Tes Yeux, J'en Rêve Jour et Nuit [CLOSED]

[Cravan]

“Pierre! Pierre, we have to go!”

Cloudiness. Ears ringing. What the hell just happened?

“Pierre, come on! We can't stay!”

That shouting... Catharine! But where is she? And what's this noise all of a sudden? The ringing's stopped, but...

“Pierre!”

Catharine! Where are you?

“Pierre, help!”

Catharine?

Scream.

Gunshot.

Silence.

Chapter One
Élémentaire, Mon Amour
Saint Flavitus Chapel
Parlent, Aurde
27.1.10; 10:47hrs

Pierre de Babin sighed to himself as he sat through the Sunday morning sermon, drifting in and out of attention as the minister continued to drone on. The minister was a man of eighty-two years, and such was to be expected, but Pierre still dreaded services every week. His sister was the driving force behind his attendance.

“Shush! Don't start,” Catharine de Babin scolded in hushed English at her brother's audible sigh. “After services we'll go for breakfast, all right?”

“Oui,” Pierre replied in monotone.

Saint Flavitus Chapel was the only church serving the small village of Parlent, and it was an oddity for the region of Aurde: it was a Protestant chapel. The entire town was actually Protestant, belonging to the Church of Camden and recognizing Her Majesty as the head of their church. It was an oddity in that the majority of the islanders in the northern region where Parlent lay were Catholic, and while not of the Doomani flavour, they were still quite opposed to the idea of the Protestantism of Cravan and much the rest of the Anglosphere.

Pierre perked up as he heard a noise coming from a cracked window to his left; an odd noise not commonly heard in this village on a Sunday: a large truck. Pierre knew deliveries only came on Tuesdays to this sleepy village, and he was positive that even an urgent delivery would never come on a Sunday. By the time he had time enough to contemplate this, the noise had already passed, and Pierre went back to other distractions from the sermon until he felt a cool chill at his back. Turning around towards the door, he saw that the breeze came from the now ajar wooden doorway to the small chapel, and in said open doorway stood the silhouette of a man holding a circular object. Pierre looked back at the minister, who had taken a moment to raise his bespectacled face in confusion, before he heard the man shout with a resounding echo throughout the house of worship.

“La mort à la couronne!”

The man tossed the object towards the alter, which overshot and hit the back wall behind the minister. In the few moments of confusion, a faint beeping could be heard. Before the minister could realize his predicament, he was engulfed in a semtex-induced ball of fire, which quickly ripped throughout the chapel. Catharine pulled Pierre down underneath the pew, however he was caught on the side of the face by wooden shards and knocked unconscious as he hit the tile floor. Pulling desperately, Catharine began shouting at her brother to get up and come with her.

“Pierre! Pierre, we have to go!” she shouted at the seemingly lifeless young man.

Looking up, Catharine watched in horror as six men clad in balaclavas and a rag-tag combination of camouflage fatigues and civilian clothing entered the chapel calmly, armed with rifles and sub-machine guns. They began to mercilessly kill those survivors who were trying to resist their fate and escape, and as the first shots rang out Catharine hit the floor.

“Pierre, come on! We can't stay!”

The sound of the men's boots echoed closer and closer, until finally one of them was upon her. He signaled in French to a colleague who walked over while he locked eyes with her. He saw fear in her lovely, pale blue orbs; real fear.

“Pierre!” she shouted, now tearing furiously as she shook her brother. Her eyes remained locked with the man in the black mask who now pointed at her. She could almost see the grin underneath the cloth.

“Pierre, help!” she cried out at her still inanimate brother while one of the masked men raised her to her feet and stepped back. Sobbing, she looked towards the masked man facing her, who raised his sidearm to be level with her forehead. She stood fearful, caught as if a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.

“Désolé, mon cherie.”

Catharine's lip quivered, and she let out a horrifying scream before being silenced by the .45 caliber bullet which caused her thin frame to go limp; her blood stained the wall behind her. Shooting throughout the rest of the town gradually subsided as most of the villagers had been at the chapel. A few of the houses were set alight, however the chapel itself was spared the torch. Their work done, the men loaded back into their truck, and left Parlent.

Citizens' Assembly, Assembly House
Montignac, Aurde
27.1.10; 12:20hrs

“Preposterous! Mr. Speaker, I move to have the Gentleman from Civray censured for his outrageous comments!”

“You know nothing of what you call outrageous! In fact,” the man said as he shot up from his seat on the floor of the Assembly, “Your presence here is quite outrageous by itself!”

“How dare you!”

The two men arguing, the former being Assemblyman Jonathon Carraway of Bladstone Island, Conservative Party, and the latter being Assemblyman Armand Garrus, First District of Civray, Partie pour l'indépendance d'Aurde, commonly sparred on the floor of the Assembly. The latter's complaints about the former were quite common throughout his party: that the “dirty Anglo” had no place in an assembly of men of Aurde. Carraway was notably the only full-blooded Cravanian member of the Assembly, but he wasn't the only pro-Cravanian. The Conservatives and Liberals held the highest numbers of seats, respectively, followed by “le Partie” in third. In reality, however, “le Partie” was the second most popular party of Aurde. Gerrymandering, in a cooperative effort by the Conservative and Liberal natives of Montignac who made up the civil service on Aurde, kept the independence movement at bay. Southern Aurde often sought integration with the crown; the more rural and Catholic north, not so much. The south was predominantly of the Church of Camden and of the Conservative Party movement, and thusly had no interest in the calls for independence that came from the north.

“By God above, I dare! You swine think you can run our country!”

“Your Honour! I demand this man be censured!”

“I'll show you censured, pigdog!”

Assemblyman Garrus vaulted over his desk, and charged towards his counterpart across the open floor. Diving at the opposite Assemblyman, Garrus took the first swing as the argument devolved into an all out brawl on the Assembly House floor. Members of both parties began to take swings at one another, and as the Speaker hit his gavel, security guards looked on apprehensively, not knowing which side to subdue first. All the while, the small crowd in the gallery above had mixed reactions. The majority were stunned; others confused. Some in favour of independence cheered on their assemblymen.

The brawl ensued for almost two more full minutes, before the original instigator wrestled his opponent to the center of the floor and stepped down on his back to keep him there. Looking down on his adversary, Garrus drew a compact pistol he had concealed in his jacket, and leveled it at Carraway's head.

“This is for independence!”

A single shot rang out, silencing the room as the blue carpet was stained a corrupt shade of purple around the corpse of the Assemblyman.

“For Aurde!”

The pistol now leveled with the Speaker's podium, who took cover behind the wooden desk. Four shots rang out, piercing the desk, before Garrus was shot by a guard. He crumpled to the floor, and clutched at the wound in his side.

“Je meurs pour la Révolution.”

“Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!”

The Speaker of the Assembly rose from behind the podium. Shaken, yes, but alive and unharmed.

La Citadelle
Civray, Aurde
27.1.10; 12:34hrs

“Magnifique.”

Jacques Moreau sat wide eyed and jubilant as he watched the turmoil unfold on the floor of the Assembly on CBN.

“Citoyen Moreau,” came a voice from the door.

“Oui,” he responded, “Enter.”

“Our forces have begun reporting back,” his secretary said, “Numerous Protestant villages have been razed successfully. They'll begin the cleanup soon.”

“Oui,” he said, “Merci, Citoyenne Leveque.”

Leveque nodded curtly, and retreated from the office. As she did so, Moreau rose from his chair, and shut the LCD screen mounted above the fireplace opposite his desk off. He turned around, towards the beautiful view of the city of Civray which expanded outside of his office window. Civray, a city of 70,000 souls and the ancestral capital of Aurde, was both large and quaint at the same time. It was large in size, but it was hardly a metropolitan city. Much of the city's industry was based on the agriculture of the outlying countryside, and whatever industry called the city home mostly served said agriculture. This city was impressive, and soon, it would be his.

For the office he occupied currently was not actually his; it was the mayor's office. The grand city hall whose stone pillars and great arches stood as the centerpiece of the city had been claimed by “le Partie” that morning during a series of seizures by Moreau's private forces; forces he had raised and trained in secret, away from the prying eyes of the Cravanians. The mayor and his staff had been promptly executed at 11:00 hours that morning, and Moreau's staff quickly moved in as his troops flooded the streets. His band of thugs numbered only two-thousand currently, but anti-Cravanian sentiments would give that number much growth as his movement solidified. He expected numerous private militias, as well as members of the Aurde Home Guards to join his cause against the Cravanians.

Le Partie had often been considered a socialist movement, always on the political left of the spectrum when compared to the policies of the Conservatives and Liberals of the south. Moreau, however, had very different aspirations. He was not an insider with the party brass, but then again that may have helped him more than hurt him. The mainstream leaders of “le Partie” sought non-violent reform to come to their goals of independence. Moreau sought a different route, however, and while party leaders were aware of his views, they were quite unaware of his influence. Moreau's words struck with many of the poorer communities in the rural north, and especially caught on in the streets of the now-neglected Civray. The party leadership did not know it yet, but “le Partie” was suffering a schism between the official, peaceful elements of the leadership and their followers, and the militant wing forming now under Moreau, who strove to beat back the Cravanians and eliminate Cravanian rule by force.

At first, the devoutly Catholic Moreau had sought inspiration from the Doomani: he recognized the Doomani pontiff, and had found great allies in the Doomani. More recently, however, Moreau had been inspired by none other than the likes of Avelo Verikov and his Coactionist movement. While, admittedly, Coactionism itself had little in common with Moreau's movement, namely because of its centering on the racial superiority of the Alacean people, it did have a very key aspect in common: hatred of the “Cravack.” It was this similarity that Moreau saw that gave him desire to ally himself with the Doomani and Alaceans, and it was this similarity that would likely give him the support he needed.

Moreau reached forward, touching the glass as if feeling the city outstretched before him. He smiled, and stroked the window as if soothing a child.

“Élémentaire, mon amour. Aujourd'hui, tout changera.”

Parlent, Aurde
27.1.10; 12:47hrs

What... what happened?

Pierre de Babin groggily stirred. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and the right side of his face burned with intensity. He brushed his hand against his face, and quickly recoiled at the pain. Warm ooze covered his hand; upon bringing it to his face his blurred vision instantly recognized it as blood. The smell of fire and death surrounded him.

Gradually, his senses returned, and with them his motor functions. He attempted to right himself, but as he regained feeling he noticed a weight upon him. Turning to see what was holding him down, he immediately brought his hands to his face despite the pain. Sprawled across him was the lifeless body of his younger sister Catharine; her beautiful light blue eyes were transfixed upon the ceiling in a calm gaze. Her forehead was marked by a bullet hole; a larger hole marked the back of her head. Pierre immediately began to sob, and embraced his sister's cold corpse in his arms. Her blood washed down his bare arms from the gaping exit wound, but he paid no mind as he continued to sob. He stayed in that position, holding his sister and stroking her brunette locks, for nearly ten minutes before he decided he had to move on and search for survivors. Pierre pushed Catharine's eyes closed, remorseful at it being the last time he would ever see her beautiful eyes again. Her eyes had always been her most defining feature. He steadied himself as he made sure he could still walk, and gradually moved towards the doorway of the chapel. Upon peering outside he immediately had the urge to vomit at the sight. Black smoke billowed from the center of the village as flames tore through Parlent.

He set out towards his home which he had shared with his sister. Remarkably, the soldiers had spared the small cottage the torch, and he set to work cleaning himself up quickly, then gathering up all of the belongings he could care to hold on to and could carry. Among the first items he grabbed was an old photograph of he and his sister from when their parents were still alive; second was his hunting rifle and ample ammunition. It was now that it was dawning on him just how alone in this world he really was.

Pierre left those few items he gathered in the house, though, for first he had to find survivors. After briefly searching the small hamlet, he came to a frightening conclusion: he was the only one left alive. Nearly overwhelmed with grief, Pierre got a hold of himself. The first thing that came to his mind: give his sister a proper burial.

While he felt sorrow towards the other townspeople as he dug through the tool shed at the rear of his cottage, Pierre did not know how long he had before those who did this returned, if they did at all. He would say a prayer for each body he saw, but he was determined to bury only Catharine for the sake of time. Finally gathering up a pick and spade, Pierre decided he knew exactly where he would bury his sister's body: underneath her favorite tree at the edge of town. It was a tree she would often sit under in silence following their parents' deaths, and he knew it was where she would want to be buried.

He worked quickly, digging a hole approximately five feet deep before getting too tired to continue to six. Deciding it was good enough all things considered, he returned to the chapel, and gathered up his sister's body. Wrapping her in a blanket and then a tarp, Pierre carefully placed his sister at the bottom of the grave. He sobbed for a few minutes to himself while he filled the hole in, and stopped as he packed the last of the dirt on top to say a prayer. He had been sure to bury Catharine with her rosary and her Bible, and he brought along a knife to carve her initials and a cross into the tree. He stared and sobbed in silence for several more minutes before turning to leave.

Pierre gathered up his tools, and made the trek back to his cottage. He realized what he had to do next: make his way over to the next village, Lorraine, which was also predominantly Protestant. If they had hit here, whoever they may be, they likely hit there, as well.

As he entered the front gate of his yard, Pierre's ears perked up at a noise he recognized. A large truck had pulled into town on the main road.

“Bâtards.”

[Cravan]

I don't actually speak frog, so excuse glaring mistakes that are doubtlessly present. Google translate is only so capable.

Parlent, Aurde
27.1.10; 13:12hrs

Pierre sat perched on one of the several hills overlooking town, having retreated to the cover of the bushes above to observe these visitors from afar. What he saw rather frightened him; a group of about ten men, dressed in varying degrees of militaria, who worked in two groups: one group gathered the bodies; one dug a large pit at the edge of town.

As the pit was getting larger, men from the first group began to dump the bodies into the pit. Eventually the diggers joined the tossers, and after about ten minutes' worth of hauling the bodies, the entirety of Pierre's hometown had been thrown into the mass grave. A taller man who appeared to be the leader of the group waved to two of the soldiers, who Pierre watched as they returned from the truck with gasoline to douse the grave with.

Pierre was rather transfixed upon the taller man, however, not just because he appeared to be the officer of the group. The man appeared to be uneasy about something; perhaps his conscience was getting the better of him. But, no, Pierre thought, that couldn't possibly be it. Pierre watched him through the scope of his rifle as the man turned towards the chapel and entered it; about a half a minute later he came back out, his arms crossed as if he were perplexed by something. He approached the edge of the grave, and surveyed the bodies on the top layer; yet he still seemed unsatisfied to the observer from the ridge.

Pierre became rather uneasy himself when he saw an order given to search the town. It was now that Pierre knew what this man was so upset about: there were two bodies missing. How the man knew this, Pierre couldn't know, but he was almost sure the missing bodies of himself and Catharine were the cause of the manhunt. Pierre buckled down, and realized that it would not be long until he was possibly discovered. He watched as four teams of two scoured the destroyed village, while one pair remained at the pit of bodies to continue pouring gas on it. He observed for almost a half an hour before he heard one of the groups shout from the edge of town, near where he had buried Catharine. His heart sank.

[...]

"Pardon?"

"Une tombe! J'ai trouvé une tombe!"

The tall masked man approached the soldier's discovery to find a patch of freshly packed dirt beside a tree. He smiled as he examined the carving on the trunk, and turned back towards the village. The now flaming pit of bodies cast a horrid shadow against the blue sky.

"Blue Eyes," he said with a heavy accent, "Un garçon a survécu. Trouvez-le!"

"Oui, Citoyen," a subordinate confirmed as he gathered up a search team. The masked man retreated to the truck, and leaned against it as he tugged up on his balaclava to light a cigarette. He smiled, and shook his head. One would not get away so easily.

Citizens' Assembly, Assembly House
Montignac, Aurde
27.1.10; 13:13hrs

Bulbs flashed wildly as Governor General Henry Ediths approached the podium. A makeshift press conference had been put together at Assembly House for members of the media, and although Ediths had issued a statement not ten minutes earlier, he felt it his responsibility to go before the cameras, as well, in an attempt to resolve a situation that could very well erupt into something much more volatile.

"Ladies and gentlemen; citizens of Aurde," he began, a translator standing nearby.

"Today has been a most tragic day in the history of our island. Today, two great elected officials passed away, and while I cannot approve of his message nor condone his actions, my sincerest condolences go out to the family of Assemblyman Garrus. I have just received word that he has been declared dead on arrival at Lefevre Hospital.

"As stated earlier, my sincerest condolences also go out to Assemblyman Carraway's family: he was a personal friend of mine, and I will miss him quite a lot.

"Despite our losses, I must stress that in this time of tension we remain together as one. Assemblyman Garrus' message and actions were inflammatory and radical, and while I know there is support for his cause, cooler heads must prevail in this situation. As Governor General, I will do everything within my power to ensure the unity and solidarity of our island, and I will not allow this tragic occurrence to result in further violence. Realizing the possible ramifications, but understanding that without doing so Aurde is in danger of splintering, I have ordered for the activation of the Aurde Home Guards to preserve peace and stability. I will not declare martial law under any circumstances, however I will ensure that our island is not torn apart by infighting and strife.

"It is my hope that Aurde can pull through this trying experience together. I understand that tempers are hot and passions are burning, but it is supremely necessary for us to remain together during this period. A house divided cannot stand.

"Thank you, that is all for now."

A chorus of reporters chimed in as the Governor General left the stage, however Ediths ignored the torrent of "Sir Gov'nuhs!" and instead exited the room to leave to his office.

[click]

“Well played, Governor. Well played. Urging unity when you yourself speak like... nay, are an invader! Well I can play your game as well, Ediths. And I have every intention of doing so. I will laugh the day I have you in my grasp, your pitiful-”

“Citoyen Moreau,” came a timid voice from the now cracked doorway. Moreau was taken aback for a moment as he was knocked out of his trance-like state.

“Oui, Claudia.”

His secretary was surprised for a moment at Moreau's informality, but she brushed it aside.

“I have a report from the field commanders of the movement.”

“Oui, give me the update,” Moreau said as he turned towards the large window which dominated the far side of his office.

“Six platoons of the Home Guards have pledged allegiance to the cause so far; dissenters within their ranks have been dealt with.”

“Oui. Combien d'hommes? ”

“Deux cent quatre-vingt seize.”

Moreau smiled; two hundred ninety-six semi-professional soldiers were a major boost to his force.

“Infanterie?”

“Oui.”

“Hmph. Armor serait préférable. L'infanterie est bon.”

Leveque nodded understandingly, however Jacques pushed her aside.

“Merci, Citoyenne. Keep me aware.”

“Oui, Citoyen. Vive Aurde.”

Moreau smiled.

“Oui. Vive Aurde.”

Parlent, Aurde
27.1.10; 13:41hrs

Pierre sighed, holding his breath tightly out of apprehension as the village below and surrounding woods were scoured in search of him. The pit of his stomach churned wildly, however thus far none of the searchers had come even close to his position.

After several minutes, he noticed the masked leader of the group motion to his squad to leave. Pierre breathed a sigh of relief, assuming the masked man figured Pierre had left already, and watched as, one by one, the men boarded their truck. Their leader lagged behind, and tossed his cigarette into the inflamed mass grave after he finished it. He scanned the horizon, and while Pierre could not see his face through the scope, he watched as the man's eyes rested upon Pierre's hilltop. Pierre held his breath again, praying that he would pass over, but the man remained transfixed upon Pierre's position. Pierre tightened up on the trigger, having removed the safety some time ago, and prayed he would not have to sacrifice the situation and fight here. The churning in his stomach returned while the masked man seemed to stare straight through Pierre.

After a tense twenty seconds, which to Pierre felt like an hour, the masked man shouted:

“Au revoir!”

His goodbye echoed across the hills, and while Pierre assumed he was jesting, the masked man pointed directly at his position, and gave a salute of courtesy. Pierre's sweat ran cold as he picked his face up from the scope, but as he did so, all he saw was a small figure walk around to the other side of the truck and hop in the passenger's seat. Pierre's heart felt as if it was about to burst from his chest, but he waited until the truck left to leave his position.

Visibly shaken, Pierre wandered back towards the village. He had left his home on short notice due to the arrival of the truck, and had left some of the belongings he had intended to take with him there, as well as a change of camouflage he would prefer to wear while on the run. But, while it was on his mind, he was also in search of his digital camera. The events in his home village would not go undocumented.

The only problem he faced was finding a way to get in contact with someone who would listen and use the photos, and possibly be able to help him. He had checked; the internet and phone lines to his village had been cut. Finding a viable means of communication was his top priority.

La Citadelle
Civray, Aurde
27.1.10; 13:52hrs

“Citoyen, we are at almost six thousand recruits and counting!”

“Excellent,” Moreau replied.

“Citoyen, the squads have reported 100% eradication of Protestant villages!”

“Magnifique,” Moreau said.

“Citoyen, our spies say that the Home Guards loyalties are faltering further. We may gain an extra ten or twelve platoons!”

Moreau smiled as he and his entourage wound through the vast, ornate hallways of La Citadelle. As he walked, his officers gave him news he wanted to hear: everything was going smoothly so far. Soon, his dream of an independent Aurde would be reality.

“Messieurs, aujourd'hui nous remplissons destin!”

A jubilant chorus of “Hurrah!” and “Vive Aurde!” came from his followers as he referenced their destinies; the group of them were as enthusiastic as school girls for a pop concert. Moreau's entourage followed him into the ancient elevator which serviced the western wing of La Citadelle, which would take them into what was once, and would soon again be, a dungeon in the old Gothic building. The other wing's dungeon had been converted to a command bunker for the brass of Moreau's “le Partie,” and in the interim this dungeon was being used as a studio for Moreau to speak to the people of his reborn nation until a more sophisticated radio set could be installed upstairs. The radio equipment had already been stored in this part of the basement by the previous occupants; logic dictated that it was senseless to move such outdated gear when state of the art equipment was en route.

Although only a radio broadcast, the dungeon had been dressed up with the red, white, blue, and gold of Moreau's movement. While the listeners would not be able to see the colours, the occupants would certainly feel the patriotic surge. At least, that's what the designer had thought.

“Ready?”

“Oui, Citoyen. We are broadcasting over every frequency frequently listened to, and are being relayed across all of northern Aurde.”

“Parfait. Nous commençons.”

As Moreau took his position at the desk and prepared his materials, his followers looked on in pride and admiration at their fearless leader-equal. Moreau had taken a movement hanging together only by its very core elements and expanded it outwards to any Aurdécois who sought independence for their island. He smiled to his bemused followers, almost a cult-of-personality, as he began.

“Bonjour, citoyens. Écoutez, écoutez!

“Aujourd'hui est un grand jour, un grand jour pour notre île! Aujourd'hui est le jour de vengeance! Le jour où notre combat commence!

“Notre lutte ne sera ni rapide, ni facile. Notre combat ne sera pas simple. Elle sera longue, il sera difficile, et il sera fatigant. Nos récompenses dépassent de loin ces coûts. Liberté. La liberté, c'est ce que nous battre.

“The Cravack tries to hold us down; he tries to stomp his jackboot of tyranny into our face. No, I say! Never! Our people will triumph; the Aurdécois will vanquish the Anglo invaders! We cannot do it alone, however. Already thousands have joined our ranks, but we need more. We must fight, and if we are to win, then everyone must fight!

“Our movement has been known as le Partie, but it is time for change; it is time for our enemies to know who we are! We are not just a political movement, we are a force that the Anglo will regret molesting! We are La Confrérie Aurdécois! We are forever separated from those who corrupted our cause, and we will be forever separated from the Crown!

“Vive Aurde!”

[-12 minutes-]

“Raise the colours, my brothers.”

The darkening sky over Civray showed signs of coming rain, however despite this the Cravanian tricolour was removed from the central tower of La Citadelle and promptly disposed of. In its place, the colours of La Confrérie Aurdécois, a blue-white-red flag with the golden cross of the brotherhood at its center, the silhouette of Aurde in the upper right corner, and an inverted Prestonaise flower in the lower left, was raised.

La révolution avait commencé.

15 Hancock Drive
Greater Municipality of Laurana, Cravan
27.1.10; 14:16hrs

“Enter.”

“Rob.”

“Jen,” First Minister Cartwright said, raising his gaze from the desk to the Director of Security, “What brings you around?”

“We picked up a radio transmission in northern Aurde about sixteen minutes ago. It's something that warrants your attention.”

“Oh? What about? Something to do with Carraway and Garrus? Such a messy tussle that was.”

Director Halsey paused, and took a seat opposite Cartwright.

“You could say that, I suppose. You're going to want to have a drink before I brief you.”

Cartwright lifted his head from the desk yet again, this time with a considerably more serious expression on his face. He transfixed his blank gaze on Halsey for a few more seconds while contemplating before retreating back to his work.

“Glasses are in the second cupboard from the left on the bookshelf. Liquor's in the compartment below it.”

[Doomingsland]

Aurde, Cravan
Segmentum Ultimus
02753.C21 (January 27th, 2053 Doomani Calendar)
1400 Local

Thought for the day:

And it's away upon the Crusade where I am meant to be
Lying in a ditch with my Volo century
With a brother on my three and another one on my nine
A mag of ammunition for my ACOM carbine

-Manus Dei Propaganda Song

Titus Sertorius Nero had been watching the road for the past two days. The Home Guards were fairly consistent with their patrols, with one of their patrol vehicles usually carrying half a dozen men rolling by every six hours or so. He had set up camp in the largely Protestant south some two weeks ago, taking most of the time to learn the lay of the land as best he could. Having fought in the densely wooded terrain of Ryvnica and Origamia in his earlier years with the Spatharii, it was with no small amount of pride that he employed his sharpley honed tracking, camouflaging, and concealment skills amidst the forests surrounding Montignac, the southern capital and stronghold of the loyalist Aurde Home Guard and Constibulary.

Truth be told he didn't much like working with the seperatist militias: he found them to be unrefined, undisciplined, and perhaps worst of all, unprofessional. Though there were many that genuinely fought for an independant Catholic Aurde, it appeared to him that some among them were in the fight for their own selfish personal gain rather than any grand notion of defending Christendom. Most of the men he had arrived in country with had stuck with the seperatists, lending the massive pool of experienced carried by battle-hardened veterans of decades of Holy War that Manus Dei Volontes possessed to the seperatists. Nero sincerely hoped that his brothers would whip those barbarians into shape, as their current behavior would likely harm rather than help their cause.

In a long Crusade when in a foreign occupied land, it was far more beneficial to gain the love and respect of the local citizenry and create converts and allies rather than murder them wholesale and create informers and enemy soldiers. Admittedly, wholesale murder was at times necessary, but it was a practice to be reserved as a last resort.

Nero snapped from his train of thought at the sound of an approaching diesel engine. His acutely trained senses told him it was a four wheel vehicle, likely the sort of unarmed patrol vehicle used by the Home Guard. They were right on time. He'd positioned himself in a ditch in a bend in the two-lane road, laying prone with his ACOM shouldered. While his brothers often preferred to 'tacticool' their weapons with picatinny rails and optical sight, Nero was perfectly content to carry the same rifle he'd carried through two wars as an officer in the Imperial Guard. Perhaps his brothers knew better, as this was Nero's first operation as a Manus Dei fighter, but he had carried this rifle through four years of constant war. In some respects he loved it more than his own mother.

He could see his target through the distant treeline as it prepared to round another bend in the road, slightly downhill from him some two hundred meters away. It was, as he suspected, a Home Guard patrol. He sighted in his rifle: he'd affixed a sound suppressor over the muzzle of the weapon, though chose to stick with standard velocity ammunition. The effect of this was that the supersonic crack of the round could still be heard, but the direction from which the round was fired was nigh impossible to discern as the noise of the shot itself was cut to a mere fifteen or so decibels. This was absolutely fine for Nero, who in his monitoring of the road had noted that the Home Guardsmen liked to play their stereo rather loudly anyway: they probably wouldn't even know what was happening when he sprung his trap.

He maintained his careful breathing as the vehicle closed, and he muttered the prayer he always muttered when about to carry out an act such as this one: it was an old trick of Doomani soldiers, made infamous by their snipers, to quietly mutter a prayer in order to control their breathing when shooting. He dropped the front post of the iron sight on his target, and gently squeezed the trigger with the pad of his index finger; the rifle snapped back against his shoulder and he near-instantaneously resighted in, seeing that he'd hit his mark.

The MUTT, which had been traveling some sixty KPH, slammed on its break as the driver realized he'd sprung a flat tire. From where he was he could hear the men yelling in confusion and anger as they pulled their open-top vehicle over to the side of the road. There was no breakdown lane, but it wasn't a road travelled too frequently. The five soldiers piled out of the vehicle to take a look at what had transpired barely a hundred meters from him: they wore OD green fatigues and had basic, hand-me-down web gear, and they all wore soft garrison caps rather than helmets and had their rifles casually slung over their shoulders or tossed in the back of the MUTT. They definately weren't expecting a fight.

A pair of them were bent down around and inspecting the popped tire while a third appeared to be rumaging around for a jack, a second pair, probably the ranking men, standing off to the side and smoking cigarettes. Those two had an overall view of the scene, while the other three were distracted: the two would have to be the first to die. He calmly decided which would die first: one was clearly talking to the other while the second man seemed more concerned with the repairs, merely nodding as the other spoke and staring off into space. Nero sighted in the man talking, lining the tip of the front sight post so that it was just touching his chin, and he began to pray.

A muffled crack, and the first man's head snapped back sharpley, a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull where the round exited; vermillon liquid trailed down the road, which was now generously decorated with his grey matter. They other man looked over a split second later only to have a second round tear through his left temple, cutting short his attempt to alert his comrades after seeing the bloody corpse of his comrade. The man rummaging through the back seat of the MUTT also suddenly stood up, and Nero nailed him through the back of the head, causing him to slump forward. Barely two seconds had gone by before the strange hissing noises and sound of heavy objects slumping to the ground got the attention of the other two: One man looked over and yelled in shock, only to be cut short by a single shot to the head, and the second man took off running.

This seemed to hardly effect the ever-calm Nero, who fired off one carefully placed shot that caught the man in his left shin, sending him tumbling to the ground, yelling in pain: he'd barely made it across the road and into the adjacent woods. This one, in his haste to get away, seemed to have left his rifle behind. That made things all the easier.

The terrified, anguished Cravanian was crawling away as fast he as he could when he felt a foot gently force his body to the ground, stopping him from moving.

"Hands behind your head," a voice behind the soldier growled in his native language, though he seemed to have a bit of an accent. A foreigner?

The Cravanian, seeing no alternative and praying for his life, complied: he felt the foreigner put his knee down on his back, forcing him down further, and his hands were bound with a ziptie. He heard the noise of duct tape being peeled. The Guardsman whimpered.

"Shhh, I'm not going to kill you," the voice reassured him, an almost saintly calm about it as the Cravanian's mouth was taped shut. Though frozen in terror, he was at least slightly more at ease.

The foreigner rolled him over so that he was on his back, his hands still ziptied behind his head. He saw standing over him a lean, towering figure, his face concealed behind a black balaclava and a pair of red tinted sunglasses. He wore an OD green hoodie, a pair of camouflage pants with some web gear hanging from a belt and harness he wore over the hoodie. He recognized the camouflage pattern and the rifle he carried as Doomani, though that didn't really surprise him: after all, the bad guys always packed that sort of gear. What surprised him most was the sword hanging from his belt.

The man stared down at him, his face and eyes totally hidden from view, creating an air of total intimidation. "Lie still, I'm going to bandage your wound," the voice calmly yet sternly commanded.

The soldier, till clearly frightened, nodded his head as the warrior went to work, dousing the hole over his shin in gauz and quickclot and bandaging it. The Cravanian grunted in pain: the bone was definately broken. The man patching him up chuckled in response.

"Quit bitching, you'll live."

Suddenly the soldier was yanked to a sitting position by the front of his shirt, bringing him nearly eye to eye with his captor. He could only see himself in the red mirrored sunglasses sported by warrior. His heart was beating at a terrifying rate.

"Now listen carefully. I'm letting you live, but you have to make me a promise."

A momentary pause. The Cravanian nodded.

"There's a good lad. When you work yourself free, or someone comes and gets you, you're going to go back to your unit and tell them what happened here. You will tell everyone you know: every man in your battalion that will listen, your family, your friends. Everyone. Do you understand?"

The voice, though icey calm, had an ever so slight hint of malice that sent a chill down his spine.

Eagerly, the Cravanian nodded. Anything to get this psycopath to leave him alone. "Good. Have a pleasant nap."

Before he even knew what was happening the warrior had snatched up his rifle and slammed the butt into the captive's head, knocking him out cold. Nero removed his sunglasses, tucking them in a pouch on his web belt, satisfied in his work, and began to slip away back towards his encampment, which lay some ten miles away in the hills. He'd gotten what he had come for. His Crusade had begun.

[Cravan]

Aux armes, citoyens !
Formez vos bataillons !
Marchons ! marchons !
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons !

Overcast drooped over the industrial city of Civray; grey skies contrasted the red and brown bricks sharply. Citizens had changed their routines little over such a short time: barely twenty-four hours had passed since the start of “la révolution,” yet already the city was draped in the red-white-blue tricolours of La Confrérie from all corners. Banners waved in the cool, damp breeze from balconies, while posters hot off of the presses covered brick and stone walls. La Marseillaise rang through the alleyways triumphantly as every radio station in the city had been hijacked by the new government. La Confrérie was at large in Civray.

Yet even so, La Confrérie's influence only spanned so far. There were still those within the city who harboured feelings of sympathy; perhaps even alignment with the crown and the Protestants. Word of the actual massacres had yet to reach the public; the regime was sure to keep that relatively quiet. Yet even so, there would still be dissidents. Many had learned quickly, however, to keep their mouths shut.

“À nouveau! Parler!”

The masked thug pointed his Yuslevak-made rifle down at a writhing figure on the ground, his eyes and mouth only visible. The man squirmed in pain as he clenched his stomach after the butt of the former “soldier's” rifle had met it with force. A number of men in mismatched camouflage fatigues, masked and unmasked, with a variety of weapons stood around their prey in the street like vultures scouting fresh meat.

“Dieu prot-” the man gasped, catching himself. He closed his eyes, his arms still over his gut, and rolled onto his side.

“God save the Queen.”

The first man smashed the loyalist in the side of the face with his rifle, causing the man to spit up blood and a few teeth. He lowered his rifle, and motioned to his subordinates to carry the man away to the truck parked down the block: the man would likely never be seen again. The masked leader removed a cigarette from a tin container as he watched the dissident leave a trail of blood behind, and placed it to his exposed lips before glancing at the condemned's wife. The woman, child in arms, looked on tearfully as her husband was dragged away. She noticed the soldier staring at her, and immediately looked away in shame. The soldier grinned, and removed the unlit cigarette from his lips.

“Et vous?”

Her child, a boy of merely six, buried his face into the furrows of his mother's blue dress. She held the boy tight as he sobbed into her thigh.

“Viv-...” she began, “Vive Aurde.”

Her delivery was half-hearted at best, and she refused to make eye contact, but the thug merely laughed and clapped his hands together before placing his cigarette back in his mouth and lighting it. He walked away from the broken family without a second thought as the young, now single mother returned to her weeping.

Such was how Sécurité Publique, or Public Safety, operated. The Public Safety was a militant police force of sorts: they wore mismatched uniforms, some sported tricolour arm bands, others balaclavas and black sweatshirts. They were the bulk of the militias who made up La Confrérie's forces: they were behind the massacres out in the countryside. They were responsible for the safety and security of La Confrérie. They were authorized to use whatever means were necessary to dispatch enemies of the movement. They were ruthless. They were untrained. They were ideologues. And they sought nothing more than the eradication of every Protestant and Cravanian-loving life form they could find. They may have been unrefined, but they were no doubt effective.

Savages, a young woman thought as she passed, not even casting a single sympathetic glance towards the soon-to-be widow. Well dressed in a knee-length black skirt and grey overcoat, only the long black stockings covering her stork-like legs were completely visible of her everyday wear. She sported a red-white-blue flower pinned on to the left side of her coat, and a tricolour ribbon adorned her drooping grey hat. She carried a large handbag on one arm, leather, and walked with a pace that showed some semblance of importance. Some members of Public Safety who actually recognized her snapped to attention and offered a bow or salute; others cast a lustful glance at her figure. The damp air caused her auburn hair to crinkle in the drizzling breeze, however it stayed in place with a red-white-blue ribbon tying her hair into a bun.

The young woman rounded a street corner, and approached that building within which the movement had found its birth. Across from Brotherhood Square, formerly Union Square, La Citadelle stood in magnificence and glory. Its Imperial Gothic-Revival architecture stood as a compliment to the people who built it: it was an analogue to Lennox Block or to the Palace of Lancaster in Laurana. And yet, a regime with foundations based on opposing the builders of this grand building now occupied it. Although always labeled as “La Citadelle,” the building had previously been known as the “Old State House” in Civray, where the Cravanian instituted government of Aurde had originally sat prior to its moving to Montignac.

Her heels clicked against the granite stairs as she ascended to the main doorway. Men in old Pattern 42 camouflage and red berets of the Garde Républicaine, the “elite” personal bodyguards and inner militant circle of Moreau's, stood at attention while flanking the main doorways. Immediately they straightened when they beheld the woman before them.

“Citoyenne Leveque, bonne journée. Citoyen Moreau awaits.”

“Merci,” Claudia Leveque responded while bowing her head. Two guards hastily opened the center door for Moreau's personal secretary, and cast desirous glances at her backside as she retreated to the interior of La Citadelle.

[. . .]

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BREAKING NEWS: Armed Revolution in Aurde
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A warm glow through rainclouds casts a
somber shadow on Civray following
armed revolution and resistance.

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Yesterday's assassination of beloved Assemblyman Carraway was but the tip of the iceberg as a wave of anti-Cravanian sentiments swept through the north of Aurde.

Aurde, the Crown Dependency located just south of North Point, has been overcome with strife as nationalist sentiments have splintered the small island community into loyalist and separatist factions, divided fairly evenly between north and south. The predominantly Catholic north, of which some residents have been seeking independence for decades, broke out in armed resistance against the Cravanian crown yesterday in a bid for independence. The assassination of Assemblyman Carraway is thought to be related in some way to the uprising, however no concrete link can be drawn.

The new revolutionary government of Aurde's north announced itself yesterday at approximately 13:00, setting itself forth as “La Confrérie Aurdécois ,” or “The Brotherhood of Aurde.” Thusfar, actual armed conflict has been limited, and instead a martial state has been declared over the capital of the movement, Civray, by Brotherhood forces.

HMG has yet to make a complete statement on the situation, however snippets from Cartwright's cabinet show action will apparently be swift and powerful to thwart a possible fascist regime befalling all of Aurde. RAS Bladstone, located on the islands of Bladstone off of the coast of the two main islands which compose Aurde, is home to a number of important facilities in the Cravanian military's home defense network, and in the military's offensive nuclear capabilities. The Department of War has thusfar also declined to make comment.

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© Cravanian Broadcasting Network 2009

Lorraine, Aurde
28.1.10; 08:44hrs

The sound of fire and stench of death bombarded his senses as Pierre de Babin crawled ever closer towards the hilltop overlooking the village of Lorraine. He had followed the road, through the wood, and made his way throughout the night towards Parlent's sister village in the mountains. He had stopped to sleep in a makeshift shelter, and had spent several hours in the wee hours of the morning scouting the roads, particularly at the only petrol station within five miles of his home. He noted nothing, but knew that there must have been some interest by these savages in some of the resources of the area.

As Pierre finally reached the crest of the hill, he saw what he already knew: a village torn asunder by violence and death wrought by squads of destruction. Although the sun was already up for quite some time, flames in some of the houses drowned the shadows. The smouldering pit of bodies reeked, and repulsed Pierre just as much as the pit in his own home village.

Something was different here, however, as he noticed a car he was familiar with: the MUTT used by the Home Guards. It was adorned, however, with colours he was not used to: rather than the green-white-blue Cravanian tricolour, it was instead painted with a red-white-blue tricolour with which he was unfamiliar. The flag was emblazoned with a stylized golden cross, and there were smaller golden embellishments he couldn't recognize even through his rifle scope at this range. He knew red, white, and blue were the colours of the nationalists and separatists: therefore he surmised it was a vehicle of their's. Perhaps Home Guards had defected to this movement? Perhaps it was more widespread than Pierre thought? The idea sent chills through his spine that his was happening even further than he had originally anticipated.

Pierre decided to find himself a suitable position to observe from, not knowing the origins or nature of the MUTT parked in the middle of the village. Best to wait it out, he thought: what little military training he had had with the Guards prior to his leaving due to his mother's illness was resonating more with him now than ever.

RAS Bladstone
28.1.10; 09:00hrs

“Morning, beautiful.”

“Fuck off, Nixon,” an irritable Lieutenant Mimieaux declared as she sat down at the table within the separate mess area dedicated to Bladstone's Army staff.

“Pleasant as always. You know they have pills for that now? Birth control stops that nasty cycle.”

Mimieaux cast a glance of annoyed bemusement at Nixon as she engulfed a spoonful of her morning cereal. Major Speirs, whose face was buried behind a copy of The Laurana Tribune, chuckled.

“I know they make pills for that," she declared after swallowing her spoonful, "I happen to be on them.”

“Well then why don't we fuck? No kids to worry about.”

“You could use that same logic with Winters.”

“All right, settle down, kids. It's too early to start this already,” Captain Winters announced as he arrived at the table and dove face-first into his plate full of flapjacks.

“You know there are supposed to be regulations against sexual harassment, Nixon?”

“You know your tits are a hell of a lot more interesting than regulations, Fleur?”

Lieutenant Mimieaux smiled, and turned back towards her breakfast, “What tits, Nixon?”

“Oh, self burn. She's got you there, Nix,” Speirs said as he lowered his newspaper.

“That she does, Major, that she does.”

“Atten-HUT!” echoed throughout the mess as Colonel Leslie Andersen entered from the far side.

“At ease,” the colonel announced as he approached the table of four in the corner of the room. The four immediately rose, at which point the colonel settled them down.

“Word on the situation on the mainland, sir?”

“Aye, Major, I just got a telegram from Laurana a half an hour ago. G-team's going to have its work cut out for it.”

“Details?”

“I can't say right now, I don't have specifics. Apparently RSS is already pinpointing key members of the movement, so your first couple ops'll probably be snatch-n-grabs or outright killings. You brief today at 13:00 hours for your first mission, and you ship out at 16:00. That group of Aequatians who we were supposed to get on loan this summer are being expedited; you'll have a team of SASR with you for the briefing and for your stint in the north.”

“Right. Any idea where the first target is?”

“Well he's somewhere in Aurde, obviously,” the colonel said with a smirk. “I'll let you get back to your breakfast, gentlemen,” he said, “and lady,” he corrected himself.

“Always a treat,” Mimieaux said after the colonel exited the room.

“Just like your ass.”

“Don't really have much of one of those either, fuckbag, try again,” Mimieaux replied without turning her attention from her meal.

Camp Eure
Eure, Aurde
28.1.10; 09:22hrs

“Do be gentle,” a man in hospital scrubs declared as he ushered a suited man into a hospital room. Privacy blinds were drawn against the far bed, and the television was turned off in lieu of the drapes being drawn to let in the sunlight that was shining over southern Aurde.

“Thank you, Captain. I will be.”

The doctor nodded, and returned to his own work as the suited man entered. He approached slowly, and peeked his head around the curtain. A young man, barely twenty years old, sat upright on the bed. Bandages covered his left leg with some residual blood stains showing through the sterile white gauze. The boy's gaze was transfixed on the clouds and trees outside, however he quickly noticed his visitor.

“Bonjour,” the suited man said.

“Bonjour.”

“English?”

“Oui- I mean yes,” he answered with little semblance of an accent.

“Good,” the man said, “How are you feeling?”

The young man shrugged, and turned back towards the window.

“So I'd think. I realize this will be difficult, but I need to ask a few questions about what happened yesterday.”

“I figured you would.”

The suited man retrieved a digital audio recorder from his briefcase, and sat in the lounge chair adjacent to the bed.

“Bernard, it is?”

“Oui. Private Bernard Roux, Eighth Regiment, Aurde Home Guards.”

“Where are you from, son?”

“Montignac. Where else do you think I learned English this well?”

The suited man smiled, and retrieved his yellow notepad and pen.

“I assume you know who I work for, yes?”

“I have an idea, oui.”

“I'm Special Agent David Carlisle, Section Eight of the RSS,” he said while clicking his pen open and jotting down a few notes around the notes already on the sheet.

“Internal Security? Impressive. I was hoping for a career with the RSS after the Guards paid for my university.”

“Well that's still possible. I can't see your romping around Karain on that leg anytime soon, though.”

The young soldier laughed, “I suppose not.”

“Now, to business. I need you to recount what you remember of yesterday's events, in as much detail as you can, and in order.”

“Well,” the Guardsman began, “I remember we were driving our usual patrol route. Nothing unusual. Then we had a tire blowout from under us.”

“Yes,” the RSS agent said interrupting, “Investigators determined that the sniper shot out one of your tires.”

“So I guessed. In any case, I don't remember much else than turning to see one of my squadmates cut down after he noticed the sniper fire. Michel was his name, a good friend. I took off running, and he caught me in the leg. I tried crawling, but he stopped me.”

“Your wound was already dressed when a second patrol arrived. Do you remember how this happened?”

“Oui, the sniper dressed my wound. He instructed me that he was allowing me life to spread my story; of how my entire squad was cut down by him.”

“What did he look like?”

The soldier sighed, “Honestly, that memory is cloudy at best. I remember he wore a mask and sunglasses, red sunglasses actually. I could see myself in them. His pants were camouflage... Doomani I believe. His rifle, too, I recognized the ACOM. There was something else... a sword. Oui, a sword from his belt.”

“What kind of sword?”

“Well... it was almost like those used in ancient times. Short and wide. I only saw the sheath and handle, though.”

Carlisle nodded.

“Did he say anything else? What did his voice sound like? Accent? What language did he speak?”

“He spoke French to me. His accent... I couldn't place my finger on it. Not English. I couldn't tell you. But definitely not English.”

Carlisle smiled.

“Thank you, Private. Rest easy,” he said, patting the soldier on his good leg.

“Catch him, please. Stop him before he can kill more.”

“That's damn well what we're going to do.”

La Citadelle
28.1.10; 10:12hrs

“Citoyenne, bonjour! Bonjour!”

“Merci, Citoyen Moreau,” Claudia Leveque replied to her employer from her desk as he and his top brass exited their meeting.

“How goes the revolution today?”

“Reports are in, we're far ahead of schedule and recruitment goals,” Claudia replied as she handed over a few file folders, “These reports are fresh from within the last hour.”

“Magnifique! Fantastique!”

Moreau, elated, tossed the folders on to a table near the door to his office, and jerked his secretary from her chair, leading her in a messy waltz while humming La Marseillaise. Leveque, somewhat uncomfortable, went along with Moreau as the two danced in circles around the foyer to his office. Laughing, he released her, and retrieved the folders he had tossed. This was perhaps the happiest Claudia had seen Moreau in weeks.

“If anyone needs me, hold my calls for the afternoon unless it is urgent. I'd rather my mood not be disturbed.”

“Oui, Citoyen.”

Leveque returned to her work, and glanced up just as Moreau shut his office door behind him. She shook her head, and began humming La Marseillaise as she typed.

Aux armes, citoyens !
Formez vos bataillons !
Marchons ! marchons !
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons !

[Aequatio]

Herk GR.3 "Lady Jane" aerial gunship, ten minutes out from RAS Bladstone, Aurde
2010-01-28; 1017 Local

"Out of thirty planes they had on the tarmac, this was the only one that was available for us?" Asked the Brian Holt as he adjusted his makeshift seat atop his heavy rucksack, "What about that slogan... Miles Above and Beyond?" The soldier nudged one of the crewmembers with his elbow.

"It's bullshit," Said the technical sergeant as he slumped back into his seat behind the twin 120mm gun mortars mounted on the port side of the fuselage, "The air force is lucky if it can get even half of its planes in the air."

"Good to know we can at least depend on the navy to get us anywhere then," Replied the sergeant as he ignored the airman and turned back to the rest of the SASR team, "How are you boys holding up back there? Hawk... Beanstock."

The young sergeant sporting the auburn mohawk nodded without a word while his friend had his face buried into the open top of an ARAF-issue air sickness bag, raising it at the staff sergeant's question, "I joined the army so I wouldn't have to fly."

"Then why did you bother applying for the regiment?" Asked Holt with a smile.

"Lost on the way to college, sarnt," Shot back the man as he continued to vomit into the brown paper bag.

In the fire control cabin just behind the cockpit, the only officer of the group sat at a table looking over a folder filled with reports, all marked with the RSS letterhead. The situation was grave enough, but the fact that open revolution had broken out was upsetting, to say the least, for Markham and his team, who were all born Selonians and loyal to the Queen Regent Alice as any true-blooded Cravanian. "Ten minutes to Bladstone, sir," Mentioned SFC Craig Fairbrass standing at the door, "Pilot wants us to secure our belongings, take our seats and stop banging the stewardesses," He said with a wry grin.

Markham closed the folder over the collected papers and rose to his feet, grabbing a rail along the ceiling as the bulky aircraft banked into a gentle turn, "How are the new boys holding up back there... Holt hasn't scared them out the door, has he?"

"I told him to take it easy on them, sir," Said the old sergeant, "It's one thing to get transfered into a new unit full of old men, it's another to be sent on operation with them right away."

The officer nodded, "I'm going to miss Gaines, fifteen years to the regiment and just like that... he's gone."

"A shame," Chimed Fairbrass, "But we're still here."

"Aye... indeed we are, and with quite a job to do," Said Markham dryly as they took their seats in the rear compartment. The aircraft began its landing procedures as the aircrew buckled themselves into their respective seats. Minutes passed and after an excruciatingly-long taxi off the runway, the Aequatian special forces soldiers stepped off the aircraft's rear cargo ramp and were met by RAS security personnel and ground crew.

"Welcome to Aurde, sir," One of the young airmen said to the SASR troopers setting foot on the tarmac. Each one hefting a large rucksack along with their personal weapons as they were led to waiting vehicles and ferried to the airbase's main facilities.

OOC: Short and sweet, but it'll do for now.

[Cravan]

Lorraine, Aurde
28.1.10; 08:56hrs

It had been nearly fifteen minutes that Pierre had been observing the torched hamlet of Lorraine, until finally out of one of the houses came a man in Home Guards uniform, laughing wildly with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a tricolour armband on the opposite bicep. His belt was undone, as from behind him came three more figures: two young women, clothed only in blankets and bloodied and beaten, and another similarly uniformed trooper. The first wore a rank pin on his hat, making himself out to be a lieutenant from a distance; his compatriot held the junior end of the lieutenant rank. The officer bringing up the rear had their two captives held at gunpoint, and prodded the rear girl with the barrel of his sidearm every few seconds to keep her moving.

Pierre was horrified, yet somewhat unsurprised at the premonition that these two Guards had taken part in the slaughter of this village, and then decided to “enjoy” two of the village's daughters before killing them as well, likely assuring them they would be spared. What shocked him more, however, was the fact that Home Guards were responsible here: just who was he up against?

Pierre quieted his mind, realizing that he was the only thing which stood between those girls and hot lead slugs. He watched through the scope as the girls were taken to the edge of the village closest to him, and forced to stand side-by-side barefoot on the gravel road leading into the town. They were stripped of their blankets, and stood stark naked with their backs to Pierre as the two officers aligned opposite them. The girls were shivering, and while Pierre could not hear, likely crying hysterically. The officer who had been trailing behind them had his sidearm leveled at one girl's head; the other spoke to the girls casually, then moved to take a swig of his champagne.

As the first officer's head jerked back with the bottle between his lips, Pierre held his breath and steadied the crosshair over the second officer's chest. Every second would count here.

Pierre let out his breath, and took another; he switched the rifle's safety off, and gently squeezed his trigger finger.

[. . .]

“Rallye-toi!”

First Platoon of 2 Mechanized Brigade, Aurde Home Guards formed an armoured column surrounded by infantry as it plunged across Fallway Bridge into the murky north. Contact had been lost with the north's command structure: it had been assumed many had either defected or been routed in the rebellion. 2 Mechanized was being sent in as a scouting mission to find out.

As the column started across the bridge, infantry members of the unit mounted up in their M113 armoured personnel carriers, seeking cover from what may lie ahead. They had been promised airmobile support if things went awry; not that it was expected, however the gesture was warmly accepted by the leaders of the platoon.

The platoon's primary objective was to secure a number of villages which lay along the M4 roadway, a major road that led straight to Civray. Fallway Bridge was one of four bridges that connected the north and south together; it was just to the west of the Montignac Inlet Bridge, the largest of the four. Fallway was at one of the two narrowest crossing points over the channel: a mere fifty feet straight across. Much of the land on the opposite shore of Fallway was forested and swampy, making the unit's armour useless outside of the villages and offroad, but resistance was expected to be negligible at best.

After a few minutes of travel, the column of four M113's completely cleared the bridge, and approached its first objective, the village of Molyneaux. The village appeared calm to the gunner of the first M113; everything seemed normal.

Perhaps too calm. Perhaps too normal.

RAS Bladstone
28.1.10; 12:01hrs

“Good afternoon, ladies... and gentleman,” Colonel Andersen declared as he entered the briefing room, accompanied by two military intelligence officers. The colonel ascended the stage to a podium, smoothed out his white mustache, and cleared his throat as his associates shuffled various files at a table on the opposite side of the stage, “Be seated.”

“I'd like to extend a hearty welcome to our SASR friends here. To clarify, they are Selonians, meaning we all have the same Queen.”

“So you're not completely horrible people, after all,” Nixon said with a grin while looking to their Aequatian counterparts.

“Leftenant,” the colonel berated.

“Sorry, sir.”

“In any case, I'm sure you all know the gist of what's going on up north. I'll save my breath and skip to the juicy shit,” he said, motioning for one of the aides to fire up the LCD projector. The other prepared a document camera on the stage.

“Laurana's known about the potential for this situation for a little while, and while they're not inclined to tell us exactly how long they've had their eyes on them or how they discovered the faction within Le Partie, the RSS has sent along a list of the movement's top leaders and details about them. I think you can surmise what your jobs will be.”

Major Speirs raised his hand.

“Major,” the colonel said, acknowledging him.

“Kill 'em?”

“Oh so violent, oh so morbid as always, Major. Your main objective will be to apprehend them; standard snatch and grab ops. If, however, the package gets broken en route, I doubt Laurana will tip you any less.”

One of the intelligence officers motioned to the colonel, indicating the projector was ready. The colonel nodded.

“As you can see here, the RSS has forwarded along some choice information about our targets, ordered from most important to least important to the movement's centralized structure. Tonight's op is after Heiny, the regime's number two. He's an old Partie defector to Moreau's new Brotherhood, and he's a mean motherfucker.”

“What kind of name is Heinrich for a frog?” Smyth, a junior member of the Aequatian team who seemed to be largely ignored, spoke up.

“Good observation of you. Heinrich here is only half Aurdécois. His other half is Alacean.”

“Oh,” Nixon piped up, “Oh that's not good.”

“You're quite correct, there, Leftenant.”

[float=right][/float] “If you'll allow me to give you a brief overview of tonight's op. Here you can see a snapshot of Heinrich's home, towards the northern shore of the island. He is known to spend much of his time here, away from Civray, and his movements are predictable. Local sources, mostly farmers, have his security patrols mapped out precisely for us.”

“Are these people trustworthy?”

“We have no reason to believe they aren't.”

“I don't know how I feel about that. The north is usually hostile to the crown.”

“Well, I'm afraid its about all we have right now,” the colonel said, “And as far as the RSS and military intel is concerned, these farmers are reliable and loyal. If you'll have a look at this photo, though, and I realize its not the best quality, you'll note Heinrich's villa is a three story home. Having acquired floor plans from the local village's town records, the master bedroom is on the top floor, towards the northern end of the house. What's of more interest, though. Is the study. Heinrich is a notorious workaholic, and we expect he'd be up late into the night reading or doing other work related to Brotherhood administrative functions. Since we believe he is a primary link between Jena and Civray, he's likely very busy putting together communications for the Coactionist government. His study is on the second floor of the house, at the southern end. Servants are only in the house between 0600 hours and 1600 hours, so during the op's hours its unlikely you'll encounter any. If you see someone in the house other than Heiny, its probably a guard.

“Which, speaking of,” the colonel said, motioning to the intelligence operators to change files.

“Here you can see the lay of the land. You'll insert by helo from a destroyer waiting offshore to the northeast, and extract the same way. The south guard hut also houses servants, so its size is somewhat deceiving. Guards change up at 2100 hours, this means you'll likely have a free run of the grounds for nearly fifteen minutes to get in position, breach, clear, and exit. I suggest you break off into two teams, one position north of the house and the other wrap around to the woodline in the south, between the guard huts. Converge on the house, the southern group takes the southwest patio door while the northern group takes the northeastern patio door. Breach, clear, and get out. That's only my suggestion, though.”

“Right,” Winters said, “That being said, when do we deploy?”

"HMCS Wellingston is on-station off the coast of the northern island awaiting your arrival. You fly out to them at 1400, where you'll have a more detailed prep session amongst yourselves with whatever extra intel we can throw in to formulate your own strategy. You'll drop in at approximately 2000 hours, and the helo will wait on station for you for about two hours, until they'll have to swap birds out for fuel. The swap would take about ten minutes, so do hurry if you think you'll have company with you."

The colonel surveyed the assembled ten operatives.

"Any other questions for now?"

Silence was his answer.

“Good. Get your kit together and be on the tarmac at helipad two for 1400. Dismissed.”

Lorraine, Aurde
28.1.10; 08:59hrs

Crack.

The Guard with pistol drawn crumpled to the ground, writhing in shock as his life literally poured from his chest. The other, now mid-gulp, stood frozen for a moment, realizing that the shot he had heard was not that of his friend's pistol. He removed his lips from the bottle, red wine spilling over his uniform, as an even redder stream of blood joined the wine now staining his shirt. He crumpled over, the wine bottle crashing to the gravel and shattering.

The two girls first let out a scream, then realized that both were still alive. Hastily fetching up their blankets, they turned around to see Pierre come sprinting down the hillside a few hundred feet away, rifle in both hands as he came to an abrupt stop on the road.

“Bonjour!”

One of the girls, a blonde, awkwardly tugged at the blanket to get it to form better to her body.

“Merci,” she replied, weakly; her darker-haired friend remained silent.

“Comment vas-tu?”

“How the hell do you think?” she replied in heavily accented English. Pierre simply nodded wordlessly.

“Go get dressed, both of you. I'll wait here and keep watch.”

Both nodded, and retreated into the house from which they had come before with their armed escorts as Pierre surveyed the damage up close. It was just as bad here as it had been in Parlent, but finally he had found some friendly faces.

Russel Castle
Laurana, Cravan
28.1.10; 12:42hrs

“Gentlemen,” Sir Harold Grant announced as he placed his hat upon the coat rack and stripped off his woolen exterior, “Shall we get started early?”

The Chief of Security and Intelligence, the primary leading officer of the Royal Security Service underneath Director Halsey, took his seat at the head of the table of assembled intelligence personnel. The dark room was encased with windows on three sides, however the windows were fogged out and vertical blinds were drawn to keep unwanted eyes out. The lights were dimmed, as a projector against the one solid wall displayed the five most wanted men in Aurde.

“I understand the heavy hitter team has been assembled at Bladstone?”

“I just got off the phone with Andersen; they've been briefed. They'll be moving to the Wellingston at two o'clock.”

“Beautiful. I want Heinrich on the first flight to Laurana we can get out of Bladstone.”

“It's already been arranged, Harold.”

Grant smiled as he drew a pipe from his jacket pocket and packed his tobacco in tightly. Drawing a match, he took a few drags to get the tobacco lit, then dropped the match into a crystal ash tray within which one of his colleague's cigarettes was already smoldering.

“Do we have any more word on Moreau's sleeping arrangements? I know he changes beds every night. There's not a house in Civray that would deny him right now, mostly because anyone who would would be shot on the spot.”

“Autumn hasn't given us much recently. Probably trying to maintain cover. Weekly check-ins have been mostly mundane.”

“Perhaps he's gone rogue?” one of the junior members of the board suggested. 'Autumn' was the common cover name used in all official files to refer to an agent whose name was Need to Know for most lower-ranked members of the RSS.

Grant snorted at the thought, gesturing wildly with his pipe, “If only you had clearance for Autumn's complete file, you'd know that's impossible. Autumn may do some... questionable things. But overall, he's a patriot, and then some.”

“I've read what I can. Quite a bit of overkill, if you ask me.”

The junior officer was referencing Autumn's tendency to use excessive force when things went sour: the Wanderjarian Home Intelligence Group had barred him from ever operating in the Afrikaner Free State again after a small schoolhouse out in the bush 'mysteriously' disappeared in an 'unexplained' explosion. Autumn's cover had been blown, and he had therefore decided to clean up after himself and tie up loose ends; he had removed one of the largest thorns in the Wanderjarian government's side, a communist guerilla leader from the PALC who had harassed private Cravanian assets alongside Wanderjarian, but four innocents also perished in the blast, one of them a young white student. It left a mark on Autumn's record, one that in most professions would be career ending: for Autumn, it was a major boost, at least in the eyes of the Directorate.

“He did his job,” one of the senior members at the table defended, “and completed his objective. Besides, he's in a position now with little access to any such tools. If things go over badly, well, less people will die, I'll tell you that much.”

“At the cost of innocent life, his objective was accomplished. I don't care if he can't do it now, the fact is he would.”

“You chose the wrong career, Johnson. People die. It's our job to minimize how many.”

The younger member reserved himself to his chair, and rested his chin upon folded hands, conceding defeat.

“In any case, we should be getting an update from Autumn's handler tonight at midnight. Hopefully he'll have a better report than has been usual. I'm certain he will; if Autumn's evaded suspicion for this long, he's no doubt beyond suspicion.”

Lorraine, Aurde
28.1.10; 09:22hrs

Pierre sat across the kitchen table from the two girls in the small cottage, an awkward silence pervading as steaming coffee sat before each of the three. The clock ticked just as it would under any circumstance, breaking the silence each second as its hand inched across its face. The two girls had since clothed themselves; the blonde in a tasteful red dress, the brunette in a flowing blue skirt and white blouse. They looked surprisingly well kept considering the circumstances.

“How many were there?”

“Huit,” the brunette replied, her dark eyes staring into her coffee. The cup was of the highest grade of Shansekian china.

“Including the officers?”

“Oui, the others, they did not wear uniforms; dépareillés.”

Pierre nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. It appeared as if the same group was responsible, but here with support from the Home Guards. Or, at least, some separatist sect of them.

“They came into the town. They killed everyone, one by one. They had cut the phone lines beforehand. All of the mobile towers went down last night.”

“And they spared you?”

“We were both in my room,” the blonde said, “Hiding. They came and took us out to the front room, where I watched them execute my parents,” she recalled, motioning her head towards the foyer where two bodies lay under sheets, “The officers told one of their soldiers to keep us here, alive, and that they would be back. Then they offered us life in exchange for...”

She trailed off, averting her gaze, tears welling up in her eyes.

“How could we refuse? We thought they would live up to their offer,” she said through her despair, “We had no other choice.”

The two girls were not more than eighteen years each; they likely went to school with Catharine. In fact, the brunette almost resembled her, he thought to himself, but no... no, her eyes were completely different. Nothing could ever compare to Catharine's blue eyes.

“Je comprends. I won't judge,” he said.

He had established their names earlier; Marie was the blonde, Jacqueline the brunette. They were the best of friends, they lived across the street from one another, and they did everything together. Now, they had survived war together. For now.

“I have family in Leone,” Pierre said, plainly, “Catholic family. I'm assuming that's why this has happened. I'll take you to them, they owe me a favour as it is.”

“Êtes-vous certains?”

“Oui. I won't let you refuse.”

“Will you stay with us?”

“For a night or two, maybe. I plan on getting the word out about this somehow. But I need to keep on my way. I have some... unfinished business with these monsters. Some revenge to exact.”

“Leone is fairly far away. The keys to my parents' car are on the table, there. You're welcome to my father's closet, as well.”

“That's very kind of you. I'll be sure to pick something modest. We need to keep a low profile, after all.”

“Oui,” Marie replied.

“Quite,” Jacqueline said in agreement.

Pierre took another sip of coffee.

“Good brew,” he said after swallowing, “Very good brew.”

La Citadelle
Civray, Aurde
28.1.10; 13:02hrs

“Bonjour, Citoyens,” Claudia Leveque said as Moreau emerged from his office, his Minister of Security close in tow. The two men exchanged pleasantries, and separated as Moreau approached his secretary.

“Well, it is official.”

“Quoi, citoyen?”

“My mood went from incredible to horrible in a matter of hours. Perhaps the fastest transition I have ever had.”

“Why so?”

“Citoyen Roux has informed me that there is a mole in our midst. I didn't even think it possible myself, we have been working behind the guise of le Partie for so long.”

Claudia appeared somewhat taken aback by this news, and raised a perplexed eyebrow.

“Who does he suspect?”

“Roux believes Citoyen Linviere is to blame for the leak. He has been able to draw a link between Linviere and various secret services around the region, particularly but not solely the RSS. We are set to have a sit down with him later today, and confront him in a meeting about his allegiances.”

“Linviere?” Leveque asked, “He's always seemed loyal.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. Remember, he is Prestonaise. Summon him to my office in an hour. We plan to confront him about it, and give him a chance to redeem himself.”

"Of course, Citoyen."

“In the meantime, I have some files for you to organize, if you don't mind. Notes from the last cabinet meeting.”

“What do I get paid for, Citoyen?”

Moreau chuckled, and nodded, retreating to his office to fetch the documents. Claudia returned to her present work, humming, as always.

Aux armes, citoyens !
Formez vos bataillons !
Marchons ! marchons !
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons !

[Doomingsland]

[...]

Sextus Suetonius watched through his binoculars and ran his fingers through his beard as the Home Guad personnel carriers rolled down the main road towads Molyneaux. There weren't many of them; this was a very good thing. His men would have a bit of a numerical advantage in this case; an important advatange, considering they lacked both armor and air support, something those southern lackies of the Cravanian queen had plenty of. He glanced from his nest in one of the village's shops down his own defensive line: he had men in damn near every building, as well as troops dug in along the treeline parallel to the road. A perfect L-shaped ambush for any foe coming down the road.

While the rest of his men remained hidden, he himself had no need: he was, after all, incognito, dressed as one of the locals. He sported a red button-down shirt, a black beret, and, of course, a cigarette. He certainly didn't appear out of the ordinary looking down at the oncoming tracked vehicles from the second story window of the local bakery. He'd made sure not to emplace any machineguns or snipers in this building: the last thing he wanted was his headquarters getting shot up. In fact, should one of his enemies kick down the door and capture him, they'd find nothing incriminating aside from his cellphone and binoculars. For all intents and purposes he'd appear to be nothing more than the baker's son-in-law who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Of course, he had absolutely no intention of letting them even set foot within the village, not without his Volontes having a say in it.

He thumbed the push-to-talk button on his cell phone, hearing the annoying 'ping' that indicated he could speak to the person on the other side.

"Have battery A target the lead track."

"Roger, battery A targetting the lead track" came a voice from the other end of his phone.

He took a drag on the cigarette. As he stood there, he relaxed in the confidence that a brave crusader with an Aclys rocket launcher was dropping a bead on the lead vehicle from the ground floor window of a neighboring building.

"Battery C target the rear vehicle."

"Battery C targetting the rear vehicle."

A gunner from his ambush group within the treeline would now be targetting the rear vehicle of the column; once he gave the order to strike, the Home Guardsmen would be boxed in by their own tracks, trapped in a vicious kill zone within which he had trained half a dozen machineguns and even more rifles. Now he'd be able to see if all the training he'd put his Aurdecois soldiers through would pay off: his Volo company, the Aurdecois Peoples' Crusade, had a solid corps of thirty battle-hardened Doomani crusaders, with another fourty Aurdecois volunteers recruited from this village and several other sympathetic ones he used as bases in the area. He had been training his Aurdecois element for weeks in the finer points of guerilla warfare and Crusader doctrine, and had used his weapons allowance to see to it that his force was quite well-equipped: Most of the Doomani soldiers had body armor, radios, and night vision gear, and the Aurdecois had their fair share of captured Home Guard equipment purchased over the black market and brand new Doomani rifles, machineguns, and rocket launchers.

He peered through the binoculars at the gunner of the lead vehicle, bringing the phone to his lips. The track was some two hundred meters away from his position at the edge of town. Well within range of his tank hunters.

"Batteries A and C, open fire. All others, fire after shots hit. Deus Vult!"

A loud shrieking noise pierced the sky and he watched as an orange ball of fire streaked down the road and smashed into the front vehicle, causing it to burst into flame; a split second later the same happened to the rear vehicle, the rocket flying from within the treeline.

Shouts of 'Deus Vult!' could be heard coming both from within the village and the treeline as the Volontes opened fire with the remainder of their weapons: light and medium ADEC machineguns sounding like roaring chainsaws as they spat bursts of 6.7mm and 7mm rounds, and the crackling of ACOM and C20 assault rifles as riflemen fired disciplined single shots in rapid succession into the kill zone, and the flat banging of sniper rifles as they picked off individual soldiers. Rocket propelled grenades shrieked across the sky, twisting and turning as they slammed into the kill zone attempting to make contact with the surviving personnel carriers: Suetonius could already tell his Aurdecois Volontes needed some practice with their Verutum RPGs, a weapon the Doomani prided themselves on being experts with.

Still, he could only smile as he watched the carnage unfold before him. The Home Guard troops had walked right into his ambush.