The Lucifer Effect [Closed | TG Interest]

[Nalaya]

Disclaimer: This is a MATURE thread. There will be things of an upsetting or potentially disturbing nature, because it is very much about things like evil, violence, and espionage. Please consider yourself warned.

“...[T]he line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” 

― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

Abandoned Warehouse
Yeraskh, Nalaya

The dingy, flickering flourescent lights that illuminated what had once been a warehouse complexes but had been converted to be a replica of the old milits'iayi prisons. A handful of Nalayans sat in folding metal chairs, all of them wearing charcoal gray BDUs without a single patch. They were an even mix of ethnic groups, of male and female, of tall and short. The only thing they had in common was the hardness to their faces and their eyes, reflective sunglasses pushed up on their foreheads. This was not a field briefing. This was something far more important. Hence why it was the Arrajin Inkvizitor speaking to them now.

Dzyun Chermak was supernaturally pale, almost albino. Delicate blue veins threaded their way beneath her almost translucent skin, their tinge of color readily visible. Her white hair was left loose and hanging in her face, forming a curtain that obscured one of her almost colorless gray eyes. And across her face in crisscrossing patterns ran the jagged ridges of scar tissue that had once been crimson canyon wounds. With her sleeves rolled up, the brands were visible--a hand on one forearm, manacles, stripes across her knuckles, and the thorny band across her upper arm that marked her long and storied history among the warlords. It also exposed sunken knife wounds and lumps from where bones had been broken and healed imperfectly.

When the Arrajin Inkvizitor spoke, she did not need to raise her voice. When she looked at you, you became a squirming bug under a microscope with every flaw on perfect display. Powerless, insignificant, as easy to crush as any passing insect.

"You are all familiar with the rules that govern how you handle the prisoners," she said with a clipped, precise tone as she walked back in forth. In the days to come, all the men and women here would have names given to them. Identities. Roles that they played under the perfectly scripted supervision of the Vagr, their warden. But even now, the quiet, bookish man who would fill that role sat attentively in his chair and just listened.

Every one of them were specially trained Inkvizitors and Khlarar, despite their largerly innocuous appearance. And so much the better. Let their unknowing initiates come to appreciate how evil could spring from the ordinary.

"If any one of you deviates from SOP for Selection, you will be subject to my displeasure," Dzyun said, clasping her hands behind her back. She looked like a spirit of winter, glowing almost ethereally in the darkness. To be at the displeasure of the Arrajin Inkvizitor was a fate worse than courtmartial--only fair, since the rules that governed the Unkndirnei were not so genteel as those that regulated the military. "That said, your duty is to break them. Each and every one. Take the next few days to clean this place up and adjust to your roles. Everything you need to know will be available in personnel files and briefings in the guard office. I want everything fully operational within forty-eight hours. Dismissed."

There was a murmur of assent from everyone as they headed towards that office to check the schedules and get acquainted with their new teammates. The hardest work would be on the night shift, so that was where the most experienced and hardened of them had fallen.

---

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

"This is a joke, right?" Kasparyan said with a laugh, looking down at the dossiers spread across his desk that had come from headquarters. "We don't train foreigners. They just...don't get it. Besides, it's a security risk."

The only answer he recieved was a vicious glare from his partner at the desk looking through the potential recruits. They screened and screened and screened every applicant's file no matter what their background, including psychiatric evaluations. Generally, you wanted someone stable. No fucking psychopaths--they were too hard to keep on a damn leash. Adruni didn't even really respond to him other than the glare, flipping the next page with her pen clenched between her teeth as she struggled to stop glossy photos of the subject from falling out.

"What?" Kasparyan said, looking offended.

"When the Hetakhuzakan Kapitan says jump, you ask how high. You don't fucking bitch about it," Adruni said with a hint of a snarl, her normally good temper eroded away by a lack of coffee. The aged machine had finally given up the ghost and all she'd gotten were some truly foul dregs. "His interview is slotted for today, so you'd better watch your goddamn mouth."

"Alright, dragon lady," he said appeasingly, holding up both his hands.

She growled something unflattering about the entire strain of humanity that had ended in him under her breath and then let out a hissing sigh, smoothing her brown hair out of her face. In Yeraskh, the city of vice and organized crime, no one really stood out for the most part. It was the kind of place that devoured people completely and left not a trace of their existence, treating everyone who walked in as ultimately replacable and unremarkable. Even someone as strange as, say, a Hostillian might blend in once they abandoned the robes.

Adruni considered chewing on some of the coffee grounds, more seriously than not, just so she'd have the patience and calm to interview their foreign applicant who had been bumped up into this batch by High Command. Probably a damn diplomtic favor. Instead, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and fished one out to light it. Once it was burning, she popped a couple pieces of nicotine gum into her mouth and went back to smoking. If one was good, more was better.

"Christ and the Archangels! I thought you were trying to quit," Kasparyan said, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "I'll try again when we have coffee. Until then? Fuck that."

Just in front of them by ten feet or so was a pleasant if very business-like waiting room with a collection of magazines on the table and an ordinary door. The Unkndirnei didn't have to bulletproof or up-armor anything here, because anyone stupid enough to start a firefight would find themselves in the middle of a hell they could only possibly imagine. And this was the world anyone who thought they wanted to join the Unkndirnei was walking into.

[Hostillia]

日月，明沙漠
四点半，星期三
把式的家

There was a powerful majesty here in the desert, the majesty that brings forth awe from even stone hearts and inspired respect by even the most arrogant. To the untrained eye, this was a land of desolate dirt and thirsty cracked earth where none would willingly take up refuge but to those who knew this land and dwelled in these sands, to the eye trained by the sting of sand and sun, this was a land of relentless beauty. Beneath the endless brown sands there was a flourishing society of reptiles and insects, each more lethal than the last, and here where the dunes stretched infinitely beyond the eye’s reach one could know that this was the oldest of lands; that these stones had seen the first fall of water from the heavens, that these dunes had observed silently the birth of man and beast, and that this hot, cracked earth had called out since the dawn of time with its unquenchable thirst for blood which generation upon generation had attempted in vain to appease. The desert was an unforgiving and cruel mistress, but one who provided blessed sanctuary to her children; and though none could truly be saved from the deserts deathly kiss which had sent many to damnation, to the children of the sun and moon this was home, just as it had always been and just as it would always be.

Here there was a small village, nothing more than a collection of twenty or so structures made from the same light stone as the earth around them, their foundations built at odd angles slanting up a canyon wall. The strange positioning was one of necessity, to build in the valleys would provoke the deadly wrath of the creatures beneath the sand whereas to build atop a canyon would put livestock too near the sun and they would surely die. Here, the village was offered some shade during the hottest part of the day and the height gave them some forewarning of hostiles that would dare to encroach upon their sacred, ancient foothold. The ground beyond their canyon range was forever flat which allowed those stationed in the tall, circular watch towers to see on nearly to the curvature of the earth, and far off in this distance they could clearly see the manmade sandstorm that resulted from the use of vehicles here in this sacred land, the desert was displeased with the presence of such new innovation within her timeless bounds, and so the people of the desert did not use them. Which meant that those now coming were the Han.

Within a small home, its walls well-made and ancient, there was a great rug laid upon the floor, bright colors of red and gold intertwining and spinning to make remarkable images of snakes and tigers which danced across the carpet. On this carpet sat a man, wearing the simple white trousers of his people, his chest bare boasted a multitude of twisted scars from stabs and cuts and burns. His back was smooth and clear except for the center where the barbed whip had torn his flesh from him in chaotic lines crossing one another in an ugly reminder of why one did not wish to find themselves at the mercy of neighboring villages. There was even a scar on the man’s throat, where an opponent’s blade had come close enough to break the skin but was just far enough not to kill him, the Village Grandmother had been surprised he had recovered from that one. From the lower half of his right cheek down to his left breast he was covered in scar tissue from a burn that had been one he deserved. However, with this marked and injured man was a young girl nearing her ninth year, her flesh was smooth and tight and unmolested by the struggles he had known a youthful radiance warmed the man like the glaring sun could never match as their eyes locked, both the hue of honey caught glistening in the sunlight. She was waiting, waiting patiently for a story to begin.

“Long ago, a village gave birth to a girl of indescribable beauty and grace. Naturally, the village was abuzz with talks of who she would court, for her beauty was beyond words, she would certainly seal peace between her village and a neighboring village if she married beyond her home. So naturally, when she reached the age of courtship three men from neighboring villages came to her and praised her to her father, saying ‘so beautiful is your daughter that the very heavens rejoice, give me her hand that peace may be made between our peoples.’ The father knew that each of the men were wealthy and powerful and had no fault he could see and so he could not decide between them. Cunningly, he told them that they must each go into the world to find a gift to offer to him and his village, and that whoever returned with the most wondrous gift I will surely honor with my daughter’s hand. And so the men went out into the world and searched everywhere for the most wonderful gifts they could offer. Several seasons past and the three men stumbled upon one another, all were returning with their gifts. Meeting they said to each other, ‘let us show one another our gifts that we may know who has the greatest treasure so that the other two may keep out treasure and make fortunes for ourselves.’ The first man produced his gift and showed it to be a fine mirror framed in silver, he claimed that whoever looked into the mirror would see anywhere in the world that they desired. The second man gestured to the camel upon which he sat and claimed that this was a magical camel which could get anyone to any destination in mere minutes. The third man produced a bottle of fine summer wine and he said to them that the whosoever drank of this wine would be cured of any disease.”

Now the girl was holding tightly on to her father’s arm with large eyes and a curious desire which only a child could have, especially towards a tale as ancient as the one he was speaking. It struck him that no matter how many times he repeated the story to her, she was always eager for him to continue. He smiled at her, teasingly, but she would have none of it and began to tug on his arm, encouraging him to continue, and so with a smile and light laugh he did.

“Well each of the three men was equally convinced that they had the most wondrous gift and so all of them would continue back to the village, but at this time the first man said ‘let us look into my mirror and see how beautiful the woman has become in these seasons we have been away.’ But, when they looked into the mirror they discovered that she suffered from a terrible sickness which threatened her life, the doctors were beside themselves for there was nothing more they could do and the village mourned. The three men quickly got onto the camel of the second and using the camel’s magical powers they arrived at the village in an instant and when they had arrived the third man gave the girl a drink of his wine and surely she was healed! The next day, each of the three men came before the girl’s father and the first man said ‘were it not for my mirror, your daughter would not have been saved.’ The second said, ‘were it not for my camel, your daughter would not have been saved.’ The third man said, ‘were it not for my wine, your daughter would not have been saved.’ And the father was truly perplexed and knew not what he would do for all of them spoke truth. He decided to send them away and reconvene in a season’s time so that he may select who would marry his daughter then. That same night he wrote to a member of the Shar Rizi, and asked them to send a wise man to help him make this difficult decision.” The man paused again, though this time it was not for effect. There was a commotion outside, the sound of trucks which acted to herald the arrival of the Han, the brutes. Sometimes there were whispers of taking up arms against them like the Horsemen or Mountainfolk, but how well was it going for either? Besides, the tribes could never unify and the Han were more of a nuisance than an oppressor here.

“Well the wise man arrived in a seasons time,” he continued, pulling his daughter closer to him, the sounds of trucks frightened her, they came to take people away, whisk them off to some far off war… he wondered if Han children ever dreaded the sound of approaching trucks. “and when he got there the father once again summoned the three men and they once again gave their reasons to be selected. The wise man looked at the father and said, ‘I can see why you have such a grand problem their arguments are very firm.’ He then looked to the individuals and said ‘All of you have equal claim to the woman’s hand, I can see that. But who does the girl want to marry?’ No one had thought to ask that, and everyone was shocked by the question. The girl responded by saying, ‘none of you thought to ask my opinion on who I am to marry and for this I do not wish to marry any of you.’ Instead of wedding the any of the three men, she chose to marry the wise man who had thought to ask her opinion.”

“I love that story,” the girl said, resting her head on her father’s arm, not noticing the scars. “I wonder who I’ll marry,” she said quietly.

“Do not say such things Sibea,” he responded with a laugh, “you are too young for me to have to ponder such things.” Out the window he could see a small crowd approaching, this happened whenever the Han tried to take someone unjustly, they would came and fetch him, he had some authority in the village and he used it to keep the Han mostly within the realm of decency. No drafting newly made fathers and things of similar nature. “Sibea, go back to your room and rest. I’ll come greet you with lunch shortly.” It was a little early for her to rest, but seeing the small group now on their steps she conceded with a nod and kissed her father’s cheek before leaving for the back room. Rising from the carpet which acted as the only sitting in the large room he moved calmly for the door, grabbing his cloak to cover his chest as he did so. Opening the door, his keen eyes could easily see out to the Han Commander and his men, down at the base of the village, being held up mostly by ‘misunderstandings’ much to their frustration, before him there was five individuals the Village Grandmother, Shayzai the carpenter, Alia the teacher, Muhalak the butcher, and Lilia the gather. “Atuma,” he said politely to the Village Grandmother, the tern was used to address most elders or superiors and literally meant ‘one wiser than am I,’ a well suited term, “who are they are trying to draft? Mukden? He just lost his son to disease, I won’t allow it.”

“No, Mukden has not been summoned, they are asking for you Alach,” the words failed to register. Him? That was impossible, he had already served his term of service, three years of it out in Shangmai, that had been less than two years ago a man only had to give one term of service. There must have been a misunderstanding. “They are insisting on speaking to you.”

“Welcome Commander,” Alach found himself saying shortly later, the Han man was shorter than he by a significant margin, it was almost comical that the Han could still wander into their towns when they seldom rose higher than the chest of those they claimed to be so much better than, it was a good thing that the Ming Shamoren were unlikely to make war on the Han, they might not win in the end, but they’d certainly bloody them something terrible. “I’ll put on some coffee for us,” he said walking over to the small cooking fire, it would take him long, he ground the beans himself every morning before sunrise coffee was popular out here, which may seem confusing for one who had only experienced the heat of day and not the bone-chilling cold of night, the desert was a fickle place. “I was just telling my daughter the story of the three suitors and the wise man,” he said in an effort to make some kind of small talk. “have you heard it?”

“Of course I heard it.” The Commander said shortly, “I have never understood it.” He had refused a seat, as they often did- something about the mere presence of a rug did not constitute furniture and they were far above sitting on the floor, apparently cushions made some kind of grand difference.

“A simple meaning, one should not attempt to force another into union, regardless of the value such union might bring,” Alach said from the cooking fire, he never understood why the Han felt the need to be so abrasive, even when offered hospitality.

“I knew that,” the Commander replied coldly, “I meant that I don’t understand why any culture would promote the authority of the lesser sex, it’s preposterous and ultimately a poison to society.”

“Well fortunately the story does not only pertain to women.” He said simply, returning with two cups of coffee which the Commander promptly refused, insisting he would only drink the civilized drink of tea, and that even then he would be unlikely to do so with One of Uncultured Birth.

“I have heard from a friend that such statements have been misconstrued as treason,” the Commander said, he repositioned himself so that his heavy armor caught some of the gleam from the sunlight, they wore the same armor here in Ming Shamao as they did everywhere else. He supposed it was to look dignified and intimidating but in reality it looked nothing more than hot.

“Please sir, you did not come here to make threats you will not act upon.” Alach said dismissingly and uninterestedly, “why are you attempting to draft me yet again? You Han are meticulous record keepers, you know already that I have served my term. But in the case that you have forgotten, allow me to tell you, I worked as part of a tracking and enforcement squadron in Shangmai, that was not even two years ago, and I cannot imagine that it will be difficult for me to prove. Now, as you have expressed no interest in sharing coffee with me or even accepting my hospitality, and now that I have cleared up this matter, I suppose you are welcome to dismiss yourself.” His tone was kept light and polite, but the seriousness in his eyes was perfectly apparent, this man had come into his home and had insulted his hospitality he would no longer be welcomed.

“Yes I know of your service Bashi, you served with distinction. I doubt there is a better tracker than you in all the Shamaoren we have dispatched. Your exemplary service is why you’re being drafted for a second time, and this time in a more honorable role. You’re being sent abroad to a nation I care not to pronounce, and this is all I have been told. You should rejoice in being given a chance to serve your Emperor a second time.” He was standing impatiently while Alach drank his coffee slowly, obviously he thought he had more important things to be doing in this sector than having this conversation, but that was no concern of Alach’s.

“Your Emperor. The only person I care to serve is my daughter, and I do not care if you have come here to ask me to led the Han in an assault of the Jade Emperor’s palace itself, I have served my time and you have overstayed your welcome. Goodbye Commander.”

“I am afraid we are suffering from a lack of communication Bashi,” the Commander said, unmoving, “I have been given orders to bring you in and I have been given authorization to take any actions necessary to see that you do. I would theorize good sir, that in this case, serving the Emperor and serving your daughter are ultimately on in the same.” There was a silence between the two, that made it fairly clear, the village was positioned well and could defend itself well enough against the Naviirs from the neighboring villages, but it had little hope of surviving a Han onslaught, and both men knew this much. With an aggressive push, the Commander handed Alach a scroll, “this are your orders, they have a date listed. If you are not in the Command City Lenghu at that time on that date, we will be forced to take retaliatory action. Am I understood?”

“I understand your words. And your meaning.” Alach said, his voice now lower and more aggressive, “and I hope you now understand mine. Get out of my home and my village. Have a good day Commander.”



Somewhere in Nalaya,
Monday, September 30th, 2013

A single man with a single suitcase, it made a simple combination. This land was indeed a foreign place, the landscape was nothing like what he was accustomed to, the endless sands broken only by the occasional canyon or mountain or the frequent dunes were nowhere to be seen, replaced they were by buildings and streets and people who went about in their own business. Nowhere had he been met harshly, and despite his peculiar dress the people seemed almost not to notice, or at least they made not move to mention it. He was wearing the traditional garb of his people, simple tan trousers and a tan cloak which covered his upper body and included a hood. The outfit was a product of its people, designed to be functional not fashionable, the hood blocked the sun from his head and it included a mask which was worn at all times with the outfit which covered the nose and mouth so that one may breath without breathing in sand, and the eyes were covered in a thin veil, not so thick as to obscure either parties (that being the one being looked at or the one looking) vision but was present to prevent sand from entering the eyes when the harsh winds picked up. Here there had been no need for such things, but he wore them anyways. In his suitcase, which was in truth more of a burlap sack he had found in the village wrapped around a cardboard box to give it some form, he kept several other mostly identical outfits with one more formal variant in white rather than the desert tan.

However, the part that had given him some difficulty earlier in the day had been the two weapons in it- though he had insisted to everyone it was a single weapon of two parts. They were blades, they attached around the palm of the hand and the blade extended three inches beyond the fist and as many behind, the entire blade was bent along the arm. These were the daohaziir, blades that had been used by his people since the desert sun grew hot, he knew he would probably not need them to preform whatever task these people would ask of him, but one would never know when an honor duel would arise, and in the event one did, what would he use?

The little place he found himself in though made him wonder if none had been overly curious about his outfit because it was not especially queer here or if because this was the kind of place where none asked questions, and he had gotten the nagging suspicion that it was the latter. Certainly most people he had spoken to had been pleasant enough, but there was something about this entire community which seemed to radiate with a sense of sinful depravity. Though this was not his homeland and these things were better unquestioned. He find his way without great incident to a small office, staffed by two people, a man and woman. He thought he caught something of a look of judgment, or perhaps dislike and from the woman he sensed only annoyance and a generally efficient, no questions asked attitude.

“Hello Atumii,” he said just loud enough to attract their attention, he placed a fist over his heart and bowed his head to them, “my name is Alach Bashi, from Sihalul, or Ming Shamo. I was told to come here.”

[McNernia]

The patrol made its way through the ruined city in the distance the sound of an airstrike, the patrol of Paratroopers had spread out in a line, Ian was at the back of the patrol of 10 troopers, Cpl Ian Davids was one of them. He had worn the Red Beret with pride on the parade ground and now he was in hell, something about the seize of that ,the Damocleans were fewer in number but they were greater in strength, all because the damn command, the Lieutenant had been right before they set out on patrol, the New Edomites needed others to do their dirty work.

The shriek of mortars from a distant place was what made them hit the deck and crawl into holes, this was not right, they were elite soldiers, men and women yes but the Damocleans should be fucking running and hiding, but well the bastards had D-30 howitzers or something. It was over in seconds, the battle had been raging for days and it still raged but well the squad was pretty devastated, Paul, Lenny and Steve and Dave were all out of commission so well half the squad was lost to a D-30 shell. High explosive, it must be cause their was a big crater.

They ran back to the base camp, it was a bunker under the city, the Mcnernians were hiding down in the sewers and in parts of the city reduced to ruble piles. He could settle down on a bench and wait.

Then it was different, the riots, keeping the hordes of screaming people, then the Northern Emergency, trooping into the hills with his fellow troopies of the Regiment. The business of Communists, when ever communist artillery was mentioned he seemed to seize up. Soon after several incidents he was before his commanding officer, who was NOT pleased with him. Your on Probation staff sergeant, one more fucking incident and am not going to RTU your ass I am going to DISCHARGE you. You have PTSD, go get some FUCKING HELP.

But that would mean admitting he had flaws. And well then he could not serve.

Nalaya

McNernian Overseas Airline Corporation, MOAC flight MO1347 flying to Nalaya had a special passenger on board a man who was unstable, but as of now he was drunken into oblivion, he hated flying and well his background as part of the "Damned 1-1-7th" came back to haunt him when he stepped on airplanes so he was most inclined to do alot of drinking. And that had led to him be considered for discharge, he did not know anything really beside the kaki and parades and parachuting out of airplanes. He was on probation, when he did not have something to do he drank and fucked. He could smell a woman, a thunk, he had landed in Nalaya, so well he would head for the recruiting office for their intelligence service. He passed the stewardess at the gate. Her scent, get a hold of yourself.. get a fucking hold of yourself. Go find some other bitch

He stumbled through the terminal still with a hangover and the altitude change on airlines, he found a water fountain and splashed some on his face. He wore a rumpled duty uniform with a blue belt and a red beret with the wings proudly on his shoulder. He was a wreck of a man, his brother did not talk to him. Some said Davy had run away and joined the Communists, now that was a rumor only. But well he did not really trust rumors. He felt the urge to vomit so he headed into the bathroom and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He washed his mouth and headed down to the baggage claim and then through customs. He found his gear and headed for a taxi.

The man who arrived at the Recruiting office was evidently a solider with medals on his chest and staff sergeants stripes and parachutist wings on his shoulders. "Staff Sargent Ian Davis McNernian Army." And he took note of the Hostillian.

[Nalaya]

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Both men were met by the mildly irritated expression of Adruni, her cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she gave them both a once over. She was a slim, wiry Arusai woman with a sun-tanned complexion and cinnamon colored hair pulled back into a ponytail. Behind her, Kasparyan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. He was darker skinned with his black hair cut so short it was almost shaven wholly off. His feelings were slightly easier to read: skepticism and caution in equal measure.

"Paron Bashi, Paron Davis?" Kasparyan asked, donning his reading glasses and looking down at the list in front of him. "We've been expecting you. Adruni here will handle your...initial assignment."

The Nalayan woman gave her partner a sour look, exhaling a stream of silver smoke. But she picked up a folder stuffed with paper from the old, scarred desk and waved both men past the front to what looked almost like an interrogation room. It was plain white with three folding chairs and a table bolted to the floor, no window or mirror on any side. There was a camera in each corner, but small enough to pass without remark.

Adruni sat down on one side of the table and unbuttoned her outer gray uniform shirt to show the white compression shirt she wore underneath. She didn't sit like a soldier--she leaned back a little in her seat with her legs crossed at the ankle and spread out comfortably in a position that spoke of control and confidence. If she needed to, though, she could move like a viper from that position.

"Paron Davis, do you always show up to a new service reeking of alcohol?" she said with a flat bluntness, flipping open the folder casually. She gestured for them both to sit down in the chairs opposite from her. She looked up at Alach and switched to his tongue. "Welcome to Nalaya, Alach Bashi. I am pleased to see you are taking this seriously."

[Hostillia]

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

He hadn’t been in the room for very long, no longer than it had taken to announce his name and place of birth, both in his own tongue and in the language of the Han who ruled over it. It seemed he’d been welcomed with proper enough courtesy, though the woman seemed to be moderately annoyed, not with him necessarily; she had no reason to be annoyed with him. It may have been displeased with her partner, or alternatively there may have been something else grinding her nerves, but he was confident enough that he was not the source of her displeasure and though it should therefore not concern him, it did. Regardless of the source of her displeasure, it did concern him because it would presumably affect him as she seemed to be in some position of authority here, certainly more than himself.

Then another man walked in, the stench wreaking from alcohol bathed body preceded him by at least a foot. Alcohol was not considered a sin necessarily back in the Desert, but it wasn’t something that many were willing to partake of and especially not to any grand extent. Partially that was an act of wisdom on behalf of the people, alcohol did little more than make fools of otherwise sound minded men, and what was worse it dehydrated those who partook of it which was near ultimate sin in the Desert. It was a matter of personal pride to maintain one’s self-control under any circumstances, especially those which were the most trying, and the very idea of giving up control to the demons of a bottle without any reason whatsoever? Unthinkable. Though obviously this man did not share such the beliefs of he or his people, which was fair enough- they were of a different culture. But surely any culture would disagree with arriving to a meeting intoxicated, especially a meeting of such importance.

It seemed that he had given the man far more attention than the man had paid him, but that was well in his eyes, he would rather be more informed about those around him than less. His name wasn’t quite easy to pronounce, he didn’t make any effort to verbalize it but did commit it to memory in the event that he needed to speak to the man in the future, which was possible under these conditions. He seemed to be a foreign militant, so it seemed the Middle Kingdom was not the only land sending in recruits, or perhaps forcing recruits to report in under threat of property damage and the murder of family and friends. Soon they found themselves in a small room with three chairs and a table that could not be flipped, in his years he had only encountered chairs a handful of time, in the Desert they sat on their rugs and when in the presence of Han one would sit on a cushion, he could not recall an instance of sitting in a chair such as what they had here. He pulled both legs up with him and crossed his feet, it was comfortable enough and was partially a sign of trust, it was not a position from which one could quickly rise, though he wasn’t entirely defenseless either, he noted as he sat his makeshift suitcase on the ground.

“Atuma,” he said bowing his head a second time in the more private setting, he wasn’t sure what she had said to the man he sat beside, but he had gathered based on tone and facial expression it had not been as polite as what she had told him, “I respect your authority and your people, may my attitudes demonstrate this and nothing more.” He said simply, his mouth moving beneath the tan mask, his golden eyes looked directly into hers and held their gaze he considered it the best way to avoid giving her insult. As his were not a talkative people he felt no need to elaborate or speak further and so he sat in silence as he waited for her to guide the conversation in the proper direction.

[Nalaya]

Upstairs Meeting Room,
Unkndirnei Recruitment Office

Sára Khederian, better known as the Arrajin Khlarar, rolled her eyes even as she crumpled up a piece of paper from the notepad in front of her and sent it sailing through the air in a perfect arc like a basketball shot straight into the trash. "They sent us a drunkard?" she said with a hint of something that was too bitter to be amusement in her voice.

The video feed from the interrogation room, complete with sound, went straight up here to the screen on the wall, though other cameras could be selected from the laptop connected to it--external and internal feeds alike. "What do you think about the other one?" Dzyun asked, her near colorless eyes riveted on her comrade's face like a serpent might stare.

They were all here, the best in their particular fields, honored with the title of Arrajin. After all, these recruits might one day end up in their service. Better to become intimately acquainted with what was going on. "He is like a Vatani, but maybe less vicious," Bedrosian said, his feet up on the table. He was a big but unassuming man who seemed so gentle, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. "He has experience, but of a different world. If he can bend instead of breaking, he will do well. But I have heard Hostillians are very rigid people."

Sára shrugged, her green eyes still distant even here among allies. She kept her mind, her heart, at length from everyone. It was safer that way, better that way. The reason she was the best was that she could separate herself from her body and simply become like a sword. All she did was serve. The choice, the responsibility, those belonged to the people who wielded her. "They are like us--not all the same. He is not Han."

"If the drunk gets his shit together, he might have a chance," Dzyun said with a shrug, looking back at the screen. "At least he won't be touching a drop for a while. But if it continues being a problem..."

Everyone knew what she meant without the words even coming. Unkndirnei agents could be severely punished or even stripped of their rank and service for vices of that nature. In the real world, perception and clarity and foresight were everything. If someone was drunk and fucked up, people could die. Wars could start. Politicians could play games. The Unkndirnei did not.

---

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Adruni lit another cigarette off of the end of the one she still had in her mouth (though it was more ash than cigarette at this point), beginning the chain smoke that would probably last through the day or at least until someone fixed the damn coffee machine. "We are a little less formal here, Paron Bashi," she said, offering him a faint ghost of a smile. Manners went a long way in Nalaya. Far enough, certainly, to make her feel a little more charitable. "You will learn to blend in quite swiftly, I imagine."

His golden eyes and the way he sat reminded her very much of the Vatani. Perhaps desert people were not so different, even from different continents. She inclined her head slightly to him as if to acknowledge what he had said, then flicked her eyes over at Davis for a brief moment. "I would say welcome to the Unkndirnei to both of you, but you have a great deal to prove before earning the right to call yourself part of our little family. And not because you're foreigners--everyone who comes in these doors does. We specialize in the dirty, thankless, but oh so necessary tasks to keep the world running smoothly. No medals, no recognition, no fancy parades in your honor, and to be frank, the retirement isn't great either. But you'll learn that in time."

She spun the folder around and slid it over to them. There was a photograph of a young, Arabic looking woman in her mid twenties, her arms around two children: a little girl of about four and a boy that was probably a year or so older. Both the boy and girl had her dark eyes and dark hair. "This is A'ishah bint Zuhayr. She is an agent working a deep cover op here in Nalaya against a particularly vicious criminal organization, the Vshtali. If anyone were to find out who she really is, her family would be killed and she would too. Painfully and slowly."

Adruni dropped the butt of her first cigarette in an ashtray on the table and put the next one to her lips without missing a beat. She inhaled deeply, then let out a pensive sigh of smoke. "We are an agency who work in the shadows. In secrets. So this is your assignment: memorize her name, memorize her photograph. You are not to identify her or divulge her name to anyone. If you do, others will suffer lethal consequences. Now you have the power of life and death over another person. Are there any questions?"

In the field as a case agent, Adruni had learned how to slowly seduce people into working for her with honeyed words and cash and soft promises. Everyone was willing to give you something, if you just knew what their price was. It started out small. A name, a date, a glance at paperwork, time alone with files. And then slowly the favors grew and grew until they found themselves tangled in her web. But here, with recruits, she threw them straight into the deep end. Because how else would they learn their lesson?

[McNernia]

Nalaya

It was not looking good for the former Regimental, a man who had plunged his ass into the fires that were Terpischore and then fought across the North and well he was on probation from the SAS so that well, perhaps he was fired or not. He could ware his old uniform, he like it, he was a solider so he kept his mouth shut mostly, the last of the stuff should be wearing off if his headache was anything to go buy. Look at you Staff Sargent, what the fuck do you think your fucking doing here in the 22nd Regiment with your condition, why the fuck are you still in goddamn uniform. Captian, please listen to me, I have no one outside the Army and well if I go back to Civy street, I dunno what Ill do. That sob story had gotten him through and well the dreams had not been the worst and then when he was in the SAS he had gotten the dreams.

He nodded yes to his last name and no when asked the question concerning his drinking habits. Airliners full of people reminded him of the transport in to Terpischore and well then the campaign, the business of the mess the Damocleans had made and their puppets. He was a McNernian solider although he had effectively been discharged it seemed. Given the illusion of being on staff. The other man was Hostillian one of the ethnicities that made up that country. He spoke, "Ma'am I belive I owe explanation beyond a nod for why I am smelling like a sod that I am before we go any further. I don't like airplanes and a few good rounds of booze I am afraid is what can keep me from doing something stupid." It was a flaw of his, he did not drink a lot but when he did it was a large amount. He could get angry from Alcohol but well it did calm him down.

"Now well I suppose we should simply learn to sit on intelligence? I am trained for action."

[Hostillia]

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Alach stared at the small picture for a moment, looking at the faces but not truly seeing them, instead he was taking a moment to admire the photo. He had heard rumors that some of the outsiders had the means to capture a scene from life with such pinpoint accuracy that it could be called exact, a painting so well done that one could not distinguish between it and reality, but those had been only rumors. Now he was faced with precisely the technology he had been told he may one day encounter; this wasn’t the first time that he had encountered a strange and unseen technology in this country, he had passed a seemingly endless number of them on the way here, more vehicles than he thought in all the Hostillian military, and certainly they had the ability to vanquish darkness at will and to fly as it pleased them. These common place miracles were strange powers which defied his understanding, but he needed not understand everything here in this strange world in order to follow orders, he had always been a simple man, but here he seemed practically Paleolithic by comparison.

Then he looked at the photograph, and saw the young woman. She was attractive, he imagined that she could have fetched a good husband and a fair price, she could have had a fine living in the village if she had been from his homeland, and yet she had volunteered herself to go and endanger her life while she, presumably, had two children to care for? He wondered what caliber of woman would do such a thing and had to ask himself if it was genuinely the love of her country that encouraged her service or if she was in a similar position to the one he now found himself in, an unwilling servant, a pawn moved by the hands of those mightier, a retired war dog dragged by the leash back into the fight. Perhaps she, like he, fought because of a love for her children which was threatened by the supposedly benevolent government; could Nalaya make such threats? Every nation had some vile streak, and some had more than did others. She was too young to endanger herself in such ways as described willingly, though he’d been wrong on that account before.

Years ago, out in the province of Shangmai high in the mountains he had encountered a young girl by the name of Zenji, a polite and mild-mannered woman by all accounts young and pretty as well. She wasn’t very old when they had first met, still in her teenage years, an adult most certainly but a child even still, there was something of a fire in her soul. He had been sent to track her down, though not her specifically but she and her group, they were a minor rebelliously cell that had been harassing Han positions and doing some frustrating damage to the already thin supply lines. They were a clever bunch of kids, concealing their tracks and hiding their paths where they could, but he had the sharp eyes of a hunter and it was with only some difficulty that he had managed to pursue them. Eventually, the trail led to a small village, smaller even than his own back in the Desert but otherwise similar, small and familiar and hidden away from the rest of the world by the mountains and snow. The snow had taken some time getting used to. He left his men behind, there was no reason to charge in to a village and frighten the people when he could go alone. He hoped to talk the cell into surrendering without incident, if they gave back the supplies they had taken and the names and locations of higher ups they’d probably be left mostly alone- everyone can’t be sent to the Ying Facility. Instead of a squad of rebels, he had found only Zenji, armed with a small throwing knife, she announced that she was going to kill him and, if need be his men, so that her friends could escape, and in that moment- her courage and resolve had taught him something about the nature of humanity, when you believed you could accomplish the impossible, when you clung to frail, but immortal hope; not even mountains could be sure of their place.

They had parted as friends, each teaching the other a valuable lesson about the human spirit and the nature of war. Her lives was in his hands, when he returned he assured his commanders that they had found their targets and that all hostiles had been killed in the ensuing conflict, unfortunately they had been unable to locate the supplies- he suspected the rebels had burned them when their fate became clear. It was a lie, and later, Zenji would become a freedom fighter of some renown as he could expect for such a capable young woman. Her life, it was in his hands, or at least it had been. So, this woman’s identity, her security among the living was not a new burden to him but was a strange one, he had no knowledge of her beyond a well done painting and he did not know the foes she fought. Should he protect her simply to follow orders? Orders could not justify everything. Instead, he determined his devotion should be based on something more solid- she seemed to be a mother, and if she was a mother than it meant her death would devastate her children. Were her children really greatly different from Sibea? Only in that Sibea was his and these children were hers- but all children were innocent and worth protecting, well worth protecting indeed, and for them he would protect their mother- and he hoped common decency meant that, if given the opportunity, she would do the same for his daughter.

“May your will be done,” he said plainly, his eyes darted ever so briefly to the man sitting next to him as he spoke in his strange and twisting tongue, he wore a uniform he was a soldier but that seemed to earn him little restraint, they came from two different worlds culturally and in two different worlds they would surely prefer to remain- and yet, they were here to be plunged into a third world, an underworld, a Hades, and though they might emerge as dark as the damned if one gripped to their light, in his case Sibea, one could travel through the horrors of any realm without losing themselves. What, he wondered, was this man’s light? “I will not speak of her.”

[Nalaya]

Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Adruni gave Davis a smile that did not reach her hazel eyes. "I don't give a flying fuck what you've been trained to do, Paron Davis. You are in Nalaya now. You will do whatever we tell you to while you are in training with us. If you choose not to keep the secret, a woman and her family will die. That is now on your head," she said in a pleasant tone that spoke of unpleasantness just around the corner if he continued to push her buttons. "And as for your consumption of alcohol...if I were interested in excuses, I would have asked. Shape up, Paron, or ship out. It's not enough to be good in the Unkndirnei. You have to be the best."

With that particular form of polite acid dispensed, Adruni laced her fingers together and set them easily on the table. Her cigarette appeared to be defying gravity, still dangling at the corner of her mouth. Somehow it stayed there even as she spoke--it was a gift and a distraction tactic rolled into one. "You both will be provided with lodging until Selection begins. I suggest you take the chance to rest--Paron Davis can sleep off his hangover--and eat. I expect to see you back here at 0800 hours tomorrow."

She gave them both a small, almost terse smile. This was the last time she would see them until much, much later in their training. You poor bastards. You have no idea what you're in for. "Here is the address and a map. You two will be sharing an apartment this evening."

[McNernia]

The McNernian knew that when the smile did not reach the eyes then perhaps there would be blood or something, he tensed a bit and calmed down. Focusing, his SAS training came back to him as well as being in the Army. "Very well Ma'am I will do as you ask of me, I will do as you ask, no questions. I will take the secret of the woman to my grave." Like I will take many secrets He scanned the picture and then back at the officer in question, best to make sure this was not a joke. In the Army the tradition was you show up drunk your CO would ask for a explanation with a WTF look on their face.No, where I come from B-S this could seriously set the woman off. "I fully understand that need for quality." God knew the SAS demanded that. Men of quality who had resigned themselves to death.

Perhaps madamoisille Selection has already begun? It did seem logical to begin immediately, a course to whittle them down and then see who would become a Operative. The SAS trooper had an idea of what he was in for, hell again. But of course knowing what sort of hell, Lust, Anger, Wrath, wait was not wrath and anger the same thing? Davis looked at the paper he had been given. "Yes Commander." Davis was fluent in Arabic,Cantonese and Mandarin and Latin and he adressed the Commander in Arabic.

[Hostillia]

The Selection:
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Alach elected to remain silent during their exchange, really what was there to say? He didn’t understand entirely what had been said between them, but he did not need to in order to understand the nature of their discussion; obviously this individual felt the need to offer advice to his superior, who was apparently less than pleased to receive it. From the uniform, one might mistake this man a soldier, but Alach was beginning to suspect that the strange garb was simply what the civilians of his country wore. Obviously this man was not a trained soldier; if he was, he would have arrived sober and stone-faced, and even more so he would have had nothing other than simple affirmatives to offer, these things were basic tasks that even the most rudimentary soldier could perform easily and his failure, effectively, in every area suggested he was little more than a wanderer who enjoyed playing dress up. It was curious that he had been selected for such an assignment, unless of course someone simply wanted him gone.

Besides, what business of his was it? What this man sitting beside him does or did was hardly his obligation, he was not the man’s keeper, and if he wished to show up drunk and belligerent that was fair enough. On the other hand, he was theoretically going to be spending some amount of time with this man which made it important to know him, or at least know him to the extent he could pass quick judgment if necessary and he should have some feel of his character. What you presented to the world you did so to assist them in judging you, and this is how he wished to be judged, but beyond silent observations he would press the matter no further. Even now his face was blank and his eyes pointed forward, moving only to stare into those of this woman whenever she spoke to him. That was good enough. She informed them that they would be living together and that was that, it was certainly not ideal, but it was acceptable.

“Thank you for the opportunity to serve,” he said politely, even if it was not an opportunity he desired or wished to endure, she had not forced him into service and so he could only appreciate the patience she had handled him with. It probably was not every day she had to struggle through with a foreigner either, and she had shown him exemplary civility and so he appreciated that as well. He bowed his head to her before being dismissed and walked quietly with his things into the other room, “May peace bless you,” he said to the other man he hadn't spoken to much, he still felt he owed him some kind of goodbye.

With those words exchanged he led the way through the winding roads, looking down constantly at the small map he had been provided. He was fortunate in that all maps were ultimately the same and that the Han had never provided a map in any readable language, he had learned to find his way without understanding all of the written cues which was fortunate. He slowly found his way to the small apartment, during the walk he made no effort to speak to the man, electing instead to remain silent. The Shamoren were not an overly talkative people, there was a tale in their culture that suggested ultimately, every idle word would be weighed against them and so they attempted to keep such chitchat to a minimum. Unlike the Han, those people were too pompous to be brief in anything, such ceremony and form and poise had to be observed and pronounced- one more reason they had never well gotten along.

When they finally arrived, they found the apartment to be smaller than what they could have hoped for; dormitory living was perhaps the most accurate description. A main area doubled as a dining area and there was but a dismally tiny preparation area which passed for a kitchen, adjoining the small main room was a bedroom with two beds and a walking space to the only bathroom. Some minor artwork and windows scattered the small area, it seemed this was urban living. Though the accommodations may have been less than five star, Alach was pleased sufficiently, after all, his home had been a carpet and a cooking fire, this place was a small palace. It even bore the wonders of indoor plumbing though, while impressive, was not something he had any strong desire to become accustomed to. His eyes drifted with an analytical cool about the room, finally finding a carpet on the floor between a couch, a couple of chairs, an end table, and some other simple wooden furniture.

Waving his companion in, Alach made nothing more than a simple wave to indicate the grand tour had commenced and concluded, and after the man had stepped into the room he closed and locked the door before going about pushing the couch and one of the chairs against it. He disregarded any words spoken by the soldier as he made his way swiftly and silently to the blinds to draw them, not bothering to flip the light switch either out of great apathy or great ignorance he did not reveal which. His peculiar behavior concluded he returned to stand before the soldier, his gold eyes meeting his companions, his mouth did not move but his eyes communicated absolute seriousness, slowly, he raised his hand to form a pointing finger indicating to the strange outsider before moving the to point to the bedroom. Then, he pointed to himself, his eyes never leaving those of the foreigner, and then indicated to the rug. He did not move or blink or speak or do anything other than hold the man’s gaze, patiently waiting for the man to understand and act on his meaning.

[McNernia]

The man was a solider, or perhaps a former one since his record if one could see it would tell, Disorderly Conduct due to drink, Mentally unsound, Possible Exteme Sadism. Oddly cold, prone to fits of breaking down. The man was a wreck of a solider, this reflected badly on the McNernian Army even if the SAS was a . He cursed himself inwardly. He was wanted gone, he knew it, Colonel Billdon of 25, Captain Lancerson of A Squadron and Lt Biller of A Troop. All the bastards wanted him gone, he should have been better. He had been stupid. He grew silent not even speaking. Let him be judged only by the actions he took as the SAS were known for. He would be serving on exchange with the Unkndirnei for the foreseeable future.

He did not mind keeping strange company, he had kept the company of the dead in a foxhole in the ruins of Terpischore. He followed the Hostillian out, SAS deployed to Cornellia received a rundown on necessary things. He looked back as he made his way out, Thank you was what his eyes said as he left. He followed the Hostilian through the streets, it was like Al-Azkar where he had served as a young private when the Emergency there was wrapping up. Then he had risen through the ranks of the Army to staff Sargent, a squad had been under his command and well then came the Terpischore drop, the blood bath that followed, a few more than he would have liked were lost.

He looked around the dorm, seemed like the barracks he had grown fond of over the years, he liked the place. He could live here for now. The artwork seemed to be traditional to this part of Nalaya. Davis claimed one of the the beds with the depositing of his duffel, inside was a ID, Staff Sargent Ian Martin Davis, McNernian Army 2nd Pltn A Coy 1st Btln 117th Parachute Regiment. SAS was indicated by the blue stable belt he wore, he felt more and more unworthy of it by the minute that and the Red Beret. "Maybe I should quit." he said to himself. "Settle down with some, no I cant easily do that when terrorists are on the loose. Perhaps, some Merc job in Parthia or....somewhere else." He was considering Hostillia turn the Hostillians into something like the Rhodanaian Army so that they could prosecute the Shangmai, the SAS knew about Shangmai, that there was a problem.

He was roused from his meditations. "What, want to talk in the bedroom...good idea, or are you a...I dare not ask. We should talk away from the windows. I am Ian Davis. Staff Sargent, McNernian Army" He said that in Arabic, the man seemed like he would understand.

[Nalaya]

Voskratsutsi Bak
[Location Redacted], Nalaya

The Boneyard. It was a good name for the large prison complex, once the site of massacre after massacre and even more torment on top of that. Numerous warlords had controlled it at one time or another before the country unified under General Vaneni's hand, each one leaving an indelible mark on the mixture of stone and unforgiving concrete. Some halls and rooms were still stained with blood and brain matter not even powerwashing could remove completely. The courtyard itself was still wild, cracked slabs of cement divided by the grass-shrouded dirt filled with fragments of bone and teeth and even a few charred trees still twisting their blackened branches towards the sky in a silent plea for merciful rain. In those days, it had a different name, a name that crawled beneath the skin and ran in the blood like icewater.

Now, it served a similar and yet markedly different purpose once every few years. It recreated that old world, stripping away all the fine veneer of progress and humanitarianism. That was its job. Already power was humming back through the building from solar panels set up on the roof, flowing to computers and survelliance equipment alike. There could be no mistakes, no missteps, or blood would be everywhere. The Arrajin Inkvizitor was not an overly understanding woman. That meant rigidly controlling every aspect of anything that could happen, planning for contingencies and selecting people carefully for roles.

One of the interrogation rooms had been converted into an impromptu meeting space, dossiers neatly coded and labeled and spread across the chipped, dark wood of the scarred table that was anchored to the floor by bolts as thick around as the Warden's thumb. Beneath buzzing flourescent lights, Inkvizitor Djansesian smiled pleasantly as he looked at the retrieval teams crowded in here. "Are there any questions?" He was a lean, dark Nava'ai man with eyes that made no real distinction between where the pupil ended and the iris began. It gave him an unsettling sort of intensity, like looking at a portrait with holes cut in it.

"How gentle should we be, Paron?" a young man at the front asked, shifting slightly in his seat when he noticed the smiles exchanged by the older Khlarar who stood around him. All of them were in their gray-black urban uniforms, mostly devoid of insignias except for their name and an Unkndirnei shoulder patch. And those identifying markings would soon be concealed beneath the new generation body armor.

"How gentle was your selection, little brother?" Adruni said pleasantly. She was standing at the front of the room with Djansesian, dressed in an immaculately clean, professionally cut suit. As a subtle nod to her employers, the blouse was crimson. She had played her part in the briefing, so she would be headed back out to the field and her duties there after this was over. "The guards will take them from you as soon as they get here, so you will have plenty of time to wash the blood off. After all, they want to know what it takes to be one of us. It would be remiss not to show them. Anything else?"

There was a general chorus of, "No, Siruhi Nakhagah."

She nodded a little, pulling a cigarette out of the pack on the table and holding it to her lips as she fished out a lighter. "You know who you're responsible for, boys and girls. Dismissed."

The Khlarar left like a well oiled machine, one of each four person teams grabbing two dossiers off the table. That left just Adruni and Djansesian together beneath the humming lights, a flicker of flame dancing in front of the Arusai woman's face as she finally struck a hungry flame and held it to the end of the cigarette for just a moment. Long enough to light the thing before shaking it out. "What do you think, Paron Warden?" she said casually. "I like what she's done with the place."

Djansesian shrugged, looking around at the aged walls. "It is a little like waking up from a nightmare only to realize you are still in its grips. Maybe things are different now, but I could have lived a long and happy life never being here again. I don't know how the Arrajin Inkvizitor stands it. Not after everything that happened here. What it did to her."

Adruni nodded and joined him in strolling out into the hall, past scenes both of them still had nightmares from. Older than Selection, older than the Unkndirnei, primal and raw as though they had happened yesterday and not more than ten years ago. Even the smell of the place...God and the archangels, if evil had a smell this would be it. "It is important to remember who we are," Adruni said almost absently, pausing to run her hand over shallow gouges in the concrete no one had bothered to cover with paint. They had been here in a past life, both as guard and as prisoner. In fact, she had been the one to leave those marks so long ago--smashing a face into concrete until it wasn't recognizable as human. Just a pulpy, hideous mess, no longer struggling, no longer breathing, oozing down her arms and all over her uniform. For a moment, something slippery and coppery rubbed wet between her fingers as she pulled away from the wall.

Then the sensation was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Even this?" Djansesian said softly. Sometimes he felt he had it easier than Adruni when this happened--he had been a prisoner and not a guard in the old days. "Knowing that you were capable of so much evil? Knowing that it's always right under the surface, just waiting to come out?"

The ash from the end of her cigarette drifted slowly to the ground as she nodded. For a moment in her green eyes, he saw a mix of emotions that defied description. There were only a few he could recognize without more of an expression in her face: sorrow, remorse, grief. "Especially that."

[Hostillia]

The Selection:
Yeraskh, Nalaya

Alach waited mostly patiently for the man to comprehend his simple message, and was satisfied as the man entered the bedroom, while he was selecting a bed and settling his things, Alach made his way to the door to ensure that it was properly blocked. It wouldn’t do having someone come smashing the door in during the black silence of night. It was not as though this seemed a particularly upstanding city either, and even if it was, this was not his home and he could not expect neither friends nor foes with any amount of certainty which meant it was only wise to be cautious. This man he was staying with, seemed a headache at best and a menace at worst, showing up drunk, disregarding instructions, bringing duffle bags and clothes and other unnecessary items as opposed to his small burlap sack which included the simple bare essentials. He moved the chairs and the end table off of the rug, sitting himself down in a lotus style and preparing himself for thought and reflection, his small sack of possessions were sitting beside him.

Ian Davis, the name permeated Alach’s thoughts as he spoke out to him in Arabic. It was clear to Alach’s ears that this man was no native speaker but other than that he hardly even listened to what the main said, just gathered his name. Slowly, his golden hued eyes slid calmly to this foreigner, Ian. He was standing in the doorway, interrupting Alach’s time of reflection and meditation and clearly wanted some kind of response. Slowly he stood and approached the doorway, looking at the man in silence a slightly puzzled look on his face indicating the man’s choice of language may have been faulty after all. He gave a slow nod, as if to indicate that the man had earned his attention and now that this had been accomplished he assumed that everything had been settled. He moved calmly and with a warrior’s grace, grabbing the door handle and bringing it to firmly to a close, the wooden door segregating the two. That seemed sufficient, out of sight, back of mind.

Returning to his seat on the rug, bedroom door separating he and his roommate and door and furniture blocking the outside world from coming in, he allowed himself to think slowly about his home, his village, his daughter. There was a pride that could not be described in words when a father reflected on his only child. The girl was a tough one, she had spent as many years without a father as she had having one, that was a weakness of his people- they were always off fighting and battling and warring supposedly they had been bringing honor to their village and their family names. That’s what his father had always told him; he had to be gone, he could not stay with him and his sisters, no there were wars to be fought and he had an obligation to fight them. In his earlier days, strong with youth and passion, he had accepted these answers- how stupid he had been. What was the point of always fighting, to protect children you hardly knew? Today, in his age and wisdom, he had determined that men were always fearful that they would be proven insufficient, that they would be poor father and worse providers and that this fear motivated his culture to create an acceptable excuse for them to flee their responsibilities.

When he realized this, that fathers had long ago dedicated themselves to fight rather than family he had proclaimed to himself that he would be different, that when his children were born he would guard his children like a beast would guard its cubs. There would be honor in this. And yet, how long had he been with his daughter? His beautiful and perfect Sibea. The Han saw him as a warrior and he could not deny that there had been a time he enjoyed filling this role, but that was back in his youth before he had to ask himself how every action would affect his daughter’s opinion of him. She saw him as an angel, and he was in truth a jinn, but perhaps he could one day live up to the admiration she paid him. And if this could be done, then this would be his goal.

[Kampfenland]

It was a brisk January evening, a full moon only slightly obscured by passing clouds, the moonlight flickering on the ground as each passed by in thin streams. Obergefreiter Walter Lieb and Gefreiter Fritz Graebner sat at their post, the cold air streaming from their mouths in thick clouds with every breath. There was the typical sound of gunfire in the distance, intermittently shattered by the sound of an artillery shell that pulsed the ground, even from the miles that the two friends were from the heaviest fighting. Occasionally a shell would fall short from the lines, its concussive blast shaking them to their bones.

"Gods be damned," Walter whispered in a hushed breath as he tried to light a cigarette, only to be hindered by the wind and the shaking of his adrenaline filled hand. He had, in his own time, seen the horrors of the war, but he could never stop the shaking that fear compelled him to do. "I can't even light this thing. To hell with it."

"Here," Fritz held up his lighter, a sudden drop in wind allowing it to light fully, the distinctive click of his flip top lighter drawing Walter's attention.

"Thank you, thank you very much indeed," Walter said with a slight nervous chuckle. He puffed at the cigarette, the orange cherry glow illuminating his face, and his shaking subsided only slightly.

Almost instantly, a sudden blast thirty yards from where the two were posted rocked the earth, blasting the two men backwards into their foxhole. Within a second, a hailstorm of bullets descended on their position, skipping and screaming off the ground as the two scurried for their rifles. Returning fire from other foxholes went off almost immediately, followed shortly by the cries for a medic and a single man screaming in pain. As bullets bounced and flew in all directions, the two men quickly found themselves in combat. All they could do was return fire as quickly as possible, joining the rest of their platoon in the battle. A single bullet pinged off of Fritz's hardened steel helmet as he showed his head for another shot at an unseen enemy, the concussion causing a slight retreat from the top of the foxhole.

Another explosion, only this one just ten yards from their hole, followed by yet another that had clearly struck a friendly position. As the two men looked up, they saw dark figures moving across the field, an occasionally yellow puff from a rifle being the only sure sign of advancement. Walter leveled his rifle and fired once, and a dark shadow dropped. He fired again, and another fell from the bullet. He saw one get down, followed by fast paced puffs of fire from the figure's weapon, and fired once more.

A half second later, just as Graebner was about to join his comrade on top of the line, another explosion hit, almost closed enough to touch. The enormous sound stunned him, the shock blinding him. Piles of mud flew into the hole, completely covering him. He felt a burning sensation in his chest, but he was unable to determine why. He couldn't move, hear, or see, and he felt his body getting weaker. Just as the blinding white light from his eyes faded away, he saw them turning black. He tried calling out, but only a meek, raspy whisper came out. "Walter, are you okay? Walter?" His friend gave no response. "Are you there? Hello?" Just as his eyes became clear enough to focus, the body of his friend became clear. Covered in mud, this is how he died. A sudden feeling of sadness came over him, and he felt a single tear roll down his face. As he tried to speak once more, a gush of blood came from his mouth, and he saw nothing.

---

September 24th
Wastrein Army Medical Hospital, Wastrein, Kämpfenland

"Feldwebel Fritz Graebner," the Army doctor in charge called Graebner into his office. Graebner rose, a slight tightness in his chest remained from the wound, but the physical therapy had removed much of the actual physical hindrance to his movement. As he followed the doctor into his office, flashbacks to the only thing he could remember from that day haunted him. His comrade, covered in blood, then nothing. It was all he could think about. The tall, blonde hair and blue eyed man with innumerable pock marked scars around his neck and lower face walked into the office, with no sign of physical pain, but he most certainly felt it. "Sit down, Feldwebel."

"Am I cleared for active service?" Fritz asked almost immediately upon sitting. The instinctive question had an answer he had been waiting months to hear. Before his injury, he had wanted nothing more than to go home; but now, all he wanted was revenge for his friend. He had stopped two fighters that night, but it lingered in his mind that he could have, no should have, done more. Maybe his friend would still be alive. No more half measures.

"Not so fast, Feldwebel. Your file shows you were wounded at Hamptsfjord, is that correct?" The doctor asked Fritz.

"That is correct," he replied promptly and concisely.

"You had been in the Wehrmacht for, two months? Or three?"

"Two months after training, three months after conscription." The questions were somewhat confusing to him. They were all in his file.

"Before that, you had studied in foreign intelligence during secondary school, is that correct?" The doctor lit a cigar as he peered over the paperwork, not so much as looking at Graebner. He looked almost bored, as if something else were more important but he was forced to do this.

Adjusting his seating position, he thought about it for a short moment. "That is correct."

"You were psychologically cleared for support positions, but the nature of your disorder will not allow you to reengage in active combat positions. The risk of a vendetta is not something we can afford." The doctor pushed on his thick glasses, coughing as the smoke touched his throat.

The order hit Fritz like a freight train. "Why?!" He yelled at the doctor, a mix of anger and sadness and disappointment, mixed into one single outburst. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" The disrespectful vocabulary and tone was not something he used to a superior officer, but overcome with emotion, he couldn't help himself. The thought of never seeing combat, avenging his friend to satisfy some primordial and subconscious feeling of helplessness. This was not something he could fathom.

"Calm down, Feldwebel. This isn't the end of time itself," he spoke as if this was a common reaction, and in all likelihood, it probably was. It bordered on condescending. "You have experience in the field of foreign intelligence, as the degree from your secondary school clearly outlines. There are many positions that this will give you access to. Indeed, there was position I think you would be most suited to, based on your keen intellect and other, more varied traits." The doctor coughed, looking down as he did so. Fritz couldn't quite read the expression on his face, the stonewall feature was odd for the circumstance. He wasn't being told he had three months to live. "Would you be willing to volunteer?"

"What kind of position is it?" Fritz asked, noting the doctor's expression had moved from the stonewall into something more alone the lines of a child waiting to open their Harvest Day gifts, still knowing that it's going to be a pair of socks.

"That doesn't really matter. I've been told to offer it to all graduates of the intelligence secondary schools." He wasn't lying, but he was holding something back. It almost piqued Fritz's curiosity, and he knew he would never get a straight answer.

So he took another route. "Will I get to join a team on the front?"

"I can't say for sure. Chances are, at some point, the answer would be yes. But who knows?" The doctor rushed the final question. He didn't know, or if he did, Fritz misjudged his lying ability by a mile.

"Do I really have a choice in the matter, or are you just trying to get me to think I do?"

"This comes from far up the chain. Truth be told, you do have a choice, but I would strongly advise that you agree," the doctor advised, returning to his stonewall expression.

Fritz sat silently for a few seconds. He looked up at the doctor, breathed a long sigh and said, "Then I guess I agree."

"You guess?"

"I agree."

---

October 1st, 1100 Hours
Nalaya

It had been some years since Fritz had seen an airplane, and he had most certainly never been on one. In Kämpfenland, the preferred method of transport for more than a hundred years had been by train, and the ride on the airplane had terrified him. To be so high, to not even see the ground. He didn't know how the guys in the Luftwaffe managed. He would rather see a million man battle than get on a plane again, but he knew there was more than likely a guaranteed chance he would be on one in the next few months. He had no idea where he really was, the few places he had been were all in the heartland of his homeland or its far southern stretches. To him, other countries didn't even exist, and he distrusted foreigners. He didn't know what to expect, their courtesies, or whether they even frowned upon crime. He kept his wallet close to him.

Finding his way to the luggage terminal, and eventually to the exit, he was greeted by a man he had never met. The man had been waiting for him, to take him somewhere, and had said so on the orders of their mutual commander, Major Briesen. So Fritz had no objection. The man had taken him to a hotel, told him the room number, and left him to his own devices. The town had reminded him of Wastrein, tall buildings and smaller malls. It made him think of all the wonderous things he had seen in Wastrein during his childhood. The nostalgia made him feel just slightly more comfortable in this strange and foreign land. Fritz eventually found his way to his room on the fourth floor. He was about to throw his things down to unpack when he noticed a note. It read:

"Report to the Recruitment Office for the Unkndirnei. Do not be late. Do so immediately. Be polite. Wear your uniform. Make sure it is sharp. Leave a good impression. -Sturmbannführer Briesen"

The what? The only thought that came into his mind was how to even pronounce the strange word. As he was already in his military uniform, though they were his service uniform, he opted to just leave then and there. There was no point in staying and taking his time on his uniform. There were a few passable wrinkles, and he didn't know when 'late' actually started. He wondered why they hadn't just told him then and there, at the airport, but it didn't matter at this point. He quickly made his way to the front door, and looked for a taxi to hail. Just as he was about to, a quick glance at the corner of his eye at the end of the wide boulevard showed exactly what he was looking for. With a quick left face, he walked across the street and to the end where the Recruitment Office was situated, checked himself over, and walked inside, clearing the sweat from his brow.

Walking in, he was met by two people. Capable looking and clearly meaning business. "My name is Feldwebel Fritz Graebner, reporting in." He rendered a short, crisp salute, and waited to be dismissed for seating in the cold, typical waiting room.

[Nalaya]

Unkndirnei Recruitment Office
Yeraskh, Nalaya

"Come in, Paron Graebner," Kasparyan said, holding the door open with one large hand. When he unfolded from his seat and propped himself in the doorway like this, it became patently obvious that he was not a small man. His irritable expression had softened somewhat now that Adruni and the massive chip on her shoulder from caffeine deprivation had left to make sure things were running smoothly on the operation's other end. He nodded politely to the young woman he had been talking to. "You as well, Siruhi Vardanyan."

He was allowing them into the same interrogation room that every other recruit had seen, files waiting on the table. Alin Vardanyan was a slim, Arusai woman (almost still a girl if her appearance was anything to go by) with fair skin, albeit for a Nalayan, and hair the color of cinammon. Her hazel eyes couldn't quite make up their mind if they were green or gold at the moment, but they were at least friendly when she looked at Fritz. "Paron," she greeted softly, inclining her head to the foreign man. Even her voice was soft, as though she wasn't used to speaking.

"The two of you have been paired together for Selection. I hope this is not a problem," Kasparyan said, donning his reading glasses. "For your benefit, Paron Graebner, the Unkndirnei is Nalaya's intelligence service. If this is not the place you want to be, the door is right behind you. I would suggest you use it if there is even a sliver of doubt in your mind. The work ahead is dirty, bloody, tedious, thankless, and terribly necessary."

He paused for a few moments without looking up from the file in front of him, as if waiting to hear a metal folding chair scrape back and someone to get up and leave. He turned the folder around to face them, showing a pair of young men that looked like brothers, surrounded by their family--an aging mother, a younger sister, a nephew or son in infancy. One was punching the other in the shoulder in the photograph, both grinning like idiots. They had the dark hair and olive skin of Nava'ai men. "I want you to memorize this photo and the names that go with it: Taniel and Yezr Assayan. Both of these young men are working deep cover here in Nalaya. Were their identities to come to light, they would be killed. Your job for Selection is simple: keep their secret until you are informed by me that it is safe. Are there any questions?"

Alin shook her head, her hands curled in her lap as if she did not want to display them on the table. It was a simple job. That worried her immensely. Whenever someone had given her orders that seemed so easy to follow in the past, it quickly became apparent that there was more to the story and what seemed like child's play was anything but. Then again, that was probably a sign of wisdom in this line of work. She looked at Fritz, as if seeing what he might say.

[McNernia]

Nalaya

The Mcnernian NCO only had one duffel, inside was a spare dress uniform and two sets of faitigues and PT gear and a pair of boots, he wore dress shoes and a beret. He cleaned himself after the Hostillian had and dressed in loser clothes so that he could settle down in the bed he had chosen. Davis was quiet keeping an eye on his comerade. The business of no drink at this time of night made him worry about going to sleep, perhaps no alcohol would be good. He spoke once to the Hostillian in Arabic. "The test has begun."

[Kampfenland]

Fritz stared at the picture. He had briefly remember his own younger youth. Though he was just twenty years old now, that seemed so long ago. A lifetime even. He repeated the names in his head, over and over again. Taniel. Yezr. The expression reminded him of his own older brothers, who were both so many miles away, fighting an unknown enemy in the south of Kämpfenland, on the same battlefields he fought on himself. They had chosen that life when they remained in the Wehrmacht, but he had not. He felt a sudden longing for home, a place he knew he may very well never see again. He repeated the names in his head once more. Taniel. Yezr. They had chosen a life that was far more dangerous than even his own brothers had chosen, a life where death wasn't on the next hill, in the next fight, but where death could come as quickly as lightning. Their motives were, no doubt, not to different from his own family's motives. Love of country, love of their Gods, love of their family. They chose to protect their homeland from its own enemies, and he now had their lives in his hands. It was an experience he had many times before. The power over life and death is almost an inhumane curse, and his own failure could easily get these two men, his comrades, killed. It was a situation he had, and now does, take very seriously.

He glanced to the girl to the left of him. Or woman, he was not sure. She was likely not much younger than him, and he found her to be quite pretty, for a foreigner. Noting the situation he himself was in, however, she was more than likely as lethal as pretty, but he often overestimated. He expected her to say something first, but it took him just a moment to realize she would not, so he spoke first. "I will agree to this situation, this Selection. Their secret is mine to keep," Fritz spoke quietly, but firmly, as if deep in thought. It was almost like he had been hit by a train, immediately after speaking those solemn words. if his own people are telling them to do such a simple task, for selection into an intelligence agency, at what lengths would they go for selection? He remembered horror stories of his own country's Sicherheitsdienst SS units. The SD. Those men went in boys, and came back men, as they always said. "But it does make me curious," he began with a very slight tone of suspicion, "At what lengths are to prepare ourselves to keep their secret? I see no enemy in sight, and it is doubtful you would give us sensitive information and released into the world. They have a saying in my Land: An unseen enemy is often the officer in your company. After today, I suspect there is no turning back, nor do I intend such a thing, but it is curious what sort of experience we are about to endure?" He found himself being overly suspicious, and did not like his own tone, but he felt it was a question that needed asking. If pain is to be expected, he would rather it not be a surprise.

[Nalaya]

Unkndirnei Recruitment Office
Yeraskh, Nalaya

"A fair question. It's strange how few people ask it," Kasparyan said, studying Fritz for a moment. This one was clever at the very least and he was taking this seriously. He liked that the man had even put effort into his appearance and showed up in uniform. It was a damn sight nicer than a drunkard reeking of booze in the office. Still, it was too early to know for certain and that choice would come from well above his pay grade. "Selection is preparation to fight an enemy that does not follow rules in a war no one else can see. So it is by its very necessity a cruel and unpleasant process. Most of our recruits are like Siruhi Vardanyan here, already intimately acquainted with human evil. To them it is merely a reminder of the world we live in. To you? I would not be so bold as to presume."

"So it is like a simulation, then," Alin said softly. Everyone had heard stories, but it was hard to sift the wheat from the chaff with all the wild rumors that went flying around. The Unkndirnei liked to encourage misinformation about themselves, and if it weren't for the fact she'd known their founder, she wouldn't have actually had a clue what was true and what wasn't. Even that was a relationship that left more scars and questions than answers. "We do have enemies. We just don't know who they are. What resources do we have?"

"Anything you can get, Siruhi," Kasparyan said, running a hand over his shaved head. He offered them a small nod. "There are no rules any more. Laws, yes, but they only apply if you're caught. And if nothing else, remember you are in this together. No one in this line of work can do anything alone. Not if they want to actually succeed. Now, you both do have lodging at this address and I hope to see you back here tomorrow morning to learn the ropes."

Alin picked up the scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it, revealing her hands to plain view for the first time. They looked mangled and abused, one or two missing a joint with signs of being twisted or cracked multiple times, scarring from burns and tears littered about the skin, her knuckles battered and marred with stripes from a soldering iron. Even the metacarpals were uneven under skin, like someone had purposely broken them, let them heal wrong, and broken them again. Maybe they had been delicate and beautiful once, but no longer. Thankfully, they were still quite functional even though her penmanship had suffered. At least, pulling a trigger wasn't usually a problem.

"You two are dismissed," Kasparyan said, inclining his head to the pair of them.

"Shall we?" the Nalayan woman asked Fritz, leading the way out of the office. She seemed genuinely content to have been assigned to the foreigner and spoke German with only a small accent. "Oh, and forgive me. Alin Vardanyan. It's nice to meet you, Paron Graebner. Welcome to Nalaya. I wish you were here to see it under better circumstances."

[Kampfenland]

"Shall we?" The girl, Alin, spoke softly, still reminiscent of when she had first spoken. He was surprised at the quality of her German, but it was not an accent he was used to. She spoke it like a northerner in Kämpfenland, and it was possible she had been taught by one. "Oh, and forgive me. Alin Vardanyan. It's nice to meet you, Paron Graebner. Welcome to Nalaya. I wish you were here to see it under better circumstances."

"As do I, Fräulein. It's a nice country, this city reminds me of the city not far from the village of my youth. Please, after you," he gestured to the door of the office as he spoke, and she exited as he followed. They made their way to the room, not far from the office where they had been interviewed. He couldn't help but think about the girl's hands: Mangled and scared, broken and burned, as if again and again without stopping. He had seen victims of torture during his stay in the Army Hospital, including several captured conscripts who had been tortured for more than eight months. But she was just a girl, and it made him realize that she had more likely seen far more physical pain and violence than he could have even imagined. He had himself experienced much pain, the scars marring his torso, face, and legs, but never with intention to inflict pain, only to be killed. It wasn't that the scars had disturbed him, as he had seen far worse; it was that they made him think: His companion is far more prepared than he is for this ordeal.

Entering the room, he noted its small size. Dormitory living, no doubt, It occurred to him the room was probably bugged, and he made a mental note of all points where the rooms could be seen in their entirety; it would also explain the small relative size. Easier to watch all angles. Both to monitor the residents and their reactions, and in the event that there was a security breach along the line. He didn't even bother looking for the bugs. These agents were professionals, and he wouldn't find all of them if he searched all night and day. He turned to Alin and whispered as quietly as he could in German, in the off chance they themselves didn't speak the complicated language: "Watch what you say."

Throwing his stuff on the first bed nearest the window, he unpacked a small set of clothing and toiletries, and put them in the bathroom. He turned to the girl, looking at her hands, quietly ask her "Not to be offensive, but would you mind if I asked what happened to your hands?" He wasn't sure what the response would be, if any, and he was sure she got that question asked a lot, but knowing what kind of abuse was inflicted would help him more quickly understand the nature of her psyche. Pain always has an effect on people, and glimpse into pain is a glimpse into the mind itself.

[Nalaya]

Alin smiled slightly despite herself. It was always Yeraskh that foreigners seemed to like the most with its modern buildings and attitude--it had probably the largest collection of non-nationals other than Sevan. And it catered to any vice anyone might have, something else that made it both popular and the bane of the capital. It was still a milits'iayi city, which allowed the Unkndirnei freedom to operate with impunity. A lot of black ops and Dimak moved in and out of the metropolitan area. The city ate people, too. More than one refugee had made it to Yeraskh during the war only to never be seen or heard from again.

And now she'd ended up here. Alin would be the first to admit that she wasn't exactly a model for anyone to live by, but she was doing better these days. The past was still there, but it didn't have the same power it had. Cleaning up and leaving the Vshtali had also been a good move.

At the mention of the hands, she glanced down at her fingers. "I don't mind. Most people don't need to ask. They...know what it means," she said, rubbing the stripes across her knuckles. None of the marks she had chosen, but some of them she had earned. There was a satisfaction in knowing that even in defeat she had retained her pride. "In the Unification War, I fought. I passed through the camps at Arax. They liked to mutilate. Fingers are a favorite: lots of nerves, but you can break every bone in the hand and the person won't die of it." She dumped her bag on the other bed and went to the window, standing obliquely to it and looking out through the venetian blinds. Not a good position to shoot from, but by the same token, it wasn't a great place for a shot to come in either.

Fritz seemed to be thinking on the same wavelength as her, which put her at ease. For one, she didn't feel so paranoid, and two, it meant she had someone else careful watching her back. Going it on your own was always the worst way to walk into anything. "You are a soldier, yes?" she said softly, looking over at him. He wore a uniform, so she was certain he understood. In some abstract way, Alin remembered that not all of the world fought so viciously and heartlessly as the warlords, but she didn't really believe it. After all, it'd be like having a trained attack dog that would stop as soon as the victim cried.

What was it the Khlarar had said to her at Arax? The closer a behavior is to instinctive, the harder it is to train out of someone. And what was more instinctive to humans than inhumanity?

Not for the first time, Alin acknowledged that her view of the world was probably considerably warped. And yet it was so easy to trust Fritz. Something about his face and the way he walked reminded her of the Avangardn and Vaneni. She couldn't think of a higher compliment, but she didn't know if he would understand it yet so she kept it to herself.

[Kampfenland]

Fritz thought about what she had said. A fighter, even in defeat. Even through torture, mutilation, horror, she was still fighting. The camps at Arax sounded like many of the war camps the southern rebels, and to a lesser extent, his own government employed. Tortured for information and then shot, left in an unmarked mass grave. He knew people who had survived and escaped, and they had never been the same.

He went to the window by her, looking out at the city. "I was a soldier, once," Fritz said softly, a tear almost came to his eye as he gazed at the tiny ants as they walked the streets. He couldn't find anything to say, not here. The memory of the event that had brought him to that room shocked his wound, and it burned. His heart burned. Fear, anger, sadness, even some joy. "But now... Now I'm just a man."

He turned back from the window, and went towards the bathroom for a shower, closing the door and locking it behind him. He removed his shirt and stared at his destroyed body. Once a fine specimen of physical fitness, now burns covered his abdomen to his lower back, shrapnel scarred his arms and face, and there it was. The scar that reminded him of a life he once had, friends he once had. Large and thick, stretching from the middle of his sternum to his belly button, and easily three inches wide. Formed from the shell of an eight inch gun as it had ricocheted off the ground and struck him. It made him realize just how lucky he was to be alive.

After he had completed his shower, Fritz passed Alin sitting on the edge of her bed and went to his own, laying his head down on the hard pillow without undoing the sheets. It was hard, but that suited him. He had slept in rain and feces filled trenches, and even then he could sleep well. After closing his eyes for just a minute, he opened them up again and just stared at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, not right now. He didn't feel comfortable here. The majesty of the great city was amazing, but also belittling. He suddenly missed his small town in which he had lived, its local beer tavern which he had spent many nights with his school friends, the small market that made some of the best sausage in the province, and its vast open woods. Always cool in summer under the shade of the great oak trees.

"What is it really like in this country?" He began to ask to Alin, "The city is inspiring, but I know there is more to a country than its most majestic cities."

[Nalaya]

Housing
Yeraskh, Nalaya

"Yeraskh is like the rest of the world, not what is ours," Alin said with a shake of her head, looking out the window at the lights. While he was showering, she'd unlaced her boots and shrugged off her jacket. She had her share of scarring too, more than one of which seemed to be a word carved into flesh itself. Rarely did they look accidental, though there were lacerations from a knife or shrapnel and even one or two star-shaped marks where bullets had passed through her muscles. "Not who we are. To see us, really see what we were, there are other places to go. Nalaya is ancient, beautiful like uncut stone and wild places, olive groves and hidden springs and mountains that scrape the sky itself. Flowers blooming in cracked earth and vines winding their way up sun-drenched walls. Nalaya is less a place than an idea, a quiet and peaceful dream born out of fire and smoke. All the better parts of us coming together to heal the worst."

It was hard to find the right words in a tongue not her own, so she had to resort to strange speech. Maybe it wouldn't make sense, she didn't know. It was hard to communicate feeling. What the end of the war had meant to everyone. She had seen Vaneni in Arax. It was like falling into the lowest pits of hell only to find an angel. "We have only been unified for a little less than ten years. We are still trying to understand what the new world means. But it is something worth protecting."

Alin stretched out as much as her body would allow, muscles uncoiling underneath the scarred skin. "We should try to sleep. We may not get a chance again for some time." That was one thing she had learned altogether too well.

---

Staging Area
Yeraskh, Nalaya

"It doesn't matter! Your enemy always has weapons!" Petrosian snarled, his expression clearly betraying his impatience with their radio operator. "Either you're right or you're very pleasantly surprised!"

"Enough, Petrosian," Kadarine said, waving her second-in-command away from the trembling young man with a map of the city. He was always like this before they got the command to go. Why he could keep his cool under fire but not under inane questioning was a mystery to her. She was a wiry Nava'ai woman who made a small and incredibly frustrating target in the dark, particularly now that they had next generation body armor. It wasn't quite light enough to be concealable, but it was a damn sight more manueverable than the old shit. "Go count your ammo again. It's ten more minutes until we leave."

"The fuck is his problem, PMS?" Simonyan asked with a grin, double checking his own magazines. "Give him a tampon or something."

Kadarine just shrugged. "You're going in first, Simo."

"Seriously? Hell yeah. Who's in the danger zone?"

She winced slightly even though it was true. The third person going in was generally the person who was shot or fragged. "Me." Granted, she liked working Selection ops. The targets didn't generally have long arms, they weren't great marksmen, and she didn't have to kill anyone. And she didn't have to worry about stealth too much: B&E was an art. It took time and effort and fewer people, which made the actual op once they were inside a pain in the ass.

It was a way cushier job than her normal assignments. The Vshtali tended to wait for law enforcement with things like anti-personnel mines and automatic weapons and sniper rifles designed to punch through body armor like paper. The only thing worse was running into an Unkndirnei operation. Not that there was much of a difference between the two. As far as she could tell, some of those fucking Khlarar just hadn't been prosecuted for anything yet. Inkvizitors were a little bit better, but they still weren't glued together really tightly as far as she was concerned.

There wasn't enough money in the world to convince her to ever respond to a call like that again. She'd take a court martial for insubordination any day, because no judge would find her guilty of anything. She checked her watch again. "Everybody loaded up?"

There was a chorus of, "Ayo, Serzhant," from her team.

"Good. We've got four to grab, two and then two. You all know who we're looking for," she said, tucking the map away behind her chestplate. They did this so much here in Yeraskh that her adrenaline didn't even go any more. It was just a job like any other. "And remember, submission does not mean unconsciousness. Vratsyan has enough shit to do without having to give them supplemental oxygen because you choked one out."

[Kampfenland]

The night seemed so long, waking in and out. Perhaps the worst sleep Fritz had seen in years, even during his time in the hospital it hadn't been this bad. He would spend ten minutes awake and twenty just dozing off, a light catnap here and there, only to wake up for ten or twenty more minutes. He thought about what Alin had said, and about his own country. Love of country is just an idea, after all. Kämpfenland was just an ideal, but one millions of men through history had died to keep safe. Borders meant nothing, it was the idea that was everything; why he fought, why he served, and why he was here, about to fight another country's wars in the vain hopes he could help protect his own Land, his Vaterland.

He got up from his bed, and went to the small preparation room, searching for anything he could use to make a cup of coffee. He looked at the clock on the stove. 02:25. Early morning, but not too much earlier than the 0400 he had been used to since he was 14 years old. He eventually found a small coffee machine with some insta-serve packets, and made a small cup of coffee, adding a small amount of creamer and sugar to the mix, if only to make it bearable. He went to the window, and stared down at the innumerable lights. A city that never sleeps, he thought. I guess we are one and the same tonight. He took another sip of coffee, and just bathed in the majesty of the city.

[Hostillia]

In the Sands of Ming Shamo
The Divine Empire of Hostillia

The night could be a dangerous place in the desert, with snakes and wolves and a great number other beings and creatures which crept about in the darkness and slithered lethally beneath the sands. Of course the most dangerous creature in all the desert was of course the human residents who also, under the cover of night, would creep and slither though unlike the casual creature one might encounter in the evening of the sands, man was especially vicious for they, unlike all other being of this world, moved with the intention of drawing blood and bringing death. One could attempt to explain the complexities of the sects and the tribes that dominated desert life here, one could consult the often contradicting histories of each tribe and group in an effort to determine where the hatred originated and most certainly every group of kin could readily inform the curious passerby why their souls burned only with hatred for a particular enemy and they would be equally ready to recount the long ago offense that had been done to them. But even with a perfect historic understanding of these matters and even knowing everything there was to know about these peoples and their rituals one could not ever hope to fathom the indescribable emotion that came along with the blood of the Shamoren.

To be born into a certain tribe which itself was a member of a particular sect meant a great deal to these people, the desert was an infinitely harsh mistress and one could have no hope of surviving its hostilities alone, and so the problem of one was a the problem of many- an insult to an ancestor stung with just the same ferocity today as it had centuries ago against a family’s honor and their name, even more so if justice had not been served. The village elders had suggested that the only people who could understand the depth and importance of these matters were peoples from other lands and other worlds who shared these social complexities, who grouped themselves and demonstrated loyalty to the point of fanaticism- this was the norm, and this was to be expected. If you could not count on your family to support you no matter your actions, then who?

And if it was with this filial perception that Alach found himself in the desert tonight, he and a small group of his cousins, their clothing the same drab tan of the desert sands and their faces obscured with masks and their eyes covered with veils, the only thing to give them away was the moonlight reflecting from their blades as they moved with near silence through the sands of this most ancient homeland. His cousin, Sha’yeb was in command here, her sharp eyes scanning the dunes in the distance with uncanny accuracy- she claimed that she could see a cobra slither beneath the sand from ninety paces and Alach trusted her words to be true. She was truly one who could be called one with the desert, for she was brave enough to move without shoes over her feet, displaying her soft flesh for any unkind creature to strike, and yet she moved with silence and grace and agility but those who knew her could see the wrath boiling beneath her skin made evident by the fiery passion in her eyes.

They moved against Clan Alaziiri, the Alaziiri were the very worst of what human kind had to offer it was said, they were known for their cruel black strikes. A potent method of killing but one without honor, they would lure out their opponents after slaying their kin without warning and then they would pounce. They were like the snake, but not nearly as wise, for they had chosen to act against the Clan Bashi. From what Alach had been informed, three hundred and fifty-seven seasons ago, an ancestor of his by the name of Alkahi was tending to his horses which he had purchased from the Maguo in the days when they were a proper dynasty. Horses were a rare thing in the desert, and rarer still were honorable men to own them, and so Alkahi was upstanding and erect in all walks of life, and this infuriated the Alaziiri for they envied his horses. Now this was the days before the Bashi and Alaziiri were hostile towards each other, though even in these days the Alaziiri were not commonly respected. If their true nature had been known at the time, Alkahi would have prepared himself for their treachery. While Alkahi was off attending to his business with the horsemen in distant lands, members of Alaziiri came upon his home in the night and overtook his wife and children, putting them to the blade before burning his worldly possessions and fleeing on horseback.

Naturally, this had set off a series of battles between the Bashi and Alaziiri none of which had adequately satisfied either’s thirst for vengeance, and so all of these seasons later they carried on to avenge an offense they were not yet born to experience against those who were not yet alive to give it, but such are the ways of these people. Sha’yeb led the small motioned for the small group to stop as she climbed up a dune to peer off into the distance, she turned back and motioned for Alach to join her atop the sand, which was strange as this was only his sixth outing with his family in a quest for vengeance and he was hardly an authority on anything, being but a boy on the verge of his teenage years. Still, he obeyed quickly and without question and when he joined his cousin he could make out barely the dimly burning lights from at what was perhaps a small camp.

“What is this at which we look cousin?” He asked her quietly, he knew that no normal ears would be able to hear him from so far away, but the desert had mystical means to carry voices of those it found dis-pleasurable supernatural distances. She had hardly spoken more than a whisper herself and so it seemed an ultimately wise decision.

“It is a camp, offspring of my mother’s brother. But more importantly it is our target.” He nodded and narrowed his eyes attempting to improve his vision even a little bit, but it was no use. In truth, he did not understand why they were attacking a camp rather than the Alaziiri village itself, after all, they could inflict greater casualties on the central village than on a peripheral camp, still, even without voicing his question they were heard by his wiser cousin. “The desert is an unforgiving place cousin, these men are of the Alaziiri who travel now to the city, they go to sell their goods and return with food. If we sweep down upon them and overtake them, we will seize the bulk of their supplies and in doing so, we will force all the Alaziiri to starve this season.” She explained with restrained disgust at these near-people, “our men do likewise but travel in smaller number as to avoid drawing an enemy’s eye. They go along the Al’ka’ir path through the desert, if they were to be ambushed as we are to do here, our Clan would face great difficulty this season and many would starve. You understand now, I trust, the importance of striking wisely rather than blindly.” He nodded his understanding and soon the group was off yet again towards the Alaziir outpost, and he could not deny that there was something special in knowing that you, with your kin and friends, were about to inflict great pain onto your longtime enemies.

They had walked with renewed silence as they approached the small camp, there were indeed several tents arrayed around a single camp fire which had gone from being a dimly burning flame to even more dimly glowing embers over the course of their journey here, but they were here and soon they would fall upon them and stamp out their persistent viral family once and for all and in doing so they would certainly bring great honor to their names and more importantly peace to their family ancestors who had since passed from this life. However, before they could come upon them and strike a vengeful blow, the ground opened up and men emerged from small compartments which had been dug in concealed with wood covered in sand, much like a spider leaping from its hiding spot. Archers, as the word entered his mind Alach felt the sudden sting of an arrow graze his shoulder, fortunately he still had full range of movement for it had missed its mark but as he charged forward to retaliate his legs gave out and he tumbled to the ground.

Poison… he managed to think while the world around his spun and slowly, the darkness began to creep in from every angle, he could see his kin falling beside him, none seemed more wounded than he. They had chosen to graze them, he concluded, from that range even an incompetent archer could have made his kill… but what did they gain from leaving them their lives? These questions were not answered as the world conceded its defeat and surrendered to the blackness.




Somewhere in Nalaya,
The Genesis of Evil, the Selection

Alach woke with a violent jerk and found himself sleeping on the rug he had selected for himself. It seemed his roommate had elected to remain in the bedroom after all and had done little to bother him over the course of the night, despite the initial misunderstanding. The entrance was still closed firmly, and there was still furniture from around the room pressed against to ensure that none could enter without his knowledge and, depending on their dedication to coming in, his consent. Then a thought crossed him mind, as quickly as a fly might pass a candle flame but certainly it could cast a great shadow. He had blocked the entrance, not an entrance, but the entrance. He was forced to question if he had done his potential foes a disservice by keeping them out or a service by locking himself in. How could have been so foolish? He moved with haste to block the windows to ensure he was obscured from sight from peering eyes, and could feel a sense of paranoia growing with him- though he attributed that to his dream. His dreams often forced him to relive the lowest points in his life though he would pray they were not prophetic.

If it were not for his partner, he would have simply left. Gathered his things and went to anther room or perhaps onto the roof where he could see the city and enjoy the night in the elements, but if he did so and someone were to assault their home while he was away, how would he honor his teammate. Besides, the man of drink may need all the assistance that could be rendered. In times like these he felt that reliance on the old forms, the memories of home and of a life more familiar did him good and so he removed his blades, and took hold of them. They were the ceremonial, and most common weapon of his people, blades which reached down from the wrist to the elbow and just beyond, typically the fighting style of his people demanded a great deal of forearm based attacks and so the weapons had developed naturally. It was considered a mark of manhood to develop a unique form, or ceremonial display with these weapons, and many men had multiple personalized forms for the most important battles in their lifetimes. Tonight, Alach repeated the only form that he still remembered from all the forms he had created and learned over the decades, a personally crated form- it was called Sibea.