The Island of Many Faces [Closed: Ajax Only]

[Scocialist Provinces]

Another lime-soaked chunk of crab flew off Konun's fork, accompanied by a healthy splash of mead. He was enjoying his meal with a newfound hunger, for Konun was to part with his island home for a long time once he was finished. This eager disposition was not mirrored by his guest, one massive man known to Konun as Ambassador Hāmuera. Pacing himself, the Ambassador made his way across the plate by increments. Dining atop the tallest balcony in Konun's villa manor, the two men were treated to an endless vista of the Markiran amber sunset.

"You're too kind, Mr Konun." Hāmuera said, sipping lightly of his drink. "That a successful businessman such as yourself would even entreat my request is unexpected."

"Oh, don't thank me just yet. You've hardly touched your meal!" Konun said, barely having swallowed his last bite.

Hāmuera offered a polite smile. "It's very good. But I am unaccustomed to Skaldanic cuisine, you must forgive me if I take my time."

"It's considered bad form to refuse food in Skaldafen," Konun said. "Still, I understand. Our liquor might be stronger than you're used to."

"Indeed, I was under the impression that mead is supposed to be sweet." Hāmuera said.

Konun burst into a fit of laughter. "The sweet wines are what we give children to cure aches, dear Ambassador. The strong drinks are what we serve to people with winters behind them."

Hāmuera ponderously opened another crab leg. "I see."

A moment of silence ensued. Konun managed to wipe his beard in between hungered cuts at his plate. He gazed back to the horizon, the sun looming ever farther beyond the ocean. Such a powerful sight had been what Konun fell asleep to since the day he was born, he knew that he would miss it dearly. He suspected Hāmuera would feel the same about these islands, if he was given the chance.

"I would like to address the subject of this meeting while the night is young, Mr Konun." Hāmuera said, resting his fork along the rest of his utensils.

"Of course, of course." Konun said. "The matter of these islands we both call home."

"Indeed, Skaldafen controls a number of islands with large Maori settlements. These men and women lack access to essential services provided in a language they understand, are denied education in their native languages and are culturally deprived of their heritage." Hāmuera said. "I believe, with your help, the Confederation will see that their plight is reasonable."

Konun looked up from the table, his friendly disposition seeping away. "I'm afraid that's part of the problem, dear Ambassador. You are being too reasonable for Kæp Jriak's liking."

Hāmuera raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"You weren't the only one to contact me, Ambassador. SNIC learned we were having this meeting, and 'requested' that I relay their demands." Konun sad.

The Ambassador released a tired sigh, his disappointment written irrevocably across his face. "Fine. What do your people want?"

"They're offering you a stake in CTD and F&S ltd equal to your position's current annual income, several properties worth 13 million in total and active SNI protection. In return, you turn around the peaceful transition rhetoric, and pressure Onekawa-Nukunoa to abandon their overlapping claims."

"And if I decline their offer?" Hāmuera said.

"Then I can't give you this." Konun said, revealing a needle filled with a clear liquid tinted chemical blue. "By now, you've probably noticed that your heartrate isn't doing very good."

Hāmuera's brow furrowed, his gaze meeting the floor. "Poison?"

"In the mead. This is the antidote." Konun said, looking out to the palm-tree blanket coating the surrounding hillsides. "It's an untraceable agent that triggers cardiac arrest. There's a kill team waiting inside, they'll shoot us both dead if I administer the antidote without you agreeing to the terms. I'm sorry."

"I should have known better." Hāmuera said, quite clearly experiencing the sudden onset of vascular discomfort as he limply clutched at his breast.

"You're not the only one they've fucked over. I've got a gilded cage waiting for me back on the mainland, assuming they're not just preparing a firing squad. Knowing too much and all that." Konun said.

"But why so brazenly? My family knows I'm at this meeting. My department knows. They'll know I was poisoned. Why bother with some chemical that hides the deed if they'll know what happened anyway?"

"Plausible deniability would be my guess. There'll be room for doubt as to whether or not you were actually assassinated, and the international community is likely to stay out of things."

"But why?" A sense of sorrow marked Hāmuera's words, emerging from within his increasingly contorted expression. "We could have resolved this dispute bloodlessly."

"Probably. But the Council is spooling for a fight. The Nationalist Socialist Party is gaining waves in the Grand Ministry, and the Sate Capital Party is doing everything they can to stop them. The Ministry has been in chaos, and I'm told it's just been dissolved. The Council is hoping to distract this internal spat with an outside threat. Killing you will provoke the O-N into being that threat."

"I see. I trust my countrymen--" Hāmuera fell hard onto the table, knocking the silverware off in a rattling waterfall of utensils. He struggled to pick himself back up, spatters of dipping sauces now marring his dress shirt. "To act... responsibly. I cannot accept the Confederation's... Offer..."

"You're a good man, Hāmuera. I envy you that."

"My daughter is turning... 21 in '54. I would... Have liked to see... That."

"Breathe slowly. It'll hurt less."

Konun finished his meal in silence. Hāmuera continued to cling onto life with remarkable tenacity, the man's constitution being the last thread still tying him to consciousness. With one last gulp of mead, Konun set down his tumbler with a frustrated slam. The spooks back in Jriak were always one step ahead of people like him. Always one step ahead of easy solutions.

Wandering a glance back to the Makira one last time, Konun held the clear ocean air in his lungs. There was a chance he would never see his home again, the Medr islands were all he had ever known. The sun had passed, and the moon now haunted the sky. Such was life for the influential people of this dangerous frontier, being tossed around at the whims of people whose influence eclipsed your own.

Standing up, tidying his appearance, Konun stepped to the door. He looked to his guest, the once massive and lively ambassador now hunched over the table without an inch of life left in him. Konun could feel nothing but that burning weight of regret. "I only hope this was worth it."

[Onekawa-Nukanor]

A nondescript room
Hawaiki
Ngāti Onekawa-Nukanoa
Makrian Ocean

Cigar smoke rose upwards in lazy swirls as the men sat around the room, talking in hushed voices around an oval table. The lights were on, but they were dim and combined with the lack of windows gave the whole room a gloomy ambience. Not inappropriate, considering the matter at hand. Several of the men had concern etched on their faces and there whispered voices spoke with muted urgency and alarm. Yet this low level murmuring was otherwise unaccompanied by other sounds.

It was a room which regardless of anything else, was filled with dread.

A man at the far end of the table tapped his whiskey glass on its wooden surface and even these hushed whispers were silenced. A middle aged man, his Ta Moko dominated the left half of his face and his straight backed posture spoke of a disciplined lifestyle. When he had everyones attention he nodded towards the only women in the room, sitting in front of a well-used typewriter.

“What has happened to Hāmuera?” he asked, his voice a rasp much at odds with his otherwise solid frame. “He has been missing for days and we know where he went, yet we cannot find him?”

Whilst the women tapped determinedly away, an elderly man with thick speckled glasses raised his voice “the last information we have on his whereabout was that he was sharing dinner with Konun at the man’s home on the Skaldafen side of Hawaiki.” He answered as his ands flicked through some stray leaves of paper “ah, yes he was pursing a negotiated settlement to our concerns about how the Maori population on their side is treated. It wasn’t an official meeting, so he lacked the normal diplomatic escort. It was thought to be an informal dicussion with Konun to try and see if we could use his influence in Hawaiki”

“A man does not just disappear at dinner Tamati. Any evidence of underhanded involvement?”

“Not at the moment. He should’ve been back the morning after, if not the same night depending on the availability of flights or boating services. You’ve known him a long time, this is much unlike him.”

At that last utterance a slight tapping was heard on the door before another women came into the room and spoke onto the ear of a man who looked barely out of 20s. Unlike the rest of the men, he was well groomed and wore an expensive suit from some belisarian tailor. His youthful features grew suddenly grave.

“it appears we have a situation gentlemen” he said as he turned to face the group “My aide has just informed me of a serious new development that is of vital interest to everyone at this table”

Despite no significant movement, the attention of everyone was laser focused on the younger gentlemen. The up and comer had made his name in covert operations and in many ways seemed to have lived a fabled life. Despite now too senior in position to play the role of undercover agent it was rumoured that his network of informants still regularly sent the man updates from across the Makrian Ocean.

“And how serious is this information Tamati? I feel like my gut is already telling me what your serious new development is” said the Ta Moko’d man at the end of the table, his gaze as piercing as the rest of the others at the table combined.

“Hāmuera is dead. His body was found by local police at Konun’s residence. They say he passed away from a heart attack”

The snort the man at the end of the table made it clear what he thought of that cause of death. “Hāmuera was in excellent health, the chances of him dying of heart attack I see as nil. Unless, of course, that heart attack was brought about by external factors beyond his control.

“You think he was assassinated by the Confederation?” asked another man at the table

“I think the chance is more than likely that his death was not the result of natural causes, whether it was the actions of a nation states or even a criminal element is something we don’t know. But criminals shouldn’t have been so stupid to go after a diplomatic official”

He leaned back in his chair and took a few moments to think whilst the rest of the room grew heavy with anticipation. At last he stood up and took a final swig of whiskey “It seems we should prepare for the worst. I’m placing the forces on the islands into a state of readiness, and I want the Māori Kīngi on the phone now, with a copy of our minutes on his desk sooner rather than later. Gentlemen, I think we might have a war to fight” said the Ta Moko’d Rear Admiral Tama Henare as he made his way from the room.

[Scocialist Provinces]

The Lament shot into the waves with a lurching tenacity. Captain Adal had sea legs like no other, but even he was struggling to keep balance. His vessel bounced its way across the water's surface, shoving aside fog and loose ocean as it raced to the the dawn. Just along the horizon, stirring idly beneath the rising sun, there lay Adal's target.

That ship on the horizon was a ponderous, bulky thing that cut a wide path through the ocean. It was marching northeast, right into the Lament's path. Perfect. The Lament, on the other hand, was a short, needling and agile ship. It could move like a sea falcon and could outmaneuver the world's greatest warships with ease. To nearly any other boat set to sea, the Lament was a shadow that could never be caught.

Adal felt a need for that particular feature, as most navies with a lick of sense would blow the Lament out of the water on sight. After all, a man like him would ordinarily have no home to rest in and no friends to rely on. But the Confederation had far more ambition than sense. For he came from a long line of "maritime entrepreneurs", the Confederation had always been patrons that dying art. He had them to thank for much, and as long as Skaldafen kept sending him regular deliveries of money, women and upgrades...

...He would gladly continue his illustrious legacy of raiding the waterborne traffic of their enemies.

"That's an O-N ship, no doubt about it." His first mate said. "This new radar suite is amazing. Being able to hide in the coves like this sure beats the hell out of hunting inside traffic. We know where the destroyers are before they know where we are, for once."

Adal ran a thumb across his graying chops as he set one leg atop the bow guard. "Top-of-the-line technology straight from the Ostandet shipyards. The Lament is half engine to begin with, so I shouldn't be surprised it isn't slowing us down."

"And we didn't have to pay a single Skoldr for the trouble. The Confederation really is planning something big, aren't they?" The first mate said, setting down his headset.

"They didn't tell me how many other crews they've hired for this job, but it's a lot. Part of the deal is sticking to our assigned quadrant." Adal said.

"You'd think they'd have something better to spend money on than this, what with their newfound union at the breaking point."

"This is part of that, don't you realize? Our job is to strangle these ON islands until they have to respond in force. Then Skaldafen pays another set of poor bastards to meet that show of force with deadly force." Adal looked to their target, the vessel now chugging along within a kilometre of the Lament. "Then those problems at home suddenly aren't the problem anymore. We just have to squeeze them dry in the meantime."

The first mate pulled a hefty pistol from its holster, sliding a fresh magazine through the grip. "Then that we'll do, right captain?"

"Indeed. Prepare to board."

A pack of heavily tattooed men awaited Adal's instructions on his deck, their armaments exceeded only by the tangled girth of their beards. These men comprised his crew, for a lack of a better term. From every corner of the seafaring world, their uniting features were in dress and little else. As the Lament knocked hull against hull with its quarry, Adal wordlessly motioned for the attack.

The confused expressions of Maori merchantmen peering over the deck soon turned to shock as they found an entire vessel now tying itself to their own. Shotgun in hand, Adal practically soared from one ship to the other. He didn't even need to fire a shot before the Maori were shouting words of surrender. Though disappointed, he resigned himself to the notion that as strong as the Maori were reputed to be, the sailors on this ship probably weren't the Warriors he was hoping to encounter.

He barked demands, his Maori crewman translating with concrete gusto. Soon enough, Adal was being shown the various cargo containers lining the hull. Food, furniture, toys. Nothing of exceeding value... But precisely what Adal had been sent to find.

"Get the grenades."

One of his crew hauled a ragged olive container onto the merchant ship, sliding open the top to reveal an array of bright red cylinders. Juggling one in his palm, Adal took note of how each grenade was branded with a none too subtle flammability warning. Adal didn't know much of anything about how such weapons worked, but the instructions were simple. Pull the pin, release the mechanism, throw it in the cargo.

Crate by crate, his men dumped the grenades onto the contents. With every one, a new spitting hose of sparks and smoke engulfed the goods. Within the hour, every last box had been burnt to a cinder. His men had collected a number of valuables in the merchant crew quarters, but everything else was to burn.

If they wanted their pay, all of it had to burn.

[Onekawa-Nukanor]

Hawaiki Headquarters
Hawaiki
Ngāti Onekawa-Nukanoa
Makrian Ocean

Like a inescapable stormfront caused by the divine fury of Tāwhirimātea himself, a middle-aged Maori women strode through the hallways of power on Hawaiki. Guards, officials and other military officers made sure to keep their faces down and away from her burning gaze. Moana Henare was well known to all the people here, each step she took was like a thunderclap as folks strived to get out of her way. The guards at the entrance of office of the Commander of Hawaiki didn’t bother to bar her way as they almost certainly would for nearly any other individual.

“How many more tonnes of cargo need to go up in smoke before you do something cousin?” she demanded with an accusatory glare that had helped to cement her position as one of the most powerful shipping magnates in Onekawa-Nukanoa. Yet whilst she tended to dominate any room she was in, the well-lit interior served as an adequate space to also fit the domineering personality of Rear Admiral Tama Henare as well. Unfortunately for the helpless secretary in the corner she was all but forced out of the room.

“Millions of Tara worth Tama, millions of Tara now little more than ash on the wind! Already I’ve had half a dozen ships attacked and now a group of my exporters are going to pull the plug. They are demanding answers and so am I, as whanau you at least owe me that!”

“We aren’t dealing with warships Moana, a Navy is not an all knowing entity about what happens in its territorial waters” with an exasperated sign he rubbed his temple whilst he waved his secretary out of the room. “We’ve got ships out now, and aircraft running circuits but we’ve only managed to catch two different vessels. Both are equipped with what appears to be the latest gizmos and Hawaiki is at the arse end of the world”

But then a smiled started to spread across his face “Despite all that I’ve some good news. Just earlier today I got a call from the Māori Kīngi himself” and this revelation Moana took the seat across the desk “And what is he going to do about it?”

Tama reared back and laughed “Trust me, ole’ Rawiri has had his plate piled high demands from across Onekawa-Nukanoa. Your just one amongst a series of shipping representatives that are demanding action. Plus Rawiri is not one to let someone insult the mana of Ngāti Onekawa-Nukanoa without consequence. A fleet is being made ready that makes the resources have at my disposal look small. Plus a battalion of Parachutist are on their way. Everything will be under control”

“That is good to hear…” but before Moana could continue Tama cut her off “There is something else that is worrying me” as he got up and started looking at a nearby map of Hawaiki and the surrounding waters, it liberally covered in pins on areas where shipping had been attacked. “I’m not sure if you heard, but Ambassador Hāmuera died, and now all of a sudden right after his death this happens….”

“I was already preparing for a showdown with Skaldafen because of his heart attack, and now pirates are everywhere. I don’t now about you Moana, but this feels like Maui himself is covering my eyes and playing his wily tricks.”

[Scocialist Provinces]

"Control, this is One-One-Actual. We've hit Nul-Nine hours, the skies are looking good and the birds are keeping pace. Requesting line to Operations, over."

The humming flares of his engines seemed to be behaving well today, Lieutenant Barkar noticed. It was just as well, these jet planes were always so fickle, and the Model 50 was far from an exception. A slight rattle tickled the frame of his aircraft as the nose levelled towards the sun. The long morning rays washed his airframe in glaring sunlight, and the delightfully crisp morning view of the Makiran granted Barkar a confidence he'd not felt in a long time.

His headset clicked into an indistinct swirl of crackles for a moment before a coherent voice cut through the noise. "Copy. Glad to hear, One-One-Actual." Control said. "We'll patch you to through to Operations in a moment. Shamshiel Protects."

"Shamshiel Protects. Out." Barker echoed, panning his gaze along the thin line where the sinking blues of the open ocean met the placid tones of sky. His eyes were going to be as much use as his radar out here, and a sharp vigilance by both was going to keep him alive up here. Barker was on the hunt for ships, those that flew the starry naval jack of the Maori. Nothing yet, but spotting them before they spotted him was crucial.

Wander too close, and he'd be in the range of twitchy anti-aircraft guns aboard the ships. Even as aircraft got more and more advanced, air defences were never far behind, something any warpilot would do well to remember. It wasn't paranoia, the Medr island had been full of close calls all month, even if the war wasn't on just yet.

But peace wasn't going to last all morning.

The headset shot back into a static cracking. "One-One-Actual, this is Operations. Report, over."

"Copy. Actual, reporting." Barker answered. "Conditions are good, my Squadron has a good spread going. We can probably cover the disputed waters end to end before one-two hours, over."

"Copy." Operations paused a moment, leaving their line running. Barkar could barely make out the chatter of people talking just out of range from the microphone before the operator returned to speak again. "Then Backhammer is a go, the council just gave us the green light. Happy hunting One-One, out."

Barker slid his fingers along radio switches on muscle memory, switching his output to address his squadron. "One-One, this is actual. Backhammer is a go, boys. Anyone who can't find a pond-skipper is buying shots for everyone else, over."

A series of acknowledgements streamed in from his radio, his squadron mates affirming themselves one by one. With the unit accounted for, Barkar spun his nose around to the sea and kicked his engines into a roar. The Model 50 blasted across the sky, a monstrous metal machine whose kind had never flown these skies before today.

Beyond the cockpit, there was nothing to greet his eyes but a wing on either side and the knotted ocean waves tumbling about at sea level. Barkar's rear view assists were a glistening orange, reflecting the wispy contours of what clouds wandered the sky. With the sun to his back, the whole Makiran felt like his kingdom.

As the sky began to move forwards into the day, the radio began chirping back to life. "This is One-One-Charlie, I've got a radar contact. Big one, two-six-nul degrees, right on the cusp of contested waters. The wind's coming in against me, One-One-Actual can probably get there faster, over."

Barkar scanned his implements one more time before replying. "Copy, turning in to observe. Converge on priority target, out." With another dance along his switches, he put Operations back on his line. "This is One-One-Actual, got our first catch of the day. Moving in to establish a visual, Over."

"Copy. Keep us updated."

His plane whipped around to the west. It had hardly felt like long before the blip on his dashboard was now pulling up on the horizon. Adjusting course to avoid directly intersecting with the ship's path, Barkar took a good look. The boat was massive, and recognizably a Maori vessel. "Operations, looks like we hit the jackpot. Got a full-sized battleship on our hands, over."

"Copy, any identifiers, over?" Operations asked.

Barkar squinted, leaning up to the glass of his cockpit to get the best view manageable. "Copy. I'm looking at a broad tower, at least two gun turrets. Whaitiri-Class, by the looks of things? It's a safe bet, I'm thinking the ONS Whaitiri itself, over."

Operations stopped a moment to write down the time. "Copy. Re-directing Orca One-Nul-Nine to your grid. Maintain visual, over."

"Wilco, out." Barkar couldn't believe their luck. The ON had been stepping up its' presence in these waters for a while, so a destroyer or two wandering into the Confederation's claims was to be expected. But a battleship? That was just deserts all the way down.

Below him, Barkar could make out the familiar shadow of a LBN.48 submarine on his turn. It was the Orca One-Nul-Nine. He relayed the situation to the submarine live through Operations, and watched with a vested fascination as the shadow turned slowly into the waves. The Maori battleship had hardly adjusted course at all, passing even further in to supposedly Skaldanian waters.

The next minutes passed in abject silence. The din of his engines had long passed Barkar's mind as white noise, and the winds pushing against the frame began to die down. The shadow beneath the surface had passed beyond his sight, but the mere knowledge of its presence was a dreadful prospect, even for a friendly pilot.

Operations chimed in. "One-One-Actual, the torpedoes have been launched. Turn in to observe."

Someone had to do it, Barkar supposed. His plane banked towards the Maori vessel and whipped back into a mad dash. His approach was fast, he figured there would be enough time to take in the details and damage of any--

--Explosion.

A morbid bubble of brimestone and twisted metal burst through the side of the Whaitiri, rocking the entire ship into a ponderous roll. Bits of loose machinery and charred flesh spat out into the water, black smog and fire dancing from out of the beast's wound thereafter.

"This is One-One-Actual... Good hit." Barkar found himself blinking in partial disbelief. "Fire effective. Torpedo looks like it hit the ammo deck. Pondskipper is going down fast... Capsize imminent. Over."

His model 50 passed through a cloud of fine debris and ash as it passed over the overturned ship, whispering a soothing sound akin to rain as it did so. Below him, sailors scrambled to so much as react, Barkar felt as if he could pick out individual expressions of pure confusion. As a single aircraft gun's tracers whisked past his plane, he found himself quite surprised the Whaitiri's crew still had it in them.

Perhaps the crew still had some fight, but their boat certainly didn't. The ship had taken less than thirty seconds to double over itself, the surface of the water now decorated in a spattering of smouldering wreckage.

"Excellent work, One-One-Actual. Return to the Agarath for drinks and a refuel."

---

The Reverend Thomas Dallier had been in a glowing mood the last few weeks. Real progress was being made in the Grand Ministry, and real change seemed just on the horizon. He had his coalition majority, and he had his legislation. Substantial minimum wages, rent controls, parental subsidies-- These would all be realities in Skaldafen after one more vote.

His office was a busy place for most hours, but for there was a lull in the action as various ministers and aides made their way in and out with irregular pacing. Things had been rough along the heartland these days, but Socialism was something Reverend Dallier believed the people could unite with. The unrest against the Whites would subside if only he could move forward. It could be a bloodless revolution, a peaceful transition of capital.

"You still don't smoke, do you, Reverend?" Dallier's colleague, one Minister Adod asked.

Dallier shook his head. "I do not. Those gasses play havoc with my breathing."

"You might want to start. Listen to this." Adod said between confused sighs, reading the headlines of a paper he'd been carrying around all day. "...This morning, at 10:37am local time, an Onekawa-Nukanoa battleship violated Skaldanan territorial waters, firing on AFNS aircraft that were doing routine maratime patrols. This violation of Skaldanian sovereignty is likely to go unpunished, as a local mobilization order has been announced on the Medr islands. The Council of Marshals has blamed ON incompetence in dealing with the pirate menace for this course of events, and has stated an intention to integrate the islands in full as retaliation. First Marshal Uran has said that there is no state of war but--"

"That's enough. I've heard enough." Dallier waved away his colleague with a heavy hand. He slunk back into his chair with clenched eyes and a pinched brow. He had gotten so close. This could have been so easy. "First they kill that ambassador, and now this? What in Saint Michael's good name are they thinking?"

[Onekawa-Nukanor]

Open Sea
Hawaiki
Ngāti Onekawa-Nukanoa
Makrian Ocean

Like the deaththrows of one of a mighty and ancient Tohorā as it fought to the very last, Steel beams and armoured belts twisted and turned beneath the waves like huge metallic muscles. Huge gouts of water soared skyward as escaping air found its way to the surface fuelled by either explosions as magazines and fuel ignited or to those who survived the event the screams of hundreds as their lungs filled with water a readily as the Whatiri did. But even as it sank beneath the waves to lay at rest with its patron, it would not allow its passing to go unchallenged.

The ship was leaning heavily on its port side as it began to sink further beneath the warm waves. It made travel along what remained of its deck corridors even more perilous. Despite all this he pumped his legs and swung from one safe haven to the next as a young man named Maui raced ahead. Hordes of people were travelling one way more the next whilst officers screamed and whistled to try bring attention to a disorganised mob. The impact had practically ripped open the port side and men were cut off from vital stations.

Whilst people poured into lifeboats as fast as they could, Maui descended into a blackened doorway into the belly of the beast. Flickering light struggled to illuminate the twisted corridors as detritus lay strewn about. Time was of the essence, the ship becoming every more banked with each passing moment. The air was cool sd Maui navigated this iron hellscape, the faint echo of screams and yelling near constant background company. His breath started to condense in the cooling air. Even this far in, the defiance of the crew could be heard with the sounds of machine guns rattled into the sky at some attacker Maui could not seen. But despite the backing noise the silence he resided in seemed otherworldly silence.

Yet now speed had to take a back seat to balance. The thrashing of the collapsing beast made each step trachous and at times it seemed he was moving vertically along those dim corridors. Yet his efforts were rewarded as he approached a hatch, locked fast in position. One glance through the small glass pane into the other side showcased the warm waters of the Makrian streaming into a kitchen, pots and pans popping in its tropical currents. He saw a a handful of bodies strewn around what remained of the area as blood swirled throughout. But he saw what he wanted to see as a young woman desperately tried to open another hatch, her should shaking in fear.

As if blessed by Tanemahuta himself Maui’s arms heaved like industrial pistons, his lungs like the great bellows of a forge as the tightened hatch started to give under his raw power. Like a microcosm of the larger beast the door groaned and opened up. The woman heard the sound and lost no time crashing through the water to escape. A brief hug was all that was man aged before they both tried to make their way out of a fast approaching watery grave.

Now the screams, yells and gunfire had all been driven off by the vast roaring of straining steel and underwater explosions. Each moment it seem the whole thing shifted under their feet as they struggled to make purchase on ever more vertical movement. By the time they both managed to reach the open air the water was lapping at their heels and the arms burned as they had to climb their way the last portion of their escape. The ship was now effectively entirely on its side and there only option was to race across the hull.

So with a brief squeeze of their hands they did it. Tired from the exertion, tired from the sheer situation and yet still a fire burned in their hearts as they raced ever further down the hull as the ship started to flip over. It felt like a sudden reprieve when they made their final launch into the ocean, the ocean a cooling reef as they floated on its surface, a life raft being rowed by its passenger over towards them. Under the setting of the sun the Whaitiri finally made its final descent into the oceanic grave where it would now reside.

As if a final roar of defiance, something must’ve ignited its Y turret the two guns roared into the darkening night before it finally slunk beneath the waves.

----

Yet whilst one son of Onekawa-Nukanoa was struggling to survive amongst he machinations of their enemies and their own deities, another was embracing his fate. Amongst a small barracks back in the homeland men went over equipment as the rapid fire clicking and clacking of guns being assembled, cleaned and prepared. Fabric was crinkling and boots laced as the orders were passed down. The Nga kaitiaki o te hau, the famed Onekawa-Nukanoa Parachute Corps were moving . Throughout the throaty cough of piston engines could be heard as hundreds and hundred of those chosen by Ranginui embarked.

To silence the thunder was but a single blow. Now came the unleashed fury of the heavens, these men the vengeful angels who would root out this Skaldanian menance like the pustous cyst they were on the original home of all Polynesians.