Miscellany from Noctur [CLOSED, NOCTUR ONLY]

[Segland]

All Good Things Must End - Part 1

---

"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Nationalist troops pulling out!Johnson threatens atomic attack!"

Zachariah Willows gravitated towards the overzealous newsboy, keeping his head low and his hands tucked inside his coat. It was preferable for a Nationalist renegade like him not to be noticed, and whenever he was out in the public, he was blending in with the crowd.

"Aye, kid. 50 chips for that paper?" Zachariah proposed, mimicking a Nassau accent. He had perfected it over the years, ever since he had run from the trenches and entered into hiding in Montfort.

"Sure thing, sir," the boy replied, handing over a bundle of papers as Zachariah placed a 50 chip coin in his hand.

Before the newsboy could say thanks, Zachariah was already invisible in the endless sea of commoners milling about in the streets.

Adjusting his glasses, he got a good look at the news. The headlines jumped out at him - "JOHNSON THREATENS ATOMIC STRIKE". Josiah Johnson was the Chancellor of the Seglandic Republic, a seasoned veteran who had fought in the First Civil War (or Moor War, as the foreigners called it) of the early 1980s. He was an intimidating politician, and also one who never made a threat without fulfilling it.

"Blimey," Zachariah whispered to himself. "Looks like ol' Johnson's finally sick of the stalemate..."

He finally got to a bus stop and entered one of the many public buses that regularly traversed the roads of the Seglandic Free State. It took 45 minutes until the bus arrived at his rural cottage, and by that time Zachariah had re-read the story numerous times.

He was greeted by his wife, Hilde, as he entered the house. They were an older couple, both of them in their early 60s. Zachariah had been able to smuggle his wife into the Free State when he defected from the Nationalist Army.

"Look, I've picked up this government pamphlet," Zachariah announced.

"It's a bunch of rubbish, I say," Hilde replied.

"But it's from the government, and it's our duty to complete all the specifications contained in it. It tells us how to survive a nuclear war!"

"Oh, Zach, you can't survive one of those. It's all for naught."

"But you can! This pamphlet will save us. We've just got to make do and carry on."

"I can't stand the thought of being bombed by those Nationalists. The First Civil War was bad enough, really."

"We'll be fine. But before I look at these directions, let's turn on the radio and see if there are any updates."

Zachariah pressed a button on his radio and it sprung to life. The happy-sounding speaker (almost too happy) was babbling on and on about the possibility of a nuclear attack. But one sentence in particular caught Zachariah's attention.

"An attack is expected anytime in the next 2 days!"

[Radiatia]

"How Laws Are Made"
A satirical sketch featured on the popular late night comedy show "The Fushi Sakka Show"

---

A cartoon boy is sitting on the steps of Xerconia Castle looking forlorn, when he is approached by an anthropomorphic piece of paper, meant to represent a bill of parliament.

Bill: "Well hey there, Billy! What are you looking so sad about?"

Billy: "Well, I'm wanting to be an efficient member of Radiatia's democracy, but I just don't know how."

Bill: "Well what don't ya know?"

Billy: "I want to make a law banning people from killing other people, but I just don't know how them dang laws are made..."

Bill: "Well I can show ya, because one day I hope to be a law myself! But first ya gotta pay me - no one's gonna help ya for free ya know!"

Billy hands over some cash.

Bill: "Great! Well, the first thing you need to know is that there are many types of laws.

By-laws only affect people in your community - your town, city or village.

State laws affect your state, while federal law affects everyone in the whole country, even people from Polaris!

There's also international laws but... haha. Hahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! They're a joke."

Billy: "Well I want to make a federal law, making it illegal for everyone in Radiatia to kill people. But how do I do that?"

Bill: "Well Billy, laws are passed by the Federal Parliament. There's two chambers in parliament - the Federal Assembly and the Senate.

"The Federal Assembly's job is to ensure that the President can't pass his budget and to put things off for another year, while the Senate's job is to make sure that none of the President's plans regarding foreign policy work out either. That's because people in Parliament hate the President. Even his own party!"

Billy: "Why do they hate him?"

Bill: "They hate him because all he does is sign the bills that they create, but he gets all the credit."

Billy: "Oh so that's why everyone wants to be President so bad! You get to do no work and get all the credit for it!"

Bill: "Right you are, Billy! Well, what you need to do now is to contact your local MP or Senator and ask them to draft the law for you!"

Billy leaves but returns shortly afterwards looking dejected.

Bill: "Well Billy? What did they say?"

Billy: "Well my Senator just ignored me, while my MP's secretary sent me a letter saying thank you, but didn't address any of my concerns."

Bill: "Oh Billy! You're a crack-up! Do you honestly believe politicians give a shit about you? No, no... if you want them to help you, you need to threaten them first! Come on, let's go look up the public records at the library and see what dirt we can dig up on them!"

Later, at the library...

Bill: "Well, your Senator is considering running for President, so he had all his records destroyed in an 'accidental' fire, but it looks like your MP here was accused of drowning his wife 20 years ago. Why don't you tell him what you know and see if he helps you?"

Billy runs off, and then returns shortly afterwords, smiling.

Billy: "It worked! He drafted the bill, and is going to introduce it to the Federal Assembly!"

Bill: "Well we still have a lot of work to do! Now we have to convince the Speaker to schedule a reading of the bill. If the bill is urgent, then chances are the Speaker will delay it as long as possible. But if it's something that involves a pay-rise for MPs, you can bet it'll be top priority!"

Billy: "Well what happens if they do read it?"

Bill: "Well, you need the majority of the Federal Assembly's MPs to vote in favour of the bill for it to pass its first reading. Oh - it looks like they're doing that now!"

Scene shows MPs voting on the bill and the Speaker declaring it read a first time.

Bill: "Now comes the Select Committee phase. This is where the stupidest MPs pretend to be experts on things they're clueless about and add amendments to the bill. They also call for submissions from the public."

Billy: "You mean we're democratic enough that anyone can have their say on a bill?"

Bill: "Well sure, if you're gullible, but really it's where giant corporations bribe MPs into making changes that benefit them. Look Billy! Your bill to ban murder has now been amended into a bill that bans people from protesting against oil companies!"

Billy: "I don't feel so good about that..."

Bill: "No one does, Billy. That's why no one votes - Radiatia is a corrupt shit hole!"

Billy: "Well, at least it passed the second reading. But what are they doing now?"

Bill: "That's called Committee of the Whole House. It's where ignorant MPs like to make more changes to the bill to show how ignorant they are. See? That MP from Pfantz added an amendment banning chickens from flying!"

Billy: "Well at least they've agreed to something. They're reading it for the third time! Hey - what's happening to you?"

The anthropomorphic bill begins to shake and transform, in a special anime-esque sequence, into an Act (i.e. a talking piece of paper with "Act" written on it instead of "bill")
'
Act: "I've been transformed from a bill... into an Act!"

Billy: "Are you the law yet?"

Act: "Not yet... I still have to go through the Senate."

Billy: "How do we get the Senators to vote for you?"

Act: "Well they usually have their own ideas, and the Senate hates the Federal Assembly. In fact... look, there's a conflicting Senate Act which wants to make murder legal in all states! This means they have to compromise."

Billy: "How do they do that?"

Act: "Simple! We find the most moderate LCP MP and team him up with the most moderate SDU Senator and then put both names on the bill and give a long speech about 'bipartisanship'. That's a buzzword that means "I want everyone's votes, even people who don't normally vote for me.'"

Billy: "Well they've agreed to something, but why is the debate taking so long?"

Act: "Oh, that Senator is filibustering. You see, in the Federal Assembly debates have time limits, but in the Senate people talk as long as they want. You might want to come back later..."

80 years later, Billy returns as a very old man.

Old man Billy: "Are they *cough* done *wheeze* yet?"

Act: "Just about! There you go... it's passed the Senate vote. Now we have to send it to the President!"

Billy: "Will he sign it?"

Act: "Only if he has enough media exposure. Quick! Get some journalists together, and make it look like good publicity!"

Journalists crowd around the President, who is smiling and waving and finally... signs the bill! The Act begins to transform into a law.

Law: "We did it Billy! We successfully passed a federal law banning goats from learning to drive!"

Billy: "Wait a minute... it was meant to be a law banning murder!"

Law: "Yes Billy, but we live in a democracy, which means we're ruled by the people! And everyone knows that people are fucking morons."

[Radiatia]

Farewell Address (July 29th LET 52)
Keldon Silviu

---

"My fellow Radiatians:

Tonight is my final opportunity to address you from Level 101. Tomorrow at noon, a new President will be sworn in, and I return home to Xian, Vatfer as a private citizen.

For the last 40 years, since the collapse of the RPSU, it has become routine that every four years a new leader is chosen by you, the people of Radiatia, and so ever it shall always be. In accordance with the new constitution which you ratified by referendum a year before electing me, no President shall serve longer than eight years and thus every four to eight years we will see, as a matter of course, the peaceful and efficient transfer of power.

The power which will be transferred tomorrow to President-elect Fyoderov is immense. No single individual in all of Noctur is entrusted with as much power and responsibility as is the person who holds my current office. Now more than ever, as we continue into the Radiatian Century, the decisions made in this office affect the lives of all Radiatians, and many people all over Noctur.

The decisions that have been made, and will in future be made, are not easy to make. The President-elect will soon find out what I found out - that this is perhaps the hardest job in the world. While they say that Level 101 is the most powerful office in Noctur, the truth is that there are constraints on this office. There are laws, and the constitution, an independent legislature and judiciary, and above an beyond all there is the will of the Radiatian people, which I maintain is a force more powerful than any man, or ideology, or army or force of nature.

History has shown that no empire, no regime - the Radiatian People's Socialist Union stands as one example - can continue to stand once it is the will of the Radiatian people that said regime should fall. The will of our country will continue to be a guiding force for the world and we will champion individualism, and the rights of the individual, and we will champion self government.

Regimes have fallen over the last eight years, and though the world is arguably more dangerous than in yesteryear, the Radiatian Federation is strong enough to meet any and all challenges which come its way.

We have been plagued by some of the greatest challenges that our young democracy has faced in the last eight years. We have grappled with an economic collapse, a recession, terrorism and war.

While Radiatians lost jobs, I leave office knowing that unemployment has just dropped to a level which is even lower than when I first took office, in spite of the economic downturn. It was not me who created these jobs - it was you, through good old fashioned Radiatian efficiency.

It was with efficiency that we overcame the challenges we faced as a nation, and I am certain that we will continue to pull through to become stronger than ever before. When the Exegrad Stockmarket collapsed, and millions of Radiatians lost jobs due to problems in large multinational corporations who were struggling, we saw Radiatians use their efficiency and creativity to create new jobs, to found new, small businesses, to master the value of individualism to make their own luck, their own fortunes and it is through this that our economy is growing again and that our nation's prosperity lies.

Our other strength as a nation lies in our diversity. We are a multilingual, multi-ethnic federation of 37 very unique states. From the artisans of Radia to the friendly folk of Drachensgard, the hard-workers of Chongluntz to mighty and stoic people of Eldura, to the urban cool of Exegrad and Das Engel or the rural charm of Skorptsch and New Vashura... this is Radiatia. We are all unique, diverse, totally different but we are all Radiatians.

As President I was honoured to welcome new Radiatians to our country. For the first time ever, immigrants who had become permanent residents were able to take that final step and becomes citizens of the Radiatian Federation, to take on the rights we all enjoy in exchange for the responsibilities we all share. In any major city the diversity of our nation becomes more obvious each day - we see it in the different skin colours, or even beliefs that are appearing here and there. To tolerate differences is to be efficient.

To the men and women in our armed forces, it was my highest honour and privilege to have been your Commander-in-Chief as you fought valiantly for the values of this nation and for the freedom of people all over the world. It is thanks to you that the nations of Nui-ta and Detectatia can live free from the threat of an insane tyrant attacking their nation with missiles. It is thanks to you that blacks in Segland no longer face discrimination on the basis of their skin colour, and it is thanks to you that citizens of South Segland enjoy the freedoms we enjoy to choose their own government without undue influence from the military, or religion, or ideologies such as Marxism.

I would like to thank my Vice President, Samuel Negasi, who has been an excellent friend to me through these eight years, and to the Federal Cabinet whose talent and hard work kept our nation efficient through hard and trying times.

I extend my gratitude to my wife, Yulia, and my two sons who I expect are looking forward to returning to Xian.

I express my best wishes to President-elect Fyoderov in all the challenges which he will face, and I pledge to stand by him, and behind him as he takes the reigns in leading our great federation. I wish him all possible success and I have done my best to ensure the efficient transfer of power. I have spoken with my successor about the affairs of our nation, about foreign and domestic concerns, and my cabinet has met with his.

Never before have we seen such an efficient transfer of power from one political party to another, and I am certain that an excellent and strong precedent has been set.

Finally, as has become a tradition for departing Presidents, I would like to leave you with a warning and that is this:

There is an old saying that the price of freedom is eternal vigilance and this is true, just as it is in our constitution that no right shall be granted without responsibility.

I believe that we have reached the final step in transforming Radiatia from a struggling ex-communist state into a thriving, modern, liberal democracy.

We are a nation of human rights, who defend our rights and the rights of others and sometimes to the death, which is only right and proper for it is our responsibility to defend our rights.

To preserve peace, we must be vigilant against those who would start war. To preserve freedom, we must be vigilant against those who would seek to oppress us. To preserve self-government, we must be vigilant against apathy and ignorance for it is our responsibility to partake actively in the country which we all rule ourselves.

So that is my warning to future generations of Radiatians.

And so now I leave you, in the capable hands of the next President, the man that you chose to lead us over the next four years. While it has been an honour to be President of the Radiatian Federation, I now enter a more powerful office and the only office more powerful than President - and that is the office of Citizen of the Radiatian Federation.

May Radiatia and the dreams of our federation forever prevail."

[Radiatia]

It was the morning of what was supposed to be one of the most momentous and life-changing days of Gregori Fyoderov's life, but the President-elect was being plagued by bad dreams.

They were dreams inspired by memories, memories of his childhood.

He dreamed he was back at primary school, and despite being an adult, was sitting at the back of the class while the entire class taunted him.

"Greasy Greg! He smells like smeg!
His father's dead and he wets the bed!"

He was trapped, so powerless against them, those vulgar masses, so alone. One day he'd have power... one day he'd show them...

---

"Greg, you can't sleep in all day you know!"

Patricia Fyoderov, the first lady to-be, prodded her husband gently and he stirred, and let the disturbing dreams fade and the far more pleasant reality set in.

He was in the Executive Tower, on one of the lower floors where international guests sometimes stay. That night he would go to bed in Level 101, on the top storey of the tower, as the most powerful man in Noctur.

It was hard to believe this was happening, especially as his wife tossed him a newspaper and demanded he get up and brush his teeth.

He looked at Patricia. She had gained a lot of weight since they first married all those years ago, but he kinda liked that. He'd always liked a woman with a little bit of meat on her bones.

And though she was a strict, bossy sort of wife, he liked that too. It comforted him and reminded him of the only other woman - perhaps that only other human being - in his life that he had ever loved...

"How's ma doing?"

"She's fine, but... really Greg, flying her out to Xerconia? At her age?"

"She said she wanted to go, and I wanted her to be here."

In another room, the President-elect's 92 year old mother was waiting, in a wheelchair, watching some game show on television.

After showering and putting on the suit he would wear to his inauguration, Gregori went in to see her.

"Is everything okay, ma?"

"Dang it Gregori, it's too hot! An' ya know I don't like ya interrupting me when I'm watching me stories."

"Yes, you've got the heating turned on. It's 40 degrees Celsius outside, you want air conditioning, not heating." He showed her the thermostat. "Look. The blue means cold, the red means hot."

"You don't need to tell me how to use one of yer fancy knobs, Greggy. Now you jus' go an' do whatcha gotta do."

"You know why we're here today don't you, mother?"

Mrs. Fyoderov was at that age where she was beginning to suffer dementia. It was mild but occasionally she got confused.

"Ya said something about a present."

"No, ma. President. I'm going to be President."

"Sure you are, Greg. You jus' keep dreamin' an' you'll get there. Don't let anyone get ya down."

Gregori Fyoderov sighed and left, bumping into his son Brodie - now in his 20s - in the hallway.

"Are you ready?" Brodie asked.

"Just about. Are you?"

Brodie shrugged. "Sure. Do you want me to take care of grandma?"

"If you could. That would be very efficient of you."

---

Once the Fyoderov family was ready, they all clambered into the elevator to travel up to Level 101, to meet with President Silviu and explore where they would be living for at least the next four years.

A member of the RSEF, in dress uniform, approached the President-elect.

"I apologise for the inconvenience, but we are running out of time," He said. "We need to get you onto the platform right away."

The RSEF man ushered the family out, to take them down to Federation Square, leaving Gregori Fyoderov face to face with a familiar man standing on a walking cane.

Gregori smiled and put out his hand. "Mr. President. It's good to see you."

"It's been a long time," Said Keldon Silviu. "Are you ready?"

"I am." Said Gregori as he walked alongside Silviu, who was slowly beginning to walk again after the assassination attempt four years ago left him paralysed.

"I left you a note on the desk. Just a few of my thoughts as you take over," Said Silviu. "I tried to keep it non-political. But you know... we can't have you reversing everything I did."

Gregori laughed, as he walked to ELITE ONE, the Presidential helicopter, in the company of his former rival.

---

Down below, in Federation Square, the festivities were already beginning.

Crowds have gathered to watch parades that included soldiers, celebrities, singers, dancers and even clowns. Unlike four years earlier, a shield of bullet proof glass had been erected between the platform and the public, in order to prevent a repeat of what happened when Keldon Silviu was shot at his inauguration.

Brodie Fyoderov wheeled his grandmother onto the platform, just behind his teenage sister Zoe and his mother. His father would arrive later on, along with President Silviu.

Though like most Radiatians, Brodie felt that Silviu's Presidency had been a failure, and that they should have elected his dad back in '44, it was still a weird sort of honour that he was the son of the man who would be doing the same job that was done by the son of Traiyan Silviu.

Finally, in the front row, Keldon Silviu, Samuel Negasi, Angela Pavlovic and Gregori Fyoderov arrived and sat down, while Chief Justice Tobias Kneib began the proceedings.

The elderly Mrs. Fyoderov stared out at the crowd from her wheelchair. And suddenly she realised what she was witnessing.

Tears began to fall down her face as she realised that these thousands of people, waving the flag, had come to see Gregori - her Gregori. The same Gregori who used to come home from school each day crying because the children hated him, because he had no friends. And suddenly, the entire country wanted him.

---

Tobias Kneib called Angela Pavlovic up first.

"Speaker Angela Pavlovic, please repeat after me: I, Angela Pavlovic affirm my allegiance to the Radiatian people and the Radiatian constitution."

"I, Angela Pavlovic swear my allegiance to the Radiatian people and the Radiatian constitution."

"I swear I will do all in my power to defend the constitution, to defend freedom and to defend our democracy."

"I swear I will do all in my power to defend the constitution, to defend freedom and to defend our democracy."

"And I will execute to the best of my ability the duties of the office that I have been appointed to."

"And I will execute to the best of my ability the duties of the office that I have been appointed to."

"Angela Pavlovic, by the power invested in my by the Radiatian Constitution, I hereby declare you to be the Vice President of the Radiatian Federation."

There was a loud cheer as Vice President Pavlovic sat down, to the right of Gregori Fyoderov who stood, grinning.

In his left pocket was the notes for the speech he was about to give. But in the right pocket was the list - the list of everyone who had ever wronged him, from his childhood right through to that young guy who shouted at him during his campaign rally in Mendovium. Someway, somehow... he planned to get revenge on them all.

Tobias Kneib motioned for him to come forward.

"Gregori Fyoderov, please repeat after me.

"I, Gregori Fyoderov swear my allegiance to the Radiatian people and the Radiatian constitution."

"I, Gregori Fyoderov swear my allegiance to the Radiatian people and the Radiatian constitution."

"I swear I will do all in my power to defend the constitution,"

"I swear I will do all in my power to defend the constitution,"

"...to defend and protect our democracy,"

"...to defend and protect our democracy,"

"...and to defend, promote and protect our national values of individualism and efficiency during my time in office as President of the Radiatian Federation."

"...and to defend, promote and protect our national values of individualism and efficiency during my time in office as President of the Radiatian Federation."

"Congratulations... President Gregori Fyoderov!"

Chief Justice Kneib shook his hand and the crowd went wild, while the sound of a 21 gun salute filled the air.

Finally, smiling, Gregori Fyoderov took the podium to give his first speech as President.

---

"Thank you all.

"Chief Justice Kneib, President Silviu, Vice President Negasi, President Nathus, President Vahnsehn, Prime Minister Toriah, Prime Minister Demodand, Leaders of Parliament and distinguished guests,

"When I was a young boy, I was taught never to question authority. Authority was something which was there, it didn't shift, it didn't change and it wasn't for me to ponder or attempt to influence its ways.

"Like most young men, by the time I reached my teen years I was beginning to rebel, to question, to defy authority. At the time, it was the authority of my mother.

"When I was 14, something extraordinary happened, not just to me but to all those around me. The entire country began questioning authority, and that authority was broken. And I learnt then what I know now which is that there is no authority higher than the will of the Radiatian people. Because without the people's support no authority can exist.

"Thus it is and seems only natural that republican democracy can be the only way of granting power, for only the people have authority and only the people may give such a mandate.

"Today we participate in the peaceful transfer of that power, from President Silviu to myself. When I was young such an idea seemed impossible but today it is not only possible, it is routine. The people grant authority and are the ultimate givers of power, and thus I take this mandate from the Radiatian people and have sworn an oath to wield it responsibly.

"I wish to take time now to thank President Silviu for his eight years of hard work, service and dedication to creating a more efficient country. This is a man who has struggled for his beliefs, and for the welfare of this country and even went so far as to take a bullet for it. I respect him, and thank him and salute him for that.

"I also wish to thank Vice President Negasi for his eight years of service and more being a gracious and noble opponent in the theatre of politics, and yet so respectful of the greater cause of individual freedom and democracy in which we have both exercised throughout our campaigns.

"It is the people who wield the ultimate authority in this land, and who are truly the powerful ones. And I respect that. I wish to empower further the Radiatian people, and envision a society of less authority and more individualism. I envision a society in which the government is a tool, not a power or an authority or a ruler.

"Today a new day has dawned for the Radiatian Federation. At the beginning of the century, freedom and democracy was only a pipe dream. Today it is a reality that we all live, and we live in a century that is ours.

"Today Radiatia has elected new leadership, born in this century, as the baton is passed from the last generation to this new one, and so this peaceful cycle shall continue forever.

"Radiatia is today a beacon of hope for the world, for all those who are oppressed under those authorities whose people they seek to subjugate for their own ends. And Radiatia is powerful, a nation whose influence on Noctur is unmatched.

"We are not a hegemony, and nor would we ever seek to create one, but we are a leader as we compete for dominance against those powers friendly and unfriendly who seek to leave their own mark on the world at large.

"But it is not I who is the most powerful person in Noctur, nor is it the Radiatian government who are the ultimate authority in this region. For there is no will higher than the will of the Radiatian people, and therefore I implore us, the people, to usher in an age of individuality and efficiency, for we are Radiatians!"

---

Once his speech was over, it was time for the final part of the ceremony.

The Fyoderov family and the Silviu family - two families from the opposite sides of Radiatia's political spectrum, walked out onto Federation Square, towards the helicopter which would take former President Silviu to Falko Air Force Base, just outside of Xerconia and from there he would take a flight back to Vatfer.

Fyoderov said farewell to Silviu's young sons first.

"Take care of your dad," He told them as he shook their hands, before Yulia Silviu took them aboard ELITE ONE.

"Take care of the country," Said Silviu to Fyoderov with a smile, as the two men embraced. "My family have put a lot of work into it."

"I'll do my best over the next eight years."

"Four years!" Said Silviu with a laugh.

"Sure, whatever," Said Fyoderov, laughing also.

"If you need anything, I'll always be around to help. You're in for the ride of your life, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Said Fyoderov as Keldon Silviu finally boarded the aircraft and took off, away from Federation Square and away from the Presidency.

President Fyoderov turned around, facing Xerconia Castle.

Radiatia did not know what was about to hit it.

There was a storm coming. And that storm's name was Gregori Fyoderov...

[San Leggera]

June 10, 2013
Barletta, New Chicago

A man of panic tumbled from street to street; rebounding off of each wall, tripping over every kerb, grazing every corner in a fervorous rush. His sleek, short blond hair flipped from side to side throughout, dancing across his forehead. He wore a fitted jacket, unbuttoned over a slim shirt and tie. Sweat dripped from his body as the man wore away his own breath, his feet carrying an aching frame across tarmac and concrete.

Behind the man chased a muscle car, matte black and damned nimble. The driver seemed to know every turn the man took better than he did, and the gap closed with every second, before the chased dove into an alley too small for the chaser to follow. He ran further, distancing himself from the car, until he finally exhausted his breath; leaning upon a wall to recover it. Sweat covered his red face in a film, and he raised a sleeve to wipe it clean and push his locks free of his eyes.

His name was Tommy Olsen, and he knew why he was being chased. A weapons manufacturer by trade, his company was approached five years ago by the Chicago Outfit - the San Leggeran Mafia, as he later realised. For the next half decade, he had no clue he was working for the mob, and made the dumb move to put an end to it when he found out. The outfit were owed their weapons, and Olsen had their money, which was something that they couldn't accept.

Olsen regained his breath, and set off running again, with no idea where the mafioso following him was, and soon found himself lost in the maze of back alleys; the brick and mortar holding him prisoner, gravel kicking up against his face. He bolted through a corner, and at last escaped to a road; the traffic and commotion concealing him within.

He walked to the next block, and was struck from behind with the hilt of a gun, sending him to the floor. Looking down at him, a pistol aimed at his head, was a suited man, and by the looks of it one ready to kill. Tommy sent a foot into the air, striking the man squarely between the legs, and giving him an opportunity to escape. He climbed up to his feet in even more fear than he was before, if that was even possible, and bolted into the crowd.

He headed towards the back alleys again, hoping their lack of direction would confuse his pursuers more than he. His head turned to face the direction he came from, and there was thankfully no sign of the armed mobster. A tyre squeal drowned out the thud of his feet on the gravel-dusted concrete, marking the return of the muscle car. The vehicle stopped dead, shunting Olsen into a wall. A greying man opened the door, submachine gun in hand.

"You fucking owe me a new bumper, Ol," came the aged man's voice, "and a damn ton of your fucking gats." He paced over to Tommy, now lain against a wall dribbling blood, and squatted in front of him. "I'm disappointed in you. Shouldn't you know better than to cross the outfit, you stupid piece of shit?" The man punched Olsen in the hopes of a reply, knuckles connecting to his cheek with a force you'd expect from a freight train instead of a human. He stood back up, and slammed his palms down on the car's hood.

"Answer me, you cancerous twat," he muttered, impatience infecting his voice, "before I fucking send a barrel of lead into your stomach. Are you that fucking stupid to want your life taken over a matter of guns?" The man turned to Tommy, and loaded the firearm. Olsen laughed, "Fuck you, Henr--"

Before he could finish, the man launched a bullet into his former associate's stomach; the sound of a gunshot echoing throughout the alley. Instead of dribbling blood, it now flowed from his mouth almost as if he were vomiting it; the fatal wound imprinted. The man drew a handgun from inside his jacket, and brought it up to Tommy's head, "You made the wrong fucking choice."

A second gunshot, if anything louder than the first, filled the air; sending a flock of pigeons into flight, and blood stained the wall. The man tucked the pistol into Tommy's hand, sighing as he did so, and walked back to his car. Just as he turned the ignition, he received a call; "Mr. Fortino, you're needed back at Capitol."

---

Hopefully this is clear, I haven't really written anything this length in a while and I kept making plot changes as I was writing.

[Segland]

Dei Sumus

---

Humiliation. Defeat. Persecution.

All of these things were experienced by Consologists across the world, yet somehow they maintained a mindset of staying together and staying strong. And the Church of Consology, despite countless setbacks, was ever growing.

One particular secret gathering of Consologists was about to change Segland forever.

Three men sat in a circle around a small candle that radiated a bit of light, just enough for the men to see each other. Shadows danced across the room as if they were dark spirits, observing the initiation with great interest.

The oldest man, who was obviously the senior Consologist of the bunch, looked directly into the eyes of a much younger person.

"Friend, do you accept the holy truths of the Three Codices?"

"I do."

"Do you accept the sacred truths set in place by God and the Divines?"

"I do."

"Are you prepared to carry out all orders given to you by the Church of Consology?"

"I am."

"Will you adhere to the Scriptures at all costs, not deviating from what you know is right?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that great sacrifices must be made to be worthy of a place in the Convergence that is soon to come?"

"I do."

"Dei sumus. Magna sumus."

The younger man repeated the phrase. "Dei sumus. Magna sumus."

"Brother, you are ready. Stephanus Levi, I declare you a member of the Church of Consology."

[Radiatia]

State of the Federation LET 53
Gregori Fyoderov

"Sailing into Murky Waters"

---

Mr. Speaker, Madam Vice President, my colleagues in the Federal Parliament and my fellow Radiatians,

I am honoured to be addressing a joint session of Parliament, as a man who has had the distinct privilege of having served in both chambers of this great institution.

It is an honour to have both chambers, distinguished and unique as they each are, come together before me, as too it is an honour to bring together the disparate political groups represented within the walls of this castle.

There is a deep divide between the Liberal-Conservative Party and the Social Democratic Union and I know not all of you are happy that I was elected President. Afterall, half of you spent the last election doing all you could to stop me from being elected... and the other half of you are Social Democrats! (laughter)

However, in spite of this I ask you to put aside your partisan differences and to come together for the sake of the country we love; for our great nation is presently in crisis.

My fellow Radiatians, I regret to inform you that the State of our Federation is not a good one.

Unemployment is on the rise, while prices are rising too. People are not buying enough products, nor are we producing as much. The middle classes are being taxed too much, while our national debt is the highest it has ever been, topping one Trillion Tsenyens and now making up a significant percentage of our Gross Domestic Product.

As more and more people become eligible for our government programmes, the cost continues to increase each year, exponentially, to a point in which the burden is simply too great for the Radiatian taxpayer to bear.

While I have no intention of repealing these programmes, or dismantling them, let me make clear that I will not hesitate to veto any new spending, or new government programmes enacted by the Parliament.

With the war in Segland now over, and our troops returning home, we must now shift our focus to repaying the debts we accrued during that conflict, along with the debts accrued simply by the size and scope of all the new government programmes enacted over the last eight years.

My fear is that we have thousands of veterans returning home to a government who cannot help them because our coffers are running dry, and to an economy in such a terrible state that they cannot find work.

Therefore my proposal, to offset the effects of a potential stagflation, is 20 billion Tsenyens worth of tax relief, with three quarters of the money to go to individuals and one quarter to go to businesses to encourage investment and job creation.

Furthermore, while those on the left argue that inflation is caused by businesses demanding higher prices, those on the right claim that inflation is caused by the demands of workers for higher wages.

I submit that inflation has been caused by our national debt, which has caused interest rates to rise and taxes to rise as the federal government forces taxpayers today to pay for mistakes made yesterday.

We now bear the financial burden of the Tressian Gulf War, evident in our national debt and in the associated inflation. Government and the private sector must therefore tighten our belts until this debt is paid; until our fiscal house is in order lest we sacrifice the long-term financial stability of our nation.

However while we look to solving the problems which plague us today, we cannot afford to do so at the expense of tomorrow. I refer of course to the fact that Radiatia is the single largest producer of greenhouse gases in Noctur, and that in doing so we threaten the existence and livelihoods of future generations.

Therefore it makes sense, for the benefit of the world and for the health of our own citizens to take an active role in combating pollution, and carbon emissions and in cleaning up our once beautiful country.

Should the Parliament succeed in finding a frugal and cost effective means of funding research into alternative energy sources, or of promoting sustainability, clean air and clean water, then the Parliament may in that case count on having such an Act signed into law by my hand.

It is necessary, in the current climate, to show restraint and to curb the great excesses of the last decade, both in the public and private sectors.

Whereas the last decade was one of idealism and reform, of wild government spending during the Silviu Administration, and of huge economic growth during the final years of the Larssen Administration this new decade shall be one in which the loudest voice will not be that of the ideologue or the loud and disenfranchised minority – not that we seek to leave such minorities behind – but that my Administration shall seek to give a voice to the great Silent Majority of Radiatians.

Radiatians have lost faith in government, and for good reason, fearing that government cannot make the hard but necessary decisions. They have watched as power has flowed from the local and state governments and into the hands of faceless bureaucrats in Xerconia, FCT.

It is time to reverse that flow, and for power to flow from Xerconia, back to state and local governments and into the hands of the Radiatian people.

And as we re-evaluate the relationship between state governments and the federal government, we must also re-evaluate the relationship between the federal government and other governments and nations around the world.

We are the last superpower in Noctur. Our friends look to us for leadership. Our enemies look to us to blame us for their self-inflicted wounds. But there is no doubt that every decision made here in Federation Square sends shockwaves across Noctur.

Our economic and military strength in combination with the relative weakness of our friends has meant that the Radiatian Federation has had to bear the burden in defending our allies, keeping peace and promoting democracy over the last decade.

However, committed to our allies though surely we will remain, the defence and development of other nations cannot and will not remain solely the responsibility of the Radiatian Federation.

I reiterate what I once said during a visit to Poldania more than ten years ago – Radiatia does not seek a hegemony. Radiatia does not seek influence. We do not seek to dominate or rule the world, nor do we seek to infringe upon the national sovereignty of peaceful nations.

We are not interested in anything beyond our own borders other than that which affects our own national security.

The underlying goal of this administration’s foreign policy will be peace and to ensure that Radiatia – for the first time perhaps ever – is at peace with every nation in Noctur.

Radiatia must continue to lead the world, but we can do so not through brute force but by example. Building an efficient and prosperous nation will serve as a far better defence of democracy than military intervention ever could.

But if we are to have peace in Noctur, then we must focus much of energy on developing a relationship with the nations we currently perceive to be our enemies – most notably the Empire of Tuthina, as well as those neo-communist nations which comprise “Red Noctur”.

I cannot understate the differences between the Radiatian Federation and the Empire of Tuthina, nor between us and Red Noctur, and yet it is imperative that both sides learn to understand and tolerate one another and to co-operate in guarding not our ideologies but humanity itself which lies endangered.

For as long as these three groups of nations stockpile weapons and provoke one another for the aim of defending our ideologies, then all human life becomes endangered and so we must learn to love each other, and to tolerate each other, or else we must die.

Humanity is threatened also by the fact that our planet is slowly becoming uninhabitable – and it is our nation which is by far the largest and worst polluter. We must turn back the tide, before the tide overruns us. By investing in green jobs, we create new jobs and new markets. By promoting sustainability we conserve resources. By researching into alternative and clean fuel sources, we can become energy independent.

There are problems facing the international community, and our nation, which are far greater than simple politics or idealism. These are real problems, and all people – communist or capitalist, dictatorship or democracy, religious or atheist, rich or poor – are affected by them and must take action to reverse.

While I maintain that Radiatia has no interest beyond those states which comprise our federation; we cannot run from the fact that technology has meant we all live in a globalised world. As such it is no longer efficient for us to continue with the outdated practice of trade protectionism.

Protecting Radiatian goods from international competition makes no more sense, and reaps no more benefit, than for Alayenia to ban products from Amentra.

We are efficient and now our our time to prove that.

I once met a man from Tuthina who claimed that though Radiatia venerates efficiency more than any other culture, we achieve efficiency so rarely. Needless to say, I was shocked by such a thought, that this is the way the world sees us. It is clear, therefore, that action must to taken to ensure that we really are as efficient as we claim.

The time has come for smart, effective and efficient government. The time has come not just to create a vibrant and modern society, but to look to the future and relish in our role as the leaders of the free world.

The challenges facing us are daunting, and times will be tough.

But though our nation sails now into dark and murky waters, I am certain that the storm will pass and that by pressing on with Radiatian efficiency and rugged individualism, we can weather it until the sun is once again shining over our great federation.

Radiatia will prevail.

[The Xylonian Union]

Kors Belin

---

Twelve Years Old (2004)

Kors Belin had ridden on winding mountain roads from the chilly south farther north to the Xylonian peninsula with his classmates to see Victory Day. Kors' shoulders relaxed as they arrived at Suyin, the capital of Xylonia. The kids had constantly jostled and mocked him for being an invader, for being foreign scum at every rest stop, every bathroom break, and whenever he was about to think he was safe.

---

For all he knew, they might have invaded his country. There were faint recollections of what he used to call boltless lighting which released large black clouds in the distance, a new gun in his house, and then on one bright blue June, two men in red came to take him away.

They knocked on his door, which he answered. Seeing him, the men grabbed him and began to drag him out screaming. The screams drew out his parents, and his mother ran out to pull him back. He remembered that his mother had almost succeeded in prying him out as he kicked dust to try and get away.

A soldier pulled off her burqa to humiliate her and she screamed, covering her hair with her hands. He remembered that careworn face, the blazing orange eyes clouded by tears. His father came swiftly to take her back into the house as Kors was put in a van. The soldiers made sure he got to a good family.

“Wake up!” His teacher shouted.

---

He found himself back in that bus, far from that strange, dusty country. As the buildings of the capital cleared up, they reached a roundabout where there was a statue, so tall he had to peep out the bus window to see the hard, stern face kept a pristine white by dedicated cleaners.

The teacher raised her arms like a shaman, barking “This is Chairman Gore, the wisest man in the world, slayer of capitalism, death to werewolves! He made us prosper, with every man able to afford a hut, a chicken leg at every meal, and two bicycles in every garage! Gore was a God sent to the world with the message of glorious communism!”

At that second, the morning gloom seemed to part, and Gore was cast in brilliant gold light. Kors Belin knew what he was going to be now. Even in fire and in ice, through the fall of earth and the roaring of air, that would not deter Kors from rising to the ranks of Commissar-Chairman. Someday, he would have his own roundabout with a proud statue, a testament to a great and wise rule.

He imagined having the power to send his enemies to the windswept island of Karbati, the wisdom to make Xylonia greater and stronger than even Gore left it. But what did he want most of all?

The power to finally see his mother again, to see those worn orange eyes that blazed in his mind.

Eighteen Years Old (2010)

Kors muttered his graduation speech under his breath. Mindlessly, he wandered around his hotel room. He hated the fact he was valedictorian. Grr... Argh... he thought as he kept slipping on syllables. He knew Arabic was his mother tongue, that this Xylonian alphabet was so hard to read left-right. He sighed and spewed Arabic profanities into the mirror. He mixed them into his speech, lo and behold he did not slip on even one syllable. He sped it up and slowed it down, but the speech remained perfect.

He put them into his speech as 'inspirational quotes' from 'Jaheman poets'. He entered the graduation area with a somewhat evil smirk, and gave a rousing speech that is too profane to commit to paper. After he was done, the room burst into cheers. His teachers congratulated him on his 'eloquent language', when a sharp voice came up behind him.

"Hello!" A gray haired man with a proud nose walked up to him, his left eye a milky white. "I'm Jorun Nars."

"Speaker of the Politburo?"

"Yes." He replied. "Can we walk?"

"I guess so." Kors answered. They both entered into a crisp afternoon that smelled of sweet petrichor

"That was a brilliant speech. And rather... sexual in nature." Nars said. Kors' face was white. Nars had called him out on all the words he had sneaked into the graduation speech.

"I'm sorry!" Kors overreacted, his eyes furrowed with worry. He had heard rumors of people going missing for angering government officials.

"No. You should be proud. I must imagine it's hard to adapt to Xylonian. You creatively solved your problems, pushed the boundaries, and got it all right in the end. That's the kind of men we need in the party today." He smiled. "I am offering you for selection."

In this moment, all Kors could think was those bright eyes, burning orange like the desert at sunrise, orange like flames, orange eyes that belonged to his mother. Could he finally meet her again?

[The Xylonian Union]

South Suyin loomed vast and terrifying over Ebharji’s head, tower after tower lit in red and the receding corners of them were in dark shadows. But this seemed big and glorious to him, the reassuring blanket of communism was wrapped around him. He looked at the red fireworks roaring across the skies. Then he came to a somber but yet gladdening realization.

This was under the same red sky that Radiatians ate Greasy Joe’s at noon, Brownites protested in the afternoon, Tuthinans prepared for tea in the morning. And tomorrow, he would get to meet a delegation of some of those countries. He wanted to know their culture, their likes and dislikes, food, traditions, and ideals.

He looked east to a jetty that was illuminated brightly, the Xylonian World Fair with fear-racking rides, varied food stands, and a vast platform for the foreign students that would come.

---

Mujin Maharyn was sorting his instruments. He had heard that a child of an unspecified leader was coming to the fair, and so he had to prepare to serve the Xylonian cause. Too many Commissar-Chairmen were willing to merge Xylonia into the unholy Confederation of Socialist States, making it lose the sacred link to Tengra. Tengra was his caretaker, the god of all true Xylonians, not the pale Poldanian half-breeds in Aust Costa and the fake Xylonians in the Kush who worshiped that demonic Allah instead of Tengra and his children. His goal was simple, find the child, take him hostage, and free him on Kors Belin's resignation, putting Tentusyn Khayan in power. Khayan told him Tengra would wish it, and so he planned.

---

Kors Belin stood in the doorway to his garden, sipping his tea. He loved the introversion of pulling weeds, slicing them up, and using it as natural fertilizer like his adoptive father taught him. It was hard, patient work for a hard and patient man. As he sipped, he mused on the prospects of the nation. it could emerge as a viable alternative to imperialistic Radiatia, uniting all countries of different socialist ideals under one banner. But he also knew that at any second, Xylonia's fragile rise could burst if a nationalist rebellion were to occur. It would start in Norvia, cutting off Suyin by land and rendering his military communications as slow and ineffective. He wanted to pull Xylonia toward a more free path, but the nationalists would block him. They knew their power was in Norvia, and Norvia alone. with an election, their representation would be shattered by popular will. Kors shook his head and got back to grinding clovers.

[Segland]

Pursuit of Happiness

---

Zentowa, Kaanpata Province

It was a dull, overcast October day, and the monotonous drone of Speaker propaganda pierced the cold air. Nthale Afolayan, his arm strewn across his face in an attempt to dispel the frigid gusts, shuffled with difficulty towards a large glass revolving door.

The particular apartment complex to which he was heading had been hastily constructed after the Communist seizure of power as part of the Supreme Chancellor's new infrastructure plan. Levi's doctrine ordered three actions to be simultaneously undertaken - survey, plan, and construct. Members of the Communist Party were allotted spaces in the new apartments, with the standard population forced into crowded townships and communes.

As he entered the complex, Nthale's eyes darted nervously around the lobby, for what he was about to do was risky. There was a collection box atop a faux mahogany chest-of-drawers, where residents of the building were required to drop off one-fifth of their monthly wages. This was one of the few taxes imposed upon Party members.

Nthale had been told by a friend of his that his sister's family was starving and in terrible condition. They, unlike Nthale, lived in a poverty-stricken township outside of Zentowa. And he refused to let them die.

So, going completely against the Oath of Allegiance to the Communist Party and State in which he had renounced all loyalty to his family, he began hacking away at the wooden box. When it finally split open, hundreds of stan were revealed. He quickly grabbed a substantial stack of the bills and headed back out the door. He'd be able to save his sister and her children, and no one would ever know that he had stolen the money - or so he thought.

For the State knows all.

---

Mbutanke Township, Kaanpata Province

Even in the dingy environment of Mbutanke, the pulsating vitality of the Seglandic people could not help but be felt.

Nthale strode across a wide dirt path that ran parallel to a murky river. It was on this road that his sister lived, but it would not be easy to find her dwelling. Hundreds of townspeople milled about, some smoking cigarettes, some talking about the Lottery, others still bartering for goods.

He singled out a random bystander and made the necessary inquiry.

"Excuse me, sir, do you know where Sauda Afolayan currently resides?" he asked politely in Afwanda, the most common tribal language in North Segland and the primary method of street-talk.

The man looked startled by Nthale's appearance, unused to the regulation haircut and lack of facial hair. But he quickly regained his composure.

"Ooh, yes, Sauda," the man repeated, chuckling. "Very pretty. Too bad she also very sick, eh? I believe you may find her in the medical tent."

"Oh, nooo..." Nthale moaned quietly. He spotted a large tent in the distance and jogged towards it, not even thanking the man who had told him the location of his sister.

A soldier stood guard at the entrance to the tent, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. When Nthale showed him his Party identification card, the soldier nodded and allowed him in. There were at least 30 people laying on uncomfortable-looking cots. It would take some time to find Sauda.

Or perhaps not. An attendant stood over a middle-aged woman, her features strikingly similar to those of Nthale - but she was far skinnier. In fact, she was barely composed of anything more than bone.

Nthale's eyes widened, and he rushed over to his sister. His face softened, deeply saddened by her pathetic condition.

"Sauda..." he murmured, and she weakly turned her head towards him. The attendant left, acknowledging Nthale's presence.

"I have money. There's still hope," he said.

"There's no hope left for me," she replied.

"Think of your children!" Nthale insisted, his voice rising. He couldn't help but be angered by his sister's apparent disregard for recovering and raising her family.

"You can...deal with the kids. Before I die...sing for me."

He looked at his sister strangely, but he understood the request. When they were children, growing up in a small village, he used to sing old Seglandic songs to her. Suddenly, he remembered her favorite.

"Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement's.

You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.

When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

Chop chop chop chop
The last man's dead!"

"Thank you, Nthale...I love you." Those were the final words of Sauda Afolayan. There was a sharp crack, and her head rolled back slightly, revealing a gaping hole in her neck. Nthale took a sharp breath out of surprise, and he slowly turned around.

At the entrance of the tent, there were three armed men in black clothing and masks. One of them was still pointing his gun at Sauda. Another was interviewing the soldier who had let Nthale inside.

"Stay where you are, wrong-thinker. Do not move," commanded an intimidating baritone. Nthale couldn't see where the voice was coming from, and he balled his fists in anger over his sister's murder. However, he didn't move. There was no point in fighting the government - his monetary theft had been discovered.

A fourth man, a white one, entered the tent. The other three stood at attention as he walked past them. Smirking ever so slightly, he walked up to Nthale. He knew, for the first time, that he was looking with knowledge at a member of the Secret Police.

The officer looked directly at Nthale. "I suppose you know that you're under arrest for theft. Oh, and while we're at it, 'Here comes a candle to light you to bed; here comes a chopper to chop off your head!'"

---

Somewhere in Zentowa

After being arrested, Nthale had been blindfolded and driven in a van to a secret location. He guessed that it was somewhere in Zentowa, perhaps underground, beneath the city headquarters of some ministry. He was then shoved into a dimly lit cell, his blindfold removed, and the door locked.

Hours passed. No, perhaps they were days - there was no real way of knowing. But at some point, a detention officer entered his cell and dragged him out.

"You're going to the Room," the officer informed him. Nthale shuddered. He had heard stories of "the Room", for it was where all the wrong-thinkers and criminals went. It was where they confessed to all their crimes and more. And, of course, it was where their nightmares came true.

When Nthale entered the Room, there were two men waiting for him - one burly, one old and lanky.

"Strap him down," the older one ordered, and the other man obeyed. Nthale was bound to a metal platform and made incapable of any movement whatsoever.

Two electrodes were attached to his nipples and genitals, and the old man picked up a dial.

"Please, no...no.....NO!" Nthale screamed as the first shocks began.

When pain begins, one can only wish for it to end. And so Nthale began confessing to every crime imaginable.

"I assassinated three Party officials! I molested five girls at a primary school! I bought luxuries for myself using public funds!"

He continued spewing out imaginary crimes, but the man merely turned the dial up, intensifying the electric current. The pain was indescribable.

Yet suddenly, without warning, the shock ended. Nthale was no longer in the Room. He was at a sunny beach on the Tressian Gulf, sipping at a sweet drink. He was reclining on a comfortable chair. He was happy.

The torturer's face grew contorted with anger. "Continue accounting for your crimes!" he yelled.

"The waves are nice, don't you think?" was Nthale's nonchalant reply.

"Damn it," the man muttered under his breath. He then directed his gaze towards the large, burly officer. "He's gone insane. Dispose of him."

The large man nodded and unstrapped Nthale, escorting him out of the premises.

Nthale had gone insane, but he was truly happy.

Perhaps insanity was the only path to happiness in a society fueled by hate.

[Sylvanea2]

Grand Admiral Matthew Cook KH VC DSO
Taunton Field Shipyards, 12km southeast of Stonepine, Sylvanea
Feabhra 4, 256 OTO

The old admiral let a small fit of coughs out, his wrinkled left hand covering his mouth for a few moments as the coughs racked his body. His right hand grabbed the black greatcoat that was wrapped around him and closed it tighter around his blue dress naval uniform, his chin briefly rubbing into the standing collar that was grasping his neck.

The winter winds were still in their high season, not due to die down for Sylvanea's short spring for another two months at least and out here on the northern waters, it was even worse then usual, but of course, that did not distract Matthew from this spectacular sight. He had served as the chief officer in the Navy for more then two decades and this view before him today was among the finest in his entire career. The Taunton Field shipyards was an ancient shipyard, and an ancient company. They were originally built, as far as anyone can tell, back in the sixteenth century, mostly because the sight was highly priced for it's unusually deep waters, which in turn allowed bigger ships to be constructed. When originally built, all of the Kingdom's top raters and man of wars were built here. As time moved on and the Field Maritime Company was established in 1850, the most magnificent steel warships were built here. Of course, as time went on, war failed to appear and so, business dried up. In 1965, the shipyards closed it's doors for the final time and the company moved further south to some smaller place to make tourism boats; the shipyard here and all of it's history, left to die. Until today.

Six months ago, the re-convened Parliament passed an emergency funding bill which re-directed the Treasury to forward the sum of some five hundred billion dollars towards the Royal Armed Forces; an amount never seen before in the history of the Kingdom. Struggles amongst the three branches began for the funding, but the Navy came out on top, perhaps because of it's long standing prestige. Tens of billions of dollars given to the Navy, and of course, what did it do with it? New ships, new refits, new prestige.

The Field Company had been called and a contract worth tens of billions had been issued and now, the largest shipyard possibly in southern Noctur was re-opened, and was operating at full capacity. All thirty two docks were now filled, hundreds if not thousands of workers milling around with steel, cranes and heavy machinery. Matthew could recognize a few of the ships, most of them were ships undergoing refits such as the H.M.S. Bastion, one of the last Macleod-class dreadnoughts in service with the Navy, which was undergoing a refit that was installing new boilers and stacks on her, which could be seen as two large cranes were fitting the new stacks on to the top of the bridge. Matthew continued to lean on the white railing, watching the work go about with a smile on his face. " It's a beautiful sight isn't it James?"

A younger man, in his mid-forties by the reckoning of his facial features, in a brown suit with a similarly colored greatcoat and scarf on walked from behind Matthew and soon joined him in watching the work, taking a spot to his left leaning. The man was James Cook, the long standing Secretary of the Navy and he was the man who had helped secure the new funding for the Navy. " Indeed it is Matthew; figured I'd find you down here, watching the first major naval overhaul this Navy's seen in nearly two decades."

" I'm surprised the Prime Minister authorized it; you and I both know he's a giant pacifist who would prefer to see the Navy consist of a dozen gunboats rather then capital ships and escorts."

" Don't remind me, I'm still pestering him to approve a Phase II of Project Destination"

Matthew turned his head and presented James with a small grin and then pointed with his slightly shaking left hand at a ship under construction near the far end of the yard, it's keel completed as well as lower superstructure, it was just barely recognizable as a carrier to the trained eye " Then what do you call that Secretary? There's two more like it as well."

James let out a small grin, fully aware that he had slipped in a order for three more carriers in the contract, but hoped to see if Matthew saw them already " Yes, well, just testing your eyes. Reminds me, your Yeoman pass you along the details of the contract?"

" Aye he did; mighty ambitious, refitting all of the Type 94 cruiser's like that. I personally do not mind the addition of more VLS cells with the loss of a gun turret, but where do you think they're going to be able to build fifteen of the new buggers, as well as five new Vickers?"

" Well as you can see Taunton's been re-opened, so has Redmyre down south which allows us to fully refit and pump the new ships in with the smallest delay. Of course, I originally was pushing for more Type 94's, seeing as I think they're a far superior escort then the Vickers, but Prime Minister Reed wants us to start a project to find a replacement for them. "

" Replacement for the Lords-class? Good bloody luck with that, it'd be like trying to get the Navy billions in new funding"

[ArghNeedAName]

FBEC Report on the election debate:
The six party leaders met in Carencaster for a 90 minute televised debate. The central topic of the debate was the formation of the next government, which was discussed for the first half-hour, before the debate then moved on to other topics, such as social programs, law enforcement and relations with Radiatia. Mark Robinson affirmed that the Coalition would seek reelection together, but he would consider working with Labour if the coalition failed to win a working majority. By contrast, Robert Michaelson said that his three-party Alliance would form a government as long as they won a majority, even if it were slim. He said he would only join a grand coalition "if the Reformist Party was to become a different party to the one which governs us today."

In a surpise move, David Gellert said that was "entirely willing" to enter a confidence and supply agreement with a Labour-led government, because he is "uneasy about the level of austerity measures being implemented by the government". However, Michaelson responded by saying that he would not accept any cooperation with the PDV. Gellert told Michaelson that "this is a statement you will live to regret", saying that Michaelson was missing out on a useful future ally. The Prime Minister agreed, saying that he had personally disliked the PDV's "demagoguery" but that "we had no other way of forming a government that could deliver the change the voters wanted." He also said that while he intends to continue the controversial coalition with the PDV, "we still are uneasy about certain aspects of their agenda".

A Tribune poll narrowly judged Robert Michaelson to be the winner of the debate, with 39%, compared to 37% for Robinson. Both men defended their respective platforms and positions ably, but neither scored a knockout blow. The debate was clearly dominated by the Prime Minister and the opposition leader. The third-highest rated performance was by Gellert, with 10% believing he had won the debate. Polls have shown a boost for the left-wing coalition; having previously been tied, the left-wing Alliance are now leading the Coalition by 1-2 percentage points in the latest three sets of opinion polls. They may also have been lifted by the recent controversy over Roger Sheare's parliamentary expenses. However, the difference remains within the margin of error.

[Tuthina]

“Pick up your sword and continue.”

The looming figure slowly approached in front of her fleeting gaze. The sturdy wooden sword was held tightly in his large, rough palms as its dulled tip slowly rose before her soaked eyes. She had long since stopped to count how many times its dark blade landed on her immature, feeble body, leaving behind a trail of red bruises on her pastel white skin and a memory of pain in her unrefined mind.

Despite the vast differences between their social ranks, the duo shared the same humble clothes in cool colour—a pair of plain, blue-black trousers that was loose enough to allow them to move swiftly, and a dark blue robe that covered their upper body. Unlike the traditional clothing in Tuthinan culture, the sleeves were tightened to allow easier use of various tools and armament, including the wooden swords in their hands. Beneath such archaic garment, though, a skin-tight, elastic garment could be seen covering every inch of the inch between the neck, wrist and ankle, carefully crafted and coloured so that even with a loose garment like that, a casual observer would not be able to tell its existence.

While it was one of the engineering marvels of the Empire, designed to be a second skin against elements that would otherwise devastate one’s body, hours of rigorous activity were not exactly comfortable for her as her sweats accumulated between her natural skin and her artificial one. The man, on the other hand, was barely breaking a sweat, once again demonstrating the insurmountable difference in skill and strength between them.

At the opposite side of the barely-illuminated room, a man in his middle age was looking at them quietly. Unlike them, the clothes on his body were anything but plain. Made of several layers of smooth, expensive material and various shades of red, green and orange, the orange-pink robe that covered all his clothes indicated his serene position as the heir to the Empire. Although it was obvious that such formal garment was incredibly cumbersome and impractical in a swordfight, by his waist a set of swords could be seen resting in their dark, gold-lined sheath. Several servants—most of them being young male and female—stood beside him, either holding recording scrolls and ink brush, or simply fans to relive him of the heat coming from both the stiff indoor air and the heavy garments.

“But—”

“Pick up your sword and continue.”

The chirping voice of the girl was, once again, cut short by the authoritative voice of the towering man. None of the crying seemed to have any effect on him, like the tweedling bird trying to move solid rock, failing even as the tire had turned it hoarse. Even with the long strap of cotton cloth wrapped tightly around her palms for protection, the restless and endless fight still left its eternal marks on her palms.

Reluctantly, the girl slowly rose from her knees. She mustered the last bits of strength in her tattered body to stand against the old man in front of her. Already having a large build compared with most men in the realm, the imposing shape of the bald man easily dwarfed the undeveloped body of his opponent, giving a not-so-subtle hint that she would not be able to win with all the chance in the world.

However, everyone knew that was not an acceptable answer. She haltingly adjusted her breath and once again returned to her proper stance. Both of her hands, soaking in her bodily fluid, held the hilt tightly. Her feet stood firmly onto the wooden floor, the right foot standing slightly in front of her torso, and the left slightly behind. Then, with a tired, yet determined glare against him, the girl raised the blade in her hands over her long, black hair. From the deepest depth of her body, she emitted a guttural cry, as she drew close to him, releasing all of her inner strength in a raging dash towards the giant.

The eyes on the wrinkled, frozen face of the man, however, were clearly not satisfied by that despite her best effort. With a quick glance upon her body, he effortlessly step aside her path, while the wooden sword swiftly flowed by his right side. Then, almost as if it was a deliberately engineered choreography, he used his left leg as leverage and propelled the long blade sideways, directly onto the unprotected waist of the charging girl. Without any hesitation or restraint, the solid dark wood embedded itself into her loose blue robe and the elastic suit beneath. While strong and capable of absorbing a surprising amount of force, neither of her skin was ready for such a decisive blow, as her weightless body immediately stopped in front of it, before the rest of the slash pushed her off the ground, making a thud as she landed on the hard ground.

Without missing a beat, the tip of the wooden sword quickly delivered another blow against the exposed ankles. Panicked, she swung the blade with the lingering strength in it in an attempt to block the painful blow. However, the immense pain spread from within her stomach to her entire body was more than enough to cripple her move. Looking every bit of the awry expression on her smooth, unworked face, the man quickly finished the move with two smooth blows landing right on each ankle, before a final blow forcefully releasing the sword in her hand, flushing her body and mind with waves of pain as it manifested itself in another high-pitched cry.

“Heels off the ground. Manoeuvre with but a single point of contact with the ground.” His repeating instruction did not entered the mind of the girl, as her teeth sunk deeply onto her pink lips, trying to reduce the immense pain built in her body triggered by the continued blows on it. Knowing her well, the elder made her focus her attention once more with a simple, yet very solid tap on the wooden ground with his sword. As soon as the sound entered her ears, she instinctively pulled herself from the pain and sat on the ground. She then turned towards him, with her moistened eyes filled with fear and pleads.

“Pick up your sword and continue.”

He commanded again in spite of her sorry expression. Her bruised hand picked up the wooden sword once more, but instead of complying with his order, she finally rebelled as she tossed it against him. As he instinctively blocked it with his sword, she climbed from the floor and hastily run from him and towards the man in vermilion red robe, desperately seeking for help.

“Help me, daddy!” She cried as she tried to take refuge behind him and the servants, who were at a loss what to do. By contrast, the old man smoothly lowered his blade to guide the thrown wooden sword onto the wooden ground. Then, he turned to the fleeing girl and the man in between. His intense brown eyes glared at the girl hiding behind the heir, before turning his attention to him. The stiff air within the training room almost immediately froze as soon as they looked each other in the eye; neither of the servants or the girl dared to interrupt the heir and the authoritative elder before him. Without muttering a single sound, their connection in blood was more than enough to allow them to converse.

“We think you might have better things to attend, our son.” The man in blue broke the silence first, as he commanded his son in red to step aside. However, at the same time, the fingers of his daughter clung tightly into his loose sleeves, slightly pulling him to her side.

“I, I will be good, father…”

“I know.” He sighed, before turning back to his father. Despite being a full-grown adult with a relatively well-built body, he was clearly the disadvantaged side. Despite wielding a real sword and considerable authority in the entire Empire, the man before him was clearly more imposing despite wearing a plain garment and a humble wooden sword. “I do not mean to interrupt, father, but she is clearly fatigued from the training. Would it not be better if she is allowed to recover for later training?”

“I do not remember raising you feeble.” The old man answered as he stopped his steps a few feet before him, staring into his eyes. “And enemy will not wait until you recover. Step aside.”

“Please, please don’t! I’ll never be a bad girl again!”

“Time for us is not infinite. We do what we must to fulfil our responsibilities, and so should you, and your heir.” Silence loomed over them once more, as only the rapid heartbeats of him and his daughter could be heard. The old man, on the other hand, quietly waited for their answer with the tip of his sword slowly embedding itself into the wooden plank floor.

For the girl, it was like eternity until she felt the hands of her father gently laid upon her shivering shoulder. However, the faint sense of security vanished when the same hand slowly pushed her from his body and towards the old man. The wide-eyed face, now dotted with sweats and tears, had no effects on the stern expression on the face of her mentor.

“But, but…”

“It will be improper for me to stay further in the expense of my role. Please excuse me for leaving before the end of the session.” The heir said in a clear, even voice as he bowed to his father. His servants, despite the subtle hints of their emotions, followed suit, before escorting their master from the training room, leaving the old man and the daughter alone.

“I, I promise I’ll not be a bad girl again! Please don’t leave daddy!” In desperation, the girl cried to the shadow of the man passing through the sliding door. However, her voice was not enough to stop them from disappearing from the other side of the doorway, and her shaking feet stood still on the ground, as if they were permanently glued to the floor. As the wooden door slammed itself shut, she reluctantly lowered her head and nodded, before turning back to her mentor.

A sudden, powerful slap to her soft and slightly rounded face almost immediately threw her onto the ground once more, its sound echoed across the hall as her hand covered the bright, red mark manifesting on her pastel white skin. Despite expecting it, the pain still made her eyes flooded. She quietly moaned while the old man approached her once more. He grabbed her by the wrist where the bandages and the rubber undergarment met, forcefully making her stand on her feet again. The difference in height, as well as her body struggling to keep straight, meant she was barely tiptoeing towards the dropped sword until she was released. Like a puppet with the strains cut off, the girl softly fell on her knees before it. With another heavy tap onto the ground, she almost instinctively straightened her body and sat in the proper way.

“Given enough time, any man can master the physical; given enough knowledge, any man can become wise. However, a truly worthy warrior must not only master both, but to integrate, synthesise them. For that, you must become one with your weapon, your sword. You must treat it as if your life clings to it, as it often can be.” The old man lectured, before raising his wooden sword. As before, it swiftly landed onto the shoulder of the sitting girl, her exhausted body struggling not to be forced down onto the ground by the sheer force and pain. “And that is NOT how you treat your sword! Your companion!”

“I—I’m sorry!” She cried in response, her fingers clenched into the cloth of her wetted trousers.

“… as one who bears the imperial blood, the one who herd all nobles and commoners alike under the imperial banner, they look up to you for your protection and guidance. If you treat your very sword like it is nothing but disposable, they will not entrust their live on you. Then, you will be truly powerless.” The girl nodded in succession as the man continued. In her mind, though, none of the words he said truly echoed within her skull—it was already preoccupied by the endless pain and tire, and the only thing that seemed to stop them from overwhelming her entirely was to follow every single word the adults said regardless of anything.

“Pay attention!” Another blow to her shoulders once again reminded her of that, though the numbness succeeded in stopping her from crying out again.

“Yes, mister! I’m sorry!”

“Apologise to your sword for disappointing it.” The man concluded with an order, which she immediately complied by prostrating to the sword laid before her. The posture continued for a while before another tap—one that was gentler—on the shoulder signalled her to raise her face from the wetted floor.

“We hope you have learnt your lesson, our young.”

“Yes, yes I’ve… I have. I am sorry for my immature action.” The girl answered in the calmest voice possible, quickly wiping her face of all the remaining droplets. “I—I promise I will not resort to it again.”

“Pick up your sword and continue.”

[Segland]

(THIS POST IS NOT YET COMPLETE)

The Last Mile

---

Part 1: The Needle and the Necropolis

---

It was a pleasure to kill.

There was something primitively gratifying in the act of ending a person's life. With the cold instrument of death in his hands, his eyes burnt flame-red with bloodlust, and his movements were those of a carefree ballerina dancing to the macabre tune of hell. As he proceeded down the hallway, his polished black boots clunked down on the hardwood floor in perfect mathematical coordination. His palms, rough and worn from years of labor, caressed the trigger gently. Their thirst for action would be quenched soon enough. He put his hand to the last door in the hallway and knocked.

A few seconds' wait. Nothing. He knocked again.

"This is Ray Huxley, federal agent. Open up." Again, no answer.

The door was thrown violently to the ground as Huxley plunged his foot into it. No one could hide from the Custodian Agency.

The room was empty at first glance, but Huxley knew the smugglers' tricks. He threw a table aside, shattering several vases in the process. A small boy, no older than six, was revealed. Instinctively, Huxley aimed his tube gun and fired. The weapon's needle embedded itself in the boy's neck, injecting its venomous contents automatically. The child shook violently for a moment, and then he made no movement at all.

Huxley continued on his course through the dwelling, unaffected by the murder he had just committed. After all, it was his job to kill people. And he enjoyed it.

He strode through the apartment like a malevolent shadow, ripping open doors, tearing up papers, and ransacking rooms. It only took a few minutes of searching until he located the smuggler.

A rather fragile-looking man peered out from a closet. Huxley whirled around on him with his gun drawn, but he didn't fire.

"So the stories are true," the man mused.

"What's it to you? You're a dead man," replied Huxley.

"I suppose so. But why?"

"What do you mean, 'Why'?"

"Why do you all want to wipe out normal people? People who live and breathe just like you?"

At this, Huxley gave the man a hard slap across the face.

"Wake up to reality, fool! The Custodian Agency merely exists to purify our world. If this country is a dirty dish, then the Agency is the soap and sponge which seeks to make it clean again. The things which you smugglers seek to hide and 'protect' are subhumans. Animals. Genetic mistakes."

"Even if that were true, we should still integrate them into society; at the very least, tolerate them!"

"The black man has no place in the white man's world! It is for the same reason that we must also exterminate homosexuals and communists. And, of course, criminals like yourself."

"I am not a criminal! I am a freedom fighter!"

"You fight for nothing but your own inevitable death."

"Then I am a martyr also!"

Huxley considered this statement briefly. "You're not a martyr if you have no cause to die for." He then pulled the trigger and let the needle fly.

[ArghNeedAName]

FBEC Election Night Broadcast:
On the night after the election, the party list votes are counted. Thus the composition of the National Assembly is known by the end of the night. Each constituency will gradually declare their results. The results for the constituency representative votes and the Senate are counted later.
"Good evening and welcome to tonight's FBEC election night broadcast. Tonight we report the results of today's federal elections as they come in. Currently, the polls have predicted a tight race between the incumbent coalition of the Reformist, CDP and PDV parties and the left-wing opposition, consisting of the Labour, Socialist and Green parties. All in all, a very tight race?"

"Yes, thank you Alan. The time has now passed 10pm, meaning that polling stations will have closed by now. I expect that we should be getting our exit poll results in a few minutes?"

"Indeed. We will also be able to receive the turnout figures. We're not expecting turnout to be as high as in the last federal election, which saw turnout cross the 80% mark for the first time in 20 years. It is expected that some voters will be put off with the Reformists' failure to live up to their expectations, the fact the PDV had to compromise on their radical polices and the way that the opposition has played a relatively safe game. And here we have our first exit poll, which appears to be good news for the Alliance. The Left Alliance lead with exactly 50% of the vote, while the incumbent coalition take 45% of the vote."

"This would amount to a 30-seat majority for Michaelson?"

"Yep."

"What about the PDV? Hasn't it been noted that in the past that some voters are too 'ashamed' to admit they support David Gellert?"

"Well Tribune have studied long and hard about the 'reluctant PDV voter effect'. Many voters who support the PDV have been too ashamed to admit it when being interviewed by pollsters."

"I'd assume that after a few years now, the pollsters have studied this effect in detail and learnt how to properly gauge support for the PDV?"

"Yes Paul. We now have the results from the first constituency to declare their results. As with last year, this is Shipton-on-Sea. It's a predominantly left-leaning district, though in the last election, support for Labour was eroded by the PDV."

"Do they match the exit polls?"

"There has been a clear decline in support for the PDV. Their vote share has fallen from 24% to 18%, with some of it going to Labour and some of it going to the Reformists. This doesn't match the exit polls exactly, but comes pretty close."

"Thanks Alan. We've had another exit poll that puts the Alliance's lead at 4 percentage points, so slightly lower."

"We've just been set an estimate of how many people turned out to vote. It appears that turnout was 78%. Obviously not as good as last time round, and the cold-ish weather didn't help. But still pretty impressive, I have to say."

"The close race between the two coalitions has obviously set the electorate on fire. Not literally, of course."

"And our next set of results comes from Longstanton. Again, the Alliance have lost ground but not massively. The Reformists have actually done quite well here, increasing their vote share from 31% to 42%. The rural parts of Skundland were always a stronghold for the Free Republic Party. The PDV support looks like it's dropped below the threshold level though."

"Within Longstanton, this is less of a problem for David Gellert. The PDV are still forecast to win about 12% of the seats and this is consistent with the results we have had from various constituencies. And usually, polls tend to underestimate them."

...

"So our full exit poll details are as follows: Labour on 26%, Reformist on 25%, Socialist on 13%, PDV on 11%, Green on 11%, CDP on 9%. This gives the Alliance a clear lead."

"Right, but I was pointing out, the results in Bury don't fully match this. The polls predict a 5% swing against the coalition. What we saw in Bury jus now was more like a 3% swing against them."

"That's the Prime Minister's constituency. Obviously, he is going to have an advantage."

"But what about that constituency in Carrackia which has nothing to do with him? If you ask me, it looks like support for the Reformists is being underestimated, not the PDV. The PDV predictions have been quite consistent with our results."

"Right. Now so far, based on the figures which predict a turnout of 78%, Labour have won 76 seats, the Reformists have won 61, Socialists 38, PDV 33, Greens 35 and CDP 44. The Callic Unity Party also look on course to retain their representation. These figures will undoubtedly increase as more results come in."

"And the Senate?"

"The polls in the Assembly and Senate elections seem to line up. It doesn't look like any parties are in danger of failing to break the threshold in either election, thus they should both be similar."

...

"So to recap, the Alliance lead the Coalition currently by 274 seats to 259 seats but there still is enough room to change?"

"Yes. It takes less time to transport the ballot boxes in urban areas than rural areas and urban areas favour the left-wing parties, so considering that, it looks like the Coalition are doing better than expected."

"The results here from Marietta have shown very little change compared to last years results. Actually, the PDV have held to their support on quite well in Quirmland. We calculate that there has only been a swing of about 2% against the Coalition here."

"And now we have the results from Chechester & Arnham, David Gellert's constituency. The constituency votes have not been calculated yet. In the last election, David Gellert won the constituency seat, even though the Reformists actually won more party list votes than the PDV in terms of list votes."

"The results in Chechester & Arnham show the Reformists leading with 33%, against the PDV with 26% and Labour with 20%."

...

"This is clearly getting tense, Paul. It takes 90,000 votes to win a seat, right? We calculate that the Alliance are leading the coalition with 291 seats compared to the Coalition's 282 seats. Most of the constituencies which have not yet declared their results yet yet appear to be mainly rural ones which will give Robinson a significant advantage."

"How strong an advantage?"

"I'm not sure. You wil note that in Bornia and Gypusia, there wasn't that much swing against the Reformists?"

"They gained seats."

"Yes they did, but only as a results of ."

...

"After adding up the Flyford-Gaydon results, that actually brings the Coalition onto the level of the Alliance. They both have 293 seats each. The Callic Unity Party, not alligned with either bloc, have 3 seats."

"What an impressive comeback for the Coalition! Those exit polls suggested he was toast!"

"Well the exit polls got it wrong! vRobinson is leading. Looks on course to win if you ask be. We have results in from Nassia - that's two constituencies worth of results. That adds an extra seat onto the Reformists' count though not enough for Labour to gain any seats."

"What about the results from Cheppington Hills? Did they get added onto it?"

"That was actually from a pro-Reformist district."

"Do you seriously think Robinson will win this, Alan?"

"Yes, of course."

...

"And the last four constituencies have declared their results."

"So how many seats are left? Was it 5?"

"4 actually. And it looks like the final results are...302 for the Coalition, 295 for the Alliance and 3 for the CUP. So the right-wing Coalition have won a majority, albeit only one of 4 seats."

"2 seats?"

"4 seats. They hold 302 seats, the opposition hold 298. The difference between them is 4, right?"

"Okay. So...well done to the Prime Minister, I guess."

"Not quite. It seems doubtful that Mark Robinson will want to continue the current Coalition if their majority is going to be that small. We cut to an announcment."

Citizens of the United Provinces! I would like to thank you for your support in this difficult and challenging election campaign. It appears that our government is on course to win a majority of seats in both chambers. However, it should be noted that the majority is expected to be narrow, possibly too narrow to be workeable. For this reason, at the expense of possibly being criticised by our base, the Reformist Party will view alternative options first, such as a 'grand coalition' with Labour or a coalition which includes one of the minor left-wing parties. If this fails, I myself will also consider calling a second general election which would take place in March next year, once the winter is over.

"And here's a speech from the opposition leader."

As leader of the Labour Party, it is my disappointment to concede that our party and our two allies appear to have failed to win control of Parliament. Possibly recounts and adjustments will reverse this, but it seems unlikely that the results have been changed. I would like to thank all our supporters, members and activists, those who helped the Labour Party and our two allies run an effective campaign. It is unfortunate that we did not fully achieve our goal, but we have at least reduced the Coalition's majority to one which the Prime Minister concedes is 'unworkable'. We will not rule out entering a 'grand coalition' with the Reformists if it prevents them from continuing their coalition with the PDV.

[Tuthina]

The interior of an armoured personnel carrier was always dark, crowded and filled with the unbearable stretch of sweat and other bodily fluid, especially for something that was designed and first built more than half a century ago, when comfort was not on the first few pages of priority. The sound of the engine, roaring right beyond the left hand of the driver, separated by just a thin aluminium plate, echoed inside its compartment, once again suggesting it was running a lot longer and faster than it was expected to. Metals colliding with each other, squelching noises that should not be… it was as if the engine could explode any second, with its rusted components flying through the paper-thin armour and digging new holes for the personnel it was supposed to protect.

However, there was a lot more to worry about outside the foil, as the tracked vehicle soldiered on along the deserted motorway buried in the temperate woods of the Northern Island. The blood covering the armour, long exposed to air and dried, painted the vehicle in a dark-red, almost black stain, joining in the mixed scent of the stiffed air inside and made one question if it was truly air-tight as it was advertised.

“Are—are we there yet?” A shivering voice, one belonging to a young male, attempted to break the dominating ambient sound. He was a young boy, probably barely through the puberty, with a smooth and unwashed face that did not really suit the green military uniform he hastily put on his body less than a day ago. It, like the carrier, was marked by patches of dried-up blood, suggesting how wrong things became in such a short notice of time. His hands, still shivering from fear and worries, hold tight to a dated semi-automatic rifle that was assigned to him, and maybe his father or his father before, trying to scrap any comfort from the old and trusty wood.

Sitting at the opposite side of the compartment was a man probably in his prime. He was a towering man with a well-built body, no doubt the result of years of rigorous training and exercise, to the point he had to lower his head to barely fit in this tin can in the world of military vehicle. Maintaining the same posture of crossing his arms in silence, he was not planning to break his silence just for the untrained boy. Instead, he barely turned towards the other young reserve sitting between the boy and the driver hatch.

“Um… Nisimura?” The girl, roughly at the same age as the boy, noticed the one sitting behind the wheels and mostly obscured by the radio equipment from the rest of the crew. The only response she got was an inaudible murmur, made only worse by the static noise and the engine sound. However, somehow she managed to interpret it as a meaningful answer to the boy.

“Probably still ten miles away, maybe more…” She turned to the boy and smiled, her tainted palm resting on his shoulder, giving him a gentle pat—her another arm was fixed in place by tainted bandages that, after wrapping around her arm, hold it somewhat in place with another strap across her neck. “We don’t have the leisure to go out and check the map, after all.”

“Uhm… thank you.” The boy answered quietly, as his instinct raised his hand towards her, but soon decided against it. The crew was soon consumed by silence once more, as the hand slipped from his shoulder and return to her empty stomach.

It was barely half a day ago when all that happened. All hell—literally—broke loose. No one knew when, how, or why it happened, and no one could tell what was going on in the entire Empire of Tuthina, let alone rest of the world. All they knew was that the dead finally woke from their supposedly eternal slumber, and was trying to bring the living into it in the process.

Village by village, town by town, state by state, country by country, the entire world was soon overrun by the walking dead. Some resorted to prayers; some resorted to the guns in their closet; some desperately trying every drug found in the local pharmacy; and yet some more decided it was better dead than to be killed. None of them seemed to work in the long run, though, as the lights of civilisation flicked out one by one, masking the land of the dead with an appropriate shroud. As night descended upon the realm, the dead had outnumbered the still-living, and the forbidden decision was made.

The sacred arrows of the gods, as one once put them, rained across the realms of the humans and their kin to purge the world of the plague and the horde. Fires brighter than hotter than the almighty sun itself were ignited on the material world, exorcising the dead and the living alike without differentiation. As a weapon created to bring death to the enemy, and later a weapon built to warn against its very use, it soon became the only salvation the finger on the big red button saw.

The arrows of the gods, forged by the hands of men, were not enough, though. There were barely enough warheads in the region to turn the entire realm into wasteland, let alone the other realms. As the lush-green forest outside the hatch could attest, life still flourished after the supposed end-of-the-world.

And so did the unlife.

“When, when will it end…” The boy muttered to himself, despite knowing the answer already.

“It is irrelevant.” The man finally broke the silence, as his deep, firm voice interrupted his hour-long mourning. “Commander Kobayakaha had given his order, and as the loyal defender of the Emperor and His Empire, we should concern ourselves with only the mission we are given.”

“We will reach the Imperial Castle, and we will relate the response the commander could not.” He assured his few subordinates. “And THEN we will concern ourselves with minor details, preferably behind the impenetrable defence of the castle.”

He gave what was supposed to be a snarky smile to them. After all, the Imperial Castle of Sakan was, at least before the advent of modern weaponry, the most fortified position in the entire region, and was still among them even after men managed to harness the power of destruction thanks to the decade-long expansion of its defence platforms. Designed to keep the God-Emperor of all humanity safe, if even the castle fell, then nothing in the world would protect anyone anyway.

“I, I certainly hope… sir.” The boy answered, trying his best to either be positive or react to the expression of his superior in any negative way. After all, it was hard enough not to be disabled by fear after what the entire team had gone through—from the besieged shrine to the motorway, and then to the base of the Strategic Rockets Forces. The death had taken its toll on everyone, dead or alive. For all they knew, they were probably already dead back there, with only borrowed time still waiting to be caught on to finally end all these, if the fate of commander Kobayakaha and—subsequently, his staff—was of any indication.

The road became rougher and rougher, with the sounds of heavy objects colliding with the aluminium foil becoming part of the recurring background noise of the carrier. Each impact strained the ancient engine a bit more, and the increasing cracklings from beneath seemed to suggest the other parts of the vehicle were not holding up well either. As another, rather large bump from in front shook the carrier, the leader released his tattered arms and reached for the assault rifle resting beside him on a half-filled crate of ammunition. Perhaps sporting his action, the boy’s right hand clenched onto the wooden stock as well. However, at the same time his left hand moved onto the soft hand that comforted him before, and gave it a reassuring grip.

“Nisimura?” The man asked, and was soon answered by a few cough, one that was enough to put all three of them on guard. However, the figure behind the equipment tried to assure them it was still fine, as a black-tinted hand shook from the cramped seat.

“Everything’s fine… I’ll keep them under control.” The driver said, before being interrupted by several more coughs, hopefully caused by the engine’s smoke that started to leak in. The rugged terrain beyond the motorway clearly did not do well to the struggling vehicle, despite it being designed to withstand such—possibly the side effect of running over hundreds, if not thousands men’s worth of rotten flesh. As another loud thud from the engine compartment swept through them, the man sighed.

“Listen, you two rookies.” He slowly filled his pockets with spare ammunition, and then a few sticks of grenades around his belt. “When this iron scrap fails, I want you two to carry on to your mission. If we are anywhere near the castle, then you should be able to see it even without following the road.”

“Yes, yes sir!” The young duo hastily gave the man a bow, the standard form of salute in the Imperial military and its reserve.

“Nisimura and I should draw them away for a while. It’s a bit hard to believe, but they are dumber than Radskies with fat for brain, so a few explosions should distract them for minutes.” He laughed, giving the thin armour a few solid pat. The loud sound alone seemed to suggest a heavier punch would be able to penetrate its rear armour.

“Stop banging my car. Only I can do that.” Nisimura complained, which was prompted ignored. The leader, after packing the last clip of ammo, reached for the rugged backpack beside, and pulled out a pack of cigarette. Although considered the lowest form of recreational drug, such a compact relieve still gathered a sizeable fan base among the commoners and in the military as well, as he handed a stick of it to the boy.

“C’mon. Today’s exception.” He grinned to the boy, who was apparently loss of words to what he should say first. After waiting for a few seconds, the man retracted the cigarette and took it himself. With a crude lighter he lit its tip up. Taking a deep breath with it, he added another layer of smoke to those produced by the dying engine.

“You’ll never get a girl that way.” The man said, despite the girl practically glued to the boy’s side staring at him. Before she could complain, though, a last, loud bump finally stopped the vehicle. Following the sound of several metal plates falling off, white smokes entered the compartment before leaking out from the trim vane. The scream of agony from the driver soon followed, as was the sound of fists hitting the wheels and some other control apparatus.

“Are you guys ready?” The man’s firm hand got a hold onto the lever at the rear, grinning as he slide his finger onto the trigger. “Let’s roll.”

[Segland]

The Glory of the Seglandic Economic Machine
A sketch featured on the wildly popular late night State Media show "The Petrus Haak Show"

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A healthy and productive Seglandic man has just woken up to the wonderful sound of factories being constructed around his apartment complex.

Elbert: "Ah, what an excellent morning in our glorious People's Republic! I wonder what I am supposed to do today..."

He walks over to his calendar.

Elbert: "Hooray! Today is work day! Time to be a loyal and productive member of our Agrarian-Industrial Socialist Utopia!"

Elbert hops onto his standard-issue People's Bicycle and pedals off to the Greasy Joe's where he works. His boss, Wouter, welcomes him.

Wouter: "Quick! Get to the deep-fryers; we have a long queue of hungry factory workers to whom we must serve our high-quality Faransian fries."

Elbert: "Ah, but first, I shall order myself some food. I am rich, thanks to years of toiling away!"

Wouter: "Then perhaps I can interest you in our Party-only menu..."

Elbert: "I will have the whale burger."

Wouter: "We are out of the whale burger. Perhaps I can interest you in dolphin nuggets?"

Elbert: "Eugh! That is disgusting!"

Wouter: "Do not whine. There are starving people in Radiatia who would kill to have as much food as we do!"

Elbert: "Very well..."

Elbert swipes his People's Credit Card, but it is rejected by the machine because it doesn't have enough money on it.

Wouter: "What kind of trickery is this, you fool?"

Elbert: "B-b-but I could've sworn I was rich! Look at the RTL* machine!"

The RTL is displaying a value of 100 trillion stan.

Wouter: "No, Comrade Elbert. That is not your account! That is the debt of Radiatia To Levi! This is your account."

The RTL now displays a value of 13 stan.

Elbert: "Oh. I thought I was rich."

Wouter: "Worry not, comrade. Soon, you will be rich. We all will. This is the People's Republic of Segland! Where anything is possible with hard work, hours of instrumental practice, a dream, and an artificially undervalued currency."

Elbert: "That is true. Hail the People's Revolution!"

Wouter: "In twenty years, you could even be working at the new Levi Jeans factory opening right here, in Stephanus Levi City!"

Elbert: "Oh boy! But where will it be?"

Wouter: "Right over there!"

Elbert looks out the window to see his apartment complex being demolished as construction workers swarm the area.

Elbert: "Son of a Levi..."

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*RTL machines are the Seglandic equivalent of ATM machines.