The man had a brown coat, and a blue beret. Wrapped up so tightly in a grey scarf, it was hard to decipher what was being said half the time.
"Show me." He asked in bizarre accent. Seldom were Americans seen in Oceania - considering all air transport had been entirely halted.
"Show what?" Confusion spread across his mostly shielded face, as they moved through the inside of the bizarre complex. Another tight set of halls.
The inquiry was met with a grunt, as the American made to come face to face with him. "Your ID." His gloved hand outstretched, pointing to the palm.
A small piece of plastic was retrieved - hastily put into the palm of the man.
STATE ISSUED CITIZEN CARD.
VALID UNTIL: MONTH OF THE GREAT LEADER, 2035
CITIZEN IGN (IDENTIFICATION GENERIC NAME): Portable Juice
CITIZEN ID NUMBER: 8411
Juice adjusted his coat, nervously waiting for his card to be returned. As the well dressed man inspected the piece for far too long, perspiration began to grow on his brow. "I've got a note-" He blurted out finally, retrieving the crumpled paper from his coat. "I was told to come." The words were only met by silence, and a risen brow. Juice continued on: "It pertains to the death of The Soviet! I've information, about- about his death."
This elicited a response. The New Jersey man - Juice had finally been able to pin the accent - rose his hand. And began to usher the pair into a room adjacent.
The room was sort of shabby, a hastily put together thing. Planks of wood, with exposed insulation. Though that was a feat in itself, to have insulation. Even if the offwhite asbestos was quite an unfortunate sight to behold. In the centre of the room, just below a swinging lightbulb. One that flickered on and off, a burly man sat. Bearded, and with a rather dull beanie.
"Chac. Good to see you found our guest." He began, leaning back on his chair - to rest a set of boots on the table. "Do take a seat, Portable Juice." Juice awkwardly waltzed into the room, taking a seat just opposite to the imposing figure. At his side, the newly named man - Chac - sat. "I believe you have something for us?" A dusty blonde brow rose, the mans distinctly Irish accent peaking through his words.
"I do- I do." He mumbled, awkwardly opening his coat to reveal a manila binder. "You- ah. Sir.."
"Moss." The irishman interjected
"Mister Moss - as you know, recently.. one of the biggest anti-Stellarian journalists was found dead." The sight of the body flashed his mind, a rather mangled case. "I work for the Police you see. Detective branch. Found something on him, just before his body was sent off to be incinerated." The folder was placed onto the table, and opened shortly thereafter. A journal, and loose documents spilling out and onto the table. "It's a letter, a list of names." Moss took hold of the paper, flicking his gaze over the words. "A list of deadmen - his own name is on it."
"But it doesn't end there," Moss handed the document to Chac, who read over it - the man quickly rising, and leaving the room with it in tow. "He predicted his own death?"
"I think so - and he's predicting more. It doesn't end there, I've done some checking - and all the names after his, they're all still alive."
"Not for long, I wouldn't say." The two agreed on this notion, as Moss came to stand.
"Bosnia thanks you for this, Juice. You've risked a lot, and it'll be worth it. We can come together, and track down the names listed. You're free to go." But Juice shook his head,
"I came for another reason, Mister Moss. - I've been reading about Bosnia, The Soviet mentioned it quite often... I..- I wish to join."
