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| Business in a Shattered Realm | |
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| Topic Started: Oct 16 2011, 07:51 PM (225 Views) | |
| Ulgania | Oct 16 2011, 07:51 PM Post #1 |
A better Zarathustra has never rode a horse
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A prologue. The Dissith Union was bustling. The central government, essentially oil tycoons, tribal leaders, worldy demagogues of business, they were all equals with the wealth of European monarchs of ancient times. They sat in seats of blood and gold carved from whoever they could thieve it from, sometimes giving their political predecessor the dignity of a quick death. After twenty years of such scrambling the stability and integrity of The Dissith Union had finally become such that the streets were safe and daily life could commence. Daily life in the Dissith Union, both with regards to work and culture were markedly different from many other countries. DU work consisted largely of contracts. One may be granted a contract to open a steel-mill, or to deliver various parcels and messages. Many weapons-level contracts went to Ulganians as it was considered to be of better craftsmanship to be carrying an Ulganian-made weapon or to be cruising in an Ulganian vessel, and other states had their niche. But the remarkable thing about the culture of the Dissith was its status as a melting pot. An oft-overlooked matter of the Dominion was its multi-ethnic military structure. When an army went to war in Europe, it would take with it a proportional mix of every state within the Dominion. When the Dominion was finally shattered in Asia and the fields of the Blood Palace burned and the free world let out not a cry of victory but a sigh of relief, those armies were left to dissimilate. Millions upon millions of men and women, miles, leagues, entire continents away from home. Their home, for many of them, had only ever been the Dominion, but even a soldier would have an idea of home. And so many of them knew what they faced when in a cold, dark, broken, loveless world of foreigners and hatred. Some adapted, taking off the fatigues of a soldier and dawning the overalls of a factory worker, some tried melting into the cracks, did what they could to be overlooked so they may someday escape the bonds of newfound homes, or in their opinions, prisons. The Dissith, though much smaller in scope than when it could act independently of a state, could still turn profits. It invested oil riches and pursued all the economic specialties that it could, and in return, created a global system for contracts. Those at the top of the Dissith knew full-well that the fall of the Dominion left millions homeless and floating, hungry and penniless. The floating population was perfect, and though time had gone by, three decades in fact, the Dissith could still rely on an old soldier to do his paid duty, or his son to learn the value of a dollar. There was an odd business mogul in the Dissith. His name, no one could be sure, but as far back as any records could show his name was Kevin Flynn. His background was always a source for speculation and gossip both among other moguls and the media, but they would always be dispelled by his own high-profile parties where he would make announcements of assurance that brought his stock-prices up just as fast as he bought out, or in some cases, stamped out disruptive gossipers. The use of contracts for work had given rise to another form of market that Flynn, nor the Dissith government, nor any other world government could ever fully wrest control of. Having millions of reliable workers busying themselves with tasks like package delivery – a field that had become increasingly efficient and cut-throat – had allowed for a new market for information. Who could be sure how valuable the information was? With any data-collection, 99% is useless. There could be a rich grandmother sending her granddaughter a simple birthday card, but in her paranoia may hire a team of armed guards to see its arrival. With increased information gathering gave rise to spying, assassins, and other dark-enterprises, of which many had a global reach and a footprint most redily and unsurprisingly seen in the Dissith’s home turf. |
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| Ulgania | Oct 16 2011, 07:52 PM Post #2 |
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A better Zarathustra has never rode a horse
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One dark, moonless evening a small village pub was having a normally boisterous evening in the outskirts of Serpentine, the capital of the broken state of Ulgania. The Dissith’s politics had ravaged the state’s economy, and when the Typhon Plague subsided and the monarchy of the Valentines restored, it took little time for the Gungir, the most elite of Ulganian soldiers to lead a coup. Many coups in Ulgania’s history were bloodless, but this was no palace revolution. In twenty minutes, seven thousand missiles, bombs, mortars, rockets, and anything else conceivable rained down on Serpentine, and had with pinpoint precision destroyed the chancellery, its external offices, the personal homes, and hiding places of every vestige of government in the city. In another hour, the Gungir had combed through the capital, and in another had claimed victory while the population huddled in fear, lacking information, not knowing up from down. Serpentine burned, and the junta that followed created what was known as The Kingless Decade. For eleven years the Gungir ran the show until in one windy fall afternoon near dusk, single man proclaimed himself the rightful king – an Ulganian of very Brazilian descent. He truly was, and with over ten-thousand Serpentine citizens flanking him, he walked straight to the site of the old chancellery and raised the flag of his family. The Gungir knew their time had come to an end and melted away, adding a jolt of lethality to the millions of floating workers in the world. Difficult to hunt down, even more difficult to kill. This pub, however, saw none of it. For decades it stood as a distraction and place of libation for the tired and thirsty. A hooded man, Flynn, entered the room to take a seat. He had two friends, also hooded, waiting for him. They were bent over some playing cards. “Hey, deal me in,” Flynn said with a smile. The electricity in the room was distracting. There were more people than usual, and the music louder than he remembered. Without thinking, he jammed his knee into the table and the two men fell forward with the jolt, blood running from their faces. At that same moment, shots rang out near the bar. “Nobody move!” one man said. The crowd was a local one, not entirely unprepared for a robbery or other forms of ass-hattery, and either started to run for the door, or to take the law into their own hands. Looking up at the bar and back at his table, Flynn flew for a window. “It’s a goddamn diversion!” he said under his breath. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, while an equally strong hand slammed into his chest, knocking the wind out of him and disorienting him. Flynn scrambled, knocking his hands around and trying to break free. “Flailing won’t help if you can’t breathe. Things are pretty dicey in here. Let’s go outside,” one man said, not quite revealing his face in the softer mood-lighting of the pub. They got outside without further fuss. “Who… are you?” “We just extricated you from a table with two dead friends of yours. Do you seriously believe we’ll answer?” “Your point is taken but your will to kill me isn’t there, and I know it,” Flynn said, spitting at the man who had spoken. “Then let’s get to business. We need some information.” “It could only be one thing if you’re going to kill my friends for it.” “Clever boy, aren’t you.” “Who’s your client? Who’s paying you?” “You’re going to give me a better offer?” “No. I’m going to crack open his head and skullfuck him for killing my friends and thinking he could ever, EVER come this close to me without a damn better plan than this.” The man went to backhand Flynn, but a seething same ripped through the air, followed by a loud BANG sending the man reeling around. Only a moment had gone by before the man realized his hand had been blown off entirely. “You did get me out of that pub, but you blew your chance to question me. You and your boys can live through the night if you cooperate, but only if you tell me, who sent you.” OOC: I hope that’s enough for you to go on. |
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| Ulgania | Oct 22 2011, 09:12 PM Post #3 |
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A better Zarathustra has never rode a horse
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“Flynn, how did they even find you?” asked Heidegger, a Kasnyian ex-patriot who had sworn his allegiance to the Dissith, and Flynn had taken on as a personal assistant. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t have taken a stroll around Serpentine,” Flynn snapped back. The two were sitting in Flynn’s office. Flynn sighed deeply, so deep that his rolls of fat seemed to settle around his seat. “Heidegger, I need a favor. It’s going to take some new contracts – try and avoid having the others take notice of them, make some contracts and look into bounty hunters. Lousy though they are in this day in age, they’re often exquisite in the art data collection. Really, they should just give it all up and be noirs,” he said. The ‘others’ he had referred to were obviously, at least to Heidegger, the other so-called Heads of State in the Dissith. Were they to catch wind of Flynn’s peril in Serpentine the previous night there would certainly be a frenzy. Heidegger made a note of the order. “I feel I should mention, sir, that your attackers were very tight-lipped about who sent them. They offered us all they money they were making off the venture, but…” “They didn’t know who their patron even was. Fucking shit, that’s just what I need, an anonymous enemy. Why can’t they just come out in the open and be real men?” he said, raising his voice. “Sir, mind your blood pressure?” “Of course.” “You have an enemy who seems, at least to me, to be attempting to draw you out slowly. He’s making a chess match of it. He’s extremely patient and…” “And?” Flynn said, gripping his seat with white knucles. “And I’m rather sure it’s someone who knows you. Someone from your past.” Heidegger had been intentionally kept in the dark about Flynn’s past. Going to great lengths to keep it as locked away as he could, Flynn only let people know what his name, what his real legacy was if he was absolutely positive they were going to die by his own hands. Since he had started taking on aliases, there seemed to be a correlation with sadistic murders and the revealing of his name. “Sir, if it’s someone from your past, and if you’re going to want me to assist you…” “No, Heidegger. I trust you, but you can never know who I am.” “Of course, sir.” |
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| Ulgania | Oct 23 2011, 06:07 PM Post #4 |
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A better Zarathustra has never rode a horse
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Flynn, buddy, it’s Marcel. I’m going to be in town for a groundbreaking ceremony and drinks afterward the day after tomorrow. I hate to ask on such short notice, but I could use some muscle. If you and some of your boys could stop by and make sure the local color behaves itself, well, you know I’ll pay handsomely. Flynn was flush with anger. “Heidegger!” he bellowed. “No, of course, I’ve sent him elsewhere,” he said to himself as he returned Marcel’s call. Marcel was another powerful oligarch that ruled over the Dissith Union. The “Union” part of the plan was his idea, and he never let anyone forget it. If anything, he was the only oligarch that made a successful living by currying favor with others. He was the most successful at getting into the heads of other financial titans. Flynn thought he would have made a fine eunuch. “Marcel, how the hell are you?” Flynn said, moving through the usual pleasantries. Of all the oligarchs, the two of them knew they needed one another to stay in business. “This ground-breaking, it’s the weapon’s factory?” “No, my friend. Something bigger, much, much bigger.” “It’s on my turf, and you’re being very tight-lipped towards a man who tends to start murdering people when he’s confused.” “Ah, but of course. I’ll tell you one thing, one very important detail. It’s a desalination plant.” “I’ve seen the building plan. It looks like a weapon’s plant. Weapons contractors say it looks like a factory for ammunition and guns. Stop hiding facts from me.” “Flynn, we’re colleagues. We could be partners in this. Let me show you the plans for it, and I’ll give you a tour of the land in person where we can speak face-to-face.” “That would be a wise plan my friend.” He ended the call. “He wants to see me face-to-face without arousing suspicion,” Flynn thought to himself. “What is he scheming? He wants to partner with me on a grandiose project – I call it weapons, he calls it desalinization. To what end? Those facilities simply aren’t that large. The people do thirst – is he investing in resources for influence? Influence with the people or me?” The thought was not lost on him that Marcel was with Flynn as one of the biggest power players in all the Dissith. It was also not lost on Flynn that he was the most transparent, if one could say any of them were, and Marcel may be a good ally to curry favor with if he was to keep his own heart beating. He heard footfalls, and Heidegger came around the corner into his office. “The contracts, sir. We’ll have eyes and ears in Serpentine and around Ulgania looking for any information. I have a hunch that whoever’s after you is going by the old ways. I thought it would be worthwhile to follow money trails, since they were so willing to throw money at us.” “At me. And that’s too easy. Especially with it all in cash. They’re walking into a trap.” “Of course, but they’ll be stumbling blindly into it – not your MO. It should serve perfectly to show them we’re at least paying attention.” “Yeah, at a cost.” “Paid with their own money.” “That’s different then.” “I knew you’d see it my way.” “Thank you Heidegger. You can leave now.” --- Two days later, Flynn was standing with Marcel on a beech littered with construction tape and equipment. “I’m not thick, Marcel. Why do you want to see me?” “I hear things.” “Things like?” “You’re a marked man, and you had some trouble in Serpentine.” “Marcel, you’re making me rather angry lately. I went to lengths to silence anyone who knew about that.” “Yet information moves. That’s the new age we live in, friend. I can’t take a shit without a dozen blogs posting about its size and odor. Don’t think you can get off so unseen,” Marcel said with a thin mouth. “So what of it? Yes, I have an anonymous pursuer. I believe it’s someone from my past. What of it? What does it matter to you?” Marcel shook his head. “Nothing. I know people who get too close to you have a habit of disappearing for months and found piece by piece later on.” “Then you know not to try.” “That needs to change,” Marcel said as the two strolled away from prying eyes along the ocean shore. “Think about the people who would ever be your enemy, and would have the means to get so close to you?” “This is why we put up with each other. I don’t need you on that list,” Flynn said dryly. “Nor you on mine,” Marcel said, “but that’s not the point. There is a lot to be said of a partnership like this one. And here is what I propose: this plant is, through and through, a desalinization plant. There’s no hiding that. The juicy bit is, and this really is why I need you, the important bit is the power generator. It’s a clone of a Dominion Saturn Reactor…” “You mean that type that self-destructed when Ulgania entered the wars?” “The same,” Marcel said. “And I’ve gone to great lengths to build one. It’s been years, Flynn. Years of getting theoretical bits from engineers, reading the few logs that survived, applying whatever bits of technology…” “And?” “And ultimately creating a beauty that purrs beneath our feet.” “You do remember the explosion.” “That’s why it’s going to be for a desalinization plant. We have all of the Persian Gulf to flood the reactor should anything occur.” “All the while, you create a miracle of nature and science, enriching the people and the land, raking in untold billions of gil just by purifying water,” Flynn said, a little impressed. “I’m marketing it as The Miracle.” “Where do I come in?” “Flynn, I’ve had to dig through abandoned laboratories, bombed out bunkers, the corpses of long-dead scientists, I’ve had to pay off and assassinate more people than you can fathom. I’ve done things that put me on your level,” he said with a smirk, knowing that Flynn would respect Marcel’s budding sadism, “and I’ve done some gruesome things. You would be surprised the kinds of information that people have given up to me to keep the Saturn Reactor secret.” Flynn was getting tired of the monologue. “Just cut to the chase.” “Daedalus of the Childe, you’re not entirely forgotten in this world.” Flynn barely stopped himself from wringing the should-have-been eunuch’s neck. “You bastard. Tell me, now, why I shouldn’t kill you myself.” “First, the media. Second, because your assassin is hunting you down over just that issue, just that legacy.” “Don’t provoke me.” “You need me. What happens when that flunky, Heidegger is his name? What happens when he learns too much and you find yourself pissing on his corpse?” “Your price?” “Partnership. You keep my operation here protected, I offer you all the resources you need to win this battle. I need you just as much as The Dissith does. You have everything of mine at your disposal, just so long as you keep me alive, healthy, and keep my facilities from exploding when people realize how tightly I have them by the balls.” OOC: Nag, if anything, Marcel’s a weak link in the chain. |
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| Ulgania | Nov 29 2011, 11:07 AM Post #5 |
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A better Zarathustra has never rode a horse
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OOC: "Where's Nag" bump :lol: |
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