LazarusBoard

Kazakov always enjoyed a change in scenery. From the effectual aesthetic and environmental disaster of the FRCP to the gentle countrysides and townhouses of Northern westwald and now the hills and forests of Ashoy, it seemed to be a dream come true-- to finally escape the confines of his somewhat disagreeable homeland. And, as Wassily Kazakov knew, he escaped from his homeland in more ways than just physically.

He had migrated himself and his accounts out of the Federal Republic before it turned into a burning trash heap, saving himself and his future. From his present position, aided by some other important figures in the company, he could coordinate the finances of his business as well as its expansion across the globe without the oversight of its own government. He had already purchased some land abroad in several countries, from Burikinia to Northern Rosary Isles, to restart production as well as turn in a profit while the assets in the Federal Republic were temporarily . . . unavailable.

Currently, he was biding his time in Ashoy-- a country which was rather amicable to WURCo. and its subsidiaries due to a rather large deal regarding military assets (including some prototype aircraft). WURCo. was not thankless-- Wassily had made a promise as he liasoned with government officials investigating his arrival to give them a significant discount in the future, however low or high he deems fit in the future. In return, they left him more or less alone, despite the controversy he might or had yet to bring with him for continuing arms manufacturing abroad while his homeland collapsed.

The small office space he had temporarily rented out was a single-story complex with sterile white walls, a chaotic carpet pattern of greys, reds, and blacks, and a local secretary to take calls whom Kazakov had overseen the furnishing of the office with. Kazakov himself stood in one of the few enclosed offices, insulated and quarantined from the rest of the workspace by large glass panels covered with shutters.

In his hand he held a transcript from one of his depots in New Krasnoyarsk-- normally, these things were dealt with by his inferiors, but given its importance, they had decided to pass it up the line. The transcript read,

. . . . . . . . . . . . . 
DEPOT 32 CHECKING IN
. . . . . . . . . . . . 
POSSESSION OF ASSETS NO LONGER TENABLE
GOVERNMENT FORCES POSED TO OVERRUN POSITION
POSSIBLE COST: 198,000,000 CB
LOSS OF ASSET-723 POSSIBLE
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
REQUEST FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS

Kazakov rustled the paper, scrutinizing its text further. It was a message from a seemingly small warehouse in the semi-urban areas surrounding New Krasnoyarsk; one he had almost forgotten about, but was now up for a rude awakening because of what this meant.

Someone had stumbled into the general guards he had set up in FRCP-based WURCo. properties. He had done it originally simply to keep the rabble of the populace from arming themselves, as well as prevent raiding from either of the warring factions of WURCo.’s assets while he slowly relocated his property, equipment, and employees across the eastern border or shipped them out south. Clearly, their jig was up. One of the sides in the civil war (whoever was in control of New Krasnoyarsk, he wasn’t up to date) was made aware of WURCo’s noncompliance and had put his assets in risk; so it was time to step out from the shadows. Or so it seemed-- but upon reflection, Kazakov believed that there was another course of action, or rather, inaction, that would benefit him.

If the company ever stepped out of the shadows, it would most certainly mean consequences and reprimands once one side won. I must ensure that not only can I continue to operate-- but I must put up a facade to draw away any unwanted blame.

But how do I detach the clearly labeled and organized operations of WURCo. from what I am doing abroad?

He couldn’t claim ignorance when profits could probably be traced back to him, he couldn’t claim to be taking a sabbatical from his work, because his company was still making sales under his direction abroad-- but if he were creative . . .

Wassily could push any blame unto Morshun. Orest Morshun, an ambitious employee about his age whom he had placed in command of the operations in the now war-torn FRCP. However, his command was a secretive one because he was already employed in the Cossack Border Patrol in a prominent position. Morshun had been nothing but a loyal and productive employee, and had done well in his precarious position through the war-- it would break Kazakov’s heart to make him the scapegoat if he had one.

That detail settled, Kazakov thought forward-- they had only found one property, but the chance that similar facilities in urban areas could be similarly overwhelmed was too high. Kazakov noted down on a nearby pad of paper to withdraw from any irrelevant facilities that weren’t rural or hidden away-- thankfully, the important testing and prototype ranges and depots, which represented millions upon millions of bills in investments, were situated in the wilderness between the northern coasts and the Zaporozhian Cordillera.

Kazakov looked back upon the transcript-- its plea for further instruction was far too late, he knew. Meanwhile, his eyes hovered over Asset-723 for a moment before breaking his thoughts to search for a catalog in order to remind himself-- scanning the lists, he left his finger sit underneath the description.

The loss of Asset-723 would be a pain in the rear-- although only a prototype for aerodynamic purposes, it represented evidence of one of the few classified programs WURCo. had been entrusted with during the South Seas War; a program which was intended to win the war, and which WURCo. now rushed to complete in order to provide a clear advantage to whichver side they deemed more cooperative to their interests. But in the end, that was always what Asset-723 was-- an aerodynamic model in a box. The real product, which was undergoing testing in those isolated prototype ranges and depots, went by a very different name and had far more substance than the hollow prototype.

But no matter- it was safe, alongside the dozens of months of research and design that spanned across the filiing cabinets and digital spreadsheets of the now safely-stowed WURCo. international operations.

As Kazakov sat in a reverie, submerged in thought about the future, he was interrupted by one of his aides cracking open the door.

“Sir, your three-o’clock.”

Kazakov jumped out of his chair and checked his watch-- it was only 2:30, but it was good that the aide reminded him. He was meeting with some Ashoyians regarding purchasing some additional land for development purposes-- real estate being one of the many functions Wassily envisioned his company performing in the future; and after all, it didn’t hurt to diversify their income.