MacSalterson
TNPer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
A man’s eyes snapped open suddenly. He was lying on a cot with no memory of how he got there. Sterile lighting bathed his room in a hard-edged white glow. Room? He looked around at the bare walls and metal door. More like a cell. Curses in his native dialect of Yeran spewed forth almost unbidden from his mouth. Sfan’s hounds[1] had finally caught him. He glanced over to a small hanging desk near the door to the cell. A steel tray with various simple foods sat on it. Plain bread. What looked to be beef jerky. Nuts. A small bowl of preserved fruit. A plastic cup with plain water. He retrieved it from the desk and moved back to the cot, eating. He knew the food would not be poisoned, despite claims from some of his associates about Sfan’s methods of dealing with prisoners. In fact, the relative quality of the food was almost more villainous than any poisoned meal, a display of false pity for the Premier’s prisoners. Glancing about as he ate, he noticed a distinct lack of windows or really anything at all to indicate time. He cursed again.
He began thinking. He had been so careful to hide his tracks, since a rap sheet like his would not earn him any leniency if he was caught. An unassuming apartment in a residential section of Ac̣’âṇb’ayar[2] rented out to a fake name, its internet activity routed through a myriad of false addresses, other countries and hosts, and constantly inspected for bugs or taps. His actual home a few hours away, a modest cabin near a village on lake Uhṇalâ[3], no evidence of his illicit activities there at all. Friends and acquaintances retrieving his packages for him while uninformed of their contents. He had been so careful, and still that communist sêc̣in[4] bastard had sniffed him out.
He had no illusions about his trial, assuming he got one. A summary charge of treason, incitement of violence, slander against the government, all of the crimes those who had the audacity to post criticisms of the government were normally charged with. Some got off fairly light, snot-nosed teenagers trying to be funny online, foreigners who might not be aware of the full extent of the law. Others, like him, less so. Twenty years? Forty? A life sentence? A period in the penal labor system?
The metallic click of the locks on the door knocked him out of his train of thought. He would not, it seemed, have to wonder about his eventual fate for much longer. Two guards in the typical black uniform of prison guards in the Stan Yera stepped into the room. One held a shotgun at the ready, the other had a pistol holstered on his belt. The one with the pistol spoke, “You, come with us”. Clipped. Impersonal. Like the rest of his surroundings, clinical to the point of robotic.
He stood up and let himself be cuffed, and walked out the door with the two guards. The walls in the hallway were similarly plain, though a colored stripe indicating the block of the prison ran about chest height along both sides of the hallway. Blue. Political prisoners. That’s about what he figured. They continued for about five minutes in silence before reaching a gate with a guard post built into the wall. The colored line stopped at the gate. A brief exchange, a neutral look from the guard (or was there a bit of sympathy?) stationed in the post at the prisoner, and the prisoner and the two guards were let through.
More walking followed, until a plain wooden door signalled the end of the journey. The guard with the pistol opened the door, and motioned him inside. Neither followed. Directly facing him, across a simple wooden desk, was the Federal Premier himself. Sfan smiled, an illusion of warmth that didn’t really have any place in the situation at hand. He gestured for the prisoner to be seated.
Sfan spoke, “I presume you’ve puzzled out why you’re here?”
The man answered, “Aye.”
“It was difficult to track you down. An acquaintance eventually helped us pinpoint your identity.”
“Who?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
Sfan briefly glanced at a phone sitting on his desk. He picked it up, glancing at the screen for a moment, and typed a brief message into it, then set it down.
“I have two choices for you. My judiciary committee has knowledge that you have contacts engaged in similar criminal acts as the ones you have committed. The first choice lets you walk free, but only if you assist us in identifying and prosecuting your acquaintances within the Stan Yera. Charges will be dropped, and you will be placed into a protection program and moved elsewhere in the nation, or to a friendly nation.
“The second choice is that you face justice. I do not think it will go well for you, especially with the evidence we have collected.”
The prisoner remained silent. Another glance at the phone, another response. Several minutes pass by. Sfan spoke, “I suppose you’re not ready to answer. I suppose are meeting has reached its conclusion then.”
The guards came in and escorted the prisoner out. They walked back down the labyrinthine corridors for several minutes. They reached a set of double doors, and the prisoner suddenly realized they had not walked the same course they had from his cell. He was moved inside, and the doors swung shut. The guard with the shotgun remained outside, and only the guard with the pistol stood in the room with him. The room was featureless, save for a drain. The man had a sudden realization.
Then he was forced to his knees. A cold metal cylinder pressed into the base of his skull. A flash of light and a shot of pain. Then darkness.
Official News Broadcast of the Stan Yera
“Today marks the fifth year since the moratorium placed on the death penalty by Federal Premier K’ter in the Stan Yera. The last prisoner on death row received a commutation of his sentence in the summer of the previous year, and experts in law expect that the death penalty be officially abolished by the Premier within the next three to five years.”
“In other news, one of the biggest busts on anti-government ringleaders and hackers in recent years was carried out three days ago. It marks a major step towards stamping out the last of the non-cooperative factions left over from the civil war, which ended twenty five years prior.”
(OOC Note: the forum change apparently deleted the entire post so this is a reupload.)
[1]Federal Premier Sfan K'ter has been accused by multiple detractors of retaining extralegal squads of soldiers and/or police to hunt down dissenters, termed Sfan's dogs, or Sfan's hounds
[2]A port city in the central region of the main island of the Stan Yera, and the nation's information and technology hub.
[3]The southernmost of the three large lakes in the Stan Yera's central island
[4]A derogatory term in Yeran translating to roughly "southerner" or "outsider". Implies that the person in question is not a true Yeran and is opposed to the country as a whole or is immoral and untrustworthy.
He began thinking. He had been so careful to hide his tracks, since a rap sheet like his would not earn him any leniency if he was caught. An unassuming apartment in a residential section of Ac̣’âṇb’ayar[2] rented out to a fake name, its internet activity routed through a myriad of false addresses, other countries and hosts, and constantly inspected for bugs or taps. His actual home a few hours away, a modest cabin near a village on lake Uhṇalâ[3], no evidence of his illicit activities there at all. Friends and acquaintances retrieving his packages for him while uninformed of their contents. He had been so careful, and still that communist sêc̣in[4] bastard had sniffed him out.
He had no illusions about his trial, assuming he got one. A summary charge of treason, incitement of violence, slander against the government, all of the crimes those who had the audacity to post criticisms of the government were normally charged with. Some got off fairly light, snot-nosed teenagers trying to be funny online, foreigners who might not be aware of the full extent of the law. Others, like him, less so. Twenty years? Forty? A life sentence? A period in the penal labor system?
The metallic click of the locks on the door knocked him out of his train of thought. He would not, it seemed, have to wonder about his eventual fate for much longer. Two guards in the typical black uniform of prison guards in the Stan Yera stepped into the room. One held a shotgun at the ready, the other had a pistol holstered on his belt. The one with the pistol spoke, “You, come with us”. Clipped. Impersonal. Like the rest of his surroundings, clinical to the point of robotic.
He stood up and let himself be cuffed, and walked out the door with the two guards. The walls in the hallway were similarly plain, though a colored stripe indicating the block of the prison ran about chest height along both sides of the hallway. Blue. Political prisoners. That’s about what he figured. They continued for about five minutes in silence before reaching a gate with a guard post built into the wall. The colored line stopped at the gate. A brief exchange, a neutral look from the guard (or was there a bit of sympathy?) stationed in the post at the prisoner, and the prisoner and the two guards were let through.
More walking followed, until a plain wooden door signalled the end of the journey. The guard with the pistol opened the door, and motioned him inside. Neither followed. Directly facing him, across a simple wooden desk, was the Federal Premier himself. Sfan smiled, an illusion of warmth that didn’t really have any place in the situation at hand. He gestured for the prisoner to be seated.
Sfan spoke, “I presume you’ve puzzled out why you’re here?”
The man answered, “Aye.”
“It was difficult to track you down. An acquaintance eventually helped us pinpoint your identity.”
“Who?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
Sfan briefly glanced at a phone sitting on his desk. He picked it up, glancing at the screen for a moment, and typed a brief message into it, then set it down.
“I have two choices for you. My judiciary committee has knowledge that you have contacts engaged in similar criminal acts as the ones you have committed. The first choice lets you walk free, but only if you assist us in identifying and prosecuting your acquaintances within the Stan Yera. Charges will be dropped, and you will be placed into a protection program and moved elsewhere in the nation, or to a friendly nation.
“The second choice is that you face justice. I do not think it will go well for you, especially with the evidence we have collected.”
The prisoner remained silent. Another glance at the phone, another response. Several minutes pass by. Sfan spoke, “I suppose you’re not ready to answer. I suppose are meeting has reached its conclusion then.”
The guards came in and escorted the prisoner out. They walked back down the labyrinthine corridors for several minutes. They reached a set of double doors, and the prisoner suddenly realized they had not walked the same course they had from his cell. He was moved inside, and the doors swung shut. The guard with the shotgun remained outside, and only the guard with the pistol stood in the room with him. The room was featureless, save for a drain. The man had a sudden realization.
Then he was forced to his knees. A cold metal cylinder pressed into the base of his skull. A flash of light and a shot of pain. Then darkness.
Official News Broadcast of the Stan Yera
“Today marks the fifth year since the moratorium placed on the death penalty by Federal Premier K’ter in the Stan Yera. The last prisoner on death row received a commutation of his sentence in the summer of the previous year, and experts in law expect that the death penalty be officially abolished by the Premier within the next three to five years.”
“In other news, one of the biggest busts on anti-government ringleaders and hackers in recent years was carried out three days ago. It marks a major step towards stamping out the last of the non-cooperative factions left over from the civil war, which ended twenty five years prior.”
(OOC Note: the forum change apparently deleted the entire post so this is a reupload.)
[1]Federal Premier Sfan K'ter has been accused by multiple detractors of retaining extralegal squads of soldiers and/or police to hunt down dissenters, termed Sfan's dogs, or Sfan's hounds
[2]A port city in the central region of the main island of the Stan Yera, and the nation's information and technology hub.
[3]The southernmost of the three large lakes in the Stan Yera's central island
[4]A derogatory term in Yeran translating to roughly "southerner" or "outsider". Implies that the person in question is not a true Yeran and is opposed to the country as a whole or is immoral and untrustworthy.