[SC ONLY] Troubled Birth

[Valyrien]

The Diplomat

The event had proceeded quite smoothly at first, a strange man seated a table away had casually struck up conversation with her, nothing out of the ordinary given her looks, but the words being spoken in well-practiced Rusina Standard made her hair stand on end. If it was someone from the 10th fleet sent to extract her, it would’ve been in her native-tongue. “Let me escort you, everything will be alright.” She hadn’t noticed him leaving his chair, nor the strong fingers locking around her arm. She was led towards a van, and only when drawing close did the reality of the situation set in and make her hesitate. Struggling against the grip didn’t yield any fruitful result as a dark hood was placed over her head and additional hands forcefully dragged her into the van. The kidnappers seemed like they had done this several times before and had given it some planning, though luck wasn’t on their side as a group of Skjoldurians, drawn by the slight commotion caught an interest, when smooth talk wouldn't get them to fuck off an indiscriminate hail of bullets at close-range disabled most of them and bought enough time for the van to start make its way down the Harrenese streets at full-throttle. She couldn’t see, but the heavy smell of iron in the air and commotion inside the van suggested a lucky bullet had hit one of them.

She couldn't be sure if they were being pursued or had managed to lose any potential followers, but once they stopped, the Iryllian could hear the sound of waves breaking upon a rocky beach and the voice of the strange man from the café speak again, this time in Valyrien Standard “Inform the General we’ve secured the VIP.”

Unknown, Iron Harbour, Archon.

The setting? A dark and gloomy council room, an impressive feat any Valarisk officer would be proud of, especially given it was a sunny midday in Archon. A cup of coffee had been poured and remained untouched despite being served thirty minutes earlier, the woman had resigned herself to occasionally massaging her temples in-between agonizing contemplation. “What is that odor? Are you smoking that vile Shurayu tobacco?” Came out of the blue, directed at what sadly seemed to be the man in charge of logistics. “Cheap is what it is, and perfectly fine.” A rapid reply, a sore spot apparently.
Cigars made from foreign tobacco and even the despised cigarettes were becoming more common in Iron Harbour than anywhere else in the Imperium, perhaps only rivalled by Sôderrike and surpassed by Aurum.
Alekshandra Amariée lit a cigar and reviewed the message from Rin once more and went back to rubbing her temples.

To: Office of the Grand Marshal Alekshandra Amariée af Jârnhamn, Grand Governor of Iron Harbour
From: Office of the High Marshal Anasthasja Sonja Casshandrhia von Ulvfstadt-Sfvarthoff af Valakhia, Empress of the Greater Valyrien Imperium.

“Retribution”

The cup and it's contents went flying from the council table in a fit of irritation "For fuck sake! Fuck these fucking Iberian fuckers!" Amariée rose from her seat and stood puffing her cigar for a moment trying to cool off.
"Give the fucking order. If they won't accept defeat, they'll be embrace annihilation." Came in a lower voice, collected, but not calm and directed at one of the more senior generals in the room.

Valarisk warheads left the silos on Archon, accompanied by those of the West-Rusinian Submarine Fleet aimed for the cities of the Rome's Archonian lands.

Elias, Harren

"You are the hammer and Myraxia the anvil! Break them!" Was the simple order from General von Ulfstadt to the forces attacking the Romans currently committed the Myraxian front. The attempted nuclear holocaust of the Harrenese isles and the Valarisk forces stationed there had them baying for blood. through a peace conference had been thrown out of the window. The Coalition was to be shattered.

The 44th Mechanized Division, 11th Heavy Division had their orders to keep up the momentum and overrun the Roman forces in their push towards the south.
33rd Mechanized Division, 1st Stahlist Militia Division and 5th Heavy Division were ordered to capture the cities currently in enemy hands, accepting any surrender or taking prisoners that would slow them down had been strictly forbidden.

“Vice Admiral, I wish you good hunting, a bottle for every submarine you sink, on me.” von Ulfstadt gave the bearded man a nod.
“Misappropriating resources now that you’re General, eh Sigrid?” The man chewed on his pipe as he took a moment to shout orders with a booming voice.
“You know it old friend. Landkrigsmakten got enough to generously donate to the struggling Sjôkrigsmakten.” She gave a wolfish smile worthy of the Ulfstadt name.
“The corruption suits you. Give them hell.” Vice Admiral von Rhenstadt ended the transmission and moved the fleet to strike at the enemy. Orders were sent to Khyrene and the Iron Harbour fleet to join in on the hunt.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, wouldn’t you agree Admiral Naumann?” Valari we're always a pain to deal with, especially the smug kind commanding a navy of mostly borderline outdated ships.
"The enemy of my enemy is still an enemy, considering they're at war with us." Naumann responded to the Valarisk Vice Admiral, not quite sure how to feel about the whole arrangment.
"Well, what wouldn't you do for family..."

[Auruum]

Harren Island, Entente-Coalition Combat Zone

“Those scaredy cat, pissin’ in their skirt, running back home to momma, kiddy fiddlin’ cousin fuckers just tried to nuke Harren Island off the fucking planet!”
Called out across the Aurummite radio systems.
“Time to teach them a lesson in humility boys and girls! Not a single Coalition soldier leaves Harren alive or unchained! Fuck ‘em while they run!”
The Aurummite Mercenary forces were already chomping at the bit, ready for their pound of flesh. With the nukes being mostly shot down, save for a few unlucky spots here and there, The Greenskins seemed to become even more eager and bloodthirsty.

Goblin Sappers cackled maniacally as they strapped bombs to captured soldiers, using them as bait to blow up other teams who were unlucky enough to discover the bombs too late. Orcs and Trolls took their time, snapping arms and legs before finally going for the kill. Their Myraxian and Entente allies would soon discover, The Aurummite Mercenaries we’re aiming to maim first, kill later. The Greenskin Air forces however were much more efficient, hunting down enemy craft and blowing them out of the sky, the Amphibious ‘Nightmare’ fighters spent equal time taking out enemy fighters and bombers, as well as hunting down sneaky enemy submarines or ships trying to flee back to Rome proper.

It even got to the point that some of the Mercenary pilots were radioing the Entente ally squadrons, comparing kill counts and scores, throwing in some more friendly banter as well to hopefully stir up some competitive spirit. It seemed the Mercenary Pilots got paid based on the number of enemies taken down.

Streets of Galatea

“Geez, these skirt wearers even look dumber than other humies. Doesn’t even have teeth.” Snickered one goblin, inspecting the battered and most likely broken face of a Roman soldier, his left arm bound to a pole while the other appeared to be nailed to the wall of the building he was placed against, three metal spikes keeping his right arm firmly planted where it was.
The Roman choked out something, a curse perhaps. “Yeah, pretty sure I was a bit rough on that one...” an Orc chuckled, cleaning blood off of his knuckles. “Yeah, he’s no fun any more...” the Goblin said, turning and stepping away from the soldier. “Call a Hobsquad, tell them dinner is served.” He said again with a sinister smile as the Mercenaries left. Soon enough heavy footsteps and eager howling would be among the last things the Roman would hear.

BFG City, Gadgetzan

The Control center was a buzz with activity. It had been a day since the launch, The Myraxian shuttle had already left it’s position and made it’s way to the base on the asteroid, leaving behind the craft it hitched a ride on.

“Myraxian shuttle leaving visual range in 3...2...1...We are in the clear, begin deployment.”

Orbit above Origin...

The Fairings hissed and gently floated away from the remains of the rocket, engines firing just enough to free the satellite from the debris before it too broke free and drifted back to the planet. Leaving behind an already unfolding machine, First the solar panels, Extending and then aligning themselves to gather the most sun possible, then the rest of the Machine began to deploy. Stabilizing thrusters, keeping it in orbit and also helping to align it in the desired direction, then the Firing array, a tube of metal rings slid down across metal rails, ensuring the firing would be the most accurate it could be and finally, the ammunition. It was mounted on the top for ease of transporting, but needed to be within the firing array for it to work properly, another detachment, a small drone that would tug the ammunition from where it was stored to the firing array. It took some time but eventually the machine was in it’s proper place and the Satellite began to prepare itself, fully integrating the mechanism into itself. A message would be sent back to the control room: Krux-01 Online. All Systems Nominal. Primary Weapon: Charging. Secondary Weapon: Ready.

Back in BFG City

There were no cheers but breaths and sighs of relief sounded throughout the room, instead all present turned to a lone figure, a stoic and gruff looking Orc, dressed in the uniform of the Aurummite Military, specifically a general. General Tarkin Stormfather was put in charge of overseeing the project, and now with it’s completion, he knew what had to be done.
“Input these Coordinates.” The Orc said, holding out a red envelope to the lead scientist in the room.

Taking it with a wordless nod, The envelope was opened and the disk inside was inserted into the computer, the Satellite shifted it’s alignment and sent back the calculated trajectory as well as the target on the large screen.

Then the Cheers began, slowly at first, but soon only Tarkin remained the only calm and stoic individual in the room. Onscreen was a satellite image of a large city, the name of which was displayed in big and bold letters.

Target: Rome. Est. Time of Impact: 24Hr. (Due to Current Position)

[Asgareth]

Kalitea, Harren Island
Rufus T. Perkins shook the general’s hand and listened to him closely before speaking.

“Quite simple, really, general. Neither of us want this island to fall under Roman control. Nor do we want it under Skjoldurian control. The prospect of Friendly control, is quite frankly frightening. And the goblins have proven too uncivilised to be permitted control over this island. Valarisk control is against both our interests, and you, I assume do not want the island under our control? Likewise, a Myraxian controlled island is not what Asgarthian hearts desire. Instead, we believe it best to ensure this island becomes free. Free of tyranny, free of war. Free of outside control. Instead, we believe the best way to ensure this island truly prospers is to allow the Harrenites to assume control once more.”

The minister paused, as he glanced around the room. Peculiar, he thought. There was no whiskey. “I don’t suppose there is any chance of a drink? Whiskey, if you have any.” He continued. “But of course, Harren Island will always be at threat from bigger nations. That is why I propose we invite the free nation into the ESZ. There, we can guarantee its protection. I propose we join forces, to ensure Harren Island survives and then to ensure it prospers. What say you, general?”

---

The Outskirts of Tsuru, Harren Island

The attack on Tsuru had come as a complete surprise to the Asgarthians. They had been pushed back a considerable distance in only a short time, apparently due to their incapacity to defend. The 15,000 strong force that had occupied the entire area had retreated, and soon found themselves within 50 miles of the city.
In the midst of battle, Sergeant Alcora Percoi found himself alone, and heavily outnumbered. What could only be described as a horde were swiftly moving towards him. He shot several with his rifle, but swiftly found the horde jumping on top of him. The savages reached for their knives, and began to mercilessly stab one of the heroes of Harren.
“Shit.” He muttered, as he felt a knife plunge into his arm. His attacker swiftly withdrew the knife, fully intending to plunge it into his chest, and Percoi prepared to breathe his last. He closed his eyes, just in time to miss as a bullet ripped through the head of the attacker. The dead Skjoldurian fell on top of Percoi, as the bullets owner stood over the pair, smiling down at the sergeant.
“You alright down there?” He asked.
“Been better. Sergeant Alcora Percoi” Alcora chuckled, as the Corporal helped him to his feet. “What’s the situation?”
“Corporal Pevla Okaya and those shrooms ain’t stopping.” The corporal stated. “We kill 10, another 10 take their place.”
“Talk about overkill.” The sergeant chuckled, as the pair began to walk. “What company you in Corporal?”
“E, sir. Under Major Alcorni.”
“Tall chap? Bit of an arse? I’m familiar.” Sergeant Percoi chuckled.
“That’s the one sir. What about you?”
“G comp. Not entirely sure who my major is anymore. Fairly certain our guy got shot. By me, come to think of it.” The sergeant chuckled.
“Lacona, right? I trained at Deltroy. Another arse.” Corporal Okaya smirked.
“Shouldn’t be saying that about a senior officer boy. I’ll have to write you up on that.” The sergeant responded seriously.

The corporal chuckled. “Maybe I should have let that fucker finish you off after all. Any idea how many they’ve turned?”
“No idea. Spose we might as well add two more to the list, soon enough.” Percoi joined.
“Why is it humanity decides to fight amongst itself, when these friendlies clearly pose a greater risk?”
“Because humanity is fucking stupid.” The sergeant stated. “Look at us two. We’re in the middle of battle, and we’re having a fucking conversation. Now come on, move!”

The two began to move up a hill, when suddenly they heard a low rumbling in the distance. The rumbling drew closer and closer, until the source came into sight. Several hundred Asgarthian bombers roared from the east moving directly towards the outskirts of Tsuru. As the planes finally arrived at their target, they unleashed their fury. Thousands upon thousands of firebombs were deposited on the ground below, engulfing the fields and forests surrounding the city. Their targets, the friendlies, Harrenese and Skjoldurians below ran in all directions, or else were set alight by the merciless fire.

“Glorious” The sergeant muttered, as the planes roared overhead, depositing their firebombs across the outskirts. “Nothing like seeing the world on fire, is there corporal?”
“No sir.” The corporal began. “Our guys took their time though.”
“They always do. It’s alright for them, up there. They got fuck all to worry about.”

As the bombs poured, the pair finally managed to rendezvous with a small number of Asgarthian forces, who were simply watching the bombs fall. The group belonged to C Company, and were under the orders of Captain Jako Paylin. As the last bombs fell, he turned to the group and spoke
"Chaps, they've done what they can. It's time we finished this."

The fires continued to rage, as the Asgarthian troops rallied. They charged back into the midst of battle, raining bullets on all who opposed them.

The siege of Tsuru was over. The battle had just begun.

---

Aykia, Isle of Gespe
The war council of the Archoni Isles had assembled. Supreme-General Yaznon Paltri, Fleet-Admiral Tygno Pylin, of the 12th Naval Fleet, Aerial Admiral Packno Laskey, of the 15th Air Navy and Force-General Pasquin of the 24th Ground Force were in discussion over the recent events. Packno Laskey was in the middle of detailing the failed Roman nuclear strike, to the Imperiali who was live streamed in.

“The Romans launched several nukes over the Archoni Isles, with a trajectory suggesting implosion would occur on Harren.” Packno began. “We successfully shot them all down, as part of a wider collaboration with other nations. A few nukes hit the minor islands of Paros, Sado and Kos, decimating them. The good news, of course, was that Kos was under shroom occupation at the time.”
Tygno Pylin picked up. “We imagine the Valarisk and Myraxi already intend retribution against Rome. It is also, in our view, probable that other forces will move against them.”
“In the so called road to peace, no doubt?” The Imperiali chuckled. “It cannot be said Rome does not deserve it.”
“No sir,

“What of Tsuru?”
“The friendlies organised a considerable force. Skjoldurians, Hegemonians, Republicans. The attack came as a complete surprise, but fear not. My boys soon firebombed the outskirts, and as I understand it Sakia’s troops are fighting back well.” Packno stated.
"The percentage turned? And have they been dealt with?"
"Unconfirmed, sir. Early estimates deem approximately 500 turned. The firebombs will have taken out a considerable number of those. Based on early estimates, and our best guesses we believe they may be wiped out. But only time will tell, sir. Indeed, I have heard multiple individual reports suggesting some tried to swim."
“Keep an eye out. But Skjoldur... This is the second act of aggression the Skjoldurians have committed against us. First Yanni. Now Tsuru. They clearly wish to make an enemy of us. These acts cannot be forgiven or forgotten. Already, a bombing campaign against the City of Cyma has commenced, orchestrated by the 7th Air. The 14th fleet will move south to prevent any attempt by the Skjoldurians to escape via the Archoni Isles. As for the forces in Tsuru, they must continue the fight. Reinforcements will arrive from the east, and if necessary an amphibious assault will occur to the north.”

---

Skies above Cyma

With the Battle of Tsuru still underway, the 7th Air Force had been ordered to commence a bombing run on the city of Cyma, with the intention of severely damaging Skjoldurian efforts in the theatre. They had taken off from A.A.B. Akor, in North Archon, just over 40 minutes ago.

The 48 plane strong force, continued south, on a trajectory towards Cyma. In the distance they were just about able to make out a fleet; the origins of which were unknown. They steered clear of the fleet, wishing to avoid unnecessary conflict. Instead, they continued south to Cymam and soon enough the city came into sight.

Leading the way, Captain Asyo Koika began to speak.
“Alright chaps. Sooner we finish this, sooner we can go get pissed. City is directly north, we’ll be in position in a couple more minutes. Now remember, we want the bombs to go off outside of the planes.”
Soon enough, the planes were directly over their target.
“Bombs away.” Captain Asyo Koika ordered. “Give em hell.”
The bombs began to fall, bearing down on the city of Cyma. Asgareth’s revenge had begun.

[Khyrene]

The Sea Palace, Musta Linna

Dosoudil nervously straigthened his uniform before entering the throne room. Its extremely minimalistic style, with simple insignias of rank and position, were a harsh transition from the traditional, awe-inspiring mass of bordures and ornamentations he was used to. But the new ideology demanded it; all glory to the Princess, humble service to everyone else.
The guards, clad in the same dark grey mantles as he wore, opened the great doors and he stepped into the candle-lit, column-supported hall. As per usual, the Crown Princess sat quietly on her throne, with a face so empty one could suspect she was actually a corpse or, perhaps a more fitting assumption, a puppet. Which of course would mean Virolainen was holding the strings. The bastard stood only one step below her throne, elevating himself just enough to not violate protocol.
"Ah, High Admiral. We have eagerly awaited your arrival."
"Greetings my Princess. Lord Commander." Dosoudil saluted. "What does Her Highness want me to do?"
"Still straight to the point, I see", Virolainen grinned, "you were always like that, Jaroslav."
The High Admiral frowned, but he knew such informal speech coming from the Lord Commander was supposed to be an honour and he had no right to complain about it.
"It's about the situation in Harren. The war there has been getting out of hand, it has become an international crisis. And our esteemed Valarisk allies - or rather, our fellow countrymen, since Khyrene is in Valyrien now, too - are directly involved. It is about time we start contributing more as well, and not restrict ourselves to purely humanitarian purposes."
"You want to plunge our nation into another war just after we lost the one against Valyrien? Damn you, Virolainen, I won't tolerate this!"
Shocked by his own courage, Dosoudil held his breath and awaited the Lord Commander to call for the guards, but Virolainen seemed to be just as startled as he was.

It was Her Highness who unexpectedly broke the silence.
"We didn't lose any war, High Admiral. We emerged victorious against the traitors who, as you may remember, had me arrested and threatened to kill me."
"But you ordered them to! They were no traitors, they were the most loyal of us all!"
It was too late to save himself anyway, so Jaroslav Dosoudil, prestigious Navy officer since four decades, broke into tears and just said whatever came to mind.
"That is true. And I honor their sacrifice. It was necessary in order to secure relations with the Valarisk and to re-structure our armed forces. This used to be a country full of vultures; religious zealots, arrogant nobles, over-ambitious tribe leaders, they all sought to destroy our great people. And now? The Cult worships me. The nobles are exterminated. The tribes are filled with fanatic loyalty to the nation led by me. Nobody dares to oppose me anymore... except you, it seems."

Once again, silence followed, as Dosoudil opened and closed his mouth, searching for the words to formulate an appropriate answer while trying to swallow what had just been revealed to him.
"Forgive me" was all he managed to whisper after a while.
"I will", replied Her Highness, "for I am kind-hearted. But remember well that I am no puppet, not of the Lord Commander, not of the Valarisk. If you forget this once more, my sense of justice will overweight my kindness, that I can assure you."
A quiet nod was his only answer.

Virolainen cleared his throat. "Well, back to business... the forces currently in Harren will be restructured. The Special Medical Battalion will receive the honorary name 'Harren Island Humanitarians' and return to Khyrene to be integrated into the Medical Battalion No. 15. The 3rd and 7th Marine Divisions as well as the 1st Airborne Divisions will be dispatched there instead, we have already spoken about the details with the Valarisk. As for the Fleet, the ships in service at Harren at the moment will return as well to be refitted to our current classes. You will get a specially assembled naval task force instead, and try to get permission to store the land forces' planes on a Valarisk or otherwise allied aircraft carrier in the east of the island. That's all."
The High Admiral saluted, bowed to the Princess, and left the room. As the doors closed behind him, he wondered how he survived that... but decided to rather put his mind on the operation ahead, because anything else than complete victory would probably result in the 'sense of justice' of Her Highness immediately returning.

Cruiser Endurance
Destroyers Loyalty, Victory of Truth
Frigates Orphan, Heart of Ice, Tyrant of Cossil, Hollow Mountain, Stargazer
Submarine Arctic Fox

3rd Marine Division "Gunnar von Rhenstadt"

Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 46

• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 136
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 137
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 138
• Tank Battalion No. 91
  Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 47
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 139
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 140
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 141
• Tank Battalion No. 92
  Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 48
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 142
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 143
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 144
• Tank Battalion No. 93
  Tank Regiment No. 16
• Tank Battalion No. 94
• Tank Battalion No. 95
• Tank Battalion No. 96
  Artillery Regiment No. 16
• Artillery Battalion No. 61
• Artillery Battalion No. 62
• Artillery Battalion No. 63
• Artillery Battalion No. 64
  Rocket Launcher Battalion No. 16
  Anti-Aircraft Regiment No. 16
  Logistics Battalion No. 16
  Medical Battalion No. 16
  Tank Training Battalion No. 16

7th Marine Division

Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 58

• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 172
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 173
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 174
• Tank Battalion No. 115
  Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 59
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 175
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 176
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 177
• Tank Battalion No. 116
  Motorized Rifle Regiment No. 60
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 178
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 179
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 180
• Tank Battalion No. 117
  Tank Regiment No. 20
• Tank Battalion No. 118
• Tank Battalion No. 119
• Tank Battalion No. 120
  Artillery Regiment No. 20
• Artillery Battalion No. 77
• Artillery Battalion No. 78
• Artillery Battalion No. 79
• Artillery Battalion No. 80
  Rocket Launcher Battalion No. 20
  Anti-Aircraft Regiment No. 20
  Logistics Battalion No. 20
  Medical Battalion No. 20
  Tank Training Battalion No. 20

1st Airborne Division

Airborne Regiment No. 1 "Natalia von Morozova"

• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 202
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 203
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 204
• Airborne Battalion No. 1
  Airborne Regiment No. 2
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 205
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 206
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 207
• Airborne Battalion No. 2
  Airborne Regiment No. 3
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 208
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 209
• Motorized Rifle Battalion No. 210
• Airborne Battalion No. 3
  Tank Regiment No. 30
• Tank Battalion No. 167
• Tank Battalion No. 168
• Tank Battalion No. 169
  Artillery Regiment No. 26
• Artillery Battalion No. 97
• Artillery Battalion No. 98
• Artillery Battalion No. 99
• Artillery Battalion No. 100
  Rocket Launcher Battalion No. 26
  Anti-Aircraft Regiment No. 26
  Logistics Battalion No. 26
  Medical Battalion No. 26
  Tank Training Battalion No. 26

[Harren Island]

Harrenian Hegemony – H.H. Vispanius Agrippa, 24km North of Cyma

Emon tried to get up, to rejoin his damage control teams to fight the blazes that were consuming what was left of the mothership but he was held down by the medic tending to wounded in the makeshift med bay at the rear of the bridge, “You’d do more harm than good out there with your legs in that state.” Internally he cursed but he accepted the logic and so he sat there, thoughts with all of his men and the infernos they were combating, hoping that they’d somehow get things under control, somehow create a route for the thousand men trapped down below to escape.

He looked up at the forward windows but couldn’t see anything outside apart from the soaring pillar of black and red that had engulfed the conning tower in billowing clouds of oily, fire-lit smoke. He couldn’t even see the sky. With each passing moment he knew the chances of saving those men were dropping. He remembered the trapped kid he’d sealed away in the ammunition bunker, remembered that he’d felt that he’d been sealing him away in his tomb and remembered his promise to return. The ship was sitting a lot lower in the water now and listing slightly to starboard with the forward edge of the deck nearly level with the sea, it seemed that the efforts to combat flooding down below had failed or the damage control teams were already dead or trapped.

Thinking back to the initial chain of events, Emon tried to piece things out. The missiles from the Slavacian planes hadn’t done this, their damage had been localised to radar and communications. He’d seen one of the sonar officers sprinting towards the bridge at the moment of impact. The explosions had been underwater, sending sprays up and breaking the keel. Most likely a submarine. Sure, the nearest fleet had been the Iryllians but the submarine could have belonged to anyone and unless a nation claimed responsibility, they’d never know who did it.

“Sir!” The midshipman with the flare gun burst onto the bridge, covered in grime from head to toe, face red from the heat and dripping in sweat, “The Noctish have answered us, they’ve got launches in the water. I’d say five minutes until they’re alongside.”.

The Captain smiled wanly, “That is definitely good news.”, then loudly, to the rest of the bridge crew, “Make preparations to evacuate. Wounded first.”, he pointed at two junior seamen who’d been running messages, “Spread the word.”. They saluted before disappearing down the stairwell to the lower levels of the tower.

About ten minutes later, Emon was helped to his feet and leaning heavily on the man who’d helped him up he hobbled painfully in his damaged fire suit, stiffly thudding down the flights of metal stairs to the main deck where wounded were being ushered out a door into the smoke. Embers wafted in. In moments he was out on deck, breathing in the hot, acrid air as he was pushed along. He looked around for signs of his men but couldn’t see them through the haze. Cargo nets had been affixed to the starboard side of the rear deck and men were clambering down to the Noctish launches waiting below. Those who were more heavily injured were lowered in cots and slings on ropes.

Seeing his mobility issues, Emon was ordered to use one of the slings. Gingerly climbing onto the sling, ignoring the scrape of pain from his legs, he was swung over the side and rapidly lowered down, twisting in the air before Noctish hands grasped the sling from below and helped him off. The boat was full of wounded and soon motored away, back towards the Noctish flotilla as another launch moved next to the Vispanius Agrippa to take its place in the evacuation.

Taken aboard one of the Noctish vessels and brought to their medical bay for treatment, Emon heard from subsequent arrivals of wounded that the Captain had given the order to abandon ship when the forward part of the deck reached sea level. As of the current count, only three hundred and sixy-two souls had been rescued out of a total complement of one thousand, six hundred and fifty.


Fig. Aerial view of the location of the H.H. Vispanius Agrippa's sinking.

Harrenian Hegemony – Swarm Fleet ‘Snowy’, arriving at Paros

Waves interspersed with detritus, cloudy with mud and wooden flotsam and carrying the odd, scorched and bloated body, gently rocked the vessels which were slowly chugging into what was once their home port. Occasionally, one of the Glozings would thump into a larger piece or clump of wreckage and noticeably bump off and away as they cautiously navigated into what remained of the harbour. Those standing on deck felt that they were disturbing a graveyard as their engines loudly thrummed, breaking the still, silent and clammy air whilst churning the water up behind them, sending wakes that rippled outwards, troubling the waters and lapping against the cracked, burnt and broken concrete jetties.

The ships came to a stop, rolling slightly in the water, as their crews crowded the decks and hulls. It was obvious to all that none of the surface installations had survived and from what could be seen of the island itself, it had lost mass; cliffsides had tumbled away, hills blasted flat and low-lying sections were underwater. To most, it was unrecognisable, its geography had entirely changed and almost nothing remained to hint at its previous Hegemonic presence. Where once there had been huge dockyard facilities, multiple fortresses, defensive complexes and a bustling naval base home to tens of thousands of Harrenians, there was now nothing but piles of collapsed concrete, blasted dirt and burnt, ruptured corpses.

Sickened, Admiral Alexandros Inoue sent a squadron of Glozings to push on to Sado to check its status whilst he updated himself through the radio. When they returned, reporting similarly dreadful sights and a total lack of survivors, he was crying in his cabin aboard the I.R.S. Portare, the small tanker that had been assigned to his fleet by the Proconsul of Gallia to assist them in the journey back from Meridia and the conflict there. The news from Harren was nothing but terrible and worse. He’d joined the navy to make a difference, to prevent a repeat of what happened almost a century ago, to prevent pirates or worse from reaving along the coast. Yet where had he been when cities had been bombed, razed? When hundreds of thousands had died, cruelly? When millions had been displaced from their homes and when war covered his homeland? He’d been serving those who had welcomed the Romans and opened the door for them to commit massacre after massacre upon innocent Harrenians and plunge the entire world into war before attempting nuclear Armageddon. His radio picked up a new broadcast and crackled it out, filling his cabin with the sounds of static and a loud, emphatic speech.

+++
By the command of Trakios Vel, head of the Harrenite Internal Security Service and the new Acting-Premier of the Hegemony and in the name of Bemus Dio, brutally murdered in cold blood; Admiral Calan, for the crimes of murder, corruption and treason, is under sentence of death. All orders from Admiral Calan are illegal and those who follow him or fail to do their duty in the face of the enemy and alongside our Roman allies will be considered traitors to the Hegemony and punished accordingly.

All loyal Hegemonic soldiers and citizens are hereby commanded to rise up and engage the enemy both within and without.
+++

With his face locked in a grimace and tears streaking down through the grime on his cheeks, he rose from his seat, trembling, hands planted flat on the desk. “Roman allies, eh?”, his voice hoarse and tremulous, growing darker, “These are not the actions of allies.”. He drew his pistol and stormed from his room, yelling for his guards. Within ten minutes all of the Roman crew members were rounded up, three of which had been shot whilst resisting and one had died from his wounds.

Scared and confused, the twenty-four remaining Romans were herded onto dinghies and taken ashore by the closest route, to a beach covered in debris and unidentifiable remains. Admiral Inoue was the first onto land, jumping off from the front and crunching up the gravelly sand, avoiding pieces of metal and shrapnel that sporadically poked out. He had stopped crying but his eyes were red and watery and lines were visible upon his cheeks for all to see. The Romans were disembarked roughly after him, some being kicked over the side to fall painfully to the ground, unable to catch themselves with their hands tied behind them. In short order, they’d been dragged into a line in front of Alexandros who resolutely stared into the distance over them.


Fig. The beach on Paros.

“You,”, his voice broke but he cleared his throat and started again, “You are here to pay, to offset, to balance, however inadequately, against the countless Harrenians who now lie dead, tortured to death by fucking Romans like you.”. Tears began to flow again. Some of the crew members began to beg for their lives, claiming innocence and no relation to the crimes that had occurred on Harren. He nodded at his men who opened up with submachineguns. Screams and bursts of gunfire echoed across the flattened ground and still water of the bay. Three Romans managed to get to their feet and break away from the slaughter, awkwardly sprinting down the beach as fast as they could manage with their hands tied behind their backs, stumbling over obstacles and diving behind cover, splintered logs and rotten corpses, only to be repeatedly strafed with machine gun fire from a couple Glozings parked offshore. All of them were eventually torn apart by the streams of heavy 13mm bullets that sought them out from their wretched refuges.

Alexandros finally lowered his eyes to look at the Romans he’d ordered executed. Some survivors were still moving, struggling for breath, weakly crawling or gasping for mercy. When his sailors moved forwards to finish them off with further bursts, he sharply ordered them off, “No!”, he looked down at one of the Romans who was still alive and begging him for help, a cabin boy who’d brought him his meals aboard the tanker for the last couple months, “Drown the survivors.”.

He watched as the cabin boy was dragged by his hair, down the abrasive, sandy beach towards the dirty water as his feet scrabbled uselessly against the slope, kicking up a snaking trail whilst grimacing in pain and trying to twist out of his executioner’s grip. Alexandros watched as the boy’s eyes widened in terror and heard him cry out before his head was shoved under the surface and forcefully held down. Bubbles rose and his legs jerked frantically, splashing the water for what seemed like an age. Then he was forever still. Bobbing in the surf with his legs splayed out and a hint of hair waving from just below the surface, beckoning.

Admiral Alexandros Inoue took off his hat and turned it in his hands, then he let it drop to the sand. He unfastened his rank badges and let them fall as well. He would remember seeing the whites of the boy’s pleading eyes for the rest of his days. His voice was quiet but steady, “I’m going to Milos,”, he started walking down towards one of the dinghies, boots crunching as he went, “anyone who wants to come with me or return to Harren is welcome. This war has already created too much hate and it won’t end for a long time yet. I can’t take that. I’m going to hand myself over to the Noctish.”.

Sixty-two of his Glozing crews chose to follow him and the I.R.S. Portare to Milos. Twenty-eight motored south at full speed to lend their aid to the Hegemony.

---

Harrenian Heartlands – Broken Shore, New Prokopios

Jagged, steep, dark grey cliffs and sharp reefs line the coast of the Broken Shore. Occasional inlets can be found where it seems that the rock faces must have tumbled away. The largest cove in the area was a nasty looking thing with serrated precipices leaning over the bay’s mouth and dangerous, rocky outcrops jutting forth from the fierce, crashing waves seemingly at random. It was here that New Prokopios had been founded. The site wasn’t perfect but it was the best in the area and construction works were underway to improve it. A lighthouse had been erected as a priority to guide shipping through the dangerous passage, it stood atop a craggy spit of rock standing tall and surrounded by frothing water, watching over the entrance to the bay and the expanse of dark blue, seething water out at sea.


Fig. The lighthouse at New Prokopios.

Large, sleek looking transports with long piercing rams gracefully cut through the frigid waters and manoeuvred into the fledgling harbour, assisted by the lighthouse and using bow and stern waterjet thrusters to make the whole affair seem trivial. The ships slid past small fishing vessels, causing them to bob in their wake and the fishermen themselves to grab onto lines, exclaiming loudly and making rude gestures. With the port yet to be expanded to accommodate big ocean-going vessels, they came to a rest offshore, dropping anchors with a splash. A crowd was gathering to watch, pointing out the instantly recognisable Shurayan flags and the huge, ornate eyes adorning the forward hulls, painted in bright, attractive colours. Their arrival was met with trepidation. It was rare for visitors with unknown intentions to be good news.

An old, bald and wizened fellow, exceptionally thin with visible burns on his neck and wearing a thick, bright blue jacket and woollen hat had been summoned when the vessels had been sighted. He is the colony’s Governor, Tabor Dai, and he had come down from his makeshift office established in one of the new concrete blockhouses atop the cliffs to watch them come in and make anchor. Lashing rain had driven some of the crowds indoors but most were still curious enough to brave the elements, huddled in groups under what cover was available at the waterfront, mostly fisherman’s market stalls with plastic tent coverings that billowed and flapped noisily in the wind. Tabor boarded one of the harbour tugs which chugged slowly over to the nearest Shurayan vessel. Within ten minutes, those peering through the driving rain could see masses of people boarding the tug and smaller powerboats which were being lowered into the water alongside the Shurayan ships. Inside another ten minutes, all the smaller craft were pulling up at the quay and hundreds of people disembarked, fellow Harrenians in various states of health and dress.

It took a few hours to offload the seven odd thousand Harrenians who had been bought as slaves from Rome in two-for-one deals and released by philanthropic Shurayan abolitionists. When the last had been brought ashore and given temporary accommodations in the dormitory blocks, Tabor returned from the Shurayan vessels. He was dwarfed by three massive individuals with exotically braided and tiered beards who accompanied him. In front of everyone, he praised them and decreed that they would always be considered allies of the Heartlanders. “Friends, please join us in a celebratory feast, the invitation is open to your crews as well.” Tabor looked at the cliffside and then turned back and smiled up at them, “We don’t have a town hall yet but my office building will do, I’ll have it cleared out and tables brought in. We’ve only got seafood for the moment, so I hope that will suffice, even though I know a few people who managed to save some bottles of Teshio Gold from the homeland. What better time to break them open?”

“We will be happy to feast alongside our little brothers and sisters,”, the tallest announced in a booming, accented voice with a beaming smile shining out from above his magnificent beard. This was greeted with roaring cheers by the crowds who had come out and watched friends, family and fellow Harrenians delivered from their lives of slavery and torment under Roman rule. For the first time, in a long time, they had a reason to celebrate and they made it count.

A collection of rugs and carpets had been brought in to cover the concrete floor, multiple tables and benches stacked together to form a banquet table, electric heaters plugged in and thrumming to warm the air for the revellers. The food was simple yet plentiful with multiple different seafood dishes brought in hot and steaming. Waterproof and plastic coverings were set up outside and around the building, creating an improvised tent city, fires had been lit and assemblies of locals roasted fresh fish and shared news and drinks with the newest refugees. Everyone had come out and joined the festivities, bringing clothes and blankets for those who had none, uniting the populace with a sense of community and igniting a sense of hope and cosiness in this cold, hard place. No matter the rain splattering above them and the chill wind rippling by, they were content. Tabor had managed to procure one of the bottles of Teshio Gold he’d been talking about. It was contained in a simple yet wide and thick clear glass, tightly wrapped in grape-vine rope and capped with uncoloured wax bearing a stylised letter T. He broke the seal and poured out glasses of the amber liquid for his guests.

As the night progressed and with his stomach full and head buzzing comfortably, Tabor broached a subject that had been on his mind when he’d first met with the Shurayans on board their ship. Hesitantly, almost fearful of the response, he asked, “It’s a long shot I know but pray tell, do you have any news of one of our diplomats, a boy called Homer, he attended the marriage in Asgar? We’ve had no contact with him and I was wondering if this,”, he gestured around at the freed men and women and the Shurayans themselves, “might have had something to do with him?”.

---

Harrenite Internal Security Service - H.H. Ascendancy

The harsh, sharp racking of slides sounded awfully loud in the metal chamber, echoing and reverberating off bulkheads. Drakon gave each of his men a quick inspection; shotguns loaded, armour adjusted, spare ammunition, combat knives, sidearms, walkies, boots tied, all check. All of them were watching him. He knew they must be feeling adrenaline rushing through their veins, just like him but he was proud to see that all of them still held their composure, none allowed their hands to shake or their breathing to become uncontrolled. He moved his left hand as if he was cranking a motor and they raised their shotguns and firmly held them ready, legs braced for action and eyes locked on him. He raised his own weapon one-handed, right hand holding the grip, feeling the plastic stock solid against his shoulder. With his left, he made a rolling forward motion and his men moved.

With a scrape of metal and a grunt, the door swung open and two of his men dropped into a crouch to cover the hallway as the others jogged past them, hopping over the lip of the hatch and filing forwards quickly but surely. At each corner or junction, men would stop to cover the ones who followed and the advance team pushing ahead.

As he moved out, keeping pace with his men and maintaining position in the middle, Drakon clicked his walkie talkie, “2nd Platoon moving. 3 minutes to target. Over.”. As the reply crackled in, he heard a cry and then a squawk of pain from up ahead. A sailor had rounded a corner in a cross junction and stumbled into the lead elements of his platoon, he was now prone and unmoving at the side of the corridor, lying on the flaking paintwork with a torn gash in the side of his neck, weakly pulsing blood out onto his uniform and the metal deck beneath him.

Passing the body, Drakon heard a shout from up ahead, he hadn’t caught the words but when it was followed by three clashing blasts and curses from his men, he knew he’d lost the element of surprise. He rapidly signalled with a victory sign and then a curved sweep of his arm to the left, one squad broke off and darted down the left-hand side corridor with guns raised. To the rest, he chopped his hand downwards, edge forward. Within fifty seconds, Drakon and his men had cleared the section, sprays of blood marked the walls and lumpen once-white uniformed forms littered the gangways. None had been armed and most had simply tried to run for their lives. Drakon gave them no further thought. They had been traitors, all.

A thunderous crash and the lurching deck threw him and most of his men to the floor, a couple had fallen to their knees or caught themselves on hatch handles. The fire alarm began screaming, red, emergency lights flashed and a tinny, static-laced voice came over the tannoy, “Battle Stations. Repeat. Battle Stations.”.

His men regained their feet and continued their advance, “This is 2nd Platoon, situation update? Over.” Drakon held his walkie with his left hand, awaiting a response that didn’t come, “1st Platoon, what is your status? Over.”. No response. A hatch screeched open next to him and two of his men instantly turned towards it and opened fire before charging through the breach and into a collection of surprised and recoiling men. A few screams and a dozen discharges later, his two men left the room and shut the door behind them before jogging to catch up with the party as they reloaded, shrill clacks marking each shell.

Heavy vibrations boomed through the deck, felt in their feet, ankles and knees. The big guns had opened up. Drakon was wondering why when a burst of submachinegun fire sounded from behind them and his rearmost marine dropped, screaming and writhing, clutching his leg as blood spurted up between his fingers. Two more harsh bursts sounded and he shuddered, going still and silent. Drakon cursed and ordered his second squad to hold the rear as the rest continued on. The sounds of that brutal firefight quickly faded into the background noise with the ship’s cannons firing, alarms ringing and gunshots when more sailors were encountered as they pushed on. Another impact rocked the vessel but not to the same degree as the first, the clang against the ship’s armour was noticeable this time though.

His men were panting, sweating in their armour as their boots clanked up the stairs. He could smell them as he followed, along with the metallic odour of blood and a tang of smoke. Then his vision whited out and all he could hear was a piercing ringing. He felt someone trip over his leg which caused him to stagger into the side wall, he tried to regain his footing but missed a step and slipped sideways, losing his balance. Dropping his shotgun, which thumped into his thigh on its strap, he tried to reach out for the rail he knew was there but couldn’t see. He missed it and tumbled forwards down the stairs, twisting his torso and holding his arms out to try and cushion himself. His hands impacted with a metal stair and he tried to grab on and halt his fall but his momentum carried him over in a somersault despite his efforts and he crashed down onto his back. He didn’t notice sliding down the next few steps through the waves of sickening pain radiating from midway down his spine. He realised that he was screaming and tried to control himself but couldn’t as each movement, breath and even pulse seemed to cause a new rush of nauseating agony.


Fig. Flashbang detonations at the bottom of the ship's stairwell.

He fought to control the pain, silencing himself, clearing his mind and blinking his eyes clear. He could see a couple of his men were dead at the bottom of the stairs and could now make out the sound of gunshots from the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t turn to look up the stairs or feel his legs to get up but seeing movement, perhaps that of a shadow in front of him, he drew and cocked his 8mm sidearm, aiming blearily forwards. A sailor burst out of the hatch he’d been watching, carrying the traditional Harrenian submachinegun but not wearing any body armour or helmet, he froze for a millisecond in hesitation when he saw Drakon slumped at the foot of the stairs aiming a pistol at him. That cost him his life. Drakon pulled the trigger thrice in rapid succession, feeling the slight jolt of recoil from each shot. The sailor dropped unmoving. Drakon wiped his eyes clear of sweat with his left hand and focussed on the man he’d shot. Pathetic grouping but at least he’d hit the target.

The sailor hadn’t come alone and now one of his comrades stuck his submachinegun around the lip of the hatch, pulling the trigger and holding it down in a single, long burst that blindly sprayed seventy-one bullets in Drakon’s general direction. All of them had gone over his head, impacting with the wall or the stairs, some ricocheting away in high-pitched whines, others fragmenting into miniature shards of shrapnel. He felt hot stabs of pain in the back of his neck and upper right arm and guessed that he’d caught a couple bullet splinters. He transferred the pistol to his left hand and raised it, aiming to place shots centre mass if the sailor was foolish enough to come around the hatch. He was. Another three bullets fired, spent cases ejecting and spinning away to plink on the metal floor.

The body of one of his men came crashing down the stairs, thumping into him and throwing him forwards. The terrible agony in his back caused him to black out for a few seconds and drop his pistol. Jolted awake with further anguish, he realised that someone was dragging him away by his armour straps, he angrily told whoever it was to leave him or shoot him but that relief never came. A few blurred minutes later, he realised he was in one of the ship’s armouries. “Status report.”, he croaked out to no one in particular, he didn’t know if he was a prisoner or if his side had won.

“Sir,”, a voice answered and a form came into view, a marine, one of his marines, “here, we got you some morphine, you’re looking pretty bad.”. Drakon saw that the marine was wounded too from the red, sticky patches obvious between his damaged armour plates. Before he could ask for anything else, the marine injected a syrette into Drakon’s leg and continued, “We got ambushed in the stairwell. All sides. Above and below. We never made it to the bridge and I don’t think 1st Platoon did either, so Admiral Calan is probably still alive.” The Marine sat down heavily next to him, lighting a cigarette, taking a couple puffs before gently inserting it into Drakon’s mouth. “We killed dozens but they had the numbers on us and we had to fall back.”. The ship shuddered again from more impacts and a shriek of rending metal rang in the halls. “Oh and that,”, he said with a nod towards where the sound came from, “apparently is the fleet self-destructing. We’ve managed to take some ships but others are still held by traitors and it’s become a giant free for all out here. We have no idea who’s winning.”

---

Republic of Harren – Elias

A spray of vomit splattered across the cotton hotel sheets and feather pillows as Maria convulsed in the bed. With a thump she fell onto the floor, arm dragging the lamp off the bedside table to smash on the floor alongside her. She was drooling and whimpering when one of her Myraxian guards threw the door open having heard the disturbance, he darted over whilst shouldering his rifle. “Are you okay, Acting-Madame President?”, he knelt beside her pulling the quilt off her quivering form, revealing that they were heavily soiled with blood and stool. “MEDIC!”. He cupped her head with his right hand, using his left to gently elevate her. As he did so, clumps of hair came away in his right hand.

Within minutes she was being wheeled out on a stretcher into a waiting ambulance, escorted by her Myraxian marines, two of which joined her in the ambulance with the rest following in the jeeps with her assistant, Phoebe. Her chest was heaving, gasping to respire even with an oxygen mask strapped on. With her eyes clenched shut, she raised her trembling hand as if looking for something to hold, one of the marines took her hand, the one who’d found her in her room and held it as it shook. As the ambulance raced towards the hospital, narrowly scraping by a Valarisk tank that almost blocked the road, the ambulance team administered iv liquids and blood and platelet transfusions to replace that which she’d lost.


Fig. Maria's Isolation Room being prepared for her arrival.

After arrival at the hospital and immediate tests, she was quickly taken into surgery. Four hours later, when the surgeon came out of the operating theatre in blue scrubs, he was accosted by the marine asking for an update. The surgeon ran a recently washed hand through his hair, “Her electrocardiogram revealed ventricular and atrial fibrillations, we attempted cardioversion to remedy it but she was unresponsive and so we had to do a catheter ablation. That operation seems to have succeeded. As of right now she’s being moved to an isolation room to recover due to a drastic drop in her white blood cell count, further tests are being run but we believe she may have lymphopenia as well. Her urine sample has been sent to a lab in Filia and we should have results by the end of the day but right now we suspect poisoning and are taking general measures, chelation and a gastric lavage, to treat her as best we can until we know more.”

Then Phoebe was there, interjecting before the marine could speak, “Will she survive?”.

“Hard to say,” the surgeon shrugged and grimaced, “we’re just treating symptoms until we know the true cause. Hopefully those symptoms don’t kill her or cause irreparable damage before we can deal with it.”

[Romae in Perpetuum]

I.R.S Valentinian, South East of Harren Island

“All of them!” Exclaimed Trierarch Festus, rounding on the unfortunate officer who had announced the news. “They were all shot down!”
“Well all the ones directed at the main island were, sir.” The man said, visibly sweating, initial reports suggest we scored hits on the outlying islands controlled by the Hegemony. Not only that but there appears to be infighting within the Hegemonic fleet”
“Rebels.”
The entire bridge turned as one to the stony figure seated in the Trierach’s seat as absolute silence descended, even the various noises of the technical instruments sounded subdued.
“They are rebels.” Continued Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, in the same cold but calm tone. “And they will meet the same fate at the rest of these islanders…one way or another.” The Praefectus suddenly turned towards the Trierach. “Inform me when we receive further orders from the capital, though I imagine the atmosphere back home might be a little tense, in the meantime muster our ships and liaise with Caesarea Air Command. Together with the Caerlegionares…Cambrians…whatever, we will sweep away all naval opposition from the immediate area.” He stood, quickly followed by the entire bridge. “At the very least this will disrupt the barbarians long enough for us to seize the advantage.” Agrippa concluded bitterly as he made his way back to his ready room.

As always, he was closely shadowed by Tribune Paulus who lent towards the older man and began urgently whispering.
“Sir. If the attack has failed it means…”
“That we won’t have a convenient answer to the missing submarines, I am aware Tribune. Regardless much of the evidence was lost with Cyma and my operatives have taken care of most of those involved.”
“But the woman…”
“Will no longer be an issue if Vulpa finishes what she started. With her dead only the Myraxians will have any clue about what happened and since when does intelligence believe foreigners?”
“As you say sir.” Paulus coughed slightly. “Initial reports suggest the Valrisk have launched a retaliation strike against the Imperium, though it was shot down of course.”
Agrippa stopped dead in his tracks and turned to his aide, alarm in his face. “So, it’s to be nuclear holocaust then?”
The tribune also stopped, almost crashing into a guard, before replying. “Apparently not, it seems that the Prince Nero managed to convince his father to hold off for now. Something about his brother, Drusus, returning with a plan for this rock.”
“Good gods, that’s the last thing we need.” The Praefectus said, whilst rubbing his temple. “At least an Imperial presence means reinforcements at the very least.”
Looking uncomfortable the Tribune’s voice somehow dropped even quieter. “But sir, if even half the rumours about his Imperial Highness are true…”
“Then we have nothing to worry about as our inevitable victory grows ever closer.” Agrippa announced loudly. “Inform me if and when there are any other updates, I have business to take care of…”

---

Nova Roma, Province of Italia, Imperium Romae in Perpetuum

Homer’s nerves were starting to get the better of him as he stared out the limo window at the passing cityscape, past the escorting motorbikes with mounted Praetorian Guard, watching statue after statue pass by and countless marble colonnades. He hadn’t exactly been following orders when he’d proposed handing over the Harrenian Monarchy to this scion of Rome. He looked over at the drunk, drug-fueled teenager sitting alongside him and wondered if he’d gone too far. He ruefully shook his head, too late to back out now and hey, if it works, it’d save more cities from being nuked and more Harrenians from being murdered.

“What should I expect from his Imperial Highness, Nero?”, breaking the relative silence that had permeated the rear of the limousine.

“Hopefully we won’t run into him.” Drusus said cheerfully as he helped himself to the minibar, after offering Homer a drink he lent back into the luxurious leather and sighed. “I hear he is fairly miffed about the whole ‘failed apocalypse’ particularly since father went over his head to do it. He’s probably scared he’ll get the blame for it...gods know i would be…” The prince was quiet for a few moments before his joyful mood resurfaced and he turned to Homer with a grin. “Not that it matters! If we can convince Caesar that his favorite son on the throne is preferable to Armageddon not only will I be the hero of the hour, but Nero will look like an absolute fool! Oh, the look on his face…”

The casual, even cheerful mentions about the failed apocalypse and armageddon on Harren rubbed him the wrong way but he was careful not to show an emotional response. He knew Drusus’ cheer was more from his future victory over Nero rather than anything specifically to do with Harren. Homer still suspected that Drusus knew nothing more than the name and the fact it’s at war and has a monarchy. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse really. “If,” Homer swiftly corrected himself, “when, you’ve managed to win your victory over his Imperial Highness, Nero, how do you envision bringing about peace on Harren given the occupation by entente forces?” Homer didn’t want to rush him but he knew that each moment mattered, especially after the nuclear holocaust had been narrowly avoided.

The young prince narrowed his eyes slightly and quickly glanced at the two large Skjoldurian Guardsmen who had squeezed into the seats opposite. “Now now my friend.” He began cautiously. “Im sure you did not mean to imply that I have any hostile intention towards my dear brother. Since such implications may have unfortunate consequences...for both of us.”

“No, no, not at all.” Homer shifted in his seat slightly and spoke clearly, making sure not to let his tongue outpace his thoughts, “I merely meant a healthy, sibling rivalry between some of the most powerful men in the world. Such a thing breeds Imperial power.”.

Drusus waved his hand magnanimously. “Of course, what an astute man you are to so rapidly have determined the...complex nature of my family after mere hours in the Imperium!” He took a long draught from his drink, exhaled heavily then suddenly smiled broadly. “As for your question, I have already given orders for my ducal forces from Gwynedd to begin preparations, provided my father gives his accent to our little endeavour we shall have more than enough men and materials to annihilate any who oppose me as well as total freedom to command any and all Imperial forces in the area.”

A tingle went down Homer’s back and he suppressed a shiver. More war. He hadn’t wanted to bring that to Harren but what had he truly expected? Some kind of peace talks with the Romans? What had his superiors truly expected when they ordered him to make peace and build all possible relations? Sure, this wouldn’t be independence from Rome but in the circumstances, Drusus seemed rather manageable and easy to please in comparison to Agrippa and other Roman administrators so far. A return to conventional war might also end with more of Harren surviving rather than a continuation of the Nuclear slugfest. “I see.”

The prince could sense his latest advisor’s trepidation at the thought of another slew of invasions but merely shrugged. As useful as this man could be, more could always be found. A subtle reminder of that might be necessary. “Of course should he refuse us then I doubt you will be allowed to leave, not in one piece anyway, but don’t worry I'm sure he won’t, particularly since I hear Nero has left the capital, something about a missile strike needing to be shot down.” He waved the thought away dismissively. “It will make it easier to get an audience, anyway. Ah look you can see the palace from here!”

Homer looked, not really seeing as he mulled over things in his mind but from what his barest glance told him, it was huge and crowded with people. Maybe officials, guards, civilians, he wasn’t really paying attention. “It is spectacular,” Homer nodded whilst thinking about the Palace in Momoe. It briefly crossed his mind to try and assassinate Caesar when brought into his presence, but he was no soldier, nor an assassin and doubted it would achieve much even if he miraculously pulled it off. He guiltily looked up at the Skjoldurian Guards, as if they could read thoughts, wondering why Drusus used them when Rome and Skjoldur seemed to always be bouncing between being enemies and allies. Especially considering their mercenary culture, how could you ever trust them? Homer looked down at his rather decrepit suit, painfully aware of how ragged he appeared, “I didn’t have any plans for after the wedding and neglected to bring another suit. Will there be time for me to freshen up ahead of the audience? I wouldn’t want to appear so bedraggled in such great company.”

“Hm?” Drusus said, looking up with white powder on his lip. “Oh yes, the palace has the finest barbers, wardrobe slaves and baths in the known world. A good suggestion, one I might indulge in myself.” Unlike Homer, the Prince had possessed his own complement of attendants as well as a fresh wardrobe on the plane and had changed into a fine dark red tunic embroidered with gold lace, he’d also taken care to choose his finest purple cloak clasped with a beautiful silver clasp, a gift from one of his sisters but he’d be damned if he could remember which one. Seeing Homer eye up his guards he laughed. “Don’t worry about them. Finest guards in the Imperium, bought as young children and trained vigorously to be the perfect servants of the Imperator! They say the process is so brutal only one in three survives you know. I plan to bring a fair few to Harren they make excellent shock troops, or so Trajan tells me anyway.”

-----------------------------

Feeling rather exposed and vulnerable yet fresh and clean from his wash and shave, Homer gingerly tried to hold the toga together, feeling as if it might slip off and fall apart at a moment’s notice. He’d never had experience with this kind of dress before. Everything felt so loose and he was missing his tailored suit but knew it wouldn’t have been the right decision to bring that tired thing to this meeting. He would have to suck it up and just bear the discomfort for the duration.

Drusus looked over at Homer and laughed loudly. “You look how I feel! These bloody things never sit right.” Despite this Drusus’ toga sat perfectly on him, with a fresh haircut and close shave he looked every inch the Roman prince, almost exactly like some of the statues lining the beautiful marble walls. “You!” He called to a nearly invisible slave standing by a particularly patriotic fresco of some long-forgotten hero fighting some sort of monster. “A cup of finest falnerian, take it from Nero’s personal stocks I’m sure he won’t mind.” He raised an eyebrow to Homer quizzically.

Not sure whether it’d be respectful to accept the offer, especially knowing its source, Homer carefully measured his response, “I wonder how it compares to some of the best vintages from the Heartlands, from before the nuking of course.”.

“Asgarthians.” The prince sighed. “So impetuous. Bring him a cup, he looks like he could use one.” Relaxing on the low sofa he sighed again. “Now we wait to be summoned, ever met an Emperor before?”

Homer smiled his appreciation at the offer of the drink. He was feeling quite parched and wanted something to fortify himself for the coming meeting. Already feeling a slight headache coming on, probably from stress due to the constant need to vet and control his words, attitude and emotions was taxing. The weight of the situation at hand didn’t help as well. A line came into his head, ‘None but you.’, he thought it would go down very well with Drusus but wasn’t sure if it would be taken the right way by everyone else listening and might jeopardise things. So, instead he said, “Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure.”.

“Ah, well there is a fair bit of ceremony involved...speaking of which.” Drusus barely had time to finish his sentence when a small older man walked into the room escorted by six more Skjoldurians. Bowing deeply to Drusus he announced to both men. “His Imperial Highness, Gaius Octavius Gemellus Caesar: Filius Dei, Princeps Civitas Novae Romae, Pater Suae Patriae, Genus Iulii Caesaris, Aeneaden, Pius Felix, Dux Militum Romanorum, Qui Tribunica Potestas Habet, Autokrator Dominusque Romanorum et Imperator Romae in Perpetuum is ready to receive you.”

“Finally!” Drusus exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “I’ve been here for over fifteen minutes!” He looked between the two others. “Oh yes, Homer this is Eurybates one of my father’s freedmen. Eurybates, this is Homer one of my newest advisors. He’s not met father before so you should give him the ABRIDGED speech.” Eurybates looked Homer up and down with a critical eye, looked at Drusus and sighed softly. “As his Imperial Highness commands.” He turned to Homer. “You are to kneel before his Imperial Majesty at all times, unless instructed otherwise; you are to avoid eye contact with him, if you wish to keep your eyes and finally do not speak unless directly spoken to. Understood?”

Feeling a bit irritable, uncomfortable in the toga and with the headache growing, he almost sarcastically responded, ‘How do I walk in if I’m kneeling the whole way?’, but thought better of it, “I understand. Any other advice?”

“Don’t irritate him.” The old man muttered darkly before turning abruptly and walking away. Signalling to Homer, Drusus quickly followed, and the pair were led through a series of twisting corridors passed what must have seemed like thousands of rooms. Eventually they arrived at a pair of grand wooden doors which the Prince proceeded to push open with trademark confidence before striding in. Kneeling with great aplomb before a great wooden desk Drusus announced, almost sardonically, “Hail his Imperial Highness Gaius Octavius Gemellus Caesar: Filius Dei, Princeps Civitas Novae Romae, Pater Suae Patriae, Genus Octavi Caesaris, Aeneaden, Pius Felix, Dux Militum Romanorum, Qui Tribunica Potestas Habet, Autokrator Dominusque Romanorum et Imperator Romae in Perpetuum. Your beloved son has returned from the barbaric north and brings exciting news.”

Do not speak unless spoken to. Homer held his tongue, but matched Drusus move for move, kneeling alongside him and keeping his head down. He’d almost glanced up on the way over but caught himself in time. This kind of obeisance wasn’t natural to him in the slightest. He studied the floor with intense focus, noticing marbled tiles making up a large mosaic of a head, Homer couldn’t make out who due to Drusus’ position upon it but knowing where he was, it was probably a Caesar of some kind. It was well cleaned, basically spotless and polished to a high sheen. He made himself listen to Drusus’ greeting as he knelt there with his head bowed, with sweat creeping down his neck and back and the toga feeling like it was going to slip. He held himself as still as he could, muscles straining to do so with his stomach clenched and his jaw clenched. He wished that the slave had arrived with the drink before they’d been granted entry, it was unfortunate he hadn’t, but he swallowed away some phlegm from his dry mouth and waited for any questions.

“Oh, deep joy…” came a cold voice from above them. “I thought I sent you to Caerlegion or Cambrius, whatever your sister is calling it these days, so why am I told you went to a wedding and what on earth is this thing you’ve brought before me?”

“Oh, mighty Caesar, son of the div…” Drusus began.

“Stop that.” His father snapped viciously. “And get up, must you shame me with your every action!”
Drusus rose looking sufficiently chastised, externally anyway. “It was ungodly boring, and that wedding wasn’t much better. What you said about that Ross fellow was certainly correct, I…”

“Silence. Do not speak again, or I will remove your tongue. You!” he said irritably, snapping his fingers above Homer’s head. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Your Imperial Majesty, I am Homer, an Ambassador of the Harrenian Heartlands. I was sent by the Heartlands Government to the wedding where I met Gaius Octavius Drusus, son of Caesar, Grandson of a god, Protector of the people, Duke of Gwyenedd and Prince of Romae In Perpetuum. I was sent to make peace.” Taking a deep breath, Homer committed to the course he’d started on at the wedding, all the while holding his toga in place and trying to ignore an itch on his scrotum, “The seat of the ancient Harrenian Monarchy has been left empty for almost a century. We believe that your son Gaius Octavius Drusus, would be perfect to sit on the Obsidian Throne in Momoe. It, and the palace it resides in, is over a thousand years old and has been sealed for decades, awaiting a claimant with the strength, name and will to take it.” Homer resisted the urge to look up, clearing his throat before finishing with, “We wish to be joined, truly, into the glory of the Imperium.”.


To this Caesar said nothing, there was a long pause that seemed to last years before the great man suddenly burst into harsh laughter. “Are you serious? Your band of traitors, terrorists and idealists wishes him to be king! Him!” More laughter. “And you.” He sneered pointing to his son. “You want to rule over a half-burnt rock? Filled with savages, starving masses and piles of corpses? Most of which were made in my name?” Mirth subsiding, he exhaled.

“No, let me tell you what you want. You Harrenite. You hope by putting my son on a powerless throne you can keep my empire at bay and maintain some thin veneer of safety. You think you can control and manipulate him, hoping he will be too absorbed in his drink, drugs and whores to do any real damage whilst your group runs things from the shadows!” He stared at his son. “You, have probably realised all this and plan to take advantage of a desperate huddle of idiots to gain yourself your own heavily fortified powerbase conveniently close to the Imperial heartland so you can try and usurp your brothers when I die and rule a proper empire. If you had any sense the gods gave a goat, you’d kill this snake and destroy his band of traitors root and stem. But I know you don’t.” He began to laugh once again. “Do you know what? I think you both deserve each other! Drusus, oh beloved son of mine, I'm giving you the 12th Legion and ordering that the province of Caesarea be put at your disposal. Go win your false throne and hold it as my vassal. I wish you luck of it. Now get out both of you! I have real wars to fight.”

Homer had thought it was over. When Caesar had seen right through him and called him out on it, he’d been expecting to face imminent execution. He’d even started thinking up some last words. He was taken aback when Caesar let him off the hook. Or at least, the immediate hook. Repairing the relationship with Drusus was the next step and it might not be easy, depending on how deeply he took his father’s advice to heart. His headache had grown worse, but he wasn’t sure if that was the stress or the thought of dealing with Drusus. He bowed and took to his feet before turning to walk out as commanded, glancing upwards to see the man who’d ordered so many deaths, the one the Romans called a God. He saw only an older, more tired version of Drusus. Where Drusus still glowed with the vitality and fire of youth, ever moving and restless, Caesar sat motionless as if a statue with thinning hair and eyes burning with a cold, penetrating gaze. Still, a man. Homer tilted his head downwards in recognition of Caesar’s perceptiveness before completing his turn away.

---

Portus Cale, Province of Caesarea, Imperium Romae in Perpetuum

The men of the Legio XII Fulminata had been somewhat intrigued to be called out on general assembly so unexpectedly but granted it had been an intriguing year. First the, now ex-consul, Domitius Ahenobarbus had taken the sixth cohort west on some mysterious expedition, about which the survivors to this day refused to even acknowledge. Then the seventh and eighth cohorts had been sent to Harren and had been fighting an increasingly bitter war ever since. On five separate occasions groups of the twelfth’s officers from the centurionate upwards had presented petitions to both the Senate and the Imperial Palace to be allowed to join their beleaguered comrades on the nearby island, and many still held hope that this might be their chance. It was not easy to address most of an entire legion, however, due to the sheer amount of men present. So, in fact only the first cohort would be addressed directly, with the other cohorts formed up around the general area in front of several large television screens and most of the legions armour and artillery was not present at all.
The Legionares had been assembled in full combat armour in the summer heat and had been waiting for two hours, though this was not unusual, it was common for commanders to test their men’s fortitude though physical tests and the veterans among them regularly boasted in their cups about the time the twelfth had been left standing for twelve hours straight by Gemellus Caesar some years before to determine if they were worthy of their name. What was strange however, was not the series of cameras and other media equipment that was being set up around them but the five thousand odd guardsmen of the Numerus Skjoldorum. Easily distinguished by their impressive size, bulky battle armour, unmistakable axe-shotguns and blood red capes the fanatically loyal shock troops were usually charged with the protection of Caesar and his family and had also been gathered in front of them. This could only mean one thing and, whilst even whispering on parade would bring down the harshest corporal punishments on a legionary, sideways glances were exchanged between the men as they silently wondered which scion of the Imperial Family would be inflicted upon them.

They were not left wondering for much longer as the call to attention was sounded and a tall slim figure emerged from an armoured motorcade accompanied by two middle aged men both in military armour and the trio was escorted by twenty more Skjdolurians and most importantly the standard bearer of the twelfth legion who carried the sacred eagle standard before him. Even the most cynical soldier had to admit this figure looked impressive. He was clad in ceramic armour like them, but his was crafted to look like a beautiful dark leather cuirass, engraved in the ancient style with golden engravings of eagles and tipped with red leather pteruges. In addition to this he sported a fine purple cloak clasped with a ruby red dragons head and at his waist was a gladius in a richly decorated scabbard and a pistol in an equally intricate holster.

Upon mounting the stage, the figure stood before a grand podium and announced
“Hail Caesar!”
“Hail Caesar!” Chorused the first cohort back, and many could hear their comrades some distance apart echo the same call.
“I am Gaius Octavius Drusus Filius Caesaris, Nepos Dei, Protector Populorum, Dux Gwyneddis et Princeps Romae in Perpetuum.” He continued. “Most of you know me and all of you know who I represent. Many a time have I been called to act in my father’s stead. I secured our alliance with Cambrius, on whose throne my nephew now sits, and I was recently hosted by the Imperiali of Asgareth where I represented both Rome and Cambrius as a Prince and a Duke. But I come before you now, soldiers of Rome, as neither dux nor princeps! Not the son of a Caesar or the descendant of gods! But merely as a man and as a father to two children. For it was in Asgareth that I learned of the terrible state of Harren Island, mere miles from where we stand, where even now your brothers in arms fight a terrible war to maintain order on an island being consumed in a fire of chaos and lawlessness. A fire stoked and fuelled by the avarice of distant Rusinia! Who believe in their eternal arrogance that they may dictate the fate of the world from the barbaric hell they call home!” He bashed the podium. “They believe they can bully us! They believe that the Imperium will merely roll over and accept whatever fate they assign us! They believe that Rome and her allies are beaten, tell me, fighting men of the twelfth thunderbolt legion, are we?”
“NO, SIR!”
“Do we accept their outrageous lies, that they desire anything else but to carve up the island for their own benefit?”
“NO, SIR!”
“For a divided Harren can only fall, and that is what this ‘entente’ ultimately desires. None of its members have the strength or the will to supersede the others and all are far too egotistical to concede to the others. Harren must stand as one, its people given stability, security and peace. The Hegemony is a failed delusion of a madman and the Republic is naught but a Myraxian colony, neither are fit to rule. The island must return to the one true peace it has ever known! The Obsidian Throne, ancient seat of the Harranian Monarchy has been vacant for far too long and a people without an Emperor are doomed to destruction. Therefore, I, Gaius Octavius Drusus lay claim to the throne and the title of Basileus, with the blessing of my father Gaius Octavius Gemellus Caesar!” At this a large flag was unfurled behind Drusus, depicting the traditional Water Lily banner of the Harrenite Monarchy with inverted colours.
“Today I proclaim the next great dynasty of Harren Island. I name myself Basileus Gaius Octavius Drusus Sebastos, for my ancestor the god Augustus Caesar. Whilst some may question the legitimacy of my claim and to them, I say that the strength of the Twelfth Legion, the men of Gwynedd and the Skjoldurian Guard IS my claim, so what do you say men, will you cross with me and take what is rightfully ours?
“YES, SIR!”
Will you free my people from the foreigners that divide and lie to them?
“YES, SIR!”
Will you not rest until all my enemies lie dead at your feet and I sit my rightful throne?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Then go and prepare men of Rome and Cambrius! For in mere days, we sail for Harren and glory! Long live Caesar, long live Rome and long live the true monarch!”
“Hail Caesar! Hail Drusus! Hail Caesar! Hail Drusus! Hail Caesar…”

---

A misshapen, fleshy lump rotated slowly in the river’s current, bobbing with the gentle waves as it was pushed downstream. It had already started bloating, puffing up and discolouring from its time spent floating in the water but it was still possible to make out the dark ring of black and purple bruises around its neck.

“We got another one.”

A rough, rope net splashed down on top of it and moments later the body was being hoisted aloft, dripping water, slime and other bodily fluids as the skin was forced to take the weight, tearing open like wet tissue paper from the strain.

The corpse slapped down onto the deck with a splash of stinking goop. It landed face up, revealing mutilated, gaping eye sockets that were yawning open, showing nothing but sliced flesh and a few remaining strands of optical nerves.

“Wonder who he pissed off?”

The remains were dragged away, leaving a horrid stench and a mucky trail that had to be scrubbed and bleached away. There were no clothes or items of identification and so the body was sealed into a locker and labelled, ‘Incognitus – Vir’.

[Myraxia]

Flash Traffic, Myraxian Combined Forces
CLR: NDGO
TO: Myraxian Forces, Harren Region
FROM: SATINT, MFB Kenshan
RE: NBC WARNING

URGENT. MASS ROMAN STRATEGIC LAUNCH DETECTED. PROJECTED TARGET HARREN. ALL FORCES GO TO NBC CONDITION ONE. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

In prepared positions across the Republic of Harren, surrounding all key Myraxian positions and installations, as well as most ROH positions of significance, mobile missile launchers raised their payloads to the sky as portable radar units searched for, and acquired, their targets. Contrails streaked across the orange-tinged Harrenite sky, lines of vapor intersecting with their larger twins high in the sky with explosions as the soldiers of the Strategic Weapons Division did their work. The launchers, Myraxian ‘Arbalest-IV’ missile vehicles, were cutting edge - some of the finest mobile missile defence vehicles ever produced for the Combined Forces, or arguably the Charter. Some in the Logistics arm of the MCF had protested against their deployment here, so far from the Union itself; from the Harrenites, there was no reaction bar gratitude. Their work complete, the launchers cycled down, and the vehicles prepared to relocate. They’d just revealed their positions, after all - and it wouldn’t do to be caught out by counter battery fire.

--

Naval Station Kalitea. Harren Island

Lieutenant General Hyrkan Vyr strode into the Operations room, returning salutes from console technicians and greeting Colonel Razek at the central semi-holo table. These tables were a common sight in Myraxian Ops rooms, ever since the original designs had been lifted off a boarded Iryllian frigate in the Gulf of Prajulh around over ten years ago. A skilled console operator could keep the display updated in almost real-time, allowing commanders a manipulable, three-dimensional view of the battlespace.
“Fill me in, Pyr, I’ve been stuck with the Asgarthi. I caught the flash traffic.”
“Well, the good news is that’s taken care of. Multiple nuclear detonations on some of the outlying islands claimed by the Hegemony, but between us, the Noctish, the Valari, the Slavacians… the list goes on, but the gist is we’ve scored a one-hundred percent interception rate on those warheads headed for Harren proper.”
“Excellent news, the best I’ve had all week. I’ll put in for a unit commendation for those StratWep boys. I’m sure you’ve got bad news to balance this out?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Coaltion forces have forced a wedge through the reserve line - we have forces dug in at Galatea and Rie, both more or less cut off, with another group holding a far shortened line towards Saya.”
“Hm. Our marines in Rie should be able to hold with little issue, it’s perfect terrain for Light Infantry. Galatea, though, is another story. What’s the latest from the suburbs?”

--

City of Galatea, Republic of Harren

Sergeant Damon Kyranis ducked back below the window as a burst of machine gun fire filled the space he occupied a few moments before. “Someone take out that rak-damned tank!”
As if in answer, a rocket streaked out from a neighboring alley, piercing the side of the vehicle at close range and disabling it. “My thanks! Now, Private Stevenson, c’mere.” He beckoned to one of his (until very recently) trainees, now a fully fledged member of the Republican Militia, who’d been issued a large backpack radio to carry. Grabbing the handset from her back, he pushed it to his ear.


--

Flames burst forth from the hole that had just been punched into the tank’s side, hatches opened and burnt and burning crew screamed as they scrambled out, fleeing the fire that was now engulfing the vehicle, toppling off the tank in their abandon and writhing on the rubble strewn street. Three militiamen, part of a squad coming from further up the street behind the tank, pushed back towards the Myraxian lines, using a half-standing wall for cover before opening up with their Myraxian rifles, spraying the surviving crew and shredding them with bullets.


The rest of the Militiamen continued to fall back towards Myraxian lines, covering each other and keeping their heads down as they went. At the front, protected and helped by the other squad members, were three machine gun teams, two of which seemed comfortable with their loads and carried tripod mounts, the last of which struggled, lugging the gun around awkwardly and its attached unipod vehicle mount. The whole lot seemed haggard with bloodshot eyes and dishevelled uniforms, with some sporting hastily bandaged wounds.

Reaching the Myraxian positions, the leader made her way over to the Myraxian sergeant, making sure to stay in cover as she went, “Corporal Hall here, I have three MG teams and riflemen, all running low on ammunition, where do you need us?”.

--

Sergeant Kyranis tossed the handset back to Stevenson, looking up at the new arrivals. “Hall, it’s almost good to see you. You look like you’ve been busy. Have your troopers get some rest, you’re with me.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and dropped through a hole in a back wall into another part of the building. Hall’s militia gratefully shucked their packs and heavier guns, taking advantage of not being shot at for a few minutes whilst Hall followed the Myraxian into the back of the building.
“So, Hall. Militia officer in charge of this section bought it about an hour ago. Damn shame, man was smart enough to know when to listen, which was all the time as he was green as grass. That leaves me in charge of militia forces in this block, and I’m in turn making you my number two. Your section shouldn’t be as intact as it is, which leads me to believe you’re either damn good at your job or extremely lucky. Either way, I can use that.” He led her over to some maps pinned to what might’ve been a school whiteboard. It was the first indication that this might have once been a school, one bombed out structure looked a lot like another. “All we need to do here is hold. Valarisk and Myraxian armor is approaching from here and here, which will theoretically leave the Romans trapped in the middle like… something, I’m too tired to come up with a metaphor. Doubt I need to keep up the act around you - you’ve been around the block before. You know how the game is played. We hold here, we keep the militia holding here - and we win. Simple as that. So, deploy your machine guns along this street here, and tie in with the platoon in this block here; make sure nothing can slip through the gaps. Clear? Good.”

---

Aboard S-036, Myraxian Combative Class Attack Submarine, off the West Coast of Harren

“Commander, new orders received through the encrypt.” The XO handed the Commander a folded piece of paper, still warm from the printer in the comms annex. Flipping it open, the Commander read it, expression unchanging.
“Weapons. Prepare a firing solution for proximity detonation, target that Swarm fleet. Connect with our sisters through the encrypt, prepare a comprehensive solution. Torpedo room, prepare tubes one and two for firing. Load Bident.”
“Aye aye, Commander.” A burst of activity filled the Conn, as Officers went to their tasks. The weapons officer hurriedly scribbled calculations and typed bearings into the firing computer, whilst in the comms annex furious tapping could be heard as 036 linked with the other two Combative submarines in the region, 051 and 019, in order to engage with the most effective pattern.
“Commander?” The XOs quiet voice sounded in the Commander’s ear. “We’re engaging these Hegemony swarmers with Bidents? Is that really the most effective use of one of our most powerful weapons?”
“You’ve seen the plans for these Glozings, Lieutenant Commander. Their draft is so shallow we couldn’t be sure of a clean hit, whilst there’s so many of them we could expend our entire weapon load and not sink them all. No, this is how we’ll strike. With surprise, devastating power, and overwhelming force.”
“Conn, Torpedo room. Tubes one and two, ready to fire on your command.”
“Conn, Weapons. Firing solution plotted.”
“Conn, comms. Nought-Five-One and Nought-One-Nine report ready to launch on your order.”
“Comms, signal command our intention to engage. Weapons - you may fire when ready.”

Tight Beam Signal Traffic
TO: Commodore Ralyn, CO: Seventh Fleet/Detached Task Force Harren
FROM: MNV S-036

Orders received. Engaging.

From three different sources, a total of six torpedoes were spat out into the dark ocean, spearing towards their targets in a loose spread. Behind them, three sleek shadows, three Myraxian submarines, turned and dived for the safety of deep water and the thermocline, seeking to hide themselves from any retribution which might follow their most recent act. Above, the payload continued to slip through the waves, near-silent but homing unerringly towards their targets, death under the waves. After all, these weren’t conventional torpedoes. Bident was a code word used by the Myraxian Naval Force - a code word for torpedoes armed with nuclear warheads.


--

The Glozing squadrons rolled in the heavy seas, surging up and splashing down with each wave. It was easy to lose track of the other vessels in the squadron, let alone spot other squadrons five hundred metres away in all the spray and high rollers. Their hulls shedding water in sheets as they bobbed out of each swell.

Then, in an instant that most wouldn’t be able to perceive, the ocean waves flattened as if ironed out from below and turned white, leaping upwards with dozens of metres of steam and boiling froth, swallowing Glozings whole as six shockwaves spread out over the churned surface and towering bursts punched up out of the sea, bubbling upwards for hundreds of metres like erupting volcanoes, spraying boiling water vapour out in blooming, white, mushroom clouds of searing water that carried broken bits of shattered hulls like twigs thrown into a hurricane.

Wreckage tumbled out of the sky like hail, splashing back down into the settling surface, the rhythm of the waves disturbed for the time being. The mushroom clouds began to collapse in on themselves, disgorging banks of steam that rolled outwards like fog across the top of the sea, as if seeking out survivors to smother in its scorching embrace.

Flash-fried and swollen bodies bobbed as the waves started to return and pieces of floating wreckage glinted dazzlingly in the sun, reflecting light off steam-cleaned metal. An upturned Glozing hull, twinkling in the light like a beacon, was the largest sign that a fleet had been sailing here but moments before. Its crew had been unlucky to survive the initial blasts and frothing seas for they had been left to the steam; blinded and with bright red, blistered and peeling skin, they moaned incoherently and wheezed in agony with each laboured breath as their burnt lungs discharged pinky froth from their raw mouths. The luckier ones would soon die of shock but for the rest, unable to help themselves and struggling for every gasp of air, their deaths would be long.

Tight Beam Signal Traffic
TO: Commodore Ralyn, CO: Seventh Fleet/Detached Task Force Harren
FROM: MNV S-036

Target destroyed.

Aboard MNV CFC-021 Nightrider, Acting Flagship, Myraxian Seventh Fleet

“Signal from Harren, Sub-Marshal. Commodore Ralyn reports Swarm Fleet designated ‘Screech’ destroyed by use of Bident nuclear weapons. Our path to the island is now clear.”
Sub-Marshal Vassyr Ioryn returned his attention to the semi-holo as the blocking icon indicating the Hegemonic Fleet disappeared. With a gesture, he flicked the display back over to Harren proper. “So to go over it again…” he paused whilst the various senior officers of 201st and 222nd Corps, Myraxian Naval Force, Marine Light Infantry, gathered around. The men gathered in this room commanded some 120,000 veteran marines, all pulled from positions in the Bandoan Recombined States where they’d been chafing under the inactivity of garrison duty, and all presently carried in the various vessels of the Naval Force Auxiliary that accompanied Seventh Fleet as it traversed the seas. “We’ll land here, at the western end of Ritsa’s Bight. Marine infantry and accompanying armor will push inland, cleaning up the Hegemonic presence in this - he indicated the central Republic - region; CFI tells me that the Hegemonic government issued a request to surrender so if these forces wish to follow that, we’ll disarm them and return them to the landing zone for processing. If they don’t, prosecute with prejudice. Our primary aim is to first, relieve the sieges of Galatea and Rie, and then retake our initial, pre-war positions here, whilst the diplomats sort out the final borders.”
The map fizzled away and was replaced with several figures. “Now, this is an international effort, so make sure your men are aware of who our allies are. The Valari are here in force, and we’re fighting alongside Aurumite PMCs as well as Harrenese Republican Militia. Everyone clear? Good. To it, then. Myraxia victorious!”
The assembled officers returned his salute. “Myraxia victorious!”

--

Myraxian marines, with accompanying armor, made landfall in a cove marked on their pre-war charts as ‘Refuge Bay’. Hulking Overlord Class Landing Ships came in close to the shore, bow doors opening to allow marine transports to spill out, their amphibious drives taking them the last meters to the shore. Naval Pioneers, going ashore with the first wave, had pontoon docks set up with the hour, allowing heavier armor to be unloaded to the beach - Myraxian Chimera Mk.22(a) Main Battle Tanks, modified for Marine usage, rolled ashore, Marine infantry sat astride the vehicles in specially designed tank rider positions. Sixty three minutes after landfall, merely three minutes behind schedule, the first columns were moving inland, following the trail carved through the undergrowth by the remnants of the Hegemonic force that had moved this route days before.

---

City of Elias, Harren Island

Corporal Marcus Venir was did not like waiting. Never had, not since those days in Rygan waiting to see if the next day would be the one that Noyen-Rak came for his due. Or the next, or the next. Instead, it seemed, he had come for his principal. The one task he’d been given, protect the President of the Republic. Protect Maria. And she’d been poisoned in her sleep whilst he stood duty outside. And now… here he was, stuck outside whilst the medics operated. He- “Stop pacing.” He started.
“What?”
The President’s aide - Phoebe, that was her name - was staring at him. “If you pace, all you’ll do is wind yourself up. There’s nothing you can do, so sit the hell down.” He blinked. She sighed. “Look. Let’s talk about something else. Take your mind off it. For instance…” she pointed at a dashed line that stood out above the Combined Forces insignia on his shoulder. “What does that signify? Is it a medal?”
He took a deep breath, then obeyed, sitting down in a chair opposite the aide. “No, it’s actually- it means I’m an Auxiliary. Not born in the Union.”
“Oh? So where are you from, then?” She asked, curious.
“Oceani-born, originally. Served with the International Brigade in Rygan. Emigrated when I turned eighteen, the Union just seemed… the right place for me, you know?”
She nodded. “Now, I admit my knowledge of the Myraxian Union is slim, but - and don’t take this the wrong way - aren’t Auxiliaries formed into separate units? I was told that was what would happen to any volunteers from Harren.”
“Well, yes, but once you’ve served for four years - with distinction - you’re eligible to apply to transfer to a mainline unit. There are-” he broke off as a figure in medical robes entered the room.
“Corporal Venir? Miss Phoebe. I have President Otome’s lab results back. It appears she’s been dosed with polonium-210.” He waved off their responses of shock. “The worst is over, and it looks like she’ll make it. There will be permanent side effects, of course. Likelihood of cancer in later life, bone marrow death, that sort of thing. But in the short term, she’ll make it.”
“Is there anything we can do to help, Doctor? Anything to speed her recovery?”
“Well, it’s essentially a case of severe radiation poisoning. We don’t carry a large stock of anti-radiation meds, there’s generally no call for it. The faster we can clear her system, the more we can limit the long-term effects.”
“The infirmary on the Grave carries anti-rad meds. I’ll put in a call and have some shipped over right away.” Marcus hurried out of the room to make the call.

She had to live.

[Auruum]

While this area of the city was relatively safe, the sound of distant gunfire and explosions made sure to remind everyone that it was a different story, just a few blocks away. An Aurummite PMC had set up a small command center, easily disassembled and reassembled, in a ruined building, Attempting to link up with the local Heartlanders. Offering up more ammunition, supplies, and reinforcements. They had managed to get a few return pings and several mercenary squads were sent out to assist.

Soon enough, Harrenian humans joined the goblin, Orc, and troll mercenaries, joining in the fight to take back their home and to repay the violence that had been inflicted against them with so much more. The combined Mercenary and Heartlander forces would focus on harassing or ambushing enemy troops and armor, helping the Entente forces by clearing pathways, Setting traps around secured perimeters, as well as assaulting and ambushing enemy squads. The Drone Infantry units were particularly effective. Unlike organic troops who required food, water, and rest, the Droids were capable of operating constantly, carry more ammunition and gear, and most importantly, show no mercy.

While the Aurummite PMCs were a bit more wild and liked to draw out the enemy’s pain before killing them, The Droids were swift and efficient. Multiple units moving as one, and attacking with deadly accuracy.

Galatea Outskirts

A Squadron of Droids moved into position. A Hegemony Garrison was close by, and they were tasked with harassing it. Three Sniper rifles took aim at three different targets, chosen at random from their positions. A fourth Droid began to jam the garrisons comms, A sixth prepared to fire a high explosive rocket at one of the parked trucks. Once the Comms were down, Three Hegemony soldiers dropped dead and a truck was tossed into the air by a column of flames. The three snipers pulled the triggers in unison, and then immediately began to abandon their positions, knowing that soon enough soldiers would be looking for them, The Droid with the rocket launcher especially. Once all Six Droids were safely hidden and redeployed, The cycle began again, Comms dying for several minutes while another three soldiers were dropped, and a Guard tower exploded.

“This is Metal-01 to Control, We have begun to create chaos within the enemy’s fortified position. Will continue to pin the enemy down until Reinforcements arrive.” The Droids reported to the Central Command Unit back home in Aurum, an encrypted message packed along with the vast amount of data each Droid sent to the Command unit.
“Control to Metal-01, Will divert Reinforcements to your position. ETA: 3 Hours.” Was the Return message, eliciting no further response from the Squad as they cycled again and again. In three hour’s time a Morozoff Heavy Tank, supported by Aurummite PMCs, would begin raining down artillery fire. Knocking down walls already battered by several Rockets, and fighting soldiers who weren’t sure if they were fighting a small army or not for the past three hours.

[Asgareth]

A.R.S.E Progredimur, High orbit around Origin
Azcan Yultsin awoke naturally from his sleep. It had been a most pleasant sleep. He had dreamt that he had been invited to Palace de Esgar, where he had received the Imperial Medal of Bravery. Whilst there, he had danced with the daughter of the Imperiali, who had clearly become besotted by him, and had also played poker with the Imperiali and several key ministers, winning many hands - simultaneously. Indeed, the dream was so pleasant that Azcan had been disappointed when he woke up and realised he was alone in his quarters, with no medal, no girl and no riches.

The Progredimur had been in orbit around Origin for just over four months, and life on-board the ship had become increasingly monotonous for its crew. Azcan couldn’t wait for his relief to turn up, in a little under eight months time. The ship had been launched into orbit following heightened tensions during the Second Rusinan Conflict. Though the ship had not yet seen action in that theatre of war, its crew maintained a steady watch over that troubled continent. Nothing ever happened on-board the Progredimur. Infact, Azcan was half convinced this entire endeavour had been a complete waste of time and resources, not that he would ever say that aloud Section 32 had eyes and ears everywhere…

This chain of thought was interrupted, however, by the emergency alarm calling the crew to battle stations and the crackling of the intercom: “Captain Yultsin to the bridge!”
Azcan sighed. The emergency alarm had broken two days into orbit, and the on-board engineers had failed to fix it. As a result, the alarm went off on the hour, every hour. He glanced at his watch; 17 minutes past the hour. He tutted, and slowly moved out of his quarters, and out into the corridor. There, the reality of the situation swiftly set in. Crew members raced in various directions, desperately trying to make it to their stations. He noticed the ship’s doctor heading towards the med bay, but could hardly move towards him before he was thrown backwards by the oncoming rush. As he regained his composure, he overheard the intercom once more. “Captain Yultsin to the bridge, now sir!” Fearing the worst, Azcan force his way forward, towards the lift. Within seconds, he was on the bridge.
“Commander.” He stated towards his first officer. “Fill me in.”

“Ah Captain, you made it after all.” Responded Commander Tertius Petilius Decentius, a half smile on his face. “I thought the comms had malfunctioned again, this morning the tactical officer almost triggered the self destruct ordering a sandwich from the galley…”
“What flavour, Commander?” Azcan asked, clearly more interested in the selection available than the threat of the ship blowing up.
Decentius frowned slightly. “I'm not sure. I’d radio down, but I don’t think the line has been completely fixed yet…” A second, more urgent, alarm began sounding from the commander’s armrest console and he cleared his throat. “As to the alarm, the night shift picked up some unusual activity from the gobbo territories and sounded full alert, but this may be all for nothing... I still haven’t forgotten the xenos war fleet that turned out to be a congealed sneeze on the console…”

“Greenskins? I wouldn’t worry if I were you, commander. All bark, no bite.” Azcan paused, as he studied the bridge; assessing the expressions of his officers in turn. Upon realising none of them were laughing, and indeed all remained stern-faced, he re-assessed the situation. “What unusual activity are we talking about?”
“If you’ll allow me, sir?” Piped up Ensign Constans, the Ops officer, who has been in charge of the night shift, had now resumed his regular station and was looking very nervous. “We've been scanning Myraxian supply ships to that floating rock they call a base, usually they’re pretty standard: Food, booze and other essentials. But our scans have picked up something...unusual attached to this one, it’s almost certainly not Rusinian and my security clearance isn’t high enough for the computer to tell me anymore...it just triggered the alert on its own!...Sir!” He added quickly.

Azcan nodded. “So who we talking about? The French? Who has the technology?” He turned towards the translator, Lieutenant Molka, who quickly began to speak.
“We couldn’t listen into their communications without giving our position away. But, the object has engravings consistent with symbols that are well-documented. They appear to stem from the greenskins.” Morka responded.

“I see.” Azcan stated, as he turned back towards the Ensign. “Move aside. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” The Ensign moved away, allowing Azcan access to the computer. “Let’s see… password… what was it again… er… AH! Password! They never saw it coming!” He chuckled to himself as the computer logged him in. “Now let’s see… recent scans… tonight, 03:46. Sounds about right. Yep, you’re right Ensign. Level 5 clearance. So what are we dealing with…” Azcan began to study something intently, occasionally muttering the odd word to himself. He huffed, before he turned to his First Officer.
“It appears that this scan has been tied to an intelligence report from several months ago. Its contents appear to suggest that the greenskins are building some form of weapon. A cannon of sorts, if you will. The report suggests its damn near finished. Well… we can’t let the goblins establish a foothold up here. Its cramped enough already.” Azcan turned to the Ensign. “Continue observing the area. I want a scan report every 15 minutes, until something shows up or the Myraxians leave their base. Everyone else, get back to your stations. And don’t disturb me unless something happens for goodness sake!”

“Sir!” Interjected the tactical officer forcefully. “The object has detached from the shuttle, the Myraxians either never noticed it or just don’t care they’re carrying on. Putting it on screen now.”
The main viewer then displayed an image of a small machine unfolding, with a large tube descending and a small drone fussing around it.
“Good gods, what on earth is it doing?” Asked Commander Decentius, to no one in particular.”
“It’s making ready to fire.” Answered Ensign Constans, who had regained his console. “It’s charging right now, estimated twenty four hours until completion. The target…” The young officer suddenly froze and all the colour seemed to drain from his face as he gripped onto the console like a liferaft.
“Well?” Asked Decentius irritably. “Spit it out man!”

“Th..th...the capital, sir.” The ensign rechecked his readings for what must have been the hundredth time. “Target confirmed to be Nova Roma…”
“Those dirty, cowardly, green bastards!” The commander roared, jumping to his feet. “Tactical target that thing, blow it to ash! Ensign Constans scan the surface for the most accessible goblin targets! The bigger the population, the better. I want them all dead!”
“Steady, now Commander. Ensign, you say it is targeting Nova Roma? You’d best inform the local authorities. Get them to begin evac procedures, safety announcements… that sort of thing. Commander, I’ll give you the honour of targeting the satellite. You may fire when ready.”

“Thank you, sir.” Decentius replied, having regained some of his composure, privitally he thought a warning wouldn’t trigger much response, aside from getting the Senatorial Class and the Imperial Family itself out of the city, lest it cause a panic throughout the Imperium. For the sake of his own family in the capital, they had better destroy this impudent device.
“Missiles locked, railguns are lined up and loaded.” Reported the tactical officer. “At this range it's a sure thing, but we’ll have to disable the refractive hull armour to attack. We’ll be exposed to half the world…”
“An unfortunate necessity…” Said the Commander. “Fire.”

The engines roared to life as the Progredimur surged forwards, bearing down on the dwarfed satellite like a monsterous bear on a rabbit, two missiles were launched simultaneously as the forward railguns opened up and a hail of hyper accelerated projectiles smashed into and through the satellite, just before it exploded in a fiery ball.

“A bit of overkill.” The captain said to the tactical officer “But good work regardless. Ops, I take it you’ve tracked from where that thing was being controlled? Open a channel, there is no need to encrypt.” After receiving confirmation that the comm was open, and wasn’t still connected to the self-destruct override, he cleared his throat. “This is Captain Azcan Yultsin of the Asgar Roman Space Exploration force ship: Progredimur, to whomever is in charge of whatever installation launched that thing. The territories and peoples of both the Roman Imperium and the Asgarthian Empire are under our protection, you’ve seen what we can do. May I suggest you don’t attempt anything like that again?”

---

Asgareth

Rumours had been spread for years about potential coups against Daniel Ross. Many within Asgareth were convinced that the Imperiali had had Edgar W. Larkin killed due to his part in such a plot. Larkin’s death had coincided with him becoming increasingly evermore popular in Asgareth. His anti-Myraxian rhetoric had been a refreshing contrast to Ross’ desperate attempts to encourage cooperation and friendship with the northerners. Support for Larkin’s cause had grown, and so consequently Ross had asked the Myraxians to kill him and brand him a traitor. Despite the death of this martyr, and the installation of Myraxian garrisons in several cities, anti-Myraxian movements had grown bigger in the years that had followed. Initially acting as underground movements, they swiftly made their presence felt in the west, before encroaching ever eastwards towards the capital. Leaders of these movements managed to avoid the consequences by either being indispensable to the regime; such as in the case of General Edmund de’Lance and Rupert Merritt or by managing to evade capture through a series of elaborate acts of escape. They’d continued to pose a considerable problem and, at times, a mild threat to the government, but until now had not succeeded in their ultimate goal.

For Daniel Ross, his life had lately been tumultuous to say the least. It had been four months since the bombing of the royal wedding, where his son Axic, along with several of his key supporting ministers had met their deaths at the hands of a terrorist group known as the Black Hand. Another son, Danri, had been paralysed from the waist down in the same attack. In the time since, the Imperiali had become increasingly distant; not just from the public, but from his advisors and surviving family members. Already seriously ill before the wedding, he had become even more frail, and had continued to be more and more erratic in his judgements. One week, Asgareth was fighting alongside the Romans, the next she was fighting against them. Asgareth was an ally of Myraxia, and then she was an enemy. The French were enemies of the state one day, and her closest ally the next. The goblins were enemies one week and… well, at least some things were consistent.

Ross’ government had hardly seen the Imperiali since the attack. Oscar Larkin had, effectively, acted as de-facto Imperiali, with assistance from Yulta Ross. The position of Domestic Minister had remained unfilled since the death of Julia Barry at the Royal Wedding, with no candidates forthcoming. In fact, seven governmental posts had remained unfilled since the disaster at the wedding, forcing many current ministers to assume further tasks. Meanwhile, the media flooded the public with stories about the Imperiali’s health, with The Workers’ Star claiming the Imperiali had infact died seventy-four years ago and had been replaced with the son of a cleaning lady and milkman called Bob; a somewhat impressive feat given the Imperiali was only 61. The Rusinan Chronicle took it further, by claiming that the Imperiali was actually an alien from the planet Oblong and had been sent to study the most advanced species in Origin. Unfortunately, his rocket had drifted off course and had landed in Asgareth instead, where the Imperiali had swiftly installed himself as leader. Oddly, the government owned newspaper The Evening Crusader remained incredibly silent on the subject, though this was perhaps because their attention was quite rightly focussed on Kevin, the flying cat.

In truth, today’s coup had been a long time coming. The wheels had been set in motion when de’Lance had organised the assassination of Emperor Adran, almost 13 years ago. It had not been intended that Ross would stay in power for so long, but a mixture of bad weather, poor timing and a bout of food poisoning had postponed the second phase of the coup numerous times. But the coup could be delayed no longer. The Imperiali had revealed his true status as a puppet of the Myraxians. He had orchestrated the betrayal of Asgarthian allies. He had vassalized Asgareth. And now, he would pay the price.

***

Asgar House, Asgar

It had begun just as dusk set. Seven tanks slowly rolled through Asgar, heading directly for Asgar House, where the Imperiali lay sleeping. Ahead of these tanks, four armoured vehicles moved slightly faster, trundling along the city’s roads.

The rota had been changed the night before, so as to ensure sympathetic members of the Black guards were all on duty. The front entrance had been left unguarded, and the gates wide open allowing de’Lance’s convoy to roll in unchallenged. The convoy came to a halt at the front door, where sixteen men walked out, and began to make their way up the stairs. At the head, General Edmund de’Lance knocked on the door twice.

The door was answered by an armed guard in black armour.
“Thank you.” The general stated curtly, before he headed off, leading his men up a series of staircases. They came to a halt outside a room, where another man in black armour stood.
“It’s open.” The guard said. “He’s alone.”
The general gave a curt nod. “Go take a coffee. We won’t be long.”
The guard marched off, as the group huddled around the door. The general nodded at them, before opening the door.
“FREEZE! ASGARTHIAN FORCES!” He yelled, as they rushed into the room. “DANIEL ROSS, STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”

Daniel Ross awoke with a start, as two men surrounded him and yanked him from his bed. They kicked him to the floor, as de’Lance made his way towards forwards.
“Daniel Ross. You are charged with one count of murder, that of Edgar W. Larkin. You are charged with conspiring with the enemy. You are further charged with treason. How do you plead?”
Daniel
“Edmund? What are you doing! Fools! Unhand me! I will have you shot! GUARDS!” He yelled. “GUARDS! COME! HELP!”
“Do not waste your breath. No one is coming.” De’Lance replied sternly. “I will repeat the charges. You are charged with one count of murder, that of Edgar W. Larkin. You are charged with conspiring with the enemy. You are charged with treason. How do you plead?”

Daniel looked around helplessly, desperately attempting to see a sign of imminent assistance. With no sign forthcoming, he yelled out once more.
“FUCK YOU EDMUND! YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR INSUBORDINATION! NOW ORDER YOUR MEN TO STAND DOWN!”

The general nodded at a guard, before replying. “As you fail to accept guilt, you will now be taken to trial. As the most senior official in the room, I shall act as Judge, Jury and Executioner. Daniel Ross, I have seen the charges put before you, and I have no hesitation in finding you guilty of the murder of Edgar W. Larkin. You are guilty of conspiring with the enemy. And, you are guilty of treason. In passing sentence, I reflect that each of these acts carry the death sentence. I must express sorrow that I can only kill you the once.”

Daniel Ross looked shocked as he heard the general speak. “No! I demand a proper trial! I demand a jury of my peers, and an appointed judge and the right to defend myself!”
General de’Lance forced a laugh, and hammered his fist on the table. “A trial? Like the one you gave Edgar Larkin, you mean? Do not waste my time. You have been found guilty, and you will serve your sentence tonight.”

“Hold up, general.” A voice called out. “I have to say something.”
The general looked in the direction of the voice, and nodded. “Do so quickly, young man. We have already wasted enough time on this traitor.”
From the corner, a dark shadow slowly walked towards the man. Yulta Ross emerged from the shadows, staring directly at his father
“Father.” He stated.
“Yulta, my son. Help me. Help me.” Daniel Ross helplessly replied.
Yulta moved towards his father, and slowly moved his arm around, offering an embrace. Ross accepted it eagerly, and the two hugged for a few seconds.
“My son… you have raised the alarm, haven’t you, my boy?”

Yulta moved his gaze away from his father, and looked at the general who nodded.
“Father, you have been found guilty of treason. You have conspired with known enemies of the state of Asgareth, with the intention of undermining Asgarthian independence. You have declared war on our friends, and made peace with our enemies. You bring shame to our nation and to our familial name. Consequently, You have been stripped of all your assets and titles. The House of Ross shall start anew in my name. Yours shall be expunged from all the history books. You shall only be known as Daniel the Terrible, Daniel the Tyrannical, Daniel the Traitor. Justice shall be served through your death. Your time is up.”

Daniel Ross released a scream as he attempted to lunge at his son. A guard reacted swiftly, and knocked Ross unconscious with the butt of his rifle. As the elder Ross lay motionless, the younger turned to Edmund de’Lance, who slowly walked towards him.
“You are doing well Yulta. You have disavowed your father. His failures will not be yours. But now, you must commit one final act to prove your loyalty to my regime.”
The general brandished a large knife.
“His is yours to take.” The general recited, as he held out the knife. Yulta glared at it knowingly, before nodding. He clasped it in his right hand and made to move towards his father.
“Wait.” The general cooed softly. “Wait for him. Let him see the consequences of his failure.”

Daniel slowly stirred, as his son stood over him.
“Yulta.” He whispered. “Help me. Help me, son.”
Yulta stood still for a moment, clearly frozen in time. He sighed, before forcing his hand forward. The knife plunged its way into Daniel’s heart. He gasped and began to splutter. “Yul- Yulta… What… What have you…” He breathed his last, and his son broke free. Turning to General de’Lance, he stated.
“It is done.”
De’Lance shook his head. “No. It has only just begun.”

---

Chaos erupted through the cities, towns and villages of Asgareth over the next few days. The ground forces up and down the nation were kept busy by riots and rebellions. The Epiloan Islands declared independence, only to be supressed within hours. Oscar Larkin was gunned down mere metres from the office from where he had betrayed his uncle. Rufus T. Perkins’ decapitated corpse was found amongst the rubble of Harren Island. Across the country, loyalists to the Ross regime were executed through summary trials, while the military consolidated its power.

At 7pm, three days after the coup began, a national broadcast was played out across the nation. Addressing the nation from within Asgar House, General Edmund de’Lance spoke:
“My Asgarthian friends. Some of you will know who I am, but many will not know my name. I am General Edmund de’Lance, Supreme Commander of the Asgarthian ground force. I address you today from Asgar House to reveal a terrible truth. The man you knew as the Imperiali, Daniel Ross, has betrayed Asgareth. He, and his cronies, did all within their power to diminish our world standing, as part of a wider effort to create a Rusinan Empire, run by the Myraxians and Valarisk. No true Asgarthian could sit by and allow this to happen.

They looked to vassalize Asgareth. To divide us from our allies and from one another. They sought to enslave us. But today, we are free. We are free because of those brave few who took a stand. This country owes a great deal to those brave men. I am able to confirm, that the traitor, Daniel Ross, has been killed by these brave Asgarthian men. His allies, and fellow traitors, Oscar Larkin and Rufus T. Perkins have also been slayed where they stood. In due course, announcements about the future of the government will be made. But for the meantime, any and all foreign leaders are expected to approach my office with regards to all international arrangements.

The Myraxian garrisons are hereby warned. You have 12 hours to leave Asgareth. Any attempt at resistance will be met with force. Your time is up. Your puppet is dead. Leave now, and no further blood will be spilt. Refuse, and you shall meet the full fury of the Asgarthian forces and her allies. Do not attempt to send for aid. Do not attempt to deceive us. It is over. We have won.

This country is freer today than it has been for a long time. The children born today shall only hear of the horrors of Imperial rule. They shall go to bed with food in their stomachs. They will become well-trained killing machines in our forces. They shall enjoy riches their grandparents could only dream of. Under my protection, Asgareth shall flourish.”

---

Aykia, Isle of Gespe, Archoni Isles

The Isles of Archon had remained relatively untouched by the recent coup. Whilst news had filtered through from the mainland, their more pressing focus was, quite rightly on Harren Island. The islands war council was again in session, and whilst discussion did turn to events on the mainland, the war was at the forefront of everyone's minds.

Supreme-General Yaznon Paltri, Fleet-Admiral Tygno Pylin, of the 12th Naval Fleet, Aerial Admiral Packno Laskey, of the 15th Air Navy and Force-General Pasquin of the 24th Ground Force
Force-General Pasquin spoke. "The Battle of Tsuru has been won by our glorious forces. The shrooms have been destroyed, and as far as our scans can tell, have been wiped off the face of this planet as part of our coalition."
Supreme-General Yaznon Paltri nodded, and smirked. "Good. With the shrooms gone, we can revert back to conventional warfare. I have received a commitment, from our new glorious leader, General Edmund de'Lance, to continue this war against our enemies. Reinforcements will be sent from the Epiloan Islands and from the Archonan mainland. The north will be secured against all further aggression. Soon, the island will be ours."
The council hammered their hands in approval, before Admiral Pylin spoke.
"Our forces back home have reported a Myraxian fleet moving towards the island. It would be in our interest if it never reached its destination. I can have the submarine detachment patrolling the area within the hour, but I suspect a larger detachment may be able to ward off the threat before it materialises..
"Send word to the Romans." Paltri began. "Get their submarine fleet to rendezvous with ours. Either the Myraxian fleet yields, or it will be destroyed."

A great deal of this post deals with a coup within Asgareth. This plays a rather major role in all international relations, and provides substantial groundwork for an upcoming RP. It also plays quite nicely with a rather substantial change in Asgareth's foreign relations, and will have a direct affect on this RP, hence why I have included it.

[Greater Slavacia]

General Staff of the Slavacian Armed Forces, Novosergeevsk
"Comrades, we have a situation." the defense minister paused and looked around the table, at the various representatives and commanders, "as you all know, there has been a successful military putsch in Asargeth. As we currently have no information on the status of the president or his whereabouts, the Federal Council has voted to enact a state of temporary emergency. "
The room was quiet, everyone's head was turned towards the minister of defense. Then, the minister of state security who had previously been silent spoke up:

Admiral Nestrov class Heavy Nuclear-Powered Guided
Missile Cruiser

"This however, does not mean martial law. No curfew will be imposed and citizens are to be left to conduct their everyday activities in peace." he paused and looked intently at the commander of the internal troops before continuing: "Internal Troops and the Militsiya are instructed to take guard over all important buildings in large cities, while in smaller ones this will apply only to the Militsiya, also, there is information that the northern separatists will use this opportunity to stage demonstrations and provocations, thus, all forces in the north will be placed under special instructions. This is all from me, now, I believe our Defense Minister has something to add."
"Thank you Anton Pavlovich. Yes, this concerns the expeditionary fleet currently held in the south. Due to our success in capturing Momoe, the reinforcements are needed as soon as possible. With the situation with Skjoldur still tense, we have decided to recall our Fleet from the south, reinforce it, and send it to Harren via the northern route. It should take approximately 2-3 weeks as the Navy Chief has informed me. The Navy has decided to reinforce the fleet with an additional anti-submarine warfare squadron as well as the Admiral Nestrov heavy nuclear cruiser.
Comrades, our nation is once again on the brink of strife due to the actions of foreign powers. Let us win this struggle once again!"
He looked around the room, pausing his eyes on every ondividual present.
"You may go comrades, we have much to do and very little time."

Momoe, previous day
...the Slavacian paratroopers managed to catch the Roman garrisons off guard. Barracks were destroyed by guided munitions before the soldiers inside even had a chance to wake up and rush outside. The first Slavacian airstrikes aimed at destroying command infrastructure, heavy vehicles and weapons as well as barracks, equipment and ammunition depots. The next phase began with the entry of the paratroopers into the city itself, with the main goal being the capture of the palace as well as the city's administration. By 1000 hours local time, Slavacians had made serious progress without encountering much resistance. However, Roman activity began to increase with combat begining in the streets at around 1100 hours. Overall this action saw the first successful Slavacian offensive operation since the end of the Slavacian civil war. - «Harren, the Beginning of the End»; Gen. Maj. Petr Igorev, Novosergeevsk, Voenizdat, 2025

Early morning strikes against Roman targets in Momoe

1123 hours
"This is Major Igorev, Com-batt 1, calling Sopka, we are bogged down and under fire, light casualties, unable to proceed quickly, requesting fire support."
"Com-batt 1 this is Sopka, copy, we are connecting you to the aircraft now, the call sign of their commander is 501 on the air support frequency (152.1)"
"Copy Sopka, 501 air-support, 152.1"
The battalion commander glanced at his tactical tablet, the enemy forces held the two buildings on the opposite side of the intersection, with several tanks dug in the middle of the road. This was probably the most heavily defended part of Momoe, at least the most heavily defended part after the airstrikes. the major thought. He examined the situation thoroughly before motioning to his radio operator: "Sergeant, get me the air support frequency "
"Understood comrade major" the sergeant pressed several buttons and handed the earpiece to the major "All done comrade Major"
"501st? This is Major Igorev, com-batt 1 requesting air-support against positions marked on the combat information system as Target 142, please acknowledge"
"This is 501st, we copy, but we are unable to comply. Major, we already lost a plane in that area, very powerful AA, if you could destroy it we will be able to carry out the strike, Over"
The major swore. He turned toward the radio operator: "Get me command now, we need that air support god dammit!"
Seconds later the sergeant nodded
"This is Major Igorev, Com-batt 1, calling Sopka, friendly aircraft cannot provide assistance due to anti-aircraft weapons fire, request assistance and orders."
"Com-batt, this is Sopka, we have a recon company enroute right now, however they are experiencing resistance, if you could provide a distraction they will have a chance to knock out the AA and give you the air support you need. They are in position to attack, give us the signal for your distraction so we can relay it to them."
The battalion commander turned away from the battalion radio and activated his personal one "Armour, this is com-batt, I need you to give me everything you have against the enemy positions. Infantry, prepare to simulate an attack, first and second companies, provide distraction fire, 3rd company, you will be the reserve." Major Igorev looked at his watch 11:27:43, "commence attack at 11:30."
At 11:30 the vehicles came into action, their ATGM's swinging around the street corner into the enemy positions, while using their 30mm auto cannons for indirect fire onto the enemy positions. The infantry began firing as well. Then, the Major heard a series of large explosions, coming from within the enemy territory - the recon company had destroyed the anti-aircraft weapons which meant that they were finally able to recieve air-support.
By 18:00 the major resistance centers in the city were destroyed. Fire fights still erupted from time to time, but the city was almost
quiet. Fires raged in the areas most impacted by the fighting, while explosions could still be heard in the distance - the remains of the ammunition depots bombed by the Slavacians. Although this day was coming to an end, many challenges laid ahead. The Slavacians had to establish an order in the city, begin handing out food and medical supplies as well as setting up the defenses for the imminent Roman counteroffensive.

[Skjoldur]

New Yanni, Harran Island
Commander Jannson was sitting in his chair staring at the empty bottle’s of romani wine, he had been drinking it since 2pm, it was now 10pm, Jannson was bored, there was no plans to concoct, no executions to enjoy, Jannson was even bored of his prostitutes, the problem with harrenites is that they all looked the same, even the young ones. The commander sighed and slowly stood up, grabbing onto the bed he had been lying in to steady himself. In his drunken state Jannson began to wonder if he could get any more wine, suddenly the phone rang. Jannson looked up surprised, no one had called in months, ever since the romans had their hissy fit.
Jannson stumbled towards the phone and grabbed it, “hello” jannson mumbled.
“Commander Jannson”, came a official sounding voice down the phone
“Yea that’s me” Jannson said, trying to cover his drunkenness
“Commander” the voice said “patching you through to high command
Jannson swallowed, high command, what could they want?
“Commander Jannson, this is captain Halme, I’m in charge of operations in Harren, listen I’m patching you in with the Roman commander in charge of Harren, have a listen to what he has to say”
Jannson sat down as a roman voice crackled through the speakers, at the end of the conversation Jannson stood they’re in complete silence until one of his captains appeared at the entrance to his tent.
“are you ok sir” he asked

Jannson turned to him, a look of shock on his face
“yea, I’m good he said” stuttering as he said it, “I need you to raise the troops, split them up, send a quarter to Momoe and the rest need to meet the Roman troops landing, prepare to welcome the new king of Harren.

The captain stared at him for a second, “um sir, I thought we were trying to stop the Romans?”
Jannson snorted grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down a number before handing it to the captain. The captain glanced at the piece of paper and shrugged,

“I mean its not a bad figure, what that can afford around 5000 men?”

Jannson smiled that’s how much their paying the privates, each”

“Wait….” The captian said “there paying each private this amount? How much are they the captains?”

Jannson wrote another figure down and handed it over, the captain looked at it and doubled back in shock, he then turned around and ran out of the tent yelling orders, Jannson smiled, grabbing the last bottle of Romani wine he raised the glass and yelled "all hail the new king of Harren"

[Harren Island]

Harrenite Internal Security Service - I.R.S. Valentinian

Trakios Vel, an ashen and bald man wearing a thick, blue, woollen greatcoat in the summer sun, carefully dismounted his launch onto the Roman vessel, having been winched up level to the top of the hull by crane and swung in as water dripped off and splashed onto the deck. He nodded to the Roman sailors as he dismounted before gesturing sharply at his guards not to follow him and stay on the launch. They did so, standing awkwardly next to the Roman sailors and looking out of place on the small, white painted wooden boat wearing their glistening black and blue segmented carapace armour.


Fig. Trakios' motor launch

Following Agrippa’s aide, walking slowly along the deck and then down into the ship itself, Trakios’ eyes never stopped moving. If things went badly, he’d need to be escaping in a hurry and he’d need to know the potential chokepoints, dead-ends and escape routes. Before long he was escorted into a furnished lobby to await Agrippa’s attention, a patterned rug covered the metal floor and a water dispenser took up the corner next to the aide’s desk. Trakios shrugged out of his greatcoat, revealing a thin set of Kevlar body armour which was then also removed, both of which he then hung on the rack by the door. With practiced care, he unclasped his belt which carried a hard, black leather holster containing his 8mm pistol and placed it on the aide’s desk for safe keeping. Then the waiting game began. Trakios picked up the wooden guest chair and placed it against the bulkhead, sitting stiffly upright, unmoving with his eyes up and back towards the wall. The aide, from his position behind the desk, watched Trakios curiously for the next few minutes as a clock loudly in the small chamber until he was finally summoned.

Standing up, Trakios straightened his shirt with a sharp tug and walked in. Eyes darting around the next room, looking for threats and finding only one, the Roman commander Agrippa sitting behind his ornate table. Trakios saluted in the Roman way and then sat down across from him. Without any introduction, he began at once, “The Hegemony is no longer a functioning fighting force. The only trustworthy loyalists are what remains of our marines and my HISS forces which are spread too thin fighting resistance groups across the country.”. He took a deep breath before continuing, “The fleet is destroying itself. The militias are broken. We’ve lost all marine administration and leadership. The capital is out of our hands. Lines of communication and transport are disrupted from resistance operations... I recommend a withdrawal to consolidate. Shorten our supply lines, concentrate our loyalist forces and shore up internal operations before going on the offensive again. Right now, we’re on the edge. Even with the twelfth legion en-route, we’re in danger of total collapse.” He stopped, watching for a reaction or signs of displeasure.

"and where." Agrippa replied after a long moment, his voice unnervingly calm. "Would you suggest we retreat to?"

"I would suggest we fall back to the line between Erinyes' Waterway and Emi's Everflow.” Trakios watched for any signs of displeasure as he continued, “Hold behind the rivers with the volcano anchoring the centre of our line."

"Such a retreat, over such a distance would be foolhardy." The Praefectus said disdainfully. "Our forces would be hounded across the Island and we would lose what little dignity we retain."

Nodding slowly, Trakios pushed, “It’s drastic, I grant you, however I believe it to be the best course of action. We could withdraw our best elements first and then issue the full-scale retreat later. That way we only lose broken and untrustworthy militia units in the rout.”

Agrippa permitted himsef a small grin. "A good plan. If it were not for the legion on route, I might even be inclined to agree with you. But this is the best time to strike."

A holographic map of the island appeared above the desk, zooming out to show fleet locations, strength estimates and transmission intel. "The Valrisk fleet has foolishly positioned itself just off the coast of Caesarea and within striking distance of my own VII Classis and the Cambrian 2nd and 8th fleets. From the coast we will bombard it to death. Air and missile strikes from the mainland, some of their ships are even in range of the heavier coastal defences. Then it's just a matter of cleaning up the remnants." The holographic map expanded as it zoomed in towards the south of Harren Island. "Then the cohorts of the twelfth will be able to land unimpeded on the southern coast. With their fleet gone and their units drawn deeper and deeper into the Heartlands the Valrisk cities will fall and their troops will be entirely cut off. They will surrender or die." Agrippa’s grin widened, exposing canines. "This will leave the republic totally alone, once the Myraxian fleet is driven away or crushed they will fall, either to surrender, starvation or death, I don't mind which. Then the island will be ours and Octavius Drusus will reign securely over a peaceful island..." He exhaled. "And I will be able to return to the Imperium, at long last."

Careful not to disagree with Agrippa outright, Trakios took a moment to reformulate his response, “A good plan. If it not for the state of our forces here. Your Hammer and Anvil strategy is lacking the Anvil. Even with their forces overextended like ours, they’ll put up greater resistance than we can.” He paused, thinking about how to adapt Agrippa’s strategy to make it more viable, “If your plan is to work, some more support to our units in the Heartlands and to the east needs to be provided. Some serious support.”

Agrippa paused, not responding and not giving any obvious indication as to his thoughts. Then, as if a switched had been flipped, he offered a drink. Trakios’ eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I have to decline, my health you see.” Agippa’s eyebrow rose ever so slightly.

"Tell me Premier Trakios...do you keep abreast of international news?"

“As best I can with our infrastructure at the moment. Our intelligence net isn’t what it once was.” Trakios wasn’t sure what Agrippa was referring to and so he chose the safest response in case it was something he hadn’t been informed about.

Agrippa’s wicked grin returned. "All this would have required is a long-range radio..." With a button press, the public speech from Asgareth played.

“Ah.”, Trakios saw the point, “So this mean he’s more.... agreeable than the late Imperiali?”

Agrippa’s face turned sour, “Daniel Ross was a bloated egomaniac who should've never been able to sit the throne...I hear we've been conspiring to remove him for years. Not that you heard that from me....”

“My concerns about support have been addressed.” Trakios rose from his seat and extended his hand, “Thank you for your time.”

“That's not all Premier." It was Trakios’ turn for a raised eyebrow, letting his hand return to a neutral position as he quickly scanned the room in case of a new threat. Agrippa continued, either unaware or ignoring Trakios’ discomfiture, “As you may or may not be aware, your new Basileus has rather deep pockets. Deep enough to ensure the Skjoldurian mercenaries on Harren will return to the fold presently. So, you see, we have more than enough numbers to not only hold the line, but win the war...”

“I’ll be glad to have our new capital back”, Trakios paused for a moment before continuing, “but one wonders about the wisdom of counting upon the numbers of two unstable nations with foreign policies that seem to change with the wind.”

“Believe me, I trust them no more than I trust you, Premier,” A frown crossed his face, “but Octavius Drusus requires them to win his throne, therefore, we shall use them.”

“As you shall use me, the point does not go unnoticed.”

“I'm glad we understand each other. Hopefully our relationship will prove more fruitful than those of your predecessors.”

Two of his predecessors were dead, one was imprisoned in exile and the last was fighting for his life among the fleet. Trakios was well aware that his position was precarious, there would be no point highlighting that unless as a more direct threat. The first warning flag, he made a mental note. Maybe it would be best to divest himself of this position, “For the purposes of a smoother transition and a clarity of positions, I believe we should name the Basileus Drusus as our new Premier as well. Ensure that he’s perceived as more than just a figurehead.” With his mind whirling, he thought of more to add, “This also removes any legitimacy Gautima may still have in his exile, considering that all of his successors have been only acting in his stead.”.

Agrippa took a long pull from his drink, “Believe me, Premier, after a few days of Imperial presence, there will be no doubt about who is in charge...make whatever arrangements you see fit. Though for the sake of your...health, I recommend you clear them with his Imperial Highness first...”

Warning flag number two. With Drusus being named the Monarch of Harren and the de facto ruler of the Hegemony, why would you keep an Acting Premier? The first and most worrying thing that came to his mind was, scapegoat. This was reinforced by the line, ‘no doubt about who is in charge’, repeating again and again in his head. Was Agrippa getting sloppy and ominously foreshadowing wheels already set in motion to betray him? Maybe, maybe he just enjoyed tormenting his subordinates. It was still cause for concern.

Just as Trakios was about to turn and leave, Agrippa poured another drink, this one from his personal decanter, putting it forcefully on the table in front of Trakios. “A toast. To his Imperial Highness Basileus Gaius Octavius Drusus Sebastos. Long may he reign.”

Smiling darkly at Agrippa, Trakios knew he couldn’t refuse nor hesitate and so he grabbed the glass, lifted it, echoed the toast and emphasised downing it before placing the glass on the table and turning on the spot. Walking swiftly out into the lobby, he dashed over to his greatcoat, keeping his back to the aide and keeping his head angled down towards his armpit, he used the motion of swinging his coat around onto his back and shrugging it onto his shoulders to surreptitiously spit out the liquid into a coat pocket. Without further delay he grabbed his belt from the aide and body armour from the rack, not pausing to put them on, and made his way back to the launch as fast as he could.

Once the launch was back in the water and they’d made it some distance away, he forced himself to puke over the side to try and purge himself of any potential poison. The moment he was back, he would get his medic to look him over as the remnants of the liquid in his pocket were tested. After that he would have to plan how to avoid such a scenario in the future.

Harrenite Internal Security Service - Momoe

Ebisu watched a crowd of civilians in disgust, they were welcoming and celebrating these foreign invaders and the charity they were providing, could they not see how pathetic they were? The Paratroopers had set up an aid station and were handing out packets of food and medicine to those who needed it. These were not true Harrenians. He would have spit if it wouldn’t have marked him out as a target. He’d had to use them to get into the city, having left his armour behind in order to sneak in among the throngs of traitors seeking to leave the Hegemony. His robes were loose fitting and underneath them he wore a bandolier of grenades, cold and hard against his flesh, and two blocks of plastic explosives taped to his torso, the adhesive pulling at his hairs as he moved.

He continued to watch, noting how few Paratroopers there were here, most were trying to stabilise a front line or guarding their temporary headquarters. Whenever their aid station got low on supplies, two would depart and come back five minutes later hauling more crates. Ebisu followed, keeping to the shadows of doorways or taking cover behind gaggles of civilians and wrecked vehicles. It didn’t take him long to find their temporary depot, a local corner bank with shattered open arched windows, solid wooden tills splintered from bullets and a small vault room at the rear guarded by a few more paratroopers.


Fig. The bank in Momoe

Ebisu itched to move, the longer he waited, the more supplies would leave and be handed out. Taking shelter in a ruined shopfront opposite the bank, he made a rudimentary plan of attack as he unslung the bandolier and tore off the explosives, hissing as his hairs were plucked. He placed the string of grenades next to him as he knelt down behind a tin aisle shelf and carefully primed the blocks of plastic explosive, inserting and setting the detonators, rudimentary chemical ones that were activated by crushing the tips. He had five minutes before they’d blow. He placed both blocks in his shirt which he then tied into a primitive imitation of a satchel charge before reaffixing the bandolier across his chest and preparing to move.

“One,”, he took in a series of rapid breaths, “two”, he hopped rapidly on the spot and stretched his head left and right to touch his shoulders, “three!”. Darting out of the shop, he sprinted across the street as fast as he could, ripping grenades from his chest and hurling them through the bank’s rounded windows, aiming to land them behind the desks among the paratroopers. He heard shouts of alarm and a burst of panicked fire before he was knocked off his feet by multiple sharp detonations that sent glass and splinters of wood flying. Ebisu climbed to his feet, ears ringing. Stumbling into the bank and the haze of billowing smoke, he coughed to clear his lungs, almost tripping over one of the bloody Slavacians on the floor as he reached the vault at the rear. He tossed his shirt in among the stacks of crates before filling his empty hands with an assault rifle, relieved from one of the corpses on the floor. With his mind and vision clearing, he started to jog out, knowing he had a minute or two before the charges went off.

Shirtless apart from his bandolier, covered in grime and wielding an assault rifle liberated from and covered in the blood of his enemy, he thought he must make quite the heroic figure emerging from the ruins of the bank. He almost wished he would be caught on camera and imagined it being used for Hegemonic propaganda, shaking the hand of Trakios Vel and being awarded a medal for his efforts.

As he made it to the opposite side of the street, he observed two paratroopers rapidly advancing around a corner ahead of him, coming to investigate the explosion, he halted, raised the rifle and pulled the trigger just as they spotted him. The weapon failed to fire. He dropped to a knee and pulled the slide back to clear the jam as he had been trained, realising with a curse that he should have done this when he’d retrieved the weapon. With a sharp crack, he felt like he’d been kicked in the leg and he fell forwards as it crumpled under him, the rifle skittering away on the stones. He tried to stand but his leg gave out from under him and he fell forward again. Knowing that the paratroopers would be advancing upon him, Ebisu tried to rush forwards, crawling as fast as he could towards the weapon but he was too slow. They were upon him.

The first kicked the rifle away, the second kicked Ebisu full in the face. He felt something crunch as the steel-tipped boot made contact and his head snapped sideways. He rolled over onto his back, dazed, staring up at the smoky sky before one of them grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head upwards, yelling something into face that he couldn’t understand or couldn’t comprehend. All of them were suddenly thrown sideways as the bank detonated, the whole building front disappearing in black smoke and tumbling timber and stones, spilling bricks out into the street. Ebisu, lying on his back with blood streaming down his face, began to laugh. He’d succeeded, it didn’t matter now that they’d caught him.

“Too late.”, he sputtered out as they yanked him to his feet, secured his arms with cord and frogmarched him to one of their temporary barracks. He lost track of time after that as he was severely beaten by the comrades of the men he’d killed, his memory of that period condensed to a blur of fists and boots even though he noticed afterwards that there must have been knives and cigarettes too.

When lucidity returned, an indeterminate time later, he found himself tied to a rigid metal cot in a concrete room with a boxy camera looking down at him from up on the ceiling. He tested his bindings but they were leather with buckles and nothing budged no matter how hard he wriggled. An hour or so later, he couldn’t tell without a window or a clock, the door slammed open, held wide by a soldier who didn’t even look down at him as a grey-haired man stepped through whilst nonchalantly carrying a wooden chair. Ebisu couldn’t identify the rank insignia but he carried himself with an air of authority. “You are finally awake,”, his gravelly voice remarked in a matter-of-fact manner as the door slammed shut again with a resounding clang, “The medics patched up your leg but they thought your little accident with our Comrade Paratroopers might have put you into a coma. I represent the Ministry of State Security. Do you know what that means?”

Ebisu tried to swallow away some phlegm, not able to rise or sit up but awkwardly turned as far as his bindings would allow to let him see his visitor. “The MGB,”, he croaked, “yes, we know of it.”.

“Then you know the little accident you just suffered is the least of your concerns.”. The man drew out a sheaf of photos from his pocket, dozens of them, holding them up in turn for Ebisu to see. They were mugshots of corpses. Each one a fellow HISS operative he’d known and trained with. “Your operation has failed. Those who aren’t dead have been captured like you. None succeeded in assassinating any of our leaders and the damage caused was minimal”. He threw the stack of photos onto Ebisu’s chest.

The door clanked open again, the soldier saluting as he entered, “Apologies for the disturbance, Comrade Colonel but the Prisoner now in cell five is willing to talk, he had another accident whilst being moved there.”

“Thank you, Comrade, I will be there shortly, you are dismissed.” The Grey-haired man smiled for the first time before standing and brushing down his uniform, looking at Ebisu contemptuously, “If you wish to answer our questions, say so now. Otherwise you won’t see me for a while and I’m afraid you might be visiting the medics a few times first.”

“Wait.”. It might be best to be the first to give them information, he thought, especially considering the others were beyond compromise now. On a selfish note, he knew he didn’t want to be given over to the Paratroopers again, he already thought he’d need extensive dental work and wanted to live. Another stretch of beatings like that could leave him simple for life or even kill him. He forced the words out, sickened that he was cooperating but wondering if he could simply give them false information, “What do you want to know?”.

The man walked over, boots clipping on the floor, until he stood beside the bed, staring down at him. “You will have one, singular, chance to answer these questions honestly. If we find out the information you’ve given us is incorrect, we will be done with you.” The clear sense of finality in that statement got through to Ebisu, “Do you understand?”.

Ebisu lowered his eyes, with a little exhalation that slumped his shoulders he nodded, deciding to cooperate. “Yes.”

“Then first,” the man knelt down beside him, “three questions to test your compliance against information we’ve already confirmed. Number one, a very, very simple one. Which organisation do you serve?”

It was obvious that they knew this one so he was quick to respond, “HISS of course.”.

“Correct, as you say, of course. Very good, I am glad you have decided to cooperate. People usually start getting more reticent here, I hope for your sake you don’t. Number two, your numbers and mission in Momoe?”.

“Fifty. Half sent to assassinate any and all commanding officers, the other half to destroy supply dumps.” Ebisu watched to see the man’s reaction and caught a relaxation of his shoulders, a faint smile and an easing of his harsh demeanour.

The response came instantly, “Very good, Ebisu, that is correct,”, the man locked eyes with him and he felt a shiver go down his spine, there was no concern there, no anxiety, no sense of urgency, this was merely an exercise to him like completing a sudoku puzzle or the formality of doing some paperwork, “now we shall see if you continue to be useful with a test on more sensitive information. Number three, the location of your commanding officer outside of the city.”

Swallowing, Ebisu responded, “A gully fifteen clicks to the northeast of the city, just south of the railroad track from Emi.” The man stood up, turned away and walked to the door, rapping on it sharply. The door opened and he departed without saying a word or looking back. Panic filled Ebisu, “THAT WAS TRUE!”, he wondered if the others had said different things and if he’d be receiving more visits from the paratroopers. Then it clicked. If they’d already confirmed the information, then they’d know it was true even if the others had tried to misdirect them. Therefore, they hadn’t known the location until he’d just said it. He cursed himself, knowing he’d just been played.

---

Stahlist Stratocratic Republic of Harren – Outskirts of Filia

The thwopping revolutions of the helicopter’s rotors slowed as it banked over the newly constructed airstrip, rocking slightly as it was hit by cool winds racing in off the bay. Descending towards the runway, the helicopter pulled up heavily into a low hover, confirming its position and the clearance of the landing zone as its downdraft blew dirt and dried leaves clear of the strip itself. With that done, it began to slowly drop the last couple dozen metres, rubber tyres gently making contact and visibly compressing under the weight of the airframe as the suspension took the weight. With the landing complete, the high pitch of its whining engine lowered into a grumbling rumble as it was shut down, rotors spinning and flexing slowly to a halt. The door dropped open, falling out vertically like a drawbridge to become steps for the passengers.

Lonan Miura carefully stepped down the thin metal platforms from the Valarisk transport helicopter, holding the skinny handrail as he lowered his foot onto the shiny black tarmac, swiftly followed by almost a dozen of his colleagues, all of whom had been chosen specifically by Valyrien for leadership and role training prior to assuming key positions in the Harren SSR. When he’d been selected to manage and build the air force he had felt entirely unqualified, considering that his first and only experience with aerial operations prior to his selection had been organising the kamikaze strike against the Roman Navy for the Confederacy of Port Cities. Time spent up in Valyrien had been cold and the days long and exhausting but he felt like he was ready, instilled with a new sense of purpose with his mission and pride in the new SSR, already more competent than the Port Cities had ever been.

Most of the others departed with haste, boarding cars that had been idling on the tarmac waiting for them, their oversight already necessary considering the ground campaign that was underway, pushing the Confederate forces back in the North. Whilst Lonan didn’t have any forces to manage at the moment, he still had lots to do, mostly preparatory work to begin the construction and development of the SSR Air Force. He needed to conduct land surveys to identify and then start the mining of titanium, aluminium and any other necessary elements, then establish refineries to prepare the raw materials and factories to produce aircraft parts and eventually the aircraft themselves. For now, production would focus on tried and true Valarisk designs until technical colleges and aeronautical engineering schools could be set up to start Harrenian homegrown aircraft development programs. In addition, he’d need to begin training pilots and support staff by creating flight schools and airstrips across the country, they wouldn’t be able to train in the sky yet but they could at least get started on the theory.


Fig. The airstrip outside Filia

---

Harrenian Hegemony – Villa Aggripae

Gautima had been plotting escape for a while now, since recovering from his operation and memorising camera angles, guard positions, patrol timings and routes. He planned to make his attempt under cover of night, leaving during the dark of a new moon around 2am to give him time to make good his escape. He knew that at that time he’d only have to go through two guards but that was the major problem, even if he didn’t have a limp, he doubted his ability to take on a single guard let alone two together.

That had necessitated an extra step to his plan, incapacitation of the guards. He’d managed to gain entry to Agrippa’s medical chamber by feigning pain in his leg, using the opportunity to snatch a bottle of medication from a table by the door. He couldn’t read or understand the latin on the bottle but upon inspection of the contents, he found large, pale green tablets with dose numbers inscribed upon them and hoped they were at least potent enough to do the job.

With the bottle in hand on the night of his planned attempt, Gautima made his way to the kitchens, taking great care to avoid cameras and guards en-route, avoiding detection under cover of the usual clamour around dinnertime. He’d never been inside before considering he’d been forbidden access and they were generally reserved for the slaves and servants who worked there. Slipping through the doors unnoticed and observing the dozens of workers within, Gautima knew he couldn’t remain undetected anymore and so, trusting in their subservience, disinterest and fatigue, hobbled in as if he owned the place, cheerfully greeting those who caught his eye and tasting some of their works. Tonight’s main meal was a slow-cooked rabbit stew with potatoes, carrots and red wine and it was relatively easy for him to pour the entire bottle’s contents into the mix. Thanking the slaves for their efforts and fine food, Gautima gathered a collection of cakes, bread and cheese on his way out, supplies for the night’s journey. He’d extensively wrapped them in foil as well, not to preserve them but to give him a significant quantity of the material he’d need to block the transmitter the Romans had inserted into his spine, a method the Romans used to monitor and control the movement of slaves, and apparently their prisoners too.

As soon as he returned to his chambers, he unwrapped his supplies and started layering the foil into a circular shape, creating a thick plate which he’d later hold in place with a strip of fabric he’d torn from his bed sheets. When his dinner arrived, he ate everything apart from the stew, after which he retired to bed to get as much sleep as possible prior to the night’s activities.

When Gautima awoke and finalised his preparations, he was concerned to note that the villa wasn’t as quiet as it usually was at this hour. He could hear someone playing music and there were what sounded like drunken revellers in the gardens outside. There was no point debating whether to go, he had to go, he’d already used up the entire bottle of medication and gathered fresh supplies. He couldn’t guarantee it would be as easy collecting what he needed next time and this was probably the best opportunity he’d get. Affixing the foil plate to the small of his back, he grabbed the small bundle of supplies and slipped out of his door, moving from marble column to marble column, checking corners before going around and hiding behind large potted plants to avoid the clockwork patrols.

With his nose embedded in the fragrant leaves of a Hibiscus bush, he waited, knowing that a patrol would pass any second now. The patrol didn’t come. Midges landed on his cheeks and he itched to swipe them off but he held himself still and strained his ears. He couldn’t hear their boots. The poisoning must have worked. Gautima grinned and left the shelter of the bush, heading for the gate into the gardens and where he knew he should encounter two guards. Hopefully they’d been unable to make it to their post and he’d slip straight through and away.

No such luck. Peeking around the tiled corner, he saw the tall, bronze gate with arched top and large handles. In the otherwise sheer stone wall it looked like a portal to another destination, standing open with trees visible through it and stretching up out of sight next to flowerbeds undulating in the night breeze in the glow of short lamps that lined the dirt path deeper into the garden. Two guards were by the gate, one had removed his helmet and was frenetically scratching his temple, the other pacing backwards and forwards as they both loudly discussed comparisons of different wines and the merits of factors such as taste, health effects and price. Cursing the fact they were still relatively mobile and knowing he couldn’t possibly slip past them, Gautima still decided to press ahead. He knew they weren’t feeling right by the way they moved and spoke and hopefully he’d be able to put them down with sharp blows to the head with his walking stick. He compared options, the first one had shouldered his weapon in order to facilitate his scratching and so wasn’t as much of an immediate threat, the second held his weapon as he paced, clicking the magazine out and checking the load before putting it back in, he repeated the motion multiple times a minute. The second one was obviously the greater threat but the first was vulnerable without his helmet. Gautima decided to go for the more dangerous one first.

Keeping to cover as long as he could, Gautima approached quickly without running or appearing to be in a hurry, in case he was spotted before he was in position. Coming up behind the second guard as he turned to pace back towards the gate and as he expostulated about how much sugar there was in Prosecco, Gautima announced himself with a loud cry and swung his stick with all his strength. The guard’s head turned at the shout revealing his face which met the grip of Gautima’s improvised club, an owl-head made from wood, the resulting clack of oak on bone resounded around the courtyard and the guard stumbled back with blood streaming down his face as his helmet clattered onto the floor. To Gautima’s horror, the man’s left eye was hanging out by its optical cord and yet he didn’t go down and didn’t even drop his weapon. Looking into the man’s other eye, Gautima didn’t see recognition of pain or any dazed confusion from the blow, just a frenzied surprise. Gautima swung again but this time his blow was intercepted and the stick yanked from his hands in a single motion. Put off balance by the guard’s speed and strength, he moved to try and grab the guard’s weapon but in a blur of motion that ended in his diaphragm receiving a blow from the rifle butt, he found himself falling to the ground, doubled over in pain, winded and heaving for breath.

The first guard arrived at this point, kicking him and whooping as the second fiddled with his gouged eye, holding it up, viewing it with his remaining eye and trying to pop it back in but couldn’t because of the rapid swelling of his face. Growing fixated with his eyeball, the guard sat down on a bench next to Gautima as he was being beaten, testing the limits of the optical cord’s range and trying to pry open his eyelids to force it back in. Before long, as the first continued thumping Gautima around and he begged for mercy, their conversation returned to wines.


Fig. The Villa Gardens

Harrenian Hegemony – H.H. Ascendancy 7km east of Cyma

What had once been a proud, if rather ancient, example of the decisive battle doctrine, had now been reduced to a maimed survivor struggling to keep itself above the waves. Struck by twenty-one heavy calibre shells and countless secondaries, her forecastle was a rent mess, small fires licked from shell-holes torn in her sides and a penetrating hit had caused the rear two turrets to be engulfed in flames from a propellant fire which necessitated the flooding of the rear magazine. A torpedo had blown a ten-metre-long hole open at the waterline, causing her to take on almost five thousand tons of water and lose a significant quantity of fuel which trailed behind her in a long, winding slick. Running on only one engine, listing to starboard and sitting extremely low in the water, she barely held onto life as each wave washed over her bow as she crawled her way towards land.

Negotiating a wreckage strewn stairwell, careful not to cut his hands on the sharp metal and looking out for unstable sections of decking, Acting Premier Calan climbed into what remained of the bridge followed by two sailors armed with submachineguns, their uniform whites dirty and stained. The walls were entirely gone, wind rushed through, billowing Calan’s coat and chilling him even though the air was laced with warm currents from active fires and the acrid tang of melted plastics and rubber. The ceiling hung askew off the port side, held up only by a twisted section of metal that looked like it could give at any second, window supports hung down from it like the skeletal fingers of a dead man’s hand. The bridge stations were smashed, leaving clumps of wiring, glass and deformed metal and of the crew, the only signs were bits of burnt offal and pulped gore.

Crunching to the edge of the sheer drop down to the deck, Calan looked out and down. A stunned silence had descended upon the vessel, disturbed only by the occasional snippet of sirens carried on the wind from other ships. Shell-shocked sailors stumbled across snapped decking to retrieve wounded comrades, some still stood at their stations, reloading the surviving secondaries in case of further attack. Those wearing fire suits moved with plodding stiffness, aching muscles holding tools and extinguishers in exhausted hands. Others simply huddled or stared out at infernos on the sea and the bobbing lifeboats and flocks of men calling for rescue, waving their hands above the surface like reeds of grass. Nearby survivors swam over, able to grasp a hold of the low hull and pull themselves up on deck. With a cry, pointed fingers and the metallic scraping of gears, one of the anti-aircraft mounts rotated, depressing its sextuple array of 26mm autocannon barrels down towards the surface of the waves and seconds later its thunderous cacophony of shells shattered the silence and a marine who had been spotted treading water was reduced to a frothing red cloud of blood and bits of bone and meat, slowly dispersing in the current.


Fig. One of the Ascendancy's AA mounts.

A sailor disturbed Calan’s reverie, coming up beside him and saluting, “Admiral sir, Radio communications have been re-established and we’ve made contact with some of the other surviving ships, reports say we won.”.

“Order all ships that can manoeuvre under their own power to head for New Yanni and beach themselves along the shore 1km north of their harbour. Any Skjoldurian resistance to our arrival is to be met with the full force of our remaining guns. Those ships that cannot manoeuvre must be taken under tow by those in better condition. After those orders have been given, re-broadcast our desire for an Armistice.”

Harrenian Hegemony – Galatea

Hundreds of wounded filled the subway station, lining the platforms in blanketed rows with bloody bandages and congealing pools covering the floor and slowly dripping into the tunnel itself. Makeshift medics or simply those who were trying to help went around tending to the worst injured. The dead had begun to pile up and so they had been lowered onto the tracks to clear the way for more wounded that were constantly being carried in on stretchers. No HISS operatives could be seen, their bodies having been the first to be thrown off the platform edges. The lights flickered but stabilised, they would occasionally go off leaving hand-held torches and lanterns as the only sources of illumination.

Whilst this had been originally established as a Hegemonic aid station, wounded civilians who had been caught in the crossfire or victims of collateral damage had been brought in. Whilst most had fled deeper into the city, some had been trapped by the war that had rapidly moved into their suburbs and were now afraid and homeless. Whilst all medical supplies they’d carried had been confiscated, they were given shelter within the subway, crowding stairs, sleeping on escalators, in coffee shops and public toilets. Every surface had people sitting or lying on them. Bags and refuse sat next to them, littering what little floorspace remained.


Fig. The Subway in Galatea being used as a shelter.

Those manning the entrances had been under constant attack from squads of roving droids that would dance in and out of combat like boxers, their deadly volleys killing or wounding dozens each time they cycled in. Whilst the militiamen had been lucky enough to take out a couple of the drones at the start with grenades and concentrated fire, their efforts had only served to draw more of them like flies to a carcass. They’d managed to recover one of the destroyed droids, its chassis split open by shrapnel but hadn’t been able to learn anything valuable from it. A couple breakout attempts had been made but even those that managed to punch through the Drones’ gauntlet had been gunned down for retreating by the Roman forces to their rear. Ammunition for their submachineguns and rifles had long been spent, especially with the supply lines from the Hegemony cut off, and medical supplies were all but exhausted. The sentries at the entrances now only had pistols left, yet their presence and continued sacrifices seemed sufficient to prevent the drones from pressing their advantage and assaulting the subway directly.

With sudden bellowing howls, blurs of slavering, armoured flesh barrelled out from behind the drones, charging across the open street towards the subway stairs. Some militiamen tried desperately to hold the line, emptying their laughable pistols into the onrushing mass, rewarded only with furious bellows and an increase in the closing speed. The drones moved up in support, firing into those who stood their ground. The rest broke, scattering down the steps as the pack of ravening Hobgoblins surged over the top of the stairs behind them, thundering down after them with mortal intent.

With rising dread, those down on the platforms themselves first heard indistinct screams echoing from the floors above, the shrieking grew in volume and quantity as they drew closer, accompanied now with the faint sickening sounds of snapping and ferocious snarls. A tide of panicked people poured down the stairs, tripping over one another, some going under the press of bodies never to rise again, most spilling out onto the platforms and trampling wounded, leaping off the platforms onto the piles of corpses to clamber down and try their luck along the track tunnels. In seconds, the carnage truly began. The hulking beasts frenzied into the crowds, ripping limbs and clumps of flesh away in sprays of blood with their scything claws as their jaws snapped eagerly, sharp fangs ripping away exposed appendages and faces. Wounded unable to move wailed as they were crushed under the weight of the Hobgoblins’ dense muscle and heavy armour. The lights fizzled, their coverings splattered in blood and giving off a dull red glow that saturated the slaughter on the platforms.

A militiaman, with a blood-stained bandage around his head and his left eye taped up, inserted himself between a Hobgoblin and a family of four who it had been chasing with its nose twitching in anticipation, teeth clacking and drool dripping down over its chin to splash on the floor. His only weapon, a well-worn bayonet with a leather grip, stabbing it into the creature’s muscled shoulder up to the hilt as it leapt in and pulled him apart in the fury of one being denied its rightful prize. With the obstacle gone, it fell upon the family, teeth embedded themselves in the father’s abdomen and disembowelling him with a savage shake of the head before throwing him into the nearby wall. Next went the mother, mauled brutally and left to twitch out her last moments as her children screamed and begged before they too were butchered.

A young boy tried to shake his unconscious mother awake, tears streamed down his face whilst he pleaded for her to get up and flee ahead of the voracious monstrosities that were bearing down on them. Exsanguinated and on painkillers for her wounds, she wouldn’t rouse. In desperation, he reached over her and opened her bag, pulling out an ancient-looking, black revolver. He pulled the hammer back awkwardly with his thumb, the barrel wandering in his trembling grip. He pulled the trigger and nearly lost his hold on the revolver as it kicked in his hands, he’d missed, blowing a hole in the wall and causing smashed tiles to rain down in a hail. Three of the nearest Hobgoblins froze for milliseconds as their heads snapping towards the source of the blast, identifying him on the floor they launched into motion, barging through and over people in their headlong rush. He thumbed the hammer back again and pulled the trigger, this time the shot went home, entering an eye socket and exploding out the back of the monster’s skull in a burst of bone and viscera, causing its carcass to crash down and slide to a halt on the smooth floor. He didn’t have time to fire again because the others were upon him and his last conscious memory was that of his arm being chewed, knowing that he was being consumed alive.

One woman had managed to survive the initial massacre by hiding underneath one of the metal benches attached to the curved platform wall. She’d dragged bodies over to the bench to block herself in and used her briefcase to cover her face and stifle the sounds of her ragged breathing. She closed her eyes and prayed, all the while hearing those awful crunching and slurping noises as the Hobgoblins feasted. The screams had mostly died away a while ago but occasionally a cry or two would be heard among a cacophony of roars when a survivor was sniffed out. The plodding thud of steps grew nearer, she could hear snuffling and felt some of the bodies to her side shifting. Closing her eyes, she held her breath, hand clasped over her nose and mouth, muscles screaming to move, to flee.

---

Republic of Harren – Heading Northwest from Rie

The amphibious truck clattered heavily over the ridge, its occupants looking haggard, not just from the battle they had fought in hours before but from the awful ride; the truck’s suspension had been shot up, making even a gravel road feel like a washboard, bouncing the riders around and preventing attempts at any semblance of a conversation beyond the simplest. On one of the benches inside, Brigadier Titan sat with his back against the cabin wall and hands tied in front of him, held stiffly in his lap. Almost a dozen of his men were tied up with him, the rest in other trucks and transports that had been mustered at short notice, there was even a yellow school bus with a flaking white roof and green striped paint along the side, it struggled along the rugged paths with them, its brakes constantly squealing.


Fig. The bus being used for prisoner transport

The Brigadier had expected to be interrogated by the Myraxians after the battle but they’d handed over all prisoners to the Republic. Then he’d expected a series of reprisals but then they’d all been loaded into transports and told they were being shipped to a prisoner-of-war camp. Titan’s coccyx had been aching for hours and it was starting to get unbearable, he’d tried shifting his weight on the bench but that only bought him a few seconds of relief before the dull pain returned. He yearned to stand, hoping the journey wouldn’t take much longer. Half an hour later the convoy came to a stop but upon looking out, Titan saw only mountainous countryside and dirt tracks, no buildings in sight. A bellowing voice could be heard once the engines were switched off, “Prisoners, stand up and dismount, time to stretch your legs.”. So, this was it then, he thought, a roadside execution, not the worst way to go.

He stood up, taking what he believed to be one of the last pleasures he’d get as he stretched his back and felt the sweet relief of movement. He walked forwards without hesitation to the edge of the truck’s lip, hands still held in front of his abdomen, hopping down in a smooth motion, boots crunching on the stones. The blazing sunlight warming him in an instant. His men followed. One of the Republican guards came up to the group of them and motioned to the left-hand side of the road, “Piss over there if you want. Go nowhere else.”. Titan nodded and walked over before turning to face his executioners, he’d be damned if he’d be killed and left in a ditch with his cock out.

The Guards weren’t checking weapons, they weren’t lining up, they were barely paying attention to the prisoners as they pulled out cigarettes and shared a bottle of liquor amid conversation. Titan looked left and right down the length of the convoy but similar situations were playing out. He stood there, bemused, waiting to see if anything changed but after five minutes they began to recall the prisoners and mount them back onto the vehicles which glinted in the sun. So, not their executions after all. He strolled back to the truck and lifted his hands up for one of his marines to help him aboard, sure grip taking his weight and hoisting him aloft.

This time he was sat next to the entrance, looking out back at the surrounding countryside. From what he could see, he believed they were next to Taygetus’ Heights, he knew of no towns or facilities in the area and wondered where exactly they were going. The convoy slowed to a walking pace and he started looking at the following vehicle, a van with a giant fish emblazoned on the side beneath the curved words ‘Aunt Berenice’s Bristlemouths’, he noticed with surprise that the guards in the forward cabin were wearing thick, rubber gas masks. In this heat? They must have been sweating like pigs and how the hell could they drive whilst wearing them, surely the lenses would have steamed up? With a juddering crunch, the truck they were in bounced over a speed bump and Titan could see they’d just passed through a gate surrounded by chain-link fences with barbed wire on top and warning signs.

When all the vehicles had come through, the convoy stopped and the prisoners were all ordered out. Dismounting, they looked around, seeing woodlands and a ruined of mess of concrete that had once been a rather large structure nestled within a rocky bluff. Each guard was now wearing a gas mask, one stepped forward and spoke but his words were muffled by the rubber, “This is your camp. The only rule here is don’t try to leave, the perimeter is guarded and you won’t be given warning, you’ll just be shot on sight. If you want fires or shelter, chop down some wood and make some. If you want food, hunt in the forest.”. With that, the guards mounted up on the vehicles which then drove off the dirt road and circled back towards the gate to leave, the last truck stopping just outside to let one of the guards chain and padlock it shut.

---

Harrenian Heartlands – Odele

Baako drove his estate car slowly down the road, keeping to the twenty mile per hour speed limit, its long bonnet nosing around a corner with headlights up, illuminating closed storefronts and empty streets. You could almost be forgiven for not realising there was a war on, Odele was peaceful and quiet apart from the Asgarthian occupation. The others in the car were starting to get restless, pulling back weapon slides and fingering the wooden door handles. “Calm, lads, calm. No one dies tonight, remember?”.

He pulled off the main street and followed a small, cobbled road down to a warehouse near to the jetties. The Asgarthians had begun work on expanding the harbour facilities but it had been slow, they seemed to prefer getting drunk and the uncertainty within their own administration had trickled down to the grunts. Ahead, lit in the bright glare of his headlamps, two guards lazily raised their hands in the universal ‘Halt’ gesture. He eased the car to a stop. Baako, leaving on the engine and headlights, stepped up and out, resting his arm on the door, “Evening gentlemen.”.

At that, the other car doors were thrown open and his men leapt out, covering the guards with two submachineguns each. Baako smiled at them, frozen in indecision and doubt, “Not to worry gents.”, he shut his door with a thud, “If you cooperate, you will not be harmed. You have my word.” Strolling forward, he relieved them of their weapons, removed the clips and put them in his car boot. Then, drawing his own pistol, he used it to gently gesture at them, “Please, come sit in the car, it’s a chilly night and we’ll be here a while.” Baako nodded at his men who then shouldered their arms and dashed to the warehouse door, dragging it open with a scrape and spilling light inside to reveal piled rows of barrels and crates.


Fig. The barrel section within the warehouse

Complying, the guards were soon surprised to see his men rolling barrels down to the pier. Baako saw their disheartened gazes as the barrels were broken open, spilling their golden liquid into the sea, “Yes, I know you Asgarthians love your beers and ales, that’s why this protest should actually get the message through to you lot. We could have just burnt the lot but then you would have simply labelled us terrorists. This way, nothing was vandalised and no one was harmed.” The crates were next, the lids pried off with crowbars and the bottles inside opened and their contents poured into the black water.

It took a couple hours for the warehouse to be entirely emptied, after which the Guards were released as promised and Baako and his men drove away, engine thrumming and taillights disappearing around the corner into the main town.

[Romae in Perpetuum]

I.R.S Valentinian, South of Harren Island

The Valentinian had taken a backseat roll in the naval engagement. Vispanius Agrippa, whilst no coward, preferred to direct battle from the rear reserve units to ensure maximum efficiency their use. Still, he reflected, he was getting far too old to lead from the front.
“Praefectus, we’ve received confirmation from the C.R.S. King Aurelius.” Reported the comms officer, turning to face his commander. “Admiral Anthony confirms the Valrisk fleet has been forced to disengage, and requests further orders.”
“The Valrisk have nowhere to go, we’ve trapped them.” Affirmed the Praefectus. “The Cambrian fleets are to assist in closing the noose, the Skjoldurian fleet is to do the same when they come down from New Yanni.”
The officer nodded, but just before he could turn back, Agrippa continued. “Send a message to the Valyrian admiral as well. Inform him that his ships have fought valiantly and I’m willing to offer them safe passage back to their empire. Tell him we’ve no desire to escalate this further but are prepared to assist the rightful monarch of Harren in ascending to his throne by any means necessary.”

“Do you think they’ll accept, sir?” Asked Trierarch Festus, who was reading over battle reports. But the Preaefectus merely shrugged. “Three of their carriers have been hit and they’ve been forced back. Maybe, maybe not. It makes no real difference either way, provided the way has been cleared for the Legio XII.” He said raising an eyebrow slightly.
“Err yes sir, of course sir.” Festus replied quickly. “Your son reports the Twelfth Thunderbolt is ready and merely awaits Imperial Highness’ command.”
“Then let us not keep the Basileus waiting.” Agrippa said dryly. “Give his Imperial Highness my best and inform him that I have swept his adversaries from his waters. Tell him his people stand ready to welcome his liberation forces from the cruelties of Rusinian occupation. Or something to that effect…”

---

Governor’s Residence, Kaiserea Eschate, Province of Caesarea, Imperium Romae in Perpetuum

Bloody hell having guests was annoying. No, Proconsul Publius Vipsanius Agrippa corrected himself. Having guests was annoying. Having a guest who had the power to have you and your entire family disembowled in the streets was just dangerous. Publius Agrippa hadn’t expected to be granted an Imperial Province after only serving a month as consul, he’d expected a rather cushy year in a prestigious, but mostly powerless job, followed by another year or two in a rich little senatorial province that he could bleed dry (within reason of course).

But no. His father had intervened and now he found himself commanding a heavily armed province, filled with relatively honest officials, surrounded by hostile forces and an burn out husk of an island, filled with terrorists, infidels and the Divine Augustus knows what else…To top it all off its erstwhile ruler had been longing in his house for a week, filling it with all sorts of…unsavoury characters. But now he had a chance to finally shed his Imperial guest!

He frowned slightly as he approached his own audience chamber, seeing it was guarded by two huge Skjoldurians.
“I wish to see the Basileus. Immediately.” He announced with all the gravitas his lineage and position could muster. The pair just stared at him dismissively and refused to move. Publius felt the back of his neck go slick with sweat, and he considered forcing his way through. He was accompanied by several Lictors, a ceremonial order of guards who were nevertheless trained and equipped as modern bodyguards, but he knew they were no match for the brutal Skjoldurian Guard…and if he was accused of attempting to assassinate Caesar’s son! As he tried to think of a way past that would let him keep his dignity and his life a slurred voice called out from the inner chamber.

“Is that Publius Agrippa? Let him in! It’s his bloody house afterall.”
Marching past the guards, and desperately trying to look like the thought of high treason hadn’t just crossed his mind, the Proconsul entered the room. Drusus Sebastos, as he was now to be called, had been stuck in Caesarea for a few weeks now awaiting his forces to be prepared.
The young man had little interest in the minutia of military strategy and his contributions had been more hinderance than help, truth be told, giving orders and instructions too general to be of any use that were often contradictory and totally dependent on what blend of substances he had abused that day. His generals and advisors had been on the brink of despair, one had even committed suicide rather than disobey the order to both eradicate and spare the population of Galatea. At that point some heroic aide has stepped in and invited several of the Basileus’ old school friends from the capital as well as rounding up some…entertainment for the young men.
The group had spent the past few days ‘strategizing’ in the Proconsul’s house, and had barely been seen, much to the relief of the 12th Legion’s officers, but it was obvious what they had been up to. The whole room smelled…raw (to put it mildly) and was littered with empty or broken jugs of wine amphorae, that the attending slaves had clearly been fighting a losing battle to remove or at least hide from view. Every flat surface was covered with a veritable concoction of drugs, each more illegal than the last, and many of the beautifully decorated frescos that lined the walls had been despoiled with crude drawings and more than a few…were those bullet holes!
To top it all off Drusus and his friends had brought in some scantily dressed…companions, at least two for each man and despite his best efforts the venerable Publius Agrippa couldn’t ignore the sounds of copulation in the corners of the room. At the centre of it all, lounging on a plush couch: Gaius Octavius Drusus Sebastos, presiding over his court of chaos, mostly nude, with a prostitute on his knee, doing a line of coke off a bust of his own great-grandmother. Gods help the people of Harren, and may they eternally curse whatever fool told the youngest of Caesar’s sons where their shithole of an island was.

Barely repressing an odd mixture of disgust at the debauchery, and a brief yearning for his youth, the proconsul bowed deeply before the future ruler of Harren and awaited permission to speak.
“Ah, Proconsul.” Began Drusus, trying to sound dignified. “Thank you again for the use of your home, me and my…advisors have been hard at work coming up with stratagems to bring peace to my people.”
“I still say kill them all!” Said a portly youth, who had just vomited into an antique vase. “Can’t resist if they’re dead…”
“Fuck off, Fatso.” Came another…very familiar voice from an adjacent seat. “Then who’ll build all our statues?” The Proconsul turned on his heel, to see his own second son, Quintus Agrippa. Who had just realised who he’d spoken up in front of.
“Father! I had just…dropped in to check on our guest…” Publius sighed, he had brought his son with him as a Questor to learn governance, but should’ve known he’d try to ingratiate himself with a member of the Imperial Family… hell it might even bring some advancement…if he survived. Making a mental note to send his son on a very unpleasant task (maybe an aide to his noble grandfather?), he turned back to Drusus.
“It is a pleasure to host you, Imperial Highness.” He began, fighting the urge to grit his teeth. “I bring news from my father: he reports that the Valrisk fleet has been pushed back and the route lies open for the twelfth thunderbolt to expel the foreign invaders from your lands.”
“Excellent!” The Basileus exclaimed, jumping to his feet and causing his female friend to fall flat on her face. “Inform Legate Ovidus that his men are to launch immediately! Me and my companions will join them as soon as possible!”
Companions? The Proconsul thought glancing quickly at his son. These drunken sots would likely get murdered the moment they decided to go out drinking in an occupied city…normally he wouldn’t care but should anyone find out Quintus was the grandson of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. Let’s just say his family wasn’t particularly popular on the island…

“Perhaps, highness. You and your…advisors, should remain in Caesarea for a little longer.” He winced internally. “So, you might become more familiar with the island and its customs.” Drusus had assembled a team of experts on Achaean and Harrenite practices and history from the University of Amphillai who were currently in an office somewhere trying to make Drusus seemed he knew what he was on about. Not an enviable task.
“You mean cower here, whilst other men win my throne for me?” The young man asked quietly, all amiability gone.
“No no, Lord Basileus.” Publius mentally cursed himself, he had to remember he was still dealing with an Imperial Prince. “Truthfully, you are too valuable to risk losing to a stray bullet or vile rebel. Without you, the Confederate presence on the island is doomed.” Untrue. But Drusus’ legitimacy and his deep pockets had brought Asgareth and Skjoldur back into the fold. Speaking of Asgareth…

“We have also received word from a Rupert Merritt, the Asgarthian ambassador to the Imperium. He has been negotiating with the Prince Nero about lending Asgareth’s support to your claim…”
“Nero!” yelled the Basileus, earlier indignation forgotten. “Negotiating on my behalf! What’s he going to give them, my bollocks?”
Not far off actually, Publius thought. “They’ve agreed that you are to marry Alvora De’Lance, the Marshal’s daughter, Imperial Highness.”
“But…but…” the young man spluttered. “I already have a wife, and children!”
“Ah…not anymore, sire.” The proconsul snapped his fingers at one of his lictors who knelt and presented a rolled-up document to the younger man. “Our lord Caesar has dissolved your marriage with the noble Helena Camilla, your royal sister has granted her some lands in Cambrius and of course she’s been forbidden from marrying again…”
“This also says I’m to disinherit my son!” Drusus yelled, and the proconsul noticed that many of the revellers, who were still conscious when had had arrived, had made discrete exits (including his own son) leaving him to face the prince alone.
“Gemellus the Younger is only to be disqualified from the Harranian line of succession.” Publius responded calmly. “He will still stand to inherit Gwynedd and all its incomes…as well as his fair share of your assets in the Imperium, but your children with Alvora will inherit the island.”
The Basileus sat down hard on the sofa. “Is she at least bearable to look at?”
“She is said to be a sweet young maid of sixteen, though her father has kept her out of the public eye most of her life…” The proconsul began
Drusus groaned loudly and took a long swig of whatever was in the jug next to him. “Another sheltered little posh girl who’s barely knows what the world looks like outside of her house and stables.” He complained. “I’ve already met her a hundred times, and very few of those girls were willing to ‘prove how much they wanted to be my wife!' At least I can be reasonably sure the children will be mine…”
“Plus, sire. She brings over a hundred thousand Asgarthians to the fight, with a promise of more on the way…”
“That’s true enough.” Drusus said gloomily, and Publius was surprised to see how poorly he was taking his surprised divorce. He hadn’t heard the two were particularly close, like many Roman marriages, it had been arranged. But they had been together for four years and had two children…
“Fine tell my brother I consent…he can make whatever arrangements he wishes.”
The proconsul coughed awkwardly.
“He’s already done it hasn’t he?” Drusus asked without looking up. “When will she be here?”
“Tomorrow, Imperial Highness.”
“Then, I had better enjoy my last night of unexpected bachelorhood…” He replied, searching for a non-depleted wine jug. “Anything else, Proconsul?”
“Only that your final approval is required for the Legion to launch.” Another lictor handed the young man a detailed map:

“The Asgarthian 22nd Ground Force will advance south to engage the Valrisk forces and cut them off from the Myraxians in the west.” Publius continued. “At the same time the Skjoldurians will roll up the Valyrien lines from the east and retake the city of Kanae. We will then take advantage of their thin lines to sail across the strait and land our forces in the south. On landing the Second and Fifth Cohort will overwhelm Elias in conjunction with your highness’ ducal forces. The Third and Sixth cohorts, with half of the Ninth will take the port at Yui. Finally, the rest of the Ninth, the Tenth and Fourth will take the city of Meisa, where the Harrenite Monarchs traditionally ruled from.”
“What about the first?” Drusus asked, interests roused. “Are the best men to be left out?”
“The first will be sent to reinforce the Siege of Galatea, highness. The fighting there has grown desperate and the 8th Cohort and Cambrian forces are in urgent need of resupply.”
“Send two thousand of the Skjdolurian Guard as well.” The Basileus commanded. “They’re the finest shock troops in the Imperium, and the remaining three thousand will be more than enough to ensure my safety.”
“As his highness commands.” The Proconsul said, determined to leave before Drusus ordered him to stay and drink. “I shall leave you to your…celebrations.”

---

Villa Agrippae, Island of Kos, Imperium Romae in Perpetuum.

Following his vicious beating at the hands of his drugged-up guards, Premier Gautima had eventually been found unconscious and in a hardly recognisable state. He was not to know that what he had taken from the medical chamber was in fact a powerful horse stimulant used by racing horses Agrippa kept on this estate. It had driven the guards and freedmen into a frenzy and when the Premier was eventually discovered to be missing, they had abused and tortured every Harrenite slave they could find in a desperate attempt to find him before Agrippa realised, he was missing. The next morning, when the drugs had worn off, and the slaves and non-addled staff could emerge, Gautima was recovered by a gardener alongside two guards who had apparently fought bare handed to the death for no apparent reason (Achaean Red compared to Sicilian White).

The majordomo, the head steward of the household, had the former Harrenite head of state returned to his rooms but was unwilling to order more than the most basic treatment on the attempted escapee. Eventually Agrippa was informed, and after ordering the kitchen staff (with their families) be crucified outside Gautima’s window he told the doctors to set up a holographic transmitter and wake the Premier up.

He appeared to be eating a large bunch of grapes and sitting in a chair by the Premier’s bed and on seeing him regain consciousness smirked internally, he deserved some fun after all.
"Well well...I hear someone went on a little adventure." Vipsanius Agrippa said softly. Upon noticing who had come to visit Gautima closed his eyes, pointedly ignoring his captor. Agrippa frowned slightly, Gautima was never normally this rude…luckily, he’d had his physicians install a torture device, normally reserved for truant slaves who were either too valuable to kill or had committed relatively minor transgressions. He pressed a small button on the console next to him and Gautima felt a strong electric shock along his spinal column, causing great pain.
"Do I have your attention now, Premier?"
Gautima grimaced, mouth twisted in a silent snarl. He’d allowed himself to be pushed too far by this man already and there had to be a line. Denying him his gloating might be the first thing Gautima did to get through to him.
"You realise that was the lowest setting, Premier?" the old man said emotionlessly. "I can make it feel like every single nerve in your body is on fire, and I’ve been assured that this little device I had inserted in your spine won't let you fall unconscious...if you'd rather I switched it on and left..."
“You obviously don’t want me to run the Hegemony, it has been left to wither and die.” The premier snarled through clenched teeth. “I’ve long since lost value as a scapegoat for your myriad failures. Why am I here? As a plaything you can sadistically torment?”
"Die!" Agrippa said with feigned surprise. "The Hegemony is flourishing, my dear Gautima, and its people are grateful of their faithful Roman ally!" His voice darkened an octave. "I'm just confused by your ingratitude...why did you try and run?"
Gautima looked up at the Hologram for the first time in the conversation “Do you truly not know? I’m a prisoner here, kept away from my country despite its troubles and obvious need. You’ve been responsible for atrocities against my people. You start what could be described as a world war with the amount of powerful nations involved, dragging mine into a war we may not win and nearly caused the end of the fucking world with nuclear missiles!” His voice calmed. “So, you tell me, why would you have tried to run in my situation?
"All I have done." He responded calmly. "Is try to teach your people their place in the world. When you, and your precious Balthazar, who you betrayed, lost control of your people to begin with, you turned to Rome to solve your situation and Rome sent me." As he continued he became visibly more infuriated. "If you people hadn't been so pathetic and weak you would have smothered dissent in its cradle and could have faced the world with strength, as Rome always has!"
“Aye, our country may be weak and pathetic in comparison to yours, we only had our industrial revolution a century ago and haven’t had the time to grow and develop but do you know what’s even more pathetic? The fact that despite all your power and your vast advantage in manpower, tech and materiel, you still cannot crush the resistance from a nation you’ve occupied and terrorised. Hell, the Hegemony may have named the Heartlands a rival, but they have true Harrenian spirit and resist you yet.” He paused and took in a breath, “You have still failed to answer my question. Why am I here, bastard?”

Agrippa suddenly smiled wolfishly. "Your heartlanders persist because of foreign support, when that influence is removed...I'll kill them all. Every. Single. One of them. " He paused to throw aside, the remains of the grapes. "As to why you're here...You're here because I own you Gautima. He lent in and appraised the broken and bruised man as one would a damaged vase.
"The world has forgotten about you, your own people have forgotten you, even Praetorian Intelligence doesn't care what happens to you. As you said...you've lost whatever small worth you once had."
"As I thought." Gautima turned away dismissively but braced himself against a shock he expected to receive, "With the way the war's going and with how many enemies you've made, even if I'm not around at that point to enjoy it, I'm sure you'll meet a grisly end and a Harrenian will be laughing somewhere because of it.

To that Agrippa said nothing but held out his hand and a holographic image played of Octavius Drusus’ speech and the vast numbers of the twelfth legion, then it became General De’Lance announcing Asgareth’s renewed support for the Hegemony and it’s new monarch.
"The war goes better with every passing day, Gautima. I have survived countless attempts on my life from my own peers and I don't intend to stay on that shit stained rock for long enough to even give your filthy people a chance to join the others."
The Praefectus lent back in his chair. "Even if by some miracle I die of anything other than a laughing at their useless attempts, rest assured you'll be in Tartarus long before I get there."
Gautima stood up shakily, head spinning before stabilising, "We'll see. Now, do you want to get the last word in before I go to toilet?"
“Just this.” Agrippa turned the device up to its full power and laughed unpleasantly as Gautima collapsed onto his bad leg screaming and convincing in some of the worst pain it was possible for a human man to experience. Truly this toad of a man was the epitome of the Harrenites, a miserable and weak creature who clung onto futile defiance rather than face the inevitability that was Rome! And yet, in a rare moment of whimsy, the old man wondered if the Harrenites ever missed that fool Balthazar and yearned for the days they were a backwards speck on the map beneath the notice of the world. Regardless, iacta alea est and there was no going back for them now. They would either accept the rule of Drusus or the iron fist of Agrippa.
“One last thing, Gautima.” The Prefectus said, as he watched the other man shit and piss himself in excruciating agony on his previously clean floor. “Run again and I’ll have your balls cut off. Good day.”

[Auruum]

Harrenian Hegemony, Galatea.


METAL-3 And METAL-4 fully Mechanized Droid squads, on a patrol to secure this particular sector of the city. Like perfectly choreographed ghosts they swept room to room, building to building, street to street. Resistance was met with a single head shot before moving on to secure the area.

Then the grenades hit. Several units were downed and the Squads scattered into various buildings, each unit sharing sensor data with the others. The Militiamen were located at the entrance to a subway station. In less than a second the information was shared. Number of aggressors, identified weapons, calculated threat levels for each fighter.

A message was sent up the chain of command. “METAL-3 to FOUNDRY. Hegemony Militia located at the Subway station in sector four. Targets are attempting to hold the station.”
“FOUNDRY to METAL-3. They’re likely attempting to hold it as a bunker. The subway system would be a great way to launch sneak attacks throughout the city. Take them out and secure the station. Eliminate all Militia soldiers.”
“Affirmative.”

Near instantly a battle plan was drawn up. A pair of units would attempt to push up while the rest would open up cover fire. The forward pair would draw their fire and attempt to take out the fighters with the highest threat assessments. If the forward pair were in danger, they would cycle back out and another pair would make an attempt. For several hours this went on and on.

Droids danced into the combat, Injuring or killing several of the Militia before quickly retreating, seemingly into random positions. At one point the militia had attempted to push out, but were forced back into the hole, taking one of the broken units in with them. Likely to attempt to study it. That seemed to increase the severity. Two pairs cycling in to rain lead against them now.

Even as they attempted several times to break through, either the Drones gunned them down, or their fellows would. The Drones took note of this, but continued to press the attack. They would bleed their numbers and their ammunition eventually.

“FOUNDRY to METAL-3, what the hell is taking so long?” Came the commander’s voice.
“METAL-3 to FOUNDRY, the Station appears to house a larger force than originally anticipated, likely their main bunker in this sector.”
“Copy that METAL-3, We’re diverting a Hob Squad to your location, Command wants that station cleared out by the end of the hour. Confirm command.”

“Command Confirmed, FOUNDRY.” Was the last message sent as they continued their repeated waves of attacks. Once the Hobgoblins stomped their way to the location, their handlers commanded them to attack. Steering them into the tunnels.

Hobgoblins, primarily those used in combat, were designed and trained to be shock troopers. Beasts to terrify and demoralize their foes. Their handlers commanding them through simple commands they were trained to obey, with the help of a harness and heads-up-display to designate friends and Foes. Red dots they were allowed to kill/eat, green dots they were not allowed. It was the Handler’s duty to designate which target got which dot. Unless of course they were let loose and off their leash. While their handlers could sit back and watch, being unleashed meant that there were no dots and the Hobgoblins were free to kill and eat however and whatever they wished. This was mainly used for enemy forces that needed to be slaughtered. To instill fear, send a message, and make the next garrison a little more open to the idea of surrender. In areas of possible Civilian targets, Hobs were never let off their leash.

Their Handlers would be safely tucked away in an armored truck some miles away, able to command them up to a range of twenty miles. The issue with such a system was it relied on the command broadcast being received by the heavily armored Harness of the Hobgoblin.

At first, all seemed well, Hegemony Soldiers And Militia were torn apart As red dots were blinked out of existence, soon to be eaten as the Hobgoblins charged deeper into the tunnel. Then the signal became fuzzy, commands were starting to not go through properly. And by time the first of the civilians were spotted, the signal became lost completely.

The carnage was swift and messy. So many died when the panicked crowds trampled them, and those few who survived found themselves further trampled by the Hobgoblins. It was definitely something out of a nightmare, or hell itself, hulking beasts shrugging off all but the most fatal of wounds, bearing down on men, women, and children alike. Many tried to flee and escape, only to be grabbed or tackled by several of the beasts. One man was lucky enough to get down the tunnels but soon enough his scream would echo down the tunnel and die amidst the crunching and squishing of his body being pulled apart.

METAL-3 And METAL-4 meanwhile made quick repairs and reloaded their weapons, preparing to move in after the Hobgoblins charged to secure the station and help eliminate any hostile that remained. Moving as one down into the subway however, there wasn’t much to secure and certainly not a lot to eliminate.
“METAL-3 to FOUNDRY, The Station was not a bunker, it was a shelter. The Hobs are off their leash. We have heavy Civilian casualties!”
“Ah fuck! Copy that METAL-3 It’s the tunnels, it’s blocking our transmission. Put the Hobs down, I repeat, put the Hobs down!”

Even after the horrors had quieted down to snarls, snuffling and the occasional chewing and snapping of limbs, The quiet was once more shattered by gunfire, angry howls, and several heavy bodies falling to the ground. The Station was ruined, So much blood had been shed it literally painted the lights red, shimmering crimson in the flickering light. Corpses carpeted the floor, the rails just off the platform, and piled together at random. The Droids walked around the area, scanning for any signs of life. A bench was lifted off the floor, revealing a frightened and shaking woman. Another two were found in their own hiding places, too traumatized to even speak.

“METAL-3 to FOUNDRY, It’s pretty bad. Estimated dead are well over two hundred, not counting the One-fifty that were Militia soldiers.”
“Shit, Any Survivors?”
There was a pause.
“Three, unharmed but in shock. Medical Assistance recommended.”
“Shit, this is such a mess. Get them out of there, And blow the station, We can’t let this get out.”
“And the Survivors?”
“On the very next airship back to Aurum. The Big wigs at Kryon headquarters can figure out what to do with them from there. If this got out to the public, it would ruin Kryon and the Myraxians might cancel our contract. Not to mention what it might do for Aurum’s image...”
“Copy that FOUNDRY, Transporting the Survivors back to home base.”

And just like that, the Three Survivors were quickly taken into custody, one squad hurrying to place explosive charges throughout the station to incinerate the remains and leave behind nothing but a crater. The Squads and their captives would march back to base, the three survivors being hurriedly shipped to Aurum, where arrangements were being made to have the three committed to a Mental Health Facility.

Comfortable accommodations, warm meals, drugs to help them forget the whole mess and being fed a lie that it was all just a bad dream. A life of comfort and peace, and the truth stays buried. Even The Big Six would be kept in the dark, Kryon Security would stay in business, the Contract would stay valid. Atleast this way they can know a semblance of a peaceful life, instead of a quick bullet to the back of the head with horror still fresh in their minds. With a dull thud and the sudden whoosh of flames and debris being ejected from the tunnel’s entrance, all that would remain of the this mess were the three survivors.


Pillar of Kings, Undermine City, Aurum.


The Trade-King smiled, standing within the Council Chambers at the head of the table, as per tradition. Each of the Big Six were here, or at the very least holographic projections of them were there, signifying their attendance. In addition to this, The Directors of G.O.B.L.I.N., O.R.C., and T.R.O.L.L. stood off to the side of the room, with even the Heartlander Director Rezi standing alongside them.

“It’s time.” Swyndol said with a small sigh. “What began as a simple attempt to help uplift a proud faction to it’s full potential as a technological and and scientific power in the Charter, has been thwarted at every turn by barbarians, drunk on their own inflated egos.”
He’d stare into a camera that was pointing at him, knowing this was being broadcast live over the news, on large screens beside a marching mass of soldiers.
“For too long have the people of Harren Island suffered. For too long, has war drenched their homelands in the blood of innocents. But the time has come to end it. As I speak now, We are fully preparing our forces for war, to push the Confederacy off of Harren Island once and for all. The Principalities are to fully commit to the Entente alliance.”
He would pause, standing tall and proud. Or at least as tall as he could stand.
“Asgareth has made many claims that we are monsters because we are not human. They have also claimed that by joining Rome and Denouncing their former allies, that they are free from tyranny and fight for a better world. To the Good General Delance, I ask this: Between the two of us, Who is the real monster? You, who would sooner side with a genocidal monarchy, obsessed with it’s own delusions of grandeur. Who frequently rape and murder and enslave the people of Harren. Who send the poor souls they indoctrinate against their own kin. Who value the Roman over the Harrenian.” Swyndol said with a fierce look of determination on his face. “Or we, Who tried to protect the Heartlands from corruption, from ruin. Who lived and died alongside them in Prokopios, when Daniel Ross dropped a nuke, in response to Nathaniel Lockwood’s plea for humanity. Who opened our doors to the refugees, to the survivors. To those who’s kin have been brutalized, and subjected to untold horrors. We who have given land and support, helping the recovery and trying our best to give them a sense of peace while you continue to ravage their homes.”

He paused again.

“Delance, Asgareth, I ask of you: Is the Mad Caesar and his Children truly any different from Daniel Ross? Were it Asgareth that was burning, and your people forced into exile, Would Rome offer it’s full support, or would they take from you and keep you as pets in their marble halls? Please, You have a chance now to repair the damage Ross had done, to be forgiven in the eyes of the Charter and to the people of Harren. Show us all that you have changed. Help your Human brothers and Sisters, And protect them from the real Monsters that stand beside you and call you a friend so long as you obey and behave.”

The determined face seemed to intensify. “Or prove us all right, and usher in a new age of Tyranny, one that we -will- put an end to.”

As the Broadcast ended Trade-King Swyndol addressed those in the room. “We are now at War to Liberate Harren Island from Roman, Skjoldurian, Caerleggi, and, if necessary, Asgarethi occupation.” The Big Six all nodded solemnly. Their vast resources were already being pooled and utilized towards this end. He’d cast his eyes to the three directors of Aurum’s government and military branches, They had already provided details about the enemy, learned from observation, to reverse engineering and even autopsies. Special Operations were planned and arrangements were being made.

He finally turned his eyes to Rezi. “I won’t pretend to command you, or the Heartlands. But if there are any who would join the war effort, I will not deny them.” He said with a firm nod.
Rezi bowed his head low. “Our Volunteer force is small but I believe we are ready, thank you for everything. Your support has meant a great deal to us.”
Swyndol nodded up at him. “Soon we can put this all behind us, and focus on rebuilding.”


Undermine Military Base, Warborne dormitory.


Long a subject of debate as to it’s importance, The Warborne Program is by far among the most Ancient remnants of the old ways and government. Leftover from the days when the Orcs first joined the Goblin Empire, the program was pitched as a way to strengthen the young nation’s military while helping to get rid of orphans that littered the streets. From then on, Unwanted children could be donated to the state for a sum, They would then be raised by the state and trained as soon as possible in the ways of war. By time they would reach adulthood, they had enough training to take down those who enlisted.

As time went on, and the government shifted from Imperators to Trade-Princes, The State Military saw less and less action, even less so as Aurum went underground and cut itself off from the rest of the world. A number of times the military was nearly dissolved, many couldn’t justify paying and supplying a fighting force when there was no one to fight, and the Bruisers were doing a good enough job with law enforcement. But a fair few could and were persuasive enough to convince the rest.

And so the Military remained, taking in those who wanted to enlist, and those donated to the Warbornes alike. Military research continued to evolve as other technologies did, updating the training the soldiers underwent every few decades.

And then E-Day happened and Aurum’s people practically exploded out from the underground, fleeing overpopulation and a lack of resources. Once more joining the world, the Military saw a vast increase in priority and funding, fearful of the world and what might await them.

With each conflict, Private Military Companies often were the ones being sent, Leaving the state to protect Aurum’s interests, and learn from the battles of the modern surface world. With increased demand, Research and development departments churned out new gadgets, weapons, gear, and armor, selling the best to the military. Data was gathered on the other nations, watching their tactics, how they moved and fought and reverse engineering their strategy. Mostly from their Valyrien allies and what could be observed of the Myraxians. What worked for the Greenskins was kept and adopted into their training and simulations.

As it stood now, Warborne soldiers outnumbered Enlisted soldiers, a side-effect of their time when the military wasn’t in use very much, but now, Recruitment was on the rise, slowly but surely. The Military’s biggest weakness had to be a lack of actual experience, but they made up for it with a wide variety of advanced and often times unorthodox weapons and gear.

The call to war was sounded, and Aurum’s troops gathered their weapons and gear, preparing to mobilize to the massive airships that would carry them. Thirty Divisions, totaling 300,000 soldiers, disciplined and better equipped than their Mercenary counterparts.

It was time to end the chaos.


Skies Above Harren.

The Mercenary Air Force did their best, hitting enemy positions, denying air superiority, Knocking down enemy fighters and air craft. The pilots were all hot shots, skilled at what they did, but largely interested in getting High scores for bigger pay. Attempts to stir up competition with Entente forces met with limited success, condemning the pilots to playing their ‘game’ among themselves.

“SKYWATCH to all craft, We got word of a Roman fleet en route. They just smashed through the Valyrien fleet and they have a lot of troops onboard. We need to make sure they don’t get to step foot on Harren, Got me?” Came the call. Followed by dozens of squadron leaders answering with cheers and excitement. More kills for the tally.

Dozens of fighters, and accompanying Airships swarmed over to the enemy’s location. All seemed fine at first until one of the Airships suddenly exploded, a Roman cannon scoring a lucky shot. “BREAK AND ENGAGE! BREAK AND ENGAGE!”
The Fighters scattered and opened fire as enemy fighters dove right into their midst, Several Aurummite fighters immediately being swatted out of the sky in a fiery blaze. “Fuck! They’re everywhere! CHIMERA-2, CHIMERA-3! On me, Let’s clean this me-“ The static signaled another explosion, one pilot spiraling out of control and slamming hard into the ocean below, soon to be joined by many others.
“Fuck this, I’m outta here!” One pilot said, speeding his way back to homebase, before an Airship exploded and began to fall from above, smashing into his fighter before diving into the sea. Many fighters suffered similar fates, turning to flee before being gunned down by the Roman fighters, who only suffered one, maybe two casualties per every ten the Greenskins lost. The Air fleet continued fighting, knowing that escape was now impossible, but their numbers dwindled. “ALL UNITS GET OUT OF THERE!” Shouted SKYWATCH, trying to save as much of the fleet as he could, but it was far too late, Rome’s reinforcements had won back superiority of the skies.

One Airship was hit and tried to kamikaze, a final act of defiance against the enemy, but it’s damage was too much and it crashed harmlessly, far enough away from the Roman fleets, their anti-air weapon’s chewing what remained, several dozen columns of smoke streamed down from the sky, all of various sizes and shapes, as if the sky itself was bleeding fire and death.

In a true testament to Rome’s might, the mercenaries were swatted away with minimal effort or damage, moving onward to their goal, seemingly unphased by the attempt to delay them.

[Asgareth]

Asgar House, Asgar
General de’Lance was joined by many of his advisors as he watched the Aurummite broadcast. He chuckled at Swyndol’s discussion about corruption – were the goblins not the most corrupt beings on Origin? The discussion about Prokopios had hit a little too close to home for comfort – his 2nd Cousins nephew had been one of the expendable casualties.
Indeed, Swyndol spoke a great deal of sense. The only problem was, Swyndol was green.

As a result, General Edmund de’Lance was being prepared for his own livestream. His hairdresser had done all that she could to comb over his bald spot – a mean feat when the man only had 3 grey hairs remaining. The make-up artist had attended to his client, and lighting were desperately trying to find de’Lance’s best light. A discussion was had about replacing him on-screen with a 20-something male model, but the discussion was swiftly cut short when de’Lance furiously withdrew his pistol and started shooting the lights. Seven fresh bulbs later, and the crew were finally ready. The feed went live, and de’Lance took a moment to compose himself before he began to speak.

“Asgarthians, Rusinans, Citizens of the World. Yesterday the chairman of the goblins made an address, wherein he publicly asked me two questions.”

De’Lance smiled at the camera before continuing
“The swine, Swyndol, questioned the integrity of the noble Asgarthian. He asks who is the true monster – The Asgarthian, or the goblin? He says we have sided with a maniac. That the confederacy rapes and enslaves those that it liberates. That we indoctrinate our refugees with lies. I say this to Swyndol, the goblin. You, yes you, are the true monster. You who lead a race that would so happily eat the faces of dying children. You who would side with parasites and enemies of the civilised world. You are the destroyer of Harren.”

General de’Lance paused, before continuing.
“I say this to Swyndol. “Who was it that provided relief to the port cities? Who saved the citizens of Prokopios from a fate worse than death? Who bravely fought back the inhumane hoardes in Tsuru? Where were the goblins when the Harrenites needed saving there? Aligning themselves with enemies of humanity! Making pacts with parasites, who sought to destroy humanity at its very core. It is because of the humble Asgarthian that you have survived to speak your lies!”

General de’Lance continued “Swyndol asked a second question. He asked whether Caesar is truly any different to the traitor Daniel Ross! The answer is simple. Yes, Caesar is a tyrant. One that oppresses foreigners and looks to better himself, and himself alone on the world stage. But he does not oppress his own. The tyrannical Daniel Ross betrayed Asgareth first and foremost. He sold us to the Myraxians, due to his own personal agenda. It was the bravery of true Asgarthians that freed us from the shackles of tyranny. I say to you, Swyndol, that if you truly wish to protect your citizens best interests you would not oppose the Asgarthian war effort. We seek to liberate Harren Island from those that look to subjugate it. Your so-called allies in the entente seek to subjugate it. Already, the Slavacian people have opened their eyes to the truth. The Valarisk and Myraxians are a public menace. And they must be dealt with accordingly. Asgareth calls upon you. We freed ourselves from the shackles of tyranny. Now, it is time that you did the same. From those that seek to oppress you. Join with Asgareth, and together, we will bring peace to Harren.”

General de’Lance paused for a final time.
“Or stand with the entente. With the oppressors of Harren. And die for your sins.”

---

Caesarea, Archon

Alvora de’Lance was not impressed. It was bad enough that her father was making her marry an addict, and she hated the lack of champagne on-board the plane; instead being forced to drink some absurd concoction by the name of Formianum. But worst of all, she was being forced to miss the Asgar Fashion Show for this. Her father could be so unreasonable.

The journey had been far too long for Alvora - she hated the lack of space inside her father’s private jet. She was therefore relieved, albeit temporarily, when they finally landed. Her father stepped out first, and guided her down a set of stairs. At the foot, stood a large line of Skjoldurian guardsmen. Dressed in plastisteel armour and capes, they towered over her father’s Black Guards; though from a tactical point of view the Black Guards had the advantage - capes were so last year.

Her father escorted her past the guardsmen where two men stood waiting. The pair were dressed in classical Roman armour, polished to a sheen, and were draped in rich purple cloaks, the tallest of the two had his clasped with a silver eagle, whilst the shorters sported a dragon head. The former bashed his fist into his shoulder, making an unpleasant clang, in a Roman salute and elbowed his companion until he did the same.

“General De’Lance.” Began Octavius Nero smoothly. “Good to see you again, I trust you remember my noble brother; Octavius Drusus Sebastos.”
Edmund de’Lance studied the two brothers closely as Nero spoke. He noticed Drusus sway from side to side ever so slightly and noticed his complete lack of emotion. He was, for lack of a better word, a zombie. In his time in the military, General de’Lance had grown used to dealing with drunken delinquents.
“YOU!” He bellowed at Drusus. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME, BOY? WHAT IS YOUR RANK?” His face went red with fury as he waited for Drusus to cobble together a response.
“Trajan made me do it.” The Basileus blurted out on pure instinct. “It was only half a cup of wine, I swear.”
“WINE!” The general yelled. “ARE YOU A WOMAN, BOY? A MAN! IN THIS DAY AND AGE, DRINKING WINE!”

Nero laughed loudly, slapping his youngest brother on the back a bit too hard.
“You’ll have to forgive my dear brother, General.” The prince said amicably, trying to regain control of the situation. “So enthralled was he at the idea of marrying your lovely daughter, that he had a few drinks with some close associates to celebrate both his marriage and the peace Confederate forces will bring to Harren, at long last...”

The general smirked. “All I want is to bring peace to that troubled land. For too long it has suffered from a terrible blight. But I believe, that under the love and care of Asgareth and Rome, the Island of Harren can once again flourish.”
An impatient Alvora coughed, reminding her father of her presence.
“But of course, the thing I want most of all is to find my daughter… my only daughter, a man who can love and protect her as I have. A man that will worship her as the Queen of Harren Island. A man that will rule beside her, not for her. Tell me,Gaius Octavius Drusus Sebastos… are you that man?”

Drusus looked the young woman up and down. She was very attractive, with thick blonde hair, a lithe figure, strong teeth. But what impressed him the most was her eyes, they were ice blue and were meeting his with a determined expression. Seeming to sober up, if only briefly, he looked at his brother who was standing still and looked to be assessing the Asgarthian party. Though the young man knew his brother was pissing himself laughing on the inside at De’Lance’s insistence that he share his rule with a woman.

“Your lovely daughter with make a worthy basileia, General, and an excellent mother to our, many, many children.” He winked at Alvora. If he was going to have to marry her, he may as well enjoy it…
Alvora initially recoiled in disgust before composing herself. She moved towards Drusus, smiling sweetly, and offered her hand. “Aren’t you a presumptuous one? We’re not even married and already you wish to bed me. Is it not customary to… buy me dinner first?”
Before his brother could say something filthy, probably something about buying her with half an island, Nero stepped in. “I’m sure there will be many feasts once our forces have expelled the invaders. For now, however, the head priest of the Cult of Augustus is prepared and we have managed to arrange a rather lavish ceremony...despite the short notice.”

“Ah excellent. It is a shame that my daughter could not marry in Asgareth, but at the very least it is good of Caesar to foot the entire bill. I am sorry to hear that he will not be in attendance. I understand he has a cold?”
“A mere pittance, General. A drop in the water that is our lord father’s vast wealth. Though as you may know, Gemellus Caesar has unfortunately, had to remain in the capital to attend to crucial matters of state.” He couldn’t be asked to endure the plane ride for ‘that coke fueled little shits second wedding’. “Though I will be glad to stand as his representative.”
The general nodded, before motioning his daughter forward. “Lead on, Nero. I will linger behind and take in the scenery.”

“As you wish. I shall leave some Skjdolurians behind to ensure your safety...these are dangerous times. Brother dearest, take your bride to be by the arm, maybe you’d like to discuss immigrtion policy?” Ha. Two weeks with those two at the helm and those sodding Harrenites will wish they’d been destroyed...

---

Odele, Harren Island
There are some horrors that are beyond words. Beyond depiction. At times, these horrors unite the very best of humanity. Other times, they only serve to create further division. At times like these, humanity shows its true colours.

There are some who would trivialise the atrocity carried out by the Harrenite terrorists in Odele. They would say “the attack was justified because of x”, or that “there is no use crying over spilt beer.” But to the Asgarthian people, across Rusina, Archon and Epilo, the attack on the ale was an attack on their culture, on their way of life. It was above all else, an attack on the Asgarthian people. Within hours there was mass outcry across Asgarthian, forcing the military to act. There could only be one appropriate response.

The surviving members of the 19th – those that had been stationed anywhere but Prokopios – had been given one clear order. Find out who had committed the atrocities; one way or another.The plan was simple. Every school in the city would be seized by the men of the 19th. The children would be held hostage, whilst their headteachers would make a desperate plea to the citizens of Odele – hand over the terrorists, or watch their children die.

The first school had been taken by 9:30am, the last by 11:30am. The men of the 19th had forced the students and teachers into halls and corridors, while a live broadcast was made on the internet. From an undisclosed location, a masked man spoke:
“People of Odele. I speak to you now. Yesterday, your own blood committed a terrorist attack against the Asgarthian people. The destruction of our ale is unforgivable.

We know you wish to harbour these terrorists. Perhaps, you sympathise with them. They may be your brother, your father, your son or your nephew. You may feel confused as to where your loyalties should lie. And so, we have opted to make this simple.”

At this point, signs from every school in the city were displayed, before cutting back to the presenter.
“We have contingents of men in every school in this city. They have been authorised to shoot everyone within these buildings. Teachers and children alike. Put simply, if you wish to see your children again, you will tell us. Who destroyed the ale?”

Faces of terrified children were displayed as the voice continued.

“Every hour, one set of teachers will die. If, by the 9th hour, the terrorists have not been brought before us, we will execute every child in these schools. This entire town will be destroyed until we are satisfied that the terrorist threat is no more. People of Odele, it is unwise to call our bluff. To prove we are serious, we shall now execute the first round of teachers. We have selected… Cebes Academy.”

A live feed switched to the school. The camera panned round, showing the faces of hundreds of terrified children, with guards on all sides. The teachers were stood on a stage, with a guard stood behind each of them.

Another guard stepped in front of the camera.
“The staff of Cebes Academy have been found guilty of harbouring terrorists. They are therefore sentenced to die.”
The guards drew their rifles.
“Fire.”

The screams of the children meant the bullets went unheard. The teachers, however, were unmistakeably dead.

“If you know the names of the terrorists, come to the city hall. The quicker you come, the more you can save. And if you fail… should we have to kill every child and teacher… the city of Odele will be destroyed.”

---

Aykia, Isle of Gespe
The Archonan war council had once more assembled, where Supreme General Yaznon Paltri laid out a series of developments.
“There is a desperate need for reinforcements on that island. The 19th have been all but wiped out, following the destruction of Prokopios. Those that remain have been garrisoned in Odele, and are actively seeking out those who committed the atrocities there. The 22nd and 24th are advancing west, with the intention of attacking Valarisk forces there. General de’Lance has granted permission to send a considerable increase in forces. The 20th and 21st will arrive in the south, providing reinforcements to the Roman amphibious assault, before reuniting with the 22nd and 24th as they force the Valarisk forces back. Meanwhile, the 23rd will arrive in the north of the island, along with the 15th and 16th Ground Forces from North Archon. They will temporarily assist in providing security, before the 15th and 16th move forward to relieve the 22nd and 24th.”

Force-General Oksin Pasquin of the 24th nodded in agreement. “My troops are exhausted, after their campaigns on Friendly and Harran and I expect Sakia’s men feel similar after that horrendous battle in Tsuru. Reinforcements will be warmly received. But I must ask. Why are we only being sent Archonian troops? Where are our Rusinan friends?”
“General de’Lance is reluctant to send out any Rusinan troop for the time being. He believes it will send a strong message if Archonian troops save an Archonian island.”
Pasquin shook his head, but said nothing as Paltri continued.

“We’ve heard reports that the Myraxian transport ships have successfully docked. To that extent, the 12th and 13th Fleets have been ordered to embark north from the Archoni Islands, and engage the fleet. If all goes to plan, the Myraxian relief will be destroyed, and the confederacy will be able to declare naval supremacy.
Fleet-Admiral Tygno Pylin spoke up. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much, sir. The 12th is more than capable of sinking a few troop transports. Nothing will go wrong, you can trust me on that!”
The supreme general smirked. “I’m glad you are so confident, Pylin because General de’Lance has decided that you should lead your men into battle. A photo opportunity, if you will. It’ll get your name in the Evening Crusader, an interview on A.C.N.C. Breakfast… and plenty of medals to boot.”
Pylin nodded. “You know me, sir. I lead from the front. If you’ll excuse me, I better go and prepare.”

Pylin closed the door behind him, and muttered “Fuck a duck” as he began to walk off. Inside the meeting, attention turned to matters further afield.

“Our intelligence serves suggest the Aurumites are preparing to fully mobilise. In response, the 8th and 9th Air Navies are prepared to intercept should they move towards to the island. They have been ordered to shoot on sight. There will be no discussion and no quarter is to be spared. These orders have come from de’Lance himself.”
“Admiral Axcor will be more than ready to destroy any greenskin aircraft. He hates those critters – one of them tried to poison him once, you know?” Aerial Admiral Packno Laskey of the 15th Air Force stated. “Might I suggest Admiral Pervorta’s 9th Air Force provide reinforcements? You’ll never know what could happen. The goblins are a slippery bunch.”
“Get onto him. Tell him to rendezvous with the 8th.” The supreme general gazed around the room. “If that’s everything, I’m off to play golf.”

---

Southern Harren Island
With the Roman amphibious assault, and Asgarthian reinforcements swiftly making their way, a plan had been made to destroy the infrastructure along the south of Harren Island. The 15th Air Force were chosen for this mission. They were to destroy bridges, tracks and roads so as to prevent Valarisk and Myraxian supplies and reinforcements from getting through to where they were needed. If they succeeded, the Confederacy landing forces would face a weakened enemy; one that would have to spend resources on rebuilding vital supply lines instead of utilising them on the front.

The planes drew over the Nagisa Gulf in the early morning. The sun had not yet risen; the hope being that the explosions would look worse at night.
"Alright boys. Bombs away!" Wing Commander Tynak de'Lance called over the comms.
Hundreds of bombs were deployed by the air force across the southern front. From above, they caused great mass explosions; though were they hit would not be known till morning.

The planes drew away, returning to Caesarea. With the tracks, bridges and roads severely damaged, the Myraxians and Valarisk would struggle to ensure their supplies and reinforcements arrived in a timely manner. But the Asgarthian celebrations were not to last long.

---

Western Section, Confederacy-Valarisk border
The Confederacies border with Valyrien had remained relatively unchanged in literally months. It was decided that the best way to make the Valarisk crumble would be to commit to a grand assault. The Skjoldurians would move east, the Romans would take the middle and the Asgarthians would move west; in a daring attempt to cut off the Valarisk from their Myraxian allies. But before any assault on the ground could occur, the Asgarthians needed air superiority.

This job fell to the 13th Air Force, under Air Admiral Ugora Polta. They were to eliminate the threat from the Valarisk air force, and in so doing provide a secure route for the Asgarthian advance. The attack began shortly after dusk. Two hundred planes from the 13th roared overhead, led by Captain Onari Yasvori. They began to fire randomly on the Harrenite lines below. As the planes began to make their presence known, the Valarisk planes took to the air, to ward off the attackers. A fierce dogfight ensued, as the Asgarthian and Valarisk planes weaved in and out of one another. The Valarisk planes were simply outnumbered by the Asgarthian fleet, and were swiftly knocked out of action for good. Anti-aircraft guns were similarly destroyed by the Asgarthian bombers, who then began some light bombing raids on the Valarisk and Harrenite lines in the hopes of breaking them.

As the Asgarthian planes roared overhead, broadcasting their aerial supremacy, the troops below cheered loudly. Their job had suddenly become an awful lot easier.

The skies were now under Confederacy control. Soon, the ground would be to.

***

With air supremacy, the next phase of the Asgarthian attack could commence. As the Roman and Skjoldurian forces rushed south, intending to force the Valarisk into a desperate retreat, the Asgarthian forces had one clear objective. They were to cut off the Valarisk from the Myraxians, and in so doing break the entente.

Force-General Pasquin had sent out a memo the night before. In it he had apologised for not being able to be with the troops on the day of the attack, but he was there in spirit. He wished them luck, and had told them that any that survived the victorious battle that was about to ensue would be granted free drinks for life at every pub in Asgar. The troops paid little attention to the memo – for starters, the majority were Archonians who had never visited the Asgarthian capital. Further, they had something a little more pressing on their minds – their almost inevitable demise. Whilst officers had tried to keep spirits high, even they found themselves becoming increasingly stressed at events. Soon, either way, it would be over.

The dawn rose as it always did, and the Asgarthian advance began. Thousands upon thousands of men and tanks poured past the border, with just one goal in mind – cutting off the Valarisk from the Myraxians. If they succeeded, the war was almost won.

But today, would not go the way the Asgarthians had wanted. As the 22nd and 24th Ground Forces charged forward, it became swiftly apparent that the battle would not go as had been hoped. It was almost as if the Valarisk and Harrenites had been expecting them.

20 minutes after the initial assault, the orders were given to retreat. The Harrenite and Valarisk lines had been unbreakable. The aerial bombardment had clearly not been nearly effective enough, and the ground force were unable to capitalise on their aerial supremacy. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the retreat stopped at the border once more. Backed by reinforcements from the 15th and 16th forces, they were able to hold off any further counter attacks. The widespread attack carried out by the Confederacy also ensured that the Valarisk could not supply any meaningful reinforcements to the west. To that extent, the forces fell back upon their original lines. The assault was over. The Asgarthians had failed.

For now.

---

The Skies above the Sea of Arashi, On the Approach to Nagisa Gulf
One hundred planes from the 14th Air Force swiftly moved through the sky, on route to Galitea. Their objective was to eliminate the anti-airplane guns. But in order to do this, they would first need to eliminate the local Myraxian airforce. As they came closer, the first sign of the enemy was reported.

“Red Command.” Captain Esdac Placko called over the communication. “This is Red Leader. All looks clear from here. No sightings of the enemy.”
“Watch out Red Leader. Our intelligence suggest the Myraxians shouldn’t be too far out.”
“Don’t worry Red Command.” Placko began. “We have everything under con-“

The communication cut off instantly, as the 14th Air Force came under a sudden attack. Captain Placko had become the first of many casualties. The 14th took some desperate defensive manoeuvres as they attempted to avoid the trap, but to no avail. Planes exploded mid-air, or else crashed into the sea below.

The 14th had been simply overwhelmed. They had failed to eliminate the Myraxian air presence,
The planes that had survived were forced to retreat back to Caesarea. The naval fleets were alone.

***

At the same time, the 12th and 13th Fleets were sailing towards the Nagisa Gulf. Under the command of Fleet-Admiral Tygno Pylin and his assistants Vice Fleet-Admiral Royna Yoplin and Admiral Aylin Pertika, the 12th fleet had assumed the lead on this task.

Tygno Pylin was onboard the flagship A.C.S. Regana and was busy overseeing final preparations for the onslaught. They expected an easy run in. The 14th Air Force would eliminate the Myraxian air forces, leaving an easy path for the Asgarthian ships to destroy the Myraxian troop transports. In the distance they could hear gunfire; a sure sign that it was going well. Eventually, the gunfire became quieter and quieter. The fleets became complacent; assuming their path was clear.

By the time the crews of the 12th and 13th fleets heard that the air navy had failed to achieve superiority in the coastal areas, it was too late. The troop transports were right ahead of them, but they had been lured into a trap. From seemingly nowhere, a Myraxian squadron roared overhead. The planes began to wreak havoc almost immediately. The destroyer directly left was hit; its crews screamed loudly into the seas. The planes on board the A.C.S. Regana and A.C.S. Quenti took off almost immediately, but were brought down almost as quickly. Pylin quickly ordered the fleet to pull away and to scatter, but time had already run out.

A large explosion occurred, throwing Pylin backwards. Screams from terrified sailors began to erupt all over the place. The destroyer to the left had already been sunk. To the right, a frigate was on fire. The carrier was taking on far too much water, forcing an immediate evacuation. Yet no sooner had the evacuation order been given, than a second bomb descended from above. The blast knocked Pylin unconscious.

He would later wake up in an Asgarthian hospital on the Isle of Gespe. He had been rescued by a rescue craft, and transported to Caesarea at first. There, both his legs and his left arm had to be amputated and he was placed into a medically induced coma. He was more focussed upon discovering what had happened to his fleet and crew. He broke down upon hearing that Vice-Admiral Royna Yoplin had been killed; his body had been recovered by Harrenite fishermen – thankfully sympathisers to their liberators. Pylin welcomed the news that Aylin Pertika’s A.C.S. Quenti had managed to slip away to the east with some destroyers and frigates, and dock safely in Caesarea.The 13th Fleet had emerged relatively unscathed; several destroyers and frigates had been destroyed but its carriers had emerged with only minor damage.

The Asgarthian naval force had failed in its mission, bringing a close to the darkest day in Asgarthian military history.

---

Disaster had befallen Asgareth this day. The 12th fleet laid scattered, or else buried at the bottom of the ocean. Several air forces were in tatters. The 22nd and 24th Ground Forces were broken; their morale severely damaged. But when the sun rose in the morning, a new day would commence. The Asgarthian forces would rise as a phoenix. They had to.

An order was secretly dispatched by General de’Lance within hours of the disasters. The 1st and 3rd Ground Forces were to be deployed to the island. The 3rd were one of the most senior forces in Asgareth; composed of veterans from the Second Myraxian-Iryllian Conflict. As for the 1st; they were the most fearsome of all veterans. It was uncommon for them to be deployed outside of Asgar but the general felt that their presence would serve to bring the war to a quicker end. As the Force-General of the 1st, de’Lance would assume control of all operations in the theatre. Already, he was on his way to the Archoni Isles following the wedding of his daughter.

That night, the forces that had survived in the west reinforced their borders. General Sakia visited the depleted forces to try to raise morale. He joked about lulling the Valarisk into a false sense of security, and vowed that the forces would liberate the whole of Harren; no matter the cost. Meanwhile, in Caesarea, Air Admiral Asgor Pescana of the 14th Air Force, tried his best to revitialise his troops. Captain

The rest of the 12th and 13th Fleets made it back to the Isle of Gespe. There, the crews disembarked and paid their final respects to their fallen comrades. A candlelit ceremony was held at the local cathedral, before drinks were poured in their memory. Admiral Tygno Pylin gave a rousing speech about the bravery of their lost brethren, and called upon the crews to avenge them.

In the distance, a voice – a simple farmer nonetheless - called out.
“Asgareth Onwards. Asgareth Forever.”

[Harren Island]

Harrenite Internal Security Service – Maritsa’s stream just west of Mount Yari and Emi

The whole train shook as the heavy trio of 305mm railway guns continuously fired in sequence, sending a 340kg high explosive shell hurtling downrange every fifteen seconds. The shells arced up into the sky before careening down over a dozen kilometres away among the Valarisk and Stratocratic militia lines. It had been said that artillery trains were useless in the modern era, being vulnerable and predictable targets for enemy air support but that didn’t matter if you had air superiority. They’d been enjoying that for hours, sustaining their bombardment whilst watching Asgarthian and Roman planes scream across the front, dropping precision bombs and hounding any Valarisk plane bold enough to try and intervene. The guns themselves were rather ancient, just over sixty years old to be precise and whilst they were veterans of countless battles on the island, they hadn't been fired in anger for almost three decades.

Bracketing the three artillery carriages were two anti-air carriages, each armed with two octuple 40mm autocannon mounts. The only action they’d seen all day had been when Valarisk troops were spotted manoeuvring a couple kilometres away across the river, they’d opened fire and carpeted the area with a thunderous rain of thousands of shells, flattening shrubbery and disintegrating trees until the railway howitzers re-targeted and engaged, shells blasting craters into the countryside and sending dirt and bits of unfortunate individuals up in sudden, devastating bursts.

Whilst the Asgarthians had called off their assault in the West extremely quickly, the combined Skjoldurian and HISS assault in the East continued throughout the day. The advantages both in air and local numerical superiority promised to carry the day but when dusk began to descend and the Valarisk line remained unbroken, it was obvious that all the men who’d given their lives this day had done so in vain. The HISS railway guns continued to fire during the withdrawal until they ran out of ammunition, concentrating barrages against the Valarisk and Stratocratic Harrenian positions nearest to their retreating forces.


Fig. An old photo of the same three railway howitzers from back before the Hegemony even existed.

With the battle over, the artillery platforms rotated back into line and the barrels depressed to a neutral angle before the carriage cases were cranked back up like a closing book to shelter them inside. Then with a jolt and the slow chugging and clanking of its engine and wheels, the train began to pull uphill, passing the burning wrecks of vehicles lighting up the countryside below as it followed the line of the river to the fallback point just south of Emi. Coming to a halt with a screech and a whistle, the locomotive found itself in the middle of an impromptu field hospital filled with thousands of wounded. Orders swiftly followed and injured Skjoldurians were carried aboard, prioritised over the Hegemonic militiamen, filling up the internal spaces around the guns and the now empty ammunition racks. Makeshift racks were strapped onto the roofs to seat those who weren’t as badly injured. When the train began to move away again, it followed the ridgeline turning north towards Emi, carrying almost five hundred Skjoldurians in various conditions out of the encampment, intended for a more capable care facility there, the hospital which had been rebuilt since Rome’s razing of the city.

At the steepest stage of its ascent towards Emi, up the shiny and black, shrub-covered side of the dormant volcano, Mount Yari, the train slowed to a walking pace. Its engine puffing clouds of smoke as its coal stokers sweated and shovelled load after load of the sooty black chunks into its fiery, voracious mouth. To its left, the inside track hugged the cliffside that stretched up and away into the darkening sky, to the right, a sheer drop that ended thousands of metres below at the jagged bottom of the mountain itself. This particular railway line had been blasted into the mountain side to pass up the last few hundred metres to Emi.

As the steel front wheels slid along the track, they met two sets of wires and completed circuits attached to a pair of relatively small explosive charges. With a bang like that of a car backfiring, swallowed by the cacophony made by the engine itself, the igneous rock underneath the railway sleepers tumbled away and the weight of the heavy, vibrating train caused them to snap as the tracks to bent down into the newly created void. Toppling forward nose first with a horrendous shock, the mass of the locomotive and its wheels churning at full speed caused it to tear through the steel track and tumble sideways off the cliffside. Disappearing in an instant, the coal and first AA carriages were dragged off with it, the connections with the rest of the train snapping loose with a twang that echoed off the rockface.

The locomotive slowly spun in the air with smoke still belching from its exhaust, the men inside shrieking either from the terror of their imminent deaths or the clouds of fiery coals that had flown free of the boiler and filled the cabin with incendiary hail. The heavy nose impacted with a jutting part of the cliffside on the way down, scrunching in and causing the rest of the machine to whirl off into the open air like a toy thrown from a pram before smashing flat against the sharp rocks at the bottom. Seconds later the coal carriage burst open next to it, followed immediately after by the crumpled and barely recognisable AA carriage and the dozens of broken bodies it contained. Some of the screaming wounded, who’d been sitting on top of the AA carriage, fell around the wreckage like hail, impacting against the stony ground moments later and bursting open like water balloons.

The remaining carriages, the three railway guns and the last AA section filled with over four hundred survivors of the earlier battle, careered backwards downhill at speed, the automatic emergency brakes burning out and failing to halt the weighty thundering mass of metal and flesh as gravity pulled eagerly at it. Some tried to jump off the roofs onto the tracks but were left writhing in agony with shattered bones or missed entirely and ended up flying off the side of the cliff. Most tried to hold on for dear life. With the carriages reaching terminal velocity, they threatened to derail at every bump, bouncing almost off their tracks but crashing back down onto them with the piercing wails of tortured metal and showers of sparks. Those holding on for their lives could see their doom coming, spotting the curve at the fallback point where the train tracks had turned to head north.

In a panic, some vigilant individuals at the fallback point started sprinting away as fast as they could, trying to clear the area and shouting to warn others as they went but they couldn’t outrun a hundred and twenty tons of uncontrolled metal moving at terminal velocity. The carriages barrelled off their track and separated, sending their individual metal chassis and twelve-ton guns rolling through the encampment like supersized marbles, ploughing through tents, wounded and vehicles alike. The wreckage finally came to a rest in long and deep furrows gouged from the earth, leaving a trail of gore and devastation in their wake.

---

Harrenian Hegemony – Western shore of Archon mainland

Blown away from Harren by westerly winds, the rubber dinghies and life rafts washed up on the shore of Archon. A couple had been punctured and deflated by the sharp rocks of the beach. Bits of buoyant wreckage had joined them, paper, wooden splinters, clothes and the occasional body. All told, Calan had about a hundred of his men left here, the rest either dead, captured by the Skjoldurians or fighting on.

Before the Ascendancy had gone down in the fighting, he had seen two of his vessels beach themselves next to New Yanni as ordered, the Club-class monitor Spike that became an instant fortification with its armoured turret and twin fifteen inch guns and one of his light cruisers, the Illuminance, supporting with dual-purpose artillery and anti-air weaponry. The Ascendancy went down near the mouth of New Yanni’s harbour, not far enough in to act as a blockship but close enough to restrict the flow of traffic in and out. The Pride of the Hegemonic Navy was gone and it made him unreasonably upset, logically he had known it was almost a century outdated and stood no chance in a modern war but it had still been a symbol of Harren. In spite of that, the fact that she’d gone down fighting for Harrenians against cruel invaders was better than ending up in a scrapyard somewhere, useless and forgotten.

Even in hindsight, he thought he’d made the right call. Surrendering would only mean torture, death or slavery. Staying at sea would have led to their inevitable demises and they hadn’t been in any condition to flee or risk the open ocean. This way, attacking New Yanni, they’d managed to achieve something, if only to redirect Skjoldurian forces away from the Entente and buy them a little more wiggle room.

The question was, what to do now? Without supplies and without any way to call for aid…. who would answer anyway? Their situation was grim. Staying here wasn’t an option, hostiles filled the seas to the West and they had no food or supplies. To the South lay the Romans, they couldn’t go that way. To the North, the nuked-out bases of Paros and Sado and beyond them, Asgarthians and more Romans. To the East, hundreds and hundreds of kilometres across hostile terrain and then the Valarisk. That seemed to be the best option, they’d signed an Armistice with the Hegemony and wouldn’t kill them on sight.

Calan marshalled his men and got them working to prepare for the trek, cutting the dinghies and rafts into water pouches, gathering cord as rope and wood for fires, collecting any tools and weapons they could find. Those hurt were treated as best as possible and any who couldn’t walk were tied onto improvised sleds. A couple hours later, the band moved out, starting what could very well be their very own death march.


Fig. A couple of the liferafts on the beach alongside some recovered materials.

---

Harrenian Heartlanders – Odele

Baako stood in front of his men, those who had been with him emptying the alcohol into the harbour, “Gentlemen. We are standing here because our fates have now been decided, the Asgarthians can’t understand or acknowledge a peaceful protest and have crossed further into evil in response. We cannot bow to their demands because if they do, they’ll consider it justified to murder teachers and use schools filled with children as hostages. We also, cannot let such an atrocity occur when we have the power to stop it. To many, this would be an impossible choice, a rock and a hard place, between Scylla and Charybdis. To me, the path is clear, I had not hoped to walk it for many years and I know you didn’t wish to sacrifice your lives over alcohol but now we have no choice at all.”

He placed a sheet in front of them, the words a confession to their destruction of Asgarthian alcohol and an affirmation that no one else helped them. Baako’s own signature was there. “We sign this and take full responsibility for the act. Then, we attack and die. The Asgarthians will have the ‘terrorists’ they seek but not in the way they wanted. What remains of you when you’re gone.” He picked up his submachinegun as they each signed in turn, resting a hand on the shoulder of the youngest, a boy of fifteen, “I’m sorry lad.”.


Fig. Baako's car. A vintage saloon made seventy-two years ago.

Less than an hour later, a car with a long bonnet punched through an Asgarthian roadblock outside their barracks, the passengers emptying submachineguns out both sides, riddling the guards and sending hundreds of bullet casings raining down onto the cobbled stones as the wheels bounced over a speedbump with a spray of sparks. Returned fire smashed into the engine block and caused it to whine and catch fire, flames licking out from underneath the hood as it roared onwards. With a sharp turn of the wheel, the spinning tyres swung the car to the side in a squeal and the vehicle aimed towards a fleeing Asgarthian soldier, running him down with a scream and two squishy bumps. Coming to a halt outside the main office building, Baako stepped clear of his burning car and raised his submachinegun over its peeling bonnet at the entrance, opening fire as more soldiers spilled out, “Morning, gents!”. His own men darted out, using the car’s body for cover, dropping empty drums and fitting new ones in as they separated, each aiming to cause as much damage as they could before dying for the cause.

---

Republic of Harren – Chuuk Stronghold

The entire Republic fleet, composed of ten Insdiator submarines stolen from Rome and three Versus submarines and two Kryxous frigates provided by Myraxia, sailed into Chuuk at dawn. They had been stocked full of supplies, construction materials and weaponry necessary for the completion of critical works that were still underway across the fledgling anchorage, delivering them on their way to Rusina and Myraxian ports there. The Insdiators were scheduled to be refitted in Myraxian shipyards, at the Republic’s cost, and all vessels’ crews were going to be trained in extensive naval programmes.

A collection of important individuals, engineers and scientists from the Republic’s research and development division were travelling as passengers on board, en route to work with the Myraxian Experimental Development Branch on joint project proposals. Staying in port for the day to disembark their cargo and refuel, the fleet would begin moving again at dusk. For now though, they had time to go over some of their plans and blueprints, sitting around a metal table in a small canteen on board one of the Insdiator submarines. Dr. Barak zoned out as the others discussed their newest set of blueprints, designs for large, submersible drone carriers. He was thinking back to when he submitted his original proposal to the Myraxians in Kalitea.

I am surprised that there hasn’t been more clamour about nuclear deterrents in the aftermath of the failed nuclear strike against Harren Island. It was proven without any shred of doubt that the global strategic doctrine is obsolete after mobile defences in the middle of a frontier warzone managed to intercept all incoming ICBMs in range. If mobile and less advanced defences are that successful, static and purpose-built silos for strategic defence would prove almost impenetrable to attack. It is obvious that a new strategic strike platform is necessary.

To that end, I’ve worked on the following proposal. A submarine with a casemate mounted artillery battery, this design here carries a 175mm. The submarine needs not even surface to fire, whilst maintaining periscope depth and when elevating to aim, the end of the barrel will project above the surface of the water and its aperture will be opened similar to a torpedo tube. This will be capable of delivering low-yield nuclear shells or shells containing biological or chemical agents from unexpected positions anywhere off the enemy coastline. At maximum range, by the time the shell impacts, the submarine will have stowed its weapon and fully submerged to make tracking and counter-battery extremely difficult.

Using rocket-assisted projectiles, a rather simple technology that’s more than fifty years behind the times, we can achieve a range of 60-65km. With Myraxian assistance developing this project, providing us with some of the benefits of your military research, perhaps with ramjet propelled shells or other artillery advances, I believe the range could be extended to approximately 130km if not even further.

Another collection of scientists and doctors burst in to the canteen, shaking hands with his R&D team and wishing them all the best for their trip to Rusina. They were disembarking here in Chuuk and Dr. Barak knew they’d been tasked with the establishment of Element 44-2 after the first had been destroyed by the Romans and contaminated a stretch of land on Harren, highlighting the dangers of constructing a bioweapons facility on your native territory. Probably best that Jiqaz didn’t know that one was being set up on its doorstep.

Fig. The canteen on board one of the Insdiator class submarines.

---

Harren SSR – Filia

Today had been a day filled with ups and downs. On one hand, the Imperium’s Air Force had been utterly decimated in the skies over Harren and the Confederacy had established air superiority across most of the island, only the Myraxians in the south had maintained a semblance of control in the air. On the other hand, a massive Confederate assault had been comprehensively repulsed by third-rate, Valarisk reserve, line holders and the recently reorganised, stratocratic militia. The attack in the east had been an especially costly endeavour for the Confederacy and word had spread that a counterattack was in the works, planned to overwhelm the weary and wounded at the eastern section of the front in the early hours.

He wasn’t sure if the counteroffensive was a good idea at the moment but none of that was Lonan’s concern. He’d spent most of the day organising salvage teams across the country, directing them to crash sites behind the front lines, benefitting from their static nature his men were able to recover dozens of aircraft wrecks in relative peace. A report of a downed Roman Boreas air-superiority fighter in the south had raised his hopes but the only recoverable piece had been part of the tail section, all the advanced avionics and weapons systems were ruined. Whilst most of the wrecks were irreparable, forty-seven had been reclaimed in a single day and that was nothing to sniff at, even totalled they yielded cutting-edge, valuable components.


Fig. One of the downed aircraft found south-west of Emi prior to the recovery of the wreckage.

Flicking through the initial reports on the recovered planes, he was pleased to note that six Valarisk units had been deemed repairable and replacement parts from the other wrecks would suffice to make them airworthy again. He made a note to inform the Valyrien air force in case they wanted their birds back. Over the noises of the workshop in the warehouse below, he heard the whine of motors as the large front doors began to open. Standing up, he put the pile of reports back down onto his desk and walked up to his makeshift office window and looked down onto the busy shop floor. A truck was backing in, beeping with its reversing lights on as a crane was winched over to unload it. “I don’t believe it.” Lonan stepped to the side and opened his door, walking out onto the metal gantry overlooking the facility. Dashing along it, boots clanging on the latticed metal under his feet, he yelled down, trying to be heard, “Where in the blazes did you get that?!”.

Sitting on the rear of the truck was an almost pristine Asgarthian, Dodo, ground attack strike craft. Twin jet engines sitting above and slightly in front of the tail, stocky wings with missile mounts, two of which still carried ordnance and a heavily armoured nose and cockpit containing a large rotary cannon. From what he could see, the damage was minimal; a dozen or so machinegun bullets had entered the wings but the self-sealing fuel tanks had handled them and a single, large calibre hole in the canopy where an exceedingly lucky cannon shot, potentially 40mm or above, had punched through and out the other side, taking the top third of the pilot with it. One of his engineers waved up at him and shouted back, “Lads on the ground said it got tagged coming in low on an attack run and coasted down into a field.”.

“First thing’s first,”, Lonan roared down, “check the log and computers for any actionable intel and get back to me.”. He was about to turn away but then he remembered the live missiles as chains were being strapped around the fuselage, “Oh but even before that, get those things off and disarmed ASAP.”.

[Greater Slavacia]

7 divisions dispatched to Slavacian-Aruumite Border
Slavacian Expeditionary Fleet Sets Sail OOB: https://www.nationstates.net/page=dispatch/id=1240766

Channel 1 News
It was almost 9pm, the second hand of the clock approached the 12 mark, then, the melody plays as an intro flashes across the screen. A presenter is seated at the table.

Prime-Minster Igor Valenkov

"Good Evening Comrades, Vladimir Tokarev is in the studio, today in the news: Slavacian Expeditionary Fleet embarks on its voyage to Harren Island; new cancer treatment proves to be effective; Slavacian Border Guards on the Slavacian-Auruumite Border have been placed on maximum alert; three tank and four motorized infantry divisions have been directed to the Auruumite border."
"But first, breaking news following the announcement of the prime minister:"
A man appears on the screen, he is dressed in a blue striped shirt and is sitting at a table:
"Comrades, in response to new provocations across the planet, a worsening situation in Harren, and the despicable acts committed by certain parties in the Harranese Civil war and after much deliberation the council of Ministers, following recommendations from the MGB and the General Staff of the Armed Forces, it has been decided that a state of alert be announced nation wide. This does not yet mean curfews." he pauses before continuing "But, document checks will now occur at all public locations with a large number of visitors, armed patrols of the streets at night will also be implemented. The air defense forces are being placed on high alert while all officer leaves have been recalled. I hope all of you will support our government in this difficult time. Please, if you see something suspicious, report it to the nearest office of the MVD or MGB. Thank you for your attention."
The screen switches back to the host.
"This marks the first time Slavacia goes to a state of alert since the conclusion of the Slavacian Civil War, now, onto other issues..."

Novosergeevsk, Departure of the Southern Fleet

Admiral Nestrov with it's colours hoisted

The quays were lined with hundreds, if not thousands of people. A bright crowd cheered, waved, sometimes cried as the big white ships sailed out of the port. There of course were the pride of Slavacia's navy: the two new nuclear carriers, the Pobeda (Victory) and the Zvezda (Star); there was the famed Admiral Nestrov one of the most powerful warships fielded by Slavacia. There were also smaller capital ships, the Petrograd, a helicopter carrier; a trio of guided missile cruisers and smaller ships: destroyers and frigates. Each ship hoisted it's colours high as it sailed through the port. Several orchestras played naval marches as the procession headed out to sea. As each ship passed the Admirals lined up on the edge of the port, it fired a shell much to the awe of the gathered crowd. Soon however the procession completed, the ships ordered into battle formation and headed out to sea.

The ships set a course for the North Archon islands, where according to the Roman government, they would be provided with refueling and docking opportunities. At this speed it would take the ships several weeks to cover the distance. While en route it was decided that the ships will pay a friendly visit to each nation that would be kind enough to open their ports for them and allow (at least the capital ships) docking rights.

Momoe, Headquarters of the 2nd Guards Paratrooper Division, Imperial Palace
The general flattened his mustache as he brought a pipe to his lips, he drew the air in and exhaled a thin cloud of smoke before he spoke:
"Sidor, don't you think you were a bit hard on the man, Colonel of the MGB and all, these aren't your usual methods."
The MGB colonel looked at the General long and hard, he twirled a cigarette in his fingers before he spoke
"Vasiliy, I know how much you value chivalry and honor. But now isn't the time. That thing, I dare not say man, killed two of our soldiers handing out aid, not only them by the way. Did you see the civilians?"
The general didn't change in the face, he took a couple more breaths from the pipe and put it down
"Sidor, I know, that's why I didn't intervene, the boys wouldn't understand. But we can't afford to turn into that man, as desperate we become. We came here to bring peace, which by the way, we are now officially doing"
the general motioned on the freshly printed order to cease all hostilities and undertake only peacekeeping duties.
"Now, considering we have the information" he continued "it would be a loss to ignore it, even though it was gathered in an" the general paused "unorthodox way, what are we going to do with their leader?"
"Well, General, as you said, my methods are unorthodox. As soon as that man" the colonel winced "informed me of their leaders location, it only took a couple of my officers, some sleep gas grenades and a little of ingenuity to capture him"
"I'm impressed Sidor, but why wasn't I informed of this earlier" the general's face went from that of a regular man to that of a professional warrior
"Well, it succeeded approximately" the colonel glanced at his watch "57 minutes, 16.45 seconds ago"
The general laughed, while the colonel remained as serious as ever
"Ah, the famed MGB punctuality, and I thought this war had really ruined you"
"Not a chance" the colonel finally cracked a smile
"Like the good old days eh?"
"More or less. So Comrade General, do you wish to interrogate the prisoner personally? Or shall I perform this act?"
The general laughed again "I'll do it myself colonel, before you start cutting off that mans fingers." Suddenly a beeping noise brought the generals attention to his tablet. He stopped laughing and flicked through the message displayed on the screen.
"What is it Vasiliy"
"New orders, the 85th Parachute Regiment is to load up onto transports and head south-east, across the front-line and do a tour of the most heavily damaged cities to access the humanitarian situation. They have also been kind enough to attach a message that we are to broadcast on the island. I'm sorry Sidor, but the prisoner will have to wait. We have new orders."
With that, the general put out his pipe, straightened his uniform and waled out of the office.

Code: Select all

To: All combatants of the Harrenese Civil War
From: Headquarters of the 1st Guards Paratrooper Division, Momoe

Please allow the safe passage of the 85th Parachute Regiment through your territory. They will be doing a tour of the damaged cities and will be crossing the Confederate-Entente front line shortly. Please note that any hostilities against them may be viewed as either a provocation or a direct declaration of war. As such, please refrain attacking any vehicles displaying a black sun on a white flag.

Thank you for your cooperation,
Major-General Vasiliy Spitsyn,
Commanding officer of the 2nd Guards Division VDV


[Romae in Perpetuum]

Castra Prima, South-West of Harren Island

Well, that was easy. Thought Marcus Didius Favonius, Senior Centurion of the 1st Cohort and Primus Pilus of the 12th Legion. Considering the defeat the Skjdoldurians had suffered in the east, and that Asgareth had suffered the single worst day in its entire military history (both against third rate militias no less!) Festus was expecting total disaster. But, as always, the gods had smiled on Rome and her legions, and the entire Twelfth Legion had arrived without a hitch.

Now. Now the war could begin in earnest.

The Primus Pilus inspected the area and inwardly nodded with approval as the legionaries quickly and efficiently got to work establishing the first of three FOBs in the south of the island. There were always some slackers who needed balling at or just a good old-fashioned flogging, plus in his time he’d seen and helped build more of these encampments than he could care to remember. This was the true strength of Rome he concluded to himself. It was not the fact that her legions were numerous, and her sons disciplined and brave, but rather that each legionnaire was the product of a strict and brutal training regime, tuned to perfection over countless centuries. But the Roman legionnaire was not only a well-ordered killing machine, he was an engineer as well.

Under the supervision of the 1st cohorts engineers, sections of legionaries began assembling the basic infrastructure of a Roman castra: temporary jetties had been established to allow for the disembarkation of the cohorts heavy armour and artillery, some of which had already been brought ashore, as well as allow supplies, not only for them but for the 8th Cohort and the Cambrian forces still bitterly entrenched in Galatea, to be more efficiently disembarked. Airstrips were also being established to aid the Roman and Asgarthian air forces to maintain their aerial superiority. Meanwhile other groups were occupied fortifying the beachhead; trench lines; sandbags; artillery, anti-missile and anti-aircraft embankments. Measures had even been taken to defend the castra from the sea as well, lest the fickle Fortuna turn her gaze away from the Classis VII. Come what may, the Twelfth Thunderbolt Legion was here to stay.




Festus found himself in a unique position however, the Legate had chosen to direct the war from Kaiserea Eschate leaving the Camp Prefect (his predecessor as Primus Pilus) as the most senior officer on the island. But he was commanding the Castra Teritia, where the lion’s share of the Legion had landed, leaving him in practical command of the Siege of Galatea and poised to win, not only the glory of victory, but a commendation (and an implied large reward) from Caesar’s son.

The Primus Pilus certainly felt himself up to the task, despite approaching his sixty second year, he was still as robust as ever and with forty years of experience under his belt he was among the crème-de-la-crème of the Centurionate and not only that had under his command the veteran first cohort. In the ancient days the 1st had held the weakest flank of the battle line, but these days they were more akin to the spearpoint of the legion; sent wherever the fighting was fiercest and victory the most unlikely the men of the first would return home victorious, or die trying.
As soon as preliminary reconnaissance had been completed, and the preparations in the camp made the cohorts would march on their targeted cities, but whereas the rest of the Twelfth were only expecting minimal resistance from horribly spread out Valrisk troops and inexperienced militia units, Festus’ troops had to deal with the most vicious hotspot on the island.
In recognition of this, however, he had not only been given an attachment of two-thousand Skjoldurian guardsmen (barbarian brutes selected, bought and trained from the age of 5 to not only be extremely effective killers but instilled with a fanatical loyalty to the Imperial Family) to act as shock troops, but the Senior Centurion had been awarded the honour of carrying the Aquilla standard into battle! The sacred gold eagle of the Legio XII Fulminata, venerated and honoured as the representation of the Legions pride and reputation, the boys would fight all the harder! And as soon as the 8th Cohort could be resupplied, the insurrection that had plagued the island for over a year, would be dealt its death blow.

Maritsa’s stream just west of Mount Yari and Emi, Harren Island

Pitiful. Thought Prefect Caelius, as he surveyed the ruins of the artillery train from a nearby hill. Just pitiful.
He had to admit HISS had come up with an impressive plan, one that would have never occurred to the likes of Vipsanius Agrippa. Roman military strategists had been spoiled for far too long with advanced technology and plentiful resources and, despite similar advanced made in security and espionage, Caelius was forced to wonder if Praetorian Intelligence was beginning to lose its own edge.
Afterall he’d been called down personally to oversee what should have been a simple investigation and had spent the last few hours directing HISS, and what few Praetorian, agents he could gather to make it look like decisive action was being taken.
They were just spread too thin damn it! They had just enough men to prevent open rebellion in the heartlands as well as defend against the Rusinian advance, but nowhere near enough for the concentrated anti-insurgency campaign they needed to run.
Not that the loss of one antiquated weapons platform and a paltry few mercenaries mattered that much and had the Skjoldurians and Asgarthians actually done their damn jobs and pushed the Valrisk back no one would have noticed or even cared!
Not that he blamed the Asgarthians that much, Caelius reflected. They’d had a string of extraordinarily bad luck, but he’d gotten word about how much the new Basileus was paying the bloody Skjoldurians! It might not be that much to a prince, but considering his own family were tax collections and administrators, it made his eyes water…

Regardless, they had shat the bed, and now a train derailing required the personal intervention of the most senior Praetorian Agent on this shithole. Just great.
Not for the first time he silently cursed that old fuck Agrippa. If Intelligence had been allowed to continue its policy of indoctrination, quiet ops and assassinations (with the occasional very loud example, obviously); they might have been able to quiet this discontent. But no. The Praefectus had to keep up his ‘aura of fear’, as his reports to the capital had put it, to terrify the populace into subservience.
It seemed that Rome was locked on this course, ineffective though it might be, for to back down now would be perceived as weakness (particularly now the Asgarthians had started murdering teachers). It had become clear however, that striking a balance between an Agrippinan reign of terror and Standard indoctrination techniques was impossible. This latest attack only served to hammer that nail home, and Caelius knew for a fact Agrippa would use it to push his agenda. His spies among the fleet had informed him that the old man was drafting a proposal for an ‘Ultimate Sanction’ to end the terrorist threat once and for all…though the gods alone knew the details.
Prefect Aelius Sejanus had managed to dissuade an indifferent Nero from anything more drastic, but Drusus Sebastos was a different character all together and he was being hosted by Agrippa’s damn son! Bloody patricians. Convinced they’re right all the way until they fuck up so drastically that they’re forced to blame some stooge and not show their face at court for a while.
He needed a counter solution and fast, before he ended up with the blame for this shit. Sejanus had already begun distancing himself from the impending shitstorm and would have no problem kicking the blame downstairs. To think, Caelius had actually requested this assignment, thinking it would be an easy boost for his carrier…

“Prefect.” Came a curt voice from directly behind him.
“Ah, Major Nagu. Done at last, are we?” He replied quickly dismissing his long-term problems for his immediate ones. “Tell me you’ve managed to find the culprits.”
“Unfortunately, no Prefect.” The man responded. Hector Nagu. His liaison with the offshore HISS command. Caelius had close him personally, recognising the younger man’s ruthless streak and his, vigorously tested, loyalty to the Hegemony. “Our initial investigation had led to no obvious leads, and our informants in the known local cells have no new information.”
“So, we have nothing?” Caelius said, grinding his teeth. He could practically hear Agrippa’s proposal now; ‘current methods have proved both ineffective and time consuming, underlining the need for more severe measures’
“Not quite nothing, sir. The railway maintenance crews seem the most likely options, however. Most of them have been here since Balthazar’s day and certainly were involved in the initial rebellion that lead to his exile. They also possess both the technical knowhow and means to cause an accident of this magnitude.”
“Fine.” The prefect sighed, in his experience the most obvious candidate was never the correct one, but they might reveal something to give them a better lead. “Take them to the regional headquarters. Standard interrogation and psychological manipulation procedure Kappa 7 should do…”
“As you say, sir.” Nagu said deferentially before beginning to back off.
“Oh, Major. Whilst you’re there I want you to handle a little thought exercise for me…”
“Sir?” The other man asked, obviously puzzled.
“Its of no great secret that our operations are no longer producing significant enough returns, as a result certain element of the Roman administration, may take this opportunity to press their own more…radical agendas to the Basileus.” Caelius had already checked the immediate area: rural, no unfamiliar personnel within earshot, no anyone within earshot for that matter. “This could potentially have some…unexpected consequences. Therefore, I would like you to run your own simulations and arrive at your own internal conclusions for how best to handle the discontent in the interior. Your race and subsequent insider knowledge may provide insights that have thus far eluded the planners back in Nova Roma.” And me a chance to kick this down the chain if it goes wrong.
“I think I understand, sir.” The HISS agent said impassively.
“Good good. Oh, and major? It might be best for all concerned if you were to keep your thought experiment relatively private…after all, we wouldn’t want anyone getting a false impression.” The prefect’s expression hardened. “For all our sakes.”

I.R.S. Valentinian, South of Harren Island

“Pathetic.” Announced Praefectus Vipsanius Agrippa to no one in particular. “Maybe now the hound will learn to not stray from its master’s shadow.” He had observed the greenskin attack from the observation deck and had even allowed himself a snicker as their entire airship fleet was forced into the sea.
“They are subterranean animals, Praefectus.” Replied Trierarch Festus, who had come to give his report on the battle and was maintaining a respectful distance from Agrippa. “Maybe they’ll learn to stay where they belong?”
“Unlikely.” Agrippa grunted contemptuously.
With a few taps on his wrist device the observation window exploded into a holographic array of data, reports and, unusually, the Pantun Rovers- Pertoni Wildcats hockey game in the top right corner.

“The latest reports from Intelligence’s Meridian sections. The vermin have mobilised about half a Legion, and if their lout of a chieftan’s speech is any indication they’ll be headed here.”
“More airships?” The Trierarch grinned, gesturing to the wreckage. “They’re not exactly hard to see…”
“Indeed not. Prince Nero has ordered that airwings in the eastern mainland and northern Archon have been put on high alert. Proconsul Trajan had done likewise is both Cambrius and Gallia and even King Kjartan of Skjoldur has vowed to cover the south. The confederacy owns the western skies. It’s time the world was made aware of this.”
“It’s just a matter of time until we own the island as well.” Festus added. “It is a shame we we’re unable to attend the Royal Wedding. I heard it was magnificent…”
“The Basileus drank and snorted himself to near unconsciousness and ordered the atomic destruction of Galatea for the fireworks display, if the DJ’s hadn’t then decided to play his favourite song, we would have lost three cohorts.” Agrippa said briskly. “Alvora wasn’t that much better by all accounts and had a temper tantrum because the cake was simultaneously too small and too big and the wine either too strong or not strong enough, not that it stopped her guzzling it like a desiccated camel. I’m glad I missed it.”
“Well…” The other man said carefully. “The responsibilities and duties of rulership will surely mould them into great monarchs.”

Agrippa snorted, but said nothing. Instead the old man manipulated the holograms again and brought up a status report.
“It’s time we dealt the death blow to the Valrisk fleet.” He said, changing the subject entirely. “A further series of missile strikes as well as further aerial assaults from both from Caesarea and the Classis VI will at the very least weaken them. Then we and the Cambrians close the noose, then they’re done for.”
“Very good sir. But what about the Dis class war…”
“They would require Imperial Authorisation.” Interrupted Agrippa. “And his highnesss Drusus Sebastos has barely left his bedroom, and new wife, in a week. However, should there be a further escalation, I will be left with no choice but to petition him. Soon, Festus, soon we will finally be done with this…”

[Valyrien]

Stratocracy of Harren, Elias/Mariastadt, Hospital

The Myraxian Corporal returned only to be met with the sight of several newcomers, to his dismay they were all armed, but at least looked uniformed and semi-diciplined. His fellow Myraxian’s softening facial expression suggesting a relief to see some backup, Phoebe seemed distressed, but she was hiding it well. Two men stopped him as he attempted to get closer to the Secretery and the door seperating what looked like parts of a platoon from the president he was supposed to protect.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the presidential aide Phoebe Tristan, are you her?” A woman dressed in the militia uniform of the Stratocracy interrupted the surgeon’s and secretary's conversation, the later insisting on being let into the room. The two, woman and uniform didn’t really click in Marcus’s head at first unlike with the other two militiamen flanking her, though an eerie familiarity kept him from questioning it. Additional militiamen had begun interrupting medical staff, as well as any other members of the delegation to ask seemingly irrelevant questions, perhaps fond of their newfound power.

“Yes, I am she?” Came as a reply, the militiawoman held up a picture seeming to compare the faces. She nodded, one of the two militiamen taking it as a cue to clock Phoebe with the butt of his rifle, a Nathasja AK-T3M. The sheer sudden brutality, especially against a government official was surreal. The faint sound of teeth skittering across hospital flooring, leaving droplets of red in their tracks was unusually loud, the surgeon who’d shared the results of the operation couldn’t help but identified them as a pair of central incisors and one lateral incisor. The Myraxian guards, including marcus had their weapons drawn in an instance, far quicker than the less experienced Harreni, but hesitated when ordered: “Stand the fuck down, dogs!” barked like a drill sergeant, or perhaps more like an owner ordering an unruly dog in Rusina Standard, with an unmistakable northern accent. An Imperial Valari, suggesting this might be a little far over their heads and not something to tangle with, especially in their own territory. She'd been oddly hard to recognize till the sweet voice turned coarse, Marcus thought slightly distracted as the remaining members of the platoon arrived in the corridor behind them. Beaten black and blue for offering resistance, the Corporal was released later, together with the documents sent to the Myraxian Intelligence Service.

Stratocracy of Harren, Elias/Mariastadt, Unknown

A man stood leaning against one of the concrete walls, wearing aviator sunglasses despite the dim light, chewing what the handcuffed man presumed to be gum, and doing so obnoxiously loud. Another was seated across the table from him, flipping back and forth between pages in silence, wearing an eyepatch on his left eye.

Man A: “Does he really have to chew that loudly?” *Man A motioning towards Man C*
Man B: “I have to fill out this form in the case of anything happening to you while in our custody... Can you tell us your name?”
Man A: “... It’s Sachio, Sachio Dimakos.”
Man B: “Do you recognize this woman, Sachio Dimakos?”
Sachio Dimakos: “Well, yes it’s the President’s aide Ph-”
Man: A “You are employed under this woman, are you not Sachio?
Sachio: “It’s not a crime to have a job.”
Man C: “We’ll decide what is and isn’t a crime.”
Sachio: “...Kapten, why am I being hel-”
Man C: “It’s Ôfverkapten actually.”
Sachio: “Ôfverkap-”
Man C: “Ôfverkapten von Ôhrn.”
Sachio: Ôfverkapten von Ô-”
Man C: “Ôfverkapten Sigfrid von Ôhrn.”
Sachio: Ôfverkapt-
Man C: “I say Ôfverkapten Sigfrid von Ôhrn, but he really likes the nickname-”
Ôfverkapten Sigfrid von Ôhrn: “That’s enough, Vasilios.”
Sachio: “Ôfverkapten Sigfrid von Ôhrn”
Ôfverkapten Sigfrid von Ôhrn: “Just Kapten will do.”
Sachio: “Kapten... Can I ask why I’m being held here?”
Kapten: “Go ahead.”
Sachio: *Pauses* “...Wh-why am I being held here?”
Vasilios: “Why do you think you’re being held here?”
Sachio: ”I guess it’s something related to Mrs. Phoebe Tristan? Just ‘cause you brought her up? Something about my work maybe?”
Kapten: “You’re a press secretary, are you not?
Sachio: “Yes, I’m a the press secretary for the President, yeah?”
Vasilios: “Woooooo.” *jazz hands*
Kapten: It’s your job to pretty much lie to cover up inconvenient truths, right?”
Sachio: “No, not really, perhaps bend the truth slightly in extreme cases.”
Kapten: “Isn’t that the same as lying?”
Sachio: “It isn’t.”
Kapten: ”No?”
Sachio: “...I mean haven’t you ever told a funny story to a group of friends and embellished it slightly or perhaps left out some details for the sake of the bigger picture?”
Kapten: “I don’t have any funny stories.”
Vasilios: “He doesn’t have any friends.”
Sachio: “Well it’s the same principle.”
Kapten: *Slides a document across the table* “This is a signed document of your former boss denouncing you as a fellow conspirator in the plot to assassinate President Otome.”
Vasilios: “We don’t need anything else to take you out in the woods and give you a bullet in the back of the head.” *Vasilios mouthing the word “Boom” and pointing his finger gun at Sachio*
Kapten: “So far, you haven’t provided us with any reason not to do exactly that. I’d suggest telling us everything you know.”
Sachio: “I had no-”
Vasilios: “Ah.”
Sachio: “I didn’t e-”
Vasilios: “Ah, ah, ah.” *Vasilios shaking his head*
Sachio: “But!”
Kapten: “Wrong answer, friend.”

Harren, Unknown

A black hood was pulled over his head and tightened at the neck, just like when his kidnappers had spirited him away earlier in the day. He was ushured into what he realized was a vehicle once the engine started. Wether it was planned or not, the feeling of being herded like some cattle to slaughter loosened his tongue to start reveal any information, no matter how embarrassing or personal, hoping someone nearby and might take an interest and stop his imminent doom. The vehicle stopped and Sachio was dragged out of the van, his unseen assailants dragging him a fair distance till they pushed him up against a wall. “Stay” an order in a thick accent, echoed in his mind as he stood, feeling the warm brick against his cheek through the cloth and smelling the sickly sweet scent of blood. He stood and waited for the bullet, and waited and waited till he finally worked up the nerve to pull of the hood and ask why he wasn't dead. He was alone, in the middle of Elias from what he could see of the revealing landmarks poking out over the rooftops. They'd dumped him in a courtyard owned by the local butcher's shop without shoes.


Harren, Stratocracy

Northern Frontline

”Fuck me..” a Valarisk officer mumbled when he realized the lines had held. The Valarisk divisions had left, leaving them with only the third-rate soldiers, and he was certain they'd fucked him in perticular with a company of brain dead teenagers to hold his section. The proper Valarisk military had made their way down south with orders to slaughter any romans that dared to make their way onto Stratocracy soil. He hadn't bothered learning any of the teenagers names, but he'd have to now in order to demand a medal for every fucker. He'd of course wait with shaking their hands till after they were done burying the slowly bloating corpses of Skjoldurians in a shallow massgrave. "Captain Holrek, this one is still alive!" Was followed by a pistol shot after the Valarisk officer signaled the teenager with a funger gun against his head.


"Braindead teenager helping another braindead teenager pin a temporary medal" - Captain Holrek

Elias/Mariastadt/Southern Frontlines

The meeting began in a relaxed manner, showing little or no concern about the approching Coalition forces as the participents stepped into the restorated bathhouse commandeered by the Valarisk Ôfverkommando. The geothermal baths had been an overnight hit with the officers who had previously nursed aching old injuries with whiskey and could now spent the daylight hours stone-cold sober. The majority of meetings had slowly been moved after General Sigrid von Ulfstadt had been won over, forcing allied commanders to adopt Valarisk social norms of mixed gender bathing and accommodation. Plans had been drawn up to use the Sfvarttrupperna, previously responsible for the extraction of the Iryllian hostage to inflitrate and assassinate the local commanders in the two Coalition beachheads and followed up by assaults on the positions by the re-organized Valarisk divisions after a bombardment with artillery.

[Auruum]

Warborne Sky Fleet, Skies Above Harren

Massive Airships dotted the skies, spread out, and at such a high altitude their shadows were non-existent and only a keen eye could spot the tiny specks high above the clouds. Ever since the vessels left their berthing, they had been climbing high, weighed down by their cargo. It was a slow climb, but after the numbers were crunched, they would reach the desired altitude by time they arrived above Harren Island. High above the enemy aircraft, past the maximum effective altitude for at least most of their fighters, and definitely higher than the Anti-Air weapons could reach.

Right on the edge of space.

Once they arrived, each Airship would position themselves to the east of Galatea, directly over the Roman Beachheads and Fortifications. Once there, large onboard air-to-ground cannons loaded in their weapons and took aim, targeting data being sent from the mercenaries still on the ground.

Once they finally arrived, it was just a matter of the fleet admiral giving the order.
“Targets Locked, Weapons are loaded. We are green across the board, Sir.”
“Let’s ring the bell.”

Long out of earshot, several loud, thundering booms went off, propelling several large explosive shells spinning downwards toward the planet at high speeds. Seemingly out of nowhere, AA batteries, Radar sensor arrays and fortified positions were all struck, holes punched straight through to the soil for a split second before detonating, sending wreckage, rubble, and the occasional chunk of meat and gore up into the air, leaving behind a smoldering crater and twisted scrap metal.

Shortly afterwards, while the Confederacy forces were trying to figure out what the hell just happened, More Metal rained down from the heavens, this time much larger and much slower, as reverse thrusters slowed the landing to less than lethal speeds, the pods did however land on many unsuspecting soldiers, still reeling from the initial bombardment before being crushed under several tons of metal. Soon enough doors began to open and almost immediately weapons fire filled the openings as Orc and Goblin soldiers rushed out, some of the goblin fighters literally hanging onto the backs of the Orcs like animal riders.

Other pods fell apart completely, housing large mechs piloted by tiny Goblins and armed with giant rifles and missile launchers. The confederacy forces were swiftly pushed off the beach, followed closely by Aurumite soldiers, trained from birth for war. Despite the lack of actual combat experience, the intense training combined with the advanced weapons and gear made the Warborne formidable foes on the battlefield.

“All Units, The Beachhead is ours, keep the romans running and push them inland. Do not lose the beach and do not let those fuckers rest!”

High above, higher than even the Warborne Sky Fleet, the product of the the Joint Rome-Asgareth Space program’s Military R&D was quickly called, turning it’s guns towards the Sky Fleet. As several Warborne cheered and congratulated their victory, a great flash of light split the air and struck one of the Airships across her Ceramic armor, shattering much of the plating and singing the area around it like a massive burn scar. Before the fleet could react, explosions went off as missiles struck their targets followed closely by a hail of solid projectiles that punched holes clean through their targets.

“Gold-Dammit! They brought their fucking space ship to the war?!”
“All Ships, Damage Report, Now!”
“This is the Deadbeat, one of those shots severed a fuel line to our engines, we’re sitting ducks.”
“Kezan’s Pride here, we’ve got similar issues, we’re still flying but we’re not doing much anytime soon.”

Other reports filtered in, the fleet at large was still intact and flying, two of the ships were crippled and three others that were hit bore the scars but remained functional, repair crews doing their best to keep the fleet alive.

The arrival of the Progredimur did not bode well for the fleet but with the soldiers already on the ground, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do now but outlast for as long as possible and provide fire from above.

[Asgareth]

Odele, Harren Island
Barracks of the 19th Ground Force:
It was just before noon and Private Casga Kertona was dreaming about his strawberry jam sandwich, that he would be shortly tucking into. While the majority of the 19th had participated in the various school raids across the city, Kertona’s Company had been ordered to stay at the barracks. He was supposed to be carefully observing the road from his booth, but he was far more interested in his jam sandwich.

He awoke from his daydream just in time to watch a saloon come into sight. It reminded him strongly of one his grandfather had owned, until Casga’s brother had accidentally blown it up. The car breezed down the street, bearing directly towards Casga. Expecting it to turn left, he became disinterested – until about two seconds before it smashed into him. He dived out of the way just in time, and pressed the panic button. Inside the barracks, an emergency alarm was triggered, informing troops to suit up and head out. But they would not reach Casga in time. One of the passengers got out of the saloon and pressed his gun against Casga’s window. He rained fire into the booth, hitting Casga several times. As Casga passed, two soldiers who were stationed outside came into view. Casga’s murderer was swiftly killed, but not before one of the soldiers was taken out by the saloon. As the second guard sprinted away, seven men piled out of the five seater.

The remaining guard ducked for cover behind some bushes, as the men began to make their presence known. They began to open fire on windows and car tyres as they waited the inevitable onslaught. The first three men out the front doors swiftly met their demise, before the Asgarthian forces took tactical cover. The forces began to exchange fire in equal measure, but the deadlock was swiftly broken when a dozen Asgarthian men flanked the terrorists from the west and east.

The shooting was oppressed within 5 minutes. Six of the eight terrorists were dead. The last two were severely injured. Armed guards surrounded them, before a man dressed in black armour moved out of the offices. He approached the pair and examined both.

“That one.” The man pointed at Baako. “Clear his wounds and take him with us.”
“What about the kid?” The trooper asked, motioning at a boy who could not be any older than 15.
The black guard smirked, before he slowly drew a finger across his neck. “Take his body to his mother. Then burn her house down.”

The trooper nodded, before he withdrew a knife. While he moved towards the boy, Baako was swiftly escorted into a van. The Black Guard entered on the passenger side before it whizzed down the streets and out of sight.
The fourteen dead Asgarthians were buried with full honours. Private Kertona never did get to eat his jam sandwich.

***

Half an hour later, the van came to a stop outside Cebes Academy. There, a horde of petrified parents had amassed; anxiously awaiting news of their children. The Black Guard was the first to exit the van. He moved behind the van and unlocked the doors. Baako was roughly escorted down by two armed guards. They tied him to a lamppost, as the Black Guard stepped forward to speak.
“People of Odele!” He started. “Come, gather round and witness the man responsible for all this tragedy.”
The parents gathered around the lamppost, as Baako watched on in defeated silence.
The Black Guard continued. “This man masterminded the destruction of our ale. This man attacked the barracks of my brothers, and killed them while they were doing their duty. This man is the reason your children will die.”

The crowds gasped at these words, causing the man to smirk.
“We held your children hostage so that this man and his supporters would surrender peacefully. It is ironic, that those that claimed they were peaceful protestors were so quick to turn to violence. Instead, they responded the only way they know – with violence. They killed unarmed Asgarthian troops for no reason at all. The truth, my friends, is that the heartlanders are the true monsters of Harren. And this man is evidence of that fact.”

The guard paused. “Asgareth has decided to show mercy. To show some humanity. Your children will not suffer for the sins of these terrorists.”
A sigh of relief echoed through the crowd, before the man continued.
“If, you do as we say. We put it to you, people of Odele. This man, Baako… he would let your children die to further his agenda. We… your liberators and saviours will do no harm to your children if, you… the people of Odele are the ones to cast the stones at this man. Do not fool yourselves into thinking he is a hero or a martyr. He is a terrorist. A man who would happily sacrifice all of you if it furthered his cause.”
“MURDERERS!” A shriek came through the crowds. A middle-aged woman lunged forward at the black guard with a knife. He swiftly restrained her and in one swift movement grabbed hold of the knife and held it to her throat. His hand moved swiftly across it, before he tossed her body to the floor.

“Throw the stones, my friends.” He replied coldly. “Your children’s lives depend on it.”

Several sacks of stones were deposited from the van. The armed men held pointed at the guns at the parents. “You may begin” One stated.

***

The response from Baako had proven to General Edmund de’Lance that the heartlander terrorists would never surrender peacefully. In response he had declared his first ever executive order. It stated:

“The children of North Harren are now considered property of Asgareth. They are being transported accordingly to the Asgarthian mainland. They will be safe under our care, and we remind parents not to be concerned. We now inform all Harrenese terrorists. For every Asgarthian man, woman or child you kill, a child of Harren will die. This order comes into effect from noon, today. Parents, if you know a terrorist or a terrorist sympathiser, report them to your nearest military barracks today! Your children’s lives depend on it.”

The children of Odele had been contained in their schools earlier that morning. Schools in Tsuru and Yanni – at least those that had been rebuilt following the horrific actions of the Skjoldurians - had been controlled by lunchtime. The children had been loaded onto coaches, and taken to the ports near Odele. From there, the coaches were loaded onto ferries which were flanked by the 15th Naval Force.

The ferries set sail, relaying a message as they travelled:

“On board these ferries, there are thousands of children. They are now under the protection of the Asgarthian military. Any attempt to rescue them will lead to the scuttling of all ferries. Do not intervene. These children are under the protection of Asgareth.”

Sending the children of Harran so far away benefitted Asgareth in many ways. For starters, it could be spun as a propaganda piece back home. The brave Asgarthian military were rescuing children from a warzone, and taking them as far away from danger as possible. But the real benefit was that it divided the Harrense more. The parents of the captured children would not support any terrorist act while their children remained in Asgarthian custody. Indeed, they would actively seek to please the Asgarthians, by finding and locating heartlander sympathisers in the hopes that their children would be safe.

Of course, the children would be safe. Assuming the Harrenites didn’t do anything stupid.

---

Western Section, Confederacy-Valarisk Border

The 22nd and 24th Ground Forces, having suffered severe casualties, were replaced by the 15th and 16th Ground Force overnight. The two forces were immediately informed that they would be attacking again at dawn and to settle down for a nights sleep. But as could be expected, sleep did not come easily to the 15th and 16th that night. The attack of the day before weighed heavily on the minds of the men, who had assumed they’d be half way to Peaks Tate by now. Demoralised, the men sat around camps in silence – none daring to make jokes. The Asgarthian Ale had initially remained completely untouched, before the healing power of alcohol was rediscovered by the men.

An alarm blared off along the front – two minutes. All the men of the 15th and 16th could do now was hope; hope that their fate was not the same as the 22nd and 24th.

And then, the sun rose; exactly 24 hours and 1 minute after the disastrous attack of the day before. The assault began. The men of the two forces made their advance into the heartlands, and swiftly found themselves coming under fire from the Valarisk and Heartlanders along the opposing front. It was as if they had been expecting a secondary attack; indeed early reports indicated bullets had begun to be fired before the dawn.

The 15th and 16th were thrown into the frenzy of battle, almost as soon as their counterparts had been the day before. Fresh bodies and rotting corpses shared the same ground – there had simply not been enough time to bury yesterday’s dead. The dying fell on top of the dead, as Valarisk bullets whizzed past, and it appeared as though yesterday’s defeat would be repeated.

But fate had another idea. The Asgarthians began to rally, and pushed their numerical supremacy. With aerial superiority, the Asgarthians could make their presence felt. The Valarisk and Harrenites fought hard, but the overwhelming numbers of the Asgarthians finally broke through the lines, slaughtering the troops where they stood.

The Asgarthians pushed as far as they could before they called it a night. The assault would recommence in the morning.

---

A.R.S.E. Progredimur, Above Galatea, Orbit of Origin
High above Galatea, Captain Azcan Yultsin had been lying in bed, enjoying his morning coffee, when an alert went off.
“Amber Alert! Captain Yultsin to the bridge, please. Captain Yultsin to the bridge. Amber Alert!”
Yultsin sighed before drowning the dregs of his coffee. He rose out of bed and grabbed his uniform. Impressively, he was dressed within 30 seconds and raced out of his quarters. He made his way to the lift, and arrived on the bridge within 2 minutes.

“Brief me, Commander.” Yultsin said to the Roman
“Enemy incursion. Galatea. Goblins, by the looks of things. Aerial landings Attempting to cut off the 1st Cohort.”
Yultsin looked at the scanners.
“Airships?” He asked. “No wonder our boys can’t hit back. I take it that’s why I’ve had to get up at…” The captain checked his watch. “6am! 6am! Damn goblins.”
The captain sighed, before taking a seat.
“Weaponry Status Report.” Yultsin asked.
“Phase One Fully Operational” Ensign Constans called back. “Missiles prepped and ready to launch.”
“Good stuff. Commander, how about phase 2?”
“Phase Two Fully Operational” Commander Tertius Petilius Decentius called back. “Lasers are ready on your command… sir.”

“Fire missiles when ready.” Yultsin stated. “Take out those airships.”
“Yes sir.” The ensign stated, before he pressed a combination of buttons. “Firing in 3…2…1…”

A moment of quiet before Yultsin asked
“Status report?”
“5 ships hit... Two sustained serious damage; they're sitting ducks… But… Nope. None destroyed."
"Dammit. Prepare phase two, Commander." Yultsin ordered. "Fire when ready."

The commander fiddled about with a few buttons before stating “Lasers firing in 3…2… 1…”
Another moment of quiet followed, as the scanners searched for the results.
“Fuck!” Commander Tertius Petilius Decentius called. “One ship slightly damaged.”

Captain Yultsin slammed the desk, before speaking “Where the fuck were those missiles built.”
The ensign searched the systems for a minute.
“Cambrius sir.”
“Of course they were.” Yultsin muttered. He turned to the commander. “Your move.”

---

West Harren, "Republic of Harren"
Peak Tate:
While the Archoni Asgarthian forces battled the Valarisk and Harrenites in the west, the Rusinan forces were earmarked for an amphibious invasion of Myraxian territory. Air supremacy had been declared earlier in the day, and following a harsh naval battle, a small opening had been created along both targets.
The first landing sight was Peak Tate. As the most western point on Harren, it was felt that this would force the Myraxians to divert resources from assisting the Valarisk front. The creation of a 2nd front against entente forces was desperately needed, and this heroic task fell to members of the 1st Ground Force. Historically, the 1st were always kept in Asgareth for defensive purposes. It was rare for them to venture into Rusina, let alone as far as Archon. They were the elite ground force; their history stretched back 2000 years to the reign of Emperor Leximus, where legend has it they killed 100 men for every man they lost in the Battle of the Dark Forest. Even in the modern era, the 1st Ground Force were a venerable fighting force.

General de'Lance, as the commanding officer of the 1st Force, had made a special visit to the troops before the ships departed. In a short speech, he had wished them luck and informed them that a bottle of whiskey would await each of them if they successfully secured a beachhead.

The 1st had sailed through the night, and had loaded onto landing craft just before 4am. The attack began at dawn. A narrow naval opening had been created by the 15th Navy, allowing the landing craft to sneak through to the beachhead. The seas had perhaps been a little unwelcoming, but they had been traversed with some skill. The landing craft had opened facing a series of well-defended fortifications. The Myraxians instantly made their presence felt, as they fired their response towards the Asgarthians.

The two armies clashed; gunfire raged across the Peak Tates, as the Asgarthians desperately tried to create a breach and the Myraxian's desperately tried to hold them back. But on this occasion, fate smiled upon the Asgarthians. With air supremacy, they were able to respond, and the Myraxian lines finally began to crumble. The Asgarthian forces simply overwhelmed their former ally, and forced them into a steady retreat. By dusk the result was clear, and the Asgarthian flag was hoisted on the western most point of the island. The airforce made their presence known, dropping payloads on top of the retreating Myraxians before doing victory laps over the Asgarthian troops.

With the beachhead secured, the Asgarthians began to prepare defensive fortifications. Reinforcements from the 1st - another 50,000 would be dispatched and the assault would begin anew tomorrow.

Taygetus Heights:

While the 1st Ground Force attacked the western most point, the 3rd were charged with assaulting the northern coast of the Myraxian zone. It was, perhaps, a cruel twist of fate that this task fell to the 3rd Ground Force. It had only been a few months that they had fought alongside the Myraxian army against the Iryllians. But the regime change had brought with it new enemies and now some of those same men found themselves on landing craft, slowly making their way towards Myraxian-occupied Taygetus.

Inside one of these landing craft – dubbed “Lucky”, the men of the 506th Company were slowly awaiting their fates. They were among the longest serving of all Asgarthian troops, having served in the First Meridian Conflict and the Second Rusinan Conflict. Though they had never seen any fighting in the former, they had done their fair share in the latter.

In the distance, explosions and gunfire could be heard. Planes whizzed about in the distance, dropping their payloads and swiftly retreating.
“Gonna be a messy one tonight.” Corporal Jenkins quipped. “You ready Wy?”
Private Wyle Jenik merely chuckled. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Intel suggests this… Taygetus Heights is poorly defended and shouldn’t hold us up too long.”
“Besides.” began Private Rupea “The 507th are leading the charge. Myraxians will be quaking in their boots.”

Towards the back sat Sergeant Pocka James. He chuckled as his men and women joked. He’d headed up the 507th for almost 8 years and had gotten to know the majority of his men quite well. Jenkins had arrived as a fresh-faced 16 year old, with big ideas and an even bigger appetite. Now, he was a lean fighting machine, capable of taking on whole squadrons singlehandedly – a feat that had won him the Altori Star. Jenik had always been something of a joker - . Rupea, meanwhile, was one of only several thousand women allowed to fight in the Asgarthian forces. The pair had both missed serving on the western front because they had been called into actions in Aurum, as part of a secret military project out there. The pair had said nothing about their visit out there, except that they had been working on a spaceship, and that the spaceship – the so-called Winter’s Aria - was no more – they had seen to that.

The sergeant made his way towards the front of the craft and called his men’s (and woman’s) attention.

“Today, we fight back against tyrants and oppressors. We fight against those we thought were our friends, but in reality were enemies of us, enemies of Asgareth and enemies of the free world. Do not think of the Myraxians as an ally. Realise them for what they are – true monsters! So when you go out there today, spare them no mercy, for they will not show you mercy. Kill them, wherever they stand. And do so in the knowledge that you are the Saviours of Harren.”

The sergeant nodded at his men as the landing craft doors opened, to a furious tirade of bullets. Sergeant James fell instantly and was swiftly followed by Private Rupea and several others. The men behind them were forced to trample over their bodies to even make land, before they too fell. Private Jenik made it 5ft before being taken out, while Corporal Jenkins made it as far as the cliff edge, before being sniped. The men of the 507th had been completely wiped out within 5 minutes of reaching landfall.

Similar stories could be told across the Taygetus Heights. The men of the 3rd simply fell where they stood. The few that were able to avoid the gunfire swiftly became sick from the poison that lurked in the area. The ships the transports had been launched from were long gone, leaving the 3rd Ground Force stranded.

Another day marked another heavy loss for Asgareth. 50,000 of her finest had been lost in the Taygetus Heights. In Peak’s Tate, the Asgarthian forces there were establishing defences, and preparing for another assault. Reinforcements would soon arrive to replenish those lost. Along the western section of the eastern line , the Asgarthian 15th and 16th forces were also making headway into Valarisk territory.

But perhaps most significantly, the war had breached the final frontier.

---

Aykia, Isle of Gespe
General de'Lance had taken control of the war council. He had swiftly made his presence felt when he ordered the removal of Supreme-General Yaznon Paltri. Paltri's body was discovered 5 years later in Epilo.

But in the present, the council were busy discussing the recent developments. As the commander of the 1st Ground Force, who had enjoyed success at Peak Tate, the general was in a rather joyful mood. Drinks flowed freely; the general was currently 16 whiskeys in - at 6pm.

“An agreement has been reached between us and Rome. Certain units will switch postions, as a sign of friendship and a willingness to work together. The 20th and 21st Forces will be tasked with this mission. They will remain under my direct command, but are expected to work with the Romans to improve our chances across the frontier. In return cohorts from Rome will move west and support our missions here. Meanwhile, the 23rd will move up to support the 1st Ground Force, as they prepare to capitalise on their victories at Peak Tate. The 1st are to be commended for their actions today, in a ceremony next month. As for the 3rd, General Lapina has already informed me he has another plan in the making. The 17th and 18th Ground Forces are to be deployed into North Harren as a deterrent against further terrorist acts."

[Harren Island]

Harren SSR – Chuuk Stronghold

Wing commander Aoi Botsis watched over her captured Asgarthian Dodo protectively as it was refuelled on the temporary runway made from perforated steel planking, standing next to the inner wing missile mount and the nuclear payload which it had been swiftly jury-rigged to carry. Dozens of phrases and names adorned the shiny metallic casing of the warhead, painted in crisp, white lettering. ‘Prokopian Retaliator’, ‘Wrath of Harren’ and ‘What remains of you?!’ stood out in bold. She read them again, burning them into her memory as the sun baked down on her and sweat trickled down her back.

Once it had been discovered that the IFF beacon aboard the Dodo was functional, the warehouse where it had been brought became a hive of Valarisk and Harrenian activity. Engineers and mechanics were rushed in and all other work ceased in order to complete any and all necessary diagnostics and repairs. Overnight, the aircraft had been made ready for its mission, even though Aoi later lamented the fact that they hadn’t deemed it necessary to clean out the inside of the cockpit and remove all the remnants of the previous pilot. In the early hours of morning and with the dented bird rolling out onto the tarmac, a truck arrived, carrying within it a 180 kiloton nuclear device that was destined for the strategic target of Regini, on the Isle of Gespe, a port city from which men and materiel were being routed for the Asgarthian war effort on Harren.

The flight to Chuuk Stronghold had been long, longer than if Aoi had flown to Regini directly but it was operationally safer to fly south-east from Chuuk, as if flying over from the Isle of Leximus in the west and not from the active warzone to the north-east. The Republic of Harren had been more than eager to donate its assistance to the mission, making their services available. She had arrived twenty minutes ago on the cusp of dawn as the sky brightened and darkness fell away, quickly draining a bottle of water she had been handed and chewing a stimulant pill ahead of the next, critical leg of the operation.

With the Dodo refuelled, she zipped up her flight suit and tied on her protective hood before clanking up the short metal stairway provided and stepping over onto the wing, lowering herself into the cockpit as the ground crew took the steps away and gave her a thumbs up. Two minutes later, after going through standard pre-flight checks, testing control surfaces and engine performance, she slid the canopy closed, strapped on the oxygen mask and thumbed her radio. +++ This is Brimstone, requesting permission for take-off, over. +++ Permission was given and she throttled up, pointing the stubby nose down the runway as it rolled forwards, picking up speed and vibrating noisily due to the texture of the runway’s planks which was being transmitted into the frame by her landing gear. The heavy plane struggled up into the sky, engines screaming as they laboured to shift its armoured mass.


Fig. View from the Dodo cockpit.

As the airfield fell away behind her, Aoi was able to see the expansive set of defences in the dawning light which had been prioritised and completed ahead of the other facilities which were still in development at Chuuk. Missile racks and silos had been built into crevasses and caves, rows of surface-to-air installations lined the elevated ridges, large radar facilities stood atop three peaks and reinforced dual-purpose artillery bunkers covered one another in networks that dotted the landscape and overlooked all possible approaches. Surrounding these were protective grids of ECM jammers, close-in weapon-systems, decoy launchers and tactical high-energy chemical lasers. She knew that after the strike, the Asgarthians would be after her with everything they had and she felt a little safer knowing she’d be landing at such a well-protected base.

With the ocean shining below, reflecting sunlight in twinkling ripples, the air was clear and cloudless as the IFF gave off three beeps when she crossed into Asgarthian airspace. She waited with bated breath, hoping the codes hadn’t been changed in the day since the plane went down on Harren, listening for radio challenges and watching the radar for any aircraft vectoring to intercept but neither happened. With the coastline in sight, she corrected her course, aiming to pass by the southern side of the city and into the interior of Gespe before circling back around on her bombing run. If everything went to plan, she’d be out over open water and heading for home when the payload detonated.

As she passed over Regini, she flipped open the plastic cover on top of the button and depressed it with a click, feeling the aircraft bounce upwards as the weight was released. The warhead, not designed to be dropped as a dumb bomb, tumbled through the air before a parachute, which had been hastily fitted last minute, deployed. It was intended to buy time for the pilot to escape but whilst its fall was slowed, the spinning of the weapon had caused it to tangle upon opening and the payload fell a lot faster than expected with the parachute trailing behind it, fabric flapping around energetically as it went.

Shards of brilliant white light penetrated the cockpit and pained her eyes even when she closed them, when it began to fade, Aoi could see the bones in her hand and started to feel as if millions of hot needles were shooting through her body. Feeling the terrible sensation of being on fire, she pushed her goggles up and tried to blink away the afterimages to look around. There were flames licking around her feet and so she pulled them as far back into the footrest as she could. Trying to unfasten her hood, she burned her hand on the heat from the metal zipper before she finally managed to pull it back but she was only rewarded with a shower of burning fabric that covered her head. Tearing it off, she saw that the smoke in the cockpit was dissipating as the air condition system swallowed it up, even though she could still smell burnt metal and rubber through her mask, and that the fire by her feet had gone out. With eyes watering she checked her gauges and tested her control systems before looking around the cockpit and out the canopy to make a rudimentary visual inspection of the aircraft.

From what she could see, the metal skin of the flaps, elevators and ailerons had either wrinkled up or burned away yet they still gave her enough control to continue flying on and the glare shield above the instrument panel and all visible rubber seals had been seared off too. By the way the rudder pedals felt loose and the fact the fire by her feet had flashed up and went out, she believed a hydraulic fluid leak was responsible. Checking through electronics systems, the radio returned nothing but static and her gun camera lens looked as if it had melted from the displayed feed. All in all, she felt lucky to be alive despite the sensation of needles burning in her body that persisted. She could no longer accurately navigate to a pre-arranged rendezvous with Aurummite fighters but hoped they’d manage to find her limping in the sky and cover her retreat back to Chuuk. Wiping away soot and grime from the inside of the glass canopy with the remains of her incinerated hood, she patted the dashboard affectionately, “When this is all over, I’m going to have to give you a name.”.

Harren SSR – Yui

Tens of thousands of Stratocratic militia were flooding into the city, abandoning the northern front under orders from Field Marshal Akemi to garrison the cities and prevent their capture and use as ports by the Confederacy. Forty thousand men were assigned to each Stratocratic city, with the last division of ten thousand being ordered to set up and hold a defensible line between Ritsa’s Ridge and Mount Kyllini to delay the Asgarthian southern advance for as long as possible. The Valarisk conscripts were being relied upon to hold the rest of the front whilst their mechanised and armoured divisions moved to engage the Roman landings. Whilst the Stratocratic militia had a single heavy tank brigade equipped with older but still effective vehicles provided by the Valarisk, none showed up at Yui, some said they were waiting to counterattack, others said they’d already been destroyed in the fighting but the truth was that they were committed to the defence of Elias, digging in alongside Valyrien’s Medusa Battalion, the God-Killers.

An aura of fear hung over the city, as one of only two port-cities next to the largest landing of Roman reinforcements in southern Harren, they knew an attack was coming and coming soon and it didn’t help when word got around that the Valarisk counteroffensives had failed. Everyone remembered the atrocities caused under Agrippa’s orders, had heard of others from the Heartlander refugees, seen the propaganda posters and knew of the Roman slave trade. Families were issued gasmasks in case of another chemical attack and subway stations and reinforced basements were designated as bomb shelters.

Civilians mobilised in huge numbers to assist with the construction of fortifications, digging multiple lines of trench networks and tank ditches around the city’s entire perimeter but focussed towards the main approach from the east. Almost two thousand earth-and-timber emplacements were made, wooden barricades hastily erected, sandbag positions thrown up and hundreds of miles of barbed wire laid down. The city’s entire supply of construction materials were consumed to make impromptu concrete bunkers and emplacements but they were poorly designed and placed almost at random within the streets, inside basements and overlooking cross sections.

Knowing that they were outnumbered over five to one by the Romans and expecting to lose the outer sections of the city relatively quickly, the militia focussed its own efforts on making the inner city more defensible and ensuring the outer sections were less useful to an attacking force; they set up booby traps and laid minefields, tore down walls that faced deeper into the city and used the rubble to create stone and concrete redoubts at each cross-section to cover one another and impede enemy progress. Worried about enemy air superiority, Valarisk anti-air missile systems were moved to the city centre to concentrate their effective coverage around the central bastion, abandoning the countryside beyond the edge of the city to the predations of enemy aircraft, they were hidden inside buildings or hurriedly excavated pits in the ground that were then covered with sheeting. Antique bolt action rifles were removed from storage and handed out to able-bodied men who were then organised into untrained interference units and assigned to buildings between defensive lines.

The battle plan was made, twenty thousand would hold the inner city around the harbour at all costs, providing long range support whilst the other twenty thousand would retreat from defensive line to defensive line as the Romans pushed them, holding long enough to make them pay for each building they took but not staying long enough to be surrounded and slain. Snipers, interference units, artillery and traps buying time for them to fall back and set up at the next defensive ring. For now though, they waited for the inevitable hammer blow to fall, hoping that the best plans and preparations they could come up with in the short time they’d had, would buy enough time for relief to arrive.


Fig. Stratocratic Militia preparing for the Roman onslaught

---

Harrenite Internal Security Service – Emi

“With respect, Praefect Calius, I don’t believe your question should be, how to handle the discontent in the interior, whichever method or whatever plan implemented will cost us manpower and time we don’t have. No. The question should be, how to alleviate the impact of the discontent in the interior upon the war effort at the front? Once we’ve won, we can then devote all our manpower and resources to quashing the rebels once and for all.”

He lifted up his right hand to scratch an itch on the left-hand side of his chin, stretching two fingers along his jawline absently. Reaching into his pocket with his left, he drew out a pack of Shurayan cigarettes, offering one to the Praefect before inserting another into the corner of his mouth, slipping the pack back into his pocket and pulling out a silver flip lighter that caught with the first practiced flick of his thumb. Staring at the remains of the train but not quite seeing them, he continued.

“Trying to defend against rebels across the entire country is only allowing them to choose their battles, they’re defeating us in detail.” Taking a draw and then lifting the cigarette up to look at its burning tip, he flicked the mostly unused length of it away into the grass and let the acrid smoke billow from his lungs, “We should abandon all towns, villages, hamlets, what have you. Leave them and the countryside to the rebels for now. Focus our resources on cities and transport routes, protect the major railways and roads necessary for the campaign to the best of our ability.”

---

Harrenian Heartlands – Road from Momoe to Emi

The 85th Parachute regiment hadn’t made it far on its mission to survey the damaged cities of Harren, barely making it halfway to Emi when the rear elements, a platoon of reconnaissance troops and some self-propelled artillery, came under attack. “Ede faecam!”, a Roman ATGM screamed out of the undergrowth, its rocket motor setting fire to the dried scrubland before it slammed into the side of a Slavacian IFV, blowing away its rear wheel and causing its track to spin off in a spray of shattered bits as the troops sitting on top either fell or jumped off. The Slavacian troops took cover as a squad of men wearing Roman uniforms and yelling, “Futuere!”, unloaded into them with assault rifles from the woodland along their eastern side.

Returning fire, the Slavacians began to advance into the brushwood, spreading out and engaging individuals wearing the layered, ceramic armour common to all Roman soldiers. The armour saved most of them as they retreated, taking cover behind trees and diving into tunnels and trapdoors but it couldn’t save those hit when the IFVs began opening up as well, the cannons blasting apart any unfortunate still above ground and the trees and shrubs they had been hiding behind. The reconnaissance troops moved to flank and surround their newfound enemy but upon seizing the position with a flurry of grenades and a charge into the underbrush, they found only the occasional bloody corpse carrying roman identities and pockets filled with denarii.

Searching the area, they swiftly managed to locate two hidden hatches leading down into subterranean tunnels. The accesses disguised with a layer of dirt, leaves and even shrubs with roots becoming a part of the entrances themselves. Scout teams cautiously entered, checking for traps and ambushes along the way, reporting back that the tunnels dug from dirt gave way to a labyrinth of pitch-black ancient stone ones and concrete underground networks. They even managed to find the remnants of a light blue tank that was missing its turret in one of the larger passageways. Of the Romans who had attacked them, there was no sign.


Fig. One of the dirt tunnels.

Harrenian Heartlands – Heartlander Embassy in Undermine City

Following closely behind their two Harrenian handlers, who wore blast suits made from layered kevlar, ceramic plates and reinforced plastics, thirteen humanoid drones painted in a matte, cool blue with darker blue pixelated patterns and wielding submachineguns, marched out of the Heartlands embassy in lockstep. As the first operational squad of drones, they were being paraded as part of a celebration of joint Aurum-Heartlands cooperation and as the direct result of the licensed production of outmoded drone models kindly provided by Aurum. Newly recruited warborne units and advanced Aurumite vehicles joined the procession. Director Rezi smiled as he watched them on the video feed, knowing it would be a great morale booster, not only for the people in New Prokopios who got to see the outcome of their construction efforts but for all Harrenians hoping and praying for liberation.

The people came out to enjoy the spectacle, lining the roadways and cheering as the most awe-inspiring units passed by and the parade wound through the city streets, transiting through large winding caverns and circling towards the centre, music blaring from audio systems whilst cameras recorded and broadcasted the event from multiple angles. The video feeds on giant screens across the city displayed the affair, zooming in on the most remarkable units as live commentators discussed the advanced technology on display and made comparisons with inferior Confederate equipment.

The drone blueprints provided to and modified by the Heartlanders lacked the interconnected network features of the more advanced drones produced for Aurum’s own military and had no individual personality matrices but those issues weren’t seen as significant disadvantages by the Harrenians. The only major flaw with these obsolete models was a known cyber-security issue but that hacking vulnerability was bypassed with the removal of the wireless and remote handler systems entirely which were then replaced with code words and phrases unique to each squad’s production run, which would then be memorised and utilised by their human handlers in the field. The last modification made to the design was the addition of an extra half-inch, laminated steel plate attached over the front of the torso, acting not only as spaced armour capable of withstanding bullets from standard small arm but also as a storage bin for ammunition, either for their standard submachineguns or any other weapons they may be equipped with.

Whilst the Heartlanders had a few volunteer divisions fighting alongside the Entente in Galatea, critical lack of manpower was a significant problem, especially considering that almost everyone in New Prokopios was vital to the running of the city or working on expansion, construction and production efforts. Drones taking the place of humans on the front line would alleviate that and free up troops to man a growing stockpile of Lockwood light tanks and Gazzik armoured cars, both developed and designed at the University of Prokopios before it had been reduced to radioactive ash, named after two inspirational leaders who had died in the fallout. With a hundred and thirty drones coming off the production line each day and twenty infantrymen being retrained as handlers, it would take less than six months to replace the human infantry on the front lines, if the war lasted that long.


Fig. 'Lockwood' Light tanks.

Turning off the television screen in his embassy office and putting the remote down on his desk, Rezi sighed, kicked back, swivelled his chair towards the window and lifted his feet up onto the wooden table corner. The war probably would last that long and longer considering that all the signs pointed towards further escalation. A knock on the door disturbed him and his Minister of Defence entered, a thin redheaded woman who’d completed a war studies degree at the University and had been instrumental in planning the defences built in the Heartlands, including the tunnel networks that still plagued the Romans and Asgarthians. “Director.”. She sat across from him with pursed lips, “You should have moved out of here long ago and set up your office in New Prokopios, you’re acting more like an ambassador than a head of state.”

He smiled, lowering his feet to the floor and pulling his chair further under the desk, focussing all of his attention on her, “Was there something you wanted to talk about or did you just want to critique my leadership choices?”.

“Sarcasm does not become you. There is something I want to talk about but I must stress again, we are in another nation’s capital and you are risking state secrets and intelligence by having us shuttle information here for you to make decisions. This level of cooperation you’ve been pushing puts us at risk!”

“That’s enough.”, the smile left his face but there wasn’t an edge to his voice, simply a quiet assurance that brooked no argument, “The Aurumites are our most trusted allies and they’ve stood by us through thick and thin, they’ve proven time and time again that they are trustworthy and honourable. I know you don’t like it but you will cooperate with them and coordinate with their military. Was there anything else?”.

She pulled a sheaf of papers from within a brown leather folder, “Then, as per your instructions, these are to be handed over to the Aurumite liaison. In addition, we believe we’ve come up with a cheap solution to the Roman body armour problem.”.

Roman body armour and by extension, modern body armour in general, had been a known problem for a while now. The traditional Harrenian SMGs, whilst favoured for their reliability, ease of production and use, could not effectively deal with armoured opponents. There had been reports in the field of Roman soldiers taking whole clips and still fighting on because they hadn’t received any significant injuries. The Republic dealt with the problem by adopting Myraxian assault rifles but the Heartlands still maintained its old submachineguns whilst looking for alternative solutions such as increasing the calibre of the weapons themselves or producing armour-piercing ammunition types but those had been proven ineffective. “Tell me more.”.

“Shotguns, more specifically, slugs.”, she placed a collection of shells on the table and used them to punctuate her presentation, “They’re easy to produce and the weapons are common enough across Harren and if necessary we can rapidly build or cheaply purchase more for supply drops to the resistance. Take this one,”, she lifted up a paper-wrapped twelve-gauge lead slug, “cheap as chips and whilst not capable of penetrating modern body armour, it will be enough to incapacitate or kill the protected soldier due to sheer blunt force trauma to the torso. Any direct hit will necessitate medical treatment.” She dropped that and arrayed the next few, some pointed, some jacketed, one had a discarding sabot case, “Then we take a look at some more advanced, armour-piercing slugs. They can punch through the best body armour Rome has to offer up to 200m away and will be lethal for a further half-kilometre, even though we don’t expect our soldiers to be sniping with them. A single ammunition drop filled with slugs will last a hell of a lot longer than the submachinegun ammo we’ve been literally pouring away.”

He picked up the sabot slug, clicking off the plastic casing and looking at the ribbed, steel payload within. He smiled, imagining an old lady by a corner shop pulling out a sawn-off and coring a Roman with a trigger pull, “Tested against captured sets of armour?”, she nodded, “Alight, I’m interested, which of these slugs do you recommend we produce and why?”


Fig. Shotgun sabot round held by Rezi.

---

Republic of Harren – Stillwater Psychiatric Sanatorium in Undermine City

“It happened!” the woman screamed as she was held down on the bed, writhing in the inescapable clutches of two white droids which were emitting cooing noises as a goblin nurse approached, preparing a hypodermic syringe with a vial of milky white liquid, “I watched it happen! Don’t tell me it didn’t happen!”. The point entered her upper arm with a sharp sting and in a moment, the plunger was depressed, injecting its contents into her muscles which instantly relaxed and left her lolling limply in their grasp. The droids released her arms and gently lifted her up into a sitting position, cushioned pads supporting her back, neck and head. Tears ran from her eyes and fell down her cheeks as the nurse reached up and pulled open her jaw to pop in three blue, oval pills, before holding it closed and massaging her throat to trigger a reflexive swallow.

She awoke. What time was it? She looked for a window but saw none and the dull white room yielded no answer. Where was she? She lifted her legs over the side of the bed, they felt weak and she felt as if she was leaking. Standing up, legs shaking slightly and threatening to cramp or collapse, she rested a hand on the opposite wall, fighting down a wave of nausea. She noticed that she was wearing a white hospital gown and by the way she could feel it against her skin, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Holding her slightly aching stomach, she looked for a wardrobe or a locker or anything that might have her things but found nothing, so went over to the door and tried to pull it open but that didn’t budge either. Knocking on the thick, reinforced glass window, she tried to attract anyone in the corridor outside but no one responded and she saw nothing apart from the uniform glow from the ceiling lamps and the slightly faded white walls opposite. Looking around her room, she saw a sink and a toilet, she quickly sat down and tried to make use of it but nothing came out even though she still felt as if she was leaking. Drinking from the tap, head resting on the lip of the sink with her mouth slurping at the white column of water, she tried to remember where she was. She’d been born and raised in Galatea and hadn’t left it even with the war raging across her home island. She tried to recall if she’d even seen a place like this before but had no idea and no point of reference with the outside world.

With a clunk, the door unlocked and opened, she stood up hurriedly, quickly checking that she was decent before it was fully open. Standing in the doorway was a white robot, she hadn’t seen that before, this level of tech was beyond what she’d seen growing up in Galatea but she’d heard of robots serving the goblins. It spoke, voice soft and empathetic, “We’re glad to see you awake Miss Helen, it seems you are recovering well from your psychosis. Please tell me, are you experiencing any delusions currently?”.

She cocked her head in confusion, eyes looking the droid up and down, “Apart from the white robot standing here and telling me I’m insane? Where am I?”.

“I apologise for any misunderstanding my presence may cause but I promise you, I am real.” The droid lifted its hand out to hold hers, escorting her from the room to a central common area sealed off from other wards. “My name is EN-G3D, it stands for electronic nurse along with my designation but everyone calls me Ingrid.” The common area itself had a television with restricted channels, two sofas arrange next to a coffee table with magazines and dispensers along the rear wall for treats and drinks. Another individual sat there, a young man in his twenties, watching and laughing at an old cartoon where a Myraxian marine kept coming up with wily ideas to try and catch or kill an ignorant Iryllian soldier but being foiled by circumstance and sheer dumb luck. Helen smiled as she watched the Myraxian running frantically away from his own missile which had retargeted him after missing the Iryllian who had bent down in the nick of time to tie his shoelace.

Spotting her, the man got to his feet, patting down his hair and offering his hand before realising there was some melted chocolate on it and trying to wipe it off on his white trouser leg, “The name’s Spiro, so uh, who are you?”. After a quick introduction, a goblin nurse came in with a tray of piping hot food for each of them, a generous serving of mashed potato with two sunny side eggs on top and a steak and kidney pie with a crispy golden crust and thick gravy. “These gobbos really do know how to take care of people!”, he uttered gracelessly around a mouth filled with food.

“About that, where are we?”.

“Oh uh,”, he swallowed the mouthful down with effort, washing it away with a gulp of cloudy apple juice, “we’re experiencing delusions, the Aurumites say it’s most likely a stress-related effect but there are concerns it may be a new kind of weapon being tested by Rome. They say we’re recovering but apparently there’s a kid in this ward with us and he’s not doing so well, I haven’t seen him.” The goblin nurse came back in, bringing two tiny paper thimbles with blue tablets inside, two for Spiro, two and a half for Helen. “Our meds, heh, gotta say I might prefer to stay here really. Food’s better than at home and we get room service!”, with a wink at her, he poured them into his mouth and gulped them down in a single swallow.

Helen looked down at the blue, oval pills and a flood of images and moments came rushing back to her. “IT WASN’T A DELUSION!” She smashed the tray onto the floor, causing the pie to break apart on the clean marble tiles and splattering juice, gravy, yolk and potato on Spiro’s trousers as she launched herself to her feet, “You!”, she pointed at the nurse, “You’re forcing these meds into me, to make me forget!”. Spiro looked up at her, gawking with his mouth open, still full of half-chewed food as she turned on him, “Don’t you remember? Those monsters were killing us all! THEY WERE EATING US!”. Ingrid tried to gently pull her away by the arm but Helen broke free and grabbed Spiro by the ear, “In the subway, the noises of them crunching!”, at a forceful signal from the nurse, Ingrid bodily lifted Helen up over its shoulder and carried her back towards her room, kicking and screaming about children being eaten and armoured horrors in a train station. The nurse followed, pulling a syringe from her robe and a vial of white, milky liquid. Spiro stared after them, not seeing them but seeing a dark tunnel with red flickering lights and hearing the howls of slavering beasts.

Republic of Harren – Front lines outside the siege of Galatea.

Under cover of night, the 1st Republican Artillery Regiment set up eleven kilometres to the south-west of the Roman lines outside Galatea, digging gun-pits, filling sandbags and preparing firing solutions as their reconnaissance armoured cars crept along, behind the Myraxian forward positions, identifying critical targets and determining the best path for the subsequent ground assault.

The bombardment began at 4am with 130mm Frag-HE shells airbursting over the Roman positions to the West of Galatea, peppering their field fortifications with shrapnel and shockwaves. The barrage started to creep in and expand, with some guns beginning to fire smoke shells and walking fire ahead of a massed push of three, Myraxian-trained, Republican Militia Divisions followed by a light armoured brigade, made up of a motley collection of armoured cars, up-gunned jeeps and repurposed civilian vehicles. The plan was to overwhelm a small section of the Roman front with artillery and massed infantry to punch open a gap for the light armoured brigade to exploit and break through to hunt down Roman supplies and infrastructure behind the lines.

When the assault began, a small unit used it as a distraction and slipped into Confederate territory south of Galatea, traveling in a convoy using almost a dozen captured and salvaged Roman and Cambrian vehicles. Their mission; Assassinate Primus Pilus Didius Favionus to remove the veteran Roman field commander and hopefully throw their forces into disarray. The unit had only two latin speakers, Heartlanders who had learnt it the harsh and brutal way during the occupation of their homes and the infamous decimation, the rest were taught the odd phrase or word but weren’t expected to engage any Roman guards in conversation. Their journey through the lines was remarkably easy, passing through checkpoints without a second glance but things were hampered when they learned that an Aurumite attack had forced the Primus and his men out of where they’d expected to find him, Castra Prima.

Clanking up the road, the convoy spotted a barrier across the road outside of a temporary Roman encampment west of Galatea. With an engine grumble and the whine of changing gears, they came to a stop and one of the latin speakers popped open the hatch on the lead tank, catching the plume of his roman helmet on the lip as he clambered up. In a feigned officious and annoyed voice he harangued the guard, “Can you not see the damage we’ve taken? Let us through, now, you blithering buffoon before I have you flogged. What’s your name and unit, soldier? We have disgusting goblins dropping on us out of the sky and pathetic Harrenites pushing us in the west and you’re just standing there wasting all our time. I should have you sent to the front immediately and see how you like being chewed by Hobgoblins or shot at by snipers. What is your name?!” The guard, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now, kept trying to get a word in edgewise but kept on getting bellowed down. In the end, he simply raised the bar and waved them through, relieved to simply be free of the bellowing tirade.

Rumbling into the camp with their treads churning up clumps of mud and grass, the vehicles made their way towards the centre and the command tent that was clearly visible elevated above the rest with golden eagles atop the tentpoles. Sealing their hatches, the signal was given to the convoy with a loud beep of the horn sand they surged into motion, engines roaring as they turned off the dirt track between tents and surged over and through them, crushing surprised and shocked men under the metal of their tracks and opening up with all machine guns firing indiscriminately into others, high explosive shells slammed into and around the command marquee with murderous intent, detonating violently and sending flaming debris flying.

Unbeknownst to them, the assault in the west was on the cusp of success. The infantry had managed to seize just under a kilometre of the Roman lines, the creeping barrage allowing them to advance despite heavy resistance. Roman artillery was responding and blasting the now Harrenian-held positions with oversized shells that flattened sections of the line or blasted massive craters into the earth. The gap was open and the Republican light armoured brigade took its shot, braving the rain of shells to dash through, abandoning vehicles that were disabled or bogged down in muddy hollows.

Four kilometres away from the front line, Decurion Avitus and his unit crested a hill and came to a stop. Looking through his infrared scope, he saw the Republican breakthrough occur as jeeps and armoured cars accelerated into the field behind the Roman positions, firing their weapons as they went. Picking up his radio, he depressed the button and issued orders to his unit.

+++ Load HE. Weapons free. Engage. Over. +++

Within seconds his tank shook as a shell blasted down-range and one of the armoured cars detonated, sending its turret spiralling up into the air and crashing down in a lump of burning steel. More flashes of light whited out his screen as other vehicles disappeared in explosions. The Republican light armour scattered, trying to confuse tracking systems and take what little cover they could, some fired back with autocannons and the odd anti-tank guided-missile but their cannon rounds simply shattered on the armoured hull and all missiles were intercepted by automatic onboard anti-missile-systems.

In less than a minute, the light armoured division withdrew, turning back and disappearing through the gap from whence they’d come, leaving melted and burnt out husks behind them. The Roman tanks kept firing, harassing them the entire way back to their own lines and then switching to high explosive to assist the artillery in driving out the infantry which retreated soon after.


Fig. The countryside during the engagement at night.

Republic of Harren – Taygetus’ Heights

Jeno drove, turning the wheel to avoid rocky outcrops and gunning the engine, surging over a muddy ridge and splashing thin and watery brown liquid across the armoured sides of their car whilst his sensor operator Kadiri watched the camera feeds and prepared to deploy the recon mast. They’d done this patrol multiple times since the Myraxian reports of Asgarthian landings at Taygetus’ Heights and Peak Tate and it was already becoming routine; if this had been a normal landing, the Asgarthians would be advancing further inland at any moment, once they were done establishing their beach-head infrastructure and fortifying the landing zone but this wasn’t normal. This whole region had been contaminated with anthrax spores from the destruction of Element 44 and the Asgarthians had landed right in it.


Fig. Republican reconnaissance armoured car.

Reaching the first of five stops they’d make around the perimeter of the Asgarthian position, Jeno relaxed pressure on the accelerator and let the heavy vehicle slow to a stop before its form could crest over the knoll, ensuring they would be difficult to spot even if the dying Asgarthians were bothered to look. With an electronic whine, a camouflaged stalk emerged from the top of the hull, raising a boxy set of instruments to a position where it could look down upon the enemy position two kilometres away. Kadiri controlled the mast with a joystick, rotating cameras and sensors, zooming in and recording the feed.

“Minimal activity.” Tents flapped in the light breeze and stockpiled filled with pallets of cargo remained unpacked. Most of the Asgarthians they could see were sitting or lying down, rows of them under temporary shelters, some individuals moved around weakly but none of the heavy machinery was in operation and no coordinated efforts were underway. The majority of the work that had been completed were initial fortifications and excavations, sandbag and gabion walls, razorwire barriers, recessed storage areas and a cleared landing zone for further supplies and men to be delivered. AA and radar systems had been set up but seemed to be un-manned and vehicles sat motionless in rows, sheltered behind rocky outcrops and with camouflaged tarpaulins covering them. With a twist of a dial, Kadiri switched on her radio and bent the arm of the microphone towards her mouth.

+++ LZ Tango Hotel assessed combat ineffective. Repeat. Tango, Hotel, combat ineffective. Over. +++

In seconds a response crackled in, first asking her to confirm her last and then continuing.
+++ Noted. Abort patrol and return to base for decontamination and further orders. Over and out. +++

High-pressure antibacterial foam gushed across their windows, blasting any captured spores out of nooks and crannies and sanitising everything to limit the risk of further contamination and infection. When the washing was done and a visual inspection completed by an indeterminately gendered individual in a blue hazmat suit, they were waved through onto the Republican military base outside Rie.

Looking out their window through the suds that were beginning to evaporate, they could see that the base was a hive of activity, vehicles lined up with engines running and people carrying gasmasks were climbing aboard. A sergeant wearing a soft cap waved them down, approaching a side door which Jeno unlocked and threw open for him. The sergeant bent down and poked his head inside, “New orders for you. Make sure you have clean filters for your gas masks and then join the line-up and take on passengers, you’re all going to the Asgarthian landing zone at Taygetus’ Heights to finish off survivors and claim all of their equipment. All captured equipment is to be brought here directly for decontamination. Understood?”. Nodding, Jeno shut the door after he departed and swung the nose of the car around to join the back of the line. Less than thirty minutes later, they were headed off again with a cabin full of engineers tasked specifically with the recovery of AA systems.

Republic of Harren – The Ice Sea east of Shuraya

Adrian Blair was a thin, auburn-haired fellow with a thumb-sucking habit that hadn’t left him even in adulthood. He was a known smuggler but that had, paradoxically, made it easier for him to succeed at his work. While authorities and coast guard vessels intercepted his publicly registered, handy size tramp ship and confiscated whatever light contraband he carried aboard, they often missed his true shipment which would arrive an hour or two ahead or behind, on another ship belonging to a third and neutral party.

For this journey, having just set off from Shuraya, he had chartered a local Freight Company, Igirû, to help him deliver his consignment to Chuuk Stronghold. He looked for his own ship from the deck of the Shurayan one but couldn’t see anything in the harsh, stormy seas that obscured the horizon. He knew it was out there, about two dozen kilometres ahead and chugging on. Neither vessel had any active armaments but both carried a security detachment for anti-piracy purposes. Considering that he’d be shipping weapons into an active war zone, hazard pay had been agreed for his own men and those hired from Shuraya.

The official manifest contained a long list of equipment purchased by the Republic such as mechanical parts, wireless communication equipment, displays, electronics, pharmaceuticals, food processing and construction machinery but what wasn’t listed was the seven Ašratamulmulli anti-orbital missiles secured within multiple water-tight containers, concealed and strapped down inside a ballast tank which was subsequently flooded.

Whilst Adrian didn’t have any particular affiliation to any of the factions on Harren, he still loved his homeland and everyone had heard the stories of the horrors caused by both Asgareth and Rome, the latest being the hostage-taking of tens of thousands of innocent children. Working on this job was his way of lending a helping hand in the only way he knew how.


Fig. View from the deck of the Shurayan vessel.

[Jiqaz]

Axrio - Vaschuk

Admiral Kighva arrived in a quickly growing village, sprung on the west banks of the Chuukiv Canal, currently seen as the primary connection point between Axrio and the Harrenese stronghold. He was given confirmation that the recent departure from the region showed signs of radiation.

A camera was being set up for his address of the present situation. Two of the Jiqazi First Ministers, Seirge Omriu of Axrio and Drayla Mascar, had entrusted this message to him after he was the primary force in getting Jiqaz involved in the CoNAP. Soon he'd be live infront of Strei-ar, if not the charter in full, giving some logic to the Harrenese disaster. He was jarred from his thoughts as the cameraman said "Ok, we're live”

He took a deep breath before starting his speech.

"Jiqazi Intelligence has informed me that the Harrenese SSR has likely sent out a nuclear attack from the territory of Chuuk. I am here to give them an official message from the Axriov government. They are to disband all nuclear operations in Chuuk or face consequences going as far as reoccupation of Chuuk for the safety of the millions of Jiqazi citizens who live and work there."

Soon the feed cut out. He looked around, imagining troops walking these streets, armored cars driving across the canal, the surrounding buildings in construction being crumbling to the ground. He desperately hoped this war wouldn't come.

[Romae in Perpetuum]

Governor's Palace, Kaiserea Eschate, Caesarea

It had taken a weeks worth of cajoling, pleading and, quite literal, prodding from his new wife; but Basileus Gaius Octavius Drusus Sebastos had finally deigned to summon a grand war council to determine how to deal with the terrorist menace that plagued his island once and for all.

He looked resplendent, in the way only a man with an army of wardrobe slaves can achieve, lounging sideways in a plush chair that could pass for a throne if you squinted and was loudly crunching into an apple.
“I suppose I'd better get used to this.” He said wryly in between bites. “My condolences about Regini, by the way, Oskin. Alvie assures me it was in Asgareth, if there is anything I can do to help…”

The general nodded solemnly. “The tragedy of Regini can never be forgotten. This Sunday, a remembrance service is to be conducted in Aykia. It would surely warm the hearts of the victims if the rightful leaders of Asgareth, Rome and Harren are all in attendance. But of course, thoughts and prayers are not enough. We must avenge Regini. The Harrenites will burn for what they have done. It is time we dealt our killing blow.”

Another hologram coughed. General Ako Perca, speaking from Rusina, shook his head. “Patience, my friend. The war will be won. But for now, the Confederacy should simply show its humanity. Prove that the Entente are the true monsters. We do not need to retaliate so rashly.”

General Pasquin snarled, before speaking. “The people of Regini were my people, our people. Already, the preying vultures look at how the Asgarthian empire will react. If we cannot protect our own, what hope have we of maintaining the Empire? The Marshal has made his position clear - we will do what must be done.” He turned to Drusus before speaking again. “My friend, this war has gone on for too long. It is time we destroyed the Entente once and for all.”

“A task easier said than done.” Murmured Prefect Calius, louder than he had intended. “The Skjoldurian mercenaries buggered things in the east, the Galatean front grows more dire by the day and Elias continues to resist.” Clearly seeing that, should the Basileus take offence at his uncharacteristic slip, things couldn’t get much worse, he continued. “This doesn’t even take into account the increased amounts of insurgent activity in the Heartlands, due to previous maladministration…”

Despite the Prefect’s attempts not to, the hologramatic Praefectus Agrippa met his gaze. “They will learn their place in time, or they will all die. Militarily we are certainly winning, the Valrisk are a spent force in full retreat, Yui and Meisa have fallen and with Asgarthian troops.” He gestured at the two generals. “Coming down from the north, the south will be ours soon enough. With that secured and our forces unified, the Republic will collapse and his Imperial Highness will sit his rightful throne securely.”

“And I shall sit on mine!” Alvora proclaimed indignantly. “I am the rightful Queen of Harren, and do not forget that!”

General Pasquin smiled at his Queen, before turning to Agrippa. “The losses suffered by the Skjoldurians are regrettable, as too are our own at Taygetus Heights. But with the secure landing at Peaks Tate, we can now begin to force the republic back from both sides. To that extent, we believe it to be of paramount importance that the 1st Ground Force receive reinforcements from our confederacy allies.”

“Of course you are dear.” Replied Drusus airilly, patting his wife’s hand before turning to Pasquin. “Reinforcements we can do, my august father has deployed 4 auxiliary cohorts to the province and im sure Proconsul Publius Agrippa will have no problem putting them at my disposal. In addition to the new recruits being sent for the depleted cohorts we will continue to enjoy our lead over the rebels. So I am assured, anyway.” He threw an apple core over his shoulder, only half heartedly aiming for one of the cleaning slaves, before looking to a shadowy figure in the corner. “You. The Harrenite in the corner. What is your take on all this?”

Having been informed of the meeting taking place, HISS director and acting Premier Vel had decided to attend in person, lending his support and ensuring that he was seen as a loyal and valuable servant of the throne. Despite the warmth of the climate and the fact that most of the Romans present wore thin robes and togas, he was still wearing his full-length trench coat over his body armour even though he’d handed over all weapons to the Skjoldurian guards at the entrance to the estate. Standing on his feet in the corner of the room, he swayed slightly as a trickle of sweat dripped into his eye which stung from the salt.

During the course of the meeting, Vel had only spoken when spoken to, answering any direct requests or questions clearly and succinctly and deliberately leaving out his opinion wherever he could. Called to respond again, he cleared his throat and wiped his eye with the back of his hand, “Basileus, the war has turned in our favour and without further enemy reinforcements, the probability of victory is high. Preventing the foreign invaders from landing more troops should be a primary concern. In addition, to address the Asgarthian landing at Peak Tate, any forces landing there need to be equipped with the necessary gear to safely traverse the anthrax contaminated region around Taygetus’ Heights.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, Drusus raised an eyebrow at Pasquin. “Does the Archonian command have the sufficient equipment?”

“We will be able to supply enough for the 1st. Reinforcements from both Asgareth and Confederate members will have to wait until the mainland dispatches the required equipment.” The general stated. “Though as I understand it, the equipment has been made a first-class priority.”
“As for the issue of potential foreign reinforcements.” Piped up Legatus Canidius Triarius of the 12th Legion. “The Praefectus and I have a proposal.” A few taps on his wrist device and a large holographic representation of the island faded into existence in the middle of the assembled representatives.
“It is undeniable that the Confederacy enjoys naval supremacy in the local area.” Spoke up the elder Agrippa. “Therefore we propose to utilise it. With his highness’...”
A feminine cough rang out from next to Drusus.
“...With their highness’ permission, Rome and Asgareth can completely cut off the island from the outside world.” A red ring appeared around the island composed of miniature ships. “Only Confederate military ships will be allowed to come anywhere near, or leave the island. With the Progredimur guarding the skies and the navy the seas, not only will the invaders be unable to land reinforcements, they’ll be totally unable to supply or even feed their own men, let alone the thousands of civilians they claim to be protecting. Only areas visibly loyal to the Basileus will receive food and essential supplies. The rest will be starved into submission.”


“The sonar buoy network is operational again after the reconstruction of the intelligence centre on Paros and that would assist with any blockade effort, providing data on vessels entering and leaving the waters around Harren.” Vel wetly coughed to clear his throat as he continued, pulling at his trench-coat collar to let in a little more ventilation, “It must be stressed, however, that maintaining such a dispersed naval formation will make the Confederate navy vulnerable to concentrated enemy attacks.”

“The Valrisk navy is currently being penned up in Elias by my fleet, the Myraxian transports are likewise being kept in the west by the Asgarthians.” The Praefectus shrugged. “However, if the blockade is to be truly successful we will require reinforcements. The Imperial Palace has already agreed to place the XIII Classis under my command and Queen Regent Agrippina has dispatched another fleet from Eastern Cambrius.”

General Pasquin nodded. “Likewise, the 11th fleet will sail north from the Archoni Isles. The 9th fleet will sail south from North Archon. Combined, our fleets will starve the island into subjugation. But, there is another problem now. As you may be aware, Greater Slavacia has sided with the Immortal Concordact. Whilst the Concordact are currently neutral, and indeed the Noctish suffered deaths at the hands of these terrorists, Asgareth will not permit allies of the Noctish safe passage through our waters. We ask that the rest of the Confederacy also refuse passage to the Slavacian ships.”

“The idea of the blockade is that no ships get through, General.” Agrippa responded. “Only authorised Confederate ships will be allowed though, anything else will be destroyed, no matter who’s flag they fly. Rest assured.” The old man smiled coldly. “I shall be making this very public knowledge as soon as his…”
Another, this time louder, cough.
“Their highness’ approve.”

Alvora glared at Agrippa, before she smiled sweetly. “We must have you over for dinner some time, Praefectus. My Gaul onion soup always has the intended result.”

“Of that I have no doubt, lady.” Agrippa said smoothly, trying to remember the last time someone tried to poison him with onions. “Perhaps after the war. My second son, of whom you are an honoured guest, speaks very highly of you.” Domineering, interfering, air headed cow; had been how Publius had put in his last dispatch, before begging his father to get him assigned somewhere more pleasant, like the Galatean front. Though the boy never could handle strong minded women. “But im sure we all have important business to take care of. Imperial Highness.” He said before bowing deeply to Drusus, spryly as ever. “I beg my leave.”

“And you shall have it!” Alvora exclaimed, before Drusus could even respond.

Following Agrippa’s lead the rest of the representatives either disappeared or were seen out to various reception rooms and bars by the proconsul’s slaves.
“Well that was dull.” Drusus said snapping his fingers for a drink, before turning to Alvora with a wolfish grin. “Shall we do something more interesting, wife?”

---

A.R.S.E. Progredimur, Above Galatea, Orbit of Origin

“As you say, sir.” Replied Commander Decentius, rising from his chair. “Helm! Keep us at maximum range and increase elevation. Keep us above them. Ensign Constans!” He continued whilst walking to the tactical station. “Open a line with our orbital defence satellites, alert them to any possible gobbo attempt to breach into space and have them target those floating barges they call airships!”
With that said the Commander turned to the tactical station and pressed a few keys over the shoulder of Lieutenant Blythe, the tactical officer.
“Third volley locked and loaded.” He announced to the bridge. “Missile tubes one through forty are all green.”
“Ventral and forward phase cannons are fully charged and ready to fire and railguns are reloaded.” Piped up Blythe. “Acquiring targets…”
“Aim for the functional ships.” Ordered Decentius, scrutinising the data readout. “The crippled ones can be dealt with at our leisure. Make ready…on my mark…fire!”

The A.R.S.E. Progredimur bore down on the Sky Fleet like a lion stalking wildebeest, maintaining a comfortable distance from the greenskins to shoot them with impunity. The Aurrumites may have been able to escape Confederate wrath in the air, but space belonged to A.R.S.E. and they would pay for their arrogance.
The small reprieve granted to the goblins was suddenly shattered as a series of green beams shot towards them at amazing speeds, however they merely splashed off the ceramic armour doing more damage to their paint jobs than anything important. Their good fortune was not to last, however, as they were quickly assailed with a swarm of missiles and hyper accelerated projectiles that tore through their armour like it was paper, despite the valiant attempts of their point defence.
The more observant of the people below would have only seen a pinprick of the brilliant explosion that showed a projectile had found it’s mark, quickly followed by another then another, as three warships fell to the Progredimur’s onslaught. A somewhat luckier vessel was only riveted by smaller explosions and random outbreaks of fire, crippled, but not destroyed…yet.

“I could really get used to fighting like this you know.” Commander Decentius said with a wink, having returned to his chair. “I think that makes it three to me and none to you, sir. Care for a chance to equalise?”

---

City of Meisa, Harren Island

*Bzzt*
*bzzt*

An aura of dread descended onto the people of Meisa.
Sure, they had been warned this day was coming. They’d known when the Romans first arrived on their shores, they’d known when they had to tear down their homes and arm their children to defend their city, they’d known when the Legionaries repelled the Valrisk assault on their camp with impunity and the survivors returned in drips and drabs.
But they must have hoped otherwise.

*bzzt*
*bzzt*

There it was again. The gold eagle, those four magnificent letters S.P.Q.R, and the cold features of the man who would live forever in the collective memories of Harren: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.

“People of Meisa, when I appeared to you before I offered you a choice. You chose wrong, and thousands died. Your people have wrangled a rare second chance from the Imperium, do not waste it.
Lay down your arms and return to your families, whilst you still can.” He leaned in closer to the camera. “Rest assured.” He continued, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Were it up to me I would raise your city and sell your women and children into slavery, but, fortunately for you, your new Basileus is a munificent and forgiving one.
You have once chance. Surrender to the men pledged to restore your rightful monarch and be treated as loyal and leal subjects; your families and property will go unmolested and you will live prosperous lives as part of a peaceful and united Harren. Those who resist, or in any way impede, the inevitable recapture of your city…” He broke out into a wolfish grin. “…will be left to me.”

As if on que, the aerial assault began, and the militia defensive positions were bombarded from the air. From the coast, ship to land missiles targeted the most concentrated of the cities anti-air defence; but that was little and far between and the skies belonged to Rome.
Armour and mechanised infantry, coming from Castra Tertia soon smashed through the outskirts and closed the city off from all sides as the Legion’s artillery units added their voices to the assault from nearby positions. Dismounted legionaries, in their iconic armour, began dispersing into the city, splitting up into cohorts, centuries and contubernia, and began orderly dismantling the defence. Terrified units of milita, faced with death from above, infront and behind and the unpleasant reminder of the last time they had displeased Vipsanius Agrippa fresh in their minds began to surrender. Small squads at first, but as the Roman advance drew closer and closer whole units had thrown their arms aside and began publicly and loudly swearing loyalty to Drusus Sebastos. Vipsanius Agrippa had, as always, been true to his word those that surrendered without a fight were spared and detained for processing.
To those who resisted, however, no mercy was given, a slave camp awaited these damned souls, if they were lucky.
Their Valrisk officers fought with their typical savagery but were few in number and bloodied from their failed attack on the camp. In the end, despite their maniacal determination and near inhuman bloodlust the iron discipline of the twelfth legion proved superior. An attempt was made to spare them, however, for future interrogation and potential exchange, but just as an animal will fight to the end if cornered, many resisted; even resorting to teeth and nails when disarmed. Eventually a general order was given by the Senior Tribune in command:
“If they will behave like rabid beasts, treat them as such.”
Many of said Valrisk died ignobly that day, receiving only a single shot to the back of the head if they were lucky, worse if they were ill-fated enough to have killed whilst avoiding capture…

---

R.I.S. Mars Ultor, Entrance to the Sea of Arashi

“We’re pulling alongside, sir. She appears to be trying to avoid us.” The helmsman grinned. “No chance of that.”
“Fire a few warning shots.” Trierarch Caecilianus said, almost bored. “That will make them see sense.”
“they’re trying to raise us on radio again, sir. They want to know…”
“Ignore them. The guns will be answer enough.”

The sound of a 54-calibre going off resounded around the bridge of the Otho-class destroyer, the ship was a slightly older model and would likely be facing decommission in ten years or so, but the Trierach still felt it was beneath mere pirate hunting.
Regardless the Mars Ultor, alongside a fair portion of the III Classis had been assigned to a Confederate task force to hunt down smugglers and pirates in the western seas; joined by Asgarthians, Skjdolurians and even Heartfillians, who had pledged their finest ships to the effort.
The taskforce’s latest target, among others, was the known smuggler Adrian Blair whom the Harrenite branch of Praetorian Intelligence believed to be smuggling anti-orbital missiles to the foreign backed terrorists on Harren bought from the Persians. Unfortunately, Praetorian assets in Valtameri had been unable to confirm exactly which ship was being used, but noted that Blair’s ship, the Averof, had sailed from the Persian Island recently and suggested that to be the best bet.

“They’ve stopped, Trierach.” Announced the ops officer. “And they’re waving a white flag, shall I prepare a boarding party?”
“Yes, alert the marines and Optio Crispin, whilst you’re at it. Far be it from me to deny a Praetorian Agent his fun…”

---

“This is an outrageous breach of international convention! This ship is flying under neutral colours! What right does Rome ha…”
The Harrenite seaman was abruptly interrupted by a pistol grip being smashed into his face, knocking him to the floor and scattering bits of his front teeth across the deck like dropped marbles.
“This ship has been sized under article 7-3 of the Pompeian Piracy Laws.” Optio Cripsin declared to the crew, who had been assembled onto the deck by the marines within moments of their boarding.
“You are all known associates of the smuggler and condemned terrorist, Adrian Blair.” The agent continued haughtily, though a cursory glance of the crew didn’t reveal anyone who matched Blair’s description in the slightest. “If you present him to me now, along with the contraband we know you’re carrying, your lives may be spared.”
“Contraband!” The struck Harrenite said mushily, has he tried to prop himself up with an elbow. “We’re carrying food and medical supplies intended for Heartlander refu...”
He was again silenced, permanently this time, by a vicious blow from the Praetorian’s boot to the throat.
“Where is your captain?” He asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

To this the crew said nothing, but one brave soul managed to point at the unconscious man on the ground. Bending over slightly the Optio inspected the man’s newly marred features, but they were nothing like Blair’s.
Crispin stood up straight and made as if he were about to stretch, but instead whirled round and shot the pointing sailor straight in the head. Even out in the open the sound was defining and few of the remaining Harrenites screamed as they were sprayed with the brains and visceral of their former friend.
“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you!” He snarled. “No false flag can protect you, no words of neutrality matter here!” The agent exhaled deeply. “I will ask this one more time. Where. Is. Adrian. Blair?”
Silence.
“Very well, which one will I hurt next? I think I’ll go with…”
“No please!” Cried out a high voice from the back. The praetorian watched with internal satisfaction as a young woman, no more than eighteen, forced herself to the front of the ranks and threw herself before the Roman. “These are good people! Kind people! They took me in when…when I had nothing. I can’t lose another family to you bastards! Not again…” Her eyes welled up with tears as she looked up to Crispin pathetically.
“Then tell me what you know, or I’ll leave you till last.” Replied the Optio, pitilessly.
“He…he’s not here…NO WAIT.” She almost screamed as Crispin raised his pistol again. “He does have the missiles, but he normally pulls stuff like this.” The girl sniffled, and it was clear she wanted to stop but she was in too deep now. “He uses this ship as a distraction and sneaks through on another we have some guns under the hold, but that’s it…he said we’d be safe…” She was as close to tears as it was possible to get without bawling. “…he said no one normally gets hurt.”
“He should have considered that before he defied his rightful Basileus, you all should have!” On impulse, Crispin gently lifted the girls chin and looked her over. She wasn’t the prettiest girl he had ever seen by far, but she had a nice heart-shaped face and the deep brown eyes so common on both Harren Island and in the Imperium and he briefly considered keeping her but dismissed the thought. He would quickly tire of the weeping and that bloody Caecilianus would only steal her anyway.

Throwing her to one side with unnecessary force he turned to the Centurion in command of the marine detachment.
“Search the ship from top to bottom and confirm her story.” He then winced as the girl began to sob with an unpleasant mixture of pain and dread, looking over his shoulder he could see only sullen defeat in the dark eyes of the ships crew. They knew what he was. They understood there was no happy ending for them. “Then torture the rest, see if they know where Blair is, or at least where he’s expected. When that’s done, torch the ship with them in it; standard anti-piracy procedure. I’ll be back on the ship.” He had felt the sudden need to wash the Harrenite stink off his uniform.

---

Front lines outside the siege of Galatea, Republic of Harren.

The attack on the command pavilion continued for a good three minutes as the Harrenite troops unloaded their frustration and rage into the eagled tent, before the adrenaline crazed men either ran out of ammunition or felt the rush of excitement disappear as their bloodlust ebbed. A few exchanged satisfied or even joyful glances as they realised that they’d actually gotten away with it! They’d dealt their oppressors a mortal blow and taken those first steps to pushing the eagle from Harren!
But, as even the least experienced of them now realised, this wasn’t right. It was too quiet; this was an active military camp in a warzone, and this hadn’t been a quiet assault. Where was the gunshots? Where were the half-dressed Romans who should have been counterattacking at that very moment?
The team suddenly became very aware of how dark it was, the Romans appeared to have set up no artificial light and the only illumination was provided by the burning fabrics of the pavilion, that were quickly dissipating. Obeying their most basic primal instincts, the men began to close ranks; a ward against the night.
Then one of them saw a red dot.
Appearing out of nowhere in the middle of his friends helmeted head and, before he could raise the alarm, another materialised this time on the nose of another comrade, then another, then another until they were all marked. Snipers.

Before this had even fully sunk in, however, the small group unexpectedly found themselves dazzled by two harsh halogen spotlights that both illuminated them and revealed the presence of, not only several squads of very unsurprised Legionaries, but two Taurus tanks!
“Well, well, well.” Came a rough voice from atop one of the tanks. “You fucks just destroyed my tent…that just wont do.”
Amazed the Harrenites looked up, seeing a shorter older man in an elaborate, but functional, set of armour with a distinctive plume: Marcus Didius Favonius, Primus Pilus of the Legio XII Fulminata, very much alive and well.

It was indicative of the arrogance of the so-called ‘republic’ that they believed they could reactivate Roman military vehicles without reinitialising not only their trackers, but the covert listening devices used to ensure that the loyalty and the discipline of the legion was resolute. Almost as soon as they’d began preparations for their assassination attempt, Praetorian Intelligence had known of their plans and prepared one of their own. The rebels had been so convinced of the infallibility of their plots that they’d openly discussed the upcoming assault whilst working on the Confederate vehicles! Whilst Intelligence hadn’t been able to gleam specifics, however, enough had been gathered to keep the heavy tank divisions on alert, which proved crucial in beating off the militiamen.

As the insurgents were swiftly captured and led away for intensive interrogations (led by Didius Favonius himself) a group of low-level Praetorian Agents retrieved their gear and any identifying documents and recommended the captured vehicles.
Praetorian Intelligence had left nothing to chance; choosing men of recent Achaean decent, whose language and appearances could easily pass for Harrenite, and making it very clear to them that this was not a mission they could expect to come back from. All those men had families which would be rewarded if they succeeded and punished if they failed.
The Roman agents were easily able to sneak across the rebel lines, loudly boasting and joking with any ‘comrades’ they encountered of the great slaughter done to the Romans and the certainty of their victory. Presenting forged orders to return to Kalitea for debriefing the convoy headed for the Myraxian naval base and were even given a guard of honour for part of the way as tribute to the ‘heroes of Galatea’!
Fools.

Arriving in Kalitea and after passing the Myraxian perimeter the convoy quickly and quietly dispersed into the bustling base. Their targets had been preselected, aided by infiltrator agents and satellite imagery, the Romans had been able to identify a series of major ‘entente’ ammunition and supply dumps intended to fuel the rebel war effort. Each vehicle took a separate depot and prepared to make their attack.
The Praetorians were even able to exchange the odd grimace at the lack of internal security, but why would there be? Kalatea was far behind the lines, and the Myraxians didn’t have to contend with constant insurgent attacks…well until now.
Just as first light dawned, the base was wracked with a series of synchronised detonations as several previously secure buildings disappeared in a fiery inferno, soon followed by a round of sympathetic explosions as large artillery and tank shells detonated, soon followed by various types of ammunition cooking off and firing stay bullets into those unfortunate enough to be nearby.
With a single blow, the Confederate forces had done more to starve the rebellion than a month of bombing runs and with the impending blockade it was only going to get worse.

---

The Next Day, Galatean Front, Harren Island.

Unfortunately for the Confederate forces in the west, their own supply situation had grown equally grim. Whilst they had been saved from starvation by near constant supply drops in the form of food and ammo, the loss of Castra Prima, and subsequent lack of naval access meant that they could no longer effectively conduct the siege.
Their best hope had been the Asgarthian landings in the north opening new supply routes to the Archoni Isles, but after half of them had been slaughtered and the rest had landed in anthrax fields and couldn’t advance from their positions. Now the only effective Asgarthian force was in the North, and whilst it was bearing down to cut the Valrisk-Myraxian occupied zones in half, the odds of it reaching the fixed Confederate pocket were slim to none.

Therefore, the decision was taken to withdraw into Valrisk territory and link up with the force besieging Elias, whilst causing as much destruction as possible in the withdrawal to hamper any pursuit.
As the next day dawned after the abortive Harrenite attack, the scream of Roman fighter planes heading westward heralded the Confederate intention. They were going to break out. The aerial phase of the plan went off without a hitch. Aircraft dispatched from the VII Classis and Caesarean Air Command struck the Myraxian and rebel lines with impunity; targeting entrenched positions, supply lines, reserve forces, but saving the worst of the worst of the punishment for the frontline troops.
At the same time the Cambrian-Roman naval force took the opportunity to fire heavy bombardment rounds and missiles into the clustered goblin ranks. Without defences and sitting vulnerably on the coast, the greenskins were easy pickings and the Confederates were happy to sit back and pick them off, much like what was happening in the skies.
When the Myraxians and their puppets had been judged sufficiently softened up the assault began. At first it was only small engagements in the sections of the line judged weakest but, when it became clear the Myraxians intended to put up a fight, soon waves of Confederate troops began crashing against their lines in increasingly desperate attempts to breakthrough.
At times it looked as if the Romans and their allies had achieved their aims as the line flexed and bent under near constant air and artillery barrage but each time they rallied and pushed the Romans back. Lacking the proper terrain or the resources to perform sweeping tank manoeuvres or execute elaborate flanking techniques the fighting soon boiled down to a brutal infantry slog in the increasingly desolate no-man’s land between the battlelines.
Whilst Roman Legionaries typically excelled in this close quarters fighting, much of their forces were composed of Hegemonic militia and competent, but not quite as fierce, Cambrians and those Legionaries were tired and depleted by the previous attacks.

As a result, the breakout was eventually reduced to a bitter stalemate, as more and more militiamen were brought forward to replace those mowed down by the Confederates whilst their Myraxian supporters kept their formations together and denied the Romans the ability to take ground. By evening, even the Primus Pilus could see further attempts would do far more harm than good and ordered his forces to withdraw back to their defensive positions and prepared to address them.

In a speech, not only given to his men but broadcast to the entire island, Didius Favonius proclaimed:

“Lads, we might have had a setback today, even I’ll admit, but always remember that tomorrow is another day! We are Roman, Cambrian and even Harrenite unified, not only by duty to your king or your Caesar, but by the brotherhood of arms!
For we have spilled blood, together. We have watched comrades fall, together. We have seen the horror and the beauty that is battle, together. And together we have to remain, boys, because those bastards will come for us, and if they don’t, then they’re bigger cowards than they look! And that would be a fucking achievement eh?
So, dig in deep and prepare boys! Because I don’t plan on dying yet, not without a pile of rebel corpses round me the size of Vesuvius and a jug of good wine in my belly!”

[Auruum]

BFG City, Gadgetzan.

The air was calm, still, and silent. Nobody was above ground, the small town on the surface, built around a large, bottomless, metal pit seemingly abandoned. Word had been put out that a Launch would occur sometime today, like a weather prediction that knew the exact time nature’s wrath would strike.

When the Object had arrived, Aurum was a flurry of activity, Gadgetzan specifically. Being the center for all of Aurum’s Space Exploration efforts since the Ascendancy Cannon’s initial construction. The Massive pit in the ground being used repeatedly to send probes, colony ships, and more into space. BFG City built itself around the cannon, spreading outwards like a hive. Deep below, Massive factories and assembly plants put together more vehicles and equipment to be fired from the cannon like a bullet in a gun.

It had been decided that Aurum needed a ship to protect it’s Assets in the Apate system, but rather than build a massive battle ship like others had done, Aurum chose a smaller, more mobile design. A Light Destroyer Class vessel. Fast and Agile, but with enough fire power to slug it out with the other battleships, and then dance around them to swing some more.

Striker-01 was just completed, with 02 and 03 not too far from completion themselves. Each ship would have a minimum crew of Five individuals but had the capacity to fit at least ten onboard in the somewhat cramped living spaces. Two torpedo tubes would help them deliver a Nuclear payload, while twin automated Point Defense Cannons could be used to knock out enemy missiles or as an alternative close quarters weapon.

Striker-01’s Crew were fresh graduates of the newly established Void Marines, a Military division organized by the Void Expeditionary Council of Aurum, all trained using the latest theories of space combat and warfare. Despite it being largely unprecedented, there were various rules in space that could not be ignored, which could define various situations, Situations that the VECA did it’s best to predict and strategize around.

Originally, Striker-01 was destined for the Apate system, protecting Goldguard and other interests that Aurum had in the Alien system, but as the war for Harren escalated to include the ARSE battleship, The Big Six felt it appropriate to divert it for a time.

The Countdown has finally reached zero, and with a massive surge of energy, much of BFG City’s lights shutting down completely, a cacophonous explosion boomed across the tundra. The Trigger was pulled and Striker-01 was rapidly escaping Origin’s Gravity.


Striker-01 ‘Little Bastard’, Orbit around Origin.


“All systems are green, She’s sailin’!” The Pilot, said bringing the ship up into high orbit. “Alright, maintain position here, At this range the Romans will have a harder time hitting us. Keep the PDCs active for incoming missiles, and the RCS thrusters ready for evasive maneuvers. In the meantime, Let’s give them something to worry about.” Captain Skaggit said with a smirk, launching one of their torpedos and sending it screaming towards the Progredimur.

“Uh...Captain? There was an explosion at the target.”
“What? We just launched the torpedo, no way we hit it...”
“It looks like it was internal. Their torpedo tubes are gone and their kinetic weapons are damaged. Their energy weapons appear to be functioning though.”
“Huh...Well looks like our job just got easier.”


To the East of Galatea, Former Roman Beachhead.


“Take no prisoners, Show No Mercy, Kill them as they run!” The Soldiers swarmed from their drop pods, Chasing the Romans to wards Galatea and gunning down the stragglers. The Mechs spear-headed the westward charge, Stomping enemy soldiers into crimson stains on the earth, unloading high caliber weapons into armored vehicles or throwing said vehicles into groups of Roman soldiers. “That’s right you little fuckers, Where’s your Caesar now? WHERES YOUR GODS NOW?!” Shouted Pilots through their megaphones as they laid waste to the enemy. The Infantry soldiers kept up the pressure when the Mechs had all passed, Armored Orc Riflemen with Goblin Lancers holding onto special handle built onto their soldiers hunted down those that would veer away from the Aurumite’s charge, either to the north or the south, Keeping them all moving westward or gunning them down where they landed. When what remained of the Romans, and the Greenskinned Tide behind them, finally crashed into Galatea, there was no hope for the enemies of the Entente to get out alive, and within a few hours time, the Confederate Soldiers were butchered and the Aurumite Soldiers cheered their victory, Under the leadership of General Axle Dieselfist.

The General stood in his battle armor, helmet tucked under an arm, a toothy grin on his face. His first deployment as a military commander went way better than he had anticipated, but he knew it was made possible by the unorthodox methods, and advanced weapons they had used. Aurum’s Military did not stagnate in all it’s years of peace, but it did lack the first hand experience of other nations. Still, the morale boost of this victory could not be denied.

“Alright boys! Who’s ready to give the ‘Rightful King and Queen of Harren’ a warm welcome!”