Aeia SoapNet [Aeia Only]

[Midrasia]

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Welcome to SoapNet, a depository for stories from regular ordinary folk inhabiting the nations of Aeia. SoapNet is a depository for short stories or any other RP plot that does not involve journalistic reporting and is not related to any major ongoing RPs. Nations are welcome to post a variety of tales, be they chill, relaxing comedic tales or gruesome, grizzly murder mysteries. Soap Net is a place for nations to chill and take a moment away from the hustle, bustle and sometimes stressful world of Aeian international politics.

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Current Stories:

• Ajerrin - A New Dawn, II, III, IV
• Onza - The Ivory Tower, II, III, IV, V, VI
• Onza - Anathema, II, III, IV
• Orubasishtan - I've Always Loved You, II
• Torroso - Tide of the Sands

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[Ajerrin]

The sun's rays broke the darkness of the sky above and sea below. It was morning, and the waves could be heard crashing against the breakers nearby. The westerly winds pushed the sea-filled air inland, bringing the 22 million souls of the Kingdom of Ajerrin a new dawn.

As the first rays' light hit the shores, Lelani stood at the edge of her lanai overlooking the eastern waters of the Great Jade Ocean. To her left laid the coastline of her prized capital, New Hope.

“Fourteen years...the golden age…,” she mumbled into a cup hot tea. “And now He is gone. It feels like he was Chosen yesterday.” She silently cursed Ke, the god of war and politics, for what was about to happen tonight. Anger rose up through her body like volcano and she was about to erupt. Her fist outstretched into the heavens.

“And now you want me to lead this?!?! How can I fix this now!?!”

Looking down onto New Hope and shaking her head in disbelief she mumbled under her breath, “You’ve got some nerve picking me.”

[Onza]

Sunrise at Al-Khatin Island was truly a sight to behold as always on the morning of 19 May 2017. The rays of the shining star created a stunning opalescence along the body of the Ivory Tower that would have surely necessitated a double take from any observers fortunate enough to happen upon the view with their mortal eyes.

As a courtesy that morning, the Liberal Party informed Xolani Kojo - the current President of Onza - that they would be announcing their nominee at 11:45 AM. Although the news from one of his closest advisers, Karam Sultan, was met with an appreciative nod that one would give a courier and a small utterance of a thank-you, all as were typical mannerisms for the polite President.

Sultan was in possession of the rare privilege that is knowing Kojo on a personal level. The privilege, at least to Sultan, did not lie in the office of the man that he knew; rather, it lay in his character, one that he truly regarded as remarkable. And his knowledge of said character was sufficient enough to know that even though his friend responded to the news in a manner of calculated strength, this was merely a facade to disguise the true feelings of anticipatory grief that would manifest themselves later.

The scene that our readers are about to gaze upon is that later.

The magnificence of the Office of the President created a stage that clashed with the feelings within. Although it is a conflict rarely described, the constant disagreement between the staleness and indifference of the artificial constructs of man and the depth of emotion felt by him is omnipresent, but has chosen to make a particularly notable appearance in the office of a man grieving for a loss that has yet to come.

Xolani Kojo sat in a plush chair that looked out of a window that consumed the entirety of the wall. Given that the Ivory Tower was built on the small Al-Khatin Island, the small buildings below only accounted for a minuscule portion of the view; the rest was rightly reserved by the beauty of the appropriately-named North Opal Sea.

Kojo is not a man of tears. In fact, to Kojo, "man of tears" is a bit of a paradox, but nonetheless something that he acknowledges is a thing. His heartache and pain to be leaving an office that he loved holding could not be observed by even the most heedful of eyes. Only those with the ability to empathize and feel the emotion of others could detect that anything was amiss with the national leader, and even then, the emotion felt would only be a fraction of what was truly there.

The thoughts that raced through Kojo's mind at this point were primarily those of disappointment. Even though his presidency remained popular throughout all eight years - a rare feat for an Onzaian president - he suffered from the self-defeating philosophy that he was secretly a fraud; an impostor taking credit for the hard work of others. In the immediate absence of these thoughts came another thought wondering internally how a real leader would not be prone to such a crises of confidence, which served to bring the cycle of emotions full circle.

Even the comforting warmth of the distant sun that caressed his face was not enough to defeat the feelings of inadequacy that had overcome him. Even if the Dem Socs won the election, Kojo's agenda would be subject to revision, and being the perfectionist he was, such a thought seemed to defeat the purpose of ever attempting to accomplish said agenda at all.

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A few floors lower

Beneath the cesspit of self-defeating emotions from the top floor, a report entered the Situation Room in an ominous manila folder. Although interns who had reviewed the information classified it as political in nature, it contained a report that if ignored would lead to chaos in the nation.

"Is this some sort of joke? We're handing reports of cults up to the president now?" asked Jinan Nagi - a national security adviser - aggressively. Nagi, albeit excessive in his delivery, raised a valid point. "I mean, all we're seeing here is something everybody has already heard of in bad horror films - a group of teenagers who think that we're hiding something in the Forbidden Zone," he said.

"You're ignoring the frame at which it was delivered to us," said Karam Sultan. "This is political information. We have the option to pass this down to Saab's campaign," he said.

"And what would they do with this? I have to wonder, because it seems like a waste of reading to me," retorted Nagi.

"Hell if I know, that's for the DSNC [Dem Soc National Committee] to decide. Somebody somewhere in this tower thinks that this information could help the campaign out though, so why not just fax it over?" asked Sultan.

"I'll fax it over, but you're picking up the phone when they call wanting to know what the hell we just sent them," said Nagi. Sultan smiled to himself and exited the room.

[Ajerrin]

The moon was at its zenith. Tonight is Kapu Noho, the event where everyone, everywhere in the Kingdom wait impatiently for the Council of Chiefs to announce their decision. Before the sun rises over New Hope, a new leader will be rise to become the young nation’s next Head of State. While the Kapu Noho has only transpired three times during the brief Kingdom’s reign, the traditional ceremony has occurred for thousands of years throughout the seven tribes. The tribes of the Lahu’i, the Endik’i, the Er’in’a, the Wai Apo, Wilele Kuahiwi and the Ajerr’i people maintained a similar ritual where a Council of tribal elders publicly stood behind one leader as a show of public prostration. Except tonight, Lani Kawana Nakoa would be named Moʻi Wahine o ko Ajerrʻi Pae ʻAina, Queen of the Ajerr’i islands, not just the Ajerr'i Tribe.

The road to be Queen came as a surprise for Lani Kawana Nakoa.

Four years ago, Chief Kani Lakanoka of the Wai Apo tribe became the Chosen one. For many, Chief Kani was the embodiment of the Ajerr’i people. He was passionate about the future of his tribal lands and but humble enough to know his place in the world. Chief Kani was passionate about maintaining his cultural identity but courageous enough to voice the truth: cultural diffusion is the only way to grow the nation and its economy. At the third Kapu Noho of the Ajerri Kingdom, Chief Kani was Chosen by all 7 tribal leaders in the realm. Some felt King Kani would rule the Kingdom for the next twenty years, the maximum time allowed by constitutional law, leading the nation into its first golden age. The Ajerri were on their way to proving that and more, but it ended a fortnight ago.

Kani Lakanoka, the third King of the Ajerr’l islands, died of a massive heart attack en route to the economics summit with the leaders of Timeria and Dansawe just two weeks ago. With the nation and the region in shock, the Council of Chiefs had its first crisis in 14 years: To find a replacement for an irreplaceable King.

[Ajerrin]

The breeze picked up.

Servants quickly moved to the fireplace to drop a number of logs, sending sparks dancing through the air. Kiwala, Chief of the Lahu'i people sat on the lanai with Chief Pika of the Wilele and Akamai, Chief of the Tonagoni, during a clear but chilly night before the Kapu Noho.

“This night is getting worse as you continue to ramble on about Lani, Kiwala.”

Akamai sat holding a rocks glass filled with the Red Okolehao, one of the nation's strongest spirits. Despite sitting next to two of the most powerful chiefs in the nation, they both looked frail next to Akamai, who was a full head taller and wider in comparison to everyone else.

Kiwala took a deep drag of his cigar and exhaled the smoke into the air, watching it disappear into the air above their heads. He looked at Akamai and frowned.

“There’s no one that could possibly earn the trust of the nation, Akamai, let alone the votes from our Council. Do you think they would put Pika on the stone? Or you? No. Lani takes the idea of a civil war off the table. And a civil war wouldn’t be good for your business with Hasson, would it?”

In seconds, both men erupted in laughter. Kiwala had a cruel mocking laugh. Akamai was doubled over and pointing feebly with a shaky finger.

Pika, embarrassed and insulted, stood up and shouted, “I would make a fine King. A fine King I tell you!”

Tears streaming down their faces, laughter rolled out of the mouths of Akamai and Kiwala as Pika stormed back inside the house.

[Ajerrin]

The sound of Pahu drums echoed through the night. People gathered on the cliffs of the most sacred site on the big island, Pelekalane Cliffs, to see the choosing of their next ruler, or Kapu Noho. As the fire grew, shadows of the Councilmembers danced around for all to see. The tempo of the drums pick up as the Council walked in front of the great fire. Chief Mele, a short but stocky man in his late sixties, stood in the center of the line and raised his hand. He was the eldest Cheiftain at the ceremony.

Silence filled the air drumbeat echoed into the waters behind them. The raging fire sent sparks into a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot swirling air before cascading to earth like gleeful fire fiends, sending alight the tinder dry grass of the cliffside.

“Tonight, at our Kapu Noho, we the Chieftains of the Ajerri Kingdom stand before you. United. In peace. In our decision. We are gathered here before you in the midst of this holy place underneath the stars above us; Gathered now to help and serve, cheerfully in all our actions, lovingly in our reflections. As the smoke curls, winding upward, may our thoughts and actions fill us all with acts of goodness and direct and rule and guide us in our work and thoughts this evening. “May Kana’s arms bring us closer together and protect us from danger above and below our sacred waters.””

Chief Kiwala took a step forward and raised his hands in unison.

“There should fall a solemn silence over the brothers and sisters in our circle, for their thoughts should now be centered on the noble goal and purpose that has called us together.”

Chief Keaho, the newly tapped ruler of the Wai Apo was familiar with this ceremony having just taken part in one seven moons ago. Keaho stood tall with confidence. He walked to the edge of the circle, the fire illuminating the outline of his body, sending his shadow dancing into the spectators in front of him.

“My brothers and sisters, we all have the same purpose. We swore the solemn obligation to our Gods, our Chiefs, and our souls. But now another time of testing is before us. Now we must preserve our tradition given to us by the Gods. Your brothers and sisters will thoroughly test your dedication. But you will discover that everything you have done and heard tonight will help you in the future. Seek to understand the meaning behind tonight, and resolve not to flinch when you have encountered its meaning in new ways as we all strive to fulfill the obligation.”

The drums beat off four times.

Each of the Chiefs moved off the line to form a small circle in between the great fire and the public. Lani, who has been silent all evening, was pale as a ghost. The decision for her to become Queen was made yesterday and the thought has plagued her ever since.

As the circle tightened, Akamai’s eyes sent daggers into Lani. His fierce stare sent the message home that the Council was not unified. They were not at peace.

One by one, each Chief put their hand on the shoulder of Lani Kawana Nakoa as the drums beat off four more times. After what felt like an eternity to Lani, the drums beat four more times. Chief Pika of the Wilele tribe knelt beside her. Then Chief Mele of the Endik’i knelt, along with Cheif Kiwala of the Lahu’l and Chief Keaho of the Wai Apo. Chief Holokai of the Er’in’a islands and Chief Akamai were the last two to kneel in unison.

The drums beat four more times, louder than before.

It was done.

A shout from the side of the fire made the people erupt in applause. “Lani Kawana Nakoa Moʻi Wahine o ko Ajerrʻi Pae ʻAina!”

Behind the fire, royal guardians of the sacred headdress placed the feathered band on Lani’s head and chained the royal green robes around her neck. Nervously smiling, she walked forward as the people shouted her new title into the skies above them, Lani Kawana Nakoa Moʻi Wahine o ko Ajerrʻi Pae ʻAina!!

“I humbly accept this decision,” the Queen decried. “But I can not wear this today. Not yet.”

Lani slowly moved her hand to her neck and touched the clasp of her royal robe. The green robe slipped off her shoulders onto the ground below. A child ran from the side of the fire to the Queen and kneeled before her. In the child’s hands was a single, dingy, coarse covering. A family tradition in times of sorrow and mourning, Lani Kawana Nakoa stood on the sacred cliffs of her people and put on the traditional robes of grief by herself.

The Queen stood in front of her people while the Chiefs behind her were out of the limelight. The people cheered and swooned over such an act of self deprecation to the death of Cheif Kani Lakanoka that it sent the public into a frenzy. Soaking in the cheers, Lani finally started to realize this was not a dream. Every word will be scrutinized. Every action will be questioned. She must assert dominance quickly.

But that will come another day. For tonight was Kapu Noho and a celebration is in order. Before the drum beats ended the night, the Queen said, “May Kana’s arms bring us closer together and protect us from danger above and below our sacred waters.”

[Orubasishtan]

The alarm clock rings precisely at 5:30 AM. As always. It's a Tuesday morning in the People's Republic of Orubasishtan. In a picturesque home hidden and locked away by the everlasting Huern mountains lies Frederiks Gizovurdea, panicked and worried that he may be late to go to school (again). Rushing and scurrying to the bathroom he went, and by the time Frederiks stepped out of the bathroom, calm and refreshed, an angel stood by the bathroom doors. There he was, standing with magnificent eyes with gorgeous lips and hair. To say that he was attractive was an understatement. Behind that gorgeous smile lies a fiery hearth of questions unanswered that only time could forget. Who am I? Who is everyone? And to what purpose am I here?

Questions like these have always been begging to be answered inside Frederiks's mind. By the age of 2, he was sent into an orphanage by his father for unknown reasons. It came to his realization by the age of 10 that he was unwanted. Unloved and a piece of human waste. Who is everyone? Do the orphan caretakers really love me or are they just doing their job to love me? Are they here because I am around or are they here because the government said so? By the age of 12, a family was willing to adopt Frederiks. It was a husband and wife seeking to have a child. The doctors said otherwise, so, they turned to adoption as the only way to have a child. Frederiks was shining among other children and Maria Ladaskina's eyes were glued to Frederiks. She could not believe her eyes. She instantly adopted Frederiks without looking at any other child, and they went home.

Turning 18 in 2 months, Frederiks will be authorized to drive a motor vehicle. Driving across the steep mountain hills on his step dad's SUV alone was a wave of calamity before stressing on school matters. The school was state run, and the teachers there were very strict, but not when it comes to Frederiks, especially the female teachers. They will always make a fuss about how gorgeous he looks. Late home works were not a problem for him. Especially when it comes to mathematics. Mrs. Lilioneva would always pity him, even though half the class would be punished for not finishing his homework. Mrs. Lilioneva became depressed after her husband died at work almost a year ago. The only social life she had was at school with her students. She was, essentially, all alone.

[Torroso]

Tide of the Sands

The story of Augustin Gessius so far

How would you describe the virtue one has for their freedom? Most would say it depends on the courage of their character. However, it's not the courage, rather a measure of their faith. My faith has guided me for over 20 years. I had just finished highschool. I remember walking out with diploma in hand to a crowd of recruiters. This was how it was since I entered high school. It was practically a race to get to me, a potential candidate for one of the branches of Torrosoan military. It wasn't always this way. Prior to five years ago, military service in Torroso was voluntary. This, like many things within our nation, had changed with the shortcomings of our politicians. The practical coup that was the "Greater Integration Act" had bounded the citizens of Torroso to the means of the state itself. All citizens from then on had a service to the nation, and when they turned 18, those who were eligible for the mandatory military service were taken in.

Beyond any further thought, I chose the Air Force. My eyesight was excellent and with my height, I should be able to fit in the cockpit. Before I knew it, my summer was over. Only two weeks in, I was shipped off to basic training. This was only the beginning of the onslaught I had to face from the rigorous training of our military. I remember my first week of basic being the slowest. The grueling tasks I had faced were just the first wave of the eleven more weeks I had to endure. Nevertheless, I was shaped into a healthy young man with the proper ideals of the Torrosoan nation.

When I had originally chose the Air Force, I did it out of safety. 'How am I going to get killed from being on base moving pushing ordnance around'? I thought. My outlook had changed, however. Once out of basic, we were given the choice of our occupational specialty. Essentially, our job within. Due to my high score on the aptitude test in high school, I had chosen to be a fighter pilot. I had no idea what I was getting into. If you thought basic was hard, well, imagine hell but at a much, much deeper depth. The only enjoyment I had gotten out of it was when we had finally gotten into the air. Initially, it started with me in the backseat of the cockpit, but I enjoyed the view.

Me, the flyboy at the ripe age of 21, going through weekly flight training ca. Oct '71

The rest of it, however, I had spent paperpushing. I had spent three months studying the ins and outs of a textbook just before I found myself in the cockpit. Well, the backseat of it, anyways. I remember the nights I'd stay up with my squadron mates simply sharing our notes of the beloved Mirage III. The brand new design from our prime supplier in the day, Midrasia. Torroso had a considerable relationship with Midrasia, and I could see why. The aircraft was such a beauty. The flight manual, on the otherhand, was not. It was a royal pain in my ass as some of the translations from Mydrazian to Torrish were botched. Luckily, I had squadmates who learned to speaked Mydrazian. Most air communications had been conducted in English, however, the only exception to that had been the Midrasians. Because of this, many pilots of different nations were required to know some Mydrazian phrases. It was because of this exception I had come to learn Mydrazian in full circle.

My 'royal' flight manual of the Mirage III

With the third month over, the rest was mostly psychological and endurance testing. I essentially had a year left of training. The Torrosoan government wouldn't just hand over a multi-million dollar aircraft like it's candy. We aren't Ternca, after all.

[Orubasishtan]

Confusing equations were already written in the whiteboard as Frederiks enters the first class of the day. It was mathematics, and Mrs. Lilioneva was already waiting for the students to enter her class in a single file line while waiting for the bell to ring, marking that it was already half past seven. One by one, they entered and greeted Mrs. Lilioneva with cheer and gratitude, as mandated by the school whenever entering any teacher’s class. Mrs. Lilioneva began teaching after the class sat down and prepared their books and writing instruments. Mrs. Lilioneva brought surprising news. The test scores were out, and Anton got a perfect 10 on his mathematics exam. To congratulate him, Mrs. Lilioneva has prepared a special “gift” for Anton. He was due to meet Mrs. Lilioneva for the “gift” after math class. But Frederiks knew what the gift was. It was intimate time with Mrs. Lilioneva. He knew that Mrs. Lilioneva has had intimate relationships with at least 4 of his friends for achieving good marks in her tests from overhearing other students’ conversations, but he still doubted it.

“Next test is in a week. I hope you prepare well.” Said Mrs. Lilioneva.

Class has ended and Anton, as requested by Mrs. Lilioneva, stayed in class. Frederiks was the last person to exit. A locking sound could be heard after he left. He waited for a few minutes and suddenly, weird and suspicious noises were coming out of the mathematics classroom, but softly, only softly. Frederiks pierced through the little key whole opening of the door. He could see it. They were having intimate relationships. Frederiks’s suspicion was right. Frederiks was a big fan of Mrs. Lilioneva, although he is afraid to say so. Her body is very sexy and hot, according to most boys in his school. No matter how hard he would try to focus on the lessons, he would end up thinking about them and get a really weird and noticeable bulge in his pants. It was eventually lunch. Anton, who happened to be one of Frederiks’s best friends, sat at the usual table they would usually sit on. Everyone but Frederiks stayed silent.

“So, Anton, what gift did Mrs. Lilioneva gave you?” Asked Frederiks.
“I don’t know, I kept it in my locker, I’m opening it at home with my mother!” Answered Anton.
“Well, I hope it was really worth it. Mark my words.”
“What is wrong with you Frederiks? You’re acting strange! It’s creeping me out.”

Frederiks got out of the table quick and deposited his food in the tray lane where they would be taken back to the kitchen. But, he realized he was wrong. He shouldn’t have said that, it would only make his relationship even worse. But, Anton has already had it, and he has had it with one of the woman that Frederiks thought of the most every single day. He decided to meet Anton and apologize.

“Hey, I’m sorry for what I just said.”
“Yeah man, it was real, creepy, thank god you realized, I was getting scared right there.”
“Thank you, so, we cool now?”
“Yeah.”

[Onza]

In the campaign office of Akbar Saab - Dem Soc nominee for President - in Kunta

"Seriously? How long has the damn fax machine in here been unplugged?" griped Ataullah Nasir, a key figure in Akbar Saab's campaign towards the presidency. "We win the debate and people around here throw in the towel and get reckless," he mumbled as he struggled to get behind the table the small machine was sitting on to restore its connection to the power outlet.

"Why even bother? If someone wants to give us something important, they should know better than to use a fax machine," said Anwer Mohammed - another central figure in the campaign that frequently found himself at odds with Nasir - upon observing the struggle Nasir was enduring to restore the humble machine's functionality.

"I'm going to ignore him, I'm going to ignore him," Nasir thought to himself as he continued to wrestle with a mess of dust-coated cords. Nasir continued to fumble around, and the tedium of the task combined with the uncomfortable squatting position only served to further fuel his growing rage. After clearing through the dense jungle of wires, he found the culprit: in place of where the fax machine had been plugged in was a colorful phone charger - one likely purchased from a convenience store in a pinch. Maddening as the discovery was, it was progress, and progress in the uncomfortable position he was in was welcome and an antithesis to his growing anger.

"Don't you have more important things to do, or do you have some sort of soft spot for vintage technology?" asked Mohammed, now standing over Nasir's shoulder. Nasir realized that the mission he had accepted would not be completed quickly, and therefore proceeded to take a knee in hopes of alleviating some of the growing discomfort and boiling aggravation.

A wave of relief swept over him as he finally was able to plug the machine into an outlet. When he tried to get up, however, he found that his knee was stuck to the floor. "Which one of you mouth-breathers spilled something here and didn't bother to clean it up?" he shouted, his voice starting to crescendo as he got towards the end of his sentence. He angrily shouted and grumbled to himself as he struggled to force himself off the floor, and when he was finally able to successfully divorce the floor, he found that a visible layer of the fabric on his pants had been removed, leaving a discolored patch at the knee.

"I'm done. I'm so fucking done," he said flatly as he stormed out the room, making it a point to launch the phone charger across the office on his path to the door. "I told you it wasn't worth it!" Mohammed shouted behind him. After a few moments of whirring, the fax machine began to screech, and although the sound was as awful as ever, it invited the curiosity of Mohammed, who in spite of failing to see the machine as valuable, could not resist the invitation to see what sort of documents had been transmitted to the campaign over the months that the sole fax machine was unplugged.

He watched as the first few documents were transmitted - mostly time stamped for April dates with large gaps in between. It was the 17 May transmission - a mere five documents into the fax machine's efforts to retroactively print the jobs that it had been receiving - that caught Mohammed's eye, however. "CONFIDENTIAL," a red stamp over the cover page of the packet began.

Mohammed waited for the packet to finish printing and collected it in its entirety, taking care to disregard the unimportant transmissions that had come before it. Suddenly, a voice boomed from the corner of the room. "Anwer, my office please." The voice belonged to Rusul Mas'ud, the campaign manager. Mohammed put the papers in his briefcase and reported to Mas'ud's office.

"Please, take a seat," Mas'ud began. Mohammed complied, seating himself in the plush-but-worn leather chair opposite of Mas'ud. "Anwer, look," he began, "You've brought a perspective to the campaign that otherwise wouldn't have been considered, and I appreciate that."

The statement sat alone for a few moments before he continued. "I'm afraid that the candidate does not share that appreciation," he said rather coldly. The statement hit Mohammed hard, but he composed himself and continued to listen. "Mr. Saab was disappointed during a recent visit to the office where he overheard you making the case for revising our bold stance on furthering the current administration's agenda on international affairs.

"While I think you had a good idea and agree, Mr. Saab did not. I tried to convince him that you were merely doing your job, but he disparaged me as well. He's instructed me to let you go."

"Very well, thank you for letting me know," said Mohammed calmly. He stood up and went to leave the office. "Anwer," Mas'ud said before he opened the door. "Just so you know, you were right about the fax machine." Mohammed smiled just a bit before heading out the door. Although he was generally at odds with the other campaign advisers, Mas'ud always seemed to value his opinions.

Mohammed collected his briefcase and stuffed a few decorative pieces of desk clutter into it before heading to the elevator. In the elevator, he opened his briefcase to get his keys. He shuffled through the bag and froze when he saw the word "CONFIDENTIAL." He removed the packet from his bag and began to read it. This time, he would not be interrupted.

[Onza]

In a small encampment in the desert outside of Kunta

For this installment, we lay our scene in a small collection of hastily-assembled tents in the desert some distance away from the capital city of Kunta. The rolling hills of the desert occluded any sort of view of the city skyline, though the night sky above hill blocking the view of the city was visibly illuminated by the increased emanation of light pollution from the neon streets of the glass and concrete jungle.

Within one of these tents sat a woman clad in a black burka. A single lantern sat in the center of the tent and served the thankless task of illuminating the interior, taking care to cast revealing shadows on all figures passing by and around it. The wind whistled outside in a manner not usually observed in the Onzaian Desert - one much calmer than the Kalahari to the west.

The woman sat on a short stool and faced a man who was sitting opposite of her. On his back was an assault rifle popular among insurgents and militia groups. The man's face was angular like the models that adorn Onzaian billboards, but weathered like the faces adorning OCNA police blotter. The woman thought to herself that the man's face was an image of civilization's collapse - the inevitable success of nature's efforts to pillage and destroy man's efforts to shut himself out from the harsh reality of the world and pretend that it was made for men. But whether it was nature or nurture that inflicted the scar's upon the man's face was unknown to her, and perhaps unsurprisingly, a question that she did not bother to explore given that it would deflate her analogy, which she quietly praised herself for conceiving.

The man finally spoke, piercing the ambiance that had been created by the sounds of nature and the slumber that had fallen upon the camp. "The one thing that I cannot seem to understand about you is your persistence on coming at night," he said with a deep, almost-melodic voice, in Saraibian. "I get most parts of you. You like milk in your coffee. You like fast cars. You don't like the sound of people chewing. You don't like to talk about yourself. Yet you come at night, and I can't quite comprehend why."

The woman did not appear phased at all by his words, though perhaps this was due to the burka's innate ability to obscure any transmission of emotion. She responded: "I come at night because I am low key in my doings. These sorts of things, they do not benefit from spotlights or headlines. They benefit from quiet, calculated steps. You do not smile when your opponent makes his move, and you do not cheer when you succeed."

"That is for after the victory," the man suggested as a completion to her sentence. The woman did not seem to care to acknowledge the man's attempt to be mutually wise. Nonetheless, in her flat voice, she continued: "I believe we finally have a day to make it happen."

The man's face was drained of its playfulness. He hesitated, but finally responded. "You mean to-"

"Yes, I mean that," the woman said, cutting the man off before he could elaborate on forbidden details. "Your insistence on being clandestine is becoming rather silly, you know," the man said, somewhat annoyed. "You can trust everyone in this camp. They went through an extreme vetting process."

"It's not a matter of trust," the woman responded. "If I am going to engineer this, I am going to do so from the sidelines as I have been." The woman then proceeded to write something down on a piece of paper and pass it to the man. "This is the time, date, and location. Plenty of rooftops. It's more than we could have ever hoped for."

The man smiled as he read the paper as one would once a tiresome plan comes to fruition. He turned around to look at a map on a small table and began making marks with markers. "I can't thank you enough for all the intel you have given us, really," he said. "Your work has certainly paid dividends up until this point, and now our primary mission will be accomplished. Maybe the OVI will do a better job vetting its agents next time. I suppose it's a good thing they start planning these speeches so early before the elections." The sound of hoofs of a camel outside caused the man to turn around, revealing that the woman in the burka had already left.

---

At the home of Anwer Mohammed

Anwer Mohammed could not find the peace of mind required to go to sleep. One would expect that a sudden termination of employment similar to what Mohammed experienced would lead to such a thing. This was a bit off from the truth, however. Mohammed styled himself as a political animal - the operative that could get any candidate elected. Although his resume has little to show for this (being that Saab's campaign was the first presidential campaign he's worked on) his charisma and unorthodox approach made for an appealing and marketable package. With the end of the campaign trail in sight and the knowledge that he had already made quite the profit from his time working on the campaign, Mohammed would have, in fact, been calmer than ever.

It was the packet marked "CONFIDENTIAL" that kept him awake, however. A careless skim through the report would lead to one drawing the conclusion that "kids will be kids," and that reports of teenagers hunting bright lights in the desert were little more than material for another found-footage film. Mohammed was an analyst at heart, however, a man who believed in reading every word in context.

Page after page of similar reports of missing teenagers whose disappearances were chalked up to unfortunate decisions made by the kids to venture too far into the more inhospitable parts of the desert would have quickly bored an uninterested mind. Mohammed was already seeing the connection, however. Deciding that he could not endure the pressure any longer, he placed a phone call to a friend.

"Uh, Ataullah Nasir please," he said into the phone. "No, I don't know what room he's in, he's a coworker of mine, down from Oshaxas," he said. "Yes, it's urgent. Okay, thank you." After a bit of ringing, the voice of a tired man answered the phone. "Hello?" the voice asked somewhat begrudgingly.

"Atty? It's Anwer."

"Anwer? What are you doing calling at this hour man?"

"You know I wouldn't if it wasn't important."

"Look man, if it's about Mas'ud letting you go, there's nothing I can do. I hate to see you leave but-"

"No no no no," Mohammed said quickly. "It's not about that. I don't care about that, it's something else. It's a document that came through the fax. A series of reports, they're obviously put together by some amateur, but there's a pattern here."

"What are you talking about? And if you think I'm not still mad about that damn fax machine, then you don't know me as well as I thought."

"No, it's not about that. Just listen to me. This report - it was sent on 17 May, okay? It's an anthology of a sort - a whole bunch of clippings and reports about teenagers and young adults going missing out in the desert. Supposedly they were showing some sort of fascination with bright lights and alien-related stuff beforehand and set out with video cameras and backpacks full of supplies."

"And you believe they got abducted, and that Saab needs to publicly express that he will direct funding to a space defense program to prevent this sort of thing from happening again. Really creative. Especially for it being 2:00 in the goddamn morning."

"No, wait! Quit joking for just a second, will you? Of course I don't believe that shit. The idiot is the one who looks at this and doesn't think that it's something more than just people going missing. And then there's some purchase orders in here with firearms and practice targets."

"Look, Anwer, this is going nowhere. I don't care if these people are fleeing to Saraibia or running away from abusive parents. The campaign is won. Did you see the latest polls? Saab is expected to bring it home. I'm surprised Isa hasn't conceded yet. Whatever sort of theory you have, it doesn't matter to me. My job is done, and I suggest you remember that yours is too. Relax, move on. Campaign's over - no need to keep stressing over data like that. Good night man," he said and hung up the phone.

Mohammed sat with a stunned expression. He did not hesitate further to turn over and fall asleep.

[Onza]

Foreword: The following is an RP series that I started back in my former region on a separate RP thread. The plot up until this point has been kept the same, but future installments will tie in with The Ivory Tower. You can read the past installments in this series here (i) and here (ii).

Atop a hill overlooking a luxurious home in the Moçâmedes Desert, our assassin from the previous installments assesses the scene through a pair of binoculars

The man laid prone atop the crest of the hill, which provided a remarkable view of the Spanish-terraced home - no doubt a design choice made to reflect the darker hues of the Moçâmedes - before him. Beside him was an all-black motorcross helmet, which at its point of purchase some years ago bore no imperfections on its matte black coating. Now, however, a light-but-aged layer of sand seemed to permanently tint the piece of safety gear some shades more reminiscent of a clay red.

The helmet, as well as the matching motorcross compression gear he was wearing, were chosen for anonymity and style more so than safety. The fact that he happened to arrive at his vantage point via dirt bike was merely a coincidence in his mind. The assassin laid the pair of binoculars down and crawled back until the elevation of the hill safely occluded his person to the point to where he could safely stand. He sifted through a large backpack laying in the sand and produced a very thin laptop bearing an unfamiliar logo on the back of its screen. He opened it and the device immediately powered on. A faint blue light in his ear indicated that the machine successfully paired with his earpiece. He clicked around through a few menus and found his way to a file named "Briefing #00117" and opened it.

"Agent, hopefully you are playing this as you are outside of the target's location. We weren't sure where exactly the villa was located, but we had no doubt you'd be able to trace the personnel that make regular supply runs back to the location. At any rate, begin briefing for contract number zero-zero-one-one-seven." There was a faint pause and then a male voice began to speak.

"Your target is Sakhr Husayn. He was traveling with Dr. Rahim Ali and Shahzad Samad when you terminated them. Mr. Husayn is a... larger character than the other two that were terminated. Accordingly, his head is worth $250,000. However, Mr. Husayn is the key to another target which is worth several million. This future target pays Mr. Husayn for information that he brings back from his regular, illegal trips to Saraibia. I have reason to believe that this purchaser of information is working up to be a power player in some international events in the region - the only problem is that nobody in my network knows anything about him. If you can't extract the information from Mr. Husayn himself, surely there will be some sort of information around the home. Be careful, he is constantly under guard and is a capable fighter. Non-target kills will not be penalized for this contract. I don't care how you approach it, I just need him dead as well as that information."

The assassin closed the laptop and returned it to the backpack. He then produced a silenced handgun and checked to ensure that it was loaded. He then grabbed a telescopic baton from the bag, extended it, and then retracted it. Leaving his belongings on the hill, he began to sneak along the hill, using the darkening sky to cover his approach.

Around the compound were three men wearing SWAT-style gear patrolling in set paths. Each of them were armed with either a submachine gun or an assault rifle. One of these men was on the opposite end of the compound as the other two, and our assassin suppressed him quickly by choking him to unconsciousness. He also took care to unload the man's weapons and scatter the rounds in the sand. Around the compound, the other two patrolling men were in the midst of a conversation, and were both dispatched by a quick succession of two shots from the pistol, killing both.

The assassin crept around to the front gate of the villa. According to his intel, five guards remained as well as the target. The front gate was not watched from the inside, and thus the assassin found no obstacles in infiltrating the home itself through a sun room on the far side of the villa. He took cover behind a corner next to a small hallway leading to the kitchen and listened as two guards spoke.

"I hear Husayn may finally be hitting off with a woman," said one voice. "Yeah, she's fine as hell, too - from Oshaxas, I hear. Mixed with some Newreyan apparently," the other replied. "Jesus, guy makes trips to Saraibia all the time and fucks around with mongrels. No wonder he needs a whole goddamn security detail."

"What, some sort of extreme patriots gonna try and kill him over it?"

"I wouldn't put it past some of the crazies in this country, especially those that live around these parts. You know I hear that some of the inhabitants of these villages still kill anyone they suspect is an outsider."

"That's bullshit. You really believe those stories? Everyone that lives out in this godforsaken desert is either old and has no other choice or someone in their life has a serious fucking bone to pick. Neither of those groups could give a fuck less about where someone's from."

"If you say so, but I'm keeping my Liberal voter card on me anytime I think I'll be around them."

Having learned the locations of the guards from their voices, the assassin seized the opportunity to rush around the corner. "Yeah whatev-" he grabbed one guard as a human shield and quickly shot the other one to death before a reaction could even be registered. He then turned the pistol on the guard in his arms and shot him in the head, causing blood to splatter across the cabinets on the wall and all over the counters. "Shit," the assassin mumbled to himself, allowing the body to drop to the ground and returning to his crouched position to continue advancing through the estate. He heard a voice behind him in the kitchen, "what the fuck?" He quickly rushed back to see another guard had entered through an outside door and discovered the scene. He quickly shot the man in the head and continued on his path.

He continued through the manor, taking care to turn corners slowly and to gaze hard into dark rooms to allow his eyes to adjust and vet for any potential silhouettes. He did this for the living room before determining that the room was clear and entering. As he was creeping to the next room, however, a swift blow came from the darkness and knocked the pistol out of his hand. Instinctively, the assassin produced his telescopic baton and began swinging, striking only what appeared to be a police baton wielded by a guard. "Time to die, fucker," the guard said while the two faced one another. They exchanged a series of attempted hits, but both characters were able to easily block the incoming strikes from the other. The guard attempted a wide swing with his baton, but the assassin ducked underneath and tackled him into a china hutch, shattering the glass and leaving the guard impaled with several glass shards.

Through grunts, the guard punched the assassin's back, but found his strength leaving his body as he sunk into a sitting position, leaving a streak of blood along the intact portions of the china hutch. He then slumped into an apparent state of unconsciousness. The assassin then found himself trapped as a guard came up behind him and placed him a choke hold from the back. Unable to finesse his way out of the combatant's grip, the assassin's vision faded to blackness.

He awoke what felt like ages later and found himself bound to a chair in the middle of what appeared to be the basement. He could see two silhouettes that stood on the edge of the orb of light cast by the lightbulb hanging above his head. The guard that had trapped him stepped forward.

"Well, well, fucking well, about time you woke up," he said. "Just to answer the most common questions I'm asked by people in your position: no, I'm not going to kill you; yes, I'm going to call the police and you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law; and no, I don't have a clue who the fuck you are and frankly I don't care," the guard said. "Now," he said pulling out a cell phone, "let me just-" a gunshot ripped through his head and killed him. As he dropped to the floor, Sakhr Husayn stepped into the light.

He paced around the assassin in a circle long before speaking. "Perhaps you're wondering why I just did that," he said, eliciting no apparent response from the assassin. "Hm? No? What's that? You don't give a shit?" he asked, hovering just over the assassin's face before backing away. "Well, it's high time somebody with the actual ability to kill comes after me," he said.

"Now don't get me wrong. I'm not about to let you kill me and say how all along I've been waiting for someone to allow me to repent. This isn't a movie or some cliche story, after all," he said. "The truth is, I'm bored and miserable living out here in protection under the OV-fucking-I." The assassin took a mental note of the revelation. His agency typically did not accept contracts on government employees of any degree. "You see, I used to make things happen. I'm one of the only Onzaians that can say they've been to Saraibia and lived. Hell, I go there regularly - but you probably already know that. Long story short, I got greedy, and now my contacts over there are worth too much to the government to give up, so they force me to stay here with the silent threat that I'll be prosecuted if I try to do something different."

The assassin decided it best to defy his training in this position to gather more information. "Why don't you just break off while in Saraibia? Surely nobody's watching you there," he asked. "Oh, so the prisoner can speak after all," Husayn remarked. "There's an easy answer to that - who the hell would want to live out their days in Saraibia? I have contacts there, but I go for personal enrichment, not because their war torn cities give me an adrenaline rush."

The assassin found himself understanding Husayn's position better. An unwilling government informant - one for the OVI, no less - about contacts in Saraibia.

"Who makes you keep going back?" the assassin asked. This elicited a smile from Husayn. "So that's what this is about," he said, taking a moment of silence to apparently ponder the implications of the question. "I don't know who you work for. Hell, I doubt you even know who you work for, but goddamn if they aren't hot on the trail if that's what they care about in this situation. Well, it's not my problem. Not anymore, anyways," he said.

He then continued: "Look, you came into my home and you messed up the balance. On top of that, you would have killed me if you weren't stopped. I'm not exactly in your debt here," he said. "But we can make the playing field a little more even, mostly because, as I said, I'm bored as hell and I haven't the opportunity to do something like this in a long time." He honed in on the assassin's face with his own. "Are you interested?"

The assassin looked long and hard into Husayn's eyes. If there was one thing he learned about prisoner situations, it was always best to let the captor make an erroneous move, and this appeared to be just the opportunity. "I am," he said. Husayn backed away before returning to the chair to untie the assassin. "Now before you get any ideas, I will kick your ass in a one-on-one fight, and not just that, but I will kill you this time," he said, pausing just before making the final motion to set the assassin free. "I want you to go in that room directly in front of you. There is a sword on the wall. Grab it, and wait for me." Suddenly the assassin felt his hands be set free, and Husayn was gone. He looked around - the guard had already been disarmed prior to coming into the basement, and the door to exit was locked. The room was also relatively empty - no places for potentially hidden firearms. Begrudgingly, the assassin complied with Husayn's directions and entered the next room.

To his right was a katana - one that was visibly of an extremely high quality and likely worth several hundred thousand. He brandished the blade and examined the magnificent glimmer of the steel - a beautiful killing machine, ironically confined to a sheathe in a basement rather than be put to the use its creators must have intended. Suddenly, lights illuminated the entire room. On the other side of the arena-style room was Husayn, who was dressed a compression outfit similar to the assassin's, albeit not designed for motorcross.

Donning a katana with even more beauty and grandeur than his own, Husayn's eyes burned with the fires of passion. The thirst for blood innate produced a rhythmic thumping in his chest that with every beat filled him with a unique mixture of rage and euphoria - the hunger for battle had incubated within him for far too long, and it was now manifesting itself in a manner that would have struck fear in the heart of even the most zealous of warriors.

The assassin did not share his blood thirst. For him, killing was a career - a science, something cold and calculated rather than artful. "This is a fight to the death," Husayn said loudly, brandishing his katana for dramatic effect. Each glimmer of light upon the cold steel seemed to showcase souls collected by the blade - it had no doubt collected its share of heads, much unlike the centerpiece the assassin was wielding. The thumping in Husayn's chest grew louder to himself, staging the battle with a rhythmic sound similar to that of a battle drum. Without further delay, he began to shout as he rushed towards the assassin.

Reacting, the assassin deflected the incoming strike with his own blade and rolled out of the way. A fury of swings from Husayn were all matched by parries from the assassin, who surprised himself with the swiftness of his reflexes. Emboldened, he mimicked the swinging patterns of his adversary and before long, the industrial, machinated sound of the blades colliding dominated the room.

The assassin made an almost fatal slip, however, and was quickly slashed along his back by the sword of his opponent. He cried out in pain before dodging away to put some distance between himself and Husayn. The cut was deep and burned worse than many pains the assassin had experienced before. "I knew it was only a matter of time," Husayn said. "I've been doing this all my life. It may have been a while since my last real challenge, but my abilities show it's almost as if I've practiced earlier today."

The assassin turned to face Husayn. The blood spilling from his gash contrasted starkly with the white floors of the arena. He would die if didn't end this quickly. The sight of his own blood paired with the throbbing, unforgiving pain along his back incited him to an impassioned battle cry, one that appeared to even stagger Husayn and shake his confidence. The assassin sprinted towards Husayn, and another fury of lightning-fast parries and retaliatory swings served only to further exhaust both parties. The assassin felt the exhaustion flow through him, but quickly turned it into an aide to the rush of adrenaline. A powerful series of swift blows began to break Husayn's parries, whose demeanor immediately shifted from casual sport to the fight or flight response.

The assassin crouched slightly and looked up to Husayn, who was frantically inhaling in an effort to catch his breath. "If you kill me, make sure you kill her," Husayn said just before the assassin rushed him. Roughly five collisions of their swords were heard before the assassin, in his fury, swung his blade with power at the neck region of Husayn, successfully slashing deep into his throat. Husayn's sword dropped to the ground as he grasped his throat, attempting powerlessly to stop the bleeding before collapsing to the ground lifelessly.

-----

The assassin sat next to his body gravely wounded for some time before producing his cell phone and dialing just one number. "Target is down. Safe to evac. I've sustained life threatening injuries, requesting medevac," he said, listening and seeming content with the response he received. He then hung up the phone and searched the pockets of Husayn and found a paper. He unfolded it to see that the ink was still fresh, as if it was written not long prior to their duel.

On the paper was a time and location. Underneath this was the sentence, "You must stop her." The assassin laid on the floor of the arena and his vision faded to black.

[Onza]

In the headquarters of the Office of Valuable Intelligence on Al-Khatin Island

The Office of Valuable Intelligence (OVI) was one of the most misunderstood agencies in Onza, and quite possibly in the world. At least, that's the narrative that the OVI had worked extensively for years to plant. Discussions of the Office are generally shrouded in secrecy, and rumors of their clandestine operations are spread with a degree of caution. The only group fearless enough to accuse the agency directly were Senators and Assemblymen who had for decades lobbied for the disestablishment of what they often call "a hub for spies with no oversight whatsoever."

In spite of these campaigns, the OVI has only gotten stronger, hence the meeting in the scene which our readers are about to witness.

Within the headquarters were many offices and conference rooms, most of which were rarely used and existed solely for show. This one conference room in particular, however, was built for large meetings. The elongated mahogany table in the center demanded respect and asserted that whatever business took place over it was certainly serious and important in nature.

In spite of the room being obviously intended for large groups, only two people in the room. One was the woman in the black burka from our previous installment, though this time she had her face visible. Across from her was an Onzaian man wearing a simple, slim suit. The man began to speak: "So you gave them the false date?" the man asked. "Indeed," the woman replied. "They will appear on the rooftops on the day you expect. That will be the perfect opportunity to quell their ambitions for insurrection," she added. The man leaned back in the chair and nodded, pleased.

"You are among our most talented of agents, and I appreciate your work in the field. Your pay will be wired promptly. Thanks for helping us get these guys, you've certainly been critical to our efforts to keep the nation safe," the man said, reminiscent of a politician. The woman smiled at the man in response. "Well, I'll leave you to look over the file and decide on a course of action. You have my cell in case you have any questions. Don't worry - it's a secure line," the man said before getting up and leaving the conference room.

The woman looked over the sprawling mess of papers on the table before her. Each of the documents was contingent upon the veracity of her report to her superiors at the OVI. According to her instructions, she was supposed to infiltrate the insurgent group based in the desert and supply them with a false date of importance. The terrorists would act on the date and be thwarted by the OVI.

All of this was true insofar, with the exception of the date she gave the terrorists being false.

The woman smiled to herself. Rather than allow the OVI to thwart the attack, she would be the one to do it, and she would do it on the most important day of the year: the President's inauguration.

[Onza]

In a scene similar to part III, albeit in a different location in the desert

"So, what you're saying is that the believe that you supplied us with a false date for the speech? And that they think we're going to show?" asked the Saraibian man. "Yes, except there actually is going to be a speech there that day, by the President-Elect, it's just not the actual inauguration," replied the woman in the black burka. "And if we don't show..."

"Then they're going to get suspicious of me and they're definitely going to be expecting an attack at the inauguration," she said, finishing his thought. "So you need for us to dispatch fodder to the faux speech in order to give them the sense that they successfully thwarted our attack?" he asked, clearly struggling to fully grasp the plan. The woman sighed before replying. "Yes, that's exactly what needs to happen. You must set up a sniper team on the rooftop I specified and they will be caught. What happens to them isn't important."

"But what if they tell the police what we're really planning?" he asked again, confused. "We're not going to tell the sniper team that they are being sent to get caught. As far as they know, they will be completing the mission as planned," she responded. "Then," she began, "just a week later, the President-Elect will be giving his inauguration speech. Security won't be very strict because a) there has never been an attack of this nature on a politician and b) they're confident that they already thwarted the only attack that they have any sort of lead on."

"And just for good measure, we're going to use a bomb rather than a sniper," the man said, seeming to request confirmation. "For the final time," the woman said, audibly annoyed, "yes, exactly. Do you get it now or do you need me draw a flowchart?" The man did not look amused. "I'm sorry, these shadowy dealings are not my nature," he said.

"These 'shadowy dealings' are how things get done nowadays," the woman responded coldly. "I will report back to the OVI with details of where your sniper team will be set up and they will handle apprehending them when the time comes. When that goes down, I'll have to lay low until days before the inauguration as they'll no doubt be trying to net me in for praise. I'll seek you out, though, and ensure that all is well before coordinating the attack," she said.

The woman said her goodbyes, mounted her camel, and rode away into the desert. When a solid distance was between her and the camp, she produced her cell phone and made a call.

"So far so good," she said. "They're going to thwart the fake attack and then I'm going to thwart the real one. Then and only then will people see the OVI for what it is," she said, before listening for a few moments and hanging up the phone. She turned and scanned the horizon around her. Although nothing seemed apparent, she recognized that the dark of the night could shroud any soul. Although she felt the presence of a tracker, she assured herself that she had left no tracks, and playing the role of a triple agent in some regards made her feel that a plan too complex to track kept her safe. She then returned to facing ahead and signaled to her steed to continue moving.

Some distance away, a pair of telescopic binoculars were watching. The watcher's gaze followed the woman as she rode out of sight. He then returned the binoculars to a black backpack and rose to his feet. He removed the compression shirt he was wearing and reached for a new one out of his bag. Across his back was a long, deep wound.

[Onza]

The Ivory Tower Conclusion

Intro

On any given day of the week, the four streets surrounding Al-Safa Park were notoriously congested with traffic. In spite of Kunta's efforts to steer citizens towards public transit, ride-hailing services seemed to undo the progress made in this regard, and the conversion manifested itself in increased traffic in recent years in popular areas.

On this particular 18th of August, however, all four streets were completely empty. On any given entrance to the block, police had set up barriers to keep drivers and suspicious civilians from entering the premises. It was, after all, one of the biggest days of the year - President-Elect Akbar Saab was slated for inauguration in just an hour and a half.

A large crowd was gathered in the massive park, albeit packed neatly into a formation by police and metal barriers. Occasionally, a patrol car would separate distinct blocks of gatherers in an effort to allow maximum mobility while simultaneously squeezing as many people into the park as possible. It was the same plan the police department had employed for years - it worked, after all, and at no inauguration in Onzaian history did anything go wrong.

The nation itself was on high alert following the revelation that Saraibian terrorists attempted to assassinate the candidate before during a speech. The thwarting of this attack, however, left people fairly confident that the President-Elect was safe; or, at least, ignorant to the possibility of an attack succeeding so soon after one was thwarted. Political assassinations were extraordinarily rare in Onza, even in lieu of turbulent policies aimed to end isolationism that were instated under Xolani Kojo's scholarly eye.

Nevertheless, a selfish attempt at political gain was rumbling beneath the surface of the festivities.

On the 11th floor of a building overlooking Al-Safa Park

"You see, Agent Zaman, for far too long, this agency has engineered clandestine acts that go directly against the wishes of the Onzaian people. My time foolishly pledging myself as an instrument towards this suppression of democracy is over. In my time here, I've witnessed cover-ups unlike anything you can imagine. The way they pull the strings is insane, and I'm going to blow the lid on it."

The woman speaking paced around in front of the table where Agent Zaman sat. Her dark hair was well-kept and expensive jewelry adorning her wrists and hands complimented her dark, business-like attire nicely in a way that conveyed significance.

"After today, people will be forced to address the elephant in the room. Nobody will see the OVI as heroes, they will see them for what they really are," she continued.

"And what is it you think they are?" inquired Agent Zaman. "Monsters, Agent Zaman, they are monsters," she responded, resuming her pacing. "Anyway, read through the file. It has documents that discuss the Saraibian plane hijacking in the 80s, the mysterious lights and sounds in the desert, the mysterious disappearances on the Al-Khatin Carousel. Read through it, you will see exactly what I mean," she said. Agent Zaman was visibly unimpressed, but seemed compelled to give the woman a chance. He let out a sigh and opened the manila folder and began to read the paper on top.

"The Al-Khatin Carousel," Agent Zaman began, "I thought that was the stuff of legends? 12 kids simply disappeared off of the carousel right in front of their parents eyes?" he said. "There are attachments to the report about a plasma ray the OVI learned of in a Saraibian lab. Supposedly, the ray was capable of specifically targeting human particles and eviscerating them without a trace or even a remote indication that anything happened," the woman responded. Agent Zaman appeared stunned. "I need time to look over all of this," he said. "Of course," the woman replied. "I figured you would ask for that. I've got some business to attend to, if you'll excuse me. I'll be back in a few hours. Then you can ask any questions you have," she said before collecting a duffel bag and walking out the door.

She pressed a silver button calling for an elevator. The elevator to her right dinged and then opened up. Inside was a crowd of people laughing loudly, visibly inebriated. The woman remained still as the elevator door closed and departed without her. The next elevator arrived, empty, and she stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. Just before the number on the floor indicator counted down to one, the woman pressed the fire button in the elevator, dimming the light and suddenly stopping the elevator. She then placed her duffel bag on the floor of the elevator and began to change clothes.

When the elevator finally reached the ground floor, a woman clad in a black burka exited along with the duffel bag. "Have a good day," a man behind the desk said as she exited out the front doors. Upon her exit, the man picked up the lobby phone and dialed some numbers. After a few rings and a click, he spoke: "She's on the move," he said.

In the lobby of the building directly behind the inauguration stage

Clad in a burgundy suit with golden livery was our assassin from the past installments. Donning a pair of Siena del Naro sunglasses, the man glanced out the door where the inauguration stage was visible. The lobby he was standing in was bustling with activity - the staff responsible for coordinating the inaugural event all scrambled to tie up remaining loose ends in the short hour that remained before the inauguration was slated to begin. Sporting a conference-style pass around his neck that read "Staff," and underneath that, "stylist," the assassin blended right in. He walked to a door flanking the desk and descended a flight of stairs down to the basement of the hotel where laundry facilities were located. He navigated unnoticed by the uncaring staff in the vicinity into a small break room in the corner that was masked by the occlusion of the large laundry machines and rendered practically soundproof by this same token as well.

He removed a grate on the wall that was part of the HVAC system and removed from it a small backpack. From it, he produced a laptop, sat down at the table in the room, produced a pair of headphones, and listened.

"Briefing #00118, begin transmission," a familiar voice said. "Agent, your target's real name is unknown. She has operated under several aliases, but appears to have been affiliated with the OVI for at least thirty years now. The result is a remarkable lack of bank accounts, addresses, phone numbers, and other traceable records. We know that she has apparently grown dismayed at leadership within the OVI in recent years and is considered by our client to be a flight risk. The information that we found in Husayn's villa indicates that she is certain to make an appearance at this inauguration clad in a black burka - part of some sort of character she plays to infiltrate Saraibian terror circles. Her intentions are irrelevant to our client, and the Board of Directors reviewed this contract specifically to ensure that it was not political in nature.

Your target is to be terminated with extreme prejudice at all costs, agent. Exercise extreme caution as she is highly skilled in infiltration and evasion. The current payout for this contract is $20 million. Do not let her get away."

The assassin disconnected his headphones and returned the laptop and the duffel bag to their location behind the vent. He checked the inside of his coat for his silenced pistol and proceeded to head out of the break room. His cell phone rang just before he reached the exit. He answered quickly and listened. "Copy," he said, before hanging up the phone.

A floor above the lobby where the inauguration staff was setting up

The woman in the black burka sat silently at the end of the conference table. Across from her was the Saraibian man from our previous installments, albeit dressed formally for a change. The two sat in silence for some time before the woman finally spoke.

"Insofar our plot has been successful. They won't suspect a thing," she said. "Right. I am disappointed that many good men had to go to jail, though," the man noted. "I mean, I guess I'm just growing a bit suspicious of this whole thing, where your intentions truly are. I want to believe you when you say you are working against the OVI, but I cannot help but get the feeling that you may be misleading me," the man said.

The woman did not shift at all as the man spoke his mind. She stared silently for some time before offering a response. "Those men that were arrested, tell me, how is it you think they are good men?" she asked, resuming her speech before the man could even respond. "It doesn't even matter, but you should know - those men you put up on that roof to appease the OVI? They were not good men," she said, causing the man to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"You're right," the woman resumed. "I've worked in the OVI for most of my life. I shared this with you early on. In my time doing this, I've had the pleasure of working with the rare species that I call a good man. It wasn't every day. Hell, most of the time, it wasn't even every year, but on the occasions that I got that opportunity, I knew a good man when I saw one, and those men that blindly set up on a rooftop in the hopes of killing the best goddamn hope this nation has for a change, do you think they struck me as good men?"

The man shifted uncomfortably again and gulped. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that while those men may have been brave, they sure as hell were not good men. I've seen men die for causes far greater than aiming to cause a public disturbance. Those are the men I commend, not the ones who sacrifice their pitiful lives in the pursuit of hometown glory. Your people? They are born out of hatred. You are born and raised to hate this nation and everything it stands for. You hate us and you don't even have a fucking clue as to why. You blow yourselves up because it's what you are told is brave and glorious. You kill innocent people because you think there is a war being waged on your way of life. If you think for a minute that I was ever really in this to enable someone of the likes of you to topple a nation, then you are more of a fucking tool than I thought possible," the woman said coldly.

This elicited the ire of the man who was now standing. "It does not matter. You are too late to stop the bomb anyways," he said.

"Oh really?" the woman asked among a chuckle. "And tell me, you criminal mastermind, why the fuck not? If you think that detonator I gave you is anything more than a fucking laser pointer with the battery removed, then you've really taken this to a new level. It's getting ridiculous how easy you all have made it to manipulate you like the pawns you are," she said.

The man remained standing, although a look of confidence took over his face. "You are not going to stop it because you took me for an idiot," he said. "I've suspected for some time that your intentions were not how you represented them, and that is why I decided to replace your bomb with one I know will work, one that is on a timer," he said.

This elicited a visible shift from the woman in the burka, who until this point remained unmoved. "You realize that at any moment I can summon officers to have you arrested?" she asked, her voice wavering. "It doesn't matter," the man replied, looking towards the window. The Onzaian National Anthem began to play, indicating that the President-Elect would be taking the stage.

The woman in the burka stood up immediately, but as she did, the door to the room swung open, and a gunshot quickly eliminated the Saraibian man. The door shut and the assassin continued in holding the woman at gunpoint. The woman put her hands up. "Wait, wait, wait, woah, calm down, listen to me!" she pleaded. The assassin stopped in his tracks and kept the gun on her. "Bomb, bomb! There's a bomb underneath the stage, it's going to kill the President-Elect!" she said to the assassin. He continued to point his pistol at the woman. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked.

"The man you just killed, he's a terrorist, I was pretending to work with him. I gave him a fake bomb and all so that I could stage his failed attempt - it's an elaborate attempt to expose the OVI for the sort of things that it really does," she said in a panic. "But my cover was apparently blown, he substituted the bomb I provided for one he built himself!" the woman said.

"Well fuck," the assassin said. "Please," the woman resumed, "we have to do something!"

"What is it you think you can?" the assassin inquired. "You've already killed the President of the United Democratic Emirates."

The woman's hands slouched a bit. She was somewhat in disbelief at his charge. "You played with fire, and now people are going to get burned," he said. "You know, it was really fucking stupid of you to think that this plan was destined for anything other than doom," the assassin said coldly. "The woman stood defeated. "There's no time, anyway," she said, her voice wavering. "It's only a--"

A sudden boom sounded and a wave of force, fire, and shrapnel broke the glass behind the woman and launched her forward into the assassin, sending both backwards into the wall. The assassin recovered quickly, albeit with a ringing in his ears. To his right lay the deceased body of the woman in the black burka, and outside the building, amid a thick cloud of smoke were emergency lights and people rushing in all different directions. The assassin gathered himself, texted a number saying "It's done," and fled the building in the confusion.

[Ajerrin]

The clear skies showed every star in the sky. Marjorie Molakani, the Deputy Chair of Foreign Affairs was sitting in her office handling the myriad of day-to-day problems that she was never able to finish while the sun was shining. A knock on the door broke the concentration of the Deputy as a tired aide stuck her head inside inquiring about interviewing foreign ambassador candidates.

"We need the island's ambassador team chosen by the morning, Marjorie. I've narrowed our choices a bit more."

A moan of frustration and anxiety left left her mouth slowly. Deputy Chairwoman Molakani was looking over candidates for the Crown's new ambassadorships to the nations of New Timeria and Indragiri for the past week. Her deadline to choose the team is in four hours.

Molakani stood up and threw her hands into the air. "Out of the hundreds of candidates we've pooled about twenty of them, and there's not enough coffee for me to read them all again."

The aide brings three folders to her desk and slaps them down. "I think you should give these three some consideration. Here are the files."

Tossing the files on her desk, the aide glanced at the dozens of muted televisions locked into every major news source in the region, all in silence. One of the televisions showed two patrol ship rescue vessels pointing multiple spotlights at a Tu Class Frigate, the ARS Lono, with smoke bellowing from its port side.

"What is...Margie where is this?"

Stunned, the aide fumbles for a remote to increase the volume. When that didn't work, the aide walked over, pressed a button and heard the narrator's voice speak the words she dreads each morning. "... Lono collided with the Timeria fishing vessel Misato at 2:48am local time 3 miles north, north east of Keoni island. The Misato sunk just a few moments ago and eight of the nine crew members were found. Two Royal seamen are still missing and several have minor wounds. The captain of the Lono, Cmdr. Jonas Molakani, along with those wounded were medically evacuated from the Frigate to Royal Naval Hospital in Iolani... officials have yet to comment on the matter..."

The aide was puzzled.

"Molakani... was that your brothers' ship?"

Marjorie stood in disbelief. Rather than showing concern her face started to turn red in anger. "This can't be happening! Call Admiral Makai and Minister K'apa now. I want them on speakerphone in 5 minutes. I'll wake Konohiki up and we'll draft an announcement in less than 30 minutes. And I thought this morning was going to be rough. Brother, you've made it a nightmare. Jade! Put another pot of coffee on too!"

[Ajerrin]

Kiwala sat at the breakfast table outside with his wife Mia as stewards served a breakfast of macadamia nut pancakes, malasadas and mango juice. The sun broke through the clouds bringing the morning rays down onto the lanai.

As the stewards finish serving breakfast, Kahuna' elele Kope Iosepha, senior representative of the Lahuan National Congress walks onto the lanai and bows to the table.

"My chief, my chieftess, good morning to you."

Kiwala stands to greet the tall Assemblyman while Mia continues to eat for three, barely acknowledging his presence. "Please sit, Kope."

"The national desire to become a regional leader in Aeia is paying off, wouldn't you say Kope?"

"If you mean the growing scale of exports coming out of Lahui, then yes, our nation is earning dividends. The talks with Aquidneck and the CDN have started. Regardless of if we get in there, Kryker and the other leaders continue to offer more than our wildest dreams. We owe the success of that vision to you, Kiwala."

"You're damn right you do. And this progressive bullshit that our Queen is trying to put through the National Congress is something that could halt the success of our future, Kope. The CDN might bring in the bacon, but the Constitution might take it all away. You need to put a wrench in those plans and fast. Polling shows her ideas are gaining a significant amount of support across the country and if the damn Constitution is altered, we are all in danger of losing power here."

Mia looked up, rubbing her stomach to calm the twins down from the excitement of the mango juice and the stress of the current conversation. "Our Queen has decided to strip the power away from Wahine, which is not her decision to make. Only the Gods have that power, for they gave the Monarch the right to rule."

Kope sat and contemplated the issue. On one hand, passage of the law would limit the power of the Queen and her Royal Hand. The National Congress would gain significant control over the domestic policy and finances of the nation. On the other hand, the Monarch's ability to directly influence foreign affairs while indirectly controlling domestic affairs allows the Chieftains the ability to maintain their own influence over the Monarch. The Chieftains want the Monarch to maintain this power just in case they take the job in the future. The policy has created a symbiotic relationship with the National Congress on the outside.

"My Chief, while the polls show our Queen to have a significant gain in popularity on this issue I think with the right voice we could create a counterweight to bring a debate to the table... I will talk to Brother Hiki and see if this the Queen's actions could be against Kapu Akua.

Mia nodded in approval. "The laws of the gods must not be challenged. It's not a debate Kope. It's law."

"See to it that Brother Kiki feels that way as well...

Kiwala slowed down and sipped his mango juice, staring at the palm trees in the distance. "I can't run a country if its own ruler has no power."

[Ovandera]

Arc Saraega, Outside of the Bundes Hauptgebäude

The air was bitter cold in the young morning, only splinters of light cracking over the frozen horizon. The soft blue morning sky flew over the city as a great crowd gathered in the enormous square located in the center of Arc Saraega, Capitol of the Commonwealth. In front of them lies a large building, the Bundes Hauptgebäude, built like a library yet adorned with Red and Black banners, standing stoically in the morning light; the Gear and Grain carved on the marble keystone above the buildings entrance. In front of the doorway, on three enormous stone pillars lay three banners: The Red Hammer and Sickle to the left, a Black Compass and Hammer to the right, and in the center a Red-Black Gear and Grain. On the first steps of the Hauptgebäude stood a large podium, and a young man of 3 took to it, standing over the crowd. The man himself wore thick boots, pants, and a wool turtleneck, alongside a long black coat and a bright red scarf.

He was Christoffer von Freitag, first Ratskanzler of the Ovan Commonwealth, coming into office via the first election just two days ago. He was the first elected leader of the Commonwealth since its inception, and personally hoped he would be its last.Technically, he he was replacing Kommissar Gabriele Abelkis, the current leader of the Kardinal Army and the spark of the Revolution. Christoffer himself stood in stark contrast to Gabriele, and his arguments in favor of the nature of Communism most certainly one him the position of Ratskanzler.

He himself followed the philosophy of Erik Ochstaden, the "founder" of Ovan Anarchism, and was one of its primary proponents. Unlike his predecessor, Christoffer argued that the Revolution was only the first stage of Socialism, and that afterwards steps must be taken to ensure the freedom of information and establishment of a cooperative society over a competitive one. Christoffer was many things, but he was not an idealist, which was why he pushed for the formation of such an un-anarchic position such as the Ratskanzler. The post revolutionary Ovandera was one of turmoil, and Christoffer worried that unless he acted as a unifying force, it would fall to jingoism and anti-intellectualism. But as the Kardinal's one time and time again over the increasingly authoritarian Weißes, Christoffer was able to sway public opinion in his favor, decrying those who attempted to silence him a "Fascist" or a "Weißvolk".

Christoffer moved up onto his podium, a golden Hammer & Sickle Pin on his left lapel, and in front of him a series of large mechanical arms tipped with cameras zoomed in to record his upcoming speech. In a stroke of practical genius from a few of the local Councils, it was decided that the Speech should be broadcasted globally as well as nationally, utilizing radio and television waves, as well as the newest frontier, the Internet, as a means of mass informational spread. The plan was to get as many people across the world, with all manner of communication, to hear the word of the "new Revolution":

Through a broadcast sent globally through Television and the Internet, people across the world would see a young man standing over the crowd. To those
listening, they'd hear the Ovan Cries of liberation translated into a variety of different languages. Communist symbols adorned the building behind this man, and the language spoken by the announcer quickly conveyed the nation of origin; Ovandera. Subtitles playing under the speech would read: "A Cry to the oppresed of the world! Ovandera stands with you! With Kardinal Victory imminent in the North, the first Ratskanzler takes to the stage to initiate the Second Wave!".

— The Speech would be found online here —

After the speech, the Ratskanzler exits his podium, as he enters into the Hauptgebäude, the sound of the Anthem and the cheering crowd growing softer in the distance. And throughout the rest of the day, Red, Black, and Diagonal flags would be flown across the nation, concentrated in Arc Saraega. Large red banners with the Wreathed Hammer & Sickle, and Gear & Grain would be laid on the sides of the larger buildings and huge bands of people from sidewalk to sidewalk, would stand in the streets, as songs played. Later on, to much rejoicing,
the day would be emblazoned as a national holiday entitled the "Tag der Befreiung" or "Liberation Day" marking the end of the November Revolution.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Arc Saraega, Bundes Hauptgebäude, Kanzlertrakt

The first day was the most important in his career, after his speech that very morning he practically locked himself in his study, a small and solitary room in the Chancellory Wing of the Hauptgebäude. The Room itself was modest and primarily filled with books, it was of course designed that way to figuratively dissuade the position of Ratskanzler from illusions of grandeur. From outside Christoffer saw the fruit of his labor, as red insignia and diagonal flags adorned the sides of buildings, but his peace didn't last long as he quickly began drafting his first set of bills.

He planned to begin his time in office by nationally funding what he deemed 'public' industries; Banking, Education, Healthcare, and Public Works were all to be funded directly by the Syndikat. He set to work on his initial drafts handing the Education system over to the Ovan Science Directorate and Humanities Organization; He also set to work nationalizing the Banks, implementing local confidentiality but economic transparency for themselves and public officials. The Chancellor truly believed and feared what he said, and that belief drove him in these early hours of his rule. He planned to spur on a Cultural Reformation in Ovandera, it was this dream that got him into office after all.

The Revolution was spurred on by the Ovan General Strike, and Freitag was heavily influential in spurring on the rise of syndicalist Anarchism in the north. As such he planned to fully develop the cooperative system, where innovation was spurred on by the sharing of knowledge as opposed to the hoarding thereof; His later plan was to make a series of educational reforms, such as the adaptation of an education system similar to that of the Nordic Model in Asura, with the inclusion of a Life skills, Philosophy, and Debate courses.

But such as the nation of the Revolution, the new Ratskanzler was faced with a different kind of issue; The Revolution had started as the Syndicate organized a General Strike in the former province of Varshanka, and as the idea of Anarchism took hold in the north, the Vizekönig Government took military action to quell the Anarchist Strikers. As the military fractured between anti-monarchic Socialist Weiße, the Vizekönig, and the Communist Kardinals; Because of this, the now Kommissar-General Gabriele Abelkis was able to organize a formal fighting force in support of the Communists. But after the revolution, the standing Kardinalarmee’s existence was put at odds with the nature of Ovan Anarchism; Which wasn’t helped that the Shiedsrichter was incredibly adamant about the glorious ‘spread of the revolution’ through direct military action, viewing mass conscription as a worthy means to achieving that goal.

——————————————————————————————————————

He heard a knock on the door;

Christoffer

”Eintreten.”

The door opened revealing the two soldiers, women, wearing Red armbands emblazoned with the Gear & Grain and the letters O.S.V.K.P.* Accompanying them is a smaller man, with brown eyes, white skin, and sandy hair. He wears winter clothing, with a complementing white and blue-striped scarf. A Rose insignia is embroidered on a Shoulder patch on his right arm, under which is written K.A.N.R.W*; he’s still wiping snowflakes out of his hair as he walks in, large inquisitive eyes staring right at the Ratskanzler;

Jakob Ärschloven

”Erm, Grüße mein Ratskanzler, I-I’m Chief Executive Strategist Jakob Ärschloven of the Ovan Rosenwache, i’m sorry I had to disturb you so promptly, and well, like this, but i’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past few days?”

Christoffer

”Ah! I remember who you are, you wanted to provide your own insight into our military problem before the Convention this Monday, yes?”

Jakob Ärschloven

”That’s me sir! I may have mentioned it on the phone but I wished to propose a new military Position.”

Christoffer

”Ja! Come in come in, take a seat”

They both sat down and Christoffer, behind his desk, waved the soldiers away. He pulled out two cognac glasses and a large decanter of Hochlauren*. Pouring himself and the visitor a glass, he took a sip, sat back, and waved Jakob to continue.

Jakob

”Well, as you know, the current military doctrine of the Kardinalarmee is a system called “War Plan Red” where each of the Syndicates provide funding for individual Militia’s that operate under the taxed Bundessyndikat Oberkommando, but as you’ve pointed out this system is inherently anti..well anti-revolutionary. With your own logic, who are we to take money from the Proletariat only to use their wealth to send them to their deaths. Well, the doctrine I’m proposing is called War Plan Black, we’d still maintain the Oberkommando, but like the Militia’s she’d be freely funded directly by the Communes, and conscription would be banned entirely.

Now, obviously we would retain the right to reinstate W.P. Red should the threat to the Commonwealth be severe, but until that point, W.P. Black would enable us to spread the revolution abroad, while remaining true to it zuhause!”

Christoffer sat very still for a moment in contemplation, taking another sip of the brandy, he leaned forward;

Christoffer

”I would like you to draft the doctrine for me, unless you already have a set; And will you be attending the Convention?”

Jakob

”I actually have an initial write-up here, and I will be.”

He hand’s Chris a black manilla folder, a large red circle with two black strips going horizontally through the middle is painted on the front. Christoffer put it in his desk before standing abruptly, Jakob following suit. Christoffer beckons to the door before starting again,

”Now, I’m going to look over the plans, and I hope to see you Monday.”

He closed the door as Jakob left the room, walking over to the windowsill, he began to see snow falling as the sun passed its height through the clouds.

”Maybe…Ärschloven, maybe indeed.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
*Ovanitsche Syndikatverwaltungs Kommunistiche Partei (Ovan Syndicate Administrative Communist Party)
*Kardinalarmee Nationale Rosenwache (Kardinal Army National Rose Garrison)
*Hochlauren - A kind of rich Ovan Brandy

[San Feliz]

Deal With The Devil
Part One

San Feliz was in a dire situation. It wasn’t hard to tell. The people on the streets didn’t have basic things like food and electricity, while the people in power lived a dangerous life that guaranteed no safety. They said that nobody was happy in San Feliz, that life was dangerous no matter where you were in society. And the statement was backed up by what was happening tonight, at the outskirts of the city of Calderon. A meeting was happening that never should have been possible, that represented the anarchy that ruled over the country.

The President of San Feliz was meeting with the Calderon Cartel, and in this case, the Cartel was the one who held all the power. They had arranged the meeting, they had decided the place, and they were the ones who had security roaming the building, not the person who was supposed to be the leader of the country. It showed how the balance of power in the country had been flipped on its head, and how the dissidents and the criminals were the ones who had control over the politicians and the soldiers.

“Let’s finally get to the point,” said the Cartel negotiator, Sebastian Arias. He was a hard looking man, with tattoos running down his lower arms and across his neck, his body showing the wear of being involved in fighting for so long. In the Calderon Cartel organization, Sebastian was one of the highest ranking. “You came to us, Miss Vicario, because you believe that you don’t have enough power for someone of your position. And you would be correct. You hold the title of leader of the country and of the Communist Party and find yourself opposed by factions within your party and out. You respect our own power so much that you decided to humble yourself by showing up here, on our turf, to talk to one of our leaders. So because you made a good choice, we’ll hear you out instead of capturing you for leverage against your party.”

“I came to you because I know that I can’t help this country without outside support. My enemies within the party are getting louder every day, and I fear that my reign as leader will end earlier than we all intended. I may not support the Calderon Cartel and its actions, but I know that you would rather not have the more hardline elements of the Communist Party take power. I’m also aware that the People’s Front is your enemy, and you should know that they are also an enemy to us and our interests. There’s a chance to work together. Under the table, maybe. But definitely a chance,” Rose Vicario stated, staring across the table and looking over her shoulder at the armed men standing at the door behind her. “After all, your organization has better security than our government at times.”

“What will you provide us in return, Rose? The Calderon Cartel is a business, not a charity organization. We would be happy to assist you against your enemies, as long as we’re sure that we aren’t throwing money and lives at this for no reason other than the goodness of our hearts.”

“The Calderon City Police raids on your organization can be called off, and I can loosen the security around the ports, making it easier for you to continue with your business operations. At least, I can try. You said it yourself. The government isn’t the most powerful organization in the county. My orders will only go so far.”

“That’s tempting, but you’re asking a lot of us. We haven’t gone against the Communist Party directly, after all…”

“I can remove the bounties from the leadership of the Calderon Cartel, yourself included. But I don’t think there’s more I can do, especially while keeping the appearance of being hard on crime. In exchange, I want protection, and I want you to work with me on bringing the wayward members of my party in line. I want your fiercest fighters on my side, and I want your leadership on my side also. Give me this, and I’ll do everything that I can to accomplish what I mentioned earlier.”

Sebastian paused, looking around in contemplation before extending his hand for Rose to shake. “You’ve just made a deal with the devil, Rose Vicario. And if you ever betray this deal, your soul will be headed straight to hell, where you can meet the devil face to face. I hope you realize what you’re getting into, and who you’re dealing with-”

“I swear on the name of the Lord that if I ever betray the Calderon Cartel, my soul will burn for an eternity in hell,” stated Rose, and like that, the deal was done. “So let us take back this country together, and help each other against our enemies. And maybe, something good can come from this deal with the devil.”

[Onza]

"Well, here we are. I... I don't really know how you convinced me to go back on my commitment to never reliving the details again, but... Well, I guess I should just get started."

"Before you begin, can you state your name, date of birth, and your consent to make this video interview solely the property of The Kunta Chronicle?"

"Okay," the woman sighed, rubbing her arm with her opposite hand to self-comfort. Her icy blue eyes complimented her pale complexion, and life had evidently used her face as its canvas for its loudest works of art. The wrinkles and black-bags under her eyes betrayed her age, but they contributed to the power of her gaze -- one that communicated without reserve a history of deep and unimaginable anguish and grief.

"My name," she began, her eyes glancing around at the plain floor as if there were some points of interest, "is Noora al-Assad." She took a deep breath before proceeding. "My date of birth is February 19th, 1974. I consent to this video and its transcript becoming the sole property of The Kunta Chronicle."

After a bout of silence, the interviewer spoke. "Now Noora, can you tell us why you're agreeing to this interview?"

Noora stared blankly at the ground for a moment before the emotional weight of her conclusion hit. Her face began to well up briefly, but almost reflexively, she corrected it, but not before a small glimmer of water appeared in her eyes. She suddenly looked up the camera and spoke.

"I'm doing this because I want you to find my son."

---

Peaceful slumber -- an undoubtedly enjoyable delight -- usually has an abrupt end, and such was the case as the brazen, grotesque jingle sounded from the round timepiece on the woman's side of the bed. She dragged herself in unmotivated flops to the edge of the bed, just far enough for her extended arm to be able to smash the top of the alarm clock and return to the room to its comforting silence.

It was 6:45 in the morning, and the sun just barely began to split its beams through the blinds of the bedroom. The woman got herself out of bed, visibly displeased with the hour but nonetheless appearing to understand the necessity of it.

"Noora," a deep voice called from the bed, stopping her in her tracks to the bathroom. "I promise I'll take him tomorrow," the voice said. After a brief pause, Noora responded: "No worries," and continued into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Around 6:55, she walked down the hall to another room and opened the door, revealing a bedroom adorned with boyishly blue wallpaper, accented by exaggerated and stylized comics of Onzaian fighter jets. She took a moment to admire the creature sleeping in the bed in the room. The boy's hair was rough from what was obviously a fairly restless night -- nothing uncommon for a child in the first few weeks of resuming an academic year. His facial structure favored his father for sure, but he shared with his mother perhaps the most rare of traits among Onzaians -- her blue eyes.

For a moment, she hesitated. How she wished she could protect her son from the undesirable world of responsibilities that greets one as soon as they emerge from their wildest of dreams. But she sobered herself with the inner voice that had been planted by the criticisms of her father on her parenting -- "You're too soft on the boy," he would always say -- and although the voice would have been soundly rejected in most cases, this time it dressed itself as a voice of her own.

She went forward towards his shoulder to shake him awake, but before she could make contact, the boy spun around quickly and sat up -- "Surprise!" he exclaimed. "I'm already awake!" His delight quickly spread to his mother, and a smile quickly replaced her initial look of slight concern. "Sure you were," she said, teasing.

In the kitchen, she found herself taking on the task of preparing a small breakfast. Her normal habit was simply putting a pop-tart in the toaster, but today she decided to go a bit above and beyond.

From the living room, a series of songs by Billie Holiday played over a record player. It was somewhat antiquated, but nonetheless Noora's favorite way to enjoy music, as it reminded her quite a bit of her mother. Her son came into the kitchen.

"Ooh, what's for breakfast?" he asked. "Just some eggs and toast," she responded, continuing to scramble the eggs in the skillet. Her son stared at her back for a moment, and then attempted to pull a chair out from the under the table. His effort failed dramatically, however, and the chair fell on its back, while a glass of orange juice spilled and rolled off the table, shattering on the ground.

Noora quickly whipped around, startled by the series of noises and her son's expressions of shock. "What is going on?!" she yelled, surveying the scene before rushing over. "What did you do? You know not to try to move that chair -- it's broken! How many times do I have to tell you that?" Before her interrogation could continue, she caught herself, and seeing her son's hurt expression, she realized the injury she had caused.

All she could do in that moment was pull him in for a hug. "Living for you, is easy living... It's easy to live when you're in love," the record player sang softly in the background as the orange juice continued to spread itself across the floor. "I'm sorry," she said to her son. "It's okay to make mistakes," she said -- partly for him and partly for herself.

Her husband suddenly entered the room, intruding on Noora's opportunity to fully right her wrong. "Everything alright in here?" he asked warmly. Before she could respond, their son did: "I knocked some stuff over and mommy yelled at me," the boy said, eliciting a look of shock from Noora, who felt a surge of betrayal and guilt. She pulled away from her son and looked him in the face, studying his expression in an effort to gain a better understanding of the emotions he felt.

Her husband then approached the duo and crouched, putting his hand on their son's shoulder. "Hey, Andre, it's okay buddy," he said. "Mommy was just scared you hurt yourself -- she didn't mean to yell at you, just like you didn't mean to knock over the chair, right?"

Andre nodded slowly.

"Alright then," her husband said, standing up quickly. "I'm due for work early today, so I'll see you guys tonight for dinner," he said. Noora leaned in for a kiss, but her husband simply settled for a peck on her cheek instead. He gave Andre another pat on the shoulder and headed out the door as Noora watched.

She rose to her feet and returned to the stove. The eggs were now blackened.

---

"I just remember feeling as if there was no way to undo the damage I had done," Noora said to the interviewer. "I think about that a lot, you know. I analyze that memory in my head over and over again. I struggle with it every day. I can never forget the look that he gave me, the atmosphere of emotion that his sadness created."

"And your husband's reaction?" the interviewer asked.

Noora glared at him for a moment before deducing that he wasn't asking to be funny or rude. "Jordan missed the mark in a lot of categories. At the time I don't think he could have anticipated that how he reacted would have had so much meaning later on, so I don't really hold it against him."

After a moment of silence, the interviewer seemed to want more. "But there's more to it than that."

"Well, there's more to the whole day than just the morning and my unremarkable culinary skills. I'll peel back that layer the same way it was peeled back for me -- and that was later in the day."

"When you went to pick Andre up?"

Hearing her son's name from another person's mouth felt somewhat foreign to her. It had been so long since anyone had shown any interest in her son whatsoever that his existence almost felt imaginary. She did her best to disguise how she was affected by this, but her face was one of a certain ruggedness that develops solely from a degree of pain that is unmistakable in nature and unimaginable in quantity. "Yes," she said. "When I went to pick Andre up."

---

"All human wisdom is contained in these two words - wait and hope," Noora mumbled, reading to herself before the sounding of the PA system at the school startled her. She closed her book and cranked her car up, anticipating the flood of students that would soon follow.

"Good afternoon. We hope that your 7th of November of 2001 was most enjoyable, because you'll never have the chance to do this day over," a raspy voice boomed over the intercom. "This is your principal, Dr. Sina speaking. I just want to let the following students know that they are car-riders today," her voice boomed before being tuned out by Noora.

Noora opened the glove compartment of the car, revealing a pack of cigarettes among some other clutter. She stared at it for a moment, contemplating whether or not to return to the habit that she had just begun another attempt to ditch some weeks ago. "I wonder," she mumbled softly to herself, before the blowing of a whistle caught her attention. It was the traffic guard -- "I need to see your card Noora," he yelled to her, holding Andre. She scrambled in the passenger floorboard and produced a laminated yellow card with her last name on it and showed it to the crossing guard from her windshield. He patted Andre on the back.

Andre climbed in the passenger seat wordlessly after putting his backpack in the back. After a brief moment of silence, his mom asked: "How was your day?" Andre continued looking straight ahead. "Now, Andre --" "It was fine," he said, cutting her off before she could go further. "Okay," she responded as she pulled out of the school parking lot.

"Listen, um, I didn't really get a chance to say it earlier, but what happened... Well, mommy should have made a better effort to be calm," she said. "Mom, it's okay," her son said, this time looking at her.

She was relieved to hear this and continued their commute back home. "When you get inside, you should surprise dad with this," she said, smiling, giving him a little ribbon that read "Best Dad Award." "Where did you get this?" Andre asked, seeming to recognize it. "Ahhh Ms. Hussain told me she found it under one of the desks the other day, she said you were worried sick about finding it." Andre smiled, seeming content.

When they pulled into the yard, however, her husband's car was not there. She sighed to herself and turned to Andre. "I'm sure he'll be home soon," forcing a smile. Andre did the same and got out the car.

Inside, Noora picked up the landline and dialed some numbers. She found herself humming Helen Forrest in "Mad About the Boy" as she awaited an answer. "Uh, yes, Jordan al-Assad, please... Oh, uh, yes, it's his wife, Noora."

She put the phone to the side and winked at her Andre, who was dancing around in the living room. He used his hands to put together gestures to say "I love you," to which his mother pressed the phone between her cheek and shoulder and did the same. "Uh, I'm sorry, can you say that again?" she asked, returning the phone to her ear. After a pause, her expression flattened similar to how a ball deflates slowly after being popped. "He's not there? Well where is he?" she asked, somewhat desperate and concerned. After a bit of listening to the person on the other end of the line, she sighed. "I guess you're right, I'll give it a few hours," she said, hanging up the phone. Andre was now standing still in the living room.

---

"How long did he take to come home?" the interviewer asked.

"Well, I'll get to that. I want to be clear because I've been asked before -- there were no cell phones back then. It wasn't abnormal for people to miss their designated arrival time. I wasn't terribly alarmed because for all I knew, he was out getting groceries, or meeting up with one of his friends. It was no big deal," Noora responded.

"No worries, I understand."

Noora stared intensely at him for a moment, as if something on his face would reveal whether or not she could believe him. After a pause, she finally spoke. "Good."

---

"You're three hours late, honey, come on -- where were you?" Noora asked in a concerned tone to her husband in the bedroom. "Just some late work, that's all, a few extra projects they wanted a hand on. You know, establishing gravitas and all," he said.

Noora felt the blood rush to her face. She just witnessed a boldfaced lie, but rather than call it out, all she could do was turn around and put her hand on her forehead. "Honey?" Jordan asked, "is something wrong?" She began shaking her head repeatedly, perhaps out of disbelief.

"Seriously, some of the guys on the team needed someone with a background in data literacy to compile a few bits of summary data for them. Of course I'm that guy, so I helped out. I know, I should have been more responsible, but--"

"You're lying," Noora said with an extraordinary degree of power, interrupting her husband. "Wh-What--" "Why are you lying? I called your work and they told me you weren't there. You're lying and I want to know why," she said, continuing her fury.

They were interrupted, however, by the sound of glass shattering somewhere in the house. A look of confusion and concern appeared on both of their faces. "What the fuck was that?" Noora asked, prompting her and Jordan to race to Andre's room. "Andre? Andre? Andre! Are you okay?" they both begged, bursting into the room to discover a broken window and emptiness. Immediately, Jordan ran outside and began to scan all immediate directions of the street. He caught the taillights of a black sedan speeding off with haste and attempted to sprint behind them in pursuit.

Inside, Noora grabbed the phone and quickly dialed the police. She scrambled to give the 911 operator her information before breaking down, "It's my baby, he's gone," she wailed, sliding to the floor. "They took him," she cried, "they took him."

[Onza]

"The van, they never found it, correct?"

"They went further than that. They told us that they couldn't find any evidence that a van was ever there."

"How could they have known that?"

"Some sort of forensics. Apparently a van idling waiting for a kidnapper would have left some sort of traceable footprint, and the tire screeching that Jordan described -- well, they couldn't see how it didn't leave skid marks in the road."

Noora looked to the ground again. Her face was manipulated with the intent of displaying no emotion, but nonetheless her pain from the reminder was evident. After a brief pause and some scribbling on a notepad, the interviewer spoke again.

"Now your husband --"

"Ex husband."

"Uh, yes, ex husband -- he was a suspect for a while."

"Him and I were both suspects," Noora said coldly. "There's a tendency in this world to blame the victim when bad things happen -- I guess it makes people feel better if they think that bad things only happen to negligent people."

"But your--"

"I wasn't a negligent mother," Noora said, interrupting the interviewer. "My son was eight years old. He was old enough to be in his room without being supervised. I shouldn't be expected to foresee someone breaking into the room and... taking him."

After a brief pause, the interviewer sat up and pressed a button on the camcorder. "I have to pause it to say this, but I feel like I need to say it. Yes, I'm a reporter, and yes, I consider all possible truths, but you've been long exonerated. You don't need to explain yourself to me -- I believe you. Your son was kidnapped, I'm here to try to help," he said.

Noora looked down again, her eyes welling up. She nodded slowly as tears streamed down her face, but her tears weren't from the reassurance of the reporter's statement. It was the fact that she felt she could no longer identify when people were being facetious and when they weren't when it came to her situation. Her ability to trust had been rubbed down to the core over the years, and all that was left were primal instincts to treat statements such as this one with suspicion. She looked at her wrist and examined the bracelet she was wearing. "Find me," the engraving on the fine silver read.

Remembering the reason she agreed to the interview, she looked up and wiped the tears from her eyes. "Thanks," she said through forced smile. The interviewer responded with a stare, which prompted Noora to remember his question.

"They especially suspected my husband because of what was later revealed," she said.

---

Outside of the house, Jordan scanned all directions intensely, as if every frame of his vision contained a million possible places for what he was looking for to hide. It was the silence that set in over the neighborhood -- sans the barking of a neighbor's dog -- that accompanied the sobering realization that his son was gone.

Immediately, his focus turned to damage control. He rushed back in the house and saw Noora crying on the floor. The shock and trauma of the situation was too powerful to produce any obvious route to approach her. Instead, seeing her, he walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. The feelings of hopelessness and disbelief prevented any further ideas, though his mind ran through numerous scenarios, including his most preferred -- where he wakes up and realizes the whole ordeal was but a bad dream.

But the opening of his eyelids and the incoming flood of the light never came. This was his reality now.

His eyes began to water, but the crying only began once he looked down at his chest and remembered the award that Andre had pinned on him just an hour or so prior. "Best Dad Award," the ribbon read in a child's handwriting. His crying grew more intense, and he ripped the ribbon off and cast it away.

---

"Nobody was concerned about him removing the ribbon?"

"I picked it up and stuffed it in a drawer before the police could even think to ask about it. But I was definitely concerned. Concerned and suspicious."

"So that's when you launched your own investigation?"

"For sure. It wasn't that I really suspected him -- I loved him, after all, and I know he loved Andre. But I knew something was up, and I wanted nothing more than somebody to scapegoat for the way I was feeling. The hurt, the loss, the grief -- I just needed somebody to blame it all on, or at least to have an excuse to some of the emotions I was feeling."

"So you wanted... You wanted your suspicions to be confirmed?"

"Don't we all? Otherwise we feel guilty about being suspicious in the first place. I guess I just wanted to be hurt further. I felt like I deserved it, but it was almost... a paradox. I knew I deserved more pain but I also wanted to lash out on him for it."

The interviewer looked slightly concerned, which prompted Noora to resume her story.

---

"Oh, Andre was always the one I could count on to answer when nobody else knew what the heck I was talking about," a woman in a red dress said encouragingly to the group, which Noora and Jordan were among.

"Yes, little Marquise would tell me sometimes how he wanted to be as smart as Andre -- he was just so impressed by how smart he was!" another woman added.

"I remember that time Miguel fell on the playground at his 5th birthday party -- do you remember that Noora?" another woman asked. Prior to be called on, Noora was simply staring at the ground, her face seemingly empty. There was a notable gap between her being paged and her looking up and smiling and responding. "Oh, of course," she said, making a sincere effort to smile, but only for the insincere sake of being believed.

"Andre was just so concerned, he came running over and helped him up. He had such a big heart," the woman continued.

"I'll be right back," Noora said to the group with a smile before exiting the circle. The group resumed their exchanging of stories as Noora quietly slipped into her room, closing the door.

In her room, she put her hands on her hip and looked at herself in the mirror. For a moment, she felt sorry for herself -- the level of insult she was feeling at the moment was so severe that she accepted that no one would understand where she was coming from, and resolved in her solo status, she began a pattern that would last forever -- concealing the pain she was feeling.

The door quietly opened, causing her to quickly whip around. It was Jordan.

"Just came to check on you," he said, as he put his hands around her waist. Noora barely reciprocated the hug. "I can tell something is on your mind," he said, pulling back slightly to look at her face. "What's up?" he asked.

"Just thinking about this whole thing," she said.

"There's more to it than that," he said. "Something just recently happened, you're upset about something else."

"It's fine, it's nothing," she said, still maintaining her calm.

"Honey--"

"It's nothing!" Noora shouted."Holy fuck I said it was nothing!" she screamed, prompting Jordan to back away. "Do you really not see what's going on out there?" she asked, her voice wavering. "They don't give a shit about us or our pain -- they're only here to make themselves the victims too. They want this to be about them -- they want the attention without the pain. Well I'm done -- I'm tired of giving it to them. I'm tired of pretending to give the slightest fuck about the time that Andre did something that they found cute or adorable."

By this point, the attending crowd had caught wind up the conversation and listened intently from the living room. Noora's diatribe continued.

"For every memory they have of him being a sweet kid, I have ten of seeing him at his worst. They say that they feel as if they lost a son -- well guess what? I actually did lose a son, I lost my son, it's not just a feeling, it's my fucking reality!" she shouted. Her eyes darted around Jordan's face, who was visibly impacted by the power of her tirade.

She sighed deeply before cupping her hand over her forehead. Outside, the crowd sat in silence. "Maybe we should give her some space," one of the women suggested, prompting the majority to get up and head outside, where the rest of the family was gathered.

---

"They claimed they were there for support. Hell, I'm sure a few believed they were. But of all of them, only a small handful actually gave a shit," Noora said. "Most of them were there for the social status. My house was the place to be. We were visited by people all the way up to our senator. So many people came just to be nosy, just so they weren't missing out on anything. It was... maddening."

"And your husband didn't see it as that?"

"I think he knew I was right. He knew that he felt it too, and I when I said that, he felt like he should have disagreed, but he didn't have any words to disagree with me, because he would have to contradict what he was feeling. We both felt it, I was just the only one with the balls to fucking say it. Kind of ironic, now that I think about it," Noora said, with a humorous grin.

---

"I think she's going to be so surprised," the woman in the passenger seat of the car said. "She seemed to be one of the few that actually cared," she said.

"Oh, she's wonderful. Did I tell you she stayed late and searched all around the classroom for a ribbon that Andre made for his dad that he had lost? Then she found it and gave it to me, that was right before he..."

"It's okay," the woman said. "I'm your sister, Noora, we've got the same genes, not everything has to be said."

"You're right," Noora said with a smile. "Well, wish me luck," she said, getting out of the car. "You're doing a great thing," her sister said.

Noora grabbed the gift bag out of the backseat and began walking towards the school building. Entering the front office, she was immediately greeted by a small crowd of teachers and school officials behind the front desk. "Noora! It's so great to see you," one of the teachers said. "What can we--"

"Get back to work," a crass voice boomed from the connecting corridor to the office. It was Dr. Sina, the principal. "Madame al-Assad knows the school like the back of her hand," she said, smiling as she put her arm around Noora's shoulder. "You take care of whatever business you're here for sweetheart -- don't even worry about going through that bureaucratic sign-in process," she said. Noora smiled, somewhat uncomfortably. "Thanks," she said, before heading towards her destination.

The school was virtually empty, owing to it being in the afternoon, but she knew who she was looking for would be there late. She arrived at her classroom, and noticing the door wide open, she prepared herself emotionally before entering.

Upon entering, however, she noticed the room was seemingly empty. "I guess she stepped out for--" before she could finish her thought, she heard a noise coming from the classroom bathroom. Curious, she stepped a bit closer and listened in. As she neared the door, the sound became clearer and clearer -- it was heavy breathing and gasping. "What's going--" she attempted to ask as she swung the door open, but her answer was clear right before her eyes.

---

"He was sleeping with Andre's teacher?"

"What gets me every time I think about it is my own reaction. It's like obviously I trusted Jordan, and you would think his breach of trust would have been what hurt me the most in the moment. But I was more upset at her. I thought highly of her, and there were times where it really felt like she felt for me. For her to go and... fuck my husband, well it was definitely a slap to the face," Noora said.

The reporter took a moment to collect himself. "I... You've never revealed this before?"

"I've told a lot of people, but none of those people happened to be reporters," she said.

"But when you divorced--"

"I said it was because the stress was too much. I didn't say what stress I was talking about, and nobody ever had the audacity to ask."

"Well this is definitely going to renew interest in your story."

"That's the goal, isn't it?" she asked.

The reporter looked at her intently with uncertainty.

"Pause your camera," she commanded. After a bit of hesitation, the reporter complied. "You said you would believe what I tell you. That was one of our conditions, remember?" she asked, eliciting a hesitant nod from the reporter. "This is my story. This is the story I'm telling."

"But... is it true?" he asked.

"I don't think anybody's going to come out the woodwork and dispute it, do you?"

The reporter scribbled some notes down and flipped the camera back on. "Go on," he said.

[Ovandera]

Des Verfassungskonvents von Ovandera

---

The Issues on the table:

---

• Conflict in Aramas
  
  The war has raged in Aramas for almost a decade now, and as the Weiße are routed in the north, and Alorenstadt’s industrial capacity for war grows by the day, there are calls for an intervention on the side of the Socialist-Democratic Coalition in the hopes that through Ovan funding, a new Syndicalist state can be established, forging the way for a new Socialist Internationale to counter the past history of Socialist Tyranny in Aeia. Yet, as with all instances, there are always those that cast a critical light, siting Ovandera’s fragile status, and the potential detriment this could pose to potential “ideological allies” that Ovandera already has at her beckon. With enemies on all sides, is now the time to send Ovan youth off to war?

• Incorporation of Varshanka
  
  With the territory of Varshanka all but won for the Kardinalarmee, there is already talk as to how the former imperial province should be reincorporated into the Commonwealth. Many suggest a slow approach with the steady degradation of military occupation and implementation of Socialist policies. This is contrasted to other opinions, who argue that the point of a revolution was to implement these systems upon liberation.

• Status of the Military
  
  The Question since the beginning, the nature of the Ovan military has been a major discussion point even during the Revolutionary war. This isn't helped by the the strain put on our nation by the feuding of the Ratskanzler and the Kommissar-General. Do we as a people represent the ideology by choosing the Syndicalist option, War Plan Red where the Syndicate nationally funds a full military or military-command through taxation to maintain a standing Red Kardinalarmee, or the Anarchist option, War Plan Black where citizens and cooperatives can publicly vote to send money, aid, and equipment to the Black Kardinalarmme von Ovandera?

• Status of the Non-Socialists Democracies
  
  The status of socialism in Aeia is beyond grim, and there are many that have begun to call for a status of “Freedom of Contact” with the Capitalist Democracies of our world. While many site the ideological strain this could put us on, many site that it is more ideologically sound to allow our prolet to choose for themselves to contact the Capitalists of the Old World.

• Nature of Government
  
  A topic tying into all other topics, the very nature of our society is too be discussed over the next few weeks, with the nation divided between Anarchists and Syndicalists, a multitude of people voicing their own solutions to our issues of Welfare, Healthcare, Public Systems, Communications, and Governance all grow louder. What is the status of the Party? How will we handle the question of police? Who are we going to define ourselves as?

• Status of the police
  
  For the past three years, the Kardinal controlled territories have been under the occupation of the Militia’s of each Commune, however this cannot last forever. Regardless, the idea of a state using force to control and coerce her citizens is gut wrenching to most of the party and our nation, yet, many point out that a National or Communal police force is necessary for the stability of the state.

---

We of the Party hereby thank the “Stimme des Volkes” organization, an organization dedicated to citizen awareness, news, and the spread of critical information in a non-reactionary manner, for broadcasting the convention live. This organization will be publicly releasing all information and is going to be acting as the default news source for this event, however based on the laws of the Ovan Revolutionary Concordat, all people have the legal right to observe and record the convention.

Arc Saraega, Bundes Hauptgebäude, Bundesratssaal

The room itself was enormous; It was a domed, circular room held up by 18 blocky supports draped in Red and Black cloth banners. In fact, most of the room was covered ornately in similar banners, drapes, and coverings with the grand dome itself playing host to black and red covering sprouting from the sides and curving inward toward a massive chandelier hanging from the center; all of which to quietly tuck away the variety of Vizekönigreich Architecture that this building had been built for before the war.

As the delegates and officials from each corner of the Commonwealth streamed in, many taking seats in the outer rows and many still standing in the central floor, the national anthem began to play. Chief among them was the members of the Ovan Oberkommando, the Kommissar-General herself, the Ratskanzler, alongside numerous Party members elected by the Communes Syndikatsräte.

The final Party member to enter was a tall woman, she wore traditional judges robes, and she moved directly across the room towards the “Speakers Chair.”

Cheryle Zahn

”Grüße Komrades von das Commonwealth; I am Ratsredner Cheryle Zahn and I thank all delegates of the Party for joining us today on this most Historic moment. Now, by order of the Kardinal Oberkommando, we will be postponing votes regarding non-military topics for the first week of the convention.

As you all are well aware, there is an active, Democratic-Socialist Coalition currently fighting within the Gescheiterter Staat of “Aramas” located on the continent of Arabekh. As voiced by numerous members of the Party and the Oberkommando, alongside the the individual leadership of the Gemeinschaftlich Militiz, as the worlds first major Syndicalist state we must hold a stance on the topic of aid or an intervention. As of this point, the party is the only one you have to convince, and this is not subject to Judicial Approval. Hoher Shiedsrichter Gabriele, you have the floor:

Gabriele

Komrades, we stand on the precipice of success and stagnation, either side tugged on by the bindings of our ideology. Two years ago the in the battle of Dießenshwafte, the Kardinalarmee valiantly crushed the Weiße forces, and since then we have rebuilt and pushed the traitors back into the north and up high into the mountains. Komrades we must now make the choice, our ideological allies are in a state of chaos and it is our duty to defend the Democratic Socialists of Arabekh from Tyranny.

I argue for the deployment of the Kardinalarmee to fight in Aramas; This would allow us to directly aid the Socialists there, and through our funding, ensure the establishment of a Free Syndicalist State in Arabehk.”

Christoffer

”Hoher Shiedsrichter have you even stopped to thing what that means? We would have to invest millions in the development of at-home infrastructure, without the help of allies, and should we fail Ovandera would be plunged into a permanent recession. If we fail the revolution dies.”

Gabriele

”And if we don’t act the revolution dies faster.”

Party-Member Earnest Noll

”Ratskanzler I have to agree in part with the Hoher Shiedsrichter, but to the members of the Party I propose a decentral approach. If we allow the Communal Militia’s to fund an expeditionary force in the form of the Sturmtruppen or the Rosenwache..”

Gabriele

”With all do respect Councilor the Militia’s don’t have adequate materials to embark on such an endeavor.”

Christoffer

”Yet, Gabriele, you seem to forget that the Kardinalarmee doesn’t have adequate supplies either, we’re simply not in a position to fight. As per usual, this argument has expanded yet again into the nature of our military, and my voice on a Back Kardinalarmee still stands.”

The room erupted into sound as Councilors, now fully divided between Anarchists and Syndicalists, began to voice there opinions. This wouldn’t last however, as with all mob-situations it quickly devolved into chaos.

”Antirevolutionary! Statist! SIOC Bastards!”

Gabriele

”Christoffer those men, women, and children have had enough pain thrust upon them, we half to act!”

Christoffer

”Shiedrchter we don’t have the power to act.”

Gabriele

”Have you stopped to think if we have a choice? If the Militia’s want to fight who are you to stop them?”

Christoffer

”It’s not the Militia’s I’m worried about, Gabriele who are you to tax those very people you say wish to fight only to send their sons off to war.”

Gabriele

”The War Plan I propose would allow us to use that taxed money to better defend those citizens who wish to go off to war. If our people are going to fight, is it not our duty to arm them? To defend them as best we can?!”

The sound of a Gavel struck through the room, and within a second everyone had fallen silent.

Cheryl Zahn

”Ratskanzler, I believe you wished to speak?”

Christoffer

”Dankeschön Ratsredner, As I attempted to say before, the Aramas question ties into something greater. We must here and now discuss the very nature of our society, which is why I question the Oberkommando’s request to postpone the Convention’s primary topics. I ask the Bundesrat and Ratsredner to allow the Party to vote on the topic of our current War Plan, and the Syndikat’s position on the so called ‘Capitalist Democracies’.

I bring attention to the fact that our only ‘ideological allies’ lie in the form of Unionisten Zentralistisch-style Socialist states. We need to decide here and now wether or not we will initiate contact with these Democracies over a group of 4 failed-states whose ideologies objectively counter ours more than Capitalism itself.”

Murmurs went through the room, several Councilors sat down, and all eyes pointed to Zahn.

Cheryl Zahn

”E-erm, elaborate your case mein Ratskanzler.”

Christoffer

”What I’m attempting to get across, is that a vote on the Commonwealths’ stance on Aramas ties too heavily in with the nature of our Military and Stance Internationally than the Oberkommando wants to let on.”

Gabriele

”Ratsredner you can’t allow this, its simply wasting the Party’s time…”

Cheryl Zahn

”I allow it.”

——————————————————————————————————————

Councilor Erhza von Braume

”I second the Ratskanzler, regardless of what we decide, we will reach a point where we must choose how we will contact the Capitalist Democracies of the world.”

Councilor Thess

”Councilor, you cannot possibly be trying to convince us to negotiate with the Capitalists?”

Erhza

”As with everything our very position is contradictory, I simply say that it is more ideologically sound to allow the elected members and citizens of the Commonwealth to maintain contact with the International Community.”

Thess

”To hell it is! I can’t in good conscience allow the Weiße to infiltrate our Commonwealth!”

Erhza

”We are elected for a reason you patzigleer! We are elected by the Proletariat to aid them against the hounds of the International World.”

Thess

"Oh insult me like the Faschistische you are! It’s for that very reason why we cannot allow this to take place!”

——————————————————————————————————————

Councilor Arckholz

”If we can Convince the Noir or even K.I.A. we would already then be giving them a bounty of aid from the Commonwealth.”

Councilor Slöven

”Exactly, the Kardinalarmee is needed elsewhere, even if we weren’t to send troops, we should at least fund and arm these Insurgents in our favor.”

Councilor Elschwei

”Are all of you insane? We barely have enough supplies to maintain civility in the Commonwealth and you want to begin aiding others with a quarter of Alorenstadt in Chaos?”

Councilor Slöven

”We could vie for aid from the Terncan Socialists, and a publicly mounted war effort would allow the Syndicate to focus on Zuhause problems while the people invest in the effort.”

Councilor Elschwei

”And if we fail? The Commonwealth’s economy could never survive!”

Councilor Slöven

”If we fail we fail, but one failure cannot hold down Ovandera permanently. You thing to pessimistically.”

Councilor Elschwei

”And none of you think with an ounce of forethought!”

——————————————————————————————————————

Councilor Hoënmach

”I was elected because i’m not an Ideologist! I’m a realist, and it’s plain to thought, that with the Kardinalarmee occupied in the North, we cannot get ourselves involved in affairs halfway across the damn world!”

Councilor Aden

”I’m not saying that….”

Hoënmach

”Not saying what? Because it looked like y’er damn well about too!”

Aden

”The Communes themselves could use this opportunity, alongside the Oberkommando, to propagandize in Aramas. Local Cooperatives, through the island nations, could send medicine, food, and munitions to their cause.”

Hoënmach

”From the perspective of an economist, councilor, that is an enormous economic gamble. Should we fail it’d pose detriment to the future of our nation.”

——————————————————————————————————————

The talks had been going along for almost 3 hours by this point, but they had been throughout divided between two Camps, and as with everything it was between the Syndicalists and the Hoher Shiedsrichter, and the Anarchists alongside the Ratskanzler. Seeing this Cheryl Zahn, Bundesratsredner, slammed her gavel five times, and the low roar of the room fell silent.
Cheryl Zahn

”The nature of these initial talks are of dire essence as while we discuss and argue, the Aramas conflict decides its victor. It is for this reason that I move to implement the vote immediately, seeing as the room has generally chosen there consensus’ on this topic.

So, I will be implementing three Initial Votes: Whether or Not to use Syndicate funds towards the Aramas Conflict; wether or not to allow the independent Militia’s and respective Communes to send aid to Aramas, and wether or not to cooperate with the now deemed “DemoCap” Nations which are nations that argue for Democracy, yet retain Capitalism. However, Ratskanzler, I refuse your attempt to change our current War Plan as the Militia’s and Kardinalarmee are still in conflict with a legally Foreign Power.”

With that, the Councilors began to vote; Cheryl looked down onto the stage to both the Ratskanzler and Hoher Shiedsrichter glaring at her with looks to kill. The Ratsredner waited for almost half an hour as the Councilors cast their votes, waiting as the light of the dying sun waved over the Red Banners lining the Hall. The talks had taken most of the day as the Syndicalists and Anarchists continued to argue over the tiniest detail. This was an opportunity to find new allies! A point to fall to ruin! Each side, she thought, had there pens up their asses.

She jolted as the computer in front over her dinged, showing the results of the vote.

”A-ahem, thank you Councilors; All in favor of using Syndicate funds to aid the Aramas Socialists…64% Nay, 36% Aye. All in favor of allowing the Communes to send aid at their own discretion to Aramas…56% Aye 44% Nay; and All in favor of of working alongside Capitalist Nations with a standardized level of personal, political, and economic freedoms, 55% Nay to 45% Aye.

By Vote of the Bundesrat, Public Citizens may use their funds to send a form of aid to Aramas, however the Syndicate will not use tax-based funds to accomplish this goal, and the Party as a whole will not Negotiate with Capitalist Powers for the time being.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Särgahn Kommune, Noir Miliz-Hauptquartier

The room itself was dark and poorly illuminated only by a few, perhaps centuries old, gas lamps. The old wooden walls curved gently around a center table, and were covered in ornate maps of the Ovan Peninsula, although most focused on the northern portions of the Varshanka Territory, such as the Ërhorst Range and Ochën Peninsula. A woman, who had been previously pouring over a series of documents on the centerpiece table, moved over to the left of the room, she was wearing standard khaki military fatigues with a gold pin over her breast-pocket indicating her as a Heerführer of the Särgahn Noir, the Communes public Militia force. Pouring herself a cup of coffee she leaned back, closing her eyes, as the issues with her plan began to unfold in front of her.
Isana

”Damn them. Just, damn them all.”

Clovis

”Is’ you know full well we don’t have the resources to petition for aid.”

Isana

”I do know that, and with the Kardinalarmee refusing to allow us to send an expeditionary force to Ochën…”

Rainar

”It’s not that they didn’t allow us, its that they were saving up supplies for Jannik.”

Isana

”Which was moronic! They’re risking everything to end the war quicker and in doing so they’ve left an entire port district open to enemy usage.”

Rainar

”You think I don’t know that halfwit, not least because the Alorenstadt Ivories think now of all times is the time to be sending aid to Aramas of all places.”

Clovis

”Well, the Ratskanzler was able to sway the Party’s position to no so at least we won’t have to deal with that nonsense.”

Rainar

”We’re in a nation run by idiots.”

The three had been cooped in their for the past four hours, which now seemed to be wasted time after the Kardinal Oberkommando refused to send them munitions for an expeditionary force to the Ochën Peninsula, the last port territory of the Vize. Instead, the Cardinal Army used its resources to mount an attack on Jannik in a desperate attempt to end the war early.

Isana

”We could petition to the Commune?”

Rainar

”Is’ we’ve been over this, they didn’t listen then and they won’t…”

Isana

”Back then they didn’t have the Cardinal Army wasting their time in Jannik.”

Rainar

”Ok! Thats it, if you want to contact the Communal Assembly then fine, open a damn forum but if they say know then don’t expect me to come running to your aid.”

Isana

”Rainar the Vize have a god damn opening into the ocean, do you know the damage they could do if they escaped?!”

Rainar

”Of course I do…gah…dammit Clovis will you say something?!”

Clovis

”What do you want me to say?”

Isana

”He want’s you to say I’m wrong, he wants you to say that the Party Members with heads up their assess know whats best for us.”

Rainar

”You know full fucking well I don’t…”

Isana

”Oh? Oh do I now?”

Rainar

”Stop fucking interrupting me! The Party demanded that we direct our efforts to the Jannik assault and thats that.”

Clovis

”Okay okay! Both of you shut it, you’re acting like children. I’m going to agree with Is’ and argue to contact the Communal Assembly for arms and munitions.”

Rainar

”Oh fer fucks sake…”

Clovis

”and at the same time, Is’ I want you to collect yourself and as a Heerführer contact the Volker-Militz at Schweisein. If we could join up with them and get the Schweisein Assembly on our side we might be able to scrounge up enough troops and munitions to launch an attack on Ochën.”

Isana

”Hmm…The Volker-Militz?”

Clovis

”No other Commune is available, they're the only other Commune to not take part in the Jannik operation”

Isana

”I see your point.”

---

Noir Miliz-Hauptquartier

Subject of Military Affairs

---

Heerführer Isana
Särgahn Noir Militz

---

Shweisein Volker-Militiz
Shweisein Generalversammlung

Freiheitssieg Komerades, as you are probably well aware the Cardinal Army has recently delegated the Luftwaffe and the Sturmtruppen and Rosenache Militia’s to launch an assault with it on Jannik. While this is all well and good it has left our personal troops stranded here in Särgahn, and with the possibility of Weiße and Vize forces regrouping on the Ochën Peninsula, we have attempted to ask for Luftwaffe support to help a potential Särgahn Expeditionary force to capture Ochën. As of 19:00 last night, that request was denied and this denial was paired with the Cardinal Marine sacrificing a portion of its own air forces to help in Jannik.

I understand the want to end this war as soon as possible, but the threat a reorganized and fortified Ochën poses is no scoffing matter and I have come to you with the knowledge that you are not currently participating in the Jannik Campaign. Ergo, I formally request the Shweisein Volker-Militz to work alongside the Särgahn Noir in sending a military expeditionary force to capture the Peninsula. I also petition the Shweisein General Assembly to aid in supplying this force should excess munitions or foodstuffs be required for the campaign.

In terms of military information, we currently have at the ready 8,566 Troops, split up into 4 Divisions, each equipped with 55 Agorax Tanks, 38 Urban Infantry Armored Fighting Vehicles, and enough Mechanized Transports to move 3/4 of them. As you can see our situation is dire so we are asking that Shweisein provide exactly 434 Troops, alongside 8 Mechanized Transport Divisions and if possible, 23 Agorax Main fighting tanks and 12 UIAFV's and 1 weeks worth of rations for 4,500 Soldiers. We realize that this is a lot to ask for and should the Commune refuse it would be completely Rational. However I hope that the General Assembly and Militia see the possibility in ending the Vize threat in the north permanently, and should this operation succeed, we would have successfully liberated the Varshanka Commune en entirety.

I hope you consider our proposition to it's fullest extent,

Heerführer Isana

---

Noir Miliz-Hauptquartier

Subject of Military Affairs

---

Heerführer Clovis
Särgahn Noir Militz

---

Särgahn Generalversammlung

Greetings Komerades, I am Heerführer Clovis of the Särgahn Noir Militz. Now, I understand that that we have recently been in contact in regards to sending an Expeditionary Force to the Ochën Peninsula, however, I would like to reaffirm our position on the Campaign. As of now the Arbeiter-Revolutionsarmee have been quite clear in the intentions and actions of the Vize within the confines of the Peninsula and have been very vocal about the possibility of their gaining supplies from outside sources.

Should this be true the notion of Ochën being unguarded would be horribly incorrect, and would prove that the assault on Jannik would not be the last in the War. Ergo, I propose you allow us to send the Expeditionary Military Squadron to capture the Peninsula before it is fortified. We ask you allow us to use 8,566 Troops under our command and to equip them with 55 Agorax Tanks and 38 Urban Infantry Armored Fighting Vehicles. We plan to utilize in-the-field Arevar troops and aid from Shweisein to overtake the enemy strongholds and hopefully secure the Peninsula before it can be fortified from the outside.

I would like to make it known that I am acutely aware that the Cardinal Marine has set up a blockade of the Peninsula, but it should be known that in all seriousness the Marine is not adequately trained, equipped, or funded to withstand formal military actions. If we do not act, they will, and if they have a chance the Vize will use their opportunity to expand their territory out of the Peninsula and into Gastreude, and from there they would have a vantage point for the entire Varshanka Territory.

This cannot be allowed, so I beg the Särgahn Generalversammlung to give us the green light on this campaign.

With all regards,

Heerführer Clovis

[Vvarden]

The old city of Sadaalnimburi could easily be mistaken as being part of Rohst or Wustenland, with its gothic stone buildings surrounding the ancient hill fort, the once home of the Grand Dukes of Ostvard. The Grand Dukes at their height, soon after their establishment, controlled over two thirds of Vvarden, all the way up to the Hlaaral Mountains. But since then, it slowly declined in territory, and the Saadalnimic heartland, made up of Almannised Vvardeni, became host to long sweeping raids by the nearby Vvardeni states. For a few decades they held out, building a line of forts on the border.

Even as the Almannic Empire collapsed, allowing the Saadalnimic to become their own cultural identity, they held the line of forts, until finally they crumbled, their territory partitioned between Vvardeni and Almann. In the next few centuries they gained only partial independence at best, and cultural genocide at the worst. Ineyan Samaendas tried to wipe out the Saadalnimic identity, but failed, casting a blot on Vvardeni-Saadalnimic relations. The land of Saadalnim is the body of the Saadalnimic identity, and the people are its blood. Now that Vvarden has become democratic, a referendum has been announced, deciding the fate of Saadalnim. The predicted majority so far seek to remain, seeing themselves as intertwined with Vvarden, and are happy with large amounts of autonomy and self-governance, but there are those in the shadows of the streets of the city of Saadalnimburi that want complete and total independence, and the return of all rightful Saadalnimic territories, and some of them will stop at nothing, not even murder or death itself, to achieve it.

A bright orange warrant for arrest laid bare on the walls of an office building, written in both Vvardeni and in Sadaalnimic:

Wanted: For aiding and joining the"Schaadalnim des Vondrasland" terrorist group, which is known to have killed twelve Vvardeni officials since 2000:

-Rolvos Brilvos
-Luderig Vedaethran
-Othos Aroderi
-Redufen Mavuelos

If anybody attempts to aid the criminals listed above, they will face imprisonment, up to a maximum of fifteen years.
Authorized by the Sadaalnim Province Police Department, and the Department of Safety and Law.

The authorities had obviously changed the names to the more "Vvardeni" version rather than the original names, rather than using the names they were born with in Sadaalnimic; Rolvf Brill, Ludweig Venderthral, Ottos Aröder and Redolph Mavuenhass. Of the four faces printed, all were revealing their vulnerable unmasked faces, which essentially, according to some clergy of the Vvarsari religion, disqualifies them from being forgiven for their sins when the Venerable Empire is restored. Pictures of their differing masks were in smaller boxes besides the pictures of their faces. The Saadalnimic were a strange and blended people, a fused hybrid of both nations. Both Vvardeni and Almannic, they have combined aspects of both; Vvardeni spiritual practices and faith, yet Almannic dedication to their homeland, and sometimes, that led to a dangerous mix.

Ayla Schuulthais looked at the bright orange warrant for a short moment, before she turned away, solely focused on the mission. She stood on the street corner, waiting for the time to cross. Like many other people on this grey-skied day, she was dressed in mostly winter colours, a long grey coat with a dark blue scarf. Today was a busy day in Saadalnimburi, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. All sorts of people buzzed to and fro, like drone bees in the steel honeycomb that is society, all wearing segmented masks, apart from the obvious foreigners. For now it seemed nothing could disturb the hive, unless an outside force shook the nest.

The Saadalnimburi Central Train Station was busy in these morning-midday hours. All sorts of people were waiting or departing for their jobs, for their hobbies or just travelling elsewhere. The metro took people across Saadalnimburi and the railway took people across Vvarden. Many were going to the big cities for work, or taking the metro to other parts of the city. The next train to Zoroshthurvan leaves in ten minutes, a tannoy reminded her in both Saadalnehmisch and Vvardeni. The next train leaves in nine minutes. It was getting even busier. She got past the security through a back way, and stood there for a moment, staring at the list of trains going to and fro. Ayla nodded. Now would be the time. The perfect time. At 11:00, they would call, and she would answer.

It was 10:59.

She slowly rubbed the Saadalnimic charm in her hands, feeling the rough metal that burned cold onto her soft warm skin. Ayla took deep breaths. She was ready. She would give her life for the cause. For a free Saadalnim. Free from the Almanns and the Vvardeni. For it was a world of neither, and would deny being a part of both. The phone in her pocket buzzed. Buzzed hard as her heart felt like bursting out of her chest. Ayla reached in...

A flash of bright colour. Too small to be an adult. Out the corner of her eye.

Ayla turned and walked away at a brisk pace, ignoring the frantic vibration in her pocket. Maybe the child would be clear of the blast zone. Maybe it'll be just a lucky escape for the little girl, and she'll grow up and live a long happy life. A life in service of a lie. But better that than the death of an innocent person, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, someone who had not seen enough of the world to choose sides. It was further now. Ayla glanced behind her shoulder, and adjusted her coat and the explosives within.

A security guard approached out of the crowd. Maybe she accidentally flashed too much. Ayla breathed deeply and spoke to the officer, flashing a nervous smile.
"What seems to be the problem officer?"

The guard looked nervous. He knew. She could tell. His hand snaked down the leather belt towards his holster.
"You'll have to come with me, ma'am. Just to clear up something. Just a routine check."

The phone kept buzzing. She had to answer. Now. Now or else all would be lost.
Ayla started reaching down.

"Ma'am, put your hands up." He was cautious, a calm and stern voice.
Still reaching.

"Hands up, now!" He was getting scared, the voice more frantic.
She could feel the inner lining of the pockets, touch the metal.

"Ma'am!" The guard pulled out the gun. Onlookers turned and watched. It was now or never for Ayla.
She grabbed it and whisked it out. The gun fired. Ayla staggered for a moment, the bullet feeling like a hot needle, a slight prick. Nearby people froze in shock. She pressed the pick up button as she started to fall, and the world faded away in blood and fire.

The time was 11:01.

[Agathusa]

Livádhia
the Republic of Agathusa

---

---

The white and blue police car cruised slowly through the town of Livádhia's picturesque streets. As the car drove through the more congested areas of the city, it neared the city center where the places of interest, centers of commerce and top casinos were clustered. Officers Aasiya and Nikos of the Agathusa Federal Police Force sat in the car, slowly navigating their way through the streets on routine patrol.

Everything was as usual with nothing out of the ordinary.

It was then when Nikos spotted a white van at the corner of his eyes. The police car and the van pulled parallel and Nikos looked into the cab of the van. There was nothing wrong, the driver and his passenger were just... driving. He couldn't see what was in the cargo, but he put his attention back to driving. Although nothing seemed wrong, he just had a bad hunch about the van.

Something just felt off.

It was then he looked back at the van just before the lights turned green. To his horror, he saw the driver wind down the window and stick a rifle out, pointing straight at him and his fellow officer!

"Aasiya, get down!"

"Wha-"

Before Aasiya could say anything, a hail of bullets flew towards the car, shattering the windows and hitting the car's chassis. She looked back at where Nikos was and saw his body, slumped in his seat with blood splattered all over the windshield.

"Shit!" she exclaimed angrily. Adjusting her hijab, she reached for the UZI in the glovebox, quickly loading it while still taking cover. Screams and explosions coupled with shouts in Saraibian. She pulled out her radio, quickly calling for backup and reporting the situation.

Slowly, she peeked over the broken windows, letting out a sigh of relief that her attackers were not there anymore. Opening the door, she quickly jumped out and took cover behind the van, trying to assess the situation.

It was worse than she thought. The horrid smell of burnt flesh, dead bodies, gunpowder and burning cars were everywhere. Dead bodies lined the pavement while burning cars crowded the street.

Finally, she managed to get a look at the attackers. A group of twelve men clad in all-black garments with ski masks armed with rifles was walking down the street, gunning down anyone they saw.

She watched helplessly as a police car driving down the road flipped on its side after the terrorists shot its driver.

Running down the street, she moved from cover to cover, whether it be trees, benches or cars, trying to get closer to the attackers. The group of terrorists was moving down the street while she attempted to stay hidden, tracking them from behind.

The group was well-organized, watching all directions in case anyone tried to come. With the suicide vests on their bodies, they were very determined to achieve their goal, whatever it was. It became clear to her that their goal was a religious one after she noticed the black banners of Irsad on their vests.

As a follower of Irsad, it angered her that such people exist and brought down the name of her religion.

She moved onwards, watching police cars and military trucks set up a roadblock in front. Facing heavy fire, the group of terrorists ran into a building to take cover.
While the military and police forces moved up, she followed suit, getting nearer and nearer to the building but avoiding from being seen.

It was then a single attacker emerged, holding a little girl at gunpoint.

"Move, and I'll kill this infidel!" he shouted, pushing the girl to the floor.

The rest of the terrorists were in the building, taking cover and watching their comrade walk outside with the girl. Aasiya knew the Agathusan Armed Forces wouldn't stop because of some little girl. After all, killing the terrorists at the price of a little girl was necessary for the view of the AAF's troops.

But Aasiya knew that that girl could grow up, live a full, happy life, be someone that could even benefit the country in the future. She couldn't just watch some girl get robbed of her future. Taking a deep breath, she ran at full speed towards the terrorist, pushing him aside from the girl! She raised her gun to the man's head and squeezed the trigger, sending blood flying in all directions.

She knew she would be shot by the remaining terrorists, but she wouldn't die for anything. She ran with the dead body of the terrorist into the building, pulling the dead terrorist's suicide vest to the horror of his comrades.

"God wills it," muttered Aasiya before everything turned to black, swallowed by the fires of heroism.

[Ovandera]

Vannerr, Bundes Hauptgebäude, Kanzlertrakt

The room itself was small and dimly lit, a small office in the western Chancellory Wing of the Hauptgebäude, a desk sat opposed and facing to the door, with bookshelves lining the walls apart from two large windows overlooking the Square outside the building and the northern portion of the city. In and of itself it represented the Ratskanzler well, tidy yet ever so unkempt, the shelves lined with Rennekkan and Asuran philosophical and historical texts, a single grandfather clock next to the door, and a copy of Der Verborgene Stern (A fairly well known science fiction novel) lying open on the desk.

The Ratskanzler himself was pacing in circles around the room, finding he could never sit still when he had to think. This time however it was different, the first few weeks of his activity were relatively easy compared to his current tasks, military actions were maintained by the Oberkommando and while the Convention took place he had only had to voice his opinions on the most major of decisions. This gave him enormous amounts of time to begin the writing and reconstruction of the Ovan Political system from the top down, practically with out question. But one issue would always arise, and it no less infuriated him because of it.

“No matter what I do it’s the same,” he thought to himself, ”We can’t allow full diplomatic access to the Äußere* for fear of the loss of our economic sovereignty, but we can’t ignore them as we’d falter. Nor can I allow it with Party limitations as that is anti-Individualistic or limit interractions to local authorities as that would further limit what influence the central party would have.”

He continued to pace, his muscles beginning to grow tired by the near-constant scowl he’d worn for most of the day, before finally slumping back into his chair and taking a drink. “And there’s also the issue of the Party itself,” he tapped his glass, the flare of anxiety suddenly rising up as he thought about the predicament he’d pushed himself into. In wishing to maintain stability for the time being he had maintained the system of Ratsdemokratie currently used too support the War Effort; In doing so he maintained an immense amount of internal power to fully shape the Commonwealth during his time in office. However the idea that a distrustful Heerfürher or Assembly member forcibly removing him from office on grounds of “Abuse of Power” was becomming to likely for comfort. If he was going to act, he had to act now.

*In reference to capitalist democracies

---

Varshanka, Jannik, Kardinal Mobiler Befehl

Kommissar-General Abelkis - “Who in all hell does he think he is?”

Heerfürher Van Aarden - “Ma’am if you could calm down for just a moment, Christoffer’s not a fool, and he’d be the last one to try something.”

The Kommissar-General had been in a state of constant fury since the announcement by the Chancellor to maintain the Ratsdemokratie system, ‘Right as she left for Jannik’, she would yell, ‘Right when he knew I couldn’t get to him’.

Van Aarden - “I could argue in favor of his action, if only to an extent.”

Gabriele Abelkis - “I know that, we desperately need a central voice, especially with the Communes in the level of shear disarray, but to move for that time-expansion without a response from the Assemblies?”

Van Aarden - “Even if he does turn against us, we have the arms, and you have the people.”

Gabriele Abelkis - “I hope you’re right, mein freund, I really do.”

---

The Ratskanzler heard a knock on the door;

“Eintreten.”

The door opened as the two guards stationed outside moved to allow another two uniformed people in; The two woman, tall, seemingly in there 30’s, a red armband with the letters O.S.V.K.P. emblazoned on it. Each wore a formal Party uniform characterized by Red Beret’s with a golden Gear and Grain pin, and a blue strip over their left shoulders marking them as members of the Foreign Affairs Division, a Civilian Branch of the Kardinalarmee. The first one held a manilla envelope, opening it before speaking;

“Sieg Freiheiten mein Ratskanzler, my name is Heide Van Maessen of the Foreign Affairs Division, this is Ulrica Smit, we’re here..”

“You’re hear to discuss our Foreign Policy.”

“Erm, y-yes sir, well I’m actually here to ask something.”

“Go on?”

"Well you see.."

Christoffer raised his eighbrows, whatever it was he knew he wasn't going to like it.

Ulrica broke in, “We’d like to be sent to Nadelküste.”

---

Varshanka-Gebiet, S.S. Kombinierte Front Feldviertel Hauptquartier

Rainar - “It’d be damn easier to coordinate this assault if the SDV didn’t butt it’s head in every twenty minutes begging for developments.”

Isana - “Ha! The Ochën Vize must be just screaming for reinforcements from across the sea." She paused for a moment, looking back at the maps of the Peninsula, This is the price we pay for fight a war on the side of the Anarchist.”

Rainar - “Death to secrets of authority, especially the ones our Enemies want to know!”

Isana laughed, “Hey hey, I’m actually I’m more interested in whats coming after the war, wanna take bets as to how long it takes for the state to collapse?”

Rainar and Clovis simultaneously - “A Year!”

Jakob - “Don't worry, the State can’t collapse if there's no state.”

All four continued laughing, the sheer absurdity of the situation weighing in; They were a top-down coalition of Militia’s fighting for Anarchists, as the media relayed there every move to the enemy in its war against “Top-down Corruption”.

Ulrich - “Oh yea, we’re gonna to die.”

The 3 original Noir Generals, Isana, Rainar, and Clovis had arrived at the front lines the night before, joining up with the Särgahn-Schweisein an hour later. After setting up base-camp, they had begun to relay information to the Trade-convoy moving several Tons worth of supplies to the front lines. The met with Ulrich first, and after a few hours, a second General, Jakob von Hoizer, arrived to finish developing resources and convoy routes.

Jakob - "Just double checking, the F32 along the Gastreude Lowlands, thats been cleared fully?"

Clovis - "So far as the Oberkommando has specified, we should also have full air coverage throughout our time there, although the rest of the Luftwaffe'll be heading towards the Valheimer Plateau."

Isana - "Chasing after the Vorhut Rebels I presume?"

Clovis - "Where else, although that plan will fall apart if the Vize break encirclement on the Peninsula before we arrive."

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Völker-Militz Hauptquartier

Subject of Military Affairs

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Heerführer Ulrich von Eilmar
Shweisein Völker-Militz

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Särgahn Noir Militz-Hauptquartier

We have received your message loud and clear General, victory in Jannik is imminent and the Ochën Peninsula is unguarded. Upon contacting the Schweisein Syndicate, we believe that mounting an official offensive is possible under certain circumstances. We also agree that while difficult, the requirements set upon us can be reached in time.

Heerführer Ulrich von Eilmar

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Shweisein Kommune

Subject of Military Affairs

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Councilor Alyzia Buerckar
Shweisein Generalversammlung

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Särgahn Noir Militz-Hauptquartier
Särgahn Generalversammlung

To the Särgahn Kommune, upon review and council vote, we agree to the Ochën Proposal that the Noir Military Council proposed. We do however believe it to be necessary to allow the Vizekönigreich stronghold of Jannik to fall before mounting another offensive without the aid of the Kardinaloberkommando.

Councilor Alyzia Buerckar

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Särgahn Kommune

Subject of Military Affairs

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Councilor Naomi Aalders
Särgahn Generalversammlung

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Noir Militz-Hauptquartier

It is with begrudging reluctance that we approve the Noir Offensive plan to take the Ochën Peninsula. We do require that all plans be subject to Kardinaloberkommando approval so as to ensure a resounding victory. We also demand that the Noir Militz contact the Council first before other contacts, one would argue that this most recent action was similar to blackmail.

No repercussions will be taken for the time being,

Councilor Naomi Aalders