A bolt of lightning flew across the air and into the ground like a missile, rain pouring down into the otherwise quiet night. The sheer sound of the thunder made even Gods envy the murmurs it produced, the tears it caused young children to shed; mixing in with the raindrops outside their warm homes. Tears especially notable from Bruce Whitley's two year old daughter, perhaps in a mixture of confusion with her father leaving for the first time and the unusual noises that rose from the storm's very belly.
"Must you go tonight," Bruce's wife, Jenna whispered into his ear in a way only a true lover could. The words gently wrapping themselves around his already confused and saddened mind. "Why are they sending you in this weather?" She began to sound far more impatient than she had a moment before. It wasn't the first time Bruce was called off to some foreign land to make last-moment treaty talks, but it was the first time his superiors refused to give him an extra day due to personal circumstances.
Bruce, a man who stood 5'7 with a surprisingly dominating, muscular build and a soft spoken voice that did not match the brown-haired man's body stopped idly packing his shaving kit and turned to his wife. "You know I don't have a say in what they tell me to do. They say to go somewhere and ready both a paycheck and a plane. I take that paycheck, board that plane and do my business. At the end of the day, or the week, or the month, or however long those I am paid to visit feel to keep me, I return home and wait for the next call. I do it for you, Jenna. I do it for our beautiful daughter, and I do it for my country."
"I know that, but just," Jenna sighed, losing her focus as their daughter Monique let out another frantic cry when the thunder and lightning came crashing down. "But what?" Bruce asked, "I would love to stay home tonight, but I can't. I have to go." And as if fate was listening, a sudden and loud knock came against their oak door. Rain continued to beat against the windows, setting a sorrowful tone in a very sorrowful scene. "I'll get the door." Jenna said, barely keeping tears in her eyes from flowing across her pale skinned face.
Bruce rapidly finished packing his bags and ran a final check of everything he needed for the trip. From his laptop to paperwork to toiletries and clothes, he made sure everything he needed was in his bag. He knew that he probably forgot something, but at least he had the basics to both work and survive. Slinging his electronics bag over his right shoulder and dragging his luggage bag slightly behind him, he quickly made his way towards the entrance of his house. Two men, both wearing formal black suits but overall not very dominating in appearance, were standing outside the door. The shorter of the two held an umbrella in his hand, and behind both a black sedan was visible.
If one couldn't differentiate between the real world and fantasy, one could swear to be in a Film noir with the sheer amount of black clothing and black vehicles that the government of the Imperial Republic preferred to use in official settings. The taller of the two men had a small stack of papers in his left hand, greedily staring at it in between moments of darting his eyes between his partner and Whitley. "Mr. Whitley?" He called out, getting a short response back from Bruce. "It is time to go, say your goodbyes and follow us."
Bruce did as he was told, almost like an obedient dog. He kissed his wife and his daughter, who seemed considerably less shocked about the weather than she had a while before. "I love you both!" He called out as he stepped out of his home and into the cool, wet night air following the two men into the unknown future. After getting into the bleak and plain sedan, the stack of papers the taller of the two agents was holding was rapidly stuffed into his hands. The front page was anything but formal, with handwriting scribbled across blank spaces as obvious reminders of simple things about Bruce.
The second page through the fourth were much more formal. Each page contained different information, all hastily compiled, about the Commonwealth of Sovreberg. It wasn't very clear why Bruce was to visit the country until he got to the final page of the miniature fact book of the seemingly obscure nation. It seemed to want to be a neutral party in national affairs and wanted at least one foreign nation to recognize that claim. Why they had intentionally chosen the Imperial Republic as the first nation to officially recognize them was conveniently censored, redacted, and otherwise forgotten to history to Bruce's eyes.
What followed until the flight was over was largely a blur, moving so fast he could barely keep up with the pace of his handlers. The plane, once again one of the countless and nameless planes used to shuffle delegates to and from foreign lands looked similar to other private planes on the interior and on the exterior to practically every other civilian plane in the air force of the Imperial Republic. White painted hulls, painted with a thinning blue stripe from tail to nose and bearing the official looking text on the side that proudly stated "The Imperial Republic of Cyrupe."
Interiors were largely the same as other planes he had been on before with the standardized light gray carpeting, leather furniture and large dependence on technology to display information such as location, weather, and any declassified information he may have needed during the flight. In that secretive world of dealing with foreign countries though, barely anything could be considered declassified. Taking a seat towards the rear of the plane, conveniently located near the galley, Bruce picked up a random magazine from a fairly large pile and began the long wait to arrive in Sovreberg.
The plane taxied to the runway after a brief wait, obviously gaining clearance from the air traffic controller and having other, less important flights shuffled around the airport's departure list to expedite the government's plane. Mechanical whines, shuddering and all other minute things Bruce absolutely despised took place in the following few minutes as the plane rolled down the runway and gained a break from the confines of gravity. Bruce generally hated flying, and the feelings of takeoff and landing did not encourage him to take up a pilot as a side career.
The hours, minutes, and seconds passed by at a pace even a snail would consider painfully slow to him. The weather had thankfully cleared up substantially once the aircraft had passed the cloud layer, but the rough events of takeoff did not provide him comfort as the last drops of water whisked away from the windows of the plane. Night turned to day finally, and after what felt like days of being stuck in a flying tin can, the pilot had finally made an announcement that it was soon to land.
Bruce watched out the window as the distance between him and the land below became shorter and shorter. Before he even knew it, it seemed like the runway of the airport was in sight. It looked different than the airports he was familiar with back home, it wasn't gigantic and monolithic, nor did it look well worn. It was smaller, perhaps an early indication of the fact Sovreberg was a much smaller country than the Imperial Republic or the majority of the nations it made contact with.
The plane touched down, hitting the earth in as gentle of a manner such a heavy mechanical beast could. It didn't kill him, and it certainly didn't feel like it damaged the aircraft, so it was what Bruce considered a decent landing. Having once had a bad experience in the nation of Reformed Britannia, Bruce had always been nervous about landings and, if he looked hard enough, probably could have traced his initial fear of flying back to that day. None of that mattered to him after he was whisked off the plane and once more entered a blur. All that was truly left for him to do was to wait for whomever Sovreberg had sent to pick the Cyrupean delegate up.
"Must you go tonight," Bruce's wife, Jenna whispered into his ear in a way only a true lover could. The words gently wrapping themselves around his already confused and saddened mind. "Why are they sending you in this weather?" She began to sound far more impatient than she had a moment before. It wasn't the first time Bruce was called off to some foreign land to make last-moment treaty talks, but it was the first time his superiors refused to give him an extra day due to personal circumstances.
Bruce, a man who stood 5'7 with a surprisingly dominating, muscular build and a soft spoken voice that did not match the brown-haired man's body stopped idly packing his shaving kit and turned to his wife. "You know I don't have a say in what they tell me to do. They say to go somewhere and ready both a paycheck and a plane. I take that paycheck, board that plane and do my business. At the end of the day, or the week, or the month, or however long those I am paid to visit feel to keep me, I return home and wait for the next call. I do it for you, Jenna. I do it for our beautiful daughter, and I do it for my country."
"I know that, but just," Jenna sighed, losing her focus as their daughter Monique let out another frantic cry when the thunder and lightning came crashing down. "But what?" Bruce asked, "I would love to stay home tonight, but I can't. I have to go." And as if fate was listening, a sudden and loud knock came against their oak door. Rain continued to beat against the windows, setting a sorrowful tone in a very sorrowful scene. "I'll get the door." Jenna said, barely keeping tears in her eyes from flowing across her pale skinned face.
Bruce rapidly finished packing his bags and ran a final check of everything he needed for the trip. From his laptop to paperwork to toiletries and clothes, he made sure everything he needed was in his bag. He knew that he probably forgot something, but at least he had the basics to both work and survive. Slinging his electronics bag over his right shoulder and dragging his luggage bag slightly behind him, he quickly made his way towards the entrance of his house. Two men, both wearing formal black suits but overall not very dominating in appearance, were standing outside the door. The shorter of the two held an umbrella in his hand, and behind both a black sedan was visible.
If one couldn't differentiate between the real world and fantasy, one could swear to be in a Film noir with the sheer amount of black clothing and black vehicles that the government of the Imperial Republic preferred to use in official settings. The taller of the two men had a small stack of papers in his left hand, greedily staring at it in between moments of darting his eyes between his partner and Whitley. "Mr. Whitley?" He called out, getting a short response back from Bruce. "It is time to go, say your goodbyes and follow us."
Bruce did as he was told, almost like an obedient dog. He kissed his wife and his daughter, who seemed considerably less shocked about the weather than she had a while before. "I love you both!" He called out as he stepped out of his home and into the cool, wet night air following the two men into the unknown future. After getting into the bleak and plain sedan, the stack of papers the taller of the two agents was holding was rapidly stuffed into his hands. The front page was anything but formal, with handwriting scribbled across blank spaces as obvious reminders of simple things about Bruce.
The second page through the fourth were much more formal. Each page contained different information, all hastily compiled, about the Commonwealth of Sovreberg. It wasn't very clear why Bruce was to visit the country until he got to the final page of the miniature fact book of the seemingly obscure nation. It seemed to want to be a neutral party in national affairs and wanted at least one foreign nation to recognize that claim. Why they had intentionally chosen the Imperial Republic as the first nation to officially recognize them was conveniently censored, redacted, and otherwise forgotten to history to Bruce's eyes.
What followed until the flight was over was largely a blur, moving so fast he could barely keep up with the pace of his handlers. The plane, once again one of the countless and nameless planes used to shuffle delegates to and from foreign lands looked similar to other private planes on the interior and on the exterior to practically every other civilian plane in the air force of the Imperial Republic. White painted hulls, painted with a thinning blue stripe from tail to nose and bearing the official looking text on the side that proudly stated "The Imperial Republic of Cyrupe."
Interiors were largely the same as other planes he had been on before with the standardized light gray carpeting, leather furniture and large dependence on technology to display information such as location, weather, and any declassified information he may have needed during the flight. In that secretive world of dealing with foreign countries though, barely anything could be considered declassified. Taking a seat towards the rear of the plane, conveniently located near the galley, Bruce picked up a random magazine from a fairly large pile and began the long wait to arrive in Sovreberg.
The plane taxied to the runway after a brief wait, obviously gaining clearance from the air traffic controller and having other, less important flights shuffled around the airport's departure list to expedite the government's plane. Mechanical whines, shuddering and all other minute things Bruce absolutely despised took place in the following few minutes as the plane rolled down the runway and gained a break from the confines of gravity. Bruce generally hated flying, and the feelings of takeoff and landing did not encourage him to take up a pilot as a side career.
The hours, minutes, and seconds passed by at a pace even a snail would consider painfully slow to him. The weather had thankfully cleared up substantially once the aircraft had passed the cloud layer, but the rough events of takeoff did not provide him comfort as the last drops of water whisked away from the windows of the plane. Night turned to day finally, and after what felt like days of being stuck in a flying tin can, the pilot had finally made an announcement that it was soon to land.
Bruce watched out the window as the distance between him and the land below became shorter and shorter. Before he even knew it, it seemed like the runway of the airport was in sight. It looked different than the airports he was familiar with back home, it wasn't gigantic and monolithic, nor did it look well worn. It was smaller, perhaps an early indication of the fact Sovreberg was a much smaller country than the Imperial Republic or the majority of the nations it made contact with.
The plane touched down, hitting the earth in as gentle of a manner such a heavy mechanical beast could. It didn't kill him, and it certainly didn't feel like it damaged the aircraft, so it was what Bruce considered a decent landing. Having once had a bad experience in the nation of Reformed Britannia, Bruce had always been nervous about landings and, if he looked hard enough, probably could have traced his initial fear of flying back to that day. None of that mattered to him after he was whisked off the plane and once more entered a blur. All that was truly left for him to do was to wait for whomever Sovreberg had sent to pick the Cyrupean delegate up.