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Post by Zamastan on Sept 28, 2020 23:19:53 GMT
11:56 PM, Tuesday, September 29th
The skies above Haruya, Jaginistan
Captain Roch Delsarte pulled his helmet visor above his face, revealing the darkness of the night but the simultaneous bright glimmer of the moon and stars across the Z-14 Osprey’s glass cockpit. While he couldn’t observe it for himself being nearly 46,000 feet above the ground, or 8.7 miles, his stealth superiority air fighter was travelling at nearly 750 miles per hour. Just below the sound barrier. Delsarte had flown dozens of night missions like this before, but even he recognized the significance of his current objective. For him, every mission was simply that; another mission. In the back of his mind, however, he knew that this job was different.
Delsarte heard the radio crackle in his helmet, with his commanders and operators connecting back to him from their home base in Vulkar, Vulkaria, nearly six thousand miles away. He slid the visor back over his face, illuminating the dark of the cockpit in a green night vision. He began to slow the speed of the fighter and descended smoothly, albeit rapidly. As his altitude shrunk, he called over his communications to report his status.
“Vulkar, this is Delsarte. Box 555. Treviso Treviso Treviso. Target distance, thirty seconds. Payload ready for release.”
“Roger, Box 555. Treviso confirmation received. Proceed as ready.”
Desarte’s fighter engulfed the clouds as it dropped, and once below the lower line of the clouds, the orange lights of Haruya’s large urban expanse. Roch extended his left hand away from his throttle controls and flicked a module on his fighter’s dashboard, opening the Z-14’s two weapons bay compartments normally concealed by the fighter’s stealth design. A second module switch revealed the fighter’s belly-laden camera, which showed a monitor image of a compound on the outskirts of Haruya. The target was in his sights, and now all he needed was his operator’s clearance for attack.
“Vulkar, Box 555 reporting, visual confirmation on target and weapons system ready. Requesting confirmation for strike.”
“Roger, Box 555. Confirmation accepted, strike is a go. Good luck, Box 555.”
Roch, ever the disciplined air force pilot, kept composure. Behind his stern face, though, he was ecstatic. The image in the monitor showed a man peering over the compound’s balcony, seemingly looking up into the sky as if to watch his incoming fate. Desarte knew the target couldn’t see his fighter, stealthy hidden in the night against the black clouds, but he still imagined he was frozen in place awaiting judgement. With one more flick of a module, and a sign-off call, Desarte reported into his comms channel.
“Strike is a go.”
The weapons compartment unlatched under the belly of the fighter, releasing an AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapon glide bomb which dropped and sailed forward in the air below the fighter before making a sharp downward turn and plunging towards the ground. The bomb was created from a joint venture between the Zamastanian Navy and Air Force to deploy a standardized medium range precision guided weapon, especially for engagement of defended targets from outside the range of standard anti-aircraft defenses, thereby increasing aircraft survivability and minimizing friendly losses. For this mission, however, there was no retaliation, no fear of friendly losses, and no chance of the aircraft being lost. It was just the bomb and its target.
It seemed like only a few moments, but when the device slammed into the roof of the compound in a violent whistle of wind being pierced by the shark-tooth edge of the munition, the building erupted in a spectacular fireball. The target evaporated inside the compound, Desarte thought to himself, there was no way anyone could survive a blast like that.
“Target hit, mission accomplished. Returning to refuelling checkpoint.” Desarte banked his fighter to the northeast and began his long flight back to Vulkar, with a stop in between to refuel midair.
At the Zamastanian Intelligence Services headquarters in Tofino, Zamastan, Director Kirk Faulkman and many of his intelligence officers watched the conference room’s giant projector to observe the compound’s eruption. The footage culminated alongside the fighter’s point of view, as well as the view of a camera from a safe house in Haruya where a Z.I.S. operative team was embedded.
“Get someone there with any responding emergency crews,” Faulkman said. “I want to make sure he’s dead.”
“He’s clearly dead, sir,” an aide responded quickly, “no way he lives after that.”
“That’s what we thought in 2017,” Faulkman shot back, “I just want confirmation. Then, we need to get ready to follow his buddies in Kibul. Once they figure out we killed the leader of Al-Fijar, they’ll want to move quickly to get any plan of attack underway before we take them out. Might as well catch them in the act.”
“Yessir,” an agent standing nearby replied, “we have teams ready to go in Jaginistan. What about the other suspected cells?”
“We’ll have to notify local authorities to be on high alert, but we can take care of the surveillance side of things from here.” Kirk sat in a seat at the end of the conference table, unscrewing the cap from a bottle of water and taking a sip. “And connect me with the heads of the international intelligence community. They’ll want to know that Mukhtar Babu Ubair is dead.”
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Post by Zamastan on Oct 1, 2020 19:56:25 GMT
Tofino, Zamastan
Kingston Neighborhood
Adrian Sardou sat in his Irving leather armchair in his high end studio apartment’s living space. The rain pattered the window, as the view of Kingston Park was shrouded with the light mist that accompanies the autumn rains of Tofino. With a mug of coffee in one hand, prepared by Adrian’s wife, Brianna, who was standing behind the marble island that separated the living space from the stainless steel decorated kitchen, a newspaper occupied his other hand. Adrian’s eyes drained over the words of his current article, about the recent season opener of the Tofino Whitecaps football team. The Sardou family had been lifelong Whitecaps fans, but the season had been a drag for Adrian so far. Apparently being championship winners didn’t help their 2-game losing streak.
On the television playing in the background, ZNN (Zamastan National News) and their newscasters were reporting on the killing of Mukhtar Babu Ubair. Piecing together interviews from Jaginistan civilians who witnessed the explosion of the airstrike, intercut with a vertical cell phone video of a party in Haruya which was interrupted by screams and gasps of exclamation as the building shook with the thunderous boom of the explosion. Finally, Z.I.S. Director Kirk Faulkman standing beside President Atticus Moreau at the Zian Presidential Mansion press room, confirming the death of the Al-Fijar leader.
“Today is a great day for the people of the world who, in such a short time, have witnessed the death and destruction and wanton evil of this malicious group,” Faulkman said in a commanding voice. “Al-Fijar is dangerous and deceitful and evil and will stop at nothing to kill innocents. The Zamastanian Intelligence Service and the Zamastanian Armed Forces will stop at nothing to end their barbaric practice.”
Adrian lowered his newspaper and invested himself in the news broadcast. Faulkman had stepped aside and President Moreau had taken the podium, smiling and nodding to reporters.
“My fellow Zamastanians,” Moreau began, “firstly I would like to express gratitude and thanks to the men and women in our armed forces and intelligence agencies for their exceptional work in locating and killing Babu Ubair. These men and women display the best that our country has in the aspect of defending our freedom and liberties from threats abroad.”
This was the first time aside the inauguration 8 days prior that Adrian had listened to Moreau in any sense. He didn’t vote for the man, whom he disagreed with tremendously on political issues, but he had to admire his public persona of display and performance.
“Babu Ubair is gone, but Al-Fijar is still a threat,” Moreau continued. “They have proven resilient, and make no mistake that they are still a dangerous group. There is no immediate threat to Zamastan in terms of a domestic retaliation, Director Faulkman has assured me. However, foreign interests may be in a spot of concern. We encourage Zamastanians abroad to practice wariness and observe safety procedures.”
“Seriously?” That final comment caught Adrian off guard. He turned to his wife, who had looked up from her own distraction at Adrian’s exclamation. “How does this guy say ‘everything is fine, look how good of a job we did’, and then also say ‘look out, you might be blown up if you go out for frozen yogurt’?”
“Adrian,” Brianna replied, “you know this. It’s standard procedure for the state department to issue travel warnings for us when we travel, especially after planes have been blown out of the sky.”
“It’s just,” Adrian stammered, “for all the years we worked at the Z.I.S. we never had to worry about travel restrictions. Not after the attacks here in Tofino three years ago, not after the war in Vulkaria, not after Gladysynthia shot rockets into Lower Tariel…”
“Adrian.”
“It’s stupid, that’s all.”
“It’s not stupid, honey.” Brianna walked around the island and into the living room, slumping down onto the sofa across from Adrian. “Adrian, listen. Thomas and Dianne live three doors down from us, and their niece was on board Flight 553. Don’t you think that through all of their grief, all of their sadness, all of their sorrow, they might appreciate the President saying ‘be careful if you travel’?”
Adrian sat and paused. He didn’t respond. He understood, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He was feeling resentment for Faulkman, and subsequently Moreau. Adrian had worked at the Zamastanian Intelligence Service for eight years. He met Brianna there, and they married just over three years ago. Adrian had not worked at the Z.I.S. for two years, and now as a security contractor for the Tarin Shipping Line he oversaw the security of their shipping yard in Tofino. It didn’t require him to travel much - only a few miles each day. In the Z.I.S., however, he travelled a lot. He was a field agent, and he had been everywhere from Vulkaria to Yuan to Jaginistan, not that anyone except his wife and superiors in the agency knew. Covert operations was his specialty, Adrian distinctly remembered the time he was nearly caught by security in Yuan while wiretapping a businessman’s office in Shanghan. His missions were often risky, but produced results every time. The Z.I.S. had been able to connect that businessman’s money transfers to a terrorist who detonated a bomb in Quetana in 2013 thanks to the work that Adrian did.
“I just think they’re overstating themselves,” Adrian finally responded. “Overcompensating for a fresh President who wants to make a name for himself.”
“I won’t try to argue with you anymore,” Brianna replied, “you have your convictions and I have mine. We aren’t traveling any time soon, though, so don’t even worry about it.”
Adrian sighed. “Yeah, you’re right.” He laid back into his chair again and reconnected to his newspaper and coffee. “There’s not much going on in retrospect anyways.”
Suddenly a whimper and high pitched scream filled the room, causing Adrian to jolt up and spill his coffee over his lap.
“Damnit,” he cursed under his breath, “Brianna, can you please go take care of Tobie?”
“It’s your turn, Adrian.”
Adrian grunted and stood from his chair, swiping his hand over the coffee stain over his crotch. “This baby, I swear,” he said with a half-hearted chuckle, causing Brianna to reciprocate a smirk from the sofa.
Adrian walked out of the living room and into the master bedroom, over to the Kortina Nursery crib in the corner, where his six-month old son Tobie was crying and stretching out his arms.
“Hey, little man,” Adrian said, reaching down and picking him up, holding him to his chest and bouncing up and down softly to sooth Tobie’s cries. “What are you so sad about? You’re a strong guy, you know? You don’t have to cry.”
Tobie’s whimpers calmed as he pressed his little head into his father’s chest, breathing heavily with tear stained cheeks. Adrian walked over to the window of the bedroom, pulling the white curtains to the side to look out on the skyline of Tofino and the rain, still falling gently against the glass and on the street.
“I guess I’m not in a rush to go anywhere, buddy.”
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Post by Zamastan on Oct 3, 2020 1:57:34 GMT
Tofino, Zamastan
Pitt Neighborhood
In a smokey apartment in Pitt, the most poverty-stricken district of Tofino filled with the smog of Anmore Height’s industrial zones on the Blackfoot River. In a torn chair in a smoky room, Isaam al-Koroma sat smoking a cigarette, taking a long drag as the television played a season 6 rerun episode of Big Brother Vitosium. Jonata Salviati and Calista Brunov were competing for the championship level, but al-Koroma didn’t realize that this episode had aired four years prior, and he didn’t care much. He had much larger things on his mind, and this zoning out of his mental state was to ease himself before the day of destruction he intended to lay upon the city of Tofino.
On the table behind Isaam illuminated by a dim light bulb in the molded ceiling, his younger brother Izzat was fidgeting with a frail, metallic box with a pair of tweezers and wires. Leaned in with immense focus, he intertwined two of the copper wires together with such calmness that it seemed like surgery. He gently lowered the wires into the box, removed his tweezers, and then stood up quickly and wiped his brow, letting out a loud moan of exhaustion.
“Brother, I’m finished,” Izzat said to Isaam, reaching to the bowl on the table besides his project to grab a handful of candies and shove them into his mouth. “Allah will be smiling on you today, Isaam.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, little brother,” Isaam said, not moving his position from his glare at the television, “We will receive our glory soon enough.”
Izzat packaged the device away in a cardboard box situated next to the table, and then walked across to his brother, sitting in an adjacent chair.
“Isaam,” Izzat quizzed with interest, “you knew Mukhtar, didn’t you?”
“Mukhtar, our commander?” Isaam said stoeckly in response to the question regarding the ill-fated Al-Fijar leader.
“Yes, you knew him when you trained in Jaginistan.”
“I did.”
“What was he like?”
Isaam, ever the quiet brother, smiled softly and took his remote to mute the television. “He was a wise scholar and a charitable man. Men with as much knowledge and lifetime as him rarely share what they have with others, especially with their subordinate followers. Babu Ubair was compassionate too, never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“So then why did the devil’s nation kill him, brother?” Izzat, only fifteen, asked his twenty-six-year-old brother. The two brothers had come to Zamastan from Jaginistan in 2009, when Izzat was only four years old. Their father had died from the drought in Jaginistan, and their mother had gathered enough saved money to get them to a better life. However, poverty befell them in Zamastan. The government failed to deliver their support food packages that were granted to them under refugee status, and as a result, their mother perished in a particularly cold winter in the Pitt Neighborhood.
This instated a rage of hatred in Isaam, who blamed Zamastan’s government for the failures that led to the death of his mother and for the problems in his homeland that forced their family into disparity. Izzat was raised by his older brother, and learned from Isaam that Zamastan was the root of evil and needed to be punished. Izzat had only stepped foot outside the Pitt neighborhood twice since arriving in Zamastan; once to help his brother pick up a friend from the Tofino International Airport, and another time to a shooting range an hour north of the sprawling metropolis.
“The devils killed him because they were scared of him,” Isaam answered his younger brother. “They were scared of the knowledge and change he would bring to the world. Scared of the tide of Allah that would sweep their land.”
“Who would be scared of Allah?”
Isaam paused, fuming. “Infidels, Izzat. Infidels who we will show today the power of Babu Ubair.”
Izzat innocently and happily followed his brother out the apartment, carrying the cardboard box in his arms, and down the stairs out to the rainy street, where they walked a half block to Isaam’s green and rusted car. Isaam told Izzat to place the box in the back seat of the sedan, which he did, and the two brothers took their places in the front of the vehicle. Isaam sputtered the engine to life and drearily pulled out into the street, ignoring the honking of another car he almost sideswiped.
The two drove for about five minutes, before Isaam cursed softly under his breath and stopped at a stop light.
“What is it, Isaam?” Izzat wondered.
“I’m dropping you off, brother.”
“What,” Izzat wondered back, confused. “Where? At the apartment?”
“No,” Isaam shot back, shifting the car into park. “Right here.”
“Isaam,” Izzat protested, “I want to go with you!”
Isaam reached over, grabbing his little brother’s shoulder and pulling him close, their foreheads touching. His face was red, but out of emotion rather than rage. “Izzat, this is my calling. This is my mission and my mission alone. You will hear about me once I finish, but you must remember one thing.” Isaam pulled back, glaring at Izzat with heavy set eyes. “I did this for you.”
Isaam unlocked the doors of the car, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled money fold. Handing it to Izzat, he smiled. “Go get yourself something to eat. I’ll see you around, little brother.”
Izzat stepped out of the car into the cold, with the people on the sidewalks looking strangely at him and the cars that had been stopped behind Isaam slow to drive ahead. Izzat composed himself and his immense confusion, walking across the intersection to a convenience store with the intention of purchasing a chocolate bar. Meanwhile, Isaam resumed the drive and the mission he had been preparing for months.
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Post by pretzelbomb on Oct 3, 2020 6:12:50 GMT
Wednesday, September 30th
8:29 A.M.
Timber Boulevard, Novada, Durnstaal
Muneef al-Meskin walks down the sidewalk, slowly drinking his last cup of coffee for the week. Pedestrians crowd the sidewalk around him as rush hour traffic crawls down the street. He savors the hot beverage, trying to overpower both the oppressive cityscape and the dull ache in his leg. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the warm steam on his face. Warmth like a fire... No. He must push those thoughts from his head. He returns from his momentary bliss and continues walking. A man nearby coughs, another yells out his friend's name to call him over, yelling... No. He looks out into traffic, trying to lose himself in the sea of vehicles. A sedan stops a carlength short of the stopbar, a utility van makes an illegal U-turn, a firetruc-
Sirens. Coughing. Yelling. Heat. Explosions. Choking. Screaming. Fire.
The boys run, faster than they've ever run before. Their father leads them through alleyways and across confused streets, away from the bleeding body of their mother and the separatists who shot her dead. The air is full of smoke. The ground is covered in broken glass. Finally, their father leads them down a staircase in an alleyway, entering into a small bar through the back door. The boys sit down, exhausted from their journey. Once he's made sure they're alright, their father sits down between them. Several seconds pass in silence. The younger boy begins crying first, followed by his brother and finally their father.
The click of a pistol slide quickly gets their attention as two men stand at the far end of the hall, pointing guns at the three of them. Their father places himself between the men and his children, explaining what had happened, how their home had been destroyed and their community slaughtered, how his wife had been executed in the street. The men heard what he said and were disgusted. They shared a look and knew what had to be done. The man with the pistol shot their father in the knee. The man with the rifle shot him through the stomach, the bullet passing through him and glancing off of the younger boy's shin.
Pain. Fear. Sadness. The older boy grabbed the younger boy and practically carried him out through the door, a pair of bullets impacting the guardrail as they rounded the corner. They ran. They heard footsteps following them. They ran more. The footsteps faded. The young boy began to feel faint. His left foot felt cold. They heard sirens. Different sirens. Doctor sirens. His brother led him towards them.
His vision began to blur at the edges when the ambulance came into sight. The doctors were trying to load three gurneys into a vehicle designed to hold one. The closed the doors when they were a block away. They were out of sight by the time they reached where they had been parked. The older brother desperately looked around for another but saw nothing. He found a forgotten first aid kit, half empty with a bullet lodged in the cover, and began desperately wrapping bandages around his brother's leg. The younger brother screams in pain as the white bandages quickly turn red. The pain begins to subside. His tells him to stay there, he's going to find help.
He sees his brother run down the street. He sees the APC round the corner. He sees the group of soldiers following it. He sees a pair of men in an alleyway pick up a tube. He sees the explosion rip into the building behind the soldiers. He sees the flashes of gunfire that follow immediately after. He sees the two men collapse. He hears a rifle clatter to the ground. He sees the gun's owner slumped over the balcony she was standing on. He hears the string of death leave the APC's machine gun. He sees a thousand bullets miss their targets.
He sees one hit his brother.
"Sir? Sir, are you ok?"
Muneef breaks from his stupor. He's leaning heavily on a lamppost and his coffee sits in a puddle at his feet. The cop tapping his shoulder looks concerned.
"Yes, I'll... I'll be fine." Is all he can manage.
He tosses his empty cup in a nearby trash can and continues down the street, ever-aware of the dull ache in his leg.
He'll be fine. Soon, everything will be just fine.
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Post by pretzelbomb on Oct 6, 2020 20:03:09 GMT
Thursday, October 1st
2:32 P.M.
Chemistry 221, Kalach College of Engineering, Kavyat, Durnstaal
"...and the reaction between the coordinate compounds..."
Harik Majbul Haamar sat in a middle row paying half-attention to the guest speaker talking at the front of the room. Everyone in the room was already familiar with what he was talking about, they had covered it last semester, but at least tried to look attentive out of politeness. Harik had his laptop open in front of him, screen covered in diagrams and simulations. Anyone looking from the front assumed he was taking notes, any who glanced at the screen from behind would assume he was doing homework or his thesis. Perhaps this was his thesis in a way.
A simulation plays out on his laptop, the machine barely able to run the necessary calculations and itself at the same time. 4 more laptops and another 3 computers in his dorm room ran similar simulations while he sat through his classes. His thoughts of brisance and primers wandered to his education as a whole. He could never get enough of it back home. All the smart professors fled Jaginistan during the civil war and even if they hadn't he'd left when he was just 12. Emmiria had shown more promise but he'd struggled to find an opportunity he found worthy.
He was already planning to move out of the country when he'd met Amru. He was the perfect set of skills for what Amru needed of him and he had savored every task he was given. Masterpiece after masterpiece, each surpassing the last, each proving his skill to the world. He wasn't an idiot; he watched the news and recognized his bombs' handiwork amidst the scrap metal and gore of an Al-Fijar attack. He was disappointed. It could have done so much more.
He worked with Amru for a few months before the offer came. They'd send him abroad both to increase his skill and keep the authorities off of his trail. Kalach was a prestigious school, but the chemistry program wasn't their strong suit. Still, he'd learned much and his newly gained knowledge of structural engineering was very useful in his simulations. Perhaps he'd finally experiment with thermite, there's plenty of scrap aluminum available...
Amru had been very direct when he told him to lay low. "No attacks, no bombs, nothing to connect you to us. You are just a foreign student studying abroad." he'd said. He just doesn't understand. Diagrams and simulations are wonderful tools, but the only true way to learn something is live application. He'd plan it out to the finest detail. Can't have unknown variables skewing his results, after all.
Simulation #58 finally finished. He looked at the results and compared them to simulations #32, #12, and #28; the most promising so far. The yield was good, much less powerful than #12 but would be much harder to detect beforehand. It was roughly equivalent to #32 in efficiency and yield but didn't require military-grade equipment. It's the best gaseous dispersal pattern he's had yet, far surpassing that of #28.
He pulls up simulation #35 and compares the two. Gaseous dispersal had interested him greatly but had proved limited in scope compared to the more conventional ordinance he was familiar with. #35 was one of his best conventional bombs but had been put on the backburner in favor of a new line of research. One is powerful but boring, one is weaker but novel. Hm, why choose?
Several smaller explosives of varying types, all arrayed in a very specific way and detonated in sequence... This would be interesting. He began working on new variable templates, preparing a whole suite of new simulations to run as he wondered where he would strike. As an afterthought, he shifted his attention to the speaker, who had begun his closing remarks.
"...and I leave you with this: 'Chemistry is necessarily an experimental science: its conclusions are drawn from data, and its principles supported by evidence from facts.' Remember that and you shall do well."
Harik would do far more than remember those wise words.
Far, far more.
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Post by Zamastan on Oct 6, 2020 23:46:03 GMT
Kingston Neighborhood
Tofino
Adrian sat behind the coffee-shop’s protectorate glass as the bustling street filled the air in an all-too-familiar ambience to him. Adrian loved the Tofino streets, and on his day off from extensive paperwork and with Brianna home with little Tobie, he indulged himself in coffee from his neighborhood’s Ferranza outlet, about two blocks from the Sardou family apartment. Rain still poured from the skies and splashed The creamy hot vanilla mixed the bitterness of the coffee to Adrian’s delight, enjoying himself as a rarity in his hectic life. Across from him sat a rugged looking man with a thick, graying beard, but chiseled features and deepened eyes. Travis Harrison served alongside Adrian during their time at the Z.I.S., but neither one tended to reflect or linger their thoughts long on their experiences at the Service. Nowadays, both content fathers with steady, well-paying jobs, with low risk compared to their days as field agents, they cared more towards their lives in the present, a philosophy Adrian learned from Travis.
“We don’t always get sunny days in Tofino,” Travis said, gesturing outside, “and I guess today is just another non-sunny day.”
“I like the rain,” Adrian reposed, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip, “it keeps me focused.”
“Drowns out the baby, doesn’t it?” Travis chuckled. “How is the family, bro?”
“Brianna’s good, Tobie’s a handful. But that’s what I knew being a dad would be like. I wanted a family and now I’ve got one.”
“On accident?” Travis said jokingly.
“Hey, Tobie wasn’t an accident,” Adrian replied, laughing, “just an unforeseen complication that turned into a blessing.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve gotten soft, man.”
“You haven’t?”
“Listen, the day I go soft is the day I die.”
Adrian laughed, motioning his hand towards Travis’ tattoo on his neck. “So what’s that, then?”
Travis pulled his shirt collar down slightly. “This? T+V+T. Travis, Vanessa, Tommy.”
Adrian smirked. “Sounds like you went soft.”
“A tattoo with my wife and kid’s name isn’t soft.”
“No, but Tommy? Come on man, what a softy name.”
“Hey,” Travis said sternly, leaning forward and pointing at Adrian’s face, “Tommy is a little badass.”
Adrian smacked Travis’ hand away, laughing harder and buckling over in his seat.
“Travis, man, you’ve definitely gone soft.”
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Isaam, scoweredly looking straight ahead and hunkered over the steering wheel, drove slowly and inconspicuously down Olivar Street, rain pattering the windshield as people walked the sidewalks under umbrellas and facades to avoid the rain and as cars honked at each other to get the traffic moving. His palms were sweaty as he looked back into the backseat, where the cardboard box containing Izzat’s device was sitting. The traffic was slowing his plans, as was the rain. But as long as he could reach the Congressional Hall by three in the afternoon when the lawmakers would typically close their sessions and leave their offices, he would be in a perfect position.
The drive had infuriated him. He had left his apartment and his little brother nearly three hours ago, and everything was slightly behind schedule due to all the unforeseen circumstances of traffic and weather. He had anticipated a drive no longer than an hour to an hour and a half. Tofino’s wide highways and wide streets usually weren’t as congested, but the metro system along his route was shut down due to repairs. Because of this, he now found himself behind several large semi-trucks on the narrow Olivar Street in Kingston, at an intersection localized by coffee shops, restaurants, and a shopping center, flanked above by the highrise offices in the stories on top.
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Travis sipped his coffee and took a long look outside, while Adrian scanned the coffee shop. He loved this spot in particular. The rustic look of the building with displayed bricks and metal adorning the walls left a nice contemporary style that he admired, and the friendliness glowing from the faces of the baristas was contagious. A serious man like himself didn’t find happiness or pleasure in many things of genuine authenticity, but this location was his favorite. His stomach growled subtly and Adrian wondered if he might go for a sandwich from the restaurant’s brunch selection -
“Adrian,” Travis said, snapping Adrian out of his trance and bringing him to attention, “what does that look like to you?”
Adrian followed Travis’ gaze outside, peering to a green, rusted sedan in the street’s congested traffic. Inside sat a man of Central Ausiana appearance, darker complexion, wearing a hoodie over his head despite being inside the car and shielded from the rain.
“What about it?” Adrian asked.
“That dude,” Travis said, “doesn’t he look a little sketch to you, man?”
Adrian looked over at the man again, who kept looking forward to the semi trucks in front of him, and then back into the backseat. It was weird, sure, but nothing that Adrian thought was unusual.
“You’re profiling, man.” Adrian said, sternly. “That’s a dangerous thing to do.”
“No, I’m not profiling,” Travis protested, “he just looks sketchy.”
“Hey,” Adrian snapped. “He’s just a guy driving to work and pissed about being stuck in traffic. Don’t worry about him.”
Travis frowned, taking one last look and then turning away, back to his coffee.
“He looks like the guys we fought in Jaginistan,” Travis said, bluntly.
“Hey,” Adrian shot back again. “You’re doing that thing again. Just because he’s Jagini doesn’t mean he’s a bad dude.”
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Isaam wandered his gaze. A outlet shopping area to his left, where people were flowing in and out of the rotating doors, and to the right was a Ferranza coffee shop, filled to the brim with diners and occupants, both inside the building and under the outdoor seating facade. Isaam, looking back to the cardboard box and back up to the shop, felt an urge inside him.
“These devils,” Isaam whispered to himself. “If I can’t make it to the Congress in time, I’ll do it here.”
Isaam turned his attention back to the steering wheel as the brake lights of the semi truck turned off, indicating the traffic was moving again. Isaam lifted his foot from the brake pedal, moving slowly forward, when suddenly the semi truck’s brake lights flashed once again. Isaam reacted too late, bumping the front of his car into the back of the semi truck, curling the hood of his engine backwards in a metal scrapping.
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Adrian and Travis looked up at the sound of a metal crash, as did many occupants of the coffee shop. The green sedan had a very minor fender bender with the semi truck in front of it. Air bags hadn’t deployed, and the driver looked physically fine. He was, however, visually angry.
“Bad driver,” Travis remarked, causing Adrian to flash another scowl at him.
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Isaam pounded his dashboard with his fist angrily. He was done with his journey, whether he liked it or not. The delay from this crash, however minor it was, put an end to his first plan. Time for plan two, he thought.
A loud knocking sound jolted Isaam, and he turned his head to see the driver of the semi truck, who had run over and was banging on his window demanding for him to open up. Isaam rolled the window down, and the driver started yelling.
“What the hell, man?” he exclaimed, furiously, “As if the traffic wasn’t bad enough already.”
Isaam stared at the man, anger in his eyes.
“What?” The driver threw his hands into the air, motioning for Isaam to respond. “Can you even speak?”
Isaam, letting the man vent at him as his own distraction, opened the glove box of his car and reached over quickly, grabbing a pistol from the compartment and whipping it around to the driver’s side, pointed directly at the semi truck driver’s head. The driver stopped, stunned, throwing his hands up and beginning to back away slowly. Isaam narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
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“This is trouble,” Adrian said under his breath.
The driver of the truck was at the sedan’s pilot side and had been yelling, but now had stammered and quieted down, backing away. Adrian and Travis couldn’t see the gun, but they were alerted to it with a loud crack. The semi truck driver’s head snapped back and a mist of red filled the air behind him as he crumpled backwards to the ground.
“Adrian!” Travis shouted, throwing his coffee to the ground and standing up out of his seat, lunging towards the door of the cafe. Both men pushed the cafe door open as screams of onlookers filled the air, people inside the coffee shop hunkering down and quivering while people on the street began to run.
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The driver fell to the asphalt with a thud, and Isaam turned his attention quickly to the backseat. His cover was blown, and it was time to finish his journey. As he ripped the box open and revealed the metal container adorned with wires, he looked up to see pedestrians running frantically from the scene, while a few from the sidewalk rushed to the car to attend to the driver he had just shot. Adrian grabbed the box and hauled it into the front seat with him, muttering praises to himself in the lowkey panic of his actions.
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Travis was the first to reach the side of the car, and upon observing the blood pooling the ground around the driver, pounded on the glass window of the sedan, yelling for the attention of the man inside.
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Isaam looked on as a burly, ridged man thudded his fists against the window of his car. Smiling, Isaam stared back into his face and revealed the container he was holding.
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Adrian was the first to see the bomb.
“Travis!” he shouted desperately. “Get away from there!”
Travis looked back to Adrian, confused and curious even while passionately furious.
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Isaam ripped away the protective wires of the bomb, and with a blood-curdling cry screamed out “Allah-u-ackbar!”
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The blast erupted viciously, engulfing the car and Travis, throwing Adrian back through the imploding windows of the coffee shop and sending debris into the buildings and fleeing pedestrians in the immediate proximity of the explosion. In a violent moment, the loud boom was gone and dust filled the street, screams filled the air even more excruciatingly. Adrian, covered head to toe in caked dirt and concrete powder, grunted as he forcibly pushed a large slab of stone off of his chest. There was a sharp pain in his side, as he looked down and noticed his shirt was wet with soaked blood. He coughed, trying to clear his throat. His ears were ringing, he couldn’t hear anything. The once rustic, snazzy look of the coffee shop had turned into a grey, molested appearance as motionless bodies plastered the floor and the ghouls of survivors staggered their way out of rubble, covered in blood and dust. Everything was on fire, too, and every breath that Adrian took filled his lungs with smoke. He could make out the flaming crater that once was the sedan and the semi truck, but only smoldering twisted metal remained as he started to realize that Travis had been blown to oblivion.
Adrian sat up, breathing heavily and wincing in pain, watching as people frantically began pushing away rubble and calling for loved ones and friends, who were trapped underneath. The entire front of the building had been blown away, and the six-story complex opposite of them on the other side of the street had crumbled.
Adrian staggered to his feet, stumbling over the chunks of broken concrete and bricks as he made his way outside, looking up and down the street. Everything was grey, fire, and smoke. He felt dizzy. He stepped forward and the ground flew up to meet him. Then everything went dark.
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Post by tervali on Oct 7, 2020 13:36:03 GMT
Dekalian Street Apartments, Tervius, Tervali Islands
7:32 PM
Abdur Razzaaq el-Idris sat at the kitchen island, watching the water pot slowly come to a boil on the stove. His friend, Mufeed al-Naderi, sat in the other room, reading a book on Tervali history. He had attempted to dissuade Mufeed from reading books from the library in their part of Tervius, lest he lose his conviction, but he was insistent on learning the history of the people around him. Though he really doubted that anything Mufeed read would lose his nerve by now. He's too hungry for revenge. We both are.
When Abdur first moved to the Tervali Islands, his little sister Fatima had moved with him, fleeing their unstable home in an even more unstable region. He was eighteen years old at the time, and Fatima was only nine. He worked hard, trying to give both of them a better life. She always wanted to help others, and so, after she graduated in 2016, she enrolled in nursing school. That's where she met Mufeed. They became fast friends, and boyfriend and girlfriend just as fast. She moved in with Mufeed in a new apartment closed to their nursing school, to reduce their daily commute.
Unfortunately, they had unknowingly moved into a radical Tervali supremacy community. The bullying, discrimination, and even sometimes physical violence wore Fatima down. That spark of kindness, that determination to care for others, had faded in her. Even with Mufeed there to comfort her, she fell hard. And eventually, in December 2018, she just couldn't take it anymore. Mufeed had tried desperately to save her, to stop the bleeding from her wrist. Even with Mufeed and the Paramedics' efforts, she passed away.
At this point, Abdur had already been driven to considering joining the Al-Fijar movement, pushed by the mistreatment his sister had received. But as the days ran on, and it sank in that she was never coming back, his anger was reborn. And though he was expecting to be alone in his fight, Mufeed insisted on joining him
It was the idea of Abdur's local Imam, a Mister Sayeed, for him to bond with Mufeed and be united in grief. However, he probably wasn't expecting the pair to get involved with Al-Fijar. Sayeed preached forgiveness and Unity, something Abdur had despised. How dare he preach forgiveness, especially to the loved ones of someone who was driven to suicide by Tervali harassment. How can he stand there and say we should get to know the Tervali people as a whole? He's just as bad as they are!
He had initially been reluctant to bring Mufeed on, but the kid had worn him down. He had even grown to like the kid. But he was concerned with the childlike naïveté that Mufeed still held on to. He doesn't think all Tervali should be punished. He thinks some of them are innocent. He doesn't realize all of them have enabled this disgusting harassment that lead to Fatima's death. It's their fault she's dead. And they will pay.
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Post by vitosium on Oct 7, 2020 22:24:21 GMT
The Terrorist Twins (Part 1)
October 10th, 2004
Al-Rahimi Manor in Al Nuzheer, Saudi Jiddiya
They stood outside their late father's estate. Two brothers, born rivals, now united under a single cause: the mystery of their father's second life leading up to his death. The twins, Jamaal and Zakariyya al-Rahimi, born January 5th, 1989, held each-other close as they pondered what led to such a tragedy. Jamaal, considered the stronger-willed of the two, always looked after Zakariyya. At the same time, a part of him also looked down on him. "If the rumours are true, they'll come after us as well," Jamaal told his brother. "They say that our father was a part of al-Fijar." "Faw ... ther?" Zakariyya asked, rather confused. His grasp on English was decent but not as good as his brother's. " Alab," Jamaal responded. "In English, alab is father." Zakariyya had never felt equal to his twin brother. While his brother strived, he found himself trailing behind. He knew he wasn't dumb but, compared to his brother, anybody would feel that way. In a twisted sense, this lead Zakariyya to both fear the ego his brother could develop but also respect him for his leadership and intuition. Jamaal, on the other hand, could sense his brother's dependency over the years and soon grew to take advantage of it. "What now?" Zakariyya asked, concerned over his and Jamaal's lives. "What we ... do?" "We see if the rumours are true," Jamaal replied, looking at the house they once grew up in with solemn.
May 20th, 2006
Apartment Building in Al Nuzheer, Saudi Jiddiya
It had been two and a half years since that point. Once their father had passed, any semblance of luxury in their lives was now a part of their past. After two years of odd jobs, the twins were able to afford an apartment. While it wasn't the most comfortable by any means, it was a roof over their heads. Over time, Zakariyya's grasp on English increased but so did his dependency on his brother. Jamaal, in a dramatic fashion, pulled his brother in close to him. "It could be worse, brother," he whispered in Zakariyya's ear. The twins looked at each-other. "At least we have each-other," Zakariyya told him. "Without you, we wouldn't be where we are now." Just like that, Jamaal pushed Zakariyya off of him and pinned him to the ground. "What do you mean by that!?" he snarled, clearly livid at his interpretation of his brother's remark. "I-I-I-I mean, w-w-w-ithout you, we wouldn't h-h-have this apartment!" Zakariyya shouted in panic. "I'm glad you know that..." Jamaal stood over the other twin and gave him a piercing glance. He knew that it was his intuition and connections that led to them having this apartment. He knew that Zakariyya would do anything he asked, which is how Jamaal approached arduous tasks. After all, that is what family is for, right? As Zakariyya stood up, Jamaal pulled him in close once more in an embrace. "Without me, you wouldn't have the experience you do now," he told him. "Without me, you wouldn't know how to do anything." He then leaned in closer to his ear. "Without me, you would be nowhere," he whispered in Zakariyya's ear. "Don't ever forget that." This is how it all began for them. Following Jamaal's leadership, they soon discovered the truth about their father. Instead of cowering, they chose to continue their father's legacy and join al-Fijar. |
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Post by vitosium on Oct 7, 2020 23:46:55 GMT
The Terrorist Twins (Part 2)
February 19th, 2007Albert Cross University in Valomao, Navocalco, Vitosium
The twins had managed to move to Vitosium in 2007 under student visas. They had both enrolled in Albert Cross University.While both brothers had experienced bouts of racism from some of their peers, it was Zakariyya who experienced the brunt of it, due to Jamaal showing them that he was not somebody to be messed with. Six months into their first year, the bullying had stopped, seemingly overnight. "Did you threaten them?" Zakariyya asked Jamaal one day in their apartment. "Did you hurt them?" Jamaal proceeded to sit on their couch, his hands clasped below his chin, and gave him a smile. "You know I'm always going to be there for you, Zak," he replied. "I did what I did for you. I didn't want them to hurt you anymore." Zakariyya was scared. If anything happened, it would get back to the police. A single investigation could reveal their ties to al-Fijar. However, as if Jamaal read his mind, he spoke in a reassuring voice. "No, I did not hurt them," he told his brother. "I simply had a small chat--no weapons involved." Zakariyya sat beside him. Jamaal put his arm around him and pulled him in close. "If need be, we can talk to Jawaad." It would be obvious to anybody that Jamaal was talking out his ass. Behind his reassuring gaze was pure bloodlust, just waiting to be released. Zakariyya, however, just saw a supportive brother. Once he was told that they weren't threatened, his stressed dissipated and he remained calm for the evening. The truth, though, was that the six bullies were threatened. If anything was said, Jamaal would contact Jawaad and the six bullies would disappear overnight. Unbeknownst to the arrogant twin, a move like that would be traced back to them and Jawaad would never do something to compromise anybody in the organization.
April 7th, 2011
Albert Cross University in Valomao, Navocalco, Vitosium
It was over two years since the bullying stopped. Both brothers were, at this point, dating. Zakariyya had met an astrology student named Rae Comio while Jamaal was with a civil engineering student named Natalie Coraliso. For Zakariyya, this was his last year in Geography and Aviation. "It'll be a year for Natalie and I soon," Jamaal told his brother. "Her personality is, no doubt, what intrigues me the most about her." "Intrigues you?" Zakariyya asked, hoping for clarification. "She's kind and caring," he replied. "I guess you could say she is ... innocent." A smile formed on his face and his eyes sparkled. He sprawled across the wall, drool seeping from his mouth. "I'm in love with her, Zak!" he expressed with glee. "I'm in love with the possibilities with her!" His eyes closed and his arms spread out across the living room wall, he slowly slid down towards the ground. "The look in her eyes," he continued. "You can tell she's just like you!" He leaped up from the ground and embraced his brother. "A girl like you ... that's what I need," he said quietly. "A girl who would be nowhere without me." Jamaal's face was filled with glee. Natalie Coraliso, a wealthy girl born in Rayburn, Kingsland, now in a university in Valomao dating what could only be described as a sociopath. Zakariyya was oblivious to his brother's intentions, unaware that the possibility of Natalie doing whatever Jamaal desired is what led his charismatic nature to her heart. "Now, if I had a night with a thrillseeker like Rae ..." Zakariyya suddenly pulled away. "You have Natalie," Zakariyya told him. "You don't need Rae." The smile faded from Jamaal's face. "Do I need to remind you?" he said menacingly. He grabbed his brother by his arm and got right in his face. "I did so much for you and you can't even do this for me," he growled. "I'm the reason why we got those student visas, I'm the reason why you chose Geography and Aviation, I'm the reason why you and Rae met." Jamaal then lessened his grip and lowered his head. "From the moment our father died 'til now," he continued. "I've been there for you every step of the way. It's like you don't even care about me." "I do," Zakariyya told him. "No, you don't," Jamaal replied. "You've been ungrateful this entire time and that hurts me!" His voice then lowered. "Maybe Rae would be better off with me," he said. "I know how to be grateful." With that, he left the apartment. Rae, however, didn't want anything to do with Jamaal. She saw him as arrogant and immature while she loved Zakariyya's loving heart. That night when Jamaal approached her, she turned him down. He knew better than to push any further. When she called Zakariyya later that night, his eyes lit up knowing that, for once, Jamaal wasn't going to get his way and he was happy! The way Jamaal wanted to get in between him and Rae sparked a special kind of anger. That is when he developed a sort of change. That is when, in a moment of adrenaline and anger towards Jamaal, he plotted and killed Natalie Coraliso in a park across town later that week. To him, to get back at Jamaal, he took something away from him and, to this day, the case was never solved and Jamaal never knew what his brother did. From that point forward, Zakariyya al-Rahimi became a murderer ... just like his brother. |
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Post by tervali on Nov 4, 2020 3:13:08 GMT
Amana Vena-taia Headquarters, Kaisin District, Tervius
Nira Teala-Seka backed away from the figure in the darkness, using her staff to stabilize herself as she dodged two more blows from her attacker's staff. She launched two more attacks of her own, one hitting the figure's staff, one making contact with their leg. The attacker stumbled, but recovered quickly, launching a fury of attacks at Nira, which she deftly dodged.
Both combatants moved in a sort of tempo, almost as if dancing. They circled each other, careful to not let down their guard. The figure leaped forward, and the duel began again, the crack of wooden staffs echoing across the walls. Nira driven by an odd combination of Adrenaline and practice, each move seeming dangerous, yet familiar. Have I been doing this too much?
Suddenly, she spotted an opening in her opponent's defense, even though her opponent was a silhouette in the thick darkness. Her attacker, while focusing on trying to get a solid hit with their staff, had neglected their lower body defense. She landed a solid kick on the leg, making her attacker stumble and fall. She then swiftly ran towards them, pinning them on the ground. She felt a couple pats on her wrist.
"Tona" the figure said in a breathless voice. She released the figure and helped him up. "Turn the lights back on, please!". She shouted through the room in Tervali. The fluorescent lights blinded her as the darkness was split, revealing a vast padded gym. Her opponent, though winded, gave her a trademark grin. "You got me this time. What do I owe you?". He pulled out his wallet.
"Only a drink. You know, for tradition." She grinned back. Anaran Keta-Konan was her best friend, and they had been betting drinks over their combat ever since they joined the Amana Vena-taia, known in English as the House of Shadows. They were a pretty even match, so they both were pretty much even as far as bar tabs were concerned. It was their little tradition, a constant in a job where nothing else was predictable.
A small chuckle from the edge of the padded arena interrupted their joking. Sera Nela-Kainta, their mentor and commanding officer, walked towards the pair. "How many times must I remind you that betting on fights is looked down on by the Venarakai?" She said with a small smile on her face.
Anaran paused for a moment. "Weren't you the one who ran the betting pool on our fights before that rule was put in place?".
A raised eyebrow and a small smile answered his question as she pressed on. "Anyways, We must be aware of the state of our domestic intelligence. Multiple Terrorist attacks have already happened in nations across the globe, and we must be aware of what happens if one happens here."
Now it was Nira's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You think Al-Fijar will target somewhere on the Islands? The odds of that are astronomical. We have maintained a solid Neutrality since the war, it's highly unlikely that they would target us."
"Nevertheless, it's good to remain vigilant. Astronomical things do happen, you know." She paused. "You two are being placed on Domestic Intelligence assignments, effective immediately. We haven't had a severe possible threat in years, and I want my two prodigies handling it before anyone else does." She said that last part in a whisper. Sera rarely ever showed favoritism, and had a reputation of being rigid and harsh, so the small display of friendship destroyed any complaint the pair had on being assigned to slow Domestic Intel positions.
The moment quickly passed, and Sera donned her strict mask once more. "Get working. Report any findings to me straight away."
"Yes, Kesani". They used her formal rank and bowed, a traditional response to such an order. They left the room, under the watchful eyes of their mentor. Even after the pair had left, she was still watching the door they had left through, her face hiding an unknown emotion.
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Abdur Razzaaq el-Idris stood on Tervius's famous Kesaru Bridge, watching the Narasai river flow below him. He had seen this exact scenery for the past two weeks, as he worked as a temporary repair engineer for the historic bridge. The tall stone and steel pillars rose above him, casting beautiful, intricate shadows across the passerbys crossing below. It's almost a shame that these shadows won't be here tomorrow.
He took another moment to drink in the view, then began walking, passing other pedestrians and cars who were blissfully unaware of the danger they were in. His place was casual, yet hurried, and he reached the end of the bridge in a few minutes. He stopped, turned around one last time, and said a quick prayer to Allah, before pressing the device hidden in his pocket. Loud booms echo across the river, and people immediately turn and look at the bridge.
Screams echoed across the blue water as the support beams of the iconic bridge bend and snap. Pedestrians and cars start rushing too both Bridge ends, however only a few lucky ones make it to the edge. The pavement snapped and cracked, pieces falling into the rushing river below, occasionally taking a pedestrian with them. Loud cracks and groans were drowned out by screams as the bridge finally fell, shocked onlookers on either side frozen in terror.
And as Abdur watched it all, he felt… nothing. No satisfaction. No elation. No horror or regret. He just felt hollow. And even as he watched people fall and be swept away in the river, he felt no conflict over his decision.
He wasn't sure if he could feel anymore.
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