Daily life of Alithea [IC][Alithea members only]

[Nauchrtenfield]

Thursday, June 11th , 2020, 1123 hours local time.
Winfield Elementary School, Nauchrtenkiapitell.

Winfield Elementary School was a typical government school affair on the capitol island, if larger than most newer schools. A large central corps de logis with two wings, housed the eleven hundred students during the day. The buildings were built in the first half of the twentieth-century, and still carried the hallmarks of such classical architecture, but continually upgraded into the modern century. The cour d'honneur contained the main entrance into the reception area, and as well the “Front-Yard '' meant for the older student, with ample seating, both open and more private, closed in with bushes and flower beds, or small open pavilions. Here the students in 7-9th grade would spend the longer times between classes, when such a luxury was afforded, as well as on the sports-fields, when such were not in use by the PT classes.

On a normal day students here would walk, chat, do homework, and do what else children aged fourteen to seventeen do when not being ground and molded by the educational system, yet not free to leave its grounds. Among the pupils, clad in neat school uniforms, Teachers and Assistants would patrol the grounds, standing out from a regular adult by a brassard carrying the school name and logo, and the text “Duty Staff”.

But this was no normal day, the front yard lay empty and barren. Bar a singular teachers assistant, who stood there to catch any latecomers. Likewise so the reception and corridors were empty and lacking the distinct hubbub of a school bursting with life, yet for a custodian taking the calm opportunity to get some particularly old and stubborn grime off the walls and doorways.

But the Assembly Hall was an exception to this, the large room, with a stage in the front and second half-floor with a grand total of six hundred seats, would not look out of place hosting a concert or dance, and this was a purpose that it was used for with some regularity. But today this was not its purpose, rather on the stage stood a singular table, some papers on it, and a large, heavy, old chair behind it - flanked on either side by smaller, but equally old chairs, In the central chair, like so many with the posting before, sat the First Headmaster, overall in charge of the school, and at this particular school in charge of the “Upper-Elementary '' classes, that is, seventh to ninth grade.

Flanked on her right sat the School Administrator, and on her left the First Teacher for the 9th grade students. This teacher was responsible for overall planning of the school year together with the other teachers, so that the class would receive all the education mandated by the National Agency for Education.

These three postings made up the most senior, and traditionally prestigious, postings at a state school, and today they had the duty to send the students away for the summer, or atleast, most of the students. For the 9th graders another fate was in store, for they would soon have to drop the descriptor “child”.

In front of the First Headmaster, the roughly one-hundred and twenty students who were now leaving 9th grade. All the other upper classes have just been dismissed to leave by class into the awaiting small army of parents, family and loved ones waiting in the “back-yard” of the school.

In this cluster of students, occupying the front rows of the hall, sat Erika Walin, soon formerly of class 9C. She had rehearsed for this for several days now in her head. The First Headmaster would announce a few smaller-scholarships to individual students, “Best result in National Test” and the such, the money to be used to further the relevant interest in the student when they start High School, the next level of mandatory schooling.

After that she would say a few parting words, as would the first teacher, the Mentors for each class already having said their own during the morning time spent together, as tradition demanded eating breakfast and, for most, enjoying the last few hours of time they had together as students of this school, talking, reminiscing. Such were the emotions that even the loners in every class tended to join in, for ahead lay something new, and relatively unknown. For the teachers this to was a time of emotion, they had followed the class for three years, being their mentor they had been ultimately responsible, and acted as as scholarly-parental figure, educating and trying as best they could to prepare the pupils under them for what laid ahead, now and in the future. They had seen them develop from the children they were in 7th grade, to the young adults that they now where, 16 or 17 years of age.

Erika listened to the First Headmaster deliver the scholarships to the lucky pupils, who walked upon the stage, took the hand of the three seated, and then took their diploma, before returning to the seat they came from under polite mandated applause from their peers.

So too she listened to the two speeches, it was your typical “thank you for your time, you can be proud of yourself, now go forth and never waiver” - type of speech, but the words did not sound hollow, they did mean it, as they did every year when they delivered, if not ad verbum, at least a similar speech with the same core ideas.

And so it was, that the end of this tradition was coming to its end, and the Headmaster again stood up and spoke “Graduating classes shall now prepare to be dismissed by class. When dismissed, file out via the closest door, await instructions in the waiting hall. Class A - Dismissed” she said, and at the end of her words Class 9A did as they were told, stood up from their seating, and in a semi-ordered line, left the large hall. As the last student left, the headmaster read out the next class, and the next, and so on, until the hall was empty bar the three adults seated on the scene.

Erik followed her classmates as they shuffled out from the seating lines, and into the walkways, and headed for the doorways, into the waiting hall. The hall was just a empty room used to hold guests and visitors before opening the doors into the meeting hall, attached to it with a desk was a coat room, where you could either walk in and hang your own coat, or at larger events, staff for said event could take care of such for you, for a fee of course.

But such was not its purpose today, for by the long desk-opening sat two women, and one man, all wearing light grey suits, white shirts and a dark blue tie with a tie pin in the shape of a emblem; the emblem of the National Defence Recruitment Agency. On either side, and flanking the doors into freedom, and awaiting family and loved ones stood soldiers in dress uniform, carrying the insignia of the Military Police, as well as a brassard on the right upper arm, spelling it out in large white block letters.

The students formed into the rough shape of three lines in front of those that would now deliver what fate awaited the, now-former students for the next two years. Erika happened to end up on the front, and as the last those of her parallel class were given their verdict she was motioned forward to the suited man.

“Class, Number, and name?” he asked with the a severe lack of interest or care, just as those in charge of the tests conducted during spring break a few months earlier had done, Erika mused that the only people in this agency that seemed to even pretend to be anything but a drone was the psychological staff, whom had conducted interviews, to understand what made the students tick.

“Class C9, 030514-52147, Walin, Erika” she replied, and did her best to seem unfazed by what lay ahead, as the drone shuffled the collection of papers, and then produced a document, comparing the picture on file to that of the girl in front of him, before handing it over to her. She accepted it, and stepped quickly out of line, as the drone pressed a button on his laptop, and then drew a line over her name on the paper list.

She glanced at the paper as she exited the room, into the sunlight outside, and then curiosity won over, and she stepped out of the way, and folded open the paper, she skimmed the non-important parts, her test and evaluation scores and formalities, until she reached the lines she was looking for;

REPORTED MEDICAL ISSUES - NO SUITED FOR WEAPON SERVICE - YES ASSIGNED PRELIMINARY STATION - GUNNER, INFANTRY SECTION ASSIGNED PRELIMINARY UNIT - 21ND GUARDS DRAGOON REGIMENT REPORTING STATION - WINFIELD ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, MAIN PARKING LOT - JUNE 13TH 0800 HOURS LOCAL FAILURE TO REPORT AS ORDERED, FOR ANY REASON, IS A CRIME

She chuckled at the ending, a threat, to those that would seek to dodge paying back to society, not that she had any such inclination, like most of her peers, she was looking forward to it, to pay back what she had been given, to serve her nation. To develop into her own person, to test her limits and so forth, A product of her schooling.

She was not all happy however as she started to walk towards the small ensemble of her family and relatives, she had been assigned as a grunt, she had wished for a position in either the kitchens, or in the medical arms of the force, maybe even a civilian posting. Maybe she could ask for a transferee after having completed the basic two month general training. But for now, no such luck was in store for her.

[Nauchrtenfield]

Thursday, June 12th , 2020, 2347 hours local time.
Nauchrtenkiapitell

The summer air was crisp as Erika Walin, formerly a student of class C9, Winfield Elementary School, looked out over the houses and city around her. She stood on top of an observation tower located on a hill, the hill itself a relatively large green area, a relatively common sight in the nation. Her bike rested against a tree. She rested against the railing.

The hour was late, and yet the sun had just started to escape the sky above, it would throw yellow and red beams for a few more hours yet, she liked it; the sky full of red and orange hues. The wind rustled her hair slightly, like strands spun from gleaming silver waiving ever so little. For she, like not an insignificant number of her countrymen had a genetic mutation that gave her hair raining from white as snow, to that of silver and platinum. Often just called “Nachrten Blond” or “Nachrten White” both inside and outside the country.

She heard steps in the staircase, like someone running like possessed up them, towards the sky; towards her. Then, they stopped.

She did not bother looking around, she knew who it was, she had seen him approach on his own bike after all. Soon she heard the steps come closer, and within moments another person stood beside her, his chest moving as his breath stabilized and normalized.

“Unable to sleep?” he asked her, looking out over the city, it is lights, it is buildings, it is people. Oddly, quiet it seemed to him, but then again, it was late on a workday, so he should not be surprised.

“Yesh, same?” she replied, not taking her eyes of the city either

“same” he said, taking one final deep breath, and added “I knew you’d be here”

“I knew you’d be here too” Erika said.

“I guess that’s what ten years of friendship makes”

“That, and we always go here when we need to think, or cry”

The other person waited a while before answer, as if thinking deeply over what had brought them here this time; “fair” he finally said.

They both looked out over the city, watching the rays of sunset paint everything in its orange hue. She liked it, from here they could, and had watched the city as they contemplated the short life they had lived. It was here that they both had cried after the first breakup. For him two years ago, for her; two months. Here they could talk, or just sit, and the world would not seem as oppressing or overbearing, as it sometime does. Here they could for a moment ignore any problems, and just exist, as two friends – two companions. But not anymore, they should both be in bed. Tomorrow they where supposed to report to a staining ground before being sent away from friends and family, from home, for two long years. National Service: a privilege, and duty of all that would be citizens. She would remain on the island, as it was looking to be a grunt. He would travel across the nation by train, and on the border of Nachrtenfield and its brother nation Stier he would serve in the border rangers.

Neither of them did not, not want to do it, they wanted to do their part, as good citizens. But such on the eve of their childhood, as the sun set with their final hours of that title, they were deep in thought. Ahead laid the unknown, and the unknown always makes you want to hold on to the present.

This might very well be the last time they saw each other for two years, those undergoing national service where not allowed phones or personal laptops, so video calls where out of the picture. Likewise, while they were granted leave, the distance between the capitol and the border would mean that it would be unlikely that they could meet, assuming the leave matched up to start with. Of course, they were allowed to send letters each week, free of charge at that.

Time passed, how long she could not tell for sure, but not more then two hours, for the sun still defied the night. His hand moved closer to hers, and then they found the hands interlocked.

Time passed, then he broke the silence; “Hey, Erika” he simply said.

“Yea?” she replied, not taking her eyes of the woodland that surrounded them both

There was hesitation, she knew without seeing that he was voicelessly wording with his mouth, like he was trying out the words before he said them. Then they came; “I think I love you” he simply stated.

Erik was not shocked; she had a feeling – and she replied

“I know” Then it was her turn to hesitate, she opened her mouth, and stood looking something like a fish for what felt like an eternity. She shook her head, took a breath, looked towards her long-time friend, and spoke again; “I love you”. She almost screamed them out into his face, as her eyes locked with his. The conviction and emotion in her words surprised even herself.

They stood there, looking at one another, their bodies still facing the city, one hand still locked together, unsure of what to do now.

He was the one to again speak first, as he returned his gaze to the outside, and laughed a short, happy laugh; “Lets stay here for a bit more, shall we?”

She retuned her own gaze, and taking the step leaned her body ever so slightly against his; “lets do so” she said, before taking the plunge and adding “darling”. The whole scene was awkward, the movements and words did not come naturally. But it was a start, and for now at least, it would do.

It was fortunate that they where not allowed to take any civilian effects bar a small collection of pictures and other such small items of affections, that meant that neither had to worry about packing bags, or getting home at all before breakfast.

[New Hayabusa]

"Rogue Lion" Act I

Theme: Lorn - Ghosst(s)

Soraught, Donnerland | 2017

Droplets of rain from the dim pre-dawn sky fell upon heavy eyes from the windows of derelict buildings, giving wake to the scores of men permitted to rest, and pestering those who selflessly chose to suffer the weight of their eyes to protect the others. Sharply cold air engulfed street and corridor alike, the lack of window panes in all directions proving fruitful for the punishing wind. Barely visible through the rain and fog were the distant monolithic skyscrapers of central Soraught, void of their normal livelihood and stripped from the inside out. A serene silence had fallen over the waking Royal Marines tasked with the seizure of Est-Medguhln, as outlined by Coalition plans. For a moment, it was easy to embrace the delusion that one wasn't in a state of warfare, but instead waking up as normal under the clean, peaceful skies of Eden or Artalia. Just as quickly as the serenade of silence came, it went. Bursts of bullets meant for their heads tore through air in front of them, impacting the flimsy walls which stood as loyal as an animal, protecting the men from their imminent demise. Easily audible became the storms of gunshots and explosions in the distance, complemented strikingly by tracers through the air and bursts of energy lighting up the sky. The droning and chopping of aircraft and the roar of heavy vehicles lended it all a terrifying audial ambience.

The fresh faced Corporal Anthony Murray had been caressed into consciousness by the rain falling over his eyelids, but jolted awake by bullets impacting the concrete wall he was leaning against. Every bone in his body ached from days on the move under fire with only blinks of sleep. His hands included, as he noticed they had been clamped tightly around his ACX service rifle even in his sleep. Taking a quick peak out of a nearby window, he wasn't able to see much under the very dim sky beyond the valley of half-destroyed buildings and scattered belongings, but it wouldn't be long until muzzle flashes would become visible as the Donnish would continue their fire. Soon enough, light artillery from the command company would respond with a few HE rounds in the direction of the gunfire, but nothing more. Ground operational capacity had been severely limited by Donnish aerial superiority, and the fighting had subsequently become a bloody close-quarters moshpit. Murray would complete his usual routine - forcing himself to stand up, having a quick stretch, donning his gear, and harrying awake the men of his section alongside his second-in-command. He moved nonchalantly, with an exaggerated, perhaps unhealthy degree of poker-faced calm in doing so, unbothered by the steadily impacting rounds in his waking state.

A true melting pot mash of faces and personalities, his section consisted of 9 men from all different backgrounds and ethnicities within the Great Kingdom - Edenic, Artalian, Latin, Hmong, Quarian, Vanquarian; rich, middle class, and poor. Originally, they had been brought together by their sense of obligation to the nation that had spoilt them with a childhood of fortune, and bonded by the prospect of lifelong brotherhood through thick and thin. Currently though, they were bonded together only by a deep sense of begrudging determination, hell-bent on making it out of Soraught, the meat grinder of Helsa, in one piece. With haste, they all eventually woke, inhaled a field ration, and prepared to move.

The 2nd Melbury Commando as a whole had been undertaking a massive operation to take a sizeable district on the inner outskirts of Soraught, Est-Medguhln. They had brute-forced their way through about a quarter of it already, but progress was moving at a snail's pace, as they were facing some of the stiffest and most consistent resistance throughout the entire city. Every meter of ground gained had been fought and paid for in some way, with the blood of a GK soldier, a Donnish soldier, or most terrifyingly, a civilian. The unit had positioned themselves in a line across what appeared to once be the commercial centre of the district, taking shelter behind the concrete and brick walls of interlinked stores and flats. Ahead of them was a sea of homes that had been beaten or shattered by constant small arms and light artillery fire, creating a de-facto no man's land between them and the Donnish line. Mangled civilian bodies littered the street, their belongings spread across the ground or flowing in the wind, their homes littered with holes or gone entirely. Destroyed cars, military vehicles, and debris broke lines of sight between the Royal Marines and their opponents, but shooting continued for 23 hours out of every day.

Today, the 2nd Melbury Commando was tasked with mounting a unified advance through the district, on a strict timetable to push the Donnish line in Est-Medguhln back significantly by week's end. Murray could hear the fighting as it begun, as what started with bursts of fire from the opposing line quickly turned into a never-ending thunder of bullets and explosions as the battalion IFVs and standoff companies pressed forward through the contested streets. After a few hours, at late sunrise, Murray's section, which was optimised for close combat, would be cued to join the advance.

Leading the group of 9, Murray took the first steps outside the ransacked foodstore they had been taking shelter in. Promptly, rain from the suffocating overcast began to fall over them. Tracer rounds flew over their heads, providing a strobing source of light through the light morning fog. Ahead, he could pick out the silhouettes of other troops locked into the firefight, clinging to what flimsy cover they managed to grab. Immediately noticeable was the daunting reality that the advance was not only taking fire from where the Donnish line was originally parked, but also from homes very close by in front of them, which meant that either the Donnish Army had pushed up to meet the offensive or that the civilian inhabitants of the homes had remained in position despite the constant danger from both sides, waiting for the GK troops to expose themselves. Either way, a serious wrench had been thrown into the 2nd's plans.

The section moved with haste under cover towards the back wall of a separated home, located diagonally relative another run-down home. Chancing a gaze around the corner, Murray could pick out the occasional muzzle flash appearing from one of the windows or cracks in the walls. By this point, the section was extremely close to the enemy combatants, no more than 75 meters separated them from the nearest opposition. Before he had the chance to communicate the situation, a thermobaric rocket ripped through the air, blasting fire out of several of the house's open areas. The white-grey walls had turned to black. Whoever was in there was likely dead or dying.

"What the fuck are we doing!?" screamed Thao, the section's squad gunner, "we're gonna end up like them if we don't do something! Blown up just like them!"

Lowering his mask, Murray relayed the question up through the radio, screaming over the chaos.

"What exactly are we expected to do here?" he asked, "there's too much fire coming our way for us to move up safely, and if we stay here much longer we're going to start taking explosives."

"Your section must proceed forward and clear out the homes ahead by any means necessary," the response came snappy, "the Donnish Army have been using this part of the district as a screen to move troops elsewhere, that's why they're not pushing out. We're already stalling out. If you don't get your arses up there quickly we're going to be waist deep in it on our flanks."

By any means necessary, of course.

Murray raised his mask again and turned to the section.

"We're in the shit today, lads. There's a house to our northwest, very close. It's where that rocket just impacted. We're going to need to clear that one, and the next couple behind it. At least the one's that aren't piles of debris. Its either Donnish Army or a hostile civilian in our way, so assume every contact is a threat. Don't fuck about, just shoot. Martin, your team will suppress and cover, my team will breach. When clear, we will signal you over and suppress. Repeat until every last one of these sorry fuckers are dead, you've got me fucked up if any of us are dying in this shithole."

He didn't let an ounce of hesitation or doubt pass through his voice, he couldn't afford to. The men looked to him for composure and guidance in the chaos, and he considered himself no-good if he broke the character. In reality, he was terrified, and reckoned that only a divine intervention would allow them to come out with their lives at the end of the day. A subtle quiver slithered through his body, starting from the back and down to his gloved hands, clamped tightly around his ACX. Once again glancing around the corner, he could see that the shooting from the closest house had come to stop, but muzzle flashes were now noticeable in the debris dozens of meters behind it. Whoever survived the rocket must've doubled back. Tracers from more distant targets were still tearing through the air, likely from the Donnish Army positioned in the buildings beyond the ruined residencies. Realising that there would be no moments of guaranteed safety, he snapped his arm up, signaling the movement to begin.

Murray and his team of 4 sprinted across the road to hug the wall on the other side. Immediately after they had all rounded the corner, the other team spread out and began laying suppressive fire towards the nearby debris and farther-off buildings. The overbearing roar of the G70M GPMG and three ACX rifles gave Murray and his team a sense of reassurance as they moved quickly, crouched up against a wall to their right until they crossed into the front garden of the blackened house, loosing shots at it as they approached. He reached a window, and peered in. Two dead bodies, no longer identifiable. He and his oppo positioned to breach through the half-destroyed front door, while the two others positioned to do the same from a man-sized hole in the wall. On his signal, they busted into the home in sync. their senses peaked, looking frantically around at every corner hoping that no one would be there. After clearing each room, the team regrouped behind cover in what must have been a kitchen before the battle.

"Nothing but dead people," Murray said," 3 bodies unidentifiable, you?"

"Same," replied Jansson, "3 bodies, two men and a woman, burnt up. They've got really old equipment. Whoever's ahead for sure are not regulars."

"Donnish Army's using these people as human shields, fucking unreal."

It was true - the Donnish Army positions were some few hundred meters in the distance, and it had been confirmed that they did not move forward, and instead stayed put. The lifeless bodies in the house were once part of one of the armed militias consisting of volunteer civilians enlisted by the Voy government. The Donnish Army were currently using them as a screen ahead of a screen - their mission was to hold their position at all costs in order to screen for troop movements behind them moving to reinforce other districts. If the Royal Marines succeeded in capturing the residential blocks ahead of them, they would be positioned much closer to the Donnish front line, and their light artillery components would be in range to either hit or slow down the enemy troop movements in question. By doing this, other Coalition elements would be able to press up faster and provide support to the 2nd Melbury, and be freed up to help to grind down the Donnish Army's line in Est-Medguhln with volume of fire, light artillery, and airstrikes if they elected not to retreat.

With the house clear, the squad had begun to engage the enemies from windows and openings at the back end. Silhouettes of people began to emerge from debris no farther than 60 meters from the house. The team wasted no time on verifying the threat, the four rifles immediately laid into the darting silhouettes, cutting them down as fast as they rose. The decision was unnaturally easy to make - ending the lives of the faceless. After only a few seconds, Murray felt the heat of rounds whizzing by his head, and the house rocked with the force of accurate incoming rounds. Quickly, the team crouched one-by-one back to the front garden and into the view of the rest of the section. Murray signaled them over and began to fire indiscriminately towards the enemy positions with the rest of his team, attempting to lay down suppression for the others to advance. In a flash, five bodies came crashing into cover with them, breathing hard and shaking with adrenaline. They exchanged quick glances and a relieved laughter. For a moment, their boyishness and pure humanity gleamed in a flicker of respite. Very quickly, they were knocked back into their programming as an explosive round impacted dangerously close to them in the nearby street. The smiles vanished, laughter faded, and emotions departed.

"We may be coming up close to the Donnish Army's positions," Murray remarked, reloading his ACX, "I don't think they're as far away as we were told. Or they've moved up."

"Good, fuck them," Jansson replied snappily, "the faster we can waste these pieces of shit, the faster we can rest. I've had it with this miserable fucking country!"

The section replied with a silent agreement as Murray quickly looked off to their flanks. On the left, through multiple buildings and down a street, he caught a glimpse of a Bear IFV firing its main gun in the direction of the enemy. On the right, he could see the silhoettes of Royal Marines in a very similar position, stationary behind cover. They appeared to be one of the other close quarters sections. He exchanged a wave with one of them. who appeared to be Denarov, the section leader, and spoke into his radio.

"Denarov, is that you?"

"Yeah," Murray's close friend, the ethnic Vanquarian, replied, "its me. Your lads alright?"

"We're all good, yeah. Yours?"

"A couple grazes but yeah, we're all alive. Just had to waste what I think was a family, they all had guns and just... they wouldn't fucking listen," Denarov's voice cracked with a flicker of sorrow, "we had to do it."

"Yeah," Murray said through a deep exhale, "same over here, dropped a lot of them... we're thinking the Donnish Army's positions are close."

"They are, we've just seen them over at that store directly north of you. It's tough to see through the fog and debris, but if you peer around the corner you should see a half destroyed blue sign in front of it. They're there."

"Why are they farther ahead of the rest of their congregation?"

"Probably directing all these irregulars. Have to be. We've got to take them before they bug out. We can light them up if you want to take your guys to them. We're still stacked on HE."

"Seriously?" Murray asked, chuckling nervously.

"Yeah, you owe me one, remember? Plus, you're closer."

Another explosion rocket the nearby street, closer this time. Tracers continued to ripple through the air over their heads. There was no time to argue, no time for hesitation. Murray gave an affirmative response to Denarov, and turned to address his section. He could see his own suppressed emotional rollercoaster reflected in their eyes.

"Heres how its going to be - Kham, Harry, and Luke, you're going to spread out along the street and provide covering fire on the building with the blue sign with the Type 1 LAWs and G70M along with Denarov's section over there. Don't be scant, just pour everything you got onto it. The rest of you are with me, we're taking that building, Donnish Army's in there. We're going to be be fish out of water, there's not a lot of cover. We'll be relying on the cover fire. Don't stop running."

With an eager nod of acknowledgement, the section took up positions, awaiting their signal. Again, they offered no questions to Murray's feigned astuteness. Looking around the corner of the house, he could easily pick out the building in question - it seemed to be the only remaining standing edifice with a concentration of activity within visual range. Breathing deeply in a sincere but futile attempt to calm his nerves, Murray had come to terms with the comedy of his predicament - that everything he had ever done in his short life had led up to a gunfight for a derelict shop, and that the chances of it ending there were higher than it continuing.

"Now!"

Immediately, sheets of rounds from the adjacent section came pouring onto the shop. The return fire was equally as voluminous. The three covering members of Murray's section, abandoning all realistic hopes for self preservation, sprinted out into the open street to mount up behind debris doubling as flimsy cover, opening up a barrage from a second angle. Murray and the rest of the section lurched out from behind the house and began dashing at the target, completely exposed. Despite the fact that the building was being completely saturated with bullets and small explosives, Murray was still able to see a light show of muzzle flashes coming from its openings, much to his dread. Smoke and dust kicked up all around their feet as bullets impacted right next to them. After covering half the distance, they had to watch their steps as they ran through a concentration of bodies strewn across a littered street - the dead or dying bodies of the people they silhouettes they had gunned down just minutes before, their pained faces all too noticeable in the split second they were visible. Not a moment later, Murray found himself planted against the outer left wall of the shop.

There was no time to think, as rounds from deeper inside the Donnish lines immediately began landing closely around them. They all attempted to return fire at the targets they could not remotely see, but it amounted to nothing. Murray watched as two of his men fell to the ground instantaneously, impacted by a salvo of rounds lethally. They had been Brandon Grey and Harry Olsen, the musician and the account as civilians, an inseparable duo full of energy, and close personal friends to Murray, like brothers. Now, they laid as dead as the rest of the bodies on the ground, rifles still in hand, but not given the chance to fight back. They'd been struck down by the same hammer they so willingly brought down upon others. A scream from the man behind him snapped Murray out of an involuntary trance. Without thinking, he slammed the stock of his ACX into a door on the side of the wall, followed by the rest of his bodyweight.

He, and the remaining Magnus Jansson and Tommy Alvarado, came face to face with four wounded, uniformed Donnish soldiers, leaned up against the wall as tended to them.

"DON'T!!!" Murray screamed, fearing the inevitable.

It was too late, they had all reached for their rifles and were in the middle of aiming. The Donnish never surrendered. Murray, Jansson, and Alvarado simultaneously pulled their triggers, riddling the three downed enemies and medic with dozens of rounds, killing them instantly. Murray noticed that the room appeared to be a small inventory and storage area, and that there were two doorways, both broken, leading out of it. He signaled Jansson and Alvarado to one door, and he himself moved to the other, stepping over the bodies as he went, and wiping the dust off of his ballistic goggles. Peeking through the doorway he had chosen, he could see that it opened up to a cramped corridor with three doorways on the right side to what were presumably offices, with light pouring into them, indicating that there were windows. At the end of the corridor was yet another door, which he gathered probably led to the main area of the building. He could hear coughing and indistinct voices coming from through the doorways. As soon as he heard that, a Donnish soldier leaned out from the second doorway and fired wildly at Murray, who jumped back behind the corner, screaming as he tripped back over the bodies. More fire came through the doorway as he backed up and aimed towards it.

Before he was able to properly process the situation, Murray heard an enraged yell, complemented by the lumbering clamour of footsteps running rapidly towards him from the doorway. He jolted back to his feet as two Donnish soldiers came running through the opening. In a tornado of smoke and confusion, Murray unleashed what was left in his ACX towards the two enemies who were just out of arm's length. They responded in kind, rapidly unloading rounds in his direction. Murray felt two sharp stabs of pain ripple through the left side of his body - he had been shot in the shot in the arm and chest plate. As his back impacted the wall hard, nearly knocking his air out, he saw that one of the enemies had dropped to the floor. The other had raised his arm, blade in hand, and about to slam it down on Murray's neck area. In a fit of panic, he raised his able right arm threw himself into his opponent, keeping his head low and pushing with enough force to briefly lock the two, face to face. Through his ballistic goggles, Murray could pick out a face as young and scared as his own, screaming out of rage and panic just the same. He felt as though he were flying as his left leg was taken out from under him, and was sent to the ground via an obviously well-practiced takedown. Murray responded with a lurching defensive kick to the enemy's left leg, staggering him to the ground and causing him to lose grip of his blade. The enemy had already picked up a rifle off the ground as Murray began reaching for his sidearm. Both stood and fired simultaneously, connecting with shots squarely to each others chestplate.

Murray had fallen to the ground again with his enemy. He could no longer find the strength to even look up, let alone raise his arm to shoot again. Moments of struggling felt like hours, accompanied by the pain of a thousand stabs. Lost for air, with a feeling that everything in his body was broken, he began to come to terms with his end, the lucid thoughts of his fondest memories racing through his mind, producing what could pass as a smile. His thoughts were however interrupted by the sound of gunfire, as his two comrades came rumbling through the door he had sent them through, blasting the Donnish soldier as he was rising to his feet with intention to kill. Slipping in and out of consciousness, Murray felt himself being dragged somewhere. He could identify the muffled voices of Jansson and Alvarado, who were already in the process of identifying his wounds and undertaking emergency measures to stop them. By now, a pool of blood had formed around his left side as his arm continued to bleed as they worked to cover and wrap it. There was nothing they could do about the broken bones as a result of the round impacts on his chestplate, though. The shock from the impacts and quick loss of blood were the primary causes of his relatively rapidly deteroriating situation.

"You with us!?" they asked in a suppressed state of panic.

"Hardly," Murray managed to speak.

"You're all wrapped up, you're gonna be fine, mate. Think of it as your ticket home. Back in Eden soon enough, man."

"Is the building clear?" he groaned.

"Yeah, we got them-"

That was all Murray needed. He began to slip deeper into a state of unconsciousness, the voices of his fellow soldiers muffling, and the weight of his eyelids becoming overwhelming. Through brief periods of consciousness, he could feel himself being carried horizontally, likely on a stretcher. He could still feel the rain on his face, but it was no longer the caressing feeling he once thought it to be, now more like a pest interrupting a deep slumber. The roaring noise of a helicopter for medical evacuation woke him for the last time, as he was loaded onto it by members of the 2nd Melbury. He, along with dozens of other Royal Marines, were being carried back to the GK's amphibious fleet, where they would receive the proper medical attention. Although it was inevitable, young Murray's worst fear had become his reality - he would likely be discharged from the military on either normal or medical grounds, and he would once again be thrown to the real world at large. It was an idea that he found much more terrifying than that of warfare.

[Nauchrtenfield]

2017, 0256 Hours Local Time
Outskirts of Soraught, Donnerland

Flightless Feather; Part 1

André Akerman was cold to the bone, cold, and wet. He and his company where stationed along a smaller main road leading into Soraught. The meatgrinder of this infernal war. His units’ mission was to safeguard this road so that friendly units could use it, and ensure no Donnish forces used it for own means. It was not glamorous, the donnish airpower meant that they where operating with no fires, having to rely on signalling oncoming traffic with hand torches when they were close, it was his turn to have that honour, to lay fifty meters from the main line and the rest of his section and it is combat vehicle. With nothing but his battle buddy, the section gunner, and some camo netting to keep him company in the dugout.

The constant downpour had eaten past his protective clothing, he thanked the Dragons that his socks where still dry. But the work had to be done, and André for a moment was thankful that he was stationed here, and not inside the city. He had seen some of the wounded when his unit arrived at the FOB two days prior.

He shook the feeling from his mind as he burned with shame, such thinking did not fit or become a proud Nachrtener, much less a Lance Corporal of the well-trained Maritime Mechanised Regiments, one of the prides of the armed forces, brave, disciplined, loyal, steadfast, and most importantly; making do until relieved.

They where the tip of the spear, even so in this case. The rest of the Nachrten forces, counting some six-thousand troops and a sizeable naval escort would arrive at the end of the week. His battalion has been raced together with the Hospital ship and its escort to here, the thick of the battle.

His thoughts where interrupted by the sound of an engine approaching. The sound was the distinctive sound of a motorbike. At once he and his companion were on edge, weapons clicked as they switched them into the “fire” position. André pressed the push-to-talk button on his helmet, sending a message to the rest of the section; “Vehicle incoming, sounds like a bike. Standby”

The reply came rapidly from the Lance Corporal, currently commanding the section and no doubt fully occupied by jostling the rest of the men awake, who were sleeping to the low lullaby of the distant battle; “Copy Akerman, intercept and question”. He looked at his companion and responded in the affirmative over the radio before he motioned towards the oncoming traffic, “Your turn. I’ll cover” he said. The gunner nodded, checked the function of his gun-light, nodded and started to slither out of the dugout, into the unrelenting blackness and wetness of the night.

The saw his comrade raise his weapon and lit the torch, shining it repeatedly towards the oncoming traffic, André saw now what it was; a motorbike with two people on it. It was not that uncommon for civilians or militia to try and still escape the hell of the city. Standing orders where to arrest anyone and let the military police sort them out, sadly the line between a legal and illegal combatant had become very blurry indeed.

He saw his friend walk over to the bike as it came to a halt, and heard how he in loud, and badly accented donnish stammered out his pre-written statement “This is the Nachten military. Identify yourself and your objective. You are hereby taken into protective custody. Leave the vehicle with the keys still in – It will be returned to you”. So quickly had they been thrown into these lands that they lacked enough translators, having to make do with dictionaries and phrasebooks, or internet translation services in some cases.

Then it happened

A quick movement from the passenger of the motorbike, a loud bang that André knew too well, and a scream. He saw his fellow soldier fall to the ground, grasping his arm. Andrés body acted on its own and had before he had time to process it readied his rifle and started to engage the bike and its crew. Impacting from around him indicating that they were not alone. He heard his section commanders voice over the net; “Ambush, Engage. Two hostiles front – nearby. Unknown front – far. Supress. Akerman get him out of there.”

André did not need to hear the order twice, as he had already shifted to supressing the general area from where he saw mussel flashes. Joined in the symphony of war by the higher calibre machine guns on the combat vehicle, as well as it is fearsome forty millimetre auto-canon, and the rest of his section. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder, and judged quickly that the area was suppressed enough to move forward in. He sprinted hunched over to make himself as small as could be, up to his friend and colleague. Gripping the shoulder strap of his vest he quickly dragged him, and himself back to the relative safety of the dugout. He turned on his helmet light as he started to inspect the wounds on the man now laying before him.

“Henriksen is badly hurt. Looks like a shotgun got him in the arm. Applying tourniquet, he needs evac.” He reported over the radio as he set about doing what he could to make sure his battle buddy would live to at least see another day, even if fighting were probably out of the picture.

[Anowa]

"Chains of Command" Part I
Soraught, Donner Land, 2nd Helsan War
1st Motorized Infantry Division, 3rd Battalion, D Company, 1st Platoon
0517

"THEY'RE HERE!"

That, along with the ensuing full burst of gunfire from a sentry is what woke up the platoon, and likely the rest of the company in the surrounding block. Anyone who hadn't been woken up by that would be by the Battalion Northo Chaplain suddenly belting out a vast variety of prayers and hymns. The woman who went by Amazon was already up and moving. Their position was a small crossroads about 100 meters up the road of one of the few bridges across the Soraught river. It was a point of strategic import and for the last 4 days an absolute meatgrinder. D Company was at half strength, thankfully most had got ferried over during the night, but as tracers ripped through the walls of the building and buried into the two layer thick barrier of sandbags, the shelter was very quickly becoming a tomb. Amazon however didn't move to the windows, instead taking a knee and readying the transceiver strapped to her back. She was the last FCO in the company, and standing order was to order illumination in sun-down engagements.

"F34 this is A22, adjust fire, Over."

"F34 to A22, adjust fire. Over."

The same coordinates she'd used last night ran through her mind and out her mouth, still on that post-waking autopilot with a healthy mix of adrenaline, "Grid, EV 241 366, over." The battery quickly yet calmly reading back.

"Engaged by footmobiles, requesting illumination."

"Richter, Illumination, 1 round. Over."

"Richter, Illumination, 1 round. Out." a tracer ripped open a sand bag beside her head causing her to sputter brifly and drop to her belly.

The FDC replied with the warning of the round being sent, and followed with the expected impact... or lack thereof, of the illumination round.

Not too long after, Amazon heard a voice call out, Damian, from her squad, "What's the ROE on police!?"

Amazon yelled, "They're already shooting at us jackass!"

With that, she stood and with an almost unnatural dexterity, duckwalked over to the barrier with the rest of her squad, and coincidentally, the Lieutenant. he was a taller man, about the same height as Amazon. An old Imperial mustache and balding hair would normally establish him as slightly creepy, however with the tinge of grey and with him being as well built as he was meant that he had the physical nature of a friendly uncle instead of the neighbourhood pedo. His voice had a tinge of gravel to it that required a level of respect to it. Anyone at his age with only the commission of lieutenant meant he'd worked from enlisted up. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Cresting over the barrier, she took aim at a notably blue uniformed individual bounding across the street, squeezing the trigger, the round plowed into the man's leg, the 6mm projectile removing a golf ball sized chunk in the man as he dropped like a sack of potatoes, his face contorted into a scream as his sub-gun scattered across the street. His arm moved to effectively call out for help. Amazon followed his gaze and found two individuals hunkered behind a car. One of the platoons SAW gunners had the same idea, as the already perforated vehicle was effectively strafed again. While Amazon couldn't tell that they'd done more than hunker down, the rapidly pooling blood peaking our from around the car was enough of a signal.

Another individual sprinting to cover, no uniform, just a t-shirt and shorts with some magazines stuffed into a fishing vest. He probably was around Amazon's age. She drilled two rounds into his chest and saw him drop. Next target was a similar situation. This pattern would continue for a short 3 minutes, under-equipped and under-trained forces rolling into a meatgrinder. It made most of the unit wonder where the fuck the regulars were.

The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and blood reached her nose, although she had long since gone blind to it. The sounds of a few mournful wails from the street echoed until the illumination flare burned out. In the distance the sun was rising, meaning any more fire missions would be live warheads.

LT called out over the murmurs from the unit, "Leads! Get an ammo count!"

After a few seconds, the other squads called out with the general consensus of low. LT looked at her expectedly, it took the young woman a moment to remember a rather key fact in this moment: her squad lead was dead. She was the 1st Squad Lead now. her head whipped to the rest of her squad who all murmured in the positive.

Looking back at the LT, she gave a sheepish, "We're good, sir."

The man sighed, "Really wish we hadn't had you kids deploy into this godforsaken fuck up."

Amazon had to agree. Most of the company was fresh faced, straight out of school or off of a commission. Their first taste of combat was shooting paramilitaries and armed civvies, with the impending anxiety of actually encountering hardened troops from Voy's regime. The battle hardened 1st Cavalry was floating around this front, nailing infrastructure and logistical convoys to the best of their ability, but despite being the next best thing to SPECTRS, they were still having a hard time in some cases. The assault force certainly didn't have time to aid in swamped down slogs like city fighting or landing operations, at least not yet.

A voice came from the lower floor, "Lieutenant! Grau is KIA! Kennick is wounded bad! You're the new Actual!"

"Got it!" the voice that came from the man was energetic, but his face told another story, that he wanted to be anywhere but here. Amazon's heart was now rising into her throat. Everyone in this building knew the chain of command, everyone in this building didn't want those shackles. Not even her.

As the LT went to transmit the status of the company commander, Amazon heard someone else, "Yo, 'Zon."

The voice came from her left, barely above a mumble, or at least what she thought was a mumble. Even with ear plugs it was hard to rule out tinnitus. It was Clown, Wladyslav Kowak, usually Clown though. He got the name based on his almost bone dry sense of humor, rare, often not obvious, but typically garnering a few laughs. Amazon gave a reply in an equally low tone, "Yeah?"

"You hear... binding metal?"

A pause as Amazon tried to filter out any noise looking for what she thought binding metal sounded like, "I... I don't think so?"

Before Clown could respond, The LT was yelling out again, somewhat frantically, "AT! Down to the second floor NOW!" The man had a look in his eyes that Amazon hadn't seen in the man: fear. For a moment, she wondered why as the sounds of the early morning finally clicked in her adrenaline soaked brain. She heard engines, but above that, she heard track links. Her heart nearly stopped. The disposable tubes they had could handle most IFVs or APC... but if it was an MBT they were properly fucked. Sure, they could SAE_[1] it, but that was a Hail Mary in of itself, and that typically only worked on one, not a multi element formation.

Then she saw it, and multiple cries of "Armour!" came from her surroundings. A number of folks backed away from the windows and the barriers as the turret of the first of three APCs rounding the corner aimed squarely at the first floor and let it's 40mm unwind. A single rocket peeled out from the 2nd floor and nailed the vehicle's upper glacis almost head on. A fire erupted from the exhaust on the vehicles front as the rear hatches immediately opened, crew and passengers spilling out. To it's rear, the second vehicle in the convoy muscled past and opened up on the second floor.

By the time the first tracer whipped into the building below her, sound and taste no longer held any meaning. Her ears were ringing, and the detonations were shaking her lungs to pieces. Her teeth rattled, and a metric fuck ton of dust was now in the air. The droning 'weeeeeee' of her ears made it next to impossible to gain any sort of understanding of what the fuck was going on, only muffled yelling. She was trying to stand, but the shaking from the detonations in the rooms below her made that difficult, until Clown grabbed her and started pulling her towards the staircase, a few others following behind. An instant later, the room they had just been standing in also erupted into a rapid fire display of HE/FRAG. She had been the last out, but given the wet feeling she felt across the back of her neck and legs, she wasn't the last who had tried.

The ringing was dying down in the concrete and sectioned off stairwell as herself and maybe two squads made a rush down the stairs. LT was in the lead, one of the AT guys behind him, and the rest of her squad sparsed between the rest, Clown in front of her and Damian in front of him. She could barely hear the LT's yelling even as her ears were recovering, only really hearing "AT" repeated a few times.

They reached the ground floor and the LT busted down the emergency exit with Clown. While she still couldn't hear very well, she could feel the rhythmic thumping in her chest pick up, most likely as the third AFV began engaging the next building over, holding 2nd Platoon. As Amazon went though the door and into the backalley, her first view to the right was that of the 2nd platoon doing the same... or at least the remnants of second platoon, it wasn't their full number, but none of the assembled troops on the opposite side of the street were holding any sort of launch tube.

The rest of the scene she ended up ignoring, as herself and Clown ended up taking a rearward watch down the other end of the alley, though she could start hearing individual sounds again, something was off on just how much pain was lancing across her head whenever a sound reached it, she spoke up, "Hey Clown? I think my right ear is blown out."

A second later the reply came, as Amazon turned her head to start looking for heads and nametags she recognized, in an attempt to garner some form of who was still up. "Yeah. Don't worry about it, mil-spec IIC's exist. You'll be fine, just make sure someone who can hear is on your right."

The tell tale chest thumping ignition of a rocket came from the mouth of the alley, followed by the rather heartening sound of vulgar display of approval from the AT rifleman who fired the shot.

LT called out, "We'll be bounding across the street two at a time! 2nd's will cover us!" This declaration was very promptly followed by the Chaplain once again yelling sermons, and gunfire erupting between Donnish and Anowan infantry. Amazon nestled in better behind the dumpster she had chosen as cover. Wait as she might, eventually it was just Clown and Amazon in the alley. It was their turn to cross the road.

Clown called it, and the duo immediately hauled ass across the wartorn street, they had made it almost into the alley, a stream of tracer from the SAW gunner suppressing hostile infantry illuminating the dawn lit street before it felt like Amazon had just been spear tackled directly in the spine. She pitch forward and dropped like a sack of rocks, air sapped from her lungs and legs only barely responding.

Clown immediately wheeled about, as did two other from 2nd platoon, and immediately lit up the alley in which 1st platoon had just left. A moment after someone grabbed her collar and started dragging her behind an AC unit, as her legs finally felt the need to start responding again. Amazon sucked in a ragged breath before coughing, the pain of her lower back plate eating what she could only assume was a 5.56 finally registering, "Fuck..."

"You good Zon'?" Walker, ironically a Artalian immigrant, asked.

"I'll live... I think." It was a string of half grumbled words, as the woman got back to her feet.

"Good, we're crossing the bridge!, Let's go!" came the enthusiastic migrant.

As the suppressing fire dropped as the remaining 5 Anowans made a mad dash to regroup, the sound of a vehicle engine soon sprang up tempo again, as metal scraping against metal reached their ears. The remaining IFV had made it through the wreckage of it's former compatriots. The 5 soldiers in due time made it some 400 meters through a duo of alleys to the bridge, which had long since been covered with sandbags and TESCO barriers for the eventuality of a fighting retreat across it. With 3rd and 4th platoons overlooking the bridge from across the river, and with the actual Weapons Teams in their buildings, any vehicle crossing this bridge was liable to eat a wire guided missile. Which is exactly what happened.

After Clown and Amazon had hunkered down behind a double row of HESCOs, the tell tale launch sound and whoosh of a missile flying over their heads and into something which promptly started cooking off could be heard. The wire from the now detonated missile floating down and landing with a gentleness to them unexpected of a war machine. Peeking over her cover, Amazon nearly got her head taken off as tracer ripped over her head.

She need not do much else at this point beyond sigh as the number of machine gunners and marksman in 3rd and 4th platoons laid waste to any Donnish infantry in the open or otherwise behind cover that couldn't tank a 8.5x70mm round.

The gunfire lasted less than a minute, and by the end, Amazon could confirm that she'd likely suffer some hearing loss in her right side. A few folks from 1st and 2nd were given the order to push back up and start dragging the dead or wounded out of the apartment blocks they just cleared out of. But the duo of FOCs were ordered to root their asses besides the LT again. It was going to be a long week.

[Nauchrtenfield]

"End of Children" Part III

Theme: Krone

Wensday, June 13th , 2020, 0730 Hours Local Time.
Nauchrtenkiapitell


Erika Walin looked around herself as she stood on the porch to her family-and childhood home. It was not a particularly extravagant home, a floor-and-a-half with a basement, 5 rooms and a kitchen. For herself, her Father, Mother, and younger sibling. The door was open, and in the hallway stood the other three. Her Father and Mother a mix of happiness and fear. that joy a parent feels that they have brought up a respectable and well-mannered child, a good citizen - someone to be proud off, and to love even more. But also, that fear of letting go of your child, to have your fragile bird leave the nest, for the world is an unkind and dangerous place, and you cannot protect them forever. Even if one wishes they could.

She had after all not come home until the morning sun stood high in the sky. Her parents had not asked what she had been up to, they had a guess, and the marks that the night that was had left where clear to see. Rather they had set the table for a feast of a breakfast, her favourite foods on parade; they were spoiling her. Or maybe they were spoiling themselves? She herself was not sure she was hungry, but she was no fool. She had been a Scout Cadet since she was young, she knew that when offered food you ate. If nothing else she liked the taste, and it would be a waste, and rather rude not to eat. Right?

They had eaten in relative silence; her home was usually one of life and warmth. But there was something muted over this day, and now as she stood halfway out the door. Halfway out her known life, her mother was the first to speak in what felt forever; "We could drive you. You know, no need for you to walk."

Erika turned to her parents, put on her brightest smile she could muster and cheerily said "I'd rather walk, the morning air will freshen me up"

Her mother nodded, her father resisted, he was the more emotional of the two after all. "Alright, but take this. Just make sure you finish it before you arrive on station, or they will throw it." her mother said and produced from behind her back a small paper bag. The same kind you might find in your local grocery store to keep produce in, or your local bakery to keep bread and sweets safe from a date with mother earth.

Erika took the bag, looked at them both quickly and said "I’m off, I’ll write. See you" Nachrten stoicism, and the fact that if she gave in her father would never let go prevented a final hug, and she was soon walking down the street, the short scant kilometre to her now former school, it's parking lot now a staging ground.

As she walked, she could not resist put to peek inside the bag, and smiled as she saw the contents, A can of tea, another of energy drink. A collection of her favourite sweets, baked goods, and snack bars. If one did not know better one would think that they were trying to fatten her up. She felt it swelling up inside of her, but suppressed it as she heard her name shouted out from behind. Turning around she saw him running towards her. She stopped, looked at him a bit confused and said "Morning?" They had in preparation made their early goodbyes no more than a couple of hours ago, following the night that had been. In case they missed each other on the staging ground.

He reached into his jacket’s pockets, fumbling among old notes, gum-wrappers, and receipts, and produced a few small square sips. Photos. "I talked to dad moment I got home. My Uncle runs a photo store, so I got something printed. Thought I’d miss you." he said and handed the photos to her. They were of the smaller kind, would fit perfectly inside a wallet, or document holder next to the ID card. She looked at them, somewhere of her, somewhere of him, some of them together. All bathed in the orange glow of the rising sun that now stood higher. She held them tightly, at least this way she would be able to see him when she would read the letters. Even if she knew that more photos would be shared, she had seen all the photos from her own parents service many years before.

"Thanks" she said, depositing the photos into her own pockets. She would tend to them later. "Let’s walk, shall we?" she added, stretching out her now free hand. He took it, and so they walked the rest of the short way.

The Schools parking lot was a hubbub of commotion, a long row of single decker busses closest to the school building. Like quare tubes painted in the livery of the State Railroad Company’s Bus division, the lower half an easy to see orange, with a cream white upper hull and accenting they were common in Nachrtenfield. Then again, they were the biggest public transport company in the nation and had a monopoly on contracts relating to the government. The high-resolution dot-matrix display on the front and read, above the windshields and above first window on either side made their purpose clear, for instead of the normal route name and number it now just stated “MILITARY TRANSPORT”. On the grounds around the busses where gatherings of children-no-more, even if most would arrive in the next ten or so minutes, lets risk missing the departure time. Finally, a somewhat sizable detachment of uniformed people. Military police, to maintain order, if needed. Two would follow inside of each buss; just in case.

By the entrance to the lot stood more unformed men, as well as some civilian police. Or in this case, as they were on the capitol island, the black sharp uniforms of the State Guard Exterior Guard Regiment Provost Division. Police in all but name, due to the old laws, history, and tradition regarding the history of security on the island. Each of the soldiers and Provosts held a clipboard in their hands and one of them looked up as they noticed the two youngling’s arrival.

“Morning Miss, Mister. New Värings?” he asked in a kind tone. He was a friendly man, probably a Neighbourhood officer that had volunteered to help orientate the soon-to-be soldiers to the correct buss.

“Yes, Constable” They both replied, and then proceeded to state what unit they had been assigned preliminarily, as well as their names. The lawman shuffled through his papers until he had found the names, he where looking for.

“Ah, there we go. Miss Walin, your buss is the third on the right. Yours mister is the sixth. Just walk up and the Military Provost in charge will let you on and take your attendance. I would suggest you do it now, they hate to be late, and you get to pick the best seats. I would say the further back is better, the rumble of the engine puts me to sleep. Just a tip” he said with a friendly smile, before motioning for them both to get a move on.

They entered the asphalt parking lot, and both moved slightly out of the way, so that they would not get glares from anyone, nor be in the way for any traffic that might unexpectedly arrive. Erik was the first one to speak, a blunt and matter of fact tone in her voice; “We won’t be able to text after we arrive, my garrison is like two hours away. But I promise I’ll write every week”.

“Promise me and I will do the same” he replied, tightening the grip on her hand.

“As if I’d forgive you if you didn’t” Erik said, trying to break the tension, then she spoke again; “Now, mount up, try to get some sleep”. She hesitated for a moment, then broke free of his hand and leaned in. The softest of kisses on his cheek. In her head like in old and cliché movies, a kiss goodbye from your lover before going to war. The reality was maybe less gracious, more awkward, and not as dire. But neither of them noticed.

He nodded, snapped to a salute and said “Take care, and you sleep as well. Darling” This time it was less awkward, the name more naturally forming in his mouth before turning around and marching towards his bus, and future.

She herself did the same, paper bag in one hand she took a deep breath and marched in the best step she could muster towards her own bus. Met at the door by the Army Provost assigned to her bus he looked at her and spoke; “Cadet?”

“Yes Corporal” she replied

“Good, some lessons learned I see. Name?” The man replied with a light-hearted chuckle

“oh-three-oh-fiver-one-four-dash-fiver-two-one-four-seven. Walin, Erika. Corporal” she said in her best parade ground voice.

The Soldier looked over his own clipboard of papers and finding her name on the list he made a mark with his pen, then spoke again while stepping out of the way of the door, the faintest friendliness in his voice “Welcome aboard Väring Walin, take a seat, remember to finish that bag before we arrive, or you will have to throw it out.”

Erika nodded, said” Yes Corporal. Thank you, Corporal” before entering the bus, greetings the driver as she passed him. She walked to the end of the bus and took her seat by a window seat. Placing the bag in her lap she leaned back into the chair. Opened the bag and brought out the can of tea, and a cream-bun. Reality was slowly settling in, and she could no longer resist a lone tear down her cheek, after all, there was no one else on the bus that could see right now, so it was fine, nor would she be the only one.

A few moments passed, and Erika saw a few other early birds enter the bus. Most where however still outside, having that final chat with friends and loved ones. But the clock was ticking, the state machinery did not tolerate delays, and soon the lot was filled with the parade ground voices of the soldiers, commanding everyone aboard, listing what who were to enter what bus by yelling the name of each unit and the buss that would take them to that unit.

For most the bus would be the only transport. But for those bound for units stationed further away they would be given an itinerary when entering the bus, detailing the trip they had ahead of them, in case they were to miss the bellowing soldiers and the commands they gave. They would be dropped of either at some other unit to then have a new bus waiting for them, or they would dismount at a train station, where special trains carrying would be servicemen all over the nation.

It was a logistical operation of large scale, ferrying people all over the nation in less than twenty-four hours. For the public transport apparatus, it was an all-hands-on-deck day. No one was allowed time off, lest something be delayed or otherwise go wrong and cause a butterfly effect due to the extra traffic. Local police would have called in off-duty staff to direct traffic at key locations, in cases where police resources where spread thin soldiers of local units would be called in. Some of them would themselves be serving national service. There was a poetic irony in those young men and women directly assisting the next batch to reach their destination.

Erika saw the rest of those that would travel with her on the same bus half file in and half get pushed in by the yelling Corporal, he might have had a kind demeanour to Erika, for she had shown respect by being on time, that is, early. Everyone else was now late, and as such little more than dirt.

But soon the bus was in motion, the soft rumble of the diesel engine together with the muted talk of those riding it. Erika found herself to be in conversation with the girl sitting next to her; she was from a nearby school, also slated to serve in the 21st Guards Dragoon Regiment, as an assistant gunner no less. They shared and munched on the things that they had both been by respective families. Anna was her name, seemed normal enough to Erika. With the exception that it became clear she was religious, that was an oddity. Almost all Nachrterners where but culturally religions, and not actually gripped by faith.

The buss drove on, and two hours passed. They had stopped once along the way, at the garrison closest to Erika’s hometown, where most of the bus had dismounted. Left were a scant dozen, as well as the two Provosts. She saw out the window how the buildings around her changed. Behind fences and razor wire she saw the typical 19th century style that most regimental buildings where built in. Large containers stacked on one another, and a field of trucks, cars, tractors, and every other kind vehicle that a military might need.

The truck came to a halt by the gate, she saw the Corporal dismount and walk up to the duty-sentry, exchanging papers and words. The gate was soon opened, letting the bus in onto the grounds walked by generations of Nachertren sons and daughters. This time it was not long before it came to a halt again, and she heard the parade ground voice of the Corporal commanding everyone to get out and to do so this moment, and to form a line along the bus.

Erika and Anna, as well as the rest did as they where told in short order, and soon they all looked on the stern face of a 40-something old NCO. He carried a respecting and commanding aura, built like he was born for the uniform, and a voice to match the finest of the Councillor Guard. Under his cap was the faintest traces of silver hair, kept shaved short.

“Good Day, Men of war. My name is Karl Stefansen, I am the Conducting Warrant Officer of the twenty-first Guards Dragoon Regiment. That means I am the one in charge of your training. You may see me as a headmaster of sorts. You are to address me by my rank. Am I understood?” He declared in front of the new Värings. Whom in a disorganised chorus replied “Yes, Conducting Warrant Officer”

With an unsatisfied glare Stefansen took word again; “It will do for today. I shall now escort you to the PE hall, you will be provided uniforms and kit. Then you will be escorted to your barracks. You will be called on for lunch soon thereafter. You will have thirty minutes to eat, then clear. You will be called for dinner at nineteen-hundred hours today. You are confined to barracks when not escorted to and from the mess hall. Tomorrow you will receive orientation and gear from the armoury, as well as instruction on how the next three months of basic training will work. Any questions?”

Before Erika had time to raise her hand, someone had already done so, and the Conducting Warrant Officer looked at the young man, “Name?”

“Håkanson, Conducting Warrant Officer!” he replied.

“Your question?”

“Will we be able to write a letter home today?” Håkanson asked carefully, and Erika thanked that she did not have to ask the question she had meant to, someone had beaten her to it.

The officer thought for a moment, before replying “Yes, there are paper and envelopes in your barracks. You may post them tomorrow when we pass the postal section during the orientation” he said. Before looking over the line again.

Deciding that no further questions existed he ordered the line to do right face and follow him in single file. The line tried to execute this command as best they could. Most failed to do it in step, much less the proper steps. A few, either prepared by their parents or former Scout Cadets fared better.

The walk down the alleyway led them to a large building that screamed “PE Hall”, inside there where rows of tables running along the walls, separated by movable sound-proof “walls”, with a pull-curtain like one might find in a shower, or hospital. In total there were four such “rows”.

The Conducting Warrant Officer stopped, turned around and looked at the line, counting them to make sure they had not lost anyone. Content that he had as many as he should, he spoke “Enter one at a time when the curtain opens. Peek and I will make you sorry you ever lived. I shall wait on the other side. Question?” he said but did not wait for an answer before saying “Good, jump to it then” and walked away back out of the building.

Erika did not see the use in postponing the inevitable, so she was first up to one of the curtains and walked into the makeshift room. Empty bar a large bin, and two tables placed along the entrance and exit of the room. Behind the table closer to her and the entrance curtain sat a small woman with glasses and a laptop. Beside her on the other table, closer to the exit curtain was mountains of clothing, and behind the table another woman.”

The woman with the glasses was the one to speak, in a voice to soft and kind for the situation that Erika was in, at least to her mind. “Hello there, close the curtain. Name, number and ID please” she said.

Erika did as she was told and closed the curtain with her free hand, the other grasping the paper bag. She then walked up to the table, placed down the bag on the floor and produced her ID card from her wallet. While giving the rest of the information “oh-three-oh-fiver-one-four-dash-fiver-two-one-four-seven. Walin, Erika. Staff Sergeant.” She spoke.

“The woman clicked away on her laptop, before looking up again “Know your ranks? Good, you are one step ahead already. Empty your pockets and the bag” she said, with the same soft and kind tone.

Erika did so, placing on the table each item, including the photos. With the woman stating what it was while writing on her computer. “One can of ICA brand Tea, Lemon flavour, opened. One ball point pen, black with red ink.” And so forth. When Erika produced the small bundle of photos the woman paused for a moment and looked up “Do you wish to keep those?” she asked. Erika responded that she would like to. The woman nodded, produced an envelope, and placed the photos inside, before returning to her Stating-and-writing routine; “Small collection of personal photos”
When her pockets where empty and turned inside out the woman nodded with satisfaction and said “The sweets and drinks are forfeit. The envelope of photos and wallet you may take with you. The pen and phone will be kept in storage, you may retrieve them when going on leave, or when you ship out. Understood?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant” Erika replied, somewhat dreading what would come next. The woman nodded; “Good, proceed to the next table and undress” she said, making a motion with her head to the table right next to hers.
Erika did as she was told and moved the two steps needed to be in front of the other woman, she removed her jacket and handed it to the lady. Whom stated what it was, “Jeans Jacket, light blue”, the lady with the glasses typing away on her computer. The same was repeated for her skirt, and trousers. Then with the smallest of hesitation, her underwear. Trying her best to seem unfazed but it all, she was still a 17-year-old girl now standing before two strangers in nought but flesh. So, she felt the embarrassment and shame approach and her cheeks turn hot and red from it all.

Then she was given her new clothing, first underwear. A sorry olive drab affair, it was hard, stiff, and felt more like sandpaper on her skin then clothing. Then a combat shirt in a somewhat darker green. Next where the grey knee-high socks, a staple of the armed forces for close to a century by now. She found them to be surprisingly soft and comfortable. After that came the trousers; water-tight, somewhat fire resistant and camouflaged, as well as a belt to help keep it in place. The heavy and tall combat boots came next. Then the field jacket, same as the trousers with velcro patches on each shoulder. A cap of the same material as the rest of the outer shell decorated her head. Finding the uniform to be of the correct size, and now again dressed in clothing. She was given the rest of her kit, a massive pile of socks, trousers, bad weather gear, sleeping bags, regular bags and lord knows what else.

At the end of it she had a fully filled duffle bag, and another fully filled seventy-five litre combat backpack, yet she still had to carry her winter shoes tied together around her neck, and the small zip-lock bag containing her ID new cards, tags and uniform name, rank, and unit patches. As well as her wallet and the envelope, whom the lady with glasses had been so kind as to put into it.

Finally, before leaving and letting the next person do the same, she was prompted with several papers by the Staff Sergeant. Receipts for kit received, confirmation of identity, confirmation of medical reports, a standard kit list and so forth, as well as a pre-filled post card declaring that she had arrived on station safely, was in good health and that more letters would follow. It was already addressed to her mother and father, her legal guardians. All demanding a signature before she would be allowed to leave.

She was dismissed by the Staff Sergeant and exited via the curtain, she heard the rustle as the Staff Sergeant cleared her table, moved away the entrance curtain and asked for the next person to enter. Erika herself meet eyes with the Conducting Warrant Officer who instructed her to wait in silence as the rest of the new soldiers one by one filed out, most with a fading redness in the face.

As the last person filed out the Conducting Warrant Officer nodded in satisfaction, and quickly commanded the troops before him to file in and follow him in single file. They tried and failed to march the short distance to the barracks blocks.

The Barracks block was made up of four larger buildings, and one smaller one. The larger buildings where Five floors tall, and where each floor was divided into corridors. This way each corridor was home to one section, and each floor accommodated a platoon. Meaning that each building could hose all the men of a company. The smaller building was much the same but contained workspace and sleeping quarters for the Head Quarters unit.

Erika was lucky in one way, these accommodations houses where built in a newer style, where instead of housing each platoon in a single room filled with bunkbeds. They had the corridors, where each battle-buddy pair would share a small room with a bunkbed. It offered some modicum of privacy.

Outside each building the Conducting Warrant Officer would stop and read names of a list of who had been assigned to what company, and what platoon and section. Erika’s name was called rather quickly, partly because this early group was no more then a dozen in total, and in part because she had been assigned to A company, 1 Platoon, 2 Section. She entered the building with the one other person assigned to that company: Anna. She had been assigned to the same section even, and Erika had received preliminary assignment as the gunner and Anna as assistant gunner. Well, it took not a genius to conclude who they would be bunking with. At least for now, and if all went as it was looking, for the next two years.

She entered the section corridor with her new friend. A simple thing really, she entered a common area, a small television and some sofas and chairs. As well as a table with a few more chairs. There was area where one could clean their shoes and store the latter, as well as a container of indoor slippers. So, they continued into the corridor freed from the black leather boots. From this common area was a corridor with eight doors all along one side. This was so that two corridors could be built next to one another and take up less space width wise. The door furthest away lead into a toilet and shower room. The latter large enough to accommodate the entire section at once during the morning shower and shave. The remaining five doors lead into small rooms containing a bunk-bed parallel to the wall, a window with a low desk and chair in front of it, as well as two lockers.

Erika and Anna went about doing what they could as they waited for more recruits to arrive, or lunch to be called. Whatever happened sooner. Unpacking the bags and getting everything into the lockers, or in the case of the winter kit, storing it in boxes under the lower bunk. When they had done so, refolded any clothing that had been mangled and decided on who took what bunk, Erika decided to give the sofa a try. So, she did, and even if it was nothing special, she thought it most comfortable as she drifted off to the land of silent thought. She would have to write a letter, both to her parents, and to him. But she would do so later, for now she had to process reality.

[Nauchrtenfield]

"The Train" - Launch

Theme: Hos Dig Är Jag Underbar

Tuesday, February 16th, 2021, 0512 Hours Local Time.
Nauchrtenkiapitell


Henrik Rosenhammar removed the keys from the ignition of his car, retrieved his service cap from the dashboard, and his briefcase from the passenger seat footwell, opened the door and left, locking it behind him as he did. He wore the blue woollen uniform of his service, trousers, waistcoat and a short tunic, a black woollen knitted tie, as well as black leather shoes and gloves, the latter poking up from one of his tunic pockets. On his chest, where his heart would be, as well as on his tie clip and cap the metal insignia of his service rested, the three crowns of Nauchrtenfield, flanked on either side and below by a winged wheel..

He took a breath of the crisp early air, and strode over the gravel parking lot and into the large, half-moon shaped building that he, and most of his fellows operated out from. He said good morning to the receptionist and made his way into the staff-room, looking for the deployment listing, just in case something had changed since he looked at it over the intranet the evening before and punched in for the day.

Finding his schedule to be in order he finished clocking in, and made his way down into the bowels of the building, past changing rooms, the few handful of offices, and down into large hangars. Among the maintenance crews, custodians and technicians he walked, towards his target, a long bullet of silver with two long blue lines along the hull, still dripping with the water just used to clean it. A Type 2011 Express High Speed Train. This double decker train, with a service speed of up to 320 kilometres per hour, together with it’s equals represented the newest addition to the State Railroads fleet, having seen it’s first service in 2011 and served on the ever expanding high speed network, mostly on longer distance services.

The Type 2011 trains were now in the process of receiving upgrades to a new Type 2011A standard, with a higher top speed, new and upgraded interior and a books worth of other mechanical, electrical and similar changes. But Rosenhammars engine had not yet been called for upgrades. Hardly surprising, the first Type 2011A had been put in service on new year's day 2021 after all.

As Rosenhammar walked along the length of the train the Maintenance Chief spotted him and looked up from the boogie he was inspecting and rose up and gave a quick salute. “Morning Commander. We are just finishing up here, your driver and conductor have already arrived, they are doing the pre-start check. Custodians just left as well, she’s as clean as she was the day she rolled off the factory.” he said, returning to a at-ease position, with his hands behind his back

Rosenhammer snapped to, and returned the salute, before he too placed his hands behind his back, replying as he did “Morning Crew Chief, excellent. I’ll talk to my driver, and then we will be on our way. I assume she got a clean bill of health on the weekend inspection?”

“Yes Commander, nothing of note was found, so hopefully I won't see the engine until it is time to upgrade her” The crew chief replied, presenting a quick salute again he then again returned to the boogie that had had his attention, muttering some choice words regarding Urraneese design philosophy, and material quality.

Rosenhammar finished his walk to the front of the engine, and using the small step ladder placed on the worn concrete floor he climbed in, and stepped past the open door into the drivers compartment. Seated in the driver's seat he saw his college of a few years now; Fylke doing the final checks and start-up procedures, standing next to him and looking with eager eyes stood a younger woman. Conductor Elisabeth Frisen, recently graduated from the basic training of SR, this service was her first commission, even if she had only worked for a few months with Fylke and Rosenhammar she was quick to learn, and pleasant to work with.

“Morning, Fylke, Frisen” he said. Both the other two uniformed persons turned, gave a small half-hearted salute and returned the greeting. Then Fylke spoke; “Commander, we are just about ready to go. Then it’s up to you, I received word from Cen-Com, we’ll be picking up the Bistro staff at our first station, Skeppsholm, as well as the other Conductor. They are transferring onto this service. The order papers are printed, on the whiteboard.”

Rosenhammar replied his thanks, and walked past his colleagues and opened the door that led to his office. He placed down his briefcase on the small desk that ran along the wall inside the compartment. It was his administrative workplace on the train. A simple metal desk with a wooden inlay, a whiteboard on the wall serving as a place to hang notes together several small square boxes mounted on the wall, like a sized-down mail-sorting unit where one could store pens, note-paper and any envelopes one might carry. Such a workstation for the train commander had looked the same for close to going on a century with a few exceptions(even if they in the past could be found at the rearmost passenger wagon), in the past the whiteboard would be a cork-board, and the phone that hung on the wall as well as the dot-matrix printer mounted along the wall where additions that came in the early 1990’s. Finally, in a shallow drawer of the desk rested a small, but ruggedly built laptop, allowing him to contact the outside world via the train’s own WI-FI system, just like any passenger could. Or if that failed, to simply patch the train, and as such this laptop, into a station's internet network

He looked over the schedule one more time. They would drive this service to the capitol, using the tunnel that connected the capitol-island to the mainland, and do several stops along the way. In total a three-and-a-half hour long service. Upon arrival the train would be out of commission for an hour, so the crew could eat lunch and take a rest, and custodians could clean the train. Then they would do the same service in reverse. There he and his colleagues would hand the train over to the second shift crew that would continue to serve the train until nightfall. Satisfied with this planning and that all the papers where in order he signed off on the duty-roster and order-dispatch and left the papers on the desk for the time being.

Rosenhammer looked at the clock on display on the wall, and made sure it showed the same time as his wristwatch and phone; 0532. “Good, switching down to Skeppsholm will take ten, leaving a bit more than fifteen minutes to load the bistro and connect to ATC” he thought.

Returning back to the drivers compartment he tugged at his waistcoat, corrected his hat and tie one final time and walked up to the black telephone receiver that hung on the wall of the drivers compartment, just like one was present in his own office, and several other staff only areas of the train. They served both as an intercom, PA system and as a outbond line. Rosenhammer pressed one of the quick-access buttons labelled “com”

One tone, two tones, then a voice “National Control Centre”

“T-COM Rosenhammar, Service Two-Two-Four-Six-Niner. Requesting permission to switch; Stallsiken Depot, Skeppsholm Central.” Rosenhammer replied with an experienced voice and cadence.

“Good Morning T-COM Rosenhammar, Service Two-Two-Four-Six-Niner. Switching permission granted. Bound for Skeppsholm Central track three. Note: Manual switching required. Ground crews are alerted and on standby, follow local direction and exercise caution, limit speed. Connect to ATC upon arrival. Scheduled for departure at oh-six-oh-two.”

“Understood National Control Center. Readback; cleared for switching, Track three. Local switching to be carried out by ground crew. Limit speed and exercise caution. Connect to ATC and depart on schedule”

“Correct readback. Cleared for departure at your will. Have a good day and fair speeds. National Control Centre, Kilo-Lima.”

“T-COM Rosenhammar, Hotel-Romeo''. He replied one final time, then the klick and empty tone was all that was left in Rosenhammars ear. He returned the receiver to it’s home and looked at Frisen; “You got all that?”

Frisen looked up from his console and raised one eye “With that voice i am pretty sure that Radio Kapitell heard it. Track three, be chill ect” he replied back with a shit eating grin. Rosenhammar just shook his head and looked at his conductor, “You take right, I take left” he said and left the driver compartment. Returning to the open door that led into the A Power Car he leaned out and looked down the almost three hundred meter long train set. He saw at the end the crew chief he had talked to earlier. The chief raised his left arm to his heart, and then extended it straight out away from his body in a straight line. The signal that he was ready. At the same time he heard Fylke from the door on the other side of the car yell “RIGHT SIDE CLEAR” Rosenhammar returned the gesture with his right arm, to the crew chief. He saw the crew chief turn away for a moment as he interacted with a control panel on the wall, then rotating orange lights in the roof all along the train came to life, the large gates started to swing open, and the automated voice came to life over the PA system; “Train launch in progress. Bay five. Stand clear. Train launch in progress. Bay five”

Rosenhammar saw the crew chief look back towards him and started to slowly wave his arm slowly up and down; in this case a command asking if they were ready to depart. Rosenhammar returned the wave, indicating that they were ready to depart. He procured his signal whistle from his pocket, placed it in his mouth and then brought his arm down along his body, before extending it in a half-circle motion, stopping just above his head, bringing the hand and arm down again to the middle of his chest; the command to depart. As he did he produced a long high pitched signal from the whistle.

Frisen replied with a short signal from the train's own horn; order received. And smoothly, almost without making a single sound the well over five hundred tons of steel and composite materials started to glide out the long depot at a slow and measured pace. Rosenhammer exchanged a final salute with the fading figure of the crew chief. Before he leaned back in again. Using the universal key he changed the door from “manual” to “automatic” mode, his conductor subordinate following suit.

[Nauchrtenfield]

”Seminal Disaster”

Theme: Before I Leave This World

Sunday, March 28th , 2021, Early Evening Local Time.
Naval Base Muskö


Some events are permanently burned into your mind, your graduation, your first kiss, your marriage, maybe something more traumatic like a crash. These events stay with you until you die, you can remember everything in such painful detail that if you could explore the memory you would be able to read every letter.

This would be one such event. In hindsight his friends would laugh at how calmly they took it. The shock did not hit, for some it did while they were in transit, for some when they saw the bay, for him?

He was not sure it ever hit him.

He was Henik Almgren, DIM soldier in the 28th CBRN Combat Regiment. Trained to detect, contain, and operate in CBRN environments; Courtiers of unseen death. He was the detector, he would go first, pave the way for his section, and later others. He would be the first to fall if something went wrong.

He and the rest of his unit had been quartered at Naval Base Muskö for some time now, they would be a part of the rapid reaction force mustard in response to “the vale debarle” as it was called among the men. Personally he thought it was the Military Forum being overly cautious, but he was but a lovely specialist. His was but to do and die, let the officers worry about where and when.

He was enjoying the fresh air, the setting sun, the smell of spring in the air. Seeing the first defiant leaves and flowers reclaim the land from General Frost. The irony of what was to come would be seen in retrospect.

For across the sea the untickable would happen. A stolen nuke, detonating close to a national Capital. As the mushroom cloud rose to the sky, and confirmation of what it was came down the automated systems dotting the nation; old switchboards and computers came to life, the mustering call that they had waited for. At once all TV and radio was suspended, a message to “Stand by, Stay calm” repeating.

Like clockwork everything else went alive, automated phone calls establishing chains of command, shelters skeleton staff hurriedly preparing lists and donning equipment. A final symphony of training and protocol to prepare in case the world was to end, over half a century in the making.

Almgren knew not of this, at least not yet. First he heard of it was the siren on the base coming to live, blearing it’s typhoon call. He was confused, it was tested the first monday of each quarter at 1500 local time, and that was not now.

He at once turned heel and started walking back to his mustering point, just to be safe.

He counted; Seven seconds of siren, and counting. So it was not the air raid warning, or the Important Message for the Public, like a gas leak or some such.

He swallowed hard and took up the pace, and saw around him how others had started to do the same. He kept counting; thirty seconds of constant siren. No pause. If it was the mobilization alarm it would have been quiet for fifteen seconds now.

He started running, there was only one more signal it could be. He counted; sixty seconds. The siren died, and then ten seconds later it started it’s song again. Somewhere in the world a nuclear detonation had been detected, this was the Nuclear Launch, and Nuclear War siren. Now there were springing men and women all over the base, gas masks and suits were donned, shelter doors unlocked and preparations for the end of the world were made. Arriving at his muster point he found most of his company to already be present.

Soon, over the sound of the still screaming siren the company commander relayed what was known; a stolen nuke had detonated in Parcias capital, related somehow to the failed coup attempt earlier that day. Damage; Unknown. Deaths; Unknown. The automated systems had kicked in to prepare Nauchrtenfield for the war to end all wars, as was protocol.

But they would not cower, they had gotten emergency orders from the State Council. They had three-thousand souls specialized on CBRN, as well as a flotilla to carry and land them where they could do most good to try and stop this disaster from getting worse.

The officer did not give anyone the option to remain, no “i will not demand this off you”. It would have been an insult and dishonour to ask that of those they commanded. Every CBRN soldier was a volunteer, and they knew that they would go where they could do most good. Still did some have private thoughts of trying to run?

Probably. But when the order was given to about face, gather their kit and board the transports at triple time. No one objected, no one said anything. They all just turned and started to sprint. On the backdrop of a base preparing at maximum speed, screaming sirens and the massive sea vessels doing final preparation to launch.

Their destination; The Emerald Bay. Ground Zero
Their Mission; Land, establish or integrate with local command, and save as much as they could.

[Nauchrtenfield]

”Ring Klocka Ring”

Ring Klocka Ring

Dead of Night.
Nauchrtenkapitell, Councillor Palace


The serene white winter of Nauchrtenfield is something that often covered in the national psyche. Deep droves of snow, children playing and declaring war on one another in it, digging deep to have houses and homes like their parents. Skiing and ice skating outings with hot chlorate and sweet baked treats and all other such manners that was apart of the winter, and the holiday's that it also meant.

But it was also cold, dark, and foreboding. Such as this night, for in the darkness kept only at bay by the light of the city, and what faint relief the moon provided. It was a clear night, but snow was heavy in the air, an unrelenting torrent on the steel plated soldiers of the Councillor Guard, manning the centuries old walls that protected the halls of governance. Along the walls , by the artillery guns that dotted it stood both the Lancemen, and Guardsmen that protected the island, and heartland of Nauchtenfield. Looking out over the coastland one cold also see the imposing silhouette of an battleship. It's massive gun turrets pointed at the capital island, raised high to deliver its payload.

Heard over a loudspeaker came the voice of a Councilor, it was the typical speech reserved for this kind of occasion, by every gun stood the crew-chief with a timepiece on hand. Everyone was on edge, but they had prepared and trained, so they all where confident it would go as planned.

It had to.

Among the steaming breath of the soldiers, the tense and perfectly postured standing soldiers, the old castle and the guns pointing just out from the walls all over one would be forgiven for believing to hear drums of war. But no such music was played, rather the loudspeaker fell silent as the Councillor finished their speech, the commanding offer for each part of the wall clenched the watch they held ever so tightly.

Then the final windup started.
"NUMBER ONE!" The commanding officer yelled, the battery chief for the gun yelling back "NUMBER ONE!"
A few agonizing seconds of silence, it all came down to this.
"NUMBER ONE GUN - FIRE!" The commanding officer yelled once more. At once the battery chief relayed "FIRE!"
The loud report of the gun as it launched its payload out over the coastline, the cling as the casing was ejected and an new shell prepared. This happened on each section of the wall.
Then, the deafening sound, and blinding light as the battleship replied it turn, all main battery guns in perfect union firing. Then a ripple fire of the secondary and tertiary guns. The shoreline replying by it's own rippleling barrage.

A few seconds after the few shells where launched the rest of the night sky was defeated as they detonated mid-air, sending coloured flames and sparks all around. For it was new years, and this was the Military and State New Years Firework Display, a massive undertaking as all over the nation battery guns light up the night sky to ring in the new year.

It was the start of the year of our Draconic council 2021. In the state of Nauchrtenfield where traditions still live, the snow was deep, and all over civilians gathered to watch this display, either from windows, balconies, yards or televisions. In the main train station stood the council on the backdrop of a steam locomotive and where about to undertake the traditional tour of the nation. Primarily being transported by the same engines that had carried councils for almost nighty years.

[Union Of Autocratic Empires]

"What do you mean, "the road back home is blocked by a landslide?"

"I mean, precisely, that the road back home is blocked by a landslide."

Irja sighed. She didn't leave her hometown all that often with the exception of her weekly driving class, so of course the tunnel that connected the old C-26 road to the outside world left this world the one day of the week she's outside. What was really strange was that it hadn't happened before.

"Is everyone alright?" the young woman asked. Being stuck in a town she wasn't that familiar to begin with was bad, but it would be way worse had someone she knew been hurt by the incident. "Has anyone been harmed by it?"

"No, the local Guard reports the tunnel was empty when it collapsed in on itsef. It's still going to take a while to clear out, though, so I'm afraid you're going to be stranded on Seka for a few days."

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

"Well, that's going to be a problem. I only brought... 36 melchiotts with myself. I don't think I can rent a room with this little money. Maybe a youth hostel?"

"No daughter of mine is going to spend a night in a youth hostel if I have anything to say. You are a Selänne, you will not demean yourself to that."

Irja, again, sighed. Of course that prideful, stubborn mule of her mother would not preffer her to spend the night under a bridge rather than have to lower herself to - gasp - have to share a room with average people.

"Well, then I will make my way to Reconciliation Bridge. I will call you when I find a comfortable stone under ut."

She heard an amused chuckle coming from the phone. "That won't be necessary. We have family in Seka who will be more than happy to let you sleep in their home. I have already talked to them, so your accomodation should be quick."

The stranded student raised an eyebrow. They had family here? In Seka? True, they had a big family, but she didn't remember any cousins or aunts living in Seka. No grandparent, either. Unless... unless it was someone older.

"You don't mean Great Matriarch Lilli, do you?"

"I do indeed mean Great Matriarch Lilli, yes."

"Are you insane? I don't know that woman! For the love of the Allmother, she's four entire generations older than I am! And you intend me to spend how long living with her?"

"Watch your tongue, Irja. She's the Great Matriarch of our house, the most venerable woman on the entire continent and one of the most celebrated politicians in the Union, and you will treat her with the respect she deserves. Have I made myself clear?"

"But I don't know her! You don't know her! And you're just leaving me to sleep in the same building as her? Without supervision? Why is this acceptable and a youth hostel is not?!"

"Look Irja, you have to choices: either you start making your way to Uuolevi Avenue, or you sleep in the cold tonight. Your call."

"Fine. Fine!" Ilja said, raising her arms in protest to an interlocutor who could not see her. "I will go there and be on my best behavior, but if something happens to me, the guilt will pursue you forever."

"I can live with that."

Of course you can, you selfish, hypocritical oaf, Irja bitterly told to herself at the same time she bid her mother farewell. Still fuming, the young Liyomesse made her way to the Great Matriarch's residence, visibly upset at her current situation. As she made her way through the still lively streets of Seka, however, her anger was slowly replaces by mounting dread, until it reached it's maximum treshold upon arriving to the residence's steps. Great Matriarch's household was big, but it was surprisingly small for one a Great Matriarch: It was made up of two floors, and took the same space as four "regular". The face of the building was adorned by a set of six stone steps that led to the entrance, four rather large windows and a balcony somewhat tucked in the building's roof. On top of the old wooden gate, a lioness with an armored gauntlet holding a mace decorated a stone shield engraved on the treshold, her family's coat of arms. It was simple presentation, but it still had a passing ressemblance to a fortress, a design choice very popular among the Liyomesse upper classes in the increasingly nationalistic 70s.

It was upon gazing on the very familiar lioness that young Ilja started to think about how the homeowner could be. She was aware of what most people her age new about the nearly mythical Great Matriarch Lilli Selänne; that she was almost the political center of the Matriarchy made person, that she had played a pivotal role in many not only Liyomesse, but also Unionist historical event, and that she was older that the world itself. Metaphorically, of course, but there was a reason historians commonly said the world Aliatheia was died in the fires of World War One, a war the Great One had lived through almost a century ago. How is a century-old person like, anyways? She had been told she had been a great mother, but that was some eighty years ago. Was she even lucid anyways? Would she hate her if she told her what she was?

Her head was still musing these facts when someone opened the door from the inside, making her heart dropped to her ankles and startling her as she was deep in thought. She barely had seconds to compose herself when the door was opened wide and a young Abulan woman gazed at her from the inside. She was wearing the soft blue uniform those who server her family wore, and had her blonde hair in a ponytail. Well, at least she could cross "racist" off the list.

"I apologise, my Lady, but I saw you through the camera peephole. Would you like to come in? It's starting to get cold."

In the time her mother had called her, enough time had passed for the night to start creeping in. She was so nervous, she hadn't realised the light going and the street ilumination turning on. "Oh, yeah, of course, thank you."

She swallowed her fears and walked towards the door, as her great-great-grandmother's servant opened the door for her, stepping into the warm light of the entry hall. As the woman closed the door, Ilja could pay closer attention to the woman's soft features and green eyes. Adran, huh? Well, she was not one to complain when the service is easy on the eyes.

"My name is Gratia, and I serve the Great Matriarch. You can leave your bag to me, and I will take it to your room after I take you to the dining room."

"I see. Thank you Gratia."

The Abulan smiled as a response.

"Now, follow me please. The Matriarch had dinner ordered when she heard she would have family over for the night."

That was thoughtful of the old woman. With some luck, it wouldn't be something too esoteric for her. Goddess knows what century-olds have for dinner.

"I hope you like Dinner Land hamburger."

What. "I'm sorry, did you say Dinner Land hamburger?"

"Yes. Great One figured, you being someone so young, you would like hamburger. "With some luck, youngsters haven't lost their apetite for hamburgers", she said."

Huh. That was oddly spot on. "Well, I would say the Matriarch was spot on here."

The Abulan gave her another one of her adorable smiles. "I told her, but she seemed unconvinced. Hopefully she will believe you more."

After having made their way through a rather long hallway covered in pictures of people she didn't quite recognise but who were oddly familiar, they made it to the only room whose lights seemed to be switched on, creeping below the doorframe.

"Well, here it is. I will be back when the Matriarch calls for me to take you to your room, my lady."

"Please, call me Ilja."

"That sounds rather informal, doesn't it?" She perceived a mild snark in the Abulan woman's voice, which caught her by surprise.

"Well, I'm not really important in the great scheme of things, you see. I appreciate the attempt to try to pass me as an important aristocrat, but really, my name would suffice."

"Very well, Ilja. I will see you later." With a smile, the Great Matriarch's employee grabbed her bag and disappeard into the hallway, making Ilja feel very alone all of a sudden. It took her more courage than she would care to admit to open the door.

Inside the room, the smell of fast food hamburger clashed with the rather old looks of the decor, with the biggest point of contrast being the regal, big, sturdy table supporting the cardboard menus of the restaurant franchise. On the side inmediately opposite of the door, a small figure in a wheelchair looked at her. She was small (which made sense, considering her advance age), and looked surprisingly youthful for someone who was pushing 130 years on Aliatheia, looking "just" 80. The most striking feature, however, was the woman's eyes; they were a shining, lively blue, very similar to her own, and looked at her coupled with a smile on the older woman's lips. She had been rather nervous the entire time, and while she remained so, the dread quickly left her body as her distant relative's calming smile did it's work.

"Hello, Ilhja, dear. Did it take you long to arrive? I hope it was not too crowded, out there" the woman spoke in a low, tired, yet firm voice. Ilja negated with her head, at which the woman widened her smile. "Excellent, excellent! Please, do come in, the dinner is getting cold and, well, no one likes cold hamburgers, now do they?" As Ilja nodded and stepped in, the old woman started clumsily removing the paper wrap from her own hamburger.

"I am glad to finally get around to meet you, little one. I apologise for it having taken so long."

[Union Of Autocratic Empires]

My dear Marcellus:

First and foremost, I would like to apologise for any distress the arrival of this letter could have caused to you. I want you to know that I am safe and sound, still in my hotel room in Abula, and nothing wrong has happened to me. I understand the manner in which I went out of my way to make this letter reach you using rather irregular methods will very likely have you worried, but I asure you the reason I did so is not for anything related to me. Rather, I wanted to keep prying eyes off it because the events I will describe in it could be considered state secrets of the highest level. Ones that could affect not only to the Union, but quite possibly the continent at the very least.

Now, having said that, let's start from the beginning.

Yesterday, 12th of February, I received an invitation from the Kaisar himself early in the morning. He requested I go visit him later that day for tea time, as it had been months since we hadn't sat down to talk, at last year's Ball. Obviously I agreed, not just because one does not decline an invitation from the Kaisar of the Union, but because I enjoy the time I spend with him and his family. As I had plenty of time to spare, I decided to visit the city's old quarter, both to bring some gifts to my hosts and to exchange contact information with that library I told you about in my last letter. You know how hard to find the books I purchased there were, so having a store that has the means to procure them at my beck and call was not something I was willing to pass up. It is a shame librarians in our homeland are so supersticious, otherwise I would not have to leave the island to find the books I need, but tradition is hard to change. You and I know this better than anyone.

After purchasing some presents for our old Abulan friends (a rather expensive gardening set for him and a book of old continental poems for her, in case you are curious), doing some sightseeing, and studying the books I had purchased for a few hours back at the hotel while eating some strange Abulan dish whose name I don't quite remember, I made my way to the Royal Gardens and the Raiss-Väisänen's humble abode at around five o'clock in the afternoon, where the new Commander of the Guard, Alia, greeted me and took me to the family's living room. I have to admit, it was nice to meet someone who spoke Adran in Abula, where our people have little presence; nevermind the fact she understands sign language for the most part, unlike most people in either country.

After exchanging some pleasantries and giving the gracious hosts my small presents, we sat down and had tea while distractedly talking about recent going ons in both of our families. They asked me about my parents and my brother, and I asked them how they were adjusting to their daughter "leaving the nest", as one would say. They said their obligations, both old and new, mostly kept them from noticing their household has grown quieter, but it was quite obvious they missed Historia dearly, and I can understand why; I don't know many people who are as easy to get along with as everyone's favourite artist. They also told me the Kaisarine was getting used to college life quite quickly, and we spent a considerable amount of time afterwards matching my experience in the Gades Royal University with hers' at Saint Abula's College. We both found out it was surprisingly similar as, I suppose, being the oldest person by decades - and the highest in social position - marks you as much of an outsider as being a birracial mute woman, just in different ways. After finding this common ground with Lady Sigbritt, the initial reticence to converse common in most conversations dissipated and we spent an extended amount of time just pleasantly talking with no particular subject in mind. Two hours were easily spent this way, and the sun started falling between shared giggles at the Kaisar's attempts at learning some sign language from me, with rather unintentional offensive results.

Which made his eventual announcement he had summoned me to share his plan to step down as Kaisar of the Union in the next few years hit even harder.

At first, I'm somewhat ashamed to admit, I remained stunned for a few good seconds. It's impropper of an aristocract to force an uncomfortable silence in such somber situation, but you can imagine how heavy that revelation was at the time. And, with great shame, I remember how my first question after a handful of eternally long seconds was asking if he was joking. As if someone would joke so lightly with such a subject! Thankfully he took it in good humour, and while laughing gently, he insisted that no, it was not a joke: he was fully commited to step down as the head of the Union after, roughly, 20 years in the position. Having recovered somewhat, I asked him if he was ill or if he had any kind of malady had forced him to reach the conclussion he wasn't able to remain in his position for long, and in consequence, if he needed any help whatsoever; he told me that no, he is healthy and sound of mind, and it was a thought he had conceived with his full mental capacity.

Another silence befell the room, except this time Karl took the iniciative to break it. He explained to me how several recent events, both in his personal and political life, had made him aware people have started to link the idea of the Union as a succesful political entity with his being at the reigns of the nation, and how that though utterly terrified him. People thinking him being the core element keeping the Union together, he told me, means both foreigners and nationals are, without being aware of it, giving the Union an expiration date; how his inevitable passing away could lead to the Union falling in on itself as ruthless politicians and haughty nobles start either breaking away from it or taking the power for themselves, with the federal mechanisms he put in place to prevent it failing as the men and women in charge of them would have too little power - and morale - to prevent it. How his death would bring back the days of tribalism and ethnic tensions from when I was but a newborn, and would leave the younger generations in a rather terrible situation they had never experienced. Him stepping down from his position and starting a peaceful, stable, legal transition of power while still alive would, according to him, permanently shatter such idea and engrave in the collective consciousness that the Union is not just one person, but everyone represented by its' banner.

This then turned to him discussing the inevitable elections: how so many people would run for the position, as is only natural in a nation where every five steps you stumble into an ambitious politician or proud aristocrat, who could (and most likely would) lead the Union in a radically different direction with him being unable to get himself involved in. As he finished saying this, he put his hand in my shoulder, locked his penetrating gaze on me, and told me the single most terrifying thing anyone has ever told me in my twenty-nine years of life:

"I want you to run for Kaisarine of the Union in the coming elections."

I feel no shame in saying that, when I heard those words, I nearly fainted right then and there. There is no other way to say how it felt in the moment: I don't ever recall having been so honored, horrified and happy, all at the same tame, with the same intensity. Obviously, I asked him why, and he told me I would be a great Kaisarine: someone with an unique perspective of the world, with plenty of political experience, good education, a long history defending and standing up for the rights of downtrodden minorities, great charisma and the will to make the world a better place not just for "my people", but for everyone. I think you can imagine what these words, coming from none other than Kaisar Karl, meant for me. He repeated his request, and this time, maybe bit too quickly, I said yes.

After that, everything became something of a blur. I know we spoke more at large about what him stepping down and being willing to give me as much private suport as I needed, how he had asked his children the same thing, and the possible individuals that would face me in the battle for the position, but I heed little attention to the man's words, having my head elsewhere, far beyond that cozy living room. After a few more hours, at around half past nine, I bid them both farewell and left for my hotel room, to which I got without quite noticing traveling the distance from the palace to the hotel. It is now quarter to five in the morning, and I haven't had a single minute of sleep tonight. I've tried to tire myself by studying the tomes I have here or exercising a bit, but by now I know trying to sleep is a fool's errand, what with my psyche being too distracted alternatively fearing the future ,being cautiously optimistic, and ocasionally thinking Kaisarine Adreanna of the Union sounds oh so magnificent, so I decided to spend the last hours of moonlight writing this letter both to inform you of what has transpired today, as I have a dire need to tell someone, and as an attempt to put my thoughts into words as to clear my head. Seeing as I have been yawning for the last two paragraphs, it seems I was succesful in the last point. I suppose I will spend most of tomorrow sleeping here, God willing.

Tomorrow, before the lack of sleep fully incapacitates me, I will give this letter to a trusted member of my entourage, who has been ordered to drive to a neighbouring locality and mail this missive to you under his name. I already know you will understand what the verse in the envelope means, so I trust you opened it knowing it was me. If that was not the case, well, I am somewhat disappointed, as I thought you knew me better.

I will go back to Adra the 16th, and when I'm there I would like to discuss with you about this and other, more personal matters, but until there, I ask you don't mention this letter should you call me. I still can't quite believe what has happened today, but I don't fully trust our conversations to go unseen by third parties. With this, I bid you farewell, and again, I apologize if I startled you. It wasn't my intention.

Love you, always,

Adreanna.

13th of February of 1989 IC
Abula City
Abula

[Nauchrtenfield]

”School - Part 2”

Monday, September 11th , 2017, Early Morning Local Time.
Our Lady Of the Eternal Flame ,Abula, UoAE


It was early in the morning, school would not start for several hours yet. But the school was, at least partially, a boarding school, and as such staff was always on hand. Agnes was fortunate in that regard, as a receptionist was on hand when she had arrived a scant few minutes earlier.

Said receptionist, who now walked a few steps ahead of Agnes, had reacted with some confusion at the Nauchrten arrival. They knew of her arrival of course, but they had expected a student. Instead what the receptionist had received was a soldier, much more stiff and formal then expected. In the full dress of the Nauchrten Army; Leather boots that reached almost to her knees, coal-black, with gold trimmings and detailing, wool trousers, and a long double breasted coat with a standing collar in the same hue as the trousers, reaching down to meet her boots. Formerly on her head, and now under her arm a black, low shako looking hat rested. Insulated winter gloves peaked up beneath the thick belt that surrounded her waist.

But if that was not enough, to make her stand out even more she on her back carried a backpack, clearly in the military style, and attached to it rested a rather sizable duffle bag, it too in a military style and that olive colour so common in military equipment and garments.

Down a corridor in one of the dormitories attached to the school they walked until the receptionist stopped by a door, a nameplate mounted to the side of the wall informed Agnes that she had arrived, for it bore her name upon it. The receptionist handed Agnes a card, the same size as a bank card, and the driver's license that she herself had in her wallet. It was an access card, with it she would be able to enter her room, and other parts of the school. It would also be used to register books and material from the library, access to the printers, and all manners of other things at the school explained the receptionist. Agnes took the card from the receptionist and quickly eyed it over. It looked much like an ID card, with her picture printed on it as well as the name and emblem of the school.

She placed the card next to the reader placed on the door, and a green light came to life, as well as an audible “click” as the lock was disengaged. She opened the door and took a step inside the room that would be her home for the next three years of her education. She stood for a few moments before the receptionist brought her back to reality “Is there anything else?”

Agnes spun around and shook her head; “No ma’am. Thank you, I think I shall manage. Thank you” she said, the receptionist bidding her farwell and closing the door as she departed. Agnes placed down her bags on the floor with a heavy sound, and went to turn the lights on in the room. A long yawn took her by surprise, and she felt how it would be a long day. Orientation at 0730 outside the main building, then classes from 0900 to 1500 hours. Even if she went to sleep now she would not get any long rest before she had to be up. She felt that her ability to sleep whenever and wherever it was permissible would not win the fight against the rising excitement.

So she opted rather to investigate the room and unpack her belongings. It was a somewhat large affair, Agnes had become accustomed over her two years in service to either share a tent with nine others, a large barrack with the rest of her platoon, or a small room with her battle buddy, hardly large enough to contain the bunk-futons and lockers. In comparison this room had a large(er) spacious bed, several closets, a comfortably seized desk and an office chair, a door leading to a small toilet and wash-area. The room was a scant thirteen square meters, but to Agnes it might just as well have been her own apartment.

She opened the closets and took note of the contents, clothes racks, drawers, a laundry basket, some light cleaning supplies, a clothes iron and a fold-out ironing board, as well as an electric water kettle. The last perhaps an unintended gift from the previous inhabitant.

She removed her gloves from the belt and placed them on the desk, unbuckled the belt and quickly removed the coat, hanging it on a rack placed close to the door, revealing a white shirt underneath. Sitting down on the bed she quickly removed the boots and placed them neatly underneath the coat, musing that old habits will die hard.

She moved the water kettle from the closet and placed it on the desk, inspecting it and finding it in decent condition. She filled with water and flicked the on-switch. Opening her duffle bag she extracted it’s contents; A full uniform set, camouflage pants and jackets and all, as well as the beige three piece suit she was issued as a “Civilian Uniform” when she left the service just three days ago. Seeing as having private clothing on base was forbidden, and national service members rarely if ever received leave from the base they were stationed on, this duffle bag represented all the clothing she owned and that still fit her. There simply had not been time to buy more clothing, so she made a mental note to do so first thing permitted as she sorted and organized her clothing. The wardrobe was the very model of a Nauchrten Citizen-Soldier, as was probably the person that owned it.

A loud “click” sound filled the room, together with the sound of boiling water as the kettle automatically turned off. Agnes removed a metal mug hooked to her backpack, and from the top pocket she procured a small plastic bag containing small satchels of loose tea, as well as a tea sieve, a gift from one of the soldiers in her platoon. She emptied the satchel into the strainer, placed it over the mug and poured the hot water over, and left the brew too steep as she unpacked the contents of the backpack. It was hardly half full, containing her material possessions, A violin, an MP3 player with some rugged (and beaten up) in-ear headphones, a laptop that she got as a gift from her parents a few hours before boarding the plane, a small collection of pens, pencils and notebooks, all unused and ready for school. An ink-pad as well as a stamp with her personal blazon on it. As well as a handful of other bits and bobs. Perhaps an eclectic collection of possessions to the outside observer, but it would be called stereotypically average to a Nauchrterner in her position.

The watch on her wrist struck 0700, she had a scant thirty minutes left before she was to meet a student representative that would show her around, help her get her bearings and introduce the clubs and societies that the school offered. Deciding that being on time is being late, she decided to head out towards the main school building. She also decided that there was no use in changing clothing, she would rather save her only set of clean civilian clothing, if an ability to expand her wardrobe did not present itself as soon as she wished.

Donning again the tall boots and the long coat she buckled the belt around her waist and pulled on her gloves, for the early morning air was on this day rather cold. She looked at the hat hanging from a hook on the wall and contemplated long. Deciding that she looked out of place as it was, she opted to leave her silver white hair, normally shoulder length but now secured in a regulation fishtail bun, on full display to the world.

She walked down the corridor, and immediately regretted leaving the hat, for in her mind she heard her old officers all at once screaming “where is your cap soldier?” at her. Fighting the urge to return for the missing piece of her uniform she stiffly arched down the hallway and into the atrium connecting the school buildings and dormitories.

The entrance to the main school building was a large square thing, stairs elevating it some meters above ground, with large pillars supporting the roof-covered doorways. In front of the stairs Agnes saw the statue that she had seen when she first arrived at the school, a woman holding a brazier, the stairs themselves flanked on each side by a pair of trees.

Looking around the crisp morning air she saw little movement on the grounds, as expected due to how early it was. But she was there, well in time, so now all she needed to do was wait, something she was both used to, and rather good at. She allowed her training to take over as she assumed the position of parade rest, and letting her eyes and mind wander she waited out the time.

She did not have to wait long, even if she would be unsure of the time passing if she did not have her wrist watch to inform her. She saw a kid in the school uniform looking from the top of the steps, looking his eyes on her he quickly walked down and approached.

He made his introduction as the representative of the student body, a third year pupil and the person in charge of her orientation. A friendly remark on how easy she was to spot, after all one had to look far to find someone in impeccable Nauchrten army dress uniform in the union, at least outside of official functions, joint bases and the like. Agnes took it as a well meaning joke, and replied with a laugh and a salute as she gave her name, and received his in turn. The salute was returned, it was sloppy. A handshake was offered from the boy, she took it, but now it was her time to be sloopy. She was thoroughly unused to shaking hands as a means of greeting.

Then they walked, the young man in the school uniform showing the grounds to the new student, rhythmic clopping of the marching soldier filled the halls as the pupils explained how the schools classrooms were named and organised, where the common areas and cafeteria where located. How the library worked, as well as individual study-rooms. How one accessed schedules, where the PE hall was and how the outdoors area functioned.

Next came information on the town itself, the best restaurants, coffee shops, and upon asking Agnes also received recommendations for good and value-for-money clothing stores. As well as other things to do in the town when spare time presented itself.

Next they walked past a corridor containing small rooms, meeting and storage rooms for the different clubs at the school, of course only the biggest clubs got their own rooms, with many of the smaller clubs sharing rooms.

While there was a long list of clubs, Agnes made a mental note to seek out the outdoors camping and survival, martial arts, poetry, as well as the music clubs. Perhaps an eclectic selection of clubs to the uninitiated, but Agnes was a typical Nauchrten citizen; a Youth Cadet since age ten, trained in the arts of the violin and poetry. For just as much as they were Citizen-Soldiers, they were also a culture of Warrior-Poets, or at least so they liked to style themselves.

But such matters had to wait until the end of the day, for by now they had arrived at the classroom Agnes' first lesson as a pupil at this union school where it would take place in just a few minutes. With her she carried a notebook and pencil, her orientor having said that she would be issued books at the first class of each of her subjects. So she thanked him for his time, and they changed cards with one another. Or atleast agnes did, for having personal Business cards was the norm in Nauchrtenfield, but not many other places of the world, so she instead received a page from a small notebook containing the young man's name, number and email.

[Nauchrtenfield]

”The State Estate - Part 1”

Monday, November 15th , 2021, Morning Local Time.
Nauchrtenkapitell Administrative Area 001 - Councilor Palace, Nauchrtenkapitell, Nauchrtenfield

Ask someone what the stereotypical citizen of Nauchrtenfield is, and you are bound to get one of a few answers; “Soldiers with a state”, “Saluting over-cordial nutters”, “arrogant know-it-alls”, “Stuck in time”. Most of these, and the other stereotypes are deserved to some extent. For the machinery of state is indeed strong in Nauchrtenfield, as is its brand of marital culture. Here the three piece suit still reigned supreme, and to Nauchrten sensibilities changing jobs even every five years shows either that you, or your employer are less than normal.

This nation of seeming contradictions in its culture, styling themselves as warrior-poets and citizen-soldiers, with a fashion sense from centuries past, but technological innovation and integration to rival the best of them, is governed from the capital island. Peaked on a high cliff overlooking the southern coastline of the mainline in the far distance lay the Councilor Palace Complex; Nauchrtenkapitell Administrative Area 001. A complex of buildings where the Citizen Forum gathered to discuss and vote, the Outer Council and all ministers housed their own and their aides offices in this complex, as do parts of the Military Forum. However the core of the complex, perched on the highest point close to the cliffs, was the Councilor Palace itself, a grand state home with well over two-hundred rooms. Originally built during the renaissance as a royal retreat. Today it served as the home and office for the State Council, as well as the Speaker of the Council itself, and their families. Here visiting dignitaries also stayed, served and tended to by State Council Estates domestic staff.

In the basement floors of this grand estate were the domain of said staff, here were sleeping quarters, offices, kitchens, laundries and storerooms. A maze of old corridors and LED bulbs. So here, walking towards one of the stairs that lead into the upper floor of the castle where the Head Butler of the Estate; Victor Edmengren. For forty seven years he had served the Council, starting as a Lower Footman straight out of national service, he had reached the top. He reported directly under the Council, and had even served as a personal valet to the former council. He was advanced in age, but still surprisingly fit and active, he nonetheless elt that the numbers of years that he had left in service were but a mere few, then he could look forward to receiving his state pension, and a small cottage to retire to.

A man of normal length, a far receded hairline and as of recently, small glasses, like those of a librarian rested on his nose. Dressed in the uniform of his service, a tailcoat and black tie, with a pin with the insignia of the State Council on his chest. Under his arm rested a clipboard and a thick stack of papers. For he and the Housekeeper had recently lost a Footman after years of faithful service to another employment opportunity. So the extensive process of finding a replacement was in full swing.

Only problem was that said process had now collided with the visit of Premier Nikolas Setrenzi from Kruchau, and as such Victor was both one man short, and ladiend with the extra duties of trying to find new hands. While having the workload that came with the visit of a dignitary. Food had to be ordered, the castle polished down to the last fixture and door knob. Guest rooms prepared and readied, personal valets assigned and inquiries as to the dignitaries taste and sensibilities, so that the rooms, food and itinerary can be adjusted to the honoured guests.

But he had no time to worry, at present. For he sat down in one of the meeting rooms on the upper floor, graciously the council had allowed himself and the housekeeper to use this room for the final interviews. Applications to fill the domestic staff of the council estate were extensive, and there were no shortage of applications. Most could be sorted away in the first few stages however, they were old fashioned and accepted applications only via mail, with specific instructions on what should be included.

Then registers from the military where pulled, if they had even a single infraction on record they were deemed ineligible.

Then the Security Police did their background checks and usually vetted out a few more.

Then finally prospective applicants were called to the final step, an in person interview with the Butler and Housekeeper. Would be applications where judged every step of the way from arriving at the palace to leaving. Should an application droop in posture, act rudely, or dragons forbid; try and gain entry via the main door, or do any of a million other violations of the unwritten rules they were at once struck from the list of candidates. The meeting would run its course, the butler hand them a check for travel expenses before asking them to be on their way, a letter the day after informing the applicant that they had been denied.

By the end, usually they had five or so applicants that fit the bill, so usually all five would be hired for two weeks of “testing”, following a footman or maid that would evaluate them. Generally by the end only one or two remained, these would then be offered a permanent position. Most will accept, and most will remain at the Estate for many years of faithful service. For such was both the culture of Nauchrtenfield, and the retirement benefits of working directly under the Council.

Setting down inside the room behind a large, old desk. On his right the housekeeper, Mrs Eckenwald, a colleague of many years to Victor himself, sat with a similar clipboard to himself. On the other side of the desk a lone chair.

The clock struck 0700, and a knock on the door before it opened quietly and smoothly. The tall and proud frame of Stenmark entered. She was the first maid, and today in charge of showing the applicants from the door to the meeting room, and then the same in reverse.

“Mister Grönhalm to see you Mister Edmengren, Mrs Eckenwald” She said with rhythmic formality, before stepping aside to let the applicant in. Closing the door and standing to the side of it inside the room.

The butler and housemaid would ask the applicant's name and ID number, a formality. Their papers were in order. Of Course they were, if the applicant sat down of their own volition it would be an automatic fail, for you see you did not sit unless specifically told to, unless you were in the commissary, your own room, or a vehicle, of course.

Passing the first test the applicant would be told to sit, and then the interview would start; They would be asked how they were to act in different scenarios, and asked to perform basic tasks. They were not expected to answer everything correctly, but atleast to understand the basic ideas and concepts that would be expected of them in service to the Council. A few mistakes where permissible, they were afterall not yet real footmen or maids.

Up to an hour they would spend with each candidate, nothing down and evaluating them as they spoke. Before Edmengren would hand them the check, sending them off with the words “We will send a letter with our decision by tomorrow.” Stenmark would follow the applicant to the servants door, and grab the next applicant waiting. Of course being late was an instant failure as well, for if one was not early, one was late, and such would never be tolerated in this estate.

The hours passed, and by early afternoon they had concluded all the meetings. A light lunch was served to them down in the servants commissary, and a few hours of the daily work then set about, Victor had paperwork to attend to, as well as the daily meetings with the partners of the councillors, the two Lord Castellans of the Councilor Guard, as well as a number of other duties and meetings. By the arrival of the late evening both the Butler and Housemaid found themselves in the meeting room once more, this time to discuss who would be invited to try and being a domestic servant for two weeks, who out the applications showed the potential to become a master of knowing your master, to be two steps ahead at all time, hidden and unseen. It was thankless for sure, and it needed someone that saw the honour and dignity in being unseen.

And as midnight struck they had a final list, Seven promising young men and women, most fresh out of National Service had been selected. Pre-formatted letters were filled in and signed before being handed to the duty postman in the Palace mailroom, they would reach the recipients with express mail before dawnbrake.

But for Victor it meant that he finally could get a few hours of sleep, knowing that hopefully everything would be in order before the arrival of the Premier in two days. Of course none of the new staff would get to be close to anyone important, that would risk them committing any number of grave, inexcusable sins; like placing the forks in the wrong order for example.