The Nekoland Incidents [Closed: Valkia & Friends]

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: Get ready for some world building dumping. I had a lot of paragraphs and stuff from several other GEIJD posts that would have gone too long, so I am consolidating that here. }

TurtleShroom's deliverance of the peasants, bureaucrats, courtiers, and other peoples of the People's Huangdiist Teikoku of the Sino-Japanese Union started early in TurtleShroom's admission into the Steele Pact, taking advantage of easy visas and free travel. As its war worsened, the People's Comrade-Emperor himself, and the thousands of his court, and thousands more of his extended family, was whisked away as well.

It was a folly to believe the propaganda that TurtleShroom was some sort of slave liberator in the matter. The Sino-Japanese Union was not a group that oppressed its peoples by virtue of their race or origin, although this didn't really matter when a commissar took an iron rod to one's hand for slacking or disappeared a man for "counterrevolutionary republicanism".

Yes, it took mostly Sino-Japanese "mutt" peasants, and yes, peasants were in slave-like conditions, but practically, the Manchurians, Koreans, Southeast Asians, and other peoples that were oppressed were simply not numerous enough to constitute a few million out of hundreds of millions, and again, these could all be construed as peasants, equals to their Sinic peers. The Necrons were going to counter that as fast as possible. It was an attempt to garner sympathy.

Even those noble acts concealed the darker fact: the greatest boon to TurtleShroom from the Sino-Japanese Union was not mere uneducated numbers, but the bureaucracy, the schematics, and the administration.
Their National Bolshevik structure, collectivist and leftist economy, and schizhophrenic combination of Confucian and Soviet bureaucracies' worst elements was only a part of their squabbling, totalitarian patchwork of crooked nobles, kings, presidiums, premier, soviets, and more. Their Korean holdings alone had kings and Party hacks below and above the Han River, respectively. Their Republic of Korea and People's Republic of Korea were, respectively, a front above the nobles and squabbling kings, and a real dictatorship. Like TurtleShroom, it took a special class of civil servant to manage juggling all of these maddened states, fiefs, gulags, and oppressors. While TurtleShroomian bureaucrats were annoying, the maddened, violent bureaucrats of the GEIJD machine could be given seats in the TurtleShroomian bureaucracy and, hopefully, tamed by way of not having police power. Right?

More to the point, the People's Comrade-Emperor's image was not one that could ever be fully rehabilitated. The Church depised him, but he had enough clout and leverage from TurtleShroomian treaties to prevent him from his extradition to the Grand Coalition. That's not to mention, of course, that most of his court and extended family didn't hold the positions needed to commit war crimes.

As time ticked on and House Uchicha's war crimes were harder to paper over by the standard "elves lie" and "it was a total war situation", a rising argument that House Uchicha should be "pruned" down to the Shinnoke, or at least, the close relatives and heirs of the People's Comrade-Emperor should be surrendered.

The reason why the Church would hate him is obvious.

Paganry and folk cults existed underground, underground cults and churches like what became TurtleShroom's Taiping See, and so did Christian denominations planted by missionaries who would be crucified if caught also existed. The cope response to this was lynch mobs and the egoes of the governors, and that the presence of the war obviously halted these actions in the past thirty years.

Religion was surprisingly resiliant anywhere, but the GEIJD was ripe for it. As any GEIJD survivor could tell you, the National Bolshevist government had failed to contain the "Coup Kid" rebellion, waged by Yushuu's Conglomerate-Teikoku since 1981 AD. Faith was lost as the colonial uprising cascaded into elite defection and, ultimately, the Congolomerate-Teikoku glassed the Japanese Home Islands and then waged nuclear suicide on the rest of the society, turning the Dystopia's own nuclear cult and myriad of missiles on itself.

TurtleShroom took advantage of its relation with the GEIJD to plant untold numbers of churches across all denominations, and while the GEIJD hated this, they had few other friends, so they initially looked the other way. Then came the crucifixions, hidden from Pact members like many GEIJD stunts that TurtleShroomers then dismissed as elfin lies. Conveniently, the rows of skeletons on crosses were destroyed when word came that TurtleShroom was going to play a savior. Those few who encountered crosses the madmen missed demanded the head of the orchestrator of this action, and still do, confused by protecting a man who so persecuted their brethren.

They had their reasons. For one, prestige and claims laid as a future ruler of the GEIJD wastes (clearly the fantasies of TurtleShroomian talking heads) and the TurtleShroomian Crown as a new "dynasty" of the Orient- even taking "Heavenly Sovereign" and "Son of Heaven" in their titles -not to mention, more importantly, that it provided a sense of loyalty and legitimacy to TurtleShroom's massing of the peoples he once oppressed. Many still held a degree of respect for his office, though it was doused with the cold water of him not being divine and his modern day role as a tourist trap and puppet. Subjugating the People's Comrade-Emperor and appointing a ceremonial Shogun over him was a well-deserved humbling of a man who once called himself a god. At the end of the day, it was an ironic and fitting end that the People's Comrade-Emperor was made to renounce his divinity and curb his womanizing to be evacuated.

It wasn't as if the People's Comrade-Emperor was restored to power or given a lofty office. Relegated to a tourist attraction, he patronized restaurants and cut supermarket ribbons, demonstrating his psychic powers by making the scissors float, a far cry from the machinery and enchanted items that allowed him to do things such as shoot fire and glide in the sky. The whipped look on his face as he did this was a running gag on image boards and among his enemies.

Before dawn, their backs would burst open, releasing fast-growing monsters into the environment, pale eyeless things with sharp needle teeth. These creatures were optimised predators, that would lurk and hunt. Where they went, and where they died, spores would be dropped, but not the fungoids of the TurtleShroomers, instead the spores would enter human bodies and gestate. Only certain types of humans though; only the genetic lineage of the Teikoku and its people.

And then a few hours, only a few hours, of almost painless gestation, the backs of the infected would burst open and a new creature would come forth.

It was not against House Uchicha, or his court, or the "pure" Japanese Dystopians who did not intermix (denoting their status as rulers), but an indiscriminate attack on all GEIJD Oriental peoples. It was the densest and most crowded slums of Litlin that the Necrons had decided to target.

Insanity was a recurring regression in the mind of the GEIJD peoples and almost seemed to imply a genetic predisposition to madness. TurtleShroom learned this quickly and countered it in most klarge cities where the GEIJD peoples congregated. Assumed to be victims of the "GEIJD Vice", the men in tattered uniforms were rapidly rounded up and committed by the unique concept of Beat Paramedics* (NS Issue), and their insane claims were assessed.

Or, that would have happened, had GIANT XENOMORPH ALIENS not burst out of their backs. The mental asylum outside the slums of Litlin was met with howling and the clash of teeth, the screech of unwordly mouths, and the squashing and squishing of viscera, gore, and entrails. The strongmen that wrestled madmen down without causing them any physical injury were the first to deploy, only to be consumed by the Xenomorph aliens.

The armed guardsmen and their sub-machine guns were next. Normally used in situations where recently admitted, extremely violent, cruel, or judicially sentenced individuals were on the run, or worse, in an event that the asylum fell to a riot or raid; these marksmen were trained to minimize casualties and avoid collateral injury. (Officers with fully automatic guns performed the exact opposite at the gates: protecting the defenseless asylum seekers from the ever present raids, attacks, and violence that engulfs the country.)

The aliens fell to bullets, but to the shock of everyone, the initial madmen's backs were not the only ones to burst. It took several more aliens to arise before the pattern was discovered. Every hospital in TurtleShroom was required to have air locked quarantine rooms for contagious diseases. These would normally have ventilation ducts to eject air, and strong, powerful filters that destroyed contaminants, spores, and pathogens.

As more backs burst and the Oriental patients were identified as the only victims, they would be moved to these quarantine rooms for panicked study. As it was a physical disease, the Black Death Prevention Unit** would arrive on sight along with actual TurtleShroomian soldiers, mostly mushrooms with some non-Oriental men joining in. With the soldiers guarding the laboratories from Xenomorph aliens, and the asylum by now riddled in bullets, the spores were eventually isolated.

With the non-Oriental patients evacuated and the Oriental ones now piles of gore on the floor, it was agreed by all TurtleShroomers present that the stately, beautiful asylum building, and all the residences of the staff, was to be levelled. The asylum was far enough away to avoid any collateral damage in the slums, but too close to be bombed from the air, let alone nuked.

Merely setting the asylum on fire would not burn fast enough, much less kill the spores. Overkill would be needed, and there was no kill like it.

Thus, performing that order would be what TurtleShroomers called a Stalin Organ, the ever-dependable missile truck that was cheap, easy to build, and didn't require the deployment of any good equipment.

-and it was a cannon.

While TurtleShroom artillery doctrine knew to use them at far range, and target infantrymen, TurtleShroomers took a page from terrorist groups and their captured equipment and realized that close-range destruction could work, if you didn't care about precision. It was comical, but also effective for situations like this. About one hour later, the encirclement perimeter of the soldiers around the large asylum complex parted as the artillerymen slowly drove into range. Four Stalin Organs were available in the nearest garrison, and they positioned themselves as men with red flags slowly guided them to the optimal line up.

At the command of the senior officer, the Katyusha rockets were unloaded, eventually expending the full capacity of their carriers. Nothing was left and the explosions could be heard for dozens of miles. What they didn't know, however, was that they missed a spot!

As the mushrooms and TS Whites cheered and went home, thinking they bested the Necrons, one Xenomorph alien had got out and began to prowl in the desert, hoping to find a new snack and a new back. Pale and stealthy, it blended in with the desert sands, making it impossible to spot from above. As the sun went down, the Xenomorph alien fed itself by eating nearby desert animals, instinctively guided by its natural need to reproduce to look for its next target.

Men.




* = This is a canonical NS Issue: "Following new legislation in TURTLESHROOM II, paramedics patrol the streets looking for suspicious medical activity.".

** = TurtleShroom's answer to the CDC. They do not merely handle the bubonic plague, which, in TurtleShroom, evolved a resistance to most antibiotics and vaccines. Yes, as a matter of fact, they do dress like plague doctors, although the invention of hazmat suits made them simply stylized that way. It still looked cool, though!

[Seceria]

Office of the High Chancellor, Vallentuna, Secerian Republic

The news that Tsar Outtacountry of Turtleshroom was coming on a diplomatic visit was not, at right this moment, a particularly welcome one to the Secerian government, which had found its hands quite full with crisis management already, and was not in any particular sense eager to handle the security arrangements necessitated by such a high profile visit, nor to devote time to diplomatic niceties in a time of crisis.

The Tsar having taken the time to depart on such a mission was also met with some disbelief, given what was known about the situation in the south at the current time, and the trickle of news that hinted at things becoming ever worse practically by the hour. That a head of state would depart his country at such a time was hard to swallow for those who first heard the news.

But nonetheless, the effort had to be made, once it was confirmed that he was indeed coming, and this was not some mistake. One did not turn away foreign dignitaries without a good excuse. Rarely-used plans for the protection of foreign dignitaries were dusted off, the necessary security elements were redirected and put on standby, and the High Chancellor had his schedule hastily cleared to be able to receive the Tsar.

He was not a particularly happy man, High Chancellor Silverskiöld - his time had been occupied by crisis meeting after crisis meeting for days on end, demands on his time made from all sides. As soon as he had concluded one meeting with the Minister of Energy on the fuel rationing plan, it was off to a meeting with Foreign Secretary Rosen to discuss the Foreign Office's, hm, "diplomatic initiative" in North Auskral. And then something else, and another thing, an endless cavalcade of meetings and councils and things to do. It never ended.

And now he had to make time for a diplomatic visit from the South Landers to boot. Of all the things. What did they even want? He would have thought they would be even busier than him, certainly too busy for something like this, given everything that he had heard of the situation in Turtleshroom.

Wait. The Foreign Secretary. Rosen. Dear Freja. Yes. This was her job, wasn't it? Yes, he decided, it was now. Perhaps the Turtleshroomers might take offense at being received by a junior minister and not the Chancellor himself, but they would simply have to accept that he was too busy. Freja would handle this, and he could make the best of his suddenly cleared schedule to take his first break in weeks.

He keyed his office phone to alert his secretary, and promptly told her to call the Foreign Secretary over.

The incoming plane would be directed to land at a military airfield in the suburbs of Vallentuna, where a company had been dispatched to act as a honor guard for the Tsar, as the delegation would travel by convoy to be received at the Parliamentary Building.

The company provided had been pulled from the Second Regiment of the Life Guards Division, a prestigious unit which was traditionally entrusted with the protection of visiting foreign dignitaries - other regiments of the Guards were responsible for other honor guards tasks, such as the round-the-clock guard provided to governmental buildings.

Unlike the grey dress uniforms of the regular army, the Guards Division were notable for wearing the black uniform of the armored troops as their ceremonial dress, as well as the strict height requirements for prospective recruits, in order to cut as impressive an image as possible while on honor guard postings. The troops receiving the Turtleshroomian dignitary certainly cut a smart image, black uniforms accented by silver piping, every bit of metal and leather polished to a sharp shine.

To transport the Tsar and escort, safely if not in the comfort that would ordinarily be afforded a visiting foreign dignitary, a convoy of personnel carriers and tanks had been assembled, drawn from the Life Guards' wartime equipment stocks. These were not quite as smart as the ceremonial uniforms of the men operating them, as they were painted in field colors, but they were at the very least meticulously clean, the work of a quite hurried effort.

The Tsar and his bodyguard of Chancellery Guardsmen would ride in the personnel carriers, protected by enough armor to turn away anything short of heavy weapons, while tanks and open top trucks would carry the company of the Guards escorting them.

---

Department of Energy building, Vallentuna, Secerian Republic

The proposal that had been received from the Brunswick Heikkinen concern had been received with some gratitude at the Department of Energy, it being a very complete proposal for the construction of a pipeline through the unclaimed lands between the two countries, running parallel to the main highway through the same area.

A cursory examination of the plans had been conducted, and only some minor changes suggested once the overall viability had been verified, and the plans to be sent back had been signed off on by the relevant parties, including Minister Tallgren from the Department of Energy and Foreign Secretary Rosen (who had been suddenly called away right after that).

The signature of the Minister of Trade was still waiting to be received before it could be sent back to Brunswick Heikkinen, but as the man had been called away by an urgent matter at his office, that could be quite some time before it happened. Not that a few hours delay would be particularly notable, for a project that would take years even if it started tomorrow.

As for the Minister in question, well, he was currently in a call with an elven dignitary, something his prior experience had really not prepared him for at all. He had, in truth, been in a state of mild shell shock ever since the clerk from his office had burst into his meeting with the Minister of Agriculture to inform him that a call for him had come in from the Menelmacari Prefect of Trade.

About the only thing keeping him on an even keel right now was that the discussion concerned grain and oil, safe and comfortable questions of trade, a familiar cliff to cling to in an increasingly surreal situation to a man who had only been intellectually aware of the existence of elves until about 10 minutes ago.

---

Office of the Foreign Secretary, Foreign Office building, Vallentuna, Secerian Republic

Freja Rosen was not much happier than her boss had been to be informed she would be receiving the visiting Tsar of Turtleshroom, and considerably less happy than Chancellor Silverskiöld had been when he informed her about this fact.

A hand went down to root through her desk drawer without even looking, and returned with a pill bottle, shaking two innocuous white pills into her hand before swallowing them dry and returning the bottle to the drawer. No time to sleep, work had to be done - the press was even greater than before, now that she had even more things intruding on her time.

She pulled up a report on her computer - estimates on food supplies stored at Dry Dry Docks, something she had requested from the General Staff's intelligence department shortly after she had greenlit the deal with the Commonwealth that the delegation to North Auskral had helped negotiate.

They were still waiting to receive confirmation on acquisition and an estimate of how those supplies would be split from the Commonwealth Navy, but nonetheless, she wrote a brief explanation and then forwarded the report to the Ministers of Trade and Agriculture, whose task was to prepare the receipt of those supplies.

Next thing... a message from the Minister of Energy, officially notifying the Foreign Office that they had dispatched their response to Brunswick Heikkinen about the pipeline. Noted, filed away, closed.

An update on the situation in Turtleshroom... an outbreak of alien monsters in Litlin? Complete with video footage, apparently. She rubbed her temples and sighed, then clicked to open the attached file. It was blurry, apparently recorded on a low quality camcorder, and showed a man breaking out into wild convulsions before some bloodsoaked horror erupted from his back and leapt for the nearest Turtleshroomer with a screech.

The cameraman had the sense to turn tail and run when he saw this, and the video cut out shortly after. Fascinating, but not terribly relevant, beyond further making her question what in the world the Tsar was doing to leave his country in a situation like this. Archived with a few clicks, on to the next message.

The latest estimate on rationing needs, dispatched to the rest of the Cabinet from the Minister of Agriculture. Her eyes swept rapidly over the report and she barely kept herself from swearing. This was even worse than the preliminary estimates had been. Without a steady source of grain imports, average calorie consumption would be down to nearly starvation rations come spring, and even the projected influx from the deal they had negotiated with the Commonwealth to trade meat for grain would only delay that until the next winter.

The night continued to pass like that, well into the small hours, her energy sustained mostly by the military-grade stimulants circulating in her system. Come morning, she finished with the last report to be dispatched to the Chancellor's office, sent it on its way, swallowed another pair of pills, and then stood up, reaching for the cane next to her desk and limping out the door on her prosthetic leg.

She would put the cane aside later, to put on the proper image when greeting the Tsar, but there were none to see her moment of weakness right now. Moving over to the elevator, she stepped inside and reached for the button to the ground floor. She nodded at the pair of soldiers from the Life Guards as she passed the door, to no response - they were certainly too disciplined for that.

Her car and driver were already waiting to take her to the airfield where the plane would be landing, and she slid into the back seat with a groan, throwing the cane aside as the car pulled away from in front of the Foreign Office building.

[The Incorporation and Gerry]

Very Far Away Indeed

The Scriathis System was far from Sol, far from Arda, far from Valkia and very far from TurtleShroom. It was most notable as the home of the Mhalsstrhu, the council that ruled the Aboleth species, forming one of the countless vast constituents of the C’tani Confederation. The world they convened on, Gaudentis, was sculpted across its entire surface, continents of perfectly sculpted coral rose from world-spanning oceans, and an atmosphere of air was englobed around it, while above, a transparent shell showed the world the universe, scattering the Scriathis star’s light into rainbows.

Gaudentis was now only a jewel hanging in a vast bracelet, other worlds had been moved or created to form more jewels in a long braid that coiled around the world dozens of times. A topopolis, built in a style preferred by aquatic beings, translucent, illuminated by the great star at the centre of the system, if one were to rise from the surface the world, they would find it embedded within a vast ocean being spun and grown from a brown dwarf that was being dismantled year by year.

While Gaudentis itself was an aboleth world, other aquatic species were growing in numbers in the system, especially from the species that the aboleths had created in their long history, but also from the long-suffering Skyriver Galaxy and other systems throughout the galaxy.

The inhabitants of Gaudentis had set aside most of their wickedness, not because they did not hold the majority of the galaxy in contempt, the pride of their species was immeasurable, making the most arrogant elf seem like a TurtleShroomer, but because they were entranced by motivations humans could barely fathom, a great design of the C’tan Star Gods they wished to see fulfilled.

Almost every impulse they had was self-centred or malevolent to humans.

While they agreed in legal principle to the idea that C’tani Citizens of whatever species were equal to themselves, with some being more sincere than others, they had no such agreement about others. But times like this were a chance for the more artistically inclined to seek out raw clay for their displays.

The Great Civilization had a large range of retaliatory options available for TurtleShroom. They could have mounted a full scale invasion. Despite the TurtleShroomers’ eternal optimism this would have been an immediate and foregone conclusion. They did not want to rule TurtleShroom however.

Valkia would be better with an independent TurtleShroom, several of the nations nearby regarded it as an independent food supply, both of grains and conventional foodstuffs and ambulatory food-that-speaks.

Even without the need to actually go and harvest the south lands of this food-that-speaks of last resort, its mere existence kept tensions low among its more predatory neighbours. If nothing else, they could always go south for meat.

If TurtleShroom were occupied again then that reassuring comfort blanket for the food markets of the North Lands would be gone.

And so the Great Civilization didn’t want to occupy TurtleShroom.

Of course, the Turtleshroomers finding bodies torn open by bursting endoparasites were likely to wonder what insane and alien moral calculus drove the minds who came up with this plan to do what they did. That was simple enough. They believed, largely, in a form of international deterrence.

TurtleShroom had thumbed its nose at the Great Civilization often enough that now an example needed to be made.

And the example was still being made.

In TurtleShroom

Swamp Outpost was a place that had enthusiastically bowed to the last occupiers who had come through, and handed them guns when they arrived. They had thought they were being protected. Here, at the westernmost part of the nation of TurtleShroom, in the parish now named of SwampTort.

Far from Nekoland, far from Gerry, far from even the postal roads of TurtleShroom, this was a place that was isolated even by the standards of TurtleShroom.

Something was stalking the swampy outlands that had once been the short-lived nation of Lyndon Love, before its settlers had degenerated into swamp-dwelling communities of devolved humans, or become TurtleShroomers.

Having crossed the border, near to the town, the disappearances began. In a time of colossal strife there was so little to be said for them. During the TurtleShroomian civil war the area had been a stronghold of Fascist party.

Outside Litlin

The TurtleShroomers cheered and went home. They thought they had bested the Necrons.

Behind them they left a levelled building, smashed down by four vehicles with sixteen tubes each on them. The missiles were easily enough to kill everyone and everything within the building. But the TurtleShroomers were not to know, could not be blamed for not knowing, that the Neomorphs did not need to live to breed.

They had not used high incendiaries such as napalm or white phosphor, instead the neomorphs – numbering seventy two by the time the artillery had rolled in – had been pulverised in collapsing buildings, blasted apart by pressure, and slain by rubble, some few had been burned, but not the bone-deep burns needed.

As the second day began to rise, more backs were bursting in the city.

The use of high explosives had served to propagate the spores of the neomorphs bodies high into the atmosphere above the city, where they had drifted in the night with the prevailing winds to fall on homes, shops, communal laundries, bath-houses and all the other poorly secured homes of the slum-ringed city.

Where they landed they soon grew a black fungoid patch that when disturbed would release a cloud of the spores into the air.

Backs would soon burst open with not dozens but hundreds of brilliant crimson flowers.

Outside Litlin

The Neomorph that survived had other ideas on its mind than might have been expected. It burrowed into the sand when the daystar rose and emerged in darkness, its pale white body growing more subtly as it aged, even in days, they grew with unnatural speed after their violent births, but they were not simple beasts, even if they were not people.

It soon moved south from its initial position, the walls of the city were far from unscaleable but it knew instinctively to avoid being watched.

Instead it found slender metal pieces laid out in the sand. In the darkness it waited, resting out of sight, buried in the sand, until the ground began to vibrate, the sand bouncing on its hardening carapace.

It rose as the thundering motion came closer, rising from the sand and stretching low to the ground, and then it coiled itself, springing. It leapt like an acrobat, confident in its unnatural grace, both hands out as it caught the edge of a container well car, the jump and the catch would have broken a human’s wrist, but it was quite uncaring about this.

It examined the environment reaching out with senses that could hear the heartbeat of a mouse under a building, it did not see as humans did, but heard everything and could pick small sounds out of background noise far more acutely, and it could sense through a range of mechanisms.

It moved around the container, feeling the contents without opening the chamber, a disappointing mix of metal things, plastic things, things it did not care about.

It rested, like an old hoe-boy riding the rails, its spined back tucked in against the metal as the steel rails hummed beneath it. It knew it could move forward, and that food would be there, but it also knew, though it did not reflect how it knew, that this would take it to a richer ground to play.

It didn’t know names, nor know that names existed, but it was on its way to Jonesboro.

Gerry

The conference room was one filled with journalists of a dozen local nations, with a podium set up at the center of a large desk. A mundane piece of statecraft compared to the anarchy unleashed to the south. Here, normalcy prevailed.

Jennifer Jones Thurasidiva stood waiting. Wearing a suit of charcoal black with a red shirt with the collar undone showing a golden flaming chalice and another necklace with a pendant in the shape of the Thursaid Dynastic ankh closing it, her blonde hair was perfect and she resisted the urge to fidget. On her belt she wore an open carry holster; a sharp contrast to the benign religious symbol. She didn’t usually see quite so many of the international or all-civilization press.

She was the President of the Incorporation, a title that did not exactly mean as much as one might imagine, but in her father’s day eighty percent of the government budget had come from TurtleShroom, so there had not been much independent foreign policy in the nation’s entire lifespan.

When its isolation had ended TurtleShroom had invited a whole range of peoples to their borders, and the Incorporation had been perhaps the least egregious of them, though still largely a Christian nation, their punishment for black magic had been merely the stockade – proof if any were needed that they had never encountered serious adepts in such arts. At the time the main denomination in the country had been a Baptist church, now Unitarian principles were more common; after Jennifer had actually met Ranisath and Luna she had definitely felt a more flexible interpretation of faith was in order, let along learning more of the other Valkian nations and their much more terrifying gods. She was privy to certain reports about their neighbours to the east. She’d even been recently briefed on her old rival Grand Inquisitor Shadowmane of the Greater Pony Herd being found out as a cultist with terrible magical powers; “I knew that one was an actual devil-horse,” she’d quipped.

When her brother Austin had started a war that had lasted precisely sixteen seconds, she had been the one to surrender and seize power. The Incorporation had not had any significant democratic tradition beforehand, and she’d won periodic elections since without too much difficulty. There was a sentiment against the Menelmacari who most felt had been too aggressive in responding, though Jenny had to admit that part of that was the product of substantial parts of the country having been turned into an armed camp with explosives of all descriptions in dual use buildings; an idea of her brother Austin.

That had been ten years ago, the Incorporation had been a Great Civilization protectorate for almost five times as long as it had been theoretically independent and TurtleShroom aligned. In those days it had been a dictatorship, now… well the local residents could vote on local governance, but foreign affairs were C’tani controlled; a small number of Incorporationers had C’tani citizenship, she didn’t, even though she’d married into a C’tani family.

A second war had not been unexpected, the simple fact was that their neighbours to the south had a habit of picking on kemonos in a region actually full of kemonos, while the Incorporationers had passed a law declaring ponies non-sapient in response to TurtleShroomian discrimination, and chimera discrimination codes modelled on the John Raven codes, Jennifer had never approved of that, and her first legislative act had been to repeal those.

She straightened as Geoffrey ita Xonthar entered, taking his place between her and Nancy Wise, the Metropolitan Mayor of Gerry.

‘Good morning everyone,’ the governor said, stepping up the podium, ‘I’ve asked you here for a small policy announcement, effective today. Due to the impacts of the Special Military Operation against TurtleShroomian Fascism. We will be providing aid from offworld sources at market rates from prior to the conflict’s beginning, in addition we have decided to match any food donations by the TurtleShroomian government to other regional nations with a double donation of our own,’ he said.

The pressure was there to push the TurtleShroomers to expend their precious supplies, the Menelmacari and C’tani had vast supplies of foodstuffs and cattle, while TurtleShroom was a big fish in agricultural terms, they did not have access to offworld farming rings.

‘We’ll go through the details in a moment. Meanwhile, we have a civil announcement from the Incorporation and another from the city of Gerry,’ he said.

That was Jennifer’s cue, and he stepped back, as she stepped up to the podium, ‘Ah, thank you,’ she said, ‘It is my pleasure to announce that the Incorporation stands ready to receive refugees from Dire Dire Docks, we have substantial capacity set up for civilian internment and we are opening several shuttered military camps from our conscription era to be converted into prisoner-of-war camps,’ she began, ‘The Incorporation Self Defense Force,’ no longer an army, and not as large as it had once been, ‘will take the lead on this operation should any TurtleShroomers seek entry at our border, and we have ample water, food, medical supplies and shelter for all displaced persons.’

[Comrade Commisar]

Serendip, Darussalam

"Mister Shahin, good morning, or as they say in your country - salám-alaikum."
"Hah! alaikum-salám, Lord Pennington. I hope your travels weren't too troublesome? Coffee? Tea?"
"Ah, tea, please. Normally I don't travel, but recently, I needed an excuse to take leave. Thank you."

The Darussalami nodded, offering a polite chuckle in understanding, as they signaled an assistant to fulfill the request. Reclining back in his divan, he gestured for the weary Commonwealth businessman to take a seat before him, the man abruptly jolting to attention as if he had been in a minute daydream, before belatedly nodding in kind and motioning to sit down.

Shahin was a nominally unassuming figure, a youthful man of dark bronze skin and hair, modestly slender, with a lackadaisical demeanor only complimented by his reclined posture. Draped in a light, off-white jacket, contrasted by golden trim and black accents, he exuded a certain allure and charm, offset only by his prominent eyes - swirling with the dancing colors of an unchecked flame, yet locked in focus as a hawk does its prey. His personal office reflected this persistent theme, one that simultaneously welcomed guests and cherished them with generosity, but maintained a subtle, ever present-oppression. The view from the 36th floor was impressive, gazing upon Serendip and its bystanders with an almost omniscient presence, but one could not help but feel trapped, the interior design and architecture lending itself to a claustrophobic, suffocating atmosphere - like sitting within a falcon's nest, a hostage received with warmth, draped in the hospitality of a possessive benevolence.

Grasping his overcoat in a subconscious want of security, the Commonwealth Lord watched as the assistant returned, placing a platter upon the mahogany table before them; graced with a pair of teacups on saucers, small spoons, and miscellaneous vessels containing sugar and milk to be added at their tastes. Offering thanks, there was a particular elation as Shahin offered his own subtle affirmation, the assistant retreating with a peculiar delight. Pennington raised a brow, but dismissed it as the subtleties inherent in Darussalami culture, instead turning to find comfort through hot beverage. Pouring a small portion of tea upon its saucer, he noted the unique design of the porcelain - having been intentionally shattered at one point before being inlaid and repaired with gold - as he brought the dish to his lips. There was a pause afterwards, an almost bewildered expression forming on his face, as he set both saucer and cup back upon the platter before reaching for the vessel of sugar.

"It's bitter. Quite bitter." Pennington coughed, trying to smile as if to not come off as impolite, though his face was contorted in an evident distaste, "If I may ask, where did you source these tea leaves?"

"I sourced them from Turtleshroom, same as you." Shahin replied with some surprise, drinking his portion of tea without much issue at all, before bringing a hand to his face in thought, "Do you often drink tea from Turtleshroom?"

"Yes, but it's never quite that astringent." The Lord frowned, glancing accusingly at the assistant between dissolving several sugar cubes in his tea, "Perhaps your subordinate prepared it improperly?"

"Aha, I see. You have probably become quite accustomed to tea prepared in the Turtleshroom manner, where it has become so sickly sweet that even a drop of regular tea comes off as unbearably bitter." The Darussalami reasoned, offering an amused laugh while they consoled their counterpart, "It simply means you have led a good life, with plenty of warmth and sweetness, that you can recognize the minute bitterness. There are those who drink the same tea, and even if there is a sliver of sugar, they recoil from the overwhelming sweetness, as if you had poisoned them! I wonder what that implies of their lives?"

"It implies that the tea is still bitter." Pennington jested, repeating the motions with his tea, finding it not necessarily satisfactory, but bearable, "Though, I suppose we might not even get to savor even that with time..."

"Are you referring to recent events?"

The Commonwealth Lord paused, as if he had said too much, contemplating if he should continue the line of conversation, before offered a single nod, "It isn't professional, but might I confide in you?"

"Of course, my friend." Shahin warmly smiled, "Your concerns are my own, as mutual interests, as business partners - as friends."

"I know it is impolite to discuss current events, but I feel as if it has only become more relevant with the situation in the South Lands, and this misplaced crusade by the Sky Landers. I was willing to tolerate them in prosecuting the perpetrators of the Dark Harvest, but now they are all but declaring outright war, and are throwing the entire region into the maelstrom in their efforts. 'Deploying living weapons to diminish living condition in the South Lands', says the tyrant in Gerry, letting forth locusts that devour all before them like a tempest, razing practically all the exports of the South Lands Tea Company in a matter of days! My company! Who is going to compensate me for the damages? Shall I send him an invoice? Pah!"

The Commonwealth Lord threw up an arm indignantly, letting forth a deluge of emotions that he seemed to have been suppressing for quite some time, continuing on, "If that were not bad enough, it seems that the Commonwealth Navy has realized the Sky Landers have created an impending food crisis, and ordered my company and several others to prioritize shipments of animal protein. Ostensibly, this is a purely 'voluntary' endeavor backed by lucrative subsidies, but they are not withholding the rod from us; this is a matter of 'national security', and if we muck around, they will not hesitant to utilize that reasoning in nationalizing our assets. I have filed the orders down the company, and my South Lander colleagues promise me it will be met, but with the lines to the South Lands severed by everyone from the Penitence Brigades to the Sky Landers, how will they ship it to me in any significant quantity? I will have to pay out of pocket for flying boats, planes, and airships - and even then - there's no guarantees that they won't be shot down by some errant warmonger!"

"What about our Turtleshroomer friend, Thaddeus?" Shahin raised a brow, taking in the information with a certain attentiveness.

"I can only suppose he is in similar straits." Pennington waved a hand, shaking his head, "His assets in South Auskral were frozen, either by the urgings of the Pentience Brigades or the Sky Landers - perhaps both - and while he could still access them from the Commonwealth, the transactions cannot be cleared swiftly enough to meet the increasingly changing circumstances. Last I heard, he returned to the South Lands to clear matters up with his 'credit union', and - while I hope the best - as the situation currently stands, we are unlikely to hear from him until after all this Sky Lander warmongering subsides - if at all."

The Darussalami nodded sympathetically, placing his teacup aside as he reclined back into the divan, letting out a sigh as he held his cheek in thought.

"Roughly a week ago, there was a power fluctuation here in Serendip, barely enough to flicker the lights, but one that disproportionately effected the energy markets. I should know, I had invested quite a modest sum in the Turtleshroom utilities after Bamigan - a safe, sustainable investment, or so I thought." Shahin glanced to Pennington, his flamelike eyes flickering with a certain vitriol, not necessarily at the man, but somewhere far beyond him, "Someone deliberately cut the line, and did so with a scrutinizing premeditation, waiting until the peak hours of the afternoon where the damage would be maximized. Serendip escaped much of this, but the power generation network in Turtleshroom was significantly effected, and the perception of Turtleshroomer reliability - as well as a considerable portion of my portfolio - practically crumbled overnight."

He inhaled deeply, sharply, as if his own irritation with the affair had yet to settle, but slyly hid this impression from his guest, "I was insured, like many investors in Serendip, especially after the Bamigan incident; I still lost hundreds of millions, of course, but at least I saw fit enough to remain on the 36th floor and not as an indiscriminate puddle on the first - some of my peers were not as fortunate. Those of us who remained pressed for compensation regarding our losses, reasoning that this was a breach of contract, but the Turtleshroomers decided to levy a Dark Harvest-era clause that significantly limited the scope of these arrangements. I barely made back anything at all, something about how 'future profits could not be returned' or some other nonsense. I can't blame them, but certain responsibilities have to be met, and what miserable, lowly creatures would we be if we ignored them?"

"My condolences, Mister Shahin." The Commonwealth Lord consoled, his mustache furrowing as he realized the pitiful situation they had all found themselves in, "I hope that you might find justice soon."

"That is just it, Lord Pennington. Despite everything that has happened, how glaringly obvious the perpetrators seems to be, and how there is an almost deafening silence even with the blatancy of everything? Why is there no justice? We are not so busy lamenting our losses to where we cannot cast suspicions, yet why are we silent? Are we afraid of retaliation should we name a spade a spade, or is there something else we are afraid of naming?" Shahin mused, letting out a sigh, as he reached for his teacup once more, examine the intricate porcelain and metal work as he resigned himself, "I apologize, Lord Pennington. I'm just tired of assuming significant losses at the behest of unrelated third parties. It was somewhat amusing once, but the second time is getting on my nerves. How many times can I be shattered like this cup, repaired, and shattered again before I break? It's not a question I should be made answer. Maybe I should try to invest in a Mesovalkian energy firm instead, or perhaps one in Barboneia? I can only imagine alternative companies to the Turtleshroomers will only benefit at this point."

"It would be good to diversify our investments at this point, yes. I can't imagine shares in the South Lands will flourish with the Sky Lander crusade rampaging about." Pennington sighed, "And no, Mister Shahin, I apologize. I was the one who brought up current events and politics with my grievances, I was... stressed, and it is only fair that you should voice your concerns at well. Come, let us put aside these trivialities, and discuss what we were originally intending to?"

"Of course, Lord Pennington." The Darussalami smiled, finishing his tea before placing it aside one last time, "What have you discovered about the Commonwealth investigation into Bamigan?"

"The South Auskralian longshoremen involved were found dead crossing the border, so it seems that the SDU has covered their tracks well; with the Third Auskral Civil War in the horizon, we might be at an impasse..."



Litlin, Turtleshroom

"Lady Red, the proper arrangements have been made. We may depart at your discretion."

Lady Rosaline Red did not bother to address the bodyguard who entered through the double doors of her dining room, simply continuing to morosely drink a vintage Asahinan ice wine, savoring its sweetness amidst the stifling silence of the room. She swirled it in a stemmed glass, contemplating the tremendous time, effort, and conditions that went into simply producing a single bottle of the artisan wine, wondering if the Ministry of Prohibition paid any mind to such details as they smashed the bottles haphazardly against the pavement - or if it was but a fleeting thought, secondary to its destruction?

It had been over ten years since the Commonwealth had turned their eyes upon Litlin. When the first Commonwealth businessmen set foot in the city, then a modest desert community without much significance to speak of, they thought of it as a fertile field of which to bloom across the South Lands. From here, they saw great wealth where others might have seen desolation, though their trade was not always strictly legal. It had been a cat-and-mouse game, Commonwealth businesses establishing charitable and benevolent fronts to operate their illicit dealings from, while local law enforcement would attempt to crack down on them, desperately attempting to expose these money laundering operations for what they were. This was the background to the construction of the first walls of the city, an ostensibly benevolent effort to keep the sands and unwelcome eyes out, while keeping the arms, tobacco, and alcohol trade - with all its lucrative profits - in.

The Eagles Estate had been laid down at this time, what could be described as a luxurious mansion and summer home, flaunting wealth and power in stark contrast to South Lands conventions. Named after the most powerful businessman and criminal mastermind to grace the Commonwealth, it was an expansive property spread over several acres, thoroughly irrigated to have a healthy layer of grass even in the desert, and was walled off from the rest of the city with a mixture of granite and wrought iron. The mansion itself was build out of an elaborate brickwork and masonry, befitting the architectural tastes of its time, and had served as the center of many Commonwealth endeavors into the South Lands, with an extensive underground foundation that masked several illicit operations. Patrolled by a small battalion of armed guards throughout its history, countless conspiracies and plots had been birthed within its walls, with just as many bodies rumored to have been buried in the grounds - supposedly curious souls who had been unlucky enough to know too much.

After the War of Red, the interest of expanding into the South Lands waned, and as many businessmen departed from Litlin, they were replaced by the Commonwealth aristocracy - where Lady Red entered the story. Wife of the estate's namesake, she held a legitimate claim in the property, and carried out business with the same privileges afforded to any married couple, though she had been in a divorce unrecognized by the South Lands. Initially indulging in a simple retreat from the Commonwealth and its internal politics, she gradually became endeared to the South Landers, rehabilitating old fronts for crime into actual charities and organizations for the downtrodden. City officials were not immediately convinced of her benevolence, but after an retaliatory plot from opposing Commonwealth interests that crippled and disfigured her with plague, she was accepted by the South Landers - to her chagrin - as 'Slum Lady Red', a savior to the city's poor.

She would dedicate a decade of her life to helping the South Lands, attempting to fashion Litlin into the 'city on the hill', a shining example of civilization for other South Landers to follow. It was not an effort she did solely out of selflessness, and it was not a journey without hardship, but it was an effort that she pursued relentlessly nonetheless. Balanced upon a crutch, she watched as the country changed rapidly in ten years, as diasporas of refugees and the waylaid made their way to the city, and as what she started changing form into something grander. There had been challenges to her faith, such those who found satisfaction in perpetual stagnation and squalor, running contrary to her original ideals; and with each new wave of immigrants, each new slum, and each new wall, she felt them drifting further and further away from the efforts she worked hard to achieve. Yet, she persevered, hoping that despite everything, the South Landers could find their own salvation.

But it seemed that this salvation was not to come.

When the Sky Landers announced their renewed campaign against the South Lands, Lady Red had expected a limited area of operations, as had occurred in the Dark Harvest. In those times, the northern-most part of the South Lands, known as the Zim Belt, had been their primary focus. There were some sporadic raids throughout the South Lands, of course, but these were relatively lenient in terms of destruction, dwarfed by the self-inflicted wounds that the South Landers would inflict upon themselves in the aftermath. Her expectations had been dashed, however, as the Sky Landers made their opening remarks; a sea of locusts, the fouling of oil, and the melting of power lines. This was not the confined response of the Dark Harvest, but rather, an offensive upon all of the South Lands - an attack upon their people. She had hoped that Litlin would be spared, but when the first Far Lander refugees in the city erupted into crimson flowers, bloodthirsty creatures born from their violent blooms, there was no doubt that war was upon their doorstep.

In Eastern Litlin, the South Landers heralded their first victories, isolating the strange parasitic beasts and their forlorn victims in an asylum, before crushing them under the weight of artillery fire. The city rejoiced, renewing their previous claims of an unwavering resolve from the Dark Harvest, one that had allegedly earned the Sky Landers' respect - and one that they would become acquainted with once again. However, Lady Red was not convinced; it had been too easy, too simple, too limited in scope, and when morning rose, so did chaos throughout Litlin. The slums that had so often rallied against had proven themselves as a fertile breeding ground for these creatures, lacking in many utilities and difficult for law enforcement to navigate, dozens of 'flowers' bloomed in the relative safety of their cloistered alleyways. It was a miracle that they had not made their way past the immersive walls of the city, but even they were not guaranteed to hold. Eventually, they would pass the fifth wall, then the fourth, the third, and so forth; either upon their own volition, or as the panicked masses tried to make their way behind the gates, inadvertently damning the safety they would so desperately seek.

The Eagles Estate was modestly prepared for an assault, having collected a considerable cache of weapons and equipment throughout the years, but even as well-equipped as they were, there was little doubt that they would last only slightly longer than the locals if anything breached the first wall - people or parasite. Even if the Scarlet Guard - the traditional honor guard of the Commonwealth aristocracy - were confident that they could hold the first wall, it was the South Landers who would ultimately command the situation, and any influence the Commonwealth had ended with their acreage. Unable to guarantee their own safety, and with the knowledge that the Sky Landers would only continue their efforts even if the South Landers mounted a successful defense, Lady Red had opted for a difficult decision - to return to the Commonwealth. Arranging for a privately-chartered plane at the city's airport, they would make a brief stop at Gerry, if only because the Sky Landers would be privy to preventing the spread of the parasite; before flying to Braddocksburg in the Grandstand Territory, and from there, across the Navigatic to the capital of Asahina.

It was not an easy choice for Lady Red to make; Litlin had effectively been her life's work. The beauty that she had been known for in the Commonwealth had long faded, dashed by the unsightly aftermath of plague, and weathered by the inevitable march of time - leaving only the beauty of the city. She had worked hard to see what it had become, sacrificing so much to see millions flourish, to find their own salvation within the heart of the city. It would be the first time she left Litlin in over ten years, neglecting to do so even as old flames tried to rekindle their love, as her daughter grew up from a girl into a woman, and as her husband passed from this world into the next - she remained. Something had endeared her to Litlin, and while she never revealed the reasons as to why she so tirelessly labored for the South Landers, she seemed satisfied with her work, even with the occasional misgivings. Grapes might collect rot on the vine, but it is that rot that lends itself to the sweetest of wines - such was her pride in Litlin.

Finishing the last of the ice wine, she stared at the bottom of the empty glass, the end of a bottle made tremendous time, artisanal effort, and the perfect conditions. She held a hand to her mouth, inhaling deeply as a flurry of deep emotions filled her breast, partially spurred by alcohol, and partially by the gradual reality of the situation before her. She held back tears, filled with a nostalgia, as she recalled all that had transpired in her time here, and how they would be nothing more than fleeting memories. She knew that this would not be the worst of it; the rest would come on the plane, in Gerry, and only after some time in the Commonwealth, would the loss truly be made clear. She wondered if the city would still be here in the future, or if it would be laid to waste by the Sky Landers - if they would know what had gone into the city, or if it would be a fleeting detail, secondary to its destruction? It mattered not.

Lady Red breathed deeply, steeling herself as she grabbed the crutch that laid against her chair, raising herself as she nodded at the attending bodyguard with a determined affirmation.

"I am ready. Let us be off."



Grandstand Territory, Greater Commonwealth of Asahina

The surrender of Dire Docks had been something of a surprise to the Commonwealth Navy. Indeed, the city had been besieged, its ports and rails destroyed, and its citizens on borrowed time - not to mention the garrison prepared to invade at a moment's notice - but there was still some expectation of that characteristic South Lands' stubbornness. There was definitely a certain perseverance as the South Landers continued to cross into the Grandstand Territory, despite several warnings to the contrary, before being detained and sent east for processing. Yet, the religious leaders that now led the city simply agreed to the ultimatum without incident, the Grandstand and Braddocksburg reporting no foul play, as the South Landers declared their intentions to return home.

Of course, there had been some errors in translation - constantly going back and forth between South Lander, Far Lander, and North Lander - that might have inadvertently lent itself to a favorable conclusion. The Commonwealth Navy had demanded all of the food stores outside of what would suffice the South Landers on their journey, while the Far Lander priest assumed that the demands had specifically referred to meat alone, a fact that had not been immediately noticed by the garrison until well after negotiations concluded. It was figured, since the Commonwealth Navy was loading material onto trains to begin with, that they would simply neglect to inform the South Landers of this translation error until they were well underway, the SDU contractors having final authority on what and how much was being loaded anyway.

The efforts to transport the refugees back into the South Lands was an unprecedented effort within itself.

High Admiral Walker had been a quartermaster and logistician during the War of Red and Second Auskral Civil War respectively. He was no stranger to shipping exceptional quantities of things from one point to another, but this was his first time this amount of people without maritime assets. There had been an offer to transport the South Landers to North Auskral by rail, where they would embark upon ocean liners and troop transports, before going through the Navigatic and Boiling Seas on a roundabout path to the South Lands; a somewhat lengthier journey, but one that utilized the plentiful maritime assets of the Commonwealth Navy, and more importantly, avoided Sky Lander interference. This was not the path that many South Landers cared to opt for, preferring the overland rout through Gerry, and back into the South Lands; a significantly shorter journey, and while it went through Sky Lander territories, the majority of refugees were indifferent to the prospect - with only a handful of Far Landers opining for the first option, unwilling to risk internment.

This had led to an increasingly complex effort on the High Admiral's part, as he had to requisition the existing rail assets of Dire Docks, bring additional rail assets from Grandstand, and pull motorized assets from North Auskral. Each of these things need personnel, both to operate them, and to establish security and order as they were in transit. They needed to run constantly to move millions of people across its length, which required significant amounts of fuel, spare parts, and time tables to ensure everything was delivered smoothly. If something broke down, it would have to be replaced as soon as possible, and to maintain optimal processing times, inefficiencies would have to be eliminated as soon as they were evident. Moreover, Walker would have to contact the Sky Landers in Gerry, since the trains and truck convoys would pass through their territory, and the necessary formalities made for them to continue onto the South Lands or otherwise be processed accordingly. It was a headache, and while the South Landers were definitely the cause, the Commonwealth Navy was the one who did make the offer...

Making arrangements with Gerry had been the easier of these endeavors, with a Sky Lander already on the line, who - while not necessarily a Sky Lander representative of Gerry - was able to transfer the request to them. It did not seem that the South Landers would be able to continue their journey unabated, but as far as the Commonwealth Navy was concerned, their relative well-being was the only importance; it did not bode well to demand the surrender of a city, only for the inhabitants to be slaughtered elsewhere. Walker did not quite receive a guarantee, but a promise was made that those without evil deeds or fascist sympathies would be received warmly - about as good an outcome he could hope for, really. He did not know what horrors the Sky Landers had planned for those who attracted their ire, but he reasoned that anyone foolish enough to travel via the land route through Gerry with such a background probably deserved it - if it wasn't the Sky Landers, they almost certainly would remove themselves out of the gene pool at some other point.

The actual logistic effort was a far more drastic undertaking; while the Sky Landers had reduced the length of the journey, and thus the resources required to move the South Landers, it was still a considerable effort. Passenger cars were a luxury in short supply, and anything that could carry people, from flat cars to freight cars were modified with the barest of safety considerations before being pressed into the role. Weaker locomotives were assigned to shunt these cars into long trains, while the stronger locomotives - typically South Lander - were assigned in pairs to embark on the modestly lengthy journey to Gerry. Makeshift depots were established at regular intervals along the stretch of rail, responsible for refueling the trains and providing essentials to refugees without any need for the crew or passengers to disembark. Each train was assigned a platoon, who would be responsible for security while moving, and assisting the passengers in hurriedly embarking and disembarking at the ends of the line. SDU contractors fulfilled a similar role, swiftly loading and unloading the trains for the passengers, keeping any downtime to a minimum.

Running parallel to the rail lines were convoys of heavy trucks from North Auskral. These were hardly as efficient, more prone to breakdowns, and unable to carry as many refugees, but they were available and on-hand. These operated in a similar manner as the trains, placed on one of a pair of makeshift one-way highways - one northbound and southbound - where they would be refueled at regular intervals and furnished with provisions, before continuing onto Gerry. If a truck or train were to be disabled for whatever reason, the empty trucks returning via the route could pick up the stranded passengers, cycling back into the loop so that the effort could flawless continue. In addition, only a pair of people were needed for the trucks, taking over driving for each other as fatigue wore on, and for assisting the refugees in getting on and off the large vehicles. Officers were stationed as managers, responsible for keeping the time tables, cycling out overworked men, and maintaining the efficiency of the system. Millions of people and their belongings would have to be moved over the course of several weeks, and any minute improvement would save an exponential amount of time - so declared High Admiral Walker.

Despite tranferring tens of thousands of South Landers into Gerry on the first day, the High Admiral was far from satisfied with the effort. It would be a few weeks before the men were acquainted with the system and routines were made secondary - they had yet to achieve peak efficiency - but it would suffice for now. The seas of men and machinery, draped in horizon blue, bearing the ensign of the chain and anchor, moving an unprecedented amount of men and material through the unrelenting desert. It was a sight to behold, a brief flicker of order against the chaos.

Walker sighed, finding the effort wanting, but his part in the endeavor having passed for now. There were more concerns than just the South Landers, and while he would like to organized logistics into an increasingly streamlined - and borderline psychotic - affair, there were other responsibilities befitting the High Admiral. He held a phone transmitter to his mouth, eyeing the thick cable that ran along the desert floor and, inevitably, back to Grandstand.

"Apologies, Lady Eärendil. I was busy with some pressing affairs. But as High Admiral, I would like to extend my thanks for your assistance, both in this matter and the matter of meat deliveries into the Commonweaelth..."

[Tlahtohcatlalli]

Reactor online.

Weapons online.

Sensors online.

All Systems Nominal.

These words greeted every Tlahtohcatlalli MechWarrior with a feminine, dull tone. Their advisors and trainers had taken to calling her Bitchin' Betty, only to be heard whenever activating their machine, or when some manner of crisis showed itself.

They weren't truly fighting as per the wishes of their own doctrine, frankly. The slowly developing Catedonian doctrine emphasized a combined arms approach. But the Loki dropships were first and foremost configured to carry designs that were deemed the optimal combination of firepower, protection, and cost in the darkest days of a long forgotten interstellar cold war.

Atzi was in one of the largest 'Mechs afforded to their burgeoning fleet. 90 tons of hatred and technology beyond anything Tlahtohcatlalli or even Valkia could hope to muster domestically were being guided by the mind of a 24 year old Ocelotl who had spent much of his teenage life slaving away in the mines of a concentration camp.

He was, frustratingly, something of an icon among his peers. He'd performed well enough to be granted control of one of the first 'gifts' granted to the Tlahtohcatlalli by one of their myriad of allies, and above that, the biggest of the bunch as well. The first combat deployment of the 'Brigade', the Catedonians had learned that their own trainers' forebears had called them Stars, ended on a glorious and bloody note, at least three dozen armored vehicles belonging to the Dragon States destroyed between them in one of the most brutally effective offensives of the conflict.

That wasn't why both he and the 'Mech were now incessantly referred to as the Slayer of Ulaushevnoraak, however.

It was a battle that had lasted almost the entire day, that had featured hundreds more on both sides. The divine beast showed no sign of stopping no matter how long Atzi pulled the trigger on his many guns. In the final moment, in the final shot, he made a prayer to Tezcatlipoca, and with that, he had been blessed with the killing blow. Even now, the scales of the once divine beast adorned the outer layer of his pride and joy, serving as an additional layer of blessed armor.

That was the effective end of his career as a frontline warrior for most of the war, relegated to the thankless task of training the next generation of MechWarriors. It was only in the grueling final months that he returned to the field, to fight in some of the most brutal and unpleasant urban battlefields his homeland had to offer.

To return to the field again was an honor, a further path to glory atop the skulls of the enemies of the Sun. While he felt their own strategic and tactical position was questionable, they didn't hesitate to prepare for their calling.

By the time their dropships had made landfall, the chatter was already filled with the sounds of the lighter Hunter Packs, lightweight teams made up of four (normally five, but the dropships had forced their hand) lighter mechs armed to the absolute teeth and built to scout, flank, and otherwise inflict grievous harm in the amount of time they could afford to fight in their distinctly aggressive styles.

Even within those forces, there was some redundancy. Some Mechs were armed in preparation for a quick and violent short range brawl, intended to kill a foe before they could inflict too much damage upon their machines. Others were intended to strike at a healthier distance, and others instead had the far more inglorious task of launching flights of missiles, each streaking in the air and guided by advanced technology towards their target. Almost all of them were painted and decorated bombastically, turquoise liveries, feline jaws and eyes, pinup art of men and women alike, and the rare decorated skulls of prior fallen foes for the individual warrior of each mech.

They were now advancing towards the largest concentration of surviving enemy forces that their live intel provided them. There were few places their enemies could hide from them, and even fewer where they could reliably contest them in open battle. They weren't blind to the possibility of insurgency and underhanded tactics; they themselves had waged such a war for generations against a far more powerful foe, and as such they had no intention of allowing themselves to be picked apart so easily.

Even the lightest of their compositions still consisted of four 35-ton machines armored more than adequately against most modern munitions and with enough mobility to react quickly to their situation. Atzi's own machine traversed at more than 60 kilometers per hour, the lightest among them made twice that speed, already scouting ahead. Each unit kept some distance between one another, just enough to avoid catastrophic losses towards artillery, but not enough to fail to support one another, coordinating with their Star, and their COs coordinating with their COs, to ensure their own cohesion.

Atzi simply gave his own private prayer to the same God that had blessed him before as he strode forth, eager to once again cover himself in glory.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

They had not used high incendiaries such as napalm or white phosphorous, instead the neomorphs – numbering seventy two by the time the artillery had rolled in – had been pulverised in collapsing buildings, blasted apart by pressure, and slain by rubble, some few had been burned, but not the bone-deep burns needed.

[...]

Backs would soon burst open with not dozens but hundreds of brilliant crimson flowers.

It worked on the zombie worms, which were an accidental contaminant by the Necrons, so why wouldn't it work again?

The remnants of the asylum had been doused in gasoline and accelerants by Black Death Prevention Unit agents in full hazmat gear. The ashes were caked in bleach and a containment fence was built around it. To the naked eye, neither spore nor alien remained. The ejecta was not considered a problem because of the sheer firepower that had just ended the threat.

They were wrong. Artillery, gasoline, and normal accelerants were not enough. It would take napalm or white phospohorous.

To the east of Litlin the spores went, sparing the city, but at the same time, making the upcoming wave harder to contain. By dawn the next day, over fifty hamlets and villages reported more Xenomorph aliens. In all, total reports came out of another ninety backs bursting. While the aliens were easily dispatched by both police and military as they were sighted, the ensuing panic ensured that a few dozen more burst by midnight that night.

As the Xenomorph population approached a hundred thirty-five, the increasingly panicking TurtleShroomian military issued an order to all affected villages to retreat to the deserts, far from anything else, and be tended in tents by men in hazmat suits. The Oriental populations were quarantined separately and studied for gestating Xenomorphs. One was caught gestating, and the valuable insight it provided, in ohow ot counter it while gestating, cost both the "patient's" life and the lives of three BDPU scientists observing it. The quarantine tent was summarily doused by flamethrowers, then napalm, then white phosphorous, and then mustard gas. Bleach was poured into the sand as a final precaution.

The hamlets would no longer exist by the time this was over.

This would the first field test of the Nifonese Strong Wind aircraft by the Imperial Aeronautical Deployment Corps of the Army of TurtleShroom.

As a multi-purpose fighter jet, it had a small bombing capacity that could also deploy payloads of missiles. It would be these missiles that it would deploy as a test, to be followed with a more "proven" note.

Even before it purchased any real fighter craft, TurtleShroom's diverse array of missiles, from the "Minecraft" Creeper-shaped intercontinental ballistic missiles, to small cruise missiles, SAM batteries, and more, came with multiple payloads. That included napalm and chemical weapons. Flying boats, normally used for fire control in South Auskral and the jungles and swamps, of the mainland, would be dropping industrial quantities of bleach.

---

The most immediate and exciting revelation of a true deployment of aircraft in TurtleShroom would be the ability of the turtles to provide more than engineering, trench, and infantry support roles. Whereas the obvious issues of mobility and speed of a quadripedal creature hampered turtles from doing things on par with human or mushroom help- though they were perfectly capable of manning things like artillery and vehicles -the ability of turtles to drive vehicles was a long-proven technology. From the earliest days of rail to the invention of the automobile and widespread bus deployment, TurtleShroomers harnassed the same ingenuity they used to give turtles a means to fire a gun to make such difficult feats possible.

It was an exciting day for Deborah Turtleson, a small red-footed tortoise who was the guinea pig, so to speak, for a modified version of the Nifonese Strong Wind Jet. The Nifonese, for as much as they hated non-humans, were not above the sweet offerings of Mammon, and joint TurtleShroomian-Nifonese engineering shone in this complex set up.

he Nifonese eye interface, called the To-Ga, which fed her information from the sensors, was her chief tool aside from the cockpit windshield itself. She was practically encased in a whole-body carapace, with wires, sensors, pressure plates, and a complex array of buttons and switches in a jaw-mounted console. The joystick that was instrumental to the Nifonese design was re-oriented into pressure plates, as it freed up her head and jaw for the console bit in her mouth.
All four of her legs were attacked to even more switches and levers, all comprising the extremely complex machinations of a modern fighter aircraft. Given an emergency mask to deal with the pressures and lack of oxygen at that high up, the plane, from an outsider's view, did not look like it even had a pilot.


While Deborah was only doing this as a trial run, since the hamlets were remote enough to set this up, it still marked the first real-time, open test of Nifonese engineering.

With a prayer and a Rebel Yell, the plane took off without incident as Deborah took to the skies, thinking of Koopa Paratroopas and the majesty of Creation as she quickly took in the beauty of the open air. The roar of the engines and the speed of the aircraft were something she could only dream of as a hatchling. It was her and her plane, working as one, as the blood-soaked hamlet approached her plane's field of view.

Environmental damage was not of any concern.

She knew her mission already. She was first to deploy the mixture of white phosphorous, mustard gas, and chlorine gas. Yes, this was poisonous and, yes, it would cause serious environmental damage, but the alternative was SCORES OF PARASITIC ALIENS LITERALLY EXPLODING OUT OF PEOPLE'S BACKS.

TurtleShroom was averse to automatic functions, relying on computers to keep a missile in line with its manual target, rather than to find a target itself. (This did not apply to countermeasures and other means to protect the plane itself.)
Equipment such as this was, to the TurtleShroomers, better trusted to the pilot's own intuition and timing, guided (in the case of the Nifonese jet) by the Horo Targeting Pod console's many metrics, lasers, and gyroscopes, manually launched by the pilot herself. It would be Deborah that locked on the target and released the missile herself; the missile would then, of course, adjust itself for the target she selected.

One missile would open the salvo: it would distribute the napalm and its impact would ignite it. As much as war was not fun, few TurtleShroomers would lie to themselves and say there wasn't a degree of appeal to such a massive conflagration as that napalm spawns. That missile hit the largest source of Xenomorphs, vaporizing the few not riddled with bullets.

TurtleShroom learned its lesson, though. If conventional explosives were not enough, why would this be enough? It was time for even more overkill.

Now, Deborah circled around and then deployed two types of missiles at once. A missile containing white phosphorous and a missile containing mustard gas were launched simultaneously, each designed to disperse the ordinance on as wide a field as possible. The ingredients of both, plus the napalm, had better be enough to kill the Xenomoprh aliens! Deborah cheered as the missiles hit their target. The years of training and the special equipment had made this all possible, and she thanked God and her compatriots in the Army for helping her realize her dream.

Her plane roared back to base for decontamination and to check on the aircraft and her own health. It was but one run, but its importance could not be understated. Deborah was among hundreds of turtles trained to pilot these Nifonese aircraft, which hopefully would ensure another humiliation of TurtleShroom could at least be deterred and intercepted by more than reactionary anti-aircraft batteries.

In the other hamlets, a few other Nifonese planes were tested in the same manner as Deborah's flight, but the main deployment would be the old go-to for TurtleShroomian aircraft. The Atomic Forces' strategic bombers, all converted commercial jets, would be dropping unguided ordinance on every hamlet, containing the same concoctions as Deborah's salvoes, until the entire thing was a poisoned, burning Hellscape. It took several hours and multiple repeats of the same path to blanket it.

Meanwhile, the flying boats took several stops to refuel, but by now, they had been loaded to the brim with bleach and were ready to drop the load. TurtleShroomian firemen were accustomed to the operation of these types of aircraft, and the searing base was dropped from on high without issue.

On sight at an improvised tent barracks outside the walls of Litlin, the highest ranking officer of the Army's Aeronautical Deployment Corps, a mushroom, received word from his men and from thje Atomic Forces' bombers that the mission was a success. He used his telekinesis to crumble up the missive and floated outside his tent. He gazed up at the cloudless sky line and moved himself back and forth in the mushroom equivalent of shaking his head.


"If that doesn't kill those things, by Max Barry's underwear, nothin' will, says I..."

[The Incorporation and Gerry]

Night Train to Jonesboro

Scent defined the change, first the desert gave way to the band of lush forest that dominated the middle of the country, the air humid and pleasant, the night without the biting cold of the desert, and then the scent of industry grew and prickled the nostrils. For a human the scent could be ignored after a few weeks, but for the seeker the scent was much stronger. Perking up, it clambered up and let the wind blast its face, its pale dome-like head smooth and aerodynamic as the train carried it.

It tested its limbs, stretching its tail and swishing it from side to side. It knew its destination was nearby, it could feel the multitude ahead, taste them on the air, effluvium and bodies in great masses.

It would be there soon.

It brought its forelimbs up to the doors of the shipping container, and then thrust up with its legs, bounding to the top and swishing its tail as it began to lope forward. The darkness enveloped it and the rail line sang beneath the seeker as it leapt from one carriage to the next with the gaiety of a child skipping along stepping-stones in a pond, its limbs supporting it. The sound beneath was a rumble, undulating like a living thing the train was a marvellous piece of engineering, warm and relaxing, reminding the seeker of some ancestral memory.

As it reached the forward part of the vehicle it could taste the bitter smoke of the locomotive, and hear the sound of the engine within as it propelled the train at a hundred kilometres an hour. It did not have recognizable eyes, but still perceived light through stranger ways and it could see the brilliant reflective signs pass by on either side as the luminous city lights began to show in the distance.

Trees reached up and over it, and it knew it could snatch one, leaping into the old growth that straddled the line, but it had other ideas.

It moved forward, until it could hear the meat that spoke, they used words but it cared nothing for such communication, instead it waited until it heard one of the mmove into the small space below, it could tell the meat-that-spoke was tending to some ablution, a perfect moment. It slipped down into the space and looked at the tall meat-that-spoke that sat oblivious to it.

It struck with its tailspike first, not through the back of the metal-framed chair but through the side of the human torso, under the arm, its limbs holding the creature in place, the tailspike punched up, through the armpit, out of the neck, exploding the heart and voicebox in one moment.

Hungrily, it took a bite from the meat-that-spoke, the creature was paralysed, but it could tell something of the creature’s distress as it slipped sideways from its spot.

The other meat that spoke emerged, moving silently and speaking in words that the seeker did not care about.

It studied the meat-that-spoke, watched pull something toward it, without touching it, a weapon, its instincts prompted. The seeker did not know how the creature moved the weapon, but it did not care, it threw itself at the creature, slamming it into the dividing wall that showed the route down to the washroom, and it plunged its teeth and blood-slick tail-spike into it. The creature was still flailing, and the seeker was bemused.
Not the struggles of a pained prey, this, instead simple panic.

It could not hurt the creature.

It could blind it.

It knew that eyes were the delicate parts of many creatures – how it knew it did not know, why it knew it did not question – and so it took them away, its talons entering and scooping, lifting them away.

The creature made its noises, flailing, and the seeker removed more of it, hand-fulls of the flesh-that-wasn’t, that it took and cast aside, ripping sections from the prey until the prey was flailing, some softer noises it did not understand coming from it.

It took the tongue and the mouthparts, to still the cries. It did not like cries; cries could frighten other prey.

It knew the prey-that-was-not-flesh could hear it as it took the first prey and threw it from the locomotive.

It followed after it, leaping down with grace.

It ate its fill, hungrily tearing and swallowing the warm softness of the wet thing.

Far off it heard an sound, in the city ahead, the loud sounds of the train spalling from its tracks, sculling and crushing as it struck a turn at full line speed, folding like a concertina in the dense city rail junctions. It did not think of the meat-that-was-not-meat, blinded and broken in the forward compartment of the train.

It knew the meat-that-fought would come soon, to try and hunt it.

It left the hard innards of its victim’s head on the ground, facing the city, for them to see, and then, it moved away, hunting for fresh water, it had eaten, and now it was ready once more. On the train its backspines had been idle, the spores it created silent, but soon it would find somewhere to find more of the meat-that-gave-birth.

It loped through the trees, soon the blazing sun would rise and the meat-that-fought would seek for it, their feeble eyes performed better in light, and they would quest after it then. The seeker would not let them find it.

South Auskral Border

The DropShips had tricks up their sleeve, they were not done yet, and began to lift off as the catedonians cleared them, while they began to boost back into space, heading for the Harvest Ship Wavefront Arbiter assigned to support the Catedonians. All thirty six Loki DropShips smoothly docked in the line of hangars along the portside of the Wavefront Arbiter and smoothly detached the bulky Mission Adaptible Mass pods that had carried the mechs down, while others were shunted into position by gravples. The turnaround time could be very quick.

Villages around Litlin

The mission was a success again, there were true limits to what could be done with fangs, claws and tailspikes, after all, and the military managed to contain and then barbeque the Neomorphs. They even found several buried in the sands as they moved in to examine the area.

There was a piece of good news though, when they examined areas that had been hit with bleach alone were successful in largely nullifying the spores.

The bad news was that bleaching the whole of an urban area sounded easier said than done but it was something that would limit the need to rely on incendiaries. Mustard gas did nothing to the spores, almost curiously so, as it should have done so, but whatever ageless engineering had gone into the genetic structure of the spores was immune to the mechanism of action of the gas, while razing areas with napalm and white phosphor was the safest approach.

But there was a nasty trend, here and there the heat had burned bodies beneath the ground, twisted and blackened matchstick-stubs of limbs emerging from the sand showing that the creatures had a startling propensity to hide, to lurk and to wait, while it would be impossible to count the dead accurately, the fires of some of the attacks would simply have cremated the bodies in places.

The possibility that one or more of them might still be lurking would keep a wise TurtleShroomian commander up at night.

Patriation Centre Bull Gorg

The Great Civilization had been rescuing people from oppression for a very long time. They had become exceedingly efficient at it. Part of that was the use of Patriation Centers, large environments that were prepared to house a substantial number of refugees immediately.

On stepping from Nekoland the experience would be almost a let-down, for the environment was very similar, the C’tani had a great many worlds that were desert worlds, and the climate of this facility closely matched Nekoland.

When they stepped out of the portals, two moons in a daylight sky were visible overhead, bright small disks in the sky of whatever world this was, while a group of people waited wearing plain robes in several colours stood waiting, this was a uniform of a sort, and practical trousers worn desert fashion could be seen beneath.

Everyone was armed, but most were not conspicuously so, and Natalya Hrebenyuk watched with suspicion as she stepped out of the portal and the surface of the roadway almost seemed to flow beneath her, she wondered if humans would trip, somehow she doubted that would be the case, but there were mechanisms here to ensure that people flowed away from the gateways.

Signs showed words like ‘Family Housing’ and ‘Refectory’ but when she reached them she found nothing quite like she had expected.

The housing provided was redesigned around the clan, with substantial sections linked together with internal divisions and common spaces provided to allow bedrooms for everyone from the youngest kit to the most revered elder, when she asked about this it transpired that there were arrangements to restructure the facilities for larger or smaller family units depending on the culture involved.

Everywhere was spacious, furnished, air-conditioned, with fresh food and water, entertainment options ranging from traditional instruments to video games, there were gardens, too and beyond them, desert scrubland that led to meditative and therapeutic retreats, discoverable places that one could hike to, or walk to, or drive and bike to, and beyond it all, a luminous city.

The Grandstand-Incorporation Border

‘TurtleShroomers out!’ the megaphone blasted out as the train was stopped. The Incorporation Self-Defence Force troops also wore desert clothes loose and billowing, equipped with long rifles in the commonwealth style, a series of armoured transports that looked just a little too strangely shaped to have been domestic positioned with sleek turrets with oblong barrels that were surely energy weapons facing the train.

‘All TurtleShroomers will disarm. All TurtleShroomers will disarm.’

The position of the motorized troops was a broad L shape with the train alongside, positioned so that if the TurtleShroomian troops from Dire Dire Docks tried to resist they would simply be massacred.

‘All TurtleShroomers will be interned. Resistance will be terminated with extreme prejudice.’

They were worlds away both metaphorically and literally from the way their Nekos were being treated.

[Urmanian]

Undead Gypsies

“The TurtleShroomers have actual planes now.”

“How droll. Are we allowed to smash them?”

“We are not. Be happy that we have the undead to bully.”

“The undead are boring.”

“Close your eyes and pretend they are TurtleShroomers…hey the smell isn’t too far off.”

”TurtleShroom aircraft, be wise that trying to invade Undead Gypsy airspace will constitute an attempt to interfere with the Special Military Operation; which will immediately invoke a state of War with the Vermillion Republic. If you approach closer than 50 kilometers of internationally recognized Undead Gypsy borders, we will employ electronic warfare to keep you safely away.

The Undead Gypsy military forces were at least somewhat modern and fancied themselves to have that vaunted Fascist discipline. But fascist discipline turned out to be no match for C'tani ortillery and the pony forces invading in its wake. Within days, Sorrelian troops were within reach of the internationally recognized TurtleShroomer border.

The pattern was the same every time they reached a settlement: the civilians would be rendered whatever aid they needed, the local Fascist Party headquarters would be leveled with an airstrike, and captive Fascist bosses and Undead aristocrats would be paraded before street-washing machines before being airlifted to a Glue-lag.

The inmates of Sorrelian glue-lags had better lives than the average TurtleShroomer company town serf, but for the Undead fascists there were special provisions that would let them have a taste of what they had foisted upon countless innocents condemned to labor camps. Until such a time that they could express, beyond reasonable doubt, genuine remorse and repentance for their actions. For the Undead such a process could as well take decades of being subjected to grueling hard labor and occasionally being rented out as a decoration for a Nightmare Night party.

TurtleShroom employed clever international gerrymandering and World Assembly rules lawyering to make Undead Gypsy lands both their backyard and, at the same time, notionally independent territories. Sorrelians used the same to trample upon them as they pleased. It was the most passive-aggressive non-war ever recorded by history. Not a single shot was made. Earth ponies used their supernatural empathy with nature to literally charm and steal every animal from outlying forests, jungles and brush, leaving behind only growths of dry, unseemly thorns filled with insects and occasionally rodents - assuring, without any natural predators, severe infestations of vermin and significant economic damage to TurtleShroomer territories in that direction. Pegasi and hippogriffs and griffins, with their mastery of the skies, dumped the waste of their war machines into clouds and ushered them into TurtleShroomer territory - when rains of acid and liquid bitumen would extinguish whole plantations, good luck proving that a flying horse was at fault. Unicorns and kirin conjured spells to befoul TurtleShroomer land and skies and so on. The goal was to make TS border territories next to Undead Gypsies lifeless and unprofitable for decades on end.

The railways and roadways throughout Undead Gypsies were brought under Vermillion Army control, and any TurtleShroomer vehicle coming through was subject to torturous checks. Even verbal resistance was enough for one to be deemed a Dark Harvest perpetrator and neutralized instantly - likely by the means of sorcery turning them into a harmless woodlands critter.

Fly-From-Fornication led the advance of flying tank columns and hoofsoldier battalions from her very own custom-built Oppression Engine, an enormous equine mech. It was not a practical war machine - even when compared with Catedonian bipedal mechs - but it was not meant to be. Towering for over sixty feet, it was meant to inspire fear and crush entire buildings beneath its metal hooves. It was armed with many magic beam projectors, raking across the landscape with explosive rays of pink energy while Fly herself enjoyed the view from the bridge located in the "head" of the mech.

From within this metal colossus, Fly-From-Fornication had recorded a message to be heard by all Valkian nations. Magically projected, her buck-toothed visage would appear through the clouds above every capital of Valkia deemed important enough, like that of an Old Testament prophet thundering his revelations into the men of Judah.

“Greetings, esteemed leaders of Valkia! You may know me as Fly-From-Fornication, the Enforcer Overlord for the Dark Harvest Treaty signed with TurtleShroom.

For years, we have mostly left TurtleShroom to their own devices, convinced that they have learned their lesson. It turns out, we were deceived. No lesson was learned. No penitence was enacted. TurtleShroom sold out some scapegoats, rules lawyered the treaties justly forced upon them, and merrily continued the routine of oppressing other sapient beings for the crime of existing.

Some of you might be concerned about our special operations in the so-called “Undead Gypsies”. Be assured that we do not want to stay there for long. Once we decisively decapitate the Undead Gypsy leadership and crush Fascism within that country, we are more than willing to leave, once a new government is elected by the genuine will of the local populace. We would even be open to withdrawing entirely in favor of turning the occupation duties over to responsible Valkian nations capable of overseeing a democratic transition of Undead Gypsies.

But let us talk about your relationship to TurtleShroom for a moment. You might know that my family - a god-fearing, Christian family - was slaughtered by TurtleShroomer speciesists, with me and my baby brother as the only survivors - for the crime of existing. To this day, the state of TurtleShroom Empire has made no amends and no apologies for the bare-faced genocide of one million innocent beings. Only endless rule-lawyering and underhanded dealings trying to avoid bearing responsibility for it.

The Vermillion Republic, the Great Civilization and the Eternal Ascendancy enforce the Treaty of Gerry. But do you truly think any of us want to do this forever? Do you think that an entity called the Eternal Ascendancy has no better things to do than to policy something like TurtleShroom until the blessed Sun goes out?

You might think you have cheated the system. You receive cheap goods from TurtleShroom, and you are kept safe from their meddling by your superior technology and armed forces, forever. But look no further than the example of South Auskral. They had modern military forces, too. But they were no match for TurtleShroom’s skills at perfidy and rules lawyering, and ultimately became a hapless puppet.

We have incontrovertible proof of TurtleShroom engaging in the funding, training and operating of Fascist, Christofascist and Theocratic groups in the interest of subverting democratic Valkian nations. Your nation may be the next, no matter how safe you might feel behind your battleships or coffee-and-vodka-fueled security services.

For this reason, I call any conscionable Valkian nations to Boycott, Divest and Sanction TurtleShroom, and establish fair and equitable economic ties between each other free of TurtleShroomer meddling.

I have arranged for my new Motherland to provide shipments of enough grain, vegetables and legumes to feed one hundred million, alongside a million frozen veggie pizzas. We are ready to provide a part of that to any Valkian nation, our only requirement is that the recipient nation accepts responsibility and provides suitable protection to the cargo vessels.

And to TurtleShroomers, I have this to say. You have hid behind a liberal interpretation of treaties for too long. You survive because the C’tani don’t care to weaken their contractual reputation by violating a treaty with yourselves. Be advised that I do not subscribe to such niceties. I could easily argue that the treaty of Gerry was signed with the leadership of the Greater Pony Herd, not the Vermillion Republic, and as such I am entitled to do what I want.

And I want nothing more than to see your nation get its just desserts. For you, Mom, Dad.”

The video feed suddenly shifts to pink-hued lasers shattering ranks of screaming fascist Undead, to Fly-From-Fornication’s almost unhinged laugher

[TURTLESHROOM II]

[spoiler=Brief Palace description]

TurtleShroom's leader officially lives in the Chancellary Palace. Known as the "Pauper's Palace" by foreigners because of it lack of extravagance, its concept was dreamed from the Imperial Russian Winter Palace, but without the frills. Meant to represent the country, but also to show modesty, this grand building has stood for about two hundred years.

The building is comprised of simple rectangular prisms, many stories tall. It is symmetrical and bisecected by two twenty foot marble doors. Its lobby is marble, but every other part of the building consists narrow corridors with wooden walls and ceilings. The winding halls of the building are akin to that of the Pentagon, and, consequently, its rooms are not that big. The Palace has two hundred bathrooms!

The highest floor is where the [Tsars] would reside. That entire floor is dedicated solely for use by the head of state. All of the other floors are for governmental use, as well as for holding guests and meetings. There are dozens of bedrooms and other entertainment rooms dispersed throughout the Palace.

The grand foyer had a vaulted, cathedral ceiling and a (newly electrified), centuries-old crystal chandelier donated by the Tsar of Russia. The floors were marble and the walls were white with pretty, pale yellow flowers. A receptionist desk, made of tropical wood with matching marble countertop, was clean aside from neat stacks of paperwork. Facing from the entrance, there were evenly spaced, dark, tropical wooded doors, each ten feet tall to account for the height of the TS humans, on all three sides of the rectangular room, which was longer than it was wide.

If the bees were unnerved by this open floor plan, they were pleased when they were lead through one of the doors. The Palace interior was all hallways and rooms. Each hall had fifteen foot ceilings but narrow, six foot walls, not quite wide enough for two fully grown humans to walk side by side. Many foreigners found this claustrophobic, but the TurtleShroomers loved it and, hopefully, so did the bees. The hallways were lined with white walls and harvest gold carpeting. At the bottom of the white walls were bright red crown mouldings, separating it from the carpet.
From time to time, the halls opened wider into little nooks, each about a yard deep and four feet wide, where Russian chairs and end tables with various decoratives, vases, pictures, patriotic memoirbillia, and such. The chairs were always dark brown with bright red apholstry.

The throne room of TurtleShroom was on the fifth floor, on the left side of the symmetrical building. It had a vaulted ceiling, twelve feet high, with three crystal chandeliers. To the left and right of each crystal chandelier was a large ceiling fan, which was set to blow on low. The throne room was a long hall with hardwood floors, all made of the finest tropical wood. In the center, a wide, red carpet led up to the raised platform where the three thrones of TurtleShroom sat. At equidistant distances, from the tall doors to the throne, were large white pillars. Gas-powered lanterns stuck out of the pillars and faced the red carpet. They were not in use because it was a bright, sunny day. A fireplace, one of the countless in the Palace from before the invention of central heating, sat unused on the right wall.

On the walls, little shelves with statues of the Stations of the Cross, ending with Jesus standing outside of the tomb, decorated the sides. Between each statue was two flagpoles. Every second flagpole, alternating, bore the Flag of TurtleShroom and the flag of the Tsars. The rest of the flags were the flag of each Parish. To the left and the right of the three thrones were two giant Flags of TurtleShroom, suspended vertically. On the wall above the thrones was a giant Chi-Roh symbol. A clockwise circle of ichthyses (Jesus fishes) formed a ring around the symbol. Above this was a stunning stained glass window, shaped as a giant circle, baring the original Emblem of TurtleShroom in yellow and royal blue.

Unlike the chandelier in the lobby, the chandeliers in the throne room were still not electrified, but rather, were powered by candles. Large chains allowed for the chandeliers to be lowered for replacing the candles. They too were not burning, as it was a bright, sunny day.
[...]

The rickety color television cameras revealed the throne room of the fifth floor of the Chancellery Palace.

Tonight's radio broadcasts would have to wait. The televisions will have to fall silent. Some things were more important than mind-numbing entertainment.

The telecommunictions equipment all turned to static. An annoying beep lasted for a few seconds before the official Coat of Arms of TurtleShroom was broadcast. Over it were the simple words "ROYAL DECLARATION" and "GOD SAVE THE TSARS.

......

KZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT

"We interrupt this broadcast for an important announcement
from the Crown of the Great Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom."

"Representing the unanimous consent of the Crown, Her Most Sober
Majesty, Tsarina Tammy Timmynevya Olvia, Imperatrix, Head Human
of All TurtleShroom. May she and her fellow Tsars reign ten thousand years."

"Fourth Throne Speech of the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Three.
Concerning the Horse Marxist Broadcast to nations within Nationstates,
the Lies Within, and the Threat as posed by the Vermillion Sorrelite oppressors
of the Captive Nation of Urmanian."

In the wheelchair was Tsarina Tammy Olvia. Her thin, whispy white hair stopped above her shoulders. She had "the doddles" (that is, the TurtleShroomian slang term for the Essential Tremor), and her head shook lightly, even when she was at rest. Atop her head was the Crown of TurtleShroom, in all its glory. The cross on the top of the crown reflected a gleam onto the cameras for a moment.

In 2020 AD, Tsarina Tammy Olvia was one hundred eleven years old, and it showed. Once an average height of six foot six, she was now down to five foot five. Her pale, white skin, veiny and covered in spots, was unobscured by the dress shirt she was wearing. Her narrow, ovular face had the large, heavy, cokebottle spectacles endemic of most TurtleShroomers over her eyes. Her cheekbones and small, slightly upturned nose were powered and wearing light blush. Her cheeks sagged downwards (think John McCain). Despite her clear, wrinkly age, her posture remained perfect and her gaze was sharp and alert.

Unique among the Tsars, she wore the ceremonial dress of the TurtleShroomian Army, with all the medals from her service covering her right chest. (TurtleShroomian military decorations are the actual medals themselves, as opposed to the ribbons.) Her feet were covered by knee-length, black socks that stopped below her skirt, showing only her kneecaps.

Draped across her, from shoulder to hip, was the green, white, brown, and purple sash that indicated her office. Hanging over the back of the wheelchair and tied to her neck, was the great mantle of the Tsars, boasting brown with dark green trim. The white front of the cape, facing the camera, had alternating Latin and Orthodox crosses in place of ordinary Ermine Spots. Over her neck was the heavy chain of the office of the Tsar, made of pyrite, with jade and sapphires. The scepter and other Crown Jewels, as well as the sftaff representing her military rank, were not present.

She spoke loudly and with confidence. Due to her age- she was born in 1909 AD -she was born before the finalization of Southern culture's total injection into TurtleShroom. Having grown up in a remote part of the swamplands, the Dixie educational and cultural infrastructure would not reach her hometown in time to convert her accent.

Though she used some Dixie phrases, her voice still bore a distinctly Russian accent.

At the start of the broadcast, no one was present. The silence was interrupted by trumpets from behind the cameras. They played three Ruffled Flourishes and initiated the Royal Anthem of TurtleShroom.

Then, from a side door in the back of the room and to the right of the thrones, the quiet, creaking sound of a vintage wheelchair was heard. An Asian man, with spiky, gelled hair and sunglasses, wearing a bright orange cloak with the hood down, was pushing the chair. Handcuffed to his wrist was a metal briefcase. He rolled the chair in front of the center throne and made it face the camera. He then turned around and walked to the right of the three thrones, standing straight ahead without moving.

"Ladies, gentlemen, turtles, and mushrooms of all stages. My fellow TurtleShroomian constituents. Foreigners viewing this broadcast. Your servant bids you greetings and salutations on this sixthteenth Saturday of September, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Twenty-Three."

"While my fellow Tsar, Maven Outtacountry, was supposed to deliver this message, he is currently attending an emergency meeting abroad with TurtleShroom's greatest ally. Tsar Grigory Wip declined to deliver the message in his stead, and between your servant's accent and his, it was agreed that mine is easier to understand."

"An all-channels broadcast from the Vermillion Sorrelites, the current illegitimate slavers of the Captive Nation of the Greater Pony Herd of Urmanian, likely interrupted your day and ruined your dinner. A horse, purportedly Christian despite serving a Marxist dictatorship, then decided to broadcast the typical screed and lies pertaining not only to TurtleShroom, but the Region at-large."

"The Marxist lies, cheats, and steals. Regardless of what revisionist approach the Sorrelian commie horse published after Marx, the same gospel of envy and the same secret ingredient goes into its bloodbath. The secret ingredient, of course, is crime."

"Now, these Vermillion horses, somehow worse than the Urmanians of the past, are invading a nation that is not TurtleShroom, and is threatening to pretend the Treaty of Gerry never happened in order to invade us. If that is their attitude towards contracts and international law, do you really think they will stop there? Darussalem is the definition of all things that the Marxist hates. The Aashinian and Khek Commissariats are the most primal natures of sapient competition laid bare. The Yue Commissariat holds back the Far Northerners of the Howling Tundra, whose creed is even simpler. Barboneia has elements of market socialism, but they are still capitalist. So is Hiluxia. So is Secaria. Even most of the Terra Nullus has some degree of market."

"So you think that they'll stop by harassing the Undead Gypsies? Already they chomp at the bit-" she smirked ever so slightly at her pun "-to betray their contracts and come into conflict with both us and the Necrons."

"We feel threatened, but so should you. Hate TurtleShroom for reasons right or wrong, but hate the Marxist more. The horse talks of our contracts and our ways of interpreting them, and yes, they are fair to say that we are very good at writing and implementing contractual arrangements, such as the agreements negotiated between us and South Auskral."

"-but we honor our contracts. The Marxist breaks them and robs you blind. The Marxist takes what is not theirs, drives men off their homes, burns their fields for 'hoarding', and commits extermination of entirep opulations for simply not bending to their burglary."

"The Nekomimi Question was, of course, just resolved in a manner favorable to the Necrons in rejection over our repeal of John Raven Laws and granting of a homeland for said race, but look at how this was done. Notice that the Necrons and Menelmacari alike take the Treaty of Gerry seriously. They have not committed an invasion of territory they deem TurtleShroomian, and their intents were clearly to take the Nekomimis from their homeland and ship them to Providence only knows where. This, of course, is exactly what they promised not to do to the Nekomimis. Yet, their contractual honor stands, and even at their worst, they still believe in the principles of the rule of law. The Sorrelites do not."

"You are all next in the Vermillion crosshairs."

"Now, allow me to briefly address the propaganda of the Sorrelite and the lies which she broadcast so boldly."

"You heard claims that the then-Kingdom of TurtleShroom killed sapient horses in the Dark Harvest. That we killed and consumed all one million of the horses. We did not, the Zim Belt rebels did any horse killing, and that number CERTAINLY wasn't one million, given that we and the Necrons both oversaw the evacuation ourselves. We created the Zim Belters after razing their homes and politicians' offices for using legal trickery to begin the genocide attempt. No horse's life was taken by the Dark Harvest and, as such, the horse in question's family were likely taken by an insurgent actor."

"The horse said we never apologized for our actions. TurtleShroom was subject to a humiliation ritual that we gladly obliged as terms of our defeat. Even now, Jonesboros' sewage system is connected to the Necron Pyramidal Privy, which was another treaty obligation. Our formal display of submission to the victors of the war does, stupid horse, comprise a recognition of defeat and an adjustment of one's life and terms to the victor's standard. Or, in other words, we feel that TurtleShroom's defeat and subsequent humbling before the victors on globally broadcasted television and radio constitutes this in gracious helpings."

"The horse says they will withdraw after they commit genocide on the Undead Gypsies. They pretend to spare those who weren't in the echelons of their fascist groups, but one need only point to what they did to their bourgouise to see right through their farce."

"Anyone who has dealth with the Necrons can verify their claim that they are actually only targetting those who ran the prisons in Undead Gypsy territory. Even your servant can vouch that this is what intelligence reflects them as doing."

"This is not so with the slaughter of the Undead Gypsies by the Sorrelites. Their Red Terror is indiscriminate, as demonstrated by the horse's full-frontal broadcast of prisoners of war being brutally tortured as she laughed like the killer she is. Anyone with too much wealth, anyone who has too much land, anyone who so much as questions the ways of Sorrelite leftism faces a death from out of which no Gypsy can arise back out. Their actions are genocidal, and the Necrons' and Menelmacaris' are not. The Great Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom calls on the Necrons in the Undead Gypsy borders to drive out the Marxists."

"Failing that..."

The Tsarina made a more sinister, wrinkley grin.

"We will ask Allanea, an ally of the Necrons, elves, and TurtleShroomers, to drive out the Marxist vermin."

"Marxism, once invited in, can never be removed peacefully. Only by shooting one's way out can one again breathe free of their command. The Sorrelites aren't going to leave without being pressured. They care not for laws, or constitutions, or treaties. They mocked the legitimacy of the Treaty of Gerry when even a Necrontyr retaliation was restrained in fear of breaking it. Their elections are screened and pre-selected with mandatory Party membership, and a controlled opposition if they are lucky. It, like all things Marxist, is a farce."

"Given that the horse also decided she would pledge her arms to the blood soaked commissars of a brutal kleptocracy, your servant would posit that the horse's 'Christianity' never left the four walls of a church. Or she just made it up, much like claims of collectivized, command-based agriculture producing the grain for a million pizzas, or the genocide she is currently overseeing, or her story about her family, who- if actually Christian -were likely purged by her masters for believing in moral absolutism. I think of Joseph Stalin's opinion of Pavlik Morozov's betrayal of his parents, as even he thoguht selling out one's blood was a crime peformed by swine."

"The only reason they couldn't kill off Pony Paganism in Urmanian is the same reason TurtleShroom's Marxist Clique couldn't: religion was too powerful to suppress outright, so they must capture and enslave its sermons to commissariat pre-approval. Anyone's underground church that refuses to be screened will, as is always the case, be 'disappeared' or dismembered by the Party."

"Let their treachery and corruption be a reminder that things exist far worse than what the imaginations of Future Tech nations' citizens can conjure about TurtleShroomers. It was seen fit for the Sorrelite butchers to not broadcast a message to just TurtleShroom, but rather, to intimidate and terrify the capitals of all nations on both continents with scenes of butchered Romanis and threats to break international treaties. This alone testifies to their ambition to destroy not just your servant and her people, but the peoples of Valkia and the Land of Power who resist the thievery of collectivism."

"TurtleShroom calls on the peoples of the Land of Power and Valkia, of Allanea, of the Necrons, and of Menelmacar to retake control of the Undead Gypsy territory as soon as possible. The Sorrelites were not invited to this 'party', as the Marxist overthrowal of Urmanian marked a betrayal of previous agreements with their nations due to the bourgouise magically disappearing, and their self-professed refusal to honor Urmanian treaties in the new Vermillion regime."

"As TurtleShroom herself cannot at this time counter the Vermillion invasion- its portals confirming our longstanding belief of their infiltration -we call on the mercy of the Necrons and TurtleShroom's potential for negotiations to bring a resolution to this matter."

"It is why your servant will end this speech by practicing what your servant is preaching. For reasons unknown to your servant and to TurtleShroom at-large, your servant's execution is a demand for peace alongside resolving the Nekomimi Question in full and unrestricted favor of the Nekomimis. If it means your servant's countrymen and the inviolable TurtleShroomian State are spared a second Dark Harvest, your servant will gladly offer herself up for you to execute as you see please."

"Your servant, Tsarina Tammy Olvia, Imperatrix, Head Human of All TurtleShroom, by the Grace of God, awaits a transport shuttle by the Necrontyr forces. Your servant has lived for one hundred fourteen years and has been honored with accolades and crowns alike. If this is the end, let it be said that your servant laid down her life for TurtleShroom."

"All within the state. All glory to the state. All of the state. Hail TurtleShroom!"


The Tsarina ended her speech and was wheeled out the same way she came. The broadcast faded to black.

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming.
God bless TurtleShroom and God bless you.
Thank you.

[Urmanian]

Fly-From-Fornication's Mech

"She thinks I am a Marksist, even though I haven't been to Sorrelia since the revolution and never even pretended to follow this 'almighty science' of yours?" Fly-From-Fornication drummed her hooves on the control desk of the massive mech.

"Well, maybe you should be a Marksist," the Vermillion Army unicorn stallion commissar before her said, taking a pen from his peaked cap and jotting down a note.

"Furthermore, she says we're trying to carry out a destruction of Undead Gypsy capitalists, when my orders have been explicit that only resisting military forces, Fascist leaders and ruling aristocrats are legitimate targets, and otherwise we must not impinge on the local lifestyle in any way. Also, she's trying to pass footage of me firing lasers at active soldiers as torture of prisoners-of-war. I guess it tracks that a hundred-and-fourteen years old has no idea that people have MalTube and Tweeter these days to verify her claims..."

"Well, maybe you should target the bourgeoisie."

Fly-From-Fornication's eyes twitched, becoming somewhat bloodshot.

"And this literal fascist hag has the gall to insinuate that my family was murdered by Marksists, rather than a lynching gang?"

"Well, maybe...look, I'm just here to do a basic go-around," the Commissar fidgeted with an uncomfortable expression, "You should know that the Presidium doesn't officially approve of your campaign, but it doesn't really disapprove either. But, aren't you pushing this a bit too far?"

"No, I am liking it exactly as it is. They're trying to sic Allaneans upon us now. Isn't that great? Don't you want Allanea to actually show up and try to fight us on the behalf of Fascists?" Fly-From-Fornication grinned predatorily, "It would be the funniest thing since I saw that unicorn cast a spell that turned himself into a pickle."

"To be entirely honest, that sounds like a manure-show that your little power trip isn't worth." the Commissar sighed with a shake of his head.

"Let the Allaneans come! For the love of God and Celestia, it must be done!"

"No. Not over TurtleShroom."

"Fine." Fly-From-Fornication sighed and hung her head, "You know, as much as I want to make TurtleShoomers suffer for what they've done to me...I will play along and try to be somewhat reasonable here."

She pushed up her glasses and pulled up her laptopt to begin typing.

Communique
Open: to All
Forwarded: to All Valkian governments

The Great Civilization are our Allies, with whom we are bound with ties of Friendship that go further back than TurtleShroom's shameful and backhoofed attempt at genocide - which was fully and knowingly abetted by TurtleShroom's government and never genuinely atoned for, despite all the claims to the contrary.

The invasion of Undead Gypsies was initiated by the Great Civilization, and we did nothing more than to follow our Allied obligations and join the Special Military Operation started by our Allies to overthrow the heinous fascist regime there. That Tsarina Olvia, a self-professed Fascist wanted by the Great Civilization for her crimes against sapientkid, takes such umbrage with it, speaks volumes.

We have made no attempt to spread Marksism to Undead Gypsies and our offer stands firmly. If any Valkian polity wishes to take over the occupation of Undead Gypsies and oversee the transfer away from their oppressive Fascist form of government, they have only to contact us and we will willingly and peacefully leave. We do not care even if a Darussalemite private corporation or a Northlander feudal entity voices a desire to take over - as long as they are not literal Fascists in cahoots with the genocidal entity of TurtleShroom. Any of you people are honestly better (can the White Fang take over from here? Please?)

And as for the genocidal entity of TurtleShroom itself, if it truly wants us to withdraw from the Treaty of Gerry and leave them unmolested by pink portals in perpetuity, I have a final proposal.

• The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" shall issue an official statement acknowledging their full culpability in the Dark Harvest, signed by all of the reigning Tsars and confirmed by the Boyar Duma.
• The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will pay annual reparations, in perpetuity, from its state coffers, to any and all Dark Harvest survivors found on NationStates. The exact (reasonable) sum of reparations will be decided collectivelly by all Treaty of Gerry signatories.
• The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will lift its ban on Harmonism. In reciprocation, the Vermillion Republic of Sorrelia promises to bar any attempts at Harmonist prosyletizing in Valkia undertaken by its citizens. Therefore, such a lifting will only symbolically represent TurtleShroom's recognition of its failings.
• The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will make Dark Harvest apologia a criminal offence, with punishment up to their own consideration, but not any laxer than their punishments for public dissemination of left-wing or pro-homosexuality propaganda.
  
  Should this proposal be accepted by TurtleShroom, Sorrelia will immediately consider the Treaty of Gerry fulfilled and unilaterally void, withdraw any and all official presence in Valkia, and sign a million-year peace treaty with TurtleShroom that will be brought to the Great Civilization's approval and confirmation.

And so I have spoken.

Fly-From-Fornication, Sorrelian Head Enforcer of the Treaty of Gerry

[The Incorporation and Gerry]

Turtleshroom

The lawn parted, shimmering to reveal the hulking forms of a twin line of Necron Sentinels, their weapons held at the ready. Behind them came a woman, she looked almost like an angel, with wide wings that just about touched the edges of the portal as she passed through it. She wore a dress of dark imperial blue with a lacework adornment of gold over it and hair pins that held her auburn hair behind her.

‘I am Courelie ita Thurasid,’ she said, looking down at the venerable woman before her, ‘I am an emissary of the Great Civilization Diplomatic Service, you have given yourself up to us and you will come with me,’ she said. Her hands described a gentle arc and a ring of orange light formed around the base of the woman’s wheelchair, forming a disc of light, as she stepped out of the way of the portal.

It was a small but flagrant use of magic that was prohibited in the country.

The wheelchair and its occupant passed through the portal, and Courelie followed it, stepping through the portal, the Necrons that had formed a perimeter remained until the portal closed, and then they disappeared in a flash of green corposant as they were removed.

It emerged into a spacious lounge with a window, looking down on Turtleshroom from space, the ships that had come to attack the country visible as green curves in the foreground. ‘Welcome to the Velcacorma Ardanya,’ Courelie said.

‘In truth we did not want you to surrender yourself, an abdication would have been quite adequate, oddly you’ve chosen to do surrender but not abdicate, but, it matters little,’ she said, ‘here you are, and here you’ll stay,’ she said. ‘There is a supple magic to these chambers to keep you alive, though it will not change your aging. If you bothered to smuggle a gun or poison in here, feel free to try either, they will not function here. At least you have a splendid view. There are a trio of androids present to tend to your physical care and meals. We will find some use for you in due course,’ she said. She set the wheelchair down, dispelling the disc.

She didn’t seem to be malicious in her pronouncements, matter of fact, but the words had a certain cruelty to them nonetheless, ‘They developed the magic to keep you here for a prisoner from a country called Whispering Voices, he once managed to kidnap Sirithil. I dare say they’ll let you out at some point, unlike that one, who has been in a facility like this one for five centuries and counting,’ she said.

‘We’ll probably let you go after the gathering of more than five fascists is banned under the assigned penalty in your homeland, until then, you can be our guest.’

Courelie turned around as another portal appeared, and stepped into it, the portal snapped closed.

Olvia would find that there was no door to get out of the few chambers allocated to her, their pale white form filled with renditions of elven art and history, statues in niches at every part of the chamber, there was no shortage of small comforts, and a small study and library, enough to be amused, enough to write. The androids were unspeaking automata that could interpret any instruction and would carry out most reasonable ones. There was even a hovering wheelchair, but in the end, nothing more.

Geoffrey ita Xonthar was a little bit annoyed. Fly-From-Fornication’s expedition was not so much assisting now as setting policy, while he was happy to work with the other treaty signatories, but the two grandiose announcements in quick succession were problematic.

His announcement was substantially lower key though. At the podium he was quite reserved.

‘We continue to regard the Hesy-Shasu as essentially interlopers and the large amounts of land given to their population by TurtleShroom as illegitimate, and intend to move them by force into an area of land more suitable to their needs, the indigenous people of the region share a long-lasting kinship with the Hiluxians and we have discussed with the Daughters of the Khan the correct governance of the region.

‘Our alliance with the ponies of Sorrelia is of historic and continuing importance and their assistance in this operation is much appreciated, but we would like to reassure our regional partners that there is no mandate for a permanent Sorrelian outpost in Valkia and we do not expect there to be any acquisition of territory due to their participation in this action, perhaps with the exception of a the scenario where full occupation of TurtleShroom might be required.

‘Thank you and goodnight, no questions.’

[Comrade Commisar]

Commonwealth Navy Headquarters,
Grandstand, Greater Commonwealth

"The rest of Valkia is scrambling for food or fuel, and both the Sky Landers and South Landers are now asking us to get involved in their affairs?"

High Admiral Walker frowned, dropping the latest Sky Lander missive upon his desk, as the recordings of earlier statements softly played on several small projectors before him. He glanced at several reports organized by the Intelligence Division, detailing endeavors in South Auskral, Dire Docks, and the Rot Lands, all of which seemed to pile on ever higher by the day. By them, were notes scribbled by his adjutant, minutes for conversations with the Sky Landers about food assistance, and those between the Commonwealth and Secerians for exchanges of meat for grain. Underneath all of them, Walker was certain, were documents concerning domestic affairs, many of them requesting assistance, complaining, or otherwise detailing some issue that was created directly or indirectly by the Sky Landers' renewed crusade against the South Lands.

The High Admiral rubbed his eyes, he almost missed the simpler days with the War of Steel.

"Who else do you think they're musing at with that battleship and coffeed vodka comment?" Emily Caulfield, Walker's adjutant, shook her head as she glanced at the latest recording, "Personally, I was under the assumption that talking ponies were a myth until this week. Next thing you know, you'll have living clothing running around the South Lands, or maybe some lost species of deer folk in the North Lands?"

"They seem like a last minute addition, at the very least." The High Admiral sighed, "Even if the Commonwealth didn't have a number of policies against the South Lands after the War of Red, Second Auskral Civil War, and the War of Steel, and if our agricultural imports from the South Lands hadn't already been devastated by the Sky Landers - how are we supposed to suffice the North Lander population on grain? The Secerians are already slaughtering much of their livestock in exchange for the grain we seized at Dire Docks, but with the significant North Lander populations in other Valkian countries, I don't think this opportunity will repeat itself."

"It's a real shame that the Rot Landers aren't made out of flesh." The adjutant mused, "It would have saved us quite a bit of trouble if that were the case."

"That is the only situation where we would have gotten involved with the Rot Lands." Walker grumbled, turning his glance to another projector playing back Tsar Olvia's broadcast, "Over a hundred miles inland, far outside the effect range of naval gunnery, with logistic conditions that would make the Secerian disaster in Niekas look like a pleasant outing? It's not particularly enticing, regardless if we did it in want of 'Democracy' or in repulse of 'Marxism'; it's suicide, we gain nothing from it, and that is not even taking in consideration the ire of everyone involved."

"They did mention White Fang by name, though. It wouldn't be surprising if North Landers got involved now."

"Yes, but the Sky Landers immediately retracted that by mentioning some obscure Wild Landers - the Daughters of the Khan?" The High Admiral shifted his attention to Geoffrey's recorded broadcast, "With our luck, they might have just inadvertently started a new conflict in the South Lands."

"Better between the North Landers and Wild Landers than whatever is going on now." Caulfield grimaced, scribbling down something for the Intelligence Division to file a report on later, "What kind of name is 'Fly-From-Fornication' anyway?"

"Doesn't quite ring off the tongue like 'Jeff', does it?" Walker jested.

"At least Jeff has the decency to let you turn off his speeches."

"Regardless, Miss Fornication does make a good point." The High Admiral stated, reaching for the phone on his desk and bringing the receiver to his ear, "We should come together as Valkians at this time."

"Are you referring to the Valkian League?" The adjutant asked.

"Eventually, but not now. Both the South Landers and Sky Landers are present there, and I think we need to engage in some private discussions first - away from the current sources of conflict in Valkia." Walker wryly smirked, as he asked the operator to patch him into some various numbers.

"The Barboneians, the Secerians, the Darussalami, and the Hiluxians; I think we should come to support each other in these trying times, to say what we're all thinking."

[Urmanian]

"Daughters of the Khan? I see, I see...sign on the dotted line, and the territory of Undead Gypsies will be under your control. Just wait until we dump these 576 trucks of landmines on the TurtleShroom border, and then we'll be going."

In truth, it was never the plan for Sorrelians to establish any kind of permanent occupation on that territory - the aim was always to scare the TurtleShroomers while rousing the rest of Valkians into some kind of independent activity. Smashing some foul-smelling fascists was merely a pleasant bonus, again, but not the aim. If the C'tani were growing even ever so slightly annoyed, then it was time to go.

Fly-From-Fornication was miffed by the lack of any decisive action against TurtleShroom proper, but truthfully she was getting tired of dealing with their mind-boggling antics. The damage done to them was already enough, now they could be left to wallow in their own filth. She was now considering to move to the Great Civilization to become a genocide lawyer. Her admiration for Marksism wasn't that great and she was rediscovering her Christian faith through the deeds of one Nils Andersen, a glorious crusader who almost laid his life to save the Pony Lands in the name of White Christ.

The promised ships loaded with agrarian goods would still arrive, now bobbing idly off the coast of the region, waiting for any locals to reach out and request some aid. As was established, it was fit to feed a hundred million - as long as they didn't mind a purely vegetarian diet, as no meat was truly produced in Sorrelia - alongside with some veggie pizzas as a bonus. No strings were attached - it was merely brain food to make the Valkians think about their reliance on TurtleShroomer food.

In Gerry, a minor Sorrelian representation would remain, but it would be no longer headed by a firebrand like Fly-From-Fornication, nor would it be a focus of the government of the Vermillion Republic, focused more on vainly scrambling for friends in their own region.

There was one thing that remained to bother TurtleShroomers in perpetuity. A great monument to one Boris Duum, a stone-hewn scene of a bearded and ushanka-wearing, proud and defiant man breaking manacles above his head even as flames consumed his lower body, constructed in one of the remote bogs of Undead Gypsies. The Marksists would not claim Valkia this day, but they left a reminder of the liberty that could be if they did.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: I wrote this post later in the evening, after I got home from vacation. I was exhausted and didn't put any thought into the post. I will be rewriting this soon. }

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: I really liked that dialog between the commissar and Flies-From-Fornication. It was amusing. }

It was usually for minor addresses that needed no fanfare, or single-memorandum causes and nations that received a teletype dispatch. Urmanian, still bitterly despised by the TurtleShroomers, would get one too.

Code: Select all

!

Sorrellites occupying the Captive Nation of Urmanian.

While we do not recognize your government or its legitimacy, your existence as the sole polity holding any monopoly of force over the former Greater Pony Herd of Urmanian neccesitates us to exchange dialog with the Vermillion Republic that stands over its corpse.

We have received your proposal and are interested in future negotiations. To open our first dialog, we wish to address your demands as they currently stand.


The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" shall issue an official statement acknowledging their full culpability in the Dark Harvest, signed by all of the reigning Tsars and confirmed by the Boyar Duma.

Code: Select all

In signing the Treaty of Gerry, TurtleShroom as a state, government, and people, and any TurtleShroomian polity to follow, including our modern Empire, recognize our loss in the Dark Harvest.

We are not now, nor have we ever, been permitted to deny our defeat or culpability in an attempted genocide of the sapient horse race, and both the Treaty  and the Second Constitution of TurtleShroom stipulate that no TurtleShroomian media may be published saying otherwise. Even video games set in or during the Dark Harvest carry the disclaimer at each start up to notify the mandatory Treaty compliance statement.

This provision is, and has already been, fulfilled since our suerrender, and continues to be fulfielled today.

[quote="Urmanian";p="40906097"]
The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will pay annual reparations, in perpetuity, from its state coffers, to any and all Dark Harvest survivors found on NationStates. The exact (reasonable) sum of reparations will be decided collectivelly by all Treaty of Gerry signatories.
[/quote]

[code]
We are fully open to this request and will be okay with discussing what to pay, and how much. While we have already paid war debts and reparations in the past, direct transfers to the horses present at the genocide attempt, for their lifetimes, is an acceptable request.

We assume, and expect, that these reparations will be paid ONLY to the million horses who were found in, and subsequently expelled by, TurtleShroom during the war, and that it shall only last for the lifetimes of those horses. For any surviving horse residing in TurtleShroom as of the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Eleven and the three years after that, one unit of reparation would be paid annually.

Due to current shortages and crises, however, any agreed-upon reparations cannot be delivered until peace with the Necrons is made and TurtleShroom first recovers her emergency stocks and funds. This means that, God willing, any negotiated reparations would begin in January of the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Twenty-Five.

We expect no loopholes: any horse that is immortal will only receive reparations equal to the average lifespan of their species, and no horse will receive reparations for more than one hundred years.
[/code]

[quote="Urmanian";p="40906097"]
The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will lift its ban on Harmonism. In reciprocation, the Vermillion Republic of Sorrelia promises to bar any attempts at Harmonist prosyletizing in Valkia undertaken by its citizens. Therefore, such a lifting will only symbolically represent TurtleShroom's recognition of its failings.
[/quote]

[code]
No, we already address the necessary measures to protect Pony Paganry from persecution in TurtleShroom.

Pony Paganismis 'punished', if you can call it that, by expulsion to the Necrons, Menelmacar, or Old Urmanian, prior to her collapse. As our previous brushes with Shadowmane, supremacists, and other Pony Pagans' missteps, and due to the actual existence of the dual horse demons Celestia and Luna, we will maintain this agreement as stipulated in order to protect both our souls and our people from their influence.
[/code]

[quote="Urmanian";p="40906097"]
The "Great and Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom" will make Dark Harvest apologia a criminal offence, with punishment up to their own consideration, but not any laxer than their punishments for public dissemination of left-wing or pro-homosexuality propaganda.
[/quote]

{ OOC: I don't remember if the Treaty of Gerry makes it illegal for people to say these things. I will ask around and, if that is in fact the case, I will edit this accordingly. }

[code]
It is already illegal to declare that TurtleShroom won or that the Dark Harvest genocide attempt never happened, as well as banning any calls to bring it back. Media claiming such is subject to the same punishment as carrying other censored media in TurtleShroom: publication is denied and all copies found are subject to confiscation and destruction.

Leftist is not illegal, only Marxism and its derivatives. Dissemination of left wing propaganda in TurtleShroom is only illegal if the content is Marxist or otherwise demands the abolition of private property through seizure and redistribution.


[TURTLESHROOM II]

They weren't truly fighting as per the wishes of their own doctrine, frankly. The slowly developing Catedonian doctrine emphasized a combined arms approach. But the Loki dropships were first and foremost configured to carry designs that were deemed the optimal combination of firepower, protection, and cost in the darkest days of a long forgotten interstellar cold war.

Atzi was in one of the largest 'Mechs afforded to their burgeoning fleet. 90 tons of hatred and technology beyond anything Tlahtohcatlalli or even Valkia could hope to muster domestically were being guided by the mind of a 24 year old Ocelotl who had spent much of his teenage life slaving away in the mines of a concentration camp.

Mechs suck.

The initial reaction to the deployment of Mechs was one of laughter: TurtleShroomers had been training in fighting these since the Dark Harvest made them realize that the Necrons had them. South Auskralians who had been briefed in TurtleShroom's countermeasures had their mirth shattered when it turned out that the Azcats- as the TurtleShroomers substituted the unpronouncable name of "Tlahtohcatlalli" -knew that Mechs suck too.

Or, at least they knew that Mechs sucked without back up. The horde of Azcats being dropped on the southern border of South Auskral caused the immediate attention of the Covenant Garrison to shift from cleaning up the remaining Loyalist rebels in the remote jungles, much to their chagrin and dread. As fanatics, the Loyalist rebels regrouped incessantly unless they were purged to the man, and by pulling away from this, they were leaving a can of worms opened that they would have to start over in closing.

The process for dealing with Mechs was ancient: while the Mechs' tactic in particular was owed to the Planter minority, guerilla warfare was the bane of every attacker in TurtleShroom since the Dark Harvest, with numerous confirmed downings of Necrontyr hover ships (that were in the canopies of the rainforest) causing them to stick to orbit throughout the prosecution of that war.

Versus the usual ambushes and raids of normal TurtleShroomian guerillas, the bushwhacking process was more dramatic.

To defeat a Mech, it must be tripped. In an eeerily identical way to Confederate attacks that gave bushwhacking its distinction from other guerilla warfare tactics, rolling logs was the easiest way.
Then, and only then, can the brief window in which the Mech has to get up allow its munitions to pause long enough for the machines to be overwhelmed with what TurtleShroomers had kept to their chest until now. It was white and cone shaped. From there, bushwhackers and guerillas would drag the pilot out and kill them.

Their special secret was in actuality a Flux Compression Generator Bomb, which was a device that could fire an electromagnetic pulse without requiring the detonation of a nuclear weapon.

The device was given the spicy tongue-in-cheek name of "Fu-Flux-Flan" after it was found to be an effective hypothetical match up against the scraps of robotics that known Necrontyr allies had left around over the years; combining the distinct log rolling and ambushes of Confederate bushwhacking with a cone-shaped explosive device was far, far too cheeky for TurtleShroomers not to make a pun about it.


There was one problem, of course. Fu-Flux-Flans were not expected to be deployed in Auskral, let alone against any Future-Tech machinery again, so the only existing examples of those munitions were back in TurtleShroom.

Specifically, the most easily available stock were in the Ol' Reliable metropolis. Ol' Reliable was TurtleShroom's largest nuclear power plant and once provided a fourth of its power before uclear infrastructure was greatly expanded as the years went on. Today, it is hundreds of miles of infrastructure and entire residences holding tens of thousands of TurtleShroomers were within it, being the home to the greatest nuclear research minds of the Tsao and GEIJD developers that just gave TurtleShroom a hydrogen bomb mere months ago.

Ol' Reliable was also in the center of TurtleShroom proper, and, once again, the missing rails and ports meant delivery would have to be by air. TurtleShroom had a theoretical means of dropping Fu-Flux-Flans from the trees, but such a thing had never been tested because it was deemed unnecessary.

For TurtleShroom to fight off the Mechs without causing great bloodshed, the Fu-Flux-Flans would need to be deployed, and so it was once again a matter of the sky.

Deborah Turtleson was going to have a field day.

---

{ OOC: I should really draw a Map to explain the below better. }

None of that would be helping the ragtag Auskralians and their TurtleShroomer neighbors in Baptyzm-Sectanty. Literally meaning "Baptist Sectarianism" is Auskralian, this term denoted the densest and most devoutly loyal Baptist congregations in a corridor stretching from the Military Mandate of Wistful Wilds (former Haiz) to the ocean, all on the southern border. Were Auskral to break free without Baptyzm-Sectanty, it would be surrounded by TurtleShroom by the south and east, and North Auskral to the north, which is why TurtleShroom was working on making it its own Parish when the Necrons invaded and stopped it.

After the Sectanty Belt was crossed, large open green spaces continued until the various cities of the country were met.

The Sectanties, as the English-speaking TurtleShroomers called the residents of the densely populated belt, would be both a physical bulwark and a meat grinder against the Azcat incursion. Auskral had previously seen three Civil Wars in the twenty-first century and one in the nineties, so the Sectanties had access to weapons that even TurtleShroomian civilians had to pass exams to get. They were undisciplined and were relying largely on guerilla tactics, but they could at least buy some time.

The Sectanties' goal was to drag the Mechs into places with effective cover, as their munitions could easly cleave any enemy on an open field or shoreline. Then, the Azcat infantrymen would be attacked by the Sectanties on fairer footing; without the Mechs, this was closer to a normal battle.
The Mechs would not be dealt with until the Fu-Flux-Flans were in range, and the log rollers and bushwhackers needed time.

It was time to play quite a rousing game of kit i myshka.

[Menelmacar]

"If it will blow a hole in the ground, it will double as an entrenching tool."
~Maxim 44, 70 Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries

The Menelmacari watched the TurtleShroomer deployment to the south with some interest. Of course all of this could be monitored fairly closely from the Ring, and all of this information was conveyed to the forces on the ground. And contingencies were put into place.

The wide open agricultural regions between the Sectanty Belt and the more urbanized South Auskralian heartlands was exactly the sort of place that played well to Menelmacari strengths even without the overwatch provided by fleets in orbit and the ever-looming Great Ring. Lots of long sightlines and commanding views, broken up only by rivers and lines of trees denoting the borders between fields of grain and produce.

A great place to stomp some turts.

The terrain was analyzed carefully by Menelmacari shipminds and expert systems, and it didn't take long to develop the optimal configuration of fortifications, minefields, killboxes, and other assorted dirty tricks to make any Turtleshroomer retreat from the Tlahtohcatlalli - a name that, unlike TSers, Menelmacari had no difficulty pronouncing - advance an experience that would decisively remind the already ill-equipped shroomers that life was not all sunshine and lollipopski.

First of all there was some paperwork to be done. To landowners across this region were dispensed apology letters and generous compensation, as well as a warning to evacuate, just in case. The Menelmacari were nothing if not fair.

Next came the minefields. Dropships flew to and fro over the rolling hills, showering vast fields of smart munitions that would fall to earth, burrow, and wait. By evening, the land the TSers had crossed in complete safety in previous days would now be denied to them. The Menelmacari were not concerned that these munitions would threaten civilians when the conflict was over; each was tracked and logged, and could be precisely recovered and destroyed when no longer required. Nonetheless, a band of terrain miles deep was soon lousy with the merciless things.

Earthworks were thrown up with shocking speed using gravitics and plascannon, displacers and earthshaping spells; no digging by hand was necessary. Artillery and gravtanks were emplaced. Killboxes were dialed in, both for artillery and missile strikes, or for strikes from the Ring. Hilltops, villages, and chokepoints sprouted formidable fortifications; in some places, entire prefabricated bunkers and walls were displaced into position from orbit. And all across this landscape the treelines teemed with combat drones and other such autonomous devices, outnumbering their actual Menelmacari masters by hundreds to one. Every Menelmacari soldier was brass, in a way; every Menelmacari soldier commanded a company-strength force of such weapons, and could control kilometers of front by himself.

The Menelmacari Imperial Defense Force would be the anvil to the Tlahtohcatlalli hammer. When the cats and their mechs flushed the turts out of the jungles, into the farmland, they would have nowhere to go, but off the mortal coil.

[Menelmacar]

Somewhere north of Ost-in-Alfirin, Arda, Menelmacar
51 Yávië 31938

Tulwéher Palarnil nos Fithurin stepped out of his gravcar outside the sprawling house nestled in the mountain valley. It was an unusual neighborhood, a residential airpark, where many of the homeowners were pre-gravitic aviation hobbyists. The homes, as elegant as any in Menelmacar, had large hangars attached, and all had access to a nearby airstrip where one could fly aircraft amidst the spectacular mountain landscapes.

The house’s hangar door was open, and the angular nose of a YF-23 air superiority fighter poked out of the shadows into the sunlight, where Palarnil could see a black-haired woman carefully applying radar absorbent coating to the fuselage; a woman Palarnil’s handbrain quickly identified as Cáno Hristildis nos Eärendil (retired).

“Good morning! That’s a beautiful warbird you have there,” Palarnil greeted.

She turned, and smiled at the comment, setting down her tools, though when she saw the uniform, a salute followed, which Palarnil returned.

“Thank you,” she answered. “Built her myself.” She patted the aircraft affectionately. “I’ve put three thousand hours into building and modding her, and twice that into flying her. What can I do for you, Tulwéher?” she asked, spotting the rank insignia, two rubies vertically bracketing a diamond-shaped gold pin.

“Right to the point, excellent,” said Palarnil, casually approaching up the driveway. “We’ve need of your services if you’re willing,” he said. “How would you like to fly again? Combat missions.”

“Hah! I fly every day, Tulwéher,” Hristildis shrugged, gesturing in the direction of the YF-23. “And I haven’t flown in combat since the Wilwarin War. You can’t possibly be that short of pilots. I keep hearing about how the recruitment offices have to turn people away even with the fleet expansion.”

“No no, this is a special posting,” Palarnil answered. “Requires unique experience and skills. Triple PMC civcon rates plus full combat bonuses. It’ll count as service time, too; you’ll get a permanent pension boost and full recognition and bonuses for all kills.”

“You have my attention,” she said, still warily. “But the only ‘unique skill’ I can think of that I’ve got is…” Her eyes trailed towards the plane in the hangar.

“I think you’re catching on,” he answered. “South Auskral. We’re putting together a sort of ‘flying beornings’ squadron. We can openly operate in South Auskral, but we want pilots who can fly non-gravitic aircraft on plausibly-deniable air superiority and strike missions in Turtleshroom proper. South Auskralian markings on the aircraft, and ‘officially’ at least you’d be South Auskral Air Force. This way we don’t run afoul of Gerry treaty obligations. We’ll even provide you a matching aircraft, complete with whatever modifications and upgrades you’ve made, so you don’t have to risk your pride and joy there.”

“How long do I have to think it over?”

“I don’t need an answer now,” said Palarnil, “but don’t take too long. We’ll need to know by the end of the week.” He offered her his business card. “If you’re in, pack your go bag and report to Air Command on the Velcacorma by oh-eight-hundred on Elenya morning.” He grinned. “In the meantime, enjoy the skies, Cáno. It’s a beautiful day to fly.”

They shook hands, and his eyes met hers, and in that moment, he already knew what her answer would be.

[The Incorporation and Gerry]

Beyond the Southern Border of Auskral

The dropships slammed down again, mission-adaptable mass pods thumping the ground, re-entry shields breaking off to the sides of them, to reveal large gaudy labels.

The nearest to the border had been put down with its label clearly visible from the north.

Hober ita Nihilakh’s Missile Vending Machine Company
Machine #34

Each of them had a satellite – or ring, really – uplink, and could use local communications webs to interlace with the Catedonian mechs.

Each pod was essentially a set of VLS cells, two rows in fact, six cartridges wide and twenty for deep, for a total of one hundred forty four missiles on each side. Along the bottom of the “vending machines” were break-out panels that were marked with cautionary signs in the local languages, along with Quenya, Necrontyr and of course, Catedonian, urging persons to stand well clear of missile launches, stressing the danger of standing too close to these death-dispensers.

They also had a small interior space on the front and back that nestled behind blowout panels, also marked with stand-clear signs, holding flotation devices, while the corners of the platform had small pumpjets to allow it to keep station, letting them be dropped into any body of water to provide the same functions.

One small part of them differed from standard, as they fired, they dispensed tickets listing the unit price of the missile dispensed. This was a standard retail point of sale system as might be found in the Incorporation. Perhaps the charred tickets would be found at some point.

They listed sale of missiles as they were called out of the pods to Catedonia, with a billing amount. Of course, it did not mention that the C’tani were simply upping the aid budget by the corresponding amount. The Nihilakh loved a perfect balance sheet.

Of course the Menelmacari could also put in a call to the same pods with the same systems, but then they had the exact same technology as well and might be dropping similar mobile missile silos in among their new entrenchments.

The “Vending Machines” (Technically “MT Aerospace Missile Dispense MAM pods”) were presently loaded with surface to air and cruise missiles of export Mode-Terran grade, unlike their standard cousins that held rather more sophisticated missiles.

Treaty compliant mayhem; the pods happened to be outside of Auskral, and were simply “selling” weapons to Catedonian forces.

Deborah Turtleson was going to have problems dealing with the mechs using EMP – especially as the pods control software was optronic and not susceptible to such things.

[Tlahtohcatlalli]

The Auskralian Baptists, both frankly meaningless terms to the devour servants of Tezcatlipoca, had certainly attempted to make their stand in the endless sprawl that lay between two mountains. A myriad of one and two-story buildings stood before then all the way into the horizon, and within each and every one could be some manner of threat.

A conflict of interest quickly arose between the Ocelotls' ideals and the wishes of their current superiors. Eighty years of unending war against a once superior foe had resulted in a less reckless doctrine emerging from the ranks of the Tlahtohcatlalli's military, but it still had to compete with the barely tempered, impetuous nature of the Ocelotl spirit.

Atzi could already feel the frustration of his (four-man) Star, briefly stopped at the outskirts of the Baptist Belt.

"Shit, are you seeing that?! Do you think there'll be anyone left to shoot at?"

"Please, there's nothing to shoot at in the first place. Just a bunch of huts and glorified cavemen. There's nothing honorable about this, and even less honor in bombarding it."

"Who cares about honor, we could have trashed that whole place ourselves, we didn't need to wait on missiles to do our damn job."

At the outskirts, they could see the handiwork of a myriad of cruise missiles slamming into various buildings, military installations, and even particularly large gatherings of people. It was every bit as indiscriminate as the strikes of their long-hated foes were to them.

Atzi himself felt a sense of melancholy from the whole affair. He had joined the ranks of the Tlahtohcatlalli's military to defend his home from a long-standing evil that had plagued it. The war he was waging here felt akin to a naked perversion of that ideal, the sandal now placed on his foot so that he may stomp on other people.

Regardless, they marched on, always sure to avoid giving the enemy a sitting target. Each star was spread out to avoid any potential artillery from doing serious damage. Their orders were simple, to stop for nothing and no one, and to shoot at everything that dared to fight them.

The Scouts would see the first action. The sound of lasers and PPCs could be heard ahead of them, as well as the occasional explosion of some misfortunate fighting position held by the enemy.

Atzi's star was slow enough that the APCs could almost keep up with them, themselves accompanied by a few Stars held in reserve for the time being. Each sacrifice today was for the benefit of the entire Expeditionary Force's standing with the gods and the Tlatoani, a new tradition born out of the desire to restrain the otherwise impetuous nature of those who wished to raise their standing in the military. Already, their Star passed abandoned trenches and fighting positions, the telltale signs of energy weapons and the rare Autocannon present where they marched.

Atzi was not particularly afraid of missing out on any action, it always had a way of reaching him first.

A sudden burst of machine gun fire aimed at his mech confirmed his suspicions, each bullet harmlessly smashing itself against metal.

The culprit was a small, concrete, two story building, gunfire pouring out of it. Judging by the flattened buildings around it, they had been rather lucky initially.

"Contact, 300 meters, marking them now!" One of his lancemates said, more excitedly than anything.

A quick switch to his thermal optics, really more of a thermal vision filtered through his neurohelmet, revealed several dots within, glowing precisely to reveal the silhouettes of men.

"I see them, I'll bury them where they stand." Another voice rang out.

"Don't waste ammo, scorch them." Azti piped up now, providing an example by raking the building with several pulsating, bright blue beams. Each strike ripped through concrete with ease, collapsing one floor in the process. Atzi could feel the temperature in his cockpit begin to rise slowly the longer he held his trigger down, his cooling uniform doing its best to keep his body from suffering the effects.

His lancemates fired their own lasers, one mech firing a large, blue projectile of a sort, tearing a huge chunk out of the building in the process. The figures within stood no chance the moment such a volley of fire was focused their way.

Atzi was silent as he watched the building collapse. He wasn't sure how many locals he'd just condemned to their deaths, nor was he particularly eager to count, leaving that to the APC that now moved towards it.

"Cheer up, war hero. They'd be putting their boots on us if they ever had a chance. They brought this on themselves."

"Focus on the bad guys, not me, Nenetl. Now unless you've got something to report, keep the comms silent."

The Tlahtohcatlalli force would continue onwards at a breakneck pace. Any aircraft that even approached near them would face a half-dozen missiles fired from the same pods that had rained such utter hell on the Belt.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: I originally wrote this post later in the evening, after I got home from vacation. I was exhausted and didn't put any thought into the post. It did not meet my standards for a quality post, and I didn't think through the consequences of the way I initially wrote it. I hope that this version is a better telling of the tale. }

Office of the Foreign Secretary, Foreign Office building, Vallentuna, Secerian Republic

Freja Rosen was not much happier than her boss had been to be informed she would be receiving the visiting Tsar of Turtleshroom, and considerably less happy than Chancellor Silverskiöld had been when he informed her about this fact.

[...]

Her car and driver were already waiting to take her to the airfield where the plane would be landing, and she slid into the back seat with a groan, throwing the cane aside as the car pulled away from in front of the Foreign Office building.

It was another day abroad, and another shame that Tsar Maven Outtacountry was cold-blooded. The royal tortoise was on a brazen wagon- pulled much like a toy wagon -with the brass covering carved in shining filligree. A stack of heated blankets and a few batteries filled it and obscured the Tsar from the outside.

"Geeze Louise, it is cold."

They were told to expect fifty degree weather, but the temperature had dropped well below that by the time night fell. Tsar Outtacountry was just thankful that he wasn't the turtle that had been assigned to study the Yue Shrine in negative forty degree weather. (Although, in his early years with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a new diplomat always had to do the "newbie assignment" to test their determination.)


The usual fanfare and excitement that always reminded Tsar Outtacountry of why he became a diplomat in the first place was mostly absent from this trip. Pulling the wagon was one of the Oriental family members- a bloodline far predating any GEIJD or Tsao influx -who served as the Keeper of the Nuclear Football for the Designated Survivor. His bright orange robe, spiky hair, and sunglasses made him almost as conspicuous as the heavy, shining, silver, metallic briefcase handcuffed to his free hand. Two Chancellery Guardsmen followed from behind, one carrying a boombox.

Pressing the button on the tape deck, an instrumental of the Royal Anthem of TurtleShroom was played as the Secarian Life Guardsmen stood at attention.
This was a normal action for the TurtleShroomers abroad, even when they weren't in a hurry: the brass and air horn ensemble that played at the entry of the Tsars did not neccesitate bringing a trumpeter and a TurtleShroomer with an air horn when they came to other countries. After the instrumental concluded, the Nuclear Football guardsman wheeled the Tsar over to Freja.

The blankets rustled as the long neck and beady head of Tsar Maven Outtacountry snaked out of a dark hole. His miniature version of the Crown of TurtleShroom shone as usual, matching the care of the Life Guardsmens' uniforms and giving the illusion that it was more expensive and bejewelled than it looked.

"Mistress Rosen, your servant is both humbled and honored to be present on the holy soil of the Rabbit Men. When your servant received word that the six month stock was already close to depletion, your servant immediately needed to ensure the safety and wellbeing of the great Rabbit Men personally. Even the invasion of your servant's nation need not obstruct our peoples' eternal freindship, and the eternal gratitude millions of us had for your deliverance of them all."

"You have saved our lives, and we are eternally grateful."

Secerians were annoyingly aware of the customary, flowery "Turtle Speak" for a TurtleShroomer acting in an official capacity in Secaria. Since the Filibuster Crusade and the TurtleShroomian-Secarian alliance was forged in blood and fire, it became custom for the manner of address of a non-titled Secarian to be "Master" or "Mistress", originally started by the oldest descendants of the Planters (the only notable veterans that qualified as officer material) in the Crusade before trickling down from there.
Taking a page from the Bible, "your servant" is the first-party "pronoun substitute" that most TurtleShroomer officials use when speaking to citizens, representing humility and consent of the governed. It was required in press conferences and other such media events. Outside of Tsarina Olvia's lifelong habit as a Fascist Servant, though, such lofty honorifics as "your servant" and "Master" were never used off TurtleShroomian soil by a high-ranking TurtleShroomer, and especially not the Tsar, except to Secarians.

"Now, God willing, let us save yours."

"Yes, your servant knows that TurtleShroom is burning, but when the flesh of our Crusaders, mere civilians and bigoted in their rejectio nof your help, was burning, you came to TurtleShroom in their time of need and saved the lives of countless TurtleShroomers, including my biological grandfather*."

"The estimates of TurtleShroomian agricultural and Six Month Law computers alike, and the collective work of our hordes of statisticians, once revising our mistake in your birth rates, deduced that the Rabbit Men would face a famine by next spring, if not the New Year."

He turned his head to the waiting motorcade.

"We thankfully have a solution for your impending famine, although you are going to hate it. Please, join your servant in the motorcade and pay attention, if you will."

The ride to the Secarian destination was underway as the Tsar, now warmer in the hot car but still wrapped in blankets, explained the plan.

The Nuclear Football guardsmen, who was in the car with the Tsar and Freja, pulled out a small bucket that could fit in Freja's hand. Opening it, a solid, grey-ish red paste was revealed. It had no smell and was of such an even texture that it resembled pudding or honey, and was as thick as the latter.

"If you do not open the seal, it cannot rot."

"If the seal is not broken, it does not expire."

"It does not need anything but an intact seal stable temperature less than ninety degrees to keep. It has been proven to last sixty years under seal. Our scientists think it could last two thousand years under optimal conditions, just like honey."

"Eat this and you WILL live."

"It's called Televangelist Nutrient Paste. It was originally invented, by accident, by a notable nationwide broadcasting clergyman in the late fifties who was seeking to more efficiently fight hunger than the Six Months Law. He succeeded. The recipe was bought by, and then released into the Public Domain, by the Fascist Servants."

"It needs no heating, but you'll be less sui- uhh, it'll be easier to eat if you warm it."

He looked at the contents of the bucket and quietly suppressed the urge to gag, not due to a smell, but due to memories of trying it. It looked like and poured like red nacho cheese fondue.

"Heh. This one is.... the borscht flavor..."

"Televangelist Nutrient Paste is easy to make, can be artificially or naturally fortified with nutrients, and provides all of the nutrition that a turtle, human, or other omnivorous being needs, assuming that creature is not taller or larger than eight feet and weighing more than a TurtleShroomer White. That includes any chimera capable of eating both vegetables and meat, such as you and your people, Mistress. Obligate carnivores and obligate herbivores cannot survive on it."

"It is made in five gallon buckets, six hundred forty fluid ounces each. One serving of Televangelist Nutrient Paste is six fluid ounces. Eating a single six-ounce bowl of Paste provides all of the nutrients you need in a single day. All of them."

It's a good things turtles couldn't shiver. Tsar Outtacountry's mind flashed back to putting that slop in his mouth, and he thankfully did not shutter.

"We have seven years of this slop to sustain us if our six months supply runs out: that's a classified secret because tests after the Fascist era showed that focus groups... uhh, never mind. The size, scope, and location of this stockpile is unknown to the public at-large, and we have only had to use it once."

"During the Dark Harvest, Televangelist Nutrient Paste was passed out among the TurtleShroomers who could not make it to the Grand Bunkers."

The tortoise emperor sighed.

"I sometimes wake up in the night, thinking about that taste on my tongue."

"You may ask the catch- aside from the taste -and there is one, as Paste is not without flaws."

"Televangelist Nutrient Paste's worst drawback is that it must be consumed regularly if you want to subsist on it. A single bucket can feed a single, adult male human or chimera daily for one hundred six days. For a juvenile, three ounces is all you need, and for a mammalian infant, one. It can be stretched further, but if you eat nothing else but Televangelist Nutrient Paste, then malnourishment, constipation, and cramps will set in after seventy-two hours of not eating anything at all. After seven days of eating Paste and then not eating anything else, you will die unless you either consume more Paste or eat any food that is not Paste. You must also constantly drink water every four hours. Skipping this will kill you after sixteen consecutive hours without water, and after just ten you will feel sick, as this stuff has a LOT of salt and preservatives. Part of the reason this stuff is so concentrated and nutritious is because of its dependency on things that don't like water. Children have to drink even more."

"God willing, I hope that with your crops hindered, your water is not."

He looked out the window for a brief moment before returning his gaze to Freja.

"Mistress, we obviously cannot provide to you our Six Month Law stocks. There are the six-times-three stores in the Grand Bunkers that no longer exist, and then there's the general cross-population Six Months Law Stock. Televangelist Nutrient Paste is neither."

"We can afford to give up a fair bit of this slop. We want to deliver two of our seven years of Televangelist Nutrient Paste: that's enough food for one and one-half billion TurtleShroomers to meet all nutrient needs, and given your population, your servant thinks this will spare you for a few years."

"Due to rationing, we can't deliver the entire thing immediately, which is where you come in. While we normally have the gas to fly the whole thing out at once, rationing means we need to measure oil to the ounce of cargo. The Holy Compassion Board believes that we can deliver the full two years by Christmas Eve, amd give you enough of a Paste buffer to subsist exclusively on for seven straight days at any point until Christmastime, should flights be delayed. That's what we can do if we are the only ones making flights. If you want to speed it up, we will need your freight planes to come to us- we will continue to ship it to you regardless -and if that happens, we can probably make the shipment together by mid-November, God willing."

"Due to our inability to deliver much of a buffer, and because this war could cause us to have to eat our stock- GOD FORBID -your servant advises you not to eat the Paste before Christmastime unless you MUST, even if we can get it all in there together in November."

Letting out a long sigh, Tsar Outtacountry laid his neck down on the seat and curled it to face the windshield of the vehicle.

"While you contemplate this offer, Mistress, please forgive your servant for what he is about... to do. Please, please forgive your servant and allow your servant to rest, as he hasn't slept in the past nine days. Your servant is a turtle and so only needs four hours to sleep, but I- I mean.... your servant means... servant... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...."

He should have slept on the flight to Secaria, but his mind and schedule were too busy and too stressed.

Tsar Outtacountry's head retreated instinctively and folded onto the flesh within his shell, the lights from outside the vehicle sometimes reflecting on the surface of his crown. The Nuclear Football guardsman closed the cup of Televangelist Nutrient Paste and tightened the heated blanket around his emperor.


* = Tsar Outtacountry was adopted as a hatchling by a human.

[Seceria]

"Zzzz..."

Freja looked down at the suddenly sleeping chelonian Tsar, and then at the Keeper of the Nuclear Football accompanying him, who could only look vaguely apologetic, with an eyebrow raised.

Long experience, and being fairly familiar with Turtleshroomers specifically given her position, had been about the only thing letting her keep a straight face and a lid on her faintly stunned incredulity as a head of state addressed her as Mistress and himself as her humble servant.

"May I have that cup? A sample would be helpful to... let my colleagues know what you are offering us."

The Guardsman nodded without speaking, then handed it over, and she turned the cup over some times in her hands in contemplation before it disappeared swiftly into one of her coat's pockets.

She leaned back in her seat, disregarding the snoring turtle and the Chancellery Guardsmen with him, as she started to think.

The offer of what she could only call... slop buckets... was admittedly one they should have been expecting, though it was unclear to her why exactly the Tsar himself had come all this way in a time of crisis to deliver such a message, when the ambassador could have passed the message just as well. She was for a brief instant morbidly curious about what it was actually like to eat, then repressed the urge.

She still remained unsure how exactly the Turtleshroomers planned to actually ship sufficient quantities of the... foodstuffs was a generous term, she felt, given it looked more than anything like wallpaper paste. Even putting aside the Tsar's pitch, which seemed more than anything aimed to get them to refuse to accept the, hm, generous aid, the offer didn't seem to be any more serious than a token gesture. One that was perhaps made in all sincerity, but an impractical gesture to put into practice nonetheless, and therefore something she felt it hard to take seriously.

As of this moment, Turtleshroom lacked any functional sea port, and an airlift of such proportions, across such distances, would be one of the greatest logistical feats in Valkian history. She lacked hard numbers to reference off-hand, but certainly she suspected the Air Force's own Transport Command on its best day would have at least an order of magnitude too little lift to even think about such an operation.

And that was saying nothing of the fact that Turtleshroom, to all outside appearances, was under blockade. Certainly she could not see any other interpretation to fit the fact that all their ports had been disabled, and their rail lines to the outside world cut, in a terrifyingly coordinated operation. In the privacy of her head she had indeed been a bit surprised that the plane carrying the Tsar had not been intercepted on its way out of the South Lands, and suspected that free passage would not be afforded to cargo aircraft carrying goods out, given the overall situation.

In so many words, she would believe that the South Landers could deliver the promised aid when they actually did so, and continue working towards other solutions to the problem in the meantime.

The drive was not terribly long, and the building looked much like many of the others surrounding it, save for the fact that it was separated from neighboring ones by a wall and the gate posts were guarded by men of the Third Regiment, Life Guards. This was the official state guest residence, maintained for this explicit purpose of housing dignitaries in situations like this. The convoy that had escorted them stayed in the street as the main diplomatic vehicle moved towards the primary gate, and they were swiftly ushered in through the opened barriers by guards that had been notified of their arrival well beforehand.

The driver parked quickly in the yard, and then turned off the engine, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as attending men of the Third stepped forward.

She stepped out of the car as a Guardsman opened the door and then stood aside as the Tsar was carted quickly into the building, still wrapped in a blanket to keep him warm against the chill of the night. This was a relatively temperate evening for the area and time of year, but she hardly envied a cold-blooded creature in such an environment, far from the comforts of his native South Lands. The stump of her leg was starting to feel stiff and aching, and it was starting to be time to get inside.

The Tsar had been appropriately received, heard out, and accommodated - as far as she was concerned her part in this was over for now, save for writing up the summary report of their offer of aid. Further negotiations on the precise details could be conducted with another appropriate official - she made a mental note to dig up some junior employee of the Foreign Office to engage with the Turtleshroomers on how they planned to actually conduct this operation. Should the Tsar wish to continue diplomatic relations in person, she would also have to find someone of appropriate stature to accommodate them. Likely the High Chancellor, once he was away from his break.

For her part, Freja pulled out her phone from an inside pocket, dialling the number of her driver - "Yes, we're leaving..."

---

Gagging noises echoed through the office as the luckless intern took the first bite of the paste - Freja had found him about to clock out just as she returned to the building, and promptly ordered him along to the nearest free conference room for a "taste test" of the cup of "nutrient paste" she had brought along.

Shivering as he swallowed the first spoonful, the poor lad turned despairing eyes to meet hers, and she could practically see his soul leaving his body as she nodded towards the cup: keep eating.

He visibly had to steel himself for the next bite, and was gagging as he forced himself to swallow the next few bites - then he turned to her, ears folded back in distress as he spoke:

"Ma'am, this is horrendous. The texture is like that of wet cardboard and it tastes of nothing but salt. I would hesitate to feed this to pigs, or North Landers, and frankly I am stunned even South Landers would eat this... Urp."

The intern retched - truthfully, Freja hadn't even caught his name, this department being far too big for her to keep track of every intern, but she'd find out and assure that he received a more permanent position, if only for what she had just forced him through - and then dove for the glass of water resting on the table, faintly green in the face as he practically poured it down his throat, trying to wash the taste away.

Well, that had been an informative test indeed. It was every bit as bad as described, if not worse, and she suspected that if they were to ask the people to eat that paste for any amount of time, they'd have worse problems on their hands than asking them to tighten their belts under rationing would cause.

"You are excused - and take tomorrow off, you've earned it," she nodded at the intern, and then stood, leaning on her cane as she limped out of the conference room and towards the nearest elevator to return to her office. Work never ceased, in this trying time, and she had no doubt another flood of messages and reports to work through that had accumulated since she'd left. She was already mentally composing the circular for the other departments regarding the Turtleshroomer offer, and her evaluation of both the scheme's viability and the paste's suitability for consumption.

One hand dug into her coat's pocket and emerged with a small plastic bottle, and she unceremoniously shook out a pair of pills into her hand before swallowing them dry - her stump was starting to get a bit too bothersome: there had been far too much walking today.

[Barboneia]

One Hundred Kilometers East of Kent
Terra Nullius

Among the seemingly endless traffic that flowed on one of the Terra Nullius highways between Barboneia and Seceria, two vehicles stood out as they sped along the route. They were jet black Ältai Auslanders with tinted windows, following closely to each other. Crossing over to the right-most lane, they indicated onto the shoulder, before finally pulling off onto an old maintenance route mainly used for tractor-trailers with engine problems as a stopping point. Evidence of this was present as hot rubber flattened a few scattered chip packages and soda cans, before the lead SUV came to a halt, the second one just behind it. Four men in black suits and sunglasses stepped out of the lead SUV, while two emerged from the front seats of the rear one, before moving to open the doors for the rear passengers.

Two men stepped out. One was young, lean, ginger-haired, a thick pair of browline glasses hiding nervous eyes that darted back and forth. He wore a thick winter coat that seemed to do little to protect him from the howling winds of the barren tundra around them, and clutched a small binder with his gloved hands to his chest. The other man was a head taller than the other, middle-aged, blonde-haired with traces of gray along his sideburns. He wore a suit much like the others, though instead of a red tie like the others he wore one of burgundy. Unlike his younger companion, he seemed unbothered by the wind, a confident smirk on his face as he turned his head upwards to look at the gray skies that seemed to threaten to drop snow on their heads at any moment.

"Seems as good a place for a pipeline as any other, doesn't it?"

Lari approached Heikki, flipping through his binder to pull out a relatively localized topographical map of the surrounding land and the highway. How did it come to this? he thought. First the meeting, now I'm being dragged into this wasteland for... Why, exactly? I guess I've somehow impressed Mr. Heikkinen.

Great.

"Uh, er, yeah. I agree, sir. I think that, uh... These winds will be troublesome a bit but I'm sure the workers know more about bundling up than I do..." He gulped, turning to look at the highway and the vehicles of Barboneian, Secerian, Hiluxian, Darussalami, and even a few of Commonwealth, make. "And the visibility will, uh, mean that if... You know..."

Heikki turned to look at Lari, grinning a bit. "Marauders?" Lari nodded quickly, turning to look at his feet. "The private security companies under Brunswick Heikkinen are some of the finest on the continent, Lari. They'll give their lives for the construction of NorthTrans Two if they need to. And I'm sure the Secerians will assist us if need be." His grin widened slightly, though Lari didn't seem to notice.

"It's for the good of both Barboneia and Seceria, Lari. I wouldn't worry so much."

---

Crnavoda
Central Barboneia

Ivar Kuusela stood on the porch of his Rintamamiestalo, a cell phone set to his ear as he watched, just down the road, a black SUV roll up the driveway of the similarly built house of his neighbors, the Pedersens. He found it hard to pay attention to the words he was supposed to be listening to as two suited men exited the vehicle and quickly walked to the front door to knock on it. That swagger in their step... They acted as though they owned the place, these lands. He had seen it many times before, of course; Barboneians coming to Jezerskilender towns to try and buy property, as his people had been "granted" (the words of the government; this land had always been theirs) large tracts of eastern Central Barboneia to inhabit, but this was clearly something different.

Something he didn't like.

"Olen, can I call you back? Something's come up."

He heard an audible sigh on the other end. "Seriously? Have you even listened to a word I've been saying? If those walruses eat any more of my tomatoes, I'm going to-"

"You'll burn Jorgen's ranch down, yes, I know. Look, I'll talk to him tomorrow, alright? I gotta go."

"But-" He hung up the phone, sliding the device into his pocket as he considered his options. He saw the men greeted by Usko Pedersen’s wife Karen and let inside, and he shook his head. Just as he himself was about to go inside, however, he saw a hatchback speed down the road, past the Pedersen’s place, towards his own, and he quickly ran down his driveway, holding a hand up for them to stop. The compact screeched to a halt, and he saw within Nilse, a dog-eared young man, and Bjart, both friends of his son. They both appeared to be quite nervous.

"Oh, uh, hey, M-Mr. K," the Veranprijatelj mumbled, gulping and moving to turn down the stereo which was blasting some awful electronic bleating. Both he and his passenger had the distinct smell of marijuana on them. "You're not, gonna, like, call the police on us for speeding again, right? 'Cause my paycheck doesn't drop until next Thursday and-"

"I don't care about the weed or you speeding, Nilse," Ivar said, folding his arms. "I wanted to ask you two if you know anything about that black SUV." He nodded his head towards the vehicle far behind them, and Nilse leaned a bit to look in his side mirror back at it down the road.

"Oh, yeah, they came around our house a few hours ago. Came to Bjart's too, I think." Bjart nodded to Nilse’s words.

"What did they want?"

"Well, s'posedly they're gonna be building a pipeline through town. They're trying to buy all the land up and stuff. Offered a good amount of money, too." Nilse whistled a bit, though he stopped when he saw Ivar's expression sour.

"What did your parents say?"

"Uh..." Nilse's ears lowered a bit, and he looked away. "...Well, they said they were going to consider it. The company said they don't need final decisions for a while, so..." He shrugged, looking back at Ivar. "...It's a lot of money, Mr. K. Like. More money than anyone in my family's ever seen, I'd reckon. And my family had been considering moving closer to Nopeasti..."

"You really think your parents would so easily just give up their land?! I helped your father build that lakehouse last summer! And to just... Throw it all away for a government stipend or a payout or... Or..." He huffed, staring down at the two in the car, who looked both confused and worried. Ivar let out a sigh. "...Sorry. It's not your fault, Nilse. Just... I'll talk to your father later." He looked up, and watched as the two suited men left the Pedersen's house and seemingly glanced towards his own. "Alright, get out of here. I'll tell Ed you two said hi." They nodded, and soon the hatchback peeled out as Ivar began to walk back up to the porch.

Before he even stepped fully onto it, however, he could hear the low rumble of the engine and the squeaking of brakes as the black SUV pulled up his driveway and stopped just behind his pickup. He turned to look as the two men exited much like before and began to walk towards him. They stopped a meter or two away, giving him a smile that didn't look entirely sincere. The men were almost identical in appearance, crisp black suits and neatly trimmed haircuts that contrasted well against his own flannel jacket and jeans, as well as the chilly rural moorland that encompassed Crnavoda.

"What do you want?"

One of the men stepped forward, and smiled. "Mr. Kuusela, correct?" Ivar nodded. "We come representing the joint interests of Barboneian Petroleum and the Grestin Oil Union in purchasing land in and around this village for the future development of a pipeline system." Ivar could feel his heart almost stop, and his eyes widened slightly, but he tried his best to maintain his composure. The forward man reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope, presenting it to Ivar.

To Current Crnavoda Resident

Congratulations! The land you currently reside on is located on the route that the Barboneian Petroleum-Grestin Oil Union Northern Transportation Pipeline Two is planned to be built on. In collaboration with the Barboneian Ministry of Energy, and in accordance with Lunastuslaki (1968:214), we are jointly offering a combined purchasing fee comprising your land's market value and a 20% compensation, as will be determined by independently verified insurance and banking estimates within at least one (1) week of your approval. Construction of the pipeline is planned to commence in September of 2024, and you have until the 31st of August of that year to come to a decision.

The value of your land and the sacrifice you will be making in this sale is not lost on us, and on behalf of the Commonwealth of Barboneia, the Brunswick Heikkinen Corporation, and the Republic of Seceria, we would like to thank you for your consideration and your future land transfer.

Signed, 25th of September, 2023,

Heikki Heikkinen, CEO, Brunswick Heikkinen Corporation

Addendum:

Failure to agree to a settlement may result in the complete loss of land under eminent domain, 'particular public interest', as described under Lunastuslaki (1968:214), without compensation by either government organizations or private corporate entities. Damage of personal belongings and/or injury or loss of life resulting from eviction under such an event, as performed by the following groups, will not be held against either: The Commonwealth of Barboneia; The Brunswick Heikkinen Corporation; The Extra Territorial Group.

Ivar read the words closely, his hands shaking slightly. Upon finishing, he balled the letter up tightly and tossed it directly at the front man, who flinched slightly as the paper bounced off of his suit. He chuckled slightly.

“Surely there’s no need for that, Mr. Kuusela. We’re preparing to offer you a large sum of money, much more than what you would make in a year, or even two, from your job at the mill. Enough for you and your boy to find somewhere nicer than this… fine home.”

They really did their research, Ivar admitted to himself. But he wouldn’t allow that to dissuade him.

"Go fuck yourselves."

The suited man nodded, his smiling lips twitching slightly, as he turned to head back to the SUV with his companion. Before he climbed into the passenger seat, he turned to look back at Ivar.

“We’ll be seeing you again soon, Mr. Kuusela.”

Ivar took a deep breath, taking a seat on one of the steps leading up to the porch, before letting out a heavy sigh as he watched the SUV reverse out of his driveway and depart. He looked out at the neighborhood, the winding roads, the simple houses and the few trees that provided shade in the summer and protected from the harsh winds that would blow across the moors come autumn and winter. True, the money offered would be a lot; enough to buy or even build a nicer home somewhere else, maybe in the suburbs of Nopeasti or Vespero, or...

No. He couldn't. This land was that of his fathers, and his father's fathers; they were here long before the Barboneians, and the fact that they were even allowed to keep it, even if it had been reduced to a few semi-autonomous townships in Barboneia's eastern reaches, ensured that a Jezerskilender identity could continue to exist in spite of everything. As long as he drew breath, Ivar Kuusela would keep this land for his people, damned be the government, the corporations, or even those bloody rabbit people.

With newfound conviction, Ivar stood up, and began to head inside in search of his rifle.

---

The Prime Minister's Office
Pääkaupunki, The Great South
Barboneia

Probably unlike a majority of Valkian leaders at the moment, Prime Minister Ernesti Pentinnen had been having a relaxing few weeks or two. He had little concern for the going ons in the South Lands, as most of that which concerned Barboneia was being handled quite well by the Minister of International Affairs, especially that dreadful business in Kiamat. Mostly, he had been taking advantage of the lull in terrible, pending government crises to focus on his plans for his return to the Worker Party's leadership following the results of the 2024 election, whether they remained in control of the government majority or not. He had also learned a bit about the new oil contract through Brunswick Heikkinen with Seceria, though most of that seemed to be in the domain of the Minister Energy.

At present, he was sitting at his desk in his office, taking sips of Darussalami coffee while he enjoyed a pleasant chat with his Administrative Minister, Tapio Murso. Though they were from different parties and different backgrounds, and there was a bit of teeth-clenching at the beginning of their work together, after nearly eight years now they had become good friends, and while he could never utter it publicly, in private he was hopeful that Tapio would become Prime Minister during his own bid for the office.

Their pleasantries were interrupted, however, when the phone on his desk suddenly rang, and Ernesti reached to answer it with a bit of a hum. During this lull in their conversation, Tapio took the time to examine the curious portrait of Ernesti that hung behind the man's desk, made up of dozens of squares of various artistic depictions to form a mosaic of his grinning visage. Tapio always thought it was quite hideous.

"Ah, High Admiral Walker! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"..."

"...Of course, they are quite trying times in the South I've heard, are they not?"

"..."

"Ah, yes. Perhaps I can send Tapio-" Tapio's eyes widened, and he glared at Ernesti, shaking his head profusely. He had had quite his fill of encounters with foreign leaders already. "...I mean, I would be pleased to attend whatever you have planned, High Admiral. When you have the details, let me know, hm?"

With a slight smile, he set the phone down upon the conclusion of the call, and returned to his previous conversation as though nothing had happened.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

Though I'm not a vampire, but I feel like one!
Sometimes I sleep all day, because I hate the sun!
My hands are always shaking, my body's always aching
And the dark is when I feed!

Now [sewage] seems to be my holy water,
Mothers better lock their doors and hide their daughters!

That was always Borislav's favorite song, and still was today. Sure, they had to remove "Hell" from the song, and no media would have a D-word in it, but that sick guitar shredding was always there. The Nekomimi could remember when he first dyed his hair, tail, and even his ears, and this was his jam. Borislav would practically bounce off the walls to its guitar solo.

Rubbing black paint under his eyes to reduce glare complimented the similar, less stinging "paint" around his eyes. While Borislav's kind of fashion was usually associated with the color red, black was more suitable for Borislav's tastes.

Those tastes were killing TurtleShroomers.

Borislav was a foot soldier for the lack Hundred Thousand. His people had been taken by the Necrons, but his mission was unchanged. The Black Hundred Thousand would harass TurtleShroomers for as long as a single chimera drew breath.

Borislav tied his mid-back length hair in a braid and his bandana around his head. He removed some of his accessories, ear piercings, and took off his fingerless gloves. Placing the camoflagued colored cloak over his looted bulletproof vest and pulling up the hood, he snickered to himself as his glance turned to the looted Kalishnikov resting next to him. He placed its sling over his shoulder. A light shower rustled the leaves of the jungle canopy as Borislave picked up his hurricane lantern hanging nearby and draped its tarp over it.

Gun, check. Bullets, check. Foraged fruits, checked.

Now it was time to get down from the tree. Performing a back flip from the canopy, he gripped the branches and made a full rotation around it, falling backwards onto a lower branch without so much as stumbling. Crouching low on his haunches and taking advantage of the wide range his hips could swivel, Borislav's tail flicked back and forth as he lifted his nearsighted glasses to gaze into the jungles with his superior, cat-like, farsighted vision.

His people were cucks. Fricking cucks. TurtleShroomian Nekomimis had bodies closer to cats than any other chimera on either continent, making them as dextrous and flexible as their namesakes. Even Hiluxian chimeras, who were just as fast and as gifted at vision as a TurtleShroomian Nekomimi, couldn't bend, jump, or land like a cat.

As much as his hate consumed him, Borislav was perfectly mentally stable and- oh look, a civilian convoy! He pointed his gun towards the direction of the vehicles. His mind was racing to concentrate as a sinister grin widened across his face.

"Do it. Lock it. Do it. Lock on. Shoot them.

They would know the meaning of "Green Hell". He switched the select fire switch on his weapon from automatic to semi-automatic. There was no need to waste bullets. His black-painted fingernails wrapped around the trigger, and he made the shot.

BANG!!

It was a perfect shot, directly on the driver of the front vehicle. The bullet splattered the blood and brains of that stupid turtle on the windshield, his beady head no longer attached to his neck. Borislav laughed to himself as the caravan stopped and its riders came out with their own shotguns or big game hunting rifles, with a select few having automatic rifles and body armor.

These latter officers were not normally with this kind of caravan. That is because the caravan was a series of off-road Jungle Ranger vehicles. Known as "Junglers" in TurtleShroomian parlance, these agents enforced hunting quotas, drove back the monsters of the deepest uncharted terrors of the woods. Serving both as a Department of Natural Resources and a light patrol- which were not meant to fight rebels -these rangers were survivalists who lived and breathed the woods.

Of course, they were used to parrots in the trees, not cats...

Borislav jumped onto the trunk of the tree and scampered up it as the Junglers took pot shots into the trees. They couldn't see anything up in the tapestry of green that made up the majestic canopy of the jungle. Borislav got away, and he would live another day.

It's a shame blood tasted so disgusting, because glob did the Blood Kitsunes look cool after a fight like this. Man, his clique back in the day would have loved to see him now.

I'm insane!
I can feel it in my bones!
Coursing through my veins, when did I become so cold?
For goodness' sakes, where is my self-control?
If home is where the heart is, then my heart has
LOST
ALL
HOPE!

[The Ctan]

The Black Hundred Thousand were not in fact a hundred thousand strong, but right now they were of unusual interest, they were the largest remaining demographic of TurtleShroomian Neko in the country, there were a few how had not yet been evacuated, for instance some of Bessford Be’s company towns that were segregated had also been selected for evacuation.

It didn’t matter, not as far as the Harvest Fleet was concerned.

There would be no Nekos remaining in TurtleShroom when they were done. Not a single one.

For now however, there was no further obvious action, instead, Nekoland itself was being assessed and prepared for wholescale removal if needed, and the Necrons there remained, but the time would come.

Not one cat would remain.

If the TurtleShroomers had any ideas about a last paroxysm of violence, they need only study the Anti Slaver Campaigns of the Great Civilization to learn that such a move would be visited on them a... hundred fold. Perhaps even a hundred thousand fold.