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The August Novelization

Beautancus

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The August Novelization

Of Princes And Prices


The view afforded upon the uppermost of the Princely Estate's balconies was, to say the least, amazing. Though he'd had the better part of a decade to become accustomed to it, Patrycjusz Ignacy Mniszech- Patryk to those that knew him personally, still found some small part of his serpentine mind that held this singular perch in high regard- as something majestic, perhaps belonging more to an age bygone.

Nearly every night that he'd spent in the Estate, which had begun its illustrious history as the residence of the mayor of Old Hrodino, he'd found, or in most cases, made the time to step out upon his personal refuge from the labyrinthine world of bureaucrats, plutocrats, stratocrats, and most recently technocrats that he held rather questionable sway over. Even on raw and damp winter evenings such as this, he stepped through the great cedar and crystalline glass Franconian style doors of his "personal" (in that he rarely allowed the more official sort of state business to occur within those finely paneled four walls) office, and out onto the exquisitely ornate balcony.

A fine haze hung over The City- Cassiopeia, which shared its name with the country- a mixture of every possible sort of precipitation, both natural and man-made. That haze created an eerily beautiful and, in Patryk's opinion, entirely unique aura for the sprawling metropolis. As a youthful "Republican" partisan, he'd held a much different opinion of the haze that had clung to Old Hrodino's skyline. In those days, more often than not, the haze had been due to the various fires that raged throughout the city, which at that time had been home to one of the oldest, and most draconian Royal Houses in all of Europe. Ironically, he'd been one of the bitter child-soldiers who'd ignited some of those fires- in the name of equality, and freedom. He'd even fired upon this very building as a young man, though no living person remained to let that secret slip.

Now...life had schooled him on the necessities of sovereignty, and though he still remembered the long-dead monarchy with utter contempt, he understood some of what those old jackals had done in their quest to maintain an orderly and "prosperous" society. Despite that slightly impersonal contempt, which had decades ago been nothing less that zealous hatred, Patryk had been amongst the first of the die-hard Republicans to accept the necessity of negotiating with the remnants of the old szlachta for the soul of what had once been the Kingdom of Międzymorze. There had simply been too much blood spilt, too many sons and daughters of the nation sown into the earth, for the conflict to rage on a single day longer. And after all, the King and his line had been extinguished, and the hard-hearted warlords that had waged war so well on their behalf were willing enough to accept a peace that was at least somewhat palatable for both sides.

Through that acceptance- and the lifetime of public servitude that followed, he'd become the first former "Republican" partisan to be elevated to the highest office of The Most Serene Commonwealth. Truly, it had been a scandal at the time- April of 2002- when the Electorate had chosen him to become Cassiopeia's Prince...but it had probably done more to heal the last, lingering festering wounds of the Civil War. Not that his bad knee didn't still ache- especially in this sort of cold, shattered as it had been, by a well placed 7.62x39mm hollow-point round.

Glancing down at the nearly priceless watch on his thick- farmers- wrist, a Skamieniełość time-piece, and without a doubt from the best designer brand that Cassiopeia, or Międzymorze, had ever produced, he sighed. The hour had grown late, and his postponed address before both the Electorate and the Senate would have to be delivered tomorrow. There wouldn't be enough of the Hajr-style coffee (that he swore by) in all the world to set his mind alight in the morning if he didn't turn in soon. Likewise however, there weren't enough Coronadic cigarettes (that he considered the best in the world) to set his mind at ease tonight. A full pack worth of them bore silent testament to that, twenty or more gold-flecked cigarette butts stood bunched together in the simple ash-tray on the table beside him.

Lighting one more, and exhaling fully into the frigid sub-arctic air of the Cassiopeian night, his mind touched lightly on all the points that he would attempt to pound into the minds of that fickle lot of business-men and would-be politicians on the morrow. If Patryk were to maintain his position beyond April, which he fully intended to- he would have to convince the lot of them of the necessity of yet more radical changes in the manner in which The Most Serene Commonwealth viewed, and conducted business with the wider world.

It was all damned fine and good to continue using models that had been proven acceptable, and efficient within their own borders, but everything beyond that was as much quicksilver, constantly coalescing into dynamic new forms and schema. Still, he had all confidence in his oratory...it just came down to keeping the bastards on the same course long enough to establish the order which he, the Prince of the Most Serene Commonwealth of Cassiopeia, wished to see born- on all foreign shores, on all distant mountaintops and valleys.

The price for seeing that course taken would no doubt be high.
 

Beautancus

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The Belladonna Coup

"...is the play of a low card away from an accompanying high card, giving the opponents the impossible choice between setting up a winner for declarer and abandoning an attack on another suit..."

"Yes Patryk, you've obviously given them pause in the matter. You and I well know that, despite what some of the more ignorant of those so-called "captains of industry" might like to think, the proletariat does indeed have a voice. They, by and large, have no desire to see themselves entangled in yet more political comings and goings, however non-partisan that pack of vermin in the chambers of the Legislatures might like to pretend to be...but they- the Proles- do have a voice. They speak through their masterful artisanship, through their toils, and the sweat upon their brow- through the unmatched quality of our beloved homeland's manifold wares." Yehuda Tsiyon swept his hand out, encompassing the interior of the armored sedan in which he and the Prince of Cassiopeia now sat- rather comfortably- within, as they "toured" the sprawling- and rather spartan- environs of the more "blue-collar" portion of Balanjar.

Patryk, as he was known to his closest friends, all former comrades in arms- and more rarely to his favorite mistresses, nodded his agreement, tugging at his neatly trimmed beard; a trait that likewise, only his closest friends bore witness to. He'd long ago learned not to allow the wider world to witness him in so obviously deep a state of reflection. He'd been known for this gesture as a soldier of the "Republican Revolution."

That tell-tale sign of deliberation had been terrifying in those dimly remembered days, as he decided upon a particularly painful course of action- most often on whether or not to execute prisoners that had been so unfortunate as to have fallen into the grasp of more than effective band of partisans. Now...the vastness of the core of the Slavic world had been so fortunate as to fall into his more than effective hands- and the gesture became all the more terrible.

With a sigh, Patryk heaved himself over in the seat, leather screeching and groaning under his rather substantial weight. "I would like to think that giving "them" pause will be enough for now. This symbiosis with the silent majority, however much true power they do wield, always has been, and always will be a dangerously double edged blade. Should I parry even once more than what is needed, I might well find myself- and my Constituency," the Prince's gaze lingered on the Khazar for a long moment before he continued, "...eviscerated. And that simply won't do. We both know that the lot of the common man has been greatly improved, and will continue to be, so long as I remain within the Towers. But should I push the starsi bracia -the older brothers- of our happy little family too far..." Both men paused now, both taking that breath to light a cigarette. For a moment, all that moved within the sedan was smoke, a rather poetic, and almost tangible analogue for the Cassiopeian Prince's great schemes.

"What of the...other matters at hand?" Tsiyon gazed absently through the plate glass window on his side of the vehicle. Beyond the column of heavily armed and armored shock-troopers that filed along beside- on either side- of the vehicle, and beyond the endless swell of nearly uniform apartments, there lay a world entirely apart from the rest of Europe. A hundred nations, a never-ending march of barbarian peoples, barely contained, but unquestionably dominated.

That one island, an unassuming outcropping of rock and shale that would from orbit seem to be so minuscule in comparison to the great sweeping brush-strokes of steppe, desert, and forest that dominated the rest of the globe. That one island that could, through either the deafening silence of months, or the tumultuous roar of days upset the balance of the world entire.

"That, I fear, may well undo all that I have labored for, in the merest blinking of an eye. I wonder, if in the end, those same older brothers are willing to trade a few billion złotys, even a great many billion złotys, for even a million Sarmatian, or Khazar lives? In the greater scheme of things, it has not been so long since "the Prison of Nations" cost us that...has it? You remember the bitterness of your father and grandfather as well as I. It was not only the King, and his clique of warlords and kleptocrats, that plunged our beloved Homeland into that gaping maw." Patryk stubbed his cigarette out, teeth obviously clenched behind his beard. Those psychological scars, though not directly inflicted upon him, were just as real, and just as raw as those inflicted during the Civil War.

For all nations and peoples that had been touched, truly touched, by the maddening holocaust of the Great War- those bitter, blood-stained years that had seen an imperfectly human vision of Hell visited upon half the globe...for those nations and peoples, it remained an open wound, not merely a scar. And for no people more than the Cassiopeians, who had once, not even a half-century before called themselves by a different name.

Międzymorzan.

Though those years in Hell had proven to be amongst the greatest triumphs of the Sarmatian and Khazar peoples, they were still equally remembered for the betrayals and shortcomings that had followed in their wake. The human race had ignored the suffering of twenty million Sarmatians and Khazars, had denied the Slavic Middle Kingdom the voice it had EARNED in the lamentably bastardized Council of Nations...had awarded a race of dusk-skinned pygmies half the world.

Patrycjusz Ignacy Mniszech seethed with these thoughts, the petty squabbles of business men and part-time politicians utterly forgotten. The best laid plans of the mightiest of men could be undone with the fumbling maneuvering of a dwarf, bloated beyond compare. Had that half of the world remained contentedly silent, it was entirely possible that Planują Piramidę would never have been conceived. As things were, three generations of unrecognized resentment were coming to fruition.

"So. Any plans for the IMEX Yehuda? I understand that you've tapped your best and brightest..."
 

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A Pound of Flesh

"You self-righteous mother fucker." Tarek Lubomirski spat the words- quite literally- at the Prince of Cassiopeia, with all the hate and revulsion that he could muster, battered and entirely broken as he was.

The globule of thick, foul blood and mucus had come to rest well short of the intended mark- a few inches from the shoe-tips of the Prince of the Most Serene Commonwealth- a large enough mass to be visibly reflected on the face of those very shoes. Had he possessed the required saliva- and strength to spew forth another stream of invective, Lubomirski surely would have done so. As it was, he simply sagged back down between the arms of the two PKB men that were as of now the only things keeping him from collapsing in a boneless heap upon the floor.

"Always a few inches too short, eh Tarek?" The Książę- the Prince leaned down, bringing himself to eye level with the man that had- amongst a few dozen others- plotted to see him brought down, perhaps even murdered, and replaced with an infinitely more acceptable, and malleable Prince. That plotting, however extensive, and however carefully concealed had all come to naught, for one simple reason: Patrycjusz Mniszech might well have been able to match the Devil himself in regards to plotting, and counter-plotting, laying back-biting treasonous coil within coil, offering fruit so sweet and so tender as to force nearly any man, no matter how virtuous to blindly stumble forward to claim the prize. That prize, power, had been the single greatest flame to draw men to their doom over the countless eons since the first apes lurched forward from the darkness to claim dominion over the world- and would continue to do so, even unto the end of time itself.

For the duration of his life, however, Patryk Mniszech would be the sole arbiter of power in the Most Serene Commonwealth, going so far as to have even convinced himself that he would indeed be the chooser of his own moment of passing.

With the crawling, maddening knowledge of that ageless, lustful call lurking just behind his steely eyes, Mniszech paused to light two cigarettes, the first he carefully placed in the shredded and swollen lips of Lubomirski, and the second- after cleansing his hands of any bloody taint- he absently notched between two nicotine stained fingers. The coils of smoke that drifted between the two men, once allies, and now, quite obviously mortal enemies spoke volumes- but those volumes were not enough to suit Tarek Lubomirski.

"Hypocritical cock sucker...This nation, your government even- was, and is still founded upon the same jumped up set of allegations that you've leveled against me."

"And your associates. All of whom, I assure you, will receive treatment identical to this in their turn. And well, yes, I suppose that you're right. This nation, risen- birthed from the blood and ashes of an ancient giant, itself wreathed in plotting and infighting that makes these past few days look like a girlish catfight- this nation was founded upon, and continues to be defined by successful plotting. Successful. That is the key-word there Tarek. This is the thing that has escaped you. This is the thing that I seized upon as a young man, and have yet to let slip through my fingers. As is evidenced by the fact that I am standing where I am, and you are dying where you are." Mniszech's smile grew broader behind his cigarette, and a thin stream of exhaled smoke rushed forward to sting the open wounds on the other man's face.

"You're an arrogant, hypocritical self-righteous mother fucking cock sucker...For all your idealism, for all your supposed concern for the common people, you're willing to plunge millions of them into the worst hell-storm that the world has seen in sixty years- for something so antiquated as honor." Hatred gleamed in Lubomirski's eyes again, his ashen face growing a bit darker, flushed with the darkest of human emotions.

"Indeed I would. Look back on the history of our people Tarek. Look back, and ask yourself: do you know the name of the richest Sarmatian szlachic of the thirteenth century, or do you remember the name of Krzysztof Sarmatyzky? Do you remember the man who counted Khazar coins, or do you remember the man who cut off Khazar heads? When our descendants, a thousand years from now look back on these dim days, will they remember Andrzej Wallenquist, or will they remember me?" These last words boiled out of the Prince's mouth, the very weight of this epoch in the glorious story of mankind bearing down upon all the men present. Even the PKB men exchanged feverish glances, knowing that this was the crux of the matter- even if the matter yet remained obscured to them.

Lubomirski's face had grown slack and waxen again, though his eyes remained locked on the face of the monster before him- the monster that he had only just fully recognized, the monster that the world would find waiting in just a few short months. There should have been words for him to say, but his tongue had grown surprisingly thick in his mouth. His eyes dropped to the ground, to those immaculately polished shoes that he had tried to spit on just a moment or two before. And he spat again. And this time, he made it.

Mniszech smiled again. "Well, at least you have that Tarek. Shoot him, and be rid of the body. Be sure that not even your scientists can identify him when it's done."
 

Beautancus

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Interlude


The days immediately following "the attempt" on the life of His Excellency, Książę Patryk Mniszech were some of the most chaotic, feverish days that the Most Serene Commonwealth had seen since its birth, three decades earlier. A truly awe-inspiring assemblage of armed might descended upon the city of Wolsztyn, and indeed, the entirety of Trzy Rzeki Region of Lower Sarmatia in order to block off any possible escape routes for any gunmen that might have survived the confrontation with NDF and PKB forces. Any and all persons of interest, including anyone that could be even remotely identified as private military professionals, and foreign nationals were detained and interrogated, quite rigorously in most cases.

Three of the as of yet indeterminate number of detainees proved to be members of the force that had carried out the attempt on His Excellency's life, with at least one seemingly providing information linking this attack to a specific PMC. Though the individual identities of these three gunmen remain undisclosed, the liquidation of a small, but highly regarded PMC, Czarny Kiery- Black Hearts- three days after the Wolzstyn Attack has led many to surmise that the attack had been carried out by a force drawn from their number.

Using information obtained from the three detained gunmen, and information likewise extracted from the leadership of the Czarny Kiery PMC led PKB investigators to an entirely disheartening, if not entirely unexpected conclusion: members of the Cassiopeian Senat, and Elektoralny Kolegium (Senate and Electoral College) had (indirectly) hired these men to assassinate Książę Mniszech, in order to stave off what they (rightly) feared was an attempted "populist revolution" engineered by His Excellency, using the masses of increasingly dissatisfied labor force against their morally corrupt employers- overlords, who had become every bit as uncaring as the nobles that had preceded them. It would not be inaccurate to say that this was the last great campaign of a Civil War thought resolved thirty years before.

Though no single member of either legislative body could be directly placed as having met with any representative of the Czarny Kiery, a number of highly placed aids could and were linked, with the final and entirely damning piece falling into place in the form a number of large monetary transactions were tracked down, providing more than enough evidence for the Prince, and his PKB "shock-troops" to strike...


The Throes Of Passion, part one


Cassiopeian State Public Broadcasting Service, HQ
Kasjopeja, Most Serene Commonwealth of Cassiopeia
7:35 pm, Sarmatian Central Time


The lone security guard in the lobby of SPBS building, one Jan Szmygli, immediately toppled from his chair at the sight of four clearly marked PKB SUV's screeching to a halt in the street just outside that lobby. Even as he was scrambling up from the floor, still slick from a waxing the night before, half a dozen heavily armed and armored shock-troops burst through the doors, assault carbines leveled, faces entirely concealed- their intentions completely inscrutable. He might have stammered some words indicating that he had no intention of resisting these men, universally feared as they were, but no words would come...Jan simply raised his hands above his head, and closed his eyes as tightly as possible. He watched the news, he'd heard the rumors, he knew what these men did for a living, and he had absolutely no desire to give them a reason to work for that living.

"Clear. No resistance." The easily recognizable crackle of a radio encouraged Jan to open his eyes- something he immediately wished he had not done.

The barrel of one of those horrifically efficient assault carbines hovered only inches from his forehead, though he supposed it was a good sign that it was only hovering there- rather than a few feet away and lighting up with a report that would snuff his life out.

"I apologize for the nature of our entrance Mister...Szmygli, but we have to take every possible precaution tonight, the night, above all others that you or I have ever had the honor to live through. You may lower your hands, your life is not in danger so long as you simply turn, and lock yourself in the bathroom for the next few hours." The PKB shock-trooper lowered the carbine, slowly and carefully, resting it upon his hip, though Jan noted with some level of interest that it was still aimed in his general direction.

"Y-y-y-y-y-yessir. Anything you ask." And without a single word more, Jan turned and scrambled into the lobby's bathroom, and locked the door behind him.


148 Kola Ulica, Lubranski residence
Kasjopeja, The Most Serene Commonwealth of Cassiopeia
7:31 pm Sarmatian Central Time


Senator Konstantin Lubranski poured himself another shot. He knew the moment was coming. It had to be. He'd been waiting for it since the PKB had "liquidated" the Czarny Kiery. Lubranski's name would have been one of the most prominent in whatever information the Prince's secret police had extracted from their leadership. Truly, he'd been careful never to meet with them, or their representatives, and he'd even made sure that his assistants knew to use intermediaries...but...it had become clear two days before, when his chief assistant had simply disappeared. Nothing could be known for sure, but Lubranski knew that the PKB had scooped him up off the street, without warning and without witnesses.

Lubranski had sent his wife and children into the country, to stay with his parents for a few days, offering the excuse that there was likely to be a great deal of unrest in the next few days, what with the general elections and all. But Lubranski knew that there weren't going to be any elections. Not anymore. At least, not in the same fashion that there'd been for the previous three decades. He and his coterie of co-conspirators had tried their hand at Machiavellian intrigue, and had come up severely wanting...and now, they would all pay for it with their lives. Likely, millions would pay for it with their lives.

Lubranski had to give it Mniszech. He knew what sort of men to surround himself with. He knew how to work the proletariat. He knew how to stand fast, and he knew how to make the world believe that he was willing to take a bullet. Lubranski realized this now, when it was far too late. Patryk Mniszech was, and always had been a soldier.

Seeing the headlights flashing against the far wall of his dining room, Lubranski knew that it could mean only one thing. The PKB had finally arrived. Konstantin Lubranski poured himself another shot- the finest Sarmatian whiskey that his money- which could have been considered very good itself- could buy. He allowed the potency of the flavor to linger on his palette for a moment, before placing the shot glass back down on the table before him. There, beside the bottle was the .32 revolver that he'd been given, some years back, by one of his constituents.

He cradled it for a moment, refusing to think of the family that he had failed, the nation, the world that he had failed, and placed the barrel of the pistol to his temple, and tugged the trigger, even as the front door of his home was battered in.
 

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The Throes Of Passion, part two

Cassiopeian State Public Broadcasting Service, HQ
Kasjopeja, Most Serene Commonwealth of Cassiopeia
7:39 pm, Sarmatian Central Time


"I can well imagine that this is proving to be too much for you ma'am, but I assure you that our presence here is merely a precautionary measure. So long as you cooperate to the best of your ability, this entire process will play out without a hitch, and history might even remember you as having been present, perhaps even helping to see that the destiny of the Sarmatian people is finally achieved." Towarzysz Stanisław Gamrat was doing his level best not to let his normally ironclad face split into the smile that he could feel lurking just beneath the surface.

In his career, Gamrat had been a great many things to a great many people. It had been at a young age that he'd found he was entirely suited towards the more martial pursuits in life, and after travelling down that path for a few short years, he'd found that he was ideally suited towards inspiring absolute terror in the hearts of other men that were suited towards the more martial pursuits in life. As such, he'd long ago grown accustomed to having to work at making people sweat. Even harder to make people bleed. And hardest of all to make people do exactly what he wanted, down the letter.

The bookish, sheltered, entirely comfortable little academic before him, who could probably have been considered a rather attractive woman, cowering in the swivel chair locked firmly underneath Gamrat's boot-heel was more terrified than any other human being that he had seen. Her hair was already matted to her forehead with sweat- and Gamrat could almost scent fear in the air.

"So. I will assume that you understand what I want from you. Other key facilities around the nation are already preparing to transmit the signal that you will link to on this frequency. All other programming will be blocked out for the duration of this speech, and will likely remain blocked out for the rest of the evening and into tomorrow. If any other transmissions are made, authorization will have to come from me, or one of my counterparts, who will be able to provide authentication based upon these protocols." Gamrat tapped the dust-jacketed file that sat on the table before the SPBS producer. "I assume that you understand this as well?"

The SPBS producer nodded her head, a series of quick, painfully nervous jerks. She licked her lips, and from the sound of it, her mouth had long gone dry. "Whatever you say sir...whatever you say. When does the broadcast begin?"

"Eleven minutes. I suggest that you have everything in order within six." Gamrat turned to his lieutenant, a lithe, gas-masked butcher who was leaning, quite casually, in the doorway to the "control room."

"Sorry to disappoint Nikolaj. I'm sure that we'll be able to have some fun before The Boss is done. In fact, almost positive."

Podtrzymują Dwa (Pillar Two)
Ivory Towers Complex, Kasjopeja
7:30 pm, Sarmatian Central Time


It wasn't hard to pick out the offices in the individual Pillars that were being descended upon by the PKB. This building, the most recent addition to the sprawling Ivory Towers Complex was turning out to be perfect for watching the night's events play out. Though certainly not as tall as Pillar Five, or Eight, Pillar Two was more than high enough to provide a clear view of the streets below, which were now choked with hulking black SUV's, and a veritable army of black-clad PKB shock-troops.

Starting about ten minutes ago, and continuing at random intervals, rarely fewer than thirty seconds apart, tell-tale flashes had begun to illuminate the mostly darkened window faces in each of those Pillars, signaling that the PKB had either incapacitated their targets with flash-bang grenades, or had terminated them altogether. Konstantin Ostrogscy, Chairman of the Directorate of Foreign Affairs, and Senior Elector, suspected that it was going to turn out to the latter in most cases. When Mniszech's office had initially contacted him, to let him know that the day had finally come, Konstantin had been gripped by an anxiety unlike any he'd ever known.

He'd been altogether unconnected with the plot against the Prince, and had even discouraged a number of his associates from throwing their support behind it...and he'd even been rather glad to discover that Mniszech had made it. Cassiopeia needed a strong man at the helm, even if some of his leanings were a bit...radical. Konstantin had always preferred the status quo to anything else, and he was sure that had the Wolsztyn conspiracy succeeded, there wouldn't have been any triumphant ascendance for the Senat, but rather another bought of stratocratic totalitarianism. That was the farthest thing from what the Sarmatian and Khazar peoples needed now.

Konstantin was actually taken by surprise by the next series of flashes, almost directly across from his office, in the Andrzej Wallenquist Memorial Building. For some months now- since it was completed (at entirely too great an expense), that building had been the home of most of the Senators and Electors, and various senior bureaucrats. Most of them had probably even been in their offices when the PKB had cordoned off the area, even though they'd probably had just as good an idea as Konstantin himself had about what was coming. Surely, at least a dozen had already fled abroad, but that wouldn't do them any good.

For a moment, there even seemed to be a miniature gun battle raging in the offices parallel to his own, but it lasted for less than a minute, with only one resolution possible. Konstantin was surprised to find disgust creeping into his heart. He'd thought that he'd be able to stand here and watch this, all the way through to completion, but something compelled him to turn and leave. He had no part in this save to keep his head down and wait for the dust to settle.

"Anna, as soon as the all-clear is given, please see to it that an escort is acquired for us. Don't bother with it now though, I'm sure those PKB types won't have the time to listen."

The look of worry on his secretary's face gave him pause. A shadow seemed to hang over her rather exotically beautiful features, a shadow that he'd never before seen. "What is it girl?"

"I don't rightly know Director...they're sending someone up, but they told me not to tell you...I just can't...I can't bear the thought of them barging in here and...and..." Anna trailed off, tears bursting forth from her reddened eyes.

"Now girl, there's no reason to worry over that...I'm not caught up in any of this business...they must just be looking into the security of all the loyalists, lest we become the object of some haphazard reprisals by these madmen." He offered his handkerchief to her, and ran a hand down her smooth cheek.

On cue, the intercom outside of his office buzzed. Konstantin strode across the room himself, and peered through the spy-hole. Sure enough, there were three PKB men in the hallway, and none of them appeared to be coming for a fight.

Without a second thought, Konstantin unlocked the door, and opened it- his most practiced smile greeting the shock-troopers. "Yes gentlemen, how may I help you?"

"Konstantin Ostrogscy, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice under Article..." By the time the PKB man was done, and the cuffs were around Konstantin's wrists, he had collapsed into a sobbing heap, begging them to understand that he wasn't involved in this fiasco in any way.
 
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