The New Order: Last Days of Europe Thread II

  • Since the original thread is nearing the magical 500, though I might make this.

    Please don't glorify genocidal and totalitarian regimes in game or IRL. If so, reported,

    Also: my message to the TNO community:

    Please stop using based and cringe constantly,
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    The Devils Economist
  • The Devil's Economist
    A Brotherhood of Cain Short Story
    Part One of the Omsk Trilogy

    How many times had the clock struck midnight? By Woland's count, it was no less than four. Once for a Tsar who had lost his way, once for a General Secretary who let his world die, once for a Regent who believed in a lie, and once for the Devil who had come to collect. Woland tried not to think of the details.

    He was a young man with a strong chin and brown hair. Once, he had a cocky look in his eyes, as though he could rule the world. That was long ago, though, back when the world made sense and God looked upon his people instead of the Adversary. That was back when there was a God. That was back when he believed in a lie.

    Woland sighed and adjusted his tie. The sigil of Lucifer was pinned to his lapel, marking him as one of the Devil's Own. Was this how far he had fallen? A man of God. Where had God brought them? A dead child and an undead country. He looked at the ceremonial dagger on his desk next to the paperwork. Recently cleaned. He raised a glass of German whiskey. The Devil's Accountant had access to such things.

    He remembered a friend who had misguided dreams and a friend full of rage. He remembered when he believed in anything. He slumped into his office chair as he heard a knock at the door. A woman in robes with a face full of knife scars—self-inflicted, the agony and the hedonistic enlightenment—entered. Her head was shaved.

    "Woland." She eyed him. "What are you doing?"


    "I don't know how you stand it."

    "Someone has to make sure that Abaddon's Kingdom of the Hellborn functions. Without me and the Church's Silver Circle we'd all be stuck in Omsk. The money has to be managed by someone and Mammon is as much of a demon as Baphomet," he gently reminded her.

    The woman, who Woland knew as Roksana, rolled her eyes. "Aren't you a coward?" she asked, rhetorically. "What, are you afraid to spill some blood?"

    "If I don't make sure we're importing enough food and guns, we won't be able to serve Him. Besides, economics is a complicated but important thing."

    "You sound like a Jew."

    He stopped at that, eyes narrowing. "Don't you dare accuse me of that. I'm as much of a Russian as you are. I just do the little things that help the rest of you with your dismembering and autocannibalism."

    Roksana shrugged. "Well, next time you have to fulfill your duty to Abaddon, you'd better do it. We both know he only tolerates you."

    Woland rubbed his temples. What fools these Satanists were. "I'll remember that while I'm single-handedly keeping the Kingdom alive."

    "Damn straight." She flipped the hood of the robe down and left the room. Woland returned to his work. Once the door was closed to his office, he drew a small Bible from a drawer, under a false bottom.

    Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 5:10

    He laughed.

    But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you. Matthew 6:3-4

    "What horseshit," he mumbled. What good had those blessings and gifts to the needy done? He had a copy of Abbadon's Bible on his desk, but he never read it. It was just for show.

    The Devil had proven his strength over God. The Christian had followed the trends, replaced the name of Jesus for Lucifer. He wished he could cry. Men didn't cry. Brothers of Cain didn't cry.

    He heard a knock at the door again along with the same woman's voice. "Woland, Abbadon has summoned you to the Maw. Get going, you gutless wretch."

    He sighed. Was this what he had gone into exile for? Changed his name twice over for?

    He followed the scarred woman, noticing a decapitated Mary's head and neck cut into the back of her own neck. It was still red, still oozing with pus and half-healed skin. Woland followed. The walk was long and he swallowed his pride.

    Finally, they made it to what was once called Plan Hydra Bunker 33-L, now simply called the Maw. He opened up the steel door and descended deep into the complex. He had done this before.

    He saw a captive with a Star of David cut into his chest. It covered him in rich red. He took his dagger in hand. "You may do with him as He demands" the robed woman said.

    "In the name of Lucifer, may His blessings be bountiful..." he chanted, knowing it by heart. He took the knife and started with the Achilles tendon. He sawed back and forth. The screams echoed in the concrete room.

    He kept his eyes open, if only to show that he wasn't disturbed. That was the truth. He'd done it enough. Once, he kept his hatred of small nations to political speeches. Once, he was a man named Shafarevich, not a demon named Woland. How times had changed. He jammed the knife into the Jew's stomach. He'd start with removing the intestines.
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    Blastwave Eden
  • Blastwave Eden
    An All-Russian Black League Short Story
    Part Two of the Omsk Trilogy

    "Father, what's that pin mean?" Gleb Larionovich Kurpatov looked down at his five year old son. They wore tunics and trousers in the pristine wilderness village that he knew was once beside a city called Minsk. He smiled at his boy, Vasily. "This pin? The one with the eagle and the pentagon?"

    "What's a pentagon, father?"

    "It's a shape with five sides."

    "Oh, then that pin. Is that a fascist pin?"

    Gleb flinched at that. "No, of course not. This pin signifies that I was a member of the All-Russian Black League, a group of brave defenders of our people who destroyed the Hitlerites forever. The world before the Black League was dark and painful, ruled by monsters. This village here would have been a graveyard."

    A scared expression crossed Vasily's face and his lip began to quiver.

    "Vasya, Vasya, do not be worried. The Hitlerites are gone now. The world is free. Now all we need to fear are animals." Gleb smiled.

    "Were you scared when you were fighting the fascists?" Vasily asked.

    "A little bit. We were all scared. The Black League was a scary place to be. We were all afraid of our bosses almost as much as we were afraid of the Hitlerites, but we knew we had a duty. Do you want to hear what we used to say?"

    "Sure, Papa."

    "I believe, before all else, in Russia, one, united, and invincible. I believe in my own strength and the strength of my comrades. I reject the lies of the First Trial, and embrace the Black League as Russia's one and only salvation in the coming Trial. When the day of the Great Trial comes, I will stand shoulder to shoulder with my comrades. I will face the enemy without fear, and I will put my nation before my own life. I will be the sword and shield of Russia, by which justice will be done for the fallen. I swear this oath by my sacred Motherland."

    Gleb finished reciting it, and Vasya spoke. "That's a weird oath. Why would you put your nation before your life? Isn't that just where you live?"

    "No, a nation is...I don't know how to explain this. Before the Great Trial, it was...It was important. Very important. More than you know."

    At that, a young woman, a girl, really, in a cotton dress knocked at the door of the thatched-roof house, and Gleb opened the door.

    "Hello? Are you the head of the village? I was told to see Captain Kurpatov," she asked, clad in what appeared to be a pre-Great Trial white sundress. She was tainted with blonde hair and blue eyes. She spoke in an accent, foreign. Gleb recognized it immediately. "...How do you speak Russian?" he asked. Teutonic bitch was probably a spy.

    "The Aryans from the East taught us Russian years ago."

    "What Aryans from the East?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

    "The Russian Aryans. They're gone now. Starved. Near Konigsberg."

    "...Are you a Hitlerite?"

    "A what?" she asked.

    "Are you a Hitlerite or not?"

    "I don't know what you mean by a Hitlerite," she said.

    "A follower of Adolf Hitler. A German," he said, in an exasperated tone. "A dog deserving of death."

    "I'm a German, and Hitler was the great German warrior who summoned thunder and saved all the peoples of the world, if I remember correctly from the rumors in the bunkers. Our parents didn't like talking about the outside world."

    No spy would be this stupid, he thought to himself. "Hitler was a killer and a monster who tried to destroy the Russian people entirely after enslaving them."

    "...Oh," she said, suddenly surprised. "Well, I suspected that the other girls were embellishing things, but still. That's...that's horrible. How could they do that to Aryans?"

    "Well, he didn't think we were Aryans," Vasily said.

    "Listen, Teuton, this village isn't for your kind. Go before I have to show you what happens to Teutons in Black League territory," Gleb said.

    "Papa, please. She's just a girl."

    "She's a Teuton," he muttered.

    "She doesn't sound like a Teuton. Teutons kill people, right?" Vasya turned to the girl. "Have you killed anyone?"

    Her eyes widened. "Of course not! Why would I kill someone? That's horrible!"

    "...How old are you, Miss..." he asked, starting to wonder exactly how mature this girl was.

    "Fourteen, sir. My name is Samantha. Samantha Herzsprung. From Burgundy."

    From Burgundy. The words were a strike to his soul. Gleb walked up to her and embraced her. "You don't know what Burgundy was, do you?" Some anger crept into his voice. This stupid girl, this wasteful product of a hellish society, too sheltered to even realize the sins in her blood. If she was a spy, she certainly wouldn't admit to being from Burgundy.

    "My parents never wanted to talk about Burgundy. They just told me that it was over. Psychologically, it was like they were physically stopped whenever they'd be about to say something about it. Did something happen there?"

    "Burgundy was Hell, a Hell that your people created. A Hell that you won't ever be able to get out of your blood and your culture," Gleb said. "I told you to leave, now leave."

    "Please, she seems nice. I want her to stay!" Vasya stomped a foot.

    "Vasya, she's lucky she isn't dead. I don't want to kill anymore, but she just isn't acceptable here. She still believes in Nazi fairy tales and she thinks like a fascist."

    "My parents passed away, sir. Bandits. I went out East looking for civilization. I went to a large settlement, but there was a famine. I'm looking for more survivors, you know, more Aryans."

    "We are not Aryans, and neither are you!"

    "We are all Aryans," she said, starting to stand tall against him. "We are all Aryans and we all deserve to be happy. Everyone who was destroying the world is dead and gone, so why won't you just have an ounce of compassion?"

    Vasily tugged on Gleb's tunic. "Maybe she can help with spinning cotton? That kinda stuff. I bet she'd be helpful to have."

    "Yes, please, I'd be happy to help. I'm...sorry if I said something wrong. I...You Russian Aryans seem to believe strange things, but you seem...okay. Not evil, just angry. Please, give me a chance. I'll help if you want, I can put my work in. I just don't want to be alone, anymore. You've won, okay? Your Black League has won. Isn't that enough?" Samantha said.

    "It will only be enough when your kind is—"

    Vasily yelled. "Stop! Stop it! Stop fighting! I don't even get what you two are fighting over!"

    Samantha spoke, more softly this time. "Why do you hate Germans so much?"

    "For what you did, for what you were planning to do, for the threat you represent to our people," he said.

    "We don't represent a threat anymore, and I wasn't born when the Germans hurt you. We're all just Ar—just people. Please, I'll help, I'll do what you say, I won't even talk if that's so important to you."

    Vasily looked up at Gleb, and Gleb gave it some thought. "Fine. The Great Trial's over. You can stay here for the moment. If I see an speck of what I know your people for, you will be out or dead. You will be the only German in this settlement.

    "You will be loathed by anyone who fought against your kind, and for good reason. So if you can prove to us that you aren't a fascist underneath, and only then, you can stay. Is that clear?"

    "Absolutely," she said. She said it sincerely, earnestly, and for a moment Gleb thought that maybe this might work.
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    These United States
  • These United States
    A United States of Russia Short Story
    Part Three of the Omsk Trilogy

    "Russkie! Nice dress. You free tonight?" a thin-mustached man asked her in an East Asian accent. He was clad in camouflage with an M16 over his shoulder and a pistol at his side. Nastya looked down at her red dress, purchased for her by ex-boyfriend. She was glad he was gone, even if an Internal Security Bureau man could get her gifts from time to time.

    "That I am. Who's asking?" she said, in heavily accented English. Eight years since the end of the Siberian War, since the reunification of the Motherland, eight years of learning English and finding work everywhere she could, and men still hit on her. Not that she had anything better to do tonight.

    The music played on the radio of the bar. Some rock anthem from America. Like something out of a fever dream. "I am. I've got some warm beer if you wanna come and relax. We had vodka, but we're done with the bottle." He looked around at the motley gang of mercenaries around him.

    His comrade, a man with an American accent, turned to him. "Hachimitsu, you know we're not supposed to be soliciting native women here. This place is less than ten years under our rule, and you're already going to get syphilis? Dumb fuck."

    Hachimitsu chuckled. "Pussy here isn't afraid of getting shot but is afraid of some burning down there. Corporal Pendergast, don't talk down to me like that. Girl's hot, stylish, up for some fun, don't be a fucking buzzkill."

    Nastya raised an eyebrow. "You mercenary boys are all fifteen years old at heart, I swear to god." She snorted.

    "Oh, trust me, I've got way more experience than that," Hachimitsu said, making an indecent gesture with his hands.

    "You're drunk enough to talk like that, and I'm drunk enough not to be scared off, huh?" Nastya asked.

    "Something like that. Look, you can go if you want, nobody's forcing you," he said.

    "Actually, I'm forcing you by informing the commander if you get gonorrhea or knock up this poor girl," Pendergast said.

    "Same rank, dipshit," Hachimitsu said.

    "Do you both curse this often all the time? Or is that just when you're drunk?" she asked.

    "All the time. What's your name, anyway?"

    "Anastasia, but everyone goes with Nastya," she said.

    "Like the princess?"

    "Tsaristsa," she corrected. She heard the sound of helicopters in the air. In the days of the wars, that meant one thing. Death from above. These days, it just meant the troops were being stocked to Moscow. So many dead men, but what a cause.

    "Gotcha." Hachimitsu said, getting up and finishing his glass. "You a native?"

    "I'm a citizen of the United States of Russia," she said, her tone growing a little harder even with her obvious buzz.

    "No, I meant a native to Omsk," he clarified.

    "...Yeah, I'm native here."

    "Musta been hell before we came, huh?"

    "You have no idea," she sighed. "I...really don't want to talk about it. Living under the Military District, that was different. They saved us. This place was hell. We were all bodies, worked to the bone or sent to die, under watch and easy to kill."

    "Look, I...can't bang you, not really. Pendergast'll report me to my boss if I get anything, and I don't want to risk it."

    "Oh, wow, how noble of you," Nastya said, dryly.

    "Do you mind sitting here with us, at least? I haven't seen a civilian girl in years."

    She nodded and sat down. "What, so I'm some kind of trophy?" she asked, a little darkly amused about it.

    "Not really. More like, you know, something rare. I just want to savor it," Hachimatsu said.

    "Jesus, you really are trying to fuck me," she said. "Maybe I do have some horrible disease that'll melt your dick so it drips down your trousers."

    Hachimatsu's face contorted in an expression of utter disgust. "Yeah...Let's not do that. It is...nice to see a girl."

    "Especially one in a low-cut dress and heels?" she asked.

    "Well, it's not hurting. Look, I'm trying to be a gentleman or whatever, but..." He took off his uniform jacket and handed it to her. "Cover it up, I'm having trouble not staring at them. Please."

    "You need to take a rest. Come with me." She took his hand and his olive drab jacket with the black and yellow flag patch, putting the latter on and dragging him out. Eventually, they made it to her small apartment. She pulled him in and unlocked the door with a key from her handbag, before letting him sit on the couch. "What brings you to Omsk, anyway?" The apartment down, for sure, with a hole in the wall, some stains, and an obvious attempt to keep things neat even as its age caught up to it.

    "We're stationed here. We're supposed to keep watch. There's been some Black Leaguers who've formed some kind of drinking club, and they've started to bomb OFN-affiliated businesses."

    "...They just won't let it die, will they?"

    "No kidding. Half the Black League's joined the mercenary companies because of the Second West Russian War, but the other half are either getting used to things or desperately trying to go after the "American imperialists". Intel says some guy named Lazarenko's the leader of their drinking club. Real bastard. In another life, he could have been some kind of Russian Hitler. He's charismatic. Good at getting followers."

    "Lazarenko? The ISB man?" she asked.

    "That's him."

    "Yazov's attack dog. Well, it's hard for all of us to just become good Russkiye amerikantsy. You have to understand that if it weren't for democracy and prosperity, we wouldn't even want you people around. Foreigners running Russia? I'm still not even sure if I'm comfortable with it, even if I see the results."

    "All I'm saying is that it could've gone a lot worse, Nastya. It could have been a lot worse."
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    He came.
  • me after six years