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Ableham

Voice of the Lion: Finale ((Open))

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It was the noon when Jon Ableham woke. Usually he was an early riser, however… the night previous had taken its toll. He wished he could have chalked it all up to a terrible, terrible dream last night. Rising from his bed finally, he would move to the cabinet near the window, of which he could see across the lake to the cemetery.

He raised his brow as he grabbed a bottle of Bourbon. Normally he didn’t drink, but the urge was brought along from the Living Nightmare of the night; the guilt of his part in what was likely happening to Miss Davies right now. And seeing a crowd from where they were, it only enhanced the urge. The five lifeless, limp, blue-ish now he suspected due to the toxin… corpses were already stripped of their armor, all they would see as hints besides the bodies were the slight scrapes in the dirt from his Master and his Victim’s fight… and the looser soil of the graves.

“… We must clean away the traces of our Operations.”

“...contact our allies. You will tell them it is time. And then you will carry out the final phase. Independently.”

He could still hear the order’s echoing through his head. Taking the Bourbon and a glass, he sighed. He had work to do. Pouring himself a glass, he would sip on it. So much work to do. Feeling the burn of the alcohol running down his throat, he eagerly drank more. Today… today was going to be a long day. A very long day. Sighing, he would go to his Gnomish Typewriter; another gift from his Master for serving so well these past few months. He had many letters to write, and they had to be done. Today.

Today was going to be a very long day indeed:

Micael!

This is for Your Eyes Only...

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Horatio would frown as he looked over the reports from the stockades, Paper after paper on executions; at a more rapid rate than normal. What the Fel was going on…? Next to him was a Magistrate, who normally handled this kind of thing.

“Janice Meyers. Prisoner Number 5556721. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“Sir…”

“Ronald Fryer. Prisoner Number 5556725. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“Sir… How lon—“

“James Thomas. Prisoner Number 5556726, Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“Sir how long is this going to take?”

Horatio would look at the man as he picked up a file, before starting again, “Liam McFarland. Prisoner 5556729. Defias Terrorist. Execution Approved by Micael Goerin.”

“That doesn’t answer the question!”

“Ray Marks. Prisoner Number 5556730. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“You Insolent little…!” The Magistrate stormed off.

Horatio would notice this, of course. And would love to sigh in relief that he could work without being hassled; Except, this made things trickier… legally he couldn’t be doing this anymore, without the magistrate’s supervision. But he would just claim he didn’t know, slap on the wrist at worst if they could catch these terrorists. “Donald Dunes. Prisoner Number 5556732. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

In would come in Bassett, who seemed looked back where the Magistrate had stormed off to. “Lieutenant Laine? You know that the Magistrate left the room right…?” Sergeant Basset seemed worried, though… one could easily see the loss of Murphy had taxed him deeply, even the way he carried himself…

“I know. David McCloud. Prisoner Number 5556733. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“Then… why the hell are you in here?”

Horatio would look up once, “Leonard Miles. Prisoner Number 5556734. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“Look… “

“James Miles. Prisoner Number 5556735. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“…Really? All these by Special Agent Goerin?”

“Not all. Most of them, all from this week. Michael Reeds. Prisoner Number 5556737. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

“This is… a bit off. I know the kid’s been taking it rough, but he’s a good kid. Don’t care what that Ableham fellow wrote about him. Do… do you really think he approved all these? Does he even have that authority?”

Horatio Laine would sigh, before setting the next file down, “I don’t, but I intend to find out. Here, you continue sorting these out.”

“Bu—“

“Fine, I’ll get the magistrate for you.”

And as Lieutenant Horatio Laine walked out of the room, Basset would sit down where the other man had left off. Murmuring to himself, “Prisoner Number 5556740. Defias Terrorist. Execution Approved by Micael Goerin.” And then it struck him… Laine hadn’t even cracked one of his bad puns… The case must be really wearing on him too. Wonder if Murphy’s death hit him as hard as it did Me….

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Slowly Micael Goerin opened his eyes. He needed to get to work... Reaching down he grabbed the new, thick chain armor he wore under his clothing, a layer of unseen protection from all enemies of the Alliance. Reaching over he grabbed the things he always carried with him. His keys, his fathers Gnomish Army Knife, his identification, a watch, his radio,some money... He shoved them into the deep pockets of his pants. Something was different about today. As he strapped on his heavy boots, using leather strips to tie a 6 inch blade to his ankle, he looked outside. Something just seemed off... Slowly he reached for the final thing he needed. His badge, shining and gold, had a single black piece of material running across it. Looking at it, any one who had been in the field knew what it was. It was a sign one of your own had been killed. SI:7 was having a pretty deadly month. As he put the badge firmly on his belt, next to the sword he didn't remember putting on, he sighed. Today was going to suck, he knew it.

Locking the door to his place, the young man realized there was a note for him. It was from Ableham, the reporter. They had their ups and downs, but Goerin knew that the relationship was valuable. Reading it, the young man paled. Son of a.... Shoving the letter into his pocket, he took off at a sprint. In one motion he drew his sword and his badge, charging through the bustling streets like a bat out of hell.

"SI:7! OUT OF THE WAY! I SAID MOVE!"

He knew were Ableham lived. He had looked up everything he could on the man before giving him his interview. Sheathing his sword, he held his badge out, the tiny 4 inch shield parting the sea of people in front of him. There was Ableham's house. He banged hard on the door, resolving himself to breaking it down if the man didn't answer in three seconds. How the hell was he supposed to make this decision? Knocking again hard, he looked up at the window and bellowed to the sky for the reporter to open up. Taking a breath, the Paladin drew his sword, eyes locked on the barrier. The SI:7 operative took a step back, ready to smash through the door. This was it, there was no more time to waste. He knew enough of the truth, and every second the reporter didn't answer was another potential life lost.

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The Tavern was quiet, Jon was sitting at a table with his son. What the occasion was? He had no idea.

“Father… I’m joining the war in Northrend.”

This caught the elder man by surprise, as he drank his mead he would gasp at the same time, causing him to cough, “What?!”

“I’m going to join in on the fighting against the Scourge, I’ve been talking to the recruiter and—“

“No!”

“No? Dad, you don’t have control over my life. I’m twenty years old!”

“It’s too dangerous, they don’t Need lumber jacks, they’re going to want you on the front lines. And I need you for the harvest.

“So be it! Arthas needs to pay for what he did to Lordaeron, and be stopped before he does the same thing to us!”

“Leave it to Stromwind, we’re in Southshore. They have no jurisdiction here.”

“I’m going. Like it or not… We’re leaving tomorrow.” Jon watched in horror as the boy got up and marched out.

“I Forbid it Junior! I Forbid it!” Jon rose to his feet, trying to chase after his son, “Junior! JUNIOR!”

The memory would be interrupted by the pounding downstairs on the door of the Printing Press Factory he resided above. Who could want him right now? Setting his almost emptied glass down, he would slowly walk down the steps, trying to make what alcohol he drank obvious he would come down, peering through a window at Special Agent Goerin with a confused look, giving him a ‘one moment’ point before rushing to the door, opening it enough to see and talk to the man, not wanting to invite him into his home while he had his weapon drawn.

The Bourbon would be able to be detected on his breath as he asked, “May I help you, Agent Goerin?” His voice was relatively kind, though he could hear the worry in his tone. He had obviously not expecting company. As he eyed the weapon he would then motion at his blade, “And what’s that for?”

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The reporter would be able to live a thousand and one years without ever having to deal with Micael Goerin like this. Indeed, Micael had no intention of hurting the reporter. Not yet at least. Silently he sheathed his sword, took a measured step, and forced his entire weight into the door. The Paladin wasn't the size of a bear, but he had more than enough force to move the door out of his way, as well as the man behind it. Forcing his way in, Goerin turned one hundred and eighty degrees and shut the door. Looking at Ableham silently for a moment, he slowly moved his hand. From his waist, to the hilt of his weapon... Then, after a tense second, to his pocket to remove the note. Showing it to Ableham, the young man stepped forward. His fury was impossible to measure. Putting himself directly in Ableham's personal space was all he could do short of attacking the man. His green eyes burned with a fiery rage that intensified as he spoke.

"Yes, Jon, you may help me. I'm sure you remember the letter you sent to me this morning? Well see, I'm starting to figure things out here. Things like that the Defias organization doesn't extend as far north as Southshore. Things like the fact you seem to get information at the same pace, even sometimes before SI:7. The fact that SI:7 didn't have any indicators that the Defias organization was even involved before you spoke to me. Or, the one I should have realized earliest, is the fact that you seem to really hate the Alliance, or, at least Stormwind in the way its currently being run. The note gave me personally an ultimatum. Not the kingdom. Not the king. Not even SI:7. Me."

Micael's fists tightened into balls. This man was the reason he had missed so many nights of sleep. The reason Nika was missing...

"So yes, Mr. Ableham, there is something you can do. Tell me everything you know about Nika Davies's disappearance, everything about these attacks and everything you know about this letter. I'M NOT ASKING. We both know you're hiding something from me and you have been the entire time. And now you're going to talk."

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As he put his blade away, Jon seemed a little more relieved… that is, until he forced entry into Jon’s home. “Wh-what in Light’s name are you doing!?” He’d ask in alarm, unable to keep the young man from forcing his way in. Looking around, Ableham was sure he had some weapons for self defense. This man WAS trespassing now after all. And then the getting in his face, Jon would take a few steps back, alarm rising even still.

“First of all, you’re trespassing.” Jon growled, very much unlike his normal demeanor at that. “This is a Direct violation of my rights, and I have every cause to shoot you. So keep your accusations Out Of My Home!”

Sighing as he moved to get past Micael, he would motion him to follow. “But tell you what, you want information? Fine. Follow me up to my living quarters where we can get comfortable. Just… watch your temper, you’re either a Guest… had you ASKED. Or a criminal; be civil and we’ll overlook your trespassing, eh?”

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Damn right Micael was trespassing. He was also very aware that this was probably the only way he could keep the people safe. Following the reporter up the stairs, Micael didn't let his eyes leave the man. He KNEW something was up. He felt it in every part of his body, from his head to his chest. Despite his aura of calamity, he was scared. The mark of a good soldier was that they were brave. And as he learned, bravery wasn't the lack of fear. Contrary to poets, it wasn't even the will to over come it. Bravery was in your lies. You lied to your men by not showing fear. They thought that if you weren't scared they shouldn't be either. His mind was racing. Would Ableham shoot him? He doubted the man could use a weapon. Even if he could, Micael could surely disarm him in a heartbeat. Despite forcing his silence, he walked calmly until Ableham's final comment entered his ears.

"...you’re either a Guest… had you ASKED. Or a criminal; be civil and we’ll overlook your trespassing, eh?”

Laughing to himself, Micael couldn't help but give a smart ass retort: "Help me and maybe we'll overlook your treason... Now we're upstairs, talk." He had no time for games, no time to waste. He knew that in a matter of hours the next attack could very well happen. He also knew that he was going to see what he could do about stopping it... Or would he? The ultimatum clung, and Goerin know he only had one chance to make the decision. He just hoped it was the right one.

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“Treason?” Jon laughed. “Treason you say? Did you forget who delivered the news to you?” He sighed as he motioned to his attic home. “This is where I stay, already opened some Bourbon, you’re welcome to some of it if you’d like.”

Here, Ableham treated the Agent as if he was a guest, despite his rude remark. That to him, was strike one. After going to his typewriter for the bottle and glass he’d move to the table, “Have a seat…”

Then he would hum thoughtfully to himself as he poured more alcohol into the glass. “Her disappearance? Well, you Know what I know… except for what I saw last night. Not sure if it were her or not, but I heard a woman scream. ‘Don’t’. Why? I have not a clue, but judging by the investigation going on across the lake; it seems there were a few murders. I’ve seen Five body bags. Also, seeing as the letter…” Jon would motion to the one on the table, “…The one I have right here, was addressed to you… I’d assume you have something they want?” He would blink at the Agent for a moment, “…Were their any other suspects, Agent Goerin? Someone these kidnappers might want?”

And from there Ableham would start talking about the poem he had received. “I know very little about the letter. Though, I could share speculation with you? It’s a poem, meaning they’re toying with you. They believe themselves to have the upper hand, which… seeing as you’re trespassing, almost alienating a friend in the media… I can see their point. I find it a little disturbing what lines they have there… I’m not a fan of the Worgen, I know… but Innocents dying too?” Ableham would frown, “And if they’re not above that, or Varian’s Pride and they’ve targeted You? Well… I’d be worried about my well being too.”

For a moment Jon would be quiet, taking a sip of his drink, thinking… swallowing, then would talk again, “…What if they’re using me as a red herring? I mean, they sent ME the letter. I had suspected it was because they either wanted me to post this, or they knew I had contact with you… But, what did you do? You came Straight After Me. You threatened me instead of trying to ask me… Wonder if that’s the plan?”

And with another sip, Jon wouldn’t smile… instead, he would potray a look of concern, as if he wondering if he had unwittingly set himself in a trap by this mysterious group…

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Lieutenant Horatio Laine would walk through the offices, not seeming to care about the looks of confusion. All the Lieutenant cared about was confirming what his file had in it… or denying it. Either way… something was wrong.

As he approached the small cubical that had Agent Micael Goerin labeled upon it, he would frown at the lack of the man he had to see. He looked around for any signs of the man, until finally stopped.

“Lieutenant Laine, anything I can do to help you?” An agent would ask the man who had wandered for at least the last twenty minutes.

“Yes, I’m looking for Special Agent Micael Goerin. Have you seen him?”

“No sir, I don’t think he’s come in today. Should I see about contacting him?”

“No need… I’ll wait.” And with that, Horatio would return to the man’s small cubical, sitting in his chair. As the minutes passed, he would pick up a picture of the man’s family. Two older people, his parents he assumed… Micael, and two others around the same age. “I do hope your kid’s innocent… for your sake.”

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Micael frowned. He knew in his heart that Ableham was lying... He just couldn't prove it. Slowly he resigned himself to cooperating. "There's nothing I have... I guess they can want my stuff, but its all pretty mundane. Hell, I'd rather them come after me than the city. I'm just one man... And other than Nika and Angela DeRossi, we have nothing. They're both gone too, so really its pointless to ask for them back. They probably sprung them. I don't know what happened last night, I assume its related for now... Plus, using you as a red herring isn't in their game plan. They've realized when I catch onto something I hold it, and by logic I win the fight. As for the line about the Worgen... Holy crap... I know what their target it... Or at least what they want me to think the target it... The Cathedral district holds the most children because of the orphanage... It also is where a lot of people live. The bit about the Worgen... Worgen have the Worgen Curse... They'd go to the Cathedral for comfort..."

Micael was up now, so fast that he overturned the chair he had sat in. Grabbing a piece of paper, he quickly drew a crude map of the city. In their tiny territories, he made notes, such as the best way to bomb it, how to bomb it, and more. Finally he sat back and frowned.

"The three districts where they'd do the most damage casualty wise are the Cathedral District, the Trade District, and Old Town. For symbolic damage, this gets widened to every part of the city. The Dwarven District would damage Stormwinds relationship with Ironforge. It also has a lot of dust... Trade District would cripple the economy... Fuck, Ableham, where would you attack if you had to?"

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“Where would I attack if I were them?” He asked, eyeing the man for a moment trying to figure out if that was another accusation or not, “Hm… let’s look at the facts; I think if they’re bombing… it’d have to be Old Town or the Trade District. The Cathedral is all stone.”

“For Casualties, I agree in either the Cathedral District or the Trade District… Though don’t forget the Docks either. We have a lot of travelers coming and going, a lot of goods. The Cathedral, you’re right… a lot of children, the poor and unfortunate. And well, the trade would have a high population.

And then what would hinder Stormwind the most? Well, look at the targets so far? Guards, Ships, Docks, Soldiers; They don’t seem very concerned with politics besides Varain’s rule. I’m not sure ruining relationships with the Dwarves is that much of their interest, if it was… I think they’d have attacked Gnomes, Elves, Dwarves and those… what are they called? The blue people? Dreaniis, was it?”

“Scary job, you got there…” As he continued to sip his alcohol, Jon would sigh as he thought things over. "Do you think it's the Defias Brotherhood?"

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Micael pulled out his watch. He had six hours until sunset. Slowly the young SI:7 agent swallowed. He didn't know... Could the Defias infiltrate them so well...? After a long moment he shook his head. "The Defias are a bunch of crooks, but this level of sophistication is above them. What worries me is the option they gave me... I can't find these assholes alone, but if I tip off my guys they'll kill Nika..."

Slowly the young man closed his eyes, letting the thoughts in his head flow rapidly. He couldn't keep up...

This is your choice and your choice alone,

For if you tip anyone off?

She’ll be as dead as stone!

...Nika... Where are you? What would you tell me to do here?

We make our next move after the sun has set

So it’s the Girl or your Duty.

So it’s the Girl or your Duty.

The Cathedral would cause a lot of shrapnel...

Stone causes shrapnel... They were stone masons...

Opening his eyes, Micael locked them on Jon Ableham. "We need to warn the city. Nika wouldn't want me to let hundreds of people die just to save her. I think they're going to attack the Palace and Trade District. The Palace would be the biggest show of force. Its Varian Wynn's house... Nika is going to have to fend for herself right now. Like I said, the citizens need to be warned, and we need to marshal a serious defensive force... Whats the best way of going about this...?" Slowly he closed his eyes again, picturing Nika just after she hit him in the face with that snowball... She was so happy...

I'm so sorry, Nika... I know you'll be alright... Light forgive me for the sins I'm about to commit to protect these people...

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Kirana sat just outside Northshire Abbey, a gentle rain falling from the sky above. "Nikaa... Where are you, my friend?" She whispered softly, under her breath. Her most recent trips into Stormwind City, had been rather fruitless to say the least. Everywhere she turned, looking for any information on Nikaa, she was met with nothing but pure hatred for the girl, who she saw as a family member to her, or in most cases, a daughter to her. "Dammit all... Where are you, Nikaa?!" She bowed her head slightly, as the skies above her, opened up even more so, then they were before, with a loud crack of thunder, followed shortly by a blinding flash of lighting, as the rain picked up, and viciously pelted her body. She however payed no attention to this, and slowly stood up. Her face was well hidden, by the cowl she wore, and only a few strands of rick, dark brown hair, peeked out from underneath it. "Nikaa, if I ever find you again, remind me, never to let you out of my sight, ever again." She muttered softly, under her breath, as she walked down the path, that led out of the Abbey, and into the surrounding forest. After taking only a few steps she paused briefly, looking up at the dark sky, above her. "Nikaa, may the Light protect you, wherever you are, my friend." She then started walking again, this time with a quicker pace then before. As she walked away, she muttered something about, finding a certain reporter under her breath, as if she hoped, that the reporter could hopefully, provide at least a little bit of information on Nikaa.

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Jon nodded at Micael as if he understood; from there he rose to his feet. “Then we need to be sure to not use exact phrases.”

Taking his glass, Jon would walk over to his Gnomish Typewriter. “What do you want it to say?” He asked as he started to set up the machine, placing paper in it, setting the font, and applying the ink cartridge.

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Micael laughed. The humorless laugh that could only be achieved at this point by the Agent driven to the point of break neck insanity. "We can just publish the original note at this point. Jon, they expect me to go after Nika. They expect my to play with them, because they have power right now and I dont. But guess what? I'm not playing. I'm going to find them, and I am going to kill them. Even if I went to where they specified that I'd find Nika, they'd probably only give me her body. We need to get an alert out. A real alert. People need to know the same thing SI:7 needs to know; in..." The young man checked his watch again. "In six hours and fifty seven minutes, there is going to be a terrorist attack SOMEWHERE in the nation of Stormwind unless we stop them. And how are we going to stop them? They've been perfect up until this point. All of our leads on Angela DeRossi were dry. Her dad might have worked for SI:7 at one point, but there is no files on him. Who ever is doing this is controlling the Defias, they've infiltrated the Guard, although we have no idea where, and they might have even infiltrated SI:7. So that being said, publish the note. Just leave out the bit about how to find her... Here..."

With that, Micael Goerin crossed out key parts of the letter. The stuff the public wouldn't need to know, because it didn't pertain to their safety. "Publish that, and give me your copy of the note. I don't want people running off to get into trouble. Whats our next move though?" The last question was only half rhetorical. Could he really go through with this plan?

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Jon would quickly type up the threat they had received, before his brow furrowed. “Micael… Are you SURE that’s a good idea? All this will do is cause more panic… seems like we’d just be playing into their hands. I just want you to realize this, and then make an informed decision before deciding this course of action.

As for the note? Take it. What do I need it for? Do you really think Nika is dead? And… what is Our next move? Not a clue. I was going to drink and reminisce… Doubt that’s something you’re interested in at the moment.”

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After a moment of looking at the type writer, Micael nodded. Leaning past Ableham, he banged out the part letter the would have the reporter print. Satisfied it was ONLY what the citizens needed to know, he handed the copy to the man, before making one for himself.

Looking at the copy he nodded slowly before handing it to Jon Ableham. Grabbing the two letters that had the original threat, he removed the small piece of leather covering his swords hand guard, so it was easily ready in case of... In case he needed it. Gathering his thoughts, he looked at Ableham calmly. "The people are going to panic. We can't expect them not to. However, SI:7 has a good relationship with the Guard. We should be able to avoid anything too big, and I'm going to have the Guards lock the city down best they can. Don't distribute the copies for an hour or two... Buy me some time and all..." As he turned to leave he looked back at the man before giving some last advice; "Jon... If you have a weapon... Keep it with you."

And with that he was off. Running to SI:7, and hopefully, to save the city. He knew he was being tailed by the terrorists. The letter said as much. There was nothing he could do about it, the streets were too busy, and wherever they were, they were probably either working in teams, or working invisible. As he sprinted over the bridge he checked his watch again. In about six and a half hours, the city would be destroyed or saved based on his decisions.

It was a heavy burden.

Flashing his badge, he ran into SI:7. He just needed to get a file from his desk before going to... What the hell? Looking at the man sitting at his tiny desk, Micael frowned, and asked one question.

"Who the heck are you...?"

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Putting down the picture finally, Horatio would turn to look at Micael.

“Special Agent Micael Goerin? My name is Lieutenant Horatio Laine. We need to talk.” He would make a motion with two fingers, and two guards would approach them both. “We can either do this here where everyone can hear us, or we can go the Magistrate’s offices where we have evidence of your approval of an alarming amount of executions.”

Rising to his feet, he would remove set his fingers to his glasses. “We’ve heard good things about you, kid. Even if this is bit… fishy, we’re going to give you a chance to explain. If you’ll follow us, please. Thank you.”

From there, Horatio would try to get him to follow as the marched to the Magistrate’s offices. Something… just didn’t add up.

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Jon followed Micael to the door, letting him out, nodding and then locking the door behind him. He didn’t want to be disturbed any further.

Looking about the room, he realized he would have to warm up the machines before anything else. Sighing, he’d turn them on before going back upstairs, through the trap door and back to the Typewriter, looking over the paper once more…

The following letter was addressed to Special Agent Micael Goerin of SI:7. Parts of the letter, including information pertaining to Nika Davies, were censored by authorities.

Addressed to our Favorite Agent:

CENSORED BY SI:7

Streets will run red,

Man, woman, child and Worgen,

Their blood will be shed.

Kin will protect Kin.

Ashes to Ashes,

Dust to Dust,

A storm brews,

This is the first gust.

SI:7 will deliver updates to the citizens of Stormwind by way of town criers. All citizens are asked not to panic. Be alert. Be aware.

Sighing, he didn’t enjoy censorship. He understood, but it still burned him a bit as a reporter. But… at least he had ensure his Master’s plan had worked. They were under Micael’s skin, and Nika was secured for what his Master had planned. And now for another letter:

Cuergo and the rest of the Redblade Corsairs,

Within an hour or so a threat to the public will be released…

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Micael was rock solid for a moment. He didn't even have the authority to request executions. At least not on record... Slowly he stepped back. His heart was racing. Every bit of adrenaline he had was flowing like a river. Mack had trained him as an operative, and as such, all he could think about was the fact his cover, although he wasn't even undercover, had been blown. It was all he could do not to try and take the Guards and run. Slowly he looked at one of the Guards. The tension was thick. Then, in a heart beat he drew his sword and... Handed it to the Guard. He was being investigated for suspicion of executing what he assumed was a lot of people. Nodding to the Lieutenant, he knew he was in deep water. The best he could do was try and end this quickly. Silently he began following. He checked his watch. If this wasn't over in 20 minutes, he would give the man the letters and have him handle the crisis... That, or he'd handle it himself by any means needed.

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As Micael drew his blade, not only did the guards draw their own… not only did Horatio Laine move into his suite to get something… the offices seemed to do the same. For whom? No one could be sure… nor would they find out. As he handed them his weapon, it seemed as if everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

As he cooperated, the Lieutenant would nod in approval. And as they continued their walk towards the Stockades, he would start to talk. “I’m sorry to take you from your work, Agent Goerin. However, we need to know why you authorized Fourty Six executions in a week,,, that was just how many I found.” His voice sounded almost uncertain as he looked about as they neared the Stockades. “Honestly… I didn’t even know you had this ability to do so.”

If unhindered, they would march inside the building and up a flight of stairs that was normally off limits to all but the Magistrates that ran this division, going up into the office there would be another SI:7 – CSI division officer at the Magistrate’s desk. Of which, the man would be murmuring, “Marcus Miles. Prisioner Number 5556777. Defias Terrorist. Execution approved by Micael Goerin.”

As he said such, this file would be set among a rather impressive stack. Seems they had found a lot of them, and have been working on this tirelessly for some time. “As you see Agent Goerin, there’s a lot of paper work we’ve been going through….”

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Micael nodded, appreciating their efforts. "Its like you said, I don't even have the authority to authorize executions. I don't even have the authority to formally request executions. If I did have the authorization, I would certainly not have fourty six people killed, especially people who could be possibly linked to these attacks, killed. Hell, I wouldn't put it past these people to have infiltrated the city to the point where they can authorize it..." The Agent walked over to the stack of folders, picking one up. Flipping it open, he read the file quickly to find his signature. The paperwork was perfect. The best nail in his career, or better yet his credibility's, coffin. It was excellent, except for one thing. That wasn't his signature. Frowning, he opened another file. It was the same signature. All of them had the same false signature. He looked rather confused. "Lieutenant, these aren't signed by me... Also, they're all signed in the same color ink. I use different ink when I'm using a work document, at least for internal ones like this... You say they were all Defias? Where are the bodies then?"

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“Sixty six.” Basset corrected, “Total is Sixty six…” he sighed in weary exasperation. It seemed this investigation had taken its toll on these men as well…

“I suspected as much. Understand the reason you were brought here was to ensure we had the privacy to talk about this. The implications are… well, horrifying.” Horatio watched as Micael would look through the file. “Clever, Goerin.” He replied to the ink comment.

Basset would take another file, “Sixty Seven. And if you look at the last page… every one of them states they’re cremated. We also suspect this is part of their plot… though, to do what? We have no idea. We just… know something big is bound to happen, with…” Looking at another file, “Sixty Eight defies supposedly executed in your name within a week…”

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Micael nodded slowly before pulling out a copy of the censored note, one that contained the threatening part. He handed it wordlessly over to Laine, motioning for a Guard to give him his weapon back. Sixty-something members of an insurgency that had been defying the Stormwind regime for years... Slowly he looked down, following the the invisible trail in his mind. "So we have sixty-something possible insurgents active in the city. Holy crap... Where the hell are they living?" With that he suddenly frowned. "I heard five bodies were recovered this morning, have your CSI guys identified them? If they're Defias, I think we know how Nika Davies and Angela DeRossi got out... Regardless, this doesn't feel like Defias. This is really sophisticated. It isn't just random bombings anymore. This is a full scale infiltration. We'd never know who they are..." He looked horrified at the thought.

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Horatio would look over the note, his facial expression changed between confusion and fear. “Nika Davies… The Harbor Bomber? You mean… they sprung the Harbor Bomber?!”

Basset would give a look of terror for a moment, before beating it back… “Couldn’t tell you. Don’t even know how they got snuck out without being noticed. Right under the Magistrate’s noses at that.”

At the next question, Horatio would sober his face some… “Well, they’re normal guards; As far as we can tell between the aftereffects of this particular poison. However, this is where it gets strange: They’ve been dead for over 48 hours… But Rebie claims there are tears where someone’s been excising… more recent than that their time of death.”

Basset would grunt, “That it is… looks like Miss VanCleef found herself a brain. A cunning one at that, getting sick of being two or three steps behind during the entire case.” Grumbling he’d set down file.

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