NationStates

A RED VIBURNUM IN THE MEADOW

The story of the troubled times in Chokashia after its independence from the Aeian Socialist Union

Many have hoped that our country will finally be free after the reunification war of 1977. Chokashia was cut in three after the Second Great War, one part a puppet of Tudonia, one a puppet of the communists and one part integrated in the ASU. We sought freedom, we wanted to choose our own future, we didn't want it to be chosen for us by some sort of a benevolent patron such as the ASU or Tudonia. The War of Unification was bitter, Chokashian national forces rebelled in Communist occupied territories but along with them a Syndicalist republic, was proclaimed with goals of fighting both the ASU and the nationalist forces. Once again Chokashia was engulfed in a civil war. The main fight was not with the ASU, since the Red Army reached an agreement with the Chokashian national government and withdrew from Chokashia. The Red Rebellion was the main conflict. It was crushed after months of fighting, mostly thanks to the far-right militias of the National-Solidarists who stomped over any red resistance with no mercy.
Though many have died our country was finally reunified and The Red Virbinum in the Meadows once stood tall again.

Many have called this the Golden Age of Chokashian democracy, and indeed it was. With the collapse of the authoritarian Hetmanate, and now the Communist regime, what new form of government awaits us? Deep feelings of national pride are springing up in defiance of the Communists, of the Great Powers who betrayed Chokashia after the Second Great war, of anyone who thinks Chokashia is finished.
Indeed, we were happy once again. But we may all have been decieved.

In the upcoming years the Chokashian democracy turned into an ugly behemoth of oligarchy. Parties turned into private political organisations led not by ideals but by financial interests. Instead of having great leaders we used to, we ended up having rich businessmen leading our politics. They began with selling our riches to themselves and then to foreign companies.
By the start of the 90's politics became a synonym for theft and corruption. You couldn't get a job in a state owned company unless you were in the ruling party. The parties changed of course, we had democracy and elections but it wasn't really a democracy when most politicians and activists would change their party every 4-5 years.
It was awful, you couldn't read the newspapers anymore without swearing. Most of these oligarchs promoted a neo-liberal policy in order to be supported by various Western powers and in return they would get funds for their "democratic reforms".

In 1992 the Chokashian Stock Market collapsed which caused a great recession our country has seen in it's history. Prices skyrocketed while wages plummeted. People were poorer than they were in the ASU.
Every day you could see lines of people waiting to get bread and a can of soup. What have we done to deserve this? A lot of people started wishing for the Hetmanate to be reinstated and some even said that they wished the ASU back.
Who would have thought that this was only the beginning of our worst nightmares.

There always existed a far-right in Chokashia. The National-Solidarist Union used to be one of the strongest parties in Chokashia before the Second Great War, it's members formed a militia which later became a strong guerrilla force during the Second Great War, strong enough to liberate a part of Chokashia, proclaim a "solidarist republic" and create Chokashia in the image they sought.
This movement was built upon the ideas of National-Solidarism, formulated by the founder of this organisation Bronislav Lisovskyi. They called for an authoritarian integral nationalist republic with corporatist economics and many of its members called for a violent revolution "drenched in blood of the bourgeoisie". They were very anti-liberal but fanatically anti-communist and anti-syndicalist. Their paramilitaries were known to shoot all red prisoners during the Civil War and the Second Great War. The party was forbidden after the war both by the Chokashian Republic and the People's Socialist Republic of Chokashia.
The laws were still in effect but what was missed by the lawmakers was the ideology itself. You see, you couldn't create the same National-Solidarist Union, it was forbidden by the constitution, what wasn't was the ideology itself and many small far-right movements used this to their advantage particularly the organisation called Sokil Movement (The Gryfalcon Movement).

This small organisation began as a group of 10 but as time passed it grew significantly and gained seats in local parliaments. Many oligarchs and politicians weren't concerned much about this group until it reached parliament in 1994. A coalition of far-right parties was led by the Sokil Movement which later gained 10% in the National elections which sent shock waves across the country. Massive rallies were organized, attacks on liberal and democratic parties and NGOs intensified. It was all happening so quickly nobody could have seen it coming.
There were sympathies between the old National Block, a coalition of conservative and populist parties, and the far-right coalition of the Sokil Movement unironically named The National Union. This proved to be dangerous as in 1995 the National Union was reformed as a party - The National-Solidarist union. This act was a blatant violation of the Chokashian constitution which caused massive unrest in Chokashia and uproar in the liberal and left-wing circles. The NSU found support in it's conservative allies, the parliament couldn't ban the NSU because they needed a 2/3 majority.
Instead of continuing the legal battle many started boycotting the parliament sessions which led to a government collapse and new elections, the biggest mistake anyone could have made. The NSU won 25% becoming the largest party in the country still they lacked, even with the support of the National Block which gained 17% couldn't form a government as a Grand Coalition of all left-wing and liberal parties was formed as a counterweight to this new menace.

It is August 1998.
Chokashia was in a state of anarchy. Red terrorists are attacking both the government and the NSU, while Solidarist terrorists are retaliating. Three NSU youth members were murdered in front of one for the chapters of the NSU in Vorsha, the capital of Chokashia . A large crowd of national-solidarists and their symathisers gathered at the place of this violent crime to honor their fallen comrades. One of the journalists documenting this, threw away his cigarette on the floor. What he didn't see was the cigarette butt falling directly into a puddle of blood of one of the NSU members. Like wild animals who had sniffed blood the crown went berserk. They tried to beat up the journalist, probably even kill him. Thanks to the police at the place he was unharmed but massive riots erupted in the city. What was worse a counter demonstration was organised by the left and both sides clashed either between each other or with the police.
What happened after defined Chokashia as it is today.

Diary of Hala Teymouri wrote:Papa came home with a broken nose and a black eye tonight. Mama warned him not a week ago that it was getting too dangerous to give lectures at the university, that he was too noticeable, too alien, for the volki, but papa has always been hard-headed. I remember when I was small how he'd joke about it. "I'm a gozel, babushka," he used to laugh, "But Rahmani was a rys' and a rys' will gobble up a gozel that can't learn to run away." When he first fled the land of our forefathers, carrying nothing with him but a small, dusty photograph of his parents and siblings and the clothes on his back, it had been a temporary arrangement. But one thing followed another and he fell in love with a woman with lips as bitter as Viburnum, as he was wont to joke, and leaving mama, who was pregnant, behind to flesh out a new life in the country of his birth was out of the question.

He had found peace in the Aeian Socialist Union and had managed to persevere through the worst of the calamities that brought it down. Had he been younger during the civil war, papa would have fought for the socialists. And the volki would have killed him then. But he had sprouted his first gray hair by then and I was always climbing up on his shoulders. "You can't carry a Kalashnikov and a toddler," he had reasoned to mama. So he survived two tragedies. One survival had been his choice; the other had been his duty. Before today, I'm sure my parents thought the worst was behind them, but now nothing is certain.

I hear them scurrying through the streets at night, idealistic, brutish boys made mean and hard by the urban rot of the capital, as quick to hit a passerby as to greet them. They say they're fighting for our country or to avenge the three dead boys the socialists killed, but, really, I think they're just angry at the world. Papa never hurt them. He never even raises his voice when mama scolds him or when Mustafa plays too rowdily and breaks mama's china plates. His hands weren't made to hold a rifle. His fingers are too long and slender for that, his touch too gentle.

Last year we took a holiday in the countryside, to a shady meadow a few dozen miles from everything. Mama made up a picnic and papa took out his guitar and played and sang in an undulating baritone. He sang songs about flowers and love and innocence wilting in the wind. "And we'll take that Red Viburnum and we will raise it up... Cheer up! Cheer up!" I still remember the red berries hanging like teardrops from the leaves and the cloudless blue sky so pretty it made my chest hurt. I have to believe, in my heart of hearts, that it wasn't just a happy dream half a world away. I have to believe that things will get better - for papa and for mama and for Mustafa. I have to be strong.

Vorsha, Chokashia

A mirror can't lie. That's how the old saying went anyway. But one could never be too careful.

Hala bit her lip and glowered at her reflection for the hundredth time that morning. The dye had turned her long jet black hair a peculiar ashy shade of auburn. She might just pass for an ethnic Chokash, if you didn't squint and caught her passing at just the right angle. Her eyes were a soft, lively shade of brown that turned into topaz when the sun was out. That didn't hurt either. Papa's eyes were much too dark, much too exotic, and, worse, people knew his name, one pitfall of being a local botanist famous for discovering two new species of shrub and a public intellectual active in political circles. Hala peered at herself one last time, eyeing the pimples on her wrinkling forehead with mild exasperation and lamenting that her knees were so bony and conspicuous. It would have to do. It wasn't as though the volki would do much more than hurl slurs at her anyway. Right?

Flipping her hair back, Hala stormed down the stairs of their two-story home, her shoes clicking audibly against the hard wood floor that ran the entire length of the entry corridor. Mama stood hunched over the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes like a woman possessed, while papa lay on the couch, still cradling his bruised ribs. The scents of fried eggs, semolina porridge, and sharlotka wafted through the thin, chilly morning air, making Hala's mouth water. She paused only to muss Mustafa's head of mousy brown curls, giggling softly as he brushed her hand away indignantly.

"You're late," mama scolded, pursing her lips. "You can't keep over-sleeping, Hala. You'll have morning classes soon."

"Yeah, yeah," Hala yawned, not bothering to mention that she'd spent the last two hours checking her appearance. That would only bring another scolding about how she was too vain and obsessed with appearances.

"Do you even know when your shift at the bakery is today?" mama demanded, crossing her arms tightly across her broad chest. Her mouth was always a thin line when she did that - her red-painted lips disappearing into a scowl that would terrify even the grimmest partisan. It was the same face she had shown to the ASU major when he had knocked on their door a few years ago, asking papa to enlist and write propaganda for their embattled forces. The major had gone away empty handed, but at least he could get away. Hala could not.

"Um, around three, I think," Hala offered with a sheepish grin. She sat down, pulling out a plate and piling it high with food. The fried eggs were a bit dry and burnt - mama had always been a less than stellar cook - but they were edible. The sharlotka, on the other hand, was perfect, sweet, flaky, warm, and hearty all at once. She munched on the pastry, taking a gargantuan mouthful of baked granny-smith apple, and smiled contentedly.

"Four," mama corrected her sternly, "Mrs. Plisetsky gave you the schedule last week." As if to drive home the point, she held out a laminated sheet of brightly colored paper. "And don't eat like you're starving," mama added, "I didn't raise a pack of savages."

"Are you feeling better, papa?" Hala asked, shrugging off her mother's complaints as she wiped warm, sticky crumbs from her lips and chin. His bearded, angular face rose above the couch to reveal a broad albeit weary smile and twinkling eyes.

"I've had worse," he chuckled, "You should see the other guy." He winked with his good eye after some difficulty, then promptly plopped back onto the cushions. "I don't have lecture until later tonight at least," came his slurring voice.

"Kahlil, don't be irresponsible!" mama rebuked him in a screechy tone, "Those men could have killed you. I don't know what you were thinking. And going to the university is absolutely out of the question. They know your face. Everybody does."

"Men?" papa mused, "They were just boys, Marya. They couldn't have been much older than Hala. They were looking for a brawl. That's all."

"You're too careless," mama huffed, "Some of those boys have killed before. And things are getting worse. Can't you hear them at night? Don't you read the papers?"

"I'm glad you're feeling better, papa," Hala interjected, "Maybe you should take a few days to rest though? It's a bit unprofessional to go to class with your eye purple and swollen. You might worry your students."

"You make a good point," papa granted, "Ya amar, can you bring me another ice pack? This one's melted." He tossed the soaked plastic baggy over the couch, letting it land on the floor with a splash. Mama rolled her eyes.

"You're such a child sometimes, Kahlil," mama sighed, "Give me just a minute. I'll bring you another when I've finished the dishes and another plate of food. What would you do without me?"

"Waste away!" Hala, papa, and Mustafa shouted in unison, the word fading into a cacophony of merry cackles.

"Damn right," mama mumbled under her breath, drying her hands with a yellow hand towel.

Hala scarfed down the rest of her breakfast in the span of five minutes and sprinted out the door, kissing each of her family members on the cheek before she left. No doubt mama would complain about the dirty plate she had left out, but that couldn't be helped. She was already late for orientation after all. Not like that was anything new for her.

14 August, 1998.

Three youngsters fell victim to ideological fanaticism


It is said that every extremism will make its own victims, and so it did. A lesson to be learned. Three young students fell victim to a terrifying terrorist attack in Vorsha yesterday, when unidentified gunmen attacked the local chapter of the National-Solidarist Union. It was known that this organisation had many enemies and a bloodthirsty rivalry with their syndicalist opponents. Not long after the attack rioting started in Vorsha as a reaction to this bloodbath. A major group of National-Solidarists clashed with the police last night when they attempted to "retaliate" on the syndicalist sympathisers. It wasn't short when left-wing extremists took to the streets to make a counter demonstration. Vorsha was in flames for hours until Zhandarmerya was called in to secure the city and introduced a curfew. More than 200 people were arrested and at least 600 were injured during the mindless violence in the streets of the capital.
According to the NSU members, the riots started when a journalist accidentally threw his cigarette in the blood of one of their fallen comrades after which the crowd which has gathered to honor the three young students tried to lynch the journalist.
This is a tragedy! Three young lives have been lost, and for what? For stupid politics! Do we need to start killing each other like we did? Wasn't enough Chokashian blood spilled? The chief of the Chokashian police said in a plea to stop the mindless violence that has engulfed Chokashia in recent months.
Since August last year 23 people have fell victim to terrorist attacks by the Red Justice and the Black Hand.

---

16th August

I was drinking a beer with my friends. We would always do that on the weekends, at least when it wasn't the exam week. We'd always meet at the same pub, same seats, same beer, same people. It has been like this since I started studying law. But these are different times. The pub isn't so full as it used to be, I mean it isn't completely empty but you couldn't find a seat back then. People aren't so friendly anymore, it is not loud, people sometimes whisper. Everyone is afraid to look at you, even the girls, you never know when someone is going to interpret your look in a wrong way. I heard a guy looked at a girl, he wanted to get her attention, but she thought he was one of the NSU members and she was a syndie. Her friends broke both his legs, the guys was lucky that he didn't get stabbed.
We still drink beer though, still the same as we used to be, but still different. Even our friend, the one who used to be the loudest, Anatoliy, was now silent. He would speak carefully, he chose his words. He was a solidarist sympathiser, we all knew that but you know we didn't really want to walk home with a broken bottle in our backs.
Those boys, the news is full of them, but nobody really says their names, probably fearing that they would say something wrong and get killed by a solidarist, or get killed by a syndie if you praised them poor lads.
Personally, I wasn't really neither a solidarist or a syndicalist. I was in between, I wanted change, but their wages seemed too radical. I don't really like the conservatives, they are don't seem really different from the liberal oligarchs, they seem to be too afraid to change anything radically. It is a bit contradictory, I want a radical change but not radical as the solidarists or the syndies want it, the blues and the reds, the blacks and the rouges. Both interest me as much as I am afraid of them.

"God I hate them."
"Who?" I asked Anatoliy
"The fucking syndicalists" said Anatoliy
"Shut the fuck up you morons! Can't we talk about tits and football? And you, why the fuck do you even ask him that? Like you me him a minute ago.." Ivan told us, reminding us of the situation
"What the hell is your fucking problem? Just a month ago you were one of the guys singing 'Let's hang all the reds' in this pub. Oh, do I have to mention 'Let our knives slice the throats of syndie bastards so the streets run with their blood!' ?!"
"Listen, I don't want fucking problems alright?"
"Talker." Anatoliy drank the rest of his beer, and left money on the table for the round "I'll see you boys some other time." he wandered off into the dark night.

Ivan was a talker, he was a solidarist, or at least he said that, but I think he would turn red in a situation when it was demanded from him.
We remained silent for the remainder of the night. This was really the strangest one. Maybe because we knew one of the boys, maybe because we all thought how we could have ended where they are now.
We parted in front of the pub, me and Ivan. He lived in a different part of the city, not too far away, but he had to take a different path. Me, I lived closer to the river Svislach.
It was a strange night, silent as it gets during winter, when the streets are empty because it was cold. But it was August, hot but dead. There was some kind of a dread, that something is lurking behind every corner getting ready to shoot you.
I wondered off in my thoughts, a better place to hide from all of this. Chaos, it doesn't dread you as a word or when you think about it, what makes you afraid is how unpredictable things are, when we are not in our tracks of comfort. Our train is now out of the regular tracks of what we used to call regular life, house-work/school-house.
I was very interested in politics, but now I am trying to run away from it.
I thought I heard something, some voices. I looked around and all I could see were the empty streets of Vorsha. My mind is starting to mess with me. All this tension is making me go mad.
As I walked to a corner a hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me violently. I tripped over someones foot and fell on my back. Before I realised it, five figures were surrounding me.
Immediately I got scared, I didn't even know who these people were. Solidarists, syndicalists, maybe even regular thugs? Why me? Did I look like I was a red, or maybe a nationalist? Or just even rich? A thousand questions went though my mind in a second while I slowly started seeing the faces of these men.

"Look what we have here boys! A rat, and it is lost innit?" said one of them with some kind of a ridiculous tone
"A rat got lost and got into a cat den boys! Tell me lad, what does a syndicalist scum like you do in our neighbourhood, hm?"
"I am sorry, but you are terribly mistaken I am not..."
"Shut up and don't lie!" he took me by my collar and put me up against a wall
"I... I .... I really don't want any trouble, I was going hom..."
"Well if you didn't want any trouble you wouldn't be one of them, or at least you would be smart enough to stay out of here."

I noticed how these people were dressed. Nothing particularly outstanding, they were syndicalists alright but I always thought they looked like factory workers, working class superheroes of some sort. But they looked exactly like me.

"I am very sor..."

Somebody shouted something and that took their attention from me. I heard a familiar voice.

"Get out of here syndicalist scum!" it was louder this time, as a previous one was a the first warning.
My captors were still looking, there was just three men walking slowly towards them. One of them punched me so hard in the stomach and then in the head. The next second I was on the floor looking at the syndicalists slowly walking towards a new enemy. But then in a second I could hear yelling, a larger group of about six to seven people ran into the street from behind the same corner I was walking by. As soon as it started it was over. The syndicalists were beaten brutally, if these people had guns they would shoot at each other without thinking twice. One of the reds was slowly getting up and trying to run away as his friends were getting beaten, he was left alone as he was the first one to get knocked out. His hand was bloody, hanging like a part of a rag doll, one of the solidarists had stomped it while he was on the ground.
They ran away while the solidarists were laughing at them. I watched in shock, adrenaline pumped fast.

"Get up Bohdan." a familiar voice said "Let's get you home."
I looked up and saw a friendly face giving me a hand, while all the solidarists stood by him as if they were some kind of saviors. Indeed, they saved me from who knows what hell I could have gone through. Anatoliy, a man who I also thought was a talker, saved me tonight. He told me I was attacked because they saw me sitting with him in the bar. Later I found out that he was the head of the local solidarist youth chapter.

Hamza couldn't help but sigh when he watched the news. 'Great. Riots. That's exactly what this country needs right now', he mumbled to himself as images of rioters smashing windows and hooligans burning flags danced across the scene. "What was that?", his roommate Danya asked, shifting his attention to Hamza.

"The riots. They're getting worse. It's starting to remind me of home.", Hamza replied sarcastically. As he turned away from the screen.

"Oh, those? I wouldn't worry about them. They're fairly normal nowadays. Whenever the Fascists get mad, they riot. Whenever the Reds get mad, they set fire to a government building."

"I don't know about that. When I came to Chokashia, I expected it to be safer than Hisaristan. I've met Pashtun terrorists who are more peaceful than these rioters.", Hamza teased as he looked at the book on Danya's lap. "Principles of Economics? I thought you were a History major."

"I am, I'm just taking Economics 101 because I want something to talk about with Natalya.", Danya said, referring to the attractive woman he and Hamza met at the Student Union building a few weeks ago.

"I don't think she chooses men based on how much they know about her major.", Hamza said with a laugh.

Danya smiled sheepishly. "What else am I supposed to do? We have nothing in common."

"My God that is the worst idea I have ever heard."

"It's not as dumb as choosing to study in Chokashia.", Danya said, grinning as he closed his book and walked over to the coat rack. "I'm off to get some groceries, is there anything you need?", he asked.

"Not really.", Hamza said, glancing at the fridge.

"Alright, see you later", Danya replied as he put on his coat and left.

Hamza returned his attention to the television, which continued to display scenes of violence with increasing urgency. With the political situation in the country continuing to deteriorate, he couldn't help but be concerned. As the son of two veterans of the ASU Invasion of Hisaristan, he had grown up hearing stories of the death and destruction of the northern reaches of his homeland by Vynozhian forces and the heroic defense of Ashrafshah by the Imperial Army and the Shurawi Mujahids. While his country had won the war against impossible odds, its consequences were still felt across the Empire. Many of his friends and relatives had lost loved ones in the war and many of the towns and villages decimated by the Vynozhians still lay in ruins.

Growing up witnessing the country's reconstruction left him with a strong desire to seek an education abroad and return to his homeland and give back to the Empire. Rejected from the Leidenese Candidacy Program and the Imperial Academy of Rukhmeydan, he turned to Chokashia, whose universities were among the best in the world for civil engineering. Initially optimistic about studying abroad, the political violence that raged across the country worried him. Danya's words continued to ring in his mind. 'I wouldn't worry about them. They're fairly normal nowadays.'

'It'll probably cool down eventually', he thought to himself, polishing a framed picture of the Emperor that he kept on his bookshelf - a nice reminder of where he came from.

A room full of cigarette smoke. The constant ringing of phones could be heard in the next bigger room, full of people, running around even though it was 7am. This one was quite calmer, yet a person sitting inside was felling quite opposite.
Police general, Viktor Smaglyuk was feeling quite tense these days. As the chief of Chokashian police he was the person most politicians in power called to quell unrest or crush a protest they deemed dangerous for their own sake. But he was tired of it. A man who dedicated his life to serving the people was terrified of the situation in his country, not just because there are constant riots but because young boys are killing eachother.
His old, watery eyes showed a depressed soul worried but angry at the same time, he was too angry with the system.
The news of the death of three boys left him silent on the day he heard them, he never thought that a civil war in Chokashia will happen again. The last one wasn't like this. There were skrimishes and gunfights but not in the streets, and certainly not between teenagers.
Across Viktor's work desk sat his younger colleague, Volodimir Ostrovskiy who had just been promoted to the Vorsha chief of police. Volodimir was Viktor's right hand, and Viktor was his mentor. It was a kind of a father-son relationship. The old man never had kids as he devoted his life to his career and at this age he viewed Volodya as a son he never had.
Volodya felt worried too about the whole situation, but he didn't understand it as the old man did, a participant of a war, a decorated hero but also someone who was brought up buy the winds of Chokashian mountains, fed by it's fields and his thirst was quenched by it's rivers. This man knew Chokashia too well, her beauties he adored but her demons woke him up at night.

"You must understand Volodya, this attack that happened, this will escalate any day."
"Well if it didn't escalate now, I don't think it will soon. Besides, the most logical thing that came up on our minds was that the solidarists would take up arms and start killing reds. They seem to be unsure."
"You think they can't? They have terrorists, people ready to die for their cause and you think they were uncertain? Think about this. What would you do if someone killed your friend? Would you kill similar people or find the exact person who did it?"
"I guess the latter."
"That is the reason I said we should enforce a curfew and those pricks in nice suits abolished it just after a few days because they are afraid to loose votes. We must not let the solidarists find the people responsible for the attack. We must find the perpetrators first. Any man would choose 20 years in jail over being captured by those fanatics!"
"You call them fanatics, but you used to vote for them? What is this?"
"I still do! But this chaos is causing emotions to rise. Yes their idea is rational, a united and an independent Chokashia, but the people are now corrupted by emotions. For all these years I learned that these people act like a family. When one in in need they all help him. There was this boy a few years ago before all of this. He lived with his mother who lost her job which also had a miserable salary. He was one of them, and they did everything they could to help him and at the end found a job for his mother. When the boy was arrested for some petty crime, he broke a guy's nose over some skirt, they hired a lawyer for him, they brought food every week and even organized protection for him while was held in prison for a week. That is spirit of the strong, that is why I fear they will do something bad to these people."
"Boss, I think you are overreacting a bit."

A police officer ran in without knocking:

"Mister Ostrovskiy! You must come, there is an emergency!"
The young chief of Vorsha police turned around to see a worried inspector
"Is it necessary?"
"Yes it is sir! We have found the terrorists who killed those kids!"
"Good God, why didn't you say it immediately! Where are they now?"
"They are taking them from the Bohdan bridge on the Svislach river sir."
"They were arrested on the public transport?!"
"No sir, their bodies were found hanging from the bridge."

Hamza put his coat on and glanced at the mirror before leaving his dorm. 'Not bad', he thought to himself with a self-satisfied grin. Wearing a light black coat, warm beige pants, and a dark red scarf, if it weren't for his coffee-colored skin, curly black hair, and prominent beard, anyone could have mistaken him for a regular Chokashian. Leaving a note on the couch for Danya telling him where he was headed, he left his dorm, locked the door behind him, and headed off of the local mosque. Although Hamza wasn't as religious as many of his classmates at home, he had always made sure to attend Friday services and was an active member of his school's Muridin Students' Association.

Stepping outside of the dormitory, he was greeted by the pleasant sight of Vorsha in the spring. On account of the rainstorm that recently ran through the region, fresh drops of dew clung to the leaves of verdant trees that lined the city's streets, gleaming with sunlight as it delicately filtered through the foliage. The air was cool and humid, filled with the sound of cars playfully splashing through puddles in the afternoon traffic. As much as he missed his home, he was happy to live here. The mosque might have been far away from his house, but on most days, he didn't mind having to go across the city.

Due to his foreign appearance, he often stood out in crowds and occasionally got confused looks from Chokashians who had probably never seen someone from Catai before. Today was different, though. Looking around the tram, everyone stared at him. Some looked at him with fear and trepidation. Others with a friendly expression of reassurance. Some, particularly the men in the back of the car, glared at him with searing resentment. Hamza felt like they were staring into his very soul. Feelings of anxiety crept into his mind. His shoulders tensed. His heartbeat quickened. The tension was unbearable. He looked around restlessly. The staring didn't stop. It only intensified.

The men in the back started to whisper among themselves, glancing at him with the same scorching intensity of a hunter inspecting his prey. The tram came to a stop. One of the men got up and starting walking to him. A wave of panic washed over him, his heart leaping out of his chest with every beat as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead like boulders down a cliff. Fearing the worst, he sprang from his seat and ran off the tram, sprinting away from the stop as fast as he could.

Looking back as he ran, he gradually came to a stop as he saw the tram leave before the man could get off and follow him.

"HEY! WHAT THE FUCK? THIS IS OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!", an unknown voice roared. Turning around, Hamza saw three men behind him. Before he could reach, one of the men threw his fist at Hamza's face with tremendous force, landing on his cheek with a thud. Hamza fell to the ground, pain rippling across his body as blood pureed into his mouth.

The long corridor was dark and smelled of mold. It was quite humid as it was underground. As you would walk forwards to a door at the end of it, you could see marks on the old red bricks. Names, dates, short messages.It was strange, why would anyone write something in such a place. Only a handful of people knew about this place in the whole of Chokashia. It can't even be found on the city plans, yet three men were in it. Two me n dressed in black shirts with masks on were escorting the third. It looked more like a kidnapping as the third had a bag over his head and the two were helping him to get to the end as he could't see. But he was there voluntarily, you could say so. He was instructed to come to this place, he was one of the most active members of his movement and was offered a chance to help it even more.

The lock opened, and the door screeched. The bag was taken off his head and he could finally see. A small dark room, it had a table at the center of it with some chairs around it. A skull and crossed bones were carved in the center of the table. Right at the end of the room, facing the door from the other side, was something that looked like an altar. But he couldn't see, there were people in front of it facing him.
-Welcome Gregor! We have been expecting you!
said a man dressed in a black uniform with a badge which had skull and crossed bones on it.
-Do you know where you are?
-I think I do, I was instructed to come here by ...
-No names Gregor
the man interrupted him
-We do not use our real names here comrade, that is why we are referring to you by the name you were given on that small peace of paper. It is not a codename, it is your new name which you will only use when you meet with the members of our brotherhood. This is because we abandon our former identities, our former selves that other people knew us by. We embrace this brotherhood as our new and only family and law. It is sacred to us, the cause, hence we must dedicate our lives for it. Come forward comrade.

Gregor stepped forward as the group made a passage leading to the altar. This was no altar he has ever seen before. It wasn't Alydian at all. Instead of what he would usually see in Church. An opened book on which there was a human skull with crossed bones, below it also on the book a revoler pistol and a dagger, and in the center a bottle of poison. As Gregor came closer to the altar he could see there was something written on the forehead of the skull. "What I once was you are. What I am now you will surely become."
-Kneel Gregor and repeat after me.
-I, who from this moment become a member of the organisation "Unification or Death", swear before God almighty and his Holy Fire, the Sun that warms me, the Earth that feeds me, by the blood of my fathers, honour and life, that from this moment on and until my death I will faithfully serve the ideas of this organisation and be ready to die for it's ideals if it is asked from my. I swear before God, by my honour and my life, that I will carry all the secrets of this Brotherhood with my to my cold grave. If swear that I will pledge my life to my new and only family.
May this gun be my ally, may this dagger be my quill, may this poison be my saviour.
May death be my vindicator, my sword, my friend, my punisher, my lover.
-Rise Gregor! Welcome to the Black Hand!