The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Abruzi]

MT

Turn your speakers up when you click on the title music

Ash on the Breeze

The silence of the night was peaceful, almost mockingly peaceful. In the distance, fires raged and people died but right there, in the small forest clearing where the remains of Super Six lie in a smoking heap peace reigned. The dead bodies of the pilots and the four soldiers were silent, their mouths open in unnatural angles and their bodies already starting to swell. In the clearing where Petrov slowly came to, peace reigned. Peace was wrong.

Rising, Petrov held his head in a shaky hand visions slowly peeling away as his mind reentered the quasi sane state that was his combat mentality. Shadows around the grove concealed enemies, of that Petrov was certain. As he regained full consciousness he fired a few rounds into the shadows, shattering the peace of the grove. The chatter of small arms that answered him and the stinging pricks that were several rounds impacting heavily against his side.

Petrov saw spots and then he tasted blood. This served only to enrage him and even as his side was reduced to a ragged wound Petrov killed his attackers. Their lives cut short by the seven point six two times three nine ammunition his carbine hurled at them. Smiling, Petrov slowly sank down and searched for his medical kit. Cloth bandages and some alcoholic cleaning solution were enough for his wound now, he would get real help later or he would die. Turning his head south, Petrov slowly made his way toward the objective point, many miles hence.

Stepping over logs and through bushes, Petrov fought his way south. Engaging several enemy patrols and destroying a fair number of them, the aged killer almost made it when he met the real resistance. Voices, voices plaguing his mind. Petrov had encountered his alter egos before, battling for control in years past as he battled for his soul but this time, this time they were different. Pleading voices in place of the angry demands wore him down as they then outflanked him with a childhood memory or scene. It drove him to his knees.

Sitting upon his knees in the forest clearing in the midst of a war zone, Petrov seemed an almost religious figure. The old warrior shouted an oath and rose, emptying his weapon in the general direction of the foe. He fought on, his vision obscured by a blood red haze that seemed to have nothing to do with the pain or the wounds. As he continued south toward the objective, it got deeper and deeper and the voices, they got louder and louder until he knew that any more would surely cause his death,

More bullets leapt at him from the darkness and he fired a burst in response. Funny, he never remembered changing the clip. His lack of memory and the volume of the voices scared him, he was close to losing control again and when that happened…people would die in horrible ways. He fought the voices but they pulled him, they tugged and he was afraid they would drag him off. Bullets tearing the snow before him was enough of a motivator it seemed and he was quickly back on his feet, limping to the south.

The woods were growing more immaterial, trees seemed almost spectral and Petrov could tell that his hold on life was fragile indeed. He fought on, on his knees and then just crawling. He was almost there, almost to the objective. Almost there, just a few more yards and he wou-…he was there. Dark walls rose around him and before him sat a small girl. He was standing now, his wounds healed.

He stepped closer to her, her small dress covering the fragile body that was turned away from him. Yet even from behind Petrov knew, he knew. He stepped forward and was suddenly inches from here. Sinking to his knees Petrov felt the remorse and sadness that was his jailer wash over him. With tears dripping down him face, Petrov reached out and took hold of his daughter. Yet even as his fingers closer over her in a loving embrace filled with sorrow, she began to crumble.

Ashen skin turning into ashen dust that blew away leaving a blackened skeleton. Yet even her bones were not left to her father and they too crumbled and finally shattered. Her clothes, her room, the small toys that filled it, and finally Petrov’s old home and his homeland were gone. Ash. Simple Ash. He knew that it was his turn but he would not go, the Ash would not take him. With an almost silent and then steadily louder voice the Ash screamed a wordless scream that fills the hearts of men instants before they die. The scream of the fury of the dead. The scream of the ender of sanity.

The scream of Ash, Ash on the breeze.

[Wolfkrone]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

Pruessen Wrath - The Wolf Who Stood Alone

The Kingdom of Wolkfrone
The Holy Roman Empire
1650

March. Fight. Die. That was the fate of a warrior in this day in age. In straight lines they walked, firing those cruel weapons at one another while their generals machinations sentenced more to death. There was one who stood above this, one who did not change with time. Wolfkrone after all was so small that no one bothered her and her outdated armies of heavy cavalry and mounted Knights. The Arbeuques had replaced the sword, the primer stick had replaced the lance, and now that last bastion where those things survived was under siege.

Prussia was strong, they were so so strong; bordering on invincible. Their line infantry was famous the world over for their discipline and their generals famous for their tactics. So; into the motherland the Prussian Army marched, and they would meet them.

Of course, they would fail; that much was certain, they did not have the advantage here; Prussia had the numbers, Prussia had the weapons; but the Krone had the hearts, they had the courage and they would fight with honour. Even if they failed; history would remember them; that they who stood before oblivion itself had honor in death!

They had a small army, two thousand swords; a few hundred bows and a few dozen knights. They were outnumbered, to suicide they marched. They marched to die. But they did so with heads held high, the cold November sun gleaming on their silver curiass and shields, the tips of their lances a lit with fire. Their swords gleamed in the sunshine like saintly weapons descendant from Heaven.

---

They met on open fields; the knights mounted upon their fine war horses laden in armor. The swordsmen and lancers in their heavy armor in the line below and the archers behind them. It was a pitiful ensemble compared to the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of Prussians; three thousand rifles; three thousand cowards. Twenty cannonades, a hundred more cowards. But the Krone stood tall, valiant before death; with honor they stood while the Prussians were cowards. Come then cowards! You cannot defeat honor!

The resounding volley pierced the morning air, the gray fog that enveloped them was encompassed in noise by the shots of the cannonade and the Krone front-line was undone. The blood and the dirt flew along with men; but they stood! They did not flee! They would not flee! "Charge!" The order came and the knights surged forward, the powerful warhorses propelling the lance and sword wielding men forward with the wrath of righteousness behind them!

The Knights crashed against the front line and the Prussians were undone, the cowards did not flee but they did not fight with honor, they did not know what it was to be brave anymore! They had forgotten what it was to be instilled with courage so given by God Almighty! Swords and lances clashed against rifle and bayonet, cannons sounded again and the Prussians decimated their own lines to be rid of the Knights; all of whom were slain.

Their bodies scattered and divided, heavy armor unable to protect them from the weapons of cowards. The swordsmen and the lancers advanced then, a slow sort of walk initially until they picked up speed! The Prussians had fixed their lines though and another volley came forth to devastate them! The fields of broken bodies where the heat of battle did so burn; the blood covered the fields and all was turned to red that day. But the Krone fought on, and they fought with honor. The twang of sinew and the piercing of arrows; the clangor of metal from armor and sword.

In the end of the day the field was all silent, no Krone stood living; no man survived to be taken prisoner or to live as a slave. They had lost, their price was death; they would be forgotten, destroyed before the wrath of Prussia. But that did not matter to them.

They had fought with honor, they had died with honor; and before they had died, Prussia would remember their name. Prussia would always remember their name, because the Wolves who stood alone; who died alone, had taken as much as they had received.

[LINTYLAND]

[ MT ]

Frozen Tundra

The howling winds roared across the barren landscape. The men trudged in a single file line, the hoarse yell of the drill sergeant drowned out by the winds. Recruits, recruits for something, but what? Oh yes the Mountain Brigade, the so called best of the best. The best of what? Twelve mile runs in the tundra? No that couldnt be the reason.

His breath turning ice cold under the excessive panting. The winter gear handed out was nothing but friendly. Dull white fatigues with thin wool jackets to protect their bodies. Oh the horrid 20 degree weather did nothing to ease his pain. The march now picked up to a slow run. More panting from him and the men falling behind.

They passed the eleven mile marker. Bertrum felt his legs get heavier, the air getting colder, his heart trying to keep pace with his body. His mind trying to think on how he got to this frozen tundra. Was it the recruiting officer that got to him? No that man just told him to sign the paper that sealed his fate. It must have been the horrible conditions at home. A vegetable like mother, no friends, and no father. Yes this was what drove him to better himself. Going to the recruitment office in his home town, signing the paper that led to this.

Three men had fallen out of the march and left for dead. The drill sergeant laughing, letting them know this could also be their fate. Bertrum ignored this, keeping his steady pace. Staying focused on his goal and proving that he can be in the Mountain Brigade. The dim lights of the base camp could be seen in the distance. The whole march now slowed down to a fast paced walk. They crossed the imaginary finish line and took a short break. The panting of so many men made Bertrum sick, but he didnt care. He made it, he's now the best of the best.

[Finium]

[ PT ]

The earth shook with the boom of canons; the air was rent with the screams of dying men and the sharp crack of muskets. The city of Hallsind stood in a lake of dead bodies, the last remnant of a once prosperous nation, Finium. The old world of Finium was crumbling under the hands of the high council. They had lost territories and provinces one by one to their great enemies, the coalition of the oppressed as they called themselves. Now the last of that wondrous nation was now cut off from the world surrounded by the people who once reaped the riches that poured from the city until the council had been corrupted by greed and the flow of wealth stopped, the citizens began to starve. They now had voiced their complaints in this bloody conflict that was destroying the nation.

Far from the commotion of the walls, high in the inner chamber, enclosed with thick marble walls, the council met. The council had argued back and forth about their next decision for three straight days. There were no raised voices now only the faint scratch of a pen on paper as the imperial contract was passed around to each of the members in the high council, each affixing their name the resolution that would change the world for eternity.
It read as follows,

We, the people of Finium, finding it no longer suitable to operate as we have for past generations hereby declare that for all times hence forth all powers of military, state and legislature shall be vested in the person of emperor whose position shall be hereditary.
Observing that the resent events have stemmed primarily from lack of discipline.
We assert from resent events that without such a firm hand that only an emperor can provide we have no future.

Article 1

The first emperor shall be his lordship Marcus Crull,
In him and his heirs the power of supreme ruler shall be vested

Article 2

It shall be the emperor’s duty to expand his domain to its greatest possible extent in order to spread the light of his rule and that all the peoples of the earth might benefit from his benevolent rule

Article 3

It shall be the duty of the people to provide their ruler with their life unreservedly in order to pay the debt of his protection
It shall also be the duty of the people to provide their ruler with monetary aid in order to assure a secure economy and a safe nation

We hold all these laws to be the ultimate truth that all nations strive for and consider any nation not working toward this goal to be in need of our rule

Signed this day January first in the year of his majesty fifteen o one

Marcus Cull
George Lowland
Herald Molting
Barak Clinton
Hannah Zephyr
Mara Grindstone

It took Marcus Crull 12 years to defeat the coalition of the oppressed, 12 years of haggling with mercenaries, begging other nations for help and leading the charge. Now 487 years later the people of Finium still look to that contract in the hopes that the world will one day turn from its councils and presidents and see the true light of Finium.

[Volga Rodina]

[ PT ]
[ Mature ]

Stranded

"Its been days since I have seen anything but fighting and bloodshed. My ears grow tired of gunfire and screaming. I do not remember life without war."

The barrel of a machine gun emerged from the darkness of the three story house's basement. Its owner peered out through strained eyes. Two-and-a-half ton trucks sat motionless in the streets, their owners nowhere to be seen.

Quickly the man stuck his head out of the opening to the shoulder. A hand jutted from the darkness and clasped the man's winter coat. Thrusting backwards, the arms pulled the curious soldier back into the safety of the basement. Dirty looks were exchanged and the curious soldier quieted down.

"Sergeant. How long have we been stuck in this hole like caged animals? My heart aches for battle."

"Sergei, you must have patience. When the time is right, we will strike at them, we will push these devils out of our city, no matter what!"

Outside the trucks engines growled as they were recharged, flood lights exploded the night, shattering it into bits. Another growl and the trucks lurched forward, soldiers filed neatly in the flatbed, singing songs in a foreign tongue and waving alcohol bottles in the air.

The Sergeant spat and motioned his soldiers forward, out of the basement. It was mostly blackness, but the Sergeant knew the streets like the back of his talon-like hands. He motioned them into a square. Burning hulks of tanks, and rotting corpses littered it. The rendezvous point was deserted, their comrades in arms, their countrymen had left them behind. Forgotten.

"Chyort!"

[Wolfkrone]

[ PT ]

We Honor That

1156

Once, we were knights. Now; we are the enemy. In our quest to overcome him, to reclaim the Holy City; we have become him. We are the evil; the vile; the heathen. The Franks do not see it. The Prussians do not see it, The English certainly do not see it. But we see it. No amount of praise will ever wash this sin from our bodies; we will not be forgiven.

When we reach the Golden Gates to the Heavenly Palace; when we meet the Almighty. We will be judged, we will be measured, and we will be found wanting. Cast down from Heaven as Lucifer was before us. We are the evil ones now.

Though once we were Knights. The crack of artillery's strike is strong, the trubuchets undo the fortifications of Saladin's city; The Holy City was besieged once more, but we were failing. The battle was long, the deaths are many indeed. Yet there is silence? All of this noise and there is silent? The Calm before the Storm.

The day came when we breeched the gates; and we took the walls in the first assault. They stood no chance after that. The slaughter was immense; there was no glory, no honor to be had for us. But they fought on and desperately; they seemed to think that this world of theirs was worth saving. That we were the barbarians, and they were right. We honor that.

When our banner flew from the walls; the fighting continued, it ravaged every part of the city it touched; we, the cruel masters and they; the valiant knightly defenders. We slew all in our path, we've no honor anymore; no humanity remains in our bones, but they. The Enemy; the ones who we called craven barbarians, Heathens. They fought with honor, they held their lines; and they fought to the death with out one step back until we forced them so!

We were knights once, and we honor them. The enemy who fought to the last, the last man, the last woman, the last child. They fought back for theirs and their own. We honor that.

We were knights once. In time perhaps Heaven can forgive us for Arce. Perhaps.

[Estainia]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

Kingdom of Honour

"What is this...Thing?" The Knight spoke; his armor gleamed in the sun and his sword shined with light. "It is the future." The other answered, though it was not a Knight who spoke, he wore armor; but he was no knight.

The city was alight with life; in the distance there was a crier. "To kill an infidel is not murder! It is the path to heaven."

The Knight turned. "Silence! Dishonorable curr! Murder is not right regardless of religion! You there in the distance, silence of you!" And the crier silenced.

The Knight turned back to the man who held up his contraption, it was bow-like in nature; but it was no bow. Held together by cruel machinery it fired bolts that pierced armor, slew men before they could fight back. "This is no future." The Knight spat fouly. "This is cowardice; dishonorable cowardice."

The Second man smiled cruely; his teeth broken in places and his look foul. "You will see. You will see. One day, these will dominate all the world. You will see. It is a Kingdom of Material!"

And the Knight drew his blade, and the second man fell short after. "It is a Kingdom of Conscience; or it is a kingdom of nothing." The second man fell, and his contraption fell to the Earth with a clatter and a twang followed.

The Knight slumped forward a second later, his horse whinnying as he breathed ragged breaths. The bolt from the foul thing protruding from his armour. "F-false, d-dishonorable machine." The Knight muttered as he watched the lights of the sky faint in color.

He motioned with his strength, and fell from his horse; he'd never met the man who walked up to him and the man had never met him. Yet the man, this stranger helped him stand as the Knight motioned to his Squire who came from behind him.

"On your knees." The Knight said and the Squire obeyed. "Be without fear in the face of your enemies." He began; "Be brave and upright that God may love thee." His breathing was shallower now, light was fading more rapidly. "Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death." He knelt then to the Squire and rose his hand.

"Safeguard the helpless; protect the innocent and do no wrong. That is your oath." He then struck the boy across the face with all of his might, rocking his body as he did so. "And that; is so that you remember it."

The Knight leaned back then, his armor bloody and his face pallard. "P-protect all w-who need it. S-stand s-hield against any who w-would d-do evil's will."

The Knight breathed no more as the Squire took up his lord's sword, his sword now; the roles given up to him by the Knight who lay dead before him.

He would be celebrated in time, songs would remember his name. "Be at peace, my lord." The Knight said as he rose; closing the former's eyes.

He stood and he looked to the body of the second; the coward who fought from a distance; no training to use his weapon, no skill to go into battle. A Coward, a skilless coward. He deserved his fate, there in the mud where he belonged.

"I will see." The Squire-Knight said as he swung his master's sword down upon the machine and clove it in two; before he struck again and thirded it, and then chopped it into fours.

"That these things will never see love here. That they will remain obscure!" He sheathed the blade and spat upon the pieces of the coward's construct.

"Nothing good will ever come of these cowardly things."

[Kostemetsia]

Postcard [ FT ]

He strikes a heroic pose. "What now, bitches?"

[Amerikians]

[MT] [ Mature ]

Orders

There comes a point when certain things no longer matter; when one remains loyal to the cause not because of flags or politics, but because of the ground that they stand on. Their ground; their own; what matters to those who stand at this point is not politics; not what leader they call theirs, not what flag flies over their country. It comes down to this; This is My Land, and you're on It.

The Battle of Baltimore was hopeless; skyscrapers fell, men screamed. Blood and bodies dominated the day as the Soviets advanced without hint of remorse or anything closely resembling mercy. Block after block street after street they devoured all they came across in a hailstorm of lead and blood and iron. Bodies and blood consumed the sight of any who looked upon the broken streets of the once Utopian metropolis, any who stood against fell and all else dared to flee as craven cowards and near-traitors.

Yet here, in this horrible existence; in this world that was falling there were still those who fought on; desperately believing that their mundane pitiful world was worth saving. Police Officers, Soldiers, Citizens alike held arms against those who assault what was theirs, what they had made theirs and carved up from an Empire. Each ignored the orders given to them; the officers and soldiers were told to retreat, abandon this place of death and carnage to those who assaulted it. Abandon the capital; the beating heart of Amerika that now was on the verge of stopping that steady rhythm of beat.

They did not move; they ignored the orders given to them, and they fought on so valiantly and deseparately; onto the last man and rocket as they did so. Because it stopped mattering at that point; the politics didn't matter anymore; the flag didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered but one thing; this was home; and they would die to defend it. While others ran like cowards, they fought and died; while others hid they opened fire.

When others spoke of surrender; treason; they said in one collective voice; No! We would not be downtrodden! You will not take our city! You will have this; our home, our land when each and all of us are dead and gone! Then, only then will you experience your victory and we hope it was worth it to you because we will take and take many many more than we shall receive!

Because Amerikans don't care about orders once you set foot here; this is home, and it's worth fighting for...

---

The Partisan Forces that held Baltimore in the Battle of Baltimore during the War of the Red Scourge numbered not even two hundred; the brave men and women who took up arms against the forces of that so besieged their fair city all died, to the last man and rocket they did indeed fight; inflicting casualties on Soviet Forces numbering in the tens of thousands over the course of seven days until the last one was slain; not before he himself took a hundred Soviets with him to the grave.

It was not propaganda or loyalty, or patriotism that drove them so though the government would swear it was. It had nothing to do with nationalism; flags, politics or who was what. Communism didn't matter, Capitalism didn't matter. This was their home, their one piece of ground and they each and everyone fought to the death for what was rightfully theirs.

Two Days after the Battle of Baltimore ended the Amerikan Seventh Armored Army retook the city with sparse casualties thanks to the efforts of those partisans. Each name of the hundred four people who dared to stand in the face of adversity is memorialized in Baltimore; each of them received posthumously whether or not they were military forces the Congressional Medal of Honor and every citizen received the Congressional Medal of Freedom.

[Star Trek America]

[ MT ]

Part One of

Har Megiddo

American Federal Marines
8th Battalion - Brenner's Wolves

We don't know why we push forward anymore, united only by the strength of our commander; the rest of us have lost such strength, following only orders, existing through his strength alone. Samuel Brenner saved us that day, that horrible day. We're all trained warriors; all of us down to the last man and woman is hardened, we existed for war. Now, what? With no enemy what purpose do soldiers have? But none of us questioned the orders we were still dared to be given, the strongest man on Earth drove us forward and we followed.

It wasn't always like this though; we were happy once, even with the war and the strife. Until that moment, like the bible had predicted fire and brimstone fell from the sky; all was undone before the Wrath of God, the meteors destroyed all in their wake; we were only spared because we were in the Deshert at the time on a recon mission looking for the WLA, we're not even sure if they're alive anymore either.

So much death; when the first rock struck, we felt the Earth tremble beneath it, the wake of it's power tossed into the sky the soil and the bones of the Earth, mountains were undone; destroyed and laid waste. Centuries, Eons old and in that instant, against God's Power; they were nothing but water before a storm.

We headed back to base; even as the Earth fell apart, the Captain demanded we stay in the vehicles while he went in. The Devastation he told us was almost total, the force there was mobilized and immediately they looked to him for direction as the only high ranking officer. "A flat plain! We have to get away from civilization!" He had declared simply; and we obeyed. Back into the Deshert we went.

In the Deshert we survived; we are not sure how but none of the meteors struck there, the Eternal Deshert, it's all devouring Spirit. Though the Christians among us would disagree; those of us who remembered Sutek knew, The Deshert was the gate to his kingdom...His Hell. Yet today; we agreed with them, that this was as they called it, the Ameriqui - Har Megiddo, the precursor to the final battle; the end to all.

In reality most of us were scared; we still are. The only one who didn't shake through the entire thing was the Captain; and I think that is what kept us from running away like children, and what keeps us fighting now.

When it was over, the Captain's first orders were to find survivors. "Where there is life there is hope!" Became his way, his motto. We looked around when we arrived at the first city. New Alexandria had been decimated; fires burned through out the city, there was no sign of life. But we searched and we searched and we found the irony in this place; this place that had been struck by fire, nuclear flame, and now; The Hand of God. But we found nothing but bodies.

When most of us would have despaired the Captain did not. He ordered us to scavenge what we could and save what was possible. Precious water, food, petrol was second thought; we could always walk. From there we went to Cairo; hoping through some miracle that there were those who were still alive within the city; when we got there...

The same horror awaited us, the same scene of destruction and death, many of us had families here, loved ones, and we knew despair. Not the Captain though. "Where there's life there's hope!" He cried and rallied us, even as we teared. On the hill above Cairo we hoped to find the Palace; the Emperor. What we found despaired us further...

Only a crater remained, the great rock that had landed here consumed all and glowed hot, the heat blistered our skin even from the distance and we dared not to approach. Our world was dead, no amount of faith or hope had changed that. Only strength kept us going, but not our own. Captain Samuel Brenner saved us from oblivion, and now though we have no enemy we have a goal. It is our duty; our purpose to save as many as we can, and even if our search is futile we would do so.

Because here; at the End of the World, there are no sides.

[New Robotalica]

[ FT / Mature]

Protocol

"Ready the to fire". that was a 4 word death sentence to any planet. SAIDE, the AI Empress of the Sinister "Drone Empire", stood in her crown vessel, The Vestige, a 12 Mile Long Vessel of pure Destruction. Behind it were 30,000 Ships. "VIA, what is the status on Sterilization Beam Charging?" SAIDE asked VIA, her most loyal AI Advisor, and friend. "All 15,000 of them are at 100%, Mistress" VIA ever so seriously said. What exactly they were Talking About was beggining the Sterilization of a Planet they had beeg fighting with to take it into their empire. To do this, they had to Purge the surface of all life. SAIDE enjoyed doing the honors of burning the surface to a Living Hell. Watching Billions of Souls, Men, Women and Children all burnt to Ash. As the Vestige's Massive Sterilization Beam glowed white.

SAIDE walked to the Raised platform, looking 'out' the Bridge massive screen that portrayed the vacuum, aswell as ther target, Narsis. 15.000 Beams trained on the surface, they moved in closer. As Narsis's last defensive fleet moved up from the planet, The RLF zipped past the Vestige, as the minor skirmish of 30,000 to a pathetic 2,000 waged for 30 minutes or so. SAIDE smiling as she thought how the cities Vermin populace would look up in horror as her Ships moved slowly above them. SAIDE looked down at them with disgust.

"Fire" SAIDE said, finalizing the death of Narsis's Inhabitants.

As the Vestige's Beam shot down, as a Blood Curdling Screams of the crowd could be heard through anything as they fled, Creating a space where the beam will land. All in Vane, as the beam hit, the immediate area everthing was vaporized. As the super heated shockwave shot out, knocking the crowd down, as they burnt to ash, all of them, their Flesh, bone and Blood gone to ash, buildings followed under the shroud, collapsing, as the wave died out as it gained distance, but only after miles. As all the other Ships fired, and began Sterilizing Narsis. "Begin routing the Rest of the Planet" SAIDE said sharply, as the Vestige moved forward, and began Burning any surviving peice of Shrapnel to a Molten State.

The Sterilization took up to about 3 Hours. After it, The RLF returned to Above Orbit. SAIDE looked down, pleased at her Accomplishment of Sterilizing Narsis. Its surface impossible to see, as Thich, heavy Storming Clouds Encompassed the Planet. SAIDE then returned to her crew,

"Ready the ground Units. I want that planet locked down befor-"

The Communications Console was making its beeping noise as it did whenever a Non-Friendly Signal was incoming.

"VIA, patch it through, After this, I do not want any more Interuptions" SAIDE said, turning to VIA, who answered it without even a thought. On the Screen, a Narsisian Admiral, battered and a mess. In the background, it was pure chaos, fires, Officers hustling to get things back together somehow.

"You..you bitch! You killed them! All of them! There were children! Families! Your Murderous Bitch!" he said, beggining to tear, his voice broken. His eyes burning with pain and Hate. You could tell he had a family from how Shattered he was.

SAIDE laughed shortly, sensing how close he was to going over the edge. She moved in for the Kill.

"Oh you Pathetic being. I know far and well of what I have done. You think killing your people was a bad thing? Then perhapse you should join them in their grave." she said, focusing the Vestige's Plasmodic Batteries on the downed ship they had traced the signal back to.

"Then before you kill me, can you tell me something? Why us? Why this way?" He said, looking strait at SAIDE.

"Because" She said, re-focusing her gaze on him, as she fired, all pulses were 5 seconds from completly destroying the Narsisian Vessel. "It was only Protocol"

[Good Germans]

[ MT ]

De Honky Pigs

De Car swerved back and fo'd on de slick streets uh de large city. Slap mah fro! Honky pigs lights blared and machine guns rattled back and fo'd. On de transista' de Everly Broders sang deir hit beat, "All ah' have t'do be Dream". De two rollrs howled in glee as dey swerved upside a curb and whup' waaay down de street likes some speed racer.

Ah be baaad... De cops halted t'a stop at da damn curb and regrouped befo'e speedin' afta' de felons. Pistol shots fum de escapin' wheels banged off de metal uh de brother and honkys, tires poppin'. "Shit! Right on! I'm out uh de chase, goddamn! Right on!"

De city wuz behind dem mos' entirely and da damn rollrs sped onto de highway. Slap mah fro! Honky pigs helicopters above dem pointed blindin' searchlights onto de digaway car, pinpointin' deir 'esact locashun fo' ground units.

A loud hissin' registered in de ears uh de rollrs and some loud crash drough deir wheels into de side uh de highway. Slap mah fro! Bod wuz wasted on impact and some honky pigs puh'imeta' quickly built around dem. WORD!

[Star Trek America]

[ MT ]

Part Two of

Har Megiddo

American Federal Marines
8th Battalion - Brenner's Wolves

Today we hit New Alexandria five clicks north of the ruins of Alexandria. The city was; as we expected...Laid waste to. There was little left aside from the piles of rubble and the scent of death, and fire. Lightning crackled in the sky as though to taunt us and a sickly gray rain began to fall, stinging like sunburn...Acid Rain.

What few NBC's we had were relegated to our shock, medics; not officers, what few there were. As we combed the ruins of each city we had learned soon to surrender the possibility of survivors; yet the Captain kept us going.

"Where there's life there's hope!" He defiantly cried to Heaven, God and all of the ruins of creation. We obeyed because this was our purpose now, an army without an enemy, a soldier without a cause. It was our duty, our solemn duty to try and save as many as we could.

No matter how much more depressing it got; we held on through the Captain's strength alone. It wasn't so bad today though; we ran into survivors for the first time ever. A small group of civilians had set up shop in the old courthouse on what used to be Mason Ave.

When the Captain saw that they had a sparse few supplies to begin with he ordered what could be taken from our equally limited stock and given out to them, along with spare rifles and some limited ammunition. That afternoon we spent teaching them how to treat and use the carbines before we moved on. At least now; we had to accept it that the Captain was right because when we were leaving everyone was more happy, a little bit less depressed. "Where there's life, there's hope." That's his motto; that's our motto...

[Jenrak]

Good Germans, I will err on the side of your being something I have no idea about, so I'll add you. I honestly hope it's not just a random slab of mindless, poorly spelled text.

Anyhow, all stories added. Please let me know if I missed anyone's stories.

[Ralkovia]

[ MT]

[ Somewhat Mature ]

Ve haff vay's of making you stop

(Camera across street turns to show a long column of Ralkovian fire trucks as well as a large number of military vehicles and soldiers marching towards a park occupied with an innumerable number of people. It zooms in on a small number of uniformed policemen closing the gates to the outside of the park before zooming out to scan the crowd once more. It then zooms in on a young blond-haired Ralkovian standing on top of a pickup truck with a megaphone leading the protest)

Lead Demonstrator: Slavery has gone on long enough in Ralkovia. Other nations look at us with only shame and disgust. These people who call themselves men, enslave hundreds of millions of other humans and yet expect us to sacrifice our lives to defend their right to own another. The Emperor must know that we are not like my father or my grandfather. That this generation refuses to join the military so that we can defend others rights to nullify other humans rights and treat them as property.

Other Protestors: BURN THE DRAFT CARDS!

Lead Demonstrator:Lyran documents show that slavery is not just immoral but inefficient, we of the new generation seek prosperity as well as justice. We must support those that seek their freedom by making it unprofitable to enslave- 'Detachment HALT'-others. We -'Move to defensive position'- cannot buy goods manufactured -'Detachment ATTENHUT'-

(Noise below the camera of muffled 'halts' and vehicle engines roaring causes the camera to zoom out and focus on the military column that had just stopped in front of the street. The protesters that had been standing around the Lead Demonstrator begin to edge closer to the military before stopping on the other side as they form into a separate wall of shouting and yelling bodies.)

Lead Demonstrator: Brothers and Sisters we must not break no matter how much tear gas they shoot at us or how much they pelt us with beanbags and pressure hoses. Bear any burden.

"DETACHMENT, TAKE AIM!"

(The camera focuses on two military officers standing closest to the cameraman's position.)

"Commander Zackoreck, sir, we are in position. Should we give them a warning, sir?"

"Warning, Subcommander? This is their warning. DETACHMENT OPEN FIRE!"

(The troops begin to fire into the crowd, at first the protesters keep pushing forward not allowing the people in the front to push back until they realize the troops are firing real bullets. Chaos spreads as thousands of men, women, and children try to break open the gates or climb the stone walls surrounding the park only to be pushed back by firemen armed with pressure hoses.)

"FIRE GROUP FORWARD."

(The vehicles of the Detachment stop firing as men in body covering armor march forward. Suddenly streams of flames erupt from their weapons blanketing the dead and wounded in blazing fire. Fire engulfs everything including the tree's and rocks that the survivors have tried to hide behind. Black clouds of dirty smoke make it almost impossible to see what is happening. The camera screen turns black for several seconds only to turn on when the firetrucks begin to pelt the burning remains with blankets of water. The military column is given the order to give an about face and return back to base. As the camera zooms in on a blond haired head cupped inside the bowl of a megaphone.

[Rusikstan]

[ MT]

[ Moderate - Mature ]

Torn Out Page from Journal of David Arbatov
Excerpt Number 2
Dated: January 18, 2010 Tuesday


The faction came around today asking for volunteers to join the cause. I had gathered the money to by myself an FN FAL from the local gun shop and had all intentions of joining. Those damn Rusich have controlled Sakha for less than year and they’ve managed to turn it into a hellhole far worse than anything Generalissimo Ioannes could ever have done. My mother would hear nothing of it. She said she had already lost one of her loves to the Rusich and she wouldn’t lose another. I understood her reasons. Father was a brave man, but foolish to try and stand up to the Rusich alone. They made sure that he was made an example of. I still remember that day. He was stripped of his clothes beaten to within an inch of life before they turned the dogs on him. The dogs tore him limb from limb. The Rusich laughed at my fathers screams for mercy. That cruel Rusich laugh, it’s unnerving, a guttural deep distinctive laugh that one would imagine only Satan himself was capable of.

The soldiers made it point that the dogs disemboweled my father. “If he had the guts to take us on, then the guts should be good for the dogs” I heard one say. By the end of it there was not even enough left for the vultures circling the event, like harpies of despair. Mother was in Konigsberg that day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I told her that he was dragged off to the prison camps in Zeriun as that is what they did with dissenters. The neighbors agreed it be best she didn’t know. Her heart couldn’t take it.

Mother was naïve. She has not seen the horrors of the Rusich as I have. The days when they come into the town, they force themselves upon the women. Like wolves they pounced upon the weak, the Sakhan girls. I can still hear the screams of my classmates being ravaged over and over again from their last escapade, the screams are unbearable. I can see them doubled over, their traditional skirts pulled up revealing their…vulnerabilities. I can see the savage Rusich, belts undone, behind them laughing, mocking the pain of the of the Sakhan girls. Those that refused were senselessly beaten, some were even killed. They shot them. Point Blank; through the head. Brains and skull fragments litter the streets to this day. That’s not even the low mark; once they were dead the soldier pissed and defecated on the corpses. They would make the other girls look at the bodies and exclaim that that was there fate should they “misbehave”.

I hate to leave mother like this, but the Frakcija, faction, is the only group actively fighting the Rusich. I’m going to leave for their camp at Mt *easer marks blur this word* tonight. Mother if you find this, know that I love you.


[[lil rusty, but ehh more pieces later]]

[Qatarab]

The Beautiful Emerging

[ PT ]

[ Semi-Mature ]

The sun was blazing while the sand was scorching. There was absolutely no wind. The only cloud in the sky was a thick black cloud of ashes from the burning village. A mill stood in ruins,its surface charred black. It seemed like death himself had resided within the village as no living thing stirred as the small group of horsemen rode slowly through the open gates of the village. The stench of rotten corpses,blood and burned wood filled their nostrils even when their faces were covered. They entered the village square and a nightmare had come to life. Bodies were piled without respect. They'd been stripped of everything. Cloth,money,shoes,heads and most probably even the virginity of the women were taken. The leader of the group spit on the ground in anger. The rest began to make a short du'a. They had just only established their first colony on these new lands and such evil had befallen them. "Damn the natives" a horseman muttered in Arabic. It was Yawm al-Jumu'ah of the month Sha'aban during the year 1313AH. The villagers had been attacked and killed during a holy day. The sultan of Qatarab would not be happy to hear of this news.
------------------------------
The city of Al-Badria was magnificent. The minarets of the mosques were seen from far away and the Sultan's palace stood on a high hill in the center of the city. The markets were overflowing with merchants,traders,average townspeople and farmers. Order was kept with the presence of guards who were dressed in finely designed armor and Damascus steel swords. The large crest of Qatarab were engraved on all the body armor and the flag was flown on every tower. The walls had star shaped cut-outs for design and a space for riflemen to fire through.

All the infantry were armed with a Mauser M1871 bolt-action rifle and also carried medium-length scimitars. The cavalry were all armed with the Winchester Model 1873 Short Rifle as it was easy to use being a carbine. They also had scimitars but the standard ones with a long blade. Both still wore their leather body armor and greaves. They offered at least some protection to them. They also wore turbans over a rough leather helmet. They were only worn during times of battle as the leather would make them hot and uncomfortable.

The horsemen had returned from their patrol of the sacked village. The sun had begun setting and left a smear of colors on the clear sky. The temperature was slowly decreasing. The cities torches had been lit and this gave an artificial glow to the city. The horsemen dismounted when they got to the gates of the palace and stable boys ran up to take the horses to their stables. At the entrance a guard took the armor of the horsemen and their weapons. They were then led to the room of the Sultan by another guard.

"The sultan has been waiting for you" the Sultan's closest friend and bodyguard,Abdul Fareed Al-Hikyam, told the leader of the horsemen. "The rest of you may go to the dining hall. Dinner is being served" Abdul Fareed told the other horsemen who then bowed and were led to the dining hall by the guard who led them to the Sultans room. The leader walked through the door and was followed in by Abdul Fareed. The Sultan looked up from his desk,which contained a large map and some official papaer, and smiled.
"As-Salāmu `Alaykum Omar Ibn Kadir. I hope your patrol brought back good news"
"Wa Alaykum-us-Salam Wa Rahmatullahi Wa Barakaatuh Sultan Hussein" Omar said bowing very slightly. "I bring grave news from my patrol, Sultan"
"Very well...speak of what you learned" The sultan said with a hint of sorrow
"Another village has been sacked and burned. No one was left to live. It seems like they were waiting for the prayer before attacking"
"Something to expect from the kuffār"
"Sultan,we have also located a camp set up by the army who most likely raided this village. They didn't see us and i believe with the help of 4 Gatling guns, 2 12-pounders and 60 men we could take them on. One of my men claimed they had even spotted a high ranking official at this camp"
"Hmm..i think we must teach the kuffār a lesson. You have my authorization and now i must go as it is time to pray."
"Thank you Sultan. I shall have the men gather" Omar bowed slightly then followed the Sultan out. After prayer he would get the troops ready to go.
------------------------------
The troops had snuck up onto the enemy camp. It was dark outside and the temperature was quite low. They had dressed sufficiently for such climate. They were all also covered in sand as they camouflaged against the sand. The Gatlings were covered with a large sand colored tarp behind a few boulders while the 12 pounders had been dug in. Omar was leading 65. 15 were cavalry,5 being his own men while he had 50 infantry riflemen. The enemy had at least around 375 soldiers. They were armed with swords and spears though. Omar turned towards one of the soldiers he had been crawling with in the sand and gave him a signal. The soldier nodded,quickly spotted an enemy and got up to kneel. He aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. There was the loud crack of the gunfiring and the scream of the man who had just been hit. Yells were heard in the camp and sound of unsheathing swords filled the sky. Torches appeared in numbers and archers were seen getting into position. As this happened the 12 pounders opened fire. Two booms filled the sky and a sharp whistle was heard by Omar's troops when the two explosive shells flew over their heads. A second later two explosions filled the sky with flying limbs,blood,sand and fire. "Fire!" Omar yelled then got up to kneel and fired his rifle. All 50 riflemen got up to kneel and opened fire into the enemy camp. After each man fired 5 shots they fell back towards the boulders. The 12 pounders had only fired a total of 6 shots but killed at least 70 enemies while the riflemen claimed 50 more.

The enemy had begun a charge with the remaining 255 soldiers it possessed. The sight of the "retreating" Qatarabi troops made them more excited in their attack. As the last Qatarabi soldier which was Omar got to the boulders he hid behind one of the boulders with the rest of his men. "Gatlings,hold your fire!...Wait...Wait...Fire!" Omar barked and he fired a round into the crowd of enemies. At only a range of 25m aiming was not necessary. The 4 Gatlings combined made an awesome roar. The volley of rounds made the enemy retreat. While all this was happening the 15 cavalry had snuck to the rear of the enemy and got into their encampment. They had started to burn the tents and had captured important officials. As the gatlings forced the enemy to retreat they fell right into the hands of the cavalry. Their morale had decreased so much that they immediately dropped their arms and surrendered. Omar had anticipated this so he had his troops cease-fire just as soon as the retreat had begun.

Of the 375 soldiers only 30 had survived with 25 of them being wounded. The gatlings had caused the most deaths of the soldiers. Of Omar's troops only 4 were Minorly wounded from stray arrows during the fall back. The ground was soaked heavily in blood. One mans guts had fallen from him and he lay on the ground dead with his entrails emerging from him. Another had his spine ripped from his back and lay hunched over,impaled by his own spear. There was even a man who had been impaled in the eye by a friends dismembered finger. The best the Qatarabi troops could do was gather all bodies and limbs then burn them. The stench of death was a familiar scent to the troops but was never something they liked. The blood soaked sand was covered with more sand while the rest of the enemy camp was burned. Any loot was shared between the troops and Omar and his horsemen had taken no loot. They began a march back to Al-Badria,dragging with them 30 prisoners who were treated with respect. Omar turned to look at the sky from his saddle and saw the sun rise. "What a beautiful emerging" He thought out loud and everyone else had nodded. Even the prisoners.

[Abruzi]

Welcome Home.

MT

Mature

It was cold in Utopia, it was always cold. Ash and rain fell in equal measure, the ash from the massive industrial works outside of the city and the rain from the mottled gray clouds that covered the Land of Socialism and Eternal Bliss for nine out of twelve months of the year. The walk home was always a long one when it rained, the trek through several neighborhoods to his communal home always gave him just enough time to think, just enough time to contemplate his life. Finally his assigned home appeared on the left side of the street, taking care to cross at a proper time he narrowly avoided being run down by the bus that always managed to almost clip him.

Pausing to find the proper key, he glanced about and simply smiled, the Ministry of Contentment was watching and to appear discontented would be possibly fatal. The door opened with a creak and he stepped into the hallway. Placing his overcoat on the rack it was almost as soon taken up by his friend, Comrade Worker Illium 0127. The men exchanged a brief handshake and he assured his Comrade that when his shift was over they would smoke a pack of “Egalitarian Cigarettes” (one of the State approved brands).

He wearily stepped into the kitchen/dining room where his most loved Comrade Female stood cooking a pot of potato soup. Her name was Ivana 2734 and she was lovely. Natural curves augmented by sturdy muscles from a life in the factories, she was bright to boot and quiet handy in the kitchen. They exchanged a loving kiss and she said,

"Иван, вам удалось обеспечить внутренний паспорт движения, чтобы посетить Храм Революции на следующей неделе?"

“Ivan, did you manage to secure an internal movement passport to visit the Shrine of Revolution next week?”

He paused, desperately thinking for a way out of the situation as he had most definitely not looked into it as he said he would. Luckily another of his Comrade Workers, Yuri 6345 stepped in and knocked one of the old ceramic dishes off of the dingy table. Ivana cursed and grabbed a broom, shooing the two Comrade Males out of the room. Together the two factory workers walked up the crowded stairwell and entered the recreation room. The room was dark, the single bulb casting only a paltry amount of light, still it was perhaps the only room where the children and even the adults of Apartment 000023424 could enjoy themselves. Sitting at one of the old tables, Ivan produced a deck of worn cards that depicted heroes of the revolution or the mighty red army. Playing “Old Comrade Proletarian doing housework for her Fraternal Brothers”, Ivan and Yuri laughed heartily, their every action monitored by the Telescreen that sat on the far wall.

After about twenty minutes, a distant whistle blew and the Telescreens snapped into life. A strong youth was depicted, his facial features as about as yielding as a rock. The youth in a uniform paused before prattling off,

"Товарищи, теперь 4:00 в день. минутой молчания для наших храбрых солдат, который даже теперь нести факел Neo большевизма до темно земли за рубежом. "

“Comrades, it is now 4:00 in the afternoon. A moment of silence for our brave soldier who even now carry the torch of Neo Bolshevism to dark lands abroad.”

The pair of men and any other Comrades who were not at work across the State bowed their heads. Many cried, the Ministry liked it when the people cried over the noble soldiers of the Red Army. To show concern of sadness over the plight of the Army was much safer than showing nothing, to show nothing may be mistaken as rejoicing in the deaths of the People’s Army of Liberation and to do this would almost certainly be thoughtcrime. So Ivan and Yuri simply stood with their heads down and somber looks upon their faces until a chime emanated from the Telescreens and the moment was over. Patriotic music blared from the Screen and the two decided it was time to head downstairs and hopefully arrive before the thirty plus other Comrades who shared their Apartment 000023424, the same Comrades who shared the amount of soup Ivana made.

When they sat at the table, she placed two bowls before them. Filled to the brim with the thin broth and potato fragments that would be their only food until the daily rations were given out at the Factory the next day, the two dug in with zeal. Eating quickly, Ivan and Yuri had just enough time to play a hand of, “Rescue our Fraternal Sub-Aquatic Comrades from Exploitation at the hands of the Fisherman Bourgeoisie“(Go Fish). With no desire to watch the Telescreen and it’s constantly played messages and programs about the superiority of the Neo Bolshevist State, the two played cards, lots of Cards. While technically this was not thoughtcrime and in fact was a very common occurrence, to not watch the Telescreen as often as these two did was almost dangerous. One had to show a constant interest in the State’s and the International Revolution’s Progress, to do otherwise was potentially…unhealthy.


After another hour of leisure time, Comrade Worker Illium entered the room and the trio laughed heartily. Producing a packet of cigarettes, they smoked and spoke of the goings on at the factory. Careful to speak only of the wonders of modern technology and their love of their jobs, the three stayed up long into the night. Ivan himself finally crawled into the large bed that he and six other Comrades shared around two in the morning. Running his hand down Ivana’s body he gently cupped her vagina and whispered into her ear. She however was in no mood and once she had fought his hand back into his own sphere of influence rolled over and fell back into a deep sleep. Ivan himself cursed softly and then joined her.

Only four hours later the first shift rose. Ten of the thirty Comrade Male Worker’s present donned their coats (different ones from yesterday) and shambled out of the Apartment to the Siloviki Memorial Factory No. 032453. Ivan was among them yet as he entered the factory he did not follow the great masses as they made their way to the floor. Instead he went up a special set of stairs to the foreman’s office. Sitting alongside Comrade Foreman Petrovic 2355 he grabbed the microphone and began to wearily drone on with the constant announcements.

Six hours into his job he punched his Worker’s Passport out and left. Walking back through the city, he decided to make a detour and watch a unit of the Red Army as it marched from the Utopian Recruitment center to the training camp near the Nuclear Marshes. His eyes swept over the olive clad ranks and while he could see the nervous faces that beamed with love of Neo Bol and the State he couldn’t help but hear the mechanical cranking of gears, gears that obediently allowed a greater machine to keep turning. Cheering with the rest of the Comrade Workers, Ivan sighed and after a while made his way home.

Yet when he got home something was wrong, Ivana…she was gone. He waited hours, neglecting to greet Illium and Yuri who immediately knew what was wrong. Together they waited and soon enough they found a hastily scrawled note that read,

"Иван, я получил двигаться для единства города, Квартира № 362435. Я боюсь, это будет последний раз, когда вы услышите от меня. Я люблю тебя ".

“Ivan, I’ve received move order to Unity City, Apartment No. 362435. I fear this will be the last time you shall hear from me. I love you.”

Ivan made sure to obscure the last bit of the note from his Comrades and friends. While he trust both of them, the Telescreen on the far wall had a knack for reading things that were considered mild thoughtcrime. Playing it off like it was a simple notice of her move order the trio retreated to the recreation room where they spent a few hours before retiring. Using the light of the moon, Ivan read the words,

"Я люблю тебя".

“I love you.”

Over and over and over again. Smiling wide, he felt the risk of thoughtcrime upon the words, yet he did not care. He would brave the risks if only to be with Ivana, because in those silent hours of contemplation, he knew that he loved her too. Resolving the next morning to go to the local,

"Министерство внутренних дел Управления Движения"

“Ministry of Interior Movement Office”

Ivan would see if he too could get move orders to Unity.

Ivan awoke and went to work like normal, the six hours of boredom and routine passing with amazing speed. Visiting the Ministry Office, he waited forty minutes before being handed a form. Filling it out he gave it to a rather beetle like official who was one of those hateful officials who can only be described as spiteful. Ivan felt as light as a feather and before returning home went to the local,

"Центр Товарищи!"

Where he exercised using weights and a treadmill. On his way out he nodded a greeting to a troop of Ministry of Contentment Soldiers who were sweeping the streets for any Thoughtcriminals. The troops returned the nod and Ivan was cleared for passage home. The walk was nice, his happiness from returning to his Ivana overcoming the sense of despair he got whenever he strayed too near to the Comrade Proletarian quarters. Their label as Proletarian doomed them to the hell that was agriculture and unskilled labor while Ivan’s own label as Worker gave him the relatively easy jobs in the factories.

The Proletarians lived in even more crowded apartments, though they did have the benefit of not being scrutinized as much though the eternal and omnipresent Telescreen still dominated their lives. Their quarter always smelled bad and the wail of the babies which were audible even from the perimeter road upset Ivan. He had given Ivana a child once, ages ago. The Child had been taken at age five as was customary for education, he had yet to hear from his son who he was sure had ended up in the Red Army as most healthy youths did.

He waved these thoughts of depression away as he neared the Apartment and soon he was enjoying another night with his Comrades. The next morning he rose and sprinted to work. Rushing through the day he ran to the Ministry Office and eagerly waited two hours for his turn with the official. The same spiteful man ushered him into a room where he answered several questions about why he wanted to relocate to Unity. Ivan answered them as honestly as possible and hoped that this trick would make them seem like legit answers. The official though saw straight through them and simply said,

"Сколько вы предлагаете? Я имею в виду так много вещей, может случиться с просьбой порядка перемещения ... они могут потеряться ... они могут получить повреждения .... "

“How much are you offering? I mean so many things can happen to a move order request…they can get lost…they can get damaged….”

Ivan was taken aback. Corruption! Thoughtcrime! Political Insanity! Yet he even then knew that if he ratted out this Official the others would never help him. Reaching into his pocket, Ivan produced his savings voucher that came to several thousands Rubles (worth nothing outside of Abruzi). Sliding it across the table he smiled and the Official merely nodded. Ivan waited another forty minutes for the forms and his new passport to be printed before returning home.

The final day in Utopia, Ivan packed and said his goodbyes to Illium and Yuri. It saddened him to leave his Comrades but he could be guaranteed new Comrades in Unity. The walk to the train station was the shortest in his life and as he stepped aboard, he felt a great weight lifted off from him. Only ten hours later he was in unity, outside of Ivana’s home Apartment. Stepping inside he called her name and instead of her gentle hands he felt instead the rough grip of several military men.

Thrashing about, Ivan was turned slowly to face the Official he had bribed. The squat man now was tall, obviously much taller, stronger and more important than his post dictated in Utopia. Smiling, the man’s black uniform offset his startlingly white teeth. When he spoke, Ivan shivered, his whole body opposed to the man’s hateful speech.

"Так ... товарищ. Я вижу, вы виновны в thoughtcrime, самых опасных и ненавистных рода после политического безумия. Вы стремитесь к ... любовь, наиболее контрреволюционной, счетчик действий человечества человек может выполнить. Ну, вы найдете у нас есть место для таких людей как вы. "

“So…Comrade. I see you are guilty of the thoughtcrime, the most dangerous and hateful kind after political insanity. You seek to…love, the most counterrevolutionary, counter humanity action a person can perform. Well, you will find we have a place for people like you.”

Pausing the Official smiled wider, savoring the words as he said,

"Да и товарищ рабочий Ивана 2734 был переведен в ... Товарищ Пролетарская Квартира № 74563."

“Oh yes and Comrade Worker Ivana 2734 has been…reassigned to Comrade Prolitarian Apartment No. 74563.”

Ivan retched, he had doomed the woman he loved to slave labor. The rough hands turned him again and he resisted with all his might, every sinew and muscle straining to break free his bonds and race to find his beloved. A mighty blow was dealt to him though and slowly he drifted off into unconsciousness.

Several hours…or days later he awoke. Where he was? He did not know. The only thing he knew was that it stank of sweat and toil, the likes of which even the Proletarians would shrink from. As if on que a loud and mechanically official voice screamed out of the Telescreen, it boomed,

"Добро пожаловать Бывший товарищ рабочий Иван 8436, Вы были переведены в Уголовный отдел 74602. Служить государству хорошо, и вы можете быть выпущен обратно в страны социализма и вечного блаженства. "

“Welcome Former Comrade Worker Ivan 8436, you have been reassigned to Penal Division 74602. Serve the State well, and you may be released back into the Land of Socialism and Eternal Bliss.”

There was a pause and a few seconds later a more human voice simply said,

"Отец, добро пожаловать в ваш новый дом."

“Father, welcome to your new home.”

[Wewtlandem]

[FT]

[Mature]

Welcome to the Complex - Part I

" Team One, move around the back of the building, and hit the back doors, Teams Two and Three, take the left and right doors resepctively, my Team has the front, go. "

The men all moved silently away from the transport, which lifted back into the air, the hydraulic lifts that it used to take off kicking up small amounts of dirt and trash that lay on the concrete of the parking lot in front of the Complex. The Complex was on an asteroid that had been orbiting the outer ring of the United Soviet Planets of Wewtlandem for hundreds of years, but now, something had gone wrong. The asteroid had been knocked out of it's place after being impacted by a large piece of space debris. The Complex had quickly been abandoned, but it was quickly learned that not even a tenth of all the research staff, scientists, and security guards within the Complex had been withdrawn. This resulted in a special mission, that was to be held covertly to retrieve the missing peoples.

The Complex sprawled over four acres of inside area, with small parks and atrium's dotting in the middle and outer edges of the Complex. From a spatial view, it looked like a paradise on the face of a lifeless and desolate rock, but this paradise had been twisted and mutated into a world of horrors that no one had yet to witness but the men and women effected by it who had been in the initial withdrawal party. These men and women had been exposed to horrible things, mutated animals that had been adversely affected by studies had broken free, and run the Complex. They had attacked and killed some of the men and women, while others on the staff had taken potions and other things throughout the Complex that would give them supernatural powers, and help protect them from the wild animals. But, it also had effects that they never could have imagined. Now, that were just as untamed and wild as the beasts they had set out to survive from.

Now, the Teams were beginning to stack up against the doors. They were gigantic steel doors, with small strips with biochemical hazard signs on them. A red light above the doors, just above the highest left and right bolts, was flashing, indicating that something had gone wrong inside the Complex. As the last of the men stacked up, the largest of the men in each squad pulled a backpack sized thing off their backs, and placed it in front of the giant steel doors. Power had long since been externally cut off to the Complex, meaning that from somewhere deep within the place, the ancient generators that had been there since the place was built were being run for the first time in a little under a century. The red lights flashed, leaving a glare on the reflective face plates of each man's helmet, giving the situation a heavy feel.

" Commander, this does not seem good. These lights are flashing, doesn't that mean some of the biochemical stuff could have possible been leaked? "

" Ya, but that is not our concern. Our CAHS ( Clean Air Helmet Systems ) will keep us from any harm, now, let's do this. "

As the last words were uttered, the backpacks at the bottom of the doors made a small sound, and then without a noise, the doors seemed to disengage from the bolts, and fell outwards, landing on the ground with a dull thud. The man that had been beside the door swept into the corrider gracefully, and looked down the hallway. The place was dark, darker than a night without a moon. He hit a button on his thigh, and a flashlight on his helmet illuminated the ten feet in front of him. What he saw was a horrid sight. A man, in a white lab coat, which had been drenched red in his blood. His neck was torn open, his tracheal tube dangling from his neck pathetically, his face a sick blue color, he had clearly been dead for a while. The man, a young Conscript Paddington, choked in his helmet, but did not dare falter. He swept his head across the hallway, to get a view of the whole thing, and then slowly walked forward, entering the Complex, before anyone else, not knowing what the mission would hold for him.

Paddington slowly walked forward, training his semi-automatic AK-300 down the hallway. He smirked a little as he saw some natural light from the outside shining from a branch off of the hallway that lead to the left. As he walked ever so slowly toward the light, he heard a small rumbling noise. He stopped, and spoke over his communications that were built into his helmet. He was told to keep walking, it was probably nothing. As he crept ever so closer to the light. Just as he was about to turn the corner, it darted in front of him. It slammed against the metallic wall on the other side of the hallway, leaving a dent as it jumped from the wall, and onto Paddington. He pulled his rifle close to his chest, then smacked the butt of it against the things head, or at least what he thought the thing's head should be.

The beast made a sick noise as Paddington reached to his side, and yanked the magnesium composite knife from his kit. He stabbed it into the midsection of the hideous thing, and it squealed in pain as he drove his hand into the thing's midsection, and then tore up, his knife cracking through the cartilage of the thing, sick cracking noises could be heard as it's ribcage cracked, and it's still beating heart fell to the ground, making a sick plopping noise as it hit the ground. Seconds later, the battle was over, and it fell to the ground, on the top of it's heart. It was oozing an obscene green liquid from it's mouth and eye sockets and it's eyes were rolled into the back of it's head, red blood vessels popping and spewing more green liquid all over the place as Paddington stood up.

The men had just been welcomed to the Complex, and it looked as if it was going to be a long trip.

[Interstellar America]

[FT]

[Mature]

Dignity

The building was scarred, once it was grand though. A dull gray; battered and blackened by fire and smoke; but once it stood proud, a bright pearl white that blinded. The White House was aptly representing her people right now, in that single moment. The flag that once bore her banner flew a different one, one of invaders, not from another nation, but another world. The Banner consisted of a single

Humanity lay every where, dead in the streets and the alleys and the gutters, bodies decayed and dead; bloated and disgusting, fluids congealed and soaking everything around; every rock and stone, every disgarded weapon. Blood soaked everything, and a purple-goo, the bodies of huge mutated things that looked nearly like insects, and great bio-mechanical things lay in double if not triple the numbers, dead and decaying, dying.
Above the crippled conquered monument was a planetary assault carrier, filled to the brim with hostile invaders. Each of them uniform; but different. The smallest were the size of large cats that flew in swarms, and others were as large as tanks, and others were bio-mechanical. Two different beings sat in the desolate ruins of the White House, surrounded in the ancient photographs and portraits, the overturned Resolute Desk. They were humanoid in the sense they had a discernable form that was not insectoid in nature.

A dull violet with peircing yellow orbs were eyes should be; they were speaking to one another, in a tounge not so dissimilar from English, but more eloquent and...lovely.

"It's ironic isn't it, that at one time their leaders at here looking out at their world. Wondering what it was that had happened to them; and why." The first one spoke with an efemininate voice. "Now. They are no more..." The first one...Seemed euphoric at the thought, but the second one swiftly retorted, a much older and masculine voice.

"Ironic? No. Anyone who was here, on the frontlines. They could not help but to be moved to sadness at this travesty. They fought for every inch of space, every inch of soil. Every life we took we paid for ten to twenty fold. The Humans I think, knew they were doomed from the very beginning, but they fought back all the harder none the less. They would cry, they would pray and they would say good bye to the loved ones before they threw themselves at us with every ounce of their being." A resonance filled the room and it was...Restored? Like a flashback it was fine again.

"They were unafraid of death. When they ran out of ships they used guns, when they ran out of guns they used knives and rocks and bare hands. Never once did they stop fighting, never once did they submit to defeat. They never ran out of courage; in the end...They ran out of men..." The resonace faded and the room was gray and dead once more.

"But they were an honorable people, and I should hope when at last I do come to the end of my life that if I die, I can do it with half as much dignity as I saw in their eyes. Let their saga not be lost to the sands of time. Let it be known to the stars that Humanity, no matter their flaws. Fought to the very last for what was theirs, and that they did it with honor and dignity."

"Remember that always, Honor, and Dignity."

[Communist Estainia]

[MT]

[Mature]

Darkest Roses - A Love Story

[In an insanely alternate history; if you want to understand this I advise Memoirs of the Empress]

Chapter One - Judgement

Valingrad - Russo-Spain
2005

"Natasha Anastasia Romanova. You stand accused of High Treason against the people, culture and land of Russo-Spain; how do you plea?" The Judge was a hardline Communist; there was no amount of remorse or even false-justice in his eyes as he stared at the young woman before him. She was a beautiful young woman, even in distress; long dark hair, beautiful blue eyes and a figure out of a movie.

The Czarina of Russo-Spain did not show that man her emotions however; and no fear shown in her eyes even as he asked the false-question. "May you death be slow and painful." She growled; inhuman and animalistic almost; a side effect of bi-polar schizophrenia. "It is a simple question, Madame." The Judge said sarcastically as he practically glared at the young woman.

"Not Guilty." She sardonically giggled as the Judge shrugged expectantly.

"Ladies and Gentlemen?" He turned to the bench, each of those who towered above her; dared to defy the will of a living God; were as hardline as the judge was. "We find the defendant guilty of the following. High Treason; Guilty, Dishonor; Guilty, Intentional Genocide; Guilty, Crimes Against Humanity; Guilty." There was a giggle again, a true one, and blue if not cracked eyes followed each of them.

"Oh, oh oh oh. You stupid little men! You can have your lies and your victory; and I will watch from Heaven as you drive our nation into the ground with your filth. But in the end, it will be I who has the final laugh...When the Darkness comes; your souls will be consumed by it."

"The Penalty for these allotted charges is Death." The Judge continued without caring to the Czarina's words. "However; special arrangements have been made. Natasha Anastasia Romanova, you are here by sentenced to six consecutive life times of Life-Bondage."

"I have the 'right' to know my keeper." The Czarina hissed, sarcasm dripping off of the word 'right'.

"Oh yes yes, Elizaveta Hedevary." The Judge said bluntly.

The Czarina's heart skipped a beat, then another. "Not her." She whispered inaudibly...Defeat never really tasted so...Good?

End Chapter One

[Greater-Prussia]

[ PT]

[ Mature ]

So Brave; The Traitor's Last Stand

Berlin - Germany
1945

These were the final days, it could be felt in the air; the air of liberation. Their united front, and their sheer preservation. Willpower, and blood, and iron. The screeching steel of the German Traitors had been brought to a halt through sheer strength of will. An unwillingness to bend, to break to the will of traitorous scum who would allow their once great nation to be reduced to...This den of murderers and thieves. "Fix Bayonets!" So it came again, the cry of war as they were ordered up; the Soviets advanced along one front to the south and the Pruessens advanced here from the north into Berlin finally; after the many days of enfeebled entrenched fighting.

The Traitors could not hold against the Wrath of Prussia; the infamous mindset that had once put all the world under their dominion. There was a buckling and snapping; and then a clear sound; beautiful, that of leather against steel. The Captain drew his sword and nodded. "Forward the Kaiserreich; Charge!" They broke from the barricades like a thunderous storm of white and gray, the wrong era. They ran forward with astounding speed to the defenses that opened up fire on them, machine guns and rifles blazing but they did not turn, they did not break. Prussian Discipline was as strong as Iron.

They slammed like a raging gale into the enemy lines which were undone at the point of the sword; the sword which they had brought first; many long months before the war. The Traitors had turned on the sacred blood of Germany, they had dared to oppress and persecute the great German People. But the People were not better; they were not above this Treason. They were the cause of this Treason.

The Evil of Democracy had allowed the Traitors to Flourish; their sickening vision become reality because of the people who were no better. "Forward!" The cry came again and the men fought harder; there was struggle and conflict and great amounts of blood. And like sharks, they came pouring forward. Buildings crumbled beneath the onslaught of Prussian Artillery; German tanks were destroyed by their Soviet allies and like a glorious wave of white and red the liberators of Berlin streamed forward.

The great battle raged and raged, days passed as they pushed toward the beating heart of the Fascist Reich; the parliament building had not been used since the fire but they took refuge there the last of the Traitors as the never ceasing always advancing storm of Prussian and Russian troops pushed down upon their vile throats. Like Traitors; they would die in the filth and the mud, never to be remembered without the thought of villainy and hatred.

"Forward the Kaiserreich!" Someone bellowed again; the days wore on and the sound of fighting became common place. The screams of agony; the sight of blood. Germans dying by Germans and filthy barbarians. It was once said. 'That Evil Evil Man' by the leader of the Russians long ago; but who was evil now? Those who knew not mercy? The Traitors fled their positions, fearful of the righteous vengeance of the Pruessens, and terrified of Soviet Wrath. To the West they ran to the Allies, cowards as well as Traitors. But not all of them.

They assaulted the building at the same time, that fowl construct of marble and concrete; steel and wood. Many brave Prussians died that day, and many brave Soviets. But they noticed something then; the Prussians. The old men, the boys; the people who fought now. After the Pig was found to be dead, they fought on anyway...Why? Their final stand was horrible; it was deadly and covered in blood. But the Prussians would admit; even as they rose their colors and the Soviets rose theirs, the White and Black and Golden flying along side the Crimson Banner.

The Germans were brave; so brave their last stand.

[Cyrupe]

[PMT]

[Possibly Mature]

January 29th, 2024

---

The Father meets the Son Pt.1

Fourteen long years had passed, many moons and many suns as well. People had aged and new people rose from the ashes of the old; old events forgotten and new events remembered. A lot changed in fourteen years, much of it not very important but some of it was important to Michael Flauer, former president of Cyrupe. He had served not the standard two terms of a Cyrupean president but an incredibly unusual three terms in office.

It was a fun ride while it lasted and the things he experienced were never to be forgotten, but he was getting far too old for his duties after twelve hard years of serving his country. He had personal things to do as his life began to wind down slowly, things he couldn't do while in the office of president. One thing that stood out on his list was finally talking to his lost son, some one he had to push aside in order to protect him.

Now a fourteen year old boy, he still didn't know what happened to his mother. The official story was always that she died in a car accident and that his father had never truly stuck around long enough to see his birth. That was nonsense of course, his mother had died in an incredibly violent way; a way that Michael just wanted to forget. She had died in front of him in a now abandoned and almost collapsing airport terminal building.

It wasn't a natural cause that took her life so early and so unnecessarily. An outsider killed her, a Defesian monster by the name of Grugov. Grugov didn't seem to care much for others, right up until the time the tables turned for him. After they turned, he suddenly cared a lot; practically begging for his life up until the moment he died. That wasn't the first time Michael had killed in the name of his country, but it was the first time he enjoyed watching another human being suffer greatly.

The dreams haunted him up until this very day, regardless of how fondly he remembers the sights and smells of revenge. Wispy and faint after years of decay, they still were a presence every night as he laid down to sleep. It was almost as if it was a movie that started when he closed his eyes and ended only when he awoke, never leaving him until the daylight protected him. He still had a copy of the crude videotape he had filmed during the event, buried in his backyard within a light-brown wooden chest. The original was deep within the seas that surrounded the Cyrupean mainland, never having been recovered or acknowledged in fourteen years.

He let out a thin smile as he saw various houses roll by outside of his car's window. He knew he was getting close since the architecture was familiar. "Are you nervous?" Lauren said with a quiet voice, opting not to make unnecessary noise to allow Michael to have some peace before meeting his forgotten child. It took Michael a moment to respond, letting out only a simple yes as an answer. "Yes, yes I am."

"I don't know what to say to him." Michael said with an audible crack in his voice. "I don't know how to explain how I practically abandoned him for fourteen years. I just don't know how to." He sighed as he pulled into the driveway of a one story house with gray-white siding and a black roof. It was beautiful in an amazingly simple way, something he would purchase if he didn't have his own house already. "You just have to tell him you love him, Michael." Lauren said as she unbuckled her seat belt. "Just tell him you'll never leave his side again and that you're proud of him. I'll be waiting here, it's only right that he sees his father first."

"You're right Lauren." Michael said as he leaned over and gave Lauren a small kiss on her cheek. "I love you, I'll be back soon." Michael reached over and unbuckled his seat belt and opened the car door, giving the environment outside a slight click to echo through the vast suburb area. He put one shoe out on the driveway and crawled out of his black, almost nondescript car. He walked the short distance to the door of the house, it felt like an eternity despite being only five yards at the most.

He knocked on the door firmly and did last minute adjustments to his shirt collar before the door opened. A shorter male with short black hair opened the door, his face instantly lighting up when he saw Michael. "Mr. President?!" He gushed and quickly turned his face into a wide grin. "I was just learning about you in my national history class!" Michael chuckled and lit up inside, amused that his son was just learning about his father in school and didn't even know about it.

"I'm quite honored you were learning about me in your class, Jeremy." Michael was quickly cut off by Jeremy who had a look of genuine surprise. "What? How do you know my name?" Michael didn't break his stare with his son while speaking. "Well, actually that's why I am here right now Jeremy. Can I come inside?"

Jeremy paused for a moment, clearly confused and thinking about what was going on around him. "Sure Mr. President. You can come in, I'll just tell my Grandma to come to the kitchen so she can meet you too!" Jeremy smiled as he turned around after opening the door for Michael fully. "Grandma," Jeremy yelled out loud. "Come to the kitchen! You won't believe who came to see me." Michael smiled at the words of his son, still blissfully unaware of who he was in relation to Michael.

Jeremy motioned Michael to a dark-colored wooden chair with a plain dark green seat in the kitchen. Michael quickly sat down where he was motioned to and waited for Jeremy's grandma to enter the room. When she finally did arrive she was cut off in mid sentence at the sight of Michael in her kitchen. "Michael?" She asked with a voice that shaky and confused. "Christina." He said back in a casual voice, prompting the older woman to rush across the kitchen and give him a hug.

"Have you --" She asked while looking over at Jeremy. "No, not yet. I was just about to do that." Michael put both hands on the table and sighed. "Jeremy, I believe that this is fourteen years overdo. I should have told you earlier and there is no way to get around it. I. . . I'm your father Jeremy." Instantly Jeremy reacted emotionally, "Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded. "No Jeremy, it isn't a joke." Christina said with a serious tone. "Michael is your real father. We've been waiting for this moment to tell you, to keep you safe."

Michael smiled as Jeremy rushed out of his seat and ran into giving Michael a full hug. It was quickly returned by Michael who started crying. "I missed you Dad." Jeremy said with tears choking up his voice. "I missed you too, Jeremy. I missed you so much."

[The Fanboyists]

Business as Usual

[MT]

Those eyes made a lot of people uncomfortable. Not those specific eyes, but always the same eyes. Filie's eyes. "Ol' Ironhide" had often sent those uncomfortable people to their fates. Others had done the same, if not with the same near-eagerness. Most had simply done what was necessary. Sometimes what was necessary was bloody.

She was pretty sure that wasn't the case right now. At least not for her. Not that it helped much. Being fixed by those Filie eyes was still unnerving in the extreme. The fact that Peter Filie had a genuine reputation for efficiency and ruthlessness, besides a liking for the political empire he had built in Stalhamark (of which Thomasburg was only the crown jewel, named for his grandfather, Thomas Filie the Unifier), only made it worse.

Lucky her this was the usual reaction of the man's secretaries. Most of them hadn't lasted more than a month or two at the position before finding employment elsewhere, or being relocated to another part of the government. Several disappeared shortly thereafter. The governor's secretaries saw things that could not be repeated to searching ears.

She managed to pull herself together as she stuttered, then continued to give her report, meticulously and carefully.

"Also, Mister Dexter has requested a meeting with you, sir. He says it's urgent." She took a breath. "His message said it was an urgent matter."

Filie's face was impassive, which was its usual state of being. He wasn't noted for being highly emotive or communicative if he didn't want to be, and in his day to day work, he didn't usually want to be. He nodded evenly. "I will see to Mister Dexter. Anything else, Miss Quinn?"

She shook her head, her tied-back brown hair whipping side-to-side slightly. "No sir."

"Alright, Elaine. Thank you. Please leave your report on your desk, and report back to your work station." She nodded, turning and leaving as quickly as she dared. She walked back to her work station, sitting down at the desk and watching the phone intently, then watching the door.

She waited, and waited, and waited. She wasn't disappointed; about forty minutes after she had sat, a group of people walked up to the glass door of the office. One wore a well-fitted business suit, the two others wearing greatcoats, each of which had a blue-and-grey Federal bicolor on the right shoulder, with a Stalhamarkian banner on the left shoulder. Police of the Republic of Stalhamark, one of the Federation's sub-states, that they currently resided in. Another wore a more customary blue uniform, more typical of a beat-cop.

The one in a suit approached Elaine Quinn.

"Miss, is Mister Peter Filie in at the moment?" he asked evenly, in a clean, authoritative voice. This was a man used to having commands obeyed. She nodded.

"I need to see hi--" he began. However, one of the men in coats cut him off.

"Don't need to ask 'er that, Mister Filie. She wouldn't have let us in if he wasn't. Ain' that right, Agent Bray?" She nodded, standing up behind the desk, pulling out her purse. After a moment's rummaging, she produced a standard-issue 9-millimeter pistol and a badge, which she slipped into one of her skirt pockets. She glanced at the apparent lead officer.

"All ready, Captain Sheppard. Ready to move when you are," she said evenly.

The lead officer nodded, pulling out a well-worn and well-cared-for .45 handgun. Some 'greycoat' officers opted for slightly heavier firepower than the standard nine-millimeter. Not because it was any better for their work, but mostly as a comfort thing. Many of the male officers, even the younger Captain Riley Sheppard, had served in the military, and the .45 was the standard issue there. He nodded to the door, and said. "Ready. All to your places. Mister Filie, please stand back."

The suited man shrugged. "Will do, Captain." He took a few steps back towards the main door to the office.

Sheppard held up his hand in a silent countdown. On 'one', the beat-copper kicked the door in, shouting.

"Hands up! Hands up!" Peter Filie ducked under his desk as the two bodyguards in the room with him pulled out their weapons and attempted to open fire. The effort was shortlived as well-placed shots sent them both slumping against the wall, sprays of blood coating the oak behind them. Sheppard yanked the protesting mayor into an upright position, moving his arms to cuff behind his back.

A hand in his pocket, though, came out holding a smaller pistol. Peter got off one shot, hitting the other coated officer in the shoulder. Agent Bray (as that was her real name) squeezed off a clean shot. She missed her mark (she was trained to shoot to kill if she shot at all), hitting him in the shoulder instead. Blood began running down his suit, but at least he stopped thrashing and fighting.

"Peter Filie, you are under arrest for political corruption, racketeering, several counts of accepting a bribe, conspiracy to commit murder, and treason against the state of Stalhamark," Sheppard growled. "You have the right to know your accuser, you have the right to a fair, speedy trial, you have the right to remain silent, as anything you do or say will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to legal counsel, and if you are not able to provide it for yourself, one will be provided at the state's expense. Do you understand your rights?"

Filie just spat.

"Good enough for me," the Captain said cheerfully, applying pressure to the bleeding shoulder. He probably took a little too much satisfaction in hearing Filie's hiss of discomfort, but based on agent Bray's expression, he wasn't alone in that.

Outside, Comissioner Grant Filie watched, satisfied in his own way. He waved cheerfully to his cursing, sputtering kinsman as he was led out the door by the watchman and the injured greycoat, as well as a paramedic and two other officers who had joined them minutes after the arrest to assist.

Captain Sheppard looked at the agent. "Good job, Watchman," he said simply. "He didn't ever suspect?"

Special Agent Kelly Bray shook her head, giving a solid negative. "Nossir. I don't think he did. Or I would have gone the way of his last two secretaries." She turned to Sheppard. "Sir, if I may, might I request a transfer?"

"Where?" Riley asked, confused.

"I don't mind being in the Organized Crime Unit, but if it's all the same, I would prefer to be transferred to the Domestic Conflicts Unit. I think I could do some real good there, sir."

Sheppard shrugged. "Can't promise anything, Agent. But I'll look into it." He trailed off as Comissioner Filie approached. "Sir?" the Captain asked.

"Excellent job, Captain. A first-rate job with the investigation and the set up leading to the arrest. I daresay you've taken down one of the biggest problems to Governor Randall's war on corruption." As he said this, the Captain looked somewhat quizzical.

"Sir? That was your own brother."

Grant looked around for a moment to make sure there were no reporters around. He turned back to the two police officers and replied casually.

"Never much liked the prick, myself. Brother in name, not in fact, for all it matters. Michael, on the other hand...he's a good guy. I hope he goes farther in life than our older sibling did. Dad did, though. Poor man, the governor's going to be devastated when he hears that his suspicion was correct."

After a moment's silence, Grant continued. "Captain, I think I will be recommending you for the position of Chief of the Thomasburg Police, though. Someone with your level of capability might just give us a chance to finish off the mobs while they're still reeling from this setback. He looked at Bray. He added. "I hear you gave excellent undercover service, agent. Don't be surprised if you find a promotion opportunity headed your way sometime soon." Grant smiled, looking like a million bucks and managing to make those same blue eyes look more like a warm sea than a polar ocean.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mayor Peter Filie's arrest on August 17th, 1985 proved to be the decisive blow to the gang's position in Thomasburg; with his younger brother Michael replacing him as mayor and with his subsequent conviction on corruption and bribery charges, the ex-mayor was sentenced to 28 years in prison, with another 35 added after the successful prosecution of his two previous secretary's murders. Peter Orson Filie died in prison on October 23rd, 2009, just a few weeks after hearing of his nephew Andrew's election to the presidency, of a heart attack. Cause of death was cardiac arrest. He was 79 years old. He was survived by his son Kevin and his daughter Allison.

Stalhamark Police Commissioner Grant Wallace Filie was gunned down by a mob hitman on October 23rd, 1985, as he was returning to his home in the Carnegie suburb of Thomasburg. He was 45 years old, and was survived by his wife, Nora (who has since died, passing away last year at the age of 69 of breast cancer), and his two daughters, Jane and Francisca. Jane is now a managing partner of Filie and Louis, a successful prosecution team. Francisca is a senator in the Stalhamark State Senate.

Randall Filie, who was governor at the time, died six years later, in 1991, at the age of 81 of a heart-attack. He had left the governorship in 1986, being replaced by his youngest son, Michael.

Michael Filie became mayor of Thomasburg after the arrest of Grant Filie, and then succeeded his father Randall as governor of Stalhamark. Michael died in 2010 at the age of 64 after a fatal heart-attack. His wife, Michelle, died in 2009 at the age of 60 from kidney failure. They are survived by their sons, Walter, Andrew, and John. Walter is the current governor of Stalhamark. John is a noted diplomat in the service of the Federal Diplomatic Office. For those who do not know, Andrew is the current President of the Allamunnic States.

Captain Riley Sheppard was promoted to Chief of the Thomasburg Police Force in 1986. He was appointed State Police Commissioner in 1998, a job he still retains. By all accounts, including my own, he has performed the job admirably, and it seems to be one he is well-suited for. May he continue to serve for as long as he is able.

And then there's me, Special Agent Kelly Bray. I have moved on since then; I now have two children of my own, even if the bastard who fathered them couldn't be bothered to stick around to help. I was promoted to Lieutenant in the Stalhamark State Police Force in 1990 after being transferred to the Domestic Conflict Unit. I was promoted to Station Captain in 2000, and lost any real unit affiliation. And now, I am fortunate enough now to speak to you as the Chief of the Thomasburg Police Force for going on four years now. Since that arrest, we've made some good progress.

But there's a little fact that's well-known in Stalhamark. It's well-known by the national gridiron team, too (I hope they'll finally win a damned playoff game), and it's well-known in Ostlund, and Ostrea, and Northwatch, and Skraelingia. It's that there's always work to be done.

So now that I have finished this story, it's back to work. Be well.

~Chief Kelly Anne Bray
Chief, City of Thomasburg Police Force
December 3rd, 2013

[Vetokia Prime]

[FT]

Training Day - WiP

The room was quiet as Colour-Sergeant Horace Michellus stood in the corner, next to the large door through which the new recruits had entered. He silently looked each one over, making sure he got a first-eye appreciation of them. It was he who was going to train them, after all, and so he needed to get a feel for them if they were going to get through training. There were a good dozen or so of them; each one in the standard grey fatigues of the Marine Corps, berets emblazoned with the badge of the Legion each came from tucked under the epaulette on their left shoulder. Most seemed ridiculously young to him, but that was the effect of prolong. Someone looking at him would take him for a fit man in his late forties at most, and he was over ninety Sol-standard years old. Which didn’t change the fact that half the recruits currently stood in the room looked to be barely out of their teens, even if all of them had completed a full ten-year stretch with the Corps.

He turned to face the podium as Captain James McKeon took his place behind it. Like Michellus, the captain was far older than most of the recruits in the room, but he clocked in at the younger place of seventy-six Sol-standard years. Of course, nearly sixty of those had been in the service of the Corps, making him one of the oldest personnel in the entire military, which was only befitting considering his position was commanding officer of the Interdict Marines and the original creator of their signature fighting style, the Inciendia Tripudio. All of which rendered him to nearly god-like status in the eyes of most of the Corps members. He wasted no time on ceremony, nodding a greeting to the recruits before speaking. “All of you here are here for a reason. Some may say it’s to join the best of the best. Some may say it’s to prove themselves, or to join in the prestige that comes with being an Interdict.” Now he paused, looking each of the hopefuls in the eyes before speaking, lowering his voice. “I can tell you now. Most of you are here to fail.”

After this ominous line, some of the recruits looked at each other with the first hints of nervousness. Horace had heard this speech dozens of times before, seen the hopefuls crowd in the hope they could make it as Interdicts...and he knew that most of them would end up back in their old units, their records stamped ‘UNFIT FOR ADVANCED CLOSE-QUARTER COMBAT TRAINING’. There was a bright side to it though, he reflected as he watched them. At least this way their CO’s, present and future, would know that they’d had the guts to go for it in the first place. He straightened up even further as the Captain looked at him. “This man, ladies and gentlemen, is Colour-Sergeant Horace Michaelius. He is older than any six of you put together, and he is my right hand, my avatar, my little old bloodhound on a permanent bad-day, in this unit. If you mess up in training, hope you don’t screw up badly enough to warrant his attention.” He paused for effect as the recruits now turned increasingly nervous looks on Horace. The CSM slowly let the edges of his mouth turn up into a hard, unfriendly expression, one that assured them that everything the Captain had said was true, and then some.
“CSM, please take them out of my sight and get them to the training section. God knows they need fresh meat.” The CSM nodded, crashing the heels of his boots together, while one hand snapped into a parade-ground perfect salute. “As the Captain wishes, sir. Recruits, stand at...ease! About face, march!”

Two days later, the recruits were crowded into a dimly lit observation room. The room was backlit by dispersed lighting units that threw their dim green glow onto the walls. One entire wall was a plastiglass window, overlooking a platform which was built in an archaic style, large pillars flying upwards much like old Greco-style architecture. The roof they supported was built of plastiglass, and a camera hung directly above, recording whatever would happen. Then the Captain entered the room, gesturing to cut short the rise to attention they’d all started. “Alright, you’ve spent two days with us. No doubt some of you are feeling the strain from the physical training; some of you are wondering when you’ll get to start learning the Inciendia. I know you all are, because that’s how all our recruits are when they join. So let me show you why you are not doing ‘the good stuff’.” He clicked his fingers, and the room darkened while the outer chamber was illuminated with spotlights.

On the platform beneath all the spotlights united to focus on the single occupant in the middle. They, whoever they were, wore a large suit of metallic-blue armour, which flexed and moved as if skintight, which all the recruits identified as the standard armour for Interdicts. In each hand were clutched pistols, recognisable as the standard pistol that was issued to all Marines in the Corps. He stood still as a statue, seeming not even to breathe. Then the other lights activated. All around him were combat drones, an even score of them, bristling with arm-mounted chainguns and targeting equipment. For a moment, time seemed to pause, the machines not moving, the Interdict in the middle not doing anything to protect themselves. Havoc broke loose. As one, the drones whirred into life, chainguns spitting nine-millimetre bullets at the Interdict. That’s when they moved. A sidestep was followed by a pivot to face the drones who’d been on the leftmost side, ducking and raising a pistol for a single shot. The target’s head exploded, showering wreckage over its companions to either side as the dart fired from the Interdict’s pistol detonated. The Interdict ducked, then leapt up from their crouch into a leap straight over another stream of bullets, arms outstretched to either side as the pistols bucked, explosive-tipped rounds tearing another two drones to pieces. Another whirl, and they were over to the ‘front’ of the platform, ducking and spinning while the guns whined. Within thirty seconds, another two drones were wreckage, and another was crippled, its chainguns unable to fire as they overheated, the coolant cables severed by pinpoint shots.