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on Sept 2, 2015 23:30:19 GMT
(Note: This RP is adapted from, and based off of the events that took place onboard Air France 8969, and is currently is a small project between Samukan and Hackleberry. If you'd like to be a part of the RP as it goes on, we may use various news sources from other nations - For now, feel free to observe!)
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Princeton International Airport - Capital District of Princeton, the Hadron Federation
4:12 P.M. Local Time “Attention. All passengers boarding AeroSamukan Flight 831 inbound for Luxia International Airport, please report to Gate 16 at Terminal C. The plane will depart in approximately 30 minutes. Please have your boarding pass ready to be checked upon arrival at the jetway. Once again: All passengers boarding AeroSamukan Flight 831 inbound for Luxia International Airport, please report to Gate 16 at Terminal C.” A female voice echoed over the intercom at Princeton International, the Hadron Federation’s biggest airport. As the message finished, the digital screens across the airport flashed the same message: * AEROSAMUKAN 831: BOARDING NOW * --- One man approached a security checkpoint in a grey-colored suit, with slicked back hair, and a clean shaven face. He silently proceeded through customs, nervously eyeing the contents of his bag as he dumped it onto the conveyor belt. The belt hummed to life as it passed through the checkpoints. All of the LEDs gently glowed a green color as the bag cleared the metal detector, and x-ray checkpoints. It was promptly spat out on the other side of the security checkpoint, where the man quickly took his bag and moved onwards. Speedily walking through the terminal, with his bag in tow, he stopped just short of the jetway, and sat down in a chair nearby. Closing his eyes, he began to speak in Samukani, praying. Once having had finished, the man looked up and composed himself, silently watching the passengers file in, smiling and chatting away. Moments later, he fixed his gaze on the jetway door and entered the line to board the plane. --- “These nonstop trips to Luxia and back are exhausting.” Captain Christopher Weston groaned while sitting in the cockpit of Flight 831. He stretched his back, and a visible crack hit him with a sigh of relief. His co-pilot, First Officer Charles Azaria, looked back at him with a smug expression. “Gonna survive the trip there, old man?" “Shut up.” Weston remarked, with an eyeroll and grin. He began flipping through the security checklist, making sure all of the plane’s hydraulics and engines were functioning without error. As per usual, the plane’s systems responded perfectly - like clockwork. After a few minutes of entering commands into the plane’s computer, he radioed Princeton Air Traffic Control. “Princeton ATC, this is AeroSamukan Flight 831, requesting ATC clearance to fly our established route from PRI Princeton International Airport northeast to LUX Luxia International Airport in Luxia, Samukan.” “AeroSamukan 831, this Princeton. Affirmative, you are cleared to fly the established route from PRI Princeton International Airport to LUX Luxia at a cruising altitude of 30,000 ft/10,000 meters.” “Thank you Princeton, we’ll report back when we’re ready to depart.” Weston reiterated into the microphone. He put it down, and looked out of the cockpit. Lake Luscerne glimmered in the distance, one of the biggest lakes in the region of Kennan. The skyline of Jura, north across the water border into the Helvetican Confederation, could be seen in the distance, as a distant shadow, as the sun reflected off of it to the west. Without any recent storm systems, the lake was as peaceful and tranquil as it could be. “You know, I've never thought to ask, but do you live around here?” Azaria asked Weston, who’d zoned out for a moment. “Yeah, I live a few miles out from here, in Newcastle. Easy enough to take the commuter rail in and out of Princeton. You?” Weston responded. “I live in Samukan; Luxia, actually. Majority of my family lives in a little town nearby the border with Swansea - the chunk of the mainland that Sandwich holds. I try to make it out there as much as possible.” Azaria said. “I know, my father’s side lives in the Helvetican Confederation, right across the lake, and one of my cousins lives over in Westminster - works at the embassy in the Hackleberry Islands. Gets me good deals on hotels there when we end up flying to Kennan International.” Weston looked off towards the Runway 5A: the runway AeroSamukan 831 was assigned to. Azaria pushed the throttles of the engine forward slightly, as the plane slowly began to glide across the tarmac to reach the end of the runway. As the plane turned several times to reach the proper position for takeoff, Flight Engineer Bernard Enfield entered the cockpit. “Morning, gentlemen! All the passengers and stewardesses are seated, and the preflight checklist has been completed. All engines are online, everything’s working like it should be.” Enfield rattled. “Captain, we good to go?” “Yep. Azaria, call ATC and ask them for clearance to depart, please.” Weston responded. Azaria gave a quick “On it!” and radioed ATC. “Princeton International, this is AeroSamukan 831, requesting permission to depart PIA on Runway 5A, of which we’re currently stationed.” "AeroSamukan 831, this is Princeton. You’re given permission to depart PIA and climb to a cruising altitude of 30,000 ft/10,000 meters.” ATC barked back. “Affirmative, AeroSamukan 831 departing Runway 5A. Have a nice day.” Azaria responded. He turned to Enfield, who began to flipping various switches that controlled the lighting and cabin fixtures. Azaria looked at Weston and remarked “We’re cleared, let’s head off.” With that news, Weston pushed the throttles forward. As the engines roared to life, the jet lurched forward, gathering speed before it launched itself into the sky, northeast towards Samukan.
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Samukan
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on Sept 5, 2015 3:11:26 GMT
Post on Sept 5, 2015 3:11:26 GMT
While his neighbor gazed out the window, the man in the gray suit was focused on the inside of the plane. He wore a new gray suit and a white dress shirt. His face was clean shaven and his hair was neatly cut. He had no smartphone, no laptop, and no book. His shined shoe tapped the floor. His fist clenched his armrest. His The plane was well air conditioned, but he was sweating.
He glanced across the aisle at a man wearing a similar suit, a similar shirt, and carrying a similar suitcase. The man was middle-aged, much older than the younger businessman. He threw a sharp glance at the businessman as if he was criticizing him.
The businessman's neighbor glanced over. The businessman turned, making eye contact. His neighbor attributed his anxiety to a fear of flying; he smiled sympathetically. The businessman managed to return a brief smile, then looked away.
He looked at the other passengers. Who were they? What were their names? How did they lead their lives? Were there criminals? Were there saints? What about families, friends, loved ones? How many were true Samukanis?
"We have reached an altitude of 30,000 feet." The businessman's thoughts were interrupted by a flight attendant over the PA. "You may now switch on your wireless devices. The screen in front of you will keep you updated with flight information, as well as movies and complimentary television."
The businessman glanced at the man across the aisle. The man, far more collected than the businessman, nodded slightly.
Taking a breath, the businessman stood up. He picked up his carry-on and walked to the bathroom. No one questioned why he needed a carry-on in the bathroom.
He stepped inside, locked the door, and placed his suitcase on the toilet seat. Opening the latch, he pulled out and attached pieces until he had a fully assembled rifle in his hands.
He took a breath.
He slammed open the door and walked down the aisle. There was a scream.
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on Sept 6, 2015 12:30:11 GMT
Screams penetrated the cabin as the grey suited man began silently running down the aisles, pointing his rifle in various directions. As he aggressively fought his way down the aisle, four other men quickly rose up from their seats. One joined the grey suited man as the two dashed towards the cockpit. One of the flight attendants managed to attract the attention of the men, immediately being beaten with the back end of a shotgun until rendered unconscious. At this point, the air marshal sprinted down the aisle of the plane. Before he could advance towards them, however, one of the men snuck up behind him, and opened fire. The air marshal, unable to even react, was thrown forwards, and hit the cabin door, bleeding profusely from his abdomen, barely alive. The grey suited man, instead of finishing the air marshal off, motioned for one of the men to disarm him. Searching his pockets, they found the entry code to the cockpit. Finally at the front of the plane, the grey suited man, almost savoring the moment, motioned for one of the other men to join him as he slowly moved towards the bolted cockpit door. The other three stood guard, guns aimed at the crowd. --- Contrasting the cabin, the cockpit remained quiet. None of the officers had any idea of the drama unfolding in the main cabin; the three of them had been discussing movies. "All I'm saying is that Spriteland Falls was a hell of a lot better than Nights on Westminster." Enfield said impassionately. "I mean, who can compete with the chase scenes in Spriteland? There were fighter jets chasing the car!" "Really? Nights was actually realistic." Weston responded, his hands on the steering column. "Captain, how is Spriteland not realistic?" Enfield whined. Azaria had been quietly entertained listening to the two of them bicker. " Spriteland was supposed to be a movie, not a Saab commercial. The fighter jets were moving at the car's speed. And I seriously doubt a fighter plane could stay airborne at 80 mph." Weston said. "But I - ahem, I, uh" Enfield tried to stammer out a response. Weston continued his spiel. "While on fire, I may add. And let's be honest, nothing ever happens in the Spriteland Isles. It's nothing except mountains, lakes, and sheep." Attempting to make a comeback, but not being able to find the correct words to do so, Enfield admitted defeat as Weston smugly sat back in his chair. Azaria, who was quietly snickering to himself, noticed the latch to the door twitching. Before he could say anything else, a large bang came from the cockpit door. The three of them looked at each other. The noise kept repeating getting louder as the door began to cave under the pressure of whatever was on the other side. After a few moments, the banging stopped. A quiet, tangible pause hit the cockpit. Neither of the three knew what exactly to do. Suddenly, the cockpit entrance code was activated. Before the crew was able to override the code, the door was kicked in, and a grey suited man entered the cockpit. He aimed his rifle at the captain, as another man entered behind him, and aimed his pistols at Enfield and Azaria. The grey suited man, rifle aimed at Weston, finally spoke in a menacing baritone. "We are the Blood of Samukan. Cooperate, captain, and nobody will be harmed."
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Samukan
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on Sept 9, 2015 2:57:08 GMT
Staring down the barrel of the rifle, Weston took a shaky breath. "All right, we will cooperate. Just don't harm the passengers."
Azaria scanned the cockpit, trying to comprehend the situation. The gray-suited man kept his rifle pointed at the captain's head. The other terrorist kept his two firearms at the first officer and engineer. Unfortunately, the second terrorist was positioned so that he kept his focus equally on Azaria and Enfield. There was no possibility of retaliating while the terrorist was distracted.
"Give me the intercom," the gray-suited man said to Weston. Keeping his eyes on the hijacker, Weston took the microphone and handed it over. The man in the gray suit almost smiled as he took the mic.
"Attention passengers," he said into the mic. "My name is Ganiss Anarei. My partners and I are members of the Blood of Samukan. For the ignorant among you, the Blood of Samukan is a society dedicated to purifying our nation's blood of foreigners and arithi*. While several of you are pure Samukani yourselves, I am afraid that you will have to make a sacrifice, as we will. I promise you, your sacrifice will not be in vain."
Note: Ganiss Anarei is pronounced "GAH-niss AHN-uh-ray." *Arithi is a term for Samukani ethnicities considered "impure" by the Blood of Samukan. I will explore Samukani ethnicities in the future.
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on Sept 14, 2015 2:10:38 GMT
Post on Sept 14, 2015 2:10:38 GMT
Fear gripped the cabin onboard AeroSamukan 831 as Anarei's deep baritone reverberated through the intercom. Several passengers began to softly cry, some looked around nervously and began to whisper to each other. Many of the passengers looked on towards the two terrorists standing silently at the front of the plane. Anarei continued on.
"Any resistance from passengers or crew will be met with force. Any outside contact from the jet is forbidden. Further more, any insubordination of any kind will be dealt with as such."
Weston looked on in shock as Anarei focused his gaze out towards the cloudless blue sky. He'd handed his rifle to another terrorist, who'd entered the cockpit and aimed at Weston. Nothing was being left to chance.
"Foreign peoples and arithi are a cancer brought upon our nation. A cancerous plague. And we are its salvation - its cure. With foreigners and arithi exterminated, Samukan will return to its glorious past. Samukan will be feared. And Samukan will once more be..."
Anarei paused.
"...perfect..."
Inside the cockpit, Anarei switched off the microphone, extended his arm, and dropped it into Weston's lap, his gaze toward the front window unmoving. The three looked on, helpless, as he silently gazed onward towards the horizon.
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Samukan
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on Sept 26, 2015 3:26:08 GMT
"...and Samukan will once more be...perfect."
The PA system clicked off. The sound of the "captain" speaking was replaced by a nervous murmuring in the cabin. Passengers turned to each other, trying to comprehend the situation they had been put in. A baby cried. Several young children repeatedly asked their parents what was going on. Business people that had been working on their laptops found their flight suddenly more pressing than their work.
A young Hacklet businesswoman tapped her foot nervously on the floor. Only a few months into her job, this was her first business trip outside of the country. She graduated college the previous year with a master's degree in international relations. Turning to her neighbor, she asked, "What's going on? Who are those guys?"
Her neighbor was a Samukani woman, only a few years older. In stark contrast to the businesswoman's attire, she wore a sweatshirt and jeans. An earbud dangled as she had taken it out when the gunmen stormed down the aisle. She responded to the businesswoman, "They're a terrorist group from Samukan. They've been on the news for some small attacks on government buildings, but nothing like a hijacking." She looked somewhat more intrigued than scared.
"What should we do?"
The Samukani woman shook her head. "Probably best to sit tight for the moment. They clearly outgun us. The Hadronians are big on flying, so Princeton's definitely got something planned for situations like this. And Samukan's been fighting against the Blood of Samukan for a long time now, so I'd bet they've got a strategy prepared." She looked at her anxious neighbor. "Don't worry, they're not crazy suicide bombers or anything. They've got a plan and it most likely involves us surviving." She hoped she sounded more confident than she was.
The Hacklet faced forward and nodded slowly, letting out a breath. "Yeah, that sounds right. Thanks." Turning back to her neighbor, she said, "Well, if we're going to be neighbors in a terrorist attack, we might as well know each other's names. I'm Ava Bristow."
The Samukani smiled. "Esra Karaki. Nice to meet you." She glanced towards the cockpit. "The Blood of Samukan have actually been operating within Samukan for centuries now -- they used to be a wandering clan before the country was united. We don't know much about their structure, but they're well organized and highly trained. They're not going to do something extreme like blow up a plane, but they always have an end goal in mind..."
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on Oct 9, 2015 0:07:40 GMT
Post on Oct 9, 2015 0:07:40 GMT
(I'll format this soon, but here's the next post.)
After a few minutes of standing in silence, Anarei exhaled, and turned to the three officers.
"I need to see any registration papers and or any forms of identification for you three."
"In the console." Enfield replied, nervously pointing at it. Out of the corner of his eye, the shotgun pointed at his head hadn't moved in over 5 minutes.
Anarei opened the console and found a Manila folder filled with official documents for AeroSamukan. The profiles of the three officers were promptly filed out of the stack. He looked at the basic information for each one:
CHRISTOPHER JAMES WESTON
POSITION: CAPTAIN
DOB: JULY 3RD, 1973
GENDER: M
STREET ADDRESS: 28 GROVE ST
SECONDARY ADD: N/A
CITY/TOWN: BRUNSWICK
NATION OF RESIDENCE: THE HADRON FEDERATION
---
CHARLES HARRISON AZARIA
POSITION: FIRST OFFICER
DOB: NOVEMBER 23RD, 1979
GENDER: M
STREET ADDRESS: 89 TRENTON ST
SECONDARY ADD: N/A
CITY/TOWN: LUXIA
NATION OF RESIDENCE: SAMUKAN
---
BERNARD THOMAS ENFIELD
POSITION: FLIGHT ENGINEER
DOB: MAY 14TH, 1987
GENDER: M
STREET ADDRESS: 211 PARK AVE
SECONDARY ADD: APARTMENT 27
CITY/TOWN: SALISBURY
NATION OF RESIDENCE: THE BAGEL LANDS
Anarei looked closely at Azaria's profile. Samukani. He dug through more papers and found more information. Sandwichian English name, family. Family from the area nearby Sandwichian held Swansea in Samukan.
Arthri.
He glared at Azaria. "Foreign filth." he menacingly muttered. Azaria, occupied with the pistol aimed at his head, managed to not hear his slur. Anarei slowly backed out of the cockpit, as the gunmen retreated to the doorway, guns aimed at the pilots.
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Samukan
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on Apr 4, 2016 20:37:41 GMT
Post on Apr 4, 2016 20:37:41 GMT
A shout rang out from the front of the cabin.
"Get down!" yelled a terrorist. Esra looked out into the hall to catch a glimpse. A man near the cockpit door struggled with the terrorist for control of his gun. Both men held tightly onto the firearm, twisting it around, trying to point it at their opponent. Esra expected there to be a gunshot, but there wasn't. She realized that the terrorist was afraid of breaching the walls and depressurizing the cabin. He was a terrorist -- crazy by definition -- but he was smart.
Another hijacker ran down from the back of the hall. "Hey!" he shouted. He stopped a few yards away, aimed his gun, and fired.
"Agh!" the struggling man cried out. He dropped to the ground, clutching his calf. Through his fingers, Esra could see blood. The first terrorist, exploiting his opponent's lapse in concentration, pistol-whipped the man. The two picked him up and shoved him into his seat, guns pointed at him.
A third hijacker walked down the hall to check with the other two. He was a few feet behind Esra's seat. The young man up front had stood a chance when fighting one-on-one, but that other terrorist tipped the balance in the other direction.
Maybe with the other two distracted... Esra thought.
She looked at Ava. "I think I'm going to do something stupid," she whispered. Ava looked at her, confused, until she saw the third terrorist down the hall. He was only a few feet away now. She tried to convince Esra with her face not to follow through with her plan, but Esra had already turned around, ready to spring.
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