Dead Men Tell No Tales

Dead Men Tell No Tales
Chapter 1
Part 1


Cryopolis, Cretauria


“Police Unit one closing in,” hissed a soft voice from across the street. The two men, both dressed in identical Black jumpsuits with a sleek black overcoat around them armed themselves only with sunglasses and walked around the corner. The man, their target, didn’t even see them until it was too late. The second man, slightly taller than his partner, pulled out a small metal box with a gray button on it. Suddenly, it began to dissemble itself in his hands and became a small handgun, which by now was pointed at the civilian. The first of the two flipped out another box, but this one transformed into a pair of futuristic handcuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the second man said, ending the civilian’s rights to that. The man they were arresting, ‘Antonio’ according to a small name printed on a front of his equally imposing grey trench coat, just smirked.
“You do realize it should not be a crime to walk down the street?” He asked, his voice only hinting at his Portuguese background.
The first man, who wasn’t quite as distracted with pointing a gun at Antonio, reached into the man’s pocket and pulled things out.
A third police officer, dressed in the same guise as the first two, came around the corner next to Antonio with an assault rifle.
Without introductions, he muttered into a radio hooked onto his shoulder, “We got ‘im.” The second police nodded, still pulling things from Antonio’s pocket. Three gold coins, each with the face of the President on them, a cell phone, a pack of gum…. He switched to the other pocket, feeling around inside. With a confused look, he pulled a length of red ribbon. The first officer with the handgun grunted, as if to tell the 2nd officer to pull more. After a few tugs, a foot of blue ribbon appeared, then yellow, then green, then back to red. It repeated for another minute, until Antonio, his hands up, facing towards the officers while pressed against a shiny silver building started laughing. The first policeman stopped pulling as a still continuing pile of ribbon fell to the ground. Angered, the second policeman pushed the first aside and pulled open Antonio’s jacket viciously, ducking just in time. Two doves, white speckled with grey, flew out and disappeared over a top of a building.
“What the….?” The third policeman ripped his radio off its Velcro strap, about to speak into, but he paused. Antonio was flipping his left hand back and forth.
“What do you think you’re doing,” asked the second policeman sternly.
Antonio just shrugged, an elaborate movement of his shoulders, and a fan of cards appeared. He pulled one out, showing it to the police. It had small red text written on it, and they had to lean in to read it.
There’s a man with a knife behind you.
All three turned around simultaneously as Antonio folded the card and a small scalpel fell out. With a quick swing, all three guards fell, the back of their necks bleeding.
Chuckling as several sirens flashed from down the street, Antonio walked away, quickly disappeared into the falling night.


The Inspector, a man much like the police but without the scars and imposing stance of the City’s forces, bent over to look at the bodies.
“What do ya’ t’ink, Inspectah?” asked Morris, his assistant who had been born in The Ire Republic of Scott. The Inspector slowly got up, wiping his hand on his brown coat, stepping away from the scene of the police men. Both the armed police had been mugged apparently, having most of their gear stripped from them. It wasn’t the first case like this. The Inspector, one of the heads of the Department of Cryopolis Security thought, along with Lt. Bradely, that a rebel named “Antonio” was the cause of this. Every time they sent a police squad to find him, THIS happened. As a look of concern swept over his smooth face, and his dark haired eyebrows furrowed, the Inspector spoke.
“Find Antonio. Kill him, on site.” he added harshly. Morris nodded and went back to the Inspector’s car, already pulling out his phone.

Above, on an old clock tower, in fact the oldest building in the country, stood a lone figure, dressed in red and white garb, flicking a switchblade every so often, at a hypnotic pace. The bell swung once, and he disappeared, as an eagle flew past the tower, letting out a shrill noise.
And the Capital of the Nation of the World fell silent, but for the sirens fading through the spotless streets.

Chapter 1
Part 2


Cryopolis, Cretauria

Antonio stepped into the cold and reflective streets of Cryopolis.
Many of the tall, silver buildings had strips of windows every couple of floors, and could see a handful of men in a rainbow of suits, arguing. One of them, dressed in a deep green blazer, reminded Antonio of his father, a man who not long ago had led "Los Liberadoras" through their first years. Unforunately, someone had found a warehouse he had been raiding, and there was a brutal shoot-out. The Sixty-One year old man who had been once so full of life fell at the hands of this brutal empire they lived in.
Making a sharp turn around a puddle on the sidewalk, Antonio held his trench coat tight to protect himself from the cold. It was always cold in Cryopolis.
Being off the coast of what used to be Greenland, the warmer areas of the country were down south, in the Fields of Gi, while Cryopolis and the other major cities were in the bitter cold northern reigons. Antonio looks over his shoulder, but saw no one following. It was an instinct. Instincts had kept him alive for 34 years.
Slowly, he pulled out what looked like an iPhone, clicked the screen twice, and started to put it up to his ear, checking once more to look around the deserted street.
When he looked up at the almost identical silver skyscrapers, he saw a soft glow appear from the building on the right of him. Moving like a Raptor, he dodged around a corner while his phone started to make a buzzing sound. Antonio spoke harshly in spanish to the person he called.
"Arkan, nos reuniremos en el parque. " he whispered in a cold tone.
"Pero, por supuesto. Con Mei Ling, a las siete y media?" was his reply.
"Si."
He pressed a red button on the screen, and his phone went quiet.


On the other line, Arkan grimly put his own phone down and left the room, his cloak whipping behind him.
Quietly changing into his red and white traditional assassin costume, Arkan attatched a special gauntlet onto his left arm, jogging out of the warehouse he had been waiting in. If there was a CAF (Centarian Armed Forces) most wanted list, he would be number 2, only below his brother Antonio. Arkan was an a miracle, constantly testing his limits. He was a skilled acrobat and athletic genius, gifted with many useful tactics for being a Liberadora. Firstly, he was into parkour. He could jump buildings and gaps all day if needed. Secondly, he blended in and had a smooth, surprisingly normal face a first glance, but if you looked closer, you would see the icy blue eyes hidden behind his hood. Those eyes were the last thing several important government figures had seen, and for several bypassers on the street who got to close, they had been haunted by the eyes ever since. As Arkan climbed the fire ladder onto the top of the warehouse, he looked back. Not far away, he saw a small--ARMED--group on the corner of Fitch and Willow street. Grinning, Arkan was a white, red, and brown flash as he leaped from building to building, in the cramped warehousing district of Cryopolis. As he got closer, he could see the group clearly now. Three cops with assault rifles and a Military Agent.
That's new, he thought, not exactly disappointed by the news. Usually, the extremely well trained army stayed in the various bases around of the world, or in training camps in the lower half of the country. Arkan quietly climbed down from the roof he was on, into an open window and waded through the various stacked boxes. He soon reached a metal staircase, and maneuvered down it like a cheetah.
Now that he was on the bottom floor of the warehouse, he could see the armed group outside.
They seemed to be enjoying a standard amy ration pack meal.

Last Supper, thought Arkan grimly.
He quickly ran out the door.