The Damoclean Thread Breaks [Closed. Attn: Gholgoth]

[Vetalia]

Vetalian State, Torzhok Listening Station, Vetalia City Province

The air conditioning clicked on as the State personnel listened in on the phone calls from Haskins, the Propraetor of Vetalia City and the proclamations from the Reich.

Kriegsmarine Fregattenkapitän Donald Scott listened in as well, his face drawn with worry and deep sadness. A veteran of the War and survivor of the imposition of the State, he tried his best to keep things going but these words from on top chilled him to the bone. He was one of the countless Londinian immigrants in the aftermath of the War but he remembered that the Vetalians had given them a home when their own was lost, welcoming them with cheers. He was known as a kind, compassionate man who saved many people from death when the Reich came to dominate Vetalia. He listened to the Reich's communiques, hating the badge on his arm.

"The Reich has decided to assume direct control of Vetalia." Not without killing every one of us he thought. Pausing to light a black market cigarette he continued and played the recording.

"Sarah, its Haskins, look, No, I don't have time to explain, but does your boyfriend still do a bit of black market work on the side? LISTEN TO ME GOD DAMMIT WOMAN!" Sarah, I need your help, listen to me very carefully, I need you to get me a travel permit from your boyfriend, yes, I know, I don't care how much it costs, I just need one" He paused again, fumbling about in the draw for his cigarettes...thank your Sarah, now listen, I need you to get your things out of the Office, the Capitol Police will be here shortly, No, I don't know, but you don't want to be here when they arrive, Ok, Thank you again, I'll see you later at yours this evening, Ok, bye..."

Flashing his badge he commandeered one of the last Vetalian government cars in service and drove towards Vetalia City, its chrome tailfins glimmering in the night.

[Vetalia]

Outskirts of Vetalia City, Near Terekhovo

As Commander Scott expected, the old VLCM Patrician made it about 25km along the M-2 before it gave up the ghost, laid low by running on a mix of decade-old gasoline and fuel stabilizer. However, it got him close enough to his destination and that was all that mattered at this point. Out of respect for the venerable old car, a simple memorial of happier times, he steered it gently to the side of the highway offramp as its engine died and put it in park to make sure it didn't roll backward.

It was no small irony that the highways of the Vetalian State were even better maintained than they were in the days before, consisting of many hundreds of thousands of kilometers of freshly ribbons laid concrete and asphalt pavements criss-crossing the entire country. When the State had come to power, it had invested huge sums in infrastructure to win over the population to its rule, promising the restrictions on personal automobiles were merely a temporary measure and promising these improvements as a sign of the glorious future to come. Now, these vast highways served little purpose other than well-maintained transit routes for the Reich and its logistical infrastructure. The M-2 was particularly unimportant for this role as the M-1 already serviced the formally occupied portion of the Vetalian Peninsula, leaving it as little more than a backup route.

The area around was completely dark with a waxing gibbous moon rising above a sky scattered with untold thousands of stars. A decade ago this would have been an impossible sight this close to the City, the sheer light pollution from the urban areas and suburban sprawl had long made it a dead zone for any kind of astronomy. Don paused for a moment to light a cigarette and look up for a bit before realizing why it was so clear. He shivered as he looked around him.

Along the sides of the highway overpass, the young secondary forests and thick tangles of roadside brush and weeds were overgrowing a vast stretch of abandoned buildings. Gas stations, roadside restaurants, banks, fast food stops, hotels...all rotting and returning to their primordial state, empty shells with dead, black eyes for windows. Abandoned houses too, whole neighborhoods of them, dead schools and rotting churches he thought, taking another drag off of his cigarette and shivered again. All I need is a god damn loon call and this will be complete. he thought. As if on cue, a loon called out from a pond nearby and Don busted out laughing, his fear taken away by the sheer cinematic perfection of the situation. He looked around some more, relaxed and totally at ease.

A tower crane stood over an abandoned hotel construction site just past the highway offramp that nobody from the State had bothered to dismantle, as did a bevy of weather-beaten advertisements for Prima Cigarettes, Vetalian-Londinian Consolidated Motors' 2009 Patrician, Bank of Vetalia's Super Savers CD Special (ends 8/2009) and another huge billboard advertising in the pre-War Cyrillic cursive now outlawed...wide eyed he translated the billboard from Vetalian Cyrillic to English...

United We Are Strong! United We Will Win! Speed Production! Help British Londinium, Defend Vetalia!

A massive boot with the Freekish emblem threatened Vetalia City in the faded portrait with the other foot on British Londinium as guns branded with Londinian, Vetalian and Confederate flags fired back.

Don stared at it for another second. "You've got to be shitting me, the State and the Reich forgot about this little gem? Bunch of god damn clowns..." A moment of fear struck him as he realized the punishment that would face him if he'd said that a mere hour or so ago, but then he realized nobody was listening in this place other than the insects, bats and loons. If anyone had been interested or watching this place these offensive monuments would have been long since destroyed. For several minutes he screamed out a litany of profanity against the Reich, its officials and all of the rest of the people who made this hellhole happen before calming down, lighting a cigarette and remembering his purpose, musing out loud over his station map.

"The Red Line starts at Terekhovo, less than three kilometers from this overpass; the checkpoint at the edge of town is KVF-2 rank for incoming clearance with immediate passage without search for KVF-4 and above, even on foot, so no problems for me there. The Reich won't bother to station at that point anyways as M-2 is dead and even if they were they won't be able to make it by then. Three Red Line stops from there is Hab-115, Bogotol. Sarah's address is just off the train station near the Vetalian Post office...I'll be at sis' well before dawn."

[Auman]

In the suburb of November City, a man walked the sleepy streets. It was five in the morning and the sun wouldn't be up for another three hours. Fog rolled in off the ocean, carrying with it the faint scent of tropical Milenka... At least, this is what John Rian imagined, as the acrid aroma of decaying life unveiled by low tide wafted into his nostrils. Remus was a temperate country, not often written about as an idyllic paradise... It was common among the citizens here to dream of being anywhere else. Though John had visited many countries, it didn't take long for him to pine for the broad rivers and majestic, snow capped, mountains of home. This was also the trend of Remans abroad, realizing the grass wasn't always greener on the other side and redoubling their patriotism.

Jagada was good for a cheap weekend. He never rented the girls, though. If there was ever a nation John would prefer his nation treat with more closely, it'd be them. As thoughts of cheap liquor and dazzling lights flooded his sleep deprived mind, John was snapped back to reality by the chirping of a controlled crosswalk. He checked both ways out of habit, this part of town was closed to vehicle traffic months back after an incident involving a rental van and a ton of ammonium nitrate. He could see what remained of the Space Intelligence Office, which looked like a caved in rib cage. The only thing that kept the structure standing was the burly elevator shaft that ran up the center like its spine. The suspects were still at large, but the investigation was keeping him busy.

John was an analyst at the Remus Central Security Service. His path to work took him down sidewalks lined with tall cedar hedges, which tastefully concealed wrought iron fences, now backed by HESCO barriers and topped with several rows of razor wire. A camera tracked him down the walk and he waved at it, as was his tradition. He could tell the morning commute was nearly at an end when he got to the Greater Dienstad Intelligence Office. The boys inside weren't usually so overworked, but that business between the Scands and the Macabees had them working overtime the last while.

Lazy rascals, John mused to himself, About time you did some work.

The GDIO was a curious building, six stories tall and mostly shaded glass and steel, aside from the concrete facade that glittered in the light. The building was built in the 1960s and back then, someone figured it would be the height of aesthetic architecture to mix broken beer bottles in with the stucco. One should be careful not to lean on the exterior, since men in the past have gashed themselves up.

In the Dienstad Office, each floor was assigned a sub region of responsibility and every floor had desks responsible for a particular nation. Rian chuckled at the thought, as he turned the corner and began the long walk down a purposefully unadorned street leading to his office.

The Kraven Reich Intelligence Office was twenty stories of harsh grey reinforced concrete, circled with various barriers and automated machine gun nests. On the roof were snipers and anti-tank teams. The entire landscape was barren, aside from the occasional ditch filled with electrified water. It was a bloody fortress. John checked his watch and saw he had plenty of time to get through the security checks and even grab a cup of coffee before the morning meeting.

The first checkpoint was nestled between a pair of Nakil A5FT main battle tanks. He was waved through by Tom, the Sergeant Major of three battalion, and the men exchanged pleasantries. Every checkpoint grew more exacting, guards asked questions and verified documents. They confirmed his identity, as they did every day, with body heat imagers, instant DNA tests, retinal scans, finger print records and even personal questions.

"How's your cat?" Asked a soldier he'd never seen before, wearing a floppy boonie hat.

"I don't have a cat." Answered John.

"Damn right you don't." Said the soldier, waving him through the final hurdle.

A pair of thick, charcoal grey, blastdoors slid open revealing a marble white lobby. He strode in confidently greeting Melinda, the front end receptionist. He knew she was with the army and likely had an assault rifle under her desk, but he preferred to ignore it and play the game.

"Melinda." John winked and greeted her. She smiled, even blushed a little, and said "John."

The two has been dancing around the obvious for some time now. John was a handsome man, he always knew it, and Melinda was an attractive woman. They had similar tastes and interests... The only impediment to their romance was the overwhelming fact that John was a coward. With women, at least. He leaned on her desk for a moment, pursed his lips to say something, which Melinda waited expectantly to hear, then tapped his watch and left abruptly.

You absolutely foolish cretin! John berated himself as the door to the elevator closed.

When he got to his floor, he made a quick beeline to the lunch room and poured himself a coffee before swinging by his desk to grab the report he had worked on the night before. Dane, the graveyard intelligence watchman was there waiting for him, sitting on the desk with a handful of papers.

"Get a load of this, Jack." Dane said, slapping the papers on the jade green inkblotter.

"It's John, thank you." He qqsaid, appraising them. They were satellite photographs. As he sipped his coffee, the pictures began to make sense.

"Jack is a tough name, bud. You should go with it." Dane said with a devilish smile. The man was just trying to help him, John knew this... And it irritated him. His insecurities were so obvious that people felt he needed any help at all.

"I'd much prefer to keep my name the way it is, thank you!" John said, feigning good cheer.

"Alright, alright... Just figured you'd fit in better down here on the coast. You Islanders have a tough time of it. Anyway, we caught these stills last night. They're out of occupied Vetalia, something is going down. I've updated your brief and we'll present it together at the meeting. The Commander already knows, but we've been given the honor."

Dane ran John through the specifics as they refilled their coffee cups on the way to the conference room. When they arrived, they noticed that the room had filled up fast and the others were speaking in hushed tones. Word had already gotten out that there was Reich activity. Usually, information was sparse and satellite imagery couldn't penetrate the thick ash clouds over Fortress Norska. It was an enigma and their office were the greatest speculators in the country.

Commander Tolacke was at the head of a great huge table, with a clipboard in hand.

"Can I get your attention, everyone? Please?" Tolacke, a bookish man in a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn to the elbows, asked far too quietly. To his side was Sub-Commander Poltaur, a brazen maniac originally from Special Unit, and probably still was, now assigned to the Intelligence Desk. Word had it, he was feeding information directly to strike teams and death squads. It didn't bother John much, but it was kind of galling that they decided to infiltrate his service agency instead of going through the proper channels and bloody asking for the information like they were supposed to.

Poltaur held up a hand and the conference room became deafeningly silent. Tolacke nodded appreciatively at his Sub-Commander.

"Today, we were going to start the briefing with some discussion about Kravenic breeding centers." Tolacke began, before being interrupted by the hooting, hollering and catcalls of the men and women assembled.

One of them shouted "Hubba hubba!"

Another, "Come to daddy!"

Tolacke furrowed his brow and Poltaur shook his head, bringing a renewed silence.

"Kravenic breeding is done at in vitro sites. Quite brutally I may add. It's terrible." Tolacke continued. "It's not really anything to joke about."

Now the whole room felt guilty.

"No," said the Commander, "we won't be discussing that today because we have satellite images taken from occupied Vetalia that suggest a major occurrence is taking place."

[Auman]

Sub-Commander Poltaur was going over the details of the photographs, the lights in the conference room were off with only the projector, and the bright red cherries of lit cigarettes, offering any light to see by.

"Given the nature of the Reich, I believe the Capitol Police were seizing the port to make use of it for resource extraction and catching these refugees in flight was just the icing on the cake. In previous imagery, we had noticed a few things, construction of container stuffing sites has exploded since Vetalia fell. In fact, the entire shipping industry seems geared towards moving product out of the country. Hardly anything is retained for domestic use beyond the barest of essentials. What ever comes in to the country is materiel used to facilitate the removal of the nation's natural wealth... Mining and logging equipment... Machine guns... Things like that. If I were to take a guess, we are about to witness two things. A total mobilization of the nation towards the enrichment of their Kravenic masters and the greatest humanitarian disaster since the Jagadan extermination event." Poltaur's mood was grim, his voice gravelly and filled with concern.

John was listening quietly, flipping a few ideas around in his head, when his mind turned to something he recalled from his research. It was nothing particularly important, he judged. Not something he would need to interrupt the briefing for.

"We have put out feelers with our sister Intel communities. I'm almost certain they have eyes on this. Havensky in particular has had some interesting observations in the pa-"

A notion came to John and the words just spilled from his lips...

"Death Ships."

Dane tapped John on the shoulder, urging him to shut up. Poltaur stopped talking for a moment and searched the dimly lit group of analysts with his eyes. John felt stupid and sunk into his chair, he'd hide under the table if only it wouldn't bring more attention to himself.

Commander Tolacke stood up from his seat and flipped on the lights, the analysts guarded their eyes, wincing.

"Who said that?" Asked Tolacke in a sagely manner.

"It was Rian!" Came a voice from the back. Dane felt embarrassed for his friend. John felt ashamed of himself for bringing the whole briefing to a halt with his outburst.

"Well, Mr. Rian, do you have something to say?" Tolacke hoisted a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket to get a better look at the man.

"Uh... Uh..." Rian was stammering, nervously glancing at everyone as they stared at him. "Uh... It was nothing, just a dumb idea I had."

"Even exceptionally stupid ideas can provide insight, my boy. Let's hear it." Tolacke smiled.

John stood and began to speak, "It's just that the Kraven Reich have been quick to move on the port, but I don't believe it's solely for the purpose of moving raw commodities. Afterall, this terminal is serviced by dockside gantry cranes. This is a container terminal, it moves containers, which are the least efficient means of moving bulk concentrates needed in their manufacturing industries. So why the rush?"

"They want to stop the refugees before they can spread their story." Said someone, probably Dave Kane.

"That may be true," John continued, "but we all know that the Reich doesn't care about bad press. They are solely concerned with resources, infrastructure... The people, they aren't even a secondary concern to them. Not even a tertiary after thought. Not until the people themselves become the resource. When Sub-Commander Poltaur mentioned Havensky, I remembered that they had boarded a Death Ship awhile back. On that ship were cages. In my work, I'm responsible for many duties and one of which requires me to understand some logistics. The cages are used to transport human beings and they are based upon standardized shipping containers, so that the Reich may take advantage of established infrastructure in conquered countries to transport them. I suspect that their urgency in seizing this container terminal, and no doubt others, in Vetalia is because they intend to start transporting human beings to Fortress Norska and elsewhere."

The room was dead silent. Everyone understood the significance of this. They all heard stories about Milograd, Jagada and the myriad of other genocides.

"How many people could they kidnap?" Came Poltaur, sounding angry now.

"There's many, many, factors that go into it." John fished his phone from his pocket and pulled up some facts on the internet before typing values into the calculator.

"Say the Reich had five hundred container vessels capable of accepting only oh... 18,962 twenty foot equivalent unit containers and they pushed eighty people into each TEU, every vessel could move more than one and a half million people."

"That's not right..." Dane grabbed a scrap piece of paper, a number of the others started to follow along with John's math.

"Precisely 1,515,960 people per vessel. Assuming it takes three days to load the ship, two weeks of travel to their destination and two days to discharge the cargo, one ship can move 19,707,480 people per year. Assuming there are five hundred vessels doing this, the Reich can transport nearly ten billion human beings per year. The problem with these figures, however, is that 18,962 TEU is actually quite small for most container ships that sail these days. The reality is that your average ship is significantly larger than that and can carry many more cages."

Dane stood up, clutching his sheet of scratch paper, "Alright, so judging by your low ball figure and analysis, you're telling us that Kraven wants to kidnap every man, woman and child in the country and ship them... Somewhere... And that they can do it in something like three years or less?"

"Yes."

[Vetalia]

Ceterum autem censeo Carthaginem esse delendam - Marcus Porcius Cato

Curia of the Senate of Vetalia, Pax Gothica

The Vetalian Senate-in-exile was convened in an emergency session by Senator Milkail Algorin, with the Praetor of Vetalia Lydia Repina and the rest of the executive branch in session. A massive map was on the northern wall of the Curia showing all of the Vetalian territories that comprised the nation before the War. The venue was itself decorated with rich, dark wood and white marble, with the seats of the Senators the antiquated curule chairs that were a relic of the days long before, back when Vetalia was merely a province of a long-forgotten Empire. The Praetor and her staff looked out over the Senate floor from a small booth in the rear of the hall elevated above the proceeding. The Master of the Senate bashed his fasces to the floor to bring about order and the Senate was dead silent as Senator Algorin approached the podium. He was slim and dressed impeccably in an well-tailored, expensive suit, his hair slicked and side-parted.

"The floor is open. Senator Algorin, proceed with your speech and motion."

"Thank you." Mikhail paused, drawing a breath and lighting his cigarette before beginning, tapping it into an ashtray on the podium before gesturing with it in his hand.

"Fellow Senators, our Republic and our homeland is under siege. The Reich has occupied the southern peninsula and is planning to annex the rest of Vetalia, with untold deaths and chaos that threaten our very existence as a people and as a nation. And yet, the government in exile led by Lydia Repina has done nothing and has said nothing about this crisis!" A roar of applause mixed with protests erupts as Mikhail glances towards Lydia and the other officials in the box.

"Trillions of rubles lost, our nation first occupied by the collaborationists of the State and now at the mercy of that filthiest, most disgusting of enemies...the Reich. Our currency worth less than the paper it is printed on."

"In light of this inaction, I move that the Vetalian Senate proceed with a motion to declare a vote of no confidence in Praetor Repina!"
"Seconded,the Praetor has failed us!" Senator Fedorov, Senator-in-Exile of Nazarovo Province exclaimed followed by shouts of acclamation applause from other emigre Senators.

Algorin smiled at the applause from his side of the Senate floor, staring directly at Praetor Repina from the podium, who simply watched the proceedings silently.

"Motion carries, the matter will brought to the Senate floor for further debate following the response from Senator Chernov to Senator Algorin's address. Continue with your address, Senator, you have two minutes." The Master of the Senate slammed the fasces to the floor of the curia.

Senator Algorin continued, motioning towards the map behind him, his cigarette drawing lines with the smoke, "Look to the map behind you, Senators. The Vetalian territories are known by all of us, in times past the flag of the Empire flew over all these lands. And what is this Senators?," he points to Victoria. "Victoria, the homeland of British Londinium, which our enemies destroyed during their disgusting, unjustified war which savaged our nation but Vetalian resolve reclaimed, with no effort from Praetor Repina, who wanted to 'bury the hatchet' against the enemies who ruined our nation, especially the Reich of all nations! Senators, remember what those bastards did to us and remember that this is a matter of life and death for which nothing less than strong, unequivocal leadership is required. The Reich must be destroyed or we will be destroyed. God be with you." More applause followed.

Mikhail smiled, noting not a single member of the assembly noted his little slip of the tongue regarding the Empire and left the podium quietly as Senator Ivan Chernov approached the podium. A rather short, and quite fat man with a prominent bald spot and dressed in a much less expensive and poorly tailored suit, and a generation older than Algorin, he cut a less-than-impressive figure compared to his rival, but he wore on his lapel something the upstart Senator could never have: the Victoria Cross, the highest Londinian military decoration of the Alliance and War years. He had earned it during an assault on the Cazelians, saving an entire platoon from ambush through his marksmanship and surviving the aftermath via odds that could only be described as miraculous. He held his head up high walking towards the podium as Algorin's party tried to heckle him before the Master of the Senate slammed his fasces again and spoke.

"Silence!"
"Senator Chernov, proceed with your speech."

Ivan began speaking, his accent clearly marking him as a Enclave Vetalian from Mediterranica with the slight tonality to his speech. "Senators of Vetalia, as one of your..."
One of Algronin's allies shouted out at hearing the accent, in a distinctly Londinian twang. "You're not Vetalian, your a god damned 'claver!" Applause erupts from the Algorin side before they realize the extent of the junior Senator's gaffe.

Ivan pauses at the outburst to draw a cigarette and lights it before continuing. "I see we have a comedian on the floor. Senator Algorin, would you be so kind as to let the Senate know how long your associate here has been a citizen of Vetalia?" He eyes the Master of the Senate, who pounds his faces accordingly. "The Senator in charge of the floor demands an answer, Senator Algorin." Faced with this accusation, Algorin turns to his colleague with an expression of sheer embarrassment in his eyes. "How long have you been a citizen, Senator?"

"Ten years, Senator."

Chernov pulls no punches, seething with rage as he continues. "Ten years, that means you were one of the refugees that we rescued from the wreckage of British Londinium and let into our country, and as a sign of gratitude you call me a slur insulting every single one of the god damn Vetalians from the enclaves who pulled together to get you out of that hellhole!"

"But I only-" The junior senator spoke briefly before being silenced by Senator Algorin.

"But you only what? Wanted to make fun of me for my accent? I'm a 'claver', aren't I? What are you? A refugee whose Vetalian is so poor and your accent so strong that it makes you sound like a mush-mouthed hick when you speak Vetalian..." Senator Chernov motioned for an interpreter to ensure the record was correct as he switched to the Londinian Volscian. "'Or is Volscian more comfortable for you, Senator? I know the language as well as you do."

"No sir...I'll return to my seat.

A roar of applause from Chernov's side and a few from Algorin's. Senator Chernov turned towards the Praetorial box. "Praetor Repina and Proconsul of State Ian Smith are the rock upon which we have built our government in exile and I expect no contest regarding our democratically elected representatives."

"Praetor Repina, the floor is yours."

[Kahanistan]

New Masada, Capital of Kahanistan

Kahanistan National News Headquarters

The KNN headquarters was the most heavily fortified building in New Masada, its security larger even than that of the Presidential Residence, a testament to the history of foreign terrorist attacks sponsored against KNN. Surrounded by concrete Jersey barriers, towers with sniping and machine gun posts, and even surface to air missile batteries around the roof, the imposing edifice in central New Masada drew many aspiring journalists and crusaders for free information. For the bravest, willing to take on the most dangerous assignments, a position as a senior correspondent could earn a third to a half of a million shekels a year. That, however, required a graduate degree and five years' journalistic experience. Thousands of KNN journalists were killed abroad every year by agents of hostile foreign powers opposed to their crimes being leaked to the world.

It was into this edifice that sixteen year old Shirin Shirazi walked to interview for her first part time job. A junior at East New Masada High, the Kahanistanian teenager had greater aspirations than her friends working part time in fast food or strip joints. She entered the building through the main entrance under the vigilant eyes of four KNN security armed with K-3 Ghazi assault rifles and wearing Dragon Skin body armour. The door to the foyer had a huge brass plaque upon which was written in twenty centimetre font: BEHOLD, I AM AGAINST THEE, SAITH THE LORD OF HOSTS; AND I WILL DISCOVER THY SKIRTS UPON THY FACE, AND I WILL SHEW THE NATIONS THY NAKEDNESS, AND THE KINGDOMS THY SHAME.

Shirin was a member of the nation's Zoroastrian minority and had little knowledge of the Bible, and did not recognise the plaque as a Bible verse at first. Only the reference to the Lord of Hosts convinced her that it was from somewhere in the Jewish scriptures, which wasn't surprising given that over a quarter of the population was Jewish. She walked into the foyer where the walls stretched ten metres high and were festooned with photographs of KNN journalists who had been killed or gravely injured in the line of duty. Each photograph had the name of the journalist, date of death or injury, and a summary of the facts leading to each incident, and there were thousands of them. After taking a few minutes to look at some of KNN's honoured dead and wounded, Shirin approached the reception desk.

"I'm here to interview for an internship," she said. Because she did not yet have her university or even high school diploma, Shirin could not apply for a position as a correspondent. While she did intend to become a journalist at some point in her life, she was still trying to find out what her options were. An internship at KNN would entail being trained by veteran KNN staff, but she didn't know all the details and knew she would find them out in the interview.

"Who are you here to see?" asked the elderly receptionist.

"Miss Kimmel, I think she said her name was," said Shirin.

The old lady punched some buttons on her terminal. "Miss Kimmel will see you in ten minutes."

Five minutes after Shirin sat down, a tall, pretty red-haired woman approached her. She was dressed professionally, in a blue blazer and baggy black slacks. "Shirin Shirazi?" she asked.

Shirin nodded and stood up, shaking the other woman's hand. The woman gave her a business card.

"Adriana Kimmel, senior foreign correspondent," she said. "Come with me."

Kimmel led the girl through another corridor, past several more heavily armed KNN guards, and used her keycard to swipe through a heavy steel door before arriving at an office with her name on a plaque on the door. She filled her coffee mug from a machine by her terminal on her desk and offered Shirin a mug. "Arabian coffee?" she asked.

"Yes, please," said Shirin.

"Tell me about yourself," said Kimmel.

"I'm sixteen years old. I'm a student at East New Masada High School and I'm looking for my first part time job. I like to write, read books, and I'm trilingual in English, Persian and Arabic."

Kimmel nodded. "I'm trilingual too, English, Persian and Spanish. KNN publishes in three hundred and sixteen languages, so you will hear a lot of them spoken here. What made you come to KNN?"

Shirin sighed. She had seen this woman on the news reporting from at least a dozen different war zones. What could she possibly say to her that would get her an internship? She decided on blunt truth.

"I want more than to make sandwiches or scrub septic tanks while I'm in school," she said. "My school has an advanced placement journalism course I'm in that involves writing for the school paper and college credit, so if I can land an internship now it's much faster toward my degree..."

"You're sixteen, right?" asked Kimmel.

Shirin nodded.

"So in another two years you would be graduating from high school and have some college credit and an internship nearly completed," Kimmel continued. "You would not be eligible for promotion to correspondent until finishing your university degree, but you could work in another position at KNN until that happens, and still count toward the five years' experience requirement of a senior correspondent, which requires a master's degree. In fact, a lot of aspiring writers we reject for a journalistic role due to lack of writing talent or education end up as our security and technical personnel."

Shirin did a double take at the name plate on her interviewer's desk. Adriana M. Kimmel, M.A., Senior Foreign Correspondent. "How long have you worked for KNN, Miss Kimmel?"

"Eleven years... and call me Adriana. Most people here call me that or Adri."

Shirin smiled. "OK, Adriana. What would I be doing if I ended up in tech?" She didn't see herself wearing the heavy armour and weapons of the KNN security she had seen.

"We would teach you how to code if you don't already know and you would be responsible for our recording and storage equipment, any technology used by our security that requires a technical hand, making sure we don't have technical difficulties on broadcast, and possibly working directly with Miranda."

"Miranda?" asked Shirin.

"Mobile Incident Reporting And Network Defence Array, an intelligent computer network tasked with protecting KNN staff in hostile environments. The acronym spells Miranda, so we typically describe the AI as female." Adriana sipped her mug and continued. "What do you think working at KNN will be like?" The senior correspondent wanted to identify the younger applicant's preconceptions about journalism.

"I'd imagine sort of like my school paper but harder," Shirin replied. "At the school paper we didn't have too many problems with people refusing to give us stories. There were a few administrators who didn't like to talk to us but they don't like any other reporters either."

"It is also more dangerous," said Adriana. "Did you see the memorials to our fallen in the foyer?"

Shirin nodded. "I did. Our country prizes freedom of the press, to the point that it is a more serious crime to injure a journalist in the line of duty than to injure a member of the National Police in the line of duty. Many countries have nothing but contempt for press freedom or any other freedom from their authority."

Adriana smiled. "You know more than many who come here. People come wanting large salaries, but do not realise that our largest salaries are paid to those journalists who take the most risky assignments. It is not our CEO who is the richest person in KNN, but the bravest. The CEO actually makes less than half a million shekels a year. We reward the brave for their service in getting us the news."

"So you're meritocratic, like the KDF?" asked Shirin.

"I like to think we are meritocratic," Adriana replied. "But as a civilian organisation we are not as bound to hierarchical decision making as the KDF. Not as much bureaucracy. We also are less concerned about angering foreign governments, especially those that have proven themselves inimical to press freedom."

"Would I be going overseas if I become an intern?"

"Only if you intern in the Foreign Affairs section. We have political correspondents, business correspondents, military correspondents, economic correspondents, arts and entertainment correspondents, and foreign correspondents."

"I think I'd like to go into the Foreign Affairs section," said Shirin.

"As an intern you will assist your correspondent with their equipment. You will learn the use of journalistic equipment and how to write in press style. Because of the risk of being sent into a combat zone, I recommend some sort of firearms training if you do not already have it. If you have the strength to handle the recoil, I recommend using a Desert Eagle like mine. If you don't, get a FN Five Seven. Much smaller rounds, but easier to aim. You start next Monday."

---

The next week, KNN senior correspondent Mustafa Fassad and two interns, Shirin Shirazi and Amos Yosef, boarded Kal El Flight 909 from New Masada to Sniper Country in Gholgoth, planning to cross the border into Vetalia. They rented a car in Sniper Country and they drove right up to the border.

[Allanea]

“There is no beauty in sadness. No honor in suffering. No growth in fear. No relief in hate. It’s just a waste of perfectly good happiness.”
― Katerina Stoykova Klemer

“The object of terrorism is terrorism. The object of oppression is oppression. The object of torture is torture. The object of murder is murder. The object of power is power."
― George Orwell

Office of Her Imperial Majesty, Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky

Her fingers steepled, the Queen of Allanea surveyed the people assembled in front of her. There were a brown-haired woman and a bald scarred man, both in black military uniform, and a blond man in the dark-blue uniform of the Foreign Service. The fourth was a man who, by virtue of rank, required no uniform – merely a steely-grey business suit and a grey-silver bolo tie.

"Let us recap the situation as it stands now. Vetalia had been subject to a fascist coup and civil war, leading to the fascist inviting – quite astoundingly – the Kravenites in. Is that correct, Maverick?"

The grey-haired man sighed. He was, of course, Maverick Monningham, the Free Kingdom Minister of Foreign Affairs. "I understand that this sounds somewhat incredible, Your Imperial Majesty, but this is exactly what transpired. At no point of this did the Vetalians contact us, their long-time allies, for economic aid of any form. This, together with the fact that Vetalia is a Gholgoth nation – and was, therefore, deemed by us to be secure militarily, since on one hand nobody would in their right mind attack a Gholgoth nation short of a truly apocalyptic scenario, and on the other hand we cannot intervene in a Gholgoth nation with a major military force short of a truly apocalyptic scenario…"

"Has lead to absolutely nobody becoming involved until things entered the stage where the Kravenites have abolished Vetaila's formal sovereignty, and are now in the strip the country dry and murder everyone stage." – Cassiopeia said.

"We're not certain if a full Kraven assimilation has yet commenced," – interjected the man in the blue uniform.

"That is fair. But mass-murder is happening," – Monnigham nodded assent to his subordinate. "Which brings us to – even despite the fact we would find it very difficult to deploy armed force, Vetalia is our ally. What is going to be done?"

"It is not meaningfully possible for us to deploy an armed force." – said the brown-haired woman. She was Baroness Priscilla Stossel-Conde, the Minister of War. "Had we a land border with Vetalia, we would deploy divisions, fight Kraven, our soldiers would shoot their soldiers and their soldiers would shoot ours, and it's not unfeasible that we would win. To deploy such an army into Gholgoth, with hundreds of thousands of troops, millions of tons of supplies, billions of rounds of ammunition, and keep it supplied there, would require miracles of diplomacy and logistics. Miracles require time."

"Time we do not have." – said the Queen. "Which is why I asked General Kalugin to be here. General, it's a job that is clearly going to be with your office."

The scarred, bald man nodded. "I have projected this. I believe that our important point here is to gather information. For this purpose we need to contact several groups of people."

"Do go on," – said Cassiopeia, nodding, as if she was speaking to a student or a fellow academic. Years and years of work at the Concord University had shaped not only her thinking, but also her very manners. Kalugin responded.

"First of all, we need to get into contact with the Vetalian enclaves. These are not, as yet, under Kraven control. They doubtless will be eventually, if the situation continues to evolve as it has been evolved, but as of now they have not yet been completely subsumed. They are the centers of extensive smuggling networks for cigarettes, alcohol, and narcotics…"

"Excuse me, cigarettes?" – asked Cassiopeia – "Pardon me for the outburst, General, this was bad of me."

The man in the blue uniform replied in the General's stead "The Kraven state bars smoking. It is viewed as a subversive activity. Also banned are alcohol, refined sugar, board games, and a range of other activities. Anything that requires people to self-organize independent of state supervision is banned or at least heavily restricted – bowling, volleyball, what-have-you. Speaking in queues, possession of printed literature, radios, televisions, are all illegal. State propaganda is broadcast through a system of loudspeakers. Music is prohibited. Sex is licensed."

The Queen stared. Before she could form a question, the man continued.

"No, I understand that this is totally and absolutely insane and makes no sense, Your Imperial Majesty."- he said. "It's obviously unenforceable in any meaningful way, but also obviously if a woman gets pregnant or if a man has a sexually transmitted disorder, they are disposed of. There are two benefits the Kraven state derives from this tomfoolery. One – as they believe – this improves work efficiency."

"That's not how –"

"That's not how anything works, yes. But the Kravenites' belief in 'efficiency' is more of a religious belief than having to do anything with actual efficiency. It's more of a cult belief – imagine, if you will, Taylorism driven up to religious extent. The entire day of a working-class subject of the Kraven state is an endless, interminable work day, a bit like a Roman Republic slave. That you and I know that this is not how to multiply productivity doesn't mean that the Kravenites don't do exactly this. The second, and more tangible, benefit of all of this to the Kraven Slave State, is that obviously everyone violates these rules. Sex, music, recreation, are immortal human needs. Everyone does something illegal…"

"And therefore has to fear the state, yes." – said Cassiopeia. "And those who believe in the state ideology also feel guilt, which is the true mind-killer. I apologize, General Kalugin. Do go on."

"We would need to also contact Sniper Country. They are a long-time ally, and while they obviously are not going to go to world-shattering war, we might able to secure from them a limited amount of assistance."

"This makes sense."

"We also need to talk to the Aumanii, who are already working on something in-country."

"The Aumanii are good people. Good. What else?"

"The Kahanistani are experienced and hate the Kravenites."

"They are experienced but… they are the Kahanistani." – Kahanistan's military history was a string of terrible tragedies, some of them brought about by terrible errors by Kahanistan's military and intelligence services.

"And yet it is likely they'll have an in."

"Very well."

"And finally, we need to have eyes on Vetalia. I'm going to be reorienting a satellite constellation."

"That is of course authorized. What about men?"

"I'm going to be putting several small teams together. Possibly some naval reconnaissance assets, but I do not at the present believe we can put a surface vessel into Gholgoth without being fed a hypersonic."

"That is fair. Satellites only it is."

"I also would like to increase our surveillance of their slave imports."

"Granted. Let us get to work, ladies and gentlemen."

* * *

Those who kept their eye on the skies over Vetalia at night – those who were not trapped within the deep mazes of the colonial slave-cities, or toiling deep underground – those, in short, who were not yet enslaved completely, or those whose slavery involved labor on a farm rather than in a factory – could, if they were lucky, spot a sparkle, a small gleaming light, perhaps like a star moving rapidly across the heavens. Yet the star did not fall, it merely transited, speedily, across the skies. It was not the kind you use to make a wish – and what would the point be, anyway?

The star was a satellite. There were several like it, some gleaming with the gleam of reflected starlight, others not at all visible with the naked eye. Yet, they watched and listened – with cameras, antennae, and radar reflectors, they watched and listened. They saw the glow of the slave-cities and weapon-furnaces. They detected also the heat of steam and fuel pipes, the warm soil of fresh mass graves and crematoria.

There was nothing, yet, to be done with the information. So far all they could do would be to catalogue the violence and suffering, to allow estimates to be made of the numbers killed and tortured, the thousands of tons of steel made into weapons, the oceans of blood and tears.

So far.

[Auman]

"Sorry Jack, but I'm not quite sure I follow. Can you go over this one more time?" Commander Tolacke asked in befuddlement. Jack Poltaur was walking side by side with the old man down the maze-like passageways of the Kraven Office. Low ranking agents and analysts ducked out of their way as they went by, one even going as far as sliding up against the wall and spilling a cup of coffee all over themself.

"I have an asset in Sniper Country that can cross the border immediately. All I have to do is make the right calls and he's in." Jack was much taller than Commander Tolacke and had a meaner look to him. His face was pocked from an attempt on his life, the deadly poison leaving him disfigured. Despite it all, he was still handsome in a harsh way.

"That would be a suicide mission and you know it. I'm content to just let the boys and girls in SIGINT handle this one." They rounded a corner and stopped dead in their tracks. An impossibly tall man, dressed in a black uniform with stark white piping and shoulder boards, stood patiently in front of the door to Tolacke's office. The man had olive skin. His thick, jet black, hair cut was short and parted to the left.

Poltaur's eyes widened, but only by a fraction. Tolacke was visibly confused by the appearance of this man, he was dressed in a way he had never seen before.

"Commander Tolacke, I am Colonel Arnon Crerar. Aumanii Diplomatic Corps." He extended a hand and Tolacke accepted it weakly, his jaw dropped. "Would we be able to speak inside? There's a great deal that we must discuss and I fear we have very little time."

---

Teddy Lee was sitting in a truck stop diner out near the Vetalian border with Sniper Country. He was dressed out of sorts for the area. Where the locals wore sturdy clothes comfortable for long stretches behind the wheel, he was clad in a steely blue suit, slender cut to fit his thin frame, that reminded him of shark skin when he bought it. Teddy's matching fedora was resting on the counter next to his minestrone soup. He was letting it cool while he read the paper, tugging on a mug of coffee every so often.

It was curious to him that a town could be so close to the border of another country but the paper could have so little news about their neighbor. Back home in the Zhamssassar Republics, where Teddy grew up, the Tamarick Herald was always overflowing with fliers from Ciris Aphalon. His father, Ted Lee, was always ranting and raving about how much cheaper boneless, skinless, chicken breast was just a few kilometers away. Teddy made it a habit to read the newspaper wherever he went, but no matter what, in every border town he visited, there was always something about their neighbors. For example, last time he was in Ciris Aphalon, he spent a spell in Vhernus Gologoplex, another town snuggled up to the border just like this one... And the first page was entirely devoted to a crisis... CHEESER CHAOS was declared, customers from the Zhamssassar Republics invaded the city for three days during the Black Friday sales. Locals couldn't find parking at the Kantomart and God forbid you needed to shop at Targé.

Curiously absent was anything to do, at all, with Vetalia.

Odd.

Teddy folded up the paper and slid it under his hat. He quietly slurped down his soup to completion and tucked a three dollar tip under his coffee cup before tapping his fedora onto his head and stepping outside. The sky was incredibly blue with only a few whisps of precipitous clouds wafting by on a gently breeze. Off to his right was the border crossing. Absolutely dead aside from the activity of the customs officials. According to a nice old lady he spoke to when he got in to town, the Vetalians had recently repaved everything upto their side of the line and then left it at that. No traffic had come in from that side at all since the occupation began some time ago. He had heard second hand that, at the busiest crossings, there was a bit more trade over the years... But no one had actually seen it themselves. It was hearsay. Rumor. Nothing more than that could be gleaned from anybody.

Teddy decided to take a stroll down mainstreet and see how things were doing. He'd been here for a week so far, ever since the Corps sent him the callout. He'd have mounted the border by now if the Sphere wasn't deciding to play by the rules of the region. Could have been halfway to Fortress Arcadia by now, he reckoned. Teddy caught sight of a mannequin in a window, dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt and a puffy red thermal vest that reminded him a little of a life preserver. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it before stepping into the store. A few minutes later, he emerged dressed in that exact outfit, trading in his Vascilian leather wingtips for a pair of dragon leather cowboy boots. Better to start fitting in if he was going to be sticking around awhile... Even better to look like he was from Sniper Country if he ever got caught on the other side of the line.

[United World Order]

Border Checkpoint 13,
Occupied Vetalia,
Gholgoth.

The road leading towards Border Checkpoint 13 was quiet and barren as a small rag tag group made their way towards the border with Sniper Country. They were some of many who were now trying to escape the country as the Capitol Police were now taking over. They had been walking for miles and were carrying some belongings that they could afford to take with them for such a journey. Just ahead of them they could make out what was one of the Border Checkpoints that were manned by the Kriegsmarine Volunteer Force who were usually made up of Vetalian Londinians and so the group had hoped they would be able to plead with them to let them pass through into Sniper Country. The eldest of the group who had owned a small business in Vetalia City before deciding to flee the country stopped in front of a wooden sign with writing in a language he couldn't understand nor had really ever seen before. The rest of the group also stopped along with him and looked at the sign as well and then ahead of them where the checkpoint was which had several uniformed and armed men congregating about and looking their way.

"What language is this? I've never seen this before." One of the other persons in the group said trying to make out what the sign said. The sign also bore a crudely drawn skull and bones underneath the writing which gave off an ominous feeling to some.

"It's probably nothing to worry about, just a warning to people trying to cross the border illegally. Let's keep going and see if they'll let us go so we don't end up having to live under the Cappers." The eldest of the group responded as they continued walking past the sign and closer towards the small group of Kriegsmarine Volunteers manning the checkpoint. One of the Volunteers among them stepped forward and raised his semi automatic rifle towards the group shouting at them in Ordenite unbeknownst to them. The group halted and seemingly froze in place as they began dropping their belongings in fear as the eldest of them stepped forward and began pleading with the Volunteer. The other Volunteers stood by talking among themselves as several minutes went by with the eldest getting no where with trying to convince the Volunteer to allow them to cross the border over into neighboring Sniper Country.

"Do you want money?! Have it! Have all our money! Just for god's sake let us leave this hellhole!" The group began digging into their backpacks, bags and pockets as they tossed and shoved Vetalian currency towards the Volunteer however to no avail. The Volunteer swung his rifle and struck the man with the butt end of his rifle against his cheek sending him down onto the pavement in agony as the others rushed to his aid. One of the youngest among the group saw the opportunity to make a run for it across the border and dashed off to the dismay of the others.

"Runner!" One of the Volunteers shouted in a heavy Ordenite accent as a shot rang out and the runner fell face first into the dirt as he was shot dead by one of the other Volunteers. Several seconds later after some shouting in Ordenite the Volunteers systematically gunned down the rest of the group. Swift stabs from their bayonets silenced those that were still breathing even after they had been fatally shot as their bodies and belongings would be moved out of sight of the road and the checkpoint its self, likely for burial in a shallow grave. An hour would pass before a car approached the checkpoint from Sniper Country with three individuals inside that the Volunteers could see as one of them approached the drivers side window and knocked politely.

"Identification and travel permit, please." The trooper said with a heavy Ordenite accent one that definitely was not of Vetalian origin at all however everyone at the checkpoint donned the Kriegsmarine uniform and of course were all armed. The other Volunteers stood near by talking among themselves in their own language and even sometimes pointing at either occupant of the vehicle.

[Allanea]

It is only the enlightened ruler and the wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying, and thereby they achieve great results. ~ Sun Tzu

Offices of General Alexei Kalugin, Organization for Armed Shenanigans

"They are hollowing the country out." – the general said, as he pointed at the screen behind him. "They are carving it out, like a child removing the insides from a pumpkin." On the screen was a satellite map of Vetalia, a composite of numerous infra-red scans – the empty areas dark, the cities and factory complexes blazing orange.

"I don't understand?" – one of the subordinates asked.

"They are methodically removing all of Vetalia's capability to produce anything at all that is not directly or indirectly for the purposes of heavy industry, and they are reshaping the heavy industry so it can produce purely weapons, or armored vehicles, or whatever else they need for their war effort. What you see here is a map of Vetalia as it stands today – here’s a satellite survey from ten years ago." – the screen flickered – "And back to today. See how there's much less lights?"

"Holy shit."

"That's the right one, yes. As an example, this area held vineyards, the vineyards are gone now. This was a town – the town is now totally gone, some of the citizens relocated… the others…" – he paused, and switched to yet another image. "We have detected what we expect to be mass graves here, here, and here. The earth had recently been moved. We can see crematoria here and here – those are always on. Judging by the size of the buildings, and the traffic to them, just these specific crematoria have a processing capacity of several hundred victims every day – each. The imagery analysis team is still looking for more, and they're probably going to find many more when they're done looking over the images."

"But why?"

"Why what?" – Kalugin raised an eyebrow. "Why do the Kravenites do what they do? Nobody knows. The ability to understand this, we don't have it. At one point it was a totalitarian ideology, then there was a rogue AI, now… I am not sure what the motivation is. I don't think the analysts have a full picture quite yet. In a brief sense, their ideology is a fascist one – not in the sense that it has something to do with the original fascist thinkers, I don't think they're sophisticated enough for that. It is boiled down to fascism in the primal sense, in the insult sense – render down all human life towards violence, like a horse is rendered to glue. Concentrate all effort towards conquering and enslaving as many human beings as possible – even if doing so actually renders you less capable of conquering and enslaving in the long run. Abolish everything that is not about torture, killing, subjugation. Conquer more people. Destroy what you can not use. Use the rest to repeat the cycle."

"But they are human beings!" – the subordinate protested. "Human beings cannot live like that! They would go mad!"

"Perhaps. Are they sane?" – Kalugin sighed. "I want you to put two platoons of Operatives together, and a PLU. I want you to fly one of the Operative teams to… Xirnium, by charter aircraft. Let them wait and train there. Moreover, I want you to start building a supply stockpile in Xirnium – nothing major so far, just a few dozen shipping containers. Ask their government for permission to store this in some modest-looking local facility. For now. And for the lover of the Gods, have someone talk to the Vetalians."

* * *

]In a Vetalian enclave city

The Allanean agent was dressed in the most regular clothing imaginable – a business suit with a tie. Allaneans rarely wore ties, of course. The man was trained to speak Common with a slight Pantocratorian French accent – mainly so as to distract from his actual national origin. However, the ID he had just handed to his counterpart would scan in as real. He was, in fact, a colonel with OAS, the Organization for Armed Shenanigans.

"I will be brief," – he spoke – "We are going to need to do work. A lot of work, and I am going to need to have your cooperation every step of the way if we are to succeed. First: I want you to put me in contacts with whatever smuggling networks you use – I know your agency has to have extensive underworld contacts. Second: I want to talk about putting small teams of men – perhaps a few dozen – across the border. Third: I want you to share with me the information you have already gathered about the Kravens." – he misspoke deliberately, making it unclear if he wish to use the demonym, or use an insult. "I'm interested in the tactical information, as well as input on their weapons systems. I know that with the thousands of Vetalians now forced in their service, some of them are doubtlessly giving you information. Finally – I want to know about the things that are being smuggled – and particularly, about the most unusual things. If you gain knowledge of someone ordering something unusual – a luxury item people there are not able to afford, a flask of poison, a bottle of cognac costing like a small car – please, tell your men not to hesitate."

He paused. "I am going to share with you the protocols for secure communications between us. Satellite uplink is viable, hand delivery of encrypted drives is also viable if you have a secure courier. In a few days we will establish a presence in this city – officially, as part of an airline's offices. Have your couriers arrive there in fast food delivery outfits. The legend will be that they are delivering food to the offices – so of course they'll also have to have the food with them. Some of the deliveries will be mock ones."

He paused. "I'm of course willing to hear you out if you disagree with anything."

[Vetalia]

Sasovo, Vetalian Agovin, Enclave of the Republic of Vetalia in Jagada
Blue = Posts to Allanea

Sasovo was the second largest inland Vetalian enclave, ranking only behind the greatest of the enclaves in the Blackhelm Confederacy. Over 2 million Vetalians lived in the booming metropolis, a massive Art Deco edifice nestled just below the foothills of the mountains along the country's northern border. An elaborate spiderweb of highways and rail lines linked the enclave to the rest of Jagada, sustaining the massive flows of goods, people and money across the two nations' borders.

The unusual inland position of the enclave gave it a unique opportunity to provide financial services, particularly banking and corporate finance, as well as a thriving tourist economy that offered the Vetalians a temperate, even chilly respite from their homeland's summer heat and the Jagites a more refined experience of luxury than what was common at home. It was also one of the most notorious hubs of drug trafficking, smuggling, money laundering and all-around criminality in all of Gholgoth. Ironically, as a result of the Vetalian administration's laissez-faire policies towards these matters, corruption was surprisingly low among the members of the enclave's government and by and large the worst excesses were kept in check by the various factions of organized crime that controlled much of the city.

Upon passing through customs at the Angovin International Airport, a cursory scan of the agent's documents, in particular his identification sent up red flags. After a few seconds, he was escorted by security to wait in a small waiting room near the pickup lanes of the airport and told to wait for further instruction. After around fifteen minutes of listening to muzak, a young customs officer approached and removed his cap in a show of deference. "Sir, your car's here" The Vetalian customs agent nodded towards a large black sedan with large tail fins parked outside, with Vetalian flags on each side of its hood. "You'd better go, sir, that's one of the Propraetor's cars, I'll help you load your luggage."

The drive to the Propraetor's office was a short one from the airport, the driver saying nothing before arriving at the entrance to large Art Deco skyscraper and opening the door for the agent. With an unmistakable Londinian accent the driver spoke "Your luggage will be delivered to your room at the Sasovo Intercontinental Hotel, it's already been arranged, Room 204, just say it's the Proporaetor account..." he paused, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it "...and no tip, boss, I've already been paid a month's salary getting you here safely. The car is bulletproof!" He laughed, slapping the side of the car before getting back in and driving off.

After entering the building's lavish, marble and metal clad lobby and being directed towards the proper elevator by security, the agent was lifted some 50 floors up on a smooth lift to a small, well-furnished lobby where a receptionist sat at a u-shaped counter with a massive map of Vetalia and its enclaves mounted behind her, furiously typing away at her laptop keyboard as a cigarette dangled from her lips. After a few words and checking his identification, a door behind her opened with a *click* and she led the agent back hurriedly through a maze of offices and cubes with heels clicking on the marble floors before finally arriving at the right office and with a swirl of her dress introducing him to the Propraetor of Vetalian Agovin.

The Propraetor's office was lavishly furnished with the finest in Vetalian Art Deco furniture, with full-wall windows looking over the entire city and lands beyond from north, east and west and a row of bookshelves along the southern wall filled with literature and reference works. The Propraetor was idly smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper from Pax Vetalia in an easy chair in a corner when his visitor was shown in and began his rapid fire speech. Listening all the while, the Propraetor then took a seat behind the massive maple desk at the center of the room and looked kindly at his visitor.

"Calm down and have a seat, a drink...and" He paused, opening up his cigarette case to offer his visitor "...a smoke if you wish. You've no doubt had a long flight getting here. It's been a long time since we've seen an Allanean in this neck of the woods, believe me, and after your credentials were flagged at the airport it was clear you were here on secret business. After your sudden speech here in my office I have no doubt where your loyalties lie and I will let you know you are among friends here in Angovin. The security precautions were standard measure for a foreign guest, don't be worried, and your hotel accommodations are my gift to you. Allanea has been a faithful ally of Vetalia for many years and we treat our friends right." Pausing to take a drag from his cigarette he looked at the agent, sensing the concern in his eyes.

"A Reich sympathizer would be torn to pieces before they managed to get here, if they managed to survive the Jagites. This is the safest place in the world outside of Pax right about now." Stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray, he lit another before pouring two glasses of ice water from the pitcher on his credenza. "I have plenty of the harder stuff on hand if you'd prefer that but I think we need to keep our wits clear for a while."

Ruslan set a glass before him and the agent. "Now, regarding the plan, we just need to hash out the details ." He glanced knowingly at his visitor before getting up and extending his hand. "Ruslan Taylor, Propraetor of Angovin. Sounds a bit odd but my father was Londinian and my mother Vetalian. And you are?"

[Kahanistan]

Mustafa Fassad had prepared for the border crossings not only by ensuring that he and his interns carried a pistol for protection - or suicide to prevent capture - but by packing five briefcases each with 100,000 Kahanistanian shekels. One briefcase was intended to get them through the border, with the rest being given to prevent a search of the vehicle if necessary. The bearded Kahanistanian Arab man lowered his window with his left hand, which also held his Kahanistanian passport and those of his interns, and kept his right hand inside his jacket where his Desert Eagle was clutched. The two interns were armed with smaller FN Five-Sevens inside their jackets as well, and their recording and communications equipment, including drones, was in the boot of their vehicle, along with several hundred rounds of ammunition pre-packed into magazines, Fassad's cigarettes and Yosef's liquor bottles for downtime.

Fassad handed the passports to the KVF man, watching him and his fellows intently. If it came down to a firefight, he was the only veteran among the three. Yosef and Shirazi sat in the back, holding each other's hands nervously while clutching their weapons with their free hands inside their jackets. None of them wanted to get killed before even entering occupied Vetalia, but being captured would be worse... especially for the young female intern. Fassad kept his foot on the gas, ready to slam into gear if the KVF attempted an arrest on his team.

This was the last stop before the KNN crew penetrated into occupied Vetalia... or ended up in a shallow grave.

[Auman]

Teddy Lee strode up to the checkpoint with an impressive level of confidence. He knew that he was mere seconds away from death, but the mission was what it was and it always came first. He flicked open his passport with his left hand and leaned against Mustafa's car with his right, producing the document to the Kriegsmarine Volunteer who immediately wheeled on him with his rifle. The cold barrel stared deeply into Teddy's chest and he was imagining what it would feel like to have his heart pushed out his back by what he assumed was a very big and powerful bullet.

"Sorry Mack, had to take a whiz. My associates here must have gotten the idea to drive ahead and get things started without me. The documents are going to check out, of course. But let's level with one another here... We both know they're bullshit. No one in their right mind would enter into this country knowing that they'd never be allowed to leave. Only a fool would limit their options like that." Teddy looked into the Volunteer's eyes, searching them with an expression of deep suspicion.

"Wenn ich so mutig bin, woher kommst du?" If I may be so bold, where are you from?

He didn't know what angle he was about to play, but his father taught him a trick many years ago... If you behaved as though you belonged somewhere, people were less likely to question why you were there. At this point in the game, it was in all of their best interest to do just that. After all, really, who would enter any territory controlled by the Reich, when everyone was desperate to leave, if not for a spy? But the next few moments and the survival of Mustafa, Yosef, Shirazi and even ol' Teddy Lee, Aumanii Diplomat extraordinaire, depended solely on whether this trooper believed they were all on the same side.

[Emperor Pudu]

Somewhere off the coast of Vetalia City

“Pilgrim, this is Gold Lancer, we have the target in sight. Over.” The helicopter, an HVC-1 naval transport helicopter late of the Imperial Guard Naval Corps, was now operated from a modified tramp freighter called the All Men Are Brothers. The Brothership, as it was often called by her crew, was somewhere over the horizon to the west. The target that Gold Lancer had in sight was a different cargo vessel: this ship was making maximum speed on a course taking her directly away from Vetalia City, and even from the height Gold Lancer was looking down from she could see the decks were crowded to capacity with refugees. “The boat’s looking a little crowded, Pilgrim, how are we gonna know your friend when we see him? Over.” she asked over the radio. “He’ll be toward the bow, he says, and he’s gonna throw his hat off the ship when you approach. That’s the signal.” Gold Lancer gave a rapid two-click acknowledgment but Pilgrim apparently wasn’t done, “And he’s not my friend, I’ve never met the guy. He’s a friend of the Count. Over.”

The helicopter’s approach of the vessel caused a mixed reaction among the packed throngs below. Some panicked, crushing their way toward the stern and out of sight wherever possible. Seemingly an equal number though were crowding toward the helicopter, waving their arms and lifting their eyes to watch the aircraft first pass overhead toward the stern, at which time it gave a little wobble to the vessel’s bridge which would hopefully indicate their peaceful intentions, before Gold Lancer brought the big bird around and came alongside the ship attempting to match her speed which had not changed during the fly-by. “Okay, Green Eyes,” Gold Lancer said, this time over the helicopter’s internal channel, “Open ‘er up!” As she said this Green Eyes Panther, sitting in the troop bay behind her, slid open the port side door and pitched a rope ladder over the side which would dangle some twenty meters. This only inflamed the refugees more, as they all began press to the railing and strained to grasp at the ladder’s rungs, which were still well beyond their reach.

Green Eyes fastened a crampon to a safety line and heaved himself over the side and onto the ladder, dangling beneath the helicopter. Over his radio headset he called out to Gold Lancer, “Alright, begin your approach.” Gold Lancer acknowledged and then remembered to add, “He’s gonna toss his hat over the side, that’s our guy! He probably looks rich!” Green Eyes smiled at that, ”Didn’t they always,” he mumbled to himself. He did begin to dutifully scan the crowd, however, as he carefully made his way down the ladder and Gold Lancer maneuvered the helicopter to hover over the forward deck of the ship. Very quickly Green Eyes picked out a Vetalian man, dressed sharply, frantically waving his hat over his head. He was pinned among a crowd away from the railing but as the man met the gaze of Green Eyes he flung his hat as far as he could toward the rail. It sailed in the wind and glided down over the edge of the boat and was lost in the surf. Yes, Green Eyes thought, this must be our man.

The ladder swung high over the deck and began to descend under the careful direction of Gold Lancer piloting the helicopter above, the large frame of Green Eyes clinging to to the bottom few rungs and keeping his eyes locked on the Vetalian man, now conspicuous among his countrymen most of whom were still elegantly chapeau’d even in this crisis. As the ladder sank closer to the deck the crowds began grabbing at the ladder and even at Green Eyes’ own legs and feet. He began to yell and curse at them, kicking away their hands as best he could, but it was clear they were going to continue to swarm. The target began to jump toward the ladder as well, but he was neither as young or seemingly as desperate as some of the others. Green Eyes drew his pistol at that point and displayed it conspicuously to the throng. It fazed them little, and so the big Pudite aimed the pistol at the horizon and fired off three rounds toward the sea. That was enough to calm most of those still clambering over each other toward him and to make his point yet more clear he now swept the barrel over the crowd, which elicited some shrieks and much cowering.

The target then stepped forward and Green Eyes linked his pistol-holding arm around the ladder and used his other hand to clasp hands with the Vetalian. The man was evidently carrying a briefcase as well which didn’t add to his dexterity. Green Eyes hauled the man up, however, and pulled him close to himself on the ladder as the man flailed his feet about looking for a rung. Over the radio Green Eyes chirped “Take us up, but take it slow! He’s a bit slip-footed!” Green Eyes and Gold Lancer were speaking Pudite so it was unlikely, but possible, that their new guest understood what was being said. In accented English Green Eyes then turned to the Vetalian, “Climb.” Green Eyes also holstered his pistol again and took the briefcase from the man to speed his climb. The Vetalian went ahead and the Pudite followed him up, watching carefully for any indication he may be about to lose his grip.

The man made it, however, up to the door and began to climb awkwardly aboard. Green Eyes kept an eye on him but he managed to get aboard quickly enough. When Green Eyes hauled himself aboard moments later he found the Vetalian laying on his back on the deck of the chopper, panting and heaving, but looking relieved. Green Eyes quickly reeled in the ladder and slammed the side door closed before knocking twice with his fist on the wall behind Gold Lancer. She pushed the controls forward and the helicopter’s nose dipped as she gained speed and put the cargo ship behind her. “Pilgrim, this is Gold Lancer, we have the package aboard. Coming home, over.”

The tramp freighter All Men Are Brothers was about a forty five minute flight away. As soon as he regained his composure the Vetalian man strapped himself into a jump seat and politely requisitioned the briefcase he had been carrying from Green Eyes. The big Pudite handed him a headset along with the case, which the man put on. “That better not be Vetalian rubles in there,” Green Eyes said as soon as the man had donned the set. “Wouldn’t wipe my bloody ass with that shit.” The Vetalian shook his head no and rattled the case a bit, which made a heavy clunking noise. Gold Lancer spoke next, “Green Eyes, if your ass is so bloody I think you’ve got bigger problems than inflation.” The Vetalian cracked a smile at that, nervously, but turned stoic again under Green Eyes Panther’s stern gaze. Green Eyes was a powerfully built ethnically Pudite man who sported an extensive face tattoo, including green shading around both his eyes which gave him a strange and disconcerting countenance. If the Vetalian man was familiar with the Pudite system of justice he could have surmised that this tattoo was a punishment, though for what crime he could only wonder.

The rest of the trip passed largely in quiet, though there was a moment of panic when Gold Lancer picked up the signal of a naval search radar that was painting them from pretty far out. She wasn’t sure if they would have gotten a good look at her, but she took the bird lower and increased her speed. Best to get back to the ship as fast as possible.

The freighter, which was more properly a 150 meter long former bulk ore carrier that had been heavily modified, finally came into view. “Welcome home, Gold Lancer.” came Pilgrim’s voice over the radio as she maneuvered to set the bird down on the makeshift flight deck that had been constructed on the ship. A man and a woman were standing on the deck just out of the way and waiting as the noisy helo made its final approach and touched down. With the engines powered down and the blades spinning to a stop Green Eyes Panther slid the side door open again and he and the Vetalian man hopped out, although one managed it much more gracefully than the other.

The first to approach the disembarking pair was the woman on the deck. She was tall and slender, with a lean, hungry look heightened by her sharp facial features and sunken eyes. Her hair was silver, betraying a Jagadan heritage, though she herself had the features of a Pudite. She had an air of authority about her too, and as she stepped up to the Vetalian she introduced herself, “Welcome aboard the Brothership, Mr. Vetalian,” She shook his hand and he began to speak, “My name is-” but she cut him off, “Stop. No names here. You can call me Dark Song, or Captain. I’ll call you Mr. Vetalian. That’s Green Eyes Panther behind you, and Gold Lancer flew you in. Of course you know the Purple Bearded Count,” she gestured to her male companion who had followed her in approaching the helicopter. “You’ll do us all a favor and call him the Count while you’re aboard. We’re not interested in his name either.” The Vetalian looked about him at these strange characters. He had known ‘The Count’ earlier in his career, and of course by his given name at the time, but it had been some years since they’d seen each other. Today the Count was dressed in a rumpled and sea-damp suit of dark cloth and sported a neatly styled, pointed purple-dyed beard that the Vetalian had never seen him wear before. Nevertheless, the two men eagerly shook hands and exchanged greetings.

“So what, you’re a pirate now?” laughed the Vetalian, still somewhat ill-at-ease. The Count answered with a wide grin, “You could say that,” he acknowledged. “Why don’t we get out of this chilly air and take a look at what you’ve brought for us.” The Count suggested amiably. “I’m sure you could use a stiff drink, as well.” The Vetalian and the Count began to make for the stern conning tower while Dark Song hung back a moment to confer with Green Eyes, and while Gold Lancer was busy securing her helicopter to the deck.

Inside the freighter was clearly showing her age, and the many leagues she had put behind her out at sea. It had been some years since she had a permanent home port, and hadn’t secured extensive maintenance in almost as long. Everywhere signs of slapdash repairs and custom-fitted machinery crowded the narrow passages aboard the ship. The Count was leading his old friend below decks, toward the crew mess. They didn’t pass any other members of the ship’s compliment on the way down, though when they arrived in the cafeteria they found they weren’t alone. “Excellent,” the Count exclaimed when he entered and saw the hunched old man standing in the galley through a long open window-counter. The man, wizened with age and bundled under a thick dark blue robe which included a hood he wore over his head, peered out from under the heavy fabric and his white-whiskered face cracked a smile. He spoke in high, preening tones, “Welcome, good Count! And to your guest as well,” the old man in the galley gave a low bow, which considering his already short stature bent him out of view for a moment behind the counter that separated the mess from the galley. The Count turned to the Vetalian, “That’s Cloud Dragon, our cook. He’s a regular old wizard!” The Vetalian nodded and replied, “In the kitchen you mean? I can’t wait.” The Count chuckled, “Yes, that too.”

The pair took a seat at one of the steel tables, bolted to the deck, and the Vetalian laid the briefcase out on the table while the Count went to fetch a couple of hard plastic cups and a bottle of whisky. He poured two glasses on his way back and set one down beside his friend. “It’s genuine Nunkid whisky, can’t get that easily out this way, I remember it used to be a favorite of yours,” he remarked as he took his seat opposite the Vetalian. As he did so Dark Song entered the mess as well. “Alright, alright, let’s just see what you have there,” she began, taking a seat, “And we’ll see what we can do to help you with your little problem.” The Vetalian took a deep drink of his whisky and set it aside before entering a combination in the lock on the case and unclasping the lid, flipping it open to reveal its contents to the pair. The first thing he did was pluck a tidy fedora out of the case and dropped it on his head, evidently having packed it after learning he would need his other for the signal. The next thing the Count and Dark Song saw in the case were bundles of Vetalian rubles banded together haphazardly, “Ignore these,” he said, grabbing handfuls of the bills and tossing them on the table. With them out of the way he revealed a carton of Vetalian cigarettes, which he plucked out and began to open.

Dark Song and the Count, however, were focused on the other thing that he had uncovered: a solid gold brick stamped with a Vetalian Reserve mark. “Look,” the Vetalian began in a conciliatory tone, noticing their interest as he stuck a cigarette in his mouth and felt around his pockets for a lighter, “There’s more than this in the offshore accounts. My funds in the enclaves should be as safe as ever, but you can call this a down payment.” The Count reached into the case and hefted the gold brick in his hand. It was heavy, more than twenty pounds, and he let it thump onto the table before Dark Song to illustrate that. “That’s got to be more than half a million standard dollars,” the Count mused quietly to his captain. Dark Song merely nodded, “We’ll have someone check in to those offshore accounts as soon as we can. This, however,” she tapped the large gold brick, “Will be enough to get us started. Tell me, Mr. Vetalian, how can the Ten Heroes help you?”

The Vetalian took a drag on his cigarette, which he had managed to find a matchbook to light, and ashed it in his now-empty whisky cup. “It’s a rescue mission,” he began, “Her name is Veronica, and she’s the love of my life.”


[Emperor Pudu]

Aboard the Brothership, approximately 85 miles off the coast of Vetalia

"So you're telling me she's still up there?" Dark Song asked again, still incredulous at what she was being told. "As far as I know," Mr. Vetalia reiterated, "I made sure she was well concealed before I left. Nobody else knew she was even there at the time, so I doubt anyone has been looking for her there." His mind on the chaos he had witnessed during his escape, the man who was going by Mr. Vetalia wasn't sure anyone was looking for her anywhere. "It's been a few months since the State relocated everyone in that district," Mr. Vetalia continued, "So that's the last time I was up at the estate. Unless the Reich has bulldozed everything up there, I don't see any reason why you won't find Veronica right were I left her. She's a tough old girl, for sure."

"If he says she's gonna be up there, I believe him," the Purple Bearded Count chimed in at that point, "He's not stupid, at least he's less stupid than me!" the Pudite added jokingly. "Alright," Song concluded, "so we get into the country..." she nodded her head and held up one finger, "... then we get to the estate, which hasn't been bulldozed..." she held up a second finger, "And we find this Veronica, who is still there..." she held up a third finger, "and we somehow get her out of this hellhole of a country without ending up dangling from a lamppost in some Vetalia City suburb," she held up a fourth finger. "This is quite the rescue operation, Mr. Vetalia, you better hope those offshore accounts check out, because this is more than a half-a-million type of job."

"Well," Mr. Vetalia said then, lighting another cigarette (he had found a plastic ashtray by now and it was already nearly full of stubbed-out butts - they had been here awhile), "There might be something else that could help you make this worth your time." Her interest was piqued at that point, and Song leaned closer to the Vetalian, through his cloud of secondhand smoke. He carried on, "I work for the State, or I suppose I did, before the whole thing was abolished earlier today," he took a drag and suddenly coughed over his cigarette, he was still a little anxious it seemed, "Specifically, I worked in the Treasury." Song's gaze turned then back to the bar of gold bullion sitting on the table before them. Mr. Vetalia tapped it as he spoke, "You think I found this thing on the side of the road? Well, I wouldn't put it past the capital, given the state of things today, but no. I got this out myself. I've got a few more hidden away back on shore, too."

"How very mercenary of you," the Count quipped, before quickly raising his palms, "Not that I wouldn't have done the same thing!" he chortled over his drink before topping off both his own and the Vetalian's whisky. Mr. Vetalia brushed past the curious compliment, "In fact it was my job that tipped me off to what was coming, a few days ago the Reich showed up and started moving truckloads of gold out of the different reserve vaults. I started getting panicked phone calls from banks all over the country." Song looked up from the gold bar with a quizzical look on her face, "The Reich doesn't use cash, why did they care to lift the gold?" she asked. At that Mr. Vetalia could only shrug, "I couldn't say what they need it for. Maybe they're just gonna melt it down and make great big transistors out of it, who knows. They certainly weren't chatty about it when they came and started hauling it off."

"So the Reich has the gold then, what good is that information to us?" Song followed up, "Just how much did you manage to hide away?" she gave the gold brick a shove on the table. It slid but little, heavy as it was. Mr. Vetalia answered her, "When I started getting those panicked phone calls from those banks I started taking a few field trips. Anywhere I knew the Reich hadn't hit yet, I got there. We fudged a few numbers moved a few piles around, and that was that. The bank employees were happy to turn a little shady profit, and I didn't let on what I thought this all might mean. I've got a dozen more bars stashed with friends, but who knows what's happened to them by now... no, I think you could get more..."

"Just how would we do that?" the Count asked then in between drinks. Mr. Vetalia answered him matter-of-factly, "I happen to know they haven't gotten it out of the country yet. They're collecting the reserves at a rail depot outside the capital. It wouldn't be efficient to send it all out piecemeal, of course."

Dark Song pulled out her incredulous face again, "You're suggesting we stage a train robbery, of the Kraven Reich, in the middle of a hostile occupation? You know, I think I will have that drink, Count." She grabbed the cup right out from in front of the purple-bearded drunk and drained it in one go. "Mr. Vetalia, now you're speaking my language."

"I'm in!" came a voice from across the small mess. Dark Song wheeled around on the bench and saw her communications officer, called Pilgrim, standing in the doorway. "Green Eyes said you wanted to see me, boss?" the young Pudite man added quickly, throwing up a goofy looking salute. She answered him, ignoring the gesture, "Well, sounds like you're up to speed already." Pilgrim ducked over to the counter top, behind which the old man called Cloud Dragon was busily rustling up something for dinner, and he grabbed himself a cup before he took a seat at the table, squeezing himself in between Dark Song and the Count.

"Nice to meet you," the smiling young man said, extending his hand toward the Vetalian, "Call me Pilgrim, or don't. Song here is the brains, the Count is the bankroll, and me? I'm the face." he beamed as he said it, at which Mr. Vetalia gave him an uncertain handshake. "Pleasure," was all he managed. Pilgrim was a handsome young man to be sure, and he moved with a sure grace and athletic form. His confidence was off-putting, however, to someone who had been through as much as Mr. Vetalia had these past few days.

"Where's Flowers?" Song asked, sliding away from Pilgrim down the bench to make a little room for the imprudent young man. "I didn't see him," Pilgrim said, pouring himself a drink, "but Green Eyes said he was on shift in engineering and sent Tiger off to find him." Song nodded, "It's looking like we'll send in a three-man team." she began calmly, "You," she nodded at Pilgrim, "plus Tiger and Flowers." Pilgrim seemed to approve of the roster, and replied "Expecting trouble, are we?"

"You could say that." was Song's simple reply. Mr. Vetalia looked between the three of them, before settling on Pilgrim, "So if you're the face, what are Tiger and Flowers' roles?" Pilgrim laughed at that, "I knew I liked you, Mr. Vetalia. You get it." The Vetalian wrinkled an eyebrow, the man hadn't answered the question. Seconds later, though, it looked like his answer had arrived.

A tall, broad-shouldered black Almaran hunched through the doorway into the mess, the bells on the shash he wore about his belt jingling as he did so - or perhaps it was the sabre he wore at his side rattling in it's sheath. He was thickly muscled and took heavy, deliberate steps. He looked about as much like a pirate as anyone Mr. Vetalia had ever seen, down to the braided beard dyed bright red and the multicolored bandanna desperately holding down a thick head of dreadlocks. Behind the Almaran came a shorter, but somehow even wider man. This one was a Pudite, with a face as round as his bulging stomach. He wore a loose fitting tunic and trousers and carried a jug of what, based on the stains on the man's teeth and shirt, was a dark red wine.

"Both muscle." Pilgrim replied to Mr. Vetalia, as the pair of very large men wedged themselves between the narrow benches and the table on either side of Mr. Vetalia. "Yes," the outsider said, "I see that now." he wriggled himself loose of the two broad sets of shoulders and well-muscled arms flanking him.

"Let's get you all up to speed." Dark Song said then, "Everyone get comfortable, because this one's quite a tale. Lost love, secret gold and dark villainy. I think you'll like it."

[Vetalia]

Curia of the Senate of the Republic of Vetalia, Pax Gothica
Black - Internal/Worldbuilding - Open Knowledge

Ian whispered to Lydia as she prepared to approach the podium. "Lyd, are you sure you've got this? We could get our guys to move to table the motion, Algorin got shut down by Chernov bad enough his own party wasn't backing him at the end."

Lydia responded in a curt whisper. "No Ian, we've got to do this. If we table it, Algorin will have another year to keep stirring up shit with his BofA ties, and with the way things are going in the State, God willing we might be having our next session back at home in Vetalia City. Him becoming Praetor of Pax from a vote here is one thing but him taking the whole country is another. Worst case is he wins here, and there would then be another mandatory election after we regain the mainland."

"Got it, good luck Lyd!" Ian knew Lydia more than well enough to trust her judgment when it came to Vetalian politics, and conversely Lydia knew more than well enough to trust Ian's judgment when it came to international politics. The two friends had been through hell and back together and each knew the other as well as they knew themselves.

"Thanks Ian." She smiled at him as she extinguished her cigarette and went before the 200-odd Senators. From her vantage point 20 feet up, they looked rather small and at eye level all that was visible was the light streaming from the Diocletian windows that lit the Curia and a cloud of cigarette smoke slowly drifting up towards the air purifiers at the top of the hall. Pausing to take a breath, she began delivering her response in the formal, archaic Vetalian required solely in the most serious of Senatorial proceedings.

It required some training to be able to use and understand the archaic pronunciations and obsolete grammatical forms but overall it was still generally intelligible to any fluent speaker of the language; the most jarring part was the use of the majestic plural, a throwback to the days then the Emperor of Vetalia used such terminology when addressing the Senate.

"Senators of Vetalia, it has come to our attention that there is a vote of no confidence against our government and under the parliamentary procedures of our Republic it is the duty of the Praetor of Vetalia to deliver a rebuttal on our behalf."

"As Praetor of Vetalia, one Lydia Repina, it is our responsibility to deliver the response of our government to the Senators and people of Vetalia. In this regard we will respond to the allegations levied by the Senator Algorin as follows. First, that the Republic of Vetalia has been ineffective in its response to the crisis of mainland Vetalia and the recent invasion by the Reich..." '

She lapsed back into colloquial Vetalian as appropriate, lighting a cigarette before continuing. "Senator Algorin, I think you know as well as I do that there isn't a damn thing that could have been done. The deal with the Reich was negotiated with a rogue agent of the Republic's government and signed by a Praetor who was so drunk he couldn't stand, his signature approving the treaty looked like a bunch of god damned lines. And on top of that, what the hell did you think we could do about it even if we could do something about it? Send in our nonexistent army and navy to tell the Reich to fuck off? At least now we have a fighting chance of rebuilding. During my term I have ensured the relocation of Vetalia's business and scientific expertise to Pax and the enclaves, including the entirety of our space program and countless other scientists, educators, businessmen and engineers. My leadership saved our country's most valuable resources so that we can eventually save our people!"

Applause erupted from the Repina faction.

"I understand your concerns over the losses of our land and territory and what it has cost us, Senator Algorin, it pains me as much as you. I personally experienced the collapse of Vetalia in the aftermath of the State takeover and it's only due to the efforts of the Proconsul of State, Ian Smith, that this government even made it out alive. You were too young to experience it but it was bad, Senator, really bad, something I hope you never have to experience for the rest of your life."

"I also know you've heard of the ludicrous idea that I am supporting our nation abandoning our homeland and becoming a nation of enclaves, which is quite literally nothing but Internet bullshit. Our home is Vetalia and we will fight to retake it in whatever way we can. Your patriotism and love of Vetalia is well known, Senator, and your loyalty to our great nation undoubted. I just ask that even if you don't agree with my arguments, you recognize that now is not the time to change governments. That is all."

Lapsing back into formal Vetalian and extinguishing her cigarette, Lydia continued.

"To conclude, we move that the Senate respect the Senator's motion and commence with a vote of no confidence in this government and its decisions be binding on us, and invite Senator Algorin to deliver his response to our address."

[United World Order]

Border Checkpoint 13, Vetalia.

The Trooper collected the documents from Fassad as he begin looking them over one by one. Each passport he looked over he looked at the occupant it was from studying everyone for a moment before handing the documents back to Fassad. The other Troopers stood about the checkpoint observing the car as they went about their duties maintaining the checkpoint on the border with Sniper Country.

"By law I am required to search everyone in the vehicle and search the vehicle its self for contraband." The Trooper started as he looked between the three occupants of the vehicle, a prominent scar ran down the right side of the KVF man's face. The trooper had served formerly in the Ordenite Waffen-SS and fought in two of Krasnova's brutal wars in which his encounter with a Marshite war tiger lead to his scar.

"However me and my comrades here are willing to let you go in return for something of monetary value." The trooper explained and as he did another man walked up to the car unexpectedly dressed in a blue suit which prompted the Trooper to step back and aim his rifle towards the man. The other Volunteers promptly stared at the man and waited on what would happen before deciding to either use force or request the Capitol Police to become involved for an "assessment" which would not fair well for the visitors. Another Trooper came and joined the first Trooper and took the documents from Lee as he looked them over.

"Where am I from?" The Trooper responded with a slight grin. "Mein heimat ist Ordena. Now where are you from?"

[Jagada]

“Feel. Feel for those who no longer can. For those whose bones lay in ash. For those who scream for their suffering to be over. For our cousins whose minds are shackled. Feel, because we paid for it in billions of lives …” – Juladin Toraim, Coming to Terms

Sin District,
Pax Gothica

The music never stopped in the neon paradise of the Jagite District, otherwise known as Sin. One of the numerous island pedals granted to the Gothic Lords as gross displays of their hubris. Sin stood as unique amongst the pedals for it radiated with vibrant multi-colored lights that perpetually stained the clouds overhead with dazzlingly kaleidoscopic patterns. Scrubbers had been strategically installed at great expense across the city and pumped out scented perfumes that filled every alley and crevasse, ensuring that residents need not take one foul breath. Across the bridge that linked it to the central pedal, along the Platinum Highway, the buildings held no rhyme or reason to them with architectural designs from across the empire. Arcantosi-inspired cantinas, Ibhorian arches, Austrinonian bridges, and countless other inspirations crushed up against the traditional domed structures of Jagite taste. Music flowed down the streets, up the stairs, across the bridges and canals of Sin – filtering its way into the businesses and residences of those who called it home. Like all other things there was no unity to the music but rather a cacophony of dozens of styles and genres competing for the attention of the throngs of people who choked the streets.

It was in a little brothel called The Graceful Sway that Admiral Bwana Sekibo laid in the bed of one of the establishment’s more naturally skilled ladies – Rachel. Wrapped in silk sheets and enjoying a Vetalian cigarette, a rare luxury these days, Bwana watched the ceiling fan lazily spin. It did nothing for the temperature of course, but he supposed that wasn’t really its purpose. He looked over to the sleeping form of the woman next to him. Rachel was an old friend, a Skyan who has run afoul of the law back in Citadel and found refuge, as all lost souls do, in the embrace of Sin. It had cost her most of her dignity though, but that was the price Sin took from everyone. Rachel was fast asleep.

Admiral Bwana sat up and swung his feet off the bed before reaching over and grabbing the bottle of rum on the nightstand and taking another swallow. He squinted across the dark room looking for his cellphone and uniform, spotting them on a chair that had fine upholstery. Without making a sound he put on his uniform, strapping the cloth pauldron on last; on it a dark purple fanged maw -- his personal emblem. The cellphone was in his inner pocket of course. Turning it on caused him to wince as his eyes adjusted. He took a double take when he realized he’d missed eleven calls and had sixteen messages.

“Fuck me bloody,” he growled as he turned to rush out of the room.

“Admiral,” came the voice of Rachel from the darkness behind him. Her voice had an innocent tone but a hard edge that reminded him just how far Sin was dragging her down.

“I’ve never cheated you,” replied Bwana without turning back to her. Pulling five hundred icons from his wallet he set it on the dresser by the bedroom door, “Take care of yourself girl.”

He left without another word.

Bwana shrugged off the questions from the brothel madame as he read through his messages. He visibly paled when he realized they came from Zean Anor, Admiral of the Gold. There were a few from his subordinates, no doubt trying to save him from Anor’s wrath. He flicked through the messages …

“Admiral … Anor wants to see you.”

“We’ve got a situation sir; you may want to head back.”

“Admiral …Anor is getting pretty pissed trying to find you. Call me.”

“Bwana … this is Anor. Where the fuck are you?”

The last one was the worst and gave him a cold sweat.

“The seas are smokey this evening.”

It was an informal phrase that meant the fleet was preparing for war. Why was Anor even here? Wasn’t she supposed to be sailing for Dephire? His fleet was meant to hold over in Pax to restock on supplies from Sin before regrouping near Havensky. Fuck, he screamed in his head as he jumped into his rental car. Throwing the vehicle into gear he burned out of the brothel and into the maze, smokey neon streets of Sin.


Bwana turned the forty-minute car ride back to the Sin Naval Yard in twenty-three minutes. The perimeter guards held him for only a second. The moment they saw who he was they saluted and lifted the barricade. This chilled Bwana’s blood … that meant Anor had sent orders down that he be admitted without security checks. Fuck, he thought again. He knew he should’ve kept the volume up. As he drove to administration building, he caught glimpses of the sea – hundreds of silhouettes could be made out in the distance. There were undoubtedly thousands he didn’t see. All of Gold Fleet had returned to Sin. The vehicle came to a screeching halt at the bland concrete administration building. Here he couldn’t get past security so quickly. The stoic guards demanded identification papers, fingerprint scans, eye scans, and a myriad of other security measures which took a total of ten minutes to slog through.

Admiral Bwana was eventually led past Anor’s traditional office and towards a conference room. As he walked, he saw men and women of the various components of Gold Fleet assembled around a central table. Zean Anor, her dark mercury hair and bright gunmetal eyes locked onto his dark eyes.

“Admiral Sekibo! Fortunate you’ve arrived,” she said in a harsh tone, “I was about to assume you’d abandoned your post and sign your arrest warrant.”

Bwana gave one of the crispest salutes of his life, “Apologies Admiral! I offer no excuse for my behavior and submit to whatever punishment you deem necessary ma’am!”

Her eyes softened but her voice didn’t, “This is entirely unbecoming of an officer, Sekibo. Much less an admiral of the Imperial Navy! For the sake of your fellow officer’s time, we shall discuss how to remedy this behind closed doors. Now stand to Sekibo, we may be going to war.”

Bwana filed in with the rest of the admirals, all of whom had the courtesy to pretend to have no witnessed his dressing down … though he was sure he’d get considerable ribbing later. The central table for now took his full attention. It seemed to focus on Vetalia, specifically Fortress Arcadia – the abomination that the Reich had established when the fascists had taken control. A quick scan of the various markers, and a glance at the legend for verification, confirmed the theory Bwana was formulating in his head.

“As I was telling the others Sekibo,” continued Anor, “The Reich has decided to end the charade of Vetalian independence and are moving into the country. Intelligence believes that the current leader, a Haskins, may not even be in charge or alive anymore. Needless to say, Fostoria vehemently opposes this decision by Norska. We are their immediate response to it.”

The markers on the glass screen reset as Anor recreated the plan for Bwana’s benefit. The Gold Fleet, and its various squadrons and sub-fleets, moved out of Sin and interposed themselves between Fortress Arcadia and the most direct supply routes from Norska.

“We are to impose a blockade of Arcadia initially, and all of Vetalia as the Reich moves in. We may be called upon to launch an assault directly on the Naval Arm stationed in Arcadia if the situation devolves. Until you receive orders directly from me, however, do not fire on Reich or Vetalian State vessels unless fired upon first.”

Bwana kept reviewing the map as Anor went through the order of battle, showing where each sub-fleet or squadron would be in the blockade line. Their fields of operation, areas where the Reich Naval Arm could be funneled into to form kill-boxes, fallback points, and a myriad of contingency plans incase this came to blows. He realized something as she concluded her placements.

“Admiral, I do not see the 77th Squadron,” he said, “Where would you have us?”

Zean Anor, Admiral of the Gold, gave a wry smile, “I’ve got a special assignment for the 77th, Admiral Sekibo.”

[Kahanistan]

"Of course," said Fassad, nodding to Yosef to pass him two briefcases with one hundred thousand Kahanistanian shekels each. He hoped this would be enough - while the money was earmarked for bribes, any remaining funds could be used in country for daily expenses... provided anyone in occupied Vetalia still used Kahanistanian money. Two hundred thousand would be enough for each trooper to receive a princely sum. Fassad wasn't sure what the pay was for KVF personnel, but if it was similar to the Kahanistanian Defence Forces, that two hundred thousand was about eight years' salary for a private or about three years' salary for a general.

Fassad handed the two briefcases to the soldier. "Here you go." His interns stared straight ahead, eager to get past these troopers.

[Auman]

A border crossing, somewhere in Northern Sniper Country...

"Where am I from?" The Trooper responded with a slight grin. "Mein heimat ist Ordena. Now where are you from?"

Crap.

Teddy didn't think this far ahead. He was hoping to intercept this car before it hit the checkpoint, maybe chat them up while they got a sandwich or something. When it made a beeline straight for the border, he acted impulsively and made his move, figuring he would make things up as he went along. And so he would, winging it is twenty-percent of diplomacy, after all. The other eighty is fieldcraft.

"I am from the only place that matters. A Fortress a long, long, way from here... Sent on a mission of great importance, one that I must accomplish before I can go home. You can understand the sanctity of a man's commitment to duty. I have been sent by our master to speak to a man here, in Vetalia... And in order to do this, I require two things of you. In return, my friend has offered to reward you handsomely. First, we need documentation that will allow us safe passage to Vetalia City. Second, we're going to need you to keep this exchange confidential. We are on a very important mission, one that pertains to the security of our nation... And we cannot trust anyone. Do you understand me, trooper?" Teddy Lee lied with such conviction that he believed it himself... Though, to be technical, not a word of what he just said was a lie.

Kraven Intelligence Office

Poltaur sat uneasily in a plush leather chair, it was the color of black coffee and squeaked in an undignified way whenever he moved. He was just to the left or Colonel Arnon Crerar who spoke with a High Vascilian accent which, to Poltaur's horror, was not affected in the slightest. Crerar was having an intellectual conversation with Tolacke about the intricacies of the current situation. So it seemed, this man from a foreign extra regional government had been keeping a very close eye on Gholgoth. He knew things that were classified top secret, that Tolacke and himself hardly had the clearance to know... And what made it worse was that he was more knowledgeable on the subject than either of them, national experts on the Reich.

Poltaur had been in contact with Crerar here and there for months now, though he had hardly believed the credentials. It anything, this Aumanii from the Sphere had been very forthcoming about anything he was asked about. There were no secrets, it seemed and no strings attached. Poltaur would ask a question and Crerar would answer it. At first, he would verify everything against available intelligence, but after the first month of every tidbit coming up positive, he stopped bothering.

It was a well understood fact that the Remans were Aumanii, the sons and daughters of a nation borne or Mars. Remus was a nation created from that diaspora, displaced by the Quickbronze Genocide... And until recently, it was believed that they were the only significant enclave of survivors. If what Colonel Arnon Crerar had communicated to him about the status of the Aumanii people was true, and he been given no reason to doubt him, then the reality was that Remus is just one nation in a panoply, which Crerar and his government sought to make whole again.

"We have assets in motion. I didn't want to place them before making you aware, brothers, but we couldn't wait. Things are moving far too quickly to wait around and do nothing. I hope you can appreciate that we have done this in the best interest of the Aumanii people. Of Remus. Do you mind if I smoke?" Crerar fished a pack from the inside pocket of his jacket. Tolacke waved a hand dismissively, as if to indicate he didn't mind.

"What I don't understand is why you have come directly to us. Why not speak to the Overlord, or at least the head of the Directorate?" Tolacke folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the green inkblotter on his desk.

"Because you needed to know what I know and you needed to know it now. The Reich is trouble. It needs to be stopped. If we fail at any point along the way, we all stand at great risk of losing everything. The Aumanii are fighters, always have been and always will be. We fight for love and justice, the right to freedom and we will lay down our lives in defense of all that it means to be human. This is our way, this has always been our way, Commander Tolacke. When I look at this Kraven Reich, I only see inhumanity... A vile mutation. A cancerous cell that must be removed and destroyed."

[Kylarnatia]

The Situation Room, Fangthane Palace
Krytopia, Kylarnatia

“So they’ve finally done it?” Maximus Cantius Maursus, Caesar’s Chief of Staff conversed with both Flavonia Thrasea, the Director of Imperial Intelligence and Dux Imperator Tertius Atilius, the First Lord of Caesar’s Joint Chiefs of Staff. All around them a handful of other individuals stood around or sat at the long conference table in the Situation Room and conversed amongst themselves, though everyone was focusing on different aspects of the same thing: within the past few hours, the Capitol Police had started a brutal crackdown in Vetalia City, and from what could be made out from satellite imagery, this wasn’t just a straightforward case of riot suppression.

“It would appear so.” Flavonia responded absent-mindedly, her focus more drawn towards the live imagery being shown across all the monitors in the room. Fire and smoke rising from multiple districts across the former Vetalian capital, Köenigsjäger’s rolling through the street along with APCs full of Capitol Police. This was an outright purge, no doubt about it. The Imperium Intelligence Community’s connections through the Vetalian black market had given them a good indication that something like this was bound to happen eventually; various acts of resistance had sabotaged the Vetalian State’s production quotas, in no small part because the weapons smuggled to them through the black market could find some of their origins back to Kylarnatia, though they’d have been careful to remove any identifiable markers. They knew this was an eventual outcome, and for them it was a favourable one; it gave them an opportunity to act in a big way.

“The Magnificum Legio based in the Strait has informed us in the past few minutes that the checkpoints originally manned by KVF soldiers at the border have since been abandoned. If we’re going to make our move, now’s the time.” Tertius spoke to Maximus in a tone that stressed urgency. The Chief of Staff was well aware of how eager Imperium High Command was to act, but that was nobody else but the Caesar’s call. Fortunately, they wouldn’t have to wait long to get it.

A few moments later the double doors leading into the Situation Room swung open and four members of the Caesar’s Guard entered, standing at each point of the room. Next came Lord Hyperion, and swiftly behind him Caesar, who was dressed in an evening ball gown as she was currently entertaining guests in one of the Fangthane Palace’s many ballrooms. All those present looked drew silent and looked at her as she came in, bowing deeply in reverence. She took her seat at the head of the table. “Sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

Over the next few minutes, both Director Thrasea and Dux Imperator Atilius brought her up to speed with the events unfolding in what was now likely the defunct Vetalian State. The Caesar listened intently as she also studied a multiple number of folders passed down to her, each giving summarised details of everything including suspected troop movement and the activity both in Vetalia City and Fortress Arcadia, which was heavily monitored both by satellite and by various means from the Contested Territory that the Imperium clung onto as a result of the forced treaty that ended the original Vetalian Occupation. As the briefing concluded, Silvier observed the smoke billowing from Vetalia City’s once pristine skyscrapers in the images she had being beamed around her.

“Do we know what has happened to Governor Haskins?” She asked. Everyone around her shook their heads solemnly; most likely dead, no doubt.

“You say that the border checkpoints at the Strait have been abandoned?” Caesar turned to her First Lord. He nodded affirmatively in response. She took only a minute to contemplate her response, clasping her hands together and resting her elbows on the table. As she contemplated, a uniformed officer stood by a red phone on the wall, looking towards her as he waited for her signal.

Then, it came. “Go.”

Border with Occupied Vetalia, Silvier’s Strait

Within minutes, the first elements of the First Vetalian Magnificum Legio - a five-million man strong legion formed for the purpose of liberating Vetalia - approached the border checkpoints that crossed over into the Vetalian State. In years past, they would’ve found Vetalian and Londinian KVF soldiers manning these checkpoints, and for years they would send fire teams to observe the border and report back; it had gotten to the point where certain soldiers were becoming familiar with one another on either side. Yet today when they went to check the border, it was completely abandoned. The checkpoint buildings were still present, the guard railings still in place, but no KVF uniform in sight. That was the first indication to the First Vetalian Magnificum Legio that something was going on, and they were quick to tip off Imperium High Command.

They checked back almost every hour, and the checkpoints remained abandoned. The Auxilia started to become twitchy, but the Legionnaires were stoic and ready to move at their Caesar’s command.

Then, it came.

As the first elements approached the abandoned checkpoints, Auxiliamen and women ran ahead and lifted the barriers, throwing them into the ditches on the roadside as they then began waving the columns through. The occupied Vetalian State’s new infrastructure worked to their benefit, as the large highways allowed heavy vehicles and personnel carriers to move quickly and fan out across the north of Vetalia. Imperial Engineers were also quick to commandeer a freight line that had first been constructed during the Great War that Vetalia and Kylarnatia fought almost a century ago, which they quickly began to link up with the line that led into the Strait; in the next few days it would be used to move large hauls of supplies and equipment.

Within a few hours, the First Vetalian Magnificum Legio had secured control of the entire northern coastline and peninsula. Their key targets were the cities of Chistopol and Taursa, both of which had seaports but the latter also had a small airfield. Once they were secured, the Auxilia and detachments of Legionnaires fanned out into the interior and were told to keep moving until they met any significant KVF or even Capitol Police presence, at which point they would stop in the most favourable defensive position and dig in. The KVF seemed to have all but melted away, and in the next few days there would be reports of KVF soldiers being found either at home with their families or wandering the ruins of Vetalia’s once great cities, despondent and resigned to death. They clearly knew what had happened further south, and had been awaiting the same fate to befall them. Luck had made it so that the Caesar’s Legionnaires had arrived when they did.

Taursa Town Hall, Taursa
Northern Vetalia

Dux Imperator Brutus Skrall had been assigned command of the First Vetalian Magnificum Legio initially because it was anticipated that they would be starting the war on a defensive footing. Brutus - known as the “Gatekeeper of Tartarus” due to his renown within the Caesar’s Imperial Armed Forces for being someone who was immovable and able to hold out against difficult odds - was a man growing into his senior years, though his physique wouldn’t give you that impression. Shorter than the average Kylarnatian male though still standing at 6’11”, he was a barrel-chested man with deep-sunken features and a face weathered by conflict. His bald scalp was sunken with spots of scarring that came from shrapnel which he had been lucky to survive on more than one occasion. It was a joke amongst his peers in Imperium High Command that he was far too stubborn to die.

He had selected the former Taursa Town Hall to act as a temporary Headquarters in the newly liberated Vetalian sectors as his forces continued to move forward, and it wasn’t just a choice of convenience. Taursa’s airfield was certainly an important factor - there would be immediate work in the coming days to expand its capacity ten-fold for military use - but there was also some symbolic and personal value here for Brutus. It was here that his own father and grandfather had overseen the occupation and rebuilding of Vetalia following the Great War. The remnants of a monument commemorating the history stood outside the Hall; a motherly angel lifting up the frail body of a starving Vetalian and his family. Around the statue were standing stones etched with the names of servicemen and women who had died; some had been chipped apart, likely to get at the tiny bits of gold inlay that had once been there. Brutus stood there for a moment looking at the names, and then the sorrowful expression on the face of the starving Vetalian, meanwhile all around him his men and women were setting up a few cordons to secure the building. In the corner of his eye he knew there were Vetalians looking on from a distance - cautious, afraid - but he didn’t pay them too much mind immediately. They would soon be receiving relief once the airfield was operational.

“Dux Imperator Skrall…” A Legionnaire spoke from behind, his voice muffled by the vox of his helmet. “The building is secure, sir. We can go inside. We’ve assigned a suitable office space for you on the top floor.”

Saying nothing, the Dux Imperator turned on the heel of his armour and with heavy steps began making his way into the Town Hall, a cadre of soldiers and officers following closely behind. He began laying out his orders in very short and serious words as was his want to do. “We need to start identifying KVF officers, Vetalian scientists and administrators. Get some names from Imperial Intelligence and start rounding them up.”

The Situation Room, Fangthane Palace

As soon as she gave the order and the troops of the First Vetalian Magnificum Legio got underway, the Caesar also ordered the Home Armada to maximum readiness and the Second and Eighth Fleets to ready alert as they were both conducting sea operations in and around the Central Gothic Ocean, so would be the most immediate in responding to any movement from Naval Arm North in Fortress Arcadia. They would keep a steady distance but be in a position to identify any movement as and when it happened; retaliation was always possible, but Imperium High Command still wagered that the Reich wasn’t fully prepared to commit to all-out war just yet. Even so, they had to be ready for the possibility.

“Get the Senior Staff together and brief them on what has happened; we’ll need to make a public announcement in the coming hours. In the meantime, I want an emergency session of the Imperial Senate to be arranged.” Caesar laid out instructions to Maursus, who had instinctively already started calculating all his moves in his head. Though when she mentioned the emergency session, he gave her a bemused look. She caught it and then gestured to one of the monitors, which had changed to showing the Vetalian Senate session ongoing in Pax Gothica. “It’s time we publically state our full support for the Vetalian Government-in-Exile, now that the sham Vetalian State has been done away with. I want a meeting with Praetor Repina and Proconsul Smith as soon as--”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my Caesar, but there has been a development.” One of the Intelligence Community members in the room spoke up, bowing in reverence as it was often heavily frowned upon for someone to interrupt the sovereign. “Capitol Police have been sighted leaving the Norskan District in Pax Gothica.”

Deciding to forgive the transgression due to the importance of the event, Caesar took a moment to consider the possibilities. She shot a concerned glance at Dux Imperator Atilius, whose expression was also grave. “They must be intent on finishing the job; alert our allies, and shut down the bridge leading to Urba Gothica. Do we have any assets on standby?”

“Yes, my Caesar. We can have a squadron of Black Cobra operational and out in the field in a couple of minutes.” Atilius confirmed.

“Secure the Vetalian Praetor and Proconsul, now. I need them alive.”

Custodian HQ, The Promenade
Pax Gothica

The night had started like any other one on the Promenade. People were out drinking, late night shopping and having an enjoyable time. The Pax Custodes had a very straightforward time of keeping order, occasionally having to deal with the odd attempted theft, pickpocketing or on the most “entertaining” of nights, a drunken brawl. Custodes were drawn from all over the region, some being transferred directly from their national police forces, to help keep order in the central Pax District and across the majority of the national Districts. They were some of the best and the most experienced, but it was highly unlikely that any of them were prepared for what was going to go down tonight.

Commotion started to pick up in the office as calls started to come in, both from concerned civilians and on-duty dispatch units, as the gates to Norska District had swung open and Capitol Police started marching out in lock-step. Bafflingly tourists treated it as some kind of show, while the Custodes who had been posted specifically to keep an eye on the Norska District - from a distance - could only break out into a cold sweat as they radioed in to report what was happening.

Within a few moments, a reluctant aide frantically knocked on the Commandant’s office door. A deep and commanding voice called from within to enter. She did so, hands shaking, as she held a scribbled note in her hand.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Commandant Sliabh responded, his figure large and imposing as he stood up from his desk. It helped to put her at ease, oddly enough, as what she had come to report what something she had only imagined before in her worst nightmares.

“Ca...Capitol Police have been sighted leaving Norska District, sir.” She said, trying her hardest to keep her composure. Commandant Sliabh’s eyes widened, in a way she hadn’t seen before, but then he pulled a determined grimace as the cogs started turning in his mind.

“Do we know where they’re heading?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay. Okay. We need to get crowd control units out there now, keep the tourists and the public as far away from them as possible. Make sure all the Districts are aware and on high alert; restrict all non-essential travel. Keep the roads as clear as possible so we can get ahead of them and cut them off, wherever they’re heading. Get ready to raise roadblocks on my order.” Sliabh grabbed his jacket from behind his chair as she hastily put it on, buttoned it up to the collar and straightened it up before heading out the door at a quick and determined pace.

Urba Gothica Naval Base, Urba Gothica

At the same time as the Pax Custodes and other Districts became aware of what was going on, a group of three stealth helicopters left the Urba Gothica Naval Base. On board was a fire squadron of Black Cobra Special Forces, whose hastily arranged mission was to extract Praetor Repina and Proconsul Smith from the Curia of the Vetalian Senate in the Vetalian District, as well as the other members of the executive branch. If the Caesar’s hunch was correct, they were about to be in very grave danger.

The fifteen men and women assembled in the belly of each helicopter said nothing to each other and each helicopter remained silent on communications as they moved at great speed, flying in such a way as to try and not attract too much attention on any air radar, though due to the urgency of the mission it was almost secondary at this point. Within a few minutes they would be above the Vetalian Senate which was still in session, blissfully unaware of the happenings outside.

They would find themselves quite abruptly interrupted as the Black Cobra dropped down onto the building. Cutting the power so as to stop the public broadcast, they then burst through the Diocletian windows and descended onto the floor of the Vetalian Senate.

“Stay where you are! Don’t move!” The servicemen and women directed the Senators to remain seated and in place, and any who didn’t they would quickly have down on the ground, not taking any chances as to who might be able to harm the intended extraction targets. One team focused almost exclusively on Praetor Repina and Proconsul Smith, squaring in on them almost immediately.

“Praetor Repina, Proconsul Smith; on the orders of the Caesar, you are to be extracted due to risks posed by the Kraven Reich. Come with me please.”

[Anagonia]

CVSN-06 CSS Olympia
Anagonia-class Strike Carrier
Task Force Olympia
Sailing away from Unity District - Anagonian-controlled territory in Pax Gothica

As the last air patrol of two F-35C Lightning II's landed on the deck of the large flattop, Admiral Johnathan Vladinchi reflected on the solvency of Anagonia's contribution to the regional effort within Pax Gothica. The Olympia had just launched a day prior from her efforts to bolster Anagonian prestige in the area around Pax Gothica, the hope that by sending one of two remaining active Anagonia-class Strike Carriers to their island abode would send a strong message of Confederate commitment and resolve. It did that, and more, as the Governor of the island had mentioned - with no less than utter enthusiasm - that the appearance of the carrier had sparked a positive surge in tourism for that brief period of its visit. The job of the Olympia concluded, Admiral Vladinchi had ordered the task force away from the island and back to sea, with intent to continue trade protection patrols that would eventually lead them back to home ports.

The waning day was crisp and clear, the breeze strong yet unobtrusive. Johnathan watched as his XO on the bridge made orders to turn the carrier with the wind as another patch of air patrols lined up on deck and began their pre-flight checks. Everything was nominal. A glance out to portside gave witness to the CSS Imperium, a Confederacy-class fast battleship, keeping a respectful distance from the object of its defense as the carrier underwent normal operations. Visible also was a few other ships, including a lone Edmond Goff-class giving chase at the edges. Glancing starboard gave equal visage of naval power; the Confederacy-class CSS Orgath and trailing entourage of defending ships. The reports from his fleet of ships had been clean, the supplies topped, the men ready. All was nominal.

The noise of two F/A-18E/F Super Hornet's launching from the carrier brought Johnathan's perspective back to the fore. Open sea greeted the carrier and her task force, with a few other visible destroyer's visible off to his peripheral; a total of eight ships in this task force comprised the defense of only one of two active remaining Anagonia-class carriers in the fleet. As the two Super Hornet's aimed skyward, Johnathan made note of a flight of Bell UH-1Y Venom's making their return run to the Imperium portside, no doubt returning from a visual patrol of the fleets perimeter. More often than not pirates tended to try to sneak smaller vessels within that perimeter and the Venom's had become a valuable asset in deterring or, if necessary, destroying that threat.

"Captain on the bridge!" cried out the XO as he deferred both in posture and movement to his Captain, the announcement of which prompted Johnathan to gaze sideways towards the bridges entrance. Captain Amy Ellison made an appearance, her aged and still rather respectable appearance giving light to her years of service. Johnathan merely gave her a nod, upon which she returned, heading to his side. The bridge returned to normal operations shortly after.

"I thought you went for a nap?" Johnathan asked. He was ten years her senior and the age showed, but the two had formed a rather professional bond for the duration of Olympia's assignment as the Admiral's flagship for his fleet. Johnathan made it a point to never interfere in the Captain's reckoning of her ship, he found it rather disrespectful unless the situation called for it. The only reason he had been leading the bridge had been because Amy had desperately needed some shuteye.

"I did, until I was contacted by Governor Watson. Seem there's a situation erupting in Pax," Amy reported, her eyes drawn to the bridges fore as the flight deck, ocean, and the tip of the fleet's protective umbrella greeted her gaze. "The Reich is sending forces unannounced towards other districts and the Governor just received word from Imperial authorities concerning the issue. He wanted to differ his response to you, since we're only a half a days way from their port."

Johnathan scoffed, that Governor was a lazy bastard. He reflected on the effort he had spent correcting much of the Governor's errors in patrols and assignments to the dedicated Military Policemen there. It had been somewhat of an troubled affair, but otherwise he felt it was sufficient after he helped the Governor reform the chain of command. He was surprised, therefore, that Colonel Hanley hadn't contacted him directly.

"Has the Governor sought the advice of the Colonel?" asked the Admiral.

Amy nodded, "It was the first thing I asked - most obvious too. He replied that the Colonel said there wasn't anything to respond to. No threats to the island. They still have the Robert C. Hunley and Stonewall Jefferson there should they require naval support."

"Then," asked Johnathan as he turned to look at Amy, "why did the Governor contact you?"

"Because he thinks it wasn't enough, for some unknown reason."

Johnathan looked back, holding back the urge to grimace. "I suppose he's awaiting my word on this?"

"Yes sir," Amy replied.

"Inform him then," Johnathan began, glancing back to the Captain, "that I defer my judgement to the Colonel Watson's fine understanding of the situation. Report to him I'll have the fleet nearby, but I will not interfere unless specifically asked to by the Colonel."

"Very good sir," replied the Captain, who began to turn to leave.

"Oh, and Captain?" interrupted Johnathan quickly, "Go back to sleep afterward, that's an order."

Amy stared at her Admiral for a brief moment, then let slip a small smile. She nodded, replying "Of course, sir," before turning to leave again. With her departure Johnathan was left to his own again - relatively speaking. Unless by some impossibility the Gothic forces at play harassed or endangered the Anagonian district, there would be no formal response from the Confederacy.

[United World Order]

Border Checkpoint 13.

The two briefcases were accepted by the Trooper whose sinister like smile went ear to ear. The other Trooper looked over and nodded as he had already lowered his rifle as the travelers would both be let through as they had been given money in return. The briefcases were handed off to the other Troopers as they opened them both and began counting the foreign currency, talking among themselves on how much they could possibly exchange it for elsewhere.

"Get going the both of you. Don't come back this way either if you fancy your lives." The Trooper said as he tapped the roof of the car and moved out of it's way.

[Jagada]

Sin District,
Pax Gothica

“You understand then, Admiral Sekibo?” asked Admiral Zean Anor of Gold Fleet. An older woman well into her fifties she nonetheless cut a fine pose and maintained herself well. Like many of the male admirals within the Imperial Navy she had gradually accrued a certain amount of gravitas through her years of service. Standing across from her in the cramped temporary office was Bwana Sekibo, an obsidian skinned Decimarian in his late thirties, who was slowly nodding his head.

“It’s a risky deal ma’am,” he said thoughtfully, “These special forces are stationed in Sin? They’re ready to go?”

“Yes,” was her simple reply. Bwana got the impression that she wasn’t going to be more forthcoming. He sighed as he looked at how close that put his 77th Squadron to the Vetalian mainland. It would still be well out of the range of the coastal batteries and was primarily meant to assist any fleeing refugee ships; with the minor exception of being a cover for a special forces unit to insert itself in-country.

“If things go poorly, you can fall back here,” she continued, pointing at a spot that showed numerous purple icons representing Jagite vessels, “We’ll have three Quincannons here ready to fire over you if necessary to keep the Reich off you. I know the 77th doesn’t have any heavy hitters itself, which is why I need you. If we sail too close with the battleships it could give them cause to respond. We stay peaceful until Fostoria says otherwise.”

Bwana had already decided he would not, under any circumstance, fall back to the point she referenced. It was too obvious, any Reich captain worth his death’s head would be on him well before the Quincannons got into range. He eyed the adjacent icons and found a better path, one that led him straight into the loving embrace of several destroyer and cruiser squadrons who could easily fill the skies with missile fire. Missiles had better range than the railguns on the battleships and would give even the Reich pause. Zean Anor wasn’t an idiot, thought Bwana, but she was too conventional, too conservative in her approach to fighting Kraven.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied after a long silence, “The refugees? Will we actually be taking any on board ourselves …” He let the question hang in the air.

“No, but do not sink them either. They will not be bound to the Union. We will offer them escort back to either Pax or Mille Mortifere, assuming the Drakonians want them. If there are any Agents or spies in their midst, they’ll be someone else’s problem.”

Bwana nodded and thought the order sensible. The Union had an unofficial, unwritten policy of sinking anyone trying to flee a Kravenic invasion because of the difficulties involved in filtering out the good from the bad. If even a single Agent got through the screening, they would cause untold havoc. Better that they all die for the good of the long game. At that moment the phone on Zean’s desk began to ring … an oddity.

“Should I?” asked Bwana taking a step toward the door.

“No.”

The Admiral of the Gold picked up the phone, “Yes, this is Anor … yes Despoina, how are you … I’m fine, as always ma’am … what did you say?”

Zean’s face twisted suddenly and she began to wave Bwana away. He obliged and headed out of the room, closing the door behind him. He heard one last thing as the door shut …

“Do we know where they’re heading?”

The Tower of Idols,
Sin District,
Pax Gothica

The epicenter of Sin. The gross culmination of decades of rampant economic growth and atomized hedonism. The Tower of Idols stood as possibly the single tallest structure in Pax Gothica, hundreds upon hundreds of feet of reinforced concrete, marble, granite, and a plethora of precious materials. The tower itself was tiered with a very wide base and gradually grew thinner towards the top. On each tier there were statues of historical figures of Gharsash’s past: legendary shahs of Ibhor, savage kings of Anai, conquering horse lords of Engardia. Each was fashioned out of a different, mostly precious, material. At the top of the impossible tower stood a final statue that stood a further hundred feet tall – dwarfing all other idols. It was androgynous in appearance, for historical records never agreed, its patrician face tilted towards the stars. In one hand it held a falchion, the symbol of war in Old Jagada, and the other was raised and pointing – cunning observers would note that it pointed directly towards Cydonia, the conquered and raped homeland of the Jagites. Cast in the purest silver with massive moonstones carved for its eyes, it was the personification of the People – Lord Jagada. Part historical figure, part myth it was the figure that was at the root of all Jagite legends and the promised savior.

In the upper suites of the Tower, Morgelle Bachira, the Lady of Sin, the Idyllic Despot, hung up the phone. It had been necessary to alert Admiral Anor on the situation and request her help in sending a message to the Reich. With that out of the way she could get the actual pressing matter of sending the Despotate Security Forces to intercept the Capitol Police. Her office wasn’t really an office but a parlor to entertain the wealthy and decadent nobles, politicians, entertainers, and corporate magnets of Gholgoth. She had entertained Skyan diplomats, Freekish warchiefs, Drakonian mercenary captains, and once even a Priestess from Kylarnatia. She was a particularly odd one as she insisted on wearing a death’s mask and had a morbid fascination with death and murder. They all had needs that couldn’t be satisfied in their homelands without retribution from the law or society; so, they came to her.

Suddenly the door to her large and lavish parlor swung open and a couple marched in, their tanned skin and attire marking them out as Ibhorian. “Ah yes,” she mused silently, “Emir Numa and his wife Waseema Adulla.” Even as they approached her, followed by her personal bodyguard Koloda, she tried to remember why they’d come. The day had been ridiculously busy.

“Despoina!” exclaimed Waseema, “We have been patiently waiting for over two hours for you to grace us with an audience!”

“We’ve paid a small fortune to come to Sin,” exclaimed Numa, “We expected better from the Idyllic Despot!”

Oh yes! She remembered now. Numa and Waseema Adulla, the Red Wolves of Yunata, or better known as serial killers in literally any other context. A dangerous duo, she thought. Glancing at Koloda she was pleased that his hand was on the grip of his pistol.

She spread her arms in a reconciliatory manner, “My humblest apologies your graces!”

She stood and gave an exaggerated bow, but the couple’s vanity blinded them to it.

“I hope that you can forgive me, but today has been a day of spectacles and headaches. If there isn’t a fire to put out here, then there is one over there,” she exclaimed while gesticulating wildly, “You have my deepest thanks for waiting this long!”

Waseema nodded matter-of-factly, “Well … how do you plan to make this right?”

Bloodthirsty, thought Morgelle, far too bloodthirsty. She did a mental check on who was on duty tonight and internally sighed. Outwardly she beamed with nothing but positivity. She clapped her hands, and from a side room out came two women and a man. All were scantily clothed and swaggered between Morgelle and the Red Wolves.

“I offer you these three … my finest consorts,” she exclaimed, walking around the three and inspecting them herself as if looking over a fine stable of horses, “I can personally guarantee their quality, your graces.”

Numa and Waseema stepped forward and poked and prodded the three themselves before stepping back and nodding to each other. The smiles they gave to Morgelle would’ve sent shivers down a lesser woman’s spine.

“They’ll do Despoina.”

She clapped her hands again and the three began to walk towards the door, the Red Wolves following behind them. “There is an attendant at the end of the hall that will escort you to your suite your graces! I do hope you accept this meagre offering. If you would be so kind I insist that you join me tonight for supper. There we can discuss the rest of your stay in Sin, and how I can make it the best days of your lives.”

Waseema was already turning and walking away, completely entranced by what she knew would come next. Numa had more self-restraint and gave a nod to Morgelle, ensuring her that they’d attend before leaving after them. Koloda turned to follow them out.

“Koloda dear” she called out and the stone-faced Milogradian turned around, “I’m afraid we’ll have to retire those three staffers. I have very important business to attend to … would you be an absolute peach and take care of that?”

Koloda gave a nod and exited the room quietly. “Always dependable. I really need more like him,” she thought. Then she remembered the Capitol Police marching through the streets of Pax Gothica on their way to seize the Vetalian District and she quickly made for her phone. It really hadn’t taken too much brainpower to determine that the Vetalians were the Reich’s target. Honestly, given that the Vetalian District sat right next to the Jagite District it was either her or them. Thankfully Admiral Anor had been transparent in explaining why Gold Fleet had returned to Sin – the Reich was taking direct control over Vetalia.

Fostoria had maintained a strict policy with her regarding Pax Gothica and that no overt violence should take place, least of all between her and the Reich. She fully intended to spit on those orders and do whatever the hell she wanted. Sin was her domain, not Nalur’s. If he wished to come here and dig her out, then she wished him the best. Meanwhile, she had grown quite fond of Vetalia and their quaint district. It had a certain classy feel that Sin’s drenched-in-honey soul could never hope to match. She picked up and dialed.

“Yes, Captain Akdari,” she began, “I hope you aren’t too busy sir, cause I’m going to need you to start a war if you’ve got the time.”

The Despotate Security Forces acted at the behest of the Idyllic Despot. Their technical goal was to police the streets of Sin but given how much was legal and left to its own devices, they spent most of their time keeping the anarchy contained to Sin alone and saving the odd tourist who got themselves in too deep. For the first time in its short history the DSF began a mass mobilization of their assets. From their armored barracks and motor-pools the thousands strong men and women, clad in crimson and gold, loaded up into their new Voss APCs and began to form up along the Platinum Highway. All civilian traffic was pushed to the side, either willingly or otherwise, as the DSF prepared to disembark. Unlike the Custodes of Pax itself, the Despotate forces were heavily armed with JR-5 battle rifles, and their Voss’ had been fitted with 40mm autocannons. This was all originally meant to be a show against unruly crowds and rioters in Sin to show that the DSF would not be pushed around. Now the stakes were considerably higher.

The column of APCs sped down the Platinum Highway, over the bridge that linked Sin to Pax Gothica, and into the heart of the so-called neutral zone for the Lords. The Jagites did not interfere with the Custodes but instead sent messages and warnings ahead of their intention, and their unwillingness to deviate from that course. Where possible they simply avoided the Custodes as they made the relatively short trip over to the bridge that separated the Vetalian District from Pax.

Upon arrival they set to work, with crimson clad security forces setting the Voss’ up in a line to block the advancing Cappers. The 40mm autocannons turned to face the inevitable tide of red spectacles, while soldiers manned the 12.7mm heavy machine guns. Security forces took up positioned behind and in-between the APCs.

Captain Akdari stood in the cupola of his personal APC, which had taken the center position in the line, and surveyed his forces. A large Jagite flag fluttered from a small pole mounted to his APC. The flag was standard gear but Morgelle had insisted that he make sure it was present and raised when the Cappers arrived. “Remind them we aren’t dead, Captain,” she’d said, “They’re being a bit too bold a bit too close to us.

There they stood. Ready for the inevitable standoff. If the Capitol Police wished to enter the Vetalian District they would have to deal with the DSF.

[Vetalia]

Viktor's Place, Sin District, Pax Gothica

Viktor sipped his gin and tonic and surveyed his bar in a building on the outskirts of theJagite district of Pax Gothica, kicking back and smoking a cigarette. I've done quite a good job running this place since Jessi handed over the keys, turnover's up, expenses are down, everyone's happy and I just pulled myself a nice 100 grand draw for the quarter. Time to take it easy, cut Jessi a check and duck out of here for a while after the Christmas parties for a well deserved vacation. It was quiet now, just a Kadrian in from overseas, two Vetalians and a very drunk Aumani who had recently been cut off and sent to sleep it off in a spare room upstairs.

"Glass of water and then the upstairs room, boss. Watch your step. You know what I said about getting busted out there." The Aumani stumbled up to the spare room; it wasn't luxurious by any stretch but it was a clean set of beds and a remarkably clean bathroom with a shower, toilet and sink. The bathroom was tiled to be easily hosed down in the event of informal guest problems.

Turning back to his remaining guests he put on some Vetalian lounge music to suit the two of his three remaining customers. It was strangely quiet at this time, but Viktor figured it was the war and political business that kept his usual customers away. Once it was all settled things would pick up again.

One of the Vetalians noticed a slow vibration growing second by second. "What the hell is that? Sounds like a whole damn army marching outside!" The Vetalian ran towards the window. "Look, they're coming this way! Viktor, you better come see this!"

"Alright, alright, hold your horses Misha." Probably just some Skyan guard unit mobilizing he thought. Viktor approached the window and saw the Reich's forces, now a kilometer or so away, approaching along the avenue near his bar. "Oh no, oh fuck no....everyone get the fuck out the back entrance now!" Viktor began furiously turning off all of the neon ads in the windows and drawing the shades of the bar.

Misha joked. "What is it Viktor? The Skyans finally come round to collect on those smoking tickets?"
"No, that is the fucking Reich! There is a God-damned column of them marching this way, can't you hear it? The Skyans never march like that! Just get your ass out of here along with your friend and the Kadrian and fucking run! I'll be behind you in about 30 seconds once I shut the place down." Viktor's face was contorted with fear like none of his customers had seen before.

"Oh shit, you're serious..." Misha extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray at the bar and drained his beer.
"Yes I am serious Misha, this isn't a fucking fire drill! Get out, for God's sake!"

Viktor quickly turned out the lights after they left, said a prayer for the Aumani sleeping it off upstairs and fled out the back door leaving his bar dark and silent.

Curia of the Senate of Vetalia
Red = Kylarnatia

The Master of the Senate slammed his fasces to the floor to silence the floor and spoke. "Then it is decided, this body will vote upon the-" he was cut off in mid-speech as the windows above both sides of the Curia were shattered and the unknown attackers entered, descending to the floor of the Senate. The Senators stayed in place, gripped with fear at this intrusion into the heart of Vetalian government. Upon hearing their voices they recognized them as Kylarnatian and were more at ease, but still respected the severity of the situation, looking eagerly towards the nearest exits.

In the Praetorial booth above the Senate, Lydia and Ian were soon surrounded by the new arrivals and she immediately ordered the Praetorian Guards to stand down. They shared a knowing look and realized that things were getting bad outside, really bad. Just like the old days. Pausing to finish her cigarette before going with the Kylarnatians, she turned toward Ian and said, smiling, "Same shit, different day, eh Ian?"

"Never a dull moment with you Lyd, at least this time we've got a smoother ride out. Just to be clear with our friends before we go..." He carefully pulled his .45 pistol out of his suit jacket along with a couple of spare, loaded magazines from his pockets and looked at the Kylarnatians. "These are fine, right? I never travel light with Lydia, not since the Reich took over the first time." Without waiting for a response and stashing his gun ins suit jacket, he simply said "I'll tell you all about it when we're safe in Kylarnatia. Let's go."