Escape from Remnant

Chapter 21.1: The Die Is Cast

"This is VNN mid day news with Walter Cronkite White, for months now the white fang has launched a ever persistent campaign and fear throughout the city of Vale. Dust stores of all kind left right and center of all kind has been robbed, broken, burgalized, and violated all without a single finger print on the money." A slight pause came in the reporter's broadcast, the camera switched over to him walking into frame in front of a dust store that had been broken into. Another man presumed to be the owner of the ruined store already standing in front looking distressed.

"Here we have another victim of this endless evil crusade for dust, every store broken into had their stockpile of dust stolen no matter the kind without discrimination. To my right is Mr Folkmar, the owner of this store. Unfortunately he speaks western Valeian only but a translator will be translating the conversation between us so Mr Folkmar I understand your 91 years old?"

The man standing next to Walter Cronkite is old and frail, his hair having been greyed long ago and his face full of wrinkles. But yet he still stands unaffected by his advanced age on his 2 feet hands behind his back confidently.

"Ja wier, ik bin." He responds, the translator off screen telling the reporter he has confirmed his age.

"And have you seen anything like this before?" Again the translator follows up translating the question into west valeian for Mr Folkmar.

"nee, ik haw it net, ik bin hjir al mear as 40 jier yn myn winkel en ik haw noch noait sa'n ding sjoen."

"And why do you believe that these string of robberies keep on happening?"

"goed immen docht har wurk net op it plysjeburo! Wêrom soe dit oars trochgean sa lang as it hat?"

"Well...that seems to be-" the television shuts off to the disgruntlement of the police officers in the break room watching, the man who had done such a despicable act with his arms on his waist.

"This is getting out of fucking hand..." Lieutenant Straken mutters half burnt cigarette in his hand still lit, he looked to be tired as if he had not gotten any sleep grinding through work.

"The public is already crucifying us, mass media is on our asses...soon the vale council and military police will get involved..." He paces back and fourth thinking of a solution, anything, that raid and arrest of Junior resulted in nothing! Torchwick cut ties with Junior right before his arrest meaning those deaths of those officers that went in were for nothing not to mention the massive mess those men from beacon left behind. Dozens upon dozens of dead including Mystral citizens, the paperwork was a painful affair.

"Sir, we've tried everything but these new goons are the real deal, so far we've had a mirage of suspects of who Roman is working with now, half the people say its the white fang while the other half point to a dozen more suspects." One of the detectives stand up to highlight the near sisyphus level situation they were in.

"Your only investigating right?" Straken gets a idea, they were only investigating the robberies, not actively preventing and arresting them. "Then inform all units, I want officers outside every dust store in the city! I want more patrols! More personal! I will have a talk with the chief and any other high ranking personnel about this."

"You do realise that a giant shipment of dust is coming in right?" Another detective chimes in, she pulls out a folder containing the copy of the details of the SDC shipment's details coming in. It was the mother of all dust loads, a big one and surprisingly unguarded at first sight. It was a guaranteed hit for the whatever force looking to rob the dust shipments.

"However robbing these places are bound to target the shipment if bold enough...we would need every hand on deck for a ambush. I'll...make some calls..."

At a certain academy it was a Friday night, the group was in their dorm room having settled into life on remnant. They were now comfortable having escaped tarkov back with all the modern necessities the men were stripped of in Tarkov had now returned with some even some more technologically advanced amenities. Moron, Akula, Floridaman, all of them were black out drunk knocked out slumped over against the table. Only Texas remained smoking a cigar bouncing his leg up and down pushing the front half of his foot horizontally repeatedly puffs of smoke not affecting the men.

The clock was nearly ticking towards midnight slowly, minute by minute, second by second, it felt slower even though time passed as normal. Reason why he wasn't blacked out drunk like his buddies was because there wasn't enough alcohol to go around and the Russians were heavy drinkers being able to take more alcohol than the others. So he sat there thinking about life, wondering what's was going to come next. Akula was a raider yet was not a monster, he possessed the ability to kill and murder but was bipolar enough to not want to a lot, the real mystery was how he got along so damn well with a bunch of mercenaries that have probably killed his comrades.

His phone rang, the loud american old country song being played not awaking the blacked out men. He picks up the phone, the number unfamiliar but the voice familiar.

"Hello Texas. Its the police again, same reward th