Chaos on the Western Front

The place for conducting intraregional relations or just hanging out with other national leaders. [In-Character]
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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Zamastan » Sat Aug 31, 2019 6:02 am

Take Out The Turrets
July 30th, 1991 - 4:02 PM
Off the Coast of Southern Bjeorg


The ZMS Upham roared with the exhaust of jet fumes as bombers soared off her deck and into the darkened sky. Huge cumulonimbus storm clouds blocked the sun, and rain was beginning to fall. Water vapor flew into the air in visible spiral velocities as each bomber raced off the platform and above the waves, circling the gathered fleet and gaining altitude to create a formation. Admiral Tavoka's voice chirped over the speakers on the Upham, signaling a wave of landing craft to start speeding towards the shore. The invasion was about to begin.

As the rain streaked the cockpit glass in the rapidly moving jet, Captain Jimmy Bonello brought his headset over his ears and spoke to his fellow pilots.

"Alright, boys," he squawked through the intercom, "cloud cover is heavier than we expected, but that's okay. We're just going to have to fly a bit lower than usual. Set bearing for 316 meters."

"Copy, Captain."

The bombers streaked through the clouds and began descending as their radar screens flashed the marked locations of Bjeorg artillery positions. The vapor of the clouds cleared around Bonello's visor and the cliffs and beaches of Bjeorg loomed a few miles ahead. A small fishing village located at the opening of a gorge and wide plain next to the white-faced plateau, simply marked as "Point Alpha" by Zamastanian command, was the visible proxy for the bomber's targets. On the hill above the village, two turret entrenchments had been sighted by surveillance. They had sights of the shallow water next to the village. The first Zamastanian boats would land troops there. About three miles north was the second village, which was on a wider beach with fewer elevated areas. That would be the premier landing zone. However, the bombers had to take out the south entrenchments before clearing any bunkers on the north beach.

"Lock target, bingo." Bonello said, citing the turrets that would soon be on the receiving end of several missiles and bombs from the bombers. "Fire away."

The bombers shuddered as the missiles dropped from the wings and streaked their exhaust forward and down at an angle towards the separatist bunkers.

Aboard a Zamastanian landing craft...

Private Nicholas Henners held his rifle in one hand and his helmet down over his eyes with the other to keep the rain away. Surrounded and packed into the landing craft with 75 other soldiers, the roar of jets caught their attention. Looking up to the sky above them, the bombers seemed through the clouds, leaving lines in their wake. With a whifffff, the planes launched their missiles which soared fast ahead with light marking their trail. A flash on the cliff face and a massive eruption of rock and dirt, following by the deafening crack of the explosion signaled the impact of the missiles in the bunker. As rock collapsed down into the sea and smaller explosions dotted the cliff face, tracer fire and the ricking sounds of turrets firing illuminated through the falling rain. More riveting blasts quickly put an end to the returning fire.

Nicholas jerked his head to attention as his corporal shouted.

"Landing preparation!"

To Nicholas' left, his friend Perch was turning green.

"Approaching the shore! Sixty seconds!"

Nicholas looked at his rifle, sheltering the safety with his hand to see if it was off. It was.

"Thirty seconds!"

Time was flying past quickly. The craft shuddered as a booming thud rocked the metal and water spilled over the open sides. A mortar had exploded in the water outside the vessel. Nicholas was beginning to shake. A mix of the cold sea air and the adrenaline.

"Ten seconds!"

The craft accelerated, lurching forward and churning smoke out of its exhaust. A whizz of a bullet overhead caught Nicholas' ire. They're already shooting at us.., Nicholas thought to himself.

"Landing now!"

The landing gate dropped. The water splashed forward. The craft's turret gunner shouted and opened fire, sending shell casings bouncing onto the soldier's helmets.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Nicholas stumbled over someone's foot, but gained his heading and lifted his rifle, dropping his feet into the shallow water and wading onto shore in the heavy rain.
Last edited by Zamastan on Tue Sep 03, 2019 4:34 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Sat Aug 31, 2019 8:38 am

Jonestown, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - 7:22 AM

The NBI assassin quietly ascended the final flight of steps in the tall building across the road from Smith's bunker. She had been surveying the building all night was certain that now was the time to take position. They had finished dumping all sensitive data on the road and smashing it with every assortment of hammers. The Zamastanians could begin their attack at any moment. If Smith was ever going to leave this was the time.

She opened the door upon reaching the top of the steps and walked out onto the roof of the building. This was where she would set up as it was the ideal location. It was an easy shot from the rooftop to the front door of the closed fishing store that the bunker sat under. She could also easily see the direction back at least 400m in each direction from her vantage point.

The assassin walked to the side of the roof facing the street and opened a suitcase. The metal of a 50 caliber sniper rifle glinted in the sun. She attached a bipod to the bottom of the rifle and chambered a hollow point round. There would be no surviving a direct hit from a 50 caliber hollow point. The trigger safety was clicked off by highly professional hands. Even though a kill was imminent, the assassin hardly flinched at the thought of taking a life.

She did a test run with her finger off the trigger and went through the procedures of taking the shot. She would have to adjust for bullet drop, moving targets, and potential obstructions such as body guards. That last bit didn't trouble her much, multiple bodies were no match for the ammunition she was using.

A motorcade of 3 large black SUVs suddenly rolled into view. This could be Smith's ride the assassin thought to herself. She made a couple final adjustments to her scope before lifting the gun to her shoulder and looking into the eyepiece.

The windows had been blacked out but she could still make out large black figures and dark appendages, presumably soldiers and their weapons. The SUVs slowed down significantly as they approached the store/bunker. Finally, the SUVs came to a dead stop and doors began to open. Suit and tie clad men exited the vehicles menacingly. The assassin trained her weapon on the front door.

Suddenly, an unarmed man came running out of the building towards the passenger side of the first SUV. All the while he was screaming at the top of his lungs, "Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith it isn't safe for you to come here! You must leave."

The assassin was dumbfounded. Had she been thinking that Smith was in the bunker bellow the shop while he was actually elsewhere? Why was he coming to a potential war zone? It took only a split second for these questions to open uncertainties. Maybe he had sent a decoy that she accidentally followed instead. It was amazing what the human mind could come up with to justify itself when presented with contradictory evidence. She began remembering events differently. She was suddenly extremely confused. She had a thousand questions and only one answer. She would need to take the shot now.

The door to the SUV opened and a man wearing a suit exited with his head down. He approached the man with a look of utter confusion. Things simply didn't add up.

Mark was shocked to see a man screaming "Mr. Smith!" at him. Was this supposed to be a white flag of surrender? This was completely unexpected. Mark was a smart man though, it only took him a millisecond to piece together what was going on.

Mark dove to the ground and screamed "Sniper!" A loud Bang rang out through the morning air. Mark felt a white hot flash of pain in his chest for a second. He turned slowly on his side to see his men turn to the source of the shot and begin shooting. It was funny, he hadn't even made it to the ground yet. He was simply on his knees.

The world seemed to go into slow motion for Mark as the shots rang out. Odd? It seemed the pavement was swimming. The pain in his chest suddenly turned to a tingling as Mark felt his body limply begin to sag to the left. Mark, the mysterious anti-hero of the Bjeorg underground independence movement, was dead before he hit the ground. His body rolled over, ultimately resting spread-eagled on the warm pavement.

The assassin also realized her mistake all to soon after the deed was done. Both Smith and the man she had just shot wore suits and had salt and pepper hair. That was where the similarities ended. This man was taller and a bit thinner than Smith. This man also had a far more angular face.

The assassin cursed loudly for a moment before realizing that an immediate abort was necessary. She dumped the lighter fluid all over her spot and packed up her rifle quickly. As she ran for the back of the building's roof she ignited and subsequently threw a flare onto the lighter fluid pile. She would have to do the deed another day.

As bullets began to impact all over the building's front facade, a slim figure quietly descended the building's back fire escape. She would be out of the town in five minutes. five minutes was likely less time than it would take for the flies to start arriving at the dead corpse of Mark. His body would still be fresh on the pavement.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Xiomera » Mon Sep 02, 2019 11:14 am

With Love From Xiomera

Point Alpha, southern Bjeorg

The platoon of 40 Xiomeran mercenaries assigned to this particular location had a relatively simple task: providing support to the Bjeorg troops manning the defenses that they had built (with Xiomeran planning and supervision). Their role would be to provide fire support, and do their best to blunt the significant edge the anti-Bjeorg forces had in air power.

When the Zamastanian forces began their amphibious assault, the Xiomerans quickly organized and began guiding the counter-attack. Directing mortar and artillery fire onto the beach, as well as targeting armored units with XG-19 RPG launchers carrying high-explosive anti-tank (HEAT) warheads, and laying suppressive fire as well, the Xiomerans’ strategy wasn’t to prevent the assault. They knew that wasn’t a possibility. Their goal, however, was to make the assault as costly, slow, and as damaging to Zamastanian morale as possible. That was most definitely something the Xiomerans could accomplish, even if they were mainly relying on the (in their opinion) less than impressive Bjeorg locals to do the heavy lifting.

In the Xiomeran military world, there was naturally a love for big, expensive military machines. But Xiomerans, being a pragmatic and economic-minded people, had an even greater love for small, relatively cheap weapons systems that could blow up big, expensive military machines. The XG-19, the most advanced RPG currently available in the Xiomeran arsenal, was a perfect example of this. Why tangle with an APC or a main battle tank when you could blow the enemy’s very expensive and large thing up from a comfortable distance of 200 meters away?

There would be another Xiomeran weapons system that would become notorious, however. The XM-4 Yaquet, the portable Xiomeran short-range surface-to-air missile. Like its XG-19 counterpart in the Xiomeran arsenal, the XM-4 was the most advanced portable SAM that Xiomera had available. Utilizing a dual waveband infra-red guidance system and with a top speed of Mach 1.9, and a range of just over 3 miles, the XM-4 was a tremendous threat to low-flying aircraft.

The bombers launched by the ZMS Upham were about to find that out the hard way, as the XM-4 made its combat debut.

As the bombers made their approach, four Xiomeran mercenaries waited at various emplacements around Point Alpha. The big bombers were ideal targets for them. One by one, the mercenaries would hear the tone indicating a missile lock. And one by one, each of them would fire.

One of the missiles would miss its target, due to some skillful flying and use of flares by a Zamastanian pilot. Three of his comrades would not be so lucky.

As the three bombers that were hit pinwheeled to the ground in blossoms of fire, the Xiomeran mercenaries on the ground calmly put their launchers aside and made way for new mercenaries toting their own XM-4s.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Zamastan » Mon Sep 02, 2019 11:57 pm

Taking the Village

Point Alpha

Captain Jimmy Bonello's body jerked back in his seat violently as a missile slammed into the undercarriage of his bomber. The sudden velocity change and the now downward spiraling plane pressed him aggressively against the cockpit pane, jabbing buttons and joint levers into his rib cage. Grunting in agony, smoke swirling through the cockpit, he managed to find the ejection lever and pull it upwards. The glass canopy sprung away as the pressure of the air quickly changed into the dramatic winds outside, and the ejection seat shot directly into the sky, sending Bonello into the rain and above the ocean. Knocked out by the sudden pressure change, Bonello was left unconscious as his parachute deployed and sent him sailing through the sky and towards the waves below him. His plane plummeted into the hill overlooking the landing fleet, along with two other of his pilots who faced similar fates. They, however, were unable to eject from their craft.

From the shore, Private Nicholas Henners slammed himself into a divet in the sand, covering his hand over his helmet as mortars exploded around them. He watched as his fellow soldiers piled into the natural bunker, secured from the direct bullet fire.

"The rebels weren't supposed to have this much firepower!" His commander, a man named Austin R. Wilson, shouted at the squad that had just disembarked from the landing craft. "They took down three of our jets!"

"What?" the grunt, Ger, shouted in response. Another mortar exploded, sending sand and rocks flooding over the divet. "How are we going about this then?"

Commander Wilson looked over the divet quickly, crouching back down and checking his rifle.

"We have at least ten shooters on the back fence of the beach. There's a dock to our right. Private Henners, you grab three boys and move that way. Clear out the right flank and we'll move around the left."

"Sir?" Nicholas shouted, confused. "I haven't done anything command wise, this is my first-"

"It's most everyone's first battle, Private!" The commander shouted back. "Just get yourself there and we'll cover you. Ready, go!"

The commander, the grunt, and five other men placed themselves at the top of the divet, firing back at the Bjeorg rebels behind the sand-trenched fence. Nicholas, Perch, and two other soldiers stood and ran over the dune, diving for cover once they reached the washed up fishing dock. Nicholas took his rifle and aimed through the sight, taking fire at an enemy soldier who hadn't seen the small group run to the new position. Four or five squeezes of the trigger took the man down to the sand, face plastered across the ground. The enemy fighters started noticing their fallen comrade and shot towards the group. A grenade from the commander's position quickly eliminated the fence and obliterated the insurgents.

Nicholas, signalling to Perch, who was clearly n some sort of trance from the sudden thrust of unpredictable battle, began moving forward once the commander and the rest of the squad took position in the area they had just cleared. Another mortar landed on the pathway leading up from the beach towards some wooden houses painted red. We're fighting in someone's home, Nicholas thought to himself while walking forward, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, scanning with each step.

Seeing movement from one of the buildings, Nicholas quickly pivoted, but the enemy dropped to the ground as Commander Wilson's rifle pumped three shots into the man's gut. Even as the enemy combatant was crumpling to the ground, a soldier pulled a pin on a grenade and tossed it through the window of the house. Nicholas almost shouted in horror, but the blast and recurring smoke billowing from the house kept his mouth quiet in shock. The commander did nothing.

Several people in saggy clothes started pouring out of hidden places in the small village, many of them throwing themselves to the ground in surrender before the Zamastanian troops. Many were running towards the forested hill past the village, some with weapons in hand, and some of them firing back at the soldiers. Wilson pointed at the fleeing men, and Zamastanian soldiers flanking him opened fire, cutting them down in hordes. They didn't take time to identify which ones had weapons on their person.

As the gunfight in the town began to die down, Nicholas, Perch, and the roughly 250 soldiers in the small village rounded up civilians and captured enemy combatants. 4 Zamastanian soldiers had been killed in the battle. Commander Wilson, fuming from the unexpected resistance and red in the face, ordered his men to line every captured individual, insurgent or citizen alike, in a clearing next to the landing zone. Nicholas gestured with his hand towards an old woman and a young teenage girl who were crouched in the beach grass. Other soldiers gestured towards their captives with their rifles.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Tue Sep 03, 2019 5:08 am

July 30th, 1991 - 7:29 AM

A couple of ANM soldiers rushed across the street and into the alley. They were in hot pursuit of the assassin. The rest of the soldiers, under the assumption that Smith had just killed off their leader, turned on the man who had been screaming.

"Our orders were to kill Smith but I have no issue killing you." mused the strike team leader before nonchalantly shooting the man in the thigh.

The man screamed in pain before dropping to one knee. With tears of pain in his eye he began to plead.

"Listen, don't kill me. That wasn't us. That wasn't us I swear we have the evidence!"

The man was silenced as a shot rang out from within the bait and tackle shop. Smith's bodyguards had used the confusion to take up positions. It was now an old fashioned standoff. 30 ANM soldiers stood unprotected in the street. Apposing them were 15 Bjeorg bodyguards, each armed with smaller arms but had far more cover. If a shot were to be fired it was likely no one would escape unscathed.

"Ok," the team leader of ANM began while slowly setting down his rifle. It was clear he had figured out what was going on and didn't like his odds one bit. "No one walks away from this. You, er, somebody just blew our leader to hell. We were coming to kill yours. I need to make a call and sort this out with our next in line. I am going to make that call now. It would be in everyone's best interest if I don't get shot in the back."

The team leader slowly turned and walked back to his SUV. He carefully avoided the bullet casings all over the ground. If he slipped on one it would probably look like he was diving for a gun and the shooting would start.

The Bjeorg bodyguards watched intently as the team leader closed the car door behind him. They could see his silhouette lifting a massive cell phone and punching in numbers. They could also clearly the 30 guns trained directly on their position. It was 2-1 ANM soldier per Bjeorg soldier and as far as pretty much every Bjeorg soldier was concerned, those were bad odds. They were pretty much just standing behind the storefront windows. Glass was just about the worst cover you could imagine.

Slowly the minutes ticked by in silence. Sweat poured down the brows of everyone involved. They had to keep alert at all times if they wanted to survive. However, if they became too tense someone might get a wise idea and ruin everything. For the time being they had to wait.

After what seemed like an eternity the team leader returned from his SUV. He looked pale and was nearly shaking when he began to speak.

"Until we catch this sniper we are to return to our base operations. We shall cease all hostilities at once. In return, your leader, Mr. Smith, must contact our new leader, "Simon," by the line he contacted "Mark. Do you agree to these terms?"

Nearly as quickly as he had posed the question, the team leader was met with a response of "yes" from behind a wall of laminated glass.

In silence the ANM soldiers slowly retreated to their vehicles. Two soldiers grabbed Mark's corpse and carefully tossed it into the trunk of one of their SUVs. The vehicles quickly departed after that deed was done.

"At ease!"

The words sounded like a chorus of angles to the Bjeorg soldiers as they eagerly dropped their weapons. Two from the group set out in the general direction of the sniper, knowing it was a futile search. The rest silently congregated around a massive pool of blood. Smith's plan had worked. Mark was finally dead.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Zamastan » Tue Sep 03, 2019 10:06 pm

Massacre of Old Saybrook

Point Alpha
The Village of Old Saybrook

"What is this town called?" Commander Wilson shouted at one of the captive insurgents. The insurgent he was referring to, kneeling in the grass, looked up at the commander and scowled his mouth, remaining silent and dotting his eyes back and forth the the other captives on the clearing. Commander Wilson patted his hand to his thigh, and one of the soldiers flanking him stepped forward, grabbing the insurgent by the collar and pushing him to the ground. A second soldier smashed the butt of his rifle to the insurgents neck, knocking him face first with a crack to the dirt.

"Is this town Old Saybrook?" The commander yelled aggressively, voice cracking with anger now. Private Nicholas Henners stood behind the ring of soldiers, he and Perch keeping watch. He knew the commander knew that the village known as Point Alpha was Old Saybrook, and every soldier knew that too. He was curious as to why the commander was so assertive in confirming the name of the village, and likewise was stunned by the sudden show of force against a prisoner of war, especially amidst so many civilians who were camped on the ground with them.

At the moment the insurgent was knocked to the ground, a woman started crying. Through tears, she managed to stutter in her Bjeorgite accent.

"This is Old Saybrook."

Wilson sighed, the breath of anger seeping into the damp afternoon air. "Thank you," he said to the woman, "but I wasn't asking you." Wilson upholstered his side arm and pressed it to the insurgent's head. Nicholas jumped when the shattering crack of the pistol rang through the beach, causing shock and panic and screams to exude from the gathered crowd. The Zamastanian soldiers, many of them visibly shocked, remained still and at attention. Their commander had just killed an unarmed prisoner over a question he already knew the answer to. But, they remained silent. At least it was one of the bad guys.

Commander Wilson wiped specks of blood from his brow with his glove, cocked his side arm, and walked over to another insurgent, pointing the weapon at his head.

"Next question, and use that last one as an example," Wilson said, gesturing towards the dead body on the ground. "Where is your commander?"

"He ran off when you started landing. He left us to defend the beach front." The insurgent was shaking. He was a younger middle aged man, no younger than 30 but no older than 35. "Please, sir, we're conscripted. This is my village, we were just defending our families from the Maximusians. Most of us didn't even know the Zamastanians were helping the mainland. Otherwise, we wouldn't have been here-"

"I don't want to hear it." Wilson raised his hand and a soldier brought over a mobile comm device. "You know the channel your commander is on. You're going to give us his channel and we're going to talk to him. Convince him to come back to the beach."

"Yessir," the man responded, quivering. "Channel 6 point 7-3."

The soldier put the channel input into the device, and Commander Wilson began speaking.

"This is commander Wilson of the Zamastanian Armed Forces. We have captured Old Saybrook and have several of your men in our custody. If you do not surrender yourself to our forces, there will be consequences."

Several moments of silence followed before a voice came over the intercom. "This is Commander Bartholomew. Congratulations on taking the village, but I heard you lost some planes," Bartholomew chucked softly over the radio.

Wilson spoke into the speaker, "can you hear me, Bartholomew?"

"Yes, I can."

"Can you hear this?" Wilson gestured to the insurgent. "Speak."

The insurgent perked up, swallowed, and began speaking. "Commander, you should surren-"

Wilson squeezed his trigger once again, and the insurgent's body flattened to the grass. Screams once again came from the women and children in the group of huddled captives. Nicholas dropped his weapon in reaction, and upon realizing it, he quickly picked up his rifle and stood back at attention. Commander Wilson screamed into the air.

"This war has barely begun, Bartholomew. I swear, if you are not back on this beach in one hour, I will kill every single man on this beach."

"Commander Wilson," Bartholomew pleaded on the other end of the crackling intercom, "please, think straight. Your authorities will have your head for this."

"They'll never know. This is a war after all, and every single one of these people is an enemy combatant."

Nicholas took several steps back, prepping for what he feared would be a bloodbath. The intercom was quiet until a squeak signaled the voice press on the other end.

"I'm not coming back to the beach," Bartholomew responded quietly. "Heaven help you, commander."

"I don't need heaven." Commander Wilson snapped his fingers and the intercom system was taken away. Aiming his pistol at another man in ragged clothes, marked by a yellow tape as an insurgent, Wilson fired. The bullet entered the man's chest, and he crumpled forward, dead. "Kill every man on this beach!" Wilson shouted at the soldiers. "If you don't, I will hold you in contempt of assisting enemy forces and refusing orders of battle!"

The people huddled on the beach began to panic, pure terror and horror overwhelming their expressions. It took most of the soldiers several moments, realizing what as happening. Some cocked their rifles and reloaded, some were unsure what to do.

"These are enemy combatants! They killed your friends and fellow soldiers." Wilson shot another man to the ground. Two soldiers looked at each other and in unison, raised their weapons and began spraying into the huddled mass of people. As bodies began to spread out across the grass, Nicholas and Perch looked on in horror.

This is wrong, this is evil, Nicholas thought. He began to instinctively raise his weapon in the direction of Commander Wilson, about to end the chaos by killing the source. Before he could squeeze his trigger, Wilson's head puffed in a red spray, and he crumpled to the beach ground. Perch stood behind him, rifle smoking. He then opened fire on the other two soldiers who were shooting the captives, killing them. The gunfire halted, and everyone, soldiers, and captives, sat unsure of what to do next. Should they run, or was there about to be more bloodshed?

Perch, red and shaking in realization of what he had just done, shouted loudly towards the civilians and captive insurgents alike. "Get out of here, go!"

Everyone who had been huddled in the clearing stood and started running back to the village and the hills. The insurgents were not carrying weapons now, and they would spend the rest of the war hiding away from the rebels and the invaders. For the soldiers left on the beach, they called in "commander down" over the radio. They moved bodies of the commander and the two soldiers who participated in the massacre to various locations on the beach and village so as to make it look like they were killed in battle. The citizens and insurgent bodies were also moved. 27 people, not including Commander Austin Wilson and his cohorts, were slain in Old Saybrook.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Wed Sep 04, 2019 6:43 am

Jonestown, Bjoerg
July 30th, 1991 - 7:42 AM

The Maximusian sniper was desperately sprinting down an alley. She judged by the sound of footsteps behind her that she had no more than a 100 meter lead. They were closing fast. Shooting distance to incapacitate would be about 30 meters. The soldiers would risk it at more than that distance. She had to keep at least 30 meters ahead of them, a task which was becoming more and more difficult as the kilometers stretched out.

She slowed just a bit to press her finger against a radio taped to her vest. "Nest. Repeat, Nest. This is Atlas, I need immediate exfil. Repeat, immediate exfil required. Requesting extraction as soon as possible!"

An all too calm voice greeted her. "Has the target been eliminated?"

The assassin let out a tear of exasperation. Her life was in immediate peril and they cared more about the mission.

"No, target used a decoy. Target is still at large. Please advise!"

She was desperate for a break and was praying for an answer she wanted yet she knew, deep down, that until she completed her mission, she would not go home.

"Exfiltration denied. Phantom Protocol enacted."

The assassin cried out loud. She screamed in anguish before dropping to her knees. Phantom Protocol were the worst two words a DIS agent could hear. After an agent was blown they would be left to fend for themselves. Phantom Protocol meant that the DIS would treat an agent as if they did not exist. The DIS would formally disavow all knowledge of the agent in question's existence. It was absolutely a worse case scenario.

"Please be advised, Atlas, final memo to be delivered to you shall be read verbally now."

The assassin jumped to her feet and sprinted as fast as she could upon hearing this. The final memo often contained information that might save her life. She had to hear this. She really had to sprint though, her falter had lost her at least 50 meters of gap.

"Rat has discontinued affiliation with Woodpecker. Likely power grab from Sunset resulted in backlash from Olive. No noted capitulation from Rat or, by extension, Sunset. Association to Olive may yield better results if acquired by Sunset. Vice versa may hold true."

The assassin heard the radio go silent and immediately faked tripping to the ground. This way they might not shoot her to incapacitate. Now she simply had to wait few seconds for the soldiers to a arrive.

As she heard the cacophony of boots approach she mulled over what had just been said: "Mark is no longer affiliating himself with Brian Smith. ANM tried a power grab which resulted in severe backlash from the rest of the insurgents. Neither Mark or ANM have apologized for their actions or given in to Smith's potential demands. Pretending to work for Smith may prove advantageous if captured by ANM. The reciprocal may hold true as well."

This was all news to the Assassin and it was extremely good news. The ANM soldiers might even think they had a bargaining chip if she played this right. Now she just had to play the part.

The blow landed hard on her back, knocking her flat against the pavement. Her breath came painfully as her lungs compressed under the weight of a gun stock.

"Who the hell do you work for?" inquired a soldier before binding her hands behind her back with handcuffs.

"I work for the associated press." she stated smartly. This snide remark earned her a smack in the back of the head. Her nose slammed forwards into the pavement and cracked, spilling blood onto the asphalt.

The assassin then felt herself dragged off the ground by rough hands and shoved headfirst into the trunk of a SUV. The last thing she remembered was a shovel coming down on top of her head, an immense feeling of pain, then darkness.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Fri Sep 06, 2019 8:08 am

Martin, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - Mid-Afternoon

Private 1st-Class Andrew Kelsey of the brand new Bjeorg National Army was shuffling nervously as rain poured down on his head. The rains had begun around 3:00 AM and were showing no sign of stopping. It wasn't actually a hard rain, nor was it a particularly cold rain. It was just the type of rain that makes you feel miserable inside.

Kelsey picked up his assault rifle and checked it for the eighth time in as many minutes. He found a grains of sand near the trigger guard and hastily wiped them away. The gun wouldn't actually be effected by sand (it was specifically designed to operate in beach environments) but Kelsey would be leaving nothing to chance. On top of that, he had been waiting around all day and waiting makes one very nervous.

He had seen the advisory from top brass, "The Maximusians will attack before nightfall but not until after the rain has stopped." It was a deadly waiting game now. Kelsey and his fellow soldiers new that Martin was the Maximusians' target. The soldiers also knew that they were the first line of defense, all lined up on the beaches and wharfs, against the impending attack. The only thing they didn't know was "when".

6:25 PM

The firing began all at once. The bullets rained down on the beaches and the docks without mercy. It wasn't long before the hulking silhouettes of troop landers became visible through the gloom. Then the firing really picked up.

Kelsey was blindly shooting. He was just aiming for anything coming out of the water. The crazy thing was, he was certain he landed a few hits. You tell you got a hit when the mass you were shooting at seized up for a minute before continuing on. They weren't fatal shots though. You could always tell when you killed someone because it felt like a little piece of your humanity died too.

A grenade suddenly detonated 40 feet behind Kelsey, knocking him to the ground. Ears ringing, Kelsey began to crawl back towards his dropped firearm. He had to get to his gun. It was a basic survival instinct. Without his gun he would be shot to pieces. In a desperate frenzy, Kelsey lunged towards gun. Wood split everywhere and Kelsey found himself tumbling head over heels into a tidal pool. The critically damaged jetty he had been on clearly couldn't handle his last lunge.

As Kelsey hit the water he was immediately overcome with a true sense of wonder. Just inches bellow the surface were small fish and sand crabs, completely oblivious to the horrors above. A hand grazed Kelsey's face. The water turned red. Kelsey knew before looking that the hand wasn't attached to a limb.

Soaking wet, Kelsey hauled himself up onto the sand bellow what had used to be the jetty. The fighting seemed to have moved south of him a bit. He could see that about a hundred meters to his south that a group of Maximusians had made it over the sand dunes. Once the wall breached in any place it became a useless wall. No need to try to break the wall in other places. This fact had almost certainly saved Kelsey's life.

Andrew Kelsey quietly walked up to an intact part of the jetty and climbed up. As he had assumed, the carnage was severe. Kelsey's CO had taken the grenade right to the face. It would be a closed casket funeral for him. Another soldier was also dead on the jetty, apparently from simple gunfire. As such, his gun, a 12 gauge shotgun, was sitting perfectly intact right next to his body. Kelsey sighed with relief. He was armed again.

Moving swiftly, Kelsey ran the length of the jetty until he was at least 50 meters out on the water. Now, looking towards shore. He could get a sense of where the battle had become more concentrated. It would seem that the beach was now overrun. More and more Maximusian troops were spilling into the town after climbing the sand dunes. It was clear that the Bjeorg soldiers were being massacred at this point.

With all that he had seen in mind, Kelsey decided that sooner, rather than later, would be a good time to make his way inland. He ran along the jetty until he came back to it's destroyed part. He then hopped down into knee deep water and began trudging his way shore. As he walked he impulsively checked the gun over again and again. Safety was off. Shells were all in and loaded correctly (as best as he could tell). Barrel was not bent or obstructed by anything. He was approaching battle again. He worried that this time he wouldn't be as lucky.

5 minutes later

Kelsey crossed quietly from the inner side of the sand dune to the cracked street. He could hear the sounds of battle intensifying with every step. By this point he was behind enemy lines with no exfil and no backup. This was just now dawning on him.

I am going on a suicide mission, aren't I? He thought to himself. I am gonna get within 200 meters of the Maximusians and then the shooting will start. I'll be dead before I reach the stoplight on 5th avenue. Kelsey knew he couldn't think like that if he wanted to survive. The thing was what a man wants and what a man gets are two completely different concepts.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Sun Sep 08, 2019 9:12 am

Martin, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - 6:35PM

Kelsey was frankly unsure how to act at this point. As best as he could the Maximusians had concentrated all of their forces on pushing inland, not outward. This meant that pretty much every street north of 6th or 7th street should be safe. He would take eighth down to the pedestrian mall and try to establish communications from there, he decided.

Walking briskly, Kelsey hardly noticed the questioning faces of citizens peering out their windows and seeing him. He was a sorry sight, that much he was aware of. His uniform was tattered, soaking wet, and covered in blood. Kelsey imagined his face wasn't much better looking. The grenade had almost certainly blown out one of his eardrums. He could feel the blood dribbling down his neck.

After a time he came to the pedestrian mall and looked for an electronics store. The store was located only a few shops down and Kelsey made his way to it quickly.

Upon arriving at the storefront Kelsey instantly realized something was wrong. The lights were all on inside the store. Every civilian with any sense had either evacuated the city or was locked up in their residence. No store would be open. Yet, sure enough, when Kelsey tried the door it opened easily. No-one was stupid enough to leave their shop door unlocked. The warning had been issued nearly 24 hours ago that a Maximusian invasion of Martin was imminent. People had ample time to prep.

Kelsey stoped dead in his tracks when he suddenly heard radio static. He was not alone in the store. Thinking quickly, the young soldier chambered a shell and took cover behind a rack of assorted small motors.

"Yes, this is CommsRelay Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey. We have established that the north section is clear up to 8th street. Awaiting Orders, Please Advise."

It was a Maximusian scout. He had clearly been sent north to make certain that the Bjeorgites were not planning to flank them from the north. This gave Kelsey an idea. He slowly inched his way across the room to the source of the noise until only a small shelf stood between him and the Maximusian. Kelsey carefully peered around the shelves to view the scene.

"Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey, this is Home-plate Omega-Echo-Bravo, you are advised to continue north until 12th street and report back."

The crackling audio was hardly audible through all the static but Kelsey could certainly make out the general gist of it. Kelsey waited for the Maximusian soldier to lift the radio microphone to his mouth, utter the words "Acknowledged", and take his hands off the radio before taking the shot. The blast knocked the soldier back several feet but clearly didn't kill him. He lunged for his pistol and managed to fire off two rounds into the wall behind Kelsey before Kelsey's second shot grazed his face. The soldier staggered backwards and fired again, this time hitting Kelsey in the leg. Kelsey dropped to his knees before discharging a round into the soldier's chest. The soldier fell onto his back and weakly attempted lift his gun to take a final shot but was silenced by a direct shot to the face from Kelsey.

Kelsey dropped to the ground after finishing off his adversary. His mind was clouded by pain and he could hardly tell where he was. Kelsey desperately rummaged in his pants pocket for a bottle of Vicodin pills. They were perhaps his only chance. He cracked the plastic container open with his hand upon finding the drug and swallowed several pills. It took a few minutes for the pain to begin to subside but Kelsey's thoughts were immediately clearer.

He slowly sat up and looked at his leg. He instantly let out a sigh of relief. The situation wasn't actually that bad. The bullet had gone strait through his calf. There was no bone damage, no real joint damage, just blood. All things considered blood wasn't a big deal. Kelsey took a role of duct tape out of his small backpack and wrapped it around his wound. He winced as the sticky tape came into contact with the open wound. Kelsey was certain his leg would get infected but honestly wasn't concerned. He had a job to do.

"You'll have forever to rest when you are dead." once said Kelsey's drill sergeant back at bootcamp. This mantra kept playing in his ear as Kelsey lifted the radio and picked up his shotgun. He would have keep on trudging if he want to make a difference. 12th street was still four blocks down and Kelsey had to go quickly so as to raise as little suspicion as possible.

7 minutes later

Kelsey selected a small news kiosk as his temporary base of operations. He was on the verge of tears from the pain in his leg as he shot the lock off of the door and fell inside the kiosk.

"This is Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey, please be advised that I have made it to 12th street and can confirm that there is no Bjeorg military presence here."

Kelsey prayed his vocal mimicry would hold up. He never was good at impersonating other people's voices. With great apprehension He waited the three seconds before a response.

"Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey, this is Omega-Echo-Bravo, we acknowledge. Proceed back to 5th Street."

"Acknowledged. Should I rendezvous with any other CommsRelays?"

This was the tricky part. If this didn't work the gig would be up.

"Negative Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey, all CommsRelays have been recalled. Just report back every 2 blocks."

Kelsey couldn't believe his luck, they had bought it hook line and sinker! Kelsey quickly changed the channels and explained the situation to a Bjeorg officer. He sounded genuinely ecstatic about the prospects of flanking the Maximusians. Kelsey was just overjoyed by the fact that a proper medic would be in the area within a few minutes.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Mon Sep 09, 2019 5:35 am

Martin, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - 7:00 PM

The soldiers walked quietly through the desolate streets. The setting sun cast angular shadows across the pavement. The harsh red lights reflected eerily over the Bjeorg soldiers' eyes, making them look as if they were glowing red. An air of death surrounded the group as they drew ever nearer to achieving their morbid goal. Martin was lost so this wasn't strategic. The soldiers were out for blood. They would see it spilled or die trying.

The Maximusian Government would never see it coming. 80 soldiers were, in some capacity, making their way to the Maximuisans' right flank. The men would take up guerrilla tactics and use buildings and cars for cover. The Maximusians would have a tough time fighting on two fronts.

Andrew Kelsey was in agony. He was hobbling along two blocks ahead of the main group. His wounded leg felt as if it was going to fall off with each painful step. Yet, he was undeterred from his purpose. Kelsey was now only one block away from his adversaries and he could hear the gunshots. As best as he could tell, things were not going well for the Bjeorg forces. They were desperately holding out for the flank maneuver. If that attempt failed, it would be the end of Martin. Once a foothold in Martin was established, the end for Bjeorg would soon follow. So much rested on Private Kelsey.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Private Kelsey finally arrived at the final checkpoint. All he had to do was report to the Maximusians that the coast was clear (which was most certainly a lie). He now had the opportunity to take a seat. Never had taking the weight off of his leg felt so good. He swallowed another hydrocodone pill before setting the radio down on the sidewalk and contacting the Maximusians.

"This is Alpha-Charlie-Whiskey, reporting that the final checkpoint is clear of all insurgents. No signs of activity anywhere in this sector. Reporting back to command now."

Kelsey waited in silence for the response before disconnecting the microphone from the radio. He laughed as he pulled the antenna out as well. All he had to do was wait to be picked up. He could just sit back, relax, and enjoy the hydrocodone's effect. His work was finished.

15 minutes later

The shots rang out all at once, falling upon the Maximusian soldiers like rain. They were stunned by this turn of events for a moment but quickly returned fire. Glass flew in all directions, vehicles were overturned by grenades, men would suddenly throw their arms up before falling onto their backs, revealing an emaciated chest. To soldiers from both sides this was hell. Gunfire was coming from all directions, men would suddenly make a break for their comrades position but would be mowed down in their tracks.

Kelsey watched this all from the relative safety of a pickup truck's bed. There was so much fire and smoke that he could hardly tell what was going on but he was certain that no side was winning. This would be recorded as a loss for both sides, he was sure of it.

In reality though, this would certainly be a Bjeorg victory in the long run. Wars like this weren't won by killing everyone on the other side. They were won by staying in them longer than the opponent. Bjeorg might loose Martin, as a mater of fact, Bjeorg was certain to loose Martin. If not today, then tomorrow, but eventually the city would fall. The trick was making the cost per city high enough for the Maximusians that they would deem the cause not worth it and give in.

Kelsey watched a rocket detonate only a few hundred meters from his perch had a sudden realization. "This skirmish is my doing. The blood is on my hands." he said aloud. Indeed, from a certain point if view, many lives would have been saved if he had not carried out his little ruse. Then again, if this battle brought a faster conclusion to the war, maybe Kelsey's actions would save more lives then it took.

The smoke suddenly began to clear. As Kelsey had suspected, the Bjeorgites were in rapid retreat. You'll get 'em in the long run. He thought to himself. At that, Kelsey swallowed two ibuprofen tablets he had been given when he met up with the soldiers, tossed a white t-shirt over the tailgate to signify capitulation should he be found by the Maximuisians, and drifted off into a deep sleep.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Wed Sep 11, 2019 7:02 am

Presidential Manor, Litudinem
July 30th, 1991 - Late Evening

An exasperated Jean Paterson was sitting silently on a leather chair in her bedroom. She sighed deeply as she began to read the memo. She wasn't reading too closely as she already knew the basic outcomes of all the exchanges that had transpired on this accursed day. Her eyes skimmed over page after page, picking up key words like "at least 300 KIA", "SAM systems set up in Jonestown", and "extreme loss of life on all sides".

All in all, this had been a simply putrid day. She woke up to find out that something had gone horribly wrong with the assassination plot. Paterson's assassin was captured and Smith was still alive and kicking. That was the first failure of the day. Only 4 hours or so later the Zamastanians were met with far more resistance than they had expected in Old Saybrook. The death toll for the insurgents was far higher than Paterson had wanted. That was the second massive failure of the day. Two hours later, low and behold, the Maximusian landing party was met with incredible opposition. That marked another failure. After all, a pyrrhic victory was frankly no victory at all in Paterson's books. To top the whole wretched day off, Paterson was informed that the Bjeorgites had gotten surface to air missile systems from... somewhere. Paratroopers were hardly an option now.

In anger and disgust with the whole ordeal and everyone involved, Paterson tossed the memo into the wastebasket next to her chair and kicked it over. A million thoughts were racing through her head as she began pacing the room in a deep contemplative state. It seemed unlikely that Bjeorg would ever capitulate from a show of strength. The people were too patriotic and their supporters too strong. Paterson needed a new tactic, one that ideally minimized the number of brave men who would be buried. She was going to have to completely rethink her tactics.

The way Jean saw it, there were essentially three ways to handle a smaller independence movement within a nation. One could simply allow the events to transpire. No blood would be shed this way. The motherland's international respect may even grow. On the other hand, it was a very foolish decision in the long term. Allowing provinces or even groups of people to break away from the motherland would make your nation look weak to all but the most democratically inclined nations. Furthermore, the success of the splinter-state's independence would encourage others to break away. On top of that, there was no guarantee that the fledgling state would create a nation that served its people as well as the motherland did. The nationstate would have few allies and all sorts of infrastructure and tax issues. Money had to be minted, roadwork had to be done, a constitution or charter would likely have to be drafted, people had to payed in what was most likely fiat currency. All in all, this strategy for handling a revolt would only lead to more pain and suffering in the long run than if a war. had been waged.

The second option in Jean's mind was to do what she had been doing so far: Unequivocally object to the independence pleas, shoot down (metaphorically) any pleas, and rule any referendum illegal. The motherland looked like the bad guy this way but at least the revolutionaries would probably back down. The thing was, if they were able to amass an army large enough, the splinter-state might actually be able to fight their way to freedom. As was the case in Paterson's situation. Then the motherland is left with no alternatives but to either submit and allow the state to secede or face war.

Neither option would work to LOM's advantage if implemented. That left only the final option. If all else failed, a motherland could theoretically offer to establish the splinter-state as some form of a protectorate. It would have to be an effectively autonomous nation for the revolutionaries to consent but at least the fledgling nation would be well within the sphere of influence of the motherland. Elections could be influenced in this way, as could most faculties of the protectorate government.

As far as Jean Paterson was concerned, all three options were terrible. However, she was pretty sure she knew what her fallback plan would be if the Bjeorgite revolutionaries did not give in shortly. It wasn't any idea she had wanted to entertain until it looked likely that the movement and declaration of independence would lead to a full blown war. Frankly, Paterson should have seen this day coming back when a bomb went off on the tarmac of a little airport in Sur Les Rochers.

Paterson's mind was racing now. She had reached a crossroads. She was going down a path of war and if she continued much further she may never be able to go back. Her choice, and her's alone, would decide the fate of thousands. Blood would be on her hands regardless. She was simply in no state to make that call.

In a state of mental torment, Jean Paterson took a seat on her bed and stared out into the warm, humid night. "Why me?" She asked to the starts above her. Why should she have to make a call like this? Who was she, Jean Paterson, to make such a monumental call?

The summer air called to her and she made no effort to resist. Paterson crossed the room, threw open a set off French doors, and stepped out into the calm night. She immediately had a sense of peace wash over her. The summer air, stagnate and stuffy as it could sometimes be, always had had a way of putting things in perspective. Human concerns were trivial as far as the July sky was concerned. The crickets could care less if Bjeorg was a province, an autonomous state, or a hamburger for that matter. The fireflies would never know that 500 km away men were putting blankets over the faces of their dead or cleaning their wounds. It was all a matter of perspective in the end.

Paterson would have to make the call soon. It would be a tough call but she knew now that she could make it. In a year's time she suspected she would be back on this porch, the decision would have been made long ago, the ramifications of her actions would already have been felt. Regardless of what she chose to do she would still be standing there, looking longingly into the stars. All would be quiet on the western front. Paterson suddenly knew what she had to do.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Thu Sep 12, 2019 6:56 am

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 31st, 1991, Early Morning

The fist pounded down on the assassin's shattered hand, further damaging the cracked and broken bones.

The assassin had been captured nearly a full 24 hours prior but had not spoken a word since her capture. Already she had faced unspeakably cruel forms of torture. ANM was a rogue nation that was accountable to no one. They could do whatever they wanted to her and no one could stop them. However, she was a well trained agent. They would have to do a much better job if they wanted to break her.

At present, she was having her hand smashed by a hammer. This stuff was easy to resist. The assassin had literally trained for situations of torture. Besides, by this point she couldn't even feel her right hand. They had probably damaged the nerve or just messed the circulation up very badly.

"Just give up already." she stated blankly. This remark earned her backhand to the face, leaving her face stinging.

"The only person who should give up is you madame." mused one of the assassin's interrogators, a bulky but muscular man who sported a large scar down his face. "We asked you one question: Who are you working for? Tell us and your pain will cease."

The plan that the assassin had formulated did involve spilling her allegiance. She was just going to lie about to whom her allegiance was owed. Then she might be free of the pain. Until that time came, she had to let her interrogators suspect nothing. She was going to have to let herself be tortured.

"I dare you" she mumbled, attempting to get the interrogator all riled up. It worked, the bulky man grabbed her by the neck and slammed her head into the cinderblock wall behind the chair she was duct taped into. She fell forward, head spinning, and looked groggily around. The incandescent light above her head was now every color of the rainbow save for white. She was most assuredly concussed. Silently, the assassin cursed her own stupidity, now escape would be even more difficult when she got the opportunity.

A new wave of pain came on as she was hit hard in the stomach. The assassin doubled over in pain at this. So desperately did she want to just spill her true allegiance and get the pain over with but she knew she couldn't. She had to wait for the right moment to give in. More pain would have to be endured if the assassin was to escape. She had to be in a certain mindset to pull this off convincingly and she would have to be in a certain physical state for her captors to buy it.

The bulky man stepped back and asked his associate to exit the room. The partner left the room quickly.

"I am afraid there will be no one to hear you scream." the bulky man exclaimed as he lifted her head out of its resting place so that the two were face to face. The man grabbed the assassin by the arm and smiled nastily. He slowly began to twist her arm, braking it easily. The assassin's left arm sat limp in her lap.

The assassin had hardly ever felt so much pain in her life. Sweat was dribbling down her brown in huge globs as she struggled to inspect the damage. It was quite severe. Her arm was bent horribly out of shape. This did not bode well for the assassin's plan.

"Would you like a matching set of those arms or would you like to answer my question?" the interrogator asked once more. He was met with silent whimpers of pain and he smiled. The interrogator cracked his knuckles and pulled a corkscrew out of his shirt pocket. The message was crystal clear: he would brake her eventually.

The assassin began to whimper violently and cried out in agony as her other arm was twisted violently. "I'll tell you!" she screamed. "I was contracted by Mr. Brian Smith. I was to kill "Mark", the head of ANM until... well... until I completed my task."

This response elicited a cruel smirk out of the interrogator, who immediately released his firm grip on the woman's arm. "I knew you would come around. That was a nice talk. I'll let you get a little sleep before we have another chat." The interrogator left the room in silence after delivering this foreboding line.

While the interrogator talked things over with his superiors, the assassin would have a chance to figure out and exit strategy once all hell broke loose between ANM and Smith's people. At the time though, all the assassin wanted to think about was healing up. She would need her strength if she was to escape.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Thu Sep 19, 2019 5:39 am

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 31st, 1991 - Mid-Morning

Simon was enjoying his position. As best as he could tell, he was the second most powerful man in Central Hespia, and he liked this. He could blow up a tunnel at the click of a button, he could launch a salvo of missiles at the massive ships located only a few hundred meters off the coast of his nation any time he liked. Simon loved his newly acquired powers of destruction but he wasn't obsessed with them. He was far more interested in sorting out the mess his predecessor had created.

Damage control was a tough but necessary task. Simon knew that reconciling with Brian Smith would be imperative if Bjeorg was to earn her independence. Compromises had to be made now that Maximusian and Zamastanian soldiers had a foothold in Bjeorg. The work needed for that would be immense and time consuming. This fact likely accounted for Simon's anger when he had yet another hand written memo dropped on his desk. He stared angrily at the document in front of him and began to read it with distaste.

Intended Recipient: Dominus 'Simon'
Designated Sender: 'Judas'

While extracting information from the young agent we acquired yesterday I was led to the realization that she is under the employment of Brian Smith. This would confirm initial suspicions held by our on site units: that Brian Smith attempted to lure 'Mark' into a position where he could be assassinated. I inform you of this so that you might be better equipped to decide what form your interactions with Smith will take. I also inquire as to what the assassin's fate should be. Please advise at your earliest convenience.

Simon had to do a double take at this last bit. He was utterly shocked by what he had read. Simon had either completely misjudged Smith's character or something was up. Simon grabbed a pen and ripped a page out of a nearby legal pad. He began to wright furiously. In seconds he completed his memo and called an aide into the room he had been using as a bunker for the past couple hours. The aide hastily grabbed the paper and ran off to deliver the not to 'Judas'.

Simon shook his head in disgust and placed his head in his hands. Maybe this power stuff isn't all it's cracked up to be, he mused out loud.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Lauchenoiria » Sun Sep 22, 2019 8:43 pm

Orders from the Matriarchy

Foster residence, Bjeorg
July 31, 1991 – early morning

Abbie Foster snuggled under a blanket reading a book, despite the fact the temperature was considerably warm. She enjoyed the heat, couldn’t get enough of it. The cold reminded her of being locked in a cold, bare cupboard as a child – her punishment for stepping out of line. So, she would curl up under covers regardless of the time of year, seeking warmth as a way of coping with her unordinary life.

She was presently engaged in the difficult task of trying to forget that at any point she could be discovered, captured and tortured. Since her activation, she had been having nightmares about that possibility, and she kind of hoped that her superiors were finished with her. So, when the phone rang, her heart sank completely.

“Foster residence, how may I help you?” she answered the phone cheerfully, her tone perfect despite the fact her cheer was entirely false.

“It is windy and raining in Tofino,” came a voice on the other end.

“Then I hope the animals have found shelter from the coming storm,” Abbie replied, her heart sinking as she replied using the code.

“This line is secure?” asked the voice.

“I made sure of it. I have more to lose here than you if I failed,” she retorted.

“You have developed an attitude during your deployment. These things are sometimes necessary to perfect your cover, I know. Nevertheless, do not use it when speaking to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I have orders for you. We are concerned about the Eirians. Their presence in Bjeorg was unexpected, and we do not know their motivations. We need you to find out everything you can about their operations, as quickly as possible. Today, if you can.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you have a preference for how this is accomplished?”

“Use your initiative, but stay undiscovered. And if you are about to be captured, use the contingency plan.”

“Y… yes ma’am.”

“Good,” said the voice, and the line went dead. Abbie, who had gone pale sat back down on her couch after replacing the phone on its hook. The contingency plan… she knew what that meant. Still, it had been inevitable, she knew. So she bit her lip and prepared to get to work.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Lauchenoiria » Mon Sep 23, 2019 8:17 am

(Jointly written with Democratic Republic of Eiria)

Private Time with the Private

Jonestown, Bjeorg
July 31, 1991 - midday

Abbie Foster sat in the window of a cafe overlooking a crowded street in Jonestown, nursing her coffee. It was her fourth, one of the most expensive on the menu, and she had been snacking on cakes all day too. The staff seemed perfectly happy to indulge her, especially since she continually put money in a tip jar on the counter. She knew how to please people.

She had been watching the crowds outside for Eirians since shortly after the call. She had put on one of her shorter skirts and one of her lower tops, making a face at herself in the mirror before she went out. She hated dressing like this, and she hated acting the way she planned to - but her mission came first. So she scanned the crowds, pretending to be absentminded as she searched for her prey.

She was on the verge of giving up, when she saw a young man walking along the street across the road. He was pulling on a door to a shop across the street, his face contorted as he tried to use all his strength to yank it open (and he looked very strong indeed), despite the large sign that read "PUSH" right there on the door. He pulled and pulled until another man in his group yelled something, and the first man finally pushed it.

As the group entered the shop, Abbie finished her coffee and stood up, gathering her things. She tossed a note into the tip jar, smiling flirtatiously at a male member of staff so as to keep her cover, and exited the shop. She stood outside rifling through her bag as if looking for something, one eye on the door of the shop across the street.

When the men exited, Abbie began to seemingly absentmindedly start to cross the street, still rifling through her bag. She picked her route carefully so it seemed careless, and it brought her right into the path of the man who couldn't read the push sign. He was busy talking to his friends and didn't see her coming, until she bumped right into him hard, spilling the contents of her bag on the ground.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, looking up at him right in the eye. "I'm so clumsy! Let me pick all this up!"

The soldier stood, slack jawed, staring at her for a few moments, then helped her pick a few things up. "Ummmmmm...." He says, blushing. His friends laugh at him and leave them alone. "Uhhhhhh...... I'm sor-sorry" he says, stuttering, still stunned.

"Oh no, it wasn't you!" She said, laughing as she picked up her bag and twirled a piece of her hair. "I wasn't looking where I was going! I always do this!"

The soldier finally pulled himself together. "Ah, it's alright". He paused for a moment. "So, are you doing anything later?" He asked, flexing his huge muscles and grinning.

"Nothing at all," she said, blushing slightly. It had taken her years of practicing to be able to blush on cue, but it proved very useful. It was harder than suppressing a natural blush by far. "I'm Abbie, what's your name?"

"Shawn. Shawn Patterson". Shawn probably thought he had hit the jackpot. "How about we go to a place a little more... Private".

"That sounds fun," she said giggling. Inside she was shocked and a little horrified at how quickly the situation was progressing. She normally had to work much, much harder. Her target was exactly the kind of man her government wrote propaganda about. "We can't go to my place though, I've got maintenance people over."

She had deliberately broken one of the doors in her apartment, making it look like it had fallen off due to some kind of unavoidable flaw. Then she had called her landlord in floods of tears, and they had agreed to send someone over right away. For her plan to work, her apartment had to be unavailable.

"That's fine, I have just the place. Private, closed off, and....." He got a little closer to her. "Soundproof. Just follow me"

She giggled and made to follow him. She despised acting this way, like a little airhead. She was an incredibly intelligent woman, and a citizen of Kerlile, and yet here she was acting the fool and flirting. It was un-Kerlian, and yet she did it to serve Kerlile. Such were the contradictions in her life.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Democratic Republic Of Eiria » Wed Sep 25, 2019 12:08 am

(Written with the awesome guidance of Lauchenoira)

"So how do you like Bjeorg?" Abbie Foster asked as she walked along the road next to Shawn Patterson, allowing him to lead her. She kept her tone flirtatious even as inside she wanted to roll her eyes at the entire situation.
He grinned. "It's better than I thought it would be". He winked. "So, what do you do here in Bjeorg?" His accent made the word Bjeorg sound like 'Borg'.
"Oh, I'm a receptionist. At the local police station," she said, tripping slightly on purpose and using it as an excuse to grab his hand to steady herself. "Oops! I'm really clumsy!".
He put her arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry, baby. I'll help you". He said in a deep, seductive whisper.
"Okay!" she giggled again, letting the pitch of her voice rise slightly as they continued to walk.

Shawn took Abby a few streets further downtown, to where the Eirian Army camp was set up. There were tents for cots, a field hospital, a strategy tent, even a Recreation tent. Shawn led her into a back entrance of the area that the Eirian Army was granted for a storage area. It was a converted, dead end alleyway, with boxes of rations, ammunition, and spare uniforms piled up. "All right" He says, unbuttoning his shirt. "Now, wha-".
Abbie quickly stuck a cloth over Shawn's mouth, pushing him against a wall and twisting his arm painfully. He began to feel sleepy, struggling against her futilely until he finally slumped down the wall. When she was sure he was unconscious, she dragged him into a corner, hiding him behind some ration boxes.

She rifled through the spare uniforms until she found one approximately her size, and undressed quickly, visibly relaxing once the uniform was on and her previous un-Kerlian clothing was discarded. She checked all her concealed weapons were loaded, and was grateful to have an excuse to carry one visibly as well.

She began to make her way around what passed for the Eirian barracks, giving a death stare to anyone who looked at her too closely in an attempt to frighten them off, and avoiding anyone high ranking. She made notes of their numbers, visible supplies and level of morale, storing the information in her excellent memory.

Suddenly, Abby saw an Eirian patrol heading down the street. She ducked into a doorway to avoid detection. It was just a normal patrol, so she was about to leave, until she saw two Soldiers sneaking from the back of the patrol down a different street, double checking to make sure they weren't spotted. Curious, and having already gathered all the information she could without taking excessive risks, she began to follow them. She kept to the shadows, making sure to vary her pace so she didn't match theirs exactly. She wanted to know what they were up to - and if this would be useful to her.

She followed them around town. They took backroads and alleys, and were very careful to avoid patrols. They turned down a small alley, and suddenly stopped. "You know," the one on the right said. "It's not polite to follow people".
And both of them turned on their heels, pistols in hand.

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Libertas Omnium Maximus
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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Wed Sep 25, 2019 6:30 am

Martin, Bjeorg
July 30th, 1991 - Mid-day

In truth, Colonel Anthony Peters of the Maximusian 17th Army Battalion was not a man who liked the front lines. He had a brilliant mind for tactical strategy but not the guts to see the fruit of his work up close. As such, he was completely unsettled sitting in his makeshift command center (the product of PVC pipes and canvas) in the middle of an occupied city. He knew that by this point all of the insurgents were had retreated, were captured, or were killed, but this fact did little to ease his mind when he thought of all the citizens who might want him dead. In any window could be his killer.

Since setting up camp in a small park on 6th street early this morning, Peters had been worked tirelessly to bring the city under his control. He now had nearly 150 captured POWs and had uncovered a dozen weapons caches. The city was under Maximusian control once more. Unfortunately, once city was not enough. Peters would have to begin moving his men south in the coming days, a task he utterly dreaded.

The loud static of a radio, followed by an unintelligible voice, forced Peters to rise from his folding chair and see what was going on. He lifted the radio receiver cautiously and and spoke into it. "This is Col. Peters of the 17th Battalion, may I inquire as to why this frequency is being used?"

A response came nearly as quickly as the question was posed, "Sir, I am Private 1st-Class James Mason of the 17th airborne devision. I have been ordered by superiors to inform you that a party of insurgents has been spotted near the city-limits on Cypress and Broadstreet. My commanding officer requests permission to engage the party with units present."

This was an interesting turn of events. Peters had not at all counted on the insurgents returning or making any further attempt to retake the city. Something felt off about the situation but Peters couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Regardless, Peters gave the order. "Tell your CO that he may engage the forces present so long as minimal manpower is required to subdue any active combatants." No sooner had he said it then he regretted it, though he couldn't quite say why.

The response came rapidly, "Acknowledged, Sir." At that, the frequency returned to being just static.

Why did this order seem so wrong? There was nothing unnatural about the request, nor the individual making the request. After all, there was a section of the 17th airborne on patrol near the intersection of Cypress and Broadstreet. Peters simply couldn't figure it out. His gut was telling him that something was wrong yet reason was saying that all was well. Peters knew it couldn't be both. He just worried that he would find out which was right in some unpleasant manner.

Intersection at Cypress St. and Broadstreet

There was no celebration, no sudden moment of joy after the men completed their solemn task. No words were spoken as two individuals began dumping kerosene on a massive bottle of Maximusian military uniforms. When the fire was finally lit, the men all walked silently away from the massive bonfire. The defection was completed as the group stepped over the road's median strip, crossing over city boundaries.

The plan had been beautifully executed. Thirty-five Maximusian soldiers had managed to coordinate a group defection to Bjeorg seemingly overnight. Some of the men had family in Bjeorg, others would be going in completely alone. As the fire engulfed the group's uniforms, however, the seemingly distant future was not of immediate concern to the defectors. They still had to travel at least fifteen kilometers more before they would reach another city. It was imperative that they make it there before nightfall, lest the darkness make the group look like a Maximusian scout group. The group crossed the road and began to jog towards their distant goal.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Lauchenoiria » Sun Sep 29, 2019 10:02 am

(Jointly written with Democratic Republic of Eiria)

Gods Descending

Jonestown, Bjeorg
July 31, 1991 - afternoon

"What is your purpose in being here? Explain," Abbie demanded of the men in a perfect Eirian accent. She showed no visible fear despite the pistols pointed at her. She made the split-second decision to try and catch them a little off guard.

The one on the right shook his- no, her head. "Are you the one to be asking the questions, Madame?" She asked, gesturing at the sleek silver pistol pointed at Abbie. The woman's partner cocked his gun. "Who are you? Answer, or we'll shoot!" He yelled, causing the woman to wince. "Apollo, this is why you failed Diplomacy". She muttered. "My apologies. But you don't seem like an Eirian soldier, no matter the language you speak or the uniform you wear. No Eirian would be this.... Reckless".

"Your present behaviour seems fairly reckless to me. And you are Eirian, are you not?" Abbie raised an eyebrow, keeping her tone neutral and calm. Having the guns pointed at her made her nervous but she wouldn't show it. If she ran, they would definitely shoot. And she would die before she spoke the truth.

The woman smiled. "Touché, madame. And if we are Eirian, why would we sneak around like this? And if you were, you wouldn't either. So, it seems we are at an impasse". Her companion opened his mouth to speak, but one glare from her silenced him. "So, I wonder who you are. Maximusian? Zamastanian ? Bjeorgian? Or maybe someone else, someone who wants a part of the fight".

"Who I am doesn't matter," Abbie said, continuing in the Eirian accent. "And I imagine you would say similar," she switched to a Bjeorgite accent, "so what are we going to do here?" She finished in the accent of a Maximusian, adding to the confusion and, in spite of its foolishness, showing off a little.

The man looked confused, while woman grinned. "You certainly are well trained, Madame. You ask what we will do here? Well, even if you shoot one of us, we would shoot you, and vice versa. There is no winning in this situation, is there Madame? How about we just go our separate ways?"

Abbie considered the suggestion for several seconds. The woman was correct. It was the best option given, this was not a situation she had planned for today. And Abbie did not want to die.

"Very well," she said. "We go our own way, and the Eirians never have to hear any of this."

"Of course" The woman said. She gestured to her partner to slowly back away, and they did, guns still aimed on Abbie.

She stepped backwards too, moving slowly and methodically, watching closely in case they decided to back out and shoot her.

The man walked down to the end of the alley, carrying their stuff, while the woman backed away, gun still trained on Abbie. "Well then, Madame, We must take our leave. Apollo and Artemis say Adieu!". She rounded the corner and slipped into the shadows

Abbie stood for a moment, then turned and quickly walked away. She wove her way through the streets, finding a balcony with laundry hanging off and stealing a dress, then discarding the uniform in a large bin in an alley, and walking home like nothing had happened.

In her head, though, it was spinning. Who were Apollo and Artemis? Who did the pair work for? Something more was going on. She would have to report this back to the Matriarchy, and she expected she would be ordered to find out more very soon.

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Libertas Omnium Maximus
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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Mon Sep 30, 2019 6:04 am

Unknown Location, Bjeorg
July 31st, 1991 - Late Evening

The truth was simple, going and attacking Smith was a bad idea. It wasn't that Simon doubted his own ability or the ability of his men, he was just smart enough to understand that Brian Smith was a figurehead. He was the face of independence. He was a virtuous man who could get a whole province on his side. If he was extinguished now, things could end very badly for the independence movement. Simon knew what the right answer was but he was still extremely hesitant to say it.

"I have reached a verdict." Simon stated blankly to three high-ranking ANM leaders. "I have decided that it is in the best interest of the independence movement not to follow through with the notion of assassinating Brian Smith. If you need my reasoning, I am happy to provide it." The three men shook their heads in unison before leaving the tent. They agreed with Simon in all likelihood.

Simon walked the length of his office and opened a drawer in his mahogany desk. It contained a typed piece of paper that Simon had decided he would send the minute he came to a decision. Turning quickly, Simon left his makeshift office, walked to a small sedan, and entered the vehicle. There would be no need for vans or soldiers. After all, Simon was merely running an errand.

The car took two twists of the key to start. It always idled the first time for some reason that Simon was unable to discern. It was an old 1979 Bailey Series III and it's engine just wasn't standing the test of time, Simon guessed. Regardless, the engine turned over on the second attempt and the transition from park to first gear was easy. Simon drove the little car out of its gravel parking pad and up to a hastily built checkpoint at the entrance of the ANM compound.

"Mr Simon, may I ask what it is that you are doing?" asked one of the security guards. He was understandably confused as to why the leader of all of ANM would leave the compound unaccompanied.

"I am sending a letter" was Simon's quick response. This comment resulted in the guard giving him an incredulous look, the post office was by no means operating. It hadn't been since the Smith's declaration so long ago. The guard scowled before opening the compound gate opened anyway. Simon's car shuddered a little as it exited the compound and drove off into the twilight.

Simon drove due west for about twenty minutes, encountering not a single car along the way. After a great time, he parked his car on the shoulder off the road and exited his car. Simon lifted the car trunk unceremoniously and pulled out the piece of paper, now in a blank envelope. He walked quickly to a close by road-sign and wedged the envelope in between the sign and its stand. The envelope was obscured from view perfectly. You couldn't find the dead drop unless you already knew where to look.

Simon returned back to the compound just as the last vestiges of sunlight departed from the sky. A deep, oppressive darkness fell on the world. This was the type of night where even the air was stagnate to the point of being putrid to breath. The mosquitos would mercilessly tear at the flesh of any soul who's incredible misfortune found him out in the open on a night like this.

Thus was the fate of Brian Smith. It was only moments after Simon removed the key from the ignition of his car, safe and sound at the ANM compound, that Smith arrived at the dead drop zone. He exited his much nicer sedan and fumbled with a flashlight for a while. Once his eyes were adjusted to the light as best as he could expect them too, he began to surcharging the shoulder for the road-sign. It took him a couple of minutes but Smith eventually felt the envelope behind the sign and lifted it free of its position. He returned quickly to his car and turned the interior light on before ripping into the envelope, eager to see what all-important memo awaited his reading.

The memo was actually much shorter than Smith had expected. Smith was initially relieved to read that he would no longer be the target of ANM. He nearly smiled as his eyes grazed the page. Phrases like "looking forward to our continued cooperation" and "unity for the common goal" brightened Smith's entire outlook on his relationship with ANM. Then Smith read the final page of the memo. His whole body slumped as he read it.

Simon couldn't be serious. This was a bluff. It had to be. There was simply no way ANM was in a position to carry out such an operation. Even as he desperately tried to convince himself it was a mere bluff, Smith knew it was true. Simon had no reason to tell him otherwise. Smith had read the words correctly, "evacuate all present forces to minimize causalities."

Smith had know for a while actually that Simon possessed the resources for such an operation. Between the Xiomerans, shared ownership of most of Bjeorg's military resources, and control of many airfields and military installations, Simon could carry out his goal. He wasn't asking for Smith's permission. He was asking for Smith's blessing. Brian Smith was frankly beside himself. He knew that theoretically the operation would bring about a swifter end to the war but that hardly made it worth the casualties. Smith simply could not give his blessing for such an undertaking.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Thu Oct 03, 2019 6:01 am

Jonestown, Bjeorg
August 1st, 1991 - Early Morning

The sun's first rays brightened the dense fog that had descended on the city. With a curfew in place, only one car was able to witness the beautiful reflections of the sun off the fog. This little black sedan was driving purposefully across the city. Its occupants were on a mission: to avoid a catastrophe.

Brian Smith was fidgeting in the back seat of the car. He had done quite a lot of driving in the past 48 hours and his legs were starting to feel it. Smith might also have been fidgeting as a result of thinking too hardly about what he was about to have to do. Smith had somehow let himself be cornered and he had no idea how. Simon didn't have the same bloodlust as his predecessor, but what he lacked in bloodlust, he made up for in intelligence. Simon had managed to effectively check mate all involved parties in only 24 hours. This thought left Smith shaking in his seat.

"How could I be so blind?" Smith inquired to no one in particular. "The damned airfields. The goddamn airfields!" Smith cursed out loud once more before going quiet for a long while. He needed to figure out exactly what the best way to word what he was soon to say.

No sooner had Smith's car arrived at its destination, a public radio broadcasting studio, then Smith decided on the exact wording of what he wanted to say. He and two bodyguards exited the sedan and walked up to the doors of the studio. Everything had already been arranged and set up, Smith simply had to talk.

Governor Smith was greeted by an elderly studio executive who grasped his hand with both of her hands and shook. The executive then began assaulting Smith with dozens of difficult questions. Quickly growing tired of the interrogation, Smith pushed past the woman and walked into the actual studio after a short time. Smith had a purpose and he intended to fulfill his purpose. He was handed a headset immediately upon entering the claustrophobic recording room. After putting the headset on and taking a seat at a chair he had been ushered into, Smith was again assaulted by numerous questions from the studio crew.

This was all making Smith horribly furious. Why did they think he had all the answers? Why did they think he was in control of the situation. Smith was just as lost as the general public. No one was in control, that was the simple truth of it. Paterson was unquestionably in a state of self-doubt. After all, she was effectively fighting a war as LOM against what she considered to still be LOM, and was loosing. The Eirians were nautically outmatched and their infantry was sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the Maximusians and Zamastanians to press their attack. Smith could state with complete certainty that no leader held all the cards at present.

Smith's train of though was interrupted by the voice of a young woman stating: "We are on the air in 60 seconds." A clock on the massive panel in front of Smith began counting down. 59...58...57

Smith looked to his left and noticed the young man who had taken a seat next to him. The man was fiddling with the panel, probably adjusting audio settings or some other technological endeavor that was well beyond the grasp of Smith.


As the digital clock began ticking down the seconds until Smith would be addressing his fledgling nation-state (or, at least, anyone who was listening to the 7:00 AM radio, tuned to 98.7), his pulse began to quicken. He had but moments remaining before the words that left his mouth might have historical significance in a few years.


Simon. That single name suddenly hit Smith harder than any bullet. He held all of the cards, he was just playing one today. Simon was the only guaranteed "survivor" of this debacle of an independence movement. Paterson was sunk. No matter the outcome of the war, her career in politics was over. She would spend the rest of her life giving half-attended guest lectures at universities. Smith knew he was a goner. The thing was, he would probably actually die. The Maximusian court system was not overly kind to traitors. Simon could always lurk in the shadows.

That was his power, Smith realized with a start, Simon was head of an organization that was beholden to no one. No one could capture him because no one knew who he was. Simon was almost certainly not his real name. Smith took a deep breath. He been wrong about his purpose in the movement. He, Governor Brian Smith, was the figurehead. His purpose was to lead the nation as best as he could for as long as he could. After a time, though, he would serve as the fall guy. Such was always the fate of a head of state. That was the natural order of things. Smith was not the savior, he was the face of the independence movement. Ultimately, Smith mused, Simon would be the savior of the movement. He would be the savior because he didn't have to be the "face" of anything.


The speech Smith was about to have to give wouldn't need to change much. The change would come in time, and mostly in the form of a change Simon and Smith's interactions. Brian Smith would be needing a face to face conference with the elusive Simon in the very near future. With that in said, Smith had a duty, an extremely important purpose, and Smith intended to fulfill that purpose to the fullest extent.


Smith straitened his back and faced the man sitting next to him. He gave the man a thumbs up and smiled. A light flashed. Lights went on and off in mesmerizing patterns.

"...and we are... live!" the young woman exclaimed suddenly.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Lauchenoiria » Sat Oct 12, 2019 9:33 pm

Espionage Begins At Home

Fleura House, Lauchenoiria
August 1st, 1991

The hot summer sun beat down on the gardens of Fleura House, burning everything in sight. It was an exceptionally hot day, and already President Augustin Méndez’s niece had ended up dizzy and sick after playing outside for too long. The President was worried about her, but he had other things on his mind as he spotted General Felix Toft being led up the path towards where he sat in the shade.

“General, is this good news or bad news?” Méndez said, standing up as his old friend approached.

“Good news, Mr President. Our ship carrying the weapons shipment to Bjeorg has arrived back safely in Lauchenoirian waters without being stopped.”

The President visibly relaxed, and sank back into his seat, gesturing for the General to sit next to him and pouring two glasses of wine for the pair. The General took his seat and his wine, nodding towards Méndez as he did so.

“That is excellent news indeed. Had the ship been stopped, we would have had to consider joining the war, and I’ve made my decision for certain – we’re staying out of it,” Méndez said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“As you wish, Mr President. Do you intend to proceed in aiding in other ways?” queried Toft.

“I do not. I have changed my mind on the matter. I received intelligence that SACA are planning something. We must divert resources into finding out what is happening domestically before we can do anything abroad.”

“That’s concerning to hear. Are you certain the students are capable of anything major?” Toft asked.

“There is reason to believe they are working with other groups, and they are worried that SACA are going to become more militant. I’m of a mind to believe them. We ought to be very concerned that if we get involved in Bjeorg, that LOM may aid domestic terrorists at home.”

“I do not believe they would, but it is better to be careful, I agree, Mr President.”

“We have given them weapons, that will be enough. I have instructed our agents to make sure that the Maximusians know we will take no further action. Hopefully this will be the end of it. What is done is done, we will have to see what happens. Can I offer you something to eat, Felix?”

“No thank you, Mr President, I must be going, I am still on duty.”

“It was good to see you again. We will need to meet again soon, in a more formal setting. We have some things we need to discuss regarding the dissidents on Aeluria.”

“Yes, sir,” Toft said. Méndez nodded and waved his dismissal.

As the General walked away, Méndez sighed in relief. He had been worrying about the Bjeorg shipment since they had discovered that SACA were planning to sabotage it. Their mole at Buttercity University had been providing excellent intelligence recently. The dissidents were building up to something. And Méndez would have to stop it.

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Re: All Quiet on the Western Front

Post by Libertas Omnium Maximus » Mon Oct 14, 2019 5:47 am

Jonestown, Bjeorg
August 1st, 1991 - Early Morning

"Hello everyone! Welcome to our morning show. Today we have a special announcement from the one and only Brian Smith. He joins me live in the studio. I have been told he intends to take this time to make a national address. We will be covering this entirely commercial free so don't touch your tuning knobs. I see no need to waste words further. Mr. Smith, the floor is yours. Laddies and Gentlemen of Bjeorg, I give you the incomparable Governor Brian Smith."

Smith took a deep breath. This would be perhaps his life's most significant speech. Smith nervously adjusted his headset before leaning into the microphone and beginning,

"In a war for independence, winning militarily is hardly the objective. It would be my genuine love to be able to speak truthfully to you all and still say that I believed we could consistently defeat the Maximusian forces. The truth is... I can't. The Maximusians alone outnumber our forces at least 3-1. On top of that, they are better equipped and trained than most of our brave fighters. We will loose ground. This is a sad inevitability that I wish to make abundantly clear.

The truth is, I never expected this war to be easily fought. The Maximusians have taken Martin and the Zamastanians, Old Saybrook. I am deeply saddened by these turn of events, however, I knew them to be inevitable. We simply do not have the man power or weaponry to hold every costal city and village. I mustn't lie to you, we saw this coming a mile away.
That is the significant take away: we anticipated these initial defeats and losses.

A war such as the one you are all, in some capacity, a part of, is not won by winning every skirmish. Wars such as this are won by wearing down the tyrannical oppressor until they finally capitulate. We are in the midst of doing that, I assure you. At each stage of their incursion, our misguided ex-compatriots fall in increasingly large numbers to our forces. We are able to do this because we have spirit! The Bjeorg spirit is what will allow us to keep chipping away at Libertas Omnium Maximus' forces until they are left with no choice but to leave our hallowed shores and never return. We truly believe in our cause. That gives us the edge.

It is no secret that our brave fighters come from numerous different places. You have no doubt seen your local ANM chapter out recruiting for our militia. If you live in this fine city of Jonestown, you have seen our Eirian comrades setting up fortifications. (They truly are of noble stock and are deserving of all your praise. They have come to our aid in our time of need.) You have also seen our brave, formerly "Provincial Guard" (now Grand Army of Bjeorg), out defending our costal cities, like Martin, from the Federal incursions. They are all working for us, the Republic of Bjeorg. Together... our victory is all but inevitable, given time.

Now I address any Maximusians who might be listening in (I hear 98.7 comes through pretty well in some west coast towns). Your government is enabling death. We began this journey with a plea of peace. We wanted a peaceful separation but YOUR government, in their hubris, chose their ego over the well being of their country. Your government has brought this upon themselves! This war began with grenades and bombs. Please, consider ending the war with a peaceful negotiation. If your government declares us an independent and autonomous state, we will ceases hostilities. If your government simply admits its own failure and lets us go, all of this tragedy will end.

Let me make something clear though, we have acquired the means to significantly increase the number of Maximusian Soldier casualties. If your government does make the idiotic decision to proceed with their grim endeavor, they will pay with many more of their soldiers' lives. Every death past this point will be directly the fault of Mrs. Paterson. Every coffin that will return to Maximusian shores will be a needless burden. Families will be torn apart, sisters will loose brothers, wives will loose husbands, mothers will loose sons. It will all be in vain.

I charge you, people of Libertas Omnium Maximus, take to the streets! YOU can end this fruitless conflict. Your government is of the people. All power is derived from the people. He who giveth may taketh away. Make the government of LOM hear your voices. It is a simple plea, let this conflict end in peace.

Lastly, to the Maximusian government, I beg you to come to your senses! For once can your ego not outweigh the moral code you once possessed. I have made my offer. My cards are on the table. You need only say the word and this conflict shall come to a swift resolution. Say the word and you will never be bothered by Bjeorg again. You will never bury another Maximusian soldier who died by the hands of a Bjeorgite soldier again. This should be an easy decision. Alas, I was one of you for many years. I too, know how it feels to have your pride hurt. I can accept your likely decision to prolong warfare in hopes of a more favorable settlement. It's ok, just know that, should you decide to take the route of warfare, you will be rained upon by the fires of hell.

We shall fight to our last! We shall fight until you put a bullet in every man and woman involved in our movement. We are willing to die for the cause. I ask you, Libertas Omnium Maximus, are you?"
Last edited by Libertas Omnium Maximus on Mon Oct 28, 2019 5:48 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Re: Chaos on the Western Front

Post by Lauchenoiria » Fri Oct 25, 2019 10:20 pm

Sleep Once More

Council of Kerlile Chamber
August 1st, 1991

“Well, I do not believe that we can provide any more assistance in Bjeorg,” sighed Councillor Joanna Greenwood. “Though I will confess, I am pleasantly surprised at the success of the Aurora in acquiring information. We shall need to look into the activities of the Eirians more in light of what has been provided, but I do not see the benefit of keeping her active at this time.”

“I am inclined to agree,” nodded Sarah Robinson. “It puts the agent at risk, and they are not a priority. Given the direction of recent events, I believe that we will no longer be able to influence things in any significant manner.”

Councillor Angeline Pierre stood, straightening her clothes and glancing around at each Councillor in turn. The Councillors sat in their horseshoe in alphabetical order, the chamber decorated with the brightly coloured family crests of the Council families, and various ceremonial swords dotted around the room. The light was dim around the edges of the chamber, and brighter in the middle of the horseshoe, which was presently empty.

“Councillors, I am pleased you are happy with the Programme. My mother worked hard on training the Auroras, and it is a shame she is not here today to see the success of her work. It was a long-term undertaking, but her legacy lives on in the work we do today. The Aurora in Bjeorg has served us well, and she can continue to serve us. I do not believe she is at risk of discovery.”

“Are we all agreed?” Councillor Eveline Hart asked of the room. The Councillors nodded in unison, all sitting straight as Angeline took her seat once more. “Then this matter is at a close. We will now break for a fifteen-minute recess, and then upon our return we will discuss the proposal by Councillor Camila Hale, on the subject of restricting the access of civilians to new technologies such as personal computers. We will now break.”

The Councillors all bowed to each other as they stood and filed out of the chamber in order, maintaining silence until they were in the corridor. Councillor Pierre, upon exiting, passed the others, who had gathered with aides, demanding coffees and paperwork, and headed to an office where a woman in nondescript clothing sat.

“Give the order. She is to stand down for now,” Pierre said to the woman, who nodded and turned back to a bulky computer. “How do you even use one of those things?”

“I could show you, ma’am, if you wish?” the woman said.

“No, no, there is not time. Perhaps someday. I know the others are all using them, but I have no wish to. Staring at the television gives me a headache, I can only imagine what a computer would do!”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

“Send the message to the Aurora as soon as possible,” Pierre said then exited, heading for the bathroom before the Council session continued.

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