Beautancus
Well-Known Member
The Warrens, Old Hrodino Side
Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia, Federation of Międzymorze
14 Jan 2011, 19:24
The crackpot meteorologists had made claims that the citizens of both Hrodino's would see something approaching a clear sky by Christmas Eve. In the two weeks since then, there'd been not a hint the sun in the deepening gray skies- and very little hint that the ferocious snows that this season had thus far yielded would be soon abated. It was unsurprising to any real Sarmatian...trying to tell the future in any way was an enterprise bound for ruin. That was the Province of the Divine, and none else.
As it was, two feet of snow yet stood on the frozen streets of the spiritual heart of the Federation. Businesses had even closed, some for weeks now- such an occurrence remarkable in its own right. It was perhaps more accurate to say that most legitimate businesses had closed down for that long- as vice never slept in the Warrens, nor in the "two cities" that encapsulated that vastness of overgrown hamlets that had been devoured by the industrial sprawl of the old Sarmatian capital in the latter Antebellum Years.
Internal musings aside, Lieutenant-Inspector Ignacy Mniszech admitted that the boys "working for the city" had done a bang-up job of getting the roads clear, more than well enough to drive on during the day, and still passable in most places by night. It had been considered passable for a field officer of the Special Inspectorate of the Federal Reserve, even when the heaviest snows were crushing the breathtaking sprawl of the twin-cities. Mniszech had certainly been out earlier in the evening, and had in fact even drawn and fired his sidearm. That was another turn to his dangerously distracting fits of self-consuming dialogue that he would not add willingly.
Allowing his bulky government-issue Bród '08 K-Model SUV to come to an easy rest at a particularly touch and go intersection, he rifled through the far too numerous pockets in his (also government issued) charcoal-colored great-coat. Finally satisfied with what he'd discovered in the latest pocket, he jammed the hand-rolled hashish imbued cigarillo into the corner of his mouth. A sliver of his mind recalled a time when he spent the majority of his waking hours hunting unsuspecting smugglers and black bazaar peddlers that engaged in just such habits, or made moves to refine a vocation that allowed for such habits...but that had been a long time ago. The iron hand that directed the various financial marionettes of the Federation had forced that issue, and the Midlands were all the richer for it. And Mniszech much happier. Cheaper than whiskey now too, or at least the brands of whiskey that wouldn't blind you. And above all, easier to mess with while driving than an oversized glass liquor bottle.
Though technically off duty, he'd been offered a well paying "side job" by the District Chamberlain- a mayor in all but name- for this side of the Warrens- to take a few hours every couple of days on this, his fist week off in some time, and "pay careful attention to a particular block..." That was a perfectly acceptable (legal) proposition within the context of this city, and the labyrinthine coils of the bureaucracy that governed it in the name of Jozef Kościałkowsky, the Commonwealth, and the Federation that bore them all. Few of the souls trapped within those same coils trusted the world outside, for all that it was somewhat less dangers, and certainly less complicated. In truth, few of those souls trusted anyone at all, but it was considered better form to "keep it in the family," and that meaning within the city's agencies- or the ones based there, when a job like this needed to be done. Less trouble cleaning nasty situations up after the fact too.
He was known here in this part of town, again, for longer than he cared to recall this moment, despite being well secured in his near isolation. Though not born here, he'd spent the parts of his life that really mattered here. Had more than a few ex-wives and ex-mistresses scattered around the Warrens. Probably a couple of unlucky bastard kids now that he thought about it.
"Fuck 'em." The tip of the cigarillo glowed bright and volcanic for an instant, a great cloud of ivory smoke billowing out over the dashboard of the blocky sedan. All four corners of the intersection were jammed with the great mass of humanity that roiled through the Warrens as the entirely unique cells of not only this organ within the greater twin-cities, but perhaps the lifeblood of the metaphorical body as a whole. Some clustered about massive steel grates, warming themselves with the effluent vapors of that same mass, disregarding the foulness of the whole concept.
Why they didn't just stay home, and out of the frozen night was beyond Mniszech. He was paid, rather handsomely as said, to be out in it. He supposed that a good few of them were (paid) as well though, when viewed from the right angles. "Hell, probably as good as I'm getting now." That was a sour thought, but one that anyone in his line of work came to realize rather early on. It wasn't that sort of motivation that drew men to this particular side of the vocational coin anyway. There were far more financially rewarding jobs to be had in The Old City, and even more so in the Federal Reserve. Again, that wasn't what drew men like Mniszech most particularly to this vocation.
He'd developed a taste for, perhaps better to say an addiction, to the hunt during his time in the Service. The particular branch of that Service that he'd fulfilled his obligation to God and country in, the Special Weapons Division, specifically cultivated that sort of sentiment in its soldiers...and it was hard enough as to be impossible to get rid of it, even after one mustered out. Which one really never did, not where the SWD was concerned.
All explanations and justifications aside, Mniszech's proclivities were well-known amongst the twin-cities movers and shakers, no less so to the particular District Chamberlain that had tapped him for this little side job. It would have been just as easy for the Chamberlain to pay one of the ranking beat-cops or detectives assigned to the Warrens to do this job, but they just didn't have Mniszech's "edge," and a few of their number were counted amongst the individuals that Mniszech was to "keep a careful eye out for" on this particular block.
He'd known beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Constabulary of the Warrens were beyond lousy with corruption. He'd even known that some of them were active in political circles that were less than appreciated by the government. He'd had no idea, not until the Chamberlain had clued him in, that some of them were involved in the most radical of Communist, Intersectionalist and Post-Promethean cells vying for the hearts and minds of the disenchanted and disenfranchised masses of the Warrens.
All three groups were dangerously committed to their seditious ideologies, and had carried out countless murders and dozens of terrorist attacks in 2010 alone, even after the various government agencies of the Federation had clamped down for fear of terrorist-reprisals from Milliyetci diehards now radiating out of "integrated" Barazi.
There was a small comfort at least- rarely had Mniszech had to worry about that latter, mostly regionally concerned bunch personally. Sure and sure there were branches of the Special Inspectorate that were now specifically devoted to curtailing Milliyetci activity by depriving them of even the tiniest scraps of finance, but he was as far removed from that cat and mouse act as he was from the business of politics. Well, at least the upper echelons of politics...if not the visceral end.
"Grandpa warned you about spending so much time in your own mind Ignacy," Mniszech warned himself, recalling yet another wizened quip from the long-departed patriarch of his once ennobled family. He'd nearly missed an obviously criminal knot of young men spilling forth from one of the hole-in-the-wall taverns that littered this, and every part of the Warrens.
Nearly all of them bore the distinctive hair-style of the more violently reactionary sort of Post-Prometheans, recalling the supposed style of the ancient "Saka" tribes that had dominated this land two thousand or more years before. Shaved to a fine shine in the front, and roached into something of a top-knot on the crest of their heads, with sharply jagged lines cropped into the sides. All of them sported the same pseudo-military style leather flight jackets and trousers, charcoal camouflaged and tucked into high laced steel-toed boots. Typical gutter-trash- and more than likely the true subject of the District Chamberlain's anxiety.
Amongst those three most active and most dangerous groups in the Sarmatian capital, the Post-Prometheans were the most ruthless, the most unforgiving. The other two groups viewed themselves and liberators of the masses, as the vanguards of a new and better form of civilization- and thus rarely if ever lashed out specifically against the civilian population. This was most definitely not the case with the Post-Prometheans, who viewed the vast majority of the population, the Judaeo-Christian and patriotically Federalist portions of it, as having betrayed the true heritage of the Midlands. It was this lot that stirred up the most trouble in both Hrodino's, and in the Commonwealth as a whole.
They were also the most involved in the various illicit trades that ran through the twin-cities like great shadowy super-highways. Arms, drugs, prostitution and outright white slavery funded their savage campaigns against the modern Federation, bringing them directly into the purview of the Special Inspectorate. Ironically enough, it seemed that they had penetrated that same Inspectorate, with at least three internal housekeeping operations rooting out a half dozen "double-agents" in the previous year alone. It remained to be seen why the District Chamberlain had simply not asked for the Special Inspectorate to come in officially, but Mniszech suspected it had something to do with the now widespread knowledge of those doubles.
It was trouble, plain and simple and nothing but, that they were exiting a tavern that was marked only by that single word in simple Methodian letters- and the Seal of Solomon. There was no sane reason for a clutch of that misbegotten lot to be attending anything save for the worst sort of trouble in a Jewish establishment- however naturally disreputable it might have been.
Mniszech's quick deduction borne of nearly a full lifetime in this trade was quickly rewarded with confirmation- the heavy oaken door of the tavern burst open, thrown freely by the rushing bulk of a board shoulder figure with a great mane of blue-black hair, and a beard to match. Leading before him was the unmistakable shape of a sawed-off shotgun, double barreled and already belching fiery death before any of the Prometheans could turn to face their pursuer.
The side of one of those top-knotted heads disappeared in the avalanche of pellets that roared down and out of those smoothly bored tubes, the flesh and most of the bone neatly scooped from the base of the neck forward to just before the ear on the left side of that already dead man's head. It spoke well of his fellows that they were reacting well before the first of the their number to die hit the pavement below.
It spoke better of Mniszech that he was already out of his SUV, having clicked the dash-cam on and jerked his .41 free from the holster under his arm. By the time the Federal Reserve man was fully out of the vehicle, the Jew- that was the only thing he could have been- was also dead, his brains bashed out by an improvised mace expertly wielded by one of the Prometheans. In his death, however, the Jew provided another service, in that his not inconsiderable bulk had kept the door to the tavern open- revealing the veritable abattoir inside.
It became instantly clear why the Jew had pursued the Prometheans to such a sure death, and likewise became instantly clear that Mniszech was bound to act even in the face of such horribly one-sided odds. And so, leveling the iron-sights of the pistol off on the center of mass of the mace wielding Promethean, Mniszech caressed the trigger, with no need to worry over the same public proclamations that bound the more mundane variety of badge-wearing public servants.
Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia, Federation of Międzymorze
14 Jan 2011, 19:24
The crackpot meteorologists had made claims that the citizens of both Hrodino's would see something approaching a clear sky by Christmas Eve. In the two weeks since then, there'd been not a hint the sun in the deepening gray skies- and very little hint that the ferocious snows that this season had thus far yielded would be soon abated. It was unsurprising to any real Sarmatian...trying to tell the future in any way was an enterprise bound for ruin. That was the Province of the Divine, and none else.
As it was, two feet of snow yet stood on the frozen streets of the spiritual heart of the Federation. Businesses had even closed, some for weeks now- such an occurrence remarkable in its own right. It was perhaps more accurate to say that most legitimate businesses had closed down for that long- as vice never slept in the Warrens, nor in the "two cities" that encapsulated that vastness of overgrown hamlets that had been devoured by the industrial sprawl of the old Sarmatian capital in the latter Antebellum Years.
Internal musings aside, Lieutenant-Inspector Ignacy Mniszech admitted that the boys "working for the city" had done a bang-up job of getting the roads clear, more than well enough to drive on during the day, and still passable in most places by night. It had been considered passable for a field officer of the Special Inspectorate of the Federal Reserve, even when the heaviest snows were crushing the breathtaking sprawl of the twin-cities. Mniszech had certainly been out earlier in the evening, and had in fact even drawn and fired his sidearm. That was another turn to his dangerously distracting fits of self-consuming dialogue that he would not add willingly.
Allowing his bulky government-issue Bród '08 K-Model SUV to come to an easy rest at a particularly touch and go intersection, he rifled through the far too numerous pockets in his (also government issued) charcoal-colored great-coat. Finally satisfied with what he'd discovered in the latest pocket, he jammed the hand-rolled hashish imbued cigarillo into the corner of his mouth. A sliver of his mind recalled a time when he spent the majority of his waking hours hunting unsuspecting smugglers and black bazaar peddlers that engaged in just such habits, or made moves to refine a vocation that allowed for such habits...but that had been a long time ago. The iron hand that directed the various financial marionettes of the Federation had forced that issue, and the Midlands were all the richer for it. And Mniszech much happier. Cheaper than whiskey now too, or at least the brands of whiskey that wouldn't blind you. And above all, easier to mess with while driving than an oversized glass liquor bottle.
Though technically off duty, he'd been offered a well paying "side job" by the District Chamberlain- a mayor in all but name- for this side of the Warrens- to take a few hours every couple of days on this, his fist week off in some time, and "pay careful attention to a particular block..." That was a perfectly acceptable (legal) proposition within the context of this city, and the labyrinthine coils of the bureaucracy that governed it in the name of Jozef Kościałkowsky, the Commonwealth, and the Federation that bore them all. Few of the souls trapped within those same coils trusted the world outside, for all that it was somewhat less dangers, and certainly less complicated. In truth, few of those souls trusted anyone at all, but it was considered better form to "keep it in the family," and that meaning within the city's agencies- or the ones based there, when a job like this needed to be done. Less trouble cleaning nasty situations up after the fact too.
He was known here in this part of town, again, for longer than he cared to recall this moment, despite being well secured in his near isolation. Though not born here, he'd spent the parts of his life that really mattered here. Had more than a few ex-wives and ex-mistresses scattered around the Warrens. Probably a couple of unlucky bastard kids now that he thought about it.
"Fuck 'em." The tip of the cigarillo glowed bright and volcanic for an instant, a great cloud of ivory smoke billowing out over the dashboard of the blocky sedan. All four corners of the intersection were jammed with the great mass of humanity that roiled through the Warrens as the entirely unique cells of not only this organ within the greater twin-cities, but perhaps the lifeblood of the metaphorical body as a whole. Some clustered about massive steel grates, warming themselves with the effluent vapors of that same mass, disregarding the foulness of the whole concept.
Why they didn't just stay home, and out of the frozen night was beyond Mniszech. He was paid, rather handsomely as said, to be out in it. He supposed that a good few of them were (paid) as well though, when viewed from the right angles. "Hell, probably as good as I'm getting now." That was a sour thought, but one that anyone in his line of work came to realize rather early on. It wasn't that sort of motivation that drew men to this particular side of the vocational coin anyway. There were far more financially rewarding jobs to be had in The Old City, and even more so in the Federal Reserve. Again, that wasn't what drew men like Mniszech most particularly to this vocation.
He'd developed a taste for, perhaps better to say an addiction, to the hunt during his time in the Service. The particular branch of that Service that he'd fulfilled his obligation to God and country in, the Special Weapons Division, specifically cultivated that sort of sentiment in its soldiers...and it was hard enough as to be impossible to get rid of it, even after one mustered out. Which one really never did, not where the SWD was concerned.
All explanations and justifications aside, Mniszech's proclivities were well-known amongst the twin-cities movers and shakers, no less so to the particular District Chamberlain that had tapped him for this little side job. It would have been just as easy for the Chamberlain to pay one of the ranking beat-cops or detectives assigned to the Warrens to do this job, but they just didn't have Mniszech's "edge," and a few of their number were counted amongst the individuals that Mniszech was to "keep a careful eye out for" on this particular block.
He'd known beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Constabulary of the Warrens were beyond lousy with corruption. He'd even known that some of them were active in political circles that were less than appreciated by the government. He'd had no idea, not until the Chamberlain had clued him in, that some of them were involved in the most radical of Communist, Intersectionalist and Post-Promethean cells vying for the hearts and minds of the disenchanted and disenfranchised masses of the Warrens.
All three groups were dangerously committed to their seditious ideologies, and had carried out countless murders and dozens of terrorist attacks in 2010 alone, even after the various government agencies of the Federation had clamped down for fear of terrorist-reprisals from Milliyetci diehards now radiating out of "integrated" Barazi.
There was a small comfort at least- rarely had Mniszech had to worry about that latter, mostly regionally concerned bunch personally. Sure and sure there were branches of the Special Inspectorate that were now specifically devoted to curtailing Milliyetci activity by depriving them of even the tiniest scraps of finance, but he was as far removed from that cat and mouse act as he was from the business of politics. Well, at least the upper echelons of politics...if not the visceral end.
"Grandpa warned you about spending so much time in your own mind Ignacy," Mniszech warned himself, recalling yet another wizened quip from the long-departed patriarch of his once ennobled family. He'd nearly missed an obviously criminal knot of young men spilling forth from one of the hole-in-the-wall taverns that littered this, and every part of the Warrens.
Nearly all of them bore the distinctive hair-style of the more violently reactionary sort of Post-Prometheans, recalling the supposed style of the ancient "Saka" tribes that had dominated this land two thousand or more years before. Shaved to a fine shine in the front, and roached into something of a top-knot on the crest of their heads, with sharply jagged lines cropped into the sides. All of them sported the same pseudo-military style leather flight jackets and trousers, charcoal camouflaged and tucked into high laced steel-toed boots. Typical gutter-trash- and more than likely the true subject of the District Chamberlain's anxiety.
Amongst those three most active and most dangerous groups in the Sarmatian capital, the Post-Prometheans were the most ruthless, the most unforgiving. The other two groups viewed themselves and liberators of the masses, as the vanguards of a new and better form of civilization- and thus rarely if ever lashed out specifically against the civilian population. This was most definitely not the case with the Post-Prometheans, who viewed the vast majority of the population, the Judaeo-Christian and patriotically Federalist portions of it, as having betrayed the true heritage of the Midlands. It was this lot that stirred up the most trouble in both Hrodino's, and in the Commonwealth as a whole.
They were also the most involved in the various illicit trades that ran through the twin-cities like great shadowy super-highways. Arms, drugs, prostitution and outright white slavery funded their savage campaigns against the modern Federation, bringing them directly into the purview of the Special Inspectorate. Ironically enough, it seemed that they had penetrated that same Inspectorate, with at least three internal housekeeping operations rooting out a half dozen "double-agents" in the previous year alone. It remained to be seen why the District Chamberlain had simply not asked for the Special Inspectorate to come in officially, but Mniszech suspected it had something to do with the now widespread knowledge of those doubles.
It was trouble, plain and simple and nothing but, that they were exiting a tavern that was marked only by that single word in simple Methodian letters- and the Seal of Solomon. There was no sane reason for a clutch of that misbegotten lot to be attending anything save for the worst sort of trouble in a Jewish establishment- however naturally disreputable it might have been.
Mniszech's quick deduction borne of nearly a full lifetime in this trade was quickly rewarded with confirmation- the heavy oaken door of the tavern burst open, thrown freely by the rushing bulk of a board shoulder figure with a great mane of blue-black hair, and a beard to match. Leading before him was the unmistakable shape of a sawed-off shotgun, double barreled and already belching fiery death before any of the Prometheans could turn to face their pursuer.
The side of one of those top-knotted heads disappeared in the avalanche of pellets that roared down and out of those smoothly bored tubes, the flesh and most of the bone neatly scooped from the base of the neck forward to just before the ear on the left side of that already dead man's head. It spoke well of his fellows that they were reacting well before the first of the their number to die hit the pavement below.
It spoke better of Mniszech that he was already out of his SUV, having clicked the dash-cam on and jerked his .41 free from the holster under his arm. By the time the Federal Reserve man was fully out of the vehicle, the Jew- that was the only thing he could have been- was also dead, his brains bashed out by an improvised mace expertly wielded by one of the Prometheans. In his death, however, the Jew provided another service, in that his not inconsiderable bulk had kept the door to the tavern open- revealing the veritable abattoir inside.
It became instantly clear why the Jew had pursued the Prometheans to such a sure death, and likewise became instantly clear that Mniszech was bound to act even in the face of such horribly one-sided odds. And so, leveling the iron-sights of the pistol off on the center of mass of the mace wielding Promethean, Mniszech caressed the trigger, with no need to worry over the same public proclamations that bound the more mundane variety of badge-wearing public servants.