Devils in the Sky [Closed]

[Nerotysia]

Devils in the Sky
The Lockbourne Hostage Crisis

A Roleplay by the Escar Community

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Shynsk
Northern Escar
The People's Union of Nerotysia
2nd January 2015

Innokenti's nerves crackled in time with the lightning on the horizon. A battle was waging within his gut, a battle of his upbringing versus his genes. It was a common sort of battle, however this one had a darker tinge, for his genes were soaked in greed and his upbringing was drenched in xenophobia.

He strode over a winding cobble pathway that cut the grassy knolls in half, following it into the park's thicker brambles and taller trees. This park, snugly in the center of Shynsk, was rarely so deserted, but the dark of the sky and the approaching thunderstorm had driven away the usual patrons like a herd of cattle. Yet still Innokenti feared discovery; every tree he scanned in suspicion, every bush he flinched at in fear. Any one of them could be hiding anything from a curious passerby to an agent of the LVK. Or worse. Innokenti shivered at the possibilities, for he had heard the gruesome tales from the darkest depths of Nerotysian intelligence. The infamous name of Nerotysia's most secretive agency danced at his lips, but he repressed it. This was no time for doubt - the deal had already been struck, the deeds had already been done.

He reached the geographical center of the forest, and looked around. For a moment he was frustrated - his contact had said it would be obvious. There was nothing here save for the stoic faces of bare trees, dotted with last week's snowstorm, and the innumerable brambles that clawed at his legs. Some foolish gardner had mangled some of the brambles, cutting them into odd shapes, but other than that not a leaf was out of place.

Wait a moment...

It came to him all at once, and he dashed over to one of the oddly-trimmed bushes, cut to resemble a crescent of some sort - like the letter C. He crouched and felt around the base of the thing - yes, there it was.

A small silver box, firmly locked, firmly unmarked. Quickly keying the combination Innokenti nearly leapt for joy as his eyes fed upon the little beauties inside.

Neatly stacked squares, a blur of white and lime, rows of the soldierly things. All emblazoned with an embellished number 100 - all wrapped in little red bands. His heart ringing with euphoria, he breathed a light 'yes.' Before he could dissolve into bliss, however, he noticed something odd - one of the stacks was topped with a white sheet of paper. Wtihdrawing it with shaking fingers, he looked around for what-have-you, his head twitching like a mad beggar's. The unfolded bit of paper read, in a glittery gold script -

REMEMBER US

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Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

Alek's eyes fell forlorn to the rich red carpet.

"Really? Can't I just - "

Nikita Pipenko felt a terrible pang in his mind - a pang of sorrow. But there was nothing to be done, unfortunately.

"Sorry, Alek. I've got to handle this. Perhaps - you can go next year."

Aleksey Pipenko looked crucified. Never before had he been to Fantastikon, Nerotysia's largest fantasy and sci-fi convention. This had mostly been due to his father's career; death threats used to pour in daily after Nikita had announced his plans for a peaceful foreign policy. That was back in 2008, and the threats had only intensified for the next two years. 2010 had been the first year Alek had been allowed to return to public school, but then he was withdrawn again after a cascade of bomb threats.

Nikita felt his son's restlessness acutely, for he knew the newfound danger of his son's life was mostly his fault. For decades Nerotysians were paranoid, xenophobic, and fiercely proud of the fact - Nikita's proposals had been akin to smashing a beehive with a baseball bat.

The change had come only recently. The threats dissipitated as 2013 began, and by now they had slimmed to the usual levels. Finally it had been deemed safe enough to allow Alek to attend the famous convention. But lady luck was fickle.

"Can't you just - like - ignore it? Or have a secretary or something deal with it?" Alek was limp against the hotel couch, his book forgotten in his lap.

"Afraid not." Nikita busily continued sifting through the folders that littered the small desk which the hotel provided. A scandal had swept up, emerged like termites from wood. Nikita had just finished a historic meeting with Lewis Cameron - a like-minded member of Alexiandra's parliament. Their cooperation would be a huge boost to Nikita's political bloc, so he could not leave Cameron to handle the scandal on his own.

"Wait," Alek muttered, his eyes newly alight. "Can't I just go without you? I mean, I'll be safe enough. And you can just get another jet, or whatever..." Alek withered under his father's skepticism, but his response surprised him.

"Perhaps..." Nikita pulled out his pearly black cellular and exchanged rapid-fire Paraski with whomever was on the other side. Alek leaned forward expectantly.

"Can I?"

"It seems," Nikita said, snapping the phone closed. "I can charter a second plane."

"Yes!" Alek said. "So I leave normal time?"

"Yea," Nikita said, standing. "But you do exactly as Pavel says. For the next few days he is God. Understand?" Pavel was Nikita's chief of security.

"Yea, yea," said Alek, his fingers already peppering the screen of his cellphone. Nikita grinned despite his concerns.

What was the worst that could happen?

[Alexiandra]

Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexianda
3rd January 2015

Petyr woke at noon, as usual. Rubbing the effects of sleep from his eyes, he rose from the luxurious goosefeather pillows his father had purchased for him. The velvet curtains were drawn, just the way he liked them - he noticed as he drew them back that the window beyond was slightly ajar. A cool breeze, flavoured with the fragrances of Alexiandra's largest metropolis, raised goosebumps across his broad shoulders. There it was, spread like a carpet beneath him - the city of Lockbourne, playground of millionaires. And what a playground it was.

Last night, he'd dined with his girlfriend, hotel heiress Monica Everlast, before returning to the award-winning Perez hotel at about seven-thirty. He remembered getting ready, donning his favourite tuxedo and stepping into a sleek limousine; after that, everything was a blur - it must have been a night worth remembering. Strangely, however, he had no hangover. The coffee machine remained untouched as he worked through his morning routine, performing a few light calisthenics to wake himself up before retreating to the spacious ensuite bathroom for a shower. He was the apartment's sole occupant; his father, embroiled in yet another political scandal, was away. Again.

Petyr preferred having the place to himself, truth be told. His father was a good man, at heart, but his austerity and position as the media's punching bag had ruined many a family occasion. Petyr didn't hate the man, but he didn't really love him, either. He didn't feel much of anything, really. The only person in the world he truly loved was Monica, and by now she was thousands of miles away on family business. This left Petyr in quite the uninteresting position - what would he do today?

Stupidly, absent-mindedly, he flicked on the room's television. An image instantly resolved on the screen; he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eye as he pulled his shirt over his head. By the time his torso was covered, he knew exactly what he'd see when he looked back at the screen: his own father. And sure enough, there he was - Lewis Cameron, leader of the Conservative Party. "CAMERON IN SEX SCANDAL" read the headline. Petyr froze. His mind went instantly to his mother, estranged on the island of Deltos, over two hundred miles away. His parents had been separated for years, but he'd never expected... this. His father, the poster-boy for family integrity, sleeping with some random woman? Petyr hoped it was a woman.

At that instant, his phone began to ring. He looked down at it, and his gaze was met by a smaller version of the portrait being displayed on the television - it was his father. For a few seconds, he simply looked at it, unsure of what to do. Muting the television, he decided to answer. "Dad?" he asked.
"Petyr! It's about bloody time you answered. Where have you been?" his father demanded. He sounded stressed.
"Asleep! You know I was out last night." Petyr replied, biting back a retort about the scandal. His father sighed in response; he could hear shouting in the background. "Is everything alright?" he asked.
"I don't know what you've heard, son, but just listen for a moment. I never -"
"Dad, I don't care," Petyr interrupted. "I really don't want to know." Another heavy sigh, accompanied by the sound of a car door slamming. The shouting faded.
"Fine, but listen. It's not safe for you in Lockbourne right now." There was real urgency in his father's voice. Petyr only snorted. "Stop laughing!" his father reprimanded. "This is serious."
"What do you mean it's not safe? What's the matter?" Petyr asked.
His father sighed for a third time. "I'm the most well-respected Conservative there's been in years. These... lies, they - well, let's just say a lot of people aren't very happy with me right now."
"I'll say," Petyr grinned, glancing at the television.
"So they'll target anything affiliated with me," his father said. "Including you." This time, it was Petyr's turn to sigh.
"Let me guess - I have to go away for a while, like last time."
"Yes," his father replied.
"So where am I going? Harrisopia? The Gold Coast? Deltos? I could really use a holiday..." he murmured.
"Nerotysia," his father said bluntly. "You're going to Nerotysia."
Petyr just hung up.

An hour later, he was at the airport, scowling, with his travel bag hanging heavy across his shoulders. This was great. Just great. Nerotysia? Petyr thought his father's enemies would be more hospitable than that godforsaken wasteland.

[Khornera]

Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexianda
Lockbourne National Airport

A single bold 'C', surrounded by a snake that swallowed his own tail. The circular snake represented continuity, eternity and above all, inevitability. The stylized letter c resembling a royal monogram, subtly hinted towards the full name of the organisation that this sigil represented.

Charon was that name.

This name had found a new bearer in the modern age. Charon, part secret-society and part terrorist organisation, honored the legacy of the man whom once bore its name.

Charon III; emperor; tyrant; warlord. The organisation's name was a fitting homage. As Charon III brought death and despair to enemies within the Holy Empire, so would Charon. As with all Khornerans, their definition of which lands composed the Holy Khorneran Empire was significantly more liberal than the view held by those outside the Empire. Kolintha, Nerotysia, and many more far away resorts in the farthest reaches of the world were all included in this vision. And so it was that Charon would act as self-appointed enforcer of a once-great empire in decline.

They would honor their name with action, not words.

Nikolas wore the symbol of his order on his skin. The snake and monogram sat emblazoned on his upper back, a rather permanent testament to his loyalty to the order. Or his impulsive decisions, depending on whom one would ask. This display of allegiance was covered by the tight-fitting suit of the Nerotysian secret service. For something that was not tailored, the suit fit him exceptionally well.

While born long after Nerotysia's struggle for independance, Nikolas was one of the few remaining Nerotysians who longed back to the days of the Empire. This nostalgic sentiment ran deeply in the family. His father served in the colonial army, and so did his. Nikolas remembered the way his father told about the war for independence, each of these stories would start with an Imperial army bravely fighting off the rebel forces. The beginning of these stories was always enthusiastic and uplifting. Yet as the tale reached the end, his father's voice would become more bitter and spiteful. The tales would always end with the same downer ending, independence.

In the distance the 'security detail' could see Tsarsko Six, the flight that they would be boarding. The sight filled Nikolas with relief. He was not a nervous man, yet the way the actual security eyed him left him somewhat uncomfortable. Next to the airplane's entrance stood a single attendant whom greeted Nikolas' group with a friendly smile. Nikolas' commander, Victus, approached the man and gave him a formal embrace. Both whispered two words towards each other. Although Nikolas was too far away to hear what was spoken, he knew it altogether.

"Hail Charon!"

[Nerotysia]

Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

Alek traveled under a smooth sky, swept clean of stars thanks to the light pollution of Lockbourne. His stomach broiled with excitement - this would be the first time he'd traveled without his father, and the Fantastikon promised to be, well, fantastic.

The limousine emerged from the city's tangle of streets into a checkpoint, where a cadre of Alexiandran police officers scuttled over the car for one last time. Then they sped onto the tarmac, and then the sleek silver body of Tsarsko Six was in sight.

The jet was giant, emblazoned with a red stripe and imprinted with the triple-swipe of Nerotysian communism. The stairs that stood at its side seemed comically small compared to the enormity of the plane.

Black-suited men buzzed to and fro as Alek exited the limousine and walked up to Pavel, the one security officer who was merely looking on calmly. The man seemed as imposing as the plane itself, but years of familiarity had made him into an uncle in Alek's eyes.

"Hello, Aleksey," Pavel said as two attendants relieved Alek of his luggage. Looking impatiently past him Alek fished in his pocket for his cellphone.

"Aren't we going now?"

"You're father didn't tell you?" Alek looked at him sharply.

"Tell me what?"

At that moment another car pulled up, painted a plain white and marked with the airport's logo. Attendants flocked, and minutes later another boy stood beside Aleksey, tall and broad-shouldered. Alek nearly matched him in height but stood slim as a salamander. Pavel immediately answered the anticipated questions.

"Alek, this is Petyr Cameron. He will be traveling with us, as his father would prefer him out of the country for his own safety." Befuddled, Alek turned to the boy and jerked his head in greeting.

"Hello." The other boy nodded in response. Alek smacked Pavel with an accusatory glare.

"Is this some trick of my father? I'm not lugging him around with me in Shynsk so that you can constantly keep an eye on me." He slipped into Paraski so the boy wouldn't understand.

"No, no, he's just riding along with us - we'll part ways once we land." Pavel turned and began walking up the steps, signaling the conversation to be over. Eyeing the boy distrustfully, Alek followed Pavel, grumbling under his breath. His father better not ruin this for him.

---

Shynsk
Northern Escar
The People's Union of Nerotysia
3rd January 2015

The office was chilled, but still the fat man managed to sweat. Artur Amaliyev hated late nights.

His head hanging in a hand, he scanned his thousandth piece of paper for the day, crunching the information lazily in his mind. Nothing in particular, just some minor misconduct - easy to discipline. Nothing caught his eye, but he knew at such late hours mistakes were common. So tiredly he read through it again. He was midway back through the thing when a knock tittered at his office door.

"Come in," he called, his voice raw with a lifetime of cigarette smoke. His secretary strode in, slapping yet another manila folder on his desk.

"Sir, we've recieved an anonymous tip that a certain member of the People's Protective Services has been compromised." Great. Another one of these anonymous tips. He got hundreds a day and he had stopped even bothering to read most of them - they got swept right into the trash.

"Is it reliable?"

"The sweepers found that the subject of the report has been acting a bit erratically over the past few days."

"Erratically, eh? So what?"

"He was seen walking from a park during a thunderstorm."

Artur finally lifted his head from the report, sighing noisily through his nostrils. He ran a finger through his diminshing hairline.

"I'm kinda busy right now. Why don't you get someone else to do it? An intern maybe, one of them nervous fellas."

"Sir, the subject occupies a rather important position." Artur kneaded his forehead with his fingers, a scowl twisting his lips.

"Fine. Leave it here; I'll take a look at it in the morning."

[Alexiandra]

Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

They mounted the steps in near-silence, with the Nerotysian boy exchanging a few mumbled words with the security chief. Petyr understood a little Paraski - the benefit of having been educated at a private school - but he struggled to discern anything intelligible over the whine of the engines. The plane's lush interior was impressive, and he followed Alek's bobbing head into the main passenger lounge. A few sofas, symmetrically spaced, dominated the fringes of the cabin; in the centre, a mahogany drinks cabinet was flanked by two plush chairs. Petyr made a beeline for one of the outlying sofas - Alek headed for the opposite side of the lounge. That arrangement suited both of them just fine.

An hour later the plane was airborne, roaring through the rapidly darkening skies of East Alexiandra. Gazing out of the window, Petyr could make out a few lights twinkling beneath the patchy cloud canopy - Starseed, most likely, or Lonsvale. He knew his geography well enough, but by now he had lost track of the plane's movements. For all he knew, they could be flying over Vyrdaz at this point. His eyes flicked back to the real object of his attention: the drinks cabinet, sitting squarely in the centre of the room. As a self-proclaimed epicure, Petyr fancied that he could make out the individual brands of whiskey in the cabinet, even through the twilight of the lounge. Rising from his perch, with his eyes set firmly on his objective, he strode across the room.

It was just as he noticed Alek's own eyes boring into him that he heard it; a drawn-out scream more piercing than he would previously have thought possible. The noise was so sudden - so unexpected - that his hand jumped, splashing whiskey all over the cabinet-top. He looked at Alek, who had lowered the magazine he was reading. Petyr saw concern in those Nerotysian eyes. "Probably nothing," he said, more for his own benefit than for that of the other boy. Then there was a gunshot.

It cracked through the air; a single round, probably .45 calibre, bursting with the kinetic energy of a high-powered cartridge. Petyr had spent a lot of time on the range - there could be no doubt. Someone on the plane was shooting.

Petyr dropped his whiskey glass.

[Khornera]

Tsarsko Six

Before him stood an actual security officer, making small talk with one of the female flight attendants. Victus had been eying him for some time now, making sure he would be able to take him out first. It would be any moment now that everyone would be ready to strike, and Victus would be the one that shoots first. "Group two in position." Nikolas reported over the radio. Victus looked to his right and saw two more of his allies approach. They stacked up next to him. The security officer in front of him looked at them suspiciously, wondering what so many officers were doing in one spot. Another voice spoke over the radio, "Group three standing by." Everyone was at their proper place now. Victus' fellow operatives next to him nodded. One of them moved his lips as if he whispered something. To someone unacquinted with the phrase it would be difficult to read something from it. Yet Victus could make out a greeting that was all too familair with him. "Hail Charon."

Victus pressed his fingers against his earpiece and spoke with cold determination the words that would change the lives of those onboard. "Engage." The security officer's pupils dilated, as if he knew what was about to happen. He tried to raise his weapon, but Victus threw him to the floor with a quick smack to the head with his weapon. The flight attendant whom was stil in the same space as them, shrieked loudly in fear as she saw the man fall down on the floor. Another operative punched her in the chest violently and she fell down on her knees. She looked up at her attacker with eyes which made no effort to hide her fear. The operative pressed his pistol against her forehead and pulled his trigger, painting the wall behind her and his own suit with her blood. Her lifeless body fell down next to the dead security agent, whom by now had also received a bullet in his back to finish him off.

The three operatives looked at the door that would lead to the room where Petyr and Alex, their targets, would be residing. "All teams, status report!" Victus commanded as he and his men approached their destination. "Team three, cockpit has been taken. Pilots have been killed." he heard. Good he thought to himself. Suddenly the door to his right bursted open and a security officer jumped on Victus. The officer clawed his hands on Victus' weapon and pulled it away from him. Your mistake Victus said in his own head. By attacking him up close the officer had changed the game rules to someting Victus was even much more comfortable with. The Charon leader smirked as he pulled a large combat knive from his left sleeve and started slashing violently towards the officer. The Nerotysian dodged the first cuts gracefully, until the edge of the blade managed to slice away a part of his arm as he tried to redirect the blow. Knowing this was he a fight he could not win this way, the officer reached into his pocked and pulled out a pistol. His arm swayed outwards trying to put the barrel against Victus' head. But before he managed to complete this motion Victus pinned the man's hand to his chest with a sudden stab of his knife. The man let out a scream of agony as Victus pulled out the blade and stabbed him several more times in the chest. The screams were only interrupted by the sound of the knife plunging itself into a human body and the status report of team two. He was silent now, as his body collapsed like a ragdoll.

Victus pulled at the doorhandle several times, it was locked. A rather futile attempt to keep the occupants safe, no doubt. One of Victus' operatives placed a small breaching charge on the door. Although a simple bullet might've shattered the lock all the same. Yet a breaching charge would have the added benefit of dazing and confusing those on the other side. Something which was usefull in the event that their targets would have a pistol aimed at the door. "Hail Charon!" the operative shouted once more as he pressed the button on his detonator, which blew the door into bits.

They charged into the suite, where Alek and Petyr sat horrified and in shock at what just happened. Petyr tried to rise but was kicked back by Victus. Victus threw them both on the floor by pulling their hear violently. His two men immediately jumped on the two chaps and handcuffed their hands behind their back. A small stroke of ducttape was stuck over both their mouths and a blag bag was pulled over their heads. They were dragged to the passenger compartment, where the other hostages sat as well. Among them were a few flight attendants, secretaries, and Pavel, whom was visibly bruised and beaten. Victus stood before them, pulling bags from their heads and inspecting for a few moments, before placing the bag over their heads again and moving to the next person.

Nikolas approached Victus with a small radio device with a microphone. It would allow Victus to speak directly with anyone on the ground. "This is ground control what is your status, Tsarsko Six?" he heard from the other side of the frequency. "Tsarsko Six, respond! What is your status?" he heard again. "We have taken the Tsarsko Six. Get me Pipenko on this line."

[Alexiandra]

Skies above Alexiandra
Southwest Escar
The Escari Imperial Union
3rd January 2015

"Eagle One, Eagle Actual. Proceed on current vector and maintain speed, but do not - I repeat do not - engage. Out."
Flight Lieutenant Roger Mayhew nodded in response, then turned his eyes upwards. Roughly a hundred feet above him, visible as a great winged shadow against the resplendent azure of a peaceful afternoon sky, sped an F22 fighter jet from Fort Cogg. His own craft, a duplicate of the one above, had been launched from Mannfield Air Force Base just twenty minutes ago. Now the pair of them were on an intercept course with a rogue passenger aircraft carrying unspecified valuables - "precious cargo" in the words of Roger's commanding officer.

The whole affair seemed funny to him. For starters, he hadn't even been told what the "precious cargo" was. Was it an object? A person? Multiple people? Jesus Christ reborn? He had no idea. Secondly, there was a whole host of less expensive aircraft at Mannfield capable of fulfilling this role; why, exactly, had his superiors dispatched one of the most costly pieces of kit in the Union's arsenal to tail a passenger aircraft? He shook his head. It'd be nice to have some actual intel with my intel, he thought as he banked slowly upwards.

"How are you doing, Eagle One?" came the voice of his fellow pilot through the radio. The other guy was anonymous - Roger didn't recognise his voice.
"Well," he began, "I'm actually pretty pissed off."
A snort.
"I mean, what are they doing, sending us out here after a goddamn private jet? I signed up to burn up commies, not to chase rogue playboys," he continued. "If they want it to land, all they have to do is wait for it to run out of fuel."
Eagle Two chuckled, then replied, "Yeah, but I think they're more worried about where it comes down than when."
"Whaddya mean?" Roger asked, momentarily baffled.
"Well, I'm guessing those boys down in Lockbourne don't want a passenger jet annihilating their latest shiny skyscraper." Comprehension suddenly flooded Roger's mind.
"Ah, that's it," he said. "They're worried about another nine-eleven."
"That's my theory, anyway," said Eagle Two.
Roger sighed, then glanced down at his radar display. They were still on track.

Air Traffic Control Tower
Lockbourne International Airport
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

As soon as the microphone went off, Lisa Donahugh swore under her breath. This was what she got for working overtime? A hostage crisis? She stood up. "Boss!" she shouted, waving at her manager. He was a balding, middle-aged man by the name of Bill; he handled stress well. "One of our flights has been hijacked," she said bluntly. Bill stared at her for a second, then blinked.
"Hijacked?" he asked.
"Yes!" she replied. "They're demanding that we get them "Pipenko" on the line."
Bill's face became a puzzled mask.
"Pipenko? Isn't that the big-shot who flew in a few days ago?"
Lisa shrugged. "Search me. What do we do?"
Bill didn't reply. Instead, he strode to the landline phone, which was attached the tower's central support pillar. "Police," he said. "Yes, it's an emergency." A pause. "One of our planes has been hijacked. They have hostages."

Ten minutes later, half-a-dozen miles away in the quiet residential district of Lockbourne, Nikita Pipenko was rudely awoken by a loud knock.

[Nerotysia]

The Skies Above Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

Momentarily during the chaos it struck Alek how odd it all was - that life could change so dramatically in but an instant. It was like something from a film, dreamed up by some artist to make a quick buck.

But his mind had little time for thoughts such as this, as currently shots were richocheting willy-nilly from outside the room and screams were gnawing his eardrums.

The first shot kicked Petyr into motion. He dropped his glass and sprang over to the door, deftly turning the lock. Alek, frozen in shock, merely looked on as Petyr did the same for the other door.

"What the hell was that?" Alek sputtered, tossing aside his magazine.

"Gunfire," Petyr responded, trying to peek out the door's tiny peephole. "It's coming from the cockpit, where the hell is security?"

"They should have it under control, surely it's nothing major. Probably just a malfunctioning gun..." Even as he spoke the words, however, Alek felt a nagging feeling pull at his gut, telling him that the situation was far worse. He rose and tried to listen at the other door, but he heard nothing more than screams.

"Somehow I doubt it," Petyr said, leaving the door. Alek glanced towards him, his eyes wide with fear. Suddenly he heard movement on the other side and backed away nervously. Petyr reached for a whiskey bottle.

The door blew open, showering Alek with wood. Yelping, he fell backwards, holding up an arm to shield his face. Petyr stood, shell-shocked.

A troop of black suits poured into the room, quickly subduing Alek and marching over to Petyr. His muscles twitched, ready to swing, but he was too slow; before long they were both pressed to the ground, arms wrenched back and mouths taped shut.

Alek shared a terrified look with Petyr, and then his vision went black.

- Written with the cooperation of Alexiandra

---

Lockbourne
Southwest Escar
The Imperial Union of Alexiandra
3rd January 2015

The knocks blasted into Nikita's psyche like a volley of artillery shells. Cracking his sleep-crusted eyes, he looked around dazedly. Who could be calling at this hour? He'd already given his statement with regards to the scandal.

He heard his security officer open the door, and hoped that whatever the knocker wanted it could wait until morning.

Not so, apparently, for after a few moments his door creaked open and a gruff but softened voice breathed into his room.

"Sir, there's a situation." Nikita groaned.

"Alright, I'll be right out." Probably some media hounds. Perhaps some more women or some men had come forward now, jumping on the bandwagon like a pack of buzzards. He dressed slowly, realizing that this trip may drag out even longer than he'd expected.

"Yes?" he said lazily once he'd dressed and come to the door. It wasn't a reporter, but a policeman. His heart sped up a notch - what could have -

"Sir, we need to ask you to come with us. Something's happened."

"What's happened?" Nikita demanded, now fully awake. Perhaps Cameron's enemies had finally gotten to him, or -

"Tsarsko Six has been hijacked. They're asking to speak to you."

[Khornera]

"Tsarsko Six, respond! What is your status?" a panicky voice asked over the radio. "Tsarsko Six, respond!" the voice grew more desperate and panicky every time. Victus pressed the button to speak, but remained silent for a few more seconds. For a brief moment the static of the radio was the only sound in the eerily silent cabin. From the noise of gunshots and screams the cabin had gone to near complete silence in a matter of minutes. Victus finally spoke, to the relief of the operator on the other side. "We have taken the Tsarsko Six. Get me Pipenko on this line." he spoke. The operator took a long time to respond. Although they were often drilled for situations such as these, they never did expect to experience such a situation. "Y-yes sir." the operator responded. "You have ten minutes. Do not try our patience." Victus placed the radio's headset next to a female attendant kneeling on the floor. Like with all hostages, her mouth was covered with ducttape and a black bag rested on her head. Yet, a perceptive listener could still hear her frantically sobbing. This was something Victus wanted the operator to hear, to remind them that this situation was serious.

Dangerously close to the ten minute deadline, a voice finally responded from the other side of the channel once again. "This is Nikita Pipenko. I heard you have my son." Victus picked up the headset and put it on his head. "Ah mister Pipenko, I am so glad that you could find it in your schedule to speak with me. Among our hostages here is your son, Alek Pipenko. As well as his companion, Petyr Cameron. Now I am very much convinced that we can find a compromise that would be agreeable."

"How do I know you have my son? Or that he is still alive?" Pipenko asked.

"Mister Pipenko, I am not convinced you understand the complexity of the predicament you are in." Victus spoke surprisingly calmly. He stepped forward to drag Alek towards him, whom grunted as he was abruptly grabbed and thrown to the ground. Victus pulled the bag of Alek's head and removed the ducttape preventing him from speeking. Victus' tone shifted towards something much more aggressive. He pulled out his pistol and placed it against Alek's calf. "Do not be so arrogant to believe that you hold all the cards." he pressed his trigger and Alek shrieked in agony as a bullet made his way into his body, spraying blood on Victus' immaculate trousers. Pipenko loudly objected, but Victus interrupted him. "So you see, Mister Pipenko. You are quite in control of this situation. Your son will return to you with a certain number of bulletholes in his body. Your actions will determine how many bulletholes that will be. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes..." Pipenko responded.

"Good. Now listen carefully, because you are already testing my patience gravely. After the Nerotysian dominion illegitimately proclaimed it's 'independence', thousands of noble Imperial soldiers were taken as POWs. We demand their immediate release. Furthermore, we also demand the release of Valoren Quinn. We demand that he along with the POWs be released and handed over to the Holy Khorneran Empire. I will give you thirty minutes to think about your answer, after that we will start killing hostages. Do not dissapoint us, mister Pipenko."