The Lions Fall [Closed: Ajax Only]

[Northern Caprica]

Bowmire State Bank, Capital Branch
Bowmire, Concordia

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Glennair.” Elena said, closing the door behind them. Mr. Glennair and his wife took their seats behind a large dark oak desk in the center of an otherwise mostly empty room. Elena sat across them on a comfortable leather chair.

“We just need to have you review the loan application and then we can get to signing it,” Elena pulled out a small stack of papers and placed them before the burly man. “After that’s done, we’ll send it off for processing, and you can rest easy in your wonderful new home.”

Mr. Glennair took a few moments to flip through the pages, making sure everything was to satisfaction. Elena glanced at the clock, waiting to get this business over with so she could take her lunch break.

“Done?” Elena asked, noticing Mr. Glennair. “Right, so we’ll want you to sign here, here, here, and here. Your wife will also have to sign with you on the last two lines.” She pointed out the lines and waited for the signatures.

The couple paused at the last lines and looked at each other. It was a look of worry, from what Elena could tell.

“This says that it needs my wife’s maiden name. Is that really necessary?” Mr. Glennair asked. Elena nodded in the affirmative, and Mrs. Glennair signed. Elena took the documents from them and made sure the signatures were properly done. She also wanted to get a look at what the problem was — why the surname was an issue.

Claudius. A Latin last name.

Elena pressed a button under the desk with her knee, and then the phone rang. It was her way of maneuvering out of situations like this.

“Yes?” Elena answered, then listened. “When was this?”

“Thank you.” Elena hung up the phone and put on a face of disappointment. “That was a call from the Housing Department, and it appears that someone rushed to close a deal for the house just three hours ago. I’m sorry, we’re too late.”

“What? No. That’s ridiculous.” Mr. Glennair said, “We spent two weeks negotiating this. There was nobody else on this.” Mrs. Glennair whispered in her husband’s ear, and then his face grew beet red.

“Is this about my wife?” He raged. “Because she’s Latin? Is that it?”

“Sir, please calm down.” Elena said, reaching back for the phone she just put down. “Someone managed to close before you, and there’s nothing we can do. We can find you another house in a different part of town, perhaps the Hilltop place we were looking at?.”

“Goddammit!” Mr. Glennair roared, shooting up from his chair. “You turn this around right now. I won’t stand for this bullshit racism! Y-You can’t even tell she’s Latin!”

“I will have to call security, sir.” Elena said calmly, ready to press the button. He stormed out the door, wife in tow, and that was the last of it. She shoved the documents off the desk and into the empty trashcan, the metal ringing as the papers flew in.

She walked over to the bank’s kitchen and saw her friend Allen devouring a chicken pot pie. She opened the fridge and grabbed a Hot Pocket. There wasn’t much time until her next set of appointments.

“Sounded like quite a mess in there,” Allen said, taking a break from gorging himself. “You alright?”

“Yeah, at least that’s another one done,” Elena said, “Although I can’t believe that I didn’t catch that sooner. How could I have missed it? She was Latin.”

“Eh, sometimes you win, sometimes you miss. Nothing you can do.” Allen shrugged, “How many more left until you can bounce out of here?”

“Three.” Elena said, throwing the Hot Pocket into the microwave. “Then I have to get back home and finish packing things up. Jack and I want to leave on Monday, try to make the trip while everyone’s out working.”

“Damn, so tomorrow’s your last day, huh? We’ll miss you.” Allen said, turning back to his chicken pot pie. Elena felt slightly bad about leaving her team here at the bank, and Allen was taking it the hardest. Fifteen years they had been closing deals and making money.

Elena waited a minute more and then took the food out. She went back to her office and ate, all the while thinking about what life would be like here if Jack hadn’t gotten promoted to chief of police. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of those kinds of thoughts. There was no use mulling over such things.

***

A gas station just outside of Watten
Kinloch, Concordia

The rumble of the engine stopped at the turn of his key. Frederick shoved the door open and hopped down off his truck, making his way to the gas station. As he walked in, he paid no attention to the young man holding the door open for him. Instead, Frederick nodded to the store’s cashier, who recognized him as a regular customer.

The wide selection in the fridges before him always stumped Frederick. This gas station was like none other in offering beers ranging from the familiar Don Browns and Twin Peaks to the adventurous Neon Clowns and foreign Hoferschälls. Frederick knew what most of them tasted like, but he never bothered to buy any of them. He was the kind of man who would rather try new things at others’ expense and stick to the safe option otherwise. In this case, that would be the O’Donough dark lager.

Today would be different, though. On the drive over, Frederick had been debating on whether or not to bring something new home for a change. The Shamrock pilsner caught his eye, the metallic green glinting in an otherwise bland array surrounding it. He moved closer, trying to read the label to see if it was anything special worth buying, but someone was in his way. The two of them did an awkward shuffle to the left, until Frederick got close enough. The Shamrock was infused with genuine Ibernian whiskey, aged for over a decade and imported from Arthurista.

Frederick moved to open the door and grab the case, but the person next to him was faster. The two did a sort of a dance, pausing and restarting, trying to see which one of them would succeed in the attempt of making their selection. The man was relentless, and he had a hard time figuring this guy’s next move. Finally, after several moments, Frederick aborted and went over to his tried-and-true O’Donoughs.

“What an idiot, wearing sunglasses at night…” Frederick fumed silently. He made sure he got a good look at him, in case if he had to rough him up later, teach him a lesson. For now, he just wanted to pay for his beer and get home.

“Sticking to the classics, as always!” Donovan said, ringing up Frederick’s beer and clacking away at the register.

“I was gonna get one of those Shamrocks,” Frederick said, pointing his thumb back to the fridges, “you know, with the whiskey in ‘em? But this idiot kept getting in my way, and I said fuck it, right?”

“Go ahead and grab ‘em, then.” Donovan encouraged him. “They’re on the house. God knows you come here enough to have earned it.” Frederick looked back, considering the offer. He saw the guy with sunglasses still standing there, perusing. It struck him as odd why he was taking such a long time to pick some damn beers.

“Not worth the effort. Thanks, though.” Frank said, handing over the cash. Donovan didn’t seem to notice Frank holding the money in front of him, his attention solidly on the two Haratago teenagers that were leaving the store.

“Hey! Hey you!” Donovan yelled at them, “Yeah, you ‘tagos! The hell you leaving for?”

“We didn’t take nothing,” The teenagers said, opening their jackets and turning out their pockets. “We were just looking around.” Donovan waved at them to get out, almost reluctant to let them go.

“Fuckers. Once, twice a day, the ‘tagos come in here, mosey around, and leave without buying anything. You know, Mike Taylor, the governor, passed that law that lets people loiter like that, all suspicious like. Spineless bastard.” Donovan complained, taking Frederick’s cash and pushing the case back to him. Frederick took the beer and nodded sympathetically. He had his fair share of run-ins with those kinds of people, and he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Frederick hopped back into his truck and drove off. It had been a long day at the foundry, and he had dealt with at least a month’s worth of unsavory people in one day. He turned the radio knob and put it on one of the only three stations that worked out there.

“… your policy proposals to combat the issue of crime in our region, as you have campaigned so heavily on?” a voice asked, which Frederick recognized as being the voice of Sully Weimaraner, one of the most popular news broadcasters in the country.

“Of course. As I’ve said many times over the course of this campaign, we will crack down on Haratago crime in the state of Arbroath. For too long, we have tolerated Governor Alexander’s weak policies. We’ve had enough of being steamrolled by these liberals, saying that we’re being too tough, too harsh. Crime requires a tough response!”

Frederick found himself nodding in agreement to Jonathan Douglas’ passionate condemnation. He had heard this guy a few times, and so far there was no reason not to like him.

“We will bring back the loitering laws. We will increase police funding and recruitment. We will demand harsher sentencing for terrible crimes. It’s time to stop pandering to the liberals and letting our country slip away from us!”

***

Laoise City Convention Center
Arbroath, Concordia

“And so I repeat, we will crack down on Haratago crime!” Jonathan Douglas roared out to the crowd before him. The cheers that echoed back told him that he was doing something right, that this is what the people had been wanting for decades.

“Thank you, Mr. Douglas.” Weimaraner said, trying to make himself heard over the yelling of the audience. “Thank you for your clear response. That concludes our domestic policy segment of the debate, and we will take a short intermission. Everyone please return to your seats in 15 minutes.”

Douglas took a gulp of water, his throat dry after that long hour. This debate had turned out more like a rally, with him trouncing his opponent on every question. His staff guided him off the platform, down a hallway that would take him to the resting quarters and washrooms. He was seen off by the audience with cheers of encouragement, of people who couldn’t wait for round two.

“Sir! Mr. Douglas!” Jonathan heard someone cry after him. He saw that it was a reporter with long blond hair. She had a cameraman next to her, ready to roll. “Sir, a comment, please?”

“A quick comment,” Douglas said, waving them on, “I have to prepare for the next segment quickly.”

“Right.” She waved on the cameraman to start filming. “Mr. Douglas, your tremendous success seems to be coming from a part of the electorate that hasn’t traditionally participated in the past. How did you know that your grassroots efforts would work so well?”

“That’s a question I don’t hear often,” Jonathan said, smiling for the camera. “People don’t credit the common man for making this movement possible. As I’ve said before, all this isn’t about me, it’s about the people I fight for every day.”

He paused, clearing his throat. A glint of light caught his eye and forced him to blink oddly. The cameraman had a sort of a diamond earring that was reflecting it on him.

“When I asked myself, ‘Jonathan, what is the biggest problem in politics right now?’, I immediately thought of my friends, my co-workers, my community. They don’t care about politics, and I thought, ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ So, that began this campaign, and it looks like I really hit the mark there. People are starting to care about their futures, after being ignored so long by the mainstream politicians.”

“Excellent, thank you Mr. Douglas. If you have time, one more question?” Jonathan nodded her on. Her first question was short enough as it was.

“There have been recent reports coming out of Fanold, your hometown, about a criminal case you were a part of.” Jonathan knew where this was going. He leaned to the side, took a quick look at the side of the camera, and noticed the AMC logo. Liberal media.

“Some documents were unsealed regarding the ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws in your defen— ”

“Oh, enough of this bullshit,” Jonathan said, departing.

[Scocialist Provinces]

An ill-tempered man strode offscreen in a darkened flurry of curses. Fairhair laughed to himself as the Concordian news replayed the clip of the nominee Jonathan Douglas gaffing his way out of his most recent interview for the tenth time today.

Fairhair had been busy with his current regulatory project in the Grand Ministry, but this Governorship race in Aborath had earned his attention. Concordian conservatism had been a thorn in the First Minister's side for decades, but this surge had presented a unique opportunity. The political situation out east was starting to stand on shaky ground, and was years away from settling down. If Fairhair could do anything about it, it would settle somewhere on his side of the fence.

His colleague, one Minister Adelæd was enjoying in that laughter. She was a rookie legislator from Ostendal, five years out from thirty winters, but Adelæd had already proven to be one of Fairhair's most capable Ministers. The Nationalist-Socialists were lucky to have such a young busybody in their numbers, engaging the youth in revolutionary politics had always been a struggle. She was the perfect individual for figuring out how to proceed with the Concordian question.

The two had been discussing the subject for hours. The Jriak skyscrapers hemmed in the horizon on all directions, but the soft amber lights rounding off faded shadows told Fairhair that the hour had begun to grow late. The river practically lit up the city in this deep evening glow, but it would soon grow as black as the Styx once the sun had set. They needed a to settle on a solution.

"This Douglas is quite the character, isn't he?" Adelæd said, returning her attentions to another paragraph of policy.

"They're getting a lot of mileage off that last clip. It's starting to lose its shock factor, honestly." Fairhair said, letting another mouthful of smoke wander out into the bay.

"That's a good thing, though. It means we might be able to pull off something similar in the future." Adelaide said, lighting a cigar of her own.

Fairhair nodded. "Still, another reactionary in Concordia is the last thing we need right now."

"Agreed." Adelæd blew a ring of smoke at the office's television, currently flashing through portraits of the Concordian Governors. "The Council has put a couple solutions on our desks, but we're going to have to narrow it down. Of course, we could just start poisoning people until the problem dries up."

"Poison is risky, but it's a proven solution to these behaviours. I'll greenlight an extensive kill operation if we can figure out a cohesive list of threats." Fairhair said. He'd silenced hundreds of people this way before. There was usually an opposition to fill the power vacuum his assassins left behind. But Concordia was different, there was no major socialist body to take up the torch. If they were going to start trying to kill the problems, they needed to pull out all the stops.

Adelæd, having recognized this issue in a heartbeat, started digging through her papers. "It doesn't have to be the only thing we do." She pulled a specific folder from out a pile of dossiers, and hurriedly slid it across Fairhair's desk. "Marshal Shorhal's infrastructure-infiltration proposal looks like it could actually work. We leverage our economic weight. Tie down their south-west to our economy by extending the PanSkal magnetic railway into Concordia, put a direct line for Skaldanian businesses to move goods and people back and forth across the border. In doing so, we help make these more liberal parts of the country-- and their Socialist actors in particular-- more influential."

Fairhair let the thought linger, taking a skim of Shorhal's papers. "Their National government would drown us in red tape and tariffs the moment they caught wind."

Adelæd flipped open another section of the proposal. "Not if we bypass them entirely. We go straight to the governors, promise them jobs and infrastructure for their constituents, add whatever 'donations' they're willing to take. Establish a subsidiary of Skaldafen Rail based out of Gable."

Realization flashed across Fairhair's eyes. "Then they can't treat it like a foreign entity. For all they'd be able to work with, it'd be a 'local' business through and through."

"We dump prices, offer wages well beyond local standards and hire indiscriminately." Adelæd shot a devilish grin as she ran across points with a pen. "Minority employment would skyrocket, and they'll fight to keep that privilege. They unionize, their bosses start handing down our propaganda. Maybe we can even start an online paper or two as a strategic extension. We'd be operating at a loss, at least at first. But money isn't the point here-- This is an Eageland Horse for getting money into the pocket of Concordian socialists and minorities."

"The Liothidians have been trying and failing to subsidize the Concordian Reds for years now. Assuming it works, this could be a breakthrough. If we can get it going fast enough, who knows how many minds we can sway. The PanSkald took eight years to finish, but that was still half as long as we were expecting. Who knows how fast we can get this thing built." Fairhair said, stroking his beard with a dawning curiosity.

"Exactly, we wouldn't be subsidizing any political movements, and therefore we'd be acting within the law. We're just encouraging a local business to lobby politicians for policy-- It doesn't matter how prevalent they are, or even in power yet. Companies donate to political campaigns all the time over there." Adelæd said.

Fairhair began jotting down notes. "I see, it's a win win. We expand operations even further abroad, and promote the revolution in equal measure. If we're also charging the SNI with piling up cool bodies in the opposition..."

Adelæd continued sorting through additional propositions. "It'd be a decisive, two-pronged attack on the reactionaries of Norumbia. Trains for the people and knives for their slavers, if you're waxing poetic."

"In that case, we're going to have to deal with the venerable nominee, mr. Douglas." Fairhair said, looking back to the television, which focused once more on his gaffes.

"I'll talk to General Valken, see what his people can do." Adelæd jumped from her chair, assembling her things with eager purpose. "In the meantime, I suggest you talk to the SL board, set them up with some marching orders. A non-stop rail line from Veshiv to Helms, just imagine it."

"Maybe one day we'll be able build all the way out to Kinloch."

"One end of Norumbia to the other. If we can pull this off, that's the exact future we're looking at."

[New Kvenland]

Douglas Campaign Headquarters, Arbroath, Concordia
13:18 CST, 2019-01-04

"You hear there was a moose loose in some Noonak city yesterday? Said it killed four Eskimos before they got it down!" Hannah sneered.

"They don't like to be called Eskimos, I think it's Nunaqqininq or Nunaqqimmianq or something."

"Quality input as always, Michael."

"What? I don't speak Noonak! My throat's fine anyway, it needs to be sore to even speak the fucking language right."

"Wow, went from all politically correct about names to trashing their language like that?"

"It's true!"

Each and every one of you should be fed to a grizzly bear, Puuvraaktuq Koufos thought to herself.

Or wait, no, Olivia Sullivan thought to himself. They'd told her she had to become her new identity, even in her thoughts, and she was doing a less-than-stellar job at it. She'd been one of her school's greatest actors all throughout her childhood, so she thought her acting would be good enough, and so far she'd been right. Not a second glance from any of the Concordians. One of the perks of being a white Nunaaqqinimmiuq.

"I'll be right back," She said, interrupting their stimulating discussion.

"Oh, come on! You didn't even finish that poster!" Michael called out from behind him.

"My stomach's a disaster, I need to go!" She yelled back. It was a lie, of course, but she would've gone anyway.

She navigated her way to a broom closet she knew would be far removed from any Concordian ears. It was cramped, barely enough room for her to turn around, and reeked of cleaning solution, but it'd have to do. She opened up her phone and dialed HQ, her voice begging a return to the clean, crisp Nunaaqqiniutun consonants and the simple vowels.

"Hey, it's Puuvraktuq."

"Good evening. Any new developments?"

"Each and every one of Douglas's interns are insufferable. You guys should've given me a cyanide capsule so I could end my misery."

"You told us this last week."

"Oh. In that case, nothing special. Douglas is still insane, but not in any new way. Some of the things he says behind closed doors, good God... I genuinely think he doesn't think the Haratago are people. He talks like they're another species."

"As horrible as that is, that's also not particularly new."

She sighed. "I figured."

"Any progress on the neutralization plans?"

"So he spends a lot of time without guards when he's away from the public, which surprised me. There were a few times the other interns were alone with him, just for a second -- I haven't been yet, I'm probably too new, but I'd bet it'll happen soon. Could easily do something quick and subtle while he's alone, quick stab at the aorta or something. I'd probably have a few minutes to sneak out and run before anyone even noticed."

"Noted. Anything else?"

"Well... he doesn't have a dedicated cook. We could easily slip someone into one of his favorite restaurant, he goes to them like clockwork, just give him a quick and easy poison dose. Oh, and if you're worried about him becoming a martyr to his followers, there's easy ways to deal with that. He's killed a guy before, he'd do it again if he had the right motivation, we just need to make sure the dude he got in a fight with was white. Then just make it a hard-won battle, but still won by the other dude. Oh, and if we want to disappear him, we've got an unmarked van back at the safehouse, I can coax him outside and then shove him in there, ship him up to the tundra."

"That's... a lot more information than you let on."

"Yeah, I forgot about it till now."

Silence for a beat on the other end. "Alright, anything else?"

"Uh... he keeps a gun on his person at all times. Might consider faking a suicide, although I doubt anyone would believe it. It'd be fun, though."

"I sincerely doubt the reps will go for that." She could tell the other person on the line, whoever they were, had allowed themselves a smile. "Thanks for all you do."

"Wait, before you go..." The other end's silence seemed like it was waiting. "Why do we care so much about this, anyway? This is a lot of work for a random Concordian governor."

"The precedent he sets. That entire country's shifting to the right, but he's a meaningful divergence from the norm, and if he wins he'll be normalized. The Overton window down there won't even be a window, it'll be a rectangle with an open end on the right. That of course means the Haratago will be discriminated against at best and attacked at worst, and eventually the same will happen to ethnic Nunaqqinimmiut. He is just one governor, but to the Concordian people, he represents a new ideology, a radical shift in normal politics. This is incredibly dangerous to our people."

"That sounded rehearsed."

"I asked myself that question before, came up with that answer."

"Ehh, it makes sense. Thanks."

"No problem. Signing off." HQ hung up, and Puuvraktuq sighed. She was ready to assassinate a foreign politician, but she wasn't ready to go back to her unbearable coworkers.

---

Chamber of Communes, Qigiqtaq, Nunaaqqinit
19:43 UST, 2019-01-04

"...So given the increasingly radical nature of Douglas's campaign, combined with the polls reflecting a slight but steady increase in his popularity, it's our belief that he presents a clear and present danger to Nunaaqqinit and the Nunaaqqinimmiut people." The young analyst, fresh out of university and clearly not used to her newfound importance, shifted on her feet. Nannuraluk hid a smile. He could remember being in the girl's shoes -- fresh out of UofQ, still more comfortable in her Northwest village chasing grizzlies on his four-wheeler, definitely not ready for giving important reports to commune reps that seemed like titans. Then again, that was only six years ago, but he still remembered it.

"Thank you, Ms. Kapik. That'll be all for now, we'll convene again next week." Sesi, their elected speaker of the committee and a man as obese as he was pale, went into his tired spiel on confidentiality and the secrecy of their operations. Nannuraluk had already tuned him out. His mind was on the Tsurumshian place where he and Ikiaq were getting dinner.

He met her in the warm browns of the lobby, just beside the tall glass door, chuckling at her shivering just at the sight of the outside. "One of these days, you'll actually acclimate to the cold."

"It's -15 out there! Literally no one can acclimate to that!"

"Yeah, but at least we pretend to not mind it."

She rolled her eyes. "Let's just eat, I'm starving."

Their conversation was abruptly cut short by the frigid January air sucking the words out of them. He instinctively put his arm around her, she instinctively nestled up against him, and they briskly walked down the busiest street in Qigiqtaq, made nearly empty by the bitter cold.

When they finally sat down, Ikiaq asked the question Nannuraluk knew she was going to, and was begging she wouldn't. "So, what was this committee meeting all about? Seems like an odd day to schedule one."

"Yeah, it is... it's supposed to be top-secret, actually. National security thing." He regretted the words the moment he let them out. He and Ikiaq had both been burned by secrets in relationships before, they'd tried to be as open as possible with one another, and this would be the first thing he hadn't told her. He hated it. She nodded, clearly more interested in his sashimi.

"Hmm... here, how about you just give me a hint? I'll guess what it actually is. You don't have to tell me if I'm right or wrong."

He silently cursed. That was the other thing he was hoping she wouldn't ask. Technically, he wasn't supposed to tell her anything, security risk and all that... But. This wasn't some random friend. This was his girlfriend of six years, the girl he was convinced he’d marry soon. He’d told her things the tabloids would pay thousands for, about himself and her colleagues, and she'd never said so much as a peep to anyone else. Of course she wouldn't tell anyone else.

"Well, it's got to do with a spy..."

"A what? I didn't know we had those! Where are they? Oh, I bet they're down in Concordia watching that racist."

His silence was deafening.

"They are? Dude! This is some genuine spy thriller stuff."

"Keep it down! You're gonna let the whole restaurant know, my god."

"Sorry, this is just crazy!" Her expression shifted from excitement to confusion. "Wait, how are you guys even doing this? There's no way it could be kept secret enough to actually work. The open records laws would be too revealing."

"Yeah, thing is... We aren't really following those laws. Exactly."

Ikiaq's eyes widened. "No, that's not good, Nannu! You're so new, they're gonna send you back to the Northwest the moment they find out."

"Hey, I didn't realize what I was getting into! I was nominated for it, and they didn't tell me what it'd actually be like until I had signed all the NDAs. Blame it on Sesi."

"That East Qikiq asshole? I always knew he was slimy."

"And anyway, we're still doing good work! Have you heard some of the things Douglas has said? He's insane! He shot a guy once, just because she wasn't white, and didn't even get punished! And you know some of the things he's said about Nunaaqqinit. He'd annex the entire country given half the chance." He slumped back in his chair. "Honestly, we probably aren't doing the right thing. We should be transparent, up-front about campaigning against him. Convince the people of Arbroath why he's bad. But the senior reps decided this was the best thing to do, and I'm kind of stuck now."

"Yeah, I suppose. It's just... I'd rather you not go to some Concordian jail."

"Yeah, that's fair." she squeezed his hand under the table. "God, I don't know how I got here. I still feel like one of these days they'll decide I shouldn't be, ship my ass back to Aklarvik. Seems like it should happen."

"No, you won't be. You should be here. You're smart, you're resourceful, you're a great negotiator... You deserve to be up there in the Chamber more than a lot of them do. Definitely more than Sesi."

He allowed himself a smile.

"Definitely the sexiest one, too. By a long shot."

He snorted, and the conversation moved on to arguing over nothing in particular.