The epitome of success, Ambrosius Sidorov had it all.
Money, though didn't need it.
Power, though it bored him.
A lavish penthouse in downtown Chicago.
And the most powerful Throne.
That is, up until the fateful night when his siblings were murdered...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Central Siberia
It had been five hours since Ambrosius and his entourage had left the train station. His father had left a dark feeling brewing in the darkest corners of his mind; and he knew his father had been up to something, but he didn’t know what exactly. Project Inferno was back on the table, the Crowned Prince of England had been shot and both his murder and the President’a was being broadcast all over international news networks. It was a tactic his father was utilizing in order to ensure that all puppet heads of state stayed in line. Submission through fear.
Nikolai was reminding all the governments who was really in control; but he would only need to do that if he was losing power. Something was definitely going on. Ambrosius’ suspicions had caused him to choose this specific route which they had taken to Vladivostok. The Graveyard Line. It had been christened as such given that it was the route that led to the Sidorov Prison. Any prisoner of either the Administration or the Sidorovs that attempted to escape the train was never prevented from doing so. Once they did they were overwhelmed by the hell that awaited them in the Siberian wasteland. A cold. Bitter. Winter.
Patrols would be deployed to retrieve the remains of the deceased or prolong the suffering until the point of death, therefore allowing the time of passing to be recorded and logged. Nikolai’s tally stood at an even 500 at the moment, the largest of any Sidorov in the past century. Red crosses marked the vast countryside, a grim reminder of the events that transpired in these barren fields. They served as sobering landmarks, denoting the final resting place of these poor souls. Little did they know that the cold of Russia would be the closest they would ever get to Heaven before reaching Hell in the afterlife. Ignorance truly was bliss after all.
The nearest cities were more than seventeen miles away from either side of the tracks. A two-lane asphalt road separated both the east and west bound tracks from each other, allowing maintenance vehicles to service the vast expanse of the Intercontinental class railway, but other than that, it didn’t serve much of a significant purpose. It was utilized five times at the most throughout the entirety of the year, mostly during the summer months. There was no chance of survival for anyone who dared venture past the confines of the train, unless they were Sidorovs, that is.
As seemed to be the norm lately, the bodyguards admired the interior of the train cabin as they sped through the Siberian wasteland at more than 400 miles an hour. Much like the plane ride, the exterior rush of wind was muted by the insulation and soundproofing technologies. Seats were made of the standard, burgundy shaded, alligator leather; granting the user an unparalleled level of comfort with their lie-flat capabilities. The servants indulged the assistants and guards alike with the dinner options, which seemed to top the explicit luxury of the service they had received on the plane.
The train began accelerating as it neared the bottom of a fairly steep hill. The vast forest around them vanished into a desolate tundra, devoid of humans and even the wildest of animals. Mountains stretched from either side of the horizon and seemed to almost integrate with the night sky, given that they only cast a gentle silhouette. Gravity worked its magic and pinned everyone tightly to their leather seats. James remained standing in a corner of the executive booth, overseeing everyone with utter indignation. His master was quick to catch on to his attitude.
