Cearbhall Lynch

It was a deal with the devil that had brought Cearbhall* here.

As the Pacific sun cut it’s way into the dark of the ship’s hold, the obviously-English guard made sure to jostle Cearbhall a few extra times as he loosed the restraints and escorted him to the front of the boat. He didn’t know if the guard knew he was Sinn Fein**, but everything in his demeanor seemed to indicate disgust.

Ceara*** had been opposed to this mission from the start. “They want us to what??”
“The Brits want a deal. To fight terrorists, you need to think like a terrorist. They enlist our help to root out Al-Qaeda, we get Eire**** at last.”
“And Saran bought these lies?”
“So has your father.”
“And you…?”
Cearbhall had wrestled then, as he did now with the memory. “I follow orders…”
“#@$% your orders, Cearbhall! What about us? What about our future? What if I really am pregnant? What then?”
His stomach was in his throat as he mouthed the words all over again.
“There is something going on here bigger than us. I want our child to grow up in a free Eire, don’t you? We have a chance to realize our dream, and without violence! Ain’t that worth anything we can give? Even us?”
“And if your child has no father…..”
Cearbhall gathered her up in his arms. “I promise you, I’m coming home from this. Not even the devil himself could keep me from coming back to you.”

How he longed to hear her voice for real, as he made his way onto the beach. Even though she was his handler for this mission, radio was out of the question until he made his contact, or found some other means of reaching her. Smuggling anything in himself would have been impossible, even with the resources of Sinn Fein and the Brits. But supposedly, one of the guards would have a comm for him. It was just a matter of time.

He knew his first move. Find assets, and from an initial survey of the prospects, it looked like he had his work cut out for him. Then a movement up the hill caught his eye. An Asian man was surveying the landing with great interest, his eyes reading every newcomer as they disembarked. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds, but it was all Cearbhall needed. He had found his first asset.



*Pronounced "KYAR ull"-the Gaelic form of Charles.
**Pronounced "shin fain", another name for the Irish Republican Army
***Pronounced "KYAR a"
**** The IRA’s chief goal is an independent Ireland.

Darius Jensen

Darius had only two questions.

The first was, "Why did I get caught?" It was not that he was one of those cocky, Pink Panther/Jade Fox kind of thieves who leave their calling card and signature style every where they go, and wonder later how the police knew it was them. Darius had no such pride. He was a master thief, schooled by masters, who made a living by not attracting attention, and would rather be in and out of a house, leaving no indication that it had been struck (except, of course, for the missing items), and certainly nothing to make you suspect it was the same person who hit your neighbor's house six months ago. Indeed, if Darius had a major flaw, it was that he loathed any kind of attention whatsoever. He would rather just live life on the sly, moving from one job to the next, and never make a blip on anyone’s radar. Not an easy business to do so in, but Darius had a gift for going unnoticed.

Or so he had thought.

No, it wasn't any kind of pride that raised the question. He knew that every thief runs the risk of getting caught. Occupational hazard. What he couldn't understand is why he had been caught on this particular job. There was nothing to indicate that this house even had an anti-intrusion system. It was just a routine house invasion, occupants supposedly out of town. Just something to pay the bills, nothing fancy. And even though the blueprints for the house were obstinately hard to find, nothing about them suggested that it was more that a typical pre-fab kind of place, identical to every other house on the block. Yet, when he made his exit through the back window, he found himself staring down the barrels of three .45s, in the capable hands of three Agent Smith look-a-likes, with no room to run. There weren't any lights on in the neighborhood, he had never made a sound, and he had never even heard any cars pull up. And yet, here they were.

The second question, however, was much more pressing at the moment. "Why am I here?" This was not a deep, philosophical kind of “Why am I here?” But it was one worth pondering nonetheless. Why would he, with only a single B&E to his name (officially) be on a transport ship bound for heaven only knows where? Even if they did realize the number of heists he could count to his record, none of these were high profile enough to warrant this about of fuss. There wasn't even a trial, so much as an appointment with a judge, and a few nights in a high-security facility. So why was he here? Where is here? What was it about this last job that had landed him in so much trouble?

He heard the ship's engine's reverse, and felt the inertial weight against his restraints. Whatever the reason, he was about to get a glimpse of his new home.

Intro

Date: July 1st, 2005.
Location: a small island in the South Pacific
Time: Dawn

It has been over 50 years since the end of the last World War, but the international community continues to struggle to agree on almost every issue they discuss. Almost.

Although they do not reveal it to the media, a coalition of over 100 countries and nation/states has secretly been meeting to discuss how to deal with the severely deviant individuals who violate local, national, and international law. In the wake of the September 11th, 2001 attacks on the United States, the world began to look at effective and equitable ways to deal with these individuals who engage in heinous criminal acts. One of their solutions was to create a series of "International Penal Territories". Officially known as IPT1, the first of these territories was set up in early 2004 on a small island in the South Pacific Ocean. It has come to gain many names from the various countries that use the island as a final destination for their least wanted citizens. Although it covers only slightly less than 500 acres, the island is considered ideal due to its remote location and varied landscape. The inhabitants live under the constant watchful eyes of the five warships that constantly circle the island, each on loan from the military of a different country.

A mere 18 months after its creation, a colony has developed on the island; a small community whose citizens must live together in order to survive, even though trust is an asset not easily earned. People from all walks of life in the four corners of the world have come to this place, each with their own assorted background and motives. Some are here simply because they've shown an inability to cohabitate with their fellow citizens. Some actually traveled here with an agenda. Some are highly brilliant, while others know only the most primal urges to destroy whatever is good in other people's lives. Some have heard a wake up call, a beacon to a new life, a chance to begin fresh. Others are simply biding their time, waiting and watching for an opportunity to resume their old ways.

Life on IPT1 is always changing, and with the arrival of each pontoon boat on the first day of each month, the face of the island is changed forever.

July 1st, 2005. Dawn.