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A World Apart 1949 (USSR RP, IC)

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]
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Insurgia
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Founded: Jun 23, 2012
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A World Apart 1949 (USSR RP, IC)

Postby Insurgia » Tue Dec 18, 2018 1:40 am

The world is recovering from a state of total war...
Nations everywhere are affected one way or another, whether it be direct or indirect...
It is estimated that the total death toll right before the armistice was signed peaked at 8.2 billion ...
Of those casualties, 70% were civilians...


The year is 1949...



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Important Dates
1938, The Great War begins...
1939, Many nations initiate drafting and conscripting their citizens but many citizens volunteer regardless, many nations withdraw their draft because of this...
1940, Two years into the war, the death toll has reached 1 billion...
1941, The Great War is widespread at this point, no city in the path of conflict is safe...
1942, The death toll reaches 2 billion...
1943, Technology advances as the war progresses, the battlefield slowly changes...
1944, The Great War intensifies dramatically, the death toll reaches 5.2 billion...
1945, In desperation, many nations begin drafting their citizens to pour more bodies into the battlefield...
1946, Some select nations begin conscripting children, other use them as shields...
1947, The death toll reaches 7.8 billion, it seemed no end was in sight...
1948, Late into the year, a surprise to many, an end is put to The Great War with the signing of an armistice.


Important Information
The combatants consisted of the Allied Powers and the Group of Eight...
The Group of Eight consisted of eight powerful nations that sought to impose slavery on the world through covet or otherwise, militaristic means...
The Allies and their adversary did battle on the streets, on the islands, in the homes of billions of innocent lives...
Ultimately, the Group of Eight, cornered by the rest of the world declares Total War, mobilizing every man, woman and child.
In the war's final years, seven of the eight nations agree on terms of surrender. The eighth nation refuses to surrender.

"We shall never surrender! Never! We may be destroyed but if we are, we shall drag a world with us—a world in flames!"

True to their word, the eighth nation is the last of the group to continue fighting until 1948, when their leader is killed.

The eight nations are dissolved. Their history destroyed by their own doing.


Last edited by Insurgia on Sun Jan 06, 2019 8:48 pm, edited 4 times in total.

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Insurgia
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Postby Insurgia » Tue Dec 18, 2018 2:33 am

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
30 Miles Outside the City Limits
2:01 AM


Four loud knocks at the door are enough to startle the grizzly man awake from his slumber. He jolts up, taking in a sharp breath. He looks around the dark room, feeling for the hand of his wife. Her chilled hand meets him halfway. He smiles in the dark, glad to know she was safe. The man lets go of her hand, sitting up and sliding out of bed. He goes for the lamp, twisting it on with a quickness, revealing the bearded and facially scarred man that was. There was a coldness in his eyes and not just from the fact that he just been woken up at 2 in the morning. He had done plenty of that in the past. Slipping on his moccasins, he started his trek for the front door, heading downstairs. About halfway to the door, another four loud knocks came. He could make out the appearance of three figures at the glass door, a white window curtain blocking any direct view out or in but thus the street lights from outside were casting shadows.

"I'm comin'!" the man yelled.

Before even touching the knob, he flipped on the porch light. He quietly opened the door, his large physique covering any chance of them looking into the house. The three were obvious military. Dressed in their day to day formal uniforms. The man up front he recognized, from years before, 1945? He couldn't place an exact date. Some God-forsaken island off in the middle of nowhere brought them to cross paths for the first time and throughout the remainder of the war, they continued to meet on several different occasions for a variety of different reasons.

"Bill...may I enter?" the lead man removed his visor cap slowly.

Bill blinked at him countless times, looking at the other two uniformed men who said nothing. They quietly stood there.

"Those two stay out here." Bill ordered.

"Of course of course..." the man looked behind him to the two others who quietly stepped back.

Bill moved out of the way, opening the door wider for his old comrade to enter. He did so quietly. Bill shut the door, peeking out the blinds to see the two men pacing back in forth in the cold Abathonian weather. He silently laughed to himself before joining his friend who had already helped himself to the kitchen. The kitchen was quite advanced for the decade just now ending. There was even a small bar, with a collection of the finest poisons to choose from. Bill decidedly flicked up on the main overhead light, illuminating the kitchen. The man before him was an officer of high rank. His golden oak leaf made it so he was recognizable as an almost senior commissioned officer. A Major. He helped himself to some VAT 69 Whiskey, pouring himself a shot while Bill coldly glared at him.

"Your favorite righ-" he was cut off.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Bill lunged at him with sharp words.

"Cold greeting for an old friend." he replied.

"No no! Cold is Kidala. This is warmth, believe me." Bill continued, waiting for a reply.

The Major tilted his head at Bill, letting out a deep sigh. He quietly drank the shot of whiskey, setting down the glass with a sharp thud.

"You know why I'm here Bill." he stated.

Bill tilted his head at him, maybe even raising his hand to point a finger at him. He tried to put his thoughts into words but he chose not to. He didn't want to believe it. It was a nightmare. A nightmare come true. Something he had hoped would never come again. It was too soon. He was about to start pacing but stopped himself, looking over at his friend.

Eugene...it's—no...I told them. I'm not going to come back. It's a done deal. I...I did—I did my time! I served my contract!" Bill implored.

"Bill...we both know that it was never your decision in the first place." Eugene declared.

Bill glared at him, though he knew it wasn't his fault. He was just on orders. He was the messenger. Bill knew what the truth was. He was Allied property. Decommissioned, but still property. Eugene stepped away from the small bar, digging into his greatcoat. A manilla envelope was produced. Stamped on it: CLASSIFIED ORDERS . He passed it over the counter to Bill who reluctantly sat his hand on it. The two locked eyes for a bit longer. Bill no longer had anger in his eyes but rather sadness and grief. Maybe a bit of fear. Eugene nodded to himself, giving Bill a pitying smirk.

"I'll see myself out." the Major concluded, putting his visor cap on before setting off for the door.

Bill waited to hear the door open and shut. And so it did. He shifted his focus down to the envelope with the red stamp. The rifle and hatchet prominently stamped on postage regarding government or military individuals within the Insurgian government or those on their payroll or pension. He slowly opened the envelope, pulling out the contents, he took a deep breath. The papers were more than official, almost something out of a High Command transcript. He read the orders to himself quietly before putting them away. It was a quiet process but he readied his uniform for the morning hours and did not sleep since then. The unwavering words of those documents kept beaming in the back of his head.

Blake, William J., Recommissioning Process Complete, Field Commission Given: Major
0530, Report to Ft. Hood
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

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Arkham Nation
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Postby Arkham Nation » Tue Dec 18, 2018 10:13 pm

Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Metropolitan District
6:30 AM


“BEEP-BEEP BEEP-BEEP.” the man’s eyes opened to the sound of his alarm clock going off. He reached over to the stand and pressed the button to turn the noise off. He had the same nightmare every night and this time was no different. It had been a year since the war had ended and he still had the same nightmare of him on the battlefield. The air on the battlefield was full of the smell of burning flesh and he hid in the mud with his fellow comrades right but they were shredded by machine gun fire and artillery when they charged for the enemy. He could hear his commanding officer shouts from behind him, but the shouts were drowned out by machine gun fire.

The man began to feel his hand shake violently and he shout out of bed to his bathroom. He opened the cabinet and grabbed a pill bottle the doctor said would help calm his nerves. He twisted the cap and poured out two small green pills. Turning on the sink, he made a cup shape for the water then put the pills in is mouth. The man lifted up the water in his hand to his mouth and dumped the water into it. He swallowed the pills and after a moment his hand stopped shaking. The man let out a huge sigh and wiped his scruffy face with his hands. He put the pill cap back on and placed the bottle in the cabinet. He reached up and grabbed his comb then started to comb is black hair. The man walked out of the bathroom and to his closet to get dressed. He put on his grey single-breasted suit and his brown leather trench coat over the suit. He sighed as he made his way towards his small apartment door then sat on a the entryway bench next to the wooden door. He reached under the bench and pulled out his shoes then began to tie them. He hoisted himself off of the bench then he turned around and grabbed his hat.

He walked up to his door and opened it being careful not to wake his landlord Mrs. Connolly or any of his neighbors. He tip toed out of his apartment and shut the door silently, the hall was dimly lit and the wallpaper was ripped exposing the bland colored plaster wall. Each step he took the floor creaked loudly, as if the floor wanted the man to get caught. He made his way down the hall and turned to go down the stair case when he heard from behind him a voice that he swore was inhuman.

“Trevor O'Driscoll!” the high raspy voice behind him yelled. “You are late on your rent again!” Trevor stopped and rolled his eyes, letting out a soft sigh, he turned around to see Mrs. Connolly standing there in her night gown with her hands on her hips.

“Mrs. Connolly,” Trevor said clearing his throat, “I just got a new job down at the police station in the vice squad. I will have your money at the end of the week, I promise.”

“That’s what you said three weeks ago. It’s like every week you get a job and that same week you lose it. I’m beginning to lose my patience with you O’Driscoll, I want my money.” She said holding out her hand.

“Like I said, you’ll have your money at the end of the week. Come on Mrs. Connolly.” Trevor said taking the old woman’s hand.

“Ugh fine, you have the till the end of the week.” Mrs. Connolly groaned pulling her hand away from Trevor’s. “If I don’t have my money by the end of the week you are gone”

“Oh thank you thank you thank you.” Trevor said acting as though he was ecstatic to hear her say that. “You won't regret this.” He turned and quickly walked down the stair case wanting to no longer talk to the old woman.

“I already do,” Trevor heard her tell herself as she went back into her apartment slamming the door.

“Greedy old hag.” Trevor grumbled as he exited the building. A thick layer of fog covered the streets, only the street lamps illuminated the dark street. Barley anyone was outside and those that were were either police, homeless, or the militia. Trevor pulled his coat closer to his face and walked into the fog.
Last edited by Arkham Nation on Tue Dec 18, 2018 10:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Industry and Power!

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Insurgia
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Founded: Jun 23, 2012
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Postby Insurgia » Tue Dec 18, 2018 11:35 pm

Fort Hood, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
22 Miles West of Iniapolis
January 12th, 1949
3:05 PM


The loud clicks of their boots making contact with the ground were ever present in the tile hallway. The two officers made their way side by side, their pressed and starched uniforms looking fine as ever. Their visor caps polished to a high shine. Bill never thought he'd be wearing brass again and yet he fashioned the golden oak leaf once more. Several other officers walked past them, some of them making eye contact and recognizing Bill. Others simply didn't recognize him or didn't give enough of a shit. The place was full of officers. Full of egos. College folks in uniform and old cats with a bird or star pinned on them. Eugene walked next to Bill, obviously slightly leading the way. They made a sharp right down another hallway, Bill pivoted to perfection, keeping on him.

"Right here." Eugene pointed at the third set of double doors on the right, going for the knob.

He twisted and pulled the door open, allowing Bill to enter. He quietly followed in. The room was dim with low lamp lights in the back corners on either side of a projector. In the front of the room was a projector screen, with a map projection on it. In the middle of the room, a long table and every man that occupied a chair quietly looked over at the intruders.

"You're late." an old gruff said.

"Takes a bit to get back into the swing of things." Bill responded, despite being 'on time'.

The two sat down immediately, looking to the man at the side of the projector screen. He had a stick in his hand, obviously for pointing at things.

"So...as I was saying...the Castle is 15 miles inland on the South Pole but sports a harbor." the man was soft-spoken but there was intellect in his voice.

"A harbor?" another old man asked.

"Man-made...the Castle occupies one square mile and ascends about 800 feet into the air and descends to a depth of 200 feet." the man continued, nodding to the attendant at the projector. The slide changes.

Bill and Eugene looked at one another, then back at the projector screen and the young man giving them the fucking lesson out of high school.

"Descends? The fuck you saying? This thing goes underground? Into the ice?" Eugene cut in.

"No. Into the bedrock. There's a uh—complicated cave system." he continued.

The room is full of scoffs at this point at the idea of such a task. Eugene looks over at Bill, who simply raises a brow at him, seemingly bored about this. The question that did puzzle him, that puzzled everyone in the room, was what kind of technology did you need to have to cut a cave system into bedrock? Far ahead of their time no doubt.

"The Castle hosts three 180mm Artillery Pieces in separate locations of the facility, in case of attack. This was a war-time establishment but the...well, the war never made it down there. The occupants...three hostile battalions. Admiral Montgomery and General Task will be the off-site coordinators of the siege...Major Blake and Major Farrier will be the on-site coordinators. Good to you have you Dragoons with us..." the young man nodded at the two officers, Bill and Eugene.

Bill Blake and Eugene Farrier nodded back at him.

"I will be off and on-site as your intelligence liaison...we sail at first light tomorrow so please, pack accordingly and get rest accordingly. Accountability will take place at 0500 hours tomorrow morning before we push off. That'll be it for your briefing...I wish you all a Happy New Year." the man finished.

The lights cut on immediately, the projector shutting off. The room was lit now and it was evident who was ever present in the room. One General, one Colonel, a Navy Admiral and the rest of them were a mix between Captain's and Lieutenant's with one Sergeant Major in the mix. Bill and Eugene rose from their seats, noticing two other uniformed individuals. A Karaqi and an Arkian, having a conversation. The young man in charge of the briefing was walking by. Farrier stopped him, stepping in the way.

"So this is a joint operation huh?" Farrier asked.

The young man, his name tag dangling from his suit jacket, revealed rather quickly who he was. Johnathan Holloway, Office of Strategic Services. Holloway gazed over at what Farrier had been referring to, quickly nodding.

"The intelligence wasn't our own. It was given to us by the Karaqi's. The Arkian's—they had a fleet to spare. Will there be a problem? If so, we can fix that. We don't have room for mistakes at this juncture." Holloway asked, raising a brow at Farrier.

Farrier received this as a threat, nearly charging him in anger. Blake held his shoulder, pulling him back.

"Are you threatening me, snot?" Farrier demanded.

"No, Major. You have a good day." Holloway smiled at him, then walking out of the room.

The two Major's exited the room with their briefing documents. They quietly parted ways, the rest of the day was theirs to have. The next four months would be a voyage across the oceans to meet a war they had ended months prior. What awaited them, was something they wouldn't believe but something they could never tell.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

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Intresha
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Postby Intresha » Wed Dec 19, 2018 7:29 pm

Novopol Province, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Field Hospital A11, Lokni Village
January 14th, 1949
9:00 PM


A sturdy gust of wind blew through the flap of the tent, it's icy impact worsened by the nighttime cold. Gregori shuddered as he continued assessing the ghostly husk before him. Tired eyes stared emptily from behind a tight, gaunt face. His frail legs quivered under the weight of his emaciated form. Disheartened, he shook his head. The dark blight ascending up from the fingertips of his left hand sealed his fate. Gangrene. The only place this soldier would be marching to would be to his own grave. A pity too, taking his youth into consideration. Maybe a month or so ago, recovery would have been possible. Now, however, not so much...

"I'm sorry son, but there really isn't much I can do. It's infected, through and through." Sighed the Doctor, no longer trifling with such morbid things as prognoses and the like.

"Wh- What am I su- supposed to do?" The desperate boy rasped through bated breath.

"Find a doctor willing to amputate. In your condition, I'm afraid it would just end you quicker. Go to St. Ardene's. Send up a prayer. That's what I'd do. " Shrugged Gregori, taking his fur coat from the back of his chair.

Shocked and appalled at the advice just prescribed, the young man wordlessly retreated back into the heart of the empty sickbay. With the Armistice's trade penalties now thoroughly enforced, medications like penicillin and morphine just weren't around anymore. Not for the conscripted man, anyway. Consequently, field hospitals like this one were rapidly beginning to wane, corpse by corpse.

Moments before he went to turn the knob on the flickering oil lamp that illuminated the office, the heavy sound of hoofbeats approached outside the tent. Viktor The thought of seeing another well person brought a smile to his face.

Throwing on his coat and picking up the dimming light, Gregori waddled out into the wind and weather to greet his counterpart.

"Hey there, old man!" The Doctor exclaimed, gesturing the man to come inside.

"Who are you calling old, Sokolov? You're not much of a spring chicken yourself anymore." Chucked the aged Karaqi.

"Well, at least I'm not as bad off as some of these stiffs. I've got eight today, by the way." Remarked Gregori, pointing a fat finger at the haphazard pile of bodies stacked in the corner.

"At this rate, you're going to make me the richest mortician in Abathon. I bet you're really crossing your fingers for those boys in the capital, huh?" He queried, dragging the first carcass outside.

Befuddled, Dr. Sokolov responded.

"What boys? If you're talking about the Duma, you might as wel-"

"No, no! Not the Duma! Those Unionist are at it again, strikin' and marchin' and marchin' and strikin'. Same old shit, different day. They say they won't go back to work until the Duma rejects the Armistice terms. I give them about a week before they get hungry and come to their senses. " He groaned, throwing a second body onto the cart.

His elaborate black uniform contrasted starkly with that of Gregori's bloodied linen scrubs and leather apron. Fitted with a sterling silver pocket watch and blindingly polished shoes, you'd hardly expect him of all men to be death's sole harbinger in this forsaken wilderness. Moreover, one would never estimate the strength harbored in a gentleman of his stature. Not enough, anyway, to make such quick work of the following six corpses.

"Maybe they're not too far off from the truth, you know. If it weren't for those damn trade penalties, half of those boys you're about to dump would probably still be alive." The tubby man responded.

"Popov and I gotta make a living somehow, no?" He chuckled, rubbing the lone Clydesdale afore the cart.

"Don't pretend like you weren't at Salina right there with the rest of us. Anatoly. The Kalinsky brothers. Boris. Don't tell me you'd see more perish without reason. Sokolov took a serious tone.

"I wouldn't. But clearly, your lot would. I'm not itching for another war with Insurgia. You know just as well as I do where this path leads. Good evening, doctor."

With a whinny from the horse and crack from the mortician's whip, the cart jolted forward into the blizzard.
Last edited by Intresha on Wed Dec 19, 2018 7:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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DevinRepublic
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The Republic of Devinonia lore

Postby DevinRepublic » Wed Dec 19, 2018 8:45 pm

Cant figure out how to delete so sorry man
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Insurgia
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Founded: Jun 23, 2012
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Postby Insurgia » Wed Dec 19, 2018 9:08 pm

Killian's Strait, Thespite Ocean
11th Naval Brigade, 7th Fleet
831 Miles From Port
March 29th, 1949
9:00 AM


The two Major's were quietly talking amongst themselves at the starboard side of the bow, the sun just about an hour in the sky. They were aboard an Insurgian Battleship, the I.S. Colt, one of the more latest and heavily armored ships of the time. The battleship had been in service since 1947 and had been a decisive factor in over two dozen naval battles across four different oceans. It picked up the pace to end the war on the waters real quick. Joining the Colt, four other Insurgian Battleships, eight Insurgian Destroyers, two Insurgian Aircraft Carriers, and another three Karaqi Battleships. The fleet of ships was scheduled to link up with an Arkian naval detachment about a month from now.

Farrier and Blake leaned against the railing, wearing their dark green trousers and a khaki shirt with a khaki tie tucked inside. They both sported a leather bomber jacket with their visor cap. If they were approached, their golden oak leaf pinned on their shirt collar would be visible.

"I haven't seen a fleet like this since..." Farrier thought back.

"I know—Boulder Strait." Blake finished, remembering that fated day.

The confrontation at Boulder Strait was in the spring of 1945 off the coast of Kidala. It was an amphibious landing that claimed 43,000 Insurgian Marines and 230 Dragoons. The Dragoon Battalion nearly melted that day. No one speaks about it but everyone remembers the fleet that day. Shelling the Kidalan coast into nothing to root out the enemy that hid. The two of them were young officers then, Lieutenants. Farrier, fresh from the academy. Blake, coming from an enlisted background. The two had shared their first engagement there on that beach. Farrier was a Marine. Blake, already a Dragoon.

"Whatever is down there...better be worth it." Blake added.

"If it came from Kelly, it surely is." Farrier informed, taking a pipe out of his pocket.

"What? The President ordered this?" Blake asked.

"Why do you think you got—High Command didn't ask for the Dragoon Battalion. President Kelly did. General Task wanted to rush 5,000 Marines down there and bum-rush the bastards." he lit his pipe.

"Isn't that what we're doing?" Blake continued.

Farrier puffed on his pipe a bit before even attempting to answer his question.

"A multi-national fleet...two Marine companies, the 1st Dragoon Battalion, a Karaqi Arctic Unit and who knows what the Arkians will add? Yeah, it seems we are rushing them...just adding the cost to other countries instead of our own." Farrier ended.

Farrier continued puffing on his pipe. Blake stepped away from the railing, heading back on in. Farrier watched the horizon, enjoying the warm air while he had it. It was a little over a month from now and he'd be freezing his ass off in the South Pole fighting God only knows what. He gave it a few more puffs, then joined his friend.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
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Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
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Postby Intresha » Wed Dec 19, 2018 11:40 pm

St. Anne Province, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Glum's Crossing, The Capital City of Aransk
January 21st, 1949
1:45 PM


"Peter, you and your boys keep filling up those sandbags. I want them about three feet high around all of our positions. Vlad, finish rigging the explosives. If we can't maintain the defense, we'll cut off the city regardless. And you, Natalya, get me something to drink." Barked Kirill, pointing and waving as required.

The greasy little porker of a man stood atop a milk crate, smoking a cigarette in his fatigues. Below him, a dozen or so Unionist, veterans, and assorted partisans dashed to and fro across the bridge. Some secured gun placements while others spread broken glass along the road to halt any would be traffic. The pathetic display would usually be dispersed by means of steel and lead. Emphasis on usually. Numerous riots had wracked the city in the past week, leaving few police forces available to do much of anything.

Azov Kurbin gazed at the opposite river bank through his scope. Four M3s and an accompanying M3A3 rolled down the adjacent street, sweeping Aransk's suburbs with the crackle of gunfire and the sting of mustard gas. He grimaced as one of the half-tracks rolled right over a black-clad protester.

"They're bringing in the big guns... Live ammunition..." The rifleman noted, perplexed.

"Of course they are. They're facing a revolution, the dirty bastards. Its a wonder they waited this long." Peter replied, carrying another sandbag on his back.

"We don't have adequate ammunition to win against them." Azov said, barely having to do the math.

"Which is why we need to make every shot count." Peter slapped his friend on the back lightheartedly, unperturbed by the hard truth.

Before launching further into the slim odds of victory, Kurbin caught something in his peripheral vision. A small armed figure approached the bridge, a rectangular white flag draped above them. Taking his carbine, Azov curiously dispatched the stranger before the rest of the party noticed them. They'd surely face death at the hands of anyone else on the crossing.

She was relatively young, as was the case with many other combatants around the city. She, though, was acutely young. Somewhere around nineteen or so, the war-ravaged girl seemed happy to be back in what they seemed to think was friendly territory.

"Commissar Kirill, I presume?" She said, stepping forward.

"No, no. I'm Leutinent Kurb-"

"I believe you're looking for me." The Commissar paced forward, menacingly.

The rest of his goons had arrived with him, guns shouldered.

"Yes, Sergei from Headquarters sent me. A compromise has just been reached with the Duma. A general election is to be held, followed by a vote on the Armistice terms. The strike is off. A ceasefire is effective as of 2:00. That is all." She said, dictating the message almost robotically.

"What? We're in a state of war! This is the revolution for Heaven's sake!" He exclaimed.

The girl shook her head, seemingly annoyed with the man's very poor reading of the situation.

"Lay down your arms. We've been told that if we return to our homes, reprieve will be grant- The messenger slowed her speech to a stop at the sight of the Commissar's revolver.

A single shot resonated through the still air, the bullet finding its mark between the girl's eyes. She flopped to the floor like a bag of potatoes.

"Clearly this young woman was not aware of the length's I'd go to secure this bridgehead... Any of those who'd care to follow her may form an orderly line. I'd be happy to oblige." He said, holstering his firearm.

As he turned around, however, he noticed the men previously gathered around him were long gone. From the halfway across the crossing, Lt. Kurbin gave a one finger salute, giggling like a schoolboy.

"Cowards! The first sign of conflict and you start running! She was a traitor!" It was only near the end of this diatribe did Kirill hear the steady rumble of engines behind him.

A lone M-84.

Death came instantaneously at approximately 1:59 PM as the main battle tank's light guns reduced the Commissar to something comparable to ground beef. A final casualty before the effective ceasefire.
Last edited by Intresha on Sat Dec 22, 2018 2:12 am, edited 5 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Karaq
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 414
Founded: Aug 05, 2013
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Karaq » Thu Dec 20, 2018 7:18 pm

The Castle, Undisclosed Location, South Pole
East Wing, Research Department
April 1st, 1949
1:00 AM


Vasili was calm in his role. He perfected it to the finest point. Even the accent was spot on, despite his Karaqi origin. He had been a mole for the Allies since November of '48, swiftly getting on the last voyage to the South Pole made by the Group of Eight. It was a last minute decision but through wit, he was able to pass as guardsmen. Through his technological prowess, he was able to get a signal to the Allies on one of the HAM radio's inside the castle, once it was lights out of course. He had been doing this for the past 5 months and what he claims to be mostly luck, he hasn't been suspect as of yet. There was still so much he didn't know about the Castle. So many portions of the Castle were restricted to a certain rank and certain specializations. He had no idea what was yet lurking in the caves, lucky as he was to even get a glimpse of the entrance.

The young Karaqi was laying back in his rack, staring up at the ceiling. His face illuminated by the lantern in the hallway breaking into his dark bay. The soldier in the bottom bunk shifted around, Vasili remained quiet, relaxing both of his hands together on his chest. He waited patiently. Then the sound of heavy breathing finally joined the rest of his far-fetched comrades. He removed his hands, repositioning them to the metal end of his bunk, gripping the two support beams to make his climb down to the floor as quiet as possible. He made his way for the door, looking both ways down the dimly lit hallway. Two fire-guards were posted at the end, one leaning against the wall, his head tilted down. The other could be heard shuffling through the cleaning closet further down. Vasili decided the opposite way was the plan for tonight. He started that way.

He hugged the wall, cutting down into another long hallway with bays on each side. These bays were not full of soldiers though. They were full of medical and research equipment. At the end of the hallway, there would be an office. On it would be a name, Dr. Harold Heinrich. Heinrich was the lead scientific advisor and was on the first voyage to the South Pole, he had been down here running things since 1946. The man was in his office during the day, below the castle during the night hours. He was rarely seen these days, something else keeping him occupied aside from his own soldiers. On top of his doctorates in experimental sciences, he commanded respect as well. Due to his intellect, he was given a direct commission as a Colonel. Vasili watched the hallway, squinting at the office door as the very end. Through the glass that set in the middle of the door, the lights had turned on. The Doctor was indeed present tonight. Unusual.

The tall white man exited the office, shutting off the lights as he did so. He made one major mistake, he didn't lock the door. Heinrich quietly made his way down the hall, turning the corner where Vasili was but no longer is. The two on fire-guard duty calling attention as he made himself known.

"As you were." Heinrich ordered.

"Yes sir!" the two responded simultaneously.

The sound of door opening and shutting was made down the hall, signaling the young Karaqi to continue to the office. He did so quietly and with haste, grabbing the knob without hesitation and opening the office. He flicked on the office light, locking the door behind him. Vasili made his way to the file cabinet, opening it up. He quickly sorted through the files, picking up any he hadn't already gone through in earlier weeks. He came across one that caught his eye. Something new.

OPERATION STARLANCE

Without hesitation, he pulled the file out, setting it on the desk. He opened it up with a sense of urgency, plucking apart pages for any good information until he slowed, the contents catching his eye. He read to himself.

"Allied intrusion imminent...spy among our ranks...use of LANCE technology approved."

An audible click was heard, he recognized it. Anyone with war experience would. The sound of a pistol being cocked. He looked up, seeing one of the fire-guard soldiers aiming over at him. Behind him, Harold Heinrich himself.
☭☭Ministry of State Media☭☭: June 11th, 1949
"...cloudy skies today with a 65% chance of rainfall, the General Secretary and the Presidium are scheduled to convene today in light of the recent civil unrest in Intresha...all Slavic citizens are expected to be report any suspicious activity to the nearest NKVD office immediately..."

"...loyalty to the party, loyalty to Slavia...protect the Union, condemn its enemies...remember to report any suspicious activity to the nearest NKVD office immediately..."




General Information
The Slavic Union of Karaq is a left-wing socialist country.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 18.6 civilization, according to this index.

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Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Sat Dec 22, 2018 1:29 am

St. Anne Province, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Urasol Palace, The Capital City of Aransk
April 3rd, 1949
7:45 PM


"Right this way, sir." The maid said through an atrociously thick Karaqi accent, guiding Leutinent Kurbin through a set of double doors into an executive office.

Azov had only been to Urasol Palace a handful of times, most of which were to receive military decorations and the like. That, and that one disciplinary tribunal... However, tonight was different. Funnily enough, he had been called upon alone by the second most powerful man in the country, the Chairman of the Duma. Alexandr Zhukov.

"Ah, Mr. Kurbin! So pleasant to see you. Please, please, come outside. I've seen enough of this stuffy office for the past eight hours, and I'm sure the fresh air would serve us good. He blathered politely.

More fascinated by the luxuries of the room than the bland, generic politician before him, Kurbin snapped back into reality. Albeit begrudgingly, he rose from the plush leather seat he had made himself comfortable in. The two exited through a pair of arched glass doors that opened up to a rambling terrace. Adorned with fine statues and exotic plants, the place would usually be quite the novelty, if it weren't for the relic he was forced to partake in it with. The two eventually came to rest at an unlit firepit surrounded by lounge couches.

"So, what'll it be tonight? Vodka? Rum? Gin? Or perhaps you're not the kind for hard liquor?" The Chairman said cheerfully, flagging down a nearby maid.

Azov smiled back a toothy grin, wholely sarcastic in nature.

"How about a nice tall glass of cutting to the chase. No need to wine and dine me, Mr. Chairman." He shot back, rubbing the man's chummy exterior off like cheap paint.

"We've pinged them all up and down the southern seaboard... Insurgian vessels, that is. Well, from what we can gather. From what our sonar tells us, it's an entire armada." Alexandr sighed.

The balcony the two sat on overlooked the quiet capital city. The transition into curfew hours turned Intresha's beating heart into a graveyard of sorts, patrolled by policemen and soldier alike. Not as if they could be seen, though. The government enforced brownouts saw to that weeks before. Aransk's nights were now swallowed by darkness, without even the occasional flash of gunfire to illuminate the night anymore. The few Communist revolutionaries that weren't killed in the January 21st Revolts were subsequently apprehended and executed in the following days and weeks.

"And you believe that this is related to the upcoming election?" Questioned Azov, waving out a match after lighting a fresh cigarette.

"At the very least, we believe it's a show of strength. At worst, we speculate it to be an invasion force on standby. However, the bulk of their forces rounded the Cape of Imansk yesterday... Their course seems to be changing." Explained Zhukov, puzzled.

Kurbin furrowed his brow and moved forward a bit in his chair. The sudden plot twist heightened his attention.

"If they're not coming to intercept us, what do you think they're doing?" Azov inquired, arching an eyebrow.

The old Chairman ran his fingers through his beard before responding. He blinked a few times before looking past him, perhaps at the cityscape or the horizon beyond it. Kurbin knew this look. He was about to ask for another favor, like always.

"That's why I called you here tonight. I know you said that you quit after that last job, but I was so impressed... I was hoping I could hire you on one last time..." His voice heightened like that of a small child begging for sweets before bed.

"7,000 Darcas to sell out my pinko workmates? Alright, fine. But that was a one time deal! I'm a soldier, not a spy! I have no training, I don't kno-"

"But you do know people, Mr. Kurbin. You know what makes them tick. What makes them toss and turn in bed at night. Who they talk to at the water cooler. How they take their coffee and what porno mags they read and why. I'm not asking you to do much other than to be yourself, Lieutenant." Chairman Zhukov went on, moving to light a cigarette of his own.

The old rifleman stood up, throwing his butt onto the concrete and crushing it underfoot.

"I'm telling you, you've got the wrong man. This is international espionage you're asking me to do here, not some interview for your favorite tabloid. Hell, at least get somebody with some experience!" Insisted Azov, preparing to take his leave.

"Azov... If you weren't there to give us the intel on the bridge seizure, they could've had twenty-four hours or more to reinforce that SOB. Do you know how many more would have died on both sides? Or worse, they could've blown it in retreat, leaving us cut off. Power stations. Rail lines. Bridges. That's how revolutions start, and they were about this close to doing it..." He inched his pointer finger and thumb apart as little as he possibly could.

"But you stopped them. And that's exactly what the Stavka likes about you: You keep shit from rolling downhill. On that bridge. Back at that hospital in Salina. I can go on, but I think I've stroked your ego enough for one evening." He chuckled before taking a hit.

Buttoning his coat, it was apparent that Azov wasn't taking the flattery well at all. If anything, he appeared more off-put by it than anything else. Especially out of the mouth of a man that knew practically nothing about him or his military career. Save for what could be found by skimming some file, of course. As he turned to leave, the sound of the Chairman's voice forced him to whirl around for a final time.

"Stop! I hoped it wouldn't have to come to this, but I see you're playing hard to get this evening. Ivan! Maxim!" He shouted gruffly.

It took a couple of moments, but shortly thereafter, a pair of burly men in formal dress came from inside. Between them, they carried a large chest perhaps the size of a record player. Pale blue and stamped with the seal of the Arch Duke, it went without saying that whatever held within was the real deal. The two brutes then proceeded to open it, surprisingly struggling a bit with the heavy steel lid. Inside lay Darcas by the hundreds, stacked so tight and neatly that it only barely fit the appointed container.

"Insurgia, huh?" Grinned Azov.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Sun Dec 23, 2018 12:16 am

Southern Ocean
11th Naval Brigade, 7th Fleet
20 Miles Off The Coast of the Antarctic Continent
April 23rd, 1949
1:00 PM


The Insurgian Battleship cut through the waves slowly, barging into small blankets of ice that were afloat in the water. On the port side of the bow, three men stood, examining the continent. The youngest of them, Agent Holloway, was looking through binoculars at the continent. Next to him, Major Farrier and Major Blake who were dressed in their white winter parkas waited for his go ahead. In the distance, the silhouette of the Castle could be seen by the naked eye. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a small mountain. At further examination, through telescopic lenses, one could tell it was not. Holloway lowered the binoculars from his eyes, squinting in the direction of the Castle. He looked to Farrier.

"They don't know we're here. Yet that is." Holloway reassured.

"So?" Farrier questioned, waiting for the real answer he wanted.

Holloway looked back in the direction of the white continent. He was hesitant. He looked back to Farrier.

"Begin ground landings." Holloway nodded at him.

Farrier nodded back, taking off in a range walk with Blake hot on his heels. They descended to the lower decks and eventually to the garrison. The Dragoon Battalion waited below, calling attention upon Farrier's entrance. Major Blake was quietly behind him. The two officers continued to the center of the garrison bay. Every Dragoon, in their white parka, was at attention. The room was silent. Farrier and Blake halted to the center of the room. Farrier looked around.

"CARRY ON!" he ordered.

"YES SIR! GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR!" a thunderous reply from the Dragoons.

"LISTEN UP DRAGOONS! WE'RE BEGINNING GROUND OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY! STAY TO YOUR SQUAD AND DON'T GET BUNCHED UP! YOU KNOW THE DRILL! LET'S GO!" Farrier didn't even stumble or stutter.

The whole of the garrison began moving with a purpose, gathering their equipment and stahlhelms also outfitted with a white winter cover to cover their default grey steel. Farrier and Blake would tend to the company commanders, giving out orders and certain responsibilities to each Captain below them. It wasn't long before the Battalion made their way onto the deck, swarming over the side of the Battleship and onto the amphibious landing craft below. There was a certain organization to their chaos. One that officers like Farrier and Blake thrived off of. They made use of it. The two officers went on different landing craft as to prevent any way of compromising command should one craft get downed. It was within the hour that the whole of the Dragoon Battalion was in the water, on their way to end a war many thought they were done with. Major Farrier stood in the middle of his landing craft, surrounded by his men who remained silent and curious about what exactly this was all about. Sure, it was a remnant military opposition but why such a strong fighting force? In fact, why send a force at all? They were in international territory. They were also on the only uninhabitable continent on the planet. Many concluded though that politics demanded this. Come to find out, it surely did.

"Stick to your squads! Lay low! Conserve your ammunition. And I'll see you at the Castle!" Farrier ordered, the last words some of the Dragoons would hear from their humble Major.

The silence in the air was abruptly ended by the sound of 16-inch guns firing from the battleships just a few miles behind them. The Dragoons just out of habit ducked down at each shot, some even turned around to see their own ships opening fire. Farrier and Blake weren't briefed on the bombardment but it was probably just a wake-up call to the enemy. The war had found them. The repetitive bombardment kept the Battalion on their toes as they closed in on the continental coastline. It was only a few minutes later that a different sound of cannon was heard, something farther. The Battalion knew this all too well.

"INCOMING!" Farrier yelled, his voice heard two or three boats away.

Every Dragoon hit the deck as best they could, squeezing each other down as far as they could. It wouldn't matter if they got hit though. They would all die instantly. This was just their training. Two more faint but thunderous cannons went off. There were a few seconds before the high pitched whistling came. Then the impact. The first shell missed its target, whatever it was. It splashed into the icy water, sending waves of sub-zero water into several landing craft. There were quiet moans of discomfort. It was understandable. Two more whistles soon followed, both ended up missing. The target being the I.S. Colt. With that in mind, the Battleship began moving up with the rest of the fleet, leaving the Battalion to tend to their own and hopefully, withdraw fire from them. The landing craft driver poked his head up, seeing the coast get closer.

"TOUCH COAST IN TWO MINUTES! GOOD LUCK TO YA!" the old timer yelled, a scent of a Slavic accent came from him.

While the two combatants traded shells, the Battalion continued on their way to the coast. All the while, another thunderous sound entered the air. This one was more volatile. Different. A bright blue light fired into the sky and into the white clouds. It reminisced that of a lightning bolt almost until it came to light that lightning bolts do NOT arc. Farrier watched the lance arc in the sky, traveling directly over the landing craft just above the clouds. He followed it with his eyes as did everyone else on board. Hell, the whole Battalion did. It descended below the clouds, then impacting into the fleet at the center of mass. There was a brunt shockwave that expelled itself in all directions, sending a decently sized wave at 360 degrees. The impact also delivered a deafening pitch, leaving many ears ringing. A bright flash came with it simultaneously.

Farrier looked away, taking cover in the boat. The wave actually gave the landing craft a boost towards the coast. Farrier got a grip on the side, standing up to see what had just happened. It was horrifying. There was a large inferno that came from the mass of ships at sea, heavy smoke soon followed. The sounds of sailors screaming in terror shortly followed. Farrier looked to the driver, asking for the handheld radio. He did so without resistance.

"I.S. Colt? Do you copy? What the hell just happened? I need a status report, dammit!" [i] he yelled into the mic.

There was a bit of static interruption. Then someone on the other side attempting to respond. There was an evident coughing fit.

[i] "...Montgomery of the I.S. Colt...all systems are operational...I can't speak for anyone else though.."
the Admiral responded.

"What is the status of the fleet, sir?" Major Farrier asked.

"We got four Battleships down...they're gone, son...two of our Destroyers and one Carrier of ours is heavily damaged. The Arkians and Karaqi's didn't take so lightly either...any casualties on your end?" Montgomery responded.

"None, sir. All accounted for." Farrier responded back.

"THIRTY SECONDS!" the driver interrupted.

"What the hell was that, Major?" Montgomery asked about the fucking lance.

"I don't know sir..."

"You better fucking find out, Major...I'm pulling the fleet out to a...[i]safe distance...Montgomery out..." [/i] the Admiral ended.

The Major handed the driver back the radio, stepping back to his soldiers. The coast was in sight, even while the ramp was up. Beside them, dozens of other craft were present, about to land the same as them. There were so many questions now among the men. What had just happened to take out half the fleet? What technology required that? In the 10 years of war, had the enemy been that busy to develop something that advanced? Sure, they were already so advanced ahead of their time but this was something different. Answers would be revealed as soon as they made it to the Castle. The Siege would begin. With an abrupt halt, they had landed. The ramps dropped and every Dragoon began their trek to break the Castle.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Sun Dec 23, 2018 11:51 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Kelly International Airport
April 15th, 1949
6:59 AM


"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated and keep your seatbelts fastened. As the Captain just said, we will be landing shortly. Again, from all of our staff here at Trans-Abathon, thanks for flying with us." A stewardess shrilled into a crackling microphone.

Azov's red-eye flight had finally ended, and the sun now broke over the Insurgian horizon. He placed his half-eaten bag of peanuts into the lap of the sleeping man adjacent to him. The snoring son of a bitch deserved it for keeping him up half the night. With any luck, he'd be allergic. Kurbin snickered as he watched his fellow passengers hunker down at the first sign of landing turbulence.

"Rookies." The old paratrooper muttered to himself, pulling his cigarette holder from the pocket of his white button up.

After a few minutes of taxiing, the plane finally disembarked. The agreeable Iniapolis spring greeted Azov upon his exit, only made more pleasant by the long line in Customs. Though it proved a tad inconvenient, it would ensure a thorough search of his bags wouldn't be conducted... Something he couldn't afford, given the sensitive information held within.

Sure enough, the queue went along without issue. The forged paperwork was convincing enough, from what Kurbin could gather. That, or those responsible for inspecting it just didn't seem to care all too much. Regardless, one "Ivan Orlov" was secure on Insurgian soil, now for the first time since the cessation of hostilities nearly a year ago. It certainly didn't seem like that long ago.

After the hassle of the baggage carousel and the like, leaving the terminal behind felt like getting out of prison. For such a singularly gargantuan country, iInsurgia seemed so slow. Never one to dwell, though, Azov exited the terminal to hail a taxi. It didn't take long for the vulture-like cabbies to descend upon him, as they did others exiting Kelly International.

"Where to? The roughneck driver asked, swiveling in his seat to look at him.

"The Department of the Navy, please." Stated Kurbin, clinging to a poorly counterfeited Insurgian accent.

This wouldn't be as easy as previously believed.

"What? You their janitor or something? Damn dirty foreigners. Speak the language or don't get off the plane." Declared the cabbie, visibly unimpressed with his passenger's attempt at going local.

"You know what... Maybe I am the janitor..." The Spy thought to himself.

Rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror, the driver went on as before. Between long gaps of silence and offhanded comments about the "foreigners", the ride seemed to last a thousand years. Finally, however, the pair arrived at their destination. The large grey building stood steadfastly in the heart of Iniapolis, an eternal monument to Insurgia's maritime prowess and accomplishment. The Department of the Navy.

"That'll be eight dollars even." Groaned the ballsack of a man, once more rotating on his fat rolls to face the back of the car.

Reaching into his back pocket, Kurbin pulled two crisp 100 Darca bills from his wallet. Even in spite of the large sum they'd promised him personally, the Stavka was also very generous in the amount they gave him to cover travel cost... Among other things, such as this. He put the money in the man's sweaty palm.

"Listen, now I can't make change for-"

"Oh, keep the change. You'll need it to cover the damages." Kurbin explained, trying hard to sound intelligible.

"What damages?" He responded, eyes squinted in confusion.

Azov stuck at the cabbie's throat, seizing it with as strong a grip as he could muster. Holding him there, he decked the geezer square in the nose. Blood trickled down from his left nostril as he slumped into himself. Out like a light.

"Thanks for the idea, though." Sniggered the Spy, waving off the sting in his knuckles as he slammed the door shut.

Now the waiting game began. Given the working day had just started for most, the night custodian was probably just getting off. With any luck, he'd come out through the front. And if he knew what was good for him, he'd listen to the Intreshan's offer with the utmost care...
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Mon Dec 24, 2018 1:25 am

The Castle, The Antarctic Continent
1st Allied Expeditionary "Dragoon" Battalion, Alpha Company
April 23rd, 1949
5:23 PM


"COVERING FIRE!" Blake screamed.

A hail of machine gun fire came from Alpha, directed at the machine gun nest entrenched on one of the higher balconies. Bullets riddled the nest, sending crippled stone, snow, and ice into the air. Blake unloaded with his M1A1 Thompson .45 ACP automatic machine gun. Anyone hit with a .45 round would surely be knocked down if not killed. If not by Blake, then by the twenty other soldiers firing upon that position. The hostile combatants that held the high ground took cover immediately, waiting for the Allied forces to stop to reload. A squad of five Dragoons rushed into the courtyard of the Castle, firing left and right as enemy soldiers tried to get the jump on them. They successfully made it to the base of the Castle entrance. A large set of double doors blocking their path. At this moment, Blake's reign of bullets had halted to reload. The enemy position on the balcony knew of the squad that slipped past but at this angle, they could do nothing.

"STATUS?!" Blake yelled for the squad.

There was a silence before the squad answered.

"CLEAR IN THE COURTYARD!"

"COPY THAT!" Blake yelled back.

The squad of hostiles on the balcony stammered to reload and check their casualties. Blake peeked around the stone wall, seeing a rifleman on the balcony already has his sights on that exact spot. Blake ducked back while the shot went off, the round ricocheting off his helmet and causing him to fall back into the arms of his fellow Dragoons. His stahlhelm landed a few feet away in the snow and in the open. His eyes wide at the disbelief that he managed to somewhat evade the round. The squad below the balcony was silent. One of them coming out from the below it, looking up at the balcony that was directly above him. The young soldier pulled a frag from his belt, quickly tugging the pin from it, releasing the safety lever. He waited a few seconds before decidedly tossing into above him. It landed on the balcony perfectly. The soldiers above them only had a few seconds of panic before it finally went off. The explosion of dust and stone mixed with pink mist. The survivors cried in pain.

Blake, not wanting to test his luck, took the helmet off a fellow Dragoon. He stuck it on the end of his Thompson, putting it out in the open. No shot came. He reeled the Thompson back in, handing the helmet back. The Major peeked out quickly, seeing as no one was aiming. He looked back to the company.

"GET IN THE COURTYARD ALPHA!" he ordered.

With one swift charge, Blake led the company into the courtyard full sprint. Blake met the first squad at the double doors while the rest of the company secured the courtyard. He shoved the doors slightly, feeling a heavy weight on the other side. The doors were barricaded. How old school. This was a simple fix. He looked back out the courtyard.

"BRING IN THE BANGALORES!" Blake yelled.

Coming in faster than ever, four soldiers rushed in, each one carrying a bangalore. They quickly set the banglores up at each of the doors, one on top and one on the bottom. Simultaneously, they were all lit. Alpha company quickly took to a safe distance when finally the doors blew sky high, sending brick and stone into the air. Alpha company cautiously but speedily entered into the Castle, trying to find cover immediately. They were met by intensive mounted machine gun fire. The unlucky ones were ripped apart. Others managed. The ensuing firefight inside the Castle foyer was cut short by the arrival of Bravo and Charlie company, under the command of Major Farrier who abruptly intruded from the rear of the Castle.

The main foyer was silent for the most part with the occasional gunshots that finished off any surviving hostiles. Major Farrier and Major Blake quickly met at the center of the foyer.

"Where's your helmet?" Farrier poked.

"Fuckin' Marathonnian took it off. What's the move?" Blake replied.

"Holloway took Delta and Echo company to clear out the cave system. He wants us up top to clear out the wings." Farrier responded.

"He's giving orders now? I thought we were on-site coordinators." Blake questioned.

"He gets his way from the General. You know this." Farrier sat against a handrail, reloading his BAR.

Blake paced around, taking note of several medics checking up on the companies. There were surprisingly not as many anticipated casualties.

"The resistance wasn't..." Blake tried to find a word.

"What you expected?" Farrier answered.

"Too easy." Blake replied.

"Let's just get to work."

The two Major's quickly rounded up their accountability and began splitting up the three companies among the top levels of the Castle.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Mon Dec 24, 2018 10:51 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Riverbend Hotel
April 17th, 1949
8:00 PM


"Yes, this the Palace switchboard? Uh, yeah... Orlov, Ivan. No, the Orlov Ivan they sent to the moon last year. Yes, I'm that Orlov! Now put me through already, would you? You know the drill." Azov groaned in Intreshan, twirling the phone cord around his finger.

The line rang for a bit before the dial tone cut to heavy breathing. With only their hour or so prior conversation to go off of, he could recognize Zhukov's burdened wheezing from a lineup.

"It's secure. I paid some Janitor to lend me his uniform. I rigged the bug inside a light fixture, but it's only a matter of time before somebody notices it. For our purposes though, it should work. Their next briefing is sometime tomorrow, although I can't say when exactly." Kurbin concluded, a little beyond bored at this point.

"When do you think you can retrieve it?" The Chairman asked concisely.

Azov paused, thinking about how close a call it was with the security desk. Going back in might as well constitute a suicide mission. However, caution had never flattered the old Rifleman.

"Tomorrow, midnight. But I'll be in need of a wee distraction..." His voice trailed off as a smirk grew across his face.

A deep sigh came from the other end of the line.

"Do I have to remind you of the-"

"Contract? Yes, yes, I remember. A thirty percent reduction for every casualty. Trust me, if it's about money, you've got my undivided attention. Nobody gets hurt." Kurbin assured, flopping down on his bed.

Alexandr mumbled something in an affirmative tone, giving his blessing to whatever crackpot scheme his underling had cooking up. After some succeding formalities on the part of the Chairman, both agreed to reconvene as developments were made.

"Now the real fun begins..." Azov laughed, thumbing through the open phonebook spread open before him.

Punching in the phone number, he felt inconsolably happy that the Stavka had prepped him with a switchboard connector before he left Intresha. Lord knew that if any of these calls went overheard by Insurgian intelligence, he'd be on some watchlist already. Worse yet, in the hands of some crazed vigilante. They were everywhere, after all.

"Yes, is this Todd's Fireworks Emporium? Yes, I'd like thirty cases. Of what? I don't know, surprise me. The bigger the better." He dictated, pausing for a moment as the Cleark rambled about how much the whole shabang would cost.

"Believe you me, my boss said to spare no expense on this send off. I told him I'd really go out with a bang..."
Last edited by Intresha on Mon Dec 24, 2018 10:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Arkham Nation
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Posts: 49
Founded: Jun 24, 2012
New York Times Democracy

Postby Arkham Nation » Tue Dec 25, 2018 12:25 am

Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Metropolitan District, 1st Division Police Station
April 23rd, 1949
6:00 PM


It had been several months after Trevor gotten the job on the vice squad and he had barley paid through rent. He was assigned to Inspector Tommy MacGuire, a plump man who Trevor thought was the stereotypical crooked cop he had seen in the movies. It had been a long and terrible day at the station, Trevor had to sort through stacks and stacks of paper work after finishing up a case. Trevor reached into his coat pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped the carton on his hand making a cigarette pop out of the top. He grabbed the cigarette and placed it into his mouth. He looked outside his cramped office window down to the quiet and damp streets below. He gave out a sigh as he placed the cigarette pack back into his coat and grabbed his lighter. He flipped the lighter opened and snapped his fingers to light it. He lit the cigarette and flipped the lighter then placed it back into his coat. He gave out a few puffs and sighed again, smoke blowing out his mouth as he did so.

“Working late again O’Driscoll.” A voice said behind him. Trevor turned to see Tommy MacGuire leaning against the door to his small office.

“Just finishing up some last paperwork before I clock out.” Trevor answered.

“Well stop all that we got a new case.” Tommy walked in the room and tossed a file on Trevor’s desk. Not another one, Trevor thought.

“What do we got?”

“A reliable source told us that a group of militia is smuggling explosives and guns on trains all over Limerick. The source believes that the militia will use these guns and explosives to start an uprising.” Tommy explained flipping the file opened and flipping though pictures of trains and documents some containing black ink over some sentences.

“Why are some of these redacted?” Trevor asked flipping through the documents.

“National security reasons, I don’t know.”

“Where they getting the explosives and guns?”

“Criminal organizations and foreign countries probably, look some of these guns aren’t from anywhere near Vaudus.”

“So how did you receive this information?” Trevor inquisitively asked.

“I told you a reliable sort gave me this information.” Tommy snorted.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” Tommy asked sounding annoyed.

“Nevermind.”

“No go on, what we’re you gonna say detective?” Tommy leaned in putting his left ear forward.

“You bribed him didn’t you, did you bribe him with money or drugs from evidence?” Trevor blew smoke in Tommy’s face. Tommy pulled back coughing then wheezing, Trevor could see Tommy’s face contort into anger but then he chuckled.

“How could you accuse me of something so awful O’Driscoll? I would never do a thing like that.” Tommy winked. Trevor knew he couldn’t report Tommy, the whole police force was corrupt and if some how Trevor got rid of Tommy someone could take his place. Tommy went over and took the cigarette out of Trevor’s hand and snubbed it on his desk purposely missing the ash tray. “Whoops, sorry about that.”

“What’s the plan?” Trevor asked between his teeth.

“Oh O’Driscoll O’Driscoll why so pitiful, down the street and to railroad.” Tommy said in a little tune which Trevor detested. Tommy turned to the door and placed his hands into his pockets. “I’ll be waiting outside.” He walked out the door whistling the same awful tune, which Trevor could even hear echoing down the hall way. Trevor turned back to the window and looked below to the street. He saw Tommy walkout of the building and wait for him on the rainy sidewalk. His clothes and hat began to darken because of the soft rain making them all wet. Tommy looked up and waved at the Trevor as if they were long time friends. Trevor grunted as he turned around and got out of his seat. He put on his coat and hat off of the hanger next to the door then his pistol off of the top of a filing cabinet. He placed the pistol in the holster and put on his hat letting his fingers run against the brim of it. He walked out of his office and down the set of steps to the front door. Trevor opened the door to be met by Tommy just about to come inside.

“Where are you going?” Trevor frustratingly asked.

“Your mother’s house for a play date, I was about to get you because I have been waiting outside for over an hour.” Tommy said backing up so that Trevor could get out. Trevor was now starting to feel cold and wet then wondered why he didn’t bring an umbrella. He decided not to go get one so that Tommy wouldn’t get more annoyed.

“It’s only been like a minute or two.”

“Has it?” Tommy said sounding surprised. He checked his wrist for his non-existing watch, he tapped his wrist a few times then shook it a bit. “I guess my watch is slow.” He snickered. “Come on slow-poke,” he announced dramatically, “the case is afoot.”
Last edited by Arkham Nation on Tue Mar 19, 2019 7:36 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Industry and Power!

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Intresha
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Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Tue Dec 25, 2018 8:53 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Department of the Navy
April 17th, 1949
11:47 PM


Intoxicated with adrenaline, Azov sat on the bench opposite the Main Navy Building. Swigging from his flask patiently, he knew it was almost time. In a few moments, the clock would strike 11:55. The extra five minutes would give him approxamately enough time to use the unfoling situation to his advantage. Luckily the night was clear, so things should go down without a hitch. The five or six bums he hired seemed to know the area well, and would plant their payloads in areas sure to draw plenty of attention. With any luck, they'd arrive back at the hotel to collect the other half of their pay when the sun rose the following morning. If else, they'd likely be captured or similarly restrained... Not ideal for such a sensative mission.

Kurbin glanced down at his watch. One minute. Taking long drink from his flask, he prepared to strike.

At once the sky lit up with a flurry of flashes, the otherwise unique colors of the fireworks coalesed into blinding white eruptions. Deafening roars went out across the horizon like crashes of thunder. Like an airraid, the chain explosions refused to cease. The security staff were the first to rush out, their weapons drawn. A more clear cue couldn't come if somebody handed the Spy stage directions. Smoothing out his suit and carefully putting on his sunglasses, Azov jogged across the quiet bulavard.

"Out of the way! OSS!" He gathered his most neutral voice possible, proceeding to bumrush the door.

Many of the men hardly noticed him, their gazes fixed upward. Only a few even so much as glanced his way as he sped walked past the security checkpoint and into the core of the And to think he spent so much on this damn three peice. Another unit of guards stormed past him, practically throwing him to the side as they continued towards the exit. Dusting himself off, Azov pressed forward to the conference room he had paid a visit to the day previous.

The gloomy halls all looked the same, and the dim lighting truly made it all worse. However, it wasn't long before it all flooded back to him. Last office on the right... Another left... Bingo. Victory swelling in the pit of his stomach, Kurbin went to break down the door,, only to stumble into the already unlocked entry. A man stood frozen, pistol aimed directly at Kurbin's head.

"OSS!" Azov barked, pointing at the ground.

"Since when does military OSS wear suits?" The young Sailor asked, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

Shit.

"Who said I was with the military branch! Now hurry up kid, this is a crisis! We're clearing the building!" Groweled Kurbin.

Hesitantly the boy complied, picking up speed after fleeing the room. Finally.

Azov holstered his gun and reached deep into his jacket pocket. It took a moment of fishing, but at last he managed to find it. Kurbin hopped onto the meeting table, sending papers flying in doing so. Gripping the phillips head, he went to work on the light fixture. After about three minutes of work, the plastic fell far enough away for him to access the cavity within.

"Shitttt!" He cried, burning himself as he snatched away the bug.

Cursing through the worst of it, Azov resecured the fixture before half heartedly atempting to put the room back in order. Dread coursed through him at the thought of that boy reporting what happened. What if the actually OSS was one the case? The possibility put a bit of pep in his step as he strode down the maze of halls and out the front door. The outside teemed with police vehicles and personel. Although the explosions had died down to a few occasional crackles, the scene appeared to be as busy as ever.

He wasn't out of the woods yet.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Tue Dec 25, 2018 9:42 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Department of the Navy
April 18th, 1949
12:15 AM


Two black 1949 model Ford Cruisers pulled up to the already police swarming scene. Dozens of police cars already roamed the area with several law enforcement personnel already taking witness statements. Two suited men exited each blacked out Cruiser, each of them dressed nearly identical. The only variation was in their ties. Outfitted with black wool overcoats and black fedoras, they quickly made to the building steps until a suited man quietly approached them to intercept.

"Hey hey hey! You can't go in there! We're evacuating the building." the suited man approached them.

The four identical men stopped, looking toward the oddball. The man was an evident civilian cop but whether a city cop or federal would be up to dispute. He was too well dressed to be a city cop.

"You OSS?" the lead man asked.

"No...FBI. Can I see some identification?" the Bureau agent asked.

The four men looked among one another, quietly shrugging, looking to the lead man. The lead man dug into his overcoat, even his hands being blacked out by skin-tight leather gloves. He pulled out a badge wallet, exercising his authority. The bronze badge glistened with the bright red and blue lights that came from the police cruisers. The Bureau agent seemed satisfied but still persisted.

"Your turn." one OSS authority stated to the Federal cop.

He complied quickly, taking out his badge wallet that shined a golden FBI badge with his picture ID card below it. He tilted his head, giving him a fake smirk of sass.

"But as I was saying...this whole block is being locked down at the moment. No one allowed in or out." the Bureau man persisted.

The lead man tilted his head at the special agent, stepping down to him slowly with each concrete step until they were face to face.

"Navy building. Our jurisdiction. Understand, Agent...?" the tall dark man asked.

"Myers..." Agent Myers quickly stated.

The tall man smiled at him.

"I'll be sure to put in the report. Until then, tell your men to back off." the tall man stated, leading the three other men up the steps.

The four rather sketchy looking spooks made their way up the steps and into the Navy building. Agent Myers quickly walked by to his cruiser, his partner taking a witness statement from a young sailor nearby.

"Yo! Myers, the boss wants you on the radio. Now go ahead..." Agent Krasinsky, his partner notified him before continuing with the sailor.

"Got it." Myers responded.

"No, sir. I didn't see anything. I was inside when the fireworks? Whatever they were, they were loud. Then some sharply dressed OSS spook asked me to leave and I thought we were under attack so I drew my gun on him naturally and well, he declared who he was and I complied. Their building so I recognized I didn't want to deal with the paperwork..." the young Sailor spoke shakily.

Myers turned around to look at the sailor, examining him closely. He thought nothing of the statement. He reached into his cruiser, grabbing the police radio on the dash.

"Myers." the agent spoke into the radio.

"Myers. About time. Listen, OSS agents are sprawling the area, probably because of the intelligence buildings on your block. Make sure to let them pass. They're usually all-" the older man on the other side was cut off.

"Blacked out, yeah...I got that. Just had a little high noon standoff with them." Myers responded.

"Did you win?" the boss man on the other end was laughing to himself.

"Thanks for the info boss. Myers out." Myers put the radio away, scoffing to himself.

Myers stood at the door, resting one arm on the door and the other on the roof of the car. He examined the front entrance of the building, looking over to Krasinsky who was finishing up. Then the sound of the front door opening was faintly heard. Although no one else noticed, Myers turned his attention to the door, seeing a black-suited man exit. The man was blond with a slim build. He could barely make out the bone structure of a Slavic man. He squinted at the man before shunning him off as an OSS agent. Something was different though. He was alone. This very thought raced through his mind. On top of that, he remembered the sailor's statement. The OSS had just arrived. Whoever it was, was NOT OSS. Myers looked back up, seeing the blacked out man exit the scene. The agent reached into the cruiser, taking out a small walkie.

"Krasinsky. Keep in touch." Myers informed his partner that he had a walkie in his hands.

"Where the hell are you—always on the move..." his partner sighed watching Myers quickly run after a man no one else had seen.

Myers clipped the walkie to his belt, quietly drawing his .38 revolver from his hip holster. The Bureau agent quietly disappeared into the night, after the lone man.
Last edited by Insurgia on Tue Dec 25, 2018 9:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Wed Dec 26, 2018 11:34 am

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Department of the Navy
April 18th, 1949
12:20 AM


The empty sidewalk rang with the percussive beat of footsteps. Two pairs of them, by the sound of it. Fear fluttered in Azov's chest, urging his hand toward the pistol in his jacket pocket. It took all the presence of mind within him to keep from shooting his possible pursuer. What if he wasn't law enforcement at all? Perhaps they just happened to be going in the same direction? Maybe he was just being paranoid? These questions and more raced through his mind, crippling his decision-making process. There were only a few yards of street left before the next turn.

Running would only stir further suspicion, likely leading to his arrest. Walking on like this wouldn't be much better, though. He wracked his brain for anything, anything at all to lose this man. Even if it was just for the night, it'd be a godsend for the mission at large. Still plagued by cluelessness, the footsteps behind him were closing the gap.

Turning a sharp left onto Fremont Street, the neon lights of a 24/7 diner beaconed to him. Escape. In such a populated place, there was no chance of a full-fledged confrontation. Not with the risk of a gunfight. At the very least, it offered a temporary reprieve. Straying further left from the sidewalk, he entered the greasy spoon. David's Burgers read the sign above the door, in all capital letters.

"Welcome to David's. What can I do ya for, mister?" The tired fry cook asked, moseying over to the restaurant's old-timey register.

Azov paused a bit as he saw his hunter walking into eyeshot of the window. OSS, by the looks. Real OSS. Sweat poured down his face. Act natural

"A number four with a side of fries, please. Oh, and could I get an ice cream float on the side, please?" He asked, glancing down at the menu placed in front of him.

After some clanking and jangling from the mechanical monstrosity behind the counter, the clerk pulled the lever.

"That'll run ya three credits." He said, marking down the order on a notepad.

Rummaging through his nearly empty billfold, Azov paid up before sitting down. If there was to be a showdown, he sure as hell wouldn't be doing it on an empty stomach.
Last edited by Intresha on Wed Dec 26, 2018 10:45 pm, edited 2 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
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Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Wed Dec 26, 2018 3:53 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
David's Burgers
April 18th, 1949
12:23 AM


Myers kept close to not lose the man but he saw a corner coming up. He knew this was an effective way to lose a tail. The Bureau agent slowly began to pick up the pace, closing in the gap on the slav. Then the slav turned the corner. Shit. Myers began out in a full-on sprint to the corner, stopping and hugging the wall before he made the turn. He quietly peeked around the wall, only to see the door of a diner close and a couple walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. A look of frustration came upon his face. He pulled his head back into cover, hesitantly thinking. He reached for his belt, taking the walkie.

"Krasinsky, you there?" Myers spoke through the walkie.

A hint of static was received before a recognized voice responded.

"Yeah I'm here. What the hell you doin'?" Krasinsky asked.

"I'm on West 54th and Fremont...there's an uh...David's joint." Myers replied.

"...you feelin' froggy for a burger?" Krasinsky laughed.

"Just get here." Myers scolded.

"Rog. On my way pal." Krasinsky ended.

The Bureau agent quietly peeked out again to the sidewalk, seeing it was empty. The pavement below lit up by the neon lights of the diner's sign hanging above. Holstering his .38, he quietly began to move to the diner. He gathered himself, running his hand through his air, attempting to make himself look somewhat presentable. As he went for the door, he passed by the window, only giving the interior a brief examination before grabbing the knob. Pulling it open, he was met by a very empty introduction.

"Welcome to David's!" a tired waitress yelled.

Myers simply nodded and waved at her before proceeding to the cash register.

"What can I get you, sir?" the tired cook asked.

Just get me a cheeseburger with fries. Easy enough?" Myers told the man, nonchalantly looking around the diner.

"You know what kind of cheese, sir?" the cook continued.

There was a brief moment of ignoring the cook before he turned back to the register.

"Surprise me, yeah?" Myers smiled.

The cook quickly rung the Bureau man up, pulling the loud lever.

"Two credits, please."

Myers quickly set down a $5 bill before his search for a seat. The place was packed. Probably the busiest he's ever seen it at this time of night. Finally catching a seat, he relaxed, trying to look as normal as possible. He had a good view of the door, the only public entrance to the diner, despite the large crowd tonight. He waited quietly, examining the crowd and through the passing bodies, Myers made out the face he saw earlier. The appearance matched completely. He was here. There were too many possible casualties. The bell to the door rang once more. He looked over to see Krasinsky had arrived.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Wed Dec 26, 2018 10:45 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
David's Burgers
April 18th, 1949
12:26 AM


His eyes grew wide and his stomach weak as the FBI gentleman took his seat. He clearly wasn't here for the burgers either. Matters got even worse when a second suited man entered, joining the first at his table. Officially outnumbered, Azov threw a fry into the back of his mouth. He chewed slowly, if only to buy time. They didn't seem to mind the wait, however.

More than anything, Kurbin needed a new strategy. Eventually, one side would act. If he arrived back at the hotel, they'd just wait outside. Should he fight, he'd most certainly be compromised. On the other hand... It would give him time to hide the bug... Perhaps even enough to contact the Chairman and explain the situation. Escaping on foot wasn't a possibility, though. Not with the nine or ten blocks of empty road between here and the hotel, at the very least.

Gulping down the last bit of his ice cream float, it dawned on Kurbin. It would be a gamble, but one survival insisted on. Approaching the counter, Azov rung the bell and waited patiently.

"Anything wrong, sir?" The ditzy waitress asked, almost genuinely concerned.

"No, but I was wondering if you guys had a phone. I was looking to make a call if you'd be so generous." Charmed the Spy.

He intentionally left out that he planned on calling a cab, specifically. Perhaps they'd spend enough time thumbing through phone records to allow for his hasty escape. It was a small chance, but still a possibility.

Seemingly relieved that he wasn't just another moaning customer, the hostess nodded tiredly.

"Right this way, sir." She smiled, guiding him to a set of double doors.

The phone hung up on a hook outside of a small office. Covered in grease residue and hand prints, it was honestly more comparable to a gas station toilet seat than a telecommunications device. Under any other circumstances, Azov would've gladly looked elsewhere to make his call. However, desperate times called for desperate measures. He took out his pocket book, inspecting the list of essential numbers he had noted down.

The call was brief and polite, including the estimated fare and about how long it would take for the man to arrive. Putting the phone back on the rack, Kurbin was all too tempted to call home. Maybe they could nab him on a call to the Urasol, but not to his wife. Right? Sighing, he turned to walk away. It would have to wait. Again.

Finding a nice seclude seat at the bar, he waited patiently for his ride.
Last edited by Intresha on Wed Dec 26, 2018 10:50 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

User avatar
Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Wed Dec 26, 2018 11:10 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
David's Burgers
April 18th, 1949
12:30 AM


Myers nonchalantly watched the spy at the bar, having taken into account he made a call. Probably to update his status. Krasinsky sat across from him, confused as ever. A waitress soon came by, laying down Myers' order before taking Krasinsky on what he wanted. The waitress soon went back to the kitchen. Krasinsky looked to the younger agent.

"So what the hell is going on?" the senior asked.

"Sharp dressed man in black. At the bar. Blond. Matches the description the sailor gave doesn't it?" Myers pointed out, keeping his gaze to Krasinsky.

Krasinsky slowly leaned back in his seat, taking a stretch. He turned his gaze to the bar, seeing the man. He looked back to Myers.

"The sailor said he was OSS." Krasinsky inquired.

"No no—four OSS agents showed up while you were getting your statement." Myers informed.

The thoughts raced through Krasinsky's head. It finally all connected and hit him. He darted his gaze to the slav at the bar. Then back to Myers.

"Well what the hell are we waiting for?" the senior asked.

"Just waiting for your go ahead." Myers answered.

The senior squinted at Myers as to insinuate there has never been a time where Myers has asked for approval. Always on the move. Krasinsky nodded to Myers.

The two got up from their seats simultaneously, heading to the bar. Quietly taking up seats on either side of the man, Myers sat to his left, setting his badge wallet on the counter wide open for the man to examine.

"You know espionage is a felony right...and during peacetime, the penalty can be imprisonment for any term of years or—death." Myers fished.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Thu Dec 27, 2018 4:30 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
David's Burgers
April 18th, 1949
12:35 AM


Sure they'd be gaining on him soon enough, Azov darted towards the waiting cab. Slamming the door on his way in, he pulled his revolver. Pressing the cold metal against the cabby's temple, he leaned into the man's ear. Understandably petrified by his situation, it was clear that Kurbin didn't need to compete for the driver's attention.

"Drive. Drive as fast as you can. When I tell you to stop, you will stop. Any sudden movements and I'll send your brains all over that windshield? Capiche?" The Spy snarled, clicking the hammer into place.

The car was already a street and a half away by the time he finished his sentence. Taking a look in the rearview every few minutes or so, he wondered if the agents would catch up. No, when they'd catch up. This ride was destined to end in one way and one way only. His capture. Or worse, his death. Watching the empty storefronts and dark alleyways flash by, he wondered how much longer he had. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes? Give or take an additional five, depending on how long it took them to get to a car.

Azov Kurbin was never able to properly resign himself to death, however. Not in that Marathonnian trench back in '46. Not in South Calypsan bunker back in '35. Tonight would not be an exception. Not if he had anything to say about it. The next few minutes unfolded independently of him, as though some kind of autopilot assumed control of his body. Taking off his suit jacket, he tossed it into the lap of the cabbie.

"You'll take the next right into this alley. Then you'll put this on. Then you'll run, and you won't stop running. Stop running, and those chasing me will kill you. Now get ready, your turn is coming up." Kurbin dictated in his best monotone.

The driver, now silently sobbing, took the turn into the unlit alley. There were many like it on the street, but this one was special. A storm drain rounded the corner between the two paralell buildings... A storm drain just wide enough to fit a human body. At least one as slender as his, anyway. As the car pulled to a stop, the cabbie knew what the had to do. Struggling into the undersized jacket, he ran off into the night. And just in time, too. Headlights flashed in the darkened windows of businesses and shops. They weren't far behind. With any luck, they'd take the bait.

Tucking the bug into his shirt pocket, Azov flattened himself on the ground. His chest pressed to the asphalt, he attempted to slide down into the gutter. About halfway through, his upper torso became stuck. Dangling halfway inside the sewer, he exhaled as hard as he could. Still nothing. The roar of engines grew closer still. Pushing away with his arms, he finally managed to do it.

The Spy fell feet first into about three feet of unidentifiable sludge, landing right on his ass. Luckily, the mush seemed to break his fall. Taking inventory of his extremities, nothing appeared broken or strained. The abominable smell alerted him quickly that the substance in question was indeed human excrement. Sighing, he recalled similar situations and worse.

Shoving his gun into his arm holster, Kurbin proceeded without fear into the pitch darkness. Covered in shit and a hundred and ten percent lost, the Spy trudged through the knee-high mire of human waste. Topside, the manhunt would continue to escalate. Down here, at least, the only thing getting caught would be cholera.
Last edited by Intresha on Thu Dec 27, 2018 9:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

User avatar
Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Dec 27, 2018 9:18 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
54th Street
April 18th, 1949
12:45 AM


The cruiser rolled by countless alleyways. The two agents inside obviously clueless as to where the suspect had gone. Myers sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the passing buildings, examining them closely.

"You were on to something, Myers. He ran for a reason." Krasinsky spoke to try and uplift his spirits.

"He did. Quickly too. You think he had something to do with those fireworks?" the young agent inquired.

Krasinsky was taken back by the thought of it. He only gave a grunt and a nod of his head as an answer; Myers acknowledged it.

"Ought to put it out on the network." Krasinsky spoke.

Myers only responded by grabbing the radio on the dash, pulling microphone off it. He quickly spoke into it.

"This is Agent Myers, I need an All-Points Bulletin on a white male, blond hair, slim build. Anywhere from 5'11" to 6'1". He'll likely have changed appearance but he was last seen wearing a black three-piece suit and escaped forcefully with a yellow cab. The suspect should be considered armed and dangerous. Copy?" Myers put it through.

The thought process was cut short when a man ran out in front of the street, nearly getting run over. Thankfully enough, the cruiser was moving slow enough not to maul him. The man seemed distressed and wearing an awfully familiar suit jacket. The two agents looked at the man; he was obviously not their man. The fear was present in his eyes though and through seeing the two agents, he decided to make a run for it. Krasinsky put the cruiser in park, exiting the vehicle. Myers simply tugged the radio once more.

"Suspect has dropped his suit jacket." Myers simply spoke, stepping out of the cruiser himself.

"HALT!" Krasinsky yelled in the direction of the cab driver.

The man continued on down the street, cutting into an alley about a block down.

"Son of a bitch." Krasinsky cursed to himself.

"He's not our guy." Myers looked to the senior.

Krasinsky looked to Myers. Then the sound of the radio came from the cruiser. Myers dropped down back into the cruiser.

"Say again?" Myers spoke.

"APB confirmed. All agents on assignment are now being retasked." the voice over the radio confirmed.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Bureaucrat
 
Posts: 63
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Iron Fist Consumerists

Postby Intresha » Fri Dec 28, 2018 9:29 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Sewers
April 18th, 1949
2:24 AM


Absent of his sense of time, Azov suspected that his journey thus far probably spanned the frame of two hours or so. Omitting the occasional flicker of an overhead light, the winding maze of tunnels he found himself lost in were wholly dark. At least the shit river had receded to a mere trickle underfoot. More concerning though, his pathway had begun to slope downward. Before long, he knew the decline would end in a sheer drop. Surprisingly, this wasn't his first rodeo in the sewer. Well, at least not this particular sewer. Case in point, the Spy understood that he couldn't maintain his course.

Turning up at some treatment plant would only secure his demise, either at the hands of those agents or by some churning vat of biowaste. After watching a few people go that way, Azov concluded that drowning was no way to go. No, no, there had to be a superior exit strategy. And of course, there was. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Kurbin felt the walls around him carefully. Covered in grime and moss, the concrete bricks ended abruptly about a foot above him. A ledge. Naturally, a catwalk existed the whole time. Fuck.

Hoisting himself up the platform, he continued with his prior strategy. It took a solid four or five minutes, but he finally hit paydirt. Built into the wall itself, metal rungs jutted out. Overhead, the faint glimmer of moonlight flooded in. The exit beaconed to him. If he could get out without being detected, he could easily pass for a homeless man. After removing most identifiable articles of the suit, obviously. Then all he'd have to do would be to flee. But to where?

Befuddled and alone, the Spy slid down against the wall. He'd require a destination before blindly stumbling into the night. That and the upcoming hours would provide ample time for the cops to wind down operations topside. Even Johnny do-gooder up there needed to get some sleep, sometime or another. The wee hours of the morning offered the perfect window for escape. No pedestrians. No witnesses. Limited opposition. Now, all that was left to do was to play the waiting game.

At the very least, it seemed he wouldn't be doing it alone... Kurbin hesitantly engaged in a staring contest with a pair of fluorescent yellow eyes. With the creature at an unknown distance, Azov didn't dare move a muscle. Gripping his gun, he prayed. For the mission. For his wife. For himself.

If the police didn't kill him, the Spy pondered, the wait just certainly might.
Last edited by Intresha on Fri Dec 28, 2018 9:46 pm, edited 3 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“...God graces our Slavic race once again with multitudinous victories both domestically and at across the sea in Montietam. While the Bolsheviks stand on the precipice of total defeat, the Insurgian titan quivers with fear before the might of the Union of All Christendom... The nation also welcomes the ascendancy of Vozhd Duscha Morozov as Tsar and Autocrat of All Intreshans. May his reign be blessed and fruitful...”

“Uphold Orthodoxy. Shun the outsider. Hail Intresha, Hail Morozov.”

END OF BROADCAST

User avatar
Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 333
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Anarchy

Postby Insurgia » Sat Dec 29, 2018 6:22 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Kelly International Airport
April 18th, 1949
6:01 AM


The unending traffic of the airport was suddenly divided by the squad of suited men who had suddenly come through the main entrance. Two security guards quietly approached to intercept but were quickly shut down by Special Agent Myers who had speedily taken out his badge.

"Head of Security?" Myers demanded.

"...uh, yes, sir. Follow me." the guard requested.

The squad of suits followed the uniformed guard in his white dress shirt, outfitted with a shiny golden badge on his chest. The incoming and outgoing travelers quickly made way for the incoming feds. It wasn't long when they finally reached the Chief of Airport Security. Senior Special Agent Krasinsky quickly sat down in the office with Myers. The rest of the suits waited outside, keeping watch for anything suspicious. The Chief was vastly overweight. The standards of security here had obviously gone down.

"What can I do you for?" the Chief was quick to it.

"I need a dossier for any foreigner's that came into the country in the past two weeks. Particularly those of Slavic origin. Karaqi. Marathonnian. Intreshan. Southern Abathonian. All of it. In the meantime, I want you your security on the lookout for a white male. Blond hair. Slim build. He's a wanted fugitive and we believe he will attempt to flee the country. I'll also need a list of flights from the past two weeks that came in from those particular regions and countries." Krasinsky spoke in his most monotone voice.

"Uh...is this man dangerous?" the fat man sounded nervous.

"He should be considered so..." Krasinsky spoke.

The Senior Agent got up from the chair; Myers stood at the door.

"I'm putting two dozen men on overwatch and security detail here for the next couple of days. I need those lists by tonight. That'll be all." Krasinsky was most demanding.

The two FBI agents walked out, allowing the jaw-dropped Chief to think about what just happened in solitude. Myers and Krasinsky stayed from the main traffic, allowing for some talk. All around them, other suited men waited.

"Dossiers and lists? Background checks?" Myers asked.

"If he's a spy, he wouldn't have used his real name. The process of elimination." Krasinsky spoke.

"Find the fake...find the flight." Myers responded.

"If he makes it out of the country, we can still get that information. By then though, it'll be the problem of our friends in black. We won't have operation jurisdiction at that point." Krasinsky sighed.

"...so what next?" Myers was eager.

"We need to notify every possible port and dock we can...along with Border Patrol..." Krasinsky rolled his eyes.

"We don't have enough men for that." Myers pointed out the obvious.

"Yes, I know...but we'll have to do what we can. Get back to the Bureau, put it on the wire. Every available agent off-duty or on irrelevant assignment be called back in." Krasinsky ordered.

"On it." Myers was never hesitant.

The young agent range-walked down the stairs and back into the cruiser, heading back to the Bureau HQ. The manhunt would soon be underway.
✪✪Radio Free Abathon✪✪: June 11th, 1949

"...I know what you're saying, Joe...we got Toriddian troops down there. On our continent. I mean, they say we got nothing to worry about...and what about that flu-epidemic...in the Dycen States? Yeah, that one..."

"...whether you're an Intreshan refugee, displaced Marathonnian, Jew, Gentile or just a hardy Insurgian lurking in the southern states...stay free folks or the enemy will get you..."




General Information
The Independent Republic of Insurgia is a radical-center constitutional republic.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 16.4 civilization, according to this index.

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