Post by The Nomadic People of Deep Web on Feb 7, 2014 18:46:09 GMT
Amid the bustling streets of Tripoli, a tall man in a grey suit and dark glasses maneuvered through the masses. He took a quick left down an alley and paused. As the street-walkers passed behind him he scanned for a door with the graffiti reading "Takyon". Down a short flight of stairs he saw it. He descended and entered the small dingy basement. In the center of the room on a leaning, dusty table there was a phone. He put the phone to his ear and punched in the number.
"I'm in your area....", he uttered the agreed upon passcode, and the series of events that would plunge his nation into civil war began.
"Then the militias have agreed to the terms?....."
"Send the communiques to our potential sponsors." he returned the phone to its receiver, exited the building, and began to walk.
"All we need is the proper tools..." he muttered to himself as he turned down an alley and fumbled for his cigarettes. He needed to get in touch with the more subtle members of his growing web of connections. And soon. He knew it wasn't smart to rely upon his outreach to the more intrusive nations.
"I'm in your area....", he uttered the agreed upon passcode, and the series of events that would plunge his nation into civil war began.
"Then the militias have agreed to the terms?....."
"Send the communiques to our potential sponsors." he returned the phone to its receiver, exited the building, and began to walk.
"All we need is the proper tools..." he muttered to himself as he turned down an alley and fumbled for his cigarettes. He needed to get in touch with the more subtle members of his growing web of connections. And soon. He knew it wasn't smart to rely upon his outreach to the more intrusive nations.
