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PostPosted: Fri Sep 06, 2019 8:52 am
by Intresha
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.

PostPosted: Sat Sep 07, 2019 1:37 pm
by Toridd
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 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.


"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."

PostPosted: Wed Sep 11, 2019 7:18 pm
by Intresha
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

PostPosted: Wed Sep 11, 2019 11:10 pm
by Toridd
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 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 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.

PostPosted: Thu Sep 12, 2019 9:23 am
by Toridd
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.


"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.

" 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.

" won't'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..."


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.


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.

PostPosted: Thu Sep 12, 2019 9:57 am
by Toridd
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..."

PostPosted: Thu Sep 12, 2019 1:28 pm
by Intresha
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.

PostPosted: Wed Sep 25, 2019 11:32 am
by Toridd
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.



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.


"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.

PostPosted: Thu Sep 26, 2019 2:27 pm
by Intresha
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.

PostPosted: Fri Sep 27, 2019 9:29 pm
by Intresha
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.

PostPosted: Thu Oct 10, 2019 6:55 pm
by Insurgia
Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
House of Representatives, Capitol Building
August 10th, 1949
3:00 PM



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 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—"


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 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.




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.

PostPosted: Tue Oct 15, 2019 5:48 pm
by Intresha
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.


”I’ll leave the necessary prescriptions with your secretary.” He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he stormed out of the office.

PostPosted: Wed Oct 16, 2019 3:18 pm
by Intresha
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.

PostPosted: Thu Oct 17, 2019 9:48 am
by Ladrus
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.