[TWI ONLY][IC] The Red Hand, Unburied

[Tricklandia]

OOC: This is an IC thread regarding events currently unfolding in The Western Isles, mainly in the nations of Tricklandia, The Tsunterlands and Kravato, and that have been up until now narrated in TWI's News and TWItter thread.

Relevant introductory info:
The Tsunterlands' Trials, a.k.a. the origin of the Red Hand Regiment.

Run-up of events that have happened up until now:
November 29th, 2023: A mentally ill Tsunter citizen commits a mass shooting in a school in Rebeira, Tricklandia. His clearly racial motives, discriminating against Mauricans, are then revealed in his manifesto, in which he also cites a possible resurgence of the Red Hand Regiment. Fears rise among the populace.
December 3rd, 2023: The Tsunterlands respond by condemning the shooter, but dismisses the RHR resurgence as false, citing the shooter's mental insanity as proof. Tsunter opinion is mixed, as well as Tricklandian opinion.
December 7th, 2023: The tragedy repeats in Kaplo, Kravato, this time at the hands of a perfectly lucid man.
December 9th, 2023: The Rebeira shooter is caught in Solaryia.
December 10th, 2023: The Tsunterlands promise Kravato and Tricklandia cooperation in fight against "militant maurophobia". Security in Tricklandia is increased.
December 12th, 2023: The Kaplo shooter's manifesto leaves no doubts: there is an ongoing resurgence of the RHR. Some Tricklandians get a little offended by it.
December 13th, 2023: Tricklandia's government decide to work with the Tsunterlands. Some vigilante justice is also seen.
December 14th, 2023: "Abāham", a Tsunter whistleblower, officially spills the beans. The problem is systemic. The Red Hand Regiment is alive and well, spreading through online radicalization and chatrooms. The Tsunter secret services knew about the potential danger to Kaplo, and did not alert Kravatoan authorities. And, in addition, it is revealed that the RHR is working deep in the recesses of Tricklandia's high society, with an associate infiltrated into the Chamber giving out cover-ups for members of the organization.
December 19th, 2023: The Tricklandian government commits a purge in its own ranks, arresting four connivent members of the RHR, including the associate and the politician associated with her. Trust in the government, though, will keep dwindling.

From now on, the RP will continue in this thread, through IC exchanges.

[The Tsunterlands]

[Kravato]

SUNKENISLANDS.COM: RECOVERED CHATLOGS

FORUM=TURNTHELAKECRIMSON
CHANNEL=RealBoysRealShit

(AN=AdministratorNote)
AN: Most guys here were on VPN (We can see who's on them) or network blockers, but I'd assume by what times their accounts go online are probably in Argus and some in far Eterna. It's your guys's job, but from that I'd take Tricklandia, Tsunterlands, possibly Kravatoan users mostly.

15/11/23 9:42 PM (EMST)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=LDR.Exxy

Down to do some real shit today boys...Got some spray paint, might fuck up this moldy grocery near my street, we down?
(U=TeamTeamWins) (U=Fall_In33)
U=Fall_In33 (Replying to U=LDR.Exxy)

EllDee Based as Usual
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=LDR.Exxy

I'll take that as a yes! Going ahead with it. I'll send you boys photos when I'm done.
(2) (U=TrickTheTitan, U=Fall_In33)[/hr]
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=Flacc121

You guys gonna let EllDee have all the fun? I bet you guys want to get out there too.
(U=TrickTheTitan)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=TrickTheTitan

Haven't seen that username before. Do we have a new guy for the cause @(U=Flacc121)
(U=TeamTeamWins)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
User=Flacc121

I've been with the cause for longer than you guys prob. Seriously though, you guys trying to get out there? I know some guys who'd be willing to pay up a little if you do. Trust me, I have cash.

IMG=(IMG_LOST)

AN: There was a photo attached. It was deleted, but contextually it was probably just a ton of money.

U=TeamTeamWins (Replying to U=Flacc121)

I could take some of that off your hands...I take ur an old guy, huh? Shooting mold in the jungles type of shit, then living in the luxury you
deserve? Based.

U=Flacc121(Replying to U=TeamTeamWins)

That I am. Ive been lurking here for a while, just want to give some of you bums an incentive to get out there. First person to fuck up
some Maurican's shit and send me photos gets 18,000 PS.
(U=TeamTeamWins) (2)(U=TrickTheTitan, U=Fall_In33)

U=Fall_In33 (Replying to U=Flacc121)
So based. Now I actually feel like fuckin up some mold. @(U=Flacc121) is a W if he actually sends out the money. Should I just dm
photos and my bank acc or something? Idk, never been a paid revolutionary
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

10:05 (EMST)

[Kravato]

SUNKENISLANDS.COM: RECOVERED CHATLOGS

FORUM=TURNTHELAKECRIMSON
CHANNEL=RealBoysRealShit

(U=User)
(AN=AdministratorNote)
AN: None

25/11/23 6:21 PM (EMST)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=TeamTeamWins

@(U=Flacc121) I sent u the vid, can I get my money? Gotta pay the bills tmr

U=Flacc121 (Replying to U=TeamTeamWins)

Yeah sorry been busy as of late. Liked the stuff tho
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=AngelDark1989

What did TT do @(U=Flacc121)?

U=Flacc121 (Replying to U=AngelDark1989)

He just fucked up that moldy trials "Historian" bitch Gonsalves's car.... There's a reason he's my favorite
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=TrickTheTitan

@(User=Flacc121) I thought I was your favorite If I fuck up some more mold, would I be?

U=Flacc121 (Replying to U=TrickTheTitan) Maybe, matters what you do. If anything, you guys are all my favorites. New energy in the regiment, thats fs

U=Fall_In33 (Replying to U=TrickTheTitan) Oh Flacc of the Forums, There's this fucking Maurican running for office for my fucking district. What should I do to stop him? I worship your wisdom

U=Flacc121 (Replying to U=Fall_In33) Anything to stop it. Ur near Gothray, right? Long Hook's Maurican shithole. But, outside I'd say there's plenty of us. I'm sure u could get some buds, maybe pull up to his casa, and send him back to Rochelle? yk what, if you take a vid of it I'll giv u 2500 PS. Sounds good?

U=Fall_In33 (Replying to U=Flacc121) Yes king This is y we worship u

U=AngelDark1989 (Replying to U=Flacc121) In Long Hook?

TF? Get his ass out of there @(U=Fall_In33)!!!
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
U=AngelDark1989

Anyways boys, I had this wierd ass dream recently. I like saw shrike and shit.

U=TrickTheTitan (Replying to U=AngelDark1989

Maybe u r the chosen one

U=AngelDark1989 (Replying to U=TrickTheTitan)

Perhaps. Anyways, I might be gone for a while, got some important shit to do. Luv u guys.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
6:39 (EMST)

[Kravato]

SUNKENISLANDS.COM: RECOVERED CHATLOGS

FORUM=TURNTHELAKECRIMSON
CHANNEL=RealBoysRealShit

(U=User)
(AN=AdministratorNote)
AN: None

29/11/23 10:33 PM (EMST)
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

U=TrickTheTitan

Did you guys hear what happened in Rebeira today? Based W

U=BearGuy21 (Replying to U=TrickTheTitan)

i think it mightve been AngelDark tbh. Did u read that daddy's manifesto?

U=TrickTheTitan (Replying to U=BearGuy21)

Nah sry was too busy edging to the news lmfao

U=BearGuy21 (Replying to TrickTheTitan)

It said that daddy r was visited by daddy Shrike in his dreams

U=LDR.Exxy (Replying to BearGuy21)

Sounds like our boy, Angel hasn't been on since Saturday.

U=TrickTheTitan (Replying to U=BearGuy21)

If it is, I'm proud of our boy. Raised him well
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

U=Flacc121

Hope it was him. Hey guys, trying to get on the news as a hero like he did?

U=LDR.Exxy (Replying to U=Flacc121)

Yeah, just don't want the entirety of Tricklandia chasing after me.

U=Flacc121 (Replying to LDR.Exxy)

Don't worry about that, if all goes well my contacts will get him out of there
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

U=TrickTheTitan

@(U=Flacc121) I knew you were someone important. What do you have in mind?

U=Flacc121 (Replying to TrickTheTitan)

Well, I've been testing you boys out for a while with the little dubs, that I'm sure you boys have been doing long before I got here and before this forum was up. I've been talking to boys like you on all sorts of forums. Think of me like a coach at tryouts. These past few weeks I've been trying to organize all these circles of boys for the cause. The goal is one single net for all boys for the cause, for when shit gets real.
(U=TrickTheTitan) (U=LDR.Exxy)

U=LDR.Exxy (Replying to TrickTheTitan)

What do you mean for when it gets real? Something bigger planned?

U=Flacc121 (Replying to LDR.Exxy)

A whole lot of shit will happen in the coming weeks. I just need to know which of you boys I can count on to be on standby for when I'll need you. Be proud, you boys are my top dogs. The shit you'll do to mold makes me proud. I'll dm all of you links to new forums in case this one might go down. I'll need all of you.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
10:54 PM

[Tricklandia]

[OOC] BEFORE READING: This news post is canon: viewtopic.php?p=41204855#p41204855

December 21st, 2023, 03.54am
Outskirts of National Maximum Security Facility, Northern Miro, Tricklandia

Mariuu had never really felt included.

For a society that really prided itself in being all-inclusive and giving everyone their share of happiness, he felt like his had been taken away from him all his life. In his measly twenty-something years of life, there was always a reason to tell him "yes, we love you, but". Yes, we love you, but we don't like you being so angry all the time. Yes, we love you, but you should really learn Dutch, so you can speak with auntie Johanna and the people on 26th Street. Yes, we love you, but your opinions have gotten a little "controversial" as of late. Yes, we love you, but do you really have to be so antisocial? Come on, spend some time outside, staying at home all day looking at the laptop will just turn you into a factory robot.

Mariuu could just see the veil of pretense lift up at the slightest peering thought. Tricklandians love to love and they love all... Do they, really? Or do they just "love to love" the people that agree with them, that validate them, the "in-group", per say, and pretend to love the "out-group" because not doing so could mean becoming part of it, and receiving the same stiff, untruthful displays of acceptance?

He remembered his first contact with the Internet. He did not found a family in real life, but instead found it online. There were people, all around the Isles, who validated him and his ideas, who felt like family, who REALLY loved him. Somehow, bare words on a screen felt truer than actual spoken sentences from his so-called "mom", "dad", and all.

On the Internet, he wasn't Mariuu, the unloved. He was TrickTheTitan, and part of a family, spanning entire continents instead of just eight shitty fake islands in the middle of bumfuck Eterna.

Tricklandians really loved the world as long as it was the filtered local version of it. Doman cuisine from a thrice-removed half-Kaskalman woman who had no idea of how to even say "Good morning" in Doman. An authentic tuktuk ride Wangano style on the sterile roads of Logasim, maximum thirty kilometers an hour and away from the center because God forbid you spit out a drop of CO2 too much. Kravatoan songs sung in English on the domestic TV screen, watching Islevision and throwing glances at the Tsunter cousin to make sure they don't vote for Annellis and her Togas. Not racist, huh.

Fuck, Mariuu thought. If it were for him, he'd have moved far far away from the Eterna a good while ago. But he had zero motivation, a secondary school diploma he could do jack shit with, and he was unable to get off basic income. Basic income only from Tricklandians to Tricklandians residing in Tricklandia. He had to settle for a crummy one room apartment and escapism.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes, TrickTheTitan. A pretty on-the-nose name to have been chosen, the "Trick" and all. Felt right. He had been scouring the Internet since he was a little child, reaching out, and learning. Despite what the people around him had always made him feel about his wits, he knew he was very intelligent. Able to really think out of the box. An actual free thinker.

TrickTheTitan wasn't afraid of dark humor, nor of controversial opinions, conflict, going against the current. TrickTheTitan had studied enough history to know Tricklandia as what it really was, a guilt trip of a state conditioned to believe that by getting along they would not repeat history. Denying the undeniable. There IS a difference between cultures. There IS a difference between races. There IS a reason behind all those wars in the Eterna, and on the Mesder, in Argus, everywhere. The A'ana have drunk a sickly sweet poison served by imperialist MOLD... Mauricans, erasing their memories with a promise of an illusion. They were neck deep in it. TrickTheTitan was out of it.

Mariuu's family did not like that TrickTheTitan was out of it. They shunned him as soon as they found out about his existence, and with him, they got rid of unwanted Mariuu too. Two birds with one stone.

Pretty ironic that he was about to hit two birds with one stone too. In one single plan: get back at the Mauricans, and get enough money to go the hell away from the small dirty basement in fake-smiley-land he was held in every day.

See, TrickTheTitan had known a pretty important person in his family. One that had contacts and...

"You AFK or what? Hello?" Exxy replied to TrickTheTitan. He stopped his motivational train of thought and got back to what he was doing. The plan.

To recap: he was with LDR.Exxy, from Tuxernobli, BearGuy12, the gay incel living in Baumestown, and TeamTeamWins, the other guy from Nyberg. Brothers in arms. Exxy and Bear had been on the plane; they had met for the first time (what a moment!) in Logasim and they had taken the trains; they had also been on the van from Kwaarii to the coast, and on the boat. They had a picture connected to a name, which was connected to very shady people. Corsairos. At least allegedly.
Flacc121's instructions were vague enough to look innocent, but crystal clear. TrickTheTitan wondered about Flacc's true identity. All that money... all those contacts... all that Tsunter-ness... he could definitely have been... you know...

He was interrupted by a punch in the gut. "Wake the fuck up. We don't have much time, it has to be done before four thirty." Bear said, fist in hand.

And so, the four ventured onto the lone street to the entrance of the prison. At the gate, two soldiers armed with assault rifles stood in front.

"Good evening sir. We are here for a visit.", TrickTheTitan said.
"At this time of the night? Why would anyone visit now?" the soldier to the left answered.
TrickTheTitan matched the face with the picture in his head. They were all clear.
"I work night shift, and he does too, so he is used to a different schedule." he then replied.
"Well, I'll have to inform you that in here everyone wakes up at eight sharp and goes to bed at midnight. So, your friend is surely asleep right now. You may come back tomorrow morning and ask for a permit" the guard retorted.

Time to shoot your shot, TrickTheTitan.

"No need to. Just tell him that his mom has just won 20,000 credits at yesterday's lottery and we'll come back soon to celebrate together."
"Well, I am happy for you all." The four forum members saw a slight glint in the soldier's pupil. "We could arrange some music to celebrate. What do you all listen to?"
"Kind of everything, but mainly Reggae and Hard Rock."
The guard smirked. "Alright, come inside. I'll get you your permit as soon as possible. Let's get to it."

Flacc121 was the real deal, after all.

[Tricklandia]

December 21st, 2023, 09.59pm
Stiemrik, New Hipvil District, Tricklandia

"So then, I told her, 'You do realize I like men, right?', and she was all confused. Maybe if she, like, stopped fuckin' jumping on me for a second and listened to me she might've got the signs."
Laughs erupted from the small group of people still left in the apartment.
"Fuckin' women, I swear, people. Am I really that beautiful to 'em?"
"We, like, gotta get you hooked up to a modeling agency or something. I can already see it. 'Torito Laranai, Sex Symbol Of The Year.'"
"Shuuut uuuup, Nina!"

More laughs. Then quiet. One of those short, slightly awkward silences that sometimes appear spontaneously when a group of people converse, and nobody really knows why they do.

"Anyways, family, I have to go now. Busy day tomorrow."
"Of course it'll be, Pedro. Just know that I wish it wouldn't, for once."
"Thank you, mama. These days it feels like I can barely recognize this place."
Nina, Pedro's half-sister, went for a hug. "I can feel that. But please remember that you're deep into work about the RHR, and when you're deep into it, you can only see that. Look at me, I'm as Maurican as it can get, but I'm still here celebrating with you all. Everyone is. You, me, Andres, Beatriz, Jorge, Tu'eela..."
"Honestly, don't give me that. That feeling of safety is long gone now. The racist fucks are in places you and I do not even imagine. And worse than them, the indifferent. Today it's just a few bastards with guns, but what about tomorrow? A month from now? A year? It's so hard to convince everyone we have a problem. For fuck's sake, even Renée Nicole is looking the other way! It's not like there's no evidence! Fuck... I didn't want to think about work now."
"Hey, just do this. We have some indica left here: take a small joint, leave the car here with us, and go home by train tonight. You could go to the station and catch the S-3 passing at... 22.25 is doable. Either that, or 23.25. Anyway, light it up now, with us, and go for it. Relax a bit. And remember that, while the RHR sadly exists, ninety-nine percent of Tricklandia is one way or another rooting for you."
"Alright, Torito. Seems nice, it'll be probably over once I get to work. My colleague in Greyhelm tells me Alterans are happy for the Resolution against Lesva turning to their favor, they're seeing more and more "aye"s. I'll get in touch with a TT spokesman; the Throngists are an unsavory bunch, but at least they don't call me mold."
"Happy Solstice, have a nice night."
"You too, family. Love you."

---

Meanwhile, just down the street, a beat up van was parked next to the sidewalk. On it, four very familiar people, together with four slightly less familiar ones in the back. Another man was technically with them, although in the form of a voice speaking through a burner phone.

"Heard any noise?" Flacc121 said, from his nice penthouse in the Tsunterlands.
"Yeah, that's why I was alerted. Iron Gear exclamation mark typa shit." Exxy replied.
"On God!" said TrickTheTitan.
Haunt and Harvey in the back muttered something about the new generation.
"Stick with the plan. I only want the great bears to tranquilize the monkey. They're the professional animals here. The bear cubs will move west at dawn, and do nothing else." coded Flacc.
"Except for one." TeamTeamWins retorted.
"Nice, I hear a yapping cub here. Then get your food." ended Flacc.

Mariuu briefly pondered the situation he was in in his head. He had been awake for forty hours, was in a stolen van he had driven from Kwaarii to Stiemrik containing three men of his online family he met for the first time the other day, four corrupt politicians that had made the news many times and were subtracted from the only maximum security prison in Tricklandia, and Ennam Erisdany, son of THE Tsul Erisdany, the Tsunter energy baron, was giving him instructions in code. Great Bears, the largest Corsairo gang in the far Eterna. Western Dawn, Erisdany's own guard dogs, watching over the entire operation. And then the RHR and the forums. He felt scared, for sure. But this was the right direction, what he had wanted. Look at the warm atmosphere inside the van. Everyone is working along.

This time, he wasn't interrupted. Bear was the driver and TeamTeamWins had team-team-won the right to chloroform the target. Look at him, trembling while pouring the stuff over a rag. Mariuu tried to pat him on the shoulder, only to receive a slap from him out of instinct. Yeah, not the best moment.

===

Pedro Morais placed the lighter in his jacket pocket and started walking. The weed wouldn't take effect for a few minutes; he just had to wait. The nearest station was a good kilometer and a half from his parents' house; luckily his own was down the street of the nearest Hipvil metro station. Like a good amount of the houses in Hipvil, actually. Three lines in Hipvil proper and four ending there, out of the ten encompassing New Hipvil. What was it with Tricklandia and subway lines? Couldn't they just fix the roads instead of blocking them whenever the potholes accumulated too much, and move people around by bus? Wouldn't that be cheaper?

Pedro wasn't in the best mood about Tricklandia right now. He felt so disappointed, disillusioned even; this rightwing government was not enjoyable by any means. He had always voted left since he could. Wasn't an uninformed choice, too. Now more than ever. He had this unshakable feeling of impending doom running in his head. Only a few more minutes, Pedro. Then the high.

===

"Come on, Erwin, you're not doing anything wrong. It's mold. It's as immoral as tranquilizing cattle."

TeamTeamWins had not fully realized what he had gotten into yet. He had to keep reassuring himself that whatever he was doing, it was for the greater good. He had never hurt a fly before; the most he'd done was participating in some rowdier activism than usual. He had smashed a window of Building C in Nyberg University six months earlier, during the large creative workers' protest against AI art. Burned a Tricklandian flag when everyone rose up to urge the government to condemn Saela Spring. If anything, he was a little zealous, and had controversial opinions. Throngism wasn't all that wrong. Everyone should have the right to have a partner, state-sponsored if society doesn't let them. And mold was the source of many evils and was to be eradicated.

He noticed a shady man, fully dressed in back, face covered. He nodded at him. The man nodded back.

===

Pedro Morais did not even notice the rag coming in front of his face; he was too distracted by the three large men popping out of nowhere and holding him still. He could only let out a brief yelp before being dragged away, onto the sidewalk, and into the back of the van.

===

"It's really starting to smell moldy in here." Carmina complained loudly. "Shame we can't beat the thing up now."
"You'll have time for that, don't worry." Ennam replied from the phone.

[Tricklandia]

December 22nd, 2023, 05.07pm
Navarre, Tricklandia

A Maurican family is reading the news.

"As quatro pessoas associadas ao movimento de retorno, Red Hand Regiment, foram dadas como desaparecidas esta manhã das suas celas no NMSF, na ilha de Miro."
"Por favor, digam-me que isto é um site de notícias populista da treta."
"É a TOIA."
"Está a brincar, porra!"
"Não, infelizmente."
"ESTÁ A BRINCAR, PORRA!"
"What are they saying, Mom?"
"They're talking about... adult stuff, Mateo. Don't worry about it."
"They sound scared, and angry!"
"Don't worry, they're not, Mateo."
"Eles também têm o Pedro Morais, olha!"
"A que é que o mundo está a chegar?"
"Vou chorar agora, PORRA!"
"O que é que o exército está a fazer? Estão aqui apenas para apontar armas às pessoas e sentirem-se fixes?"
"Nesta altura, o exército tem de trabalhar para eles, juro"
"Fanáticos. Monstros. Demónios."
"O exército ou os Tsunters?"
"Os dois, caralho."
"Não generalizes. Nem todos os Tsunters e nem todos os TAL trabalham com os cabrões incel."
"Todos nos chamam bolor, 'mold', mais vale dizer que são todos uns malditos demónios."
"Não és melhor do que eles se fizeres isto."
"Só respondo aos seus actos."
"Acalma-te, pai."
"Não me digas para ter calma, Afonso."
"Mom, what about now?"
"They're just talking about Dad, honey. He's had a bad day."
"Aquela cabra sem espinha da Nicole não está apta para o governo."
"..."
"Pelo menos, podia ter alargado as licenças de porte de arma antes de toda esta merda do RHR."
"O que é que está a tentar dizer com isto?"
"O que estou a tentar dizer é que, com todo o respeito, se eu tivesse uma arma comigo neste momento, podia sair e fazer um buraco na testa do racista mais próximo de quem ouvisse falar."
"LEO!"
"E agora, Amanda? Achas que o T-A-L cumpriria o seu dever de abater os cabeças de Mesder retrógrados como eles merecem?"
"Por que caralho queres isso?"
"Retribuição."
"E mesmo que isso fosse possível, pai, isso só iria alimentar a causa deles. Devemos manter-nos seguros e votar melhor da próxima vez. Talvez os socialistas. Ou mesmo os Throngists, digam o que quiserem, mas eles saberiam certamente como manter os racistas à distância."
"Ou posso simplesmente votar para dar aos "caça-mofo" o que eles merecem, sem rodeios."
"NEM MAIS UMA PALAVRA, LEO! Estou a fechar as notícias."
"Now uncle Leo really sounds angry, Mom..."
"Shh... here, get a kiss. Smooch."
"Why are you reaching for Afonso's baseball bat?"
"Don't worry about it, Mateo. Mom is going to... play baseball, at the park."
"I don't like your face, Mom."
"Nothing to worry about, Mom is fine. Here, ten credits. Go buy yourself an extra large ice cream at Pinguim's. Call your friends."

[Kravato]

The three athletes entered the locker room, drenched in sweat. Colaza was a tiring sport, and they were some of the best, possibly in all the isles. It’d just depend on this next game, against Mardio. Samvel sat on the bench and gulped down some water.

“Fuck, man, LET’S FUCKING GO! MARDIO HERE WE COME! Repeat or what boys?”

Hano was always the energetic type. He brushed back his bleached hair and wiped off his face.

Samvel looked up.

“Well, that’s the spirit. Don’t get too cocky though man, Mardio’s team is looking good.”

Hano chuckled. “Man, Samvel you can’t enjoy shit. Come on man, we’re fuckin World Colaza Finalists. We’ve made it! You know models die for people like us? When we get back home, we’ll be running trains like a station. Cheer up.


Timoteo looked back. He was the veteran of the team. He’d seen five world cups, played for all the big clubs, seen victory and failure. Samvel was pretty sure he had at least three posters of Timo in his bedroom, and was certain he had his rookie year card. He remembered watching with glee when Timoteo brought Kravato all the way in 2019. Samvel’s dream was to be the next Timoteo Dantas. But first, he’d need a definitive spot on the team, and to prove himself this year.

“We can’t be cheery about everything. Our people are getting treated like shit across the isles, and in this sport, our sport, its world cup, no one’s made a point to say anything about it.”

Hano looked over in his “You’re pooping the party” expression. “That’s just some shit in Tricklandia. Some internet incel nerds who think they’re tough. There’s no point in being controversial for that.”

“They kidnapped a man, freed four criminals, and got away with it, as well as got an extra 40 million dollars. If I were in Tricklandia, I’d be breaking shit. Let’s do something during the press conference, or after we take home the trophy. Can we really let this Nicole bitch get away with tossing us to the side?”

Samvel felt a sudden urge to speak. It was a weird, playing alongside your hero. But he wouldn’t get sucked into this, because he knew Hano was a pretend firebrand who needed Timo’s approval. And he knew that all other times things like these happen, it gets deflected right off of the vet and onto the rookie.

“I’m sorry Timo, but fuck that. We’re athletes, nothing more. I’m not going to jeopardize my spot on the team next year to make a point. We don’t say shit to piss off other countries. We’re representing Kravato.”

“Damn, Samvel. Aren’t you from Kaplo? Hell, aren’t you from Baumestown? What, are you just going to ditch out on your people for cash?”

“Not everyone’s Kravatoan All-Star Timotei Dantas. Not everyone has a spot in league play sitting for them when they get home. Not everyone knows they’ll be here next year.”

Timo frowned. “It’s sad to see how low we’ve sank. You’re that scared, huh? None of you subs are fucking scared, like this loser, right?”
The subs stared at him in fear.

“Good. I’m telling the association that if they don’t denounce Nicole, we aren’t showing up next week. There goes their moneymaker final. It’s time we take charge.”

Hano rose up.

“Yeah, because like Samvel said, you have enough trophies. You don’t need more, do you? Hell, this shit is a yearly occurrence to you. Fuck your message, Timo. This team isn’t your personal enterprise. And, I’m not just a Maurican, I’m Kravatoan. And no matter what I’m certain I’ll play next week. I’m not going to toss away our country’s chance at a repeat for this.”

Samvel nodded.

Timo shook his head.

“I’m not showing up. Don’t get your hopes up too much, either. We both know I carried last game, and that we have no shot against Mardio if I’m not there. Who’s going to do it, the scrawny sub over there? I’m telling the association my intents.”

Timo stormed off.

Samvel spoke to the sub. He was scrawny, and not much more than decent-at least for global play-at colaza.

“So, you think you can replace him?”

The sub chuckled. “The one and only Timoteo Dantas? I’ll try my hardest.”

Samvel sat down on the bench and took another long sip. He remembered playing Hennerko Fria Middle School’s team when he was young. It shocked him to hear the news of the shooting as well. He was angry, wanted to do something. But he was lucky to be here, and he wouldn’t throw it all away for that.

[The Tsunterlands]

22nd of December, Ba Barōssa

For nearly a millennium, the Druids of the Old Faith taught that the winter solstice was a day for magic, where only the combined will of a small number of devotees and the agreement of the spirits were needed to reshape the world around them. Tsanāma had never been particularly pious, but a decade of service had shown her that it didn’t take much for a few powerful and the winds of fortune to enact their designs. The coldness of the temple always took Tsanāma by surprise. Hers was a country that tended to warmth even in the depths of winter, yet somehow the Druids of the High Circle of Ba Barōssa never failed to drain the temple’s black marble walls of any echo of heat.

As Tsanāma and the old man entered the gloom of the temple, a silhouette of a woman emerged. Once illuminated, she was revealed to be completely hairless, with her wrinkled skin painted from head to toe in lilac. “Salá, Councillor Shannēhan.” The High Druidess purred at the sight of the old man, even gracing Tsanāma with a glance. “The High Circle is always honoured by such a presence within our humble shrine.” Tsanāma didn’t bother signing the Druidess’s words to the Councillor. He had been in politics long enough to know when inane flattery was coming. He smiled and answered, his gnarled fingers a graceful flurry of gestures. “It is always a pleasure to come here and see the faithful continue the good traditions of our ancestors. The Councillor is most pleased you were able to host their little rendezvous on such a sacred day.” Tsanāma translated.

The Druidess led them through the temple’s central chamber and through a hidden door to a back corridor, where the cold receded and the darkness was replaced with the sterile glow of light bulbs. Here in the pale light, the Druidess looked quite ridiculous, dressed in the garb of the demi-goddess. She took them up a flight of stairs and to another door. “Your colleague awaits inside. I give you my personal guarantee that you will have the utmost privacy inside.” The Druidess assured them. “This is appreciated. Another member of the Council will be joining us. He’s not such a frequent visitor to such institutions, but we’d expect him to be shown all the same grace that we were.” The councillor told her through Tsanāma’s voice.
“Of course, Councillor. All are welcome to the Circle in the pursuit of knowledge amongst friends, regardless of their faith.” She withdrew, leaving them to enter the room.

It was a small dark box, lit by dim purple lights, overlooking the temple’s central chamber, with a screen in place to allow observers to watch the faithful worship unseen and far above them. Four leather armchairs had been placed in an arc around the screen. Only one was currently occupied. Its occupant turned and gave them a tight, pained smile.

“Selviō, Tsanāma.” He gestured for them to take their seats. Councillor Imón Hansom was a large and bulky man, with a bristling black moustache that he carefully maintained to dominate his lower face. He cut quite the contrast next to the withered, white-haired Shannēhan. Total archetypes, Tsanāma thought, the well-groomed Romantic and the weathered Cooperative.

“Councillor Hansom.” Tsanāma greeted him,from both her and Shannēhan as they sat.

“He’s here.” Hansom noted, nodding his face slightly to the screen. Porfirio Gallego, the third attendee to their discreet gathering, was striding through the chamber below them, seemingly jabbering away to the High Druidess, and perhaps disturbing the other faithful in the process. Within moments, he was in the room with them, draping his jacket over the remaining armchair.

“Salá, Selviō. Salá, Imón, I hope you're having a positively insightful day. Tsanāma, good to see you. How’d your eldest do in his exams?” He clapped her on the back as he settled in his chair. “Bloody cold in here, isn’t it? I always underestimate how you Bellarans have such a flair for the gothic and dramatic... and that’s coming from a Catholic!” Shannēhan laughed once Tsanāma relayed him Gallego’s words. Hansom didn’t so much as smile. “So as I understand it, you’ve assembled us here, outside of working hours, to finally admit the truth; the Red Hand Regiment has returned.”

“The actions of two insane loners hardly constitute a return to open warfare, Porfirio,” Hansom opined.

“Many would argue that the Red Hand was never truly killed, merely buried alive beneath our foundations.” Gallego responded back.

“An act you participated in willingly, Porfirio. More than most, you know we could have gone further with arrests and prosecutions. But you...” Hansom indicated to both Shannēhan and Gallego. “You were negligent. Purposefully negligent perhaps. And many would argue you owe your position to that negligence.” Gallego scoffed at that.

“I accepted the only peace deal we were likely to get. And that peace is why your children don’t have to go to school in an armoured bus. So don’t lecture me about the Trials, Imón; you weren’t there.” A cough from Shannēhan interrupted their bickering. Once he had their attention, he weaved his response.

“Regardless of the nature of their return, the Red Hand’s activities have spread beyond the Tsunterlands and have washed up upon the shores of our partners. And now, thanks to some rather troublesome leaks to The Ba Barōssa independent, many believe us to be responsible, either because we were deliberately ignorant or worse because we are complicit.” Tsanāma warned once Shannēhan had finished signing. “The Western Isles is awaiting our response.”

“There was a response. I believe we made a tweet,” Gallego said dryly. Shannēhan and Tsanāma didn’t respond but instead handed the two councillors thin red folders.

“What is this? Who are these names?” Hansom flicked through the two pages of the folder.

“These are one hundred and nine associates of the Red Hand Regiment, given to us by the Centre of National Security. Direction Boní believes that by arresting these individuals, we send a clear message that the Tsunterlands is firmly opposed to the Red Hand.” Tsanāma explained.

“Oh great, now we’re deciding to trust the Centre’s word, are we?” Gallego sighed. “Do they even have enough evidence to convict?” After there was no response, he gave a laugh that transformed into a shout. “So, all we’re doing is sending a meaningless gesture while doing nothing to actually stop the maniacs trying to exterminate my people!” Gallego wasn’t the only one with concerns.

“Why is Halēos Haunt on this list; he hasn’t been of concern for decades?” Hansom’s moustache twitched.

“He’s a Corsairo gun-runner,” Shannēhan answered and Tsanāma translated.

“An ex-Corsairo, and as I understand it, he was an essential informant.”

“He’s a high-profile RHR associate who received an absurdly light sentence. It makes sense.”

“There are other Corsairos here as well,” noted Hansom. “Are we prepared for the backlash from their families? It could get violent, fast.”

“With all due respect, Councillor, it already is violent,” Tsanāma replied, and Hansom didn’t seem to notice it was just her talking that time. Shannēhan gave her an amused smile and signalled for her to continue with their previously discussed plan.
“There is one name that has not been included; Ennám Erisdany.”

Hansom furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “Gaun’s nephew? How is he tangled up in this?”

“There is significant evidence that Ennám has been using his family’s connections to wire money abroad… to Tricklandia and Kravato… to individuals displaying certain radical extremist beliefs. And he has done so recently… following tragic events.” Tsanāma finished as Shannēhan flexed his fingers.

“Jesus Christ.” Gallego whispered. “That certainly seems like a big problem for you, Isom.”

“It’s unacceptable.” Hansom’s moustache seemed ever blacker than normal.

“I agree.” Gallego was grinning.

“No, this is unacceptable.” Handsom laid a large finger against the folder of names. “Have the boy sent abroad, have him join the army at grunt level, or even have him die some tragic traffic accident but you cannot let this become public.”

“And therein lies the problem with this country,” muttered Gallego under his breath.

“Have you forgotten who his father is?” Hansom pointed at the dim purple lights illuminating the room. “That’s his father. And one day, those lights will be Ennám Erisdany. What do you think happens when the whole world learns that every time a Tsunter pays their electricity bill they are helping a rich kid fund international terrorism.” A silence settled in the box, following Hansom’s outburst. Shannēhan’s hands broke the silence.

“We agree. That’s why we are hoping for a more discreet solution to our problem,” Tsanāma relayed. “Councillor Hansom shall relay this horrific information to Councillor Erisdany, who will tell his brother, who in turn will properly… discipline his son and make sure he never goes near a computer or the family finances again. And of course, the boy will be removed from the line of succession within Clan Erisdany.” Hansom considered this and nodded in assent. Gallego was less satisfied.

“Will the boy’s father agree? Tsùl was once a good friend to the RHR. Perhaps he supports his son’s activities?”

“Tsùl was a friend to the RHR when it was profitable to be one. Now we will make sure he is correctly incentivised to be their enemy,” Shannēhan said through Tsanāma’s voice.

“Gaun is up for re-election in two years,” Hansom explained. “I will make it very clear to Tsùl, that unless he cooperates Gaun will not be standing as a member of the Romantic Party.” Gallego nodded.

“I can accept this solution.”

“Very well.” Hansom handed the folder back to Tsanāma. “I have taken the liberty of removing those individuals who it would be too sensitive to have arrested. The rest is acceptable.” Tsanāma noticed he had penned a line through the names of some of the more famous names on the list, some notable businessmen and junior clan captains.

“Well, if he’s removing names, I would like to add two of my own,” Gallego piped up. “Director Boní and whoever she’s got running the Centre’s Counterterrorism Division. Obviously don’t arrest them, but they can’t keep their jobs, not after the recent leaks.” That caused a rare scowl to appear on Shannēhan’s mouth.

“Boní gave us these names as an offering, an indulgence of the Centre’s recent sins,” he signed.

“Well then tell her thank you but that the country’s forgiveness is not so easily bought,” Gallego replied. “Don’t allow her to resign; lets have her fired. There’s going to be a vigil at the Monument to the Massacres in Domnizoa for the victims of Baumestown and Rebeira. There I will announce their dismissal, show them that the government is listening and acting on their concerns.”

Shannēhan reluctantly nodded his assent.

“This is acceptable,” Hansom agreed. Gallego rose from his chair.

“Excellent. Then, gentlemen, I pray you have an auspicious winter solstice. I shall be celebrating a very merry Christmas with my family, away from all this nastiness. I will see you all back in Council over the New Year.” He pulled his jacket around himself. “Oh, and Tsanāma, thanks for coming in over the holiday. Don’t let the old fool take you for granted.” The Maurican strode out of the room, whistling to himself. As Tsanāma helped Shannēhan out of his own armchair, Hansom was busily scribbling something on a pad of paper. He showed it to Shannēhan before he left, making sure to obscure it from Tsanāma’s point of view.

“What was that?” Tsanāma signed to Shannēhan as they left the temple. He gave her a grim look, and she knew he was turning over the decision on whether or not to tell her in his mind. Eventually, he relented and signed back.

“The Whistleblower is going to die.”

[Tricklandia]

December 25th, 2023, 02.25pm
A'ana Plaza, Kwaarii, Tricklandia

The weather was cold to be in Kwaarii, for sure. But Renée Nicole knew she wasn't trembling due to it. Her mouth was finishing the pre-planned speech about religion and Christmas Day, but her brain was somewhere else. Cursing the TDP for being so foolish, cursing the elders for being so full of themselves they did not notice a Tsunter terrorist group infiltrating their ranks. Cursing the terrorist group in on itself, how could barbaric thought of that caliber still exist in 2023? Recognizing the fact that she was taking responsibility for it, while in reality she was a bystander, a public figure there to do what was glorified public relations. Asking the past version of herself exactly why she decided to accept the role as leader of TDP, when it was simply to look relatable and post political memes to get Gen Z voting for the party.

While ending the last sub-section of the script, about celebrating diversity in spirituality, she thought about how tolerant to diversity Tricklandia must have looked now to the rest of the Isles. Harrowing images flashed in her mind. Baumes ratifing agreement after agreement to move away from Tricklandia. Kravatoans in that middle school being told Tricklandians were behind what threatened their classmates. A G4 reunion, Aicarn smirking while telling the other Gaeltic leaders about the four RHR members now living in Reann, Turrena and Ryansan coldly noting "reconsider travelling to Tricklandia", the Roendavari and Biatenian leaders putting their hands in their faces at the thought of her leadership. The Solaryian police holding Nihaman in that temporary cell because they did not trust the TDP to do the correct decision. There went the alliances.

The speech was to be held in front of the largest Christian church of the nation. St. Francis' Cathedral, in... Rebeira. They had to change location because word was forming around an ill-guided Maurican "retributionist" group aiming to bash her head in with a metal pole. Last minute change to Kwaarii, needing an emergency dismissed, polluting private jet, to the dismay of the Greens which piled up environmental concern like the cherry on top of the maurophobic shit cake. Why was everyone always so angry? Why at her? Why did she have to act scapegoat as a job?

Barely holding it in, Renée continued the speech almost robotically, reading word after word from the script in front of her. It ended with "Merry Christmas to Christians and to all that want to celebrate it, and always look upon tomorrow", and then it was question time.

Renée went off the stage and walked into the crowd, not really ready to answer questions. Ideally, they would only be about Christmas, Christianity in Tricklandia, religion, secularism, churches, maybe something about religious fundamentalism to be slightly controversial, get shares and get on with it. Of course, there was a near hundred percent chance they wouldn't just be about that.

"Akí Grázæz, from TEW 1. President Nicole, what is your current opinion on preservation of history and traditions?". TV state media. Very young journalist, no older than twenty, probably an intern. Easy question. For now, she was safe. "Thank you, Akí. Obviously, the preservation of history is paramount to society's survival and well-being; those who forgot history are destined to repeat it. In regards to tradition, I truly believe that cultural heritage shall be preserved, enriches humanity and preserves important familial and unitary bonds. This applies to all heritage from all cultures in an equal way. Tradition that is fundamentally hateful, bigoted, or highly reactionary, though, is better to be left to history instead, and for society to move on from it. Talking about religion, which is what people today are most thinking about, being Christmas, most religious practices belong to cultural heritage, and are precious; of course, it's not needed for me to talk about historical discrimination in the Catholic Church, because we have moved on from that as a society, and many Christian people here could agree with me; we should not forget it, but not put it in practice again." Preachy word salad, briefly spoken about racial equality, great. TEW 1 will surely know how to spin this. Too bad nobody really turns on the TV for TEW 1 nowadays.

Renée noticed heightened security in the plaza. There were a ton of TAL troops stationed around the crowd, and some in plain clothes were definitely discernible. They all had a similar haircut, and dressed in off-color thrift clothing no one would really put in Kwaarii of all places. This time, though, the half-washed greys, blues and red were like an anchor of safety in the middle of colorful dresses, clothing, hair dyes, possibly belonging to really pissed off pro-Maurican activists.

A lot of those half-washed colors turned their head sharply when a small woman held a microphone with Word of Mouth's logo plastered on it annoyingly close to Renée's face. "Mina Sariimai, from double-u, oh, em." Oh no. "President Nicole, there's something that I know all of Tricklandia is raring to know." Please, please don't say it. "Do you think the Red Hand Regiment enjoyed the Christmas gift of 160 million credits sent to them by your government?" Fuck.

FUCK.

Warhorns blared in Renée's mind. Time to fight.
"Thank you, Mina. As we all know, the RHR is an active threat whose action is letting things unthinkable in Tricklandia happen right in front of our eyes. We admit that the ransom payment was an awful but necessary thing to do to get back our esteemed fellow Tricklandian, journalist and family man Pedro Morais. We will keep fighting to purge the RHR and maurophobia from Tricklandia in a definitive way."
"Thank you, Mina. As we all know, the RHR is an active threat whose action is letting things unthinkable in Tricklandia happen right in front of our eyes. Sadly, it has come to our notice that the TAL has had a few shortcomings in the operations associated with the Wintertime Fiasco. Expect increased security, expanded checks and a heightened defense budget in the next weeks to combat maurophobia."
"Thank you, Mina. As we all know, the RHR is an active threat whose action is letting things unthinkable in Tricklandia happen right in front of our eyes. This is unacceptable and something must be done instantly. I declare firearms to be legal to hold for anyone of Maurican descent, for self-defense."
"Thank you, Mina. As we all know, the RHR is an active threat whose action is letting things unthinkable in Tricklandia happen right in front of our eyes. I have come to the conclusion that there is a national emergency in Tricklandia. I am hereby instating martial law, cancelling freedom of the press and banning Word of Mouth from writing anything more elaborate than a grocery list ever again."
"Thank you, Mina. As we all know, mold is an active threat whose action is letting things unthinkable in Tricklandia happen right in front of our eyes. We must purge all mold from the sacred A'ana land of Tara'ikwaa and join the RHR in its valiant effort to eradicate moldy scum in the Isles. Turn the lake crimson."
"Fuck you, Mina. Today is about religion. Security, get this woman away from me."
"I love you, Mina. I don't give a shit about my public image anymore. Let's make out right now, in front of everyone." Then Renée grabbed Mina and they kissed passionately, she resigned, Mina turned in her notice, and they retired to a peaceful little cottage in the Roendavari countryside surrounded by greenery, living off the land and making sweet, sweet love everyday.

"Your silence speaks more than a thousand words, Ms. Nicole." Another journalist next to Mina blared this wretched sentence to the crowd. Renée snapped back from the intrusive thoughts and realized she hadn't said a word in the last thirty seconds. The TAL plain people forcibly removed Mina Sariimai and the other journalist from the spot they were in. People began yelling. Decibels rose. Renée sunk deeper and deeper into despair. There really was no escape to this, huh. Too many errors, too many misunderstandings, too much plausible conspiracy, too much fear, and rage, and it was all directed at her now. The President tried to answer to at least someone, but nothing more than "uhhh"s and "ehhh"s escaped her mouth.

Then reflexes hit. Renée dodged something coming her way. It splattered on the paved plaza floor. The smell hit. It was a rotten egg.

At this point, the TAL officially intervened, and dispersed the people. Screams and fights all around, more things thrown, it was madness. Renée quickly ran towards the nearest armored vehicle which opened its doors for her, and started driving away as fast as it could.

This was nothing but the beginning.

[Tricklandia]

WORD OF MOUTH Tricklandian News
"Neighborhood Watch" Vigilante Squads Rise Up In Response To "Wintertime Fiasco"

December 29, 2023, New Hope

The air all across Tricklandia is extremely tense as the recent events, dubbed "the Wintertime Fiasco", regarding the double failure in stopping the Red Hand Regiment terrorists from smuggling four corrupt politicians abroad, as well as holding pro-Maurican prize winner journalist Pedro Morais captive for ransom, and the subsequent payment of said ransom, has resulted in ongoing unrest among the populace blowing up in a show of violence.

Since December 22nd, there have been growing reports of small- and medium-scale rioting all across the Seven Islands; following Dec 25th, these reports have massively increased, both in quantity and severity. An estimated ✧80 million to ✧120 million, or $20m-$30m, in damage has been registered in total from unrest in the last three days.

Much of this unrest has members of "Neighborhood Watch squads", what they dub themselves, at the helm. Beginning from police-skeptic grassroots community security movements, it has grown through hashtag activism, particularly under the #NeighborhoodWatch and #TheTrialsAreOver tags, into a large-scale decentralized set of locally engaged people ganging up in teams, often following and/or interrogating people and acting in regards to them, sometimes with extreme physical and psychological violence, and with a clear anti-RHR sentiment.

Word of Mouth has had a few exclusive interviews with members of Neighborhood Watch squads. They have disclosed the main motives of their actions: complete lack of trust towards the current government of Tricklandia, led by TDP headspeaker Renée Nicole, and the Tricklandian Arm of the Law, citing beliefs of widespread corruption among both members of the two entities, highlighted and confirmed by recent news. They take inspiration from Tricklandia's past, and some describe the government as a "post-colonial regime" and compare themselves to the various heroes that let the people of the nation move away from the Dutch colonial empire and from Joseph Tricklan.

The Neighborhood Watch squads often resort to violent tactics. They carry makeshift weapons, sometimes illegal ones. They target random people, but often aim for the ones matching a general identikit of a possible Red Hand Regiment member (new or old), such as more politically active and outspoken individuals, particularly in favor of rightwing parties, young males with a known history of loneliness and social withdrawal, older wealthy folks, and people with significant Tsunter ethnicity and/or no Maurican family members.

Their modus operandi includes following, stalking, and investigating on targets' past lives. They then approach the target at some point, and engage in interrogation, asking about online activity, browser history, affiliation to government or police members, personal information about themselves and their close ones. The interrogation often includes threats directed at the target, blackmailing with discovered information about them, and physical displays of readiness to aggression. Once the squad decides on a verdict, the target is either left alone, usually peacefully, or deemed guilty, suffering beatings, public humiliation, and psychological torture at the hands of the Neighborhood Watch members. In one such instance, a 19-year-old student's household in Kwiimala'e, Eendam District, has been kept up at night for three straight days by squads emitting loud noises outside. Yesterday, a 55-year-old man working as a lawyer in Wharika has been sent to the hospital after a squad discovered a racist groupchat on his mobile phone.

Several incidents between Neighborhood Watch squads and the TAL have been noted. Fights have broken out in Poffer, Nyberg and New Hipvil, to cite a few. The government and the TAL, obviously, oppose this movement, and President Nicole has mentioned deep sorrow on the behalf of the government and a plea to cease vigilante violence, with promises of doing more against the RHR and showing proof. This has not stopped the movement by any means.

Word of Mouth advises people currently residing in Tricklandia or planning to travel here in the days ahead to watch out for vigilante squads roaming the streets. Watch out for people following behind, avoid direct conflict if possible, and if that is unavoidable, answer calmly, confidently and with composure, trying to give out as few details as possible; then, call the police as soon as possible.

[The Tsunterlands]

16th of December, Southern Long Hook Peninsula.

The azure expanse of the Bay of Thieves rushed past as the Lancet Eliminator raced along the coastal road. It had been Amōria’s winter solstice gift to Namín, the Belantican-made sports car he’d been dreaming of.

“Want me to slow down?” Namín asked after Amōria gave a yelp as they spun round another corner.

“Never,” she giggled, wind whipping through her hair. After last month, this was exactly what she needed; a getaway to the sunny beaches, glittering resorts, and sparkling waters of the Mesder Riviera. Namín had fretted about the expense, of course; their finances had only just recovered following the spike in the cost of living during the summer. But Amōria assured her husband that after her latest article, their fortunes were about to change. She’d been right; already the National Courier had offered her an advance of 75,000 PS$ to be their new Criminal Affairs Correspondent. She wasn’t going to take it, of course; going to work for Arāfan Calloway would betray every principle she had, but it wouldn’t hurt to use the offer to negotiate a pay rise at the Ba Barōssa Independent.

“Ah, fuck.” Namín muttered. Amōria glanced in the mirror and spotted a Blue and Green Pick-Up Truck trawling down the road behind them, its headlights flashing. Regional Constabulary.

“What could they want?” She asked Namín as he slowed down. Amōria always thought one of the few things the Tsunterlands got right was its lack of speed limits in rural areas.

“Something to do, maybe? You got spare change if they want a handout?”

“We’re not in the Interior, honey.” Amōria rolled her eyes. “You’ve probably just got mud on your license plate.”

“You know we could probably outrun them.” Namín raised his eyebrow.

“You trying to make my job ten times more difficult? Just cooperate, ok.” Reluctantly, Namín turned off the engine as the Constabulary van pulled up behind them. Two officers got out, burly guys, beards that probably weren’t regulation, a smug swagger as they walked. There were two others by the van, more than normal. They both looked younger. “Must be some kind of training exercise,” Amōria whispered as the officers approached. “Can we help you, constable?” She asked the closest officer, who had a myriad of tattoos creeping up his neck.

“We’d like to see some ID please, Anilēa.” Constable Tattoos crooned, addressing Amōria in the diminutive. She frowned at that but said nothing as she and her husband showed their driving licenses. The Constable examined them closely and nodded slowly to his partner, a red-faced man with a beaky broken nose. “You armed, Zahmlēa?” The tattooed officer asked Namín, whose eyes narrowed at the insult.

“No, Constable. Why are we being stopped?” Amōria noticed his partner’s hand was resting on the grip of his sidearm, strapped to his waist, and every instinct two decades of journalism had taught her said something was wrong.

“Get out of the vehicle, now.” The constable demanded, pulling open the door. Amōria glanced around for any witnesses, but there were only seagulls and distant yachts out at sea.

“Constable, could we see some identification first.” That was a mistake. She was wrenched from the seat and sent sprawling along the road. She heard Namín protest, then the sharp crack of polymer hitting bone and her husband screamed in pain. Amōria tried to stand but was met with a boot in the ribs that drove the wind from her lungs. She felt the officer’s weight against her as he forced her arms back and clapped on a pair of handcuffs over her wrists. Her face against the ground she saw her husband being treated similarly.

“To the van! Now!” She was staring down the barrel of a gun held by a man dressed as a constable. She pushed herself to her feet and shakily walked over the green-and-blue vehicle, her husband wobbling besides her, his black hair wet with slick blood. They were roughly pushed in the van. The tattooed man, squeezed inside them pressing his weapon to Namín’s belly. “Come on Houlēm, let’s move!” he shouted at the other two men in the front of the van. As they sped away, she twisted her neck and saw the beak-nosed man back at the Lancet. He retrieved Amōria and Namín’s mobile phones from their vehicle and crushed them beneath his heel, just as before he disappeared from her view.

Amōria’s mind was too shot full of nerves to process it all. She couldn’t even tell how fast time was passing. Besides her, she was dimly aware of her husband’s breathing growing shallow and his eyes beginning to close. She begged the man to get him to a hospital but was answered with a string of expletives. Eventually, the van pulled to a stop at some rocky outcrop by the road where not even the seagulls were there to bear witness. They were dragged from the van. Amōria was forced to her knees while Namín was frogmarched to the edge of the cliff, where he stood at gunpoint, unsteady, his body wavering from side to side as blood trickled down his face. Amōria’s pleading was drowned out by the roar of the wind and the sound of an engine. The Lancet, their Lancet, pulled up besides the van, driven by that heavy-breathing beak-nosed bastard.

The tattooed man crouched besides Amōria and thrust something in front of her face. It took a moment for her to realise what she was looking at. A newspaper, no, it was her newspaper, the Ba Barōssa Independent. She’d even recognised the headline. She’d written it: ‘How the Tsunterlands failed to prevent the re-emergence of ultranationalist terrorism’. “Who is he!” The man screamed.

“Who?” She tried, but she already knew what he wanted.

“Abāham! Your source! Who is he?” Amōria held her tongue and looked away, the instincts of two decades of journalism to protect your source. The man made a signal and Namín was thrust over the cliff edge, the only thing holding him back being the grip of his captor.

“Canā!” Amōria screamed at last. “Chalāmai Canā.” She sobbed. “He works for the ASH, number 2 at Counterterrorism.” The words caught in her throat, but she pushed them out. Namín was pulled back from the cliff’s edge, and she gave a silent grateful prayer of thanks to any spirit that might be listening. They pushed Namín to the ground besides Amōria, his eyes glazed over and his body shaking.

“Keep looking at the water!” That foul voice crooned. She heard the sound of a familiar engine revving behind her and realised she might have only seconds to accept her fate. A silver blur raced past and the Lancet flew off the cliff. The sound of glass shattering and metal rending arose from the rocks below. Amōria’s ears barely even registered another engine barking as the van sped away. There was silence. After an era had passed she looked around. They were alone. Just Namín and her, the wind around them and waves below. Amōria let loose something that neither a cry nor a laugh and collapsed against her husband.

[The Tsunterlands]

26th of December, Ba Barōssa

Chalāmai Canā was a creature of incredibly frustrating habits. Every weekday morning, the lights in his suburban Ba Barōssa bungalow turned on at 6.30 am, but the curtains remained firmly closed. Sometime between 7.30 and 8.30, he emerged and crumbled into his Zontemnon Typhoon, smelling of his breakfast of baked bread and smoked fish prepped by his stay-at-home wife. Canā’s neighbourhood was too damn quiet to risk a gunshot and still guarantee an anonymous exit. He joined the CF-1 highway going into central Ba Barōssa and spent at least 45 minutes surrounded by traffic. Far too many witnesses. Sometime around 10 am, he cruised into the headquarters of the Centre of National Security, which might have been the city’s fourth or fifth most secure building. The only way to get to Canā then was with a battle tank. He left around 4, rejoined the mass of vehicles and witnesses overcrowding the Ba Barōssa’s 18th-century roads, to collect his daughters from their school. Even if you didn’t mind risking some infantile collateral, most employers tended to frown on that sort of thing. Then he would be safely back home, protected by his family and his peaceful neighbourhood. The weekends were worse; it was rare to see any of the Canā family beyond the walls of their residence. Not to mention, Orûm and his colleagues didn’t like to work weekends. Nearly once a week Canā and his wife disappeared on an evening date. He wasn’t one to let things get stale, each week was something different, a new place, a new environment, new risks and challenges. Canā consistently frequented just one other location: the shrine along the seafront, where he and his devout wife went every full moon. That was sacred ground, no violence save that sanctioned by the spirits. This was a very annoying man to have to kill.

Orûm had floated the idea of simply attaching an explosive to Canā’s Typhoon. He had been in the game long enough to know how to acquire one without leaving a trace. The client hadn’t been keen. Loud enough to send a message, quiet enough to limit justifiable response options. Orûm was just old enough to long for the halcyon days of the 1980s where you could knife someone in the street and let either the Red Hand or the Maurican terrorists take the blame. Now if anyone who was anyone died unexpectedly of anything more suspicious than a lightning strike, you could expect at best, a local constabulary murder investigation and at worst, an ASH task force.

In the end, it had been Masūn, the youngest of them, who had come up with a mostly elegant solution: disrupt Canā’s routine. It had been hard to pitch to the client. After all, they didn’t want to alert the target. Orûm had to assure the client that this was an experienced ASH agent who wasn’t the type to be frightened of a few crazy internet radicals, whose most high-profile victims had been unarmed innocents. The tweet went out a few minutes after midnight on the long night of the Winter Solstice, courtesy of an internet crackpot with a following just large enough for their purposes. Orûm was surprised there hadn’t been more of a stir in the media, but most were still focused on the whistleblower’s words rather than his identity. However the Centre of National Security was not in the habit of employing leaks, so, regardless of how dubious the source was, Canā was suspended until an internal investigation could be held.

Now he spent his daytime in the bungalow, fixing up his garden, shouting at the IFAF games (and having more than a few rums), tending to the models of the 17th-century sailing ships he kept in every window, and occasionally interpreting this sequence with a jog around his neighbourhood or a grocery run with his wife. Canā seemed to be enjoying his suspension. Orûm was happy for him; it was good that a man spends his final days at peace.

There were three of them in the white van. Bláyn was at the wheel wearing the overalls and heavy tool belt of a workman along with a mullet wig and a glued-on moustache. Varītev had donned the white hooded robes and holly crown of a druid; he wrinkled his oversized gull-like nose when he was presented with the outfit, but he garbed himself without complaint. It would certainly attract the attention of anyone passing by, but druids weren’t such an uncommon sight this time of year, and the hood had its obvious advantages.

Orûm had dressed in dark attire—black coat and black jeans, a scarf if the wind was up, a cap and sunglasses if the sun was out, which in the Tsunterlands was often a sure thing. He made sure his shirt’s collar was high enough to hide his tattoos. When he was younger and desperate to earn his place among the great Corsairos, he got ink for every soul he claimed. He learned too late that it was stupid. Now there was an alert at every constabulary for 'a large man with many tattoos associated with any recent murders'.
Masūn was the only one not with them in the van. An aging couple a few doors across from the Canā’s had put some rooms up for rent now their children had moved out. Masūn was perched there now, a pair of binoculars fixed on the bungalow. His voice crackled over the radio. “Abe has returned to the nest, Abe has returned to the nest, over.” That would be Canā, pulling into his driveway after taking the daughters to school.

"Are you going to pop it now?" Varītev asked. Orûm shook his head. "Nay, let him get settled. We've got the time." He squinted at his colleague. "You seem nervous?" Orûm observed.

"That business with the journalist and her husband," Varītev grunted. "Too messy."

"An unavoidable loose end." It had been the only way to get the name of their target. The journalist had taken care not to leave any record of her source at either her home or her office. "Pay only the people you're paid to kill, remember."

"You really think she believed we were constables?"

"Read her articles; she wasn't the type to trust authority anyway. Now she's probably petrified of it. Neither she nor her husband are going to be calling the police anytime soon." Orûm chuckled. He didn't mention that the sheafs of envelopes overstuffing the mailbox to her apartment told him that the journalist had decided to extend her holiday and had most likely fled abroad.

"She could have contacted Canā, warned him we were coming."

"It's been over a week. Him and his family haven't disappeared yet. Seems unlikely." Orûm stretched the cramp in his arms. "Besides, even if she has, what's he going to do? He burned his bridge with ASH, probably trusts the constabulary less than she does. His best bet now is to sleep with a gun under the pillow." Varītev grunted by way of response.

Orûm took the radio and a remote control the size of a thumb. "Activating now, over." He pressed the sole button on the remote. Around 200 meters away, a pipe on Canā’s garden wall burst, courtesy of a small and hard-to-see explosive that Orûm had stuck to it the night prior. It was almost poetic; the leak would be killed by a leak.

It took a few minutes for Masūn to crackle over the radio. "There’s water coming up in the garden, over." Thirty seconds later. "Eyes on Abe and the wife in the garden, over." Three minutes later. "Abe is on the phone, over." Another minute later. "He’s off the phone, over."

Orûm tapped Bláyn on the shoulder. "Roll out in thirty-eight minutes." He set on his electronic watch.

Canā, like most well-trained ASH agents, was a digital ghost with minimal presence on the internet. His wife, on the other hand, was an ardent believer in the power of an online customer review. The restaurants, gyms, and cinemas of the Tsunterlands were littered by a trail of her thoughts and opinions on the services they offered. A year ago, she’d very helpfully left a review for a nearby plumbing company that helped install their new bathroom and apparently done a damn good job of it. The company was located a fifty-four-minute drive away from the bungalow. Orûm estimated that arriving any time sooner than forty minutes would be suspicious. That gave them ten minutes to carry out the operation, cover their tracks, and leave before the real plumbers arrived.
Varītev never liked the waiting. He cracked his knuckles, fiddled with his robes, drummed his fingers. Bláyn rolled down the window and lit a cigarette, while the tones of that god-awful Julieta Botelho wafted from the radio. Orûm, meanwhile, was still as stone, gloved hands resting on his thighs, back against the side of the van, eyes closed. His watch buzzed upon his wrist; his eyes flicked open. “Let’s go, Houlēm.”

Varītev went right, going door to door and stuffing mailboxes with pamphlets he picked up from a nearby temple. Orûm went left, to a small back path, shaded by garden fences and lined with wheeled garbage cans. Bláyn and the van trundled off down the road, disappearing around the corner. Someway down the back alley, Orûm stopped by a stumpy little palm tree and freshly painted gate and stuffed in a small earpiece, giving a silent prayer to whatever greater beings existed that no one was watching the Canā’s garden too closely.

“Hi, I’m here about a burst pipe.” Bláyn’s soft voice sounded in Orûm’s ear. He liked using Bláyn for this sort of thing; despite being in his late 30s, he had a fresh face people naturally trusted. Plus, Bláyn loved getting in-character. “In the garden? Sure, no problem.”

From the other side of the gate, Orûm heard three of them enter the garden. Bláyn had adopted the rounded timbre typical of a Ba Barōssa workman. Canā and his wife carried the cadences common in the Southern Tsunterlands. They spoke about the pipe, how they never had any problems before, and then suddenly it just burst like that. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to replace; might take me 20 minutes, maximum.” Two minutes later, a doorbell rang. This time it was Varītev’s voice in Orûm’s ear.

“Blessings upon you, master and mistress. Perhaps you might give a moment of your time to talk about the spirits?”

Orûm heard the latch on the garden gate lift before it swung open. Bláyn awaited on the other side, a self-satisfied grin beneath that fake moustache. Silently creeping through the garden, partly soaked by the burst pipe, Orûm pressed himself against the wall next to the door leading into the bungalow. Bláyn had the advantage of not needing to be stealthy.

“Sorry mate,” he called out to Canā, all buddy-like. “Need to know a few things about your piping system. You mind stepping into the garden?”

“Not at all.” Canā sounded quite glad to leave his wife to finish conversing with the druid at their door. Bláyn re-emerged into the garden, and Canā followed, passing mere inches from Orûm, who crouched behind the door. Canā was a big man, the same size as Orûm and each of his men. He carried himself with the confidence of a cop who knew he was good at his job. Straight-backed, wiry hair pushed back, stubbly beard well-ordered; this was a man who feared few and was feared by many.

Bláyn took him to the burst pipe and started spewing some nonsense about water pressure and pipe casing integrity. He positioned himself to make sure Canā was looking at him with his back turned to the door. By the front door, Varītev continued to talk to the wife about the theological importance of funding the maintenance of nearby shrines. Somewhere in the near distance, Masūn was looking out for the arrival of the real plumbers, due in just a few minutes.

Orûm breathed in and out slowly, three beats for each. One, two, three. One, two, three. His pulse remained steady. One, two, three. One, two, three. His thumb brushed over the garrot wire in his pocket. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Orûm pushed away from the wall and, on the balls of his feet, crept towards the big man. Bláyn was still bluffing away.
“…so even if I change that pipe today, you’re probably going to be calling me out here in a few months when the next segment bursts-”

Orûm swung the garotte around Canā’s neck and twisted hard. Canā reacted with well-trained instincts, throwing his head back to strike at his attacker’s nose (which Orûm narrowly avoided) and kicking at his shins (which Orûm was forced to take with a grunt). With all his strength, Canā thrashed about as the wire cut into his flesh. A stun gun appeared in Bláyn’s palm; he pressed the electrified spikes into Canā, just below his jaw. His body jerked before falling limply onto the wet paving stones of the garden. Dropping to one knee, Orûm didn’t stop twisting his wire until Canā’s neck was a red ruin. Orûm lowered an ear to Canā’s lips. No breathing. Fingers to what was left of his neck. No pulse.

Orûm nodded at Bláyn. He grasped the body by the ankles. Orûm lifted it by the shoulders and prayed the next one would be a vegan. They hauled Canā through the gate and pushed him to a neighbour’s trashcan, pulling a black plastic bag over his frame. The garbage truck came on Thursdays, but chances were, he’d be found before them. Bláyn tossed something small through the air to Orûm. The remains of the pipe explosive. Orûm caught it, nodded again, and walked briskly away down the alley.

In his earpiece, Orûm heard Bláyn saying a succinct goodbye to the wife. Varītev followed a minute later, with a more long-winded, spiritual farewell. Out on the street, his cap pulled down and silver sunglasses on, he spotted Bláyn and the van speeding off down the road. A second vehicle went past in the opposite direction, another white van with the logo on the side depicting a jolly-looking figure holding a plunger and a wrench. Orûm couldn’t help the smile spilling over his face and wondered how long before the screaming started.

[Kravato]

December 28th, Yellow Palace, Tuxernobli Government District, Kravato

Burkas sat in the comfortable head chair at the table. He’d been here before, and loved it just as much. It was quite the manor. This meeting had been delayed far too long. Burkas wanted to meet before Christmas, on the 23rd or even the 24th if he had to. If that wasnt possible, the 26th, or 27th at latest. He wouldn’t want to miss Christmas Eve with his family, but this was important. But those Tsunter fuckers delayed it to the 28th. A whole two weeks after the whistleblower told the world everything. He checked his watch, and just like that, Gallego and Shannehan walked in.

Hmmm, how would I phrase this? I know! What the fuck! What the hell are you letting ASH do? Do you have a brain in those stupid fucking pirate heads? I thought I was pissed off enough with Corsairos in my country, but now you’re exporting terrorists, huh? Think you’re tough? You’re jack shit to us. Just a needy fucking neighbor that can make microchips. We fucking guard you, help you, act like a big brother of a nation, and you do this to us?

Burkas opened his mouth, ready to speak.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I believe we have something quite important to discuss. But first off, is anyone thirsty?”

Ah, manners. How you do you politely tell someone you feel like killing them, right here and now?

Some bullshit, talk of Colaza, and coffee later, and it seemed to Burkas the actual topic was to come up.

“So, I’d like to get to the bottom of something, so to speak. Why did the ASH withhold info on Mailles? I’m really quite confused, because past actions have set a precedent of more, so to say, openness, between our two governments.”

Shannehan’s interpreter and Shannehan exchanged a salvo of signs. His interpreter nodded, and spoke.

“As far as the ASH has let me know, it was more a matter of incorrect priority than purposeful, malevolent, information-keeping.”

Because stopping terrorist attacks in on your allies isn’t really a priority, right?

“Hmm, so I’ve been told. But surely, something, any little signal of potential terrorist-mindset, wouldn’t be too hard to share, no? It could’ve really saved lives, you know.”

The Maurican councilor, Gallego, opened up.

“Of course, we want to save lives. As a Maurican myself, this meant a lot to me. But I think as Shannehan said, he slipped through the ASH’s surveillance.

“I believe the ASH didn’t consider this as a signal.”

What are they, fucking blind? How could they not consider him a threat?

“Interesting. I think, to possibly prevent these shortcomings, our government’s intelligence agencies should cooperate more.”

Shannehan’s interpreter spoke up.

“I believe that’s an overcorrection. There’s no need for cooperation with your agencies, as it would really just cause more troubles and misunderstandings for the future.

Hmm, so Baumestown and Rebeira and the four ministers were misunderstandings? Good to know.

“I’m not so sure, Mr. Shannehan. It would be quite unfortunate if we didn’t. At least to me, it seems like things have gotten past your government often. Like, for example, how Ennam Erisdany, a relative of Guan Erisdany, was a generous donator to these terrorists. It’d be a disaster if the public, or ORCA, learned that the man who orchestrated Baumestown and Rebeira, and possibly the current events in Tricklandia, was related to a member of the Tsunter Executive Council .”

Checkmate, fuckers.

Gallego started talking.

“Well, there’s no need for causing more trouble. I’m sure there could be more cooperation.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. I presume we’ll go over the details now?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll let ASH know to cooperate with the NIS in the future in similar circumstances.”

Shannehan looked over with a discomforted grin. Burkas knew Shannehan wasn’t a big fan of any of this, but his hands were tied. Burkas also knew this was somewhat of an unprecedented move on his part, which would serve to hurt Tsunter-Kravatoan relations. But it was necessary, that was certain.

[The Tsunterlands]

[Tricklandia]

Bomb Threat Called For New Years' National Concert

KWAARII, TRICKLANDIA - Tonight, December 31st, 's New Years' National Concert, to be held in Nuiipo'ai Arena, Kwaarii, has been "temporarily called off" due to "fears of explosive ordnance placed in secret, with plausible terroristic intent".

Reports came in from Tricklandian Eyes on the World (TEW) state media's assigned director, after alleged calls by maintenance workers doing a last-minute check, at 16.06 time. Batches of military grade C4, together with several artisanal bombs, have been found below seats, on the main stage and all around the Arena's entrances and exits. All of them had a hidden countdown device strapped, assumedly set for midnight (time left on a prominent screen was 7 hours, 54 minutes).

Defusal squads have immediately been sent, and "hopes are up for emergency containment and resuming work towards our famed New Year's Eve performance". Should the venue be unsafe by 21.00 time, the concert will be cancelled, and re-runs of past New Year's Eve events will be shown in place of it on TEW 2. President Renée Nicole's end-of-year speech will be regularly aired on TEW 1.

Motives behind this attempt are not yet clear, but they are highly suspected to be connected with the recent events regarding the Red Hand Regiment's resurgence. Usage of military explosives, present in the army's dotation, may hint to "a staged terrorist attack by the RHR, with the sorrowful inclusion of corrupt colleagues of mine, to retaliate against the Neighborhood Watch actions, and cause even more dismay and clamor", according to Kwaarii chief of police Julia Vermelhos, while TEW director Andrea Koopman has instead placed the lens on "a plausible attempt by Kwaariian Neighborhood Watch affiliates looking to further their cause in the most violent way possible".

[Tricklandia]

BEGIN TIME: December 31st, 2023, 11.48pm
END TIME: January 1st, 2024, 12.17am

TAL DEPARTMENT OF FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGY
TAL Archives - The following is a written excerpt describing the TEW 1 broadcast hijacking incident. Emphasis is placed on the person of interest's personal and political discourse, for sake of brevity.

[23:48:00] PRESIDENT NICOLE: [...] Moving onto less pressing topics, 2023 has been a wondrous year for climate-friendly action in Tricklandia. We will always strive for tomorrow, not looking 1 year into the future, not 5, not t-
[23:48:19] The broadcast is interrupted. A technical screen is shown on TEW 1 for 1 minute, 52 seconds, corresponding to the time needed to sever communications with New Hipvil and rewire the broadcast towards a (now disclosed) location in [Poffer D.], approx. 3.5km south-east of [Terenbeek, Eendam D.].
[23:50:11] A black screen is shown for 17 seconds. Muffled noises are heard, together with noise artifacts typical of a household camera.
[23:50:28] Muffled voice in the background: Are we in? As planned.
[23:50:30] A completely black-covered figure, covered in a balaclava, shifts into focus, illuminated by a small lamp above it. It is sitting across the camera, hands clad in black gloves. The figure is now known to be 26-year-old activist Aliisha Mendes.
[23:50:35] Aliisha Mendes starts speaking. Her voice is concealed by auditory filters.
A. MENDES: Hello, Tricklandia! Happy 2024 to all! I am no one but a messenger, spreading word from the oppressed.
[23:50:44] Aliisha Mendes continues speaking.
A. MENDES: First of all, a message to the TAL. For those of you who stick with the RHR crooks and commit crimes against humanity, fuck you, you're pigs. For those of you who do not stick with the crooks, but turn a blind eye against those who do, fuck you, you're pigs too. For all of the police force, at the end of this nice little skit we'll reveal everything about who and where we are, because we, unlike certain VIPs, are not afraid of standing up for ourselves and do not hide behind fake identities. Stay tuned!
Notice: Operators in TAL cybersecurity immediately began attempts at identifying the location and people involved, as well as interrupting the hijack. Mendes' promise was ignored.[i][/i]
A. MENDES: Now, the real message, the one directed at the Tricklandian people we all know and love. Wherever you are, whoever you are, this is directed at you. You should really listen to us, because there's nothing better to do. I can guarantee you that this speech will sound a million times more truthful than Miss Nicole's rehashed little PR stunt, and there's nothing else on TV other than me, state-friendly slop, and last year's concert on Channel 2. Speaking of, nice work with the bombs, team. Shout-out to my friends in Kwaarii, and shout-out to everyone who won't listen... because we'll be coming for you with those same bombs, and that's a promise.
A. MENDES: Have you ever heard about the Lucifer effect? It is a tried and true sociological theory, in which it is proved that human beings are, fundamentally, all evil.
A. MENDES: And after all, why shouldn't we be? A human is nothing but a hairless ape, whose technological evolution is like an hour compared to a century of biology. Simply put, our venomous little brains are built for hunting, gathering and fending off predators.
A. MENDES: In order to be able to do these three things, humans have to be trusting of what they know, and cautious around what they don't know. Caution is instinctually expressed as fear, which channels into anger and prejudice. The human brain wants everything it doesn't know dead, because it is afraid that it'll be the victim instead if it doesn't strike first. And there, bigotry is born.
A. MENDES: Thing is, humans are biologically apes, but we are past that in practice. We've seen how unity and sharing of knowledge has brought us from dying to weather, disease, the sorts, to the restful life we have now. Your beautiful ass is sitting on a man-made object designed by hundreds of people to feel comfortable for you, the temperature in your house is magically around twenty degrees even though it's zero to five outside, there is better food on your plate than what even the most powerful humans of the past could muster, and fresher drinks in your cups. All of this in a lapse of time that may very well be an instant for what the cosmos is concerned about. The power of communing with the diverse instead of killing it.
A. MENDES: Too bad it could have taken us even less, we could feel even better and more calm, and yet, we are here. That is, because, despite what the evolved part of us has brought to society, the ape brain always comes knocking. And it hates. It wants to repress, to oppress, to go to war against others whose only sin, if we could call it as such, is to have some sort of diversity in them. Often in their genes. The ape brain cares not. It sees difference, it sees a threat, wants it dead.
A. MENDES: And that's how we have dark ages. Widespread suffering, even to the aggressors that prive themselves of good things because of their ape brain imposed dogmas. People are executed, information is censored, knowledge is lost, the clock is rolled back and the evolved human gets closer to ape society again. Dying again to weather, disease, et cetera.
A. MENDES: I don't even have to go too deep into history to have an example. Open a middle school Tricklandian history book, and check the 18th and 19th century. What has that brought our nation, other than genocide, tribal idiocy and regression?
A. MENDES: Won't kid you: you definitely know what this is going to be about. It is all around us. So, let's talk Red Hand Regiment. Let's talk Mauricans. Isn't this whole conundrum pretty much what I just described? Ape brains being fearful of diversity and causing suffering. Have you seen what this nation has been going through in just these past few weeks? How many years has it been since a journalist kidnapping and ransoming has happened here? Ten years? How much time ago was the last race-fueled mass shooting on our soil before Rebeira? One hundred years ago? How much has passed since slurs not unlike mold were used by groups of people living in Tricklandia? Two centuries? We are seeing the clock stop going forwards towards evolution and start its backwards flow towards ape society again. It is happening fast. You are witnessing our cruel history come back.
A. MENDES: If intolerance is allowed to spread again, you will soon not be able to partake in human society and will be forced to join the apes yet again. No more household heating. No more supermarkets serving you food and drink. If you're Maurican, this may happen sooner; if you're not, ape society will most likely find a reason to brand you as different, identify you with a slur, and negate those rights to you. In the rare chance it doesn't, you'll still see your quality of life decline in one way or another.
A. MENDES: To prevent this, you must nip the thing in the bud. You must reverse the turn. You must strike now.
A. MENDES: And no, there is no waiting this thing out, friend. The illusion of unbound trust in progress is that, according to it, time only moves forward. As long as it does, yes, problems are ultimately resolved; but if it is moving backwards, the opposite happens. Do you know that generations Z and Alpha are the largest userbase in RHR extremist forums? New generations, if born in ape society, are nothing but more ape-like than their ancestors. It is a slippery slope either way it goes. Our children must be spared from this life, they must learn to distrust their inner primitive brain, and you can only make them do so by acting as soon as possible.
A. MENDES: Now, you may ask. How do you reverse the turn? How do you act now?
[23:59:21] Aliisha Mendes pauses for a moment.
A. MENDES: Sorry to interrupt. Clock here says it's time for countdown! I obviously won't prevent you from celebrating. After all, it's a happy day, today.
A. MENDES: Ten... Nine... Eight... Seven... Six... Five... Four... Three... Two... One... Happy new year! It is now officially twenty, twenty-four. Or ape year one. You decide.
[23:59:53] A. MENDES: Anyway, back to where we were.
A. MENDES: I'll keep it concise. Our primitive ape-brains only understand strength, not words. So, in order to them to get convinced to stop, we must, too, use strength; words would only be wasted. You cannot convince a gorilla to stop beating up the chimpanzees, no matter how much of a great orator you may be. Luckily, we have already set up the Neighborhood Watch; think of them as little pockets of evolved soldiers fighting to contain the outbreak of the gorillas. You know who the NW members in your area are. Contact them. Join the forces. The message is spreading; we'll be many.
A. MENDES: We're focusing on taking down the current government first. No aims for dictatorships or the sorts; those are best left to tribe leaders in ape society. Remember: we have evolved. Hell, it's OK if the TDP gets re-elected again, as long as it's been properly purged instead of throwing out four scapegoats at the end of their careers, who, matter-of-factly, are actually living it up in Gael right now.
A. MENDES: Why does a peaceful, if not indifferent, government need to be thrown down so violently? Because indifference only means that the evil guys get away with what they do without punishment. Renée Nicole and her government is like a think-tank of stuck up humans who believe that by talking they'll stop the gorillas from trampling us. Too bad that the gorillas are deaf and are currently trampling us. Some gorillas have even shaved their hair, infiltrated the think-tank and keep spouting out More Dialogue! while grinning behind their masks as their brethren tramples us without repercussions. I do not need to say this: I bet you've already figured it out, seeing recent news involving them. Well, take that deduction, and channel it into your fists.
A. MENDES: Let me re-iterate, though: in this fight, indifference is as bad as guilt, and sometimes the two are one and the same. If you shut down and not do anything, you're making a choice in favor of racism and intolerance. So you better not be. You also know this, deep down.
A. MENDES: The practical part of this discourse will be left to the local NW squads. Now, one final address before the reveal. This is to all of you who disagree with me.
A. MENDES: I know what you are thinking right now. You are not better than what you think of us. You have called us who dare to think differently all sorts of names, degraded us, made us look like less than human, outsiders. I see no difference between you calling us apes and us calling them mold.
A. MENDES: Hello, friend. I agree with you. You are so fucking right in believing that.
A. MENDES: There is a difference though. You are condemning a specific sector of the population, one that is unlike you, for reasons that involve their nature. I am, instead, condemning everyone and anyone for those reasons. You are an ape. But I am an ape too. The NW is made out of apes. The leftwing is a hundred percent ape, too. Anyone who's ever opposed the TAL is an ape. Mauricans are apes. People that speak a different language than you are apes. Women are all apes, men are all apes, people with different gender identities are also apes. And so on.
A. MENDES: The ape brain is part of the human brain, and it's a matter of choice whether we listen to it first and foremost. Why do you hate Mauricans, or the Dutch, or the Salimanese, or leftwing voters, or women, or men, or whatever else? Really ask yourself that question. What the fuck is wrong with them?
[00:04:24] A. MENDES: I'll give you a little time to think about it.
Aliisha Mendes stops speaking for 31 seconds.
[00:05:00] What have you got from this? Keep those reasons in your head. Now, connect all those reasons to another fact: how are you personally threatened by them? Do you fear losing your job because of them? Being attacked? Feeling unheard? Society going down the drain, and you with it? This is all perfectly normal to fear; it is called self-preservation.
A. MENDES: Those same fears are shared by me too. I am, deep down, just like you. I did all this to quell those fears. You want to see why my reasoning is more effective towards getting rid of them?
A. MENDES: Think of a person you dislike that's not part of them. For example, not Maurican, or someone who votes your same party, or a man. Surely there must be one. Got it? Good. Now, think of why they might be disliking you instead. According to them, there must be something wrong about you, otherwise you would like each other. Got it? Great. Now, imagine the people you hate being eradicated, or reduced to slaves. Be they Mauricans, leftwing voters, women, you got it. Imagine society adapting to this new normal. Now, inequality will always exist, in one way or another. So that means there's another group that needs to be eradicated. Got it? Fantastic.
A. MENDES: Imagine that, at the end of the process, you end up with the dominant people being very similar to that person you dislike. At the end of the day, they share a lot with you, so they might very well be superior. And yet, they hate you. All of a sudden, you join the Mauricans, the leftwingers, the women. You are eradicated, or turned into a slave.
A. MENDES: Even if it isn't them, it will, at some point, be someone you are not identical to. Or do you believe yourself to be the perfect being? Well, then enjoy being alone in this world, because no one is exactly like you. It's still miserable, I can guarantee you.
A. MENDES: The truth is, this was all your instinctual part of your brain talking. The one that bases itself on emotions and immediate thoughts, not logic. What I called the ape-brain all along. The one that is inside all of us and makes us intolerant even though nowadays it's only detrimental to be. If you only use emotions to think and not use logic, then yes, you are acting like an ape, and less than human. You deserve what's coming your way. You know it. But this is only your choice and no one else's, not even genetics', since so many people go around not thinking like apes.
A. MENDES: There is no reason now to not join my side. If there is, please come shout it in public, and prove me wrong. You will convince many people and start a counter-movement. I'll applaud that and maybe even join it. I am not bound to a team, only to the betterment of humanity.
A. MENDES: If the reason is just "you're wrong and I'm right and I know it", too bad, we've wasted time and you think like an ape. Now join a tribe. But be warned: ours will be very strong, and will wash over the other. Come join us and the movement, or die trying to stop it.
[00:09:25] A. MENDES: Now, the moment you've been waiting for, pigs.
Aliisha Mendes takes off her balaclava and shows her face to the camera.
A. MENDES: Hello, I am Aliisha Mendes. I was born on July 4th, 1998, I am a political activist affiliated to the Radical Party Student Movement, and I live on floor 9 of the building at 55th Street, 729, in Wisiniasha district, Poffer. The coordinates of this building, which, by the way, is in the proximity of Terenbeek, Eendam District, will be shown in a sec.
Coordinates [REDACTED][REDACTED] are shown in yellow on the bottom of the screen.
A. MENDES: My collaborators here with me are Mário Cecina, born on October 31st, 2001, living on floor 8 at my same address, Shana Mana'ahii, born January 6th, 2002, floor 3 same address, and Marine Van Houten, born February 28th, 1999, 11th floor, 59th Street, 645, same district same city.
A. MENDES: We will be waiting here for you to arrive. Come arrest us. We do not care. Our message has been spread. You won't be able to hide what you'll do to us forever, so be careful. You might face actual consequences this time.
A. MENDES: What will the people think when politicians affiliated with the RHR go scot-free while young activists get punished?
A. MENDES: Anyway, speech over. We thank you for your cooperation. Now go. Begin the new year. Reverse the turn.
[00:11:01] The screen cuts to leaked graphic images of journalist Pedro Morais after his release, leaked photos of the Rebeira and Baumestown shooting victims, and similar shock imagery from around the world, interspersed with messages of hatred taken from RHR forums, TWeets, and footage from the Trials. The Tricklandian anthem is heard below the images, followed by popular punk rock songs. The words "This is what you should be afraid of" in yellow are super-imposed on the bottom of the screen.
[00:17:29] Feed cuts back to the main TEW broadcast.

[Kravato]

January 6th, 2024

Samvel couldn't lie. He felt like king of the world on that podium. With the anthem playing, the blue-green-white confetti falling down, the flags waving, and all the cheers, Samvel thought for a moment this might've been the peak. But no, he knew he'd go on to win more in the future, like Timo. Timo was there on the podium with them.

They'd managed to convince him not to strike the game or anything, in favor of a more responsible and refined approach: a call to action in the after-game speech.

Hano was beaming from his victory. His eyes, suns at this point, shined far more over Samvel's and Timo's. Timo slid his head slightly at Samvel, in the kind of way they always did to talk while cameras were on them. To the average cameraman, it looked like he was taking a pose, but Samvel knew he had something to say. He hoped Timo wasn't about to declare that he was going to go off the script on the speech. Timo whispered something.

"Fuck, Samvel. Now they'll want us to threepeat next year. I wish we lost more, so they didn't expect us to set records every cup."

Samvel took a breath of affirmation and chuckled a little. He expected something a whole lot worse than a lighthearted joke. That's a good sign, Timo's in a good mood. Samvel prayed that his mood wouldn't change during the speech.

And then, the staff ushered them to the stage. Three microphones sat on the table, the World Colaza Cup's logo all over the backdrop. They sat on the firm, comfortable office chairs and Timo pointed at the first reporter.

"Tiburcio Fontes, Sunrise News Network. Congratulations Mr. Dantas. How do you feel about your fourth podium appearance? Are you going to go for a threepeat next year?"

"Thanks, Tiburcio. I feel great, the national team has been doing very well the past few years. As always, this isn't just me, I've been here the longest, but Hano's got some great shots, and I can't hop like Samvel. If we're given the chance, I don't see why we wouldn't try to be the first threepeats in Cup history. Let's go with, hmmm, Word of Mouth Sports over there."

"Thank you, Mr. Dantas. Mr. Dantas, congrats on your win, do you think your legacy will go down with other Kravatoan players like Moreira, and with other Colaza greats from across the globe?"

"It'd be an honor to be compared to Moreira. Even if I get a threepeat or fourpeat, he's still going to be the best Kravatoan Colaza player of all time in my eyes. I'd call someone else, but I have something that I, the whole team, has been meaning to say."

Samvel inhaled. This was about to happen.

"It only feels just to talk about it here. This sport has its roots with Mauricans. I'm a Maurican, Hano's Maurican, Samvel's Maurican, the whole squad, really. Don't get me wrong, we're Kravatoans first and foremost, but it's still a part of all our identities. And so events like Baumestown and Rebeira, well, they pain me. What pains me most is the lack of care that nations implicated, like the Tsunterlands, and Tricklandia, have given. Kravato has made its mistakes in the past, but those lie in the past."

"If what the whistleblower said was true, which we know was true, then the Tsunters could've stopped Baumestown. But they didn't. They could've let the Tricklandians know about all the RHR racists in their countries. But they didn't, for reasons they haven't even said."

"And, most of all, the Tricklandian government let those terrorists free their comrades and kidnap a Maurican, and couldn't even stop them either. In fact, they gave them more money. God knows what crimes the RHR might organize with all that cash. I'm sure they're not watching this game; they don't care about this sport. But I'm sure fellow Mauricans are."

"To the leaders of the world, this can never happen again. This series of catastrophic embarrassments, and the deaths and fear of so many, are bigger than some small accidents. These are failures."

"To my fellow Mauricans, stay strong. Do not fear, because then they win. Continue to excel, to push boundaries, to change the world, because then they lose."

Samvel lunged at his microphone.

Stares were all on him now. Cameras, glinting in his eyes. The whole world stopped for a moment. This wasn't like any game. He wasn't some player. He was at the center now, of a movement. Why'd he go in to talk? What did he have to say? Could he remember what it was? What was he going to do, turn away from the mic and just sit in silence? Deep breaths.

His mouth opened, like a cannon firing out words. His tongue moved, his lips. What the fuck was he saying? For that moment, he had no clue. He'd just have to pray he didn't regret the words that were going to come out of his mouth.

A calm, expressive voice came out. Samvel didn't even think it sounded like his own.

"I am more than mold."

And like that, Samvel stood up and walked away from the table. Timo and Hano followed him out.

"Solid, Samvel." Timo said. He patted him on the back.

[The Tsunterlands]

1st January, Tuxernobli

For forty-five years, Amōria had spent every new year the exact same way; surrounded by her clan. The traditions of Chae’la Isom were not exactly special, but they were theirs. Each year around 13,000 members of the clan made their way to the ancestral settlement on the Little Hook Peninsular to pay their respects to the elders and the clan captain, discuss all sorts of matters of importance, take part in a few rituals, dance, imbibe far too much rum and, if one were of a certain age, try to work out if a cute-looking boy or girl was too closely related to you.

This year she was spending new year in a grimy airport motel room in Tuxernobli, subsisting on takeaways and vending machines, and opening the door only to let housekeeping in. Each time they let a cleaner in Amōria could not silence the whisper in her head telling her it was an assassin sent to finish the job. The rest of time, she spent either clinging to her husband or huddled by the room window, puffing smoke from cigarette after cigarette. Sleep came sparingly.

It had taken Amōria and Namín five hours of walking after the encounter to reach civilisation. They had avoided roads where possible, keeping to the trees or sun-blasted hills. Theirs was not a large country but much of the Long Hook had been rendered sparsely population as the old industries declined. They made it to the farmhouse of an elderly goatherd who had called them a taxi back to their resort. Didn’t even discuss going to the constabulary, just packed and found the first flight out of the country. They didn’t even have a plan at the point. It was only after they landed in Kravato they discussed next moves. Namín had a cousin who worked in the hotel business in Nhoor. Amōria couldn’t be sure who was behind their kidnapping could not reach as far as Raedlon, but she had no real alternative to propose. Of course, they hadn’t counted on seemingly every single Kravatoan deciding New Year was the prime time to go on holiday. Bloody Christians. No available seats on a flight to Nhoor for until at least the 5th of January. So, what could they do but pass away the weeks most Kravatoans and Tsunters were out enjoying themselves by cowering in a tiny box-like room, with only each other, a television and their own nightmares for company?

She pushed herself away from the window, stubbed out her cigarette, and told Namín she was going to get them some dinner. From the bed and not taking his eyes from the TV mounted to the wall, he offered to come with her. She said no, she had never needed her husband more than now but there was only so much time any two humans could spend cramped up next to each other, before all their ugliness starts to be taking out on the other.

As she pulled on her pale coat, she heard the musical sting of Argus Citizen Today come from the television. “Hello and Welcome to Argus Citizens Today: Evening Report, with me Marina Santes.” That Spirits-dammed host who claimed to be a journalist told Amōria from behind the television screen, politely subtitled in Kravatoan. That was a good cue as ever to leave the room.

Stalking down the corridor and leaning against the lift, her mind fixated on Marina Santes and the rest of the human mouthpieces who made up Arafan Calloway’s media empire. All her career Amōria had strived to be everything they were not; honest, empathetic, unswayed by the allure of sensationalism or the desire to conform to everyone else’s narrative but above all else, brave. It had taken four thugs dressed as constables to shatter that illusion. What kind of journalist was she, that she had fled abroad the first time a gun was pointed at her? She hadn’t even been able to protect her source.

As she left the hotel lobby (empty with the exception of well-groomed gentleman reading a newspaper on a sofa) and wondered onto the rainswept streets of Tuxernobli, she tried to not to think of Canā. She should have warned him they were coming. But how could she? All he had given her was enough information to confirm his identity, to prove his story was true. No phone-number, no email definitely no home address. You’re a journalist, its your job to find things out. But it wasn’t like the Centre of National Security made the contact details for all its agents publicly available and after what Canā had told her about his bosses, she would not have dared try to find him through the Centre.

Above her she heard the crack-and-rumble of thunder. Kravato had its charms, to be sure, but Amōria did not envy its ever-changing weather. The Tsunterlands was no stranger to storms, although at least Ba Barōssa was mostly spared by virtue of the being nearly enclosed by the Long Hook Peninsular, Amōria had quickly grown weary of the sudden downpours that seemed to be an ever-present feature of the Kravatoan winter. In Nhoor it might be snowing this time of year, she thought to herself. That would be pleasant, although currently her wardrobe consisted of items meant for a week-long retreat on the sunny Bay of Thieves. The idea of going to the shops to buy new clothes now seemed so foreign to her, like something she did in a previous life. The residents of Tuxernobli barely seemed to notice the weather. In front of her an elderly woman was leisurely walking her dog, a younger and taller fellow sauntered across the road with a paper under his arm whilst a few paces back a mother struggled with a handful of children in tow but other than that the streets were getting quiet.

Pulling her coat collar high and hunching her shoulders in preparation for the inevitable rain, Amōria passed by dozens of restaurants and street-food vendors, many with pleasing aromas wafting onto the street. Amōria wanted something from home, not because she particularly missed her country but because she had become tired of the side-eyes and second glances she received every time her accent was understood. Just twenty-five days had passed since a Tsunter had shot up Baumestown and the Kravatoans needed time to heal from the atrocity. The news told her it was worse in Tricklandia, where vigilantes were roaming the streets looking for anyone looking or sounding even vaguely Tsunter. Perhaps we only have ourselves to blame, she thought, for our own failure to confront the demons among us. But the Tsunterlands was a country made by thieves, deceit and narrow-minded self-interest came naturally to its people.

She spotted the bright orange neon glow of a Tsunfish down the wide road and briefly considered it. She still had some modicum of self-respect left, however. Instead, she found her away to a darkened alley, set between two huge pale box-shaped buildings, where a wet sign of cracked paint promised her a traditional Tsunter messhouse actually worthy of the title. It did not disappoint. Down the alley she was met with familiar scent of baked bread, fried fish and roasted spices and behind a red wooden door, she found a wide room with a low ceiling. At its centre was a kitchen, a couple of greasy aproned workers, surrounded by a circular serving counter and a dozen long tables and stalls. There were a few patrons, not many, but it pleased Amōria all the same to hear her native tongue.

“Hello, Salá” The more senior of the two workers greeted her as she entered, in both Kravatoan and Tsunala.

“Salá Mi.” She returned with a warm smile. Back home, it was a greeting reserved for close friends, but the diaspora was less reserved about these things.

“Eating or taking away?”

“Taking away.”

“Are you sure, Anhēm? That rain is going to be coming down hard.” The cook asked casually tossing another pan of fish onto the hob.

“My husband’s waiting for his dinner. I’m gone too long and he’s going to worry I’ve be swept away.” Amōria replied. The cook accepted this and turned his attention to a new customer who had just entered. Amōria picked up a plastic carton and began filling it; two bags of Calamari, four paper wrapped Gorgailu’s and closed bowl of Beharra and dozen Arranans. The meal would be a good respite from their recent worries, Amōria decided. And when she went to pay, she happened to back her left and her heart stopped for far too long. The next customer was tall gentleman, clean-shaven with a well-groomed lick of hair, a black coat and a newspaper stuffed under his arm. The same man from the hotel lobby. He stared cooly back at her.

“Allow me to pay for you, Mrs Chae’la Aye-Som.” He said, softly speaking in Kravatoan-accented Tsunala, producing a black bank card swiping across the reader. “I am hoping you are wanting to join me to be eating?” He indicated to a booth at the back of the restaurant, near a window. The man wasn’t Tsunter, his mispronunciation of her name and his botched Tsunala told her that much. Still, Amōria got the feeling this was not a request she could refuse and followed him to the table. “You’ll have to be excusing me, Mrs Chae’la Aye-som I am not too familiar with your cuisine so my apologies-“

Amōria cut the man off. “I speak Kravatoan. And its pronounced Ee-som. And we normally drop the Chae’la.”

“Ah. You might want to relax, Mrs Isom.” The man paused, smiled and handed over a card. “We are on the same side.” Amōria turned it over. Barianelo Farvana. No organisation was listed.

“And what side would that be, Mr Farvana?”

“Please, call me Bari.” He took a sip of the glass of coconut milk he bought with his meal and frowned slightly at it before putting it down. “We’re on the side that’s fighting against the lies.” Amōria smirked at that.

“I’m sure that’s what everyone says.” She replied.

Farvana took another seemingly disgusted sip of his milk. “Canā’s dead.” Fuck.

“How?”

“Murdered.” Farvana answered, nibbling on some calamari. He was being deliberately obstinate.

“I figured. How was he killed?”

“Now that is interesting.” Farvana took a long look at Amōria. “You’re not surprised, upset perhaps? He did put his life at risk for your article and he lost that gamble. Tell, Mrs Isom, why did you and your husband decide to buy tickets last minute to fly to Kravato only to spend two weeks barely leaving your hotel? A nasty cold perhaps?”

“You think I’m responsible? I thought we were supposed to be on the same side?” She could feel the anger rising up her throat.

Farvana smirked and glanced at some patrons who were just close enough to eavesdrop if they wanted. “A vehicle you recently purchased was pulled from the bottom of the Bay of Thieves. Which suggests either you attempted to, rather poorly, fake your deaths or you narrowly avoided it. Which, giving your connection to our murder victim, certainly makes you a person of interest. So, which is it?”

Now it was Amōria’s turn to smile. “You’re Kravatoan Intelligence… NIS.” Connections with a Tsunter Regional Constabulary, yet the refusal to identify himself further made that obvious. He looked at her bemused but did not confirm anything. Amōria tossed the decision up in her mind. She had no reason to trust him, with anything, and yet… what did she have to lose? Furthermore, what did he have to gain from her other than the truth. At least, here surrounded by her countrymen, it seemed unlikely he intended to hurt her. Fuck it. “Two weeks ago, my husband and I were attacked by men dressed as Tsunter Constables. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, I don’t know. They took us captive and threatened to kill us unless… unless I gave them the name for my source.”

“And you gave it to them.”

“For my shame, yes. And then we ran. So here we are.” Amōria gestured around herself. “Now its your turn. How was Canā killed?”

Farvana sighed as he finished off his bag of Calamari. “That remains something of an elusive mystery. We know there were three others present at the Canā home when it happened. His wife, who seems an unlikely suspect, a plumber and a priest.” Sounds like the start of a bad joke. From his coat’s inner pocket, Farvana produced a mobile phone. “The wife gave us descriptions of the two men. Any familiar faces?”

Amōria looked at the phone’s screen. It displayed a profile sketch of youngish man with the typical Tsunter black hair and dark eyes, squared jaw, and bushy moustache covering his upper lip. Amōria shook her head and Farvana swiped across to the next picture. The druid’s hood might have obscured some of his features, but Amōria would never forget that great beak of a nose for the rest of her life.

“He was there. He was the one of the men who attacked us.” She back up at Farvana. “Who is he?”

“A friend of ours at your Smuggling Enforcement Agency gave us some possibilities.” He showed her a series of photos, all police mugshots, of similar looking men until she saw that dreadful countenance that haunted her nightmares. “Varītev Erisdany.” Farvana told her after she tapped on the photo. “Apparently he’s an associate of a Corsairo ring called-“

“The Western Dawn.” Amōria finished.

Farvana looked surprised. “You know them?”

“Only by reputation. But if he’s Chae’La Erisdany than chances are, he works for the Western Dawn.”

“This Western Dawn? What are they?” Farvana asked.

“Officially, their business is defrauding the government. Say a pipeline leaks oil or gas into the environment. Ba Barōssa has to pay some compensation to the locals. That compensation ends up in the pockets of the Western Dawn. That sort of thing.”

“And unofficially?”

“They’re Tsul Erisdany’s private army. A big stick he can wield whenever money isn’t enough to get something done.” She frowned, furrowing her brow. “Although I can’t imagine what Tsul Erisdany wanted with Canā, he was in counterterrorism not organised crime.” She searched Farvana’s eyes for an answer.

The Kravatoan sighed and produced a pack of cigarettes, pushing the window by the booth open. “It’s not Tsul, but his son Ennam. He’s found himself a circle of angry loners online and has been paying them to… take action. Against what he sees as the enemies of the Tsunter people.” He offered Amōria a cigarette.

She leaned forward to let him light her cigarette, took a drag and blew the smoke out of the opened window and the onto the wet streets. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. I know.” They sat there for a while, listening to the rain hitting the road outside, the quiet chatter of the patrons and the hissing for the fish frying in the kitchen. “It seems to me you have three choices.” Farvana said. “Option one; you keep hiding here or perhaps run to abroad again, spending the rest of the life looking over your shoulder. Option two; you return to the Tsunterlands and pray Erisdany decides not to tie up any loose ends. And option 3; you come and help us.”

Amōria smirked. “I’ve already told you everything that could be of any use for you.”

“That remains to be seen.” Farvana shrugged. “We can protect you and your husband. Extract guarantees from your government. We will make sure you are well compensated for your time. Not more living off takeaways in shitty hotel rooms. And when we are finished you will be able to return to own country and to your old life.”

Amōria wasn’t interested in returning home. “Tell me one thing.” She said, leaning forward. “Will you be able bring down those bastards who killed Canā?”

Farvana smiled. “That’s the general idea.”

Amōria nodded slowly. “Aye, then I’ll help.”

[Kravato]

10 January 2024
NIS Central Offices
T.G.D.

Wintertime Fiasco Intelligence Report
20 Nov. 2023-10 Jan. 2024, Edriko Kantal, S.C.I.

Assessing the Wintertime Fiasco

Online Militant Maurophobic Movement

The basis of the recent events has been the rise of online militant Maurophobia. This philosophy of support for the RHR and of a pro-RHR history of the Trials, and in deeper ends theories of a greater Maurican conspiracy, emanate from communities online. These communities shall be called Online Militant-Maurophobic Communities (OMCs) for the duration of this report. The report defines these communities as communities that discuss the Trials, the RHR, positive views of the RHR, and advocate for violence against Mauricans.

The first known of these servers was founded in 2008 on SunkenIslands.Com, a web forum provider known for its liberal approach on banning and silencing. The server, ShrikesBrigade, was one of the first 50 servers on SunkenIslands.Com. Its founder, Carzhai Bly, is a Tsunter small business owner. According to Bly, the server was at first ironic and meant to disrespect the RHR, and chat logs go to show this as true until early 2009, when a surge of members began to discuss and plan out protests and in some cases violent actions against Mauricans in the Tsunterlands. In late 2009, Mr. Bly took down ShrikesBrigade to deplatform this new community.

However, a server named ShrikesSecondBrigade was created just days later, and many past members rejoined. This server quickly became the epicenter of OMCs, as it spiked in popularity. In 2010, it had a user base of 10k, and by 2011, 20k. Because of its size, many members began to form their own communities to allow for easier connection and closer relationships between users.

This “First Generation” of OMCs mostly consisted of Tsunters. Chat logs show that many of the reported acts were or could have been falsified, as well as a general sense of humor. Several First Generation servers continued the message of the original ShrikesBrigade, making light of the Trials or ironic jokes about the RHR.

This First Generation lasted until 2017, when several new servers were created that were even more decentralized than the First Generation. At this point, ShrikesSecondBrigade had declined in users, and posts happened less frequently. Most had migrated to smaller OMCs or had quit the movement. Most users were in their late 20s or early 30s, and became more busy, as chat logs suggest.

The “Second Generation” began as a new user stream, stretching between the ages of 15 and 25, began to create more OMCs. This Second Generation was different in that far more of the reported attacks actually occurred or likely occurred, and that these members didn’t meet on ShrikesSecondBrigade, rather on other forms of social media and other OMCs. It also marked the first significant user base from outside of the Tsunterlands.

Around this time, one of the central OMCs to the Wintertime Fiasco was created. This OMC, TurnTheLakeCrimson (TTLC), on SunkenIslands.Com, had a user base of 30 individuals at first, from several different OMCs. Instantly, the OMC began to put a focus on action, with its “Real Boys, Real Shit” channel, in which users would post anti-Maurican crime at a much larger rate than in other OMCs.

This OMC has several users of interest. LDR.Exxy, owned by Kravatoan citizen Samvi Tavardats, BearGuy12, owned by Kravatoan citizen Blaso Ovordan, TrickTheTitan, owned by Tricklandian citizen Mariuu Timoo’arai, TeamTeamWins, owned by an unknown Tricklandian citizen, and AngelDark1989, owned by Tsunter citizen, and Rebeira Shooter Rishar Nihâman.

Another user of interest, Flacc121, joined the server rather recently, on November 15th of 2023. This account has been traced to be none other than Ennám Erisdany, son of Tsùl Erisdany, Tsunter electricity magnate, and relative of Guan Erisdany, member of the Executive Council.

Starting in November, Ennám began to pay users for their actions on the channel Real Boys, Real Shit. He paid a sum total of 9,500 IAD in TTLC from November 15th to December 20th. However, this account was also active on several other servers such as ShrikesNewestBrigade and MoldBusters. On these servers, he has been found to have paid over 19,000 IAD over the course of more than two months. On MoldBusters, he interacted with ConnyLakky15, an account belonging to the Baumestown shooter, Conal Mailles. He helped Mailles write and edit his manifesto and spread links to his shooting livestream to TTLC, ShrikesNewestBrigade, MoldBusters, RedRegimentLives, and ShrikesSecondBrigade.

It is unknown if Ennám was encouraged by his father, or by Guan Erisdany, or if they were aware of his actions, but as Ennam had no job during the time, and received much of his funds from his father, it is unlikely Tsùl was unaware that such a large quantity of money was being spent on online payments.

Eventually, Ennám organized the previously mentioned accounts to go to Tricklandia with him. These four match the descriptions of the four key perpetrators identified in footage by the Tricklandian government. Ennám also possibly had the help of several Corsairo groups in the process, namely the Great Bears. Ennám has also been found to be in contact with Western Dawn, another group which may have participated in the Wintertime Fiasco.

The ASH’s Possible Incompetence or Corruption

The Tsunterlands’s ASH is embroiled in a political conflict with the Tsunterlands’s Sȳrem Evousèl Afârēsem, in charge of smuggling enforcement. Investigation FG48-23 has evidence of frequent clashes between the ASH and the SEA were frequent and often related to one of two matters: Belief within the SEA that the ASH was controlled not by the government but by politicians, and that it did not share information related to smuggling with the SEA. This validifies the reality of paranoia relating to information sharing within ASH, as seen in the cases of Baumestown and the Tricklandian politicians.

The RHR Infiltration of the TDP

Over the course of several years, RHR-related/RHR sympathetic politicians and political figures found deep-seated positions within the Tricklandian government. FG16-23 revealed that allegations raised against TDP politicians Arnoud Harvey, Carmīna Haunt, Tixo Tlocatli and Aleli Sisha’a are truthful. The scandals of Harvey and Haunt are well-known, as they were publicized. These public stories can be verified, as there is significant evidence that Haunt was a former RHR political officer, and that Harvey knew of her pro-RHR operations in Tricklandia.

From re-discovered emails, Tixo Tlocatli was discovered to have received financial compensation for voting against Maurican candidates. The origin of this compensation lines up mostly with RHR-related Corsairo groups and OMC users.

Aleli Sisha’a had a much more notable exchange with the RHR. Throughout her 20-year career, she received several bribes from RHR-related Corsairo groups, as well as favors, such as free strippers, alcohol, and possibly illegal substances as well.

FG16-23 discovered a flow of money into the TDP from a series of seemingly-related false sources. When investigated, it appeared that these sources were related to the RHR, ex-RHR members, and RHR-related Corsairos. The total flow over the course of the period (2001-) totals between 100-120m IAD, as there is large possibility of incorrect identification.

FG17-23 was launched after FG16-23 to investigate a certain case: Tricklandian Chamber member Norosle Cofim Morrow. With the help of several key sources, he was identified to potentially be Rannanle Zaymo Morrow, a general of RHR forces during the Trials. Morrow would’ve been one of the RHRers who benefitted from Carmīna Haunt’s identity-creation operation. It must be stressed that this cannot be fully validated.

Corruption Within the Executive Council

The Wintertime Fiasco and after-effects show a certain corrupt quality within the Tsunter Executive Council. Investigations FG32-23, FG38-23, FG46-23, and FA02-24 found evidence behind this. FG32-23 found that over the past 3 decades, as the NIS has been aware for some time, the Tsunter government has allowed several key RHR-sympathetic figures into large positions of power. This choice is rational and logical, as these figures are of high value to the Tsunter economy and society, and mercy must be shown by governments to resolve crises like the Trials.

However, the following studies conducted have found that this was not in an effort to mitigate the damage of the Trials, but because of corruption within the government.

FG32-23 found that Chamber of Representatives members Béme Chae’la Haunt, Bisimo Chae’la Haunt, and Davan Chae’la Ahâman were past members of the RHR and had used their positions to protect members of the RHR. It also found that attorney-general to the Executive Council from 2015-2019, Tessārli Chae’la Haunt assisted in the cover-up of several human rights abuses perpetrated by the RHR during key cases on the Trials.

FG38-23 discovered Caetano Gregorio, a Maurican member of the Chamber of Representatives, and Chair of the Parliamentary Table for National Minorities and Equality, took several bribes over the course of his career. Notably, Gregorio received an expensive estate on Lake Raya from the Tsunter National Energy Cooperative (TNEC), run by Tsùl Erisdany. Gregorio has also received other bribes, in the form of goods, services, and cash, from the TNEC and other sources.

FA46-23 obtained evidence of a very corrupt affair in 2021, in which Guan Erisdany, with the help of Corsairo leader Sandy Boni, utilized the Tsunter relief mission to the Wake Islands as an opportunity for human trafficking. The persons missing in this egregious instance of corruption are still yet to be found. The investigation was based on connected findings of FC72-21 and FC77-21.

Investigation FA02-24 found more damning corruption. After analyzing the findings of FA02-24 it is evident that figures connected to or in the Executive-Council organized the kidnapping, or murder, of the ASH whistleblower, Chalāmai Canā. The Whistleblower disappeared on the 26th of December, shortly after his identity as whistleblower “Abāham” was leaked through several TWItter posts. Upon inspection, the original posters did not learn of Canā’s identity themselves, but were told by a different group.

The investigation team linked this to an odd case on Tsunterland’s roads, in which the vehicle of Amōria Isom, the author of the Ba Barossa Independent article of which the whistleblower’s findings were released, was found wrecked on a coastal cliff on the 19th of December, with reason to believe it crashed sometime around the 15th or 16th. Suspiciously, Amōria did not report the incident to her insurance. Rather, she moved out of the country, and rarely left her hotel room near Tuxernobli International Airport for 2 weeks.

The incidents of Amōria Isom and Chalāmai Canā are related. One of the suspects of the Canā murder was present during the incident with Mrs. Isom’s car. This man has been identified as Varītev Erisdany, who is connected to the Corsairo group Western Dawn. This group has been known to defraud the government, but has also been identified as a private army for Tsùl Erisdany.

The most obvious possibility is that Tsùl, Guan, or Ennam, had Varītev and his associates in the Western Dawn extract information from Isom, after torture or threats of death, and then used this information to kill Canā. The potential for this attack to have been ordered by an offended Executive Council is largely possible as well. They may have wanted to stop further intelligence, especially on the involvement of the Erisdanys, from being leaked as well. And, to punish Canā for letting the world know of their shortcomings.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the family of Tsùl Erisdany is implicated in Baumestown, Rebeira, and the Wintertime Fiasco. Likely, his son Ennam was the mastermind behind Baumestown and the Fiasco, and helped create the Rebeira shooter. More importantly, it was likely he was aware his son was spending sums of his own money on inspiring anti-Maurican violence.

Likewise, the ASH is incompetent and paranoid of sharing information with other Tsunter agencies and the world. For this reason, Tsunter nationals and the Tsunter government cannot receive the freebearing trust that they usually obtain from the Kravatoan government. The Tricklandian Democratic Party, currently at the head of the Tricklandian government, has several internal issues related to the RHR and the Wintertime Fiasco. This government must also be treated with caution as such corruption and lack of inside security can pose trouble in the future.

Finally, it is likely that the Executive Council of the Tsunterlands is corrupt, and so the Kravatoan foreign policy with the Tsunterlands must change. If what was found is true, the Tsunter government is an open threat to Kravato and her own people. The administration must take a sharp position and ensure that the goals of Kravato are not threatened by the corruption and/or personal intentions of the Executive Council.

[Tricklandia]

BREAKING NEWS

Widespread Riots Threaten Tricklandian Order

Reports of intense unrest, ransacking and street violence keep flowing in from all over Tricklandia.

Today, January 2nd, 2024, there have been one or more reports of Neighborhood Watch affiliated groups violently manifesting in Hipvil, New Hipvil, Stiemrik, Kwaarii, Helimala'e, Taromata, Miro'arii, New Hope, Quitzotloko, Logasim, Benchal, Zemerijk, Neekwa, Tishana'e, Yafetow, Poffer, Yafkó, Grázá, Esmeralda, Eendam, Rebeira, Govalho, Talejos, Navarre, Nyberg, Oberlaken, Cantagua, Sinchal, and several more smaller cities and towns nearby. The Sentinel advises citizens from said places, as well as visitors, to keep an eye out for possible dangerous situations, avoid busy streets, avoid large crowds, stay away from sources of loud noises and not carry anything that may be identifiable as a weapon or valuable items. It is also advised to avoid dressing in camo patterns or plain clothes traceable to a police officer disguise. Males between the ages of 15 and 25, as well as people 40 or older belonging to upper-middle-class or upper-class and anyone with noticeably Tsunter physique should take extra caution due to more violent groups deliberately targeting said demographics. It is advised for anyone to take an effort in looking as little self-neglectful as possible, and to avoid conversations in public about topics such as rightwing politics, videogames (particularly massive multiplayer PvP genres), "nerd culture", online nicknames or personas, and mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety.

The force of the Neighborhood Watch groups has increased tenfold over the first two days of 2024, following the famous New Year hijacking of TEW 1. On January 1, non-violent and violent protests erupted in the bulk of Rebeira, Navarre and Poffer Districts; TAL officers and public services barely contained the possible damage using tear gas, rubber bullets and batons. Independent agencies still report approximately 200 shop ransackings, 65 widespread urban fires starting from streets, cars, homes, shops and offices, as well as 154 injuries and the deaths of 4 protesters and 3 officers.

On the dawn of the second day, riots only intensified, and organized action encompassing the entirety of the islands began showing. The toll of this morning has almost reached the entirety of Jan 1's numbers; only time will tell how destructive today will be for Tricklandia.

President Renée Nicole has spoken about the situation yesterday, citing "misguided attempts at taking matters into one's own hands backfiring into wanton violence directed at innocent members of society". Strong words have been redirected at Nicole from SEP leader, Anya Skye Maison: "I do not stand with NW, but it's undoubtable that it may very well have been prevented, together with the entirety of this stain on Tricklandian reputation, if only the government and the Tricklandian Democratic Party had been more transparent and less dubious in their morals towards ethnic supremacist terrorist groups. One sixth of our nation has been repeatedly threatened and left to fend for itself over the course of months, and this is the common person's response to it."

[Tricklandia]

State Of Emergency Declared In Tricklandia

NEW HIPVIL, TRICKLANDIA - President of Tricklandia, Renée Nicole, has declared an official state of emergency, issued today, January 5th, 2024, and effective for ten days, citing as reason "concerns about the current rioting situation in the nation, at the hands of the "Neighborhood Watch" organization".

As it is written in law for states of emergency, branches of the Tricklandian army will be deployed alongside the TAL in efforts to contain the unrest. The death toll, as of today, counts 41 victims including protest members, forces of police and casualties; over 1250 people have been injured in riot-related incidents, and approximately 2.4 billion TCR (600 million IAD) in damages have been reported from provoked fires, vandalism, ransacking and similar acts.

The 8pm curfew currently enacted in Rebeira will be extended nation-wide; the districts of Rebeira and Navarre will observe a 7pm curfew while Rebeira proper's will be fixed at 6pm.

President Nicole has been addressing rumors about malicious infiltration in the NW movement, particularly in regards to anarchist and Throngist fringes (see: "Banners Displaying Crimson Red Arrows" Rumored To Circulate In Logasim NW Riots) She has let people know that "urgent talks with TT leader Laro Pareto and RA leader Helá Hakaría have been scheduled".

Stay tuned for ongoing developments.

[Tricklandia]

January 6th, 2024, 12.01pm
9 Darwin Street, Vasael, Poffer District, Tricklandia

A large boulder sealed the deal. It took the seven of them to move it from the beachside, raise it and throw it onto the glass, but the "breaking" part of "breaking and entering" was done.

Dennis ordered his cohort around. "The four girls, take your bags and grab everything you can. Scouts, round the corners, check for tallies. Shout 'PIGS!' if you see anything. I'll go check in with the boss."
Mina, one of the girls, responded in a brash tone of voice. "I still don't know who the fuck elected you as the boss here."
Dennis swiftly replied. "The fucking tooth fairy, that's who. I have the target, I say what happens. Not okay with that? Go shout 'the Trials are over' with our friends two streets back. 'Least you'll be useful."
Mina faced away from Dennis, probably to avoid showing a short laugh, and started taking pair after pair of shoes.

Dennis walked in from the broken viewing glass of the touristy shoe store he had just invaded. A few meters adorned with debris stood between him and the door that read "Employees Only". He walked those one stride at a time, feeling like the main character out of an action movie. Him, with his gang, his face painted red-white-black just like the country he was representing. A freedom fighter purging evil from this beloved nation.

He reached the closed passage, and slid his crowbar in. Not really knowing how to crack open a sealed door, Dennis removed it, and banged it loudly a few times on the door, catching everyone's attention.
Shila, who was clearing up the last banknotes in the cash register, moved there. She took the crowbar before Dennis could react, placed it properly, moved it around a bit, then kicked down the nearest wooden shelf and grabbed a splintered chunk to keep the door open. "Shit's gone soft." She finished her job with the crowbar, and the door was open.

Dennis looked at Shila. "You know, I was doing that." Shila replied. "Sure, bro."

Dennis made a harsh noise with the crowbar, hitting it on the brick wall near the door. He then shouted. "We came to pay a visit! Come join!"

An elderly man, probably in his late sixties, was busy ordering up some clutter on his desk. "What the hell are you doing here? What have you done in my shop, you little bastards?" He then froze. "Dennis, is that you? What the fuck do you have on your face? What are you trying to do to me?"
Dennis made a quick hand gesture for the others to come with him, and then sprinted, until he was inches from the man's face. "Hello, uncle. Long time no see."
The man jerked back. "You're paying for all the damage you've done, Dennis. What the fuck has gone to your head?"
Dennis spat on his old uncle's face. "Karma's a bitch, ain't it. Don't think I forgot about those speeches back then. I was a wee kid, but I remember the Autumn Equinoxes quite well, uncle."
The uncle's anger quickly turned into fear. He had realized what his nephew had come to do.

"Grab the cunt." The four women took Dennis' uncle's arms and legs. He couldn't do much when shards of glass, his glass, were mere centimeters away from him.
The man was thrown unceremoniously on the shop floor. He screamed in pain when another shelf fell upon him, its weight confining him onto the ground. Mina gestured a thumbs-up sign at Dennis, which he iterated.
"Let's air out some dirty laundry now, old man. Can you tell my friends why you were shunned by our a'ena?"
"You kids have gone batshit insane with this whole Neighborhood Watch thing. Just wait for police to come here and-- WHY?" The man yelped in pain after Dennis hit him on the head with a strong kick.
"YOU DON'T GET IT, EH? TOO DENSE TO UNDERSTAND? There's no 'police' saving you, chimp. You're as good as dead."

"Now, since the ape I have the misfortune to be related to just wants to keep yelling at clouds, I'll tell you why he was shunned. You see, my uncle here is a pasty rich fuck who is so afraid of technology he keeps hiring poor saps, promise to pay 'em and then do it whenever he feels like doing." Just then, almost by cosmic alignment, the shop's employee came in from the back door. Sitting on the countertop where the cash register was, he started silently watching the scene unfold. "He consistently votes Libs at every election, and gave speeches every fucking time he got drunk at family gatherings, which was pretty much every time. 'Trickle-down economics' this, 'Leapism had some good' that. And then he started crapping all over anyone poorer than him. Calling us failures and all."

"I really see why you wanted him out of the family. What a greedy rat." Mina chuckled looking at the figure aside her.

"Excellent choice of words, Phoenix. Now, uncle, face the register." Dennis grabbed his uncle's head and forcibly rotated it towards the cash register. "Fox, since you were there, could you resume what you were doing? I want the rich bastard to see this week's money go to us lower class. You understand now, eh?" Shila went back to the countertop, bag in hand, and continued to pour in the credits.

The employee moved his head back around to face Shila. He murmured in her direction. "Hey. I just want to say... I'm with you."
"Hm?"
"Shhh. I... am... with... you." The employee emphasized each letter, so to make it recognizable.
"No worries, the situation is under control. You can raise your voice a bit. How long have you been without pay for?"
"Since... October. Yes."
"Crap. Boss really was right. Here. 3 months pay and then something more." Shila handed a wad of cash at the boy, without knowing how much it was. It had to be approximately two thousand credits. 500 IAD.

"Haha, call that wealth redistribution. Good job, Fox. Really blows, huh?" Dennis giggled. "That's not 3 months pay in a civilized world. Open the drawers; there has to be more. Give him, like, 20k; we keep the rest."
"Are you OK with this, fatcat? Nod for yes."
The shop owner knew his nephew didn't give an option for 'no' because it would have been something along the lines of "agree to get shanked in the throat for no". He simply nodded and lowered his gaze.
"Fantastic. Maybe you do have some redeeming qualities."

"Now, how do we proceed? We got his money back into society... his possessions..."
"He still has some. They're on him." Mina said, laughing.
"Ooh, you're right... Those clothes must be very fine and dandy to be on you, uncle. Well, haha, time to strip down then!" Dennis cackled, in an incredibly sadistic tone of voice that had him shocked coming from his mouth.
"I..." the man tried to interject.
"You what?"
"I... am truly sorry for my... ideas. I now understand that... everyone has a place in society, and... I was wrong. OK? I was wrong. Sorry."
"So you really wanna stay in that meatsack another day, eh ol' uncle? I doubt you're being truthful, but nice try. Maybe if you'll live by those principles..."
"Let me... finish, please."
"Of course. I-am-all-ears." Dennis mockingly replied.
"I do not see why I deserve this... from the Neighborhood Watch. I may have had some... greedy ideas, but I am not racist. I am not bigoted. I am not any of that. I swear, I am not."

"I mean, you got a point, but to be honest, you are... were... one for unregulated free market. You know what that means? Unequal opportunities. The so-called 'invisible hand' does not have any morals. If someone is born weaker, less privileged, they'll be dealt a shittier hand at life. That is unfair. You are... were... advocating for ethnic differences in wealth, lifestyle, opportunities... This is wrong. You're part of them."
"I am sorry. I swear."
"You should be."
"But I never said anything about any ethnicities... You know I believe everyone to be equal... Never had any prejudice... Never looked at differences... Never called anyone mold... I have lots and lots of colleagues... They're all from different backgrounds... I love all of them... For how they're... Not like me, too..."
"What do you mean by 'not like me'? What are you trying to say with that?"
"No... I mean... I do not believe myself to be... any better... OK? You understand, Dennis?"
"Maybe I do. Just to be sure, though... Phoenix, come take uncle's phone, will you?"

The shop owner's phone had fell just next to him. Its screen was slightly cracked. It had no password. Mina laughed at the sluggishness of even the home screen; that device was chock full of viruses. She then opened the messaging app.
"Messages are empty. Deleted chats, maybe?"
"Ah!" Dennis turned his gaze to his uncle's eyes. He stared at him with a few seconds. The red, white and black paint almost seemed to glow with zealotry. "You hiding something, eh boss?"
"What? NO! I hate how the chats slow down my phone, so I delete them! I have no other reason, I swear!" Adrenaline surged into the man's veins, and his shortness of breath instantly ceased.
"Right, because it's the chats. Not the trashpile of malware that sits on this thing. Gods, I feel dirty touching it." Mina replied.
"I don't know anything about how those phones work! Dennis, you know that!"
"If I have to be honest", Dennis began saying to his team, "the old fart could be right. He's a bumbling idiot when it comes to screens and all that."
"Dennis? That your name?" A voice called from behind.

"Huh?" Dennis slightly turned his head around, still mostly facing his uncle.
"Yes, it is. Listen. Your uncle makes racist jokes." It was the employee.
"HE DOES?" Dennis raised the crowbar in his hand.
"Yes, yes I swear. I... heard him many times." It could very well have been a lie, but why should it be? It was right on character.
Out of raging instinct, his uncle's arm was hit by his bar. He screamed in pain.

Dennis then took a brief moment to recall. The employee had all his reasons to lie about his boss and get some justice from the Watch... but then again, it was his uncle.
He started to remember a scene. Autumn Equinox, 2012. Turkey had just been served, with a side of roast sweet potatoes and taro pudding. He was eight years old. He had loved that lunch particularly.
His uncle was talking about a trade deal that had failed, back when he was an active businessman, and not just a dusty old shoe owner in a young touristy beach city.
Dennis took a step closer to his uncle.
It was around the time of the Gael Crash, maybe. No, it couldn't be. It was later. The other tradesman... a Maurican.
Dennis gripped his crowbar tightly.
His uncle was somehow relating his antics to the old communist regime in Baumes. It made no sense except for his drunken dimwit brain.
Dennis held his arm up.
His uncle was making extremely disparaging comments about the Maurican colleague and his associates. Some were business-related. Some were... not.
His uncle was hit on the back.
He began making all sorts of remarks about the Baumish. About Mauricans. And then, he chuckled slightly, and uttered a sentence opening.
Another hit, this time on his left arm.
"Do you know the only thing the Mauricans are built for, in a proper line of work?"
Second hit on the back. This time stronger.
"The bottom rung of the chain."
Three hits, back, left arm, right arm. Stronger. Screams were heard.
"Big fat dudes carrying actual people's shit around."
Five hits, repeated, on the back again. A kick to the face. A spit on his head.
"Nothing more."
A hit to the head.

Then blood. Then silence.

Then a scream.

"PIGS! PIGS!!!"

Dennis snapped out of his unbridled rage. The seven of them grabbed the last things, and left. Was the old man lifeless? Nobody knew. Only thing known: order forces were there; it was time to disappear.

[The Tsunterlands]

19th of January, Ba Barōssa

On coldest day of the year, Councillor Porfirio Gallego sat in the back of his Deckard Limousine and thought of betrayal. How you going to stop them, Chefe? He had been accused of it more times than he cared to remember. Promises he supposedly hadn’t kept, causes he hadn’t supported enough, people who claimed he abandoned them. Yet, Porfirio still considered himself as honest as a politician could be. It hadn’t been easy for a young idealistic Maurican. He had come to parliament forty-seven years ago as a lowly aid to Serafim Santini, the titan of the Maurican cause, and the first time they set foot in the Tsunter capital, the carcasses of rotting fish had been thrown at them. A year later Santini was dead at the hands of the real RHR and Porfirio found himself fighting tooth and nail to fill his boots.

How you going to stop them, Chefe? The sidewalk to the right of Porfirio were deserted, a sharp wind from the Iershenovo Strait had driven the locals inside. To his left, Porfirio had a view of the churning and frothing waves of the usually calm Baía Pôrdosol, what the Tsunters arrogantly called their Bay of Thieves.

How you going to stop them, Chefe? Somehow amidst a myriad of contenders, a losing war, and a state intent on extermination he had emerged as Santini’s successor. When he told his people he could secure them a peace deal if they would just lay down their arms and agree to co-existence, it might have been the first time he’d been accused of betrayal. But saving their people required sacrifice. Santini, for all his bluster, had understood that. And those sacrifices had given the country two decades of peace, of Maurican children and grandchildren who might never have been born had their parents and grandparents died trying to keep fighting against the basic and cold reality of demography.

How you going to stop them, Chefe? Two weeks past, a vigil had been held for their fallen brothers and sisters afar, on the streets of Domnizoa, a city whose war wounds Porfirio’s peace had mended. At first it had seemed the usual solemn affair; posters displaying the faces the dead, a procession of mourners holding candles. Not just Mauricans either, Porfirio had been pleased to spot the black hair and dark eyes of the many of the city’s Tsunters amongst them. Peaceful co-existence, the reward he had secured all those years ago. From a podium on a stage, Porfirio told his people how they were loved, how the actions of sick radicals would not break the peace on the home front, how already he was working with the Executive Council to find any in the Tsunterlands who had aided in the atrocities abroad and make sure they saw justice. Then the first chant had rippled through the crowd. Never Forgive! Porfirio had pretended not to hear, just kept speaking before the second chant came. Never Forget! The security, a mix of Tsunter and Maurican constables started to shift nervously around the crowd. Never Forgive! Never Forget! The Tsunters who had joined the vigil must have begun to make their exits. Someone had their nose broken. Never Forgive! Never Forget! Never Forgive! Never Forget! Never Forgive! Never Forget! A constable grabbed Porfirio’s arms and advised him to leave the stage. And as he was led away, a girl, couldn’t have been older then ten, darted towards him. Before his security could hold her back, she asked, with wide eyes “How you going to stop them, Chefe?”

On coldest day of the year, the Deckard Limousine pulled to a stop, by a long oft-forgotten pier. And at the of the pier was the man who was going to help Porfirio stop them. Porfirio pulled his coat tighter around himself, steadied his breath and pushed through the door. The wind screeched about his ears, as walked long the wooded planks, cutting through the wool of his coat and deep into his aged bones. Porfirio’s doctor had advised his 68-year old patient to get more exercise, to keep the blood pumping, but somehow Porfirio though the good doctor wouldn’t approve of being out on such a day.

He placed a hand on the railing to steady himself against the force of the gale. The pier was a product of the golden sixties and had been built to host a variety of amusements, from fairground rides, arcades to bars and restaurants. Back then most of the venues would have had signs in the doors reading “management reserves the right to refuse service at their discretion.” Porfirio had learned early on that was code for “No Mauricans allowed.” Then in the 2000s new building regulations were introduced and the pier was declared “below standards.” To escape a rise of insurance premiums all those amusements had retreated back to the safety of the shore and the pier was now only used as a lover’s lane or for dumping bodies. And now for making deals that would make Machiavelli blush.

“Sala, Imón.” He reached the end of the pier and address the hulking figure awaiting him there. Councillor Imón Hansom returned the greeting with a slight turn of his head, his usually immaculate black moustache striking back and forth atop his upper lip like grass on a mountainside. In a huge, gloved hand he gripped a beige file. “That’ll be the Kravatoan report, I take it?” Porfirio asked.

“Aye.” Imón grunted.

“It’s bit fucked isn’t it.”

“Aye.” He grunted again. Christ, give me strength. Four decades of public service had taught Porfirio not to let politics become personal, but by God, he truly detested Imón Hansom. Born into all that wealth and privilege and yet colder than a Najimamian spinster.

“Well, something needs to be done. We need a solution. Rest of the world’s starting to think we might be… incompetent.”

Imón pushed himself away from the metal railing and paced across the pier. “And I am going to assume you have a solution Pofirio. And not a particularly noble one. Hence our meeting like this.”

Porfirio smirked. “Or perhaps, I heard on the radio that today would be the coldest day of the year, and I thought what a perfect time to go for a seafront stroll with my good friend, Imón Hansom.” He jested. Imón turned back to Porfirio, scowling, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Porfirio shrugged off the scowl. “We need a change of leadership. Something to show the world and our own people that we take these allegations seriously.”

Imón tilted his head to the side, appraising Porfirio. “Well, if I’m not mistaken, you’re up for re-election this year. Perhaps our Maurican citizenry will now have finally tired of you.”

Porfirio laughed dismissively. “Potentially. Perhaps my people will see fit to give my seat to another. Or perhaps they don’t get the chance.”

“Elaborate.”

“Four of the names in that report are members of the Chamber of Representatives. Three of which belong to your party. That means inquests, impeachments, court trials. Not going to be a fun time for the Romantic Party.”

“We’ve survived worse.” Imón was back to grunts. “Doesn’t solve your re-election problem.”

“Well, there is an alternative. Should parliament be dismissed, and parliamentary elections called, there would be no need for inquests or impeachments. It would be a fine opportunity to clear the rot from the Chamber of Representatives.”

“A moot point since the dismissal of parliament requires a majority vote from the Executive Council. Four votes; our three colleagues from the Cooperative Party and you currently hold those four votes.” Imón took a step forward, a rare grin sliding onto his face. “You’ve stuck by Selviō Shannehan for near five years. Don’t try to convince me you’re planning on knifing the old man in the back now.”

The truth of it didn’t ease the sting of the accusation. The Tsunters had a phrase ‘Né uram orŷ’, ‘we came up together’. Porfirio and Selviō had come up together; Porfirio from the Maurican Civil Rights Movement, Selviō from the labour unions. He’d always liked Selviō; pragmatic yet principled, warm and assertive, experience whilst being unperturbed by advancing age or disability. But politics was not a matter of personal taste, it was a matter of power and survival. “The alliance between the Maurican People’s Party the Cooperative Party is no longer fit for purpose.” Porfirio replied. “With your help I believe it is time to usher in a new partnership.”

“The Romantics and the Mauricans becoming partners.” Imón even laughed. “Bold, Porfirio, very bold. However, I still see a few problems with your little scheme. First you are assuming that it is within our interest to see an election this year. But I’ve seen the polling data. It isn’t too good for my party at the moment-“

“The polls are just as bad for the Cooperatives.” Porfirio assured him. This bargain would take time to weave together “Their parliamentary majority is slim as it is. Best case scenario, they returned as a minority and then its just a matter of time before the Romantics sweep back to power.”

“Say that is true. My question is why? What’s your angle here? A snap parliamentary election doesn’t stop a seat on the Executive Council going up for re-election. You still have to answer to your people, Porfirio.”

A wry smile played out across Porfirio’s lips. “You remember Mannān, your predecessor on the Council. Resigned in 2012, four years into his seven-year term. Health reasons he claimed. Scandal I suspect. Selviō was up for re-election that year, but it was agreed that, for the sake of preserving the cycle of one seat going for election each year, Mannān’s seat would go up for election and Selviō got an eight-year term.”

Imón worked out the rest. “You want to have a member of the Council dismissed? Dismissal requires a unanimous vote which means you want a Romantic gone, as you’re talking to me and not Selviō. It won’t be me and, unless you want to anger his father, it certainly won’t be Calloway. Which leaves poor Guan Erisdany.”

“I always thought you were quicker than you look Imón.”

“So, this was never about a parliamentary election. You need to get the big bad Erisdany out of office so you can go back to the Domnizoa and show the Mauricans you are still their man in the Ba Barōssa and get your own election delayed another year.”

Porfirio flexed his wind-chilled hands, trying to rejuvenate some heat back into them. “I help you end the Cooperative majority in Parliament, and you help me in getting rid of Guan.”

Imón turned away and leaned against the railings. “No.” He said, after a while. “Gaun is not responsible for the actions of his nephew. Right now, we have only circumstantial evidence that even Tsul was aware of his son’s… online activities.”

“The nephew of a member of the Executive Council was funding terrorism and the whole world knows. Its’ unacceptable. If Guan won’t step down, he has to be pushed.”

“It’s a simple question of loyalty, Porfirio. Tsul will see his brother’s dismissal as attack on his clan’s interest and he will blame me. It would mean war between Chae’La Erisdany and Chae’La Hansom.”

Porfirio laughed again. “A war fought with business deals and marriage pacts and scandals in the papers. Don’t be hyperbolic, Imón. You were what, 17, when the Red Hand surrendered? And lets be honest, your family weren’t going to let you be conscripted anytime soon. I saw war, real war, saw how it consumed us for thirty years. I spent nights not knowing when the Red Hand Regiment would set fire to my family’s neighbourhood or when the Maurican Sovereignty Front would decide I was too much of a moderate to be allowed to live.” He strode towards Imón until their faces were inches apart. “Erisdany’s nephew calls us Mauricans mouldy, yet it is this entire country that is rotten, inside and out. And the world was started to smell it. My people are started to smell how fragile peace is, and soon they will take measures to protect themselves however they can. And when they do, they’ll come for us first. And none of your wealth or power or fucking loyalty will be enough to stop their vengeance.” For all his size, Imón Hansom suddenly seemed so small. “Peace requires sacrifice because the price of sacrifice is infinitely cheaper than the price of war.”

How you going to stop them, Chefe? The child had asked. This is how I stop them, little one, this is how I protect us.