NATION

PASSWORD

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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Intresha
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Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Fri Sep 06, 2019 8:52 am

Terra Incognita, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
3rd Landing Group
July 4th, 1949
12:34 AM

Fire streaked across the night sky and into the tree line as the flamethrower crews advanced. With most of the high command picked off by sniper fire, they were now tasked with paving the way for the rest of the general infantry and armored corps. It was rumored that defoliant agents would be deployed in the next round of air raids. The Private knew that it would be of little use, though.

In his very short time on the front, he had already witnessed the ingenious savagery of his enemy. He saw half a dozen men maimed by a shrapnel bomb. Not even four hours later, he had the pleasure of witnessing a man getting impaled - the aftermath, anyway. He was a flamethrower trooper. Apparently, he had fallen through some foliage into a spiked pit. A spiked pit. It was there, looking at the ruptured body of a man he had never known, that the Private knew for certain that this war would come at a great cost. Likely not to himself, however.

Placed at the far back of the column, he was about as far removed from the shit as one could get. He wasn’t complaining, though. With a wife back home and a newborn on the way, life and limb were just about the most important things to him. Here, trudging through the mud and mosquito laden jungle, he tried not to think about them. He had enough worries as it was. The only thing that mattered now was linking up with Antonescu’s forces at Tuartau.

His thoughts of home were abruptly broken by the halting of the column. A bad omen according to practically anybody. He cautiously chambered a round in his Mosin-Nagant. In the following moments, the standard cacophony of the Verdunese forest dissipated to muteness. The birds stopped in the middle of their songs. The distant rustle of the underbrush ceased. Hell, even the mosquitos quit buzzing for a second.

”AMBUSH!” The cry was anonymous.

The first gunshots came from the head of the column, but were far from being the only ones. They melted in from the trees. On every side, including the rear. Verdunese paratroopers.

Before he knew it, the Private was a inch away from one of them. Wrestling for his life, he attempted to club him with the butt of his rifle, but only succeeded in getting disarmed. The brute threw him to the ground, bowie knife in hand. The two wrestled for a time before the Verdunian pinned him to the ground for good. The Private managed to grab the soldier’s wrist, though, securing him precious seconds to struggle. He grabbed his neck, and didn’t stop grabbing. His veins coursed icy cold, and he knew nothing but his instinct to survive. The paratrooper’s grip on his knife loosened before it dropped to the forest floor. The mans eyes began to bulge as his fingers dug in deeper and curled tighter around his windpipe. He could feel it now, the whole trachea. He pulled. Nothing came out, but the struggle was indeed over.

The Private would never forget the eyes that stared down at him. Those bloated, beady, bloodshot eyes. The eyes of a dead man.

His first kill would haunt him for the rest of his life.

In the interim, he pushed past his own nausea and threw the corpse off of his chest. Staggering in the mud, he looked around.

The chaos was over. He ran up to a passing soldier, still panting from the exertion of his confrontation.

”What happened? Where the hell did they go?” He asked, now realizing he was coated head to toe in mud.

The much older infantryman looked the twenty year old, flicking a cigarette butt onto the ground.

”Dead or back into the woods. Where have you been for the past hour, kid” He laughed before continuing forward.

Time had elapsed so quickly. What felt like twelve seconds had actually been sixty minutes. It sent shivers down his aching spine.

Walking the impromptu road made by the men in front of him, he studied the carcasses of his less fortunate countrymen. The horror on their faces frozen for all eternity to see. He thought about how easily it could’ve been him.

In his bedroll that night, he didnt sleep. He stared drowsily at the canopy, too scared of his own dreams to fall asleep. This would be the case for the next night, and all of his nights to come.
Last edited by Intresha on Wed Oct 16, 2019 1:40 pm, edited 3 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Toridd
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Founded: Apr 03, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Toridd » Sat Sep 07, 2019 1:37 pm

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Perschel Palace
August 4th, 1949
2:22 PM


Ten years ago, Shoshanna Lestrange, was too young to fight. She couldn't pick up a weapon to safe her life, not like now. Ten years ago, the Marathonnians invaded. They raped, pillaged, plundered. Brutality was their calling. She witnessed it. It made her weary. She saw her family take up arms and make sacrifices that one shouldn't have to make. That's how it was though. Accompanying the distant rumble of artillery fire, a voice snapped her out of her trance.

"What was it like?"

Shoshanna gazed to her left, seeing the young boy sitting against the wall. He was maybe 15 or 16. A bolt-action Springfield on his lap. She locked eyes with him, evaluating what he was asking. She returned her gaze between the wooden planks that covered the windows, looking out into the nations heart. Craters littered the streets, though many buildings still stood. The Verdunian 1st Army had managed to halt the Toriddian advance from the north but there was news of a foreign army incoming from the east. Word was they would slam head on into the 9th Army. Word was the 9th was severely exhausted. Many guessed when it did happen, it wouldn't take long for the turkey shoot to end.

After that, no conventional army would stand in the way of Slavograd. Just her and a merry band of civilians. About fifty to one hundred of them; they occupied the symbol of communist hierarchy which covered about three square blocks. In the upper levels of the palace, a small detachment of Verdunian Army personnel. Around twenty of them. Half of them were officers. They were roomed upstairs with a working HAM radio.

"It was brutal." she muttered.

"How so?" the boy inquired.

"Kid, the Marathonnians were wiped out by the Christians...by being more brutal, we're going to have to one up them...if we can." she finished.

A somber silence came from the kid. Shoshanna gripped her StG-44, slinging it quietly over her shoulder. With three motions and a hair-tie, she quickly secured her strawberry blonde hair into a bun, a few strands escaping her grasp and resting on her temples. The boy's gaze indicated attraction but there was no such time for a luxury like that. Shoshanna checked her watch, looking down the semi-busy hallway. Some civilians found comfort in walking around; many were antsy and restless. She stood up, darting her way up the stairs to the second floor. The difference was visual. The more she paced deeper into the second floor, the more the appearance of the combatants changed. There was a cut off point to where Verdunian military personnel were allowed and where civilian resistance fighters were not. Shoshanna was about halfway down the hallway when the two olive-drabbed uniforms halted her.

"Out of my way!"

"Ms. Lestrange, please...the General won't see you—"

The brown double doors about ten feet down the way opened up, halting the conversation. A tall, slim, definitely older man exited.

"That's fine, gentlemen. Ms. Lestrange...if you would please." the General waved her over.

Her small frame and height would make it seem anyone taller would by default garner a condescending gaze. Instead, Shoshanna devilishly glared at the two soldiers that had previously man handled her. They backed up, allowing her room to walk. She paced forward once again, turning into the Palace Council Chamber. It was a large room with about one hundred seats. A few red banners hung around the room, though many had been requisitioned for the front. Several officers sat in the center, some noticing the young girl. The doors shut behind her.

"My apologies, gentlemen...I'm sure you're all acquainted with Miss Lestrange...she's running civilian resistance cells behind the line—"

"Was. Was running. Can't really run anything when communication is cut but...we're hopeful...a lot of good people have died..." Shoshanna remarked.

"Good people die everyday...hell...the 9th Army is—" a Captain put his bit in.

"Negative thoughts will bring about demise faster. The 9th Army can handle the Intreshans...they're but peasants." a Major added.

"And what of our soldiers? What are they, if not peasants?" the General's words quieted them.

Shoshanna adjusted the StG on her shoulder. The rifle itself disgruntled many in the room, whom were Great War veterans. She was new to war. Experienced already but still very new.

"Have you heard anything from the Allies?" Shoshanna asked, breaking the silence.

"The Insurgians are dealing with Dycen..." the General muttered.

"Dy...cen?"

"Some dictator on Vaudus...killing thousands with some weaponized flu...he's got a higher body count than the Committee apparently...more demand for attention or something...either way, we're on our own for now. Until the new boy grows a pair or they find another President..."

The crew of officers sighed almost in unison, knowing the Insurgians had surely damned them to certain death. A pair of fast steps came from the hallway. The double doors pushed open. Shoshanna turned on her heels, gripping the sling on her StG. Another olive-drab, catching his breath, adjusting his officers cap and uniform while pacing in. Shoshanna could decipher that he was a Lieutenant Colonel. One in good shape.

He struck a salute.

"Afternoon, sir."

The General returned it.

"What do you got?"

"News from the front...the 9th Army...has made contact."

A pen dropped. An eerie silence filled the room. Shoshanna's lips parted in realization. Everyone looked from the Lt. Colonel to the General. The old man blinked uncomfortably.

"God help them."
✯✯Republic News Network✯✯: June 11th, 1949

"...in recent light of the invasion of Verdun, many foreign military observers have flocked to Montietam to watch the action unfold, many of whom under Allied orders...while there has been no direct military intervention on behalf of Allied powers, military tension is at all time high with reports of an Insurgian fleet en route to Montietam..."

"May He hear our prayers and find us truly worthy of His kingdom."



General Information
The Republic of Toridd is a theocratic, Neo-puritanical autocracy.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 21.2 civilization, according to this index.

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Intresha
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Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Wed Sep 11, 2019 7:18 pm

Standard Infantry Camp, The People’s Republic of Verdun, Montietam
3rd Landing Group
August 4th, 1949
6:42 AM


”Men of the 9th: The end is coming. In the north, the Toriddians prepare for final victory. In the south, our soldiers continue to land. You’re outmanned and outgunned. Don’t play hero for your Communist overlords. There is no dishonor in retreat, and in defeat there is only death...” The Private read the sloppily translated Verdunese printed at the bottom of the leaflet.

The lone copy had circled around the camp for the past couple of days, changing hands between anyone who cared enough to read it. They had dropped hundreds of them over Slavograd since the start of the week. Some fool figured it would weaken the enemy’s resolve. The Private scoffed at the very notion.

The Verdunese 9th Army was many things, but cowardly was not one of them. Their encounters with the Toriddians had been brutal and decisive. To say that some of the men were frightened by the rumors was the understatement of the year.

Sitting by the fire, he took a swig from the flask as it made its way to him. He drank deep, hoping to perhaps find courage at the bottom of the container. His comrades looked morose as they watched the sun begin its slow climb over the distant cityscape.

He watched as the brass sped around the camp in their staff cars, the air force men not far behind them on foot. There would be an extensive aerial bombardment coupled with the ground assault. Checking his pocket watch, the private kept his eye on the sky. It would’t be long now.

”I heard they boil their prisoners alive.” One of his compatriots piped up, fixing his eyes on the dying fire.

Another, more aged man grinned in response.

”Don’t worry, Levka. I don’t think Slavograd has an aquarium that would fit you. Jested Ravil, lighting a cigarette.

The sullenness of the group was interrupted by rollicking laughter.

”You know,” The Private began.

”You shouldn’t be so hard on Lev. Make him too mad and one of these days he’s bound to sit on your old ass.” He finished, trying to continue the trend.

As the men continued the teasing, the Private watched as the first planes began to take off for the city. They wouldn’t be carrying paper this time.

M3A3s and M-84s rumbled down the road adjacent to the camp’s outskirts, creeping to the base of the hill. They would lead the charge before the standard infantry and B.H. flooded in to overwhelm whatever survived in the city

The squadron watched somberly as the bombers came into range of the 9th’s anti aircraft guns. It was like watching lightning strike up from the ground. And while the Private harbored pity for the airmen that would inevitably fall, he felt more gratitude for them than anything. Every Verdunese they killed was one fewer he would have to face.

”How many tonnes do you reckon they’ll drop today?” The Private nearly whispered.

Taking a lengthy drag from his cigarette, Ravil grumbled his nearly instant response.

”Not enough. Never enough.” He told the rookie, exhaling smoke from his nose
Last edited by Intresha on Thu Sep 12, 2019 10:16 am, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Toridd
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Founded: Apr 03, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Toridd » Wed Sep 11, 2019 11:10 pm

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Perschel Palace
August 4th, 1949
9:33 PM


The distant sound of gunfire kept the palace residents on their toes, moving about cautiously in the dark palace with but a few lanterns lit. The 9th Army didn't stance a chance. It would be quick and within a couple of hours, maybe sooner, the Intreshans would be here. Shoshanna paced the first floor, listening in on the gunfire, deciphering it. StG's, Mosin-Nagants, PPSh's, to name a few. She could make out in the bitter distance, the exposing color of flares in the sky, lighting the ground below. The gunfire just grew more intense. A grenade explodes. She listens. There was almost a second of silence before a DP-27 ripped a couple of poor souls to shreds. The distant shouts of some foreign language sent shivers down her spine.

An engine nears, she paces quickly the front of the palace, catching a glimpse of the military truck pulling around to the front. Supplies. Ammunition and medical supplies. Food wasn't exactly priority. There were enough K-Rations, however, to feed them. Coming upon the front entrance, several other uniforms are present. A few civilians also crowd. Shoshanna stands by to watch as several men unload the truck with crates. Some bearing the Insurgian mark.

"LUKAS! TAKE A THOUSAND ROUNDS AND PUT YOURSELF UP ON THE THIRD FLOOR! TAKE AN EXTRA THOUSAND ACTUALLY!" the Sergeant quickly shoved a young Corporal belts of ammunition.

"WE GOT SOME ANTI-TANK SHELLS! PUT THAT IN THE FOYER WITH THE 105!" he quickly barked orders as they disembarked with the supplies.

Shoshanna approached the now shallow front door, the Sergeant turning as she neared.

"What's the news, if you don't mind?" she asked.

"The Toriddians are engaged with the 1st Army..." he stopped, looking around.

He paced forward, tugging her along into a more private distance away from the other soldiers and civilians.

"It sounded bad on the comms...a lot of our soldiers don't have enough ammunition to even give ten rifle rounds to each man...we're lucky we got this shipment."

"How long you think till the Intreshans swamp the 9th?" she asks.

"An hour...maybe two...you got the manpower...the 'Surgians gave us a hell of a lot of explosive, mind setting it up?"

Shoshanna walked toward the truck once more, viewing the interior. About two dozen crates untouched. She did the calculations. That equaled out to twenty-four Amatol filled bombs that could be wired and buried. She gave the Sergeant a glance and quickly strutted off into the first floor, quickly collecting the more physically capable civilians for the haunting job of booby-trapping every way into the square. It wasn't long before buff and burly men were hauling these crates from block to block with crews of three of four with shovels and other such equipment. Every road in a three block radius would be wired and ready.

"IS THIS HOLE BIG ENOUGH!" the young boy was struggling with the shovel.

"No no...it needs to be wider...we're not going to be able to bury it..."

The sound of gunfire unsettled them. It was a little closer. They recognized the sound of an FN-FAL. The Toriddian Battle Rifle.

"Christ..." the kid swore.

"Hurry. Double time!" the other two quickly pitched in more with their shovels.

A block south of the palace, Shoshanna aided a pair of female youths bury the large bomb under the ruble, successfully wiring it into the nearby apartment adjacent. They would do an alright job of hiding the wire under the dust but the darkness itself would do fine. Shoshanna was as collected as ever until she heard the ruble move. Spinning on her heel, she brought her StG-44 to eye level, taking aim at the figure maybe ten feet away. The man must have been over six feet, in a sort of green camouflaged rig and garb. The rifle in hand gave it away. The man in question was indeed a Toriddian. He had already taken aim. The two younger girls finally notice, their eyes widening as they see the man.

"Don't panic..." Shoshanna whispers.

"...what the hell do you want me to do..." one of the girls responded with a snarl.

Sweat poured off her head as she gazed down the iron sights of her StG. She could now make out the figures of two men behind the first one.

"Drop the weapon." his Insurgian was clear and crisp.

"Fuck that." hers was even better.

The man readjusted his grip on the battle rifle, his two subordinates covering him.

"I won't ask aga—"

A rip of gunfire exuded from the little girl next to Shoshanna. Locking it in position at hip level, she let the .45 Thompson lose into the trio. Two of them diving away from the barrage. The third not even aware of what was happening until he was ripped apart by .45 ACP. Shoshanna trembled, almost dropping her rifle. She shook herself awake, looking at the remaining pair. One adjusted his position, gripping his FAL. Shoshanna didn't hesitate, spraying in their general direction. Two rounds downed the culprit. One ended up cutting into the calf of the survivor. A scream of pain came from the man.

"HANDS! PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP!" Shoshanna approached, keeping the rifle aimed.

The Toriddian quickly raised his hands into the air, revealing his pair of combat gloves, rather a luxury in the field of battle. She pranced closer, essentially shoving the rifles end in his face. She could hear in the distance, other Partisans rushing over to answer the gunfire.

"Remove your headgear, slowly..." she sounded her words out, almost mocking his tongue.

The Toriddian slowly did so, first with the helmet, then with the balaclava. The man was very young, perhaps in his last twenties. She could see, however, under all that green was a rank. She squinted at it, lowering the rifle down into the fabric of his parka, pulling it down to get a better view of the tab. Three stars. A handful of Partisans approached, slowing down from their light jog over. The group examined Shoshanna before examining the surrendered Toriddian troop. A middle aged male drew his revolver from his belt.

"No, Jon...he's a prisoner of war..." Shoshanna explained.

"What the fuck you mean? Prisoner of—fuck that. These guys don't give a damn about us...we ought to return that brutality." he pulled the hammer back.

"He's valuable...he's a High Commander..." she whispered to him.

The man gave her a glance, placing it over to the Toriddian.

"Get him back to the palace for questioning...take these two as well." he gestured to the bodies.

The group of Partisans quickly picked up the bodies and their gear, quietly returning to the palace with one prisoner of war.
✯✯Republic News Network✯✯: June 11th, 1949

"...in recent light of the invasion of Verdun, many foreign military observers have flocked to Montietam to watch the action unfold, many of whom under Allied orders...while there has been no direct military intervention on behalf of Allied powers, military tension is at all time high with reports of an Insurgian fleet en route to Montietam..."

"May He hear our prayers and find us truly worthy of His kingdom."



General Information
The Republic of Toridd is a theocratic, Neo-puritanical autocracy.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 21.2 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Toridd
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Posts: 21
Founded: Apr 03, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Toridd » Thu Sep 12, 2019 9:23 am

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Perschel Palace
August 4th, 1949
11:42 PM


Another haymaker connects to his jaw, launching his head like a rag doll to either direction he took impact. Aside from a broken nose, several lacerations on the face and a bullet wound to the right shin, this was the last place Bartlett expected to be. In the dim light of the basement, a lone ceiling lamp swung violently, illuminating the group of Partisans that occupied the small setting. Shoshanna stood at the rearmost from the prisoner, watching as the Toriddian received a few more lunges to the face. A swarm of violent footsteps rushed down to the basement. She turned, examining the descending group. A bunch of olive-drabs. One of the few Captains at the head of them. They finished their descent.

The Captain removes his headgear, running a hand through his jet black hair. The brute that was tediously punishing the Toriddian, Jon, retreated to the Captain. The rest of the Partisans dispersed into the darkness. Some even going back upstairs. Shoshanna remained, watching Bartlett spit out some blood to his right flank.

"Anything?"

"Nothing...this guy is sealed tight..."

"Let me." Shoshanna spoke up.

The two men looked at her, almost as if they questioned her sincerity.

"Ten minutes." she added.

The Captain raised a brow, looking at Jon. The accompanying uniforms stood by, waiting for command. He looked back at the young Shoshanna, eyeing her up and down. He turned back to the stairs.

"You have five."

The group quickly exited upstairs, shutting the door. The light from the first floor effectively detached from the basement. Shoshanna looked to the Toriddian, who simply returned the gaze. A river of blood dripped down from the corner of his mouth. There wasn't even a hint of intimidation in his eyes. Shoshanna didn't waste any time. Gripping her switch blade from her pocket, the blade extended. Light from the lamp reflected off it, catching the attention of Bartlett. He waited patiently, lifting his chin in preparation, looking at the ceiling. She gripped a nearby chair, setting it in front of him. She took a seat. Jon watched from the darkness.

"Oh..no you don't." she approaches.

With a single swing, the blade drives into Bartlett's left knee. A choir of pain comes from his mouth. She follows it up with a quick jab to his solar plexus. He attempts to gasp for air, only having the wind knocked out of him deemed any effort useless for half a minute.

"Focus. Right here. Right here...or I'll pop your goddamn knee off..."

Bartlett struggled for air, finally coming to compose himself once more.

"I want...every member of the Committee...names...places...all of it." she asked.

"...it won't matter...you'll all be dead within a couple days anyway..."

She twisted the knife. He grimaced in pain, almost coming toward another shouting match. With an open palm, she quickly struck his throat. He was once again choking for air.

"You don't have time to fuck with me. Names. Places. Your armies. Everything." she repeated.

Bartlett sucked down some air, coming to breathe normally again. He locked eyes with her, essentially saying fuck off without moving his lips. She squinted at him. Standing up from the chair, she quickly pranced around to the back of his chair. She kneeled down, gripping his left hand.

"What the fuck! NO! STOP! DON'T! he yelled, essentially begging.

"What a nice college ring...Omaha State..."

"DON'T YOU—"

With a quick snap, she shut the blade on his left ring finger. A wailing of pain came from him. The finger fell to the ground, a metallic clashing with the dust on the ground followed due to the heavy silver ring.

"YOU DUMB BITCH! THEY'LL FLATTEN THIS WHOLE DISTRICT! THEY'LL KILL ME!" he yelled.

She paced around to his front, adjusting the stands of hair that hovered over his forehead.

"That makes two of us. Armies. Committee. All of it." she rested the shut blade on his cheek.

Bartlett gulped, parting his lips. The two locked eyes, knowing the inevitable was on its way.
✯✯Republic News Network✯✯: June 11th, 1949

"...in recent light of the invasion of Verdun, many foreign military observers have flocked to Montietam to watch the action unfold, many of whom under Allied orders...while there has been no direct military intervention on behalf of Allied powers, military tension is at all time high with reports of an Insurgian fleet en route to Montietam..."

"May He hear our prayers and find us truly worthy of His kingdom."



General Information
The Republic of Toridd is a theocratic, Neo-puritanical autocracy.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 21.2 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Toridd
Lobbyist
 
Posts: 21
Founded: Apr 03, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Toridd » Thu Sep 12, 2019 9:57 am

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Verdunian 9th Army
August 4th, 1949
11:53 PM


The young soldier ran through the tall grass, the ripple of gunfire ever hunting him. He could hear the screams of his comrades as they were torn to shreds by either incoming aircraft or small-arms fire from enemy infantry. Gripping his SKS, he moved quietly through the grass, looking in both directions as the grass shuffled. Either from other comrades also evading the enemy or just some wind. He was on edge either way. Peeking up from the grass, he examined his surroundings. A bright red flare launched into the air, pulsating another beam of light as it peaked highest in the sky. His eyes widened as he saw the silhouettes on the distance hill opposite the city. Dozens, if not hundreds of infantry lined the hill. Small little spectacles of flame exiting their rifles as they mowed down Verdunian soldiers hiding in the brush.

He changed his view forward, leaving death behind him. Sprinting across the grass, he finally left the fields and entered a more urban environment. The difference was almost black and white. To his right and left, ranging anywhere from twenty to one hundred yards, he could see other figures running into the city as well. One could make a feasible assumption that they were the remaining souls of the 9th Army. Charging behind a building, he felt a heavy presence watching him. A few snaps whipped past his head, a bullet delivering impact into the concrete wall above him, sending debris all around. Luckily, his helmet kept him upright. He could hear the Intreshans bark about, only picking up a few words thanks to his minimal knowledge of Karaqi.

Catching his breath, he looked across the street, seeing the remnants of Slavograd. An ocean of craters littered every street. A few buildings remained upright but were leaning at a certain incline. Hugging the concrete wall, he could feel the vibration of incoming armor. Their M-84's were mowing down anything that moved. They weren't exactly a slow beast either. He had to be bit faster. He took a few more reserves of air, sprinting across the crater filled street. It wasn't until he was a little more than halfway across when the bullets resumed to chase him. Engaging in a zig-zag pattern, he successfully managed to take cover inside a bank tower. With no intention to stay, he quickly darted through the first floor, coming out the other side. The vibrations were a little more faint now but still ever growing. About three blocks down, he could see the outline of Perschel Palace. The Intreshans would be upon it in less than half an hour. Little to his knowledge, the Toriddians had viciously scrapped the Verdunian 1st Army into nothing. Coming from the north, wave of Merkava's pushed forward to the palace.

Even without the Toriddian advances, they were outnumbered. The Intreshans just kept coming.

Gazing down the street, he sprinted forward once more, the palace growing in size as he neared. In his peripheral, his noticed movement to his front-right. He almost stopped in his tracks but instead his instinct told him to dive. Fortunately he did. A cascade of bullets methodically sprayed where the young private once was but was a second late. Taking cover behind a small hill of rubble that provided little to nothing in terms of cover, the private raised his left hand for a split second, revealing it to the shooter.

"VERDUNIAN! VERDUNIAN!" he screamed.

There was a quiet silence. One could make out some swearing.

"...CIVILIANS! COME ON!" the sound of a boy was heard.

The private gripped his SKS, gazing back to the fields from where he came. He could make out countless figures approaching in swarms. A few metal blobs that rolled thunderously towards him. Only a few blocks away. He adjusted himself in the rubble, gathering his footing. He ran adjacent, climbing another small hill of rubble, joining a trio of civilians in what seemed like a MG position. The boy was handling the BAR, its bipod deployed on the rubble. The other two armed with bolt-actions. What the private also noticed was the wired detonation mechanism next to the BAR. The wire led out into the street but became humbly invisible under the rubble. The private hugged the ground, watching as the Intreshans advanced ever closer.

"Don't fire...don't fire till they're on us." the boy repeated to himself quietly.

Adjusting his SKS in front of him, he aimed down the sights, taking note of the hundreds of soldiers that lined the streets.

"We're going to need more ammo..."
✯✯Republic News Network✯✯: June 11th, 1949

"...in recent light of the invasion of Verdun, many foreign military observers have flocked to Montietam to watch the action unfold, many of whom under Allied orders...while there has been no direct military intervention on behalf of Allied powers, military tension is at all time high with reports of an Insurgian fleet en route to Montietam..."

"May He hear our prayers and find us truly worthy of His kingdom."



General Information
The Republic of Toridd is a theocratic, Neo-puritanical autocracy.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 21.2 civilization, according to this index.

User avatar
Intresha
Attaché
 
Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Thu Sep 12, 2019 1:28 pm

Slavograd, The People’s Republic of Verdun, Montietam
3rd and 4th landing Groups
August 4th, 1949
12:23 AM


The M-84’s fifty caliber gun shredded the would-be suicide bomber where he stood, detonating his payload in the process. A good fifty yards out, the small fireball was little more than a speed bump for the tank and squadron that followed it.

The explosion was the third of it’s kind in the past hour, and the pace only appeared to be picking up. With every inch the 3rd Landing Group drew closer to the Palace, the more fanatical the resistance became.

”You’ve got one coming up on the left, Lev!” Shouted Ravil from the opposite side of the tank.

Levka, in spite of his borderline obesity, was far from a bad shot. In all honesty, he was probably one of the best marksmen in the squadron, if not the whole platoon. If the Private had to guess, it was likely the one and only reason the lard hadn’t been put out to pasture.

Shoving a magazine into his STV-40, he tracked the fleeing Verdunian with the barrel of the rifle. Barely even noticing the advancing Intreshans, he looked shocked when Lev’s first bullet struck him just below the thigh. He hurdled to the ground like a ton of bricks.

The Private glanced worriedly at the fallen combatant, then back at his friend. Levka never missed. He had immobilized him on purpose.

”Why the hell did you do that for?!” Ravil shouted, taking the words right out of the Private’s mouth.

The rifleman let out a low grunt, lowering his firearm.

”He’s carrying something.” Levka responded, speed walking towards his fallen prey.

His comrades shared a look of confusion before jogging after him. Men from the rear of the column would come up to take their places, as was customary in situations such as these.

The boy’s remarkably young face was contorted in suffering. For all of his accuracy, Lev could not had predicted that he would have hit the kid’s femoral artery. Although, truth be told, he probably had one foot in the grave before the war even kicked off. Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, his olive tinted rags hung like curtains off of his malnourished frame.

”What did I tell you?” Levka rolled the boy over onto his back with the toe of his boot.

”The little ones always have something to deliver.”

As the preteen moaned out something in Verdunese, Lev snatched a yellow envelope from his underarm.

”Any of you read Insurgian?” He continued, squinting at the foreign writing on the top of the thick file, holding his flashlight steady.

Ravil snatched it away from the marksman, hurriedly breaking it’s seal before beginning to read the contents within. His eyes grew wider as he continued to skim the words.

”What does it all mean?” The Private asked, leaning over the old man’s shoulder.

The ancient soldier didn’t even so much as wince as a mortal shell sailed just over their heads, finally crashing through one of the Palace’s bay windows.

”For us?” He asked, smiling.

”A raise, if we can get to the Toriddians in time.” He sneered greedily, shoving the documents into his flak jacket.
Last edited by Intresha on Thu Sep 12, 2019 1:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Toridd
Lobbyist
 
Posts: 21
Founded: Apr 03, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Toridd » Wed Sep 25, 2019 11:32 am

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Perschel Palace
August 5th, 1949
12:42 AM


Gunfire rained down through the palace windows. They were essentially surrounded. About two blocks out in every direction, hostiles flooded the streets. The explosive emplacements throughout the surrounding streets had effectively created roadblocks from destroyed armor but in turn had also provided forms of cover for the invading infantry. Shoshanna rushed from corner to corner with several belts of ammunition around her neck, checking up on everyone and their status. More to make sure there was enough ammo to go around until they ran out entirely. It was impossible to hear anything tangible for conversation. Just the sound of MG fire and small arms. The 105mm cannon in the foyer let off another round, the army crew covering their ears and encouraging everyone else around to do so. Even on the other sider of the palace, Shoshanna felt the concussive force of the artillery piece firing.

"ROBERT!" she crouched down next to the pair of boys.

The one on the MG-42 was maybe sixteen. The one next to him younger. They had burned through roughly 2,000 rounds but it was safe to assume they were cutting down bodies as they were still alive to do so. Shoshanna attempted to grab their attention over the 1200 rounds a minute. The youngest one looked to her, a look of hate in his eyes. Shoshanna pulled two belts off her neck, handing them to him. He quickly took them and coincidentally, Robert had just finished off his prior belt.

"I NEED ANOTH-"

"SHUT UP! I GOT IT!"

The boys quickly swapped out the belts and Robert was back at it. Shoshanna trudged off, keeping low and dispersing ammo gradually.

Bartlett waited in the basement, still tied to the chair. Most of the information given was tangible though he figured it wouldn't be of much use anyway. He didn't expect them to hold out this long but he didn't see them lasting another half hour. He simply sat and waited, listening to the gunfire above. The door at the top of the stairs opened up, revealing the flashing gunfire. A small figure descended, an StG-44 grasped by both hands. The High Commander recognized her as the one who took his finger. Was this it? Was she coming to finish him off? He didn't likely care. He was disfigured enough now to qualify for medical retirement. He was no longer field operable. She made her descent down to the dirt basement, approaching him.

"You want to live?" she asked.

The question beckoned in his mind. He raised his head, locking eyes with her. He raised a brow.

"Do you want to live?" she repeated.

Bartlett looked to his upper left, thinking.

"It would be preferred." he spoke.

"You try anything..." she insisted.

"You'll mow me down. I got it." he spoke humbled.

She quickly darted to action, slinging the assault rifle. She took the same knife but this time, cut the rope around his hands and feet. Rising to his feet, he realized he was still shot in the shin. Almost collapsing fully, Shoshanna caught him half way and pulled him back up, wrapping his arm around her neck in attempt to help him walk.

"Where are we going?" he asked, grimacing in pain.

"There's a string of tunnels under the palace. Most of them are collapsed but there are a few that lead away from the lines...they were used to get the government out in the first few weeks of the invasion." she aided and talked as they walked.

There was a measure of silence as they dwelled into the darkness. Shoshanna dug into her pocket, taking a flashlight from her cargo pants. She handed it to him. He did the rest, lighting the way into the dark abyss. The sound of gunfire raged on behind them. Neither of them could determine whether it was the distance that was dimming the sound or simply that the civilians were losing their footing. Either way, time was not in their favor. They continued on, curving lefts and rights. Shoshanna didn't disclose if she knew where she was going. She simply walked. Bartlett didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"Why didn't you run?" Bartlett asked.

He limped along, waiting for a response. Shoshanna continued to carry him.

"There are some things you can't run from, Mr. Bartlett." her accent got in the way.

"What?"

"Forget it." she ended the conversation.

"You seem to be running away from your comrades just fine.." he murmured.

She stopped in her tracks, looking up at him with a glare.

"These are orders."

"Yet you're not a soldier." Bartlett responded.

"We all have a part to play." she continued, beginning to walk forward again.

At this point, the gunfire was not heard. It was silent. All that was heard was the sound of their footing the dirt as they trudged through the narrow tunnels. They had been walking for what seemed like thirty minutes. Bartlett figured by now, the palace was probably being emptied and thoroughly picked apart by the invaders. He tried not to think about what was ahead of him. If anything.

"How much farther?" he was pained to ask.

"Not far..." she responded.

There was an echo from behind them. Something metallic. Shoshanna stopped in her tracks, almost dropping Bartlett. Bartlett froze in place; they both listened. He didn't hesitate to cover the flashlight with his hand, reducing the light around them to nothing. They waited. It happened again. This time followed by two other noises that could've been voices. Shoshanna began to march forward once again, pulling Bartlett along with him. The two rushed from tunnel to tunnel, turning making a hard left. The elevation had changed. Both their ears popped and they could tell they were on an easy descent. Out of the darkness of the tunnels, Bartlett could make out natural light at the end of it. Shoshanna saw it too, trying to be as prompt as possible. Their tails had gotten closer. They could hear footsteps now. About halfway to the end, Shoshanna stopped, unslinging her StG.

"What are you? Hang on, I can't." Bartlett tried to reason.

"Keep walking. Use the walls." she insisted, pulling the bolt back and then pushing it forward.

Bartlett blinked at the silhouette of her face, not ideally getting a last glance at her. He turned on his good leg, using the wall as he continued forward. The footsteps, one could make out was more than two pairs. Shoshanna took a knee, aiming at up at the ascending tunnel. Bartlett continued down. He could feel the draft from the breeze. A welcoming. Gunfire roared as he crested. He struggled forward, finally exiting the blackness of the tunnel. Limping, he gazed out onto the open plains that were full of wheat and other such crops. There was no artificial light for miles. The humble sound of an StG blasted the tunnel behind him. He didn't dare look back. The crux of his problem.

A quick wooden stock to the jaw knocked the High Commander down. From his right rear flank, they blind-sided him. He flatted out onto the dirt, gasping for air.

"High Commander Bartlett..." he recognized the voice.

Bartlett spit out some dirt, trying to get adequate oxygen to his lungs. He looked up, seeing the trio of men, all in the same camo he wore. At the center of them was High Commander Ulysses, an active political rival and adversary of Bartlett. While Bartlett outwitted Ulysses on the prospect of science, Ulysses had an extensive military career and record of service to the republic. He had loyalty.

"You know what the word is? TRAITOR?" Ulysses indulged himself with a swift soccer kick into Bartlett's solar plexus.

Bartlett ate the dirt once more, trying to appropriate some air. The two other soldiers simply watched as Ulysses dished it out, completely oblivious to the silenced gunfire from the tunnel. Bartlett coughed and wheezed, trying to grasp something around him to defend himself. Ulysses simply drew his Insurgian model Colt 1911, pulling the slide back and then letting it forward. A single .45 ACP round entering the chamber.

"We all know what the penance is for treason..." Ulysses continued.

Bartlett held his abdomen, looking at the Toriddian mad man. Escaping from the abyss behind them, Bartlett could make out the tip of an StG taking aim. He couldn't see the shooter. Reducing the time he spent not looking at Ulysses, he quickly locked eyes with his rival.

"Death." Bartlett responded.

Two shots rang out, dropping the soldiers. Ulysses' eyes went wide as he quickly spun around, taking aim at the invisible shooter. Lining up with the center of the dark tunnel, he prepared to squeeze the trigger. A burst of about five or six rounds went off, cutting through Ulysses like butter and sending him down into the dirt next to Bartlett. Shoshanna exits the darkness, pacing to the three downed Toriddians. The sound of distance voices hurried in the distance.

"You alright?" she asked.

"Yeah yeah..." he responded.

"We need to go." she insisted.

The voices neared. Shoshanna quickly began to loot the bodies for any ammo or weapons, coming across Ulysses' body. A yellow envelope stuck out to her. She recognized it. Bartlett saw it, recognizing it as well.

"How did they—"

The sound a .45 went off, sending Shoshanna into the dirt as well. She screamed out in pain, taking a shot right under her left floating rib. Bartlett dropped the Colt onto the ground, climbing to his feet. The voices neared, he recognized the Insurgian tongue. He reached down, grabbing the envelope, stuffing it under his anorak. He limped over to the young girl, who seemed concerned enough to hold her wound tightly. A smart girl. Bartlett looked down at her. The two locked eyes. She was full of hate as far as he could tell. The Toriddians had begun to engulf the area. Anywhere from 20-50 soldiers surrounded the plains, quickly closing in on Bartlett. Shoshanna gasped for air, trying to formulate words.

She would quickly fall unconscious due to shock, believing the last thing she would see being Bartlett and several soldiers nearing behind him.
Last edited by Toridd on Wed Sep 25, 2019 11:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
✯✯Republic News Network✯✯: June 11th, 1949

"...in recent light of the invasion of Verdun, many foreign military observers have flocked to Montietam to watch the action unfold, many of whom under Allied orders...while there has been no direct military intervention on behalf of Allied powers, military tension is at all time high with reports of an Insurgian fleet en route to Montietam..."

"May He hear our prayers and find us truly worthy of His kingdom."



General Information
The Republic of Toridd is a theocratic, Neo-puritanical autocracy.
The year is 1949.
A Tier 5, 21.2 civilization, according to this index.

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Intresha
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Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Thu Sep 26, 2019 2:27 pm

Trans Continental Railline, The United Provinces of Verkoft, Abathon
Verkoftian Countryside
August 10th, 1949
6:02 AM


Kiel ruffled the newspaper, spreading it out to read it. Most Marathonnian “news” these days was little more than cleverly disguised propaganda, but Die Trommel still had some decent headlines. Besides, it was always good to read something other than that awful Intreshan scribble. Skimming over his own language again made him long for the days of the occupation. A simpler time indeed.

”Morozov marries Iriana Kutuzov, declares State Tsardom in private ceremony” The headline read, featuring a snapshot of the dictator and his newly beloved.

The Panzergrenadier shook his head. Things would only get better or worse from here. Morozov did what he wanted, when he wanted. There was no status quo anymore. Then again, it wasn’t all so bad. After all, the mad man was able to grant him at least a couple of his wishes.

Before handing over all relevant information regarding Lavrov, he made sure that the handoff was well worth his while. He had worried that Duscha would have grown impatient with his demands, but he actually emerged from the meeting pleasantly surprised. The tyrant forbearingly agreed to give him a full pardon in exchange for his knowledge, as well as total naturalization. These were the simple guarantees, though. It was the third and final caveat that only narrowly passed the Vozhd’s desk. The one that led him to sit in this seat, on this northbound train through Verkoft.

The assurance that he would be able to kill Lavorv himself.

He remembered looking Morozov in the eye as he said the words. He remembered the befuddled face that stared back at him.

”You’re in no shape to go abroad…” The Vozhd had said.

Although he had barely shook his head, he had been as assertive as ever.

”At Desna,” He remembered coughing up a lung.

”I promised myself that if I made it…”

Duscha had nodded in subtle agreement, and that was the end of it.

The healing had been a lengthy process, but Kiel was above the pain now. All that was left of that June 10th morning were the horrific scarring that swallowed every inch of his exposed flesh. He wasn’t too torn up about it, however. They only offered more incentive to put the coward’s head on a spike. He, after all, was the reason he looked this way.

Kiel fought the urge to pop a cigarette between his lips. Another small pleasure Lavrov had robbed him of. The damaged the gas had caused to his lungs meant an inevitable coughing fit upon any kind of foreign inhalant. I’ll repay the favor He promised himself, glancing at the hilt of the dagger in his bag.

The train roared across the moonlit countryside, deeper into the Marathonnian fatherland. Soon would come the Khazar border, and then the Insurgian.

The sun would soon rise on Abathon, and set on Stanislaus Lavrov. Permanently.
Last edited by Intresha on Thu Sep 26, 2019 2:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Intresha
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Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Fri Sep 27, 2019 9:29 pm

Slavograd, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Perschel Palace
August 7th, 1949
1:33 PM


The glitz and glamor of the night before was gone. The women, the banquet, the dancing. It all had faded away as the vodka left his system. Now all that remained of the festivities was the medal they pinned on his chest and the hangover that still throbbed in his skull. Luckily for him, however, his guard duty would be over after the second to last group was taken care of. He waited for the Chistka man to begin the proceedings.

”You are collectively charged as known Bolshivist, race traitors, and fellow travelers. The sentence is death. May God have mercy on your souls.” The Captain fumbled his way through the Verdunese version of the recitation.

The gunshots rang out through the gutted halls of Perschel Palace. The former VCP leaders collapsed over the presopuse of the corridor’s shattered windows, plummeting three stories to the bricks of the courtyard below. Or rather, the pile of corpses that had accumulated there over the course of the day’s previous executions. Soon they would have to move the bodies again. The very thought made the Private’s stomach turn.

The Chistka troops reloaded, waiting for the next batch of prisoners to be marched in. The Torridians had found had a handful of them lurking in a partial excavated underground tunnel just outside of the Palace. Before long, an entire subterranean escape route would be uncovered, turning up a larger infestation of Verdunese with it. The afternoon had been nothing short of a bloodbath since then.

The Private made haste for the door on the far end of the hallway, decidedly finished with the gory spectacle of murdered statesmen and rebels. Although his squadron’s favor to the Toriddians had won him and the other men their fair share of bragging rights, it had certainly given him his fill of death for a little while. The way to the Palace was wrought with resistance fighters, perhaps the most animated that he had ever seen. By far the most effective, for sure.

As he turned the corner towards the stairwell, the Private stopped in his tracks. Lev waited for him, leaning against the bannister. He looked uncharacteristically distressed, a frown spread from one end of his face to the other. Ravil stood beside him, a hand grasped firmly on his shoulder. Before the Private had a chance to say anything, he began to speak.

”Captain Gorin said you would be here.” Ravil spoke, sounding halfway disappointed.

The Private offered a cautious nod, pacing closer to his friend.

”Yeah, my shift just ended… Uh, guard duty.” He muttered, cringing at the thought of what tomorrow had in store.

Levka lit a cigarette, illuminating the dark landing. Electricity had only been restored to critical parts of the Palace, leaving remote crannies like this near total darkness. The only thing saving the rest of the floor from pitch blackness were the shafts of light that came in from the craters in the walls or the busted windows that lined the hallways.

”So, what’s going on?” The Private asked, concerned.

He traded worried looks with Ravil and watched as Lev’s quivering hands struggled to hold the smoke.

”I wan- wanted to say I’m sorry…” Sputtered the giant, sounding on the verge of tears.

The Private furrowed his brow. Levka may have been prone to accidents and might not have been a born soldier, but he wasn’t a sissy either. He had never seen him choked up, and almost refused to believe it now.

”For what? What could possibly be wrong after the other night?” He was more confused now than anything.

Lev locked eyes with his comrade and shook his head.

”For keeping us in this shithole!” He practically screamed the words before breaking down in tears.

Ravil patted the boy on the back while glancing up at the Private.

”Antonescu saw our squadron file… Lev blames himself for shooting that kid in the first place…” He explained in a soft tone.

For the Private, confusion transformed into angst as the situation continued to progress.

”So what? We do our jobs. Hell, we’re heroes.” His demeanor spelled out his perplexity.

Levka looked up, sniffling. Tears ran down his fat, reddened face.

”So what? So what?! He saw all of it. The kid! The file! The honors! He wants to keep us! He wants to keep us here, goddamnit!” He screamed again, more loudly than before.

The Private stared at Ravil, expectantly.

”Captain Gorin came to us while you were on duty earlier. He told us that Antonescu was so impressed with our performance during our last mission, he wants us to stay here with the Torridian civilian government… Hunting rebels… Stabilizing problem sectors. The whole enchilada.” He grumbled, still halfhearted comforting Lev.

The bleak decree fell like a heavy shadow over him. His wife. His kid. They would be waiting for him when the first transports got back to Abathon. He supposed they would be waiting a little longer.

”So, I take it we’re not going home?” The Private’s voice was shallow and icy cold.

Frowning, Ravil shook his head.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
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Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Oct 10, 2019 6:55 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
House of Representatives, Capitol Building
August 10th, 1949
3:00 PM


"GOD DAMNED TRAITOR! NATIONALIST SCUM!"

"TELL HIM TO SIT DOWN! NO ROOM FOR THIS NONSENSE IN HERE!"

All sorts of disparities and delinquent words were thrown around at the now standing Representative from Oskein, Jeremiah Wood. Speaker of the House, Walter Strauss Van de Kamp would briefly silence the agitators, slamming the gavel down. The man had been Speaker of the House during the honorable President Taylor's first term. He was a seasoned politician but more importantly he was an well respected constitutionalist. Van de Kamp was capable of keeping the libertarians at bay; preventing them from going for their pitch forks and listening to the argument first before plunging themselves into slaughter. Ironically, it was the Nationalists that had their own argument for military action against All Christendom.

A colloquially agreed name for the would be alliance between Toridd and Intresha. It had the House and the Senate churning though. The country is holding their breath, wondering if the legislature will send them into another bloodbath. The 45th Ranger's had just returned home last week. Mr. Wood from Omaha didn't care none.

"ORDER! THERE WILL BE ORDER!" Van de Kamp slammed the gavel.

Wood approached the center of the chamber, an envelope in hand. The room fell silent. Wood silently pulled a letter from the envelope, unfolding it. What struck many was that it was parchment paper.

"To the Congress of the Insurgian Republic...From Montietam...the Toriddians push from the north...the Intreshans from the east...further resistance has proven futile and in the face of frightening odds and from reports across the continent, I am declaring that the regular army forces here in Slavograd, may indeed be the last military personnel on the island...it is with great distaste to say that the people of Verdun are very well and truly at war and not just with the reality of an invading foreign army but also with ourselves and the communists that lurk to reinstate themselves to power...on behalf of the Verdunian people, I say we will not go quietly, with or without aid from the higher echelons of democracy...

Most cordially...Shoshanna Lestrange...Verdunian Resistance Front...August 2nd, 1949."


The name alone sent the chamber into a frenzy. They didn't care so much about the date. They knew that sometime during the past week, communications to the Verdunians was completely cut off on their end. The whole island-continent was a black box with the exception of a few ports still held by communist rebels and freedom fighters.

"I ask of you, my fellow Insurgians, is this not enough to send our boys to the good Lord's justice?" Wood would insist.

"And what of your boys, Mr. Wood? Would you care to send them to die as well?"

The voice turned heads to the recognizable Oscar Harvey, Representative from Omaha. He had sat in office for seven years prior. He was too old to serve in the armed forces but that didn't stop them from influencing his four sons to enlist. Only three returned home. Mr. Harvey was churning up on his fifty eighth birthday, nearing mandatory retirement. Representative Wood glared at the old man for the argument of his question. The country was tired of war. The momentum was slowing down. It was obvious what the Nationalists were trying to pull.

"We are aware of the obligations we carry for Miss Lestrange it isn't worth sendin' our boys to die for fraudulent justice." Harvey continued.

"May I ask what is worth sending them then? When the Toriddians are at our borders? What about when the Intreshans decide they want the whole continent? What the—"

"That won't happen! THEY WOULD NEVER MAKE IT THIRTY MILES INLAND YOU INBRED!" Harvey cursed.

The House roared thunderously with swears thrown at whoever was in the crossfire. Van de Kamp would slam the gavel, though it took a few extra swings to finally silence the chamber.

"Mr. Wood...if you would please wrap this up, that would be great." Van de Kamp would let out an audible sigh.

Wood clears his throat, he folds the letter and puts it away into his coat.

"You people call us crazy...well I say...crazy...is building your arc...after the flood has already come. The time is now, brothers. On behalf of the Nationalist Party, I call for a House vote!" Wood would declare.

Several would stand up in anger, chanting all sorts of nonsense against him.

"A house vote on—" Van de Kamp made an attempt at the question but the chamber simply was losing their shit over the matter.

He would slam the gavel down. "ORDER!"

The chamber would begin to quiet down at a slower rate. Van de Kamp aimed the question once more.

"A House vote on what such matter, Mr. Wood?"

"The matter of imminent war with the Intreshan-Toriddian pseudo-alliance known as All Christendom." Wood didn't hesitate.

The chamber was once more shot into a frenzy.

"NO WAR!"

"SEND THIS PIG TO THE GALLOWS!"

"THERE WILL BE ORDER IN THIS CHAMBER! SILENCE OR I WILL HAVE YOU ESCORTED OUT! THIS CHAMBER SHALL PROCEED!" Van de Kamp was thunderous.

The chamber grew quiet. Van de Kamp was seen consulting the vote-taker below him. A piece of parchment paper was scrolled out. This bill was intended to be documented well. Van de Kamp was intent on proving to Wood that no such war bill would pass here with the Constitutionalists in majority. The result would prove this. He merely did it out of respect for political rivals.

"On the matter of declaring a state of war with the military alliance known as All Christendom, consisting of the Intreshan State of Southern Abathon and the Republic of Toridd of Northern Montietam...I hereby push a House vote..."

The chamber held their breath as the votes were taken. The results would be tallied in an hour.
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

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Intresha
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Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Tue Oct 15, 2019 5:48 pm

Vas Luchi, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Rechyst Estate, The Infirmary
August 13th, 1949
7:32 AM


”So what’s all this commotion, exactly? And why did you leave Montietam?” Asked Morozov, bringing a cigarette to his lips.

He and Antonescu sat inside the estate's infirmary, waiting for the doctor to come in. The previous days had been excruciating for the Tsar, so terribly so that it had put him out of commission for a few days. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long if the Lavrovist hadn’t slaughtered the Estate’s medical staff before they were finally rooted out. The nearest doctor had to be flown in from Duschagrad.

The Vozhd hadn’t missed a day of work in eight years, including his time in military service. He was worried, but not half as much as the people who knew him intimately. And of the people who did know him, absolutely no one showed more concern… Or perhaps, interest, than Michael Antonescu.

”Insurgia attempted to declare war… I came back...” He halfhearted stopped in the middle of his sentence, withered beneath his superior’s angry glare.

Morozov took a long drag, preparing how to best articulate his next words.

”I don’t recall giving you clearance to leave Montietam. The war isn’t over. As far as I’m concerned, it won't be until every Slav has been extracted from the continent.” He declared scathingly, exhaling.

”I figured this constituted an emergency… If their Senate would have passed that motion-”

”-Military minds better than your own would have organized the defense of this country. In fact, they already did. Case Burgundy was completed before your plane landed. I read it this morning.” He finished his statement for him, projecting his authority even in illness.

Antonescu looked shocked.

”Then why wasn’t it on my desk?” He inquired, equal parts confused and concerned.

Flicking his cigarette, the Tsar cracked his lips to respond before the door creaked open. The doctor came in, distress written on his face.

”Field Marshal, it would probably be for the best if you leave now.” He said hesitantly, holding a clipboard close to his chest.

”He’s fine. Just hold tight for a minute… This should be over soon…” The Vozhd spoke, taking on a more polite demeanor.

He turned back to Antonescu, his scowl nearly instantaneously returned.

”You didn’t receive Case Burgundy because you do not meet the clearance qualifications.” He declared, picking up where he left off.

Taken aback, Micheal jolted up.

”I what?!” Roared the Field Marshal, apoplectic.

”Sir-” The Doctor blurted impatiently.

Morozov held up his index finger before continuing.

”You have been stripped of the rank of Field Marshal. You will return to Montietam as a Captain on a anti-partisan detachment. Count yourself lucky that I’m giving you this third chance to redeem yourself. God knows that some don't get so much as one… General Solkin, for instance...” He referenced the name threateningly.

Antonescu stood, seething with obvious rage. Veins throbbed in his neck and his face burned with the all the redness and fury of the sun.

”Sir…” The doctor said the word louder this time.

”Who did you assign as my replacement?!” He broke into shouting.

”I’m afraid you fail to meet the clearance qualifications for that information as well.” The Tsar somehow managed to remain smug in his extreme vexation.

”How about I just don’t go back to Montie-”

Sir!” The doctor screamed at the pair of men.

”YOU ARE INFECTED WITH SYPHILIS!”

”I’ll leave the necessary prescriptions with your secretary.” He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he stormed out of the office.
Last edited by Intresha on Tue Oct 15, 2019 5:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Intresha
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Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Wed Oct 16, 2019 3:18 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
David's Burgers
August 17th, 1949
12:05 PM


If there was anywhere Kiel detested more than Intresha, it had to be Insurgia. Everything about the Republic stunk of weakness and decadence. From their neoconservative ruling elite to their blind consumerist culture, the Panzegrenadier sincerely wondered why God allowed these people to dominate the whole of the Earth. None of this xenophobia, however, kept him from indulging in one of his most guilty pleasures: A nice, juicy, Insurgian hamburger.

His frequent trips to the diner, however, weren’t simply in pursuit of mindless self gratification. Josiah was on state business, after all. It just so happened to be a perk that a handful of FBI agents used their lunch hour everyday to get their fix as well… FBI agents that conveniently worked inside the former Intreshan Embassy, now presumably home to the Lavrovist government-in-exile. Probably not the worst place in the world to kick off his investigation.

Hopefully today would be more telling that those previous. The agents almost exclusively spoke about their personal lives, rarely, if ever bringing up work related subject matter. They would soon arrive as they did every day, clad in their sunglasses and pinch-back suits, eager and ready to gulp down the same greasy swill he did.

He chewed slowly and methodically while he waited, not simply to savor the food in his mouth, but also to prevent from choking. The scar tissue that mutilated the exterior of his body was probably more sensitive in his lungs and mouth than it was even in his lungs.

It wasn't long before a warm blast of air rushed in from the restaurant's open door. The trio of government spooks filed in jovially, chit chatting among themselves and cracking jokes. Their inhuman ability to do the Republic’s dirty work while simultaneously maintaining a the everyman facade reminded Kiel of the Black Hundreds. In fact, the longer he remained in Insurgia, the more parallels he drew between the two countries.

As he polished off his meal, he listened carefully to the men in the adjacent booth. Luckily, they made a habit of sitting at the same table each time they came, making it relatively pretty straightforward to eavesdrop on the group.

”Yeah, Barb said I should probably lay off the fried stuff… Bad for the heart or something like that.” One of them sighed, staring longingly as a waitress passed by with a steaming plate of french fries.

The second agent scoffed, taking a sip of his cola.

”That woman’s got you whipped, Jeff. My wife knows her place.” He chuckled wryly.

Jeff narrowed his eyes.

”I’ll be sure to tell her that at your next barbecue.”

While the first two continued their meandering, boring conversation, Kiel took detailed mental notes on the third man. Over the week of his spying and sleuthing, he had probably heard the last agent speak only a handful of sentences. He was an object of interest, to be sure. He fidgeted. He never sat still. It looked as if he always had something on his mind, but never anything to say. Mayhaps his coworkers' droning bored him as much as it did him.

What if it was more than that, though? What if he was the lead agent? What if he had the information that would precipitate Lavrov’s capture, extradition, and execution? Even if he didn’t, surely the change of pace would be productive for the investigation, right? Right.

The Marathonnian’s musing was cut short by a waitress materializing next to him, seemingly from nothing.

”Can I get you anything for desert, sir? Ya want a ticket?” The portly woman asked kindly, pen and pad in hand.

”Yeah... .” He stated plainly, taking out his wallet.

”I have to get back to work, anyway. He thought aloud, sliding the woman a twenty before even looking at the tab.

The Panzergrendier stood, buttoned his coat and prepared to go back to the Hotel. From there, he would take a taxi back to the Embassy. Agent number three would be receiving a very special visit this evening, if only to alleviate Kiel’s overwhelming ennui.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Ladrus
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 3
Founded: Sep 28, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Ladrus » Thu Oct 17, 2019 9:48 am

Marilès, The Social Anarchy of Ladrus, Teubestistan
Electoral Council Chambers
August 20th, 1949
6:09 PM


”The statist forces of the global west are once again rallying their forces to sack and pillage this continent! We need to ready the people for war!” The Elector from Breme bellowed out through a near unintelligible french accent.

Luz Reyes listened with labored ears, praying that a vote to recess would come sooner rather than later. Of course the Electoral Council was consensus based, but this year’s proceedings were simply taking forever. --Not entirely without good cause, though. With the Insurgians sizing up war with Intresha and the Toriddians consuming the other half of Montietam, it was not a far stretch to assume another global conflict might not be too long in the waiting. It was the Council’s duty to tackle such lofty topics as these, but it didn’t stop it from being any less mind numbing.

”And, with that, I yield the floor to the next Elector.” He finally finished, looking at Reyes.

Half asleep, the Elector had barely realized that it was now his turn to speak. Rising from the bench, he cleared his throat.

”Comrades, fellow Electors, good afternoon. Or is it evening now?”

The assembly gave a lighthearted chuckle at the joke.

”While I agree that both the Allies and All Christendom are dangerous in and of themselves, I do not believe that they pose an active threat to this corner of the world. Not now anyway. The last western power that attempted to make landfall on this continent was Marathonn, and we drove those bastards back into the sea!”

A mix of disapproving chatter and supportive cheers went up from the Council. It looked like they were just about even split.

”All I’m saying is that we should preserve the First Principle at all cost. Anarchism is predicated on non aggression! To organize an inter-communal army without a sincere and imminent threat is both without precedent and, dare I say, statist.”

The Bremen Elector stood once again, clearly with the intention to fire back at Reyes’ analysis. Of course this couldn’t go over quickly and smoothly. Very few things did in the Council.

”Talk to me about statism when there’s an Intreshan boot on your throat!” He shot back brazenly.

It was moments like this that reminded Luz why being an Elector was such an important job. He was no longer tired. He was angry.

”I have no clue why I’d do that! The way things are going now, we’ll be fascist ourselves by the time they get around to invading!” He roared unapologetically.

With that, the chamber broke into nothing short of…. Well… Anarchy. Any measure of decorum that was loosely upheld earlier devolved into a multitude of one-on-one debates regarding the issue.In some parts of the room, the shouting matches got so heated that it sounded as if they would soon turn into physical brawls. That was, before that all too familiar shriek pierced the air.

Elector Tresca stood atop a bench in the back left hand corner of the room, holding between his lips his famous whistle. With his unkempt mane of greying hair and flowing beard, one might have mistook Tresca for a village drunk. With his complementary beady eyes and leathery face, it would have certainly been an easy misconstrument to make.

”I call for a vote to recess this assembly for an hour and a half.” He spoke into the silence.

It began with mumbles. One by one, each Elector yielded his or her time in favor of the recess. Finally.

Reyes glanced down at his watch. It had been nine hours since the last recess. Such was the price of consensus.

He sluggish made his way through the winding halls of the former sanitarium. The Marathonnians had built it (along with the vast majority of the city) before their failed invasion of the continent before the Great War. Ever since they were forced to vacate following the signing of the armistice, the building had been given a multitude of new purposes. Many of the old cells now served as communal housing, while the building’s cafeteria served as the chamber for the Electoral Council. Meanwhile, above everyone’s heads, the rooftop gardens fed at least a good fourth of the city.

After getting lost another handful of times, Luz finally emerged into the building’s steps. The Elector sighed. On the opposite side of the street, the Bermen elector delivered a speech to four or five likeminded Electors. Though Reyes admired their persistence, he cursed their ideals.

”Looks like we’ll be at another one of these ‘emergency sessions’ again next month.” A disembodied voice spoke behind him.

Startled, he spun around. Luckily, it was just Tresca. He exhaled deeply, glad to see his old mentor again. Ever since the establishment of the Principles and the dissolution of the state that preceded them, he only ever got to visit with him at Council meetings like these.

”They’ll just keep triggering them until they get their way…” He said, dispassionately.

The old man grunted in vauge agreement, slapping his pupil on the back.

”Kill, and throw those dogs something fresher next time...” He rasped calmly, gazing at the Bremen.

Luz struck a confused look.

”They fear the outside… Perhaps it’s time the outside started to fear us.” He went on, stroking his beard.

”An offensive army?” The idea sounded unthinkable coming from the same man that helped author the Principles.

A smile crept across the elder’s face.

”Is the world revolution possible without one?” Mused Tresca.
Last edited by Ladrus on Thu Oct 17, 2019 9:51 am, edited 2 times in total.
ⒶⒶBlack Flag RadioⒶⒶ: August 20th, 1949

“...Looks like the damn imperialist are at it again. Montietam this time, I suppose. Intresha too, if you wanna count them. Word on the street is that the Electoral Council may try to start up some kind of army. Not sure how well that's gonna go over in some parts of the country... Stay tuned to see how it all turns out... Till then, vivu anarkio, Teubestistan!”

"Say, Donte, you got any more of that coke from earlier?"

"Goddamnit Jean Luc, we're still broadcasting!"

Mechanical click, static

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Insurgia
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Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Sat Oct 19, 2019 1:45 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
45th Ranger Brigade, Ft. Hood
August 21st, 1949
9:43 PM


The last C-47 Skytrain rolled down the runway, slowly braking to a stop and joining the other very same transport planes that brought the Rangers home. The 212th Infantry Battalion was the last of the brigade to be sent home after a strenuous 4 month deployment to the Dycen States. The soldiers present hadn’t seen home in well over a year. In such a case, they hadn’t been home since before the war ended. Such was the duties of one of the countries most decorated units.

After they departed the planes, lines of troops with their duffels slung over their bodies marched in columns towards the hangar strip; where family members were allowed to be there to greet their soldiers when they came home. Despite military restrictions on conduct with civilians, exceptions would be made. The 212th were the last boys home.

First Lieutenant William ”Wild Bill” Thomas was among the many who lacked a family. About halfway to the hangar, he could spot the dozens of soldiers embraced by their loved ones. Thomas was a college student who narrowly avoided the early years of the war and managed to land a field commission in 1946 but wouldn’t find himself transferred to the Rangers until the next year. It wasn’t exactly something he wanted to do initially but he, like many others, would find themselves hating the Marathonnians and their allies.

“Bill? You awake?”

Thomas darted his gaze to his left, examining a Corporal who was probably as young as he was.

“What the fuck you on about?” he returned.

“Hanson was talkin’ about Jones being Q’d in Omaha, ya hear anythin’ bout that, sir?”

There was a silence that came from Thomas as they kept marching. They were beginning to veer off toward the bus station down the strip where so many were also heading.

“You know which Jones I’m speaking of, sir?” he asked again.

“Yeah I know which Jones you’re on about...” Thomas answered.

Another silence followed between them as Thomas wondered himself.

“He contracted something in Dycen and they were able to catch symptoms early...overzealous doctors. He sounded like he had a cold is all.” Thomas continued.

“You saw this bodies? In Tangere?” the Corporal kept his voice low.

The two were far apart from any other segment of a column now. Most of them had dispersed to either the bus station or to their families. Thomas stared at the Corporal for a brief second, nodding his head.

“A cold couldn’t do that.” Thomas finished.

They both continued, arriving at the bus station and quickly loaded up with a handful of other G.I.’s. At the hangar strip, soldiers and loved ones embraced one another. A young Private had just earned his first Bronze Star and wore it proudly. His family, he could see. His youngest sister and two brothers. A mother and a proud father. He was home, with no ordinary case of the common cold but a volatile strain of superflu.
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

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Insurgia
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Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Sun Oct 20, 2019 11:49 am

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
1450 W. Dillinger Street
August 22nd, 1949
5:42 PM


Thomas paced down the street, a paper bag in his hand. The contents were that of a special Intreshan brewed liquor. Introduced to it in '46, he became an avid consumer of such Intreshan alcoholic products. A police siren wailed in the background, a homage to the unfolding evil that lurked in the city, still unknown to most. He didn't give it any thought, not for any moment longer than a minute. He approached his residence, or rather, his parents. The fence gate creaked open as he pushed through, a metallic clanking echoed as it shut. He could hear the laughter of his siblings and the voice of his father. He entered.

The father was sitting at the dinner table, a pipe in his mouth and paper in hand. The mother in the kitchen cooking some delicious meal. His siblings ran from corner to corner of the house, playing some adolescent game.

"WILLY!" his youngest sister, barely starting her teens.

She attacked him at hip level with a hug. He wholesomely returned embrace with a hug as well. She huffed out a sniffle.

"You see the paper?" Thomas' father asked.

Thomas seemed entranced, gazing at his sister who didn't give a damn.

"Son?"

Thomas looked up.

"No..." he responded.

The father shut the paper, sliding it across the table. The eldest son grabbed it, reading the headline to himself.

"Hospital Admissions at Iniapolis General spike at an all time-record high...other hospitals across the country taking in large amounts of alleged flu victims..."

"Crazy stuff." he mumbled.

"No doubt...the Ambrose's left in a hurry this mornin'." the father noted, adjusting the pipe.

"They're on vacation, darling..." the mother tuned in.

Thomas was obviously having a second of thought. He sat down, reading the details on the paper.

"300,000 total admissions across the state..." he read to himself.

"And that's just for Boshil—"

A thunderous sneeze came from the kitchen. The mother held onto the counter, as if she had almost been knocked off her feet. Thomas' jaw dropped as his father got up slowly to see if everything was alright.

"Everything alright, honey?"

"Goodness, yes...that shook me a bit."
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

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Intresha
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Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Tue Oct 22, 2019 3:29 pm

Plymouth, The Republic of Torrid, Montietam
City Dockyard
September 5th, 1949
3:32 PM


Armed Toriddians patrolled the building, eyeing the small crew menacingly as they underwent the scrutiny of the port authority. Their vessel had also been boarded and thoroughly examined by the Republic’s navy prior to being allowed to drop anchor. Under typical circumstances, none of this would be strange. However, these were not normal circumstances.

Every Toriddian they had made contact with thus far had been unreasonably suspicious of them. Some in the crew thought it was nothing more than anti-foreign sentiment. More time spent in their company would reveal this not to be the case. It was readily evident from the moment they stepped ashore that not all was as it should have been. In the dead of the September heat, soldier and civilian alike had opted to wear what appeared to be winter attire. Long sleeves. Long pants. Many of them even wore gloves. Odder than this, not a man of them was without a surgical mask... .

In any case, the line moved forward. Captain Antonescu was next.

The young man at the desk was a petit, yet authoritative. Paradoxically, he looked eighteen and eighty at the same time. His face was worn and leathery, his eyes little more than pools of ink upon his sclera. This man’s youth had been robbed from him. More likely than not by some Verdunese terrorist, if he had to guess.

He looked down, mechanically turning his clipboard’s page before directing any attention to Micheal.

”Name, rank.” The man stated in decent Intreshan.

”Micheal Antonescu, Fiel-” He stopped before correcting himself.

”Captain.”

The man nodded, writing down the pertinent information.

”And all of your personal belongings are listed on the official manifest?” His speech was partly impeded by his mask.

The Captain nodded in response.

”Have you been abroad within the past two months?” His already stressed tone turned to an outright aggressive one.

”No, I have not.” Shot back Antonescu.

”Good.”

”You’re cleared. Take this.” He dictated, leaning over to fish around in a box next to his chair.

Antonescu chuckled when he came back up offering a mask matching with the one he wore himself.

”I don’t think I’ll-”

You will. The wrinkles further up his face indicated a scowl went along with the command.

Micheal said nothing as he took it and put it on. Whatever this was about, it was serious business. The last thing he needed was another runin with the brass.

The outside of the port was even less busy than the building itself, in other words, lifeless. No Toriddian vehicles. No more guards or soldiers. Nothing. Three trucks waited to take the crew and their supplies south. No more, no less.

The Montietam he returned to, Antonescu discovered, was not the one he left a month prior. And this was only the beginning.
Last edited by Intresha on Wed Oct 23, 2019 8:18 pm, edited 2 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Intresha
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Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Thu Oct 24, 2019 7:44 pm

Terra Incognita, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Platoon 6287's Camp
September 28th, 1949
7:25 PM

”Then why didn’t I receive it?” Lev grumbled into the mobile telephone, clearly losing patience with whoever was on the other end of the line.

He paused as he listened to the reply, his brow arching in obvious frustration.

”Redacted? Redacted for what?” He raised his voice, gripping the receiver ever tighter.

Levka had already far surpassed the prescribed five minute call limit, but pretty much everybody afraid to call him out on the infraction. Ever since they had been forced to remain on the continent, his propensity for anger had only increased. Even Ravil tried to stay out of the marksman’s way these days.

”Well then fuck the B.H, and fuck you!” He screamed, slamming down the phone.

The Private shook his head as he watched the awestruck faces of his fellow platoon members in the line. They acted like some flat foot with a STEN was right around the corner, ready to blow the lot of them away for treason. Alas, the last of the B.H. had mysteriously departed for Abathon the week before. Morozov’s boogey men were all but vanished, along with ninety percent of Intreshan forces on the continent. According to Captain Gorin, theirs was one of only five platoons remaining on the island.

He didn’t blame them the others for their fear, though. It was usually unthinkable to speak disrespectfully toward the Black Hundreds, especially over the phone where every word was recorded. Under any other circumstances, their paranoia would be justified.

Levka left the phone line, laboriously trudging back in the direction of his friend’s tents.

”You alright Lev?” Ravil asked cautiously, trying not to sound put off or alarmed by his friend’s reckless behavior.

”Yeah… It’s just that they wont let me read my mail, is all. Haven't heard from my babushka or sister for a little while now.” He responded, taking a couple of deep breaths.

”Won't let you read your mail?” The Private responded curiously.

The giant shook his head in affirmation.

”The B.H. said that something in their letters was a security risk. I have no idea what that could be. They only ever write about stuff that goes on back home. The family, the church. That kind of thing.” He explained, profound stress in his voice.

The Private considered his friend’s situation, slowly becoming just as worried himself. He hadn’t gotten any mail recently either, but didn’t think too much of it until now. The majority of his family was illiterate and his friends stopped penning letters a few weeks ago… His wife, however, was a different story. He should have heard from her by now.

”Has anybody had any mail lately?” He asked, airing his concern.

Nobody said anything. All that was exchanged were quiet, knowing glances.

”Come to think of it, when’s the last time we got anything shipped in? The last pallet of rations came in two weeks ago.” Ravil thought aloud, lighting a cigarette before tossing the empty pack onto the ground.

Again, nothing but ghostly silence.

”Lights out gentlemen… It’s time for bed.” Captain Gorin spoke harshly, appearing to have been standing there the whole time.
Last edited by Intresha on Thu Oct 24, 2019 7:50 pm, edited 3 times in total.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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Insurgia
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Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Oct 24, 2019 8:39 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
1450 W. Dillinger Street
August 26th, 1949
3:43 AM


William sat quietly on the bed of his parents, his mother tucked in the covers, quietly wheezing in attempt to get air from her partially blocked airways. She and Savannah, his youngest sister had both succumbed. The females succumbed first. This was a pattern that was observed on a family by family basis. Not that anyone could really report such a pattern. The strain was designed to systematically reduce a population to a point that anything that happens during its spread would be null and void. If you caught it, you had anywhere from one to six days from what appeared to be the case. Newspapers were no longer running in the city, probably by order of the government. Hell, even Radio Free Abathon had been pulled off air for a stunt that cost the secrecy of what was really going on.

The government was lying about the actual death toll. As of yesterday's paper, some 700,000 were recorded to have been admitted in hospitals throughout Boshil state. Out of those numbers recorded, the claims went around that anywhere from a couple hundred thousand to half a million were dead. Regardless, the real numbers were out. The figures admittedly looked like anywhere from four million to six million are predicted to have already succumbed. Half of the city's work force is absent and taking sick leave, more than likely never to return from it.

The lamp on the nightstand flickered for a second. A creak came from the wooden floor in the hallway, his father was carrying a tray with tea cups on it, steam still coming off them. He entered the room, nearing the nightstand and setting down the tray. He would briefly check his beloved's temperature, setting his hand over her head.

"Christ she's spiking..." he mumbled.

"How's 'Vannah?" William asked.

"Not fairing much better..." the father sighed.

He took a cup from the platter, handing it to his son. He would quickly take another cup, being gentle when he would feed her the warm tea. Needless to say, she enjoyed it. One would say she cracked a smile.

"Look at that..." William pointed it out.

The two smiled at her as it was perhaps the last time she would ever do so again. The lights flickered once more. The first gunshot followed. William and his father locked eyes. It didn't sound too far. Maybe a block or two away. The rushing footsteps of two boys plundered their way into the room; a stifled cough came from the father as he put down his tea. William got up, perhaps in effort to aid him.

"Sit down, boy." his father demanded.

He refused but he ceased forward motion. Instead, he backed away.

"James. Arthur. Go to your rooms." William demanded.

The two would do so, leaving immediately. The father would glare at him, nodding. He would sit next to his wife, letting out an audible sigh. One could tell his airway was also congested. The physical ailments hadn't quite hit him yet though.

"Son...this is..quite the predicament..."

"So it is..."

His mother would begin to wheeze louder, perhaps in effort to get air. A coughing fit followed. His father would embrace her, a quiet whimper coming from him. A struggle for air was present.

"Shhh...baby it's okay...it's okay, beloved..." the father would whimper quietly to her.

The lights would flicker once more, then it was like a switch kicked off. The lamp shut off. The fans. The air conditioning. Their household went dark, along with the homes of 3 billion others in the city. It seemed the dead didn't care none though. The only thing heard was the sound of distant gunfire and police sirens. It was apparent that something was missing now. There was no more wheezing.

William was already throughout the house, lighting candles to keep the boogey man away. When he finally made it back to the master bedroom, his father had her body in his arms. He blinked a few times in disbelief as his father carried her into the back yard. He couldn't bring himself to believe it. This strain of flu had completely and utterly devastated her immune system and made her suffer every second along the way. It was in no way, a good death. William leaned against the wall, soaking it in for a few seconds or what he believed to be. In reality, five minutes passed.

"WILL! GRAB THE FUCKIN' SHOVEL!" his fathers voice croaked.

He snapped to, quickly darting to the basement to grab the tools he needed. All hell was beginning to break loose, at least for those who managed to survive this long. For whoever was left in the city, it was fair game. Retrieving the shovel, he darted to the back, spotting his two younger brothers on the way, outside of their rooms.

"Watch your sister." he quietly ordered.

They marched upstairs like obedient soldiers, ready to defend. William ran outside, prepared to bury his mother.
Last edited by Insurgia on Thu Oct 24, 2019 10:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

User avatar
Insurgia
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Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Oct 31, 2019 9:18 pm

The Iniapolis Tribune
September 1st, 1949
"Conspiracy At Home?"


40 Million Dead Amidst Government Cover-Up?
After the events of last week, the nation is traumatized.
The recent flu epidemic has sent a shock-wave through the country,
effectively immobilizing what many estimates point to roughly
140 million to 450 million, dominantly in Boshil State, though many cases
are beginning to become known in surroundings states.
Death toll estimates are scattered and amidst the recent declaration
of martial law by President Quatermain, many records and logistical services
have been seized by military forces in Boshil, Askary and Broytun.

Hospital admittance has been overwhelming nation-wide and is
still growing at an exponential rate. The Nation Health Organization
released in a statement yesterday that the flu strain that has seized the nation
has a 98% fatality rate and encourages that "citizens take extra precautions to guarantee
they don't contract the strain as it is highly volatile and contagious and works completely
against bodily functions".

Among the deaths caused by the flu strain, civil unrest in larger cities
is increasingly prevalent, despite the established quarantine zones and the heavy
military and police presence throughout Iniapolis, Guadalajara, Star City and Fargo.

The local militias are reportedly engaging constantly with riff-raff and looters
in the streets, constantly scaring them off and when it comes down it, violently engaging
looters to dissuade them from invading peoples homes.

Despite the obvious problems domestically, the Secretary of State released in a statement two days ago
to the Allied Powers claiming, "we've taken the extra-precautions domestically to ensure
this virus doesn't make its way abroad...we'll stop it here."


Tommy Bashkin Kicked Off-Air?
It came to the shock to many states in the republic,
even to some outside the borders of this great union,
of the incident that occurred on-air on the night of August 25th
where well known Constitutionalist and radio host, Tommy Bashkin,
was forcefully pulled off-air by what many claim to be military personnel that
raided the broadcast station only half an hour after the rash radio host began
to ramble about government cover-ups regarding the recent flu epidemic.

It is without question that many at first doubted Mister Bashkin's ramblings
but his suspicions and eventual demise on live radio broadcast only
solidifies his "ramblings". At the time of the broadcast, over 40 million
across the globe were tuning in on Radio Free Abathon.

Since the broadcast crack down, protests have sparked nation-wide calling for
government transparency.

The Insurgian Federal Government has nothing to say at this time.
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

User avatar
Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Oct 31, 2019 10:49 pm

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Treilundian Ghetto
September 2nd, 1949
8:42 PM


"DISPERSE NOW! OR WE WILL FIRE ON YOU!"

The lone Police Commander stood atop his armored vehicle, the microphone amplified his voice to the hundreds of people amassed before him. To his left and right, other vehicles and officers of the law held the line. They were responsible for maintaining this sector which at this juncture seemed almost suicidal. The ethnic Treilundians cared none for the Insurgians and rallied as a unified voice against the decades of discrimination they faced. Even more so now. It seemed the numbers were beginning to equal out.

The officers on horseback held steady just as the boys on foot were in stance, their riot shields protecting them from the incoming projectiles being thrown at them. Mainly rocks and bottles. Among the crowd, a few rifles alarmed the officers. Ethnic Treilundians were entitled to the same privileges on paper but the reality was not so. This didn't scratch out the possibility of looters and even the black market providing such weapons to any with the cash to buy. The Commander gave a nod to his left and right, motioning to advance. The line of lawmen advanced forward. The barrage of glass, bricks and other such materials only intensified. The Commander only gave it time. His vehicle moved forward and he only continued his commentary. A couple of bricks flew past his head, causing him to take some extra precautions.

"RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!"

The voices of the opposing mob erupted slowly from one or two voices to almost a unified singular voice.

"GO TO HELL!"

The line had advanced to a point to where they were face to face with the mob. It hadn't moved. Those with the riot shields were combating civilians with pipes and bats. It was only a matter of time before they reached those with the rifles. The Commander gave off a hand-signal to his subordinates. Multiple tear-gas canisters were launched into the crowd, proving quite effective in dispersing maybe 25% of the mob. The rioters were straight up clashing with the lawmen at this point. The line was holding but it was beginning to become heated. The poor lawman had his shield ripped from him and quickly dragged into the interior of the mob. His comrades quickly coming to his rescue. Needless to say, things got brutal.

Then the shots rang out. The crowd unanimously roared in a combination of terror and hatred.

"WHO THE—WHO THE FUCK FIRED!" the Commander called out over his radio.

"CLEAN THAT SHIT UP! GET THAT FUCKER OFF HIM!" the lawmen screamed over the radio, saving their comrade.

"I NEED ANSWERS DAMMIT!" the Commander cried out over the radio.

The Commander held the radio, observing the crowd ahead of him. It almost appeared that it doubled in size. He was perplexed. Or perhaps the carnage behind the mob had just intensified. He listened in on the radio.

"WE GOT COLE! GET HIM THE FUCK BACK TO THE LINE! GOD DAMMIT, THEY FUCKED HIM UP!" the radio was chaotic.

Spotting the small group of lawmen retreating amidst the crowd of rioters, he could see a fairly mangled man being carried by two and escorted by three other lawmen that protected them. The crowd behind them enraged but it appeared that no one was dead by gunshot just yet. A molotov landed just feet away from the police line. The advance had created an effective gap between the two opposing groups. Less than ten feet however. A few civilians would stride forward with blunt weapons, engaging the riot shields no little avail.

"GET THE FUCK BACK!" the lawmen would scream at the rioters.

More tear-gas would be launched into the crowd but it seemed almost ineffective at this point. There were more now joining the mob than leaving. The Commander gave the order to slowly advance but unknown to him, a weary citizen took aim at his head with his B.A.R. A single shot of .30-06 rang out. The Commander's brain matter was sent all over his subordinates below him. The lawmen were in shock.

"What—Who? GOD DAMMIT! COMMANDER ISAACS IS DEAD! THEY FUCKIN' KILLED HIM! FIRE! OPEN FIRE!"
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

User avatar
Intresha
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Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Tue Nov 05, 2019 6:20 pm

Vas Luchi, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Rechyst Estate, The Infirmary
August 13th, 1949
7:32 AM


The last of the summer leaves shivered in the scathing fall winds, a few of them taking flight in the breeze. The foliage had turned early this year, leaving little more than a sea of wooden skellingtons in the Estate’s expansive orchard. The grass too had receded, exposing in it’s retreat an abundance of rotten apples and pears and pomegranates in between the lengthy rows of now barren trees.

Morozov walked mindlessly around the grounds, taking in the fresh air. The halls of Rychest, despite their great beauty, had become something akin to a prison for him. Every waking moment was neatly scheduled, with every expendable minute rationed out to the highest bidder. The Central Committee was nothing more than political theatre these days, with him acting as their star performer. The Black Hundreds was scarcely better. Since he had dismissed Antonescu to Montietam, the B.H’s leadership had suffered greatly. Instead of working as a cohesive unit, various factions of the group had begun to vie for their own power. It was sickening, to say the least. This, however, was a monster of his making. Only he could wrangle it.

He kicked a mushy apple from his path with the toe of his boot, pausing as he heard the faint rumble of an engine in front of him. A staff car rumbled down the furrow, inside of it a unit of the Estate Guard. They had traded their SKS-45s for STENs, and belts of ammunition hung like sashes across their chest. The vehicle pulled up alongside the Vozhd, it’s brakes squealing as it stopped. The half dozen soldiers hopped out onto the ground, as well as a differently uniformed man. B.H. by the looks.

”Did I stutter when I said I wanted to be alone, Tolya?” He moaned, stepping closer to the still running vehicle.

”Forgive me, your majesty, but we don't have much time. The B.H. has failed to stop unrest in the countryside. The peasants are nearly at the gates. We need to start heading south.” He spoke directly, holding his weapon close to his chest.

The Tsar was far from shocked. Antarsk and Duschagrad, although untouched by the plague, had already been overwhelmed by mass hysteria. Rumors of food shortages and martial law became self-fulfilling prophecies. No number of checkpoints and curfews could sustain order in the population centers, however, eventually resulting from a full fledged state retreat from the troubled areas. It was only a matter of time before the chaos visited Vas Luchia, and by proxy, Rechyst.

”Open them.” He dictated, locking eyes with the Secretary General.

”Pardon?” Adrik said, cocking his head in confusion at the command.

”The Tsar is the father of the people. What kind of father-”

”They’re looters! He stressed, frustratedly.

”They’re scared!” The Vozhd shouted back, silencing his subordinate.

”Open the gates. Screen them for sickness. Make sure they’re well taken care of.” He growled, glancing at the far away fence-line.
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

User avatar
Ladrus
Political Columnist
 
Posts: 3
Founded: Sep 28, 2019
Ex-Nation

Postby Ladrus » Thu Nov 14, 2019 2:09 pm

Morrs, The Republic of Marche, Teubestistan
Transcommunal Expeditionary Force
September 19th, 1949
4:25 PM


Reyes tightened his surgical mask as he observed the hastily assembled police barricades along the metropolis’ major thoroughfares. By the looks, they had been overwhelmed as soon as they had been put in place. Likewise, it became apparent almost as soon as his men entered the city that the authorities therein had ceased in any capacity to bury their dearly departed.

Half burned mounds of human carcasses graced every other city block, filling the air with the foul odor of burnt flesh. Many, however, were not even given the recognition of death. The laid in the gutters. They sat in their cars. A select few even swung hanging from the street lights. Flies swarmed around the bodies, laying their larvae in the half empty eye cavities and gaping mouths of the deceased. The bodies had not yet begun to rot in earnest, but the late summer heat did little to preserve them. Either via disease, suicide, or outright slaughter, the city of Morrs was vacant of any human life. It was the fourth of it’s kind that Reyes’ expedition had come across.

”Should we turn back?” Andre asked, bringing his binoculars up to his eyes in bewilderment.

The city had a haunting quality that none of the men could overcome. Even when the Ladrusian communist government had been supplanted by the anarchist revolutions of 1907, the cities still bustled with life. These places looked and felt more like towering mausoleums, perhaps built for some exanimate race of gods.

”Tomorrow.” Replied the Elector, speaking through the inconvenient obstruction of the mask.

It had been ‘tomorrow’ for going on eleven days. The Council had tasked him and three other communes to raise a force of men to scout the Ladrusian countryside in search of any infected refugees. It wasn't long before, the undertaking had turned into an outright expedition into southern Ocraine. For what purpose was unsure… Maybe it was to secure the region from the potential spread of plague. Reyes thought the more honest answer was to scratch the itch of morbid curiosity. That’s what it was for him.

Only a handful of refugees had been recovered in the borderlands. All of them killed by exposure or contagion. The buffer of the wilderness was simply to great for any lone person to reach any given commune. The Elector’s mission, for all intents and purposes, should have been marked as complete by now. However, something felt eerily absent. A threat not seen, but felt.

A dog barked a few blocks over, it’s paws pattering against the pavement as it ran. Reyes’ column paused in its tracks. In the middle of the intersection stood a black and brown doberman, perhaps three fourths of Luz’s own height. He snarled at the handful of men, baring his teeth in between threatening snarls and growls.

Moments later, a man walked up cautiously behind it.

His clothes were drab and his skin even more washed out. A hunting rifle of some description hung from his back on a strap. Realizing he was potently outnumbered, he raised his hands to his head after mumbling something to the beast.

”I don't have anything. There’s a store down the way with some stuff in it.” He said, vocally uncomfortable.

The few men that were armed kept their weapons close by, but didn’t draw them.

Reyes walked into the middle of the road, palms facing outward.

”We don’t want anything. We’re from Ladrus. We just want to see what’s going on.” The Elector’s Ocrainian was imperfect, but serviceable


The stranger chuckled coarsely.

”Not much to see these days.” He replied, lowering his hands.

Luz cocked his neck, curiously.

”Where’s your mask?’ He asked, dumbfounded.

It seemed innocuous enough at first, but unignorable once he noticed it. Even the handful of refugees they head recovered south of the border had something akin to facial protection. The overwhelming majority of the expired people in the streets had them as well. Death was not probable without a mask, but virtually guaranteed.

”We don’t need them.”

The dog jerked its head to the left and whined, wagging it’s nubby tail with excitement. Slowly, they emerged. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Each of them emerged from their hiding spots along the street, some of them being within spitting distance of the Elector. If they were snakes, each and every one of his men would have been bitten.

Their faces, as the stranger had explained, were bare.

Andre’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

”What the fuck…”
ⒶⒶBlack Flag RadioⒶⒶ: August 20th, 1949

“...Looks like the damn imperialist are at it again. Montietam this time, I suppose. Intresha too, if you wanna count them. Word on the street is that the Electoral Council may try to start up some kind of army. Not sure how well that's gonna go over in some parts of the country... Stay tuned to see how it all turns out... Till then, vivu anarkio, Teubestistan!”

"Say, Donte, you got any more of that coke from earlier?"

"Goddamnit Jean Luc, we're still broadcasting!"

Mechanical click, static

User avatar
Insurgia
Envoy
 
Posts: 350
Founded: Jun 23, 2012
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Insurgia » Thu Nov 14, 2019 3:56 pm

Hailey's Cross, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
City Center
September 19th, 1949
2:42 PM


Alexander Barrow paced steadily down the road toward the church that was diagrammed at the center of town. The boy was tall, not even out of his teens yet. His 20th would be in December. Usually cautious, he carelessly kicked a can continually down the road as he stepped on. He hadn't seen another soul in a week. Maybe two. All the days were morphing together for him at this point. Over his shoulder, a side-by-side scatter gun was hoisted. He hadn't used it on anybody but it was really only intended for shock value. Barrow never killed anyone. Something crept inside him though. An unseen darkness that craved blood. This was against his best wishes.

All around him were abandoned shops, banks, restaurants of all sorts. A foul smell would usually deter him but he had become seemingly used to it. He slowed down to his right, examining the general goods store that looked untouched. Glancing ahead of him, he could see the church tower hovering above it all only a few blocks away.

"Ah...what the hell..."

He approached the door, shaking the knob and twisting it. He pushed the door open, an eerie creak welcomed him. His own shadow was cast on the wooden floor before him. Looking about the interior of the store, he hadn't quite stepped in yet.

"Don't do it, Barrow...shut up shut up...we're doin' it..." he murmured to himself, his accent almost unsettled in changing half-way through.

He stepped in, the floor announcing his every step as he examined the shelves of the store. He didn't know how to feel about the situation. The initial outbreak was so unbalanced that it led to widespread panic and unrest in many surrounding cities and towns, including Hailey's Cross. It was all so short-lived though. In the first few weeks, those who were exposed to the superflu and succumbed to it were effectively immobilized and eradicated. Many died in their own homes, taking some form of sick leave unaware that it would be their last. These thoughts raced through his head.

"Guess that solves the resource crisis..." he spoke to himself.

He paced from shelf to shelf, scrounging up whatever he could find. A can of peaches. A bundle of fireworks. A box of matches. A bottle of water. He immediately uncapped it, taking a sip. He was definitely parched, having been walking for more than three hours and having expended his last bottle of water half-way through. Making one last go through the store, he made his way to the back room where the staff would usually bullshit around. The doors were something out of a Wild West Saloon. He pushed them open and they swung away as he passed through them. Almost in sync, he jumped back in repulse. A rotting corpse sat in a chair adjacent to the door in the corner. A large exit wound at the top of the boor bastard's head. A .455 Webley rested just below his dangling arm.

"Fuck..." he gathered himself.

He felt obligated to be careful and quiet in the presence of a dead man. Slowly lifting the side-by-side off his shoulder, he set it down next to the door. The wooden stock audibly bashing the floor and wall. He released it, beginning his journey for the Webley. The body was disgusting. In full decay, he could make out the maggots eating away at his flesh just a foot away from his face. He knelt down, reaching under the dangling arm. Gripping onto the Webley, the saloon doors opened, creaking wildly. He panicked, bringing himself to dive further so away from the door and the corpse. Looking to his left, he made out the figure of an egg-headed olive-skinned man whose hands were already going for the shotgun he left at the door. Wide-eyed, Barrow brought the Webley around front, taking aim at the rather obese stranger.

There it was. Hesitation.

The man had stopped in his tracks, not realizing initially the hand-cannon the boy was wielding.

"Oh..." the man mumbled.

"Oh shit? Oh fuck?" Barrow finished for him, his voice shaking with a subtly of sarcasm.

"Go on...pick it up..." Barrow's accent altered slightly, though this would not be noticed by the man he had just met.

His frame had taken up perhaps the whole door-frame, if not most of it. He right hand only inches away from the barrel of the scatter-gun. They locked eyes for half a minute for what it seemed like. The man broke contact, eyeing the scatter-gun. Barrow pulled the hammer back, the loud audible click that was so dramatized in the motion-pictures was not what he was expecting. Barrow made a visible expression of disgust at this with slight disappointment as well. With his eyes off him, the stranger afforded this moment of opportunity. He clenched the scatter-gun, beginning to bring it around to face the barrel at Barrow. Barrow fired. The .455 cartridge obliterating a trachea and voice box. The scatter-gun went off, albeit into the ceiling. The loud collapse of a body followed, the saloon doors swinging eerily as Barrow, sitting against the wall, shook in disbelief at his first kill.
WA nation of Insurgia
Proud member of New West Indies
"You are a den of vipers and thieves. I have determined to rout you out, and by the Eternal, I will rout you out!"
~7th U.S. President Andrew Jackson
[20:43:54] <Stanton> There's a ship...
[20:44:16] <Reyes> Where's it headin'?
[20:44:22] <Concord> Earth.

User avatar
Intresha
Attaché
 
Posts: 67
Founded: Dec 19, 2018
Ex-Nation

Postby Intresha » Wed Nov 20, 2019 6:40 pm

Terra Incognita, The People's Republic of Verdun, Montietam
Platoon 6287's Camp
September 30th, 1949
6:43 PM

The cloud of importance that once shrouded every facet of Micheal Antonescu had finally worn off. That, or maybe his own narcissism had begun to wane. For better or worse, he was one of the boys now. No B.H. clout. No special treatment or great indulgence. Even his rank as Captain meant nothing, with his fellow Captains often treating him the same as the rest of their stooges. He had fallen back to the lowest, most primordial rung of the ladder. Real soldiering.

”Do you want to be here till midnight? Because we can stay here till midnight.” Gorin moaned, pacing at the crest of the hole.

They had been digging since just before noon. Nobody knew why they were digging, or how long they would continue. Some suspected it was some sort of earthworks project. Others said it looked like some elaborate latrine. The more cynical among them posited that it looked like a mass grave. Antonescu would usually have agreed with the third group… Had there been any bodies to bury in the first place.

Getting the shovel into the mud was effortless. Removing it and throwing the slag out of the hole was another battle entirely. His arms had never been so sore in his whole life. Every square inch of his body was caked in cold muck, chilling his bones right down to the marrow. The rain had slacked up for now, but the foreboding darkness along the western sky beaconed the return of the dreaded autumn storms.

”If I see any of you slackin-” The Captain’s constant tirade against the platoon ceased with the ringing of the dinner bell.

Gorin checked his watch, surprised. He dismissed them with an uncaring wave of his gloved hand.

The men climbed like slugs up the wall of the open trench, not caring about the dirt or grime. The bell signaled dinner, which would proceed lights out by only a handful of minutes. Sweet relief, even if those meager hours of sleep were blighted by frigid rain and occasional nightmares.

He put his shovel on the makeshift rack and made his way to the small camp of lean-tos that had cropped up next to the project. They huddled around the NCO tents and “Mess Hall”, which itself was just another tent, albeit larger than the rest. Despite his relative speed, the line into the caf was just as long as ever. Well, not exactly as long as ever...

A dozen or so men had died within the past week, all from some mysterious ailment. Apparently one of the new recruits had brought it over from Intresha around the same time he and his handful of men had made the journey. It started out looking like the common cold, but quickly progressed into some sort of lethal infection. The NCOs were terrified, as was everyone. The tents of the dead were segregated from the rest of the camp, their bodies hastily cremated. Unfortunately, this didn’t stop the spread of the contagion. A grand total of four men continued to battle the infection, to little avail. There were murmurs of euthanizing them, if only to spare the rest of the camp.

”What the hell do you mean, out?!” An old man’s gravelly voice roared from the head of the queue.

Snapping out of his own thoughts, Antonescu quickly placed the man as Ravil. He ran with a small gang of lower ranking soldiers in the platoon. He would occasionally see the group in his comings and goings from the job site to the camp and vice versa.

Groans and panicked anger went up from the throng assembled in the Mess Hall. All of their distress, however, was dwarfed by that of Ravil’s. His screaming and cursing echoed through the tent, tearing into the cooks and kitchen staff with a vitriol so hot, it might have been summoned from Hell itself.

”We work all day, and for what? To-” He stopped himself and spun around as the brawling room around him went still.

Private Ravil’s Mess Hall Putsch ended with Captain Gorin’s sudden arrival.

The room went awash with fear, and overwhelming regret painted the old man's face.

A cat’o’nine tails dangled limply from his right hand, swaying back and forth as he walked. As per custom, two soldiers from the crowd seized the elder by either shoulder, as to keep him from fleeing or resisting punishment. It was a cowardly and treasonous move to be sure, but the pair would surely be spared the Captain's whip. The same could not be said for the other men that ran afoul in the canteen that evening.

”What the hell are you going to do? Punish me for being hungry?”

The Captain regarded him momentarily before delivering a heavy blow to the man’s exposed stomach. He doubled over, all of his breath expunged from his lungs in an instant. There was no reprieve, though.

The flogging that would follow was a merciless one, cleaving the old man’s flesh into thin strips along his neck and back. Unable to vocalize proper words, he let out pitiful whimpers. He sounded like a beaten pup.

Just as the flurry of blood and leather had ceased, he made the foolish mistake of looking up at his abuser. A final lash to his face was his reward, tearing an unsightly gash from his left ear to the lower right side of his jaw. His knees buckled from weakness; the soldiers holding him threw him to the dust. As he bled on the dirt floor, none dared move to help him. Not with Gorin still in the room.

”Provisions will arrive soon. Till then, we tighten our belts.”

The bastard left as quickly as he had arrived. The men were left only to stare at one another, shaken to their cores. Only that one Private, whatever the hell his name was, rushed to help his aged friend. That gigantic oaf Levka wasn’t too far behind him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The promised provisions would never arrive.

Unfortunately, this was the very least of the platoon’s worries.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
☦︎☦︎Radio Translavia☦︎☦︎: August 19th, 1949

“Please...”

"Send"

*Cough*

Unintelligible.

"If anybody's listening... Send help..."

END OF BROADCAST

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