[Violetian RP] Stories from Violetia

[Frandonia]

Part 5: The Big Stage

It was finally time. Today the entire squad leaves for the World Youth Tournament in Tvembov. The flight was scheduled pretty late for a morning trip so it took a while before the entire team gathered. Victor was already there, being one of the earlier members to arrive as he was a big fan of aviation infrastructure, especially large airports. It wasn't until 8:45 am that Theo finally showed up.

"Where were you?!" asked Victor. He was wandering around the airport for hours.
"What do you mean? The flight doesn't leave until 9:15..."
"That doesn't matter! What if you were late? Do you think there's anyone else here who can strategize like you?"
"Quite a fe-"
"Don't answer that. Anyway, you could've been here earlier. I've been wandering this airport for hours."
"Don't you like airports?"
"Yes, but it'd be nicer to do it with someone else."
Theo yawned, he did wake up only half an hour ago and he still needed some time to wake up "I'm not going to wake up three hours earlier just to wander around the airport. Anyway, going to the topic at hand... It's finally time for the tournament. You excited?"
"Well, that, and worried. There's a lot of good teams that we can end up in a group with. What if we have to face someone like Firnea, or Lunapoli? Hell, even Kiberia?"
"Just play your heart out. What else?"
"This is not a middle school soccer game..."
"Having fun's what matters, you dope. -3-"

With a bit of back and forth, the call was made for the entire team to finally get on the plane. The Illionar squad set off from Motorož towards Aleralsk, the capitol of Tvembov and the setting for the World Youth Tournament. About an hour and a half into the flight, Theo was casually listening to some music and doodling while Victor... did not seem so well. He seemed blue, or more accurately, purple, in the face (quite noticeable due to his bright red fur) and was trembling like a mad man. "Victor, are you okay?" Theo asked

"I-I-I-I'm fine! Totally! Totally fine!"
"You sure? You don't look so hot."
"I-I'M FINE!"

He yelled back into Theo's face right at the moment the aircraft hit some turbulence, which caused Victor to freak out and cling to Theo as if his life depended on it. Theo simply looked down to him, as he was clinging onto his arm and asked "... You're not comfortable with flying, are you?"

After a few more hours, the team finally landed in Tvembov. As they were walking off the plane trough the airport and out into the open in front of the airport, the air began feeling heavier around them. A sense of pressure surrounded both Theo and Victor as they stepped towards the coach to go to the hotel. On their way there, they saw quite a few sights of the city of Aleralsk. It's the first time either of them were out of the country, and while they enjoying sight seeing the entire way to their hotel, neither of the could shake the feeling that this is going to be a hard fight. They're going to battle against the strongest teams in the world, and it certainly won't be easy.

As the coach pulled up to a large building in the west of the city, the team began heading out and into the hotel. Theo, still nervous, was quiet for nearly the entire ride. But as he stepped out, he saw that his team won't be the only ones at that hotel. Looking to his left, he saw another coach... with the Firnean team walking out of it. He stopped as his team walked by him, he inspected the Firnean squad to see who they would be up against. He recognized quite a few players, as Firnea is one of the most publicized football communities in the world. But there's only one he wanted to spot, and as he saw her red hair, the suffocating feeling in his chest returned. Theo shook his head and went inside the hotel.

Later that evening, the teams were invited to a celebratory dinner, organized by the hotel staff, that welcomed all the World Youth Tournament teams staying at their hotel. The food was great, there was music and even a few activites in a corner of the hall. Theo stood up and went to the bathroom. But after he was finished, little did he know he was about to bump into someone he was very much thought about avoiding outside of the stadium.

[Firnea]

Rise of the Phoenix

Chapter V: The Very, Very Best

Everything had been going smoothly as of late. The Firnean U-17 defeated the pro team of the Dvergar Rangers 2-0, with Phoenix having scored a goal from a direct 21 meter free kick, and fifth-generation superstar Bianca Rogstad, sister to Eldur United central forward Rebecca Rogstad, having scored the other goal.
It seemed as though nothing would be able to stop these kids. However, one would be wrong to assume that.

On the flight to Tvembov in the middle of the night, when most of her jetlagged teammates were fast asleep, Phoenix kept staring out of the window, widely awake. Her heart was racing. It was one thing to be voted into the national U-17; another thing to defeat a Firnean Premier League pro team.
The inevitable encounter with the best players of her age - or, to be fair, her age plus one or even two years - hovered above her head like a Damocles sword. This was where the wheat would be sorted from the chaff. When the moment came and the referee whistled for her first match to begin, she would forget about all of this, and focus on what she does best - playing football.
Right now, though? There was no way she could get any rest.

"What's wrong, Phoe?"
Phoenix got startled by the voice of her teammate Rokne Gyldenløve sitting next to her. She shily scratched the back of her head and smiled.
"Ah, jeez, you scared me half to death... it's nothing, don't worry."
"Yeah, I know what "nothing" looks like, little one." Rokne grinned at her and ruffled her red hair, just the way she always did. "You're nervous as all hell, aren't ya?"
"No, I'm serious! I prefer taking the ferry, but I've been flying before... ow!"
Rokne went on to gently boop Phoenix' forehead with her index finger. "You know exactly what I'm on about. Don't play dumb, alright? I know you're a bright one."
Phoenix sighed and finally nodded. "Fine, fine... it's... you know, it's not like I hadn't seen tough competition before, but... but this? I'm just not sure if I'm up for the task anymore."

To Phoenix' irritation, Rokne would start chuckling. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, nothing." Rokne smiled widely. "It's just... gosh, I see so much of me in you."
Phoenix would blink a couple of times. "What do you mean?"
"Like... hah, you have no idea. When I was drafted for Eldur's pro team last year - you have no idea how many people were like "oh, she's just in the team because of her dad" and all that kinda bogey."
"What? That's just silly", Phoenix objected, crossing her arms. "You're our captain for good reasons. You're an amazing player!"
"Thank you! But, you see, even though you're right - if you keep hearing this kinda stuff, eventually, you start believing it yourself. I was wondering... "what the hell am I even doing here", you know?"
Phoenix merely gave a brief nod. She knew exactly how that felt like.
"So, after two weeks, we had a training match. The Starting XI against the B team."
"How'd it go?"
"We got our asses kicked", Rokne answered, laughing. "But that's not the point. I set up the only goal that our B team scored. I turned out to having both the best passing rate, and the best one-on-one rate in the midfield. So after the match, Coach Frostad comes walking over, pats my shoulder and goes like, "see, that's why you're here. Talent. Hard work. Keep going." And then I knew."

"So what you're saying is... I shouldn't doubt myself?"
"Easier said than done, am I right?" Rokne would laugh again. "Listen, you're saying I'm here for a reason, and you're right. But, why wouldn't the same apply to you? I mean, sure, hype isn't everything, but you've got fans all over the country because these people know you're a mega star in the making. Like, against Dvergar, you out-dribbled one of the fastest left backs in the Premier League, are you saying you forgot about that?"
"What you're saying would be more impressive if Logan Bourne hadn't blocked my shot afterwards", Phoenix mumbled, but Rokne shook her head.
"Barely! For crying out loud, Phoenix, take a damn compliment for once, or do I have to bop you again?"
"No, please!" Phoenix sighed again and couldn't help but to smile. "Alright, alright. It'll be fine. It'll aaall be fine."
"Yeah. But only if you shut your eyes, now". Rokne laid back in her seat. "You're gonna play like an 80 year old if you're not gonna catch any sleep."
That couldn't be argued with, and Phoenix knew.

The next day.

Phoenix felt a little uncomfortable at the dinner that evening. So many people, so many faces she'd only seen on television before.
Of course, she knew she didn't really have anything to worry about, but socializing had never really been her forte, even in spite of the fact she was quick to make new friends.
There were... too many of them. She tapped Rokne's shoulder, who was sitting next to her again, to tell her she would get a breath of fresh air, and stood up to leave the room.

In the hallway, she nearly ran over Leilani Navy Ellington, the backup right back of her team, who she knew was a lot more of an introvert than she was herself. Phoenix knew she felt uncomfortable right away, and handed her a powerbank. Leilani raised her brows in disbelief.
"Umm, my phone hasn't run out yet, Phoenix, but... thank you?"
"It's not for your phone." Phoenix smiled. "It's for your e-book reader."
Leilani's expression brightened. "How did you know about that?!"
"You're always reading when you can. But, I know for a fact you can't bring books on a trip like this. Too heavy, right? So, you probably brought your reader. But you're not using it. And the only reason you're not doing that could be... you forgot to recharge."
Leilani just stared at Phoenix with her mouth slightly opened. After a few seconds, she realized, forced herself to get a grip, and smiled back at her. "You're a life saver, Phoenix. Really - you are. Thank you so much. I really didn't know what to do anymore, I was thinking I'd head back to the hotel room and let the others be..."
"Same. But, I guess I'll just go refresh and see for how much longer I can take around being so many people."
They both laughed. Leilani gave her a quick hug before returning to the dining hall. Phoenix, still smiling, continued on her way to the bathrooms, turned around the last corner on the way she was told, and, for the second time in merely two minutes, nearly ran into someone.

Only this time, it wasn't a teammate.

[Also Not FNU]

RETCONNED

[Frandonia]

Part 6: Two stars collide

After finishing up in the bathroom, he washed his hands and dried them off, rather eager to get back to his table. But as he left, fate supposedly set in and he bumped into a person. Unfortunately, it wasn't one of his teammates. It was Phoenix Bellamy. A bit dazed, he quickly apologized and waving his hands as if he was panicking.

*"O-Oh! Christ! I'm really sorry!"

"No, no, it's fine, I... I got distracted", Phoenix hastily replied. "It's been a long day, I honestly feet a little jetlagged, sorry about th- wait a minute." She blinked a couple of times, slowly realizing who it was that stood before her. "Teo? Teo Slakonja? That is you, am I right?"

Still waving his hands like an apologetic nutcase, he stopped as soon as she asked his name. "... Y-Yeah... Yeah, that's my name." he replied calmly. It did take him a few moments, but seeing the red hair and amber eyes, he tensed up as he finally realized who it is "And you must be... Phoenix Bellamy?"

"Yeah, that would be me", she said, smiling somewhat shily. "Sorry again, I'm really feeling a little under the weather." She looked at him curiously. So, that was the young U-17 captain she's already heard so much about. "You're probably just as excited as I am about this, with all the... tension hanging in the air, hm? Makes my stomach turn over just by thinking about it." She'd laugh nervously.

Somewhat terrible with conversations, he nearly stumbled as he tried to reply to her question "U-Uhhh... Y-Yeah, it's exciting. I hope we at least make it somewhat far..." Even more embarrassingly he failed to spot that he'd started wagging his tail faster and faster from the tension "Hehe, there is quite a bit of tension in the air before the big ceremony tomorrow, isn't it? I guess we'll just have to give it our all." he chuckled shily.

Phoenix blushed. She always did when she ended up in an awkward situation, and that happened rather often with people she hadn't met yet. Socializing clearly wasn't her forte. The color blended in rather well with her red hair, and she'd smile again to play over it. "Yeah... I... I don't know about you, but I haven't ever been a part of a tournament this big." She sighed. "People probably expect you to slay it out there, aren't they? I wish they'd tone it down a bit, at least sometimes."

Theo finally spotted his tail and quickly kicked it to make it stop. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he listened to her carefully. He did sense that she was under a lot of pressure because of her reputation as a prodigy. But something about him being envious of her ability kept bugging him "I haven't been to any tournament yet... But I understand. I presumed you were to at least one since you're sort of a rising star." he responded back. However, he nearly kicked himself because he thought that it sounded a bit condescending.

Phoenix sighed and opened her mouth to answer, but then she suddenly got an idea. "You know, since we're going to talk for a while, might as well sit down." She chuckled and turned around the corner, and indeed, there was a rather large bench standing in the hallway. She took a seat and beckoned Theo to do the same.

"So, where were we? Right, the tournaments... well, if you're talking about international stuff - then, no. Nothing." She smiled again. "You know, until like... two years ago, nobody even knew who I was. I'm playing football for a few years now, but... when I was younger, I've always been... too short, too weak, too slow. I just couldn't hang. But, after puberty, I suddenly got a lot more control about what I was doing. My brother wouldn't stop talking to me about signing up for Raventide's football academy. I thought they wouldn't take me, but... here I am." She chuckled again. "But, who even knows what'll happen, right? Like... maybe I'll play really badly and they'll send me back home after a match. You can never be too sure. This is a fast-paced business..."

Theo followed and sat down next to her on the bench, keen to keep his distance as to not appear clingy and listened to what she had to say.

"W-Well... I suppose. But someone of your caliber playing badly might as well be a pipe dream, I doubt that'll be the case. Certainly is interesting what you went trough when you were younger tho... Being trained in football in Firnea and all... Could only imagine how anything else measures up to that kind of standard in the world. The Firnean team are like football monsters compa-" he shut himself up before finishing that sentence. It echoed in his head more and more, sounding worse the more it did. "A-A-Anyway!... Raventide's academy must've been pretty challenging?"

Phoenix would listen quietly to what Theo had to say, and it increasingly became clearer to her what he's heard about Firnean football. She couldn't help but to smile. "You would think that, but if our national team was as good as everyone made it out to be, we would probably have more than four world titles." She winked at him. "Like, don't get me wrong, our team is great. But we've lost enough world cup finals to put everything into the right perspective." Phoenix laughed again.

Only a moment later, her expression darkened. "You know, it's my dream to win a world cup one day. It's my dream to have my statue stand next to the Four Giants in front of the Eldur Coliseum one day..." She smiled of the thought. "Having my name mentioned in the same sentence... the sheer thought makes me shiver. Rogstad, Matthews, Grimwald, Magnusson... Bellamy?" She smiled at him and couldn't help but to chuckle again. "It's silly, I know. You probably think I should be more confident, but... Firnea hasn't won a title since 1998, and experts see a new golden generation coming. Like, this U-17 is full of incredibly good players, and there are other young pro players in the Premier League. Being good won't cut it. I need to become better, otherwise I'll just be one of many... and, I guess that'll still be fine, but... I don't really have a lot left, except for football."

She laughed again to distract from how gloomy her speech has become. "Sorry. I really didn't want to talk you into the ground. But, yeah, the Murder of Birds academy is really tough. Some days, I honestly thought about quitting. A lot of my teammates did. I'm proud I pulled through, but... ehh! Enough of me, now. You're playing for... Gold Star, right? Sorry. I'm afraid I can't pronounce your club's name in your language." She seemed a little miffed about that fact.

He seemed surprise how she took control of the conversation. The shy person she first came off was pretty much gone, and off came this very ambitious and self-assured redhead. But that only made himself feel a lot less compared to her "Uhhh... Don't worry about it, it's a weird language anyway. Yeah, I play for the Gold Star youth team. To be honest my football career's not something you'd call "spectacular" or anything of the sort like yours. I wasn't in any academy, I just played for my local towns football team. The only reason I'm here is not because I'm fit or fast or even good with the ball... It's merely because of my awareness." he'd say while looking at her and pointing straight at his eye "That's the only reason I'm here. At least that's the conclusion I came to."

He'd sigh and lean back on the bench, staring up at the ceiling "Not really much to say regarding myself... At my age, an average player like me has no chance at making it in a senior league." But as he stopped explaining, he remembered a specific part in the conversation she'd mentioned "Wait... What do you mean you don't have a lot left except for football?"

"Hah. I don't think so." She crossed her arms. "Look, this tournament is about the best players of the world of our age. You're... you're 15, right? Just like me? Don't try to make yourself look smaller than you are. I've seen that captain's armband. Haven't ever had that wrapped around my arm." She pat her upper arm, as if to make a point, and chuckled. "You're not being nominated for a tourney like this if you're average. You're not being made the captain if you don't have plenty of reasons to be here."

She turned around, leaning on the leg she crossed above her other one, and stared him right into his eyes. "And what's more, as the captain, your team relies on you. You really think your coach would have made you captain if you were unreliable in any aspect? That's not how this works. You're a born leader. That's why you're here. That's why you're the captain. You already made it further than I have, so, no need to act like you're not good."

Phoenix leaned back, cracking her knuckles. "Maybe you're not playing for a pro team yet, but, give it a year or so and you will. Trust me. And if the Illionari teams won't give you the chance you deserve, a Firnean team will. They're constantly trying to one up each other in terms of finding the stars of the future."

She then sighed before answering his last question. "My parents are gone. It was a car crash. Nothing they could have done, it wasn't their fault. My brother's got custody of me. He's the only one I have left. I'm not a fifth-generation superstar like the Rogstads or the Matthews... just me, and me only. So, yep! If I don't make this work, I'll have wasted tons of money and time that never goes back. Not only my own; my brother's, too."

As he heard her answer the last question, the weight of her situation became much more clear. And as she answered, he had no idea how to continue the conversation "Ohhhh... I'm... sorry for your loss." He quickly tried changing the subject to lighten up the conversation. As she went on about himself being picked as the captain for a reason, he concluded that cheering his own mood might make her feel a bit more comfortable.

"Yeah... Yeah, you're probably right, I may be here because I can offer up more than I'm aware of at this point. Maybe I will get a chance at a pro club one day. If not back home, then maybe somewhere else." he said, smiling back at her "Let's both do our best in this tournament, alright?" he replied back, making an even brighter smile, which gave off a tinge of excitement.

Phoenix would merely nod, and was glad he changed topics. Not because she wouldn't want to talk about it; the outcome, however, would always be the same. It made everyone around her feel uncomfortable, and she didn't want people to feel distraught because of her. Forcing herself to smile, she nodded at him. "Yep! We will. Who knows, maybe we'll meet on the field, hm? Should be exciting. Does your team have some good defenders?"

Convinced that her smile was genuine, he began feeling more comfortable talking to her "Well, kind of. I wouldn't say our defense is the best, per say. To be honest, I'm... not too sociable. But we do have a few good defenders. What about yours? Obviously they have you as their blazing striker. But... Does your team have any good midfielders?"

Phoenix blushed again. She really didn't know how to take a compliment. "Oh, well, I guess when it comes to our midfield, there's Rokne. Rokne Gyldenløve, the chancellor's daughter. Our captain, a great player. She's playing a different position compared to you, though. More like, a sixer. Central midfield at best, but not like, offensive central. Our 10 is Lilith Ray-Stuart. She's pretty good with her passes, but... she is easily intimidated by defenders, so she needs to be fast." She'd chuckle. "I guess that's understandable, though."

Theo nods "Yeah, I guess you're right. The midfield does build up the attack, I guess passing is the most important skill to have. We actually have a decent defensive midfielder. Robert Pogolja. He's the most experienced senior in our team, 17 years of age. And he already had a try-out for a top-league Carantanian team, I've heard."

"So Robert Pogolja is the one I have to look out for, hm?" She'd chuckle. "Alright, good to know. But now I feel like I should give you some advice as well. Even if that may not have been what you meant to do." Playfully, she laid her hand to her chin, thinking hard. "Right. So, if we meet, you might wanna approach from the left wing. That's where Skye McKenna is, our right back. She's the youngest defender of our Starting XI, and not as experienced as the rest. Approaching over the right wing would be a lot harder. You'd run into Punk Vespertine there. That guy is merciless. I'm not kidding. He's like a loose rabid dog." She'd laugh.

"I see..." that threw Theo for a loop a bit. You don't see members of other teams telling you who to watch out for. While she may approach someone in a rather shy and gentle manner, she must be overly confident in her individual and teams abilities to just be talking about who to watch out for on the field. At least, that's how it seemed to him. He'll have to remember those details, they'll prove critical if they match up against Firnea "Interesting... But I have to pose a question, why are you so willingly giving me information about your team?..."

"Three reasons. One: you gave me some info as well. Two: your coach probably would have told you anyway. It's his job to know his stuff, after all. And three: no matter where you're going, it's not gonna be easy, by any means. Just easier. And that's not because of how good our team is - don't get me wrong, I'm not bragging here. It's gonna be tough for all of us. There are a ton of great players here. Just because Skye is younger and less aggressive, doesn't mean she's a fluke." Phoenix chuckled again. "Oh, and if you want another piece of advice: try not to foul too close to your box. I've been practicing my free kicks. I like to think they got better."

That kind of confidence felt rather challenging to Theo. But as in all sports, he wasn't the one to back down so easily and fired back "Impressive, impressive. Well I'll put that information to good use. But while I'm at it, I should mention some stuff about our squad."

As they were sitting at a table close by, he was able to sneakily point to who he was talking about "That there? Alen Kovac, our right winger. His passing might be iffy but he more than makes up for it with his speed. Really, the guy's a sprinter, very quick. And sitting next to him is our left winger Tomaž Jerovec (english: Thomas). He's not as quick, but he has one hell of a dominant foot. Not to mention high accuracy. Meanwhile sitting next to me are Alja Piknik (english: Alya), our goalkeeper. If I had to pick someone of the highest pedigree, she would be my top choice. Insane reflexes and is the top goalkeeper in the junior Illionar league."

Phoenix gulped. She knew all of these names. Seeing them now made her heart sink. "Gee, now that you mention it... these names are all familiar to me. I suppose it's really true, what I thought about all along... this tournament is gonna be tough as nails." She sighed and leaned back in her chair, driving her hands through her hair.

"I just wish you all the best", she finally sighed, smiling. "Because if we're gonna do well, the whole world is gonna see... and just imagine how that would elevate us." She gave him a reassuring thumbs up. "I'm sure you'll do great."

He smiled back at her and returned the thumbs up "And I'm sure you will to. Let's both do our best." he replied back "And who knows. Maybe one day we'll became teammates. Let's where this tournament propels us."

That outlook made Phoenix smile even brighter, and, for the first time in a while, it was heartfelt. "Is there a club you always wanted to play for?" She'd lean back on the bench. "I'm not sure where I wanna end up, really. I love playing at Raventide City. But, who knows, right? I might play for Eldur United one day... maybe I'll play internationally and go to Inter Titania... or to Gold Star... hmm..." She'd smile. "Siracusa Calcio would be interesting, too... but, I digress."

"Well... I didn't have my eye out for any particular club to be honest... Tho I did have my sights set on playing in Firnea one day. Maybe even in Lunapoli or Blancor, if I get the chance."

"True, didn't even think about Blancor!" She'd smile. "I always wondered if I wanted to stay with the same club for ages, or... like, play in as many exciting clubs as I can... see the world..." Phoenix looked at Theo, twiddling her thumbs. "Hey, and, if you ever need advice, you can send me a message on Twitter or something. Or, if you want my number... whatever you prefer."

Theo blushed brightly as if he was over 1,000 degrees, as if steam began puffing out from his ears "I-I haven't been asked for a number before. Sure, we can exchange numbers, gladly. If you do need any advice from me too, don't hesitate to contact me."

Phoenix smiled back. "Alright, then! Here you go." She opened the settings menu on her phone and showed him her number. "You can send me a text, if you want, then I'll know it's you. Uhh, don't mind my profile picture, I had a ponytail back then... when my hair was longer. It got annoying after a while. No idea if you can relate."

Theo did the same and showed her his number on his phone after he entered hers into his contacts "Well can't be any worse than mine, this was me when I was 12, heh..." he chuckled "If your ponytail's like my actual tail, I can sort of relate, don't worry."

Phoenix would laugh. "Always getting in the way? Hard to keep tidy? Then, yes." She smiled. "You're a good guy. When I first read your name in the paper, I felt like... not good enough. I know, I know, it's so... stupid. But I thought, how is he a captain at 15 years and I'm not? Sometimes I think I just want too much..."

Theo sighs and looks down at his hands "You too, huh?... It's fascinating what our subconscious does to us. I first heard about you trough a newspaper my teammates were reading. 15-year-old prodigy signs for a Premier League team... That threw me off so bad, we lost five straight games and I lost my captain position... It's not stupid, I understand."

"Wha...?" Phoenix stared at him in disbelief. "My goodness, I had no idea this could have such an impact on someone thousands of miles away. And in such a way, too. I'm sorry you felt like that because of me." Though, she would briefly smile again. "It is reassuring to know I'm not the only one who felt intimidated by something like that, though."

"No, no, it's fine... That sort of thing just happens when you're not the confident type of person... But it all worked out in the end, right? We're both here in the biggest junior tournament out there."

"Yep. And if we play our cards right, we're gonna do this for... maybe 20 years." She'd smile. "Tell me, Theo, what is your goal? Pun intended. Like, what do you want to achieve? I'm not asking for no reason, you'll see."

"Well... My goal is to one day lead my national team to the International Cup final... My grandfather was part of the 1986 team as a goalkeeper..."

"Wow! No way? That's so cool!" Phoenix stared at him in disbelief. "1986... you made it to the semi-finals, right? Gosh, I think we actually both lost against Syrasia that year." She'd laugh as she shook her head. "Football's coming home my ass."

Phoenix went silent for a little while, then smiled again. "You know, it's my dream to have my statue standing in front of the Coliseum one day, so, let's make a promise. We're not gonna end our careers before we fulfilled our dreams. No matter what happens." She extended her arm for a handshake, still smiling.

Theo shook his head "Not quite. 1986 was when Illionar won their first International Cup title." he replied, smiling brightly.

As she extended her hand, he was confused a bit. But not long after, he firmly shook her hand and smiled at her "Yeah. Let's both fulfill our dreams. No matter what happens."

"Was it?! Oh man, I really need to get my history straight", Phoenix mumbled as she buried her face in her hands, although she would chuckle. "So essentially, we both have the same goal. Even better, then." She'd smile back. "It's official!"

Theo smiles and nods with a rather confident smile "Shall we get back to our teams for dinner. I haven't had my chance to eat yet..." he's chuckle, a but flustered from embarrassement.

"Heh, yeah, let's go. I'm starving." She quickly rose to her feet and stretched a little before getting on her way. "See you soon, Teo. Enjoy yourself."

"Yeah, same here. Enjoy your evening. See you." he replied back with a wave before heading back to his table.

[Also Not FNU]

RETCONNED

[New Prydai]

- Night from Hell - 21st of March, 0150 hours

The city around them burned in the late evening glare, the distant sound of gunfire made for a backing track, a highlight scored by the faint whizz of an artillery shell landing down. It was... difficult, the siege had been ongoing for nearly a month now, perhaps a bit more, and the supplies were running low, they'd fired off a few bursts at some unlucky patrol that had gotten to close to the squat, slightly shabby building that had served as the official diplomatic residence of New Prydai's diplomat in the distant country, and the food and water was rationed extensively. All that was there was some diplomatic attaches, some vague office staff and rather meagre garrison of twenty-five troops made to secure it against aggression. This had changed slightly after the 2003 coup, and the garrison was upped to thirty men, and placed under the official command of one Major from the diplomatic squadron. There had been three of them in the last twenty years, with the current being one Major Owain Haelr, who's month was rapidly getting worse by the hour.

For Haelr, it had been a rather decent assignment at first, he'd gotten the extra bump that had come with diplomatic pay, had been tucked away from any future conflicts, and he'd more or less had the runs of the place with the current envoy, a rather oldish man by the name of Graham Haston, spending his time reading Gaellic philosophy and old Imperial literature as he waited for his pension. It had gone to shit roughly when the army had marched in and declared a de-facto state of martial law. That was now a month and around... thirteen days ago now he thought. The shooting had started nearly immediately after the military marched in, and now they were all holed up, sentries watching the deadened streets and him counting how long you could make whiskey last if you had sips.

He took some small, desperate solace that nearly all the others were in the same spot as them, most of the diplomats having seemingly scoffed at the idea of being under any actual danger right up until the only point in which they could no longer safely retreat. Such a brilliant move on their part, he'd thought, and then he'd gone and finished the bottle. He briefly wondered how long they could hold out in their situation, they had enough food for say... a month at current rationing, and whilst their ammo wasn't empty, it was looking a decent bit smaller than what should be.

They had to get out soon, Christ he knew it, but the problem was they hadn't had a chance before, not until they had gotten the go ahead. They'd be 'allowed refuge' by someone with birds in the area, all they had to do now was get to the evac point and fight their way through a couple hundred odd armed soldiers whilst escorting several civilians whilst on a deadline. By the saints, if he didn't have a promotion, or at least a shower, when he got home, he was... he was... well, going to get another drink probably.

And it was then, as he sat contemplating his thoughts and mourning the loss of his trusty companion in the bottle, the radio began to make noise again. He looked at it, and fiddled with the buttons and the wavelength until the clear voice came through, and he took a scrap of discarded paper and wrote down what the crackly voice from Command said. It was the one thing that Owain had been waiting for, and he let out a small chuckle as he sat back in his chair after the operator had called out. He looked at the words he wrote, and smiled. 'Orders; Evacuation of diplomatic personal and garrison of Embassy. Evacuation being provided by friendly nation, code-word: District Alpha, rendezvous at Point Charlie.'. It seemed to Owain, that perhaps, just perhaps they'd get out, and that lifted his spirits more than the drink did.

- One hour later - 21st of March, 0242 hours

Owain was now infront of his little band of men, most were fatigued and tired, little training had prepared them for a full war to happen on their doorstep, especially not one such as this. He could understand their feelings, Hell's, he'd been through most of them over the last month as they sat their, little to do but watch the military and other groups fire at each other and shoot the odd round to keep them off and all the while your mind growing tired, your bellies empty and your throats parched. But now, now they had a chance out, they had a chance home. He knew the diplomatic staff felt the same way, they were now nearly there, they just had to survive to getting there.

Owain cleared his throat, and spoke. "Listen men, I know the last month has been tough, I know that we've stuck up in here with little to do except stare at the exciting sight of a bombed out street, listen to the charming melodies of gunfire lullaby, and then eat a nice decade old ration pack when you wake up, but we're almost home. Gentlemen, we're now a few hours away from being able to actually have a proper smoke, and I'm ready to make that time as short as bloody possible, are you?" They responded in the typical 'Uraah' chant, and he finished it with a quick dismissed, now they just had to fight through nearly half the city. Oh wonderous joy.

He went, grabbed his rifle, attached his helmet on, and then called the men in again, getting them to ferry the civvies onto the two armoured cars in the small courtyard outside as they leaped into action, trying to make the time frame as little as possible between the current, and the departure. They, in Owain's eyes, got it done rather quickly, with the two cars loaded in just under twenty minutes, and so, with a little parting gift for any damn military man who'd walk in left nicely in the hall, they set off, with Owain sitting next to the driver as they drove over the cracked road surface.

He was not overly surprised, some ten minutes later, when a shot ricocheted off of the metal hull of the car, a shout later and a hail of gun fire responded, quickly joined by several other soldiers firing bursts though the slats on the windows, seeking to attempt to ward of the attackers, slowly making their way over the road, each bump interupting the bursts, the odd bullet finding it's way through the armour, one nearly slicing a private's neck open as it rushed past it, the private now groaning on the floor, his hand held to the bandaged jugular.

And then, the explosion happened, chaos reigned as the AC lurched to the side, the sound deafeningly loud as the rocket hit home. It took Owain a moment to realise he was alive, a second one to grab his rifle, and then a third to bellow the order to disembark, several grenades going out as they did so, the guns a' blazing as they rushed to get the relatively defenceless civies to the safety of the undamaged car, the soldiers having to return fire whilst exposed, desperate bursts trying to take out the advancing force. And then, it happened.

The airstrike came down just as the other soldiers arrived, the now bewildered enemy slaughtered in their confusion as the new attackers continued relentlessly, operating with discipline as they allowed the escort to regroup, Owain quickly getting what men not pulling back the civvies or the injured, to take defensive positions around the bombed out city. Owain was ninety percent sure he was running on fumes now, certainly some sort of fumes after the great cloud of smoke that come up after whatever saint's damned munitions had come down landed, and whilst he was wasn't quite sure what he was seeing as he pulled his men back to run alongside the AC, he was ninety percent sure he saw Norudo tag's on them, even a brief nod from one of them.

Shadowy governmental agents aside, even if they were damn Norudo, they had allowed them to pull back, and with each step getting closer to the safe region marked on map, he'd take it.

Just another two hundred meters now... even as the bullets fall, just a bit longer... Blamm!

He snapped out of his exhaustion as he watched a soldier crumple infront of him, a spray of red bursting from his knee. Owain grabbed his collar without a second thought, and heaved him up onto his unsteady legs, two more soldiers running back to offer covering their stagger as another roar of an engine swooped over head, bullets being rained down, but that didn't matter anymore, not now. He could faintly see the jagged fortifications of the rebels in the city, ostentatiously, were they could evac from. He wasn't too sure at the moment though, all that mattered was not slowing down and keeping the man next to him upright, his ears were slowly becoming deafened, his lungs tired, but he had to keep going, only 50 meters now, and then forty, then forty turned to twenty, and eventually ten, the roaring guns of the makeshift fortifications firing off, and it was then, inside the compound, the AC being unloaded and his 2iC looking for their promised evac, he collapsed, and remained that way for several hours.

- Four hours later - 21st of March, 0643 hours
He sat now in one of the temporary quarters that they'd been given on the Norudo carrier after they'd been delivered via boat about an hour ago, apparently they'd been one of the friendly rebel groups in the area. He'd been checked over by one of the onboard medics, a faint smell of disinfectant and racial dislike had permeated most of it, the latter had permeated most of Owain's meeting's with the Norudo though so he'd guessed it wasn't anything personal at least, and the disinfectant had been a nice change from the faint smell of death of the city.

They had been confined to their rooms after that, either kept there or in the infirmary, and what few visitors there were weren’t overly enthusiastic to talk, mostly talking briskly and only wanting answers quick and sharp, leaving as soon as they had them. Owain didn’t mind in truth, he was far too out of it to hold a conversation anyway.

He was tired now, had been since the crash, and he just wanted to sleep, and so, a second after laying his head on the pillow, he was away. Scenes flickered through his head as he did so, the gun fight, the explosion, the dreariness of it all. It stayed with him as his mind slowly went to sleep.

[Also Not FNU]

RETCONNED

[Fabriona]

Gatehouse Border Crossing: Checkpoint 24

The engine of the large 18 wheeler came to a sputtering halt as the large truck stopped at the barricade. Dirt kicked up behind the truck as the tiny sand particles particular to the Dunish Desert were thrown high in the air. The rocky floor of the desert was evident in the tracks of the truck, indicating a very weighty load. The man inside was sweating from the sweltering heat, Officer Dunnigan noticed, as he trudged up to the side of the cab, service weapon in hand but pointed down. As a customs officer, his duties were numerous, but usually uneventful. He sighed as he asked the man for his papers and manifest, feeling the chilly hand of the man as he was handed the bundle.

Bringing them back to the Duty Station and handing them to the OoD, Dunnigan felt a little uneasy for a reason. He couldn't shake the thought that something was wrong. The OoD checked the weight of the truck on his screen and matched it with the approved manifest that was on file for the truck, then handed the papers back to Dunnigan. "Wave them through," he told the officer and went back to monitoring the camera feeds.

Dunnigan stepped out of the Station and sauntered back to the truck, the heat really starting to bear down on him. The driver looked over at him as he approached, dabbing a bead of sweat from his forehead. As he was just steps from the truck cab, he suddenly had a flash of realization. The thing that had bothered him earlier finally came into focus when he noticed, for the first time, the gentle movement of the driver's hair swaying in the cab air conditioning. Why would he be sweating if...stopping short of the door, Dunnigan quietly radioed a code yellow warning and asked the driver to step out of the cab, slowly raising his service rifle to a ready position.

The driver hesitated and Dunnigan gave a far more forceful command to exit the cab. Just as he did, the man raised his hand. At first, Dunnigan thought the man was surrendering, but then raised his rifle as he saw the device in the man's hand. Without hesitation, the customs officer shouted "BOMB!" and let loose a 3 round burst into the man's face, and immediately he slumped forward, still gripping the device. Dunnigan shouted clear, and opened the cab door, with the driver spilling out, dead. Unbeknownst to Dunnigan, the device that fell from the man's hand as he fell out was in fact a dead man's switch. And as soon as the button snapped back to position, 4 2000lb bombs sitting in the trailer exploded. Officer Dunnigan, the OoD and the rest of the checkpoint unit ceased to exist.


Senate House, Idego, Edward Province

"This attack is outrageous!" Senator Clarence Vincent screamed to the assembled body of Congress. "How did 10 pre approved tractor trailers manage to infiltrate their way into our border positions?" Vincent was clearly speaking the minds of the rest of congress. This emergency session of Congress had been called to order by the Directorate Council in the wake of the massive bombing of 8 of the 30 border checkpoints covering the entrances into Fabriona from the inland portion of Randalore. Two other trucks had been successfully stopped and thwarted at their border posts when the bombs had failed to detonate. Unfortunately, those two drivers had died in a hail of gunfire as they opened fire on the border guards, probably hoping to die and not be taken captive. Even so, the complete destruction of almost a third of the checkpoints had left the country completely breathless. Everyone wanted to know how the trucks had slipped through the security screening process that would happen before they had even gotten close to the border. The Senate wanted to know this as well, and bared their teeth at these revelations.

Senator Vincent continued. "We must do something! We can not stand by while outsiders continue to harass and attack our country!" Senator Vincent, a major opponent of the Anti-Isolation Bill, had spoken out time and time again about the nation's lack of border security and had even proposed sweeping changes to the approval process that all incoming goods were required to adhere to. Vincent stood and raised a document. "I am proposing a resolution. Stricter border protections and a new branch of the military. We must separate the customs department from the Territorial Waters Guard and make it it's own branch, answerable to the senate." Many hear-hears were heard and Vincent sat back down, satisfied with the results. Over the next few weeks the bill was tabled and passed with overwhelming support.

Meanwhile, the investigation into the bombings was still ongoing, and, since it was within the TWG's jurisdiction, they would be heading the investigation.

[Also Not FNU]

Does Hermes Smile?

<sup>12:26 AM. It’s bitterly cold. If it was avoidable no man would be out, but for the crew of the ‘Novara Kurier’ it was just another day, another flight to be had. Novara had the downside of being a small, isolated island, about 830 kilometers southeast of Walder International, from where the late night flights originated. Its location made it largely an inhospitable wasteland, but the scattered swathes of forest, alongside a few isolated farms meant that there was still a decent population of folks crazy enough to live there. Unfortunately, the lack of anything else alongside constant poor fishing yields meant that at minimum a Kurier flight would have to make its way to deliver vital supplies to keep the population from starving, dying of a horrific injury due to lack of aid, or suffering through the pain of not having replacement parts for vital machinery. During warmer periods, supply vessels could ply the waters between Bramo and the coastal cities of Novara, but when the ice grew thick it was left to whichever aviators had the misfortune of working redeyes.

Tonight, another five Republic Airways employees had drawn the short-stick. Piloting the aircraft would be Cpt. Vincent Müller, assisted by First Officer Erik Weingartner. Behind the cockpit, radioman Matteo Flesichman, navigation officer Lilly Trenker and the dual rolled Adrian Feist, serving as both the flight engineer and loadmaster. Cockpit checks alongside electrical inspection went by smoothly, ultimately taking just shy of twenty minutes. Engine startup was similarly smooth, though engine one decided to take its sweet time, threatening the crew with the possibility of having to run back through all prior procedures, something no one wanted on a trip like this. Once it finally turned over and rose to idle RPM, all that stood between them was electrical and flight approval.

The digital navigator was dead. All remaining Kurier’s had been fitted with a series of complex servos to reduce pilot fatigue by assisting and or taking over control of the aircraft, but despite all efforts to get it operating the ‘Novara Kurier’ remained without it. Chances stood that the notoriously poor fuses for the control systems motherboard had blown, but without any hope of finding a replacement, the cockpit crew had a decision to make. Ten minutes later, and the aircraft began to rumble down the airstrip. Weingartner gently manipulated the control yoke to keep the ancient craft straight, keenly scanning the instrument panels. Engine one remained a problem, oil pressure reading substantially lower than the other three. They pushed on.

As the old bird finally took flight, Müller gently applied braking pressure, waiting until it went stiff to signal to Weingartner for gear up. A loud mechanical whirring emanated through the craft, the skeletal assembly of the gear slowly rising out of view, seemingly being eaten by the wings.

Müller, now in control, spoke, seeking confirmation from his FO. “Confirm gear up.”

“Good confirm. We’re steady up. Performance optimal null engine one.”

“How bad is she?”

“Not the worst we’ve dealt with, but she’s barely kicking. Trimmed out the yaw, but I’m unsure if we’ve lost too much
power.”

“Any word from Feist?”

“He says we should be good, we just need to keep an eye on it.”

“Can we make it with two reduced and two full?”

“I’ll confirm with Feist.”

Gently tapping the intercom button, a loud crackle came through the speakers, before cutting to Weingartner’s crisp voice.

“Feist, Captain needs to know if we’re better off trimming it out or reducing engine four to match the LOP on engine one.”

“If we want to make it in any reasonable amount of time, we’re best off trimming. I’d advise cutting engine one entirely and feathering her if you’re concerned about tiring out the control struts.”

“Appreciate it.”

Turning to face Müller, a silent nod echoes through the cockpit. Engine one spools down, propeller blades now gently cutting through the wind, and the voyage continues.</sup>

_{Part one of two or three. Wanted to get this out before I lost faith in it.}

[Also Not FNU]

THIS IS 1910

The Man With Nothing Fears Nothing

<sup>Lichbuerry, Aquitania Province. It’s brisk tonight, the cold chill of the air gently brushing against the man like a cat wanting to be pet. He’s the only one out, most folks are sleeping for their shifts tomorrow, or tucked away in a pub drinking their sorrows away. He doesn’t mind it, in comparison to the chaos of his job it’s nice to have some quiet. The cobbled roads provide some diversity to the silence, his shoes gently clicking against the ancient stones. It’s almost like a small percussion group is playing to the rhythm of his feet, a satisfying and calming effect in his opinion.

It wasn’t meant to last though, and soon enough an obnoxious clattering and clanking of something mechanical approaches. He can’t make out who’s operating it yet, but it’s clear what it is: one of those fancy new fangled Stulenbacker Hickory’s. They’d been around since 1904, but he couldn’t fathom why anyone would buy one, it seemed like a waste if you asked him. As it grew closer, the street lights gently illuminated it, showing its navy blue colouring. Suddenly he knew why someone would buy one, reducing the time that a policeman's patrol route would take. He steps to the side of the road as it continues to grow closer, watching as it comes to a complete halt next to him.

A lanky man fitted with large round glasses and covered by a fittingly navy blue trench coat exited the vehicle, walking up to the man. Removing his kepi, he raises his face to look the man in the eyes.

“You know Ed, you’re real bad for business around here.”

The man chuckles, and responds in kind. “Just because my methods solve problems permanently doesn’t mean you won’t get your paycheck.”

“Well, therein lies the problem. We know what you do, we know it works, we’ve just never been able to place you there when it happens. You’re a criminal Ed, the only thing saving you is that the people you kill are already scum on most people's shoes.”

“You call it murder, I call it permanent crime deterrence. Not like I’m killing pickpockets and petty criminals here.”

“I’m not saying I want to arrest you, to be blunt with you Ed, you often are the first response to a crime, and you solve it before we even arrive. But that’s the problem. Judge Phillips hasn’t had more than the occasional shoplift or juvenile delinquent in months because of you, and to be honest, he wants you gone Ed.”

“Tell me this, Officer, why hasn’t one of you men put me down. I don’t hide, don’t have family, don’t have any criers for a funeral, so why not try to create evidence and get rid of me?”

“Most of the department knows someone you’ve helped personally, they can’t bring themselves to do it. I’m only telling you this because Phillips is calling for a small group of MP’s to rid himself of you.”

“Then what do you reckon I do?”

“Catch the next train home.”

“I am home Officer, right here in ol’ Lichbuerry.”

“No. Go back to Lusitania Province, they won’t expect you to be there because they already know there’s nothing there for you. You’ve nothing to gain and nothing to lose by heading back there.”

“And then what? The booth operator sells me to the MP’s for a couple silocas and you all rest easy?”

The officer removes a ticket from his coat pocket, putting it in Ed’s hand and wrapping his fingers into a fist around it.

“It’s already paid for by one of us, go.”

A silent nod of agreement echoes loudly across the empty road. The officer restores his kepi to its rightful place atop his head, and then spins about to his vehicle, entering it and departing with all the gusto 15 brake horsepower can offer. Ed watches as he speeds off before deciding to listen to the man. Checking his watch, he sees the time: 12:31 AM. His ticket is set for 12:45, and the station’s a brisk five minutes away. Turning around, he begins his walk. The last train home departs in 14 minutes, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t catch it.</sup>

_{Part One of Three. Thought this was a better entry to the new time period then a boring ol’ newspost. Also, probably going to continue to use Cunard liners names for the Province names.}

[Celharim]

In With the New
Eidlenn, year 1910

"Oh, do turn off that infernal box," the old former countess walked into the drawing room. The evening gloom made way for the glitter of electric lamps. "Not a quiet moment in the house after you bought it."

"No need for this drama, mother," Lachann switched off the tumbler, and the brand new radio shut off. It left behind only a ringing silence, interrupted by an occasional rustle of leaves and the rattling of an occasional coach outside.

His mother opened her fan and waved it about herself, trying to ward off the onset of the humid evening heat. Though the sun had sat, the many lakes of Celharim radiated the accumulated energy into the air, the Ulher more so than most, or so Lachann was taught. The former countess sat down on the cushions of the sofa and gave him a piercing stare.

"Now what's this I hear about my grandchildren attending a school like some commoners?" she demanded without prelude, as was her usual manner. Brought up in the ways of the old aristocracy, she believed herself fully entitled to any and all authority she wanted.

"Mother, we're all commoners now," Lachann reminded her.

"Nonsense," the woman scoffed. "Some buffoons waving a piece of paper about means nothing. And, Lachy, a school? Really? Couldn't you have chosen a military academy at least?"

"Waving a sword or a gun about will teach them nothing," Lachann parroted his mother's words. "Besides that, they won't get any privileges in the military anymore, and I would rather keep my sons away from any battlefields."

"Then hire a tutor," the countess sighed.

"Mother, really," Lachann gave the woman a long look. He loved his mother dearly, but she could be overbearing in her care. "You know as well as I do that tutors are for provincials playing at being nobility. Or whatever's left of it."

"Lachann!"

"Enough, mother, I will not reiterate my position on the matter," Lachann cut off any argument. He was not in the mood for their usual spats on the worth of the old aristocracy (or lack thereof, in Lachann's opinion). "Our family survives because my shipping business turns in a steady profit. My sons will take over once they are old enough. They will need knowledge and connections."

"But the Hennes name-"

"Means nothing," Lachann said, perhaps with more edge than he intended. "Sorry, mother, but that's my decision, and I refuse to change it."

He paused for a moment, feeling the pregnant pause after his words. His mother would never accept such a pragmatic approach to… well, everything. As an aristocrat to the bone, she valued appearances and 'station' (whatever that meany anymore) far above profits. It was the reason the monarchy fell two decades ago, and it was the reason why so many old families were fading into obscurity.

"Your father fought and bled on the battlefields," his mother spoke softly.

Lachann's own father wanted nothing more than to keep fighting for the crown, openly or otherwise. It fell to Lachann to keep their family afloat in the world where they no longer owned endless expanses of fields and forests. He would never throw away the fruits of his labor for something as worthless as 'station' or 'honor'. He would let them turn his children into jingoistic buffoons over his corpse!

"And he fell there, leaving us nearly destitute," Lachann replied, just as softly. "This… fervor of his cost me my childhood home. I would rather my children had every real advantage they could over their peers than let them live in a fantasy. Forgive my blunt manner, mother, but it is the truth."

"I suppose it is, in a way," the woman drew herself up, every inch the proud countess she used to be. "Very well, I see there is no changing your mind. I shall return to my home."

"Do stay, mother. It's late," Lachann implored her.

"Thank you for your concern, but I will manage," the obstinate woman replied.

"As you wish, mother," Lachann suppressed a sigh. He had inherited his mother's temper, and it made arguments almost intolerable. He stood up to see the woman out.

[Westberg Empire]

The Last Duel

The cold morning breeze rushed through the coastal forest. Out upon the bare cliffs overlooking the angry sea, stood four men and one woman. The wealthy middle aged Mr. Montague and the younger suitor Mr. Dewley and their two helpers, and Eidth Montague the wife of Mr. Montague. This would be the last duel ever in the Westberg Empire. The two helpers would hand each man a pistol.

The two men would pace in opposite directions, pull their pistols in positions. Diplomacy had failed in such an immoral act of adultery. For the idea of duel had long vanished from high society and long been declared illegal. On the order of fire, the two men shoot. Mr. Montague is hit and falls to the ground, gravely injured. For soon he will pass from a single bullet. For Mr. Dewley would flee into the forest.and evade capture for sometime. Edith Montague would be left widowed and completely alone. Her children would resent her for her actions and for the death of their father.

The Westberg Empire would be on the hunt for Mr. Dewley through the rural north, forest, hills, mountains he would cross. Upon every village he would cross, he would steal food from markets. Yet another crime added to his rep. In attempt to flee the country Mr. Dewley would steal a boat. He would not get far, in fact the police would capture him finally, 3 months after the duel. Mercy, there will be no mercy under the law, not this time. Mr. Dewley would be taken to the large town of 50,000 people, Hartridge, the largest municipality in the largely empty north.

Mr. Dewley would be thrown into prison to await trial. The magistrate presiding over the case would be ready to hear each side fairly. The case would be relayed to every media available. For public opinion had turned against Mr. Dewley and the widower Eidth Montague. Days prior Edith Montague had been declared guilty for committing adultery and sentenced to 5 years in prison.

Facing the writing on the wall, Mr. Dewley would plead guilty to all crimes he has committed. The jury showed no mercy, guilty on all counts. And to be sentenced to death. A long tired tradition of broken egos and failure will finally come to an end.

[Also Not FNU]

Recommended listening is “Last Train Home” by the Pat Metheny Group. Chances are the song’ll end before I’m done writing this, but if you can read this in four minutes or so, you’ll be fine.

Last Stop

<sup>Staring through the window, Ed listens to the quiet snores of the other riders. Most people had the common sense to sleep on these long duration cross-province journeys. Ed didn’t. Hauled by one of the Big Three’s locomotives, in this case the Grand Northern Railroad’s Queen class, at a rapid 145 km/h, the locomotive was by no means slow, but it was still a twelve hour journey for Ed to reach his stop. The officer had called it his home, he called it his memory.

The sights slowly grew more and more familiar, foggy coastline slowly giving way to forest and wide green pastures. Sheep and cows greeted the train as it rolled by their paddocks, their black and white appearances sticking out clearly against the vibrant greens and wooden browns of the countryside. It would’ve almost been beautiful if the lack of sleep wasn’t making it a blurry mess.

It was another three paranoid hours before they arrived at the station. He was the last one left void of the conductor and train crew. From the window, and through his dreary eyes, the green station sign proudly stated that he had arrived home. Chelsbury, Lusitania Province. He stayed put a while longer, staring at the friendly lettering of the sign as if it would come alive to inform him he was supposed to get off. Instead it was the conductor who, upon finding Ed staring out the window, first prodded him, and then proceeded to throw a champagne glass of water on him.

“Sir, this train has reached its final stop. Your ticket is for Chelsbury, and subsequently you must depart the train.”

Ed chuckled, a reaction which the conductor scrunched his face in confusion to.

“My apologies, conductor, haven’t had much time to relax.”

“You’d think a 12 hour train ride would have some effect on that.”

“Not for me.”

Gently pulling on the seat in front of him, Ed makes his way down the aisle, exiting at the end of the carriage. Stepping onto the mossy cobbled surface of the platform, he looks about, letting his memory start to guide him about. A lone Berylsley Hummingbird sat just at the exit of the station, the cabbie at its controls gently puffing his cigarette.

“Looking for a ride lad?”

Gently nodding, Ed informs him of his destination, “If it’s cheap, then I wouldn’t mind a lift out to the old cottage north of Millers Street.”

“Run yous about five silocas for that.”

“Fair enough.”

“Whats are you heading out there for anyways?”

“Relaxing and visiting old friends.”

“Fair enough.”

Shy of 1,200 miles in the other direction, the MP’s have arrived. They’re twelve hours too slow. Now, standing before the honourable Judge Phillips, the men twiddle their thumbs, unsure of who should speak first between the two groups. Phillips is a heavyset man, his thick mutton chops being the only indicator of where his head ends and his body begins as he lounges in his chair. Eventually one of them bucks up, Sergeant James Clydebank.

“Sir, you’ve dragged me and my men half way across the Confederacy and you now inform me that the man we came to deal with is in another province. Why have you troubled us with these gentlemen in the first place?”

“Sergeant, I must inform you that this man is a dangerous hooligan and a mass murderer as clearly as daylight. I was unaware of his escape nor the collaboration of local law enforcement agents until mere hours ago when a new officer of the force admitted the misdeed to me.”

“Why in the good heavens would your local officers aid this man?”

“They see him as some type of hero, or perhaps better said, a vigilante of some type.”

“Sir, it is clear to me you are avoiding addressing the context of these crimes. Whomst did this man kill to make it an interest of His Majesty’s policemen?”

“The man who sat here before me.”</sup>

_{Part Two of Three. Big showdown will occur in part three. Apologies for how conversation heavy this is, and I promise more context to come in the next part. Hope you enjoy.}

[Repriyssau]

Ettrester, parliament building
The building of the Repriyssian parliament in Ettrester is kind of a museum in its name. It may not possess collections of artwork from under the brushes of the greatest artists of our times, or present a great gallery of weaponry which in the times of its greatness brought the most brave empires into shambles. But the building has history, it went through many things. From the establishment of the parliament after the revolution in 1823, the building saw it all. Successes and crises, good times and bad times, everything. But it does not mean, that the building was just an observer. No, it was and is taking part in the history of Repriyssau from its completion in 1829. It felt the turbulent politics of the nations, its many coups and revolutions.

As mighty as this building is, it still couldn't go around the greatest hit to its might and glory - the revolution of 1882. The left-wing revolutionary government fought against the government forces inside the building. The fights, the grenades, people were dying there, in those decorated rooms of rich presence. It got even hit by some artillery shells, just as if people who shot those shells didn't admire the same building, that they're shooting at, in all its glory just before the revolution. The brutal fights in the building visibly damaged the interior and the worst thing was that nobody cared; at least nobody with the power to change fix it. The revolutionaries saw this building as a sign of oppression, they wanted to blow it up but thanks to some rational, more moderate agitators it was left to sit there as a symbol of the city. The revolutionaries moved to "the Amphitheatre" as it was called (it was in fact not an amphitheatre). The old parliament building was left without repairs and closed.

A couple of years after the revolution, in 1889, the leader of the revolution died and the different organisations and unions within the revolutionary committee wanted power for themselves. They started a great scramble for it, which brought Repriyssau to the brink of a civil war. However, the pragmatic and moderate social democrats struck a secret deal with the king - "The people want stability, not freedom paid for by purges and great squabbles over positions like a janitor in the leader's office. If you will allow us to rule for the first 8 years after coming back to power we will step down in a democratic process." The king accepted and secretly agitated for the army to support him. Along with social democrats, the royalists crushed the revolutionaries and brought back the old order. As promised, the king gave them the task of having 8 years to rebuild the country, as its shape and state were terrible.

Fast forward to now, everything was as it was before. The building functioned as parliament, the king had his power and everyone went on with their lives. Some say, that the parliament building represents the condition which Repriyssau is in. If it is true, then some groundwork needs to be done. The building still stands damaged and so is the nation. For example, there is a crumbling small art gallery, with its roof and columns supported by heavy metal pipes, which were put there when social democrats took over. Why didn't they fix the building? It would cost too much money but the condition of them taking back power was moving back to the building. The current parliament building is a shell of itself. When earlier 100% of its rooms and halls were open and beautiful, now about 25% were open of which 1/2 didn't have cracks and cover-ups of damage. It just shows how did the social democracts not want to spend money on renovations.

Through the same art gallery, with its crumbling walls and pillars, a force went through like a shock wave. The gallery which was closed, its painting watching the same dusty floor heard something. These were footsteps, could it be? Yes, someone was actually going through there, not alone though, with a friend or a colleague. The black and white tiled floor which forgot how it felt to be stepped on, appeared grey from all the dust lying on it, especially when taking into consideration that the glistering midday sun was shining with all its power through the dusty windows, giving a breath of life inside. Suddenly, what was it? Someone shouted, a third person came in, they talked for a second and then the third person left, closing the glass doors behind them and lowering the curtain in front to not show who was inside. The two people inside were not unknown to the building, but to the isolated and ageing art gallery, one of them was an old friend from childhood and the other was a new unknown face.

The older one, who was it? What was his name? The whole gallery started a brainstorm. All the chandeliers, paintings, the floor even the windows tried to think. They got it, that about 58-year-old man was Augustus Kološvár, the leader of the [economically] Liberal [politically] Conservative Party. He coined the nickname "Cicero of the middle class", as he was able to persuade everyone, even the rich to support the basis of a nation in his eyes, the previously mentioned middle class. His white-as-snow hair was combed back to hide his slowly balding head along with his long English-type moustache, straightened horizontally on both sides (so well, that the barber probably used a ruler) combined with his goatee made him look more like an ageing conquistador than a modern politician. He stood there, looking through a window, he was stooping with his head pushed a little forward, a common thing for elderly people. His face was round and a bit chubby, the blue iris of his eyes shining as he looked in the sky. Only then could his friend look at Augustus' face profile in all of its well-earned glory. The Roman profile of his face made even the most unforgivable of looks critics wonder if Augustus was to be drawn wouldn't that be one of the most beautiful portraits at least in the Repriyssyan art collection? The well-themed but also greatly outdated suit he wore at that moment was one of the many things which made him stand out. He was holding a black walking stick with a gem in it instead of a knob, in his right hand he was holding his black felt top hat. He was wearing a long black frock coat with a blue flax attached to the height of his heart. Underneath he wore a black suit (he must really like this colour) with a white formal shirt and a tie underneath. He stood on the dusty floor in his trusty black derbys. He took a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his frock coat, looked at the hour and looked back at his friend.

That younger, 36-year-old man was Augustus' friend, and leader of the reformist movement in the Social Democratic Party - Fredericus Vertrafny. He had brown shoes, although you could not identify what kind of shoes they were because his suit pants were too long. He had a blue suit and a red bow tie. His more egg-shaped head paired fairly well with medium-length brown hair and hazel eyes. After a minute or so Augustus looked through the window, then back at his friend.

- I actually care about what will happen in your party. Please, Fredericus, you have to understand me. I do compete against your party in elections, but you won against my party. - He said the last sentence with some grief in his voice. - Listen, alright. You won, now let me say this straight. Congratulations, I'm glad that you are now the head of the reformist movement in the party, that's some great news to me. But listen, don't push too far. You sound more like a revolutionary, if you want to change things so badly why didn't you join the socialists, climb their ranks and then do what you wanted? They would welcome you with open arms. -

- I don't know if you remember, - Fredericus said while smiling. - but the king ordered the execution of all revolutionaries other than some moderates and social democrats. - This time his expression changed as if he was deeply touched by that fact. - I can't join any kind of socialist party as the couple hundred people-strong underground socialist movement is divided. I could barely do anything there let alone take power in the country and pass reforms. Also, I am not a socialist, I just want to reform the party to which I belong. They still live in the times of their greatness, when the king gave them those 8 years to rebuild the country... - He turned his head to the window.

- Well, - Augustus started as he walked away from the window and approached a painting presenting a battle. - if that is the case I can only say as earlier. Do not push for too many reforms. -

-Just admit it, you are still salty, that you lost the election 2 years ago. - Fredericus said suddenly turning his head around to face Augustus.

- N-no? No! What are you even talking about? Do you want to see how it is, well then here you go! - Augustus straightened his posture and started walking around the gallery. - The king is not as popular as his father, let's face it Johannes Sigismund is not a good king. Maybe he will finally see, that people support his brother more, who compared to him can have children. You have the fragile moderate left coalition in the lower house; when you will push for too many reforms the coalition will likely fall apart. Take into account here, that you are not going to rebuild it afterwards. All the parties are not so keen on cooperation and since every one of them has between 10% and 25% they will fight among themselves and you will be left with a minority government. They will sink your legislature on day 1 just for the fact that it is from another political party. Do you think that the upper house might save you? No, you would be very wrong here. Those guys are now the pinnacle anti-socialist. Just accept it, you lost the upper house and all the parties there won't cooperate with each other until a party from a leftist spectrum somehow pushes a law through the lower house. Now even if they would agree. Now let the king sign it? No! You have the estates' parliament! That stupid thing does little to nothing and the king was too weak and dumb to disband it when he could! The three estates will have to talk through so: representatives of the lower, middle and upper classes are going to probably massacre that bill anyway. Remember that they are kind of a more direct voice of the people or something, so they can just say that they agree with the law but if the king would be keen on signing that law but with corrections made by them they would be very happy. That is not all, before the king signs any bill of yours he could be influenced by the royal council... After that, only then will you be able to see any of your proposed bills come to life... -

- In that case, shouldn't I just let things unfold? People can live 2 more years without the government passing any laws. I need to reform the social democrats if I want this party to stay afloat after this term and later in the future. - Said Fredericus as he slowly approached an old knight armour holding a halberd.

- Okay, you must be blind if you don't see the problem. - Augustus responded with nerves in his voice. - The economic miracle is long gone, the economy was slowing down for a couple of years and we might hit an economic crisis. People are unhappy that for 2 years the ruling party had the majority but not only did they not start fulfilling their promises, but they also did not pass any meaningful legislation. Listen, Fredericus. I say this to you as your friend and as a politician. Leave the party alone for now, if you need to reform it before the elections, like half a year before. Not now. It might have severe consequences not only for you but for me and for the whole country... Mark my words... - Augustus said while putting a hand on Fredericus' shoulder.

After a minute of looking at each other in dead silence, Augustus took his hand away and walked towards the door, slowly; Fredericus could hear his steps, slow and rhythmic, just like the ticking of a clock.
"We'll see if we will endure past the time it struck midnight... I WILL reform the party, I-I have to." thought Fredericus.

He shook his head and looked around, he was now alone in the gallery, still standing in front of the knight's armour. He looked maniacally approached a nearby window, and looked through it as if he was looking for a sign. He found nothing and decided that it was time to leave.

[Also Not FNU]

Hello Ed

<sup>Lusitania’s Minister was a nuisance. For two months they had kept Sgt. Clydebank and his men stuck in Lichbuerry, and it seemed his intention was to keep them there. Clydebank received letters bi-weekly, all following the same basic outline: His men were not to enter Lusitania under any circumstance, as it would violate the National Policing Act of 1872, which quite clearly stated that all affairs calling upon the law are to be handled locally unless the province expressly calls upon the national investigators.

Clydebank knew all too well that the old bastard was merely doing this as part of his long standing hate for Aquitania’s minister, wanting to spite him by catching the man he had failed for so long to capture. The lack of news headlines however, seemed evidence enough to the sergeant that the man was having similar luck. It confounded him in a strange way, this much attention being on one man. Every person in Lichbuerry he’d spoken to only had praises for the man, even folks he had fought spoke as though he was some saintly figure. Seemed that only Phillips hated the man. It wasn’t unreasonable, after all, the man was ultimately breaking the law, but in a way it made him almost sympathetic. But he had his marching orders, and he wasn’t above asking High Command to ‘motivate’ Minister Gregsley into signing the approval form.

Twelve hundred miles east, and Ed had settled well back in his hometown. He hadn’t been there since 1902, not since he was called up for his ‘national service period’ during the Island Campaigns. While he was away, a round of typhoid had wiped clean half of the small town he called home, and the newspaper’s list of names told him the moment he had nothing left for him there. He intentionally took the wrong troopship home, and ended up in Lichbuerry not long after.

It was odd though, Chelsbury presented an entirely different life to Licbuerry to him. One was a bustling small city, filled with enough drunks and crooks to make any mad go silly, but Chelsbury, Chelsbury was just overwhelmingly quiet. His little cottage wasn’t much greater in size than any of the ageing small brick homes in the centre of the city, there was no hustle or bustle, and it was peaceful. He’d been there long enough to see the seasonal poppy bloom, a tradition the town started back in 1898 during the start of the Island Campaigns. There was one spot out back of the cottage that was particularly cosy, a proud ash tree standing guardian over a field of the red flowers. He’d taken to dragging a horn gramophone out to it, lying beneath its shade and looking upon the sea of red to pass the time.

Whenever he wasn’t lounging, he was usually doing some odd job. Plenty of old folk needed errands ran or a radiator bled, or the local shopkeep needed someone to sweep. It was always some variation of those. He didn’t mind it, gave him something to do and in a strange way, it felt like a continuation of life in Lichuberry.

Sundays had originally been the quietest days for him. The whole town would cram into the tiny church just outside of the nearby orchard, and for two hours the town may as well have been abandoned. On one occasion, he made it a point of making the pilgrimage with the rest of the town. He wasn’t very religious, the stories of whales swallowing a boy or God flooding the earth were meaningless to him, but he figured the least he could do was meet the Reverend.

It was as cramped as it looked from the outside, but a cosy light moseyed through the stained glass windows, lighting the room warmly. At the front a piano sat, the carpet around it indented by its weight, and next to it an altar. It was more or less the first thing that popped into mind when one thought about the word ‘church’. Led by Reverend Wilton, the actual service was largely unremarkable. A few bible verses, tales of how they can guide one through life, a song, and then the sharing of communion before folks went their way.

As the last people flowed from the church, Ed remained. It was time to meet.</sup>

_{Alright, so, I know I said this would be three parts, but there’s too much opportunity, so there’s going to be one extra part. So uh, part 3/3 to be followed by 4/3.}

[Also Not FNU]

Monsters and Martyrs

<sup>In Reverend John C. Wilton’s life, he had met and consoled just about everyone in the town at some point. It was strange. A child he baptised was the someone he would say wedding vows for, only for the cycle to repeat when the lad brought his own child. 85 years of the same cycle, but for him it never got old. The creation of life, the finding of joy, and the creation of a loving union were the highlights. Inversely, he also saw people ailing in bed, struggling in the town’s hospital, or he ended up offering them to the lord as they were lowered into the grave. The typhoid years had been especially hard. To their credit, the railways tried to help, using old locomotive tenders to bring in clean water, but it was small comfort to those already in the depths of the sickness. That was just the cycle of joy and sorrow he inhabited.

Now he stood flustered. A boy he had no recollection of standing before him in the empty pews of the church. It was clear the boy had business, no person stayed long unless they needed something. So, with what gutsy the ageing man had, he perked from the bible resting atop the altar, and spoke to the boy.

“Son, is there something you’ve come for? I can’t say I’ve seen you before.”

“My apologies reverend, you’re the only person I’ve yet to meet, or I suppose, reacquaint with.”

Now puzzled by the existence of some connection, Wilton pushed the boy for more information.

“Reacquaint? Have you been to Chelsbury before?”

“I was born here, reverend, you baptised me on behalf of my parents.”

Wilton was at a loss, he had baptised most of the town’s population. The faces blended after so long.

“To which family do you belong, young man?”

“I’m what’s left of the Campbell's, reverend.”

Realisation struck the holy man like lighting. He knew this boy. Edwin Campbell. He had overseen his parents' care and later funerals while he was off fighting. Edwin never returned. Wilton chalked it up to grief.

“It’s been just shy of a decade, Edwin, why return now?”

“Well reverend, I’ve nothing left in the place I was staying. The law there isn’t fond of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re itching to find me here.”

“What did you do that the law would hunt you like sport?”

“I’ve killed a few bad men reverend, solved a problem or two they would have preferred to solve themselves.”

“Edwin, I’ve never taken you for rash, why go to such extremes?”

“They did some horrible things to people, things I couldn’t fathom going without justice. Unfortunately, the judge of the town at the time was keen to look away. Kept things simple for him.”

“This former judge, what happened to him?”

“I shot him reverend, shot him dead in his home.”

“But why? Why kill rather than try to aid the law in seeing this man’s corruptions?”

“Because, when the man is the law, there’s no swaying it.”

“I cannot offer you refuge son.”

“I’m not seeking it reverend, just wanted to ask something.”

“Go on then.”

“If a man strikes down his fellow man, does that make him a monster?”

A long silence rolls across the dusty air of the church, and thinking deeply, Wilton looks up, ponders, and then looks towards Ed once more.

“It makes him a sinner, no different than the gambler or the drunk. It is his reasons that demand his form of damnation. A man who kills in self defence is a lesser sinner then the man who kills for pleasure in the eyes of the lord.”

“Then which one am I reverend?”

“That is between you and the lord.”

A silent nod echoes through the wooden building, and Ed turns around to exit the building. He makes it a few steps before Wilton calls out to add on to his comment.

“Come the time son, your actions will speak loudest of your character. Words will falter against the winds of emotions, but with a firm step, even the toughest maelstrom may be traversed.”

Without a further word, Ed exits quietly from the wooden building, making his way back to the cottage. Checking the postage, he finds a telegraph. Opening it, he finds it to be from Officer Haroldson back in Lichuberry. It doesn’t bring good news. The MP’s knew where he was, and they’d finally gotten approval to make their way to Chelsbury. His best hope was to get the earliest train out of there, and try to catch a ferry to Ivernia. It filled him with some kind of comfort, knowing what Haroldson was risking to tell him this, but it wasn’t more than a flimsy fantasy. Ed was tired, too tired to keep running, but just awake enough to keep his struggle going.

Resting gently in the corner of the dining room sat his service rifle. It was a Pattern 1902 Magazine Wellington-Barclay chambered in .303 Imperial. He’d kept her in good condition even all these years later, and he knew that she’d seen him through more than a fair share of shite. Grabbing it, he walked to the living room, setting himself down on the couch and manipulating its bolt. Confirming it clear, he set about maintaining her once again. It was a simple process, a little lubricant here, some stock polish there, and she was right as rain. Setting her against the living room wall to dry, he made his way out back of the cottage to the nearby shed. Locating a box of ageing ammunition, he gently tapped the rounds against the shed wall, checking for compacted powder. After sorting out the good ones, he returned inside once more.

He wasn’t running anymore. This was the end of the line for him, he just needed the other party to arrive and the dance could begin.</sup>

---

<sup>In the cramped interior of a Great Eastern Railway carriage, Sgt. Clydebank and his men wait. They’ve got revised orders from Phillips. He wants Campbell alive. Previously, the overweight man had specified he couldn’t care less if Campbell came to his court in a body bag or in a pair of cuffs, which would simplify the affair, but the new directions meant a complete re-evaluation of the situation. They’d have to slowly get Ed to surrender himself, the same man who was willing to uproot his entire life and move over a thousand miles away just to escape them.

Ignoring the overall hopelessness of the situation, Clydebank takes pause from the game of euchre before him to address the newly arrived conductor.

“Five minutes until arrival Sir.”

“Thank you.”

“I should be saving that for you, after all, without proper law our country would be in shambles.”

Clydebank merely nods at the conductor’s remark. He can’t help but feel something of a hypocrite. But, the point remained. It didn’t matter who Campbell had killed, it didn't matter why, it merely mattered that the justice system had been bypassed recklessly, and now he stood fugitive to the law. The rest of the euchre game was quiet, the jovial attitude being overtaken by the dread of their vicinity to Chelsbury.

Five minutes later, and the men stand on the platform of Chelsbury station. It’s empty, void of a stray cat, not even the cabbies that usually haunt these stations being present to greet them. Campbell’s supposed location is shy of a fifteen minute walk, and so the men begin to make their way to the little cottage on the outskirts of town. As they march down the main avenue of the town, people peer out their windows, as though they were some exotic animals on display. At the end of the road, an ageing church peers out at them, and on its stairs a man stands.

Ordering his men to a halt just shy of the first step, Clydebank approaches the man. He’s clearly the local reverend, the black suit that drapes him and bible tightly clutched in his right hand is evidence enough.

“Pardon the intrusion Reverend, but we’re looking for someone, and we’re curious if you could assist us?”

“Edwin is a foolish man. But he is not in parlay with evil. I pray you to take him kindly, or take him respectfully into the heavens.”

“Reverend, it’s in our interest to seek his survival in this ordeal. If you could offer direction, or perhaps your services, we would be much obliged.”

The reverend doesn’t say a word, sidestepping Clydebank, bible firmly pressed against his chest and secured by his right hand. He begins walking down a dirt road, and Clydebank orders his men to follow.

Another five minutes pass by, and finally a sleepy cottage greets them. Smoke gently billows from its chimney, a clear sign of life, but through the windows nothing can be seen, not at the distance they stand from it. Coming to a halt just outfront of the building, Clydebank has his men stay still as the reverend approaches the door. He sees the door crack open, but he can’t make out Campbell. After a few quiet moments, the reverend approaches them again. His hand extends out to Clydebank, the bible firmly prodding at him.

“You and your men will need this far more than I ever have.”

Clydebank grabs the holy text, watching as the man sullenly walks back down the road, not wanting to play accomplice to either party. He waits for the man to exit earshot, and yells from the roadside.

“By order of his Majesty’s Government and the Right Honourable Judge of Lichbuerry, we order you to reveal yourself and surrender to the processes of the law!”

No response comes back.

Clydebank orders one of his men to approach the door, watching as he knocks. Three times his hand makes contact with the oak door, and not once does he receive a response. As he turns, the door creaks, and a shot rings out.

The bullet rips through the man’s lower abdomen, and he collapses. Before Clydebank has a chance to say anything, his men open up in what they presume to be vengeance of their fallen comrade. Hole after hole begins to form through the front of the cottage, the door becoming something in resemblance to swiss cheese. Clydebank screams furiously, trying to order a ceasefire, but only succeeds when he rips a rifle from the hands of one of his men.

The following minutes bring a flurry of emotions. After dragging the wounded man back to the road, they find him to be in severe pain, but otherwise fine. Brief examination shows the bullet to have passed through cleanly, though it’s clear it grazed the man’s liver. As the other men tend to their wounded brother, Clydebank and one other man enter the cottage. It’s a humble abode, the fire gently crackling away, table fully set. On a stove in the corner, a stew boils away. But there, on the wooden floor, rests the body of Edwin J. Campbell. Blood soaks every inch of his vest and slacks.

As Clydebank examines the man, he finds that in place of a handkerchief, a note fills his pocket. It’s brief, giving Clydebank a look into the man’s mind, if only a microcosm of it. He knows one thing as he reads it further: This note cannot make its course to the public. However, he also knows that it would be no better in Judge Phillips' hands, who assuredly would see it destroyed. So, he makes a choice, one of his own, and tucks it away into his coat pocket.

The train ride to Lichbuerry is solemn, but the news stirs the city into a fiery anger. As much as Phillips rejoiced at the news that Campbell was no longer an issue, the anger emanating from the people as they men left to return to Caradon was clear, an evident effect of the impact the man had in his brief life. And now Clydebank was left with a terrible thing on his shoulders, doubt.</sup>

_{Part 4 of 3. I figured this is a good place to end things on the story side. The note’s contents will be revealed eventually in a news post. I do hope that my intentions in the way I painted everyone were clear, but if there’s any questions, feel free to ask them. Also, Phillips change in attitude at the end of versus the start of Clydebank's perspective is because of his unspoken realization that a trial would've been impossible.}

[Also Not FNU]

60 Souls and Double in Metres

<sup>11 December, 0600 Hours. In the murky morning Captain William P. Sexton peers through the periscope. Two days deep into the war game, and so far his vessel was slacking behind the remainder of the submersible fleet. Overnight the majority of the ‘enemy’ fleet had moved towards the Cambrian Exclave, preparing for gunnery practice and a mock beach assault in collaboration with the Army. Unfortunately, his submersible, SV-6, had decided that it didn’t wish to participate, bending a conrod during a hard running session to attempt to rendezvous early with their tender.

It was the tender that ended up rendezvousing with them, fortunately enough bringing a spare piston in along with them. It took another two hours to even remove the damned thing, and another two to inspect the piston shaft and install the new one. If not for Sexton’s pride, they would’ve accepted the tender’s offer for a tow to make sure the engine was in proper shape, but instead he deemed the basic inspection sufficient. They were four hours behind on planned manoeuvres, and Sexton wasn’t going to hear it from Rear Admiral Miller. By the time they arrived, the first bombardment had ended, purely gunnery practice for those serving aboard the heavily gunned dreadnoughts and cruisers. This meant that until the early morning of day two, there was to be no events or contacts occurring.

And now, as that early morning had come, Sexton had one goal: Catch up on the shipping totals. Practice runs the day prior exercised by SV-8, SV-17, and SV-22 had proven greatly successful, so much so that by the time SV-6 arrived, there hadn’t been any targets. The practice landings offered a renewed opportunity, ‘troop ships’ borrowed from subsidised passenger lines would soon be prowling the waters. Of particular interest to Sexton was the ageing SS Euralian, which by his knowledge, was to pass just south of SV-6’s current location. At cruising surface speed, the submersible could quickly enough plot an intercept, and lie in wait for the slow steamer. It was all too perfect, and all it would take is one dud torpedo and he’d be one step closer to closing that gap.</sup>

---

<sup>Aboard the SS Tromian, tensions were running high. The ship had set out on the night of December 6th, and now, five days later, reports had been flooding the wireless receiver that their route had them running through the Navy’s review zone. In order to correct this, they’d been forced southernly, way farther south then they would’ve preferred. Additionally, they’d been forced to slow. Coal consumption was through the roof in an attempt to make up for the time lost in the manoeuvre, but they were now reduced to crawling at 9 knots.

In the wireless room, junior telegraph officer Henry Barker listened to the chatter of the nearby fleet. It was clear to him that their manoeuvre had successfully put them out of harm's way for that day’s war games, but it still worried him when he caught wind of a transmission from the Euralian, their sister ship. She’d apparently caught fire, the fresh linen she was carrying on behalf of the Royal Navy being caught aflame by some moron with a cigarette. Euralian’s situation had been of no concern to the officer on the bridge, that was until Barker pointed out that she was to participate in the naval games that day. What was already the risky endeavour of staying just outside of the wargame area had suddenly become a race to get through before the day’s operations began.

Lifeboats were made ready, and below decks, the black gang worked furiously to push the steamer back up to her maximum speed. It wasn’t much faster then they were already going, but three extra knots could be all the difference as far as they knew. Every minute was a sweat-soaked hell, but as far as the men were concerned, the second they gave in to fatigue was the second they were as good as shark bait. In the wireless room Barker did his best to find the navy’s frequency, but they’d gone dead silent, meaning only one thing: The games had begun.</sup>

---

<sup>Peering through the periscope, Sexton finally spotted what he’d been hunting for so long. Sure, he was a little further north than planned, a side effect of wanting to approach her from the starboard side, but it was far too good an opportunity to pass up. Soon enough, the four masted steamer creeped closer and closer into his range. It was all too perfect. From his pocket he carefully retrieved his stopwatch, the click loudly echoing through the quiet submersible. Three minutes and fifteen seconds later, Sexton has his mark. He begins the routine.

“Flood tube one.”

A few moments later, the weapons officer calls back.

“Tube one flooded sir.”

“Fire!”

The whooshing of air as the silver fish leaves its bed is resounding, and Sexton watches in great excitement as it swims perfectly straight on.

“Make ready tube two.”

Again the weapons officer reports ready.

When the second torpedo exits the tube, it’s notably more sluggish, as though something is weighing it down. It follows not too far behind its running mate, and runs at an even better spread angle then its sister. As the first torpedo strikes the Euralian, it sends up a great resounding deluge of spray, then stops dead. In its nose a buoyancy bladder assures the torpedo can be recovered, too much risk in them falling into unsavoury hands. Sexton watches expectantly as the second torpedo grows closer and closer, and restrains himself from exclaiming in joy as it strikes flat on the Euralian’s side. Milliseconds later, and hell on earth has begun. In mere seconds, the Euralian is listing severely, he can see lifeboats lowering, crew doing what they can to get people off as quickly as they can.

“Blow the ballast now!”

“Aye sir!”

The old submarine groans in agony, her tanks not designed to handle the strain of forcing so much water out so quickly. As soon as she stabilises on the surface, Sexton orders her up to flank speed. It’s all of five minutes before they close the gap to mere metres. Exiting through the conning tower, Sexton is greeted with the miserably cold conditions of the Caradon Bay. He can make out the few crew amongst a sea of panicked people, and with great effort, calls out to them.

“Crew of Euralian! This is Captain Sexton of HMS SV-6, how may we assist?”

One of the crew members, busy cutting a davit free, calls out to the man.

“What the fuck are you on about? This is the Tromian!”

In a moment, the situation goes from bad to worse.

“How many men are you carrying?”

“We’re not under naval command you blithering idiot, these are passengers! We’ve got about thirty-eight out of sixty, and of 128 crew we’ve only managed to gather the bridge crew and the service staff. We’re trying to get into the engineering quarters, but you morons bent the bulkheads so badly we’re not sure we’ll get them out. We’ve got crews breaking through the floor in the third class cabins since it’s also the roof of the central boiler room, but chances are we’re not far from those boilers bursting if they didn’t shut the dampers.”

“We’ll do what we can. Have your lifeboat operators tie themselves to our stern, and if you have some type of rope net, drop it to your side and I’ll send some men aboard to aid your ‘breaker’ crew.”

“We’ve got a coaling door we can let them through, we’re low enough in the water you ought to be able to make the gap. Be swift though, I doubt cap’n wants us making the flooding worse.”

The following twenty minutes consist of exactly that. Lifeboats A, B and surprisingly enough D from the port side successfully tied behind the creaking submarine. As the breaker crew continued pounding away at the floor, the metal began giving way, the hellish underbelly of the ship being drafted into the dingy halls of third class. At first the hole was hardly large enough to fit a fist through, but minute after minute of strenuous labour, it was just large enough to squeeze through. One of the submariners took the initiative, dropping through the hole into the flooded boiler room.

Landing with a resounding thud, he began navigating around, finding the black gang working furiously to prevent the boilers from going up. Water was already reaching mid-shin levels, much higher and the boiler's fire doors would soon be overwhelmed.

“We need to get yous lads outtsa hear as soons as we can!”

A senior engineer approaches the submariner, grasping his shoulder.

“We’re in here until the water level reaches that there hole ye made. This ship dies without us.”

Giving an understanding look, the young navy man offers his service and begins doing what he can to aid the men.

Five minutes later, the ship capsizes completely.</sup>

_{Final death total will come to light during the trials. Sure, this may not be as deadly as I hyped it up to be, but still, the messages remains that incompetence kills. Also, on a large screen this looks like I wrote nothing so let me know how it is length wise.}

[Kyrumi]

GOODNIGHT SWEET PRINCE
“And no-one understood the prophecy. . . except that it was in praise of Goedwyn and all his sons, may thy rule forevermore” - The Narrator, O’er Book o’ Goedwyn o’ King o’ Princes.

A clock tick-tocked away quietly as the fading light of morning trickled in through the windows, the dying remnants of night slowly giving way to the lazy morning light that rose over the horizon, the room now slowly being covered in a cloak of dim light and shadows sprung t’where the light wasn’t able to reach.


It stayed this way for some time, the clock still ticking and the light still trickling in.


A servant, clad in a cut of drab and rather plain cloth that was outshined by even the faded wallpaper that adorned the walls, came in as the clock’s hands reached the sixth hour past that of morrow. They stayed briefly, quickly attending to the fireplace that took up the western wall. They lit their charge with a box of matches pulled by calloused yet nimble fingers from their apron and then left as soon as they had came t’while the fire crackled quietly within it’s hearth.

The clock continued to tick, the stout hand reaching the seventh, then the eight, the ninth, and then the tenth hour.

It was then that a man came in, shuffling his feet slightly as he leaned heavily upon the cane t’which he held in a vice grip. He wasn’t dressed like the servant who had came before him and even as he leaned upon the cane for support, he seemed to stand taller with an innate air of noble grace; where the servant had been dressed in what was affordable upon meagre pay, he was berobed in sharply cut black riding trousers, fine riding boots and a red tailcoat jacket.

He continued to walk into the room, his cane thudding against the floor with each step he took as gloved hands gripped tightly around the carved edifice of a dragon that topped the walking aide.

He continued like this, nearly doubled over and practically dragged one leg behind him limply, each breath he took becoming ragged and shaking his entire wiry frame of muscle and pained flesh.

It was with a slump that he sat down into a nearby armchair, wheezing slightly as his ragged lungs took in the air they had lost.

He noticed the newspaper that had been placed upon the small coffee table sometime ago, having been ironed down beforehand to prevent any such abominable things such as ink dare stain the most noble and holy hands of the prince should he dare to read such modern things.

And as gloved hands reached out and grabbed the crisp paper, the Prince did dare.


He read, glassy eyed, the typed print that lay upon the page. The southerners were modernising, the new King-down-south had come unto his throne full of enviable youthful vigour and had declared he would see his newly inherited realm modernised.

The Prince felt a throb in his heart and a stab in his leg at this. He’d been like that once, how long had it been since Lowri and Gymli had died. . . how long had it been since he’d died really, how long since that car crash took his wife and child and with them his purpose in life. He shook the paper in his hands and continued to read, his eyes as sharp as a hawk.

Twenty six years. . .

The King-down-south had been a child back then hadn’t he? Lady above. . .

The prince sneered and threw the paper unto the table but the picture continued to haunt him as it stared back up at him. A smiling king looking upon a factory being built, shaking hands with some foreign official as sturdy looking workmen looked on with admiration. How long had it been since he’d left the estates and actually met the people, his people? Three years at this rate. . .


Maybe. . . maybe he should talk to this new King-down-south. . . maybe he should send a letter. . .

[Kyrumi]

KIN
by
LIMEY (KRYUMI) & TEAGHAN (LUTHLAND)

The white-goat banner flew heroically in the wind, thu-thumping against the great ancient stone castles of Huld. Antique statues of pagan gods graced the city squares, and foreign businesses settled in this rich and secretive market for the first time in centuries. The great bells rang at the top of the Hadrai Palace.

Kethe stepped before his mirror, a bronze comb untangling knots in his dark hair. Wincing at the tugging, he rinsed his face with hot water. Sunlight bled through windows, casting dappled diagonal beams on the marble floor in a checkerboard pattern.

Once finished, he opened the door, and the walls adorned with tapestry depicting his family’s history greeted him. Two well-muscled guards, shorter than him, flanked his side, their expressions unwavering in the face of joy or tragedy.

“When shall he be here?” asked the King, his voice an unassuming tenor.
“Soon, Lord King,” replied his right-hand, who himself had prepared a table for the Prince. “Soon.”

Down the hallway. . .

Thud.

It is the sound that first hails the arrival of the Kyrumi prince instead that of fanfare or gallant knights of yore in their infernally clanking armour of plated steel that the northern principality seem to have even in this day age, the soft wooden thud of a walking stick landing heavily onto stone floor from out in the corridor is what first announces the presence of the reclusive prince.

Something is faintly muttered in that strange brother tongue that the Kyrumi use, the words sounding at once familiar and distorted, like trying to listen to a man who is thoroughly drunk. Despite the majority of the supposed problems of the Prince, the devil's drink is not one of them, at least not publically.

It is only then, after a minute or so has eclipsed the soft thud of wood unto stone, that an official proclamation begins.

It is with the tooting and trumpeting of horns and under the close watch of two of the armoured knights of the Order of the Lady, cloaks bearing the royal colours hanging pompously off of their shoulders and their gauntled hands resting only ever so slightly upon the gilded hilts of their ceremonial sabres, that the Prince walks in as the knights hold open the door.

"Heddwch fyddo gyda thi o Frenin. . . " His words are a soft mutter and yet he holds himself tall, his hair and short beard well-brushed and although prematurely greying in many a place still looking fine, and his body is clad in the dark red and yellow cloth and the bastardised ceremonial half-armour, his cuirasse having been seemingly freshly adorned with gilded leaf, that for most other monarchs would serve as protection from nought but unkind words and quite possibly a dull blade but with the men of Kyrumi you never quite knew.

And then, as the King awaits his visitor. . .

"Your armour, Lord King." The Marshal brought for the ceremonial armour; the helmet was a great shining bronze with the accents of blue and red, and on upon the helm, fearsome horns curved with an air of divine intimidation, guardians against malevolent spirits that dared intrude upon this sacred assembly. The cuirass, too, was decorated with noble engravings which depicted scenes of triumphant warriors, their valour immortalised in the very fabric protecting the honourable chest, and the plate of the armour almost resembling scales.

"Thank you, Lœfny," said Kethe with a half-grin and a nod, who now dawned the ceremonial warrior's wardrobe and approached the doors to the Great Hall with a hushed reverence about him, with quiet whispers of pagan prayers. As was tradition, he carried on him a sword, also made of bronze, and that too shone with perfection. He let his long dark hair fall to his shoulder and massaged his thin beard.

When he stepped out of the halls and the light shone in, the slamming of the doors against the stone walls made his entrance clear and made him appear more as a triumphant War God than as a man, or even a king. His armour clanked as he walked, but eventually he faced the Prince, and a gentle smile graced his lips.

The Prince returns the King's gaze with a stare of his own, his dark green eyes cold and stern with little room for emotion within the vast pools of shimmering green as his wrinkled skin folds harshly into the many little creases that both age and stress have brought in equal amounts, as what little can be seen of his upper lip under the neatly combed curled moustache, one of a few shades lighter than his dark brown hair, remains stoically stiff.

He lets his stare stay there for a moment, it never wavering from Kethe's eyes, before he, in quite a change for movement from a man who appears to be made of stiff oak, sharply snaps one of his gloved hands to his chest, softly thumping against it before he speaks once more in the slightly melodic accent of the Kryumi, and somehow he still manages to keep all forms of emotion except that of unrelenting certainty from dropping into his voice.

"O' Frenin gwr y De!" He states like a bricklayer lays brick, his tongue moving quickly speaking in the language of his people. "August celebrations upon you, we of the most noble principality of the Kyrumi and the Duchy of Eyri wish to be allowed by thy noble self to speak with you about matters most important to the good order and running of our two most close people and realms."

A silence fell.

“Fire,” he commanded, and the guards echoed the order. “Fire! Fire to the braziers!”

Raising a hand, they all followed the lead of his golden regality, and in a moment, his hand dropped.

“We light these fires because evil spirits may try and taunt us. Beladdœ bless us,” he murmured, raising his arms as if invoking that same blessing, “Luthi protect us.”

As his attention returned to the Prince, he smiled, as if nothing was out of the ordinary — to him, nothing was. His hand rested on the hilt of his bejewelled sword, beckoning the Prince and his guard to join him in the Royal Dining. Behind them, the doors slammed shut. Kethe dropped a handful of silver into a musician’s hands, and with great fervour, the man got up and began to play.

“We Luth have a saying,” he began, “Dro gol bryn vny eldhœ ftobi cʼhœ ngœzody chti chvibi. Even a king must pay their men and live by laws,” he said. Though his Kyrumic was flawed, it was cohesive, sounding less like the ramblings of a drunken man and more like the impassioned effort of a learned man. He offered a seat across from his own, and the men already began to work on the dishes. He beckoned forward, as if to say, “Come.”

The Prince nods his head gently, his eyes resting shut for a mere moment, as the two knights behind him similarly raise their gauntled fists to their chests in a salute and thus the young King and the old Prince are left alone to dine as the knights retreat into the room from where hence they had all came

The Prince walks slowly towards the table, each step of his followed soon by the soft thumps of his wooden cane as it lands upon the floor to support him in his advance towards the King's dining table and the nearest chair. He seems to twinge ever so mildly with each step, a nearly imperceptible twitch of the corners of his mouth occuring unbidden with his pain.

"I's confess o' Majesty, I's had no clue that you made a study of our tongue." His voice pours as smoothly as wine, and for a mere moment it seems like a flicker of a smile lurks upon the edges of his weary lips, almost hinting at the jovial aristocrat of mirth Kethe had only heard about from his father's stories.

One gloved hand wraps around the back of a chair as the other rests heavily upon the gilded ornamentation that rests at the head of the fine cane he uses. "I presume. . " He starts and yes, there is a faint smirk now that rests upon the edges of his lips even as the sternness of his curled mustachios moves to smother it in it's hair. "I may sit o' Brennin, lest these spirits carry me off on my feet?"

He smiled at that. He reached up and removed his helmet and his face, young and handsome, finally revealed itself. He pulled out a seat and planted himself down.

“Lord,” called a voice from the back of the kitchen, who was half-drowned in smoke and half-deafened with the sound of sizzling pans.
“May I serve you both?”

The King opened his arms invitingly and nodded, then let them slump back down to his waist.

“My father took great fascination in your people,” Kethe said with his Luthish inflection, “And that came to me.” Though in truth, he had expected a stronger looking man.

The prince quirks an eyebrow. "I's must ask o' Brennin, what he had seen in us little northerners for we's have nought much but the Lady's grace at ours side." The man grips the arm of the chair as he sits down, a wave of relief now spreading across his face as he relaxes his aching legs.

Each efforted movement from the Prince nearly provoked the King to squint and cringe. Age, the damned thing. It was a cancer. He recentered his focus. “It is said that your first king was related to the great Huld Hadrai, Sethe preserve him. Half-brothers, no?”

The prince smiles weakly as one hand moves near automatically, drifting from his forehead down to his nose and then across to his cheek before once more going to his nose and then down to his moustachioed covered lips; the sign of Nimuellwyn. "The first and last o'er the Kingdom o' Yore, Goedwyn went north whilst ye Huld stayed along the riverbeds and coastline but despite the estrangement Goedwyn declared he'd be first in the shield wall with his brethren forever more. . . ~ The Apotheosis of the Saint, Ser Arrawyn II-I."

He smiled slightly and began to recite an ancient text of his own, taking notice of the tone-shift of his fellow monarch.

“And Huld prayed to Luthi, and Luthi said to Huld: ‘The blood of this land will be yours and will be that of your children,’ and Huld replied, ‘And I shall honour You and my descendants shall honour You so long as my blood rules.’”

Kethe took great pride in that ancestry. He shifted upright, back straightened, and he moved with a calculation about him, as if every gesture was done with meticulous thought.

"Here's to a legacy that never shall die. . ." The Prince raises a glass in toast. "To the sons of Goedwyn and Huld!"

“To the sons of Goedwyn and Huld!” And he too raised a glass. “Now, as to the matter at hand — what would you like to talk about?”

The Prince nods as he takes a sip from the glass. "You are. . . as direct as your father." He lowers the glass from his lips but continues to hold it nonchalantly in his hand, fingers wrapped around the stem. "For that, I shall answer in turn and do so tersely; I want a slice of the proverbial pie you've been baking for your country in regards to modernisation."

He smiled at that, touched by the remark. He drummed his fingers along the table as he mulled over the request, and the gears spun in his head. He interlocked his fingers and leaned in, eyes now meeting the Princes’.

“You’re aware of the successes of the Open Door Plan, then, and the recent purchase of ships.” He nodded slowly. “What do you expect to get out of this? How much?”

"As much as I can." There is a slightly hungry look, like that of a predator, within the eyes of the old Prince. “You wish to bleed us dry?” The King asked, voice lowered and his accent now a tone thicker. That predatory gaze was all familiar. Kethe’s green eyes suddenly seemed deadly with their look.

"No, I wish for my country to not be a oft forgotten, neglected rump state." The Prince's gaze softens for a moment as he clarifies. "I'd like to rise once more with our southern brethren's aide if thy is willing."

“Cooperation is welcome,” he said, and he leaned back with a renewed relaxation in his frame. “What is it you want from this ‘cooperation, then?’”

"We import tobacco, steel and sulphur, we export cigars, cigarettes, coal and occasionally grain." The Prince says, taking another sip of his drink as he leans back in his chair. "From the latter you may take your pick. . . " He swirls the glass for a moment, watching the red drink within slosh gently. "Of course, we can always negotiate in bullion. . ."

“Well,” The King rested his hand on his chin, “We will need fuel for the factories we’ve begun opening in the east, near villages. More coal means more factories, which means more opportunity to work, which means more money for the people.” He nodded, satisfied at how things had started. “How much can you give us?” He asked.

"At current production rates? Around five hundred thousand to seven thousand tons per year." The Prince says speculatively as he stares cooly at a nearby wall. "We'd be able to increase it with minor investments in the industry to around oh. . . a million per year?"

“We can offer investments,” the King said blankly, “And we will pay for your valuable coal with our technology. Railroads, expertise, the like.”

"There will be. . . more issues later on I'm assured, but tis this acceptable o' Brennin y de?"

“Indeed, it is.” And in the traditional greeting, he invites the Prince to stand and offers his arm. The Prince pushes himself upwards, knee threatening to buckle under the weight and muscles twining with pain but still he forces himself to stand all the same, and grabs the man's arm tightly with a force that the King hadn't expected of the man. "Here's to the future, to the little things in life, no?"

“Here’s to the renewed brotherhood of Huld and Eyri,” The King corrected, his young face morphed with a prideful, jovial, and celebratory smirk. He looked down and chuckled loudly. “Your strength has not left you! I think you and I will get along nicely.” The King of Huld gave his new friend and cousin via culture and the old king’s blood a mighty and friendly slap to the shoulder. “I’d ask you to stay, but I understand things must be done back north.”

The Prince chuckles. "I'm afraid even if there was not things to do, my bones nor my physicians like me straying so far from home but, o' brethren o' Huld, you are fit enough and young enough to make thy trek up north if thy wishes before you become a old haggard knave like me. "

And with that, two countries once estranged begin to grow familiar once more.

[Also Not FNU]

VOIDED

[Also Not FNU]

Restriking the Deal

<sup>Huey Prather was a simple man. Outwardly, he looked no different than the traders of Grand Square in Aquitania’s Olmstead City. A thin mustache, accented by simplistic suit and tie, Prather was unassuming to the naked eye, and yet somehow, this man was the newly elected President of the Commonwealth. For all his perceived normality, he was a firebrand, a new source of fuel for Amician dreams.

He was a strange breed in the regards that he was the first Deweyist to win since William Bell’s 1992 campaign victory. Since then, the Mahoney administration of 1996 to 2008, and the Chaffee administration of 2008 to 2024, the Commonwealth had been firmly under the guidance of the Cobbians. While this had seen some positives, such as the reintroduction of the Conservation Corps and the establishment of a prototype national healthcare system, it had also seen massive overspending, neglect of civil infrastructure, and the reduction of funding towards scientific efforts. Defense projects were approved at a reckless pace, something carried over from the Mahoney administration. Spending had ballooned and in Deweyist circles, alongside more conservative branches of the Cobbians, this was seen as the main source of the trouble.

Back in 1994, William Bell had given a speech on the very subject, forewarning that a return to the old ways, to worrying more about what the next door neighbor was doing then country, to overproducing defense equipment with no purpose, would be the undoing of the Commonwealth. For every bullet made, there was a mouth that went unfed. Mahoney and Chaffee hadn’t heeded this warning, and the people had carried the burden.

Prather was a welcome sight come the 2024 Election season. Young, dapper, and iconically simplistic in manner and dress, he was a far cry from the aging politicians who rested on their perches in Springwood. A moderate Deweyist, he praised the prior administrations for their work in social security, healthcare accessibility, and environmental preservation, but he also decried their more obvious flaws. Bloating military spending had increased dependence on the military industries, and negligence of the nation’s infrastructure left the Commonwealth unready to mobilize in spite of its turgid military efforts. The Cobbians, he declared, had broken the understanding that the Government serves the people, and then merely works with industry, not the other way around.

Invoking imagery of the New Deal Collier administration of the 1940s, he declared the need to “restrike the deal” that had so long ago fizzled out. It would be the grand effort of his administration to leapfrog the Commonwealth out of its slump. Roadways, bridges, tunnels, anything vital to the flow of goods and people would be evaluated. Chaffee’s prototype healthcare system was to be formalized, and the military’s cut of the national piggy bank slashed. It would redraw the contracts of politics to lift the people from their destitution, or allow them to maintain and grow what they had already staked as theirs in life.

It was a surprisingly moderate approach, especially risky for the young Deweyist, but, by some miracle it had worked. Come election night, Prather had secured 62% of the vote, beating sixteen year incumbent James Chaffee by some 24%. It was a miracle. News sites were reporting it as some type of “Deweyist-wave” inspired by the dapper candidates' assurances to the public. There of course was the usual outpouring of grief, some Cobbians declaring that the Commonwealth had seen its last great administration, and others still insisting that Prather’s approach would leave the Commonwealth even weaker. Others celebrated the change, social activists pleased with his planned support for more welfare programs, and peace activists delighted by his planned reduction of arms spending.

Not long after, the time came for his inauguration. His first great foray into the world’s eye, and a declaration of what he would shape his administration to be. As is customary, he’d prepared a speech, but, rereading it just before the beginning of the ceremony, he ripped it to shreds. If he was going to give a proper speech, it would come to him come the time, not when he looked at a carefully manicured paper.

“In these long years past, the Amician people have trudged on through the lows of this fine nation. They have struggled for work, for pay, and mostly vitally, for hope. It is my dream, my administration's dream, to restore that lost faith. We must restrike the deal that Collier so beautifully orchestrated. We cannot allow for decay to claim our spirits. We must persevere. There’s still work to be done on this beautiful project we call home, and so I call for the people to dust themselves off, and get back in the ring.”

He paused only a moment, measuring the crowd before continuing, “No longer shall partisanship and the will of those in industry control the effectiveness of this nation. Collaboration must be the order of the day, and every day for as long as you the people deem my administration fit to serve. No longer will bullets and warships be the heart of the economy, as the miracles of science and modern civil industry must take their positions, as rightful leaders of our monetary blood flow. As we rebuild this fine nation to a higher glory than ever seen, our infrastructure cannot escape our eyes. Roadways cannot crumble, bridges collapse, or tunnels flood. Those are the trappings of a dying state, and the Commonwealth most certainly is not among them. I promise to you that by restriking this agreement, this understanding of the collaborative nature of the people, government, and industry, our fine nation shall once again be the shining city upon the hill the world believes it to be.”

As applause broke out, Prather noticed his hearing fade. It was merely him, the ringing of his ears, and the blurry picture of the crowd before him. He had chained himself to those promises, and now, he’d be damned if he broke them.</sup>

_{Is this identical to the post I retconned? More or less. Had to remove a few little things, plus I released it far too early last time, so here’s the fixed and appropriately timed version (Yes, Amician Presidents are inaugurated earlier than actual American presidents, but the IRP reason is it allows for a cleaner transitory period between administrations.)}

[Also Not FNU]

Down Periscope

<sup>Captain Henry V. Phillips sits peering through the periscope. SV-402 sits quietly in the water, with a perfect view out into the South Bordon Sea. He watches as portions of the fleet, or at least what was left of it, slowly trickle homewards. Ships had been passing through for the past few hours, returning from wherever they were holding out in the final minutes, smoke still trickling from some of their gun barrels, the ghostly mist of a now defunct war.

Eventually the traffic thins, and so the order is given to surface the ship. He sees no point in wasting electric charge when there’s nothing more than a strong gust of wind assaulting their location. The order to surface echoes through the cramped interior of the submarine, but eventually the sleek vessel pops above the water's surface. Over the intercom, Phillips orders a swim call for all non-essential crew. He stands back from the receiver, watching men trickle up through the subs conning tower, heading out to plunge into the sea surrounding the silver fish.

Once the last man made his way up the ladder, Phillips hauled himself up, standing atop the observation deck of the conning tower. It was a relief to finally feel cool air that wasn’t from the submarine’s recirculatory system. Reaching into his satchel, he retrieved his binoculars, intending to continue watching the traffic flowing for any notable vessels. It was a past-time of his from when he was younger, and it never left him. Most of what he spotted was nothing more than a few dinged up destroyers and the occasional minesweeper, mostly either newer constructions or lucky survivors from the early days of the war.

Below him, telegraphist Louis R. Thompson remains at his station. Traffic has been heavy since the surrender alert came through, mostly consisting of other telegraphists communicating with stations on shore, sending messages to families with the comforting notice that they’d soon be home. In between the messages for those back home, the occasional chatter between vessels was a welcome event. Without the need to encrypt anything, it was as though you were sitting next to the bloke on the other end of the transmitter. Soon enough, he intercepted some traffic from SV-156, a sign that the rest of the submersible fleet was finally coming home. It was a rare occasion to hear anything from 156 though, their captain was a hardass in that regard.

Captain Campbell controlled just about everything Thompson could think of, everything from sighting targets duties to what news came in and out of his vessel. It was clear that it was more a detriment than a help to the submarine's effectiveness, as evidenced by the near twenty ship gap between it and the fleet’s highest scorer, SV-268. Then again, Campbell never seemed keen to report details on what he had sunk, only referring to them as “enemy shipping”. He was strange in that regard, usually most captains were more than keen to rattle off the names of which vessels they’d sunk, but he hadn’t reported names since the KCS Yoon sinking early in the war. Of course, most people believed the ocean liner's untimely demise to be solely the fault of the Campbell and 156, but no one could ever get a peep out of him or his crew.

Back above deck, Phillips spots an oddball on the sea. Most military traffic had already stopped coming through, void of a few submersibles returning from long range patrols, but yet now he could clearly see four trails of heavy smoke, and to his knowledge, the Navy hadn’t serviced a four stack since 1920. As the vessel grew closer, its proud bow and distinct superstructure soon made clear to him what vessel sailed before him: The MS Virgio, likely en route to some peace conference.

Sliding down the ladder from the conning tower and back into the hull of the submersible, Phillips turns and calls to the fire control officer.

“How long has the Virgio been in visual range?”

“About two minutes sir.”

“Then you have a minute-fifteen to get me a firing solution on 156. Make sure you adjust the depth stroke to 4 meters. Any higher and we’re accessory to the deaths of over 2,000.”

Rather than jumping to it, the young officer freezes, looking unsure as to if the order is a joke or an actual order.

“It’s either 47 men and some letters home, or 2,000 and the brutish continuation of this war. If you can’t make the choice, then move.”</sup>

_{It was too much of a fake badge of honor to not post during this blackout, and so, I present part one of what may be four or more. It's also probably the shortest thing I've written in a while, but hopefully it conveys the vague outline of who Phillips is well enough. Cheers!}