Paradise Lost [Kylaris/Closed/ATTN: Lupolska]

[FdLP]

Mateo Vignetti
Fronte di Liberazione Proletaria
Rotanian International Waters
Asterian Gap


The waters were choppy, the air a warm sense to my exhausted body. The smell of dead seaweed and salt filled the midnight air as I made my way to the small town of Arcusa. It was a little shithole of a town located just across the gap from our southern coastal operation base. Then again anything outside the major cities on the coast the rest of the country seemed like a hellish place, minorities destroyed by the forces of capitalism to reside in absolute poverty, little to infrastructure, no industrialization to be seen. It was a devastating situation for all those involved it seemed, the horrors of such poverty however weren't unknown in Acoa. The Caesani population was subject to numerous inequalities, it's why I joined, I could bar to live knowing that the capitalist establishment had subjected my people to economic depravity and social degradation in the name of continued profit. As we got closer to the shore a series of light flickering on and off could bee seen from the shoreline.

- . .-. .-. .- / --.- ..- .. --..-- / .-.. .. -.. .. / ... .. -.-. ..- .-. ..

It was safe to land, the Morse code coming from the lights confirmed us to be half way through this escapade of ours. I slowed the small aluminum boat down and let its momentum carry me and my crew of two to the shore. We skidded gently across the wet sands of the Rotanian beach.

A group of men wearing tattered black cloths or similarly worn and torn military fatigues with face masks covering their identity. One of the men signed me over to him silently, I looked at him, barely able to see his blackout figure in the darkest of nights we chose to come by. He began to walk towards a small shack about 10 meters behind him while the others held tight to their gun and looking upon us with suspicion. I grabbed a large suitcase from underneath a small section of the aft side of the boat, I gripped it firmly and then signaled my two men to follow me to the little shack our friend had made his way to. We made our way through the really fine wet sand and entered the shack, it was dimly lit with several large crates.

"You've got the guns, right Nanni?" I asked the man in the black mask. He simply looked around at some of the crates, about 8 in all in the shed itself.

"What do you think? Now how about our money?" He responded with a very thick Rotarian Ceasenian accent. The dialect was rustic and strong very reminiscent of the language of our forebears. It seemed so much closer to the mother tongue while mine seemed bastardized by the Fascist Anglophones who've dominated the government of my homeland. We were able to have some sort of simple conversation, but the dialects were so dissimilar we couldn't have much of a conversation past this.

"Here." I told him throwing the briefcase on the table he stood in front of. He unlocked the briefcase and flipped it open, we held our breath for a moment as he examined the contents of the briefcase.

"Okay, you can check the crates" he said to us as he closed the briefcase, we went to work quickly opening up the crates to see why we had gotten. It quickly all checked out. The order of Dragunov MA Carbines, PP-91 KEDR submachine guns, VSS Vintorez Sniper Rifles, a small batch of AK-9 rifles, and an assortment of Scopes and Suppressors for all our needs. Hundreds of thousands of Wacoan Pounds worth of military equipment here, this was just a small batch too. I've see some guys bring in a hell of a lot more. I picked up one of the Dragunov MA rifles and inspected it closely, random sample out of the box, all serial numbered parts matched, bolt ran smoothly, sights looks factory set, it all seemed to check out for us. We quickly shut them back up and I looked at the man.

"Everything looks in order, serial numbers not only match but they seem to fit Kaxakh manufacturing standard, proof marks look good. Looks like the real deal." I said to him, obviously the linguistic difference meant he didn't understand anything but the most basic part of what I was saying. With the help of some of our Rotarian friends we swiftly loaded onto the small aluminum boat. We then pushed back into the waters and hopped on in this time the water crept far higher up the hill on the boat. It would be a difficult trip back to Wacoa but I'd seen worse, we could deal with it.

Marcos "Brassto" Aselli
Fronte di Liberazione Proletaria
Southside Government Housing Projects
City of Johnston, Province of Barradina, Wacoa



“Yeah yeah don't worry, I've got these stupid bitches finishing up the latest shipment. Will have about 226 worth of Fumo with around 75,000 individual sacks will be sending your way. All you've got to do is make sure they get up north.” I said through the phone as I continued to lower the thermostat in the small two bedroom flat we rented out here. The girls had been working hard to get things done, he'll I think this is the fastest we’d ever through this much hash. But we were on a schedule so maybe the little extra motivation would help, the room had hovered at about 11° Celsius but I figured moving it down to around 7° would make things move a bit faster.

“Alright Brassto, anyways, did you get the shipment from Vignetti yet?” He asked through the phone, his usual brassy a baritone voice scrambled by a pitch shifter to hide his identity if anyone intercepted the calls.

“Yeah, one of Vignetti’s boys brought some of the stuff my way from the last Rotanian shipment he got. Plus he dropped off a .327 Magnum , said it was for someone special.” I told him, he took a quick pause for a moment before responding.

“Good, good… Niccolò should be their soon.” He told me, his voice seem to express a degree of satisfaction with the news but it was hard to tell through the pitch shift.

“Alright, talk to you later.” I said finishing the call. I then made my way to the dufflebag which laid on the floor near a small coffee table. I lifted the bag up and unzipped the main pouch. Inside was a Dragunov MA carbine seated sloppily within the bag. Magazines filled with 5.45mm Kax ammo took up most of the tensing space, 480 bullets all neatly placed into these large 30 round magazines. Underneath it all was a nifty tactical vest that could carry all his magazines.

I zipped it back up and looked over to the door which lead to another section of this relatively large flat. It's where the girls we're doing their thing, maybe I should go see how they are doing, after all I can't really expect Rocco to know to much about what to do in there especially if one of those filthy cunts makes a mistake. As my beans reached around and wrapped itself around it the sound of a pounding yet quick knock from the door. It was Niccolò, no doubt. I abandoned my original interest in checking up on the packers.

I opened the front door and sure enough it was the Johnston Bomber himself. Niccolò Moscato in the flesh.

“How's it going Niccolò? I just got off the phone with Acido, he said you be here soon.” I said as I let the young man walk into the main living space. The guy was wearing a pair of very basic denim jeans, what looked like dirty steel toed boots, and a long sleeved black shirt. He looked particularly working class even for the type of people he associated with.

“It's going pretty good Brassto. It's just really fucking cold in here.” He said with a faint chuckle while he accepted my greetings

“Yeah, helps keep the mules working.” I told matter of factly but with a smile on my face. It's his first time at my place after all so it didn't shock me that he didn't know what went down here.

“Ah got it. So you got what I need amico?” He asked in a distinctively cheerful pitch, it seemed a strange tone for someone about to undertake what he was about to do.

“Sound a little calm there, feeling alright?” I asked him, curious mostly.

“Yeah I'm fine, just processing all of this. I mean it's a pretty big fucking deal after all.” He said in the same cheerful yet now noticeably more nervous voice.

“Alright little man, anyways the duffle bag has everything you ordered plus that .327 revolved with those overpressured wadcutters Vignetti wanted with them.” I told him pointing him in the direction of the bag on the coffee table.

“So why did he give you the revolver. Said it was for someone special.” I asked him

“I'm not allowed to say. But let's just say this isn't a singular thing, it's part of a large plot.”

“Got it.” I said, I didn't want to know any more. I was after all just the finance guy. I was just holding onto his shit until he could pick it up. He slowly made his way up to the bag and unzipped it inspecting the weapons. He ran the bolt back and forth checking the smoothness on the of the bolts running, the springs, all that interesting stuff. He gave it a good look for a moment as looked back at me.

“Looks all good, where'd you get the money for all this shit.” He asked me inquisitively. I got a sharp little smiley, it wasn't always I found a kid who didn't know what I was about. It wasn't always I got to see the new meat get sent into the grinder. Poor kid probably didn't even know what he was getting himself into. The illustrious dreams of revolution and autonomy probably pulled him in like an ideological black hole. But he asked me how we got this money to buy thee guns, and by extension how we got the funds for everything we ever did. I walked up to the door which lead to the separate section off the flat. I slowly twisted it open and let the far colder air of the room dance across my face. Inside we're the packers, three naked women bought off the street, typical low dollar whores who'd do anything for their next fix. Behind them was Rocco dressed in a winter coat and a pair of gloves with a old Lusa held tight in his hands. I turned back and looked to see the nearly disgusted look on the kids face. But hell, it was probably better he learned this now than later.

“Come on in boy, lets me show you how we paid for those guns.” I told him. I then turned back around to look at the girls and how they were backing everything. Two of them seemed to be going at a fairly acceptable speed, one however was slacking, she was tying off the bags to slowly and looked like she wasn't paying too much attention to the measuring. Stupid bitch better straighten up while I'm here. But anyways I turned my attention back into the boy, Niccolò.

“So you see. These fine ass women you see standing naked here are doing something very important. They are packing up Hashish, this is the stuff we sell up to our comrades in Marirana, they then send it up to places like the Federation, Roeselle, and Senouillac.”

“But… but why are they nude?” He asked looking somewhat intimidated by all that was going on.

“Well, if you were cold, naked, and afraid would you like to get something done wouldn't you? It keeps them productive.” I asked him rhetorically. His look of regret for asking me how we got the money was very visible.

“I… I still don't.” He paused for a minute, doubt was falling from his mouth lit drool. He looked reserved, intimidated even. I couldn't risk him trying to be the hero here. I needed to act quickly, I need to show my authority over him, that I had power over him and that he was nothing compared to me. I lunged forward and grabbed him by the color of his shirt and brought him up close.

“Listen here boy, don't give me that fucking bullshit alright. Think what you want but without this setup you wouldn't have those guns, you would anything. You might be the blood of this revolution but I'm the air being taken into its lungs. Without me you are nothing. Without me your whole group is nothing. Now you can leave now and forget what you wanted to see or I can have you end up a fucking drug mule like these stupid bitches.” I was aggressive with him, I needed to be. I couldn't risk this falling apart on me. My reaction was more tense than it needed to be, I need to let this kid know my authority would not be questioned by this beta, even if he never vocalized it.

“Okay I got it, j-just let me go.” He said during the exchange. Now that he was on the floor he had a better view of things to come. Now it was time to send the message home. I walked up to one of the miles and looked around, there was a leather couch just to our left, covered in plastic. It still was capable of doing what I needed it to do. I grabbed one of the women by her hair, she was a tall blonde girl maybe of some kind of mulatto heritage by the lusciously light brown skin tone. I picked her randomly of course, after all this message didn't need a specific victim to send it across. I threw her by her hair onto the couch, she landed face first muffling her panicked screams.

“Now Niccolò here's something to keep in mind, if you ever fucking cross me this will be your mother and sister. Do you fucking understand me?” I said in a heavily aggressive tone while I undid my jeans and pounced on this cheap back alley whore like a tiger hunting it's prey.

Niccolò Moscato
Fronte di Liberazione Proletaria
City of Johnston, Province of Barradina, Wacoa



I looked down at my rifle sitting idly by in the passenger seat of the moving truck. I knew I needed to keep my eyes on the road but I could keep my eyes off of the rifle. Every time I looked at it I just remembered the other night, I remember Brassto bending that woman over and having his way with her, raping her. While he did it he looked me in the eyes and told me in explicit detail what he would do to my family if I ever crossed him. People had told me to not fuck with with him but I don't realize he was an absolute monster.

But I tried to block that out of my head. I focused my thought about my old life, how my dad worked day in and day out and tried to support us the best he could, yet his work was only greeted by mistreatment and political marginalization. If anyone led me down this road it was my father, not because he talked to and influenced my thoughts, he was to worried about making it in this capitalistic duopoly to worry about that. Rather it was seeing him literally work his fingers to the bone, yet those lazy, privileged Anglos got all the political clout. It showed me that our kind could not live together, we needed our own state, our own country in which to feel absolutely free in. Where his work could have actually been used to help him and the people he loved rather than the petty aristocrats of this democratic system. I checked to make sure my tactical vest was situated appropriately while at this red light. All these ammo and the surprise in the cargo bay of the moving truck were going to leave these cultural rapist and financial profiteers pilfering the coffers of its most vulnerable people. But I still count shake the feeling that this thing would go horribly wrong. Even with Gattopardo providing over watch from the building across the street I still felt uneasy and that things would tumble into disaster soon. But I was already beyond the point of no return, I couldn't go back, my fate was sealed.

I showed my approach, I saw my target. The police station was where I was going to help launch the fires of the revolution, and give hope to those trapped by the capitalist traps that their is a way out. I parked the truck in front of the building, nearly 6,000 pounds of explosives in the back. They weren't the most powerful but 6,000 pounds of anything would do the job. I grabbed the rifle I got from Brassto and checked all of my magazine clips. I then got out of the truck and made my way to the front door of the station, just before hand cocking the rifles bolt and clambering one of these so called Poison Bullets.

The first sign of uniformed men I saw got it first. I hip fired my gun towards a group of security officials. They all went down with ease as the small 5.45 caliber bullets ripped through them with ease, the steel core bullets punching through their thin Kevlar armor as though it wasn't there.

I dispatched the first target group, they were the first stepping stone to getting the real target. I kept a steady pace but was careful, after all I knew that not wearing a ballistic vest left me an easy kill.

Two more men popped out from a corner one armed with a pistol. I quickly reacted and sprayed my rifle again taking them out as well. The first magazine went dry so I went through my trained reloading procedure. I kept going deeper into the belly of the beast. The sounds of men scrambling and yelling at one another, it was a panicked response, after all this was where they felt safe, where they came back after dealing out the abusive authority of the state. I might as well have killed them in their home given their fearful reactions.

“La rivoluzione ha risvegliato!” I yelled in Italian as these anglos scattered like rats. While I couldn't see them I could hear them. I could hear them racing down the stairs looking for the source of the gun fire, and by god they had found it. I aimed down my sights for the first time since I had endeared and waited, the first man come to the floor after rushing down the stairs and was immodestly met with gunfire. Then a second and third were caught in the spray of billets brought down to their deaths by the momentum they had built up running down the stairs.

The sounds of sirens could be heard, possibly some patrol cops who got word of the attack and made their way here as fast as possible. I ignored it for now and kept on moving further. I took myself up the stairs as the first sounds of my sniper could be heard. The sharp crack of a 7x57mm Mauser round leaving the rifle was easy to spot, after all me and Gattopardo spent plenty of time out in the jungles practicing for this moment so the sound was easy to distinguish from the rest. However once I got further into the building I wouldn't be privy to all this extra sensory detail. So for now I was blind to the situation outside.

I continued my march through the building, things seemed to have calmed down a bit, it had only been a minute but that be plenty of time for a well executed evacuation to take place. But then the pop of a pistol rung out. A sharp pain cut through my leg and I automatically hit the floor, I looked around for a moment as two more shoots rang out. It was a guy hiding behind a corner. I lifted my gun and fired the rest of my clip on his direction dropping him to the floor. I then pulled myself into an office room as started to think of a plan.

I ripped off a good portion of my long sleeved shirt and wrapped it around my thigh just above the gunshot wound. I didn't look like it hit anything major, just a chunk of lead stuck in my leg for now.i forced myself to stand up and continue on the course I had set for myself. I continued walking down the hallway stumbling and falling back down trying to grit my teeth and make it through the pain.

I slowly made it through the halls of the second floor of police station. I saw a group of assembling forces near the end of the hallway. I fired first, firing three round controlled bursts at the group, one feel but the others scattered. They then fired back, I couldn't take the risk and I retreated back a bit firing short bursts behind me to try and cover my attempted escape. I hid behind a wall again and fired off a few more bursts, then another tense, burning pain ripped through my side. The fuckers hit me again, the pain was far more intense this time, it must have tumbled through the wall before hitting me and it must have brought in some of that drywall in with it. I crumpled down to the ground and started gasping for breath, I was in no place to try and continue fighting. I forced myself up using a railing and begs in my struggled descent down the stairs. I stumbled and even at times fell down these narrow stairs. I however made it to the bottom floor, I crawled and stumbled my way through the small hallway and into the back of the main lobby where the sounds of gunshots could be heard. I hurried my way out of here, I ran through the backing for an emergency exit. I ran down through the small hallway until I reached it, this was the only escape route we’d designated as an escape.

I ran out of the exit and looked out as the back seemed more empty than usual. It it would only be a matter of time before they fully surrounded the parameter. I ran as far as I could before I simply couldn't do it any more. I laid down and looked over at the trail of blood I had left behind. It was pretty scary to think this could be my last moment on this earth. But as long as it pushed forward the rights of my people it really didn't matter.

I pulled out a small, prepaid flip phone from my pocket, luckily it hadn't been hit and I could use it. I typed in the number 507 (23)-176-1467. As soon as I hit the call button my ear were shredded by the loud blast of the explosives in the truck going off. All I heard was ringing, nothing else, I assumed my ear drums were blown out at this point. I assumed it would have hurt more than it did, but given the adrenaline and the pain of the other gunshots dulling my senses. I knew I was bleeding out, I just let it happen. I knew it was either this or try and hold out only to get captured or killed by the cops. I'd rather go out my own way.

I just shut my eyes and let the course of nature take its course as chaos fueled panic enveloped much of the city.

[Lupolska]

Johnston, Wacoa
12:21 PM WST

Helicopters patrolled the sky, hanging heavy over Johnston, as an agglomeration of firemen, gendarmes, and paramedics scrambled to the scene of the blast. Armored vehicles from the Wacoan Home Guard were the first to arrive: they swarmed the police station and surrounding blocks, intending to cut off the attacker before he could escape to another sector of the city. Smoke billowed from the wreckage of the front of the building, over which numerous fires still raged. Rubble littered the street, and ashes were scattered across the city downwind of the blast.

One of the first military units to respond was the 34th Infantry Company of the Wacoan Army. The company arrived in Casspir IMVs, which quickly barricaded the nearby roads to allow only authorized personnel to enter and/or exit the vicinity. Having received reports of gunfire prior to the bombing, the first task of the military in general, and particularly the 34th Infantry, was to locate the gunman. The captain of the regiment, James Farrahan, dispatched the majority of the troops to sweep and clear the area surrounding the police station, while a small group remained with the captain to coordinate the arrival of additional responders.

The troops scattered, stepping over bodies of the fallen as they tagged survivors for the medics and searched for the terrorist. These soldiers were the first to truly take in the destruction the bomb had caused- for all the wounded lay in pain and shock, largely unable to capture their surroundings. The soldiers, on the other hand, had to take in every excruciating, gut-wrenching detail- the rubble on the street, the smoke and dust and ash in the air, the blood on the pavement. For one young soldier, it was too much. At the sight of a dead young woman and her child, he fell to his knees and began to vomit in the middle of the street, nearly spewing puke onto his rifle. One soldier stayed behind to pick him back up- the rest continued their march through their own private, temporary hell.

Between two parked vehicles, a three-man team of infantry found an injured man. “We’ve a casualt-” one of the privates began, stopping when he noticed the makeshift bandolier on his chest and the automatic weapon by his side. A pair of bullets had pierced his torso and his leg- to quell the bleeding of the latter, the man had poorly tied a tourniquet around his thigh. In his hand was a phone- presumably one used to trigger the bomb. He moaned something unintelligible to himself- it was clearly not English.

“That’s our cocksucker. Permission to shoot the twat?” the other private asked angrily whilst adjusting his grip on his rifle.

“He’s injured. Grab him.” the Sergeant ordered. Upon his command, the privates hoisted the man to his feet and carried him around the building. “Medic!” the sergeant shouted, summoning a Corpsman to begin first aid upon the man. Meanwhile, one of the captain’s aides helped wave in a Z-11 helicopter, which was coming in to land on the street near the building.

“Get him onboard!” the corpsman yelled, unfurling a stretcher from on-board the helicopter and sliding the man onto it. The corpsman and helicopter crew carried the stretcher, over the rubble and the fallen, to the helicopter- the man within the stretcher now groaning in pain.

The crew set him in the back of the helicopter and clipped themselves to the sides of the helicopter as it began to take off for the hospital. As the helicopter lifted off, the first local responders- a group of firemen- entered the block and set to work quelling the raging fires before they could damage the buildings further.

[Lupolska]

Sanremo, Wacoa
17:53 WST

“Mister President?” the aide asked. “You’re due to give your speech in seven minutes.”

“Thank you, Martha.” Josh Marsden replied, motioning with a finger for the aid to exit the room. Her heels clicked on the ground as she walked through the door and softly shut it, leaving Josh to reflect.

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, President Marsden would go onto the stage, before the press; and behind their cameras, the entirety of his nation, still in shock and anguish from the bombing. Some were mourning. Some were angry. Beyond the people, the international community waited. Josh had waived all calls with foreign leaders for the afternoon, likely leading to worry among the nations of the world. This speech would be his first public statement since the terror attack, aside from a brief notice alerting the populace to the speech. In mere minutes, he would answer to the international community.

As he sat in meditation, he ran through his message. Firstly, he would address the nation as a whole, and then the victims. Following that, the perpetrators of the attack, and then the international community- and then the nation as a whole, once more.

Through the windows, the sun’s blazing orange rays flooded the otherwise unlit room. The outdoor stage from which he would deliver the speech conveniently faced the south, so that the sun would be only a minor hindrance to the event in general.

“Sir?” called Martha, who Josh did not notice had opened the door once more. “It’s time.” Josh nodded and arose from his seat. He briskly walked down the hallway and out the large set of double-doors, onto the stage. As soon as he came into their view, John was bombarded by the press corps’ camera flashes. He strode to the podium without even so much as a twitch, having become accustomed to the otherwise blinding gleams.

Josh took his position behind the podium of Indian Laurel adorned with the presidential charge. President Marsden stood tall over the stand, where his speech had been placed and protected by his bodyguards, now behind him on either side. Josh cleared his throat and began.

“I would like to thank the press corps for showing up on quick notice, reliable as always.

“On this day- Wednesday, the Fifteenth of February, Twenty-Seventeen, a tragedy befell our proud nation. Parking a truck-based explosive device outside the Johnston Police Department building, the assailant fired upon uniformed officers before detonating the bomb, delivering devastating damage to the building and a massive loss of life.

“This is, in no uncertain terms, a blatant assault on the nation of Wacoa. The bombing has widowed former wives, orphaned children, torn asunder neighbors, friends, lovers, families. I first seek to do my part to comfort my countrymen, for I was personally acquainted with a number of people who have died in the attack. I stand with you on this dark day in Wacoan history.

“But this attack shall not bend the resolve of our countrymen, nor our dedication to peace. The stability of our country is unbroken, and will remain unbreakable- no matter how hard the enemies of peace and prosperity may try to subvert it. Even now, our military engineers are working within the wreckage of the building, rescuing those trapped within by the blast, while local emergency personnel are delivering first aid to survivors. The city of Johnston, thrown into lockdown in response to the blast, will resume daily business following tonight’s curfew.

“Earlier today, the FdLP, a far-left insurgency ring, claimed responsibility for the attack. Additionally, the bomber himself has been detained and is currently in the hospital, being treated for his ultimately self-inflicted wounds. The bomber has not denied connection to the Front as of yet, and their description of their assailant matches the man found in the blast.

“For years, the Front has subverted our nation’s traditions and culture, sought to degrade national unity, and ultimately threaten our beloved way of life, and our standing in the global community. Their rhetoric has now been translated to action. As much as our nation strives for a peaceful resolution, it is painfully apparent that such measures are no longer effective for dealing with these aggressors. For their goal is to tear down the fabric of Wacoan society, and implement a horrific deformation of all that is valued by our people. For in doing so, the Front declares war on our nation. The Front declares war on Wacoan heritage. The Front declares war on Wacoan children and grandchildren! The Front declares war on the prosperity of the Wacoan land!

“And so, with an implicit declaration of war on all aspects of the Wacoan nation and people- we shall respond likewise. The Front has brought every necessary arm of the Wacoan nation to bear against itself. For we shall use every necessary arm to smash this flagrancy, this bastard group which wishes harm upon Wacoa from the youngest schoolchild to the eldest war veteran- from the lowliest wage worker to the wealthiest of businessmen. We shall not relent. We shall not hesitate. We shall not allow this group to harm another innocent soul. By the Grace of the Lord Almighty, we shall overcome this foe, this obstacle to the tranquility and happiness that we hold so dear. As such, the Wacoan Armed Forces have been geared for counter-insurgency operations, as have numbers of special police units.

“I am well aware of the situation in our country’s neighbor, Marirana. They face their own insurgency, which has unfortunately gained much more traction, and has certainly caused much more death, destruction, and displacement of ordinary civilians, than today’s attack. It is my intention to consult with them in the coming days, in an effort to explore mutual solutions to our separate, yet similar, problems. I also intend to convene with the Head of State of Rotania, where we will ensure that the maritime traffic through the Asterian Gap, and therefore the global economy, will remain unhindered. I seek to confer with the rest of the nations of the world. With regards to the alliances, I shall reiterate and stress once more the Neutrality Policy that our nation maintains, treating each alliance as equally as possible. But we will respond harshly to nations who support the Front, as said nations, by association, imply a desire to initiate an upheaval of Wacoan society, which we cannot tolerate.

“As the sun sets on our darkest day, let us retire knowing that the next day can only shine brighter. The brotherly and sisterly bonds that we share among one another in blood and faith will grow stronger as the sun rises on Wacoa tomorrow. May we mourn those who have fallen today, but may we also be thankful to the Lord that he has safeguarded the rest of us, and may we remember the strength that He provides us.

“God bless you- God bless us all.”

[FdLP]

Niccolò Moscato
Fronte di Liberazione Proletaria
Wacoan Home Guard Helicopter
Sky's above Johnston

I slowly started to open my eyes as the pain dulled slightly. My ears hand stopped ringing and I could hear nothing outside. I looked around for a moment trying to get my bearing. I was no longer in the streets of Johnston but rather in a cramped, claustrophobic space with men dressed in military fatigues surrounding me on all sides. I was they army no doubt, or at the very least police special forces. I smiled lightly, I could have sworn I was dead for a moment, maybe being dead would have been better. I stayed still, I was to keen on letting these guys know I was awake. But the want to just antagonize them couldn't be escaped either. After all these were the forces of oppression. A political message would suffice even if I could hear their responses.

“I wasn't born a terrorist… you turned me into one. You know that right?” I said in my best English, heavily accented but still above average. I closed my eyes again, maybe if I faked passing out again that would leave them a little stumped. Hell it at least make for a good news story at the best.

I wonder people I killed, how many were targets and how many were just caught up in the hell of the situation to horrific results. I wondered what the news was saying about me, I wondered what the city looked like right now, where the streets flooded with imperialist soldiers or was this a small and concentrated effort. I wondered all this little things, but I judged faded bad into darkness for just a little bit longer.

---

My eyes started to flutter open a bit, my hearing had returned to a degree as I could hear the calamity of people moving and talking. It sounded rushed, reminded me of the steel mill my dad worked in. The hussle was still muffled, My hearing had not recovered fully I assumed. I wondered where I was, i was too bright to be prision and too bright for where ever I was beforehand.

I vision slowly started to come back into focus I could see the bright fluorescent shining through the clear plastic covers and the pale eggshell white ceiling. I looked to my left and just saw a series of lines going from various machines into my arm, more dapper eggshell white walls flanked me and a man in police garb standing up at attention.

“Where am I?” i asked quietly looking at the obvious officer. I waited for him to either stay silent or to berate me for my actions. Either way I was content, I knew that since i was still alive the worse was yet to come. Would i be made an example out of for all my comrades to see? Or would they just use me as trap from my other comrades? It didn't really matter now did it?

David Grauss
Ministry of Justice
Senremo, Wacoa


“How many people are dead?” I asked myself as I watched the news. I took my suit coat that I had placed on the back of the chair I was sitting in.

“God damn Moscato…” I whispered to myself as I left my small office. I entered back into the main halls of the Ministry of Justice. It was an intimidating place for sure but being the small fry that I was it wasn't a place of stress. It was a comfy existence at least and I think that's how most people felt.

“Grauss!” I heard a small mousy voice call out from behind me. I swiftly turned around to see Emmeline Whiteworth, a wire framed woman with flaxen red hair tied into a fishtail braid which she kept over her shoulder and which feel down far below her breast line. She stood no higher than my mid sternum and as a man of more or less average height this meant her height was very miniscule. Her face was slightly tanned and covered in light freckles which gave her a more youthful look even more than her physique which gave her the appearance of a youthful young teen even though she was most likely in her early to mid thirties. However her slight wrinkles and aged dime green-gray eyes helped still show that she was not as youth as she seemed at first sight.  

“How are you doing Emmeline?” I asked her as she walked hastily towards me.

“So you’ve been watching the news right?” she asked with a deep vale of worry laced over her voice.

“Yeah.. Horrible isn't it? I have a brother in law who work there so I’m probably going to take off early to go see my wife.” i told her trying to stay conversational, I was lying to her face but at this point it didn't matter. Our plan had already been conducted, now it was all about tying up loose ends before they unraveled the whole thing.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry. I hope Fiona’s family is going to be alright.” she said obviously concerned but in a superficial way. She didn’t seem to genuinely concerned about my wife's situation. Hell it might be better that way, after all it was like she’d ever meet her. She was far too busy for any sort of socialization.

“Thanks Emmeline, anyway I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow given the circumstances of the day.” I told her taking my leave. I needed to speak with my friends in the Interior ministry as well as see what Brassto was going to be doing going forward seeing as his hands were carrying significant blood. Finally i'd need to contact Cattaneo in order to figure out an on going game plan now that we know Moscato is alive and possibly receiving the best possible medical care so he could stand trial for the myriad of charges he was most likely going to face once capable to stand trial.

It was time to move forward. The revolution shall progress regardless of what's said by the elites of this country.

Renato Cattaneo
Undisclosed location in Aranquia


“Are you ready Commandant Cattaneo?” the young journalist asked me.It had only been six hours since the successful attack against the Johnston Police Station, five hours since my last addressment of the situation, and less than an hour since Marsden's speech addressing everything that has happened up until that point. Now it was my turn to counter his narrative and to give a voice to the disenfranchised of Acoan Society. I simply nodded to the party journalist and he began to record as i sat in a small wicker chair in a small and echoing room.

“Greetings Comrades, as many of you are no doubt aware of the attack of the Johnston Police Station earlier today. If you have not been able to get any information on the situation i shall give an overview. At around noon today a young proletariat by the name of Niccolò Moscato parked a large truck packed with explosives in front of the Johnston police station where he then open fired strictly on uniformed police officers. After a period of time where he fired upon officers he detonated nearly six thousand pounds of explosives which completely destroyed the vast majority of the stations front.

This was very much an act of war, however it is an act that could have been avoided. The FdLP has constantly given the illegitimate government of Acoa the ability to forgo these consequences. My father before me and myself have always given you the chance to avoid confrontation by giving greater rights in the form of devolution and greater cultural autonomy. However men Like Marsden and the men before him have scoffed at these demands.

The continued oppression of my people through political and economic means and thus drastic measures were need to counter these forces. Mr. Marsden, when you look into the soul of the privileged half of your nation and denounce these acts of violence and war just remember you’ve had more than enough chances to prevent this act. The blood spilt today is equally your fault as it is mine and as much is Niccolò’s.

These assaults upon the fabric of the Acoan state will continue so long as we have blood in our veins and a reason to fight.  Aranquia will become a new state weather you consent to it or not. The only consent it needs is that of the poor and huddled Proletarian masses which seek its creation in order for the search of a better life, a life devoid of your Bourgeoisie Dictatorship and establish our own society built up by the workers and engineer for the working classes.

I will end this short speech by saying that we will continue this war and our soldiers will see each other on the battlefield. Mr. Marsden, and the various members of the Council of Directors and the members of the Acoan Congress you are all to us considered enemies to the Proletariat and thus combatants which are granted the same treatment as the average ground soldier. You’ve been warned.”

The recording stopped and the young party journalist just smiled. This was a short and most likely poorly worded provocation. I was never expecting to be a militant, I always thought i'd just be a know nothing that would stand at my soapbox screaming at virtual Outer Gods of the political establishment like my father had done. But now our actions had sealed our fate, the consistent degradation of our efforts by the Acoan government and the absolute cultural rape of our people left us with little choice. It’s or cultural genocide as I see it.

Aut cum scuto aut in scuto.

[Risorgimentia]

tag for muh gommunizm

[Lupolska]

Sanremo, Wacoa
One Day after the Bombing

Another long day. Marsden sat in his favorite recliner at the presidential residency in Sanremo, his body slightly aching and his head moreso from the stressful day’s work. Just as yesterday in the capitol building, that blazing orange sun shone through the windows into the room, the orientation of the chair barely protecting him from being blinded by the light.

His niece, Kate, stepped into the room, having returned with her husband from some event, which Marsden could not recall at that particular moment. “Well, you look worn.” she said.

“I’ve spent all day trying to deal with this bombing. Dozens of phone calls with foreign leaders on the way to and from Johnston. Did you see me on the news?”

“No, I’ve been out at the charity event.” That’s what it was, Marsden thought.

“Ah, sorry. I went out to the site of the bombing; helped with the cleanup efforts and addressed the workers while I was out there. The people of the city are healing but our country’s got a long, long way to go.” Marsden said,

“So I’ve heard,” Kate replied, squinting as she moved her head into the sunlight. “What did they say?”


“‘We stand in solidarity with the Wacoan government.’” Josh began. “From the Gaullicans. ‘Valentir is appalled by the bombings and promises aid to the victims’. ‘Whether it be in the streets of our capital or a police sta-’”

Kate interrupted “I mean the people at the site. Ground zero.”


“Right.” Josh replied. His shrewd and sharp political wit and cunning concealed a fatigued personal mind and memory. “They were thankful, most of them. They were glad I was out there with them, on the ground helping them clean up. Seeing, you know, the president himself,” he emphasized sarcastically, “it really motivated them. Boosted their morale. As I hoped it would, but it was surprising nonetheless.”

“That’s good, pop.” she replied. “Any plans for the-” Kate stopped herself. “The front?”

“Ohh, no, no. I can’t discuss that stuff with you, Kate.”

“Come on, Uncle.” she pleaded.
“Alright, fine. I’ll discuss it with you. But only as any observant citizen can see it.” Marsden replied. He motioned for Kate to sit down on the fancy, 19th-century era couch which adorned the room. “See, my position is difficult. We have Rossos in our country, and they have friends to the north in Riso. Riso’s friends with Kaxakh, who no doubt wants to send weaponry to help the Rossos.”

“Is there anything you can do to stop them?”

“Not really, no. I can appease them and try to appear as the favorable partner but that’s a futile option. They’d much rather have another commie friend down in these areas.”

“So you just have to fight them and hope you can win.”

“Yeah, pretty much. To some extent, I have to appease the fucking Kax-uckers.” Marsden lamented. Kate only looked at him with a confused look upon her face. “I’ll explain. Those nukes that they set off recently? They’re about to be condemned for it in the CN. I’ll let you in on a little secret- We’re not voting for the sanctions.”

Kate’s face turned to a look of disgust for a moment, before she began considering the weight and consequences of the decision. “It’s perfect, Kate. It helps keep the Kaxakhs happy and it distances us from DITO.”

“Yeah. I understand. Won’t the people hate you for it though?”

“Screw the people. The people who fail to recognize the merit of this decision don’t understand the situation. They don’t have the mind for it, Kate. That’s how people like myself assume power.” Kate nodded, accepting her uncle’s supposed wisdom.

“I understand.” she said, somewhat more softly. “I have to go now. My husband’s waiting for me.”

“Ah yes, Victor. Send him my regards, Kate.” Marsden replied, as Kate stood and moved to the room’s exit. “Hey and by the way, the Pope’s coming tomorrow. He and I will be meeting. Don’t dress too scantily.”

“You don’t need to remind me, Uncle.” Kate called out as she shut the door behind her.

---

Carisci, Verena Province

“Oi!” Private Voorhes shouted at the front door of a roadside office building, banging on it. “Aprei-uh! Open up!”

Answering the door to the office was a middle-aged man with a decidedly rough facial complexion. “Cosa vuoi?” he answered in Cesanian, his face and body shifting into a disgruntled position.

“Well first I want you to speak some fucking Estmerish. None of this Shitstainian.” he shot off with hardly a second thought. “Second, you’re the father of Niccolo, is that correct?”

“Yes.” he replied, eyes widening.

“Excellent. We’re going to have to ask you to step outside.” Voorhes ordered. The man hesitated. “Come on, we don’t bite, step out.” The man nodded and slowly stepped through the doorway. “Turn around.”

The man turned to face the wall as instructed. Voorhes lifted his arms to lean him against the wall, and proceeded to pat the man down. “Get in the car,” the soldier ordered, guiding him to the car with a firm, constant press against the man’s back.

“What the fuck is this about?” the man finally shouted angrily. “I have done nothing!”

“You are aware that your son’s a fucking Roh-soh, right?!” Voorhes harshly replied, mispronouncing the Italian word for ‘red’ deliberately- as had become common practice when referring to the front’s members.

“Di cose stai parlando?! Mio figlio non è un rosso!” the man yelled, as Voorhes more forcefully shoved him into the APC, shutting the door as the man continued to scream and shout.

“Alright boys, get in. Drop the shitstain at the police station and continue the patrol.” the squad leader, Sergeant Martin, ordered from the passenger seat of the Casspir IMV. He was met with a cacophony of ‘Yes, sir!’s as the half-dozen soldiers loaded up the vehicle.

As the Casspir rolled down the narrow street, a small sedan rolled out in front of the street, blocking the majority of it. “What the-” the driver muttered.
Martin cut in. “Fucking FLOOR IT!” he screamed, as a militant armed with a rocket launcher leaned out from a second story window. The driver slammed his foot on the gas as the militant fired.

The Casspir was knocked on its side by the rocket’s blast. As the soldiers came to, almost a dozen armed militants swarmed the vehicle, armed with pistol-caliber weapons and screaming “Viva viva!”

Without needing to be told, Voorhes, who was closest toit, grabbed the radio. “Command, this is Poacher Three! We’ve been ambushed by Rossos, need immediate assistance, over!” he screamed. Very shortly after that, as the militants started climbing on the vehicle and pounding the hull, the voice of another patrol came through.

“Copy that, Poacher Three, Poacher Five inbound, ETA two minutes.”

“Oh bloody fucking shit!” Voorhes shouted in frustration as the other five struggled to upright themselves within the overturned vehicle. One soldier checked Niccolo’s father’s body; he was alive but unconscious.

“Sir, you got a plan on getting us out of the damn car?” one soldier, Fierri, angrily shouted as he readied his SMG.

“Hang on, I got something for them,” the grenadier, Allen, yelled as he pulled a grenade from his belt.

“What the fuck are yo-” Martin started. Allen pulled the pin and lifted the door just enough to slip the grenade through. The moment the door opened, one of the militants slipped his hand into the doorway- when Allen pulled shut the door, it caught his hand, preventing the door from closing completely.

“Shoot the fucker!” he yelled immediately, holding the door to prevent more militia from forcing it open. Fierri, with his SMG ready, shot at the man’s hand, grazing one of his fingers as well as the grenadier’s shoulder. The militant reeled his hand back, allowing the grenadier to shut the door completely. Less than a second later, the grenade went off, killing the closest militant and injuring numerous others. The explosion shook the vehicle and knocked Allen off his feet.

“How much longer we got?!” Fierri shouted, as the remaining militants tried to force their way into the vehicle once more.

“Thirty seconds!” Voorhes shouted back. However, within ten seconds, gunfire erupted outside the vehicle; primarily a deep, booming thud-thud-thud, interspersed with much more rapid, higher pitched patters, the ting of bullets striking the vehicle’s armored hull, and the screams and shouts of those occupied in the fight.

After roughly a minute of gunfire, a series of loud bang-bang sounds erupted aside the vehicle- the distinctive cracks of battle rifles. “Open up, Poacher!” someone yelled into the vehicle, hitting the roof of the Casspir. The commander opened the door upwards and climbed out. As he looked around, he could see the blockade car on fire, surrounded by dead insurgents on one end of the street. On the other sat the idling jeep, complete with its roof-mounted .50 HMG, surrounded by Wacoan soldiers with rifles in hand.

“You the leader of this bunch?” the other squad’s leader said, approaching Martin.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Come on, let’s get the rest of your men out. Is the civilian hurt?” he asked.

“He might need medical attention. One of my men too.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get your boys out of here safe.”

[Liecthenbourg]

Sanremo, Wacoa
Two Days After The Bombing

"You're on stage in four minutes, Your Holiness."

The atmosphere was tense. Joseph had expected that. Yet it was still a pang at the heart. Unusual. The fear was immense, the hate boiling. Yet he needed to be here. The peoples of the Western World seemed to have the notion that religion was no longer important, or as important as it once was, but that was only true for their own countries - and even then, a great generalisation. For people like the Wacoans, religion was a fundamental aspect of every day life.

It wasn't however the same form of Catholicism as created in the Solarian World roughly 1800 years ago. Well, it was. Save for the role of the church. In Euclea, the church had grown its roots within the states and entrenched itself as a member of the nobility, aristocracy, the ruling elites. In the Asterias and other areas, the church had not had that liberty. It fought with the workers, the farmers, the laymen, against the state. And thus came about Liberation Theology and it had grasped the Church in its tender hands in quite a positive manner.

"Thank you, Lucas." The Pope called back, slowly standing up from his waiting area. There was a small icon of the Angel Gabriel that he held up high. Patron of Communications. A small intercession prayer and before long he was putting on the more extravagant aspects of the Papal Regalia. He didn't wear it often but often-times, especially in the Inferiors, the people appreciated it. Expected it. And he had come to deliver.

The tragedy that had beset the nation was formed through a plight he could understand. A workers plight, perhaps. A nationalistic one, perhaps, too. A reaction against a clash of cultures, a system. It was all too common. But his point was unity through faith, for tolerance, for acceptance, for peace. But also for the right of the poor and their exploitation and how God's Earth was for all.

Liberation Theology had swayed him, too.

He stepped forth from behind the curtains upon the specially made stage for this sermon. A cheer of waves and screams, with banners upon the air of flags of state and faith.

His arms were held high in response, waving too, as his white robes fluttered in the light breeze.

Chants of "Papa Giuseppe!"

It was a warm feeling. To be admired. To be loved. And he loved them all; despite having never met them. A Shepherd's flock. But he listened to his sheep. He was the Servant of the Servants of God.

"I am most grateful to be here, in your country. I wish the circumstances could be on a more positive note but they are circumstances nonetheless. I left here in December of last year on a tide of appreciation, faith and friendship and I come back today to continue these motives and propositions. Your nation has been plagued by acts most foul and the anger and resentment is high, but we must pray for unity and for compassion." He moved along the stage, microphone at hand.

"Yet we must also act as good Sotirians and open our hearts to the needs of everyone. Dialogue, dialogue is key. This terrorist attack was one that aimed to instil fear, one aimed at division and at cold-hearted assault. But we cannot let that shake us. In these times of crises we must turn to the community, to the Church, to the Angels and Saints, to Christ, for guidance. For Strength. For Compassion." A mixture of cheer and silent nodding agreed.

"Now you might say, 'Father, it is difficult'. And yes it is difficult. Even now for this, I have prayed through the intercession of the Angel Gabriel - Patron of Communication. But trial and tribulation should not dissuade us. We must remember the trials of Job, whom did not question God's love in the times of crisis. We must be like Job as the worst is thrown at us."

[FdLP]

Agostino Vazzati
Sanremo, Wacoa


Good and evil, light and dark, Capitalism and Communism. These were staunchly dualistic terms we choose to life by in nearly all aspects of our daily existence. I was no more innocent than anyone else in this regard, I was a militant, a clergyman, and a raging nihilist especially as time dragged on. My status as a clergyman ended year ago though, seeing the church for what it was. A mass of anti-intellectualist and anti-poor machine which manufactured complacency. But it was still seen by the vast majority of the society as infallible good and a symbol of supernatural justice.

It reminds me of a story my mother used to tell me as a kid, La Finta Nonna. The story was the tale of Little Red Cape, a young girl who is to deliver wine and cheese to her sickly grandmother and disobeyes her mother and went off the established and defined path at the suggestion of a wolf, the wolf then goes to the grandmother's house and eats her whole. When Little Red Cape comes to her grandmother's home she finds the wolf in her grandmother's cloths. It was a tale which held many narrative themes, to listen and obey authority, to be we're of lustful men leading you astray as symbolized by the wolves, and the idea of victims and victimizers and that one is to always be a victim and one is always a victimizers. It was a dualistic approach to morality that soured the minds of the impressionable youths

As I walked down the street, my guitar case in hand I walked past a freshly painted mural which covered a large apartment wall. It depicted catholic clergy in formation giving the fascistic Solarian Salute with the Pope elevated above them give the same salute. It was a critical piece of the church and one that was more or less completely accurate. It showed the bloated system for what it was, matching jackboots who bastardized the ideals of god and his child to suit their needs. It was time for such things to come to an end.

I walked to my small Jacobson SCX Hobbit motorbike which I had parked their earlier in the day. After all I couldn't really get this guy around the narrow cobblestone streets that led to my tiny apartment, so parking in a little ways away on the Main Street would have to do.

I walked out here with murder in mind, but not for senseless self gratification, but so that I may set an example and finally eradicate the most disgusting of the church mice who scurried around the world eating at the fears of the populace like little breadcrumbs. I would task myself with the killing of the bastardizers of the faith and start a new chapter of the revolution that has already started. The world wasn't a system of good and evil battling to subjugate the other to its will, it was a world of those who act and those who react. I am bound and determined to the one who sends a shock wave through history, to force those who react to look upon what they have done to the toiling classes who are subject to fascistic oppression either by the Dictatorship of the Bourgeois which dominated the people of Acoa, or by the false piety and illegitimate Divine Right of Authority that the Solarian Church claimed to hold.

---

I looked over from a high church tower over at the crowds of people who blindly swarmed this false messenger. I then looked down to the old Weranian rifle I Held in my hands. I pulled a special soft core hunting bullet from the pockets of my trousers and loaded them in one by one into the rifle. Once the full capacity of rifle five round internal magazine had been filled I took the rifle and set it on the ledge of the open window. Behind me were the church bells, so my shot would need to be taken before the bells sounded so that I could get a clear shot void of the vibrations of the heavy tones they produced.

I cleared my mind, the visions of Maria and Galilei, the only people seemed to brighten up the dull and melancholy world we were sanctioned to. My driving goal in this seemingly endless orgy of violence were to expose the men on top for who they really were. My actions would set a course of events into action which would expose the contempt the powers had for those under them, it would expose how they manipulated social trends and forces to dictate the people through indirect means, it would finally lift the veil of secrecy and to disclose the rotten system for all to see. It would be Apocalyptic in its purest and most original meaning...ἀποκάλυψις, literally an uncovering.

I focused my sights down and looked on as the pope finished his last words, I aimed low to composite for the range the scope was calibrated for. If I was correct the bullet would strike him right in the side of the chest and the soft core and fragmentational nature of these bullets would send pieces of hot lead through the heart and lungs. The man would be dead before he hit the floor.

I bit my lip slightly as I gently squeezed in the trigger,

... BANG...

The rifle lifted violently as the higher than average pressure generated by the round shook the rifle. I automatically loaded a second round and peered down the sights just in case I would need to make a follow up shot. See a mass of people crowding the stage I couldn't tell if the pope had been shot I fired once more into the jumbled mass of security and people who crowded the pope in hopes of hitting another shot.

I peered down the sights once more, Hindi g down on the to see if my attack had succeeded.

[Liecthenbourg]

Sanremo, Wacoa

A loud bang.

And the world itself shook at its core.

Collective screams hinging on the words of the Pope's final remarks; "Love, Compassion" as that dreadful sound rang across the air.

A rush of people, security officers and policemen. Blood was splattered across the Papal Falda, a streak across the arm akin to what would have been someone sneezing forth the red liquid. It almost appeared to be a stain of some high-class red wine.

Then came the second round, with fury and tenacity in the screaming and a man, a police-officer, shook down onto the ground as the bullet impacted straight through his calve before embedding itself into the ground and chipping a tile.

This mass morass of people moved on in a flurry, almost a turtle of man, as it scurried off back stage. Several sidelined officers broke their ranks as the crowds dispersed in horror. Some had had their phones out, recording to this moment - for not only now was this broadcasted to the world at large via news channels, but livestreams and videos to be later uploaded to the internet.

The officer of the law had been slowly dragged into an on-site ambulance, but the general confusion remained. Then it seemed a constable, wiser-than-most, gathered forth a team and began an investigation as to where the bullet came from in a frenzied panic. They were usually organised, coherent. But the Holy Father had just been shot. Was he alive? Did the Pope just die on their watch? Several of them mused what they would do to the assailant, and it was something undoubtedly un-Sotirian. Perhaps lucky for them, there was always to be a confession session.

From within that morass of people came calls of "I'm fine! I'm fine!" yet that shield circle of humans only came to a stop once it was at a police deemed 'safe distance' and several of the Papal Staff checked along merely to make sure a similar incident could not happen again.

It hadn't been the Pope that had been shot.

No, Joseph was fine. Through some miracle or another, or a sloppy marksman, both shots had missed the Pontiff. One of his security staff was not so lucky, having passed out mid human-drift, the bullet lodged somewhere in his hip. And the Pope prayed.

But prayer had the funny thing of deciding when it itself wanted to work.

Perhaps God had done his Good Deed of the Day, some sceptics would snivel.

'Midst the confusion and the pounding in his brain, Joseph heard distinct calls. What had been a few minutes, about ten, had felt like seconds, a rush, unlike anything else.

"Get the word out that the Pope is okay!"

"Word is the assailant's been found!"

And the Pope sat down on a chair hastily brought for him and he denied the need of water thrice before conceding and accepting a bottle. It seemed the ideas of engagement had failed. A man had come preaching peace from the Good Book.

A Messenger.

And then Messenger had been shot.

But this was a fundamental part of the priesthood in the Inferiors. One did not earn the love and respect of community through adopting the cloth alone (Well, it did), but basking ones vestments in the grime and mud of the poor. This was what being a clergyman in the Inferiors was about.

And he had just experienced it all.

[Lupolska]

The ominous crack of the rifle.

CRACK-THUD.

The sound of the bullet tearing into the poor soul's flesh startled those surrounding him. Immediately, the men sprung to action. A tackle, a flurry of weapons being unholstered and raised. The inevitable panicked and directionless screaming of the crowd in response. And then the second shot.

CRACK-THUD.

The round slammed into the podium behind which the Pope gave his speech, shielding the numerous men now piled behind it in protection of the Servant of servants. By now, the countersniper 100 yards away had located the sniper. Without hesitation, he released a flurry of precision fire in the direction of the pope's assailant.

PANG-PANG-PANG.

The rounds flew and embedded themselves in whatever lay in their path: the shoulder of the assailant, his weapon, and the drywall behind him. With the sniper neutralized, the security forces now had to rush to prevent the premature death of the attacker, lest he slip away with such a lenient punishment as death by countersniper. With the threat seemingly culled, it was safe to move in with additional personnel. Mounted police, medical personnel, and a small contingent of urban infantry swarmed the vicinity and set to work establishing order and maintaining the safety of His Holiness. To deter any potential follow-up attacks, a pair of attack helicpters on standby took off to patrol the city. As the pope and the injured officer were whisked onboard separate ambulances, the soldiers rushed towards the top floor, going from room to room searching for the wounded sniper.

Clearing the fifth room, the soldiers barged in, nearly trampling the bleeding insurgent in the process. "We've got him."

---

2 Weeks Later
20km Northwest of Colstead
North Aranquia, Wacoa

"All teams, report in." Martin ordered into the radio quietly.

"Team two, reporting."

"Team one, reporting."

"Team three, reporting."

Three teams of four men, plus the overall commander and his radioman: these 14 would lead the first offensive action by Wacoa against the FdLP- that is, an actual attack- rather than the damage control that had characterized the preceding weeks. For the FdLP to operate, they had to get income from somewhere- one of those somewheres had been located days prior and was now the objective of today's raid. An otherwise quaint little farmhouse in the Aranquian countryside, accompanied by a barn, had been converted by local militants into a meth lab, producing the substance for an unknown benefactor in exchange for relatively copious amounts of weaponry. Of course, this was just one of numerous such sites; but concerning the Front, every extra dollar ironically helped them further the goal of establishing communism in Wacoa. And, to the benefit of the ruling power, every lost dollar was a blow to the Front.

"Command, this is Viper." the radioman began, on schedule. "We've reached the outskirts of the farm. We have visual of the silo, but the house is concealed behind a treeline, over."

"Copy that. Rango Three is on station to provide visual assistance. Out."

Rango Three referred to the WZ-11 hovering miles away with high-powered cameras and thermal imaging trained on the farm. Lacking the sophisticated drone technology of the Federation, the Wacoan military used their trainer aircraft and light helicopters in lieu of a fancy UAV for the purposes of airborne reconnaisance. In this case, on home soil, the latter would fulfill the duty respectably.

"All teams, move up." Martin ordered. Upon his command, the team began their slow, stealthy advance, the formation slivering from cover to cover within the cotton rows surrounding them, careful not to disturb them. The goal was to launch a surprise assault on the house itself, and then use it as a strong point to eliminate any isolated patrols returning to the house. Martin motioned to the radioman to give the update to Rango and command. "This is Viper One. Approaching the tre-"

A scream in Italian.

"DOWN! DOWN!" Martin screamed to his men. From their left, a prolonged volley of automatic fire tore whipped through the brush all around the squad as they dove onto their bellies and began crawling out of the immediate line of fire. Behind him, one of the men screamed out in pain. He had been hit. There would be no saving him- the mission had to go on, and that mandated the immediate escape of the squad.

"Viper One, this is command, recommend you retreat, over!" the commander yelled.

"Like fuck we're retreating. Tell him we're advancing!" Martin yelled for the radioman to relay.

Upon this, Martin raised himself to a crouch, having escaped the line of fire, and fired his battle rifle into the treeline, where the insurgents were posted. Giving the fire a slight pause, he motioned for the machine-gunners to continue the fire. Without hesitation, one of the men, carrying an SS-77 machine gun, flipped down his bipod and blasted away at the treeline. "Go, go!' Martin ordered. The squad advanced under the cover of their machine guns, using classic infantry advance tactics against the more poorly-trained Front militants. After a sustained advance, the Front patrol had been routed, leaving the path clear to the house.

"Command, this is Viper One." the radioman continued. "Advancing on the house now." And so, the men moved up to the treeline. From there, only a moderate-sized grassy yard lay between the men and their house- if one were to consider only the lay of the land. Within the house, numerous gunmen had rushed to set up fortified positions during the earlier firefight, training machine-guns on the treeline, ready to mow down the Wacoan soldiers as they advanced.

"Halt!'" Martin ordered. "Radio, get the chopper down here!"

The radioman acknowledged and called to the helicopter. "Rango, this is Viper One, requesting air support. Multiple hostiles at the south side of the house, need gun-run."

"Copy that, Viper. Gun-run in 30."

Seconds, that was. And indeed, within the alloted time, the helicopter had swooped down from its orbit around the farm to merely a few stories from the ground. The door-mounted HMG would be able to punch through the drywall and vinyl of the house with ease; the Front militants would not be adequtzely protected. And so, as the helicopter opened fire, the militants ducked out of the line of sight, but the heavy rounds from the helicopter still wounded them. With the next threat eliminated, the squad made their final push.

The squad stacked up at the various entrances. Surely, there would be front members with small arms trained at the entry points. To deter them, flash grenades were tossed through the windows. After hearing the eruption of the flash, the various teams kicked down the door, gunning down the disoriented militants as they cleared each room, consciously taking into account the layout of each room whilst ignoring the more specific items.

Upon the final 'All clear' being sounded, the squad regrouped in the basement. Within the basement was a meth lab, with chemicals and storage equipment present.

"Command, this is Viper One. We've taken the compound. Awaiting further instructions. Out."