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By His Own Devices [CLOSED, Aerion]

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Knootoss
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By His Own Devices [CLOSED, Aerion]

Postby Knootoss » Fri Jan 17, 2025 5:39 pm

Haag-Vuilendam Highway
Free Republic of Knootoss


The wipers screeched once across the windscreen, smearing rather than clearing the fine drizzle. Beyond the glass, the skeletal trees of the Purendal Exclusion Zone clawed at the sky. Grey upon grey. He gripped the wheel harder, feeling the plastic flex faintly beneath his thick fingers, damp with sweat despite the cold.

"Stupid... stupid..." the man muttered, his breath shallow. His voice barely filled the stale air of the car, already saturated with the scent of fast-food wrappers and the sharper undertone of something sour. Sweat, perhaps, or fear. Crumpled paper bags littered the passenger seat, a half-eaten burger on the dash, congealed cheese stuck to its wrapper.

Gerrit van de Merwe. Once Second Secretary to the Economic Affairs Consulate in Aerion. Now? A mid-level analyst in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade. Desk jockey in a grey office on the third floor, where the lift groaned when he stepped in. The kind of man who blended into the corridors behind the security doors, all jowls and sloping shoulders in a crumpled suit, filing memos and licking salt from his fingers between paragraphs.

The Geiger counter rattled faintly on the seat beside him, a dry, mechanical chuckle. He flicked it off with a fat thumb. Better not to know. The Exclusion Zone didn’t care if you knew how radioactive it was.

"Should’ve taken the long road," he muttered, glancing at the peeling sign half-sunk in bramble: Vuilendam 12km. His foot pressed a little harder on the accelerator. The heater wheezed, blowing out air that reeked faintly of tobacco. Gerrit tugged at his collar, but it clung to his neck, the damp fabric darkened with sweat. He cracked the window, and a thin ribbon of cold air crept in, bringing the scent of aerosolised tar with a metallic tinge. It didn’t help. He rolled it back up. Better the devil he knew.

An address. No name, no instructions. Just an address scrawled in biro on a yellowing scrap of paper left at a drop off point. Gerrit turned the note over in his hand while driving, half-hoping the back would offer some clue. Nothing. He tried to imagine what would be waiting there. A bolted door. A figure in the shadows. A quiet room with curtains drawn. Maybe a gun on the table. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe just the walls closing in.

He wiped a sleeve across his forehead, smearing sweat.

Aerion. Of course it was Aerion. He could still smell the cheap cologne, the perfumed sheets. Could see the chandelier overhead, gaudy crystal pendants swinging like a slow metronome. They laughed, those women, those operatives. That was the polite word. Like he didn’t know. Like he hadn’t chosen to believe, if only for one blurred night, that it was all real.

"Stupid."

The word caught in his throat.

They had it on tape. Of course they did. Every sordid, glistening second. The ridiculous room, Pantocratorian neoclassical by way of a discount Persian bazaar. Gold-trimmed mirrors, velvet drapes. An absurd kind of luxury. He remembered a marble bust in the corner, wearing someone’s brassiere like a crown.

Gerrit gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles blanching under the thick rolls of his fingers.

And now, some faceless voice on the end of a scrambled line knew his name. Sent little notes. He hadn't told Marleen. Fuck, what could he say?

"I’ve got to check something at the office." That’s what he told her.

She looked up from her reading tablet, eyebrow raised.

"At ten o’clock at night?"

"It’s classified."

She’d scoffed. No doubt thought it was an affair. Maybe that would’ve been better. Marleen hadn’t even asked when he’d be back. Just turned back to her tablet, mouth tight for a second too long. Maybe she knew. Or maybe she didn’t care. He wasn’t sure which stung more.

The Geiger counter chirped again. Hadn't he turned it off?

"Shut up," he whispered.

Vuilendam was close now. The air had turned, thicker somehow. The old factories and chemical plants were darkened, some of them still abandoned. Rusted skeletal towers loomed, cables hanging like nooses.

Would they kill him? Maybe. For years Aerion had been nothing. A frozen Kingdom - pardon, Empire - of isolationists and ruthless but irrelevant politics. He'd made himself forget about it. Buried it under layers of classified reports and pastry crumbs.

But Aerion wasn’t nothing anymore.

He coughed, tasting something metallic at the back of his throat. Maybe that was the radiation. Or maybe it was just the fear.

"Keep driving," he told himself.

The address wasn’t far away now. A handful of turns, and he’d be there. Maybe there’d be someone waiting. Maybe he’d walk in and the door would lock behind him. Or maybe the house would be empty. Silent. Waiting.

Or maybe they wouldn’t kill him. Not yet. Maybe they'd want something. Something he could give. He imagined sitting at a bare table, pen in hand, the same voices guiding him. He wasn’t sure which scared him more.

But maybe, just maybe, there was still time to talk his way out. He was clever, wasn’t he? Clever enough to know when to run, clever enough to stay one step ahead. Or maybe he was just clever enough to dig his own grave.

The car rumbled on, wheels crunching over broken asphalt.

The Geiger counter laughed again.
Last edited by Knootoss on Fri Jan 17, 2025 5:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Ideological Bulwark #7 - RPed population preserves relative population sizes. Webgame population / 100 is used by default. If this doesn't work for you and it is relevant to our RP, please TG.

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Aerion
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Mother Knows Best State

Postby Aerion » Sat Jan 18, 2025 7:11 am

Shahbaz House
Government District
Imperial City
Grand Empire of Aerion


Shahbaz House rose twelve stories from Imperial City's Government District, its neoclassical limestone façade projecting refined authority rather than intimidation. Named for the falcon that served as both Imperial Intelligence's symbol and an ancient Persian royal emblem, the building struck a deliberate contrast to the brutalist severity of its rival, the ISA headquarters. Its main entrance featured twenty-foot bronze doors decorated with geometric patterns of tiny falcons in flight, while Ionic columns with subtle falcon motifs in their capitals rose through the first three floors.

Behind its elegant exterior lay one of the empire's most secure facilities. The limestone walls incorporated advanced materials creating an electromagnetic shield, while seemingly decorative elements concealed sophisticated security and surveillance systems. The building's windows, set in bronze frames and topped with constellation keystones, contained microscopic patterns defeating electronic surveillance while appearing transparent. At street level, classical fountains generated subsonic interference fields, and every architectural element, from the entrance steps to the decorative grilles, served multiple security functions.

The building's crown featured a two-story copper-clad dome with a verdigris patina, housing one of the Western Atlantic's most advanced electronic intelligence facilities beneath its classical appearance. Four smaller domes marked the corners, topped with falcon weathervanes that doubled as sophisticated communications arrays. At night, subtle lighting transformed the building, creating shifting shadows that confused surveillance while highlighting classical details. Like Imperial Intelligence itself, Shahbaz House masked cutting-edge capabilities behind traditional aesthetics, embodying power exercised through sophistication rather than force.

Evening light slanted through the tall windows of the Chief's office, casting long shadows across the Persian carpet's intricate patterns. Duke Ravian Khoroushi stood at the windows, his substantial frame silhouetted against the Government District's skyline, watching the last rays of sun glint off distant ministry domes. The Chief cut an imposing figure - six-foot-three with a naturally large frame carrying perhaps forty extra pounds, but wearing it with the practiced dignity of a man comfortable in his own skin. His Eastern Aerionian features were striking: warm olive skin, heavy-lidded dark eyes that could shift from apparent indifference to laser-sharp focus in an instant, and the prominent nose with its strong bridge characteristic of his Persian bloodline. Despite his size, he moved with surprising grace, each gesture precise and purposeful.

Without turning, he addressed Count Dariush Darabpour, who sat in one of the grey leather club chairs, a thin tactical display disguised as a portfolio resting on his knee. Count Darius Darabpour was the Area Controller for the Northeastern Western Atlantic. At fifty, Darabpour retained the lean, athletic build of his field operative days, his trim five-foot-eleven frame suggesting coiled energy even in repose. His Eastern Aerionian heritage was evident in his features - olive complexion, aquiline nose, and dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing while revealing nothing. Years of operating in the shadows had taught him to be unremarkable when needed, but in this secure space, he carried himself with the natural authority of someone accustomed to wielding power discretely.

"Our friend at the Aerion desk," Khoroushi said, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone who never spoke without purpose. "The tape has made him cooperative?"

Darabpour nodded, though he knew the Chief could see his reflection in the ballistic glass. "Very. The material our operatives obtained was... quite compelling. The sort of thing that would end more than just a career." He paused, allowing the implications to settle. "He's been providing regular intelligence, but given recent developments..."

"The Knootian naval deployments." Khoroushi turned from the window, moving to his desk with surprising grace for his size. The leather writing surface flickered briefly as it activated, displaying a real-time map of Aerionian and Knootian naval positions in the Sea of Insolence. "They're shadowing every carrier group we deploy."

"Which suggests they have more information than just what their satellites and signals intelligence are telling them." Darabpour leaned forward slightly. "We need to debrief him properly. Our NOC has arranged access to the safehouse in the Purendal Zone."

The Chief's eyes narrowed slightly. "A direct meeting? Risky. The Purendal Zone is radioactive but Knootian counter-intelligence could still track him there."

"The safehouse is solid," Darabpour replied. "It's maintained by one of our longest-running networks, pre-dating the current tensions. Our NOC has cleaned the approaches thoroughly. No surveillance, no counter-surveillance picked up on any of the precursor runs."

Khoroushi's fingers traced a pattern on his desk's surface, and the room's security systems heightened imperceptibly. The silk curtains shifted slightly as additional electromagnetic shielding activated. "Walk me through the security arrangements."

"Three layers of watchers on the approaches. Dead-drop confirmation of route security. Multiple evacuation plans." Darabpour touched his tactical display, sending detailed schematics to the Chief's desk. "The building itself has features we installed. If anything goes wrong, all evidence of its use can be eliminated within ninety seconds."

The Chief studied the plans, his expression giving nothing away. "And our man? A safehouse meeting is considerably more incriminating than brush passes."

"He's motivated by fear rather than ideology or greed," Darabpour replied. "Our NOC has handled him well – maintained just enough pressure without pushing him toward desperation. But he's nervous about the increased naval activity. He knows he's sitting on information we need."

"The timing is delicate. Her Imperial Majesty's deployment patterns are drawing more attention than anticipated." Khoroushi gestured at the desk's surface, and new data scrolled across it – diplomatic cables, intelligence summaries, threat assessments. "If Knootian counter-intelligence is watching their Foreign Ministry staff..."

"They are," Darabpour confirmed. "But our NOC has built an excellent cover for our man's movements in the Purendal Zone. Family connections, regular patterns established over months. Nothing that would trigger alerts."

The Chief nodded slowly, his dark eyes showing nothing. "Your officer has contingencies for a compromised meeting?"

"Multiple layers. If the primary exfiltration route is compromised, we have three backups. Worst case, we can get both our NOC and the agent out through channels we've maintained. Expensive, but proven."

"And the original material?"

"Secured. Multiple copies in separate locations, through cutouts even I don't know. Our NOC understands the value of insurance."

Khoroushi's lips curved in what might have been approval. "Good. The Pādshah Empress expects detailed intelligence on Knootian reactions to our naval operations. Their shadow deployments suggest they have strategic assessments we need to see." He touched another control, and the displays faded to normal desk surfaces. "Keep the pressure subtle. We need him nervous enough to be cooperative but not so frightened he becomes a liability."

Darabpour rose smoothly, recognizing the dismissal. "I'll have our NOC proceed with the safehouse meeting. Full protocols, maximum security. Nothing connects back to us."

"Indeed." The Chief's eyes met his subordinate's. "Remind your officer – if anything feels wrong during the approach, if there's even a hint of counter-intelligence activity, they abort immediately. A compromised safehouse meeting would be considerably more difficult to explain away than a chance encounter."

As Darabpour left through the office's main door, Khoroushi turned back to the windows. The Government District's lights were coming on, creating patterns of illumination that reminded him of naval formations. Somewhere out in the Sea of Insolence, Aerionian carrier groups were moving through darkness, and Knootian ships were following, each side watching the other and wondering what moves would come next.

He touched a control, and the windows darkened slightly, their built-in counter-surveillance measures increasing. The agent's information would be valuable, but a safehouse meeting in the Purendal Zone... The Chief of Imperial Intelligence settled deeper into his chair, already calculating contingencies within contingencies, as the last light faded from the evening sky.

Vuilendam
Purendal Exclusion Zone
Free Republic of Knootoss


Dr. Armin Mehrani's mixed Eastern Aerionian and Epheronian heritage had proven invaluable in his NOC work, allowing him to move seamlessly through multiple social contexts. His skin held the warm brown tones typical of such ancestry, darker than his Eastern Aerionian father's olive complexion but lighter than his Epheronian mother's deep umber. His features reflected a perfect blend of both lineages – the strong, straight nose and high cheekbones of his Persian ancestors softened by Epheronian characteristics, while his full lips and broader facial structure spoke to his Epheronian heritage.

His hair, worn in the short conservative style favored by academics, showed the interesting interplay of his mixed background – thick and black with a subtle wave pattern that suggested both ancestries without strongly favoring either. His eyes, a deep brown that appeared almost black in certain lights, were large and expressive when he wanted them to be, though years of intelligence work had taught him to maintain a scholarly distance in his gaze that discouraged too much scrutiny.

At five-foot-ten with an athletic build carefully disguised by his academic's wardrobe, Mehrani had the kind of face that people found difficult to categorize – a valuable trait in his line of work. The natural dignity he carried in his bearing could easily be read as either the gravitas of a scholar or the quiet confidence of a successful professional, depending on the role he needed to play. His voice, cultured and precise with just a hint of an academic's thoughtful hesitation, completed the image of a man who moved comfortably through the upper echelons of international policy circles while never drawing undue attention to himself.

Dr. Armin Mehrani checked his dosimeter for the third time in an hour as he navigated the crumbling streets of what had once been Vuilendam. The Purendal Zone's perpetual haze, a mixture of lingering contamination and the unauthorized fires of squatters, cast everything in a sickly amber light. His academic's clothing – weathered tweed jacket, sensible boots, battered leather briefcase – helped him blend in with the zone's quasi-legal salvage operators, while the high-end radiation detector disguised as a fitness watch continuously monitored the invisible threats around him.

The NOC officer knew that somewhere in the shadows, his watchers were confirming his route was clean.

The safehouse sat three blocks from the old Tijraan River port facilities, a four-story apartment building that had once housed middle-management engineers. Its current residents – a mixture of former inhabitants who'd refused to leave and newer arrivals seeking refuge from Knootian authorities – maintained a careful ecosystem of mutual protection and deliberate ignorance. The building's superintendent, a former security guard who'd lost his family in the evacuation, had a profitable arrangement with Imperial Intelligence that dated back years.

Mehrani paused at a corner, pretending to check his phone while actually scanning for surveillance. The zone's dangers provided excellent cover – Knootian counter-intelligence was reluctant to maintain lengthy surveillance operations in areas where radiation levels fluctuated unpredictably. His teams had spent weeks establishing the pattern of hot spots and clear zones, ensuring multiple escape routes that any pursuit would be reluctant to follow.

The safehouse itself occupied a third-floor corner apartment. Its windows, like many in the zone, were covered with thick plastic sheeting that rippled in the perpetual warm wind that drifted up from the contaminated river. Imperial Intelligence had spent considerable resources ensuring the apartment's safety – lead-lined walls ostensibly for radiation protection also blocked surveillance, while air filtration systems removed both contamination and any trace of operational activities.

As he approached the building's entrance, Mehrani noted the subtle signs his advance team had left – a discarded energy drink can positioned just so, a particular pattern of mud on the steps indicating no unexpected visitors. The superintendent's cat, an enormous grey creature that had survived the disaster through predatory cunning, watched from its perch on a rusted air conditioning unit. Its presence was another all-clear signal; the animal vanished at the first sign of strangers.

Inside, the building maintained a peculiar orderliness that set it apart from its neighbors. The residents, many of them former plant workers, clung to old habits of maintenance even in exile. Mehrani climbed stairs worn smooth by years of use, his practiced eye noting the fresh marks that confirmed his backup team was in position. The building's electrical supply, jury-rigged from a combination of solar panels and salvaged industrial generators, provided intermittent lighting that cast strange shadows in the stairwell.

The safehouse door looked like any other in the building – slightly weathered, its paint peeling in the approved pattern of neglect. But the lock was a masterwork of electronic sophistication disguised as decay, its biometric sensors hidden beneath apparent rust. Mehrani made a show of struggling with an old key while the system confirmed his identity and checked for signs of coercion.

Inside, the apartment maintained the zone's expected aesthetic of shabby survival. Salvaged furniture, walls stained by water damage, windows covered in thick plastic – everything designed to suggest the dwelling of someone living on the margins of society. But beneath that careful camouflage, sophisticated surveillance equipment monitored approaches from every angle, while a concealed room contained communication gear that could reach Imperial Intelligence through multiple redundant channels.

Here, in this strange liminal space between abandonment and habitation, official neglect and unofficial survival, Mehrani would meet his agent. The location was perfect – any observation would be assumed to be criminal rather than intelligence-related, while the zone's dangers provided cover for quick escape if needed. He began his final preparations, knowing that somewhere in the contaminated streets below, a nervous Knootian diplomat was making his own way through the hazy night of the Purendal Zone.
Official name: Grand Empire of Aerion
Capital: Imperial City
Tech Level: Postmodern

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Knootoss
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Anarchy

Postby Knootoss » Sat Jan 18, 2025 6:17 pm

Vuilendam
Purendal Exclusion Zone
Free Republic of Knootoss


The car sputtered to a halt in front of a sagging tenement, its bricks blackened by decades of industrial soot and, more recently, radioactive dust. Gerrit van de Merwe sat behind the wheel, staring at the crooked building numbers barely visible under a film of grime. He didn't kill the engine right away, so that the heater could exhale more stale warmth into the cabin.

Somewhere beyond the row of decaying tenements, the Tijraan River moved sluggishly, its surface choked with ice and filth. Even through the sealed car windows, he could smell the acrid mix of chemical rot and something metallic, thin and sharp in the back of his throat. The faintest pulse of nausea rolled through him. He wasn’t sure if it was the radiation, the anxiety, or just the creeping cold gnawing at his bones.

The Dwalmdam Nuclear Plant loomed somewhere beyond the fog, its fractured cooling towers now nothing more than broken teeth against the sky. An abandoned beast slowly leaking poison into everything around it.

Not unlike himself.

"Stupid," he muttered, voice barely audible over the idle rattle of the engine.

What kind of person chose a place like this for a meeting? Three blocks from the poisoned river, in a district the government had abandoned for nearly a decade. Yet people still lived here. Their windows glowed faintly through the mist. He wondered what they told themselves at night. That the Geiger counters weren’t ticking that fast. That the air wasn’t that heavy.

He grabbed the Geiger counter from the passenger seat. It gave a dry, steady click. Not fast enough to kill him now. Not slow enough to ignore.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door handle. The cold air knifed into him the moment he stepped out. Not the clean, sharp cold of winter but something denser. Oily. It clung to his skin, settled in his lungs. Gerrit pulled his coat tighter around his bulk, feeling the damp fabric drag at him.

The pavement was slick underfoot, a thin sheen of frozen runoff from cracked gutters. He shuffled forward, boots crunching. The tenement windows were mostly dark, save for a faint yellow glow on the third floor. He paused at the entrance, fingers tracing the doorframe. A faint smear of something brown came away on his hand. He wiped it on his coat without thinking.

He climbed the stairwell carefully, each step groaning under his weight. On the third floor, the corridor stretched into shadow. A bulb flickered overhead, casting jittery light across the stained walls. Gerrit’s breath echoed in the silence, louder than he liked.

He hesitated when he saw the door. The peeling paint, the sagging frame—it looked like any other door in this wretched place. But something about it felt... posed. Too perfectly decayed. A bead of sweat crawled down his temple, cold against his skin.

He knocked.

Ideological Bulwark #7 - RPed population preserves relative population sizes. Webgame population / 100 is used by default. If this doesn't work for you and it is relevant to our RP, please TG.


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