Markion Lore RP Thread[MARKION ONLY-IC]

[Rhastov]

-snip

Silviu begrudgingly frequented the aviation bar with his friends for the next few days every evening, visiting with the hope to see Ranni make a return but progressively feeling more and more defeated with each passing night with her nowhere in sight. It is as if she just sunk into the ground. His friends of course mocked him about it practically every chance they had, and the more he’d sit in silence and listen to them the more he was convinced that maybe this is how it was meant to be; that life simply didn’t allow for guys like him to find women like her.

“How do you manage to fumble this bad, Silviu?” - asked one of his friends, chuckling.
“I don’t know. I just forgot the little note she wrote her number on at the bar.” - replies Silviu, visibly upset as if someone shot a puppy right in front of his eyes. Seeing Silviu sad was a bit of a rarity, but it did not stop any of his group from continuing to beat upon his misery like a dead horse.
“She was into you enough to talk for quite a while AND give you her number. And you just lost it all like an idiot. Maybe just stick to flying, at least I’m pretty sure you won’t lose a plane.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Everything is possible now.” replies Silviu, trying to use irony as a coping mechanism.
“I guess the law of equal exchange still holds true in the universe. A woman who is all pros and no cons, interested in Silviu? I think it cashed every single point of luck out of him for the rest of the decade in that one conversation.” - Contemplates his friend Ion, chugging his drink.
“Girl like that is probably long gone by now. One in a billion chance she visits this dump again.” - adds Andrei. - “Sure she may be a pilot, but I’m pretty sure that if we didn’t have Silviu with us that we wouldn’t drink here either. With Christbolian money she’s probably drinking at one of the fancier bars now. You could take a look there Silviu but odds are she’s probably already forgotten about you.”

Meanwhile at the engine factory, everything was moving like clockwork to retrofit an alcohol cooling system onto the K-13s engines. Slowly, the Rhastovian engineers and workers tasked with this secretive project were picking up the quirks of the experimental aircraft. As hopeful as the Kingdom of Christbol was at a jet engine cooled by alcohol, there were still huge doubts between the engineers.

“Are you sure you can cool a jet engine with alcohol? They get incredibly hot. Alcohol has such a low boiling point and is flammable.” says Laroi, doubtful of the effectiveness of ethanol in place of water, air, or some other cooling agent.
“Yes, it’s perfectly fine. Trust me, I’m an engineer!” - replies one of the Rhastovian engineers, not even poking their head out from the K-13s fuselage as he tries to remove a nut, before a very loud crack and metallic bang can be heard from within the fuselage. Laroi twitches. The whole plane was, essentially, his last project before retirement. If they even so much as didn’t screw a screw in correctly he’d probably get out of the hotel during off hours to gun the engineers down in their own house. - “...Right.” - he responds.
“Relax, I just dropped a bolt. It’s fine, I promise.”

While the K-13 was being retrofitted, Ranni was exploring the city, not only out of pure curiosity, but also hoping to see Silviu again, walking by the same bar multiple times, but with no luck each time. She’d mostly pass around the times she had seen Silviu in the bar, which was around noon, however free time during the morning was an exception for Silviu and not the norm, who frequented the bar with his friends after work in the evening instead.

As night began to fall, the city was slowly being lit up, the warm light of street lights falling on the white fluffy snow, mixing with the bright neon lights of some of the businesses. Ranni’s walk back to the hotel, which had her almost zoned out thinking about Silviu and why he never called her, was interrupted by two MiG-29s flying overhead at low altitude, leaving a loud, deafening roar behind them.

After about a week and a lot of bickering between Rhastovian engineers and Laroi, the K-13 was finally outfitted with the alcohol cooling system and began tests in the factory hall. After addressing Sela’s concerns about the possibility that the artificial intelligence inside the plane might get artificially drunk and rectifying the potential problem by updating a couple variables pertaining to the communication between the AI and the plane’s cooling system, the K-13 was greenlit for a test flight with the new cooling unit.

“Are you sure this will work, Marian?” - asks Laroi, afraid to see the pride of his work potentially be destroyed.
“I have no idea!” - he replies, sarcastically.
“I hope it crashes.” - responds Sela, who had undergone two all-nighters fixing compatibility issues between the AI and the cooling system. The AI perceives the plane as an extension of its body, therefore in Sela’s own terms she had to ‘Give it a liver’. She looked as if her eyes were moments away from dropping out of her sockets, running mostly just on food situated around the facility and twelve cups of black coffee.

Turning on the engines, everyone was waiting for them to catch fire or somehow stop working as Marian was sitting in the cockpit observing the temperatures. Even though all of the airplane’s instruments could’ve been read from Sela’s laptop, Marian insisted that him sitting in the cockpit was essential to these tests. To everyone’s surprise, nothing seems to go wrong.

“The temperatures look good!” - Marian yells from inside the cockpit.
“We know, we have them on my laptop as well.” - Sela responds, the tiredness being heard from her voice.

More days pass, filled with indoor testing of the cooling system, which is successful. The decision was made to take the prototype to the 89th Airbase for further testing, mainly checking its flight performance. The 89th Airbase was a few kilometers away from Satoka, located in the middle of a field. The K-13 was to be moved during the night to prevent it from being leaked to the public in any way.

Conveniently, the 89th Airbase happens to be the airbase at which Silviu is stationed at. Inconveniently, Silviu is now off duty and too busy stuffing his face with ice cream at home depressed over not being able to see Ranni to actually see Ranni at the airbase. Additionally, his friends invite him to play some War Thunder to cheer him up.

The K-13’s flight performance is tested for yet another week, with the aircraft taking off and doing numerous flights and maneuvers around the area. Two MiG-29s accompany the experimental aircraft at all times in the air. On occasion, Ranni finds the escorts a nuisance, and periodically ditches them, with relative ease considering how overengineered the K-13 is, much to the dismay of the Rhastovian air force.

A request is sent by the Christbolian military for the K-13 to be tested in a dogfight against Rhastovian aircraft and its best fighter pilots.

The Rhastovian air force quickly draws a plan for the dogfights, what planes and pilots will be used, as well as equipment and rules of engagement. After a few hours of pondering, the decision is made: the K-13, flown by captain Rannelia Vaaljeska, will go against a MiG-29 Sniper-M, Rhastov’s newest MiG-29 version, flown by captain Sebastian Craciun and then against the S-35, flown by lieutenant Silviu Cristian Ionescu.

Silviu shows up at the airbase a day prior to the “show” with a grumpy look on his face, still mad at himself for losing Ranni’s number, trying to prepare mentally for the big day tomorrow. Unbeknownst to him, Ranni was also present at that airbase, not forgetful of him either but not as angry with herself as Silviu is. The next day Silviu was on the runway, talking to Sebastian before his flight. On the taxiway opposite from them was the K-13, however the MiG-29 was blocking the view. As the MiG was taking off, Ranni got in the cockpit of the K-13, with Silviu not even noticing it, as he was too busy staring at the afterburners of his comrade’s plane. Shortly afterwards, the K-13 arrived on the runway and took off after everyone on the ground saluted Ranni.

Silviu was counted as one of the best pilots in that airbase, but the man who went in the MiG in his stead was by no means an amateur either. The Rhastovian Air Force produces very good pilots, but what occurred moments later in the skies was nothing less than Ranni ripping the pride straight out of that man's body. There was no avoiding her; she stuck to the MiG-29 like that annoying hemorrhoid on the Rhastovian secret police chief’s ass. Despite the K-13’s delta wing design, the plane seemed to simply not lose any energy thanks to the on-board AI’s remarkable microcorrections, target acquisition and tracking, allowing for a pilot such as Ranni to commit to no wasted movement. It was constantly on the MiG’s six, eventually getting a killing shot, marked by a loud buzzing noise in the planes’ cockpits given by the special practice targetting pod fitted onto the planes. Onlookers were of mixed opinions from the sidelines down at the control tower: the Rhastovians mostly looked disappointed, the Christbolians on the other hand were smiling, particularly Laroi, from ear to ear, who wasted no time flaunting his ‘overwhelming genius’. Even the Christbolian head, Viktor Sarin, who had arrived by ship not mere hours ago to witness the whole event, was admittedly happy that millions upon millions of Christcoins didn’t simply go down the drain on nothing, and that his closest colleague has a retirement where he can look back on his last work and be proud.

The MiG-29 lands back on the runway, with Sebastian getting out of the plane with a disappointed look on his face. He turns to Silviu. - “You’re up next. Don't disappoint us, the pilot is a woman and by God is she insane. There was no way for me to get her off me. It looked as if she just glued that plane onto mine.” - he says.
“I’ll try my best.” - replies Silviu with a neutral look on his face as he is going to the plane.


Silviu gets in his S-35 and begins taxiing on the runway before making an unusual radio call.
- “Control tower, I want you to do me a favor. Play ‘dragostea din tei’ on the radio on my command.” - The ATC agrees to honor his wish. This wouldn’t be the first time Silviu has asked such a thing; he frequently requests Caramelldansen when he’s flying training exercises.

Silviu’s plane begins accelerating with a loud howl and lifts off the runway. At this moment he points his nose almost perfectly vertical and begins to climb rapidly, like a rocketship. After reaching his desired altitude he stabilizes the aircraft and turns on the radar, looking for the K-13. After a while, scanning around the horizon, he sees two little adjacent dots appear on his HUD, it was the K-13. He quickly locks it on radar and begins approaching it very rapidly.

The S-35 and the K-13 enter the merge, with Ranni being very aggressive, and Silviu being much more passive, trying to look for an opening. For the following few minutes Silviu simply tries to stay away from the K-13s nose, and tries to drain the K-13’s energy given its delta wing design. The issue is the K-13 doesn’t lose its energy and keeps turning, and turning, keeping up with the S-35. Silviu attempts a reversal, to get on the K-13’s six, which he succeeds in doing.

Silviu’s voice breaks the silence over the radio:
“Control tower. Play now.”

A few seconds later, the song ‘dragostea din tei’ begins playing over the radio, something both Silviu and Ranni can hear. Ranni treats this as a taunt, especially when she begins hearing Silviu sing it as his aircraft slowly catches up to her, never being able to get him off her six.

“Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma, nu ma iei, nu ma, nu ma iei” - he sings over the radio. Ranni was an excellent pilot, and the AI allowed for her to keep relative control on the defense for quite a while, however Silviu’s constant singing of the lyrics and a mixture of not being used to facing off a pilot of similar caliber as herself broke her otherwise complete hyperfixation on flying when in the sky. Moments later, she hears the loud tone of the targeting pod. She has been eliminated.

On the ground, the reactions are mixed, with the Rhastovians on one side cheering on Silviu and trying to act cocky in front of the Christbolian delegation, and on the other side the Christbolians, but especially Laroi, explaining how this is a mistake and shouldn’t have happened since the K-13 is superior. Viktor remains silent however, quickly seeing all the budget put into an interceptor fighter being shoved down a furnace with roaring flames eating up all those ludicrous amounts of money the Christbolian government has been investing into the new fighter project since the development of the AG-101 engine in the early 2000s.


The AI of the K-13 begins talking to Ranni:
“You are performing worse than usual, may. I suggest-” - it speaks before Ranni abruptly shuts it up by loudly shouting to mute the AI and demanding a rematch, slamming one of her fists into the dashboard in a fit of anger. Ranni is not particularly used to losing, and she would prefer it if she didn’t start now. Through the utter rage, Silviu does not recognize her voice on the radio, but he can tell that whoever this girl is, she must be completely and utterly pissed at him. He grins just a little bit. This was his first win against a Christbolian in a dogfight.

The commander of the air base refuses, saying “only one round for each opponent, otherwise it wouldn’t be fair” when in reality they are just afraid of losing again. This is met with protest from pretty much everyone on the Rhastovian side, now eager to see a rematch. The MiG pilot that flew previously even offered to bribe the commander with liquor, eggs, and cheese, brought from his grandma’s house, but the commander was still hesitant. Moments of awkward silence wash over the room while the air tower control system still blasts O-Zone both within the tower and within the planes. Laroi and Ksjall are both staring at eachother in disbelief, with Sela more calm in expression than both of them. To everyone’s surprise, the Christbolian project development head, Viktor himself, speaks up - “I’ll bet you 20 Marks that outdated Cold War mockup you call a fighter jet won’t pull off another miraculous move like that ever again.”, a bet accepted immediately by the commander to the thunderous demand of all the other Rhastovians present in the room.

“We don't need to land yet, I still have enough fuel for another round!” - says Ranni right before her fuel warning light turns on, indicating very low fuel and a signal for her to land.

“Ranni, I’ve noticed the AI is muted, perhaps it misheard something you said?” - inquires Sela. - “Shut up!” - Ranni responds before cutting comms with the air tower too.

“Is it really smart we let her fly that thing when she’s so… so… burdened by emotions?” - asks Laroi. - “The HRAF makes some of the best fighter pilots Markion can find, and Ranni is the best of the best. With that plane and her skills as a pilot Ranni could be drunk off her ass and beat five planes nevermind one. Come on Laroi, have some faith, both in her and our work. The previous encounter must’ve been a fluke, something put her off focus.” - explains Ksjall, maybe a little bit too optimistic considering the situation, but at least partially not wrong.

Ranni lands first and doesn’t even dare get out of the cockpit, waiting for the fuel truck and maintenance crew, smack talking to herself something about burying the enemy pilot so utterly all the roots of all the trees in Rhastov won’t reach deep enough to seek out his body.

Silviu on the other hand, ecstatic as one could be, does a low pass over the airfield and right over the K-13 as everyone cheers under him, adding lemon juice to the already salted wound. He eventually lands to refuel as well, getting out of the cockpit to grab something to eat. Silviu returns to his aircraft a few minutes later, running from the chow hall with a chocolate glazed donut in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, then climbs in the cockpit and begins devouring the donut like it insulted his mother.

Ranni takes off first, wasting no time to get back in the air to get her revenge. Silviu follows on the taxiway, before another radio call to the control tower, this time asking to play “That uhhh…. one boss song from Dark Souls three, but only the good part.”, to which the ATC agreed once again. He then takes off, the loud howl of the engines drowning any other noise in its vicinity, and begins another vertical climb before leveling the plane and turning on the radar to seek the K-13.

The two dots appear on the HUD again, and Silviu begins the approach. The K-13 does the same. Silviu tells the control tower to play the song right as he is about to merge.

Ranni pulls aggressively on the stick to turn the K-13 as much as possible as she enters the merge with the S-35. The S-35 appears right next to her, slowly distancing itself away, but staying on Ranni’s six.

“(I just need to get away from the nose and I’ll be fine, then I’ll make him-)” - she thinks to herself, then looks at the S-35, pulling its nose aggressively up towards the K-13 before the tone rings again. Ranni is eliminated, even faster than last time.

Silviu flies right past Ranni, wanting to land as fast as possible to celebrate his victory with a glass of liquor.

Her reaction to it this time was nowhere near as explosive as the first. What followed was simply utter disappointment in herself. She sighed in an admittance of defeat, but still with too much personal pride backed behind her loss to announce it on the radio. Without a further word, she disengages and heads to land on the runway.

Back in the control tower and inside Silviu’s plane, the situation couldn’t possibly be more opposite: the Rhastovians in the air control tower cheered to a deafening cry and the group huddled up and hugged eachother, bouncing up and down with even the director joining. All but Viktor on the Christbolian staff by contrast were staring at the ground beneath their feet, as if the whole world just came collapsing down on them. Viktor, amidst the Rhastovian squad cheering, simply handed the director those aforementioned 20 Marks, looking a little bit disappointed, though unlike his colleague Laroi at the plane and not the pilot.

Silviu lands, and is surrounded by a crowd of people before he even gets out of the cockpit, and runs towards the chow hall again, to get a glass of whiskey and celebrate. As he is coming out he sees a blonde woman next to the K-13 waving her hands around talking to Viktor and the other Christbolians.

“That’s the female pilot I told you about” - says Sebastian.
“Well yeah no shit, she’s the only woman on base right now… I’ll go talk to her.” - he replies.
“Just don’t rub it in her face, Silviu, she seems angry already and I’m pretty sure that old guy at the air tower wasn’t too happy either.”
“It’s fine Sebi, I won't.” -Silviu downs the glass of whiskey and walks up to Ranni.

Silviu makes his way across the chow hall and back onto the tarmac to the K-13. As he closes the distance, the image of the woman in his peripheral vision gets clearer until… - “Oh my God. Ranni!?” - he yells in shock, finally connecting the dots between his two brain cells. - (“That’s why she was in Rhastov! This was her ‘business trip’! She is the Christbolian pilot- and my dumb ass just put her out of the goddamn sky!”)
“Leave me alone you asshole! You cheated!” - she exclaims.
“Hey-hey, come on, don’t be so grumpy… We all lose every once in a while. I’ll buy you a cupcake, to make you feel better.”
“Why are you such a jerk!?”
“What do you mean? What did I do!?”
“Well first I give you my number and you ghost me, second you humiliate me like this in front of everyone and to fix it all you think a cupcake will make me feel better!?”
“You will NOT fucking believe why I didn’t call you. Trust me, you’ll laugh at this-”

[Phoenxia]

Kamooko
The Apartment

The conflict on September Island had given nobody any rest, but now it was over, and Tira had comfortably moved in with Misha and Vazili in their shared apartment. Some soft folk music played in the background as they decorated for Christmas. Outside the window, snow fell in buckets on the bleak streets below, most of the commuting—especially this time of year—was done in the tunnels underneath.

Misha hung up the icons of St. Nikolas and St. Kuäk above the window with paramount care, Tira beside him gingerly slipped ornaments onto the Christmas tree in the corner, and Vaz strung lights around the hallways. Misha sighed for a moment, "We've really got it looking just like home."

Tira smiled and looked behind herself at her significant other, "What do you think our families are doing back in Vilena?"

"Well for one my dad's drunk off his ass on the egg nog my mom makes every year, my sisters' boyfriends are trying to pace him, and my mom is going apeshit trying to teach my sister in law to cook her way."

"Well that's awfully pessimistic," she playfully laughed. “My mom and dad are probably at the neighbors’ party that they’ve gone to every year since I left the house.”

"I've been over this before, Tira. I'm a realist," he grinned, still admiring his handiwork of putting the icons on the wall. "Hopefully next Christmas we'll have a farm. There's only so long I can stay in the city."

"Not so fast, numb nuts, we've gotta get married first," her cheeks went rosy red as she stepped back from the tree and rejoiced at the twinkles and lights that reflected in her eyes.

"Mhm. As soon as work slows down, or as soon as I buy a ring, I promise. It will be done. Marines can't lie, Tira," he placed his hand gingerly on her shoulder and tugged inboard, looking fondly upon the side of her face.

"That's such bullshit, but I'll hold you to it," a smirk fell on her face, turning towards Misha and reaching into a hug.

Vazili groaned, taking a long drag off his shitty little corner store hitter before returning to fingerfucking the tangled christmas lights, "Fuck, I need a stable girlfriend."

The star-crossed lovers in the other corner couldn't help but laugh.

KP Headquarters
KDC Wing
Security Analytics Division

Christmas wasn't really widely celebrated by a lot of people at the KDC, but Misha was in a festive mood. With the cold weather outside, he was wearing his thick marine overcoat into the office, and as he got to his desk he laid it on the back of his chair. Once he sat down and began to pull out his dip can, he heard a knock at the door, the face of his friend Nabila framed in his window, almost pressed fully against it, letting herself in without an invitation.

“Look at you. Office and everything now.”

“Yeah, thanks. I hate it,” He said as he busied through his folders trying to straighten out what he had to do for the day, placing the can on the table in preparation to pack the mother of all lips.

“Hey, it must beat freezing to death in Xekniya.” Nabila shrugged off her winter covers, the material crackling as a thick flurry of ice and snow came loose from her jacket and hijab to cover his carpet. It certainly wasn’t going to help Misha’s working situation in the notoriously cold building, but he kept his mouth shut.

“No, cause in Xekniya I didn’t get monthly drug tests, and I could take a smoke break whenever I damn pleased. Anyways, I’ve got something for you,” He reached down into his work bag and pulled out a small framed picture that he handed to her over the desk.

Nabila’s eyes froze on the item in his hand, looking confused as she took it. The photo was from the range day in Ameria over the summer when they first became acquainted, both she and him were side by side looking like hardasses, she holding a KR-1, and he with his P-94. Both of them were wearing sunglasses, and Misha had a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Nabila was silent for almost a full minute, her framed face turned up as if trying to figure out whether to laugh or cry. The four fingers on her right hand moving as if in a trance to trace the images in the frame before Misha finally spoke with a smile, “Well, what do you think?”

Finally she looked up, and Misha saw tears.

“Misha, I . . . I’m retiring from the force.”

“Why’s that?” His tone shifted to a more sympathetic one.

She broke then, breaking out in a tearful laugh as she held up her mutilated hand, showing off the gap where her trigger finger used to be. “Is that a question? I should have been out years ago!”  Then she sighed, managing to compose herself. “I never meant to come back. But after the war Marc came to me . . . well, you saw the state of Kamooko. We needed real soldiers.”

“And that’s why we got you,” he chuckled, “You’re a certified badass, Nab. Don’t let anyone ever take that away from you. Anyways, I can see where you’re coming from. I’m probably gonna put in when I marry Tira. I’m gonna miss you.”

She nodded, smiling as she wiped back tears, looking at the picture wistfully. “I’m glad I came back.”

Then she stepped forward, gripping Misha in a rough, happy hug. The Phoenixian practically fell into it; he and Nabila had never really touched before, save maybe when they were smacking one another for being idiots. “I know you’re not Christian, but Merry Christmas, Nab,” he chuckled a bit. That earned him a bat across the head as she pulled back, grinning as she clutched the picture to her chest.

“Happy holidays, numbskull. I’ll see you around.” And with that she retrieved her coat and practically skipped away.

* * *

Nabila al-Rashid, Kamooko, Placeoderms

After a short fight with the hotel room key, Nabila’s front door swung open onto the small space she was calling home these last few weeks. Most of the hotel had actually been rented out to Kamooko Pact employees for a couple years now, and Nabila herself had cycled through a few different rooms here during her different stays in the city. Beat sharing a barracks at least.

Nabila kicked her shoes to the side before stepping into the dark space, navigating easily around the shadows of piled boxes and heaps of unfinished laundry. Passing through her small kitchenette to put on the kettle, then again to slip into something warm for what was no doubt going to be a cold night inside the old concrete building. It wasn’t until she was finally sat on the bed that Nabila turned on some light, that of her little nightstand lamp. Below it she carefully, almost reverently placed the framed photo Misha had given her, letting the four fingers of her right hand linger over its surface as she remembered the day it was taken. It still seemed strange to have been there, to be here now. Nabila had gone into the autumn of 2034 in one Markion, only to be plunged into a cold, dark winter of death and misery. Alone in her apartment not unlike this one (though it had a window. This underground Kamooko hotel room did not), scrounging neighbouring units for wood scraps to keep warm with the power out, flinching from every gunshot, holding her breath at every sound in the hall. Before Allan and Aja, Jacques and Alex had found her she had almost forgotten what it meant to have friends, much less spend that time of year together celebrating something in safety and warmth.

And then of course it was over. One day there was just Marc there standing on top of a tank, looking every bit as clownish as he always did trying to order people around. In an instant the lights were back on, citizens coming back home along with soldiers from different nations helping to clean up the streets. With them came the spring thaw, a new king, another army looking for her employment, train trips to Kamooko where they sat in cafés as if nothing had happened. Yet something clearly had happened, and you could feel it in the air everywhere you went. The closed Arcadian restaurants, distinctly fewer Tracht sightseers, different brands taking up the store shelves where common Kalaraxian products used to sit. It was as if a curtain had suddenly been pulled across half of Markion, and every day it became harder to see those they once considered neighbours.

Nabila was struck out of her reflection by the whistling of the kettle, spurring her to go pour herself a cup of tea. She was about to sit back down on the bed when she was struck by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. In this dark space, the same as she spent surviving that cold winter in her apartment four years ago, she was alone. Chosen to resign from the life which gave her back some connections and feelings of normalcy. What was her plan from here, to go back to that apartment and try to restart the civilian life she was failing to set up before? To only see Misha and Marc and Alex and Jacques once every few months when schedules aligned?

Forget that. What was her plan in the here and now? Here she was, wasting one of her last days in Kamooko, in the middle of the holiday season, in her little hotel room drinking tea. In a hotel, she reminded herself, which was almost entirely filled with her Kamooko Pact colleagues, including some on her list of closest friends. Pushing objections and second thoughts out of her mind, Nabila rushed to throw on the ugliest, most garish winter sweater she had. Then, fighting to get her shoes on, she threw open the door . . . and punched Marc in the face.


“NAB! ACK! OH-” it took a short expletive-laden rant before Marc was able to compose himself, nursing his nose as Nabila assured him that he was not, in fact, bleeding everywhere. In her defence, she hadn’t meant to punch him. But seeing a strange man looming over her door as she stepped out was enough to bring out the instincts. Plenty of embarrassed apologies had to follow.

After a moment Marc stopped swearing about his soon-to-be bruised face and just swapped fully to laughing, giving his colleague a retaliatory bat on the arm. “That shows me, coming to get you for the party.”

That was enough to stop Nabila’s flushed apologies. “Party?”

Her friend wasted no time snapping his fingers and setting off at a brisk jaunt along the hall, wiping the last of the tears off on his own awful holiday sweater. Nabila rolled her eyes, but could only hurry afterwards as best she could as they weaved down the hotel’s maze-like halls which they had grown to know well by now. Hurrying, she realized, for the elevators.

“Okay, Marc, really, what’s going on? I wasn’t told about any party.”

Marcus Brayfield was doing his best to hide a conspiratorial smirk behind his usual stony demeanour, but Nabila wasn’t falling for it. And he knew her well enough to know she wasn’t going to fall for it. In the elevators he punched in the ground floor, one of just a couple which would actually be above ground. Certainly not in time to catch sunlight, Nabila had learned that the stars over a darkened city, whether snuffed out by deliberate human burrowing or the misfortunes of war, weren’t to be missed. It was only then that Marc finally spilled.

“You never told us you were leaving, Nab.”

Nabila bristled, searching for a response before realizing that Marc wasn’t accusing her of a thing. If anything he looked proud.

“You deserve a break. You’ve earned it, more than any of us.”

That one actually prompted a harsh laugh from Nabila. “I’m not the one with a book written about my exploits in airports, Mr. Guardian of Air Travel.”

“And I’m not the one who singlehandedly saved the Union’s throne.”

For a moment, the only sound was the rickety rumbling of the elevator. He knew how to shut down an argument, Marc did.


“That was a group effort.”

“And you played a lead part.” He offered his hand, to which Nabila could only slowly, blushingly accept. “Millions, in the realms and beyond, are grateful to you even if they don’t all know it. And, for what it’s worth, so are all of us.”

The dork couldn’t have timed it better, as the words had barely left his mouth that the elevator doors dinged, opening onto a large hotel convention hall completely transformed with winter holidays themed decorations. Bright lights of every colour were strung from wall to wall between freshly cut evergreens, having been placed suspiciously close to a roaring hearth which bathed the scene with its flickering warm glow. One’s eyes were immediately pulled to tables laden high with turkey and stuffing and all other treats which centred the space, flanked by dozens of familiar faces. Nabilia’s former coworkers, surviving troopers who had served with her since forever, and of course the grinning faces of Jacques and Alex. And then, her eyes drifting upwards to the homemade glitterful banner which hung over the whole space.

THANK YOU LT. AL - RASHID

[Phoenxia]

Atserna, Žeknija
19th May, 1999
2/4 Marines, Delta Company

As the sun peaked above the horizon and the sky blazed in shades of orange and purple, the first Marine patrols reached the heavy resistance at Renežik Square. Sturmbrigadiers had already been fighting all night, and the Paras had arrived earlier that morning.

For the recon marines it was a painfully familiar sight to the fighting that they had seen a year and a half ago in Tenogoroč. From residential blocks and shop windows came and outpouring of fire, from and to all directions. There had to have been over a thousand fighters in the square, none of them government forces of the now defunct state of Žeknija.

It was suicide to try and push any vehicle support outright into the square with the threat of anti-tank rockets. They fired their 30mm’s from the cover of side streets, decimating several buildings in the process, and pushing militants out towards the hospital on the opposite side of the square.

“We need to get a line of contact with the army. I can’t fucking see where they are,” Captain Svenssen ducked behind a destroyed APC as he observed his marines in the fight; first platoon set security, second platoon provided supporting fire, and third platoon rushed a residential complex.

“Aye, sir. It looks like paras are holding back about 300 meters on our left and sturmbrigadiers are pinned down in the square,” MSgt Kajer looked around frantically, twenty years of service and numerous combat missions in Jelenia, Kaćaria, and more recently Sanaria had hardened his eyesight into a steely, analytical gaze, only achievable by the most hardened enlisted leader. His commanding officer only had less than half the time in service that he did, but he was still on the same disastrous incursion in Kaćaria and the naval invasion at Tenogoroč.

“Send for a runner from first. Tell them to go to para CP and relay that we’re working up to the hospital, progress is slow and steady on the right side.”

“Aye, Sir,” He looked over at first platoon’s formation and called out, “Kerrik, get over here!”

“Aye, Master Sarnt’!” Sergeant Kerrik jumped up from platoon CP and sprinted over to his superiors, ducking his head down the whole way.

“Get one of your corporals to run, relay this message to the para CO,” Kajer scrawled down a pretty rudimentary sitrep in his notebook and tore it out.

“Aye, Master Sarnt’.”

When Kerrik ran back, almost immediately they saw a young corporal of Marines spring up and sprint, dodging a hail of gunfire, towards the lines of the distinctively dressed paras, with their baggy tigerstripe pants, tight rigging, and black jump boots that stuck out like a sore thumb. Most Marines, in contrast, looked distinctively ragged from their fighting hike all the way from Savoca; nearly 30km away, with torn blouses, days old cammie paint, muddy brown “traveler” boots, and some still wearing their ragged, sun bleached Panama hats as opposed to a helmet.

When the runner came back to the Captain and Master Sergeant, he had fairly urgent news from the Para Company Commandant, that they were going to call for fire on the square, and advised holding the assault at its current point.

“Fuck. Don’t these cowboys know how danger close works? I know those batteries in the rear can’t shoot for shit,” Svenssen cursed, and waved the corporal back to his platoon. “Fucking army dickheads in it for a medal.”

Sure as shine, artillery rounds fired at a low angle impacted impromptu defensive positions in the square as well as slamming into the side of the large hospital, the building giving a throaty gurgle, but not by any means beginning to tumble. The salvo was followed by a much larger black cloud of concrete and high explosive with an ear shattering impact and blast.

“310’s and a 380, nice. Fucking nice.” The Master Sergeant kept his nerve through all this as he still observed muzzle flashes coming from the hospital window.

“I’m pretty fucking sure that never got evacuated, fucking bastards.”

“They’ve brought in the heavies, sir. And look at all those paras still getting gunned down on the left flank.”

“We’re in for a long day, Kajer.”

“Aye, that we are, sir.”

—

As the day dragged on, the flank of the paras began to recede as shelling showed little to no effect on the strongpoint of the hospital; even taking several volleys from the thunderous roar of the 380mm railway gun. Admittedly their artillery gunfire liaison was doing some magnificent shooting, but it did not stop or slow the death machine of gunfire from the hospital. The captain was shocked at about 1500 to see a Para runner coming from the command post with an urgent work order. “I need a platoon of Marines. Alpha 2/6 is trying to muster an advance force.”

Kajer chimed in, “Send first platoon, Kapetan?”

“It’s spreading our lines thin, but if this is coming from the Para Kombat, I’ll trust it,” he sighed. Under his breath he let out a fucking army.

First platoon rushed in a neat ranger file over to the paras, and within 15 minutes on the left flank, they were making a hard push to the building with demolition charges. Kajer’s eyes widened at this sight, “They’re not about to blow it, are they?”

“I can’t lie, I don’t know what they’ve been thinking all day. The business end of Kombat’s rollie must be hot to the touch,” Captain Svenssen wiped sweat off his brow and pulled out his half empty canteen to take a swig.

It felt like an eternity before the raid party fought their way back to a safe distance with a reel of detonator cord. In an instant, an ear splitting explosion rocked the whole square and everything went quiet as the hospital tumbled backwards with groan followed by the roar of concrete and steel hitting the ground.

A roar of cheers came from all lines of the front as the gunfire just stopped. Many fighters came out of the other buildings with their hands raised, looks of terror in their eyes...

[Emerstari]

Blåskjœld Halle, Hrenshallå—February 15, 2019

Anna's fingers slid off the ivory keys and met her lap with a muffled thud as her final notes faded away into fond memory. With a sweet-sour sigh, she bid adieu to her partner, the piano, while patchwork claps grazed her ears from behind. “Brœndal is the language of the heart,” her great-grandfather's words echoed from deep memories in her mind. “So he is,” she told him with a soft whisper, while those selfsame recesses wetted her vision. One tear, formed, fell upon the scarlet fabric of her dress, dampening her thigh with its deepened hue. Then, a second splashed onto her hand as she wiped her eyes. One eye, then the other, she smudged her mascara.

“Brœndal is the language of the heart,” an old memory croaked again. Alongside the stifled sounds of a Brœndalian symphony, Anna saw as through a foggy lens an ancient man, white-haired and well-wrinkled. “No, no,” she wept inside, “be clear.” The more she focused on the phantom, the more she felt the teary streams trace her cheeks. “I'm a wreck,” she worried. Stirring from the velvet seat, her legs clunked back the heavy bench that bore it. She turned, then collapsed into the crook of her cousin's neck, clutching her shoulders with arms wrapped from behind. There, Anna closed her eyes. She breathed in her cousin's sweet perfume. An air of citrus pervaded her senses, and despite tear-wrought sniffles, she smiled. Into her cousin's tender embrace, she muffled, “Tæcke, Teodorina.”

“Hmmhmm,” Teodorina hummed while she caressed Anna's back with soft strokes of her hand, squeezing Anna's shoulders. She whispered in her ear, “Great-grandpa would be proud.”

Anna nodded, stepping back. Her heels clicked upon the polished pine floor as she turned in three steps towards her audience with a forced grin and reddened eyes. “Papa,” she thought, seeing him reach out, “Aunt Benediktina, Cousin Marianna, Cousin Gregores, Uncle Thomes.” “Uncle Thomes,” she blurted, “don't cry…” Her tone quivered. “Don't…cry…”

Thomes suddenly embraced his cousin, Anna's father, slapping his back to sound over his sobbing. “Oh, Grandpa loved Brœndal…He played his symphony the night before…he…That was simply beautiful, Anna…Beautiful, Anna.”

Midborg Palace—February 12, 2019

Inside, the air was as damp and heavy as it was outside. Thomes recalled his cousin’s words: “An old hunting lodge doesn't insulate much from the elements.” He slammed shut the mossy wooden door behind him and looked around, drawing long yet stifled breaths. He felt the gazes of the two men in front of him—Erik and Anton—and, with his eyes on the floor, inhaled as deeply as he could. Anton reached out to hold him up—Thomes had been complaining about shortness of breath and a headache for a day and then some—but Thomes objected, putting his hand against Anton's chest: “No, no.”

Erik, seated on an old crate, looked up at Thomes and Anton, who, despite the former's objections, was wrapping his arm around his back. “What's the matter?” Erik asked. Then he stood up as well.

“Not me,” Thomes breathed. “I was just running—”

“You probably shouldn't be running after that fall,” Anton told him. Thomes had walked into a low-hanging tree branch, by accident, the other night and then slipped on ice while he was still returning to his senses. He shook his head at Anton.

“Not me,” Thomes repeated. “I think Grandpa Erik is on his deathbed.” He continued, “I was going to have breakfast with him, and Ælfrik sent me off to get you two—he said he's not well.”

Thomes looked at Erik and Anton. Anton's arms dropped from guiding him, and, with wide eyes, he stared at him. Erik froze for a second before bolting towards the door. “Has Ælfrik called anyone?”

“I don't know,” Thomes answered.

Erik, opening the door, turned and asked, “Has he called a priest?”

“I don't know,” Thomes answered again, shaking his head.

“Grab a phone, Anton! Come, Thomes!” Erik began to trod up the mud-covered gravel path that led to the old king’s cottage near the garden. Thomes followed suit, and Anton ran to catch up to them.

“Who do I call first?” Anton called out.

“Fr. Anton!” Erik called back. “He's the closest priest!” He was the royal chaplain.

“He's not picking up!”

“The monastery!”

“They'll all be in choir!”

Erik slowed down at a loss for alternatives.

“I'll try Blomå parish!”

Nodding his head, Erik sped up again. Erik, Anton, and Thomes emerged from the mud, tracking mud across the snow-slushed grass.

“There it is!” Thomes pointed. “The cottage!” He sped ahead of Erik.

“The Blomå priest is on his way,” Anton called out from behind the others.

“No need,” Erik halted at the top of the hill.

Next to him, Thomes added before Erik could: “Fr. Anton’s already at the door.”

“Then who do I call?”

“I don't know,” Erik huffed, hands to his knees. “Everyone's behind Fr. Anton.”

Garden Cottage, Midborg Palace

The elder Erik weakly cupped his son’s face. Erik XI knelt beside his father’s bed, holding up his hand, while his own son, Erik XII, knelt with him, next to Thomes. His son, Frederik, knelt across from them. Frederik’s brother, Demetres, leaned upon his one shoulder; his sisters, Antonia and Anna leaned on his other. His other brother sat on the other side of his sisters. Their cousin, Gregores, sat behind them, Thomes’s son, with his siblings. Their mother, Benediktina, stood behind them. The Eirikrians poured out of the bedroom into all corners of the house. Erik XI’s wife, Elisabetta, huddled at the foot of the bed next to her niece, Teodorina, and brother-in-law, Anton. Fr. Anton stood next to Anton, preparing for last rites, while Ælfrik, the elder Erik’s longtime butler, stood in the doorway in silence, covering his eyes with one hand, holding the hand of little Jakobina, Teodorina’s daughter, in the other.

The room was silent. No one breathed. Even Hrolf, the hunting dog, sat outside in the living room as if he were a mouse. Then, the elder Erik’s utterances grew audible. He repeated, “God bless you, Mary bless you, John bless you. Pray for me…Pray for me. I have been here a while already. I think it is time.”

“Thomes,” he turned his head on the pillow. “Thomes,” he repeated in a whisper. “Thomes, I shall see your grandmother. Sister, Henrietta, Henrietta…pray for me.” Thomes nodded, holding back tears. He prayed, though kept his eyes on Erik. The elder Erik began again, “The Lord prolongs the hour, thanks be to Him. I must…I must say goodbye. I say I love you all. Pray for me. Anna,” he turned, with a meek grin, “remember Brœndal.” She nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you,” he said. “Be a lady.” “Be a king,” he turned to her father. “Thomes,” he reached for his hand. “Where is Ælfrik? Ælfrik, you served an old man well. Frederik, Frederik…you will be king. Remember the kingdom of heaven. Erik, son, son, tell the people my love for them. Priest, priest…priest, Anton…Father…bless me…Bless me, let me have His body, His blood, whom I shall see. Lord, forgive me. My Lord…My Lord. Jesus, keep me.”

[Christbol]

-snip

“You’re such an idiot.” Ranni said, giggling like a toddler at Silviu’s explanation. She had her doubts about actually taking him up on the cupcake offer, but sitting down in the vibrant ambience of a spacious cake shop in the middle of downtown Satoka turned out to be exactly something she needed to improve her spirits. The grim and gray tint of outside scarcely managed to make its way through the doors here.
“Shut up Ranni, you would’ve done the same.” he replies, slightly embarrassed.
“What’s that supposed to mean? YOU lost it, I didn’t!” intoned Ranni vocally.
“I lost a piece of paper, but at least I didn’t lose the dogfight.” Silviu generated sonically from his speech organs.
“Anyway…”

The conversation trails off, Ranni and Silviu jumping between topics like a frog on lily pads, and eventually talking about childhood memories.

“Oh by the way, did I ever tell you about the stuff my highschool became known for?” he says, trying to hold back his laughter.
“No? We basically just met-” Ranni replies, but Silviu immediately cuts her off.
“Okay so, I went to one of the top highschools in the city, ‘cream of the crop’ as they say. But that was more of just an image than a truth, given all the hilariously stupid things that went on there. Like this one time when the class adjacent to mine, freshmen, decided to just throw the chalkboards out the window.”
“Huh!? Excuse me?” she replied, surprised.
“Yeah, those idiots decided to throw out the chalkboards for some reason. And mind you we were on the second floor of the building. They were all punished and had to pay for them. If I did anything like that I would probably be sleeping under a train in the station.”
“Best highschool in the town, you say?”
“Yeah, and that’s not all. In another class, some guys apparently put firecrackers under the teacher’s desk. Those kind that explode when impacted. When she put her purse on the desk they went off. The guy who did it got expelled.”
Ranni, still in shock at the ‘tomfoolery’ Silviu’s school mates used to do, she asks:
“You keep mentioning other classes and people and what they did. But what did you do?”
“Almost burnt the school down”
“What!?”
“Three times, by the way. Mind you I didn’t take part, I was just watching everything unfold like a circus.”
“That school sounds more like a mental asylum. My parents never allowed me to be that stupid, not even close.”
“At all? Did you even live, then?”
“Not really, all I did was focus on academics because of their pressure. It was like having the secret police always following me.”
“Shh, don't mention the secret police.” replies Silviu, worried. “What if they hear us?” he whispers, leaning in and trying to hold back his laughter. “Wait. So did your parents force you to become a pilot or what?”
“Oh no, not at all. I was kinda undecided on what to do after I finished highschool, and my parents coerced me into studying psychology. But it was too much for me.”
“So you decided to drop out of psychology because it was too stressful, and instead become a fighter pilot? That’s… not exactly easier at all.”
“I know, but I met this guy at college and…”


The conversation with time switches from childhood school memories to the circumstances which brought both of them to being pilots. Ranni took over the conversation here, as her sharp career change is a point of pride she likes to reference in great detail.

“-so yes, safe to say after my second run in with the guy, his god complex only got worse: promised me half clobbered on his third mug of straight vodka at a Vakusian nightclub to take me out on a flight lesson. Said the flight instructor at the airport was a friend and we ended up leaving for the airport the next week… I only later came to find out there was neither a flight instructor nor a friend.” - Ranni pauses the explanation to take a munch out of the cupcake she had been eating, finally getting to the creamy vanilla filling in the innermost depths of the cupcake. The sweetness was a bit much for her, but overall it wasn’t very bad. - “...Not that I didn’t take advantage of the chance anyways. I was exploring myself at the time and, evident by the fact that I’m here, you can see something came of that… Never did see that guy after the first lesson though, I think I paralyzed him after he showed me the basic controls and let me use the flight stick for a little bit. He just went white in the face and didn’t bother to switch back the controls.” - She responds with a hint of sly smugness to her expression, as if proud of making a grown man fear for his life. - “My dad and mom, of course, did not approve of this, and our current relationship is… strenuous to say the least. They didn’t know I signed up for training in secret, nor did they know about me joining the Holy Red Air Force ‘till I broke the news to them myself. At the time they thought I was in my third year midterms when in reality I haven’t even made it past the first year… Well now with that out of the way: why did you decide to become a pilot?”

“Well, my dad was a MiG-29 pilot in the air force back in the nineties, became an ace in Sanaria and retired a short time after that war ended. He was hailed as a national hero, had his face all over the newspapers, and growing up I kept hearing his stories about the sorties he flew. But that didn’t interest me much other than just knowing my dad was the coolest guy in the country, but over the years I got a few hobbies related to aviation. Eventually I told my parents I want to become a pilot just like dad. My mom was against it, but dad was actually pretty okay with it, taking me on a few flights on a rented Cessna. I had hundreds of hours of flight simulators up to that point, but was still very nervous to actually fly a plane by myself. For a while I became very undecided, mostly because I had a girlfriend and I had to choose between her and the military, so my parents told me it would be better if I just became an engineer, which would fall in line with my other siblings. But she broke up with me a few months before finishing highschool, and I decided that since I don't have anything holding me back anymore, I’ll just join the air force and become a pilot. Kind of an impulsive thought but eh…”


Ranni initially looks distraught by this last piece of information, staring at Silviu with a lot of sympathy for a long while.
“So you’re single?” she asks, followed by an immediate facial expression and mood change.
“Yeah, why?” he replies, confused.
“No reason… Uhh… So how did that leak happen?” Ranni asks, trying to change the subject out of embarrassment.
“What? What leak?”
“The one about the alcohol cooling system on the S-35. It was on a video game forum…”
“Oh that. Yeah some idiot posted photos of the manual, presenting the alcohol cooling system so the plane would be accurately modeled in War Thunder.”
“Did they find out who did it?”
“Of course they did. The Security was up all our asses for two damn weeks trying to find out who it was, since pretty much the entire squadron I’m part of plays War Thunder. But it wasn’t one of us, the pilots, it was one of the mechanics. He got five years in a disciplinary battalion for that. Poor guy…”

The two talk well into the afternoon, reaching the late hours of the evening before realizing they’ve lost track of time and packing their things to go outside. Silviu decided to follow Ranni back to her hotel, continuing the mountain of conversation changes that have been stacking since the start of today.

“You make it sound simple, but Rhastovian cultural norms seem really weird.” - Ranni remarks, the discussion mostly shifting to how her treatment in Satoka has been like.
“Whatever do you mean? Sure, we might be a little poor, but I think we’re fairly civilized like anyone else in Markion.” - Silviu replies.
“Well here’s an example I had happen the other day: I went to the same bar I’ve been frequenting for the past month, trying to wait for and find your dumb ass of course- and at the counter I had this guy offer me a drink of something called palinca.” - Ranni states.
“...Okay? I don’t get it, what’s so weird about that?” - He looks puzzled.
“The bartender reached for one of the middle shelves and dropped the bottle on the counter. Really thin, mostly transparent bottle. He took the cap off and poured each of us one shot glass.”
“I still don’t understand what’s so weird about this Ranni, do men not offer you drinks in ChristBol?” - Somewhat, Silviu was expecting Ranni to constantly be offered free drinks.
“No, that wasn’t the weird part either. I don’t particularly mind when it happens, I mean hey, free drinks!-but that’s not what this is about.” - Ranni exclaims, though sighing moments later.
“Then what *was* the weird part about it?” - Silviu inquires.

“After pouring, the bartender screwed the cap on the bottle back on!” - Ranni says, genuinely taken aback retelling the event, as if expecting some profound reaction from Silviu.

Reaching the hotel, Silviu stops, realizing he forgot something this entire time.
“Ranni, I forgot to ask. Can you give me your phone number… again?”
“Sure. Give me your phone.”
“Wait, what?”
“Give me your phone, I'll add it in myself, to make sure you don’t lose it again like last time.”

Silviu begrudgingly agrees and takes his phone out, feeling a little bit insulted that Ranni doesn’t even think him intelligent enough not to mess up something so basic. Ranni takes Silvius phone and is immediately left flabbergasted by the picture of a cat sitting on a Rhastovian missile attached to the MiG-29 on Silviu’s lock screen, after which she inputs her number into his contacts and with a smile they both part ways.

[Arakhkhar]

The arrival of Arakhkharan Arms Exports
The invitation to Vilhala was, certainly, a strange one. The only experience that Arakhkhar has had with Markion has been with a multinational coalition coming together to oppose their invasion of Sylvaria, so, the offer to establish an office in Vilhala’s free market zone was a strange one indeed.

Ten corporate employees, a manager, and a number of slaves. (Living abroad, one needed to have things from home to make one’s stay comfortable.)

They were on a submarine, as was somewhat typical for operations that had to be kept private.

They were there to represent Arakhkharan Arms Exports. Various unnamed officials in Markion had become interested in Arakhkharan arms - perhaps, all of the social media clips of them destroying things in Sylvaria had seem the right pairs of eyes.

Already, they had attracted a customer - strangely, interested in a rather outdated model of heavy tank. Nonetheless, it was not for them to judge.

It was their place only to be merchants.

[Emerstari]

Hrenshallå, Emerstari

A mist rising up from Hrenshallå’s rivers cooled the city's morning air on an otherwise hot Emerstarian day. Three politicians’ feet produced a steady sound off the stone bricks of the bridge that spanned one of the smaller rivers, the gentle Fredigen. The three, dressed down, blended in with the general fashion of the city, and we're hardly recognizable as members of the House of Commons. One pulled his hands out of the pockets of his linen pants and, loosening his collar, turned towards his colleague. “Agostina,” he began, “you can't expect my constituents to want to get into this. We didn't land troops in the GU for Thomes. Then, why would we land troops in Sylvaria?” He shook his head. “I've said it a lot, but I'll say it again. Emerstari doesn't need to be getting into wars. I won't support any resolution for war.” He paused. “Something to support them outside of combat…I don't know.” His tone became uncertain. “The budget is a mess as is.” But his tone became increasingly more certain as he added, “You know, we could shrink the deficit if we cut military funding.”

“Non,” Agostina rebutted. “Which is more important, Marc—the budget or people in need?”

“The budget is for people in need,” Marc answered. “If we cut down on the military, we could put it towards all sorts of projects on the north side of Erce or to route out the Hanssens.”

Agostina sighed as she turned down a descending lane, above which balconies hung and gave shade. Marc and Petres—Marc Sjonde and Petres Antonsson—followed. The hidden street proved to be an escape from the coming heat of midday. Agostina began walking backwards, facing the two others. She chided Marc, “Your world seems to end with Emerstari. Sure, there are rich and poor here, and as far as that goes, the rich can help the poor here. On another level, though, Emerstari as a whole is rich, and there are the poor to help outside of our borders. Just because they're not Emerstarian doesn't mean we have no obligations towards them.”

All the while Agostina spoke, Marc listened in a forced silence. “You're a friend,” he told her, “but I can't go back to my district and tell the mother whose daughter was assaulted by Hanssen jodeses that I'm going to vote for a resolution that helps the Sylvarians before I vote for one that helps her. Sure, we have obligations towards the Sylvarians—we wrote that letter, not to mention the aid that was already sent—but to whom do we have the greater obligation—our brother or…someone else?” He ended by simply stating, “Aquinas.”

Petres interrupted. Stepping between the two, he ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and explained, “But if the people—that mother—want to support the Sylvarians…” He slowed, then stopped his walking. “Marc's point stands. We can't add to the existing budget, but we could send them old equipment that's otherwise useless. The Commons could collect donations or conduct a lottery for more aid to Sylvaria, so they'd give us both their warrant to get involved and the extent to which to get involved in the extent of the funds. At that rate, we could also permit an organized volunteer force to go to Sylvaria.”

Marc pursed his lips with a long exhale. “Petres, you're a good compromiser. I'll give you that, but volunteer combatants are still combatants.”

Agostina countered, “I respect your attitude, Marc, but the reality is that Sylvaria is in the middle of combat. Can you really say, ‘War never again,’ while the war is actively going on?”