Thread: a national dialogue [ft. xanaphia & november]

Did Urbina know what he was losing, everything he was giving up? Sastre slammed a fist into the old man's liver. Urbina wasn't here, he was in much more pleasant circumstances, and so Sastre had to make do with what he had. This is all our fault. He waved a finger, and the finger passed over all three of the men that were in the room with you. You wanted me to compromise. A national dialogue. New advisors, economic... what was it? Economic modernization. He snapped a couple of times, like his memory was firing on some fresh synapse. That hasn't helped. Instead Urbina smelled blood in the water. Tanks driving down the capital unopposed, that's what your dialogue got me. One of the men shrugged his shoulders. Your father trusted him, your father thought he was a reasonable man. That was the problem. Too reasonable. Too compromising. Too ready to sell him out, sell the country out. Sastre wrapped a hand around the old man's throat, pulling him off his feet for a half second before dragging him on his tip toes. Well. We've got lots of his old friends down here, underneath the palace. I don't see any need to leave them here for him. What about this fuck . He didn't remember the man's face, but he knew the name. He'd read the dossier. There were still loyal men in San Marcos. We have to let him go. We don't have time. Let him come down here and fucking kill me, the old milky-eyed fuck. We need to go. We don't know how much of the military supports you. He's already taken over both television stations proclaiming himself the new President. Our line to Russia's cut. Sastre chucked the old man to the ground, smoothly making his way to behind his desk and finding a machete with a soft gold handle. Urbina really had a thing for you, old man. He closed the distance, wiping strands of black hair away from his head as his expression hardened. So why not leave him a gift? The man started to say something - something about how he could still be useful, but by then he was already on top of him, burying the machete into his skull. Whatever bargaining instincts were left died out there, and the man tried to scramble away, but Antonio Sastre had always been a thick, burly man, and fast for his height. He grabbed him by the hair and slashed at his back, marveling at how much blood flew up in clean lines in response to his strikes. The man was still howling by the time he hacked into the neck, but the second or third wide, sweeping blow quieted him. He let out a wordless, authoritative roar at the downed man, faintly aware of how unhinged he looked. But damn, even an old man in handcuffs felt like a victory tonight. And he needed those. The blood was pooling down at his shoes. He sighed and tossed the machete to the ground. I wanna kill all the prisoners we got down there. The Russians will be interested in some of them. The Americans - I don't want to hear about the fucking Americans tonight. It's best to leave all of them alone. He just scowled and walked over to the closet, looking for his blue military jacket. He needed to dress formally, look like the man that was still in charge, because who knew where he'd need to go tonight. He looked at the handful of medals on his chest. Not a gaudy array like his father had, hero of the revolution and all that... but he'd earned each of them. And that was something. We'll talk about it later. Where is she? On her way to the airport at Caudra. We're already talking to the government of - I don't mean my wife.