[Story] Short Stories

High tech intrigue and Cold War
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[Story] Short Stories

Post by Siege »

A snap by Artemis, from way back in the days... Recovered from the murky depths of the Internet thanks exclusively to Shroom! Huzzah!

In the current timeline I think this would take place somewhere in the late '90's, possibly during the Third Gulf War.

The Monster's Lair

WRAITH Headquarters
Unknown Location


The wide oak doors crashed open, and if Malcolm Stavro Kroner had not been expecting them too (in fact, this happened about an hour later than he'd though it would) he would have been surprised. However, Kroner was rarely surprised, especially not by this predictable American-

"Bastard!" the intruding woman yelled, storming into Kroner's room. She had to cross about ten meters of immaculate white carpet to get to his desk, and the mute guards stiffened as she passed. "You fucking soulless piece of shit bastard!"

"Good afternoon, Chandra. Cigarette, cigar?" He saluted her with his own smoking Cuban.

"Fuck you, Malcolm," she said, stopping just in front of his desk, slamming her hands palm-down on the cherry-wood desk. Kroner's cat, Alexander, sprang from his position next to an expensive lamp. He hissed, more in anger than fear. "You want to know what I just read?"

"I'm riveted, Chandra," Kroner said, leaning back in his chair and smiling.

She glared at him. "Seventeen Americans, forty-four Afghanis killed in chemical bomb blast. A relief station blown to fuck and gone. And best of all; it was during a live CNN report about how America was doing everything we could to help stabilize the region.”

Kroner looked around the room, shook his head. “I suppose I don’t see the problem.”

“Asshole,” she said, her eyes burning the same color as her red hair. “First off, you didn’t tell me shit about this. Second off, there was absolutely no reason for you to do this! Third off, there were innocents there. Lots of them.”

The head of WRAITH shook his head. “You are wrong on several accounts, Chandra my dear. I did tell you about it…I even allowed you to handle the purchase of the Anthrax-Beta from our friends on the Caspian. There are plenty of reasons for me to have done it, which I will explain once you have calmed down, and, lastly, you and I both no there are no real innocents anymore, Chandra.”

Chandra Gosely, former Director of the CIA, bristled, but she removed her hands from Kroner’s desk. She had left sweaty palm-prints on it. “That is no excuse. You told me that you would decrease anti-American operations.”

“Haven’t I? I could have just as easily bombed the Pentagon instead of Red Square, Chandra; in fact, it might just have been more effective. But, I have not forgotten our agreements. I am, actually, a little insulted that you would imply so.”

“Well, what do you think this implies to me, Malcolm? What were you thinking?”

Kroner picked up his cat, who meowed at his owner’s touch, and stroked his orange and white fur. “Remember, Chandra why we are doing this. Conflict between the USSR and NATO must be preserved if we are to regain our holdings in the civilized part of the world.”

“And what does that have to do with blowing innocent civilians to kingdom come?”

“Pressure must be kept on both sides to maintain-”

“Bullshit, Kroner.” She crossed her arms and looked around the big, overly-done room. “I did not risk my life and screw over my career just so that I could have you kill my people in front of my eyes.” She looked back at him. “We made a deal. If you want to break it, that’s just fine; I’ve got other friends besides you. But believe me when I say if you cross me, and I leave, you will have one mean bitch thorn in your side.”

Kroner smiled and shook his head. “That is not true, my dear. You and I both know that crossing me would be even worse than crossing your nation. They would simply destroy you. I have more lasting punishments.”

“Threats don’t mean shit to me anymore, Malcolm. There are a hundred different ways you could have handled this situation…whatever it is.”

“And there are a hundred different ways I could have done it wrong then, my dear. The way I did it was chosen because it was the most effective, noticeable, and cost-effective.”

Chandra replied “In the CIA, we were taught that, no matter what, when innocent life is at stake, it takes precedence over all other considerations.”

“And thus you were taught naïveté,” Kroner said. He retrieved Alexander from the cat’s hiding place, and rubbed one of the cat’s ears between his thumb and forefinger. “Blood is a wonderful lubricant for getting a message across. Blood that isn’t clogged with guilt is even better.”

“You are a monster, Malcolm.”

“If that is the way you feel, Chandra, then who is the more evil; the monster, or the woman who throws in with him?”

Chandra’s lip shook in rage. “This…is not…the end of this…Kroner.”

Kroner smiled. “A pleasure, as always Chandra. Say goodbye, Alexander…” Kroner waved Alexander’s paw at her, and changed his voice to a disturbing high-pitched mewl. “Goo-bye, Chan-da,”

She left the room, disgusted with her partner…but even more with herself. Chan, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: The Monster's Lair

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Fuck, Kroner is a complete and utterly despicable fuck. I mean, Jesus Christ, playing with his cat and making cute sounds while talking in the context of perpetrating acts of terrorism! Poor, poor Chandra


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Re: The Monster's Lair

Post by Ford Prefect »

Kroner waved Alexander’s paw at her, and changed his voice to a disturbing high-pitched mewl. “Goo-bye, Chan-da,”
I laughed until I cried. Kroner just went up a notch in my estimation of him as a villain.
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Re: The Monster's Lair

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

I love these somewhat quirky villains. It's like that bad guy from Gamer where the Dexter does a zany song and dance number reminiscent of Filipino Dancing Inmates before using his nanomachines to make the protagonist murder his own wife and children.
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Short Story: The Blizzard

Post by Siege »

Another oldie, retrieved from the depths of the Internet and touched up ever so slightly in a few places to bring it up to date with current canon.

The Blizzard

0445 Local Time
Antarctica


The driving snow of an Antarctic blizzard was no place for an aircraft, especially not one on the wrong side of the border of the Antarctic Territories NATO claimed for itself. It wasn't advisable either to come this close to McMurdo Station without a proper IFF transponder code. But raging tempest or not, this was where they were going. Besides, any FLIR detectors the Americans might have would be useless in the storm and even millimeter wave radar wouldn’t have helped much. Difficult as it might make the extraction it also provided excellent cover.

Major Cruz had his head wedged against the side of the ConEurope AS 554 Ocelot's left canopy, Palmer mimicking his position on the right hand side, both staring into the storm-swept darkness and hoping to spot either the strobe beacon or the icy ground before they hit anything more solid than a snow-flurry. Neither of them had a clue what they were here for exactly, but the fact that a British submarine had been dispatched under the Ross ice shelf to insert and extract them covertly had convinced them it was imperative it remained a secret. After four years with the SAS and another six with the Special Intervention Group, the WEU's joint military special operations directorate, Captain Cormac Palmer knew better than to ask questions.

“There!” Palmer called and Cruz craned his head to see. He caught the flash of the beacon and banked the plane towards the strobe, simultaneously flaring the aircraft to drain off momentum as he started the engines into its transition. Now was the moment of maximum danger, the tilt-rotor dependent on a mix of thrust and lift that changed from moment to moment, just as did the wind. Cruz worked the aircraft as though she were a lover, drawing her maximum performance from her, holding her against the fierce gusts until they were safe in a glide toward the surface to make a remarkably soft landing considering the circumstances.

The sleek black Ocelot edged forwards until the men clustered around the beacon could be seen. White-clad and laden with weapons, the men of SIG-23 INDIGO were an elite in an organization that cherished elites. But there were only six of them, there should have been twelve, and two of the six were being held up by their team-mates. Cruz pivoted the plane around and hit the button to lower the rear ramp a scant few yards in front of the spec-ops team.

“Help the loadies get them aboard,” he ordered Palmer as he watched the team stagger forward towards the ramp. Palmer got out of his seat and hurried down to the ground, helping the men carry their cargo. There were four heavy metal boxes, plastered with bio-hazard signs. Even through the eye-blinding white blizzard, Palmer noticed the very generous number of plastic explosive charges stuck on the crates, wired to go off the moment one of the seals was broken. Palmer also noticed that the men eyed the crates with a mixture of fear and horror on their faces. A few hairs rose on his neck. What could possibly be in there that it inspired such dread into hardened veterans?

One of the commandos who carried what looked like a flamethrower signaled to hurry from the ramp of the aircraft. They had to do this quick. The storm offered some cover, but if the six missing men were any indication then somewhere in the storm someone or something would be looking for them. Palmer helped shove the crates into the cargo compartment, then quickly joined Cruz back in the cockpit. Strapping himself into the co-pilot seat as Cruz tilted the engines and spooled up the turbofans for take-off and the short flight back to the Tyrant Palmer desperately tried to convince himself that he had only imagined that clawing sound on the inside of the last crate...
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
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Re: Short Story: The Blizzard

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Ambiguous Pan-European SF aboard a Royal Navy submarine sneak into Antarctic US outpost and steal the Thing from the Americans! Yeah, you gotta wonder what really IS inside those boxes, and why they're wired to blow. ;)

Is this the same submarine that went rogue for WRAITH?
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Re: Short Story: The Blizzard

Post by Booted Vulture »

That is a short story. There be horrors mang was not meant to know in those crates!
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Re: Short Story: The Blizzard

Post by Siege »

Shroom Man 777 wrote:Is this the same submarine that went rogue for WRAITH?
No, that's HMS Perilous, a Aggressor-class SSBN. This is HMS Tyrant, a Terror-class SSN.

(As you can tell, Royal Navy submarines are quite a bit more pointedly named in CSW.)
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Merged 'the Blizzard' with 'the Monster's Lair' in order to create a single 'Short Stories' thread.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Shady »

I love these stories. Is there more? :D
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Well, as of right now Shadow Tempest Black by Mobius is the flagship title of CSW. If you like these shorts, you'll be sure to like that as well: it's got giant death machines, espionage, intrigue and marines flipping out and killing people.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Shady »

Siege wrote:Well, as of right now Shadow Tempest Black by Mobius is the flagship title of CSW. If you like these shorts, you'll be sure to like that as well: it's got giant death machines, espionage, intrigue and marines flipping out and killing people.
I just started reading it. I think I read the first part already, a while ago, but I'm enjoying it immensely. :D
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Back to Baghdad

Baghdad
Kingdom of Iraq
2003


Dust and smog clogged the stunningly blue sky as I turned the battered Toyota onto the King Faisal III highway. The din of traffic and the stink of a thousand exhausts assaulted my senses. The radio sputtered nothing but garbled transmissions and weird Arabic melodies. I was back in Baghdad again, and I hated every minute of it. The last time I'd been here I'd been riding a Stryker instead of this civvie vehicle, and the atmosphere had been decidedly less peaceful. There was still an awful lot of police and paramilitaries afoot even today, but I couldn't fault the Queen for being cautious. Three wars, two revolutions and a brief exile in Scotland will do that to you.

I couldn't say I felt entirely comfortable myself. I had barely finished training and Iraq wasn't my specialty. But the Middle East Office back in Langley had picked me because I spoke a handful of Arabic and they were desperately short on both field agents and HUMINT sources, and the matter at hand was pretty important.

Less than a week ago a stunning, red-haired Caucasian woman had been spotted in Sadr City, talking to some seedy types Mossad had kept eyes on for quite some time. Normally one looker of a girl wouldn't be cause for the CIA to activate all its assets in the Mid-East, but this was no ordinary redhead we were gunning for. Her name was Chandra, Chandra Gosely. She'd once been the DCIA, before she'd fled the States to escape a slew of high treason charges. Uncle Sam wanted her bad, but Gosely knew everything there was to know about the methods of the Company, and she'd managed to stay several steps ahead of her former buddies all these years.

Still, if Uncle Sam wanted someone found, they usually were, and the CIA wasn't in the quitting business. So we'd kept looking, and I was one of dozens of field operatives assigned to the case. Unfortunately Gosely was a beautiful woman, but her look was by no means unique. Sightings were reported all over the planet, all the time. Sure, Tel Aviv swore blind that this was the real deal but if you asked me chances were good the lead I was following would wash out. That wasn't so bad, I'd get some experience out of it and it was kind of a paid vacation, but I was still all sorts of pissed I'd got stuck with Baghdad instead of Monte Carlo. Word through the grapevine was some British guy got sent there. Lucky bastard.

I passed a rusty old Citroen van and turned right, navigated the hectic traffic past the Arch of Victory only to be cut off by a trio of sleek black suburbans that careened onto the road and raced off in the opposite direction at breakneck speeds, blasting AC/DC's 'shoot to thrill' from open windows as they went. I recognized the logo on the door. Paradigm Security. European mercenaries – oh, pardon my language, I mean private military contractors. Those assholes made more in an hour than I did in a month, and they were everywhere these days. Former EURAPID, RAID or SIG looking for a pay-day or simply for a thrill, they swarmed to conflict areas like flies to a rotting corpse. Back in my Army days we loathed those trigger-happy fuckers, and I'd found most of the Company shared the attitude. Of course, word on the street was they loathed us right back. I'd no idea what the Iraqis wanted of them, but I'd bet my salary they were up to no good.

Watch it Connors, I mouthed and looked at myself in the mirror across the rim of my sunglasses. You're CIA now. Those who live in glass bunkers shouldn't shoot rifles. Besides, rumor had it the mercs had miniguns mounted in those bulletproof cars of theirs. I glanced at the M4 carbine on the passenger seat. That was way more firepower than I could muster. Still I wasn't expecting to need any; I would only meet someone from Mossad team, do some local reconnaissance and see if I could find someone who'd recognize the photograph I had in my jacket. If that netted anything I could-

A dull rumbling reverberated across the city. I could've almost passed it off as distant thunder, except the skies were clear and I'd been around long enough to recognize the sound of an explosion when I heard it. In my rear view mirror I could see a great plume of smoke rising over the city. For a brief moment I flashed back to 2001 and the Iranians had just broken through our line near Shadgan. Then I regained my senses and realized the explosion had come from the direction of the royal palace – and that the mercenaries had gone in that direction before the bomb had gone off. On a hunch and without a moment's hesitation jerked the steering wheel, spinning the protesting Toyota 180 degrees into the other lane, before flooring it in the direction where the column of black smoke mushroomed away above the city rooftops.

So much for that vacation.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: Short Stories

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Oooh! Oooh! The Citrus van did it!

I liked it. Very Body of Lies. Wartorn Iraq teeming with mercenary assholes, yet no Saddam and with an Iraqi Queen. Very CSW too. :)

And I never knew that Chandra Gossley was some hot redhead. Man, I thought she was some old crone-hag. But she's actually a sizzling firecrotch. Wow. Man. Yes.

Rawr.

;) ;) :lol: :lol:
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Artemis »

Old Friends

Seatlle, USA
April, 2010


Here's something they don't tell you in Basic. The less you want people to see your gun, the heavier it gets.

That's something you have to go to Intelligence or Special Forces to learn. I never did - didn't have the chops for it, they said, didn't have the brains for it, they told me. "You drive a tank better than anyone I've ever seen, Zorya," my old boss in the Army said. "You've got more balls than any man in the column. But you're never gonna be much of a thinker."

Funny what difference a few years can make.

Truth is, I'd much rather still be a stupid, idealistic girl sitting behind the steering controls of a T-whatever-they're-using-these-days, rolling into some backwater to bring enlightenment and equality to a bunch of ditch farmers. I'd rather be staring at a map over a cup of coffee that certainly wasn't fortified with anything stronger than sugar. I'd rather be home on leave, catching a hockey game or getting a beer with my boss and gunner.

Come to that, I'd rather be thirteen again, and staying up too late with my best friend, raiding her mom's liquor cabinet and watching American cartoons.

All well. If wishes were horses... I'm in Seattle, the United States of America, holding a polish hot dog in one hand and, under my jacket, a Gsh-18 in the other. No one gives me much of a look - I've got the urban camo training down, at least. Seahawks jacket, worn old jeans and boots, hair dyed dark and frizzed beyond recognition, and skin even paler than it was back when I was living in Stalingrad. I woke up in my apartment (well, the KGB's apartment, but who's counting?) this morning, saw myself in the mirror, and barely recognized myself. The doc in Redmond even managed to fix my poor mangled nose, broken in 2001 on the steering wheel of my tank when we ran over a mine in Afghanistan. From what I hear, they're finally pulling out of that damn place. Good. Not that it's much of my concern anymore - Afghanistan's a long way from Seattle.

The faces on the street slide right off me - no one thinks I'm pretty, no one think's I'm ugly, no one thinks I'm homeless and tries to give me their spare change. With any luck the only person to notice me will be the one I'm looking for right now. If someone else does, well, there's my training for that. And if the training doesn't work - that's what the gun, getting heavier by the second, is for.

I'm not KGB. I'm not Spetznaz. I'm just a dumb girl-grunt who someone decided was smarter than everyone else thought, and who'd spent a year in small-town Massachusetts on a student exchange program in high school. I can speak English without sounding like I'm addressing Queen Elizabeth, and I know some of the weird, backward street etiquette Americans use. I'm just some girl who made a friend on her little cross-cultural adventure a lifetime ago.

A woman sits down next to me, a Subway bag partially unwrapped and a sandwich stuffed with some grotesque approximation of meat and deli sauce sticking out of it. I wrinkle my nose at it, and take another bite of my hot dog.

"Hey," the woman says, in quiet but friendly tones. "Don't give me that face. You know what they put in those?"

"At least mine doesn't look like it's oozing pus."

"You're such a sissy, Zorya. How'd you get the balls to join the Red Army?"

"It's just the Soviet Army, Annie. And ask my boss, he says I've got balls the size of-"

"Wow, I really, really don't want to know." Still, she smiles at me and sticks her fist up up at chin height. I smile back and tap it. It's the first time I've ever done that - I'd only seen in on pirated rap videos my nephew watches occasionally. "It's good to see you again, Red."

"You too, Blondie."

"So," the CIA operative says, as a way of getting down to business. "Sechalin."

I sigh. "Sekhnia kept him on a leash for a long time - or at least that's how it looked to us." I slide the gun under my jacket back into it's holster, and take out a tiny USB drive. "This is what we've got on him right now. Mot of it's been fact-checked by SICKLE, but... information isn't as reliable as it used to be."

"Welcome to the new Cold War," Annie says, sighing. She takes the drive and drops it into her purse, looking around with only her eyes, to make sure no one's watching. So am I.

"What a difference a few years makes," I muse.

"I wish we'd met again under better circumstances, Zorya."

"Me too."

"You know. If things get really bad over there, I need a room mate."

"I'm just a package girl, Annie, I'm not worth trying to convert."

She shakes her head. "Wasn't trying to. I'm really worried about this, Zorya. Russia's... it's not the same kind of scary as it used to be over here. Things are going to hell, and I don't know how it's all going to go down."

"Neither do I," I tell her. "But Annie - if it were America? Would you leave?"

"No."

"Alright then."

"For the Motherland, and all that?"

I sigh, but smile. "Nah. But all my stuff's there."

We eat in silence for a while.

"How's your mom?"

"She's good. Still working at the packing plant."

"She know you're a spook?"

"Does yours know you are?"

"Like I said, I'm just a package girl."

"Uh-huh." She looks at me, then her eyes narrow. For a second I'm worried, and that she's not the friend I was hoping she'd still be. "Did something happen to your nose?"

I laugh. "Long story."

"How long you in town?"

"I fly back tomorrow night."

"Well then. Sounds like we've got some catching up to do."

I grin. "Slumber party?"

She grins back. "C'mon, Red. Let's go raid the liquor cabinet."

We walk off towards what she tells me is the best bar in East Seattle. I take the safety off the pistol.
"The universe's most essential beauty is its endlessness. There is room and resources enough for all of us. Whether there is room for all of our passions is the question, and the problem that we work tirelessly to find a solution to."

-Qhameio Allir Nlafahn, Commonwealth ambassador, during the signing of the Kriolon Treaty.
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Aww! Love and friendship prevail, despite everything! I love it. Although the pedantic twit in me can't help but think the KGB would know better than to equip its agents abroad with Russkie pistols. In case anything were to happen, a Gsh-18 would raise many eyebrows and a Glock would do the same job.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Artemis »

A good point is made! I think I just wanted to use the Gsh-18 because I had just discovered it :)
"The universe's most essential beauty is its endlessness. There is room and resources enough for all of us. Whether there is room for all of our passions is the question, and the problem that we work tirelessly to find a solution to."

-Qhameio Allir Nlafahn, Commonwealth ambassador, during the signing of the Kriolon Treaty.
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

I love how it treats the spy world, and how you do these thing so "indirectly", Arty, and blend things with such a personal touch. They're old childhood friends, man, and know each other personally and there's some subtext in there too. Yet, all the same, they're still both spooks and if wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak.

She takes the safety off the pistol.
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[Story] The Devil's Daughter

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The Devil's Daughter

Oxford
2025


It was a balmy British afternoon, the increasingly overcast sky promised rain, and somebody yelled, “Emmy, get me another screwdriver!”

No, no, hold your horses. No need to call 9-11. Nobody is getting tortured—or, well, nobody who hasn't signed up for it, anyway. I admit that some of these days, it sure feels like I am. Name's Emily, and I waitress at the Fizz & Pop Café. It's the trendiest of all the trendy places in all of Oxford, or at least all the hipsters like to think so, and behind the bar you can find the best makers and shakers of cocktails outside of the City of London, amongst whose elite ranks, yes, is yours truly. So when I say 'waitress' what I really mean is, when I'm done making them you can bloody well walk up to the bar to get your own feckin' drinks.

Anyway. Fizz & Pop's got two main claims to fame. One is the smart-but-misunderstood singer/songwriter shite that blares from the speakers 24/7. I can't stand it but the owner loves it and the hipsters lap it up so whatever, I'll deal with it. The second are our cocktails. We can make pretty much any mix drink ever invented on this planet, on either side of the Iron Curtain. Seriously, if you saw the industrial quantities of vodka we import from the continent, you'd think there wasn't a cold war on. Downside to this and our downright DiCaprio-esque popularity are people like the fecker at the bar who keeps ordering even though he's clearly had too much. He's downed five screwdrivers already. That means he's drunk, and drunks don't tip. Now, that wouldn't be so bad by itself but the way he keeps staring at my ass whenever he thinks I'm not looking is really starting to piss me off.

Okay, time out. I'm probably not doing a very good job introducing myself, am I? In fact, I probably come off like the worst waitress ever. Well, that's because I am. I'm not a people person. I don't like having to smile when I'm not having a good time, I really don't like putting up with drunks, and I hate having to feign politeness to preppy upscale assholes who think daddy's money means I must not mind them undressing me with their eyes, when they're clearly morons I want to hit in the teeth with a bottle of cheap booze.

So yeah. Not a very good waitress. But I'm hell on wheels with a shaker and ice, and the owner seems to think it's cute when I glower at people, which I admit is most of the time, so for now I've got a job. I could get another one, but this gig pays better than most. Although I suppose I could be an escort. But I'd be even worse at that, and my dad would have my clients killed.

Maybe you think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. He really would.

Besides, this is just a part-time gig. It pays the bills 'till I get done with university. Because I'm not crazy, I don't plan to do this crap for the rest of my life. Dad wanted me to study politics. Mum kinda pushed for law. But I'm not a people person. So I settled for chemistry.

“C'mon Emmy,” slurs the drunk at the bar. “'Nother screwdriver.”

“You're drunk,” I state the obvious, doing my best to keep most of the derision from my voice and failing to do a very good job at it. “You should probably go home.”

He fumbles in his pockets, almost falls off his stool, then draws out a tenner and slaps it onto the bar. “One more.”

I sigh, turn around, try to ignore the look he's giving my posterior and grab the shaker and a bottle of cheap vodka. “One screwdriver, coming up.”

Some days, I really hate my life. Yes, I know, there's people in Africa and elsewhere who've got it much worse. In fact I'm way the hell privileged. I'm a citizen of the first world, born on the right side of the Iron Curtain, from parents who may be completely crazy, but are otherwise very nice, in the middle of a pretty good education and at least passingly pretty if the lustful stares of drunk assholes are to be believed.

I know all that stuff. It's completely valid and true, and it doesn't make me feel any different. I add the requisite amount of orange juice, shake and pour the drink into a highball glass, add ice and an orange slice and serve it with the phoniest smile ever seen on the Home Isles. “Here you go sir,” I say, and push the drink to his side of the bar.

He tries to look down my shirt as I do so. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I close my eyes to keep them from rolling out of their sockets. When you're not a people person, some days are just a chore.

At least this one is about to get interesting.

The first indication that something untoward is happening is when a Land Rover stops just outside the café. Oxford is one of the most car-unfriendly cities in the United Kingdom and the area immediately outside Fizz & Pop is clearly marked as a no-parking zone, but it's not completely unheard of for senseless idiots to park outside. It's usually a laugh to see them scream and flail as the City tows their car, but something tells me that this car isn't going to be removed. It's big and black and intimidating, it sports government plates and it sits too low on its suspension, the way cars do after you add a couple hundred kilograms of bullet-proof armour.

Don't ask me how I know what that sort of thing looks like. It's a long story, and anyway, if I tell you, I just might have to kill you.

The car just sits there for maybe a minute, and then it's joined by an identical car on the opposite side of the street. Now I'm getting a seriously bad vibe, but I'm apparently I'm the only one. The half dozen customers merrily continue playing with their mobile phones, sipping their drinks and discussing the philosophical merits of whatever hipster song happens to play at the moment. They haven't got a clue. I do. For a moment I debate picking up the phone, then figure that if this is what I think it is, it's probably pointless.

On some unseen cue the doors of both cars swing open. Next thing I know suits are flooding into the café. Now, when you're a part of the massively underappreciated drinks-mixing industry you learn to recognize all kinds of suits: office clerkly types wear cheap ones off the rack at Marks & Spencer, their managers typically prance about in slightly fancier stuff, Wellworth or some other upper-middle class brand. Slick pin-stripe stuff from Selfridges says yuppie, salesman and 'kiss your tip goodbye'; three-piece plus bowler says stone-age Tory. Nobody wears tweed unless they're tenured, in which case there's probably chalk dust somewhere on it. Yeah, I know, right? It's the bloody' 21st century, you'd think they'd go digital if they're so smart, but there it is. Anyway. Old money wears Oxford Street; new money wears Armani or other flashy continental stuff unless it's IT nerds, 'cause they wear whatever's convenient. My point is, when you care for your tip, you learn to recognize which suits you need to pay attention to.

I know a few suits my colleagues don't. For example, I can spot the way these are tailored to hide the suspicious bulges under their shoulders. They're slightly too large so they slide easily over bullet-proof vests, and they're worn over black combat boots. These are your standard-issue Whitehall blacksuits. They're not actually black mind, but rather any of a palette of meaningless pastel hues picked by some bureaucrat for their supposed ability to wrap around a former SAS maniac and make him vanish in the background of everyday street life. To that bureaucrat I'd like to say that it doesn't bloody work, at least not when the goon squad is invading a café in force and earplugs.

These guys (and girls, 'cause the spook agency they're with is apparently an equal opportunity employer) are scary, and the customers, as blissfully ignorant as they were moments before, know it immediately. They might not spot the concealed weapons, but they know something's up. One or two of them raise their smartphones to snap pictures of the invaders, and find themselves treated to glares that make them think better of it. There's no threats of force, in fact nobody says anything, but the place is suddenly like a saloon in one of those old western movies: the black hat has entered, there's an instance of silence, and then the clientèle is all but diving for the door.

It's the same here. I don't know who these guys are exactly, but they bring enough heavy-handed gravitas to cause a proper hipster exodus. In literally seconds all that's left behind is a handful of ruffled newspapers, two overturned chairs, a sea of half-empty glasses and the one drunk at the bar who seems oblivious to what's happening... But not for long, as two suits grab him under the arms and drag him outside. So much for that tip. The other suits disperse through the joint like they've done it a thousand times before. I kinda feel like diving for the door myself but I doubt I'd be allowed to and besides, this is my joint. It wouldn't do to be chased off by a group of well-organized former soldiers with concealed carry permits. I mean, what kind of signal would that send? “Hiya fellas,” I say, fighting to keep a tired undertone from my voice and once more failing. “So, like, can I get you anything to drink?”

One of the dozen or so suits looks at me with a neutral expression. I designate him lead goon. He doesn't say anything, but makes a few of those quick snappy hand-signals you always see in American TV-series. Two of his subordinate goons take up positions beside the bar, far enough away to be respectful and close enough to be on top of me in a second. Others sweep the place with a vengeance, looking for lord-knows-what under tables, behind curtains and in left behind bags. Finally one of them gives his boss a crisp hand-signal that I assume means that there are no liquid explosives hidden in the long-drink glasses. Lead goon nods, raises his hand and speaks into a microphone hidden up his sleeve. “Package is secure.”

I can't help myself from rolling my eyes and muttering, “could you be any more cliché?”

Lead goon looks at me with an expression that seems equal parts annoyance and amusement. Outside a third Land Rover pulls up and stops in the middle of the street, which by now has gone surprisingly quiet. A door opens. A single figure emerges and is instantly surrounded by more suits in the way of proper VIPs. They cross the street in a few unhurried paces. The suits peel off to guard the entrance and the man steps through the door.

I recognize him, of course. How could I not?

Enter Sir Jackson Galahad Ridley, KG, OBE, CVO, Order of the Red Star etcetera, etcetera, defender of the realm, thwarter of evildoers, international man of mystery and generally assumed to be the meanest sunofabitch the British Isles have spawned in many a decade. He walks into the room like he fucking owns the place, suits parting before him like the Red Sea, sits down at one of the tables like it's the most ordinary thing in the world, and looks at me with a half-smile.

I look back into that grizzled, scarred face, take in the silver-streaked beard and the eyepatch. The suits glare at me, like I'm somehow wasting their time. I sigh, put down the tray I'd picked up to maybe smack into their faces, brush past the goons and sit down opposite the deadliest man in all of Europe. “I'd like-” he starts.

“If you order anything 'shaken not stirred,” I warn him, “I'm gonna slug you in the mouth.”

He actually laughs. It briefly makes him look decades younger. He picks up one of the abandoned glasses, sniffs it and takes a sip from the Black Russian in it. “God, I missed you Emmy.”

I sigh and can't help a brief smile, the first honest one of the day. “I missed you too, dad.”
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: [Story] The Devil's Daughter

Post by Mobius 1 »

I dig it. How far into the future of CSW is it, roughly?
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Re: [Story] The Devil's Daughter

Post by Siege »

2025, four years after Jack took over as M. Which incidentally means Emily S. K. Ridley was born in 2006. Don't know how that is supposed to work, since her mother was still on active duty back then but hey... Fuzzy canon!
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: [Story] The Devil's Daughter

Post by Mobius 1 »

'so i was thinking we can increase security here and here-'

'btw jack you have a daughter'

'and if we call in the sas from herefor-WAIT WHAT.'
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Off the Somali coast
2012


"Cleared for final approach," Sergeant Pawel Jasinski reported. The squat commando hunched over the Lynx's LED panels, trying to make sense of electronic warfare and signals feeds coming in from the coast of Somalia.

Lieutenant Asia Wieczorek acknowledged over the vehicle's intercom system and kept her eyes focused on the rapidly approaching shoreline. She was running the Lynx hot, cutting across the choppy water of the Indian Ocean at 150 kph, stoically accepting the rough ride as the price to pay for rapid insertion.

"SITREP?" the senior member of the cargo, a graying GROM Captain, asked from the troop compartment.

Wieczorek glanced at the GLONASS course information scrolling along the right edge of her heads up display. "ETA seven minutes. Bravo team is keeping up. We're still on schedule. Hold on tight."

The two special operations hovercraft bucked and shook as they broke through the surf and ran onto the beach in full stealth mode. There shouldn't be anyone near this deserted stretch of sand two hundred klicks north of Mogadishu. But there shouldn't be any WarPac counter-ELINT traces coming off the coast either -- and yet there were.

Wieczorek's hands flew over the controls and the Lynx's turbofans shrieked, armored skirts biting into the dirt as the hovercraft changed direction to cut through a low notch in the coastal bluffs. Like most military hovercraft the Lynx was cramped and uncomfortable, and could cause motion sickness in stomachs unfamiliar with its rough air cushioned ride. But the Polish commandos braced in their crash webbing and endured it with cool detachment, trying their best to conduct final equipment checks despite the hovercraft's occasionally violent lurching.

"Two minutes!" yelled Pawel over the screaming noise of the gas turbine. Out at sea the horizon began to flash as the Nikolaev commenced her bombardment. The commandos gripped their Kalashnikov assault rifles a little tighter.

Six months earlier the Russian civil war ended in a decisive victory for Kiralova's loyalists. In the chaotic final days of the conflict Ultramilitant renegades hijacked a replenishment ship at Severomorsk naval base and used it to effect their escape. WarPac C&C was in disarray, half of the Eastern Block's orbital surveillance was unavailable whilst SICKLE reconstituted itself, and so Novorossiysk slipped away to sea unnoticed. It remained missing for months, until four days ago the resident KGB station chief spotted it entering Mogadishu harbor.

The Soviet Union scrambled a response, and the Polish commandos were its vanguard. During the war 1 Batalion Szturmowy, Operational Mobile Reaction Group - GROM, Polish special forces - functioned as a regime protection unit for the loyalist government of the People's Republic of Poland. The unit had the explicit trust of Arkady Ligachev, so the wild-haired and newly promoted Supreme Commander of the Unified Armed Forces of the Warsaw Treaty Organization tasked it with rolling up what from reconnaissance looked like the nerve center of the surviving Ultramilitant activities, some few hundred kilometers from what passed for the Somali capital city.

On Wieczorek's HUD the incoming time-on-target barrage raced the waypoint information towards zero, and it won. The first 180 mm high explosive shells smashed into the heart of the encampment just as the hovercraft shrieked out from between the barren hills.

Up top Corporal Amadej Nowak opened up with the 30mm turret cannon, short snarling bursts punctuated by shell casings chinking off the roof. The Lynx' skirts chomped down into the sand. The commando's dropped the rear ramp and scrambled out. Scattered fire erupted from the encampment's perimeter.

The battle was on.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Ford Prefect »

It's cool to see the fallout of the Russian civil war, though admittedly the short format here only really serves as an introduction into what is a wider and more interesting thematic conflict. That said, I can't fault anyone giving GROM a little screen time.
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Re: [Story] Short Stories

Post by Siege »

Yeah, I've been meaning to get back to writing snippets like this to give little peeks into everything going on in the world. They're much easier to write than long stories, they serve to broaden perspectives, and they can feature people we haven't seen before. I used to really love writing tiny bits like this for OF, because of how dense with stuff they are and how they let me pull crazy shit like aliens in crates or Polish specops hovercraft out of nowhere. So I hope I can get back into it and get some more out. Not necessarily always military either: it'd be neat to get, let's say, a glimpse of whatever Comrade Hammer does when he's off-duty, what Ridley's days look like when he's at the office, or even what Kroner does when he's not plotting to blow up the world.
"Nick Fury. Old-school cold warrior. The original black ops hardcase. Long before I stepped off a C-130 at Da Nang, Fury and his team had set fire to half of Asia." - Frank Castle

For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know!
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