The Neigelanders (Closed)

[Neigeland]

The Neigelandic Republic is a billingual nation sitting on the American continent, surrounded by peaceful and prosperous neighbours, and is prosperous itself. It has high levels of education, civil liberties, government transparency, quality of life and human development, all of which are shining symbols of the country's progressive, democratic traditions. But they're not. Neigeland has had a chequered history, one that has not made the country's development easy or simple by any means.

Sitting in the beautiful Pacific Northwest of the Americas, the country has played host to Aboriginal people for thousands of years, before becoming the destination for French, Russian, Spanish and Durlish settlers at the turn of the 18th century. A brief series of wars, a century of colonial administration, and one Neigeland Act later, the country was a new and independent state, eager to throw off it's Durlish colonial image and create a fresh one in a rapidly changing world. But those hopes faded, when a military coup in the 1970s installed a far right government which committed great horrors which are still not spoken about to this day. But then came the nations proudest moment - the Revolution - in the late 1990s led to the creation of the Commonwealth, and then Republic, of Neigeland. A major economic boom transformed the shape of the nation, but the fabric remained the same.

Neigeland's odd charms, it's sometimes terrifying people, and it's problematic and shameful, yet proud and complex history, all play a part in the stories of its people, and the story of Neigeland as a whole. The Neigelanders is a series that follows these people, the ordinary and the extraordinary, as they lead their lives in this rainy corner of the Americas.

~

Updates weekly/twice-weekly/whenever I have the time.

[Neigeland]

~

City of Columbia, Enevoldsen Island

Today was the day that change was to be had. Or perhaps not. It was a cold, rainy, and rather typical day in the Neigelandic capital of Columbia, a charmingly small city nestled on the nestled on the southern extreme of Enevoldsen Island. It was a city of sailboats, petite cafés, quiet walks and of several rather smug politicians (and the others). But today, Columbia was also a city of anger. Thousands of people were expected to take part in a march through the city's narrow streets, with millions more supporting them in their homes. This was a country divided, and that wasn't about to change any time soon.

For Stanley Moss, from the deep Interior, the journey to Columbia was akin, for him, to the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca. He was in his late forties, and so had lived through the best and worst times that Neigeland had to offer him. Ever since the return of democracy in the late nineties, he had stood opposed to every government that had been imposed on him. Preaching their intangible goals. Their endless arrogance in claiming to speak for the nation as a whole. What a joke.

Moss' journey saw a dramatic change from the towering pines and mountain peaks surrounding his home town to the hubbub of an - admittedly small - city. Stanley had hardly left Valemount in the past four years, and why should he? Everything he needed was right there, within easy reach. But political angst knows no home comforts, and so he made the hours long journey across the Rockies and the Coast Mountains to Columbia.

When he arrived at Flagbearers Square, memorially kept in ruin, he was met with a huge mass of people. Every one of them was angry and ready to show it to the government, although exactly what they were angry about was not unanimous. Many of the protesters, including Stanley, were expressing their disapproval of the government's newly adopted immigration policy, spurred on by the data revealed by this years' census. But there were others, more and less extreme, but all sharing a burning desire for change.

The pack moved down the Avenue of the Republic, with the emerald green dome of the Parliament Buildings emerging from the rain in the far distance, as if it were a beacon calling the protesters to where they could be heard. Or most likely ignored - this was a democracy, after all.

Stanley jostled for position among his fellow protesters, diving in between packs of individuals - groups of men who could easily be mistaken for a militia, friends who had come along to express discontent as a group, even the occasional confused person who managed to wind up caught in the crowd. The rain grew more intense, almost as if urging them to stop their procession towards the Parliamentary Lawn and return home. "Typical - even the weather is on their side!" someone jeered, not to far from Stanley himself.

Eventually, the thousands stood before the Parliament Buildings. It was an imposing structure, and a symbol of the very process which allows them to stand in front of it. But no matter, the crowd yelled. And yelled. And yelled. Some even screamed. Calls of "give us our country back," echoed throughout the city. The rain fell harder.

It was hours after the crowds had gathered outside of the Parliament Buildings before anyone was brave enough to show their faces out of the front entrance. It was the Minister for the Interior, Thomas Austin, who ultimately took that leap. The second he appeared on the top of the staircase in front of the building, jeers of "Resign!" began as a low murmur, before exploding into a roaring call to action. Just not the type of action he'd, presumably, like. He spoke through the noise, and tried to shout above the yelling of the protesters, but to no avail.

They were angry, not just at his policies and the policies of his government, but at him. He was the face of a changing state, a nation lost. No matter how much he argued so, he was by no means on their side. As he stopped speaking and turned to return to the Parliament Buildings after minutes of trying to address their concerns and shush their yelling, discontent erupted from the crowd.

And then - a shot.

[Neigeland]

~

It is often the case that even the most noble of causes must eventually suffer some fatal flaw of its own creation. No volume of blind hope, or honorable trust, can alter that fact. But then, you could argue, that the discovery of this flaw gives rise to a nobler cause - learning from our mistakes, if I may. It's the story of humanity.

This chapter was begun in the most brutal of fashions. The world of today would be difficult to recognize to those of yesterday if it were not for the fact that the same tricolor flew above the new cities and towns. Although, that said, there may be some things that would hark back to the days they hailed from. That doesn't mean it's obvious to everyone, by any means.

It was at this time that I started my work as an Investigative Journalist. The humdrum of political life for most was the sweet, sweet material that drove me, and my newspaper. Sure, we had grown a bad reputation - celebrity gossip columns, objectively farcical stories, radical claims about people, food, and lifestyles. But ultimately it is the job of the press to hold the powerful to account. To maintain the order of our democratic societies. And it was me, and my fellow investigative journalists, that revealed, and still do reveal, the truth when no-one else will. If there is a secret, a hidden agenda, or some payments under the table, we'll find it. And boy had we.

The week started like any other would. A short journey on the Rainier city metro, public buses, and then a twenty minute walk. Okay, so perhaps 'short' journey is a bit of a stretch, but admitting anything else would mean i'd have to buy a car, and the road tax was immense those days. I headed into the office, a rather nondescript office building, otherwise unidentifiable among a row of identical buildings if it were not for the Daily Tribune lettering just above the door. Discreetness was key, however. In the past, more prominent homes for our newspaper had been robbed, ransacked, even set ablaze in 2003 after we ran a particularly controversial story on Alexander Mitchell - then just running for the Presidency.

I walked through the lobby, said my hellos to all the usuals, William, Gabriel, Laura, Pierre-Antoine. Oh and Tristan, but through gritted teeth as always. Tristan was the head of my department, Spearhead, which consisted of me and three other journalists and with whom I developed major stories that required weeks, often months, of research and interviews. The Spearhead team was widely regarded among media circles as the best group of investigative journalists in Neigeland, but Tristan's standards were too high for whatever we could achieve. We could bring a story that would cause the collapse of, not only the government, but the entire political system of the Republic, and he'd still consider it a mediocre performance on the part of our team. Ultimately what we found that week was enough to please him immensely, but enough of that for now.

The Spearhead team, as I said, consisted of me and three others; Zac, Sofia, and Isiah. Our excellence derived from our histories - each brought with us a unique set of connections, insights, and background knowledge, which provided a suitable base from which we could truly delve into the areas which the powerful would rather was never seen or exposed.

The story really begins when Zac arrived an hour late that Monday morning. For the past month we had been working on a story about the questionable funding of the NOGC, Neigeland's state-run oil and natural gas company. It was hardly a breaking news story, given the NOGC had had similarly concerning stories about its financial affairs in the past, but it was still an important story nonetheless. Now, Zac was a loud and audacious character, rarely quiet and barely content with sitting behind a desk in silence. But that was exactly what he had been doing for the past week. We of course knew this was unusual, but it was common when he had stumbled upon something big, or at least thought he had. It was always best to leave him to it. That's why it was no real surprise that he was late on that Monday, we presumed he was following up on a lead. And we were right. No surprise there.

It was the scale with which he treated the story when he eventually did arrive to our office which took us all by surprise. He yelled at us to immediately drop what we were doing and join him in a frantic discussion about what he had, or had not, discovered. He said he had been contacted by a source who would prefer to remain anonymous from a body or organization which they would like to keep unknown, with some information of major importance. None of us could believe what we were hearing, not because it was improbable, although it was, but because of the scale of the revelation. The entire landscape of the nation could be changed if this were true. And we could be responsible.

As soon as Zac was done relaying the little information he did have, Tristan barked orders at us to find out more. We were each assigned a location, a target, a piece of information, a whatever, to find, interpret, and bring back to the office as soon as we could. The trio's worn sedans pulled out of the offices' parking lot faster than I'd ever seen anyone leave before. And that's saying something - people aren't exactly keen to hang around after work hours, lest they be pulled into writing another column for tomorrow's release that had yet to be finished. I rued the day that I decided not to get a car because of a few Aces' extra road tax, and called a cab.

One journey and that's those Aces down the drain. What a waste. I thought to myself. Then I thought about where I actually needed to go. Of course, all of the others probably had no idea either, but were just driving off in a panic hoping that they will drive somewhere that can help them find what they needed to find. At least I had the time waiting for the cab to figure it out. I still hadn't figured it out until I actually got in the cab, where I found myself answering Airport in response to the driver questioning my destination. Like putting the cart in front of the horse, I had apparently figured out where I wanted to go without figuring out why, or even how it would work.

Then it came back to me like memories of the night before after a bad hangover, but sort of in reverse. The NAC. Okay, brain, yes good, the NAC, that would work, probably. But how? Moments later a name of a friend I had known for years popped into my head, and I had it all figured out.

I flew from Rainier to Columbia in a matter of hours on the first flight possible. Once there, I made a beeline for the NAC building near the city center. The reception lobby was welcoming, but not nearly as welcoming as I was to the receptionist. First impressions are essential, of course. After a few moments of back and forth filler conversation, Cédric Suchet appeared from around the corner to greet me. Cédric had been a friend of mine for decades at that point, having gone to the same institution as me during the eighties. His accent had grown more prominent in the years since then, which took me by surprise. Although I should have seen that coming - After all, he was known only as Ced during our school years, a completely English Neigelander... definately... assuredly. It wasn't a very convincing act, but it was convincing enough that he was there on that day.

We met and exchanged stories about our families and careers, the usual. Telling him I was here to just appreciate the majesty and scale of the building, and with my keen interest in data and statistics - As far as he knew I was a mathematics teacher - He offered to give me a tour around the sacred labyrinth of the NAC's file stores. The stores were exactly where I'd need to be to find out exactly what I needed to find out, but Cédric wasn't to know what I was doing. When he took me into the main room, I took one wrong turn when following him and ended up lost in the room for half an hour. It was huge after all. When he found me I was all flustered and panicked, clutching my coat and bag as we left.

~

By the time I'd returned to the Daily Tribune offices in Rainier I realized how busy the others had been. Zac had gotten his source to provide a full account of the information he had, Sofia had spent countless hours online and searching through written records searching for exactly what she needed, and Isiah had, like me, hopped on an airplane, although across the Atlantic rather than the Salish straight.

Collectively, we spent all week on that story, developing it into a coherent piece, and fact checking every last detail. A story of this magnitude could not afford to have missing links or false information in it, or it could compromise the story itself. I'll always remember the three words that crept from Tristan's mouth when we showed him the final piece for approval - This is huge!

And that is the story of how I, with a little help from my friends, brought down the Neigelandic Government.

[Neigeland]

~

It was trying times for the fledgling Neigelandic democracy. Scandals surrounding, arguably, the biggest betrayal it is possible to perform in Neigelandic public office, have dampened the popularity of the once untouchable Alliance for Neigeland. At one point, less than two months ago, the party was running with more than fifty percent of the popular vote, relatively unprecedented in western democracies. Now, a referendum was being held on whether the party, and its government, should be recalled. It was political chaos. Of course, no-one was talking about destroying the system, but people had lost faith in the political elite, and the party leaders knew all to well what that could be harnessed into. One shudders at the thought.

Which is why, they said, there are times where the rules must be bent slightly to ensure that this does not happen. Cold, hard facts, must remain the information of the few and not the many. Of course, I disagreed.

~

It was a Monday, and the crisis of 2009 was in full swing. The public vote of no confidence was set for Wednesday, the National Marshals were rounding up cabinet ministers and civil servants for fraud charges like a whale vacuums up krill, and Allen and Gallagher were preparing for all-out party warfare. Of course, nature has its ways of isolating you from the outside world. As the wind threw a gentle breeze through my open window, and ruffled the leaves of the pine trees sitting opposite my house, the political squabbles a hundred kilometers away suddenly seemed insignificant, just a point on the endless stream of human existence, itself just a small marker on the lifespan of the universe.

An address by the Chief Minister blaring out from my TV brought me back to my senses and made me realize how needlessly existential I was being. It was a fact that the way in which the next few days would play out could have a major impact on my livelihood, or my life itself. It was, after all, only under the Republic that minority Neigelanders fared even remotely well. Again, it would never get that drastic. But the fear that it could was always there.

An hour and a half later and I was at work - the Executive Offices in Columbia. Senior government officials worked here, and often their political careers died here. And today was no different, if a little bit more extreme. The National Marshals were searching the building, relentless in their ambition to be seen as independent and transparent. Sure, there had been some people who worked in this building who had done wrong, but they were now either in custody or in jail already. Searching the entire, century old, office building for any signs of Crimes against the Republic seemed at that time as though it was overkill.

I pushed past a group of Marshals and quickly headed up the grand staircase in the center of the building, towards my office. I worked under the Minister for the Interior, Frankie Palmer, as an assistant aide. It was a fancy word for 'coffee collector' mostly, although occasionally I was conferred with the responsibilities of the all important 'file sorter' and 'phone answer-er.' It was riveting stuff. No really, it was. I always wanted to make a difference, and working under one of the most powerful people in the land was certainly an opportunity for me to affect positive change in the government and in the country as a whole.

There were some areas of the Interior Minister's brief which were, and remain, highly sensitive. I was not aware of these areas until this fateful day in the midst of major political turmoil, and not until I arrived at the office and was pulled in by Palmer, who looked inexplicably terrified. The ensuing conversation was incredibly short and functional. He handed me a brown paper envelope out of a compartment in his top drawer, and gave me a knowing look in the eyes, before saying simply Shred. That was understandable. The Interior Minister was in charge of several highly secretive arms of the Neigelandic state, Connaissance, the intelligence service, formed part of his remit, as did regular updates on the activities of the National Marshals and the Neigelandic Forces. Having these found by National Marshals in an office-wide search would not be good for the success of their operations.

In response, I simply nodded, and walked out of his office and down the corridor to the shredder. I heard some Marshals walking up the stairs and searching the offices leading towards the one I was heading towards. My walk got a little brisker, though not so much as to gain their attention. As far as they were aware, I was simply an aide going on a coffee run. Ordinarily I was, so they weren't far off. I knew I shouldn't look at the document. As I got into the room I quickly shut and locked the door behind me, and turned off the light to make it look as though the room was empty. I knew I shouldn't look at the document. I walked towards the shredder and, of course, just as I was about to put the envelope through it, I bowed to my worst instincts and opened it.

And it was the best thing i'd ever done.

The information in the envelope was game changing, and deeply personal. Not necessarily to me, actually, yes, to me. But not just to me. Every Neigelander alive would be affected by the cold, hard facts delivered in this document. To this day, I'm still not entirely sure why to this day the Government had held on to these figures, but I understood why they were to remain a secret. It would risk the stability and security of even the most stable and secure parts of the country. But when I saw the numbers, I knew I had to act. In a flash, ironically, I grabbed my phone and took photos of every single page of that document, all one hundred and fifty of them. I shredded the hard copy and walked calmly down the corridor to the Interior Minister's office, nodding politely at the National Marshals now heading into the shredding room that I had just left.

The expression on my face as I walked back into the office have everything away. Marshals were searching through the office, so our conversation was silent. But I knew that he knew. And he knew that I knew that he knew. It was a game of who could come up with the earliest excuse to leave and take care of matters. Looking back, my excuse to leave wasn't particularly sly. I just murmured a short toilet before leaving the building and heading straight for anywhere else.

I thought of each number, and knew what I had to do. Everyone had a Right to Information, even this.

[Neigeland]

~

11:14 pm | Tan Son Nhat International Airport
Saigon, Yurizlansia

The sun shone brilliantly on the bustling - and humid - city of Saigon as Zac François made his journey across it. Saigon had been the base of Operation Pacific Stability, the Neigelandic Forces' operations in Yurizlansia to fight the local branch of New Dawn. The mission was small, involving just 150 soldiers advising the Yurizlansian Armed Forces on how to combat their shared threat. As the General of that mission, Zac knew Yurizlansia, and, more specifically, Saigon, incredibly well. Zac was on a coach chartered by the Neigelandic Forces to take the soldiers of Operation Pacific Stability to the city's airport, in order to return home for six-month leave. It was just as well, judging by the other soldiers on the coach, they were all exhausted from their time here.

Unloading his luggage from the back of the coach, he looked around and thought of the country he was going to be leaving for half a year. For Zac, and presumably for all of the soldiers, Yurizlansia had become a home, it's people, culture, smells, and sounds, as reassuring and comforting as the faces of loved ones. And yet, it was still not more homely than home itself. Glancing to the rest of his soldiers behind him, a murmuring hoard of excited Neigelanders, Zac led the pack into the airport. As soon as he sighted the immense queue infront of the Go! Neigeland desk, he rueued the day that the Neigelandic Forces decided to buy airline tickets rather than charter a jet.

~

04:36 pm | Go! Neigeland Flight 311
East China Sea

Several hours into this trans-pacific flight, and every soul onboard was dropping into a state of relaxation and mild boredom. Below were the waters of the East China Sea, a great expanse of blue which has played host to some of the most historically significant events in human history. Surrounding it was two global superpowers, some of the greatest civilizations that humanity has ever produced. It was difficult not to feel safe here, knowing that help was always at hand in case of any emergency. And that was essential for Zac - a fear of flying had plagued him from a young age, and it had never subsided. These flights were hell. At times he felt as if the skies were there simply to terrify him, and nothing else.

Sensing his fear, the woman sitting next to him, asked in a thick Yurizlansian accent if he was ok. A hardly encouraging "I'm fine, thank you." was his response, but the quaver in his voice as he said it gave him away. Seconds later, the plane rocked with turbulence, and Zac let out a squeal. (Yes, a forty year old special forces solder let out a squeal.) This was going to be a long flight.

~

05:51 pm | Tokyo Air Traffic Control Center
Tokyo, Kin Jidai

Blips on a screen hardly seem important, but all controllers are aware that each blip represents hundreds of lives, and millions of dollars. One mistake here could be fatal. Kobayashi Shinichi was one of the controllers on duty today, responsible for the North Pacific Air Corridor, channeling thousands of flights per day between North America and Asia. The Corridor was, in the past, nicknamed Death's Alley, as it carried planes over nations that would happily shoot them down for encroaching on their territory. Today, it is one of the busiest air routes in the world, benefiting from the burgeoning trade and newfound inter-connectivity between the Americas and Asia.

Even with this in mind, this post was one of the least strenuous in the Air Control Center. Aircraft could be hundreds of miles apart, and flew in a straight line from east to west or west to east. The opportunity for collisions was almost nil, and the need for routing information was redundant. Kobayashi sat back on his chair and thought of his family, his wife, his kids, back at home. He had only recently had children, and the hours of work he did here was the only time he had to himself. It was easy to drift off here, imagining anything - anything more exciting than blips on a screen.

The sudden sound of an alarm through his headset brought him back to the present. An unresponsive aircraft had strayed into the controlled airspace of Death's Alley. This was hardly anything exceptional, but it was the most exciting thing to have happened to Kobayashi all day. He raised the issue with his superior, before opening the procedural handbook and simply moving the other aircraft in the sky out of its way. It was hardly strenuous work.

~

05:52 pm | Go! Neigeland Flight 311
North Pacific Ocean

It had all happened so fast.

In terrifying co-ordination, ten men got out of their seats and walked purposefully down the aisle. Zac thought nothing of it, until the ringing, deafning scream of an air hostess shot through the air. Instinctively, he reached for his gun, but that left him grasping at the air. Of course he had no weapons, as did none of his fellow soldiers. They would be capable, but they were nonetheless powerless to prevent what appeared to be happening unfold. One of the men stood at the front of the cabin, facing the passengers. He had a stern, aggressive look in his eye, the type that you daren't oppose unless absolutely necessary. It was necessary, but Zac lacked the means and the will to oppose it. With a thick, Yurizlansian accent, he ordered everyone to remain seated, and lifted his blade in order that the cabin could see it. The blade was menacing; there was still the blood of the air hostess dripping from the tip; and Zac suddenly became aware that any action he took could lead to it being his blood dripping from the tip.

The flight just got a hell of a lot longer.

~

10:15 pm | National Air Defence Headquarters
Rainier, Neigeland

A ringing erupted through the quiet Air Traffic Room at the NADHQ, the central point of control for Neigeland's skies. A Kogane voice rang through, "Neigeland Center, this is Tokyo Center, be advised of an unresponsive aircraft entering Neigelandic Controlled Airspace in the 4th Quadrant. We've tried communication for hours but had no response." Jean-Luc Laurent put down the phone, and relayed the message across the room. A scramble erupted, and the silent room was silent no-more. For several months, Neigeland had been in a state of heightened tension following a series of large-scale terror attacks carried out by New Dawn, killing many hundreds. At times, it seemed any anomaly was a national security issue, and this was no different. Calls were made to scramble fighter jets to intercept the aircraft as it neared Neigelandic airspace. Any incursion could be considered an imminent threat.

~

10:35 pm | A19F Rafale Fighter Jet
Neigelandic Controlled Airspace

They are the first line of defence for Neigelanders across the country. The Neigelandic Forces Dassault Rafale fighters are some of the most technologically sophisticated and powerful weapons platforms in the world. They were not to be threatened with. Scrambled from NFB Juneau moments earlier, they were fast approaching the jet in the skies which had caused problems for so long. The lead fighter quickly identified it as a Go! Neigeland jet, before relaying a message to the cockpit. It was a message that no pilot hoped to hear, less so when a country is in such a state of alert.

"Unresponsive Aircraft, A19F, you have entered Neigelandic Controlled Airspace, and you are nearing the integral airspace of the Neigelandic Republic, in a manner which violates the rules of the International Aviation Association and the Air Transport Board of the Neigelandic Republic. Please respond immediately."

No response.

"Unresponsive Aircraft, A19F, you have entered Neigelandic Controlled Airspace, and you are nearing the integral airspace of the Neigelandic Republic, in a manner which violates the rules of the International Aviation Association and the Air Transport Board of the Neigelandic Republic. Please respond immediately."

Again, no response. Then, that dreaded message.

"Unresponsive Aircraft, A19F, I am instructed by the Government of the Neigelandic Republic in my capacity as an arm of the state, defender of the revolution, and arsenal of the Neigelandic Forces, to warn you that if you do not immediately respond to my orders to turn west, you will be shot down."

No response.

[Neigeland]

~

Rarely is it ever acknowledged that the actions that one takes in the distant past can have such a real impact on their present. And at no such time was that truer than now, in this most symbolic of places. Almost two decades ago, in October of 1994, the complete, heartless and brutal destruction of the town of Idaho Falls - and all of its forty thousand residents - was the ultimate casus belli, a rallying cry for all those who had suffered under the Graversen regime. The city lay in ruin, a state in which it has remained since that momentous day, and in the years since has developed into a powerful symbol of what can result from inhumanity.

Visiting the site is rarely a cheerful occasion, but this was one that was more pleasant than normal. Alexander Mitchell, the man who valiantly spearheaded the Neigelandic Revolution, and who was rapidly elected as the first President of the Neigelandic Republic, was attending a ceremony to formally open a museum to document the horrors of the assault on Idaho Falls, and the story that it led to.

The cool, damp, winter air greeted Mitchell as he stepped out of his vehicle in the center of the town. Surrounding him was the epitome of destruction - for miles there lay nothing but empty streets and destroyed buildings, their brickwork grayed from the brutality of war. There was but one exception; the shining glass building that would soon house the Idaho Falls museum sat uncomfortably on the town's Main Street, as if it were extravagantly showing off its innate wealth and modernity to the greatly impoverished. The idea behind the placement of the museum in the center of a ruin was to create a sense of the vastness of the destruction as visitors drive through the town; Alexander simply found it distasteful.

He was duly greeted at the entrance of the new building by the Chancellor of the Trust for the Past who, in the absence of any government-sanctioned memorials to the revolution or the regime preceding it, acted as the person responsible for funding and maintaining Neigeland's many unofficial dedications to the dead. He was an elderly, weedy man, not much more so than Alexander himself. The pair knew eachother well, having attended similar events several times together in the past, and proceeded to chat about what the other had been up to.

~

Several hours later, Alexander found himself standing in front of the museum's vast atrium, to a crowd of assembled visitors. As lights flashed and smiles beamed up at him, Alexander felt at peace. After nine long years as head of state, a little respite in the form of straightforward public appearances was exactly what he'd needed. "I would like to declare the Idaho Falls Museum and Memorial formally open." He proudly declared, "May we never forget the lives of those who died as a result of their brutality, our inaction, and that poisonous ideology." He added, to rapturous applause.

Under his breath, Alexnader mumbled a slight Per Nostrorum Liber Spiritum. The phrase, meaning "By our free spirit," was Neigeland's national motto, and one which he had learned to appreciate over the past two decades. He was a socialist, and this was by no means his ideal state, but this Neigeland had become his home, and he found that the more he lived here, the more he appreciated it.

Just as the attention of the crowd began to turn toward the building itself, whose doors were now just being opened, the scream that strikes terror into every Neigelander's heart roared across the plaza. NEVER ENDED! NEVER DEFEATED!, the rallying call of New Dawn, rocked the crowd, moments before the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang across the air. Stunned silence was followed by deafening screaming as the crowd parted ways and fled the plaza.

Children, mothers and fathers, ran down the streets of a town which had seem the same before. Like mirrors of the past families whom they were paying respects to, they moved in a great rush down the town's Main Street, with the threat of attack from the same enemy bearing down on them. It was haunting, knowing that the sounds were indistinguishable. Knowing that the nation, for all its progress, was always threatened by reminders of its past. No matter how much it had tried to move past them. Within minutes, the plaza was as barren as it had been just hours prior.

All that remained was the body of an old man, lying lifeless in the very place which gave him his life. The sense of irony would not be lost on the public; everyone knew that was the reasoning behind this act. But that irony was merely an expression of the unfairness of this, echoed by the sense of unfairness that Neigelanders had held for years. They knew it, and this would prove it. Just not yet.

[Neigeland]

~

Feelings of remorse and anger are perhaps the two most difficult emotions to repress. It is also a fact that where remorse comes, anger often follows, at oneself, at others, or at the natural course of events, as one struggles to come to terms with whatever it is they may have lost. Whether a person, an idea, or an object, these principles are held true, and are reflected in events across the country. Especially today.

State Funerals are often a national affair, and this one, Neigeland's first, truly conformed. Alexander Mitchell, the man who many label as the 'father of the nation', had died just weeks prior after being shot by a militant from the New Dawn insurgent group; a terror group which has rocked Neigeland for decades. The country had long tolerated the ideology surrounding the group as part of a national programme of reconciliation, but the murder of Mitchell, perhaps Neigeland's most revered man, had been a watershed moment for the public. And, if slowly, the government was starting to agree.

But, as the rain battered down on the city of Columbia, and the procession of friends, family, and partners of Alexander moved toward the Christ Church Cathedral, any sense of this anger had been replaced by regret, sorrow, and remembrance. His coffin, draped in both the green, white and blue of the Neigelandic flag, and the blood red of the socialist flag, was carried down the city streets, from the ruins of the old parliament buildings, to the site that would soon become his final resting place. People of all colours, ages, and creeds, lined the route, offering a Neigelandic salute as the procession passed, as a final mark of respect for the man that provided them with the opportunity to do just that.

In the first row of the procession, alongside Alexander's close family, was Claudia Béliveau, the Chief Minister. She had worked alongside Alexander in the final half of his Presidential term, and the pair had grown into close colleagues and friends. As they walked behind the coffin, Claudia talked with Alexander's grieving family; consoling them, and learning about his personal and private affairs. Apparently he had a particular interest in Motorsports - something which seemed to immediately make sense of all of the odd occasions in which Claudia had seen Alexander fixated on motor sports news rather than his presidential duties.

The procession was a relatively short one, but it felt longer from the number of people it had passed. What felt like several hours later, although it was probably a mere thirty minutes or so, the coffin - and the forty to fifty people invited to walk behind it - had arrived at the Christ Church Cathedral for the ceremony itself. It promised to be an understated affair, and the scene as they entered the cathedral hall itself confirmed this. Austere benches, walls removed of religious symbolism, and the simplicity of the candle lighting, created an air of simplicity that was a perfect reflection of Alexander himself. In fact, the only color in the room was the large, plain red flag hung at the far end of the hall, in front of the large stained-glass window.

The use of the red flag in the State Funeral was in itself a measure of respect for Alexander, an ardent socialist, as the government had not ordered such a move. Independently, across the country, the vast majority of national flags were temporarily replaced by the socialist banner, not driven by ideological revolt, but instead by a genuine feeling that Alexander's beliefs should be respected and represented, whether one shared these convictions or not. In a sense, this was exactly what he had fought and died for.

The ceremony was led by Noah Rose, the incumbent President, with contributions from prominent leaders of all major faiths, and from people of all walks of life. The ceremony was a true representation of the Neigeland that Alexander had been instrumental in creating, where all are equal. And those were the very words of Claudia Béliveau as she gave the ceremony's closing remarks. With a tear in her eye, she walked up to the coffin, sat under the red banner hanging from above, and said a truly heartwarming "Thank you."

The faces in the hall lit up as did hers, before the coffin was picked up once more to be carried out of the hall and to his final resting place. It had been a day of remorse, of national grieving. And it was only the first. But, of course, they did not know that.