06-08-2014, 08:18 PM
Assault Team Vega Major Mitzman accepted his orders with only the barest moment of hesitation. He dared not question authority, only the quality of his hearing. Orders were supervised infiltration of a known foreigner - with his own army - as he perused CCD intelligence.
Alright then.
Major Mitz was Jacques' shadow throughout the duration of the campaign. He passed through hell to get to the airport, and once arrived, was met with thankless greetings and asked to stand aside. He complied, but remained within arm's reach. What Jacques saw, he saw. What the foreigner ordered; the Major approved.
He didn't like it, but he didn't have to. Jacques was saving lives not of his own men, and Major Mitzman was witness to it. That was enough for him.
***
Fighter jets were not the only plane streaming through the Arabian skies that night. There was one more, though none in the ground in Mecca, and a rare few in the Kremlin, knew exactly where it was.
The Ascendancy's plane, battle-capable in and of itself, soared in the lower levels of the stratosphere. The boardroom that served as host conference with the Sphere mere hours beforehand was now occupied by one quiet figure.
The chair at the head of the table was turned away. The figure enthroned within reserved, watchful. Nikolai did not favor war; nor would he consider himself a commander. The distaste in his mouth was genuine as he assimilated screen after screen of updates. In one corner, troop-POV's on the ground in Kuwait City scrolled. In another, Baghdad. Even the glittering skyline of glorious Dubai was tainted.
One city took the center-most screen, however. The CoD had eyes and ears with all Custody forces in Mecca, and Nikolai was content to trust in their judgments. The larger picture was theirs to monitor. He was fixed on one individual.
Smoke wafted like ominous fog on the horizon. Flame and explosions flashed and glowed; illuminating a scene terribly different than the one freshly ensconced in his mind.
The young man's song filled the speakers.
Nikolai had not heard it before, and at the press of a button the CEO's lyrics scrolled alongside, untranslated. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly; he turned up the volume and lay his head back in the seat.
He let the significance fill him. He let the weight of the Dominance rest on his shoulders. Tomorrow, the world's reports of the casualties would be laid unfairly at his feet. He could feel them now, the dead, crawling their way up his ankles, bony hands scratching at his shins.
Jacques' hymn fell quiet while the tune continued in Nikolai's mind for some moments.
"This is not my fault,"
Nikolai breathed, his mercy falling empty.
His eyes shot open. Conviction cooled the remainder of his love for Dominance V. "To the pitiless house of wailing they shall go."
He signaled to his staff, "Send them to hell."
Alright then.
Major Mitz was Jacques' shadow throughout the duration of the campaign. He passed through hell to get to the airport, and once arrived, was met with thankless greetings and asked to stand aside. He complied, but remained within arm's reach. What Jacques saw, he saw. What the foreigner ordered; the Major approved.
He didn't like it, but he didn't have to. Jacques was saving lives not of his own men, and Major Mitzman was witness to it. That was enough for him.
***
Fighter jets were not the only plane streaming through the Arabian skies that night. There was one more, though none in the ground in Mecca, and a rare few in the Kremlin, knew exactly where it was.
The Ascendancy's plane, battle-capable in and of itself, soared in the lower levels of the stratosphere. The boardroom that served as host conference with the Sphere mere hours beforehand was now occupied by one quiet figure.
The chair at the head of the table was turned away. The figure enthroned within reserved, watchful. Nikolai did not favor war; nor would he consider himself a commander. The distaste in his mouth was genuine as he assimilated screen after screen of updates. In one corner, troop-POV's on the ground in Kuwait City scrolled. In another, Baghdad. Even the glittering skyline of glorious Dubai was tainted.
One city took the center-most screen, however. The CoD had eyes and ears with all Custody forces in Mecca, and Nikolai was content to trust in their judgments. The larger picture was theirs to monitor. He was fixed on one individual.
Smoke wafted like ominous fog on the horizon. Flame and explosions flashed and glowed; illuminating a scene terribly different than the one freshly ensconced in his mind.
The young man's song filled the speakers.
Nikolai had not heard it before, and at the press of a button the CEO's lyrics scrolled alongside, untranslated. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly; he turned up the volume and lay his head back in the seat.
He let the significance fill him. He let the weight of the Dominance rest on his shoulders. Tomorrow, the world's reports of the casualties would be laid unfairly at his feet. He could feel them now, the dead, crawling their way up his ankles, bony hands scratching at his shins.
Jacques' hymn fell quiet while the tune continued in Nikolai's mind for some moments.
"This is not my fault,"
Nikolai breathed, his mercy falling empty.
His eyes shot open. Conviction cooled the remainder of his love for Dominance V. "To the pitiless house of wailing they shall go."
He signaled to his staff, "Send them to hell."