Plains of Sorrow [PARDES - CLOSED - MATURE]

[Ulthrani]

The Ulthrannians call it 'La Hierbamar' and the Tarsans call it 'Golgotha' but all call it 'The Disputed Zone'. A large swath of land locked between two mighty empires and slowly being torn apart from within by madness, crime and war. The largest Ulthrannic side is led by Marco Luis del Oeste, a man who declared himself Lord President of New Santiago and is backed by powerful militia, although he doesn't fully control what is the capital of the zone; he dominated the city of Calabor in the east, closer to the border with Ulthrannia. The largest Tarsan side is led by Alcae Remus Magulius, a man of noble blood who seeks the same desire as that of his rival, complete domination of the Zoen. Between them there are dozens of minor warlords and crime bosses who fight it out amongst themselves or who look to make a quick buck in the cesspool of violence and mayhem.

But while these forces prey upon each other, outsiders linger and lick their lips. Be it the desire of a powerful man to further his political goals, the desires of a nation who wishes to cause havoc amongst allies or by a man simply after a quick buck at the expense of others suffering. But for now, while these outside forces prepare themselves, the madness will continue...

Welcome to the Disputed Zone

Pueblo de Cotta
Disputed Zone
Saturday, 1900 Hours

Kirk van Vuuren hated the town, not because of the violence or the crime or the slave market full of a whole host of different peoples from across the world. No, Kirk hated the town because the locally produced liquor is less-than-satisfactory and also the town is full of Ashizweans and if there was one thing that the thirty year old Westonarian mercanary hated most in this world, it was the Adewale Gang, a bunch of wannabe gangsters who slave-trade and drug smuggle. There was alot of bad blood between Kirk van Vuuren and the Adewale Gang, the former had been given a contract to kill one slaver. Instead, Kirk van Vuuren and his band of Westonarian mercenaries found his compound and killed everyone in it. He had been called into the town, however, by a man who simply referred to himself as 'Gaius' but besides that information all that Kirk knew about him was that he was Tarsan and he had been a good source of money for a long while.

He chose to meet at the Equites Tavern, the only thing that made people come to it was the locally produced liquor that was cheaper than all the smuggled alcohol but, still, was not that good. Unlike some other mercenary groups who'd attempt to sneak in, the men of Gryphon Team had no desire to be subtle at all and instead placed speakers on their personalized Type 09 IFV blasting out music in Afrikaans. One of the men waved a Westonarian flag with a large Gryphon in the centre, singing "kom sing saam". Kirk jumped down from the vehicle, turning back to his fellow fighting men and shouting something in Afrikaans before entering the tavern.

The tavern was sparsely populated, the bartender looked over at the door having heard the commotion outside and simply shook her head. There were at-least five of Adewale's slavers and a handful of other mercenaries who hovered around the counter with exception to the one or two others sitting at the tables in the centre of the tavern. He saw Gaius, the man was short with a broad face and scruffy looking hair. They sat away from the window, where the lights of the IFV and the men shined through which didn't surprise the mercenary one bit, after-all he had known people in Gaius' position who sat too close to a window and got fragged.

"Lovely weather, don't you think?" Gaius didn't look up, he kept reading his newspaper and not looking up at the man as was usually customary.

"Lovely weather for a hunt, in my opinion" Kirk replied sharply before he looked over at the Ashizwean slavers, he gave them his infamous smile and a nod before turning back to the Tarsan "Anytime is a good time for a hunt for me and the boys"

"Well your 'boys' sure as hell aren't subtle" Gaius finally gave him his attention, drinking a glass of Castellano Ron Prima with the bottle close to his side "You want a drink? I know you aren't a fan of the local produce"

"Dankie" Kirk chugged some of the rum down his gullet and "why do you drag me away from my cheap Seukutii pussy into this scumpit?"

"Well, I got a couple of jobs for you" Gaius placed down several manila folders onto the table "Now lets see what tickles your fancy ay?"

"If it's gun-running into Ulthrannia, you can forget it, last time I did that I was hunted for nine days and worst of all, didn't get my pay" Kirk downed another shot of rum, before deciding that he'll just finish the whole bottle himself "The Ulthies don't particularly like people who aren't Ulthrannian running across their border"

"But it's a massive opportunity, their military is going through a giant overhaul and they are throwing away smalls arms and tank like a hoarder throws away old newspapers during an intervention. The money is there, I got the contacts..." Gaius paused as he saw the look in Kirk's eyes "Alright then, no gun-running..."

"Look here you little Tarsan shit, you know exactly what jobs I do. I guard the goods that come from Hevis to here and I kill people or kill people who want to kill the people I am told to guard, I'm a mercenary for fuck sake not some Santiago spic and you've been sending me over that border time and time again for little gain into a land where alot of people want to see me dead." Kirk spat on the ground and slammed the now empty bottle of Castellano Ron Prima onto the table "Now, do you have people I need to protect or do you have people I need to kill?"

"No, unfortunately" Gaius looked up at him with sadness "Look Kirk, these are all the jobs I get nowadays, people don't want to hire you out anymore for that stuff because you are too vile a creature for them to have around. But if you don't want my work, then I guess the last thing you'll be getting from me is that rum."

Kirk looked over to see the slavers moving ever so slightly to the table, holding their machetes in their hand now and appeared to be shaking with anticipation. He looked over at Gaius, who now had a smug face with a smug smile and whistling as if he had won a victory of sorts. Kirk wasn't mad, he was actually impressed if only for a split moment but impressed nevertheless.

"You sold me out to Adewale didn't you?" Kirk began laughing slowly "You, sold your white arse to be fucked by a bunch of kaffirs! You are a fucking joke mate but I tell you what, when i'm done with you...your going to wish you hadn't had tried to fuck me over!"

As if in one fluid, solid motion the mercenary proceeded to go to work all the meanwhile chuckling and laughing his way through it. He kicked the table hard enough that the support beam crushed the Tarsan man's genitals and the edge of the table smacked into his chest as he fell over himself. He proceeded to throw his phone out the window as a means of signalling the rest of his men that he may need their help. Kirk grabbed the bottle of rum and a hunting knife from its sheath and charged at the Ashizwean slavers who started to move forward as well.

He dodged the swing of the first man's machete, driving his hunting knife through the bottom of the man's jaw and ripping it out again with blood squirting unto the ground and pooling in his mouth. Kirk then tackled the second man in a fast jump, the mercenary's chest was pumping the fastest that it had ever been and what terrified the slavers was that while he tried to kill them he had a massive smile on his face. By this point, the other mercenaries outside had figured something was wrong and two of them, both Westonarians, pummelled the remaining three slavers with automatic fire as they kicked in the door. Some of the blood splattered onto Kirk as he proceeded to finish off the man pinned to the ground, who began pleading for his life. The Westonarian would not give him the satisfaction of mercy and proceeded to smash him in face with the end of the bottle, breaking his nose and tearing his face up before finishing the man off by striking the man across the temple with the bottle.

"You alright boss" Johannes, a big bearded Westonarian from Centurion inquired to Kirk who had rolled over beside the corpses and proceeded to laugh.

"Oh my God, I fucking love this place!" Kirk cheered, standing up covered in blood and jittery with excitement to the amusement of the other mercenaries who by now had left the mini-party by the armoured vehicle and were now inside. The bartender had finally stood up from behind the bar counter and the other people in the tavern had not even budged, they had simply watched and shrugged. Kirk stumbled over to where Gaius was lying on the ground, attempting to crawl away from the carnage that started and ended just as quickly as each other.

"Oh Melina, Oh Alterion, Gods protect me!" he whimpered too himself as the mercenary kicked him in the gut, grabbing him by his collar and raising him to his feet "Someone help me! Please!"

"I think no-one, not even your craven Gods, will not be helping you at this time" Kirk chuckled to himself before his faced turned serious and continued after throwing him to one of the mercenaries "You fucked with the wrong Westonarian boy, you fucked with the wrong crowd you piece of shit"

"What do you want me to do with this one, boss?" Pieter, the other mercenary who had jumped in guns blazing, held the smaller Tarsan man

"Well, Pietie, I know you fuck anything with two legs so do me a favour and sour this little shit before you take his head" Kirk picked up one of the dead men's machetes and handed it to Pieter, who was smiling and laughing with the other mercenaries as well. Kirk gripped the Tarsan by his cheeks, who was now panicking at the previous statement made between the mercenaries.

"My boy here fucks anything and before you die know that you are going to have a prison gap when he's done with you...the last bit of enjoyment you'll have in this pathetic little life of yours" Kirk nodded and proceeded to walk out of the tavern to go for a cigarette, the screams of the Tarsan and the laughter of his men as they went to deliver his fate.

Another day in the land of madness.

[Tarsas]

https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/301 ... 20zone.png

Sort of badly drawn map of the zone.

Aquata, Golgotha
Disputed Zone
1300 Hours, Sunday

The city of Aquata., a moderately sized city that was nothing compared to its neighbors in Tarsas and Ulthrannia, in which lay the greatest cities in Akkadiya. Many buildings lay in piles of rubble, nobody bothering to clear them until it was necessary to build on top of the space. These had been this way since the fighting for the area ended in 1994. Aquata had been taken by Alcae Remus Magulius and his Gholgothan Liberation Army after the death of his brother in 1993 and the collapse of the Ulthrannic funded resistance in the area. Everyone knew that Ulthrannia and Tarsas actively funded factions in the disputed zone in an attempt to gain it for themselves. With the current peace and already fragile political landscape, it was a detail government officials from both sides chose not to acknowledge and to brush over. The relationship of convenience, coupled with the fact that both sides knew that a war would only end in a massive stalemate, meant that such details were not necessary to mention.

While its neighbors ignored it, however, the disputed zone became a haven for crime lords and petty nobility looking to make a name for themselves in battle. Many a story emerged throughout history of young nobility raising armies and marching into the zone to take it back for Tarsas or vice versa on the other side of the coin. Some would succeed for a while, only to lose ground. Some would give up and return home while others would fight to the death. Many also managed to entrench themselves in the local political and economic infrastructure and hold off roving enemy armies. These few forerunners went on to form the core of the Gholgothan nobility. The Magulius Family were newcomers but in the short time they had been there, had used political clout and titles held in both nations to do the impossible, bring the zone together under one banner, if only for a short time.

The Magulius, with noble intentions initially, soon fell to the curse of human greed and began to run one of the largest underworld empires in the zone. The collapse of the government there and the vacancy of the High King’s throne restarted civil war anew. The zone remains as splintered as ever, however, there are those who command enough resources and clout to hold large swaths of territory. The Magulius Family is one of those few factions. With territory stretching from Celvanis in the north to Vidara in the south, they were in close competition with Marco Luis del Oeste and his militia forces for the title of the most powerful. Alcae Remus Magulius remains the most powerful heir alive. As the younger son, and being only 32 years of age, he warred against his brother of Ulthrannic nobility and murdered him in a fateful battle for Aquata. Alcae then made his capital city here in the lake city of Aquata. With full command of the lake, he was able to form a natural defense shield against attack.

The stifling smell of heavy marijuana smoke filled the small room, one window opening out to overlook the lake the only respite in the decadent lakeside palace. The room itself was massive, filled with opulence in every area. Plush suede couches adorned all the walls with mahogany tables lying in the middle of the room. All manner of drugs and drug paraphernalia was laid out, bowls of weed slowly burned as the fifteen people in the room would take hits occasionally. Bottles of poppers and even a bag of cocaine were all easily accessible. The room contained its own wet bar, with every sort of alcohol imaginable. The moans of drug induced sex filled the room as two naked bodies on one of the couches proceeded to slap together in a sweaty symphony of wet flesh. The one on top would periodically hold an open bottle under the nose of his partner, restoring the drug induced high. It was easier that way, the subject more compliant. Another hit, the one being fucked would moan more quietly, the moans would get louder, another hit. The process repeated over and over again.

The sounds of release soon followed. The body on top stood up and donned a silk robe before hitting a red button on the table. Two attendants came running inside the room. “Get the boy out of here. Tell him when he wakes up, he’ll be getting the large bed tonight for being so compliant.” The attendants quickly moved to obey without a word. They hauled the naked boy, who was still passed out on a mix of endorphins and drugs, up and wrapped a robe around his shoulders before carrying him out. The boy seemed to be no more than eighteen and was one of the house servants Alcae Remus Magulius kept around. He kept a full staff of young boys and girls around, and depending on his gender preference for the day, would usually take several members of the staff to his “party room” as he called it. Of course, that wasn’t to say that the servants didn’t engage in their own orgies. He purposely picked male servants that had little attraction to women, however, to avoid unnecessary issues like pregnancy. Alcae picked up a telephone lying on the table and dialed the number for his situational command center.

He was a muscular man, in the prime of his age. At the height of 6’0 and possessing a fully muscular frame, he cut an imposing figure. He placed the phone on speaker as it rang and took an additional hit from a nearby bong. The line finally clicked as someone answered. There was no voicemail or answering machine, if Alcae Remus Magulius called, someone better fucking answer, was the thought process that was involved during the installation of the private line. Magulius didn’t want for a reply. ”Good afternoon Colonel Alraer, is there any word from our dear Gaius? I expect he has another gun running mission organized? It’s a profitable time for us, with Ulthrannia throwing away weapons.”

The man on the end, Colonel Alraer, swallowed audibly as he steeled himself to reply. He had been second in command for several years now and knew that depending on what type of drug Magulius had taken, this conversation could go either way. He hoped it was marijuana; those were when his moods were the best. “Uh, about that my lord, we received word that Gaius was recently killed in Pueblo de Cotta. Several of our plants in the tavern during the meeting confirm that he was killed by a mercenary band lead by a Kirk van Vuuren. He’s worked for us in the past, of course.”

Magulius paused, much to the other man’s terror. He took several seconds before replying. ”Colonel, Pueblo de Cotta isn’t in del Oste’s territory, is it?”

Alraer knew where this was going. Thank goodness it was marijuana. ”No sir, it’s a border town. We send a lot of our more unsavory exports through there to get them into Seuketan. It’s a fairly important hub.”

Magulius suddenly slammed his fist down on the table, knocking the bowl off onto the ground, the plush wool carpet cushioning it from shattering. ”Colonel, I want you to send the Liberation forces to that city and let’s pay this fucking Kirk van Vuuren character a little visit. I don’t care what petty warlord rules the area, kill him if necessary. I want Pueblo de Cotta occupied by sundown tomorrow, do I make myself CLEAR Colonel?”

Alraer knew this wasn’t up for negotiation. The Gholgothan Liberation Army possessed a powerful force of armor and well trained soldiers. Type 59s and powerful T80125s made up the bulk of the armored forces. They also possessed thousands of well-equipped men, curtesy of Tarsas. There was no air power in the disputed zone, it had all been shot down years ago. The most that anyone had now were helicopters. ”Yes sir, we’ll move to occupy it now.”

Pueblo de Cotta, Golgotha
Disputed Zone
1600 Hours, Monday

The greasy smell of diesel smoke and dust permeated the atmosphere along the road towards Pueblo de Cotta as the armored forces moved forward towards the unsuspecting city. The local warlord had little to no military power and was only still independent because both main factions had been being cautious. His force of militia technicals had been brushed aside and turned into burning husks in under ten minutes. The convoy continued to roll forward until they reached the outskirts of the city, halting in the deadly silent entry highway. The L class military vehicle that Colonel Alraer rode in near the middle of the convoy drove out to the front where the armor and troops were assembling in formations for the advance into the city. As his vehicle stopped behind a group of infantry, an imposingly tall man in a red uniform with a boar’s head on the chest approached. ”Colonel Alraer, my lord Areth, god of war, has given me this honorable chance to fight and gain absolute victory or die in defeat. I ask that you give me and my comrades a change to enter eternal glory.”

Alraer sighed inwardly. The Acolytes of Areth were men and women that dedicated themselves to finding eternal glory with their lord by either dying in battle or winning an absolutely crushing defeat against an enemy. They would fight until the last man and never retreat. The order often wiped itself out in major wars. There weren’t very many of them, only about five hundred, but they would spearhead any attack that the GLA launched. Alraer suspected that many of them would make it, being this battle would be over quickly. They were ordered to attack with maximum prejudice. The first wave prepared themselves and thrust into the city, a full armored push lead by the Acolytes of Ares. Three successive waves followed, meeting little to no resistance. Any building that contained enemies was simply blown to the ground with thermobaric munitions and HE shells.

Within two hours, the city was fully occupied by GLA forces. The armor quickly crushed the small opposition. Upon successful delivery of the news, Alraer was given one order, find the mercenary band and execute them. Anyone who got in the way was to be considered collateral damage.

[New Belhavia]

Outside Provisa, Belhavia
Saturday, Two Weeks Ago

A pale light from the full moon shone on the small section of the flagstoned footpath ahead of him, breaking the nominal darkness from which he had cloaked himself in on his daily post-midnight evening stroll. As he was wont to do, Benjamin Roth continued his brisk walk, his stylish designer loafers metaphorically crushing the rebellious strains of light under his feet as he pressed onward.

The stroll he took each night followed a specific set of turns and directions in his expansive private gardens and woods that spread for miles around his opulent, if isolated (but well-guarded) rural estate a mere thirty minutes' drive outside of Provisa, Belhavia.

He used these hour-long walks to clear his mind, to ponder his next imperial undertaking. Nothing was out of his reach.

Amused at his own thoughts, he formed a thin-lipped smile that smacked of arrogance and self-aggrandizement. Ben Roth was the trouble child of the famous Belhavian Roths. To the outside world, he was a cocky and fun playboy, humanitarian, and philanthropist, albeit impulsive, egotistical, and a public womanizer.

However, to the elite circles of the global black market, and its shadowy melting pot of criminals, spooks, mercenaries, and select government officials across Pardes, Roth was a black marketeer of the highest order. A calculating, sadistic, capricious psychopath with an insatiable lust of power. A man so artful in his manipulation, he fooled 99.9% of the world community into thinking he was a mensch rather than one of the greatest criminal masterminds of the current century.

His slippery fingers had their grip across the world, from gunrunning to Islamic terrorist cells in Emmeria, to human sex slavery networks in Ariyadh in the Near East, to poaching exotic, protected animals in the Estovnian tundra. No major criminal enterprise was too trivial; no cause not worth supporting - for the right price.

Roth was already extraordinarily wealthy from his family's multi-billion fortune. The hundreds of millions of shekels and U.R. dollars he made each year from the global black market was simply a way to keep score.

A gust of cold, frigid wind swept by his location. Roth paused to steel himself against the assault of the arctic freeze. As it was the middle of the harsh Belhavian winter, he had layered up. He wore a long, knee-level peacock made of Estovnian wool. Crisp, black gloves made of Tarsan lamskin. A forest green scarf rapped around his neck. Unlike most, he loved the cold weather. It inspired him to persevere, as he fought to stay warm. It was fierce, cold, unrelenting - just as he was.

The gust of wind past, and he resumed his stroll. He gazed up at the night sky, clear of pollution or obstruction. The dark vista was mottled with a lustrous, radiant array of distantly-shining stars for those with the interest to behold in all of its consuming, majestic glory.

One day, I, too, shall command just magnificence. Roth thought to himself within the inner sanctum of his mind, The world is mine but for the taking.

His RothPhone rung just then, buzzing from one of the internal pockets of his wool overcoat. He withdraw it and slid the bar to accept the call.

"Yes?" his clipped tone, of a vaguely contemptuous cadence, asked. His man in Gholgotha (otherwise known as the Disputed Zone between Ulthrannia and Tarsas), Reuven Rivlin, who was a former IBI field operative, answered. Although they were several time zones' apart, he authorized his agents to call him at any hour when it came to select matters of interest or profit.

"Sir, sorry to bother you, but the survey team has just wrapped up their field work here - "

Roth cut him off curtly. "Get to the point, Reuven."

There was a momentarily pause that lasted two heartbeats.

"The deposit reserves are here. Larger than we initially expected. Perhaps over $2 billion in diamonds in the ground." Rivlin said, his voice quickening in excitement.

Roth paused, his mind's cogs processing this. Diamonds. How excellent. Valuable to both the legal and black markets.

"How do we get at them?" He inquired, his voice sharp and sarcastic. "The Disputed Zone's a perpetual war-torn hellhole. Not exactly conducive to long-term mining operations."

Rivlin cleared this throat and pressed on. "We may have an opportunity to carve out the safety we need to extract the diamonds. There's a Westonarian merc in town here by the name of Kirk van Vuu - "

"I know of him."

"Then you know he's extremely effective. He and his merc company - augmented by our friends at the Pyrion Group or another PMC outfit - can create the sphere of protection we need to build up mining in Gholgotha," he continued, adding, "I've kept my ear to the ground. There's a new war brewing between the Ulthrannic and Tarsan warlords here. If we play our hand just so, they'll be too busy fighting each other and taking our bribes to care what we're doing."

The wannabe king of the global black market considered this.

"I like it. Well done, as always Reuven. Don't forget to remind me to double your yearly bonus."

"Of course, boss."

"Put this plan in action. I'll be coming to see these new deposits myself soon enough." Roth finished, promptly hanging up.

Akkadiyan blood diamonds. His smile turned feral. He rather liked the sound of that.

Near Pueblo de Cotta,
Monday, 1600 Hours

Reuven Rivlin nursed his liquor as he surveyed the local dump of a bar. His sources had last put van Vuuren in Pueblo de Cotta, though some fight broke out and he and some of his mercs high-tailed it out of town. Now, some big Tarsan warlord's forces had shown up, necessitating Rivlin's causal exit from the town himself.

Miles away from that decrepit town, Rivlin had found a small bar in this rather undeveloped village where he hoped to pick up on the Westonarian's movements. The offer for his services had to be done in person, regardless.

He eyed a new arrival who entered the bar. Rather pasty white compared to the varying degrees of brown he had encountered among the locals, as well as more well-dressed in Western attire than the poverty-stricken natives, Rivlin took another sip.

Interesting. Very interesting.

[Central Prestonia]

Pugari, Republic of Kigeme
Two Weeks Ago

The headquarters of the Pugari Mining Corporation is often described by the locals as a fortress. Lately, more than ever, the description is accurate. The compound, a giant, sprawling plantation-like building, holds not only the working offices of the board but also the living quarters of one Michael Kent, CEO. As might be expected, it is surrounded by a veritable army of men of fortune, most of them in the employ of the Hyperion Group. While some might think the arrangement irregular--having the CEO living on-site--to Michael, it is necessary. Even in the best of days, Kigeme is hardly a friendly place for anyone. Much less-so, when you're rich, white and responsible for the exploitation of the country's one real resource. But under the right conditions, with enough gumption and a bit of luck, one can be a king in Kigeme. In a land where everyone and everything has a price, a man is only constrained by how much he'll spend, and how much he'll do. This is why Michael stays in Kigeme, despite his position. Having money, that's one thing; but power, real, unconstrained power, now that's something you can't just buy anywhere.

Today, he's on the phone with his boss, as much as he can be said to have one. His chief backer, Lord Hiram Roth. Hiram knows a thing or two about power, being a Roth, and a thing or two about shrewd moves, being a Prestonian Roth. The Roths of Prestonia descend from some third son of a third son who had the bright idea to try their hand at funding a war; that war was the Prestonian War of Unification, and as luck had it, they picked the correct side. The newly-minted Emperor rewarded his Belhavian friend generously, with land and title, and the Roths have been laughing all the way to the bank ever since. Hiram is an easygoing fellow, everything a Roth and a gentleman ought to be: philanthropic, well-read, enterprising and of course, insanely wealthy. Owning a country's largest consumer bank will do that, after all.

"Lord Roth," Michael said into the phone, his tone clipped and businesslike "I was wondering when you might call. This situation here, the strikes, I don't need to tell you what this is going to do to our output if it keeps up, we've got scabs but all the same..."

"Don't worry about them," Roth replied nonchalantly. "The government is taking care of it, you'll have your skinnies back to work before Christmas. But I've got another opportunity, something I thought you might be interested in. It's time for Pugari Mining to branch out of Pugari, I think, and into some more favorable waters."

"Go on," Michael said with anticipation. He had no idea where Hiram could be going with this; all the world's gold was spoken for, after all, and any big strikes would've made headlines.

"I've got a line on a bed of diamond. If the reports hold, it'll make the Pugari job look like a lemonade stand. Interested?"

"Of course, but where'd you get this? Anything that big would've popped up in the news, and I haven't heard a peep yet."

"Let's just say a little birdie told me," Hiram replied with a dry laugh. "It won't be in the news for a few months yet, if I have my way in it."

"Uh-huh," Michael scoffed. "And might this little birdie of yours be related?"

"Well, you know what they say," Hiram replied, with that same dry laugh that always cropped up whenever he was particularly proud of himself. "Membership has its privileges. And our club happens to be very exclusive."

"Jesus, you Roths really do run the world don't you? So where are these diamonds and how do we know this is legit? I'm not going all-in without some confirmed reports and outlooks in my hands, you know."

"And you've come to our problem," Hiram said knowingly. "Incidentally, did you know that in Sutadota the word for 'problem' is 'crisis' plus 'opportunity'? Fascinating, how that works. We have a crisis here, and an opportunity abroad."

"You still haven't answered my question," Michael shot back, annoyed. He never did care for these pseudo-philosophical venture-capitalist tangents, from any of his investors. Somehow, they all had a way of doing it. "So where are we going?"

"The Disputed Zone," Hiram pronounced. "The Ulthrannians have a name for it, something about grass I think, but it doesn't matter now. Once we're in, we're in, but the problem is getting in. It's a no-man's land, crawling with mercs and separated Ulthie military and God knows who else. We need to know who runs shit there, which palms to grease and which throats to cut, and we need a man on the ground to find this all out. Someone who can hold his own. You have Hyperion on retainer there, of course. Another of my pet projects, as it were. Find someone up to the job, and I'll take care of the rest."

A Few Days Later

"So you said you had an offer for me. Let's hear it." Adam Spears was never one to mince words. A typical Imperial Marine, Adam had done four years with them before separating and trying his hand at civilian life. A year later, he was back to work with Hyperion, off to Kigeme to protect the mines and rough up agitators as his job required. At 25, he was a bit older than the average company man. Maybe that was why the CEO of the company he was contracted to had picked him for this "sensitive mission" of his.

"I need a man who's good with his hands in the Disputed Zone. You did reconnaissance with the Marines, right? 7 Commando?"

"Aye, we did."

"Well, consider this a recon mission, of sorts. I need to know who runs things in the Disputed Zone. Who's got their hand in the cookie-jar, if you will. Interested?"

"How much?"

"A hundred thousand crowns up front. More, if you bring me something solid. Ever think of getting out of the game, Spears?"

"And do what? Settle down, do the two kids wife and minivan thing? With respect, fuck that. Isn't for me."

"You know what you want in life. I respect that. I respect a man who knows what he's on God's earth to do. So what do you say?"

"A hundred thousand. The kike you work for couldn't front more than that?"

"Trust me, there will be more. This is just a taste of things to come. Be my eyes and ears in the Disputed Zone, and I will make you the richest godforsaken mercenary to ever walk God's green earth. So what do you say?"

"I'll need weapons," Adam grunted. "Even if I'm not killing anyone, being unarmed there is a good way to die."

"We'll see to that. Chartered flight, grease some palms at customs, we'll get you an L63 if you want it."

"A pistol will do better. But I'm in."

"Perfect. Your flight leaves in two days."

"And the payment?"

"Unmarked nonsequential bills, in a private account in Viridia. Standard procedure."

"Excellent."

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Spears. Now bring me some names."

Pueblo de Cotta, Disputed Zone
Evening, Present Day

This little shithole sure does some business. Adam stepped out from his hotel and surveyed the surrounding streets. His travels had brought him here, on a municipal bus full of Ulthrannians, mostly ex-military types. Every two-bit and low-life in the region seemed to be flocking here; it was a natural place to start. Walking through the dirt streets, clothed like a civilian but for the pistol on his holster, he made his way to the pub. Intelligence gathering aside, he felt like having a drink. That said, experience had taught him that a bit of alcohol always seemed to loosen the tongues of the imbiber, and a bit of a drunken slip might be the difference between success and failure. But mostly, he just wanted a drink. The last thing he expected to find here was another white face; life, however, has a strange way of contradicting expectation. Among the crowd of locals and whores was a group of white people, some sitting at the bar and others conversing in a corner. Tarsan, by one accent. A group of Westonarians, by another. And the man alone at the corner of the bar looked, for all the world, like a Belhavian Jew. Lord knew who they worked for, of course, but it did make things interesting. The presence of other mercs in the region would be intel worth a few thousand crowns in bonus. But Adam wanted more; he had to find out who these men were, and he had to get a goddamned drink. Strolling up to the bar, he took a seat a few down from the man he'd figured for Belhavian. A Prestonian, a Belhavian, a Tarsan and a Westonarian walk into a bar, he thought to himself with a dry chuckle. This was going to be interesting.

"Scotch, neat, if you have it," he said to the bartender, a rather world-weary looking woman in her mid-40s who might once have been the beauty of the village, in her younger days. "And a round for that gentleman down there," he said, gesturing toward the white stranger a few seats away.

[Tippercommon]

Monday - 1700 Hours - 10 km East of Moros, La Hierbamar

SGT Erik Rutherford Blaze, No. 3 Battalion, Corps of Constables

---

The Lieutenant heaved himself off of the bed grabbing for his black combat trousers. The room was dank, the smoke from several hookah pipes loitering, sticking to the ceiling. A whore, pale in complexion and with thick black hair laid on the mattress completely bare. He body was bruised from the abuse. The handlers who the Constables worked with in Pueblo de Cotta had shaved all of her orifices dry against her will to incentivize sale; increase her sex appeal. She was a very cute girl, but was left traumatized by the whirlwind of events she was swept up in. She was unconscious; a hefty blood red bruise ran the span of her forehead. LT had given her a blow to the head to "stop the screaming." Visibly young, she was likely an innocent Anikatian who lost her way in Sutadotazu and ended up being processed into the Pardesi human trafficking network. As former security personnel, the Corps was not founded upon the distribution of slaves. However, when the Sussex Group collapsed and Tier One quality men found themselves with no where to go, it never seemed like a more prime time to get into the business. The squadron had taken to calling that particular whore "Loni" after a popular Sutadota porn star. She couldn't be more than eighteen years old, and even then none of the Constables had asked. She was the favorite of LT, although he never hesitated in sampling the other girls. In the safehouse in the middle of the arid wasteland, the Corps was guarding two dozen whores owned by a slaver who owed the Constables a lot of money. They were a six month long project. Since June, the Corps had been helping the man they called "Slime" kidnap natives and tourists from the Pueblo area. The deal which was about to go down was payday for him and the Constables. Along with the whores, fifty cases of Alleghanian Sweet Alloquia Red bourbon whiskey were stacked in the cellar ready for transport. The buyer? The leader of some Westonarian gang named Kirk van Vuuren.

"Blaze, Roy." LT grumbled, pointing sloppily at the Constables. "Dress her, bind her, and throw her with the rest. We gotta move."

Blaze lazily stood up after leaning against the wall for the whole five minutes LT and Loni had been going at it. Placing his rifle against the wall, he and Roy walked over the bed, picking Loni's clothes up off the ground as they went. The two were probably the most wholesome squadron. They were the only ones who did not sample the buffet during their time as human traffickers. Hell, Blaze didn't even drink. He wasn't too fond of disrespecting women, but in a place like La Hierbamar, he would be a dead man if he didn't go where the money was.

After dressing her, the two propped her up, binding her hands together. She flung her head up, groggily mumbling a few words in A'kyti. Blaze reached for his pocket to grab some aspirin, and she suddenly collapsed in his arms. She was sobbing, and began crying, "Mâ ma! Mâ ma!". She was covered in a thick film of sweat. Since she had been brought there she had not been allowed to shower, but this did not detract from her dainty demeanor. Blaze propped her up against the headboard, holding the back of her head and staring into her eyes.

He said softly, "You're going to be okay."

Empty words, but that was all he could offer. He put the two aspirin in her mouth and washed it down with water from his canteen. The LT marched into the room, barking, "Blaze, Roy. Get the fuck up and get her the fuck out. We're going." And so they did.

The two walked Loni outside of the decrepit house. The sun was low in the sky, not more than a couple hours form sunset. It cast its warm brilliance over the arid plains of La Hierbamar; one of the last beauties in this troubled place. Outside on the dirt road sat three tactical fighting vehicles and three technicals armed with captured towed 23mm anti-aircraft cannons bolted to the beds. Inside of the vehicles, all two dozen of the women and fifty cases of liquor were stashed, guarded carefully by the squadron of Constables.

Originally one of the most elite, top-tier private military companies in the world, the Corps of Constables prior to 2014 was the premier private security force of the massive Sussex Group Conglomerate. Often called to wage wars the UTR Parliament didn't want to fund, the Corps was a highly skilled, highly experienced band of operators. The majority had spent time in the UTR Marine Force Recon and special forces organizations in other nations before signing with the Corps, putting hundreds of thousands of hours of combat experience on the service's resumé. After the corporation fell under its own weight during the financial crisis in 2013, the Corps of Constables by in large went rogue. Prior in late November of 2013, No. 3 Battalion had fumbled a trade with the Emmerian extremist group al-Haq which would of put deadly neurotoxin in the hands of the terrorists. Corporate was able to pass the blame onto a low level officer named Airo Carver, but this is where international scrutiny of the Corps was born. No. 30 Battalion - the unit tasked with protecting the Sussex Group's financial assets in the capital - was famed for pulling off the heist of a century, nicking $750,800,000 URD worth of gold, platinum, and silver bullion from the Grand Reserves during the chaos of the Battle of Sussex in the midst of the Tippercommon Civil War. Most of them were caught or killed in the manhunt which followed, but not before all the funds were transferred to Terinyi and the Seukutan. No. 1 Battalion successfully commandeered a amphibious assault ship at sea, netting several dozen advanced carrier-based military aircraft and adding a ship to the surplus provided by the Ulthrannian black market. Most of the rest of the Corps was sitting tight in Terinyi, milking the success of the Terinyi National Socialists, banking on the third world country's substantial diamond and oil deposits and fixing up the now abandoned Stortford Naval Air Base. Now that leaves No. 3 Battalion; the command that Sergeant Erik Rutherford Blaze was attached to.

The legacy of No. 3 Battalion is dark. The botched neurotoxin deal which was subsequently dubbed the "New Haven Incident" by international authorities net 34 Constables dead and 6 arrested by Emmerian and Erucian authorities. Blaze was part of that operation. However, he was a member of the extraction team placed at the edge of the continent's great lake. As soon as the operation went south, he and his squadron bailed. The time it took for him to work his way home through Rodarion's countryside allowed him to avoid the manhunt which would destroy the battalion in Ayton-Shelvay. But, when he eventually did return, he would be one of the first to be integrated into the reconstituted No. 3 Battalion and shipped to the Seukutan to strike a deal with contractors there. Armed with a portion of the bullion scored from the Grand Reserves, he was able to do so, guaranteeing the Corps somewhat safe transit from the contested La Hierbamar to the Golden Sea.

Erik had not had a troubled past. He was a university graduate, holding a Bachelor of Arts in Graphic Communications and a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Graphic Design from the University of Sussex. Upon the completion of his degree, he joined the UTR Naval Fleet, serving with the naval pararescue before eventually being transferred to the Navy's special warfare force, the Shrikes. Once discharged, he served with the Sussex Metropolitan Special Weapons Division. However, after a year of what he thought was inadequate pay for the job, he quit, joining up with the Corps. As a Constable, he had seen combat in Hyperion, Ashizwe, Akkadiya, and Ayton-Shelvay. Rising through the ranks with honor, he eventually attained the rank of Sergeant in the Corps, becoming the leader of 1st Section, 3rd Squadron of No. 3 Battalion.

Blaze and Roy had been through it all together. They had met when Blaze was transferred to the Shrikes. Both held the rank of Lieutenant and were considered some of the branches' best. They joined the Corps together, and there, deep in hostile territory, they had both become section leaders in 3rd Squadron. They sat in the armored sanctuary of the lead vehicle, watching over Loni and five other girls. LT was in the last armored vehicle, likely napping after the brief session of "love" making he had just endured. The girls were scared and the two were not putting on the most welcoming face. When they asked for water they would give it to them, and they allowed them to smoke a couple of their cigarettes, but they were not ones for conversation. The truck plowed through a pile of stones, jolting the cabin and raising the left side slightly. It launched Roy's head up high enough to see out the windows. It was desolate; nothing in sight but the badlands. He turned to Blaze.

"So," Roy prodded. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"Moros." Blaze replied. "It's a drug traffickers haven a couple hours north of Pueblo de Cotta. Delivering the goods to some fuck named Kirk van Vuuren. Probably one of them xenophobic Westonarians who enjoys lynches anything darker than a paper bag."

"Why the fuck are we not going to Pueblo? We were put here specifically because we made the fucks at Pueblo."

"Well, shitbird," Blaze chuckled. "If you had listened to the briefing, you would have known that some big shot cocksuckers called the Gholgothan Lesbian Army or some such invaded that shit and took it over. The rest of the Battalion has pulled out and will probably be relocating west at Vidara after the POGs are done twiddling with their assholes."

"Why is this shipment so goddamned important? We could be in Terinyi playing with the UTR's hardware, or at the very least fucking up some warlords up north."

"We need friends out here. From what I hear during the battalion reports, this place is a diamond piñata waiting to be cracked open. Now there's no existing infrastructure to make that happen. So that means one of three things. Either Tarsas is going to take this place over, Ulthrannia is going to take this place over, or some foreign investment is going to trickle in and boom! Perfect market for some wandering contractors with technology that would make the CDI's fucking head spin."

"Ya know," Roy said quizzically. "We could have just reported in when the Treasury called on us, gotten a cushy desk job working at some bank or maybe become a firefighter or . . . or! Or you could have gotten a fucking proper job with that fucking GRC degree you got."

"Yeah, well, those weren't the cards we were dealt."

The driver switched on the red cabin illuminators. The sun had set and they were closing in on Moros. He leaned back and called, "Ten minutes out!"