map, and it signaled Level Y, the second to last level. In the mine, the miners were trying to move the rock without luck. Emergency services had arrived outside the mine, along with several news crews.

To be continued...

[Taurenor]

Thank you, Castille de Italia. Stories have been added to list.

[Stedicules]

an animal

or

arthur l. mountain

-- (mt) --

After I seen that helicopter go down in the trees and we didn’t find no survivors, me and the boys got sent out. It was the second week of July, 1968, We was the best brothas for the job, see, so the officers send us up into north Vietnam to find them white boys for their mothers.

So I said cool and we dropped into the jungle that night. I always like the jungle, good hard work, walkin’ through it. Always gave me a good workout. I liked the jungle cause it was quiet too, so quiet you could hear anything out of the ordinary. So that’s what I did all the time moving through the jungle. I listened. About three days into it we found this fella in a tree.

Shit he was worse off than a brotha on death row. He wasn’t even attached together no more, his shit was everywhere. I had him under my boots, we all did. We couldn’t waste time getting his pieces down so we said some stuff and kept goin’. And what we found next was seriously fucked. The gooks had come on through like a tornado and done up everybody.

Helicopter was wrecked and everybody was too. They had tied ‘em all up and tore their bodies apart. I seen the maggots crawling in and out of their faces, like they was swimming. I seen the pieces ripped off by dogs. Huge chunks just gone, just gone. And the fuckin’ VC had scalped some of the guys and taken souvenirs. I threw up all over the damn grass.

Harris was the only white dude with us. Shit he was crying like his momma died. I think he found a piece of his friend cause all he did was cry over this dude without any legs. It was one of the pilots. So I just looked around, I was sweatin’ somethin’ fierce and I didn’t know what to do, ya know? Like how does anyone do anything after seein’ shit like that.

I couldn’t think of nothing to say to the boys so I just started pickin’ up the dog-tags I could see and I says to the guys, “get their tags and les go.” So that’s what we did. For hours we crawled through the fuckin’ blood and guts and oil near the crash, lookin’ like damn fools searching for tags we knew we’d never find. I think I found two. So then we bugged out, hitched a ride on this huey. When we got back to An Khe we was changed men and the niggas on the base knew it. Even the white dudes, the officers they knew it too.

We acted as if we’d killed a hundred of those yellow gooks, we talked a big game and said we was hot-shit, but we weren’t and we knew it, but they didn’t. We just crawled through the mud lookin’ for dog-tags all day. Everyone believed us though, and soon enough nobody looked at us right no more and people stopped talkin’ to us.

They all said we was animals, a bunch of brutish thugs that didn’t care about no rules. I think something snapped inside me after months of livin’ like that. I said, “fuck it, if they want me to be an animal, I’ll be an animal.” And I started to become that.

An animal.

[Central and Eastern Visayas]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

This story is Part Five of a Mature-themed series.

Beyond Borders: Call of Vengeance (V)

SLt Jack Anthony R. Carpio, WVN, M.A.
Callsign "Lion"
Moalboal
1749 CEV Time

Lion had just finished his dinner of spaghetti and meatballs and began downing his second cup of water. Looking at the other operatives, he smiled. These men were some of the 33rd SCAR's finest operatives, and he was going to lead them again. This time, he knew, he would lead them to a successful mission in allied soil with allies who didn't seem bad to begin with.

SG2 Jon W. Lagaac, FedGen
1756 CEV Time

"Yes?" Lagaac answered his cellphone. "Uh-huh."

"Well?" asked Mantua.

"Hold on for a while," Lagaac said before addressing Mantua. "Yeah?"

"Calling St. John Nepomucene Parish?"

"Yep. Do you mind?"

"Sure," Mantua replied.

"So, you have a mass at 7:00 pm? Good...Thank you very much." Lagaac then hung up, turning to Mantua once more.

"Let me guess: they have a 1900," Mantua said.

"Yep."

"Good. I'll let the others know. According to their field commander, zero hour isn't until 2030 tonight."

Sgt. Ebenezer F. Quiel, WVA
Callsign "Shogun"
1805 CEV Time

"Utopia? As in Tommy More's book Utopia?" asked Sade.

"Yes, Saint Thomas More's book," replied Shogun behind his copy of Thomas More's Utopia.

"I didn't know the guy was a saint," Sade said.

"You probably wouldn't."

The banter was interrupted by a quick announcement from Lion.

"Listen up: If any of you feel like going to church, St. John Nepomucene Parish has a 1900."

"Good to know Lion lets us know we can hear Mass before the hunt," commented Seaking.

"Yeah, I'd pray to God for a good hunt too," retorted Nighthawk.

"Who wouldn't?" asked Seaking in return. It was rhetorical, of course.