[TWI ONLY | IC] Terror Over Gael

by **Dormill and Stiura** » Fri Jun 16, 2023 6:07 pm

TERROR OVER GAEL

You see there's nightmares so much worse
Than those you pinch to shake
There's ones that whisper in your ear
"But you are already awake."

- Erin Hanson, "She knows the names of nightmares . . . "

Read the full Tragedy of Gael saga here
Oh Night UnholyShadow Over GaelTerror Over GaelInferno Over Gael
OOC | ICOOC | ICOOC | ICOOC | IC

Chapter 1: Bare Threads in the Grey Summer Rains

Cabinet Office, Presidential Chateau, Cour Rouge
9 June 2023, 1206

Party leadership meetings were arguably the worst kind of monotony for Cedar Dyson to handle. Seven years in office and yet he still found it puzzling that he was somehow most equipped to understand and lead an entire political party, one of a million different interests each bickering for his attention, the man that won two terms of Presidency on a protest wave. To sit here and try to strategize how to translate that into a more permanent political order when all the protesting was turning against his policy was equal parts boring and terrifying.

Yet here he was, sitting at the head of the long oak table in the Chateau, trying to keep his head up through the plain slideshow and the monotonous narration of the head of the Republic of Grottingon’s wing of the party, who was continuing on a point about media exposure for the States-Captain candidates in the President’s native Dutch, “It’s a good thing our candidates this year are younger, media efforts focused towards our key national voting blocs will encourage more individual donations into the campaign. However, Grottingon’s most common voting bloc trends both older and more conservative than the average Forwards voter, hence the current preferences for Mr. Gibson’s reelection against even the likes of Mr. Christian,” she paused for a few moments on that sentence and the accompanying slide before proceeding onto recommendations for media involvement by the national party organization, “Which is why I recommend we set up debates among the current leading candidates to encourage them to broaden their message towards this bloc, to fireside kinds of issues such as taxation, social policies, and energy security…”

The longer the talking went on, the further Dyson’s mind drifted from the details and into the wider picture, his political situation was not exactly at its healthiest on a foreign level, but domestic wins kept his and the party’s popularity high. The details on who would be leading the party’s efforts in the Republics would be up to other, more equipped people, he felt, glancing occasionally at other staffers for whom the presentation kept their close attention.

After another hour more, the meeting concluded, plans were put into motion, and Cedar escorted his guests out of the Chateau with his well-trained smile. Once it was all said and done, he found himself alone once more in his office, pondering the latest briefings that were brought in while he was away and the next meeting on his schedule to discuss his appearance at the coming Gael Four security summit of leaders. Security, the word lingered the longer he thought, memories of the last three years has been tormenting his psyche when it came to that dreaded s-word, flashes of Colonel Rudin’s face haunted Cedar’s subconscious as he grappled with the immorality of leaving him to die in Dociara at the hands of what he was sure were Balniki agents. As he looked back out from his window towards Cour Rouge and neighboring Kapolder, the beating heart of the United Republics of Dormill and Stiura, he could not help but feel an unbidden dread creep along his back, which he quickly masked with his trained smile when he turned back towards the center of the office to respond to the knock at his door.

Mount Slebjic, Poljet of Rustov, Balnik Unknown Location
Silas Pascal: Bureau Agent ID: 361-Zuse
The burning of the intense light was already evident long before the burlap sack was torn from his head, though knowing that did not help the blinding sensation that immediately followed. In the few seconds he could process before the next phase of his torture began, he remembered his earlier moments back in Vasca enjoying time off from his normal work to take a vacation, but the memory was cut short by a blow to his head and the barking of commands in a patchwork of highly accented English, “We know who you are, Silas. We know you work for Chery. Tell us what you know, and the pain stops.” His only response was to curse him out in French, “After all this time, fucking your mother on that beach still would’ve been more painful than…,” which was again cut short by an electrical shock, the greatest pain he would ever feel. His mind went blank for a few minutes while it was overwhelmed by the pain, which was soon punctuated by the stench of searing flesh which further fogged his thoughts.

The voice in the shadow howled again to recapture his attention, the accent worsening to an almost incomprehensible degree, “Tell us about Borehole! Who else works with you?!” Still recovering from the last jolt of electricity, he mustered a breathy response in English this time, staring directly at the source of the voice in the shadows, “Of all the interrogations I’ve been through, yours has been the least productive. You’ve given me nothing to negotiate with and demanded information far more valuable than your pay-grade.”

Before anybody else could speak, the creak of a door interrupted the interrogation with a new, familiar voice echoing into the chamber, “You will speak. Your life and nation depend on it.”

He bared bloody teeth at the man that now towered over the light above his torture chair, barely hiding a laugh in the process before speaking, “I’ve been in this world for long enough to know how this all works, Dovesti. For all your bluster and all that you claim to command, your throne is just an empty chair in the end, your medals just scraps of cheap aluminum. All of that is stuck here in Balnik, worthless.” Struggling to maintain a consistent tone, he dug the verbal knife in further, “the real gold is industry, commerce - the mighty Guilder that travels these isles far and wide while you stagnate here with the Lesvans.”

He gazed deeply into Dovesti Andre Chernobog’s face, hunting for any detail as the Balniki dictator walked towards the torturer right beside his head, Silas refusing to break his gaze. “But of course, admitting that would be conceding to us,” he continued, his sardonic tone taunting the dictator as he drew ever closer, “And you have an image to upkeep in front of your officers, don’t you?" He lingered on the sounds of his sarcasm for a moment before continuing, "That of the servile lieutenant to the state and the almighty ‘Dovesti’ to a nation of twenty-five, no, forty million fools.”

As Chernobog reached for the lever, he leaned into his prey and demanded a question, “And what fool do you take me for?” He was answered by a spit of blood and a tooth, then by the spit of aphorism, “The role of a jester is to play king and lead around his following of fools, while the true rulers look on and crunch numbers, hoarding all the wealth they desire. And credit where it’s due, you do make for a fine jester, the king of fools.”

The last thing he heard was the hard clank of the switch as his body convulsed under the electrical barrage. After about half a minute, all that remained of him was a collapsed body, the stench of charred skin insulting the two remaining men, leaving only the Dovesti wiping his face with a handkerchief and the Teklak torturer standing silently in the shrouded room.

“Tell no-one of this,” was all that broke the silence, followed by his monotonous footsteps fading towards the exit. It took a few moments from there for Chernobog to return to his office, his vantage high in the palace that adorned the top of Mount Slebjic. From here, Chernobog could see the entire urban footprint of Rustov below, moving according to his decree and executing his will for a perfect Balnik.

It did feel isolating, however, looking upon the citizens he often calls sons and daughters and brothers and sisters in his grand speeches, pondering the amount of control he exerted over them while the Doraltic’s words replayed in his head. The answer in his mind was simple, he was no jester, he had strength; strength to string together Gael and the south into an alliance of power, strength enough to exact revenge on the detestable enemies who dared throw the gauntlet at him in Dociara, and strength enough to hold his head high against the Sword of Damocles and dare the horsehair string to snap.

The Throne Whose Roots Hold The World, Palace of the Life God, The Free City of Dociara
11 June 2023

Beyond the streams of Laminthas, atop a small hill, surrounded by the Gardens of Isnicselis, the Palace of the Life God sat. Perhaps one of the most beautiful buildings in the Isles, with its bright white limestone, delicately carved wooden accents, gold, and precious stones gilded upon its painted bricks, draped in the finest silk and cloth, and intricate glass windows and pieces, in the light of Roendavar, it was a beauty. Yet, a shadow has fully enveloped Roendavar. It has snuffed out the once festive and grandiose spirit of the Union and has replaced it with a cold and suffocating darkness. The delicate balance of power, a distinction between above and below, has been broken in Roendavar, and a looming inferno now threatens to rage.

Five figures speak within an ornate throne room. The stained glass that decorated the domed ceiling did nothing against the gray clouds that loomed over Dociara, bringing a cold mist that hung in the air. On the far center of the hall, a massive intricately sculpted throne, draped of the finest silk, illuminated by tens of small but fluttering bulbs, positioned within an alcove of a massive marble tree, its roots coiling across the colored tiled floor, as if it was planted on Earth itself. Here sat the Celion of Roendavar, the God-King, Faunus Eleos Caenalren Iralethias. To his right, the Thraenacil, of the Agents of the Rose, the "HEI", Sylvanus Alerion Theresmilias. In front of him, the three Thronai stood, each representing one of the four States that make up Roendavar. An empty space remained between the three. A painful reminder of the death of one of Roendavar’s longest serving leaders, the Thronai of Andavar, which was the physical and moral center of Roendavar, at the Attack on Dociara.

“That is all, i Celion, but there is one more thing of concern.” The Thronai of Vastaros, Roendavar’s northeastern state, and the only republic within the Union, Victhari Azaneragrin Vatilezi followed in the very distinctive and hard Roendavarian language, where each syllable is carefully measured and said with precise intonation and clarity, “The Roendavarian elections loom close before us. We understand that the Celion must always be neutral, therefore, I cannot ask for your blessing nor your help. However, understand that we are at a crossroads.”

“The Valanthar gains ground. It is projected that they will gain key local positions across Roendavar. Not enough to overturn the majority of the High Council but enough to challenge Nascion rule of the decades. If they win, they will become the Leader of the Opposition and will have enough political power to challenge any laws or action Roendavar will undertake.” Thronai of Tillianan, Roendavar’s southernmost state, Endrina Caliaeth Salenarthil, informed.

“You assume correctly that there is nothing I can do about this matter. The powers vested upon me does not preclude my involvement between the affairs of the States and the elections.” Celion Faunus explained. By law, the Crown of Roendavar could not endorse or participate in partisan politics in Roendavar, however, Faunus knew that while Nascion, the current ruling party in Roendavar, had fumbled over the past years, it must remain in leadership if internal stability was concerned.

“This we understand, and we do not hold it against you.” Victhari said, emphasizing the circumstances of this conversation. “We are only telling you this because the next months will be a hard battle for the Union and the government. As we struggle against foreign powers, we now begin to fight amongst ourselves. It is best that you maintain authority above all else.”

“Understand one thing, my Thronai, I cannot do anything with the political machinations of Roendavar. This is for you three to work out amongst yourselves and, while I would agree with most of your concerns, I can only do so much with the powers behest upon the Crown.” Faunus raised his hand to interject before his subjects went on further, “Yet, that does not mean I will take this powerless. You do your job. I will do mine.”

“And do we have the liberty of knowing what it is that you shall be doing?” Thronai of Sudever, nestled in the peninsula in the northwest, Sorin Soarelathria Dartulesa, raised, “We know that the affairs of the Crown and the HEI are not our place but, perhaps, we can be of help in any way? This is a problem that needs the full cooperation of the Union.”

“No.” Faunus quickly snapped, though in such a way that his voice was not raised, “Focus on the affairs of the Union. The security of this nation is with the Crown, as is with the Halchainar. Trust that it will be dealt with accordingly and without issues. Proceed with the proposals, take note of my suggestions, and, most important of all, know the feeling of the national response to each of them. Do them and do whatever is necessary.” The Celion ended authoritatively. “You are dismissed. I know, in my heart, you will not fail me.” The Three Thronai knelt, three fingers crooked and outstretched, their palms up. This was the sign of the Life God and a symbol of fealty towards the Roendavarian monarch. After their supplication, they began to exit the throne room and as they crossed the gigantic pine doors, attendants brought them to a close that echoed through the now empty hall.

“Are you still sure of this, Faun? This is unlike you.” Sylvanus, finally spoke. He held his tongue throughout the meeting, as was ordered by Faunus. Before the three Thronai arrived, the two had already spoken of their plans, and Sylvanus could still not believe what the Celion was asking of him. “What you are speaking of is insane. If the Thronai knew about this, the other two, you will not get their support. And even if you did, there are far too many uncertainties at play here. You trust too much in our skill. You trust too much in fate.”

“There is no doubt left in my heart, Syl. Roendavar will not succumb to the evil that we face right now. Not … under me.” Faunus stood from the throne, his eyes wandering to the dome above him. The first of the summer rains has now begun to fall, their light sound tapping against the stained glass as they slid down like tears, their visage scattering across the throne room. A chill has settled, and even the orange glow of lights could not temper the shadows that danced across the hall. “Our enemies are playing games. We shall give them a one worthy of grand Roendavar.”

Sylvanus could do nothing but obey at this point. The Crimson Year has changed so much of Roendavar, and those changes were most evident in the young Celion. A nearly overwhelming sense of guilt and regret dominated the King and Sylvanus shared it with him. The horror and the sheer maddening scale of death had begun to rear its course in Roendavar, and even those in the highest echelons of the Union was not safe from its wild rampage. Sylvanus only hoped that it would not push Roendavar, especially Celion, into a path that they would fear sooner or later. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, dialing a familiar contact and waited for the characteristic sounds of an open line.

“Iorealin. Assemble who is available of the Thirteen. The Laws of Engagement have been suspended. The Celion would like to proceed with the plan.”

Kertalin, Keverai
11 May 2023

Under the bright and oppressive Keverite sun, the citizenry of Kertalin were seen enjoying the monotony of their daily life, going about their day, and doing their errands as the silent waves wash the white sand of the beaches away. Peeling away the façade, however, reveals something more sinister, a criminal underworld of evil and treachery, where only the cruel and cunning survive and prey on the innocent. Keverai is seen as an abhorrent place of scum and villainy to most, but to the opportunist it is a place of great resources to those who need something done, no matter the cost.

On one such peaceful sunny afternoon, a man and a woman sit next to each other on a cafe patio, next to the blue ocean and rolling waves of the Southern Sea. Their clothes were quite plain, resembling simple beach-goer wear, the man wearing a floral button up with white shorts and the woman a yellow dress with a thin grey cardigan. Rather unamused with the others’ company, the man takes out a pack of cigarettes and places one in his lips, turning his back against the wind that disturbed his shaggy brown hair. He flicks the flint on his lighter trice, finally igniting a flame on the third strike. The woman looks over at the man as he lights up the small pleasure in his fingers, her expressions obscured by the large sunglasses covering her eyes as she holds a strand of her blonde hair in her left hand, her well-manicured nails twisting the strand as she watched him inhale, then exhale a puff of smoke from his cigarette, almost anxiously.

“How much longer?” The woman asks in harsh-sounding Balniki, a tinge of boredom breaking through her voice past her cold exterior, an act.

The man slouches and glances at his wristwatch. “Five minutes.” He says plainly in their shared language, unbothered by the circumstances.

“Meeting up with shady people in a shady place far from home with a weak lead. Where have I seen this before?” The woman asks, resting her chin in her hands as she stares absentmindedly into the sea.

“Relax, it will be going better this time, and besides, we came prepared this time.” He calmly responds back, looking into the second story next to him, only to be greeted with a single eye and the rapid closing of the curtains, obscuring sight into the room. Not too long after, a silver car turns the corner and parks near the cafe.

“Right on time,” the man sitting exclaims, extinguishing his cigarette and looking at the car. Two men soon get out, both almost identical, both tall and tan sporting trimmed beards and short black hair, except one has tattoos running from his neck to his hands. The two men were dressed in a business casual attire, opposing their benefactors who look disturbingly under-dressed compared to them.

“Good day gentlemen.” The smoking man says coolly, switching into a plainly accented English, almost that of a trained reporter, gesturing to a pair of white wooden chairs, the paint chipped of with age and bleached by the sun. “I am Krevic, and this woman here is my associate, Novak. As you understand we require the services of Anliana ... Business.” The tattooed man stares down Krevic who looks back with a warm smile.

The tattooed man finally breaks the silence, “I am Luis, my associate is Philip.” He says, gesturing to the blank man, who gives a slight nod upwards. Krevic then grabs another cigarette from his pack and smoothly ignites it in a swift motion before continuing.

"Novak, the documents please." Krevic politely asks as he gestures to the two men, prompting Novak to reach into a red tote bag and pull out a plain brown folder of documents as she slides it across the table to the two men. They both open the folder and inspect it meticulously, ensuring there are no errors in the papers.

“Silas Pascal.” Novak chimes in, reaching for Krevic's cigarette and taking in a deep drag, following with a sharp exhale through her nose. “A Doraltic Bureau agent. He will be in Vasca for a vacation in the next few weeks. He is trained and dangerous and will quickly suspect if something is up, be cool. It is also pertinent to us that he stays ... responsive, and talkative. Half the money is in the vehicle.” She nods towards a plain white freight van across the street. “You will receive the other half when we receive him.” Luis' eyes the documents then look to the woman.

“And the form of payment will be in the form we requested prior?” He asks, raising a brow and closing the folder.

“One hundred percent unmarked bullion, two and a half million dollars.” Krevic says, his small smile growing as he holds out the keys to the van. “Wanna take a look?”

Luis looks to his associate Philip who nods and rises from the chair, catching the keys and walking to the van. Luis then looks and the folder then back at the pair and clears his throat. “So, if he's from Chery, does that make you Balniki?”
“No.” He says matter-of-factly, his smile weathering the hot, unceasing sun. “Lesvan, actually. You see this man discovered me and my associates' ... affair and has threatened to blackmail me to my wife, demanding a modest ransom granted. But if word leaked, it would destroy my business and send us under, so that's why I need him taken care of.”

“Ah.” Luis says dejectedly, his deductive reasoning shot down like a duck a hunt. “My mistake for assuming." His attention is soon diverted to Philip who returns with a fast gait, eager to speak to his partner. He speaks with a big grin, looking at the two then his partner.

“It’s all there.” Phillip excitedly whispers, gesturing to Luis to get going.

Krevic’s smile never breaks afterwards, not even through the rest of his cigarette.

Diedrich Grottingon Building, University of Chery campus, Avillon.
0625, 11 June 2023

From the inside of the conference room near the top of the building, one could look down at the ongoing protest of the Bureau’s activities run by the students at the University of Chery. It was admirable, to say the least, that they have held some form of protest or another since 2001, typically a silent vigil but increasingly it has been loud rallies, some even repeating the claims that the Bureau was involved in what happened in Roendavar last year.

At the head of the meeting inside was Director Trix Lovel, who was joined by the leaders of the Operations Department to discuss a matter of grave importance, the recent kidnapping of one of their own.

“Whatever this attack was, it was sophisticated, highly coordinated, and remarkably bloodless.” Lovel continued in a refined French typical of educated Doraltic citizens, referring to the projector which showed captured photos from Uprean CCTV. “The fact it took us until now after the Upreans started their investigation, shows that whoever or whatever orchestrated this knew where he would be, when, and how to deal with him. It’s hard to imagine who would have such information, but it narrows down our suspects. For now, we should keep an eye on what the Upreans find and start cleaning house of any possible moles, starting with our Southern Sea collections departments.”

“Moles?”, asked Operations Security Director Alger Johnson, “Our operations security is top of the line.”

“You seem to have forgotten that Dociara is still under reconstruction from our failure in OpSec, Director.” Lovel sharply responded, staring down at her counterpart, “Nobody outside of us should have known about this agent and his location, and now we know neither. That means somebody on the inside knew who he was, what he was involved in, who he worked with, and that he’d be vacationing in Uprea. Put all those together with him working on Project Borehole, we’ve got a convincing motive and opportunity, all that’s left is trying to find who the hell is stupid or deranged enough to try and light our entire regional OpSec on fire.”

The other Operations leaders looked at each other with varying degrees of worry and hesitation, they knew that the Bureau hadn’t had a mole this deep since the ‘90s. The relationship between Agent Zuse and Project Borehole, the Bureau’s ongoing monitoring operation within various facets of Balnik’s government, industry, and research institutes prompted fears that they will expose the agents working in and near Balnik to Chernobog directly, possibly even spark further conflict.
Director Johnson was the first to speak back up after a moment of contemplation, simply asking, “Well, where do we start?”

Port Grottingon, New Friesland Unknown Location
16 June 2023

A voice howled in the darkened room of an ill-repaired apartment, the only relevant illumination in the room was provided by an old lamp positioned near a bulletin board, “I told you to not fucking kill him you moron!” It paused for a moment before resuming its tirade, “I don’t care if he wasn’t cooperating! I don't care that it was Chernobog himself! Our deal was he would be kept alive while I located his comrades! … Well fuck you then!”

The shattering of the low-tech phone against the nearby wall marked the end of the ranting, but not the rage as further loud crashes and screams reverberated against the walls. As the noises subsided, a silhouette came over the board and turned on a second light that illuminated the contents of the board further, strung together was a map of the Isles and profiles of several Bureau agents, all connecting to President Dyson in Cour Rouge and a file on a “Project Borehole.”
His voice came back slightly hoarse after all the yelling, “Fine, I didn’t need those worthless idiots anyways. Onto plan B.”

20 June 2023, approx. 1000 CGT
Presidential Palace, Red Court

The morning’s paper, condensed from multiple sources and compiled in the same dry government report format, was not kind to Cedar Dyson. The Bureau broke the story about the kidnapping of one Silas Pascal while he was on holiday in Uprea. The report, lifted in part from a Uprean internal report, went on to note the unique nature of the kidnapping and known personal details about Pascal, that he was alone and was reported attempting to fight off his assailants during his capture. As the story went on, as Cedar reached for the phone to contact the Bureau for details, the more he felt that it was no coincidence this man was targeted, let alone the lack of anyone claiming the act or demanding ransom from him.
As soon as Director Trix Lovel was confirmed to be on the other side, the President opened things bluntly, “What do you know about Silas Pascal?”

“No more than what you should know, sir,” the Director responded, seemingly confused by the President’s line of questioning.

“Said the Director of the Bureau of Special Intelligence,” Cedar coldly responded before continuing his interrogation, “Was this man one of yours, Director?” His tone of increasing distrust pierced through the speaker of his phone.

A long pause followed from the other end of the line, something Cedar felt was deeply troubling considering the relatively open candor Director Lovel offered him over the past years. She simply broke it with a brief “No,” in a dead tone.

The President sighed and rubbed his forehead before he concluded his conversation, “In that case, get me a full report on this man from the Upreans by next week.” He hung up the call shortly after and left himself in silent contemplation, wondering how he would justify not talking about this story, yet another summer marred by the news of another prominently lost citizen.

Approx. 1400
The afternoon went over better for Cedar than he had hoped from the morning, the media had been kept off his back by the Palace press corps while he attended his afternoon functions. As he walked through the doors of his meeting with the Public Safety minister and council, the morning’s news still lingered in his mind.

Minister Sarina Clemens was the first to speak up, “Mr. President, I trust your morning has been eventful?”

“The work of a Presidency starts early and rarely abates, Mrs. Clemens,” he responded with a hint of charm, “I want to start today’s meeting about Mr. Pascal.”

“Of course, sir,” chimed in Rena Gardiner, the current director of the domestic-focused National Criminal Investigatory and Registry Commission, “Mr. Romijn’s team has already readied a report on Mr. Pascal.” Director Gardiner turned the room’s attention to a slideshow put together from the mentioned report and began describing the known details about Silas Pascal.

Though Dyson intended to pay closer attention to the details of this report than he has other daily meetings, his attention was not as strong as he wanted it to be until Gardiner reached a slide on Pascal’s work history, continuing from an earlier point without missing a beat, “Of note is Mr. Pascal’s longtime employment with Thaku’s, a chain of men’s wear stores throughout the region where he has served in store or regional management roles at locations in Cote d'Emeraude, Mala, and Riverbend among others. Based on other information we’ve gathered from his employer, he’s apparently close personal friends with the corporate owners and has been involved in board meetings. We so far believe that the motive for his kidnapping may be leverage in an ongoing sale being coordinated by Elenita Group, although we can’t be entirely sure to what end. It is also possible that some third party intends to crash the deal by removing a major part of Thaku’s management.”

The mention of this information triggered a strong reaction from Dyson, who innately understood the implications of what the NCIRC had found already. In the back of his mind, he was infinitely more angered by the lie that Lovel fed him over this man’s identity. However, he couldn’t simply reveal these details to the council here, spurring an inter-service rivalry over these details would further stunt his ability to have the information needed to respond, so he simply responded as if he knew nothing new, and asked if further cooperation with their Uprean counterparts would be beneficial.

“It would ultimately be smart if we worked with the Upreans, Mr. President.” Director Gardiner responded, “They would ultimately have jurisdiction, but we are dealing with a Doraltic national, information sharing will be crucial. For that, the Bureau would be indispensable.”

Indispensable, Cedar fumed internally, gathering further mistrust over the situation as he questioned his ability to corral the increasing number of actors now involved in this kidnapping case.

Union-East Station, New Leeuwarden
19 June 2023

The largest westward train stations in Dormill and Stiura was always bustling with traffic as people from all over Gael used it to cross the GaelRail that strung the continent together. The main concourse was remarkably modern as part of New Friesland’s efforts to market its old capital city as a destination just as much as it was already a way-station on a journey.

Part of the station was also used for immigration and customs enforcement as it was one of the two key ports for Roendavarians entering the country. As part of the Gael Four, both nations have eased their regulations surrounding visits between each other, however, Union-East was still used for all the usual customs functions.

In among the crowd of people transiting the concourse from the Doraltia-bound tracks to the Roendavar-bound track, a pair of people in typical business attire had struck up a conversation in their walk, important dealings for anyone who could listen in … “It’s all so much to take in. Dyson and Lovel betraying the nation, dragging us into a war against Balnik?” Asked a middle-aged man, who was quickly met by the response of another man of a younger, angrier tone, “You’ve worked for the Bureau for how long and you haven’t noticed? Borehole, Rudin, Dyson’s speech in Dociara and in the I.D. They all add up, he’s lost it and the hag at the top has been manipulating him to cover for fucking everything up then.”

The older man sighed deeply, his face shifting through several stages of contemplation before resting on surrendered motivation and asking the younger man, “So, what do you need from me?” A smile creeps onto the younger man as he answers, “I know you have contacts within certain Roendavarian organizations that may want what we want. I need to find them for my plan.”

The old man strained himself through closed eyes as he silently agreed, but begged one more question, “And what is it that we want?”

by **Dormill and Stiura** » Fri Jun 16, 2023 6:10 pm

Chapter 2: Old and New Acquaintances

"I hold none in my heart,
It has been let go.
I know there is no joy in sorrow -
But, a retribution, it shall start."

Malister, McHenry’s Port
21st June 2023

The air tasted of salt. Wispy white clouds upon a clear blue sky. Cool misty winds swept through the sandy shores on a small limestone island. In the middle of the azure blue waters of the Western Isles, amongst thousands of islands, it was another beauty. Yet, this was McHenry’s Port. Viewed as a socio-political anomaly of the modern day, the beautiful island has been beset and made home by people who once spread fear across every sailor’s hearts: pirates and mercenaries. Roendavarians had a term for them, athanelin iestedhicalcos, a great people who live by necessity. Centuries ago, the people here marched with the greatest. Aragonus, as he conquered the Argusian lands, employed the ancestors of the Henrites and were known for their independent wit that struck terror in every army. The Empire of Dociara, of its golden gilded and well-stocked ships, while prime targets to any mind, were feared for the Henrites that stood guard and defended their employers well. Now, they have devolved to nothing more than,

“A vile pit of sniveling swindlers and crooks.” Sylvanus mumbled to himself as he stepped off the jet. One of the perks of being Roendavarian was that you had access to means that put you above some, if not, all. Pity that while it was good for vacations, we are forced to land in this circus show of the modern day, Sylvanus thought. His long black hair was done up like the ocean with black pearls, complimenting the dark black suit he wore. “Well, Saltha, we are here in Malister, and I must admit I do not look forward to meeting the Henrites.”

“I could say the same. Their loyalties are shaky at best. With this being an informal meeting, I would say we best be ready for anything they pull.” Saltharia agreed. Her long silver hair was tied in a bun to stave off the heat. To match, she wore a gleaming silver suit. She wore the traditional Roendavarian display of colorful jewelry, glistening against the bright sunlight.

As they got off the steps, a small entourage was already waiting for them, composed of multiple agents wearing black suits. They were all of different ethnicities, a reflection of the melting pot that is McHenry’s Port, a place where neither blood nor culture define the people, but necessity. One of the male agents approached them. “We’re here to take you to the Governor. Please come with us.” He said in a succinct and direct manner, gesturing to the black car parked on the tarmac. The drive up to the Governor’s House was uneventful.

While Sylvanus attempted to make any semblance of conversation with the two agents that accompanied them, it was clear that they had no interest in social matters, nor did they like to talk. They were serious, direct, and bland, but this is what made the Henrites effective mercenaries. The city, Malister, looked unappealing, much so to Roendavarian standards. Blocks of squat buildings on roads arranged in a grid-like pattern. On the surface, it was a normal settlement, but a closer glance can reveal that it is more than that. It was built as a fortress, a tightly packed bastion meant to make any assault on the urban area difficult. It needed to be that, as it was a city where half pledge their cause to the coin and half provide the sustenance to enable it.

As they got closer and closer to the center of the city, the space eventually became more spacious, and the character of McHenry’s Port finally showed through. It was a multicultural hotspot in the middle of the ocean. Everything reflected a part of the cultures that made it its home. Ipachi, Gaelitic, Argusian, Raelosi, every single culture was represented in various little ways, from architectural styles to the music, to the food that was being served, and even to how everyone dressed.
They eventually reached the center of Malister and, in the middle of a park, one of the few in McHenry’s Port, they finally arrived at the Governor’s House. It was a well-built mansion, a testament to the amount of money that passes through the hands of those who run McHenry’s Port. Their car parked in front of the entrance, with the Henrite agents escorting them inside. They passed through hallways, various trophies on display. Sylvanus knew most of them. Pottery from Argus, carpets from Veldhaven, and even a small Roendavarian encrusted figurine protected in glass.

Before they could wonder if most of it were acquired legally, they paused in front of heavy-set wooden doors and were ushered inside. The Governor’s Office was simple but reflected the general aesthetic, decorated with various trinkets and objects from different parts of the world. A true reflection of the cosmopolitan atmosphere created by mercenary work from all around the Western Isles.

“Wait here. The Governor will see you shortly. Please do not wander about.” The male mercenary coldly stated. He turned around and walked out of the room, closing the door behind the two Roendavarians. They each took their seats opposite each other on the visitors’ side of the large table, waiting patiently for the arrival of the Governor. This was the first time Sylvanus would meet Daniel Macari, the Governor of McHenry’s Port. While he has dealt with Henrites, both as allies and as enemies, he has yet to meet the administrator of it all. After a few minutes, the doors opened once again.

“Greetings! Welcome to McHenry’s Port!” Governor Daniel Macari walked in. He was an average looking man, which betrays the power he holds over the operations of the Henrites. Gray has begun to streak his hair, but his posture remained stern and steady, despite the lack of any imposing hostility or seriousness. Horribly plain, by the standards of the Roendavarians, but they knew that he did not need to be more, he just needed to be what he was for McHenry’s Port. A servant to the people, a face to the administration of the elusive mercenary island. “When I heard that the Roendavarians were coming, I knew that this would be the beginning of something fruitful and beneficial for us. So, what is it that we can provide for you?” he asked as he took a seat at the wooden chair before the two Roendavarians. Straight to business.

“Indeed, Governor … we are. Before we begin our little talk, it is imperative to us that we represent the Celion and his wishes first.” Sylvanus pulled out a clean white envelope from his coat pocket. A golden seal was pressed upon its speckled paper, the symbol of the Royal Family of Iralethias embossed. “Enclosed within are the terms that our monarch wants to be a foundation for our negotiation today and we hope that these can be arranged fully, if not, more than what he expects.”
He slid the envelope across the table.

“Of course! Anything the young king wants; we will try to make it happen.” The Governor jovially said. Using a small knife, he broke the seal and began to unfold the delicate pine-scented paper. A few minutes of silence befell the room as the Governor read the contents of the letter. There was a moment of silence as the Governor finished reading the letter and he looked directly at Sylvanus, lips pursed in contemplation. “My apologies. This cannot happen.”

“And what happened to ‘anything the young king wants’, Governor?” Sylvanus interrogated. “Is there a problem with what we want and what we are offering in return?” He pressed further, hoping to get more details. While he did not know the contents of the letter, he knew the specifics of what the Celion wanted. It was indeed a large number and Sylvanus knew that it was close to impossible. However, the monarch of Roendavar has remained resolute in his plan. Sylvanus had to make it work.

Governor Macari set the paper on the table. “The numbers that the Celion asks is too much. You are asking to hire around 3/4ths of our available manpower, essentially committing the entirety of our resources to your cause. Your terms of payment are acceptable and generous, but it cannot justify the amount of people and capital we would have to invest and move to fulfill the request.” Governor Macari plainly explained.

He must have noticed Sylvanus’ disapproving look. He began to speak once more to stall whatever the Roendavarian was preparing to say. “I’m sorry but there is also another factor. As we see now, you are asking us to give everything that we can and have to a nation that, greatest apologies, has no prospect of gaining victory in the short or long term. You are asking Henrites to fight and die in a foreign land for the sake of a king that is frankly losing this so-called shadow war.”

“I see how it is, Governor.” Saltharia interjected, shaking her head at what the Governor implied. “Perhaps the Celion has forgotten that we are not the first country that has approached you regarding this conflict and has you on the payroll. We have forgotten that it was your mercenaries that helped undermine the stability of our nation. It is your mercenaries that were complicit and merry in the slaughter of innocent Roendavarian lives. All in the name of Balnik, of the Dovesti. Your mercenaries are nothing more than fascist slaves now. Here, we thought, your kind would not go lower and betray its honorable code.”

“Please don’t look down on us. I’m being realistic here, and I’m trying to help you. The number of resources that you will give to us is huge but we fear that we can’t give what you want.” Governor Macari apologetically said, his hands clasped. “And please. I understand what we Henrites did in Roendavar. However, you cannot blame us for that. You know how our terms work. We all operate under the same rules. You understand this.”

Saltharia was visibly taken aback at the implication. “Your loyalties lie by the coin, and we do not imply that this is detestable. Such is the need of your people and unenviable circumstances, such as the survival of your state. Your current predicament necessitates extraordinary means.” She retorted, “But do not mistake us as you. Do not dare to imply that our people pursue value as your people do.”

“Then you understand that for McHenry’s Port to survive, we must do what is necessary. What is necessary for us is to remain strong, to remain organized, and remain in the good graces of the world by our code of ethics. I apologize but you cannot ask us to risk everything to a lost war. You said it yourself. It is merely survival.” Governor Macari reasoned.

“Please, Governor. You must cooperate. We have means far greater than what Balnik can achieve. Have you forgotten, Governor, that the seas you are surrounded by allies of Roendavar? Dependable and efficient allies, on par with the powers that can wage war across the Western Isles. What happens, then, when we enlist their help in the security and stability of Roendavar? Do you think your current benefactors will come to your rescue and risk the ire of more enemies? Have you also forgotten that Roendavar continues to be an influential part of the Western Isles?” The further Sylvanus went, the more palpable his growing fustrations and anger became, not only at this negotiation, but his entire mission.

“And what if we begin to campaign for harsher measures against those who are responsible for destabilizing the region? Does that not include you here in McHenry’s Port?” Sylvanus concluded. He knew that he had to play the same game mercenaries know, and that is to appeal to their impulse in trying to save their own skins.

“Are you blackmailing us?” the Governor snapped, responding to Sylvanus’ anger in kind “Do you think you can achieve what you want by threatening us? I thought you wanted to engage in a mutually beneficial relationship between our two countries and you lead with this? Don’t you want our help?!”

“No, Governor. I am not threatening you. I am trying to save you.” Sylvanus retorted, his anger subsiding, “Let me add on what Roendavar can offer you. You said you wanted security? We can give you that. We assure you that we will postpone our investigation into Henrite responsibilities in the attacks in Roendavar and give you the breathing space to operate. That, and double the amount the Balniki pays you and McHenry’s Port.” He was sweetening the pot far more than what a simple letter was obviously capable of, “All of those for the same number of mercenaries the Celion requests. I believe that is a good enough compromise. Housing, training, funding, and everything else that is needed will be covered by the Roendavarian government. You would have nothing to worry about but make sure that they arrive in Roendavar.” Sylvanus offered a warm smile. “Governor Macari. We need each other. Roendavar will be grateful if you agree and will be amenable to forgive past transgressions against us.”

Governor Macari sighed deeply before standing and turning towards the windows of the large space. “It’s been a while since I’ve dealt with you, Roendavarians.” A moment of silence fell on the trio again, the eyes of the Roendavarians locked against the Governor’s as he sat back down. Neither side was willing to budge, and both clearly needed this deal to work. Finally, Macari acquiesced, “Fine. We agree to the terms. It will take a while, but you can expect our servicers resources to arrive in Roendavar steadily in the coming weeks. I’ll see what I can do to facilitate this entire transaction faster.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Governor. We shall send over a team that will oversee the entire operation as soon as possible.” Sylvanus exclaimed in another rare display of genuine emotion, “I promise that McHenry’s Port will benefit from this arrangement. May this be a start to a long and fruitful relationship between both of our nations.” A wave of relief washed over him as he outstretched his hand, meeting with the Governor in a handshake. They’d managed to knock McHenry’s Port out of the fight and made them their allies while Balnik would surely be put in a difficult situation. All what the Celion needed.

“And what of Balnik? Do you expect that they will go along with this? What are we supposed to tell them when they come here for our heads?” the Governor asked. A valid question. The Balniki are not known for their forgiveness, especially those who dare to betray them.

“Kill them. That is what you are good at.” Sylvanus shrugged, earning a noncommittal nod from the Governor. Sylvanus stood up with Saltharia following the same. They both slightly curtsy, the Roendavarian gesture of goodwill placed in their hearts. “May McHenry’s Port continue to provide its services in the future. Life and Death eternally watches.”

The drive back to the airport was uneventful as was earlier. They passed through the city of Malister, the same squat gray buildings passing through. Neither Sylvanus nor Saltharia discussed anything, for this time, they needed to be sure that they were the only ones left. They arrived at the airport, cleared through a side gate, and were escorted to their jet. They both boarded and, in just a few minutes, the jet took off, on its course to return to Roendavar. Finally, Saltharia spoke, her expression visibly upset. “Double the amount?! Are you fucking mad, Sylvanus? Can the Roendavarian coffers even manage to give them that? They just swindled us on this entire thing, and I doubt they could even commit that much to our cause, regardless of what they say or what the Celion wants to happen.”

“You seem to think that we have been cheated on this deal, Saltha. Do not worry. We will be getting our money back soon. McHenry’s Port is nothing but a tool for us, and they are playing exactly where we want them to be.” The azure ocean stretched far across the horizon. In the middle of it, the beautiful island of McHenry’s Port. A haven of piracy, an anomaly of the modern world. A nation of people driven to extreme necessity, who make their living by the coin, their mortality fleeting by every day. The pieces are falling into place. Sylvanus knew, as he looked outside the window at the small island, that it would be the last time McHenry’s Port would participate in its course. All for the grand game the Western Isles play, and Roendavar was a willing player in it.

21 June 2023
The forests of Western Roendavar.
Near Midnight.

Though the train ride itself was relatively brief, thanks to the combined efforts of Gael’s governments to facilitate high-speed rail transit across each other’s borders, the drive out into the middle of Roendavar’s western hill country was not nearly as succinct. Forced to drive offroad most of the way, the Defector and the Old Man were joined by a cohort of other incognito-dressed agents they picked up on the way through, all of whom were Roendavarian and wore the garish jewelry distinctive of Cricenexinosi, survivors of the HEI’s latest efforts to root them out. Driving the truck was Dasetheniel, apparently the youngest of the group that was sent to escort him as evidenced by his rather clean appearance compared to his comrades.

The truck eventually came to a stop in a clearing between the trees. The headlights illuminated a small group of people standing near the stump of a long-felled tree for a moment before the truck was turned off and its occupants stepped out.

As the Defector’s group walked away from their trucks, the rustling of the undergrowth around him indicated even more people were involved in this meeting than he expected. In the center of the original group, three people emerged and walked towards the Doraltic gentlemen, two adults towering over what seemed to be a child, which was promptly confirmed as the trio lifted their hoods and the Roendavarians around them bowed and held their hands in a buck’s head salute over their hearts. These Circenxinosi then declared in functional unison, “Hail Arveimeioni Theosarion of Foaster, Galaeren of Selis, Theremiel of Eleias!”

The Defector smirked at this display of supplication and reflected it through a curtsy towards the trio before speaking.

“Gentlemen, I am honored by your presence and agreement to join me tonight.”

“The honor is well received, Conductor,” Theosarion began, “Valeris’ betrayal still haunts us, though I imagine that no longer matters as we treat with the object of his betrayal.” The Conductor scoffed at the notion, drawing the ire of nearly every Roendavarian in the group as he responded angrily, “Do not mistake my language and customs as my citizenship of those who betrayed us. We both have been led astray by powers that think themselves higher than the rest of us.”

The Conductor, still irked, continued, “We have gathered here to take vengeance on those people, to atone for the sins of the shadow war and tear down those responsible. Both Roendavar and Doraltia need a new revolution, new unions, to correct the mistakes of our past. We must become the Aegis of this new order, a brotherhood of nations for the 21st Century.” He reached out his hand and approached the reincarnated gods, “Are you with us?”

Galaeren met the Conductor’s handshake, affirming his support for the plan the Doraltic was concocting. As the groups began to disperse back into the darkness, the Conductor called out one more time to the child, “Child. When this is over, you will be the inheritor of a more Utopian Roendavar. Make history proud.”

25 June 2023, 9:05 pm
30km north of Kertalin

It was a dark, cloudy night in northern Keverai. Standing on a bespoke hill surrounded by undulating landscape sat a highly secure facility with a vantage point in all directions. The only way into the building was through a steep ascent from the bottom of the valley to the south. On a clear night, you would easily be able to see the sparkling lights of the sleek city of Kertalin - filled with skyscrapers and the sorts of buildings that scream wealth and prestige. Far removed from the city yet still geographically adjacent to the darker parts that made Keverai truly what it is - black sites, slums, covert military bases, doomsday shelters, headquarters for trafficking, and other major criminal operations and gold reserves. Keverai was safe for this broad array of activities not because of its conventional forces maintaining the security of the area but frankly because of the absence of centralized military power. A lack of a monopoly of violence by the State provided great opportunities for people, organizations, institutions, and ultimately other sovereign states to carve out their own parts of Keverai for themselves.

This hill was no different. This was effectively Balniki territory. It was secured by the guards of choice in Keverai - the Henrites, but the contract between the two effectively meant that what the Balniki Government wanted to put on this land would be virtually untouched. At least that would be the case in normal circumstances. It was a good thing that this place was so secure though, at least for the Balniki. On this hill lay much of their gold reserves - far removed from the usual troubles and strife they would have stored it in Gael, Keverai presented an opportunity to stash it somewhere out of the eyes of the Doraltic Government, yet they still could exercise effective sovereignty over it.

Tonight, was a slightly different night for the gold reserve though. There were scheduled electricity upgrades to occur, meaning that for about ten minutes they would need to switch to generators to maintain security and keep the gold safe. As far as the Henrites on the ground were aware, only two other groups knew about this who could cause any problems - the Balnikis, whom they notified and have no reason to raid their own gold reserves, and the local electricity company which is about as tight-lipped as most of the successful companies in Keverai. Their business model relied on their silence around jobs like this, so that would not have been much of a concern. Regardless, the supervising officer over this security job ensured that the best of his men was on shift tonight.

Deren, Alax, Gerar, Sora, and Minneko were to stand watch in the security room and make sure there were no gaps in the patrols that night - especially during the brief power outage and to monitor the cameras in the meantime. Deren - the shift leader - was not in the room though. He was out walking the perimeter of the facility. He did not mind the cameras and all that - he was just more cognizant of the need for situational awareness. Deren also knew that if something were to happen, there would be one road that would be critical in any attempt to seal any sort of escape - the K1 highway that ran just to the east of the facility. To leave via the water, they would have to cross that road, and to get back into town or over to the United Partitions, they’d have to use that road for at least a short period of time.

10:15pm

Deren was a bit nervous. This was hardly the worst operation he had been under - but certainly, it was one of the most high-stakes ones financially. Much of the revenue Henrite Security Services relied on came from governments like Balnik. They preferred to use private contractors to assert and uphold their interests in nations like Keverai. Eager to scope out the K1 Highway just before the power outage, he hopped into the black SUV that he used to get to the facility. It was not a particularly confronting or impressive vehicle - however, it wasn't so modest that it would look out of place on the K1 - the ‘Road of Gold’, known for the amount of money that both physically drive on the road in the form of passengers and drivers but also that it was a vital road between two major Salimanasian centers - Duinen, Kertalin and the southern cities of the United Partitions.

Deren flicked on the ignition switch in his car and began to wind his way down the bumpy dirt road out to the K1 - it was a nasty road in recent times, owing to the recent rain creating potholes. Regardless, these potholes could have been around for weeks because of how little the Council cared for them. Deren was not overly affected by the road itself beyond merely noticing its bad condition - his eyes were fixed out on the K1, only darting to look at the road ahead of him a few times to make sure he didn’t run into a fence. As he approached the K1, he noticed a peculiar sight - an old brown vehicle with flip-up lights at the front - likely a Zontemon model and then a van behind it bearing the logo of the local electricity company contracted as part of the power outage.

Deren was not overly fussed about the presence of the van. However, the brown car was an unannounced arrival. He decided to ring the company and inquire as to whether they knew anything about the vehicle. In a few taps of the touch-enabled dashboard, the car speakers began to blurt a loud dialing sound. A few moments after that, a voice appeared at the end of the line.

“Good evening, this is Fossicker Energy. How may I help you today?”

“Hello. I am contracted to provide security for one of the properties near where you are doing power upgrades tonight. We noticed that there was a vehicle not marked with your company logo and wanted to confirm that it belongs to your company and that it is not a potential trespasser,” Derren asked.

“Sure. Can I just get your name and rough location, and then the number plate of the vehicle that you are concerned about?”

“I go by Deren, from Henrite Security Services. We are about 30 kilometers north of Kertalin, just west of the K1 highway. The number plate is Y4KX19,” he replied firmly.

A few moments’ pause followed as Deren waited, eyeing but not tailing the cars that had passed him before the Fossicker representative chimed back in, “Good news, Mr. Deren. That car is registered to us - it is a brown sedan that is typically used by our community liaisons that we sometimes send out to support our customers in sensitive industries to ensure that they are satisfied with their experience and not unduly impacted by our maintenance work. Nothing to be concerned about. Just a quick note. It is likely that our liaison will personally come to your property sometime during the maintenance, so watch out for him,” the man on the other end of the phone line continued.

Seemingly satisfied, Deren replied in the same firm voice, “Ok, that is fine. Please ring him to tell him to stop in front of the gate and call the number posted on the door. He will be granted limited access and will be under escort from that point onwards. He will need to leave his vehicle outside of our perimeter.”

“Sure thing, thank you Mr. Deren. Is that all this evening?”

“For now, thank you. Goodbye.”

10:17pm - in the car with number plate Y4KX19

“So how are we planning to do this?” Kalibe asked.

“I will only tell you so much,” the Conductor replied.

Annoyed, Kalibe slightly raised his voice towards his mysterious Doraltic counterpart, “You can at least tell me how we are planning to get past the gate?”

The Conductor sighed, “Today, I am a customer liaison officer from Fossicker Energy who happens to own this car. The person who usually uses this car’s name is Alide. This happens to be his phone,” he calmly says with one hand on the car wheel and the other waving a rather expensive Conway phone around.

“I won’t ask where this Alide is now. What do we do after the gate?”, Kalibe inquired.

This aroused a chuckle out of the Conductor who continued to lay out the plan, “We will meet our friends - the electricians who will suddenly need to repair a pole close to the facility - and some people who happen to work for Henrite Security Services. That is all you need to know to get your part of the job done.”

Kalibe smiled and rolled his eyes at the still vague plan, though stayed quiet for the remainder of the journey towards the facility - making sure to trail about 100m behind a large black SUV which happened to be going the same direction as them.
Ten minutes later, the brown sedan suddenly braked, finding itself behind the black SUV. The Conductor and his two other associates in the car sat and waited for a man to step out of the car in front of them. He was a tall, muscular pale-skinned fellow - seemed to be at least Gaeltic in ancestry, it was difficult to discern beyond that.

To their surprise, the gate began to open but the SUV did not move. Instead, the man was walking towards them with one hand by the side of his hip. The next sound they heard was a firm knock on the driver's side window. The Conductor lowered his window enough to reveal a scarred and stern face looking straight at his eyes as the windowpane covered the remainder of his face. After a pause of a couple of seconds, the Conductor was the first to speak, switching into a Keveraite-inspired accent of English.

“Bonsoir Monsieur. My name is Alide Karlo. I am from Fossicker Energy and serve as a Customer Liaison Officer. My two friends Karil and Takeeb are also from Fossicker Energy as Junior Customer Liaison Officers who will support me in my duties tonight. We were told to call a number, but I suspect that you may have been the person on the other side of that line anyway if we were to ring?”, the Conductor unswervingly said.

“You would be correct. May I see identification from all three of you," Derren barked.

“Certainly,” the Conductor said as he rolled his window down enough to pass over the three effectively made forged employee IDs he had made back at the Bad Prince black site the day before.

“Looks good," Derren said after glancing over the IDs briefly and passing them back, "Follow me, Mr. Karlo. You will meet with my superiors once we’re inside,” Derren said before turning around and hopping back into his SUV. Before turning his handbrake down, The Conductor tossed a different phone into the back seat where Tarkin was sitting - another one of his associates.

“Call the helicopter, tell them they have five minutes until exfil,” he ordered.

Soon enough, the brown SUV was in the main front yard of the facility. A couple of moments later, the lights flickered before brightly returning - lighting up the perimeter. The Conductor looked around, noticing the lights were stronger than before. They had switched to generator power. In the distance, a faint sound of helicopter rotors thrashing through the still Keverai sky became louder and louder but fortunately still imperceptible to the untrained ear as the generators kept running. He knew, however, that they were running out of time. He looked towards the corner of one of the buildings and flashed a brief hand signal into the only working security camera left - the signal had been sent to the man on the inside.
As had been arranged prior, the sound of the motors gave way to complete silence, and darkness fell over the gold storage facility.

It was time to start the assault. The Conductor and the other two donned their night vision goggles, pulled out their pistols, and shot the first few guards they saw - stealing their sub-machine guns. The Fossicker Energy van, upon hearing the gunshots, moved away from its ‘work’ at the nearby pole and moved towards the entrance of the facility. The Conductor and his men, under the cover of darkness, made relatively short work of the guards at the front of the building - opening the gates for the van to rush up the hill and collect them and the goods when they were given the opportunity to escape with the gold.

The Conductor and Kalib quickly made their way through the hallways of the facility in a particularly trigger-happy and violent manner, knowing that they had less than five minutes before power would be restored from the backup batteries that, up to this point, have not detected the downed power from the generators. By this time, the main line was already cut to the facility, courtesy of the Fossicker Energy Workers who were tied up next to the poles they were sent to fix. Nothing as far as he knew, neither electricity nor data, would be passing back from this facility to the outside world.

The Conductor and Kalib were quickly joined by Agarve and Dasetheniel, two of the Henrites who were on the inside and supporting their efforts. With the support of the two Henrites, they made their way into the vast chamber of gold which was merely auxiliary storage. Only stealing a small amount of this would fund their efforts and really shake up the Balniki intelligence services. He knew that even if he got away with more gold, they would have to flush the gold out in Keverai to convert it into legitimately obtained money quickly, less became more for tonight. That wouldn’t be a problem given how easy it was to launder money in Keverai. Joining the four, a fifth person distributed four duffle bags between the Conductor, Kalib, and the two Henrites to fill high with the bullion.

It only took another minute and a half for the crew to sprint out of the facility, undetected amidst the confusion and disarray caused by the power failures and the mass killing that occurred. Quickly hopping into the Fossicker Energy van, they bolted away from the gold reserve - leaving the brown sedan in the front yard of the building. They had done it - the five bags full of gold were safely in the back of the van. The next issue would be trying to get down the K1 back to Kertalin and rid themselves of the gold as quickly as possible.

10:55pm

Residence of the President, Kertalin

“Mr. President… Mr. President!”, Renaut’s assistant said in a flustered and ascending tone.

“Yes… what is it?” Renaut stirred slowly in a failing attempt to get out of a groggy, deep, and now interrupted sleep.

“A gold reserve facility that is used by the Government of Balnik has been compromised, just north of Kertalin,” screeched the assistant.

Renaut visibly jolted at the pitch of the assistant’s voice but settled after pausing for a few seconds to shake his head and collect his thoughts. By this point, he still had not sat up on the bed. “Warehouses are robbed all the time… if it’s owned by a foreign government - scramble what is still awake. And unlike me - wake the Vice President and let him deal with it. I’m going back to sleep,” Renaut said in a hushed tone before rolling back over.

Visibly frustrated, the assistant walked out of the bedroom with a quickened pace and immediately dialed her phone to call first the Keveraite Presidential Guard and the local police, and then the Vice President. The assistant knew this was the beginning of a disaster. However, if the President does not want to be raised, he shall not be raised.

Outskirts of Kertalin
11:59 PM

The brown sedan with plate Y4KX19

As one day transformed into the next via the magic of timekeeping, the sedan carrying the Conductor and his crew pulled off the K1 highway into a clearing a few hundred meters away from any sign of civilization. It was there that the noise of the helicopter hovering overhead drowned out any other sounds of midnight, a few members of its crew jumping out of the door with the rotors still running.

“All ready for you, boss!” yelled one of the men, hunched down and shielding himself against the buffeting of the rotor blades.

With that acknowledgment, the Conductor and his crew offloaded the sedan with gold-laden bags. At the same time, a new trio of men, clad in black special forces gear and armed to the teeth with Doraltic weaponry offloaded with bags of their own. As the exchange continued, the helicopter’s crewman noticed the Conductor wasn’t joining the heist crew, and spoke up, “Sir! Wasn’t leaving the plan?”

The Conductor shouted back as he put on his facemask and waved the helicopter off, “No! The Plan is to send a message!”

As the helicopter took off again and set itself southbound, the Conductor remounted his sedan with the rest of the new crew and headed off back on the K1, back to Kertalin.

26 June 2023, 12:13 AM
While the Conductor slipped his way into the small trickle of traffic that was entering the city, an odd development threw a new complication into his plan. The traffic was mostly halted. The Conductor did not know why the traffic was stopped but he knew that the longer they were not moving, the more chances that his crew would be found.

It took another five or so minutes for the traffic to move along far enough for him to identify the holdup, a checkpoint heading into the city had been set up by the police. Whether or not they were responding to what happened a few miles up the road didn’t matter as any police search would find him and his crew out quickly.

However, at that moment, he had no way of breaking away from the traffic that had been clogged up and simply had to wait and hatch a plan to escape. As he drove closer to the checkpoint, he ordered one of his subordinates to ready a flashbang. It would be risky for the Conductor and the crew, but he was sure that he’d be able to make a run for downtown in the moments the blinding light would give him. As expected, his subordinate followed his order and waited as their brown sedan inched ever closer to the checkpoint. Once they got there, a rap on the window was one part of the confirmation.

The beat cop that had stopped this brown sedan in the middle of the night began to ask the question he asked of every other car that passed through since around 11 pm, “License, Registration, and Insurance, please.”
When he heard no response from inside the car, he simply asked again. On the third attempt, he moved on to a more serious request, “Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle with your hands up.” At the same time, three other officers began to approach the sedan, readying themselves for whatever came out.

At that moment, the rear right window scrolled down just enough for the passenger to toss something out and above the roof. It might have taken the officers less than a second to process the threat of the grenade, it was just short enough for it to go off, blinding all four plus the driver of the car behind the sedan. After another second, the Conductor had already bolted away, throwing the sedan into its higher gears in fast succession as the officers stumbled around in the rear-facing mirrors.

12:21 AM
Kertalin PD Headquarters

The radio dispatch at the city’s police HQ roared to life as one of the officers at the K1 checkpoint, “Fuck, we’ve been hit with some kind of flash grenade!”

The Dispatcher responded with a sudden sense of panic, “Is everyone okay?!”

“Yeah, what the fuck was that?”

“What happened?”

“Last car we had through here must’ve popped it, they’re long gone though.”

“Do you have a make?”

“Yeah, some brown Felix car I think.”

“Understood. Make sure everyone else is still safe on the K1,” the dispatcher replied, switching her radio to all units on the frequency, “All units be advised, an unidentified Felix four-door has breached the K1 blockade. Be alert for any vehicle moving into the city at high speed and set blockades on Mortimer Bridge.”

Moments later, in the brown sedan with plate Y4KX19, the Conductor bolted through the streets of downtown Kertalin at as high a speed as he could muster, aware now of the time crunch he had before the police have him encircled or Bad Prince cut him off. All the while, his subordinates began to arm themselves, preparing to shoot off any police that got close.

As he drove, the Conductor scrambled to smash a phone number into a low-tech burner, begging under his breath for the person on the other side to pick it up. After fighting through Demian-Yuemi Tracey’s automated phone system, he managed to get a hold of Bad Prince directly and spun a tale about how he was being chased by Balniki agents dressed as cops, the same trick they attempted in Roendavar over a year ago. Establishing trust with Bad Prince, the Conductor wrapped up his brief conversation and threw the burner out of his window, hoping it would be smashed against the pavement or be run over by another car, so long as he was sure it could not be traced.

In the meanwhile, the police had begun to pick up his trail and the scanner one of the Conductor’s other subordinates had opened began sounding like the police had a bead on his car. It was too late now to divert, and he was hopeful that once he arrived at Bad Prince, he would get enough cover from its personnel to execute his true plan. That would come a few moments later as he pulled up to the storefront and unloaded the sedan. One of his subordinates would leave a brick of C4 in his seat as he left, intending to turn any evidence into a car bomb just after the police arrived.

Once at the back door, the Conductor had the rest of the team hide in cover and start shooting, stalling the police response, and betting that the Bureau personnel inside won’t be able to stop his plan. A few knocks later and an eye slit opened to whoever was demanding a password from inside.

All the Conductor had to do at this point was say the magic words, and the Bureau would be done, “Long Live Prince Orange!” And in a flurry of unlocking from the other side, the door peered open, and that was all the Conductor needed. He slammed the door open and took his first shot as the Conductor of the Aegis.

8:40 AM

The fires that raged after the mighty explosion that tore apart the building that had Demian-Yuemi Tracey had finally been quelled as the morning wore on. First responders from across Kertalin and the neighboring Doraltic territory of Duinen had flooded the block surrounding the building as they plucked through the wreckage for the survivors or any sign of former life. However, what they found instead under what was assumed to be the store’s storage basement turned out to be far more worrying than the events of the previous night.

Underneath the rubble was the entrance into the Bureau of Special Operations black site Bad Prince, and it was chock full of dead men and women alongside a treasure trove of top-secret information left accessible on one of the few remaining computers, detailing everything the site’s former personnel had been working on, including an ominous background displaying a gilded shield crossed by a short sword, some kind of calling card the first responders reasoned in the brief time they spent investigating before local police blocked them out.

President Renaut, who still had a coffee in his hand and a dour, tired look on his face from a night of broken sleep, arrived on the scene a moment later and began to speak with the police. One of the final things the first responders noted to the President through his eyebags is the semi-charred face of the building that was once behind this one, as specific attention was pointed to a new graffiti mark that nobody knew, a yellow circle with dots, what might appear to be a shield of some kind, similar to reports of an image on one of the computers inside.

However, the President’s attention was quickly lost as his mind scattered to find a way to spin this story before lunch.

by **Dormill and Stiura** » Sun Jul 02, 2023 3:34 pm

Chapter 3: In from the Storm

The storms are pounding,
Destruction is rampant,
No end seems in sight.

The day is endless,
The night never ending,
Will it ever, ever be right?

- John Stevens "Above the Storms"

National Information Synthesis Center, Bureau of Special Intelligence Headquarters
Exurbs of Cote d'Emeraude, Avillon, Dormill and Stiura
1005 CGST

The newly forming headquarters of the Bureau of Special Information represented a significant change in tone for how the agency would operate in the coming years. From being centered on a university campus, out in the public eye and subject to public scrutiny, it is now nestled in a former business park out of the urban core of the north coast. Where once anyone could get within a stone’s throw of the nexus of national information operations, there were now a half dozen kilometers of road between a highly secured gate and any actual building of the Bureau.

The move was, of course, long expected. The Dyson government had included the budget to relocate Bureau headquarters to a new site back in 2020. For a while, things moved slowly as critical infrastructure was moved into place, specifically optimizing the flow of in a secure, high-volume manner. However, since that year, the Bureau has come under increasing attention due to its failures in Roendavar, which have only intensified now that the Aegis played their hand and revealed the Bureau’s long plan to infiltrate key sectors of Balnik to maintain awareness of the closed-off state. This attention has also dragged Congress into all of the Bureau’s affairs, including the close questioning of why the agency had requested to relocate its headquarters from Chery. Fortunately for Bureau leadership, the process of relocating had finally reached the point of no return, where enough critical offices and the executive leadership have moved onto the site. The brief ceremony among Bureau staff attended by Director Lovel and other agency heads was all the reprieve they would get from the stress of the last few weeks.

Within the headquarters were several information monitoring stations, staffed at all hours by personnel dedicated to gathering and disseminating critical information to the Bureau’s mission. All these stations composed the National Information Synthesis Center, the core of the Bureau’s operations, and each was dedicated to a particular stream of information that forms the wider picture that the Bureau operates with. Special attention has been paid to hunting down any sign of the leadership of Aegis, whom Lovel’s office had determined to consist of moles and defectors of the Bureau given their infiltration of the Keverai safehouse last month.

In the dimly lit central room of the NISC, with massive monitors displaying news broadcasts, the information synthesis system the Bureau had developed over the years, and more, watch personnel Lucienne Dubois and Thijs Van der Berg hovered over their respective computers, making sense of exabytes of data flowing through the extensive systems the Bureau had to pick out anything that could be a lead on Aegis leadership or personnel. So far, the team only had one consistent lead, the names Alide Karlo, Karil, and Takeeb, and the presumed flight path of an unregistered helicopter in the general area of the K1 highway towards the Salimanasian border.

Then the hits came, one after the other.

First, there were the reports from within Salimanasia that morning of a burnt wreck in Cintlan that nobody was able to identify with how little was left after. Could’ve been the helicopter, Dubois thought.

Next was a phone call from a Keveraite number all the way out towards the east. Though the call itself seemed to be encrypted, the outgoing caller ID was of a known Henrite. It might not have been unusual, just a mercenary calling home perhaps, except that the receiving caller ID was obscured.

Then the scheme fell together, Alide Karlo reported back to work with Fossicker Energy the next week, telling Keveraite police he had no idea where he was the night of the attack. The report from Keverai also indicated that one Mr. Karlo had taken a flight out of Xolxanco bound for Yitorìá.

As the weight of the revelations came crashing down on her, Dubois quickly started to pester her counterpart on the other monitor, first digitally before actually shoving him around before he responded with annoyance, “I think I’ve got something,” she reiterated, pointing out the police report and Karlo’s flight three days earlier to it.

“McHenry’s” was Thijs’ only response before he too felt the weight of the information. “We have to tell headquarters.”

“Report’s almost done … and sent.” Dubois slouched back in her chair after sending the email. Pausing for only a few moments, she glanced back and asked her counterpart a simple, but impossible question, “What happens now?”

[TWI ONLY | IC] Terror Over Gael

[TWI ONLY | IC] Terror Over Gael

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