asbestos [closed / mt / atlas only]

by **Greater Hudian Republic** » Tue Jun 04, 2019 11:28 pm

asbestos

"Come, Fahad, sit here with me."

The septuagenarian's eyes rested wearily on the soot faced boy leaning on the doorway. The boy stood there for a while, unmoving and unmoved. In his hand there was a crumpled eighty taka note - the day's wages. Fahad, the boy, had come early today, and as a result, was greeted by his grandfather - the septuagenarian - instead of his parents, who were still at work. His mother, Zulaykha, was a maid, working somewhere in the outskirts of the city (which we'll hear about from Fahad's grandfather soon), in one of those big mansions which are home to the extremely rich and extremely glamorous factory owners.

The factory owners - mastans - are the sole reason why Fahad and his family are still alive. Without them, Fahad wouldn't have a job as a shipbreaker. Without them, his father wouldn't have a job as a worker in the Kobayashi Munitions Factory. Without them, his mother wouldn't have anyone to clean after either. Their existence - to be exact, their survival as a family - depended on these mastans. Men of great power who lived in gaudy mansions on the outskirts of this city, Suchinagar, which I believe Fahad's grandfather will be telling us about very soon.

"Come now, don't be shy. Zulaykha's coming home in an hour, god willing, so why don't I tell you a story until then?"

The soot-faced boy nodded, and walked to the septuagenarian. The old man shuffled in his bed - although really, it was less a bed and more of a joke of one - and made space for his grandson. The boy looked sickly. He was malnourished, like the rest of his colleagues down at the shipbreaker's. He sat on the bed, next to his grandfather, and stared at him silently. "Dada, what do you know about this place?" He asked to the old man, his charcoal eyes full of expectation. "This place? You mean this city?"

Fahad nodded.

"Suchinagar. You know what it means? Pure city. How funny, isn't it? A pure city. And yet it's home to you and I, two sooty faced citizens of what appears to be a slum republic."

He isn't wrong. Suchinagar is slum country. The city - the nation's easternmost - is home to two things: slums and factories. The slums take up most of the southern part of the city, while the ever so expansive north is home to the factories and yards. The only thing that separates these two components of this city are the compound walls between them, which cut off the factories from the rest of the world. The south sees no end - each and every day, a new tin house is built in the slums. The slums are flanked on the south by the coast, which is home to several shipbreaking yards. Of course, there are a few notables - in the outskirts of the city, there's a nice road that leads to a cluster of mansions. There are a few offices here, and a few tenement buildings and shops, but most people in favour of a better life have left for the division capital of Fatemabagh. The more optimistic ones live in Husseinabad.

"This place is home to all sorts of jobs. Do you know that the things they make here, in the big factories, go to all sorts of bideshi countries, far, far away? Your baba's job at the Kobayashi plant is to make big munitions. The stuff that the police sahib have on them all the time, tucked in their guns."

"Which bideshi has the biggest plant here, dada?"

The old man looked at the ceiling. Rusted tin - that was all he could see - although a few perforations here and there had enabled him to look at the grey sky overhead. Somewhere in the west - towards the capital, perhaps, the skies were likely a pristine blue. But that was never the case with Suchinagar. The least liveable city in the world, and certainly the most polluted, the skies had remained an indefinite grey here.

"I believe... one of the Acronian ones. Astro..."

"Astrochic." The boy responded. The old man looked at him and smile, nodding. "Of course. The Kobayashi factory is big as well. I am unable to tell them apart nowadays."

"How do the mastans earn money?"

"Why do you want to know that, Fahad?" The septuagenarian replied in a hushed tone, looking around. "Questions like that can get you in deep trouble, you know."

The boy shrugged. "I'm just curious."

The old man got up. "You see, these mastans are important. To the big bideshi businesses. The bideshis don't want to get their hands dirty in a place like this, so the mastans do it for them. The mastan build these big factories, taking big loans, and sell them to the big businesses. They then offer labor to these businesses - that is us. The mastans get a lump sum of money from the business on a monthly basis, and they hire us for a much cheaper sum of money. We work for the businesses, the mastans have their own men oversee production, and the finished product is processed in Fatemabagh. The big city."

"Not Husseinabad?"

The old man laughed. "There are too many eyes in Husseinabad, son. This kind of work needs to be done as quietly as possible."

Fahad nodded thoughtfully.

"Dada, why do you never work?"

The old man sighed and thought for a while. "Help me up." The old man said, leaning onto Fahad. The young boy helped his grandfather up, and held on to him as they walked towards the doorway - only a few feet away from the bed. They had a small home.

"It was a f-"

BOOM

They heard a deafening boom. It had been far enough to have left the tin home largely unaffected (for it had only been stirred by the tremors afterwards), but even still, it was powerful enough to have shaken both Fahad and his grandfather. Explosions were common in Suchinagar - usually from the shipyards or from a power outage - but such a powerful explosion was unprecedented. "What in the name of Allah..." The septuagenarian said, muttering hushed prayers swiftly. Fahad sat his grandfather down and ran out of the doorway and into the narrow alley their home was in.

His eyes instantly darted towards the factories - a huge fireball had erupted from the now collapsing Kobayashi factory. The people around him were screaming and running away from the fireball, lest it consume them, while he could hear the sound of sirens - not the government's, for sure - coming closer and closer. His father was in the factory, wasn't he?

"Stay here, dada!" Fahad yelled, running towards the factory.

"Allah guide you, beta." His grandfather said, lowering his head. The septuagenarian turned around and began muttering prayers - he was on his knees, begging to a god above, to pray for himself, for his son, for his grandson, for salvation.

Fahad ran towards the Kobayashi factory with haste. It was easily one of the larger factory complexes in the city, boasting multiple storeys and multiple buildings. The fireball had come from the main unit - an expansive building of eight floors. The unit his father worked in. Fahad continued running - running through the alleys cutting through the sea of tin slums red, white, and blue; speechless. How on earth could this have happened? Could it get any worse?

It could.

Before his eyes unfolded yet another horror - the Astrochic building began shaking. Fahad froze. He watched the building - an amalgamation of concrete, concrete, concrete - slowly collapse, undoing what had been four years' worth of construction. His mouth hung wide open, watching the largest building in the city and its nine storeys of factory floors topple over one another, leaving behind only a thick plume of dust that ate up whatever came in its way.

He could see a mob now. Not a mob, no, that would be too mild a word - he could see a horde now. A horde of terrified men and women dressed in dirtied rags, charging towards him. And so they ran to him, and then they ran past him, and in the end they ran away from the hell unfolding behind them. Fahad stood frozen, still unable to comprehend and digest what had just occurred.

The sirens were louder now - they were right behind him. Five pickup trucks, their sirens blaring loudly, were on their way to the factory complexes. They had no markings on them. The mastans' men, Fahad realized. On their way to evaluate what had officially become their employers' worst nightmare. But what will happen after that? There was no way they could fix this. An injustice was committed today, he said to himself, taking a step forward, his eyes fixed on the concrete grave before him. He was oblivious to the chaos around him - the fleeing workers, the mastans' muscles - all he could do was stare. The young ship-breaker walked towards the concrete grave before him.

A grave injustice was committed today, he said to himself, and the foreigners would pay for it.

Routine demolition in Suchinagar sabotaged by terrorist elements
The demolition of one of the buildings in the large Kobayashi Munitions factory was reportedly sabotaged by terrorist elements in the city of Suchinagar, causing an explosion.

^{SHARE THIS:}

Shadman Ahmed (@shadman.a)
^{10/6/2019. | Suchinagar, Huda.}

Hudian Fire Service personnel putting out the fire in Suchinagar
Photo courtesy of the Hudian National Press.

Suchinagar, Huda – A routine demolition in Suchinagar yesterday had turned into a terrorist attack, according to Chief Superintendent of Suchinagar Police Thana Khandaker Islam Pintu. The demolition, which was planned for one of the smaller building units in the Kobayashi Munitions Plant in Suchinagar, was sabotaged within seconds, causing for a chain explosion to occur. Thanks to the efforts of the Hudian Fire Service, Disaster Rescue Force and locals, the fire was put out by midnight, hours after it began in the evening. Parts of North Suchinagar was consumed by the aftermath of this explosion, leading to a few reputed factories getting slightly damaged. Among these factories is the Astrochic plant, which is the city's largest and newest factory.

After the initial response from personnel, Prime Minister Ghazi ordered for the execution of Operation Rokkhakorta, or Operation Saviour in English. The existing Fire Service and Disaster Rescue members on scene will be reinforced by additional personnel from other branches within the Fatemabagh administrative division to assist with the humanitarian effort of rescuing those stuck in debris, with additional locals serving as under a volunteer body. Police forces from the Suchinagar Thana will form an investigative body to find out the saboteurs of the attack.

"This is a most heinous attack, and [the Prime Minister] will ensure that the criminals are brought to justice." General Secretary Smiti Modhurima said in the emergency press conference called after the sabotage. "Regarding our foreign partners who have been affected by this incident, we assure them that this is only a minor issue and that they will get access to their factories as soon as possible, once the humanitarian operation is over. Currently, the situation is a bit tense, but there is not much to worry about ... it would be prudent for all to pay no heed to rumors regarding the sabotage as they undermine our security."

Regarding the identities of those involved in the sabotage, the General Secretary said, "We are not sure of the identity yet ... we do not believe that it is a threat to national security. The police have it under control, and we are already looking for suspects in the area. So, there is no need for panic or worry. I must add that these actions are reminiscent of what was done during the Socialist regime ... we do not point fingers, but we cannot cancel out the possibility that the Samajtantrik Oikkya Dal is involved. They are our opposition, and so it is possible that these actions are being done by thugs to undermine the government.". The Samajtantrik Oikkya Dal has not replied to this statement.

The death toll in Suchinagar is said to be very little, according to firefighters on the scene, as the explosions had occurred after working hours were over. Workers found injured will be taken to Fatemabagh Government Hospital immediately, said the Chief Superintendent of Suchinagar. These occurrences are very rare: the Hudian Republic has seldom faced such terrorist attacks, but government officials insist that it is not a significant matter, and that the terrorist thugs will be apprehended soon. As a result, there is no reason for concern. With Operation Saviour having been declared, factories in Suchinagar will likely open again in a few days.

In the meanwhile, it is very important that civilians notify nearby police thanas of any rumors or suspicious activity regarding the Suchinagar sabotage, as doing otherwise is a threat to Hudian security. Furthermore, dispel any rumors you have heard regarding the sabotage. In order for the best and most authentic news, rely on government authorized platforms such as the Hudian National Press, and avoid any infamous "fake news" sites. The Hudian National Press will continue to send updates regarding Operation Saviour.

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29,387

29,387 comments

Syed Monjurul Islam · 5 minutes ago
Damn shame... what is happening to this country!!
94 up · 6 down
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Milon Chowdhury · 26 minutes ago
Shonjoy Chowdhury
2 up · 0 down
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Mosfique Islam · 20 minutes ago
Sob allahr daan....
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OOC

Hi lads, here is the promised factory RP. As you can see, the above is a bit of a read, so I have a tl;dr here, although I would appreciate you guys reading the above because... I... worked on it... anyways.

There's a big explosion that's killed at least one to two thousand people, with thousands still missing or injured. This is an extremely significant explosion which has been caused due to urban negligence, corruption, etc. in the city of Suchinagar, which is basically a factory city. Various Atlasian countries have factories in this city, all / most of which have been harmed / exploded. Protests have begun. The government is trying to start a misinformation campaign to ensure that word of poor ethics does not spread - as that'd harm the company image of all Atlasian companies with branches in Suchinagar, as well as Suchinagar's competency as a factory city. Instead, we're acting like this is some sabotage terrorist attack by random thugs - nothing to worry about! Of course, word is still getting out.

How do you guys wanna spin this? Maybe you can send in an NGO to investigate, or apply diplomatic pressure, or have your firms involved so they can quell any word of the poor ethics from spreading out. It's up to you. Protests are underway anyways. I'm making use of fake news in this RP - so you'll have the national press and third party press firms spreading news, and it's up to you to believe who you will. I dunno y'all do as you please. In case no one posts, I'll still be posting. It'll probably turn into a story telling thread with anyone allowed to post.

God speed lads

by **Volgaria** » Wed Jun 05, 2019 5:08 pm

Lange Main Office, Huda

Knock Knock Knock

BARTSCH: "It's open."

The door creaked open, a man in formal attire entered the office as he adjusted his collar while another sat on his desk twirling a pen in his hand while chewing on a toothpick, stopping as the door was shut. The man at the desk was Regional Director Erich Bartsch of the Lange company operating in Huda, this routine day at work had been all but the same as the others until about a few moments ago, when he was notified of an explosion at the Kobayashi munitions factory nearby and the ensuing riots taking place around it, word had also spread that the Aderbach company, one of Volgaria's largest automobile manufacturers, had a factory engulfed in flames by the ensuing turmult, though frankly he didn't need the assistant to notify him of the deafening explosion that had awoken him twenty minutes prior. Bartsch himself was particularly worried, not because of any of those who may have been killed or injured in the explosion, no he couldn't really find a reason give a damn about them, but rather for his own career. Bartsch was sure that if these Hudan's would destroy the Aderbach and Kobayashi units that his could be next, to stress matters further, Lange is owned by the Volgarian government, despite operating in similar to a privately-owned enterprise, furthering his paranoia that failure to keep the factory under his jurisdiction under control and intact could mean the sacking of him from his position, or worse. Bartsch, despite his stress-levels being at an all-time high, is due to meet with the Vice-Chairman Richard Kahler of the company, about the future of operations in Huda amidst this unrest, and what to do next.

KAHLER: "Evening director, I do hope I'm not disturbing you by my sudden arrival but it's urgent that we speak immediately about yesterdays ordeal."

BARTSCH: "No worries whatsoever, please go on and have a seat sir."

KAHLER: "Thank you, now as we now know the explosion that took place at the Brytisc Kobayashi factory has resulted in an utter civic meltdown of the surrounding area is an utter...well to put it simply, an utter fucking shitshow. Workers are striking and more are in the streets being hooligans and vandalizing many Vesperian corporate-owned facilities, and frankly I'm rather concerned that we could face a similar issue here."

Kahler cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses before continuing to speak.

KAHLER: "We can't have that happen you see, we provide important things for our military forces back home, things like boots, vests, helmets and other things that a soldier can't be deployed without, and with a large portion of our boys deployed in fellow Axis nations for defense purposes, the government can't afford deficits for these troops."

BARTSCH: "Correct me if I'm wrong sir, but are our facilities in mainland Volgaria not producing at a faster and larger rate than the ones over here?"

KAHLER: "Well yes they are, but our operations here still produce a good portion of individual equipment for our troops, and not to mention they also manufacture appliances for the Security Corps. As such losing our production capacity even by half within these units would have a considerable effect on how fast it takes equipment to reach our soldiers. Anyway, I'm starting to ramble on, my point here is that there needs to be changes to security within our Hudan facility by any means necessary."

Bartsch sighed heavily, putting his hand to his face and thinking of what kind of action to take next, Hudan police? No they can't be trusted, probably would take a bribe and let things go to absolute shit, PMC's? Maybe, but It could cost quite a lot of money to have a good portion of them guard the factories. Just as when he thought he had run out of ideas, there was one, simple yet possibly controversial proposition he hadn't thought of yet.

BARTSCH: "I recollect you saying sir that the government is quite keen on keeping this place up and running for the forces."

KAHLER: "Yes and?"

BARTSCH: "Well a thought just came to my head. If this place is in the government's best interests to be kept un-razed then why don't we ask them to send in some proper protection for us?"

KAHLER: "You aren't really suggesting that we ask the government to send military or security force detachments are you?"

BARTSCH: "Why not? If this place is so damned indispensable then why don't we get some proper damned security around here, who else better to guard Volgarian assets than Volgarian's themselves?"

KAHLER: "Have you gone completely mad?! Do you realize the possible repercussions of what is essentially a deployment of armed Volgarian troops in Huda could be? We could escalate the unrest or worse we could have even more of the international community on our asses!"

BARTSCH: "Well not if we have permission from the Hudan government to do so, and I'm willing to bet they wouldn't shut down such a proposition so fast if we negotiate our way through it right and possibly offer some monetary. Besides, it's not like we're sending in all our forces from the air, land and sea, it would be maximum a couple platoons of forty to forty-five men each, We'd just need to make our intentions clear that these men are here with consent from the Hudan government to guard Volgarian government assets in wake of civil strife. Plus it would be free of charge."

Kahler rubbed his head and thought for a few moments before speaking.

KAHLER: "Right, I'll consider it and discuss it with the right people. But be aware that our own government needs to accept this proposal first, and then the Hudan one in return, if not then I'm expecting you come up with something else ASAP."

Bartsch grinned and adjusted his position in his seat as Kahler got up from his own.

KAHLER: "It was nice talking with you director, but remember what I just said, if this falls through you better have a solid backup plan."

BARTSCH: "Why would I not?, I got this position through my work ethic and my insight not resound laziness.

Bartsch let out a chuckle

BARTSCH: "Have a good night sir."

KAHLER: "And to you as well."

Kahler exited the room. Bartsch grabbed a telephone from his desk, the stress having mostly left his body after his successful chat with the Vice-Chairman. It seemed his position would remain his for the near future, now he needed to relax.

BARTSCH: "Yes Katharina? can you please get one of the secretaries to fetch me a drink? I'll be needing it for tonight, thanks.

Bartsch hung up the phone and crossed his feet onto his desk, proceeding to chew another toothpick.

by **Brytene** » Mon Jun 10, 2019 10:53 am

Kuribayashi Tower, Contwaraburg

A crowd of protestors was already outside the Kuribayashi Tower, chanting and waving placards. No blood for bullets and Shame on Su were two of the more popular slogans, some of them obviously professionally printed and distributed, although hand-made signs of both witty and unoriginal design dominated the crowd.

Takara Su, CEO of Kuribayashi Arms, sighed and turned from the window to take a seat at her desk. The floor-to-ceiling glass allowed her a beautiful view out over the sprawling industrial metropolis of Contwaraburg, which at night turned into a riot of colour and light, but today it simply let her gaze out over the several thousand protestors at the foot of the pagoda-style skyscraper that was home to her family's firm.

Founded centuries ago by Chilokveri immigrants, the Kuribayashi forge and workshop had grown over the years to become one of the most advanced arms manufacturers in the western hemisphere. Unfortunately, as globalisation reared its ugly head, they had had to outsource some of the more basic, labour-intensive work to stay competitive. Automation could only do so much, especially when it was so cheap to do things abroad...such as in Huda.

A subcontractor, Kobayashi Arms, had been established to prevent any tarnishing of the Kuribayashi name, but the paper trail was not exactly hidden and it had taken mere hours for the media to pick up on the connection between Kuribayashi Arms and the tragedy in Suchinagar. Now the mob were furious, demanding her resignation and more, and she had received word that the Foreign Minister and Ambassador-General, Stanley Accrington, was demanding a meeting. As she cautiously took a sip of tea, barely cool enough to drink, she heard the tell-tale thump of rotors and her secretary buzzed in to inform her that the Minister was arriving.

Minutes later, she stood to shake his hand as he entered the room. With the warm smile of a consummate diplomat, he accepted the proferred hand and sat. They were both in their early fifties, but Ms Sue had aged well, with smooth skin, glossy black hair in a neat bob, and a clear complexion. In contrast, Accrington had aged like milk, his skin wrinkled and his nose veiny from too many nightcaps over the years. He had a balding head and a thick walrus moustache, which he found helped obscure his facial expressions sometimes, a useful trick in diplomatic circles.

"Well, Ms Su, I'll cut straight to the point. This whole affair has the potential to become quite the scandal, and I'm afraid the Brytisc government is not currently in a position to openly support or endorse Kuribayashi Arms' use of the Kobayashi subcontractors."

Su was taken aback. She had expected some kind of rebuke, but Kuribayashi Arms was one of the country's oldest and largest military contractors, worth millions of dollars. She did not let this dismay show on her face, however.

"The situation is greatly regrettable, of course. We had no idea that Kobayashi were exploiting the Hudian workers and violating safety regulations in such a disgraceful manner, and will be severing ties with them immediately. We will also be establishing a fund to-"

Accrington raised his eyebrows and steepled his fingers. Ms Su trailed off, again taken off-guard, trailed off.

"I am sorry, Ms Su, but you and I both know that Kobayashi is, if you dig deep enough, owned by the Kuribayashi family. Technically it is a wholly independent firm from Kuribayashi Arms, but the general public and the media are not going to care much about the legal distinction. It is going to take a little more than a charity handout to quell the diplomatic and domestic unrest from this fiasco."

Su thought for a moment, buying herself some time by summoning her secretary and arranging for something to drink for Mr Accrington. He took a ginger ale with a slice of lemon.

"Mr Accrington, we understand the gravity of this situation. Perhaps if Kuribayashi Arms were to launch an internal investigation into the affair? Our Director of Procurement and Supply Chain, perhaps..."

Accrington smiled another of his disarming, wrinkly-faced smiles.

"Of course. You must do what you believe is best, both for the moral and financial well-being of your company. Rest assured, the Brytisc government would rather retain the services of Kuribayashi Arms than be forced to send tax dollars abroad for our defense requirements. However, the Witenagmot has stressed to me that retaining friendly relations with our foreign trade partners, as well as being seen to uphold Socialist National policy. Article Four of Section One of the SocNat Manifesto states, as you well know, that 'the state has the duty of protecting the lives and liberty of all law-abiding citizens', whilst Section Three of Article Two entreats us to carry these values onto the world stage. We cannot be seen to disregard the lives of the working class, whether Brytisc or Hudian."

Meanwhile, in Huda
The Brytisc Embassy

Ambassador Constance de Vlieger was one of the few Catholics remaining in Brytene in the months following the fall of House Canillac. Hundreds had been killed in the initial fighting and the famous campaign by the Anglaland Rough Riders to capture Whitebay, and thousands more had left the country in the wake of bitter guerilla combat between the remnants of the Frontier Party, now calling themselves the Frontiersmen, and the government forces there. Many others had converted to Adfyr, whether willingly or under unspoken pressure to conform. Many Catholics had been persuaded by the loophole that Adfyr, unlike many Abrahamic faiths, did not deny the existence of other gods, merely questioned their relevance and power in Brytisc lands, and so they could still continue praying to their desert wind god without technically committing heresy.

In her late thirties, with wavy brown hair and a proud gallic nose, she was a stereotypically loud and abrasive Susseaxan, always ready to complain about sub-par food or throw up her hands in frustration at the simplest of requests for assistance.

Today, however, things were somewhat different. The Kobayashi plant had by all accounts exploded, and news reports were flying this way and that claiming it was poor safety regulations, negligent workers or even an act of sabotage. Her two favourite contacts at the plant, the Head of Human Resources and the Security Chief, were both not answering their cells, and she had no plans to head over to Suchinagar to check it out amidst all the rioting there, so instead she reluctantly picked up the phone and dialled the number for the office of the Hudian minister for industry...

by **Odentia** » Tue Jun 18, 2019 12:06 am

Do Right

The Fifty-Star Foundation's Suchinagar office did a few tiny, insignificant things right. It was, after all, a rare oasis of Western comfort in a desert of…

Well, shit. Around it, the streets were caked with filth. The surrounding buildings reeked with rot, and jagged pieces of glass and metal littered the sidewalks. In contrast, the smart-looking three-story office building looked about as out of place as a spaceship. Though the glass-and-concrete facade was dusted with the same toxic dust which wafted freely throughout the city's corroded alleyways, inside, one could find air conditioning and white linoleum flooring and actual service staff who kept the overwhelming stench of poverty out. Such was the power of Odentian trust fund money.

Obayed Rahman, much like the building he ran, was an aberration against the gray and brown backdrop of squalor the whole city was. He spoke fluent English and was clean-shaven. He wore suits and didn't smell. Although he was born in one of Suchinagar's innumerable slums, and seemed destined to become just another statistic in the city's shipbreaking yards, a series of chance meetings with Fifty-Star representatives scooped him from the murky fate which awaited him and dumped him unceremoniously in one of Husseinabad's boarding schools. He wanted to do right by the city that had birthed him. He was, perhaps, the city's only success story.

Mr. Rahman was, of course, the District Operations Director for Fifty-Star's operations in Suchinagar.

The role came with a certain authority. Suchinagar was widely recognized as the most problematic district in Huda - and, perhaps, in all of Fifty-Star's hundreds of missions. Here, thousands upon thousands of men, women and children alike traveled on crowded streets to crowded factories, making trinkets to kill or be thrown away after a single use. Their employers rarely inspected the safety equipment and protocols that were seldom installed anyway.

The Odentian benefactors which had built Fifty-Star were guilty of this practice to some extent. Royal Armament Systems, which constituted nearly all of Odentia's fledgling defense industry, built small electronics here in factories drowned in so many holding companies the paper trail was a circle. Obayed, of course, was cognizant of this fact, but he had more important issues at the moment.

One of these issues was about to rear its head quite rudely.

The realities of life in Suchinagar were ugly and recognized near-universally, but few people were in a position to do anything about it. The Western corporations that owned the judges, police, fire and hospitals cared little for the expendables that built their products. It was not uncommon for workers to return home missing limbs, dignity - or their lives. The factories, for what they were worth, were a steady income for all involved. Peanuts for the workers and prosperity for the capitalists. Those same realities that birthed this city of steel and sweat had birthed its gaping maw. The jaws of iron and steam and concrete that had a habit of swallowing men whole at an alarming rate - almost six per day. When the danger was not the machines, it was the buildings which collapsed with alarming regularity, pinning man and machine alike in a convenient grave of rubble and rebar indiscriminately.

And in the rare cases that the tools and infrastructure were not deadly, the air alone could be lethal. Carcinogens enough to blot out the sun drifted freely through the air, spewed without regard from the city's forest of smokestacks.

But the worst case came when the gas which heated the city's massive furnaces leaked into the air. The telltale putrid rotting-eggs smell that Westerners were so accustomed to was a luxury that the factory owners could do without. Silently and invisibly, the gas would linger in the air. It would slowly meander down the block, enveloping entire buildings, until an innocent worker, usually supporting several children, made the deadly mistake of brewing a pot of tea and-

Boom. It was nearly inaudible over the din of the city, and the massive ball of smoke and grease and flame that accompanied it could not be seen through the pollution and the densely built streets - yet.

Obayed paused and glanced through the window. Though the sun was supposed to be rising over Suchinagar, no such light peeked over the horizon. The streetlamps shrugged off lazily, anticipating the sun to be above them anytime soon. But the thick, murky smog rose like soup over the city that Obayed so loved, blotting light from the sky. Out by the beaches, it was no better; the sun rose more clearly there, but only to be blocked by the massive rusting hulks which lined the strands. It was moments of clear reflection like this that gave Obayed pause. It reminded him what he was fighting-

“Good morning, Ritu,” called a calm voice from the hallway, and Obayed shook from his thoughts. Edward Cargan slouched in gracefully. Edward, who clearly had not had his coffee, was the National Operations Liaison for the Suchinagar district. More aptly put, he was the phone between Fifty-Star Huda’s headquarters in Husseinabad and Obayed. He was a friendly man who, despite being rather crude, was crude in a manner that was somehow endearing and elegant. Moreso than that, he was a good friend of Obayed’s. The two men could not have been more different. Cargan had been born in the only suburb in the entire Odentian kingdom of Collines. English was his first language - out of place not only for Suchinagar, but for Odentia, as well.

“Good morning, Edward,” Obayed sighed. He sipped his coffee once more and returned to work. “I think I might have stumbled upon something. Geological surveys by the Stark factory seem to indicate that it sits on top of a sizable natural aquifer. If chemicals have leached from there into the groundwater, then it might explain the increased incidence of genetic diseases in the downstream area.”

“Alright, then. Depending on what got leached into the soil, there’s a pretty significant chance that it explains all of the missing chro-”

In a moment, the windows shattered with a deafening blast, knocking Cargan off his feet and onto the ground. The building lurched angrily, groaning and creaking and crunching in awful pain. Books were strewn haphazardly about. Obayed was thrown from his chair into his desk, sending his monitor clattering across the linoleum. Across the city, car alarms screamed cacophonously as continued blasts shook the atmosphere. Obayed could finally see orange in the sky, but from the west.

Dazed and bloodied, Suchinagar's caretaker struggled to lift himself from the ground. Cargan, though breathing, lay still, red blurs emanating from the glass shards which stood from his chest. Obayed looked from the now-empty window and saw hell. Kobayashi was leveled. Astrochic had vaporized. LM Group was crumbling before his very eyes; from his perch city blocks away he saw bodies pleading for their lives with a merciless concrete god that devoured them whole. Men and children flew through the air like ragdolls. The lucky ones died instantly on impact, their unrecognizably mangled corpses bouncing along the concrete. Every second, another factory, each filled to the brim with his countrymen and friends, came crashing down.

These buildings, Obayed knew, were constructed like mass graves.

It was just about the only thing they did right.

by **Greater Hudian Republic** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 5:30 am

Husseinabad, Huda.

The streets of Husseinabad were always crowded, but only for those that didn't have the money. If you did, on the other hand... the story's a lot more different.

Four luxury sedans sped through the capital city streets. The drivers of these sedans were at ease - they had driven through worse, for sure, and driving in these roads was a brilliant change of pace from Suchinagar. They were flanked both front and back by SUVs, which ensured that not a single car (or pedestrian, for that matter) cut through this elitist caravan, as it made its way to the Ministry of Industry. The office is fairly new, having been built around the 2000s, when Mohammed Ghazi was first elected Prime Minister.

It didn't take them too long - about fifteen minutes - until they'd finally come to the office. An aide, dressed in an impeccable white saree, led them to the Minister's office. They stood outside the minister's door, these four men. Who were they? Mastans. You could spot them in Suchinagar wearing clumsy shirts that barely hid their putrid potbellied bodies, but in Husseinabad, they wore fine three piece suits, to impress the government officials that could take away their livelihoods any time they wanted.

The aide entered the room, leaving behind the four men in the corridor. They turned to each other, talking in low, hushed voices.

"We're screwed this time, aren't we?"

"Oh, boys, worry not. How much do we have in the cases?"

"Forty lakhs, I believe."

In case you're wondering, forty lakhs, in numbers, is four million. That's a lot of money. You can buy a new, entry level SUV with that kind of money. It's also a great amount to bribe people with. One of the potbellied men sat down in the chair adjacent to the office, sucking his teeth in. With forty lakhs, he remembers, he had bought a bideshi for a night. A beautiful girl. Acronian, wasn't she? He doesn't even remember. They all look the same to him. The man had sunk into a reverie, thinking about the night, about the girl, and how, with her next to him, he had forgotten it all: his factories, his family, his bank loans (which he had defaulted).

"The Minister will see you now." The aide called.

The four men stepped into the room; two were carrying briefcases. "Careful. These are from... Odentia, I think. Fine stuff. I want them back. Don't let him keep it." One of them whispered.

Jahirul sat very comfortably in his leather office chair, eyeing up the potbellied men in front of him. "Disgraceful." He said. He said this word with such hate, that the leading potbellied man had frozen. "S-sir, we're sorry for our d-"

"Oh, shut up. It's been nine days since the crisis at Suchinagar. Where were you? The workers rioted for two whole days, and the moment your thugs had finally arrived, they'd hid back into their slums. And now your thugs are too scared to send patrols into the slums, because the first ones were ambushed! What a fucking crisis!" The minister said. He said the last line with special emphasis, in English.

"Nine days. Two days of riots. A day of playing pussy with the workers. Now they've started a damn revolution down there. Daily sit-ins at the main road. Calling for my resignation. The gall! What have you done for the four days since your whole thug plan failed? Partied in Husseinabad, is it? I swear to the lord, sirs, you'd better comfort me right now, or I promise, I'll rain hell on all you mastans in Suchinagar."

Finally, a potbellied man mustered up the courage to speak.

"Yes, sir. We have with us forty lakhs."

It was like a performance - the two mastans with briefcases laid it out on the Minister's mahogany table. They looked at the money with satisfaction.

"Is it to your liking?"

"Of course it fucking isn't." The minister said, looking through both the briefcases.

"Sir?"

"I want a crore."

"You've gone mad!" One of the potbellied men protested, slamming his fist on the table and getting up. For those of you who aren't aware, a crore is approximately ten million.

Jahirul eyed the man up and down. "Mastan, sit down before I arrest you. I'm not sure you understand. Your shenanigans in Suchinagar have set off a revolution. The Prime Minister, my uncle, has been breathing down my neck since the whole crisis began. The workers at Suchinagar are calling for my resignation. At best, with some comforting words, they'll let me go. But you lot? No. They will never forgive you. They'll throw you out of the city. Your actions, believe it not, have been a lot more expensive than you think."

The man sat back down. "Fine. But tell me, what do we get in return for a crore."

"And the forty lakhs here, mind you." Jahirul said.

The mastan nodded in resignation.

"Well, first of all, the police is already trying to weaken this whole revolution. I'll send in youth wing men from all over the areas surrounding Suchinagar and Fatemabagh. Hundreds, maybe a few thousand of men under me. They'll beat down any members of this bullshit revolution, until it's been hammered into obscurity. The police can make sure there's a complete lock down of movement and media. The state media has already assumed that the saboteurs have been tried and murdered, and that our humanitarian operation has been successful. Most workers saved, those that weren't have been compensated - you know the drill."

In reality, most of the injured were put out of their misery (because the hospitals in the city had no space) and were buried somewhere in the middle of the factory ruins with the rest of the dead. All the collapsed buildings were now slowly being cleaned up, with the factory zones in the city locked off completely.

"Once it's all done, you can start reconstructing your factories again." The Minister concluded, taking a sip of the water on his table.

The four men had been listening eagerly, and were satisfied with the Minister's deal. They agreed to the terms - a crore would be paid to the man by tomorrow. A crore was a lot, the mastans knew, but they had gone too far this time. You had to take some losses in the world of business. A crore taken from some foreign bank today, defaulted by the mastans tomorrow - such was the way of Hudian businesses.

They left shortly. The Minister opened up a drawer in his desk. It contained a lonely cigar. He had saved this cigar for the worst times, and this was a good time as any, he thought, as he lit it up. He could see clouds forming outside, coalescing together, blotting out the sunlight. Yet another thunderstorm in Husseinabad.

"Word travels fast," Jahirul thought. "It won't be too long before word reaches Husseinabad about our retaliation in Suchinagar." The crisis at Suchinagar had already sparked nationwide condemnation, particularly by the intellectuals that had the disposable income to read a news source other than the national press. But nothing happened, other than a few discussions on TV, widespread social media criticism, a few rallies that ended in a day, and perhaps a petition or two. There was a disconnect between the poor in Suchinagar and the wealthy in Husseinabad. They had different stories, after all. The man that lives in posh apartment buildings cannot relate to a man that lived in a tin house.

But whatever was about to take place in Suchinagar was going to take a deadly turn. A bunch of burning factories might not have united the Hudian people, but it is entirely possible that unwarranted state-sponsored beatdowns could. That was what worried Jahirul. The revolution was unprecedented in Ghazi's administration. It could snowball into something much worse than it already is, and should it gain public support (which has been muted thanks to semi-sincere efforts of the government to stop word from leaving Suchinagar), the government can't do anything to it.

These youth wings aren't a part of the government, but they are a part of the ruling party. They can get the job done without directly involving the government. There are eyes everywhere however - he remembers that a Valdian NGO had an office in Suchinagar. He'll have to deal with that, and leave the rest of the job to the youth wing members. Here's just hoping they can get it done discreetly, Jahirul thought, puffing on his cigar. Or else the Hudian Republic would have to answer for all of its crimes - which it so desperately has tried to hide - to not only the Hudian people, but the international community too.

The phone began ringing.

"Hello sir?" It was his aide talking.

"What is it?"

"The Brytisc ambassador is calling."

Jahirul shook his head. "Alright. Transfer the call to me. One thing though - send an order to the Suchinagar Police. They are to arrest all employees of the Fifty Star International Foundation in the city immediately."

Suchinagar, Huda.

"নিরাপদ কারখানা চাই!"

It had been approximately three days since the factories in Suchinagar came down. Explosions, collapses, fires - the factories in this city were exposed to several terrible, terrible things. Things that usually happen once in a lifetime, unfortunately, happened to this city in only a few hours. Thousands of garments workers had already rioted on the streets that night. They had burned several pickup trucks. The ones owned by the mastans.

They took out the thugs that were driving the pickup truck and beat them to a pulp, throwing them to the side of the road. "The dogs can have them!" A worker had announced. At the same time, they had burned down a few office facilities as well - this was not very notable, however, as most of the workers had gone away for Eid. It was just for the satisfaction of seeing something burn, thought Fahad, as he looked made his way towards the city's main road.

The rioting had since ended. The movement of workers now had a name. Jatiya Nirapod Karkhana Union. National Safe Factory Union. It was now an established revolt, led by a committee of ten workers. The names of the ten workers were not disclosed - after all, that'd just put a target on their heads. But they were an effective committee, no doubt, because already they managed to stop the rioting AND amass hundreds of workers in the main road for a procession today. There were thousands more who were a part of this revolution, but it was far too sunny outside today, and most people busied themselves by tending to the wounded and staying at home. Their anger had subsided, somewhat.

"Brothers! Sisters!" A heavily veiled man cried, holding a megaphone very close to his mouth. "We have all been wronged!" He said, clutching his chest with his free hand. This man can certainly speak, Fahad thought. "The mastans, and the bideshi for that matter, have gone too far! For decades we have worked obediently under our employers, bearing with them through the worst of times. And what do we get in return? Our livelihoods burning, exploding, collapsing under our very eyes! This is an atrocity which cannot be ignored. This is an atrocity, whose word, I promise, will reach Husseinabad! We have stopped our rioting, but we will not stop our protesting. We believe our government, and honorable Prime Minister Ghazi, will support us. Therefore, we have the following ten points which should be presented to the government."

While Fahad did listen intently, his eyes were fixed to a corner of the road. A bunch of policemen had been standing there this whole time, although they were laughing and simply talking among themselves. Except one man - a much more senior man, who stared at the man holding the megaphone. A chill ran through his body.

"First, we want the government, or the mastans, to pay us - the victims - compensations. Several breadwinners were lost to this tragedy, and several have been injured. Therefore, we are in urgent need of money, which should be paid to all workers here in Suchinagar."

The policeman had turned around, and now he was talking with the rest of his colleagues. It was wrong to stare, but Fahad couldn't stop doing so. Then again, he was never taught much about etiquette.

"Second, we want the minimum wage to be raised from 4,500 Taka to 7,500 Taka. And the government must make sure that we are paid this amount, for the mastans will surely try to avoid this."

The policeman had picked up his radio now, and the rest of his colleagues had stopped laughing. They were surveying the crowd for something. What is it? Fahad thought. He wanted to go up to these policemen and asked them. "Yes, sahib, what is it? What are you looking for? You can tell me, can't you?! I am a citizen, after all!"

"Third, we want these buildings to be constructed better and in line with government regulations. If possible, we want the government to take complete control of these factories since they can better handle the lack of worker conditions in this area."

The crowd had gone wild from cheering. Each point that the veiled man was proposing had been impressive to them. It was as if this ten point demand had the potential to turn Suchinagar into some sort of utopia. Fahad looked to where the policemen were at, only to see that the corner was now empty.

Something was certainly wrong. Fahad began to make his way out of the crowd, cutting through scores of people dressed in rags. They have nothing else to wear, after all. Most of the garments factories had burnt down. He began hearing sirens in the distance again. Oh, something was definitely wrong. He began pushing through the crowd, trying to dash to the nearest alley.

"Fourth, we want the resignation of the Minister of Industry, Jahirul Islam. It is clear that he is not paying attention in his work, and look at the consequence of his ignorance!"

Finally, Fahad was free of the crowd. He managed to hide into a nearby alley, and he sat on the floor there, looking at the protest sideways.

"Fifth, we w-"

The veiled man had stopped. Why had he stopped?

The crowd fell silent as well. Fahad could hear the sirens again - just like he heard them the day the factory collapsed. Except this time, it was evident that there were a lot more sirens. He peered out of the alley. "In the name of God..." The words barely escaped his mouth. Over a hundred policemen - not the armed police though, the regular kind - had amassed in front of the crowd. The senior policeman was at the head of this army. They were all armed with batons.

"We are here to arrest him." The policeman said coldly, pointing at the veiled man. "He is under arrest for sabotaging the explosions here."

The crowd began murmuring among themselves. Fahad noticed a few boys from the alleyway creeping into the crowd. The tallest boy stood out the most - he was wearing ragged blue jeans and a neon blue polo shirt. He watched the tall boy go deeper into the crowd, until he had finally found a proper spot. No one noticed these boys.

"So this veiled man is a traitor? Make way, make way, let the police take this traitor away!" The boy shouted.

Another boy shouted the same. "Traitor! Arrest him!"

All of a sudden, the crowd was divided. A third of the crowd was already moving away, in order to allow the police to arrest the man, who had frozen on spot. "No!" The rest of the crowd shouted. "The police are lying!" They said. There was a tense atmosphere in the air. People in both crowds started picking up whatever they could find. Planks. Blades. Rocks. And it only took a moment before the crowd coalesced again, fighting against each other. Oh, it was chaos. Blood splattered everywhere, and so did bodies. This was a revolution only a few minutes ago - what had happened?

Fahad shook his head. Fighting against each other while the police looked on - how foolish!

As a result, he was shocked to see what happened next. He had turned to the henna haired policeman, and their eyes had met. For a while there, he was sure that they were going to come for him next. But nothing of that sort happened. The policeman continued to stare at him, and then he smiled, as if to say, watch what I'm doing next, like a magician showing a kid a trick. Fahad's eyes glared intently at him.

The policeman sounded his whistle, and his colleagues got back into their car. Fahad kept watching. He watched as the cars started, and he watched, in horror, as the cars sped into the crowd, running over people who had, until then, been fighting like rabid animals. Bodies were crushed into pure crimson paste. Fahad, along with the rest of the crowd that had survived, had run away in fear, once again cutting through the same slums on his way back home, trying to avoid every blue-coat policeman he'd see.

Word spreads fast through the slums. The revolution had been rather small so far. The heat had prevented thousands of the dormant members of the revolution from amassing, and so only hundreds had come to these sit-in protests. But Fahad was sure that after the events of today - after the police had betrayed this city - the workers were going to come back in far greater numbers from tomorrow, and give this government a piece of their damn mind. They were going to protest peacefully, and show to the world the grace of their cause, on the same soil that their comrades had been burnt in, buried under, and as of today, crushed into.

The streets of Suchinagar, thought Fahad, were about to be painted with a whole new shade of crimson.

by **Brytene** » Wed Jun 19, 2019 8:38 pm

Brytisc Embassy
Ambassador de Vlieger

Ambassador de Vlieger waited as she was connected, and then in her most diplomatic voice greeted Minister Jahirul in passable Huda-Bangla. They had met once or twice at formal dinners and receptions, but had never really had too much to do with each other in business terms. She knew little about the man, other than the constant rumours of corruption that plagued half the government of Huda. Members of Clan Kuribayashi had hinted to her that they had had to grease his palms from time to time, but nothing concrete had ever been shown or even said to her and she for the most part ignored it.

After the opening niceties, she explained why she was calling, asking him obliquely how the government of Huda planned to respond to the events of the last few days and what their official version of events was going to be. Although she was prepared to savage Kuribayashi Arms and their Kobayashi shell corporation if necessary, she did not want to jump the gun. The whole situation posed a problem for her, as news had already leaked back to Brytene via Brytisc employees, and if some of them were confirmed dead in the disaster then the public and the Witenagmot would demand action, action that might not be the most pragmatic...

Outside the Brytisc Embassy
Lieutenant Dernhelm

Huda was considered to be a relatively safe posting for the marines assigned to protect its embassy. Like any developing nation, you had to be careful in your downtime and avoid showing off wealth or expensive belongings, but the locals were friendly enough and the government had agreeably good relations with Brytene. Guard duty mostly consisted of making the most of the shade of the sentry post, waiting your turn to sit inside in the air-conditioned control centre, or driving the ambassador to and from her various engagements. Local kids would stop by fairly regularly to pull faces, trade fruit and sweet drinks for gum and chocolate, or just stare excitedly at the KA-17 assault rifles held by the guards. Sometimes street vendors would stop by, and every now and then local cops would come to shoot the shit, using their own broken English to teach the bored soldiers a little Hudan and tell dirty jokes.

Today though, Dernhelm could feel the tension on the streets. People hurried, heads down, strange for the usually mellow atmosphere of this neighbourhood. A pair of cops a block down the street had not moved from their corner in nearly an hour and were stood, almost as if poised, inscrutable behind their shades. Normally they would be leaning on the wall or sat at a nearby cafe, only occasionally glancing up to scan the harmless streets, but not today.

Dernhelm glanced over at Marine Sanchez. The story of West and Gordon, the two marines in the Gran Cuscatlan embassy who had gone down fighting and taken out a whole platoon of SACTO paramilitaries, was legendary in the service, but she really had no desire to emulate the two fallen heroes whose statue still stood in Lundene. Sanchez, whose parents had fled Cuscatlan in the exodus of the late 80s when General Medrano and his followers had caused a red scare and had been exiled, looked unconcerned, but then he always did. He was chewing something, she had no idea what, and squinting disinterestedly down the street at a truck driver who was making a botch of turning a corner. She sighed and adjusted her grip on her rifle, settling in for a long shift.

asbestos [closed / mt / atlas only]

asbestos [closed / mt / atlas only]

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