A World Apart 1949 (USSR RP, IC)

[Intresha]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Sewers
April 18th, 1949
3:59 AM

After a sufficient period of unspeakable horror, Azov rose to his feet. The creature had remained in essentially the same position the entire time, only taking occasional breaks to scurry closer and closer to him. Contrary to his original hypothesis, the monster-sized abomination stalking him was no alligator. No, it seemed far more rat-like in anatomy. The low pitch squeaks and gnashing of teeth did enough to classify this beast into the order Rodentia. It made the experience no less terrifying, though.

On a positive note, however, all that time spent holding his gun and remaining motionless had given him time to think. One would be astonished at what the mind can conjure up when given nothing to work with but stress, darkness, and copious amounts of waiting around.

Holstering his weapon for the first time in what felt like a couple of hours, Azov scurried up the ladder in front of him. Silently, he slipped onto the surface of the road. The clean taste of fresh air welcomed his return, along with peak nighttime darkness. Just as he had hoped. Slinking through the alleys and backroads, Kurbin made his way through the heart of the sleeping capital. Only the police lurked at this hour -a fact he used to his advantage. Without any accompanying noise or similar foot traffic, his pursuers would never effectively take him unawares. Likewise, he'd also have to be extra careful.

Almost at his destination, the Spy stopped for a breather behind a dumpster. The slums of Iniapolis rose high around him. Apartments and roach motels walled him into this village of poverty, the local stain known to it's residents as Hawkin's Cross. Though a blight to those who inhabited it and to the police assigned to control it, this little slice of Heaven served as a refuge for his kind. The unwanted. The dregs. The hunted. And though strolling down its pitch-black streets and parking lots didn't bring him lots of comfort, it did take the edge off something fierce. He wasn't in freedom's warm embrace just yet, however. That's what this whole little excursion was about in the first place.

With the Continental Hotel out of reach and crawling with cops regardless of the nation's security status, the Syndicate headquarters was a clear no go. Instead, he had chosen this obscure shrine to organized crime. The thought came to him down in the shitter, reflecting on some conversations he had engaged in with some Insurgian buddies of his during the war. If a man in the capital needed a favor... The kind of favor you can't just ask anybody... He'd go to the intersection of 34th and Vine. The Norton Chemical Compound.

Approaching the hideout reluctantly, Azov Kurbin knocked heartily on the warehouse door. Anyone within would doubtless hear his rapping. Or so he hoped. Standing still made Kurbin feel exceptionally vulnerable. Or was that the feeling of putting his life into the hands of known criminals? Whichever the case, the Spy knew this was his only hope. With all legal ports of entry indisputably bristling with security by now, he'd have to depend on the city's rats to show him the way. At least this variety of rodent didn't dwell in the sewer.

[Crimetopolis]

The Flat rural plains of Aryana, April, 21st 1949, 11:14 a.m.



.
The horse drawn wagon roared up to the rural grocery store. The mother ran up to the local doctor's office located adjacent it as the sobbing mother carried her son inside. One look by the nurse told the story. "Doctor, prepare For emergency field amputation!"

The little boy had lost so much blood there was no time even for a medical evacuation flight The Whipped out a prepacked trauma surgery kit. "Too weak for pentothal, it's gas time." The smell of cheap disinfectant permeated the air as the doctor chloroformed the boy. The nurse and him scrubbed and donned germ masks, The doctor now sprayed hydrogen peroxide after tourniquet application post debriding. He clipped off the boy's arm and closed it. Mercifully, it was just below the elbow. He painted mercurochrome iover the incision. An injection of penicillin to prevent infection. The boy now begin to stir. A morphine injection into his good arm kept him him asleep. "I'll telephone for an ambulance to get him to Capetown pediatric hospital. He needs an arterial blood transfusion."

Ten minutes later, a four man gyrocopter landed facing the building. The boy's father was loaded on a gurney and loaded up. THe gyrocopter flew to CApetown Because the father would be a reserve blood donor, the mother was left to drive the wagon home. Marion Boolewarke blamed not the police or fire rescue services. THe communist attack on her ranch settlement meant so many wounded that even police trucks were deputized into ambulances. Aided by their communist allies, the overalls-clad Hatcoys had attacked a neighboring farm. They were armed with Mosin 1938, carbines, RGD-5 grenades, PPSH-41 submachineguns, and Tokarev 1940 pistols, Three copies of the 'Communist Manifesto' had been taken from the Hatcoy dead and prisoners. 'Hillbilly trash and communist trash.' she thought as she drove towards her home. Her son Jack had ran up to a burning house and was spraying it with a fire extinguisher, too A Hatcoy shot his arm thrice with a Tokarev 1940 pistol. Boolewarke ford, Aryana,,,,

The police captain radioed his report to the police regional headquarters at CApetown. Within minutes, the Federal Security Bureeau was involved. A tornadic storm of destruction was brewing...

"

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:00 AM

The Compound was more of a central hangout than it was an actual chemical plant anymore. The Compound had been repurposed in 1933 and the land bought by a wealthy man whose real name escaped the official paperwork for the property. By all hints, it screamed Syndicate and the local law enforcement knew of it but any small time cop would never dare come as close as putting his suspicions there. The last three officers who did so disappeared or were found with a bullet in their head and their own gun in their hand. Inside the compound, dozens of lowly grunts and enforcers ran rampant to each of their duties. Overlooking it all, a tall well-groomed man shined with his grey overcoat with a faux fur collar. He looked as if he had just left a ball of sorts with his black tuxedo hiding quietly under the wool overcoat. He was being read a manifest of sorts by a lowly enforcer.

"It all checks out. All exports and imports from the harbor and docks bring in...tsk tsk tsk..." the enforcer searched for the big number on the manifest. The Martinet beat him there.

"3.2 Billion Credits...must be a slow week..." the tall man spoke.

"Y-yes sir. Unfortunately." the enforcer spoke.

The Martinet member and enforcer quietly walked to the balcony rail where they could see the three levels below.

"What about our daily traders?" The Martinet had a slight Marathonnian accent.

"Uh...the Karaqi's bought $320,000 worth of merchandise. The Arkian's sold us out with a weapons buy-out of 43.4 million Credits sir...that's ammunition included. " the enforcer shakily spoke.

"They must be busy on the other side. Heh. Alright, tally those numbers up." the Martinet ordered.

"Right away, sir." the enforcer was not hesitant, quickly calculating all three numbers.

An obvious intrusion of silence began with the sound of men yelling and laughing. The Martinet member gazed down at the ground floor, seeing a circle of grunts surround a lone man like cowardly vultures. It only took a few minutes of pain when the Martinet quietly interrupted the dogs' welcome party, reaching the ground floor. A few grunts searched the man for anything dangerous or otherwise valuable. Every member stepped back, allowing room for the Martinet to approach the outsider up close. The man was obviously sucker punched by one of his own, a disappointment in itself. The Marathonnian gazed upon the blond Slav who was still obviously recovering.

"Friend of yours, Boris?" the Martinet asked.

A muscular enforcer responded with a shake of his head to the Martinet. "No, boss." A grizzly voice came from him.

"Who is he?" his Marathonnian slipped audibly once again. Not a man questioned it.

A lowly grunt had his wallet, opening it up quickly.

"Orlov, Ivan. Six-foot-one. Age forty-three. K-karaqi..." the grunt slowly came out with the nationality.

The rest of the group fell silent. This was an obvious compulsive mistake. A grunt who thought he had too much privilege and thus decidedly assaulted a possible trade partner. Even if he wasn't a trader, he also wasn't a cop. This was a blatant disregard for rules. A disregard some would follow by example. As fate would have it though, a Martinet was present. And by definition, a Martinet was a disciplinarian. No one would follow this mistake again. The grunt knew he fucked up and gazed upon the Martinet with sorry eyes. The tall man simply drew his Colt M1911 in .45 ACP from the shoulder holster under his tuxedo. The crowd of lowlifes scattered from any possibility that they could be collateral damage. The grunt was like a deer in the headlights upon the sight of the barrel pointed his way. The gunshot echoed piercingly throughout the compound. The grunt fell to the floor, the back of his head blown apart by the exit wound.

"Bigkowsky...get your boys to clean up the mess. Boris, get Orlov on his feet." the Martinet demanded.

As half a dozen men quickly dispatched themselves the proper tools to get rid of the body and clean the mess, a large Boris efficiently pulled the blond Slav to his feet, putting him face to face with the Marathonnian.

"Now...how can I help you?" the Martinet asked politely, sliding his .45 back into its holster without flaw.

[Intresha]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:02 AM

Kurbin, though visibly shaken took no time in stepping forward and putting out his hand. Four months of imprisonment and torture in a Marathonnian POW camp had left him numb to such trivial amounts of pain as that he just experienced. More than anything, the jolt served to wake him up. As the clock mercilessly marched on to dawn, Azov could feel his body wearing down.

"Before I begin-." The Spy started in, wiping a few droplets of blood from the corner of his mouth.

"I think we should straighten some things out. My name isn't actually Ivan Orlov. Nor am I from Karaq. And for the record, I'm not six foot one. I'm six foot three. The I.D your dearly departed man took from me is a fraud. Lieutenant Azov Kurbin, at your service." He slowly transitioned into Marathonnian, his second mother tongue.

He sincerely hoped the man's business-oriented mindset would trump former national allegiances. This chump looked like every occupier he knocked off during the war.

"I need to get out of the country, as soon and as quietly as possible. Our mutual friends are in hot pursuit as we speak, and I have a large check with space for many zeros... So, shall we get down to business?" Azov finished his monologue with a question.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:05 AM

The Marathonnian gave his offer quite a bit of thought, wondering if this man was worth the trouble. The question of money surely tempted him. He followed him in Marathonnian. The crowd of grunts and enforcers quietly dispersed back to their duties, not even attempting to decipher what they were saying. The compound began to rumble to life as the new day would soon start.

"Theophilus." he only gave one name, whether it was his first or last was to be disputed.

He met Kurbin in height, wrapping one arm around his shoulder and pulling him along as they walked until Kurbin decided to voluntarily follow.

"This conglomerate monster I serve...this empire...this myriad...this syndicate. We drag in about 200 million worth of credits a day, double during the holidays. In that process, we traffic $120 million worth of merchandise. This consists of weapons, drugs, ammunition...people...see where I'm getting at? I can get you out of the country but the degree of safety will depend on the price you present to me. We transport people regularly but for purposes not common to your own. You run from them for good reason I hope. A reason that, should it later evolve into something that will come to harm my newly found love for this country in the future, do not doubt our abilities nor underestimate my precision to find you and kill you and those you deeply care for...if you have any. Now...where does Lieutenant Azov Kurbin wish to go?"

Theophilus was quick with his words. His latest question was spoken in English.

[Intresha]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:07 AM

"Intresha." Kurbin shot back instantaneously and without further thought.

"Or really, any neighboring country. I'm not biased. As for the payment, money is no object. Get me to friendly soil alive and we can negotiate up from 60,000 credits. The Stavka was more than generous in their donation to this... Expedition. That is neither here nor there, though." The Spy continued, not certain whether or not to reveal the nature of his visit to the Marathonnian.

He paused for a moment taking note of anything else he might have to add. Any last minute connections he might make before this conversation abruptly ended.

"Better than money, though, I offer you something that many of your associates cannot. I'm intimate with just about everyone at the Trade Ministry. Most of them got promoted right after the war. Same shit with most of the brass in the Stavka. I offer an eighteen-month contract, with endless opportunities for renewal. You get contacts inside the Intreshan government and free reign over the largest ports in southern Abathon. In return, all I ask for is safe passage. Perhaps more than once, should the occasion arise." Azov proposed, sweetening the pot.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:10 AM

Theophilus gave a slight thought of the once would-be country now officially recognized. He simply shrugged it off, resuming the conversation. The offer had become more than tempting. He stopped in his tracks, coldly staring into Kurbin's eyes.

"$500,000 credits and I can guarantee you a safe return to your beloved Antarsk. No federal or allied entanglements."

[Intresha]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
4:13 AM

"You drive a hard bargain, but I'm left with little alternative. We have an accord." Azov spoke subtly in Marathonnian.

Slowly reaching into his front shirt pocket, the Spy pulled out a crushed package of cigarettes and a lone match. After popping out and lighting one, Kurbin sighed. Although a little sore in the pocketbook, he found solace in the knowledge that it was over.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
5:45 AM

After an over an hour of having left the Intreshan spy to fiddle his thumbs in the compound, Theophilus made his way back, entering through the front door. His appearance was only slightly changed; sporting a black suit, black overcoat but a maroon tie to abstract. His black fedora finished it all off. Hastily walking toward the spy, it was evident he had a manila envelope tucked under his right arm. The man, despite having slept since before yesterday, looked energized as if he had just taken a power nap. Finally stopping upon reaching Azov, he took the envelope from under his arm.

"I got you a seat on a railway straight to Antarsk. First class. Northern Abathonian hospitality heh." the Marathonnian spoke.

He passed off the envelope to Kurbin.

"New identification. New home address. New age. Even a new passport. All of it traces back here to Insurgia. If you get stopped for verification, it'll check out. And it doesn't expire...your train leaves from Hugo Station here in the city in two hours."

[Intresha]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Norton's Chemical Compound
April 18th, 1949
5:48 AM

"Northern Abathon hospitality indeed." Kurbin mused, looking over the first class ticket.

Marveling at his new I.D information, Azov knew this wouldn't be the last time he'd use the provided alias. If the information he possessed turned out to be as valuable as the Stavka previously believed, he'd likely make several more trips to the Independent Republic. Trips that he'd most certainly never be able to take by plane again. Not after all the trouble it caused him this time.

"Your money will be wired to a dummy account in Fargo under the name of Dugan King. It'll have to be cleaned through about five different proxy accounts, however, so don't expect it right away. If it's not in your hands by the end of the week, then you can kill me." Kurbin guaranteed.

Slumping down against the wall, Kurbin took a long drag from his cigarette. It was going to be a long couple of hours, but ones he desperately needed. Closing his eyes but never quite falling asleep, Azov waited for the clock to strike seven.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Industrial District
April 18th, 1949
6:45 AM

Agent Myers strolled past the industrial district quietly, having left the Bureau only moments ago. His work, however, was far from done. The word was out nationwide now. Every available resource would be on high alert for this man, especially now with the input from the OSS who now have labeled this as espionage from a foreign entity, whether or not a nation was behind it was to be disputed. If he was to leave borders, the OSS wouldn't cease there as the FBI would be forced to. Coming to a four-way stop, he was met by a large pickup truck that had beaten him to the stop. The interior full of well-dressed men and what could be made out as the shape of a .45 Thompson in the back of the cabin being passed around. Sure, this was Insurgia and every family owned at least two firearms but an automatic machine gun that fired .45 ACP was a bit overkill. On that note, this concerned Myers, perhaps a little too much. The nasty glare the driver gave Myers only added icing to the cake, unbeknownst that he had just given a dirty look to an FBI Agent which in no way was illegal but under the specific circumstances had put a large question of suspicion against the truck. The lone agent simply watched the truck drive across the intersection and on to another street.

Myers, instead of following, decided to go where they came from. Making a sharp right, he turned down Vine Avenue before it finally hit him upon hitting the 34th street intersection. The Norton Chemical Compound. Renowned for its Mafia hospitality and sanctum. He squinted at the Compound, noticing the gated fence that surrounded it. They surely didn't leave from the front but from the back? That seemed more plausible. He continued down Vine, trailing the fence until he reached the rear of the Compound. Looking through the fence he could see the life that was under the employment of the Conglomerate. Hauling large wooden crates of unknown merchandise onto what could be mistaken as army infantry trucks if they weren't blacked out instead of green. What could be more suspicious? Understandably, Myers knew suspicion wasn't a worry of the Mafia as they owned just about every judge in town who was smart enough not to sign a search warrant for this straight arrow of an agent.

Turning down the next street, still trailing the fence, he came to the gated portion which was wide open. Several trucks were on the property, being loaded with god knows what. Myers joined them, pulling into the property slowly, many angry and concerned faces looking to the black cruiser. The lone agent stepped out of the cruiser with his obviously pomaded, parted and fresh haircut. Several lowly but large men approached the cruiser from three different sides, keeping their distance.

"...you lost feller or you lookin' to get lost?" a rather uneducated voice came from one of the large persons.

"No no...don't want any trouble...who's your boss?" Myers demanded.

"What if I'm the boss, eh?" the large man came to be revealed as Boris, not to Myers' knowledge, however.

"I highly doubt that." Myers revealed what he thought of the man's rank.

There was a slight scoffing and muttering among the large crowd of grunts and enforcers. Suggestions of 'disappearing' the agent were audible but Myers thought nothing of it. The sound of the police radio beeping inside the cruiser was heard, Myers made audible words from it.

"...Myers, got a ping...one Ivan Orlov from Kaztian. Funny thing is, we just checked up with Karaqi Intelligence, they say no such man made a venture here...just as I figured...you there?" the sound of Krasinsky was heard only to Myers.

The crowd slowly crept closer to Myers' cruiser before the high pitched and ever stretching sound of someone whistling stopped the crowd in their tracks. Myers kept his head still, but his eyes moved left to right, maintaining a secure awareness of the situation before drawing his gaze on the loading dock. Two men stood quietly, well dressed. One taller than the other and much more punctual in his wardrobe. Myers matched the height with that of the missing fugitive. The two men quickly but quietly made their way down to ground level, the crowd making way for the two automatically. Myers reeled back, shutting the door. He paced to the front of his cruiser, perhaps to meet them halfway. The two men stopped just a foot ahead of the crowd, only about four feet away from Myers.

"Hallo! How can I be of service?" the taller man smiled largely, his Marathonnian accent quite audible.

"I'm Special Agent Myers. I'm with the Bureau. Apologies about the intrusion but the circumstances demand so. There's a fugitive on the loose. Blond hair. Slim. About your height actually. Was just wondering if maybe you or any of your boys here had something valuable?" Myers responded, flashing his badge.

Theophilus gazed upon the badge before shifting both ways to the crowd.

"Get back to work!" Theophilus ordered.

The crowd quickly dispersed, returning to their duties. Theophilus approached Myers, standing an arms reach away.

"You got some balls, friend. Showing up here unannounced. A good way to get killed..." Theophilus smiled, taking a cigarette from a silver case he took from his coat pocket.

"Desperate times. Desperate measures." Myers replied, digging a box of matches out of his jacket before the Martinet even put the cigarette in his mouth.

Myers lit his cigarette.

The Martinet stared at Myers with mixed emotions. This was a first. It was almost like bribery but for respect. Theophilus took a drag, puffing out his bit of smoke.

"What's this man wanted for if you don't mind me asking?" the Martinet asked.

"Terrorism." Myers lied through his teeth, smiling and hoping this would help him get some sort of lead.

"...hmph. And here I am thinking the war was over. Heh. No no...I speak for my men and myself when I say that we have seen no such man. We've had a busy week. No time to waste on such occurrences." the Marathonnian smiled, self-conflicted about the lie Myers had just told him.

"Very well...worth a shot. I'll be seeing you then." Myers spoke, turning back to the drivers side.

"No...no you won't." Theophilus finished the conversation.

Myers heard this, giving the Martinet a fake smile before dropping back into his cruiser. The cruiser nonchalantly pulled off the property speedily. The Martinet didn't break eye contact with the vehicle until it left his vision.

[Intresha]

Trans Continental Railline, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Intreshan Borderlands
April 23rd, 1949
9:21

Classical music crackled over the first class railcar's aging phonograph. Sipping tea from the intricate bone china cup in front of him, Azov forced himself to relax. The train would soon arrive in Antarsk, far removed from the clutches of the OSS or FBI. He hoped so, at least. All night he had woken up with appalling nightmares. Men and suits hauling him away. Masked figures torturing him for information he didn't have. His body mangled as the product of some extrajudicial execution. Kurbin felt even more deprived of rest now than he did in that damned chemical compound.

Staring out the partially curtained window next to him, the Lieutenant marveled at the metropolis rising around him. The train first passed through the north end of the city, a slum district mostly populated by the working poor. Constantly covered in a thick veil of black fog, Azov purposely avoided the area during his visits to the capital city. Even brief exposure to the pollution made him violently ill. Sinking back into his seat, Kurbin closed his eyes and made himself comfortable.

The locomotive had other plans for his rest, however. Sounding its whistle loudly, the train lurched forward as it screeched into the station. He hadn't expected the stop to come so suddenly. Partially stunned yet very relieved, the Lieutenant stood up. Gaining his composer, Azov gathered his meager possessions and prepared to disembark.

Kurbin thanked God he was as tall as he was. If were any smaller, the vast herd of people exiting the platform may have trampled him to death. It was a wonder to the Lieutenant how nobody ever fell into the tracks by way of pushing or shoving. Burdened only by his tired legs and few belongings, it didn't take him long to arrive at International Customs Enforcement. He wasn't however, the first in the line. Not by a long shot.

After an hour and a half of waiting in the snaking queue, he finally reached the presiding Officer. A husky man with rosy cheeks, he babbled through some legal mumbo-jumbo about foreign plants and animals before asking Kurbin to open his bag. There wasn't anything inside, save the suit he had on when he'd gone to the chemical compound. The lads there had been kind enough to slip him a fresh change of clothes before he left. Giving him a hesitant nod, the Officer went on.

"Passport and identification please." The tubby man gargled at him.

Kurbin nodded, unsure which ID to produce. His Insurgian one wouldn't separate him from the crowd. On the other hand, his Ivan Orlov persona would surely be recognized by any government official as belonging to a Spy. Perhaps he might get special treatment? Maybe he would be allowed to skip a few lines? Who knows, perhaps they had a man waiting outside to deliver him to the Palace. He had, in fact, made a call from the train notifying the Chairman of his whereabouts. Settling on his official documentation, Azov produced the paperwork from his back pocket.

"Ah, Ivan Orlov... We've been expecting you. Follow me, please." The hulking Officer smiled.

His uniform buldged in some places as he walked, the sweat from his folds clearly visible as the fat jiggled around. Although repulsed, the Lieutenant did as he was told. Taking him the opposite way from the station's exit, the Officer brought Kurbin to a separate office. It was quaint, the only indicator of its existence a plaque reading "Security". After opening the door and inviting him inside, the obese man left. In his place, a new official greeted him. Thin and grey, the man looked up at him through narrow glasses. The Stavka Captain looked at the man before him as though he'd just pissed on his shoes.

"Azov Kurbin?'" He asked, seemingly a mix of bored and disgusted.

"Yes..." He replied, hesitantly.

The man stood up. Looking closely, the Lieutenant read his nametag. Viktor Abelman. He half expected it to say "Grim Reaper" in a creepy font. The man would be better suited as a greeter in a funeral home, or better still, a corpse inside of one.

"You're under arrest." The Captain declared.

On his word, four Stavka men walked into the room from a second doorway behind the desk. Guns in hand and in full ceremonial dress, these men were the elite. One carried a pair of handcuffs, which he quickly secured on Azov's wrist. He didn't bother to put up a struggle. This had to be a joke, after all.

"Oh? And what are my charges?" Laughed Kurbin, slapping his knee.

"Impersonating a Stavka operative. Fraud. International terrorism. I don't think I need to go on." Sighed the suited skeleton.

Now genuinely concerned, the Lieutenant stepped forward a little.

"I was acting on the command of the Chairman of the Duma... He checked in with me every day of the mission... He gave me everything I needed... Did I will that half a million Darcas into existence?" He asked sarcastically, flopping down into a chair in front of the desk.

"It's alright. You'll be happy to hear the Chairman was arrested early this morning. The only reason our Embassy Forces didn't swoop down and snatch you sooner was that we would have been forced to extradite. The brass wasn't pleased with that. So here we are." He wheezed, looking at his captive through glazed eyes.

Petrified and confused, Azov watched as the Stavka gentlemen snatched him up to his feet.

"I understand your position, Lieutenant. And I'm sure the judge will too, in about a year or so when your case goes to trial." His breath smelled like an old broom closet, thick with cobwebs and mothballs.

Now completely disassociated, the ex-Spy marched out of the room. Practically at gunpoint, he really had no choice. He had expected to be caught, but not on his native soil... And most definitely not by his own men... The betrayal burned hot all over his body.

Who knew that this, of all places, would be the end of the line for Azov Kurbin.

[Arkham Nation]

Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Industrial District, T&L Railway Company Freight Station
April 23rd, 1949
7:30 PM

It was silent in the automobile when the two vice detectives arrived at the freight station. They got out of the car and just stared at the old building in front of them. A large covered fence prevented them from setting what was on the other side. The gate was guarded by two men in shabby clothing with visible handguns in their holster. Over the gate was a large sign that read “T&L Railway Co.” under it read “Private Property - Keep Out.” Trevor flicked his cigarette away from him then made his way along with Tommy to the front gate. One of the man standing at th gate walked up to them halfway and put a hand on Tommy’s chest.

“Can’t you read the sign, piss off.” The guard said sounding annoyed.

“You better take that hand off before I break it along with your fingers.” Tommy said looking down at the guard. The guard, bewildered by what he just heard, immediately withdrew his hand. “I’m Inspector Tommy MacGuire and this is ball of cuteness right here is Inspector Trevor O’Driscoll were with the vice squad, we need to speak to who’s ever in charge here.” The two detectives showed their badges under their coats on their waists to the guard.

“You got a warrant?” the guard sniffed.

“No, we just want to talk to your boss” Trevor answered.

“Then no, unless” the guard paused then smiled, “you can pay to get it.”

“Did you hear that O’Driscoll?” Tommy laughed, “I think we should pay him.” Tommy suddenly hit the guard in the throat almost as fast as a viper. The guard dropped to his knees grabbing his throat wheezing. The other guard at the gate with drew his gun and aimed it right at Tommy. Trevor withdrew his gun and aimed it at the guard who was starting to look freaked out at the gate.

“What the hell MacGuire?!” Trevor shouted.

“Was that good enough? Because I still got some change I could give you.” Tommy whispered kneeling down to the guard on the ground. He moved his coat and exposed his gun to the guard who was still grasping for breath.

“Yes.” the guard said faintly.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tommy asked leaning closer so that he could hear the guard.

“Yes.” the guard coughed loudly.

“There you go, see O’Driscoll, we would have gone all this way for nothing only to wait for several hours or days to get a warrant.” Tommy hoisted the guard to his feet and indicated for him to lead the way. The guard coughing loudly waved to the other guard still holding the gun to Tommy to put the gun down. The guard hesitated then placed the gun back in the holster, Trevor did the same thing right after. “I tell you O’Driscoll these people are scum, all they care about is who pays them well.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Trevor said coldly. Tommy ignored him as they made their way to the gate. The guard had stopped coughing but was still red in the face when they reached the gate. The guard pounded at the gate and soon after it opened up. The guard and led the two inspectors across the rail yard to the building. The rail yard was packs full of freight trains and the sound of people working filled the air making it hard for Trevor to hear. In the distance Trevor could sea the Ox River that ran right threw Arkham City. Trevor suddenly smell the overwhelming stench of coal and gas that came from the freight trains. Trevor could see the other guard go over to a group of men and start to talk to them while pointing at us. A second later the group of men started angerly at Tommy and Trevor as if they had a grudge against them. The detectives and the guard made their way into the building full of workers and other armed guards who were doing there jobs as normal.

“Look it’s the fucking police.” one of the workers angerly said. Another worker glared them spit on the ground right in front of them.

“You gonna take us away and brainwash us like you did our comrades.” one of the guards said. Trevor started to feel uneasy and looked at Tommy who was in front of him. Tommy didn’t look back and looked like he was calm which baffled Trevor. They went up stares and came to a door which read “Manager’s Office.” The guard knocked a few times and then heard a response to come in. The guard opened the door and walked in along with Trevor and Tommy. Inside was a thin man sitting at a desk with a window to the outside behind him. The guard greeted him then introduced the detectives to his boss. His boss waved him off and the two detectives were left alone with the boss.

“Evening gentlemen, my name is Fre—”

“Let me just stop you right there. I don’t care who you are, we are here to ask you a few questions.” Tommy interrupt.

“Fine, what do you want to know?” the boss said sounding annoyed.

“What comes through here?” Trevor asked taking out a little note book to write in.

“Oh you know coal, gas, and all kinds products.” the boss said fidgeting. Trevor knew the boss wasn’t getting telling him something.

“That’s it?”

“Yep.” the boss said making a popping sound.

“Do you have a log of what comes in and out of hear?”

“No.” the boss said lying the best he could

“What a load of crap! Where is it?” Tommy bursted out.

“Can we search the place along with having that log?” Trevor asked.

“You got a warrant? Well obviously not if your here, so then no you can’t and now gentlemen get the hell out of here.” the boss shouted standing up and pointing to the door.

“I think this guy wants some money too.” Tommy said cracking his knuckles. Tommy marched up the the boss and threw him back into his seat. The chair rolled backwards to the window behind the desk cracking it as the chair hit the glass. Tommy clenched the boss’s shirt and raised a fist. Before Tommy could throw a punch five guards burst into the room aiming their guns at Tommy and Trevor. Trevor raised his hands and Tommy letting go of the boss did as well.

“Like I said get the FUCK OUT!” the boss shouted. The guards grabbed both Tommy and Trevor then escorted out of the building and off the rail yard. While passing one of the freight cars Trevor could see that most of them had the Insurgian logo on them. The guard threw both Trevor and Tommy out of the freight station and slammed the gate behind them.

“That could have gone better!” Trevor yelled. Tommy grunted then the two detectives went back and got into the car.

“We could have taken them,” he paused then looked at Trevor as if he was analyzing him, “I could have taken them.” he laughed as he started the car. Trevor rolled his eyes then let out a long sigh. He then remembered the symbol he had seen of the freight cars then sketched it out in his notebook. “What are you doing?” Tommy asked inquisitively.

“Did you see all those logos on most of the boxes?”

“Yeah they looked Insurgian to me.”

“Well if they are smuggling guns they must be coming from Insurgia.”

“We don’t know that for sure, there were plenty of other country logos on the trains.”

“That’s true,” Trevor then drew the other logos he had seen on the boxes, “but we’re gonna have to get a warrant in order to find out.”

“Which will give time for them to get rid of the evidence.”

“I know.” Trevor sneered.

“We’ll get right on that tomorrow I need a drink.” Tommy yawned.

“I have had enough of you for one night, just take me back to the station.” Trevor said.

“Oh come on O’Driscoll, no one can ever get enough of me.” Tommy smiled. He threw the car in reverse and turned so that the car was facing away from the freight station. The shift the car back in drive then drove off away from the place Trevor knew was hiding something.

[Insurgia]

Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Industrial District, T&L Railway Company Freight Station
April 24th, 1949
6:05 AM

"Quite the purchase, isn't it?" the quite young Winston Slezov inquired; his delicate and tall voweled accent more than present.

"It's hunting season..." a much more seasoned and greying Theophilus returned.

The pale-faced Slezov read off the manifest to the manager who sat somewhat uncomfortably in his chair. Theophilus gazed out the window at the unloading of shipping crates, the interior contents being loaded onto big rigs for steady distribution. The aging Marathonnian took a cigarette from his small silver case, quietly lighting it with a wooden match. He gave it a few puffs, the smoke bouncing off the window.

"So...what is this about?" the manager asked as nonchalantly as he could.

Slezov broke his gaze from the manifest, looking to Theophilus who didn't break his stare at the freights below, then looking to the manager.

"We're missing a freight. $120,000 worth of weapons and ammunition. Vanished. Now I'm not one to judge by looks but I'd say that's probably double your salary. Get what I'm saying? " the young Slezov spoke, expressing a posh concern.

The manager was wide-eyed at this blatant insult, maybe a slight hint of anger came from his expression. Winston simply met his stare and smiled.

"You gonna come into my country...and insult me? You fuckin' Insurgians man...I grow tired of this shit." the manager went for his desk phone, pulling the oversized phone off it.

Winston quickly slammed his hand on top of the Arkians' hand, a loud bell-like ringing followed.

"Eh! What the hell man! Get your bloody hand off me!" the manager yelled, reaching for his drawer.

"You go for that pea-shooter and you can kiss the little life that you thought mattered good-bye." Theophilus quickly interrupted the struggle.

The Marathonnian turned around; cigarette between his lips, walking hastily to the desk. He sat on the desk, his legs blocking any access to the drawer.

"Who runs this whole operation?" Theophilus asked the manager.

"Fuck you. And fuck you even more." the manager gave emphasis to Winston.

Theophilus smiled, maybe even cracked a laugh. Winston joined in to laugh but it quietly faded away when Theophilus speedily drew his Colt M1911 from its shoulder holster, aiming it over at the managers head.

"Who's your boss?" the Marathonnian asked almost politely.

The manager took an audible gulp.

"Last time." Theophilus obviously flipped the safety off.

"Theo...don't-" he was interrupted by him pulling the hammer back.

"SLEZOV! NELSON SLEZOV RUNS ARMS TRAFFICKING! HIS WHOLE CREW RUNS THIS PART OF TOWN!" the manager begged for life.

Theophilus relaxed the hammer on his Colt, sliding it back into its holster. The manager was obviously in tears, shaking and maybe even a puddle of piss drenched the floor. Theophilus was already quick to keep his feet off the ground and upon disembarking the desk, he would do so from another angle.

"Was that so hard? I'm not going to ask where...I know where...but just for the record, Winston...who is your uncle?" Theophilus smiled.

"Nelson...Nelson Slezov." the young Winston spoke quickly.

The manager gazed at the boy barely out of his teen years. "W-winston...S-s-slezov..."

"I'll be sure to uh...put it in the report." the older Martinet laughed the manager.

The two Martinet members quietly left the room, leaving a shaken manager to squabble on the floor in his own urine, crying for his mother.

[Intresha]

30 Miles from Vas Luchi, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Lübbenau Prison, Command Building, Adminsitrative Bloc
May 1st, 1949
8:45 PM

If this was the Administrative Bloc, Azov feared for what the rest of the facility looked like. Singularly utilitarian in its construction, the concrete building felt like a tomb. That incessant dripping from the ceiling further reinforced the ambiance. It was this line of thinking forced Kurbin to speculate whether or not mausoleums had roaches. This place certainly did, and fearless ones at that. Skittering across the desk and over the feet of guards, they seemed to have their run of the place. It wasn't these pests that bothered him, however. The real insectoids were about to walk into the room.

Two Stavka guards accompanied by their superior, a Corporal this time. Removing his rain poncho, the minuscule man gestured his grunts to remain outside. He clearly enjoyed bossing them around. His mannerisms alone spoke to that. The old Lieutenant had known a few of his sort back when he was in the Corps. Middle management chumps with five Darca haircuts that thought they owned the world. Not the kind of man you'd want to put in charge of a bake sale, much less a bunch of men with rifles.

The Corporal sat down in front of him, looking downright child sized in the chair. Azov wondered if the man had a medical condition, or was just comedically short.

"Please state your name and today's date for the record." He asked, fumbling with the tape recorder on the desk.

"Azov S. Kurbin... May 1st, 1949." He spoke clearly into the device.

Nodding, the Corporal took a bronze case from his shirt pocket. With the press of a button, the holder launched out a single cigarette into his hand. A zippo waited in the other. The Lieutenant eyed the midget with intense jealousy. Aside from the casual shower rape and starvation, nicotine withdrawal was the worst torture this place had to offer.

"Mind if I have a drag of that?" Pleaded Azov, knowing full well the response he would get.

Sighing and shaking his head, the Corporal took out that familiar piece of paper Kurbin had been expecting. Although the faces and ranks offering it changed, the document itself did not.

"This is it, Lieutenant. If you leave this room without signing, you're going to General Population." He threatened, placing a pen in front of the ex-Spy.

Kurbin sat quietly. Unmoving. Unblinking. He couldn't care less about the ultimatum posed against him. Even though the deal laid out before him would spare him trial and sentencing, it would certainly leave him with nothing. They pretended as if a dishonorable discharge was nothing. Like his legacy was naught but a few scars and a handful of photos. He was not so easily bought.

"Play mute all you want, it changes nothing. The difference between you withering in a cell and being free is a signature. If you want this to be the hill you die on, fine. But remember Azov... The brass doesn't like many people. Not enough to give them a get out of jail free card..." He continued.

"Get out of jail free...? Get out of jail free?" He repeated, awestruck at the man's stupidity.

He had half a mind to crawl across the table and kill him with his bare hands. With the guards absent, he'd surely make quick work of him. Kurbin had done it before under similar circumstances back in the Marathonnian camp...

"I've seen close friends of mine torn in half by anti-aircraft fire. I've personally killed one hundred and twenty-four enemy combatants, not counting the ones I didn't have confirmed. I was left in a mass grave when the armies left Salina. I spent nine months in a concentration camp so your bite-sized ass could sit here today, goddamnit! You think I'd sign all that away to avoid punishment? Punishment for a crime I didn't even commit? No. I don't think so. The speech felt strange coming off his tongue. They were the first words he had spoken since he arrived.

Looking puzzled and a bit embarrassed, the Corporal went on.

"And will any of that mean any less if lose your rank? Your title? You made a simple mistake. A mistake nobody can fault you for." His attempt at sincerity wasn't the most convincing he'd ever seen.

The Lieutenant spat in the face of his captor.

"If I run out of toilet paper, I'll call for that little pardon of yours. In the meantime, I'll show myself out." Stated Azov, standing up.

More or less stupified by the inmate's behavior, the Corporal could only watch as Kurbin walked out into the pelting rain. Escorted by the Stavka, the prisoner would return to his cell for the night before being moved to the General Population the next morning.

Forty-five to life, without the possibilty for parole. These were the wages of a Spy.

[Insurgia]

The Castle, The Antarctic Continent
1st Allied Expeditionary "Dragoon" Battalion, Charlie Company
May 2nd, 1949
5:23 PM

Farrier kneeled down over a motionless body, putting his finger against the soldiers' neck. He shook his head calmly, shutting the eyes of a young slain boy. The occasional sound of gunfire echoed throughout the Castle as the Battalion was simply mopping up now. The last week of fighting reminded the Dragoons of just how ferocious their former enemy was and even brought them face to face with their old nemesis, the PzG's. Hardened Marathonnian mechanized infantry that were just as cruel in their fighting technique as the Dragoons were; a perfect match. Major Farrier reeled back onto his ass, rubbing his eyes and forehead as he gazed upon the body of their youngest recruit. He barely knew the boy but he was aware that this was his very first engagement with the Battalion—also his last. They lost half the Battalion over the course of the week. Half of them lost on the surface and down below in the caves. My God. The caves. Farrier thought about this frantically. They put up a hell of a fight to defend those caves.

Farrier was entranced by the body. All the years of fighting may have been getting to his head. The ringing in his ears were ever-present and the louder someone tried to communicate with him, the louder the ringing got. Until it stopped.

"...sir? You alright?" a nearby Sergeant asked with a concerned face.

The seasoned Major snapped out of it, looking to his senior NCO. He quickly got up to his feet, looking to the young body and then to the Sergeant.

"Pick whatever men you need to get our wounded and dead out. I'll take care of the rest of the company." Farrier put his hand on the NCO's shoulder.

"Yes, sir. Right away." the Sergeant moved away.

Major Farrier took a deep sigh, putting himself in the middle of the foyer, slinging his M1 Garand.

"CHARLIE COMPANY! Rally on me!" the Major ordered.

Before long, the remnants of the company gathered around the Major.

"Listen up...we have new orders. We're leveling this place from the ground up...we have enough explosives on hand to do so if we put them in the right spot. We'll detonate remotely. Then, we're going home." the Major said in his most monotone.

A shuffle of positive comments came from the men which was quickly silenced.

"Corporal Collier and Sergeant Scott, each of you round up five men, take what plastic you need. Place them on what supportive structures you can find, preferably brick, stone or steel. Don't waste it on wood. The rest of you, clear it up outside. Let's go." the Major finished.

Charlie Company quickly evicted themselves from the Castle. The rest of the Battalion already being outside and making contact with the fleet to get ready to depart.

[Intresha]

Vas Luchi, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Koval Keep, Main Foyer
May 5th, 1949
6:36 PM

"Come on, Koval, it's simple mathematics! Thirty-eight seats plus twenty-two seats equal sixty seats! I'm not saying that Vas Luchin autonomy isn't important, I'm just saying that we've got bigger issues at the moment. We've got the referendum to think about for Christ's sake! Look, you're the only person stopping this merger. Just think of the majority we could have!" Duscha insisted, removing his jacket.

The fireplace scorched behind the trio of men, its flames climbing high out of the ashen pit. Morozov had never felt so hot in his life. Carved directly from the mountain's stone, the castleacted more like a convection oven than a residency. Although, screaming at the imbecile in front of him did nothing to help his condition. The two had sat in the same spot for nearly two hours debating, accomplishing nothing besides wasting time. Duscha hated wasting time.

"Do you think I'll bend over that easily? For you, of all people? I refuse to be your stepping stone, Morozov. Majority or not, it's about principle." Sighed the meaty politician, reaching for his coffee on the table between them.

Shaking his head disapprovingly, the party leader looked the man dead in the eyes. Large, round, dark and dumb. They were downright bovine, as was the case with the rest of Timur Kovol's features. With a brawny build and body thick with hair, the man looked like he just strolled in from the pasture. Very much like a cow, though, the Duma representative would soon be on Morozov's chopping block... One way or another.

"Let's talk about principles, then. Will principles get you any votes on the floor? Will your principles fund your campaign next cycle? No, I didn't think so." The party leader argued, waving his hands in frustration.

Rolling his eyes, the Minotaur quipped back.

"You're saying I can't reach my goals on my own? Without the help of your little party, anyway?"

"You're fighting for the independence of a city-state that hasn't existed since before the occupation! Your voter base is made up of college students and old drunks! Of course you need our help!" Raged Duscha, rising from his chair.

Also standing up, Kovol stared at him with disbelief.

"Then good luck with your majority, because you won't get it from the National Front. Not while I still have my seat." Timur declared, preparing to storm off.

Pausing, the party leader held up a lone finger.

"So I assume this means the conversation is over?" Morozov finished, retrieving his coat from the chair.

Nodding, the politician turned to leave. Instead of walking out, though, Kovol bumped into a heap of fat almost as big as he was. The boxy gentlemen in front of him wore a uniform identifying him as a member of the Black Hundreds, a paramilitary organization chartered under the Slavic Renaissance Party. Duscha Morozov's party. Waiting patiently for such an outcome, the man hung on his superior's word.

"You heard the man. The conversation is over." The leader stated, giving a curt nod in his underling's direction.

As if on cue, Sokolov drew his straight razor from his overcoat. Using his weapon of choice, the Officer made quick work of his unarmed, unwitting prey. With surgical precision, he swiped the blade across Kovol's major arteries. Jets of blood shot sporadically across the room as the politician slowly began to collapse, each new position bringing a new gash with it. The former doctor was ever so talented. That's what Morozov loved about Gregori. Every kill was a new show, and he never used the same trick twice. It was for this same reason he allowed him to break with Black Hundreds code and use a personalized weapon. A rare honor, but a desrved one in this instance.

"Call that friend of yours... The mortician. What was his name again? Viktor something? It seems we have a suicide to report..." Duscha's voice trailed off.

The life of one cow was trivial. The safety of the herd was paramount.

[Intresha]

St. Anne Province, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Urasol Palace, The Capital City of Antarsk
May 4th, 1949
7:45 PM

Flipping open his pocket watch, he knew it was time. Dushcha's entire political career had led up to the few moments just ahead. The rest of the SRP waited behind him silently, clearly taking their foregoing orders to do so very seriously. Everybody was there, too. Thankfully the merger had been seamless. If anyone had the common sense to see through the official suicide narrative, they were wise enough not to speak up.

"Gentlemen? What are we waiting for?" The party leader grinned mischievously, snapping the watch closed.

Seemingly confused but eager to begin nonetheless, the faithful flock of sycophants followed Morozov in lockstep. Barging through the heavy wooden doors, Dushca put on the smarmiest grin he could physically produce. This was his moment. They had best get used to it. If he had anything to say about it, they'd be seeing it for a long time. An awful, awful long time.

Chairs squealed and heads spun around as the party entered the assembly hall proper. The others in attendance stared daggers at Morozov, full knowing there was some outlandish ploy behind his party's tardiness. Unfortunately for them, they had no idea exactly how titanic today's little stunt would be.

"Roll call was an hour and thirty minutes ago. Where were you? And where's the damn National Front?" Interim Chairman Kolisnyk bellowed from his perch, high above the rest of the Duma.

Craning his head to lock eyes with the man, Morozov gave a soft chuckle.

"Right here. There was a merger last night. If you want to see the pap-"

"You were supposed to have all of that on my desk by Friday of last week! Your merger is not recognized. Like it or not, the National Front will be independent till next quarter. And that's assuming I approve it." The disdain in his tone could've been cut with a knife.

Rolling his eyes, Duscha assumed his usual seat. Receiving the message loud and clear, his mob of loyal Renaissancist followed suit with their leader. No one would back down tonight. Morozov sighed in great releif.

"Also, what makes you think you can stroll in here and just sit down? You all missed roll call, and you're out of order." Kolisnyk sneered, standing to his feet.

In complete disregard of the hellfire being rained down from the balcony above, Duscha himself stood. Deadpan, he turned to face his horde of goons in the seats behind him. In utter stillness, they hung on his every word. Even in light of the furious Chairman and his loyal staff of bailiffs, they sat unflinchingly.

"Gentlemen of the Duma, I do believe it is time to nominate a new and permanent Chairman for this body... And I am of the opinion that said Chairman should be me. All in favor say 'aye', all opposed, 'nay'." Morozov commanded, hushing the entire room.

Despite some clamoring from the perch and a bit of white noise from the opposition parties, the overwhelmingly SRP side of the room gave their thunderous approval. A handful of the Liberal Democrats got up and left, bringing with them a handful of the smaller parties. If there had been enough resistance to make a stand for the constitution, they had all gone now. The few contrarians left to make a case for liberty would certainly be overruled by numbers alone.

"The ' aye's have it. Do enjoy your retirement, Mikhail." Stated new Chairman, his tone sounding more or less unironic.

"You can't be serious... Bailiffs! Remove this man!" Kolisnyk shrieked, pointing a bony finger down at Duscha.

Merely rolling his eyes and shifting his head in response, Morozov slammed his fist onto the table. The already ajar door creaking open, they came in two neat columns. Two by two, the Black Hundreds filed in. Their Erma EMPs strapped over their shoulders, they outgunned as well as outmanned the opposition forces. With the bulk of the force securing the perimeter of the room and it exits, the senior staff took up positions around the Chairman himself. Nobody would be going anywhere. Not with Sokolov at the helm of things.

"Thi- This is illegal! Your majority is not recognized! Your appointment is unconstitutional!" Kolisnyks voice grew unsteady as the armed paramilitaries climbed the spiral staircase to his balcony.

Stopping for a moment's contemplation, Duscha nodded in agreement.

"You're right... This is unconstitutional... All in favor of nullifying the present constitution?" The Chairman casually posited, a half smile slumped across his face.

"AYE!" The cry went up from the legions of yes-men present, along with a few Black Hundreds members who spoke up just for shits and giggles.

"The 'aye's have it again, by the sound of it. I hereby declare the existing constitution indefinitely suspended. Consequently, this assembly is also abolished." Morozov's words came just as his men finished defenestrating Kolisnyk, his body tumbling nearly forty feet from the terrace. Only bayonets softened his landing.

The last few of the leftist and similarly anti-SRP representatives still in attendance huddled together like lambs amongst a pack of wolves. Never to be conned out of their bloodsport, the BH in the vicinity wouldn't miss a beat in gunning down the cowardly lawmakers. Theirs would be the last blood spilled in the name of this most efficient of revolutions. Ascending the stairs to the Chairman's perch, Morozov watched the spectacle unfold below.

"Now, with that out of the way, I'd say we have quite a bit of work to do..." Duscha declared, his eyes fixed straight ahead as slowly ripped a handful of papers.

The shreds and tatters of the constitution fluttered down to the floor gently, landing on the fallen Kolisknyk like rose petals. A fitting end for the old martyr, no doubt.

With their orgy of destruction complete and nobody left to disagree, the fascist set to work on a new constitution. A new flag. A new government. A new Intresha.

The national rebirth had begun.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
The Presidential Palace, 1692 W. Harmony Avenue
May 5th, 1949
4:53 AM

President Kelly was quietly sound before three knocks came from the door. Not a second later, the door opened and three suited men walked in, obvious security guards. One went for the lamp next to the bed, turning it on. Hendrix opened his eyes slowly, sitting up in bed. One other guard went for the curtains, pulling them open, revealing the still dark sky that loomed overhead. The third went to the restroom, turning on the shower. Hendrix squinted over at the window, noting this and the shower. Whatever they had woken him up for, it must've been good. His wife groaned quietly beside him, pulling the covers over her.

"What is it, George?" Kelly asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Sir, the Director of National Intelligence will be here within the hour." the greying service guard responded.

"Ah...this MUST be good. Alright, I'm up..." Kelly responded, getting up from the bed.

The aging President went for his robe, quickly wrapping it around him before darting into the bathroom and into the shower. George dismissed the other two guards, slowly pacing to the wardrobe and opening it up. Inside was a tasteful and organized bravado of suits of all designs; from pinstripe to a tuxedo. The older agent pulled the top drawer open, revealing a row of artsy ties and elegant quartz watches. George quickly made a decision, grabbing the pinstripe with a pressed white dress shirt. He quickly tossed a red and blue tie with all sorts of creativity screaming from it. The sound of a humming man could be heard from the bathroom, George simply chuckled at this and placed the selection down on the Presidents side of the bed in an organized fashion.

It wouldn't take long until Kelly exited his room. The Palace was already lively. The kitchen was wide awake with food already being prepared. Hendrix and George made their way down the hallway, making several turns down the maze that was the palace. George cut ahead, grabbing the knobs to a set of double doors, opening them simultaneously and entering. Kelly entered quickly after him. The Presidential Office was pretty full for the hour. Several suited men awaited on the couches and chairs. All of them stood up, extending their hands and waiting for a turn to greet their Commander in Chief. Hendrix quickly took a seat at his desk after all the morning greetings.

"Sir, General Task has just returned from the South Pole. Operation Windsor is successful although there are some other details you may want to—" a Section Chief was cut off.

"Wilson, what was so important that you had to wake up my staff an hour early so you could wake me up an hour early?" the President looked to the middle-aged man who was the only one standing.

Wilson Eldridge was the Director of National Intelligence. He was gruff and tall in his appearance; the suit didn't help the rough facial scars that he obtained in his tenure during the war. He held a file in his hand. He was the first to know anything before it went out on the wire. Whatever he knew, no one else would have the pleasure of delivering. Wilson slowly paced over to the desk as all eyes were on him. Hendrix squinted at him for a millisecond before the file was dropped in front of him. Hendrix didn't hesitate to open it. Wilson looked to the rest of the room, giving off an obvious frown.

"The Duma has been overthrown. Chairman Kolisnyk is dead." Wilson remained monotone, almost emotionless.

The room suddenly was in an uproar of confusion and anger. Hendrix gazed at Wilson and heard his words in disappointment before continuing to read the file.

"Got the telegram this morning...as far as we know, Intresha is no longer a constitutional state. On top of that, Karaq has instituted radio silence." Wilson continued.

"The silent treatment huh?" Hendrix pondered, flipping through some pictures in the file.

Wilson looked over at his old friend.

"I wish it were as simple as that. Personally, I don't believe in simple. My top analysts believe Karaq could've been involved but there is no certainty. The radio silence doesn't help their case though." Wilson informed.

Hendrix released a deep sigh, setting the file down. He scanned the room.

"Tommy, keep trying to get ahold of the Premier. Wilson—you do your thing. For now, break. Meet back up in an hour. I haven't eaten yet." Kelly stood up from his desk.

The room quickly evicted itself while Hendrix made his way to the kitchen.

[Intresha]

Odizny Province, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
Camp Orel, Stavka National Headquarters and Training Center
May 5th, 1949
12:03 AM

A light mist began to fall on the camp as the staff car sped down the dirt road. Even at midnight, the fields teemed with drilling soldiers and supply trucks. A few miles away, red flares could be seen shooting up into the night sky. The armored corps were on maneuvers, without question. It went without saying that other sections of the armed forces would also be playing at their own wargames. One would think it was wartime. For Director Stanislaus Lavrov, however, it felt a lot more like bedtime. Half conscious and more than ready to be back in bed, the leader of the Stavka High Command slumped his face against the passenger side window.

Thankfully, the short ride would only last another few minutes. As the convoy edged to a stop next to the Strategic Command Office, Lavrov noticed something peculiar. The flags were at half mast... The elderly Director might as well have been staring at a unicorn. Even during the January 21st Revolts, the Intreshan banner flew at full mast. Whatever the case was for his late night waking, it must have been something acutely dreadful.

Opening the door, a full escort of elite Stavka men formed up around Lavrov. Most of the time his usual bodyguard didn't bother showing up for work, much less a complete detail. His groggy mind shot awake with worry as the party ushered him into the sprawling concrete superstructure.

"Sir, have you been briefed?" One of the lead soldiers queried, a most earnest look painted across his face.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Stanislaus shook his head no.

"Earlier this evening, the SRP led a putsch against the Duma. The Chairman was murdered, along with any opposition to the new government. Sir... They ripped up the constitution..." The grown man looked as though he was about to cry through his stone face.

Stopping dead in his tracks, the Director pinched himself. Yep. The pain was real enough. Even still, it took a few minutes of fruitlessly trying to wake up before Lavrov conceded to reality.

"And the military?" He choked, barely able to form words.

"From what we can tell, Morozov has them in his pocket. Damn Warhawks. What's left of the loyalist are waiting for you down in the basement." Sighed the soldier, simultaneously pulling the elevator lever.

With the ringing of the bell, the doors were quick to open.

"Waiting on me for what, exactly?" Uncertainty plagued his voice as he stepped into the elevator.

Giving a scoff and a taken aback smile, the soldier looked at Stanislaus as though he had four heads.

"What else would they be waiting on, if not a declaration of war?" He explained, his patience clearly tested.

"But there's no Chairman to declare war!" Retorted Lavrov, insulted by the attack on his own intelligence.

The soldier shook his head in disagreement, giving a slight grin. As much of a grin as he could gather under the circumstances, of course. Situations like this would always be funny to him, no matter how dire the state of affairs surrounding them.

"Sir, this is the part where I ask you to raise your right hand..." Stated the soldier, taking a bible from his greatcoat.

[Crimetopolis]

Aryana May. 1949:
The Federal Police officer a report from the Boolewark Ford station about the Hatcoy attack. Some communists were arming their insurgency. The Hatcoy uniform: bare feet, A witches hat, and blue overalls/blue overall dress with a yellow hammer and sickle sewn on to their front and back. Suddenly, a great commotion! In full Soviet commissar uniform, and, a communist advisor had been captured, along with a wagon load of Soviet guns, ammo, and propaganda, too. The duty officer locked him in a cell. and then radio Central Police Head Quarters in Johannesburg. Within an hour, a gyrocopter. At MP-35 submachinegun point, the now hand cuffed commissar was loaded, alongside his documents and guns. One hour later, the Commissar was strapped to a hospital bed under sedation in the Federal Security Bureau Headquarters. With three different kinds of lie detectors hooked up to him sodium pentothal truth serum was IV''d into him. The commissar freely spake. "Our goal to use Hatcoy crime family to start communist rebellion to make Aryana a communist nation. He was recorded. When Fuhrer Karl Schmidt got word of this, Aryan and other radio and newspapers were given the juicy details. By 6 p.m. it was world wide.

Fuhrer Karl Schmidt was interviewed. "This is an act of war by the communist nations against us. We are requesting an emergency conference of allied nations in Johannesburg fives days from today."

[Intresha]

St. Ann Province, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Strelka Plaza, The Capital City of Antarsk
May 5th, 1949
5:00 PM

From atop his occupation era inspection platform, Duscha watched the endless river of camouflage and steel churn before him. The soldiers would parade through downtown before boarding eastbound trains. They'd be in the thick of the fighting before sunset. Morozov was relieved that the display was just for show, though. The 3rd Reserve Army, paired with the 7th Guards Tank Division had already been dispatched from a frontline base. Tough competition for a bunch of glorified MPs. Lavrov's counter-coup would be short-lived.

Looking over his notes one more time, the newly coronated Vozhd waited for the orchestra to stop. This would be his first speech to the public since assuming office. If not out of love for the new regime, then perhaps it was curiosity that had dragged out the whole city to witness the exhibition.

A bit of feedback came from the microphone as he stepped forward, tucking the notes inside his back pocket. He paused, not speaking immediately. At that moment, the Antarsk was a graveyard. Morozov could've sworn that even the marching below had quieted down. Every great orator knew the power of silence, and how to use it to their advantage.

"Now, I'm sure all of you heard Mr. Lavrov on the radio last night, broadcasting rumors about myself and the new government. That we slaughtered the liberals. That we murdered Kolisnyk. That we illegally dissolved the Duma. That I personally destroyed the constitution..." He stopped for a second time.

"So let me put the hearsay to bed, here and now. I did it. I am guilty. The Party is guilty. We did it, and we are proud!" Gasps escaped from the shocked faces of the crowd as the bold declaration rang out.

"We didn't slay the Duma, we put it out of its misery! For over a year it festered in its own inefficiency, becoming more and more bloated each day. And who suffered for their gridlock and incompetence? Who starved because they couldn't stave off the food shortages. Who was forced out of work because they hadn't the backbone to say 'no' to Allied trade penalties? Who withered and died so some obese bureaucrat could suckle on the national teet? You, the shipbuilders! You, the factory workers! You, the bricklayers! You, Slavs!" He roared, madly waving a trembling finger at the audience.

The workers and peasants below mumbled in agreement, clearly warming up to the strongman. He took a moment to settle down. Both himself and the crowd needed it.

"With the trash taken out and the past buried, do not mourn the passing of your oppressors. Why cry when there is so much to celebrate? A government that gives a damn. A leader who won't play footsie with Bolshevist and Allied plutocrats. A state on the rise once again, for the first time since the days of the Tsar. The Intresha of old, reborn!" Morozov's face reddened and his voice strained as he grew louder still.

The cheers started few and far between but soon became widespread.

"Now, Lavrov and his Stavka march against us. With steel and lead, they'd bring back those hungry nights. They'd secure you in your squalor. They'd continue a nine hundred year trend of failure and dependency. Ladies and gentlemen, I may not know you personally, but I know Intresha. I know her rich culture and storied history. I know her pride and her conviction. As I love her, I love all of you. All I ask is that you value yourselves as much as I do you. Give full bellies a chance. Give work a chance. Give prosperity a chance. So, reject Lavrov and his archaic regime of death! Slavs, rise up!" The Vozhd finished, extending his arm to salute.

The applause was unbearable, near deafening. Morozov smiled as the last of the troops marched out from the plaza. Lavrov's days were numbered.

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Independent Republic of Insurgia, Abathon
Kyle J. Ellison Building, FBI Headquarters
May 8th, 1949
3:42 PM

The metallic clicking of a lighter shutting was audibly caught on the recorder. The deep inhalation and exhalation followed. Two suited men sat on one end of the table, across from them a tall and muscular one competed for who wore the better-tailored piece. The two agents waited. The one in question eyed the tape recorder.

"I thought this was off-record?" the Marathonnian asked.

"You want this deal off-record?" the younger cop asked, his FBI picture clipped onto his suit jacket freely.

There was a deep inhale from the cigarette, then the exhaling of smoke.

"Fair." the man responded.

"So, will you help us?" the other agent asked, obviously not FBI, evident by the nature of his OSS nametag and picture clipped on his suit.

"Lay down the groundwork for me again...just for the tape." Theophilus demanded ever so politely.

"...we turn a blind eye for your dealings outside of the Independent Republic...anything outside that, you'll get a favor from us. Get out of jail free card. An eye for an eye—" the OSS agent responded.

"...makes us all blind. I believe the correct analogy you're looking for is, 'I scratch your back, you scratch mine.' Yes"?" Theophilus responded.

Agent Holloway looked at Agent Myers who were already at odds with one another. The only thing supporting this cooperation was their joint hatred for the Mafia and their orders to ask for their help. Myers returned his stare, shrugging at him.

"OSS...FBI...what's the law? The FBI can't operate outside government borders without a foreign intelligence agency attached? The same vice versa isn't it? Look, I wasn't even born here and I passed the nationality test with flying colors. I know the law. But for once, you're asking me to do something..." Theophilus thought of the word.

"Illegal." Holloway responded.

Theophilus smiled.

"So, you want to maintain your continental hegemony and I want to expand my sphere of influence." the Martinet stated.

"Through unofficial means." Myers added.

"Sounds like my avenue. Now, onto the task at hand, what is it you want?" Theophilus asked, finishing his cigarette.

He quickly went to grab another cigarette, obviously struggling to find a match from his small box. Before attempting to find his lighter, Myers quietly retrieved a wooden match from his jacket, lighting it against the wooden table. He reached over the table and in conjunction, Theophilus hesitantly accepted Myers' offer of fire; the cigarette end lit up. Myers quickly put out the flame with his wet fingers, looking to Holloway. The Marathonnian gave a few puffs, gazing over at Myers who had slowly but surely come to like. Despite them being on the opposite side of things, there was certainly a respect Myers had for the Martinet. Theophilus only wondered if Myers had something worth respecting.

"We want you to kill Duscha Morozov." Myers softly requested.

[Intresha]

25 Miles from Lübbenau Prison, The Intreshan State, Abathon
Penal Quary E
May 11th, 1949
12:41 PM

Sweat poured down Azov's face as he weakly swung his sledgehammer into the boulder in front of him. The impact barely made a scratch this time, perhaps taking off a few shards of rock here and there. Struggling with all his might, he attempted to bring the hammer over his head once more. Nothing. He did, however, feel that old feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. That oozing queasiness that could only mean one thing. Dropping the tool at his side, Kurbin fell to the dust. What happened next wasn't so much vomiting as it was the regurgitation of watery slime. Going on three days with no food, that's all that would come up anymore. With unrelenting sunburn punishing his every movement, Azov shambled to his feet.

The path up to the guard's outpost was a long one, especially for fevered Kurbin. Situated on the outer circumference of the quarry pit, the ramshackle hutch was the only sign of authority for miles. Not that it mattered. If anyone were to successfully escape, they'd assuredly die of dehydration or exposure. The only real reason a guard was stationed there to begin with was to ensure that quotas were met and that all captives were accounted for at the end of the working day. The stipulation was pretty much solely enforced for the peace of mind for the mine's shareholders.

After shredding his bare feet on the jagged, sizzling road, Azov finally reached the upper crust of the crater. He knew the trip was probably a waste of time, but he'd heard that the guard would at least give you a cup of water. Maybe let you spend some time in the air conditioning for your trouble. At the very least, that would be worth the trek. Surprised at his own endurance in the face of imminent collapse, the Lieutenant approached the outpost's screened-in porch.

The guard sat in a rocking chair next to the door, whittling something from a scrap of wood. The stub of a joint burned in the ashtray on the table beside him. He barely noticed the inmates approach. Azov knocked on the screen door's wooden frame. The racket hardly stirred him in the slightest.

"Missing fingers? Toes?" He mumbled, not looking up from his craft.

Befuddled, Kurbin chose his next words carefully.

"No, but I've been throwing up blood..." He rasped, his vocal cords as dry as nun's cunt.

"You can talk to the nurse at the end of the week when she makes her rounds. Now, get." The uniformed man snapped, taking a final hit from the roach.

Puzzled, Azov began to recognize the voice commanding him. It was as familiar as it was hard to place. Perhaps the sun had gotten to his head or the fever had begun to melt his memory. In any case, he wouldn't think about it for long. One thing mattered, and that was getting in. Getting help. And not at the end of the week, either.

"Can I at least come in for some shade? Maybe some water?" He pleaded, pressing up against the latched door.

Raising his voice this time, the guard replied.

"So that's what this is about. Water and shade?" He laughed, rising from the chair.

"I guess that isn't asking too much. You can come in, but only for a second." He continued, unlocking the door.

Stumbling in, Kurbin felt the slight change in temperature as the A.C washed over him. Paradise was quickly lost, though, with a shocking boot to the stomach. Mind-bending pain surged through the Lieutenants body as he fell back first onto the gravel road. Never down for the count, though, Azov looked up to face his abuser up close. Red hair. More freckles than facial hair. A large, fatty build. An unmistakable scar above the right eyebrow...

"Tikhon?"

Obviously recognizing the name but not responding, his old comrade kicked him once more in the gut.

"Yo- You.. Rec- Recognize me?" Kurbin insisted, wincing through the pain.

"I and half the men in this camp... Forget about us after all your fancy medals and promotions? Taking all that credit for Salina must've gotten you a long way, huh? God, what I would've done for this moment a year ago..." Tikhon chortled, drawing his service pistol.

With neither the strength to fight nor the resolve to run, Azov Kubin sat motionlessly. After so many run-ins with the Reaper, it was about time for the dice to roll against him. He met him now not with fear, but with anxious anticipation. Eyes closed, body tensed, Azov waited for the shot. It came. That final, fatal gunshot.

Slowly unclenching his eyes, Azov Kurbin gawked in bewilderment at the sight before him.

The motionless body of Tikhon Rezney. Shot dead.

[Arkham Nation]

Limewick, The Parliamentary Republic of Arkham Nation, Vaudus
Historic District, The Peppermint Hotel
May 12, 1949
6:35 PM

The dark dressed man cut into his steak and took a bite of it. The room was crowded loads of people and at the end of the large room was a stage. Tables lined everywhere with politicians, gangsters, bankers, and businesses people dined. On the stage was a woman in a golden dress singing, the man thought it was the most beautiful voice in the whole world.

“Boss......Boss.......BOSS!” a henchman said coming to his table. The man snapped out of his trance and looked up at the henchman.

“Come on, you best have a good reason for interrupting.” the man threw down his knife and fork.

“Yes Mr. S sir, two cops were snooping around a T&L Railway Freight Station on April 23rd.” The henchman whispered in the ear of Nelson.

“And they just let them in without a warrant?” Nelson asked sounding annoyed.

“Apparently.”

“Where is the manager?”

“In the basement, oh that reminds me boss, two other men came by asking about you.”

“Do we not pay thousands of Arktons on security? Who were they?”

“I don’t know, nor does the manager.”

“Hmm investigate into it oh and—” Nelson went into a whisper the henchman looked confused.

“Sorry what was that sir.” the henchman said leaning closer. Nelson picked up the knife and stuck it into the man’s hand. Nelson put his other hand over the henchman’s mouth, muffling the screams.

“I said, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Nelson asked in a whisper. The henchman continued to scream until Nelson twisted the knife. “Shhhhhhh, don’t interrupt that lovely voice of that woman.” After a few seconds the man stopped screaming and Nelson took his hand off.

“You were on vacation and when you came back you were busy with trials.” the henchman croaked.

“Oh yeah, but somebody still should have told me. Someone should be held accountable because our whole operation could have been compromised. So, who’s fault is that?” The henchman opened his mouth but Nelson held up his blood soaked hand to stop him. “I know exactly who should be held accountable.” Nelson put his hand over the henchman’s mouth and took out the knife from his hand. The henchman let out a little scream and Nelson pointed the knife at the henchman. The henchman gritted his teeth and tears ran down his face, he held his hand trying to stop the bleeding. “Oh quit crying, it’s not gonna be you. Prep the manager for trial, he will be judged and made an example.”

“Yes sir.” The henchman squealed still sitting at Nelson’s table.

“Well get on it.” Nelson said waving the knife at the henchman to get up. The henchman got up and ran out leaving a trail of blood as he did so. Nelson sighed and cut into the steak with the blood soaked knife then took a bite. He took the napkin that was in his lap and wiped his mouth. He looked up at the woman who was finishing her song, when she ended he clapped progressively getting harder with each clap.