[New Rostil] Ghosts in the Fog

[Tnemrot]

OOC: This is set up for now. There's a plot and storyline to it that I need to develop a little bit first. If you intend to post just please message me first.

I

March 1^st, 1962 | 06:30
Excusion Zone 2 | A:1 Access Only

V

aska turned in a frantic circle. His jacket, loosened from the rigors of running, followed in his wake and his hat would have ripped off of his head had he not shoved it so firmly on his head that even his ears ached for oxygen. His face was contorted with confusion and exhaustion as his muscles burned and ached, screaming out for rest. His heart beat so hard in his chest he feared that he would find ribs broken. His skim was clammy and though it was bitterly cold, he was still sweating as if it was the dead of summer and he was on the equator. Gasping for breath he reached out, touching the frozen fog that had descended in the predawn twilight. He almost cried out for her when a crackle from the nearby brush and the familiar panting of she who he sought echoed into his ears.

She collapsed by his side, her knees skidding on the frozen ground. "Nora," he whispered down to her, bending down and cradling her face with his red, frostbitten hands. "I thought I'd lost you."

"No," she struggled to say the word. Her throat was parched and she would have drunk the air had it been liquid. "I just can't keep up," each word was strained, a whisper because she could not summon the strength to speak louder, "we have to slow down."

"We can't," Vaska said, crouching down. In the faraway distance the echo of a dog's bark summoned his immediate attention. "They are getting closer to us and they have dogs, they will smell us. We must go, now Nora. Quickly!" He grabbed her hand, yanked her to her feet, and dragged her along behind him, vowing not to let go lest they get separated a second time.

Their feet slammed heavily onto the ground with each step as they ran for sanctuary. The frozen ground below them reverberated each step back into their bodies, a shockwave of impact with each step that traveled up their legs and into their spines. They could feel every minor detail of the terrain below their feet whether it was the flatness of the low, dead grass or the rocks that made this ground impossible to dig in without heavy machinery. They'd run now for eight kilometers, having spent the night running and running and running, seeking sanctuary. It had been difficult in the night for though their eyes had adjusted to the utter darkness, they could not move quickly enough to gain distance on their pursuers. They managed only to keep the distance the same but the dogs were new. They hadn't heard dogs before, or maybe the dogs were there and they were too focused, it was impossible to revisit the past now.

With daybreak only minutes away they had the opportunity to gain distance, to run quickly, to drain what little reserves of energy they still had left within themselves. The dogs would come for them, smell them, hunt them through the frozen fog that covered everything as far as the eye could see. Vaska dragged Nora behind him, secretly hoping that the frozen fog would screw with the dogs' noses but being a teenager his knowledge wasn't the kind of knowledge he needed for a situation such as this. "Hurry Nora," he said behind him as he could feel Nora slowing down, dragging him away from his goal of escape.

"I can't," she panted. "I just can't, I'm going to throw up," like before, each word came out with difficulty.

"Then throw up but we cannot stop. We must keep…" And she began to dry heave but neither of them had anything to eat in hours so their stomachs were empty. Conversely, they'd had nothing to drink either and dehydration weakened them faster with each step they took. He stopped, what choice did he have? Down she fell to the ground on her hands and knees, heaving on the ground. Vaska crouched down by her, held her long, straight, blonde hair and put his cold hand on the back of her neck. It was a shock to her body and he whispered into her ear, "It's okay Nora but we have to keep going. If they find us we will be killed."

"We shouldn't have come here," she said between the reflexive waves of a diaphragm struggling to do what the brain commanded.

"No, we shouldn't have but we are here. It's time to…wait…" He listened. A sound carried in the chilled air, a sound that was unmistakably manmade. He stood, looking in all four directions, sweeping around to listen. "There!" He spotted something in the faraway distance, a black shape that showed movement. "We are saved! Come we have to go," and with incredible strength, Vaska lifted Nora and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He summoned what little strength he had left in him and darted away, running towards the distant black object. Its noise was a beacon of hope to him as he moved quickly, much quickly then he had been only minutes earlier. The spectre of hope and life had given him a second wind and with adrenaline fueling his body, he gave it one final go.

Meters upon meters passed beneath his feet as Nora flopped on his shoulder, conscious but exhausted, her stomach fighting the instability of Vaska's running with the nausea she was feeling. Each step Vaska took hurt more and more and the crescendo of pain would have caused her to cry, had she been hydrated enough to do such a thing. "There! It is a train!" He shouted to her as he could see the shape of the train take definitive form. It was barely four hundred meters away now and turning away from him, moving quickly but not quickly enough. He'd never catch it if he missed it but he knew that he could get within its pass, grab on, hoist himself onto a car, and there find safety and escape.

Two and a half minutes it took him to reach the tracks, just as the freight train was passing the midway point. Keeping his pace, for fear of losing the one and only opportunity he had, Vaska darted forward, up the small rise to the side of the train where a fuel car was passing by, "In here!" He shouted as he reached out, grabbed onto the handle of the passing train, and leapt off of the ground to grab the step at the back of the car. Though it was a success, and he didn't know it yet, he'd done major damage to his shoulder and his ankle by jumping onto a moving train but here he was, on the train, spiriting to safety. "Hold onto me tight!" He yelled to Nora as he let go of her right arm and reached up with his other hand to grab the handle. She reached underneath his armpit and was secure, for now.

He hoisted his dragging foot off of the ground and onto the fuel car's step, feeling the weight of Nora on his now fractured, left ankle. He pulled with a grunt and climbed to the next step before working his way underneath the cylinder on the car where a latticed metal protected the fuel cylinder from debris. There was little room to climb under and Vaska had to face the prospect of getting Nora off of his shoulder. He released his right hand from the handle and reach up to her waist. "I'm not going to let you go," he shouted over the roar of the freight train beneath and around them. "You have to climb under there, you see?"

"I see," she said, having gained some form of strength in the last sixty seconds.

"Can you do it?"

"I can do it," she said and he held onto her waist while she pivoted herself on his shoulders. The train lurched and she nearly fell but Vaska held tightly, feeling the lurch before she could scream in fear.

"I have you but you must go now," he said and she tried again, reaching out to grab a hold of a rung on the fuel car's cylinder, which was just one rung of a ladder that allowed workers access to the openings atop the cylinder. The train lurched again and she lost her grip this time, sliding downward as only one hand - her left- held the rung. She screamed again but Vaska held tightly, stretching to the limit of his body's flexibility. "Grab on!"

"I can't!"

"Grab on, reach up, I have you," Nora shook her head and felt her left hand slipping. "Hurry you'll fall," pleased Vaska and just before she did, she reached up with her right hand and secured herself on the rung. "Good," he yelled encouragement, afraid that he could not hold onto her any longer. She needed to get to safety quickly, another one of those incidents and she would surely fall. "Now put your foot on the," she secured her footing before he could instruct and that was good, she was thinking now. Nora had the best balance of any girl he knew and it made sense that she did, her sport of choice was gymnastics but gymnastics and jumping onto a moving train were two very different applications of balance.

"Okay, I'm going to go under, hold me," Vaska didn't reply for he was stretching as far as he could, barely holding onto the fuel car himself. He summoned more strength within him, strength he didn't know he had and stretched a few more centimeters, holding the handle with just the tips of his fingers. He pressed his body forward and held onto her waist as she moved her feet and slipped underneath the fuel cylinder, landing with a crunch onto the lattice work that protected the bottom of the cylinder. "Your turn," she yelled as Vaska pushed off of the fuel car's chassis to resituate himself on the steps.

"Okay," he said as he lifted himself up, grabbed the rungs, and immediately slipped. His dislocated left shoulder surged with blinding pain but yet he held tight with his right hand. He screamed in pain and anguish as he pulled up with his right arm to get himself at least able to move his feet off of the ladder and onto the chassis. His ankle didn't hurt yet, his adrenaline was still forcing the pain receptors there to be quiet. Then, with considerable effort, he climbed under to meet Nora, crashing down atop her as the fuel car lurched again. His shoulder called out in pain again and he rolled over onto his back, a stupid move for though the lattice work held, it dug into him.

Minutes passed as both lay there, next to one another limbs entangled. Catching their breath they said nothing, they just took solace in the fact that they weren't running, that whatever was chasing them couldn't find them, that the dogs would lead the pursuers to the tracks and no further. He only hoped they could get far enough away by then though truth be told Vaska had no clue where they were going whatsoever…

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

March 1^st, 1962 | 10:30
Bodo, Raef Province | Unrestricted Access

W

hat are you kids doing down there!" Yelled a voice that immediately startled both Vaska and Nora out of a sleep neither of them realized had taken over their bodies. "You're not supposed to be down there!" The voice yelled again and Vaska knew he wasn't dreaming. He shot up from lying down only to slam his forehead into the underside of the fuel cylinder. He saw stars immediately and fell back down, his right hand on his forehead rubbing the bruise he'd just inflicted upon himself. "I said get out of there!" The voice yelled again but this time Vaska was able to respond, in a manner other than slamming his head into anything made of metal.

"I'm hurt," Vaska said.

"No shit Sherlock, that looked painful but I said get out of there."

"No," Vaska winced as he sat up, putting weight on his left shoulder errantly and feeling the punishment. "It's my shoulder, I think it's broken."

"Now this better not be some stunt."

"I assure you it isn't," Vaska replied. "If you can help me out we can get out of here. But where is here?"

"Goddamn runaways!" The man came closer, out of the sunlight and he was finally visible beyond a silhouetted shadow. He was obviously a yard worker for they were in a train yard. "You're in Bodo."

"Bodo?" Said Nora, surprised and unable to contain her excitement seconds later when she repeated the name of the city and Raef's provincial capital. It was also their home. "We live here. We're not runaways," she said as she slid forward a little. When she lifted her head off of the metal lattice several strands of her hair had been caught and yanked right out, sending stabbing pain into her scalp. She was rubbing her head when the yard worker helped Vaska out, who was doing his best to keep from yelping in pain.

"You must be hurt boy," the yard worker said. "Stand here and I'll get your friend out," he said but the moment he let go of Vaska, the seventeen-year-old boy collapsed to the ground holding his ankle and yelling in pain. "Stay there miss," the yard worker told Nora while he bent down and looked at Vaska.

"My ankle."

"Let me look," as he peeled back the pants leg he could see the bruising but he couldn't see much for Vaska's boot blocked it. "All right I've got to take off your boot, it might hurt." Hurt was an understatement and Vaska nearly passed out from the pain. "Yikes! Looks like you got a fracture there." The bruising was definitely evident. "What the hell happened to you two?"

"He fell," Nora said quickly, her eyes wide with worry. "We were camping and he fell. We got lost and we couldn't find our way back to our camp."

"Why would you go camping now? It's too cold for that!"

"It was my idea," blurted out Vaska, going with the lie. "It was stupid, Nora didn't know any better. We got lost, my fault too," he quickly covered. "When we couldn't find our way back we kept going until we found the train tracks. We wait for a train to come and jumped on it, hoping to get to somewhere."

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And you?"

"Sixteen."

"Dumb kids," replied the yard worker. "You could have gotten seriously hurt jumping onto a moving train. You evidently did." He said to Vaska before he helped Nora out of the train car. "Well we've got to get you to a hospital and I can't carry you so you're going to have to hop for a bit, my truck is about fifty meters away," he looked over at Nora, "can you walk?"

"I can."

"Then help me with your boyfriend."

"Oh he's not…" She stopped herself and the yard worker merely looked at her. "Sorry."

"Help me with him."

"Okay," together they helped Vaska to his foot and took either side of him while they hobbled to the yard worker's truck. Halfway there they learned that their benefactor was Zinovy Demidov and he had three children, aged eight, seven, and four, all boys and all rambunctious.

When they got to his truck, a two-door pickup, they slid Vaska into the middle of the bench seat. Nora climbed in on the other side and Zinovy drove off slowly, heading for what he said would be his shop. He was an inspector who walked the trains looking for hobos and runaways, a frequent plague of the Realm's trains. He explained what he did as they drove back and Vaska and Nora both pleaded with him that they weren't runaways. "Good then you can call your parents and tell them where you are but first I'm calling an ambulance," Zinovy said as they pulled up to the front door of his shop. "Stay here," he put the truck in park, took the keys out of the ignition, got out, and disappeared into the shop, only to reappear thirty seconds later with two men by his side. He opened Nora's door first, "Watch your step and go inside, we'll take care of him." She nodded and followed his directions while the two men helped lift Vaska out of the truck and carry him into the shop.

Inside it was warm but it smelled like a locker room, a familiar smell to Vaska who ran track at his high school though his running days were likely over now. Nora felt comfort with the warmth but she felt more comfort in Vaska whom she sat next to on a long bench when they came in with him. Laying Vaska down gently, the two men looked with pity upon the two teenagers. Zinovy walked to his desk and picked up the phone, first calling for an ambulance. When he was done, he held out the phone in his outstretched hand, "Okay call your parents."

Nora jumped at the opportunity, moved quickly to the desk, and dialed the number on the rotary phone. Moments later, the dial tone became a ringing and she held the phone to her ear, twirling the cord around her finger. When it answered on the third ring, tears came to her eyes, "Mom! Mom! It's me Mom!"

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

March 3^rd, 1962 | 14:00
Bodo, Raef Province | Unrestricted Access

T

wo days had passed since both Vaska and Nora rejoined the civilized world around them and there had been significant fanfare in their absence. Their parents, worried to death, had police scouring the city looking for them and even the local newspaper had run a story, calling the two "As thick as thieves." Their reemergence brought up a lot of questions, many of which were aimed at the injuries sustained by Vaska. Neighbors questioned if the two had run away together for some romantic tryst while others accused them are far more nefarious motives. Whatever the truth was, because the camping story wasn't to be believed, the two stuck to the story they had quickly concocted at the rail yard, that they had run away to go camping and run into a series of misfortunate events culminating in Vaska's injuries and their luck at finding a train bound for Bodo.

The sensation in Bodo was waning quickly though, becoming just another neighborhood legend that would become perverted by years of retellings. For the present though, it was a brisk Saturday. A light snow was falling, just enough to coat the grass and the ground but not enough to bring out the plows. Vaska lay in his bed with his ankle elevated in a sling his father had improvised and Nora at through her nineteenth lecture about being pregnant. She would swear that she and Vaska weren't together - after all they both had significant others in school - and that they had not had sex. Nora proclaimed that she was still a virgin; and she was, much to her boyfriend's chagrin. Rumors at school had already started and for the two youngsters who lived but nine houses away from each other, which would be the worst part of the affair.

With the afternoon sun scrambling to provide warmth to the reaches of Tnemrot, Nora stormed off from her latest talk about "teenage boys" and "sex" to get some fresh air. That fresh air would take her right to Vaska's house, where his parents, much more understanding and gullible, did not believe that either of them had skulked off for a romantic tryst. Escorted to Vaska's bedroom, a place she'd visited plenty over their years of friendship, Nora laughed when she saw the sling. "Guess your track running days are over for now?"

"I was looking for a new career anyway," Vaska replied with a smile. She pulled his desk chair over and sat down just across from him.

"I owe you a lot of thanks for getting me out of there."

"It's nothing Nora. I couldn't leave you behind, you'd have talked."

"Your mother!"

"She's not listening to us," said Vaska. It wasn't necessarily true. "We're safe; and fine, so long as those goons don't trace us and how can they? We're okay Nora, I promise."

"Still," she said, slouching down as a look of despair came over her face. "We could have been killed."

"We could have been but we weren't," Vaska was much more daring than Nora, likely a byproduct of hormones and false bravado. He was "a typical boy" in Nora's eyes and many other girls of course, even his own girlfriend, who'd yet to come see him, a rather distressing thought. Nora's boyfriend had visited her but the accusatory stare he'd had the whole time was too much for her to handle and she sent him away after an hour, saying that she was tired and due for another "talk" from her parents about the birds, the bees, and what happens when you have sex with teenage boys when you shouldn't.

"Has Alevtina come by?" Vaska shook his head. "Called even?" He shook his head again.

"Ravil?"

"Yes," she said. "He all but said the words 'you cheated on me' and I couldn't handle it after an hour."

"We did nothing, the rest of the world will just have to accept it."

"But we did something, we didn't do nothing, we did something. We went where it was forbidden."

"Shit!" Vaska had a thought and suddenly sat up in bed, nearly ripping his leg out of the sling. "The journal, do you still have it?" He was whispering now and his mother, a room away, leaned her head closer to the wall.

"Yes I have it. Luckily it wasn't me who had paramedics cutting his shit open!"

"Do you have it?"

"I stashed it."

"And the film?"

"The same." She'd hid the journal underneath her shirt in the waistband of her pants and the small roll of film in her bra, neither of them comfortable for the duration of their escape but miraculously, they were both still in place when she'd been whisked home hours after arriving at the train yard.

"Don't do anything with either. I'll develop the film myself. We cannot trust it with anyone. We could get in a lot of trouble if they find out."

"I'm scared my parents will find them."

"Where did you hide them?"

"Under the floor, I have a small compartment there. It's hard to find, it's under my bed. I hid them there during the night when I shut my door. I was lucky, my parents are so freaked out they won't even let me shut my door anymore. They think all I am thinking about now is sex with boys." Vaska laughed. He laughed again hard and she glared at him, "What's so funny?"

"That," he said. "You and I having sex. That's the least of our worries."

"It isn't funny Vaska."

"It's hilarious!"

"Boys!" She rolled her eyes. "I'll keep them safe for now but I don't want them anymore okay?"

"Okay, okay," he was still laughing.

"I have to go before they find out where I am and think I'm having sex with you." This elicited even more laughter. She shook her head and walked away, leaving the house after saying goodbye to his mother, a small smirk on her face as she did. Vaska's mother, on the other hand, wasn't in the same understanding mood that she'd been minutes earlier and she stormed right into Vaska's room, while the waves of laughter were finally stopping.

"What did you two do!" She raised her voice at him, an immediate rarity and the gravity of it did not escape Vaska, who suddenly recoiled in fear of his mother. "Where did you two go!"

"I told you, we went camping," she charged forward and smacked his hard across the face.

"Don't you lie to me!"

"Mom," another slap, "fine, fine!" He said, giving up for her smacks still hurt. "We went into the exclusion zone."

"You what!" The smacks didn't stop under a dozen of them had been laid upon Vaska, who'd fallen out of his sling in the process. The yelp of pain of his fractured ankle hitting the bed immediately sent his mother recoiling in horror at her own actions. She helped reset it without a word and then sat down in the chair. "Vaska, I'm sorry. Why did you go there?"

"We were curious. We'd heard a story about camps there Mom."

"Camps?"

"Death camps."

"Death camps? What are you talking about?"

"We'd heard a story that…" And he relayed everything he'd heard piece by piece. The whole story took him twenty minutes to explain but when he was done, the pale, grave look on his mother's face was the most damning injury of all.

"Vaska, what have you done…" Her voice trailed off and she stood up, "Your father and I have to discuss this."

"Don't tell Dad."

"I have to, if they find you or Nora…It won't just me you two who are punished but our entire families Vaska. Both of us. Everyone, even your cousins. Everyone will be punished Vaska! You could have put many lives at risk if they find us Vaska. You are foolish! Too foolish! I don't care what you've found. You're foolish!" This hurt more than anything, his mother worrying and the guilt his actions had caused. He just hoped she wouldn't tell Nora's parents, then the guilt, the worry, and the punishment would be doubled and not just for him but for Nora too, who he still wanted to protect.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

II

July 24^th, 2015 | 23:40
Bodo, Raef Province | Vasily Sokolov

V

asily looked down at the maimed body and snorted before he put a cigarette into his mouth. Despite it being late-July, there was a chill to the air that didn't bother the policeman much. Working the late shift meant skulking around the city's undergrowth and doing so on a hot night wasn't much fun. Having grown up in the far north, Vasily was more accustomed to the miseries of winter than the uncomfortableness of summer. "I know who he is but do we know for certain?"

"ID card says Isaac Sozonov, the one and only sir."

"How long's he been down there?"

"Coroner estimates six hours sir. He was killed somewhere else and dumped here."

"Murderers are the biggest filth to grace our country outside of traitors," Vasily responded to his partner, Ildar Kovalev. "I'm betting the local police are all too happy to hand this one over to us?"

"That's the gist I got from that captain, what was his name?"

"The fat guy?"

"Yeah, the fat one."

"Ian Muravyov, good man," Vasily said. "He took down that smuggling ring about fifteen years ago and he's been good since. We have a file on him of course but it's good. I checked it before I got down here."

"So now what do we do? Sozonov was about as up there with the party as anyone else is."

"He was in line to be the next Lord Minister of Truth."

"Motive?"

"We can't question the Lord Minister of Truth Ildar, that's not going to fly even though we are who we are. There is a level even we cannot touch. We have to have facts first so for starters let's get the body out of here. I'm assuming forensics is done or else they need to get back to work and stop chatting over there," Vasily pointed to a group of policemen standing around a van smoking cigarettes.

"They're done, they told the coroner to get the body."

"We'll see what the autopsy says. We know it's foul play, we just need to know how and then we can piece this together. It's looking like a long one for us."

"I wonder what he was doing in Bodo," Ildar said to himself. "He's not even from anywhere near here."

"He was obviously here for something important. It's far for an old man though," Vasily said. "Seventy-five right?"

"Oldest person on the entire High Council, by far," Ildar commented. "Makes no sense, why would someone murder him and dump his body here. Obviously the murder happened here in Bodo so what was he doing here?"

"That's going to be our first question, c'mon let's get to it and leave this to the professionals. We've more important things to do."

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

July 24^th, 2015 | 23:58
Bodo, Raef Province | Nestor Bezrukov

A

round the same time that Isaac Sozonov's body was being hoisted out of a ditch on the other side of Bodo, a forty-three year old man by the name of Nester Bezrukov was startled out of his sleep by the ringing of a phone. His wife stirred next to him and he reached for his glasses on the night table before he lifted the receiver to his ear. "Mom, it's late," he said into the phone, aware that the only people who used his landline anymore were his parents. There was only crying on the other end of the phone and this of course alerted the man that something was deeply wrong. "Mom, what's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"No Nester," she said, trying to compose herself long enough to half this conversation. "It's your father Nester." More crying and sobbing and Nester knew what she was going to say yet he needed to hear the words. "We've lost him."

"When Mom?"

"A few minutes ago," background noise indicated that she wasn't at home but rather somewhere much nosier. "I'm at the hospital. Your father collapsed after dinner but he didn't survive."

"What happened Mom?"

"The doctor says it was a massive stroke. They say he didn't suffer."

"What hospital Mom?"

"Bodo General."

"I'm on my way, I'll call Inga. You stay there."

"Okay Nestor," he hung up the phone and immediately his wife's arms were around him. She'd heard the whole conversation, well at least his part, and that was enough to hear.

"Nestor," she was crying too but he wasn't. Instead he'd steeled himself for a much more complicated task, telling his younger sister that their father was no longer around. She was thirty-five and she'd always had a special relationship with her father, she was daddy's girl and she'd always be daddy's girl. The news would devastate her and he knew he'd have to get her before he could go to the hospital. She'd be in no condition to drive. Throughout the call, his wife's arms slowly squeezed the oxygen out of him and he could virtually hear his sister's heart breaking over the phone.

When all was said and done though, he stood up from bed, got dressed, wiped his own tears away, and headed out of the door, first to get his sister, who lived in the center of town, and then over to the hospital, located just two kilometers from where Sozonov's body was found. It would be this hospital's mortuary where Sozonov's body went and where the coroner would determine the cause of death to be poisoning. None of that mattered or even registered for Nestor and Inga Bezrukov or their family. This was a terribly grievous time for them and the unexpected death of their father would mean that the world around them vanished and ceased to be. Yet for Nestor, more so than his sister, his wife, his mother, or anyone else connected to his father, this death would mean much more.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 02:10
Bodo, Raef Province | Vasily Sokolov

V

asily Sokolov and his partner Ildar Kovalev walked through the turnstiles with their ID cards out and their jackets open, showing the holstered pistols that hung inside of their suit jackets. "Go on through," said the security guard in response, an otherwise worthless statement by a generic, minimum wage worker who drew the graveyard shift either because he needed more money or because no one could stand his breath. Sokolov gave a nod and a half-smile, the kind that says, "Thank you but you're insignificant to me" and for Sokolov, many people were. He was a "Goon," one of the man plainclothes officers of the State Security Directorate or SSD. The SSD was Tnemrot's secret police but the only secrecy was the limit of their power. Thus, walking into this building, at this hour was nothing to an agent of the SSD, whose power was limited only by his imagination.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the lobby and its polished marble floor was not empty. Outside of the security guard manning the entrance there were three others languishing about and the distant echoes of typewriters and ringing phones from the first floor offices. Nothing on the first floor concerned Sokolov though and he walked to the elevator bank and stuffed a cigarette in his mouth as he did, lighting it just before the doors dinged open. "They don't like it when you smoke in the elevator sir," yelled one of the security guards from halfway across the lobby's shiny floor. Sokolov put his hand up and waved the thought away just before he stepped onto the elevator, where he turned around and mashed the button for the basement. Just before the doors closed he held up a middle finger for the security guard to see, a gesture of insignificance.

"He's right you know," Kovalev said with mock disappointment. He'd quit smoking nine years earlier and his partner made staying away from cigarettes that much more difficult.

"There's no sign so I don't care," Sokolov said in response, "and I think better with a cigarette," which was true. In fact, in all of the building, there were only a half dozen areas where you couldn't smoke and that was because of sensitive electronics that while not entirely adverse to cigarette smoke were adverse to contaminants in the air. The doors dinged open a few moments later as they emerged on level B4. Two armed security guards stood at attention and watched as Sokolov and Kovalev exited the elevator. Their IDs were handed over, scanned, returned, and then they were allowed to pass. The basement levels were sensitive and of the eight of them, all but the first was restricted access.

In silence, outside of the echoes of their shoes on the floor, the two SSD agents walked down the corridor, around the bend, through a set of double doors, and then into another lobby area where Sokolov extinguished his cigarette. They passed through another set of double doors with a sign that indicated the ban on smoking, down another corridor, and finally up to a door that read STREET SURVEILLANCE DIVISION: BODO DISTRICT in big, block, capital letters. Sokolov swiped his ID card across the lock and watched as the keypad turned green and the door unlocked with a loud, echoing click. Inside, no one stirred to see who'd entered, presumably they knew since this was where the city's CCTV cameras were monitored and it was no secret that they could watch the building's cameras too. "Sokolov, Kovalev," said a raspy voice from the other side of the room.

"Chesnokova," Sokolov said with a hearty grin. The two of them played chess together and rumor had it neither of them had been able to beat the other in months. Yuri Chesnokova was the camera division's operating chief, a higher up in the SSD and a man not to mince words with, unless you were Sokolov of course. "You look paler than usual. Are you not getting enough UV from the monitors?"

"UV," Chesnokova said with a swat. He offered his hand to both men. "You said you would be here forty-five minutes ago."

"We got held up," responded Kovalev. Chesnokova nodded and didn't ask. Instead, he led the two men into his office where his computer desktop was humming, spewing heat into the coldest room in the building, cold because computers of this capacity didn't appreciate heat. "Do you have anything for us?"

"I have something," he said, "sit down and let me show you." Chesnokova fit himself behind his desk and turned on the television mounted on the wall. With a few clicks of his mouse and a few taps of the keyboard, the television was showing camera footage. It was night though and the quality wasn't as superb as it would have been during the day, even with the billions of shingrots poured into the city's and the country's CCTV system that would have made the bureaucrats in Londinium jealous. "This is the vehicle that was used to transport the body of our late Isaac Sozonov." A black sedan zipped by the camera thirty seconds later, moving at a relatively quick speed but not enough to trigger the speed cameras. "We have a license plate, that is it."

"What's the plate then?"

"One moment," and with a click of the mouse, the video paused. The plate identifier was visible, "Zulu, Bravo, Kilo, One, One, Niner, Five, dash Bravo."

"Bodo registration," said Kovalev after the final letter, which identified the region as Bodo. "We'll run the car."

"Already did."

"What is it then?"

"That's the problem," Chesnokova leaned back in his chair and turned back to his office guests. "It's one of ours. I checked it twice and I even checked the reports. It isn't stolen."

"Who's driving it?" Sokolov had been quiet until now and this hit him like a ton of bricks. "Do we know?"

"You are," Chesnokova said without a smile. "The vehicle is checked out to you."

"That's not possible," Sokolov said in response. He shook his head. "Kovalev has been with me all night."

"I have."

"I'm not accusing you of anything my friend," Chesnokova said. "What I am saying is that the individual driving this vehicle was able to impersonate you and that's how it looks on the records. We have no clean or clear shots of the car's driver or of the body offload. We only have the vehicle enter this frame and then exit a few later. This is the only car that passed through this area in the time the body was dumped."

"Prints in the car, it has to be at the motor pool." Kovalev answered back, "It has to be back there."

"It is. It was returned sixty-three minutes ago. I wasn't able to send out any alert until twenty-nine minutes ago. The individual responsible has disappeared for the time being but the motor pool is your next destination gentlemen."

"Thanks buddy."

"You got it just do me a favor."

"What?"

"Catch this guy before he can impersonate me!" Chesnokova said with a serious look that said this was no laughing matter and it most certainly wasn't one.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

July 25^th, 2015 | 02:20
Bodo, Raef Province | Nestor Bezrukov

N

estor didn't know who to feel more sorry for, his mother who'd been through an ordeal and a half or his sister, who'd broken down in silent collapse and remained shell shocked on the hospital floor for nine minutes before he'd managed to get her into a chair. The doctor came in shortly after their arrival and explained the situation, Inga listening from her catatonic state. "It was a massive stroke," the doctor said with clinical eyes. He'd tell another eight people that their loved ones had died before the rest of his shift ended and death for him just meant paperwork, nothing more and nothing less. "When your father arrived," he was speaking more to Nestor than anyone else, "he was in a coma. We attempted to restore the blood flow to the affected regions but it was too late. Had your father's heart not stopped he would have been brain dead. He did not suffer."

"Thank you doctor," answered Nestor who cradled his sister. "She was especially close."

"I'm sorry for your loss," and off the doctor went. He wasn't sorry but what else did you say at a time like this, "Have a nice day?" "See you later alligator." Of course not, you said "I'm sorry for your loss" and you cut and ran as fast as you could. The doctor had no physical or emotional connection to Nestor's father other than he'd been a patient of his a few hours earlier and he'd tried his damnedest to get the man's life back but there were limits to what even modern medicine could do and no one wanted a relative in a persistent vegetative state, not to mention the government wouldn't allow it for more than a certain amount of time before it forcibly pulled the plug.

"Life is cruel," Inga said underneath her breath. "It's too cruel."

"I know it is," said Nestor, cradling his younger sister as if she were a child because that was what she'd been reduced to in this ordeal.

"How's Naina?"

"She was crying when I left," said Nestor, referring to his wife whom his mother had just asked of, "she's going to take it rough."

"Your father always liked Naina, much more than Valeria, much more." Valeria Ozerova had been his first wife and for the twenty-one months that they had been married, his father would tell him nearly every time they talked, "She's a harlot. Don't trust her." He was right. Valeria had cheated on Nestor no less than sixty-seven times with a variety of men. Nestor didn't bother asking how unfaithful she had been prior to their nuptials; the pain had been too much. In the end, she was the saddest. She truly loved Nestor but she had wanted an open marriage and he had not so she'd tried to keep it quiet but she'd only failed there.

"I have to tell her," Nestor said. They didn't have any children together but Valeria had never truly walked out of his life. They kept in touch infrequently and she'd been there had his second wedding with nothing but smiles and hugs. It was weird - oh it was weird - but Naina had accepted it and so too had he.

"You tell her nothing!" Nestor's mother barked, "She's a harlot!"

"Yes I know mom," he laughed because this was what grief did. He needed something to find funny and this was it. His mother's voice and her tone reminded him of his father and despite the bad association, it was a good memory. "I'm going to get some water. Hold Inga so she doesn't slide onto the floor."

"Fine but don't you call her," and her finger was outstretched as if he were still a little boy and the cookie jar was off-limits until after suppertime. "I won't; what do you want?"

"I am starving."

"I'll get you something light."

"Thank you," and the exchange was over as Inga fell crying now into her mother's arms. Her mother shushed her there, patting her head like when she was a young girl and she'd gotten her heart broken by Vladlen Vasilyev, the "scoundrel from around the corner."

Nestor left the area and headed down the steps to the small cafeteria that remained open during late hours. There were two dozen tables arranged around with eight seats per, most of them empty except for a few here and there. He walked through the small service area, selected something light for his mother, a piece of fruit. For his sister he grabbed a bottle of water and for himself, a cup of piping hot, black coffee that he added three sugars to and nothing further. He paid, found a table, and sat down, looking at the peace and quiet around him to collect his thoughts when two doctors sat down at the table next to him.

Nestor ignored their conversation while his coffee cooled until something perked up his ears. He leaned over, "Excuse me, did you say Isaac Sozonov?"

"That's confidential information," one of the doctors said.

"I'm a journalist," Nestor dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, showing his ID. "It's information I've privileged to have."

"Not this time you're not," the doctors stood up and walked away to a far corner of the room.

Nestor looked down at his coffee, "Did he say Isaac Sozonov was murdered?" He asked to himself before getting up with his coffee and the rest of his foodstuffs, ignoring the doctors as he returned to his family to drop off the food.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 02:39
Bodo, Raef Province | Vasily Sokolov

I

t was turning into a long night of chasing for Sokolov and Kovalev and they found themselves now standing in a small, cramped, cluttered, and musty office nine blocks away from the SSD's district headquarters. Sitting before them, nearly too fat for his shirt, his chair, his desk, and his tiny office was Fedot Ibrahimov, the supervisor of the motor pool and the man Sokolov and Kovalev would have to see to get the information they wanted. Talking to the young man in the entrance booth had been worthless and now the investigation moved to Fedot, who Sokolov had a particular distaste for, especially since in this office, Sokolov could practically taste the odor of the man before him. It wasn't that Fedot was unclean; it was that Fedot was a slob and Sokolov didn't have all that much patience for the man. "Ibrahimov, what are you telling me now?"

"I'm telling you that I have nothing," sneered Ibrahimov.

"So a man walked into your motor pool with a false identification card, took out a vehicle, committed a major crime, and then returned it, and you have nothing?"

"That is what I said; I have nothing. I have forensics going over the car now but there are about six dozen sets of prints on the car. There's no way whatsoever to get anything. It is a waste of time!"

"Not for this case," Sokolov answered as he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, adding to the haze that hung around the office from the combination of vehicle exhaust and cigarettes. The air was stale and smelled of oil, gasoline, and metal, the kind of smell that permeated this kind of setup. "What about the video?"

"Our monitors have been down for three days," Ibrahimov answered, "coincidence."

"Coincidence," repeated Sokolov. "That's bullshit!"

"We have the paperwork filed. It is not 'bullshit' as you say!"

"How convenient indeed," answered Kovalev. "It is too convenient that your cameras and your security system, which is a proxy of our entire security system, goes down for three days and in that time this happens."

"What do you want me to tell you," Ibrahimov said, holding out his meaty hands and shaking his head.

"Nothing," responded Sokolov. He stood up and waved his hand over the clutter, "You couldn't tell me anything with this mess. Your department has irregularities which will need to be looked into; I will make the notations in my report." Ibrahimov made some protests in the background as both Kovalev and Sokolov left. His protests were worthless to the two agents and outside, in the cold air, as a light drizzle began to fall, filling the skies with icy mist, Sokolov finally flicked off the ash from the cigarette's end. "He is hiding something."

"I got that feeling too but I don't know what," replied Kovalev. "We need something concrete if we're going to go after him."

"If we solve this…" Sokolov held onto the thought as he held onto the smoke in his body, "If we solve this then we will bring down Ibrahimov in the process, whatever his role in this charade is, whether it's as an 'innocent bystander', which I hardly believe or as an 'unwitting accomplice', which is more like it. That man is too dull to be involved in any level beyond that of a patsy."

"We may be in agreement there," said Kovalev. "Where next?"

"Let's go to the morgue and find out if good old Doctor Zotov has a preliminary cause of death yet."

"Fine, fine, he may, if the old man hasn't died on us in the process." Doctor Sebastian Zotov was nearing eighty-four years old, long past the age of retirement but for a man like Doctor Zotov, who'd been in government service since his eighteenth birthday, there was no retirement, there was only working to death, literally to death.

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July 25^th, 2015 | 02:48
Bodo, Raef Province | Nestor Bezrukov

N

estor paced back and forth in the lobby of the hospital, waiting for his cell phone to ring. The rugged, outdated model was more like a paperweight compared to the newest smart phones that were going around Tnemrot but for Nestor, a man who needed a phone that wasn't flimsy, the bells and whistles of the new smart phones weren't worth the tradeoff that his phone could in fact - it had been tested - stop a bullet. The moment he'd heard of Isaac Sozonov's body in the morgue, Nestor bolted to his family, dropped off the food and water he'd purchased, and made a bee-line for the lobby. It was early in the morning but this was a major scoop and for a country like Tnemrot, where there was virtually NO freedom of the press, journalists were nothing more than mouthpieces for the government whose only purpose was to regurgitate propaganda to the Tnemration people or to the outside world, which knew better but had already passed its judgement.

Nestor was one of the very few who didn't just regurgitate what had been told to him and for that reason he had a file in the SSD with his name on it. He wasn't exactly scandalous but word had gotten back to the secret police that Nestor Bezrukov was not a rank and file party adherent. In fact, Nestor did not even belong to the party. While it was technically not illegal, it wasn't outright legal either. It was a gray area, a loop hole in the Tnemration laws and codes that remained to identify subversives and thought criminals. Of course, there were subversives and thought criminals who were party adherents but those who weren't in the party were all subversives and thought criminals, potential terrorists to be watched.

Then it came, the vibration of his phone and immediately it went from his hand to his ear, "Talk to me."

"I made some calls," replied Dementi Yevseyev, his boss and editor-in-chief.

"And?"

"And you're in to talk to the doctor and that's it. The story can't run until the official announcement is made. You're one lucky son of a bitch! It's not going to make a name for you but it is going to get you some praise."

"I'll take it! What's the doctor's name?"

"A Doctor Sebastian Zotov, he's pretty old and works these kinds of cases. See what you can find on him, maybe we'll do a story on him when we're done, might look good for the censors."

"Might," Nestor said, "owe you one."

"Owe me a hundred! Now hurry."

"Okay," with that Nestor hung up and zipped down the corridor to the elevator, which gleamed in front of him, the doors freshly cleaned, sanitized, and polished. He pushed the call button, stepped through the opening doors, and mashed the basement button about five times before the doors closed. The elevator had no concept of his rush and moved at a singular speed, its own programmed speed. When the doors opened on the basement, he slid through them sideways, rather than wait the additional sections for them to fully open. Rushing out of the elevator, Nestor found himself in a corridor that was darker than it was lit. To save cost, the hospital only ran minimal lighting in the basement and one of those lights hung over the directory and off to the right Nestor went, following the arrow to the morgue. He dodged excess stretchers that had rolled away from their resting places alongside the wall. He made a few more turns before he finally came to the doors leading into the morgue, where he slowed down, took a breath, composed himself, and walked through the double doors.

Almost immediately though, Nestor was stopped by an army security guard, whose badge identified him as Nevzorov. "Halt right there!" The guard stood firm in Nestor's path and he towered over the middle aged journalist by at least a foot in both height and width.

"I'm here to see Doctor Zotov, I am Nestor Bezrukov."

"Who sees a doctor at oh-three-hundred in the morgue? That is ridiculous."

"It is ridiculous," came an ice cold voice from a faraway room, "let him through Vadim.

"Sorry Doctor."

"It is not your fault. Mister Bezrukov, come in, come in," the doctor peered around from the corner of the door and gave something of a smile. "I am surprised to see such luck bestowed upon someone who is not a member of the party." To this, Vadim Nevzorov eyed Nestor suspiciously. "I have the SSD pulling your file right now."

"That's not very comforting Doctor Zotov," Nestor stepped into the room, which was Doctor Zotov's office.

"One can never be too careful. I'm at an advanced age and since I already know what you know I can take no risks."

"Risks?"

"You are aware of my latest patient and of the unknown circumstances of his death."

"I overheard in the cafeteria."

"Yes." Doctor Zotov said, cutting off Nestor, "I was told the entire story."

"Do you have a cause yet?"

"You must be patient. For that phone to ring," and as if on cue, it rang; "Zotov here. Yes. Thank you." He put the handset down and stood up, grabbing his lab coat from the door. "Well are you going to sit there?"

"That's it?"

"What more do I need when I have the word from Kruglov himself that you are not a terrorist though you are suspected of being 'in opposition to the ideologies of the Party and the State' as I quote." Nestor had no idea who he was dealing with here, one of the architects of the current government.

"Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself Doctor?"

"Well what's to tell, many of it is already public record. I was born in 1932 and on my eighteenth birthday I joined the army where I was trained as a medic. I served for two years before I was accepted to medical school. In 1954, after four years in medical school I was accepted to a prestigious research program and I graduated shortly thereafter."

"Why are you working the graveyard shift in a morgue in Bodo?"

"These old hands," he held them up, "are not steady enough to operate on the living. Yet my extensive knowledge of human anatomy allows me to give the most accurate causes of death." They walked into a cold medical room where, lying on a metal table and covered by a sheet was Isaac Sozonov. "There he is, my friend and colleague."

"Sozonov?"

"We served together in the early days of our government."

"Ah…" Nestor made a notation on a small flip pad he bought from the hospital's gift shop. "Do you know the cause of death?"

"Murder but beyond that I can only speculate until I receive the laboratory tests. As you can be aware, the high rank of our victim here warrants everyone's utmost priority and attention. I will know by dawn."

"What is the prevailing theory?"

"I suspect that he was poisoned. If the results do not show poisoning then it will have been an embolism of some kid, administered via hypodermic needle."

"Who would do that Doctor?"

"I haven't the slightest clue, perhaps assassins. There are subversive elements of our society Mister Bezrukov."

"Nester please."

"Doctor Zotov."

"Uh, Doctor, since I cannot publish this article for some time what other details can you give me?"

"Details like what Mister Bezrukov? I have given you a name, my theories, and my current state of affairs. What further would you want to know?"

"Are you working with the SSD on this one?"

"Very closely Mister Bezrukov; in fact, in a short while the lead investigator will be walking through the same doors you entered. I would advise you to stick around."

"Doctor I have family…"

"That was not a request Mister Bezrukov. Fancy a drink?"

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 03:30
Bodo, Raef Province | Vasily Sokolov

T

he icy mist had turned to sleet in the amount of time it took Sokolov and Kovalev to drive from the motor pool to the hospital, which made getting out of the car a truly unappetizing prospect. Sokolov's car wasn't new or fancy but its heater worked better than the steam heat in the massive apartment projects. Blasting the two men with hot air, the car's heater had only one flaw, it wasn't portable so when the two men parked atop the parking garage and were faced with the prospect of walking twenty meters across the open footbridge to one of the hospital's many entrances, this flaw was truly frustrating. "I hate this weather," commented Sokolov as he wondered if he had time to smoke another cigarette before he got to the entrance. SSD or not, you just didn't smoke a cigarette in a hospital, it was very truly forbidden.

"We live in the wrong part of the world to hate this weather," answered Kovalev with little enthusiasm in his voice. "The hospital will be warm."

"But the morgue cold, let's go," the two opened their doors just after Sokolov turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys. They both drew their collars up tight around their necks as they walked the twenty meters, hustling in the way that SSD agents did, with impatience and precision. Inside of the lobby, the blast of warm air hit them as they passed through the second set of sliding doors and it was there that both men brushed off the sleet from their leather trench coats and wiped the soles of their leather boots. They would squeak as they walked to the elevator but that could not be helped. The squeaking followed them all the way to the elevator doors, which opened the moment that Kovalev pushed the call button.

In the basement, the doors opened into the same dimly lit hallway that Nestor had rushed down less than an hour earlier but unlike him, they walked, with both impatience and precision, the walk of men who had virtually supreme authority wherever they went. Unlike Nestor, who was only present through goodwill, these men were present by the very authority they commanded. The goons were scary to the public and for good reason. They were the secret police and much of their authority was derived from the very basic human emotion of fear. That fear was evident on Vadim Nevzorov's face as he stood upright and saluted the two men walking past him. Neither Sokolov nor Kovalev rendered one in return and they weren't required to either. Though they outranked the young Nevzorov, he was big enough to clunk both of their heads together. Yet rank, fear, that was what motivated the SSD to continue their day-to-day punishments.

"Doctor Zotov," Sokolov said in a booming voice once he passed by Vadim's salute.

"Come in, we were just expecting you."

"We?" Kovalev mouthed to himself as they stepped into Zotov's small office to see Doctor Zotov hunched over in his seat and an unknown entity sitting next to him with an empty glass in his hand. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the table. "Great, they're drunk."

"We only just started," Doctor Zotov said. "Sit down."

"Where?"

"Find a chair," he eyed Sokolov, "you're resourceful."

"Who's he?" Inquired Kovalev, more concerned with Nestor's presence.

"Introduce yourself."

"Nestor Bezrukov, Bodo Times."

"How'd the fucking press find out," cursed Sokolov from outside of the office.

"He got lucky and overheard a pair of loose-lipped doctors."

"Did you show him?" Inquired Kovalev.

"I did. He has seen the body. His paper will hold on the story until after the official announcement is made."

"Good," Kovalev remained standing, towering almost over the sitting Nestor. "You can leave now, you got what you wanted."

"Not just yet," said Doctor Zotov, reaching out and putting a hand on Nestor's arm. "Mister Bezrukov here has offered his official help, as a journalist, in solving this case."

"A journalist? To solve a murder case?" Sokolov returned, empty-handed, and laughed. "That is rich Mister Bezrukov."

"No one talks to the SSD."

"Lies," Kovalev said dismissively. "No one talks to the press."

"No one talks," Doctor Zotov said, "period. No one talks. What did you find out tonight?"

"We cannot comment with him here."

"Sokolov," Doctor Zotov said with a laugh. "He will help."

"Says who?"

"Kruglov," replied Doctor Zotov as he leaned back, interlocked his fingers, and smiled the smile of victory. "Kruglov was overjoyed that a citizen would take an interest in helping the SSD solve such an important case. The Overlord himself wants no expense spared, no rock overturned. He suspects this to be the work of subversives, terrorists who have evolved into assassinations. The Overlord does not want to see any more of the Lord Ministers turning up dead."

"Is that so," Sokolov said without a smile. He shoved what had to be the fifteenth cigarette of the night into his mouth and lit it, breathing deeply in the small, cramped office while he thought. "Mister Bezrukov, you are aware of the State Secrets Act of 1962?"

"I am."

"Are you aware with its updates in 1974 and 2001?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware that violation of the State Secrets Act results in execution?"

"I am."

"Then why are you offering your help?"

"I want to publish it all. From start to finish, the entire murder investigation, the whole case, solving it, catching the people responsible, unfolding the truth of the matter."

"Interesting," Kovalev said, patting his chin with his right index finger.

"He's not in the Party," Doctor Zotov said with that same smile of victory. "Your office has a file open on Mister Bezrukov. He's not exactly subversive but he does not 'toe the line' quite the way he should."

"Is that so?"

"So says the file," Nestor answered with some attitude to his voice.

"And when this is done, should it not be published, then what?" Asked Kovalev, who saw the ambition in the journalist's eye, unaware that Nestor was just trying to compensate for the loss of his father, to prevent his mind from going to the dark avenues and alleyways of grief, "What will you do then?"

"I believe this story would be a PR coup for the government. It would be hailed as a major piece. It would feature profiles on yourselves and Doctor Zotov here," and suddenly Kovalev knew why Doctor Zotov had been okay with the idea. Despite his life being a matter of public record, the doctor was incredibly vain. He'd always been cocky but in his old age, cockiness had turned to vanity. He still worked because he believed he was the best doctor in the world. While he didn't operate on the living anymore that made little difference because he saw no death as a challenge he couldn't solve and he wouldn't be satisfied until he'd solved them all. He masked it in loyalty to the state but plain and simple it was vanity.

"I believe Mister Bezrukov," said Sokolov, "that you are making a grave mistake that will not end well for you. Is that your wish?"

"Yes."

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

III

July 25^th, 2015 | 06:00
Tnemratia, Capital Province | Lord Minister of Justice

T

here is a Fear Factory in this sector," spoke the Lord Minister if Justice to an otherwise unenthusiastic crowd of journalists gathered around the room. "You've been called in early to receive this critical briefing concerning the police raid in Sector Fourteen-Bravo of Tnemratia." At the mention of "Fear Factory," the journalists' ears pricked up and each of them felt the surge of caffeine they'd been ingesting finally take effect. The "Fear Factory" was something that the Tnemration government called attention to every now and then, less recent in years past. It was the elusive boogey man of Tnemration society and every one of the journalists present knew the significance of one.

"Lord Minister sir," spoke up a journalist who'd raised his hand and received the head nod of authority to proceed. "This is a confirmed Fear Factory?"

"Yes it is." The Lord Minister of Justice said before continuing, "A Fear Factory is a major element of subversion to our society. It is important that each and every Tnemration citizen understand just what a Fear Factory is. I shall provide you with a brief explanation that will be suitable for print," which meant that every word better be reiterated in their reports to the public masses. There were no cameras rolling, only tape recorders and pens. "A Fear Factory is not a factory in a traditional, industrial sense. It is any organization that conspires to undermine the authority of the state. A Fear Factory can exist in a derelict warehouse, an apartment building, or in the basement of one's own home. They are elusive and difficult to detect but they are the penultimate hive of terrorist and subversive activity.

"A Fear Factory can consist of anywhere from ten to three hundred enemies of the state. Normally a single Fear Factory will contain around one hundred, the number range varying based on the extent of the factory's activities. The one we hit this morning, for example, and two hundred and forty-nine persons but this is unusually large. The largest Fear Factory raided contained three hundred and nine people and this was fifteen years ago. That specific Fear Factory had been in operation for nineteen years while the one this morning was in operation for fourteen.

"Within the members of a Fear Factory are the worst dregs of society. Deviants and perverts utilize the Fear Factory to commit all manner of sexual crimes against children and women. They practice homosexuality and they promote adultery. Terrorists utilize the Fear Factory to plan and execute their operations against the government, hiding within its ranks like a predator. Counterfeiters utilize technology that only a Fear Factory can contain to produce fake money and false documents to support the deviants and the terrorists. Seditious writers utilize copy machines and printing presses to run off pamphlets of subversive and banned literature to distribute to the good citizens of Tnemrot.

"No one man or woman who operates within a Fear Factory is an 'innocent victim' as many of them will later claim in courts of justice. They are all willing participants in the most heinous and grievous crimes against the state and the citizens of Tnemrot.

"Fear Factories are notoriously difficult targets. We consider them 'hardened' in terms of our lingo. They are generally heavily fortified and protected by armed gunmen who have pledged their lives to defense of the Fear Factory. The individuals who set up these facilities are highly intelligent in how they establish them. They take great care in utilizing deceit and technology to mask their locations. Years of investigation is required to locate one. The Fear Factory of this morning's raid was under surveillance for four years before we were able to obtain enough knowledge about the facility to make our raid." The Lord Minister of Justice paused to take a breath. "This morning, one hour ago…"

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July 25^th, 2015 | 05:00
Tnemratia, Capital Province | Major Arkady Bykov

M

ajor Arkady Bykov stood straight as he swept the binoculars over Sector 14B. His position was the command position, situated on a hill forty-five meters above the ground below and in the twilight of the predawn hour, he was using the light amplification mode on his binoculars. There was little to no movement except the teams of soldier-cops who were getting into their initial positions for the raid. He checked his watch, glancing only away from the binoculars long enough to see the hands strike 05:00. The official kickoff of the raid was 05:05 and so now was critical time for the soldier-cops of the Tnemration Bureau of Criminal Affairs. If their enemy was tipped off to their presence the plan would be shot to shit but if they could get into their initial positions without detection - which was no easy endeavor - they could execute it near flawlessly. This raid was now four years in the making and for the past six months, the two hundred and forty soldier-cops of the TBCA had been rehearsing this very raid. They ran the raid regularly until it had become muscle memory, and then they ran it for another three months.

"Sector Fourteen-Bravo, what a place for a Fear Factory," a junior officer commented off to Major Bykov's left.

"Comrade Pokrovsky," Major Bykov sneered, "wipe that enthusiasm and mystification out of your voice at once. This is not a 'monumental' moment. There is no glory to be had from a Fear Factory in our own capital, plain as day, in defiance of all that is just. This is an insult to the authorities and nothing more. In the next few moments we will see one of two outcomes Comrade Pokrovsky," Major Bykov continued chiding the young officer who had been too zealous for the circumstances. "Either we will be victorious and none of our comrades will be hurt or we will be in a military-level firefight; do you take enthusiasm now Comrade Pokrovsky?"

"No Major!" He snapped quickly, accepting the verbal dressing down.

"Good now make yourself useful and see what assistance they need in the CP."

"Yes Major!" Junior Lieutenant Ignat Pokrovsky marched off seconds later with a sharp salute to Major Bykov, one that the major did not return. For Major Bykov, this was something that was very familiar. In 2000, when the last Fear Factory had been hit, he was a junior lieutenant but he had the decency not to become excited and enrapt by the situation, mainly because he was not on a hill overlooking it, he was on the ground, ten meters from a breaching point. He'd watched three men die on that raid, avenging two deaths within ninety seconds of entry.

"I do not understand the youth," he whispered underneath his breath as he returned his eyes to the binoculars and his mouth to the radio. "Two minutes, final position check," he barked over the radio, taking his anger with Pokrovsky out on the radio channel. One by one, the sixty teams reported that they were in fact in position, a process that took near all of the two minutes and when the last number checked in, Major Bykov pressed the transmit button and said, "Then we go in thirty seconds on my mark, five…four…three…two…one…mark." There was no stopping it now. The inertia of two hundred and forty soldier-cops was simply too much to stop and the maestro of this morning's raid took the time to analyze the significance of this Fear Factory's location.

Sector 14B wasn't the kind of place that women - old and young - brought their friends or their children to do shopping. It wasn't the kind of place that the timid or the meek found comfortable. The buildings were mixed between commercial and industrial zones and the majority of them were abandoned, shuttered derelicts existing more in the past than they did in the present. The sector was notorious for criminal activity with vagrants and prostitutes topping the list of arrestees. The police would conduct regular patrols through Sector 14B, making the presence of a Fear Factory a truly bold move. One did not often set up a Fear Factory in a place where police presence was regular. Moreover, Sector 14B was notorious as a favored place for large crackdowns by the Ministry of Justice.

Whenever the Ministry of Justice wanted to conduct a visible and public crackdown, they arranged for it usually in Sector 14B. Police patrols would become infrequently and minimal for months on end, giving vagrants and prostitutes a false sense of security. Then, in the predawn hours, a hundred or more soldier-cops from the TBCA would descend on the sector in full riot gear and make sweeping arrests. The results would be broadcast all over the media and they would lead to public trials and - in some instances - public executions. Sector 14B was notorious for deviant activity but for a Fear Factory, no one had suspected as much until four years ago when the State Security Directorate heard the rumblings of a potential Fear Factory. Two and a half years later, they snagged a member and pushed him back in as a mole. That very member was now inside the Fear Factory, unaware that a raid was about to begin, unaware that the iron fist of justice was about to slam down upon him.

On cue, two dozen explosions filled the air around Sector 14B as the raid kicked off, commencing with two dozen breaching charges placed on doors and walls of the various, interconnected buildings identified as entry points. The twenty-four entry points made for a very complex raid but with six months of rehearsal behind them, the soldier-cops of the TBCA would be able to move like lightning, their body armor heavy, their weapons locked and loaded. Despite the presence of the SSD mole, the TBCA soldier-cops had no idea if the occupants of this Fear Factory would go quietly or resist like an army cornered against a cliff. The crucial element to this raid was speed. The soldier-cops needed to move fast, disarm whomever they could, and kill whomever they couldn't. They moved in four-man teams, navigating corners, corridors, and ceilings as if they were obstacles in a simple video game.

The initial minutes after the breaches were made was marked by a distinctive silence. The radio chatter was minimal and there was no gunfire. Major Bykov could see nothing now with his binoculars but he continued to scan. Snipers in key positions around Sector 14B would engage anyone who either attempted to run for it or flank the soldier-cops. Lethal force was authorized from the get-go and the soldier-cops of the TBCA were comfortable with no other rules of engagement other than those which allowed them to shoot first and ask questions later. Tnemrot wasn't a society that questioned a cop's use of deadly force.

Thus, when the gunfire broke out, Major Bykov could only be pleased that contact had been made. It was sporadic at first, a shot here and a shot there, likely the soldier-cops shooting armed persons. Major Bykov couldn't see from their point of view so this is what he had to assume, given that the aural signature of each gunshot was consistent with the type of weapon the soldier-cops were carrying. Added to this came the sound of grenades bursting, either stun grenades or smoke grenades, the former being used to incapacitate an enemy and the latter being used to incite confusion amongst the enemy. A burst of automatic fire came next, an armed combatant, and then return fire, single shots, controlled and effective. The radio wasn't alive with reports of soldier-cops down so Major Bykov wasn't sweating yet. The sound of gunfire echoing over the sector and up to the command post was indication that the soldier-cops of the TBCA and four years of investigations weren't for naught. There was a Fear Factory in this sector and if there was, the Lord Minister of Justice would be pleased that it was taken down, dismantled, and obliterated beyond any comprehension.

The soldier-cops pushed deeper and Major Bykov held the radio close to his head. Another series of grenade bursts echoed followed by another clatter of automatic gunfire. The return fire was rapid, two soldier-cops firing single-shots in return. The target was down and the soldier-cops moved on, more gunfire. The intensity picked up but the soldier-cops continued to keep their weapons on semi-automatic, firing single shots into the exposed enemies that faced them. The soldier-cops of the TBCA were elite warriors and their foes were nothing more than undisciplined subversives who had a ragtag defense system. They didn't possess body armor or night vision goggles. They had automatic weapons but not the wherewithal to use them effectively. Each shot merely announced their presence as a target for the soldier-cops of the TBCA and so, when the sixty teams began to report that they'd reached their objectives, it was little surprise to hear no casualties amongst the soldier-cops of the TBCA and eighty-nine persons killed and one hundred and sixty were now in custody for a total of two hundred and forty-nine.

"This was a good morning," Major Bykov commented as he looked at his watch. It was 05:39 and in twenty-one minutes, the Lord Minister of Justice would address a pool of reporters so that they could make the initial announcements in the morning's news programs. As he did that, Major Bykov was touring the inside of the Fear Factory, noting with disgust the sophistication of it. The dead had been left to lay where they'd fallen and the captives were corralled into one area, their hands bound tightly behind their backs with plastic zip-ties. The soldier-cops of the TBCA had little feeling for how tight they drew the zip-ties and in most cases, they'd caused injury to their captives. Participation in a Fear Factory was punishable by severe sentences and so they would have little use for their hands. As far as the soldier-cops of the TBCA were concerned, everyone was guilty and thus there was no need for "kind" treatment of any captive.

For Major Bykov, coming up to the herd of captives was something of a formality. He loathed these people but he needed to address them, to let them know that fear was all they could cling onto from here on out. "You are in direct violation of Criminal Code Four Hundred and Nineteen, the operation of a 'Fear Factory' as we have dubbed it. The penalty for operation and occupation within a Fear Factory is punishable by no less than fifteen years of hard labor to as much as execution, depending on your role. We will determine each and everyone's role without fail and this will be presented as evidence at your trial. For those of you lucky enough to escape a death sentence or a life sentence, the labor will be backbreaking and strenuous. Many of you may in fact die of natural - or unnatural - causes before you reach the end of your sentence. Cooperation during interrogation will yield favorable results from the court. Obstinacy will only add to your sentence. In case you are wondering," he continued to pace back and forth in front of the captives, his hands behind his back, his posture straight. "In case you are wondering how we determined your setup, it was the product of years of investigation, aided by one of your own. I am sure he is here amongst you, Armen Zhirov." At this, everyone's head turned to find Zhirov in the crowd, who had suddenly become the biggest pariah of the Tnemration underground. "Citizen Zhirov may be a criminal but he has followed his conscience to assisting the security forces of Tnemrot in bringing down this most subversive of enterprises. He will receive a reduced sentence for his cooperation. Pokrovsky where are you?"

"I am here Major!" Snapped the young and eager junior lieutenant.

"Find Citizen Zhirov and bring him to my vehicle, I will personally escort him to interrogation."

"Yes Major!" Noisily and with great effort, Zhirov was brought out of the crowd, his head down, trying not to look into the eyes of his fellow cohorts, each of whom would have liked nothing more than to kill him right there.

"That is all for now. You will cooperate with the officers of the Tnemration Bureau of Criminal Affairs or you will wind up dead like the foolish amongst you who decided to fire upon us!" He marched off, following Junior Lieutenant Pokrovsky who was pushing Zhirov ahead of him. Outside, he followed them to where his vehicle was parked, which was down the street. Major Bykov took the passenger seat while Pokrovsky and Zhirov sat in the back. The driver Jaroslav Artemiev, a junior sergeant, drove off at Major Bykov's insistence. There was no talking in the car; and for nine kilometers, they navigated the roads of Tnemratia, heading westward. However, and Zhirov learned this halfway through the ride, they weren't heading towards the headquarters of the TBCA, where Major Bykov's office was. Instead, they were heading elsewhere. He wanted to ask but feeling the "benevolence" of his captors, he didn't want to jinx anything.

Zhirov got his answer when they stopped next to an empty field and he was manhandled out of the car, resisting, screaming about his deal. Major Bykov didn't care for a deal; there was no way he would allow this traitorous scum, as he called him, to go to trial. Instead, he had Pokrovsky and Artemiev drag him into the field where, with little fanfare and no speech, he leveled his semi-automatic at the back of Zhirov's head and fired a single round. The bullet kicked up a small fountain of dirt when it passed through the head of Zhirov and continued, ignoring the spray of pink mist in its wake.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 10:00
Tnemratia, Capital Province | Major Arkady Bykov

I

t became keenly aware to Bykov that no matter how much he ignored the phone on his desk, it wasn't going to stop ringing and so on this, the third time it had rung, he lifted the corded handset to his ear and barked into it, "Bykov!" He was fully prepared to give whatever subordinate bothered him a full and thorough verbal dressing down until he realized that he wasn't speaking to a subordinate but rather the division chief of the Tnemration Bureau of Criminal Affairs' Capital Division. The "head honcho" sounded concerned and stressed on the phone as Bykov listened to him explain the urgency with which he needed to see the major. "On my way Colonel," was the only acceptable response that Bykov could give when the division chief finally finished his verbose request and with that, Bykov stood, grabbed his mobile phone and shoved it into his pocket. He locked his office door on the way out lest anyone eavesdrop upon the files atop his desk.

Situated on the building's fourth floor, Bykov would have to ascend to the seventh floor where Colonel Ivan Gavrilov's office was. Ignoring the stairs, he waited for an elevator with two women, both secretaries from the public affairs office on the sixth floor. They were likely heading back from a meeting and Bykov merely sneered there way as they chatted idly to one another. It wasn't that Bykov objected to their conversation, he merely objected to their very presence, which was exacerbating a steadily growing migraine, a gift from the morning's activities. The elevator dinged open and Bykov let the two women enter the car first before following them. One pushed the button for the sixth floor and Bykov pushed the one for the seventh, which instantly shushed the two women. After all, no one went to the seventh floor except those who either worked there or had a reason to be there. Though Bykov was in the latter group, the women couldn't know that about him.

Relieved to be off of the elevator two floors later, the women exited without a glance back, leaving the car empty in their wake. Bykov enjoyed the silence for the thirty seconds it took for the elevator to ascend to the next floor once the doors had shut. When they opened again, he was blasted in the face by the cold air that circulated up there. The air smelled stale, recirculated, like the rest of the building but because it was so much colder it had a different aroma. Bykov wasn't new to it but it still struck him whenever he stepped off of the elevators and the thought usually persisted with him for the two minutes it took for him to pass through the security post where a sergeant major and his corporal partner scrutinized every single person's ID and checked it against a specific list of allowable names. If Colonel Gavrilov wanted to see Major Bykov he would have had to have his secretary add him to a "guest list" of sorts or else this sergeant major would be making a phone call and reading the secretary the riot act, regardless of who she worked for or whose orders she was following.

"You're cleared to pass Major Bykov but you have to leave your service weapon with us," the sergeant major said with a very focused and serious look. Bykov didn't resist. He reached into his shoulder holster and removed his semi-automatic, ejecting the magazine and the loaded round in smooth movements. He passed the weapon to the sergeant major, who then put all three components into a plastic bin. It was only then that the corporal standing by his side removed his hand from his waist holster and relaxed. On the seventh floor, the motto for these men was simple, "Everyone is a potential assassin." They took the motto quite literally.

Bykov walked down the fluorescent-lit corridors until he came to the last office on the right, entering the closed double doors with a click to his step. The colonel's secretary looked up from her typing and peered over the top of her reading glasses at Bykov who quietly shut the door behind him. "Major you are free to enter." She instructed and then returned to her typing, barely skipping a beat.

"Thank you," Bykov answered before walking through the next set of double doors and into Colonel Gavrilov's office. "Sir, as requested," he said shortly after entering, once he had shut the doors in his own wake.

"Sit down Bykov," answered Gavrilov who was standing behind his desk and facing the wall behind him, perhaps for dramatic effect or perhaps because he was looking at a photograph that hung there. "There is a matter of the utmost urgency," he said just before he turned around, his silver hair catching a glimmer of the incoming rays of sunshine. "It appears that late last night the body of the Lord Minister of Truth, Isaac Sozonov was dumped in a ditch in the city of Bodo. His body was found by local police who involved the State Security Directorate. The body is currently in the morgue at Bodo General under the tutelage of Doctor Sebastian Zotov. Are you familiar with him?"

"Vaguely sir."

"He will be cooperative to our questions. The SSD has assigned two agents to the matter, a Vasily Sokolov and an Ildar Kovalev. Are you familiar with either of these men?"

"I am not sir."

"They are local agents, nothing terribly outstanding about their service records. They're merely assigned to the case."

"I understand sir."

"There's one more element though Major. It appears that the body of the late Lord Minister of Truth was found by a local journalist who conned his way into getting an interview with Doctor Zotov. It would appear that the man's editor-in-chief called in a few favors and thus he attached himself to these events. Evidently the two SSD agents have decided to enlist his support."

"A journalist? That seems farfetched sir."

"Yes it does Major and I personally questioned the intelligence but it is in fact true. This journalist is named Nestor Bezrukov and he's a potential troublemaker. He's not registered with the party, not technically a crime you see but only subversives do not register. He's been watched by the SSD before and there are a number of minor transgressions in his file, enough to warrant suspicion."

"Sir, is he a suspect?"

"No he is not nor do we have any indication that he is responsible in any fashion. He merely appears to have been in the wrong place at the right time. His father passed away yesterday evening and he was at the hospital with his mother and his sister. How he came by this information is unknown yet but I suspect that the SSD has agents questioning doctors at the hospital. Likely story is that a doctor or several doctors spoke loud enough for him to overhear."

"That would be likely sir."

"The death of Lord Minister Sozonov is being treated as a homicide by Doctor Zotov and the SSD. I believe that the Tnemration Bureau of Criminal Affairs should lend a helping hand. Bodo is not necessarily part of our immediate responsibility but I was just speaking to my compatriot in the Raef Division and he believes that your history would make you an ideal candidate. He is standing down any men of his own except in a support capacity. You're to liaise with my compatriot, Colonel Matveyev as soon as possible. What are you presently working on Major?"

"The Fear Factory sir," Bykov responded, a bit disappointed that he would need to drop the biggest break in his career to follow a murdered government minister.

"Yes, the Fear Factory; I followed this situation keenly. You are to be commended for your involvement in leading the operation."

"Thank you sir," was all Bykov could answer. He knew he would receive a commendation, not because he was arrogant but because it was so successful and so media-friendly. However, hearing it made it real and not merely an assumption in his head. "It was only part of my service to the state sir."

"Regardless, service does not negate commendation for good deeds. Who is your subordinate on the matter?"

"Major Maxim Avdeyev sir."

"He will handle the paperwork in your absence but the Fear Factory bust remains your credit. It is by my order."

"Thank you sir."

"How soon can you pack and leave for Bodo? We need representation on this matter immediately. Start with my compatriot and then work with Doctor Zotov. It is from he who you should receive your hard facts before pursuing those involved."

"Sir, I can be on the road in less than three hours and up to Bodo in five or six hours, depending on the road congestion."

"That's too long," Colonel Gavrilov said. "I will ensure you are picked up at your home and you will have helicopter transport to Bodo. I would rather not give our 'foes' any further jump."

"Yes sir!"

"Dismissed Major unless you have any further questions, if not please inform my secretary outside of your home address, it will save us the time of looking it up Major."

"Yes sir," Bykov stood, came to a sharp pose, and saluted, receiving one in return from his now standing superior. He turned on his heels and exited the man's office. The secretary was still typing away at her keyboard and she looked up and over her glasses again when Bykov stood in front of her desk. "I am to give you my home address for special transportation."

"Jet or helicopter?"

"Helicopter."

"Very well, write it down on this piece of paper," she handed over a Post-It note and a pen. "Legibly please Major."

"Yes ma'am," he answered, scribbling the address for her.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 14:30
Bodo, Raef Province | Major Arkady Bykov

B

elow the Kamov was 2,400 acres of airport and Bykov watched it slowly rise beneath the descending helicopter until with a light thump, they met the ground. The flight had been smooth, comfortable, and pleasant enough that Bykov had nodded off for the past ninety minutes, awoken only when the warrant officer informed him over the intercom that they were minutes away from landing. He'd requested transportation from the tower only to learn that transportation had already been arranged and that a driver and a vehicle were both awaiting his imminent arrival. Pleased with this sort of news, Bykov gathered his suitcase from the seat next to him as well as his briefcase and adjusted the semi-automatic in its shoulder holster. The Kamov taxied away from the landing area and to a special, military/police section of the airport in its southeastern corner. The airport was located twenty-five kilometers east of Bodo, Tnemrot's second largest city.

When the main rotor blades stopped turning, Bykov opened the cabin door and put his feet onto the ground. A corporal strode over to him, gave a salute, and without a word, reached out and took his suitcase. It went into the vehicle's trunk and Bykov climbed into the back as the corporal held the door open and shut it. The blacked out windows of the sedan hid the occupant in the car's rear seat and it was only when Bykov slid in next to him that he was aware of the man's presence. "Colonel, sir!" Bykov said with a startled surprise as he straightened his posture.

"At ease Major, there's no need for formality in a car."

"Understood sir, I thought I was meeting you at your office."

"You were Major but I've decided that my office has too many prying eyes and I prefer to keep your presence here unknown. My driver, Corporal Abramoff is known for his ability to keep a secret."

"You are very lucky then sir."

"Luck has nothing to do with it Major. I've hand selected the man for the job." Just then Corporal Abramoff climbed into the car and looked into the rearview mirror.

"To the hotel sir?"

"Yes Corporal," Colonel Matveyev said without the normal tone of voice a colonel would use when addressing a lowly corporal. The car pulled away at once but again, smoothly so that Bykov did not get whiplash.

"Where am I staying sir?"

"There is a hotel located on Uhland Boulevard that will be your home for the duration of your stay in my city. It is a quiet place located in a less than quiet part of the town. I wouldn't call it a seditious location but it is preferred because of its anonymity. You will likely not encounter any of my officers or those of the SSD during your stay, which is preferable."

"Yes that is sir, thank you for your understanding."

"It isn't an understanding Major, it is an order. As you are aware, officers can get territorial. The moment they learn of your involvement over them, there will be some digging and given the sensitivity of the matter I would greatly prefer that they do not dig into this matter. It is bad enough that the SSD has allowed a journalist to work with the men involved. They seem to want to crack this case by any means necessary. It is commendable but it is a problem for us."

"It is Colonel and I will see to it that they are stymied in their every step."

"So long as it does not return to me, yourself, or the TBCA then I will not have a problem. Should it then you and I and your superior officer will need to have a very specific discussion on how we want to proceed."

"I understand sir."

"Good then here," he handed over a file folder. "Inside you will find the raw data my men have compiled. Corporal Abramoff will be detailed to work with you during the time being as a second pair of hands. He is extremely skilled in eavesdropping and he is the only man I would trust with this matter. The names of the agents responsible for collecting this data have been redacted and I do not impress upon you a desire to learn their identities. Corporal Abramoff will be your only liaison with myself and the rest of this district."

"That sounds ideal sir."

"It is certainly ideal!" Colonel Matveyev did not like the way Bykov approached the situation. He saw the seriousness on the man's face but he did not appreciate his inquisitive tone. He felt questioned and for a man of his stature and rank, he did not take to questioning very well unless it came from the generals above him. "I believe that will be enough for you to get up to speed Major."

"Yes sir."

"Good Major now I must congratulate you on taking down your sector's Fear Factory. It's been some time since we've had one. Fourteen years if memory serves me right."

"Yes sir that is correct, it's been fifteen years."

"Tell me Major, how does one survive so long without being noticed?"

"A Fear Factory sir?" Colonel Matveyev nodded his head, "They employ a great amount of technology to help them sir, mostly banned technology. They are wary of intruders and they often are very selective about who they include in their ranks. In the first few years it is virtually impossible to know of their existence. It is only when they grow large that they are easier to spot and engage simply because they include more people and those who are 'less trustworthy' to their cause. We obtained information on this Fear Factory through a mole sir."

"A mole, did you implant one or turn one?"

"We turned one sir. Unfortunately he attempted to flee during transport and he was shot and killed. He was foolish; he would have had a light sentence, in comparison to the rest of his cohorts. The leaders will be tried and executed surely."

"Foolish indeed! How did he overpower his handlers?"

"He was in the backseat sir and at a light he managed to bring his handcuffs around to his front, attack the man in the backseat, break the window, and make a run for it. He got ten meters sir."

"Ten meters, so you shot him?"

"I did sir."

"Hard thing to do," Colonel Matveyev said, shaking his head. "Very well Major, that is enough for now."

"Yes sir…"

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 25^th, 2015 | 20:00
Bodo, Raef Province | Major Arkady Bykov

D

arkness descended upon Bodo and the incessant ringing of an alarm stirred Bykov from a vampire's slumber. He'd found the daylight hours tiring and draining on his mind and so, shortly after check-in, he opened the window to deodorize the stagnant, stale, sulfuric air from the room, kicked off his boots, and fell asleep on the creaky, lumpy mattress. It was on this well-worn piece of material that he now awoke, listening to the howl of the chilled wind as it came in through the half-opened window, resonating against the frame as it swirled into the room. Bykov sat up and listened to the wind, hearing upon it the howl of a faraway coyote, come out to enjoy the night's festivities. Though it was summer, the air took on a fall's chill as the morning's cold front passed out to sea and intensified with the soon-to-be Arctic currents up north.

Bodo was a land not terribly far removed from Tnemratia but far enough that the capital's lure had little effect anymore. For Bykov, it was some backwater hamlet in comparison to Tnemratia and having to come here was something of a chore for the man who'd slightly over twelve hours earlier become infamous within the ranks of the Tnemration government as the man who led the raid on the first Fear Factory in fifteen years. With a groan, these thoughts left him as he shuffled his feet into his boots and stood up to stretch his achy body. He wasn't particularly old but the mattress was that particularly atrocious that his body was protesting having been forced upon it for several hours of needed rest.

"I prefer the night," the words came out of Bykov's mouth as he looked out of the window across the city of Bodo. His hotel was a dingy one but it had eleven floors and he'd been so kind as to get a room on the eleventh floor, far from the prying eyes of the hotel's regular miscreant guests who paid by the hour and signed the book with "John Doe" and "Jane Smith" instead of actual names. The local police knew about it but they let it slide, instead focusing on more nefarious activities than prostitution and adultery. Bykov collected himself and retired to the bathroom for a few minutes before he sought a shower, a change of clothes, and the old bedside phone.

The other end of the phone answered on the third ring and Bykov didn't speak first. He wanted to make sure he'd had the right number and so he had when "Abramoff" answered.

"Abramoff, it's Bykov, are you well rested?"

"I am Major."

"Good I am going to go to the morgue first and speak with Doctor Zotov. Are you my transportation?"

"I am sir."

"How much time?"

"Twenty minutes."

"That will suffice. I will call ahead."

"Yes sir," and with that the phone went dead and Bykov looked down at the open folder on his bed. He looked for the number to Doctor Zotov and dialed it accordingly, listening to the other end ring and ring and ring.

On the eighth time it answered, "Bodo General, Morgue, Doctor Zotov speaking," the man sounded harried, out of breath, aged, tired…

"Doctor Zotov, my name is Major Arkady Bykov with the TBCA. I have heard about your guest and I would like to come down and ask you some questions."

"TBCA? You guys took over the case from the SSD?"

"No Doctor, I'll explain it all when I get there. For now I will request that our meeting be kept confidential."

"Confidential?" He repeated it as if he had trouble hearing. "Very well but you should hurry, I am not staying throughout the night."

"Doctor it would be wise if you would wait for me. I shall not be long."

"Yes Major," and again the line went abruptly dead while Bykov sat holding the phone to his ear. He collected his belongings after he replaced the phone, ultimately placing the entire folder in his briefcase, not trusting the shoddy lock on the door to protect it from intruders. The suitcase he would leave underneath the bed but not before he placed a strand of hair he yanked from his scalp between the zippers. Should anyone go through the bag they would surely do so unaware that this single anti-intrusion device had been present. He'd leave another one in the doorknob's lock outside of the room and another on the window just after he'd closed it.

Bykov wasn't staying in the hotel as a registered guest but as another anonymous traveler who'd come to Bodo to fancy things that were stringently banned in the capital. For that reason, the SSD might just check his room and rifle through his belongings. The TBCA saw the SSD as nothing more than goons who did the dirty work that was beneath everyone else. They solved their fair share of crimes and they were particularly active in working cases of sexual exploitation, deviancy, and molestation but outside of this specialty, to Bykov and the rest of the TBCA, they were goons, hired for their muscle and their arrogance rather than for their brains. He'd assumed that the SSD agents investigating Sozonov's death might have been better than the average goon but at their core they were still goons.

Shrugging off the thoughts as the elevator took a painfully slow time to ascend to the top floor Bykov adjusted the semi-automatic in his shoulder holster before he stepped through the cage door of the old elevator and shut it behind him. The elevator creaked and groaned its way to the lobby where Bykov exited to see the reflection of Abramoff's sedan parked in front of the hotel.

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July 25^th, 2015 | 21:30
Bodo, Raef Province | Major Arkady Bykov

B

ykov stared ahead at the same sign that Nestor, Kovalev and Sokolov had all looked at previously. Behind him Abramoff stepped off of the elevator and from memory took the obligatory right, leading Bykov down the darkish corridor towards the morgue. Unlike Nestor who'd been stopped at the door, Abramoff walked right past without so much as a request to sign and when the oaf of a guard saw the major's insignia on Bykov's hat, he quickly snapped into a salute. Bykov ignored him and continued into the morgue, looking for Doctor Zotov. He was found quickly, standing with a chart in his hand over the body of Sozonov. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and Bykov saw just how old the man was, curious almost immediately why he hadn't been forcibly retired. "Corporal Abramoff, to what do I owe this surprise? Are you interested in Mister Sozonov?"

"Doctor, I have the pleasure of introducing Major Arkady Bykov, I believe you two spoke a short time ago?"

"Yes, we did, Major," Doctor Zotov said, curiously sizing up the major who stood before him on the other side of the room. "Major I am curious why on our brief call you stated that confidentiality is of the utmost importance here."

"Doctor, I am conducting a separate, internal, independent investigation into the death of the late Lord Minister Sozonov. Because of his title and position within our government, a decision was made to conduct a separate, secretive investigation to ensure that there is no foul play."

"That is serious Major. You are not from Bodo, are you?"

"I am not Doctor."

"Hence the cloak and dagger business," he looked down at the body and then looked back up and shook his head, "very well Major. What would you like to know?"

"Do you have a cause of death?"

"I do," he said as he walked over to where his guests stood. He handed the chart to Major Bykov. "It seems that Mister Sozonov was poisoned."

"With what?"

"That's the really tricky part Major," he walked over to a stool and sat down on it, apologizing that his back was stiff from the back and forth business of autopsying this man. "It would appear that he was poisoned with the venom from a wasp. I had the enzymes tested twice and they came back in both instances with full positivity that he was poisoned with the venom from the Vespa tnemratia. Are you aware of this insect?"

"I am not Doctor."

"Vespa tnemratia is a species of hornet. It is endemic to Tnemrot, you'd know of it by its common name, the Tnemration hornet. Sound familiar?"

"It does now. A few dozen people die each year from their stings. How was he murdered versus stung?"

"Allow me to get to that but first we'll need a history lesson. In the 60s, we were dealing with a new breed of subversive. These were the long-haired whackos who listened to rock and roll that managed to get past the censors. You recall this from your training?"

"I do Doctor."

"Good," Doctor Zotov said, aware that Bykov wasn't in the mood for a history lesson but continuing anyway. "We needed a new way to interrogate them to locate their underground clubs and to possess the secrets they held. We believed that chemistry held the solution and so we turned to various compounds both natural and manmade. One natural compound that was used with limited success was the venom from the Asian giant hornet or Vespa mandarinia. Though no more venomous than your average wasp, it was the volume of the venom injected per sting that made the Vespa mandarinia so deadly in comparison. We isolated an LD50 of 4 milligrams per kilogram. I was working on the project at the time if you have not guessed.

"However I said we used this with limited success. It was an effective interrogation tool but it was only so effective. We needed to make it more effective and so we turned to chemistry but it was nothing but dead ends. We made the venom more lethal but not more effective as an interrogation tool. That was when the biologists got involved. After several years of concurrent research they approached the problem by genetically creating a new species of hornet, having done their work from the Vespa mandarinia. What they created was magnificent." Doctor Zotov paused for a moment, "And horrifying."

"Horrifying?" Asked Major Bykov who'd become suddenly aware that his attention hinged on the story that Doctor Zotov was telling.

"The Vespa mandarinia was the world's largest hornet with a fifty millimeter average length and a seventy-six millimeter average wingspan. What they created, the Vespa tnemratia had a sixty-four millimeter length and an average wingspan of nearly one hundred millimeters! These things were huge in comparison and they were significantly more aggressive. They appear yellow and black, like your common yellow jacket but they were far deadlier. By making them larger and genetically modifying their DNA, the biologists managed to make their venom three times as deadly as the Vespa mandarinia. We're talking an LD50 of barely 1.5 milligrams per kilogram. What was worse was that in doing so, they created an apex predator.

"Against the Vespa mandarinia, for example, the honey bee has the ability to withstand temperatures higher than the hornet. Thus, when confronted, they ball up the hornet, overheating it and suffocating it with carbon dioxide. Now mind you, the Vespa mandarinia can still decimate an entire honeybee hive in a matter of hours with only token casualties to their own numbers but it is only through their scouts that they can achieve this. The honey bee can neutralize the scout and thus eliminate the threat. Bees are very smart and hornets are very tactical and strategic.

"The Vespa tnemratia can survive a higher temperature and carbon dioxide concentration than the honey bee can. Thus, the honey bee has no defense."

"This is a rather immersive lesson Doctor."

"Thank you Major, I remember this vividly. The biologists bred hundreds of them and we utilized the venom for our purposes. They managed to create a device that would threaten the hornets, thus causing them to sting it aggressively. We extracted the venom from the device and utilized it for our interrogations. Things went surprising well until 1979 when a very dangerous and strange accident released seven hundred and thirty-nine of these hornets into the wild, which included more than one queen! This was a major scandal and while the biologists were able to kill some two hundred and change it wasn't enough. Now, the Vespa tnemratia is endemic to this country and thankfully only the rural and mountainous areas."

"Forty or so people die a year from stings; I believe that is about right?"

"Yes it is Corporal. Our hospital, like all hospitals in Tnemrot, have the equipment to test for this type of poisoning so that we can administer an effective antidote. We have them and the only reason the number is so low is because we have an effective antidote. We developed it for the interrogations. Most of the people who die are inherently allergic to the venom and they go into anaphylactic shock or suffer cardiac arrest. It takes only a third of the things to bring a healthy, adult male into the hospital because the venom is so much more potent. We'd hoped that, over time, the Vespa tnemratia would go extinct or lose its potency but this has not happened yet."

"What made you test for this?"

"I didn't specifically order the test Major but rather a full poison analysis. The laboratory technician ran other tests and we came back with this method of poisoning."

"Then Doctor how do we know it is homicide."

"A single sting might kill a man of the Mister Sozonov's age but there are no puncture marks from a stinger. The stinger on a Vespa tnemratia is seven and a half millimeters long. They leave a distinctive puncture mark in the body where they sting. I have only found one suspicious puncture mark and it has the gauge of a needle, not of a stinger. Here I will show you," he stood and drew the men near the body of Sozonov, whose chest was open in a standard Y-incision. He shined the light on Sozonov's neck and pointed out the hard-to-see puncture mark. "If this were a hornet sting it would be much larger and more pronounced. There would be localized swelling from the immediate venom injection. I treated several doctors who'd been inadvertently stung and each one produced a very telltale wound. None of that is here. However, a single hornet's sting would not have produced the quantity of venom enzymes we found in Sozonov's blood. He would have had to have been stung by twenty-five to thirty-two hornets. The wounds would be very visible on his body if he'd been stung by that many hornets."

"Interesting work Doctor," answered Bykov just before he scribbled down some notes on a well-worn pad that he produced from his pocket. "So then who has access to that much venom?"

"Someone would have to be breeding the hornets or someone who is mad and brave enough to try to capture thirty-two at most or twenty-five at least hornets and find a way to extract their venom."

"Is this venom utilized in anything other than interrogation and execution?"

"Nothing that I know of Major and I was about to run a check of the various databases for chemical supplies to see if it - by some obscure reason - has a purpose I am unaware of in my old age. Would you care to join me?"

"I would Doctor."

"So would I," Corporal Abramoff said, very intrigued by everything that had been said by Doctor Zotov thus far.

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 26^th, 2015 | 01:00
Bodo, Raef Province | Major Arkady Bykov

B

ykov slid into the passenger seat of Abramoff's sedan. "Do you have a lead Major?" Abramoff asked the moment the door was shut.

"I have something but I need your knowledge of Bodo. According to Doctor Zotov there is a restriction section near the rail yards that contains abandoned warehouses. Are you familiar with this area?"

"I am Major; we have launched several raids to ensure that subversives do not use it to set up Fear Factories or dens of perversion."

"When was it last swept?"

"I want to say nine weeks ago Major, I can get the precise date if you need."

"That won't be necessary. I need to gain access to Warehouse 49 immediately."

"Yes Major, we can go now. I have flashlights in the trunk and it should be safe for our intrusion."

"Good when we get there I will need your assistance in looking for something so we must make sure to park the car where it is accessible to ourselves. Should we run into trouble, I want to ensure we can make a clean exit."

"Yes Major!" Abramoff started the car and pulled away from the curb. Twenty-five minutes later, Abramoff turned off of the highway exit and ignored a red light at the bottom for there were no cars present or headlights to cause concern. After four hundred meters they were driving between two separate rail yards and after eight hundred meters they were turned onto a road and ignoring the signs that read RESTRICTED ACCESS and NO TRESPASSING. It would be another three kilometers before they wound their way away from the rail yards and then a further five kilometers before they came to a halt in front of a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Signs forbade entry and warned of dire consequences to all who disobeyed. There was a locked gate but Abramoff found little issue producing the proper key to open the lock. He didn't bother to explain why he'd had this specific key but then again he had two hundred keys in the console of the car and so Bykov assumed it was because of who Abramoff regularly chauffeured.

He pulled the gate open and then piloted the car through and into the restricted zone. "This entire area used to belong to the military. They used it as a munitions storage facility. However, they abandoned it in the 1990s following the construction of the Bodo Arsenal, which is twenty kilometers outside of town. It was deemed safer to move the arsenal outside of the town."

"Were there many accidents here?"

"We suspect so Major but the military keeps everything very hush-hush. There are eighty warehouses in total so it's just a matter of finding the correct one. Everything is laid out neatly in a grid so it should not be trouble. If you see anything suspicious please alert me in case we need a sweep team here."

"My eyes are scanning."

"I'm not sure what Doctor Zotov expects you to find here Major. These warehouses have been abandoned for nearly twenty years and since then we've had to remove subversives and squatters over five dozen times. Whatever there is of value it wasn't left behind and if by chance it was it likely won't be there anymore."

"Are there cameras watching this facility?"

"Yes there are Major."

"We will need to review the footage going back since before the Lord Minister of Truth was murdered to ensure that there was no activity."

"Yes Major. We can do that shortly." Abramoff crept at a snail's pace as they moved through the messy, debris-strewn streets of the warehousing area. They moved down the grid and took a left turn into what Abramoff believed to be the rows where Warehouse 49 would be and he was correct. It was at the end of the row, right where he expected it to be. Swinging a U-turn, he parked alongside the warehouse's main door and turned off the engine. Outside of the vehicle he pulled flashlights and a crowbar from the trunk of the car before leading Bykov to the door. "We usually go through the doors with battering rams and tactical teams but tonight this will have to suffice," replied Abramoff as he began to leverage the crowbar in the door's lock. The door was heavy and steel but after years and years of exposure to the elements, rust had corroded the metal mechanisms and though it took some effort from both men, the lock broke free and the door creaked open, the rusted hinges tight with resistance.

Both men drew their semi-automatics and turned on their flashlights. Holding the flashlights in their left hands and their pistols in their right hands they crossed wrists and drew their arms closer to them to prevent someone from grabbing their hands as they rounded corners. With a clang as metal parts broke off of the door, the two men entered the warehouse and quickly scanned in a 360° circumference around them both from floor-level to the rafters above their heads. The warehouse was a complete disaster, full of junk and debris, garbage and it smelled of stale rainwater and mud. It was silent, eerily so as if even the creatures of the night knew to avoid it for some unsaid reason that Mother Nature understood but which mankind had yet to unravel like a puzzle.

Walking carefully and cautiously to avoid tripping over something, the two men moved through the main area of the warehouse where forklifts would have been shuttling pallets around had this been an active warehouse. They stepped over an overturned, rusting metal desk that looked to be from the 1950s and ignored the skeleton of a long since deceased opossum lying on the opposite side of the desk. "We should head to the office," Abramoff whispered and Bykov agreed with an assenting nod. They headed to it through a complex path that wove around the junk and ultimately brought them to the thin, steel door of the office, which was nothing more than a mini-structure within the warehouse made of some sort of cheap framing material. Mold and mildew crawled up the drywall where ivy wasn't choking the remainder of the walls. Pausing only to peer through the broken glass of the door, the two men entered the office and scanned around with their flashlights.

"I think we've got something here."

"Me too Major," Abramoff said as his flashlight fell on a dentist's chair that had no place being in an abandoned warehouse near the Bodo rail yards. It was bolted to the ground and the area around it was swept clear. Folding chairs sat around it and there were at least two dozen crushed soda cans lying around the office and they were all way too new to have been leftover junk.

"You don't think this is an underground dental clinic do you?"

"No I do not Major," Abramoff answered. "Look up there," he put the flashlight on the ceiling where hooks and chains hung over their heads. "Those are all new."

"They are and you don't think they're there for decoration do you?"

"This is someone's personal torture chamber."

"Now how do they get in and out?"

"We'll need to review the CCTV footage Major."

"Let's get some photographs and then get out of here. Do you have a camera in the car?"

"I do Major."

"Good go get it and let's hurry up then."

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

IV

July 25^th, 2015 | 16:00
Jerome, Worros Province | Armen Aksyonov

A

rmen Aksyonov was graying prematurely and he looked at the flecks of gray hair in the mirror as he washed his hands. The toilet was still running in the background but that would end soon once the tank had refilled itself. A glance at his watch told him that it was 16:00 and time to begin so with a few pieces of paper towel to dry his hands off he exited the bathroom and walked into the lobby area where several foreigners sat attentively, rucksacks at their feet and wealth in their eyes. "Good afternoon, my name is Armen Aksyonov, your guide and director for this week's trip." He spoke English, accented with the Slavic harshness that engendered Tnemration. To use the word "trip" was a bit ironic. The Tnemration economy was diverse though the majority of it was powered by manufacturing. Tourism wasn't anywhere on the list except unless if you wanted to hunt a condemned human being, such as these gentlemen wanted. For the cost of $50 million Californian standard dollars one could come to Tnemrot and embark on a week-long adventure in the Tnemration Desert hunting an actual human being. If you were lucky you got to kill him too.

"Before we begin, my colleague Tigran will be passing out forms. These forms are Non-Disclosure Agreements. Because of the nature of this trip, you will be required to sign these. Tnemration law forbids you from speaking of this trip to anyone. There will be no photography or recording and no trophies either. You will leave only with what you physically brought with you. Any violation of these rules will result in serious criminal prosecution should you return to Tnemration soil. You gentlemen have paid for this privilege and all we ask is that you uphold our code of discreteness. If this is a problem for you then you may refuse to sign, you will be given a full refund, and you may depart without penalty." Armen scanned those present to see only willing faces as the men signed the NDAs. Because of the cost of the trip, it was exclusively for the wealthy of the world and these were men who were accustomed to signing legal documents of this kind.

Where Armen was only 173 centimeters in height, Tigran was 193 and Vadim, who was hiding out in the corner was even taller at 198 centimeters. "The gentleman in the corner whom you met upon arriving is Vadim. Both Tigran and Vadim will be assisting us on the trip. We have worked together for many years doing this and we are like a family. We ask only respect for that from you for the next seven days." Four such hunts were arranged per year, one in each quarter, and it grossed the Tnemration economy approximately $1 billion per year. The net was close since the cost was minimal, food, gasoline, ammunition, and incidentals.

With the signed paperwork back in his hand, Armen smiled and continued. "The rules of the hunt are simple. There is no cheating. You will do what we tell you when we tell you or else you may injure yourselves or someone else. This is a respectable hunt and we will afford the condemned every advantage we can provide. The condemned is an individual on death row, his name is inconsequential. He has opted for this form of punishment with the hope of redemption. Should this man survive the seven-day hunt, he will be forgiven his crimes and allowed to rejoin society. To date no one has survived the full seven days.

"Tonight we will not be hunting. We will leave here in two vehicles and drive approximately two hours to the campsite where everything is already prepared for our arrival. We will have approximately two hours of daylight left to relax. You have all made long trips and you are undoubtedly tired. We will eat dinner there tonight and 'bullshit' as they say. Tomorrow morning at dawn we begin and we go throughout the day and into the dusk before we will return to the campsite. The area we are working in is large, many hundreds of square kilometers and it is open desert. If you are unaware of the dangers of the desert let me be brief in telling you. There are poisonous plants, venomous snakes and scorpions, there is treacherous terrain, and there is little in the way of food and water. We have several designated spring areas that we can tap into for water but food is all our own. We will bring what we need and leave with all of our garbage as well. The temperature during the day will be warm and the desert is very dry. It is important to stay hydrated. At night the temperature will drop considerably so it is prudent that you have packed the clothes you were told to pack. If you have not packed warm clothes then please let me know now and we will get you some immediately." No one spoke up, a good sign. Armen liked this group. He'd had many before and he liked most of them. By and large, people behaved. Of course, there were always instances where someone didn't behave. One year someone attempted to cheat and he was jailed for it for nine months. Another year someone accidentally tripped and shot a fellow hunter in the leg who'd nearly bled out before helicopter rescue came.

"We will be going out in the hunt with weapons, whether that is firearms or bows, you have your choice and I believe you will be making that choice shortly. It is imperative that you act responsibly with them. If you have not used these weapons before that is fine, do not be embarrassed. We can show you a quick lesson this evening. We have knives as well should you feel you are not comfortable with firearms.

"Now ammunition is limited. There is a single person we are hunting and we will take some time to find him. Do not fire your weapons unless it is at this person and in that sense be careful where you shoot. One hunt we had a hunter carelessly trip with his finger on the trigger. He shot one of the other hunters and he nearly bled out before we got him to a hospital. Tigran, Vadim, and myself are all trained medics but there is only so much we can do. We have first aid and other medical supplies with us but let's not need them.

"Now, once the condemned has been located and engaged, should he be killed that is it. The hunt is over immediately. Vadim and Tigran will bury the body accordingly and we will return to the campsite. Should this be earlier than expected we will hunt animals for the rest of the trip but let me tell you that normally we do not engage until the fifth day and even then it is difficult. Our record is the fourth day. That particular condemned individual was not a very spritely character. Your opponent this hunt is very adept. He was a soldier prior to his crime and thus he is skillful in survival." Someone looked to answer a question and Armen nodded that he was okay to proceed.

"Can this condemned individual attack us?"

"Yes he can. That is part of the danger and that is an advantage we afford him. Vadim, Tigran, and myself are all armed for this but we will not engage. Our job is to tend to your needs and bring you gentlemen around to locate the condemned. We will travel mostly on foot but we have a pair of four-by-fours to get to and from specific areas and a well-worn map that will give us spots. We do not know where the condemned will be dropped and it will happen during the night. Do not bother trying to spot lights or hear sounds, it will be nowhere near us. Your job tonight is to sleep and ensure you are well-rested for tomorrow.

"While we are on the hunt we must observe noise discipline. If the condemned hears us he may hide and we will walk right past him, thus endangering ourselves. I have not lost anyone yet and I do not plan to start on this hunt. What I do hope to achieve is your satisfaction. You gentlemen have paid considerably to be here and you will receive your money's worth. As explained, there are no refunds from this moment out so do you level-best to last the full seven days. Where you slacken we three will do our best to ensure you can continue.

"Now this goes without saying that if you feel ill or hurt yourselves make us aware immediately. We will assess the situation and get you the necessary help. One year we had an individual break his ankle and not tell us. The next day he got a blood infection and we had to airlift him to the hospital. The bloody fool nearly died. Another hunt we had an individual bitten by a venomous insect. Again, he didn't tell us and he spiked a terrible fever the next day and again, we had to airlift him out on an emergency. The trip to the hospital is not short as the hospital is located here in Jerome. Medical treatment is covered and we will do everything in our power to ensure your survival but if you fight against us you will only hurt yourselves. We are all able-bodied men and we must act like it in the desert. It is an unforgiving place and our opponent is highly dangerous. We'll save further introductions until we get in the cars. Unless you have further questions we will get going with weapon selection. I stress, most of all, that if you are not comfortable with your weapon do not choose it. You will only waste your money and your ammunition. If a knife bothers you, take a rifle, if that bothers you take a pistol.

"Oddly enough the most commonly selected weapon is a crossbow. Only two people have successfully killed with a crossbow. It is a nice weapon but unless you have and use one at home you will not pick it up in the next seven days. The second most selected weapon is a pistol. I recommend it highly. Most of the condemned are engaged at ranges of fifty meters or less. A rifle can be difficult to wield. I also recommend everyone take a knife as it is as much a tool as it is a weapon." Armen dismissed them to the armory while he grabbed his own rucksack and walked outside to deposit it into one of the two 4x4s.

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July 26^th, 2015 | 05:30
Tnemration Desert | Armen Aksyonov

H

is internal alarm clock shook Armen out of his sleep. Sitting up in his sleeping bag, Armen yawned, stretched, and listened to the silence of the desert. Jerome wasn't a very big city, a population of 51,500, but it was still a city and Armen at the age of 42 preferred the quiet stillness of the desert. Slipping out of his sleeping bag he quickly donned a different set of clothes and began his morning routine. He took a small tin cup and put two scoops of instant coffee into the bottom along with a single packet of artificial sweetener. Then he grabbed a kettle that had been filled up with water the night before and put on his boots. He emerged from the tent a minute later and stood in the midst of the semi-circle encampment. The fire that had burned all night, tended to by Vadim and Tigran on alternating shifts was still burning though there was no open flame, just red embers burning at the bottom. The fire was hot and it provided warmth to the campsite but it wasn't hot enough for Armen's taste so he threw another log onto the fire and watched as it began to burn.

Sitting down on a flat rock that had been his seat the night before while the eight men grew acquainted with one another, Armen looked to the east to see the sun rising on the horizon. Sunset would be at 19:55 and reducing by a minute per day while sunrise was at 05:32 and increased a minute per day. Solar noon was 12:43 and the hottest part of the day would be around 15:30. It would be that way all week long. Armen checked his watch and decided that he would let everyone sleep another few minutes. Vadim and Tigran would be waking up in the next twenty minutes and he figured by 06:00 he would have everyone awake. He grabbed a cooking grate, dropped it over the campfire, and retreated a few meters away to relieve his bladder, coming back to find the grate warm with heat. On top of it he placed the kettle and now he waited for the water to boil. In the silence of the dawn he heard only the rustle of the wind in the air and the cracking of the fire. The air was cool, fresh, dry, and entirely comforting.

The water started boiling a few minutes later and Armen removed the kettle after slipping on a thermally resistant glove. He poured about 300 milliliters of boiling water into the cup and watch as it turned black, just the way he drank his coffee. He put the kettle to the side and gave the cup a swirl to start mixing in the coffee. The aroma filled the campsite at once and Armen smiled. He enjoyed these serene moments before everyone awoke, as dawn crested the horizon, sitting with a cup of coffee in the cool, dry air of the desert. Moments later Vadim awoke, emerging from his tent, moving off to the side area to take his morning piss. Tigran would in the next three minutes and the other two men, beasts of burden they were, would fill up their cups with boiling water to join in the morning's coffee.

By 06:00, everyone was awake and beginning to get themselves ready for breakfast. Armen always insisted on a hearty meal for breakfast on the first day and so they would eat like kings and begin getting themselves in gear by 07:00, aiming to set off by 08:00 and commence the day's hunt. When the time had come, he pulled out the well-worn map and huddled everyone into a circle near the first 4x4. "This morning we're going to start around here. It's called Dodge Ridge and it's pretty shitty terrain. I like to start here thinking I'll get lucky. It's also a great way to make your muscles ache so we'll get this out of the way now when you're all fresh. It's about fifty kilometers away so we're going to drive and get to within forty-five kilometers of it. The rest is on foot. It offers a good vantage point that we can survey this area," he pointed to another spot on the map, "we call it Rattlesnake Valley. I trust you understand why without my explaining it. If he's down in there we'll see from up there. It's too far to engage with long guns so if we spot him we can just mosey over there. It'll take some time but we have 4x4s and he's on foot. We've all got the equipment we need and we're packed light. We'll move around throughout the day and when the time comes we'll break and take some lunch. I doubt we'll spot him today but just the same if we do, don't yell out, just be quiet about it and let everyone know without telling the entire desert."

---

• • •

[Tnemrot]

July 26^th, 2015 | 11:30
Tnemration Desert | Armen Aksyonov

A

rmen stepped off of the rock and onto a narrow ledge below. From this vantage point 350 meters above the valley, the horizon was slightly less than sixty-seven kilometers in the faraway distance and with a good pair of binoculars, which he had, he could survey a wide swath of Rattlesnake Valley easily. Alone, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking one out with his teeth and lighting it from the lighter he stored in the half-empty pack. Ignoring those behind him who were breaking for lunch, he instead focused on the valley beneath him. I know where you're hiding, he thought to himself as he eyed a copse of trees about twenty kilometers in the distance. It was a spot with easily accessible fresh water and the likely place a person would try to hide. He'd neglected to tell the hunters that their victims had been given a navigation and map lesson before heading off into the desert.

The reason was two-fold. The first was to make the hunters work for their kill, which made the experience more rewarding and those involved more likely to pay out to come back again. The second was to give the "prey" a sense that he could survive and win, thus making him less likely to stand in the open and take a bullet to end the agony of the sport. Psychologically speaking, both sides were being tricked into what they wanted without either of them, or the others, knowing it. Armen was particularly proud of that aspect of the job. He didn't want drones and he didn't want to hunt men who'd given up on life. He wanted some excitement in it, even if he reserved the emotions from the hunters. Still, there had been cases where those involved hadn't succumbed to the psychological tricks. This made the job that much less fun. In one instance, the prey simply walked in front of the hunters and surrendered, the result was none of the hunters wanted to shoot him; they saw no sport in it. Ultimately, the prey was killed out of sight by Armen.

Armen pushed the thought aside as a pair of boots shuffled above his head and then dropped to his side. He'd nearly gotten lost in the vastness of the desert - a common daydream for him in this spot - but the noise brought him back. "It's a beautiful valley," said Jarek, one of the hunters.

"You should see it at dawn," Armen answered as he reached into his pocket, retrieved his cigarette pack, and held it out for Jarek, who took one, sat down, lit it, and then returned the back. Armen had identified Jarek as the best in this group for a multitude of reasons. First and foremost was his training. The man had been ex-military insofar as Armen could ascertain though he knew not from where, perhaps a mercenary outfit. He had that kind of military discipline that made him an easy person to lead who listened when he needed to listen and followed directions to the letter. Secondly, he approached the situation respectfully, quietly, and with a full understanding of what lay before him. He wasn't there for excitement or bloodlust, like most of the people who signed up to do this hunt. He was there for some other reason, something he kept close within him and when asked his reasons, deferred to the next person. That kind of personality Armen could understand for it mirrored his own in many ways.

"I bet it is," Jarek said as he inhaled on the cigarette. The two men sat in silence for a while, admiring the scene, finishing their cigarettes, which they snuffed out in the dirt at their feet. They would dispose of them in their own trash containers since the Tnemration government had very strict anti-litter laws. Tnemrot might have been a country of harsh law but it was a clean country at that, especially in its wilderness.

Just before they stood up, Armen looked back at the copse of trees in the distance, knowing that was where they would head next. The thing he would neglect to tell them was that the copse offered excellent visibility for a few kilometers around it. If someone was to be hiding there, they could spot the vehicles coming a few minutes before they arrived and find an easy way to escape. This was all part of the fun and the theatrics of the job and Armen played his part.

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July 26^th, 2015 | 20:00
Tnemration Desert | Armen Aksyonov

T

he day was past them and Armen looked around the campsite. The sun had only just set five minutes earlier and the sky was changing through those colors of sunset that make it gorgeous, no matter what the land underneath was like. Finishing the last cigarette of the pack, he was leaning against the side of the 4x4 when Vadim approached with a concerned look on his face. "There is a problem of sorts," he said in a hushed tone that only Armen could hear. "The colonel is on the satellite phone for you."

"Great," Armen said as he prematurely finished his cigarette and used the bottom of his boot to stub out the ash so that he could save the rest for later. A few minutes later, way out of earshot of the camp, Armen lifted the phone's handset to his ear and waited for the satellite signal to reconnect. A moment later, when it did, the voice of Colonel Mitrofan Balashov boomed in his ear. The colonel was loud-spoken on the best of days and when he was excited it was ten times worse. A call from him in the middle of a hunt was never a good sign. "Colonel sir, how may I be of service?"

"Cut the hunt short Armen, there is a grave problem in Tnemrot that requires your services."

"Sir, can you tell me more? The hunters will be gravely disappointed."

"They will have a full refund and a chit to return on the next scheduled hunt, this is a matter of state security. Tell them whatever you want; I expect to see you in my office in twenty-four hours. Leave now if you must."

"Yes sir," Armen listened as the disconnect tone jingled in his ear. He hung up and packed up the satellite phone in its small suitcase before returning to camp where he pulled Vadim and Tigran aside and gave them the bad news. When prompted about the victim Armen shook his head, "When we get back take a rifle and the tracker and dispose of him quickly." The two men agreed and Armen went to the campsite where he gathered the hunters. "I am afraid I have bad news," he began. "Our prey has died."

"What? How?" Men asked in a cacophonous symphony. Only Jarek remained silent.

"We do not know but we have a tracking device to ensure that their vitals are okay. Thirty-five minutes ago, they indicated his heartrate has flat-lined and he is dead. If I had to guess I would put my money on a snake bite. It is easy out here. Our official policy in these situations is to offer you a full refund and a voucher chit to return on the next scheduled hunt. There is little we can do."

"What about animals?" One of the men asked but Armen only shook his head.

"Our permit is only for the single condemned prey. Anything else would be a violation of law. You would all be imprisoned for participating in an illegal hunt," the irony of this was not lost on Armen who knew that hunting an animal was illegal but a human was not. It was a strange world in Tnemrot but he was very familiar with it. For now they would pack up and return to the lodge where they would be sent on their way. Vadim and Tigran would help while Armen would "retrieve the body" with another team. Rather, he would report immediately to Colonel Balashov's officer for the bad news about whatever threatened Tnemration state security.

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