Dornie News Thread (FT-IC Maintenance Thread)

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Jim Pearson, taking over for Gracie Liang at the Domestic News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top stories:

DOT releases study on Terrestrial Gate usage

In what is being dubbed "relatively inoffensive offbeat news," the Department of Transportation has released the latest results of its Quarterly Traffic Usage Survey. Designed to account for traffic patterns on various branches of the Hyperspace Expressway Network, the Quarterly Traffic Usage Survey has reported, amongst other topics, a 150% uptick in the usage of the Terrestrial Gate component of the Expressway. The Survey particularly reported a spike in usage during the summer months, and all current data indicates that the flow of traffic will continue mostly unabated. This is despite recent developments in New Kazakhstan County, involving both the Golden Flower Syndrome/Karax Syndrome, and the ongoing quarantine on Michael's World.

"It appears that what initially was a second banana to the more conventional stellar components of the Hyperspace Expressway Network has become quite popular," said Dr. Henry Langstrom of the University of the Anvil. "What we're seeing is that Dornalians, despite the easy availability of FTL-capable space travel--either through personal vehicles or larger common carriers--will continue to use groundbased transportation of all sorts to move people and goods."

Part of the appeal, per the Survey, comes from the fact that the Terrestrial Gate component effectively makes it practical for commercial parties like long-haul truckers and bus companies, as well as private commuters and travelers, to travel from planet to planet in a relatively short period of time with lower costs. One survey conducted by "Mad" Mike Tanaka, who drove a heavily modified Ford Falcon Ute known as the "Cannonball", set a record when they drove from Los Angeles to New Hajarra County in the Andromeda Galaxy in five days, twelve hours, but other commuters have reported times varying between one to two weeks, barring any unforeseen delays. While slower than stellar travel using the Stellar Gate component, it is much faster than other means. But there is more than that at stake--what is called "a subjective appreciation for the freedom and familiarity of familiar means of terrestrial transport" is another factor. Or, as a pair of interviewees put it, "You can't replace the romance of the open road, man." and "I like the idea of space trains! They're neat!"

Still, the Survey does highlight some problems with the increased use of the system. Traffic congestion has increased, as has the attendant rate of accidents and traffic stops. For example, travelers in New Sapporo have reported long delays to access the Governor Van Dam Terrestrial Gate, and the California Highway Patrol has reported an increase in traffic stops around the MacIntyre Terrestrial Gate and the Baileygates Memorial Terrestrial Gate. Additionally, the CDC's ongoing quarantines in New Kazakhstan County for both Golden Flower/Karax and the Michael's World Disease (OOC: Welded!) have limited the utility of the system in that region, which has seen elements of the New Hokkaido Sheriff's Department and the ICBA as well as CDC teams conducting randomized inspections and searches of stellar and terrestrial traffic, with harsh measures taken for any infected persons (with a considerable degree of controversy). A series of Phased Expansion Plans have been proposed by the DoT in order to repair and expand the existing Terrestrial Gate infrastructure, although this will not have an impact for some time.

Still, the DoT remains confident in the continued success of the system. Said Transport Secretary Michael Chan, "I think we're going to see continued results regarding the Terrestrial Gate system, both from the stellar side and the terrestrial side as well."

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Jim Pearson, taking over for Gracie Liang at the Domestic News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top stories:

Annual Big -Boldly Festival's Massive Chili Cookoff Champion Dethroned

In what is being dubbed "the shocker of the season", reigning chili cookoff champion Harold Mak was dethroned in this year's Massive Chili Cookoff by Tommy Gnomekicker in a stunning upset. In particular, Mr. Gnomekicker won in a close decision, earning just a few more points than Mr. Mak according to the officially released scorecards from the Judge's Panel in the categories of Texture and Aroma.

Elias Ipmeerk, Culinary Reviews Editor for the Anneliville Times and Chief Judge of the Massive Chili Cookoff Judges' Panel (which includes luminaries such as Tereza J. Tadanobu, founder of the Order and known foodie), had this to say about the scoring. "Harry usually has it, but this year, Tommy's chili did it the best. Something about his chili just smelled better, and had a better texture which really livened up the occasion. No disrespect to Harry, but well, this year, Harry's entry felt a little flat smellwise." For their part, individuals who refused to be named in this report indicate that "It tastes like Tommy's put in sweet Italian sausage into this one," but no confirmation was forthcoming from any party.

The result dethrones Mr. Mak's winning streak at the once a year cooking contest held in Graceland County at the Annual Big -Boldly Festival--the December 25th event which is the culmination of the weeklong Annual Big -Boldly Festival, and also the Colonial Republic's premier chili cookoff--which until recently was thought to be nigh-unstoppable by watchers of the cooking sports.

Mr. Gnomekicker himself was elated by the victory. Speaking to reporters afterwards with a large Stetson hat on the podium, he had this to say:

"Thanks to the judges for pickin' the best, most -boldly chili, and thanks to my team for makin' it all possible. Couldn't do it without 'em. What's my secret, you say? Well, it's my secret recipe, of course! Can't say much more than that! YEEEHAW!"

Mr. Gnomekicker could then be seen tossing his hat onto the podium, and dancing around it with joy along with his teammates.

For his part, Mr. Mak is nonplussed.

"Eh, can't win them all. Just means I gotta build my recipe better for next year."

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.

[/quote]

[New Dornalia]

OOC: CO-written with Menelmacar, authorized by Orthodox Gnosticism

IC:
]

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Jim Pearson, taking over for Gracie Liang at the Domestic News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top stories:

Imperial Canada Votes to Join Eternal Ascendancy of Menelmacar

In what has been deemed by analysts everywhere as “an interesting and surprisingly good turn of events,” the Parliament of Imperial Canada today has voted in an overwhelming majority to ratify the Pahlianuk-Fingolfin Agreement to join the Eternal Ascendancy of Menelmacar. The Agreement, as signed, calls for the nation of Imperial Canada--a micro-state based in the Yukon Territory, British Columbia, and the Greater Toronto Metropolitan Area which had until recently been a member of the Starways Congress--to “begin steps to integrate our polity with the Eternal Ascendancy of Menelmacar and place ourselves under its protection.” This would include adopting the use of Menelmacari Credits as the official currency, as well as integrating local defense structures into the Menelmacari military structure. Politically, the arrangement brings Imperial Canada into the Ascendancy as a full realm, with the Canadian Parliament based at Queen’s Park remaining in place. Prime Minister Pahlianuk will be the first Viceroy of the realm, and future viceroys or vicereines will be elected in the same fashion as prime ministers have in the past. Imperial Canadians will receive Menelmacari citizenship and would have the same rights, privileges, and responsibilities as their counterparts elsewhere in the Ascendancy.

The Agreement resulted after an extensive series of negotiations conducted as the result of a national plebiscite--called by Prime Minister George Pahlianuk in the wake of the disaster which caused the sudden and violent demise of the Starways Congress--which asked voters of Imperial Canada to decide whether to become an independent state, join the Colonial Republic of Earth, or to seek the protection of a third country. In what appeared to be a narrow majority vote, the voters of Imperial Canada chose to seek the protection of a third country, with the option of joining the Colonial Republic being a close second in what was deemed a “stunning and completely unexpected development”. The subsequent search for a protecting power lead to the opening of negotiations with the Menelmacari, and the rest is history.

Said Conservative Party MP Roger Stanhope, “I’ll admit, I wasn’t quite expecting that result when they did the Plebiscite. I mean, I personally voted for the Third Option myself--after all, given a choice between getting swallowed up by the Colonial Republic or trying to go it alone with little resources….joining with another sovereign power that could more effectively guarantee our independence seemed to be the best choice.”

For his part, the Menelmacari Prefect of State, Lord Túrelio nos Fingolfin, who personally represented the Ascendancy in the talks, had this to say about the Agreement, “We’re of course immensely pleased with this result. The Canadians get economic integration and defense from one of the greatest powers in the galaxy, and a seat at our table as well. And the economic benefits of being a trade bridge between ourselves and the Dornalians should be vast.”

Indeed, economic analysts note that one of the big winners here is, ironically, the Colonial Republic. In particular, Sean Kirkhope of the Dornalian Business Daily noted that “With the acquisition of prime real estate on the Dornalian capital world, Menelmacari firms now, more than ever, have access to Dornalian markets, and vice versa. I mean, the two factions were already pretty economically close, but this just helps things. Also, it’s likely that if there’s any Menelmacari assets helping to guard Earth SSR, well…..there’s going to be some more now.”

For their part, the Dornalian State Department issued this statement.

“We respect the desires of our cousins in Imperial Canada to join with the Eternal Ascendancy. We respected their plebiscite, and we certainly respect their decision now to join with the Menelmacari. It helps certainly that the Dornalian Government and the Eternal Ascendancy have strong ties with one another, so hey, it’s not like things are going to be too different.”

Of course, not everyone is enthused. Imperial Canadian MP Vijay Ramathorn decried the Agreement as “the wholesale selling out of our sovereignty to elves when we could have the chance to forge our own path.” Additionally, individuals within the Colonial Republic were also concerned, with one letter to the Los Angeles Times writing, “Last I checked, Earth belonged to Earthlings. First there was the Warsaw Pact, and now the elves taking over parts of Canada? What’s next, we give Pico Rivera to the Allaneans?”

Nonetheless, it appears that the Menelmacari annexation of Canada has already begun to bear fruit, with reports of increased Menelmacari traffic to Dornalian Sol, as well as widespread reports of new Menelmacari investment, including announcements of a GCC gate planned for construction in Menelmacari Sol to improve trade connections. Additionally, many Menelmacari cities and colonies have planned festivities and outreach programs to offer Imperial Canada the warmest possible welcome to the Ascendancy. And #IForOneWelcomeOurNewElfyOverlords has topped the Bleeter trending list in Canada.

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.

[New Dornalia]

OOC: Co-written with Fenvaria

IC:

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Jim Pearson, taking over for Gracie Liang at the Domestic News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top stories:

Mitsubishi Mineral Resources Announces Contract to Explore Fenvarium Sites

In what has been deemed by analysts as "a welcome economic boost,” stocks of the Mitsubishi Mineral Resources Company, a division of Spoor Holdings, skyrocketed today due to an announcement that MMRC has entered into an agreement with Arcadia Mining Corporation to pursue potentially lucrative mineral rights in the Freedom County and MacIntyre County regions.

“We are pleased to announce that a new opportunity has arisen for the production and refinement of one of the most well known and efficient energy sources in the galaxy at this time,” said Hiroshi Nakajima, the head of Project Mirai, the name for the project. “We are also pleased to announce that we are further working with our allies in the Fenvarian Republic regarding the extraction and processing of this material. It is hoped that all will benefit from this.”

The agreement comes on the heels of recent mineral surveys conducted by both private and public entities such as the Department of the Interior, that identified deposits of Fenvarium which are extant within the Republic’s boundaries.

Project Mirai, brokered between Mitsubishi and Arcadia Mining Corporation with the blessing of the State Department and the respective County Governments, essentially plans for the construction of extraction and refinement facilities within both Freedom County and MacIntyre County themselves, which according to the DoI surveys were particularly rich in Fenvarium. The plan is for Mitsubishi to split the resources on an 80/20 basis with the Fenvarians, in recompense for their assistance in contributing men and materiel to the project.

Analysts indicate that if successful, Project Mirai will bring substantial amounts of jobs and income to the region, as well as vital tax revenue. Additionally, Fenvarium’s high energy properties have made it attractive to various parties, including the Centers for Disease Control and its health crisis management efforts. As for the Fenvarians, Fenvarium serves as a major fuel source for them, completely overriding the use of fusion energy for their starships. It has allowed them to travel the stars effectively and protect their worlds as well. Fenvarium also provides a substantial number of jobs, from everything from pipe welders to clerks.

However, not all welcome Project Mirai. In particular, United Alternative Representative Nigella Smythe, speaking on the floor of the Freedom County House of Representatives in concert with several Verdant Front representatives, proclaimed that “rather than bring us into the future, Project Mirai will only bring ecological devastation which will impact generations of Dornalians to come. After all, Fenvarium itself is a fuel which generates noxious gases and other side effects no one is paying attention to.”

For their part, Mitsubishi and Arcadia Mining Corporation had this to say:

“Project Mirai does have its downsides, but we feel that with efficient extraction and refinement, we can provide a lot of the benefits for the Fenvarians and the CRE all at once. Plus, it provides jobs. What’s not to like?”

“Yes, there are problems with Fenvarium, however the same could be said for extraction of any resource. Fenvarium is only dangerous from the extraction and the refinement process, after that it poses no damaging effects to a person. Arcadia Mining Corporation, will be working with the Mitsubishi, 24/7 to make sure that this fuel source will be extracted correctly. Not to mention we will be teaching the workers safe measures of extraction and refinement. We will also be providing gear and equipment to protect the workers and staff. As well as overseers to make sure that work is being done correctly, there also will be regular inspection of drill sites. If there is one thing that the Fenvarians dont go lax on, it is the extraction of this fuel source, we know the dangers and the limits. We have been mining this fuel source close to 400 years.”

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Jim Pearson, taking over for Gracie Liang at the Domestic News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top stories:

Annual Big -Boldly Festival's Massive Chili Cookoff Is A Hit

In a development which has surprised nobody, the Graceland County's Big -Boldly Festival's Massive Chili Cookoff has seen considerable attendance and participation. What is a surprise to all however, is that attendance by the public and participation by various cookoff teams has seen a dramatic increase over last year's Cookoff, even accounting for the holidays which in Graceland County, includes the Big Days (using the name promoted by the Graceland County Tourist Bureau for the combined Dystemas and Christmas festivities found in the County). Although exact numbers are not yet available in time for publication, estimates by the Big -Boldly Festival's Steering Committee indicate attendance has jumped forty percent, and that there were at least sixty five more competitors which signed up for the Cookoff than last year.

Said Elias Ipmeerk of the Chili Cookoff Judges' Panel, "This year was a busy one. I thought last year's Mak versus Gnomekicker matchup was a toughie to judge. But everyone brought their A-game, and well, I mean everyone! Egads! You try finding out who's the best among a whole host of chili cooks."

Speculation has emerged as to why the figures are up. It is agreed that the Mak-Gnomekicker Rivalry did play a factor in the rise in attendance, for sure. Other possible factors cited included a new advertising blitz by the Graceland County Tourist Bureau in major cooking publications.

Of particular focus in today's cookoff was the rematch of Harold Mak and Tommy Gnomekicker. Dubbed "The Cookoff of the Century" in the days before the event, the two teams were odds-on favorites to place in the top two places in this year's championship, though judging whoever was the best of the two would be a tough process. However, with the unprecedented attendance, other competitors emerged from the woodwork to provide solid competition for the two powerhouses, such that the decision is currently being tallied as we speak. For example, "Texas Red" Red Paulsen, of the New Leningrad Chili Cookoff Society, produced what judges called "a superb specimen using New Leningrader Fighting Sheep's Mutton".

Additionally, this year--in a relatively controversial move criticized by some cooking sports commentators as introducing unnecessary novelty--saw the debut of new categories of chili-based cooking. In particular, Joanna McChang of the McChang Dynasty Cookery Society produced "fried ground pork chili wontons" that won the inaugural "Most Innovative Chili Based Dish" at this year's cookoff. Meanwhile, Arnold Bronstein of the Kosher Nostra Chili Team, from New Chicago, won the "Hottest Chili Award (Non-Extract Based)," for producing a Chicken Phall Chili which is said to utilize a proprietary blend of some of the Republic's spiciest chili peppers.

Relatively few incidents were tabulated at today's competition, most of which concerned traffic accidents getting into the cookoff. All in all, the Steering Committee of the Big Boldly Festival has dubbed this year's event a "success" and plans to hold another such cookoff next year.

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to a special sneak preview of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Somewhere in Sarajevo, Earth SSR, CRE

The ancient city of Sarajevo, like many other Dornalian cities, was abuzz with activity this night. There wasn’t a particular reason for it really, other than it was the weekend. So, as such, people could be seen milling about. Some went for dinner at high and low establishments. Some went for cinemas showing everything from the latest Mal-Pop concert film (they were surprisingly popular in this part of Earth, and given the “Mystrian Wave” sweeping the CRE that was saying something) to the seminal C’tani romantic-tragedy, Heart of Loss.

But, that’s not our focus. No, our focus is on a small garage that could have been anywhere in any city. A small garage tucked into a working class part of Sarajevo, far from the glitz and glamour of downtown. A garage named “Dimitar’s Foreign Auto-Body.”

Dimitar’s Foreign Auto-Body was, true to its name, an auto repair shop. One which was plastered with images of an African American man in a do-rag, with a thin face and an Adidas tracksuit and a halo around his head, along with red-white-blue tricolor flags with crosses and four symbols that looked like “C”’s on them. The music that played in this shop was a strange mix of accordion-laced turbofolk, and the thumping, pulsating rhythms and rhyming chants of street poets far from Sarajevo’s streets, singing about places like Compton, the Lower Hives, and so on.

The people working the auto-body shop on this late night were a team of women and men in coveralls and safety gear, wielding tools and working on repairing a couple of automobiles. Yugos, in this case, which were being given a custom paint job in a paint bay and also an engine swap with something a bit more powerful than stock. The people working the garages and paint-bays were all men and women with wolves/dog ears and tails, chattering amongst themselves in an evershifting mix of Serbian and the Forest Sister Russian they all shared. One tool they all had were obvious and open holsters, concealing all manner of pistols. Tokarevs and Glocks were present, as were phasers and other such things.

One of them stood statuesque over the rest, marshalling the whole lot with cheap cigarettes, zero tolerance for nonsense and even less tolerance for slowdowns. She shouted at them, switching between the languages as she went, “Fucking hurry up! We got a special order coming in ten minutes! TEN FUCKING MINUTES! Get those boxes off the dynos and the lifts. NOW!”

A cry of “YES BOSS!” could be heard as they all worked as quick as possible. The team worked with the precision of a NASCAR or F1 Pit Crew. The machines on the lifts would have to go, and soon. The Boss demanded it--so it would be done.

The woman, all the while, looked at a small PDA she had in her hands. She parsed it carefully for texts from the incoming client. The special order was a big one--a major contract she couldn’t afford to lose. After all they were her people--fellow worshippers of The Immortal Street Prophet could not be ignored. Especially not for a ritual like this. One which would, in the fine tradition of the Prophet, take the power from the powerful and give it to the people, to inspire others with his genius.

The woman texted back the Client, going, “I’ve got my people on it. Don’t worry.” Holstering her phone--thank the Prophet it was a burner phone, the better to evade the Bosnian Police who always liked to mess with the Prophet’s followers--she marched out into the garage, to see the cars getting ready to be moved off and driven into the night. The woman smiled, and said with praise, “Good! GOOD! Now that’s what I like to see! Now, get those fucking lifts and tools ready--and get your GOOD tools! We’ve got special orders here!”

The shouts of “Yes Boss!” could be heard once more, as the team prepared for the Order…

---

Outside of Dimitar’s, there were another pair of women with wolves’ ears and tails. This time, however, they were in a small Yugo, and unlike the ones inside the garage were dressed differently. Namely, they had long military surplus overcoats, covering up a pair of shortened Kalashnikov assault rifles as well as...well, what could be described as an attempt at uniforms.

The two were looking over the whole scene with disgust. The thumping music, the crass shouting, the perversion of the finest of Italo-Yugoslav automotive engineering, the loud and garish flags….it offended the pair to their core. The Marshal would never tolerate this. It was everything wrong about those inhabiting the garage. The nationalistic currents, the crass excess--the Marshal would surely have struck them down all to a man. Just as all who opposed brotherhood and unity would have been so struck, with the vengeance of the People whom He defended..

As it was, the Marshal had to rely on others to do His work. Others like the women in the car now keeping watch. It was a duty they did willingly. After all, as their commander had told them this was a significant mission. The thugs inside had stolen something of The Marshal’s, and now, they were to take it back. Other soldiers of The Marshal were waiting in the wings, waiting for the signal that indicated The Marshal’s Prize was in this dragon’s den. Then, they would attack, and bring back the Prize to the Marshal’s Headquarters in Belgrade. Textbook.

Soon enough, the Prize came. A long black limousine, being driven rather erratically, sped towards the garage. The women winced as the limousine executed a perfect J-turn, drifting as it lined up with the entrance to the garage and sped right in. Did those ruffians know no shame?! Did they have no respect for history or the relics of one of the great movers of history? Why, one may as well have used The Marshal’s own uniform as a rag to clean up after ones’ visit to the toilet!

One of the women reached for her Kalashnikov out of rage, and the other placed her hand on her shoulder, going, “Not yet. Our time will come. Stick to the plan.”

The other woman sighed, and breathed in and out, going, “You’re right. It’s just--”

“I know. The way they treated The Marshal’s prize was offensive, and horrible. But we will rescue it from that lot.”

A nod, and then she pulled out her phone instead and sent a text en masse to several nearby phones.

“It’s here. Make the Knight’s Move.”

-----------

The limousine was soon parked on one of the lifts, and an outbreak of applause could be heard along with whistling and cheers. Shouts of “”WEST SIDE!” and other chants could be heard, as all gathered around and the occupants of the limo--a woman and a man with the same wolves’ ears and tails as the rest--got out triumphantly waving a baton and a bottle of champagne. With a mighty blow, the man used a chop of his hand to remove the cork, sending glass flying into one corner--to The Boss’s chagrin--and the eruption of champagne within.

The Boss shouted to the man, “ZORAN!”, to the woman, “SVETLANA!” and then to the assembled, “EVERYONE!” with a loud, thunderous voice. The assembled soon fell silent, and then turned to The Woman. The man named Zoran turned to The Woman, bowing his head slightly and going, “My bad, boss. Just got excited.”

With a gesture to the champagne bottle, the Boss commanded, “You know the ritual, Zoran. Pour one out first. Please.”

Zoran nodded, and ceremonially, he shouted, raising the bottle in the air, “For our homies, dead but not forgotten!”

“FOR OUR HOMIES!” came the shout back, as some of the champagne was spilled first onto the shop floor, then onto the limo itself. Then, came a cavalcade of small glasses and pourings of champagne into all of them, as Zoran shouted, “As the Prophet said, ‘Break out the Champagne glasses and the motherfuckin' condoms, have one on us, a'ight?!’” Zoran added as he poured, “And who are we to deny the Prophet’s order--especially as this is from the Marshal’s collection! That motherfucker had some good-ass taste!”

“And now, it’s the Prophet’s!” came a shout.

Zoran shouted, working the crowd, “Damn right! We’re straight ridahs! Those fuckin’ Titoists ain’t shit!”

“Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks!” came the reply, the room worked into a frenzy. Even the Boss couldn’t help but smile a bit, amused at how happy her soldiers were. The Boss, for her part, even threw in her own chant, shouting, “May The Prophet Save the Serbs!”

“Preach, sister! Preach!” was Zoran’s reply, raising his glass.

As The Boss went down, she continued to speak. “But our work here tonight is not done, brothers and sisters. For just as the Prophet taught his people and now teaches the Serbs his lyrical genius--wherever he is right now!--we shall continue to bring forth his inspiration into the world.” Gesturing to the limousine, The Boss shouted, “This machine represents the decay of the old times. The corruption of The Marshal of old. He spoke of revolution, but only to benefit his clique!”

“Hear here!” one man shouted, along with “Fuck that shit!”

“I mean, look at what this motherfucker has!” Reaching into the car, she pulled out a small runner’s baton. For a moment, The Boss seemed suddenly enraptured and seized by a sudden tingling and surge of energy within her that made her feel mighty!

Newly energized, the Boss shouted, “He made people give him fuckin batons, yo! And he had fuckin champaigne and everything else! And this fuckin Caddy! And all the while, this motherfucker oppressed the people below--including the Serbs the Prophet so gloriously saved through his sick beats!” The Boss then shouted, suddenly feeling strangely invigorated since she picked up the baton, “The fuck kind of god is that?!”

“No god worth worshipping!” one man shouted, as others spat at the mention of The Marshal. The Boss then said, “Now, we’ve done good. We’ve taken this Caddy back to the street, and gave it back to the Serbian g’s and homies down here. Tonight, we’re going to strip it of all that bullshit the Marshal put on it, and give it the style of the streets to show to those bustas that the Prophet’s children mean business!”

Raising her glass, she shouted, “WEST SIIIIIIDE!”

“WEST SIDE! WEST SIDE!” Random hand signs--some of the four C-like symbols on the flags, and some spelling out “w’s”--were flashed as shouts of “WEST SIDE TILL WE DIE!” were chanted.

Then, the Boss caught a glimpse out of her eye, and suddenly dived to the side, with others looking confused before a stray gunshot hit the floor where she stood. All of a sudden, a panic set in, as everyone involved pulled out their pistols and took cover behind toolboxes and other features. The Boss herself pulled out her M57 Tokarev, and shouted, “Who the fuck’s shooting at us!?”

The answer would come soon enough, with the sound of cars and at least a couple of trucks pulling up to the front, with sudden flashes of light erupting in the room as men covered their eyes and tried to get out of the way--the Boss included.

As The Boss got to safety, she could see a large group of armed men and women like herself approaching the garage, taking up positions on the streets and even manning a couple of machineguns from some old Yugos. The uniforms--being an attempt to mimic an old pre-Apocalypse military uniform worn by those who had been commanded by The Marshal during his wars on the Ustasha and Nazis--were a dead giveaway as to whom their opponents were along with their Kalashnikovs and other weapons. The Boss then shouted to her men, “QUIET!” as one particularly garishly uniformed woman with wolf’s ears and a tail and a pair of spectacles stepped out of her opponents’ ranks, along with a Kalashnikov.

“I am Lieutenant Stana Dervishalidovic, of the Marshal’s Partisans! We have you surrounded! There is no hope of escape! We order you to immediately surrender The Marshal’s Chariot, His Baton of Athletics, and His Champagne!” Lieutenant Dervishalidovic added, with a hearty cock of her AK, “We don’t want to have to use force, but we will!”

The Boss leapt up, and shouted, “BITCH, FUCK YOU!” Flashing a middle finger and cocking her Tokarev, she shouted, “How about y’all go fuck yourself, you Turk!? Y’all think you can step to me?! Maritza Blagojevic runs these streets!”

The use of the slur provoked the Lieutenant, who shouted immediately, “YOU RUN NOTHING!” Composing herself, Lieutenant Dervishalidovic raised her rifle and shouted, “Now! Surrender the car, or you can join your corpse-god!” As if to return one insult for another, she added on quickly, “Jokes on you though, what he makes is not really music!”

Maritza glared at the Lieutenant. She had heard many insults about the Prophet. But none cut more than hearing that his musical genius was not music. After a pregnant pause, Maritza declared, “Fuck off. THis negotiation is over!”

“I see. Very well!” The Lieutenant gestured for her men to move up, and in turn Maritza’s men moved up to take cover. Then, Maritza pulled out a small boombox. For a few moments, the air was thick with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Then, she pushed a button.

It was one of the Prophet’s most aggressive songs. One that began with some immortal lines about having relations with a large man’s woman.

And then, at the Prophet’s proclamation denouncing the clique from whence the listener came, the men in the garage opened fire on their tormentors. A fusillade of poorly aimed shots, energy and ballistic rang out, drowning out the music in a hail of gunfire. At least two or three Partisans fell with parts of their body suddenly exploding in showers of gore. The LIeutenant herself seemed to dash away, flash-stepping to evade the fusillade to one side as her Partisans immediately opened fire with long bursts of machine gun fire, with care to avoid the Marshal’s Belongings.

As gunfire flew over the heads of the Prophet’s fighters, they riddled the garage with gunshots, tearing the Prophet’s images and the flags as they forced the fighters to keep their heads down. Those who did not keep their heads down were reduced to a fine red mist. To her horror, Maritza noticed the Partisans moving up under the cover of fire, and her men pinned. Then, she gritted her teeth. These were her people, and by the Prophet’s rhymes, she would get them out.

So, she began chanting rapidly, rapping in the way she knew how. At first creaky and the epitome of a piss-take rap, the rapping took on further intensity. Before long, her men suddenly began shouting all manner of profanities as they, to a man, began blindfiring from behind cover. They seemed braver, more energized, and whatever fear they had before was gone. Still, a chant which inspired courage would only go so far. Now, she needed more.

So, she shouted, “EVERYONE! FALL BACK!” over the din, as she gestured to the others to fall back and get out of the garage. Sure enough, the gangsters began covering for one another, doing everything from using gunfire to throwing magic fireballs out of their hands at their foes--all to the tune of chanted, fast spoken music.

Still, the Partisans refused to let up, and they answered the magic with their own. It was only for a brief second that Maritza saw her counterpart shout a hearty but silent “URAAAAA!” which seemed to reverberate in the air, causing the stragglers in her ranks to stumble and hold their heads in their hands to contain the blood gushing out of their ears. One man’s head seemed to collapse in on itself, as gore flowed out of his ears.

Maritza herself held on, and retaliated by shooting the Lieutenant by aiming for her open mouth. This did not succeed, but it shocked the Lieutenant enough to make her stop her assault. Realizing that more was needed, however, Maritza ran into her office, and kicked open her desk to reveal a prize she had kept ready for a time like this.

---

The Lieutenant urged her men forward. So far, the enemy had been put to rout, as expected. Mere thugs could not hope to hold against those empowered by His guidance. Chanting “URA! URA!” the Lieutenant ran into the garage, firing bursts from her AK at the gangsters within as her men fanned out throughout the facility. Those that could not be caught were of no consequence. THe Lieutenant wasn’t kidding about the fact there were men at the rear who would take care of the thugs.

Still, there were more pressing matters on the inside. She walked to the Marshal’s Chariot, and sighed. The barbarians had poured champagne over it. Good thing they had taken only one bottle. Still, the idea of wasted drink spilled on the Marshal’s Chariot offended her and she ordered her men to clean it up. One man duly obeyed, finding the cleanest shop towel he could find and wiping up the spilled champagne.

As this occurred, the Lieutenant sniffed the air. Something wasn’t right.

Soon, her instincts were proven correct. For as soon as she could turn around, she was confronted with the sight of a blur moving about behind a pillar. Then another one. Then, as the Lieutenant ordered her men to get ready, Maritza appeared in the middle of them, the Baton of Athleticism on her belt and dramatic dust cloud of sorts announcing her presence as she wielded with impossible strength and speed a M53 machine gun held with gloves and a fresh belt of ammo, shouting, “GUESS WHO’S BACK, FUCKERS!?” as she began firing bursts into the enemy ranks. The Partisans scattered, but not before the Lieutenant opened fire with her Kalashnikov, gaining an attack of opportunity. The shots caused Maritza to stumble. But, the madwoman only turned rapidly and began firing bursts at the Lieutenant, shouting all manner of curses. The Lieutenant leapt to the side, opening fire with her rifle again and hitting Maritza in the shoulder.

Still, her opponent seemed to be unstoppable, and the Lieutenant knew that being confronted with a M53 machine gun was bad news. Thus, the Lieutenant got into cover and began firing again, ordering her men to do likewise. Soon, the shots connected with the mad gangster, but nothing really seemed to slow her down--though she was looking more and more like hamburger as she tore through the enemy’s ranks, causing the Partisans to lose more men. Lieutenant Dervishalidovic had to hand it to the Marshal--when His power imbued someone, it really imbued someone. Then, she perished the thought. The Marshal would never allow His guidance to be imparted to someone so base.

And then, it hit her. A plan to stop the rampage. Quickly, the Lieutenant cast a bright flare in front of Maritza causing her to be blinded for a few seconds as she shouted in pain. Then, she ordered one of her men to run and snatch the Baton….

...which was done rather quickly, as Maritza now seemed to heave and breathe deeply, panting out of exhaustion with a horrified gasp. At that, the woman stumbled and turned around, firing wild bursts into the air as her eyesight came back, shouting “This isn’t over, fuckers!”

The Lieutenant would have gone for the kill at that point..but then, the sounds of sirens could be heard and a text confirmed it was time to go--the police would be there soon. And at that, the Lieutenant ordered a retreat.

---

By the time the Bosnian Police got to Dimitar’s, there would be nothing but questions. Namely, what the hell was all that gunfire about? Why was the place on fire? And just how many people did these sides have, that there would be so many shell fragments and the odd dead body?

Either way, they would not get the answers they sought--not at the moment anyway. And certainly not from the Partisans driving away in the Marshal’s Chariot, and certainly not from Maritza and her forces, who were at the moment having Maritza rest in a back alley doctor’s house while emergency surgery and healing magic coursed through her veins.

All the while, everyone had the feeling this would not be quite over.

The Lieutenant knew that women like Maritza were dangerous, and would not see a slight go unreacted to if they could help it. Yet, it would be a worthy struggle just the same. Just as the Marshal had once said, “We have spilt an ocean of blood for the brotherhood and unity of our peoples and we shall not allow anyone to touch or destroy it from within.”

And, Maritza in turn could only think of avenging the loss of a prize to go to The Prophet. She knew she would have a lot to answer for from both the Prophet’s Children, as well as those Partisans who would lord the victory over them. Still, as the Prophet once sang, “Who shot me, but ya punks didn't finish/Now ya bout to feel the wrath of a menace[...]”

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to another installment of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Somewhere Else in Sarajevo, Earth SSR, CRE

Maritza may have been made whole by magic, but everything still hurt. Even mainlining a whole bottle of painkillers didn’t help relieve the pain caused by an ungodly amount of gunfire directed into one’s person which should have shredded Maritza into mincemeat. So, Maritza kept it calm as best as she could, as she pulled in front of the apartment complex which was far above her station in more ways than one. Getting out of the car now wearing bootlegs of everything from Zhang’s artisanal jeans to a leather jacket and aviators, Maritza looked up to the roof area. Hopefully, the man she sought was there.

Walking up to the door, the doorman--who looked more like the golem of Jewish legend than a man--moved up close to her and grumbled, “You got business here, lady?”

“I’m expected, “Maritza said curtly.

“By who?” the Doorman said, obviously reaching for a large pistol on his hip. The intent was clear.

Maritza said, folding her arms in front of her chest, “The Godfather. I was invited to speak to him. Y’all can call him if you want. But either way, I’m expected, so get the fuck out of my way before I smack your ass up.”

The Doorman nodded, and moved his hand away from his gun. He then reached for a small communicator, flipped it open with the flick of a wrist as it beeped, and he asked, “Yo, Godfather. You expecting some chick today? She don’t look like your usual five o’clock.”
A surprisingly easygoing voice replied on the other end, “She’s cool, man. Send her in.”

The Doorman nodded, motioning for her to enter with a simple, “He’s on the Penthouse Level. You know what to do.”

Maritza nodded and soon found herself on a lush express elevator up to the penthouse. The elevator door opened into a monument to nouveau riche tastelessness. It was as if the designer had deigned to imitate Elvis’s Graceland and 1980s era excess. As befitting the Godfather though, there were gold records lining the walls along with old suits of Serbian medieval armor, pictures of the Godfather posing with celebrities, and even the odd tiger-skin rug. Maritza recognized the street poets within them--The Prophet was among them. Hell, the OG even had the Prophet’s image on his wall, holding a Tokarev and proclaiming the glory of how Rap Would Save the Serbs.

Eventually, she came upon what could be best described as a sort of Throne Room, with a gaudy chair and a large, intimidating mahogany desk with gold inlays. Two women dressed in uniforms which were more prurient than tactically sound -flanked the desk wielding Kalashnikovs, as the figure in the chair turned around. The figure in the chair was a man in his thirties/forties, with what could be best described as an awkward mixture of American pimp duds--the ermine coat, the giant cane, so on--with the kind of gaudy opulence and trashness stereotypically associated with Eastern European gangsters. The Eastern European man had wolves’ ears on, and he nodded to acknowledge Maritza’s presence, extending a hand with a massive ring bearing a logo with a doubleheaded eagle with do-rags on it, with a shield upon which a cross and four C-looking icons were superimposed.

Maritza didn’t hesitate. Protocol dictated she kiss the Godfather’s ring, and so she did. The man nodded and withdrew the hand, going, “Sup?”

“It’s an honor to be in your presence, Godfather.” Maritza didn’t normally bow, but here she did. The Godfather may have spoken gently, but Maritza knew he didn’t earn this gaudy penthouse by simply being nice.

“And it’s an honor having you over here.” With a pause as one of his women handed the Godfather a chalice from which he sipped some sort of beverage, the Godfather continued, going, “I heard y’all got into a situation with the Partisans the other day." With a pause, the Godfather then added with some emphasis, "Involving the Caddy.”

Maritza nodded, continuing to avert her gaze from the Godfather as she said, “Yes, Godfather. My people managed to snatch the Marshal’s Caddy. We were going to take it to a shop I owned to get it refitted as per The Prophet’s ritual--and then, the Partisans came and just fuckin’ went to town, man. We barely got out with our lives, and well..”

Maritza seemed hesitant to speak the following words, but spoke them she did, going, “...I think the Partizans retook the Caddy.” Maritza, unusually contrite but defiant, added, “I mean ,Godfather, I did what I could but I was simply outgunned. What were we supposed to do?”

The Godfather raised his hand and Maritza fell silent. The pimp lord then went, in a soft voice which was unusually calming, “Y’all can look me in the eye, man. It’s good. We all make mistakes. Real g's learn from mistakes, of course, but there is no shame in makin’ fuckups.” Smiling as Maritza looked the Godfather in the eye, the Godfather declared, “Now chill. What’s done is done. We got bigger shit to worry about, a'ight?”

Maritza nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. “Thank you, Godfather. Tha--” The Godfather raised his hand up, and went, somewhat more firmly, “I said, chill. This ain’t the streets, this is safe ground. No need for that here.” Pausing, the Godfather then went, “Now, then. Let’s focus on the future and learnin’ from mistakes. Like how y’all are gonna deal with the mistake involving the Partisans takin’ back the Caddy.”

Maritza nodded in reply, and the Godfather continued, “Because, as it is, y’all owe the Prophet a Caddy. And that Caddy y’all had in your hands was one of the most powerful ever. Veneration and mythopoeia does that to shit, ya know? And all that shit the Titoists say? That makes it powerful. All the more powerful to take it from those guys, and give it to the streets in the form of a Lowrider, or however else the Prophet would find it pleasing.” Sipping his chalice, the Godfather then went, “But now, it’s gone. So, how will you get it back?”

A pregnant pause emerged, and the Godfather then pulled out a small PDA, tapping the screen before using some sort of power to telekinetically ensure it got to Maritza’s hands. The Godfather then went, “That social media post should give you a hint. Ya dig?”

Sure enough, the Partisans--to Maritza’s astonishment--posted images of The Caddy onto their social media, complete with an honorguard and images of it being cleaned and detailed for display at the Hall of Flowers in Belgrade. Lieutenant Dervishalidovic was even there, mugging for the camera and shaking the hand of the Partisans’ leadership. The Titoist drivel aside on the page, Maritza got the significance of it all. She nodded and said, “I dig.”

“Good.” Sipping from the chalice, the Godfather said, “Now, you don’t have to get it right away. But you do have to get that Caddy back. Recognizing it’s in the belly of the beast, so to speak. But that’s a problem for you to solve. And knowing your reputation before this incident, I know you’re capable of handling this. Or at least finding people who can help you handle it. Either way, though, we need the Caddy. And hell, anything else you take from the Partisans. I know what power y’all had when you had that Baton of Athleticism. We’re gonna need some of those if we want to help get The Prophet’s message out there. After all, as the Prophet once sang, ‘I got love for my brother, but we can never go nowhere/Unless we share with each other/We gotta start makin' changes/Learn to see me as a brother instead of two distant strangers.’” Sipping on the chalice again, the Godfather went, “And indeed, once we get that Caddy in our hands and infuse that shit with the strength of street knowledge, we will get all Serbs to see each other as brothers again, and bring the lyrical genius to the streets everywhere. You dig?”

Maritza smiled, feeling strangely invigorated, going, “I dig.”

“Good! Now, then, get to it.” The Godfather then asked, quickly, “Y’all want something to eat, drink, whatever? The cook’s making pljeskavica patties for lunch, and there’s plenty of rakjia to go around.”

Maritza nodded and went, “I am feeling a little peckish. Thanks!”

The Godfather nodded, and before long, he motioned to one of the women, “Make sure our guest here has a place setting. And make sure she don’t go hungry either. The Godfather’s gotta take care of all of the Prophet’s Children, after all.”

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to another installment of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Several Hours Earlier
Near the Hall of Flowers
Belgrade, Earth SSR, CRE

On any other night, the parking garage which served the Hall of Flowers next door would have been merely another place for tourists to park their cars before touring the elaborately preserved and well defended Hall of Flowers. In another time, the Hall of Flowers was another tourist attraction, a combination museum and resting place. Now, the Hall of Flowers--which was the name the Partisans gave to the whole facility--had become nothing less than the holy of holies, a shrine to the god lying within underneath concrete and marble.

And it was only fitting that the god would have one of His relics come home here. For Lieutenant Dervishalidovic’s orders had her take The Marshal’s Chariot onto the roof of this garage, where it would be spirited away to a safe location to be restored and preserved, before being shown in all its glory in the Hall. And on this roof of the garage stood the Marshal’s own. A teeming crowd had stood waiting, enraptured by the prospect of holy relics coming into their presence. The wolf-eared-tailed and the normal humans alike wore the uniforms of the pre-Apocalypse past. Some of them were gray-uniform-ish getups reminiscent of the Marshal’s armies during the Liberation War. Others were wearing more organized and well maintained kit from what the Partisans called the Golden Era, when the Marshal was busy creating His kingdom on Earth, bringing the warring tribes to peace, brotherhood and unity. Kalashnikovs, M53 machine guns, and all manner of weapons were on display this night. Separating the crowd from the path of the incoming prize was a well kept honor guard, wearing the finest uniforms.

At their head, was an otherwise normal looking human woman standing in an elaborate officer’s uniform, presiding over the function. Well, not quite normal. Her uniform was tailored to allow for a wolf’s tail to come out, and her hat barely concealed a pair of wolves’ ears.

Soon, the roar of engines could be heard, and then, the Chariot came forth. Its Yugoslav flags flew from flagpoles on the front, and the horn honked to announce its presence. Immediately, the crowd, which had been teeming with energy, erupted into a cheer which thundered across the garage.

“MARSHAL! MARSHAL! MARSHAL!”

The cry could be heard for miles, and for Lieutenant Dervishalidovic the sound hit her with full force. She saw some faint at the sight of the car, and flags of the Marshal--the red white and blue tricolor with the Red Star in the middle--and placards of the Marshal waved triumphantly.

Several more chants erupted as the car came to a stop, and the crowd immediately roared. Dervishalidovic blushed--it wasn’t every day that she had this kind of hero’s welcome. Indeed, given the violence of the night, she briefly even wondered if it was deserved.

Yet any thoughts were soon swept away by the euphoria of the occasion. The Lieutenant knew that she had done the right thing. No price was too large to pay for the Marshal’s Chariot. By the Marshal--no price was too large to pay for any of the Marshal’s Belongings! Thus bolstered in confidence She immediately waved to the crowds with a smile on her face, and they chanted “URA! URA! URA!” as the Lieutenant walked up to the officer on duty. She stood ramrod straight, clicked her heels, and saluted the officer. The salute was returned, and the Lieutenant stepped back and resumed an at ease posture as the crowds soon fell silent, eager to hear what the Lieutenant had to say.

And speak the Lieutenant did, in a booming, passionate, staccato-paced voice.

“Comrade Commander Stambolic. I, Lieutenant Stana Dervishalidovic, bring news from the front. The Retrieval Operation was successful.”

A roar of cheers broke out, before they went silent again as the LIeutenant continued.

“We have recovered two of the Belongings of the Marshal stolen by the nationalist insurgents of the Prophet’s Children in Sarajevo. The Chariot. One of the Batons of Athleticism. Sadly, the insurgents consumed a bottle of Champagne purloined from the Marshal’s private stocks--we were not able to recover it.”

Some of the Partisans hung their heads low, and doffed their caps and held them over their hearts, as Dervishalidovic continued.

“We also lost ten of our comrades in the attempt, with many more gravely injured by the insurgents. Yet the insurgents were crippled. Our assault was successful, and we estimate that over eighty percent of their forces were crippled or killed by the attack. We brought overwhelming firepower to bear upon them, and although their leader, the infamous bandit Maritza Blagojevic, attempted to use the Baton of Athleticism for herself--”

The thought of an insurgent using a Baton caused gasps.

“--we were quickly able to retrieve the Baton using clever strategies. Just as the Marshal would have done!”

Then, a sigh of relief as Dervishalidovic continued.

“We then quickly destroyed evidence of our presence using thermite charges and gasoline, and withdrew in good order as the Bosnian seperatist authorities attempted to arrive at the scene. All told, a success!”

Commander Stambolic gave a hearty smile, and then motioned for an aide to bring bottles of champagne for everyone and glasses

The Commander took the champagne offered to her, and cracked it open with a Kalashnikov bayonet, pouring a couple of champagne flutes and handing one to Dervishalidovic and taking one for herself. Handing the bottle to another aide, the Commander then raised her glass and went, shouting to all and sundry, “A toast! To glory! To success! To the crushing of those who would destroy Brotherhood and Unity! Let it be known from here on out that those who would deign to appropriate the Marshal’s Guidance for themselves will have to face US! Just as they had to face the Lieutenant and her cohort! And just as they have faced our fangs many times before and will face them henceforth!” Turning to the Lieutenant, the Commander declared, using the champagne flute as a sort of pointer, “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant. Your bravery and quick work ensured the recovery of two of the Marshal’s finest Belongings. You have truly conducted yourself in a manner befitting His Service!”

“Hear hear!”

With that, the champagne was drunk and a cheer emerged. Then, the chants soon were replaced by an uproarous song as the Chariot was parked in the middle of a designated zone. No accompaniment was needed--to the Lieutenant, it was as if the Marshal’s Guidance had directed a band to come to their position, with music swelling as if from thin air.

“Uz maršala Tita, junačkoga sina
nas neće ni pakao smest'.
Mi dižemo čelo, mi kročimo smjelo
i čvrsto stiskamo pest…”

The old anthem of the Partisans stirred everyone in the room, and for a while, the sound of the hymn to the Marshal was the only thing coming out of the garage. But what a sound it was. Dervishalidovic felt the music shake the foundations of the parking garage, and saw lights from across the street turn on and passersby turn their heads. It was as if the whole world was taking notice of the glory of the occasion.

The singing ended with the sounds of shots popping off, as celebratory gunfire could be heard. Long bursts from M53 machineguns and Kalashnikovs joined rapid pistol shots. The Commander winced--she knew the shots had to come down somehow--but let it go this once. For this was something to celebrate.

After the gunfire then came the selfies. Soon, the Partisans began taking pictures of themselves with the car, and soon, even Dervishalidovic herself was even involved in pictures with the Commander. The Commander herself even had Dervishalidovic pose for a selfie with her.

As all this happened and a jovial, party-like atmosphere emerged, the Lieutenant had a thought. One of worry, that made her face frown slightly. She then turned to the Commander and said, somewhat hesitantly, “Comrade Commander, I do wonder about something.”

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant?” Now that she wasn’t conducting a ceremony, the Commander seemed more relaxed and even jovial. She even had a sisterly air to her inquiry, as if sensing the concern of her subordinate.

“I know that we Partisans have a social media policy and everything...and I am all for the promotion of the Marshal’s cause….but should our men and women be taking so many pictures to be posted online?” To illustrate her point, the Lieutenant pointed to an impromptu photoshoot going on near the Chariot.

The Comrade Commander laughed and waved dismissively. “Don’t worry. We have many allies among the seperatist police and the local Federal offices. Besides, you did police the battlefield--the separatists there will not be able to figure out what happened. All in a day’s work, I say.”

“Well, I have no doubt about that.” She then added, whispering, “I just worry about the other separatists. Ones like the Prophet’s Children. They use the DornieNet too, you know.”

The Comrade Commander nodded, and sobered up for a moment. “Well, that is true. After all, our enemies do monitor our transmissions, just as our friends do.” The moment was fleeting however, for the Commander smiled and was as confident as ever. “But, if they decide to come, I am not afraid and neither should you be afraid. They are mere thugs, worshipping a corpse-god making not-music. They know nothing of the sort of war that the Marshal fought. Their wars are small, petty things fought with the mindset of barbarians and pirates. Our wars are nobler things, because they are guided by a god whose actions struck fear into the heart of evil centuries ago. With mighty forces such as those behind us--along with a lot of weapons and a very active counterintelligence arm--who would dare to attack us? Especially here?”

“A fair point, Comrade Commander.” Dervishalidovic then paused, and added, “Still, one can never be too careful.”

“Indeed. For now though, you’ve worked hard, Comrade Lieutenant.” Suddenly catching a bottle of locally made beer without even a second glance, the Commander then handed it to the Lieutenant and went, “Now, drink up! You’ve earned this. We can discuss security arrangements in the morning.” She then added, as if to anticipate the Lieutenant, “That’s an order.”

The Lieutenant raised the bottle and went, “An order I will follow. Maybe I am worrying too much.” As she twisted off the cap from the bottle and drank up, she couldn’t help but feel pulled in two directions at once. One the jovial mood of triumphalism. The other the gnawing feeling that wondered when--not if--the chauvinists would come back for their prize.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to another installment of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Somewhere In Sarajevo

The knock at the door caused Zoran Petrovic to immediately grab his Tokarev and hold it at low ready. For her part, Svetlana Dordevic, the other accomplice in the now failed Caddy Heist, was too busy watching the latest episode of Adventurer High on a couch. Still, she reached for a low-budget parkerized Chinese pump shotgun, which she racked and kept at the ready as she turned down the TV.

Zoran had been around his share of knocks on the door to his apartment. Usually, it was one of three things. Five-O looking for answers to questions he was in no mood to answer. RIvals looking to answer any greeting with a shotgun blast. Or homies looking to cause good times and induce trouble.

Zoran got up to the side of the door, as he heard the knock again. And again, with a shout of, “Open the fuckin’ door, man! It’s me!” The tone of voice suggested the identity of the greeter, and so Zoran opened the door slowly, the chain on the door revealing initially who it was--Maritza.

Zoran then undid the chain and let his boss in. Maritza for her part was not amused at any of this, and if the audible sigh didn’t give that away her rolling eyes did.

“Really? Really?”

“Fuckin’ call first, man. Damn.” Zoran holstered his Tokarev, uttering his admonition in the kind of frustrated tone only a close associate of Maritza’s could use without fear for his limbs or life. Svetlana likewise put her shotgun away, as Maritza shut the door behind her and helped herself to a seat on the couch.

Maritza then got to the point without interruptions, niceties, or much else of the sort. “I spoke to the Godfather. Good news--we’re not being liquidated. Bad news--we gotta get the Caddy back.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow, as Zoran came closer to Maritza with his own confusion. To a man, both of them uttered the same question at once.

“How the fuck are we gonna do that?”

“Well, it’s simple, and it was given to me by the Godfather. There’s a reason he’s the Prophet’s Hype Man, after all.” Maritza then pulled out her phone, pulled up Bleeter, and then showed various Partisan aligned accounts discussing the “Marshal’s Chariot” coming home to the Hall of Flowers in a variety of ways that ranged from modest to triumphalist. Insults to the Prophet’s Children were liberally thrown in, with talks of a “corpse-god” and “nationalist insurgents” and other things.

Zoran and Svetlana stared at the posts for the next few minutes, enraptured by the posts...and slowly growing enraged at their audacity. Eventually, the two stopped, and a pregnant pause filled the room.

Zoran was the first to speak.

“Motherfuckers like to talk about themselves, huh?”

“That they do, Zoran. That they do. And now, the fact that these motherfuckers have run their mouths has given us an opening. Namely, we know where they’re taking the Caddy. The Hall of Flowers.”

Svet shook her head. “So what, they just gonna stick it in some museum and show it off and shit?”

“Basically. That, and also worship it, like it pays their bills or something.” Zoran threw that in.

“Zoran’s correct. Fact is, they ain’t got the street knowledge we got--the kind that the Prophet’s given us. And one of the best bits of street knowledge?” Pointing to the others and putting a dramatic pause, Maritza then said, “Learnin’ to shut the fuck up. These people don’t know how to do that, so we gonna remind them of why that’s a good idea.” Maritza projected a confident air as she spoke, folding her arms in pride.

“Even then, boss, how the fuck are we gonna storm the Hall of Flowers?” Svetlana said in reply. “Yo, seriously--everyone knows the Partisans got that shit on lock. Barbed wire. Soldiers. Cameras. Fuckin’ alarm systems. And rumor has it they got five-o on their side. Not to mention, I hear rumors those mofos even have a giant robot somewhere down there. Street knowledgeable they ain’t, but damn, they got gats all up in that bitch. How the fuck do we deal with that?”

Maritza immediately retorted, “Ye of little fuckin’ faith. Who said anything about stormin’ the place? Besides, I didn’t live this long without any brains, and neither did any of you. We gonna do this like in the movies. Motherfuckin’ heists and shit.”

The others nodded. Zoran then asked, “Okay, damn. I can get behind that. But that leaves the question. Who do we bring on? And how the fuck do we make it so five-o or the Partisans don’t get a tip?”

“Every cop’s got his price, man. We gotta find a way to get the local five-o on our side. Or at least get them to stay away. Prophet’s got children in the five-o workin’ to take power back to the people--I’d wager especially in Belgrade. That leaves the feds, but if we can get local five-o on side, we’ll be okay on that front at least. As for the Partisans, we simply stay quiet and don’t run our mouths. Simple. As for the crew…..”

Maritza stared at Zoran and Svet, adding, “You motherfuckers helped hotwire and jack the Caddy the first time. I’m bringing y’all into this bitch. I need a good-ass driver and a better-ass hypercompetent sidekick.”

“A’ight,” Zoran said, frowning slightly at the implication Svet was the one really pulling the strings. “I mean, I’m down, but that’s only three people. You might need more than that.”

Maritza grumbled, going, “Then you know anyone? All I’ve heard is complaining, man. Gimme a solution. I ain’t no stickup man--I prefer to deal in car shit and goods that fell off the back of a truck, dig?”

“And I thought your dog-ass kept me and Svet around to keep you honest. Damn.” Zoran snarked bitterly. “Look, I may know some people from the old days, but it’s gonna take time to find some ideal candidates for our team.”

Maritza nodded. “Good man. Thanks, Zoran.” She then added, “Sorry if I came on strong there--it’s been weird for all of us.”

“That it be,” Zoran added. He then said, “Want anything to drink?”

Maritza nodded approvingly.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Zoran said, “Good. Svet and I were binging Adventure High, and we got some good-ass slivovitz. Figured we at least gotta offer you some, boss.”

“I can dig it. Pour me some!”

----

Somewhere in Belgrade near the Hall of Flowers

Lieutenant Dervishalidovic wasn’t comfortable being in crowded settings. Her mentor, Comrade Captain Jovic, had taught her that crowded places tended to bring risk. Risk of being shot at by some assailant coming out of nowhere, and risk that a stray bullet would kill the very people to be saved.

Yet the mysterious Mr. Ante, the head of the Partisans’ Department for People’s Protection, insisted on meeting here at Ivan’s Greasy Eats--a surprisingly expensive “casual” eatery if ever such an oxymoron existed--over cevapi, fries, and coffee along with a guest and decked out in non-Partisan outfits. It was weird not wearing the uniform--she traded her militaristic getup for a simple women’s suit in grey she had purchased not but half an hour ago--for sure.

The Lieutenant looked around skittishly, eager to spot any threats. Then, she saw one man and one woman, both in business suits. The two took their seats at the table near the Lieutenant, and the man spoke. His loose, relatively frizzled long blonde hair, somewhat broken nose, devil-may-care easygoing voice, an that didn't heal right, and the causal manner in which he carried himself betrayed the man as Mr. Ante, the individual who invited the Lieutenant to this spot. However, the Lieutenant didn’t recognize the other woman. That other woman had platinum blonde hair, aviator sunglasses, and a suit that hugged her curves nicely.

The Lieutenant spoke first.

“Comrade Ante--”

The man waved his hand dismissively, and sighed bemusedly. “Please, it’s just Mr. Ante here. I mean, we’ve got the convivial atmosphere and the fact we’re technically just three people meeting for business--why spoil the beauty and the hidden nature of the thing with stiffness?”

“Okay,” the Lieutenant said, grudgingly admitting he was right.

Ante’s guest for her part, meanwhile, was more suspicious than anything else. The Lieutenant felt the Guest’s eyes bore into her, as the Guest sized up the Lieutenant for a few awkward seconds before the Guest asked, brusquely, “Who’s the kid?”

“Oh her? No, don’t worry, she’s one of us. That’s Stana Dervishalidovic. She’s the one who helped capture the Chariot down in Sarajevo, and then brought it all the way back over here.”

The Guest nodded, and Ante said, “Stana, this is our guest, Anna. She’s a consultant I’ve worked with in the past; the Comrade Commander has authorized us to work together again this time. She’s been told about our situation, and wanted to meet with us to discuss it in detail. Especially your concerns.”

“Anna…?”

“Anna. Just Anna. Please.” Anna’s voice had a curt, icy tone to it, one that suggested that the matter of her identity was best left alone for everyone’s health and safety. “At any rate, yes, it is as Mr. Ante has suggested. There are concerns and I’d like to hear them in some detail.”

“Right. Yes.” Lieutenant Dervishalidovic struggled to come up with the words to say--though she was saved soon by the coming of the waiter. The orders of cevapi and chips meals were taken along with a serving of coffee--made “Eastern” style as the menu put it to avoid causing fights--and then the discussion continued.

“Anyway,” the Lieutenant said, “Well, I am concerned that my comrades’ lack of discretion may cause opposition elements to try and take action to re-take the Chariot. Any potential enemy will now know it is at the Hall of Flowers, and there are even images of it being refurbished and fitted in place on and offsite as well as discussion of a major gala event which will take place in the future with the date and time given. This is all over social media and so on. That is my main concern. I do not have concrete evidence as of yet. But knowing what I know of the nationalist guerillas, they will attempt to strike at us for our indiscretions.”

“That’s a funny way to say street gang, but fine,” Anna said with a nod. Mr. Ante interjected with a simple, “I’ve had those concerns too, but the Comrade Commander says that an object like the Chariot needs to be inducted in this manner.”

“I see.”

Anna paused for a second, and went, “Well the cat’s out of the bag, as they say. If anyone wants to strike at the Hall of Flowers, they’ve got advance notice of a good opportunity to do so.” Another pause, and she turned to Ante and Stana, “So. What’s the plan?”

The two looked at each other, and the Lieutenant said, “Well, we could conduct our own reconnaissance to uncover any plots, so we can neutralize them?”

Anna nodded, as Mr. Ante piped in with an added, “Well, said reconnaissance would not only involve the underworld milieu within which the guerillas operate, but also over the DornieNet and also other means. We would presumably try to disrupt any of their operations also. Perhaps even utilize our contacts within law enforcement to facilitate this.”

Anna nodded again, and thus paused again awkwardly for a few seconds before going, “Sensible moves. A good offense is a good defense. But, even with the overmatch of assets--basically, the Partisan organization is much larger and more well equipped than the various Prophet’s Children cells--security is still paramount. Find the ones within your people who will keep their mouths shut, and have them begin investigating for any activity. Mr. Ante, I’ve been led to believe you operate a counterintelligence operation of sorts. Get to counterintelligencing.”

The Lieutenant asked, “And what will you do?”

Anna glared. “I was just getting to that, kid.” Pausing, Anna then went, curtly to Stana, “I can put in feelers through my own networks. See what I can dig up about any plots. Hell, I’ll even do some digging myself. What I need you to do, Ms. Dervishalidovic, is to keep off the internet for a while. I’ve seen you in some of those pictures. You’re marked.”

Mr. Ante quickly interjected, “We do have some safehouses here in Belgrade within which to hide the Lieutenant. Besides, given the nature of the Recovery Operation, it might do her some good to hide for a bit.”

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t get into a gunfight with a bunch of thugs without causing attention.” Anna added, cutting off Stana, “I know you policed the evidence site. But although the cops aren’t getting involved--not honest cops at any rate--but a lot of gangland trash have a good feeling that something went down that they would love to address. You get me?”

Stana nodded, as Ante wisely moved the discussion forward in lieu of asking about Anna’s sources.

"Right. I think we've got a good plan here. When we're done, I'll put out my feelers and begin doing some counterintelligence work."

“Good. Again, I’ll get my people to dig up what they can, and in the meantime, the kid lays low--or at least, stops doing shit for the 'gram orwhatever--and you people get to counterintelligencing and ensuring people don’t run their mouths.”

The food then arrived, and the rest of the meal was conducted in silence. Stana exchanged glances with Mr. Ante. The two seemed to be in agreement that Anna was both quite correct….and also, seemed rather interested in lectures and in dominating the chat. Not that they would say anything. Ante shot the very annoyed Stana a look to ensure she was on board. Ante knew better than to say anything--the broken nose reminded him of that.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to another installment of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Somewhere in Sarajevo

Nestled among the warrens of greasy spoons selling cevapi and other goods, the storefront marked “Martial Arts Lessons” didn’t seem to stand out too much. The only things which were really worthwhile to note about it were the fact it advertised martial arts classes at low cost, and the three gopnik-gangsta wannabes in front of the store staring at it. Two of them stared at it with some confusion. The third smirked.

“This the place,” Zoran said, puffing on a cheap cigarette, before tossing it down on the sidewalk and stomping on it.

“A fuckin’ dojo?” Maritza asked with plenty of skepticism.

“Yeah, boss. A fuckin’ dojo. I know someone in there who can get us the hookup so we don’t have to do this shit by ourselves.”

“I mean, are we really sure about this?” Svetlana interjected.

Zoran frowned and said, “Hey, y’all said you needed a hookup, and this is one of ‘em. But we gotta make these introductions real careful like. Dig?”

The others nodded halfheartedly, and Martiza said with a grumble, “This turns into an ambush, I’m going to kill you and then everyone else who’ll be attacking us.”

Zoran said nothing, as he led the group into the dojo. The dojo revealed a room whose interior was lined with reasonably clean gym mats as well as decorations, trophies, and other paraphernalia. Standing in groups were students slowly going through a sort of sword-dance. Guiding them was an athletic woman with red hair, somewhat large-ish eyes, light armor and breeches, correcting their form and watching over them with an expert’s eye as she spoke in English that had a unique accent all its own.

“And one-two-kick-turn-one-two-kick-turn--no no, slowly! Remember! Sword-Dancing is about being agile, mobile, and hostile all at once! And to be agile, mobile, and hostile all at once, you need the fundamentals so we’re doing the fundamentals. Novislav, correct that foot drop. Kalina, stretch out some more! This is a martial art! Act like it!”

The woman looked at Maritza and her crew, and glared, before turning to her students. “Okay, keep going. Mirko--watch over them.” She then stormed forward, walking stridently with a glare at Zoran.

Zoran cracked a big grin, going, “Priscilla fuckin’ Trueedge! How’s it going--”

Prisicilla then began dancing, almost flashing to and fro with alarming speed. In one of the distinct moments that did not resemble a blur or outright disappearing into the ether, Priscilla pulled out what looked like a small rubberized baton from her pocket, and with a flick of the wrist segments flowed out of it with a series of rapid clanking noises, eventually fusing into a single blade of some length which was then quickly held to Zoran’s neck. Only in a much belated fashion did Maritza pull out her Tokarev and held it gangsta-style at Priscilla, while Svetlana did the same with a Glock 20. The other students stopped and were stunned for a second, before Priscilla’s assistant shouted for everyone to go back to training.

For his part, Zoran finished his sentence with a simple, “...baby?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here, Zoran,” Priscilla said with a glare. “What’s the game?”

Zoran winced and in a nervous flop sweat began talking, “Well, I mean, I just wanted to talk to you, you know, about some stuff?”

“Stuff? What sort of stuff?” Priscilla said, not moving her gaze or her ire.

“Well, you know...stuff...like about the guys who pay for the rent on this--”

Zoran felt the sword pushing into his neck, though thankfully not breaking skin. Priscilla then warned, “With a pull of this blade, I will be able to cut off your head, and then the arm of that brigand aiming her pistol at my head before you can call me baby again. And then cut your new squeeze in half to make sure the blade works.”

Svetlana then said, “Um, well, we’re really”--

“Play along,” Priscilla said sternly, and Svet stopped talking as Priscilla continued.

“Now. I’m going to ask you one more time. Why are you here?”

Zoran then said, bringing his voice to a low whisper, “My boss and Svet and I want to see you. I need to talk bidness. Well, all of us do but still.”

Priscilla nodded.

“Why should I let you through, cur?”

“Woah, hey, there is no need to insult the ears and tail. Besides, you found them cute once before!” Zoran said with a nervous grin.

“That’s before I figured out that they belonged to a complete jackwagon with zero moral fiber and whose only redeeming trait is that he knows too many people and drives fast cars way too well,” Priscilla said snappily.

“That’s two, babe,” Zoran said with a grin.

Priscilla let out a short snort, and said, “Make that three, since you’ve not lost that penchant for verbal diarrhea.”

Then, a pregnant pause set upon the Cornerian Standoff in the room. Even as the students kept practicing, they knew that something was going down. There had been rumors that the Master was involved with criminal elements of some sort. And to be fair, it wasn’t all that shocking. As far as the clientele of the dojo knew, one could only really get far in life if they knew at least one guy who could at least find things that fell off the back of a truck, to use an old phrase. Oh sure, things were better now, but before?

At any rate, Maritza broke the standoff by shouting, “Look. This shit’s getting ridiculous. We gonna see y’all or not?!”

Priscilla then mulled the thought over, and then went, “Let me see. Hold on.” Stepping back, she then flicked her wrist again, causing the sword to collapse into chain segments and collapse back into its hilt. She then quickly proceeded into a back office.

A few awkward moments passed by, as Maritza asked Zoran sternly, “The fuck did you do?”

“Well, I mean, Prissy and I go way back, a’ight? We used to be an item. She’s from some place called Corneria. Sword lovin’ country. Then I discovered she was high maintenance and all that, and well, y’all know what she thinks of my dog-ass. She’s also a damn speedy sword-dancer that handles herself in a raid.”

“Like, what sort of raids?” Svet said with a raised eyebrow.

WIth a look of annoyance, Zoran said, gesturing to Svet and Maritza to keep it down, “Raids“.”

Priscilla for her part came back, and motioned for the party to follow.

---

The small office laden with wood paneling and poorly kept carpeting didn’t make much of a good impression on anyone. There were three chairs, all rickety wooden chairs, lined up in a row in front of a desk. A large red chair could be seen, its back to the three as Priscilla ordered them all to sit down.

Priscilla likewise sat, going, “So. What is the gig that is so important that you needed to barge into my school of swordsmanship and proposition me with a criminal enterprise?” She then added, “Especially one involving a car.”

“It’s not just an--” Maritza then added, “How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Well, considering the violence that broke out and the fact that you only survived because of magic, and considering the ripples it sent throughout the Sarajevo underworld...I know about it.” Priscilla said with a glare. “Now, you likely want it back, all of you. I get that. Well, I don’t work cheap, and I will need a lot of incentive to even get involved in the life again.”

Zoran then hit Priscilla in the gut, with something he knew she would not be able to refuse.

“We’re going to be hitting the Hall of Flowers in Belgrade.”

Priscilla glared.

“And?”

Zoran then added, motioning for the others to stay silent, “You’ll be pleased to know they have quite the sword collection.”

Priscilla raised her eyebrow at that.

“Go on?”

Maritza added, “The Caddy is going to be exhibited at the Hall of Flowers. Now, as y’all know, they’ve got all kinds of shit related to the Marshal there. Batons of Athleticism, memorabilia, etc. Some of that shit is a collection of magic swords given to the Marshal as gifts.” Pausing, Maritza added, “Look that up if you want to, if y’all don’t believe me.”

Priscilla then sat back, stroking her chin. A pained, conflicted look came over her face which seemed to swing between sensible refusal and a desire to potentially add to her sword collection. After all, no self-respecting Cornerian was without a sword.

A few minutes went by, before Priscilla added with sudden warmth and joy, “No, no, I’ve seen the pictures. I do believe you.” Priscilla added, “If you let me take my pick of those swords on this job, I will lend my sword to your aid. Consider it payment for my services.” With a pause, Priscilla began to rationalize out loud, “Besides, the Marshal’s swords don’t deserve to be stuck with a stuffy group like the Partisans. They need to be somewhere else, somewhere good. Like Corneria. Yes.”

The others exchanged glances, but Zoran motioned for them all to keep silent as Priscilla went, “Right. So, what’s the plan and the day?”

“We’re still working on that. Right now, we need to swing five-o over to our side and we’re assembling a team to take down the Hall, and you just joined it,” Maritza said.

“Right. Okay, so we’re going to need to recon the Hall, and also do other tasks like plan logistics, escape routes, so on.” Priscilla then said, “Anyway, I’ll talk with Zoran about how we’re going to really do this down the line. He may be a cur, but he’s a surprisingly good cur when it comes to all this.” Priscilla then motioned and spoke to Maritza and Svet, going, “Look, I’ll catch up with you folks once I’m done here. Now, get.”

And thus, Maritza and her crew were outside the dojo, and Zoran said, “And now, we are four.”

“Yeah. Three dumbfucks and one bitch whose sword fetish is gonna make the haul that much more difficult. I mean, damn.”

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network


....Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation. We now cut to another installment of our upcoming new action crime drama series, The War of the Car. Based on the hit nonfiction best seller by Henry Mackensen!

Somewhere Outside Belgrade
Several Days Later

Being far from the urban confines of Belgrade in some rural farmstead made Lieutenant Dervishalidovic nervous. So was having to dress in casual clothing again with only a Turkish phaser machinepistol for defense. But, riding as one of several plainclothes bodyguards with a variety of disproportionally powerful small arms to a potentially high-stakes meeting with an informant in the middle of God-knows-where was the most challenging of all.

What wasn’t making anything easier was that Anna, the strange agent from the earlier meeting with Mr. Ante, was handling this matter alongside another one of Mr. Ante’s agents in her usual stonefaced, hard charging, better than you style. Anna had even driven the Volkswagen to the farmstead. Dervishalidovic had been under the impression she was just another consultant for Mr. Ante’s network. And yet here she was, handling a dangerous operation on what was presumably Mr. Ante’s behalf and even driving the car. Rumor had it she even forced the meeting here to the middle of nowhere, the better to deny potential hiding spots favorable to the enemy.

The agent next to Anna was someone that Dervishalidovic could recognize, at least. The new comrade was a new hire with a mysterious past. Dervishalidovic wasn’t a gambling woman, but she wagered that the woman was Malgravean. Between the Italianate accent, sorta-Asian sorta-Italian sorta-Polish features, somewhat below average stature, and an expertise in engineering that befuddled her, the Lieutenant had a vague notion that the new woman was Malgravean. This was welcome to Dervishalidovic. She knew that the Partisans would always appreciate the expertise any expert they could hire, as long as their commitment to Brotherhood and Unity and upholding the Marshal’s Guidance was sincere. In turn, this new woman--her name was Monika?--would be able to keep Anna in line, hopefully.

Sure enough, Anna turned to the Lieutenant and said, “Okay. Kiddo, follow me and Monika into the house. The rest of you, take up positions and set up a perimeter around the meeting site. Anything goes wrong, you let us know.” The rest nodded, and soon, the squad began to fan out to cover the possible entrances and exits in a perimeter outside of the small house.

Anna knocked on the door of the house in a ritualistic manner. Tap-tap-a-tap-tap-pause-tap-tap. The voice inside replied simply, “Uh, sure, hold on!” The door opened up, revealing a skittish-looking man hiding under a hoodie and holding a Glock close to his chest in a waiting dining room. Anna immediately ordered, “Put the gun down, Đorđe. It’s just us.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Đorđe the Skittish put down the Glock on the dining table in the room and held his hands up as Monika walked forward to frisk the informant. As this occurred, Anna asked, “Let’s sit and chat. Please.” Monika then motioned that Đorđe was safe, and so the party sat at the table.

“You know why we’re here, Đorđe?” Anna asked sternly, folding her hands and placing them on the table without delay.

“Yeah, some kind of mole-hunt. I know you and your buddy Mr. Ante are cleaning house, looking to safeguard the prize they got in the Hall of Flowers by cloak and dagger.” Đorđe said with a nod.

“You would be correct, Đorđe,” Anna’s reply was. “We’re cleaning house. And word is that someone not only knows who told the Prophet’s Children and our people where the Chariot was when they found it in that car collection in Austria, but also that particular someone knows about potential plots by the Children to get the car back.” With a glare, Anna asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be that someone, would you?”

“C-come on!” Đorđe said that with a nervous, eager-to-please tone. “I know that y’all are out for blood, but come on. I’m an information broker. I tell people things. I keep things in confidence. I don’t cross the streams though, and the fact y’all are sayin’ I did is just….it’s bullshit! Ya dig?”

“We are not in the hole-making business, sir,” Monika said with a frown. “We’re in the problem-solving business.”

Anna nodded, and quickly followed up with, “And you sir, are the problem until you prove you’re not.” Leaning forward uncomfortably close to Đorđe, Anna then seized him by the collar and asked, “Now, I’m gonna ask you again, and if you don’t answer my question properly, I’m going to leave you in a sauna until you get comfortable with the notion of telling me the truth.” With an aggressive shake, Anna added, “And if I have to, I will drag your ass from the beyond in a seance to get the truth out of you. You get me?”

Đorđe nodded and went, “Okay, okay!” raising his hands up. “Fuck. Okay, fine, I told those fuckin’ Prophet’s Children assholes about the car in Austria, man. Jesus!” Đorđe hastily added--with a wince afterwards of regret--”Ain’t my fault the Children paid more! You motherfuckers are stingy!”

“First honest thing you’ve said all day. Now, talk. Do you know anything Đorđe about plans to retake the Chariot?” Leaning in to where Đorđe could smell Anna’s mint-scented breath, Anna, asked, “Anything?”

“I don’t okay? I fucking don’t!”

“Don’t lie to me, Đorđe!” Anna shook Đorđe by the collar and shouted, “DON’T MAKE A FUCK OUT OF ME!!””

“I swear, I don’t know, you crazy bitch!” Đorđe looked to Stana and Monika, going, “Get her the fuck off of me! I don’t know a thing!”

A hearty slap occurred, followed by a shout, “You don’t learn much either, clearly, because you’ve been warned I don’t like liars!” Grabbing Đorđe’s collar even more, Anna unceremoniously and forcefully pulled Đorđe across the table and tossed him to the back of the room with a swift movement, sending him flying across the table and into the wall with a thud and a scream of pain.

“Fuck! I don’t know nothing! I don’t know nothing!” Đorđe held his hands out, pleading as Anna stepped up. Monika held her hand out, going with a firm stare, “He’s not lying. He knows nothing.”

Monika, at that point, sniffed the air and whipped out her phaser, going, “He’s also rigged with a tracking beacon injected into his bloodstream, and it just went live.”

Đorđe smiled and went, “Parlay?”

The only reply was a sudden phaser blast from Monika, which reduced Đorđe to ashes. Anna muttered, after witnessing Monika’s shot and then recovering, “Stana, get ready!” as she heard the sounds of engines roaring in the distance.

“I’m letting my people know,” Lieutenant Dervishalidovic said as she began texting her people--only to be interrupted by a stray bullet missing her by mere inches.

Soon, weapons were drawn, and the Lieutenant motioned for the others to get down as bursts of machinegun fire began ripping through the house.

---

Outside, the cavalcade of anonymous looking Volkswagens pulled up and began surrounding the house, disgorging a number of armed goons with any number of weapons. Kalashnikovs, PKMs, M53 machineguns, dedicated marksman’s rifles of all sorts, so on. Some of them wore wolves’ and dog ears and tails on their otherwise human forms that were clad in tracksuits and balaclavas. Others were similarly dressed ordinary humans. A flag bearing the image of The Prophet--the African-American man with the long, thin face and do-rag on his head from whom the Children sought guidance--rose from one of the cars, as the war party rushed the house and began opening fire.

The Partisan squad running interference returned fire in kind, even as one of their number was hit by gunfire.

The Partisans’ M53 Machinegun began firing long bursts which sounded less like individual shots and more like an angry incoherent buzzing. Meanwhile, other Partisans in what rather sparse cover existed began firing back with their Kalashnikovs and even the odd grenade toss. The bursts had the effect of cutting down at least a few of the Prophet’s forces, but the others kept coming. With the presence of supporting fire from the machineguns and not a few grenades, however, the Prophet’s forces would continue their frenzied assault, moving around to try and probe other parts of the house for a weak spot in the lines.

As all this occurred, one wolfperson hiding on the roof of the farmhouse, armed with an ancient but still deadly M76 marksman’s rifle, aimed the weapon, peered through the scope, and began firing off shots resulting in puffs of visible red mist where heads used to be. Her aim was for the machine gunners providing covering fire to the enemy soldiers rushing the farmhouse. Clumsy and ill-informed as the machinegunners’ support was, it was still machinegun fire and it had to go. The shots rang out, and several struck true. However, the wolfperson had to stop firing and get down as her position was raked by return fire from the Prophet’s forces. Bullets whizzed over her head and being pinned was a very real thing.

A very real thing coupled with a grenade suddenly landing next to her.

“SHIT!”

The wolfperson then immediately picked up the grenade and tossed it back. The grenade detonated in mid air, amongst a group of thugs, shredding a number of them with the ensuing explosion.

Still, more of the thugs were coming in, and although the Partisan lines were holding as they fell back to the house using bounding overwatch, only the sudden chorus of ancient Partisan music sung by the Lieutenant from within the farmhouse at high volume and with rather high energy kept the courage of the defenders up against enemy fire.

“Ostavi me kata
Pa Anda, Pa Reza
Al’ me ne ostavi
Moja mitraleza….”

All of the Partisans began singing, and soon, the woman soon found her opening. Aiming through the scope again, she began sniping more and more….

---

From the inside of the house, Anna and Monika seemed energized by the Lieutenant’s song, even as the other Partisans were getting inside and holding up under the cover of the house. Before long, they got the courage to take cover and begin firing out the windows while trying to find a way out.

But while Monika continued to make use of her phaser machinepistol which sent out rapid bursts of energy fire into the enemy ranks, Anna, reaching into her coat, pulled out a weapon that looked as if it came from another time. Namely, it was a revolver with a long vent rib on the top, black rubberized target grips, and a cylinder latch which Anna pulled back. Anna checked the revolver--and sure enough, it had six slugs of .45 Rampant Colt Magnum ready to go. Closing the cylinder with two hands, Anna pulled back the hammer, and lining her shot quickly, she let loose a shot.

The first shot flew out of the barrel with intense speed, flying as a blue streak into a group of enemies. The shot tore through three infantry at once, sending up all manner of efflua as the enemies collapsed in any number of conditions. Anna rode out the recoil from the revolver, which was noticeable even with the heft of a long barrel and cocked the hammer again and fired into the thick of another group to similar effect. The process would go on, and when Anna ran out of shots, she opened the cylinder, held the revolver with the barrel facing upwards, carrefully struck the ejector rod using the barrel to guide her hand, and then pointed the revolver down as she pulled out a speedloader and slammed it into the rear of the cylinder, causing six more shots to emerge before tossing the speedloader to the side and opening fire again.

All the while, the Lieutenant kept singing and shooting, realizing that the “special techniques” her mentor had taught to her were doing their work.

The Partisans might survive this encounter after all. But for now, they had to hold. In the meantime, the Lieutenant kept sending out signals for help, hoping for any relief from nearby Partisan detachments--or those whom the Partisans considered as allies.

---

The Prophet’s Children were in a bind as the action proceeded onwards.

On the one hand, the Partisans were surrounded, and they would likely have only so much ammunition and bodies to go around. Indeed, the gunshots had slowed, though magic missiles and other spells had taken their place.

On the other hand, the Partisans hiding in the farmhouse had slaughtered a good number of their forces, and looked to slaughter many more of the Prophet’s Children before the night was over. The Partisans had forced the battleground into a rural setting of their choosing, and even if the advantages were slight--an older farmhouse with few trees for cover--the fact of the matter was that the Partisans were in cover with a dedicated marksman and working automatic weapons and what appeared to be a fucking hand cannon, and the Prophet’s Children had to assault the position.

Along with the magic, the advantage favored the defense. And if the Prophet’s Children were to win, it would not be a victory that they would be proud of.

So, for the moment, the Prophet’s Children settled into crude siege lines, trying to sort out what they would do next. Some suggested pressing the attack. Some suggested “getting the homies together” and assaulting the farmhouse. And some suggested just firebombing the building and leaving. Too many homies had died today--why feed some more to the Partisan propaganda machine? Everyone knew that the Partisans were likely livestreaming this shitshow, or at least liveblogging it.

In the end though, the answer came swiftly.

Namely, a series of explosions ripped through the Prophet’s Children’s ranks. As the whole environment was thrown into disarray, figures clad in black versions of the Partisans’ uniforms wearing gasmasks began suddenly appearing through the ranks, opening fire with suppressed Kalashnikovs and tossing grenades and even taking axes and knives to enemies’ necks. They faded in and out, appearing and disappearing at will and generally causing a mess.

It wouldn’t be long now.

----

A knock came on the door of the Farmhouse. Anna sidled up to it, and kept her revolver close. She shouted, “Who the fuck is it?”

“It’s the Response Team, open up!”

The Lieutenant nodded, and soon, Anna opened the door, letting in one of the black-uniformed-and-gas-mask-clad women who said, “You guys ready? We’re getting your asses out of here, comrades--ride’s waiting!”

The party nodded, and soon began running and keeping their heads low as more of the black-clad men appeared and reappeared in the midst of the chaos. The Lieutenant saw bodies belonging to the Prophet’s Children outside, in various states of decapitation, gunshot, and other manners of death. In front of them was a car waiting to take them out of there.

Just then, one of the Prophet’s Children appeared from the side with a shotgun. And then another. Before they could act, however, Anna suddenly and violently reacted.

First, Anna shoved her revolver into the chest of the man with the shotgun and pulled the trigger, sending the man sprawling in a rather dramatic bisection and then promptly roundhouse kicking the other in the face before tossing her revolver in the air, leaping up, grabbing the enemy by the neck using a scissor kick before twisting her body and legs all at once, sending the opponent flying with a sickening crunch to the neck before sticking a three point landing.

The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. To that, Anna said, wiping her brow as she caught the revolver and holstered it, “Eat your vegetables,” before getting into the car along with the rest of the Partisans. Shrugging, the Lieutenant could only follow suit, exhausted from a long siege and now what was sure to be a long debriefing coming soon.

[New Dornalia]

Dornie News Network

Hello, this is Gracie Liang at the Foreign News Desk, and welcome to NDBC News. Tonight’s top story:

OOC: Done with Legokiller

Dornalia Signs Agreement

In what is being hailed as “a step forward for the Open Door Policy,” Secretary of State Norton Simons today signed a Treaty of Friendship with President Venus Evergarden. Among the Treaty’s key provisions, the Treaty authorizes the Dornalian Government to have long-term basing rights in the Great Fairy Alliance at a new facility built by the Colonial Republic, but legally under the control of GFA authorities. Additionally, the treaty provides for foreign aid shipments to help facilitate the reconstruction of the GFA, amongst other measures.

The Treaty effectively formalizes the Dornalian Government’s presence in the GFA, which began during the Winter War in Silverdale with the arrival of a peacekeeping force deployed to contain a civil war which began between local factions as part of Operation Oberon. Said peacekeeping force, known as Task Force 46, currently remains in the country. That said, it has experienced recent drawdowns with the decline in civil unrest in the GFA, as well as with many units reassigned to “Fort Apache” in Silverdale or to work with the Malgraveans in the area of the MARC not impacted by the Return of Tambelon as part of Operation Golden Puffin.

Analysts indicate that this is yet another sign of deepening Dornalian commitment to the Mystrian region as part of its “Open Door Policy” designed to ensure a peaceful, prosperous Mystria for all. This commitment has been stepped up in recent years with the formation of a dedicated Mystria Command (CREMYSTCOM) led by Admiral Joseph Harriman Krueger to handle Mystrian affairs as well as significant involvement in actions such as the Winter War and the ongoing efforts against Grogar with Lend-Lease deliveries to Malgrave--already a significant ally of the Colonial Republic in the region along with Rohane Alista--and Kouralia.

The agreement has its critics, with some Dornalian politicians blasting it as “an exercise in neo-colonialism” and in the words of Representative Arlo Pashjian (Broederbond Front-Mars County), “an unwarranted deepening of Dornalian involvement in a region which is going to Hell in a handbasket.” Still, many are optimistic about the alliance; Secretary of State Simons himself commented, “This is a workable, fair agreement for all parties that ensures the CRE can continue to maintain its commitment to collective security, while providing the GFA with the tools it needs to become a stable, functioning nation again.”

The Local Fairy News outlet in GFA speaks positively of this arrangement as the transaction of a more functional republic than ruled by the few powerful ‘jerk fairies’ will be smooth! Secretary of State Empress let out a statement that Silverdale looks forward to the recent development of the GFA and Dornalian State as it’d bring another step to peace in the region.

Thank you for watching the REAL NDBC news--New Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation news--not those jokers at National Dornalian Broadcasting Corporation.