Citizens of The Isles [IC, TWI only]

[Nhoor]

Nhoor doesn't observe the 1st of April as a joke/hoax day that much, but attempts to introduce this tradition are made almost every year. The best known was an announcement at the end of March 1999 that Nhoor scientists of the University of Sārruc had finally managed to genetically engineer a real living dzhanoots. The dzhanoots is a mythical Nhoor animal that looks more or less like a unicorn-alpaca hybrid. Unlike the automatic NationStates prompts however that claim that dzhanoots frolick freely in Nhoor's many lush forests, the animal doesn't exist in real life but is only featured in several national and local symbols, such as the country's coat of arms.

There were immediate protests from conservative and religious organisations that genetic engineering had gone too far and that the project should have been stopped already in its early stages. Questions were asked in the country's parliament with the Minister responsible for scientific research having to admit not knowing that the university was working on this project in the first place. There were several debates between proponents and opponents of genetic engineering on national television in the last week of March. The scientists took part in these debates and defended their actions, claiming that it was in the interest of science to try such things at least once. According to them, the dzhanoots that they engineered had a reddish brown fur and a black horn, different than the colours that are used to depict the animal, which is white or silvery with a golden or yellowish horn (but in coats of arms animals like these are often fluffed up to make them look better and more impressive).

On the 1st of April of 1999, the dzhanoots would be allowed to graze outside for the first time, but because it was very shy, the scientists urged people to stay away from its pasture on university grounds. Naturally a huge crowd of people showed up, only to witness two people in a pantomime dzhanoots costume leaving the research lab with an "April fools" notification around their neck. Since not many people knew about this foreign tradition though, the university was chided by the general public for wasting everybody's time.

[Nhoor]

(continuation of 5 February 2019)

Ruvane, defence minister Rhanhɵd Demher’s villa, 20 April 2019

Defence minister Rhanhɵd Demher’s phone rang. The caller was anonymous, but he knew who it would be. The same person who had been harrassing, threatening him for the last months, blackmailing him into taking certain seemingly random measures for purposes that completely eluded Demher.

“Hi dad”, the voice on the other side greeted him.
“What do you want?” Demher drily responded.
“Now, is that a way to talk to your only son? I..”
“I talk to my only son whatever way I want, especially is he has been.. behaving badly”. The minister tried to sound stern but hesitated to choose his words anyway.
“Oh dad.. Are you really trying to educate me now? Don’t you think it is a little bit late for that? Who knows, if you had started when I needed to be educated, you and me wouldn’t have had these nice discussions over the past couple of months.” The man laughed, sounding amused.
“Whatever! The reason I’m calling this time is that my … employers … saw the news. They are not amused!”
“What? Why? I did everything you people asked from me; what does it matter if I switch from the defence ministry to the domestic affairs ministry? The decision wasn’t mine anyway; I couldn’t have prevented this.”
“Perhaps, perhaps.. And yet I guess that you are secretly glad about this. You won’t be in a position anymore to introduce our policies to Nhoor’s armed forces or confide the nation’s darkest military secrets to us. You think that this makes you less interesting and less vulnerable? Well, I think that you are right. Your use to us may have come to an end.”
“But I did everything you asked! Of what further use could I be for you anyway?”
“Let’s just interprete your question as you being gentle and offering your continued services to us instead of you being a coward trying to back out. You thought that you were done? Whether that is true or not was for my employers to decide, not for you. They feel … hurt … that you didn’t inform them about the portfolio change before it was publicly announced.”
“S-so what will happen now?”
“I don’t know. That’s not my call. You will know soon, I guess.”
“But, what about.. Corhad, are you still there? Corhad! Dammit!”

The minister threw his phone to the nearest wall, where it disappointingly bounced off and dropped to the floor without any sign of damage. Blasted high quality technology!

[Almorea]

An empty place between towns
On the cart-track to Hinnevale, Frasyrland province, 7th July 1797

---

Aubrey Frazier watched as a wiry, smudged scout lowered himself from the saddle to the ground. He stooped over, following a little path of his own creation with his index finger. At last, his back shot up erect.

"I'm certain, sir. These are fresh hoove-prints, from five, six horses."

The little party of mounted officers and men who surrounded Frazier was taken aback. There were no towns around for miles, and townspeople in these parts would, anyway, have been too poor to afford six horses. Frazier licked his lower lip.

"I know what we're all thinking," he said, turning to William, the lieutenant colonel. "There've been men around and they're probably keeping their eyes on us." The thought was chilling; behind the group rose a small knoll, and a little ways in front of them there was a skinny river that had to be forded. These were the "waste places" of the north that Frazier had learned about in school; gnarled trees ringed the road on all sides and, across the river, the spire of a ruined church poked through the leaves.

"They would've had to ford the river, general." William leaned towards Frazier and lowered his voice. "I don't much care to find out. We're already five miles north of the army." He looked at the sun, which was blazing at high noon. "Let's go back. I'm fancying salt beef, anyway."

Frazier turned around to look at the knoll, and the road leading back to the main body of his troops. He did not see the craned necks of the men behind him, struggling to make out a mass of shapes moving through the woods beyond the river.

He chuckled. "I'm a bit hungry. We'll go back." He waved his hand and spurred his horse foward. But none of the scouting party did the same. Frazier felt the rough hand of Archie, his aide-de-camp, beat frantically on his back.

"What is it-" Frazier froze. A large group of horsemen, waving swords and muskets, was starting to ford the river at the other side. The hand-me-down armor long peculiar to Nyssic clan warriors glinted and flashed in the sun. "TURN BACK!" William screamed, fumbling for his pistol. Fear and urgency washed over Frazier, draining the blood from his face.

Frazier's men started at full gallop up the knoll, Archie riding first. As he reached the top, he stopped and reined his horse back. There was a loud crack, and Archie, arms flailing, slid limply from the saddle.

Frazier could not believe that was happening. An ambush? His men turned away from the top of the knoll and galloped back down; there was shouting and a rush for sabers and pistols. William was barking orders as the mass of horsemen struggled ever closer to shore. One of the thoughts racing through Frazier's mind was that his pristine white gloves were drenched in sweat.

There were cracks and flashes and smoke from the trees. The corporal next to Frazier slumped in his saddle with an agonized groan. Men on foot, wearing plaid cloth and steel breastplates, were coming over the knoll, trampling on Archie's body. Frazier's men were drawing themselves into an ever-tighter circle, clutching weapons with white knuckles and fighting to control panicked horses. More cracks erupted, amidst delighted shouting from the clansmen; an officer galloped away towards the forest, and another was thrown from his horse. Turning his mount in all directions, William was waving his saber, tears running down his cheeks.

Clansmen were upon Frazier now. He fired his pistol into the outstretched arm of one of them and reached for his dagger, but could not find it. Blows were raining down from all sides. As he swung his fist wildly, his gloves ripped and torn, a bullet nicked Frazier's horse and it threw him. Frazier's head slammed into the dirt and he felt his left ankle, still firmly in the stirrup break into pieces. All he could see were legs and feet and kilts and the points of swords.

"Oh, Lord Jesus!" The words crackled in Frazier's throat. Then his horse screamed and galloped away.

The same place- the same day

---

Aubrey Frazier was dragged through rocky dirt and mud and grass for what felt like an eternity. Pebbles and tiny branch-pieces cut and scraped his neat face, and tore his uniform to shreds. Frazier grimaced as he was lifted up and lowered down again, and beaten and smashed against the ground, until some merciful enemy finally shot his horse and it crumpled.

Frazier could not feel anything except his right arm. His thoughts were hazy and scattered, but instinctively he grabbed the tattered coat-pocket that held his commission from Congress. The sun was blinding through the dust that swirled above Frazier's dimmed eyes.

Someone's hand grabbed him. Frazier could make out a furious, burly man with a red beard who was kneeling above him. Others were approaching the pair, laughing and talking.

The red-bearded man spoke in a voice pregnant with Nyssic accents. "Do you know who I am, you bastard?" Frazier made no reply, instead staring up at the sun. His breath was painful and wheezy.

"I'm the governor." John Frasyr spat in his defeated enemy's face and drew his dagger from his belt.

Frazier turned to look at the victor. "I... am the governor... authorized by Congress..." Blood trickled from his mouth and he fell silent.

Frasyr laughed, a big belly laugh, and plunged his dagger into Frazier's face. "What a fool you were." Anger overcame him and he struck again with emotional force. "A damned fucking fool."

[Brulafi]

Highway 2
Somewhere near Budakraj

---

Subunit Leader Nartaly Batațjef, as he liked to introduce himself with curt and snappy formality, suddenly had a moment of realization that he looked like a complete fool when he stood out in the middle of the motorway. The constant, pulsing blue lights of the cruisers behind him didn't help, either. It was a real proper-looking checkpoint, though, something that Nartaly would like to have a picture taken of and submitted to the Party Bulletin for bragging rights—but he knew better than to think of that now. Not when two kids' lives were at stake.

So far, the police hadn't much to work off of. All they knew (and that they hadn't told that nosy Beacon reporter) was that an intrepid detective had found large-tread tire tracks on the edge of the camp, like that of an off-road utility vehicle. With that damning and pinpoint evidence, all the roads leading out of Budakraj were immediately laden with multiple checkpoints to stop and inspect every car larger than a sedan in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to help what was otherwise a stalled case.

Then, Nartaly had a terrible realization—If the killer had an off-road vehicle, if they haven't left the city already, couldn't they just... drive around the checkpoints? Successive waves of embarrassment, frustration, and anger washed over the Subunit Leader as he made a walk of shame back to his cruiser's radio.

---

The city lights shone dully off the back of the Army Reservist shovel as it scooped and spat the last of the dirt back into the hole from whence it came. The figure wielding it, now but a shadow against the twinkling skyline of Budakraj, struck the shovel into the filled pit as an explorer would plant the flag of his native land. Triumphantly, the figure rolled their shoulders and rested them before hefting the heavy tool back to the off-road vehicle parked next a nearly identical second pit.

Though the pits weren't noticeable on first glance, the smell emanating from the occupants of them certainly was...

[Mokov]

September 24, 1982

My neighbor got dragged off by the KBA this morning. I warned him that talking to that man was dangerous, that he was a known rebel. I know that Jozef is no more, but I worry for the fate of his wife and daughters, what will happen to them? What will happen to me and mine for that matter? The officer who looked to be their leader marked something in his notebook while looking right at my home. I think I will send my wife and infant son away to live with her parents for a time, to ensure their safety. I know that they will want for little, since her parents are well off. I do not fear death, as I know it approaches me. I simply wish for it to pass over my family.

This diary was later recovered from the body of one 'Filip Svoboda', who was arrested by the Královská Bezpečnostní Agentura on charges of dissidence and association with a known rebel sympathizer two days after penning this entry. He was executed shortly after. He is survived by his son and two grandchildren.

[New Totzka]

Rural Osyante-Apayo State, 1992
They called it a Multi-Faith Prayer and Community Centre. Various proverbs and passages from holy books lined the brown walls. Several stools were clustered into loose rows in the middle. At one end of the centre Mary, wrapped in a blue robe and clutching an angelic Jesus, stared mournfully at a smiling and smug Buddha waving at her. Hundreds of similar centres had built around the religious fault-line across the country, envisioned as centres to bring Totzkans of all faiths together and heal the wounds that decades of conflict wrought. Naturally they were almost never used. Almost.

Once a year, without fail, two overfilled busloads of teenagers made a pilgrimage to these sites, led by a priest and a nun, to do what previous generations could, or would, not.

“Okay, listen up, people.” Sister Liana, our reluctant shepherdess, drawled on. “Apparently you have to pair off with someone from a different faith because you’re going to need a… well they used to term buddy”, she spat the word out, “for tomorrow’s activities.”

“I bagsy Rogério.” Aruizhi barked, barely a breath after Liana had finished speaking.

This was distressing news. “What? But that’s not fair, he’s the only good looking one.”

“The rest of us are right here.” One of the others, with greasy hair and mole on his nose, stated.

“You snooze, you lose, Lechanti.” Aruizhi told me, unsympathetically.

“I suppose I’ll have you, then?” I told Lank-hair, whose name tag read Antelmo.

“Well, aren’t you a nice” he mumbled.

From out of sight Rachtna squealed “Sister Liana, I don’t have a Catholic.”

“You’ll just have to share with Lichanti.” Liana replied and then dismissed my protests with “Look, there just aren’t enough Catholic’s to go around.”

“The mediator’s here.” Sunil, the Bhikku who had led us here, handed Liana a cigarette. “He’s one of your lot.” He told her curtly.

“He’s not a priest is he.” Her face grew with disgust at Sunil’s nod.

The catholic priest was young, surprisingly young, and from the South-East, but he’d lacked the raspy gangster accent São Tiagons had in the movies. Instead he spoke in gentle, patronising and forgiving tones. He had us all sit down on the stools with our ‘buddies’.He tried to introduce himself. “As some of you may know I took a bit of a sabbatical last year-“

“Do you mean when you dated that slutty hairdresser but then she dumped you.” Someone called out from behind me.

“Miss Aruizhi, mind your manners.” Sunil barked out. “Raise your hand if you want to ask a question.” Aruizhi’s hand shot straight up.

“Okay, I think we should just move on.” The priest, all-forgiving, replied calmly.

“The hairdresser certainly did.” Sister Liana mumbled.

The priest continued as though he hadn’t heard. “So this is just a little exercise I’d like to start with.” Sunil and Sister Liana collectively groaned but remained unheard by the priest. “I want you young people to give me some examples of things that Catholics and Buddhists both have in common and examples of what we don’t have in common. Lichanti.” He looked straight at me. “Why don’t you give us some similarities.”

“Okay. We both…” I tried to examine the greasy haired Catholic boy for any resemblance to me. “You know, to be honest father, I’m drawing a blank here.”

“Anything you like, any small similarity.”

“Yes, right, I understand.” Minutes passed. “this is actually quite hard, isn’t it.”

“That’s okay, perhaps someone else can come up with a similarity.” The priest suggested.

“Buddhists are Totzkan and Catholics are Portuguese.” Aruizhi called out.

“That’s actually a difference and quite a big one-“

“We’re not Portuguese!” One of the catholic boy’s shouted out.

“Well you all speak Portuguese!” I shot back.

“You're speaking it right now!”

“Only because you make us speak it!”

“So that’s a similarity isn’t it,” the priest’s smile was becoming more forced. “We can all speak the same language.”

“But they can barely speak it though.” Lank-Hair retorted.

That irritated Aruizhi, who stopped speaking Portuguese. “They can’t [i]speak Totzkan so how can they be can be Totzkan[/i]”. She shouted, drowning out the other voices.

“What’s she saying?” Someone hissed at me.

“That’s actually racist. Father isn’t that racist.” Someone else called out from the back of the hall, who evidently could speak Totzki.

“Let’s try and move away from languages and try to focus on the similarities, the little things that bring us together.”

“Catholics have more money.” I called out; my mind suddenly no long blank.

“That’s true.” Sister Liana nodded fingering the cross around her neck.

“Catholics like statues and Buddhists like pillars.” Rachtna added.

“I do like a good statue.”

“Okay, let’s take a step back.” The priest smiled was press tightly on his face. “I wanted us to think about… what’s in our hearts, what defines all as people and as individuals, we all have dreams and fears and hopes. I want us to think along those lines.” A chorus of blank faces greeted him. “There must be something that unites, that everyone is this room wants.”

“For this to be over.” Sister Liana answered, helpfully.

“And let’s leave it there.” The priest replied, defeated although, to his credit, still smiling.

[Nhoor]

(continuation of 5 February 2019)

(continuation of 20 April 2019)

Sārruc, Office of the First Minister, 6 September 2019

First Minister Armhad Cellichen was sitting at his desk. There were several important documents lying before him that needed his attention but he couldn’t concentrate: he was bothered by the large paintings hanging in his office. They were centuries old depictions of religious and rural settings. They disturbed him. He didn’t like the countryside. Or duvactist ceremonies for that matter. Of course, he had to maintain a certain status as a firm believer, especially now that he was First Minister, but privately he had always considered himself irreligious. A week after his appointment he had asked the household staff if he could change the paintings to some of his personal choice (which were more modern, more abstract) but this still hadn’t happened and he got the impression that the head of household found his request odd and outrageous; although the man’s professionality required of him that he didn’t show his opinion, he did so only halfheartedly. So far the First Minister had managed to avoid his office by working from his balcony but as temperatures dropped, announcing the arrival of autumn, it had become too chilly and too windy for that.

A knock on his door. It sounded urgent. “Enter!” the First Minister said. His secretary entered with a piece of paper. “Your excellency, we just received this,” he said, handing it to his boss. The First Minister quickly read the note, and then once more but more carefully. He held his breath and read the note for a third time, but slowly. “Get Demher in my office. NOW!” he shouted. The secretary rushed away.

Cellichen started to read the note another time but he put it back down on his desk as by now he had memorised its content. He drummed his fingers on his desk then stood up, stepped out of his office on his balcony, and stepped back in. The Ministry of Domestic Affairs was not far from the First Minister’s Office; it would take about ten minutes for Rhanhɵd Demher to walk from the first building to the other. Sure enough, within a quarter of an hour the Minister of Domestic Affairs knocked on Cellichen’s door.

“You asked to see me, Armhad?” Demher asked. The First Minister took the note, pushed it in the Minister’s hands and simply said: “Read!” A little flustered, the Minister did as he was told. His facial expression remained the same but the colour on his face took a rather unpleasant shade of grey. His breathing accelerated. “Is it true?” Cellichen asked. “Y-yes, I’m afraid so..,” Demher said. “Did Sanhad know?” the First Minister asked, refering to his predecessor Sanhad Bōra̦ who had to step down as First Minister a month earlier. “N-no,” Demher stuttered. “Armhad, I-I can explain this!” he whispered urgently. “EXPLAIN??” the First Minister thundered.

“Explain how a government minister has been pressed to do the biddings of an organisation of which nobody in Nhoor has ever heard? You were Defence Minister at the time; our national defence strategy could be severely compromised! I want an exact report of all discussions you had with these people, what they asked you to do and if you did it and what you told them and I want it yesterday! This is serious Rhanhɵd; they threaten to make it public that the former Defence Minister worked for a criminal cartel, suggesting that other government ministers may have been aware of the scheme as well” – “That’s not true, I..” – “No matter whether it’s true or not, people will look at the entire government as a bunch of criminals, even more than they do by default anyway!” the First Minister shouted. “And as for yourself, depending on the details that you will write to me, merely being sacked from the government is the most benevolent outcome for you; you could be charged with high treason to the Dominion of Nhoor!” – “They-they had my son! They killed my son for this” the Minister stammered.

For a moment both men said nothing. “Write that in your report as well please,” Cellichen said in a calmer voice. “We need to discuss what we will do. What we can do! This organisation – did they mention any name?” Demher shook his head. “This so far nameless organisation threatens to expose your collaboration with them and put this entire government in the spotlight if we change anything about our current defence mechanism and unless we do ‘some jobs’ for them, the note says. This is of course out of the question; none of us is so overly attached to our current positions that we would jeopardise the national security for it! My instinct would be to propose to the rest of the government to sack you with immediate effect but that can’t be done without anybody noticing and it would make you more vulnerable as you would have lost whatever value you still have for them as a government minister. The others need to know but I will inform them as soon as I have your written report. We also need to inform the General Staff of the situation so that they can take countermeasures. We need to stop these mule’s testicles!”

They remained quiet for a while. “Well, off you go,” the First Minister said to his Defence Minister; “You have a report to write!”

Rhanhɵd Demher left Armhad Cellichen’s office without another word.

[Negarakita]

The legend of Purawari

---

The ghost, that was what the coastguards called him. A scourge, a devil, a being the sun itself could not find in its all-seeing eyes. He navigated the seas as might a fish itself, only better. For fish could be tracked, fish could be caught. Purawari couldn't. Everyone had heard stories of his exploits, but few believed he was actually real. Just a tale they tell to terrify the recruits, they would say to themselves as they headed out on the water to patrol for illegal fishermen. Until a red dot came up on their radar screen, then disappeared, then reappeared again, like the domén of the great forests who taunted our prophet for sixty days as he tried to meditate on the nature of our universe. Then he was no longer a myth, he was a problem.

It was unsure where Purawari's roots were. Most tales agreed that he was a talented fisherman who, driven mad by years of taxation and scarred by the loss of custody over his children following his divorce with his nagging wife Karen, decided to live at sea. Karen had said that he was seeing other women, that his long "fishing trips" were trysts with the cheap hookers of Jalan Kupumalam. She was wrong. While yes, he had been seeing other women for several years, the fishing trips were all entirely real. He loved the sea. Sitting out there, his lines deep in the ocean as he smoked and drank and sang bawdy sea shanties, gave him a pleasure that no 30-Areu-an-hour hooker could match. Though, as he loved to recount to anyone unlucky enough to be in earshot, they both gave him crabs. All that was certain is that one day, he went out to sea and didn't come back. Well, he did, but never officially. In the Suvurnian marine registry one can still see in the logbooks, S. Purawari, The Mary Allen Sue III, left harbour 12:32 23/6/89, returned: ____.

It was not entirely clear why he did what he did. It was clear the man loved the sea, and that his mental state was nowhere near what one might consider to be in one piece. But it was also very clear that Purawari had a strongly political goal. His boat brandished a black and yellow flag, and the few times he made radio contact with law agents it was to yell a tirade of anti-statist abuse. His twitter feed, before it was deactivated for inciting criminal activity, had been an unending stream of libertarian economic articles and tax evasion tips which would make a Garland-Clegget-Kruse partner weak at the knees. He was a hero of Suvurnian edgelord forum circles, who absolutely fawned over "based fish guy" and periodically dumped fish gifs on the online accounts of the Suvurnian and Scantarbian coastguard and law enforcement agencies.

His exploits were legendary. It was said he had sold fish on the black markets of Aprosia, driven his boat up and down the central canal, done his fair share of drug and gun-running from San Javier to Merrit, Lovsk to Khumbuwan (by river), and stopped off at every brothel in between. He was possibly the most prolific father in the isles, and likely consumed drugs on a level that could only be compared to a Keveran government official. The old hands could only call him "worthy of randmarian citizenship", which washed over the heads of literally everyone else as no such nation had ever existed. Once out on the high seas he was harder to find than a Tian puppet, as he didn't even have any telltale signs. He came and went like the tides, all you could do was hope that you didn't cross him. Because as good as it might sound to be "the one who got him", such a goal was out of everyone's reach. This was not a man, this was the sheer spirit of illegal fishing. Only once was his vessel ever boarded.

It was the sixth of december, 2001, and Purawari was idly rolling back to Suvurnia after a hard spent month hunting endangered turtles with nothing but plastic straws for bait and harpoons, when the coastguard ship arrived. Purawari and his crew had simply been too high to notice the red dot approaching on their radar, and the sound of another boat pulling up next to them gave off no warning signs. Suddenly, the radio crackled into life.

SCANTARBIAN COAST GUARD, IDENTIFY YOURSELF

His response of "Your mum" didn't go down well.

WE HAVE REASON TO SUSPECT YOU ARE ILLEGALLY FISHING IN SCANTARBIAN WATERS

Given that the boat had three trawling lines down well inside a protected fishing area, these were pretty strong suspicions. He took the only logical course of action here, and having taken some more drugs burped loudly into the radio. The coast guard were having none of this.

BY THE LEGAL RIGHTS ESTABLISHED, WE WILL BE SEIZING YOUR VESSEL AND ALL CONTRABAND. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.

Fewer shits could not be given. Purawari inhaled another line of high grade totzkan cocaine, swearing under his breath about how the existence of fishing quotas and exclusive economic zones accounted to nothing less than a second holocaust. As the coastguard boarded his vessel, he put a cheap, illegally made Magarati cigarette into his mouth and said a quick prayer to Ayn Rand before grabbing his highly illegal automatic rifle he had somehow obtained despite it being a secretive design used only by the elite of the Miklanian army. Swaggering onto the deck in a manner that exuded with the energy that only belongs to one who is well hung, he turned and looked the scantarbian coastguard agent, a petrified 20 year old boy who had only hoped to make his military family proud, and scowled.

"Don't tread on me."

The coastguard knew he was looking at Purawari, the biggest fish in the sea. The man he had dreamed of catching ever since he had heard stories in mess hall. Two things happened at this moment. The coastguard's pants rapidly attained an unsightly wetness in the crotch area, and he developed a passion which lasts to this day for being on land. His grip on his pistol faltered, and he looked wide-eyed at his comrades who had widely remained on board their vessel. He managed to muster up the courage to apologise on his hands and knees, and having thoroughly soiled the standing of the coastguard as much as he had his pants, he got back on his boat and sailed off. When he got back on the dock, he would go on to hand in his resignation before hitting the town and proudly bragging about how he had been "this close to catching the legend". No mention, obviously, of the grovelling, the tears and the defecation. He was lucky though. None of his crewmates dared bring that up, lest it be revealed they had shirked their duties. For they were the in the coastguard for its cushy pension and (usually) safe shifts, and saw no need to risk all this just to mock someone.

As for Purawari, he disappeared into thin air like one of me or Altera's nation concepts. It is presumed he is still out there, plying the seas of the isles and making a name for himself in every establishment you shouldn't visit. Hundreds have set out to find him, hundreds have returned back to shore empty handed, rueing their luck. Their line is one and the same.

You can catch a million fish, it will always be the one that got away that's the biggest.

[Mokov]

Royal Palace, Nový Litkov, Kingdom of Mokov

A young man, with tired eyes and already greying hair sits at a large, opulent desk. The numerous papers hiding the desk’s surface all pertain to the ongoing civil war, and the stalemate on both fronts caused by the unusually harsh winter and a lack of both supplies and modern tactics on all sides. This young man is Král Ivan XII, reigning monarch of Mokov.

As he sips on a glass of vodka and examines yet another discouraging field report, gunshots ring out, and three armed men burst into his office.
“BY THE ORDER OF GENERAL KALINTOV, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!”
Ivan sighs, finishes his drink, and stands up to go with the men.
“I assume that I am no longer Král, and that my old friend has finally succeeded in his lofty ambitions. I will offer no resistance, I merely ask that you do not harm my wife.”

That night, Král Ivan XII z Mokova was deposed, and the Mokovi People’s Republic was declared, under the leadership of Yegor Kalintov, General Secretary of the Mokovi Communist Party.

[Suyak]

Kali Industrial Factory May 11th

The hum of machines, the stuffy air, the dusty brick walls. It wasn't a fancy glass office, but it was still my workplace, just like the other hundreds of workers there, I was there to make money regardless of conditions. I wiped my brow as the bell tolled, signaling it was time for a break. My son started walking away from his station next to me, and I grabbed his arm, "Where do you think you're going, boy?".

"I'm going to get a drink, my throat is dry.", his voice was raspy and his lips were extremely cracked, with his eyes turning red from the dust. A drink? Was he serious? I pushed my brittle black hair out of my face and glared.

"Your throat doesn't make this fabric. Get back to work! Only lazy people take breaks", I ordered. He grumbled and went back to work like a proper man. That was until the Guards rushed in.

"The King has ordered this establishment to be shut down! Everyone out!", a few of them loaded their guns and chaos ensued. Children ducked under the station tables, and the women ran all around, like the dumb girls they were. But I grabbed my son and we bolted out the back, the sound of bullets fading as we ran.
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Kamin household May 11th
I sat in my room studying my medical textbooks. They weren't the most accurate to Suyan medicine, simply because they were imported, but I couldn't simply purchase them, women couldn't be doctors. I heard my father burst through the door, cursing and screaming. I didn't pay him much attention until he called me at the top of his lungs. "Serilda!, I put on my golden veil to avoid his wrath and went out to the family room. My mother was cowering in the kitchen, and my brother looked very annoyed, and scared. My father finally spoke, anger in his eyes but sadness in his voice, "My child, I am afraid I have lost my job and we will have to postpone your wedding."

I sighed in annoyance, "Or Father, we could just not have a wedding. I personally don't want to get married to a 37-year-old man, considering I'm 16!" He stared at me as if I had just confessed to murder.

"The Great Ruler Farrukh bathed his wife in gold for their wedding ceremony and you shall do the same!", he yelled. My mother started crying and my brother just stood there, "You women are never satisfied, what you want doesn't matter"

"Farrukh was suffering from heatstroke and Mania, that's the only reason he made up the Order of the King and founded this hellhole of a country!", I yelled. I felt the sting as he slapped me, "Isn't it against that religion of yours to hurt a woman set to be married?", I glared. He knocked me to the ground and went for my mother. I couldn't bare to see it, and ran, the Rebellion was not going to be happy.

[Kings Gil Drum]

8:00 AM, NORTH WING, CONGRESSIONAL PALACE

The taxi ride to the palace had never felt as long as it did this morning. Most Representatives hadn't yet arrived; in a few hours, though, they would all be here. In the meantime, Israel had to survive the wrath of the House Confirmations Committee until lunchtime.

It seems crazy that Israel, a lifetime-Republican who was now in his third year as a representative of the city of Saint Thomas in the House of Representatives, would be facing the wrath of his own party, yet here he was. In that moment, it seemed as if his biggest allies were in blue rather than red, yet such was the state of Kings Gil politics at this point: the Republicans were in the midst of a major war of wills. On one hand, the Powellist wing - the establishment, the dominant force in Drummer politics for the last fifty years - and on the other side, a moderate wing of the party, a wing disillusioned from the Powellist philosophy by the disastrous decade of the Malcolm Washington presidency.

The moderates were a different breed entirely, the product of a leftward shift in the hearts and minds of the Drummer people but conservative at their core. The Powellist and Washingtonian wings sought dominance while the moderates sought diplomacy; the Powellists sought centralization while the moderates sought self-determination; perhaps above all, the Powellists denied the unjust treatment of the indigenous of Kings Gil, and sought to ignore the wrongs of both the Powell administration of the seventies and the Washington administration of the last decade.

"Our denial hasn't made it go away, but it has turned voters away from our party, instead," Alomi said to his friend and fellow moderate, Lila Mano, on the taxi ride. She nodded in agreement. "We should fear for the future of our party it we don't take the pragmatic approach to addressing our country's issues."

Only several weeks ago, Alomi and Mano's Republican Party achieved a swift victory in the general election, claiming a dominant majority in Congress. With growing dissent among their ranks, however, it is clear that this isn't one unified party in power, but two seeking to work together as one. As two Republicans with indigenous blood, both Alomi and Mano have been pained to see their party come under such heavy scrutiny. Drummer-Republican politicians have been slandered as disgraces to their race, "disowned" by heritage organizations, etc. For Alomi and Mano, two fairly young Republicans, it has been difficult to not let this criticism get to their heads. Their party has been governed by Powellism for a long time, and has dominated the nation's politics with that ideology for a similarly long time, but to them, it is time to move on.

To many in the Republican Party, however, suggesting a Republican Party without Powellism is practically heretical. Nonetheless, Israel and Lila sought to take firm leadership of their fractured party. With similar views and both in the younger branch of their party - both in their early-to-mid forties, the two formed a firm bond, becoming both close acquaintances and friends despite their vastly different backgrounds. Mona had earned her keep: a Congresswoman since 2013, Lila was a highly respected legislator by both sides of the aisle, despite her views that often came at odds with much of the the rest of her party.

Israel, on the other hand, was different; elected in 2018, he was still new to the national political scene. He wasn't particularly charismatic, was short and intimidating, and was far from having proved himself. The very fact that he was a viable candidate in this Speakership race was, in itself, a miracle; Israel stuck his name out, gauged opinions from Republican, Liberal, and Progressive counterparts, and got elected on a popular grassroots campaign very unlike a Republican.

Only at lunch, Israel knew that his improbable fight for the Speakership was only just beginning.

9:00 AM: MORNING HEARINGS

"Congressman Alomi, if I may."

"Certainly, sir."

"Following last year's failed attempt by the Liberal-led House Investigations Committee to hold hearings with Former President Washington, you stated that you would've voted in support had you been on the committee, no?"

"That is correct, sir."

"May I ask why?"

"Representative, there is significant evidence to suggest that Mr. Washington committed serious financial wrongdoings throughout his career that went without sufficient investigation-"

"Mr. Alomi, the Committee has failed to pass a resolution to hold hearings eleven times since 2012, would you not agree that the committee's time is better spent elsewhere?"

"All due respect, Representative, but if there was a crime committed, it is the job of the Investigations Committee to hold hearings."

10:00 AM

"Congressman, your voting record displays a consistent failure to uphold the party platform-"

"Madam, I encourage you to visit any of our country's many conservative accountability foundations. You will find that I have consistently been given high grades across the board."

11:30 AM: LUNCHTIME RECESS

"The press is saying that the Progressives may vote your way," Lila said to Alomi, the two standing next to one another in a close circle with several of their closest Congressional allies. "Or at least that they could vote your way on a ballot or two, if it goes to several ballots."

"Well that's a relief to know," Israel replied. "They won't vote our way on the final ballot but I'm glad to know the support is there, if only in word."

In Drummer Speakership elections, a winner cannot be declared until an absolute majority of the chamber votes for one candidate. In the case where no candidate reaches a majority, a second ballot is cast, and if that one ends the same way, the process continues until a consensus candidate has been reached. With the Republican bloc split between Israel and veteran Congressman Ted Davis, and with the Liberals nominating the likely-outgoing speaker, Jessie McCartney, a series of ballots seemed inevitable.

"In better news," Lila said, "there doesn't seem to be much of a contest for Majority Leader."

Israel smiled. "Good, you've earned that spot."

"Keep your head up, Israel," Lila told Israel, "Get some coffee, it's going to be a long evening."

2:00 PM: FINAL HEARINGS

The final hearings saw the arrival of the rest of the House's congressmen to the Palace. Israel was berated by various other committees aside from the Confirmations Committee. He kept his head up throughout it all, but recognized that his chances at winning this election were slim. A relative outsider within his party, and only a third-year Congressman, facing off against long-term establishment juggernaut Ted Davis. Davis turned sixty-five last week; Israel was barely in his forties.

He lacked confidence, but knew how to fake it. He knew the importance of getting the Speakership in the hands of a common-sense Republican; the power of the Speakership couldn't be overstated. Whoever wins this election is, essentially, the highest-ranking Republican in government, with competition coming only from the House Majority Leader, who - from the looks of it - will be his friend, Lila Mano.

4:30 PM: THE FIRST BALLOTS

The majority leader ballot went through easily. A Republican-only vote, Lila got elected with 111 of 134 Republicans.

Then the Speakership vote came.

FIRST BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 72 votes
-ALOMI, R: 62 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes

"We will move to a second ballot."

SECOND BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 72 votes
-ALOMI, R: 62 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes

"Members of our House, we will be moving forth with a third ballot. As is evident, perhaps we need a recess first; you have one hour."

Israel approached Lila. "How can we approach this?"

"Israel, they aren't budging."

"How can we change that?"

"I don't know."

5:30 PM: THE THIRD BALLOT

"Members of the House, it is time to submit your votes for the third ballot."

THIRD BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 71 votes
-ALOMI, R: 63 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes

"Israel, we had one dissent go our way."

"Lila-"

"Just be patient. Stick it out."

"Members of the House, we will be adjourning for a dinnertime recess. Please reconvene here in two hours."

7:30 PM: THE FOURTH BALLOT

Israel and Lila walked back into the central lobby of the Palace after leaving to grab a meal together. Israel stopped and took off his coat, placing it aside before continuing to walk back to the House Chamber. As he and Lila neared the doors, a young woman practically ran up to the pair.

"Hello Dua," Israel said, shaking her hand and cracking the slightest of smiles, his mind a bit too stressed and his heart a bit too preoccupied to worry about appearing particularly charismatic for his opposition. Nonetheless, Dua - the Progressive leader - smiled, giving him and Lila a bit of a frantic slight of eye contact before releasing Israel's hand and beginning to ramble.

"You need 103 votes and I can't get it for you."

"Yes, I know."

"This won't be the last ballot, we can vote for you if it'll help sway some Republican votes."

FOURTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 75 votes
-ALOMI, R: 70 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes

Some Republicans looked nervously in Israel and Lila's direction, whispering among themselves.

"They know it's only a matter of time before a deal happens," Lila said, "we can't be here all night. Somebody will fold."

Reporters swarmed Israel in the halls as he walked out of the House chambers to take a break to the restroom. "Mr. Alomi, have you made a deal with the Progressives? Will you be making a deal with the Liberals? What does this sharp division within your party say about its ability to govern? What do you have to say about Congressman Davis' words-"

"No comment."

8:30 PM: THE FIFTH BALLOT

FIFTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 74 votes
-ALOMI, R: 72 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 59 votes

The men in the chamber took off their suit jackets and placed them on the backs of their chairs. Women tied back their hair. Some had been here since 8am, yet now, their days seemed to just be beginning.

9:30 PM: THE SIXTH BALLOT

Fifteen minutes until the next ballot vote, a small group of Republicans marched in a formation into a side room, shutting the doors and blinds. Sweat dripped down their faces. Ted Davis took out a handkerchief a wiped his face, while Israel took his sleeve to his forehead, getting a little stain on the white dress shirt.

"We need a deal," Davis said.

"Yes, we certainly do," Israel said.

SIXTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 73 votes
-ALOMI, R: 72 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes

10:30 PM: THE SEVENTH BALLOT

"So, what's the deal looking like?"

Davis sat silent. After a moment, he turned and glanced at his associates, fellow establishment Republicans. The group was visibly distraught.

"The party goes with you..."

Israel's eyebrows raised. He felt his spirits lift internally, and wanted to smile, but held it in.

"...If our bloc appoints the Investigations Committee."

Israel knew why this was the offer. Protection against a Washington investigation.

"Let me think it over."

Israel told Dua to pull her bloc off his ballot. He walked to Lila, sat down, and whispered with her as the seventh ballot begun.

SEVENTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 70 votes
-ALOMI, R: 64 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes

11:30 PM: THE EIGHTH BALLOT

"I have my terms," Israel says, back in the side conference room once again. From inside, one could hear the movement and speech of the mob of reporters outside the conference room; before the last ballot, they had caught Davis and company sneaking to the room, and ambushed.

"What would that be?" Davis looked and sounded exhausted.

"You appoint the majority composition of the Committee, I select the minority membership."

EIGHTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-DAVIS, R: 70 votes
-ALOMI, R: 64 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes

The group returned to the room again.

"Okay Israel, you have a deal."

12:30 AM: THE NINTH BALLOT

NINTH BALLOT, HOUSE SPEAKER ELECTION:
-[WINNER] ALOMI, R: 106 votes
-McCARTNEY, L: 60 votes
-DAVIS, R: 22 votes
-CANTO, PA: 11 votes
-PRESENT: 6

Reporters flocked as, in the middle of the night, groups of Congressmen exited the House chambers. Traditionally there would be a moment of celebration, with hand-shaking and smiles, but here, well passed midnight, most Congressmen sought to simply go home. Israel exited the chamber and was immediately surrounded, he made an effort to push his way through the flock until he reached Dua, who was answering a question fielded by a reporter.

Politically enemies on most every issue, the two shared a mutual respect for one another. Surrounded by reporters on all sides, Israel tapped her shoulder, and she turned and saw him. He got close, into her ear so that she and only she could hear him amidst the media scramble.

"Can you accomplish the impossible?"

Dua nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Good luck."

Israel handed her a folder and pushed his way out of the crowd, leaving her to look at the file on her own, amidst the media watching intently.

She opened the folder, and in it was a piece of paper.

COMMITTEE APPOINTMENTS: DUA CARABELLO-CANTO, INVESTIGATIONS COMMITTEE.

[Nhoor]

Somewhere close to Sārruc, 23 June 2020

The mansion had seen better days. The construction from the early 18th century was in a deplorable state, since long abandoned, and the lands around it had been closed off for many years now by fences that weren’t in the best of conditions themselves either. Occasionally youth, homeless people, and drug dealers entered without much effort to do the things that they do, and in some parts of the mansion there were traces of syringes, sleeping bags partially eaten by rats and other vermin, and various expressions of graffiti adorned the walls both inside and outside. The local authorities had tried on several occasions to buy the land and tear the whole place down to make space for whatever was the most needed at the time but they couldn’t get hold on the owner and legal procedures to obtain the land without the owner’s approval had somehow always stranded before any outcome.

There was however one part of the mansion that had remained unaccessible to most people, and the man that now proceeded to enter it, did not look like he belonged to most people. He looked around carefully, making sure that there were no random visitors seeing him, and he turned the head of an ugly angel figure on the mantelpiece in what used to be the library. The fire place swang open and reveiled some stairs that looked in better shape than the rest of the building. The man climbed them and arrived in a rather large room on the first floor. The room was carefully decorated and contained a couple of expensive pieces of artwork that the man guessed were probably stolen. The only windows looked out on the courtyard. A middle-aged woman dressed in an expensive lime green ladies’ business suit with a complicated brooch pinned to it was sitting in a chair looking out of the window.

“It is impossible to tell these days if what the media say comes even close to the truth”, the woman stated matter-of-factly. “Was he among the casualties in Martenyika or is this another spook story? Well?”
“Er, well Madam Secretary, there has been no confirmation that he was even on that plane to start with”, the man hesitated, taken aback a little bit by the woman’s directness.
The woman sighed. “Hm. So we are still not safe yet. I wish we hadn’t lost our Eyes on Argus. We need to expand our searches even further. I prefer him to be dead rather than alive and opening his mouth, but most importantly we must destroy all evidence that he may have. Without it, he can say whatever he likes and nobody will believe him. I take it that his successor has so far successfully been prevented from opening the safe in the ministry?”
“Yes, that has been dealt with. And an appointment has been made for next week to have ‘professionals’ look at the safe, which we will then replace by an identical one. He may however still have documents at his house.”
“Destroy it. Make it look like an accident.”
“What, the documents? An accident?”
“No, the entire house of course! Breaking in and looking for the documents may take too long and there is the chance that we miss something. Blow up the house and make it look like a gas leak or something; figure something out!”
“I.. I will have it done, Madam.”
“You are hesitating? After all that you have done for us in the past years? You are not growing soft, are you?” the woman said in mock surprise.
“No, no… it’s just that so far we have done everything on the background. Blowing up a house may attract unwanted attention.”
“Not everything; the Demher kid’s ‘suicide’ was hard to miss.”
“And despite our great efforts to make it look like one, the police still figured out that it may not have been a suicide after all. We must be more careful, Madam Secretary!”

The woman kept silent for a moment, thinking.

“Perhaps you are right. In that case plant some false evidence in the house to confuse the police. Keep them looking in all the wrong places. I still want that house lighted like a torch! I want to send a signal, even if they won’t know it’s us.”
“They don’t know us to begin with.”
“No, and they think that they destroyed us on New Year’s eve by catching a huge load of weapons and arresting more than 40 people, which is an exaggerated version of the truth. It’s a pity of course that they took those weapons; our clients were not happy about that. And I don’t care a lot about most of the arrested people, but they caught two important colleagues of mine who are still in prison with the rest of them. The police don’t know who they really are of course but with them being out of the way we did suffer quite the blow. We are in essence missing an eye and an arm.”
“I will see that it happens”, the man said with a little bow.
“Make sure that you do”, ‘Madam Secretary’ said.

“The other item about which I wanted to ask you”, she continued. “Cellichen has been named Public Security Minister earlier this month. I don’t like that at all! The man is too honest to be a government minister in the first place and as head of Public Security he may be in the position to do us a lot of harm without even knowing it.”
“We are already on it, Madam Secretary, not only he but the entire government may soon have something else on which they will need to focus their attention.”
“Good! Well, I think that is all for today”, the woman said, turning to the window again.

The man took this as his cue to leave, and he turned around and left the mansion .

[Seneica]

---

On this day in Seneican history: - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -SENEICA MOBILISES FOR WAR (1941)

---

On June 27th, 1941, Seneica once again prepared for war. Despite the harrowing experiences of the Great War some twenty years prior, Seneica mobilized its armed forces as the world collapsed into a second global conflict. Seneica was not entirely prepared for another mass war. It's Army numbered 134,000 men, It's Air Force was still in its infancy and its Navy was undergoing a redevelopment and modernization program. The general feeling across the nation was one of national concern as the region of Radelon had split into two warring sides with Seneica at risk from its eastern Neo-Imperialist neighbors and an expanding empire of Athara Magarat causing particular concern.

It was agreed that Seneica would mobilize it's armed forces as a strictly defensive measure initially. Its borders with Nhoor and Eastern Radelon were fortified and mass defenses were erected along the eastern coastline to deter any potential attacker. Focus on the Army and Air Force were implemented with the development of effect infantry divisions, artillery and tank regiments, and an extensive logistical train to support front line troops. In addition, the creation of an Airborne unit and secret code talker squads were implemented, the success of the code talkers during the Great War (1912-1918) sought the need for an established code talker system that could be implemented to any front line situation. Huge recruitment drives were undertaken across Seneica with approximately 3 million men and 50,000 women volunteers signing up during the course of the war. Seneica shifted its military doctrine from defense to offensive during the latter stages of the war.

From June 1941 - May 1942 Seneica was set up to defend its nation from any potential threat. Air and Coastal defenses were set up along the east of the country with large concentrations of Anti-Air guns protecting the cities of Minninnewah, Wapiti, and Akecheta. Local Home Guard units were also set up to defend the homelands, this was mainly made up of elderly men who were either too old or disqualified for regular armed service. The Navy would begin constant patrols on Seneican coastlines alongside the air force which would conduct routine fighter patrols along the border and coastlines.

The course of the war would change Seneica. Offensive operations by the armed forces would be undertaken by early 1943 and huge industrial efforts would see the entire country brought to work alongside its allies as the war continued until at least 1947. The aftermath of which would have big economic and social consequences on Seneica for decades to come.

[Shanzie]

"Next."

A line of boys, men, women, and children holding empty baskets, hampers, and totes clambered forward a half meter. With each step they took, they came one step closer to relieving the gnawing feeling in their gut. At least for today, they could eat without worry.

"Next."

Another step closer. Perhaps today it wouldn't be just moldy bread. Perhaps some dried meat, or some butter. Maybe today, it wouldn't be so bad.

"Next."

Josif lifted his basket as a sack was lowered in and his heart sank as it was placed at the bottom. It was light. He frowned at it, wondering if there was even enough make one or two days meals out of this, let alone a week.

"Next."

With a shove from behind, Josif was pushed out the line and nearly into his brother's arms.

"Damn," Petar said as he caught him by the arm. "That doesn't look like much."

"Yeah, but there's enough. Mama will know what to do with it." He smiled down at his brother, patting him lightly on the back as they started the walk home. "She always knows a trick or two."

"More like we always find a way to get a bit more, eh?" Petar nudged him as they walked across the street, away from the line of hungry men. He then opened his jacket and pulled out a small package. "I've got to run this up to Kalarsh's. You think you got this on your own?"

Josif stared at the package for a moment before answering. "Be careful. You never know what's in that damn thing if its going there."

Petar shrugged and shoved it back into his pocket. "Eh, I doubt anything'll happen. They know me up there by now."

"What do you mean they 'know you'??" Josif nearly snarled. "They're trouble. You can't get mixed up with them."

Another shrug. "I'll be fine. You just get that home and tell ma I'm off at Yahir's stand, ok?"

"Fine. But you better be back tonight. I'm not gonna lose because you ended up dead somewhere."

"Heh," he said as he rolled his eyes and waved it off. "I don't think you can lose. I'll catch you later tonight."

With that, Petar turned down the next street and walked briskly away, leaving Josif to walk the last block alone. He stayed towards the side of the street, away from the dark alleys as the light faded quickly towards the center of the road and finally disappeared as the street lights flickered on, casting a dim glow on the streets below. After a few minutes, he opened the gate of his tower's courtyard and pressed the elevator button. It creaked slowly down to him before stopping with a shudder. He opened the gate to the elevator and stepped in, closing it behind him. With another shudder, he began to ascend nearly to the top. The doors opened once more and he stepped into a badly lit hallway. He walked the twenty or so meters on the uneven floor, ignoring the cracks in the walls that allowed the sounds of tvs, kids, and other tenants to escape.

As he finally reached the door and started to unlock it, he could smell his ma making Chebureki in the tiny kitchen. As soon as he opened it, she was there at the door.

"Josif! You were gone so long!" Worry was etched into face as plain as the deep wrinkles around her eyes. "Where's Petar?"

"He had to work. Basket's a little light, so he wanted to do something to make up for it."

She sighed and motioned towards the table. "And What's he doing this time? And don't tell me the food stands again. I talked to Yahir last time and Petar wasn't there. Hasn't been there in weeks."

Josif winced as he placed the basket on the tiny table. It wasn't like her to check up on that. "He's making a delivery. He wouldn't say for who."

"If it's that damn Kalarsh, I'll hang him by his toes." She yanked the bag out of the basket and looked it over, her worry turning to a sad frown. "But if it makes up for this, then I won't flat out kill him." She turned back to Josif and sighed. "Go help your brothers with their homework after you wash up. Then I need you to fix the window. It's wanting to fall off again and my hands just won't work today."

"Ok, Ma."

With that, Josif went to his brothers and listened to them read slowly, then helped with their arithmetic before fixing the window. Dinner passed uneventfully as his ma watched the door, waiting for Petar to come in. She wouldn't meet Josif's eyes throughout dinner or as they washed up. As he got his little brother to bed, he began to worry as much as his ma. But hopefully he would be there at Suaro's. It was dark as could be by the time he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. As he rounded the corner to head out, he jumped as a loud slap pounded the wall beside him.

"Where are you going?!" His Ma stood angrily over him despite being a foot shorter.

"You know where. I've got to check on Petar. He said he would meet me at-"

"Suaro's, I know." She put her hands on her hips as she balled them into fists. "I've told you to stop going there."

"And I will. Once I check on Petar."

"That's a lie and you know it." She said sternly, but her features began to soften and her shoulders drooped. "But you're the man, go find your brother."

Josif nodded, then went to move around her, but she grabbed his arm. "Just be careful."

"I will be." He pulled away slowly and met her eye. "I promise." Then he was gone.

[Spiti Goxia]

-
Dear Mr. Chancellor,

I want to thank you very much for everything you have done for our village! As a 9 year old, I always wanted to have a good place to spend time with my friends,
but there was no place like that. But now, when you gave as the new playground I can finally go somewhere with them! We can play here after school and it is great!
Thank you very much for this. You are the best leader in the world!

Ryan Bill
-

[Ostehaar]

"...Which, in turn, resulted in lower revenues this year." The presenter clicked and the slide changed to a graph. He stretched his hand and used a pen to point out some of the numbers as he read them briefly. The small audience, mostly aged men wearing expensive suits, was a collection of Oster politicians and businessmen interested in the energy sector. It felt like noon, but the fancy digital wall clock insisted it was still morning. The noise and heat produced by the projector were getting unpleasant. Minutes stretched beyond perception. Organizational charts and statistics fused together into a soup of seemingly impressive statements.

"Any questions?"

The long-awaited phrase arrived. A man in the second row of seats raised his hand.

The presenter nodded. "Yes, sijrahn?" The audience's response to the title was subtle but unmistakable. A few heads suddenly woke to life, murmurs echoed from the back.

"Did you take into account changes in yearly maintenance costs?" The man's recognizably deep voice was calm and quiet. His thick, silver beard and mustache seemed to remain almost motionless as he spoke.

"Yes," The presenter paused for a thought, "but to tell you the truth, most assessments are still in discussion. The numbers here are relatively conservative." He scrolled back to slide 81, then scrolled back-and-forth a few rounds and finally landed on slide 88. "There."

"Ah. Who's in charge of the assessments? Can I find them in this building?"

"Mihren's department, third floor."

The clock marked 11:00. Some were already packing their notes and preparing to leave. The projector turned off. "That's it then," the presenter announced, "thank you."

One person approached cautiously as people got up and left, waiting to catch the sijrahn's attention. "Mik."

"Ah!" The man smiled. "right on time." He stood, looking a bit tired but still stronger and more vigorous compared to most men of his age, 63. The young Oster handed him his suitcase and a bottle of water. "Interesting news?"

"Not sure," he replied, "but there's a reporter at the lobby waiting for you." He gestured back, towards the main entrance to the building. "I don't know him."

Mik frowned. "How long he's been waiting there?"

"Almost an hour." The meeting room has almost emptied. The presenter finished packing his papers and was on his way out as well. A group of businessmen hung back close to the exit door, talking between themselves and chuckling.

"Come," Mik pointed towards the lobby and started walking. "Let's hear what he wants."

They crossed the maze of corridors and staircases governing the physical laws of the minor universe known as The Castle, OCES' main office complex outside of the capital Porohare. The place was a huge semi-brutalist block of concrete that took almost 6 years to complete during the 1970's. Navigating through it was a difficult task even to some veterans of the complex, so the two had to ask for instructions every few turns. Eventually they reached the lobby to find the reporter taking a short nap on a chair.

Mik stopped and cleared his throat, jolting the reporter back to consciousness.

"Good mor- noon, sijrahn." He nodded in respect as he got up and flipped open his notebook. "Can I ask you about today? Just a minute of your time."

Mik - Mikahel Si Ardner, Ostehaar's sijrahn or Head of Opposition - glanced at his wrist watch and then for a moment at Jan, his assistant. "Sure."

The reporter took a quick, deep breath. "You seem to have a special interest in the nuclear industry lately. I hear this makes some people anxious, and at least one member of your party said, and I quote," he read from his notebook, "Si Ardner could be risking our relations with the industry." He looked back at Mik hoping to catch an automatic response, but found the statesman and his assistant staring at him patiently. "Have you recently met with CEO Alen Frust? Are you meeting him here today?"

"I've met mister Frust About a week ago here," Mik said, "and among other things, he suggested I come and talk to some people. I'm here to learn."

"Were you here to reassure him?"

The old man sighed. "He doesn't need my reassurance. I'm not after the industry. You people should stop grabbing every spin Brahurer's folks throw at your direction."

"So what were you discussing?"

Jan signaled that they were running out of time. "sijrahn," he gestured at his watch. Mik nodded but decided to answer the question.

"We exchanged views. I think OCES has some responsibilities that it currently refuses to take. A lot of money is pouring into many unsupervised wells, and most Darna members don't have the time or the will to resolve this."

"Alright, thank you for your time." The reporter finished the quote and hurried off.

"He waited an hour for this," Jan said. They turned around and walked into the building, presenting their VIP visitor cards to the guards at the back of the lobby.

"Many people are invested in OCES," Mik explained, "so now their influence in the administration is a taboo. I'm going to try and shove my nose into this... and see what happens."

[Ostehaar]

"Alright, thank you for your time."

Ehran finished the quote and hurried off from The Castle. He managed to clumsily drop his cellphone twice on the way out, barely avoiding a collision with a large decorative vase the second time he bent down to pick the diabolic device up. A frustrated "fuck" echoed throughout the lobby - Ehran glanced back to make sure Si Ardner and his assistant were not there to hear it. The screen broke. "Fuck," he reiterated to himself quietly. "I waited an hour for this," he thought.

The automatic door opened and Porohare's November chill slammed into his face - and at noon, no less. When did it become so cold? It was summer a minute ago.

The ground was still dry, but probably not for long. Heavy, pale clouds gradually filled the sky. The OCES complex was built on a slight inclination a few kilometers away, providing a nice panoramic view of the city. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk right outside the massive building, and looked towards the city center.

His phone buzzed. A colleague.

"Hi Kris."

"Had lunch already?"

He muttered something inaudible. "No, but I'm nowhere near the office."

"Yeah I saw the note," she chuckled. "Thought you'd be here by now."

"I took the bus... but traffic should be lighter now."

"I'll wait," she said. He felt flattered. "See you later."

The bus station was a few hundreds of meters away, down closer to the foot of the hill, on a major road leading from the eastern suburbs to the center. Ehran crossed The Castle's security gate and returned his visitor card. For some reason it felt like landing back on earth, maybe from some alternative future or a far away space-mining colony. Something about the place suddenly spooked the hell out of him.

Only as he sat down and put his bag next to him, he began to relax. The door closed, the engine started, and the bus cruised away from the station, joining the flow of vehicles. Light rain started tapping on the windows, forming diagonal water sprays and gradually obscuring the view. Buildings blurred into dirty layers of brown and gray. The trees were closer to the road and clearer, creating a calm autumn atmosphere inside the bus. Ehran suddenly noticed the music coming from the radio. He drifted and fell asleep again.

His phone buzzed. He jerked from sleep in panic. The wrist watch! "Ah, two minutes."

"Hi?"

"Mister Mahr-Khohjer? Ehran?"

"Yes," he somehow identified the voice, "Luther? we spoke earlier this week."

The person on the other end sighed audibly. "Listen," he spoke slowly, "I found that paper I was telling you about." He coughed. "I can send it in a timed message," he lowered his voice, "save it, put it on your computer and delete it from the phone."

"Alright, of course." The call disconnected.

The rain intensified. Trees joined the background blur as a green layer. That familiar wet smell filled the bus.

A message with an attached picture file appeared at the top of the inbox. Ehran quickly opened it and read the title of the document - State Vs. OCES, Claims for Conflict of Interest and Unauthorized Contracting. He downloaded the file, and a few seconds later the message removed itself. Luther replaced it with a "Good luck!"

[Mokov]

Fear. That is the most common emotion now holding the attention of the people of Mokov. They had been fooled into supporting the ambitions of Pavel Markeviç, and only now were they realizing the true folly of their actions. In the hours following the revolution, a series of announcements came out of the Ryda building, announcing the suspension of nearly every right given to the people of Mokov by the Tsar. Armed men, in the black and red of the GZR patrolled the streets of every major city, dragging off anyone that looked at them funny. Shops owned by ethnic minorities, primarily Khas-Kirati citizens, were forcibly closed, and often looted. Political parties were banned, and every news outlet not owned by the state or directly loyal to the GZR was shut down, and the owners arrested.

A shadow has fallen over Mokov.

[Mokov]

It has been just over a day and a half since the coup that toppled the Tsar took place, and things were already looking bleak. Zvonimir Volonov, or, Prisoner 8841, was a simple man. He woke up, went to work, and went home. It was enough to feed himself, and to feed his family. His life wasn't easy, but then again, it wasn't too hard either. His Khas-Kirati heritage occasionally garnered odd looks in the nicer parts of Krolecz, but he didn't mind. The only part of him that was truly Khas-Kirati was his skin color, as his family had assimilated into the Mokovī culture hundreds of years ago.

When he heard the news of the new regime in charge of Mokov while at work, he just could not get rid of that sinking feeling in his gut. His father was alive during the Civil War, and on the days that he drank just a little too much, he occasionally spoke of the horrors he endured under the brutal reign of Igor Markeviç's Grey Legion, which controlled most of East Mokov for the majority of the 1930's. That movement was the original version of Regimentalism, and while still being incredibly authoritarian and militaristic, it did not possess the extreme racism and ultranationalism of New Regimentalism.

As soon as Zvonimir got home, he pulled together all of his savings, and sent his wife and daughter away to Littolyo, promising to join them soon. Shortly after seeing his family safely off on a flight out of Mokov, he was arrested by the GZR for 'suspected sedition'. The next few hours were hellish, as he was forcibly shaved, and given a tattoo on the back of his neck with a ten digit serial code, the last four numbers of which serving as his new name. Then, he was deposited in a large work camp in the frigid foothills of the Kholarak Mountains, along with other racial minorities and political rivals to the GZR, and forced to work harder than ever. He was only fed a single meal, of stale, half moldy bread, a scrap of salted meat, and a small bowl of watery stuff that may at one point have been soup.

During the grueling fourteen hours he worked, four other inmates were executed for failing to work fast enough, and eight were shot after collapsing from exhaustion. The whole time he was working, the National Anthem of the Regimentalist State played on repeat, only halting to allow for recordings of Vozhd Markeviç's hateful speeches to play. At the end of his shift, he was dragged to the communal barracks, and shown to his 'bed', a slab of rough plywood with a patchy blanket barely thick enough to avoid being blown away by the gentle breeze currently sweeping through the building. It stank in there, of shit and piss and death. When he tried to ask the guard when he was going to get out, he got a blow to the head as his answer. It was then, as he sat on the slab of wood that would be his only resting place that he saw the thing that drained him of all hope of ever leaving. It was a simple thing, a message, roughly carved into one of the barrack walls. It read 'God Save our Souls, And Damn Kalintov to Hell! Iohannes Seroniv, 1942'. This place was a KORTAG, or a work camp designed to work its prisoners to death, built by the Nationalist Communist government of Yegor Kalintov during the days of the Mokovī People's Republic to punish his political opponents. Zvonimir was going to die here, he was sure of it.

[Ainslie]

Cause for Concern

Monday 7 December, 9:15am
Arnton, Ainslie

… Public health experts calling for parts of Kianara to be shut off from rest of Ainslie as cases of an unknown influenza imported from Aprosia continue to increase … Wesland Health disputes this call, stating that the situation is currently under control....

It was 9:15am in the morning and Prime Minister Gifford was already getting sick of the constant commentary over what is essentially just thirty cases of a virus that Ainslie would easily be able to manage. That is, if it is to become a pandemic. She decided it may be a good idea to see how the public were responding as she waited for her leading medical experts to come to her office for a discussion about what had already made national news. Turning on the news was definitely a bad idea.

Soon enough, the aide ducked his head in over the door frame.

“Madarne PM, Professor Kelse is on his way. He also is accompanied by the Chief Health Officer of Wesland, Director of the Wesland Ranges Health District Karina Endari and the Lead Consultant of the Infectious Diseases Ward at Arthur Winters, Andar Arkasen.”

“Excellent, bring them in as soon as they are ready”, she replied.

Professor Kelse was the first to come in, then followed five minutes later by the Director and almost thirty minutes after that the Lead Consultant came in.

Gifford (G): “So, Andar [as in Andar Arkasen, the Lead Consultant], how is Arthur Winters Hospital going?”

Arkasen (A): “Already busy, Madarne. People think this thing is going further than it is at the moment… at least in Herriden, we’re hearing from GPs across town that many people are coming in with symptoms that would not typically cause someone to come in to see the doctor.”

G: “How do you have this knowledge, if you mind me asking?”

A: “As you may already know, many of our workers are well connected with the general practitioner community in Herriden… it’s a small world, everyone knows each other and word travels fast…”

G: “Understood. Dendren [Prof. Dendren Kelse, Chief Medical Officer for Ainslie], is this a trend we’re currently seeing nationwide - and is it to the point that we’re gonna need to curtail some panic?”

Kelse (K): “Not that I am aware of at least. Apart from the irregularities we’re seeing across the Wesland Ranges and through to the Upper Wesland Region, nothing is too out of the ordinary quite yet. Arnton, Arborai, Mandara even Badara… nothing to report.”

G: “So, Karina, firstly thank you for coming down here to Arnton… I trust that everything is going as well as it can up in the Ranges.”

Karina Endari (E): “Yes, except for the same situation in Herriden with the increased GP visits we seem to be on top of this. If there is any transmission beyond the people who we’ve isolated, it is minimal. Cases are dropping off and it looks like we may be moving towards an all clear.”

K: “Just on that, the Aprosians continue to state that their monitoring systems have not picked up any of the strange symptoms some of the tourists in Kianara have had. Although, these systems do have quite limited reach into the rural and remote regions of the country. It is fair to say that we don’t know what we’re facing and I’ve been talking to customs and broader protection as well as the tourism department to try and ascertain how much of a problem we could have here if the disease is worse than originally thought and we need to contain and respond to it rapidly.”

PM Gifford: “What are you saying, Dendren…”

K: “I know my role in this government is to provide you with impartial health advice and to provide you with the health dimension to allow you to make the best possible decisions for the benefit of the Ahnslen people. Forgive me if I overstep for a minute, but it is clear that the pros of closing the border with Aprosia, even for a short time seems to outweigh the consequences.”

PM Gifford: “There’s political consequences there too…”

K: “With all due respect, if we are talking for a month of shut borders, potentially a loss of maybe 1500 travellers.”

PM Gifford: “How effective does your department believe shutting just the border with Aprosia would be.”

K: “We have no evidence to suggest that cases could be imported from anywhere but Aprosia. For the time being, this is a proactive step we can take just in case this is an incoming pandemic. It gives us a few extra days, depending on how quickly the virus may spread, if we do need it.”

Gifford: “Ok, I will talk with my advisors about it further. This proposal is not to leave this room until if and when I announce it.”

The four continued to talk for another forty minutes until they slowly filed out.

Gifford: “Dendren, mind if you stay back for a minute? I want to see if I can quickly bring some other people in.”
… “Sure, he replied.”

The next meeting began fifteen minutes later, where Dendren’s proposal was further considered.

Gifford and Kelse hastily walked together down the corridor to the press relations department of the Prime Minister’s Office.

“Hello, I need a speech quickly... we’re going to have to shut the border with Aprosia. Brief will be in your inbox within fifteen minutes.”, she said to one of the departmental officers who sat at her desk looking increasingly puzzled.

“Now, Dendren, press conference is at 3pm. I’ll get my staff to forward the brief to your PR team so they can work things out on your end as well.”

“Thank you, Madarne. See you then.”, he replied before walking away.

[Mokov]

Boris Kamerov strode down the dark hallway of the Nový Litkov GZR party office, black leather briefcase in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. His boots, polished to a mirror shine, clicked sharply on the stone floor. He swiftly reached the end of the hallway, and pulled open a rickety wooden door with his name emblazoned on it. Sitting down in the cushy chair behind his desk, Boris opens his briefcase and removes the item contained, a small manilla folder.

There is a single sheet of paper within the folder, covered in a list of names, phone numbers, and code phrases, written in red ink. Boris reaches over to the small phone he keeps at his desk, and dials the first number on the list. Three rings before the call is answered. Boris only speaks two words before hanging up: Red Salamander. He proceeds to spend around two hours repeating this process for every name on the list. As soon as he finishes with the final name, he burns the paper and smashes the phone he used.

Forty minutes pass without event, until the clock strikes 10:45 AM. The instant that happens, a series of explosions rock Boris in his seat, and smoke fills the air outside his office. Gunshots ring out across Nový Litkov, and the GZR garrison find themselves under an attack from all sides. They stand no chance, and are quickly overrun. With the surrender of the final garrison troops, Boris Kamerov speaks to the confused and terrified citizens of Nový Litkov, the flag of the GZR behind him, with one significant change: over the Black Sun, a lightning bolt has been placed. "Good people of Nový Litkov, you now bear witness to the true revolution of the Regimentalist cause, and the downfall of the decadent and weak regime of Pavel Markeviç!"

In a period of less than four hours, the GZR found itself split, with their most radical members seeking to destroy the remainder. If the Regime fails to act quickly and decisively, this will be their end.

[Mokov]

The ghetto of Nový Mokov was always known as a filthy, dangerous place. The dregs of society were relegated to this area, and deaths were a common occurrence, violent more often than not. The streets were covered in filth, and never visited by the higher members of society. Kalash B. Harangul was once a man who would never even consider looking at the ghetto, but recent events have forced him into it as a resident. Just a week prior, Kalash had been a wealthy shop owner in the merchant district of Nový Mokov, all of his property had been confiscated following the GZR coup, leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back, and a broken down shack in the ghetto.

He had seen friends who tried to resist being robbed, none of them survived to see the next day, murdered by GZR goons in cold blood. Kalash's old house, a large townhouse in the center of Nový Mokov went up in flames, as he was dragged away at gunpoint. The Tsar had been bad to him yes, but this new Regime was far worse. And Kalash was ready to do something about it. He had heard whispers in the streets outside his new home, whispers of a resistance group fighting against the GZR. Kalash still had some of his old connections, and deciding to use one, he walked over to the beat up pay phone on the street corner, and made a call. Five minutes later, he had a name, and a location, and one less connection to use.

A large, dilapidated warehouse, was the address that Kalash had. Walking towards it, he sees no signs of life, and begins to wonder about the veracity of the information he received. Just before Kalash turns around to leave, someone tackles him, forcing a black sack over his head. His arms are taken by two strong figures, and they roughly drag him into a poorly lit room. Kalash is thrown into a chair, and the bag removed, revealing a small group of dirty, dangerous looking men. "Who are you? Why are you here? Are you with the GZR?" Kalash is so disoriented, that he doesn't answer for a second, but realizing the danger he's in, regains his senses and speaks. "I-I'm Kalash Bhujel Harangul, I want to join you!" Hearing this, the men in front of him look at each other, before breaking out in laughter. Their apparent leader walks over to Kalash, and pulls him to his feet. "With that name, you're definitely no Greyshirt! Welcome to the New Sons of Mokov!" He leans in, whispering into Kalash's ear. "If you even think of betraying us, I'll kill you myself."

[Roendavar]

---

NATIONBUILDING PROMPT

HOLIDAY CHEER AND A NEW YEAR
December 23, 2020 - January 4, 2021

---

The holiday season. A time of joy, laughter, and the spirit of family and community. To many, a joyous time of the year. It's a time when the family sits together in a home, exchanging stories, and spreading love and joy. To some, another time where you have to dodge awkward conversations at your family gatherings like "How's your job?" or "Why don't you have a child yet?". Perhaps someone brought their awful dry crusty turkey once again to the family dinner. Truly, the holidays are definitely a highlight of the year of everyone that calls this planet their home... well... not including those who don't celebrate Christmas... which is quite a lot of people.

Now, the holidays have come to the Western Isles. For our nationbuilding prompt, show us how your country spends the holidays. Is it merry and jolly? Or is it solemn and spiritual? What foods do your people eat during the holidays? Do they even eat during the holidays? Do they do specific rituals? Like giving gifts, huddling around the fireplace telling Christmas stories, or throwing snowballs at random children that dare pass by their houses? Do they make ugly snowmen at the front porch? Do they succumb to consumerism and get cheated by the Christmas sales?

We want to know how your country spends time during the holidays. Introduce us to your beliefs, customs, festivals, and culture in general. Show us how your country celebrates the holiday cheer! Be creative and let loose! Tell us stories, events, everything! Make it as detailed as possible and, preferably, in the perspective of your country and people.

[Roendavar]

---

NATIONBUILDING PROMPT

CHANGE
January 5, 2021 - January 17, 2021

---

The clock strikes midnight. Billions of people around the world cheer as a new year begins.

A new year has come to the Western Isles and one word is often associated with the passing of time. CHANGE. To all, change seems constant. Change is all around us, a product of the passing of time or the shift of humanity's very soul. To some, change is explosive, sudden, a cannon fired at the enemy, the grating of the guillotine as it rushes down, the raising of a flag upon a bloody battle, a raging waterfall that sends all tumbling to its edge and into the deep unknown. To some, however, change is slow. It is the aging of living things, it is the growth of trees to new heights, it is the weathering of the mountains, and the flow of the gentle stream. Some believe that change is a straight line, a progression into something far greater or a descent into something worse. Some believe that change is cyclical, that change is the constant cycle of the universe's good and evil.

What is change? Why do we change? When do we know that change has come? How do we know that something has truly changed? Was there a moment in your nation's existence when great change was achieved? When your people truly knew that yesterday was truly the past, and an unknown yet sure future awaits ahead of them?

[Doravo]

4:00 AM, Imperial Palace, Concordia, 6th of January, 2021

---

Venerio walked down the long, monumental corridor passing hundreds of paintings, statues, and armor stands on the way to the Imperial Chambers. It was almost four in the morning and his highness was still awake. The man never sleeps, Venerio thought to himself. Upon reaching the chambers, the Tribunal Guard blocked the entrance with their rifles; the bayonets clash echoed throughout the halls. Slowly, venerio reached for his I.D. and showed the guards, who immediately made way for him. He approached the door and made three quick successive knocks. A moment passed before he heard the response to enter. Slowly turning the handle he made his way into the room. Lavish red carpet with golden patterns spread out across the floor. The many bookshelves houses maybe a hundred different texts, all from different centuries, some maybe hundreds of years old. The clash of modern and ancient clashed in every aspect of the room. The high domed ceiling was a true sight to see as it displayed the history of the State from antiquity to present painted on the marble. Making his way across the room he approached his highness who was seated at his desk. An obsidian rectangle, with gold geometric lines making strange yet beautiful patterns across its surface. A rather imposing desk he thought to himself. Upon reaching him, Venerio stopped, bowing before his majesty. His highness looked up, as if finally realizing he was there.

“Oh stop all that formality nonsense Venerio, its four in the morning for Christ's sake.”

“My apologies your highness,” Venerio stuttered out.

“And stop calling me that. It's Adrian to you. You're my consigliere, not some low level bureaucrat.

Quickly standing back up, Venerio straightened his tie before saying “Of course sir. Now what can I do for you this fine morning Adrian?”

Venerio already thought “your highness” was too informal, much less his actual name! Nevertheless, he’s only been his aid for a week, and he didn't want to mess this up. Cause he knew what would happen to him and his family if he did.

“I just wanted to talk. Get to know you, ya know?” Adrian said with a strange, almost menacing look in his eyes.

“Talk about what?” Venerio was confused, what could he possibly want to talk about at four in the morning?

“Come here,” Adrian said, standing up and motioning for him to follow. Walking over to the curtains, he pulled them aside revealing the magnificent view of the city. Concordia really shined bright at night. “Look out the window. And tell me what you see.”

Peering through the glass, Venerio didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just a modern city at 4 AM. Lot’s of cars in the streets, flashing lights, various monuments and statues dotted the surrounding parks.

“Umm, a city? I’m not sure what you're asking sir.”

“No no look closer. Look at the people, what are they doing?”

Straining his eyes, he could see a few people on the sidewalks outside the palace grounds. But otherwise all he saw were people in cars driving to who knows where.

Not wanting to seem like an idiot, but having nothing else to say, Venerio simply said, “your citizens sir, going about their business.”

Adrian paused for a moment before staring back out the window, expressionless. Oh no! You've really done it now you idiot, Venerio thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, Adrian finally said, “hmm, perhaps they are… but perhaps they’re not. Do you wish to know what I see Venerio?” Adrian turned to face him, the same cold expressionless look on his face. His piercing brown eyes gazing deep into his soul.

Gulping, “um… yes, Adrian?”

“I see ants, tiny, tiny ants crawling about in a city fit for Christ himself yet ravaged by filthy vermin. I see a great city, capital of the greatest nation in the Isles, reduced to garbage by petty criminals who are ungrateful for what I, and the state have given them. They cry out in protest against me, against the Tribunal, against the party, the state, the government, and for what? What do they claim they want? Money, handouts, peace, freedom! Why? Why do they cry out for those things they think they need? You see Venerio, they claim they want freedom... what they really want, is order.

Venerio stood motionless for a moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his head.

“Venerio.”

“Yes, sir?” he practically whispered.

“Schedule a press conference for tomorrow morning, 8 AM. I have something I want to say.”

“Yes sir.”