The Acrimony of Brothers
The Year 45 Crisis
The Year 45 Crisis
Somewhere in the Foothills of Port Liberty
Territory of the Wildlands
Confederate States of Anagonia
The cigar lit up as the man inhaled the cigar, exhaling softly as the smoke wafted in front of the dim light provided by a lamp just inches away. His breathing was hoarse and slightly gargled, strained almost as he continued his unhealthy practice with a second draw of the deadly vice. The smoke filling and poisoning the mans lungs was of little concern compared to the information written on a misused and crumbled piece of paper held in front of him. The light of the lamp at the edge of his desk just enough to provide a view of the written words. This information had been a very long time in coming, years and years of effort and work culminating in the verification and justification that he now held in his hands. He slowly set the piece of paper down upon his desk as he heard his office door open slightly following a soft knock, the mans head turning just enough to make visible his grayed and elderly Caucasian features.
"General Sholokhov," a soft and younger voice called from the crack in the door, "I believe you wanted to know when the package was to arrive? It is here, sir. At your convenience."
The door closed again, the younger man who had spoken smart enough to leave without being told. A soft click signaling privacy had been restored to the older man at the desk. The mans face turned toward the paper again, lips and chin visible as they drew into a grin. A hand rose to bring a cigar to his lips and following a hearty draw, smoke bellowed from the mans mouth. The package was another thing that had fallen into place, just by chance alone.
"Not much longer now," the elderly man whispered, his voice crackly. "Not much longer."
PROLOGUE
"I swear I don't know!"
The words were met with a punch of a fist, the man who had answered crying out in agony as a tooth was knocked loose. He spit blood, beginning to heave and sob as his broken form went limp in the chair he was bound to. He had been brought here not too long ago, if his mind was still reliable. He remembered vividly still sitting at the park bench with his girlfriend. She had screamed as someone had placed a dark bag over his head, followed by her a gunshot which had ceased her screaming. He heard her body crumble to the ground as he was forcefully dragged to a vehicle, screaming in anger and horror and flailing for his life. It had been in vain, though, as his kidnappers had simply used stun batons on him to silence his resistance. He had blacked out shortly afterward when one of the goons had punched him upside the head particularly hard.
"I will not ask again, Comrade Bradshaw."
The man speaking was blinded from Robin Bradshaw by an intense set of lights placed to the rear of his interrogator, but he managed to make out enough through the blood and grime that trickled through his vision. His uniform was Soviet in design, quite possibly the make of Nodea Rudav. He was young, possibly in his mid twenties, and his voice was harsh and tested. In comparison Robin was in his seventies, older now from his brief efforts in the United Republic Intelligence Service. The particularly incident in which he was being interrogated on was one known to Robin, intimately known, as he had participated in the action personally. Despite it happening in an era long gone, the ramifications had apparently not entirely settled into the abyss of time. Martha had been the most recent victim of that truth and now it appeared it would be Robins turn.
"I don't know," the elderly Robin managed. He was beaten, broken, useless. His captors had cut off fingers and beaten his body with a metal bat until things began to break. Every scream he had echoed seemed to illicit further punishment. The most recent loss of his tooth had been nothing compared to what had come before. His body sagged in the seat, mouth a part as blood trickled down. There was already a pool of it beneath his chair. "I swear I don't know," he repeated.
The Soviet Interrogator sighed dramatically. There was the sound of a gun cocking. Robin closed his eyes. "That is unfortunate," his kidnapper said, not at all sympathetically.
Five Years before the Collapse; 1981 AY (1921 AD)
"Condor we have eyes on the target, this is your chance."
"Copy," Condor replied with a press of a button on his receiver. At 22, he was one of the youngest agents in URIS. He glimpsed his target through the reticle of his M21 SWS. His breathing was slow and steady and his partner, Crow, lay prone just a few feet from him. Condor was carefully on one knee, aiming to see instead of to kill. He directed his sight to the left and right gently, observing the two sentries posted around the target. The shift was beginning to change and it was now or never. "I'm going in," he softly reported as he turned to give a thumbs up to Crow.
Condor didn't give time to see a return signal, instead opting to hold his M21 close as he quietly hurried over the barricade and across the grassy field. In front of him were some raised tents that had been constructed only a week ago. The target of this operation, information contained within a data drive, had been observed and tracked to this encampment. The signal for the drive was confirmed by his arrival a day ago, using a specialized tracking device to confirm the signal of the stolen data drive. The information contained on the drive was unique, belonging to an scientist on the brink of a revolutionary discovery. Within that drive, stolen two months prior to this operation, was the future of the Republic... or so Condor and Crow had been briefed.
His muscles worked overtime as he hurried through the overgrowth, staying prone and low. Condor had joined URIS two years ago after graduating basic training. Since that time he had, unsurprisingly, been tasked with similar retrieval missions. It was amazing how easily foreign elements could steal Anagonian classified data, more amazing that URIS was capable of finding and retrieving said data. Condors contributions to that effort had maintained this status quo, never being given operations to go up against the agents plotting against Anagonia but never truly defeating them either. Crow had briefly talked with him about his thoughts on the matter, hypothesizing that the majority of the recovery operations had been in fact foreign transfers of information. It all seemed to make a bit of sense in the larger scheme of it.
Quietly Condor halted a few yards from his objective, going to one knee to observe the guards. He was just about to raise his M21 for a shot when they both parted and disappeared, leaving the tent unguarded. He could see one head to the side of the tent to light a smoke, the other appeared to be heading towards a smaller tent in the background. He observed two more guards with similar uniforms starting to approach the tent with his objective. Condor allowed himself to recall how odd this was, how similar it was. He pushed it to the back of his mind, making way to the tent.
A few minutes later he was back with Crow, briefly showing the disk drive to his teammate before thumbing his receiver. "Objective complete."
Condor took one last look back at where he had been. The guards were still there, looking relaxed and rather unprofessional. There were AK's slumped over their shoulders haphazardly, each one on the brink of what appeared to be either dozing off or falling dead. It had been too easy. All of his missions had been too easy. Very few had he ever been forced to kill. He looked down at the disk drive in his gloved hands, gazing up at Crow who apparently understood his train of thought. The two shared a silent nod of understanding, before Condor gave a helpless shrug. Nothing to do now but go to retrieval.
Present
"I want you to know something, Crow," the Soviet said, his voice thickening now with an accent as the name caught Robin's attention. He managed to look up, one eye still good to see just enough to make out his captors features and the gun pointed at his head. "Everything you ever did was for nothing. You changed nothing. We won in the end when the Republic collapsed. We will win again against your stupid Confederacy."
What caught Robins attention the most was the usage of his old moniker in URIS, though the veiled and apparently useless threat afterward brought forward many questions. The two were still for a moment, his captor silent as he thumbed his gun, what appeared to Robin as a Makarov pistol. Robin sat, still bound, still bleeding, on the last legs of his current life. He had questions, so many questions, and had before wanted to know the why of everything. Why his family had been targeted, why his girlfriend had to die, why his life had been so utterly and completely ruined. It didn't matter now, though. None of it did. His shoulders slumped as he let loose a deep sigh, head slumping further so his chin rested on his chest. Tears began to stream down his cheek.
"I just did what I was told," Robin managed through a gasping sob. "I just di-"
BOOM
The report of the pistol echoed violently in the small confines of the room as the man, Crow, Robin Bradshaw slumped forward against his restraints. The force of the action caused the chair to tip, his lifeless body hitting the floor with a sickening sound. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind the chair, as well as on the floor beside where his body came to rest. Colonel Molokov returned his pistol to its holster at his hip. He shook his head softly at the lifeless veteran of a country now long-gone. If he had just told them who he had given the information to, he would have been left alive. Barely. Just enough to be discovered in a ditch somewhere, to live out the rest of his miserable existence. It was better than being dead.
The Colonel cleaned his hand with a rag retrieved from a nearby table, bringing up his cellphone afterward after dialing a number.
"U nas yest' odin iz nikh," he reported in his native tongue. "YA naydu druguyu. A poka, pozhaluysta, derzhite keksy v teple."
He hung up then, replacing his phone in a pouch on his uniform. Turning to looking at two previously unseen guards, he gave a nod as he exited. The guards marched forward, beginning the long cleanup process to make the room ready for another interrogation.