The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

A staging-point for declarations of war and other major diplomatic events. [In character]


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Posts: 761
Founded: Nov 23, 2010

Postby Slovitrea » Tue Aug 23, 2011 7:09 pm

[ MT 1981 ]

[ Mature ]

April 14, 1981
Mogadishu, Somalia
0220 hours local time

They came like ghosts in the night, their Mil Mi-24 "Hind" transport helicopters swooping in, as thick black threads, fast ropes, were thrown out of the open doors, and were quickly followed by camouflaged infantrymen. The soldiers of the 122nd Special Tactics Battalion, Vympel Team, were the best in the world, assigned to carry out missions deep behind enemy lines, and succeed. One by one, the thirty soldiers swept down, silently covering their approach with their AP-1 assault rifles and RPK-74 squad automatic weapons.

Meanwhile, a single Hind provided overwatch, its 30mm cannon and rockets as a deterrent to any insurgent threat. Silently, the soldiers advanced down the street, scanning for movement. Thirty meters to their front, a careless Somali sentry kicked rocks around, while his AKM lay two feet away, on a chair. He had heard the helicopters, but assumed it was the Slovitreans buzzing homes again, to frighten wives and children. Infidels, he thought, right before a knife entered the left side of his kneck, and quickly exited. That thought would prove to be his last.

"Let's go," whispered the team leader, checking the chamber on his AP-1. They were locked and loaded. At the end of the street sat a pair of inconspicuous Toyota pickups, with the engine block removed. What any bystander did not know, was that the hood was packed full of Semtex high explosive, and would blow this city block into the next century. No evidence, no survivors.

The group reached the target house. A large metal gate blocked the main entrance, but allowed viewing of a pair of 1950s Ferraris parked in the front lot. Sheik Hassan Mohammed, the man who financed the bombings of the fuel stations at Alexeigrad and Plavost was inside, and the Ferraris sealed that certainty. The man loved his cars more than he loved women, and he would never let them out of sight.

One of the soldiers, his face covered with a tan balaclava, placed a Thermite charge on the gate. Average reaction time for Mohammed's security team was one minute twenty seconds. Average response time of a BTR-60 stationed out back, two minutes ten seconds. The Slovitreans had a very small window from when they blew the charge, to certain death. The team leader gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Go."

In a flash, the charges had detonated, and a fifteen-man team stormed in, their rifles raised. Meanwhile, the other half of the group went around to the back of the compound, to plant a pack of Semtex on the compound's fuel supplies. The resulting explosion would distract the defenders, enough for the team to enter, kill Hassan, and get out of there. The team leader, NAME REDACTED, raised his AP-3, and fired a pair of shots at a sentry on the balcony, who was fumbling for the safety of his M16A1 rifle. The man dropped, an egg-sized hole in his right temple.

Meanwhile, the team stormed inside, shooting anyone that moved. Near the end of the hallway, they shot a man who looked an awful lot like Hassan, and after closer examination, it was confirmed. The HVT was eliminated. Time to exfiltrate, and fast.

As those thoughts whipped through the team leader's head, he watched as lights turned on in the back, to allow crews to start up the BTR. Unknown to them, the house's fuse box had been rewired to the Semtex charge on the fuel tanks.

The tank crew no longer existed, their remains resembling extremely overbaked ziti. Now, just as swiftly as they had arrived, the teams had left, climbing into their armored helicopters among heavy RPG fire. Just before departing, the team leader pressed his detonator. The trucks loaded with Semtex detonated, levelling the entire compound.

"This is Vympel. Objective complete. Friendly casualties, none. Hostile casualties... total. Hassan is dead."

The Hinds flew off into the darkness, like the ghosts the team were.

Historical Note: From 1979 to current day, it has been confirmed that Vympel Team, or their counterparts, were involved in no less than one hundred assassinations of terrorist leaders, "disappearances" of corrupt officials, and rescue operations for downed spy pilots. Their casualty rate, apart from that of the Slovitrean-Rustonian War, has been a mere fourteen dead, and thirty-three others wounded in the line of duty.

Vympel Team remains active, combating threats to Slovitrea globally, and internally. Currently, they are stationed with the 127th Infantry Division, based out of Petrenkograd, in preparation for an imminent Rustonian invasion.

[NOTE: All conversations translated into English for ease of reading]

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United World Order
Posts: 4038
Founded: Jun 16, 2011
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby United World Order » Thu Aug 25, 2011 8:30 pm

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Freedom Is A Crushed Dream

Northwest Sturmburg Forest,Frankfurt, (UWO)

The Forest was quiet for the most part of GLF Trooper Sargent Frank Allison, He was patrolling a small section of the forest with a platoon of 45 men who were also patrolling, The men were equipped with AK47 Assault rifles and had a Machine Gun Nest equipped with RPK Light Machine guns that would have a clear kill zone for any trespasser’s that would stumble in their position, The trees made it difficult for Armor to pass through but smaller Infantry Vehicles could pass through,

Frank sat in his Foxhole with his AK47 rifle slung over his shoulder looking through a pair of binoculars for any trespasser’s, His Comrade Victor Wallis came to his Foxhole and stood over him with a smirk, "So Comrade find any intruders?" Victor said as he leaned against an oak tree his AK47 slumped against the tree as he blew smoke from his nostrils from smoking a lit tobacco ciggerate,

Frank looked up at Victor with a smile as he put the Binoculars down and stood up as he grabbed a ciggerate from his uniform shirt pocket, Victor passed his Lighter towards Frank as Frank nodded and lit his ciggerate and deeply inhaled then let the smoke come out through his nose.

"Not any yet, Just deer and some wild dogs for sure, how are you Comrade?" Frank said as he took another drag from his ciggerate as he sat back down unslinging the AK47 and placing it on his lap, Frank adjusting his Helmet correctly as Victor smirked and took a drag looking off into the forest as he replied,

"I’m doing well Frank, I've heard that some Troopers were executed in the town of Valash, God Bless their souls and let them rest in Paradise" Victor said as he lowered his head for a brief moment to give respect, Frank did the same as he took another drag and blew smoke into the air from the corners of his mouth,

"Well we just might be next. The assassination attempt failed and possible retaliations could come soon" Frank said shaking his head as he flicked the ciggerate away from him, Victor nodded in agreement as he looked up at the greenish leaves and blue skies that were getting cloudy,

"Heh, I knew that wouldn’t go as planned, I heard they captured the Getaway van and interrogated the people. And got some info from them before they locked them away in Prison" Victor said as he took another drag from his Ciggerate and leaned against the tree

Victor and Frank continued conversing with each other as the other troopers continued their patrol duties, Suddenly the men shook with fear as they heard several loud Booms shudder echo throughout the forest followed by several troopers chatting in a foxhole being blown apart by Artillery Fire, Two others were cut down by shrapnel as more Artillery shells rained down on their Positions,

Victor and Frank were at the front lines, Safe from the artillery shells that passed over them hitting other troopers that were yards away, Victor gripped his AK47 and aimed forward as he saw Several 31st Mechanized Division Soldiers rush towards them with their G36 Assault rifles and other weapons,

They were supported by Boxer Infantry Fighting Vehicles with M312 Heavy Machine Guns as they sprayed rounds towards the Troopers cutting down few as the troopers including Victor and Frank fired back with everything they had, The World Order Soldiers rushing at them fired at waist level some getting cut down by the Intense AK47 and RPK machine gun fire but they kept coming, Some of the troopers armed with RPG7s took aim at Boxer IFVs that were spread out to give maximum damage as the swooshes from the Rockets spiraling out from the RPG towards the Boxers slopped 4 inch armor which most of the rounds bounced off but one Rocket hit a medium sized tree knocking it down crushing a Boxer IFV Machine gunner sending blood splatter everywhere as the IFV reversed as the tree thumped against the forest floor,

The World Order Soldiers already in cover amongst the few dead they had put down accurate bursts of lead into the defending Troopers as more and more Troopers were being killed by the immense accurate fire from the World Order Soldiers, Victor and Frank were still firing back as Victor ducked down slumped in the foxhole as he took the empty clip out from the AK47 and tossed it on the ground as he grabbed a new clip from his Army bag and shoved it in as it clicked in place,

Frank was still firing as Victor got on his knees and fired at several World Order Soldiers dashing across from their previous position, Two went down with bullet holes in their arms and shoulders but the others got away to a different position, Frank grabbed a RPK from a dead Trooper and positioned the Tripod up and let loose spraying Lead at World Order soldiers still in cover, Suddenly a explosion erupted knocking Frank several feet away as his stomach was wet with blood the shrapnel from the mortar shell had killed him as Victor went over to him and a tear went down his cheek as he looked on at his dead comrade,

"Rest well Comrade, I will see you soon Frank" Victor said as he got up and grabbed the RPK and sprayed the soldiers coming at him as he walked forward towards them bullets whizzed past him as he continued, Suddenly he felt several sharp pains in his arm and chest as he fell to his knees and looked at his chest with a shocked expression from being shot several times, A World Order Solider with a fixed bayonet thrusted it into Victor's heart as his face showed his blood thirsty soul, Victor fell backwards dead his life was over and now he would reunite with his Comrade Frank in peace...
23:53 Moka "When GamePlay sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're not sending you. They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problems with us. They're bringing Trolls. They're bringing Raiders. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people."


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Founded: Feb 02, 2011

Postby -Deus- » Sat Aug 27, 2011 10:53 pm

To Be Perfect is to Change Often.

She rose from her bed, as graceful as a cloud with pale grey skin and jet black hair. She yawned, rubbing the dirt from her light blue eyes, flicking the frizzy strands of hair away from her face. Looking around she saw nothing but evidence of her majesty, her room cleaned only moments ago and scented with lemon or some other such fruit that she loved. It brought a smile to her face to know that she was in command and that she alone was the master of those under her roof. She jumped to her feet, a pair of servants strolling in, their eyes lifeless and their motions robotic, just as they had been taught. They dressed her first, and combed her hair. They bathed her, brushed her teeth, cleaned her face and even fed her after leading her downstairs into the kitchen. It was a charmed life, for sure and their work was nothing less than optimal – even so they were constantly met with criticism and critique as their work just wasn’t good enough.

And this is what made Natal think.

She had the perfect life and she was the perfect Agriaai woman, this much she knew and loved. No one could harm or even touch her, without her say so. One did not take a piss without her knowledge. She was the sun and the moon of this country, the absolute word of this land and the head of the people. She was unchallenged and everyone accepted this unspoken fact. Yet still, things lacked. As a country, Agriaan was only doing so well. It wasn’t a star on the international playing field or a threat to global freedom and security. It was simply there, just another kid trying to make it so to speak, and Natal hated this fact.

Even today, as she ate her breakfast, lapping up the milk and crunchy sugared cereal the maids feed her like a baby; she thought over this fact and dreaded it. The country was falling apart, that much was obvious; it was slowly degrading as the people became more and more upset with the current balance. The system was unravelling, first with the Memento Mori incident and next with the economic recession. She had taken measures to stop this, exerting her power by forcing herself onto other, dissident clans, effectively absorbing them into Casar while her private army enforced her version of law and order on the streets.

But still it wasn’t enough. The nation was disjointed and slowly dying of a debilitating cancer. The Kythan were close to disowning them and the Daian could invade at any time, conquering the country with mass force alone. A civil war could even erupt with the tactful release of a certain secret. The people, no matter how pressure and fear she put into them, would always be separated and geared towards revolution.

And then it hit her, as the final crunch of cereal made the room go silent with an awkward pause. The people simply needed a rallying point, something to make them unite together while still being pointed towards the direction in which she wanted. And after such a unifier was found, they would simply have to be pushed over the edge and allowed to run loose.

It was an odd plan, for an odd time of the day. She grabbed the bowl and spoon, yanking them from the hands of the dark tan skinned maid to her left side. She began to trot around, thinking, letting the idea sink in and evolve in her mind before she placed the bowl and spoon away. But something caught her attention, as all things do to great thinkers. She stared at the bowl, at its round shape and form, letting the idea’s seed grow and evolve from this influence in her mind until she finally found herself moving her hands over her gut and rubbing it softly.

And then it clicked. She smiled again, chuckling weakly while nodding and covered herself with the violet robe she wore loosely. “The perfect child…”

She began to walk, heading towards the stairs, her movements what you’d expect in an excited young woman. She shimmied up the steps, ignoring the few servants she passed as the idea evolved further and further until it was finally one, clear thought. She moved into her room, shooing away the second set of maids who had been cleaning the already sparkling chamber. She threw on a long sleeved black shirt with an abstract white design and generic black jeans, plopping herself down on her bed to pull up her solid black jack boots. She checked herself out in the mirror, nodding and smiling as she approved of the simple appearance before pulling on a newsboy cap and bolting back down the stairway.

She informed no one of where she was going. In fact, she neglected to even hint at or imply her absence as she pushed through the decorated wood door of her home out into the cold city streets. She looked around, taking in the sounds, smells and sights of the city in which she lived. She loved the place surely, as she began to tread through the fresh blanket of snow, the never ending blizzard of the country chilling her skin and bones but physically and mentally somewhat ignorable to the woman. It was, of course, only a natural part of life in Agriaai. She dug her hands into her pockets, rubbing her thighs to warm up her palms. It was always cold in Agriaai, natural part of life here or not, however.

She started to move to the right, heading towards the one and only place she knew would be safe to make her odd request. The idea was to; quite simply, create the perfect idol for the people. Such a feat wasn’t illegal, just socially frowned upon and extremely expensive. She couldn’t risk this. She was lucky enough to live within the most prestigious part of the Cagalli – or Cagallia to some – and could have easily called for a cab or other transportation method. But it was all too risky and could ruin her socially, which in turn would kill her politically, economically and quite possibly, physically.

She stuck to her path, heading directly towards what might be called an “SBG Clinic”. She frequented these places often, getting some form of her physical and genetic being tampered with whenever possible. She was addicted, in a way. She made a quick turn to the left, ignoring onlookers who may or may not have noticed her, even as she began to look down, and shield her face with her shoulders. She loved the attention, she couldn’t lie. She just hated the possibility of being found out and possibly shunned. ‘Dirty buggers…Turn away’

With another left turn, she was already there, the rusty red coloured brick building only two stories high. It was unmarked, with only one tiny hybrid car out front and a tiny sign on the chipped and stained wooden door. It had only taken five or ten minutes of walking, but already it was as if she had descended into a lesser part of town. She was disgusted slightly, but swallowed her pride and pushed through the door anyway.

The smell of dried blood and broken toilet hit her first, even if the lobby and halls were pristinely clean. There was a receptionist room and desk to her left, but no one was there. To her right was the lobby, which was empty as well; in front of her was a door. It was creepy, but she was unmoved. She moved towards the desk quickly and hit the buzzer with her fist, the echo of the buzz moving from a loud bellow to a faint whisper through the hallways of the office. She leaned against the entrance, closing her eyes for extended periods of time, thinking over her motivations and if she really wanted to do this. She did, she thought, she really did.

And then he appeared. “Hello” he started professionally, his voice flat and direct, the gaze in his left eye trailing off slightly “what can I do for you miss?”

She was put off at first, estranged by his lazy eye and blood stained clothes. He wore a dark red velvet coat, white dress shirt and dark blue pants that were also made of velvet. The blood that adorned his shirt was a dark red, rusted colour and the man gave off the stench of aftershave while his face was covered in stubble and tiny patches of bloodied skin. He looked around 42.

“This is a SGB clinic, correct?” She’d be direct, and get right to the point. She could tell he was harmless, socially speaking and that if he was indeed a political enemy of hers she could quickly put him and his story down. He nodded to her, and so she continued “excellent. I have a…odd request.”

His eyebrow went up, and his expression went from blind optimism at the sight of a customer, to curious doctor looking into a possible prize. “And what might this request be?”

She didn’t know how to explain it, truthfully speaking. In fact, she was clueless on what to say to this man now. She looked around and feigned embarrassment to give herself time and possibly win the man over to her case before she even spoke. Slowly she began “I’d, um, like a child – A son.”
She looked to the ground, still feigning embarrassment, forcing herself to blush and nervously smile. “I’m all alone at home. I…I really want a child, sir. A baby to call my own; I’d adopt, but it wouldn’t be mine.”

He wasn’t exactly moved. “So, why not go out and get preggers? You’re an attractive woman, you can do it.”

She took in a breath. “I have bad genes!” She shouted, diving more and more into her own charade. “Please, can you help me?”

She looked him in the eye, and let the uneasy silence speak for her further. Something about this man was off as he reluctantly began to nod. He turned his back on her and pushed through the door, beckoning her to follow. Natal smiled, and fell into stride, certain victory was hers.

“Well madam, I can help you, yes. You’d like a designer baby, I’d take it? Don’t get many requests like that.” He smiled and turned left, pushing through a large set of doors with Natal right on his tail. “Got any, eh, specifics in mind for the kid?”

“Yes sir. Make him perfect-“

He stopped, turning his head to her slowly while he laughed softly. “Perfect, my dear? There is no such thing.” He smiled and turned around, walking once more as Natal only rolled her eyes. He pushed through yet another set of doors, this time leading to a room filled to the brim with rows and rows of tiny vials, all labelled in alphabetical order. “This my dear, is where we…I, excuse me, store the little thing called DNA for people like you and you’re designer babies.”

She was in awe, the sheer amount of tiny white or red vials blowing her mind. “How do you categorize them all?”

“Hrmm? Usually by set. Although, I kinda also keep them in order by ethnicity or region. Either way, what’d want? You want a clone of yourself? You want a mutt?”

“I’d like, well, a perfect Arkani boy. Blonde hair, grey eyes, tall and lean. Intelligent and physically strong.” She scanned the rows and rows of vials. “Immune to Praxa, of course…he can’t be perfect, if he’s susceptible to such a horrible disease.”

He looked at her, rubbing his chin. “The Arkani set lacks natural immunization to Praxa, ma’am. If we could fully modify the gene set, we’d have had a cure for the virus ages ago. The Daian set, however…” His eyes slowly trailed off to the ground, his voice going limp if only slightly. “However, if I were to use the Daian set his skin pigmentation would be pale grey and he’d be at risk of heterochromia.” He left out a few other critical details, but the man wanted to make a sale, for he was a businessman.

She looked at the ground and shut her eyes. She feared it would come to this, that her perfect child would end up being a mutt. She could hide his genes, if only for so long, but if it was found out the entire operation would crumble. She cursed in her mind and nodded, giving him the go ahead.

“I’ll be taking bits and pieces of the Rithos, Telrosian and Anthropini set. I’m afraid to say, that if you truly want a ‘perfect’ child you very well will have to mix and match. At this rate, your child would be a mix blood with a majority cross between an Arkani and Daian.” He stopped, collecting the few necessary vials quickly, stuffing them into his pocket. “I predict him generally as you’ve described…This’ll cost quite a lot, and it’ll potentially take up to the standard nine months before the child is born. I’ll call you when you it’s time to-“

“Start the procedure now.” She interrupted quickly, the doctor’s eyebrow growing up and crinkling with confusion. “I’ll double your pay if you can begin the procedure and inseminate me now.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s simply unethical. There are tests, paperwork’s, procedures and much more to figure out before I can even begin to contemplate the injection.”

“Just do it!” She yelled out, yanking off her earrings and plopping them on the floor in front of him, the shining jewels catching the man’s interest as he scurried to the ground and picked them up, smiling as he nodded.

“I suppose we can start today. But be warned, for you’re inpatient’s will cost you my dear.”

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Founded: Jul 20, 2009

Postby Abruzi » Sat Aug 27, 2011 10:59 pm

The clock was ticking.



Flickering lights partially illuminated a bound and hooded man. There was a table with restraints, and a nondescript folding char that both sat opposite the bound man’s slightly sturdier wooden chair. A soft whisper, like the wind through the dead trees of the Utopian Dead Zone was just on the edge of the audible spectrum; taunting those listening by just being slightly too quiet. Dominating one wall was a one way mirror that concealed a pair of Internal Action Company Officers as well as an adviser from the Imperial Union of Variante.

The bound man shuddered, he had tried to hide in the slums of Outer-Utopia. Hell the man had almost made it into the Fortress of Malice, and once you were there you were untouchable. The Republican Security Force had nabbed him though, catching him just as he and his pitiful Gas Mask and Kalash men were about to make the final run to the shrine of the Gospodar Lubanja.

Naturally his minions had either died or been executed within minutes of his capture, only two or three had managed to escape into the sprawling Utopia Underground. Their dirty bomb had been found easily enough too, while background radiation hovered just above normal levels in most of the city, the amateurs had hidden it near the Siloviki Memorial Factory No. 032453, one of the most sparsely populated areas of the slums. When the scanners had passed through there the big ole radiation signature they received was enough to find the weapon in short order. It was already compromised and leaking harmful radiation, three men had been exposed to around eight hundred radogens per minute as they carted it out in an unarmored vehicle.

SOP was to use a highly shielded, highly valuable, and obvious armored transport, to do so however would’ve ensured that the local Gas Mask and Kalash thugs ambushed the convoy and took control of the device. Just because this particular vermin had hooked up with some wannabe tough guys, didn’t mean that the majority f the Gas Mask and Kalash Fighters weren’t elite. For the most part a prerequisite to being part of the Gas Mask and Kalash groups was service in the Red Army, and there was more than enough Spetsnaz Veterans floating around in the crime choked streets these days to give the security force a major headache.

The prisoner had been taken in by normal Security Force personnel, and quickly transferred to the jurisdiction of the elite, Internal Action Company. Unlike the majority of the Security Force Units, the IAC was airtight. Neo Bolshevists and Anarchists a plenty were investing the majority of the other units, many of The Contended were in fact higher ups in the Force. The IAC was the only unit that was above suspicion, this meant that not only would the prisoner not be slipped a cyanide tablet or a razor, but he would also be granted the hospitality of the most ruthless of the Republic’s Units.


The lights flashed on, hideously bright. Sterile white light shined downwards with such an intensity that the hooded man could feel it through his rough fabric hood. The two Officers walked in via the nondescript metal door and simply stood before him for a moment, savoring in the silence that would soon be broken by the man’s desperate screams. The larger of the two reached out and grabbed hold of the hood and a good measure of the man’s hair, pulling upwards with enough force, he tore out a chunk of the hair and removed the hood. It was not enough to phase the Contended, he just sat there and blinked furiously in the light, trying to focus on the men before him.

Slowly, with a care that was more suited to a doctor or surgeon; the second man drew forth a wickedly edged blade and licked it. Placing it on the table, he produced an entire medical kit, one of the specialized ones that included tools for surgery. The other man just stood there, ominously gazing upon the doomed prisoner with a hunger for violence that was almost tangible. As the first man finished, the second larger man sank down to the other man’s level and softly said,

" Nu tovarishch , kazhet·sya, chto vy proshli i oblazhalsya . My znaem, chto vy Ministerstva Udovletvorennostʹ , my znaem , chto vy planirovali eto v techenie neskolʹkih mesyatsev , my takzhe znaem, chto nemnogo derʹma , kak vy nikogda ne govoryat . YA nadyeyusʹ, chto, vozmozhno, my smozhem motivirovatʹ vas , chtoby izmenitʹ eto , no u menya net ryealʹnoĭ nadezhdy . YA znayu tolʹko to , chto ya sobirayusʹ naslazhdatʹsya prosmotrom moĭ drug vyrezatʹ vas. "

“Well Comrade, it seems that you’ve gone and fucked up. We know that you’re Ministry of Contentment, we know that you’ve been planning this for months, we also know that little shits like you never talk. I hope that perhaps we can motivate you to change that, but I have no real hope. All I know is that I’m going to enjoy watching my friend here carve you up.”

Smiling, The Contended replied,

"Yeshʹ derʹmo, i umeretʹ sotrudnika. Ministerstvo znaet svoe imya, my znaem vse o tebe vnutrennih malʹchikov dyeĭstviĭ. YA nadyeyusʹ, chto vasha semʹya i prot - "

“Eat shit and die collaborator. The Ministry knows your name, we know all of you Internal Action boys. I hope your family is well prot-”

The larger man delivered a savage punch that dislodged a few teeth, snapping the Ministry man’s head back and upwards. Nodding to the other man, he lifted the Contented up and threw him down upon the table. Hitting him again, he strapped in the man’s arms and legs, rendering him unable to move. With this savage burst of action completed, he walked around the table and sat in the chair, roughly even with the man’s left cheek. Looking down at him the IAC Officer softly muttered,

" Vy lohi uzhe yestʹ moya semʹya. YA hochu , chtoby vy znali , chto eta bolʹ, bolʹ, kotoruyu vy sobiraetesʹ chuvstvovatʹ sebya , v pamyatʹ o moyeĭ zhene Ivana i moego syna Kurilʹskih ".

“You fuckers already got my family. I want you to know that this pain, the pain that you are about to feel, is in memory of my wife Ivana and my son Kuril.”

Smiling, the Neo Bolshevist replied,

" Bʹyusʹ ob zaklad , chtolikvidatsii otryada iznasiloval yee prezhde, chem zakonchitʹ yee zhalkoĭ zhizni ... navernoe,rebenok tozhe. Malenʹkiĭ pedik , veroyatno, ponravilosʹ dazhe! "

“I bet that the Liquidation Detachment raped her before ending her pitiful life…probably the kid too. The little faggot probably enjoyed it even!”

Grinding his teeth, the IAC man rose instead of hitting the bound man again. Glancing upwards he softly said,

"Spetsialist Yuriĭ , vy mozhete nachatʹ ".

“Specialist Yuri, you may begin.”

With that he left the room and returned to the adviser behind the two way mirror.


Specialist Yuri was a methodical man, when he set down to do something it happened just as it was supposed to happen. That much was what made him a reasonably skilled interrogator, but his macabre joy in causing pain was what made him a genius of a torturer. His tool were laid out in the order that he would need them, starting with a range of fine and hideously sharp scalpels, ranging all the way to a heavy mallet that would crush the man’s knees with ease.

Spreading them around, he produced a badly rolled cigarette and lit it up with a small lighter. Toking it several times he held it out and slowly slide it into his soon to be victim’s mouth. The man smoked several times, no doubt savoring what he thought would be his last smoke. Taking the cigarette back, Yuri hit it twice more before extinguishing it on his tongue. Humming softly he grabbed hold of the smallest of the scalpels and almost reverently cut away the man’s clothing.

When this was complete, he stood above the naked man and simply said,

" Vozmozhno, vy zahotite zakrytʹ glaza ".

“You might want to close your eyes.”

Taking hold of a slightly larger scalpel he thrust it through the skin near the man’s wrist and slowly dragged it upwards, taking care to cut only deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to risk hitting a vein. He stopped at the elbow and returned to the wrist, doing this about six times. Then, snapping on a pair of latex gloves he reached in and slowly tore the man’s skin off in strips, taking advantage of the handholds he had just created. The prisoner cried out in agony, shouting things about some kind of safe house, he was Ministry of Contentment, those types always had fake intel to feed. Yuri stopped though, once he had exposed the raw flesh of the man’s left arm.

Pausing, he wiped a bloody hand across his face to get rid of the sweat, smiling as the blood slowly dripped down the bridge of his nose. Taking hold of his next tool, a cowbell looking device that would remind a person of a cheese grater, he slowly ran it across the raw wound. Chunks of the victim’s arm came away in bloody flecks, enough to cause agony the likes of which no sane man could endure for long, but not deep enough to risk hitting anything important. This continued for several painful minutes, with Yuri stopping only to switch his focus to the other arm. After enacting a similar operation, he grabbed two tunicates and tied them around the victim’s shoulders, just where the arm started to branch outwards.

Patting the victim on the cheek, he grabbed hold another set of restraints and immobilized the man’s core. Then Yuri took hold of a heavy bone saw and began to cut through the man’s upper limbs, savoring the cries that came forth from the man’s un-gagged mouth. Once both of them were cut free, Yuri unbound them and held them up for the victim to see. They never liked seeing bits of themselves he had concluded after no less than five years as head torturer for the IAC. Setting the parts in a bucket he sat down net to the man and said,

" My znaem, chto u vas yestʹvtoraya bomba. Gde eto? "

“We know that you have a second bomb. Where is it?”

The Ministry man’s head lolled around, no doubt close to unconsciousness. To combat this Yuri grabbed hold of a syringe full of adrenaline and slowly injected it into the man’s neck. It was a pity that he had cut off the man’s arms so quickly, it probably wasn’t healthy to inject things into the neck. This thought evoked a laugh from the Specialist, why was he supposed to give a fuck about this man’s health? He was sawing bits off of him for Lubanja’s sake! Suitably injected, the man looked up at Yuri and quietly said,

" Ubyeĭ menya ".

“Kill me.”

Yuri slowly shook his head and replied,



Rising back from the chair, he grabbed hold of the heavy mallet and walked over to the man’s knees. Standing over them he smiled and said,

" Vy znaete , bolʹshinstvo vashih tipov vsegda proigryvayut , kogda ya razrushitʹ vashi nogi, nikogda ne pozvolyaet mne dobratʹsya dookonchatelʹnogo i samym unizitelʹnym . YA iskrenne nadyeyusʹ, chto vy , tovarishch , yavlyayut·sya odnim iznemnogih posvyashchennyh ".

“You know, most of your types always lose it when I break up your legs, never lets me get to the final and most humiliating part. I sincerely hope that you, Comrade, are one of the dedicated few.”

Punctuating his statement by shattering the man’s right kneecap, Yuri was answered by cries of pain that surely are the stuff of nightmares for most people. Yuri however was not most people and in an act of sheer cruelty he grabbed hold of the broken joint and rubbed the frayed bones together, no doubt inflaming the already abused nerves. Repeating the move on the man’s other knee, he smiled as he slowly stopped and said,

" YA znal, chto ty odin iznemnogih, kto ne govorit mne, vse, chto ya hochu znatʹ, na dannyĭ moment. "

“I knew you’d be one of the few who doesn’t tell me everything I want to know at this point.”

The Neo Bolshevist slowly raised his head and screamed,

"Pozhaluĭsta! Pozhaluĭsta, ya vam skazhu ... YA skazhu vam ... ".

“Please! Please I’ll tell you…I’ll tell you….”

Yuri cocked his head to the side and said,

" Teperʹ, pochemu ya dolzhen hotetʹ , chtoby polozhitʹ konets etomu , zadavayavopros? My yeshche , chtoby dobratʹsya do moyeĭ lichnoĭ lyubimaya chastʹ. "

“Now why would I want to end this by asking a question? We’ve yet to get to my personal favorite part.”

The door opened, it’s hinges crying out almost as loudly as the victim. The larger man re-entered and nodded to Yuri, taking care to avoid stepping in any of the pools of blood. He grabbed hold of the abused victim’s frame and flipped him over, letting the man’s legs hang off the table. His ankles were locked into a another set of restraints. Nodding again to Yuri, the larger man said,

" Pomnite, chto vy bolʹny yebet , u nas yestʹ tolʹko tri chasa, poka yego soratniki dvigatʹsya vmeste soperatsiyeĭ ".

“Remember you sick fuck, we only have three hours until his associates move along with the operation.”

Yuri nodded and replied,

" Chertovski dovolen, po kraĭnyeĭ mere my mozhem doveryatʹ , chto oni budut priderzhivatʹsyavremeni tablitsy sostavleny v Tur ih bossy ".

“Fucking Contented, at least we can trust that they’ll stick to the time tables drawn up in Tur by their bosses.”

The larger man left the room and Yuri walked around to the Contented’s face. Sitting net to him he light another smoke and burned through half of it with quick tokes. Lowering it from his mouth he softly said to the man,

" Skazhi mne, gdebomba ".

“Tell me where the bomb is.”

The Neo Bolshevist looked up at him and instead of crying or saying something defiant like most victims, spit in Yuri’s face. Yuri slowly raised his cigarette and hit it again, making the tip burn brightly. When it was hot enough, he grabbed hold of the prisoner’s face and yanked his head up as far as the joint would allow. Grabbing his cigarette in his other hand, he thrust it into the man’s eye, twisting it slowly. Letting it fall to the ground, he shouted over the man’s cries of pain,

" Vy chertovski krysa, dolzhny znatʹ, chto pytaet·sya bytʹ vyzyvayushchim dlyaSlavyNeo Idyealʹno bolʹshevist·skoĭ tolʹko poluchit Vas vse huzhe i huzhe muk ! "

“You fucking rat, should know by now that trying to be defiant for the Glory of the Neo Bolshevist Ideal will only get you worse and worse torments!”

He walked around to the man’s read and produced a drill like mechanism from his bag. Spreading the man’s buttocks, he thrust the device into him and raised a hand to cover his face as the wicked drill bit went to work shredding the man’s rectum and lower intestines. They were nearing the end, and this violation was one of the approved methods for breaking the significantly harder individuals. Walked back around the man who shuddered in agony, Yuri sat again and softly said,

" Prosto skazhi mne, gde ona yestʹ, i on ostanovit·sya ".

“Just tell me where it is and it will stop.”

The Neo Bolshevist looked upwards and cried out,

"Horosho ... shtraf ya skazhu vam , poGospodar Lubanja ya skazhu vam ! "

“Fine…fine I will tell you, by the Gospodar Lubanja I will tell you!”

Nodding, Yuri rose and deactivated the wicked machine, looking to the window at the same time. Flashing a hand signal to his partner, Yuri ensured that the two turned off all cameras and left the room entirely. Yuri liked to be alone when a victim like this broke, he liked to bask in it. Producing a tiny thermal goggle form his kit, he glanced through the thin window to confirm that they were lone. Sitting back down heavily he leaned in towards the man and whispered,

"Ty zhalkiĭ meshok s derʹmom. Vy narushaete tak-to legko , ya udivlen, chto vy proshli otbor ! "

“You pathetic sack of shit. You break so easy I’m surprised you passed selection!"

Holding out his ungloved hand, Yuri exposed the tiny tattoo between his index and middle finger that marked him as a Member of the Ministry of Contentment. With his other hand he produced a syringe filled with a potent poison that would see the prisoner dead in seconds. Just before injecting it, Yuri the IAC Specialist whispered,

"Vpered kgosudarstvu , tovarishch ".

“Forward for the State, Comrade.”


The larger man and the adviser greeted Yuri as he exited the now silent torture chamber. They raised their heads in a wordless question and he replied,

" Ublyudok umer, ne uspev skazatʹ mne chto-nibudʹ, byli kakie-to yad kapsuly v yego zub. "

“Fucker died before he could tell me anything, had some kind of Poison Capsule in his tooth.”
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
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United World Order
Posts: 4038
Founded: Jun 16, 2011
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby United World Order » Sun Aug 28, 2011 1:11 am

[ PMT ]

Kids In A Mans War

The Northern front of Georgia was all but calm, Three cracked divisions of Homegaurd who were stationed in Georgia during the first days of the Separatists attacks were mostly kids 16 to 19 years old they were, some were shaken to the core by what they'd seen so far and some had gotten used to it and were hardened solders but they were kids in a man’s war,

The separatists had been battering the Northern front where the Homegaurd were positioned for weeks now, The Georgian Separatists were communists wanting Georgia to separate from Germania to form their own country but the Fuhrer wouldn’t have it and activated the Homegaurd which were trained killing machines that were kids mostly in their teens to fight the Separatists but there were other divisions that were out there,

Adrian Hans sat in his foxhole upon a ridge with his company of Guardsmen who were mostly his new friends even a new family for him, His buddy Franklin was only 16 and was sitting in the foxhole next to Adrian at the time sitting back smoking a ciggerate eagerly to release stress from days of fighting, Adrian looked over to Franklin smoking and smirked,

"Frankie, buddies think you can pass a comrade a smoke and a lighter?" Adrian said only being 15 and smoked regularly, that’s what being in the Home guard did to the kids, Made them smokers and they mostly won’t break the habit anytime soon, Franklin bopped his head and tossed him a lighter and a ciggerate from his Green camo shirt pocket which had traces of dirt and grass stains but the grass stains were barely visible since the shirt was green camo,

"Thanks comrade, really need this one" Adrian said putting the ciggerate between his wet lips and lit the ciggerate as he took a inhale closing his eyes briefly from enjoying it as he exhaled from his nose and mouth, Franklin flicked his ciggerate away and sat back in his foxhole looking up at the cloudy sky, He knew soon it was going to rain and that there dark green plastic jackets would need to be worn, Adrian looked through his binoculars for any movement, he saw none but just passing civilian cars and sometimes the casual guardsmen taking a stroll,

Franklin having his MG3 off to the side of him looked down at the road below even though it wasn’t that far down for most ridges in Georgia, Adrian then whistled to Franklin as Franklin grabbed the MG3 and positioned it on the tripod correctly and then opened the feeding chamber as Adrian went over and placed a fresh batch of ammunition in and held the end of the line of Ammunition as Franklin lined up his targets which were a platoon sized group of Separatists lightly jogging down the road with a Truck having a mounted 50cal machine gun,

The other men that were along the edge of the ridge took aim with their G36 assault rifles, Franklin squeezed the trigger softly as the crackle of the MG3 machine gun broke the tense silence on the ridge, The separatists were surprised by the sudden crackle of machine gun fire as several of them that had no chance in dodging for cover were mowed down bullets ripping their shoulders and even the sides of their skulls as they'd collapse on the street as the rest moved off into a long ditch as the bullets hitting the grass on the edge of the ditch kicked up dirt and piece of grass,

The truck stopped as the Machine gunner got off a short burst off at the ridge, A private two foxholes away from frank and Adrian fell backwards from being sprayed in the chest the bullets ripping through his chest and back as blood covered his green camo shirt, The Machine gunner on the truck after shooting several more minutes fell off the truck after a private got a lucky headshot with the G36 as the Machine gunner fell backwards hitting the rim of the truck and falling to the concrete,

The other men in the ditch were quick to lay down suppressing fire with their AK47s as one solider off to the right of the ridge fell off the ridge from getting hit twice in the face as the body hit several branches of a tree and thumped against the green grassy floor below blood spilling out, Franklin ducked down barely dodging being shot in the face himself,

Adrian opened the feeding chamber and put in a new batch of ammunition as franklin closed it and cocked the MG3 roughly, Franklin then aiming once more let loose with the trigger spraying lead along the ditch where several of the separatists ducked down but a slight two of them went down instantly but were probably wounded or dead, A Separatist tried to make a dash for the 50cal but was cut down short from intense fire from the Guardsmen upon the ridge,

Suddenly it was joy to their hears, A Boxer 105mm Mobile Gun vehicle had arrived down the road from the separatists as its 105mm auto cannon let loose and caused the truck to explode in a ball of flame, The separatists in the ditch rushed the opposite direction trying to retreat as the Boxer quickly gave chase to them, Luckily some Guardsmen on the ridge instantly took the remaining separatists out as the Boxer stopped and the guardsmen upon the ridge cheered in victory.
23:53 Moka "When GamePlay sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're not sending you. They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problems with us. They're bringing Trolls. They're bringing Raiders. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people."


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Founded: Jul 20, 2009

Postby Abruzi » Sun Aug 28, 2011 7:43 am

It Had to be Done.

The Ochagi Wastelands were the most hospitable, hardly even wastelands. There were trees, abundant sources of water, and very small numbers of mutants. To an outsider or one of the naïve Slum residents it would seem that the Ochagi area was just waiting for colonization, waiting for a bold few to go forth and make a new life amidst the slightly sickly trees and the contaminated ground water. To the Republic of Abruzi Ochagi was a hostile area, it’s namesake city owned by Galla. To the Neo Bolshevist Union, Ochagi was a prime target for terrorist or even limited Military Activities.

The remnants of the 74th Motorized Rifle Brigade moved slowly through the forests, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Moving in force like they were was almost unheard of since the Age of Strife and resulting occupation, they were making themselves a prime target for the collaborationists that cooperated with the Galla Occupiers. The risk however was quite worth the reward, for their comrades in the 24th Special Forces Brigade had secured a suitable Command and Control site for the awaited Winter Offensive. Armed primarily with the mix of small arms found in most Abruzian units, the 74th was also one of the fortunate few to maintain their hundred or so armored vehicles.

Five squat and deadly S-11 Main Battle Tanks led the formation, followed by several dozen BMP-3 and BTR-80 Armored Personnel Carriers. The unlucky men amongst the Motorized Rifle Brigade were forced to walk on foot, or worse; carry their unit’s crew serviced weapons. The Brigade was moving by component units, Battalions, Companies, Platoons, Squads, etc. and this alone meant that the junior officers of the Brigade were as crucial as the overall Operations Commanders. It was because of this that the Commissariat of Defense had requested more Political Officers from the Ministry of Contentment before this move, enough so that every company had their own Commissar.


" Tovarishch komissar , maĭor hotel bypogovoritʹ s vami ! "

“Comrade Commissar, the Major would like a word with you!”

Mikhail snapped his head upwards at the intrusion, shifting his focus from the chart that was illuminated by a small oil lamp to the ragged trooper standing in the doorway of his tent. It took him a second to process what the man said, and when he had he flashed a quick salute and responded,

"InformOsnovnye YA budu tam nemedlenno kaprala ".

“Inform the Major I will be there immediately Corporal.”

The Junior NCO turned and departed as quickly as he had come, no doubt hurrying to avoid spending any more time with the notoriously execution happy Political Officer. Mikhail knew that he was feared, to the point where he was not afraid of a shot in the back or a hand grenade in his pocket during a fire fight. Rising from the floor of his tent where he had sat, he waved to his aide 0242 to begin packing up his effects and the tent itself. 0242 complied with only a slight snigger and nod of his head, the man’s years in the Penal Legions and his addiction to the combat stimulants that were even now coursing through his body robbing him of speech.

Commissar Mikhail quickly slide into his greatcoat and strapped on his sidearm, putting his cap on last and with a sense of reverence. Once he was fully dressed, he changed the filter on his ever present Gas Mask and strode from his tent. Immediately he was greeted by the sight and odor of the S-11 Main Battle Tank that had been given to the Rear Guard of the 74th. It was an old one, one of the initial hundred models produced. It was accompanied by a squadron of eight T-72U Tanks, all lined up on either side like servants around a king. The metaphor was fitting, as the T-72 had proven to be a competent tank to some degree, but it still lacked the advanced sensors or modernized armor of the S-11.

Passing the attached Tankers, the Commissar briefly stopped in at one of the Infantry Squad’s dugouts, exchanging greetings and generally ensuring that the common soldiers were motivated both by fear but also by the glory of the Neo Bolshevist Ideal. His mission, to keep the troops motivated and to ensure that the Commander of this Company made decisions in line with the Party’s goals was a constant struggle. Daily Mikhail also had to discipline troopers who were either lax in their duties or actively spreading defeatist comments. The large number of executions that Mikhail had ordered had earned him the name, “Comrade Killer” from the troops, while they would never dare to say it to his face.

Commissar Mikhail was not troubled by being hated though, sometimes hate was more motivating than love. As he strode through the controlled chaos of the rear guard’s encampment, he saw all the evidence he needed to see to conclude that this company was at least nominally Ideologically Orthodox, something which the Party was starting to accept more and more. There of course were a few blind nationalists, serving the Neo Bolshevists because of their potential to re-unify Abruzi. There probably were even a few Anarchists, serving only because they were conscripted. The majority of the Company however were hard-line Neo Bolshevists, a fact that was demonstrated by the large number of attendees to “Comrade Killer’s” nightly Ideological Discussions.

Finally the Commissar entered the Major’s tent and nodded a greeting. Being outside of the normal chain of command, a Commissar never ha to salute an officer beneath Colonel, and even then it was a matter of preference. The Major likewise was not obligated to salute the Commissar, greeting him instead by handing him a lukewarm cup of coffee. Mikhail slowly took off his cap and slide off his Gas Mask, savoring in the breath of fresh air. Around Ochagi Gas Masks were not necessary, but the Commissar was forced to wear one for ideological purposes. The Gas Mask was regarded as one of the symbols of Abruzi itself, as well as one of the icons of the Neo Bolshevist Party, forcing the Political Officers to constantly wear them regardless of the need for one.

Sipping the coffee, Mikhail allowed about a minute to pass by before slowly asking,

" Tak Tovarishch maĭor, ya slyshal, chto vam nuzhno menya videtʹ? "

“So Comrade Major, I have heard that you needed to see me?”

The Major nodded, his face was heavily scarred and the motion appeared to make all dozen or so of them bend in slightly unearthly ways. He waved the Commissar over to a topographical map table and pointed to a low rise some seven kilometers from their rear picket lines. The rise was dominated by several buildings that appeared to be very sturdily constructed, as well as by a single radio tower that rose above all other structures. Allowing the Commissar to survey the site for a moment, the Major slowly said,

" Tovarishch komissar, my poluchili slovo ot nashyeĭ svyazi sKosmicheskimi voĭskami , chto obrazy obnaruzhilvpechatlyayushchuyu kollaboratsionist·skih sil zakrytiya na nas styla. Hotya u nas yestʹ sredstva , chtoby unichtozhitʹ ih vsilu na silu vzaimodyeĭstviya,polkovnik dal znatʹ, chto my ne mozhem pozvolitʹ sebe borotʹsyazatyazhnoĭ boĭ tak daleko ot nashego novogo raĭone operatsii. V svete etogo , ya reshil , chto my budem zhertvovatʹdolyeĭarʹergard derzhatʹprotivnika iz dostatochno dolgo, dlya obespecheniya zashchity artilleriĭskiĭ ogonʹ iz blizlezhashchih dvesti tridtsatʹ vtoroĭ brigady RSZO ".

“Comrade Commissar, we have received word from our liaison with the Space Forces that imagery has detected an impressive Collaborationist force closing on us from the rear. While we do have the means to destroy them in a force on force engagement, the Colonel has made it known that we cannot afford to fight a protracted battle this far from our new Area of Operation. In light of this, I have decided that we will sacrifice a fraction of the rear guard to hold the enemy off long enough to secure shielding artillery fire from the nearby 232nd MLRS Brigade .”

Commissar Mikhail nodded and replied,

" YA polagayu, chto vy hoteli menya soprovozhdatʹ i vesti eti voĭska iz-za geroicheskiĭ i samoubiĭstvennyĭ haraktermissii "?

“I imagine that you would like me to accompany and lead these troops due to the mission’s heroic and suicidal nature?”

The Major nodded and ended the conversation by saying,

" Vy poluchite pyatʹ iz desyati T-72 osnovnyh boevyh tankov , a takzhe chetyre otryady soldat , tri strelkovyh i odin pulemet . Chetyre paroma BTR budet vash vytesnitʹ smesta , no oni budut zatem peryeĭti k vossoedinitʹsyakompanii. Kak tolʹkoartilleriya nachinaet padatʹ, ot·stupatʹ kobshchyeĭ tseli. Mne porucheno soobshchitʹ vam, chto pri nyeobhodimosti vy i vashi lyudi dolzhny idti v nory i formyotryada Starasyel'ski Ochagi ".

“You will receive five of the ten T-72 Main Battle Tanks, and four squads of soldiers; three Rifle and One Machine Gun. Four BTRs will ferry your force out to the location, but they will then move to rejoin the Company. Once the artillery begins to fall, retreat towards the overall Objective. I have been instructed to tell you that if necessary you and your men are to go to ground and form the Starasyel'ski Ochagi Detachment.”

Nodding, the Commissar concluded with,

"Vpered kgosudarstvu , tovarishch maĭor! "

“Forward for the State, Comrade Major!”


The high ground was broken up by large rocks, chunks of concrete from one of the seemingly sturdy structures mixed with natural boulders. The radio tower still stood, though it hung unnaturally on one of it’s support cables. The ruins of the two buildings were both study enough, and it was here that the Commissar deployed the two Crew Serviced weapons that the Machine Gun Squad had brought with them. Breaking the Rifle Squads into fire teams, he ordered them to dig a slit trench between the two buildings which would serve as the main strongpoint.

The five T-72 MBTs were partially concealed behind the ruins, and a camouflage tarp hid them from the enemy’s prying aerial eyes. Their crews were all close by, taking shelter in the remains of a cellar. When the enemy came, the T-72s would be held in reserve as long as possible, emerging only to counter an enemy armored threat. The local collaborationists used a mixture of foreign armored vehicles, but they were all assumed to be equal or greater than the Neo Bolshevist models.

Just as the field works were constructed, the first of the enemy scouts made themselves known. Obviously a conscript, the man allowed himself to be skylined while cresting the far ridge. Mikhail held his men back though, allowing the now located scout to worm his way to only fifteen meters from the building ruins. Allowing the best of the Attached Snipers, Private Krasnyi to take the final shot at the man. Mikhail was not disappointed as the specialist sent on 7.62x54 R round through the man’s forehead.

It was an exercise in futility though, because the enemy located them soon enough via low helicopter pass. The impromptu unit had several Strela-IIIs, but the enemy helicopter was able to deploy countermeasures and escape. Grinding his teeth in anticipation, the Commissar shouted into the radio,

" A vot i oni ! "

“Here they come!”


The first two waves were just probes, infantry units sent to die in order to relay crucial information. Mikhail tried to keep his machine guns quiet, and with luck these doomed men told their superiors they were fighting a much larger force than they really were. This paid off as the enemy commander exercised extreme caution, committing his troops a little at a time. Mikhail himself was confident that at this rate they’d last well beyond the shield artillery barrage when the enemy commander played his ace in the hole. Two deadly M1 Abrams Tanks crested the ridgeline and accompanied at least two platoons of infantry.

Mikhail responded by ordering the T-72 men to mount up, and in several minutes the throaty growl of their engines was audible over the roar of the section machine guns and the chatter of the individual soldier’s Kalashnikovs. Slowly they rolled forward, firing ranging shots at the Abrams which quickly shifted their focus from the ruins to the armored squadron opposing them. At least four of the T-72 shots connected with the Abrams, only to either be defeated by the armor or to simply bounce off. Return fire was deadly and accurate, tearing through one tank’s turret and immobilizing another with a round to the right track.

Enemy infantry kept streaming over the hill in larger and larger units, obviously emboldened by the victory of their armored vehicles. The Commissar slowly drew his revolver and shouted into the radio,

" Ni odin Tovarishchi shagu nazad! My zashchishchaemzadnyeĭarʹergarde, umeretʹ zaIdyealʹno , i vy budete privet·stvovatʹLubanja v zagrobnoĭ zhizni ! "

“Not one step back Comrades! We defend the rear of the rear guard, die for the Ideal and you will be greeted by the Lubanja in the afterlife!”

His men responded with a guttural cry of,

" Ubyeĭ! "


As if in answer to their shout-prayer, the lead Abrams of the Pair exploded, an armor piercing sabot finally forcing it’s way through an already weakened area. Unable to celebrate, the Neo Bolshevists watched in horror as the remaining T-72s were knocked out of the struggle as quickly as the lone enemy tank could open fire. Just as he was about to abandon all hope, a voice that was not the squadron commanders relaying orders and situation reports flashed across the radio,

" Tovarishchi , eto potop , patronov konfiskovatʹ v dvuh mikrofonov kak kopiyu? "

“Comrades, this is Deluge, rounds impound in two mikes how copy?”

The Commissar smiled widely beneath his Gas Mask and replied,

" Tovarishch potop eto komissar Mihail , tverdye kopii! U menya yestʹ po kraĭnyeĭ merevraga polk zalivki v moe gorlo , yesli by vy mogli uskoritʹ etih raundov bylo by otsenili. "

“Comrade Deluge this is Commissar Mikhail, solid copy! I have at least an enemy regiment pouring down my throat, if you could speed up those rounds it’d be appreciated.”

There was a moment of static before the Deluge responded with,

"Negativnyĭ Tovarishch komissar, my dolzhny priderzhivatʹsyaraspisaniĭ . Nachatʹ vyvod svoih lyudyeĭ syeĭchas,raundy budut bolʹshie. "

“Negative Comrade Commissar, we must adhere to the time tables. Begin withdrawing your men now, the rounds are going to be big.”

Commissar Mikhail knew better than to argue against adhering to the standard operation procedures and instead left his perch in the ruins to join his men in the slit trench. Calling all the NCOs together, he relayed orders to withdraw to each of the men, electing to remain with the rear of the rear guard that would pull out only as the first rounds fell. These luckless troopers were holed up in the ruins of one of the buildings and as the Commissar and their NCO re-joined them, they delivered the grim news that ammunition was running horrendously low. With the large numbers of enemy infantry that were being held off only by their constant barrage of rifle fire, it was unlikely that they’d be able to fix them long enough for the artillery to land and do it’s job.

To make matters worse, the enemy tank was slowly rolling towards them, firing bursts from it’s coaxial gun and using it’s main gun to systematically destroy the upper levels were the Sniper Krasnyi was hunting Officers. With few options, the Commissar looked over the assembled spare munitions hunting for something that could slow an enemy tank. His eye seized upon the squad’s lone anti-armor mine, an old TM-35. The explosive was surely too old to pierce the hull of the mighty Abrams, but perhaps it could shred the tracks and immobilize the killing machine, forcing it to fall prey to the incoming arty.

Turning to the Squad’s NCO, the Commissar said,

" Tovarishch , pomniNeo Idyealʹno bolʹshevist·skogo i tovarishch Ubiĭtsa ! "

“Comrade, remember the Neo Bolshevist Ideal and Comrade Killer!”

Grabbing hold the mine, Mikhail sprinted out from the relative shelter of the ruins and into the open before the tank. Machine gun fire tore through the air mere fractions of inches from his face, yet the Commissar ran onwards. Bullets stitched towards him as fast as he could zig zag, and he felt more than one tear through his trailing great coat. The enemy tank was only some ten meters away now, rotating quickly to end him with a burst of machine gun fire. Just as the gun was about to open up, a lucky round tore into the Commissar’s right knee, forcing him to land painfully on the deck.

Cursing furiously beneath his mask, the Neo Bolshevist still held his weapon tightly as he slowly low crawled towards the tank. The enemy tankers no doubt has some inkling of his suicidal plan, and tried desperately to reverse far enough so that the co-axial could finish him. Out of frustration or perhaps incompetence, the tank Commander opened the top hatch and leaned out, thinking to simply shoot the sapper and be done with it. Almost as soon as he presented himself though the sniper in the ruins delivered a single round into the man’s head, blowing his brains out in bloody chunks.

Mikhail silently willed the man a long and happy life for his service, before managing to crawl up onto the tank itself. Due to the commander’s incompetence, the top hatch was wide open and the vehicles doom sealed. Pulling a white phosphorus grenade from his webbing and dropping the useless relic of a mine, the Commissar dived towards the hole and fell halfway into the tank. For one second he and crew made eye contact, then he pulled the pin and dropped the grenade. Immediately he was shot several times by the surprised crew, but the grenade went unnoticed. With his dying breath, the Commissar said,

" Eto dolzhno bylo bytʹ sdelano".

“It had to be done.”

Then the fires of hell purged the tank’s interior.


Seizing upon the sacrifice of their heroic Commissar, the final squad withdrew just as the artillery fire from Deluge began to fall. 9K52 Luna-M vehicles delivered their short range tactical nuclear artillery with destructive effect, the unguided missiles falling around and upon the ridge. The bright atomic detonations mesmerized the retreating Neo Bolshevists and as surely as any Commissar’s slogan the sight reminded them that the Neo Bolshevist Union still held power, power enough to do what had to be done.
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

Forward for the #Sanc!
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Posts: 1327
Founded: Sep 25, 2009

Postby Stedicules » Mon Aug 29, 2011 6:34 pm

the sensation

"Biting into a york peppermint patty is like standing on an ice-cold mountaintop!" His voice echoed across the expansive wasteland of the snow covered summit. It Flurried around the man. He looked around, and the sensation brought around by the york peppermint patty began to fade. He quickly became panicked and rushed down the side of the summit, towards a rocky outcropping.

"Oh shit, shit, shit. Where the fuck am I?" The sun peaked above him, desperately trying to break through the thick cloud cover lethargically sliding across the mid-afternoon sky. "Oh man, this is bad... Its so cold." He brought his legs up to his chest and rubbed his arms back and forth, trying to generate enough warmth to last the night ahead. He looked at his hands. A york peppermint patty in one hand, the other was empty. "I need to build something, I don't want to die on this goddamn mountaintop."

He began to dig through the snow next to, and under the outcropping he took shelter by. A small tunnel formed and he pushed his way into the cavity. The snowfall kicked up and a storm gradually rolled in above the mountain. "Sh-Sh-Shit... I-I'm s-s-so c-cold..." He woke up the next day, disparaged at still being alive. He crawled out of his shelter and looked around. He was all alone on a mountain with no food, water or protective clothing. His stomach rumbled. He looked down, stuffed his hand out of his pocket and pulled out the york peppermint patty. He cursed under his breathe and took a small bite.

He woke up at the summit of the mountain. Again. "FUCK!" he stomped around and practically ran back down the mountaintop towards his shelter. "no way out, I'm just gonna sleep for awhile, yeah, just gonna sleep..."

two months later...

"Its been two months since I made the fatal mistake of eating a york peppermint patty. I have no food or water, save for the york peppermint patty that got me here. If I eat it, it'll put me back on the mountain's summit. If I don't find help - or food - soon, I think I'll die up here or go insane." He scribbled in a half-frozen notepad inside his small shelter. The snow kicked up again and the flurries grew stronger. A storm threw a tantrum nearby, thunder and lightening attacked the earth with a vengeance.

All of a sudden, another man came out of nowhere. "biting into a york peppermint patty is like standing on an ice cold mountain top!" The first man shouted to the second, the sound of the storm and the liveliness of the snow flurries prevented the pair from hearing each other. "Food... Finally." He rushed towards the man, wielding a poorly assembled weapon. It connected with the man's skull and parted it like Moses parted the Red Sea. He laughed and grabbed the dead man by the legs and dragged the body into his shelter.

"I've been waiting for this... For two months. Thank you lord!" He took the dead man's leg in his hands and pulled his pants off. He bite into the calf and pulled a good-sized chunk from the man. "Oh my god, it tastes so good! Thank you, thank you." he took another bite and savored the actual taste of meat. After several hours, he'd eaten half the dead man's leg. "I've got to save the rest of this, I'll bury it in the snow..." He bolted out of his shelter and dragged he dead body by the skeletal foot. He used his makeshift weapon to dig a deep hole into the snow and slid the body into the hole. "Hehe, no one can take it from me now, I'm the only one who knows where its buried..." He looked behind him, "No... I don't think you'll be able to dig him up. I can't have two mouths to feed. I'm already sick of feeding you."

He covered the body with snow and walked back to his shelter. Arguing with himself. His skin was a new shade of purple, and his fingers were lethargic. Frostbite was setting in all over his body. He sat in his shelter and continued to write. He wrote about the body, his hunger and his friend living with him, the friend he didn't like, and didn't invite in. He just came in. Uninvited. He looked over to the left, the york peppermint patty sat there, half eaten. "F-Fuck you." He reached over and smashed it with his purplish-blue fist. "I-I-Its all your f-fucking fault!" He shook his head. "Nothing to say?" He nodded his head and laid down to sleep. On the top of the mountain, an echoed shout rang across the snow-topped valley.
Last edited by Stedicules on Sun Jan 01, 2012 7:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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United Gordonopia
Posts: 4029
Founded: Aug 04, 2008

Postby United Gordonopia » Tue Aug 30, 2011 8:34 pm


[ Mature ]

Define a Nation

SPARTAN Command, Wolf Mountain, Northern Province
Two Years Antebellum

A SPARTAN is Gordonopia. How often that phrase, that cryptic phrase, had been used as a simple reason to fight. But what is Gordonopia? The people? The Republic? The multitude of dynasties long relegated to the annals of history? This moment would be one that would solve that ancient philosophical question; the loyalty of one man would be determined, and with it, the identity of a nation would be found.

Surrounded in his office by the cold gray rock of the mountain, Major General David Milan contemplated this question with a deep resolve. After today, there would be no turning back. Events set in motion by a single action would alter Gordonopia forever. All of it rested on one man: Ernst Meyer.

After nearly an hour, Milan finally felt his confidant decision was right. Very slowly, he rose from his simple desk and walked to the thick steel door. As he walked into the SPARTAN's command center, several heads turned to him. These few men knew the action itself that would soon take place, but unlike himself, they were oblivious to its repercussions. He found his way over to Operations Command, where a communications officer, a battle-hardened sergeant, passed him a headset. The man entered several commands into his computer, before looking up at Milan and giving a quick nod.

"Ernst, this is Milan." The aging general began calmly. "Take the shot."

"Acknowledged. Please confirm, sir." came a muffled reply.

"Major, take the shot. That is an order."

General Milan held his breath. The moment was at hand.


Pier 1184, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
Two Days Prior

From the shadowy corner of the empty wooden warehouse, Major Ernst Meyer watched as a man cautiously entered through the structure's only door. The small, stocky figure ambled to the middle of the building before standing, waiting, hands deep in his pockets. Slowly, Meyer approached the man, being careful not to startle him. At about five meters away, the man turned and addressed him.

"You... you the SPARTAN?" The man stuttered. "P...please tell me you're the guy."

Meyer calmly nodded his head, confirming his identity.

Slightly reassured by Meyer's silent answer, the man continued. "I have the information I told you guys about. Before I give it to you, I want full protection, though, from anything your people, and my people, are going to do."

Expecting this, Meyer removed a piece of paper from one of the many pockets on his combat vest, and held it in front of the man. "You give me what you know, and I give you this signed letter from the Prime Minister himself. Take this to the nearest police station, and you'll be safe."

"It's all on this thumb-drive." The man replied. "Every detail I could get. The guys involved that I knew, the equipment they're using, the shortlist of targets, all of it."

Meyer motioned for the man to hand him the drive which, after a brief moment of hesitation, he did. Meyer then used the hand with the protection letter in it to pull a small device off of his belt. Plugging the flash drive in, several files were displayed on the small screen, and after a quick browse, Meyer nodded, and passed the piece of paper over to the man.

As the man glanced over the paper, Meyer said, "Now, get out of here. The quicker you reach a station, the quicker you reach safety."

"Yeah... yeah, you're right. Thank you for meeting me, I just couldn't go through with this."

"You did the right thing. Innocent people are going live because of you."

The man gave a quick smile, before hastily turning towards the door. As soon as he was gone, Meyer pulled out an earpiece and wrapped it around his right ear.

"Command, this is Alpha Solo." He stated softly. "Exchange complete."

"Roger that Alpha Solo. Report once analysis is complete. Over and out."

Meyer waited for a few moments to ensure that the man he had just meet with was gone, before heading to the door himself. If what he had gathered from his quick scan of the flash drive's information was true, the next two days would last a hell of a long time.


3782 Masthead Ave Apt. 4, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
Four Hours Later

"Ernst, I've that last bit decrypted. You want it now, I assume?"

Looking up from his computer monitor Ernst Meyer stared his subordinate, Captain Eric Hoffman, straight in the eye. Understanding this to be a yes, Hoffman quickly printed off a copy of the final data gleaned from the flash drive Meyer had returned to the SPARTAN safehouse only hours before.

"I think this is what we've been looking for, Major." Hoffman declared as he handed it over to his commander. "It's got the target list you mentioned, plus a few more names. What's more, based on some of the date latent in the files, I think I may be able to find the location they were recovered at."

"Get right on that Eric. I'll compare this to what we've already got, and we can figure out what we're dealing with here. Oh, and while you're at it, can you see if we have any files on a Marcus Novic? His name's popped up twice in the rest of the data, which certainly means he's involved more than tangentially."

"Of course, sir." Hoffman replied, before returning to his own work station.

As he analyzed the newly decrypted information, Meyer began to realize what kind of threat had been leaked to him by his anonymous informant in the darkest hours of the morning. Several purchase and shipping orders contained the signature items used by a bomb-maker, whilst the list of possible targets indicated that this could potentially be a serious terrorist threat. Although none of the names immediately stood out at him, his suspicions about Novic were confirmed as soon as Hoffman delivered a personal profile several pages thick.

"Although there are a couple of Marcus Novic's in the system, this one stands out the most. He's a Teva native, plus he's a registered member, and a very senior one at that, of Blut und Krone. I'm sure you've heard of that."

Meyer gave a grim smile as he heard the last part. Blut und Krone was notorious as being one of the most radical pro-monarchist groups in Gordonopia, and was suspected to have been behind at least three small-scale terrorist attacks, ranging from assassinations to a car-bomb, in the past four years. If BUK was involved, the threat was certainly one to take seriously.

"Should we pass this info on to Military Intelligence? Or even the local authorities Ernst?" Hoffman asked.

Silently deliberating for a brief moment, Meyer replied, "No, no, there's something about this that I want to keep... in house. It's not just the fact that my informant worked damn hard to make sure a SPARTAN got this information, it's the whole nature of this attack. From what I'm gathering, a bomb is planned to be detonated in either Teva Tower, the Harbormaster's office, or one of a small number of city government buildings. Normally, an attack on a major target like this would take a lot of resources and manpower, but this one seems so... compact. Reading through our intel, there can't be more than a dozen men involved, probably less. The more of our people we bring in, the more likely these people are to find out. Let's at least wait until we've narrowed down the targets before we bring in help."

"Understood." Hoffman quickly replied.

As Hoffman returned to his desk, Meyer sat for a minute in thought. It had been a long time since he'd been involved in a counter-terrorism op. He and Hoffman made up one of the SPARTAN's four dual-man teams which handled the most sensitive assignments. The simple fact that he had been in Teva wrapping up a previous mission was the only reason General Milan had given him the task of meeting a man who was supposedly a whistle blower for a terrorist plot, and then determining what to act with the information received. At the same time, however, it seemed to be a strange coincidence. It was no secret among the SPARTANs that Meyer had been raised a Monarchist; his mother had in fact died while committing an attack with the very same organization he would soon be investigating. Although he tried to brush it off as simple chance, he couldn't help but feel that something wasn't quite right, that somehow, this was all part of a bigger plan. He would have to find out if he was right.


214 Norton Plaza, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
3 Hours Later

With the late-morning sun overhead, Ernst Meyer had no trouble spotting his target through the window of the man's town home with the help of his a scope. After checking with the photograph that had been found of Marcus Novic one final time, to ensure that the operation wouldn't fail due to a simple mistaken identity, he placed the scope back in it's case, and set it down on the floor of his shiny black Tolten Axiom. As exiting the large SUV, he found his way to the trunk, where his weapons case was stashed. From the wide array of sniper and assault rifles, shotguns, and handguns, he selected his dependable SR-45 handgun. Whereas most of the SPARTANs, and the entirety of the regular military forces, had switched to the Lyran designed Hellhammer, he could never get over the combined reliability and personal feel of the SR-45, as well as the personal sentimentality behind this specific gun: it had been handed to him by Major General David Milan personally upon his induction into the SPARTANs, and he had used it on every operation since.

Holstering the gun, and pocketing two spare mags, Meyer headed over to the door of the house. He took a deep breath, before knocking on the door and waiting for someone to answer. After about fifteen seconds, he tried a second time, after which he took a step back. Raising his leg, he gave a solid kick just below the door knob, knocking the door in. Immediately, he pulled out his gun, checking each corner before moving further into the house. He knew that only minutes ago, Novic had been on the second floor, so he quickly found the staircase. Cautiously, he advanced up the somewhat creaky stairs, and soon found himself in a hallway with three doors running down it. The first, which was already open, lead to a small closet. Nothing there. The second was a bathroom, which, after a quick search, was found to have nothing in it either. The third, however, was a thick-looking door, with three locks running down it. Confident that this would be the one, he prepared for a kick, before delivering a punishing blow that managed to knock the door in.

"Drop the weapon! Drop it or I will shoot!" he yelled as he found himself face to face with Novic, who was holding a pistol of his own. The balding man before him seemed to hesitate for a moment, which was all the time needed for Meyer to lunge at him, knocking Novic to the ground and causing his weapon to fly to the corner of the room.

"Mr. Marcus Novic, you're under arrest," he said sternly.

Novic groaned deeply, before snapping back. "What the hell is this!? Do you even have a warrent to kick my doors down and tackle me to the floor?"

"Mr. Novic, I'm a man who doesn't need a warrant. As of right now, you are our prime suspect in a terror..." before he could finish his sentence, a closet door behind Meyer burst open, and a man carrying a shotgun aimed it directly at him. Meyer's hair-trigger reaction time, however, proved invaluable as he whipped around and put a bullet directly between the assailant's eyebrows. Turning back to Novic, he continued. "As I was saying before your friend there rudely interrupted, you're currently the prime suspect in a terror investigation. I'm going to have to take you in for interrogation, and, depending on your cooperation, you just might make it out of the next few days alive."

With the last phrase, Novic's eyes widened. "Who the fuck are you?!" He yelled. "What do you mean make it out alive? I have rights! I'm a citizen of this country, doesn't that mean anything to you?!"

As Meyer handcuffed Novic, and placed a blindfold around him, he replied. "Not right now it doesn't Mr. Novic. You'll find out everything in due time."


3782 Masthead Ave Apt. 4, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
One Hour Later

Inside the dark, improvised interrogation room at the SPARTAN's Teva safehouse, a prisoner would have no idea of the beautiful mid-day weather just outside. Marcus Novic was one such prisoner. Through his blindfold, he couldn't even see the room itself, with its cold, metal table and chairs in the middle, and near-bare walls with only a single camera in the corner to break the sense of emptiness. Additionally, he had no idea that Ernst Meyer sat directly in front of him, preparing for the right moment to begin his questioning.

After several minutes where he believed himself to be alone, Novic began to speak softly to himself. Although it wasn't audible to Meyer, it was enough for him to begin his procedure.

"Could you speak a little louder, Mr. Novic? I'm sure you're saying something very interesting. I'd very much like to know what it is."

The man sat silent for a moment, before replying. "I asked this once, I'm going to ask again. Who the fuck are you? If I'm under arrest, why don't I have a lawyer?"

Smiling at the man's vain hope that he was still within the bounds of Gordonopia's justice system, Meyer responded casually. "How about a deal. I tell you this, then you tell me something I want to know. I'm sure that is a fair bargain. Mr. Novic, I'm a SPARTAN. The minute I took you into custody, you ceased to exist. In essence, you died. Now, I'm the only man who can bring you back to the world of the living. Your cooperation goes a long way toward making that happen. Now, tell me what you know about a bomb that is to go off tomorrow in this city. Tell me where it will detonate."

Silence once again settled over the room for nearly a minute, before it was broken by Novic's artificially calm voice. "I don't know anything about a fucking bomb. I swear, every time you Republican's hear about some crazy-ass terrorist plot, it's either us Monarchists, or the Communists. Every damn time. Did you ever think that someone else might be behind it?"

"Don't play games Novic, I'm not a stupid man. I assume you aren't either. That means you'll know that if you don't cooperate with me here and now, this whole situation will get to be a hell of a lot worse, but only on your end. Mr. Novic, I've broken many men, more than I can count. Just looking at you tells me you won't last five minutes, but those five minutes will be the worst of your life, I promise."

"Every time, I swear to god. What makes you even think I'm involved? Some fucking Republican bureaucrat tell you, his loyal canine, to bring me in? I'm innocent, I have nothing to tell."

"You still think I'm a Republican? Let me ask you something. Have you ever heard of a women named Lisa Meyer?" At the mention of that name, Novic perked up slightly. "Of course you have, she's your groups biggest martyr. How many women would ever sacrifice their life like she did? Mr. Novic, Lisa Meyer was my mother. I can tell you this, though, I couldn't give a rat's ass about your little political cause. I'm in this to save innocent Gordonopians. If your bomb goes off, how many orphans will you create? How many widows, widowers? Hell, how many Monarchists will you kill? Four in fifty Gordonopians are known to be Monarchists, if this plot is as big as I think it is, you're going to kill two of three. Are they going to be unwilling martyrs for your organization?"

At the last part, Novic gulped, before answering. "If we were to set off a bomb, and this is no confession, my fellow Monarchists would be honored more than they ever would have in life. Now, let me ask you something, SPARTAN. If you're arresting me, an innocent man, you must be dangerously low on leads. If that's the case, what can you do to me? I know you aren't going to kill me, you'd never get the information that I don't have."

Meyer quietly turned to the camera, and gave a quick nod, indicating to Eric Hoffman, who was watching in the next room, what his next move would be. Under the table, Meyer pulled out his SR-45, and fired a quick shot at Novic's knee. As the bullet ripped through the man's leg, he gave out a blood-curdling scream, to which Meyer exclaimed, "There's a lot I can do to you, Mr. Novic! Remember what I said: you no longer exist. Now, all you need to do for me to bring in something for the pain is to tell me where the bomb is going to go off. Hell, I'll help you out. We've already narrowed down the target list to five options. Is it Teva Tower? Perhaps the Harbormaster's office? City Hall? Or is it Provincial Parliament building? Hell, maybe you just decided to go all out and picked Iron Harbor. Just tell me which one, and I'll see what I can do about letting you go."

Novic took well over a minute to finally calm down from the gunshot, and after he had finally gained his voice back, he stammered, "I... Iron Harbor. It's Iron Harbor. We... we wanted to..."

Meyer interrupted him with a second gunshot to the same knee. He had suspected Novic would fall for the faint, and try to feed him the false target Meyer had determined ahead of time. Before the renewed screaming quieted down, Meyer began again. "Mr. Novic, I need your cooperation. Like I said, I am not a stupid man. The chances of you getting a bomb to Iron Harbor Naval Base, the fucking headquarters of the Navy, are astronomically slim, especially with how small your operation is. All I want to know is where the target is, and I won't have to resort to much, much more painful methods that you are experiencing now. These methods, I should warn, may not be painful in the same way, however. You are divorced, I know that Mr. Novic. I also know that you have a son studying at the University of Teva. You haven't seen him in years have you? Perhaps I could bring him in, show him how daddy's doing. Maybe he could experience it hands on."

A far more pained look came across Novic's face, one certainly not caused by the gunshot wounds. Finally, he whispered something, though all Meyer could make out was 'provincial'.

"Is it the Provincial Parliament, Mr. Novic. All I need is for you to nod, and this can all be over."

Hesitating for a moment, Novic finally gave a single nod. Meyer tore off his blindfold, and a deep gaze into the man's eyes told him all he needed to know. He certainly been right about one thing: Novic had been an easy man to crack.

"Get this bastard some meds, Eric. I'm heading out again."


Teva Game Park, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
2 Hours Later

Unique to Teva among all of Gordonopia's metropolitan areas was the Teva Game Park. Well over nine-thousand acres of prime land kept in its natural state, and all of it open to licensed hunters. It was only a bonus that it was entirely contained within the city limits of Teva itself, rather than in the megalopolis' outskirts. Today, however, a small clearing would be used for a different purpose: a meeting of great importance.

Two men, old friends, stood facing each other across the space, attempting to read one another. On one side, Ernst Meyer, on the other, one of the highest ranking members of the BUK, David Kransky. Finally, the tension was broken when Kransky crossed the clearing, and spread out his long arms to give Meyer a bear-like embrace.

"Ernst you old son of a bitch. How the hell have you been?"

Returning the gesture, Ernst replied quickly. "Busy, Dave. Very, very busy. Let's cut to the chase though, if we wanted to re-connect, we'd have met at a coffee shop. You know I want information, and you're the only person who can give it to me."

Suddenly, Kransky's face straightened, as he inquired as to what kind of information.

"Provincial Parliament. Dave, I know something is going down tomorrow, but I don't know how, and I don't know precisely when. I can say with a good amount of certainty, though, that it's a BUK operation."

Other than a small crease on his forehead, Kransky's face remained unchanged. "Ernst, BUK's changed a lot since your mother and I were young. We're a legitimate political organization. If you think I'd know about a plot like this and not tell someone like you, just hear me out. I'm a patriot, Ernst. I love my country. Just because I disagree with our government doesn't mean I'd let god knows how many innocents die just to make a statement."

Meyer gave a sigh, before pressing further. "Cut the bullshit, please Dave. Nothing's changed except what the public sees. You know as well as I do that what they don't see is still the same old crap."

At this, a very chilling look came over Krasnky's face, causing Meyer to prepare his arm for a possible pistol-draw, just in case. "Ernst, you're looking into things you really shouldn't be. If I were you, I'd drop this whole thing, and go back to the mountain. This doesn't concern you, no matter how much you'd like it to."

Meyer began to reply, however just as he began speaking, Kransky let go with a powerful sweep to his leg, causing Meyer to fall quickly to the soft ground. With expert speed, Kransky drew his own pistol and fired several shots at Meyer, who barely managed to roll out of the way and behind a tree. Drawing his own weapon, Meyer stood with his back against his cover, waiting for the right moment to make his move.

"If you leave now, Ernst, we can forget about this whole mess!" Kransky yelled.

Just as he finished speaking, Meyer dove for the next tree, drawing three shots which barely missed. Peeking around the new tree drew another shot, however he had anticipated it, and was able to move back just in time. Carefully, he slid back down to the grass, and moved to a prone position behind the tree. The tall grass managed to hide his position, however it also made it impossible to see Kransky. What he could see, however, was a medium-sized rock several meters ahead, and he carefully crawled towards it, making sure to disturb as little grass as possible.

He counted down from three to himself, before swiftly popping up, acquiring the position of Kransky, and firing a dead-accurate shot to the man's arm. As he dropped the gun, Meyer darted towards him, and initiated a powerful take down with which he subdued his former friend. It was all over in a flash.

"It pains me to have to do this Dave, but it's the only way. I pray for your sake that you break quickly, though in my heart, I know that won't happen."

As he was lead away, Kransky didn't say a word. Back at the safehouse, it would be Meyer's job to change that.


3782 Masthead Ave Apt. 4, Port of Teva, Coastal Province
Early Evening

"You know I don't want to do this Dave, but I'll do what I have to do. Make this easy for the both of us, and just end it now. When is the bomb going off tomorrow, and where is it going to be in the building?"

David Kransky simply glared up at Meyer, cursing his old friend under his breath. He could do no more than that, however, as his arms and legs were securely restrained to his chair, preventing him from moving at all.

"Fine, it will have to be that way then." Meyer said with just a hint of remorse as he stood, and moved an IV next to Kransky. Inserting the needle into him, he added, "This is 'Damitra', our newest interrogation drug. Chemically, it's shares properties with both Sodium Penotothal and Perogolide. Your discretion will be removed, essentially give it a 'truth serum' effect, however the more you try to physically resist its effects, the more the Perogolide's effect will kick in. In case you don't know, it slowly paralyzes your diaphragm, until eventually, you get a feeling of drowning and after awhile, death. I won't let that final effect happen, though, until I get what I need to know."

Meyer injected several CC's of the drug into the IV, and then returned to his chair, leaning back casually.

"Now, are you going to tell me what I need to know, or am I going to have to go farther?"

A tortured look came across Kransky, as it became apparent that he was trying to fight the drug. Sighing, Meyer stood, and knelt on one knee next to him. "I can end this now, end everything now. If you won't do this for me, and you won't do this out of pain, then do it for my mother, do it for Lisa."

Kransky's eyes widened as he turned, slightly blue-faced, to Meyer, who immediately continued. "I know the last thing she told you before she died. She wanted you to take care of me, she didn't trust dad. Of course you accepted. It took me most of my life to figure out the fact that you loved her. Yes, you, her husband's best friend. Honor her memory, help me one last time. I know you believe in God, Dave, any true Monarchist would. You believe that Lisa is now with him. I finally understand what those long nights at your house were, the ones where you'd lock yourself in your room, and every once in awhile, I'd find a gun on the nightstand. You wanted to join her, but your beliefs kept you from suicide. Dave, let me reunite you."

Kransky's face shook, as he attempted to form words. Meyer nodded in understanding, and injected a second needle into the IV. Within seconds, Kransky let out a huge breath, and then in a weak voice, began to speak.

"Tomorrow, at precisely 11:00, one of my young men will enter the Provincial Parliament building. I recruited him a few months ago for this specific purpose. He's a parliament page, which means security never feels the need to touch him. Their mistake, I guess. In his briefcase is bomb carefully crafted to appear as a laptop. At 11:30, he'll walk onto the Parliament floor, and detonate the bomb near several Liberal Party MP's. It'll only kill a few men, but obviously, the chaos it would cause would be huge."

"Thank you Dave, that's all I needed to know." Experience had taught him to read a man's eyes, similar to how he had found Marcus Novic to be telling the truth. With those years of practice, he knew that Dave was not lying. As he raised his SR-45, however, Dave interrupted.

"Wait, there's one more thing I have to tell you. This isn't my operation, I was contacted in person by someone. I'm sure you're familiar with Frederick Jodl? Of course you are, I'm sure you're familiar with any Monarchist provincial governor, even if his term's been up for a year. Anyway, he talked to me in person exactly six months ago at Nautilus Park, and gave me this operation. I... I just thought you should know that."

Meyer looked down for a moment, before looking Kransky straight in the face, to find that a single tear was running down the man's cheek. Meyer raised his gun directly to Kransky's temple, and pulled the trigger a single time. Instantly, the man's head went limp as read blood slowly covered the his tear.

With the plot hopefully uncovered, it seemed that it was time to deal with a more sensitive matter.

"Eric, get me Milan on a secure channel. I've got a very, very delicate piece of information that he needs to know."


Provincial Parliament Building
The Next Day

Although he had been using it for months now, Ernst Meyer still hadn't gotten over how advanced the R2 was. The incredible versatility, accuracy, stopping power, and range of the R2 in all its variants where what had made it into the SPARTAN's primary firearm. Now, staring down the scope of the sniper variant, he would have to use it once again.

After successfully extracting Kransky's knowledge of the Parliament Page bomb plot the night before, he had coordinated with the Provincial Parliament Security to prevent it from happening. While the security guards in charge of screening guests were given explicit orders to search everyone including pages as thoroughly as possible, Meyer positioned himself in an office overlooking the lobby. With audio from the guards coming directly to him, he simply had to provide cover in case things got out of hand.

At 10:00, one of the guards looked up at him, and nodded; the signal that guests would now be entering the building. For the next hour, Meyer carefully watched over to ensure that nothing out of the ordinary happened. Then, at 10:59, a young man with the characteristic blue suit of a page entered carrying a black leather briefcase. Immediately, Meyer trained his gun on the man, and watched as he walked up to one of the security guards.

Switching the audio channel to that station, Meyer listened to the slightly crackled conversation.

"...orry Sam, we're under orders to check everyone today, some kind of security concern."

Meyer watched as the young man seemed to grow slightly nervous, as he set his briefcase on the table.

"Rittman, can you get a scan of this case for me? And anything inside."

", Mr. Davis, I don't think you'll need to do that. It's just my laptop."

"Like I said Sam, a very thorough check. You'll get it back as soon as it's done."

Meyer watched as Sam, the page, gulped, and pulled what looked to be a black device with a button on it, and hid it behind his back. Positive that this was the target, Meyer took a deep breath, and exhaled. The suppressed sound of the bullet didn't even reach the guards until after the round punched a clean hole through the page's skull.

A minor panic started up in response, however it was slowly calmed by the guards. Meanwhile, Meyer quickly received confirmation that the laptop had, in fact, been an explosive device, and that his suspicion about Sam holding a detonator was indeed correct. Relieved that the crisis had been averted, he quickly made his exit. Tonight, another target would be in his scope.


SPARTAN Command, Wolf Mountain, Northern Province
That Night

"General Milan, I just found something you might want to hear. It seems that Jodl wasn't even in the country the date our informant stated. Hell, he wasn't even in the region. He was on a business trip out in Tetrakon. How can we..."

"Lieutenant, we've already explored that possibility. I had Military Intelligence check up on that, and from what they found, that was a cover-up. The flight he supposedly left on had been canceled that morning, and no other flights were leaving that day. Don't worry, I don't order a hit like this unless it's absolutely necessary."

Almost disappointed that he had been wrong, the SPARTAN logistics officer left General David Milan to his thoughts. Those thoughts consisted of meditation on a single phrase: a Spartan is Gordonopia.

Through his teeth, he had deceived the officer with one primary goal: testing the loyalty of Ernst Meyer. The man was known to be a Monarchist, something that many considered dangerous to have in the SPARTANs, and when he discovered that he had been ordered to kill an innocent man, a leader in his political community, Milan wanted to know what his reaction would be. However, there was a secondary intent: to answer his own philosophical conundrum. If a SPARTAN was Gordonopia, then Ernst Meyer's response to his orders after the fact would help Milan to define what Gordonopia was. If he were to stay loyal to the SPARTANs, and except the execution of a man who had been a thorn in the Republic's side for years, but was innocent of the main charges against him, than in Milan's mind, the Republic would truly be Gordonopia. However, if Meyer were to turn his back on the SPARTANs out of emotion, then Gordonopia was... something else. Something no man could understand.

He rose from his desk, and left his office, heading for Operations Command. As soon as he had a channel with Meyer, he gave his final command.

"Ernst, this is Milan. Take the shot."

"Acknowledged. Please confirm, sir." Meyer replied.

"Major, take the shot. That is an order."


112 Federal Way, Port of Teva, Coastal Province

With a crack, a bullet left the barrel of Ernst Meyer's rifle. Traveling at a tremendous velocity, Frederick Jodl would have no way to expect his incoming demise. As the bullet penetrated his flesh, his eyes widened, and instantly, he fell to the ground.

"Target eliminated. Returning to safehouse." Meyer whispered into his mic.

As Meyer retreated into the night from his rooftop post, however, a man in a black sedan just down the street pulled out a scrambled cell phone. Quickly dialing a number, he held it up to his ear and waited for the man on the other end to pick up. Finally, when he heard the noise of someone answering, he spoke quickly. "Sir, events have been set in motion. Jodl is dead."

"Good. We will have to watch the outcome very carefully. This operation may prove to be very valuable to our cause, Simon. I can't thank you enough."

"Sir." The man said as he hung up the call.

The phone back in his pocket, Simon waited several minutes until he was sure that Meyer would be well on his way to wherever his safehouse was. As he reflected on the days events, the deep, jagged scar on his right cheek began burn. It had been years since he had received the wound, but the strange thing about it was that it pained him only when he thought deeply about his Monarchist beliefs, as if the SPARTAN who had given it to him was reaching out from the grave in as a feeble means of payback. Nevertheless, he was positive that what he had done was right. The sacrifice of Jodl certainly be justified if its intended outcome came to pass. For now, however, it would be a simple waiting game, one that could be played for years.


SPARTAN Command, Wolf Mountain, Northern Province
One Month Later

General Milan let out a sorrowful sigh as he handed a letter of honorable discharge to his longtime friend, Ernst Meyer. It would seem that his all-important question had yet to be answered.

"Ernst, this is your last chance. I know you see this act as a betrayal, but I assure you, there's much more to this than I can tell you. The minute you walk out that door, you're no longer a member of this organization. Are you sure this is your decision?"

Coldly, Meyer gave his answer. "Dave, I am absolutely positive. How could you use me like this? You knew Jodl wasn't behind the attack, you admitted it to me yourself. There is no excuse for ordering me to complete the operation. I can promise you this, though: I will see you again, but for now, I can't say whether it will be as friends... or something else entirely."

As soon as he had finished his reply, Meyer turned, and left Milan's office. Alone, the general couldn't help but contemplate his friend's final words. He to felt that someday they would meet again, but like Meyer, he felt that the the circumstances of the meeting were unclear. For now, however, it would be back to life as usual, back to defending Gordonopia. If only he knew what that meant.
If you ever have an RPing question, please TG me about it.
Also Known as Kazmr

Host: Baptism of Fire 51, 53
Third Place: Cup of Harmony 56
Semi-Finalist: World Cup 63

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Founded: Jul 29, 2011

Postby Salciana » Tue Aug 30, 2011 8:36 pm


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The Dawn of a Duke.

Postby Dukopolious » Wed Aug 31, 2011 4:21 am

[ Late-PT ]

[ Tagged and Reserved for post. ]

Note to Jenrak: This now has a title and a tag, the acctuall post will be up soon, feel free to add it to the index.
Last edited by Dukopolious on Sat Nov 19, 2011 9:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Mallorea and Riva should resign

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Postby -Deus- » Fri Sep 02, 2011 5:19 pm

Drrican Dya Dion

Red hot patches dotted her cheeks, tiny beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, her breath was hurried and her voice strained from screaming. Pain, fear, excitement all rushed her system, flooding her with a cascade of emotions she’d never before seen in her life. It was time to claim her reward for nine months of lumbering around like an idiot. Nine months of hiding from the public eye. Nine months of eating disgusting foods, constant vomiting, bleeding and back pain. It was tedious to carry this…thing around and now it was finally going to pop out. She was grateful for that, at least.

The maids around her rubbed her forehead with a rag, while the couple of doctors she had personally inspected and hired three weeks back hounded her, pleading with her to breath and to push as if she wasn’t already doing these things naturally. They had been lingering around her ever since she had hired them – two older women, to be exact – but their presence had just know become a dreadful occurrence. Well, it wasn’t exactly them, but rather the irritation she was naturally feeling with everything little thing that popped up these past couple of months. ‘Oh, the blankets are too itchy’ she’d say while laying against some of the finest silk those subarctic regions could muster for her. Maybe this tremendous pain was karma at or, perhaps it was fate. She particularly believed in fate.

“Push!” They kept telling her. She was becoming more and more agitated with these doctors. Or, perhaps she was simply preoccupied with the pain again. One of the maids swiftly swiped a rag over her forehead again, pushing down on her skull. The doctors then screamed push again and Natal would give another grunt or scream of compliance. It was a cycle: Swipe, push, scream…Over and over and over again, for what seemed like days.

Her mind was abuzz as this went on, but occasionally her mind would block it out and she’d catch a moment of pure serenity. They were spread out far in between, and only took seconds at a time. They’d give her peace and then, just as quickly vanish, dropping her back into the cycle of swipe, push, scream.

“Okay…Okay…Breath…Almost there, almost done.” The doctor’s faces began to beam with happiness as their jobs were finally beginning to come to an end. The head started to come first, it’s wheezing grey skin drenched in bloody and other bodily liquids. The torso followed, covered in the same grey-ish skin and grisly fluids. The legs fell out swiftly, with only the blood and other such liquids leaving a trace. Well, those and the child itself. Natal was still screaming and breathing heavily, the pain still kind of aching within her. The two doctors clipped the Umbilical cord rather quickly, and placed the child in a tiny metallic medical bin that gauged this and that. In all, the kid was healthy though.

“It’s a boy!” One doctor chirped. “He’ll be very beautiful”, chimed the other. Natal started to calm down, blinking rapidly and wiping her own forehead. She was tired, hungry, and quite possibly irritated enough to simply throw the child out now. But that wasn’t possible. She felt the need and urge to see the child. She clenched her fists in the direction of the kid, the two doctors shrugged and cleaning off the tiny thing before handing it to the woman.

She looked at it lovingly, a few tears dripping from her eyes, however this may have only been maternal as the child had already failed its first test. She was just barely conscious, but had noticed that the child hadn’t screamed or cried when it was taken out. It was alive, and healthy, as the doctors assured. You could even see the cloth it was wrapped in lift up and down as its tiny heart pumped blood aside it’s steadily working lungs. He wasn’t unusual looking, one would suppose, or at least not for a baby. Again, she was only just barely keeping awake. He had no hair, but he had a faint birthmark around his right eye, and one on his right hand. “Heh…my son, aren’t you something.”

The doctors smiled; as did the maids who dropped their cleaning duties fast enough to admire their mistress giving birth. They quickly resumed as Natal looked up and gave them a weary gaze. One of the women came and took the baby, placing him back inside the medical bin as she began to examine him further. The other woman approached Natal, bowing and quickly inspected her. It only took a few minutes before they both exclaimed “Healthy. Absolutely grade A.”

“Fucking freaks…” Natal sighed under her breath as they spoke at the same time, saying the same things. She fluttered her eyes, and took in a heavy breath. She spoke in a rough voice, as if she had just jogged up and down a mountain carrying two boulders on her back. “Anything more?”

“Nope” one said, “Just a clean-up” the other added. “We’ll have the paperwork sent over right away, madam. For now, we’ll be taking a break…We suggest you rest up.” They both smiled and walked off, heading towards one of the many corridors and subsequent rooms locate inside of the Casar city compound.

One of the maids – there were around six – stepped away from cleaning and catered to the child, since, most of the room had been cleaned and there was hardly any trace of blood or even that a birth had just taken place. As this particular servant began to cater to the child, helping his early needs, she gazed over to Natal, who was still half awake. “Mistress…what shall he be called?”

Natal craned her head around, staring at the servant, nearly drifting into sleep. ‘Rage…’ she began to think. ‘Pain…pain…pain….demon…pain…pain…pain’ she couldn’t keep her mind straight. She mustered up the strength though, as the name came to her slowly, ecking to her psyche as the pain pushed her further and further into a sleep. “Casar…Casar Kygan.” She smiled, “Kygan…yeah.”

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United World Order
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Founded: Jun 16, 2011
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby United World Order » Fri Sep 02, 2011 5:54 pm

[ MT ]

Only The Strong Will Survive.

"Only The Strong Will Survive...The Weak Will Perish"

The town of Darjeng was a medium sized town miles off from Urak which the town was abandoned long ago and the remains are only skeletons of buildings and houses that once were there, Two trucks were out parked off the side of what remained of the sidewalk which most of it was taken over by grass and weeds that had started to take its land back, A platoon sized group of Gestapo and SS were there standing around smoking and chatting with each other, a group of men and women were off to the side on their knees their hands bound together by rope and blindfolded,

Two SS were standing over them to watch them, there G36 rifles slung over their shoulders as they stood there smirking, one of them looked at the other with a smirk as he began to talk.

"Look at them, bunch of peasants they are...crying" One said with a small laugh as he flicked his ciggerate off to the side as the other SS solider nodded and smirked.

"Yes, These beats won’t be around much longer, Their ways of filth and weakness won’t be tolerated" He said as he walked towards one of them a middle aged man rocking back and forth lightly crying, The solider kicked him in the back as he fell to the concrete and cried, "Shut up you weak punk!" the solider shouted as he twice kicked the man in his ribs.

The man stayed on the ground quietly wimping and broken from previous hours of torture in a Gestapo Holding Chambers which was underground from the Gestapo HQ in Berlina, The SS Officer Dmiitri Obarst walked over and patted the SS solider on the shoulder as the solider stopped and stepped aside from them, Dimitri and four other SS walked over and got the group of 5 up and escorted them into a alleyway and against a brick wall as the Officer stepped off to the side and 5 SS soldiers stepped in front of the group from several feet away and aimed there G36 Assault rifles at there backs.

"The Weak Shall Perish From Society, Casted Off By The Stronger Beings..."

The group of five wept and tried to communicate there farewells to each other, suddenly the voices turned into screams as the SS cut them down with a volley of Assault rifle fire which left their bodies crumbling to the pavement, The SS officer walked over to the bodies with a Luger and proceeded to shoot all of the people killed in the head, Bang.... Bang... Bang... Bang... Bang...
Last edited by United World Order on Fri Sep 02, 2011 5:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
23:53 Moka "When GamePlay sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're not sending you. They're sending people that have lots of problems, and they're bringing those problems with us. They're bringing Trolls. They're bringing Raiders. They're rapists. And some, I assume, are good people."


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Auroran Empire
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Postby Auroran Empire » Fri Sep 02, 2011 11:36 pm

[ Fantasy/FT]

The Sacred Immortal

There is no memory longer than Time. That is what the civilized advanced conglomerates and empires would say across the cosmos. From the almighty Lords of Gallifrey, to the shadowy triune of the Eternal Night. The most powerful and advanced of all peoples, all of them agreed there was no memory longer than that of Time itself.

Yet, for all their power; and wisdom, for all their horror and majesty. They were wrong.

Time indeed has a long memory, a memory so long that even the highest beings of creation could not understand it's true length. It is old; Time is, so very old, one of the oldest things in the universe but it is not the oldest, it's memory is not longest. To what, or whom did that title go? What could truly say it was older than Time itself? That existed before the great explosion, before the Coming of Light?

Atheists would deny any sort of being before then, 'impossible' and 'preposterous' or other such nonsense as that. Gods; they weren't some fantastical fairy tale. They weren't some story sentient life made up, no no. They were more than that, they were here first, they created here, and there, and every where. The Coming of Light was their doing, their great power at work before even the mightiest of beings who now roamed the universe existed. Yet, they were not the oldest either. Their memory was longer than that of Time itself, but still shorter.

The Old Ones, the Ones Who Came Before, the Aurorans called them that, no other sentient life remembered most of them; though Earth remembered One of them. The Sacred One, the Last One; the only one who remained so as to watch over all and everything. The Whole of Creation to his whim. His people; the Eldar were gone, gone from here, to another universe, to the universe they came from originally; they were so powerful, so incomprehensibly mighty they could do that at will. To Create and Destroy, to Make Known and Unknown.

And what did he choose? He chose to walk; to take up that form which was so bound in seals and circumstances to not annihilate whatever plane of existence he was on. That body was a prison; a prison that felt everything of everything. Every prick, every emotion that coursed through the living; every moment of joy, and anger, and pure unadulterated terror. He was old, older than Gods; older than Time; older than the Universe, one of it's grand creators, and he stayed behind, while the others left; left him alone and soldiering on, simply because these ones, these new ones. The Gods and the sentient; the potent and the omnipotent. They deserved, a chance. That was all; a chance.

As Time evolved; and this universe, this young young universe grew old with age, though never as old as him; he took a liking to some of them, the sentient; and he walked among them and he knew them; knew their stories, fought off their nightmares, though he did not partake violence; he was as others would say, pacifist; peaceful. Them, their world; it turned into dust, and his beloved blue jewel, which reminded him much of a place in his own universe, among his own people; was gone, and all the people upon it that he cherished, and every story they had and every emotion; it was just gone.

And he was alone again. Resuming his ever silent vigil; his ever given task, everything deserved a chance, everything deserved a shield. That's what he did, he felt it all, everything from everything; it was maddening, it would've driven insane the consciousness of a lesser God, but an Eldar as he was, unique and powerful beyond the constrains of the universe itself, he was fine. It just caused him some arthritic like pain.

When the Aurora found him; this God of Gods, this Sacred Immortal; they respected and acknowledged him they were old too, but infantile in comparison to his majesty; they knew his stories though, and all the legends of his people that survived somehow; without them; but decided, for the best part of things it was upon him, and him alone if he wanted the universe, in it's vast narrowness of mind and conscience; to know of him.
The Theocracy of Aurora

The Ancient Andromedae Star Empire of Aurora

Far Future Tech Nation - Multiple Personality of Byzantium Imperium - When RPing with Aurora please be VERY specific about which Aurorans you want to contact, the pacifists or the Ancient Empire.

"Where the lines of state and religion become indistinguishable."

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Postby Vorradia » Sat Sep 03, 2011 5:25 am

[align=right][ FT ][/align

Another Day

Some background info:
In Vorradia freedom is a fading memory. A memory that once people clung onto, but now they have given up even on that. It hurts too much to remember. At the heart of the sprawling, embattled province lies Imperial City. Or as the city is really called by the poor souls who inhabit it: Forsaken Hope, 'Fahrass Vivarii' in their native language. Here they suffer under a fanatically religious totalitarian regime. Outside the city walls lies a blasted wasteland.With the seasons it ranges from the extremes of burning heat, to unbearable cold.The people here live free from government control, but at a terrible price. They live in small nomadic communities, struggling to survive in the harsh climate.

There was a time when this place had been so beautiful. Watching the sunset over the dreary expanse of the flatlands, from the fawn granite walls. Now the sight brought with it a dull ache, a weight in the pit of his stomach that ground at his entrails. A wavering nausea.

An anarchic howl drifted across the red sands, quivering in the air. An uneasy aura that hung thick, and palpable. Even the faceless Ordos Militant officers, under their deaths head masks shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
Sometimes it was more subtle than the ban on gambling, or alcohol, or cigarettes, or euthanasia, or drugs, but it was there. The steady erosion. Of everything people held dear. It was a cord being pulled tighter and tighter, the tension tugging at the corners of your thought. A nagging, parasitic presence that refused to go away.

How long had it been like this? It was D.291\34 A.E.V.
34 years. He could hardly remember anything about what it was like before this.
He let out a bitter exhalation. The Ordos Anima had done well.

Another gust of freezing wind dragged itself over the fortifications. Desperately trying to claw into the warmth of the city. Worming through his coat. Glacial spikes running across his skin. He shivered.

“Free movement ends in an hour sir, I suggest you make way for your home.” Comes the muffled drone from an officer of the Ordos Militant.

Coron Avren Kortovich turned to the steps, and left, giving a nod of thanks to the officer as he made his way down. He stepped again back onto the shifting steel surface of Imperial City, steam issuing from openings that crisscrossed the streets in brutal, straight edged patterns.. He felt metaphorical prison walls come down around his soul. He walked down the path, the air heated only by the ceaseless toil of a thousand slaves, uneducated workers and criminals underfoot, in underground manufactories.
Heating strips ran across the length of the road, glowing a violent orange.
It was the season of ice, and it was now that production began. The great manufactorums that sprawled across the city, on the surface and down below created immense heat. This heat was vital, it kept the city habitable. Coron imagined the nomads in the flatlands. Barbarians. Freezing to death. Maybe that was better than this.
A column of Ordos Militant Air carriers rode across the angry red sky, towing Arbus-Class battle tanks to some distant war.

Tanks of sloshing degramine hang on every wall. In the season of fire, they released it in a gaseous form that kept the city cool. It was in the season of fire that problems arose for the war effort, and for manufacture. The manufactories had to run at a very low production rate, to prevent the city roasting to death.

Coron watched the Air carriers drift through the towering gothic arches.
The Vorradian Ordos Militant, fighting arm of the Church generally favoured missile carrying drones and jet aircraft. The terrain in the wastelands surrounding Imperial City was treacherous and the climate always extreme, and transporting anything via land out of Vorradia was nigh impossible, even without the roving bands of angry nomads in possession of large quantities of looted weaponry.
Vorradia’s tanks were relatively lightweight to allow them to be carried by aircraft to foreign war-zones. They were fast and sported powerful new technology and lethal armaments, but were lightly armoured and had various weak points in their hulls that could be exploited by an experienced, knowledgable or lucky enemy. Sacrifices had to be made.

The ominous screech of an Ordos Vox-Populi PA broadcast shook Coron out of his reverie. He had always had a fascination with vehicles and machines, even those that were being sent to fight pointless bloody wars in the name of god.

“Every moment, of every day, a true believer dedicates to furthering the work of god. Our city is his masterpiece. It is your duty to god to work hard for this city. Put aside the needs of the self, and-“

Nothing important. He edged carefully around a gaping fissure in the road. Rolling clouds of steam rose from the crevice. Coron thought for a moment he could here the moans of the workers.

Posters and banners hung on every wall and flew from every arch. All bearing the crest of the Holy Church of Vorradia, the Ordos Vox-populi, and some religious propaganda nonsense. The Ordos Vox-Populi controlled all media in Vorradia, they worked closely with the Ordos Anima, which worked to understand and control the human psyche.
Coron felt like he was in a city of zombies. Was he the only one who could see that the church had told them nothing but lies and crap?
He knew that was not true. The problem here was, that half the citizens believed, and the other half didn’t. But they were silent, burying their despair under layers of fanaticism. They knew deep down that they were lying to themselves that they were happy serving in the name of god, but they would not speak up.
Sometimes they appeared more fanatical than the true zealots.
The Church deprived them of everything. It tended to their basic needs of food, water and shelter as long as they worked until they dropped to the floor every day. Splayed, limp over the ground, exhaustion etched into the solid structure of their bones.
But the church denied everything else. Every pleasure, every comfort. Even everyday human interaction in the street was monitored, for any signs of unorthodoxy. Genders were segregated in every aspect of life. This inevitably led to rising rates of homosexuality that got punished far worse than sinful behavior towards a woman. Ordos Vox-Populi officials in the street proudly announced every day, the lists of the heretics executed.
All in the name of purity for god.
Coron knew he was a dead man. He could only go on for so long thinking like this. The Ordos Anima knew how to find out what a man thought. He would then be either shot outright, or taken to them.
The Ordos Anima had refined the art of indoctrination and radicalization for decades. He mind would be molded into a murderous zealot, a fanatical madman and sent into military service where he would die in some futile charge towards the enemy with the name of god on his lips.

He boarded the Male Tram going back to residential. “Half an hour until free movement ends” The PA reminds him. Coron looks up at the people in the carriage. They are silent, hunched, their heads bowed facing into their laps, giving a vacant stare. A young man, his face gaunt and clammy, dirt streaked across it, sits a few seats away.
The other tram is being boarded. The young man steals a furtive glance at it through the window. His gaze wanders a few seconds too long. He is torn from it by a worried nudge from the older citizen sitting next to him. The young man turns, and emits an involuntary squeal. A camera flexes it’s lenses menacingly above him in warning.

As darkness grows across the city like a black stain, the tram doors open. Coron sets off to his block of flats. He arrives, punches in his code and swings open the heavy iron door. He turns. The young man is there. He opens a door on the floor below. He is moving into this building. No. he cant be. The idiot, he’ll ruin everything. After 3 years of hanging low, Ordos Anima attention had finally moved on from this area. They had not had an execution is this neighborhood for 6 months. The Ordos Militant armed patrols were coming round less and less.
And now this guy shows up.
My phone will be tapped, Coron thinks, the entire place will be bugged, that guy will get himself killed, the Ordos Anima will come back. Coron’s inevitable fate seemed to be drawing closer.
Last edited by Vorradia on Sun Jan 22, 2012 3:37 pm, edited 7 times in total.
Vorradia. A place where freedom is a fading memory. At the heart of the sprawling, embattled province lies Imperial City. Or as the city is really called by the poor souls who inhabit it: Forsaken Hope. Here they suffer under a fanatically religious totalitarian regime. Outside the city walls lies a frozen and inhospitable wasteland. The people here live free from government control, but at a terrible price. They live in small nomadic communities, struggling to survive in the harsh climate.

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Founded: Feb 02, 2011

Postby -Deus- » Sat Sep 03, 2011 1:51 pm

The Ego and it's subsequent other.

“Wake up.” A voice pierced through the air, the fragility of its words giving the impression of subtle weakness hidden behind false pride and strength. “Wake up” it said again, growing a bit more ferocious.

The target of these words rolled on his back, slobber rolling from his mouth, down his chin and onto the serene white sheets he lay atop of without a care in the world. He slowly began to open his eyes, revealing the light grey colour that had become a trademark within his clan. He rolled around some more, groaning as he rubbed his frothy black hair that was beginning to show traces of grey and white. He yawned, showing his pointed teeth. He began to lift himself up, rubbing his eyes quickly with his fists before looking around, nodding and giving a friendly smile to the maid who stood right above him, a smile on her face also.

It had been four years already.

“Good morning, Tyuuko Kygan.” The maid bowed to him, perhaps out of fear of his mother or out of genuine respect for this prince. She stood back up, taking his hand. He wasn’t a big child and was quite average sized. His skin had changed from its original dark grey skin, to a lighter shade. The birthmark over his right eye had grown darker, and was now dark grey against his lighter shade while the same was true of the one of his right hand. Still, he wasn’t that unusual looking, compared to, say, a Daian.

The maid began to lead him away from the room, which was large and drenched in an oddly serene white or cream colour. The two started in the hallway, the boys long pyjama pants rubbing against the hardwood floor, making a scratching noise as he went along. His t-shirt was clean, with only a tiny stain of blood that was most likely the cause of nosebleeds he commonly suffered from while he slept. He was a healthy child, nonetheless.

The made their way upstairs, from the second floor, to the fourth in a rather swift amount of time; neither seemed to notice, however, as the boy was focused on his surroundings while the maid was more preoccupied with the host of other duties she had to accomplish. The paced into the fourth floor kitchen, the boy being placed atop his booster chair right in front of the finely crafted and recently shined wooden table. “What would you like for breakfast, Tyuuko Kygan?” The maid muttered out, giving him a smile as she opened the refrigerator, and scanning over its contents. “You have to hurry too, Tyuuko. Your mother wishes for you to be on time for your studies today.”

He had studies at only four. He could count to nearly thirty, and could recite the alphabet, albeit sloppily. He spoke in bits of English and bits of Bastilak. “Okay…Dhu Ta? Je n’appla Emily…Will Emily be come today?” He spoke decently enough, even as his voice was low and without a trace of anything but intent to gain the desired knowledge. His face was warm though, as he spoke. “Dy hope she comes today, miss. Will she?”

Emily was his friend, perhaps is only friend. She was a five year old girl, with curly red hair, freckles and a button nose. She was the daughter of one of Natal’s numerous associates, and was introduced to the boy a year or two ago. They became friends, as they were only allowed to associate with each other. Kygan would often describe Emily as “Wycal or crazy” and if fact she often was. She was a girl who liked to yell and scream, while still staying on the safe side of things. She always had her way, whether one liked it or not. Kygan simply followed along.

The maid looked at him though, giving him a reassuring nod as she took out an orange, peeled it quickly, placed it on a plate and handed it to the boy to eat. He gobbled it down, squirting juice all over his fingers, but this was quickly taken care of as the maid cleaned his hands with a rag, picking him up out of the chair afterwards and taking him by the hand again. “I’m sure she’ll come to visit you, Tyuuko.”

“Good.” He replied back quickly. “Let’s go to mommy now.”

The servant complied, leading him towards the stairs again as they moved up to the fifth floor, spying the assortment of things from antique weapons to ancient looking tomes. But this wasn’t the place. They traversed the stairs once more, coming to the roof of the building. The sun was out, with fluffy white clouds atop streaking across the sky. The roof grounds were covered in ice and snow, even as the wind only whistled along with a fraction of its normal strength. The ground below was covered in white, with tiny black dots moving around. Kygan always enjoyed the view.

The pair stayed on the warm wood of the stairway instead of trek across the cold ice and snow. The grounds were generally calm and flat. He’d usually study on the floor below, learning from an assortment of tutors on this subject or that. But today was Friday, and every Friday he would met with his mother here atop the roof, and they’d do something like play a game or just talk. He rarely saw his mother since she was nearly always busy with other activities. He was told she loved him very much, but even though he had only the slightest idea of what love truly was, he was sure he wasn’t getting it from his mother.

And there she was, standing on the corner section of the roof, right in front of them really, with her back turned. She wore a long, black coat, and when she turned around it was revealed she was again wearing the exact same colour all over. It was weird, but Kygan didn’t much care and the maid liked living. The boy smiled, breaking away from the maids arms. He sprinted across the ice and snow, somehow unfazed by the bitter cold nipping away at his skin. He hugged at her legs, and she smiled, bending down and kissing him atop the forehead. “Mommy!”

“Hey kid” she said to him with pseudo-compassion that he was too young and naïve to notice. “How have you been love?”

“Good, I learned all about you yesterday. What did you want? Is Emily coming today?” He asked hurriedly, excited to see his mother even if he hadn’t been showing it only moments ago. He was still fixated on Emily though – he had been since yesterday evening, when he had found an odd looking box on the fifth floor that he wanted to explore further.

“Yes love, Emily is coming later today. I just spoke with her mother. Does this make you happy?”

“Yes, yes” he smiled, hugging her tighter, a devious smile forming on the woman’s lips. “The lady said you wanted me?” It had nearly slipped his mind, but he was sure she had called him up here since she wanted something.

“Yes, I did call for you. I’m glad that you’ve been having such a good time lately, and I wish I could be around more…Would you like to play a game, Kygan?” She smiled to him, moving towards the door after he backed away, while his feet just now wheezing in pain at the cold.

He nodded to her, and smiled, showing his pointed teeth. She stepped onto the wooden floor of the stairway, the maid out of sight now. “Well my love, the game is simple. Just stay out here until Emily comes.”

He looked at her in a puzzled manner, and began to shiver, rubbing his foot with his free hand while balancing on the other foot. “It’s cold though. I don’t want to play.”

She smiled, closing the door slowly to his horror. He couldn’t run, since he was too cold and his feet were in pain. She blew him a kiss before shutting the door, leaving him there alone. The wind began to pick up as it often did, the sun dying behind the greying clouds that began to form. He was alone now, and all he had to do was survive.

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BATS: Chapter 1

Postby Karaig » Sun Sep 04, 2011 9:00 pm


Chapter I: One Foot Inside the Door

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

The Fourth Karaigian-Cytroxis War. The latest war between the Extrasolar Empire of Karaig and the High Cytroxis Empire, and by far the bloodiest. It had been twenty years since the third war, both sides falling into a cold war once again. But when one looked closely enough, there was no Fourth War. Neither was there a third, or second, only calm spots in between the raging storms. War had always existed between the Karaigians and the Cytroxis, whether it be small skirmishes, or the sundering of worlds, the war had truly never ended. So in perspective, the so-called Fourth War was really just another spark to start the flames again, a new offensive.

The Empire had waited, building new forces, new weapons of destruction; a new generation of soldiers who had not witnessed the horrors of the last carnage. The horrors that had led to the absolute destruction of a hundred worlds, a great scar across the Altarian Galaxy's face. All the propaganda, the posters and ads displaying the triumphant Karaigian Military defeating the tyranny of the Cytrox, defeating them for all the destruction they had caused to the innocent Karaigian Empire, for all the lost lives: a false lie, yet another ploy for a sense of nationalistic patriotism, another way to increase the military.

When it came down to it, it was simple: We just wanted to spill there blood, and they wanted ours.

-Sergeant Dymor Ardav (ret.)
Why We Went to Tyror III



The second armoury was busy, as it was supposed to be before the invasion. Soldier after soldier filed through, giving name and rank to the CO of Ordnance. The room was large, with rack upon rack or weapons, from assault rifles, to microwave cannons. Munitions took up a whole wall of the armour, easily enough to supply a company for two months, and that was excluding the rockets, grenades, and energy packs. The next solider in Isaac Toren's line moved forward, yet another armoured soldier, no individuality, another number on the general's asset boards.

"Name, Rank and position." barked a grizzled sergeant.

"Ellenwood, Joseph! Private, machine gunner, Epsilon Squad, First Platoon!" replied a man through the audio vox of his HEAVIEARMOR. HEAVIEARMOR, also known as BRAT armour for the Battle Ready Assault Troops that wore it, was fully protective powered armour, environmental, chemically, and biologically protectioned thanks to the KNEECAP layering. What ever KNEECAP was, the grunts didn't known, or cared. It was the same for everyone; screw the details, just let me paint my armour with kill markings and pin up models.

"You forgot sir," replied the sergeant, already hauling up Ellenwood's weapon. "This is yours, one RVGR-90 heavy machine gun. She's loud, weighs a ton, but boy does she kill. Also, you get twenty mags with it, two grenades, and a combat knife."

"Sergeant, I suggest you give me five more mags, I'm a busy man, I plan to drop five as soon as I hit the surface. You know, kill some roaches, and about a hundred or so grubs, maybe a big ol' beetle."

"Private, you wanna know why you don't need five more mags? I'll tell ya-"

Ellenwood leaned in for the sergeant to whisper, but instead was greeted by something harder. Swiftly grabbing the RVGR, the sergeant swung it around, smashing it across Ellenwood's helmeted head, sending him sprawling. With that he dropped the gun on the fallen grunt.

"Told 'ya she was heavy, now fuck off, I've got guns to give out and hit people with. Oh, and a word of advice: Shut up. Your C.O. will love you for it. NEXT!"

"Toren, Isaac. Private, grenadier of Epsilon, First Platoon."

"Alright, hold on... here we are; One SPKR with attached grenade launcher. You get ten mags for the assault rifle, don't worry, there will be more planetside. You also get twenty grenades for the launcher, plus two regs. Now, word of advise; only use the launcher under orders from your C.O. saves ammo, and, well the more you fire them, the bigger target you'll be."

"Thank you sir." replied Isaac.

"Ok... NEXT!"

As Isaac left the room, fully equipped, walking down the hall towards hanger 2-B, the meeting grounds for the troops of Sigma Company, 2nd Division of the newly created 486th Assault Corps out of Terridan. One of the many Corps raised for the war, the 486th was partly responsible for fighting the northern campaign across the Skrael Continent, and would be landing within the day as part of the second wave. What perplexed Isaac Toren was the fact that they were fighting above the snowline. It wasn't the weather that bothered him, no the BRAT armour was fully insulated and had environmental control, but the fact that they were being sent there.

Due to Tyror II's distance from the system's star, the world was vastly covered in snow, save the equator zones and a good portion of the southern hemisphere. So, to anyone, it would seem smart to send people used to arctic warfare, say the famous Arceasisian troops, some of the toughest around the Empire. But no, the Arceasis force was deployed to Nem, another world currently being invaded by the Karaigian Empire. It was no surprise why they were there; Nem was a bastion of the Cytroxis forces, and was being invaded by 14 million troops. To add to that, it had been saturated by orbital strikes and not only where the Arceasisian troops there, but also the infamous Phrexian Steel Fists. It brought a shudder to Isaac to think about the fatalistic Phrexites, masters of siege warfare, unparalleled in wars of attrition, and lords of the underground realm.

"Hey Issac! Thanks for the assistance back there. Good to know that when I'm getting beat up, you'll be there to help."

Isaac turned to see Joseph Ellenwood stroll up beside him, his RVGR slung over his shoulders.

"You were fine; besides now you can brag about being in combat before the invasion."

"Yeah, fuck off." replied Ellenwood, gesturing his middle finger. "I'll be famous man, just you watch, Imma kill a Frostipede. Just with this gun. Man this is going to be awesome!"

"Yeah, it'll be awesome like that time you got drunk and vomited all over the colonel's ride in boot camp. Didn't it go something like 'Private, I'd have you shot if you were worth the ammo' or something along those lines?"

"Haha, once again, I tell you to fuck off."

The two soldiers turned into the hanger, a mass of troops had already assembled, gathering in squads and fire teams. The vast majority of the Hanger space was still dominated by the Dragon gunships, the official ferry of BRATs everywhere, and the saviour of their asses too. Isaac looked around, before seeing troops gathered on the left side of the hanger. He knew the vast majority from training, so it was no doubt that it was Sigma Company's First Platoon. Moving over there, it wasn't long before they found Epsilon Squad.

"Toren, Ellenwood, good to see you actually found your way here." laughed a middle aged man.

"Sergeant Brisonand, I told you I'd get Toren here safe and sound, never said anything about on time." replied Ellenwood as gung-ho as the propaganda posters.

"Sergeant, I regret to inform you that in making sure I got here, Private Ellenwood became the first casualty of Sigma Company. I'm sorry to say it was a friendly fire incident in the armoury." smirked Toren.

"Aww dude, shut up-"

"Ha, good to see Ellenwood get hurt without actually dying. Who'd ya fuck?" Brisonand laughed.

"Better question is who didn't I fuck-"

"Ellenwood, shut up before I have to shoot you for disgusting us with your sex life."

Walking through the crowd came a young sergeant, SPKR slung and playing with a combat knife. he walked up to Ellenwood and stared him down through the visor.

"You are annoying; thank god the military is sending you to attack. Hopefully your constant pestering will destroy the enemy's morale." Then with a laugh, he added "before you crush ours!"

"Sergeant Ardav, good to see you made it." Brisonand cut in "I have good news, the roster say I get Ellenwood in my fire team, you get Pezal."

"Holy Altaria, it must be my birthday. A better shot with no mouth, boy, I'm glad I don't have to rely on you Ellenwood."

Before Ellenwood could make a crude and sarcastic remark, which there was no doubt, would be targeting Ardav's mother, a loud voice cut over the crowd. The crowd, of coruse, it true military fashion, heel turned tot he source, and went silent. standing near the mouth of the hanger, was a soldier in BRAT armour, a bit adorned with awards, and customization, including an envious SPKR with a chainsaw bayonette. Captain Thomas "Sledgehammer" Fenix of Sigma Company.

"SIGMA COMPANY!" he shouted, with the assistance of his audio vox. "Welcome to Tyror III, it will be your home fore as long as the Cytrox are here! Now before I brief you, I'm going to clarify: THERE ARE NO, I REPEAT, NO BITCHES AND BOOZE DOWN THERE!"

this brought a bunch of joking moans and groans, and the occasional remark on why someone came then. Behind his visor, Fenix was smiling.

"Men, Sigma Company is the best in the Division," a roar of 'yeahs' and 'damn straights' shot up "which mean we're going to head the division's assault against the Rethian mountain citadel. We'll be going in via Dragons to clear the line for the 254th Assault Corps to enter in a grand fashion."

A soldier set down a device, which shot up a topographic and strategic map of the Rethian mountains. They were tall, above the snow line, and situated along the coast. walking under it, Captain Fenix pointed to a group of triangles on the holographic map.

"This is Battlegroup Jormungandr, a wet navy comprising of fifty warships and more importantly, sixteen amphibious assault ships. They were dropped in with the first wave, and all off the 254th is in that fleet. Now they just destroyed a massive GTO battery that was shielded from orbit. Not a single casualty as they bombarded the shit out of the bugs from off the coast. The shield wasn't mean't to stop water assets, so they completely destroyed the Cytroxis base. Now,they are heading north to the Rethian mountain base, and will be there as we get there. They will commence with a light bombardment of the base, before sending in the Oxen."

"Sir! Why is it light?" shouted a voice from the crowd. The captain turned to that direction, another smile under his helmet.

"That's a good question? Why do we need to help this massive navy? Well command wants the Rethian base for our own, so they thought why level it when we need it. The plan is to take the base, and we'll have an impenetrable fortress to operate out of. The Navy can only pepper the shoreline naval guns, but can't risk the guns buried deeper in the mountain without hitting the base to hard. So that's where we come in; we fly in with fighter escorts, who hit the majority of the AA, while we unload and take the base. While we hit the naval guns up top and neutralize the remaining AA, the 254th will storm the lower levels.

"We cannot, I repeat, cannot let this drag out. The Navy is only available for seven hours after arrival, then its going north to neutralize Cytrox assets in the polar regions. So it's leaving even if the troops are dying on the shores, so we NEED to do this fast and lethally. Still, it should be easily: two days ago" Fenix shifted the map, outlining two bases south and east of Rethian, "Elements of the 109th Shock out of Karsis terminated all hostile resistance at these bases, effectively cutting Rethian off from the main Cytroxis defense, along with a heavy orbital bombardment of 27 starports being used for Cytroxis aerial power. So in theory, the enemy will have little to no support from outside the base. Still, the mountains were harder to crack, so I think we'll be seeing Cytroxis units rushing to aid the defenders.

"So in that case, 1st Platoon will follow me up the main naval battery in the cliffs, 200 meters above the guns that our navy is going to pulverise, so don't jump every time a shot fires. 2nd Platoon and 3rd Platoon will take the northern most AA battery, keeping in mind that they should try to be kept in one piece-it'd save use the trouble. 4th Will hit ramparts above the shores, and will make their way down to flank the Cytroxis with the 254th. 5 and 6, each of you will storm an entrance from the mountains passes into the Rethian compound.Cut off any resistance, remember to conserve ammo- might be a bit until support arrives."

With that the hologram disappeared, and Captain Fenix turned to his troops, taking his helmet off. Underneath was a bald man, stacked with muscle and a face etched with scars. He roared over the hanger, a booming voice to his men.

Last edited by Karaig on Sat Mar 17, 2012 7:25 am, edited 6 times in total.
Fear can motivate a man to do many things, but respect can dictate his every action.
A captain deals in tactics. A colonel deals in strategy. A general deals in logistics.

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Founded: Aug 17, 2011

The Vaccine

Postby Larbitius » Mon Sep 05, 2011 1:11 pm

[ PT ]

Everybody is terrified. Strong men, good men, all wetting their pants. It's pathetic, but their comrades are dying, of course.
Yesterday, I came across a man. He was screaming in pain, writhing on the ground. I knew his friends. They'd already died a long time ago, and they were forgotten too.
We're all packed in here like rats, and I won't stand for it. The sick, the dying. I see them working now, their lifeblood leaking out slowly.
Soon they'll be forgotten too. They're all dead already, just need to be decent and lie down and die, just to stop clogging up the hospitals. A stench wafts across our position. They look around, horrified. And then they die.
I'm upwind of them, so I don't have to handle the stench.
I look around at the people beside me, behind me, in front of me. It's too much. I can see that they all look off, to some invisible, non-existent point a thousand miles away. I'm sick of the sickness, and I'm sick of other people being sick. A few days ago, some asinine doctor prodded me, poked me, asked me some ridiculous, useless questions.
Then, he told me I was sick in the head.
Now, what sort of person wouldn't be? I'd be more worried if I were perfectly happy and fine, but I digress. I'm sick and tired of people, useless and useful dying. I can't stand the fear. You can feel it in the air as a low buzz, as disembodied voices whispering in your ear.
The disease they're all afraid of- it's almost comical. All you need to do is get vaccinated. Get slightly infected. Give your body a chance to understand what it's dealing with. Then smack the damn virus down. Hard. As they say, what doesn't kill you make you stronger.
So, I'm going to fix this.
And everyone around me looks in horror as I stand to meet my salvation.
For a moment, everything is perfectly fine as I stand and look around at the trench, it's barbed wire defenses looking ridiculously petty. I giggle, as I pick up my bolt-action rifle. Where's the disease, I wonder.
Oh! There it is!
The bullets tear into my body, making dull smacking noises. Ah, the painful part of the vaccine.
The doctors say I might not live. I say that at least I've got my shots before I die. They give me an incredulous look, then lock me away to be forgotten, just like the dead.
What irony.
Last edited by Larbitius on Sat Sep 10, 2011 8:24 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Founded: Feb 04, 2011


Postby Drackonisa » Sat Sep 10, 2011 7:31 am

[ [PMT] ]

[ Mature ]


The gunner of the Predator 2 peered through the gun sights, switching over to thermal scans. The commander was busy keeping a lookout with the 3d map fed to him by the tank's optical lasers. The enemy was near, they could feel it. They were all on the edge now, at the blade's edge of anxiety. Deep down in his mind, the gunner felt the innate predatory urge growing within him, a primal need borne of fear, rage and bloodshed caged by a lifetime of coddling in civilised society.

The crewmen felt it, the return to a more primitive state of mind, where their only concern was their continued survival and the end of their enemy's. The gunner's breath came in shallow gasps, the wait and prolonged combat with no time for rest had gnawed on them and brought them to the edge of insanity. Mind's stretched to the breaking point, the tankers endured. Their battalions and unit no longer mattered, out here alone and separated from their comrades the only thing that mattered was each other.

It was not too long ago that they were proud and strong, the wolf pack taking strength in their numbers. Their overconfidence had done them in, their assault was shattered and the enemy had drove them into a hasty retreat. The capacitors for the gauss cannon was running low, their engine was nearly out of gas. 1 more slug left. They needed to make it count.

Just then, the enemy appeared. A warm outline in the dim background of the forest. It had not yet spotted them. The engine of the predator grew warm with anticipation. They could feel the tank and its primal need as well. They had worked with the Predator 2 long enough to understand its quirks and personality. The machine was regarded not just as a weapon of war, but as a fellow soldier by the crewmen as well. It was their comrade and they had bonded to the tank.

The other tank would be on them any minute now, no doubt the enemy felt the same excitement growing deep within them. The thrill of the hunt, the warmth slowly grew, brightening the silhouette of their foe as its engines ran at maximum output. The wait was over, its either now or never. Pulling the trigger, the Predator 2 roared with the release. The tension and anxiety had built up towards just this moment, the sublime emotions of anticipation and pent up frustrations suddenly let loose in that single action.

The crew sank back into their seats as the emotions streamed forth like a shattered dam, exhausted. The long, thick and hard barrel of the Predator 2's gauss cannon fired its thick load, saved up for this precise moment. The hot and steaming depleted uranium round penetrated deeply into the rear armor plates of the enemy tank, reaching its innermost depths. Flames burned passionately from the hull of their foe, as the deep penetration stopped the enemy dead in its tracks from a destroyed engine and burst fuel tank. The turret hatches opened as the crew sought to flee the burning vehicle. It was not enough, the Predator was not yet spent. Its machine guns, filled with its full store of ammunition was begging for release. Seeking to finish its job, the Predator 2 raked the enemy with machine gun fire through the now vulnerable tank. Aiming for the weakspots, warm loads were released all over the slits, hatches and racks. The crew continued in their frenzy, unable to stop their primal urges.

At last, the Predator's munitions ran dry and the shooting stopped. The crewmen surveyed their handiwork. A scan of the enemy tank fed to the commander showed the results of their handiwork, their hot, burning loads were released all over the once pristine and smooth hull of the enemy tank. The Predator's optics showed the contrast now, the stained and pockmarked hull of the defeated enemy, a testament to their conquest. The Predator slowed to a stop, they were spent by the night's activities and were out of fuel and ammunition. The commander sighed as another enemy tank came into view. They were defenseless now, helpless before their foe. Awaiting their doom, the Predator simply lowered its gun and submitted before the inevitable. They felt only a moment of pain as the round penetrated them from the rear and allowed them their final agonies.

Ironic, to savor their last victory only to face such an ignoble end.
Last edited by Drackonisa on Sat Sep 10, 2011 5:59 pm, edited 3 times in total.

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Postby Jenrak » Sat Sep 10, 2011 7:55 am

Guys, I need a title and tags, otherwise I can't add you on the table of contents.

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BATS: Chapter 2

Postby Karaig » Sat Sep 10, 2011 8:28 am


Chapter II: First Exposure

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

The Battle for Rethian Base, was a good introduction into the Tyror III Campaign. The base was a fortress, and ancient, having stood there since the so called "Second" Karaigian-Cytroxis War. The fortress carved deep into the mountains, munitions, food, equipment... Christ it was almost impervious to assault. During the "second" and "third" wars, Rethian had been assault no less than nine times, all to no avail. The secret to the base's defences was the ground to orbit lasers. The base contain seven GTO batteries, and even without shields, orbital bombardment couldn't displace them. The laser silos were deep, in the roots of the mountain range, the blast caps no less than ten meters thick, and that was without the energy shields. The Cytrox had arranged a fanatic and zealous army around it, along with ring after ring of defence. At full strength, the base would have taken at least a half a million men to take, if it was surrounded possibly over the period of months or even years. Command wanted us to take it with one company, three hundred men, over ninety five percent fresh recruits, in under seven hours. It sounded like suicide.

Only after did I realize that the Nem Campaign had taken its toll: the invasion of the Nem had begun two months prior to the Tyror invasion, and the Cytroxis had pulled men off Tyror III to shore up their defenses on Nem, and by the grace of some higher powers, Rethian Base gave away one hundred thousand troops to Nem. That left only thirty thousand troops to guard the base, and with the Shock troops cutting off supply lines, and the 254th Assault Corps coming in, the base would swiftly fall. On paper at least.

Sigma Company was over ninety five percent fresh recruits, and the 254th was similarly short on veterans after all Nem was receiving all the veterans as it was the bigger task. Looking back now, high command must have felt bad after they saw Tyror II become the meat grinder of the war. It was a good thing too: they sent us wave after wave of reinforcements after the Battle of Sergsarsian Fell. Still, Rethian was a proving ground, it would show how some men would fail, and others would triumph. Despite everything, I still remember vividly the assault, and it wasn't pretty.

-Sergeant Dymor Ardav (ret.)
Why We Went to Tyror III


The Dragon Gunships soared over the icy waters, their formation tight and spearheaded. Fifteen of the Dragons where carrying Sigma company, while being protected by a tighter cordon of HellkiteAssault Gunships. The assault would mainly rely on the Hellkites, as the vast majority of the bombers and fighters where elsewhere. To many of the soldiers, they were banking everything on the gunships, because if they couldn't clear a landing zone, they'd get to freeze in the ocean below.

Isaac Toren sat in the troop compartment of his transport. His squad sat near him, they'd be the last ones out as Delta Squad was closer to the rear ramp. Isaac looked over his right shoulder, seeing four identical troops in bulky BRAT armour. The Battle Ready Assault Troops of his squad, his brothers and family on all accounts. Directly beside him was Private Edmund Reberio, who was talking to Private Louise Mason beside him. The two must have known each other before the war, because they seemed very close. Further down was Corporal Adam Carrousal, the squad's resident gun nut. From what Isaac heard, Adam never missed, and as the squad's Designated Marksman, he got to use the semi automatic standard HDHNTR-60. the weapon was reliable, and was essentially a compact sniper, it never failed to kill hostile infantry, but Adam had decided that he had to clean it every fifteen minutes-which he did now- so it never, ever, not in a million years, failed.

Beside the Corporal was Sergeant Keithua Brisonand "Lifer", the sergeant of Isaac's fireteam and the lead sergeant of Epsilon Squad. The man was a veteran of many battles, though he'd never been in an invasion of this magnitude. His nickname came from the fact that he had a very low casualty rating among his squad, his old men had all been promoted and now led other squads. In fact, the vast majority the sergeants under 4th Battalion's Sigma Company were old squadmates. Isaac guessed they'd all work together to make a new generation of veterans, so the cycle would continue.

"I wonder if they'd have tanks." came the voice of Joseph Ellenwood.

Isaac looked over his left shoulder to see massive barrel aimed at his face.

"Ellenwood, watch your fucking gun!" Isaac said it a shushed, yet firm, voice.

The RVGR-90 was a heavy machine, issued to the designated machine gunner in each fireteam, and would mulch even the heavy armour Isaac wore. It sat cradled in Ellenwood's arms, and inconveniently had its barrel sticking in Isaac's face.

"Right, sorry 'bout that," Ellenwood quickly shifted the gun so it pointed down. "Think there will be tanks?"

"No, we'll be on the ramparts of the base, two hundred above the shore. I don't think we'll see any tanks, just troops." Isaac whispered back.

"But the ramparts do have a giant courtyard, perfect place to have tanks, lots of space and all."

"Dude, why would you have a tank facing the ocean, unless they think we have tanks that can drive up the face of a cliff."

"Hey man, you never know, those guys in R&D are pretty tricky."

Isaac was about to sarcasticly answer when the internal lights of the gunship's troop bay went red. It was time.

"Ellenwood! Mount the MG. Toren, get ready to pull him back if he gets shot." Sergeant Brisonand shouted. "the rest of you, weapon check. Get ready for hard contact. Ardav, take fireteam E2 and move out to the left, we'll try to flank them."

"Alright Keithua." Sergeant Ardav said bluntly. He was the second sergeant of the squad, leading the second fireteam. Being a veteran along with Brisonand, he was just as venerable to the new recruits.

Isaac and Joesph moved towards the back of the troop bay, which was towards the front of the gunships. Pressing a button, a side door opened, revealing the ocean outside. Ellenwood handed his gun to Isaac, then unclipped another RVGR-90 from the gunship's wall. This one was attached to a power arm, so it would fall out of the gunship. This was one of the transport's weapons to be used by troops when it was dropping them off, but it was really unrequired with the Dragon's rockets and autocannons, the mighty RVGR-90 looked like a squirt gun. But it was good for morale, after all, the RVGR didn't have a box magazine; instead it had a munitions belt which fed up into the ceiling, giving the user an impression of having unlimited ammo.

Bringing the gun down, and aiming it out the window, Ellenwood turned to Isaac.

"Time-to-kick-some-asses!" he sung, if it could have been called singing.

"Shut up, you're breaking morale!" Yelled Corporal Carrousal over the engines, along with laughing.

"Yeah shut up man!" yelled Ellenwood back, "I have the voice of the Altarians!"

"Darn shame you can't disappear like them!" Yelled Private Dave Pezal, the machine gunner of Sergeant Ardav's fireteam.

Flipping off the machine gunner, Ellenwood turned back to look at Isaac.

"No appreciation for talent."

"Keep telling yourself that buddy," replied Isaac, before turning. "Man, look at that!"

Ellenwood and Isaac both saw a nearby HellkiteGunship unleash a volley of missiles, each one sprouting a tail of smoke behind it. behind the gunship, even more missiles fired off as the squadron engaged the enemy, then the loud grunting sound of the twin nose mounted autocannons. To the two soldiers, and undoubtedly, the gunships looked like they were breathing fire as the shots' muzzle flashes ignited the sky. That along with the nose art of gaping jaws on the Dragons and Hellkites really did make them appear like the mythical fire breathers of their namesake. Then one exploded.

Great streaks of violet lights scythed across the skies as the Cytrox unleashed their laser anti air systems. they carved across the ships, shields crackling under the fire, armour being melted. The formation broke off into the escorts of each platoons, with 1st Platoon's transports heading higher, and Epsilon, being part of 1st Platoon got to experience the the height. Masses of violet streaks shot up, Isaac feeling the gunship shutter each time a violet blast hit it. He silently prayed that the thick armour was thick enough to hold back the lasers; he really didn't want to fall into the ocean.

Then coast started to appear, as Isaac was looking out the side, he hadn't seen the mountains, but now he had a clear picture. They were giants, towering over the coast, like a fortress wall, which they obviously served as. The shore was barely three hundred meters, then it darted straight up into sheer cliff. It was formidable, and he had to survive for seven hours. Lucky him. then the gunship came over the ramparts, banking left towards its designated landing zone, braving the heavy anti air fire. Isaac saw two more gunship fall from the skies, both Hellkites, so it wasn't somebody he knew. Still, he appreciated their sacrifice.

"Sergeant, this is Awesome-One, I repeat Sergeant, this is Awesome-One. I have spotted enemy bugs permission to brutally destroy them with my amazingly awesome machine gun?" yelled Ellenwood over the wind coming through the door.

"Private, you have permission. Prioritize any AA bats the Hellkitesmiss... And why are you "Awesome-One?" replied the Sergeant.

"Yeah, shouldn't you be Failure-First Degree?" said Corporal Carrousal, as usually being an asshole to Ellenwood. For this jab, he received middle finger.

"With all due respect, fuck you Corporal. Sergeant, I'll make you proud!" laughed Ellenwood insanely as he started his attack. Isaac took a step back.

Ellenwood squeezed the trigger, letting loose a barrage of rounds as they ripped up the concreted ramparts and punctured armoured shields. The rounds were explosive, so Isaac got a good view of Ellenwood shots hitting a Cytrox bug before they exploded. It wasn't exactly PG. He continued his firing, sweeping over enemy platoons and he even wiped three laser batteries clean of hostile operators. No doubt he'd brag to Isaac after the battle how he'd saved lives by clearing those, and he'd be right, but the pride would probably cloud his reasoning.

The gunship descended, and Isaac was momentarily blinded as the rockets on his ride's wings shot off, smoke trails flooding his and the insane gunner's sights. As the smoke cleared, they were much closer to the ground, and Ellenwood now had his gun at head level of the troops firing at them. Isaac ducked as a purple blast shot over his head and impacted inside the gunship. Luckily, it hurt no one. The ship stopped descending, only one meter off the ground, and a green light came on.

"STOW THAT GUN ELLENWOOD, EVERYBODY, MOVE-MOVE-MOVE!!" barked Sergeant Brisonand over the comms. It was time to fight.

The squads filed out onto the Ramparts, with Isaac and Ellenwood being the last ones out. Jumping down onto the concrete like ground, they finally got the scale of the base. They stood on a massive cliff which overlooked the ocean, behind them were battlements with abandoned and wrecked AA guns poking through. In front of them, was a fortress. Between them and the line of coastal defense guns were three trench lines. They broke in areas to let at least two vehicles side by side through, but were mostly filled with Cytrox bugs. The trenches were filled with munitions and power cells for the AA guns and defenders, no doubt the Cytrox wanted to keep their ammo safe from guns. Behind the AA guns was a very morale breaking sight. Another massive cliff, even taller then the two hundred meter one they stood on now. Across the cliff their were battlements and bunkers, a mighty fortress. Even though smoke rose from where gunships had hit bunkers, violet fire still poured over the battlefield. Truth be told, it was one, big ass, fortress. They only had three hundred men.

"All troops into the trenches now, Epsilon squad! Move to those blasted bunkers!" Came the voice of Captain Fenix over the comms.

"This is Sergeant Brisonand, we copy." replied the sergeant. "you heard the man, move you armoured asses!"

as the majority of 1st Platoon dove for the trenches, Isaac rushed with his squad into a roofless bunker. He sarcastically thanked the gunships for doing such a great job leveling the thing that he now was going to use as protection. What was left was mostly one meter of two meter rubble walls. Still, it beat sitting in a trench loaded with explosive objects. Moving in, he perched his SPKR over a blasted wall, he saw nothing that needed to go bye-bye, so he saved his grenade launcher. Instead, he followed everyone else's lead and opened fire with his gauss propelled rounds. Ellenwood slammed into the wall beside him, aiming his RVGR machine gun over the wall, and unloading more rounds.The barking of the gauss rifles was loud, deafening at some points. Isaac quickly adjusted his audio dampeners to a higher setting.

"Roaches coming up on our left!" said Corporal Carrousal over the comm system.

True enough, Cytrox forces were trying to flank the platoon's positions, moving swiftly to the left of the bunker. The bipedal bugs were tall, with white carapaces to show their native arctic climate. Their legs were digitgrade, which gave the Roaches speed. Fast and tough, the Roach, or Rajk'akko in their native tongue, was the main trooper of the Cytroxis Empire, though they had a lot more slave troops. The Roaches moved fast, each one firing violet pulses from their small stock less rifles, it was like a strafing run. The gun wasn't as big as a SPKR, but it packed a hell of a punch.

Isaac and Ellenwood ducked as the shots almost hit them, before e popping back up and firing. The barking of the gauss weapons bit at the Cytrox Roaches. A Roach buckled as a round with a Tungsten Carbide nose tore through the alien's neck, a splash of bright orange spraying out. It fell to the ground, clearly dead. Isaac kept on firing, and made a mental note of his first kill, he'd have to mark his gun or armour later. He made another mental note as a few shots ripped up the torso of another alien. He turned to Ellenwood as the latter unleashed a volley of shots across the Roaches, tearing up six, seven, eight Roaches. Lucky bastard had a machine gun. Isaac took aim at another Roach, and fired, missing by an inch. Tightening the grip on his gun, he fire off another shot, the gun barked once as a shot impaled a Roach's head.

"Hostile tank! Eleven o' clock!" yelled Private Mason over the comms.

Isaac turned to see a hovering platform. It was white like the Cytroxis and had a massive cannon on it, along with a smaller rapid fire gun beside the main one. A Roach stuck out of the top, laying down a suppressing fire with the closest thing the Cytroxis had to a machine gun. A massive beam shot from the main gun, tearing up the ground and a part of a trench. The explosion shot up, as more munitions went off. Isaac felt a tapp on his shoulder, and sighed as he turned to look. There was Ellenwood, staring at him from behind his visor: They saw a tank.

"Fuck off Ellenwood." was all Isaac could say.

The tank took aim at the bunker, the massive gun charging; even now a growing orb of violet could be seen inside.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!! MOVE-MOVE-MOVE!" Brisonand said, half screaming, half barking. Suffice to say, no one questioned him. The squad bailed out, running behind the bunker, only to come into the sights of a machine gun. One of the bunkers on the cliff unleashed a barrage of purple blasts, peppering the area around the squad. Breaking up, Isaac, Ellenwood, and Carrousal ducked behind a down Dragon, while the Sergeant and the rest of the fireteam ducked behind a wrecked AA gun. The other half of the squad, led by Sergeant Ardav were ducking behind the rear wall of the bunker, the only refuge from the fire.

A massive explosion shot up as the tank destroyed the vast majority of the bunker. Debris rained over the area, smoke covering the carnage. Isaac adjusted his visor to pierce the smoke. Looking through, Issac saw six blue diamonds outlining Ardav and his fireteam. They were getting up from the explosion that had knocked them off their feet. One of the diamonds, centered over Private Jeffry Sciartins, was blinking. Before Isaac could tell them, Ardav was one step ahead, rushing over and quickly checking the soldier. No doubt the armour's bio-foam would be sealing the wounds and flooding his body with antibiotics.

Another explosion struck the ground between Ardav and Isaac, another plume of destruction shooting up. Isaac recoiled, turning to Ellenwood.

"They're pinned down! That tank needs to go!"

"Gee, I wish I could help, but I forgot my tank repellent as home!" shouted Ellenwood as he aimed his RVGR-9 at a group of flanking Roaches. His gun barked at them, tearing up the group like a vicious attack dog. None survived.

The tank hovered over the ruined, no flattened, bunker, it presence dominating. Ardav knew he'd be butchered to the last man, and yelled over the comms.


As the men ran out, Brisonand fired a grenade launcher at the tank, the shell exploding on the gunner's chest. The MG on top was silenced as it was ripped apart by the blast, the gunner was vaporized. The Tank payed no attention to the Sergeant's distraction attempts, seeing only the juicy men fleeing from cover. It coaxial blaster opened up. It peppered the ground, mostly missing the zigzagging men of Ardav's fireteam. They were almost to cover, when the shots hit Corporal Aron Mitchy. The heavy caliber gun, if you could call an energy weapon that, tore p the corporal, the violet blasts ripping through the armour and sending his right arm flying as he fell to the ground. his DBLBRRL-120 rocket launcher sliding across the ground. It was meerly six metres from Isaac's position.

"Dude, don't go for it!" said Ellenwood. "It's not worth it."

Isaac turned to him. "It is." he tapped his comm feed. "Sergeant I can get Aron's launcher, I need cover!"

There was a pause, Isaac waited, then he heard a voice.

"Alright, all units, open fire on the tank, cover Private Toren!"

At once the squad opened fire, the barking of the guns no use against the tank, but they did distract it as the the tank's turret swiveled to fire at the distraction. A massive blast went off by the AA gun's wreck, but the mass shielded the troops behind. Isaac looked at the missile launcher, just sitting there, then he turned his eyes to the tank. It wasn't facing him. He jumped out, sprinting for the launcher. MG fire opened up from the cliffs, and trailed behind the running BRAT. Isaac dove for the launcher grabbing it, and rolling onto his stomach. Laying prone, and with the tank between him and the MG emplacement, he fired.

A missile shot out, streaking at the tank. Not even three seconds later, a massive explosion erupted between the hover tank's turret and hull, ripping the Cytrox armour to shreds. as the plume of smoke started to fall, Isaac stood up, and switching his visors, targeted the MG bunker. He fired again. The missile barreled for the gun, streaking over the battlefield. Isaac lowered his weapon as the bunker exploded, and the MG's firing ceased. He stood there, almost laughing.

"I fucking love whoever invented the double barrel missile launcher."
Last edited by Karaig on Sat Mar 17, 2012 7:26 am, edited 14 times in total.
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Founded: Aug 17, 2011

Postby Larbitius » Sat Sep 10, 2011 8:31 am

Jenrak wrote:Guys, I need a title and tags, otherwise I can't add you on the table of contents.

Sorry, I was sure I had the title as the subject.

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Founded: Jul 20, 2009

Postby Abruzi » Sat Sep 10, 2011 8:11 pm

The Way.


The wail of a klaxon. A long and mournful cry that tore at the lone traveler’s heart as he gazed on. The sands, the fierce radioactive sands, they separated him from his home, from his love. A vast and nigh upon impenetrable belt of radioactive desert separated the traditionally prosperous region of north Turgov and the largely agrarian and now desert Southern Turgov Steppe. In recent times the nomadic Freeks to the east had turned the majority of the steppe their own personal fief, roving patrols ensuring that the hardy merchants who braved the sands did not do so with excess wealth intact.

The traveler raised a hand to his brow and wiped a bit of moisture away from his face. The thickly insulated and rubberized material that stretched over the Traveler’s head was olive drab, creating an ominous haze of color in the night. Tattered rags hung from his emaciated frame, rags that would in times past identify him as a member of the Glorious People’s Revolutionary Army, but today marked him as an almost guaranteed Gas Mask and Kalash fighter. In the days since the fall of the Neo Bolshevist Union, thousands upon thousands of well trained and equipped Red Army Remnants had over time devolved to mere Gangs. These gangs dominated the Gas Mask Kalash Culture, proving to be the most effective and powerful.

Before him stretched the final expanse of nuclear desert that separated him from his great love, the city of Zamest. Even from this great distance the spires and mighty towers the city of lust were visible. Standing in the moon light like pseudo religious monoliths, the towers were no doubt the origin of the klaxon wails. Religious prayer to the true Gospodar were played out into the unending wastelands at night, perhaps in the hope that the Lubanja would help the poor souls lost in the desert at night. Stalkers, Bandits, and Mercenaries all roamed through the largely toxic wasteland; highly armed and lacking morals. Many a trader or traveling Missionary had been hacked to death by their blades, just as surely as they probably fell to Khante Raiders.

The traveler slowly made his way through the sea of sand, walking with an almost reverent air. The orange robe of a Missionary drifted across the tattered rags of his uniform. Religious sigils blended naturally with quasi-military patches that marked the soldier’s participation in the various Neo Bolshevist Campaigns. He and dozens of his former Comrades had adopted the vows of the south eastern Death Cultists, they now wandered the wastes spreading faith at the tip of the Kalashnikov and at the sound of the Prayer-Chant. He muttered these now, gentle rhymes in a language older than man that warded away the various Mutants that now stalked the Gospodar’s Realm. Each step was accompanied by the appropriate word, causing rents in the Noosphere and areas that were themselves a lack of thought. This naturally defeated the Noosphere concept, rendering it outside of the touch of DMITRI who subconsciously guided the majority of the mutant herds.

As he marched, the Traveler softly mused,

“The way of the Lubanja is a way of desperation.”
Last edited by Abruzi on Wed Sep 14, 2011 2:24 pm, edited 2 times in total.
02:01 RomanEmpire Because I dont know about you
02:01 RomanEmpire But I want to monger some fucking fish

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Founded: Jul 14, 2011

Postby The Corona » Sat Sep 10, 2011 8:38 pm

[ The Fires Ignite ]

[ MT/PMT ]

In the beginning, humanity was but apes fighting over scraps. They had much potential, but they had no yearning to do anything. They simply wished to exist. No technology, no faith, and worst of all, no drive to succeed and rise above their status as mere beasts. The Fire God, Corona, saw this and was saddened by humanity's lack of higher purpose. While the other gods simply tended to the other creatures of the Earth, Corona decided to imbue the very essence of fire, and himself, into humanity. First, he took Fire's need to spread and put it into the humans to create immigration and spread the species across the entire planet. Then, he put Fire's perseverance and ability to turn from a simple spark into a raging inferno into the humans. This created technology, science and innovation. He then put Fire's ability to destroy everything into the humans, creating war. He did this because he knew the other Gods would become jealous and attempt to steal humanity away from him, and his followers would need a way to resist. Finally, he gave Fire's abstract qualities to humanity, creating Art, Emotion and Music. Once he was done, he slept. When he awoke, he found that Humanity had created vast empires with but spears and armor. So he gave humanity gunpowder. He then slept again. Now, he has awoken to find that humanity has forgotten him, and worships false Gods. He then created a nation that would bear his name and show their brothers the light.
Last edited by The Corona on Sun Jan 01, 2012 2:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Storm Gard
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Capitalist Paradise

Postby Storm Gard » Mon Sep 12, 2011 1:57 am


[ PMT ]

Why? That is the eternal question of the Abruzian occupation. For a state whose national culture is based around logic, efficiency and cost effectiveness, why haven’t the Variantes abandoned the occupation yet? Or more importantly why was the invasion undertaken in the first place? For such a costly investment the Abruzian occupation seems have provided scarce returns. So why maintain the endeavor? It would not be pride, for the Variante don’t experience pride, simply duty. So why? The logical answer? To abandon the occupation would lead to the chaos that has gripped the entire cultural Overmind of the Abruzian homeland to spill over into the Imperial Union. The simple answer? The Variantes can never lose.

Utopia Shield City
Sector 5, District 13
Estimated population: 15,362 organics

Wrists bound tightly behind him, Operative First Class Vassily Ivanov sat in a room that stank of old blood and stared down the barrel of a pistol. The grey metal glinted in the dim light from the solitary working fixture overhead, the little suns of the reflection flickering with every tiny movement of the Gas Mask and Kalash soldier holding it. The blood was worked into the floor, as much a part of the metal as years of dirt and abuse. When they'd dragged him in, he'd seen an ominous dark stain beneath the chair. Blood didn't stain metal unless you had a lot of it. That's it, Vassily. Think encouraging thoughts.

"You should really clean that more often," he said. "You're building up all sorts of dirt around the barrel. Leave that for long enough and one day it'll misfire, blow up in your hands. Happened to a friend of mine once. He wasn't exactly pretty beforehand, but now... well, let's just say he doesn't get many dates these days."

“Shut the hell up,” the gas mask clad soldier towering before him growled, his voice warped behind the filtering mask, “and tell me the fucking security codes for Central Protection.”

If there’s one thing I love about these Gas Mask and Kalash guys is their politeness.

"So, your plan to get the codes that you have no other way of acquiring without me... is to threaten to kill me? Genius," Vassily said. "Your boss will be happy with that one."

"Romanov," the Gas Mask said, stepping back a couple of paces and nodding to the Ministry of Contentment specialist over his left shoulder. Romanov ambled up and slammed the butt of his shotgun across Vassily's face, sending him sprawling from his chair in the middle of the bare side-room. He crashed onto the floor, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His arms were chained together behind him, so his head cracked painfully against the iron-grey metal. His vision faded for a second, and purple sparks flashed in front of his eyes like little agonizing fireflies. The coppery smell of fresh blood began to overpower the stale as little pieces of glass tumbled down his face; his visor had smashed into innumerable tiny shards, leaving nothing but the frame hanging on the side of his head.

"You know, this entire district is off the grid," the Gas Mask said, squatting down beside him. "Even if it weren't, we have an… arrangement with the Gas Mask and Kalashs that own the streets, and your pathetic security forces would get slaughtered before they even got close."

Vassily spat a mouthful of blue blood onto the metal floor. His head pulsed with a driving, hot pain, like someone had fired a pistol directly into his brain. “A dramatic pause arrangement, huh?" he said. "I knew there was something untrustworthy about this district’s Gas Mask and Kalash gangs. Probably the fact that they Gas Mask and Kalashs."

"My point is, you could scream for hours and nobody would know a thing."

"I'm not a great screamer."

“You Variantes all think you are superior, you think you can just waltz into our homeland and just do whatever you bastards feel like and then get away with it?” the Gas Mask snarled, and slammed a heavy boot into Vassily stomach. It hurt far more than it seemed reasonable.

“Oh? And our occupation is such a bad thing? Quality of life in Utopia is up nearly ten times pre-invasion, your populace has finally stopped scrabbling in the dirt just to survive and it all thanks to the occupation.” Vassily said, and tried to push himself up into a sitting position with his legs. One of his boots slipped on his own blood and sent him slumping back to the floor.

“Although, I have to say I wouldn’t have expected a Ministry of Contentment operative to work with some Gas Mask and Kalash ganger.”

“We are equal opportunity employers, and who am I to turn away patriots from the cause?” Romanov said and the Gas Mask kicked him again, this time under the chin. There was a sharp crack as metal met metal. His head snapped back, smashing into the wall behind him, and a million white-hot, unbearably bright stars erupted behind his eyes. Venomous, icy pain rippled through his skull like an earthquake and he passed out for few seconds.

When he came to, his vision swam sickeningly for a couple of seconds, the single light suddenly horribly bright. It left a thick purple stain in his retina. One of them had shoved him up against the wall so that his back leant on it, leaving him slumped on his ass. Ah, dignity, my old friend. How did we ever grow so far apart?

The gangster had removed his finally removed his gas mask to reveal his face. As his eyes slowly rebooted, he saw the right eye was missing, replaced by a single livid scar that ran across his olive skin like an arrow. Knife? Vassily thought muzzily. Too thin to be gunfire. Knowing these Abruzians, though, could be anything. Even their spoons are sharp.

"I want those codes," he said, going down on one knee to look Vassily in the eye. "You have the codes. Tell me where they are or I start hurting you."

"Start?" Vassily said, feeling his teeth with his tongue. They were all still there, at least. That was something. "That was just a friendly greeting, was it?"

"You could say that," the gangster said, leaning in close.

"Then allow me to respond in kind," Vassily said pleasantly, and kicked the gangster in the face as hard as he could. The iron-hard sole of his boot crunched beautifully against the man's face and white flecked blood flowered outwards from his wrecked nose.

One given is one returned.

The gangster collapsed backwards in a heap without crying out, his pistol flying away to clatter against the opposite wall. That bone flecked blood had spilled down the front of his dull grey armor, and was still pumping out of his nose and across his face like a miniature fountain.

The Ministry of Contentment agent looked down at his fallen comrade and then back to Vassily.

"Nice kick," he said admiringly. "I haven't seen anyone deck him with one hit before."

"Yes, he didn't take that well," Vassily said. The Gas Mask still hadn't moved, and a pool of blood was beginning to form under his head. Maybe he's dead. It was a comforting thought.

"He'll take this even worse," the agent said, and shot him. The Gas Mask's body twitched as the shotgun shredded his torso, punching through his armour like paper from that distance. A stray gobbet of blood splattered against Vassily's cheek and dribbled down, faintly warm against his skin. His head started to throb, harder than before. OK, I think he's dead now. Is this a better situation, or a worse one? On the one hand, you've got a sadistic idiot who wants to torture you. On the other hand, you've got a Ministry of Contentment Agent, any Agent. Either way, it's still pretty bad.

"Idiot thought he could trust me," the agent said contemptuously, and leveled his gun at Vassily. "Tell me where the codes are. Now."


The agent chuckled, his laughter like sandpaper on metal. "You've got a pair, I'll give you that. But I want those codes."

“And I want a personalized aircraft carrier,” Vassily said, "but I'm not going to get it." Maybe a fleet of them. That'd be nice.

"But I want the codes, and I am going to get them."

"You'll need me to tell you where they are, and I'm not going to tell you," Vassily said, and spat out another mouthful of blue blood. It splashed onto the floor between his legs, gleaming in the light. "You think I'll let the likes of you get your hands on something like that?"

“It could mean the difference life and death for you, comrade and possibly a lot of money.”

“If I gave about shit about dying or money I wouldn’t be doing this job.”

The agent considered this.

“A lot of money,” the agent repeated.

"No amount of money's worth that."

Hell, I hope I believe that.

"Hah. You Variantes," the Abruzian agent said. "Always so honorable and duty bound."

"You Abruzians," Garrus said coldly. "Always trying to kill everything."

The Abruzian sighed.

"Tell me where the codes are, or I start shooting you."

"You're unusually reticent with your shots for an Abruzian," Vassily said. "Most of them would try that first, and then ask questions of whatever steaming remains were left."

"It's your lucky day."

Vassily looked down at his blood on the floor, then shook his handcuffs. They were slightly too tight, the metal forcing his armour into the thick flesh around his wrists, but the movement must have caused some release. His fingers started to burn as the blood rushed back into them.

"Yes, I can see that," he said. I think I remember why I hate this hellhole so much.

"But not that lucky," the agent said. "Last chance. Codes, or I blow off a leg."

"That's the choice, huh?"


Vassily chuckled softly to himself. This is not going to go well. End of the line, huh?

"Make it the left one," he said. "I like the right one."

"Fair enough," the agent rumbled. There was a flash of movement over his shoulder. Then the agent’s head exploded in a fountain of gore.


The doors had sprung apart faster than the eye could track to reveal two Variante Special Operations troopers in full combat armour. Both suits glinted a dark grey, and their helmet integrated eyepieces flashed in the light as the Abruzian agent slowly toppled forwards to land with the brain-dripping remnants of his head between Vassily’s feet.

Very impressive.

"I compliment your sense of dramatic timing," he said.

"Free him. Quickly," the one on the left said, gesturing with her assault rifle. It was definitely a her, as well, her voice a commanding soprano, though he couldn't tell from the armour.

The other one was holding a sniper rifle, a nice model. Very slow fire rate, but more than made up for by sheer firepower. He had to have been the one who'd shot the Abruzian. A weapon like that could probably have put a good-sized hole in the door even if it hadn't opened. He shouldered it, then darted over to Vassily and roughly turned him around to get at the handcuffs.

"Quickly, Chen," the other one warned, training her rifle down the corridor outside. "Ninety seconds at best."

"Don't rush me," Chen snapped, and pulled something from his belt. Vassily was too turned around to see, but the hiss of gas and sudden burst of heat a few centimeters from his hand was enough to let him know that Chen had some kind of miniature blowtorch. His own shadow suddenly appeared on the wall in sharp relief.

"As much as I appreciate the whole rescue thing," Vassily said, as the metal links began to twist and melt in the scorching heat, "what branch are you from and why the sudden lack of discretion?"

"Time for that later," the female said. "Now, we need to get out of here."

"Agreed," Vassily said, and the chain shattered, white-hot fragments whining away and embedding themselves in his armour. The rest of the handcuffs went with them, and blood roared back into his hands.

Ah, sweet freedom. I'd forgotten how wonderfully vindictive you are.

"Crap," he said, flexing his fingers. "Pins and needles. And broken glass."

"You OK?" Chen asked, and extended a hand. Vassily took it, the fingers thankfully numbing themselves to the pain, and yanked himself up from the floor.

"I'll live."

For now.

"Move it," the female said sharply. "Where are your weapons?"

"They took them when they ambushed me," Vassily said. "Probably on the main floor somewhere. We can find them-"

"No time. Take this," she said, and kicked the Abruzian gangster's lost pistol towards him. He stooped to pick it up.

"You know, those guns were expensive," he said pointedly. "I'd quite like to get them-"

"Buy more." The female turned her back on him and opened the door up again.

“Listen, who-“

“Jean. Chen. Friends. Move”

Not the talkative type, eh? Still, mustn't complain. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. At least, not when the giver is watching. Look later, and make sure you're armed.

She set off down the corridor at a sprint, and Chen followed her. Vassily stepped gingerly over the agent’s headless corpse and followed them. He couldn't help but notice how shapely her hips were under that grey armour as her legs pumped. Stop it, Vassily. No attraction until you know this isn't a trap. Down, boy.
They came to the end of the hall, and Jean smashed her iron soled boot through the door without even slowing down. The door held for a spilt second before cracking and exploded open, just in time for her to barrel through at full speed. Vassily followed, and his mouth fell open.

The ground floor of the apartment building was decimated. Everything in sight had bullet holes in it. Even the lights were hit, only five or so of the red fixtures still glowing, casting half of the room into deep shadow. The air was thick with the sour, metallic smell of blood mingling on the floor. There'd been about forty people in the bar when he'd come in, most of them mercs or gangsters of one kind or another. Now, there were still about forty people. They were just breathing less.

"Hell," he said, breathing in sharply. "You guys really did a number on this place."

“Recon man. Wrecking shit and taking lives is practically a must in our job.” Chen said.

"We can't stay here," Jean warned. "Central Security will be rolling in with the Army any second. And when they do, this whole district is going to burn." She ran after Chen, who was already by the exit. Vassily followed, his boots splashing in the cloying blood. It was an odd colour, the red of human, the brown of bowel discharge and the yellow of piss, and the yellowish white of bone matter mixing to create something that wasn't any of them. The smell was overpoweringly strong, far more potent than the one in the side room, and he felt a wave of warm, thick nausea wash through him like dirty dishwater. Recon? Spec Ops Command doesn’t mess around do they? Heavy armour and top of the line weaponry, killing more than forty mercs and gangsters between them... and they're here for little ol' me. At least they don't seem to want me dead.

He was vaguely aware that his fingers were still aching like hell, wrapped around the handle of the pistol like limpets. Blood was still leaking into his mouth from a cut he was only starting to feel, and he was sure that damn Abruzian agent had put another crack down his face. Still, what's one more? Never was in mint condition.

“So, where are we going? There an emergency ex fil point nearby?” Vassily asked.

“800 meters out, we have a Nighthawk inbound. We have 4 minutes left before the Army rolls in and turns this place into the biggest firework you have ever seen. So move your ass.” Jean growled even as she dashed down the streets.

Barely three minutes and four storeys worth of climbing later, Operative First Class Vassily Ivanov shouldered his way past two Marines guarding the exfiltration point and slumped into the back of the stealth helicopter. And as the helicopter powered away from the slums of the district 13, Vassily could see the bright suns of thermobarics burst forth above the skies of the slums, and thirteen thousand lives disappeared in the span of seconds.
Last edited by Storm Gard on Tue Apr 10, 2012 11:20 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Auroran Empire
Posts: 104
Founded: Jul 21, 2011

Postby Auroran Empire » Tue Sep 13, 2011 12:20 am

[ Fantasy/FT]

All Alone

In the eons that pass from the beginning of the universe itself to the start of life; nevermind civilization; what in all of creation is there to do? Not to stave off boredom; but to stave off insanity itself; a sad fact that any mortal shell suffered from, even his own little avatar thing that even now crumbled as it floated among these stars; so young and forming, their disks not yet ready to burn as they gathered energy within their centre. The shell was long dead by any sort of conventional thought, kept in existence by the Eldar simply so that he could sit and think.

Now that it came to him; it'd be a few billion years before there would even be anything else that could think. Mind you; he didn't count the assorted lesser Gods or Goddesses; not because they weren't competent, it was more so they had their given purpose and he wasn't going to interrupt them, they were busy creating the universe; after all. Time, whatever that nagging thing was with it's linear existence, went by like a dream; an eon passed like a second and the protostar disk he was floating in had become the boiling hot corona of a freshly born yellow dwarf. He found the heat oddly refreshing as the avatar disintegrated around him to no ill affect to himself.

Another one replaced it soon after, and the Eldar resumed his vigil; the avatar as with the first one died instantaneously; it was a fragile mortal construct that wasn't designed for this great vacuum, but his true form would've obliterated the entire plain of existence, so they did their part in turn. He swam in the star; it's heat running through his soul as well as the avatar itself, it felt good to know it was not always going to be cold in this universe, in this existence. He looked out from beyond the one he was in, and saw the numerous millions and millions; no, they were infinite in number, sparks that dominated the void. Yet there were flaws; and he found that to be good, if it was a perfect universe he'd have no purpose.

As the second avatar crumbled his essence reformed in a protoplanetary disk farther from the star that would one day be called Sol. He stayed there then in the void; while anything else would've drifted off, pushed by the remnant stellar winds of the Big Bang he remained rooted; control over existence itself so easy as that the universe itself was powerless against him. Eons passed like seconds, Venus; what it would become to be known as forming around him, the Eldar took no notice until he was on the planet itself, it was a beautiful thing; colored of gold and bronze though lifeless it's thick billowing clouds went far into it's upper reaches; making it beautifully hot, the heat he decided helped keep away the feeling of loneliness.

He was gone then from that place in the cosmos, and he was here at the beginning of it all. A great schism in the fabric of existence itself; it led back to where he came from, to where all others of his kind and fled; this new generation laying the ground work for doing the same when they were done. A thought; that was all it took and reality buckled around his might, the schism in existence ceased to be; then he turned. All the expansions of the universe layed out before him, every star, every solar system, every little bit of matter; but not one life.

Not one living thing had yet to develop in the shadow of the stars which even now burned brightly. The mortal shell crumbled around his being; and he didn't bother to make another one, here; at the beginning of the universe he could exist as he did truly exist; without harm to the universe because of it's endless expansion. He didn't bother with another one for a simple reason, he was alone, in the great wide universe that was so small and minuscule to him; he was alone.
The Theocracy of Aurora

The Ancient Andromedae Star Empire of Aurora

Far Future Tech Nation - Multiple Personality of Byzantium Imperium - When RPing with Aurora please be VERY specific about which Aurorans you want to contact, the pacifists or the Ancient Empire.

"Where the lines of state and religion become indistinguishable."



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