Nordic Lights: Trvely a Nordic Vacation [IC]

[Black Raven Movement]

"Now, you shall only render unto Eden, my sons."

STOCKHOLM, SCANDINAVIA

All is cold and dark.

I haven't been here, Sweden, in forever. Not since the '90s. Such a thing as traveling to the Nordics was most certainly not on my bingo card for the year, but my wife, Katerina, wanted to go. She had good reason, too: she wanted to have our delayed honeymoon there. Why is a honeymoon of all things delayed, you might wonder? How can such a seminal intro to a marriage be so neglected?

Leadership is why. Both of us were in charge of our respective areas of the world. I, the Americas, the place that has been my home since Napoleon's fall. And her, Galicia, her homeland. We didn't have the time, nor was she sure I was still alive. Not since...well, before we found eachother again. Not since I almost fucking killed myself in her home territory. Not since that point where drugs were now to be purged from my life if I wished to avoid death oncemore. If life were to be a waking heaven, then Datura must become the heretic cast down from high above.

I had seen her again when I had a psychotic break in my impossibly alive Yugo. Of all people, family had caused it. One brother in particular. Me. Apis.

She and I soon reconnected after she saved my life. One more party we went to before our engagement was that of a stranger. Well, more than one. We had seen them, and tried interacting with them. They seemed like nice, fabulous people who were just a bit on the odd side. We had been invited, me especially, for no apparent reason. I suppose the story of a Frenchman who was a bit too involved in war was attractive enough to warrant an invite. They, however, disappeared before I even saw them walk the aisle. They left, and soon ceased to be.

That gave me and Katerina enough time for an engagement, and soon marriage. Now, how does this relate to a delayed honeymoon?

Because the Lord delays all. I suppose our estrangement was for a reason. To thik about whether this was truly worthwhile, and if so, to build up to that. A priest in Mexico once told me the Lord worked in mysterious, almost illogical ways to benefit us. He knew better about him than I did, and his reverence in the community was well deserved for that.

While I still breathe, I hope for the best to come. I suppose that came to be for us.

And I hope it comes to be for the rest of you all.

---

[Ardchu]

Across the ocean I sailed, sailed in the wind, above the often rough sea. From across the world, I flew. I am no albatross, but I know their strategies to stay up during a long voyage. I stopped for a break at the Grand Canyon, I have friends there. Then I kept my great wings open, and across I flew. When I reached Europe, I was met with unfamiliar faces. The birds here were new. The humans here weren't accepting as in Ardchu. It was an interesting land.

Reaching Scandinavia, I was met by a bitter cold. It got cold in the Grand Canyon, sure, but here was a different kind of cold. A lasting cold. The prey was driven away by the snow. Myself, I enjoyed the snow. It felt good under my talons. But now that I was here, what to do...?

[Lollipop Torture Force]

As I walk I curse every mother of everyone I see for not drowning them as babes. Everyone is in my way and everyone is being perfectly cordial under the circumstances but I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to see them and let it fuel me enough to keep walking..

Stepping out of the Airport I stab at the phone with sausage fingers trying to force Uber to recognize my location but the map shows me nothing but a no service alert. Bad enough to be in a country without knowing the language but technology always sets my fuse to burn as I tap harder expecting a different response. Instead a sharp jab in the thigh and I tighten my fingers turning to find an oblivious zoomer who already jumped in a car with his plastic suitcase in tow. As the wind whips through my jacket my teeth give a chatter and I admit a silent defeat and step away from the automated doors back inside.

The wind leaves my fingers throbbing and numb but the break gave me a thought. Airplane mode. I never turned it back on after landing. Cursing myself I navigate over to settings.
It's all I can do not to look outside and wonder why I am here? A more complicated question than I'd like to admit. Why am I in this airport? To get to my hotel. Why am I in Sweden the pit I hear it has become? Because I was tired of looking at places I had seen before and the ticket was a steal.

But really it's because I am killing time. Burning out the days of my life until I can go home. As the phone races to give me every goddamn update under the sun (really it was only a two hour flight) but there is one good one that threatens to drop my stomach from my torso.

Opening the text it’s a picture sent in response to my text over a week ago when I got the phone. 38 minutes ago my daughter sent me a picture of her and some buck-toothed dweeb in front of a white front door. I wonder if she moved again and if her mother is ever going to get her life together. Then I push it away and respond.

You look beautiful honey.

I hit send and immediately think I should have said more. Is that a prom dress? I should have said something specific. I should have used an emoji or told her to have fun at prom. But that seems awfully soon. She can’t be going to prom this year. Is it a different dance? I close the messages and go back to uber.

There is a car available. I confirm it and head outside. It looks like the sedan in the app so I tug the door open and start to sit
"Meyers."
As I get into the car I say my name and wait for us to take off ignoring whatever the driver tries to add. Maybe the man would have spoken English but I hope not, he actually looks Mediterranean, or middle eastern. Great I think, another stranger in a strange country. We can get lost together and spend the night yelling at each other.
“Radio?”
I can’t place his accent. I ignore him and look out the window. He doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again and I would rather be walking, but that would be stupid. It's dark, cold and I don’t know how the hell to get to the hotel so I pop a lozenge and let the sticky flavor coat my mouth as I open the phone again. No new messages. I open messages anyway.

I hate the guy standing besides my daughter with everything I am. My knee is bouncing and I force it still. I focus on her. The blue dress and that hand. Is his hand on her hip? My teeth grind the candy into my back molars as I think about the last time I was in town and supposed to meet for a visit and immediately push it away and look outside. I click the phone to locked without looking and slide it back into my pocket.

A cold wind brought me here to this dark and unwelcoming place and it is the only thing that feels right as I step out of the Uber. I wonder if I didn’t choose a cold dark hellhole hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. Hoping I would feel at home if the weather matches my mood. A silly stupid hope belonging to a silly stupid man.

[Karazicu]

---

"Δολειες πο πρεπει να τακτοποιηθον"
"Business To Attend To"
Ioannis Mikelis - Smuggler Airfield in Karazicu - Preparing to take off for Sweden

Ioannis looking over some of his goods, getting ready to load them into the plane
(picture taken in ArmA III, put through GIMP with my awful editing skills)

---

Today was a nice, sunny day on the humble little Mediterranean island nation that we know as Karazicu. Under the lovely, warm Karazi sun on a small dirt airstrip, I was just tending to the duties at hand. I am just but a humble businessman, working for a little business going by the name "Smyrka Industries." I also happen to have quite the resume under my belt.

Working with that nice old small business for about 9 years.

An experienced pilot.

Arms smuggler.

Smyrka Industries' line of work doesn't involve the most honest, legal work out there, and our actions aren't seen as all too moral in the many places that we operate in. Our business was in the smuggling industry, being a good, reliable provider of many sorts of illegal goods to many places around Europe, be it drugs, firearms, or whatever you can name that you won't be able to buy in your local law-abiding shop. I was personally assigned to deal with the firearms, working as one of their gunrunners, flying the firearms that we produced across the borders, selling them for a nice sum of money to bring back to Karazicu, for Smyrka to use for their activities, and some of it that I get to keep for myself to keep me and my family well. It's not what I would consider the best line of work, but if it meant that we get to live in some actually decent conditions in a decent part of Khiropoli instead of a shitty tenement in the slums or some shitty backwater village in the middle of nowhere, then so be it. It's not exactly honest work, but it keeps us afloat.

Are the things we do legal? No. Most the things we've done are indeed illegal, and perhaps my family and I ought to have been jailed by now, especially considering I was in Karazicu of all places, infamous for it's long, long history of dictatorships and authoritarianism. But the junta could be paid to turn a blind eye; Smyrka paid good money to make sure they did so. We even had a minor symbiotic relationship, paying them for weapons parts and helping them deal with their insurgent problems by taking firearms from those people. Just as long as we stay apolitical, don't attack them, and we make enough money to keep them happy and apathetic to our actions, it's basically a guarantee that security forces won't be coming down on our heads. And they certainly wouldn't be knocking on my door to send me and my entire family to a prison camp anytime soon. Are they moral? Probably not. But that wasn't our concern; we were more concerned about our heads above the water, and if it means we have to toss out our moral compass for a while, selling to criminal syndicates or warlords using them for whatever purpose they may please, then that's what we will do to stay alive.

The next few days was bound to be prosperous days for our little industry, I had a good gut feeling about it. Our usual trade routes usually only extend out to other syndicates that operate in Italy, Greece, Serbia, Poland, and sometimes northern Africa, but we've found ourselves a good opportunity to hop onto far up north in Scandinavia. More specifically, there was supposedly a great sum of money to make selling our firearms in Stockholm, considering that business in firearms seemed to have spiked for whatever reason. Supposedly something to do with some kind of "initiative" and their activities in Sweden. But we don't neccesarily consider it my concern about why we do things, our main concern was just to do those things, and do them well. So, it was off to Sweden I went; I had business to attend to there.

I was hard at work to load the goods into the plane. Our goods this time around included a smorgasbord of various sorts of firearms. We had crates filled up with the Zastava M70 rifles we either produced, purchased from the junta, or stole from the insurgents, as well as knockoff FN FAL rifles that we made. We also had a nice shipment of handguns from the PM and SIG Sauer series. We even were carrying a few explosives in; some hand grenades and a few RPGs loaded in. My plane was an old reliable companion of mine that served me well for all the years I've been smuggling guns for Smyrka Industries; an Antonov An-2, with many modifications made to it to allow it to load a little extra cargo, travel for longer distances, some shielding to help keep the plane from falling under the eyes of the authorities, and a larger door to make loading and unloading the goods less of a pain, complete with a weathered decal of a capital letter Sigma; the symbol of our little organisation. I had the 10 back seats the plane normally comes with removed; we had cargo in mind, and I figured that it would only take one person to be able to smuggle guns across borders. I preferred being alone anyhow.

It took a damn long time to get everything ready for transport, gruelling away carrying the heavy, back destroying crates into the plane, but after long hours of this labour, I was finally ready to take off to attend to business in Sweden. So, as soon as I precariously made sure that everything in the cargo and the plane was in working order, I climbed into the pilot's seat and got myself ready for a long journey. The plane roared to life, crawled up slowly to the runway, and then dashed right off of it. I was on the way to Stockholm.

---

"Καθ οδον προς τη Στοχολμ"
"On the way to Stockholm"
Ioannis Mikelis - Northern Serbia/Central Poland - Stopping by for refueling

---

Of course, although we have made sure to tinker with the plane just right to make sure it could fly longer, it wasn't quite sufficient to make it all the way from Karazicu directly to Stockholm. I intended to make a few stop-bys in Serbia and Poland on the way to Sweden to sell off some of our goods and to refuel, so I didn't end up landing far away from an airfield and stranded in god-knows-where.

First stop: Northern Serbia. We had connections with other smugglers there as well, and they had established small airstrips about the region far removed from the sight of the authorities, where we could stop by to drop off our goods, refuel our aircraft, or hang around. I was there for the former two purposes; we'd usually sell a sizalbe portion product to them, but this time around we had to cut it back a little so that we could sell a larger portion of it to Stockholm. They hadn't let them know about this beforehand, though...

After a few long hours, I had arrived at one of the airstrips they set up. They were expecting, and I was hoping not to disappoint, but considering we have to scale back, I was most nervous. I stopped the plane near the tanker they usually use to refuel our planes and walked out. Immediately, I saw the faces of the sorts of dealer dealers that I normally dealt with. They were rather bright as they normally were in anticipation of the delivery man delivering them their guns.

"Kalispera, kyroi," I said to them. A typical Karazi greeting to start the deal.

"Pozdrav," the dealers responded. You have our guns?

"Yes, I've got many guns here in here, many things to make you very happy indeed, friends. There's just... some... bad news I must say."

"Hmmm... and what is bad news?" I could notice some of the colour disappearing from their face.

"I was told we must scale back this time. Usual shipment of 250 guns now has to be... just 125. We have... bigger business in Sweden to take care of. We have decided to focus on them a bit more just for this trip, see if we can, you know, money more for our little business. You can understand, no?"

The colour further drained from their faces, their smiles seeming to invert as they seemed to reflect on this information. My face and body was unchanging, as was typical for the stoic, emotionless Karazi, but inside my stomach were many butterflies; I'd hope they'd not take this too badly. These people weren't exactly known for their tolerance of screwing around.

"That... is most disappointing... that you won't sell us full shipment..."

I simply nodded in acknowledgement. I just hoped that they won't lose it over this, as they've done for other antics...

After a brief moment that to me felt like a long time, they finally spoke up.

"But... yes, I understand, given the absolute state of Sweden this time of year, heard is real shit going on over there. Must be very good and important for your operations to advance, eh? We'll still be willing to take less guns, but we only pay half as much. This okay?"

I had a silent breath of relief.

"Yes, it's fine. Still enough for fuel to make it out anyhow."

"Glad we could make this work for us."

They went and retrieved a small plastic bag filled with cash. Not as much as they normally placed in those bags, but fair enough for what I sold them and for how much it cost to refuel. I stayed around in a nearby hanger, waiting for them to finish refueling the aircraft. I refused talk much with the others; they did not mind, for they knew I was not one to speak often for purposes other than just business, especially not for small talk. I was content to just wait patiently for them to complete their work. Once they were done, it was right back to my plane for another flight to Poland, then finally to Sweden.

It was a similar story in Central Poland. They were disappointed, but given the "absolute state of Sweden," they understood and they refueled the plane to help make it to Stockholm. As I was on my way on the final part of the flight to Stockholm, I pondered in my mind for a moment, what this "absolute state of Sweden" thing they spoke about was... and what exactly might have been going on up there. What was going on there that would have made business good for gunrunning in an otherwise highly developed nation...? Then I disregarded those thoughts. It was something good for our business; and I shouoldn't bother myself questioning it further. So I laid back in the pilot's seat, waiting to finally make the landing just outside of Stockholm...

[Sky Reavers]

Have ticket, Will travel.

The airplane flew through the beautiful skies, as Tyler enjoyed the sight in the illuminator, while listening to some music from Stellaris in headphones and reflecting about the way there, while imgaining himself on a board of a spaceship. He didn't even plan to fly to Sweden at first, but a few days ago, after cleaning some cafe basement from rats, he played a card game Durak with his colleagues several times and won an airplane ticket to Sweden together with some money from Liam Graham, a colleague, who is also an adventurer and stalker, who sometimes searches for anomalious things and sells them to laboratory. In his turn, Liam found a ticket to Sweden inside a six pack of beers. A raffle of a brewing company.

With a particulary nasty heatwave ravaging the homeland, this proved to be a relief and so, Tyler decided to take a vacation from walking in dirty places and hunting vermin, grab some drinks, weed and go to a foreign place. To see the world, new people and most likely enter some heavy shenanigans! After doing some research, he found out, that for some reason, he is allowed to bring cannabis and guns and even carry them in his destination. Well, that's nice! Saves the effort smuggling things there! And now, he just sits there, flies above Europe and enjoys the moment and observing a hostess... This one is such an eye candy! Sadly, she is not receptive to flirt, Tyler clearly heared, how she ignored a drunk guy, who tried to hit on her, as if he didn't exist at all. But she served some rather tasty, even if a bit overpriced drinks and everytime she passed, Jensen would ask for some more champagne. The absense of crying babies on the flight made it even more pleasant. It was like a pleasant dream.

Sadly, unlike the past flight, that involved a crying baby, panicking aerophobe nearby and lots of turbulence shaking, this one was short... Why are unpleasant flights so long? After a half of an hour, the airplane started to descent and soon, Tyler found himself near the exit of the airport.

Stockholm

Here stood Tyler near the airport door, a 183 cm tall, slightly burly long haired man with slight belly, clad in his black sandals, blue shorts with white pattern, his black Man-O-War T-shirt. He also wore a steel shoulderguard, leather bracers with pyramid studs and a necklace. Silver chain, celtic trixelion and four 7.62 rounds. Non live. A blue and white AK-47 rifle on a sling, rested on his back, near the backpack with booze, weed, money and other things he'll need in his travels. An engraved hatchet and drinking horn, rested on his belt. People could see a tribal style tatoo on his right arm, as he walked around. Yes, he'll attract attention. So what? He is no secret agent and doesn't need to hide and bland! In fact, like many compatriots, he likes to attract attention. And if someone got any stupid ideas about robbing him, Tyler knows how to punch or shoot!

As he exited the building, he felt the cold. Something, he longed for, since the heatwave back home started to become less bearable. It was rather bitter, but Tyler was unfazed by it even if it's somehwhat colder than he wanted. Like most other his compatriots he was someone, not fazed too much by cold or heat. Still, even if heatwaves don't kill him, they are unpleasant... Suddenly, a gust of wind hit him right in the face, blowing his long, dark hair. He adjusted it and took a hearty gulp of whiskey before heading to the hotel. For whatever reason, he must not stray, or else, he'll be kicked out and his travel will end before it begins. Or at least this is the rumor he has heared from Liam after winning the ticket. Stockholm police station may be nice and tidy, but it's not a destination, he wanted to visit. They don't serve alcohol, play music or love to talk, so he decided to roll with goind to hotel first. After all, it's better to get to see the new room before doing anything else. Still, he decided to have a walk in a new place, so instead of calling a taxi, he belived was most likely overpriced, he decided to go by foot, while sipping alcohol right from the bottle.

On his way, Tyler met a homeless with a cup. It was empty, and Tyler was already inebriated, so he just filled the cup with whiskey. -"Here, ya' dude! Have some booze too on da' house! Cuz ya' clearly need it!"- After that, he walked away, but then suddenly turned around and tossed him one of his beer cans. After all, it's always possible to get more alcohol. -"I am wasted and don't count booze, so catch!"-After that, he left and walked a bit more and finally arrived to the hotel.

"Yo' there, dudes!"- Tyler enters the hotel, clearly drunk and talks to the employee. -"I booked a room here not so long ago. I belive it's gonna be nice! And what services does your fine estalishment offer?"- Tyler soon would check in and enter his room, leave some of his items there to lighten the load and then have some good time. So far, he feels great! But there is a slightly tingling feeling, that he could encounter something... A short living thought has enterd his head. What if Liam felt something and decided to lose the ticket on purpose? It was promptly dismissed.

[Ardchu]

I decided to go to the city named Stockholm. I had heard it was lower elevation and hopefully warmer than the Norwegian mountains. I landed on top of a large building, which was labeled in a script I kinda knew how to read, having learned it in the Grand Canyon. It said "hotell", and I assumed it meant hotel. I entered through the roof access, and slept in an empty room that night.

[The Lower 139]

Maximillian groaned.

Too many drugs last week, He thought. That was why he felt like this.

PERREDALAJARASAPATIPAWOLOSABATAPAGAGASIL REGIONAL AIRPORT, SARRIL, LAST LAND
PROBABLY AROUND NOON IN WHATEVER TIMEZONE IT HAPPENS TO BE IN LAST LAND

The trees writhed and twisted and spun and did whatever they did, or were supposed to do. The Backstates is a crazy place. Las Forodas sun vaccine, Doster shelf giants, Judases... nonhumans, Vlondited ore factories bigger than cities. He looked at the plane sitting on the runway. A Cessna 170 with large external fuel tanks. It was unsafe to fly in the Backstates until a few years ago, when somebody in New Canada realized that you could just vaporize antimony and spread it into the sky, negating most effects of stuff that happened in New Nantes. Maximilian stared at the sky. It was clear, and blue. Like something normal, for once. The flight was supposed to be from Last Land, to Maine, but some goofball decided to change it at the last minute. Straight to O'Hare International, then off into wherever to go to North Europe. The plane sputtered for at least a minute or two, before needing about 8 meters to take off. I might add that physics do not work in a normal way here. Nor do thermodynamics, aerodynamics, or most other things. Including linguistics. I digress. The plane experience a sort of extreme turbulence near the border into the Frontstates, which is just normal at this point in time. The plane tumbled over to O'Hare international airport for more fuel, and then finally took off, to fly to wherever he may be going now...

[New San Andreas Republic]

Stockholm, Hold The Syndrome
The Idiot Mercenary Arrives

---

It was a quiet, dull harbour. Full of dilapitated wood, bored and lethargic ship-workers smoking and chatting quietly, and the constant squaking of seagulls. As they often did, another quiet, small boat about the size of an average civilian commercial fishing enterprise pulled into the harbour quietly. As the door on the ship opened and the ship touched the pier, a mass of leather, ragged jeans, rugged post-apocalyptic boots and a quick shine of silver at the belt was flung out with the energy of the local drunk. As the mass.., no wait, make it man stumbled out of the ship and immediately braced his eyes against the burning light of the cold, yet clear sky, he cleared his throat and looked around, his breathing still somewhat quick. He had only one thing to say.

"W-whoa, ho ho ho! What the hell kind of shippy boat was that? Did you guys take me to that Hawaii country? Hey hey, I'm in Hawaii! Hula hula kula mula, halawaki hala-"

His idiotic singing was interrupted when his 'luggage' (actually an old U.S. Army ammunition box from two centuries ago) was thrown at him full-force. Picking it up and looking back at the boat, he smiled blankly and gave a big, leviathan wave to the obviously pissed off crew.

"Thanks for that, guys. Sorry for what I did to your salmon. I swear to God, I thought they were running out of air! I didn't know Cee-Pee-Arr didn't work on a fish! I DIDN'T KNOW!"

He had to shout at the end, they were pulling away full force. They had no idea how he'd gotten onto their boat, or what universe this idiot came from, but they certainly didn't want anything to do with him or his clothes that smelled like booze/piss. They certainly didn't want to trade his 'cool toy' for their 'even cooler fishing hats'.

The man picked up his 'luggage' and quickly pulled out his 'diary' from his pocket. Reading the front page and still trying to work out what 'PASSPORT-PASSEPORT' meant wasn't what he planned, though it usually occupied him for hours. Instead, he smiled and excitedly prepared to start a new page at the blank part at the end. Trying to find a spot not taken up by weird patterns with dates and names on them, he eventually found one and began to write. Almost immediately, he accidentally wrote 'deer Diary'.

Fuck, not again, Randy. He always did this. Deciding against it for now, he placed his diary in his pocket and began looking for locals he could speak to so he could find out where he was and maybe, just maybe, find somewhere to eat. Hell, maybe he'd find someone who wanted someone dead or maimed. He could be a merr-canary in Hawaii too! They could pay him in coconuts.

Finding a local old man out with his wife on a nice walk, Randy began by bowing as a sign of respect. He'd learned about it in one of those old-Pre War books called Respect: The Cornerstone of Japanese Culture. He had no idea what it meant, but it sure made the cartoon people in the book happy. He then cleared his throat and adjusted his sunglasses, before speaking.

"Aloha, Hawaiians. I need to sleep somewhere, after a long ride in a big boat to get here. If you need someone killed, I can do that for you, but not now. I need to sleep first. Do you know any place that I can sleep at? I do not see any mattresses lying here. Can you please help me?"

The old couple gave one another a look of complete confusion, and eventually after an exchange in Hawaiian (or Spanish, Randy was unsure) the old man gave an insecure point in the 'left' direction and said, in his best English, 'Ho-tell'.

Randy followed where the old man was pointing, putting his own finger against his and then moving to the left so they matched parallel. He then looked at his finger, to the left, back and forth a couple times before nodding.

"Thank you, kind.. uhh, ma'am. I'll send you some caps once I get to the 'how-tell'. Or maybe some chips, you can spend 'em in the one of the casinos here. I think that one over there, that says uhh... "Bank" over there, is one. Bye guys!

Randy walked aimlessly in the direction the old man had advised him in, without a care in the world. Never mind the fact that he was lost, in a place he had no idea what was actually called, unaware of the fact that he'd inadvertantly travelled both continents, oceans and dimensions to end up in a world not at all like his usual world of NSAR-Legion warfare and pistol-whipping for cash. He just wanted to sleep in a bed, or piss-soaked mattress. The first would be nice, but he was used to the second.

Welcome To The Hotel, Randy For Ya
A Sleeping Alley Found is a Sleeping Alley Treasured

---

After arriving at a building that said something like 'Hotel' on it, Randy stood up and admired it. He was amazed that he'd only just noticed how... put-together and in-tact most of the buildings were here. They weren't ruins, or empty, or destroyed wrecks from 200 years ago. He hadn't even seen a single skeleton or dead Fiend corpse yet. That brief moment of admiration suddenly made him stop as he heard the distinct sound of whispering and chatting. They both sounded like guys. With a rare quizzical look on his usually blank smiled face, Randy turned into a quiet alley behind the Hotel and saw in front of him two men looking down at black things in their hands and then up at the Hotel.

"You sure they're supposed to stay here? This dump? Come on, you wouldn't let your mother-in-law sleep here!"
"Yeah, well, I guess the type of folks who do this don't care where they're sleepin', so long as the stuff gets sold and the cash gets given."

"Hey, guys! Great choice of a sleepin' alley here! I don't think I could have chosen better! But uhh... aren't you meant to sleep in a sleeping alley?"

The two men, startled at the sudden interruption, both give a sudden darted head-look to the direction of the voice and did a half-turn. As they did, Randy was briefly startled as well but immediately went right back to being his usual self, whatever it meant. Preparing to speak to the men further, he suddenly noticed that one of them had a 'hollster'. He didnt quite know much about it, other than it was this thing someone had sold him once back in 2278 to help him carry his 'smacker'. This one was empty. Randy immediately knew what the deal was here.

"Ah, great! You guys are mer-canarys, too. I am! Hi, I'm Randy. I do the best killin', and the best hittin', in the Senora Wasteland. I was gonna see if I could get into that Hotel there... or just sleep in this alley, but I can see you guys got here first. Hey, wanna see my whacker? I bet you miss yours, with your hollster empty like that. Here!"

All the two men understood from this big idiot was him excitedly preparing to show them his 'whacker'.

"NO! Don't you fucking dare!" came a terrified shout from one of the pair, having gone from startled to perturbed in the course of only the second sentence from this guy. As he and his friend both closed their eyes in expectation, they were surprised on a small peek seconds later to see that this idiot wasn't just a random idiot. Nor was he a flasher. He was an armed random idiot, and he was pointing the silverly pistol right at them.

"Yep. Here she is. Her name is For-Five. I don't know who called her that. but it's what it says on the side. I wouldn't be much of a mer-canary without her, no siree. See this hole? That's the part you put towards yourself. You wanna do that, because with this bit, you can-"

"J-just take it, jesus! I don't care what you want, why you're here, or what you know! Man, just take our stuff and let us go! Please! We've got the money, look look, it's right here. OK? Can we go? Fuck man, we didn't know they'd send someone this quick! We swear!"

The begging and immediately throwing of bills of money on the floor had left Randy surprised. Still pointing the 'no-whacking' part of For-Five towards the two, he for whatever reason assumed that the two just had to see his gun up closer in order to appreciate it and not do whatever they just did again. Looking back to his gun, Randy started walking closer to the pair. This was their cue to run like hell, sprinting away at full speed in the opposite direction in the alley, tipped over a bin in their wake. They had no idea what kind of assassin he was, but he spoke in riddles and taunts and that was all they needed to know.

Now, surprisingly enough for such a genius, Randy was confused. What the hell was the deal in Hawaii? Did these people not know what a whacker was? Did they assume he was some kind of alien? And what the hell were these things they'd dropped? Picking them up and inspecting them, Randy came to find they reminded him of those papers that NSAR troops had insisted he pay with instead of shiny, red eCola caps.

Picking up a bunch in his hands, he imagined that since he was in... uhh, wherever he was, he should pick them up as a souviner of some kind. After all, how often was it he got to leave New San Andreas at all? Looking back at the Hotel, and realizing that they way in must be from the front, he had a thought.

Maybe they'd find his whacker and new colourful paper stuff cool. Hell, maybe they had some kind of thing to rub off pencil marks in his diary.

He headed towards the front to find out.

[Black Raven Movement]

“Tell him this: God is gonna cut him down."

STOCKHOLM, SCANDINAVIA

All is cold and dark.

I haven't been here, Sweden, in forever. Not since the '90s. Such a thing as traveling to the Nordics was most certainly not on my bingo card for the year, but my wife, Katerina, wanted to go. She had good reason, too: she wanted to have our delayed honeymoon there. Why is a honeymoon of all things delayed, you might wonder? How can such a seminal intro to a marriage be so neglected?

Leadership is why. Both of us were in charge of our respective areas of the world. I, the Americas, the place that has been my home since Napoleon's fall. And her, Galicia, her homeland. We didn't have the time, nor was she sure I was still alive. Not since...well, before we found eachother again. Not since I almost fucking killed myself in her home territory. Not since that point where drugs were now to be purged from my life if I wished to avoid death oncemore. If life were to be a waking heaven, then Datura must become the heretic cast down from high above.

I had seen her again when I had a psychotic break in my impossibly alive Yugo. Of all people, family had caused it. One brother in particular. Me. Apis.

She and I soon reconnected after she saved my life. One more party we went to before our engagement was that of a stranger. Well, more than one. We had seen them, and tried interacting with them. They seemed like nice, fabulous people who were just a bit on the odd side. We had been invited, me especially, for no apparent reason. I suppose the story of a Frenchman who was a bit too involved in war was attractive enough to warrant an invite. They, however, disappeared before I even saw them walk the aisle. They left, and soon ceased to be.

That gave me and Katerina enough time for an engagement, and soon marriage. Now, how does this relate to a delayed honeymoon?

Because the Lord delays all. I suppose our estrangement was for a reason. To think about whether this was truly worthwhile, and if so, to build up to that. A priest in Mexico once told me the Lord worked in mysterious, almost illogical ways to benefit us. He knew better about him than I did, and his reverence in the community was well deserved for that.

We began packing, and as soon as we boarded the plane, we were in Stockholm. No problems at all.

While I still breathe, I hope for the best to come. I suppose that came to be for us.

I had begun to reminisce in the meantime.

---

1992.

"I've seen the face of Satan himself, and I'm not afraid to do it again."

My mental health was declining.

For years, I, or whatever name I even had, was slowly losing grip on reality. Datura, ketamine, shrooms, every drug did nothing but contaminate my being. It maddened me. It killed my humanity. Nothing could restore it for that moment. The practice of therapy itself was filled to the brim with corruption, malpractice, and from my personal experience, poorly-trained therapists who even attempted to have a lobotomy done on me. My failed stint with Datura led to my insanity being clinically and legally declared. Such a thing had ruined any hope of a future, unable to pay rent for the grimy, yet humbling motel room I called my home. Hope was non-existent to me, and it was always that way.

Life wasn't a kind mistress towards my peasant soul. Since birth, the fear of Mongol advancement further into Europe was ever-present in the air. And only years after the fall of the Khanate, once I was merely 22...

The plague had arrived. Village after village, all had died in droves. Some suffered more than others. My own mother and father had caught the illness, the scourge, and I had to witness the very people who made him into the man he once was, die in front of me. All while my younger siblings, oblivious to their suffering, had to be under my wing, my care. Despite that, I had volunteered, despite the risk, to help contain the plague, and to hopefully find a remedy, any remedy to end it.

I could still feel the scars from his infection with it, the screams of pain still echoed in my mind. Nothing would go away, not anymore. The terror, the pain, it was unbearable.

As if my body was devouring me from within, it’s bestial hunger dominated by a sickly black mass.

As if I was inches away from the sun.

Godhood called to me. And I submitted.

---

War will never be cruel. More so, the reminiscence of it in a husk of a factory.

The memories of Verdun, all of my dead comrades, had deeply saddened me. I began to tie the noose near me so that it could fit my neck. There was nothing of value left in for life, I thought. Suicide, no matter how terrifying for it was, was the only option to end the suffering. Euthanasia was completely off the table, and even then, more than enough needles were going in my skin. Nothing, not now, or ever, could change or even remove the death, the mangling from the artillery barrages, the horrors I had seen, from my own memory. The millions of deaths I had witnessed in less than a year alone would drive the most optimistic, the most normal of men, towards suicide. Some had completely lost all form of sanity left in them, and those who did would either kill themselves or their whole unit. While others had to experience a long, yet painful decline in their sanity. I was among that few. A war of attrition, just like the Western Front.

Warfare had shown to me by force the truly despicable, degenerate nature of man. Violent, merciless, every man had used war as a venue to release his utmost darkest desires toward the enemy, all to avenge the fatherland of whatever wrongdoing he felt they committed towards his nation. Eventually, one either succumbs to his desires, becoming a husk of his former being, or they eventually become insane. I too had become insane, but it was a slow, yet painful decline, one that had eroded my sense of being to a mere atom.

Eventually, one has nothing left. Not a figment of their former self, or their fighting spirit, remains. In the end, one either tries to push it away, or they succumb to it, eventually joining their comrades in Purgatory.

If you survive, the public ignores you while simultaneously praising your heroism on the battlefield. Only the kindest samaritan would give a damn to understand what happened to you, and eventually bring awareness to it. Yet he was left alone to deal with it, and in the end...

I couldn't bear it anymore.

Or so I thought.

---

Hope, the hope of a better future.

Katerina could hear sounds, cries of pain, all near her apartment every day. The area itself in which she lived was popular amongst addicts, the suicidal, and the homeless. After her classes were over, she would always walk near this area, always with her father's gun on her. She was 20 years old, and halfway into college. Her father's gun, a Spanish-made M1911 pistol, or a "Llama" pistol, was given to her only when she was seven. It was taken by her own grandfather, and it wasn't officially hers until she became 18.

Her father.

Her father was, simply put, a great man to her. He was one of the key figures in the creation of a semi-democracy in Spain and had fought long and hard for Galician autonomy. He was the only former member of CNT-FAI that was involved in the transition to democracy. He had cared for her as best as he could, as her mother had died hours after she gave birth to her. Despite everything that would happen to them, him losing his seat in the council, his increasing alcoholism, he tried his best. He tried his best to care for her, even if he was becoming increasingly paranoid, secluded, and unintelligible by the day. Eventually, he couldn't even remember her own name, the alcohol, his age, all had caught up to him.

For eight years, he would drink, and drink, and drink until his liver gave out. "Just one more", he would say.

Just one more.

Oh, her father, how much she missed him. How responsible she felt for his death when she did nothing at all. Both of them, both Antonin and Katerina, always felt responsible for each of their own ills. Regardless of what was going on, the smile that he always had was enough to make her feel better about what was truly going on. She felt a tear run down her eye, yet she knew she had to press on.

They had to keep going, no matter what. Yet she wouldn't meet him or even now about him at all, not until she heard...

Screams.

Screams of pain, of terror, of insanity. To her right, she saw the silhouette of a man, tying a noose to a bar, almost hesitating to take his life. She ran in his direction and entered the warehouse. She had thought it was too late, that he had hanged himself. Once she came in, he felt her eyes staring right at him. I could feel her gaze grow into one of fear.

Then she finally spoke up, trying to get me out of it.

"Hey, is everything alright?" She asked, with the tone in her voice becoming one of uneasiness.

"No, I-I'm not doing alright. Please leave me be, I just want to-"

"Listen to me, you matter. You, from what I can tell, don't deserve what you're doing to yourself. Please, let me help you.

I know how you feel, and I want to make you feel happy for once. Please, it'll get better, I promise."

I was, suffice to say, surprised. I never thought, that at least once in my life did someone even think that I wasn't a scourge on the planet. She appeared genuine, too. The fact that someone would go out of their way to help someone, who was clearly insane and not within reason, to make sure that they didn't kill themselves, that they could be able to finally seek help, was a novelty to me.

"Wait, someone actually cares about me?" I thought. I could hear my subconscious talking to me, telling me to get the noose off. Another part wanted me to hang myself and finish it already.

"Take it off, you deserve to live." She said. "Now, come on down, everything will be alright. Alright?"

"Uhhh-

fine."

I then slowly got off the chair and began removing the noose from neck. After that, I had gotten close to her, shook her hand, and she asked me one thing:

"Hey, do you remember where you live? I can take you there if you want."

I was nervous, I didn't want to tell her that I was homeless. But I desperately needed somewhere to live. Finally, I told her that I didn't have anywhere to go.

"I'm uh, I'm homeless. I don't have anywhere to go anymore."

Her facial expression, which was one of relief until that point, had turned into a more calculative, thoughtful one.

After a brief silence, she had figured out a solution.

"Welp, I'm sorry to hear that. I can let you stay in my place though, you'll just have to sleep on the couch for the moment. Oh, and I noticed that your arms are kinda bleeding a bit, I can patch it up for now until we get to my apartment. I got some medical supplies to help with the wounds." She said.

"That's actually very generous of you. And yeah, guess I can go to your place for a bit." I replied. Despite the mask he was wearing, my face had turned from an expression of pain into a more joyful one.

"Alright. And in case your wondering, my name is Katerina, and yours?"

'Antonin."

"Alright. Now, we gotta go, it's getting late."

---

A year ago, I had proposed to her in Denver. We had gone there for a Cobalt concert. Cobalt was a band we damn well wanted to see since I got my grubby hands of Eater Of Birds. I had shown her the music, and she was impressed. Colorado can make good music, and they were proof of it. Gin came out a couple of weeks prior, and that was enough to persuade us that buying tickets to Denver to see a band that not many payed a damned cents worth of attention to was in all fairness, a steal.

I had her ring beforehand.

It was, well, beautiful. It was diamond, as one could expect, yet it was lined with iron, gold nuggets, and her protection runes. As a Christian, you wouldn’t expect me to write runes for protection, but here I am. It was her name and mine inscribed as well. I had invested months in making it, the diamonds especially. Humanity was imperative in her feeling comfortable with it, style second.

A couple hours later, it was the end of the show.

“Hey, how was it?” I had asked.

“This was my first show like this. I loved it.” She replied.

“Glad you loved it. What did you think about the pushing?”

“Do they always do that?”

“Depends. Usually they do, and it takes a second to get used to.”

“They don’t push out of malice, right?”

“Nope.”

“Alright, good to know. Well, it was nice of you to bring me here for some deserved time together.”

I was blushing.

“It has been a while.”

“We should to this more often.”

“Honestly? Yes. This was fun.”

I can’t stop blushing. I need to hurry.

“I’ve noticed your happier recently. What’s been going on?”

“Oh, you know, post-rehab and therapy. All going pretty well now that things changed.”

I couldn’t contain it anymore.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you this.”

“I’m listening.”

I kneel. I grab the box out of my pocket. She knows now.

“Am I good enough, for you?”

She starts crying.

She hugs me.

I hug her tightly.

“Yes!”

We kiss.

“I will make you happy. I will be with you no matter when or what.”

“I won’t ever leave you, Antonin. You’ve done too much for me.”

“You’ve done enough since day one. You simply deserve it.”

[Lollipop Torture Force]

“A shitbox.” I utter out loud from the curb as I gaze at the predictably routine hotel standing before me. I take a second reflecting that I have not found any place I considered to feel like home since Boston. Or did that even feel like home?

I pop a lozenge and focus on the manufactured sweetness instead of any philosophical reflections. I am beyond that now. Therapy and reflection are the purview of those that live in enough excess to enjoy them. The driver peels off behind me. No doubt eager to get rid of my stain on his company and pick up his next fare.

Looking through the door and into the lobby I see the employee waiting for me to walk over and ask about the sights and check in. No doubt wondering if I had bothered to reserve a room and save her a moment of tedium. I don’t want to speak to her. I want to reach over and take a key at random, go upstairs and pass out. But I need something from her and if life has taught me anything it's that I am not one of those people people can’t write off.

Some do it out of self protection, others out of spite but if I don’t want to sleep outside I need to pretend I am a part of the normal crowd. A different place, a different season, maybe I would take the chance and be the shell that is my self, but this wind is bitter and this jacket is no coat. She could just dismiss my inquiry and I would be stuck wandering the street in that wind. So I take a breath, straighten my jacket and swallow my pride.
I take a moment to look at my phone. I don’t open it. It is clear there is no notification.

“Disruptive” “unstable” “self destructive” were the words the judge had used and they floated around my head every single visit. I always hated those visits. Like I had to have a goddamn judgemental babysitter to see my kid. Forty five minutes twice a month. Doesn’t sound like much but I treasured them as much as I loathed them.

I spit the candy onto the sidewalk. Only a tool or a thot walks up to a front desk sucking on candy. I look at it as it freezes to the icey cement. A gift for whoever sweeps the front of the hotel. Sorry, I think.
Walking in, someone is already monopolizing the front desk’s attention. I couldn’t see from the angle outside and for a quick second I consider what to do. Do I go back outside and wait. Do I stand here pretending to not hear them talking? There is a set of chairs in the lobby where I can be further from the door. I have had enough of that wind for one night and I B line for the chair closest to the front desk.

It's late in Boston, or early, depending on how you look at it. Either way she didn’t send that photo as she headed out. She already went. I am still afraid to ask if it is prom. I pull out my phone and look at the photo again. Will she be 17 or 18 next march? If I knew I could guess at the prom part.

These past years have felt like we have more than an ocean between us. I suspect she hasn’t told her mother I contacted her last year. If she had I would either be blocked with every new phone I text on or she went back on mood stabilizing meds. My bet is my daughter hasn’t said anything. Playing it safe I decide to ask a question, something neutral.

“Did you have fun?

I think about asking about the guy and decide against it. I close the phone and a memory invades my thoughts. Her mother is yelling into my ear as I hold the phone two inches from my face. Behind it a father is bringing bags from a burger joint to his family. A little girl is hopping in joy and the father smiles as my ex fills my face with yelling. In the seats across from me the mother gets the kid to sit down as the father passes out the greasy paper wrapped burgers.

I set the phone on the arm of the chair. l I am craving a beer. Or a coffee with whiskey. I don't like whiskey but I think about ordering it after I check in. A taste of sweet oblivion, but no. I told myself I wouldn't. I reach into my suit pocket. As I grasp the plastic bottle I can feel the handle through the fabric. Pulling the bottle out I can't keep it from rattling as I unscrew it. I see the woman glance over from behind the desk. The other customer's passport in her hand while she types with the free one. I start to peel the paper and it comes off in shreds I pile in my lap.

I take two. Not oblivion. Oblivion is why my luggage is still in Paris. Bad choices after bad choices. I remember the phone call again. Carol yelling at me. The voice rings clearly in my mind as clearly as the wind outside did.

"You selfish bastard. You can't just checkout when you want. You asked for visitation. You fucking fought me for it when I said this would happen. Now my daughter is crying herself to sleep because her daddy"
Her voice stops yelling and is flat and cold "doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself. You think I want to send her to meet you? You piece of shit....what is that? " "I use my hand to cup around the receiver. “Its nothing I say I…”

“Where are you?” she demands

"I'm at the airport....I won't be back for a while." I utter it meekly and she chokes out a laugh
"So I'm supposed to tell her you won't see her in two weeks either. Jesus Michael. That's not my responsibility. I'm not supposed to have to explain why her father doesn't care?" I try to cut in but she is picking up the tone again and I am tired of fighting. I can't fight her. Not this time anyway. I am a coward and I am running but I have to. If I stay they will use her, I tell myself.

"Tell her I'm sorry" I hung up. There is nothing more I can say. She is right and I am shit. But I need to be here to become more than shit. I hold the phone in my hands as people brush past me and the audio com announces more delays.

I loved airports once but this conversation always sits at the surface now when I feel those crowds. Even here in the hotel sitting in this chair I am reminded.

Thousands of people, normal people, going about their lives and doing it right. I remember watching as the phone rings in my hand. It's her. She'll be pissed I hung up before she was done. I remember as my fingers tightened, straining against the plastic bends and then cracks. It's still ringing though so I send it to voicemail and then I snap the phone in two before tossing it into the trash.


Back in the hotel I look at my phone. No messages. I look around the lobby. The lady at the front desk is looking expectantly at me. It won't do. There is no oblivion. I can reach here just another port to escape the storm. As I gather my strips of trash and cram them in my pocket with the bottle. I think about Paris. The men waited outside my door as I watched from the elevator. Pounding on it. I remember the mental check. I have what I need. I can buy new clothes, new phone. I send the elevator down. I checked out and got in a car to the airport. That was two cities ago just to be safe. Now I'm in Stockholm where they won’t reach me.

I stand there looking at the phone. Nothing happens. I walk to the desk.

Time for a game face. I pull my shoulders back and walk in like I have some other purpose than escaping the damned wind and my own thoughts. I speak up before she has a chance.
“Good evening dear.” I let her know I am speaking English before the awkwardness can start.

“Hello Sir. Checking in?” She grimaced. She didn’t like the “dear”. Trying too hard. I try smiling and force the contours of my mouth to rise as I continue.

“Ya. Reservation is under Meyers.” I slide my passport and my bank card to cut out whatever requests she needs to make for me to get a key. Before she has a chance to ask any confirming questions
“Excuse me but. I hate to ask but the airline lost my luggage.”

Front desk lady stares back blankly. An awkward smile, wondering what I am getting at. Or she is looking at me with judgment, can she tell I am lying?

“Anyway this is all I have and I need to order some clothes, or at least a jacket to be delivered.”
She smiles. “It is a bit late tonight. There are stores here in the city though.”
“Yes but do you know if I can have the clothes delivered here?”
A shake of the head. Of course not. I'm not at a Hilton. I'm in a shit box trying to stretch my cash.

"Nevermind" my hand runs across the back of my neck. Stop fidgeting I think. She runs through her check in check list as she must with every visitor.

I work my fingers as I rest them on the desk. Trying to force the feeling back in them from the short walk between the car and door. She is confirming my details. Making sure if I am stealing someone’s reservation I at least bothered to memorize some of their information.
“...and I have you down for four nights?” Can I stand this place for four nights?

“Maybe, it might be more… It is still up in the air.”
She smiles at my unhelpful answer. Well fuck you I think. I don’t know.

She is just as done with this conversation as I am and slides my things back to me with the room key. I nod and turn away wondering if I should ask about a bar. I decide to look for myself. She has had enough of me. Not every shitbox will have one but maybe an enterprising entrepreneur realizes not everyone wants a mini bar or the shots at a convenience store. I haven’t eaten since this morning, unless you count the stale nuts they give you in flight or the vitamins from a moment ago and I do not. As I walk away from the front desk I pull up my phone as if it is a habit.

[Sky Reavers]

Stockholm Hotel and Bar

What is one of the places, where Sky Reaver can be found most often? What is the place, that Sky Reaver has passed in the shortest joke? What is the place where one can hear rumors? It's a bar naturally! Tyler just sat there after leaving his backpack with clothes in the hotel room. Not the best place, sure, but hey! It has bed, power and water, what else does one need from a place to sleep and store excess items in?

Looks like he decided to familiarize himself with Swedish alcoholic drinks, such as brannwin. Bartender's greeting "What would you like?" was responded with -"Howdy there! I heared, that there is nice Swede booze, caleld brannwin and I would like to try some! Yeah, we do have that stuff back at home, but I wanna try some authenic stuff, made here in it's own native... how do ya' call it... oh, right! Enviornment! Yes, since I am here, why not go on a good ol' booze safari? So, I'd like a few shots of this nice booze!"-After getting wanted alcohol, Tyler sampled it and decided to have some talk about rumors. One of them was about a group, called Initiative, as if they might return or something like that... Tyler only knew, that they were some sort of terrorist bunch, if there is a memorial in honor of those, killed by this group. Maybe that's why Liam parted with the ticket so easily after losing a game of cards? Either way, he is there, so it's best to enjoy the place to it's fullest.

Tyler would engage in a talk with bartender, telling him about his homeland and what he did for living. -"And that's how I got that scar on my right arm! That was no epic brawl with some robber or something... That was just me getting careless in a basement and accidently cutting arm with a sticking nail, while looking for a rat nest. Or, I remember that discovery of a wasp nest. Oen second it was quiet, but then, when I opened that board, a swarm of wasp flooded all the attic, buzzing like an old airplane! And the funniest stuff is that initially, I was called to get rid of fleas... Eventually, I found the place they came form thankfully... that was some old dog bedding on attic."-Then he decided to tell a few stories of how he passed his free time. About some more memorable parites and travels.

After a few more drinks, Tyler felt euphoric and talkative, seeking for attention and new friends. He found a rather tall balding man in brown suit. Thinking, that he lamented something, he decided to at least try and cheer him up and bought him a not-too-expensive drink and some snack and tried to have some talk with him, but Tyler's bladder suddenly showed another opinion and had him to quickly run for the bathroom. -"So Mick, huh... Oh, hell... Sorry dude, gotta heed the nature's call."- After heeding this call, Tyler got distracted by a song, that was playing in bar. He felt nostalgia, as he remembers how he heared in when he was back in school, but couldn't find out it's name. Song being not in English only made it harder to find out. but thankfully, now he had a chance to finally find the song name. Bartender knew it and it felt great! Worthy of celebrating with another shot! How many shots did Tyler consume? Well, he didn't count, but surely if he doesn't stop being like that, morning consequences will be dire and ugly.

But they will be later. And now, gotta party hard! Unwind the hell after all these inspections and basement cleanings back home! And a particulary nasty vole, that bit his finger a week ago! Work hard! Play even harder! Looks are already rather unusual, black band T-shirt and a shoulderguard with small decorative spikes with harness, plus long hair, already attracted some attention, so why not attract a bit more with partying? And so, he went on partying for a while, and after a short dance on the table, he thought, that now he wants some fresh and cool air. He walked to the hotel lobby and soon stumbled across some guy with a "Whacker" in his hand. -"Ya' better put it away, cowboy... unless ya' wanna make these fine gentlemen on reception think, that ya' wanna rob them. Just a friednly advice..."-Tyler observes a wasteland merc. Even in drunk-as-hell state, he sees, that the gods didn't exactly bless him with intelligence. Still, he has a potenital for being a drinking buddy.-"Now, that we met... I am Tyler, a jolly dude from a far place, enjoyin' da' life! Wanna drink?"

[New San Andreas Republic]

Stockholm Hotel and Bar

What is one of the places, where Sky Reaver can be found most often? What is the place, that Sky Reaver has passed in the shortest joke? What is the place where one can hear rumors? It's a bar naturally! Tyler just sat there after leaving his backpack with clothes in the hotel room. Not the best place, sure, but hey! It has bed, power and water, what else does one need from a place to sleep and store excess items in?

Looks like he decided to familiarize himself with Swedish alcoholic drinks, such as brannwin. Bartender's greeting "What would you like?" was responded with -"Howdy there! I heared, that there is nice Swede booze, caleld brannwin and I would like to try some! Yeah, we do have that stuff back at home, but I wanna try some authenic stuff, made here in it's own native... how do ya' call it... oh, right! Enviornment! Yes, since I am here, why not go on a good ol' booze safari? So, I'd like a few shots of this nice booze!"-After getting wanted alcohol, Tyler sampled it and decided to have some talk about rumors. One of them was about a group, called Initiative, as if they might return or something like that... Tyler only knew, that they were some sort of terrorist bunch, if there is a memorial in honor of those, killed by this group. Maybe that's why Liam parted with the ticket so easily after losing a game of cards? Either way, he is there, so it's best to enjoy the place to it's fullest.

Tyler would engage in a talk with bartender, telling him about his homeland and what he did for living. -"And that's how I got that scar on my right arm! That was no epic brawl with some robber or something... That was just me getting careless in a basement and accidently cutting arm with a sticking nail, while looking for a rat nest. Or, I remember that discovery of a wasp nest. Oen second it was quiet, but then, when I opened that board, a swarm of wasp flooded all the attic, buzzing like an old airplane! And the funniest stuff is that initially, I was called to get rid of fleas... Eventually, I found the place they came form thankfully... that was some old dog bedding on attic."-Then he decided to tell a few stories of how he passed his free time. About some more memorable parites and travels.

After a few more drinks, Tyler felt euphoric and talkative, seeking for attention and new friends. He found a rather tall balding man in brown suit. Thinking, that he lamented something, he decided to at least try and cheer him up and bought him a not-too-expensive drink and some snack and tried to have some talk with him, but Tyler's bladder suddenly showed another opinion and had him to quickly run for the bathroom. -"So Mick, huh... Oh, hell... Sorry dude, gotta heed the nature's call."- After heeding this call, Tyler got distracted by a song, that was playing in bar. He felt nostalgia, as he remembers how he heared in when he was back in school, but couldn't find out it's name. Song being not in English only made it harder to find out. but thankfully, now he had a chance to finally find the song name. Bartender knew it and it felt great! Worthy of celebrating with another shot! How many shots did Tyler consume? Well, he didn't count, but surely if he doesn't stop being like that, morning consequences will be dire and ugly.

But they will be later. And now, gotta party hard! Unwind the hell after all these inspections and basement cleanings back home! And a particulary nasty vole, that bit his finger a week ago! Work hard! Play even harder! Looks are already rather unusual, black band T-shirt and a shoulderguard with small decorative spikes with harness, plus long hair, already attracted some attention, so why not attract a bit more with partying? And so, he went on partying for a while, and after a short dance on the table, he thought, that now he wants some fresh and cool air. He walked to the hotel lobby and soon stumbled across some guy with a "Whacker" in his hand. -"Ya' better put it away, cowboy... unless ya' wanna make these fine gentlemen on reception think, that ya' wanna rob them. Just a friednly advice..."-Tyler observes a wasteland merc. Even in drunk-as-hell state, he sees, that the gods didn't exactly bless him with intelligence. Still, he has a potenital for being a drinking buddy.-"Now, that we met... I am Tyler, a jolly dude from a far place, enjoyin' da' life! Wanna drink?"

No (Gun) Running In My Lobby
The First Meeting Between Two of Many

---

Randy didn't miss a beat. Though he had been confusedly staring at the reception staff as they desperately and frustratedly attempted to communicate the phrase 'Hello sir, you would like a room?' to him, the entry of this friendly-sounding fellow had disarmed him. Not literally, though. As he turned to speak to the Tai-ler who'd just introduced himself, he turned with his bludgeoning instument of a pistol still in his hand. By turning, it became obvious that will it was made of silver and should have been quite un-worn, the handle of it was caked with dried blood and bent. He really was using the .45 Pistol as a 'Whacker'.

"Hi, Tai-Lerr. A drink? I'd love one, mostly because the guys here told me I'm not allowed to drink from the big fountain thingy over there. I don't get it. It's just water! Anyway, I'm Randy... Randy... uh, goddamnit, what was the rest of this again?"

It appeared that Randy, not exactly disproving Tyler's first aspersion of him, had forgotten his own name. A look that somehow he seemed familiar to overcame him, a look of child-like uncertainty and of a strained effort to think, as he looked upwards and stuck his tongue out. "Umm... umm." It was no use. He needed visual stimulation if he was going to remember this. Keeping his completely mis-used .45 Pistol in his left hand, Randy made a quick 'one second' gesture with his free right hand and dove into his leather jacket pockets. Eventually, he pulled out a worn and odd looking blue passport and looked inside it. Flipping to a page that had been visibly worn from constant use, Randy smiled and looked back at Tyler.

"Ah, I'm... Randall Adelstein.. Eye-Eye. You know, like a pirate? Aye-aye? That always makes me smile, though I don't know why Mom and Dad named me like that. And why the hell they chose to spell it with just two letters? Even someone like me could make a better name than one with just 'II'?... Hey, did you want anything... a drink, right?"

Tyler gave an exasperated and sort of obvious 'Uh-huh' nod, the kind of nod you give someone when the phrase 'No shit' would work verbally. However, though he had nodded, his smile remained and his eyes clearly went over to the pistol-whipper still held in Randy's left hand. He kept looking back at the gun, then making eye contact, then back at the gun. Over and over, to the degree it was obvious he was hinting something to the simpleton. As always, it took about 20 seconds of a slack-jawed stare and confused eyebrows for it to click in Randy's brain ratting around in there what Tai-Lerr meant.

"Oh, my whacker? For-Five? Right, you said they might think I'm robbing them if I hold this out. I wouldn't do that. I might be a mer-canary, and a secret killer for hire, and a maimer for hire... really just hurting people, but I do not steal. I would never rob anybody. Especially since Fiends did it so much to me. Robbing people is mean, and only something I do if someone pays me. People usually just give me money when I show them For-Five, you know? I think people love her just as much I do. Even some nice guys outside! But I'll put it away, since you've been so nice. I'm sure I can show you her later. Let's go get that drink."

Randy immediately and quickly put his weapon in his holl-ster, and walked away from the reception towards his new buddy Tai-Lerr. The reception staff immediately breathed a collective sigh of relief, freed from the Sisyphean task of having to deal with this moron. And as payment for wasting their time and failing to actually book a room despite all the effort expended, the staff wouldn't bother telling Mr. Adelstein here about the money stack he'd left on the table and not lazily shuffled into his ammo bag of luggage.

After quickly shaking Tyler's hand, and putting a warm hand on his shoulder as they walked back towards the bar, Randy smiled at him and said something he probably thought would be a friendly thing to say to a new pal.

"Hey, you know, Tai-Lerr, when you say 'cowboy' you sound a lot like some of those nice NSAR folks back in the Senora. Keep talking like that, I find it funny."

Dumb as Randy was, at least he was indeed a drinking buddy.

[Ardchu]

At least I thought I slept. The bar was very noisy. I found myself awake in the middle of the night. The time when the owls were about. In Eagle's name, I hated owls. Not even willing to give their prey the satisfaction of knowing what killed them. Cowards. Anyway, I wanted to know what the fuss was about at the bar. I didn't want to give myself away, humans generally didn't take kindly to large birds of prey wandering around in tight spaces. I got up onto the roof, and glided down to the sign saying "hotell". I peered inside. There were a lot of people, most of them drunk. I scoffed. Humans. So ignorant. But at the same time, rather admirable. They had made many things to make lives easier, for many species. Sure, then they treated those species as lesser, and oftentimes slaves, but it made life easier. Suddenly, my foot slipped. No. NO! I could not be seen here. Humans have serious disdain for non-humans like me. They hate that I'm not a "stupid bird".

thump

I landed in a snowbank, a large puff of snow going up above me. There was no way the humans inside didn't see that. Crap.

[The Lower 139]

They had given him a hat on the flight. A washed many-a-time blood-stained yell-brimmed hat, looking somewhat like a boonie hat, a campaign hat, or a cowboy hat. A ripstop plant fiber hat. It was green, of course, but it was dyed.

Maximilian did like the hat, infact, he was wearing it.

STOCKHOLM ARLANDA AIRPORT, STOCKHOLM, [REDACTED]
LIKE, 7 IN THE MORNING, PROBABLY

The plane had to use Terminal 3, because of it's small size. The Cessna 170 swooped in for a landing, and in partial mistake of the person who had been working on it last- the landing gear popped right off. The pilot seemed unfazed, he had likely seen worse in his career. The copilot chuckled. "Slight bein' of a junky one, aye? Plane is ta' prefer lesser unwelldoing places, I do express." He said, with a smile on his face. Maximilian chuckled. Such is life. The plane skidded down the runway, like some sort of horrid unbelievable scene out of a Final Destination movie. The copilot turns again, to make a comment. "Plane a' will be in the process of towin' back to a locale that will be the place of yer' omittance from tha' plane. The copilot let out a hearty laugh.

Maximilian soon left the plane after grabbing his stuff, tipping his hat to the pilot. He buttoned up his coat in the front, and made his way to a door. He was in Terminal 3 now. Now to get the hell out of this airport.

He hastily and casually speedwalk-jogged his way over to the baggage claim, knowing an exit was nearby. Pushing the door open, he looked out, stopping abruptly. Someone bumped into him and said a pejorative in a language mostly unknown to him. He apologized in the best, most normal-est British English he could muster. The sky was cold and bleak, he noted. He then went on, and found a taxi. What fun. He fumbled through his wallet to find some cash to pay the driver. He fumbled some dollars over to the driver, and mumbled the words. The taxi sped off.

Maximilian hopped out of the taxi and waved goodbye to the driver, who was unimpressed. It was quite chilly outside, and he shivered. Judases was moderately warm, and this- was not. He stepped into the hotel, unsure if he was going to meet any strangers here. He checked in, and stepped into the elevator. Hell, this elevator- being a relatively normal one, of course, was not trying to smash around and kill him. It felt nice, for once. The elevator opened at the corresponding floor, and he stared at paintings as he went past them. He locked eyes with a... Nevermind. Probably just someone passing by. He thought nothing of it as he scanned the opener to his door. He walked in, forgetting to lock the door. He collapsed on the bed, relieved...

[Sky Reavers]

-snip for convenience-

Tyler observed Randy's "Whacker". Clearly, many skulls have been cracked with it judging from it's handle with old blood stains. -"Randal, huh? Just... If ya' demonstrate a gun, show the part, ya' bash folks with, and don't point the hole' at the people, cuz... bullets fly outta it, ya' know and people don't like this.
And pretty please, don't ya' show it to cops, cuz they are jumpy sort. Ya' probably seen the AK-47 on my back... Such a beauty. Old, but reliable. I'll turn back to ya', so ya' could see this weapon better."-Tyler tried to communicate with a merc in a way, he would understand the message and then briefly turns back, so Randy could observe his assault rifle better. An AK-47, but wooden parts painted in black, light blue and with some white stripes. On it's stock one coul read "For XXL pest.".- "Gotta admit I didn't use this gun much... Just one case, during the cleaning of a particulary nasty abandoned night club on the town's outskirts. There were many compliants, so when I was called, I expected all sorts of nasty things, but what I seen... exceeded my boldest expectations. I met there not only rats and roaches, but also a serial killer with a knife. Shot him dead with a burst... Bastard almost got me. But usually, I carry it around just in case and hope I won't need to use it."- Tyler told about his weapon and then proceeded to the bar again, but now with a drinking buddy. Stupid, yes, but still better than no one at all.

-"And Aye, Aye, means, that you are like... Randall The Second. Named after your granpa... I don't think, that your mama and papa loved pirates that much. Even if you are bashing folks with pistol handle, like a pirate, who just shot a bullet from his old flintlock and enterd good ol' melee."- Tyler wanted to offer him to get a blade, but then thought, that this guy could manage to cut himself even with a toy knife. But, then Tyler thought, that if this guy somehow managed to bash some foes to a pulp with a rather sub optimal melee weapon, then he is actually has intelligence hidden deeply. Or at least, he is not a complete moron, so he offered the advice anyway. -"If ya' love pirates, why don't ya' get yourself a blade and fight with a gun in one hand and blade in the other? Like pirates did? Ya' know, yarr harr fiddle dee dee. Besides, it's longer and ya' can stab with it too. Melee weapons are awesome! We, Sky Reavers got a tradition, that when we carry weapons, we carry both ranged and melee if it's possible! I for example, got myself a nice hatchet with runes engraced on it!" Tyler thought to himself, that he'll have to be not only a Randall's drinking buddy, but also some sort of special education teacher.

Tyler and Randy after a handhsake, walked into the bar and there, Tyler decided to offer his pal a drink or two. -"Now, here we are! At the nice and jolly oasis! Lemme' buy ya' a shot of nice brannwin. A nice Swedish booze, cowboy! Cuz what to drink in Sweden if not local stuff? By the way, do ya' like the place? How is the local weather for ya'? I like it, cuz it's a nice and refreshing change after that heatwave back home..."

[Ardchu]

It hasn't seemed like they've seen me yet... that's good. They have weapons too?!?! No. No no no no no. I needed to get back to my luggage. I have a weapon in there. I slowly crawled my way out of the snow bank, and flew up to the roof. I dropped into the attic area I was trying to sleep in, and opened my pack. I took out a very nice revolver. Specially designed for birds like me, with less recoil so our fragile bones don't break. I smiled. I went back out, and checked the ammo. Loaded. Ok. I am able to defend myself now.

[New San Andreas Republic]

-also snipped for convenience-

"Sure, I'll take some of that... uhh, Swee-dish beer. No idea what you called it, but if that's what you drink in Hawaii, then it's what Randy'll have. Usually, I just drink whatever's in front of me. Beer, whisky, wine... one time I drank this stuff that this Brahmin farmer had left out for his stock, and he got real mad when I drunk it. Said it was special Brahmin medicine. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in an NSAR jail, and they were even more mad. Probably because I forgot my clothes. That wasn't a good day for Randy. Heh heh."

The two sat in quiet contemplation over whatever Randy had just said, listening to the gentle piano jazz music being played as they watched the bartender work on pouring both of them some of the beer Tyler had ordered. Randy recognized that despite Tyler still being a relative stranger to him, he needed to make an effort to make friends. It had been part of his New Year resolutions this year to make more, being only second to his goal of learning to tie his laces properly. Thinking of what little subjects that typically entered his mind even at his most brightest moments, he remembered what Tai-Lerr here had said about his gun and the weather and tried to bake some kind of conversation of those.

"Ahh.. Kay.. Four-Seven. Right. That's what you call yours. That's an awful long name, mister, but I guess we all got our own stories and names for things. It sure does look like it's good for whackin, but if it makes those loud bangs that other folk's whackers do, then I'm sure it scares the pants out of them. I've never bothered much with that, never saw the point, just sorta wham bam, thank ya, ma'am. With that part, there, ya' know? Nah, never saw much of the point, other than hitting folks with my whacker. I already got a blade, though, found it in a club. It was... ah, y'know, where those fellows before the war used to drive them motorcycle things? They had all these crazy symbols and stuff on the walls, like with a windmill or something? One of those things. Anyway, point is, I found this and I use it for when my face-hair gets too long. Sometimes, I cut my face hair so hard, blood comes out and I have to wipe it on For-Five. Hee-hee, it's sneaky, see, because For-Five has so much blood on her whackin-part that you can't tell it's mine."

The thud of two beer glasses hitting the table in front of them interrupted Randy's pointless rambling and he licked his lips in anticipation of the icy brew going doing his throat. As he saw Tyler reaching to pay for it, Randy put another hand on his shoulder and went up close to his ear like he was whispering a secret.

"Wait wait, this is how they get you. Folks back home are always asking for these things when I want a drink. Back home, they usually want my caps, but here... well I think they'll want something else. And I have just the ticket... haha, watch this. I'm gonna trick this guy, and we're gonna get beer."

With a sly look on his face, Randy watched the bartender read out the money owed and gave a quick wink to Tyler as he watched him in confusion and slight concern as to whether Randy, in his idiocy and potential misunderstanding, was gonna try to avoid paying. And instead, Randy winked again and he almost sarcastically took a bunch of money from one of his luggage stacks and passed it over the bartender. The bartender's face lit up in surprise and shock at the complete overpay and felt he had to tell Randy.

"S-Sir, it was only three. You really don't need to pay that much, I only need three from you for the beer."

"No, no. You take the paper, sir. Trust me, this is a good deal is what you're getting here. All that paper... is DEFINITELY worth these delicious and frosty glasses of cold beer. Yup, a fair trade, just take the money."

The bartender hurriedly nodded and slid the money stack into his pocket, desperately trying to make sure his boss or anyone else watching for that matter oversaw this blatant display of over-tipping. He winked at Randy and quickly walked away to the back, probably to count what he'd just been given. The bar wasn't too full, so he could afford to miss out on one or two patrons for the month's salary he'd just been given. Tyler, meanwhile, stared at Randy in abject confusion and slight appreciation for Randy's unintentional yet kind-hearted generousity. He'd just made that barman's day.

"Haha, Tai-Lerr, did I tell you people are stupid or what? He just got a bunch of a paper... and we just got some beers! Haha, let's drink up."

The clink of two drink glasses and the subsequent glugging of their contents could be heard loud clear as day, even in the rooms above.

[Karazicu]

---

"Καλησπερα, Συεδια"
"Good Evening, Sweden"
Ioannis Mikelis - A field just outside Stockholm - Arriving at his destination

---

It was certainly a long journey, but I was finally making my approach to the place where I had my business to attend to. In a short while, I would finally be touching my plane down somewhere in a field located just outside of the Swedish capital after long hours of just sitting around in my plane. I could trust that the plane was would be able to work well with the lack of a runway; this plane could handle minimal, shoddily and hastily made runways decently, so perhaps it can handle landing out in a field well.

Before I made my landing, though, I felt a need to make sure that the goods were all good, and to make a quick inventory of what I had in store to sell to whoever was willing to buy. So, I stood up from the pilot's seat, made my way to the back, and took a look around the area in which I stored all my cargo. The cargo storage was quite densely packed and somewhat cluttered, but I had made sure to leave enough room so that I could walk from the door to the cockpit; no use in using the plane if the path to the cockpit was blocked and the plane was thus unflyable.

I inspected the crates with the goods I was transporting in them. I had the crates stacked up as high as could possibly be stacked before it became too painful to load and unload. I took a rough estimate of what was inside the crates. I packed a few guns of each type that I brought along with me into the crates. I estimated that I was bringing along with me about knockoff 55 FALs, 55 Zastava M70s, 65 P220s, 75 PMs... seemed right. Just right to make a good profit selling the weapons. I figured I could get some good deals with them, selling them for a bit more considering the demand in the region.

After I had checked up on the gear that I was packing along with me, I returned to the cockpit to begin my descent and eventual landing in the old icy field right in the outskirts of Stockholm, right out of the eyes of the authorities, where I was projected to meet with a few mates to help me unloading, transporting, selling, and protecting the goods in question. I wouldn't imagine they'd speak my language; Karazi was a considerably obscure language, after all, not spoken in many places outside Karazicu. Howeverm I did speak enough English, and they must be able to speak English as well...

The time came to finally bring the plane down for what might just be among the harshest landings that I have made in my whole career. Already, I saw the airstrip where I was to bring down my plane. It was truly an epitome of what it meant for an airstrip to be considered "minimal," for it looked to be little more than simply a flattened patch of snow, with only a single flare from below illuminating the place in which I was meant to land the plane. Other than that; there was little to make the landing easy. But, I was most certain this plane could handle it... could it? Yes, it could, I reassured myself. Just as long as I keep my cool, it'll land just fine. I brought the yoke towards me, hoping for a smooth landing. The icy, improvised runway was getting closer to me. Pretty fast, actually. It was at this moment I noticed I was coming in hot, a bit too hot for my liking. I needed to lower the speed... lower...

The runway was rushing towards me. I was mainly focusing on the instruments on the dashboard, trying to see that the plane was approaching the runway at the right speed. I just concentrated on the spedometer and the altimeter, making sure that the plane was coming in just right, so much so that I forgot to take into account the runway itself. It was only when the plane began to touch town that I diverted any attention to what was in front of the plane. Immediately, I had the brakes engaged as the plane began to shake harshly left-to-right upon touching the ground, even skiding off the runway for a brief moment of time before I brought it back on. It was a hard struggle to keep the plane working with me, and it seemed to defy anything I tried to do to try and control it. I was purely focused on getting the plane to cooperate with me, trying to bring this thing under control. I may very well even have had the effects of shutting my eyes tightly without even having to close my eyes at all. And then...

After all the struggles of trying to bring it under control...

After I had braced myself, perhaps even for a possible crash...

When things briefly felt like it was going to fall apart...




I had seemed to have undershot it a bit.

The plane was a bit far from where it was meant to be, just short distance away from the place in which I was supposed to land at, but it was still a notable distance that I would have to still use the engines to move it up. Well, I suppose it beats crashing into the runway, or into a shed...

I lightly applied the engines to nudge the plane forward to where I was intended to land. Then, I had to taxi the plane right into a nearby building that served as a hangar, and only then I could stop the engine, and make my way outside of the plane.

I opened up the extra-large door, and headed out the hangar. Immediately, I was greeted by a lovely view of the beautifly Nordic night sky... and a chilly blast of wind. That's how I knew I was in Sweden.

Kalispera, Suedija.

---

"Ανοιγμα για επιχειρσεις"
"Opening for Business"
Ioannis Mikelis - Field outside Stockholm -> Red Light District of Stockholm - Preparing the illicit business

Ioannus looking into his van containing the goods
(picture taken in ArmA III)

---

Right after the night sky and the freezing wind offered me their greetings, there were other people that were also ready to send their greetings to me as well. People that were arranged to help out with the business. There were three men who were here to help with the business; they were fellow gunrunners, fellows that were also looking to make some good cash, just like me. They approached the plane, and I got ready to greet them. They were dressed quite similarly to each other; black jackets, black headbands, and black pants well suited for a Nordic climate. As soon as I could see their faces, and they could see mine, they extended their welcomes to me, greeting me with a "Χαιρε." ^[1]

"Χαιρε," I responded. I was surprised to know that they knew Karazi. I thought it was a language that was only spoken in Karazicu, given its remoteness and isolation from the world. I suppose they must have taken it upon themselves to try and learn Karazi. I responded in kind,

"Ειστε εδω για να βοιθισετε, ναι?" ^[2]

The three looked at each other, looking a bit puzzled. They stood there for a bit before responding, in a slow, rather awkward tone:

"Έτσι... εμείς είμαστε οι άνθρω... άνθρωποι που αναλάβαμε να σας βοηθήσουμε με το λαθρε... μπόριο όπλων..." ^[3]

Never mind, it seemed. They don't speak Karazi at all; they just used Greek, not Karazi, and even then they weren't able to speak it right. Seemingly knowing that I was onto them not knowing my language, they then asked me, in Swedish:

"Talar du svenska?"

I didn't have any clue what they said considering that I didn't speak Swedish at all, so I just let them know:

"I speak enough English if that helps."

"Åh, han talar engelska. Det är bra," ^[4] the oldest-looking smuggler in the middle told the other two. "So, we are the other arms smugglers here that were assigned to help you out with the whole operation. We'll load whatever you have packed onto your plane into our van, then we'll take you right to where you need to go in order to sell them. We'll help with selling the goods, and providing some security to make sure we have no trouble with anyone, be they rivals or authorities. And of course, you're going to be paying us our share of the profits you make selling the guns here, yes?"

"Yes, I make sure you get paid your share."

"Very good. Now, let's get unpacking."

And with that, we began to transfer the crates of firearms I had stored in the plane right to the van they had parked nearby. It was also hard, back breaking labour here, but not so much so when there were four people doing the work than when it was just me, and when some of the goods had already been sold. I suppose I got to see the benefits of working with others for a brief period of time. It didn't take so long to transfer everything we needed into the van until it was ready. Unfortunately, we couldn't take everything in the plane at once; the van could only carry so much after all before it became too heavy for it to bear, and no space to fit everyone inside the van. We only had a single crate of grenades, a few launchers, and about 70 rifles and 100 handguns loaded inside. Perhaps it was for the better that we didn't end up putting all our eggs in one basket incase something bad went down. We would return to the plane once the entire shipment was sold.

"So, what are we going to be doing with plane? I don't think is wise to just leave it there like sitting duck..."

"Don't worry about it. We'll have some men standing guard near your plane so to make sure nothing bad happens to it, and to make sure authorities don't notice it."

After we loaded the stuff into the van, we all got into the van, with one of the smugglers taking the wheel, me sitting in the passenger seat, and the other two sitting in the back. The man behind the wheel kicked off the engine and drove off for Stockholm. On the way there I just looked outside the window of the van, just taking in the lovely Nordic sky for a bit longer, enjoying some of the nature that passed by. There wasn't much to do in the van, after all, and I wasn't one to make small talk with others. Did have to keep myself awake in case we encountered any sort of problems, keep my head on a swivel. So, to keep myself from dozing off, I figured I might try and get some more information on our general plan to sell. So, I asked the driver,

"So... where we going?"

"The Red Light District of Stockholm. It's a very good place to go for those who wish to set up some more questionable business there. Plenty of vice to go about, many things that may go wrong. But, if you know your way around there, you could stand to benefit from all the sin and vice there. And that's part of the reason we're here with you; help you navigate the place for the most profit possible, make sure absolutely nothing goes wrong for us in the process."

"Got it."

We sat in silence for a brief moment until he asked,

"How long have you been in this business?"

"About nine years."

"Nice to know. Me and the others, we've been in this business for fifteen. After spending so much time working together, we become brothers. We can count on each other to do the best we can working together, depending on each other to survive and thrive in the smuggling underworld. We do many great things working with each other."

"Nice. I generally prefer alone."

A few more moments of silence.

"Not much for talking, are you?" the driver asked of me.

"Not really, not too big on talking."

"Heh, just like our neighbours to the east, the Finns. Very quiet and reserved peiple, they're not much to talk either."

"Like me, I suppose."

We sat silently for the rest of the trip, until we made it within the city limits of Stockholm. And what I saw inside was a city most beautiful, beyond what I have ever seen in my entire life. Well made buildings, beautiful structures, and a general feeling of peace about the place. These were sights that I wouldn't find over in the places I usually flew to; this city was far beyond what my home country could achieve. This really must be what it meant to be developed.

"Welcome to Stockholm. Beautiful, no? Sadly, this isn't where we're selling; the police would probably be on us the second we open up here, since their reach here is normally good, too good. We're going to the Red Light District where they don't have such big a presence, where all the vice and all the illicit stuff is allowed to take hold."

And I could tell that we were where we were meant to be selling, when I saw many red lights eminating from inside the buildings. That, and when everything seemed to instantly become shittier. Structures in varying states of disrepair, grafitti of all sorts just everywhere, a dirtier street, clearly poorly maintained roads, all topped off with a dicey feeling about it, like someone was just waiting to come out and attack us with the intent to deprive us of our things, or even our lives. Just like home sweet home, in case I was feeling homesick...

We eventually pulled up into a dark alleyway, and then the driver stopped the van and cut off the engine. This is where we would be selling. Hopefully well out of the sight of any peering authorities, we could open up shop. With that, we stepped out the vehicle, and we got our weapons at the ready. I already had a PM holstered, but I had a feeling I could use some extra firepower. So I picked up and slung an M70 rifle and four clips to go with it.

We opened up the back door of the van, and took a good look inside, making sure everything was ready to go, that everything was in order. Everything looked just right for business, so with that, I did just one more thing before we were ready for business; I took a canister of spray paint and put up a capital Sigma on the wall; wherever you could see a big Σ, you could likely find the goods of Smyrka Industries. Now, with everything finally out of the way, we were ready.

Ready for business.

^{[1] "Greetings."
[2] "You're here to help, yes?"
[3] "So... we are the people... people who were assigned to help with the arms... smuggling thing..."
[4] "Do you speak Swedish?"
[5] "Oh, he speaks English. That's good."}

[Sky Reavers]

Tyler didn't belive, that Randal would just give lots of money to bartender like that and not for the reason of kindness or getting some really sensitive information. As far as Tyler knew, if Randall was a Sky Reaver warrior, he would've made a grunt, who has fighting prowess and mettle of an adult Spanish bull! And half the intelligence of this bull, but high as a kite. A warrior, who must be nannied around by his comrades, for he is the sort, who can clear the room of well trained enemies by bashing them all with a pistol and then ending up in Valhalla after putting his fingers in a socket. -"That one bartender dude gotta be kissed by the Lady Luck herself and won a jackpot! Look, ya' did well in gettin' the drinks, but I am gonna tell ya' a way to get more items for less tickets. Look... See the numbers on these tickets? These are how many caps those tickets cost in these strange lands. For example, this one is worth one cap, so with it you can buy something, that costs one of their local cap. You folks use caps, these folks use papers instad of caps for convenience. Just look at their value and the value of a thing ya' wanna buy. Oh, and don't pay here with caps... people don't use them here, so you are better off using them back home."- Tyler's face got red from both all the alcohol he drank and embarrassment because trying to explain simple things in a language Randall will understand makes him also look like a total idiot, as he tries explaining a grown man how to use money.

And now, Tyler drank down another round to forget about embarrassement. Why should he be embarrassed? He is like a father, trying to guide his kid. If he was less delicate and polite, his face would be black and purple from intense facepalming.

He decided to exhange tales about homelands. -"Well, I am also no local, as you have probably noticed, that local men dress differently that I do. They usually don't wear parts of armor, ammo necklaces and long hair... I am from Sky Reaver territory, a lush, overgrown land of freedom, warrior pride and victorious revolution, where in 1982 we have defeated a tyrant, who oppressed us for 25 years and now enjoy copious booze, gambling, sex, cannabis, and tech. That's why I dress a bit differently from local folks."-Tyler took a gulp for skald's inspiration and continued. "Before the age of oppression, our country was under the name of Enthorea and it used to have an enlightened and highly sophisticated culture. We also refused violence as something barbaric... sadly, our pacifism resulted in our doom, when Edgar came with an army of mercenaries and then he and his friends started to oppress us and destroy our culture. For 25 years, we have suffered and toiled, being merely slaves for church, state and corporations. Until we have revolted and despite all odds, we have conquered our lands back. And yet lost our past culture. In search for new inspiration, we have divided into factions, that have been unified. And so, we are formed from four main factions and many lesser ones.

I could tell ya' more about them. About Neoners, who preserved the scientific legacy of old Enthorea and provide us with cutting edge tech. About Syndicalists, the worker collectives, who have captured factories during the revolution and now handle most of our industry. About Cowboy Republic, farmers and gunslingers, who grow food and make guns. Or about Chillax Dudes, who are the spirit and heart of our nation and attract tourists. I am from Chillax Dudes by the way...

If you want, you can also tell about your homeland. I would be interesting to hear..."-Tyler decides to talk about homes, the places, where the hearts are. This night promises to be a fun one.

[Insulamia]

‎

Flighthaven
Melinda Peverell

LISNO-FASTERING INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT • SFEYEFFLEGHAVEN, FASTERING, LISNO, CARJACK • 18:02

IT WAS BLISSFUL, it was surreal. For a brief moment, she felt the most serene and at ease she had felt in a long time; the thoughts that had before cluttered her head have floated away with the wind. She was seated in a building with a view of a dark expanse, waiting for something that would not arrive for a while, as a heavy storm battered upon the ground beyond the glass, only barely illuminated by little lights dotted in regular patterns. Crash, crash, crash. The torrents come and go, and despite their aggressiveness; the downpours, the thunders, and the winds are strangely...beautiful. For her, this was as close to nirvana as it gets.
But like all good things, the serenity came to an end. And quite quickly, too. The thoughts, along with the anxiousness, came rushing back into her head in waves, just like the rain on the other side of the glass. Insulamian television network Channel 4's Northern Europe Correspondent — Melinda Albertovna Cusningstove Peverell — was seated in Terminal 3B of Lisno-Fastering International Airport, waiting for the Köniksölskapefflegerey flight KF17 scheduled to depart at 18:30. She was going to Sweden — said to be one of the safest countries in the world — to investigate an alleged increase in organised crime activity and illegal weapons smuggling. Although it was a relatively obscure and definitely dangerous topic, Peverell believed that what she could uncover may be a metaphorical journalistic gold mine. And she hoped that she and her Swedish colleagues could get to it without triggering the countless traps, both metaphorical and literal, that lined the way.
A tone, followed by a voice, came over the loudspeaker. "Dë fleg K-F-1-7 is 27 minuten försinat po grun fe dorligveyjerförhalden. The flight K-F-1-7 is delayed by 27 minutes due to bad weather conditions."
Oh, well. Nirvana had to come with a cost, she supposed.

[Black Raven Movement]

"I summon thee from thy wake, Oh Lord!"

STOCKHOLM, SCANDINAVIA, FROM ANTONINS JOURNAL

Fuck Lufthansa.

No, seriously. Flying there was some of the most egregious bull I’ve seen. Now, their service wasn’t bad at all, it was just the fact that the pilot flew us through a warzone, Northern Germany, and almost got us shot down twice. The audacity to almost kill us and others just trying to get to Stockholm peacefully with utter disregard to human life is baffling.

That out of the way, the serenity of Kat, I, and the guy to my right was beautiful. Almost wish he didn’t nearly shit himself when he saw where we were 27,000 above: a….white phosphorus strike?

The hell?

---

We made it to the hotel. I don’t know what to say, really. It’s jarring being in a foreign country, more so one you haven’t been to in years since some misanthropes decided becoming the edgier IRA was of sound practice. The feeling of the place was nice, but it had a heavy, damn near menacing feeling. It felt oppressive.

I told this to Kat,

“Hey babe,”

“Yes?”

“You feel anything weird about this place?”

“It feels chilling, almost heavy. Definitely more than how it is outside.”

“So I’m not alone.”

“You are not, yes. What else do you feel?”

“An almost hellish sense of…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t think the paintings are helping either.”

Had to be the Goya artwork. Saturn Eating His Son never didn’t scare the shit out of me. The dozens of surrealist paintings aren’t helping either. Feels like a madhouse turned hostel. It’s either a former psych ward some company bought, or fucky shit happened here.

I don’t want to know what happened.

---

Once we got everything in our room, we needed to figure out where to go.

“Any idea on where to go?” I said.

“I’m still tired from the flight man. I just want to rest.”

“We can rest for a bit if you want.”

“Two hours, please?”

“Sure.”

“Then we can go where you want. You proposed, after all.”

“Red Light district? It sounds interesting.”

“We can check it out.”

“Sure.”

---

I woke up instantly. She was still asleep. I couldn’t finish the nap. I keep hearing screeches, shrieks, and screams from the hallway. I went to go investigate. That lead me to the room down the hall, to the left.

It was a news correspondent.

I saw her, but she didn’t see me. Think she was talking about the Red Light district. The noises won’t stop.

I see Apis for a slim second.

God, help me.

---

[Lollipop Torture Force]

After I turned from the front desk it took all of thirty seconds to see the sign leading me to the bar. A night cap will settle my nerves and make the world if not sweeter, less loud.

Crossing the threshold I remind myself, but not Oblivion. Not here not yet. As I near the bar I point to the beer on tap.
“Snail a do” That earns me a raised eyebrow and I shrug in response.
“Here you go.” he responds in full english as I slide the cash over. Okay so I guess it is english we will be using. Fine by me.

Looking around I consider the tables. Men always look like they are getting stood up sitting at tables alone so I sit at the bar several stools away from the bartender and check my phone. I go to messages to be sure but there is nothing new.

Halfway through the beer I start regretting the stool choice when some biker musician looking guy shows up. I can’t help but hear his tales and piece together he is more on the gang gun for hire side than musician. Refers to himself as a bit of an adventurer and I can’t even pretend I’m not rolling my eyes. I know the type. Plays fast and loose with life and has nothing to live for so acts like he isn’t afraid of death. He is nothing to me but a night's entertainment.

Until he turns to me. I look at my beer but he starts talking to me anyway. Can’t he see I just want a drink? I take another sip and start wondering if it is worth the cost to stay and finish it. Twice I try to excuse myself but this Tyler either ignores my attempts or is deaf to them.

As the minutes go he orders smorgasbord and another beer for me and a moment later an open faced smoked salmon sandwich appears cut in two. I feel like he is buying my company now. Or worse he is pitying me. I am still thinking of getting away but my stomach gurgles audibly in anticipation and it is all I can do not to cram the whole thing into my mouth.

I have been distracted and I am not taking care of myself. I thank him, hoping it sounds genuine and start in. His antics are a little less painful. The urge to look at my phone remains but I leave it in my breast pocket lest he see some message.

And just like that he was gone and I am baffled. Then decidedly alone again.

I am used to this kind of casual momentary friendliness and can feign it myself, though it is usually at the poker table rather than a nearly empty bar. I consider being more friendly on his return but he is too drunk and parades himself around the bar. All the better. I eat the rest of the smoked salmon and start in on the second beer.

Now that I am alone I think about a whiskey. A vodka. Anything that will bring oblivion. Instead my hand goes to my breast pocket and I don’t pull anything out, but the wooden beads beneath the fabric remind me of the cost of oblivion and I go to my phone.

No new messages. Continuing with my beer the bar suddenly feels quiet with the loud mouthed mercenary’s departure and I wonder if it is time to head up. I am not much of an early bird but there seems little enough around here to keep me besides oblivion.

Though just as I fish the cash from my wallet I am treated with the return of the loud mouthed mercenary and what could only be described as his compatriot. Weighing my options I do not need a long drawn out conversation but figure one more beer would do me well enough. Tapping the glass I get my refill and watch in abject horror that the enormous hulking roughian with a pistol opens his mouth.

Throwing around cash and rambling about his caps I am utterly confused at first and realize the dolf isn’t even drunk yet. As Tyler describes in excruciating detail the concept of money it is all I can do to gulp my beer rather than break out laughing. It isn’t nice to laugh at the challenged I tell myself. That’s what shitty people do. I am not shitty, I remind myself. I am trying not to be shitty.

I try to swallow and end up coughing as the loud mouthed one starts referring to the Chillax Dudes. Okay now I am going to be shitty. I need to get out of here. They may have burned their brain cells away in coke and whiskey but they are still very armed.

As I stand I consider sending them a round on me. Why? I think about all that cash they threw around. Then I chuckle to myself again. Slide the bartender enough for a few rounds and head out.

“Have a few on me my dudes!” I don’t know if they realize I am making fun of them. The big guy probably not but either way booze has a way of lightening a blow and I head for the exit.

[Karazicu]

---

"Τολαχιστον δεν υπιρχε πολιцια"
"At least there were no police"
Ioannis Mikelis - Streets of Stockholm - Heading to a Hotel

Ioannus checking into the hotel
(picture taken in ArmA III)

---

It turns out today would be much slower day for business than I had anticipated it to be.

Nobody showed up at our little shop today. We weren't able to sell so much as a single bullet to another interested buyer. I wondered why nobody was willing to even stop by for a brief period of time... I figured this could attributed to the fact that the knowledge you could likely find Smyrka Industry's goods wherever you could see a white capital Sigma painted on the walls wasn't quite known to the minds of the Swedish people just yet as it would have been in other places like Poland, Serbia, or any other Eastern European nation, or the fact that our store wasn't the most visibile one out there in the entire Red Light District. I suppose that if there was anything good to take away, I could at least take it as a sign the local police were not onto our little business quite yet...

"Well, this is quite unfortunate for us," the English-speaking smuggler said as the time came to close up our shop so as to get ourselves some rest for the day. "Too bad nobody seems to be interested in our goods. I suppose we'll try selling our guns tomorrow, see if anyone else might be willing to stop by and buy, or maybe even get a chance to deliver. In the meantine, we're going to need some rest. I know a hotel where we can get a decent night's sleep."

With that, we began to close up shop. We put away our rifles so as not to draw too much attention or look conspicuous in front of the people, and stored them inside the van. I still kept my PM pistol in the holster I had with me. One of the other smugglers got into the driver's seat of the van. I was told that he was going to move the van to some other place where it should remain uncovered, in some kind of warehouse a good distance away from here. In the meantime, the other two smugglers I got into another car that they had parked nearby, to get us far from this alleyway to the place where we would be staying for the nights. We would likely return to this place soon. As soon as the van took of to where it would be hidden, we also began to drive off to the hotel we'd be staying at.

It was a bit of a long drive to get to the hotel. As we drove there, I could see the sights outside the windows slowly begin to improve from what I saw. Less red lights, and less shoddy-looking buildings fell under my eyesight as we moved away from there. It certainly looked to be a bit more pleasent, bit I know that even if we weren't in the Red Light District, I still needed to keep my head on a swivel, and I still had to keep myself aware of my surroundings, just in case any rival criminals or police officers were to suddenly pop out at us and take our things. I still had to stay quite paranoid, on guard waiting for the unexpected...

Luckily, it was a smooth trip to the hotel; nobody who would have interfered with us appeared out of the dark. We were able to make it to the block where the hotel was located with no trouble to deal with. And we had made certain that nobody followed us to where we were staying; nobody did. We'd be staying here for the rest of the night to rest and perhaps take a short break until it was safe to begin selling again, then it would be back to that alleyway to try selling again. We hoped that somebody would show up, or hoping that for the time we'd be roaming around Stockholm, someone would offer to have us deliver our product to them.

I stepped out the car, but the other two stayed inside, and they did not follow me into the building. They explained that they would be staying at other hotels so that we wouldn't all end up being caught together, ensuring that if something were to happen to one of us, it would hopefully be limited to just them, minimising the risk to the entire crew getting arrested or killed off at once, extending the longetivity of our group. They also said that they would come back here in the afternoon of the next day, and until then I was free to do as I wished, so as long as I kept a low profile and I was in the hotel by afternoon. I understood, and I made my way into the hotel as they drove off. I headed directly to the front desk, and it didn't take too long to be speaking with the employees there; it was quite late into the night, so there was no large crowd to deal with. I rented a room for the night, and I headed directly to the room which I was assigned. I would need to get some good rest to keep myself sharp for the next day, so I headed directly to the bed in the hotel room, where then closed my eyes, and rested. I did not rest too easy; I needed to be half-awake, ready to respond should someone come for me...

I had but light rest throughout the entire night.

[Insulamia]

‎

A Trilingual Cabbie
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN • 21:19

THE STORM DEPARTED LISNO but arrived in Stockholm. Flight KF17 flew around Arlanda Airport in circles for what seemed like an eternity to Melinda Peverell, before finally making a landing that was almost an hour later than anticipated. She tried to enjoy the raindrops dancing outside her window, trying to recreate that little moment back in Lisno-Fastering, but her anxiousness made her uneasy and she soon gave up on it. Really should have taken up all that yoga and meditation stuff that Elisabeþ recommended, she thinks.
Although feeling dissatisfied, Peverell logically knew that there was no reason to fret. She had no plans for the evening except landing in Sweden and getting to the hotel to rest. When the plane came to a stop, she shot some quick texts to her family, her superiors, and the Swedish journalist partner who would be assisting her on this report. Her film crew of two — Hanna Jaksen and Terence Labut — followed Peverell as she disembarked the aircraft and entered the airport. Customs was a breeze; thank God for the Schengen Agreement; and soon enough, the trio were out of the airport. As she was a heavy advocate for public transport, Peverell felt a little guilty that she would be taking a cab to the hotel, but there were really no other options available, especially at this time, and especially for a group of foreigners. Still, she tried to justify this decision with her worldview: I guess you could consider cabs public transport too. I mean, it gives autoes more usage and keeps them from taking up space in parking lots for most of their existence.
Peverell hailed a black Volvo cab for the three. Entering the vehicle, she asked the driver in Cardish-accented Swedish: "Kan du...ta oss till Hotellet?" Can you take us to the Hotel?
Expectedly, the driver's response was one of confusion. "Vilket hotell?" Which hotel?
"Hotellet heter— ah...som heter "Hotellet". På Norrmalm." The hotel named "The Hotel". In Norrmalm.
"Ah, okej." The driver set the navigation and started heading off.
"Zë wikelik nant dë hotel "Dë Hotel". Vilt vir sër förwiren sper för veyen dër, ja?" commented Labut, in Cardish. They really named the hotel "The Hotel". It must be really confusing to ask for directions there, aye?
Before Peverell or Jaksen could respond, the driver said: "Ja, ät is sër." in flawless Cardish. Yeah, it is very.
"Du sig Kartisk?" asked Labut, incredulously. You speak Cardish?
"Ja, ik libt 15 jär in Karjeg. Ïr er Kartisk?" Yes, I lived in Carjack for 15 years. Vou are Cardish?
Jaksen replied: "Nun, wir ale liben in Karjeg, men— end ik bin Kartisk, men dïse tu viren fra Insulamia." Well, we all live in Carjack, and I am Cardish, but these two are from Insulamia.
"Min famili is fra Polland." said Labut. My family is from Poland.
"End min is fra Rusland, men...ät war fer mane generatïnen." added Peverell. And mine is from Russia, but it was many generations ago.
"Ah, ja... So, you all speak English?" the taxi driver said, albeit with a noticeable accent.
Peverell laughed and covered her mouth. "Oh, so this is becoming a trilingual conversation now, huh? Aye, we all speak English."
"Hah, yes..." said the driver. "It is hard for me to understand the...uh...accent of the Insulamians. Very...unique."
Jaksen shook her head and smiled. "I usually can't understand either..."
And after they all contained their laughter, the driver asked: "So, what are you all doing in Sweden?"
"We— I mean, I am a news reporter for the Insulamian TV network Channel 4. And these two are some excellent camera technicians who will be recording the footage to send to the Channel."
"Ah, yes, good. If I turn on the TV to Channel 4, will I see you?"
"Hah, well, for one, I think not that Insulamian channels broadcast on Swedish TV, but you can watch Channel 4 on their website, four.com.ia, and I am their Northern Europe correspondent. If you see any news about Northern Europe, chances are I'll be the one reporting on it. My name's Melinda Peverell, by the way."
"Yes, amazing. I am Stefan Tilersborg."
"And I'm Hanna Jaksen."
"Are we introducing names now? I guess I'm Terence Labut, then."
"Nice to know you all." said Tilersborg. "So, what is the news that you are reporting so you must to go in Sweden? Is it...uh...the NATO?"
"Ah, no— well, I suppose I might be reporting on that in the coming days." replies Peverell. "But the main story is about the rise of organised crime and weapons smuggling in Sweden."
"Oh, yes, okay. I know about this, I tell you... We have not seen the violence so bad since the time of the Sinister Initiative. You know what it is?"
"Not sure."
"Ah, it was...maybe still is...a kind of terrorists. Their ideology was like...anti-life, in a way; they think life is bad. A crazy group. Influenced by metal music. But they had much power. They killed many people, force them to suicide, so many horrific things. But then, I think, the movement just died off; of course, that is to be expected of a group who has the prime goal of killing themself, hey?"
"Oh, that's horrendous!" Peverell paused for a bit. "So, the violence in Sweden now, you say, is on the level of that, back then?"
"No, but it is rising very fast, and soon may be like so, even. I have — and I will tell you this because you are a journalist — I have had some passengers with guns, and they threat to shoot me when I tell them about the company policy of no weapons on in the auto."
"Wow, that's crazy."
"And especially in the Red Light District of Stockholm. Very little police there, plenty of crime. I saw people selling illegal weapons in an alley visible from the street, and the police had not did anything to them."
"Oh, wow..." muttered Peverell. "Would you like to be a part of our report on this? Seems like you know a lot."
"Too much..." Tilersborg chuckled. "But yes, of course, if you want me on your report, it is an honour."
"We can interview you on the program, as a local of the area."
"That would just be like...uh...the..." Tilersborg makes a hand gesture. "...what do you say...th-the— cherry on the cake?"
"Oh, yeah. The cherry on top." Peverell giggled. "So, how could I contact you?"
"I can...give you my mobile number."
And so they exchanged phone numbers and continued chatting. Before long, the cab arrived at the Hotel. The relentless rain has gotten even heavier, now mixed in with a little hail as well. Unfortunately, there was no path into the Hotel that avoided the weather, and they couldn't even make a dash for it, for the icy ground was slippery like butter. So after Peverell paid the fare and they all said their goodbyes, the three walked slowly towards the hotel with their luggage on their heads, as a means of protection from the pellets of ice that were falling from the sky.
Peverell spots a man talking to someone in a old black Mercedes. Though heavily accented, she is able to make out that it is English.
"...get killed or arrested together..."
Instinctively, she wanted to stop and take a closer look, but she didn't. Perhaps what stopped her it was her logic that the man might be a potentially dangerous himself, or perhaps it was an overriding instinct to get out of the cold. Either way, she was relieved that she chose not to, and she makes a note to herself to be especially cautious on this mission.
As soon as she stepped into the foyer of the hotel, she hears Jaksen quietly but quickly ask in Cardish: "Hört du ät?" Did you hear that?
Peverell made a shhh noise and Jaksen nodded understandingly. They checked into the hotel and walked past three unkempt drunkards at the bar, heading towards their rooms.
Although the hotel looked to be a little dated from the outside, it was clear that the inside had been given a renovation. Peverell's room was sleek and modern, but there was nothing more to it than that. It was just like the countless other hotel that she had occupied throughout her travels. The incomprehensible shapes of the contemporary art on the wall above the bed were the only hints of colour in the room, while looking at the rest could make one feel like one was in a movie from the 40s.
Peverell started to unpack her belongings, intending also to have a shower later, but then she took a glance out of the window. A blurry shape flew past, falling towards the ground. Curious, she peered out and observed that it was an eagle. It flew back up, presumably onto the roof or into the attic. After a few seconds, she saw the eagle again, but now holding...is that a revolver?!
She believed that she must have been imagining things, with her terrible tiredness mixing the gun smuggling situation on her mind. Forget it, the night was long enough as it was; she couldn't finish unpacking and showering now. It was time for some sleep.

[Karazicu]

---

"Σκανδιναβικος καφες"
"Scandinavian Coffee"
Ioannis Mikelis - Bar of the Hotel - Having breakfast

---

When morning came, I was still tired as hell.

I only slept lightly last night. As much as it helped me stay aware and ready to act in case someone were to suddenly bust into my room, it certainly ended up cutting into my sleep. It didn't help that I only really got... I believe somewhere five hours and a half? I wasn't able to think all that clearly, given how tired I was still. But this tiredness that comes with having shorter, less fulfilling sleep usually wore off a short time before I got to work.

I washed my face with cold water to help wake me up, made my way out of my room, and groggily, half sleepwalking, made my way to the bar of the hotel. I decided today I would take a sandwich and some eggs to eat... and some coffee to drink with it as well. I heard that coffee in Scandinavia was good. Back in Karazicu, the coffee wasn't the best; it was usually bland, with only a slight touch of vague bitterness, and usually didn't give much energy to those that drank it. Usually, the only thing other than water that we Karazis drank was wine, the sort one would drink just to get drunk than to enjoy the flavour, or some other kind of alcohol. And as nice as alcohol was, I couldn't afford to be drunk while on business duty; it clouds the judgement and reduced productivity, and I had to have my wits about me doing what I needed to do. It's much easier to be taken advantage of when drunk. Coffee helped maintain the energy levels that I would need throughout a day of smuggling and to keep me alert.

My breakfast and the coffee I ordered came to where I was seated. I was told this coffee was a special sort of coffee unique to Sweden, known as "egg coffee." First thing I figured I'd do was try out the coffee, see how good it was. I lifted the mug, took a glance at the brown substance within, and then I raised it to my mouth, and I took a sip from the cup.

The taste certainly helped wake me up.

It had a real strong bitterness to it; it was a lot more bitter than any coffee I've ever drunk in my entire life, certainly more than what I was accustomed to. It felt a bit like a sensory jab, pushing me back quote a bit. Nonetheless, I was able to stomach it, and get on with eating the rest of my breakfast while contemplating my duties for the day. It is important to have a good breakfast to keep the energy up for the day...