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Unto the Breach: A Gate RP (IC|Open)

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Bentus
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Posts: 3832
Founded: Dec 18, 2013
Iron Fist Consumerists

Unto the Breach: A Gate RP (IC|Open)

Postby Bentus » Mon Mar 27, 2017 1:34 am

“Amnesty International launches scathing report of UN operations, accusing the organisation of being complicit in a massacre of indigenous peoples in the Special Region. A UN spokesperson insisted that the Expeditionary Force was acting in self-defence.”
– BBC News, 12 March 2017

“Rep. David Kohmer, D-CO, criticised the UN’s media blackout on the Special Region. Citing the necessity of a free and balanced discussion in the press, he urged operational commanders to hasten the authorisation process for reporters to travel through the Gate.”
– The New York Times, 15 March 2017

“Cities around the world observed a minute of silence today in remembrance of the victims of the Stockholm attack. The UN Security Council voted unanimously to approve a Peacekeeping Operation through the Gate, with the Chinese ambassador declaring the vote as a sign of international support for the people of Sweden.”
– Fox News, 2nd February 2017

“Demonstrations numbering in the thousands took place in cities across Europe and America in support of UN soldiers in the Special Region. Judy Hodge, an Organiser for the March for Stockholm movement in New York said that she hoped to let the soldiers on the front know that the people of the world stood behind them despite recent media coverage.”
– Washington Post, 21 March 2017

“We have clearly demonstrated our technological superiority, and I hesitate to call the situation in the Special Region a war. Right now, the UN insists that it is involved in Peacekeeping operations, but history has shown that a native populace rarely emerges from its first encounter with a technologically advanced invader unscathed. What happens when the situation begins to stabilise? What happens when we find oil reserves and deposits on the other side? To what extent must we apply human rights to the non-humans over there? These are questions that our society will have to grapple with in the coming months and years, and I’m not so sure that I want to hear the answers.”
-Dr. Mark Guttenberg, Professor of Political Science and Geopolitics at Havard University

Image
“And so they fought."

Unto the Breach: A Gate RP
Operation Forward Unto Dawn: United Nations Expeditionary Force
Inspired by Tophat’s The Way Forward.


Alnus Hill FOB | The Special Region | 25 March 2017



“We’re sending them completely into the dark. The least we could do is make sure that they’re ready for anything.”

Sven sighed, scratching the high explosives from the material request form. His blue-grey uniform proudly displayed his Colonel insignia on his shoulder patch, the brisk utility of his outfit mimicking the Spartan appearance of his desk and the command tent. A lukewarm cup of coffee sat untouched by his side, neatly set aside from the orderly stacks of paper that were arranged before the Colonel. “The mission is reconnaissance, combat should be avoided at all costs – not encouraged. The LRVs will be more than enough.”

The other man nodded in response, accepting his superior’s decision without any further debate and mentally making a note to have the heavier ammunition replaced with more rations. “I’ll get the paperwork done to have the team loaded up with supplies, in that case. However, my more pressing concern is the route and our pre-existing intel.”

Sven couldn’t help but allow a dry smile to spread across his features, raising an amused eyebrow. “Would you be referring to the lack of said intel?”

“In blunt terms, Sir.”

Sven nodded in agreement with his old friend. Mikkel Nystuen was with the Norwegian military, and the pair had served together in the Nordic group before both being reassigned to the Special Region. The Officer was a desk jockey; he’d never once been sent directly to the frontlines but demonstrated a determined ability to help his unit with the gritty tasks of logistics and command. The two men had learned to work effectively with each other, and Sven knew better than to dismiss Mikkel’s concerns. Looking down at the hand-drawn map of the surrounding area of Alnus Hill, Sven couldn’t help but agree with him. A few markings and estimated distances stood out from a sea of empty unknown, what little information the UN had having been pieced together from interviews with cooperative natives and prisoners. Questionable sources at best. Launching a mission this blind into enemy territory went against every rule in the book, but orders were orders.

“It’s the hand that we’ve been dealt, and Command is getting too impatient to play the waiting game.” Sven paused, his eyes scanning over the painfully thing map. “If they stick to the roads then they should make good time and can outrun or outgun any threat that they encounter. The natives with them should be able to assist in negotiations with settlements along the route.”

Mikkel frowned at the comment. “Are you sure that we can trust the natives? I know their expertise could be useful, but I still don’t trust that dwarf as far as I can throw him.” The officer paused for a moment before continuing, a look of doubt flashing across his features. “And the girl is still just a kid. You know that Civil Affairs is going to throw a fit if we send her out on force recon.”

Sven scowled at the thought. His job was hard enough without getting caught between the politics back home and getting his every decision second-guessed by his chief civil liaison. It was worth the risk if it allowed them to get the results that they needed. “Like I said, it’s the hand that we’ve been dealt. And our boys and girls are going to need all the help that they can get.” The Colonel stamped the final orders before handing them to Mikkel. “Have the squad gather in the mess in two hours, I’ll give them the final brief myself.”
- - Bentus
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[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's not a matter that i can't think up something
[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's getting thoughts to screen
[22:07] <Avlana_> Oh
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How Roleplays Die <= Good read for anyone interested in OPing

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United Islands of Polis
Diplomat
 
Posts: 548
Founded: Jun 27, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby United Islands of Polis » Mon Mar 27, 2017 7:35 am

Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Sonia Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


Dima was having some coffee, a shitty one at that, he was told to wait for awhile, he was expecting to have a briefing, whether it be regarding his defense grid of mines or anything regarding base defense, so to be sure Dima brought all of his gear, including his PKP which was resting on the table with him along with his gear and signature helmet.

He pulled out his family picture which was taken after he got out of training "Yesli eti dikari dazhe kosnutsya volosa v tvoyey golove, ya ub'yu ikh svoimi medvezh'imi rukami!" (If these savages even touch a hair in your head, I will kill them with my bear hands!) Dima whispered to himself.

"Ne volnuysya, tvoy mladshiy brat naydet tebya, kak vsegda, khe-khe" (Don't worry, your little brother will find you, just like always, heh) he laughed a bit at it, just like old times when they were kids, he finally finished what he could call 'liquidized shit' and decided to check his PKP and it's state before switching his attention to his STSh-81 helmet and checking the hinges, making sure the faceplate slid down properly.

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New Antonalia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1946
Founded: Jan 06, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby New Antonalia » Mon Mar 27, 2017 10:49 am

1st Lt. Robert Price
Special Region, Sonia Hill
UN Task Force FOB, Mess Hall


"30 minutes. Hopefully this briefing will take 30 minutes." Price thought as the walked into the Mess. Two hours ago, he was inspecting the vehicles his NATO superiors sent through, and while he wasn't the highest ranking, his direct superior, a Danish Major, felt that he was one of the most experienced NATO officer assigned to the task force. "Bradleys, CV 90s, Marders, god, logistics is going to be hell, and to make matters worse, we have Russian shit to maintain as well. And things will get even more complicated once we get AFVs and MBTs." He said to himself as looked around and grabbing two cokes from the vending machine by the door. From what he gleaned from rumors circulating around the FOB, another Gate opened in Kyoto, taking the Japanese completely by surprise as well. Right now, he figured, the Japanese were sending Recon groups through as well. "Well, either way, things will get easier once we get heavy armor." He said, spotting a man sitting alone and performing maintenance on his gear near the end of the hall. Walking over, Price spotted the Russian Federation flag on his shoulder and smiled. "Ey, ne vozrazhayete, yesli ya zdes' sizhu?" (Hey, mind if I sit here?) He ask, putting the cans of coke down on the table.
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Reverend Norv
Minister
 
Posts: 2569
Founded: Jun 20, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Reverend Norv » Mon Mar 27, 2017 11:12 am

25 March 2017
0930 Hours
Perimeter of Alnus Hill FOB
Special Region


"Anybody?" Paul Gardener asked. His voice was gentle, solemn, like the voice of a priest intoning a ritual liturgy. "Anybody know this boy?"

The small group of Imperial prisoners shook their heads. They stood in a loose circle around Paul, staring at the corpse on the ground at the captain's feet. Some still wore the woolen tunics in which they had been captured; others shuffled awkwardly in Swedish M90 fatigues. They were unarmed, but not restrained. Paul knew each of the prisoners by name, and he knew that none of them had any real desire to escape. Nothing awaited them at home except interrogation and punishment for the crime of having survived when so many thousands of their comrades had died.

The prisoners, in short, had nowhere to run. None was older than twenty-five or so, and yet their eyes were dark and hollow within their soft children's faces. Now, one young man squinted at the corpse, and shook his head a second time, and said in Imperial: "I think he may have been in the Second Cohort. I saw him in camp once. I don't know anything else."

Paul sighed softly and knelt beside the body. It was perhaps a week old: the flesh white and cold as stone, and slimy with decomposition fluids. A fly had laid its eggs in the right eye. In his last moments, the boy had walked into a barrage from one of the fifty-caliber heavy machine guns that defended the base perimeter, and the big bullets had punched holes the size of dinner plates through the young man's guts and thigh; his left leg was attached by a few scraps of muscle, and the open wound was alive with maggots. The fast-growing grass had almost covered the body, and its green stalks modestly veiled the boy's lifeless face.

Gently, Paul pulled the grass away from the lad's face, and he closed the corpse's eyes and mouth so that the boy looked almost like he was sleeping. Then Paul drew a compact digital camera from a pouch on his body armor, and snapped a photograph of the dead man's face. The captain tied a small numbered tag to the corpse's finger. John Doe 1743.

Paul ran a hand through his short dark hair. He tried to remember what the Reverend Brown used to say at funerals, when the coffin was lowered into the desert clay under the blazing West Texas sun, and the whole congregation squinted in the dazzling glare. But all that Paul could think of was Noah's face, and how that face was only a few years younger than the face of this dead boy, this boy who had been ripped limb from limb with no more effort than it took to press a button.

On impulse, half-unconsciously, Paul tugged off the corpse's shattered steel helmet. The boy's hair was dark and thick. The helmet had kept most of the maggots out. Paul yanked off one of his own assault gloves and gently, almost gingerly, used his bare palm to smooth the lad's hair back from his forehead. The dark locks felt as soft as a baby's hair.

Something clenched hard beneath Paul's sternum, and then slowly relaxed. "Remember that you are dust," he murmured. That was it: that was what the Reverend Brown always said. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Paul glanced up at the prisoners. Dark old-man eyes stared back at him out of soft boy-faces.

Paul braced his hands on his knees and stood up, enduring the familiar twang of pain in his hamstrings that had been with him ever since the doctors at Walter Reed had finished their surgeries, after the IED in Helmand. The captain nodded at two of the prisoners. "Let's go."

One prisoner grabbed the corpse's feet, and the other seized its hands - taking care not to disturb the numbered tag that hung from the body's finger. Together, they lifted the corpse, and with a soft grunt of effort they tossed it into the back of a Swedish Army 2.5-ton truck that idled nearby. The corpse landed with a wet thump atop a pile of dozens of other bodies in various states of decomposition. Its left leg finally fell off in mid-toss; the few remaining scraps of flesh that connected the leg to the body disintegrated with motion. One of the prisoners casually scooped the leg up off the ground and threw it into the truck after the body.

Paul glanced one last time at his camera's viewscreen. He studied the cold white face captured there in photographic clarity. He knew that in an hour, he would have forgotten what that face looked like.

One of the prisoners pointed at a spot a little further down the hill, where tall grass waved around a shattered tree-stump burned black by high explosives. A bit of steel glinted silver amidst the grass. "There's another one," the young man announced tonelessly in Imperial.

"Aye." Paul walked up to the cab of the UN truck, and rapped on the window. "Let's move on," he told the driver in English.

The driver - a Pakistani in a blue beret - rolled down his window and looked down at Paul. "No, sir." His English was heavily accented. "Radio message from the colonel. You go to mess hall, now."

Paul clenched his fist behind his back, but contained his response to a short, frustrated sigh. "Yes, Rashid. You take these bodies to the burial detail, okay?" The captain handed the driver his camera. "And add these photographs to the database. John Does sixteen-ninety-four to seventeen-forty-three."

Rashid nodded. "Sir." He cocked his head. "Want a ride back up the hill?"

Paul took a deep breath, and glanced up at the clear blue morning sky. He smiled slightly and shook his head. "No thanks," the captain replied. "I'll walk."

* * *


Then, as always, there was more to do. Paul walked the POWs back to their prefab barracks, and thanked them for their help. He had made sure that Osira, as an underage girl, had her own room with a door that locked from the inside - a radical breach of standard procedure for holding POWs, but Paul didn't consider the girl much of a flight risk. Then the captain headed to the washroom, and took a third-world shower - a pail of water over the head - and washed his hands with about a pint of antimicrobial soap; in any first-contact situation, the risk of new diseases cut both ways, especially when dead bodies were involved.

Once satisfied that he no longer reeked of decomposing corpses, Paul collected his rifle and his helmet and walked quickly to the mess hall, his gait more a brisk limp than anything else. Paul had a good idea of what this meeting was about. We've been lingering here too long. The brass wants more intelligence, and we won't get it by sitting on top of this hill.

So: a recce. Only natural. Paul loaded a plastic tray with coffee and porridge and crispbread and yoghurt - all of the operation's cooks were Swedish, as Paul had discovered to his mild dismay - and sat down at one of the mess hall's largely empty tables. A very tall young man in Russian uniform sat nearby, cradling a light machine gun and tinkering with a visored steel helmet that, Paul thought, had to destroy the wearer's peripheral vision. With him was a young Army officer wearing a lieutenant's bar. Paul considered greeting the two, and then decided against it. Prejudice? Yes, probably. But considering how the Russian military treats civilians, it's probably deserved.

Besides, the future weighed on Paul's mind. They'll want me for this operation. That wasn't quite true, the captain knew, but it was close enough. They'll need me for this operation. That was more honest. Out of all the UN personnel, Paul was the only one who was genuinely fluent in Imperial - and he could even communicate at a basic level in several other local languages. Not to mention that I've studied local culture, etiquette, sociology, botany... It would be insane to mount a recon operation and leave Paul Gardener behind.

And Sven Moller was not insane. Effective? Yes, even brutally so. Inclined to believe that any problem could be solved with sufficient firepower? Certainly. But insane? Far from it. Moller was a pragmatist to the bone.

So. A recce. New horizons to explore, new people to meet. Discovery of the purest sort: to go where no human of Earth had ever set foot.

Paul Gardener took a long swallow of coffee, and smiled. And didn't notice that he had already forgotten the face of John Doe 1743.
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 17193
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Mon Mar 27, 2017 12:22 pm

25 March 2017
1000 Hours
Legal offices, Alnus Hill FOB
Special Region


“And, sir, what if a walking, talking tree attacks our platoon?” the German lieutenant asked. Other officers around him looked at each other and nodded, before looking at the suited man in front of the classroom. He rested his behind comfortably on the desk behind him, which normally acted as a working station. However, it was also a comfortable way to sit down. Most of the classroom had been sponsored by Ikea, and the company wizards had put it together in a matter of hours. Boudewijn already enjoyed the ergonomics of his desk seat. He clacked his tongue at the question, then let his eyes roll around the room. The lieutenants stared intently at their teacher.

“Well…” he began, a slight Dutch accent hidden behind his otherwise proper English pronunciation.

“If anything attacks your position, that thing has become a part of the combat. You can attack anything that attacks you. The safety of you and your men is paramount, and one of the prime concerns of the Geneva Conventions”

A slight murmur went up in the room, as Boudewijn raised his hand.

“Right, any more questions?”

Immediately, another seven hands shot skywards. The lesson had been over for half an hour, but these lieutenants kept coming up with all sorts of fantasy scenarios in which the Laws of Armed Conflict might apply. Boudewijn enjoyed it. He actually had to write his report for the UN, a preliminary report on the events of the battle. However, Boudewijn thought that education of the soldiers had a higher priority. What was more, their imagination helped to spur his own, and they came up with all kinds of philosophical questions all the time. Enough to write another dissertation, Boudewijn thought. He pointed at a Russian lieutenant.

“Yes, Ivanov” he said, signalling his turn to speak.

“Thank you, sir” he said gracefully. The men generally acted very kindly towards the lawyer. In the beginning, they had been somewhat hesitant towards the civilian. After a while, they found out that there was more about him than met the eye, and when his stories from Syria began to surface, the men had begun to show more respect. Ivanov was one of the people who respected him from the beginning, and Boudewijn did not forget.

“And what if the talking tree does not prove hostile?”

“In that case, the tree is hors de combat. A non-combatant. You must treat him like a civilian, and keep him as much out of harm’s way as possible. So, watch out what trees you take a leak against”

That joke worked well among the lieutenants. As they laughed it off, Boudewijn moved to the back of his desk. He had felt his phone buzzing, and was anxious to know what it was. Reception was unreliable in the Special Region, and people only used the internet network for very important messages that couldn’t wait. So, Boudewijn was curious, while also wanting to keep up the conversation.

“Any more questions?” he asked, as he looked at his special issue phone. Nine hands shot up, but Boudewijn didn’t notice. He was captivated by what he say on screen. It was a message from one of his aides, with a picture attached. The message just said

Found another one. John Doe 1743


The message was sent by Nicolas Ndwedwe, who was a specialist at data analysis. He had his office at the central communications hub, where he kept an eye on all the reports coming in from all the different civil liaisons, as well as a few more military reports. When there was something interesting or important, Nicolas always knew to find Boudewijn. As he opened the picture, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the horrific sight was still there. He typed a quick ‘thank you’ to Nicolas, before tucking his phone into his jacket. With a look of disappointment, he watched his eager class.

“I’m sorry, lads and lasses. Duty calls. We’ll continue this conversation on Thursday, alright? I’ll tell you all about the Additional Protocols, which is especially interesting to the Americans, because the US does not accept some of them. We’ll discuss it more later.”

A sigh of disappointment went up from the class, but they marched out in an orderly fashion anyway. Boudewijn was the last to leave his own office, flicking out the lights behind him. First, he went up to Nicolas’ office, who provided him with a bit more detail, as well as the name of the relevant officer. Then, Boudewijn went up to the mess hall, where he could probably find the man at this time of day. As he entered the site, he was immediately greeted by the smell of porridge and potatoes. The mess hall always smelled of that, no matter what was on the menu. Somehow, the Swedish chefs had gotten their food into the very fabric of the room, or so it seemed. As he entered, and looked around for a bit, he spotted the American captain seated at a lone dining table. Swiftly, he approached the table, approaching the captain from the side.

“Hey, Paul” Boudewijn began. He had met the man before. Civil affairs and UN legal reps go together quite well, whether they want to or not, so the two had spoken before. That his name was ‘Paul’ was one of the few things, among his rank, that Boudewijn knew of him, but he decided on a first name basis. They were going to have to work together a lot in the future.

“Did you see any more casualties like JD 1743? You know, kids? Were they armed?”

Boudewijn knew he was probably not asking the right questions. He himself had seen some mass graves in his time, and your whole week was basically ruined after that. However, they all had a job to do, and Boudewijn had to do his. If he was waiting for the right time, to ask that kind of question, he could be waiting for a hundred years more without getting answers.
Last edited by Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States on Mon Mar 27, 2017 12:23 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

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Parcia
Negotiator
 
Posts: 6946
Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Mon Mar 27, 2017 2:52 pm

Togaru Yoshida
Alnus Hill
UN FOB


To maintain the Blink spell could be described as a...well, nearly impossible thing for any but the highest of high mages. This was simply due to the spell's inherent link to black magic, something few mortals if any are ever able to control. Unless, one is able to strike a deal with a rather...sly demon. It was simple. The Demon wanted passage in tot he mortal realm but lacked a willing Human Soul needed to do so.

Togaru happened to have a willing soul, and a rather large need for power at the time, and so they traded. The Demon's soul as well as its powers in Shadow Magic in return for his soul.

The trade had been made at 19, a tender, young age were men are known for doing utterly stupid things. Most animals didn't like him now, simply fleeing at the sight of him and even the most basic of Mages feel cold and some what fearful when he was around, these being the tell tale signs of a demon.

He hadn't infiltrated the UN FOB for money, or to gather valuable intelligence, although he was getting paid to do just that. He would have come on his own accord, but the Imperial spy, one who really needed to work on his disguise, had caught his sleeve on the way out of the "Bannered Mare", the tavern he had been eating at and offered him a full coin purse of gold for knowledge.

Back tot he present. To those who possessed the innate, carnal, primordial power of Shadow magic found it but a slight annoyance to keep the Blink spell in motion. He had taken a perch atop one of the taller guard towers, siting cross legged and not making the faintest of sounds while the spell kept him hidden from damn near everything.


He hadn't gathered much, mainly due to the difference in language. Another interesting side effect of possessing the soul of a demon, let alone of a greater demon of considerable power, was that he found it strangely easy to learn the language of the invaders, granted there were still quite a few expressions he had to get cleared up. Looking up at the sun. he sighed and let the cloaking spell dissipate with the rumbling of his stomach. While he didn't technically need to eat, demon soul and all, the meaty shell that was his body still required that he consume something every now and then.

Slipping down the side of the tower was an easy feat, simply using the same spell to mask his presence as he simply jumped from the tower. In mere moments, he was in the ridge line were he collected his staff and travel pack.

The second reason he was out today, and the main reason he was getting paid, was to aquire one of the "guns" that the invaders toted. Something like 150,000 in Imperial gold had been secretly offered to any who brought them a working "Gun" and Togaru planned on capitalizing on that offer.

He had picked up snippets of conversation pointed at the possibility of the invaders sending a group out in the near future, and the assassin set about finding an ambush point.
So apparently Cobalt has named me a Cyber terrorist, I honestly don't know to be Honored or offended.
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Bentus
Senator
 
Posts: 3832
Founded: Dec 18, 2013
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Bentus » Mon Mar 27, 2017 4:25 pm

A collaboration between Hetland 2, Bentus and The Commonwealth of Vahltunskhja.



Two Weeks after the Battle of Alnus Hill

The soldiers led Osira to one of the unmarked tents that had sprung up as part of the invaders’ camp. She still struggled to decipher the layout of the facility, every structure appearing in the same dull shade of green that seemed to blend into the fields from a distance. It was a far cry from the proud vibrancy of the Imperial camp that still lay abandoned at the bottom of the hill. Osira couldn’t help but wonder if the other world was devoid of colour, as drab and dry as everything the soldiers seemed to have brought with them. An image of the World Forest flashed back into her mind, a wild grove filled with flowers of unimaginable variety: a spectrum of life nestled deep within the upper fronds. The memory brought a slight smile to the girl’s face as the entrance flap was drawn aside, her escort gesturing with his free hand for her to enter before him.

The room was Spartan in appearance, if not outwardly intimidating. A single desk and a free seat awaited her, with some of the strange magical candles that the invaders seemed to favour providing a comforting illumination. Taking her place in the chair, Osira offered a smile to the man sitting before it. He was one of the humans who had been there when she’d first been brought into the camp, the one which had smiled at her back on the hilltop. She hadn’t really interacted with any of those soldiers since then, having been surrounded either by the silent escorts or the ‘linguists’. Regardless, Osira tried to offer a faint smile to all the translators in the room before her eyes darted back to the man behind the desk.

“Hel-lo.” She offered. The standard greeting, she had been told. “Pleased to meet you.”

"Hello." Césaire replied, the Canadian soldier looking up from a sheet of papers and giving her a polite smile. "How are you today, Ms. Osira?"

“I am well.”

He wasn’t sure if she was just repeating phrases, or if she really meant it, but she did seem a bit more comfortable than when he last saw her on top of the hill. A half an hour ago he'd been told that as one of the first to make contact with the Special Region's inhabitants and among the more experienced enlisted when it came to UN peacekeeping deployments, he'd be the man interviewing one of the local inhabitants and had thirty minutes to learn the basics of Imperial and receive his briefing. Captain Gardner and the linguists had their work cut out for them, and someone in the chain of command thought chatting with a familiar face might put the natives at ease. Ease was relative, he supposed. Awkwardness and apprehension on both sides was to be expected at first when interacting with a local population, even more so when making contact with an entirely new civilization.

Still, a forty-one year old Canadian non-commissioned officer didn't seem like the best choice for the job - some kind of scientist perhaps, hell, even an officer or a diplomat seemed like a smarter choice. Talking down battle hardened Serb militias and establishing relations with Afghan civilians was one thing, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of the green-skinned young woman sitting across from him. At least now he'd maybe get to answer some questions that'd been gnawing at his mind ever since he stepped through the Gate.

"Do you need anything? Have you been treated well?" He scribbled something down on the papers with a pencil before setting it to the side and introducing himself and his purpose slowly and clearly for the benefit of the others. "My name is Sergeant Césaire Arsenault. I've been tasked by the United Nations to ask you some questions, if you're comfortable with that, to better avoid future conflict with the inhabitants here."

Osira was taken aback by the initial question, not having expected the soldier to immediately enquire about her own well being. Was it some kind of a test?

“We have all been treated very kindly.” Her brow furrowed as she tried to form a response before falling back on Imperial. “You have given us food and beds, for which I am most thankful.” Food and beds? That was an understatement, and Osira knew it. She could still smell the incredible aroma of the meals that they had been served.

“It’s not much, but I’m glad you’re comfortable.” He noted down her response and mulled over what was to come next. The UN needed answers, and they needed them as soon as physically possible. He tried not to let his own personal curiosity show as he looked down the list he'd been provided with, outlining the various intelligence they were in urgent need of - things ranging from the location of major roadways and the variety of sentient species to enemy strength in the region and military organization. He gave the paper another quick once over before setting it aside for the moment, clasping his hands and setting them on the desk.

"Now I'm sure you have some questions of your own, and I will be happy to answer them if I can. I'll answer a few to begin with, before we move on. Whenever you're ready to start."

Her eyes widening in surprise, Osira had to bite her tongue less she launch into an unending tirade. How do your staffs throw fire? How do you make the metal boxes move? How do you get so much hot water even in the dead of night? What is my bed made of and why is it so soft? How do your magic candles work? Merely the thoughts were enough to leave her breathless.

“Why are you here?”

The question was in English, and Osira regretted it as soon as the words had spilled from her mouth. She turned away in nervous shame, her eyes darting aside. Stupid girl! The question had been roiling around in her heart since she had hid herself in the Commander’s tent, since she had first seen the Demons cut down the Imperial army. It had been that unyielding, insatiable question that could never be satisfied in its entirety: why.

Césaire nodded. He’d been expecting something along those lines, and almost chuckled. Broad and complex, but if anyone deserved an explanation it was those who had been swept up in this confusion and conflict. He took some time thinking over his response.

“A perfectly reasonable question. A very important one too.” One he asked himself every hour he was in this place. He ran his fingers through his greying moustache as he leaned back and tried to keep his explanation as simple and understandable as possible.

“Just over three months ago,” he began slowly, “the Gate appeared in our world. The Empire sent their forces through the Gate and attacked a city called Stockholm, in a nation known as Sweden. We don’t know why they attacked, or why the Gate appeared, or why it appeared where it did. There wasn’t any warning. But we know they murdered innocents before they were defeated and driven back. Where we come from, killing women, children, and the unarmed, and attacking without warning or reason, are among the most serious crimes any person or country can commit.”

He paused, picking up his blue UN beret and fiddling with the badge, taking it off and setting the wreathed globe symbol down in front of her. “Sweden is just one of 193 countries that are a part of a group known as the United Nations, or UN. The UN is meant to keep the peace between these nations and solve disputes - sometimes soldiers called “peacekeepers” are sent to keep warring factions apart and protect people during conflicts. When Sweden was attacked, they asked for peacekeepers from all nations to help them find out who attacked them and what was beyond the Gate.”

“We’re here to explore this world and make peace with its inhabitants. Our immediate goal right now is to learn as much as we can and try to convince the Empire to make peace.”

Osira struggled to follow as confusion increasingly seeped onto her face. The Empire had no word for ‘peacekeeper’, the concept of international soldiers being deployed to prevent conflicts being an entirely foreign one to their culture. Nor did Osira have any analogy for an organisation like the United Nations - it sounded like a grand Empire that covered the entirety of the world beyond the Gate. Did that make this ‘Sweden’ a province of the United Nations?

“Peace?” The revelations of what the Empire had done in the other world caught Osira off guard. She had no idea that the legions had crossed the boundary prior to the invasion, let alone lay siege to one of the invader’s cities. Osira felt a slight rekindling of fear in her chest. If the invaders reacted with such ferocity to the minor incursion, to the killing of their citizens in the horrifying melee of war, then what were they capable of when truly crossed?

The thought caused a shudder to run down Osira’s spine.

The Empire was a nation of conquest and triumph, having not lost a war in generations - and with nearly every victory ending in the vassalisation of their foe. For the Empire, peace almost certainly corresponded with victory, but Osira wasn’t sure what it meant to the man sitting before her.

“If you are trying to make peace, is the UN going to conquer the Empire?” She wondered how the United Nations treated its vassals. If Sweden was a conquered province and they reacted so strongly to an attack upon it, then perhaps they would be treated with mercy. “There are those who would rather die than live with the dishonour of seeing the Empire collapse in their lifetime.” She stated, matter-of-factly.

Césaire nodded, slowly making several notes. At the moment, he didn’t think overthrowing the regime was going to be their course of action. The last thing the UN needed was another Iraq, this time with dragons instead of IEDs. “The UN does not make peace by conquering. We do it by negotiating fair agreements. Our goal is to make the Imperials see reason and make amends for their actions.” He paused. “We don’t want to fight a war, if we don’t have to, but we have orders to defend ourselves.”

“If we know who is in charge and how things work, we can set up peace talks. If you can explain to us how their government works, how your society functions, we can understand each other better and this will lead to a greater chance to end this conflict before it escalated further. ”

Is the United Nations so powerful that they need not even fight to defeat their enemies? It was a terrifying thought. Osira squirmed slightly at Arsenault’s question, biting her lip as she mulled it over in her mind. The Sergeant seemed to be speaking sincerely, truthfully. Maybe they really didn’t want to fight a war? To kill? But why wouldn’t they with such overwhelming power?

“The Emperor is the only one with the authority to rule over the Empire and decide upon the best path for its people. He was selected by the Gods by the grace of his birth within the royal family.” Surely, Osira reasoned, there couldn’t be any harm in revealing what was common knowledge? “He graciously listens to the advice of the people through the Senate, which deliberates and proposes laws for the Emperor’s approval. Both the Senate and the Palace are located in the Capital, Sadera.” Osira paused for a moment, thinking about anything else she could mention.

“There are also the provinces and vassals of the Empire, most having been conquered in past campaigns. Usually they are led by a governor appointed by the Emperor or a King who swears fealty to the royal family.” Osira smiled as memories of her home once again swam around in her mind. “I am from Omashu province, although we border the Kingdom of Alguna - one of the oldest vassals of the Empire. Originally we were part of the Kingdom, but during the conquests the Empire welcomed us as one of their own. It’s a beautiful place, with trees taller than the highest building!” The girl’s eyes had lit up as she spoke. “You can run for miles without ever once needing to set foot on the ground, and if you were to fall the forest would catch you as if you were family. Of course my parents think it’s all too dirty, but -”

Osira stopped, smiling sheepishly as she realised that the Sergeant most likely cared little for the stories of her home.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away. Did you have any other questions, Sir Arsenault?”

Césaire smiled, even as he mulled over this new information in his mind. “No need to apologize; it sounds like a very beautiful place.” He flipped over a sheet of paper and nodded. “Yes, actually. There are many creatures and cultures here that we have not encountered before. The people among you who are not human - how many different races are there? What are they like, and what’s their relationship within the Empire?”

The question caught Osira off-guard. Why would the United Nations be interested in the non-humans? The young girl looked puzzled as she tried to figure out what Césaire wanted. Are they planning to attack them as well? Or maybe they are looking for allies against the Empire. Slowly realisation began to dawn for her, the way in which all the invaders seemed to look at the dwarf, the giant. She had always assumed that it was the same suspicious glare that the Imperials reserved for them. But hidden behind the mistrust and caution, these humans looked at the others with curiosity.

“The non-humans...” They’ve never seen non-humans before have they? Osira didn’t even know where to start. “Humans are the most populous race in the world, and the Empire is a human kingdom, although some of the conquered provinces were originally held by the other races - and auxiliaries sometimes fight in the legions.” An entire world of only humans. Osira couldn’t even picture what such a thing would be like.

She told Césaire what she knew, doing her best to recall the lessons she had received as an acolyte, or drawing on the stories she had gleaned from visiting Priests. She talked about the elves - from their deceitful dark-skinned kin and the mistrust that they had earned, to the noble wood elves of the forest. She recounted what she knew about the dwarves and their industry, how they spread like a cancer from their mountains in search of ore and minerals with no regard for the forests or the lives that suffer in their wake. She spoke of the Orcish tribes that roamed the plains, raiding and pillaging or warring for the highest bidder as the Imperial legions fought to keep them away from the bastions of civilization. And those were only some of the most notable, without even considering the Warrior Bunnies or the giants. Osira talked for hours, answering any questions that Césaire had as much as she could, but she could never hope to recall an entire world’s worth of history and culture - not that she had ever known it all herself to begin with.
When she was done, Arsenault sat back and scratched his face, looking down at the mass of documents and notes. In between writing everything down he didn’t have time to be bewildered and amazed at the huge array of different species and creatures in this place. And from the sounds of it, they didn’t get along all that much with each other at times. That at least sounded familiar.

“Would that be all, Sergeant?”

Césaire looked up with raised eyebrows, giving her a nod. “Oui, eh, yes. That will be all for today, I think.” He checked his watch, noting they’d spent a good few hours talking despite the feeling that he’d barely scratched the surface here. Best give everyone a break and process what they had before digging any further. Not to mention what they had now would undoubtedly prove invaluable.

He rose and leaned across the table with a smile to shake her hand. “Hopefully this’ll help us understand each other better. If you have any more questions or need anything, come find me or the Major. We’ll be happy to help.”


Native Accommodation, UN Camp
After the Interview


Osira thanked the soldiers as they dropped her off at the Natives’ tent. Any chance to practise her English was useful, and it didn’t hurt to be friendly towards her captors. As she stepped through the entrance flap into the temporary structure, she offered a passing, tired smile to the young soldiers before the barrier hid them from her view. Immediately, Osira felt her hands begin to shake as her self-composure began slipping away.

The tent was quite spacious, the United Nations eager to win over the natives in the camp, and each of them had been granted a small room which they could seal off from the common area. Wasting no time, Osira raced into her own safe haven, fiddling with the zipper until she had succeeded in closing the thin barrier between herself and the rest of the world. The strip of canvas was hardly capable of stopping the passage of sound within the tent, but still it offered her the slightest semblance of comfort.

The young girl collapsed on the ground, curling herself up against her bed. Osira pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees in an effort to stop the shaking. Only then did she allow the tears to flow. The fear and terror that had been building up in her chest for the last few hours burst to the surface, the calm façade that she had held for so long finally coming apart. Osira buried her face in her knees, muffling the sobs that escaped from her lips. Despite their constant insistence, Osira had stepped into the interview not truly knowing what awaited her. She had had no idea how far the United Nations were willing to go for the answers that they so desired. They were already willing to slaughter entire armies – what other lines would they consider crossing?

Césaire had greeted her with kindness and friendship, speaking to her as an equal. But behind the smile Osira could see the flashes on the hilltop; she could hear that chorus of thunder mingling with the screams of the dying and the dead along with every greeting.

Get yourself together, what would Kaeso say?

Sniffling, Osira forced herself to take deep breaths. Brushing away the unwanted tears that had streamed uncontrollably down her features. The young girl scowled at her own weakness. She had to keep focused on what was important, on doing her part.

The United Nations had not come in peace. They had come bearing weapons of war, dealing death and destruction with an ease that sickened the stomach.

They were the enemy. She was a prisoner.

And Osira wouldn’t forget it.



The Present.
Osira’s eyes remained fixated on the pages of the book as her free hand attempted to lift spoonsful of porridge into her waiting mouth. The warm food tasted as magnificent as any the invaders had brought through, and Osira had often wondered how their people ever stopped themselves from simply eating all the time when such tastes were at their disposal. However, in the mess hall Osira gave the flavourful food little thought, her attention having been gripped by the words of Roald Dahl. The hefty English dictionary to her side had been seeing less and less use as she slowly widened her vocabulary, but still she found herself having to skip over the occasional word or phrase – not that it lessened her enthusiasm for the story.

She was rarely seen around the base without one of the books she’d been given by the linguists, her head buried deep within the pages more often than not. The English teachers had been ecstatic when she’d shown such an honest interest in learning the languages of the UN forces, and Osira had rapidly progressed from picture books to short stories through a determined effort. Initially there had been concerns about unwanted information transfer, each of her books having to be carefully screened prior to being sent through the Gate. But eventually someone with authority had decided that a girl reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Harry Potter was hardly the most pressing security concern.

Lost in her absentmindedness, a spoon of porridge managed to miss its mark and Osira jumped as the warm liquid spilled over her shirt. The girl scowled at herself and pushed the meal aside, abandoning all pretence of any interest in the meal over the events of her novel. She knew she was getting to a good part, the next page promising to tell the fate of that hateful Violet Beauregarde. Osira couldn’t help but lean in closer to the book as her eyes widened at the words, her mind’s eye imagining the girl swelling in size as she consumed this ‘chewing gum’. She could imagine her features slowly turning blue, her eyes bulging in surprise along with the rest of her features.

Osira froze as the image of the fallen soldier from earlier invaded her mind’s eye, his pale features now tinted a shade of blue in lieu of Violet.

She slammed the pages shut with a noticeable smack, fighting against the queasiness that rose menacingly in her stomach. Osira sat motionless, her hand resting firmly on the cover as if ensuring that it didn’t spring open and once again thrust her back into the unwanted memory. Gradually, the sickening feeling began to subside as Osira calmed her breathing. She offered the porridge a look of disgust, the once nourishing food suddenly now contributing to the revolt in her bowels. Glancing around the mess hall, Osira hoped that no one had noticed her actions, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention. She saw Paul and the law man talking at one end of the room, while other soldiers were dotted on the other tables – each seeming to be keeping their attentions to themselves.

With a sigh Osira slumped slightly in her chair, a feeling of guilt weighing heavily on her conscience. She was becoming more and more used to the sight of dead bodies as she continued to go out with Paul on his missions into the bloodied fields, but each time the same feeling of impending dread washed over her. It was only when Osira locked eyes with the fallen soldiers, their cold gazes staring up into nothing, that she felt an element of relief. It was shameful, but she felt glad whenever she saw the corpses, happy that it was another day in which she wouldn’t have to see her mentor’s features sharing the same blank stare.

She looked over at the clock that hung above the chef’s counter, hoping that whatever Sir Moller had to say would be over quick.
Last edited by Bentus on Wed Mar 29, 2017 2:42 am, edited 2 times in total.
- - Bentus
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1 2 3 >4< 5
Possible threat.
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NationStates Belongs to All, Gameplay, Roleplay, and Nonplay Alike
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"Though I fly through the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil. For I am at the Karman line and climbing." - Bentusi SABRE motto

[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's not a matter that i can't think up something
[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's getting thoughts to screen
[22:07] <Avlana_> Oh
[22:07] <Avlana_> Try typing
[22:07] * Avlana_ nods
[22:07] * SergalKashra stabs Avlana_ in the knee

How Roleplays Die <= Good read for anyone interested in OPing

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Reverend Norv
Minister
 
Posts: 2569
Founded: Jun 20, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Reverend Norv » Mon Mar 27, 2017 6:46 pm

25 March 2017
1015 Hours
Mess Hall, Alnus Hill FOB
Special Region


Paul Gardener, like many veterans of many wars, made a habit of not being taken by surprise. He had been shot at in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kenya, Pakistan, and the Philippines, and every time it had happened in an area that was supposed to be secure - because Civil Affairs troops, in theory, were not frontline personnel. Somehow, the enemy never seemed to get that particular memo. After a while, Paul had decided, it couldn't be paranoid to want to be safe rather than sorry.

So Paul kept his eyes open as a matter of course, and as a result he noticed Boudewijn Davids come hurrying into the mess hall. Paul had spoken to the lawyer a few times before - Civil Affairs and legal monitoring were hardly unrelated fields - and Paul had read Boudewijn's file. The man was no pushover: he had done human rights work in Syria.

More than that, Paul didn't really know. Since the start of Operation Forward Unto Dawn, the UN's forces had been in combat almost every day, and Paul had spent nearly every waking moment arranging for prisoner exchanges, or negotiating ceasefires so that the Empire could evacuate its casualties, or organizing food and water and medical care for the countless indigenous soldiers left wounded on the field after every Imperial assault, or supervising the UN's prisoners of war. That didn't leave a lot of time for Paul to get to know his colleagues, no matter how impressive their backgrounds might be.

And now, Boudewijn's brisk demeanor suggested that his appearance was neither a chance meeting nor a social call. “Hey, Paul," he called.

The captain smiled slightly - that kind of informality was welcome, but surprising, especially from a European. Half the Brits in Afghanistan thought I needed to save their lives before I could call them by their first names.

But Paul Gardener would take friendliness where he could find it. "Howdy, Boudewijn." After learning seven languages, Paul's pronunciation of the lawyer's name was confident and correct, but it was still flavored by the nasal twang of the captain's West Texas accent. Paul pointed at a seat across from him at the mess-hall table. "Join me?"

Boudewijn got straight down to business. “Did you see any more casualties like JD 1743?" he asked. His English had a peculiar accent, Paul thought: not nasal, not guttural, faintly clipped. "You know, kids?" Boudewijn pressed. "Were they armed?”

And just like that, the excitement that had been humming in Paul's chest at the thought of exploration and discovery curdled and died. The captain dropped his spoon into his plastic bowl of porridge with a dull clunk. He glanced across the mess hall and saw Osira slumped in her chair, her green-tinged face stamped with nausea and misery. Paul met her gaze for a moment, and felt an inexpressible surge of sympathy. Then he glanced back at the lawyer, and waved Boudewijn toward a chair.

"Here's the thing, Boudewijn," Paul explained. His voice was leaden, flat. "I got me an estimated three-thousand-plus enemy KIA unburied on this hillside. Some are right outside our barbed wire. Some are close to a kilometer away. So far, I've got a positive ID on just over a hundred of them. Another seventeen hundred John Does have been tagged and photographed before burial, so that we can keep track of where they're buried and return them to their families later. But we don't know their names, because these guys don't wear dog tags."

Paul paused, and took a dutiful swallow of his coffee. I'm going to need the energy. Then he turned his steady brown gaze back on Boudewijn. "Because the Imperial military doesn't use any form of individual identification for its troops, and because we don't have a forensics lab that can date a body from its remains, I got no idea how old most of these John Does are. Most were obviously grown men. Some sure look like they're twelve." Paul paused, and corrected himself. "Like they were twelve. But I can't be certain." The captain gave Boudewijn a knowing look. "Point is, I don't have the kind of evidence that would hold up in any court. Even some of my POWs aren't totally sure how old they are themselves: they come from peasant families so dirt-poor that they never celebrated birthdays."

"That said," Paul concluded, "this is my best bet. I know that at least one of my POWs is between fourteen and sixteen, and he says that recruitment into the legions at that age isn't uncommon. I've got about two hundred John Does that definitely look sixteen or less, which is close to fifteen percent of the total, and which backs up that story. I know from my conversations with locals that there's a different standard for adulthood among humans in the Empire, especially if they're poor; sixteen-year-olds are old enough to marry, and to fight. Life expectancy's a hell of a lot shorter here, which means there's less time for everything. So yeah: there are dead kids out there, and they were armed, and most of the locals think that's just a part of life."

Paul paused. "But as best I can tell, most of the Imperial Army is still in its twenties or thirties. This is a highly trained, battle-hardened fighting force: the legions expect discipline and professionalism. They only have so much use for cannon fodder, and that's what sixteen-year-olds in armor add up to." The captain smiled sourly. "Of course, now that we're here, they're all cannon fodder anyhow. So who knows how their recruitment practices will change?"
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647

A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

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Vahltunskhja
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 402
Founded: Oct 03, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Vahltunskhja » Mon Mar 27, 2017 8:15 pm

Sergeant Césaire Jean-Pierre Arsenault
Alnus Hill - UN Forward Operating Base
25 March, 2017 - the Special Region



"Allo? Allo! Oui, oui c'est moi. Ha! Oui oui c'est moi. Comment ça va? Oui... oui je sais ça fait longtemps là... Je suis... Oh, non... juste prendre des nouvelles. Puis ta fille..? Hein? Ah, ben!"

Jean-Pierre's face lit up with a smile, the snowy-haired sergeant leaning back in his chair. The low murmur of the CBC on the radio and the rumbling of heavy trucks driving past mixed with the scattered chatter, vulgar language and laughing of the soldiers in the warm air outside. He laughed at something spoken on the other end of the line, before the rapping of knuckles against wood gave him pause and the deep furrows in his brow returned.

"Ah- Benoît? Je vais te rappeler- oui, un mauvais timing - embrasse Audrey pour moi." Jean-Pierre sighed as he hung up the call, looking up at the blue beret and young face framed in the tent flaps with a tired smile. "Yeah?"

"You got a briefing in the mess tent Sarge. Colonel Moller." He tossed the phone aside and gave the master corporal his thanks, looking around the tent. His C7 was leaning against the desk, a foot away from his hand - he rested his elbow on the cheap faux-wood, pushing aside newspapers, maps, linguistics material and books as he picked up his beret. A half-smile tugged at his mouth as he looked down at the copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Wenjack and Houle had practically flipped shit when he told them he'd never had the chance to read it, and he had to admit he was enjoying it so far - not that he'd had much time for reading fantasy novels. The language courses and cultural briefings seemed like they'd be of more use in this unfamiliar territory, though a bit of the classics couldn't hurt.

He stepped over a sleeping soldier as he made his way outside, where most of the troops spent their free time on days like today. More than a few of them would attest their preference for the Special Region's temperate climate over Afghanistan's monsoons and dry heat, and for most the clean spring air still beat the snow-one-day and green-grass-tomorrow irregularity of March back in Canada. Among the usual griping and jokes he picked up on the kind of disgruntled thoughts that he had been quietly voicing to himself in a more polite manner during his hourly worrying sessions - a soldier resting against a box looked up as the sergeant walked past, intentionally keeping his voice audible for the NCO's benefit. "...all this recce talk, but why the fuck haven't we sent out a UAV or something? Are they afraid it'll get eaten by a dragon? Probably get PETA on our asses if that happened..."

"You think we don't have a plan? Can't shake hands with an elf or sign treaties with a drone." Jean-Pierre stepped past the group, raising his eyebrows at them. "You're getting paid to hang out with elves in fantasy land, stop bitching so much." He stern façade quickly dissipated into a grin as one of the private jokingly started to indignantly list off all the poorly-pronounced sacres he'd picked up from his time alongside the Van Doos enlisted.

His grin faded slightly as he made his way past multitudes of different uniforms on his way to the mess, catching snippets of Afrikaans and Xhosa from Cape Town logistics officers and the odd blunt sentence in Finnish from Helsinki natives among the tents. The FOB was just like everything else in this place, at once something familiar and something completely unnatural — there was no threat of mortar fire or dust among the HESCO barriers and barbed wire, just idyllic skies and untouched forest. Troops from all over the world mingled among the disparity of vehicles shining in their new coats of UN White. Watching the mingling of different nations and the sometimes awkward attempts at communication helped kept his mind off things, the snippets from news stories and glimpses of UN bureaucracy that stuck out in his mind — personnel and equipment from dozens of different countries, the eyes and machinations of their homelands fixed on the other side of the Gate, media jumping on the stories about the UN's clashes with the Empire-

Jean-Pierre sighed, remembering their first day here, and every one-sided engagement after that. Looking out over a sea of men and boys armed with spears, their bodies torn apart by heavy weapons fire and scattered across the slopes of Alnus, a young US Marine had wondered aloud whether they'd just committed a war crime. He'd seen a lot of shit on peacekeeping ops, but everything here was just so damn... backwards. It was like they'd taken the culture-shock and uncertainty of action that had permeated so many deployments and turned it all up to eleven.

And now they were finally going to drive right into the unknown and figure out what the hell was going on in this place. At least, he hoped they were. He shouldn't have been surprised it had taken this long to send out a recce mission - even among all the planning and gathering of sparse intel that had to be done it was a wonder the political aspirations of 193 sovereign states had managed to align long enough to finally get something done here. This was all speculation of course... he didn't know what the hell was going on in the sprawling mess that was military and civilian bureaucracy after all, but he was probably better off not knowing and stewing over it than knowing and facing the disillusionment that came with that insight. At the very least someone had finally driven home that they needed to mount up and take the plunge.

As he stepped into the mess hall, the smell of food and low buzz of conversation made him shake off his dour ruminations. He stuffed his beret into one of his pockets, unruly hairs untamed by their short trim and white since his thirties sticking out over his forehead as he set about getting himself something to eat and loading up his tray. Along with a Russian and an American soldier, Captain Gardener and some suit were talking at a table, looking a tad grim. Osira was there too, with an expression that looked somewhat like the porridge hadn't agreed with her. The young native woman had been there the first day, the fear and hatred in her eyes still fresh in his mind. He spoken with her several times since in far less morbid circumstances, but couldn't shake the feeling that that fear and mistrust wouldn't go away so easily. The overall atmosphere seemed pretty downcast. He'd been hoping to leave his worries at the door.

Forcing the darker thoughts from his mind, his mustache curved up as he paused briefly near the three and greeted them with a smile.

"Mornin' Captain. How're we all holding up?" His smile was much less tired now, and broadened by the thought that they were finally going to be properly exploring this mad place, god willing.
Last edited by Vahltunskhja on Mon Mar 27, 2017 8:17 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Bentus
Senator
 
Posts: 3832
Founded: Dec 18, 2013
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Bentus » Mon Mar 27, 2017 9:26 pm

Cornelia de Yamada
Italica, The Empire
Central Keep


The city of Italica was a beating heart of trade and commerce. Founded centuries ago in the early years of the Empire, it was the shining jewel of the province. Its markets thronged with traders displaying their wares, silks from the Capital on offer besides grain and produce from the farmlands. Delicacies from all four corners of the Empire travelled through the streets of the city, its wealth and influence having been built upon its location as a linchpin of Imperial overland trade. The grain and livestock from the surrounding fields helped to feed the ravenous hunger of the Empire’s heartland, and this trade had made Italica rich. Its people were proud of their city’s achievements, straddling the border of the Imperial homeland while the garrison helped ensure a steady flow of supplies back and forth from newly conquered lands and vassals.

Although it couldn’t come close to the Capital’s grandeur as the centre of the world, Cornelia had to accept that the thriving city held its own degree of charm. It was a vibrant symbol of what the Empire could achieve, of the civilization and prosperity that followed in the wake of its conquests as its borders stretched ever outwards. Looking out from the balcony of the keep that dominated the centre of the city, the stone structure watching over its populace like a loyal sentinel, Cornelia stood in silence. She could hear the distant cries of merchants plying their produce, the faint din of city life lifting on the breeze like the pulse of the great city. The protective city walls encircled the central districts in a protective embrace, the buildings increasing in size and ornamentation as one approached the keep. Out beyond the walls, Cornelia could make out some of the rising smoke from fireplaces in the outer district along with some dotted farmhouses out to the horizon. The woman furrowed her brow, turning away from the view.

“We can call in the garrisons from Calcaria and Bergula to bolster our numbers, help bring the damaged legions back up to full strength.” The man’s voice was blunt and pragmatic, while the response was filled with a furious passion. “And the Kingdoms of Mudwan and Elbe have already dispatched armies of their own to join us.”

“Bergula? That’s at least two week’s march, we cannot afford to wait that long – we must strike fast and hard before the invaders have a chance to dig-in any further.”

A third voice interjected into the discussion, a large-built man slamming his fist on the wooden table, causing the tokens and counters that represented Imperial forces on the spread-out map to jump. “I agree with General Cossus. I have lost thousands of my warriors to those cowards – the least they deserve is the honour of vengeance, even if it costs us a thousand more souls!”

“So you would recommend repeating the mistakes of the past, General?” The three men turned in unison at Cornelia’s voice. Her blond hair was tied in a neat bun on the back of her head, kept curt and practical so as not to impede her vision or movement. Even in the safety of the keep, a light set of armour adorned her torso and a small sword was clasped comfortably to her hip. “There is no honour in wasting more lives in the vain hope of achieving a different result. We need solutions, my friends, not more of the same.”

General Cossus, the second man who had spoken, ground his teeth in frustration. “With all due respect, Countess, I am more than willing to consider any alternative suggestions. But I refuse to stand down in fear and spit on the graves of all those we have lost so far.” Cornelia nodded in understanding. She shared the man’s anger, but knew that rushing headlong into the enemy lines was a fool’s errand.

“My Knights and I were sent by the Emperor to secure Italica. While the invaders are a blight upon our land and a stain upon our honour for every day they remain, as warriors we must swallow our pride and consider the bigger picture.” Cornelia looked into the features of each of those gathered. “Alnus Hill holds little strategic importance other than the Gate, but Italica is essential to maintaining order in the province. Already the garrison has been depleted and bandits throughout the province have become increasingly bold. By committing more forces to the hill, we will leave the rest of the province undefended and vulnerable.”

Cossus sighed, allowing for a thin smile to spread across his lips. “Very well, my Lady. If a Knight of the Crown is willing to accept the tarnishing of their honour in the name of the greater good, then the least that I can offer is the same.” The man looked over the map with fresh eyes, this time looking at the areas further afield from Alnus rather than the field of battle itself. “If we maintain our position until the arrival of reinforcements, we can establish a perimeter around the invaders’ base to monitor their activities. Eventually they will need to venture beyond their gates, and that is when they will be vulnerable – but we would have to wait until they are far enough from their allies before we strike.”

Cornelia nodded, the beginnings of a plan coming together in her mind. “The patient hunter gains the greatest prize.” The general grunted in agreement, although he considered the proverb unnecessary. Knights, why can’t they ever just speak plainly? “I will have my Order secure the city and the surrounding countryside, allowing for you to establish the perimeter around the Hill until Mudwan and Elbe arrive to bolster our numbers.” A gleam appeared in the Knight’s eye as a thought struck her. “Tell me General, how many of the Wolfsmund remain in Italica? I will need to discuss this plan with their commander.”
- - Bentus
- -
1 2 3 >4< 5
Possible threat.
Forces active in a warzone.
At peace.
Member of The Galactic Economic and Security Organization

NationStates Belongs to All, Gameplay, Roleplay, and Nonplay Alike
Every NationStates Community Member, from Raider Kings to Brony Queens Make Us Awesome.
"Though I fly through the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil. For I am at the Karman line and climbing." - Bentusi SABRE motto

[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's not a matter that i can't think up something
[22:07] <SergalKashra> it's getting thoughts to screen
[22:07] <Avlana_> Oh
[22:07] <Avlana_> Try typing
[22:07] * Avlana_ nods
[22:07] * SergalKashra stabs Avlana_ in the knee

How Roleplays Die <= Good read for anyone interested in OPing

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United Islands of Polis
Diplomat
 
Posts: 548
Founded: Jun 27, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby United Islands of Polis » Tue Mar 28, 2017 9:43 am

Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


As Dima was checking the hinges when he heard someone behind him, he stopped checking the hinges and turned his attention to the voice, he expected some Spetsnaz member to be behind him but instead he saw the last person he expected, an American, he didn't tell by the flag on the individual's sleeve but from the camoflauge pattern he wore, during his off time he once looked up the camo pattern of the United States and apparently seemingly useless information became useful.

"Da, you can sit here." Dima moved his PKP to the other side, the barrel right under his gear which was right under his arm just to make sure no one would steal it "There is no need to speak in Russian to me, as you can see blin, I know English and some other languages." Dima said as he moved his helmet aside.

"So what be your name friend?" Dima asked as he picked up one of his mines, making sure they were inactive before giving a small nod that it was inactive.

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New Antonalia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1946
Founded: Jan 06, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby New Antonalia » Tue Mar 28, 2017 9:53 am

United Islands of Polis wrote:Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


As Dima was checking the hinges when he heard someone behind him, he stopped checking the hinges and turned his attention to the voice, he expected some Spetsnaz member to be behind him but instead he saw the last person he expected, an American, he didn't tell by the flag on the individual's sleeve but from the camoflauge pattern he wore, during his off time he once looked up the camo pattern of the United States and apparently seemingly useless information became useful.

"Da, you can sit here." Dima moved his PKP to the other side, the barrel right under his gear which was right under his arm just to make sure no one would steal it "There is no need to speak in Russian to me, as you can see blin, I know English and some other languages." Dima said as he moved his helmet aside.

"So what be your name friend?" Dima asked as he picked up one of his mines, making sure they were inactive before giving a small nod that it was inactive.

1st Lt. Robert Price,
Special Region, Alnus Hills
UN FOB, Mess hall


"Yeah, well it's not every day I get to practice my Russian on a Russian." Robert said, glancing at the equipment the Russian was fiddling with. "Lt. Robert Price, 11th A Cav. And what should I call you?" Mines?! What the hell are the Russians doing with landmines? I guess the CCCW1 and Ottawa Treaty means nothing to them. Robert thought, grimacing as he saw the mine. "So, what's with all the heavy duty gear? Surely you can't think guys using swords, bows, and shields are that big of a problem?" He asked, trying ascertain the reason the Russians were using illegal weapons.

1. Convention of Certain Conventional Weapons: Banned the use of Plastic Landmines in war
2. Ottawa Treaty: Treaty signed by 122 different countries that prohibits the use of any landmine in an armed conflict.
Last edited by New Antonalia on Tue Mar 28, 2017 9:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
A, probably less than successful, model of what a Post Soviet Eastern European nation can be

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United Islands of Polis
Diplomat
 
Posts: 548
Founded: Jun 27, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby United Islands of Polis » Tue Mar 28, 2017 8:25 pm

Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


"That is true, I guess your interaction with Russians are very very limited, but you may speak to me in any of the two languages, not a problem." Dima said trying to be polite as not to live up to the usual stereotype his people have been given. So his name was Robert Price, lieutenant from the 11th A. Cav. "Chto by eto ni bylo, chert" (Whatever the hell that means) Dima said to himself.

"Well I am Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev, Junior Seargant or OR-4, 57th Motorized Infantry Batallion, but you may call me Dima, Dimitri or Aleksandr, whichever you want." He informed Robert "As for the heavy duty gear this is my standard kit, I'm an automatic gunner, as for the mines, before you freak, these are TNT, not plastic explosives and yes they are all inactive for now."

Dima moved so Robert could take a seat "Considering how they send their troops in hundreds an LMG seemed appropriate and yes, they let the mines in because we can't really build defenses without being undermanned, so mines were the next best thing." Dima cleared.

"So am I suppose to address you as sir from here on out?"

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Nearly Finland
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 352
Founded: Feb 12, 2015
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Nearly Finland » Tue Mar 28, 2017 10:01 pm

Warrant Officer Kirsie Kennedy, Mess Hall

Book on her right, and tea on her left, Kirsie waited for the briefing to start. Her face had a probably fake smile, one which she was having difficulty maintaining in concentration, but one she strangely found duty-bound to continue to form. A mental note she had left herself, and only very recently read, something her uncle once told her - that smiling was a public service, and that it helped other people to feel a bit better. She kind of wanted to try to talk to one of the others in the mess - but that would feel too embarrassing. Starting a conversation, at least to her, was quite difficult, even if continuing one was easy enough. So she tried to focus on the phrasebook. After a couple of minutes, Kirsie stowed it. Maybe because it was too difficult to read in the light earthquake her knee-bouncing was inflicting on the table. But, not knowing anyone despite being here for a while went against her favourite aunt's advice. "Persay. Ya gotta go out there, ya gotta meet new payple, ay tell ya." So, she stood up and made her way towards... um... Sergeant... 'stache Arsenault, offering a handshake.

"Sergeant. Uh, W.O. Kirsie Kennedy here, hello. How are you doing?"
Last edited by Nearly Finland on Tue Mar 28, 2017 10:02 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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New Antonalia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1946
Founded: Jan 06, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby New Antonalia » Tue Mar 28, 2017 10:06 pm

United Islands of Polis wrote: Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


"That is true, I guess your interaction with Russians are very very limited, but you may speak to me in any of the two languages, not a problem." Dima said trying to be polite as not to live up to the usual stereotype his people have been given. So his name was Robert Price, lieutenant from the 11th A. Cav. "Chto by eto ni bylo, chert" (Whatever the hell that means) Dima said to himself.

"Well I am Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev, Junior Seargant or OR-4, 57th Motorized Infantry Battalion, but you may call me Dima, Dimitri or Aleksandr, whichever you want." He informed Robert "As for the heavy duty gear this is my standard kit, I'm an automatic gunner, as for the mines, before you freak, these are TNT, not plastic explosives and yes they are all inactive for now."

Dima moved so Robert could take a seat "Considering how they send their troops in hundreds an LMG seemed appropriate and yes, they let the mines in because we can't really build defenses without being undermanned, so mines were the next best thing." Dima cleared.

"So am I suppose to address you as sir from here on out?"

1st Lt. Robert Price,
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


"On duty, yes, however seeing as we are not on duty, Sergeant, there is no need to address me as 'Sir' or 'Lt.'." Robert replied, popping the top of his coke before taking a sip. "As for the mines, I won't freak out, but too many close calls, even in an Abrams, and you get wary around an infantry man with explosives." Robert said, smiling a little bit before patting Dima on the back. A Motorized Infantry Battalion, no wonder there are so many damn Russians around... but thank god they're on our side. Those mines are essentially the same fucking thing as the IEDs in Iraq, only these are more powerful. "As for their soldiers..." Robert said, his smile fading. "I wouldn't even consider them on the same level as us, hell, they're not even playing the same game. They're using tactics and weapons that became outdated when the Chinese invented black powder, and that battle last night? it wasn't a battle, it was a massacre. They didn't stand a chance, and if you think about it, what happens when a small force with superior training, tactics, and firepower encounters what we encountered last night? The result is right outside the camp, hell, the results will be all around us soon enough, especially if the dumb bastards decide to send more at us, hoping to overwhelm us with sheer numbers. Tell me? What happens then?" He finished with a sad chuckle before speaking again. "Now I am become death, Destroyer of Worlds."
A, probably less than successful, model of what a Post Soviet Eastern European nation can be

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Zjaum
Senator
 
Posts: 3572
Founded: Oct 15, 2016
Corporate Bordello

Postby Zjaum » Tue Mar 28, 2017 10:35 pm

Okoya Bren-so
Special Region, Alnus Hill
High Noon


Okoya was sprawled against the unoccupied side of Alnus Hill. Her itchy gambeson discarded to her side, she found it easy to ignore the noise from the foreigners on the other side of the hill. She'd enjoyed working with the soldiers in digging out the foundations for the new camp, but, even with her experience at the Company, she quickly became tired. She had done most of the work, anyway.

She decided to take out a gem from her pocket and admire it in the sunlight for a little; she had nothing else to do while lying around. She reached in the gambeson's right pouch and pulled out a big ruby. The cut wasn't the best she saw, but it was big and shiny. This was clearly from her thievery days, but she couldn't quite put her finger on the story behind it. She mused for a few minutes, then decided that she couldn't concentrate with the sun in her eyes. She began to roll her titanic body over, only to her a loud, "Hey! HEY! HEY!"

She paused at a right angle, and a very surprised Haapsalu had jumped up. Okoya remembered; Haapsalu had decided to join her a few minutes ago, and she was just about to flatten him. Panicked but in the process of calming, Haapsalu now stood up and brushed the grass leaves off his pants. "Next time, tell me if you're about to roll over!" he said in Zjaumit.

"My apologies; I had honestly forgotten," she replied. "Say, you're in full armor and clothing! Isn't it hot, lying like that?"
"Well, you don't have to worry about getting crushed by accident," Haapsalu bluntly stated. He sighed. "Well, now that we're talking, I reckon it would be a reasonable time for conversation. How was your day?"
"Oh, it was a very good day! I got to meet several new faces that I hadn't known before, and I made a lot of progress digging the foundations! The soil was quite easy to maneuver."
"Be careful, Okoya. You know as well as I that infirm soil is easy to use but dangerous in certain circumstances."
"Ah, yes, I did try and make sure that the wooden planks, metal beams, and big stones were stable enough. What did you do today?"
"Well, after I taught Imperial to the foreigners, as usual, I checked on my request for books. It's still going through! I only asked for their major books of religion, science and engineering books, and books explaining their history in detail! I don't even know why it should be taking so long! Damnation, why does the elf have so much leeway? Regardless, as I was checking, I came across an interesting piece of information. Apparently the foreigners are going to advance out from their camp for the first time, in a maneuver called a 'Rekee,' if I'm pronouncing it right. I saw them bringing new self-rolling vehicles for this mission, straight from the Gate itself!"
She replied: "So, You're saying that It Came In Like A Recce Ball?"
"Yes, precisely! I don't doubt they'll need guides for this sort of excursion. I was thinking about offering my services."
"Well, I don't recall the Company doing that much business in and around Alnus Hill. Italica, sure, but that's just about it. We wouldn't know that much about the surrounding area."
"Well, sure, but some help is better than no help. I'm sure that I could direct them to Italica. The soldiers should be meeting to discuss this soon; would you be interested in joining me?"

Okoya sighed. It meant getting up from the comfortable grass and putting the itchy gambeson back on, but it was something to do. She was getting bored quite rapidly. She nodded and stowed away her gambeson. Haapsalu rode in Okoya's hand to the mess hall. Haapsalu walked through the door, while Okoya put her ear to the side of the building, waiting for someone important to speak. In the meantime, she grabbed what the mess hall had left out for her, a enormous amount of food but a relative pittance, and began to eat in anticipation.

Haapsalu's first thought inside the mess hall was where his seat should be. Quite often he enjoyed playing politics and conversing with the military brass, but occasionally he liked relaxing amongst (but not with) familiar faces. For example, a short walk away was "Pol Pol-Gotener," one of the first foreigners he had encountered, as well as- did his eyes deceive him? No!- the elf wannabe, reading her foolish little book! What a wonderful opportunity for a little humor! He strolled past the Osira, casually commented, "Have you gotten to the fun part I told you about?", and sat down next to Paul Gardener and his friends without waiting for a response. "So, have you guys checked out the new buildings being built?"
Last edited by Zjaum on Wed Mar 29, 2017 11:34 am, edited 1 time in total.
I use my NationStates stats, because a population of billions/trillions and an economy of hundreds of trillions is totally viable, trust me.
But seriously, aside from the population and GDP, just assume that my NS stats are roughly accurate.

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United Islands of Polis
Diplomat
 
Posts: 548
Founded: Jun 27, 2015
Ex-Nation

Postby United Islands of Polis » Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:43 am

Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


"Alright, it is nice to know you aren't so stuck up with being called by your rank with other people." Dima spoke from experience. "At least you had X amount of armor protecting you, I only had a suit to protect me, EOD is a sobaka (bitch) knowing you screw up once and everything goes sky high." Dima could still remember the weight of the suit.

He listened to the man's comment regarding the local forces and Dima had to make his inquiry "I feel as if I'm watching a lesson successful version of the Red Army in the Second World War, not very coordinated and apparently the word 'outmatched' or anything close does not exist in their vocabulary, yet it is what makes them dangerous even if they can't touch us." Dima made a sad laugh at that.

"I advise you don't look at yourself as a 'World Destroyer' because if it is one thing a game thought me is that sometimes to save a life, you must take one, morbid yes, true, quite so, some of us lost people dear to them, so don't over think it, it will affect your performance here." Dima reached into one of his pockets to pull out a small chocolate bar and offered it to Robert.

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Vahltunskhja
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 402
Founded: Oct 03, 2016
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Vahltunskhja » Wed Mar 29, 2017 4:44 pm

Sergeant Césaire Jean-Pierre Arsenault
Alnus Hill - UN Forward Operating Base
25 March, 2017 - the Special Region




"Warrant Officer Kennedy, good morning! - doin' fine, how are you and the rest of the Yanks holding up?" Arsenault smiled as he returned the junior officer's handshake. He tried to remember if American WOs preferred sir and ma'am or not, judging it best to stay on the safe side and risk getting the old 'I work for a living' line. "Sergeant Arsenault, with the Royal Vingt-Deuxième Régiment - Jean-Pierre if you prefer, ma'am."

It seemed to him like the junior officers kept getting younger and younger every year. He'd had his fair share of Second Lieutenants and the rest over the years though, and knew better than to discount them based on their relative inexperience alone. 'Course, it helped if you could get them relax a bit - the older sergeant kept up his easy smile to this end, standing a bit more relaxed. "Know when the Colonel'll show up?"

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Kassaran
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 9935
Founded: Jun 16, 2013
Capitalist Paradise

The Eye

Postby Kassaran » Wed Mar 29, 2017 4:59 pm

Staff Sergeant William 'Wild Bill' Thompson
Unit 14 of the SAD under the 75th Ranger Regiment
Alnus Hill FOB, UN International Peacekeeping Force to the Special Region


The night so far had been eventful for the man in the tower. He'd been told he wasn't needed, but when one held Tier One status, you easily could validate your reasons for doing anything as simply 'training' and that's exactly what this was. If not a turkey shoot, it was the pathetic attempt of a child to meaningfully injure its parent. The smell of the cordite and the gunsmoke seemed to fill his lungs with each breath he used to steady the massive Thermal Scope. The ESR he hald, braced against the rampart of the sniper tower he was now in had given him all the stability he needed, his spotter had not been cleared for travel into the Special Region yet so he was stuck doing most of the calculations himself on the fly. Already he'd ascertained that most of the indigenous soldiers were of about 5'7" in height. Short. At least, they appeared to be short if ballistics here held up to the effects Earth suffered from. Already his shot groupings from what he was able to see, were getting more and more on point.

The deep reverberating and the thumping of the artillery and the mortars from within the FOB quickly gave way to nothingness again as William slowly focused out all of the noise. It was nothing to him, to concentrate under these conditions, he was trained to fight under stress far greater than this, and sitting in a position that made you effectively a god of death over the battlefield was an exhilarating experience.It wasn't that he enjoyed taking the lives of these soldiers charging the hill, this was his job. But if it was his duty and his orders to defend this place form people so merciless as to brutalize civilians in their half-ass invasion of his world, well then he wasn't going to have any sort of mercy here. No, that'd be to their god or gods or whatever invisible protector spirit they believed in.

Ah how great it had felt to get back his ESR, the familiar weight of the rifle, gently vibrating from the aftershocks of the nearby detonation of the charges in the backs of the mortars sending their own deadly payload downrange. Now, here we was, about to add to the fireworks for the night. The scope, calibrated and already set to burn through the ambient temperature and filter out the chem-flares shot up over the battlefield, now lit the entire battlefield in varying shades and hues of grey and black. Wavering in the heat of the dozens of craters already present, could be picked out the forms of the enemy soldiers, scattered into thousands against the wind of fury now blowing down Alnus Hill. The occasional tracer straying into his sights set off the contrast by a hair, but the expensive piece of Night Optical Equipment quickly re-calibrated itself and factored out the anomaly. He'd seen sights like this before, people far under-qualified to be leading an attack on a stronghold, doing so anyways. He knew it wasn't their choice by the way they broke up from their formations. If he had to guess, they were conscripts.

It almost made his stomach churn, to try and picture the commanders and their cowardice in using such weak-stomached individuals as conscripts to fight a location as well defended as Alnus Hill. Surely they had to realize that this wasn't going to end, the rivers of blood and the maelstrom of fire lancing out and away from the GATE in all directions now? The Hesco barriers around the FOB had already rendered their weapons useless, but then again it seemed as though nothing would be there for them if they turned around. He'd already received information in the brief on the way to the Earth side of the GATE in Stockholm regarding the business of POW's. Many went missing from Stockholm in the hours that the military had been mobilizing. Now, it was on the UN Peacekeeping forces to recover the prisoners, but even more so was it in the interests of the Special Forces sniper now dialing in the last few calculations for windage, that he be the one present in any events that lead to the recovery of American prisoners. Approximately fourteen Americans on holiday in Sweden at the time had gone missing, their retrieval was of the utmost importance and he had been given authorization under his direct CoC to secure them if possible. He was just one of a few dozen though whom had been likewise briefed. His chances of ending up in such a position were low and so here he was pressing himself against the tower rampart and pulling a bead on a soldier starting to muster up his confidence in the night fight before him.

A trigger pull and an explosion of white-hot matter from the view of the FLIR camera signaled the end of the soldier as his body dropped to the ground like a training dummy. The very viscosity of his bodily fluids and the material within being forced out had kept his body from even bouncing. No, now he lay motionless and a nearby soldier noticed and started to get up to run over to him. Lining up the bead, William took the next shot and the upper half of the soldier seemed to go slack atop his legs, bending over backwards as the round impacted the left side of the abdomen and severed the spinal cord somewhere about the lower back. Blood and gore sprayed into the air for a moment, the soldier's upper half lamely attempting to continue crawling away into the night only to be quickly finished off by the third round in the magazine. The slide of the bolt from the breach, extracting the hot brass from the M2010's chamber and letting the next round force itself up and into place to be fired off, sounded like an age-old song the sniper had grown accustomed to in his time in service. The scope swept to the right, a man wielding a spear and a shield of almost Roman appearance was beginning to shirk back and away. The javelins on his back, and the rather fine array of armor he wore picked him out from the common rabble of men around him.

"And a-one..." The round snapped off and travelling at just over supersonic speeds, impacted the top of the chest of the man, cleaving his head from his body and sending a spray of bloody mist into the air and dropping the corpse flat on its back. The slight shaking and trembling of the body as it tried to regain control of itself without its brain could barely be perceived in the lens of the IR scope, but it was still there. The world went light gray suddenly, save for the few colder spots on the battlefield. Pulling away from the scope, he waited for the IR flare to settle in his scope's calibration measures before he carried on. This world was almost too easy for what they were doing, why they hadn't pushed in further was a mystery to him, but as the final round of his popped off into the skull of a rather large and grotesque looking creature he dropped his first magazine of the night and reached down to load the next. The pile of almost thirty five-round box magazines were just what he expected to use tonight. It was the best training he'd gotten in a field-based exercise in a long time. After tonight, he'd might not get another chance at something like this. His kill count had already far surpassed any of the other snipers he'd ever come across. He was perhaps to soon even become a greater sniper than those names that had arisen from conflicts like the second world war.


The Mess Hall

Last night had taken its toll on the sniper, his mind lay restless for most of the early morning, and so when time came about to go on his PT run as usual, he found himself moving in an almost robotic fashion. Years of practice and drilling mixed with simple muscle memory and the desire to stay alive and fit all came together to make the soldier that was Thompson. If he was have any say in what happened to him, it would most certainly be in the way that'd keep him alive the longest. He had been notably opportunistic and resourceful in various situations before this, his job had required it, but here was in such a more formal and determined setting that he had already resigned himself to garrison-esque practices. PT belt on, he took off at his usual clip, he'd be running for the better part of a mile to complete the ten mile course he'd set up patrolling the entirety of the FOB. Already the UN had expanded the reach of the Hescos and the dawn had brought an end to the hostilities of the night before. From what he could tell as he ran down past some of the POW quarters, the people there had been those lucky enough to get either clipped, or had been smart enough to keep their heads down and not move for the entirety of the night.

It was at somewhere into mile nine he'd finally begun to feel the first pangs of that all-too familiar morning hunger his body had come to expect in Garrison. He frowned at the tugging at the edges of his hunger that was threatening to turn into an anxious gnawing sensation. He'd been much more disciplined before this, he'd need to start pushing himself harder to keep the edge off, and start eating lighter, but more sustainable meals. He didn't know when he'd be deployed out into the field. Already he could guess that he'd be used in some sort of assassination or overwatch measure from the general overview of the way the base was set up. The accommodations for snipers and marksmen from the different nations were sparse, scant if even present. His tent soon came up though, and entering it at the gentle cool-down jog he usually used, he almost tripped over the equipment of another sniper or marksman that had been moved in the night before. He didn't really care too much about the mess, but his annoyance with the obstruction to his path was diverted into a slightly grunt as he pushed himself up and over in a jump to the other side of the barrier.

Ten minutes, it was all the time he took to take his two minute shower, switch into his duty uniform, and head off towards the Mess Hall. He'd yet to eat today, or even since the fighting had begun last night. Entering the mess tent, he could see those whom had slowly begun to become more of a common sight among the peacekeepers. A Russian, another American with a set of railroad tracks on his chest. There was the girl whom had been recovered from ground zero as the UN had begun pouring into the site on the hill now known as Alnus and passing her was the old mercenary he'd already been briefed on. It was one of the few actually cooperative natives of the Special Region whom had been secured by UN forces early on. Looking back towards where the Captain and the Russian were, he settled his mind and approached.

Gotta talk to brass eventually. The briefing's today anyways, so might as well learn something before hand.

"I advise you don't look at yourself as a 'World Destroyer' because if it is one thing a game thought me is that sometimes to save a life, you must take one, morbid yes, true, quite so, ome of us lost people dear to them, so don't over thing it, it will affect your performance here."

Quite the tangent to walk in on, but nevertheless he was more than willing to sit and listen for some sort of context. Taking up a position near the conversation, close enough to show his interest, but not interrupt the conversation, he listened closely.
Beware: Walls of Text Generally appear Above this Sig.
The Teutonic Republic wrote:"Hammer" in Russian means "Dicks" in Finnish.

This can't be a coincidence
Korva wrote:Q: How effective would this thing be if we assume it would be very effective?
A: Very effective
The Knockout Gun Gals wrote:
The United Remnants of America wrote:You keep that cheap Chinese knock-off away from the real OG.
Same goes for Task Force Rainbow.

bloody hell, mate.
that's a real deal. We just don't buy the license rights.

The following came from an interesting discussion regarding ANTIFA:
Kowani wrote:rights are bullshit.
Currently Enlisted in the United States Army.

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Novaya Equestria
Minister
 
Posts: 3219
Founded: May 01, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Novaya Equestria » Wed Mar 29, 2017 7:35 pm

Borealis Mir Norsoutha-Tomoshima
Coda Village, Empire, Special Region


"So the Saderan Empire forced its rivals to send their armies to their doom, correct?" Prince Borealis asked an Assassin, who - alongside the Crown Prince - were at an alleyway. "Yes, My Lord. My fellow Assassins and I were positioned from a much safer place when we are spying the armies marching. The ones who came out of the Gate unleashed their magic - or, in Alnoria's case, gunpowder weaponry - at the Allied Armies, wiping them out. The flintlock repeater muskets has torn the Allied soldiers apart, massacring them. I will never see the world the same again. Fortunately, we're smart not to get ourselves killed by, like I said, staying in a much safer place. The cannons blew the soldiers apart alongside King Duran... I'm not sure what exactly happened to him, My Lord." The Assassin reported.

"Hmm. I believed we have no choice. Soldier, I would like to meet with the invaders who obliterated the Allied Armies. Also, I want to meet with the invading armies' leaders. I'll be writing to my family in Atlas. If something happens to me, I want you to deliver this to my family." Borealis said. "Yes, My Lord." The Assassin said as he vanished into the dark area. "Good... Time to write a letter!" Borealis said as he went to his room in an inn and writes the letter. "I know what I must do..." His mind says so. After finishing writing the letter to his family, Borealis then exits his room before being approached by five Assassins. "Men, we'll be heading to Alnus Hill. Cornelia du Thorns, I want you to deliver this message to my family should I get myself killed by the ones from the other side. Assassins, come with me. We'll be travelling on horseback." Borealis said as he and the Assassins left the village and seek out the horses outside said village, said horses being guarded by two Assassins.

"Come on, Assassins. We'll be visiting the Alnus Hill occupiers." Borealis said as they rode on their horses and left for Alnus Hill.
//To anyone who knows me, I am an overreacting brony. And also an overreacting Otaku.
(° Д °|||)
I'm RPing as Novaya, a Human militaristic nation (cuz anime) that follows Enlightened Socialism.
Please refer to me/my nation as Novaya in both IC and OOC, NOT Novaya Equestria. And now RPing as a [REDACTED] nation again, depending on la chances.
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New Antonalia
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1946
Founded: Jan 06, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby New Antonalia » Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:15 pm

United Islands of Polis wrote:Dimitri Aleksandr Zubarev
Special Region, Alnus Hill
Recently Established FOB, Mess Hall


"Alright, it is nice to know you aren't so stuck up with being called by your rank with other people." Dima spoke from experience. "At least you had X amount of armor protecting you, I only had a suit to protect me, EOD is a sobaka (bitch) knowing you screw up once and everything goes sky high." Dima could still remember the weight of the suit.

He listened to the man's comment regarding the local forces and Dima had to make his inquiry "I feel as if I'm watching a lesson successful version of the Red Army in the Second World War, not very coordinated and apparently the word 'outmatched' or anything close does not exist in their vocabulary, yet it is what makes them dangerous even if they can't touch us." Dima made a sad laugh at that.

"I advise you don't look at yourself as a 'World Destroyer' because if it is one thing a game thought me is that sometimes to save a life, you must take one, morbid yes, true, quite so, some of us lost people dear to them, so don't over think it, it will affect your performance here." Dima reached into one of his pockets to pull out a small chocolate bar and offered it to Robert.

Lt. Robert Price
Special Region, Alnus Hill
UN FOB, Mess Hall


Robert let out a tired sigh. "Yeah, though enough with this philosophical shit. I'm too old and too poorly educated for it." He said, smiling faintly as he finished his soda. He looked at the chocolate offered by Dima, and politely refused. "Sorry, I only eat Hershey's and Hammonds, call me a creature of habit, but I hardly stray from my usual brands." As he finishes, he pulls out a bar of Hammond's Milk Chocolate. "Though, I'll tell you what, you try some Hammond's and I'll try some... what is your brand called?"

(I apologize for the short post, but I'm hitting a little bit of a writer's block.)
A, probably less than successful, model of what a Post Soviet Eastern European nation can be

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Zjaum
Senator
 
Posts: 3572
Founded: Oct 15, 2016
Corporate Bordello

Postby Zjaum » Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:33 pm

United Islands of Polis wrote:"I advise you don't look at yourself as a 'World Destroyer' because if it is one thing a game thought me is that sometimes to save a life, you must take one, morbid yes, true, quite so, some of us lost people dear to them, so don't over think it, it will affect your performance here." Dima reached into one of his pockets to pull out a small chocolate bar and offered it to Robert.

"Ah, yes, sound advice!" Haapsalu stated. "Why, my mining firm..."

No one was listening to him, or even acknowledging his presence. What a shame. A sniper approached the table, and everyone seemed to ponder the foreigner's statement with great fervor, but everyone seemed to ignore him. Perhaps it was because of his height...

Haapsalu thought it best to make another entrance after retrieving a meal. He snuck out of the group quietly and headed for the buffet table. He may have been a dwarf, but he ate just as much as any human! The chefs were confused at first why a dwarf would take so much, but by now they were used to it. He looked out the window to see his giantess friend, quite literally, scraping the bottom of the barrel, looking for something else to do.

"How is the food, Okoya?" he shouted outward.

Startled, Okoya looked around the inside of the building to find Haapsalu before finding him in front of one of the windows. "It tastes like paste, but a good kind of paste, sir!"

"Glad to hear that. Say, did you see any of the brass getting ready for the speech or something?"

"No, not yet," she stated, placing the bin down, half expecting more than the little amount she received. "If anyone important comes, how about I let you know by tapping the window?"

"Good, good, very well. I shall see you soon!" Haapsalu turned back and headed toward the tables yet again, this time expecting some sort of response. "I dare say, this nut paste that you have at the base is quite a remarkable invention! I'm surprised that we lack something this basic in the Empire! What do you call it, 'peanut butter'? It's quite good, although I wonder if it could be sweeter."
I use my NationStates stats, because a population of billions/trillions and an economy of hundreds of trillions is totally viable, trust me.
But seriously, aside from the population and GDP, just assume that my NS stats are roughly accurate.

Support: Paleo-imperialism, conservatism, libertarianism, Christianity.
Against: Stupid people, resistance to industrial progress, alt-right, any form of government at or beyond socialism.

I hail from The League of Conservative Nations. Hearts unthawed, hearts unshaken!

Takaka Tar' Turayi,
The stars will be ours someday.

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Nearly Finland
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 352
Founded: Feb 12, 2015
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Nearly Finland » Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:38 pm

Warrant Officer Kirsie Kennedy, Mess Hall

In the presence of another smile, her's became a little easier to maintain. This bloke seemed friendly, a definite relief.

"Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Arsenault, I would say we're all fine. About the time, I'm curious, since my watch reads it to be about..."

She stopped mid-sentence to briefly wrestle with her internal dialogue, which she had managed to imagine as an epic television announcer voice. (come on, Kirise), it went. (You've been waiting to say this for years).

"...high noon."

In what was probably confusing for everyone, her smile broadened a bit, and was joined by a brief "pfft".

"Sorry. So, we were told to gather here in two hours, about two and a half hours ago. I assume the Colonel is quite busy. Hmm... on an unrelated note, it seems that we'll have to rely on the locals for most of the information and communication once we're out of the base. Are they all perfectly willing to assist us?"
Last edited by Nearly Finland on Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:41 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Parcia
Negotiator
 
Posts: 6946
Founded: Feb 11, 2016
Democratic Socialists

Postby Parcia » Wed Mar 29, 2017 9:55 pm

Togaru Yoshida
Ambush point, Road to Alnus Hill


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UENb3lLSQho

The Ambush was perfect, tick bushes and foliage on both sides, with ample tree top cover for him to drop down on should he choose. So, the famed assassin waited. And Waited.

And Waited. He waited for what seemed to be hours. What could be taking them so long, some bureaucracy he knew not of? Perhaps another event he had nor foreseen?

He slipped down from his hidden perch in the trees and stood in the middle of the road, his pack hidden, the throwing knives tucked in to their hidden sheaths, his Bo staff in hand. "by the gods, these invader sure take their time. With the way they annihilated that pitiful drable of men they called an army, you;d think they would be taking the capitol."

He turned as he spoke the last part, the sound of Approaching Horses drawing his attention. His adrenaline spiked and his blood grew cold, the natural senses of the Demon with in warning him. Holding the staff, he looked upward, to far to leap and not enough time to climb. Looking back down, he noticed the man instantly:

Borealis Mir, Knight, warrior, and some one who likely would want Togaru's head on a pike, seeing as his face was on every wanted poster in the Empire.
So apparently Cobalt has named me a Cyber terrorist, I honestly don't know to be Honored or offended.
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Kassaran
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 9935
Founded: Jun 16, 2013
Capitalist Paradise

Postby Kassaran » Wed Mar 29, 2017 11:09 pm

Zjaum wrote:Haapsalu turned back and headed toward the tables yet again, this time expecting some sort of response. "I dare say, this nut paste that you have at the base is quite a remarkable invention! I'm surprised that we lack something this basic in the Empire! What do you call it, 'peanut butter'? It's quite good, although I wonder if it could be sweeter."


The Sergeant quickly turned to regard the man speaking in heavily accented English, he was obviously a native of the land as he could tell off of the bat. The short stature and the previous knowledge of the existence of this Dwarven miner and mercenary succeeded in dampening his overall surprise. Looking down at the man, he could tell his large size was not just from eating well. The muscles he'd likely built up from years of hard living now were his trophies of having done just that. His compliments on the paste he was describing made the man pause and think for a second. A nut paste? Did he mean peanut butter? He smiled at the thought of sweetened peanut butter and nodded.

"Indeed, it can be. They make little cookies with the stuff, or a paste called Nutella. It's rather delicious and healthy. I am Sergeant William Thompson. Most call me 'Wild Bill' though. As for you good sir?"
Beware: Walls of Text Generally appear Above this Sig.
The Teutonic Republic wrote:"Hammer" in Russian means "Dicks" in Finnish.

This can't be a coincidence
Korva wrote:Q: How effective would this thing be if we assume it would be very effective?
A: Very effective
The Knockout Gun Gals wrote:
The United Remnants of America wrote:You keep that cheap Chinese knock-off away from the real OG.
Same goes for Task Force Rainbow.

bloody hell, mate.
that's a real deal. We just don't buy the license rights.

The following came from an interesting discussion regarding ANTIFA:
Kowani wrote:rights are bullshit.
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