Last Appeal to Heaven

[Thaumantica]

Durdevac Minor
Captaincy of Divovia
0610 ZST​

Grown heavier by liquid rain, a 34 year old Army Captain brashly kicked mud and the descending droplets of silver rain directly in to the face of what was but a ball like shape of a man. Water crawled between his lips, chilling the coffee stained teeth every chance it had. His eyes, a defining feature, managed to shine by reflecting flickers of light from within the barn, bloodhounds and their handlers were still double and triple checking every nook and cranny for escaped Senators.

"One fatal flaw gentleman." he remarked with a snarky tone, holding back a snicker while retracting his boot to align with the other once more. "You assumed the Union had a conscious, that this God forsaken Military followed its heart and not cold hard Orders."

Enlisted soldiers, mere thugs really, pummeled three middle aged men in to each other like bowling pins cursed to stay in place with onslaught after onslaught. A female Civil Police Officer emerged from the mist wielding a cage of roosters in one hand and a chicken filled cage with the other. With glee proudly displayed upon her face, she tossed the little beasts in to the fray while attempting to hold back a sinister cackle of her own.

"We're just Senators, please sir, please?" one cried out, holding both hands together as if to pray to the Union Officers, who were in reality peons in the vast chain of command.

He now simply kicked smaller puddles and clumps of mud in their direction, with no true aim, "Orders are orders Senator old boy, someone tipped Sjadnbrdo off that y'all were fleeing tonight, and our orders are to make a mockery of you." the Commanding Officer chirped.

"Easy enough job, I'd say. So long as you do not mind the rain...Say, you don't mind the rain, do you Senators?"

Convulsing wildly like one of the crazed hens being terrorized by the Enlisted goons, a salt and pepper haired Senator rose to his feet "Perhaps we can pay you off, give you a salary this so-called Military never c-c-c-could?"

Portley, pissed, and wielding a club - another Civil Police Officer of the male variety asserted himself by bashing the standing Senator fiercely across the right knee, breaking the Senators ability to stand on two legs.

"I think that is enough, quite enough." the Commanding Officer declared, throwing away a soggy cigarette he had failed to light while having his profession insulted by the Senator. "Make not another remark against us, and I promise it'll be with bullets and not hatchets."

The Enlisteds howled with laughter while clanging hatchet and pistol together devilishly. Each tool of murder had been issued specially and exclusively for this mission, a welcome change of equipment from the standard rifle and entrenching tool (shovel/spade). Experimenting with the hatchet here would do their kindred spirits well, though it would be back to the old e-tool before long, a less deliberate and messy killer.

"We'll cooperate" squealed the one bracing his knee, to which another leaning against him nodded - contemplating what those hatchets might do to that same neck with slow precision.

Truly disappointed, but not hesitant to strike, two Enlisted soldiers emptied their ten deep clips in to the three senators, not even disturbing the horses a few meters away from the intense hydro showers that muffled all sound waves.

"Time for us to take over, get our hands dirty as it were." a Civil Police Officer said while directing his men to begin chopping the bodies into several more pieces, mindfully easing their destined passage through the wood chipper in the distance. The press would receive a different story from the one that truly transpired, instead the three unlucky Senators were destined to have run in to a single humble agrarian Farmer with a sizable collection of firearms. Alone and with no knowledge of who the Senators were, this farmer would proceed to remove the trespassers from this world for daring to thieve eggs and shelter from his barn.

 

[Thaumantica]

Sjadnbrdo
Captaincy of Divovia
0620 ZST​

Mister Gurevich made careful and entirely sure that his freshly grown goatee was within the Union 'Standard & Regulation of Grooming', even with his new status as Directer of the Unija Istraživanje Službeni (UIS), Životinje's premier Military Intelligence unit. While he was considered intelligent for Ziv standards, it was his 'meat and potatoes' character that gave colleagues an impression of a genuine Union man, a reliable rock to lean on when everything went awry.

"Standard Grounds, sir?" his aide asked candidly, knowing that his boss loved to hate the disgusting coffee brew. Gurevich smiled, pulling a mechanical razor away from a face now within military regulation, just as soon tossing it aside for the aide to readily catch (quite used to the routine after only three weeks).

"Tell them I'll take it black, as usual. . . Can I expect the Maresal inside?"

The aide shrugged, "He has declared Security Status Silver, I doubt he even knows where he is right now."

"Right, right, right. Do not press the administration on his whereabouts, he'll contact us when we are actually needed."

Gurevich dismounted his sedan quickly, remembering to secure the car by clicking its automatic locking remote. He had also made note of rolling up the windows, weather reports over Sindikat Radio were calling for one hell of a rainstorm within the hour - precursors now loomed overhead in the form of gargantuan grey clouds of potential downpour.

Inside he was greeted by the crisp salute of four uniformed Guards, perhaps the last of their kind (Class A attire). Nearly all security details had converted to the Field Uniform when Huszar took power, he a staunch enemy of the tedious Class A perfectionist crowd that commanded before him. Not far beyond those sealed doors Gurevich descended via elevator three levels until reaching a floor titled simply: "Z". The sluggish part of the bulletproof elevator doors was not enough to shield Gurevich from the overwhelming noise being created on the other side.

Computers of modern and outdated models, with human operators wearing similar styles of clothing and hair created a time spanning vibe of diversity as Gurevich assumed his position at the situation rooms center. He stood at the very center of it all with a sense of enrichment, slurping down swathes of information from every monitor he laid an eye on.

"Have we broken through Security Status Grey regarding Operation Farmers Fury?" Gurevich queried, mildly amused still with the op-title.

Baring what in Životinje was considered 'fresh' coffee, his quipie aide passed a steaming mug in to Gurevich's idle hands, "That we have, sir. We are tracking that the package is being disposed of now. All sensitive items are green, and our assets are in waiting and in position."

Harsh ringing from a glossy blue monitor rattled Gurevich mentally to an encounter in the field where he took the life of a communist family in Komenoge, years ago now, but still potent in his mind. "Mister Gurevich, front and center young man!"

The Director broke his short mental bind, carefully reminding himself to pray for the long dead family later in the day. He now smiled lightly, unsure whether that familiar voice was utilizing his not so familiar mood swing repertoire. "Sindikat Maresal Huszar, good morning sir!" he yelled with a straightened out face, void of his initial smile.

"Yes, yes. Keeping it brief, I have no time for your bullshit today Gurevich" Huszar asserted, to which the UIS Director chuckled; sensing the sarcasm in Huszar's voice.

"Eyes up North Director, at Greater Sarmatska. We're not sure whether they wanted us to kill the Senators or not. You and I both know three high-profile Senators do not escape that Prince of theres by getting lucky."

Gurevich nodded, "Eyes up north, and a search party within to find there agents in case this was one of there sick traps we fell in to. Shall I dispatch an investigation team to your location, sir?"

"Fuck no, I would'nt trust one of your men here. And you're not finding out where here is either, so be wise and forget you asked." Huszar reminded with no veil of how smug he intended to be.

Gurevich nodded once more, "Tracking sir. Eyes up North, and a spring cleaning within". The screen immediately turned black, the Maresal was truly committed to not wasting time. Before long Gurevich had summoned a staff of organizers to sprinkle various wings of the UIS with marching orders. His Standard Grounds Coffee accompanied him all along the way, providing the necessary jolt of putrid tasted in the mouth when called upon by a full swig.

 

[Thaumantica]

Durdevac Conservation District
Captaincy of Divovia
0713 ZST​

Dry and content from within the confines of his company van, Bartal avoided one sizable puddle only to turn over loose mud between four heavy tires. Quiet rain accompanied an elderly females radio presence, her voice surprised Bartal with sheer confidence in what she must know was Grade A Bullshit.

"890 ZLS Sindikat Wave, Civilian News Outlet. Our number one headline this morning as you make your commute, is out of Durdevac Minor. Intitial Reports from Divovian Police paint the picture of one gravely unfortunate situation for three Kasjopejan's on what was supposed to be a simple hunting trip."​

Bartal gingerly turned the volume up, opening his eardrums fully to the beat of disinformation.

"That is until a male Farmer discovered the three squatting inside of his barn, just a few miles from the Union border this morning. Police report the encounter turned deadly when the Farmer, lead suspect in this incident, forcefully removed the three trespassers with an assault rifle using full metal jacket rounds."​

The van was unable to avoid thumping over a dead dog, crushing the perished canines ribcage in upon itself with ease. A sign on the muddled roads shoulder designated all territory past that point 'Union Designated Conservation District', which meant either the land was a favorite of the tree huggers, or too expensive for the military to maintain

Bartal scoffed at both the dead dog and that eerily convincing woman over the radio, without thinking it over twice he turned her voice down low enough to a point where she was literally drowned out by the rain. His experience as a journalist led him to observe the raw reality in things, a mixed blessing in a reality that was stacking up a body count across Životinje. The citizen in him wanted to lay down the pen and paper which now sat next to him as his only passenger, but he committed himself to being a reporter in the same way one of his countrymen would to being a solider.

Four miserable looking Militiamen stood huddled together next to a wooden roadblock. Their rifles were from the Great War era, likely a hand-me down from a veteran Father like Bartal had, though his 'papa' was still alive to clutch his weapon tight and close to the chest. When the van was close enough to throw a stone at, the shortest Militiamen ran out to meet Bartal, who was willing and compliant to present forged papers that billed him as a plumbing contractor.

"Mind if I lean in to light a smoke?" the Militiamen innocently queried with his drenched cap already filtering rain water in to the van.

Bartal shook his head "Of course not, allow me to.." his free hand had a torch ignited before he could even finish the sentence.

Wet but temporarily happy, the Militiamen waved Bartal's van through the checkpoint, cheerfully exclaiming "Freedom First!" as the blue van slowly drove on its way. Bartal manually rolled his window up to stay open by just a crack with his hands off the wheel, he intended to use this opportunity to suck down a cigarette for himself. Its line lasted until he had reached his destination.

The village of Durdevac Minor was small, in fact he had interviewed half of the town that was willing to cooperate in fifteen minutes. Smaller tight-nit communities, the type that posted militiamen on a dirt road (the only one going in or out), usually shared a fifty-fifty sentiment towards reporters: ready to gab for hours, or reaching for a concealed weapon around the ankle and belt line.

"What are the locals saying?" a senior colleague asked over the telephone, "Give me this one and I'll make sure you get that raise you asked for last year."

Bartal laughed at the desperate old man, "And if I get the scoop on this story, say for Union Confidential . . They'll have me bringing in twice what you do, old man."

"Oh? That hurts, hell it breaks my heart Bartal dearest" the other man sarcastically blabbered before hanging up in anger. Some men think they can manipulate others using their past victories and prestige, Bartal was a firm believer that every day was a new chance to seize opportunities that were right there ripe for the picking, only veiled to others by self pity or weakness.

It had not taken long at all to find the first hole in what the old hag from 890 ZLS was repeating every hour on the hour. The so called 'protective farmer' had been dead for over a year, cancer of the brain apparently. A shopworker witnessed a Civil Police unit and an Army Captain who had all ordered Coffee, sugar and cream around 5 A.M., none of whom the shopworker could recognize or identify. Durdevac Minor had no Police Force or Civil Police detachment from the Union, such a low-profile village was self-sustaining enough to enforce its own laws with a Militia and a few nosy neighbors. It would be logistically impossible for an Army Officer who likely had few Enlisted knuckle dragger's following not far behind, and a Civil Police squad with no reason to reach its jurisdiction in to Durdevac Minor, to find any reason to be in this village at the same time and place.

"Someone tipped them off that the three were coming" Bartal muttered to himself, "Could'nt be a trio of weekend hunters either, could it?" he asked while already considering the answer. His stomach turned over or at least felt like it was, Bartal knew now that he was delving in to an ankle high pool of national sludge that the Union would want covered up even if it had to drown him in the sludge to do it. He ran back into the shop with the days newspaper used as an umbrella, figuring a cup of coffee would do his stomach a charity.

"One cup" Bartal requested "I'll take it how the Captain did".

 

[Thaumantica]

Sjadnbrdo
Captaincy of Divovia
0740 ZST​

"Sort them all" slowly rolled from the fiery tongue of Mister Gurevich, "I want barcodes being scanned off of every Divovian piece of ass up there in Durdevac Minor." he paced from side to side, scanning each available monitor for valuable information.

While chiming in through her headset, a female analyst subtly posted a short burst confirming the name and address of Durdevac Minor's Mayor, "Tracking your request, sir. We have an owl in a tree just outside the village, embedded in the conservation district."

Gurevich withdrew attention long enough to signature three documents, each formally approving an indepth investigation in to the three deceased Senators. "Tell him to spread his wings" Gurevich ordered "Scuttle what other resources to support this unit, he has Union wide priority. I'll consider this a success if we can contain evidence, or more importantly thwart foreign agents before the Army posts a roving guard in the region. From then on it'll be like looking for a virgin in a clusterfuck of infantry grunts".

The female analyst shivered in disgust, in no way comfortable with the Directors choice of words. Her career in the UIS predated that of Gurevich, who was appointed by Maresal Huszar from within the standard Air Corps, Zaktrupa intelligence command. The Zaktrupa maintained a strict no female recruiting policy, unlike the Army and Air Corps who had long assimilated female soldiers.

Durdevac Minor
Captaincy of Divovia
0757 ZST​

Gloom and thick brush obscured an energetic UIS Operative. It would not have taken the three years of training afforded to him in order to surmise this simple canopy, held up by intersecting 550 Cord between three closely growing trees, was one of several ways to avoid immersion foot and sickness.

Inglorious and harrowing, his position as a "FieldOp" Agent had taken a turn for the literal worst since the Union announced their Sarmatian Missile Shield shared with Kasjopeja a few months back. His abandonment of the makeshift camp could not have come a moment sooner, he quickly destroyed the canopy by cutting a critical point of the cords foundation. Wet and alone, at least for the time being, he emerged from the mud caked forests, trudging slowly now in to the small village of Durdevac Minor.

"One by one" the Operative whispered while subduing an urge to shake with the chills. One urge he could not restrain however was a caffeine addicts thirst for coffee. The single village shoppette stood out like a sore thumb, adorned with a lit sign amongst wooden or in other cases carved rock signs.

A modestly dressed man approached the humble operative with paper and pen, "Excuse me, Union Confidential Reporter. Might I inquire your whereabouts this morning?"

The Operative stopped dead in his tracks, "My whereabouts?" he repeated, growling nearly. His face turned to the menu written in chalk, the irony was only three variants of coffee were served there. "I'll take mine how the reporter did." His glance now rotated to the persistent reporter, and in mere milliseconds he was within striking distance.

"You first reporter, where were you this morning?"

The reporter smiled "Pushing through that damn rainstorm to get here, looks like its dying down if you ask me."

"I did'nt" the Operative snapped "Do yourself a favor and beat feet out of town, there is'nt room enough in this village for two Coffee fanatics". He now felt the dynamic warmth leaking deep until hitting the dry pit of his stomach.

"Is that a veiled statement sir? Might you elaborate further?" the reporter asked, attempting to get a solid statement out of this mysterious man.

The Operative was not about to blow his cover to a news man, "It means, this town ain't right for your kind. Now get before I get the Militia sicked on you like a witch" he responded, using an obnoxious country accent. Internally he mused that his verbal accenting skills were perhaps his worst asset.

"Fair enough sir, but I am going to get every name and every story before I leave here" said the Reporter.

Nodding the Operator took a short sip, following it with a cool whisper "Two by two, eh?".

 

[Thaumantica]

Sjadnbrdo
Captaincy of Divovia
1732 ZST​

Several booze fraught corridors led Directer Gurevich to the very hearth of Sindikat Maresal Huszar's Administrative Union. Maresal Pijan, Huszar's predecessor, was a vulnerable slave to the trends of modern design. An immediate rejig was called when Huszar ascended to lead the Blue Union, an alteration that infamously included the new Maresal lobbing Pijan's modern artwork out of the three story window . . . ablaze with fire.

Regardless of his drinking habits, Huszar was a healthy man. His taste for beer ran dry eons ago, which meant his morning, afternoon, and evening was strictly reinforced with cheap liquor, or expensive wines when foreign dignitaries paid on the expense of their own taxpayers. Beads of sweat trickled on to the hardwood floor, where above stirred the upward pushing exercises of the sixty-three year old officer himself.

"Only fifty-seven . . . I can only do fifty-seven." the nation-wide master whispered, knowing Director Gurevich was dying to hear. "Just ten years ago I was doing eighty; before that over a hundred-fifty. You get the idea don't you, Directer?"

Gurevich acutely nodded, "Fifty-Seven, Maresal sir. Not much, but at least you're not dead". He felt that was the appropriate response, derogatory commentary beyond that this early in the conversation might be too predictable.

Exempting his body from any more strain, Huszar took to his knees. Beside him he found a milky white towel, which he used to sponge the sweat from beneath and around his brow. "Książę Mniszech, his pustule ridden excellency. Not dead, though incapable of matching an old man such as myself in physical aptness." The Maresal was quick to his feet, and before he could spew out another insult at the coma enduring Prince of Greater Sarmatia, he was gulping from what he called the "Modern Mother's Teet": a muscle regenerating protein beverage. "No, it isn't spiked with whiskey Gurevich." Huszar said after concluding a lengthy chug. He followed by brushing a drop of the protein shake with his towel.

"You expect me to believe that sir? I'm not a fool, I am your Directer of Intelligence" Gurevich remarked, hoping the wit was taken with a dash of insult. "Regardless, you old drunkard. The Prince of Greater Sarmatia, a Nurse from the hospital he resides in has stated that he overdosed on a recreational drug. Doctors have been . . " suddenly he was interrupted by Maresal Huszar - "Spare me your details, we all know he was a junkie, most of the Northerners are!" he said with a snicker.

Huszar casually swung the towel over his bare shoulder, genuinely content with the information provided to him, and confident with the pre-drafted decision on a path to move forward on. His eyes lurked everywhere but upon the Intelligence Directer until Huszar settled on a nearby television set, twenty year old technology in no-definition, that showed a female reporter flapping her pink lips outside a Sarmatian Hospital. "There, Mister Gurevich. Have our men go there, women even" he ordered while pointing at the television set, "Finish what the drugs couldn't".

Finally he regained eye contact with Directer Gurevich, "Sarmatia has made its Last Appeal to Heaven. I want that man dead, fucking dead."

 

[Beautancus]

Old Hrodino General Hospital, Room 303
Kasjopeja
Most Serene Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia


There comes certain moments in the history of a nation when men- ordinarily good, kind people, with only the well-being of their family weighing on their minds- are called upon to do things so reprehensible as to leave no room for positive interpretation.

Porucznik (Lieutenant) Lev Azewoja found himself in one of those moments now, standing before the hospital bed of the greatest man to have been born in his beloved nation in many a decade. The aura of serenity that His Excellency emanated was truly palpable for Azewoja, despite the network of tubes and wires that ran into and out of the Great Sarmatian's withering body. It was all some horrible accident of fate that had landed Mniszech here, in this bed. The media had only been allowed a portion of the truth concerning that accident- but Azewoja, being one of the Prince's personal PKB men had been privy to the truth.

Mniszech had accumulated a truly impressive collection of wounds throughout the course of the Civil War, ranging from "simple" gunshot wounds, to the truly debilitating spinal injury he'd suffered after the APC he'd been riding in had been blasted end over end after rolling over a landmine. It had been a miracle that he'd been able to walk after that injury, and the only procedure that was available in that era had left him with a near crippling level of pain. And so, the opiates. As is the case with any person suffering from chronic pain over any real length of time, the strength and regularity with which he'd consumed those opiates had steadily climbed over the years- and now decades, until he'd been taking enough pain killers every day to force most horses into a senseless stupor.

Despite this seeming handicap, Mniszech had persevered, for the sake of the Sarmatian people if nothing else, forcing himself to maintain a level of energy that would have put many younger, healthier men to shame. Even after he'd crested sixty, his levels of activity had only increased. And with that, his cardiovascular health had begun to deteriorate. There had been medication for that too- and the doctors had warned that he would one day have to make the choice between pain and life, that his heart (and liver, and kidneys, and lungs) wouldn't take the constant waves of narcotics that he was pulling into his body. Obviously, he hadn't listened.

There'd simply been too much to do- with the corruption of the Legislature finally revealed, and the chance to run the nation as it always should have always been run coming together...Mniszech simply couldn't slow down- not if the Sarmatian people were to at long last attain their place in the sun, unburdened by the alliances and rivalries of the past.

And then, Heaven had pulled the rug out from under the entire nation. There had been a simple infection. Something respiratory. Minor. Common. Easily remedied with some recently developed, and very powerful antibiotic. His Excellency's breathing had improved, he'd begun to move and speak as if he were infused with a vitality previously not glimpsed. There had been a reaction in his system though- and slowly, a blood clot had formed.

It was a tiny thing, the blood clot- but it had lain the greatest man in modern Sarmatian history low in a matter of seconds. The whole Sarmatian world had spiraled out of control in mere minutes with the news that Mniszech had suffered a seizure- and stroke. A blackness that had been thought long dead in the hearts and minds of the people of Greater Sarmatia once more crept to the fore.

He would not recover. That much, the men in power knew. There was no chance that he would recover. The common people prayed for a miracle, but those that had some idea of how the world really worked had begun to prepare for what they all knew was to come the moment that the news had broken. There would be a power struggle. There was no other way.
Nowina was telling the media that Mniszech had drafted plans for the nomination and confirmation of a successor. And he probably had, but those plans were more than likely locked in some obscure cabinet in some office that not a soul had stepped into for years. Whatever idea he'd had of who might succeed him was safely locked away in his head...and so, there would be a power struggle.

There were those within the current administration that knew that they had a stronger position to move from than others. One of those men- Doctor Jozef Kościałkowsky, even enjoyed the support of the leadership, and vast majority of the rank and file of the PKB, which at the moment was arguably the most powerful institution in the Most Serene Commonwealth. It seemed that he also enjoyed the support of the antagonistic, but increasingly influential younger "sibling" of Greater Sarmatia- the Blue Union.

That was, for the most part, why Azewoja was here, in this room now. The three forces at work here- Kościałkowsky, the PKB, and Huszar were conspiring to see something accomplished. Each, obviously, had their own separate agenda, but now found it convenient to pool their resources and ideological weight behind one move, one catalyst that would see to it that the long, and painful process of the next national definition could begin.

Azewoja considered himself a "true believer." He'd been raised in a Mezhist household- his father had been an ardent believer in the complete superiority of the Sarmatian peoples over all others. The classical ideal of the Sarmatian warrior-citizen had been instilled in him from the very beginning. His career had reflected this upbringing, from his very earliest moments in the NDF's Naval Infantry, to the moment that he'd been recruited into the elite Executive Security detachment of the PKB. He'd found the leader his heart had always longed for in Patryk Mniszech. There were no words to express the depth of despair that Azewoja now felt, with his chosen captain felled, not in some epic final battle, but by some secondary reaction to a pitifully human addiction.

A man like Mniszech, so much larger than life deserved better than to lay there on that damnable hospital bed, a thing of curiosity and prolonged sorrow for the nation that had begun to worship him. That was why Kościałkowsky and his fellows in the PKB had chosen Azewoja for the job.

Surely, it was possible that they might have been able to buy someone else off, with enough money. They'd already bought- or intimidated- most of the doctors involved in this case off. It would have been a small matter for one of the nurses to make a slight miscalculation with some cocktail or another. But no- that wouldn't do with a fellow like Azewoja on the watch. And so, it had become a matter of mercy- a thing of kindness.

Azewoja would not let his lord and master linger, when there was no chance of him ever recovering. He would not let him live through another Civil War- all the while powerless to affect the outcome in any way. He would not let his leader suffer this indignity a moment longer.

And so, he stepped to the side of the bed, syringe in hand. He'd been assured that the cocktail he'd been given would send Mniszech on to God without even a hint of pain. Adavan, morphine, and something else that Azewoja had never heard of. It was favored by patients that opted for euthanasia more than anything else. It would do.

Hands trembling, uniform clinging to his body with a cold sweat, Azewoja slowly inserted the needle into the IV bag- and dumped the entire content of the syringe without thinking twice. With a sad smile, he pressed his fingertips to Mniszech's forehead- offering one last appeal to Heaven, that he could somehow be forgiven for removing the divinely mandated ruler of the Sarmatian Steppe from this world, and turned away, even as the machines wired to the Prince of Greater Sarmatia's body began to chime and scream as that same Prince's vital signs began to bottom out.

 

[Thaumantica]

Old Hrodino General Hospital
Kasjopeja
Most Serene Commonwealth of Greater Sarmatia​

An interminable, stunted only perhaps by expansive lungs, drag from his stubby cigarette helped relax Grzegor Cjarnik in this portrait of Kasjopejan society. His personal view on the Greater Sarmatian nation was indifferent, entirely and unequivocally indifferent. Cjarnik had no family to speak of, or no ancestors so he might claim some long dead Miedzymorzan had quarreled with in the Wars of Assertion, or a more recent relative who could have fought alongside the Miedzy's in the Great War's Eastern Front. He saw several similarities with his own home country, region even, architecture and places of industry cast along the same time period and state of being.

The Kasjopejans seemed less concerned with what each other were doing, not intrusive like the nosy-neighbors he lived amongst in Životinje. What laws the nation did have on the books, every man and woman who can see or hear feel felt the need to enforce with a scowl or opinionated rant.

Dressed in a nurses scrubs Cjarnik was careful not to attract too much attention, though he was still not entirely sure whether it was commonplace for foreign Medical Professionals to still smoke as the Zivs did. He was quite sure however that he looked out of place for the job, not as a political assassin, but as a male practical nurse.

Inside the Hospital itself, a hectic extravaganza of busy doctors was bubbling to a point of disturbing chaos. As he approached Room 303, the room a blackmailed informant explained held Mniszech, the maelstrom of medical personnel worsened to a near overwhelming status. Cjarnik carefully guided his adrenaline filled body through these moving pieces, in his state sanctioned game of kill-the-prince. He beckoned for the least important, hopefully well informed, "fellow" nurse he could stop with an outstretched hand. She came in the form of a short and stubby brunette, not to dissimilar to the cigarette he had finished moments ago, pale but flustered to the point of redness by whatever event she was now apart of.

"What happened here?" Cjarnik asked, not bothering to take a stab at a Kasjopejan accent.

"He. .He's dead" she whispered. Cjarnik could now see in her face that she was only now finally processing the full brevity of that fact, and he could not tell if she was saddened or relived.

The assassin let out a thunderous burp, with it he caught the scent of his cigarette. 'Two minutes or one less cigarette earlier and I would have been there to watch the bastard die, or hell, do him myself' he thought as he left the female nurse staring dumbstruck in to dead space.

With this turn of events, Mniszech's death would not leave a trail back to Životinje, directly at least. There would be no paper trail Union side either, Cjarnik would report in person to Directer Gurevich, who would report in person to Sindikat Maresal Huszar. The Universe had just given this Intelligence Operative lemons, which he would squeeze to the last drop with. A man of few words already, all he would report when queried was "He has taken his last breath." There would be no evidence linking Cjarnik to the eternal rest the late great Prince, but also no reason to lie exactly. Whether his superiors would ever deduct that Cjarnik was not involved seemed irrelevant with the current prospect of raking in a bonus deposited privately to a Blue Flag Corporation Bank Account, untouchable to the Union after the transaction can be completed.