Deathless Ideal- Chapter 1: Displacement (USSR RP)

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OOC: Please, DO NOT post any OOC chat hereon in this RP, please go to the newly created User Group for all OOC chat!!

December 17th 2009, 3:00 PM
To the Svobodny authorities, from the

We are extremely glad to inform our comrades in the township of Svobodny that your request for civilians has been accepted; train number 845-4 left approximately 2 days ago. We have displaced several people with the needed abilities to serve your township well, and we have several un-desirables to be granted living space at the town. Please note that the train contains five extremely dangerous and well-trained insurgents, and many political dissidents, the former are in secure cells, the latter are within the passenger cabins due to overfill, both parties are immediately to be sent to the Svobodny labour camp and prison, for detainment or removal.

The five men in the prisoner carriage are to be treated with high caution! To avoid any deception, their names are:
Kemerovo Ponekal
Lukas Daryvich
Prontal Tyrankon
Igin Ononda
Ivan Leaseral

People in the passenger carriages should be thoroughly searched upon arrival, and their Identity should be confirmed, Their Files are located in Attachment C, but their names for present reference are:
Lucy Tinanpor
Gediminas Naujokaitis*
Richau Mistov*
Jack Philby*
Thomas O'Beckett
Lewi Pytakov
Oprahn Ahkmed
Rebus Rhomboot
Lucie Rousseau
Carmine Cannizzaro*
Wilhelm Farskov
Peter Opyneux
Sacare Petrovich
Boris Yeltsan*

* marks a political dissident

We hope that these civilians will make the Union a better place.
Jakola Suchev
People's Welfare Department

CosmicCommander Presents:

Deathless Ideal

Lukas was the only one awake in the prisoner carriage, he knew why, all of his comrades were either asleep, or knocked out by the torturing of the guard patrols that came down here every 4 hours. He looked, for a man in his position, rather neutral, considering he was going to meet his death at his destination; deep inside he was afraid, but he would rather he put a bullet to his head, than let the guards know he was terrified.

He looked at the small window in his cell, and he saw the leafless trees of Siberia, running by, as if it was the world that was abandoning him, not the other way around. Two days is a long time to contemplate the fact that you will soon die, and Lukas was beginning to realise that he was being killed, because he thought for, and by himself. He hated this hypocrisy that was the USSR, he hated the Tyranny of the majority that enslaved him, and if he questions his life is not the property of everyone else, well, he'll end up someplace like this.

He looked at the plan of the train that was attached to the door that connected the prisoner carriage with its passenger counterparts, and he began to analyze it, in the unlikely event of an escape opportunity:

After he did this, he sat down, and began to await the next guard patrol; even if they were going to break his arm, at least it would be some company.

Chapter 1:

Marie, get him back in the house! Get your hands off her you filthy Commie bastard!

*thud* *crack*

Stand him up. Get the boy.

Don't you lay a finger on my son!

Quiet sika.


Now boy, look what happens to those who oppose the revolution.

Stay strong Jack!


Look after your mother for me.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jack jerked awake, startled by the dream.


Catching his breath, he looked around cautiously, his green eyes taking in the carriage and its occupants. Some of the people were looking at him curiously, English wasn't heard often in this neck if the woods.

Curiosity satisfied, most of the occupants turned away, allowing Jack to sink back into his seat and take a deep breath, closing his eyes.

I have to stop drawing attention to myself like this, I've already gotten away from one shooting by the seat of my pants, the last thing I need is to give the Commies an excuse to lock me away in a Sanitarium.

Opening his eyes again, Jack pulled his coat tight around him and tucked his scarf into the front, shivering from the cold. He was used to more temperate Western European climes, not this near-permanent cursed winter. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he took a closer look at the carriages occupants, noting the shrewish man who always seemed to be watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Huh, I didn't think the Party would leave me without some kind of tail. Maybe I can have some fun with this one though.

Turning away, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of Comrade cigarettes and a lighter, along with a half-eaten bar of chocolate. Lighting a cigarette, he took a long drag, relishing the warming feeling of the smoke in his lungs. Exhaling, he broke a small piece of the chocolate off and chewed it as fast as was possible, swallowing quickly.

Gotta love State-manufactured chocolate, tastes so bad you need to eat it while smoking...

Jack gave a bitter chuckle and put the packet and the chocolate bar back into his pocket.

Guess there's nothing else to do but wait. What the hell do they want me in the arse-end-of-nowhere for anyhow?

"You say you can't see a reign of goodness and truth on earth. Nor could I, and it cannot be seen if one looks on our life here as the end of everything. On earth, here on this earth, there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe, there is a kingdom of truth, and we who are now the children of the earth are-eternally-children of the whole universe. Don't I feel it in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious whole? Don't I feel that I form one link, one step, between the lower and the higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of beings in whom the Deity-the Supreme Power if you prefer the term-is manifest? If I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man, why should I suppose it breaks of at me and does not go farther and farther?"

Thomas raised his eyes from the pages of the novel to look at his watch for the eighteenth time that day. His frustration began to grow with each glance. Two days had already passed since he boarded the train in Leningrad with little information from his superiors at the clinic as to why and where he was been transferred to, all that he did know was that his services will be needed somewhere in Southern Siberia. Clearly "somewhere" was an apt description. More than 48 hours had passed and he was still moving.

He let out a deep sigh of frustration which immediately garnered several looks from the adjacent passengers.

"Sorry" Thomas muttered apologetically before sinking back into his seat.

Looking out the window near him he admired the barren beauty of the heavy winter snow that lay undisturbed over the Siberian landscape, it seemed unspoiled from the touch of war and free from the burdens of the world. Yet, he knew in truth that these barren landscapes spoke of solitude and a life of extremes, a life that was sometimes forced on others. Was his fate any different than those on the train.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hip flask. A strong smell of blended Irish whiskey rose from within, the fluid moistened his lips and gently burned his throat. The warmth gently spread to his limbs.

Where in the world is this place and why aren't we there yet?

He replaced the flask and picked up the novel again, all he could do was wait and read. Wait, until he found out why he was sent to this god-forsaken place.

Gediminas was trying his best not to panic. He heard about trains. He heard about a lot of things going on. He doubted their validity, but he feels that there is a lot to fear.

He tried to fall asleep. He remembered his homeland, the soft breeze of the cool summer air as he went into the fields with the other villagers, singing a song of hard work. The tender feel of the golden grain brushing against him. The scorching heat of the noon sun. He can barely remember. So many years have passed since the Soviets took charge.

Gediminas rolled around in his bed for a while, unable to sleep. "Where are we going?" he asked this rhetorical question in Russian. He rolled onto his side. He took out a small, tattered book that the ones who dragged him here allowed him to keep. It was an old novel about a farmer who went to war, expecting to be given gifts and be greeted like a hero, only to eventually lose everything. Gediminas felt that this was eerily similar to his situation.

Slowly, he lost himself within the pages. The train, the people and the whole world seemed to fade away...

The train slowly left Leningrad station, huffing and puffing, filling the nearby bystanders with dark, dirty smoke.

Carmine had stepped on the train a couple of minutes prior, his every step mirrored by a grim-faced junior officer of the Leningrad police. He had been assigned to Carmine, to monitor his every movement and escort him to Svobodny, where he would've handed him to the Svobodny police, which in turn, would've handed him down to the authorities at the Svobodny Imprisonment Camp. These were a couple of days that Carmine was not looking forward to. He would've escaped, but the police had had the brilliant idea of handcuffing his left hand to the right hand of said officer. Carmine was loving all of this.

He looked around the aisle, looking for a compartment with the space to hold the two of them. The train had already started moving for ten minutes, at least, before they found some vacant seats. They sat down. It was horrible, in a state of abandon and uncare. The smell was horrible, and the paint had long since started coming off of all the compartment walls and such. In front of them was a what looked like a mother, and three children. No father in sight. She was struggling to keep them calm. She was young, couldn't have been more than thirty years old, but the numerous wrinkles on her face betrayed a life of hardship and hard work. A pity, though Cannizzaro.
Je whispered to the kids, and when they turned around, he started shaking his handcuffed hand, and making funny faces. He had a somewhat funnily grotesque appearance at that moment. He had been shaved during his last day in the camp in the Alps, but that had been a couple of days ago, so his beard had started growing back again, and the clothes they had supplied to him, a black suit and white shirt, no tie, where obviously two or three sizes two big.

The children laughed, and even the woman, betrayed a smile, but this was all soon stopped by the escorting officer, who punched him in the nose, before shouting something Carmine couldn't quite catch. The laughter stopped, immediately. A lonely drop of blood from his nose fell onto his white shirt. Carmine held his nose, in pain.

"Goddamn it." he whispered.

Another couple of uneventful hours passed by. Many times Carmine had tried bonding with the officer, of which he still didn't know the name. Every time, wheter it be a joke, an anecdote or whatelse, the officer would look at him for a couple of seconds, his face an expressionless mask, before focusing his attention on something else. Carmine gave up. He looked out of the window, an infinite plain of white snow stretched itself as far as the eye could see, some times broken up by a patch of trees, a small dirt village, or a lonely hunter's hut. The more the journey went on though, the less these sights became common.

And so, like a small child who goes to sleep counting sheep, Carmine too dozed off, encouraged by the sameness and monotony of winter in the vast Russian outdoors.

France today would be lit like a beacon of lights, diluted beneath a blank cover of snow and glittering frost. Footsteps would haunt all sidewalks, the ghosts of peoples passed. But in Siberia, such a beauty Lucie could not find.

Her eyes, clouded and dull in fatigue and boredom, scanned the moving landscape from behind her frosted window. This snow was dim beneath the cloudy sky, and untouched, hinting that any impression left by man or beast would disturb and ruin its solid glory. With a heavy sigh, Lucie settled deeper into her corner seat and crossed her ankles before tearing her gaze away from the outdoor scenery.

Two chairs at her table were empty. The only one taken was straight across from her, where an important businessman focused all senses on a silver laptop computer. She automatically searched him up and down, before turning again to the window.

Why did I accept this job offer? ...Things were perfectly fine back home, and the home before that. Lucie leaned backward, resting her head on the back of her chair. I'm just running again, aren't I?

After tying her bouncing curls back into a ponytail, one hand fell to her lap, while the other fell to the table- and onto a book. She glanced at the cover; brown, frayed and unadorned, it bore only one word written in gold script: Exogenesis. She flipped the book upside down, letting one finger trace the binding gently. Not the type of book to let a communist or a USSR patrol see. Closing her eyes and relaxing, a slender finger continued to stroke the book as one might to a lost belonging, or an old memory.

Memories I'll never find...

Lukas was waiting patiently for the door to open in the prisoner carriage- they had done the torturing in cell number order, since he was in cell 5, it was only logical to assume the next guard patrol would be torturing him. He was nervous, to say the least; but he waited patiently for the guard to come, and break something inside him.

The door to the cabin opened and in came a burly guard; he wore the standard military grunt uniform, with its grey and white camouflage in case of an insurgent attack, or stealth operations. He wasn't wearing a hat, which was rather unusual, but he had the red star with the hammer and sickle in the centre on his left shoulder. His lack of hat showed off his dark brown eyes and face that looked like a pink beach ball.
"Good afternoon, Mister Daryvich!"
"Just get it over with..." was Lukas's half-assed response.
"Do you know," continued the guard, as if he had not heard Lukas, "that I actually have special orders?"
"Oh, goody," replied Lukas, as if the guard's last sentence was some disgusting curse word.
"Indeed, do you wish to know?"
"Not really"
"Well, my superiors are rather upset with you, trying to steal our Head of Defence's Documents!"
"Oh, so the big fish are now making you feel larger than a minnow?" uttered Lukas.
"Silence!" shouted the guard as he unlocked the cell door and walked in, closing the cell door behind him. Lukas could see through the bars of his cell that the idiotic guard had not closed the Carriage door, if he was tortured, everyone in Carriage 3 would probably hear. "So," continued the guard, "Why did you try to steal those documents?" Lukas just stared at the guard, smiling.

The guard fumbled around in his pocked, and held up a baton, and said, "I'll ask you nicely once more, why did you try to steal documents belonging to our Head of Defence department?"
"Mainly because of all of the departments, I think the Defence department is the one needing more laughs, I mean, look at Leon Trotskovsky! He never is jolly at all, and he is your department's leader!"
"I've had enough of your games!!" shouted the guard. The guard lifted his baton, swung it in a circular arc, and then landed it right into Lukas's face. Lukas instantly felt pain, he wanted to scream, but he managed to just let out a groan. But then the guard did the same thing, again, again, and again, by the sixth time he was hit, he fell to his stomach, facing the wall at the end of his cell.
Focus on the wall Lukas, Focus on the wall! So he tried staring at the crumbling grey paint on the carriage's wall, it's cobwebs and the bit of mould, and tried to daydream his way out of the pain.

But the guard's ruthless routine continued, he kept hitting Lukas, kicking, hitting him with the baton, and eventually stamping on him; by this time, Lukas began the scream in pain, loudly, pathetically; he felt like he was going to faint.
The people in Carriage 3 are going to hear this thought Lukas as he remembered the open door in the carriage.

His screams stopped, when the guard finally stopped the beating, and puffed exhaustedly out:
"Why...won't... you... *puff*" Lukas looked at the guard's face, it was bright red, and sweat was dripping from his brow. "I'll... be... back..." Panted the guard as he unlocked the cell door, and stepped out to the carriage door, and he realised everyone on the over side of that door would have heard the beating. "Shit!" said the guard loudly as he walked out of the door, and into carriage 3. Lukas just sat on his bed, panting, and sweating. He checked all of the main points of pain for major cut's or fractures; miraculously there were none, apart from his nose, which was dripping blood out like a grim sort of tap.

Jack jerked his head round at the sounds coming from the carriage behind him.

Christ, I didn't know this was a prison train!

Suddenly a guard strode out of the carriage door, red faced and sweating, muttering to himself in dark tones. He must've given whoever was stuck in there a hell of a beating. Jack watched the officer stride past him, exchanging a glance with the shrewish man.

Well that pretty much proves it, I'm being followed. Hang on a second, if this train has prisoners and Svobodny's the only call, then we're en route to part of the Gulag...


With that startling revelation, Jack began to casually look around, seeing if there was any way he could make some sort of escape.

They're not gonna let me get off this train without handcuffs and a gun to my back.

His time working as an ICA informer had led the cell to teach him some forms of evasion, which had proved handy in the London industrial sectors, allowing him to shake off any nosy police or People's Constables. Jack hoped it would be good enough for their arrival into the station.

Richau staggered, as though in a daze, onto the dank, musty carriage onto which he'd been shoehorned. He felt infected, almost like he was drowning, in a sea of no-goods, junkies, and failures.

"I shouldn't be mixing with these people. I am a businessman. Fuck the USSR".

As Richau mumbled this under his breath, he pushed a dawdling woman aside, entered his alotted carriage, and slammed the door shut.

They can't take everything away from me. It was mine! My empire, my money, my life.

He stood up suddenly in a flash of rage and kicked the thin, reeking mattress of his rusty bedframe, stubbing his toe. Yelling in pain and rage, he fell to the floor, and was asleep almost instantly, lying like a helpless baby on the disgusting wooden floor.

A sudden explosion of screams from the next carriage over caused Wilhelm to jerk his arm in surprise. The portable mouse for his laptop went flying and glanced off of the bottom of the train. Though it is cleverly disguised as a floor, the ground under him couldn't really be considered as such, since it was only meant to hold the locomotive together. If it was possible for the Soviets to save money and simply have the passengers suspended over the undercarriage, they wouldn't hesitate to do exactly that. The screams of the man became faint as Wilhelm's mind wandered farther and farther away from the present topic. He began to go over the events that led him to be on this train going to some far off Siberian settlement.

Ten days ago, Wilhelm had just risen up from his armchair and had begun to cross his living room in his home when the innocent-looking glass of water to his right spontaneously exploded, spraying liquid in all directions. Spooked, he called the authorities, and told them about what happened. A police car pulled up, a brief investigation was conducted, and the officer was on his merry way without any explanation. Later that day, Wilhelm received a call from a constable saying that a terrorist cell was trying to kill him and, for his own protection, he was to be transferred to an undisclosed location in Siberia. He was given one week to prepare. Knowing that nothing he could say would change their minds, he just accepted his fate and purchased a how-to book on the Russian language. Living on an island in the Baltic Sea, he usually didn't have a need for any language other than Danish.

One week later he had packed his bags and a black sedan was waiting outside of his cottage. The driver was impatient, leaning on the horn despite the fact that it was 5:00 in the morning. Wilhelm got dressed, grabbed his bags, said goodbye to his family and was out the door in fifteen minutes. He got into the passenger seat, the driver made a snide comment in Russian, and they crossed the bridge to Jutland. The driver directed Wilhelm to the correct terminal at an unnamed airport in Skaerbaek and they parted ways. He didn't get far before he was chosen for a random luggage search. He had shipped ahead any equipment he may need to continue his research and only had the how-to book and his laptop to keep him sane during the trip. The man by the metal detectors felt that he just had to check the how-to book for contraband of some kind. Wilhelm was led into a smaller, solitary-confinementesque room, where a man in a uniform of some kind waited. He began to carefully go through each page. After ten minutes of this checking, another man walked in, chattering in Russian. The two were obviously friends, as the newcomer offered a mug of either coffee or hot chocolate to the searcher. As the cup exchanged hands, it tipped over, depositing its steamy contents onto the open book. The men sheepishly apologized in their native language and sent Wilhelm on his way.

A few hours later, he only got to enjoy the freedom of the outdoors in Leningrad for a matter of minutes before another driver, identical to the one who had driven him in Denmark, showed up in a very similar sedan and took him to a train station. He hustled Wilhelm aboard and disappeared. Two days of mind-numbing boredom ensued.

With only his laptop and no connection to a network of any kind, Wilhelm could only try to sleep on the oppressively long journey. His sudden bursts of memory could only keep him entertained for a short period of time. He had tried to rest his head against the window, but it was so cold as to be uncomfortable. Any attempts at asking where the train was going had failed, as everyone he had asked could not understand Danish or even English, a language he wasn't too good at. He was alone for two days on that train. This better change soon. he thought to himself.

"Fecking train...fecking me on this tin box away from my patients for over fecking fifty hours!. Sure when a solider gets shot they expect me to be there on time, but when the poor are sick...they send me to camp whoop-whoop" Thomas growled to himself as he glanced at his watch again.

He tried on several occasions to hail a passing Russian trying to clarify their estimated time of arrival but all he got was shrugs.

"Siberia trains go at own speed" a voice behind him replied suddenly. "Siberian train drivers also in no hurry. Much time spent asleep or with vodka" Thomas turned to find a small group of people sitting behind him, a man, a woman and three children. The man looked up and smiled. "My name is Pechenkov, Vladamir Pechenkov. My family and I.." he paused to gesture towards the woman and three children "..we.. we are, how do you say..displaced from nearby. Our new home is Svobodny"

"I see..well I guess that's where I am heading off to as well" Thomas smiled at the family. "I was beginning to think that no one on this train would speak English, my name is Thomas and I..." his words were cut off by a sudden scream that erupted from the rear carriage

"What in god's name is happening back there?" Thomas asked suddenly craning his neck to see through the half ajar door leading to the rear compartment. The passengers in the carriage looked equally confused and concerned as the screams mixed with yelling continued to echo through the cabin. Then, just as suddenly the ruckus stopped and a burly, rather sweaty Russian appeared through the doorway. His attire represented him as a soviet guard of some sort, he paid no heed to the passengers glances and continued on his path.

An eerie silence settled over the train afterwards.

"What was that all about?" Thomas whispered turning to the family seated behind him. Vladamir did not respond, his expression turned to pain and his face was drawn of colour. It was apparent that the sight of the guard had scared him and his family. He looked at Thomas straight in the eye with a pained expression and shook his head. There was nothing more that Vladamir was going to say.

"I've got to find out what that was about, it sounded like a man was injured. He could need medical attention" Thomas said out aloud facing Vladimir. He casually got up from his seat and proceeded to the rear of the carriage. The large metal door that separated both compartments soon loomed before him but before he could place a hand on the door handle a voice from behind made him freeze in his tracks.

A Russian guard was standing behind him, dressed in a standard urban camouflage uniform and a long green trench coat, with cigarette in his mouth and a Kalashnikov gently slung over his shoulder. He scanned Thomas up and down before hurling a sting of Russian words while gesturing wildly towards Thomas's empty seat.

"No no!" Thomas pointed at the door gesturing beyond. "I heard screaming...someone might be hurt..I am a doctor" Thomas held up his medical papers for the guard to see. The guard however did not budge. He began gesturing towards Thomas's seat again.

"I don't think you understand..." Thomas began again but he was cut short as the guard forcibly grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back to the seat. He gestured towards Thomas and back towards the rear door, he then pulled out a small knife from his boot and slowly moved it sideways along his throat. The message was clear, Thomas managed a nervous smile.

"Right!. I'll stay right here and won't go back there again..if there is an emergency though..." Thomas clammed up as the guard turned to stare him in the face.


Gediminas felt his bed jerk as it was suddenly impacted in the lower part. He stayed motionless for a while, then got up and off his bed and back onto the ground. Seeing the businessman lying there, he decided to do the charitable thing and put him into the bed, with just a bit of trouble. He settled and tucked the man in and whispered a prayer for him to be safe on this journey.

Now that he was disturbed, he decided to wander and left their passenger compartment for the other one.The shabby Lithuanian seemed barely adequate to travel with these people and his appearance could probably draw some looks. The sunken eyes, the gaunt face... not a lot of features commonly associated with those of the upper class.

As he entered the compartment, he asked, slowly speaking every Russian word. "Is everything all right in here? I thought I heard screams..." He looked around, noting the various passengers.

As Carmine's eye lids slowly shut, the vast white Russian wilderness slowly gave way to the hot and building-crowded sight of downtown Palermo.

A younger version of Carmine was sitting, waiting in the driver's seat of an old rickety Fiat car, just across the road from the Town Hall. His hair was long, and messy, aviator sunglasses covering half his face, the other half covered by a bad teenage moustache. He was sweaty, because he was wearing a wolly jumper during the hot Sicilian jumper, but also because of what was happening at that moment. If he had been caught, it was down to the gallows with him, and all his accomplices.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, three figures stepped into the car, two in the backseat, and the other in the seat beside him.

"Drive." she said, her voice decisive, with just a hint of worry in it.

Carmine looked at her. Her young pale body was tall, and slender, but curvy in all the right places, like that of a Greek godess, while her bright red hair cascaded onto her shoulders, curly, like a firey waterfall.
More than anything though, it was the eyes that would catch anyone's attention. They were of a unique colour, a blueish green, similar to that of the Ionian sea. And like the Ionian sea, Carmine loved them, and would've gladly lost himself in them.

"Those eyes." he thougth.

"Carmine. Carmine! Come on! We got to get out of here!"

She had raised her voice, shaking Carmine out of his waking dream.

"Eh... wha? Oh! Right! Gotta get out of here!" shouted Carmine, as he clumsily stepped on the gas pedal, nearly crashing into a nearby car by doing so.
About twenty seconds later, a loud boom resonated throughout the city centre. The ground shook, and it nearly lifted the small car from off the ground.
Carmine looked in his rear-view mirror. The front facade of the Town Hall had been complately ripped apart by explosives. At first, there was silence. A deafening silence, probably even louder and more terrifying than the explosion. As the seconds passed though, the cries and shouts of the injured and onlookers started to fill the air.

"Fuck yeah!" shouted one of the guys in the back of the car.

"Those commie bastards got what they deserved." said the other.

Carmine didn't know how to feel. Could the deaths of innocents be justified in the fight for freedom?
He didn't know. He just pressed the gas pedal as hard as he could, trying to get as far as possible from the scene of the bombing.

He looked into the girl's eyes, again. The interior of the car vanished, turning onto itself and morphing into the middle of the city plaza. Distance started to form between the two. The sound of the car engine revving was slowly flushed out by the sound of people shouting and cursing. Carmine found himself in the middle of an angry mob.
He looked for the girl. She wasn't there, beside him. She was a couple of yards in front of him, a line of armed guards between them.

Carmine understood. It was a public execution.

She stood there, proud, with no sign of fear nor regret in her face, as a soldier tightened the noose around her neck. Carmine was about to feel sick, he felt the life slowly being sucked out of his body, the vital air leaving his lungs, and the sound completely leaving his ears, the colour leaving his eyes.
He looked up, one last time. She stared directly at him. Even in the time of death, her eyes were captivating. Carmine couldn't hear her, but he could see her lips moving, about to pronounce his name, before being cut short by the hangman.

Carmine knelt down to the floor. He couldn't hear anything, but all the same he started shouting at the top of his lungs, and clawing his way towards the gallows. As he did so, the world seemed to collapse upon itself. The crowd dissapeared, and he couldn't feel anything under his feet anymore. He started falling, for what seemed like an eternity, before hitting the ground without a sound.

Carmine rose up from his seat.

"Giovanna!" he shouted.

He was sweating, profusely. He realized he wasn't in Sicily anymore, and hadn't been for the last five years or so. It was night-time, and in the train, everyone was sleeping, including his escorting officer.
Carmine curled back into his seat, a small, lonely tear wetting his left cheek.

"Giovanna." he whispered.

"So, you are telling me, that Fat Dog, himself, actually organized this?" the man was in a stolen suit of Communist soldier gear, but instead of the standard hammer and sickle lining the hat and the left shoulder, they had been replaced by a blue and yellow symbol of an eye.

"Yes, don't ask why, all we know is that it's a displacement train heading to some town to the east, with a labour camp next door," Replied his feminine partner "Some of our guys fucked up in Leningrad, and now we have to get them to us before they say anything." She was wearing goggles that took up half of her face, with a very similar uniform to her partner, but without any symbol on it. The night was quiet, snowless, and lifeless. The two ICA soldiers were 50 metres away from what was two hours ago a train track, now a patch of debris of destroyed iron and concrete. The two soldiers were sitting at their campfire, the woman drinking a flask of coffee.
"So what's the plan?" asked the male soldier.

"Well, we've done the main part, the train track is gone, and the train should de-rail when it reaches us, we clear out any guards left on the train, and bring our men back to Co..." Said the woman, but she was interrupted by her partner.

"What about civilians?"
"Well, you said it was a town where they were supposed to go, so I can only guess that our men are a minority on the train."
"What should we do then?"
"Take them back to the Compound? It's sure better than letting them die in the tundra"
"I guess, but would Fat Dog like it?"
"What does the I in the ICA stand for?"
"Okay, Okay, please don't get ranting again! I hate it when you do that!"
"Well, Veronica what are we doing?" he Said 'Veronica', as one would say cockroach.
"We'll take them with us..."
"Thank you!" he pulled out a cigarette, puffed, looked at her angry face he apologised, "Sorry, its just that I'm kinda annoyed at the fact that they sent just us two, I mean, they should have sent at least 5 of us! How will we stand a chance?"
"I was thinking that," she replied, "But we are rather stretched on resources, I mean," she pointed at the two spare IEDs near the tent, "We made them out of Kerosene and lard, now that's desperate! We'll be able to tackle them, those conscripts get as much training as: 'Point gun and pull trigger', we're much more effective, and besides, stealth and willpower is on our side."

"I guess so, but..." The end of his sentence was cut off by the distant roar of the train.
"They are coming!" Veronica shouted.
"Put out the fire, hide, and load your AK!" he replied quickly.
The duo of rebels poured a bucket of half-frozen water over the camp-fire, crouched down behind a nearby snow-covered hill, loaded their AK-47s and covered their ears.

Lukas's nose had finally stopped bleeding, but bruises across his body were emerging rapidly. He began to swear at himself, as he realised what a fool he had been, not just for failing in Leningrad, but for not escaping when he could of. They're going to torture me until all is left o me is a sack of black and blue flesh, unless I give up all I know... He loved the ICA like his child, but the Soviets were very potent at extracting information; although he wasn't in the know of everything of the ICA, he knew a lot about the Organization's Eurasian supply routes, and that was enough.

He looked at his fellow ICA agents, in their cells, sullen faced, groaning, sleeping, they were paying the price of trying to change the world, and they were definitely feeling it. He looked out of the tiny window in his cell, the Siberian night seemed entrancing, and beautiful, so delicate, and free, he would do anything to be free of this cell, to be outside again, in that wilderness, even if he froze to death in these baggy tracksuit bottoms and whit shirt.

His wish was granted.

A huge screeching noise filled Lukas's ears, and he felt the train come to a painful halt, from 70 miles per hour, to Zero, he felt his very organs go backwards. The train, or at least his carriage, fell upon its side, and Lukas toppled over and fell to what looked like the ground, except it wasn't the floor, it was the wall of his cell, and he was lying on top of his cell window, looking at the snow beneath it.

What the hell is going on?? was the question that battered Lukas's mind, but he couldn't investigate; his cell door was directly above him. So he shouted, hoping someone would help him,
"Hello? Can someone help me out of here?!!"

Jack was pulled out of his reverie to the sound of screeching metal and surprised cries. The carriage shook and the brakes squealed as Jack was hurled onto the table in front of him, cracking his eyebrow on the scuffed surface.

Before he could right himself, the carriage tilted onto its side and slammed down into the snowy ground. Jack found himself tangled up with the shrewish man on the other side of the aisle, the couple opposite knocked unconscious. The man looked up groggily, locking eyes with Jack, who gave him an evil grin as he raised a jagged shard of glass in his gloved hand, stabbing down as the man opened his mouth to shout.

Searching through the man's coat turned up a few useful items, not least a 9mm Makarov pistol and a mobile phone. Pocketing these, along with the agent's wallet, Jack righted himself, balancing on the side of the chair.

"Hello? Can someone help me out of here?!!"

Jack turned towards the prisoner carriage and made his way to the compartment door. Forcing it open, he moved to the first cell - the dark-haired man inside looked as if he'd suffered multiple beatings.

"I think I might be able to help you out. Are the keys to the cells stored anywhere in this carriage?"

Lukas looked at the at this liberator, although he couldn't see well in the dark, Lukas could see he definitely was not a guard, so he decided in his own interest to say:

"The key's are in the cell guard's hands, it's not worth risking your neck for, if you have a gun shoot the lock on the cell door, the iron they use for them is worthless... but be careful not to shoot me!" It was going to be difficult to make sure Lukas was not hit, considering the door was above Lukas's head.

"Alright, cover your eyes and get out of the way."

Jack waited as the man moved away before taking aim with the Makarov and blasting the lock out. Moving forward, he dragged the cell door open before reaching down and offering his hand to the man.

"Come on, we don't have much time until your friend comes a-looking!"

"Thanks, I owe you one!" cried Lukas as he grabbed the outstretched hand, and heaved himself upwards, out of the cell. He shambled out, took a deep breath, and said to the man, "We need to help the other prisoners out, before the guards decide to come up here!"

"Agreed. I'll set to getting the rest of the locks. In the confusion I managed to off an agent who was trailing me so we should have a bit of breathing space."

From the outside of the train, Jack could hear rifles being fired.

"Looks like someone's decided to distract the rest of our friends anyways."

He held out his hand.

"I'm Jack. Jack Philby, from London."

"Lukas, Lukas Daryvich," he shook Jack's hand thoroughly, "London, eh? I've never been there myself, but some of my friends have worked there..." He smirked at the end of this sentence, "We'd better be quick, and help whoever's is attacking these Soviets won't be able to stand for long..."

The two ICA soldiers had watched as the train de-railed, and the ear-ravaging screech that followed made them squint. They peeked around the hill, and saw ten soldiers stumbling off of the train, they immediately proceeded to quickly shoot the soldiers, and four of them fell to the ground, fortunately not killed, but on the ground, groaning. The other six began to open fire, suppressing the two agents, as they waited for a break in the shooting to lean out and return fire.

"All right, help me get the others out. You know these guys?"

As he spoke, Jack moved along the carriage, shooting out the locks on the cells and levering the doors open.

"Know 'em? We're here for the same thing! I'm glad your here, if we were sent to Svobodny we would be tortured to the point the ICA..." He abrubtly ended there, realising that this 'Jack' could be a Soviet for all he knew, he decided to look away from him.

Richau was jolted awake by a sudden jerk of the carriage, followed by what felt like being caught in a huge washing machine. He was thrown to the rear wall of his cabin, what was now the bottom, and lay still for a moment, frozen in utter shock. He grasped at words, trying to utter a request for help, but he found himself unable to speak. His ears were ringing.

Richau staggered to his feet, slowly and exceptionally painfully. Bent double, he stretched a pitiful, grasping hand through the door above him. He grasped at the air, like a dying man clinging to the last remains of life. At last, he managed to force a few words.

"Help....." he groaned, before collapsing into a coughing fit on the floor.

"Anybody....." The room grew darker.

Jack saw Lukas clam up and chuckled.

"Believe me, if I was a Soviet agent looking to get a confession, I'd get it in a prison camp. As it is, I was working with an ICA cell in London, that's what got me moved out to this shithole."

He stopped and stooped down to help a man up out of his cell.

"Hopefully we'll be able to find a way off this wreck soon, I wouldn't like to be here when reinforcements show up."

The train came to a schreeching halt, and for a few seconds, everything and evryone was floating in the air, as the train slowly collapsed onto it's side.

Carmine got up, a couple of minutes later. He had a wide gash on his forehead.

"Fuck." he said, as he saw the blood on his hands.

He felt a heavy weight pulling on his left arm. He tugged, and then he saw: His escorting officer was laying on the floor with a huge pool of blood coming from his head. Carmine started at him.

"Oh well, better you than me." he thought, before searching his body for usefull items.

He exited the de-railed train, looking for the cause of the accident. He had stolen the officers trousers, boots, belt and fur coat, and was holding his ordinance pistol in his hand, while he investigated.

Wilhelm scrabbled for the mouse to his laptop which, at this point, had gotten quite far away from him. It was so strange that this one little thing could make working with the miniature computer so much easier, and it was equally strange how the loss of this one little thing could make life in general so much more difficult. He found himself crouched in front of his seat when the noises of the undercarriage abruptly stopped and he was slammed face-first into a wall. "Hvad?" was all he had time to say before an ominous creaking noise began. Wilhelm's inner monologue began to work furiously. The train is tipping over. It must be partially lifted off of the rails by now. Though his thoughts were few in number, this was still a decent number of coherent think-bubbles when you consider that those two sentences were formulated in less than a second. Wilhelm was tossed mercilessly against hard metal. A rectangular iron plate of three inches in height separated upper and lower panes of glass going all the way across the windows of the carriage. The back of his spine connected perfectly with this plate. "Gud!" he shouted in pain. The wild spinning-offs of his mind failed. The hurt obliterated any attempts at forming any recognizable chains of thought. He tried to control his limbs, but his spine would flare with some kind of ungodly ache every time he tried to move. He finally gave in to unconsciousness. The gears of his brain ceased to rotate.

Lukas looked at Jack, feeling bad for accusing him of being one of the Soviets:
"Sorry, I'm just tense; we can talk after we get the hell out of here." Lukas continued to help his friends out of their cells.

"Reloading!" Veronica shouter over the countless bullets being shot at the hill
"They've stopped shooting, return fire!" the duo leaned out of cover and hit 2 Soviet soldiers in the head, and 1 in the stomach.
"Seven down, three to go!" Veronica laughed.

The abrupt stopped knocked the old man off his feet, sending him face first onto the floor and his glasses spinning and tumbling off into the depth of the carriage. He let out a loud grunt as the carriage turned over onto it's side and he fell against a table. He lied there for a while before shakily getting up. His leg seemed to be bleeding rather badly.

He scrounged around for his glasses and found them, surprisingly, intact. He put them back on and looked around at the mess. Gediminas slowly moved towards the door and opened it again, letting the cool breeze in. He climbed out and stood there for a moment then collapsed.

He lied in the snow for a short while, before mustering all of his strength and crawling towards the other carriage leaving a red trail behind. All became dark as he finally was overcome by exhaustion and fell into the snow, lying motionless.

Lukas said quietly to Jack, "Can you help the last couple of guys out? I've got to find out what the hell is going on." He did not even wait for an answer as he ran out of the carriage, and outside via a broken window, he did not stop to help the countless groaning, bleeding, and crying individuals up, he simply ran, and ran, outside of the train, towards the sound of gunfire. He turned round the corner of part of the wreckage... And ran face-first into a well-tanned, green eyed Soviet officer.

The two men collided with each other, falling into the snow in the process. The gun Carmine was holding fell a couple of yards away.

The snow felt cold, and refreshing. Carmine almost forgot what was going on, before as he clumsily got to his feet, he noticed the other man, in front of him, also lieing in the snow.
Panicking, Carmine rushed towards the gun, grabbed it, pointed it towards the man and shouted in a perfect Russian:

"Hands up! Put your hands were I can see them!"

"For a soldier, you ain't got many weapons," replied Lukas in Russian, complying to these orders, and noticing the single pistol in his hand. Lukas raised his arms, and asked "So, are you going to kill me?"

"Drop it, Ivan."

Jack stood in by the wreckage of the train, aiming his gun at the man in the Soviet uniform. Behind him, the other prisoners were taking cover inside the wrecked train. Not sure if the man spoke English, Jack barked an order in his limited Russian vocabulary.


Keeping the man covered, Jack called to Lukas.

"Are you alright?"

"Looks like I owe you again, Thanks," Replied Lukas "We need to help whoever is attacking the train, I have a feeling that they are not going to last long at this rate. But first...."

He then pointed at his attacker, and said calmly in Russian "Just put down your gun, and let's try to not blow each other's brains out."

God, I hate switching between those two languages Lukas thought.

Carmine didn't know what to do. Two men, one of them armed were telling him to put his gun down. What were they going to do to him? Were they going to kill him? Turn him in to the KGB? They didn't look like Soviets though, and surely if they were, they wouldn't be pointing their weapons at him, dressed like a Soviet officer.

"Calm down Carmine. These must be the people who de-railed the train. They aren't going to do anything to you if you just put the gun down." he thought.

Carmine slowly knelt down and put his gun on the snow, meanwhile smiling at the armed man. He then slowly rose up, put his hands in plain sight, and said calmly, in perfect Russian:

"Don't shoot. I am not a Soviet. I am a political dissident, like I suspect you are. Now, lower the gun, there's no need for it."

Jack saw the man drop his gun and say something in Russian. Even with Jack's limited vocabulary he could pick out the important part.

"I am not a Soviet..... dissident....."

Jack's eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the man. His skin was heavily tanned, quite a rarity in Russia. Jack doubted that they would have brought one of their recruits from the South of Europe or their Baltic satellites. The man's clothes seemed ill-fitting, as if they were made for a man of a different shape. Jack noted the insignia on the shoulder of the man's coat.

A Captain? His clothes should be well-fitted, he's not just some rank-and-file conscript. Maybe he's telling the truth.

Jack narrowed his eyes and lowered the Makarov before speaking in English.

"Alright, come with us."

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