Welcome toVoices, a Mouxordian RP that is [SEMI-OPEN] in regards to participation and [CLOSED] in terms of addition from outside sources.
[SEMI-OPEN] means that you must direct message me a request to participate, and I will decide on whether I want you to or not. These are referred to as applications. Like a job, not all who apply receive employment.
[CLOSED] means that you cannot post in this thread. You are more than welcome to read the story as it goes along, though. Think of it as a read-only document.
I've decided to separate this story into separate arcs, and it follows several characters throughout their trials and tribulations. I do hope you enjoy.
The heavy truck came to slow, rumbling stop in front of the guarded facility. The armor plating and thickened non-shatter glass definitely weighed the vehicle down, but it was for a purpose - to ensure the goods it was designed to carry arrived safely and entirely to its intended destination.
Dominik Rogošić swung open the heavy door with a creak and thumped down the elevated cabin in his steel-toe boots. Oddly enough, this was the only part of his uniform that he took particular care of; fresh with polish and shined to reflective sheen, they seemed almost out of place with the rest of his disheveled and wrinkly uniform and deformed cap. Boots, he reasoned, were far more utilitarian and cost far more than the rest of his uniform combined. They deserved to be taken care of appropriately.
He walked to the back of the truck and unlocked the almost comically-large padlock at the center of the double doors that adorned the rear of the vehicle, yanking hard on the handle to get the heavy doors to budge.
“Ahhh, thank God,” another man groaned in relief from the inside, poking his head out, “I was beginning to worry that you’d forgotten about me, Dom.”
“With how much you complain, Karlo, I was considering the convenience of it,” Dom said nonchalantly. To anyone else, it would have seemed cold, rude, or downright malicious, but Dom never showed any expression on his face, and Karlo knew this, and so merely laughed as he hopped down.
“The smell of brand-new money was starting to get to my head,” Karlo continued, “I probably would’ve started to eat it.”
Dom reached underneath the floor of the truck from the outside and pulled hard to release and guide a ramp out from the much-to-high truck.
“Mhm,” Dom half-acknowledged, letting Karlo prattle on in the background of his own thoughts as he worked the dolly free and the two of them got to work bringing the brand-new currency into the bank.
Their job was an important one, Dominik wagered, but it wasn’t exactly his first choice when the dust from the civil war had settled down. Regardless, he considered the movement of money from the national bank to the regional ones - and even further from those to local and privately-owned banking institutions - especially now that the new Meterran currency was instituted. It was a much-needed revival for their war-torn nation. It was a sense of returning to a normality none of them had ever known before.
The meten, as it was called, was replacing their old currency - the mou. Even after much debate in the Sabor, it was still opposed by a good portion of the population. Personally, Dominik didn’t really care all too much. If anything, what with the 2-to-1 exchange ratio from mou to meten, it just meant less clutter in his wallet. The way the detractors viewed it, however, was as an encroachment upon their rights as a sovereign nation. The changeover and adoption of the meten was heavily pushed by President Gogovič, who currently had a highly fluctuating approval rating. Gogovič wanted near-full integration into META, which would do wonders for their economy, he promised, but even if that was the case, Dominik thought that it was too much, too soon. The sudden and rapid changes that Gogovič was pushing for scared a lot of people. It was a lot of variables to measure and mete out; so many places where things could go wrong, and after centuries of war people just wanted some level ground - not more potential for instability.
Gogovič recognized this, however, and had run a presidential campaign on the platform of stability. The adoption of the meten was a part of this plan.
Still, Dominik didn’t care too much about the politics of it all. He had a job - one that didn’t involve killing people or taking pot-shots from behind rusted-out cars - and he was glad to do it so long as he got paid, no matter what currency it was so long as he could buy food and pay rent. He maneuvered one of the pallets of cash onto the dolly and carefully rolled the heavy thing down the ramp at the back of the truck and onto ground level.
“Alright, Karlo,” Dom said, not realizing he was interrupting a very riveting tale concerning Karlo’s ex-wife and her cooking, “I’m gonna take this inside. This one is scheduled for two pallets, so I’ll be back once this one is taken care of. For the love of God don’t let anyone take any.”
“Alright, alright, geez,” Karlo placated with his hands out, “That was just one time!”
“I’m serious. I’ll throw you under the bus lickity-split, but I’d rather not have to deal with the paperwork from META.”
With a scowl, he left his partner behind in the armored truck and rolled the pallet into the foyer of the bank. The security guard opened a electronically-locked door, and Dom pushed the pallet through.
“There’s one more you guys need, I’ll be back,” Dom said to the man, “Then I’ll need a signature from the manager.” The burly man merely grunted an acknowledgement at him. Dominik pulled the pallet back through the door and into the foyer, to the side of a throng of people waiting in line to be helped by one of the tellers.
With a tremendous amount of sudden force, he was thrown back through the door from whence he came, shards of shattered glass and other detritus peppering his back. It took him a moment to stop skidding across the polished marble floor, and another to gather his wits. His head was spinning, and when he looked up he could see the flaming wreckage of the armored truck and bits of paper fluttering about. The shiny-new windows at the front of the bank had been blown out, and there were a handful of people laying unmoving on the ground.
A hand gripped his upper arm and attempted to haul him to his feet. Dom looked up, confused and ready for a fight. It was the security guard. He looked like he was shouting, but Dom couldn’t hear a word the man was saying. It was then that he realized the sharp ringing in his ears. It sounded as if everything was muffled - like he was hearing the world from underwater. It was maddening; no matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t make out anything in the world, least of all what the security guard was saying.
“What?!” Dominik shouted unintentionally.
The security guard hauled him to his feet and started to bring him back out into the foyer. Dom looked back out through the shattered glass windows and saw the blue flashing lights of the police, with more pulling up and trying to get a read on the developing situation.
It was then that another explosion rocked the street, one that blew both himself and the security back, and throwing much more debris into the air. The last thing that Dominik saw after the flash was a metal spar of some variety flying directly for his face. It lasted only a fraction of a second before his world went black.
“Investigator Draganić,” a voice called out amidst the flashing of long-silenced police sirens. The 32 year-old man raised his bald head from where his eyes centered on the ground. The blasts had left significant scorch marks, wherever they didn’t leave a flat-out crater. The man approaching him was in a police uniform, holding a phone out at arms-length.
Aleksander stood, his face unreadable and passive. “Special Investigator,” he said, causing the man to halt and a look of confusion to don his features.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s Special Investigator. Not just Investigator,” Aleks clarified, pulling his nitrile gloves off and looking at the phone pointedly.
“Oh, uhm… right. Sorry, Special Investigator,” the officer clarified, if a bit half-heartedly, “It’s Director Pavao Bačić on the phone for you.”
At this, Aleksander’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Pavao Bačić? The Director of the Special Judiciary Service? That Pavao Bačić?
“Thank you,” he said as he took the phone into his hand, the calm in his voice not reflecting the slight nervousness in his voice, “Special Investigator Draganić.”
“Special Investigator,” the deep voice rang out crystal clear, “So nice to meet you, even if it has to be over the phone as of right now. I am Pavao Bačić, Director of the Special Judiciary Service.”
“Nice to meet you too, Director. I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m sure you have,” the other man chuckled, “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you.”
“One of the many things I’m currently wondering, Director,” he replied, a bit tongue-in-cheek.
“I like you, Special Investigator. I can tell we’re going to have a wonderful relationship with one another,” the other man chuckled again, “It’s in regards to some recent developments in Cerštuva - of which I’m positive you’re standing amidst this very moment.”
Aleks slowly panned his gaze around the scene of the bombing, a bit paranoid for other reasons now, but his face not betraying that emotion outwardly.
“As you might hypothesize, this is going to be a very high-profile event for our nation,” Pavao continued, “And the SJS will work with the Police to find who committed this atrocity.”
“I’m sure the culprit will be brought to justice,” Aleks said slowly, his eyes instinctually narrowing in suspicion, “But I’m also sure that this isn’t the reason the Director of the SJS contacted me directly by phone.”
More chuckles. “You would be correct in that assumption, Special Investigator. The fact of the matter is that we must discuss some very sensitive material with you. I’m aware you don’t carry a phone on your person during investigations, so my people had to get a bit creative to get a hold of you for me. Even then, there are things that we cannot discuss over the phone. And I’d like to meet you in person, how does that sound?”
“Inconvenient,” Aleks sniffed, rubbing his nose for a moment, “And like it would interfere in the very critical early stages of my investigation.”
Chuckles. “It wasn’t a request, Special Investigator. My people should be arriving to pick you up now,” Pavao declared, his voice certain, “Thank you very much for your cooperation, Special Investigator.”
The line clicked dead, and Aleks took the device away from his face to look at it in slight mild disbelief and much greater annoyance.
The SJS HQ in Cerštuva was a subdued, almost utilitarian building, set in the historic Civic District of the capitol - a district still riddled with bullet holes fresh from the civil war. Which was mostly why none of the day’s events had surprised him thus far - with the war still so fresh in everyone’s mind, the bombing was just another long-overdue explosion. The fenceline that surrounded the building was pretty standard for what he expected; topped with razor wire and the guards at the gate that greeted his driver and him held very real, very much functional weapons - brand new, from the looks of it, which they sure as shit didn’t have when they took the capitol from the royalists way back when.
When they parked in the turnabout in the front of the building, Aleks was greeted by yet another individual, one who guided him to yet another waiting room on the second floor of the building.
“Special Investigator Draganić?” the smooth twinkling of the secretary’s voice called out to him.
“Ah, uhm, yes,” he managed to get out, still suffering from whiplash at having been whisked away. It seemed like just minutes ago that he was at the scene of the bombing.
“No need to sit, the Director is waiting for you,” she smiled kindly, but Aleks couldn’t help but feel it as disingenuous, “Right this way, please.”
A large set of heavy-looking doors swung open - ones that looked like they had no business being opened by a dainty lady such as the Director’s secretary - and he was greeted with the sound of the Director’s voice raised slightly in annoyance.
