Summary
Eitoan
The Ralkovian danced lightly on his feet as he glided down the stairs of the corridor and exited the apartment onto the busy streets. This was a good morning. Well any morning that one wakes up next to a woman much more attractive then themselves was a good morning the Ralkovian thought to himself. He tried to calm himself down to avoid catching anyone’s unwanted attention, but still a small smile broke through his attempt at keeping his lips tight. He simply could not help himself as he carried the two heavy black suitcases down the street.
Eitoan whores were pretty great, they looked Ralkovian enough that he didn’t feel like he was screwing a beast, but not Ralkovian enough to trigger any feelings of guilt or impropriety. The perfect medium, he thought letting himself have the small luxury of the smile, the streets were crowded enough as is.
He didn’t really mind the weight of the two suitcases or even how tired he was. He would lug those heavy bricks to his final destination and collect the reward. He had arrived in Eitoan from the port, easily sneaking past customs late last night, before killing the rest of the night at the brothel.
His client had paid for his indiscretion, so he took every precaution. Hotels needed names and credit cards and motels were complicated in other ways. Brothels existed on the periphery of society and they took cash only, no names, and he could screw to his heart’s content.
His walk to the slums was uneventful. His entrance was greeted by a few middling stares, but his client had given him a black vest and beret that seemed to keep unwanted interferers away. Making it the Moorish crossroads, he quickly found the dingy, rusted staircase leading down to an even dingier, rustier door.
The door was certainly metal and the outside rusted quite a fair bit, but even his mediocre eye could spot that it looked much thicker and heavier than it really should be. Plus the gratuitous amount of cameras that lined the corners of the street triggered his belief that there was more going on here than the proprietor would like you to think. Written in small golden letters read the Bar’s name, “The Drunken Guardsman”. Under that, in much larger print, read “MEMBER’S ONLY! ALL OTHER’S PROHIBITED.”
He confirmed the name of the bar, before knocking heavily on the door. A sliding viewer opened up, letting him see just enough to confirm his suspicion of the thickness of the door, before a gruff voice and wary eye appeared.
“Fuck off mate, we’re closed. Member’s only.”
“Hello. I’m Mr. Crath, I was told to contact Mr. Jaffee to come fix the plumbing.”
“You a plumber? Let me see your equipment,” the voice answered back.
Crath, the Ralkovian, picked up the heaviest suitcase, and brought it up to the viewport.
“Well alright then, let me see your ID too,” the voice commanded.
Crath, held an ID to the door, before a tattooed hand snatched the document, looked at it, and threw the document back.
“Well fuck, come in, you have a big fuckin’ mess to fix,” the voice stated opening the door enough for Crath to enter with suitcases in tow.
His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness of the bar, before he stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, as he realized two guns were pointing at him. It only took him a quick second to sense that there was no malice in those barrels, but just a bit of weariness.
“Surly sort, aren’t you?” Crath questioned with a murky laugh as the gruff-voiced man patted him down. The other man continued hiding in the shadows, pointing his gun at Crath.
“This,” the gruff voice said, pointing to the gun, “this is just our rat killer. We have big fuckin’ rat problem. Everywhere. Just scurrying about, getting into shit they do not belong in. Trying to steal and pilfer and rat out each other. Its like they grow bigger every day, walkin’ around on their two shitty feet. But you should pay it no mind. It looks dangerous, but it’s not a real big problem if you aren’t a rat,” the gruff voice responded, growing seemingly much happier and perhaps even kinder after groping, patting, and prodding Crath for a somewhat uncomfortable period of time.
Content with his examination, the gruff-voiced man turned to the man hiding in the shadows. “Bean, stop trying to look pretty and be a fuckin’ help. Bring Mr. Crath down to Beauregard to fix our rat problem,” the gruff man commanded, mixing up their little roleplay.
The man, apparently named Bean, entered the smoky light just well enough for Crath to see. Surprised for a second time, Crath only stared as a behemoth of a Ralkovian became fully visible. Looking up at the man, Crath realized the ARKR-18, a middle-sized Ralkovian Sub-Machine Gun, was carried by the behemoth at his hip level, but which was level with Crath’s breast. The gun, pretty large for an SMG, looked like a tiny pea-shooter in the man’s giant hands. Crath could only estimate the man was at least 7’3” and probably four hundred pounds or over easy.
Bean turned towards a second staircase and ushered Crath down. He quickly attempted to pick up the two suitcases as the behemoth began walking but found himself struggling. The gruff voice interrupted this scene with a shout in irritation, “Bean?! Have some fuckin’ manners and help the damn plumber down the stairs.”
Bean huffed in mild agitation and turned on the fourth or fifth stair, putting him roughly at Crath’s eye level. The scarred head and face showed abundant wounds that indicated a life at war. Bean walked back up the staircase, slightly bumping into Crath, which was enough to leave him thoroughly unbalanced. With a quick motion, Bean picked up the bags and carried them down as if they weighed like feathers.
With exception to the sound of lumbering footsteps and slightly labored breathing coming from Bean, the climb down the stairs was quiet. Bean does not seem like a man interested in talking, Crath thought to himself, almost preferring the gruff-voiced man over the silent killer.
He tried to pay attention to his surroundings, but the lights were dim here and the staircase much longer than first anticipated. They must have gone at least 2 floors down he thought. Giving up on trying to keep track of his surroundings, his eyes finally just focused on the large back of the man carrying the suitcases, before recognizing a familiar symbol, a tattoo on the back of the man’s neck. A red lambda with a wolf’s skull.
Red Vindication…
Crath had always been a poor student and now was one of the many times it had come to bite him in the ass. However, he had recognized the symbol from his high school textbook. The Red Vindication. A supposedly extinct group that was responsible for the previous Emperor’s assumption of power.
In an instant he quickly realized that his clients were not just some organized crime group, they were Raskov Ultraloyalists.
As he finally entered into the main bar, his suspicions were confirmed as a giant Raskov Flag hung against the Wall and a flurry of propaganda posters agitating against both the Regime and Federation littered the room.
He didn’t abhor working for any faction or any group in particular, as long as they paid, it was a job worth doing, but Ultraloyalists always got on his nerves. His attention returned to the bar itself, which besides those atrocious objects was neatly decorated and mirrored the Pubs that he used to love visiting in Rankov so long ago.
“Just like Bar Granstov,” Crath muttered to himself, embracing the nostalgia of Dji’Rachov Wood Paneling and Worn Grey Brick that so reminded him of the enlisted bar he frequented in Rankov.
“Indeed, my fine compatriot. Were you stationed at M’ralingard Naval Base?” a new voice spoke, greeting him with a warm, relaxed smile that put Crath at ease.
“No, I was Army, so Gamztafl And Gamo- …” Crath responded, only to cut himself short as he realized that he had shared information about himself. That was something he had rarely done, and did not want to do. He had merely forgotten his place.
“Army? Even better. I was also stationed with the Forty-Third Assault Army at Gamztafl and Gamortramor. You know what they say, you have to love...”
“You have to love GamGam,” Crath said, repeating his old bases motto, the nostalgia of the warm beach and beautiful city triggering him yet again.
“Glad to meet another GamGam Guy, I thought we were all buried and dead now, I am Mr. Beauregard,” the handsome man spoke, holding out a firm hand. Crath grasped his hand gently, embracing the intense warmth as he felt comforted.
“Yeah…I- I thought the same thing,” Crath muttered again, a little shaken at being drawn into unpleasant memories.
“I have a running bet, so if you don’t mind me asking…which Army did you get sent to after they split the Forty-Third?” Mr. Beauregard asked with a childish grin.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I was part of the merge with the Eighth Reconstituted and then Twelfth Reconstituted after the Seventh Winter Offensive of 5396 IY. I took part in the First, Second, and Third Assault Force to Tranikov, Defense of H’ranvolkov, First Routing of Palmyrion, Assault in the Frana Woods, Assault on Ephymera Pass, Second Reinforcements at Penada, Second Push to Balkovia, and Defense of the Golden Gates. Let me guess, you were merged with the Eighth or Twelfth Reconstituted Army too?” Crath said, assuming he knew what the bet was.
GamGam was the Forty-Third’s home base, just outside of the City of Rankov. By the latter half of the Ralkovian-Marshite war, the Forty-Third had been more than completely decimated by the Allied Coalition. A decision by the Penada Clique was made to split multiple half or quarter strength army groups into newly reconstituted full-strength armies. For Crath, whom the Forty-Third had been like a band of brothers too, this was a difficult time, especially as his friends and colleagues were sent separate ways. The Forty-Third had been split into six different reconstituted armies. However, people only ever encountered survivors from the Eighth or Twelfth. There existed a running bet for the first man to find another Forty-Thirder from one of the other reconstituted armies.
“No disappointment at all. I am one of those rare Forty-Thirders who got attached to the Twenty-Second Army after we fell apart at the Marakwarj. So I ended up passing into the Fourth Reconstituted. A Hell of a Ride though. Assault on H’ranvolkov, Defense of H’ranvolkov too, First Push to Balkovia, Tip of the Spear to Rankov, Defense of Panod, then I was captured when the Fourth Reconstituted Fell at K’jrallbarg. Luckily, I was interned in Eitoan and not the Holy Union,” he grimaced slightly at the thought of ending up in the Holy Union.
“Were you really at Defense of Panod?” asked Crath with minor incredulity. “Was it really true? 75% in 2 days?”
“Yeah, we lost half the men between the initial retreat from Rankov to the suburbs. And then by the next morning another quarter was burnt out. No air support and just a long march. I kept the men in order but by the time we rendezvoused with the Ninth at K’jrallbarg we only had twenty thousand men. A total loss of good men. We ended up getting cut off during the capture of the city and got captured by the Timocrats. I spent a few months in the Republic before being sent to Eitoan,” Mr. Beauregard said, before suddenly leaning back to look the bar. “Here, let me grab you a drink, I’m sure you had just as rough a ride. Excluding the past few years,” the man said, leaning over the bar. “Whiskey, Rum, or something else?” he then inquired, elegantly striding the few feet to the bar.
“I’ll take a whiskey,” Crath responded still in a mild state of shock at the story being confirmed.
“You’re absolutely in luck, I just acquired a Traskov Garden’s 21 year. Pretty much the last pre-war bottle in existence,” the man said, reaching behind the bar to grab a rather expensive looking bottle.
“Not exactly like Bar Granstov then,” Crath said, shaking himself out of his malaise with a joke.
“Yes, we carry a much better bottle selection, now please have a seat, I quite insist, you’re in for a treat,” the handsome man said smiling back as he carried two whiskey glasses and the bottle.
“You weren’t enlisted,” Crath observed. He had had it on good authority no NCO would know a 21 Year Traskov Garden from a bottle of hand sanitizer. He strained his fist as his stomach began to turn in knots as a sudden thought intruded into his head. A memory he desperately wanted to stay buried in the past.
“No, I was not in the army per se,” Mr. Beauregard said, giving a sharp, amused smile that left Crath feeling like he was standing at the business end of a gun. He knew that feeling quite well, whenever those damned Politiki Soldad Nobilit showed up at the Bar Granstov.
“Imperial Military Intelligence I presume,” Crath inquired as if to confirm his belief. The Politiki Soldad Nobilit, the “political soldiers of the nobility”, they enforced the strict hierarchy of the nobility in the military; protected the corrupt; exploited the vulnerable; rooted out whistleblowers; and did all the killing that the regular military would consider disgusting, dishonorable, and savage Brutality.
Fucking purge happy pricks, Crath thought to himself as Mr. Beauregard gave him a pleasant nod.
“Yes, an excellent guess, though we did share a campus together,” Mr. Beauregard said at first focusing on pouring the bottle, before giving him a predatorial smirk to match his snarky tone.
Mr. Beauregard handed the glass carefully to Crath, “and what about you?”
“I was in special recon and light assault,” Crath replied, taking the first sip.
“Ah yes, a Sniper, I guess this current line of work makes sense with your skills,” Mr. Beauregard said as he gave a warm nod.
“Yes. But then again, I would have taken this line of work regardless, not really much else is there?” Crath answered back.
“Fret not brother, the Empire will rise again from the ashes. We will return to crush our enemies and unite our homeland under one flag. So long as a Raskov sits on the Throne, the Empire will never disappear…” Mr. Beauregard passionately paraded, lifting his fist high into the air before leveling it with his chest in an Imperial Salute, before softly adding the disclaimer of: “…Is what a Neo-Raskovist criminal would say.”
Crath let a loose smile brush his lips. Ultra-loyalists are always a fucking bother, he thought. However, what came out of his mouth was entirely different from his own internal thoughts: “Of course my brother, one can only hope that are resurrection is soon.”
Crath knew better than to argue with a client and an ultra-loyalist at that. If the Ralkovian Empire could return by the will of three veterans hiding out in a grungy Eitoan Bar, Crath might have had some apprehension. However, as it stood, the Empire was dead, the Emperor was dead, and about ten billion Ralkovians were dead. Unless these men had a philosophers stone tucked away in the back there was no real prospect of a revival.
“While I appreciate the drink and meeting a fellow survivor from GamGam, I am here on business,” Crath reminded the Ralkovian sitting in front of him.
“Of course, my compatriot,” Mr. Beauregard stated with a mild frown, “Mr. Bean, can you please bring the packages here? I would like to inspect them.”
Crath forgot about the leviathan waiting in the corner, who quickly brought the two suitcases over with little effort. Bean then gently placed the first suitcase on the table, taking great care to not knock over the drinks.
While Crath was a tiny bit curious about what was inside the suitcase, he knew better than to look or attempt to look.
Mr. Beauregard gave an appreciative smile as he opened the suitcase and inspected the item out of Crath’s view.
“I am receiving the package in good order. Bean get the payment,” Mr. Beauregard said, before abruptly closing the suitcases.
“No need, I have it right here,” another voice answered.
Crath’s heart nearly jumped out of his mouth as a Hadiian, most likely a Death Guard, appeared in front of them carrying a bag of what appeared to be knick-knacks, paper clips, pens, and at least something that looked like a rubix cube.
“All of it is solid gold, 4 kg total, and made for convenience to travel. Your employer confirmed that this payment method was preferable. I have a scale and a weight if you would like to confirm,” the Hadiian said briskly.
“No need. I believe you,” Crath said, his eyes focusing on the man’s face, carefully examining his red-brown complexion and grey pupils.
The Death Guard had been the most elite and fearsome soldier’s Ralkovia could muster. Loyal only to the Emperor, the Death Guard were feared by friend and foe alike. That was because the Death Guard were only recruited out of the Hadiians, a semi-nomadic group that worshipped the Emperor as a living G-d. The Death Guard were also a Ralkovian soldier’s worst nightmare because of their eager and enthusiastic desires to partake in all cruelties of war. Squarely, the Death Guard’s responsibilities included the execution of deserters, enforcement of political obedience, and carrying out decimation. They also ferreted out all crimes political or otherwise, operating as the military gestapo, in a role that at least replicated the role of the Imperial Military Intelligence. However, where the IMI was tempered by at least the semblance of humanity in their nurture by presumably loving, or at least human parents; the Death Guard lacked: from the moment that self-awareness and consciousness manifested at infancy, they would spend their life training to remove the inherent morals of every person in order to become a tool and weapon of the Emperor.
For Crath, a man who loved his Country, but reviled the Empire and its enforcement organs, the thing standing in front of him, summarized a primal fear. Now nightmare rendered before him, with a friendly and warm visage on its cruel ruddish face, Crath barely managed to eke out a response. Swallowing silently, he pushed himself to return with a fake smile and sincerely thank the Hadiian. Momentary calmness washed over him as the Hadiian moved back to whatever dark pit he had crawled out of.
Today had been such a promising day, Crath thought, before the desire to extricate himself from this slice of hell reached its zenith.
“Mr. Beauregard while I appreciate the hospitality, I have received payment and must return to my Employer. I, however, wish you and your colleagues the best of luck,” Crath managed to say with at least a semi-natural confidence.
“Please do understand that like your reward, silence is golden,” Beauregard firmly threatened, before turning to the brute and saying, “Mr. Bean, please escort Mr. Crath out and bring his plumbing tools with him.”
The giant complied wordlessly, grabbing two new suitcases that were identical to the ones Crath carried.
As Crath exited the bar into the slums he sighed slightly in relief as the warm Eitoan sunset painted heat on his cheeks and slightly because this mission was over. At the Bar’s entrance he now found at least thirty or forty Eitoan or Ralkovian youth waiting to enter. Bean provided a guttural “move,” to which the crowd eagerly obeyed. Crath quickly departed stopping only a few blocks over to check the suitcases were not some delayed bomb. He was at least happy to find that they were in fact filled with an ordinary assortment of plumbing tools.
Crath did not know much, but after seeing the youths and the organizations involved in this little bar in this shitty town, his intuition was yelling one thing; the Empire’s body might be cut in half, but the organs were still functioning.
