Pelasgia
Established Nation
Motorway 59, Southern Thrakia
A car of the Thrakian Gendarmerie made its typical rounds through Motorway E59, between the villages of Ivanovitsa and Khrastovo in southern Thrakia, just north of the foothills of the mountain range that formed the border with Pelasgia—the famed White Mountains. The dark blue vehicle was a usual sight along this route, ostensibly to crack down on smuggling and human trafficking across the border, though more often than not assisting both in return for adequate bribes (in money or, in the case of human trafficking, in kind); what the Gendarmerie had really concerned itself with for the last two years was keeping Thrakians from heading south to Pelasgia and from communicating freely with the more free nations of the Meridian. In recent weeks, those patrols had become more numerous and joined by more vehicles, as Pelasgio-Carian military buildup across the border grew, refugee waves expanded and talk of some self-proclaimed rival Thrakian government "in exile" south of the border trickled in through underground opposition media, exciting many Thrakians who were less than enamoured with their country's Serbovian occupation.
Kiril Borisov, a native of Ivanovitsa, sat at the wheel of the jeep, with a rotund belly that protruded so from the rest of his mountainous figure as to make one wonder whether it could serve as a cup (or beer) holder. Almost as if that thought had crossed his mind, his colleague, Ivan Dimitrov turned to him with a sigh. "What I would do for a beer right now. I fucking hate this route."
Borisov shrugged. "You and me both, pal." He paused for a moment and gazed emptily into the night, ahead of the car, and then up at the mirror. Two more jeeps followed behind; in recent weeks, High Command had mandated that all vehicular patrols had to consist of at least three vehicles, and all foot patrols of at least six troopers. "Wanna radio Viktor? I'm bored to shit."
"I do," Ivan responded. "But if the Lt. gets on our asses for wasting official frequencies to discuss strip clubs and football, it's your ass on the line."
"Well, I clap his sister's ass every other night, so I think I'll be fine," Kiril joked, causing both men to laugh heartily. Over his laughter, Ivan called out to the passenger of the patrol vehicle following them. "Hey, Viktor, did you stop by Velvet Palace yesterday? They got a bunch of hot Pannonian bitches straight from the Carian border-
Before Ivan had had a chance to finish his crass remark, hot splutter of blood covered his face as his friend's head exploded. The car veered to the right and crashed into the road's safety rail, and Viktor's jeep slammed straight into its back, sending Ivan's face straight ahead. Trying to avoid them, the third jeep vainly screeched across the asphalt before veering to the left and crashing into the opposite side of the guard rail; it caught fire almost instantly.
"Fuck!" Ivan groaned. He tried to move, but could not feel either of his legs; his seat belt was stuck too, there was no taking it off. "Fuck! Da eba maika ti v groba!"
A ripple of gunshots interrupted the cacophony of cursing, and a hail of bullets flew through the car. Ivan could not feel a thing even as bullets went all around him; he was certain he should have been hit, but the adrenaline from the crash kept him from feeling anything. "Who the fuck- Suddenly, he spat blood out. Fuck. Things around him started going black; at the corner of his eye, he could see the second jeep catch fire on the remnants of the rearview mirror. Then, he saw a pool of water suddenly appear on the asphalt next to his overturned vehicle. No, not water; the rainbow-like reflection at the liquid's edges was all too familiar. Gasoline.
"Burn the fucks," said a voice in Thrakian. "They chose to work for the occupiers, the pigs."
"Do you think it is wise?" said another man; he spoke Thrakian, but in a Pelasgian accent—one that Ivan had learned to recognise from all his years at the border. "What if your people see this as a lack of mercy?"
"We will show no mercy to traitors," the first man said. "The Internal Thrakian Revolutionary Organisation is here to free the Fatherland from this scum. The people hate them, and they will thus join us, for they too wish they could kill these pigs for all that they've done or let the Serbovians do."
"If you say so," the Pelasgian answered.
Amidst the growing blackness of his fading vision, Ivan caught glimpse of a spark.
A car of the Thrakian Gendarmerie made its typical rounds through Motorway E59, between the villages of Ivanovitsa and Khrastovo in southern Thrakia, just north of the foothills of the mountain range that formed the border with Pelasgia—the famed White Mountains. The dark blue vehicle was a usual sight along this route, ostensibly to crack down on smuggling and human trafficking across the border, though more often than not assisting both in return for adequate bribes (in money or, in the case of human trafficking, in kind); what the Gendarmerie had really concerned itself with for the last two years was keeping Thrakians from heading south to Pelasgia and from communicating freely with the more free nations of the Meridian. In recent weeks, those patrols had become more numerous and joined by more vehicles, as Pelasgio-Carian military buildup across the border grew, refugee waves expanded and talk of some self-proclaimed rival Thrakian government "in exile" south of the border trickled in through underground opposition media, exciting many Thrakians who were less than enamoured with their country's Serbovian occupation.
Kiril Borisov, a native of Ivanovitsa, sat at the wheel of the jeep, with a rotund belly that protruded so from the rest of his mountainous figure as to make one wonder whether it could serve as a cup (or beer) holder. Almost as if that thought had crossed his mind, his colleague, Ivan Dimitrov turned to him with a sigh. "What I would do for a beer right now. I fucking hate this route."
Borisov shrugged. "You and me both, pal." He paused for a moment and gazed emptily into the night, ahead of the car, and then up at the mirror. Two more jeeps followed behind; in recent weeks, High Command had mandated that all vehicular patrols had to consist of at least three vehicles, and all foot patrols of at least six troopers. "Wanna radio Viktor? I'm bored to shit."
"I do," Ivan responded. "But if the Lt. gets on our asses for wasting official frequencies to discuss strip clubs and football, it's your ass on the line."
"Well, I clap his sister's ass every other night, so I think I'll be fine," Kiril joked, causing both men to laugh heartily. Over his laughter, Ivan called out to the passenger of the patrol vehicle following them. "Hey, Viktor, did you stop by Velvet Palace yesterday? They got a bunch of hot Pannonian bitches straight from the Carian border-
Before Ivan had had a chance to finish his crass remark, hot splutter of blood covered his face as his friend's head exploded. The car veered to the right and crashed into the road's safety rail, and Viktor's jeep slammed straight into its back, sending Ivan's face straight ahead. Trying to avoid them, the third jeep vainly screeched across the asphalt before veering to the left and crashing into the opposite side of the guard rail; it caught fire almost instantly.
"Fuck!" Ivan groaned. He tried to move, but could not feel either of his legs; his seat belt was stuck too, there was no taking it off. "Fuck! Da eba maika ti v groba!"
A ripple of gunshots interrupted the cacophony of cursing, and a hail of bullets flew through the car. Ivan could not feel a thing even as bullets went all around him; he was certain he should have been hit, but the adrenaline from the crash kept him from feeling anything. "Who the fuck- Suddenly, he spat blood out. Fuck. Things around him started going black; at the corner of his eye, he could see the second jeep catch fire on the remnants of the rearview mirror. Then, he saw a pool of water suddenly appear on the asphalt next to his overturned vehicle. No, not water; the rainbow-like reflection at the liquid's edges was all too familiar. Gasoline.
"Burn the fucks," said a voice in Thrakian. "They chose to work for the occupiers, the pigs."
"Do you think it is wise?" said another man; he spoke Thrakian, but in a Pelasgian accent—one that Ivan had learned to recognise from all his years at the border. "What if your people see this as a lack of mercy?"
"We will show no mercy to traitors," the first man said. "The Internal Thrakian Revolutionary Organisation is here to free the Fatherland from this scum. The people hate them, and they will thus join us, for they too wish they could kill these pigs for all that they've done or let the Serbovians do."
"If you say so," the Pelasgian answered.
Amidst the growing blackness of his fading vision, Ivan caught glimpse of a spark.