The Hunt for the Sleeping Giant [IC][MT/PMT][CLOSED]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]


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1 Orinia 1
Posts: 196
Founded: Apr 03, 2018
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby 1 Orinia 1 » Thu Apr 16, 2020 6:24 pm

Two Years Ago, Somewhere In the Atlantic Ocean

On the tranquil ocean waters, far from land, there was a Crowley Maritime cargo ship. This ship was captained by a man named Herbert Lewis, an American in the witness protection program after seeing a grisly and violent crime. Little did they know a small blue speed boat was ganging on them.

On the speed boat were five people. Two wore black hoodies with red bandanas tied around their forearms, and carried Kalashnikov-pattern rifles with bayonets fixed. A third wore an old PASGT vest and fatigues in desert camouflage pattern, with a black bandana that looked like the bottom half of a skull, and cheap black sunglasses obscuring his face, while holding tightly onto a Beretta BM 59 rifle. The fourth, a female, wore a stab proof vest over top of a red hoodie and wore a black balaclava. She carried a large fishing net, but had several firearms and knives holstered to her vest. The last, sitting at the front of the speed boat was an older man with weathered, tanned skin, and a short, green mohawk, and a very small green goatee. He wore a gray trenchcoat made of ballistic fibers over top of a PASGT vest, with two red bandanas tied around his left forearm. He wore fatigues with a forest camouflage pattern which had two pistol holsters strapped to them. Held between his teeth was a blunt he had sloppily rolled himself. Around his neck was an oversized gold chain necklace which prominently featured a gold euro sign. He carried a FAMAS G2 rifle which had a picatinny rail forcefully screwed and duck taped to the underside, in order to accommodate a M203 grenade launcher, and the carrying handle sawed clean off, with a picatinny rail forcefully screwed and duck taped across the top in order to accommodate a reflex sight.

"Yo, let's get this shit started." the man in the trench coat said. He had a gravely voice from years of smoking, and a distinctive American accent. The lady in the red hoodie nodded, and gave the fishing net a strong overhand throw into the ship's propellers, instantly tangling, and slowing the vessel down to a halt as the propeller jammed. She then withdrew her weapon, an HK53.

"Now we deal with the life boats. Can't have any fucking shits escaping." he said. The speed boat did a few laps around the forcibly idled ship, while the pirates riddled the bottoms of the life boats with bullets, poking holes in them to ensure they would quickly begin taking on water if they were used. The speed boat stopped behind the ship, and the lady in the red hoodie tossed up a polypropylene rope with a grapnel attached to the end up onto the ship's deck. The pirates boarded the ship methodically, and slipped below decks to begin the massacre. Gunshots and screams rang out from the ship, as the pirates viciously slaughtered any crew they encountered.

"Kill all these bastards. No witnesses. I'll deal with the dear old captain." the man in the trench coat said into a cheap, store bought walkie talkie as he approached the bridge. The sole of his buckled boot connected with the door to the bridge, knocking it off its hinges.

"Herbert Lewis, you are a hard man to find." the man in the trench coat said, a sickly grin etching across his weathered face.

"Oh God." the captain gasped, his eyes wide in fear.

"Not quite. You're a religious man? Alright. I want you to pray, homie. I want you to pray to your pathetic god to strike me down with lightning and thunder." the pirate grinned wider. It was a grin of joy, but joy which was perverted by malice and sadism. Sure enough, the captain broke into prayer, frightened and desperate as he was.

"Funny, I'm not feeling a damn thing. Guess your pathetic god isn't home. Turns out he doesn't give a fuck about you." the man in the trench coat said, slowly stepping towards the captain. "But I care. I care very much."

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Herbert screamed as the pirate stood over him.

"I'm the devil. I'm here to collect your soul, you fucking snitch." the man in the trench coat said. He raised up his rifle, and repeatedly shot at the captain while breaking into a fit of laughter. As blood soaked the floor of the bridge, the man in the trench coat continued laughing.

Present, 0500 Hours, Orinia, Guns Orinia Main Offices

Alone in a dimly lit room sat a single figure wearing dark clothing, with pallid skin, and a shock of messy, crimson hair. The figure sat at a desk with a desktop computer with two screens, a laptop, and several dozen cheap cell phones. The figure watched several videos on the desktop and laptop, flipping between different news stations.

"The Masada, hmm? This could prove profitable, make us a great deal of lolly. Doubtless there are many people who want it: Blood Blade Syndicate, Cardinal Fleet, the Kafairians, and doubtless many others, some shitehawks and wankers." the figure said, with a thick Cockney accent. "I know a bloody opportunity when I smell it. The golden apple makes a mark out of the Athenians and Trojans, but for someone who knows their onions, both sides can be played to their advantage. The golden apple is a trap, the real prize lies in how you use it."

0600 Hours, Orinia, Kıyıköy Borough, Guns Orinia Store on 10 Nolu Sokak

The building was older than most which surrounded it. It was a simple brick and mortar building, with a flickering neon sign outside that read "Guns Orinia, Imports & Local, We accept trade ins, OPEN Mon-Sat 11:00-9:00". The mascot, a smiling face holding an AK in one hand and giving a thumbs up with the other hand was painted on the window opposite the neon sign, but the paint was old, slightly bleached by sunlight, and chipped in places.

Inside the store was a glass counter which showed off several more expensive pieces, including a Magnum Research BFR, a KRISS Vector, a Star Firestar M45, an H&K HK416, and a Daewoo Precision Industries USAS-12, among others. On the back wall were countless firearm from various countries, though at least half of it was either old Soviet hardware or old NATO hardware, leftovers from the end of the Cold War. There was a single metal door leading to the back, which read "Employees Only", and a small, unisex restroom.

Behind the counter was an older man, with a short, green mohawk and a very small green goatee, yellowed teeth that clenched a lit blunt, and ugly, pink and purple burn scars around his left eye socket, which was covered by a round, medical eyepatch made of soft rubber and some plastic, with a pattern of small holes in it to allow it to breathe. He wore a black t-shirt which read "KEEP CALM AND RETURN FIRE". His left arm had a large tattoo of a skull holding an AK-47 in its teeth. His skin was weathered and tanned, and crows feet rest under his eye.

A customer entered the front door, a younger man with dark tan skin and a face covered in stubble. "Hey, if it isn't my friend Jack! You holding up alright?" the customer said in a thick Turkish accent.

"Just bored, Akbay. It's been a slow day." Jack replied, his voice a hoarse gravel with a distinctive American accent to it. "How's the rifle you bought last month holding up?"

"Oh, it works amazing, Jack. I've got no problems with it. It's just like you said." Akbay answered.

"I thought you'd like it. It's an old rifle, but a good one. The Germans knew their shit, and I figured someone with your strength could handle the recoil. You cleaning it like I said to?"

"Oh yes, Jack. With that gun oil you recommended, too." Akbay answered.

"Glad to hear it. If you need any more oil or cleaning supplies, you know where to get them." Jack said. A phone buzzed from inside his back pocket. "Sorry, I've got to take this."

Jack removed an old flip phone from his back pocket, and looked at the screen. It read as follows:

There is a new job for you, if you are interested. Payment is €30K, unmarked. Overseas work. Especially dangerous. Will be working with a team. Details given at location. Reply y or n. Reply must be given within twelve hours, or will be assumed n. As usual, destroy this phone and card inside it within 24 hours of receiving this message regardless of reply.

Jack smirked and quickly replied "y", before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

"What was it, Jack?" Akbay asked.

"Just a message from my boss. Corporate wants help with something later, and they need me to set some sorry ass straight. I might be gone a few days, but corporate will send another awesome person to take my place while I'm gone, so don't worry." Jack answered.


09AE01 = Jack Atlas
1285CF = Herbert Lewis
B81212 = The Boss
EE6030 = Akbay Albayrak
Last edited by 1 Orinia 1 on Fri Apr 17, 2020 11:57 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Disregard the "1's" in my name.
This nation vaguely represents my political views, but is not intended as social or political commentary.

I'm just here to RP for the most part, and give out awesome advice. I don't want trouble.
This nation exists in the 堕天使の女神 Datenshi No Megami universe. The current year is 2014.
This nation is in permanent armed neutrality. We can't attack other nations unless they invade us first.
Civil Rights, Economy, Integrity, Intelligence, Political Freedom, Recreational Drug Use, Scientific Advancement, Secularism. All other NS stats are non-canon.

User avatar
Posts: 69
Founded: Aug 20, 2015
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Svadyetsk » Fri Apr 17, 2020 4:44 am

Sydney Airport, Australia

Air Mihai Flight 1321 to Sydney touched down on the runway with a bone-rattling thud. Fat Vasya felt his bulk jiggle as the plane hurtled down the tarmac. Fifteen minutes later, the aircraft was pulling up at the gate. Vasya deplaned, followed by the rest of the men being sent to assist Vadim Kleitsin with the Masada situation. His gut burbled, causing Vasya to shift uncomfortably. The long flight had not been helped by the uncomfortable seats and the airplane meals.

Passing through Customs, Vasya presented his passport, fake, of course, and his completed declaration form which asserted that he had not visited a farm, was not in possession of contraband and that he wasn't bringing more than ten thousand Australian dollars worth of money or goods into the country. Unfortunately, Customs didn't seem too convinced and Vasya found himself being directed to one of the checking areas.

Not that he was carrying anything, after all. He'd been on a plane for nearly a day and airport security meant he couldn't carry any weapons or anything like that. The main thing that the Customs officer rummaging through his bag was taking offense to was the large stash of Svadyyetskan-made biscuits that Vasya had secreted in his luggage. Evidently, Australians didn't like people bringing food items into their country. Paranoid much? Vasya thought.

Now, minus his snack supply, Vasya found himself skulking around the airport exterior, waiting for the next bus. The plan was for all of the Brotherhood men to meet up once he had the boat. Until then, they'd avoid contact.

The bus came. Vasya made his way to one of Sydney's smaller docks, after changing buses repeatedly, where he found the annoying shit who he'd rented the boat from.

"G'day." The Australian looked even more annoying than he had sounded over the phone. "Can I help you, mate?" He was dressed in a bright floral shirt and shorts with a pair of flip-flops. A pair of cheap sunglasses perched on his forehead and a deeply tanned complexion completed the look.

"Yes," Vasya answered. "I made arrangements to rent your deluxe yacht. We discussed this over the phone."

"Ah! I remember. Mr Russkie fellow. Good to see you, mate. I'm Kyle." The Australian extended one hand. Vasya deeply wished that he could kill the fellow. Wait until you have the boat, wait until you have the boat, wait unti-

"So, mate, I've gotten you the sweetest cruiser that money could buy, or in this case, rent. You feel the heat? You'll be glad you're out on the water. Makes a change from Siberia, ain't it?" Kyle's annoying voice broke through Vasya's mantra like a lightsaber through a block of butter.

The two men came to a stop in front of a giant yacht. The massive vessel was over a hundred metres long and had, at least from what Vasya could see, three decks. The entire thing basically screamed opulence. Vasya felt disgusted.

"Here are the keys." Kyle passed Vasya a set of keys attached to a float shaped like a koala. "Now if you can just follow me, mate, we can discuss payment. I've got some vodka if you want. You guys love vodka, right?"

Vasya followed Kyle into a small hut on the dock. The big Svadyetskan took out a wad of American dollars. "I only have this. Is this OK?" Vasya counted out a few thousand dollars, the deposit for the yacht. The rest of the money was to be paid when he got back with the boat. At least in theory, that was.

While the Australian was busy writing up the deposit into his records, Vasya took out his pay-as-you-go mobile and called one of the other Brotherhood members with instructions. That done, Vasya took his receipt from Kyle and went out to the yacht. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to pilot the damn thing. Gradually, the rest of the Brotherhood crew arrived at the dock, including their pilot, an ex-People's Navy sailor named Petro.

"Hey, boys." Vasya greeted the men, all veterans gangsters from Duovograd, as they gathered on the top deck of the yacht. "Let's go."

"Have a nice trip, Comrades!" Vasya groaned. Kyle stepped back into his hut. Vasya cracked his knuckles. "You have no idea how annoying that guy is."

"Want us to do something about him?" One of the other gangsters laid a bag on the lounge table and opened it, revealing a selection of cheap, and probably terrible, handguns that he had picked up from a local contact.

"Do it quietly." Vasya took out a cloth and mopped his brow.

Kyle was busy making arrangements with another customer over the phone when he heard the door of the hut open. Quickly, he finished up the call, promising to see the client, a businessman from Vancouver coming down for a meeting, when he arrived next week. Kyle turned to face the visitor. Probably that Russian.

"Problem with the yacht already? She's a real-" He stopped. The colour drained from his face as the gangster who had entered the hut swung the length of pipe that he'd found on the dock into Kyle's skull. There was a sickening crunch. The Australian staggered back and fell into a display rack of cheap swimwear. Just to be sure, the gangster went over and hit him again.

Vasya watched from the yacht's rail as his man came out of the hut and tossed the bloodied pipe into the water. They'd need to skip town before anyone found the body. Still, they all had fake passports and nobody had been around to see them or the murder.

The yacht hummed into life and set off. They had a rendezvous to make.


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