Tales from Stratarin

[Strat]

[spoiler]I thought I’d put together a thread for random writings of mine that don’t have anything to do with any larger plotline, just for the heck of it. Below is the first, and I’m on the fence as to whether or not it works. All the same, please enjoy.
[/spoiler]

Coyden, Stratarin

“Alright, alright, I just need a second,” Kirill Pashkov tapped away at his keyboard.

Yadina Zorina sighed impatiently from the corner of the van. “Did you try…”

“YES!” Kirill hit the keys angrily. “Sorry, yes. They’ve just got one helluva firewall.”

The only sound in the back of the van for the next several seconds was the tapping of Kirill’s fingers before he spoke again. “And… I… am… just… about…”

“Sometime today would be nice,” Yadina commented wryly.

Ignoring her, Kirill continued, “… right… now… IN!”

“Woo!” she cheered, practically hopping into his lap and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. He reciprocated, pulling himself away several seconds later. “Alright, alright, so we’re in the government’s server,” he said, a little reluctantly. “What are we gonna do with it?”

She shrugged, pulling out her compact mirror and hastily adjusting her now messy lipstick. “You could do a lot. Learn a few government secrets, release all of the information to the public, or even send a prank email to a world leader!”

He chuckled. “Good idea. I’ll send one to Verlhan real quick.” After busily typing for a minute and triumphantly pressing the ‘SEND’ button, he turned back to her. “But seriously, now, what should I do?”

“Well, we could just browse for now.” Yadina looked over his shoulder, her hot breath on Kirill’s neck sending a shiver down his spine. Together, their eyes searched the page, seeing files marked ‘DRAKYN-CLASS,’ ‘SETZ. OPERATIONS,’ ‘MEMES.IRL,’ and a veritable database of others. “Um… there! That file looks interesting.” Yadina’s nail tapped against the computer screen over a file marked ‘YEKAT’.

“Anything for you,” he replied, and she playfully shoved him in response.

“Get to it,” she giggled. He nodded, then moved the cursor across the page towards the file…

An alert suddenly popped up in the corner of his screen. All color drained from Kirill’s face. After a minute of blankly staring, he quickly closed the database and suddenly started typing frantically.

“What happened?” Yadina ventured, her voice slightly trembling.

“They… they knew we were… we were in,” he replied briefly, pulling up several different files. “They could’ve tracked… tracked my…” he trailed off, and stopped typing a moment later. “Hopefully, they didn’t have enough time to trace it back before I closed it. Hopefully.” He realized his voice was trembling. Not particularly reassuring.

Yadina sighed. After a moment of silence, she said, “Well, you still got into a secure government server, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he agreed halfheartedly. “I guess I did.”

But what is it going to cost me? he thought.

[hr]
As the day slowly crept into the waiting jaws of night, Kirill slowly opened the door of his family’s apartment. He and his grandmother were lucky enough for the housing committee to have given them their own apartment, due to her feebleness. However, Kirill was slightly worried by the government vehicle parked nearby.

As he eased open the door, he began hearing snippets of conversation from within. As quietly as he could, he listened to an unfamiliar voice speaking with his grandmother. The voice belonged to someone who had seemingly arrived mere minutes before he had. “…madam, allow me to introduce myself.” The voice was clipped yet refined, with a lighter Strataric accent than usual. “I am STP Colonel Iosef Demenok. I have come to speak with your grandson, one Kirill Pashkov. Do you know where I might find him?”

The icy hand of fear gripped Kirill’s heart and squeezed. He’s part of the STP…

“Oh, well, s-sir,” the poor woman tried her best to answer, “he was out w-with a friend today…”

“Ah, yes. A comrade of mine was going to speak with her.” Colonel Demenok smiled without humor.

Yadina? Kirill let out a short gasp, then clapped his hand over his mouth. But it was too late.

“Who’s there?” the colonel called out. After no reply for a moment, Demenok slowly crept towards the noise. Kirill spooked, and took off running as fast as he could. He heard a shuffle and radio static behind him, followed by the words, “I may have found the boy. You…” Distance began to muddle his words to the point that Kirill couldn’t distinguish any in particular. He pushed his way through the crowded street, suddenly noticing several police officers walking towards him. Without any time to think, he turned on his heel and ran back the way he came…

…only to impact Colonel Demenok and sprawl to the ground. As Kirill looked up at his adversary, wincing from his fall, his arms were seized and he was roughly wrenched to his feet by the officers he had spotted earlier.

The colonel was a tall man, with slicked black hair and icy grey eyes. Glanced around at the gathering group of gaping onlookers, he dissolved the small crowd with a warning wave of his hand. “Nothing to see here,” he assured them. Turning back to the officers, he nodded. “Release the boy. He’s smart enough not to flee again.” They complied, practically dropping Kirill and backing up several paces. Stumbling for a moment before regaining his balance, Kirill fearfully met the eyes of his pursuer.

“What… what is going to happen to me?”

Colonel Demenok coldly smiled and didn’t deign to answer. Putting his arm around Kirill’s shoulder, he slowly led the boy away.

[hr]
Kirill wasn’t quite sure what had happened in the… minutes? hours?.. since then. All he knew was that he awoke in a dark room, sitting in a relatively uncomfortable chair. A single failing light flickered above him, barely illuminating the table in front of him, on which rested the laptop he had used earlier that day. He was surprised to find that his hands were unfettered.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice calmly stated. Kirill jumped. Where the…

From one of the corners of the room, a man younger than Colonel Demenok emerged from the darkness as if an apparition. “Hello, Kirill Pashkov; born March 9th, 2000; address 271 Bagrovyy Drayv, Coyden, Stratarin, 24606; son of Vasily Pashkov and Akilina Koyecheva…” He hesitated. “You get the point,” he finished lamely, almost kindly. Stepping into the light, Kirill looked him up and down. This man was only about 5’9", had short brown hair, and other than his sideburns was clean shaven. His eyes were just as piercing as Colonel Demenok’s had been, but were a friendlier blue. “I am Major Dragomirov.” He assumed a seat across the table from Kirill.

“Sir… w-why am I here?”

Any inkling of friendliness in Dragomirov’s face evaporated. “You know full well why,” he snapped. “You hacked into a secure government server, sent a prank email to a foreign leader, and almost accessed pertinent files. You’re lucky that you and your incurably stupid accomplice aren’t facing a firing squad right now!” After a moment of their eyes meeting, Kirill glanced away. Satisfied, Dragomirov leaned back and stated, with a calmer tone, “You know why you’re here.”

“Yes,” Kirill admitted, though he knew it wasn’t a question.

“Good. I suppose you’re wondering why you haven’t been killed or tortured yet?”

Torture? Wordlessly, Kirill nodded.

“It’s simple. I need you to show me, with this,” he gestured to the laptop, “exactly, and I mean exactly, how you hacked into that server.”

Understanding dawned in Kirill’s eyes. “So you can prevent this opening from being used again in the future.”

Dragomirov nodded. “Exactly. Oh, and if at any point you go rogue, or if you find yourself unable to hack in again, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head.” Though the words were spoken casually with no special emphasis, Kirill somehow knew that Dragomirov would make good on it.

“You c-can’t intimidate m-me…” he gulped. “What if…what if I refuse to help you?” The words were spoken almost bravely, but were undercut by the noticeable tremor in his voice.

Dragomirov produce a file from seemingly nowhere, opened it, and began reading. “Yadina Zorina; born Februrary 27th, 2000; address 728 Beloye, Coyden…” he stopped and glanced up at Kirill. “Shall I go on?”

Kirill sighed and shook his head, admitting defeat.

“Good.” Dragomirov stood and walked over to Kirill’s side of the table. “Now, please begin.”

[hr]
(For those of you wondering what was contained in the prank email that Kirill sent earlier)

[spoiler]http://i.imgur.com/7p31P6l.png
To:
William Verlhan
President
The Republic of Setzna

u suk LOL

Love,

Viktor Drugov
General Secretary
The Militarized Communist State of Stratarin
[/spoiler]

[Strat]

[spoiler] I’ve been reorganizing the Strataric government a little. This is just meant as a quick IC acknowledgement of that fact.[/spoiler]
Rurik Lukin walked into General Secretary Drugov’s office, surprised by the number chairmen from various councils and committees present. Even more interesting was the massive heap of various papers on Drugov’s desk.

“Sir?” Rurik addressed him, raising his voice slightly to be heard above the chairmen’s voices.

Drugov, busily signing a sheet of paper, looked up. “Ah, Rurik,” he called back. “I wanted to inform you that the government is being slightly reorganized.”

Rurik raised an eyebrow. “How…?”

“One moment,” Drugov replied, then signalled for the room to be quiet. After the various chairmen complied, Drugov glanced back at Rurik. “What?”

“How is it being reorganized?”

“Nothing too drastic,” the General Secretary replied, though the amount of paperwork seemed to indicate otherwise. “Oh, the title Primary Minister is no longer in use, though you’ll still be a minister. Would you pass that on to Anatoly, Pravda, and Igor?”

“Yes, sir,” Rurik replied, a little confused.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed.” Drugov’s eyes started busily scanning over a different sheet of paper, and the hubbub around the room continued. Shaking his head, the ex-Primary Minister walked out of the room.

[Strat]

(Slightly inspired by NS Issue #584. Many references to RP events surrounding the destruction of Myriad Station.)

Coyden, Stratarin, April 24th, 1998

The visibly deranged psychopath, the blade of the kitchen cleaver he was holding gleaming in the moonlight, slowly crept behind his quarry. Though the murderer made not a sound, the soon-to-be victim seemed to detect the subtle malevolence drawing near and slowly turned. But he was too late. With an insane shriek, the hunter leapt upon his prey as a scavenger upon a corpse…

Luka had the vague sensation of Klara snuggling closer. “You aren’t scared, are you?” he teased her gently.

“Hah!” she replied, as confidently as she could. “Scared of a low budget horror flick? Never. Especially not the Cook of Setzna.”

“The Baker of Setzna,” Luka corrected her, putting his arm around her.

She turned her head away from the on-screen gore towards Luka. “Well, excuuuuse me.”

“Fine, you’re excused.” After a moment longer, he sighed. “You really don’t want to watch this, do you?”

“Me? I mean…” Klara hesitated for a second. “Not really,” she admitted. “But it’s not my birthday.”

“What good’s a birthday if the person you spend it with isn’t enjoying herself?” Luka countered, clicking the OFF button on the remote control. The screen instantly blinked into black oblivion. “So,” he said, turning towards her, “how have you been doing on your classes?”

“Pretty good, er, well,” she replied. “I may or may not be having some trouble with physics, but I’m sure I’ll do alright. How have…?”

“Back up,” he cut her off. “You know how good I am at physics. What do you need help with?”

“Um, astrophysics. I just have a bit of trouble with… hang on, today’s your birthday! You shouldn’t be helping me out with this now. You’re here to enjoy yourself, after all.”

Luka waved his hand dismissively. “Helping you out is enjoyable to me. Tell you what, do you have a notepad or writing material around here?”

“Yeah, over on that shelf,” she gestured.

“I’ll go fetch that real quick, and we can go over your problem. Alright?”

“But… but… alright, you win.”

“I always do,” he winked.

Klara shifted her position as she watched Luka stand and retrieve the paper and a pen. He sat back down next to her, setting the paper on the small table in front of them.

“So, what did you need help with?”

She smiled, and without thinking leaned over and pecked him on the lips. “Thanks.”

Luka’s face immediately reddened. “Uh, I, well…” his words came out in an incomprehensible jumble. “Err, thank you.” He turned away and muttered softly to himself, “Do you thank someone for giving you a kiss?”

Klara smiled. Thinking aloud in embarrassing or stressful moments was one of Luka’s traits she had picked up on a long time ago. “So… you were going to help me?”

“Yes, of course,” he responded hurriedly, clearing his throat. He managed a smile, and they began.

[hr]
Gordost i Predubezhdeniye Academy, Coyden, Stratarin, June 17th, 2000

As Klara, her cheeks aglow, accepted the piece of paper, she couldn’t help but smile. She was here, finally here, with an actual diploma in her hand and an actual future ahead of her.

And she couldn’t have done it without Luka. She reflected that he probably couldn’t have done it without her, either.

From the crowd, she could hear a smattering of applause, and a faint yet happily familiar voice yelling, “Well done!” In response, Klara’s eyes welled with tears as she walked off the stage and ran to her seat next to Luka. She felt a quick peck on her cheek and giggled, with a single tear running trickling from her eyes.

“Congratulations, my dear,” he whispered in her ear.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she echoed her earlier thought.

Luka chuckled, valiantly hiding the moisture touching his own eyes. “I doubt that. You’re the smartest, hardest working person I know. If you couldn’t make it, no one co…”

“Luka Dreykov,” a voice called, interrupting their conversation.

“Well, my turn,” he stood and strolled onto the stage, accepting the long-awaited diploma while Klara cheered him on.

Luka returned to his seat. “Sorry about that,” he choked, blinking more than usual. After clearing his throat, he looked back at her. “Anyway, what was I saying?”

“I love you, you know.”

He blushed, muttering, “I don’t think that was what I was saying.”

Klara glanced back at the stage, her hand slowly working its way into Luka’s, then giving it a small squeeze. This was one of the most important days of their lives so far.

And there was no one she would rather spend it with.

[hr]
Premier’s Theatre, Mirovgrad, Stratarin, March 19th, 2003

“The Butcher of Setzna?” Klara read aloud. “Hasn’t that already been around for years?”

“Well, you know how the Premier’s Theatre occasionally re-runs films that are pro-Stratarin or anti-everywhere else, especially with the communist state.” Luka sighed, remembering the Great Revolution of 2001 that had claimed far too many lives, only to lead to the rise of a dictatorship led by Premier Voronin. “Besides,” he dispelled the thoughts from his head, “it’s a classic.”

Something in Klara’s memory clicked. “Didn’t we watch it when I first kissed you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Luka replied, voice betraying no emotion.

Klara shook her head, wondering what he was up to.

Roughly two hours later, they walked out of the theater. The sun, barely visible from their position, had begun to set, setting the sky aflame in a conflagration of colors.

“That was… a bit scarier than I remember,” Klara admitted, trembling slightly in the cold.

Quickly and expertly draping his jacket over her shoulders, Luka replied, “Well, we never did finish it that time.”

“That’s true enough. Although,” she put on a brave tone, “just because it was scarier, doesn’t mean it scared me. Because it didn’t. At all.”

“I’m sure,” Luka replied, mock seriously. “Anyway, the sun’s setting. I know a lake not too far from here where you can get the most beautiful view. Should we go?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “Lead the way, good sir.”

The sun had almost sunk completely out of view by the time they arrived. However, the last strands of flame it still sent defiantly across the sky were just as beautiful as they had been. And the water mirrored it beautifully.

Klara, looking up in awe at the sky, barely noticed that Luka had dropped to one knee until he politely coughed.

[hr]
Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, November 24th, 2007

“I still can’t believe it.”

Every ten seconds, it seemed, Luka repeated those exact words.

“You’d better start believing soon, because we’re in the building,” his wife replied, as she had every ten seconds.

With a new, less harsh Premier in power, Stratarin had the potential of being a better nation. He already had done away with many of his predecessor’s isolationist policies and had been very supportive of several replacements for ministers put in place by Voronin.

However, it came as a shock to Luka to actually be invited to meet Viktor Drugov personally. At the government building. In his office. Granted, Luka had become one of the leading scientists behind space research and published two books on the matter, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what use that would be to the new regime.

Klara was equally surprised, only she had resolved to keep her husband grounded in reality. Therefore, she didn’t show it nearly to the degree that he did.

“Do you think he’ll notice my accent?” Luka asked worriedly.

“You’ll be fine,” she replied. “Your Serovgrad accent isn’t prominent enough to be considered unsophisticated. Besides, I think it’s sexy.”

He smiled, his worries allayed for now. “And to think that I’m actually in this building, going to talk to the Premier. I just can’t…”

“…Believe it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Well, that’s his office.” Klara gestured towards the large oaken doors that they had been directed to several minutes prior.

Luka silently swallowed nervously. “My love, I’m not sure what to make of the new Premier. Should I mysteriously disappear, or anything,” he looked down at her, then suddenly quite literally swept her off her feet and passionately kissed her. “I love you,” he affirmed, after the kiss was concluded. “I always have, and always will.”

“I… I love you too,” Klara managed, voice a little weak from the sudden kiss.

Luka slowly set her down, swallowed again, and pushed open the doors. From the brief peek that Klara was given before the doors were shut, she could see a bearded, middle-aged man sitting behind an impressive desk.

Twenty minutes later, Luka walked out with an expensive bottle of Wodka in his hands. Immediately, he was ambushed by his wife.

“What happened?” she asked. “Are you alright? Where did he give you that bottle? What took so long?”

“He… he offered me a position,” Luka, still in awe from the meeting, spoke slowly. “I am to be the new Minister of Space Exploration and Research.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said I would talk it over with you,” He looked down at her shining eyes. “Klara Dreykova, may I do this?”

Shocked and wordless, Klara nodded.

“Thank you,” he kissed her forehead. “Oh, would you mind holding on to this bottle for me? I wouldn’t want to lose it.”

She took it, wondering idly how much it had cost the Premier. However, foremost in her thoughts were how this position would change her life and that of her husband.

For some unfounded reason, she had a bad feeling about this.

[hr]
Coyden, Stratarin, December 10th, 2016

As soon as he walked through the door of their home, Klara read from his grim expression that something terrible had happened. She rushed to his side.

“Luka, are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m fine, my dear,” he replied, though that was clearly not the case. He began to walk towards the stairs, but she stopped him.

“What happened. Was it the Chudo shuttle?”

Wordlessly, Luka nodded and slowly sank to the ground. “The Fire Pact destroyed Myriad. Some reports indicate the survival of the shuttle, but we don’t know how many crew were aboard Myriad when it was destroyed. And Drugov shut down all my funding.”

She knelt beside him, embracing him lovingly. “You’ll get past this. None of this is your fault.”

“All of it is my fault. The blood of any dead crewmen is on my hands.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But…”

“Don’t. Say. That. They knew the risks and accepted them. That was their own decision. And you don’t even know if there were any Stratarians who didn’t escape.” Klara noticed her husband’s breathing start to calm. “As for your funding, talk to him tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I already tried and failed,” Luka replied. “He won’t listen.”

“Then… then…” Klara failed to think of a reply. After their embrace lasted several minutes longer, Luka glanced out the window. “It’s getting late. Perhaps some sleep will help.” Together, they went up to bed.

After Klara was fast asleep, Luke carefully and softly slipped out of bed and walked down to the kitchen area. Glancing back towards the stairs, he slowly retrieved the bottle of Wodka that the Premier had presented him some years prior. It had already been opened to commemorate the launches yesterday, though most of it was still untouched.

“A drink won’t hurt,” he murmured to himself.

[hr]
Coyden, Stratarin, December 15th, 2016

“Enough is enough!” Klara yelled. A travel bag was slung over her shoulder. “I can’t live with… with a drunkard!”

Luka was slumped on the floor with a bottle in his hand. His previously clear eyes were now bloodshot, his combed hair tousled, his neat clothing rumpled, and his clean-shaven face stubbly. He looked up at her blearily. “You’re… you’re leaving?”

“Yes, until you get your life on track. And then, only then, am I coming back.”

“I… I can’t without you,” he cast his gaze downward. “I… I can’t with-without…”

“You haven’t tried even with me,” she replied quickly, then sighed. “Luka, I love you, and will always love you. But this,” she gestured to him, “this is something you need to deal with. Goodbye.”

Luka was aware of the door slamming behind her.

And with her fled the last light of his life.

All he had left was himself, his guilt, and Wodka. Which is a fatal combination.

[hr]
Coyden, Stratarin, February 19th, 2017

The widow’s black veil swirled in the light wind that haunted the cemetery. The sky was overcast, the trees were far from bloom; everything seemed colorless.

Those who knew her before the 26th of December had known her as a vibrant, chatty, intelligent woman. Though youth had slowly begun to desert her, her wit and charm hadn’t.

But Klara Dreykova was no longer that woman.

As she planted flowers at the grave she stood over, as she had every day since Luka had been buried, Klara read the tombstone yet again.

LUKA DREYKOV
A LOVING HUSBAND AND A TRUE PATRIOT
MAY HE HAVE FOUND THE PEACE THAT DESERTED HIM IN LIFE

She slowly stood, shedding a single guilty tear. And there she remained, without knowledge of the passage of time, until someone behind her coughed.

“Klara Dreykova?”

“Yes,” Klara answered emotionlessly, not turning.

“I have been sent by Drugov. He wishes to offer you a position.”

[Strat]

It was a wonder that Drugov hadn’t worn a hole in his carpet.

As Anatoly entered the room, he was initially taken back by how briskly Drugov was pacing. “…Sir?”

“Ah, Anatoly,” Drugov stopped in his tracks for a moment to acknowledge his presence, then continued. “Come in.”

Puzzled, Anatoly walked in and took a seat. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“You heard about the incident in Domoy Foksa?” Drugov’s pace picked up.

“Something about a very small-scale uprising?”

“I sent Yekat as the official negotiator.”

Anatoly’s mouth dropped open. “You sent…”

“I just said that!” the General Secretary snapped in reply. He stopped abruptly and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry. But as you can see, I’m very distressed.”

“Why did you even send her in the first place?”

“She needed experience and wanted to go. And when she wants something…” the sentence hung in the air.

Anatoly nodded. “I’m sure she’ll do fine. After all…”

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a polite but firm knock on the door. Drugov called, “Come!”

In walked a beautiful, 18-year-old woman of about 5’8". She wore a simple blood red dress with golden trimming, and her hair was styled in an incredibly elaborate braid.

“Yekat,” Drugov breathed in relief, rushing to her and embracing her. “What happened?”

Yekaterina laughed. “More than I could have hoped. The rebels agreed to lay down their arms and surrender after I talked to them. In exchange, their families will be taken care of during their jailtime.”

Releasing her, Drugov looked down at her lovingly. “And how did you manage that?”

“I can be very persuasive, you know.” She smiled. “Anyway, am I dismissed?”

Drugov nodded. As she turned to leave the room, she flashed a coy smile and a wink at Anatoly, who in reply just shook his head in askance. After she was gone, Anatoly straightened his back. “What did I say? She did remarkably.”

“That she did,” Drugov agreed. “She has the makings of a brilliant politician.”

“Well, like father, like daughter, right?”

Drugov nodded. “Thank you, Anatoly.” He walked behind his desk. “You are dismi… oh, I almost forgot! I wanted to ask you something.”

Anatoly, who had started to rise from his seat, eased back into it. “Yes?”

“Yekat has an incredible future ahead of her. I wonder, though, if it’s time I broadened my daughter’s horizons some. Tell me, my friend, have you ever heard of the Shiro Academy?”

[Strat]

Andrei Klimov blinked and squinted his eyes as the sudden light of the sun almost blinded him. He barely had time to adjust as a blindfold was slipped over his face and was tightened. Instinctively, he growled and flattened his ears, only to be met with coarse laughter.

He wasn’t sure where he was taken, but he had a suspicion, which was only confirmed as he heard ammunition being loaded and felt his back slammed into a wall.

This was his execution.

Breathing somewhat heavily, he softly requested, “If I am to die, I will see my killers.” This was met with a harsh laugh, but he felt the blindfold loosen and be pulled away. Before his eyes focused, he made out five somewhat distant figures standing so uniformly that Andrei wondered if he was seeing quintuple. He vaguely sensed a figure to his left that quickly moved away, and someone right in front of him.

“Hello, Vulpine filth,” said STP Colonel Iosef Demenok with a humorless smile. “Are you ready to die?”

Andrei was always considered short for a Vulpine, but compared to a tall human he felt infinitesimal. Still, he showed no signs of fear. “I was told that I would only be imprisoned.”

Demenok chuckled derisively. “That was the original plan, ferret.” He searched Andrei’s features, clearly hoping for a reaction to the insult. Seeing none, he continued, “However, I spoke to Procurator General Starikov and recommended that the ringleader of your failed little rebellion be executed as an example. He seemed inclined to agree.” He paused momentarily. “You are the ringleader, aren’t you, ferret?”

Andrei knew that whether or not he was, he would die this day. Either way, though, he was determined that one of his final acts wouldn’t be to utter a lie, so he simply replied, “Yes.”

“Good,” the colonel leered. “But you still haven’t answered my earlier question. Are you ready to die?”

Taking a deep breath, he met the colonel’s eyes and nodded. “My Creator will welcome me with open arms.”

Any amusement that Demenok may have had vanished without a trace. He enjoyed dealing with weak, afraid prey, not a man at peace with his fate. “Goodbye, ferret,” he snarled, then walked behind the firing line and uttered, “Gotov!”

The officers’ rifles snapped up in unison.

“Ogon’!”

To his credit, Andrei didn’t blink.

[Strat]

Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, 2339 hours, 06.14.17

Anatoly walked briskly out the door as soon as the meeting between the Central Committee and the Council of Ministers adjourned.

I need a drink.

As he poured himself a glass of Wodka from the comfort of his office, he reflected on the previous meeting.

As he’d expected but hoped against, Starikov was now officially the Premier of Stratarin and General Secretary of the Party. Although it was no surprise, it still came as a bitter disappointment.

The Central Committee fully backed Starikov, whereas the Council of Ministers was more divided. It hardly mattered, though. Everyone fell in line eventually, and that had been a complete waste of four hours.

He glanced around the room lonesomely. There was a time when he and Rurik would drink together, or Drugov would offer him a glass after Anatoly had filed a report. But those days were long gone.

Now, just himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on his door. Turning towards it, he called out, “Enter.” In stepped the tall, lithe frame of Yekaterina Drugova.

“Would you mind if I shared some of that?” she asked, her tone weary.

“You’re not of legal drinking age,” Anatoly replied, mock sternly. “I think that I have some Kvas around here.” He began to rifle through various drawers, producing the elusive bottle and pouring it into a glass for her.

“Rough day?” he asked, not unkindly, she took a long sip.

As she put the glass down, she looked into his eyes. “Have you ever had to deal with the ONC?” Seeing the fleeting look of confusion cross his face, she sighed. “Oan National Council.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I thought as much.” Yekaterina sighed, her green eyes glinting with annoyance. “They’re very good at pretending they’re answering questions without actually doing so.” She adjusted a stray hair that had slipped out of her elaborate braid and into her face. “And you?”

“Well…” Anatoly hesitated. He was far too cautious to tell a high ranking official of his disappointment that Starikov was deemed the rightful ruler of Stratarin. “Some political drama. I’ll be fine.”

She raised an eyebrow, but chose to say nothing and finished her Kvas. “Well, I’d better go. Thanks for the drink.” She turned and started to leave.

Anatoly quickly moved to reach the door first and held it open for her. “And thank you for the company.” As Yekaterina nodded politely and left, he smiled.

At least I didn’t drink alone.

As he turned and walked into his office, he again began to contemplate what the future held for Stratarin. Although he completely disagreed with the current Premier, Starikov was holding the nation together. He had gathered support, was favored by the Party, and promoted by the media.

Thus, Anatoly would stand by him. Not for his own good, and certainly not for Starikov’s, but for the good of Stratarin.

(OOC: I wasn’t sure where else to put this post. It didn’t seem to go with the Ethalria thread or ARS. Thus, I plonked it here).

[Strat]

Coidgrad, Stratarin, 1691

Gennady Dementi strode into the bar, looking positively awful. His usually clean-shaven face was marred with an unkempt beard, his uniform was ragged and torn, and his hair was long and bedraggled. Nevertheless, he kept his head held high and his back straight. Around the bar, he noted other captains talking with hushed voices to women of various reputes. He settled down into a stool in front of the bar and ordered his usual:

“One Mirovgrad Mule, please, Anya.”

A pretty young woman behind the bar finished rubbing a cloth over a glass, said, “Of course, Gen,” and set about mixing one at a speed obtained only through experience. As Anya sent the drink sliding towards him, she brushed a stray hair from her face. “Tell me your adventures this time. Anything exciting?”

He nodded, grinning slightly. “Very. We were ambushed by corsairs from Bourun.” Grabbing his drink, he took a quick gulp and set it down, looking somewhat contented.

Her cheeks flushed in the usual excitement from hearing his stories, she leaned across the bar, taking one of his hands into hers. “Tell me more.”

[hr]
Gennady’s tales frightened Anya, enchanted her, and excited her all at once. She could see in his eyes the battering waves of the sea as he talked. As he explained the chilling sound of the corsairs’ battle cries, she envisioned them in desperate combat with the Stratarians, their foreign words harshly crackling through the air. Long after the bar had emptied, the two would remain, one speaking, the other enraptured. Eventually, though, he would sigh and stand.

“I need to leave now, I fear. The tide waits for no man.”

Anya hugged him tightly. “Have you ever considered a life beyond the navy?”

He shook his head sadly. “Anya, you’re the finest girl I met. Surely you can find a greater man to call your own.”

“I don’t want a greater man, Gen. I want you.”

“My heart belongs to the sea. And no other, from Setzna to Vekaiyu, has yet made a stronger claim.” Gently releasing her, he smiled. “Get some rest, Anya.”

She nodded glumly, and the two parted ways. Gennady to the sea, Anya remaining on land.

[hr]
The next time they met was little more than six months later. Gennady had recently been honored for saving a Vekaiyuan merchant fleet from roving pirates, and was much more impeccable compared to his previous appearance. He wore no beard, his hair was cut short and combed, his clothing was the finest naval garb available. When Anya beheld him, she thought she looked on an angel.

“One Mirovgrad Mule, please, Anya.” He caught it as she slid it to him almost immediately. “That was fast,” he nodded appreciatively.

“Dominika saw you coming this way, so I prepared it a little early.” She searched for a way to change the subject. “So, tell me more about these pirates.”

“They were hardly threatening,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Other than one. He was a large brute of a man. I tried to shoot him as he approached me, but my pistol’s mechanism failed…”

[hr]
Though he visited the bar as often as he could, it was never quite enough for Anya. She understood that his heart belonged to the great blue oceans and tides, but couldn’t stop thinking about him. Despite the many men who had asked for her hand, she always refused, her thoughts always on Gennady. But he was simply unattainable.

Until one day, as he walked into the bar, his steps were heavy and his eyes were downcast. He sat at his usual stool, not even ordering anything. Anya rushed over to him. “Gen…”

He raised his hand to silence her. “I’m unharmed. My first mate drowned on this voyage.”

“Oh, Gen,” Anya said comfortingly, unsure of what else to say. “I’m… I’m…”

“It’s alright, Anya. There’s nothing you could do. But,” he sighed, “the sea has turned on me, it seems. I feel as though I have no place with it anymore.”

She leaned over instinctively and kissed him. “You have one here, with me.”

Gennady looked deeply into her eyes, and a little bit of the dullness left his own. “I suppose I do.”

[hr]
Nine months later, Marlin Dementi was born.

[Strat]

Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, 0212 hours, 10.6.17

Yekaterina Drugova sighed as she sent the official message to the Setznan secretary of state. Shaking her head in annoyance, she pushed her chair away from her desk and stood, starting to pace around the room as her father had done in his office.

It didn’t make sense that Setzna was sheltering the boy. It would be stupid, after all. Stratarin and Setzna enjoy - or rather, enjoyed a strong alliance until very recently. Why would the republic jeopardize that for some boy?

Feeling herself almost wear a hole in the poor rug she was trodding over, she sat back down in a huff. Of course, she wasn’t sure whether or not he was really, truly guilty. This whole thing felt… wrong, somehow. The militarization of the border under a general, and not the minister of defense; the fact that General Dementyev never even attempted to defend his son after his initial statement to the press; Starikov’s seeming desire to exacerbate growing tensions between Setzna and Stratarin…

…which I certainly didn’t just improve, Yekat thought grimly, then sighed again. She sat there, motionless, listening to fat drops of rain beginning to patter on a nearby window. Thunder crackled in the distance, and brief flashes of lightning illuminated the ominously darkened sky.

[Strat]

Former Retail District, Dhariadh, Bourun, 11.7.1953

Matvei Ilyasov, a thrice-decorated captain and sniper of the Nationalist Republic of Stratarin, grimaced as the harsh winter air hit his hand as he unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth around it, revealing the wound on his hand. Ripping a strip of material from his uniform and re-wrapping his appendage, he grunted in slight pain, then looked around for the umpteenth time.

He was barely concealed by a small section of a wall that had long since been blown to shreds. The massive city of Dhariadh, once a thriving Bouruni center of commerce, had been bombed to smithereens by the mighty Strataric air force. After the bombardment and bombing, the land attack on the city began. The Bouruni and Strataric forces had been locked in combat for days, and the unburied bodies had begun to pile up in the streets. Good men, wicked men, husbands, sons… they were now all the same: equal in death.

Only, there was a persistent… problem, among Strataric officers. There had been reports of officers being picked off, here and there, when not actually on the field of battle. At first, these concerns were discarded, and soldiers were promoted to replace them. After the 10th “incident” in a week- who had been an up-and-coming, promising young podpolkovnik - someone took notice. Reliable intel started coming in, detailing that it had been the work of a single Bouruni sniper, who had been nicknamed “Nemezida.” And while the officers were relatively expendable, the faltering resolve of the Strataric army was not. And this silent assassin had jauntily been chipping slowly away at it.

Thus, with high hopes and the cheering of his people, Mavei was dispatched from Coyden, to eliminate this threat and to bolster the hope of his men. His assignment had seemed simple. It was just one Bouruni sniper, after all. What could possibly be so difficult?

Snapping back to the present, Matvei mentally chuckled at his past self’s innocence. This Nemezida was good, very good. Perhaps on par with Matvei himself.

After all, out of the two of them, Matvei was the one with the wound from their encounters.

So far, they’d dueled primarily in and from buildings, each time narrowly escaping death. While the battle for Dhariadh raged below them, they’d employed numerous tricks to try and get the other to poke his head out, just once.

Once was all either needed.

Having finished his work on the makeshift bandage, Matvei wearily reloaded his rifle. Taking his helmet off, he carefully and slowly stuck the top of it out behind the wall. Just the top.

The sound of a gunshot, followed by a slight ping as the bullet hit the helmet, sounded in the air. Matvei quickly yanked the helmet back into cover, examining the newfound hole in it.

Nemezida was here, and he was at a disadvantage. There was nothing for it, but to retreat.

For now.

[hr]
“You still haven’t capped the sand n*****?” Colonel Ryurikov asked, clearly irritated. “You have ONE CHERTOVSKIY JOB, CAPTAIN!” Eyeing his subordinate in disgust, he repeated, “ONE JOB!”

Scowling internally at the Colonel’s strong language, Matvei replied, “Sir, Nemezida’s survival is not the result of my failed efforts, but his successful ones.”

“You got outshot by one of these damned Bouruni blyads, Captain. Coyden is not at all pleased; not at all. Especially as they anticipated your victory, and sent an officer to take control of the front.”

Matvei felt worry icily grip his heart but said nothing. Thus, Ryurikov continued.

“That officer apparently has decided that this is where we will overpower the sand n******, and has made it his mission to assume command here, personally. Should he die at the hands of Nemezida… let’s just say the Republic won’t take kindly to the one chertovskiy man who COULD HAVE SAVED HiM! And WHAT have you to show for this hunt so far?” He gestured to Matvei’s hand, wrapped in a new, cleaner bandage. “You got SHOT by him! The best sniper in Coyden, my ass!”

After this tirade continued, Matvei was dismissed. Taking a brief rest, he awoke and continued the hunt.

[hr]
Lying completely still on the cold, stony ground, Matvei couldn’t help but feel like a failure. Despite his otherwise satisfactory tally of three Bouruni officers and several more soldiers today, Nemezida still eluded him.

At least, he may be able to add one more officer to his score. Looking through his scope, he could clearly see the fresh face of one of the several Bouruni soldiers guarding an officer. According to Strataric intelligence, this man was scheduled to meet with another of the same rank in several minutes. It was a small opportunity, but one a sniper couldn’t possibly resist.

Looking through the scope, Matvei noticed the ring on the officer’s finger. He appeared to have shaved in the morning. His posture was very militaristic: back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind him. The Stratarian reflected from his vantage point that you could learn a lot about a man just by looking at him through a scope.

Which would make ending his life all the more tragic.

A frequent thought of Matvei’s returned to him, something that came to mind often in such moments: this is war. As a sniper, he was not afforded the luxury of being able to care about the enemy. Thus, he pushed thoughts of the officer being anything but an adversary out of his head.

A Bouruni transport rolled up and came to a screeching halt. After a moment, the scheduled officer arrived. Right on time. Approaching his colleague, they exchanged greetings in their paynim language as Matvei set up his shots.

Two successive bang!s filled the air as he fired, the two officers dropping immediately. As the guards swerved their heads to look for the shooter, he had already picked off two of them and had the third perfectly targeted.

As his finger began to pull against the trigger, something in the large building across the street to his right caught his eye. Careful not to turn his head, his eyes flicked towards that direction.

There was a gleam of something peeking from a window. Something metal.

Like a rifle barrel.

Chert. As Matvei scrambled up and back, a bullet whizzed through the empty air where his head had been. Barely even thinking, he snapped up his rifle at shot into the window, then shot again.

But Nemezida, it seemed, had relocated. As he heard shouting from the sole remaining guard and saw several soldiers jump from the transport, Matvei began acutely aware that his position had been compromised.

Cursing, he fled into the ruins as the sun set further and the shadows lengthened.

[hr]
Ryurikov wasn’t pleased. But he wasn’t ever pleased, so Matvei mostly drowned out the colonel’s hot-headed speech with his own thoughts. The only part of Ryurikov’s tirade that Matvei paid much attention to was that this new officer’s arrival was scheduled to be in two days. That left a small amount of time to kill Nemezida; if not, the Strataric army faced the risk of potential collapse of this front.

As he lay down in his cot for a brief rest, he reflected that the ruined city of Dhariadh, with all its rubble and destroyed factories and demolished buildings, had become more than a battleground. It was a symbol. All eyes cast their gaze towards the conflict to it: the city that countless soldiers had died to claim. Almost all people from the two nations, and perhaps even the world, were watching the little dot on the map marked “Dhariadh.”

And Matvei could not disappoint his Republic.

[hr]
Despite his best efforts to locate Nemezida, the next two days passed with absolutely no sighting him. Ryurikov was furious, of course, but had started acting much more reserved since the arrival of Major General Abram Starikov, a brilliant but ruthless strategist. Everyone the Major General met felt instantly assured that he would win this war for Stratarin, yet behind his back shuddered at what it would cost to do so. Regardless, he dealt with his men fairly, and they acted with nothing but respect for him.

Things changed immediately with his presence. Everything seemed more mechanically efficient, and fewer men complained about the conditions or the cold. This new attitude just cemented the belief of Starikov’s subordinates that victory was nigh. However, Matvei couldn’t quite agree.

With Nemezida still on the loose, Starikov’s survival was far from certain. Following Starikov’s potential death, the Stratarians might become too demoralized to fight effectively. This would effectively end the war effort after so many had died for the cause. It would show that the Republic bowed to the whims of primitives. Matvei simply could not allow this to happen, while he drew breath.

[hr]
Several days and four dead Strataric officers later, Starikov had arranged to travel by convoy to meet with a commanding officer on the other side of the city. Much to Matvei’s irritation, Starikov eschewed traveling in a tank or anything of the sort, instead of making the perilous journey in a simple infantry mobility vehicle.

“Sir, with all due respect,” Matvei expressed, mildly annoyed, “the Bourunese ublyduki will learn of this. I don’t know how, but Nemezida always just… knows.”

He was in Starikov’s office. Starikov himself was standing, while Ryurikov was skulking off to the side of the room.

“Your concerns are noted, Captain,” the Major General replied coolly. “However, I am quite confident that I shall survive the day, and that Nemezida will be caught or killed.”

“And how do you know this, sir?” Ignoring Ryurikov’s angered look at such a blatant question, Matvei cleared his throat.

Starikov smiled. “Because, Captain, you’re going to protect me.”

[hr]
For every five or so buildings on Starikov’s route, one Strataric sniper had been stationed. Their numbers had slowly dwindled over the weeks that Stratarin had moved into Dhariadh. Those that remained were the edge of the knife; either the most skillful or the luckiest.

Matvei himself was stationed at a wide-open intersection, which would offer an enemy sniper the best vantage point and be the most exposed. As he continued to scan the area, his radio buzzed with chatter yet again. The sniper stationed before him had not spotted any hostile activity it seems. Several seconds later, the convoy began to pass his building.

Forbidding himself from letting his own nervousness claim his accuracy and ability, he began to scan the windows of the intersection for the umpteenth time. In the second story window of the building opposite him, Matvei noticed a familiar gleam on a second-story window. Narrowing his eyes, he could plainly see the scope of a rifle emerge, coming to bear on Starikov’s vehicle. Hardly waiting to aim, Matvei fired twice.

The visible scope jerked wildly and fell back from the window. Matvei allowed himself a self-satisfied grin, then quickly yet cautiously made his way across the street to confirm his kill.

The building he entered was mostly intact and relatively dark, with various discarded decorations and cracked furniture lying about at odd angles. It seemed strangely eerie to Matvei as he slowly, carefully ascended the stairs step by furtive step, making nary a sound. As he reached the second floor, Matvei heard a grunt of pain. Snapping up his rifle, he carefully trod into an adjoining room.

There was a body lying on the ground, with blood visibly spattered on its pant leg where it had been shot, lifting a hand to clutch its rifle. Matvei shot the rifle once, and the hand jerked backward. Reloading quickly, Matvei examined the prone form.

So, this was Nemezida. Nemezida wore a head covering and light, yet slightly billowy, clothing. He appeared to be incredibly lean as well. Matvei looked down at his enemy.

“Adversaries such as us should see each other face to face, before one kills the other,” Matvei stated, neither knowing nor caring whether Nemezida understood. Kneeling, he ripped off the sniper’s head covering…

…and was greeted by a smooth, hairless face, with carefully bound hair to give the appearance of it being cut short. While at first glance, Matvei could’ve sworn it was a man, careful inspection revealed quite the opposite.

He felt instantly uncomfortable. In all his time in the military, he never had gotten used to killing female enemy combatants. Nor, he suspected, would he ever. However, something in his heart hardened as he remembered the officers that this… woman… had killed in her nation’s name. Sighing, he stood and aimed his rifle towards her head.

And yet… something made him hesitate. She clearly didn’t fear death, for whatever reason. She only looked up at him, wordlessly, prepared to meet her fate.

Matvei began to wonder how she had come to the position she had, in such a nation as Bourun. She clearly had pretended to be as male as her military counterparts were; yet, he wondered how difficult it must have been. The struggle she had faced to boldly fight for her people.

Something stirred inside of him, as he remembered the Bouruni officers he had slain. She must bear the exact hatred towards him as he did to her.

But that was war.

And so was this.

Resolve momentarily strengthening, he aligned the rifle with her head.

[hr]
“…and here are his dog tags,” Matvei finished numbly as he handed Nemezida’s identification to Ryurikov. Starikov was also in the room, gazing out a nearby window.

“Quite impressive, quite impressive. You’ll be commended, of course.” Ryurikov commented. “The battle for the city has taken a major morale turn today, with your actions.”

“The body,” Starikov chimed in. “What happened to Nemezida’s body?”

“It’s currently lying discarded in a pit somewhere, with countless others,” Matvei replied. "The streets are almost packed with them, at some points.

Starikov seemed to consider this for several seconds. “In return for your act of heroism, Captain, do you have any requests?”

“Well, sir,” Matvei cleared his throat, “there was a favor I wanted to ask of you.”

Starikov turned fully to look the Captain in the eye, nodding to continue.

“I found a living Bouruni civilian among the city. A woman. I returned with her and she was promptly placed into custody. I want her released to my personal care.”

Starikov raised his eyebrow. “Easily done, Captain. Would that be all?”

Matvei shook his head. “With your permission, I would like to return to Coyden, with her.”

“Of course, Captain. I shall see that your actions do not go unnoticed.” Starikov saluted, and Matvei did the same.

“Thank you, sir.” Feeling relieved, Captain Matvei Ilyasov strode from the room.

[Strat]

(In honor of Xoriet)

Velikolepnyy Building, Coyden, Stratarin, 1415 hours, 11.12.17

A precise rap on the door to Premier Starikov’s office stirred him from the company of his thoughts. Quickly scanning schedule, his eyes gaze fell upon the name neatly scrawled beside the time 1415: Kharzin, Erik; Propaganda Ministry.

“Come!” the Premier called, coolly as ever.

Minister Kharzin opened the door barely enough to walk in, then closed it quickly behind him. He was a tall-ish individual with dark - almost black - brown fur, and even leaner than the average vulpine. Under one arm was a cluttered collection of various papers and folders, its disarray in stark contrast with his neat suit and nigh shining StratCom pin. “Good evening, General Secretary,” Kharzin said by way of greeting, his voice almost unnaturally deep.

“Comrade Kharzin,” Starikov replied. "Please, have a seat.

Kharzin obliged, and continued. “I scheduled this appointment for a potential rebranding from the Strataric icon of the tiger.” Seeing Starikov’s eyebrow rise in curiosity, the propagandist continued. “I assume you know a tiger’s hunting habits: they are one of the world’s deadliest solitary hunters. It was fittingly a symbol dating back to the imperial era, when the Strataric empire was busy dominating various primitive Gondwanan tribes. A lone predator among sheep.”

“Continue,” the Premier said simply.

“Stratarin is two governmental systems removed from the empire. While the tiger was still fitting for the jingoistic Nationalist Republic of Stratarin, it has no place in the current political landscape.” Kharzin inhaled slightly, fully realizing his next words may be his last. “With all due respect, General Secretary, under your stewardship we have acted almost akin to the republic.”

Silence.

After another moment of complete quiet, Kharzin continued. “We have only just begun reaching out to various states to procure alliances and stabilize our position, after having done away with most of them. Most notably Setzna, making us more vulnerable than ever before. While we are still the most powerful communist state on Urth, and still can be set amongst sheep, even the mightiest solitary tiger would fall to a pack of lionesses. Several such packs; including the Fire Pact, Auroran Union, and the Gordic Council; exist and thrive today while the lone hunter weakens and falters.”

“What are you proposing, Kharzin?” the words were spoken almost icily, yet completely calmly.

“General Secretary, we must select a new animal. One that embraces alliances and packs, as opposed to single-mindedly eschewing them. Furthermore, a pack could very well represent the Proletariat much more effectively. For, as I said, a single tiger would fall to a pack of lionesses, which is the essence of class warfare. Thus, we must adapt the age-old symbol.”

“What do you propose, Comrade Kharzin?” Starikov asked. His voice had lost some of its iciness, and taken a new tone: interest.

“General Secretary Starikov, I recommend that our state adopt the ocelot as its symbol.”

[Strat]

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?’

Holding her infant son in her arms, Klara Dreykova stood over her husband’s grave.

LUKA DREYKOV
A LOVING HUSBAND AND A TRUE PATRIOT
MAY HE HAVE FOUND THE PEACE THAT DESERTED HIM IN LIFE

A tear rolled down her cheek as she knelt in front of it, running her hand along the cold, unforgiving stone. She remembered doing the same to his cheek, when he was alive. Only his cheek wasn’t cold, but warm. Warm and living and healthy.

“Forgive me, moya lyubov’,” she whispered. Only the murmuring wind served as her reply.

One of her tears dripped on the frost covered ground, melting the thin layer of ice where it landed. In the distance, as if to accompany her thoughts, a bird sang a melancholy requiem. Her son sniffled slightly.

“Shhh, shhh,” Klara cooed. “Hush, little Viktor. Hush. It’s alright, I’m here.” She drew him close, holding him not too tightly, but certainly not loosely. “I’m so sorry that I cost you your father. I’m so…” fresh tears began running down her cheeks, faster than before.

‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne.’

Iosef Demenok surveyed the damage that this operation had caused. While his STP officers had prevailed over these wannabe Sem’ya gangsters that had been left behind by their mob, it had been regrettably costly.

He paced about the site, avoiding stepping on any blood-stains with his smartly polished boots. An officer who was searching a body stood and saluted. “Sir!”

“Walk with me, lieutenant.”

The lieutenant nodded, and fell in beside him. “A lot of this could’ve been avoided, sir, to be quite frank,” he admitted. “Our commanding officer was no smarter than one of these thugs,” he hesitated. “No offense meant to your best and brightest, of course.”

Demenok waved it off. “None taken, lieutenant,” he replied with an unoffended veneer. “What would you have done differently?”

“Well, sir, hindsight is 20/20, but a frontal assault on such a well-armed group of riffraff seemed to be a bad idea. A better approach would have been to try and outsmart them, rather than outgun them.”

“Which you would have done how?”

“Err…” the officer looked a tad uncomfortable, “I’m not certain, sir. I only follow orders, it’s not my job to make them.”

Demenok raised an eyebrow. “Then who are you to second-guess the commanding officer’s strategy?”

“It just doesn’t seem like something my old CO would have done. And I had the utmost respect for him”

“Who was he?”

“Major Dragomirov, sir.”

A deafening silence followed. Demenok broke it, speaking coldly. “Lenya.”

“Yes, si…”

A gunshot sounded, and the lieutenant collapsed to the ground, dead.

“How I despise that name,” Demenok muttered.

‘For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne.’

Mikhail Starikov’s voice snapped Pyotr Dementyev out of his contemplations. “Is something the matter, Minister?”

“Oh, er, no sir,” Pyotr replied. “It’s just… well, it’s New Year’s.”

“Yes?”

“I always liked… well, seeing my boy on New Year’s. Or at least sending him a text.” Pyotr cursed himself for the nervousness that Starikov seemed to breed within him. “And this year, he’s in the hands of those filthy Setznans.”

“Fear not, Minister. He shall be retrieved, someday. And then I shall give you the honor of killing him personally.”

“…sir?”

“Your previous test of loyalty was only approving the boy’s execution. However, I have come to realize that simply saying the words means very little if you find yourself unwilling to take action.” Starikov’s icy blue eyes met Dementyev’s. “Once we catch Melor, will that pose a problem for you, Minister?”

“…no sir.”

“Good.” Starikov smiled, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “Do not fear the future, Minister. I have a grand design in store for you, and all of Stratarin.”

‘We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.’

Anatoly Baryshnikov sighed heavily, refilling his glass of senikhost. Last year, this time had been filled with camaraderie between Drugov, Lukin, and himself. And if the Harbinger was to be believed, he was the only one really left.

Rubbing his eyes, he felt a slight burn behind them. I’ve been drinking too much, he thought. After a moment staring at his half-filled glass, he shrugged. Worth it. As he was about to take a sip, his door was flung open.

“Stop it,” a voice demanded from the doorway

Blinking several times, he looked up at the newcomer. After a second or two longer than it should have taken, he recognized Minister Yekaterina Drugova. “Yeekat,” he greeted, the word escaping his mouth somewhat elongated.

He felt his glass yanked from his hand. “Heyy!”

“On your feet. Let’s go.”

'Whhere?" he asked, mind somewhat muddled.

“Anywhere without senikhost. We are going out and you are going to be sobered up.”

He muttered something nigh incomprehensible. Ten seconds later, Anatoly felt his face splashed with cold water. This was followed by being almost hauled to his feet.

“Now,” Yekat commanded, “let’s go. I technically outrank you now, anyway.”

Dripping a little, Anatoly complied. Before he left his small office, he turned back and glanced around. His bookshelf was filled with suggestions from Lukin. His taste for senikhost had largely been cultivated by Drugov. They had both been a part of him.

And now, they were beyond his reach.

“Farewell, old friends,” he said softly, before following Yekat.

I composed this post as a bit of an “in memoriam” for the various characters I’ve outright killed, ruined the lives of, or ditched in a foreign nation; all from the perspective of those left behind. All interspersed with Auld Lang Syne. Happy New Year, TEP!
-Strat

[Strat]

(OOC: Inspired roughly by a dream. Besides, I needed a break from my current RP project, so I wrote this)

Milan Mranikov wiped the sweat from his brow, reaching behind him slightly to retrieve another waterskin. Taking a short break from the arduous paddling, he enjoyed the cool wetness on his lips and could feel it coursing through him, strengthening him slightly. Capping it and throwing it back among the food and other waterskins, some of which were emptied, he adjusted his rakish tricorne and grabbed the oar again. Luckily for Mranikov, the wind and tides were in his favor; the waves were hardly so much as slightly choppy. He prayed silently to Troitsa that they would remain so for his return journey.

By his reckoning, he was almost there anyway. Certainly, the journey took several hours of hard rowing, but it was certainly worth it. That is, if the drunk sailor that everyone had been laughing at was to be believed. And if he wasn’t, what was lost? A mere several hours, nothing more.

Of course, there was also some superstition surrounding the Cavern of Bortchayaniye. While Mranikov was a good Catholic, or at least he thought so, he still marveled at the amount of pagan superstition that pervaded the Church in Stratarin. They were even afraid of a small islet, for goodness’ sake. It was almost as though they’d reverted, in many ways, to the Bolvans of old. It was ridiculous.

But regardless of the older religious fuddy-duddies and the variously-aged naysayers, Mranikov was determined to at least have a look.

[hr]
As was well known, the cavern was oddly shaped: almost like a great big cove with a hole cut into the top, allowing sunlight or rain to flood down into it. Many even referred to that forbidden place as an island instead, given its size. Though Mranikov preferred “cavern,” personally, as it made Bortchayaniye seem that much more mysterious. Regardless of its designation or size, it seemed plenty big to him.

The outside walls of the massive cavern seemed dark and foreboding, offering little comfort that it wasn’t a place of darkness. He could almost swear he felt a sort of uneasy fear welling up inside him. After all, he reflected, the very name Bortchayaniye was an amalgamation of the words for pain, death, and despair. As he rowed ever closer to the small opening in the otherwise impregnable cliff face, Mrankiov couldn’t help but not quell a shudder.

What would greet him? he wondered. Perhaps it was haunted? No, that’s stupid. Though it could be the home of brigands or thieves, or even some sort of dark cult. Or perhaps it serves as the home for various dangerous or poisonous animals. He drifted closer and closer to the entrance, closing his eyes as he slid through it and refusing to open them until he heard a light chirping sound. Opening his eyes in surprise, he looked around, then up.

What he saw amazed him.
The sun’s rays streamed down to the walls and the water, illuminating it in a golden light. Verdant moss covered the various sides of the cavern, giving the otherwise somewhat dull coat a vibrant decoration. The various nooks and crannies were filled with nests and dwellings of birds.

The birds. That was the most amazing part. Scattered among the rocky surface, there seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of birds: flamboyantly adorned or humbly garbed, almost adorably small or frighteningly large, gratingly squawking or beautifully singing. Many had taken flight, silhouettes against the sunlight pouring down upon them.

As he looked down at the water, Mranikov gave a small gasp of surprise as to how clear it appeared, to the point that it looked magically imbued. The many small, colorful fish swimming about in their quick, jerky fashion completely ignored the intruder as they hurried under the boat, clearly all their thoughts absorbed in whatever was their destination.

While he cast his gaze around the cavern, noting more beautiful and wonderful details as he did, Mranikov couldn’t help but chuckle. Pain, death, and despair indeed! If there was a paradise on this Urth, he’d stumbled across it.

[Strat]

“No! G-get away from her!” Waylan Kuznetsov felt utter despair as his wife was pulled away in front of his very eyes by two intimidating Coyden police officers. He struggled in vain against the strong arms of a third, holding him back. “Alena!” Her attempts to call back were soon silenced as a gag was slipped over her mouth. Crying out one last time, she was quickly dragged out the door.

After one last burst of strength, Waylan slumped back against his captor. Defeated and despairing. In a muted voice, frequently interrupted as his body was wracked with sobs, he managed to mutter, “Why?” After receiving no answer, he looked up and met the officer’s unfeeling eyes. “Why?” he choked, acutely aware of the tears rolling over his cheeks and mucus dripping from his nose.

A voice, far deeper and more menacing than he could have imagined, replied from the doorway. “Because you failed your duty to your great country–”

Waylan jerked his head towards the voice, instantly recoiling in shock as he recognized none other than…

“–and to me,” Mikhail Starikov completed his sentence, stepping into the light, eyes seemingly red with a sort of demonic evil. Waylan tried to look away, but found that he couldn’t. The entire room seemed to distort around the Premier. Pictures had not done the Strataric leader justice.

“She will of course be interrogated for any information involving your apparent disloyalty,” Starikov continued, moving closer and towering higher and higher over the grieving man. “After which, she will be tortured. And finally, after hours, days, or even months, if she has managed to live through it all,” Starikov knelt down and whispered in Waylan’s ear, “she’ll be executed.”

Waylan screamed.

[Communal Apartment Complex 763, Room 1, Coyden, Stratarin, 22.6.18]

“Beloved?” A familiar, soothing voice drifted over Waylan Kuznetsov like a calm breeze. He found himself bolt upright, shirtless, in a bed and room that he didn’t recognize… wait. This is my room. He cautiously breathed out, blinking away the illusion of sleep. He realized he was in a cold, chilling sweat, and exhaled deeply again.

Several seconds passed. “Darling?” the voice asked again. Waylan felt a hand grip his arm. He jerked away and turned, only to see his wife Alena staring at him with a deeply concerned expression. “What happened?” She turned on the bedside lamp, clearly illuminating her lovely features.

Waylan embraced her, grasping her tightly, tenderly, and lovingly. “Nothing,” he replied, blinking back tears. “Nothing at all.” They held each other for minutes immeasurable before he finally pulled away. “I’m sorry to have woken you. Go back to sleep.” Waylan rolled back over, eyes drifting across the government orders left on his night stand. Not wishing to be confronted with the spectres of his slumber again, he sat up and began to reread the paper.

Mr. Waylan Kuznetsov

Greetings.

You have already been apprised of your duties, I am sure. Still, a document such as this should serve as a strong reminder.
You have been installed as a tenant of Communal Apartment Complex 763. Your jobs, as such, include the following:
[ul]
[li]Be on a constant state of alertness as to the current location and activities of the other tenants. Surveillance devices have been provided to aid you in this task.
[li]If you find evidence of misdemeanors, report them to the government at your earliest convenience. A phone has been provided with a direct link to my office. Only call if you are absolutely certain of wrongdoing. The government of Stratarin does not appreciate having its time wasted, almost as much as you won’t appreciate wasting it.
[li]Gain the trust of your fellow tenants. They must believe you are their friend. Be especially careful to maintain that trust.
[/li][/ul]Finally, if you are found to be negligent in your duties, you and your family will be punished fittingly. Make no mistake, we will learn of any negligence. There is no question.

-Public Procurator Fenya Ilyetsa

Waylan sighed, folding the note back carefully and slipping the sheets over him once more, wishing that such a perilous duty hadn’t befallen him, of all people.