10-26-2024, 07:04 PM
Deziet, deziet atrijama…
A middle-aged man in a fine gray suit sat at the bar of a high-end club in Atlantis, sipping a cocktail of imported liqueur and local spirits. The mood around him was relaxed and refined, as the club was known for catering to fairly wealthy clientele. A pianist played an excerpt from one of Montej’s famous solo pieces, filling the air with the soft notes of a middling Eirian composer. The man at the bar ran one hand through his slick hair, brushing it to the side while watching his own reflection in the bar's polished surface.
The bartender placed a refill of his drink on the oak bar top without a word (but with a polite smile), earning a nod of thanks from the gray-suited man. After finishing off the dregs of his original glass, he began to slowly nurse the refill, taking the time to survey the room.
Voices from the entrance of the club echoed throughout the hall, turning quite a few heads. A number of individuals in plain black uniforms pushed past the staff at the front, quickly spreading throughout the room. The piano faded away as its player peeked curiously over her sheet music in an attempt to get a better view of what was going on. Back at the bar, the man had turned pale, taking another sip of his drink while trying desperately to keep a straight face.
Alas, his efforts were in vain. Two officers approached opposite sides of the bar, scanning faces until one of them locked eyes with the man in gray. She started to approach him, her partner doing the same from the other side. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
With a grim smile, the man downed the rest of his drink and turned to face the music.
Dan Lucis (The Atlantis Falcon)
—
Deziet, deziet pašasama…
A hooded figure leaned against a dusty brick wall in a dark Geminus alleyway, vigilantly watching the intersecting street. In the fading evening light, anyone would be hard-pressed to even notice the figure, not to mention seeing their face. That was the point, after all. Jobs like this one required a certain sense of anonymity.
The figure checked their watch, doing the mental math on how much longer it would take their target to make his way down the steps of the nearby office building as he walked to his car. The figure reached into their coat and pulled out a pistol, quietly screwing on a suppressor as discreetly as they could. It wouldn't silence the gun entirely, mind you, but it would most certainly draw less attention, allowing the assassin to escape into the crowd unimpeded.
Before the figure could even cock their gun,
however, the main street was filled with the sound of sirens. Law enforcement officers in several different uniforms flooded the main street, making their way to the alley with their guns drawn and pointed.
The figure’s pistol made a metallic thud as it hit the ground.
The Fox (DG-9)
—
Sē mus paklam vī mus kram,
In a modest apartment in New Riga, a woman typed away on her computer, her LED-inlaid mouse changing color as she worked. Surrounding her was a range of papers, most being applications for various government documents (passports, driver's licenses, and even birth certificates). All of these were filled out with fake names, of course. But her work’s filing system wouldn't know the difference.
She closed one file with a click and navigated to her next task, logging back into the Office of Document Services portal with her work credentials. Using a scan of a forged birth certificate and a picture that had been staged to look like it had been taken by one of the mediocre cameras at ODS, she filled out the request form, being careful to not leave any details out that would cause the form to be sent back. Once she was satisfied, she clicked the blue “Submit” button at the bottom and moved on yet again.
A loud knock at the door disturbed her working rhythm, causing her to go stock still. “DEI*. Uvriet lei pōrt, kurena Leimane.”
The woman leapt to her feet, trying to shove as many of the papers as she could into inconspicuous places as the knocking on the door increased. She ran to the bathroom, desperately trying to pry open the window so she could reach the fire escape.
The sound of wood turning to splinters made her look back in fear as the agents kicked down her front door.
Aleksa Leimane (Libre-13F)
—
Persei nausei san dezana!
Across Eiria, day after day, the sound of handcuffs clicking closed echoed through both the highest and lowest levels of society. Business owners, everyday workers, and shadowy criminals alike were being rounded up en masse without hesitation. And what did all of these arrests have in common?
They were all authorized by Kīus Lekōlk, the government's point man on organized crime.
*Departmant dei Enketecōn ut Istenēča (Department of Investigation and Enforcement)
A middle-aged man in a fine gray suit sat at the bar of a high-end club in Atlantis, sipping a cocktail of imported liqueur and local spirits. The mood around him was relaxed and refined, as the club was known for catering to fairly wealthy clientele. A pianist played an excerpt from one of Montej’s famous solo pieces, filling the air with the soft notes of a middling Eirian composer. The man at the bar ran one hand through his slick hair, brushing it to the side while watching his own reflection in the bar's polished surface.
The bartender placed a refill of his drink on the oak bar top without a word (but with a polite smile), earning a nod of thanks from the gray-suited man. After finishing off the dregs of his original glass, he began to slowly nurse the refill, taking the time to survey the room.
Voices from the entrance of the club echoed throughout the hall, turning quite a few heads. A number of individuals in plain black uniforms pushed past the staff at the front, quickly spreading throughout the room. The piano faded away as its player peeked curiously over her sheet music in an attempt to get a better view of what was going on. Back at the bar, the man had turned pale, taking another sip of his drink while trying desperately to keep a straight face.
Alas, his efforts were in vain. Two officers approached opposite sides of the bar, scanning faces until one of them locked eyes with the man in gray. She started to approach him, her partner doing the same from the other side. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
With a grim smile, the man downed the rest of his drink and turned to face the music.
Dan Lucis (The Atlantis Falcon)
—
Deziet, deziet pašasama…
A hooded figure leaned against a dusty brick wall in a dark Geminus alleyway, vigilantly watching the intersecting street. In the fading evening light, anyone would be hard-pressed to even notice the figure, not to mention seeing their face. That was the point, after all. Jobs like this one required a certain sense of anonymity.
The figure checked their watch, doing the mental math on how much longer it would take their target to make his way down the steps of the nearby office building as he walked to his car. The figure reached into their coat and pulled out a pistol, quietly screwing on a suppressor as discreetly as they could. It wouldn't silence the gun entirely, mind you, but it would most certainly draw less attention, allowing the assassin to escape into the crowd unimpeded.
Before the figure could even cock their gun,
however, the main street was filled with the sound of sirens. Law enforcement officers in several different uniforms flooded the main street, making their way to the alley with their guns drawn and pointed.
The figure’s pistol made a metallic thud as it hit the ground.
The Fox (DG-9)
—
Sē mus paklam vī mus kram,
In a modest apartment in New Riga, a woman typed away on her computer, her LED-inlaid mouse changing color as she worked. Surrounding her was a range of papers, most being applications for various government documents (passports, driver's licenses, and even birth certificates). All of these were filled out with fake names, of course. But her work’s filing system wouldn't know the difference.
She closed one file with a click and navigated to her next task, logging back into the Office of Document Services portal with her work credentials. Using a scan of a forged birth certificate and a picture that had been staged to look like it had been taken by one of the mediocre cameras at ODS, she filled out the request form, being careful to not leave any details out that would cause the form to be sent back. Once she was satisfied, she clicked the blue “Submit” button at the bottom and moved on yet again.
A loud knock at the door disturbed her working rhythm, causing her to go stock still. “DEI*. Uvriet lei pōrt, kurena Leimane.”
The woman leapt to her feet, trying to shove as many of the papers as she could into inconspicuous places as the knocking on the door increased. She ran to the bathroom, desperately trying to pry open the window so she could reach the fire escape.
The sound of wood turning to splinters made her look back in fear as the agents kicked down her front door.
Aleksa Leimane (Libre-13F)
—
Persei nausei san dezana!
Across Eiria, day after day, the sound of handcuffs clicking closed echoed through both the highest and lowest levels of society. Business owners, everyday workers, and shadowy criminals alike were being rounded up en masse without hesitation. And what did all of these arrests have in common?
They were all authorized by Kīus Lekōlk, the government's point man on organized crime.
*Departmant dei Enketecōn ut Istenēča (Department of Investigation and Enforcement)
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